FeaturedActing Class at the Hostel Someone is dying. Someone is addicted to drugs. Someone else is heartbroken. Enraged at a lover’s betrayal. All poorly acted by students in the hostel courtyard. A brash instructor watches their scenes. Cuts them off if wrong, inadequate, or underwhelming emotion is displayed. The guys can’t cry on stage. When the guys can’t cry, the drama instructor makes them do push-ups. This man is going to get his tears. It is impossible to sleep in the room with all of this going on outside in the courtyard. But this is a beautiful room. Open air window. Here, many buildings are built this way. Without screens. High ceilings. Windows open. There’s a creek outside. You could never ask for better white noise. Still, on with pants and t-shirt. Time to watch the acting class. The courtyard makes a nice place to watch the class. Open air, big birch chairs. It’s a good show. On many levels. I can sleep late tomorrow. Get my book Odd Jobs & After Hours in audio, hardcover, or paperback by clicking here. It’s about drifting down the east coast of the USA chasing one sketchy, so-called opportunity after another.
FeaturedDon’t Look Left or Right Don’t look left or right, that was the final instruction before we motorbike down this street in Medellin. Seems impossible, but if I understand the explanation correctly, the cocaine trade continues as long as it does so non-violently. This is the unofficial structure of the relative armistice of recent years. So making eye contact with nobody, we creep and crawl, stuck in traffic down the street. In fact, all business is conducted in the field of peripheral vision. Fingers fish folded bills from pockets and swap them for pale bricks in layers of plastic wrap, or brown paper bags. The eyes of all are always outward at the street. Words are few, and clearly eye contact would be a breach of conduct, bad form. Shocking, even. Two neighborhood kids have been paid to sit as sentries at either end of the road, and blow a back pocket airhorn or ring a bell if police officers appear. Forearms flick out of car windows and passenger-side windows ahead of us. Fingertips hold two-inch thick stacks of bills in bands. Dealers who don’t so much as look in the window stare down the street and toss packets and baggies through open windows. All is engine hum, rustle and murmur. No music. A notable absence. Those selling wear brand new clothes, without a single crease, stain or fold. Starch stiff hoodies, tank tops, jeans, and factory-line clean sneakers. Getting down this street is as slow as driving in a flash flood, in a zero visibility snow storm, in deep mud, all because of the intensity of activity in the edges of our vision. Dealers shuffling between roads of cars, double patting the side of a door when a transaction is complete. No visible haggling, simply the small circus of fingers finding back pockets in jeans and the breast pockets of jackets, all executed without error under the pervasive and unsettling inaccuracy of gaze. Activities unexamined first and foremost by the participants involved. Then we’re past the zone, clarity returns, and the drive continues. Get my book Odd Jobs & After Hours in audio, hardcover, or paperback by clicking here. It’s about drifting down the east coast of the USA chasing one sketchy, so-called opportunity after another.
FeaturedNight Fell Before the Spin Cycle Ended Nodding off in an all-night cafe/laundromat in Medellin. Listening to the deep rumble of fifty washers rolling clothing in sudsy water. Waiting for one fleece blanket to dry. Retracing the steps that brought me here. My Airbnb has a washing machine but no dryer. But night fell before the spin cycle ended, meaning. No sun to dry the blanket for the night. My host, an Italian grandmother living in Colombia, in a fit of nurturing aggression refused to allow me to sleep with no blanket, or even a lightly damp one. It’s fine. No, no! If a dampness touches here. What are these? Above the hips. Like beans. She traces the region on her own back with her thumb tips. Kidneys. Yes, if a dampness from a wet shirt or blanket touches your kidneys, you get ill. So go to the laundromat. You need Pesos? I have Pesos. And she sent me lugging this fleece blanket under street lights one mile through the night to the laundromat. Trying to stay awake as washers roll water in drums, and clothes tumble in sentry lines of dryers. The scent of artificial lavenders and vanillas filling the non-air conditioned air. Waiting, staying awake, considering the many timezones and timings that must be accounted for in order for a given day to go correctly.
FeaturedLost on Horseback Horses hip-check each other and stamp the dust on the dirt trail threading through the green mountains. Let me see if I can predict this one. Nick, they’ll give you that blondeone. It’s the most heroic looking. A blonde horse for a blonde dude, that’sthe logic they’ll follow. Rachel will probably get that smaller horse, seemsright for a girl. And Joel’s big, they’ll give him the big horse. See that one wandering off, munching flowers, and bothering the locals? That’s mine. Because I engage in similar behavior. Nick laughs at my line of reasoning. A brown water creek has been dug out into a large, shallow pond. Two kidsform a sopping wet, wobbly, two-man human tower, the base of which wears dripping, squelching Crocs. (Anxiety) cracked skulls and snapped necks when they topple. Splash – flailing limbs submerge under rippling water rings. They resurface spluttering water from lips and gulping air. Dogs lounge in the sun inside a chain-link pen. In a generator-powered restaurant built of particle board and corrugated tin, women boil rice, press guava, soursop, and mangos into juice, and grill fish for lunch. The grill sizzles. Reggaeton beats play. It’s lively here, but at least one of these lush green hills was the sightof a mass grave some years ago. Victims of Pablo Escobar, drug wars, andguerilla warfare. Hard to say where or which hilltop, it’s explained only invague gestures and vague terms. On the hilltops, near the shade of the tree line, crews of friends or families of four sit on blankets and grill hotdogs. The stable hand sets the length of stirrups, and fits bridles between bighorse teeth. Happy to drop a shoulder to shove a horse out of the way. Bullying them into good behavior. He wears a Guatemalan gaucho hat, a soccer jersey, and black mucking boots. But the story I had in my head was wrong. Nick gets the flower munching horse, Joel and Rachel’s horses are also reversed for reasons I can not understand to look at their respective sizes, and I get the blonde heroic looking horse. La Mona is her name. Memories return. I have seen the view of a horse’s mane and the back of itsflicking ears before. Felt this lurch and rock of its gait. Weekends withfriends off the clock at a summer camp job, taking the horses out for a ride. The bizarre way a horse can feel great precision in the urging of your intentions through the reigns. Lean and focus a sharp gaze at a place, and a smart horse will go there. Tug back, and she slows down. It seems so easy, yet. Experience counts for something. Rachel is beingwalked in circles. She is asking the horse to stop. English doesn’t work, so she tries Spanish. Nick is being brought into low-hanging branches by a horse that knows to account for its own height, but not that of an added rider. He laughs and bends them back from his face. They whip behind him as the horse nibbles shaded patches of grass. With a hissing whistle by the guide, and a flick of his switch, we’re off. LaMona is a competitor, and so I get to take the lead. Mountains so vast andgreen, on a scale too big for any picture. A view of the city’s pale buildingsin the valley. I am comfortable on the horse, so leaving the guide behind does not worry me. It does not worry the guide because he says the horses all know the trail anyway. We amble along, and I watch the green mountains and valleys flow by slowly in the sunshine. Nothing to worry about. But then La Mona trots up a green hillside following a needle-thin trail. I trust her. Why not? I can’t see the others. The trail gets thinner and thinner until I’m riding over grass. Ah, I was too proud of myself too soon. Clearly, this was a long, wrong turn. We arrive at a barb wired fence that reads, ‘Private Property, No Trespassing’ in Spanish. “I know you can’t read,” I say to La Mona. “But that sign says, No Trespassing. So how about it? Where are we?” Not so much as a snort in reply. I look back down the hill. My friends are nowhere in sight. “OK, we’re going back.” I tug the reigns, but La Mona shakes her head. I pull again and she doesthe same. She agrees to do an about face. But as soon as she gazes downhill, her legs start buckling. Knees inward, almost knocking. Horse fear. She turns her head back. Her eyes bulge. She must be thinking she will fall if she tries to go down that (admittedly) very steep hillside. Though she is the one who brought us up here. “You’re like a cat that gets up a tree and doesn’t know how to getdown,” I tell her. She doesn’t understand accountability, this horse. She snuffles and pleads for a different way down. Anything but the very steep, very scary hill. I can see the trail we’re supposed to be on below. I just need a way to get there that is not a straight line down. Searching, I see a shallow incline in the green hill. A needle of a trail buried in tufts of overgrown grass. But it is not steep, and La Mona likes this path far more. There are logs and branches all over this route. The horse can step over some, but if the debris is big enough, I need to hop off her and clear the path. I kneel to pull logs out of the way. She steps forward into where the logs arelying. One of them rolls up over her hoof. She steps again to escape it andbats herself across her opposite legs. The muscles in her torso shudder. Shewhines a little. She is stressed out, getting clumsy, clip-clopping, unhappy at the branches scraping her legs. I shush her and pull the branches away from between her feet. Finally, after what seems like an hour of riding and working, clearing brush, shushing and reassuring, petting, cooing, coaxing, and finally riding again, and sometimes a tightrope balance of riding on a steep hill, I am back on that main trail. But where are my friends? I can’t see them anywhere. But it’s OK. We are back on the right path, now. La Mona knows the way from here. Get my book Odd Jobs & After Hours in audio, hardcover, or paperback by clicking here. It’s about drifting down the east coast of the USA chasing one sketchy, so-called opportunity after another.
