Hairy Legs

Edith had natural platinum blond hair, light blue eyes with curled eyelashes and rosy cheeks, but she wasn’t very beautiful. There was a certain masculinity to her build and a surprising squareness to her face that made her look unattractive and a bit threatening. Her parents were renting the attic of the house that was co-owned by my great aunt Pope (that was her last name and my mom never referred to her in any other way) and her alcoholic son Matt. We ended up sharing the first floor with great aunt Pope while uncle Matt and his dutiful wife Helen lived in the basement. Edith, my sister and I quickly became friends despite the awkwardness that arose between her parents and mine who were now to take over the attic forcing Edith’s parents to look for a new place to live. My aunt Helen was visibly displeased with the situation too and would throw my parents dirty looks and make subtle remarks about the money she was going to lose with her tenants gone. I assumed we lived there for free, we were family after all, but years later my parents filled me in on the secret arrangement of having to actually pay rent each month. Perhaps in my aunt’s eyes they weren’t paying enough. While the adults walked around the house with resentment towards each other, Edith, my sister and I escaped this tense situation by playing in the backyard or the alley.

It was summer of ‘94 and all the neighborhood kids were running around, most of them boys from about seven-year-old to my age, that is, thirteen. They were loud and mostly annoying, but they had a backboard attached to their garage and they let us shoot hoops with them. They had an obsession with swear words that we couldn’t understand too well and loved calling us stupid Polaks, which we did understand but didn’t feel offended by it. It was obvious they didn’t know what Polak means in Polish (simply a person from Poland) and that was stupid and ignorant in our eyes. Still, we hung out with those little rascals because there wasn’t much to do otherwise and because they happened to live next door. Whenever they crossed the line and tried pushing me or my sister just to see our reaction, Edith would step in. She was our pitbull and no kid messed with her. She was ruthless. Used her nails when necessary, kicked like a boy and knew enough English to shut them up. I loved Edith for that and wanted to be like her, but I was too shy with the few English words I knew and the many that I couldn’t understand.

One day the boys approached the gate in the back of our aunt’s house and were actually being civil. They were making an effort to have a conversation with me by slowing down their speech and using very simple language. They started asking questions about our country, asked if we liked it here, asked our age and then, out of nowhere the youngest and most obnoxious little boy blurted out, “You have very hairy legs!” He was pointing in my direction. My heart dropped. I looked at my sister’s legs and she barely showed any hair. Edith’s legs, although thick and muscular, were bald and shiny and mine, well mine looked like furry animal’s legs. It’s not that I wasn’t aware of how hairy they were. It is that no one ever pointed it out in that tone and with such disgust! I don’t believe any woman back in Poland shaved her legs. My mom certainly didn’t own a razor of any kind. Leg shaving simply wasn’t part of any woman’s routine. That little boy though drew everyone’s attention to my hairy legs and now I was the girl with poor personal hygiene. They were literally revolted at the sight of my legs. I had to do something about it.

Naturally, I asked my parents for opinion. They couldn’t understand what the fuss was about. My mom tried to help with her usual logic that made little sense, “Once you shave, the hair will grow back thicker. Bad idea, if you ask me.” I considered her advice and decided to wait and see what other people had to say. Of course, at the time the concept of shaving one’s legs was so foreign to my mom, she couldn’t fathom shaving as routine practice. However, Edith came to my rescue again. When approached about it, she first sighed with relief and then said, “You have to shave that off. It looks horrible!” I weighed all the pros and cons and decided to compromise and shave just a little. I locked myself in the basement bathroom, found my dad’s razor, lathered my lower leg with his shaving cream and with one upward stroke uncovered a full strip of bare skin. That bare strip was so blinding, I took a step back in panic and realized something very basic that had not occurred to me before; you can’t shave just a little! Still in panic, I proceeded with the rest of the leg. I was so determined to remove all the hair, I took off a layer of skin in some parts of my shins. There was blood everywhere! I panicked even more. There was no way of hiding that now. I had Band-Aids covering the cuts and my legs looked weird, almost smaller and bare.

As I unlocked that bathroom door, I came face to face with my mom who immediately asked, “What did you do?” I don’t know how moms always know when their kids are up to something, but she looked me up and down and concluded with resignation, “You shaved your legs.” My dad rose up from the chair to assess the damage. He didn’t say anything but was visibly disappointed. I began making my way towards the bedroom with the intention to hide there for the rest of my life and overheard my dad whisper to my mom, “I think she used my razor.”

