I am in Chuy or Chui

October 11^th, 2011:  I continue to extend my track record on fumbling another border crossing.  As in Paraguay months ago…the bus once again passed immigration without stopping.   The countries are separated by only a busy street…one side being Chuy, Uruguay and the other side being Chui, Brazil.    There was nobody standing in a tower of supremacy with the mirrored aviator sunglasses and a shotgun overlooking a tall wall resembling that of Israel or the US Border in which only superman can leap in a single bound or a Mexican jumping bean.
 
I didn’t understand the border crossing till now, as I write this.  It wasn’t until I bought my bus ticket to travel to Porto Alegre in Brazil when the woman at the ticket booth looked at my passport and told me that I needed to get an exit stamp.  “Huh?” I thought.  I didn’t even notice passing a border crossing.  She pointed at what direction I needed to start walking as I shuffled out of the building beginning my couple kilometer journey to get that magical exit stamp. 

Walking through the city, I made it to a road leading out of town looking as if it was leading to nowhere.  Eventually there was nothing but flat lands finally taking me to the friendly immigration troll.  Opening my passport, I don’t even think he looked at it – I could have pasted a photo of Mickey Mouse over my stellar photo and he would have still stamped it.
 
Confused about what country I was in, I ended up buying my bus ticket in Brazil and didn’t even know it – explaining why I didn’t know about the time change.  I stood outside an empty building waiting for my bus to arrive at any given moment as my big backpack lay safely locked up inside, hoping someone was going to open up the office.  Thankfully, I gained an hour instead of lost an hour.

Yes, I continue to dislike border crossings, especially when there are no truly defined borders.

Please, don’t play with the live animals!

October 9, 2011:  I couldn’t find the fishing village named Punta del Jesus, so I settled for the small fishing village named Punta del Diablo.  The conglomeration of sand, garbage and dead corpses made this my favorite beach in Uruguay and might even make the list of one of my top beaches in South America.  A peaceful place that lacked cement roads, high-rises, human whales and large groups of people made it an ideal place to stop and relax before crossing over into Brazil where I plan to pick up my speed.   

The South American way of disposing trash where ever you please are obvious even here, on the seemingly infinite stretch of beaches as garbage speckled the beaches.  Intertwined between the remains of the trash, laid a large number sea lions…dead sea lions to be more specific, resembling the aftermath of a mass clubbing.  Stopping to record the carnage with my camera, at times, the smell of death burned my eyes as I was only a foot or two away from the bloody or leathered fly infested bodies.

Yes, it is true…a dead animal cannot balance a beach ball on its nose, nor will it listen to any of your commands or silly noises so it will look in your direction as you attempt to take “THAT” photo.  But, if you enjoy taking photos of sea lions, the dead ones can be a lot easier. 

Seeing a sea lion laying on the beach just as still as the other bloated, leathered or decaying seal loins were, I thought there was a pattern forming.  So in my mental calculations, he was also dead.  Happy to see that the vultures have not yet made holes in him, I was thinking it was my lucky day.  Casually walking up to him...he picked up his head - Rule #1: if you enjoy taking photos of dead animals…you must first make sure they are dead.  Turning around toward me there was an incredibly loud scream coming from deep within him as he turned on the juice coming at me at top speeds.  I levitated backwards as the sea lion successfully made me fall for his bluff as he made a break for the water. 

Not thinking – for the second time today…from the one being chased I now became the chaser as I ran to cut him off from the ocean – must be “middle child syndrome” missing the art of teasing.  The sea lion stopped…and was about to turn around to go back up the beach, but then I realized that he was probably ill, laying on the beach for a reason.  I tried to get out of his way so he could continue to lounge around the beach but it was too late as he made a speedy waddle for the ocean.

Punta del Diablo is my last stop here in Uruguay before crossing over into Brazil.  In two more days I will be completely lost in a language I have not yet begun to study.  Perhaps tonight…or tomorrow, I will learn the basics of Portuguese before making it to that imaginary line that cuts across an real piece of land.

