Today I remembered Jean Claude.
He had wrapped his fingers around the coin I placed in his tiny palm like he feared I would take it back again if I thought too much about it. I smiled and he moved on, continuing to beg down the crowded aisle.
“Do you want something to eat?” I found myself asking after turning around and realizing he had gotten off the bus with me.
“Yes.”
“What’s your name?”
“Jean Claude.”
“Ok, Jean Claude. Pleasure to meet you. My name is Alix.” He looked confused. I continued. “What would you like to eat?”
Still confused.
“Alright, how about Kentucky?” We were standing in front of a KFC.
His brow unfurrowed and the bud of a smile began to bloom. I took that as a yes.
He ordered 10 pieces of chicken, a large fry, mashed potatoes, and a salad. What he didn’t eat I made him promise to share with his family.
“My brother needs new shoes.” I knew this was coming. I tried not to listen to the silent story of jaded childhood he was telling behind the darkness of his deep, brown eyes. “And my sister needs pencils. My father has no job. My mother has no bread.” The pink flush peeking through the dirt on his cheeks made the color Red feel honored to be associated with such innocence and beauty.
“Do you have bus money to get home, Jean Claude?”
“No.”
“Ok, here you go. Goodbye Jean Claude. It was nice to meet you.”
And I walked away. I had to walk away. I could not wardrobe and educate his siblings. I couldn’t ensure that his family always had food on the table, or a roof over their heads. I could only buy him dinner. And learn his name.
I remembered Jean Claude today. And tonight all of the kids who can’t afford costumes or food will come into the center of the city to trick-or-treat for the candy that they will sell on the streets tomorrow.
Happy Halloween.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Friday, October 19, 2007
An Epic Soundtrack for an Ordinary Day
From the moment my electronic music started pulsing into my ears this morning, I knew that today would be a day with a soundtrack.
I left the house in slow motion and crossed the street like the fate of the world rested on my ability to avoid a gruesome death by speeding heavy machinery. I bought coffee and held the warm cup in my hands as though it contained much more than just caffeine and sugar, but rather some mysterious and steaming elixir of life.
I tapped my foot and rocked my shoulders in rhythm as I stood by the side of the road, waiting for the oldest taxi driver I could find who would surely not have the time or energy to rob me. This ordinary game took on a new life as I let the music tell me which car to chose. Loud ominous thumping sounds= no. Happy, floating trance-inducing melody= this is the viejito for me.
Knowing that there was nowhere else in the world I was supposed to be and no task more important than that which lay before me, I asked the taxi driver to drop me off at the Peruvian National Archaeological Museum. Three thousand years of history to learn and only forty-six songs left on my electronica playlist!
I bounced my way casually through the Wari Empire and air-drummed through the tragic tale of Incan civilization. I met a Chimu king. The sparkle of his armor caught my eye from across the room and immediately the music began to pick up pace. I approached him, his presence overwhelming like a thick humidity. The music slowed for just long enough for him to tell me that all of the contents of this museum, the art and the pots and the jewelry and the statues, were remnants of mankind’s ceaseless attempt to capture life in something tangible, but that the greatest gift left by bygone generations would never be displayed behind glass as it was still alive today. Convinced whatever cleaning solution they used on his display case had rendered him a little nutty, and aware that the music would not allow me time to stay and chat about his centuries of wisdom, I nodded politely, began clapping my hands against my thighs, and moved on.
Later I met up with a friend. We were both listening to music. The left earpiece was removed. Eyes met and smiles appeared. Electrónica? Electrónica. Deep dish? Deep dish! Friendships are cemented in moments like this. You grin and you gaze, immobilized by the shock and the joy for just long enough for the cement to dry, and before you even remember to blink you’ve attached another human being to your soul. We each replaced the left earpiece, aware that words were no longer necessary as we retreated together into a world that no one else but us could hear. And then, side-by-side, we tapped out hands into the air, bounced a little with every step, and danced our way into the setting sun.
If only everyday would have a song for my heartbeat to follow. If only everyday could be so epic. Then again, maybe it is.
I left the house in slow motion and crossed the street like the fate of the world rested on my ability to avoid a gruesome death by speeding heavy machinery. I bought coffee and held the warm cup in my hands as though it contained much more than just caffeine and sugar, but rather some mysterious and steaming elixir of life.
I tapped my foot and rocked my shoulders in rhythm as I stood by the side of the road, waiting for the oldest taxi driver I could find who would surely not have the time or energy to rob me. This ordinary game took on a new life as I let the music tell me which car to chose. Loud ominous thumping sounds= no. Happy, floating trance-inducing melody= this is the viejito for me.
Knowing that there was nowhere else in the world I was supposed to be and no task more important than that which lay before me, I asked the taxi driver to drop me off at the Peruvian National Archaeological Museum. Three thousand years of history to learn and only forty-six songs left on my electronica playlist!
