Hasta el fin del Sur (8 de 8)

el retorno a Fukuoka...

Hablamos de "retorno" porque 1- ya habíamos pasado, aunque muy de prisa, en el camino de ida y 2- pues porque tiene su importancia. Recién caídos de Kyoto en un autobus de noche, tras asistir al festival del Jidai Matsuri (y antes de empalmar una larga serie de trenes locales para cruzar todo Kuyshu de par en par), ya habíamos hecho una parada téchnica en la estación central de Fukuoka, buscando un locker donde dejar un considerable sobrepeso de nuestras mochilas. Aquí Kyushu, teníamos intención de caminar y acampar más, hacer más senderismo y estar más en autonomía en este sur del sur de Japón, que durante el resto del no-viaje. También habíamos decidido ir a explorar la isla desconocida. Nos hacía falta todo lo necesario para poder acampar, y los menos trastos posibles para poder caminar con las mochilas encima.

las piedras de los jardínes de los templos: un poco de zen en este mundo loco...

La cosa es que no había lockers vigilados en la estación central. Solo de estos de monedas como en las piscinas, con instrucciones muy claras en inglés: duración máxima 72 horas. También decía que se vacíaban automáticamente los cofres al cabo de 72 horas, y que se guardaban los objetos en un almancen durante 2 meses antes de ser "destruidos". También se estipulaba (en inglés todavía) que, por supuesto, si se prentendía recuperar los objetos dentro del plaso definido, se cobraría cada día de custodia en el almacen. Total, ya ven por donde va la cosa: pensamos "eso es Japón, es el país más seguro del mundo, donde la gente es más respetuosa (del palo que se te cae la cartera por la calle y la dejan en el mismo sitio para que la encuentres 2 días después y la pasta sigue dentro, y lo único que han hecho ha sido meterla dentro de un ziplock para que no se te moje!) ; el almacen está custodiado y seguro que lo identifican todo bien". La tarifa para 3 semanas ou 1 mes nos iba bien y, miren, ¿acaso teníamos plan B? Así que deshicimos y rehicimos las mochilas enteras, en el suelo de la estación, a las 7 de la mañana. Dejamos todo lo no-indispensable bien ordenado en bolsas de plástico, todo bien atado juntito con cordones, dentro de un cofre mediano. Y dejamos encima de todo una nota manuscrita, con nuestros 2 nombres completos y que decía en mayúsculas bien formadas y en inglés bien básico:

"QUEREMOS DEJAR ESTO AQUÍ UN MES.

VOLVEREMOS A POR ELLO ANTES DEL 7 DEL PRÓXIMO MES.

PAGAREMOS EL PRECIO ESTABLECIDO.
¡MUCHAS GRACIAS DE ANTEMANO!"

Pusimos yens para las 72 primeras horas y nos piramos a coger nuestro tren. Sabíamos que iría todo bien al menos durante las siguientes 4 semanas... Total, nos repetimos una y otra vez en las primeras horas de viaje en tren: es Japón. Sinceramente, no puedo pensar en otro país en el que hubiera hecho eso. Dejé mochilas semanas en Guesthouses de Tailandia o Malasia, diciendo "volveré y pagaré al volver". Pero siempre había un ser humano con el que se concluía el trato antes de irme.... Bueno, la cosa es que tampoco había un plan B. Y salía ya nuestro tren...

Futuna va de local de toda la vida en una biblioteca de barrio.

