I'm not even surprised, I am F(*&ing shocked.

I have never received a report card that did not include the phrase “achievement appears to be below ability.”

My final GPA in high school was a 3.00 and would be lower except that failing grades were not factored in.

I took seven AP classes in high school and sat only two of the tests.

In eighth grade I took an extensive personality test, after which a psychiatrist told my mom “not to expect Malcolm to go to a 4-year college.”

When I announced my plan to take a gap year and travel, several of my close friends told me that they did not believe I would ever return to school.

Twelve hours ago the suitcase with all my clothes (and many other things) in it was not loaded onto my flight. It is currently missing.

Four hours ago my ride from Chicago, IL to Beloit, WI cancelled on me.

And thirty minutes ago I moved into my dorm at Beloit College.

I am no longer as surprised as you are. I am fucking shocked.

Join me next Saturday for "Oh, you like the Shins? What building are you in?"

I produced a time-lapse video from my trip

It is a testament to how much lazier and less focused I have been since returning to the States that I have not only failed to conitinue publishing weekly blog posts but actually failed to even write a blog post explaining that I would not be writing blog posts until my arrival at college in Wisconsin.

So now you know.

But enough of thinking about the future. I prefer to dwell on the past. Indulge me, if you will, in a few minutes of idyllic video from the glory days of my youthful exploits.

So, here's a video Nick Simmons and I produced from time-lapse photography I took in South America a few months ago.

Time-lapse photography from South America from Malcolm Yates on Vimeo.

Join me August 15th for "I'm not even surprised, I am F(*&ing shocked."

The fact that I am an uncle now makes me better than you

During the last ten days, I have often found myself in the dangerous position of having a captive audience.

It took me all of twenty minutes to realize that talking about my trip (which cost me four months, ten pounds and my life-savings and which was probably the most significant achievement of my life to date) makes me come off as self-righteous and pretentious. Which I am.

On the other hand, talking about my sister's new baby (which cost me absolutely nothing and would have been born whether or not I even existed) makes me come off as happily mature and endearing. Which I'm not.

She is cute though. When she was born she had that squishy, red, newborn-baby look but in the last few months she's really grown into an adorable little human. However, I can't hold her for more than five minutes without having to change my shirt afterward because she manages to drool more than seems possible.

See what I mean?

And that's just the tip of the iceberg. I've got hours of niece-related material that can paint me as anything from fun and loyal to thoughtful and forward thinking.

I can honestly say that becoming an uncle was the best decision I had nothing to do with.

Join me next Saturday for "It's not easy being Oprah."

If you thought I had nothing to say about life Asuncion, wait till you see how little I have to say about life in Seattle

I stepped off the plane in D. C. and was hustled into the enormous customs waiting area for my first reappearance on American land.

As I slowly inched down the line, large, flat screen TVs blasted a welcome home video, entirely composed of triumphant music and happy, round-faced, hard-working, multi-ethnic, freedom-appreciating, vaguely-religious Americans smiling broadly while productively contributing to society.

I watched as a young Afghani child and his welcoming, adoptive parents enjoy religious freedom together. And then I watched it forty-five more times. I was still enjoying the inspiring story of Mary, William and their son Hassan when a sharp, nasally voice dragged my attention away.

It belonged to a short, white a man in his forties who was standing on the edge of the line, looking up at a brawny, uniformed customs guard. I watched as he craned his neck to yell angrily at man twice his size, carrying a gun and wielding the power to either refuse him entry to the country or even detain him in some dark place indefinitely. But our brave hero wouldn’t let bureaucratic intimidation keep him from his inalienable right to be a sanctimonious jackass. He excersized his right to free speech by pointing out that the line was run unfairly and inefficiently.

They stamped my passport, shook my hand and welcomed me to The United States of America.

I'm back.

Join me next Saturday for "The fact that I am an uncle now makes me better than you."

Everyone say something you're thankful for

I'll go first.

I'd like to thank my mom for writing a comment on the last entry under the name "Mom" and finally giving my blog that air of professional authenticity that I've been going for.