FeaturedCookie Smuggler Four shots of ouzo makes early morning strategizing a woozy challenge. Lesson of the road. Final night in Greece. Flight out in a few hours. Trying to figure out how to get pistachio cookies I bought on an island to survive reckless baggage handlers. Pistachio farmers on Aegina render their crop into every incarnation imaginable. Liqueur, soap, butter, bread, cookies, gelato, and of course bags of nuts. Well, they let me try this cookie they call a pistachio cigar. A chocolate crunchy tube filled with green pistachio butter. Think peanut butter, but made out of pistachios. It gets eaten, not smoked, in case the cigar name causes any confusion. Anyway, bought four cans, but they are not crush proof. Wrapping the cans in jeans really doesn’t help much. The only crush-proof part of my gear is…the hollow body of my acoustic guitar. Well, the strings are overdue for a change. They are not going to survive more altitude and humidity fluctuations in playable shape. They’ll sound like garbage, so they might as well be sacrificed to a worthy cause. Twisting metal tuning pegs. Prying up black bridge pins. Twang. Ping. Accidental notes get deeper, wobbly and unnatural before the string gives way and whips and snakes on its own. Each of the four cans fits snugly into the guitar’s sound hole. No wait. Two in, t-shirt, two more in, another t-shirt. Final t-shirt to secure them. Yes. Cigars in a guitar. Multiple people have told me this travel story. Except they were traveling from Cuba. Maybe it is from a movie, or it is one of those real-life tropes. Now I’ve got this story, too. Except mine are cigar cookies from Greece. But consider that these cookies are in plastic tubes with metal soda can tops. Some security agent scanning my guitar will see it loaded with four metal-capped cylinders with an unclear manner of tubing inside. Will they know it’s chocolate and pistachio not bomb casings and explosive putty? Will I ever bring home the flavor I tried to carry off that island? Time alone will tell. Goodbye to this room with its hard mattress, its unseeable biting insects, and balcony view of the Acropolis. On to what’s next. Get my book Odd Jobs & After Hours in audio, hardcover, or paperback by clicking here. It’s about drifting down the east coast of the USA chasing one sketchy, so-called opportunity after another.
FeaturedOne More Might as well do another beach day. Another hike. One more nice meal. Why not? And a chocolate after. Or a pastry. Or gelato cup. One more museum, artifact, helmet, compass, or carving. One more country, one more cocktail, one more castle, one more conversation. One more night out. Don’t you think? Then it will be enough. Nice coffee, nice day, a snack, a drink, a trip, rent a paddle board, roll a smoke and then I’ll be good. Next, I’ll go home and be responsible, but after. Just one more. Get my book Odd Jobs & After Hours in audio, hardcover, or paperback by clicking here. It’s about drifting down the east coast of the USA chasing one sketchy, so-called opportunity after another.
FeaturedStuff Left Behind A nylon backpack and headset from a company I no longer work for gifted to a friend in London. Outlet adapters in Edinburgh gifted to another traveling American. Had two. Now I’ve got one. A lowball gifted to me at a hostel in Edinburgh, then gifted to someone else. Knew the bumps on the road ahead would shatter it if it stayed with me. A bulky blue jacket left in Heathrow because my bag was too heavy for even the cheapest flight. A white sweater from Galway in a UPS office in Mannheim, sent back to Germany by USA customs. A copy of Shantaram left on a book swap shelf in Germany. An empty suitcase given away in Mannheim no longer needed after pairing down a few things. Hush Puppy boots in Taghazout, likely walking onward on someone else’s feet. Beaded bracelets from a felt bag left as a thank you for a kind host in Tangier. A sweater on a farm in Spain, likely warming a new volunteer even now. A waterproof notebook given to an Italian on the same farm. He wanted to write in that partially finished barn without WiFi where we stayed. Still have plenty of my own. Paperback copies of my book sold in towns all over the world. Traveling lighter, the warmer the months get – the longer the journey lasts. Get my book Odd Jobs & After Hours in audio, hardcover, or paperback by clicking here. It’s about drifting down the east coast of the USA chasing one sketchy, so-called opportunity after another.
FeaturedBlues Under Athens Lugged my guitar on a crowded tram during rush hour. It’s killing me inside that I can’t…move! Fingers getting stiff and cold and I know, I just know they are going to play tricks on me when an audience is watching. I want to shake some blood into them, but that would mean smacking strangers, which of course I’m not going to do, so I shove them in my pockets. Twang! A passenger bangs the guitar and it strums in its case. Wincing at the thought of damage, but she’s been fine on every airplane and bus, so she’ll be fine one more time. Right? Right? Some bartender told me I could play an open mic tonight. Sounded fun. Problem: no idea where the venue he mentioned is. Hoping to find out by returning to the same bar, asking the same guy. But it’s getting under my skin! The thought of playing in front of people. Stomach jumping in anticipation. Some things don’t get better the more you do them, huh? Last time I performed was in Morocco. Squeezed and popped out of the tram. Fresh air and a little personal space. Sun sinks. Shadows pool out vast, dark and cold between buildings. Ah, I can shake my fingers now. OK. Let’s find this place. Hope that same bartender is working so I can ask again. Nope. New faces. This shot of mine is getting longer and longer, isn’t it? Ordered the same drink I had last time. Can’t remember its name. Gin, lick-lipping fresh blended berry juice, and tons of shaved ginger for heat. Salt on only half of the rim for a counter melody. A murky pond to drown a little stage fright in, no? Ah, why not drink two. People party late here, so I might be early yet. Where is that music place someone mentioned? Where you can play an open mic? The other guys said next door, but it’s all dark windows, rolled-down shutters, graffiti. There is no “next door.” No idea, tonight’s bartender says while scooping ice out of the bin. Did I drag the guitar all this way for nothing? Is it dead weight for the night out? Any idea what the place is called? He said it was basement, something. Basement. The place is called Basement? That or it’s in a basement. Details are hazy on this one, my guy. Rumor and hearsay. Urban legends. Local folklore. He laughs, and asks his buddy in Greek. The buddy tells me go to the wooden door on the corner. That sounds like what you’re looking for. Drain drink, pay up, and head to that wooden door in the empty alley. But this is just the door to somebody’s apartment. Greek names written on paper tags next to the buzz-in buttons. I still try it, just in case. It’s locked. No signs for a bar, a venue, a club, or anything. But next to it is a small door. Black door on a black wall. And scrawled in white chalk today’s rain has half washed away, ‘the party is here.’ I test this knob, and it does open. Bright red lighting on dark carpeted steps. A letter U in white backlight. This must be it! Down saggy steps to an empty basement with a few couches here and there. A stage the same height as the rest of the room. You with the band? Someone asks. Nope. Heard there was open mic. Later, maybe. A band plays first. Ah, I might drink for a while then. Ha! Hm. Yes, listen. You guys use the place as a bar, but I’ve been trying to get you all to understand what the fuck is really going on here because there is. He stretches out his fingers, grasping for concepts. More to it. But have a drink, maybe today, you listen, next time, maybe play. Maybe play tonight if you’re ready. But it’s becoming a members only listening club soon. Sure. No problem. Got a place I can leave my guitar? He smiles, and nods. Puts it in the sound room. Walking lighter now – nice. Two Euro beers. No wonder the bar part outshines the other concepts. Signs scrawled in marker. The bar itself is a salvaged bookshelf or something. It’s not meant to be a bar. The place is furnished with scavenged, repurposed, improvised objects. The place fills up with twenty and thirty-something Greeks. Nose rings, choppy hair, tattoos, black skinny jeans, dark shirts, angular, Goth jackets, punky boots, silver rings, cross earrings, and so on. Maybe everybody wants to hear Punk tonight. But no, not Punk, Funk begins. Well above my skillset. This is the band. When the open mic starts, it’s the twelve bar blues of all things. Blues. One of the first things you learn how to do on guitar. The blues really gets the crowd going. Sweet Home Chicago and Miss the Mississippi have the Greeks swaying and nodding. Why do punk scene kids in Athens care about Chicago and Mississippi? I ask someone. I was there in another life, he says longingly. Hmm. Lot of people in those places say that about Greece, you know. The islands. He laughs and shrugs. Must have been a recent past life, I tell him. 1930s, maybe. A girl tells me there is a whole blues conservatory in Athens as well. Fingertips itch and I can feel those same five notes you learn to play for Blues soloing under them – it makes my fingers wiggle to hear guitar playing I like. The Blues. It grooves addictively. It cycles like the seasons, or a woman’s period. It’s sad like life. It howls like a wildcat and it bitches like a bad day. You can do it in a jam session and you get to tell your story or play your guitar solo on it, but then the shape of it stays the same and it’s someone else’s turn. Didn’t get to play that night. Maybe next week, if they play the Blues again. But I did think I began to understand something, like I began to get it. Either that or I was drunk. Get my book Odd Jobs & After Hours in audio, hardcover, or paperback by clicking here. It’s about drifting down the east coast of the USA chasing one sketchy, so-called opportunity after another.
