Meet my family. The guy in the yellow turtleneck is Joe, my resident scholar, and bibliographic source. Joe is currently working on his thesis, which he will present next week. His paper is on a forgotten writer and the importance of comedy in literature. He recently broke up with his girlfriend.
The girl that looks like something out of a Tim Burton’s fantasy is Tania. She is a designer, and is currently working on a clothing line that includes gloves and custom made shoes. She is limber with the brush and the oils, and thinks that chaos is better than order – when it comes to designs. Her son, Sebastian – the one making the peace sign – is currently on his “I rule” stage (he is a seven year older). Both of them are quite excited because they are going to Germany in two weeks. Tania will meet her boyfriend, Markus, and together, they will travel around Europe. They will visit my mother on the famous small town of Amal, in Sweden.
The rogue on the striped hat is Lucho, Tania’s Brother. Lucho is 25, just like me, but he has the recount of a regular Odysseus: he had a healthy daughter at the age of 20, with the hottest girl of his neighborhood, married at a shotgun wedding, and then divorced. Marianna – his daughter - is now five, and she is a mouthful. Gingerliness is not on her list of attributes, and she definitely has a wild imagination – even though I just met her, she kept blaming me for the death of her pet chick, and for other mishaps of her fresh past. She gave me a cute moniker: “Hideous”. Lucho is the life of his neighborhood back in Barranquilla, and people have many stories about him that include “… we were drunk” at some stance. He is currently in training for a logistic team. His activities included being soaked with a fire hose, and hanging on the edge of a fake building. Even though he is a trainee, he is not getting paid.
We all live in a colonial house, in the historical center of Bogotá, known as Candelaria. Down the street, is the original town square, were Bogotá was declared a Villa. Around the street, is Calle Sola, which connects with Calle de las Mandolinas (Mandolin’ street), famous because there, the only shop in the world that manufactures mandolins in the world is establish (they count amongst their clientele one Eric Clapton). We avoid all contacts with hippies, but it is always me who brings in the weirdos, foreigners – My friend Lilly, from England, has described us like the third world version of “Friends”.
So yes, I have been slacking over this magnificent experience that is blogging, but can you blame me? I started this project to give some meaning to my random mind, and lost the path of calmness on the process, but found a fun voice that I’m planning to keep. Then life knocked on my door, and I couldn’t resist it. It was then I made acquaintances with a freelancer from the States. His name is Mike Ceaser - he reports for The Chronicle of higher education and Catholic News, and working with him has made me realize that I am a PR wiz kid, not a story hound. My writing is going nowhere in terms of keeping a readers informed. Au contraire: I enjoy mesmerizing audiences with nonsensical, yet very deep thoughts. My storytelling has improved over this course of action, and I have found seminal works that have enable me with the proper tools to make sense while fooling around with argumentation. Mike has paved the way for me to get more gigs as a local fixer, and these new chops have strengthened an ancient desired: to represent bands. I’m negotiating with this pop act.
I have been in several selection processes: one for an English teaching center, where they made me state what I was all about in a drawing. Then I went to three advertisement agencies, where I was told that advertisement was business of award winning minds. Then they asked me, how many times had I been published, or what awards had I been granted with. I thought I was witty when I said that I consider myself smart enough to serve coffee, and receive a chiding from a middle aged wizard. They never called back.
But the winner was Avianca, the national airline. I applied there to be a Flight attendant, and was quite confident about, being that I have served tables in oh so many restaurants (being a flight attendant must be the executive position for waiters). I aced the English language test, aced the psycho-tech test (a five hundred question formulary design to prove you wrong which I have taken 60 times), did great on the Psychological double examination (where a chipper girl made us sell ourselves in thirty seconds, and then divided us into flyers and attendants for some role play. I was a trouble flyer: the drunk). But chocked on the polygraph test (no matter how much the conductor prepares you, no matter how well you organize the questions with her, is hard to be yourself when you are strap to a truth meter, while you are unable to move or even swallow saliva).
Anyway, living is delicious. And I have made enough to keep me up float for three months. Three months without any payments to be made. Three months to write – this blog, a screenplay, that novel I been penning since forever, a collection of short stories – three more months to cook delicious meals for my family, and to show them how sweet they make me feel, how much I appreciate them putting up with my nasty habits and my uneasiness. Thank you for curing my anxiety.
And thank YOU for reading. No, really: i'm not good with sarcasm.