Tuesday, October 19, 2010

avant la lettre - versión original con voz en off (4/4)

de madrugada.

Vuelven a llamar de la compañía de seguro y nos confirman tu repatriación: la avioneta sanitaria saldrá de Las Palmas con rumbo al aeropuerto de Nuadibú en cuanto tengan listo piloto, copiloto y bombero acompañante. Nos llamarán enseguida para confirmar tu destino y tu identidad, con fin de avisar el aeropuerto y preparar la documentación.
la playa delante del mercado central de pescado en Nuakchott, Mauritania.
Dentro de un par de horas como mucho el avión despegará, teniendo unas dos horas y medio de trayecto. Tu evacuación podría hacerse sobre las siete u ocho de la mañana. Doy las gracias, cuelgo y te lo cuento todo. Entonces, suspiras y dices con voz de resignación que ahora te toca esperar. Nos pides que te ayudemos a mover las almohadas para que puedas descansar un poco entre todo el estrés de la noche y todo lo que te queda por delante. Luego, el doctor se despide. Te dice que se llama Dr. Muhammed Ali. Te abraza, deseándote suerte y una pronta recuperación. No puedo evitar pensar en algún homónimo suyo que no te hubiese tratado con tanta delicadeza y la idea me hace sonreír. Me despido del doctor Ali y le acompaño hasta su coche, delante del hotel. Justo antes de que salga de tu habitación, me pides que vuelva antes de irme a dormir para hacerte la maleta. Con una mano, no puedes y además, te sientes muy cansado. La noche está tibia y vibra del zumbido de los insectos que vuelan, ciegos, en los focos del enorme cartel turquesa y lila. En las tres horas siguientes, me quedo en mi habitación y consigo dormir un poco.

A las siete, me llaman: primero de la Embajada y luego, del Ministerio: ambos para explicarme que me voy a quedar y terminar el curso. Cuando contesto que eres tú el experto y que solo soy tu intérprete, me opinan que escuché el curso entero una vez, además de haber traducido todos los soportes, así que lo debo poder impartir sin demasiado problema. Que igualmente, no está previsto que me suba contigo en la avioneta sanitaria, que no han tramitado ningún tipo de permiso para mi y que los alumnos del curso no tardarán mucho en llegar. Que al fin y al cabo, es importante para la cooperación entre ambos países y para las relaciones diplomáticas en general. Que es preferible cumplir con los objetivos y con la palabra. Escucho con un oído cansado, hasta que acaben. Te vienen a buscar los de la Guardia Civil y te llevan al aeropuerto. Apenas nos despedimos. Pareces un poco incómodo cuando te enteras de que yo me quedo atrás para terminar tu curso. Me deseas suerte, no te contesto y se te llevan.


los pescadores llegan tras un día o dos fuera en sus barcas, en el Atlántico.
Ahora estoy tomando mi desayuno sentado en la barra del salón del hotel. Estoy solo. Me siento cansado. Mi espalda está tiesa, dolida y mi cuerpo todo arrugado en la ropa de ayer. Entonces, pienso en todo lo que uno tiene que escuchar, a veces. Ahora, ya no escucho nada. Solo silencio. El hotel está vacío. No escucho nada alrededor. Cierro los ojos, escucho más y más. Intento captar algún sonido. Exploro el silencio, buscando voces. Nada. Ni el televisor de la recepción. Me están regalando silencio: una tregua. Una pausa que pienso disfrutar. Me quedo un rato con los ojos cerrados para adentrarme en este silencio y recuerdo entonces un supuesto dicho de los indios norteamericanos: “No es casualidad, dicen, si tenemos dos oídos y solo una boca”.

Al cabo de nada, parece que unos pocos minutos, tal vez un segundo, van entrando los alumnos del curso. Solo se les tengo que explicar a los dos primeros. Enseguida, reciben a sus colegas y les comentan todo directamente. Así, me puedo quedar en un rincón mientras hablan y lo comentan todo. Hablan mucho: sobre todo, se preocupan mucho por ti. Me vienen uno por uno a decir cuánto lo sienten y me piden que te mande saludos y deseos de su parte a todos.
la playa al llegar el pescado fresco, Nuakchott, Mauritania.
Están conmovidos. Insh Allah, no tardarán en atenderte bien. Insh Allah, te recuperarás pronto. Insh Allah, en breve no quedará más que un recuerdo lejano y borroso, como una pesadilla. En cambio, yo no siento nada. Solo cansancio y el alivio de saberte lejos. ¿Tendrá algo que ver con el zumbido constante de tu voz en off que ya se apagó? Se están instalando para empezar con el curso. Me preparo también para empezar a hablar. Llevo mucho sin hablar. Escuchando a otros que hablan. Procuro centrarme en el tema. Repasar mentalmente estos conceptos sobre las técnicas de auditoría en seguridad alimentaria de los productos de exportación de la pesca y la piscicultura. Intento ordenar en mi cabeza cansada tus anécdotas divertidas, tus casos prácticos, tus viejos trucos de viejo experto. Pero me está costando: no paran de volver a mis oídos las frases que escuché en tu boca en estas últimas diez o doce horas. Y en estos días en general. El zumbido de la queja egocéntrica, del prejuicio aplastante. El zumbido del racismo condescendiente, del paternalismo neo-colonial, del machismo degradante. Pienso en muchas cosas que dijiste, en muchas cosas que escuché. Que tuve que escuchar. Que hubiera podido ahorrarme. Que hubieras podido quedarte para ti. Y entre todas estas cosas que salieron de tu boca, me doy cuenta con asombro que nunca te escuché dándole las gracias a nadie. En ningún momento. Ni una sola vez. No te escuché diciendo gracias una sola vez.

Y me pregunto: ¿cómo sonara esta palabra en tu boca? ¿con tu voz?
¿Qué sensación dará escucharla y traducirla, o recibirla y quedármela?

el mercado de pescado, un día cualquiera: la mercancía pasa directamente del agua fría a los barcos a las paradas - Nuakchott, Mauritania.


- Epilogo (Un(t)raveling, mayo 2016) -

Los hechos contados aquí son tristemente auténticos y reales. Aunque reflejan mi percepción y mi perspectiva, procuré no exagerar, ni añadí nada que no fuera verdad. Empecé a escribir "versión original con voz en off" en un cuaderno en Canarias, durante las dos semanas de vacaciones que me tomé después de terminar con el curso. No fui a verle ("a verte" diría) en el hospital de Las Palmas, ni he vuelto a saber nada de él ("de ti") desde entonces. Cuando la empresa que nos mandó allí me contactó y empezó a reclamar que volviera de una vez y acudiera a sus oficinas de Barcelona, no me imaginé lo que me esperaba. Imaginé unas flores, una sonrisa, la palabra mágica...
Evidentemente, él estaba ("estabas") de baja médica, con lo que me exigieron que redactase el borrador del informe sobre el curso y el proyecto, para que se lo pudieran entregar al entonces MARM (ministerio de Medio Ambiente, Rural y Marino, hoy en día MAGRAMA). Con un cabestrillo en el hombro, el experto no podía ("no podías") usar un ordenador! Casi tres meses después de los hechos, todavía no me habían ingresado un solo euro por la misión. Al día de hoy, casi seis años después, me queda una factura de Movistar de 535 euros en llamadas internacionales desde Mauritania (y hacia números especiales) que "no pudieron" reembolsarme: teníamos un teléfono de empresa - de prepago - que no pudimos recargar desde allí, con lo que usé el mío propio; de mi propia iniciativa y sin pedirles la opinión antes, como bien argumentaron después. Mi relación con la empresa terminó entonces, cuando me despedí con palabras (un poco) definitivas. Ellos se quedaron tan anchos en el papel de las víctimas ofendidas y con que era un impresentable obsesionado por cobrar, además de un histérico maleducado...
"Lo que no mata engorda", dicen. Digo yo que haberme cruzado con la mirada esa, tan vivida, del Dr. Muhammed Ali lo valía. ¡Gracias a usted doctor, por acompañarme desde entonces y gracias a ustedes, por seguirme hasta aquí!

Monday, October 18, 2010

avant la lettre - versión original con voz en off (3/4)

esta noche.

Veinte minutos después de la llamada del doctor, se presenta en la puerta de tu habitación el cirujano ruso. Es increíble cómo, nada más verlo, queda claro que es ruso y cirujano. No podría ser otra cosa que ruso y cirujano. Le pega el papel. Mucho. Debe medir sus dos metros. De hombros y brazos, es enorme. Tanto, que pasar la puerta le va a costar. De perfil, a lo mejor sí que entrará. Los botones de su camisa parecen aguantar una presión fenomenal a la altura del torso. Si dobla los brazos, las mangas de su camisa reventarán. Su muñeca tiene el diámetro de mi muslo.
el puerto pesquero de Nuadibú, Mauritania: por si se esperaban rastreadores...
Cuando coge mi mano en la suya para saludarme, noto con claridad todos mis carpos, metacarpos y demás huesitos de nombres y formas inverosímiles, crujir como si alguien hubiese pisado una bolsa de patatas fritas. Es enorme. Es un oso. Un grizzli. Pero muy sonriente, eso sí. Un grizzli bondadoso. Debe rozar los cuarenta años. Puede que menos incluso. Tiene el pelo muy corto, un rubio casi blanco. Y unos ojos azules minúsculos que desaparecen cuando sonríe. Ocupa la mitad de la habitación y agita los brazos mientras habla. Parece que se va a cargar el techo o una pared en cualquier momento. Se expresa en un francés aproximativo con fuerte acento. Pero comunica con todo su cuerpo e irradia bondad. Después de habernos dicho cuatro cosas y haberse reído mucho de la situación, se acerca a ti. Te sonríe mientras te observa. Te acaricia la cabeza hablándote en ruso con una voz muy tierna. Te tranquiliza. Mira tus radios y toca tu hombro medio segundo con su enorme mano de oso. Te sonríe más aun. No tienes nada: una simple dislocación anterior de la cabeza del húmero. Te lo va a arreglar aquí y ahora. Y como coge tu brazo en una mano y coloca la otra en tu pecho, empiezas a chillar y a saltar en la cama como un poseído. Él se pone a reír.