FeaturedThe Island of Weird Sounds An ocean of crashing waves where the sky should be. Salt waves surging and crashing, ebbing and flowing overhead. I open my eyes. The real ocean is lying down in front of me, where it belongs, but its sounds emit from above. Aural illusion. Because there is an immense tan cliff with thousands of round pores and a long arced top standing behind me. The sound of the waves bounces right off the cliff top and reflects down from above. Disorienting. No sand on this beach. Just water-polished, smooth white pebbles. Mostly just under ping-pong ball size. Some bead-sized. Worn flattish and round. The clear water is the color of cloudless blue Jell-O. The pebble bed is perfectly visible for about a hundred yards into the water, morphing under the soft, foamless, rounded tops of harmless waves. This weird place is on Agistri. Not many people on this island this time of year. The tide rolls out and it sounds like a rainstick. Shik-a-tak-a-shok-a-taka shika shika. Hundreds of white pebbles rolling over each other downhill. Water sloshes around them as they sink below the tide. Other sound effects. When I walk in shoes, the smooth, golfball-sized pebbles squeak and grind against each other under each step. Somehow, this sounds like ice cubes being dropped on a taut basketball. This crunchy bounce-like noise ricochets off the cliff wall same as the waves. Funny little piece of the world. It only has two aspects: blue water, and polished white stones. Sounds coming from the wrong direction. The smooth, sun-warmed stones are almost like a massage bed if you have a towel to drop over them. The smell of wildflowers appears and vanishes with each swoon of wind. Hard to say whether you’re awake or dreaming. Easy to say, actually. I’m awake in the regular old real world. Because here come three other people. A girl braving the freezing water for bikini pictures. A fat boyfriend who is regulated to photographer duties. A long-haired third-wheeler seeking the comfort of a joint. No more private island. “Ok, get one of me candid. Lower angle, lower.” Oh, weird. Her voice is coming down from the top of the cliff, too. Flopping back down on the towel, I see there are coin-sized pebbles on top of coffee-bean sized pebbles. Shades of white on white. Now, I know you’re no expert on fluid dynamics, but the coin-size pebbles can be submerged under the bed of bean-size pebbles with a simple press of a fingertip. I submerge about twelve pebbles, just pressing them down. Bam! Bright red in the field of white. Sea glass. Frosty red glass polished smooth. Looking extra special with all the contrast. And wow! Here’s a green one. Specialties. Rarities. Ok, time to start stacking. Sea glass sandwich is what I’m thinking. Coin-sized smooth white pebble. Red cloudy glass. Another white. Green frosty glass. Final white pebble. Done. Nice. We’re getting somewhere. Accomplishing things. “Now a video. Me like, pushing my hair back.” Ha. She’s still floating up there. Whoosh. Shik-a-tak-a-shok-a-taka shika taka tika. Look at this particular pebble. Exactly the size, shape, and color of a mint Mento. Matte, not glossy, though. Looks lick-able. Well, why not? Lightly salted, not minty. Of course. The tide touches the cliff wall when it’s flooded full. A lightly salted place, on top of everything else. Now look at this white pebble. It has three divots exactly like bowling ball holes. A distinguishing little feature. A way for it to feel unique in a world of conformity, no doubt. I toss it behind me and it clinks somewhere. I bring a flattish stone to the shoreside, wet, bright pebbles squeaking and grinding under each step. Fling the stone sidearm. It skips about three or four times before sinking in a splash. “Not bad,” faces from the two guys. The girl does not react in any way. Yeah, I am a pretty good skipper. Actually.Get my book Odd Jobs & After Hours in audio, hardcover, or paperback by clicking here. It’s about drifting down the east coast of the USA chasing one sketchy, so-called opportunity after another.
FeaturedGreek Pastry & Clouds Dreams do come true, specifically, ones about packing up a backpack and taking a trip around the world. But they are not without missed trains, nights in hostels with leaky roofs, and overcast days that make you want to hide in a hole. What is it about today’s twelve thousand tons of grey haze hovering overhead that makes me realize quite clearly: I don’t know a soul in Athens – or more largely, in Greece? Really haven’t cared about that fact till this exact second. Whatever. You could be lounging in the clouds and you’d soon discover they have bedbugs. You can’t stare into this haze anymore than you can stare into the sun. It’s a blinding blanket over a blue you can’t see. Makes you keep your head down. It’s supposed to stick around for days, per the forecast. Though of course, nobody is owed anything, it’s hard not to feel owed a little sunshine if you’ve made it as far away as Greece. Anyway. It’s times like these you gotta do a couple pastries, man. A mug of joe. That’s the big plan for the day. Athens bakeries have two cases, one for the narrow bricks of layer cake with angular white and brown chocolate triangles and lace-like icing patterns that you can find anywhere in Europe or the USA. The other case is for traditional Greek recipes, which are really worth going for. Geological layers of crunchy filo dough and raw honey. Jade chunky bits of crushed pistachios. Twisted cookies with golden glazed exteriors that release an aroma of baked butter when you snap them in half. Folded cookies with a filling of chopped ruby cherries and sticky sweet walnut paste. Fried donut balls to dip in honey and chocolate sauce. This is not a sit down place, but I do hide from the beginnings of rain in the awning of the shop. Cardboard box of pastries with a golden foil interior. They might as well serve them in tiny treasure chests. It’s nice here. The espresso machine grinds coffee beans louder than my thoughts. The roar of the convection oven and the bustling of nice people pulling fresh treats from the heat. The coming and going of regulars. Jagged, crispy filo dough flakes apart on my tongue. Wildflower honey melts away. Crushing pistachios with molars. Nothing else tastes like pistachio, that’s a one of a kind flavor. Speaking of flavor, have I even had real pastry before now? Or was it all various wax moldings of whipped canola oil and dyed corn syrup? Someone should investigate. Closing my eyes to the sun glare diffusing through the frankly sad and ugly sky. What am I doing here? What is at the end of this trek? Breathe in and out. Rose water. This one had an aftertaste of rosewater. Gently, though. A notch above imagination. As close to a magic spell as it gets. A sip of the coffee. Rich espresso and buzzy caffeine rocket right to the brain. Makes you stand up straighter and blink. I’ll take a ferry to some island. They’re ghost towns this time of year, but what difference does that make? There’s nobody to hang out with here, either. Funny thing, though. No matter what you do, or where you go, at some point, you sweep up the crumbs and think. Now what? Get my book Odd Jobs & After Hours in audio, hardcover, or paperback by clicking here. It’s about drifting down the east coast of the USA chasing one sketchy, so-called opportunity after another.
FeaturedMistaken Identity Spotlights shine on flowing carved robes, a plumed helmet, a sharp spear, and somber features. A statue of Athena stands on top of a tall, narrow column. The groves of the park muffle the idling engines and occasional honking from street traffic. It’s a cold night. The park has overgrown lawns, dry fountains, and caution tape around smaller statues that look forgotten. Litter blows against gates. Tags jingle. Barking. A large dog, white with light brown spots bounds in great arcs over the grass. Pins and needles in my right knee, where a black lab once took a little chomp. Of course, I do like dogs, but my knee does tingle at times when one charges me out of nowhere. The dog stops short. Its ears and tail droop. It tilts its head and pants at me. “Sorry,” says the woman who owns him. “He thought you were my brother.” Flattering, flattering. But how does she know who the dog thought I was? My Greek is hardly even beginner level. My Dog is even worse. Still, it’s the kind of thing that makes you feel at home. Get my book Odd Jobs & After Hours in audio, hardcover, or paperback by clicking here. It’s about drifting down the east coast of the USA chasing one sketchy, so-called opportunity after another.
