Travelogue 30, Uruguay: Catching up CA, UY and Cuba

I'm just back from the enlightenment on the rocks ritual I've become so attached to. Summer is nearly out of the birth canal here, so I no longer have to bundle up like an Eskimo to go down for sunrise, which makes an already sacred activity even more appealing. Energy teems all around my self-proclaimed throne--in the constant ebb and flow of sea water filling and emptying stair-stepped pools etched in barnacle crusted rocks, in the organically stunning algae carpets washed a brighter green with every rush and recede of the tide. All of this incessant, effortless mingling of the elements mesmorizes me. I'd stay until the cows come home, if my bladder didn't urge us back to the cabin.
Some mornings a pair of porpoises cruise the waters in front of me. Almost always a flock of birds swoops by on their way to find the next feeding ground. My favorite companion is what I call the lone surfer duck. She, always unaccompanied, bobs on the surface in anticipation of the next cresting wave, which she dives head first into, then pops up in the calm waters of the other side. I see the surfers imitate this behavior with their boards to avoid getting knocked back to shore as the work their way through the breakers and think what a fine teacher Nature is for those who pay attention.
The past few mornings I've seen Pop, pant legs rolled up, knee-deep in surf, holding his fishing rod high and squinting into the sun. He is a pillar of patience and peace on a desolate beach. That's what fishing will do for a person, I suppose, if one can get past gaffing an innocent minnow or drowning a defenseless earthworm. I hold that image of him like he holds his rod. The first time I saw him there, I cried, but he came over to sit with me, providing his usual wordless comfort,  and to ask what the hell I was drinking out of a hollow gourd with a metal straw.

"It's mate ("MAH-tay"), Pop. Try some. It's good."
"Naw," he said and turned up his nose, "You drink it. I'll stick to my coffee."
So, there you have a glimpse into how I start my days. This afternoon, swinging in the hammock that hangs on the deck of the beach house I don't pay a dime to live in, I said to myself, "Damn, I'm blessed!"
After a short pause, I said it again, "Hells bells, I blessed! Besides this awesome set up, not a single drop of my coffee has sloshed out. The sea breeze is so gentle with its pushes."
Blessings snowball, if you acknowledge them one by one.
Elsewhere, the book project has turned halty, if that is a word and means stop and start. I don't feel like looking it up in the dictionary and I'm in an emotionally stable enough place to be wrong should one of you uptight types feel the need to correct me...and it does happen.
At the writing retreat in Carmel, CA that I forgot to tell you about in the last update
the facilitator suggested, and I agreed, that a collection of essays would be the easiest route for me, since I already have many near finished. Then I got the wild hair idea to send five of them off to a big time editor, most likely because I am still sickly incredulous that I am capable of publishing beyond the safety of these travelogues. She responded that I am a talented writer, who would best serve herself and others by writing a memoir while trying to place essays in magazines. Then we had this long discussion about truth, THE TRUTH, and my tendency to exaggerate for the sake of entertaining. Fiction or non-Fiction, you can't straddle the line. This commentary has provoked an existential crisis for me and my writing. A memoir? First of all, that implies that I think my silly little life has had some significance beyond my pandering through  it. (another word usage doubt I don't feel like looking up--if it doesn't mean pondering while wandering, it does now).Second of all, write about your life and you start touching the touchy, namely privacy issues of those you have to include in the story if you are really going to tell it like it was.
"Just write it for yourself," so many have said. That brings up the REAL issue: Audience--without one beyond myself, I'm not motivated to write; with one I'm afraid to write for fear it will be deemed mediocre. I've a 50lbs trunk of diaries I've already written for myself. Anyway, I've these things to ponder as I pander.
Cuba! Sandy postponed that trip for us until Jan 10. We did complete the first part of the training as scheduled in Miami and it got me all fired up about leading these "cultural exchanges." We have been emphatically told not to use the words, "vacation, tourist or donation." I am leading participants on an exchange program and the extra bags of toiletries, clothes, baseballs, candy, etc are gifts for our relatives in Cuba. If it all started with Adam and Eve....well, we're not telling a lie.
Until then, I'm hanging in Punta del Diablo with my dear friend, Yolanda, who owns the cabin I stay in. We are working in the garden, cooking, sunning on the beach and talking life. She is one of the people I most hold dear in my heart and our meeting reinforces my belief in reincarnation. We are definitely picking up where we left off in some other life time. How is it that you can work side by side with someone 40 hours a week for ten years and never really get to know them and then you meet someone haphazardly in a yoga class, go for a walk on the beach and realize you know this person as if you were born in the same family 13 months apart? Soul magic over milliniums.
I'm bummed about not spending my favorite holiday with my cousins in VA, but to ward off the blues, I'm organizing a Thanksgiving dinner with my "family" here.  A couple of chickens might have to stand in for the turkey...feathers, lay eggs, pecks the ground, close enough.
I've only taken a short bus ride to the border town to shop since returning, so no funny seatmate story this time.

All the best, and always love, G

Travelogue 29, Uruguay: I'm Going to Cuba!

