1492 must have been the worst year for human health.
“We will bring donuts with the next ship.”
Among us connoisseurs: a fridge is just as good.
I learnt this from the store in Cochabamba where I regularly bought cheap (probably because they weren’t quite authentic) Cohibas. They stored the box with cigars on top of the beer cans in the fridge. The cigars were excellently fresh, as if they had just arrived with the Tupolev from Havana.
And now I am going to watch the last presidential debate of the year. Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump will be happy that they will never have to see each other again.
The letter left by George Bush Sr. for his successor Bill Clinton:
How I thought I would learn Spanish:
How my friends think I learn Spanish:
How I really learn Spanish:
Every day, my head, my notebooks and pieces of paper all over my apartment rapidly fill up with ideas about articles, comments on current affairs and links to other interesting stuff which I want to turn into stories. Some time. But then, it never happens because the next day I have more ideas or I finally need to work again after the rather expensive trip to Easter Island.
To get my mind uncluttered for more exhaustive articles and creative stories, I will henceforth put some of the remaining ideas into a list like the following. Some of these are like comments or links which I would otherwise publish on Facebook or Twitter, but it seems to me that the discussion on blogs usually is of a higher quality. Also, but let me put that into the list already:
I am looking forward to your comments. This could also help in determining if a subject deserves a separate article.
Working on the south coast of Easter Island, ignoring the tsunami warnings:
I always find it strange when a country needs to order a “period of mourning”. Isn’t mourning a personal decision, or even a reflex? What if you just cannot be heart-broken about the death of King Bhumibol of Thailand because you think that 88 years is a good age to leave, particularly in a country with a life expectancy of 74 years? What if it doesn’t bring tears to your eyes that an unelected king is no more?
Well, bad luck. Because the government wanted to set a new record for longest mourning period and ordered a whole year of mourning. That’s right, a whole year! You will have to wear black, to weep and be sad, to refrain from dancing and laughter.
Also, business will be impeded. I received this message from Facebook:
Now we know what works even better than an ad blocker: a death of a monarch. Not only with that in mind, I call for the death of all kings and queens! And Thailand, if you have a whole year without alcohol and distractions, maybe you can contemplate a constitution without a monarchy.
When I am sometimes tired of meeting people, it is because I feel being interviewed by many of them. If you and me ever meet, please tell me stories about yourself instead of going through my CV as if I had applied to be your husband. I haven’t, I won’t, and I really only wanted to drink a hot chocolate and have a cake together.
“Where are you from?”
“Europe.” Lucky Africans who can get away with such a general answer and aren’t quizzed with the follow-up question “which country?”, either because people believe Africa is a country or because they wouldn’t know the difference between Gambia and Gabon anyway. Maybe I should just say “Transwallonistan” from now on.
“What do you do?”
“I travel around the world. I read. I think. I write.”
“What a weirdo,” I can see in more than half the girls’ eyes, but on the way from brain to mouth it translates into “don’t you work?”
As innocently surprised as I can possibly sound, I reply “oh, of course I have to work, too.”
Next comes the unrelenting question to which all preceding ones were just a warm-up: “And what do you work?”
Ok, if you insist on defining me by what I do in order to pay rent instead of what I do to make me happy, to pursue my dreams and to express my personality, although I had graciously offered you several chances to avoid going down that road, I might as well deliver the blow you have been asking for. “I am a lawyer, translator, writer, journalist and philosopher. I am thinking of studying economics, history, sociology or geography next.”
A blank stare. Maybe she is calculating if five professions mean that I earn five times as much as all the other guys with one job.
“And you?” I ask, not because I am interested, but to finish teaching the lesson.
“I work in sales.”
After one year in South America, I already know what the next question will be. “And do you have children?”
“Nooo!” I exclaim as if this was the craziest question I ever heard. It certainly is the most annoying one, but I have gotten used to everyone asking. Not only on dates or among friends. Also from taxi drivers during a 5-minute journey, bakers while selling a bread, train conductors while punching your ticket, and when you go to the barber again after six weeks, he asks “and, do you have children by now?”
Because of my emphatic response, the girl has stopped eating and drinking. She pushes her chair back by 20 cm. In Latin America, not wanting children is worse than sexually molesting children (which is totally accepted behavior, at least among Catholic priests). Feeling the need to explain my response, I apodictically say “that would be the end of freedom”.
“Oh, you are a fish!”
As weird as this statement is, I show no reaction, which makes her slightly uncertain about the proper faunatic classification. “Or a brontosauraus,” she adds meekly. (Maybe she said sagittosaurus, I don’t remember.)
Me, in earnest: “I am an atheist.”
Now you see if someone has a sense of humor. No, I don’t mean myself, that is beyond any doubt. I mean the reaction.
This girl tries to explain (ergo: no humor). “It has nothing to do with religion. I am asking about your zodiac sign.”
“I am such an atheist, I even refuse to have a zodiac sign.”
She, exasperated: “But everyone has a zodiac sign.”
Me, philosophically: “I don’t think I do. I don’t believe in this – ehm – stuff, so it doesn’t apply to me.” I could explain that people are individuals, that not everyone born in the same month shares the same characteristics, that moons, stars and spaceships don’t have any impact on who will be a good boyfriend and that in any case it’s silly to make such decisions based on whether you were born 10 minutes before midnight on July 22nd (cancer) or 10 minutes after midnight (leo). This doesn’t even take into account that there are different time zones, so if the person from the previous example is born in the Sakha Republic, the zodiac sign depends on whether the delivering mother is taken to the hospital in Deputatsky, in Verkhoyansk or in Srednekolymsk. What if the birth process starts before midnight but stretches into the next day? Or begins in one time zone and ends in another one? Or while crossing a time zone border with the ambulance going in such a way that you travel back in time? Does daylight saving apply? It shouldn’t, right? Because why would it affect the moon?
“So you see, honey, this whole zodiac business is bullshit.” No, I don’t say that. After all, she works in sales, not in science.
“When is your birthday?” she asks, trying to sound nonchalant. Some of the saddest moments in human interaction are when a less gifted person thinks they are more intelligent while talking to an intelligent person.
“June 4th.”
“Ah, gemini. I knew it!” No, you didn’t. But it won’t stop you from babbling more bullshit.
“It is very typical for gemini to want freedom and independence. They are afraid of commitment, but once they find the person whom they love…” bla, bla, bla, bla, bla, bla, bla.
Me, interrupting her after two and a half minutes: “When did I say my birthday was?”
“In June.”
“Oh, I am sorry. I got that wrong. It’s actually on January 15th.”
“…”
It is very rare that women want to meet me for a second time.
Links:
Photographed in Arica, Chile.
The Happy Hermit 