Tried to kick a dog…in its head

October 6, 2011: While in the town of Tacuarembo, I found myself trying to get lost – which is typically not hard for me to do. Coming back off some dirt roads that lead out of the town, I notice some children playing soccer in front of a four walled structure they presumably call home. They stopped playing when I was passing them and just stared at me, following me with their eyes. Even in such a white country as Uruguay, I still seem to stand out. I smiled and said hello as I continued down the road – then it happened…

From the lower right hand corner of my eye I saw a dog coming towards me, being extra quiet…thinking that perhaps he wanted just a little sniff of my clothed sphincter or to maybe hump my leg some. When the dog noticed he was compromised, he reverted from stealth mode to attack mode. Coming at me faster, I thought that he was bluffing me. I started walking faster – suddenly confused about the basic rules of engagement with a dog, I just thought it was better not to look directly at him, using my extremely tooled peripheral vision and I continued moving forward.

He approached me quickly with a sharp set of heat seeking missiles that lined his mouth in a disorder fashion. He went doggy style and came up from behind, telling me something that I didn’t understand nor care to understand. The dog’s behavior showed me that he was obviously not interested in sniffing a grown man’s butts or humping a strange male.

The “flight mode” in me was no longer an option. Turning toward him, I give him a few air kicks to the head. My adrenaline spiked as his smiled at me showing of his pearly whites. The other dogs that were at the house next door were much larger and began to go crazy, beginning to sing as if they were members of a Baptist church choir.

My vision was not crystal clear due to the quick unexpected spike of adrenaline, but since I remembered the other dogs being tied up the first time I passed by when leaving the town, so I focused on my current situation.

After a few more football punter style air kicks, I am glad the dog eventually turned back and stopped following me, going to wherever he came from. I was actually happy today to not be prepared for a confrontation with a dog, rather than a person or persons with not the best intensions. It has been awhile since I was caught off guard. While coming off a substantially large adrenaline spike, I was a tad shaky and a bit dizzy.

Hindsight…I thought, “Why didn’t I have a rock in my pocket?” This is because when typically bad dogs see rocks, they have had prior experience with them being thrown at them, knowing that they hurt. This tactic has a 93.966666% success rate. I wonder if this was the true origin of pet rocks.

So I suppose it is time for me to start traveling with a pet…a pet rock.

Uruguayan boys are all a bunch of crossdressers!

October 4, 2011: I have noticed that the boys in Uruguay seem to be taught to crossdress at a very young age – to be more precise…from my understanding, it starts the first day they go to school. The uniforms seem to be universal: A white doctor looking coat with a large loose bow around the neck – NOT a bow tie…but a bow.

How did this come about? As you are well aware…working women’s wardrobes have changed over the years, capitalizing on the behavior of men and their monkeylike behavior desiring to hump more than the common dog. Minimizing a large amount of needing material which resulted in shorter skirts and more ventilating tops…the large oversized loose feminine bow slowing worked its way out of the fashion industry for the modern day woman.

So what do you do with the surplus bows, which once represented the Woman’s Revolution? Well, for starters, you can use them for the holidays to pin or tape to some special present when giving dogs, horses, donkeys or even something like a bike or new Lexus.

Now…what do you do when you still have a surplus? It’s easy…you give some politician an untraceable “gift” and before you know it…it will become a required item for the public school systems uniform policy, recycling the never ending surplus while creating a country of crossdressers.

Even Polo, Banana Republic, Abercrombie & Fitch and other larger clothing companies have been scared to capitalize in this market without yet placing their brands on this stylish bow.

FYI: I so wanted you to see this bow, I had to take this photo in a child molester-like fashion from a park bench outside a mall. What I do for this blog at times amazes me.

Tickity tickity tick tick tock…click

October 4, 2011: My backpack is ready to go. On Thursday morning, I will be leaving on a stretched bus as it takes me north, into the interior of Uruguay. To do what? I don’t quite yet know, though I would like to see where the cowboys and cowgirls live.

Perhaps in my free time, I will do a little research and see if the men in Uruguay lose their virginity with donkeys such as the young folk do in most other South America countries. I said I would stop my research many posts ago, but…I am curious only from a business standpoint. When my feminine donkey condom starts selling in stores throughout South America…it might be wise to also sell them in Uruguay.