I could not possibly express sufficient thanks to the Spitters family for keeping me in unbelievable comfort (while I lived in the poorest country in South America).

Thank you to my parents for putting an incredible amount of time, energy and money into keeping me from becoming a listless Seattleite.

Thank you to my Aunt Becky and Uncle Joel for keeping me from becoming a homeless Bolivian.

Thank you to Gerald Koblentz for providing me goods with which to barter passage (among other things).

Thank you to Nick Simmons for allowing me to foul the lens of his dear Rebel with my sub-standard photography.

Gracias a Vidal, Isabelle, Jessica y Cynthia por hacer milliones cosas para mi.

Gracias a Teresa por hacer todas las cosas importante para mantener la vida (especialmente cocinar).

Gracias a Betty por cuidarme como uno de sus propios hijos.

Thank you to all the poor, suffering South Americans whom I exploited for comedy or photography (I'm looking at you Peruvian guy peeing in a photo I took).

And finally, thank you. That's you who are reading this right now. I guess that's you again, mom.

Only through the help of the people above (and countless others) was I able to make it through this trip alive. In fact, I was never robbed, I never lost anything and I spent very little time in jail. I am As Surprised As You Are.


P. S. I have enjoyed writing this blog and intend to keep doing so indefinitely.
Join me next Saturday for "If you thought I had nothing to say about life Asuncion, wait till you see how little I have to say about life in Seattle"

What matters is not the distance my feet have traveled, but the jouney I have made in my heart

Ha, yeah right. We all know I came down here to get colorful stamps on my passport.

When I left Seattle in February I was an uppity eighteen-year-old. I strutted into South America, eager to apply my attitude of confident, self-satisfied, cultural criticism to an exciting new world. But, I’ve grown so much since then.

I’m nineteen now.

Honestly though, I could not, in good conscious, write seventeen passages about my time here and never admit to feeling moved or experiencing anything profound. And so, at the risk of feeling like a pretentious sap, I have remembered below a few of the more powerful moments I experienced in the last four months.

When I was stuck for fourteen hours at political roadblock in Bolivia, an elderly native woman from a nearby farm came up to me and gave me three oranges. She refused payment saying, “You have a mother somewhere who would be worried if you didn’t have these.”

Last week the people I live with spent a great deal of time, effort and money to take me on an exciting adventure and make me feel at home on my birthday.

On the first day of construction at a Habitat for Humanity home all the volunteers were playing a get-to-know-you game in circle at lunch. The father of the family for whom the house was being built stepped into the circle to say a few words. His five-year-old daughter was standing on his shoe and clinging to his leg and he began to cry as he tried to express his gratitude.

But don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll forget all about this forgotten, impoverished country and revert to my ways of middle-class cynicism as soon as I hear T-Pain’s electric voice on Kube 93.

Join me next Saturday for "Everyone say something you're thankful for"

I see no escape from the girl at the video store

The moment I saw this poster on the wall in the neighborhood video store I wanted it. For one thing, it's a great film. But more importantly, it's a quintessential example of the fact that South Americans refuse to watch a movie if the plot is not explicitly explained in the title.

In English it was released as "In Bruges." What's written above translates to "The Conscience of the Assassin Hidden in Bruges." This system becomes a problem with such classics as "Thin Kid and the Ghost Psychiatrist" (The Sixth Sense) and "Star Wars: Episode V: I Can't Believe Darth Vader is Luke's Father."

When I saw that the 'In Bruges' poster had been covered by "That Silly, Bumbling Detective Clouseau" (The Pink Panther) I made my move. I had been in the store a few times and had seen the same stout young woman behind the counter every time. I wanted that poster badly, and I tried to be as charming as possible.

"You're here all the time, you must be the only employee," I said, casually looking around at all the posters. "You know I worked at a video store in the States..."

Well, I got the poster. But, at what price?
It turns she is the only employee.

