The Double Decker Bus

“Never See Come See- Someone who has recently been exposed to anything new, and who overdoes it to ridiculous proportions”- Côté ci Côté la

The Coomotor Bus Company has recently added a new bus to its fleet: the Navette XL, a double decker bus that seats about 50 persons. Last week, I had the chance to travel from Bogotá to Neiva in the new bus, which was exciting. My excitement, however, had nothing on that of my fellow passengers and non-passengers alike. Theirs was one of dawning wonder and truly gave new meaning to the phrase: never see, come see.

It was a little after three on a chilly Wednesday afternoon in Bogotá, and I was seated in the VIP Waiting Room, updating my mother as to my whereabouts. I had been on the phone for all of 10-minutes when it happened. There was a delighted scream from the little girl behind me, and the animated gestures of an employee as he pointed to something outside. As I rubbed my ears, I instinctively turned to look through the glass. There it was: the Navette XL.

The latest addition was blue, gigantic, and had a number of words and insignia superimposed on its side. I noted that the driver was seated on the lower floor, and the entrance was situated in the middle of the bus. The bus hostess was a cheery, almost plump woman, who exited the bus looking very pleased with herself. Apparently, she had just been named, “Miss Double Decker” at the company’s annual beauty pageant.

The reactions from those seated in the waiting area were varied and ridiculous. One girl was standing on her seat, jumping up and down, trying in vain to catch a glimpse. One man almost walked into the glass door as he stared avidly at the great, blue marvel. The supervisor abandoned his afternoon snack long enough to look around at the reactions. As he did, he smiled to himself and nodded his head, probably thinking, “That’s exactly what we expected!”

I was snapped out of my reverie by the hostess’ announcement that it was time to board. People hastily grabbed their bags or puppy carriers, hugged family members, and rushed to get on the bus. I suppose the notion of forming a line was lost on them. On entering the bus, I noticed that the lower level was much smaller than the upper one. Persons who were not seated on the upper level, came up anyway to see what it looked like, and commented on the grandeur, loudly.

The scene outside was straight out of the movie, Titanic. The onlookers had assembled with their cameras, iPads or Smartphones, taking photos of the bus. One family decided to have a photo shoot and executed a number of poses, while the photographer- an employee at the terminal- snapped away. A woman seated in another bus that was easily dwarfed by the other, peered out of her window and looked upwards, mouth agape at the sheer size of the Navette XL.

Meanwhile, a new wave of astonishment and dumb questions had broken out inside. The perpetrators were three middle aged women, named Doña Maria, Doña Astrid, and Doña Julia. Doña Maria was the only one travelling that day, but the other two women came up to ensure that she was seated. Doña Astrid was completely taken aback by the size of the bus. She came upstairs, her head moving in dizzying circles as she took in, and gave her opinion about everything, from the seating arrangements to the large windows to the location of the fire extinguisher and emergency exits. She proceeded to measure the bus, walking up and down and touching things as if she were a surveyor of all things double deckered.

Doña Julia, who was helping Doña Maria get settled, started asking questions like, “Did they put two buses together to make this one?” , “I wonder what would happen if the top half fell off?” , “I wonder if Coomotor would create a triple decker bus next?” and “Where could I get a ticket to travel on this bus?” Suddenly, the bus lurched forward as the driver started the engine, and Doñas Astrid and Julia realized that they were not supposed to be on board. They hastily wished Doña Maria a feliz viaje, and with one, last glance, vanished.

Pretty soon, the bus was on its way out of the terminal, while its fervent admirers looked on, waved, or took more photos. Doña Astrid could be seen making the sign of the cross then, blowing a kiss to her friend. As the bus headed southward out of Bogotá, its admirers increased. Passersby on motorcycles, in cars and other small buses, could not hide their shock.

All of a sudden, their excitement became exhausting. I pulled the curtain across the window, settled in and dozed off to sleep. It came as no surprise that I had a dream about The Titanic.

Until the next post.

HELLO 2013!

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

I think I was drunk on either happiness or the four glasses of rum and coke that I had. Being the walking contradiction that I am; I was in a drunken stupor, but fully aware of my surroundings. I was in the south of Bogotá, enjoying the company of those lovely people who I have come to regard as my Colombian family. We had just welcomed the New Year; we hugged, we wished each other all the best, and we ate 12 grapes each while simultaneously making wishes. I had already spoken to my family back home an hour earlier, and was happy to know that they were fine and did not break away from our New Year tradition, although I was not there. As my New Year high started to wear off and I zoned out of the conversation that the others were having, I started to think about the year that was.