In southern Uruguay, I have been continuing to do an enormous amount of people watching, going to almost every museum, park, McDonald’s and even a scantly clothed street functions while waiting to make an almost perfect entry in into Brazil. Since my Visa is limited with only a possibility to extend - not a guaranteed extension, I need to actually have somewhat of an imaginary trail when I cross the border.

With a rough plan on what I want to see, it looks like I will be exploring Brazil in a snake like fashion – meaning I will be going up, a little right, up, way left, up, way right, up, a little right and then way way way left. With all of these ups, rights and lefts…who knows…maybe I will get a little dizzy and find myself somewhere completely different.

I was once a long time ago…Japanese

September 17, 2011: Boredom always has a way to set in. As you can see by this photo…a camera is a great way for me to combat boredom, keeping myself occupied.

This week I left Montevideo and headed to Piriapolis, setting up a new base camp, at a beach town that I am told poor families go to for the weekends. I hope that this town of 8089 people keeps specializing in entertaining poor people and frugal backpackers because to me, it is much nicer here than some of the higher class beach towns. The sand seems to look the same and even tastes the same…the water is the same…the houses that sit in back of you are not as expensive nor do they frequently reach 20+ stories…but the restaurants are more “real” and the people seem to be a lot more pleasant.

My favorite camera of the three in which I am traveling with, was sent back to Canon in the United States almost one month ago for repairs. I will be getting it back in 3 to 5 business days according to the United States Post Office, giving me more options on the photos I am able to take and where I will go next to take these photos. You would never think that traveling with 3 cameras would not be enough. But, the past 2.5 or so years, I had 4 critical repairs made for all 3 cameras…all failing me at least once.

If I just had one more SLR camera to add to my collection of cameras…it would be perfect but a lot more worrisome as the net value of my backpacks would significantly increase. This increase would fuel a little more stress when I leaving my valuables in a room with anywhere between 1 to 11 other backpackers. There could also be additional unnecessary thoughts when moving from place to place, especially now, since next to my hostel there is group of six 15 year olds that seem to enjoy robbing backpackers every couple of days.

Traveling would be much more convenient if I was back to one camera…but then, taking photos is one of my favorite things to do with my time. Perhaps one day I will do something with the over 65,000 photos (more or less) I have taken on this trip.

Yes, I believe that I was a long time ago, in my past life…Japanese.

Mullet Men and donuts

September 17, 2011: If I could only get enough courage to grow a stylish mullet…I would seamlessly blend into this cracker dominant westernized city. Though the color of my skin camouflages me, it is what I do and the noises that exit my mouth that makes me stand out.

The weather has been warming up enough here so that I can finally enjoy the beaches while only supporting a polyester t-shirt and a 100 weight polar fleece that accompanies my thick 300 weight mountaineering fleece.

I seem to have indivertibly become a sand collector while people/dog watching. Sand has an amazing method to make its way back to my hostel or friends house by any means possible. From hiding in my shoes, head stubble to jumping in any and all cracks and holes – it makes it almost impossible to fulfill the tree huggers’ motto “Take only photographs, leave only footprints.” Can the Sierra Club or some other grass roots organization make a clause, stating that taking sand from a public beach is permissible if not purposely done?

A few week ago, in a miniature cement parking lot between the strip of high-rise apartments and sand, I observed a reenactment of the film Mad Max starring the Uruguayan mullets with their taped/glued up motorbikes and black matte cars. One man was showing his inability to not be able do a complete donut in the parking lot as individuals volunteered their friends, loved ones, parents and children to become buffers to prevent any cars from being scratched if it happens to plow into another.

Perhaps the mullet man in the car should consider selling some of that hair from the back of his mullet to some organization that makes wigs for cancer patients or cross dressers so he could put some needed money into the performance of his engine so he can get all the way around, completing the donut. An exhaust system wouldn’t be a bad idea either, to lower the output of decibels so that he doesn’t overpower the sound of men who play dress up on their Harley Davidson’s or kids on their obnoxiously loud mopeds.

