DAY 9: Smashed!

Once upon of time, in my early 20s, I lived in a humid, hot and then frantic fun crazy place call South Beach. It was a booming place, filled with the most exiting and alive people from all corners of the globe, who were looking for their notch in the glamorous world of Fashion Week. I was part of this team of maniacs, eating lettuces and sushi to keep the line, and partying for exercise. Still, I was never a full member of the madness, First, I was married for parts of my years there, which slow me down, at least in the party scene, and secondly I have never been a social butterfly. As an active member, I was up and down Lincoln Rd, Ocean Drive and Collins Ave. all day long, with my Book permanently attached to my hand, praying for the next gig that would pay my rent, or at least make me happy. Very short I have always been, so Fashion Week was never going to be my ending goal, although I would lie if I told you that I didn’t pray for a miracle to happen when short became in and tall became a thing of the past. As we know today, that never did happen, tall still cool, and short doesn’t get into Fashion Week, unless is in a piece of clothing. Therefore, I was very thankful when a Venezuelan Producer moved his production company into town and gave birth to the“wonderful” world of television production in Miami, especially Novelas. After him, some others followed including the biggest Television Networks, and a new work market was born. Today, just like South Beach, the powerful machine of lights and action are in their way out from Cubaland, but I was there for the Golden Years, and it was fun!

Many stories I could tell you about those years of work, love, heart break and simple growth, but today I will share one that caused an explosion of laughter out of me when last night I was reminded of it. After probably 9 years of not seeing each other, a dear friend from those unforgettable days and I went out for dinner. Last time we hanged out he was a young kid, full of unclear dreams and aspirations, of something he couldn’t fully point out by then. He was vibrant, and funny, and sweet, and girls just loved him. He was the best friend you could ever have, the one whose house door was always open, and a shoulder was always ready. His heart was soft and always wrapped in love, for you, for life and for the lucky girl. And I also remember a fine six-pack framing his slender body, covered by a cinnamon skin body suit. This Colombian Cinnamon Bun and I met working on a pilot, and an electrical current created sparks from the first day.

I had gotten divorced not long before. The life I had gone through until then, made me feel so much older than I was that I felt him to be so much younger than me, when in reality the difference was only a year. In this pilot, like often happens during filming, many love affairs took place, and Cinnamon Bun and I didn’t want to stay behind. We started to spend many hours together, always hanging around, doing random stuff that made me feel like the girl I really was. He was fun, real, unique and in a way even naïve. But our relationship had a shade of friendship that was not turning into red passion. We loved each others company, and I remember having a nice crush, but his loving heart was broken from a recent break up. Electricity was still flicking sparks, but he made sure to quickly put down fires before they could damage our fertile green friendship. He was good at that shit, and it frustrated the hell out of me, since I of course wanted the flames to burn me down to the ground. So frustrated it was, that yesterday I couldn’t even remember if we had actually ever kissed, and after a memory exercises we both came up with details of heated moments in his cave-like apartment on Pennsylvania and 8^th. His fractured heart was still so kind, that it didn’t want to smash the heart of another, that is more that I can say for must man at any age. Still, I was determined to win him over, and cure the cuts with bandages of kindness and patience.

