Witchy Woman

So here's something that doesn't happen everyday.

On my way to a book store to look for a good map of Uruguay, two strange old ladies, sitting on a bench, one asked me if I had a light, which I obiviously didn't. After crushing their nicotine dreams, the same one asked where I was from, as, believe it or not, I stand out a little bit in South America. So after a quick moment of geographical chat, the lady who did the talking asked my to hold out my hand.

But I'm getting ahead of myself a bit. When I first saw these two ladies, I thought to myself, "Self, these two ladies look like gypsies." Scarves, eleven layers of shirts, bandanas, big hoop earrings, patchouli. If they would have been wearing a Cream t-shirt they would have looked like half of the staff at the Grain Train.

So back to the magic. After reading the lines in my hands and telling me that I was going to have a long and prosperous life and everything everyone wants to hear, she asked for a bill, a piece of paper money. And now the graft begins. I wasn't born yesterday, but this was too cool not to spend five dollars on. So, the one who did the talking, the other gyspy lady just sat there, took my 100 peso bill, folded it into a tiny little wad of cash, and began to tell me, at least this is what I think she was telling me, something about loneliness, prayers to Mary Magdalene, and risk-taking. Asking to keep the 100 peso bill as a donation, she pocketed it as quick as anything.

But now this is where it gets fun. Now, she asked me for a larger bill and with her gypsy magic, I had a 200 peso bill out because I really wanted to see where this was going. Now, she told me she was going to throw it into the sea (read wallet) and if I was OK with that. Why not.

So, out from her giant gypsy jacket comes a small bottle of what she said was holy water. A drop on my palm and a drop on her palm, she put the 200 peso bill into my little dab of Jesus water and then put into her hand. Then she had me blow on the money - I know, right? Then she did the same. And then she spit all over the money. Like, alot. There was alot of spit. It was a bit icky.

After drenching the bill in spit, she wadded it up into her hand, and put it into her pocket to be "thrown into the sea." Now, with her clean hand, she get, from some other mystery pocket, a sprig of rosemary and what I think is a dried mushroom, as it looks like a pebble, but is still a bit squishy. I keep them, and I'll  have a wife soon, or win the lotto, or some shit. Beats me.

So, for fifteen dollars I got some herbs, a nib of fungus, and one of three things:

1. Good gypsy luck.
2. Eternal damnation.
3. Conned.

It's probably number 3, but hey, I'd be lying if I said I still didnt have that weird feeling around the back of my neck. If it worked for Springsteen, I guess it can't be too bad.

Radio Somewhere

I do not like American radio, at least the American radio I've been exposed to. As broad and brilliant as the music world is, things seem to get boiled down to there most base and icky forms.  One seems to have three basic options.


Sad Kroeger.



The first is your pre-packaged pop. Now, depending on the song, this can be either the worst or best choice for radio jamming. I am unashamed to acknowledge the fact that if Miley Cyrus's "Party in the USA" is ever on the waves, I will crank that radio to eleven and sing like a sophomore girl. Driving home once from college with one of my sisters, I'm pretty sure we listened to Pink's "Rock Star" at least eighty-seven times. For a solid four months one winter, I had "Apple-Bottom Jeans" perpetually stuck in my head, and loved it everytime the twelve seconds of lyrics that I actually knew crunked through my head.

However, as mentioned, I can also be the worst possible music ever concieved my mankind. Katy Perry is terrible, even if she does kiss girls. I would rather listen to starving goats than any album a winner of American Idol makes and would not listen to an entire Justin Beaver song for five dollars. Six is another story.



The second is, as one of my friends so eloquently dubbed it, butt-rock. AC/DC, Kid Rock, Staind, Puddle of Mudd, Linkin Park, Nickelback *pukes in mouth*, and a plethora of bands that just can't seem to spell their names right. This is terrible music for terrible occasions. If the musical world was highschool, this genre would be the kid who sits in his rusted truck revving his grimy engine, bragging how he "don't even need to finish school 'cuz my momma's uncle gonna git me a jerb fixin' stuff fer seven bucks uh a hour!" There is no redeeming quality for this type of sound, except that the songs are short, because power chords only go so far.

I smell an A-Rab...

The third genre is country. That is all.

However, the radio seems to have a different mentality south of the border.

My iPod, pushing seven years, is on it's final legs, and can't leave the house or it gets sick. And as I walk an insane amount in this country, I have quickly gone native in a adapting the cellphone radio.

Now, at first I hated the radio down here. It made no sense whatsoever. Who has ever heard of sandwhiching two ABBA songs between Sugar Hill Gang and Tom Waits? Sheena Easton - who will be forever in my mind associated with Vinnie Jones opening beer bottles with his eye sockets - followed by Kid Rock's "All Summer Long?" Tom Petty and Akon on the same station? What the hell Uruguay?



