I'm pregnant... with ideas.

It seems so absurd to me that I came out with this analogy while waiting in the cold of King George's Park while the person I take care of was talking his walk. Maybe when my fingers are numb and my blood freezes, there's an explosion in my brain that brings all the craziest ideas.

Two nights ago, Greta, the American girl I've mentioned before in this blog, invited me to go with her to the Christmas Fair in Hyde Park, but I said I had to catch up with my writing. I had declined the same invitation coming from my flatmate because I felt more like "hanging out" with Teok and write some more of his adventures in Sagas. This is the first time I've put my writing before a social event. EVER! The next day I had to go to work, and the uneasiness of being separated from the keyboard only grew stronger. I was writing my fantasy novel alright, but a different energy was moving inside of me, making me crave for a different story. All this anger and frustration I had accumulated in the last month in the UK emerged in the form of a character, completely plotless and in the air but with some smart-mouthed lines that would remind me forever my time in here. I was pregnant with ideas, just that the symptoms had taken their time to appear.

And that's how Iwan Salinger is gestating in my writer's womb: my first character whose native tongue will be English (the other two drafts are completely in Spanish.) I can't anticipate a lot, but it is one of those either-you-love-him-or-hate-him characters that bring some rebelliousness back! He's a ruthless boy who listens to sex pistols, who has a cigarrete for breakfast, and who wakes up everyday asking "what the fuck am I doing in London?."

The analogy is, again, ridiculously obvious. I'm pregnant and I have another two kids, and job. This took me by surprise, but abortion in here is not an option. This is what happens when you neglect your other children attention, they start going astray and then you have to raise another one. In order not to feel overwhelmed by all this breeding of characters I'm having, I'm taking this time to lock myself down, dedicate some times to the kids (Teok and Isaí) and take care of the growth of Iwan. The rough weather and the fact that I'm completely broke are helping me a lot to stay indoors, play some music, and let my fingertips type some magic. Vlad thought me through example that when a paper needs to be done, that's it! the rest paralizes. I've paused my social schedule and the rest of the plans so that I can push Teok's journey a bit further and that I make sure Iwan turns out alright (well, this is hard to guarantee since his creator is wicked.) In case this stage takes me the rest of December and the first weeks of the year, Merry Xmas and Happy New Year.

End of November Entry. Sorta.

I'm way to cold and numb to blog, but here I go anywhere.

Time calls for some catch up, or so it seems to me. November has been a cool month. I spent the first days in the anticipation of my birthday, and went it came it was pretty much what I had in mind: lots of party and good times in London - refer to my album on facebook. Diana surely helped me greatly to keep my joyful mood for a while.

Then complications came. I'm really unhappy with my project. I don't feel like I'm learning anything, and the people I work with are plain horrible. After some arguments and tension at my workplace, I decided to talk to ICYE - off record, and they opened the possibility of allocating me somewhere else. Then I saw all the faces of the people I like in London and thought: "wait, do I really want to leave?." It took me some days and then I decided that I am going to finish my time in here regardless. Anyway, January is coming and a week in Spain with Synove and Fran might lift my spirits a bit. Then, it will be one month before I'm off to the rest of Europe and visit all those wonderful people who live in Germany. I can stand the pressure.

Now I find funny that I feel so cold inside. Less than 24 hours ago, I was in the company of one of my favorite people in the world. It did not snow, neither could I escape work as much, but the time I spent with Vlad made up for all the things that did not go as expected. the challenge now is putting up work, the spirit of Christmas, and all the things I dont fully enjoy. This is what we call "fucking London" while we look around Brixton, freezing and laughing on the irony of our lives and how expensive everything is. One thing is for sure, if you feel slightly miserable, cold increases the discomfort.

I apologize if I didnt make much sense in this blog. The season and the loneliness are getting the best of me.

The Stalker Chronicles

Is it only me or London’s suburbs are rather stalker-inviting places?

I’ve been talking about this with the people I know for a while, but nobody else seems to share my fascination for people’s lives, so I tend to drop the topic. What does a writer do when he’s not being heard? Easy: he writes. And be it to satisfy my own need of telling the story or to explain until which extent my stalking practices go, I decided to blog about it.

(Parenthesis: As I wrote this last sentence, one neighbor shut the curtains.)

My room has a nice balcony that leads to an open space that nobody in the building uses (a.k.a. forsaken backyard,)and this space is poorly separated from the neighbors’ respective backyards by a fence covered in vines of leaves and ivy. Every time I go to my balcony for a cigarette or just open the window, a whole set of four-story buildings with windows leading to different houses appear. The family that has parties like every other day, the Indian/Pakistani guys who cook by the window sill all the time, the couple of entrepreneurs who run their own business from their houses, the people that come and go: all that is there for me to watch!

This has got to be a common problem among writers, I’d like to think; being nosy, I mean. Often the passion for discovering stories is as strong as the zeal for creating them. I wouldn’t dare to separate them, actually. We produce narrative but not after having devoured a great deal of anecdotes, biographies, and events. In my fantasy novel also, I write about a door that opens the path to a different world, and when I read this recurrent theme in other novels, my heart jumps with excitements; I might be a little bit of a Peter Pan and get the same feeling from windows and the real people behind them.

(Second parenthesis: One of my neighbor’s desk is next to the window that is in the second floor right in front of me. It is so funny that we’re both typing now, face to face, and nobody dares to be the one closing the curtains.)

It is not that different in my work place. The person I provide care for lives in the eight floor of a twenty two-story tower that faces a huge residential building. From his window, I see no less than fifty balconies, all with people shaving, watching T.V., drinking, talking, hiding. It is hard to keep a record of what people like to do, but I have the image of this punk girls singing and rocking, the families on the couch watching T.V. on Sundays, and the stamp of the stud who comes shirtless and wearing his white fabric pajamas, stretches, and spits over the rail of the balcony (that’s probably the image that is going to stay in your mind after having finished reading). The view often overwhelms me; it reminds me of the Matrix. It’s like having lots of mini screens with programs to watch. As I realize what I’m writing, I’m starting to think that there’s something wrong with me, but it is too late for that now.

(Third parenthesis: I just spotted a kid similar to a black cherub watching shyly from the third window to my left, in the third floor. He hid when he met my gaze and I couldn’t help laughing.)

It might be that never before I have been so abruptly exposed to a place this cramped in which your life could collide any moment with somebody else’s and work magic! Produce a story! But I seem to be so into it right now. As part as an experiment, I’ve kept my windows open for two days. The reactions go from awkward brief gaze encounters to friendly smiles but no further contact. Just two nights ago, my young male neighbor and I kept this game of not closing the curtains, but he won cuz I felt asleep very early. It’s like paradise for hunting stories and human contact… if it weren’t for the neighbors’ reluctance to share their lives and the Western paranoia over privacy.

(BTW, the neighbor whose computer is in front of me didn’t close the curtains. She left the room and turned off the lights instead.)

England, the metaphors.

“The horses may bite or kick” reads a sign outside the Household Cavalry in Central London.