One day I had a plan. Since my grandma and mother always said that all men were win by their stomachs, I went to the best market in town to get all kinds of delicatessens to make two scrumptious sandwiches, and a refreshing fruit plate, combined with a good bottle of wine, all packed in a picnic basket for a perfect evening under the stars.  I called him to ask if he could be just mine for one night, since we were always hanging with other friends, because indeed he was, and still is a social butterfly. He curiously and merrily accepted the invitation. I picked him up, and to add some excitement, I blindfolded him the whole drive. When we got to the beach, I helped him out of the car. We were jijiji-jajajaj (English version hihihih-hahahaha), giggles, giggles all the way. I had a RV4 truck then, and I open my back door to take out the picnic basket. Him, still blindfolded, grabbed himself from the edge of the door trying to keep balanced. We were talking as I got the picnic basket, and distracted by the conversation, and the excitement of the night to come, I didn’t notice his cute little fingers firmly clutched around the door’s edge, and in one defiant motion I accidentally slammed the door on his fingers. The full moon fell from the sky in horror, and the starts collectively screamed at me “you screwed it up girl.” His scream was quieter, but more excruciating. I cannot describe his pain, but I don’t think is necessary, we all know what smashing fingers feel like, throbbing cycles of brutal pain. The blindfold when off, and I could see a mix of agony and anger in his eyes. I didn’t know if he would cry or simply smack me silly. I was clueless in what to do next. I looked for the dry ice in the basket and I gave it to him. I told him we should go to a doctor or something. I told him to call the whole thing off and go home to take care of the pain. But he firmly said, “NO we are having a picnic.” And we did. Moon got back up into the sky, and the starts shined again, but the night couldn’t be farther away from the original plan. I don’t remember a lot of details, which it is a sign that things didn’t go all that well. My mind always does that, it blocks less than perfect memories. It keeps the worst of hurtful fights, and the most beautiful moments of love, but anything in between is erased, until someone helps to recreate the moment, and the flash back comes to front, letting me tap into a forgotten story.

Yesterday, when Cinnamon Bun and I evoked the past,I almost pee my pants recalling this moment. He told me that that day he was ready to let go, and if the picnic had gone out right, I would have remember the following hours, but it didn’t. As much as he found my gestured to be, quoting: “the sweetest thing a woman, until then, had ever done for me;” the incident had created an instant short circuit in the electrical current we had shared until then. Soon after, I left to LA for good, and we never saw each other again. Now Cinnamon Bun has found his voice, he found what he was searching for then, and he is goooodddd!!! Music is his path, and I love to see the happy smile on my friend’s now very manly face. The kid had grown up into a perfect soul of radiant light ready to radiate the world, and I’m happy I didn’t permanently damage those talented musician’s fingers.

Day 7: Part 3: On my way to the Taj Mahal: A B-day experience! Part III

A glass of perfectly formed small snug bubbles, in the beautiful hotel visited by Lady D and Prince Charles during their own Taj Mahal adventure, living my dream… but alone. It is always strange when you are alone on your B-day, for some reason it feels wrong. I love being alone; I enjoy a lot my own company with only the frequent sound of the voices in my head. No, I’m not squizo we all have voices in our head, shot your month and you’ll see how strong they are. But there is something about being alone on your B-day that just feels lonely. I was about to write some thoughts in my dairy when three Americans walked into the bar. About ten minutes later I just went to their table and asked them to cheer with me because it was my B-day and it wasn’t feeling like such. There is something special about finding your countrymen when you are far away from home; an immediate bound is created with people you probably wouldn’t even cross paths in your everyday life. They were a nice group of Marriot corporate suckers, who with their corporate credit cards were traveling in India for a week or so. We sat outside with the view of the  flawlessly manicured garden around the big refreshing pool, and the Taj as backdrop, constantly reminding us why we were in this ugly, unfriendly, hot and sticky town. The group grew, as the afternoon became evening. The sunset came and went, and I was gifted with another $26 dollars bubble glass. They invited me to join them for dinner, but if the bubbles were that expensive, I thought, I didn’t want to envision what the dinner bill was going to look like. By then my trip around India was planned to last a month and half, so I had to be careful with my cash flow. Little I knew then that the original plan was about to be extended into a five month life time adventure. In any case, I thanked them for the drink and the invite and took off next door to my $30 dollar hotel and its terrace’s restaurant, beautifully decorated with top of the line plastic chairs. However, we had a even better view of the Taj, and I just couldn’t get enough of it.