2012: the year that the Mayans predicted the end of the world, and Obama was re-elected the President of the United States. It was the year that I successfully completed my First Degree and graduated from the University of the West Indies, was given another opportunity to live and work in Colombia, came to understand and truly accept myself for who I am, and learned the true meaning of family and friendship. Most importantly, it was the year that I fell in love with Rihanna and her music, again. 

So, what does 2013 hold for me? It may be a bit premature, but I will dub this year: the Year of Garvin because I hope to become a better version of myself, become more marketable, live up to my full potential, experience new things, and start my post graduate studies. Under these broad topics, I've started to create my list of resolutions, which I intend to stick to for the first time in 23 years. Below, I share a few that I've come up with, thus far. 

I want to lead a healthier lifestyle. I have been saying this forever, but it truly hit me recently just how unfit I am. I mean, climbing two flights of stairs leaves me gasping for breath, two minutes of table tennis gives me quasi- cardiac arrest, my belly hangs over my pants when I button it, and my legs rub together. Sometimes, I eat bread, juice, and chocolates all day. Plus, my idea of being active is washing wares! Basically, something needs to be done. I have been thinking about ways that I can become more active; I can join a gym, take a dance class, practice some form of organized sport, or start jogging on mornings. Also, I should change my diet. 

I need to become more spiritual. I feel like the journey of self discovery and acceptance I undertook in 2012 sort of took me away from God. I've come to accept that I'm not religious, but that doesn't mean that I don't believe in God. Thus, the fact that I don't pray often is troubling to me, since I feel ungrateful. I mean, God has been so good to me, and the people I care about. I should give thanks, build this relationship, and re-connect with the Father. 

I need to become more disciplined. For years, my teachers and closest friends have been telling me the same thing. However, I think it was my thesis adviser who really put things into perspective for me, and helped me to commit myself to realizing this goal. She told me that the only thing I was lacking is self-discipline and that I would need to develop this skill if I am to ever reach my full potential. Yikes! I started taking baby steps in 2012 by timing myself doing mundane tasks, like taking a shower or the amount of time I spent on Facebook. I have been getting better, and I feel the change. I suppose my challenge where self discipline is concerned for 2013 is to apply it to the studies I hope to undertake. 

I don't want to bore you with more details of my Year of Garvin plan so, I will end this blog post after a few words. These words are: Happy 2013 to all my readers! I hope that all your dreams come true.

CHAO!

Night Time Musings of A Garvin: Growing Apart

As we go on, we remember

All the times we had together

And as our lives change, come whatever

We will still be friends forever

- Vitamin  C

I haven’t spoken to my best friend in a week. Yes, a week is only seven days, but when you're that close to someone and are accustomed to speaking to them every day, a week can seem like a century. Although I know that he's busy, I can’t help but feel abandoned. I have so much to tell him and he has no time to hear about any of it. The fact that we're in the same country only makes matters worse. I have begun to ask myself: "Is this it? Have we reached that moment when we begin to grow apart? Is life taking us in different directions?" Right now, all signs point to yes.

I should have expected it, after all this has happened to me before. It begins after every graduation ceremony: the photos are taken, farewells are said, and promises of “I’ll keep in touch” are made. At the beginning, it's easy to stay in touch. Then, it gets harder. Life happens; you make new acquaintances, fall in love, and grow.

Maybe, we have reached that moment in our lives? I mean, we have just graduated from UWI, photos were taken, and promises were made. The calls were frequent at the beginning, but now, they are few and far between; verging on non-existent. I want to be angry, but I suppose that I understand. He has his life, his own priorities, his own world view, his own personality, his own plans, and so do I. Growing apart must be inevitable, so why not accept it?

Maybe, it’s a sign of more to come? Pretty soon, we will both be embarking on post graduate studies, perhaps in different parts of the world, and/or in different disciplines. Or worse yet, we fall in love, and only have time, energy, and credit on our phones for that special person. So yeah, this all makes sense. It is most definitely a dress rehearsal for the most emotional role of my life: Losing My Best Friend.

