Would you like me better if I was rich, if I was fit?

The area is what people call “not the best part of town”. Over there, there is a baby’s clothes store decorated on 1976, the window displays (proudly?) a few knitted items that make you want to run to Wal-Mart, we can smell the dust, the stagnation and the despair even as we drive by. Further down, there is a Coffee Time, the clientele is a select group of people whose health, luck, fortune and appearance compete furiously for the same adjectives, such a: ‘poor’, ‘terrible’, ‘seen better days’, and ‘despicable’.

The other stores look as helpless, dirty and anachronic as the first ones. People walking on the street were more likely to move you to compassion or fear than to admiration.

From the back seat, our lovely catalan friend says “I don’t like this area much, it makes me feel… I don’t know… down”. V & I smiled at her from our front seats. “Really? Well no wonder, how come you don’t like a dirty, ugly part of town?”

That part of the conversation falls behind, same as that part of town. Music by Sting on the stereo keep us company us as we move along empty streets, cold winter night. As we get closer to home we drive through Yorkville, properly illuminated streets, expensive stores, and prices a few orders of magnitude higher those other areas.

Our catalan friend, says again, with absolutely innocence: “And them for example, this area makes me feel much better. I like it much better”. V & I laughed this time. “Really… the trendiest, best decorated, more exclusive stores in town cheer you up? You prefer them? But why?”

For V&I the answer was screaming at us from so many different directions that it was pointless even to start enumerating the reasons. Why prefer a Cartier store over a bankrupt prone, dirty store, that makes you think of endless evenings hoping for any customer to come in and by anything? Why prefer to watch a young, healthy, fit couple, well dressed and having a good time; over watching an overweight, poorly dressed woman talking to herself and yelling at strangers?

Is only natural. Isn’t it?

But there again. Does that mean that is only natural to prefer to spend time with some friends over others just because ones are more attractive or more successful? Would you like me better if I was rich, if I was fit? If I had publish a few books, dictated conferences and have a six pack under my t-shirt?

Is it normal? Is it right? Is it right because is normal? Maybe our friend was right on not finding the answers as obvious as we did.

Makes me think of that song “That I would be good” by Alanis Morissette:

“that I would be good even if I did nothing
that I would be good even if I got the thumbs down
that I would be good if I got and stayed sick
that I would be good even if I gained ten pounds

that I would be fine even if I went bankrupt
that I would be good if I lost my hair and my youth
that I would be great if I was no longer queen
that I would be grand if I was not all knowing”

Musical Calculator

This is my second trip ever from Mexico City to the sacred city of Teotihuacan, but is pretty obvious that the bus we are riding has gone this path hundreds or perhaps thousands of times before.

Every time the driver switches gears the engine moans like a prehistoric, wounded animal; and there we go, moving forward like there is no tomorrow… And by the sounds of the machine, indeed for this bus perhaps there is no tomorrow.

The air is full of metal and fabric. Really: fabric and metal particles floating in the air. We can’t see them, but bow can we smell them! So many hands and bodies have rubbed against the seats and grabbed the steel handrails of this bus that the molecules on their surface are not just wearing out: they are giving up. Tired of being brushed time and time again, some particles defect their Solid state and jump off, choosing the careless life of being suspended in the air. Do they see their life past before their eyes before they jump off? How many thousands hands grabbing, holding, pressing, rubbing do they see?

In Mexico City, the shortest path between A and B may be a straight line, like in the rest of the world; but no matter how short is the distance between A and B, the path is always, always crowded with people trying to sell you something. Buses, subway, traffic lights, chinampas… it seems that there is a symbiotic relation between transportation and commerce. So the real philosophical question is: if a bus travels across a Mexican forest, and no one is selling anything… does the bus still moves?

There was no much surprise then, when a 40-something year old guy got in the bus and introduced to us the “Musical Calculator”. Are you curious? So were we:

He was, like I said, in his mid forties. Like so many underemployed people in Mexico, he dressed in the dignified way that gives poverty an uncanny resemblance to middle class, without an actual expectation to be the real thing. His hair was carefully combed into order with significant amount of gel; his shirt was white by birth, translucent by use; and he was wearing a tie despite the sun, despite the heat, despite the fucking poverty. Like so many street vendors, his language had a level of formality not heard since the times of royal courts, which makes me wonder if Garcilaso de La Vega has re-incarnated and is writing these speeches.