Coming to England as an English major was going to affect my literary side one way or another; I knew it. When you read back home about the mist, the gray days, and the black alleys at night, you can't help but think that your life in here will be no less than a novel. At the beginning I just sat in Essex, staring at the blue sky, the horizon line and the greenery of the country side interrupted by high roofs of brick houses. At that point I was so desperate for inspiration or for something that connected me to my English major side that almost forced the assimilation of the surroundings as magical rather than just let it happen. Everything changed when I came to my project. Before I even thought of the opening song of Sweeny Todd and pranced around saying “there is no place like London,” I wanted to take some time and be the tourist. While visiting all the must sees in the city, I read the sign about the horses, but it wasn’t until a month later that my mind turned it into a metaphor. Horses, as royal as they are, may bite or kick because they are horses linked to an instinctive nature. English people, as polite and proper as I keep thinking they generally are, are just people; they may behave accordingly. I came here to find that people were no puzzle to me. I was to face with them the same situations I encountered back home.

The story might have some omens as well. One of these days, as I came to a crossroad, I could hear the sound of a crow from the nearest treetop. It might not mean anything since I’m in England now and crows abound in here, but I couldn’t help but go back to my study of archetypal symbols and feel threatened. Is this event foreseeing something? My literary side is inclined to believe yes, while my reason keeps telling me such worry does not have reason to be.

The third and most interesting literary figure in my life is something simpler but not less important. There’s a flyer that I pasted on my door that keeps falling every day. I picked it up while walking in Soho; the radiant smile of the girl who was giving them away was so compelling that I had to even walk closer and take it. I kept it with me and taped it against the door as a reminder of one of my daily battles, an ideal I definitely have to pick up from the floor constantly. The funny part is that every day that the flyer falls down and I have to post it again, I can’t help but read the inscription and feel challenged; it's because of the metaphor. What does the flyer say? Two words: End Homophobia.

I have seen no mist on the riverbank of the Thames or anything, but boy, have I seen metaphores.

I fell in love with a country!

I can't precise how my leve relationship with Scotland started, but the moment I found myself buying its flag and thinking about booking another trip, I knew that I had hopelessly surrendered to the country. If somebody is interested in the before, I didn't know much about these lands. I bought my ticket thinking about bagpipes, men with skirts - not to be thought out of context, and yeah, the breathtaking scenery... but nothing else!!! Yeah, I had heard about William Wallance and I was even listening to the Soundtrack of Braveheart as I crossed the border, but still, I need to declare that I was utterly oblivious of the Edinburgh that could be seen beyond a touristic flyer. Alright, I get out of the bus and I immediately feel the chilling wind. Nobody warned me about that, but I want to see the city and I don't mind - I certainly did at night after clubbing, but that's another story. I start the trekking by myself and it isn't long before I joined a couple of Colombians. We comment on how the high roofs, the different levels of the city, the gardens, and the castle as a guardian above the hill make us feel in a fairy tale. After saying goodbye to my temporary companions, I decided to go to Calton hill and then Arthur's Seat. I spent almost the rest of my day hiking, almost measuring every single square meter of Calton Hill and Holyrood Park with my steps. It felt like being in a movie - the soundtrack might have contributed to that perspective; I found hard to believe that a location could provide both modernity and nature whithin miles. I dunno what happened exactly, as I've been saying, but I'm in love with Edinburgh.

My friend Sage told me that Edinburgh is her mom's favorite place and all world; now I understand that. I ignore her motivation beyond the obvious beauty, but I can certainly try to put into words what charmed me. I feel like home from day one. I know what is it about these people that appeals to me that much. I think that their English does not intimidate me because they're highly critized worldwide just because of their accent. It surely from the posh London accent, but I can understand every single word and even find cute the way they say "sorry." I had heard so many stories about the Glasgow accent... and guess who ended up chatting mostly with people from there? I loved the highlands cattle and even bought a stuffed animal, and I also learned about the Jacobites.I appreciate a good walk and Edinburgh is all about moving in the city on foot (buses? what for?.)
I found ways to really piss off a Scottish as well, which in a way shows how interested I am in thw whole Scottish deal. For example, asking for a scott instead of saying just whisky immediately makes Scottish people to think that you're another shallow American tourist. Nevermind asking them why their notes (bills) are different to the English notes. I honestly spent all the Scottish pounds in my possesion because I only wanted to bring "real money" to London. Don't elaborate on why you'd sooner french-kiss a sheep instead of trying Haggis. Don't dare to mention that Edimburgh's castle on the inside is way overrated.
I might go back... what am I saying? I know I have to go back!

Tired of Essex. Time for London.

I would most likely remember September 9 as my niece’s birthday… and as the day I got lost in London. I had recently arrived to the city, and, since I had the day off, I decided to hit Westminster all by myself. I did all that I could have done wrong just for proving myself that I was the greatest traveler. Immediate fail. I got on the tube with no map of the stations or of the city and got off on Victoria Station just to see how far away that was from Westminster. Trusting my inner GPS and relaying on my mental pictures of Google earth, I started heading what I thought it was east. It was not long before I run into the Westminster Cathedral (not to be confused with the abbey) and decided that I wasn’t THAT lost. At least minutes of relentless second thinking elapsed before I spotted lots of tourist and the emblematic Westminster Abbey. I was there, in the city I had longed to visit since childhood dreams. The Big Ben emerged amongst the trees planted in front of the abbey. As I kept walking, the London Eye emerged just next to the renowned tower and then, I caught a glimpse of the Thames. I was left speechless. I started thanking my mom in my head for paying for this and kept walking with a smile covering my face. This is London and it feels so surreal. That was day one, and although I could go for hours on how I spend an entire afternoon looking for Soho and how after I found it, I had a long way back to Victoria station while almost peeing my pants, more things are going on. London has been my refuge after a long day of work. Now that I am incorporated to a routine and life turns blah blah blah, I always enjoy taking the tube and going to a new destination. That way of catharsis has certainly affect my pockets (each round trip to the center costs about 4 pounds,) but still, I can’t get enough of the free museums and galleries, of the activities at open air, of the pubs with friendly fellows and bartenders, and of the long walks around those stone buildings which majestic façades makes you feel tiny and insignificant. My admiration does not come only from the sightseeing tour and the fireworks at the riverbank of the Thames in the Mayor’s Thames Festival. All the previous look amazing in postcards, but London isn’t only about that. The city is also the fanfare of the little boys skating in the gardens of St. Paul’s Cathedral, the salsa crew that dances in the open in front of the library in Brixton, the multiple cultures manifested in books, markets, outfits, venues. Yeah, London is the place to be. In addition, with my tendency to capture the quirkiest events around and to get in trouble, I can anticipate that I’m going to have fun. What I am talking about? My bladder here is accelerated; of course I’m going to have fun.