Nuevamente, te sonríe, te habla tiernamente en ruso – como le habla un padre a su hijo después de su primera caída de bici. Vuelve a acariciarte la cabeza. Al cabo de un rato, lentamente, sus manos se desplazan hacia tu brazo y tu hombro, sin que deje de hablarte ni de sonreírte. Vuelves a gritar y te echas hacia el otro lado de la cama, como para escaparte. En el fondo, es una escena muy cómica: gritas que él no te toque, que no quieres que te toque, que te tienen que evacuar, que te saquemos de aquí, que le digamos de soltarte de una vez! Te escucho pero no se lo traduzco. Por primera vez, me rebelo y no traduzco. Miro como él vuelve a repetir dos o tres veces la misma maniobra contigo, sin perder nada de su sonrisa ni de su ternura.
toneladas de Sardinella recién pescada, destinada al mercado ruso y polaco.
Y mientras observo, me pregunto qué vida debe haber tenido un cirujano ruso de poco más de cuarenta años para estar oficiando en un hospital militar en Nuadibú, Mauritania. Pienso en las cirugías que debe haber practicado aquí, con sangre y bisturí, quizás con un trago de vodka como sólo anestésico. Me pregunto qué vida debe haber tenido para tener tanta ternura, tanta paciencia para ti. Después del tercer intento, el cirujano ruso capitula. Has podido con él, como pudiste con los demás. Sin dejar de sonreír, te desea suerte, nos desea suerte y se despide. Te quejas mucho de lo que él pretendía hacer contigo, ¡con nuestra complicidad! Te quejas de la desgracia en la que te encuentras; de la vergüenza que son las compañías de seguros que te cobran sus servicios durante años sin que te pase nada y que, el único día en que las necesitas, no mueven un dedo para ti. Te quejas del hambre, de la sed, del calor, del dolor. Escucho todo eso y al mismo tiempo, con el otro oído, escucho músicas de espera de las hotlines de asistencia en el extranjero de las dos compañías competentes, en los dos móviles a la vez.

El doctor se sienta a tu lado en el borde de la cama. Te sonríe, te acaricia la cara, te habla. Lo miro detenidamente mientras hablo por teléfono. Es muy mayor, lleva mucha vida encima. En los hombros, en los ojos. Miro su mirada vivida, las arrugas de su cara, las manchas de su piel, el blanco de su pelo. Es un ser muy bello. Sus ojos se cierran cuando te sonríe, se humedecen cuando acaricia tu pelo. Él también está siendo padre contigo: te dice que te relajes, que es una cuestión de tiempo ahora pero que irán a buscarte, que te llevarán a Canarias y cuidarán de ti. Te dice que no pasa nada. Lloras mucho y le hablas del dolor insoportable. Te dice de pensar en la gente que vive en guerra, en los refugiados, los heridos por bala, por minas, por bombas de racimo. Te dice que otros pierden una mano, una pierna. Que mujeres pierden a su bebé, que bebés pierden a su madre. Que todo es muy relativo. Le dices que seguramente sea cierto, pero que a ti te duele aquí y ahora. Que te duele mucho y que no puede ser que te dejen aquí y no te hagan caso. Te escucho decir que es indigno tratar así a un ser humano. Cuando cuelgo la segunda llamada, escucho al doctor que te explica todo estas cosas con paciencia y le admiro.
más escenas callejeras: burbuja inmobiliaria, caos y maltrato animal.
Le admiro porque me cuesta entender de dónde saca la compasión, la empatía y el amor para sonreírte y acariciarte. Me conmueven su belleza, su humanidad. No puedo evitar de contrastarlas con mi impaciencia, con la rabia que me provoca tu falta de compostura, de consideración por todo lo que te rodea, por todo lo que cada uno está haciendo por ti, a pesar de sus respectivas circunstancias.

Y de repente, hay noticias: al final, conseguí algo de una de las compañías. Tuve que amenazar un poco a la médica de la central de atención telefónica, dejándole entender que si seguía rechazando una evacuación, le haríamos responsable personalmente de cualquier cosa que pudiera ocurrir contigo aquí. Tuve que pedirle el número de colegiada, invocar su responsabilidad profesional y a su juramento hipocrático para conseguir asustarle un poco, ¡pobrecilla! No tenía nada de ganas de amenazarle - tampoco lo hice por ti, que lo sepas. Egoistamente, lo hice por mi: estoy tan harto de escucharte. Quiero deshacerme de ti, a cualquier precio. Que te vayas ya. Quiero silencio. Cuando te digo que van a organizar tu evacuación hacia Las Palmas con una avioneta sanitaria y que me volverán a llamar en cuanto esté todo confirmado, no dices nada. No expresas nada. Tienes mala cara y te sigues quejando de la almohada, del aire acondicionado que gotea y de los analgésicos que te dan nausea. Durante los veinte minutos que tardan en volver a llamar, te tranquilizas poco a poco. Te quedas callado un rato con los ojos cerrados y tus gemidos indolentes se pierden en el zumbido del ventilador. Sentado en el sillón a mi lado, el doctor me habla en voz bajita, me cuenta un poco de su vida. Una vez más, aunque con gusto por ahora, escucho.

a las afueras de Nuakchott, llegando al beach resort para expatriados.
Escucho que él es Saharaui; que nació en Sahara Occidental cuando era colonia española. Escucho como se fue a Cuba en los años sesenta para estudiar la carrera de medicina; como al volver, entró directamente en el campo de refugiados allí, en la frontera con Argelia; como estuvo viviendo y trabajando allí catorce años. Sus ojos me buscan por encima de sus pequeñas gafas. Me cuenta como en catorce años, vio morir a mucha gente; como hizo todo lo posible para que no murieran; como todo lo posible era muy poco allí; como muchos murieron y como los que sobrevivieron, tan solo fue para seguir sufriendo un poco más. Me cuenta como la regla del juego es otra allí y le digo que sí, me lo imagino. Entonces busca mis ojos otra vez por encima de las gafas y me dice: "no, hijo, no lo puedes imaginar". Aunque me dice esto con mucho amor, me siento muy niño y muy ingenuo en este momento. Tan criminalmente niño e ingenuo. Este hombre viejo y cansado es el mismo que, durante toda la noche, ha demostrado contigo una paciencia y una compasión incondicionales. Es el mismo que te ha escuchado quejarte y te ha acariciado la cara, mientras no veías nada que no pasara por delante de la minúscula ventana de tu perspectiva, nada que no fuera tu pequeña preocupación mezquina por ti mismo… Cuando él se reclina un poco más en el sillón, cierra los ojos y se duerme finalmente, me pongo a llorar en silencio.

imagen en forma de alegoría: arena, basura, muros desconchados y reivindicaciones misteriosas.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

avant la lettre - versión original con voz en off (2/4)

 hoy.

Eso fue ayer. Hace nada, unas horas más escuchándote y repitiéndolo todo: sin filtro, sin opinión, sin omisión. Ahora anochece otra vez y acabas de salir para volver a cenar al mismo gallego de ayer. A tan solo cien metros del hotel, en la oscuridad, te espera un charco de arena húmeda. Al pisarlo sin fijarte, resbalas y te caes al suelo.
¿habrá algo de conciencia de clase a pie de calle? parece ser que no.
Primero, caes de rodillas y enseguida te pones de pie, insultando a todo el Reino de los Cielos antes de volver a caerte en un movimiento cómico (no sabría decir porque, pero resultó poco natural, como muy forzado. Debo confesarte que pensé por un momento que lo hacías a propósito), exactamente en el mismo sitio, todo estirado esta vez. Insultas otra vez más a todo aquello de Arriba, apoyándote en tu brazo en un intento para quedarte sentado. Es entonces cuando te vuelves a caer por tercera vez y empiezas a gritar mucho más. Ya no insultas al Creador ni a su plantilla de alados asistentes. Sencillamente, gritas. Como vengo haciendo hace diez días, te escucho. El tiempo de abandonar mi papel de oyente-espectador para entrar en la realidad y acercarme, ya te has puesto de pie. Gimes e insultas a toda la Santa Trinidad otra vez, el hombro derecho cogido con tu mano izquierda. Tienes una cara terrible. Entre gritos, gemidos y blasfemias, me comunicas que te duele muchísimo el hombro, que el dolor es intolerable, que seguramente esté roto o dislocado, que ya tuviste una lesión en el mismo sitio hace veinte años, que la situación es, básicamente, catastrófica. Tomas aire un instante y sigues explicándome que se acabó el curso, que tienes que volver urgentemente a Barcelona para que te hagan una cirugía muy complicada del hombro y que tengo que sacarte de aquí ya mismo. Escucho todo eso, además de los gritos, gemidos y blasfemias, cuyo volumen no pareces capaz de adaptar al del resto de tu discurso. Sin duda, me estas causando lesiones irreversibles en los tímpanos. Entonces, te apoyas en mí y sin dejar de repetir todo eso una y otra vez, tratas de regresar hasta la puerta del hotel, distante de unos cien metros como mucho. Tardas un buen rato en conseguirlo pero ellos también te escucharon desde hace tiempo y ya se están preparando.