When he started talking, V & I looked at each other, incredulous. We tried to imagine the story leading to this performance: we pictured him lured to a promised high income by a newspaper add, or an overoptimistic compadre. Then he lands the job, gets a piece of paper with the sales pitch, and spends hours memorizing it: in a tiny living room with plastic table, perhaps in the small bathroom where hot water is an unlikely guest, perhaps at the local cantina. Here is a much abbreviated version of his performance, I can only pay a modest tribute to his art:

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Electronic and Entertainment Imports and yours truly are proud to bring to you The Musical Calculator.

The Musical Calculator is an invaluable piece of engineering accomplishment that should ever be missing at your office. At your desk. At home. At school… The Musical Calculator is operated by solar power, thus you will never have to worry about batteries. The Musical Calculator offers to you the most diverse variety of mathematical computations such as –dramatic pause in between each feature- The Addition… The Subtraction… The Multiplication… The Division... The Square Root… And –grand finale- The Decimal Point”

This went on and on for a while. V & I noticed that The Musical Calculator was musical only in name, as no sound was expected to come out of it, but that was not the point. The point is the way that, in the age of the iPhone, 20 years after the wrist-watch calculator, this guy managed to transmit genuine awe about his beloved product. This guy, apparently, could even make a living by selling it on the buses. He didn’t sell any on that particular one, but that didn’t seem to affect his mood. After walking up and down the isle displaying his product proudly, he left the bus, not before turning to his audience and saying:

“Thanks so much for your kind and generous time, have yourselves the best of evenings”

Teotihuacan, October 2007.

The Cure: My nose vs. Shackleton

Laying down on the operation table, I could see the colorful fishes painted on the ceiling, swimming gaily. Why fishes? Are they the most relaxing thing you can see before surgery? What about threes, or the moon and the starts? I blinked.

When I opened my eyes, I was already in the recovery room. Crap! I was hoping to experience a gradual transition from conscious to unconscious and back, maybe some light at the end of the tunnel. But no, I just blinked and two hours went by, I was in a different room… ah! And there was this pain on my throat and nose.

This was hopefully the last battle on my long war against laryngitis and all throat related diseases. They have been like land mines on my path that too often have ruined my plans. I had already tried everything you can think of: homeopathy, allergy shots, hypnosis, and an amount of drugs that could keep a hip-hop group happy for a year.

So this septoplasty & turbinate reduction was the only thing left, short of voodoo rituals or ceremonial sacrifices in an Aztec pyramid. But there again… have you tried to push needles into a voodoo doll the size and shape of a flu virus? Or for that matter, using an obsidian knife to open my archenemies the dust mite just to find that, like bankers, they don’t have a hearth to offer? So septoplasty it was.

Experiencing hunger and poverty help you understand other people’s actions and motivations. But septoplasty is an experience that had rendered me utterly incapable of understanding why on earth would anyone go through this just for cosmetic reasons! I can’t breathe (like in Mexico city); I can’t talk (like in a nightclub), and I feel just half alive (like when you work and live in Mississauga).

In my particular case most of the pain doesn’t come from the nose, funny enough. It comes from the throat, the very muscle I’m doing this for. Seemingly during the operation they ram a plastic tube down your throat so you can breathe. They were not too gentle.

But there again, hours after the surgery I was watching the documentary “Endurance” about Shackleton’s 1916 expedition to Antarctica. Things started bad when their ship got trapped and then crushed by the ice, and they just got worst: Two years trapped in that white desert, uncommunicated, surviving on seals and penguins, drifting on ice planks, then sailing in precarious lifeboats through violent storms, waves 10 meter high pounding on the small boats. Their clothes soaking in frozen water for days on a row, hungry, tired.