The diary of England I'm keeping... sorta. 1st part

1st Day in England.
It’s been the craziest, yet the most exciting day. At the beginning you don’t really know what to think. You just boarded the plane in Mexico – after having taken a plane earlier in my country and that right after leaving my favorite disco downtown. Since the tiresome trip has got you completely exhausted, you will open your eyes after crossing the Atlantic just a few hours after you surrendered to the fatigue; still, you’ll be on the other side. Advancing your watch 7 hours is not even the most significant thing you’re doing. Next moment, you’re riding a train between terminals, next moment you’re thinking in pounds and being impressed by how expensive everything is. This is England, and the lady with the burka who gave you the entry clearance is about the least diverse thing you’re about to witness. Those are the things that would happen to everyone, and these are the things that only happen to me. I get off the plane and watching all the blondes around I start having the pleasant discomfort of being totally outside of my “I’m the rule not the exception” racial comfort zone. I’m the only Latin American in the crew not being sent to health check, but that’s only because I spoke English and the guys didn’t. I see this girl holding the ICYE sign and I come right away to her. I realize there’s just no way of getting free internet anywhere in London Heathrow Airport and get the ICYE staff looking for a solution for me. I end up even annoying one poor waitress that seems tired of people asking her for Wi-Fi access and of luggage blocking her way to the kitchen- it was everybody’s suitcases, just that she picked it up on me. I meet a girl from Germany and we start talking very amicably. I meet the rest of the volunteers and staff, and I shake the hand of the first African I’ve met in my life. I end up paying, not without some resignation, a public, coin-operated computer that would give me ten minutes of Facebook for a pound. I take a banana from the food ICYE brought for us and keep thinking that it is hilarious that my first food in England happens to be a banana. We get on the bus, and I right away monopolize this girl from Minnesota. I come to the campsite to find a place like the mountains of Heredia, just that we have brick buildings in here. This girl from Uganda asks for my name just to end up calling me as their Swahili – English phonetics would change the pronunciation of it. I start mingling and find the smoking crew, so we go for a cigarette. We have dinner. Everybody wants to sleep, just that for my biological clock it is only four and it would be insane to go to bed now. I take a walk with a guy from Uganda and we talk about how bored we are now, but how great expectations we have from the experience. We question the British sense of fun just for releasing tension, but we both wouldn’t trade spaces with anybody. I sit down and write while the American girl plays a movie and everybody gathers in the common room. I keep wondering what the second day is going to bring for me.

2nd Day in England.
Morning
Right, by the second day, you can’t feel or act or even pretend you’re an alien. The officer at the UK border gave you permission to be here for the six months, so you’d better wake up early and start living the British Day. We’re on the Bank’s Holiday, so this day promises to be very relaxed and laid back. I’m the first person up, but it is only because I slept tight. Kat is impressed because the Costa Ricans are the first to show up in the common room. Kat, the moment I asked her yesterday where could we smoke and she gave me all the directions, I should have known we would get along pretty well. She is very friendly, and hundred percent approachable – the fact that she fed me with cereal and yoghurt only strengthens all the goodness inside of her. My morning starts looking promising as I find that six small containers of yoghurt cost only 90 “p” (pences) at TESCO – that’s even cheaper than back home. I discover that Winny (I have to check for spelling soon,) the famous girl from Uganda who keeps changing the pronunciation of my name, will also work for SHAD. I’m excited about this because she’s been treating me very familiarly since the moment we met. I’m also seduced by that African color in her speech. I’m going to take a break now, but only because it does not get any warmer and I need to get some sunlight and some body heat.
Afternoon and evening.
We have plenty of time to write in here, so here I go again. The morning/early afternoon turned into a visit to the local grocery store. I bought cherries and my first copy of The Guardian. It felt truly great touching the paper after a year of just getting tweets and reading the website of this renowned medium. Being snoopy friendly got me to inspect, along with Kat, the building where we had to move later on. I could choose the room I wanted and automatically affected the distribution of the rest of the house. It feels like back home where ACI staff is used to treat me as part of the leading team. We moved, I finally showered, and then the crew went out for the first experience at the local pub – what did I do in between all that? Taking pictures and thanking my mom and my older sister for sending me here. After a twenty minute walk for a town made out of brick and flowers that looks exactly like what you would imagine when you hear “Victorian” country side, we get to the crossroad where a sign of a silver deer announces the The White Hart. Inka, a girl from Germany, is the first in crossing the threshold of this beautiful traditional pub embellished by black window sills and pink bunches of flowers. I cowardly shield behind her just to see the wooden interior with seductive lights and some very friendly locals welcoming us. I feel like in wonderland, just a very alcoholic version of it. I was tempted to neglect I had ever been in a dirty Costa Rican bar after sitting comfortably in a decorated stool and having a pint of foster in this room of dark wood panels decorated with gold and some crests that sell me the idea of royalty right away. All the volunteers seem enthusiastic. How could they not be? We are in an English pub, and the locals haven’t stop making us feel home. The smoking crew ends up sitting outside after an hour and I get to know them better. The guys only came outside to tell us that it is about time to go, so I had to swallow the pint I had on my hand—good thing the American girl helped me. Back to the camp, the routine of meeting the new arrivals start, and as the group gets larger I realize that I like even less people, and then everything stars being blurry because my brain is trying to stick to how nice and cozy it was with a smaller group. It seems like it is about time to destroy the comfort zone we built with the group of the volunteers who arrived first. Still, I remember the nice chats of the day, the constant and funny displays of testosterone of the Bolivian guy, the red clay tile roof of the houses nearby just seldom being visited by a couple of birds, the rumor of the threatening English rain that just never shows up, the warmth feeling when you talk to people from Uganda, and the face of this American girl who I would totally try to hit on if I were into girls.

Writers: Sinners!

We writers commit sin all the time. We watch from afar, we don't get involved, and yet we live people's lives with them. Thieves. This could be called schizophrenia by psychologists, even lying to ourselves - we called it delight. Sick. We share moments with people, and they never find out. We watch over in the creepiest way, yet people keep the idea that we're making art. Stalkers. We enjoy the company of strangers that will later give birth to characters, and they will never know the fictional person has their genes. In this sense, we create a lot of fatherless bastards --no, this is not redundant, the second alludes to their personality. We take the place of a god and modify reality to make it look better and tell god we have a second opinion. Profane. Liars. We denigrate, humiliate, and expose. Monsters. We're the worst. We deprive ourselves from some humanity to make people purge to what does even tickle us. We're helpless, and we wouldn't choose another life if we had to.

One Episode of Dramatic Irony

Some people walk our footsteps, and we wouldn't ever realize it until a torrential rain corners you in that bakery store you haven't visited since 2008.
I came in because I felt like some pastry, because I needed the bathroom, but mostly because I wanted to shelter from the rain in a place that reminded me of him. I came in and bought the worst piece of cake ever - I had the idea they were terrific in the past, and there I saw this blond princess that reminded me of Tinkerbell right away. She was having a piece of bread, just that, no drink, no coffee, just the mouthful of baked, inflated flour. If her looks weren't enough to give her away as a foreigner, her big blue back pack would and her feeble, soaked umbrella would do the job.
My first thought as a foreigner collector and as a magnet for damsels in distress was to approach her and start a conversation, but I was too wet to add rejection to my list of things that had gone wrong in my day - the cake included, and the book I brought to remain enclosed in myself was too good to stop reading.
I would raise my sight to check if she was still there for a while until, for my relief and distress, she left. She took her Norse and alien-like look through the door, and I thought that she, as it has happened with many strangers I'm fond of while in my range, would disappear from my life. But the vice of smoking took me to the supermarket across the street just to find her buying bananas. Bread and bananas: people who know a bit about my adventures and about the novel that they inspired know how important bread and bananas are for me. They're the only way in which you can keep your meal for less than a dollar without fainting or starving to death. That's what Vlad and I ate back then in 2008 because we had either bought a big bottle of wine or because the day's budget was no more than 2 dollars. And there I had a lady following our steps, doing the same thing in the exact same places...
I paid for the cigarettes and walk away smiling. "We were first" I thought, "and this story will be mine when I finally publish this novel that talks about it." But how do I know how many people came before us and have done the same to save some money? I thought she would disappear when I resumed my walking under the raindrops that pounded against my umbrella... but the truth is that this girl is going to stay in my head for a season at least.