I knew it wasn’t over. I still had to face the neighborhood boys and I was mentally preparing myself for all the teasing. I hated the idea of going out there, but I hated sitting at home all day even more. After lunch, I asked Edith if she wanted to go play with the boys. We could hear them playing outside for a while. She smiled at me in a way that made it clear she knew why I needed her to go out there with me. We approached the boys as if nothing and started shooting ball when finally, one of them announced, “You shaved your legs!” They all looked in my direction. I could feel my face turning red, but Edith was quicker. She looked the boy straight in the eye and said, “Shut up!” That did the trick. No one laughed. In fact, no one ever said anything else about it. My parents too came to accept it although reluctantly at first, but when aunt Helen told them that she shaved her legs, they knew they had to be okay with me doing it.

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You Thought Chicago Traffic Was Bad? Try Bangkok!

Whenever my friend Jessica and I would ask Smith how long it was going to take us from point A to point B in Bangkok and elsewhere in Thailand he would give us the following response, "Anywhere from 15 minutes to two hours, depending on traffic." Wow, now that's a big range! I thought he was exaggerating simply to discourage us from coming up with yet another impractical idea that began something like: "How about if we..." Soon enough, however, I realized he was actually telling us the truth.

When I say traffic is brutal in Bangkok, I mean it really IS brutal. There are many choices for transportation when you're a tourist and I guess the fastest option is a moto-taxi. We saw plenty of people old and young get rides on those taxi motorcycles. They were zooming through the city with no trace of fear on their face. I could not be dragged by force onto one of those. I saw the way they were weaving through traffic along with hundreds of other scooters and motorcycles and I had not one single particle in me interested in participating in this survival of the luckiest.

Another note that needs to be made about seeking rides in Thailand is that the idea of carpooling is taken to a whole other level. I've seen entire families, including the dog, ride on a single motorcycle on our road trip in Costa Rica, but at least there, it wasn't taking place during rush hour and with other riders practically breathing down your back. In Bangkok, on the other hand, you had the baby in the front, either standing or seated, the father as the driver and the mom seated sideways in the back all on one motorcycle and, to top it off, in the middle of a crazily congested street.

Our preferred form of transportation were tuk-tuk's or passenger-adapted motorcycles that made plenty of noise while producing heavy exhaust fumes, but amounted for an interesting experience, were cost efficient and granted great people watching opportunities so we made use of them whenever possible. We even made a historic entrance as we pulled up to our fancy Shangi-La Hotel in Chiang Mai (Smith's surprise for us) in a loud tuk-tuk. Needless to say, no one came out to ask if we needed help with our luggage, which was kind of hilarious and we certainly had a good laugh over that one.

The view of from the Executive Lounge of our hotel, compliments of Smith. Yes, we were quite spoiled in Chiang Mai.

One final note on the topic of traffic though. Our last night in Bangkok and Thailand, Jessica and I decided to venture out into the unknown in search of the Harley Davidson store. Well, we got so inspired... Naaah, we weren't going to buy a Harley in Thailand (!) or anywhere really, but we did want to get our dads nice souvenirs in the form of a Harley Davidson t-shirt that also happened to say Bangkok, Thailand. Well, Jessica wanted it as her dad does own Harleys and I wanted it too as my dad has always dreamed of owning one. We were pretty exhausted, but we finally made our way out of the condo and fetched a cab. We had a picture of the map on Jess's phone together with the address and a picture of the store itself. The driver seemed content with the material we supplied and he began driving. Well, not really. We basically just got ourselves stuck in traffic. It took about an hour to traverse a distance that earlier that day took about 10 minutes. Again, Smith was right. That, however, was just the beginning. Once we were moving, we started passing through areas we had never seen before, some of them really nice, others not quite as pleasant.

For some reason we didn't take any pictures of the Harley store, we were so flustered about the ride and focused on getting the shirts. This picture was taken right after the event at a restaurant that the Harley employee recommended to us. We happened to love the place and spent another two hours eating and having great wine.

Several times along the way we thought we were close, but then the driver took another turn and then another turn. We had no idea where we were. The streets are all marked, but they're mostly in Thai. The driver spoke not a word of English. We began worrying. I'm not one to have negative thoughts when things don't go as planned even in foreign countries, but I was not sure how this was going to play out. Fortunately, after a few u-turns and stops to ask for help, we arrived at the store, hidden in a dark side street, some four minutes before it closed. The entire trip took almost two hours and, thanks to the fact that this was Thailand, it cost us no more than 250 baht, a heaping $8.26! All the while we sat there worrying, we could have just relaxed and been grateful for the "accidental" 2-hour tour of Bangkok for some $4/person.