Tras una primera noche muy folklórica en un Manga kissa (ver anterior capítulo) cerca de la estación, volvimos al locker a buscar a quién pagarle para recuperar nuestras cosas. No tuvimos que buscar mucho: nos esperaban allí, y nos reconocieron rápido! Y nos veas tu si nos echaron la madre de todas las broncas! Que qué inconscientes eramos! Que qué eso no se podía hacer! Que cómo se nos ocurría poner a la gente en situaciones así! Que se pensaban que eran cosas de terroristas! Que con lo que pasó anoche, chicos! (eso no lo entenderíamos hasta días más tarde, claro*)... Pero lo peor de todo, no se lo pierdan, es que la historia hubiera colado más o menos. Solo que dijimos que volveríamos para el día 7 del siguiente mes. Y nos presentamos, qué sé yo... el 9 quizas! Bueno, nos arrastramos por los suelos, pegándonos latigazos con las tiras de las mochilas. Imploramos y pedimos perdón. Invocamos a Kannon (Avalokiteshvara, el bodhisattva de la compasión). Juramos que no lo haríamos más, nunca jamas: ni en esta vida, ni en las siguientes. Nos pidieron los pasaportes para apuntar nuestros nombres y averiguar que coincidían con los de la nota que dejamos. Total si eramos terroristas o teníamos malas intenciones, ¿para qué íbamos a volver? Y si íbamos a volver, ¿porqué íbamos a dar falsas identidades? Se nos ofreció finalmente abonar el importe previsto - cosa que hicimos con gusto porque ya estaban colocando en pilas perfectas sobre el mostrador, todas nuestras bolsas de plástico bien atadas con los mismos cordones que las dejamos bien atadas un mes (y 2 días) antes. Después, nos instalamos cómodamente en un rincón del almacen y empezamos a reorganizar todo dentro de nuestras mochilas (como habíamos hecho a la ida, pero al revés) mientras nos miraban pensando ¡vaya desastre de gentuza estos gaijins! Debo confesar que nos moríamos de vergüenza por dentro... y por fuera también, del palo ¡Tierra, tráganos!

en alguna periferie de Fukuoka, el Futuna y el Shimon-chan, más filósofos que nunca, contemplan la posibilidad de esta isla, o algo así...

Antes de marchar, les volvimos a dar las gracias con caras de extrema desolación. Y nos dijeron lo siguiente: "- Por favor, nos dijeron, no se lo contéis a nadie! Nadie tiene que saber que habéis podido hacer esto. Sino vendrán muchos y lo harán. Y eso no puede ser! Así que les rogamos, por favor, no habléis de esto con nadie!" Contarlo, creo que lo podemos contar, pero como un ejemplo de lo que NO hay que hacer en Japón con lo respestuosa que es la gente: ¡abusar! Entonces, os rogamos a tod@s que NO lo hagáis jamas! O por lo menos, no en la estación central de Fukuoka! Id a probar elsewhere... Ahora bien: muy mucho arrepentidos, respetaremos un momento de silencio:

piiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii________________________________

Ya podemos seguir con este no-viaje por el sur del sur. A los pocos días de llegar, nos encontramos con nuestro amigo Shimon-chan, que nos invitó a quedarnos en casa de su abuela y nos llevó a visitar Fukuoka y los alrededores. Con él probamos los más destacados puestos de ramen de la ciudad, el mítico capuccino ramen, hecho en un caldo de cerdo casero tan grasiente y espeso que su textura recuerda la del café con leche! Preparan este caldo hirviendo grasa y huesos de cerdo durante horas y horas en una olla gigante. Cuando entras en la calle del restaurante, girando en el extremo de la manzana, te asalta un olor a grasa de cerdo que casi te tira al suelo. Es brutal. Para facilitar un poco la digestión de esta barbaridad de caldo, se le añade ajo fresco, exprimido al momento por el consumidor. Una vez en la vida, es una experiencia única. Dos veces o más, tiene que envene-matarte, fijo.

premier ramen bar ; deuxième ramen bar ; troisième ramen bar: rencontre avec le capuccino ramen au porc et à l'ail ; et gaaaame oooover!