I end up on Facebook, choosing to quiet my thoughts by scrolling through my News Feed. I come across a photo from an acquaintance, and like a sign from God, everything seems better. You see, the acquaintance and the other three people in her photo have been friends for 14 years. They were a few years ahead of me at Secondary School. Once they graduated, some went on to University while others got married, had children or travelled. Yet, they managed to remain the best of friends.

It was an example that good friends never truly grow apart. I can think of other lifelong friends I have had the pleasure of knowing, like my Daddy and Uncle Bobby, or my Granny and Miss Judy. Why not follow their example? If this friendship is so important, I should make every effort to keep in touch. I have to accept that life is unpredictable; you live and grow every day, but good friends are also part of that journey. We can either grow apart or adapt to the changes that life brings. I choose the latter, that is, to share all of life's moments with, not only him, but all of my closest friends, as long as they will have me. A weird sense of inner peace has come over me, and I resolve to call him tomorrow, send emails to my other friends or post on Facebook walls. Wow, Vitamin C had a point!

Birth Night!

Go Garvin, it's your BIRTHDAY!

On Thursday, October 4th, 2012, I celebrated my 23rd birthday. I thanked God for life, and spent the majority of the day reflecting on the year that was and what I hoped to achieve this year. When I wasn't reflecting, I was being showered with birthday greetings, well wishes, and kisses from students and staff alike. My family and best friends called me, my favourite class sang me "Happy Birthday", and the teachers invited me to dinner. While all this was happening, my Facebook wall was alive with more birthday greetings from close friends, associates, and those who were reminded by the social networking site. Overall, by my standards, it was a quiet day. This fact didn't bother me because I knew that the next night, I was going to unleash my inner bacchanalist.

It was Friday, October 5th, 2012, the time was 9:30PM, and I was on the back of a motorcycle for the umpteenth time. I was on my way to a friend's house to await the taxi cab that would take us to Club Zouk. You see, my friend is also a Libra, and decided to invite me to an event that her friend was hosting. The idea was that we would celebrate our birthdays together; my ticket had been bought, so I thought, "Why not?" We would be joined by her boyfriend, some of his friends, and her friend who was supposed to be my date for the night. Eventually, we were on our merry way, trying to convince the cab driver to come back for us at sunrise.

As soon as the cab dropped us off at Zouk, I found myself wishing that he could come back in ten minutes instead of at sunrise. I mean, this disco had to be the shabbiest dance club in Neiva, and this judgment was based on just seeing the car park; the unpaved, muddy, and potholed car park. My imagination, forever running wild, gave me an image of the inside looking like an abandoned warehouse, with peeling paint, rats, more potholes, and Dr. Lizard. By the time, we were actually ready to enter the club; I had steeled myself to expect the worse.  Thankfully, there was no Dr. Lizard on the inside, but the most elegant décor I had ever seen- hanging chandeliers, comfy, white leather couches, cute shot glasses with the word "ZOUK" stamped on them, and snazzy, silver tables. I actually felt like drinking from a small cup with my pinky finger aloft, laughing like I owned the world.

Aside from the elegant décor, something else occurred to me: in addition to the staff and promoters, we were the only people there. I did the only thing that seemed plausible: I started laughing scandalously while everyone (10 people) looked at me like I was crazy. How embarrassing to have put all your blood, sweat and tears into the planning of an event, and have only four people attend! I would have died! Luckily, my laughter and sympathy were not necessary as within 30 minutes of our arrival, other people started coming, and it seemed that everyone in Neiva had come out. And when I write that everyone came out, I mean, EVERYONE! There were a lot of mature people, and not my parents kind of mature, but older, like my Granny. One woman was actually escorted to her seat by her son, put to sit down, and hastened to cover her eyes from the strobe lights. Sure, we all need to get out of the house, but I'm sure that there is a lot of age appropriate entertainment ma'am, like bridge or bingo. Would this be considered ageism? Moving on…

Whenever I venture out to a club, I can never start dancing right away. I have to sit, sip on my Redd's, and wait for the right song to play. You know, that one song that seems to reverberate in your head and causes a sense of delirium to travel from the mole of your head to the soul of your feet, and you feel like screaming, "WOI!" You CANNOT control yourself, and the only thing left for you to do is shake what your momma gave ya! Luckily, my momma gave me A LOT, and once I heard this song, I was ready to go. It was all uphill from there as every song that played, no matter the genre; I just had to shake a leg. Within 45 minutes, I was sweating, hoarse from all the screaming, and aching all over after wining down low, repeatedly. Sigh, my bones aren't what they used to be! But, like a true Trini, the vibes cyah done!

