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."