I rent about six movies a week and she's been giving me looks like she thinks I'm only coming back every day to see her. She'll say things like "You couldn't possibly have finished that move already." I'm afraid that one day I'll come to the store and her father will be behind the counter instead, wating to ambush me a shotgun and a dowry.

My only hope is to rent a string of heavily gay-focused films to throw her off the scent.

Join me next Saturday for "What matters is not how far my feet have walked, but the journey I have made in my heart"

A beautiful new friendship

I had intended to write this week about my unstoppable, bilingual powers of seduction.

But, something came up.

This adorable gecko.From the moment he appeared on my windowsill I knew I had met a remarkable being. His wide eyes evaluated me with such analytical intensity that I couldn't help but wonder which of us was really the more intelligent creature.

After careful consideration, he crept onto my open palm and I knew then-not from some cold "scientific" observation, but from a warm understanding that flowed from my heart-that I had made a wonderful new friend. Possibly the best friend of my life.

I named him Gatsby, and so began that beautiful camaraderie that only man and gecko share.

I kept him in a empty water bottle while I absorbed the online version of "What to Expect When You're Expecting Geckos." As it turns out, beautiful camaraderie is a serious pain in the ass. I was not about to buy a ten gallon tank, fresh mulch and live crickets, no matter how forlorn the look on Gatsby's nearly human face.

So I released him. He didn't want to leave, but I forced him to in a heart-wrenching mid-fifties-Disneyesque scene. ("Go on, get boy! I don't want you here no more Gatsby, so just go on now!" etc.)

But, three days ago, he returned (I had never really believed he would leave) and has been scuttling happily about my room ever since.

Join me next Saturday for "I see no escape from the girl at the video store"

There's no place like Asuncion

Ernest Hemingway said that Paris is "a movable feast."

Kurt Vonnuget called New York City "Skyscaper National Park."

Benjamin Disraeli named London "a modern Babylon."

Nobody says anything about Asuncion.

But I will say this: As I slept among the homeless on the concrete floor of the Santa Cruz bus terminal, stranded in the middle of the night after fourteen hours behind a very civilly disobedient roadblock, I dreamt longingly of Asuncion.

It is not exactly a glamorous cosmopolitan hub, blazing a trail through world society, but the weather is nice and the people are kind and I have a bed here.

It is a city of quiet familiarity. The warm streets are dotted with colonial houses, friendly drunks and mobile ice cream salesmen. On hot days men sell cold soda for twenty cents on city buses.

So, in an effort to remedy the embarrassing lack of quotations about this fair city I'm trying to spread this one around -

"Asuncion - It may not have the Louvre, but at least it's not full of Frenchman."

Join me next Saturday for "My seductive, masculine power over women translates beautifully into Spanish."

I have just done something vastly different than I had planned

My bus from La Paz, Bolivia to Cusco, Peru was three hours late, bringing me to the sprawling and confusing city at the uncomfortable hour of eleven PM. But, I knew I was safe; I already had a hostel reservation complete with detailed directions for a cab-driver.

The directions were sound and I arrived at ´Av. Los Incas 1726´ within minutes of getting off my bus. Excpept that the building at ´Av. Los Incas 1726´ was a house. After I rang the doorbell some seven times, a vaguely ethnic man in a robe answered the door, with the air of someone expecting Jehova´s Witnesses. In my most hurried and nervous spanish I rattled off an explanation of why I had woken him, saying:

"Lo siento mucho por despertarse Usted, pero es que mi hostal debe ser aqui en Los Incas 1726, y esta es Los Incas 1726, no? Y Sabe Usted si estamos cerca de un hostal que se llama ´Casa de Carola?´ Pues, de veras, es en Ingles, entonces se llama ´House of Carola.´ pero sabe si hay un hostal cerca?"

To which he replied,

"Calm down, I´m from Jersey. Stop speaking Spanish."

His attitude reminded me of the old saying "You can take the man out of New Jersey, but you can´t take the unhelpful asshole out of the man."