On Getting a Yantra Tattoo in Bangkok

I'm sure many of you, together with a good number of our friends, will think it is absolutely crazy to get a tattoo using a bamboo stick. Well, you may be right. And yes, we did our research. The tools they use do get disinfected. Does the artist use extra precaution? I would not go that far. It is a risk as any other, but the decision had been made and we just had to trust that nothing bad would happen. 

Let me begin by saying that finding information about where to get a yantra tattoo in Bangkok was not as easy as we thought it would be. We spent days reading people's blogs and forums and looking over websites. The thing is, these tattoos are supposed to be done by monks. They are considered sacred, so they can only be placed on the upper part of your back. Plus, if you do end up going to a temple where they offer to do those tattoos on laymen, it is up to the monk to decide what tattoo you will get. That complicated things because we wanted the tattoos to not be so visible and we wanted a specific tattoo, not the one chosen by a monk. This is when we got our Thai friend, Smith, involved in research. He forwarded us a website of the most talented and known tattoo artist, a former Buddhist monk and a practitioner of Thai magic in Thailand, yes, the same one that tattooed a Hollywood superstar. And no, that is NOT why we went to him. Well, he rarely does the tattoos these days anyway, it is his disciples that do them. Ours were done by one of them, a tall and muscular man (to Smith’s surprise) who observed us intently as he negotiated the price with Smith and discussed the choice of the tattoo. We came in with the last of our money for this trip and, combined, seemed like we couldn’t even afford one tattoo. As we began walking out, our artist pitched in his last offer, two tattoos for the initial price he had given us for one. Helpless, we looked at Smith who suddenly materialized the difference from his pocket and so we got ourselves a deal.

How did all this come about? It was the night before our last day in Thailand. Jessica and I were sitting in the internet lobby of Smith's condo in Bangkok and chatting with Smith about how to get to the temple-like place the next morning, avoid traffic and be there before any other people. We decided to leave at about 5:30 am, we were that serious about making this happen. Bangkok was just waking up as we drove through the main streets and then onto an unpaved road. "This is the real Thailand, right Smith?" He agreed. There were no more shopping centers, no flashy posters, no crazy traffic, just a sandy road with wild vegetation, simple wooden huts and run down buildings, stray dogs and only occasional temples, almost over-elaborate in contrast to everything else. We passed by a group of monks dressed in traditional orange robes, their heads shaven and walking alongside the road barefoot. It seemed like we were on the right track although we still had to stop and ask for directions.

As we pulled up to what looked like a temple, but was not a temple, as Smith informed, the gates were still closed. We were early. Way early. It didn't matter though. Soon after the guards opened the gate and we parked the car in a designated parking area, I changed into my temple-visiting-clothes and we looked around. The outside had two areas set up with statues of all sizes both Buddhist and Hindu, placed in order of importance and merit. Smith suggested we pray at one of the altars. He handed us several incense sticks and had us repeat after him in Thai. The prayer took quite some time as we asked him over and over to repeat the lines and slow down. It took so long, in fact, the ashes fell on my hand and burned it pretty bad. I jumped, looked at Jessica in shock, thinking, is this a bad sign, and then Jessica jumped as she burned her hand too. We hurried with the rest of the prayer feeling a bit apprehensive about the reason behind our trip to this place. 

The tattoo itself took an hour each and it WAS painful. It started off like intense poking into the skin that felt uncomfortable, but not unbearable. That was only about 1/5 of the tattoo. The real pain kicked in right after that and it grew exponentially. I sat there praying, meditating, trying to relax my body and, above all, reminding myself to breathe and relax my muscles. The digging into the skin soon became so excruciating, I wanted to cry. I envisioned myself getting up and breaking into an uncontrollable weep. I didn't care that there were other people around me. I didn't care that I wouldn't look tough. I just wanted to release the pain through the tears and make it go away. Suddenly everything became a nuisance, even Smith trying to film me as tears poured down my cheeks. I had an urge to throw something at him, to make him move away from me. And I just managed to say, "STOP. Please stop!"
Somehow, though, the pain was also therapeutic. It was as if all the pains I have suffered converged into that one spot on my back and they were so intense and so overwhelming, all I wanted to do was to get rid of them through this cathartic release that just wasn’t coming. 
Before we left, we asked for a blessing. As the water trickled down my sensitive skin, I finally felt the release in my muscles and my emotions. My body gave into the words pouring out of the mouth of the monk and I thought, things are the way they're supposed to be. Everything will align itself perfectly, just like the five sanskrit lines on my back. All that has happened, happened for a reason and the lessons learned are just that, lessons, conditioning for life, education. What comes after that is GOOD. Just good. It cannot be otherwise. Such was my prayer as I left that place marked for life, to help me remember the pain as the most intense purge that created space for the calm acceptance of everything that was yet to come. 