FeaturedThe Voice of the Dead Artwork by Kiefer Likens Traffic jam. One so clogged the cab driver gets out of the car, stands in the road, and throws his arms up in the air. The meter on his dashboard still ticks upward. Bigger bill for me. No easy ride back to the AirBnB to conclude a weekend at the beach here in Athens after all. What’s stopping traffic? A cluster of people wearing black hoodies and sweatpants. Between the rows of honking cars, a bald guy carries a massive megaphone practically the size of his torso. Next to him, a man with his hood up has a large banner rolled into double scrolls tucked under his arm. Megaphone guy leads some of the crowd into the courtyard in front of a columned building with carved statues standing on its roof. Stark white statues in twisted poses, with a crooked knee or one lifted arm. The man’s voice blasts through the megaphone louder than the engine hum of all the taxi cabs, trams, and drivers. Louder than the drumbeats from the speakers of cafes serving coffee and juices to people gathered under the round, metal reflector screens of gas heaters. His message is in Greek. The crowd repeats his words. What does it mean? I ask the cab driver. Though many people here speak English very well, this cab driver does not. He shrugs and gestures, watching the road. Roaring police sirens drown out our efforts to speak anyway. Blue lights shine into the cab. Officers arrive by motorcycle whizzing between the stopped cars. Two officers per bike. They wear black jumpsuits, white helmets, and ridged bulletproof vests. Screaming rises. A fire now blazes on the sidewalk. Protesters converge around an orange backhoe parked in a small construction site just off of the sidewalk, practically next to this cab. What are they doing? Tipping it over? The suspension of the backhoe buckles as people clamber on it. More riot police appear carrying plastic see-through shields. Hissing sound. Some sort of gas pellet or canister has been set off. Wind blows the smoke it emits through the courtyard. Smashing glass. Fire erupts inside the cabin of the backhoe. Rubber seat coverings melt. Dashboard dials and the plastic handles of levers all drip down. Black soot streaks its smashed windows. Protestors tuck their noses and mouths into their hoodies and run from the fire with ducked heads. Police bark orders from a megaphone. Stinging, sickening chemical fumes make a haze of the courtyard air. Harsh enough to make my nose drip and eyes water. The driver rolls up all the windows, but this hardly helps. He fishes a COVID mask out of his jacket pocket and puts it on. Holding my breath, I tap the driver on the shoulder with a five Euro bill, he sighs, takes it, and flicks his fingers for a quick wave goodbye. I twist back to check for more oncoming police motorcycles, then pop the door open, and dart between stopped cars to the far side of the street. Fresher air here, but the smell of burning rubber is stuck in my nose. A gigantic banner with Greek letters written in red and black ink has been posted on the fence of the construction site. Wind makes it luff and ripple. Beside me, two girls and a guy all about my age huddle and speak in hushed tones. Do you speak English? I ask. They are surprised at the question. What does the banner say? One girl tells me it reads, “This crime will not be forgotten. We are the voice of the dead.” Which crime? Which dead? The 57 people who died when two trains crashed on the Athens-Thessaloniki line. Scattered locals have told me what they think of the accident this past week. A barber, a cab driver, and a couple on a hiking trail who were kind enough to give me a lift back to the bus stop have each explained in their own way that the government shells out big money to cronies and cousins to run the train lines. And with this money, these buddies and back-roomers created a system in which a passenger train full of students lounging with headphones on, daydreaming and gazing out the windows, rolling along on all the certainty of steel rails were directed into a nose-to-nose collision with a freight train running in the opposite direction on the same track. Four train cars knocked off the rails. The front carriages engulfed in flames. People inside tumbled against the ceiling and walls of the tipping train while fire raged. Lives lost. Greased palms and dark money have deadly consequences, but not for the people getting paid. A flicker of a thought – this is a glimpse of Greece beneath the customer service. This explosion of longstanding anguish over government corruption. Perhaps this is the source of the half-shrugs – the hesitant exhaustion I have detected when asking baristas and bartenders here and there what they think of life in Greece. A woman dressed like one of the protesters staggers up onto the sidewalk nearby. Her black hair is in a ponytail. Ashen white skin, nose dripping, eyes red. Maybe from a face full of teargas, or gulping fumes from the burning backhoe. Two people help her to a seat on some steps near a cafe and squeeze her hands. She is in her late twenties. The protesters disperse. Lines of riot police in militant gear stand watch on every sidewalk corner. Why is that backhoe being left to burn? Are firetrucks busy with other riots around Athens? Is the fire department here well-run, or useless? Something tells me I would get mixed answers if I asked around. Even more strangely, a competing vision of how this Sunday will proceed asserts itself. For all the chaos, there is still a significant number of people who are determined to have a leisurely afternoon at the cafe of their choice. They are strolling along, dressed in long pea coats or leather jackets, sunglasses and scarves. This is a slightly older crowd. The baristas and waitresses continue to serve them. What else could they do? Orders are placed for freddos and frappes. Pastries with layers of flaked dough, crushed green pistachio, and creamy cheeses are served. People roll cigarettes or puff vapes, watching the aftermath of the conflict with what appears for all the world to be detachment and disinterest. They must be local; they are chatting in Greek. Summer is the big tourist season, and since mid-February, I have encountered just one Canadian and no other Americans. Then what is this place? Is it lethal, failing infrastructure? Is it divine espresso and perfect pastry? Is it screaming and burning in the streets? Is it long hours of watching the sun set over ancient temples to the sound of ambient techno? It is all of those things at the same time and far more, crammed and struggling right alongside each other block by block. Get my book Odd Jobs & After Hours in audio, hardcover, or paperback by clicking here. It’s about drifting down the east coast of the USA chasing one sketchy, so-called opportunity after another.
