Continuing with my "what should I write about" series, movies I've seen recently:

1. Trumbo - I liked it. I don't think it got enough play and I don't remember anything in the Oscars. I love all that has to do with that period of U.S. history. Such a shameful time! And yet, so exciting. Cranston was good as Trumbo and Helen Mirren - evil. But good.

2. Eye in the Sky - another movie with Helen Mirren. She must be really busy these days. I didn't want to go see it but David talked me into it. It was better than I expected but also kind of a shameful situation. I loathe those drones and the innocent people they kill. How can anyone approve of such acts? Completely evil. If you want to confront your enemy, do it in person. Don't send a little robot to kill them anonymously.

3. Mad Dogs - not a movie but a series on Amazon. Weird. Brutal. Just strange but addictive. Good actors. Has anyone else watched it?

More later...

So, what do I want to write about? the books I'm reading? the movies I saw recently? the work I've been doing with youth in crisis? the class I'm teaching at The Newberry Library? the trip I'll be taking next month? all of the above? none of the above?

Since I can't hear anybody's choice, I'll start with the first option and continue.

Books I'm reading (I always read more than one book at a time - I don't exactly know why but I suspect it's because I like too many things at the same AND I get bored easily) :

1. The Travelers by Chris Pavone - I read his previous novel, The Expats - and liked it a lot. I just started this one but it promises to be thrilling and entertaining. 

2. A the Existentialist Cafe: Freedom, Being, and Apricot Cocktails with Jean-Paul Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, Albert Camus, Martin Heidegger, Maurice Merleau-Ponty and others by Sarah Bakewell - since my father told me about the existentialists and their philosophy and their life when I was a young girl I've been enamored of the ideas. I've just started this one too. I think it will be educational and I hope I don't get tired of it. But then - existentialists believe in choice. I have the choice of not reading if I don't want to.

3. Lucia Perillo's poetry - her writing is smooth, sensual, entertaining, sometimes funny, down-to-earth, powerful. I'm thinking of returning to writing poetry, so - I thought this would be a good way to come back to the fold.

Is that enough? 

FROM THE LODGE TO CHICAGO

Samai Lodge is way up a hill, in the cloud forest. Our cabin is surrounded by trees with birds and insects flying around. No drapes on the windows so we can see nature in all its glory at all times of day and night. Actually, the insects can be a bit of a problem. We have bites everywhere.
The pool is all mine since we are the only guests for now. We walk around the lodge and see the other cabins here and there.

The next day we go to Montanita, a seaside village known for its good surf. And for the madness of sex, drugs, and rock&roll. Hundreds of young people arrive to hang out, surf, meet. It's cheap and friendly. Noisy. Almost a throwback to the 60s.

Back at the lodge we have dinner with two new guests and play cards. The next day, as we prepare to leave, I fall down a number of steps - rough steps made of stones and rocks. I hit my head twice on the stones and land finally where David is frantic. How am I going to get out of here I think. I don't pass out or black out. People start coming to help: what to do? bring the first aid kit! where are the band aids? bring a washcloth to clean her wounds! A group of young men who work nearby fashion a stretcher out of a canvas and carry me up to the reception area where they deposit me on a sofa. I'm bleeding from my leg, elbow, face, scratches on my side, arms, I'm a mess.

A doctor is brought up who checks me and declares I'm ok. Not really but we must leave. With gauze and band aids all over we travel to Guayaquil for three hours in a car. When I walk into the hotel I have to explain to the receptionist and bellboys why I look like I do. I spend the afternoon in bed while David goes to sightsee a bit. That evening I venture out to the malecon and we take a trike ride up and down the malecon. It's really awesome! The next day we take a tour bus to see Guayaquil a bit more. I really don't feel like traipsing around on my own two feet. Besides, it's hot and humid. And it rains.

We leave Guayaquil and fly to Cuenca. The hotel is grand but I'm not in the mood. We go to the Centro Historico one day and the next day we take a tour bus again. Those buses are good to get an idea of a city. And I don't have to walk. I realize I'm ready to go home and Cuenca doesn't look so interesting to us. We fly home on Wednesday - an all day affair, from 8 in the morning to past midnight.

My left eye is black, my wounds still need tending, but I'm slowly recuperating. My back hurts a lot however. And it will hurt for a long time.

I'm glad I saw Ecuador. But I'm even gladder to be home.

FROM THE HIGHLANDS TO THE COAST

After Quito we fly to Manta, leaving the high altitude for the Pacific coast. There is nothing to do in Manta, so we drive south to Puerto Lopez, a "ramshackle town" as The Lonely Planet describes it. We are here because we want to go to Isla de la Plata ("the poor man's Galapagos" as TLP says) but it turns out the expedition to the island would be difficult and long. That night we go to a restaurant recommended by some Americans that is high up in a lodge. The view is fantastic. The bugs continue to annoy us.