Ah-ight, ya’ll, the fourth person has asked me, “Where are you now?” which brought to my attention that I haven’t sent out an update in months. The good news is I’ve been so wrapped up in my book that I haven’t had any writing juice left in me by the end of the day. There’s supposed to be bad news when there is good news, isn’t there? The only thing I can think of is on Friday I start the first real job I’ve had since May of 2010, which in and of itself isn’t bad news at all. It’s very exciting actually.  It’s all the “have to’s” that come with a real job that is bad news. In other words, I’ve got to clean up, and stop acting and looking like my permanent residence is a tent.  I’ve got to give a rat’s ass about my personal appearance. I’ve got to look in the mirror before I walk out the door, and not just to pop zits. I’ve got to start showing up, and on time!  I’ve gotten sooooo lax living in Latin America. “I’ll be there,” means wait until ten minutes after you were supposed to be there and then drag ass to the event, if and when you feel like it. Ya’ll ain’t even believing I could live like that, are you? Ms. Stressed Out, Uptight, Perfectionist, Punctuality Pants herself. The whole reason I started this self-induced life douche which has landed me here in a fishing village in Uruguay is I had a nervous breakdown from taking things too damn seriously.
Anyway, as first steps toward a return to professionalism, I bought a travel hairdryer, a new dress shirt (not from the Thrift!) and some eyeliner. I know you want to know about the new job: One of the many positive things Obama has done while in office is open relations with Cuba, and it is now possible for Americans to enter the country directly, instead of having to sneak in through a backdoor, i.e. another country. It’s got some stipulations. Not just any American in white tennis shoes, dark socks, Bermudas and a Hawaiian shirt carrying a camera around his neck can get in. If your reason for going to sit on the beach and drink Pina Coladas, forget it. The visit must be in a group, authorized by permit, and have the intention of participating in an educational/cultural exchange with the Cuban people. My particular program is called “People to People” (http://www.grandcirclefoundation.org/cuba/12day-itinerary-cuba-a-bridge-between-cultures.aspx) and my job is as an adventure travel tour operator leading groups that leave from Miami. The bestest part of all is that we are assigned a Cuba tour guide who provides the facts, dates, history, blhaa, blhaa, bhlaa commentary on the sites we see.  My job is to sniff out ADVENTURE, to find opportunities for us to interact with the people off the beaten path.
If you’ve been following these travelogues you know thatsort of thing is my specialty. In the interview I had to talk about a time when I stirred up my own adventure. Of course, I had a plethora to choose from, but I told the story about getting the 75 year-old bank guard in the Dominican Republic to escort me up to the waterfalls in Limon. Remember we started out in the back of a truck with a bunch of yahoos just dragging out of the bars? Then we went to his house (more of a tin roof shack) and his wife made me a big breakfast? Then I refused to ride a horse up to the falls, like everybody else in their right mind does, and he had to carry me on his shoulders to ford the rivers? My retelling of that one was a ringer—bam, hired. (If I had told the one about visiting the cocaine lab in the Colombian jungle, I would have ruined my career.) As I said, the training starts this Friday, so I’ll fill you in on details next time, assuming my alarm goes off and I make it to Miami….haven’t had to use it for so long.
It’s a great day to catch you up. It’s so foggy that if the mist molecules were to have a group hug, we’d be in a downpour, which is what might happen if this pattern plays out. Last weekend we had two gorgeous days (like yesterday) followed by fog, followed by a blow-the-hide-right-off-your-hair- red- alert tropical storm. I swear I thought I was going to end up in Kansas, when I took off to the store on my bike.
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As always, I started writing a travelogue way back when and I hate to waste it, so:
October 2, 2012
Once again I bring you old news narrated in present tense, but hopefully with this one I’ll get you caught up all the way to the moment at hand, which is a bus ride back to my little village on the coast of Uruguay. Time should be no excuse for not finishing given it’s a four and a half hour trudge. {ha! that didn’t happen} It rains outside the window;  I’m quickly moving through a pack of oatmeal, chocolate chip cookies to cope with the wet and grey. Even without them, though, I’m mostly sunny on my inside.
September 9-29, 2012
After reluctantly leaving the Texas ranch that became so dear to me, I landed in a most comfortable situation in the Oakland, CA penthouse of my dear friend of 20+ years, Roxanne. We met way back in 1995 in Ecuador, lost contact for over a decade, reconnected and picked up where we left off as if we’d just had lunch yesterday. I hope you are fortunate enough to have friendships like that.
If you’ve been following my travels since the first trip to Spain in 2010, you will remember my flatmate and charge, Kitty Conan the Barbarian, whose claw marks I still bare today and on whose throw up I slipped and busted my ass, but good. Again I am sharing space with furballs, but Roxanne’s four cats are of a delightfully docile temperament and mostly ignore me. There is one little, teeny tiny….what do I call it?.... hindrance to a metaphorically clawless cohabitation: Patches… or Sprouts… or Mr. Tabbs… or maybe it’s Scratchy, anyway, one of them, suffers from Meow Mix reflux disease. After a squashy step on a few sick spots, I’ve trained myself to cross the living room on tiptoes, as if navigating a minefield in the shadowy morning light. It’s a good idea to scan the cushions, too, before taking a seat, but that’s as automatic to me as buckling up in a car. During the stay on the ranch,  I learned to always look down and back for rattlesnakes before plopping my hindparts on a rock.
While we are on the topic of snakes, a highlight of this trip to California has been to meet some first cousins I’d only heard about and seen in photos. In general, we are colossally different in how we turned out, that’s to say in our lifestyles. One similarity, though, is how we welcome strangers into our homes. If you had come to our house when I was a kid, we would have plucked from the rafters the teenage bobcat we raised in the basement and handed her to you so as to make you feel at home. Truth is, if she didn’t warm up to you, she would think you a rabbit, stalk you through the house and then sneak attack your ass with a pounce from behind. My cousins got that beat, though. They bust out a 6ft red tail boa constrictor to give you a warm  hug (actually, it’s cold.  “Demon,” as he/she/it is called, is hoping you provide the warmth). Once I emerged from my 30 min, get-your-shit-together pep talk with myself in the bathroom, it was a very bonding experience for all of us, especially Demon.
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It’s not a g-logue without a “seatmate story”:
The seat in front of me creeks loudly with every move of the 250lb, restless rugby player trying, unsuccessfully, to get comfortable. A news flash comes to mind I had heard the day before about a row of seats on an aircraft that came unbolted in turbulence. The seats did a jig across the aisle and the plane made an emergency landing. Of more note to me than the incident itself was the insight of an expert aeronautical engineer they brought in. He commented, “ Seatbelts are of no use in a case like this when the seats aren’t attached to the plane itself. The passengers will just go wherever the seats go, if they aren’t bolted in." Hmmmm….never would have imagined that!
Forget that preflight speech about oxygen masks and floatation devices. We’ve all heard that so many times we know it by heart. I want some new instructions on what to do when my seatmates slam the top of their heads into the overhead compartment and get a concussion. I’m usually the shortest one on the row, so they are going to take the brunt of the blow and I’ll be left to deal with the injuries.
If the row I’m on ever comes unbolted, I’m going to pray for some religious fanatic types  to be seated around me, the kind that believe in the laying on of hands and speaking in toungues. They will keep us grounded, and so confused we won't even notice we are about to have a neck reduction. I’d be much more worried about whether or not they were putting in a good word for me than hobbling around the cabin in a three-legged race toward first class.
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On a final note, I’m over this book nagging at me to be birthed. Talk about a difficult labor. I’m not messing around anymore, so when people ask, “Are you a writer?”, as they so often do because I’m forever scrawling in my diary in public places and bumming pen, paper or a crumpled napkin off someone so as to not lose an inspiration, I’m going to stop answering, “Well, kinda, I like to write stuff” and affirm, “Yes, I am.”
I bought in the airport bookstore a memoir and a collection of humorous essays. Before leaving I returned to the shelf where I got them, laid my hand on an open spot and said to myself and the Universe, “This is where mine goes.” Then Maya Angelou came to mind. I heard her deliver a speech at Radford University in 1990 that she opened by singing a line from a poem she wrote: “I shall not be moved.” It applies to my conviction to overcome the barriers that keep my voice unheard. The rest of me is movin' on....to Cuba!!!!!!! And then VA for Thanksgiving!!!! And then back here to Punta del Diablo for sun and beach!!!! And then…..wherever the winds blowing toward fun take me.
Happy Halloween and love, G