Pero no se piensen que todo fueron atracones de ramen e indigestiones! Hubo cultura y turismo civilizados, decentes - espirituales incluso. El Shimon-chan nos llevó de templos y museos, incluso con su abuela. Paseamos por algún que otro parque de la ciudad, y hasta probamos un té verde absolutamente divino en la tetería de un templo Shinto invadido por familias que celebraban el Shichi-go-san (七五三, literalmente 7-5-3, "Siete-cinco-tres"). Se trata de una ceremonía que tiene lugar cuando cumplen 3 y 7 años las niñas, y cuando cumplen 5 años los niños. Está asociada con la entrada "oficial" de los niñ@s como miembros de la sociedad (antes de esta edad, no se espera de ellos que tengan un rol social, por una costumbre heredada - nos cuentan - de épocas con altas tasas de mortalidad infantil en el país). Eso significa también una salida un poco abrupta del paraíso y de la burbuja protegida en la que viven hasta este momento. Me imagino a la mañana siguiente ya, tras haber sido reina/rey por un día, como se doblan y guardan cuidadosamente los hermosos trajes que se encargaron para la ocasión, y como empieza una larga vida de rendimiento, de presión, de exigencias y de estrés... ¡Vaya resacón, nene! Bueno. Tradicionalmente solía ocurrir el día 15 de noviembre, pero se celebra hoy en día durante todo el mes de noviembre y fue ási como tuvimos la suerte de presenciarla. Además de las escenas típicas de esta celebración, también capturamos de reojo y con cámara, casi sin querer ni apenas darnos cuenta, un drama tierno y silencioso entre un niño, unas carpas koi (鯉) y una niña:

aquí tenéis el pequeño drama en forma de fotopoema en cuatro actos y sin palabras, ya le iréis añadiendo voces si os inspira o apetece...

Antes de decirnos adios, Shimon-chan (que recibía la visita de una amiga antes de volver con ella a Australia), también nos invitó a ir a visitar y saludar a su abuelo, cuyas cenizas estaban en un pequeño templo del barrio. Lugar precioso, con una terraza de madera abierta a un jardín de estos cuya cuidadosa estética desprendre una serenidad, una paz y un sentido del equilibrio tan perfectos y naturales... que te pueden acabar angustiando de tanta perfección ordenada con tanto natural que parece que no lo ha hecho nadie... El arquetipo de esta perfección en la no-forma, en este intervenir con arte hasta que parezca que no hubo intervención otra que la mano de la naturaleza, se encuentra seguramente en el parque que rodea el Kinkaku-ji, el pavellón de oro, en Kyoto. Tan equilibrado que marea. La paradoja rebota y en tu cu... No obstante, está este principio en cada uno de estos jardínes, hasta del más pequeño y humilde templo de provincia. Ahora: fue un placer y todo un privilegio descubrir Fukuoka contigo, Shimon-chan. Muchísimas gracias otra vez, y ya sabes que tienes casa donde sea que nos quieras ir a visitar en el futuro!

ceremonia del té for dummy ; muchos años de dedicación para conseguir la ilusión de la no-intervención ; y un selfie de despedida.

Ya nos quedaba menos para emprender el camino de vuelta: con una última semana antes de agotar nuestros visados y con nuestras ganas de pasar unos días tranquilos por Kyoto antes de dejar el Japón atrás. Habíamos estado por Kyoto ya, cada uno de nosotros, en viajes anteriores, pero siendo una ciudad hermosa y romántica, la queríamos patear y (re)descubrir juntos, cogidos de la mano... Salimos, pues, de Fukuoka de noche: con otro autobus más, solo que en sentido contrario esta vez. Y no sin haber pasado a saludar y brindar con el hermano de Atsushi-san, con Nao y con el resto de sus colegas de trabajo. Les habíamos conocido a tod@s en el finde del cumpleaños del abuelo, Oto-san, unas cinco semanas antes, durante nuestra maravillosa estancia en Kumihama...

¡Tooooooma ya el selfie de despedida y en el último trago nos vamos (al autobus)!

- Continuará -

(y si suena a amenaza,
será que lo es...)

