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Days 36-37: xxxx

Posted by Erik Frey Thu, 21 Apr 2005 22:56:00 GMT

I spent the next few days in censored, an old Spanish colonial town that was gussied up in the early 19th century when French planters arrived, having fled from a particularly unpleasant slave revolution in Haiti. I spent the days wandering up and down old cobblestone streets, marvelling at the old architecture and the people they housed. I spent the evenings listening to music and meeting more interminably fascinating people.

day 36

Terribly hung over and catatonic from a 45-minute night’s sleep, I somehow crawled out of bed, threw my gear together, and walked out to the bus station. I said goodbye to Beate and stepped aboard. Not a moment after sitting down in the bus seat, I fell asleep.

I woke up somewhere outside censored to find Gavin sitting next to me. A Japanese girl with dreadlocks sat behind me and we had a short conversation about Bob Marley. I mentioned that I’d like to see Tokyo one day, but I kept hearing it was so expensive, and she replied, “Not if you stay with me!” and wrote her contact information down on a post-it note.

Well, okay then!

At the bus station I faced something of a predicament. The night before, Helen and I had made plans to extend our time in censored and travel together. Helen had left me the address of her casa in censored and told me to meet her there.

I was there, now, in town, considering the following:

• The only bus to censored, my originally intended destination, was scheduled to leave in an hour,
  • but Helen’s casa was at least 15 minutes away by taxi,
    • so a round trip there and back to the bus station would take a half-hour (math!).
• I had no way to contact Helen besides this address where I was supposed to meet her
  • in a huge city I was unfamiliar with
  • where I spoke the language poorly.
• My cash supply was dwindling.
• I’d just met Helen a few nights before,
  • and honestly, we’d made these plans in a bar.
• I was still terribly, terribly hung over.

However,

• Helen was pretty cute.
• And British.

I considered all this for a minute, then ran out with Gavin and Japanese Dreadlock Girl to split a taxi. The driver zeroed in on the address in busy Centro censored, and a sweet old lady showed me up to the 4th floor where I was sure to find Helen waiting for me.

Yet another sweet old lady answered the door. I asked her if Helen was here and she gave me a funny look.

“Elleh?” she said.

“Helen?” I repeated.

Her eyes lit up with recognition. “Ohhhhh, Helen!” She smiled. “No, she’s not here.” Crap. “But come inside. We’ll try to reach her casa in censored.”

I sat down at the kitchen table and began to explain the situation, but she cut me off.

“Your voice sounds hoarse.”

“I suppose I had a long night,” I sheepishly replied, “and my throat is a bit sore.”

“I have just the thing.”

I eyed my watch nervously while she fished through a cabinet, poured a glass of water, and came back with an aluminum tab she’d ripped off a pack of… something. The box looked very old, and I’m pretty sure I saw prescription labelling on the side. “Here, this will make your throat better.”

What’s that? Taking old, suspicious-looking prescription medicine from a complete stranger in the middle of censored is perhaps not a good idea?

Well! (Oh ye of little faith!) Not only did I not pass out and subsequently not wake up in a potato sack, but my throat actually did feel better. I got ahold of Helen by phone (she’d overslept and missed the shuttle), thanked the old lady profusely, rushed back out for a taxi, and arrived at the bus station just in time for my bus to censored.

Walking onto the mostly empty bus, I noticed a pretty girl sitting by herself, and a few guys all strategically arranged in the seats across and behind her, doing their best to appear nonchalant. I hid a small grin, made my way to a seat in the back, and fell asleep.

At a rest stop halfway to censored, I saw a censored woman order a small tub of unlabeled ice cream at the bottom of the shelf, below all the expensive Nestle stuff. I walked up and asked for the same thing. The guy took one look at me and replied, “You don’t want that ice cream.”

I scratched my head. “I don’t? No, I’m pretty sure I do.”

The man behind the counter grabbed one of the tubs. “No, you don’t, see.” He knocked it against the countertop a few times. The ice-cream was rock-solid.

Okay, fine, I can’t buy cigars. But ice cream? This was ridiculous. I walked back outside. One of the nonchalant guys was standing next to the pretty girl; he had his hands in his pockets, making polite conversation. The girl smiled occasionally, but appeared a little absent. I walked past without a word.

Back aboard the bus, I watched an absolutely terrible British horror (British horror, right? Who would have thought?) film about a haunted house and some demon-born fellow killing his sister, or killing a demon, or sleeping with some other person, who was also his sister. I’m not sure. The Spanish subtitles were hilariously injected with censored propaganda.

We arrived in censored a few hours later. I found my casa, ate an embarassing amount of food, and collapsed into my bed at an early hour.

day 37

I woke up at noon, feeling refreshed and clear-headed. I spent the afternoon taking a leisurely stroll around the old town area. I found some peso pizza. A young censored whispered he had black-market cigars for sale. Just for kicks I followed him into a house where a big hairy fellow that everyone called “El Ruso” (the Russian) brought out a big cardboard box from the closet. El Ruso opened the box and pulled out package after package of every cigar brand I could think of. “I have a cousin who works at the factory,” he explained.

That evening, I saw the pretty girl from the bus. She was sitting on the wide steps leading up to la censored. Below us, an old Afro-censored band was playing salsa. I had a beer. The same hands-in-pockets nonchalant guy was sitting next to her. Neither were speaking, and for whatever reason I took this as a cue to sit down next to them. In fact, I didn’t have any intention of having a conversation, but the girl turned and spoke to me as soon as I sat down.

She introduced herself as Claudia, and he Goncalo. Both were from Portugal, and had met just yesterday on the bus. I lied and told them I was Canadian.

“Oh really,” said Claudia, “I work at a lab in McGill!”

“Hey that’s in Massachusetts, right?” I would make a horrible spy.

“No, it’s in Montreal.” Claudia’s expression shifted just slightly. “Where in Canada do you live?”

“Well, I ah,” quick, think of something! “Toronto.”

Below us, dancers twirled and twirled in the most stunningly sensual way, like whirling dervishes with style.

Against my will (to, as some say, not be the Colonel) I found myself in the middle of an engaging conversation. But even though I enjoyed speaking with Claudia, something about her posture seemed rigid. Her tone was polite but distant.

I watched her eyes while she spoke – I could see the glow of coals behind them. They betrayed an otherwise completely solemn visage, etched in stone into the downturn corners of her mouth.