Travelogue 28, Glen Rose, Texas: Back on the Ranch and Beyond

(As usual, I'm behind on getting this out, so you are reading old news)
High Hope Ranch, Glen Rose, TX, Aug 31-Sept 6, 2012
Well, I'm back at the ranch, with a hairbrush in hand and a renewed attitude toward life. I may not have mentioned when we last left off that I'd be taking a ranch break for five days to puppysit in the Big D. That’s what the natives fondly call the host town of the modern day Cowboys—the ones who have ditched their horses, chaps and lassos to run up and down a rectangular corral in pads and helmets, while millions look on, chasing an oversized  lemon covered in pigskin. My, how times have changed! Anyway, I enjoyed the stay with the puppies. They were much more cooperative than the goats, and smell better too. A dip in the asphalt done me a world of good, being as the contrast raised my appreciate of the slow-down and quiet of country life.
That last travelogue brought people out of the woodwork. Kin and friends alike I hadn’t heard from in ages sent confessions of the similar suffering along with messages of encouragement. I must have sounded in worse shape than I really was. It is my habit to err on the side of exaggeration in these logues, being as it makes for better stories and all. No doubt I was in a funk dunk, but I am as prone to those as I am exaggerating. This last dive just happened to coincide with a missive. I've bobbed back up and am glad to be back for round two on the ranch. Now that I think about it, I do write my life like it is in real time on this blog when it comes to my internal state of affairs. That sort of transparency seems to be appreciated by most, given that it is the part people can relate to.  I'm told it's admirable as well, given that a butt-naked soul is as vulnerable as the skin that covers it when unclothed. Anyway, brutal honesty is what keeps the memoir readers turning the page, that's for sure.
There’s been a fortunate glitch upon return, depending on which side of it you are on. Remember that bath with my underwear? Well, when I let the water out of the tub, the commode started coughing and threatening to overflow, which sent me scrambling, naked and dripping, out of the tub toward the toilet tank to prevent a flood. Pop left his plumping lessons with me at half-mast. I knew that to stop the rising waters I had to lift up that black balloon on a skewer thingy that floats in the tank, but then what? Every time I let go, the cistern quickly returned to filling. What to do? Abandon the bowl on the brink of overflow and run back to the tub to stop the water from draining? Stand there hoisting the buoy in my birthday suit and yell for help? Deciding the goats were the only ones within earshot and the ranch hands and I hadn’t taken that promised skinny dip in the watering hole YET, I went for the tub option. Excellent selection! Pop would be proud. Slowly the waters began to recede and I plunged the stubborn last 3 inches back down to where they belonged…the throat of the commode.
Excitement over, I got dressed and went to report the incident.  Long story short, tree roots had grown into the water pipes, which means ripping up the floor, ripping out the plumbing and starting all over (and by the way, remember the copperhead under the porch? The contractor exterminated him and his live-in girlfriend when they showed up to defend their territory.)  So, what all this means to me is I've had to move from a really nice house to a really, really, really nice house down the dirt road a piece. I mean a super cool, two-story, balcony, indoor fountain, "crow’s nest" bedroom with a circular window over the bed, vacation rental. Last night full moon beams haloed my head ‘til the light of dawn relieved my lunar lover of her duties.

The living area

the crow's nest sleeping quarters

The evening vistors

I dreamed I had a snake in my bed, though, quite explicably. In addition to the copperheads, we saw two two-foot long rattlers on our blue moon night hike. The dream snake turned out to be my necklace that had slithered off my neck in a toss or a turn, and crawled up under the pillow. Still, when my hand met its kinky splay, don’t you know I came up out of that bed with a start. Out of loving kindness for my nerves, I drank a half-caf coffee that next morning rather than the usual high test.
I finished out my final days on the ranch clearing hiking trails in what most call a brutal heat—105F. Swelters don’t faze me much. I prefer any temp over a hundred to anything below 60. Pop would attribute that to my mostly vegetarian diet: “If you’d eat some protein and put some meat on your bones you wouldn’t be complaining that it's colder that a widow's tit all the time.”
“If I ate like you wanted me to, Pop,  you’d be calling me Tubby instead of Runt,” is my answer back to him.

clearing trails

I shall be returning to High Hope ranch in May for what I think will be one of the most exciting adventures of all my travels:  a Vision Quest. You’ve probably heard of this rite of passage in Native American traditions. Basically, you go out in the wilderness for 2-5 days  fast in the elements with only water, a tarp a symbol to represent the focus of your quest. Not everyone’s cup of tea, but for the hardcore spiritual seeker it can connect you to your inner most wisdom like nothing else. More than anything I think it is a fear busting confidence booster. My snake-o-phobia will have to be reckoned with before I go sprawling out beneath the stars in rattlesnake heaven. Maybe it will be to my benefit for once to be skin and bones…the cold-blooded won’t pay me no mind if I don’t put off enough body heat to make it worth a snuggle.
In the mean time, I’m off to California for 3 weeks. Two will be spent in Oakland with a dear friend and the last at a writing retreat in Carmel. Scheduled departure for Uruguay: Oct 3.
The next update will feature a trip to Alcatraz, where my maternal grandfather spent some time for a crime he didn’t commit, and a visit with a first cousin I’ve never met. Until now...
Much love,
G

Travelogue 27, Glen Rose, Texas: Self-Induced Life Douche

I sit cross-legged in front of a bunch of kids, the bhaaa-ing kind. They are recently separated from their mommies and are emotionally needy. Me too. A page wire electric fence separates them from my caresses and me from their noses conducting a full body search for clues of food. I don’t take it personally, their interest in me  being devoid of sentiment, despite my delicate emotional state. So often our interest in others is just as primal, only we mask it as sincere concern.

Their number equals that of my assigned herds while teaching in DISD, around 30. Their serenade reminds me of a game of Marco Polo. One of them bellows out in the back right corner. Another answers on the front row, then a cry comes from the  middle of the crowd.
I feel a bit like an important politician (if there is such a thing) in a press conference. I point to the one with the lopsided ears, “Yes, what’s your question?”
“Bhaaaaaa…”
“Well, I don’t know…,” I respond, wiggling my numb legs to jumpstart the circulation.  “Yes, you with the crooked horn.”
“Bhaaaa…”
“I’m not really sure. I wish I could tell you… You, with your tail sticking straight up.”
“Bhaaaa…”
“Oh, sorry, didn’t realize you were….I thought you had a question. Yes, you with the obnoxiously high-pitched squall.
“Bhhaaaaaaaa…….”
“Hmmmm……Can’t say as I really know….”
They start to riot at my ignorance in a clamoring of bhhaaa’s that makes me feel like shit. I have no answers. They have every right to be upset with me. They appointed me as the wise one with dominion over the lot and I don’t know jack about anything…their problems or mine. The ruckus they are raising gets so loud I get up to leave, downtrodden. When I turn around, I see a young woman with a chop bucket swinging from her hand coming toward us.
There’s a smacker of a lesson. It's not about me. They are looking over my shoulder in anticipation of dinner. You see, that’s what happens when we look for evidence to support our assumptions. It’s easy to blame the holder of the mirror for what’s making us feel bad. Satisfied with that explanation, because it supports our misery, we have no need to explore other, possibly innocuous reasons outside of what’s in front of our noses. It’s a silly little story, but reminded me of some wisdom I had let slip from my awareness.
I’m in a reflective mood, and thus, in this edition of the travelogues, I invite you to share my ponderings on the journey thus far.
In May of 2010 when I declined my contract renewal with DISD, I initiated what I refer to as a self-induced life douche.  In the fall of that year these travelogues morphed from anecdotes of summer vacation travels abroad into updates on my quest for purpose and fulfillment. My new job description: Wake up every day exclaiming, “Wow! I am excited to be alive and know I am fulfilling my highest purpose while helping others.”
With the exception of a few months, I’ve been collecting unemployment checks from the Universe for two years now.
To recap, here’s the recipe for the cleansing solution I have used to flush out the vaginal cavity of my life:

1. Dumped the job that drained more energy than it gave me. Bye-bye to an eleven year career with Dallas Independent School District that provided retirement, health insurance, job security and an adequate salary to support my lifestyle. In other words, I had achieved the life of security my parents and society defines as success in exchange for my soul.
2. Heeded the call to live abroad and do what I am good at. So, I went Spain to write; I didn’t do much of it, fell in love and brought back a woman instead of a book.
3. For the first time, chose a relationship over work. I got a job as a tour guide in South America, lost the job as a tour guide in South America, took the risk of my lifetime and followed love back to Spain.
4. Pursued my other passion as a possible career. I got my tour directors certification from the International Tour Management Institute in San Francisco. As a start, took a job in a hostel in Uruguay making $2.50 hr.
5. Put my all into making a relationship work. I sold everything I owned, rented my house, went back to Spain to keep the love stoked and plan our life together.
6. Honored my soul’s yearning to live and work in South America. I worked at the hostel and slept in a tent, nestled in a bush 100 yards from the beach. I quit the job at the hostel and started my own business in tourism and language instruction. For two months I experienced the happiest existence I have ever known.
7. Survived a break up. The flame couldn’t jump the Atlantic. The relationship petered out and I moved through a fear of abandonment that has kept me a bachelorette for most of my life.
8. Faced family shit.  Pop got really sick, I came home, forty-two years of family dysfunction came to a head and I walked away with my dignity and a great sense of freedom. Pop got better and I went back to the happiest I have ever been in my little fishing village in Uruguay.
9. Faced round two of family shit. Pop died, I returned to the States, the family united long enough for the dirt to settle on his grave and the promise to never return to discord was broken.

10. Listened to my biological needs. I HATE cold weather. Summer in the U.S. is winter in   Uruguay. I decided to linger in my homeland until it gets hot down south again. This lingering has provided many blessings.
11. Haven’t given up on a lifelong dream. I prayed for a quiet, inspiring place in Nature to read my diaries and write the book that has begged birthing since I was a teenager.

31 years worth of diaries

As I write, I reside at a ranch called High Hope, 2 hours from Dallas, where I have arranged a work/stay.

I weed the gardens, water the trees and clear hiking trails in exchange for living in a cool as shit vacation rental ranch home. Aside from the copperhead under the porch, I couldn’t ask for nicer accommodations.

"Habari"

So how’s the writing coming?
It ain’t happening.
I am bhaaaaa with an “L” stuck between the “b” and “h.”  I feel irreparably uninspired, directionless, unfulfilled and hobo-ish. Why? I got exactly what I asked for and then some. Here I sit on a back porch overlooking prairie and pond watching the dear and ducks play. Where never is heard a discouraging word and I listen to moos in the breeze all day.

On the porch

So, what the hell is the hold up?
Would a new pair of underwear do it?—bring me back to life, that is. I asked myself that question while bathing with a holey pair of my panties this afternoon. It’s become the custom that we share the tub now that I’m down to five pair. If I get slack and miss a few days, next thing you know, I’m going commando, which isn’t my most private part’s preference.
It’s not that I don’t have the money for a new set of Hanes-Her-Way. It’s my attachment to suffering. I could get new everything. I will have to soon as the few things that remain in the wake of the douche is wearing out fast. My soul said “upheave!” and I did so. I’ve done 1-10 on the list, but it hasn’t been enough. 11- infinity won’t be enough either. It won’t matter where I go, what I own or don’t, who I’m with or not…I wouldn’t know what to do with persistent happiness if it climbed up on my lap like a kid scaling Santa to reach his ear.
I’m always glad for happiness to visit, but it doesn’t take long until it wears out its welcome and I start hinting that it’s time to get along little doggies.  I mean, let’s get down to it, REALLY….what explanation is there for me to not feel a deep contentment? The reason du’jour is loneliness. If I just had someone to share this with...  Instead of writing, I fantasize about someone to make dinner with, someone to share a soak in the tub with, someone to sit here in a comfortable silence on this porch with, someone to put their arms around me while I sleep. I’ve had all that at times before….and craved this that I have at this moment…solitude.  It’s not that I am in the absence of company. It’s that all I have is my own company in the absence of distraction from the state of mild suffering I recently admitted permeates my psyche like a morning fog.
Back on the porch, the light of day fades, the family of white tails has come out to graze and a prelude to the frogs’ symphony settles us all in. I will sit here with this, my attachment to suffering, with three candles and a howling coyote, without resistance, until I can walk through darkness as calmly as Pop taught me to walk a trout stream, so as not to spook the fish.
Then, I simply must do something about a very practical dilemma! I left all grooming utensils in Dallas, so my hair is a wild, matted mess. I’m scaring the kids. Maybe that’s the real reason they are doing all that bhaaa-ing. I suppose I could go over to the horse barn and borrow the colt’s curry comb. The other option is more convenient, the toilet bowl brush, but I just had my hair highlighted and I'm not ready to go back to brunette yet.
Would love to hear from you!
As always, with much love and many thanks for taking the time to read and being a part of my life, G

Travelogue 26, Salem, VA: An Honorable Parting for Pop

My Dearest Friends and Family,
As most of you know, Pop died three weeks ago yesterday, but that’s not the reason I am cleaning out the deep freeze. We weathered a mountain hurricane last Friday when Virginia saw the worst wind storm of its history, leaving a record number of homes without power. At my house we were 6 days without electricity and I dug it—reading by candlelight, bucket bathing in the backyard buck naked. I call it residential roughing it. Best of all, I had the whole house and 64 acres to myself, save the wild critters, because my brother took his family to the in-laws where there was A/C.
The storm was wild. My sister-in-law and niece had gone to the store.  The lights started blinking and a few seconds later went out. Then my brother got a frantic call from his daughter saying they were trapped on the road by a fallen tree. The call dropped and we couldn't get them again. I looked out the window at a black cloud covering the entire sky and it sounded like a train was going to bust through the gray wall any second. I was sure we were in a tornado. The windows were shaking and the doors moaning and the monstrous trees on our land whipping around.  I took my 10-month-old nephew to the basement while my brave (crazy?) brother went out with the 2-year-old, Bryce, to tie down the trampoline, which had "walked" across the yard. All secured, my brother got his chainsaw and left me in the dark with the boys while he went to rescue the women.
Thank god my brother had filled little Bryce’s order before the electricity went out. That clever rascal pulled a kitchen chair under the microwave, crawled up with the big Halloween candy bowl and shouted, “Popcorn! Popcorn!”

