Saunt Aundraes

The first thing you notice when reaching St. A is the Golf-Course-Of-Course, I believe it was the very place it was invented in... balls in holes, in lawns. Yeah, ok, but... THE SEA!!!! 

We caught a fair enough glimpse of the shoreline as we approached out precious destination. Man, our journey had us beaten like the waves do the sand! But our spirits were increasingly kindled as we neared our respective residences.

Fife Park was first. Juju and Jan got out along with their personal belongings, we said we'd mail each other later on (for we had no working cell phones yet). "Send me smoke signals when you're able, will you? Oh, and do get some rest!". Their place seemed nice from a distance. Trees and stuff.

Next stop: Albany Park, sir! Completely on the other side of town, away from my friends :s But as I said before, I was passionately engaged in a conversation with my driver, who ended up giving me a discount (ha-ha!) out of being moved by what I told him I wanted my projects to be like. So we had some light at the end of the tunnel, as they say.

I became a human-donkey for what I hoped would be the last time, and consequently directed my bulks towards the reception area. 'Got my keys, my student card, a bunch of leaflets explaining how things worked at the Uni and then a fellow student walked me to my room at the postgraduate section (right at the end). There were several blocks around with patches of grass in between. Each of those little houses contained two or three floors, and on each floor there were rooms for four people (with only a single bathroom! NOOO). I dropped my stuff, arranged a couple of things, and headed out to get a first impression of my brand new surroundings. There was a BBQ going on, to welcome us "freshers", so I got in line, snatched a plate and helped myself to some crappy student food for the first time since our fancy-nancy British dinners. I met a couple of people, but wasn't really in the mood for socializing, so I gulped down two plastic cups of cheap wine, and left early to go to bed.

-------------

St. Andrews is graaaaaaand, y'all! The place looks like a well drawn fairy-tale village dappled with tiny shops, and medioeval Gothic ruins here and there; everything is so neat, and tidy, and cutesy-wootsy. EVEN THE PEOPLE ARE ADORABLE! You just want to swallow it all, piece by piece. And then there's the Sea, the Sea!

There are only three main streets along which everything is situated: North, Market and South Street. That's it folks. But it gets trickier as you go unfolding St. Andrews' many little secrets, for there are enchanting whispers that emanate from within all the hidden corridors and pathways, meant only for those willing to listen.

St. Mary's and St. Salvator's Quads are just mesmerizing, the grass is so neatly cut it makes you want to cry... We did, of course, lie on it (sobbing with infinite joy) gracefully basking in the splendor of that awe-inspiring architectural aura belonging to our new house of study. I felt as if I had just arrived at Hogwarts (haha I know, I'm really that pathetic), for we're to take some classes at the department of "Arts and Divinity" (weirdly so, as if we were taking "Defense Against the Dark Arts" haha ok, I'll stop now).

There was a bit of sunshine, so we decided to go to the beach, passing through the Cathedral Grounds, where there's an ancient cemetery, just alongside St. Rule's Tower. We took some touristy pictures, posing like dorks and all, and then we got into a shop and had some coffee. After that we walked for a bit, tracing the place with foreign shoes, and then headed out to Fife Park, so that I could get to know the place where I was most likely going to spend many of my study hours (we had agreed to help each other out in any way possible).

... to be continued...

Hectic Train Riding

I was beginning to largely loathe my leaden luggage, up to a point where I was almost willing to throw everything away just then and there. But fortunately, when you travel with friends, the loads/burdens are somewhat equally carried, and therefore better solutions to not-so-trivial problems can be stipulated, and more importantly: reached. So we took a shared taxi (yah, mamma!) to the train station early in the morn' us three gals: Ju-ju, Jan, and m'selfiepants a.k.a. your humble narrator.

TRAINS-WERE-BOISTEROUSLY-OUT-OF-CONTROL 

... on precisely that day, and nobody appeared to be able to explain to us why that was... so instead of taking the train we were supposed to, we were told we would need to stand in line for the next one (and they call this the first world). 

The alleys were packed with old-timers, I mean, noticeably. It was like the national day of the British Grandparent or something, so we were having a hard time trying not to hit any grannies or gramps with our enormous bags (I mean, these people are fragile!). When the expected choo-choo machine finally arrived, shit hit the fan.