On our way out, we received booklets written in Thai that explained the meaning of each line. We asked Smith to translate them as best he could and this is what he came up with:
1) Giving your home (body) a balance (good energy)
2) Helps zodiac sign... Predicting bad and changing it to be good
3) If something bad happens to you and it is not your time it will keep you alive... Any voodoo will do no harm to your body
4) Good luck... You'll be successful in the future (job, marriage, life in general)... Whatever endeavor you engage in
5) You'll be charming and popular to the opposite sex
Perhaps not the most graceful translation, but the main ideas are outlined. Thank you Smith for taking us to the right place, lending us money and being our translator. None of this would have been possible without you!

That morning ended as such. Exhausted, we threw our bodies on the bed and took a restorative nap. Smith took this picture before he left the condo, probably laughing hysterically. I don't blame him. It is kind of funny. We barely slept the night before, woke up before the sunrise and then subjected our bodies to a continuous pain for a full hour. This was more exhausting than a 16-hour flight from Chicago to Hong Kong. Nonetheless, mission accomplished and what a beautiful ending to this very special trip.

Thai Kickboxing for a Free Bucket

Before we went to Thailand we were warned against consuming alcoholic beverages served in buckets, apparently a popular drink among the tourists. Reason being, some people died from it, it made the news, and so the story goes... This is not to belittle the deaths of those people, it is very tragic, but come on! It is a bucket filled with alcohol, that's for starters, and, secondly, it basically begs for someone to mess with you and pour something else into it. It does not take a genius to figure out that those drinks are meant to do you harm. Well, we stayed away from those like from the devil himself.
So then Jessica's decision to Thai kickbox after our booze cruise made little sense considering that the lure was that you received a free bucket drink in exchange for volunteering to fight someone publicly with a helmet and gloves and the whole shabang. We all thought it was a fantastic idea, that is, myself and our new best friends that we met on the cruise and then later in the street. The guys themselves did not want to partake, but one of them was kind enough to lend Jess his shirt. I could not believe though that she actually raised her hand, wearing her little dress, and asked for someone to come challenge her. I secretly hoped no one would do it, but then a generously built girl volunteered. Oh boy!

As I stood by the corner, I saw hesitation in Jess's eyes and a bit of crazy in her opponent. It worried me. I felt responsible for my little adopted sister (that's what I call her) and something told me this was not going to end well. The crowds went crazy as soon as they started. There was screaming, cheers and excitement. The reason being, this was not a girl on girl fight. This was an actual fight and I think even Jess didn't anticipate how serious it was going to get.
After the first round, I saw she wanted to give up. I wanted her to give up too, but I didn't even get a chance to voice that. The second round was brutal. The other girl got even crazier, kept punching and kicking. I stood there with my eyes closed regretting I ever let Jess do this. Finally, she gave up after the second round. She looked a bit disoriented and in a lot of pain. Terrible idea, Marta, I thought to myself!

Well, we laugh about it now, but the poor thing still has bruises all over her legs the size of a soccer ball and a beat up foot. And the bucket? We gave it to one of our new friends. He didn't want to drink it, but he sure carried it like a trophy!

Bob's Booze Cruise

The best thing about being on busy Koh Phi Phi Island is the possibility of getting away from it on one of the many available boats and visiting other neighboring islands and their luscious beaches. We had our reservations about going on a booze cruise primarily because of its name, but the high ratings and recommendations online convinced us otherwise. The booze cruises that I have been on in the past involved nothing but the consumption of ridiculous amounts of alcohol and then being witness to overboard projectile vomiting. Well, this cruise was nothing like that. In fact, the alcohol was a nice option to have while enjoying the breathtaking surroundings from or off the sailboat.

The voyage started off a little rough. It was the 1st of January and the festivities of the night before were painted all over everybody's faces. To add insult to injury, the waters were not friendly that day. We already knew this because the day before we were clutching onto the long tail boat for our lives, as we decided to make a trip all the way to Maya beach. The boat rocked mercilessly, tipped from side to side and splashed heavily into the waters making it seem like we were on a rollercoaster. I prayed we'd get there safely.
Well, the next day was no different and perhaps, with a hangover, even worse. After a short stop by Monkey Beach, which that day was no longer a beach but just rocks and trees with monkeys, I was seriously contemplating getting off the boat. The powerful waves were a little too much to handle and the only thing that made me want to "suck it up" was the undesirable prospect of spending the entire day on Phi Phi island instead (read: too commercial and touristy for my taste). So I stayed, drank plenty of iced water and focused my eyes on the islands in the horizon to make the nausea go away.