The Brits were up in the terrace having dinner, so I decided to join them. We had almost no light up there except for one bulb and few candles. The bulb attracted a lot of little bugs, nothing too scary, but annoying nonetheless. We had dinner, and stayed a little longer enjoying a nice cold beer, when all of the sudden something brutally crashed inside my shirt, right on my terrified boobs. Then something else joined the first one, and there came a third crash. It was like the ambulance and the police got to the crime scene faster than you can say 911. These things, whatever they were, were crawling inside my bra, and my chest. I could fell their little skinny legs tickling me as they moved from boob to boob. I immediately prayed to God, and all the hundreds of Hindu gods that partake on any Indian altar: "please Ganesha just don’t let it be cockroaches." Here I was, jumping up and down in front of my friends and the confused waiter who hopeful eyes were waiting for a reluctant and savage striptease. In a country where showing a little bit of leg can cause traffic jams and fist fights, my modesty had grown stronger faster than I could imagine, so with cockroaches or not the shirt stayed on. Like a manic, and not exactly of the floor, I ran down the stairs straight into my room. Once there I took off the shirt and the first intruder jumped out. Bra came out, and the other two followed. I was almost avoiding seeing the crawling creatures that had just taken a nice evening walk around my own Mount Everest. Oh, what a relief it was to realize that Ganisha heard my prayers even that early in the game. They were not cockroaches but crickets. “Now wait a minute, where did they go?” I couldn’t see where Jimmy Cricket and his friends had run for safety, which meant that I had three little strangers sleeping with me all night. Who knew if this perverts after having a taste of divine boobs, were going to be looking for some more of it later. That was one of the worst night sleeps I had in India, which comparing with many of my friends stories, was not bad at all. Yet, I spent the whole night in my silk bag, covered head to toes, and feeling creatures massaging my tired muscles.

Next morning, I’m glad to inform, my dramatic Agra experience ended when I jumped in the train that would take me to my next destination in Rajasthan, the home of the famous Monkey Temple, Jaipur, or better know as the Pink City because all the building in the old city were and still are pink, creating the illusion of eternal pink sunsets.

Day 6: And It Finally Came...

Another day of reflection and not finishing my previous story... but I'll finish it tomorrow... 

What can I said, today, my B-day was one of those days you wanted it to finish as soon as it started, and it had nothing to do with becoming a year older! Time booms exploded, old resentments were explained and hopefully understood. I was forced to realize how much every life event have two sides of the story, no matter how much we want our side to be the right one. Men and women are just by nature fully and total opposites, and I don’t know who had the great sense of humor of matching us together. Timing is everything. Men sometimes do things that women find impossible to understand, and they do it like is nothing wrong with it. While we in the other side have our mouth open, about to pass out of anger, or in simple and pure disbelief. Why women have to just follow men’s need? Why do we have to wait for them to be available to us? Why do we have to ask them permission to hear our voice, or our true feelings? Why after they ask us for the truth they have such a hard time taking it? Sorry guys, I’m just a girl; I will let someone of your own breed to bitch about mine.

Why is so hard for all of us to just say what we feel? Why is so hard for the other side to really listen to what is been said? Why mothers and daughters have to always fight for independence, from others and from each other? Why it is so much miss communication in this world? I’m sure that at least 70% of all problems come from someone saying something that was later missed interpreted by someone else. Yet, sometimes is even the person itself who does not understand its true feelings, desires and needs. It is always easier to blame the other, taking responsibility is just too painful.

If this year is going to bring me a gift, I hope is the gift of acceptance and true listening. Acceptance of myself, my mistakes, my past doings, my brilliance and my darkness. Listening of my own inner self, needs, feeling and desires. We all have an internal voice; we just chose not to listen. Come on, how many times your inner voice has told you, “this is the wrong choice” “what are you doing,” “no, don’t do that, do this instead” “stop, stop, stoooooop!” and WE have chosen not to listen? To really accept, listen and finally love others, you have to become your biggest fan first, and truly find the beauty you have to share. Until then we’ll just keep making stories of what we thought it happened, with no real clue of what the truth was, yet creating one that could better fit our purposes. We wont love anyone for who they are, but for their potential to be what we want them to become. It is said by all the enlighten ones that expectations and desires are really the root of all our unhappiness… But how we, normal mortals, are supposed to live without motivating our simple minds with expectation of life and future, as well as to nourishing the desire to make those expectations a reality? Being Buddha seems harder and harder the more you try. So first I want to find what my desires and expectation really are, to then be able to detach from it, because how can I detach from something I can’t recognize?

If this day is any example of what the year may bring, it will be a year of profound reflection and secluded personal growth; time off from the world of many, to submerge in the world of one. And with so many doors closing, many are promising to shine new light.