And their final adventure, when the group parted ways on an empty, bare rock island: Shackleton and five others went out to look for help, leaving the rest behind. With barely any food or water, they sailed once more through violent storms for days. Miraculously, they reached the wale hunting island they were looking for, But to get to the wale post they still needed to cross the island, through frozen, bare, rocky mountains. No food, tired, drenched, they started the climb. They could not stop one minute, or they would die right there. Finally, after climbing all night, they found themselves at the peak of a mountain, with a cliff ahead of them. Too late to go back, impossible to move forward. Yet, they knew that if they give up and die, no one would ever know about their friends waiting to be rescued somewhere on a bare rock in the Antarctic. They had no choice but to go on. They peaked into the darkness and jumped, totally blind to what it may lie down below.

At dawn, in the wale hunting post, there was some loud knock at the door. Three semi-human figures stood there, their clothes were just rags from tumbling and sliding down all the way down the mountain. They were asking for a ship to rescue their chums.

I reached out for the remote and paused the documentary, rearranged 3 or 4 of my pillows and pulled the blanket closer to my chin, then I sipped my cup of broth. Yes, quite admirable for Shackleton and company. Still, my throat is in pain. So where is that Tylenol 3, again?

Historical revisionism

Have you ever wanted to travel back in time and change a key event? I have, quite a few times… I mean: I have wanted to do it, quite a few times.

When Hollywood travels back in time (see "Back to the Future") they undo 'evil' by rebuilding the self esteem of a bourgeois suburbanite who still resents not getting the girl in high school, or something along those lines. Utopia can be at hand's reach if your world is narrow enough!

Of course, I can think of a few selfish fantasies for me: maybe go back to the early sixties, create a band and "write" all the hits by the Stones, Beatles, U2, Nirvana, et al.

But that’s not really my cup of tea. Actually, my time travel fantasies are much more megalomaniac. Or I should say my fantasy, since is mainly one, recurring, almost haunting. I've had it since elementary school, when we learned about the demise of the Aztec empire and the eventual genocide of our nation by the Spanish invaders.

“If I could have been be there to warn Emperor Moctezuma! I would have told him that the comet was not an omen. I would have explained that Cortez was a greedy assassin, a religious fanatic, not the fulfillment of the ancient prophesies! Even give some military advice!” And the idea never went away.

How could I help think about it 15 years latter when I stood in the citadel of Monte Alban, that magical complex of stone on the top of a mountain? When I saw see the altered bone fragments in the museum and the guide mentioned that the way they healed proves they were skilled surgeons, including brain surgery. "Alas" he said "we can't really know much more than that, because the extensive libraries of this city were burned by the Spanish after the conquest, claiming that all native writings were diabolic".

The first time I visited Mexico city’s National Museum of Anthropology, an American tourist asked me: “We’ve seen a lot of ceramics, but… where is all the gold?” I uttered bitterly: “In Spain, madam, in Spain”.

A couple of months ago I was watching a documentary about the book "Guns, Germs and Steel", which provides an anthropological explanation for Caucasian race's monopoly on world's power. An explanation that makes a lot of sense: showing the circumstances that enabled white man's colonization of the Americas, South Asia, and Africa.

Very logical, but not less painful.

The documentary dramatized the assassination of Inca's emperor, the brutal butchering of the very same people who created Machu Picchu. I was twisting on my seat, thinking that even if the destruction of Inca and Aztec cultures was logical, it was not inevitable. I watched the actors re-enact play by play, word by word the brief encounters between Atahualpa and the Spanish before the monstrous killing spree started, something inside me was hurting like an echo of an old wound. Like an adult that recalls their parent’s fights and the memory hurts the little kid inside the adult.

My fantasy, thus, was to walk into Atahualpa’s court, tell him about the cruelty, the diseases. But also the science, the science at the other side of the ocean. I could have steer all the continent’s cultures into a powerful league: Incas, Aztec, Maya, Tolteca, Olmeca and Tlaxcatlecas. I would have illustrated the doom awaiting those who took the side of the Spanish: they would suffer slavery for centuries, perhaps millennia. Because of the color of their skin, the shape of their nose, rewarded only with a handful of presents from their soon to be slave drivers. The conquerors gave the ‘new’ world a taste, not just a metaphor, of the apocalypse they brought along with their Bible.

I could have helped their states grow and adopt the science of the west, promote literacy, ecological sustainability, foster an alternative culture, an option to the monolithic power of European countries in the world. A world with a strong, rich culture, unique roots, completely different, totally American.