Thankfully, our captain and boat owner, Bob, navigated the waters in such a way that enabled us to avoid the worst of the rocking and I started to enjoy the ride. The weather was perfect, sunny, but not overwhelmingly hot. The breeze enveloped our bodies as we cruised around the islands. It was such a treat to be part of those surroundings and our companions on the boat made the experience all the more enjoyable.

A little bit about Captain Bob. Originally from Canada, he sailed on his boat all the way from Vancouver. When asked how long it took him to get to Thailand, he responded humorously, "Eight years." Obviously, the 8 years are populated with stories and we managed to extract a few while watching the sunset. If Bob were to write a book about his experiences on the waters and lands of the world, I would certainly read it. Who wouldn't? He has lived a life majority of people only dream of, but would never dare to live. Bob took the -ism out of "tourism." It is an appealing and tempting concept, I have to say that, imagining his adventures, I began longing for that type of life.

As we sailed, the weather conditions called for a few adjustments and we had to eliminate cliff jumping from our itinerary. I had no objections. The idea of free falling is not exactly my cup of tea. Instead we kayaked to Maya Beach where we roamed around taking in the surroundings. 

The Captain also offered to give us insight into the islands we were visiting. The one that shocked me had to do with birds' nests that get harvested in the caves of those rocks. The caves are accessed through an antiquated and highly dangerous technique using bamboo sticks. There have been incidences of deaths reported as people tried climbing the steep rocks in search of those saliva-made nests believed to serve medicinal purposes such as "aiding digestion, raising libido, improving the voice, alleviating asthma, improving focus, and [being] an overall benefit to the immune system" (I got that off of wikipedia as I couldn't remember all the health benefits). The nests are valued at a price higher than gold, therefore, they have been the cause of armed conflicts and gang control until the government took matters into its own hands. Bob had an unpleasant experience of his own when his boat lingered close to the caves for a little too long and suddenly was faced with guards reaching for their machine guns. All THIS over an innocent bird's spit woven nests that also happen to contain high levels of minerals. The human kind and its preposterousness will never cease to amaze me!

 As the sun neared the horizon, we slowly made our way back. The wind and the waves prevented us from going back to the place of departure, so we arrived from the side of the beach where Slinky bar offered nightly fire shows and beach parties. From there we got picked up by a long tail boat that took us to the shore. The sky bid farewell to us with warm reds and yellows. Everything seemed so peaceful and well balanced. Many of us voiced we were staying with Bob on the boat, we didn't want to leave. It was one of those perfect days, a perfect start to the new year and the day was not over yet... Thank you, Captain Bob, for hosting such an amazing event. I dedicate this blog post to you!

The In-convenience of Plastic

The abundance of and over-reliance on plastic in Thailand really got to me as soon as I stepped foot in one of Bangkok's numerous food markets. Sure the presentation might be appealing with food nicely lined up, wrapped in tiny plastic bags and ready to consume. But many of those food items are hot (like meat or rice) and when placed into a plastic bag, well, don't they become toxic? As I watched people munch away on all those goodies, it didn't seem like they were worried about any health risks.

I was worried though. Even more so when I saw floating plastic bottles and used bags in the river that we crossed in a long tail boat to get to the temple. Surprisingly, or not, that same contaminated river is densely populated with fish, fish that surely feeds on particles of that plastic mistaking it for food and fish that later ends up in those markets. At the end of the food chain we find ourselves ingesting double the amount of toxins - from those fish and the bags they're placed in. How can you not react to that?

Everyone around me though seemed quite tranquil and relaxed about this situation granted they probably never reflected on it from that point of view. And why didn't they? Well, I blame the governments for it and on their support of great corporations that thrive on the production of cheap and easily portable material that destroys the planet we inhabit. I blame it on lack of education and perhaps inadequate campaigning on the part of environmental organizations. I also blame it on globalization and capitalism that robs people of time and resources to prepare their own food and lower the dependence on premade meals.

I wasn't aware of this, but I learned from these two Canadian girls who were teaching English in Thailand that most families there do not have a kitchen at home. It is much cheaper and more efficient to eat at the market. It was really hard for me to wrap my mind around this concept. How can you ever satisfy your body and soul by eating food that had been prepared by somebody else? It is bad enough that we no longer live in a society where we would have to fetch our own food, let alone eliminate the step where the food we consume actually passes through our own hands. I find that disconcerting and quite dangerous to the human kind.