Please note: Mad Max car photo pulled from cartown.com

Am I an addict or just a casual user?

September 14, 2011: Being here in Uruguay for way way too long…I somehow lost an addiction and found another. What addiction did I so happen to conquer? I kick my pop addiction…soda pop to some, gaseosa to those who don’t know how to speak English or who never tried. I am so over the carbonated beverages but now, I am loving the herb. The great thing about this herb is that it doesn’t require me to get a bogus doctor's note stating that I have cancer, MS or a bad case of PMS. I don’t even have to visit Coolio or any street corner Bob Marley look alike nor support a tie-dye shirt with the herb pasted proudly to the front.

So what is the herb? Mate. Mate…spelt, M-A-T-E. The following is pulled straight from Wikipedia taking out a little and adding a little of my own wording: “The infusion called mate is prepared by steeping dry leaves (and twigs) of the mate plant in hot water. Drinking mate with friends or random strangers off the street with facial herpes from a shared hollow gourd (also called a guampa or mate in Spanish) with a metal shiny straw (a bombilla in Spanish) is a common social practice in Argentina, Uruguay and other places you won’t remember. It is done among people of all ages, sexes and social classes including the mangy backpackers that might be passing through. ”

Wikipedia also kind of - sort of states, “The flavor of brewed mate is strongly vegetal, herbal, and grassy, reminiscent of some varieties of green tea, dirt and a hint of 3 day old socks.” Okay…no more quoting or semi quoting.

I am now officially on the “Mate Bandwagon” becoming an active participant in this mate custom, consuming this green herb by the kilo from an unsanitary filthy community straw and if not more filthy gourd being used as a cup. Try to share a straw at home and that person will more than likely let you finish the beverage or replace the straw for a fresh one without a tad of guilt.

To join in on this cultural experience I had to make some adjustments to how I feel about…germs. Starting off slow, I am now at almost Olympic qualification speed and accuracy as I scan the lips of all consumers for any possible contagious illnesses or facial herpes when the mate is passed around a circle as people take hits from the chrome straw.

If I spot a potential threat on my short term or long term health…I am ready at a nanoseconds notice to release a lie with no guilt that I either don’t like mate or that I am not feeling very well, quickly following it up with a crunched “I don’t like it” face or a “turn your head to the left” cough. Even if I chose to be less…communal, it is not possible to pull out my own chrome straw or to bring my own cup and ask them to pour you some. The consumption of this leafy substance is more socially complicated...but, what is there in life that is not complicated?

I am already bald and not 40…what more can I ask for?

September 1, 2011: My 39th birthday turned out to be a success. I am already bald and I am not 40…what more can I ask for? I received enough birthday greeting to outnumber the average number of junk mail I get every day in my hotmail account and spent plenty of hours on Skype with family and friends.

It is amazing how technology can make you not feel so far away. Those computer geniuses down in Silicon Valley even help me enjoy a piece of cake in Germany that I was able to blow out over Skype…sort of blow it. With my virtual cake and the piece my friend gave me here in Montevideo, I was able to rack up an ample amount of wishes today…I just now hope that at least 1 of the 4 comes true.

I hate looking forward to being a year older but next year will be my 40th birthday. It concerns me because I hear people at this age are susceptible to having a mid-life crisis. Worse case scenario…I guess in my case, a mid-life crisis means coming home and getting a job – it doesn’t sound all that bad - laughing.

“Two and a Half Inches” starring Anthony Supertramp

August 31, 2011: Sometimes...I can’t believe what I find myself doing during my travels. The other day, my friend suggested that I go to the casting to be in an episode of the sitcom Two and a Half Men that was being filmed in Uruguay. Thinking that they must need some cheap English speaking extras, I thought…why not, it is a cheap free experience and the only time that I will waste is that of the casting company if I don’t happen to get a part…any part.