And then, a few weeks ago I was walking on the Avenue of the Dead in Teotihuacan, just north of Mexico City, I was mentally editing my master plan for XV century Tenochtitlan, polishing subtle points such as intercontinental trade, state vs. private owned industries, and foreign investment. Lord Tonatiuh was shinning bright in the middle of the sky as I walked by his pyramid, leaving behind me the temple of the Moon… it was right then, right there, with such witnesses that I realized that my utopia was race based.

The conquerors were brutal and diabolical not because they were Spanish, but because they were ignorant and powerful. The state I was dreaming of would be utopian not because it would be formed by the likes of Moctezuma and Atahualpa, but because the ideas that would shape them (ideas with the benefit of five centuries experience). The massacre and slavery of the American cultures was a catastrophe because it was an extreme case of abuse of the powerful over the powerless, an extreme case of cultural devastation, not because victim’s blood was my own.

So, what exactly would it change if I could travel back in time, one step ahead of the genocide?

Perhaps today we would see the same universal difference between haves and not haves. Same story, different characters. Perhaps time and power would have made the Aztecs as corrupt as the Spanish were. If such was the case: what would have been gained? What difference does it make if the richest person on the world is the white geek Bill Gates or the complex Mexican with Syrian background Carlos Slim? Does it make a difference to the millions condemned to poor education and poor health care due to the corruption and inefficiency of their statesman? When hundreds of millions are systemically doomed to misery generation after generation, it doesn’t really matter if they are white, maya or black.

If the point is to be in a time and place where you can help avoiding great suffering, then there is no need to go back in time. Construction of utopia can start from so many places when ‘we’ becomes a vastly populated word.

So maybe I could use my ticket to the world than once was to visit the sixties, after all. How would you like to hear Strawberry Fields Forever with a Mexican accent? Oh, well… in some other page I may discuss a couple of characters from the past that I would love to meet. One is Jesus Christ, influential guy to say the least. But more than him, I would give anything to be able to look into the eyes of the man or woman who, dozens of thousands years ago, was the first person to realize that there is such a thing called “time”. The very first one to think about Chronos.

Toronto November 2007

Democracia apiaira, o ‘Voto por voto, colmena por colmena’

Democracia apiaira, o ‘Voto por voto, colmena por colmena’

Ésta va para mi hermano Fausto, por una conversación que dejamos a medias. Un comentario sobre poder y democracia en el mundo de las abejas. Del libro “Animal Minds” (2001) de Donald Griffin, capítulo 10:

Digamos que eres una abejita trabajadora, inspiradora de sellos para recompensar a los alumnos de kindergarten laboriosos. Pero la crisis está dura, por más que vuelas a diestra y siniestra, llevas horas sin encontrar buen polen y las otras trabajadoras, las que se encargan de procesar la comida que traes al panal, te están mirando malencaradas, con las patas delanteras cruzadas y pateando el piso con rítmica impaciencia.

En eso, otra de tus compañeras exploradoras se para en el techo del panal, y comienza a hacer un complicado paso de conga con mucha enjundia. Tú y todas las otras abejas tienen que prestar mucha atención a la coreografía. Porque la danza apiara es su medio de comunicación, con tanta riqueza semántica como un mapa del metro.

Básicamente, la longitud de la coreografía indica la distancia del panal a la comida; el ángulo de la trayectoria descrita al bailar indica la posición de la fuente alimenticia, siendo el mismo ángulo que el ángulo entre la posición actual del sol y el objetivo descrito (es decir, no ‘apuntan’ a una dirección, sino la codifican de acuerdo a un referente de orientación). Finalmente, la energía del baile indica qué tan prometedor es el alimento de acuerdo a qué materia prima es más necesaria para el panal en ése momento.

¿Y qué tiene que ver esto con el poder y la democracia?

Pues bien, cuando un panal está saturado. La Reina decide que es momento de establecer una nueva colonia. Aquí suceden dos cosas interesantes. Una: las obreras comienzan a alimentar a ciertas larvas con un tipo de comida distinto. Y como resultado, algunas de ésas larvas no se desarrollan como obreras, sino como Reinas. La misma larva, que en cualquier otra circunstancia hubiera crecido para ser obrera, ésta vez es nutrida para convertirse, fisiológica y funcionalmente en un ser distinto: La Reina. No voluntad propia ni sed de gloria, sino porque eso es lo que la sociedad necesita.