I am not about to sit here and say that the United States is doing a much better job about saving the planet. Oh no, certainly not. I did, however, remember one event that took place in New York some 10 years ago when I used to live there. The Super (the man in charge of maintenance) in my apartment building ran into me as I was throwing away some garbage and hearing a rattling sound inside my bags, he yelled, "Stop RIGHT there!" I stood there confused as he inquired, "Did you FORGET to recycle your glass?" And I responded, "I don't know. Maybe?" He wouldn't let me go. I was dressed up for work and he wanted me to open my garbage bags and dig out the glass right there and then. I told him he was crazy and I left the bags at his feet. As I returned home that night, there was a note on my door explaining the laws of New York about recycling and the fines associated with the failure to comply with them. Wow, I thought, this recycling business is no joke. Although I hated that Super with a passion, I appreciated his militant approach to the problem. We need people like him all over the world! Even if he didn't understand why he was told to make sure people recycled, he would at least be successful in instilling fear in people who dared to litter.

Sanlúcar de Barrameda

Sanlúcar, July 2008

I arrive to the conference in a somewhat unusual fashion.  Let’s say I am bound to take every possible form of transportation before I can finally get there.  It begins with a quick and convenient metro ride to the Barajas Airport.  This is where I catch my plane to Jerez.  At the very last minute I notice that the gate I just spent half an hour walking to has been changed for one at the opposite end of the airport.  I start a frantic half-run to get there on time and take a mental note of the absolute idiocy of the signs that direct people to the gates.  At one point it reads that I have 9 minutes to get to the gate and no more than three steps later another sign claims I have 7.  They must have accounted for a brief and unexpected chat with someone or maybe a quick stop at the bathroom, ¿yo qué sé?  It could as well mean that at that particular point of the airport they recommended having an on-the-spot caña (beer) to recharge and make yourself less pissed off you have to walk another 7 minutes just to reach your gate!  

The pace that I imposed on my already tired legs must have given me away because a guy with a guitar on his back caught up with me and asked if I was going to Jerez as well.  He also looked disturbed, but having run out of breath, I could care less for a chit chat in the form of a friendly discharge of anger, especially that the guy spoke Andaluz, a form of Spanish I have yet to gain domain over.  Had I known he was going to help me out later on, maybe I would have made an effort, but instead I just continued walking.  

Soon I learned that the next bus to Sanlúcar was scheduled an hour and a half later, a chunk of time I could not spare considering it was already 5 p.m. and the conference was starting at 8:30.  The only option left (apart from hitchhiking) was to take a taxi.  I had 10 euros left in my wallet - not enough, and the one and only ATM was out of order.  I was trapped and as I walked trying to make myself calm down, the guitar guy spotted me and asked if I wanted to share a cab with him.  He seemed very organized.  He already knew there was another girl in the same situation so the three of us hopped in the cab and ended up paying 5 euros each (that much I did have).  Not only that, but also the bus to Sanlúcar (because the taxi only took us to the bus station) cost a sweet sum of 1.40 euros!  Too bad the Andaluz had to leave for Cádiz right away because it turned out he was a musician and I was secretly hoping for a private blues concert at the bus station.  

The little that I saw of Jerez made me realize I was no longer in Castilla, more specifically, no longer in Madrid.  The town seemed semi asleep (5 o’clock is technically the end of siesta) with only a few locals occupying their regular corner bars and some young girls and boys cruising pointlessly on their vespas.  The bus station was mostly frequented by the borderline alcoholic middle-aged men ("borderline" because they were still quite alert despite the obvious intoxication) who, at the sight of two young and apparently foreign girls, could not go on about their usual business, whatever that might be.  They stared at us with amazement and did not mind being completely overt about it.  Not that it surprised me, but sadly here it must have been the highlight of their day.

As I watched the landscape during the ride I suddenly found myself overtaken by its beauty.  The endless sunflower fields created an unprecedented view for me.  I wanted to ask the driver to stop for a moment so that I could take a picture at the very least.  Had I been less tired and not so pressed with time I could have felt tempted to walk the rest of the way.

Upon entering Sanlúcar I realized it was much bigger that I had expected and, immediately, I had a feeling it was not going to be an easy to find the Fundación where the conference was taking place.  It was an extremely good call on my part to ask the taxi driver how to get there.  Out of nowhere he found this older couple that offered to drop me off.  At least that is what I intuited from the man’s completely incomprehensible mumbling.  I had to have him repeat everything three times before I could give a response that I hoped worked for whatever he was trying to convey to me.  It was a curious ride around Sanlúcar in an antiquated car with a couple taken out of a 50s movie.  The town had a provincial air to it, but it was sprinkled with a few gems and my driver made sure to point them out to me.  