All you people that sent wishes of better days and dreams come true, and all the ones who called from all corners of the world, I thank you, because you and your love was by far the best part of my day! And beloved “Hank Rearden,” if you read this thanks for being on the line and clearing the way.

Day 5: Dysfunctional Land!!!

Sorry guys, this is a parenthesis from the story I had being telling... I will finish B-Day in India later today... This was just a morning thought!

Last night, trying not to die from boredom in this house where the gloom seems to have enclave for good, I stumbled over a little great show that kept me up until 4 am called Californication. I know, I know, I’m a little late, the show has been on the air for a while now, but the truth is that when I was living in the city of “Lost Angels”, the last thing I wanted was to watch a show that depicted my dysfunctional life. Who in their right mind wants to spend the very little leisure time one has in a city like LA watching the life you are already living? Well, I guess a lot of people do, but not me, I “try” not to be such a masochist… or at least not with my entertainment time. However, after almost a year of my self-imposed exile from la, la, land I find it refreshing to  watch my own dysfunctionality. It is kind of sad and scary, but last night I went to bed feeling that maybe LA is after all the only place where I truly belong. It is a breathing town of my own breed, crazy, depressed, creative maniacs that feed from chaos and sorrow. The injection of eventual little success becomes the heroine that we keep searching for and that maintain us alive. I think we should open an AA of LA addicts, you can’t live with it, you can’t live without it!

Is dysfuntionality becoming a normal way of living? Looking around and around, crossing oceans trying to find “normality,” whatever that means, I’m staring to believe that indeed dysfuntionality is the functionality of the 21^st century. Yet, nowhere in the world “fucked upness” is embraced so humanely like in LA. People in my city, because even away from it still feels mine, assume their nature and just let it run wild. “We are different, we are fucked, lets just go all the way… who cares, my neighbor is worst than me, so I guess I’m not doing that bad.” A kid making more money than his parents it is “totally” normal. A dog eating better than a kid, having health insurance when no one in the family does, going to spas, having a cook and a hotel room with flat screen TV is “totally” indispensable. A women bleaching her asshole is not a prostitute or simply crazy, just cares about her well being. A macho man wearing jeans tighter than mine and spending more time in the mirror than any girl in town, making his hair look fucked up, is “totally” sexy and truly desired. A grandma dressing like a 15 year old is “totally cool.” Having a “totally” social line of cocaine is just fine, but don’t light a cigarette please because is descanting, it kills you and is something that only the new comers from New York do, just “totally gross.” No red meat, white meat, soft meat, dark meat, no fats, no cholesterol, no sweets, no carbs, only organic, combined with lots of buzz, pod, and the occasional E is the best diet to keep you in shape so one day you can finally drop “totally” dead in the middle of a very healthy yoga class. My bittersweet city has become such an Alice in Wonder Land that getting a job as a waitress has become as hard as getting a TV show. We creative geniuses furiously fight for that one spot open at “Koi.” For the chance of even competing, we have to ask our powerful friends to sent our headshot and put a good word in for us. It must be followed by a call from our agent who represents one of the investors to give us the last push in order to get in the “cattle call” casting to have a chance to win the precious prize to serve crispy rice tuna rolls and cosmos to the cream of the cream. Yes, you got it right, we find it “totally” normal to be called “cattle,” livestock, pieces of meat waiting for a A list director, agent, manager, producer, writer, actor, film festival, studio, or a Rock Start, to make us B and C creatures into a A list agent, director, producer, writer, actor, film festival, studio, or Rock Start. So, why in life would I be blue for such a fucked up place? Maybe because only user and abusers can understand one another?