I call it one episode of dramatic irony because the viewer, me, knows how the story goes.

Observations at my Workplace and Rants on People Living in Small Worlds

I might need to get some sleep, but before hitting the pillow, I wanted to share an experience I had this morning. The statement I have to make is that working in a language academy can be fun. Yeah, you can laugh AT your students a great deal and still keep your job. Or so it is what some people think.
It's Saturday morning and I was asked to evaluate tribunal exams today. In spite of knowing that I was going to be hangover as hell, I said early in the week that I could do it, and there I was, with thirst, a headache, and listening to the first adolescent in the list struggling to utter the sounds of "I'm fine." I thought that my morning couldn't suck more, until the other professor in the tribunal tried to socialize with me. After minutes of dull talk with the adult, I actually started looking forward the arrival of the rest of the students. This professor, a lovely lady deep inside no doubt, spoke regular English, and that pissed me off because she had been a teacher for more than six years! She defied my belief on the longing for improvement that I thought every human had. Well, as much as I would like to analyze the character of a woman who lives in a very small world and who does not even excel at what she does for a living, I need to focus on the students.
Giving tribunal exams is like being a judge in one of this T.V. reality shows. Somebody sits in front of you, you ask questions, and you give a number that corresponds to how much the person impressed you. If you could fast forward the tape, you would see faces smiling, some others just blank, and the rest actually talking. We get into their lives and ask "What's your favorite food/drink/music genre/activity/book/movie/artist?" and sometimes, if we are not mature enough like this professor I worked with, you feel that you're entitled to make comments about their tastes --I can't help talking about this person. Favorite food: nearly 70% of the students said Pizza. I laugh to myself here because when you're a teenager, you probably don't know that eating healthy is actually delicious. Favorite drink: Coke, no wonder. I just want to see how that answer changes when they become eighteen. Place they would like to visit: They described France as the land of love and romanticism. I was surprised they didn't say "the States," but I was disappointed on them buying all the stereotypes. I guess I was laughing inside, but it was more like a laugh with a patronizing comment "Oh, you've got so much to learn." I turned to the professor and she was laughing blatantly and saying "assuming that that's a meal," "assuming that that music genre even exists," "assuming that you don't know better."
Still, if you see all that these kids, with their limited world and all, still have ahead of them, you think "well, they may have time for discovering that pizza isn't the best, that Coke tastes to too much sugar, and that Paris is overrated." However, if you see the lady, you can't help but feeling that she's hopeless, that her narrow vision won't broaden anytime soon, and that she misses so much of what is happening around everyday. Then it makes me wonder... who looks the most stupid in this situation?

What makes a day wonderful!

I'm rather surprised what makes a day wonderful. I've always thought of myself as a person hard to please... go figure it is actually the opposite.
As my friends and a whole crew of the most wonderful people I've met are flying back home or going abroad (it will be my turn very soon,) I finally have to bring back memories and remember the most pleasant of days that I've lived lately.
1. In an ordinary Sunday, Vlad and I went to San José and started drinking vodka. By the second bottle, it rained, so we went to Parque Morazán and talked about our lives. The emotions were really intense, and the way home was an odyssey as Vlad was behaving recklessly and we ended up breaking a bottle of wine. It was a big blur, and it was perfection.
2. To Sage's farewell party, we went clubbing. We drank, we danced, and thanks to Vlad's inventive nature, we ended up shirtless. What a night!
3. After Vlad and Sage had left, all that was left for me was work and arrangements for my trip. I had to pick up my flight ticket one Thursday after my morning shift. Diana was in the office, so we had lunch and talked about life. Talking to Diana is always amusing. Then I went back to the office and I could smoke with Michael and Marco. I wouldn't ask for better company than my favorite German guy and the most irreverent tico I've met. Then, the afternoon brought beer with my best friends from college; it was bliss so far. I left the bar really sad, but before going to my night shift, Mar and I bought her web camera so that we could skype when I'm in London. I went to work thinking that I would hate my night, and then one of my students gave me a book about the Costa Rican character that awakened the passion for my roots. I went home feeling that I wouldn't trade my life for anyone's, but the day wasn't over. I had the change to talk to Vlad before going to bed. That was about all what my day needed.

When Being You Is Nothing But A Dream

It all feels like a dream when you see how far you are from being the person you want to be.
Reality confronts you in a second, and then you're shocked! You're numb and try to escape from yourself for the truth is to hard to bear.

I've been living too many years trying to be a truthful person to myself and my convictions... and here I am, slave of what happens around me when my motto used to be "circumstances shouldn't control you, you control the circumstances."

I'm failing, and miserably I've got to admit.

I was on my feet reading while the packed bus, screeching all the way, tried to take all the commoners to San José. My concentration was surprisingly good for a Monday morning, specially after a Sunday of sleep deprivation and usual lack of motivation. The world outside kinda blurred for a while, and I was the happiest person living vicariously through the life of Stephen Dedalus when a line of the book stroke me like lightning.

He felt small and weak. When would he be like the fellows in poetry and rhetoric? They had big voices and big boots and they studied trigonometry.

I realized that was my portrait more than the one of the young man as an artist. I was that kid, feeble and afraid with big dreams nonetheless, wanting to have a voice on his own like those authors you read throughout your entire life. I knew I was able to. I knew I could achieve something with my writing, but I was keeping it to myself. I wanted to wear the big boots, but I was afraid they ended up being too tight. The main problem is that I had been the kid for a little bit too long, for enough time to feel that I was shrinking instead of growing. Trigonometry meant the complexity of the world, and I didn't want any of that. I was becoming a bonsai instead of a tree. I needed to bear fruit while I still could.

Now, keeping the tree conceit, I'm aware that I'm not barren. I just feel like I should have been producing for some seasons already. I don't think I'm being blinded by the ideal self; I just want to stop self-boicoting and minimizing my potential.

Just a thought. I don't want to be the shadow of myself, the echo of my voice, a dream of the person I can definitely become.

Ghetto. The Ugly Face.

Add one more notch to my love-hate relationships in life. I really dislike my neighborhood. There I said it, not that it has been a secret for anybody when they naturally ask me where I live. I always spit it with poison, sarcasm, or black humor. The name can't come out of my mouth naturally. "Hatillo" I say waiting for the reaction in the other person's face. In many cases, that has been the end of the conversation.

Facts. My parents traded natural paradise in the north of the country for a sewer in the south of the capital of Costa Rica. In the search for a better life (which only meant more money, and in that we succeeded,) we arrived here ten years ago. In theory, this is the only culture shock I haven't been able to overcome. I came from living surrounded by protective, polite people to a town where you listen the unthinkable coming out of the students of elementary school and where you could be robbed or bullied anywhere. The scenery of greenery was replaced by cement, iron, and tin; the sound of the rain isolating the house from the world was totally displaced by the concert of car alarms, police sirens, street fights, and shootings after midnight; the scent of the dew in the grass totally is gone, and the stench of dog poop and uncollected trash float in the air instead. In this place, you can wake up to discover that a drug addict mounted a cardboard shelter in front of your house. In here, the kids can play in a newly made playground for a week before graffiti of dicks start appearing in the slides. The houses, more than built together, look as if they had been built by an asphyxiating artist trying to make an statement. Fart and your neighbor will know. In here, you get used to the cars passing with their stereos playing reggaetton as loud as they can. You see shirtless guys with baggy pants all the time during the day and a catwalk of hoodies at night. You take a walk and see girls wearing shorts just one centimeter longer to be classified as underwear. You see lots of make up with long earrings in moody faces. You see this boys and girls flirting and fighting openly, starting their cars, roaring their engines, and getting lost for the rest of the night. You see the fat laddies in sandals and old fashioned attires running errands during the day. You see their fat husbands drinking in front of the liquor store and making jokes to the drug addicts. You see the latter staggering, holding their pants in many cases, covered by smog, dirt, and smell of pee. This is a place nobody should live in. This is where I'm bringing the volunteer that is taking my place when I'll be in London. This is where I've lived almost 10 years now.