encuentros en la noche, en la puerta del hotel y en la tercera fase...
Después de instalarte encima de tu cama en tu habitación, llamo al señor Cónsul, que se pone en marcha inmediatamente, no sin antes llamar a su médico personal y al jefe de la brigada de Guardia Civil de Nuadibú, para que vengan a darte apoyo. La espera es larga y terrible, ya que sufres tanto. No sabes cómo lo aguantas. No hay palabras para eso que estas atravesando. Cuando por fin llegan, vuelves a repetir una vez más todo lo anterior, gimiendo y gritando. Ya no ladras blasfemias. Al menos el clásico tríptico del poder – bajo esta forma actualizada: político, policia y médi-cura – ha conseguido eso nada más entrar en tu habitación. El doctor personal del señor Cónsul parece muy mayor: sabio y tranquilo, un hombre de mucha paz. Te tranquiliza. Te escucha. Te sonríe y te toca. Le explicas cuanto te duele sin permitir que te toque. Chillas y te apartas cuando pone la mano en tu hombro. Le dices que no se puede hacer nada aquí, que necesitas volver a Barcelona urgentemente para una cirugía. Él te tranquiliza, te escucha, te sonríe y te toca. Le parece que tienes una 'simple' dislocación. Le parece que te van a dar algo para el dolor y que te llevaran al hospital para asegurarse de que no hay fractura y luego tomaran una decisión. Seguramente te la puedan reducir directamente aquí, in situ. Te quejas mucho del dolor y no paras de gritar mientras el jefe de la Guardia Civil, el señor Cónsul y el doctor preparan un plan. Prefieren llevarte en el coche del Consulado escoltado por la Guardia Civil, que no esperar a que manden una ambulancia que puede tardar horas. Si es que hay alguna en servicio. "- Bienvenido a África" te dice el Señor Cónsul con una sonrisa cómplice. Entonces te apoyas en su hombro y en el mío y te dejas arrastrar hasta su enorme 4x4 negro. Te sientas detrás chillando, mientras el señor Cónsul y el doctor se sientan delante. Te abrocho el cinturón y subo a tu lado en el asiento trasero.
última duna antes del océano: última oportunidad para tirar la basura.
El coche de la Guardia Civil nos escolta hacia el hospital y escucho cómo te quejas y lloriqueas todo el trayecto. No ves los fantasmas que cruzamos. Nos ves por la ventana teñida los suburbios que dejamos atrás. El panorama es asombroso. La ruina omnipresente. Te escucho preguntarle a Dios qué habrás hecho para merecer semejante desgracia.

Entras en el hospital y parece que sabes muy bien donde estás. Buscas a cualquiera que lleve bata blanca o pijama verde, evitas o adelantas a cualquiera que lleve djelaba negra o darraa azul. Con unos, reclamas, exiges, gritas y chillas. Con otros, pisas, adelantas, te cuelas y te quejas. Con dos palabras del doctor, la fila de espera delante de la sala de radiografía se desvanece. Entras y te hacen dos radios. No hay fractura, se ve claramente una dislocación anterior de la cabeza del húmero. Parece que se puede reducir sin siquiera darte anestesia. O como mucho con un sedante leve. Opinas que no puede ser, que con el dolor y lo de tu antigua lesión, no se puede. En absoluto. Explicas que tienes que regresar a Barcelona para una cirugía. Los del hospital y el doctor, también el señor Cónsul, dicen que seguramente no sea necesario. Que desde aquí se puede reducir. Pero no quieres. Insistes, chillas y gimes. Aguantas tu posición hasta que todos abandonen. Apoyado en el doctor y el señor Cónsul, te llevas tus radios, te arrastras hasta el coche y vuelves al hotel. Entré yo en el hospital a tu lado, sin entender bien donde estaba: arena y barro en los pasillos, dos camellos, unas cuantas carpas y algo que parecía un mercado. Vi a tanta gente tirada por el suelo que ni noté los azulejos blancos donde los había. Pensé un segundo que estaban en guerra o que acababa de ocurrir alguna tragedia. ¿Hace cuantos años está ocurriendo la tragedia en África? me pregunté entonces. Escuché lo que te decían y lo que les decías. Subí en el coche a tu lado y regresé al hotel contigo. Mismos fantasmas y más fantasmas por las ventanas. Mismos suburbios y más suburbios. Te dolía tanto el hombro que no pudiste ni mirar afuera…

piso en alquiler en barrio residencial, con vistas.
Estás en el hotel otra vez, encima de la cama de tu habitación. Ahora el señor Cónsul se despide: tiene una mujer y un hijo de tres años esperando en casa. Te da un abrazo con cuidado y compasión, te desea suerte con el trámite de repatriación y se va. El jefe de la Guardia Civil se despide: ya que no te vas a mover del hotel, no te hace falta la escolta. Te desea suerte con la vuelta a España y se va. Los del hotel también se despiden: ya que no te han podido ayudar hasta ahora ¿para qué se van a quedar más? Te desean suerte y alivio. Insh Allah, todo se arreglará. Sólo nos quedamos contigo el doctor y yo, para organizar tu evacuación. Tu empresa ha contratado un seguro especial a prueba de fuego para este viaje tan sensible, así que será fácil sacarte del país. Me pides que llame para que te vengan a buscar. Llamo a los de tu empresa, que también me contrataron a mí como intérprete. Te escuchan chillar desde Barcelona y se asustan. Me piden que llame a la compañía de seguros sin tardar para arreglarlo todo con ellos. Les explico que ya lo he hecho pero que no tengo ni el número de la póliza del contrato que me piden para poder abrir el expediente de asistencia en el extranjero. Me contestan que todo está en la oficina y que la oficina está cerrada. Añaden que no se puede hacer nada hasta mañana porque nadie vive tan cerca como para poder ir hasta allí a buscar un número de póliza del seguro. Les digo que seguramente están más cerca que nosotros. Me dicen que tienen familia y que son las 11:00 de la noche. Que es una tragedia pensar que tendrás que esperar toda la noche así. Añaden que les parece horrible y que pensarán mucho en ti, que no podrán dormir de la preocupación. Se despiden y cuelgan.

Empiezas a chillar y chillar y chillar. Entonces, te acuerdas que tienes un seguro personal, de una compañía competente de la que contrató tu empresa. Me pides que les llame para organizar tu repatriación y me quedo escuchando su música de espera un buen rato. Mientras le cuentas al doctor tu terrible desgracia, yo le cuento al técnico que me contesta cual es tu situación. El tiempo que tarda en deletrear Nuadibú y entender en qué región del mundo estás me da una idea de lo que puede tardar tu evacuación. A partir de este momento, alterno las llamadas a las dos compañías, para ver cual responderá favorablemente antes de la otra. Te tomas otra pastilla para el dolor y te quejas del estomago. Pides algo para beber y comer. El doctor recomienda leche y pan, para protegerte un poco del efecto del anti-inflamatorio. No paras de chillar, ni un solo segundo. Voy a buscarte leche y pan por allí el hotel: este hotel en el que todos se han ido a dormir y que no tiene restaurante.
el huis-clos de tu tragedia: un hotel de gama media en medio de la nada.
Cuando vuelvo con ellos, me señalas los dos móviles y me dices que hay llamadas perdidas y a ver si puedo enterarme y llamar de vuelta, a ver si te voy a dejar sufrir más de la cuenta. Te pasas diez minutos deshaciendo el pan en pedazos que mojas en la leche e intentas llevar a tu boca. Terminan todos pegados en la manta que cubre tu cama. Me pides que llame a tu hermano para que él pueda ayudar desde Barcelona. Escucho cómo se lo cuentas todo a tu hermano. El doctor sigue a tu lado, sonriéndote, aunque sabe que no puede hacer nada más por ti. Y de repente, se acuerda del cirujano del hospital militar. Ofrece llamarle, a ver si a él se le ocurre algo más. A ti te parece bien que el doctor llame al cirujano, siempre que no cambie tu plan de evacuación para Barcelona. Llamamos al cirujano del hospital militar. Por su acento, parece ruso. Se lo pregunto al doctor que me lo confirma. A mí me parece ya que estamos en una peli: ahora un cirujano militar ruso, lo que nos faltaba…

Saturday, October 16, 2010

avant la lettre - versión original con voz en off (1/4)

 ayer.