Instead of Isla de la Plata we go to Salango, a small fishing village, the next day. The taxi driver takes us to his cousin for a tour of the island but there aren't enough people that day to make it profitable. I sit in a hammock under a tarp and watch the waves roll in and out. It's too hot and humid. Fishing vessels abound. David is restless and goes for a walk after dealing with a lady who wants to give us a tour with her son's boat. She insists. But wants too much for it. We pass and finally she leaves us alone. After a long time I hear David calling my name. He's in a truck, coming to fetch me.

He found a restaurant whose owner is a Canadian named Melody. It's cooler inside and the food is good. Then her husband gives us a tour of Salango island where we see the "famous" blue-footed boobies (which are the reason we came to this country), frigate birds, pelicans. Many of each on the rocks, in the water. The tiny power boat shakes more than I like it. We wear orange safety vests. The sailors assure me it's fine. Upon our return to land I call the taxi driver to take us back to our hotel in Puerto Lopez. The hotel is good, facing the ocean. We hear the waves all night. We see the blue waters all day. I spend the next day at the pool, playing cards, reading.

Samai Lodge sounds wonderful. Can't wait to get there.

QUITO: la mitad del mundo

Today we complete our first week in Ecuador.

It seems like we've been here for a month, not just a week. When you travel to new places and see new vistas, time slows down. All appears in slow motion. And the hours and days last longer than normal.

In Quito the altitude - 9,000 feet - did a number on me. I knew it, I was expecting it, and took some precautions. Drink a lot of water they say. I did. Take an ibuprofen. I did. Yet my breath was so shallow every time I went outside the hotel, I had to walk very slow and wait a while to recuperate. The first day we took a tour on one of those hop on-hop off buses. Hoping off at El Panecillo to have lunch seemed like a marvelous idea. And it was: good food, awesome views of the city below. But when, after lunch, I had to climb the stairs up from the restaurant to the road where the bus was waiting, I thought I was going to die. I couldn't breathe. It was like a big rock sat on my chest. I barely made it to the bus and sat down, trying to catch my breath, a breath that was very stingy, very slow. After 5 days in Quito I still had difficulty with the altitude.

"La Mitad del Mundo" (The Middle of the World) is my favorite attraction - a museum where you can see how the water goes down the drain in different directions, depending where you are; where you weigh less because the Equator bulges; where you try to balance an egg on the head of a nail (I'm not sure what that proves); and, obviously, the line, the famous line, where we all stand with one foot in the Northern Hemisphere and one foot on the Southern.

We left the city for Manta, a port on the Pacific. I've never been so glad to be at sea level!
Here we stay with our friends for a couple of days before heading south to Puerto Lopez and the islands.

YOU EAVESDROP ON A CONVERSATION: Flash fiction

     You eavesdrop on a conversation. Two young women are talking about a guy. Their voices are high and annoying, they whine. Both wear pink shirts and black pants. Young stupid women are the bane of your life. Never been able to ask one out. And the one time you did – she laughed in your face and left. Young stupid women who wear pink are the pests of society. They should be put to sleep. They should not be allowed to breed.

     You eavesdrop on a conversation between two young women who wear pink shirts in a café. The café where you come every day to read and write your stories. The same café you’ve been coming to for years. Where do these two get off – coming to your café and spoiling your afternoon? Don’t they know anything? Of course not, they’re stupid young women who wear pink. Who wears pink anyway? It’s disgusting. Like strawberry ice cream that melts between your fingers. Like bubble gum stuck under your shoe. Pink is the color of Pepto Bismol and shortcake and salmon. Pink is not a human color. Should be banned.

     You cannot help but eavesdrop on their conversation. They speak loudly. You become more and more annoyed. Angrier and angrier. You’d like to tell them: “shut up! You freaks. Shut up and crawl back to the hole you came out of.” You’d like to smack them and shut them up for good. The conversation drives you madder and madder. Until you have no choice. You have to destroy them. You have to bring peace back to the café. You have to do what’s right. No one else has the guts. No one else but you.

YOU HEAR CHURCH BELLS: Flash Fiction

            You’re surprised to hear church bells in the distance. You thought the church had been demolished a long time ago. In a strange way, the bells are comforting. Unusual for an atheist.  Must be the memories of church bells during your childhood. The neighborhood. The friends. Suddenly the memories flood you and you have to sit down for a moment, on a stoop.

            The church bells take you back to the old days when everyone knew everyone else, doors were never locked, you and your best friend Ralph were inseparable.  I wonder what happened to him you say out loud. Ralph was great. He had no fears. You liked to follow him around, imitate him. Your mother used to warn you about that but you never paid attention to her. You were spoiled, her favorite son. Her only son in a family of girls. Five girls…geez…you were the golden boy.

            You’re listening to the bells when the door behind you opens. Excuse me someone says. I’m sorry you reply and get up. I’m sorry. I felt faint for a moment you explain to the lady looking at you suspiciously. You start to walk again, down the block to the 711 to buy cigarettes and a six-pack.

            You walk out of the 711 with the six-pack under your arm and a cigarette in your mouth. Stopping to light it you realize the church bells have stopped tolling. You inhale deeply and blow the smoke out of your nose, cross the street, smile. You’re going home to drink and forget the neighborhood, Ralph, your mother.

            That’s what grown men do. They drink. They forget. They forget until they’re forgotten.