Little did I know of the prize that was awaiting me at the end of this tiring journey.  La Fundación de los Duques Medina Sidonia stood around the corner from the medieval church the old man presented to me so proudly.  I had no idea what it meant to be staying overnight under the same roof with the duchess.  It means being surrounded by meticulously maintained and cared for garden with hot pink flowers dripping from the corners of the chalet.  I even spent a few minutes contemplating that gorgeous tree, but could not prove it was not real.  It means walking into hallways and rooms furnished with wooden antiques and (I am assuming) original paintings, many of them of religious themes.  It means having breakfast in the presence of several generations of aristocracy glaring at you from the innumerable well preserved photographs hanging on all the four walls.  As I delighted myself with prime café con leche and una tostada I studied these people’s facial expressions and body language.  The men tended to pose with an elevated chin and a look that communicated self-confidence while the women looked stern and somewhat withdrawn next to their tidy children that exhibited no facial expression.  

Staying at the Fundación also means stumbling across the tiny figure of the duchess herself (as I happened to stay on the same floor as her) and being unable to leave her as the entire four feet or so and eighty pounds of her are made up of pure charisma.  Every chance she gets she proclaims she is 70 years old as if that was the only reason she can always get her way and as if the only thing she could ever want is to be left alone when she reaches for yet another cigarette.  She never wastes a word when speaking; her sentences are sharp and decisive and no one ever thinks about challenging her.  I was stopped short when I tried to reply to her with something contrary to what she was saying.  She stated that she came prepared for the dinner wearing a jacket so that she would not catch pneumonia when smoking out in the balcony.  And then she added that smoking has been proven to prevent the Alzheimer’s disease.  I replied that it still will affect her respiration.  To that, Liliane replied that Isabel could take me no problem walking up the stairs at the Tribunal metro station (which has about 5 high escalators that do tend to put you out of breath).  I glanced over at the feeble, but still full of vitality duchess and though I wanted to doubt it, I had to agree she would have left me behind be it a race up the stairs or whatever other race really.  

Isabel made quite an impression on me during Eduardo Subirats’ conference.  Although he was the star that night, one could not deny that the duchess’ presence and direction over the event made it into a reunion of the entire town.  As I entered the conference hall two things caught my attention: the number of people and the incredibly huge painting of, ¡OJO!, a crucified Christ right above where the duchess and Eduardo were sitting.  I thought to myself: this is too good to be true!  Maybe the local bishop has come as well?  I will explain in a second why I reacted the way I did.

Looking around the audience, there was a little bit of everything; a potpourri as my landlady here tends to describe the Malasaña barrio we live in.  You had the devout graying regular church-goers (who, after seeing a painting of Christ decided they were in the right place) and the typical female gossip circles with the indispensable colorful fans to occupy their hands and mind, I suppose.  Then there were the simply curious with their cameras and even notepads.  There were also the refined wearing their finest clothes to a cultural happening.  Finally, there were also the town nobodies that must have heard someone mention the duchess was throwing something big at the palace and there was free manzanilla involved as well.  This potpourri turned out to be the ideal audience, nonetheless.  Except for a few isolated shameful moments (a woman asking Eduardo: what about the Asian giant? Why did he only mention Allah and not the Buddha?  Allah was brought up on the margin, as Eduardo happened to use the word Ojalá, which in Arabic is an invocation to Allah), they seemed to be genuinely interested and stayed until the very end.

The duchess set the mood right from the start by briefly stating her respect and admiration for Eduardo’s scholarship in the fields of philosophy and literature and by remarking it is a huge shame his books are not easily accessible.  I suppose Eduardo’s publishers will be getting a letter of complaint quite soon.  As she enumerated the books that Eduardo published, I got a feeling that, aside from a select few, the rest of the audience felt lost, but still curious.  From what I noticed, only 4 people fled the scene early, probably because they had a dinner to attend.  The rest did not dare to leave a mass presided by the duchess herself until the final blessing (¿manzanilla?).  However, it must be noted that a mass it was not.  Eduardo set the record straight right away by declaring how much he hates conferences composed of a mere reading of a text.  He was solely prepared to improvise.  At that moment I was so infinitely grateful I had been invited to participate in this conference.  What could be better than hearing your advisor, professor and mentor speak from the heart in front of a random combination of people?

He admitted from the beginning that the story he wants to tell is somewhat autobiographical, but for the purposes of this exposition, he named his protagonist “Juan Sintierra” after Goytisolo and Blanco White.  The title of the conference was provocative: “Un pasado sin futuro.  Un futuro sin pasado” ("A Past Without Future.  A Future Without Past").  I think, on a personal level, we all have experienced a similar feeling.  I, for starters, constantly find myself struggling with the past and the future, constantly trying to reconcile the two.  It was certainly comforting to hear that my professor faces similar dilemmas.  