I bounced my way casually through the Wari Empire and air-drummed through the tragic tale of Incan civilization. I met a Chimu king. The sparkle of his armor caught my eye from across the room and immediately the music began to pick up pace. I approached him, his presence overwhelming like a thick humidity. The music slowed for just long enough for him to tell me that all of the contents of this museum, the art and the pots and the jewelry and the statues, were remnants of mankind’s ceaseless attempt to capture life in something tangible, but that the greatest gift left by bygone generations would never be displayed behind glass as it was still alive today. Convinced whatever cleaning solution they used on his display case had rendered him a little nutty, and aware that the music would not allow me time to stay and chat about his centuries of wisdom, I nodded politely, began clapping my hands against my thighs, and moved on.
Later I met up with a friend. We were both listening to music. The left earpiece was removed. Eyes met and smiles appeared. Electrónica? Electrónica. Deep dish? Deep dish! Friendships are cemented in moments like this. You grin and you gaze, immobilized by the shock and the joy for just long enough for the cement to dry, and before you even remember to blink you’ve attached another human being to your soul. We each replaced the left earpiece, aware that words were no longer necessary as we retreated together into a world that no one else but us could hear. And then, side-by-side, we tapped out hands into the air, bounced a little with every step, and danced our way into the setting sun.
If only everyday would have a song for my heartbeat to follow. If only everyday could be so epic. Then again, maybe it is.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Metaphor Party
It has taken three weeks for the humor of it to truly sink in. The Chinese woman I live with calls me Harry. At the beginning she would invent a new first syllable every time and pair it with an “ee” at the end. As the weeks passed, she lost sight of her creative ambition and settled on Harry.
I like getting lost. In elementary school I took a field trip to the National Gallery of Art. While the rest of the kids picked their noses, complained of sore feet, and made preliminary negotiations for lunch box trades, I stood with my head tipped backwards at far as it would stretch, gazing up at the largest painting I had yet seen in my short existence. Across the white canvas was streaked a black line. A black line. For the next 10 years I would site this work as the reason for my skepticism of modern art. I think being lost is like that painting. When I’m lost, I make turns with a rejuvenating disregard of destination. I marvel at the unfamiliarity of the street signs and take each step with the pride of a 15th century explorer. My soul gets a chance to stretch out a little, the known world expanding in size by the minute. Most people would not consider “getting lost” to be a legitimate hobby. I now understand how the artist of that black splotch must feel—so many people are missing out on so much misunderstood beauty.
The weather forecast for Lima always says the same thing: sixties and cloudy today and tomorrow, seventies and sunny starting two days from now. Nice weather is always two days away.
I’m not sure what it means that I enjoy the anonymity of being called the wrong name. Or that I’d rather be lost than found. Or that I plan my outfits for seventy degree days under the assumption that they will actually arrive on schedule. Or that I insist on assigning a deeper meaning to even the most mundane details of life.
I like getting lost. In elementary school I took a field trip to the National Gallery of Art. While the rest of the kids picked their noses, complained of sore feet, and made preliminary negotiations for lunch box trades, I stood with my head tipped backwards at far as it would stretch, gazing up at the largest painting I had yet seen in my short existence. Across the white canvas was streaked a black line. A black line. For the next 10 years I would site this work as the reason for my skepticism of modern art. I think being lost is like that painting. When I’m lost, I make turns with a rejuvenating disregard of destination. I marvel at the unfamiliarity of the street signs and take each step with the pride of a 15th century explorer. My soul gets a chance to stretch out a little, the known world expanding in size by the minute. Most people would not consider “getting lost” to be a legitimate hobby. I now understand how the artist of that black splotch must feel—so many people are missing out on so much misunderstood beauty.
The weather forecast for Lima always says the same thing: sixties and cloudy today and tomorrow, seventies and sunny starting two days from now. Nice weather is always two days away.
I’m not sure what it means that I enjoy the anonymity of being called the wrong name. Or that I’d rather be lost than found. Or that I plan my outfits for seventy degree days under the assumption that they will actually arrive on schedule. Or that I insist on assigning a deeper meaning to even the most mundane details of life.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Chocolate Death
I am lying in bed awaiting death. The dragon in the painting above me is laughing. It starts as a light chuckle but escalates quickly to an intimidating guffaw when it sees my limbs start to shake. I find his purple hue nauseating as I trace his spine with my gaze, over and over again, until the curves of his tail become the glow I see against the black backdrop of my eyelids.