Estás en Nuadibú. Por lo que tienes entendido, es la segunda ciudad de Mauritania, al Nordeste del país, cerca de la frontera con Sahara Occidental. Es el puerto principal para la explotación y la exportación de pescado y productos de la pesca.
tan solo un punto entre muchos, de la línea de barcos de pesca oxidados.
De aquí, salen cada día toneladas de pescado fresco o recién congelado, hacia los mercados de España, Francia, Rusia, Polonia y Japón, entre otros. Es una ciudad de gran importancia económica y estratégica; o mejor dicho: es la otra ciudad del país. También tiene el otro aeropuerto del país y fue así como llegaste, en avión. Todo esto es Nuadibú. Pero en realidad, tú más que nadie lo sabes: Nuadibú es ante todo un lugar abandonado de la mano de Dios. Miras y todo lo que ves es una calle mal asfaltada, cubierta de arena, de basura y de mierda de vaca. Esta ceñida entre una línea grasienta y apestosa de barcos de pesca oxidados y otra - no menos grasienta y apestosa - de edificios que se derrumben, comidos por la sal y la arena. Alternan bares, restaurantes y salones de masaje chinos, por lo que pudiste ver. Te gustó esto de los salones de masaje chinos, no paraste de hacer alusiones y los ojos se te entornaban... A tan solo unos metros detrás de estas dos líneas que limitan tu horizonte,al segundo planodigamos – y aunque no tienes siquiera la oportunidad de entreverlos – imaginas el azul del Atlántico y el rojo del Sahara: profundos, densos, infinitos. Como para dejarte claro que de aquí, no te irás si no quieren que te vayas. Te lo tendrán que permitir, que facilitar. Eso ya, de por sí, te saca de quicio. Si supieras que no hay ni desierto. Si supieras que estás aquí en la punta de una lengua de arena estrecha, que sobresale del agua tan solo unos pocos metros, y que a tan solo un kilómetro detrás del hotel, está la línea de alambrado de la frontera con Sahara occidental, tu sensación de opresión sería más intensa aún. Pero por suerte, lo ignoras.

guantes de látex, mascarillas, cofias: una sala de fileteado de alto estanding.
Llegaste aquí ayer para impartir un curso práctico sobre "las técnicas de auditoría en seguridad alimentaria de los productos de exportación de la pesca y la piscicultura". Este curso, parte de los programas de cooperación entre España y Mauritania, ya lo diste una vez la semana pasada en Nuakchott, la capital del país. Parece un asunto importante para la diplomacia entre los dos países y todos te recibieron con entusiasmo. Hubo una inauguración formal con un Ministro y varios Embajadores, tras leerse un comunicado de prensa de unos diez minutos en árabe, que nadie consideró conveniente traducirte. Hubo una sesión de fotos pero nunca conseguiste el periódico donde se publicaron… Eres un experto en higiene e industria alimentaria, especializado en técnicas de inspección en el ámbito de la pesca. Le diste la vuelta al mundo prácticamente cada año durante los quince últimos, estudiando, observando, analizando, explicando y auditando sobre el tema. Como dicen de los pilotos: tienes horas de vuelo, vaya… Yo soy tu traductor-intérprete. Les pareció mejor que el intérprete no sea un local, por una cuestión de etiqueta. Así que medio de casualidad me llamaron y aquí estoy. Además de preparar el curso contigo y traducirte el material antes del viaje, llevo un poco más de una semana ahora en Mauritania, acompañándote todas las horas del día que no me paso durmiendo o en el baño. Y mira que con lo que te dejan salir del hotel y divertirte fuera de la jornada de curso, también visto el panorama en la televisión nacional, pues prefieres estar hablándole a alguien... Tampoco te resulta fácil socializar aquí en un business-hotel internacional desierto. Total: como parece que eres más locuaz que yo, o que tienes más cosas interesantes para contar, pues… digamos que así estamos: tú hablas y yo te escucho. Cuando no te escucho para traducirte, te escucho, simplemente. Me lo quedo para mí.
espíritus en un mundo material... saliendo a cenar por allí.
Ahora acabas de salir del hotel para ir a cenar. Se ha hecho de noche ya. El hotel esta fuera de la ciudad – aunque no estás bien seguro si existe tal cosa como “la ciudad”. Estás en el borde de la carretera que lleva a la zona industrial portuaria hacia el sur y, por lo que sabes, al aeropuerto hacia el norte. Más allá hacia al norte, al final de la península de Ras Nuadibú, están el continente, tierra firme, el desierto. Primero, tienes la línea que trazaron en medio de la nada, que te separa de Sahara occidental y su campo de minas. Más allá hacia el este, hacia el interior, siguiendo una vía de tren plantada allí por los Franceses hace medio siglo, están las minas de hierro por las cuales hoy en día, existe Nuadibú en lugar de nada. Más allá hacia el sur baja N2: la única pista que, tras quinientos kilómetros en línea recta, llega a Nuakchott. No puedes dejar de preguntarte nunca porque, si la situación esta tan “tensa” en el país como decían en Madrid y si el Ministerio quería asegurarse a cualquier precio de que nunca estarías expuesto a ningún peligro, llegaron a reservarte este hotel periférico, aislado y sin servicio de restaurante. No ves nada alrededor que cuadre con tu definición de un taxi y los vehículos del Consulado “no están disponibles para este proyecto”. Así que caminas para ir a cenar. Yo te sigo, escuchándote repetir una y otra vez lo mal que está todo.

Anoche, ya tuviste que caminar esta misma calle cubierta de arena, donde pasan coches y camiones sin luces, sin apenas verte. En el fondo, casi prefieres que no te vean y por un poco te esconderías cada vez que escuchas uno acercándose. Anoche, ya tuviste que pasar caminando delante de los salones de masaje y los bares de neones fucsia. Anoche, ya tuviste que cruzarte con vacas famélicas y carcasas de coches quemados en proceso acelerado de reciclaje natural. Anoche, ya tuviste que escoger entre un restaurante marroquí y una taberna gallega para cenar algo.
los alrededores del mercado central de Nuakchott al atardecer.
Y anoche, ya escogiste la taberna gallega para comerte un arroz caldoso cinco estrellas. Así que a mí anoche, me tocó escuchar todo eso una vez, ya. Escuchar cómo te quejabas de las condiciones horribles en las que te encontrabas, en este país terrible sin un hotel digno, teniendo que patear el asfalto caliente de este agujero perdido entre desierto y océano. Escuchar cómo te dejaban aquí, abandonado en la carretera como un cebo para yihadistas, carne fresca para raptar. Escuchar cómo te veías ya degollado en mártir de la cooperación, chivo sacrificado en el altar de la hegemonía de tu empresa en el sector de la higiene de los productos de la pesca. Escuchar cómo te olvidabas de tus problemas cuando tus ojos captaban finalmente por las ventanas sucias de algún bar, entre dos tubos de neón y una columna, la imagen fugaz de una masajista, azafata, camarera o lo que quisieran llamarle. Escuchar cómo te las conocías a todas estas y lo bien que te sabías lo que les hacía falta, lo que les harías tú. Escuchar como también conocías a las otras - todas ellas: asiáticas, caribeñas, de Europa del Este… porque habías viajado mucho y sabías de estas cosas. Escuchar cuánto te molestaban la suciedad, los escombros, la basura, y qué desastre eso de dejar divagar, comer y dormir el ganado en la carretera. Escuchar que no era gran sorpresa que estos países no saliesen de la miseria, con lo poco cuidadosos que se les veía con cosas tan básicas, con sus cosas al fin y al cabo.
saliendo del hotel, dos manzanas más hacia ninguna parte.
Escuchar cómo no eran malas personas, sino que más bien eso formaba parte de su cultura. Escuchar las estadísticas de por qué y cómo todos los Mercedes robados de España terminaban aquí después de haber sido vendidos y comprados diez veces en Marruecos. Y finalmente, después de todo eso, en frente del restaurante marroquí, escuchar que por suerte había un gallego justo aquí al lado, con lo que tal vez, por lo menos podrías cenar bien. Eso fue anoche. Y debo reconocer que acertaste con una cosa: el arroz caldoso fue una verdadera delicia. Lo seguí soñando mucho tiempo después. Lo busqué en varios gallegos de Barcelona. Nunca había visto yo (ni he vuelto a ver desde entonces) tanto marisco por litro de caldo. Disfruté tanto cenándolo que apenas te escuché – fue mi momento de ausencia del día – cuando dijiste de la camarera que en estos países ¡con diez años ya eran mujeres! y eso, se les veía en los ojos.

Eso fue anoche. Volviste caminando. Esta cerveza que conseguiste sin demasiado problema, aunque el régimen islámico prohíba el alcohol en todo el país, te dio ganas de hablar más. Te hizo recordar más verdades, más verdes aún, acerca de aquellas mujeres de los bares de fluorescentes. Escuché todas tus verdades bien bien verdes, todo el camino hasta el hotel. Cuando te despediste y te fuiste a tomar un merecido descanso, yo me fui a la cama con nausea...

downtown Nuadibú, Mauritania: escenas callejeras de insolación/desolación entre océano y desierto...

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

avant la lettre - the U.S. chronicles ep.05

the old Troll told us: "I'm gonna tell ya something and you better-a-listen carefully: you guys are doing the right thing. Cause when I was young I went to Mejico on the thumb and by that time twas a whole different story.
But now people are scared and they're scared because they own things and stuff. And all this stuff makes them slaves of money then they fear losing it. But the real wealth is love and happiness and trusting each other in a world of compassion and communism..." And so on, for about two hours. Twas really cool! A friendly Dharma Bum style fellow! He dropped us just on East Sherbrooke Avenue and it already smelled like home. All we had to do was take a bus back home and that was it: the most awesome wild, chaotic, random, unplanned J. Kerouac-style trip ever...

not sure what the pic is supposed to demostrate but, anyway, it's like, ye know...
After that, a long shower and a long night of sleep, I started the big visit of "the rest of the people I knew in Montreal". The tour began with Stéphanie, a Couchsurfer friend I had hosted for one night four years ago, in Toulouse. We met to supposedly just go for a drink and it became a long, beautiful, crazy night wandering in the Mile End, stumbling on street coincidences and random wonders... We had a beer at her place with her flatmates and then went for a walk in the neighborhood. We then tried the best bagels in Montreal : warm and chewy, just out of the oven, perfect according to all NYC standards. And even way better, according to locals... Yummy! We met a friend of hers, whose name I already forgot (was he Carlos? Anyway, let’s call him Carlos and forgive my poor memory). Carlos was having a cigarette break in front of his little bar slash art studio. Carlos was a painter-sculptor slash bar-tender. Carlos was from Chile, probably close to his 50 and he looked pretty much like Gérard Lanvin: a vieux beau ténébreux, with dark tired eyes, a nostalgic shade of sadness floating inbetween his face and the rest of the world, as if coming from both his throat full of heavy tobacco smoke and his mind full of the remembrance of a life that was sure enough tough. Hey, wait a second! His name was Marco! Marco, of course! To start again with the whole description, please follow the instructions: 1) Go back to the beginning of the paragraph, 2) re-read it changing all Carloses by Marcoes. 3) follow his adventures throughout the next paragraph...

