...decroissance...

Most problems fixed now so i get ready to hibernate, thank you all for all you've done: warm roofs, cold beers, friendly hands, delicious dishes, incredible inspiration... Im sure you can all find yourselves into at least one of these. Not a fan of Xtmas but a fan of eating, not a fan of New Year either but a huge fan of dancing, maybe I should rethink my idols?
Let me wish you the best holidays: pigging out, dancing, drinking, staying with family, do what you do, be as gay as you can ;) Me on this side, I'll be going into my unplugging period, should return next month, fully charged to face the next step.
Here is the first draft, not too shaby, eh?

Volví al Sur

(foto no mia)

Cae la noche y la emocion embarga. "Moins 10" me dice Flo Flo.
20:00; 20:05; 20:10.
Me pido serenidad. Mi cuerpo quieto pero mi mente desde ya baila al ritmo de un bandoneón que aun no oye pero que bien reconoce. 20:15 "Salut!"
Entramos. Un cuarto demasiado iluminado. "Una birra?" pos sí.
20:40 y la gente se impacienta: palmas, gritos y silbidos llenan un vacío demasiado pesado. Luego, tras una cortina, el inconfundible llanto de un bandoneon y la voz de la Villalonga que se levanta al cielo. El techo no la contiene, el teatro no es jaula suficiente. Su voz. Su voz me habla, me eleva, me acoje, me traslada.
Vuelvo al Sur; a montañas y quebradas; como se vuelve siempre al amor,
vuelvo a vos; a tus mares a tus playas; con mi deseo, con mi temor.
Llevo el Sur,
soy del Sur,
Sueño el Sur; como sueño tus selvas tus rios; inmensa luna, cielo al reves,
busco el Sur,
Quiero al Sur,
siento el Sur,
Te quiero Sur; como te quise en la intimidad...

El violin chilla, la guitarra declama, el bandoneón se estira hasta más no poder y en los parlantes la voz de Ernesto, de Atahualpa, las ideas de Cáceres, y en la pantalla el Chili que te recuerda:
No es chamullo, es amor...

Ultimo dia a Paris

la pena invade. Camino sin direccion, sin rumbo.Camino solo por caminar. Repaso las calles q me acogieron por casi dos semanas ya. El cielo gris una vez mas, ¿sera por mi? ¿Un triste adios y una dura separacion? tal como me gustan...
Abro los ojos a la gente invisible, a aquella q hizo este viaje inolvidable: una pareja camina de la mano, dos viejitos comparten un cafe y una tarta de queso, un niño y una niña comparten un primer beso. Ella: picara, feliz; el: asustado, atonito. Tirando los brazos al cielo aun no puede creer lo q le ha sucedido. La niña de mis ojos, le podría decir tantas cosas lindas pero aun no atina a moverse. Q lindo es el amor aunq sea en otoño...
Un cafe en Mouffetard, un crepe en Montorgueil, una puta en Pigalle...

Happy New Year

At the end this is, kind of, what the route looked like.
Not everything on bike, bits on ferries, bits on trains (specially France where the rain was bent on destroying my moralle)
As I write this I say goodbye for a couple of months. Marta is safe and dry, keeping all her strenght for when we start again on Spring. For me its been a great adventure, "a dream that is becoming true it's a true dream" someone told me; I choose to believe her.

What for me to do now? a lot to digest....

BarbaricciaFinal

Share your bike routes @ Bikely.com

I miss Marta

8 days in Scotland today and if not for the few days I spent with Hannah's family there will be very little to nothing I'd have learnt from this culture. Thye hills call me as the cities present grey and dark buildings, cold winds, vehicles that dont stop for people and people that cut off people when walking as they rush inside a bus, a train, a fast food store...
Celia Cruz' words resound in my head: "There will always be empty glasses if we rely on water from the city..." The best memories are my bus drives as i see the countryside and the countryside sees me: bottled up in a tin can, scrapping these plastic panels, yearning to come out, pleading to get dirty in the mud, to fall on the ice, to listen to the animals at night... I shut my eyes and remember Marta. I try but the sounds of her rackling chain are replaced by screeching tires, evading potholes are replaced by evading careless people that won't even acknowledge you when they bump you...
I miss Marta and miss the road. Soon now, soon...
Promise to come back, to see it properly, when the highlands can offer me a ground to sleep in, some shelter to cover me at night and a 1001 stories to fill my head and heart....

I hate looking to the right!!!!!!!!!!!!

Twice now i´ve almost gotten run over!! yes i know most streets have written "look to the right" on the floor but it's just not natural! freaking weird to see a car without a driver. Instead they have but a passenger.
I now have adopted the idea of only crossing with a bunch of people. Maybe these bastards get extra points for killing a peruvian! who knows, better play it safe ;)

Edinburgh, capital of Scotland, is a very gracefull town that unites gothic and georgian, old and new (not really new but not as old). But more than the historical buildings and the beautiful castle, it has another beauty, one I could enjoy during my stay here: I was able to see a young girl help an older lady cross the street, and a couple of kids help a blind man do the same, couple of young lads sporting their kilts and one man carrying his bagpipe in the bus...manners and traditions sometimes just do not dissappear despite how modern the city gets,



Tres palabras para describir el dia de hoy? frio frio y más frio.
Hoy me tuve que refugiar en un cafe porque mis deditos ya no aguantaban. La ciudad es linda pero solo tuve 2 horas de sol hoy para verla, luego de las 4 ya no hay más luz del dia y empezamos la nochecita temprano: una cervecita? porque no? Noche latina hoy, será posible eso en Edinburgo? veremos

Address to a Haggis

And is this little three legged animal that brings me to costumes of a proud nation: food, drink, a little dance, a speech and endless tales of trips warm up the night. No other way around it: have to come back!!


Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!
Aboon them a' yet tak your place,
Painch, tripe or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaining trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o' need,
While thro' your pores the dews distill
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Lobour dight,
An' cut you up wi' ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reeking', rich!....

Escocia

Horas en aeropuertos, estaciones de trenes, buses y unos ultimos 30 minutos en auto me traen a mi nueva parada. Donde es? bho! miro alrededor y veo solamente la sombra de estas colinas escocesas. Es muy tarde ya, solo se puedo observar sombras iluminadas por una tenua luna. ¡como quise disfrutar de esas colinas! mas la decision de la pachamama es otra: nieve cubre los alrededores, nieve nieve por doquier, el blanco manto q me prometía Paris lo encuentro aquí....
Escocia, este pedacito q conozco es bella, aun cubierta de blanco. Sueño con encuentros de celtas, bailes folkloricos y gaitas por doquier. Lo q no puedo soñar es la sorpresa q me espera al dia siguiente....