Hasta el fin del Sur (6 de 8)

frikismo y flamencos en Nagasaki

Aquí estamos, pues: donde nos dejó el conductor del autocar VIP que nos recogió a primera hora de la mañana y nos llevó los últimos 40km hasta Nagasaki downtown. Recién salidos de las puertas del infierno (Unzen y Obama), estamos sentados frente a la bahía estrecha en la que se estira, entre colinas boscosas, un puerto industrial enorme. Al fondo, muy lejos, se ve un crucero gigantesco. Ridículmente grande. Como se está acercando, intentamos adivinar hasta donde llegará... Un poco más. Un poco más.

La respuesta tarda en llegarnos unos escasos minutos, no sin generar una cierta angustia - visiblemente compartida con el pequeño grupo de locales que se ha ido formando a nuestro alrededor. Están comentando la jugada, y si bien lo hacen sin usar palabras, despliegan un habánico de movimientos de cabeza muy sútiles (sí sí sí, no no no, quizas quizas quizas) y una escala crómatica del típico "hooooooo!" que tanto juego da a la hora de atribuirle un significado. En fin, que por lo general, eso del crucero no les parece bien. Pero ya está aquí, nos tapa el sol, nos pita con su trompa en todo el jeto y si no nos revienta el muelle de las inmaculadas boyas, es porque no le da la gana. Se conforma con echar una marea de turistas chinos que se diluye rápida entre taxis, autocares VIP y callejones, como si siguieran una refinada maniobra para tomar la ciudad. No son aún las 09:00 cuando nos ponemos de pie y, levantando una ola de "hooooooo!" de respeto y aprobación, cargamos nuestras enormes mochilas en nuestros respectivos hombros y salimos a paso de tortugas borrachas, locos por conocer los secretos de tu dormitorio cada rincón de Nagasaki.

bienvenid@s a Dejima: estampados vintage, efecto miniatura y ambiente colonial...

Primera parada: la minúscula isla artificial de Dejima. Frikipedia les dará toda la información que deseen sobre este singular lugar - ¿singulugar? Construida en el puerto de Nagasaki y conectada a la ciudad y a la tierra firme por un único puente fortificado, fue el único lugar en todo Japón donde los comerciantes Portugueses primero, Holandeses luego - los únicos forasteros tolerados por el Imperio - podían desembarcar y residir para hacer negocio. Hasta 1853 y durante dos siglos, la comunidad holandesa de Dejima fue el único contacto entre Japón y el resto del mundo.

indigoteando con amor y con becari@s de Bellas Artes from Utrecht.

Y durante los años de la invasión de Holanda por Napoleón, Dejima fue el único lugar del mundo donde ondeaba la bandera holandesa. Dicho eso, la diminuta isla es hoy un museo muy bonito y perfectamente restaurado, con un ambiente de kitsch colonial absolutamente irresistible. Woodworking porn, como diría nuestro querido U. y también muchos proyectos de colaboración cultural entre los dos países. Para Wallis, esta profunda y estrecha conexión nipo-flamenca, este entendimiento mútuo entre pragmatismo protestante y pragmatismo shintoista, fue una revelación. Como pisar el eslabón perdido, recogerlo y constatar que encaja en tu pulsera. Bueno, ¿yo qué sé? Tomamos un caffe latte bastante bueno con free wifi y compramos postales. También nos colamos en una expo-conferencia sobre aizome (tinción con índigo), arte milenario y secreto millonero que los Japoneses compartían con los Holandeses, hasta que los Alemanes de la BASF sintetizaron y produjeron industrialmente la indigotina, desmontándole de paso el chiringuito. Cosas de la vida, tu...