My friend Vlad calls it the ghetto. I stand in the bridge for peasants in the highway, look over the roofs crowded with clothing drying on cables, wires located in all directions and t.v. antennas eaten by rust and I think the name fits the neighborhood well. Had we a wall built around the town and some snow falling, I swear the image would resemble those scenes of the Warsaw Ghetto. Still, this is the place where I live. This is where I will return when the experience in London is over. This is an ugly face of life.

Some things I learned about myself this last week.

I rarely blog about positive experiences, but I need to do it today. Most of what I have to talk about lately is people. I work with humans, I love interacting with them, and, as a socialite and an aspiring novelist, my whole life has a reason to be because of people. However, from time to time, I allow myself to detach from them and discover what is my identity apart from people. International Week at my volunteer association gave me that opportunity. Although I was surrounded by people all the time, manual tasks like painting a tall cardboard Big Ben gave me some time to think. The events inside and outside international week that also happened this week allowed me to have a mirror in front of me all the time -- it had been years since the last time I tried to analyze myself. And boy, have I changed over time.
These are things I found out about myself:

-I can still work under somebody's lead. I thought I was a rebel, but it turns out I can still admire someone enough to follow him. All I need is leader that cares about his collaborators and that is not afraid of being a visionary. Thanks James for the lesson.
-I'm definitely not mainstream. I knew I was unconventional in many of my ways, but lately I see that I keep doing almost everything in a very sui generis manner. This excites me because I always wanted to be effortlessly eccentric, but it surely worries me because I don't think there's going back.
-I can still be so touched and moved by somebody's story that I can keep crying inside of me for some time after the telling is over. I mean, I kept asking myself what I had done to deserve earning somebody's trust. When I think about it, I still don't understand it, but I'm very grateful that somebody saw a trustworthy person in me.
-I need a purpose to keep moving on. I need to be doing something. I have a desperate need of transcending.
- I haven't quite learned my limits. Sometimes I just live feeling immortal, and there's when the chaos start. Feeling in the top of the world also means that if you lose your balance, it is a very long way to the bottom.

I'm glad I can still work in my humanity. What is to change in the following years? I just can't wait to see my evolution.

Perfect people? pff, what's that?

I met a guy, and when I asked him online the next day what he was doing, he replied in the most casual tone:
"I'm here in the computer with my cat, with the t.v. on, and without paying attention to what's on the screen. I know, bad habit."
He had bad habits. That was enough for me to know he was someone worth meeting.

Some days before, my friend Felix had asked me while we were walking in the aisles of the gold museum what my impression of him and our circle of friends was. I thought that I was unable to do so with my friends and was tempted to reply that I do not think about it, but when I came home and thought it over, I realized I do have a profile for every person.
I think about people and characters in a sort of non conventional way. I first list all the reasons why I could dislike them: bad habits, questionable behavior, interaction problems, quirks, etc. The second step would be enumerating all the reasons that I have for liking this person: energy, sparkling personality, cleverness. If the positive outshines the negative, who cares about their defects anymore? The greatest part of many people that I've known is that their positive assets are such that make the bad things about them even look attractive. Kids usually like impeccable characters like superman, who hasn't ever killed a bug. We critical adults prefer people with a little dirt in their nails.

A way of saying someone that I like him or her for me, as atypical as it sounds, could be like:
"You're loud, you rarely filter what you think and say whatever comes to your mind, you find way too many excuses for everything, but you know what? you have a beautiful smile, your sense of humor is terrific and you are good bringing people together." --That's an actual description I have for a friend of mine.

At the end, Felix should not care that much about my judgment. I probably listed the little things I might not cope with and took a look at the remaining goodness to shut them down. The outcome it's a little obvious: I unquestionably like this group of people. I assume they too have a list of the reasons of why they wouldn't like me, but I appreciate their efforts for doing the same that I do and putting the bad things behind.

Real people. That's what I think they are.

The deodorant analogy.

I ran out of deodorant by the end of the month, and I knew that meant trouble.
This might be a very atypical situation in most of the world, but in my house, the whole deodorant thing always prompts arguments and discussions. One could trace it back to the time when my dad managed all his money and we, the remaining members of the household, had to ask him for money to satisfy any need. I kind of got what I needed, but the bureaucratic nature of the process started this nonconformity in me that has not stopped until today. "Do I have to explain that much why I need a deodorant?" Well, then mom was in office and I was given a monthly salary and that fixed the problem of the begging for toiletries... for a while.

The scene moves to today. I've been asking for a deodorant for four days. This is not the first time this happens in the year.

I'm not a student anymore, so my salary was removed. I started working, but I haven't gotten my paycheck yet because my boss pays monthly. Wherever you see it, finances-wise, I'm screwed, and that's why I had to undergo the painful process of asking for everything again.

I could just wait until I get my deodorant and rest for the time being, but the reason why this whole deodorant issue gets under my skin is because of my mom's behavioral patters that this simple act of not buying that little thing reveal. This is not new for any kid: PARENTS DO NOT LISTEN! You can tell them what really matters for you, but your words will simply turn into something else in their minds and end up meaning something else, usually something unimportant. My mom does that. She goes shopping, buy the deodorants for the whole female population of my house (3/4 of the total members) and forgets mine! Then, since she's unable to admit that she's a terrible listener and that she had in mind what she thought I will need instead of my real petition, she will say a lot of reasons of why I don't need the deodorant just now. That's plainly absurd! "It's been only three days since you told me" Yeah, mom, only three days in which I've had to use my sister's, with the floral scent and all. And all of the sudden, I'm working, I should have money, and I spent too much in other things... And here's when I decide to swallow it and shut the fuck up. Right, mom, you can't do me this $4 one favor, I've got it.

I come down to this: it is the whole attitude behind the act what upsets me. My mom is such a great person, but when it comes to accept that it is her fault for not listening carefully to what I'm saying, she goes so irrational. It is the only moment when nothing makes sense, when she's confronted to a parent's responsibility that she did not meet. I've seen adults doing this over and over again. It is true, I'm the son here, but, as my friend Sage says, parents can't keep winning arguments just because they are the parents. I need a reason, a coherent explanation, not a bunch of excuses and a display of self-justification. Throwing me a history of care and love won't make it either. I need to trust my parents NOW and know that they are listening NOW. I love my mom, but these small things make me unable to rely on her blindly.

Five minutes ago, mom came by my room and gave me cash - which she previously denied she had, to go and buy the freaking deodorant. Trust, however, has been broken for three days already.

All these started with a deodorant.

Money does not write e-mails.