I mean, I'm not usually the sort to be rude whenever having to fight for a purpose, but these elders were vicious! MANIC, I TELL YOU! So, foreseeing that we were in for a fight-for-your-life sort of situation, I ceased to be polite enough to let every other (old) human pass in front, and deftly blocked their tumultuous way with one of my suitcases. DARWINISM WAS ON, the train was about to leave, and the wagons were beginning to overflow with self-seeking seniors, so I suffused my way into the already stuffed hallway, following Jan's example and prayed for it all to end fast.

We weren't even sure whether Ju-ju had managed to get in or not, in the midst of all the chaos, so we just stood there completely helpless and waited for the devilish machine to start moving... afterwards, we found out poor ol' Ju-ju had had to scream "LET ME IN!!!!!" so desperately one man ended up jumping out and handing over his own spot for her to barely fit in, seconds before the thing took off. And they call this the first world, I repeat, I felt exactly like back home.

Anyways, the train ride was a little extreme, but nice overall. We saw some colorfully pungent landscapes flowing through the windows as we rushed forward, and some time later on we finally managed to find empty seats to rest in (once enough people had evacuated the land-vessel).

After long hours we reached Edinburgh, got down and took a bus for Leuchars. Once there the second part of the adventure began! IT WASN'T OVER. Oh no, m'am, for we were in (extremely bad) luck; on that particular day, almost every single human on the British Isles had taken a train to that particular train station in order to attend no other than the last of the "RAF Leuchars Air Show"s (they were moving the airbase elsewhere, so this was their last opportunity to witness the Royal Air Force Aerobatic Team doing their thang, meaning: EVERYBODY WAS THERE). So it took us painful ages out there in the cold to 1) get out of the station and 2) haul a taxi that could take us to St. Andrews... but we finally did. The cab driver was super nice, and we ended up discussing the present political climate in Mexico (say what?!).

Go gives a f... we were THERE! 

The Inverted Tree.

Every single one of the proposals these guys presented took my essential-fiber-vibrations to a greater level of sensitive resonance (even those who did not speak much about themselves showed deep understanding of what the others were trying to get at). It was extremely comfortable to talk to friendly looking strangers about topics they were already familiar with (no a priori explanations needed, yay!). It really blew my mind that albeit we were all so very different in terms of cultural background, we had each found and learned to love more or less the same authors, books, films, graphic novels, animations, and art pieces throughout the course of our lives. We had therefore achieved an extremely malleable synchronous plateau for thought exchange; our kites had so many different shapes, and patterns, and colors but were bound for the same skies (or Ithaca, to put it in a more poetical sense).

I was particularly touched when one of the girls said she was tired of having to work in order to acquire a more or less reasonable education, considering how humanely impossible it is to fully focus on a subject when you're craving nutrients and your wallet isn't as flexible as your stomach. 

She proposed to start a cultural revolution, and we all agreed to join in with all our hearts.

HALT!

I'm-a drop the cheese whiz down a notch (mind the hyperbolic gap y'all, as my friends back home would tell me whenever I got overexcited) so I'll stop picturing the scene as if it were a pseudo pre-raphaelite mural. No more nakedly pinkish flying babies, if you please. My point is clear, however, when I say I've never learned so much in so little time (queuing for the lunch buffet/toilet was never so illuminating).

I wouldn't have previously thought that young people in the Balkans would have so much in common with us jóvenes latinoamericanos in terms of how they relate to issues of violence, corruption in the government, frustrated aspirations, gang urban sub systems, drug use, street poetics, mood to party, folklore, etc. I guess all cultures of resistance share similar structural conditions (and I intend to read more on that subject for my masters).   

We had various gatherings around the halls of Sheffield's prestigious University, and dined at magnificent almost candle-lit halls with classical portraits of famous British scholars hanging over our heads while discussing Borges, García Márquez, Ishiguro, and Lady Gaga over local wine, roasted veggies, and lasagna. 

For the next couple of days we attended more reunions with our soon-to-be professors, and ex-alumni, and even took a little hiking trip nearby the Peak District National Park, which was lovely, and full of greens, reds, browns and... goats!