My appointment with the casting company seemed to be at an awkward time. Walking down this dark poorly lit abandon looking street at around 8:12 in the evening; I was thinking that this must be some sort of scam where I will have to pay an upfront fee to join an agency to get work as an actor. Or, even worse - or even better, depending on how you look at it and how you feel about sexual diseases...I was thinking what are the odds were that this was actually a “bait and switch” scam where I come in with the intension to be filmed in a sitcom and then find myself a few hours later starring in a skin flick called “Two and a Half Inches“ being distributed in the backrooms of the sketchy DVD shops throughout the world with a XXX label along the binding.

Pushing the button on the intercom so that I could make it up to the second floor of the building…I waited. Some noise gushed out of the device on the wall but I did not understand much as the woman spoke Spanish at crack-like speeds. Stating that I needed to speak to Natalia, I heard a buzz, granting me access inside.

Walking up the long set of stairs into an empty hallway…I stood there…not know where to go. A book sat there with some paper so I signed in and look over an agreement that was placed next to it - thankfully it was in…Spanish. The writing was not a font size of 1 or 2, did not have big complicated words, nor was it a large agreement, so I concluded that it must have been a waiver.
After reviewing this harmless paper, I was given an internal shot of anxiety. This is where I discovered that this wasn’t the casting for being an extra in a sitcom, having to say a line or two or three. There was a break in communication somewhere since this was for a commercial for Two and a Half Men in which required only one man and one woman. Now that I knew I was not going to be able to hide behind a bunch of waiters, bartenders and office temps who inspire to be actors, I was hesitant on even going into the next room.

“What am I doing?” I once again thought. I decided to quickly mentally translate my English thoughts into Spanish on how I was confused about what they were casting for so I could quickly leave and thank them for their time.

Being called into the room, there was the videographer and a super tall thin model looking actress bent over taking off her high slut shoes as she was putting on a smaller more practical version of slut shoes. Glancing over to my right I noticed the white room where the lighting and video camera was set up. Since this area did not contain a bed, I safely concluded that this was a legitimist studio.

The Spanish words that I previously thought of to quickly end my actor career before it even had a chance to begin, sat at the tip of my tongue…but never managed to fall completely out as I found myself following the directions of the videographer placing myself in the white box – internally laughing to myself, not believing that I am standing here under all of these lights doing this.

During the next 30 minutes I was suppose to act…I was suppose to act like a bad actor applying for a job to take over Charlie Sheen job on Two and a Half Men. From having to perform impromptu themes such as picking up women, telling a joke, letting out fake obnoxious laughs, doing a serious impersonation and then finishing with a silly one - pulling off my version of a chicken with style – my specialty.

Since acting like a bad actor was what they were looking for…I couldn’t have been more perfect for the part because I am not an actor. If I claimed to be one…I would unfortunately be a really really bad actor like a Steven Stiegel or Sylvester Stallone without the muscle mass. I have never performed any type of Hollywood style acting till my futile attempts today - except for the rare occasions that it is necessary for me to produce some fake external tears and to pull off those well needed occasional lies throughout my lifetime.

Not expecting to hear anything back from the studio, I was shocked that yesterday I was called and how they wanted to make sure I didn’t leave the country, needing me to stay here for the next few days. What?! Yes, I made the final casting. I must have been really good at being a bad actor…really good.

My 39th birthday was today and I seemed to spend most part of the day inside my hostel during the typical South American business hours so that I could answer any important calls. After the casting company called me to know what my cloth sizes were, I thought that just maybe…just maybe I would soon have to explain to immigration on how acting is not really “working” since I am visiting this country on a tourist visa…technically making it unable for me to legally work here in Uruguay.

As the day came to the end, I saw that my finger were still crossed, but still not so tightly crossed. I must not have been bad enough of an actor to be chosen for the part…but, I now have a better understanding of a small part that is involved in making a commercial and how individuals might be drawn to questionable day jobs with the hope to someday be on television. I was unable to take a ride today, but attempting to jump on the wagon was exciting.

I might like you more if you were dead

(photo pulled from www.somormujo.net)

August 23, 2011: Why is it when someone is dead…you like them more? In the past two weeks I have listened to Amy Winehouse more now than the past few years. It seems to be playing everywhere in South America...from my room in my hostel to the cafes, taxis and restaurants that are not tourist based establishments.