FeaturedNo Photography Droning notes – a trance-like melody – played by an instrument I can’t see, and don’t know the name of. Cobblestone paths run in rings around the gates of the ancient ruins of the Acropolis in Athens. Short trees with scaly bark, and trunks shaped like the letter S sit among hills of patchy grass and craggy tan rocks. The wind brings the scent of flowers, and the food from restaurants below. The music has caught the ears of an old woman wearing a floral headscarf sitting on a stone curb. She closes her eyes and nods her head left and right in the slow time of the music. Where is that sound coming from? It’s not a recording, it has the imperfections of live playing. What is that instrument called? It’s not an oud, balalaika, or mandolin, it’s something else. I climb a stone wall and hold the bars of the black gate on top of it and look around. The hilltop becomes visible. White pillars, long triangular roofs with carved white stone figures lounging in their corners. That bass line and intoxicating melody float through the sound of cooing pigeons gathered in large numbers under a pine tree. One green parrot has found a place among them, but he flaps suddenly and flies up into a tree. There’s the musician. He’s set up with a small amplifier in a nook of these winding pathways. I can see the top of a head of long curly hair. He has a prominent nose, and a pitch-black goatee. Ripples of notes run upwards as the song builds momentum. I let go of the gate bars, and hop of the wall. When I take out my phone to film him, he nods towards a sign in his instrument case. No photography. Fair enough. He has gathered about six people, and I become the seventh, listening to singing in a language I don’t understand, and the trance-like droning of his playing. Is there anything I could steal for my own guitar playing? The way he sounds like two players instead of one, the way the sound spellbinds strangers so quickly, so easily. There’s no sign saying who he is, no indication his work is available anywhere in the world but right here, right now, so I listen a good while, obey the posted sign, throw 5 Euro in his case, and then continue to wander the hillsides surrounding the Acropolis. Have I heard something special? Did I fall for a tourist trap? I realize I enjoyed the music enough not to care. On the opposite side of the hill, a painter is selling his work on a blanket. He has a No Photography sign as well. His work his mostly elegant suggestions of ancient Greek statues drawn in a single curving black line, with one pattern or color added for contrast and pop. He has done landscapes of the white Cycladic cities, blue domes, and flowered canopy gardens of Mykonos and Santorini as well. He is talented. He wears a brown Greek sailor’s cap that has clearly scene every season and all kinds of weather. His leather jacket and jeans are battered as well. People lounge in the sun on another stone wall. I find a shaded place under a park tree and sit down. Next to me, a woman in a long blue linen top with rolled sleeves, gold bracelets, blocky sunglasses, and pointed boots is writing in a journal with a worn-out gold-ish cover. Get my book Odd Jobs & After Hours in audio, hardcover, or paperback by clicking here. It’s about drifting down the east coast of the USA chasing one sketchy, so-called opportunity after another. I ask if she’s a writer, and she tells me not really, just enjoys capturing thoughts and feelings. Her name is Iris. She smiles with large, even teeth yellowed by wine, coffee, and cigarettes. Any tips for places to go in Athens, I ask. She tells me I’m already doing fine just by hanging out around here. I tell her of all the places I have been lucky enough to see in the past few months (UK, Germany, Morocco, and Spain) so far, Greece has been my favorite. Why? Why? All over the world, locals have curiosity about what makes their place special. It’s hard to explain. It’s a combination of the pace, the food, the climate, the people. The scenery, the history. The atmosphere. Spain must be nice, she says. No love in Spain? She asks hopefully. I grin, and tell her I was working on a farm most of the time. Explored the cities for sure, but had few opportunities to break the ice comfortably with people. She shrugs. Perhaps she was hoping for a better story than that. How can I blame her? Maybe I was, too. She’s older than I am, maybe by ten years. I find myself wondering what place Spain occupies in her imagination. How far away or exotic it is to a Greek local in general. It’s not a question I can really put into words in that moment, but perhaps all over the world, we’re sitting around longing to trade places with each other. But that’s not entirely true. Germans have told me they are no fan of the USA, and have no plans to visit. An Italian told me the jig is up and we are overrated. The woman is named Iris. She is delighted to thumb through a copy of Odd Jobs & After Hours and describes the story of the plot as very American. A roadtrip chasing work. She fans through the pages and asks what the scent on the book is. It reminds her of a rare perfume ingredient from France. I assure her I have no idea. That battered copy of my first book has been all over Europe, in the hands of so many people, but I truly can’t come up with any plausible explanation for its fragrance. She’s quite stuck on the idea though. More interested in how the book smells then anything written on its pages. Maybe there’s a lesson for me and my efforts as an author there. She snaps a photo of the book and promises to Google it later, after her shift at work, for which she is a tad late. She leaves with a smile, and a ‘nice chatting with you.’ I decide the view and atmosphere is as good as any, and daydream on that rock wall while people stroll past the valley with the Theater of Dionysius, and the hilltops crowned by ancient white temples and statues, constructing memories of how that music sounded, or how those paintings looked.
FeaturedScenes from a Café in Athens The coffee machine at this café has been broken for the first hour of the day. A waitress in the place’s uniform of a vest with floral patterning and a tiger face on the back is explaining this nervously to new patrons in Greek. She is wringing her hands, and playing with her frizzy brown hair. The groggy patrons shrug it off and sit down. After all, it’s still nice here. Though I don’t know Greek, I got the same rundown on the situation in heavily-accented English mere moments ago. It’s ok, I have time to wait for the twenty minutes it is estimated repairing the machine will take. Guests smoke without exception while browsing the menu. Cigarettes, small cigars, or vapes. With no coffee to drink, it’s hard not to people watch. Especially given the prevalence of eccentric clothing in this city. One woman passes in a fuzzy zebra-striped ankle-length coat, and black hair pinned in a bob. Another in a fuzzy red coat, loudly patterned silk shirt with a gold cross, baggy white cargos, and heavy boots. Many people wear green slacks, or checkered pants with leather jackets. One girl wore all black and silver jewelry with zebra-striped slacks. Get my book Odd Jobs & After Hours in audio, hardcover, or paperback by clicking here. It’s about drifting down the east coast of the USA chasing one sketchy, so-called opportunity after another. An older couple sits two tables away after accepting the reality of the delay for coffee. The woman takes out two packages, one of red Winstons, the other a golden cardboard box. Her hands open it slowly. What could be in such regal packaging? Hand cream, it turns out. Heating coils glow orange inside black metal reflectors that chase away the February chill. The booths are upholstered with a print of tigers and cheetahs among jungle leaves and flowers. No less than five crystal chandeliers shine on the ceiling. The light fixtures are shaped like brass crowns, and stuffed parrots are perched on top of them, staring down into the center of the chandelier like into a watering hole. The chandeliers are set among a canopy of leaves and flowers that hang from brown rafters. Globes of stained glass with bulbs in the center offer colored light, too. The café doors are framed by the white columns of a building built in 1870. With caffeine delayed, we’re clearly onto booze. Clinking trays of brunch brunch cocktails float out amid the loungers, borne on the palms of the stressed waitress. Short, frosted glasses with berry purple, citrus orange, or a lemonade color are served here and there. Down the alley, a street artist is selling handmade jewelry against the backdrop of dark green corrugated sheets that are part of the construction work on the building next to the café. Though the sheets are temporary, street artists have painted them with psychedelic patterns. Incense on the wind. Behind me, a the white marble arches and blue ceiling with gold stars of an Orthodox church. The priest is out at the café, counseling someone in hushed tones at a table far away. What is the subject matter? It’s all in Greek, but they must be talking about how hard life is. What else would you talk to a priest about? Actually, I have seen a meeting of this kind in some public place, a café or bar at least once every day I have been out and about in Athens so far. Only once have I eavesdropped, because the conversation was in English. A woman was saying, ‘people are suffering so much everywhere, father.’ He lifted his hands. Even for a priest, it’s a lot to lay on one guy. Relief to those gathered, the unmistakable sound of coffee beans grinding. The machine is fixed, and a barista puffs on a giant vape and reads the stack of backorders for coffees. The handles of the machine click-clack as he works them at lightening speed. My own coffee freddo arrives, which is espresso on ice with a frothed top. A family of four dressed to the nines takes a corner booth outside. The daughter, in her mid 30s, wears a white top with exposed shoulders, and designer sunglasses hanging from a large gold chain. Her boyfriend sits opposite from her. Her thin mother sports a sailor-like white shirt with billowing sleeves and lacy collar, and similar shades. Her hair is buzzed on the sides, long on top, and one lock is dyed the color of red wine. The dad of the family has opted for jeans, a t-shirt, and sneakers. He jokingly snatches the daughter’s designer purse, a leather bag with gold studs. They are all laughing. Is his iPhone stored in there? Is it her turn to pay? Hard to tell. Past the mid-1800s buildings, white balconies and wooden shutters of a pink building open, the cliffs leading up to the Acropolis stand over the city. From this café, you can see the triangular roof and ancient columns through the haze of the day. Thin grids of scaffolding gird parts of the ancient ruins, keeping an icon, history, attraction, and identity of the city alive. People pass between the outdoor tables with shopping bags. Others pass with obvious signs of insanity. Two of them, both men in ripped sweaters and worn out jeans, wander through the tables singing loudly to themselves. They have no cup for coins, they aren’t buskers, just lost in their own music. At one table, a fat guy with tattoos of anchors and Greek characters and a large gold watch, lights cigarettes with matches. Potted plants in ceramic black monkey heads decorate every table. What are the jobs of all these people? Are they all on vacation on a random Tuesday? They are speaking Greek, mostly. So they must be locals. The jewelry maker has sold a necklace to a yoga-style lady with blonde hair, the backlog of coffee orders is cleared through much to the relief of the staff. Brain fog blows away like morning mist off a lake. Smoke rises from all cigarettes, and the day proceeds at its wandering, browsing pace.