In the end I was rather sad to find out most of us were to differ greatly in terms of our chosen pathways (all are to experience studying in 3 different universities according to their academic/location preferences). I will not see most of them until the end of the masters in two years time, but my heart finds solace in the fact that we'll meet again in Poznan for our graduation.

We embraced each other fondly for a final goodbye, for some were about to take flight... literally, to get to their respective universities in either Mexico, Argentina, Italy, Portugal, Spain, Poland, France, Canada or right there in the UK. I was bound for St. Andrews, the oldest university in the whole of Scotland... where the official national animal is no other than the UNICORN (kickass or what?).

I went to my room, bought a train ticket to Edinburgh on the internet with the help of my dearest friend Ju-ju and went to sleep shortly after, stuffing the pillow with infinite feathers of translucent nostalgia.  

Mis Cuentitos

I'm not necessarily the best one when it comes to speaking in public (people tend to regard me as some sort of perpetual comedian, so it becomes harder each time to get to the serious stuff) but with these guys the words flowed like honey (or maple syrup, depending on your taste) soaking the most spongy and delicious strawberry pancake you've ever tasted on a Saturday morning. It's great when people actually want to listen to what you have to say, you feel as if there's nothing to worry about. And the things you speak are never pretentious, but pure.

So, for those of you who don't really know what it is that I intend on doing for a living (besides painting walls and eating quesadillas) this is a very strange yet somewhat accurate description of my project (the one which got me into the program in the first place):

"Hello everyone, my name is Xalli. I come from Mexico, but I've lived in a bunch of places (my dad has one of those weird scientific jobs) so I'm keen on traveling and meeting people from all sorts and soul-types.

I studied visual arts at the National University in Mexico City, and I'm a children's books writer and illustrator. I want to make truly good books, where my characters are able to portray different situations/contexts that are known to us all as individuals, as human beings, so that my readers can be able to learn from these by truly reflecting upon them using their own means of thought. I believe that there is a common ground to each and every single one of us if we dig deep enough (I mean, we share the same biological structure). But the problem is that we do not allow ourselves to learn and grow from experiencing the hardships that are a natural and inevitable part of life (the Buddhist "suffering"). We're taught to play as long as we avoid getting hurt. Furthermore we are ignorant of our own selves, getting easily lost in the empirical paraphernalia that we keep gathering as a form of gravitational exoskeleton (serving as a psychological defense mechanism against all unwanted or unrecognizable foreign signals) which in turn becomes what we consider to be the only possible and absolute "reality". When in fact everything is in constant change, and we are able to wield the whole of it to a certain extent for the good of not only us, but others as well; we are living in a lucid dream that just happens to be true, our own epic narrative (in a Kantian manner). We only need to realize this, and then realize it again/even more the next day and so forth: and that is the key, for if we are able to become voluntarily and momentarily separated from everything that brings comfort to our daily doings/feelings (routine) then only can we come back, physically and mentally as new and fuller beings. That is the same concept that lies behind Hegel's dialectical thinking, as well as Homer's "The Odyssey": the separation of the self from itself (becoming a negative-barred form of its previous composure) in order to produce enough distanced spatial perspective, so that we can obtain self awareness (as something foreign, as "the OTHER" looking at our own reflections in the mirror) and then we need to come back in consummated consciousness, as better as can be. Thesis-Antithesis-Synthesis.

If we cannot accept ourselves for what we are: imperfect, but complex and complete in a weirdly beautiful way, there's no chance to us swallowing other people's unwanted businesses. Especially if they reflect all that we're lacking/doing wrong.

I've worked with children in South Africa, Zambia, Thailand, Cambodia, Canada, and in several parts of Mexico (but I've yet to learn so much more). I've worked with children who don't have an opportunity to study at private institutions and who think they are stuck in life. I've also worked with kids who own every materialistic gadget they could think of, but remain miserable because they don't realize all they want is their parents to sit around and play with them. I've worked with children who own only clay dolls (made by them) and who are truly happy, and who wish it could rain chocolate, and that someday their dad's would come home again. These children grow up to be gardeners, workers, housewives, philosophers, and those of them who decide to go into politics end up having to make important decisions that involve a lot of people (economically, culturally and even in terms of war between nations).