I would expect this type of music coming from the Planet Hollywoods, Hard Rock Cafes and at good ole Ronald McDonalds, but from a man who doesn't speak a taste of English making food in the street in his steel capsule? There seems to be a pattern...somewhat the same pattern when I was in Colombia in 2009 when Michael Jackson died.

Well, as of August 20th, 2011…I came to discover that I now like Amy Winehouse. I guess I am a little late even though I had her music stored deep in the depths of my iPod since according to iTunes, December 19th, 2009. In this time frame, her voice visited me only once through my cheap black Sony ear buds - and that was just 1 of the 11 songs on her Back to Black album.

(Photo pulled from www.cerealbits.com)

People liking individuals more when they are dead does not just apply to musicians. This it goes for: artists, ex-girlfriends, actors, saints, suicide bombers, loved ones, pets and Jesus. Items such as cars, jobs, apartments, cities and cereals such as Mr. T cereal can also be safely added to this list…they also seem to be missed more deeply when they are no longer in your life or available.

So, I might like you now and others may not…but who knows, perhaps if you were dead, we would all like you just a little bit more.

I can now see why a dog and single people complement each other

August 22, 2011: Arriving in Punta del Este, an international beach resort in Uruguay’s winter, I checked into my cold moist, mold coated 6 bed dorm. While I was in the lobby, I sadly ran into one of the most unhappy looking antisocial groups of Brazilians, for the second time. I don’t quite know if they ever smiled in their entire lives by seeing how highly underdeveloped their facial muscles were…not the slightest twitch when I said hello - a grunt would have been satisfactory. At least a grunt would have explained they might have come from somewhere in the depth of the Amazon.

Even Toilet Paper Girl surprisingly sat expressionless, saying nothing. You would think that she would have felt obligated to at least respond to my hello after saving her a pile of embarrassment in the hostel in Montevideo as she was walking out of the restroom…trailing a long piece of toilet paper – just catching her as she was about to walk out the door as I ran down the hall. If she wasn’t a beautiful face painted clown I would say that she was just shy or a tongue amputee…but sadly, I think she had a healthy tongue and was leaning toward the other end of the personality spectrum.

Doing some self photos of myself in front a buried giant on the beach…I had a bit too much time on my hands and began to think a tad too much about, “Stuff”. Not even 5 or so seconds after, a golden dog on crack came springing up to me with his tall going back and forth as fast as a windshield wiper stuck on high. He became my yapping happy friend for the day as I walked along the pleasant developed beaches. This dog’s tail nor did he himself show the slightest sign of exhaustion as he fetched a large pinecone without hesitation, not knowing the feeling of boredom.

Throughout my walk, I can see how some professional baseball players only throw for a few innings. Wanting to stop…the smile on the dogs face forced me into other innings. I was contemplating about throwing with my opposite arm to pull off an impressive girly throw but decided against it - just in case someone was watching from inside one of the deserted summer homes or condos lining the beach.

When it was time to leave the trailless sand shoreline and to enter the concrete maze of guidance…I tried to ignore the dog so that he would return back to somewhere. But…he didn’t, making me nervous as the cars horns would belch when would imitate a chicken dodging traffic, to those close encounters with mean dogs and those others that just wanted to take a deep breath of his butt. Whenever I thought I lost him, I would see him running along the side of me to mark some shrubbery or post with his bottomless bladder.

I can at times enjoy the company of other people’s dogs…but, I never really wanted one for my own to follow and pick up their steaming dog piles with a plastic bag – except for in the winter, where it becomes a small temporary hand warmer. But, today I could how a steamy pile on the sidewalk or the beach might be worth it…even in the summer.

10 days, 12 hours, 39 minutes and counting

August 18, 2011: The past 10 days, 11 hours, 24 minutes and counting I have been in the capital of Uruguay desperately trying to figure out where to explore between the small outbursts of the sun while my friend Anita is at work. As the grey days build into towers, my skin is somehow getting whiter…even without the application of the special Michael Jackson Cream.