As far as I know, ´the House of Carola´ does not exist except as an eloborate internet prank. Instead, I stayed the night at a three dollar hostel that the cabbie recomended. When we entered the cabbie told the kid checking me in (he couldn´t have been older than fourteen) to "give him a clean room, he understands spanish."

If the room I stayed in was ´clean´ I cannot imagine what the other rooms are like. Nevertheless, I survived. And, having decided that Cusco was not my favorite city, I left early in the morning on the mythical ´backroad to Machu Picchu.´

The route took me through three towns over two days. It involved a six -hour local busride, two ninety-minute car rides (in overpacked subarus over perilous dirt roads) and a two-and-a-half-hour trek along an active railway (with the occasional rush to avoid an oncoming train).

Visisting Machu Picchu was pretty amazing (photos to be posted upon my return to Asuncion) and I managed to top off the excursion with a nice long rest at some beautiful hot springs in Santa Teresa.

I plan on returning to Asuncion in the next few days, but who knows? I also planned on getting A´s in high school.

Join me next Saturday for "There´s no place like Asuncion"

A slight roadblock...

A few days ago I wrote the following down on the notepad I carry with me.

"First ever diary entry of Malcolm Yates: April 13th, 2009.

I am wearing a pair of shorts under my pants. In it´s left front pocket is my passport, with visas or entry stamps for Argentina, Bolivia and Paraguay. In it´s right, my wallet, containing one U. S. Dollar, 10,000 Guaranies, and three debit/credit cards, all of which have been denied in the last half hour. Lying in a desk at the Santa Cruz bus terminal is my iPod, which is serving as collateral for $40 I did not have. The pen writing these words is borrowed from the lady in the seat infront of me.


I am sitting right next to the bathroom in the last seat of a charter bus between Santa Cruz and La Paz. My destination is Machu Picchu, Peru. I will not make it. My body is still pumping adrenaline as a result of a heated argument (in Spanish) I had with a Paraguayan busdriver. It began with him exclaiming that I should be in jail and ended with him saying ´no hard feelings.´

I could really do with one of those egg-laden hamburgers that Teresa makes."

Yes, I hit a literal roadblock at the Bolivian border because of a problem with my visa. I didn´t have one. I was told by the agents at the bus station in Asuncion that I would not need one. They were mistaken (or more likely lying). The solving of this problem sapped a large portion of my money and thus my travel options are now severely limited.

But, no matter. I am currently staying in a hostel full of good-looking Europeans in La Paz, Bolivia. These Eurotrash party every night of the week until past three and I´m having a very good time. I have decided to try to get to Machu Picchu using an extremely cheap altnerative route which is widely discussed in the blog community. No doubt I am taking my life in my hands.

Join me next Saturday for "I have just done something vastly different than I had planned"

From Paraguay to Peru: The search for new cultures to insult and belittle

I spent much of yesterday casually reading poolside, occasionally pausing to cool off in the water or eat a delicious meal that I had not cooked or earned in any way.

Tomorrow, I will voluntarily begin a three day bus trip from Paraguay through Bolivia and into Peru. From there, I will meet up with some Germans (whom I have only met online) and together we will hike for awhile in the Andes carrying heavy packs, sleeping on the ground and eating meals uncooked by me or anyone else.

Obviously, I am fool.

I am taking this excursion to "enrich the nearly blank canvas that is my stifled, American experience. I need to color my image of the world with the vibrant paint of unique culture. My eyes, hitherto blinded by the systematic self-deception of middle-class America, will be forcibly opened by the inspiring sincerity of a beautifully different people."

That's the line I'll use to hit on girls wearing endangered species t-shirts at college democrat meetings next year.

Actually, I am hoping to find new material to write about for the benefit of this blog and its dedicated reader.

For the sake of consistency (and because I am too juvenile to write anything meaningful) I intend to keep a keen eye out for that which would amuse a group of especially immature fourth grade boys.

Perhaps I will find something funny about the genitalia of Peruvian stray dogs. Or it could be a hilariously primitive Bolivian toilet system. Indeed, I may learn about an old Incan religious custom which can be exaggerated and ridiculed for a cheap laugh.