Here we go: Marco explained his bar was on its way to be closed. He wanted it closed because he wanted it to become his full-time art studio (no slash anymore, if you want). Basically, it looked like he loved the bar stuff, but he eventually realized the customers were a problem for the slash-artist part of his complex and versatile self. How was that? Well, customers were an issue for Marco because they wouldn't let him paint and sculpt in peace! They would enter the bar slash art studio anytime of the day and night, and ask for strange things, like getting drinks in exchange for their money... So at that point, I asked with a smile if we could get in and get a drink. Well, at that point, he kinda smiled back warmly and showed us in. 

instant magic caught on 35mm film at La gruta, Montreal.
The place was tiny, dark and a total mess. It was called La gruta (the cave) and the wall paintings together with a few unfinished paper-icicles confirmed, if necessary, the very nature of this little hollow of the world: a slash art studio place! Marco gave us some red wine in a couple of coffee mugs and showed us his ongoing sculptures. Real nice, actually. Then we crashed on an old couch and started talking, while he kept staring at his tiny universe, old posters of Quebec art and folk festivals, French existentialist books and some Marguerite Duras best-sellers, a chessboard, a bunch of Art-Déco antique pieces of furniture, postcards from Paris, Nebraska or Valparaiso, and some paper bags of yerba mate from Uruguay forgotten on top of an old piano. A surprisingly un-assorted couple entered and saluted us. She was young, tall and slim, hippy-looking with long blonde hair and a thin dress ; he was older, round-shaped and hairless, rigid and sweating in a grey suit. They were friends – maybe, though not likely, lovers – and sure enough friends of Marco. While they got to the bar to get a drink, a goofy skinny old dude with mad professor's hair and toothless laughing mouth sat at the piano and explained to me in an ol'buddy style that it was his own piano, and yeah! he did know how to play it... an improbable and unsquare schizophrenic pentatonic bluesy stumbl-y improvisation followed. His right hand was trying to escape from the irregular 3 chord frames the left hand was clumsily-but-not-randomly building down in the bass notes. The blues melted in a honky-tonky not-so-funky raggy waltz (and God heard it was good, and God was happy). The tempo slowed down a bit, right before a little souvenir from Chopin popped between his bony fingers. And suddenly, it was over. Nice enough, actually. We clapped and he was so moved as we were and his eyes suddenly glittered with emotion like it had been a while since people last clapped at his piano skills. The un-assorted couple happened to be here with him, on purpose, for their weekly singing session. She knew how to sing. He was shy and didn't seem totally confident with the two of us being here as an impromptu audience. We smiled and offered to leave and they said “No no no, you’re gonna sing with us!” right before they started singing their mosaic repertoire of standards and old folk songs. As we looked at each other in silence with Stéph and Marco (and Marco's eyes said so much more than his mouth), the trio seemed to warm up and something finally raised from our collective music making and silent, attentive support... A lot of emotion, a Jacques Brel’s tune and another wine later, they paused and we escaped after many hugs and loving farewells...

high heel fetish, warm colors and blurry couples: a humble tribute to WKW.
Back on the street, wandering again, we ran into a milonga where a young couple of tango teachers had just given a masterclass. He was from Istambul, she was from Buenos Aires. They looked so young, they looked so beautiful. They had been dancing Nu-Tango together for ten years now, and teaching it for about five. They were amazing. Their students were totally amazing too and I couldn't remember seeing so many great dancers packed in such a small place at the same time. Ever. The music for their new tango workshop was difficult. Not the obvious Gotan Project stuff. I recognized non-conventional covers of Goran Bregovic & Iggy Pop's Arizona dream main theme and Tom Waits' Jockey full of bourbon. Plus a lot of beautiful things I had never heard before. The couple of teachers and the couples of students were so elegant, so sensual, so beautiful. Each one in its very own style and fashion. Each one with their tricks and mood and little routine secrets of dancing, breathing and sensing tango together... Oh my god! It's no big surprise team games gather more people than tango: there is no place here for shouting crowds and their all-you-can-eat philosophy. Conpenetración... How can you possibly reach such levels of sensibility, empathy and sincere expression? Get connected so intimately to somebody and knit with him or her such a beautiful, ephemera piece of moving art? How can music be transcended by four feet, four shoulders, four hears and two souls in one single motion? I'm afraid I'm madly in love with tango... We next had some tapas and red wine, walked on for a while talking and finally had another warm chewy bagel from the oven at the other best-in-town bagel bakery. It was already very late at night and we'd had about enough beauty and magic for one single day and it was time to go to bed.

the Cirque du Soleil at home and at their best...
Spent a few extra days in Montreal, all with nice people and old friends and beers and bike riding and such... One extra thing is worth mentioning, though, if only one : a night at the Cirque du Soleil brand new show, Totem, in their home, in their beautiful fairy tales' resident yellow and blue chapiteau house! Robert Lepage's new show is amazing. The stage is a giant turtle's shell and skeleton, the scenography complex and delicate. The lights and the live music are perfect, the whole design and artwork, beautiful. The performances elegantly linked together on a powerful oniric, highly symbolic promenade along the evolution of human kind. Where ecology and mythology, pure circus and contemporary aesthetics, high flying acrobats and feet-on-earth high-tech wizards meet… Expect nothing but pure enjoyment, dream and wonders! Totem won't be shown in Europe except in Amsterdam for about a month in October. So, I really recommend all my French and Spanish and Austrian friends/readers to book already a low cost flight and a ticket for the show (talking about the ticket, which I reckon is everything but cheap, but so worth it, a huge thank again to Kim for inviting me: you made the kid in me happy and amazed big time...)! Those people take the circus experience so much further than any other. Hey, mommy and daddy, if you have nothing to do in October and don't know Amsterdam yet, go spend five days there, visit around. And of course, go see the show. Honest, it's great!

After that, with the idea that Montreal had already treated me with more than one could possibly expect, I got on a greyhound bus and crossed the border again down to Burlington, Vermont, to breathe its laid-back, arty, hippy feel along the Champlain Lake's bank. Met Laura back there and we went hiking for a few days in the beautiful Green, White and Black Mountains. We met and followed the Appalachian Trail again (even though much farther North than a month before), eventually reaching the summit of Mount Moosilauke, aka the "Bald place", aka the "Gentle Giant". Hot, sunny weather, nice landscapes, great talks and Go playing at a great little mountain lodge (Dartmouth College Ravine Lodge). Oh, the easy and fulfilling life in the wilderness!
the bald place, the gentle giant as high in feet as our Mont-Blanc is in meters ; land'art river cairn: this is a few one my favorite (DIY) things!
We then went camping, sunbathing and doing Japanese-style land'art with stones along a nice although mosquito-y river. We got scared to death at night by a psycho-killer freak walking around the tent, moving branches and doing strange, creepy throat sounds. As there was nobody around at some kilometers and all the gear, baseball sticks, guns, pepper sprays and such were in the trunk of the car, and nothing at hand – not even a swiss knife – we stayed sitting in the tent without moving, exploring the silence of the night with our eyes shut, all ears, looking for any clue about where exactly he was and what he was waiting for to kill us. We got ready for an attack, or a gunshot accross the tent's thin walls, feeling totally helpless... Then the silence fell, again. No feet stepping around us, no throat sounds anymore. Just the silence. Worse than ever, then, right in the eye of: right in the quiet before the storm... Only when the sun rose and the morning came to greet us over the river, did we dare to crawl out of the tent to check around and eventually discover, at some distance from there, a dreadful psycho-killa grouse making through the bushes the exact kind of foot and throat sounds that almost killed us the night before. Ah ah ah ah ah. You're not funny, the grouse!


nostalgia made in Woodstock, aka 3M revisited: music, muppets and moth.
Later that day, we headed to Woodstock, NY. THE Woodstock, I mean. THE one and only Woodstock where all these guys I spent my teenage listening to, went and played about forty years ago. THE ONE AND ONLY F---ING WOODSTOCK!! It is a regular little town stuffed with old hippies who never left and went on living a hippy life, listening to John and Yoko and opening a few hours a day, when they remember to do so, some crappy second hand and tye-dye tee-shirts stores. You can buy Bob Marley's swimming-pool towels, Jimi Hendrix' chewed guitar picks and all the usual hippy goodies and pseudo indian-jamaican-dharma-rastavibes stuff... Summertime and the living was easy (and pretty slow, blame it on weed smoking which apparently is a national sport here). If you ignore it is on the whole somehow a ridiculous dusty cliché, it seems to be a nice place to be on earth. Woodstock. God! Looked for a place to set the tent, thinking it would be easy in Hippylandia and every single ol' hippy would invite us to stay at his place and offer couch and food and pot ad libitum. But nope. It seems they grew a bit - say - capitalist. Or prudent, at least. And on each and every little piece of ground, frontyard or garden, there's a little plastic sign saying "POSTED - PRIVATE - NO TRESPASSING - BEWARE OF ATTACK DOG" and such. Surprising, uh? Wasn't private property supposed to be a robbery, fellas? All of a sudden, this “peace, brother” thing sounds like a sad malentendu, right? Yeah, you can peas’ wherever you want but on my lawn"... I'm definitely too naive. We then spent another day in and around the Catskills National Park, by a beautiful lake whose long Indian name had so many K, H, A, L and Ms I wasn't even able to read the first half of it. Swam in the lake, dived from the cliffs, slept in the sun. Saw birds and salamanders and many golden retrievers and finally drove back to NYC.