Segunda parada: el famosísimo spectacle bridge (puente de los anteojos), ante el cual es indispensable sacarse una foto, obligatorio parar a darse un beso y muy recomendado casarse si te cae cerca o te pilla en una buena ventana... Futuna se enfadó mucho porque le parecía una p--a m----a y "no me jodas tío, cualquier puente de dos arcadas (que son muchos) con agua debajo (que es lo normal) dibuja gafas y no te pateas 40 minutos de barrios residenciales de los años 50-60 para verlo! Pero el spectacle bridge tiene dos grandes méritos: el primero es que este patear 40 minutos por barrios residenciales feos de los años 50-60 te da la oportunidad de encontrarte con mil frikismos cotidianos de la ciudad. Y eso mola cantidad. Bomberos ¡haciendo carrera de mangueras! Casas ¡con churros al estilo Gaudí! y hasta ¡templos griegos de la iglesia de la cientología! Ole ole! Uala neng, Nagasaki está on fire hoy.

Nagasaki resumida en una imágen icónica y tres imágenes frikiepcionales: el cutre puente anteojos ; el auténtico churro de Gaudí ;
a ver ¿quien tiene la manguera más larga? y el templo griego de la iglesia de la cientología (siglos atrás, hivieron a cristianos por menos...)

El segundo es que este patear 40 minutos por barrios residenciales feos de los años 50-60 te recuerda sútilmente cómo la ciudad fue arrasada por la barbarie norteamericana o tal vez por sus ganas morbosas de jugar con la bomba. Estas casitas horteras con fachadas grises y silenciosas, te recuerdan que la Historia, la escriben los ganadores, los que tienen el Bien en su bando. Igual que en Vietnam o en media América latina, vivieron aquí el genocidio liberador del Bien y del Progreso. Lo recibieron de la misma mano liberadora (que nunca rindió cuentas y sigue impune hasta la fecha) que les liberó después con Coca-Cola, Ketchup y diabetes. Para recordar eso, también hay en Nagasaki como en Hiroshima un memorial de la bomba. Un lugar cuya visita sí es obligatoria y no, no es anodina.

Tercera parada: el acogedor aunque pequeñísimo piso de una Couchsurfer (norteamericana justamente), que aceptó alojarnos un par de días. Muy joven, entusiasta y muy simpática, es profe de inglés y millenial con todas las letras.

O'nigiris caseros: arroz, alga nori, furikake, un poco de arte y... mucho cariño.

Ha venido aquí a liberar el pueblo enseñando el ingurishu de Shakespeare John Wayne a los ejecutivos alienados por el yuque de su cultura multi-milenaria. Es Couchsurfer un poco como nosotros: hasta el moño de la típica actitud relaja' CS y del típico CSer apalancao. De hecho, no nos queda muy claro porque insiste en ir a buscarnos a pie a media hora de su casa en lugar de darnos indicaciones, y lo entendemos cuando en la caminata juntos, nos acompaña hasta un supermercado "por si necesitamos comprarnos la comida", pasamos delante de una laundro-mat "por si necesitamos poner una lavadora" y hasta nos señala una frutería y otro colmado justo al lado de casa "por si nos falta algo más adelante". Nosotros ya lo llevamos todo dentro de estas mochilas ridículas que cargamos, y no se cree que no vamos a ser unos apalancaos más. Al irnos por la mañana del tercer día, cuando ya ha salido a currar, le dejamos en la nevera un batch de o'nigiris recién hechos por nosotros con amor y con el molde que nos compramos en un todo a 100 y que quedaba por inaugurar. Se emocionará tanto al encontrarlos a la noche que nos mandará mensajitos casi llorando, diciéndonos de volver cuando queremos, que "my kaza tu kaza" y hasta nos los mencionará en su super referencia CS... El ser humano no está totalmente perdido. Fin (aunque continuará pronto en Fukuoka).

ya está bien para hoy
seguro que teneís cosas que hacer
así que ¡a trabajar! ¡vagos!
besos y abrazos,
W. y F.

until the end of the South (4 of 8)

unZen and the art of natural hot spring-ing!