Who knows what comic goldmines await me on my journey?

All I can do bide is my time and hope to God I can snag a photo of two squirrels doin' it.

Join me next Saturday for "You never know who much you depend on elderly Paraguayan women until they're gone"

This IS a great photo of all us, but who's the gringo? ... Oh, right.

Since coming to Paragauy, I have taken about two thousand photos which, regrettably, I have already started to sift through, organize and reflect on. I'm not proud of it. I feel like that all-too-common teenage girl, who spends the first three hours of a party taking pictures of herself with anyone willing and spends the last hour looking through them for a new facebook profile shot.

Yet, hypocrite that I am, I have looked through my photo collection so far and I think it gives a fairly accurate image of Asuncion.

In it are the hundreds of old buses, bought cheaply from from richer countries who have long since upgraded.

It shows (not surprisingly) the disparity between the luxurious mansions of the rich few and the broken streets, on which live many thousands of impoverished natives.

It contains the well-shaped, tanned faces of the youth as well as the inevitably sun-damaged skin of the elderly.

While these subjects (and many more) highlight the pleasant personality of this forgotten country, one also catches glimpses in my collection of a pale something that does not belong. An unsightly blemish sullies the clean pages of my album. Like a persistent rash on the skin of my portfolio, it contributes nothing to my attempt at showing the true Asuncion and serves only as an unwanted itch and distraction.

It is me.

I have tried to avoid it (or at least pretended to) but people like playing with my camera and my image is just as strange and novel to them as theirs to mine.

When I see myself among my photos, I realize that I have forgotten just how white I am. No amount of familiarity with the language or the neighborhood can change the fact that I am wholly separate from the culture here.

Thus, before compiling my definitive collection, intend to purge it of my ugly mug.

Join me next Saturday for "From Paraguay to Peru: The search for new cultures to insult and belittle"

Our Lord Jesus Christ tries his hand at optometry

1 And so Alejandro (that is the son of Jaime, the investment banker) came to enter the offices of "Optica JesuCristo" for, like many, he had heard tell the power of the words of the great Optometrist. Also he thought he might have astigmatism and wanted to get it checked out.

2 And behold, already a crowd of four thousand had gathered to hear His great word and to ask about bifocals.

3 Jesus called his disciples to him and said "My brothers and sisters shall not take an eye-test without presenting proof of insurance."

4 His disciples answered, "where could we find enough forms in this remote place to verify such a crowd?"

5 "How many forms do you have?" Jesus asked.
They answered, "Seven. And a few old pens."

6 He told the crowd to sit and wait for there name to be called. Then, after giving thanks he took the seven forms, and the pens, and he gave them to his disciples and they in turn to the people. 7 And all wrote and were verified.

8 A blind man emerged from the crowd and begged Jesus to touch him. Jesus called him from the crowd and to the front.

9 He spat on the blind man's eyes and placed his hand over them. The man paid a twenty-five shekel copay and his sight was restored.

10 Then, Alejandro of Asuncion saw the power of The Optometrist's deeds, and the goodness of his waiting room magazine selection.

11 And before there were to leave, Jesus held up a large bottle and said unto the crowd "This bottle is the new and everlasting covenant in contact lense solution. It shall be applied on you and your lenses so that grime may be removed. Do this in memory of me."

I can only assume that's what goes on at Optica JesuCristo.

Join me next Saturday for "This is a great photo of all us, but who's the gringo? ... Oh, right."

Apparently, the Paraguayans I know read this blog. Good thing I have been so carefully respectful of Paraguayan culture.

I think that nearly all men fall into one of the following two categories:

1. Men that sometimes pee in the shower

and

2. Men that pretend they never pee in the shower


Even if you have only ever peed in the shower twice, you know how enjoyable it is. The action is satisfying, rebellious and pleasurable all at once. And these feelings are made even more enjoyable by an overwhelming sense of security. It is simply not possible to get caught peeing in the shower.

Unless you find yourself doing it, out of habit, at the gym.