My Casio Solar watch is just as it says, “Solar”. In consumer lingo: it only works if there is sun every few days. Normally a watch weighing down my underpowered left wrist is not necessary, but today was the rare occasion that I needed to know the time. Sitting next to a window while fueling up on some empty calories, I had to switch my watch to my other wrist directing it towards the very few rebellious rays that made it through the sad clouds between its tears. After an 85 minutes of this (just a guess…remember, it didn’t work), I resuscitated it, bringing it back from the dead…coughing up some useful numbers.

I am getting the feeling that Uruguay is a place that seems to be a summer Mecca for tourism with all of its beaches. When it is not summer, things might be cheaper but might not be worth the cheapness. If taking cheap legal peripheral busting peeks at women’s flesh in bikinis was my sole reasoning to come to Uruguay, I would say that this trip it is a failure because the only flesh on the beach that I so unfortunately saw was the drunken homeless man’s crusty wiener as he was urinating in the sand.

Once again, I am found myself somewhere that would not be much of an interest for me if it were not for its residents - in this case; the thermos carrying, cup touting, silver pimped straw in their Yerba mate, drinking addicts by the millions. Meeting my friend Anita last year in Argentina, I visited her here in Uruguay and this phenomenal social reaction has happened. Her friendship grew into other friendships and then more friendships, eventually becoming no longer reliant on the original roots. So…my original plans to be in Montevideo for a few days happily blossomed to 10 days, 12 hours, 39 minutes and counting.

The Chinese Zodiac labels me as a rat…I agree

August 11, 2011: Yes…this post is cryptic or you might even say...poetic. I am Sorry for my friends who English is their second, third or fourth language. For those few individuals that English is their fifth language…too bad - laughing.

Throughout my rat life I have managed to be a somewhat effective scavenger, collecting and hiding shinny things in this rat race. In the process, I also gathered bits and pieces to help me figure out how to escape this giant rat maze.

Successfully I managed to climb out of a rat maze and balanced on the top edge for quite some time, but I somehow have fallen and I have not yet realized how far or deep I fell.

Lately, I seem to have been scurrying from one place to another...setting up my temporary nomadic home for a few days or weeks here or there…going and stopping whenever it feels right - even though the “rightness” can at times crumble.

Knowing how it is to be outside this maze and not having to play if I don’t want to, is a wonderful feeling. But, oddly at times being inside the maze it is exactly what I miss...the safety of being able to lean on or against the walls or the comforts of knowing what the next familiar turn will bring.

What is even at the end of these human rat mazes anyhow? Cheese? If so, I would like to just buy a loaf…please? - smile.

22,000,000,000,000,000,000,034 sperm…more or less

August 7, 2011: Leaving Buenos Aires to go to Colonia was difficult but needed. I was on the verge of staying, to wait out the winter there and head north, south, east or west once those warmer sauna-like countries decided to share some degrees. I could see my shoe strings coming to life as they began to lace me into the city - not that it would be a bad thing…it is just that my Gilligan’s Island-like “3 hour tour” has somehow turned into a 2+ year tour with perhaps many more seasons to come.

Colonia in Uruguay is a great little place with a verbally interesting history, in combination of a visually appealing ex-colonial city luring bodies from all over the world to see this UNESCO site. My friend Monica from Spain and myself being from the United States are living proof that when you put some letters in front of some sight like UNESCO (even though we don't have a clue what it stands for)...people will come.

Once inside the old section of Colonia, the town ambushes you with restaurants, desperate money sucking museums and enough souvenirs’ that if a Chinese soldier was to replace each item “Made in China” they might have a force large enough to take over the entire continent.

The walking tour that I went on was interesting. Our guide seemed to be running a little bit late for the tour. I wasn’t sure if it was because she was on a powerful narcotic or if it was she finished enjoying a nice morning with a bus load of elderly German tourists who she picked up at the Karaoke bar from the night before. Her hair seemed to have a huge gigantic wad of some thick blob that looked like a sperm count of an estimated 22,000,000,000,000,000,000,034. It made the scene with Cameron Diaz in the move “Something about Mary” look like a dry run.