My point is we all share a common ground, and it is my everyday wish to keep getting back to it, by improving the way we educate people in general. Every person, be them grown men/women, old people or pimpled teenagers should allow him/herself to do so, every single day, for we are all worth everything since we are all part of the same universe, within and without."

(Mr.) Sheffield's Induction

PART I "Meet the Gang".

Now this is by FAR my favorite part of the story.

I drowsed off a little between periods of window sightseeing, eyeballing my itinerary from time to time. And then, when the moment came, I got down and changed buses.

It suddenly dawned on me how former British colonies (that are now proper nations of their own) have this subtle yet undeniable aesthetic aura that exposes the source of their upbringing (and consequently conforms their self-imposed raison d'etre, or as they prefer to call it: "The Commonwealth"). It's like a stamp of the Queen on your forehead, as I see it. I had had the opportunity to visit South Africa, Canada, the USA, and New Zealand in my short yet curiously amusing lifetime (which enabled me to establish parallels among them), but nevertheless this was my very first time experiencing the whole of *THE MOTHERSHIP* 

Now everything made sense.

I got down at the main station and sluggishly waded through the crowds towards yet another bus that would, according to the webpage as well as the gods of mercy, take me to the Endcliffe Student Village (where my accommodation for the Induction was booked). It was a tortuous hike, since the bus-driver dropped me off four entire blocks ahead of my truer destination, and time was ticking like crazy but I walked it off (literally, having no other choice) until I was finally where I was meant to be.

Once again soaked in my own perspiration/eau de xaillette, I got to my room and put on a dry chemise, a scarf, snatched my bag and rushed out of the building as fast as the wind!

After some minutes of anxious wandering about and around the entire university campus in search for the right building, I finally turned the map upside down (yes, I did) and realized my precious haven was staring at me from behind. I turned 180 degrees and entered a little courtyard which led me inside a room within another room where a certain conference had already begun. Bog, was I late again, confirming my inevitable "mexicanity". Ironic or cynical... maybe both.

I apologetically rushed forwards between lines of occupied chairs, and found an empty spot right at the front, where apparently only the speakers were supposed to be seated (oh, the exponentially escalating embarrassment!). But I took the space, anyways, since it was either that or standing in the middle of the room, looking like a bimbo Bambi, mother-and-brainless. 

The show went on, and each and every representative of the universities that put together the consortium went on about what they had to offer to us Mundus newbies. I was finally getting at the real stuff! 

There seemed to be a lot of girls around but no boys... oh wait! Just spotted one at the back. By the looks of him he seemed to be enjoying the gender ratio ('wouldn't blame him, it was like a nerdy Amazonian paradise). 

So what is it that we're supposed to be studying? NOW THAT'S THE REAL QUESTION.

It appeared as if we were hanging out at a local playground, sort of making up our own games as we went along: mashing up tag with underwater hide and seek, but using a ball that happened to be on fire (Greek fire, why not?), but only those who wore their glasses upside-down were allowed to play, without wearing any socks. That's the way I was picturing the whole thing.

And the reality isn't that different: Our masters program is called "Crossways in Cultural Narratives", and on the official webpage one can find the following description:

Since 2005 Crossways in Cultural Narratives has been one of the few EU approved and funded ERASMUS MUNDUS Masters programmes to specialise in traditional humanities with a modern languages background, taking European Identities and European cultures as its theme.

The Crossways in Cultural Narratives Masters Programme is one of 30 (out of 177) projects selected by the European Union for funding from 2012 onwards.

(Source from http://www.munduscrossways.eu/ if anyone's interested).

So it's a cross between sociology, art history, philosophy, and comparative literature, as I understand it; where the main focus is to generate knowledge on what cultural identity means, from different perspectives and/but according to European standards (which interests me A LOT, since it's the basis for many of the undigested syndromes us former colonies in the new world are suffering from: displaced ancestry lacking an endemic/"autochthonously" clarified ground-leading to various forms of self-loathing). We need to know and furthermore understand where it is that we come from (by practicing an evolving conscious exercise of awareness of our own selves) in order to help ourselves grow as individuals, as a first step in the process inherent to the able-bodied workings of a healthy community-apparatus. Heel, Iago, HEAL!