Once we were left alone in the dark with no Thomas the Train on a screen to captivate him, it saved me. Handing me a piece of popcorn for every piece he put in his mouth kept him entertained for quite a while. I buttered his good behavior with a heavy slathering of, “Thank you! What a sweet boy!”  Too, it helped that he never caught on that every time he looked away I dropped the handful of sweaty pops I’d accumulated back into the bowl.
Over an hour went by and I realized I don’t know jack shit about babies except they are cute when they aren’t crying. When the little one started wailing I found a half full bottle of milk under a sofa cushion, said a blessing over it that it wasn’t spoiled and stuck it in his mouth. Worked like a charm.
FINALLY, they got home. They had to go all the way around to the back entrance to the 'holler and my brother had to cut several trees out of the road for them to get through. They found the toddler happily rocking in his rocking chair and the baby asleep on my chest--it turned out to be one of the sweetest moments of the difficult week we had been through.
Back to the reason I am here. Sadly so, the finer–than-frog-hair-split-3-ways, popcorn-fart- in-a-hot-skillet, stud-horse-piss-with-the-foam-farted-off Pop, famous for his sayings, has moved on to the heaven he believed so strongly in. He lived his life according to the Bible as he understood it, to make sure he wasn’t left outside the pearly gates. Even if heaven doesn’t exist, the man made a big dent in any bad karma he had accumulated and racked up a lot of brownie points to make life easier on him his next time around.  Mangus Hollow, Virginia has lost a treasure and I would even go as far as to say the United States has lost one of the members of the Greatest Generation. I have heard Pop’s war stories a zillion times, but he was a humble man and did not brag much of his military honors. While searching for his discharge papers to apply for VA burial benefits, I came upon newspaper articles about his merit, a certificate for the 58 missions he flew and his purple heart.  He truly was a hero of this country.
I’ve got to stop there. If I keep on talking about Pop I’ll be  boohooing instead of writing and never finish this long overdue travelogue. I’ve written about so much about him, that if you’ve been with me since the inception of these adventure sharings back in 2001, you know why I loved him so much.

Pop telling stories at Thanksgiving

If you are caught up on the ‘logues, you will recall that all was not frog-hair fine last time I came to visit.  Bluntly put, it was an emotional disaster and I had said I might never come back. Obviously I did. Pop was a very peaceful man and to honor his way, the siblings and sister-in-laws put their differences aside and joined hands in a circle to weep our collective tears into the abyss he has left behind.  That’s the romantic poet in me painting the scene. What actually happened was just before walking into the sanctuary for the funeral service, I grabbed suit collars and bra straps as if they were jerseys and pulled everybody into a huddle like the starting lineup of a football team preparing to hit the field. We stacked hands in the center and everyone committed to civility and unity and to never going back to the way it was before.
That lasted about as long as it took for the dirt to settle on Pop’s grave. It was enough, though, to get us through living under the same roof while the obligatory ceremonies and receiving of the steady flow of visitors took place. That’s all I’ll say about family stuff this time around.
At age 90, I can’t say Pop’s death was a surprise, but I certainly didn’t expect when I woke up on June 21 that later that day I would have to drop everything to close up shop in Punta del Diablo, throw together a suitcase, board a bus for a five hour trip, nap the night on an airport bench, and spend the next 48 hours working my way home via 5 flights, crisscrossing South, Central and North America. Needless to say, it was a yank on my system, but not so much that I couldn’t gather the material for the expected entertaining public transportation anecdote.
As I mentioned, it took five flights for me to travel the 4,300 miles between Punta del Diablo and Mangus Hollow. For the last leg of the journey I was seated by a smelly teenager, riper than he would have been had the air conditioning on the little twin engine been working. He was gangly, too, and unapologetic for his knees and elbows crossing all over into my space. He fell into a deep sleep and starting doing that reflexive jerking which sent his obtuse triangles into my ribs and thighs. He was so asleep that when the flight attendant came down the aisle with the cart and his size 14 foot was flopped out blocking traffic, that the man across from us had to push his unruly extremity out of the way several times, but it kept falling back out into the aisle. It was like trying to house a jack in a box that has a broken latch. Finally, the gentleman  picked up the leg and stuffed it back in the space it had been assigned.
I was about to suggest to the flight attendant that she hand me that sample seatbelt and buckle they use for the preflight pep talk to see if we could strap that leg to something to hold it in place…though I wasn’t offering my leg as that something.   Finally, the kid roused and he turns to me to ask, “Was I sleep talking?”
“Excuse me?,” I answered.
“Was I sleep talking?”
“You mean talking in your sleep?”
“Yeah.”
“You better believe it,” I wanted to say, “Look down at that bulge in your shorts. We all heard your elaboration on the beverage service question, ‘What can I get you, Hon’?’”
This dude and I had started off on the wrong foot, anyway.  First of all, he wasn’t in his assigned seat and had a bit of an attitude about getting out of mine. He moved across the aisle to someone else’s seat who got on after us and gave him the boot as well, which is how he ended up occupying what would have been my backpack’s seat once we reached cruising altitude. He was obviously not in the mood for musical chairs despite his standby status, which meant he should have been grinning with gratitude that there was a space open for him to plop his bony ass down.
He had some other irritating quirks, too, like pinching the top of his little foil bag of snack peanuts between thumb and forefinger and slinging it violently, for a long time. I’m guessing it was to settle the salt. After all that effort one would think he would delicately pick out individual peanuts for consumption, but no. He turned up the whole bag and downed it as if it were a shot of tequila.  Sodium chaser? I don’t know. I had slept a max of 5 hours of the last 48 and I wasn’t in the mood for jabs,  pokes, disagreeable smells or illogical, obnoxious behaviors.  I wish him well on his journey toward adulthood and I hope he gets a bar of soap, some deodorant and a lesson or two in manners in his stocking this year.
The Mangus Hollow Rehab Center for Mutts and Other Strays has again taken me in (see travelogue 24). Remember Banana Split, Hank, my  schizophrenic kennelmate? The one that hides under the furniture at the slightest crinkle of a plastic bag?

Hank out from under the furniture.

I must congratulate myself for finally passing the sniff test after 99 failed attempts. He now has a bipolar attachment issue and at moments clings to me like a dryer sheet to a sock in the permanent press cycle. Some nights I get a slobbery foot bath and a doggie breath facial vapor treatment before bed to boot. I’m glad. I need a needy companion right now to sooth the pains of grieving. Thanks, Hank, for being just the way you are.
Well, I have a half-written travelogue updating life in Uruguay, but I’ll save it for later. What’s next? Back to Dallas on the 19^th to take care of business with the house and other practical matters. I will be returning to Punta del Diablo, but it may not be for a month or so. Truthfully, I miss the sunrises and my students, but I’m in no hurry to get back to winter. Hope to see the Dallas friends while I’m in town.
I leave you with a picture taken from the chair Pop was sitting in the moment he passed.  The man was in so good with his God that I know he was granted a right so few are given, to choose the time and place from which we depart this earthly life.
As always, much gratitude for reading and for being who you are in my life… with a scoop of love on top, G

Travelogue 25, Punta del Diablo, Uruguay: The Return

Gwynne and Joe meet some of friends here in the first "Cena Internacional" in Uruguay. Represented: Argentina, Sweden, England, Uruguay, USA