I remember growing up and being told by my older sister that I should stay away from teaching. She is a teacher herself, so I thought the warning had a reason to be. They worked a lot and earned a salary with which becoming rich is unthinkable. However, as the time passed and I began making my career choices, it only became clearer that I felt passionate about instructing, even with the little money that brings.
Try number 1, this is my father making me choose law school because he wanted a rich lawyer in the family. Result: total failure.
Try number 2, this is my best friend talking me into working in call centers. Result: I hated working there, hence, a failure.
Try number 3, this is me double thinking my decision of staying where I work and get a job that, although I would hate, would get me money to go to Europe. Result? Yet to see, but I think there's a well established trend.
When it comes to career choice, money has not brought me any happiness. I thought about leaving my class for a graveyard shift as an online poker dealer, but what refrains me from shifting is thinking how I am going to feel there. The significant wrong choices I've made in my life have started with me seeking for money over self gratification.

I know this, money does not tell me that I did a great job. Money does not tell me that coming to my classes is enjoyable. Money does not try to talk to me in the breaks just to find out what kind of person hides behind the mask of the teacher. Money cannot be interested in listening my opinion about issues going on in the world. Money does not necessarily give me a voice. Money does not make sure I'm ok.

Money does not write e-mails just because it seemed in class that I was a little down. Money does not buy this kind of gratification, that you're actually impacting some lives.

There's No Shame In Being Young.

- I'm concerned about your looks. I hope it works, but you... you just look so young.

That was the way in which my employer kind of closed the deal. She was not hiring me for any ad campaign or anything in which my age or looks should matter. I was being trusted with the instruction of 5 English groups at a language academy: I had the degree, I had side experience, but I was still a little too young.

Next day, I showed up at work for my first class, and right immediately I felt the killer gaze of my boss, the principal of the school. I rushed to my classroom, but the lady is fast and intercepted me before I could get away with my new infraction, whatever it was. She came to me with her patronizing tone and familiar proximity. I knew I was in trouble.
- The way you do your hair is pretty much as the young people in this institute do it. You should comb it down.
- Oh - I exclaimed shocked - but I'm pretty much their age, they know it anyway.
-Yes, but you should avoid at all costs letting them think that you're one of them.
- Oh, I WOULD let them KNOW I'm the teacher. You should not worry about it.
- It is a good idea if you cut your hair.
- Oh, but I...
- I insist. It IS a good idea.
Wait a second! Is being a young person a sort of infraction now? I went to my classroom and performed my activities as expected, but for some reason I was not so eager to come to work again on Friday. It had been a long time since my age or the fact that I look and dressed youthful was an issue.

Right, I have been living in a rational world in which any argument has a logical counterargument and in which talent was praised regardless of the appearance. It was not until I came to this job that I regained some perspective of reality and discovered that there are still plenty of old-fashioned, old-schooled people for whom keeping appearances is as important as the real deal.

I ended up cutting my hair a little, but I couldn't help feeling defeated. To strike back, I wore converse next class. The principal sat me down in her office and gave me the old speech she has given to all the professors - she even took pride on that fact. "Now you, as the other professors, are wearing your hair like a man." I listened respectfully, poker face activated, waiting for my turn to speak and bring down some of the ridiculous prejudices. "There's no shame in being young" I said. "My hair is going to grow again, and I don't want to look old. I know many talented people my age that look even a little bit eccentric. I hope in time you will see that decorum has little to do with a fixed appearance that society established long time ago and that respect is earned, not imposed."

I'm doing my best to prove this point. Wish me luck.
Spread some justified rebelliousness.

Learning to forget and learn again. 01. Icons and Lucky Charms.

This might become another series like "memories lost and found" section.

I was raised an Evangelical Christian, and as part of neglecting the world in the search of everlasting life, I was taught some dogmas that I have come to disbelieve over time. I had to forget and learn again everything about magic, fantasy,secular music, sex, homosexuality, smokers, adivination, among many others .This week, however, I remembered how prejudiced I was against people who needed religious icons and believed in lucky charms.
In radical Christianity, there is no place for luck since it displaces the hopes that should be only put on God. Under this premise, I was trained to despise lucky charms and talk people who put their faith on them out of their mistake. However, as I became skeptical and nearly atheist, I could value the significance that a charm has.
A Japanese girl that I met in 2008 carried her kamisama with her everywhere. That piece of wood with a kanji on it represented her background, her culture, a fragment of where she came from that she could carry with her everywhere. When the thing got lost, she almost panicked as if she had lost part of her soul as well. If you have ever read "The Earth's Children Saga" by Jean M. Auel, then you understand the anthropological importance of the charms and amulets. It's related to symbolism, and call it keepsake or charm, the meaning we give to something is never despicable or else a reason to earn damnation. It's the same with Icons. The Bible condemns idolatry in Exodus 20:3-5

"...You shall not make for yourself a graven image, or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth; you shall not bow down to them or serve them; for I the Lord your God am a jealous God..."

The problem is that, if we took the words too literally, as radical Muslims do, we wouldn't be able to reproduce any image... what a boring life. The overall message is, I think, being aware of diversions that lead you astray from God, call them whatever.

Japanese, Chinese, Costa Rican, whoever... I learned that we need to hold on to something to endure the crudeness of life at times. Clever leaders don't underestimate the value of symbolism and use it to bring people together. Sun Tzu wrote in his teachings, now a book called The Art of War, the importance of using blazons, flags,and drums during the war to remind the soldiers who are far behind and can't listen to the general the reason of why are they fighting and the fact that they are not alone.

I brought this up because in this limbo I am going trough, symbols have played an important role. When you feel like you're just on your own and that you don't have anything to hold on to, that's precisely when that charm proves being helpful. I feel like the wait until I leave to England is being way too long, but when I see the flag of the UK or the Big Ben, I think the wait is worth it. One of these days, I was feeling extremely lonely too, and while walking on a crowed street, I got my hand in my pocket and felt my keys. All the keyrings there, brought to me from far away countries, reminded me of the great friends I have that bothered in thinking on me when they were in their trips. It made me feel accompanied again; it was a symbol, something to hold on to.

Demand a Starbucks in Costa Rica??? WTF!

I'm trying to stay cool and not stop liking some of my contacts as they joined a group in Facebook called "Exige un starbucks en CR!!!" (demand a Starbucks in Costa Rica.) The description of the page in Spanish reads something like (my translation) "Starbucks opens a new store around the world every hour. It's about time to have our first Starbucks in Costa Rica." The reasons why the creation of this group results somewhat annoying for me are the following:

1-Many of my acquaintances that have joined the group have never been in a Starbucks!!! I have been in one. I like those 3/4 milk and sugar 1/4 coffee drinks, but it is not like I would demand (who, btw?) for a Starbucks here.
2- Costa Rica exports coffee to the world and it ranks among the best. It does not make any sense to me that some people would like to import a coffee shop with regular quality.
3- Since when did coffee shops became so popular among youngsters? I've been a socialite for three years now and I've seen the affluence of customers in coffee shops. I'm always about the youngest person there. Now, I know people who joined this group drink coffee, but they go to cheap places! I want to see them paying like $4 for a coffee that they usually get in $1.75. My guess is that the images of the Starbucks in every corner of the Big Apple - who does not want to imitate NY?, have gotten into these people minds until the point in which they have lost the sense of reality.