Vinnie Jones works 9 to 5 at the gun show (Hay-Oh!)



But now I love it. It makes no sense whatsoever! Who would have ever thought of sandwiching two ABBA songs between Sugar Hill Gang and Tom Waits? Brilliant! Sheena Easton and Kid Rock? A-maz-ing. Tom Petty and Akon, that still doesnt make sense, but whatever.

Even as I write this, I'm continually surpised and impressed by the absolute absurdity of the radio. At this very moment, "God's Gonna Cut You Down" by Johnny Cash just finished, followed by Men At Work.

Uruguay, "...where women gooo and men plundaah!"

The World's Friendliest Pidgeon

And I shall name you... Sancho Pancho.

There are lots of birds in Uruguay. In fact, the word Uruguay is an old Guaraní - the natives who were quickly and completely removed by the Europeans - phrase for "river of the painted birds." Green birds, white birds, little birds, big birds. Lots of birds.

In my particular apartment complex, there are lots of pidgeons, all of which are friendly. However, one pidgeon in particular seems to have taken a liking to me. Everytime I go out to get some air, it, without faults, flys and lands within three feet of me.

I decided to name him Sancho Pancho and we start English lessons on Monday.

And boom goes the dynamite...

Ska-doosh.

Despite the fact that it indeed has been winter here for the better part of two months, earlier this week was especially cold. Soul crushin cold. Cloudy, rainy, frigid fog: the works. I could see my breath while I watched TV. Anyhow, I didn't think to much of it, as the blood from my brain was detoured to my toes.

However, during a conversation at work today, someone mentioned that it was due to an ash cloud, which I thought was ridiculous at first. But then I remembered seeing on the BBC that a volcano in Chile had indeed erupted a week or so ago and had, indeed, covered most of Patagonia in ash clouds, freezing rain, and all around ickiness.

So while earlier this week the finer, more cultured particulates of the eruption literally rain on my parade, today the bigger guys arrived.

Dude, I totally get it.

As the human brain, or whatever, has the tendancy to notice things it just learned, my walk home today from work was quite the sight. Cars where covered in thin, gray ash. They all looked like Northern Michigan cars in early May. When I looked to something far away, it was noticeably hazy - today dry as a bone, by the way.

Now, this is nothing on a Pompeiian scale by anymeans, but it doesn´t take a stretch of imagination to figure that if a single volcano a thousand miles away can make a week of miserable weather, a few dozen world-wide volcanoes and meteors to boot could put a damper on the dinosaurs.

On a side note, between the Chilean volcano and those that burst in México and Hawaii, I'm hoping that Harold Campings predicions weren't a month off.

Food: Or, Four Reasons Why I Will Be Fat

Fall has set in in South America, and like everywhere, cold weather means, amongst other things, eating more and drinking more. I like food, probably more than the next person, and being in South America means that really good food is really cheap. Throw in Italian ancestry, red meat so cheap that a fancy night out means eating chicken, and a year round growing season (I'm looking at you, Michigan) spells disaster for my once glourious abs. The prime culprits are as follows.

Moo Moo

Beef : Down here in Uruguay, it really is what's for dinner. Every night. And usually for lunch too. While most people think of fancy-pantsed Argentina first when they think of South American beef (to be honest, I'm not really sure how many people actually do think of South American beef, but I digress), little, laid-back Uruguay does it just as well.

The asado - like grilling, but with more Fire!!! - is a national obsession. Whole families will sit around and eat a whole cow. A whole cow. Every part - kidneys, heart, tripe, intestines, blood sausage, not-blood sausage, balls, the works. But the best, best, part is the thymus glands. It looks like a brain, but it tastes like what I like to describe as "bacon-beef-butter". It is, I'm sure, pure cholesterol, but it is so damn good.

Bacon-Beef-Butter

On top of the fact that it is delicious and plentiful, it is cheap. Five U.S. smackers will get you a steak the size of your face that is so perfect anyone could cook it properly.

It truly is a glory to walk into any store and literally be able to buy any part of not only a cow, but of a pig, lamb, or goat.

Oh, and the seafood ain't bad to boot.

Oh Hello You...

Booze : With everyone being descended from
mostly Italians and Spaniards, there is wine. Lots of wine. Good wine that is cheap wine. Wine from Chile, wine from Argentina, wine from Uruguay. Tasty, tasty wine that will set you back about four dollars if you're feeling fancy, two-fifty if you're not.