Travelogue 24, Salem, VA: The Mangus Hollow Rehab for Mutts and Strays

My Dearest Friends and Family,
Greetings from The Mangus Hollow Rehab Center, Salem, Virginia, USA. Usually the Rehab only accepts stray dogs, but they’ve made an exception and taken me in. I showed up on their doorstep in a February snowstorm, shaking and out of my wits.  But, I get ahead of myself, first, the part about what brought me back to the motherland. It’s a shorta’ long story, but what else have I got to do but tell it? I’m unemployed and living in a place where coon hunting is the best nightlife the town has to offer. May as well make good use of the freedom and isolation.
Nineteen days ago I was plucked like a perky daisy in a May field bloom from my newfound life in Uruguay and plopped back down in the den of darkness in which I was raised. Sounds grim, I know. On that Saturday morning I received an email that Dad was not, “fine as frog hair split three ways,” as he usually describes himself. In fact, he was in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. After pacing through his first 24 hours in ICU 4,300 miles away, I made the decision to pack up the happiest I’ve ever been and board a bus to begin the long journey to my father’s side. As you know, I most often occupy travel time writing the reflections I send to you, but on this trip I sewed patches on my holey jeans and then wrote Dad’s eulogy for the funeral.
Astoundingly, that piece of writing has been filed away for a later date. In Dad’s words, “I guess the Lord just doesn’t want me yet.” In my words, the man is as stubborn as a hot and thirsty mule standing in a creek during dog days. He's determined to not do what he doesn’t want to do, even when it comes to his own dying. I call it aggressive-passive behavior. It’s not that the Lord doesn’t want him. It’s that he’s telling the Lord to talk to the hand until he’s done watching his grandsons grow. (definitely my phrasing there--Pop would deem that image blasphemy.)
As for how I arrived at the Mangus Hollow Rehab, that story dates back to before Pop’s sperm put the move on Mom’s egg. Since I’ve already bought a ticket to Dallas for the day after tomorrow, I'd best not go back that far and just pick up with a week ago Sunday. It's a delicate issue. Let’s introduce it by saying a festering family zit popped and it was messy. Cosmically, I didn’t know what to make of it at the time.  My paradise was lost (I was sooooooooooooo happy in Uruguay) and Dante’s inferno found (did not want to return to my "old" life, especially the one of 40 years ago). I now see it as a necessary blessing, a part of the journey that I've asked for and that will free my soul to soar to new heights.
Family fights are never about what they seem on the surface. In other words, when a wife explodes at a husband for not leaving his muddy shoes on the porch, tracks across a just vacuumed carpet aren't really the issue, they are just the symptom. Such was the case when one of my family members absolutely went ballistic because I relocated his bows and guns without permission so I could have a weapon-free environment to sit and read my book.  I question a bit the ethical issue of hanging his dirty laundry out on the cyberline to flutter dry, but given that he's been loading the cannon with which he blasted me with stuff I've been sharing in these travel logs for the past decade, I’m going to let myself be human and feel no shame in telling the story, authentically, as I experienced it.
In no time a’tall the topic of discussion went from moving his cheese to his accusation that I am a gypsy, pothead, self-centered, family-abandoning, atheist, astray,  lying,  bitch who doesn't give a damn about the worry her traipsing off to foreign countries causes her daddy. Of course, I'm giving you the condensed version. There were many words between each adjective in that string, mostly citing construed evidence to support the insult from something I have written about in the missives.
I could have stomached it a little better, if he had delivered his tirade a bit more eloquently and accurately...something along these lines:
My dear, dear sister, having read your skillfully written and most entertaining travelogues over the past ten years I have come to the conclusion that your manner of living is quite to the contrary of my own, which I find to be rather disturbing, and thus inacceptable. I am of the Christian persuasion and a family man. My close-minded, conservative, religious upbringing mandates that everyone live like me.  Anyone who refuses to follow suite is gravely astray from the fold and thus misguided, unworthy and in danger of eternity in Hell. It's not really of concern to me that the accommodations in Hell be to your disliking. Then again, you live in a tent like some barbaric martyr, so an eternity in the toaster may not serve as a sufficient recompense for the suffering you cause others. As for your drug problem, the fact that I personally have never seen you drunk, much less under the influence of cannabis, does not preclude the likelihood that you partake in illegal substances. It is enough that you shacked up with a bunch of surfers in a hostel in Uruguay. Birds of a feather flock together.
You know dear, sinning sibling, your choices in life are the reason that I am screaming and cursing at you right now. It's your fault that I am so angry about where my choices have landed me that I have lost all control and am raising my fist and threatening to smash your face in. None of this would be happening if you would just conform to suffering and unhappiness like normal people do!! If you would have just done as we were told and not questioned it, I wouldn't have to see the truth of my entrapment in the contrast of your freedom and overpower you with physical violence!!
I didn't stick around for the closing act and that's how I ended up at the rehab, which is what I call my cousins' house down the hill. For thirty some years Mikey and Allan have picked up dumped dogs from alongside the road and nursed them back to health. Anytime their four doggie beds are full, they pay for shots and neutering of the overflow and find them a loving home.  My hab mates at the moment are a standard poodle, Bella, who is taller than I when on two feet and Hank, a short-haired mutt with a split personality. He was severely abused as a pup and at the slightest sound--a crinkling of a plastic bag, the closing of a drawer, an unfamiliar voice--he hightails it into hiding. Sometimes a petrified look comes into his eyes like he is having a flashback without any provocation. After a few days, he finally let me pet him, but Mikey and Allan are the only humans he really trusts, which tells you much about the love they radiate. But, alas, Hank has arrived at canine heaven without having to die. The daily routine: breakfast, petting, treat, short walk, petting, trip to the park for a long walk, treat, afternoon nap, treat, petting, play time, petting, dinner, t.v., treat, bed.  I got just about the same attention except instead of a Milkbone, I got my laundry done. In conclusion, I could have found no better refuge for riding out the familial storm. There you have this edition's example of how unexpected kindness shows up everywhere I go.
As for my making meaning out of the unwanted interruption of the happiest I’ve ever been: I needed for my brother to get so mad that he raised his fist to hit me. I needed to be scared so badly that I shook, cried, talked nonsense, locked myself in the car and had an emotional breakdown. And, as a gift to soften the blow, this all happened in a snowstorm, a sign that I was not alone. As my meltdown unfolded inside the car, out the windshield, I starred into one of Nature’s miracles, the white one, the one that purifies and leaves a healing hush in the forest the next morning so thick and inviting that a frozen soul can find comfort and warmth under a blanket of cold crystal.