I'm not intimidated by American franchises. I'm a regular in Taco Bell and all, but we do not have real Mexican food anyways, so that's all right. But people around the world pay an absurd amount of money for our coffee and suddenly these kids are "demanding" -I can't get over the imperative nature of the statement, demanding Starbucks to come to Costa Rica.

Airheads.

Ain't no perfect picture lives

There are no Pleasantvilles on Earth. Ain't no perfect picture lives. And I'm writing this note with a bit of anger.

Today, I saw "Precious, inspired by a novel published by Sapphire." Normally, I would go for the technical aspects, you know: performance, setting, plot... This time, however, there was an instant of insight for me. If my life were to become a movie as raw and clear as "Precious," it wouldn't be less explicit. Dunno, I grew up caring a lot about appearances. When you're the son of a pastor, and the members of the church give you their love, support, and MONEY, you end up believing that you owe everybody an explanation of your acts and that the only way for you to be is that righteous person they idealized. But my life has not been a pretty picture life; my family has not been the epitome of perfection as the church or the mortals around seem to expect.

I just imagine the people who has idealized me and my family watching the movie of my life. Well, it was a disaster! I don't know why people think that being raised a Christian gives you the perfect morals to become this integral human. For me the whole Christian thing was very confusing and idyllic. And why is it that I have to be perfect for the people of the congregation? Wasn't this suppose to be MY life? I actually became quite the opposite of everything that I was taught. No vices mom said, but she meant smoking and drinking -which I do by the way, and not everything that is around that might distract you from your goal in life. The latter sounds like a more feasible definition of vices to me.
I still seem to have spectators since I still live in my mom's house. "Do not tell people about those irrational thoughts you have been having lately" It's called being agnostic, mom. It's called thinking differently and nobody out there should care or make faces at you and me just because they think they buy my good behavior with the money of their offerings.
When I first wrote this entry, I included some scenes of my life, but due to the crudeness of them and the unfair exposition of the negative traits of my family, I decided to go on and just make a point. There are no perfect picture lives. Mine isn't either. I wish people expected all the negative from me so that I can surprise them rather than disappointing them. I wish everybody knew that there aren't perfect picture lives and took mine as normal, as this movie Precious, and see the light in the middle of the darkness rather than point out the black parts in my seemingly white image... and fuck off.

For the first time!

Today I saw my little nephew eating chocolate for the first time. After the first taste, he was so desperate to get some more... He reached fiercely for it whenever my brother took it away from him, and resumed devouring it when the bar was close to his mouth. The moment the bar disappeared from his sight, he cried furiously as if pissed off for not being able of having enough of that new flavor. It had been a while since I saw someone so berserk, letting the instinct take over. As an hedonist, I celebrated my nephew's first encounter with a pleasure that is not necessary to survive, yet completely addictive. The scene reminded me of all my first encounters with the things I love.
It reminded me of:
My first time in a roller coaster in Disneyland. I discovered that I loved speed, adrenaline, and improbable movements for a man, like going up and down.
My first time eating sushi, asking myself what was that combination of flavors that filled my mouth. I still praise the Japanese traditional food for having given me that moment.
My first time drinking wine, feeling how it spread through my system. My friends thought we were being rebel because we were drinking. I knew right away I had found a friend for a lifetime.
My first time wearing black converse. It feel as if barefooted, just the pebbles on the road did not hurt. It looked way cooler than barefooted.
My first time playing Final Fantasy. I started with FF VII. While I got into the story and the universe, I felt like I had found my favorite escape route from reality.
My first time listening to Lady Gaga. I knew the lyrics were crazy. "Where are the keys, I lost my phone" that sounded like me. It does not matter what happens, just dance! For many, that was the most stupid song; for me, it was a mirror of my philosophy of life. I keep "just dan[cing]"

And so I could go for hours on those many things that I feel like I need to live, to be happy. I wish I remembered my first encounter with chocolate. Was I as passionate about it as my nephew? Did I foresee right away that pleasure was what life was about?
Oh, those are definitely moments that make life worth living.

I don't know what I want

The Chinese girl in the counter asked me "what do you want"when she saw me rather lost in the alleys of the grocery store.

What a weird feeling when you just don't know what you want. Right, the guy who claimed previously knowing himself has to admit that he does not know what he wants at times. Or maybe I do know what I want, but I am too afraid of being unrealistic about my expectations.

Last time I had sex was not exactly like my ideal of a date, yet I got carried away. While in bed I lost the concentration several times. The thought of my head at those times was "is this what I want"? -- self awareness can ruin the party at times. It wasn't certainly all that I wanted. It was physical when I promised myself I would look for some romance this year, but it was hell of a too good game for just letting it go. It was what I wanted, just partially; that annoyed me.

This afternoon I was watching "Up in the Air" and the main character, Ryan Bingham finds a lady that shakes his principles of being the eternal single. This woman, Alex, agrees to be with him casually. This lifestyle seems to suit them both well until Ryan gets tangled in the love cruise and starts acting more like a boyfriend.
- "What do you want?" Alex asks. "Tell me what you want."
Ryan hesitates, unable to say anything. He grimaces and looks around, unable to speak.
- "You don't even know what you want." Alex concludes.

Sometimes, I'm just not consciously aware of what my desires are. I guess it is normal, and I hope it is transitory. For someone who tries to have his life all figured out, it just becomes ironic that this feeling of being lost is so strong right now. I feel like recording it to look back later and see what happened.

"What do you want?" - The Chinese girl asked. I knew she meant something different and that being rude was not her intention. I was a lost costumer, after all, and she was attempting, with her language limitations, to help me. Maybe if she had said "what are you looking for?" instead I would have answered "antihistamines" and we would have concreted our transaction. However, I felt the question as a confrontation with myself and as a recapitulation of the recent events, my room story included.
"I don't know" I answered and walked away without buying anything and feeling extremely uncomfortable.
Now I have to go again and get the cold medicine.

James Cameron should know...

... that there are threats like the one in Avatar everywhere you go. Human greed is such-- just there are not feline-like blue aliens; it is our environment, our flora and fauna against the same old two-legged enemy.

Last week, I went on a field trip to Crucitas, a community consisting on few shack-like houses, starving dogs, one school, and a Canadian open pit mining company. The streets of natural red ocher seemed rarely transited by humans. There's one path in particular that called our attention: the old road that divides the two lots of the company. This is the road we took. A guard was wary of our motivations and did not let go his radio transmitter. We had not gotten a hundred meters into the way, but the bosses at the mine should have been aware of our presence by then. "Environmentalists are here again, looking for trouble." We did not care; my whole group, about 25 students in their mandatory community service, kept walking and getting acquainted with the exuberance of the region, or at least what is left of it. As we advanced, our guides told us to watch the trees, to listen to the parrots and birds singing, and to imagine the huge impact destroying all that would do. The fact that an armed guard was following us at a prudent distance, reporting our position constantly, only makes the experience more intense and our indignation stronger. Sure, the company came with their tons of money, built a new road surrounding their lots and connecting the town with civilization, brought electricity, and promised heaven on earth to locals. What did our government do about this? bowed. The problem is not mining itself. The proportions of this project and its poor study of environmental impact just ring the alarm that nothing good can come out of this. They will drill 60 meters in the soil, extract the rock and wash it with cyanide to get the gold. With the underground currents of water running 75 meters down the earth (15 meters from the maximum depth of excavation) the hazard is way too high. The extraction of the gold would be performed in a huge pool of cyanide. As if all that did not sound toxic enough. (see the picture below with the sign? that's the space for the cyanide pool. All of it!)