I had been so hungry, scouring my room for anything edible. Too cold and lazy to go downstairs to heat water for soup, I was left with the only other option my quest produced: the chocolate. So seductive! That stupid wrapper, caramel oozing out of the glimmering brown shell. I held the small package in my hands, feeling the candy through the plastic, lusting after sugary bliss. But he had given it to me. What if he had done something to it? He could have poisoned it, squirting a few drops of a lethal fiery liquid with a tiny needle through the packaging and the chocolate and into the caramel core. Over two decades of listening to Halloween candy nightmares has allowed my imagination to run (perhaps excessively) wild. This chocolate would not be spared my skepticism.
I had accepted the chocolate not because I wanted it, but because my hand had involuntarily extended to take the gift. He had popped out of a taxi, run up to me, reminded me of his number and his availability, and then scurried off again as quickly as he had appeared. It was only after his departure that I became aware of the chocolate in my hands, which I promptly hid in my purse, hoping that this would finally be the last proof of is existence that he would ever leave me with.
“Is it just coincidence, or perhaps fate, that has brought us together again?” My heart quickly grabbed hold of my rib cage to keep itself balanced, nearly knocked out of place in shock. Turning my head slightly to the left, I saw exactly what I was dreading: Lui, panting a little after having run across the street to catch up with me, staring into my eyes, now gracefully protruding with equal parts dismay and disgust. I moaned. He continued, unabated. “You know I have this friend who met his wife at the grocery store. They just kept running into each other. Not that I’m saying we’ll get married. But you never know.” Despite my repeated attempts to tell him to leave me alone, and his agreeing that this would be the best idea if I was truly uninterested, he continued. I wanted to yell, to be brutally mean and horrible and tell him that he was making me afraid of walking alone, but I couldn’t find the anger on-switch in my brain (hidden, no doubt, behind the filing cabinet I just added for information on International Human Rights Law—it’s quite a sizable entity). If only I had screamed. If only I had ripped the business card he had given me in half, right there in front of him. Then maybe he wouldn’t have told the taxi to stop the next time he would see me, handing me the chocolate that would cause me to agonize over the possibility of death.
So now I lay here in bed, waiting. The wrapper crumpled on my bedside table. The dragon glaring. The TV playing the closing credits to the movie I was watching to distract me in my last moments on earth. I’m shivering, but I always shiver. I ask my heart how it’s doing, and it rolls its eyes. My lungs grin and shake their heads. My fingers wave a healthy hello, and my stomach emits a satisfied rumble.
I’ve survived. This time.
I had been so hungry, scouring my room for anything edible. Too cold and lazy to go downstairs to heat water for soup, I was left with the only other option my quest produced: the chocolate. So seductive! That stupid wrapper, caramel oozing out of the glimmering brown shell. I held the small package in my hands, feeling the candy through the plastic, lusting after sugary bliss. But he had given it to me. What if he had done something to it? He could have poisoned it, squirting a few drops of a lethal fiery liquid with a tiny needle through the packaging and the chocolate and into the caramel core. Over two decades of listening to Halloween candy nightmares has allowed my imagination to run (perhaps excessively) wild. This chocolate would not be spared my skepticism.
I had accepted the chocolate not because I wanted it, but because my hand had involuntarily extended to take the gift. He had popped out of a taxi, run up to me, reminded me of his number and his availability, and then scurried off again as quickly as he had appeared. It was only after his departure that I became aware of the chocolate in my hands, which I promptly hid in my purse, hoping that this would finally be the last proof of is existence that he would ever leave me with.
“Is it just coincidence, or perhaps fate, that has brought us together again?” My heart quickly grabbed hold of my rib cage to keep itself balanced, nearly knocked out of place in shock. Turning my head slightly to the left, I saw exactly what I was dreading: Lui, panting a little after having run across the street to catch up with me, staring into my eyes, now gracefully protruding with equal parts dismay and disgust. I moaned. He continued, unabated. “You know I have this friend who met his wife at the grocery store. They just kept running into each other. Not that I’m saying we’ll get married. But you never know.” Despite my repeated attempts to tell him to leave me alone, and his agreeing that this would be the best idea if I was truly uninterested, he continued. I wanted to yell, to be brutally mean and horrible and tell him that he was making me afraid of walking alone, but I couldn’t find the anger on-switch in my brain (hidden, no doubt, behind the filing cabinet I just added for information on International Human Rights Law—it’s quite a sizable entity). If only I had screamed. If only I had ripped the business card he had given me in half, right there in front of him. Then maybe he wouldn’t have told the taxi to stop the next time he would see me, handing me the chocolate that would cause me to agonize over the possibility of death.
So now I lay here in bed, waiting. The wrapper crumpled on my bedside table. The dragon glaring. The TV playing the closing credits to the movie I was watching to distract me in my last moments on earth. I’m shivering, but I always shiver. I ask my heart how it’s doing, and it rolls its eyes. My lungs grin and shake their heads. My fingers wave a healthy hello, and my stomach emits a satisfied rumble.
I’ve survived. This time.
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