another peaceful anonymous lake, somewhere upslake New York...
In nice New Palz - somewhere along the way - we had a beer and BBQ dinner: NP was a deliciously laid-back equivalent of Woodstock, where the hippies were 20 to 35 y-o instead of 70 and the beers, slightly cheaper. During the happy hour (from 5 to 10!), a beer you buy gives you another one for free and each drink gives you a free BBQ burger. In other words, buy a four bucks beer and get two beers and two burgers. In other words, go to New Palz, get more drunk and fatter for less! And make friends meanwhile... Although very late at night, heavy traffic and a terrible humid pressure cooker heat were waiting for us in Brooklyn. This (the heat, I mean) is supposed to be the same for the next few days – say until the end of my adventures here, and consequently of the US chronicles. We went to the Invented Games Festival in Brooklyn, where people presented and introduced everyone to the games they invented, with names like Freesball, Golfketball, Froccer, Soccolf or even Basketsbee. From the etymology, I’ll let you guess what their concept of "inventing" a new game is… Originality and dizziness to the fullest! Wooooh! If not nice, it was a least sort of funny. Sort of. Hem...


Today is June, 9th. It's f---ing summer-hot and sunny on this side of the street Atlantic.
I'm now chasing the last souvenirs* and postcards to take back with me and guess my next post will be from Barcelona. With some inspired conclusions and considerations, hopefully.
So again: take care of yourself and of your beloved ones.
It's been a pleasure having you all with me during this adventure.
Peace, love and happiness to all!

* not the least of these: an Extracycle "free radical" kit for my bike! Had fallen in love with this freaky hauling beauty
after trying Jeme's one during a few days in New Orleans. ;)
_______________________



Tuesday, June 8, 2010

avant la lettre - the U.S. chronicles ep.04

Allo à tous ! This was supposed to be a short post after one short, yet crazy week in and around Montreal. But things went their own sweet way... and one can do nothing but try and follow the flow. Today is June, 8th and this was, in the original version, both episodes 4 et 5 together. Even though I had promised it wasn't gonna be twice as long as usual, it appeared to be a terrible lie and I had no option but to split it in two parts, the genuine ep.04 and ep.05, I guess... Not quite sure where the text was supposed to be cut, did my best, though.

one of the few pics I have from Montreal downtown: a very bizarre fountain.
Hem. Okay. My time up there began with that hot, wild, lonely and summery exploration of Montreal's fashionable and peaceful districts Le Plateau and Mile End, under the sun and on a bicycle. Nice neighborhoods, little brick houses with exterior metal stairs to the first and second floors; lovely tiny gardens with flowers and sculptures; ceramic deers and dwarfs; chain locked bikes. Everybody here seemed to at least have a bicycle, if not to use it. Plus a little garden with a ceramic baby deer (again!) and a couple of old pieces of furniture abandoned on the walkway straight in front of the houses. Desperately refraining myself not to pick everything single crappy upcycled coffee table, old rocking chair or plastic deer (oops!) to fill my hosts’ houses. I was pretty sure I had pictures of the deers and the little houses (on the hill side), but I don't. Rode along several parks (hippy atmosphere and people so glad to see the sun after a long freezing winter that they hardly could contain themselves not to start dancing naked in the fountains), then on random streets with fancy eco-friendly-trendy-nice-laidback-artisan-delicatessen-arty cafés and eclectic but generally charming, Quebec-French-speaking smiling people. I rode up to THE Mont Royal big hill park, after almost buying this broken mandolin from that music store offering such an amazing discount ("Come on, I can discount down to 120$. -But, it's broken, sir. - Come on, 90$ for you. - But, it's really broken, what do you want me to do with that? - I see, you're the tough bargainer, eh! Gimme 65$ and it's yours. - Sorry, I don't want it, it's broken. - Hey dude, can't go under 55$! Come on, 50 and you take it back to France with you! Deal?" Endless... Fun. Ridiculous. Hilarious). The view over the city from the Mont Royal is gorgeous and once the bike is launched down the steep streets and you discover the brakes DON'T WORK AT ALL, the long way downtown is nothing but a short and -on the whole- delicious, enjoyable thrill! Survived long enough to enjoy downtown district, the vieux port and many random unexpected stores and things: mainly churches, parks, fountains, people and cafés. Also got lost in Chinatown after taking a short nap in the sun on the Champ de Mars. Really tired by all these kilometers and lovely cafés, I slept of the sommeil du juste and got ready the next morning for a 5 day hitch-hiking trip with Kim.

the man hitch-hiking: is it such a big surprise nobody pulled to give us a lift?
First part of this week's adventures: the hitch-hiking trip! Here in Quebec, they call hitch-hiking "faire du pouce" or even "poucer". The literal English translation would be "thumbing" and everybody will tell you it works pretty well. Especially Kim. Hem. After 3 hours on the highway at about 20 km from Montreal, right by the village - better say the ugly residential suburb- where Céline Dion was born and grew up (I now understand why she became who she is, poor little traumatized innocent creature), nobody had stopped to pick us, except a policeman to politely, yet firmly, get us out the highway and back to a traffic light where the probability to get a lift to Quebec city was even lower. A guy finally stopped by our backpacks. He was going down to Montreal and we jumped in the bright blue and carbon all-tuned Mitsubishi Lancer to go back home. The guy had a manual gearbox and didn't consider it useful to use the third or any higher gear, although driving at about 90 mph. Fast car, slow brain! Seemed to have nothing else under the reverse baseball cap than a real fascination for the noise of his huge and powerful engine. Shared a pretty interesting (although way too short) conversation. Blame it on the exhaust noise or the short time it took him to drive us home... Hey, I'm kidding, he was a nice guy, seriously. At about 6pm on Thursday, we were back in Montreal: total failure? Nope, Ma'am. For then, we were lucky enough to move to the B plan and I was lucky enough to see A GAME. First adventure paused, to be continued soon, right after... the second one.

a local tradition: the other team's shirt as a rug...
Second part of the week's adventures: THE GAME! Everybody knows how keen I am on team sports... I saw my first hockey game on TV in a bar crowded with supporters, fully equipped with not one not two not three but FOUR giant screens! Unforgettable. Would you like to look out from the game, you wouldn't be able to! We (a small bunch of apparently normal friends) sat at a table by one of the giant screens and hugged our (unknown) new friends slash neighbors slash fellow supporters. We asked for some beer: whatever was on tap, fresh and served in a big container. And some peanuts: a lot, roasted, salted and served in a big paper bag easy to tear off, spreading all the peanuts on the table and sharing them with our new friends slash buddies slash etc... The game never began. It was endless. We had to ask for more beers and more peanuts. And suddenly: it started. It was endless. The rondelle (is it a puck?) was moving so fast from one side to the other, between fights and riots and prison and extreme violence, that I couldn't understand anything, but everybody was shouting and throwing peanuts at the bastards in white on the screens and it was hilarious and a bit stressful and scary at the same time and where the fuck is la rondelle? and GOOOOOOOOOOOOAL ! Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. Such an explosion of ecstatic collective happiness! Or mass hysteria... My unknown friends-slash-neighbors suddenly hugged me and gave me five and hit their chests against mine several times and, f---! They were all 2 meter high lumberjacks and their hugging did huuuurt. At that point, it is probably worth saying that the Canadians (Montreal’s team) were in the final phase of the East league against Philadelphia’s Flyers. Flyers were leading by 2 games to 0 (the winner is the team that first wins 4 games, it then becomes East champion and plays the big final against West champion). So tonight was either 0:3 for Philadelphia if they won and it would be difficult to come back and that apparently would be a tragedy. Or 1:2 if we (???) won and then everything would be possible again. They/we/the Canadians ran and lead the whole game. It was beautiful. Oh my god, did those guys rock!

the bar, the atmosphere, the joyful chaos and... the flamenco dancer...
I shouted, screamed, cried and laughed. I spent long, intense seconds hugging/hugged by my new friends the two meter-high lumberjacks. Everything was just so weird. They/we/the guys won this game by 5 to 1 and it was so beautiful the way they taught hockey and gave inspiration to the world for the next generations tonight. The score was then back at 1:2 in the final and I hadn't seen so many happy people since that summer when Jacques Chirac and Zinedine Zidane won the soccer world cup main dans la main (and after singing Le bruit et l'odeur, Mr. Chirac singing I will survive, while hugging a second generation immigrant from Maghreb was quite something...). Aaah, the power of sport! At that point, "our" guys had to play a game every other day until one of the teams reached four wins. Everything was now (again?) possible. The beer and peanuts had been flowing in my body with surprising fluidity. Smoothly. I sure enough weighed about 5 pounds more than the minute I stepped into bar Le Normand. Everybody was hugging and kissing and crying. It was wonderful. For a second, I wondered what it would have been like, had they just announced on TV that all wars were over and the definitive treatment for cancer had been found and global warming was about to be stopped? Probably not half the effusion of joy that was growing and spreading from the bar to the street, flowing from all the bars of the street and from all the streets of Montreal. We went to Sainte Catherine to both witness and be part of the riots and celebration. Amazing. For a little while nothing else existed but beauty and magic and love and hockey.