After about three hours of dancing, it was time for the specially invited guest to perform. He was a DJ from "La Escuela de David Guetta", and seemed to be well known by the patrons, judging by the screams and wolf whistles. Initially, I was intrigued by what he had to offer, but once I discovered that his set was 45 minutes of techno music, I became disinterested. I decided to sit and watch everyone react to the pulsating, repetitive electronic music. Boy oh boy, did they react! People started going CRAZY; one guy was jumping on the couch in either glee or demon possession, a man and woman were dancing like chickens in one corner while another couple were gyrating and humping each other like worms in heat. I just had to laugh and shake my head.

Sometime during my 45 minute rest, I realised that I was really tired since I had danced non-stop for close to three hours. It was about time to leave; I needed my beauty rest. We gathered our things, and were just about to leave when I realised that I didn't have a souvenir from the night's experience. You see, I like taking something home with me to remind me of where I had been, especially if I had had a good time. I opted to take one of the shot glasses, and quickly deposited it in my pocket like a thief. I proudly posted a photo below:

Hee hee hee! Until the next post... CHAO!

Barbershop!

Hallelujah!

When I found out that I was going to live and work in Neiva for ten months, one of the few concerns I had was where I was going to have my hair cut. Having spent ten months in Bogotá, and experiencing two horrible haircuts at the hands of the scalp-rapist, Omar, I had reason to worry. You see, most barbers in Colombia don't know how to cut my hair. To me, hair is hair, but for whatever reason, the cut would look uneven, and the mark would be all over the place. If it took me two months to find a barber in metropolitan Bogotá, I imagined that I would return home as a "congo bongo, natty dread" after my year in Neiva. So, I was pleasantly surprised when within three weeks of being in Neiva, I was in a cab on my way to the barbershop. As soon as I realized that the barber was black, I knew that my prayers were answered. Here goes...

The day was Tuesday, August 15th, 2012, the time was 10:00AM, and I was shaking my head and tapping my feet to salsa music. I was, also, watching a guy have his hair cut and styled into the most ridiculous Mohawk ever! Appropriately named, Los Niches, the barbershop was located in, what appeared to me, a poor part of town, judging by the houses and the dirt track I had to cross to get to the shop. The walls of the barbershop were plastered with the usual crap like, the Wahl Style Guide, a poster of Bob Marley and the Lion of Judah, and advertisements for events, past and future. What was particularly disturbing to me was the fact that Chris Brown was included on a poster of the "Top 20 Rappers of the 21st Century". Yes, Chris Brown!

The barber was a short, energetic man who had either just decided to grow a ras, or had a ras that refused to grow. He moved quickly as he put the finishing touches on that horrid Mohawk, and spoke emphatically about life, girls, and the Olympics. I noticed that he had a certain flare about him. He would flick his wrists dramatically as he cut, randomly start dancing, stick his tongue out while he thought about the best place to put his designs, and once finished, he would remove the smock in a flurry of black as he signaled the next patron.

The next patron was not yours truly though, but a young guy who seemed kind of ghetto to me. He was dressed in really tight jeans, a striped T-shirt with solid coloured sleeves, and a shoe that was too big for him. Added to that, he had his hair styled in these ludicrous, gel filled spikes, and was playing the radio from his telephone. G-H-E-T-T-O! I had to wait longer than usual for Papi to cut his hair because he had to wash all the gel from his hair before he could get started. While he was doing all that, I noticed that there was a fraternity that existed amongst the barber's clients. Not only were they all different shades of black, but they all seemed to get along well with each other. When someone arrived at the shop, he would greet the barber, and then, go on to shake hands and exchange greetings with everyone. This one guy even bought us all something to drink. It felt like I was with my extended family from Neiva.

Finally, after what seemed like an epoch, it was my turn. I excitedly sat in the chair, and told the barber what I wanted, which was a tad difficult. No matter how hard I tried, he could not understand that I wanted a fade. When my friend eventually intervened, and expressed what I wanted, Mr. Barber started laughing, and told me the style was called, the sombrero. Go figure! With our little language barrier demolished, my haircut commenced, and my excitement faded, like my hairstyle, and gave way to annoyance. He was so rough in the way he cut my hair; he would dig the machine into my scalp, pull my head to and fro, and pass a coarse, pink sponge through my hair for reasons unbeknownst to me. Eventually, I had to ask him to be gentler- I have feelings, you know! Sadly, it didn't make much of a difference.