 

 

 

Day 4: Part 2: On my way to the Taj Mahal: A B-day experience! Part II

With uncontrollable anger in my heart from an unknown truth, I waited for my friends. They came out 30min later sick and tired of saying “no thanks.” We told the driver that we would now like to go to one of the many monuments around the city, while he with a determined stare and a frenzy head gobbling insisted that we “must” go next to a nice jewelry shop “with very much fine cheap jewels, best in India,” that was own by his wife’s, sister’s, husband’s, cousin’s, friend. You see, I would soon learn that everyone in India is somehow related, and they all own some kind of shop to sale tourist -natives as much as foreigners- something that you don’t really need nor want. We tried politely to explain that we didn’t have any need for jewels, but he insisted. I was ready to explode and I did. I told him that we have gotten him to drives us where we wanted to go and not where he wanted to take us. Oh! He just didn’t like the sound of a woman giving him orders, much less in that tone, and I could see those amber eyes swiftly shifting one shade lighter shining like the blazing sun in the sky. My friend’s husband trying to cease the approaching storm grabbed his Lonely Planet and quickly asked the driver, as firmly as he could manage, to take us to Agra’s Fort, until he reluctantly agreed.

 Our walk around the fort took maybe an hour and a half. It was a large and lovely fort with a great view of the Taj Mahal. After many camera clicks we got back on the dreaded taxi, and the match started all over again. The plan was to leave the Taj Mahal last so we could enjoy the famous sunset on the mausoleum, but when the driver started once more with the silk, the jewels, the carpets, and raising his voice by the minute, I looked at my traveling companions and they immediately read my screaming silence. I thought “they better say something fast before I do it again in my own way…” God, sometimes it is just hard to control the “cuaima” in me. He asked the driver to take us to this sight or the other, and the driver’s answer was always the same “too far sir.” We knew it was not true of course, all the monuments where close by, but the face of this man transformed into a strange kind of rage that we could not control or comprehend, inclined us to immediately leave his side. We finally told him to drives us to the Taj and just leave us there. When Mister Furious finally dropped us off, he didn’t only make us pay for the full day service that we were not going to receive, but had the insanity to asked for his tip. If I had been on my own I thought, I would have stay and fight for the next hour with him, but the Brits again, too soft for the job just got more money out of their pockets. He left happy with his half a day of work paid as full day, and his undeserved tip.

 I was fuming at the taxi driver as much as to my companion. We just had been robed, and we just let it happened. In India you wont find the violent robbery you face in Latin America, they do it in your face, but they don’t take it from you, they make you willingly give it to them. It is a talent I would love to poses. It most be in their milk, because even kids are really good at it. And until you grasp it, until you truly and fully understand how it works and why they do it, it infuriates even the most peaceful man. You are giving them what they want while you intellectually know you shouldn’t, but you cannot stop, it is a force stronger than your intellect. It is like going to bed with your best friend, knowing that is a big mistake, but you can’t stop yourself, and you’ll just have to deal with the consequences next morning. So, there we were at midday, with the inclement sun burning our heads, at the exact time every book advises not to visit the Taj. This was certainly not going according to plan. When one wants a plan more or less to work smoothly while traveling, one most stay on its own, other wise one just has to be open to change. But it was hard for me to accept the changes then. It was my B-day after all, and I had written a movie in my head of how the day was meant to go. In my Bollywood romance mean taxi drivers, magic carpets, and fucking polite Brits were not previously written characters. The open scene was me in the gardens of the building, feeling like a princes in her castle, and taking pictures of magical views while I awaited for the beautiful, charming angle that was going to suddenly appear from no where in that enchanted place, and who was going to swift me of the ground and travel with me the rest of the time in this celluloid like love affair. How quickly I had to wake up from dreamland.

But, hey, I was in the Taj Mahal after all. I was about to enter into one of the Seven Wonders of the World. I had to let go off my anger and enjoy it. And while doing my line to get in, in the women side (yes, even lines are separated) I decided to let go, until they got me again. Now they were not letting me in because of a drawing a 5 year old kid had given me. The day before I left Delhi, my girlfriend’s son draw something for me and I had put it inside my dairy. Without any explanation the guards would not let me in just because of this “scary” drawing. Maybe they though it was a masterpiece plan to destroy the Taj, elaborated by a genius kid. The other thing they could not allow inside was my cell phone’s ear piece (but cell phone was ok, God figure). Whatever they thought the drawing was, it was bad enough for them to kicked me out of the line without one more word. I could not believe that I traveled so far away to see this bunch of white marble put together, and find Prince Charm in the mist of the golden hour, and I would have to go back home saying, “I didn’t see it because of a kids drawing and my ear piece, and please don’t ask.” Can someone F… explain!!!??? This was just the first of many moments in my five months in India that I would find myself saying “what the hell!?” With the remarkable difference that all the incongruence that drove me mad during my firsts weeks, would soon make me giggle like a teenager in love every time they happened. I moved out of the line and told my friends to go ahead without me, that I was not allowed in. But they didn’t go, and we started to look for a solution. After asking few people, we finally realized that they actually had a locker room where to leave personal belongings not allowed in, except that they forgot to tell me so. I left my stuff in a little room filled with cardboard boxes simulating looker rooms. I walked out with a washed out number badly written in pen on a piece of paper, doubting if I would ever see my belongings again.