Más de una larva se empieza a desarrollar como Reina, el viejo panal no puede arriesgarse a quedarse sin reina cuando la vieja parta a establecer una nueva colonia. Por ello requieren varias candidatas. Pero una vez que la primera Reina se ha desarrollado, su primera función es irrumpir en las cámaras de las otras reinas en desarrollo y asesinarlas. El panal no puede tener más de una Reina.

Y aquí es cuando el ejercicio de la democracia comienza:

La vieja reina y una parte significativa del enjambre salen del panal. Y comienza la búsqueda por un nuevo hogar. Mientras el grueso del enjambre se queda esperando, varias exploradoras van y buscan una cavidad suficientemente limpia, seca, segura y sin insectos, como para establecerse.

Al regresar, comienzan una danza similar a la que hacen para indicar comida, pero ahora claramente hablan sobre posibles refugios. Las distintas exploradoras bailan con distintos grados de excitación de acuerdo a la calidad del lugar encontrado. Varias exploradoras van a visitar los otros sitios descritos por sus colegas y al regresar “bailan” su reporte. Progresivamente, muchas cambian su baile para indicar la locación más idónea, aunque no sea la que ellas encontraron. Y en muchos casos, las abejas que se unen al baile del sitio ganador nunca lo han visitado. Se rigen por la información proveída por sus colegas. Finalmente, cuando la mayoría está bailando al mismo son durante un rato, La Reina y el enjambre se dirigen a la locación indicada a construir su nuevo hogar.

Los pacientes (demasiado quizá) investigadores, notaron que nunca una abeja que haya empezado a bailar sobre la localidad más deseable (y eventualmente ganadora) cambia a indicar otra menos deseable. Y las abejas que bailaban por un sitio menos deseable, o cambiaron su baile al que se refería al sitio más deseable, o simplemente dejaron de bailar.

Creo que en sus decisiones, la premisa de que lo que es bueno para la colmena es bueno para el individuo nunca entra en consideración. El individuo jamás es elemento en la ecuación. Cada abeja busca solamente lo que es mejor para la colmena.

Faltaría saber cómo logró la evolución producir un comportamiento tan complejo, cuáles fueron sus pasos intermedios. ¿Hubo algún Pericles de la democracia apiara hace veinte millones de años? ¿Dónde está su estatua de cera?

Los mismos barrios, nuevas experiencias

Prácticamente se nos acabó el verano, pero el fin de semana pasada alcancé a robarle un par de momentos a la ciudad.

Primero, recogí de la sala de hospital (Duke’s bike) a my precious, mi Cinder Kona, ya rehabilitada con ruedas nuevas que reponen las que unos “#$% le birlaron. Pasear en bicicleta me reconcilia con el género humano y con las distintas encarnaciones de mis tres décadas y media. ¿Qué ruta seguir?, ¿por donde empezar? Las opciones eran la orilla del lago, azul agua, azul cielo; las rutas de montaña, sudor, adrenalina y vegetación cerrada; o alguna de las múltiples rutas urbanas.

Al final me decidí por una nueva ruta urbana, que en el mapa ciclista de Toronto es la 33/35: Old Forrest Hill. Atravesar la ciudad a través de uno de los barrios más caros, pasando por cuadra tras cuadra de casas descaradamente señoriales, tiene varios efectos en mi. Primero que nada, me llena de una inexplicable y tremenda energía; también me da envidia, mezclada con un ligero desconsuelo de darme cuenta que no estoy encarrilado hacia, ni tengo un plan para llegar millonario; por otro lado me tranquiliza saber que aunque me gustaría tener la posibilidad, en realidad no me sentiría a gusto vivir en un caserón así, en un barrio así. Pero sobre todo, me recuerda mis paseos ciclistas en Guadalajara, que tanto me hicieron reflexionar sobre la ciudad, sobre las clases sociales, sobre el infinito número de diferentes estilos de vida, ambientes, elecciones que una sola ciudad ofrece, y me hacían sentir abrumado al no saber cuál era mi ruta óptima. Cada que se elige algo, se rechazan mil alternativas.