But there is more! Grain is good for two things: feeding cows, and making whiskey, which they do well. South American whiskey is no Jack Daniels (50 US a liter) nor is it Johnny Walker (don't ask how much that costs), but it is good, and, like everything made in Uruguay, cheap. Also, as I mentioned, they do not sell fifths (750ml) but full liters (1000ml).

Oh, and the beer is always cold, and also comes in liters.


Sweets : I don't have the biggest sweet tooth. I drink my coffee black, I like grapefruit as is, and oatmeal tastes fine plain. However, this is dangerous territory, because everything is amazing

The quality of a countries desserts, cakes, and pastries can be summed up as this:  

• (European Ancestory) + (Religion) + (Oppressive Regimes) = Tasty Factor. 

In Uruguays case:  

• (Italian + German + Spanish) + (Catholicism) + (Mid 20th Century Police State) = Om Nom Nom.

European Elitism + Anti-Semitism = Tasty Strudel

Everything is, you guessed it, good, and, uh-huh, cheap. German-style pastries, Italian-style sweets, Spanish-style fruit stuff. It is often fried, and often topped with more sugar. On top of this, everything is covered, drenched, drowned, and injected with...

Mmm...

Dulce de Leche : In so many words - Oh. My. God. It is like caramel but better. This is probably what God's poo tastes like. All it is is milk and sugar cooked slow, slow, slow until the water evaporates and all that is left are milk solids, fat, and sugar.

And they put this Everywhere in Everything. I literally eat this daily without even looking for it. I once ate a 500ml tub of this while watching The Notebook and it was so good I do not care who knows (The dulce de leche, not the movie, that sucked. Alzheimers is not romantic. Neither are old people. Eww.)

I want to take a bath in this. You could put this on a pinecone, and it would still probably be the best damn thing you have ever eaten. My mouth is literally watering right now, and I never misuse the word literally. Literally.

The Story of How My Lunch Was Created

A light lunch

Chef #1 "Hey, we have all this meat sitting around."

Chef #2 "Well then cook it."

Chef #1 "Uh, ok. With what?"

Chef #2 "Well what do we have?"

Chef #1 "We have potatoes."

Chef #2 "Ok, fry them."

Chef #1 "Should we do more?"

Chef #2 "Put mayo on it."
Chef #1 "We have cheese."
Chef #2 "Fry it."

Chef #1 "I guess we have bacon too."

Chef #2 "Ok, fry that too. And you may as well put mayo on it."

Chef #1 "Can do."

Chef #2 "Wait, didn't we have some eggs that were about to turn?"

Chef #1 "Yeah."

Chef #2 "Fry 'em."

Chef #1 "Should we put, like, a vegetable on this?"

Chef #2 "Like lettuce?"

Chef #1 "Hell no. I'll put that on the bottom where it belongs. I meant like fried onions, maybe peppers."

Chef #2 "Do it. Oh, and put some more mayo on that too."

Sunshine < Internet

The weather is way too nice to post. Once the full force of a 60 degree winter hits in all its frigid, unflinching cruelty, I'll write more. But until then, I have sun to absorb.

Oil, Glitter, and Perfumed Foam

So, last night, after eating at a neat little seafood place that I´ve taken a liking too, I grabbed a liter of Pilsen at the nearby store and started reading a book I paid way too much for. At about 10pm, which is fairly early here - I eat dinner at about 9-9:30pm - I heard what can be simply described as lots of drums. I grabbed my camera and easily found the crowd.*

*Camera  note: I have lots of pictures and even some short movies, but I have yet to be able to upload them anywhere so far. 


They had the main drag on the penninsula - Ave. Gorlero - blocked of for tambore, the beginning of Carnaval, which I didn´t think started until next week. Anyhow, this is tambore:

1. A guy with a big, sparkley banner marches first, upon which is written what specific group is coming next. (I have no idea how many groups there were, as I arrived after they started 10:30pm, left before they were done, 1:30am, and fell asleep at 2:00am to the still-beating drums.)

2. A half-dozen odd guys follow the first guy with giant flags in the color of the group. Lots of gold, lots of purple, lots of green, and lots of Uruguayan light-blue.

3. Now come the dancers in increasing attractiveness - and legality. The first are about twelve years old, decked out in glitter and not much clothes. A little strange and awkward. The next group of dancers seemed about sixteen, eighteen, something like that. Less clothes, more glitter, oil. The last group was the crème de la crème (homey!) of the dancers. Only pictures can do justice, so I´ll try to get those up.


4. After the dancers, and before the tambores (drums) were two people dressed up as chariacatures of an old, fat black women and an old, cane-carrying black man with a medicine bag. They danced just about how you imagine they would. It was like black-face, but sparklier. Once again, pictures ASAP.