FeaturedWheelbarrows of Spanish Rubbish Now I am a farmer in Spain. It happened fast! This change in my way of life. Seems I hit a lurch in my grand lark around the globe. Turns out, when you spend a ton of money, you don’t have it any more, so out of a deep desire to keep seeing the world, I am now working on a farm about a half hour from Sevilla. The gig gets me a room and groceries, and I still have afternoons and weekends free to explore. Fair enough. Sweet deal. Get my book Odd Jobs & After Hours in audio, hardcover, or paperback by clicking here. It’s about drifting down the east coast of the USA chasing one sketchy, so-called opportunity after another. The first wheelbarrow full of wood for the compost pile is ready to be trundled down the hill. In the upside down U-shaped bowl of the barrow lie tangles of thorns. Enormous plates of palm tree shaped like shell bits from a brown lobster, but made out of wood. Big bundles of palm fronds with sharp dead spines along their stems. Mats of wet, fibrous, woven tissue. Rolling the barrow down to the wood waste pile, through thigh-high greenish weeds. Simple living. A white bell tower stands sharply from the horizon line. What Andalusian character! What rustic Old World charm. Time to hurl the handles of the barrow skyward and send the thorns, fronds and palm plates into the heap of other thorns, brushwood, and chunks of downed trees. The brush pile runs for a hundred curving yards. Barrow number two. This one weighs less, but it’s stacked so high with thorns that the wooden tips rake and scratch my legs whenever I take a step. I could adjust it, but they don’t quite cut through my work pants, so forward down the same hill it is. Oh wow, look at that. The same Andalusian architectural touches, and the same blistering rustic charm. Wait, lemme brew a little presence and gratitude for this scene of beauty – oh whatever, seen it. Get it. Let’s flip the barrow once more. And go get another one. Oh, yeah. Two barrows down, one hundred and forty seven to go. This is the life. This is what it’s all about, farm life, very traditional, very healthy. This is awesome. This is boring. The five fat dogs of the farm are barking all at once now. Probably because the same van they have seen every day of their lives at the exact same time is pulling up the driveway. It shocks them every single day. It blows their dog minds. It is a situation that requires immediate frantic prancing and barking. It is the same van they see every day, and look, look everyone, it’s back. Barrow three: heavy on the crab-leg and gigantic lobster-claw-like plates of palm tree bark. Deep smell of wood spice, rich in the nose, with piquant notes of thorns to draw light red lines of blood from my forearms above the leather gloves. Presented ingeniously on a generous bed of delicately aged palm fronds. Get a load of that same Andalusian bell tower. Drink in those mounds of brown fields striped with plow tracks. Isn’t it bucolic, isn’t bliss? Haven’t I seen it twelve hundred times over the bow of the loaded barrow? How many wheelbarrow-loads are left? Does the bell in that tower ever ring? When is lunch, and what will I eat when lunchtime arrives? Yes, yes, doggies, that van, that van is still back. Get on the case, boys. Bark the ever living heck out of that situation. The van, the van. Something must be done. Charging around must be accomplished. Deep inner feelings must be vented. There is so much to do today. Another barrow, this one loaded deeper than a ship making a voyage for the new continent from the days of whenever we were up to exploration. It’s bringing a precious cargo of palm tree chunks and thorns to the New World. I’m wrestling the one white wheel through the long grass for the rubbish pile. How will I do this repetitive menial job? Better than anyone who ever did it. They will call me the Wheel Barron. When I leave the mortal plane, people will say, ‘we lost a wheel one.’ Lunch is scheduled for sometime next month. I will bomb that cute little bell tower to pile of charming bucolic ashes. I will sow those plow tracks with salt. I will use this very wheelbarrow to bring the Iberian Peninsula to its knees. I will drain the Strait of Gibraltar one wheelbarrow full of water at a time. I will do no such thing. I will heave this wheelbarrow upside down, then go get another one. I’ll barrow a heap of rubbish that is kind of like this one, but really very different. A new salad of palm plates, spiked fronds, thorns, and yard waste. With a good attitude, I will do this chore till sundown. It’s getting me a cot in a finished barn, after all. It’s getting me eggs, tuna cans, oranges, and rice. Haul and heave, haul and heave, working the earth here in Spain. The black plastic pipe carrying water down from the stone pump house gurgles near my feet. Birds sing. White butterflies bob and flutter. Let’s get another barrow.
FeaturedJam in Tangier A story about what Moroccans thought of a deeply American tune, and the universal language of music. Functional, I will settle for that description of my guitar prowess. But what does any ability level matter when you’re supposed to meet new friends at a hole-in-the-wall music café buried deep in a bazaar, a maze of shoulder-width white walls and rain-slicked, steep cobblestones, and you can’t find it? Carved wooden shop awnings all draped with scarves, leather bags, lined with handmade pointed yellow shoes, great, reeking piles of black soap, pink and yellow incense, and oils line every triple fork and twist of this labyrinth. Juniper wood carved into boxes and polished till the grain pops like veins in marble in one shop. Parakeets chirping in a cage. Around the corner, five cafes brew coffee and tea all at once. Bakeries the size of closets are tucked into the mess somewhere. Stray dogs and cats charge around feet, as do kids chasing a soccer ball. I’m hauling a guitar over potholes where the stones are broken, up uneven and jagged steps, through a soundscape of sales pitches in first French, then Spanish, then Arabic, then English. Someone in a hoodie lounging on a tiny stoop asks if I need directions. Do you know where Buena Vista is? I ask. He leaps up and promises to walk me there. He chatters about how he himself is a musician, he as well played at Buena Vista. The drums, the bass, he sang, he did everything. Get my book Odd Jobs & After Hours in audio, hardcover, or paperback here. It’s about drifting down the east coast of the USA chasing one sketchy, so-called opportunity after another. He stops a tri-fork in the maze of narrow white alleyways, and vaguely gestures that Buena Vista is down the center one. As I begin to walk, he calls out asking for a little something, but I am mostly out of cash, and apologize. He walks away disappointed. Soon it becomes clear that my destination is nowhere nearby at all. Turning corner after corner, ignoring plea after plea to come explore lamps, rugs, spices, and incense. Have dinner here, drink coffee here, eat pastry here, buy gifts for your loved ones here. A sign! Berber Rugs. Someone mentioned this well-known store was nearby the music café. Up the steep ramp of the cramped alleyway I charge, ducking under swaying handwoven scarves. A round wooden sign: Buena Vista. Tendrils of the stress of being unsure of how to find the place grow long thorns of stage freight. It has been a while since I played in front of an audience. The humid cold of this February night has seeped bone-deep into my fingers. Because of the plaster ceiling that bows down like a full belly over an unlit staircase of blue and white broken tiles, I must take the guitar bought used from a shop in Shoreditch back in London off my back. Its stock would bump the low ceiling otherwise. In the first staircase: vague mildew, and the cigarette smell of the air outside. But the darkness and damp give way to warm light and the aroma of freshly brewed espresso. The first floor is a barista’s station with a gleaming espresso machine, stacks of ceramic coffee cups, piles of mint leaves, and glasses for tea. A few floor cushions are scattered around. It hardly takes a full three steps to cross the entire floor. The second floor is the stage. Rows of wooden benches on an incline surface, and a very small stage with chairs that have stained cushions slip-sliding off of skinny black frames. The musicians: a keyboardist, a drummer, and my new friend on guitar. He nods and indicates I can unpack and set up. Five humming amplifiers, and the body heat of four musicians boxed onto a small stage with close walls make the venue an oven of heat and sound. Eight bright stage lights, and the most powerful of all radiations: eyeballs, the forty-four staring eyeballs of twenty-two strangers expecting to be entertained. Sweat chases the humid chill from my fingers, which become unhelpfully slick on the silver tuning pegs of my guitar as I twist them into key. Soon, I am balancing on one of these falling-apart chairs, doing my best not to lean back against the wall and send a decorative bass guitar clattering to the ground, and not so far forward as to make the chair fall apart. We’re all supplying the background music for a Moroccan singer. He has a sharp haircut and a puffer jacket, sweatpants and Adidas shoes. I copy the E minor to F major I spot my friend pressing on his fretboard. The singer fills the venue with verse after verse of a long, lonely, wailing lament without a hook or chorus but with an eventual crescendo. It’s met with whooping and applause. A couple of people do more tunes in the same genre. You! You! Lead us in a song. The real musicians mean me. Tightening throat, pulse in temples, and my own breath loud in my ears as the drummer walks the mic to my mouth by rocking its round stand on the floor around cables and wires. The seat starts sliding off the frame of my chair like someone pulling the rug out from under my feet. I launch into the chords of Friend of the Devil, the Grateful Dead song. The drummer finds a shuffle. The other musicians find the chords. I can’t hear my own voice coming out of the speakers facing the crowd. Same is true of my guitar playing. It is like the feeling of screaming in a dream, but somewhere in the ether, Friend of the Devil is being performed, allegedly by me. Sonically speaking, I might as well have unfurled a gigantic banner of the American flag with blazing red and white stripes and a field of blue stars. After Flamenco rhythms and the neither major nor minor open scale of droning desert wailing, the bongity-bongity and logical square shape of the G-chord progression never sounded so American. Also American are the romantic, mystic, drifter lyrics, the hound-chased narrator hiding in the caves of Utah, but meeting the Devil by the levy after a fool’s bid to outrun him. An outlaw crying the nights away as he runs far and fast as he can from a couple ex-wives, a mean sherif, and the Devil himself on the great American highway. You notice always, but especially when you sing it: it’s a great, great song. In one break between verses, I whip out the best bluegrass-style solo I can play, practiced so often in private, and now played out in an unclear and quavering quality, or maybe it is just fine. After all, we are our own harshest critics, and the speaker the audience hears sounds so far away to me, like music around the block. Then what: the last verse must be sung, the chords cycle, and the song ends. Silence for a split second – one long enough for every self-doubt and regret about an off-beat strum, or wrong note to rip through me faster then light before these ghosts are chased away by a generous applause. Next comes a Moroccan girl dressed all in pink fuzzy jacket and matching pants, and flat white skater shoes. She wants to sing Stand By Me, and while I know it in G, she wants it in C. The keyboardist takes on the role of music teacher and shows us how to modulate to C. He gives the instructions in French, so I simply copy his chord change, which is the same in every language. A moment to discuss language. Other than Moroccan Arabic, people are quite likely to ask you for French or Spanish. Many people speak excellent English as well, but it is slightly less common. I am guessed for a Frenchman often here, because they get so many of them and relatively few Americans. Given the language gap, we rely on the music. Showing chords on key and fret boards, mouthing strumming patterns like, “da dana…bom bom, da dana…bom bom.” Things you can understand no matter where you are from or what language you speak. We supply instrumental backing for the girl as she sings, “when the night, has come,” and all of Stand By Me. Her voice is beautiful, and her English is spiced with the mildest of accents. Another hour lost in the flow of instrumentals, and we are all quite friendly by now, we few behind the strings, drums and mic. We trade compliments about instruments, and how so and so sounded on this or that song. “Please,” asks the keyboardist and our music teacher of the moment with a smile. “Friend of the Devil, once more.” Tonight is the first time he ever heard that song, but he says he likes the lyrics. Who could say no to a request like that? On our way out in the cold night, breath misting in the aura of street lamps, back passed the closed doors of the hundreds of shops in the Kasbah, my friend tells me I sounded “good, but extremely western.” It makes me laugh, and it’s probably spot on.