As was expected, he asked me where I was from, and why I was in Neiva. After telling him that I was from Cali, and having him scowl at me, I told him that I was from the Caribbean island of Trinidad and Tobago. His eyes lit up, he turned off the machine, and ran to his laptop, exclaiming that he had music from my country. I couldn't believe it, and I was right not to because he started playing reggae music. Sigh! I was, therefore, compelled to let him know that reggae music is synonymous with Jamaica, and Trinidad and Tobago had its own forms of traditional music, like calypso, soca and chutney. He seemed genuinely interested, so I decided to take out my flash drive and play some good, ole soca for him. Let's just say, MADNESS ENSUED! He started dancing, jumping, shouting, and stating emphatically how good the music was. In that moment, I felt proud to be a Trini.

Eventually, my time at the barber was over. I was quite pleased after I looked at myself in the mirror. I have been to said barbershop a total of six times, and aside from him giving me a puma one time, all my hair cuts have been great. Until the next post!

Wonders Never Cease!

Culture shock is REAL!

With moving to any new town, city, or country, some form of culture shock is inevitable. A previous blog of mine spoke of one such instance. This one takes another spin, and addresses those things that made me gasp, scream, shake, or bathe in five minutes. Each experience begins with the question I asked upon learning about the new piece of cultural information- translated to English, of course. Enjoy!

"What exactly was making that noise?"

One night, I was watching a movie entitled, "The Last House On The Left". I consider it to be a scary movie with a lot of gore, and moments that make your heart race. Although I knew that I would get nightmares, I refused to change the channel, and remained glued to the television screen. In one scene, the "Dad" bludgeoned one of the "Bad Guys" with a hammer, while the dramatic lightening flashed in the background. Who knew the human skull was so soft? Perhaps, doctors? Anyway, as soon as the hammer made contact with his head, I heard a very real noise from inside the house. It sounded like a cross between a monkey, a mouse, and a parrot. Although that probably wasn´t the best description ever, what matters is that, whatever it was scared the bejesus out of me. I immediately turned off the television, and ran up the stairs, tripping once on my way up. Mama ain't raise no fool!

The next day I asked my former land lord, "What exactly was making that noise, last night?" I had to mimic the noise for him, and once I did, he let me know that it was a lizard which is very popular in Neiva. They can usually be seen everywhere- in the bathroom, the kitchen, out on the balcony, behind the computer, in your room, EVERYWHERE! Oh lawd, now I have to deal with a monkey-parrot sounding lizard! Thus far, no one shares my concern over these creatures. They even laugh at my "flesh eating lizard" and my "if a lizard falls on your belly, it means you're pregnant" theories. The latter has been proven, just so you know!

"Really?"

It was my first outing to the University in Neiva, and I was so excited. I got up, ironed my clothes, polished my shoes, clipped my fingernails, and then, it was off to the bathroom. I hung up my towel, stripped, brushed my teeth, stretched, jumped in the bathroom, and instinctively, looked for the hot water switch. There wasn't any in plain sight, and, after looking everywhere including behind the toilet, I still couldn't find it. Naturally, I asked about the lack of a water heater switch, and my worst fears were realised- there wasn't one!

Apparently, in hot regions like Neiva, it is customary to take cold showers to keep you cool during the day. Quite frankly, this makes no sense to me whatsoever! I mean, Trinidad's climate is just as hot as Neiva, and almost every Trinidadian household has hot water in the bathroom. Plus, bathing in cold water does not keep you cool because as soon as you put on your clothes, you start sweating! Although the prospect of a cold, early morning, balls-shrinking bath was daunting, I decided that it would be a cultural experience, and took the plunge. Let's just say that that was the fastest I have ever bathed in my life! Since then, I have become quite accustomed to taking cold showers. I have even realised that if say, "Lawd, no sickness!" before I bathe in the morning, I wouldn´t get sick. YAY ME!

"Is that a baby on a motorbike?"

Yes, you read that correctly! I realised early on that Neiva is teeming with motorcycles of varying sizes, models, and colours. Everyone seems to have one; from men to women to university students to executives. It wasn´t that shocking for me, and eventually I became quite accustomed to seeing thousands of motorbikes on a daily basis, weaving through traffic to the annoyance of other drivers and pedestrians alike. One day, this all changed though!