By the time I walked inside the Taj, half of my burning desired to see this place had been extinguished. I enjoyed it, and loved it, and saw all the corners and took pictures, and sat in the white marble to contemplate the view and the people, but my so awaited movie had disappeared from my memory. Looking back, it was maybe there when I started to understand what change, plans, and openness was really all about, even if I didn’t quite get it yet… as I still not sometimes. At the end of the afternoon, too hot, hungry and tired to wait for the sunset, we walked our way back to the hotel. I lost all my pens in the hands of every kid that ran after us. Kids love pens in India, are almost better than lollypops. I promised myself to bring enough pens for every kid I encounter the next time I’m India. Thinking of it that would mean massive amounts of pens. When we got to our hotel I decided to take a shower and go to the 5 star hotel next door, to have a real drink for my B-day. Walking into its perfectly manicured grass entrance, guarded by more security than the Taj itself, I realized the other side of the Indian coin. In India, as disturbing poverty can be, astonishing can be it’s wealth. This place had nothing to envy any European Ritz, and prices where just head to head as well. My celebrative glass of champagne cost me the moderated sum of $26 dollars in a country where a month salary for a family of four can be even less than that. But it was my B-day, and I was planning to enjoy every penny and bubble of the cold elixer!

To be continued….

Day 3: On my way to Taj Mahal: A B-day experience! Part I

Day 3, and last 3 days of 34….

No people, I’m not depressed with the fact my B-Day is coming, just in shock that is coming so quickly, and that my life at 35 is not at all as I imagined it to be. But as they say, life is what happens while you make plans… or something like that. Last night I sat with my mom in her bed in Miami, and we stared to go back B-day by B-day, trying to remember what I have done with each one of them. For the life of me I could not remember what I did for my big 30’s, which makes me think it wasn't that good, but I did remember some other fun ones. And the more memorable ones had the word plane and trip engraved on it.

What about last years? As a good dreamer last year I planed to spend my B-day in the Tag Mahal.

Should guilty seek asylum here,

Like one pardoned, he becomes free from sin.


Should a sinner make his way to this mansion,


All his past sins are to be washed away.


The sight of this mansion creates sorrowing sighs;


And the sun and the moon shed tears from their eyes.

In this world this edifice has been made;


To display thereby the creator's glory.

After that poem written by the hand of the Emperor itself Shah Jahan, which sorrow crumbled his heart when his beloved third wife, Mumtaz Maha, died giving birth to their fourteenth child, I filled my heart with hope that life would be changed after crossing the door of the majestic mausoleum. That visit in fact may have been the beginning of a spiritual transformation, or at least the bridge between dreaming India and loving it, but at the time it felt… well, kind of like a rip off. Not because of the actual monument, which in fact it is an amazing creation of men, but because the ordeal I had to go thru to go inside the world’s most splendid tribute to love.

The day before my B-day I adventured to take my first trip on an Indian train. I had bought a first class ticket after the recommendation of many travelers who advised never to board anything lower than 2^nd class if you didn’t want to spend the night with rats crawling over you in a very crowded train wagon. Finding my wagon was a challenge on it self. Delhi’s train station is far from organized, or at least in any way a western mind would immediately comprehend. The amount of people moving around in more than 15 platforms overwhelms even the natives. Thus, imagine me with my huge open eyes and a backpack that was not part of me yet, trying to swim through a grubby sea of bodies pushing you around, smells from the finest sweet cardamom to condensed water-free piss, and an overwhelming visual contamination of colorful silks and rats having a party on the trash accumulated on the train’s rails. After my frustrated intent to read the charts pinned on a messy board and understanding absolutely nothing, I cried for help to the first western looking Indian I found. He spoke perfect English and with a smile in his face he was the man who got me finally going on the right direction.