I needed it all to happen just as it did to break with the past that’s bound me, to find the place of joy within me from which I want to live the rest of my life. Fear of family disapproval has kept me half-assing any commitment to my calling. I’ve been living with one foot in my dreams and one foot stuck in the quicksand of my raising. They will say I am a coward and abandoning my father. I say I am choosing my well-being over a self-destructive loyalty to people who confuse love with control. The final swipe of the icing knife passed over the cake when Pop said, “It’s just hard for me to understand why a woman of your education and accomplishment is settling for so little…..”  So little, Pop? Can you find a measuring tape big enough to go around the waist of inner peace and happiness?
So, what next? everyone wants to know. Back to Dallas to regroup and then ????????. There’s a hankering to hunker down in silence, read the trunk of diaries I've kept since third grade and write the book I’ve started a gazillion times and never finished. I visualize that happening in an inspiring accommodation in Nature where contact with humans is optional. Ideally that would come about as a house-sitting gig or a work/stay trade. We'll see if that opportunity shows. There is another hankering to get back to the happiness I left in Uruguay. Between now and whatever I do the goal is trust that if I continue on the course of healing with the end in mind of helping others do the same, I will be provided for. Ain’t easy, but it's the choice I'm choosing.
I’m departing VA with Pop saying he's, “fine as frog hair split three ways…and shaved,” --that’s better than I found him. I take with me his final words as I walked out the door, “I love you….to the end.” I leave behind “Me too, Pop,” and all the rest.
Much love,
G

Travelogue 23, Punta del Diablo, Uruguay: A Keyless Existence

Hello all. Hope this finds you well. This is going to be an experimental edition of the t-logues. I'm going to attempted the never attempted--write straight through without rereading, editing, obsessing. This is right in line with my new style of living. I haven't bushed my hair in 2 month!!, no lie, and it looks fabulous.  (sorry Elaine!!! no make up either) I get out of the shower, give it a finger rake and toss it to the wind along with what others might think about it. I'll go back to being hip, because I like looking a tad taylored, but for the moment, it's all about letting go of conditioned thought and comma splices (sorry Mrs. Hartenstein-Raker)
Actually, it's pointless to brush one's hair here. It's so damn windy it will take the hide right off your hair, a Pop saying you've heard before. Speaking of Pop, last time I called it went like this:
--Hey Pop. Whatcha' doing?
--Awww, watching a tiger get his nuts cut off.
--What?Watching a tiger get his nuts cut off?
(sounds like Little Lucia doesn't it)
-Yeh, it's one of those t.v. animal programs, they are castrating a tiger.
See how I turned out to be  a  short, white woman version of Richard Prior?
--
Since I last wrote, I continue to sleep in my tent by choice, but have had a major upgrade in facilities and hang-out space. I've gone from this

employee kitchen at previous hostel

to this:

new kitchen/eating area

and this:

bathroom at previous hostel

to this:

new john

shower art

the mirror I would look in if I gave a rat's ass about my hair

This, unexpected hospitality upgrades, continues to happen for at least one reason I am aware of: so I can learn to accept kindness graciously, to not have to feel guilty over it, or question what I've done to deserve it or feel I have to pay it back. Just being grateful is enough.
A furry cat worm (the direct translation) is the cause of my break from the tourism table I set up and mentioned in the pre-travelogue.

this is a cousin, the actual culprit is much uglier

This morning the critter, no call an s.o.b an s.o.b , stung me when I stuck a beach chair it was resting on under my armpit. It provides an opportunity to give you insight in to my life here. I return with the bastard in a plastic cup in case I stop breathing, become unconscious and need an antivenom. The cleaning lady, quite concerned, identifies it by the above name and immediately cuts a tomato in half and tells me to hold it on the area. Slap a slab of 'mater on it and you'll be good as new. She's driven in from the outskirts of town every morning as an aside. Then comes the night watchmen with a bag of ice. Two Advil and three hours later I cannot bare the pain which now originates just to the right of my right breast, curses up through the pit, over the shoulder and right down to the tip of my fuck-off finger. At the phramcay there is a Chilean couple behind me who prescribes pineapple juice (ingested, not as a soak). The phramisits as the woman if she is a dr. She answers no, but a mother of 3 and grandmother of 8, to which i say,her titles far outweigh the authority of a dr. They insist on driving me to the store for the remedy. There I run into a Canadian couple I helped find lodging at the bus stop yesterday. They invite me over for dinner. At the store chec out I tell the owner what the juice is for. He goes to the back, gets cream and lathers up the spot swearing I'll be good as new. On the hike back up to the hostel, one of the other hostel owners sees me and gives me a lift. There is just that kind of kindness running rampant through this little village, if you are open to receiving it
There are the bad guys too, which brings me to the scandal yesterday of which I am the center of attention. The police were called, reports written, restraining orders issued (not to restrain me, but protect me). It seems their is one hostel of hostile young assholes who think I am stealing their business, though if the dumbasses would check my records they would see I have sent them as much, if not more,  business as others. That's coming to a screeching hault. Apparently one of the van drivers has been informing them that I am favoring the hostel where I am staying, which is totally untrue, again check my records. So, here comes one of the misinformed assholes to verbally attack me. It was observed by one of the people with pull in the town and next thing I know the police is there...and the owners of the hostel where I stay. In the end, they are as immature as 8th graders and I'm going to treat them as such...not engage in the conflict. Nonresistance. I'm making twice as much off of helping the cabana owners as the hostels, so I'm going to dedicate myself to that and promoting my language classes. I'll still hand out maps and orient visitors at MY table,

notice the spies in the background

which is the part I so enjoy, but just not recommend any hostels or receive commissions. Most people say I'm letting the assholes win and I should fight it and hold my ground. Gigi is going to follow in Ghandi's footsteps. I don't want to "win" anything. I want to stay, undisturbed, in my place of joy, without it depending on what anyone else does or doesn't do.   See what reading books instead of the newspaper will do for you? Too, the other day I realized I'm living a keyless existance. I don't have a house key, car key, office key.....the freedom that comes with that is what has allowed me to take all these risks. A revelation came to me during the morning meditation on the rocks:  as a human being all I really NEED is food, water, shelter and love. There is no way in hell any of my friends here (or there=you) will let me go without any of those.  I also thought, when you are already on your knees, which is where the last few episodes of depression put me, there's no chance of falling. That sounds like a bookmark poem that may have already been said, but I swear I hadn't heard it, so I'm taking credit for it. See what  living in a tent and out of a backpack can do for you?
Last we left off, if I recall correctly, Little Lucia was still around. She's been long gone, for months, which tells me an update is long overdo. Her mother got in a fight with her boss, who is her half-sister, or something like that, over not keeping the bathrooms stocked, or something like that, and overnight L. Lucia wasn't around to interrogate me. I miss the little bugger. That kind of fighting was indicative of the ambiance of the hostel and as of date, over 1/2 the staff have left--the best people of course. the owner is left with the ones who could give a rat's all about doing a job well. They want a place to shower and park their surf-boards. I tried to warn the owner what was coming and all the staff really wanted was to feel appreciated. We took a job working there for a meal a day, a bed and $200 a month. That's right, do the math, $7 a day. Before I took my financially well-being in my own hands, I was living a totally new experience--balking over a pack of gum at the check-out...did I really need it? what would I have to give up if I bought it? Made me realize how off I (and perhaps you) have been when the words, "I don't have any money" come out of my mouth.
So, before setting up my little tourist info table, I gave it a go with eco-tourism with a bus pick up (I meet the coolest people on the bus), Pablo. I came up with the idea of a "Mate sunrise" hike. Mate is THE mark of Argentina and Uruguay. the beverage itself is much like green tea, but with 10x the caffience. The apparatus through which it is consumed is quite bong like, and it's passed around the circle in joint-hit fashion. These people are as addicted to it as American's are Starbucks. They walk around all the time hugging a thermos to their chest as if it were the first born.