This episode deserves to be a special one. Not only because we just landed on the Nagaski prefecture, entering from Kumamoto straight to the heart of Unzen's moutains covered in dark, dense forest. And not only because Unzen is famous all over Japan for its Hell* and the tradition of Onsen - the very word probably coming from the village's name. It is also because this episode is the 150th of our blog!!

welcome to "Unzen hell": a chaos of sand, rock and smokey puddles of green and grey, with the exact smell of a rotten egg's fart...

Yes, 150 posts in almost exactly 3 years, that means a post every 7,5 days - roughly one per week, a mean we are very very very proud of! We recently celebrated our 3rd anniversary on an unknown island, now comes our 150th post: it's been a pleasure to share this everyday journey with you all so, well, thanks a lot for following us and un(t)raveling with us! And hopefully, there'll be many many more stories to be told in these columns... For now, let's un(t)ravel Unzen together:

puddles of boiling clay with dozens of "Don't step" signs and "Don't trespass" boards

We came by bus and got there at night, not really knowing where and how to find a decent place to sleep. As we tend to do in such situations, we decided to walk off the village, get far enough in "the woods" to get lost and pitch our tent there for the first night (and look for any better option for the next days). We were lucky enough that there were "woods" to be found everywhere around, right beyond the last house in any direction. And as for us, anytime over 10 minutes into the wilderness is a decent, fair definition of "far enough" at night. Especially in this hell of a place, which might very well have been full of deadly traps, deadly dragons, deadly tar sands, deadly gas leaks and other kinds of deadly things, hidden under every stone and behind every tree. After walking a few minutes along a steep trail in a dense and dark forest, we found an abandoned car park, partially covered with weeds and with a tent at one corner. We picked the corner in the other diagonal and set for dinner and sleep. It was already late then, but we woke up early anyway, packed and hiked back to the village for a hot drink and some fresh food. We were lucky to be in the South of the country, as the autumn was slowly turning into winter and the temperatures were dropping down fast. Looking for the sun during the day, enjoying the luxury of hot clouds and boiling soil, trying the local hot spring boiled eggs with that unique sulfur taste, drinking a lot of coffee with milk and tea: everything was fine as long as it warmed the body just a little bit more and a little bit longer! But there was more:

urged by the locals to take a "classic" souvenir pic: "You here, good. You smile."

the real deal, here in Unzen, were the natural hot spring baths, aka onsen. If this village gave its name to the very concept of having natural hot spring baths, they had to know a lot about that! Well, at least and with no doubt, the area's defect settings included an intense geothermal activity, with natural hot water coming from deep underground, spitting and squirting around about everywhere... Would have be difficult for them to justify that they actually did nothing more with it than hard-boiling eggs and dead-boiling christians. Sorry, I admit this is not funny and promise to stop making jokes about that. It actually happened between 1627 and 1632, and you can find some boards explaining about this tragedy and a small stone memorial to the Christians' martyrdom somewhere in the middle of the "Hell" mainsite, just about one hundred meters from the main hotels. The increasing influence of the Portuguese christians, converting Japanese people in Kyushu while allegedly trading goods, progressively raised concerns until the Shogun decided to ban the religion and to forbid all Westerners to come and trade in the country. During over 2 centuries, the only contact between Japan and 'the rest of the world' were the Dutch traders, as they accepted, upon landing on Japanese soil, to step on a cross and reject the christian faith. Ah, the Dutch pragmatism in action! They were consequently allowed to settle on a tiny artificial island built in Nagasaki's harbour and that's another story we'll tell you about later on... ;)

But as for today, let's talk about unZen and the art of natural hot spring-ing:

smile to the old man, pay 100 yens, go to the "men" (or "women") section, take your clothes off, pick a locker and... just enjoy the heat!