XXL beer and peanuts, like in a dream: they were everywhere around...
Wait a second... Fuck! They almost got me! I almost forgot I hated team games exactly for all these things: this fake and dangerous "we're all bros" identity feeling; this stupid power you give to this stupid game to decide whether you're gonna be happy or depressed; this ability team games have to move hundreds of thousands of people together when not a single cause nor fight on earth can move them anymore: not free Tibet, nor global warming, nor the crisis. Not even peace on earth: the idea of democracy and the price of freedom, art and the witness of beauty, either in a museum or in everyday's little pieces of magic, building communities of peace, neighborhoods of trust, drawing maps of mutual respect, making the world a better place. All this bullshit... Try and move people with such causes... Ha ha ha! Now look at professional team games and think of the millions (billions?) of euros and dollars they move and bring not only to those idiot retarded players but to the smart investors. Think of the impact they fucking have on the trading centers and the health and wealth of our markets. Think of the impact they fucking have on our mood and the health and wealth of our own minds. 

Think anout this easy and subtle way to get so many people to dress the same, paint faces the same, raise arms, sing the same idiotic identity pride (literally speaking: xenophobia) slogans and songs, in a manner that has little to envy to fascist demonstrations of hate-thy-neighbor throughout History. I hate team games because it's so easy to get overwhelmed by such an intense collective feeling, when our century – together with its postmodern plague – is characterized by individuality and selfishness: everybody thinks about nothing but oneself and one's immediate particular interests and needs; everybody's losing the sense of common effort, of a common goal; "solidarity" sounds like a rusty, fossil concept; no random person will help you when you stumble on the street (or when you're hitch-hiking, lol!) or when you really need them at the booth to listen to your paperwork issues and try to solve them, instead of just saying "cannut dou dat, sir" before calling the next number. For we're not even persons anymore! And suddenly, comes that army of retarded idiots with their colored, sponsored shirts. They run after a ball or a puck and everybody feels such a warm and intense collective impulse towards them. Everybody believes it is cool and nice and genuine to experience that, when it's not: it's just the opposite. Let me tell you: team games are lame, disgusting, ugly. If you think watching tonight's game and celebrating with a two hundred thousand crowd of unknown friends was a genuine true collective moment of communion and sharing, then, let me tell you something. This is as untrue as believing what people do at McDonald's is eating food. Or as untrue as thinking what happens in a porn movie is about sharing and pleasure. Or as untrue as trusting that working for the man five days a week, earning good money and spending it at the shopping mall on Saturdays has something to do with life. Well, we may disagree on a lot of things, but it's okay. No big deal, let's live on the same planet anyway! Wait a second, I need to be honest here: I had a GREAT night, I must admit. I swear! That's why it's so dangerous. You feel thrilled, then in communion with others, you experience a collective ecstasy and feel part of a bigger plan. Dopamine flows, the reward is juicy and you want to have that again and again... Like the first time with heroin? Go ask a junky.
a subtlety before you go on reading this: there's a fairly important difference between LA poutine and LE...
Enough about that! Right after the game and the street riots, we went for more beers and some poutine. La poutine is the Quebec national meal. It's basically a load of French fries with melted cheddar cheese and a thick, sweet, greasy beef gravy poured on top of them. Delicious. The heaviest, fattest, greasiest thing on earth. Real nice. Fantastic. Loved it! And so did my blood cholesterol level. After that, I was ready to go to bed for a long, deserved sleep.

Back to the first part of the week's adventures: the hitch-hiking plan, reloaded! Next morning was a Friday morning (technically, around noon) and we were back to the beginning: backpacks ready, stamina loaded, casual, not-too-dirty-not-too-trendy-not-too-sexy-but-yet-attractive clothes on, we tried that again. Took a first ride with Allo-stop, a local covoiturage (car-sharing) website, and got to Quebec city without any problem. The guy lets us before the bridges, at a service area, where we spend a long while standing in the sun, then decided to walk along the highway with nobody stopping to pick us. Suddenly on the next entry, a young (probably just 18, if not under) pale-sad-blue-eyed guy took us. He was driving a nice mustang and said he and his friend were running a car buy-and-sale business. Whole thing smelled bad. He knew a lot about how to get good deals to "buy" expensive cars in the US and to "resell" them here, in Canada. Very instructive, indeed.

after a (looong) while, hitch-hiking can challenge your enthousiasm!
Our idea was to go to the South side of the Saint-Laurent river, Eastbound, as far as possible. But the young little import-export genius was going on the Northern bank to his parents' village because his grandma was very sick. So we just decided to follow the flow, went where he could take us and keep on hitch-hiking from there: several ferry boats cross the Saint-Laurent and the North side is beautiful anyway... Where he left us, we waited for a little while and looked around: the afternoon was already ending and the light was getting softer, the colours brighters and warmer. The hills and trees and the reflections of the sun and clouds on the Saint-Laurent were just beautiful. Two green VW hippy vans with bearded and long-haired dudes in them passed by and honked us doing peas' signs, but didn't even bother to stop and pick us. Fucking stinky idiot hippies! If you don't stop, then who the hell will? Yeah, hitch-hiking can easily get on your nerves and smiling with compassion and unconditional love trying to seduce the people in those hundreds of cars with free seats that keep passing and don't stop is kinda difficult...

I kept smiling and made nice little looks and shows for the drivers while looking for their eyes. I did my best, I promise. Kim was doing the sexy hitch-hiker numéro, waving to the cars with both thumbs up in the air. I felt lucky to be hitch-hiking with a blonde and blue-eyed and good-looking girl: the next three lifts were three young guys, (i) the kayak instructor, (ii) the logger/paragliding professional (handsome, brown-haired hot and sexily unshaved), they stopped and took us onboard, so I letf Kim go to the front seat and went to sleep behind with the backpacks on my lap. The evening was getting progressively dark, the route 138 went East and we finally got very close to the Parc des Grands Jardins, a gorgeous natural forest with bears, hikes, lakes and all sort of exotic things like des émeus*.
introducing the bears, the hikes, the lakes and surtout the émeus*, along the road to the Parc des Grands Jardins.


After a frugal dinner in Saint-Urbain, as the night was already black, deep and cold like a deep, black and cold hole, we got the last lift of the day. "Hi guys, I'm Rodrigue but everybody calls me Rod", said Rod. Rod was another hot brown-haired dude, a fisherman in his late twenties on his way to fish for the weekend at about 100 miles from here. Didn't want to fall asleep and was happy to have some company, he added. While Kim gave him conversation, I studied his fishing gear on the rear seat. As he missed the park's main entrance and didn't really want to u-turn when we realized, he dropped us right there, about 10 miles after the park... We walked a little bit along a desert mountain road, in a black freezing night with no visibility at all and finally decided to set the tent and camp right there, in the dark pines and spruces, between two patches of snow! We hid the backpacks because of the bears, then I put all my clothes on and my rain jacket around my (thin) sleeping bag. That's when I assumed it was so cold I'd never sleep. F---! Sure enough the coldest night of my life, even more than that in a shepherd's stone cabin with D. in the Ariege years ago.
the parc des  grands jardins: lakes, bears, émeus, freezin' cold mornin' etc.
I couldn't sleep: not even a minute. It was so f---ing cold! Kim was quietly "breathing" in her dreams, I wouldn' say she was snoring, but almost. There was nothing I could do but wait and fight the cold all night long. And in the next morning, around seven, as we walked along the desert road between beautiful woods and lakes, Kim had to pay for my bad mood (sorry, sweet heart, it was nothing personal, I promise) until the sun became warmer and brighter and I could finally have a steaming coffee with milk from a lunch wagon at a crossroad. We sat in the sun for a while and I was secretly hoping no car would disturb the warm peace of this moment... Halas! But all of a sudden, this photographer going to a wildlife photo contest gave us a lift to a crappy motel. The reason was he was turning left right there, dont ask who he was meeting there. We just stayed and had to wait in front of the crappy motel, called maybe Bagdad or Fantasia or something like that... We were in the f---ing middle of nowhere and the scene was just ridiculous. I reckon if I were a driver, I’d never give a lift to that bizarre couple standing right in front of this crappy motel where they probably spent a sinful night doing all sorts of crazy shameless things. I’m lucky not to be the driver I - as a hitch-hiker - am waiting for myself. Else I would never get any lift. I should think about that seriously in terms of giving others what I expect to receive and being the change I want to see in the World and… Hey, get ouf of my body, Mahatma Gandhi! Last thought before switching to something else was a bizarre and somehow deranging image of our "wildlife" photographer shooting the kind of kinky wildlife he probably met at the motel. Deranging like in "David Lynch-deranging", ha ha ha!

sign says "private property, do not trespass"... why would you anyway?
Eventually, this other guy stopped and picked us: as I sat on the rear sit, I noticed two rock climbing magazines and as he turned the engine on, the radio started to play J.S. BACH's second suite for solo cello. Aaaaaaaaaaagh! And I said to myself what a wonderful world. No conversation at all, the three of us slept in the car, in the sun, in the music. He was driving, anyway. Or at least someone did, because he took us to this village whose name I could never remember and dropped us there. We had lunch and waited for the ferry boat to take us to the other side. The traversée is about an hour and a half long. And it’s also quite enjoyable, with views and the sunlight and a coffee with milk, bizarre views of closed gates taking you nowhere and oh, the places you'll go! I took some cool pictures of some rusty pieces of that big ol'boat and also one . Then, on the other side, where we landed, it was just as complicated (or as simple, because, hey, after all, there was nothing to complain about, really; not even the cold...) as on the other one. The “other one” referring here to the side we weren't on anymore... So, the thing repeated itself quite same same and, after another while, we got a lift from those two girls who bought us some icecream sandwiches and listened to the game on the radio. We had a super nice ride, although the Canadians lost the game. It was now three games to one for the Flyers and the temperature in the car fell down quite a bit. 
small boat on big boat: if everybody fits on small boats,
why do they use the big boat in the first place?