"mate bong"

Plablo 'splainin' mate

taking a hit

Anyway, the hikes with Pablo didn't turn out..one reason being his out of control fear of snakes, which he shares profusely before the group takes one step into nature. It is true that Punta del Diablo hosts one of the most venemous and dangers snakes of South America, la crucera, and I've crossed paths with several, both dead and alive on my long runs. They are like most snakes, though, they just want to be left alone and unless you step on one or mess with it, they high-scale it the other direction. Despite this, Pablo has invented a snake repelling walking stick that absolutely cracks me up. He swears snakes don't like the smell of Crayola magic markers, so he sticks one in the tip of this alumunum telescoping pole he's come up with. He's a trip.
So, I now know I have an editing disorder. I couldn't do it...I corrected, revised.... , but only 10 times instead of 40. That's progress. Revisors's anonymous?
So....what next...it starts getting cold here in May, so I'll head back to the states then, visit family and look for a tour guiding job where ever it's warm. Next winter, I'll be back here, where I'm thinking about starting a little language school...got tons of support for it already. Just a thought.
I'll leave you with a few photos of the Natural beauty I enjoy every single day...morning, evening and night.
Much love to each of you,

Travelogue 21, Punta del Diablo, Uruguay: The Holiday Edition

Hello All. Here you have the holiday edition of the latest travelogue, which I have been trying to finish for over two weeks. I just don't get how I can be so busy when I live in a tent in a town about as big as my neighborhood in Dallas.
One of my bus pick-ups and I are launching our eco-tourism project on Tuesday. That's taking up some time.
Some power that be had Pablo choose the bus seat beside me, I struck up a conversation and it turns out he wants to move out of electricity and into ecotourism. What a coincidence that I want to start a career in that area too. He's so disorganized that he is almost ditsy, but he is passionate about medicinal plants, the history of Punta del Diablo and the environment.  For the followers of the travelogues, you'll remember my unpleasant experiences on motorcycles in the Dominican Republic. Well, a motorscooter is how Pablo and I make our rounds through town and I'm still scared to the point of squeezing the wind out of the driver if we go any faster than absolutely necessary to keep us upright. Thank God he is the sensitive type.
So, that's what's to come, backtracking a bit, Christmas for me is like a shot. I squint, look away, and pant "this too shall pass."  I've pealed off the cotton ball and band aid and give thanks that the soreness is gone just in time for New Years. At least this year I didn't have to deal with the commercials, consumerism and present pressure. Ever since Mom died in 2002 I haven't been able to muster up a heartfelt Christmas sentiment. I kind of stopped celebrating it other than out of obligation.  I tried, really, to sort of get into the spirit this year. Look at the lyrics I came up with on the Eve of Christmas Eve, 2011
“Deck my bush with boughs of seaweed, fa-la-la-la-la….la, la, la la”  “Away in her tent, no room for a bed, the little vagabond Gigi lays down her sweet head…” " Now dashing through the dunes, in a 20 horse power 4-wheeler, over the hills we go, screaming all the way."
It turned out to be a "Merry Christmas, I suppose" sort of event.
My dear friends, Yolanda
and Juan, departed for Spain on the 22 and I slipped into the hole they left behind. My dream home cabana was rented, and thus I moved from
     back to

and spent part of the day adjusting my sleep number  mattress with a shovel. Rain was pooling under my bottom and that just wouldn't do. I'm back to sharing a substandard bathroom with 20 other hostel slaves. So, to be honest, my Christmas was not so Ho Ho Hot. Now that I think about it, Christmas Eve last year I was in a similar dim, but alone, save that crazy, barfing cat I was sharing my friend's flat with in Valladolid.  (see Travelogues 1-3 Spain) If you recall, I decided to take hot chocolate that night to the two homeless people I had seen in the park while running and I spent the Eve of the homage to the Christ Child's birth freezing my ass off, literally, on below 32 concrete getting to know Angel and Manoli. On every subsequent return to Valladolid we've continued building the friendship born under an abandoned bar awning. Not far off from the manger scene.
Has it really been a year since I threw myself to the wild abandon of a midlife crisis??? Geezus, where does the time go? My 3 month tourist visa is about to expire here...that's another shocker for me.
The best gift of this Christmas was Little Lucia peeping in the hostel front door on x-mas morn' , "Zche zche!!!" (as she pronounces my name-all the Uruguayans do)  We've a tradition now of running toward each other with our arms spread wide like two lovers in a Viagra commercial in slow motion, subbing lip locks for pecks on the cheek, of course. I swung her up on my hip, grabbed one of her little hands like a tango dancer and busted out in Jose Feliciano's "Feliz Navidad." She giggled until I got to the "I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas..." part and then we started a cycle of "eh?" and that incessant question-repeat-answer-repeat holding pattern: (see Travel log 18?)
--Zche, Zche,  What are you doing?
--I'm dancing with you.
-eh?
--I'm dancing with you.
--You are dancing with me?
--Yes, I'm dancing with you.
-Why are you singing funny?
--I'm singing in English.
-eh?
--I'm singing in English.
--You are singing in English?
--Yes, I'm singing in English.
Since it was Christmas I didn't toss her off the deck. Actually the little bugger has grown on me and I look forward to our embraces. A Christmas gift that didn't cost a dime--what if all the world tried it?
It's now New Year's Eve and I'm thinking about spending the evening in my tent reading a book that was gifted me and reflecting on the outgoing and incoming. The hostel comrades and guests are well on the way to snockard, but  I'm not in the mood to join the self-destructive. It's becoming ever so clear to me that the twinge of discontent I feel here has much to do with being on a different path or in a different place in my life.  Well, actually, I am experiencing quite a bit of discontent with working at the hostel.  It's beginning to remind me of a dysfunctional family.  It's the people in town that I'm meeting that makes me love being here. It's all about the people. I'm feeling that life is about the people...not my house, or my job or my living conditions or my personal history. The greatest source of joy I have at the moment are other's lives...from little nose picking Lucia to the Ayurvedic doctor I want to work with to the stoned lost soul at the bus stop who says something I needed to hear.
Well, it's dinner time, 10:48 pm (I've put on so much weight here! It makes no sense to me to eat when you should be in the rinse cycle of R.E.M), so I suppose I will mosey on down to the buffet they are providing for the occasion.
You are reading this because you are one of the significant  people in my life I mentioned before. I wish you the best for the new year. I'll leave you with a few photos of my life here.
Much love and many thanks, Gigi

facing my fear of horses on the horse named "Borracha" (drunk) and she did swerve a lot

Fabian, the guide, one of the coolest people I've met here

Hitchhiking in the back of a truck--please dont' tell Pop!!

Sealion sanctuary-Cabo Polonia

These flowers inspire the daylights out of me--months of no rain, yet they bloom up out of the sand, emerging from the harshest of conditions. And my excuses for not blooming in life.......?