Working on the south coast of Easter Island, ignoring the tsunami warnings:
Mourning in Thailand
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.
Zodiac Sign
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:
- More romantic stories.
- In case you are still wondering, this story explains why I never get a second date.
- This story was also published by Medium.
- I am happy that you are enjoying yourselves at my expense of having to go through boring dates. If you want more of that, I would be happy if you support my blog, allowing me to invite more people to a cup of hot chocolate.
I found Donald Trump’s barber
Photographed in Arica, Chile.
Video: Looking for an Apartment in South America
As you have probably been able to read through the lines, I haven’t been too successful in finding an apartment in South America which is quiet enough to read, write and think, let alone to sleep.
Finally, I consulted a real estate broker who suggested this apartment in Humberstone in Chile:
I signed the contract right away.
The owners were nice enough to furnish the apartment. In the kitchen, there was even a bowl of fruits waiting for me.
Coziest of all is the living room.
The bedroom for guests is rather spartan, but at least you’ll have a stove when you visit.
What I found particularly attentive was that my remark about writing lead to the provision of a typewriter. Finally I can type the N with a tilde: ÑÑÑÑÑÑ.
Next to the town there is a very windy hill from where I can offer you a panoramic view over the whole settlement.
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I believe Humberstone is the only completely car-free town in all of South America. Exemplary! The only downside? I still don’t have internet.
Planet Earth II
The BBC is working on Planet Earth II and judging by the trailer, it will be a breathtaking documentary.
To cover the time we still have to wait, you can of course watch the original Planet Earth episodes, all of which are on YouTube in full length,
or my personal favorite, Human Planet.
A candidate who doesn’t know when the election is
Maybe an indication that the actual election is the last thing Donald Trump cares about.
And with new damning revelations being published every day, no wonder he is asking people to vote early.
I met Joe Biden on Easter Island.
As you know, I am currently hiking on Easter Island.
Today, as I wanted to make siesta in the shadows of the stone statues, I spotted a familiar face.
First, I thought it was some random man who happened to look like Joe Biden. But when I saw the six guys who were with him, all wearing the same khaki pants and blue shirts, I knew it was the US Vice President.
I didn’t want to disturb him, but when he noticed me staring, his grin became wider, he made a thumbs-up gesture and shouted “hey, how are you doing?” So I came closer and, trying to be funny, asked “Is this a campaign stop?”
“No man,” he laughed, “I am done with campaigning.” And then, more seriously: “If half the country wants a lunatic clown, who am I to stop them?”
We chatted a bit more about the election, but then sat down in the grass, unpacked our lunch boxes, and talked about life, from lawyer to lawyer, from old man to old man, and it ain’t nobody’s business what we talked about. But he’s a nice guy. I think people will miss him and President Obama rather sooner than later.
The Happy Hermit 