The girls left us at the Parc du Bic and we hiked around for the rest of the day. We went to the sealions' beach at sunset: it was so beautiful and so forbidden to be there, Ford! There was a sealion dancing in the waves and inviting us to the water but it was really too cold. We tried and shot some pics of this single sealion and that was it. After dinner, it was too late to get off the park and to look for a place to camp outside, so we just settled down in the park, where it was so forbidden and before sunrise the next morning we crawled out trying not to get caught. Since we didn't pay to get in anyway and should not have spent the night inside, meeting someone on the way out would soon become uncomfortable... Hop! Oui hop! Done. We were now along the road and it was soooo early we'd never get a ride and Kim was talking about the reasons why driving people don’t want to take hitch-hikers on. We talked about whether they trusted or not and feared or not and such. She was wondering, in particular, whether a woman with a little child should or shouldn't take hitch-hikers. If she would, herself, as a mother. And then, just on time to answer all our questions, Monique appeared and stopped her car. I'm sorry Monique, I don't remember your real name. You were young, fresh, good-looking, smiling and friendly. You were an anthropologist and went to run a semi-marathon: that's why you were up so early...

the beach of the Saint-Laurent at low tide, at the Parc du Bic.
Oh Ford, Monique! You indeed had the whole package: hot, outdoorsy, healthy, handsome anthropologist running semi-marathons! As usual, Kim went on the front seat with her and I went behind... with her 6-year-old lovely tiny monster. Lucas, or something like that. Why did I remember HIS name? Moreover, Lucas wanted us to be friends. True story. Oh Ford, did he want us to be friend! Really. And he had games planned for us. Tonns of them. Lots of fun. And we were gonna talk, too! All of theses things I would have done gladly with your mom, young Lucas! Plus, I hadn't had my coffee yet and it was early and he was a tiny kid with a strange accent and had three teeth where everybody usually has four. Don't get me wrong: Lucas was probably real cute, but, you know…

low tide land'art at sealions' beach, parc du Bic.
Kim and Monique kept talking about great things and Monique happened to be a Couchsurfer and she'd traveled so many months in Latin America with her backpack and that made her even hotter! We had a deal, Kim: you can't have the whole cake for you! You sat in front with the three hot guys, remember? Come on... My turn! Anyway, it lasted until it was over and I never heard of Monique again. Sigh! 

They left us at a gas station where we washed our faces and brushed our teeth and got some coffee and then got a short lift from I can't remember exactly who. And then another one who was really worth mentioning: the guy was in his mid-thirties, black, wearing a suit and round glasses. Very neat, elegant and polite with a slow, low voice, pronouncing ev ery sin gle word with ap-pli ca tion and li ke it was re al ly im por tant. His name was Jazmin. He was catholic and soooooooo religious. Oh my god. With the Quebec accent I hadn't recognized the voice. But that was it: that was the typical I-love-Jesus-guitar-and-campfire-catholic-extremist's voice. No offense: this voice exists, I swear. You know that kind of dude, a bit too neat? So neat it gets slightly creepy? Picture this guy coming across people on the street with that sweet voice and that suit and that typical: "Bon-jouuuuuur! Vous con-nai-ssez Jé-sus? Non? Noooon? Vous êtes sûuuuuuuuuur? Par-ce que lais-sez moi vous don-ner une bon-ne nou-vel-le: Jé-sus, lui, il vous co-nnaîiiiiit. Eh oui! Pis, il vous aiiiiiiiii-me". He was an absolute freak. Harmless but a freak. Nice and friendly but a freak anyway.

fake fire-starting at sealions' beach, parc du Bic.
He talked about his life and Jesus, then started to explain us how much he loved downloading religious music about Jesus and it was such a pity that on the net, there were so many English religious tunes for free, but almost none in French. Kim politely asked why there was so little French catholic music available online and I politely asked whether Jesus' copyrights were different in the US and France. Jazmin was serious and immune to second degree. He answered "No no no! Nothing to do with that!" He knew why, you know, and he explained it to us: it was because in France, they didn't know about Internet and couldn't use it to spread catholic songs. And that was because in France, instead of the Internet, they used a pretty lame thing called the Minitel. And the Minitel was slow and expensive and the band was narrow and you couldn't download things from a Minitel! So it was because of that: of this ridiculous crappy French machine, that God's word couldn't spread properly from France to the rest of the world. Kim didn't say anything and I had to bite the inside of my jaw so hard not to laugh, I almost made myself bleed... Thank you Jazmin for this lovely picture of France in 2010! After the choir of the petits chanteurs à la croix de bois had sung "Il est né le divin enfant" for the third time, he dropped us at a bus stop in the suburb of Quebec and we made it downtown easily to meet Kim's friends. We all had brunch at a super trendy place. Fusion cuisine, contemp’ art on the walls and the two of us with backpacks and hiking boots, stinking like skunks, uniformely covered with disgusting draining scratches and reddish mosquitoe bites, in the middle of the fancy sunday brunchers. Funny enough! Delicious food and a big bol de café au lait fumant. I'm so easy to please...


As you'll notice, there are no pics after the parc du Bic - blame it on the battery of the camera, so I'm desperately using ALL the parc du bic ones... :p

psychedelic sunset at sealions' beach, parc du Bic.
It was oh so quiet, but soon again, started another big riot: we were on our way back to Montreal. But only two lifts are worth mentioning: first we got to meet Yves, a 45 y-o would-be good-looking seductor. He was a T guy, almost the guy form Ipanema: Tall and Tan and Tattooed in Tank-Top and Tear-off Trousers. Blue-eyed. In a blue Mustang cabriolet with leather seats and a sport pack. Kim was sitting in front with him. I was "sitting" behind (squeezed on the rear seat, blame it on the Mustang). Logical enough. Fair enough. Cannot blame him, I would have done the same. On the back seat, the wind was unreal, impossible, insane. I took my glasses off and closed my eyes, my head banging like the plastic dog’s on the trunk's board of a Golf GTI. And the noise was incredible. I took it like some kind of Vipasana exercise and the sun and wind and movements of my head were like a massage for the soul (blatant lie) and it all caressed my hair and eyelids and I was suddenly so happy and full. Such a magical moment in my life. Plus, everytime I opened my eyes for a second, Yves was talking to Kim, playing her le grand jeu and waving the hand that wasn't on the wheel closer and closer to her leg, til eventually touching it. He was just a perfect cliché, some kind of a professional chicks' picker and I wished I could have filmed it all. I recorded it in my mind, though. When we got down the car and my head was still buzzing from the wind and the sun, she told me Yves was a tree pruner. A vertical artist. He offered to come prune her little garden anytime she wanted (sic! and quite sick, too). Then she showed me the business card he gave her, saying "Call me whenever you want". And the card said: “Yves: put a Tarzan in your garden!” and she tolds me the guy's special trick was to do the Tarzan scream on top of the trees in the gardens where he worked. Apparently, people called him back mainly for that reason, and because he was the best pruner in town, of course!

since Tarzan's business card got lost, here's a little booby prize for you!
I pictured legions of desperate housewives shivering in warm waves of pleasure and sighing, fingernails scratching their living-room window frames, or grabbing the curtain very hard as they heard Yves, the Tall and Tan and Tattooed and Tanktop-wearing Tarzan screaming on the evening sky from the canopy... Yves also confessed her he was a romantic and women often took advantage of him for his money and he was looking for true love, ye know. Oh my god! Yves-Tarzan, thanks for being yourself! Please don't change. Ever.

The next one and last lift of our trip, was a huge white-bearded troll in a rusty Chevy pickup. He was coming back from the Canadian boxing championship where he took his 14 y-o son: "We went to the finals in the under-39kg category, he said, and we're back with gold!". He touched the medal hanging from the rear-view mirror. We both smiled and congratulated the young champion, tired and ridiculously good-looking. So young and he already had all this range of Magnum and Blue Steel looks stuck on his face. The conversation was really fun and nice, the old troll being an old executive, ex-rich and ex-total winner, who discovered very late both true love with a hippy and the absence of meaning, the absolute void of his former life. He then sold everything and changed all his lifestyle because, you know, what do you do with the money once you’re dead? Inspiring! So now, he was basically enjoying everyday's small pleasures: "life's not for later, it's for now!"

The old troll told us: "I'm gonna tell ya something and you better-a-listen carefully: you guys are doing the right thing. Cause when I was young I went to Mejico on the thumb and by that time twas a whole different story. But now people are scared and they're scared because they own things and stuff. And all this stuff makes them slaves of money then they fear losing it. But the real wealth is love and happiness and trusting each other in a world of compassion and communism..." And so on, for about two hours. Twas really cool! A friendly Dharma Bum style fellow! He dropped us just on East Sherbrooke Avenue and it already smelled like home. All we had to do was take a bus back home and that was it: the most awesome wild, chaotic, random, unplanned J. Kerouac-style trip ever. 

Thanks so much, dear Kim, for showing me hitch-hiking definitely rocks and humanity is not totally fucked-up...


To be continued...
(yes, there'll be a 5th episode!)