Luego el domingo nos aventuramos a un parque acuático donde casi hago mi primer strip-tease cuando la velocidad de la caída por un tobogán cardiaquísimo redujo mi traje de baño a jirones.

Más tarde, a recomendación de una de mis múltiples amigas argentinas, la Paradiso y yo nos apersonamos (en bicicleta) en Cherry Beach, a disfrutar de una batucada brasileña que marcaba el cierre de de los espontáneos happenings que al parecer suceden todo el verano en dicha playa. Había tanto hippie, tanto brasileño, tanta mariguana, tanto baile y tanta buena vibra que parecíamos estar en una recóndita playa caribeña, no a tiro de piedras del centro financiero de Canadá.

Ya en la casa, a eso de las dos de la mañana empiezo a escuchar ruido como de banda militar y fuegos artificiales. ¿A esta hora? ¿En Toronto? Traté de ver por la ventana para ver si había algún festival en Queen’s Park, pero sería imposible, jamás hubieran tenido permiso para quedarse a ésa hora. Intuyendo lo que pasaba, y muerto de curiosidad, rápidamente me vestí con lo primero que encontré a la mano y bajé corriendo a recorrer el laberinto de edificios del campus de la Universidad de Toronto. Escuchando un tambor aquí y una trompeta allá, comprobé que el ruido no venía de un solo lugar: con la cara y el cuerpo pintados de morado, con sus distintivos cascos y overles, los alumnos de ingeniería (SKUL) iban de edificio en edificio a dar serenata con su ruidosa banda, interpretando clásicos como “Can you show me the way to sesame Street?” y provocando que todas las ventanas de la residencia estudiantil en turno se encendieran y curiosos rostros se asomaran a ver que sucedía. Algunos, a mitad de su propia fiesta, bajaban a hacer alboroto un rato. Bienvenidos al ciclo escolar 2007-2008,

Seguí a la banda un rato, pero luego me sentí sin vela en el entierro. Era una celebración de estudiantes. Me senté en una banca en un área abierta entre una capilla y varios de mis edificios favoritos de la universidad. La noche era cálida en todos los aspectos. Las estrellas estaban tranquilas. En un homenaje a la seguridad de la ciudad, estudiantes de ambos sexos pasaban tranquilamente junto a mí, a ésa hora, sin sentirse amenazados en lo más mínimo por un tipo sentado en una banca.

Me puse a disfrutar realmente la arquitectura del lugar, los árboles, el cielo. La Universidad a las 3 de la mañana. Todo esto a mi alcance tan seguido, como la ruta 33/35, como el parque acuático, como cherry beach… ¡Y tan pocas veces que los visito! Hay que poner mayor empeño en vencer a la rutina.

Mi encuentro con Juan Salvador Gaviota

Las reglas de los parques son simples: si hay una parvada de palomas, habrá también un niño que se lance corriendo tras ellas, y las palomas responderán levantando el vuelo. ¿Estamos todos de acuerdo? Al parecer no.

Ayer fui a un recorrido ciclista con un amigo: 56 kilómetros en total. Pasamos por el área de “Las Playas”, que realmente hacían a uno pensar que estaba de vacaciones en destino tropical: centenares de jóvenes disfrutando del sol, vendedores de helado, el agua inconspicuamente azul. Claro que la arena es demasiado pedregosa y el lago demasiado contaminado para nadar. Pero igual la imagen es una postal de verano en la playa, gaviotas incluidas.

Cuando vi la multitud de gaviotas peleándose por un pedazo de comida en el camino, me imaginé pasando entre ellas en mi bicicleta como Moisés en el mar rojo, un ejército de aves levantándose a mi paso. No reduje la velocidad ni un ápice. De pronto, me veo envuelto en una confusión de plumas, graznidos, y todo sucedió en una fracción de segundo: descubro a la gaviota gandalla, que llevaba la comida en su pico, demasiado ocupada en defender su botín para darse cuenta que yo ya estaba a menos de un metro. Extendió sus alas para levantar el vuelo y ¡CRACK! Con un tronido estentóreo mi llanta delantera le pasó por el ala y rompió sus huesos. O quizá yo iba girando hacia ella para esquivar otro pájaro. No sé. El sonido llegó a mis oídos amplificado, sonó como si se hubiera partido un yate a la mitad. Se hizo un silencio sepulcral: todas las demás gaviotas se quedaron quietas y calladas. Mi víctima soltó un par de graznidos débiles y, demasiado tarde, dio un par de saltitos para quitarse del camino. Ni una gaviota parecía recordar la comida que instantes antes peleaban con tanto entusiasmo.