FeaturedHungry in Germany MANNHEIM – Three whole days bedridden with a stomach bug, likely from a German sausage that didn’t sit well with me. The last 48 hours on nothing but water with electrolyte tablets dissolved in it. Welcome to Germany. Outside my window, twin white smokestacks belch white steam into gray sky. Flat-fronted, boxy Mercedes trucks back in and out of work lots. German zoning isn’t like American zoning. When I first got off the tram in this district with its manufacturing plants, factories, and construction yards everywhere, I thought I had been given the wrong address. Surely, I thought, nobody lives here. They do, though. Couched between paved lots where cranes haul yellow girders skyward, surrounded by industrial buildings, vehicles, and smokestacks, there is a sturdy German apartment where I’ve got an Airbnb. Get my book Odd Jobs & After Hours in audio, hardcover, or paperback here. It’s about drifting down the east coast of the USA chasing one sketchy, so-called opportunity after another. I came to Mannheim to spend time with a friend from back home. She advised me not to bring up the fact that Germany is still not allowed to have a military. Apparently, her German fiancé reacted quite badly to this topic and spluttered about the small army and further rearmaments going on due to Russia and Ukraine. Don’t know much about it. Not that I have anybody to talk to about current or historical events while lying in bed with a stomach bug. But alone and woozy, I do have time to think about that no military, or small military rule. I mean, surely enough is enough by now, right? So much time has passed. So much cultural evolution has happened. Right? Daylight breaks. It’s just below freezing outside. Lightheaded and extra cold after 48 hours without a bite of solid food, I layer up and begin the half-hour walk to the nearest tram station. I step outside and inhale the fresh air. Scratch that, it’s not fresh at all, it all stinks of rotten eggs. The rows of factories all churn up groundwater and kick hydrogen sulfide stink into the neighborhood’s air every single morning. My stomach flips over. I shiver and try not to breathe too much. As I cross the Alter Rhine, the rotten egg smell blows away, but the temperature drops sharply as I walk over the bridge. The Alter Rhines – leftover bodies of water created when the Germans straightened the Rhine. After all, you can’t have a river running wherever it will, wild and free. That’s just unruly and disorganized. The water-chilled wind rips through my peacoat and two sweaters. It’s so cold I might as well be out here shivering naked. “Nein, nein! Du wirst dir das Bein brechen, wenn du das so machst!” A work crew foreman is barking orders at a crew member who was about to drop down a manhole with a tool bag slung over his shoulder. The workmen all wear rubber suits with reflective cuffs on the legs. Look at the rage on the foreman’s face. Listen to the murder in his voice. The wrongness in the work of his crew stinks like filth in his nose. I shrug my head into my coat and press forward into the wind. The sky is gray. The water is brown. The old brick buildings have broken-out windows, walls with missing chunks, and exposed peeling plaster. Vines grow over bricks. The newer buildings feature the same harsh industrial angles you might see in any other city. This part of Mannheim is either old and abandoned or indistinct and unremarkable. There is an underground tunnel leading to the train station across the street. The walls are covered in graffiti. Puddles and creeks of piss run down into the sewer grates. You have to pay to use the scattered public bathrooms around here. Men, women, and children alike all find hidden corners and go in the streets rather than cough up a half Euro for the pay toilets. I hold my breath and focus on making it to the other end of the tunnel to catch the train. Train Ride To be honest, I don’t have a plan. I just ride the train until the area out the window looks promising. The buildings don’t have signs. There’s no indication of restaurants around. The train pulls to a stop with a cafe. Maybe they have soup on the menu. I hop off the train and walk over to read the menu posted outside. I study it and work to remember my survival-level German vocabulary or decode what I’m reading. Through the streaky brown glass, I see people inside smoking like it’s 1959. The woman behind the counter throws her hands up at me in impatient rage. I check to see if I’m blocking anybody’s way, but I’m not, I’m alone out here. Come on lady, can’t I read the menu in peace? Nobody else has ever done this? I lift a hand to thank and appease her and walk away. What hospitality! What warm hearts. I should just go back to the Airbnb and sleep. I can make it one more day without eating. More than halfway there already. Though the hunger seems to double or even triple the cold weather. Wonder if the cleaning lady is still there. She’s another figure who projected an air of silent, clenched rage. Her eyebrows tweezed to pitch-black perfection. Hair disciplined in a gelled black bun. A snarl in her mouth. The hard angles of her shoulders as she whipped dust out of the corners of the room. More disgusted than the foreman of that work crew. OK, what is with this place? My friend can’t hang out with me, I’m all alone. Can’t stomach the food, see a ray of sunshine, or even a smile for that matter. Yeah, I’ve changed my mind. No military for you sausage-fueled, shivering, snarling, barking little martinets. Who straightens a river? Leave it alone. Germany, your coldness, harshness, and anger are seeping into my blood like the windchill. Back Home The cleaners leave all the windows open, so even though I step inside I can’t really warm up yet. I leave my coat on. What’s this outside my door? There’s a chocolate Saint Nikolaus standing there. Wrapped in red tinfoil with gold crosses on his red hat and shoulders. I pick it up and stare at it. It unbolts my brain for a moment. How many years since a Christmas at home? How many years more since a Christmas with magic? This little chocolate saint. Taking an auger to mood and memory. I’m too old to think about stuff like that anymore! I’ve got to put this guy down. He’s dredging my spirit too much. I can’t be in a foreign country so woozy, witless, and starving that a chocolate saint can strip the years and makes me a kid again. I’ve got to get inside my room fast where I’m not exposed. I text the Airbnb host, “thank you for the chocolate!” She writes back, “It was left by Saint Nikolaus, of course!” She adds a winking emoji. Ah, you guys aren’t so bad. You’re the sweetest people ever. Sorry for what I thought earlier – the sausage-munching rage machine thing. I didn’t mean it. This chocolate is rich and delicious, and it’s the one thing I’ve had to eat all day. I eat it sitting near the radiator.