Alright: the village is literally full of hotels, which come in a wide range of prices and a wider variety of styles. Basically, there are diversely expensive hotels, available in both Japanese-style and Western-style. That's it. Deal with it. With our maximum allocated 'exceptionnal' budget of 40 euros per night for the 2 of us and our supa-strict "get this price or camp" policy, all were waaay too expensive anyway and camping was the option. As we learnt, each hotel had its onsen, which was open to non-residents but again, out of our budget. It may sound like cheap, but (i) at this point of our adventure, we've spent two and a half months in Japan already and we're not even broke yet, and (ii) the cheapest option, both on the Transsiberian and around here, happened to be the most fun (how could we know?)

desert public onsen with a 1 euro fee: luxury is INDEED a very relative concept!

As far as we could find, there were two public onsens in Unzen, plus one at about a 15 minute walk outside the village, but pretty close to the spot we found to camp on the second day. All three costed 100¥ per person** for a single but non time-limited access. Our strategy was to get a nice long session in the late morning, that would keep us warm most of the afternoon and allow a cold lunch of onigiris and fruit. We then had to stay around town until it was dark, get another nice, long session of onsen in the evening, then hike to our secret campsite, have a quick noodle soup dinner and get inside the sleeping bags while our bodies were still hot from the spring water. And it actually worked wonders! An hour spent immerged in water at about 40 or 42 ºC raises your body temperature quite a bit over regular and the feeling lasts a good couple of hours - which was more than enough to hike a short 10 minutes through the woods to a lovely little pond nearby: a perfect invitation to a quiet living in harmony with nature, there was un petit je ne sais quoi de Walden to it. Passed the tiny country hotel with the mandatory beach and pedal boats on the shore - fortunately closed for the winter season, we just walked another 5 minutes in the woods to an abandoned/closed campsite whose facilities were locked and all water turned off, but with little wooden decks raised a foot above the floor and individual firepits and tables. We discovered the place on our second day in Unzen and decided to (very respectfully) use and abuse of one raised wooden deck and its firepit, for both comfort, safety and so as not to leave any trace after ourselves. We picked one spot that got the first morning sun, protected from the night wind by a couple of large firs during our 3 days around Unzen, we packed every morning but hid our stuff under a nearby tree - to hang around town with nothing but a light daypack containing our towels, a laptop for some public library internet surfing and some supplies. Just superb!

a Japanese interpretation of the Walden pond + a #13 with ideal orientation and no negative connotations = a perfect spot to camp!

We spent 3 lovely and very quiet days in Unzen, invented a smart and comfy routine to resist the increasing cold and finally decided we needed to get back down to the seaside to gain a few degrees. On the sunny morning of the fourth day, we put our bags on our backs and took the narrow little road heading West and down, thumbs up just in case and happy to discover what life had in mind for us... After about an hour walking along the road, a rusty and dusty Toyota pulled and took us onboard, driving us for a short while and dropping us to the seafront boulevard of another 'Mouth of hell', a lovely little coastal town famous for its hot springs (again) and proud of having the longest footspa in the world. How cool and worldly is that? Surprisingly enough, this little coastal town you probably never heard off (and will never again hear off) was called... Obama. Yes, Obama. Like the very fresh, latest ex-POTUS.

'Mouth of hell' like in: "everywhere around, there's vapor and this sulfurous fart smell"...

This is gonna be the next episode and our post #151!

take care and love to all,

W. & F.

___________________________

* about Unzen's "Hell": where (mostly Portuguese but not only) christians used to be boiled alive in natural hot springs back then - a tradition that was long abandoned. The chrisitans were replaced by eggs, which not only is socially and morally more acceptable, but also represents a substantial source of income for the local, as the thousands of tourists pay for them and eat them with great pleasure...

** about the yen's rate: during the 3 months we spent in Japan, the yen was ridiculously high and strong. It oscilated between 105 and 120 yens for 1 euro, which made it even tougher for Westerners to travel the country on a tight budget. Nevertheless, 1 euro for a steamin' hot bath tub and pool, free tea, shower and sauna isn't something you can really conceive when you come from Europe! Luxury is a relative, cultural concept...

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!)