While waiting for the train, I got to meet who were going to be my Taj Mahal adventure companions, a British couple that were almost into tears because they had been jerked around for almost an hour from platform to platform without finding a soul who would illuminate their now obscured vision. “I want to go home,” she screamed. I thought, “well, after all my ordeal was easier than theirs." I found my platform at the first intent even if I wasn’t sure I was in the right place for almost 25 min, and that was only possible because my friend’s driver asked and they pointed him in the right direction. Maybe jerking English tourist around is just their way to get payback for so many years of cruel colonization. The case is that my team was in distress when we finally got in our wagon. They had been in India for few days already, and they seem tormented by the difficulty of understanding their surroundings. But I immediately figured out why, or so I thought at the time… they came unprepared. This lovely couple was traveling to one of the most busy tourist places on earth without any reservations. Of course “Miss Plan” had everything taking care of to the T, and wanting to help I immediately called my hotel for a second room. I had a taxi waiting for me at the station to take me to the hotel, so they were really happy to have found someone with a plan on the way. The taxi driver offered us to takes us around next day for a very moderate daily rate, and advised us to be careful with the many unscrupulous people, unlike him, that wanted to take advantage of fresh arrived tourist, just like us.

In the morning the three of us, exited for the day of exploring and experiencing we had ahead, got into the taxi. This time the taxi driver came with a friend, a very common thing in India. They are so used to having no space whatsoever, that being alone seems to be something no one likes. Indian drivers tent to always have a partner in “crime and in love.” In any case this addition to the trip seemed at first to be of most help. He “knew” all the where about of the city, and even offered to take me to a great place for my B-day on his account. So, innocent us with no plans of our own, we let him to take the initiative of how our historical trip should’ve started. And where else could it start but in a jewelry store or in a hand made carpet factory place. Oh hell, here is where the torment began. The Brits were amateur travelers, and with the politeness that characterizes the founding fathers of our own country, straight we went to the carpet place. I had already been to Turkey and knew very well what was that all about. Every book I had gone through before my departure to India, also strongly advised to stay away from the carpet rip off business, unless of course you really wanted one. It is like this how I spent the first two hours of my B-day, going around looking for carpet places, being instructed in how they are made, how much work they take, to finally being sent to the back of the store where they offer you chai tea and tried to convince you for the next hour with not possible escape from the kindness and persuasion that characterize good business man in this side of the world,  that you “must” not leave India without the perfect “magic” carpet. After respectfully hearing the “how making a carpet” story, I told my friends that I was Venezuelan and completely impolite, and since I knew what was coming next, I would be waiting outside. Of course they wanted to leave as well e, but they couldn't make themselves to break their British tradition.

While I walked outside, the driver’s friend with his amber snake's like eyes tried to bring me back again, but he found a fine contender in me. Escaping from him I sat on the boardwalk to watch a seven years old kid flirtatiously dance for me. He was dressed in what I believed to be a Pakistan or maybe Afghanistan’s traditional dancing clothes. His innocent eyes haughtier in black eyeliner had the frustrated aim of transforming them into the eyes of a sex symbol. At first, the beautiful glimming eyes, and the white pearl teeth enchanted me. However, as his proximity invaded my space I couldn’t but remember a scene from a book I just had finish reading, “The Kit Runner” in which it is described the usual practice of using male boys as sex slaves. I looked into his eyes, and all I could see was nothing, a frozen smile, with eyes of stone. I had to move away. His “father” I hoped, was waiting to see if the kid would succeed in collecting the expected tip, but with the story of the book in the back of my head, and the encounter with his unavailable soul, I just ran into the car with the excuse of the already excruciating  heat. I don’t know if such was really his luck, or if he was just a kid that liked to dance and found a way to make money for his family, but all I had then and as the rest of my time in India was my heart and my instinct, and I tried to follow it as much as I could.