In writing this blog I feel I have been peeing in the metaphorical shower. I have been amusing myself, once a week, by carelessly exploiting the stereotypes of Paraguayans and all South Americans through somewhat trite and heavy-handed comedy that plays on American prejudice.

Like peeing in the shower, my blog causes no lasting damage (especially given that if you are reading this you are probably one of roughly four), but it is not exactly the most polite response to the overwhelming generosity and hospitality I have received since the day I got here. And, having found out that the Paraguayans I know (as well as the man who owns the house I live in rent-free), have read at least parts of this blog, I feel a little like I have been caught peeing in the locker-room shower.

For this reason, I am compelled to apologize for any offense given, as well as to clarify a few things.

I do not scream at ten-year-old street salesmen.

I do not believe that they have sold their livers in order to hawk fake Ray-Bans.

I am not actually amused by the overwhelming poverty that scars much of this country.

I have, however, peed in the shower. And not just metaphorically.

So, having carefully excused myself for any wrong doing, I plan to continue, weekly, to use this forum as means to publicly point and laugh at those lazy, poor, homophobic South Americans. But, you know, respectfully.

Join me next Saturday for "Our Lord Jesus Christ tries his hand at optometry"

Bert and Ernie teach me a final lesson - childhood throwbacks are not considered trendy in Asunción

The first Spanish slang word I learned here was "maricon." It means "faggot." As in:

"Quien es el maricon con la mochila de Las Tortugas Ninja?"

or

"Who's the faggot with the Ninja Turtles backpack?"

It seems that Paraguayans, unlike many Seattleites, are not impressed by a teenage boy who spends hours rummaging through old closets, thrift stores and garage sales for something that might have been the least exciting present at his fourth grade birthday party.

They would likely ridicule the all-too-common Seattle high schooler - sporting a Curious George t-shirt, carrying a Magic School Bus lunchbox and singing the theme from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air (Men In Black you can get away with, because it just hit theatres here).

So, I have learned the hard way to fight my impulse to wear my Star Wars shoes, use my Hello Kitty debit card or ask bartenders to change the TV channel so I can watch Arthur reruns. In the meantime I mark this cultural difference on my list of "American trends which may never reach Asuncion."


Join me next Saturday for "Apparently, the Paraguayans I know read this blog. Good thing I have been so carefully respectful of Paraguayan culture. "

I will fight you over 3,800 guaranies

If you think I’m joking, that’s your second mistake. Your first mistake was trying to shaft me 3,800 guaranies.

Part of the reason a middle-class American teenager spends time in a third world country is to come face to face with the unimaginable poverty which billions of people spend their entire lives entrenched in and that he was, as yet, only vaguely aware of. He is then expected to somberly reevaluate his feelings towards Nike, T-Pain and Capitalism at large.

And, while not ceasing to spend hundreds of dollars on flashy shoes hand-stitched by Pakistani eight-year-olds, he will, at least, publicly condemn his ‘bourgeois’ behavior at a coffee-house open mic, through a movingly introspective poem, short story or rap song.

But, I seem to have missed this stage of my trip. Instead, I have been heartlessly wielding my U. S. dollars like a financial machete threw a thick field of fresh guaranies (of which each dollar is worth 5,000). I can be heard screaming at ten-year-old street salesmen, saying “I may be a blue-eyed gringo, but I refuse to pay Gs.28,800 for fake Ray-Bans I know I can get for 25,000 flat, I don’t care how many livers you sold to get them.”

It is a difference of 76 American cents that I will unquestionably fight you over.

Join me next Saturday for “Bert and Ernie teach me a final lesson - childhood throwbacks are not considered trendy in Asuncion”

Hello sir, my American friends would find your apparent, abject poverty artistic. May I take your photo?

Every South America travel book I've read has a section on photography. The book here at my desk has one called "at the photographic shop." It lists vocabulary like:

Camera - Camara
Lens - Objetivo
Filter - Filtro
Diaphragm - Diafragma

I cannot tell you how often "diafragma" has saved my neck. And not just at the photographic shop. So, emboldened by my knowledge of Spanish photo lingo, I hit the streets.