At a moment when you discover the bare truth about your homeland and you get faced with all the atrocities that take place right in front of you, what do you do?  Do you run away in search of a better land and a better reality?  Can reality ever be better?  Or do you begin anew with a more cautious eye?  What does take place without any doubt is that you become agitated, shaken, upset and confused to a point that, in order to gain distance, you leave.  You begin your quest for the truth and there are many disappointments that surface at that moment.  You find out that the human nature takes pleasure in destruction.  It might be a guilty pleasure, but still a pleasure.  We think that only by destroying we are able to create something new.  Well, the same thing happens in nature.  Take a volcano, for example, with its unpredictable and life consuming eruptions.  As it spills its lava, entire villages, cultures, civilizations, and vegetation get devoured under its boiling temperature.  However, after that comes the rebirth.  The post volcanic soil happens to be extremely fertile and the life that gets born on it has an advantage of growing and blossoming to its fullest potential.  This begs the question; if the human race mimics the nature by wiping out civilizations, does it hope to create something more developed and more advantageous?  Or does it destroy for pure enjoyment and out of sheer brutality?

The idea of destruction brought Eduardo to the topic of Colonialism where discoveries meant wiping out whatever happened to exist in these territories.  All this, of course, was done in a missionary spirit, the grand conversion.  It was far from a natural way of dying or perishing of civilizations in Latin America, for example.  The project guided by the cross had as its goal to erase the past and the memory and inscribe a new history on this tabula rasa.  Salvation was the promise that was supposed to make it all worthwhile.  Have we managed yet to comprehend the scope of this infinitely cruel and hateful enterprise?

I glance up at the enormous painting of the Christ and I feel nauseous about how terribly wrong the people went about fulfilling God’s plan, granted there was one.  The Inquisition, the persecutions, the missionary escapades…  What have we done?  As my friend stated correctly, I believe, people will always find a way to f*** it all up.  We get so inventive with our quests!  If we were only this aggressive about preventing the wrong from happening, maybe we would not have to play the role of floor sweepers.  

Returning to the idea of destruction, it provoked me to think about self-destruction that seems to be the illness of this era.  Why do people feel this undeniable lure towards hurting themselves?  Is it that we are surrounded and, therefore, immune to destruction that we take pleasure in creating problems for ourselves we have to rid ourselves of the past?  What I realized from the story about Juan Sintierra is that you abandon not into oblivion, but into remembrance.  You learn to acquire distance, but not the kind that makes you no longer a part of the mess you left behind.  You are bound, at that point, to take responsibility and serve as a visionary to all the blinded fools that choose comfort over distress and speak only when being dictated to.  

I had a chance to look at two visionaries sitting side by side and the energy that their presence created could be felt throughout the conference.  I was completely stunned when later on, at a dinner that I was invited too as well, a man at the table that introduced himself as a doctor (medical, I assume) asked the following question: what is the role of philosopher in a society?  I turned my sight to the two visionaries that sat at the head of the table and I thought that any other question would not be as impertinent as this one.  Philosophers, my dear doctor, and not just any philosophers, but of the caliber of Eduardo and Isabel are the only truth tellers in this machinery we call humanity.  If the humanity is to resemble a perfect machine, well then the philosophers are those that examine the machine from the outside and demonstrate its flaws.  They are the engineers that overlook this machine and were it not for them we could just as well call ourselves geese.  They are the very few brave ones with open eyes and ears who simply cannot follow the leader while everyone else does it with indifference and relief that their brains were taken off duty.

After the conference everybody rushed out to the garden for a glass or two (or three) of complimentary manzanilla.  Doña Isabel chooses her chit-chat circles very carefully.  She stands clear of a circle of women gossipers that shamelessly approach her asking, "Where to now?"  The duchess barely pays any attention to them and only throws a word on the pass by, “Home”.  That will definitely have them talking for the next couple of days. 

As I get ready to retreat to my chambers (smiley face), I take one last look around me and cannot help but feel extremely fortunate for having been part of something as special and extraordinary as this.  Although places with breathtaking views and complex histories can leave a permanent imprint on your soul, it is people that have the power of changing you forever.  I cannot deny that some change took place in me that night amidst all these strangers and thanks to the duchess and my advisor.  The past and the present suddenly fused into one and all that came before and after happened now. 

A few years after the conference, I learned about the duchess' passing.  Her tiny figure suddenly stood in front of me with her inquisitive eyes curiously peering into my soul.  That look is what makes me hope that what she saw, what she deduced about me then wasn't disappointing and that it wouldn't be disappointing now either.