The similarity with Cameron's movie is absurd. For ten years of gold extraction, the company would displace native species, the endangered green macaw for instance. They brought what is commonly conceived as civilization, but was not that what the RDA promised to the Na'vi in exchange of their land? Likewise, in both contexts the conflict emerges because humanity has given more value to a mineral over an ecosystem. Unfortunately, in Costa Rica there is no Turuk Makto to save the day, hardly any hero. If we do not stop this, it won't be just one hometree that we will see falling but acres of them.

Memories lost and found. 01. The Sewers

Before I had played any Final Fantasy or any action video game, I had already accumulated some miles in sewer diving.
Telling stories about my childhood is always interesting because they are unusual, hard to believe, and people think that I make them up. This time, the story is not about setting a hill on fire, jumping from waterfalls, or finding white bats in the palm tree of the backyard -- all of which I'll talk about in due time. This is me simply reminiscing about the time when in my neighborhood exploring sewers was the cool thing to do. It all started when I was around ten years old and the town hall decided that it was time to create a decent sewer system to deal with all the water that flooded the streets during rainy season. If you have ever been in Costa Rica, you know that it rains an awful lot. Now, I grew up in San Carlos, a region particularly blessed with the everlasting green scenery that just does not come out of the blue. My childhood town, in addition, is called Aguas Zarcas (Pristine Waters), and they were not kidding about the name just that they forgot to mention these waters run everywhere; only in my family's lot we had two creeks. Well, if the local government did not want all this water running freely, they had to build concrete sewers underground in several points. And so they did. My friend Lilliana (the sweet girl from my church who lived the closest to the center of the town) and I watched the construction process very comfortably from her house and swore that, once they had finished placing the huge cylinders, we would go and explore.
The construction of the sewers was done by the dry season of the following year. It rains all the time in San Carlos, but one occasional rain every two days did not flood the underground structure. The first invaders? Nope, they weren't the rats, which were rarely spotted in my town. Neither was the fungi or any kind -- and they mushroom fast! It was us, the kids on a radius of five hundreds meters lurking on the sewers that connected the center of the town with the local clinic and Lilliana's house. For us, grown up unaffected by the concerns of the mothers of this generation, the humidity, the lack of light, and the narrow spaces were the perfect elements for a new environment of adventure otherwise denied to us. We didn't know about risks or diseases. We would squat or walk like spiders if it was necessary, but we wouldn't let water ruin our adventure. Down there we were explorers, riders of the lost ark, fugitives: we were immortal. For the fragments of time that we could be alone with the echoes of our voices uttering the instructions on how to move, following a trace of dim light - cause we were too afraid of borrowing our father's flashlights, and getting our elbows dyed with the gray of concrete, the upper world stopped existing. We did not have the influence of the media telling us that we were a little bit too grown up for role plays or that we should live our lives around goodies and tv shows. Our friends at school have similar adventures themselves so we could go, talk, and share our daring pastimes. Ok, we encountered rats twice, but after running away from them, we got some sticks and went back willing to fight back for our territory.
Moss grew, time passed--we abandoned childhood. With the time, the sewers became Lilliana and I's place to talk, mostly. Boys started appearing in her life, and we traded the hideout for her romantic encounters with boys in the bridge above the entrance to the sewers. I went by myself a couple of times to our former underground fortress, but soon I decided to stop trying to revive old glories and to move on. I think that getting stuck twice also helped making up my mind.
Well, that's about my first entry on "lost and found" memories. I'm glad it hit me because I had totally forgotten about it. Whenever nice memories come to me again, I'll try to share them ASAP.

Introspection. Knowing thyself.

Introspection is written with "I" as in "Interpersonal" and as in "Isaac." So funny! I promise this was not premeditated.
I firmly believe that knowing oneself is the best tool to be successful in life. Insert cheap motivational talk here - No, not really. Talking out of joke, when the Greeks engraved the old aphorism of "Know Thyself" in the Temple of Apollo at Delphi, they were giving humanity one of the few absolute truths there are. How often do we look into our souls? Before you continue, I should warn you! The following lines are most likely permeated with the kind of discourse that keeps you away from Paulo Cohelo.
Right, every series of thoughts I take the time to write here are triggered by some event. I feel compelled to talk about it so that the reader gets the bigger picture. As part of my mandatory community service, I need to attend lectures about environmental issues in Costa Rica so that we can go to communities affected by, let's say, water pollution, lack of water, open pit mining, among others. We address the issue in a room first, and then we go to the communities to talk about the problem so that the locals and the students can come up with a solution through dialogue. Well, today's lecture was about being honest with ourselves before we intend to go and talk to others. How convenient: an intrapersonal and interpersonal combo. The motivator used a system allegedly implemented in many countries of Western Europe called "The systemic constellation" (google it for further information.) As much as I would like to elaborate on that somewhat crazy method, I'm just going to say that it works using other people as elements in your life and locate them in physical places to give you an idea of how they are positioned in your brain. It sounds metaphysical and bananas, but the purpose behind it is the same as in meditation, as in reflection: Introspection.
As in many of the most fundamental areas of our lives, we know that the method is as simple as it sounds. Yet I have not met many people who take the time to detached from others and examine their lives. Someone who knows himself or herself well enough to see into others' lives can easily come and diagnose their problems. I have done it. I keep doing it, but whenever I talk about this, people most likely freak out. No, I don't read auras. Body language? Well, yeah, but the body and the mind are interconnected and often give away the other. I'm striving to get out of the abstraction here. Let's say I have located my strengths and weaknesses. I know my limits and live up to it. I'm sincere with myself and try to see the real "me" and not the ideal "me" - refer to Freud for the ideal self. Then, since I know myself truthfully, I can address people's issues from my own perspective. The conclusions I draw based on my observations are, in most of the cases, accurate. How do I do it? I create a web of possibilities according to my own insights and experiences. Well, "You can't know yourself that well" someone could argue. I don't want to brag about this, but I do know myself. I take every opportunity that life gives me to evaluate and triangulate my situation, as if I was my own research project. I often ask myself how do I truly feel about certain situation after it happens, what I could have done to feel better, what is the true reason behind my feelings, and so on -- the reasons might be shallow for I'm still a human, but if they are in fact the feelings behind it, I accept them and either embrace or work on them. Then, when I come to call my positive qualities, my demons, my dreams, and my fears by their real name, I can see them into others. It's like a challenge, my own personal puzzle that I can try to solve at any time of the day. It's interesting, rewarding, and more importantly, USEFUL!
Know oneself so that you can approach to others more effectively. I swear that if I had planned this post to be interrelated with my previous entry, it wouldn't have quite worked the way it ended up being. But, yeah! How can I build rapport in a community if I am struggling inside? Do people notice? How do they react to this?
There is not a infallible way to get to know oneself. Like every other form of negotiation process, internal dialogue consumes time and energy. You'll be never able to tell when you're there, but the endless possibilities that life gives you when you know yourself will hint that you're reaching your goal of self awareness! If I made you think about introspection for a minute, I might have accomplished my mission here (assuming that I had one.) At the end, figuring oneself out is a task that only the interested person can do.
It's just a thought, maybe a wish, that all my friends get to know themselves to see how far they make in life.