Mi amigo comentó “¡De que manera tan espantosa le quedo doblada el ala! ¡Nunca más podrá volar! Esa gaviota va a morir.” Y yo con mi cara de “yo no fui”. ¿Qué hacer ahora? Ni modo de pararme a leerle pasajes de “Juan Salvador Gaviota” y recordarle que el único límite está en la mente y gritarle “¡sé libre, vuela!” con la música de la película de fondo. Me alejé de ahí aturdido y culpable.

¿Cómo se hace la oda a una víctima de tu propio descuido?

Soccer World Cup ticket. It was 21 years ago today!

My friend Jelena gave us a couple of tickets for the opening game in Toronto of the Soccer World Cup for players under 20. I absolutely loved to be there… the green field, the lights, the crowd.

It was Canada day, and it was a Canadian experience. It wasn’t the typical soccer crowd, yelling imaginative description of the sex life of the player’s mothers, throwing bottles filled with piss to the pit, and trying to beat the crap out of whoever sports a shirt of the visiting team. Nothing of that sort.

Instead, in the Canadian world cup, there are kids all over the place, seats are comfy and even have a cup folder for your beer. Parents explain to the kids that the Canadian team may loose “but that’s not what matters”. As the crowd chanted inanely: “go team”, “good job” and “wakey, wakey”, I started thinking about my other world cup experience.

It was 21 years, and 2 weeks ago. Brazil, the mighty, unreal and legendary Brazil was playing in Guadalajara and I was at home about to watch the transmission. I must have uttered something about the irony of having the stadium so close and having to watch the game on tv. On the spot, my mom offered to buy a ticket for me.

I froze. We weren’t too tight on money, but… But it was 1986, I was about to turn 14, I had already developed a deep urge for independence. Despise a bunch of odd jobs, my savings were meager to non-existent, and the idea of getting money from my mother for luxury items (anything except food, clothes and school) triggered strong feelings of guilt and embarrassment. Yet… it was Brazil playing!

“At least let’s go and find out if we still can get one” she insisted. So we took the bus to the stadium, instantly a scalper spotted us. I don’t recall the price, but I remember my mom opening her purse and buying a single ticket. I couldn’t feel guiltier if she would have been handing me the only piece of meat at Christmas dinner. At the game I had an amazing time. Brazil nailed the polish 4-0, there was a rooster running in the court and the whole security guards chased it as the crowd chanted “ole! ole!” more interested on the rooster’s dribbling than that of the players on the other side of the field.

I don’t remember the goals. My clearest recollection of that day is climbing up the long, long stairs to the top of the stadium (it was a nose bleeder seat), and just before getting through the gate, I looked down and out: my mom was still standing there, and she waved at me.

I waved back.

Un par de esquís

Tengo pendiente hacer una lista de las cosas que me hacen sentirme orgulloso de mi mismo. Todos debemos sacar el argentino que llevamos dentro en algún momento, es justo y necesario. Como ejercicio de memoria, de autoconcepto, y por puritito gusto.

Ya cerrando Junio, acercándome a mis 35, encontré otro momento que seguro va a la lista. En un lago al norte de Toronto, sentado en el muelle estuve viendo a mis amigos intentar aprender a hacer esquí acuático, repitiendo varias veces la misma secuencia: ponerse en posición, la lancha arrancaba, y el amateur en turno se volvía un garabato en el agua durante un momento antes de dejar ir la cuerda con frustración.

Para sorpresa propia y ajena, en mi primer intento logré poner los esquís paralelos, la lancha arrancó, y obedeciendo puntualmente las leyes de Newton, la fricción me sacó del agua y me mantuvo en la superficie. Ya luego le dimos toda la vuelta triunfal al lago. Un pequeño paso para el hombre, pero un buen levantón para el ego.