Any way, excuse my wording: it's just that I get really excited when talking about these things, and sometimes I don't seem to find the proper words to express what I truly mean to say (maybe we need to invent more ourselves, to broaden our linguistic horizon!). Just like Octavio Paz wisely demanded in his famous poem Las Palabras: "CHILLEN, PUTAS", (referring to the words themselves) right? they're never enough.

.....................

I just have only one thing to express using this language: I had never in my lifetime met such a group of preposterously/amazingly/brilliantly-out-of-this-world individuals gathered ALL together, out of pure entropy, in the same blipping space. KARMIC MAGIC. I couldn't bring myself to breathe enough oxygen out of inhaling so much inspiration from around. *she sighs, exhausted from all the hyperbolic descriptions her tiny brain was able to conjure in order to describe such a glorious little moment*
Don't get me wrong; I love my friends, and I've met a lot of truly valuable people in my lifetime, but not all at the same time and to the same degree. I mean, this was a baroque Christmas birthday party piñata in The Day of The Dead (look it up, it's Mexican and it's great fun).

People who thought exactly like me existed!! They were real!!!! Believe me, I poked them just to make sure (and they came from every corner of the world, strangely).

We had an official introductory session, where each had the opportunity to share with the others* what tickled their own interests/intellects, and what they consequently wanted their projects to more or less be like. I had found the Holy Grail, El Dorado se queda pendejo. It was as if I was hearing fairies and mermaids singing in the depths of my own most sacred inner cravings. I could not believe my ears nor my eyes.

And when the time came, I stood in front of everybody and muttered as genuinely and humbly as I could what my personal project looked like in the abstract form...

... to be continued...

From New to the Old York

Morning came, and we rose covered in petaled sheets (Bog, do I hate the comfort that's intrinsic to the bourgeois way of life, it is so addictive! But then again it's mainly the source of warlike conflicts and heavy stuff of the sort in the long run, if you think about it).
We had some coffee over at a place called "Salieri", which made think of Mozart, which in turn got me thinking of famous rivalries between individuals such as Nietzsche and Wagner... which completely ruined my lunch panini.

After checking out some people, I mean, checking out from the hotel we took one of those red double-decker buses towards King's Cross, where we bought an outrageously expensive train ticket to York.

The ride was fine, we got to talking about life and our family and how students have to learn to cope with almost anything in order to carry on doing "our thang" (e.g. falling-leaky roofs, suspiciously filthy carpets, everyday ramen, cranky teachers with awesome mustaches... bla, bla). Adapt or succumb/perish, right?

York is beautiful. I won't go much into detail (because I tend to do so and I must learn to pace myself) but I'll tell you one thing: if you ever wish to encounter some of the nicest peopleS in all GB, go there IMMEDIATELY.

We had some interesting pub nights, savoring different types of ciders while listening to old people playing the ukulele (singing along, whenever possible). Loving them British tertulias fandangueras, alright.

On our last night we went to the National Railway Museum for my uncle's line of work's yearly gathering-dinner-party. Rumor had it we would see the train they used for the Harry Potter movies, but that was a big fat lie! Anyways, there was free wine and food, so my stomach was able to find a space for forgiveness (right next to the one destined for the dessert). We met a bunch of people from all over the world, and conversed, and conversed a little more after that. We ended up discussing how language and thought are simultaneously the production and result of one's own reality (in perpetual autopoietic reciprocity). These guys work in telecommunication, so it was really interesting for me to see how it is that the people behind our cellphone-internet-networks think, according to their own personal belief system that they end up projecting to the masses (and therefore establishing barriers and pseudo hydrogen bonds between our inputs and outputs in communication). 

The next day I woke up as early as possible, said goodbye to my dear consanguineous friend at the station and rode the bus that would take me to Sheffield, for I needed to attend the Erasmus Mundus: "Crossways in Cultural Narratives" masters program Induction (now that was looooong, y'all). 

Hail to the Ankle!