5. The proverbial caboose of the drum train was, obviously, the drummers themsevles. Probably about thirty-sixty in any given group. Cool stuff.


Now, this whole progression of a single group took about fifteen to twenty minutes, and I have no idea how many groups there were. Twenty, probably more.


Oh, and there were vendors who sold espuma perfumada (perfumed foam) to kids who would run around and blast the dancers with the stuff. So not only were they covered in oil and glitter, but it looked like they were all hit with shaving-cream balloons.


All in all, a good, quiet, Sunday evening. 

Keyboard Love

Look at all the cool things you can type on a Latin American keyboard!

Ç, Ñ, Ö, ª, ¿, ¡

Fun for the whole family.

My Life is Murphey´s Law

Well, right off the bat, I had a four hour wait in Kalamazoo to catch a train. Boarded the 9:50AM train at 1:35PM. The approximately two hour train trip took about four and a half hours. The time difference going to Chicago got me there at about 5ó clock, the L got me to O´Hare at about 5:55, barely enough time to catch my 6:25 flight to JFK...

...which was canceled. Ok, whatever. New flight to JFK in the morning. Turned out I would be spending the night in Chicago instead of NY. However, the Miss Genius at the ticked counter failed to notice that my new AM flight to JFK would arrive after my flight for Brasil was scheduled to leave the next morning, thankfully the guy who checked my passport/ticket did and sent me back to the ticket counter. Fantastic.

So, they throw me on an 8:00PM flight from O´Hare to La Guardia. It´s not JFK, but it´s close. Whatever, I´ll take it. However - and here´s where the story actually starts getting bad - they put my bag on the morning flight to JFK, which I find out at La Guardia. At 1:00AM. And if you think reading this in English is confusing, try explaining it in Spanish.

So there´s not much I can really do now, as I´m in NY, my bag´s in Chicago, and the next flight from Chicago to NY arrives after my flight to Brasil leaves, which I think was the only flight to from Brasil from NY that day. F. Uck. So after a $35 taxi ride from La Guardia to JFK, I spend the rest of the night, from about 1:40AM to 6:00AM, curled in a ball, propped up on an iron I-beam, sleeping about 45 minutes of nodding sleep.

Flight to Brasil arrives at about 8:00AM, leaves about 10:00AM. And may I say, it was the strangest, most bizarre flight I have ever been on. From take-off to landing, about ten hours, the entire plane was sealed shut. Every single window was shut, overhead lights turned off, and people sleeping, during the day, the entire trip. I also was only offered a Coke the entire time. Strange. Strange. Strange.

Sao Paolo is the worst-designed airport I have ever been in. It makes no sense. It wouldn´t have made sense if spoke Portuguese. Insane. No sign, in English, Spanish, or Portuguese mentioned that there were other terminals, terminals where my flight was. So after a broken Spanish-Portuguese conversation, I learn of this other terminal and am pointed to it´s vague direction. It´s also really hot in Brasil, and I´m still in the cashmere sweater I put on in Kalamazoo where everything was covered in ice and yuck. I also haven´t showered in about a day and a half and the only sleep I´ve gotten was on a tile floor at JFK or nodding nap/sleep in the crazy plane to Brasil.

Finally arrive in Montevideo at about 2:00AM. Talke to about a dozen people trying to get them to request my bag. TAM airlines sends me to GOL airlines, GOL sends me to Pluna, which gives me a number to request me luggage. This paragraph could be about ten times as long, but I don´t want to write about it, because I´d rather write about getting a enema.

Anyhow, after that I spend the day at a hostel sleeping on a plastic chair because the beds where taken, showering and drying myself off with a flannel shirt, breaking my day and a half fast with a burrito I got with a cool dude from Ireland. (In hindsight, the burrito was a terrible idea.) Slept like a dead man that night once a bed was open, woke up, just out-smarted burrito-fueled explosive diarrhea, and have been walking around the city, waiting for the airport here in Montevideo to give me a call about my elusive green duffel bag.

On the bright side, I didn´t have to eat any rugby players.

In the Air

Leaving for forty-eight hours of travel. I'm really glad there is ice everywhere in K-zoo/Chicago and a forecast-ed snow storm in New York. Because ice and snow never cause problems with flying. At least there is no snow in South America now, because I am not eating a rugby team.

Twenty-Four Years of Accumulated Living

Apparently, twenty-four years of material life accounts for one duffel bag, a backpack, fancy shampoo, Panamanian sandals, some batteries, and a wooden Oktoberfestbier hanging from 1975.

Untamed Pleasure

Stay classy, Petoskey.