I was in a car, on my way to taste guarapo for the first time when it happened. There, sitting on a swanky, red motorcycle was a man and his wife who was holding their baby in her hands. He/ she seemed to be no more than six months old, and was resting on his/ her mother´s busom like nobody´s business. Nobody seemed phased by this phenomenon, so I just had to ask to make sure that I wasn´t going crazy, and there was a baby on the motorbike. After asking, I learned that: 1) it is a baby, and 2) although it is illegal to have more than two people on a motorbike, much less a baby, most people/ families do it anyway. To this day, everywhere I go, I see more example of these fast and furious babies and toddlers. Wonders never cease! 

Well, that´s all for now! Until the next post... chao!

Maritza Scarred Me!

What have you done to me!?!

Sometimes in life, you have bad experiences that never really leave you. Of all those experiences I´ve had in my life,  I must say that the time I spent living with Maritza is probably one of the worst. For those of you who don´t know, or may have forgotten, Maritza Ratoncita Pukeko Dragon- Face Torres was the woman in whose house I lived when I was in Bogotá between 2010 and 2011. She was a budding dictator with her strange house rules, her knack for knowing about everything that happened in the apartment, her underhanded tactics, and her overbearing demeanour. I admit that perhaps, I wasn´t the best tenant, but the way she reacted to my indiscretions could be filed in the dictionary under the word "INTENSE". Now that I´m away from home again, I´ve found myself having to live in someone else´s home. Although everyone isn´t as intense as Maritza, I still feel this need to avoid conflict at all costs, and a heightened sense of paranoia seems to permeate the air. Basically, I blame Dragon Face!

Since arriving in Neiva, I´ve moved three times. Everyone I stayed with, before finding my permanent residence, was very nice and accommodating. The apartments were comfortable, furnished, and I had everything that I needed to survive. Amidst all the niceties, I could not allow myself to relax. There were all these questions that I needed to ask to ensure my peace of mind. For example: "How much time can I spend in the bathroom?", "How much loads of laundry am I allowed to do?", "Is there a cleaning schedule for the apartment?", and "Can I watch television?", just to name a few. To some, these questions may seem a bit weird to ask someone when first meeting them, but after living with Maritza, they seemed appropriate. I mean, I had to take 5- minute baths, and wash black clothes with light colours because I was only allowed two loads of laundry a week. The first scar of Maritza had reared it´s ugly head, and it wouldn´t be the last time.

I noticed that even after clarifying my doubts on the house rules by having my questions answered, I still couldn´t become 100% comfortable. I needed to avoid conflict at all costs, so my goal in life was to become the "World´s Best Tenant!" I reasoned that if I were perfect, and made no mistakes that all will be well. I mean, it worked with Maritza- well, most times- so, why wouldn´t it work now? I started to watch my every move; I ensured that my room was always clean, that I didn´t make too much noise, that I washed all the soap down the drain after bathing, that I wiped the face basin after brushing my teeth etc. The thing is that, as humans we are not perfect! Thus, in trying to be perfect, I drove myself crazy! I would worry about the most mundane things, and if I didn´t do something correctly before leaving the house, it would haunt me for the entire day. My brain would create these scenarios that all ended with me coming home to find my luggage in front the apartment, the locks changed, and a vagrant wearing one of my nice shirts. It was stressful, frustrating, tiring, and unhealthy in my humblest of opinions. No one should have to live like that! Perhaps, I´m being dramatic, but hey, that´s me! Again, thanks Maritza!

Finally, there was the paranoia! I started to feel as though everything was my fault, even when there was no need to feel that way. Every look and drawn out silence became an accusation. If someone forgot to greet me when they entered the house, I would sit and wonder why, and arrive at the conclusion that it was because of me. Then, there´s that feeling that if things change in the apartment, it was done to prevent you from using too much. This paranoia reminds me of what it was like living with Maritza. She wasn´t one to come out, and tell you that you were doing something wrong all the time. She would leave notes, or whisper to her man late at night when she thought you were sleeping, or mark the water level, or disconnect the cable from the television. Her underhandedness was legendary, to be frank!

This blog was hand written late at night about two weeks ago. Now, I virtually live by myself, and it feels great! I don´t feel as stressed and worried as I used to. I still try to be careful, and have my own stuff though. Admittedly, it doesn´t seem necessary. My only concern now is renting a washing machine!

Until the next post... CHAO!