I'm back in St. Paul again, and let me tell you, it's good to be back. It's a nice feeling to be in a place where you feel like you belong, where you can go out to familiar places and see smiles on familiar faces. I'll be getting back on the Turf Club train now, and hope to slowly but surely confront the mass of over 1000 emails I have in front of me. Please don't be offended if you don't get an immediate response to your booking requests, and don't necessarily expect a response if you sent me one while I was away. I recommend resending, but please please please don't go overboard. None of those people who send me emails over and over and over are helping their cases in the least.
I will also immediately return to my work with developmentally disabled adults, and I look quite forward to it.
As for City Pages, I will not be returning to them in the capacity of Listings Coordinator. I loved working with the people there, but the position could not be kept open for me for such a long time, and as I didn't find the job to be a very good fit for my interests and temperment I will not attempt to get the job back even if it is still available.
I do, however, have a stronger interest and a greater confidence now in pursuing some work in writing and photography, be it journalism or some other form. I feel fairly inspired and ready, and have been struck with the incredible luck of already recieving a request for a freelance piece with a local publication less than 1 day after returning. More news on that as it happens.
In the meantime, I'll go back in time a few days and finish the story I began upon my arrival in Merida, Venezuela. The writing between the lines below is what I have already written, after which will be the continuation:
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Two days ago, I said goodbye to Susanna, who left Venezuela this morning to begin her long, roundabout journey back to Hong Kong. I got a ride from a member of the China Club in Caracas, they were all quite nice people and really went out of their way to make sure I had a good trip. I was dropped off at the bus station, where I had previously gone to purchase my ticket. On my ticket it said my bus to Mérida would leave from gate 8. I waited a long time, in a ridiculously long line, only to find that the bus at gate 8 actually went somewhere else. I asked someone what to do, and he said that since my bus wasn´t at gate 8, it must be at gate 16. I wasn´t sure what his logic was, but I suspect his suggestion was based on the fact that 16 is a multiple of 8, and thus would be the next logical choice.
Fortunately, on my way to gate 16, I was skeptical enough to keep my eyes open and saw that in fact my bus was at gate 13. I ran over to the side of the bus, worried that I may be late, only to find another line of people waiting to stow their luggage underneath the bus, a task I am always hesitant to do, but it must be done.
There were three compartments to stow the luggage in, and the attendant seemed to have some sort of system to decide which bags went in which compartment. Through my observation, I deducted that he was putting all the backpacks and soft bags in the rear, which seemed like a good idea to me at the time, so that all the hard luggage wouldn´t crush the contents of the soft luggage. I proceeded with my smaller back pack into the bus
Then began the "12 hour" journey.
As you may guess from my use of quotation marks, 12 hours was sort of a rough estimate. Unfortunately, due to ridiculously long meal breaks, and no less than 2 flat tires, we didn't manage to arrive in Merida until a good 16 hours later, during which the insides of my small backpack experienced a PINKSPLOSION of generic pepto/bismol all over my stuff.
I finally got off the bus, just happy to have reached my destination, and was lucky enough to be the first person to get my luggage back. It seemed a little damp, but I didn't really think twice about it, since I remembered the ground outside the bus when I loaded my stuff was a little wet. I put on my big back pack
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, took a look at my guide book, and started to decide what to do next, specifically, which posada (guesthouse) I would choose. As I peered up from my guidebook, I saw a fellow traveler who looked like he wanted to start a conversation. I said hello to him, and we small talked a bit. He was from England. His girlfriend approached us carrying her backpack with a somewhat disgusted look on her face.
"What's that horrid smell?" she said. We both shrugged. I didn't really think about it, as horrid smells are a fairly common thing in Latin America, and spending a lot of time thinking about it didn't seem to me to be either productive or entertaining.
Unfortunately, upon discovering the source of the smell, I found myself to be utterly wrong on the former count, as it turned out that the smell was coming from the very bags that we were wearing.
Turns out the toilet on the bus had leaked onto the baggage compartment below it!
Apparently, the system to decide which bags went in which compartment that I had pondered before, had nothing to do with whether the bags were soft or hard, nor was there any intention of "protecting" my luggage in any way. The rear compartment, below the toilets, was for gringos.
Realizing that there was nothing anyone was going to do about it, we decided our best course of action would be to quickly find a place to stay and get cleaned up. We worked together on this project, as we had now bonded in our misfortune.
(can you tell I've been reading a book from the 1600s? I feel like it's rubbing off on my writing a little bit...for better or for worse. The book is Moll Flanders, by Daniel Defoe--not to be confused with Willem Dafoe, who may or may not be a writer, but is certainly not from the 1600s, although I'll bet if he is a writer, he writes like he's from the 1600s. I don't know why, he just seems like the type.)
We looked through the guide and found several places to our liking, being both affordable, and well recommended. We found a taxi together and headed towards our first choice. This place was full, so we went to another. Also full. The next was full as well...as was the following. The one after that? Full.
We finally found a place that wasn't in the guidebook, but had two rooms available, but as we discussed whether or not to stay there, one of the room got snatched up. We decided immediately to take the one room that was left and share it among the three of us, lest we find ourselves destitute and streetbound, and immediately set to the task of cleaning the nasty odor from our "kit" as the brits call it.
My bag cleaned fairly quickly, as it wasn't so badly hit, and Matt's hadn't really gotten wet somehow. Marrianne's bag however, would not come clean no matter how hard she worked at it. In the meantime, we set up a reservation for a couple days later at one of the posadas we preffered, and began to inquire about getting a guide to take us to Cataumbo.
While we were there, I noticed a girl that seemed vaguely familiar, but I paid no mind, as it seemed improbable that I would see anyone I knew on my first day in Merida, Venezuela. As we started towards the door however, she approached me and asked if I was from Saint Paul, MN, as she said she had recognized my voice. I was quite shocked, and told her that, yes, indeed I was, and saw that she was wearing a Heiruspecs shirt. I decided to stay and chat and told my new British friends I would find them later. Turns out that not only had she at times heard me on the radio, but in fact she, and her boyfriend who was also there, had both gone to Central High School as I had, and surely had countless other things in common with me, as Saint Paul is not such a large city.
As we chatted at this posada we were joined by a friendly couple from Athens, Greece, and several employees of the posada (including one friendly guy, nicknamed Grillo--grasshopper in English-- who would become my guide to Catatumbo a few days later) , and had a great time chatting and drinking until late.
I didn't see my new friends from Saint Paul again before I left, but hope to see them whence they return home in 9 odd months.
As I cannot bear the strain of writing in this formal manner, I shall end my recounting at the very point upon which I have writ above, and leave thee to know well that which I have completed my journey of seven weeks in strangelands upon finding my home in a mightily fine condition, and feeling a wellness which I hope continues to be carried with me through future days. I may well continue this new found expressional device brought to us in Modern Times by the vastness of technological fortitude, thought by many to be Apocolyptic, and by others yet to be the saving grace of Civilisation. Time will notify those who are Present to Discover it's Truths, but in the meantime we must forge our paths in order to seek that light which shines e'er so bright by the Torch of Knowledge and Gooodness.
And stuff.