Al día siguiente volé a Londres. Iv, mi anfitrión iba a pasar el día como el fotógrafo oficial para una boda gay (de las pseudo inaugurales) como parte de su trabajo, así que nos despedimos temprano. Pero antes intercambiamos obsequios interesantes: él medio una copia de su libro predilecto: "Into the Wild" por Jon Krakauer, y yo le regalé un grillito de palma que le compré a un viejito que los hace en Coyoacán, junto con un cartón de leche de almendras (que me encanta) en agradecimiento a su infinita hospitalidad y porque es vegetariano, puesto que conseguirle leche normal hubiera sido medio mal atinado (ja, de mal gusto o "mala leche") ¿no les parece?

Switching to English now (need to practice for my essays).

Airport. Check-in. Granola. Sleep on the floor. Plane. Take off. Chat with lovely Kuwaiti girl. Plain(e) food. Heathrow. Bags. Door. Out.

My uncle was in town (was I in luck or what?) so he waited for me at the airport (his plane had arrived an hour earlier) and then we took a fancy black cab to his fancy London hotel (the Waldorf, homies, if you please). We showered and then headed to do some touristy prancing about with a full stomach and hearty spirit.

THE TATE MODERN, guys. I ran into a dear friend who was living in Edinburgh, but we failed to recognize each other properly (I wrote to him afterwards, apologizing for my evident ineptitude). Anyways, we saw all we ever needed to see: Melanie Smith was there (in work); she represented the Mexican pavilion during the last Biennale di Venezia. They were showing a video-art piece called "Xilitla" which she happened to explain to us in person during one of my seminars when she paid my school a visit back home in Mexico. There were also some amazing paintings by no other than Gerhard Richter, Lucio Fontana, and Hedda Sterne (who's a fantastic yet unfairly unrecognized painter; the only woman to be considered part of "The Irascibles" expressionist group, you know, where guys like Pollock, De Kooning, and Rothko carried out their most notorious work).

  This is one of her paintings. I love the way she composes these things!

I can talk for AGES about stuff like this, but I won't. I'll only say that I'd never heard about Saloua Raouda Chocair, nor Ibrahim El-Salahi and that they're great. You should check them out! 

My uncle had some really interesting thoughts to share with me, as I was explaining some of the stuff we learned in art school (it's strange, I don't usually enjoy discussing art with people who are not necessarily familiar with the depth of the language, it makes me feel like a pretentious little snob). Not many are willing to actually listen, but he was. And so we had a geeky blast!

It was one of the best days I've ever had... we went to the National Gallery, listened to the artsy gossip about Thomas Gainsborough, and at night cashed in our tickets to see "Spamalot" (a show based on one of my all time favorite movies "Monty Python and the Holy Grail"). So we dutifully enjoyed cracking up at the "Knights Who Say Ni", while slurping ale between giggles and laughs.

After that we dressed up real' nice and consequently crashed this incredible underground gay club (which used to be a train station or something) in downtown London. We were hoping to find the best electronic music club in town, for we fancied some serious-out-of-control limb swaying to wrap up the evening. Funny how when you're least in the mood, you get all the attention in the world. Damn you, Murphy! But it felt good to realize that we've still got it hehehe. Attract we did, people from all sorts and sounds, be they mineral, animal or vegetable. You name it! It was a fairly good sport: dodging drunken horny nut cases while dancing to various beats-n'-tunes (the mood changed depending on the room you were in). Afterwards we had some fushn'chups, and then went back to ze hotel for some well deserved rest.

James and Ju

I grew up exuberant in body but with a nervy, craving mind. It was wanting something more, something tangible. It sought for reality intensely, always as if it were not there... But you see at once what I do. I climb.
-John Menlove Edwards "Letter From a Man".

I packed some basic stuff and walked over to the nearest subway station, hopped on the M train which took me all the way to the main island, changed lines, and popped out some blocks before Central Park.
I trudged merrily, as tourists often do, taking mental pictures of funny street scenes while making imaginary parallels with other well known Norman Rockwell paintings I really enjoy seeing.

I got to the Guggenheim by foot, and was once again blown away by Frank Lloyd Wright's ingeniously ever evolving facade. I thought of the Nautilus as I scratched my eardrum hole, and entered the void.

