later gator

i forgot how far i’d gotten from this place. forgot what it stands for and forgot the people it attracts. forgot the international students in orientation and the individuals who arrive thinking they’re different from the rest. thinking their not a Gringo when in fact they’re the true sense of the word. the definition.
“i teach english here for one whole year.” they say.

i booked a room because a) i knew the airport shuttle service to be top notch and b) to let things come full circle. to spend my last night in the same exact place as where it all began – the hostel i arrived at early morning on July 11th, 2008. back when i was Gringo Supreme. wearing clean clothes and caring about such matters. a shaven jaw-line and pockets flush with cash; money i didn’t even know what to do with. it was chaos, yes, witnesses will surely attest, but calculated it certainly was not.

my mannerisms during those early days should really be described as flailing in nature, it’s only honest. i would walk down foreign street after foreign street in a complete daze, politely wondering when my next social blunder was going to take place, envisioning who would be in attendance for the next ass-making show. and usually i didn’t have to wait too long, the Spanish language and its’ vast differences from ingles dictating such terms. shit was i a rookie! The Gringo! sputtering out orders in restaurants and hoping to a higher power above that the cashier would somehow speak perfectly in my native tongue, even though i was ten million miles away from such talk. i didn’t dare take public transport and i got lost on a regular basis. hell, one time i walked aimlessly through Buenos Aires for the better part of five hours, completely out of money and without the cards to get more, capable of pronouncing maybe twelve Spanish words and smack dab in the middle of South America’s largest urban population; a rebel without a cause. and you know what saved me amidst life in that junk sick morning? street art. i recognized a series of graffiti in San Telmo’s cobblestone streets and knew i was close to my hostel, thus close to victory. Gringo victory, where said outcast makes it home one last time and lays out on a back-breaking mattress, jeans in a crumpled heap on the hardwood floor and priorities a god-damn disaster.

then slowly, things began to change. i learned the Spanish language. well, not really. i should say that i learned a very, very small chunk of the Spanish language. because in all honesty i still struggle at Latin communication. my conjugation skills are suspect and past tense is a no-go. but i try my Canadian arse off and abuelitas everywhere tenderly kiss my cheek for it.

another change is that i stopped staying at places that endorse trust funds and started telling cab drivers off in their overcharging attempts.
“is your head full of pea soup?” i asked this one cat in Ecuador, causing him to stare at me for a good three and half segundos, mustache quivering madly as time slowed to an absolute crawl. the shit was tense, i tell ya: the sun hot, and Quito’s streets ready for action amidst those staggering Andean spires.
“Haw Haw Haw!” the mustached-cat roared, breaking the silence, as clocks and hearts once again began to tick. “get in. get in.” he continued with a toothy smile, as the last traces of laughter narrowly escaped his tanned throat and we looked at one another eye-to-eye for the very first time, his look screaming acceptance as he contorted his stocky frame awkwardly in order to open the passenger-side door. “and where are we going today my spanish-speaking friend?”
“wherever you want to take me.” is what i tried to say, what i wanted to say, had i been capable.

what i actually said was: “we go where you and me like both.”

but blunders like that just don’t matter in the real latin america, i’m tellin’ ya. realize that you suck and go with it. road-trip with Mr. Pea-Head clear across The Middle of Nowhere, stopping only to buy more beer or eject a hitchhiker from his free-loading nest of comfort. have imaginary conversations about Nietzche and Ken Kesey as one mustache fades to the next and immigration guards powerbomb your passport.

it makes all the difference, efforts as such, that much is clear. get comfortable lying on your belly and leave your notions of normality behind. learn to play by someone else’s rules for a change.

so now, having made it back to this enormous smog-filled city, ten countries later and with a hell of a lot less clothes, a revolution has taken place. for now it is i who wears a mustache. my mannerisms can no longer be described as flailing in nature and the metro line is my bitch. i don’t need to call cab drivers Pea-Heads (having a mustache in South America commands more respect than if one carries an AK-47) even though a little part of me still wants to, for old time’s sake. por ejemplo, just five minutes ago i gathered hoards of empty bottles (the Gringo Leftovers) from behind the hostel’s bar and returned them across the street for two new full ones, taking my prize through the front door as one last cab driver proudly looked on…mustache quivering madly.

carrying the frosty lagers i stepped into the common area and there they were, a collaboration of former selves, sitting around the living room in unprecedented numbers speaking nothing but english, comparing significant tattoos. it pains me to admit it but for a second i even thought about joining them. thought about taking a seat on an oversized couch and fading a litre of Escudo as America’s Next Top Model played in the background. but i couldn’t, i just couldn’t, my mustache wouldn’t let me do it. what can i say, the shit has principles. i was an outsider looking in, and i enjoyed the view.

so with nothing more than a passing nod i retreated, like the sun dropping in yo-yo fashion behind a horizon of ocean, to the depths of the basement. i put one cerveza in the fridge and cracked the other; i slammed the latter onto an empty wooden table. the bottle’s condensation immediately started to form one of those liquid rings that your mother hates so much. i opened up Mac and began to type, and this is what came out.

so if you’re still reading i’d like to thank you, for all that you do. but i also have a confession to make: i probably won’t be posting too much more on this here site, maybe an excerpt from time to time but for the most part my efforts will be focused elsewhere, just as they have been in recent months. enjoy yourself, whoop it up every now and then, even to the point of ordering dessert when out for dinner. you deserve it.

tu amigo, brett