To be continued.... 

Day 2: Why I’m writing this blog?

Why am I writing this blog?

What can I say, I’m a movie freak, they encouraged me, they make me dream, and fantasies, and teach me things, make me cry and laugh, make me search for my own goodness and madness, but over all films (as books) inspire me. The first time a film stirred the necessity in me to feel in my own skin the character’s experience was ‘The Officer and the Gentlemen,” known in Spanish as “Reto al Destino.” After watching it 10 times, I insisted at the age of 11 to be sent to military school. My mom being a very feminine woman, the owner of a modeling agency and school, was just horrified with the idea of her only child becoming a soldier. With a strong and determined “NO, that is for men” she deprived me of making my first movie dream come true. What she didn’t know then was that I was going to be a persisting woman, and at the age of 28 I would join the American ARMY to fulfill that dream. I’m sure that if she would have know that then, she would have just let me go to military school for a year and let me get it out of my system. Anyhow, that is another story I will leave for later. The main point is to establish how much movies can move me and inspire me to do things. Which bring me back to the question in place, why this blog?

Last night I saw “Julie and Julia.” A movie about the cook and TV show host Julia Child, with my lifetime favorite actress Meryl Streep, which once again will be for sure nominated because her performance was incredible!!! The movie was ok, a little too long in my opinion, but entertaining, worth to go see. However, this movie did what to me is the most important responsibility filmmakers have in their hands, it inspired me. Julie’s experience gave me the push, and the encouragement to get my hands in the keyboard for something other than chat with my friends on facebook. I have been meaning to write a blog, or something for many years now. I don’t know if I’m a good writer. I know that my spelling is horrible in both languages, and as a great excuse I have that I’m dyslexic, and have some minor learning disabilities. I know that I write in English worse than in Spanish, but for some reason I love writing in this language. I know that sometime I need to dance between the two tongs to fully express my confused self. I know that my boyfriends dread my letters because they are lengthy, explosive and many time too intense. I know that I have made people cry with my written word, and also laugh. I have even destroyed relationships with people I love for telling what I thought to be the truth in an email. But most importantly, I know that I like to write letters. I’m not a very good verbal communicator, but when I write… well, is a different story. I can really say what I mean, and fully commit to my feelings what ever they may be. That is why I been wanting to write a blog, and it is also why many people throughout my life have encouraged me to do so. The truth is that I’m lazy, and like Julie I never finish anything I start unless I’m under strict supervising. I need deadlines, and to be accountable to someone other than myself to finish things. That is why I do much better when I’m in a relationship; I have to try to do what I say. Thus, last night when I saw the movie, I figure a blog would be a great answer for the writing exercise every teacher in the world would give you “write everyday,” “have a journal.” Why? Because I will use you my friends to keep my word of writing everyday for 370 days and counting down, until my next B-Day Sept 7 2010. So all of you out there are a very important piece of this exercise, I have a deadline and I have someone to be accountable for, so please let me know you are reading and don’t let me lack!

For those who have not seen the movie, Julie does this exercise to get herself exited about something in what she considered to be a blend and meaningless life. While watching I felt identify and thought it was a great idea for me to try. The truth is, it makes me exited to challenge my self to do something I know it to be quite difficult for me, to be consistent and disciplined.

So, there you have it, this is the reason of this crazy blog that have no real point other than to write, and have a creative outlet during this new year of life. I’m not trying to teach you anything, or enlighten you, or bring you into a new level of consciousness. I don’t want you to agree with me, sale you anything or try to convert you in any way to any of my beliefs. All I simply want to do is write, and hopefully share a thought or two with all those I love, and even with those I don’t even know. I’m sure some days I will feel inclined to write in Spanish, specially living in Spain, others in Spanglish. Some days will be short entries, but it will be our daily dialogue, and with so many oceans in between, we will feel close somehow.

Now I have to go with my day. I must go to the Spanish consulate to get my visa papers going.

Have a fantastic day!

 

PS: if you have any comment after reading, write it in the blog's comment section if you can instead of facebook, so I can keep them J