JAMES TURRELL. BAM!
There's nothing left to say. 
PERIOD. END CREDITS. THANK YOU FOR READING.

(But I'll add some other words, just for the sake of it). It's always better to encounter art in the flesh, I think, for it feels nice to actually witness the stuff you've been studying/reading about for so long. It becomes an inherent truth attached to the feel and meaning of that particular moment in your day's perception-repertoire.

I won't ruin it for you, either way it's something gets under your skin in a way that's impossible to portray in written form. Therefore I urge you to go see this guy's work if he's ever in town (actually I think there's one of his pieces in the MUAC, in Mexico City). You won't regret it.

After almost swooning and mopping the floor with my tongue (out of pure fascination) I decided to pay MoMA a rapid visit. Which was nice, and for free! I have to say I felt rather proud of seeing a couple of paintings by the famous Mexican muralists Orozco and Siqueiros, which were exhibited in one of the main rooms (I 'm not the patriotic sort, necessarily, but it's nice to see your fellow countrymen's work being displayed in prestigious institutions... but then again, SCREW the institutions! Sorry, I'm a bit in a bipolar mood today).

At night I met Iv for a discrete beer in the park, and then phoned my friend Ju, whom I met in Zambia while backpacking and volunteering with my friend Re. We crashed her lovely apartment and shared yet another fantastic conversation regarding a myriad of topics from which they both knew quite a lot. We exchanged views on books and other references on immigration and fracking as we gulped down another beer on her lovely terrace. After a couple of hours of intense mind syncing we decided to head back "home". Boy, do I love passionate people who actually CARE about things other than earning enough dough in order to afford the latest Iphone. It makes me feel as if there's still hope in being alive. 

*Faith in humanity restored, Will Robinson*

Into the Wild, Within the Urban

My second impression of New York wasn't as pompous as the first, but I'd rather experience things as near to the ground as my mind allows me. So everything was sort of new this time, but seen through a different veil and through somewhat older eyes.

Have you ever wandered through foreign streets on your own? Seldom have I tasted anything that can be compared to that: you see complete strangers on their way to work, jumping on buses, eating bananas, walking their daughters to school, doing what is most natural to them (but not to you). You become this involuntary voyeur to an endless play; infinite wonder showers your psyche while you wiggle along invented brush strokes that become your official pathway; you flow though organically urban veins that conform this other place, feeling as if someone just popped you into existence and randomly placed you on that very spot. Everything is there only for you to visually digest. It is your sole objective, for there's nothing more and there never will.

WITHIN AND WITHOUT.

If this adventure proves fatal and you don't ever hear from me again I want you to know you're a great man.

I now walk into the wild.

-Chris McCandless

I must confess that I was a little (naturally) hesitant when it came to crashing a complete stranger's house for the night. But since I've been preaching bravery as my motto when facing-the-unknown/other-and-making-it-your-brother (ha) I had to (wo)man up. Thank you, Kapuscinski, thank you Doris Lessing.

When studying Hegel's Phenomenology of Spirit in school I came across the following thought:

*ANY production of identity has to go through the recognition/reconnaissance of the Other.*

This is it, guys! This is the key to facing your fears and becoming more fluid in terms of purging yourself from empirical stigmata. Hello toilet and goodbye constipation of the soul!

So I dragged what remained of my hopes and dreams, mustered enough strength to carry my load across the street (metaphorically AND literally, Gosh those friggin' bags were heavy) and finally rung the bell.

After a few minutes Iv opened the door wearing his pj's, which made me realize how late it was. We shook hands for the first time, slowly and steadily, and entered his Ridgewood flat. I was doused in a combination of my own corporal fluids, and exhausted from the trip (feeling like a living contemporary art piece), but I was finally somewhere safe.

Water. Toilet. Yammies. Toothpaste. Couch. Sleep.

The next day I woke up only to have one of the most fascinating conversations in my life over wheaty cereal and soy milk. My host was originally from the Balkans (I shan't reveal too much of my people, you know, 'cos life is tricky sometimes) and he had just gone to Alaska for a long and very revealing hiking trip.