My early photos were pretty benign. I got the house, my room, the street I live on, the park nearby etc. But I know what you blood-suckers came to see. Paraguay is a third world country and you want see some poverty. We Americans hunger for close-up photos of broken gold-teeth, six-year-old cigarette salesmen and their three-legged dogs. We cannot wait to make them the artistic desktop background of a $3000 computer.

So, I can go up to these people and rattle off friendly phrases from helpful guide books. "Hola amigo, como estas? Bien, bien. Si, soy Americano. Estaria bien si saque unas photos?"

But we both know the truth. We are not "amigos." My actual words are not condescending but he understands what I'm getting at. I'm saying "Hello sir, my American friends would find your apparent, abject poverty artistic. May I take your photo?"

Join me next Saturday for "I will fight you over 3800 guaranies."

I am betrayed by my own poop

When planning a trip to Paraguay, I knew that life here would be dramatically different from that in Seattle. More than an expectation about the country, that fact was my motivation for coming.

The biggest and most routine-altering changes (language, climate, currency etc.) I had been preparing for. And I have really enjoyed discovering some of the differences that I had not expected.

For instance, in Asuncion, you do not have to be homeless to drink right on the street. Also parking, it seems, is dictated not by any paint marks, roadsigns or laws (which are not followed whether or not the car is in motion) but rather by where there is shade enough to protect a car. Another one I enjoy is the way the bus system works. There is no posted route and no schedule. Everybody just knows which buses go where (and no one knows when). The part about it that's really fun is that there are no set stops; you just flag the bus down anywhere along its route and ask to be let off at some point.

What I did not comprehend though, was that even the things I brought with me would be altered by their relocation. The big changes again are obvious: my phone and computer now present themselves in Spanish, my hair is curlier etc. Many of these mutations though, were a surprise.

My clothes, for example, which are now hand-washed and air-dried, smell and feel different. My shaving cream is runnier. My deodorant has taken on an entirely new consistency. And amid all this subtle metamorphosis, I suppose my digestive system could not help but get on board.

So yes, I did come here for a change. And yes, I have truly enjoyed the dissimilarity between life in the U. S. and life here. Still, call me sentimental, but I thought, perhaps, that my bowel movements might hold out as constant, a sacred testament to notion that some things never change. And so, despite my reasons for coming here, I cannot help but feel a little betrayed by my own poop.

Join me next Saturday for "Hello sir, my American friends would find your apparent, abject poverty artistic. May I take your photo?"

I am surprised by the rapid deterioration of my health

When I wrote the title of this post, I meant it as a joke. I wish it still were.

The day I got to Asuncion I spent about five hours in good spirits. I swam in the pool, I ate a little dinner, I enjoyed struggling with Spanish and then I went to bed. Ten minutes after I'd gotten in bed I had to get up. I HAD to get up. During the following eight hours I visited the bathroom at least ten times. I went mostly to throw up, but sometimes to excrete some watery stool. Sometimes both. I spent the next two days sleeping and sweating off a fever.

But, I recovered. Now I spend my days exploring the city of Asuncion, getting stared at and burning my skin until my work with 'Habitat Para la Humanidad Paraguay' begins, which should be next week. It is a wonderful and relaxing existence, which is certainly worth the physical price I paid in those first two days. Still, I hope the times in my life are few when I am so surprised by the rapid deterioration of my health.

Join me next Saturday for "I am betrayed by my own poop."

As Surprised As You Are

At first, I said I was leaving in mid-September. Then late October. Then After Christmas. And finally, the last week of January. I’ve given people good reason to assume that I would never make it to Paraguay. But none of that matters right now, because I am high as a kite. Higher. I am flying above the Pacific Ocean and soon enough I’ll be baked. Baked by the hot climate of Asuncion, Paraguay, where I’ll get drunk. Drunk on beer. I actually made it. I am as surprised as you are.

Join me next time for "I am surprised by the rapid deterioration of my health."