We talked about the life of Chris McCandless (the guy from "Into the Wild") and how Alaskans would spit at his apparent suicidal recklessness. We shared our thought on how much we hate being stuck in routine, and how awful it is to (unwillingly and sometimes unknowingly) contribute to all the shit that's going on in the world whenever buying stuff from the supermarket. We talked about consumerism and how it brings us down to hear people we care about utter horribly ignorant remarks which regurgitate only what they hear on the news. There was a poster on the wall of Andreas Gursky's "99 Cent II" Diptychon that he bought from MoMA (which elevated the tone of our discussion to a perfect pitch, visually and audibly, since it is one of the most expensive photographs ever sold up to now, and what it shows just blows my mind to bits).

I told him I lived in Fairbanks when I was little. He said it's a desolated town with nothing to offer, but I'm nevertheless keen on going back to my old school and playground one day. It's one of the many things I've yet to do before I'm too wrinkly to function (fingers crossed). I don't mind the quiet, quite to the contrary! For only when the land is seemingly untouched is one able to project his/her own visions of life on the screen of the Real and therefore experience the Sublime (Kant's Sublime, as I imagine it). That, and to enjoy a good book/graphic novel over sweltering mugs of Ovaltine. Yummsters!

And Why Not?

Londres.

Pasar de los Estados al Reino de la dichosa Unión fue interesante. Me suelo clavar en los contrastes entre el nuevo y el viejo mundo y en gran parte es por eso que voy a estudiar esto que voy a estudiar (luego les explico).

El reencuentro con mi tío fue fantástico y extremadamente agitado, de hecho itinerando con inclinación acentuada hacia el horror vacui. No dormí en aproximadamente una semana. Tenía miedo de que me negaran el ingreso en la aduana (por complejos nacionales con los que tengo que trabajar psicológicamente), pero no fue así. La oficial me preguntó algunas cosas con respecto a mi peculiar acento (puesto que en composición disonante en torno a mi aspecto y pasaporte suele confundir al enemigo), estampó mi libretita y me deseó muy buena suerte en mis estudios próximos. Leve la nieve. No me molesta no tener pasaporte europeo, lo que me molesta es que por sólo tener el mexicano a uno le sea más complicado el trasladarse por fronteras inventadas.

Lo bonito del asunto, narrativamente hablando, es que mi tío (a mi edad, hace ya unos años) estudió la maestría igual acá en el Reino Unido, lo cual provocó una serie de paralelismos entre el tiempo y el espacio de ambos que desenvolvimos a manera de conversaciones arborescentes conforme a una infinidad de temas y contextos (a final de cuentas desde y hacia nosotros mismos), reflejándonos uno sobre el otro como en un espejo de agua movediza. Fue como vivir una regresión ajena pero apropiada.

Nos divertimos como enanos y decir que me consintió bastante es poco, pero no puedo quejarme en lo absoluto, puesto que no se me hubiera ocurrido una mejor introducción a este apartado que se sugiere como un sutil preludio sobre lo que sucederá en este par de años.

And Why See?

NYC.

Y así fue como partí de casa, después de deshacerme en mil abrazos y frases incompletas (pero ciertamente reconfortantes) ante y para todos ustedes, mis queridos.

El regreso a la ciudad de los caminos anchos me sentó bien, ya necesitaba respirar aires de aceptación precoz ante lo maleable e indefinido, ya que mi misión existencial del momento (como muchos sabrán) es la búsqueda de la perpetua reinvención de uno mismo. Grado cero hoy, para el grado cero de mañana.

Llegué de noche y arrastrando los ánimos por toda la banqueta como resultado del experimentar el tan violento proceso de ingresar a los Estados Unidos (involucrando un chequeo casi molecular, ya saben). Pero, a pesar de no tener rumbo fijo y dirección clara, no me sorprendió encontrarme sumamente tranquila ¿No les pasa? que se siente en el entramado narrativo ("la matrix") que todo está bien. Y así fue. Y así es.

Unos centavos gringos a través de una rendija medio oxidada me permitieron comunicarme con Ivaylo, mi guardián para la noche. Anoté unos datos, colgué el teléfono y me cargué de maletas cual burro. Después de tomar tres autobuses manejados por sujetos casi clonados llegué a su portal y toqué el timbre rojo. Minutos después abrió la puerta.

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