FeaturedIf ChatGPT Takes All My Jobs… Things are mostly perfect. Mostly. Chilling on a balcony, watching wooden fishing boats with tall prows on the North Atlantic from a surfing hostel in warm, sunny, breezy Taghazout. The host gave me a speaker, and said he liked my music. I have this shaded seaside patio all to myself. But you see…I’m reading about this ChatGPT thing. Watching some videos on it. A year ago, AI could only write non-sequiturs that demonstrated there was no real mind buried in all the algorithms. “Batman throws Alfred at the clue.” Moronic sentences based on frequency of word use. But now…now it’s good. Kids are making it write college essays for them. It can crank out an advertisement, an SEO article, a web page, anything I ever got paid money to write. Non-sequiturs and headaches aside, it’s only a matter of time before employers figure out you don’t have to pay for ChatGPT’s health insurance. Plus, the technology will only get better going forward. For now at least, Odd Jobs & After Hours isn’t bringing in enough to replace my “real” jobs. And now they’re building a robot to replace those. Time to become something else. But what? Plenty of people did during the Industrial Revolution, right? Fair is fair. But maybe…there isn’t a “something else” to become, and this ChatGPT thing signals the long, slow slide towards homelessness. Sleeping in bus stops in the rain, wondering what happened to the guy with the laptop job surfing and partying across Europe, South America, and Africa, I mean, it’s not impossible, right? It’s not historically unheard of, it’s not – “Tom! Tom! We must go to Agadir for a couple of hours. We leave you in charge of the hostel?” I sit up and take off my sunglasses. Samad, the host of the hostel is peering around the corner, desperation in his eyes. “Samad. I’m on vacation.” “Yes, yes, of course, but for one hour, two hour, you answer the door if it rings, give new person towel from behind the desk, ask their room number and bring them there? We bring you anything you want from Agadir, anything to eat, drink, smoke, tell me and it’s yours.” “Thanks, but I’m stocked up. I don’t need anything from Agadir.” “Please, we are out of staff, and if you must leave, of course this is OK, but if you will be here with your music anyway…please?” Seagulls crow and dive for fish. “Ok, you got it.” Samad clasps his hands in gratitude, and off he goes on his motorbike to Agadir. Mostly, I hang out and do exactly what I was already doing. One guest arrives in half an hour, and I bring him a towel and show him to room four. Easy. Now as an American, you spend a ton of time around well-run businesses. You just do. And looking around at the surf hostel I now run, I consider everything that went wrong when I arrived. The vision becomes clear: hire some of local women to do the towel and linen washing, get that running like a clock. Spice and punch up the online description to sell the place on its ambiance a little better. Convince the building owner to spend a little more and therefore earn a little more, and not over-extend his two-man staff so much they have to ask some guest for help. I mean, from what I’ve seen Samad never sleeps. Get my book Odd Jobs & After Hours here. It’s about drifting down the east coast of the USA chasing one sketchy, so-called opportunity after another. Get it in hardcover, paperback, or audio at the link. Replace the hasty iPhone photos with something more cinematic. Get a staff schedule in ship-shape. Pay nice local ladies on the block for couscous dinners for the guests every night. Easy upsell. Heck, get a live music night organized right here on this patio. There’s enough banjo and oud guys playing the streets for pennies. Let’s get those guys earning a little more too. I’ll upsell guests on beginner surfing lessons. I am good enough to teach those now. Let them build a robot that can do all those things at once. And oh yeah, I’ll ferry to Spain often enough to dodge customs officials, because when you work abroad, tons of jobs will give you anything but a visa. As for a retirement plan, I simply won’t have one. As for the dentist, I simply won’t go. As for emergency funds, I will simply not have emergencies. That works, right? Three hours pass, and Samad returns with potato chips, Kinder bars, and beer as a thank you. Who knows? Maybe there’s a future in this surf hostel thing. No more wandering, just pick a nice place and stay there. Give up my hard-earned freedom and return to long hours stuck in one place. Clean up after 4AM parties and surf whenever I carve out time and gather energy for it. No matter how many times I tell the guest I let in and showed around I don’t really work there, they ask me for things all week long. Guess I’m hired.
FeaturedRiptide & Camel Ride Paddling, paddling like crazy in the foamy water and big waves off the shore of an African surf and fishing village called Taghazout in Morocco. There’s no ATM in town, so you have to bike to the next village over to get cash. It’s just that kind of place. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I am convinced I can rip on a short board, so I have rented one along with a wetsuit, and I am getting churned, tumbled and plunged under waves like you would not believe. This is session two for the day. Did one in the morning, and the sun is going down now. In a calm moment on the water, when I turn to face shore, the village is…gone. Only tan desert hills with dark green splotches of short juniper trees cover the landscape. Get my book Odd Jobs & After Hours here. It’s about drifting down the east coast of the USA chasing one sketchy, so-called opportunity after another. Get it in hardcover, paperback, or audio at the link. One mansion with a high wall and big tinted windows stands alone. North-ish of me, deep in the distant hills, there is a tiny stripe of white cubes. Buildings veiled by haze. Those cubes are the hostels, restaurants, cafes, and surf shops of Taghazout, where I am staying. Miles and miles away. How did it get so far away so fast? Those riptides are sneaky, treacherous entities, huh? Nothing to do but start the long, slogging trek back in wet sand. But wait, what’s this? A man in a blue robe and straw hat is napping between two camels in the shade of a dune. One camel is tan and one camel is white. The logical choice, the correct decision becomes clear. What’s more, on impulse, I stuck 100 Dirham in the back pocket of my board shorts. That’s ten dollars in American money, and it is the key to unlocking this whole situation. The guy with camels is named Hassan. The tan camel is Bolo, and the white camel is Carlos. “Can we ride back to Taghazout?” Hassan nods and grins. “Even if I got this?” I show him the surfboard. He looks at the cameIs and nods. “Be careful,” Hassan says. “They spit.” “Can’t be worse than my last wipeout. Imagine doing 20,000 ice cold neti pots at once.” Hassan laughs. “Clears the sinuses, though.” I will be riding Carlos the white camel. Hassan shows me the stirrup, a metal bar, and how to get up on the dark red, hand-woven, rug-like saddle. Then Carlos stands up. Back legs first, and I’m pitched forward at a steep angle, gripping the surfboard under my armpit, lurching and staring at the back of Carlos’s long, hairy neck with its patches of knotted, dust-filled fur. Up go the front legs, and here we are. What an elevated view of the ocean and shore. Hassan mounts Bolo, and we start towards Taghazout carried by the forward rock and roll motion of the indolent, dour lipped, heavily-lidded camels. “I take your surfboard,” Hassan says. I press the yellow board deeper into my armpit. “No, I got it.” “Please, I carry for you.” “You wouldn’t ask a knight to let someone else carry his sword, would you?” This, Hassan understands. He laughs and does not offer again. The waves that plunged me under and rolled me all evening long are roaring to the left. The desert hills with their tent camps and RVs stand to the right. On a camel, wearing a wetsuit and surfboard, plodding back to where I’m staying. It does make me wonder, if ever a term such as camel hypnosis was coined. How can it not exist? Drying out under desert sun, gently rolling along without so much as a car stereo to distract you. “These guys must get great miles to the gallon.” Hassan stares at me. “Of water!” Now Hassan stares at me while I laugh at my own joke. Nice, cool, we’re having a good time. Eventually, when we arrive at the eroded, worn out, stone rocks that lead up to Taghazout, the camels kneel once more, again with their steep pitch forward. “Thank you Hassan, and thank you Carlos.” I unzip my wetsuit, find the soaked, but honestly still very crisp 100 Dirham note, and give it to Hassan. It might be too much, it might be too little, but it’s all I have, if you know what I mean.
FeaturedShots at the Bodega The guy behind the bodega has his mask down. He’s pouring aguardiente into disposable shot glasses for himself, his colleague and a someone who is either his girlfriend or another colleague. It’s a Saturday night in Medellin. These guys are partying right on the job. Salsa music on the JBL. Fans, but no AC. Chatting there among plastic tubs of dulce de leche treats, pressed guava sugar candy, and plastic wrapped pan queso. The bodega is so narrow you practically walk sideways between soup cans on one shelf and auto fluids on the other back to the back fridge. Grab three bottles of water and carry them up to the register. It’s a good job if you can drink aguardiente, I say. They laugh. Maybe at my bad Spanish, maybe at the remark. Maybe at their own cramped Saturday night public work party here on this sleepy street. Out comes a fourth plastic shot glass. They pour one sloshing right to the rim. It’s for me. I drain it. Licorice flavor and alcohol that makes the throat convulse. Feel that energy kick. They laugh, and the guy behind the register plucks out a Chesterfield for the road. Well, when traveling, you accept hospitality. So I take it, accept a light, and exit. Cold water bottles dripping condensation all over my arm. Cool night. Hot cheeks from the liquor. Glad they’re having a good time in there.
FeaturedUnknown Destination Death, baby! Death. That’s what’s was on my mind here in the unmanly station of second seat on a moped hurtling down a rolling Colombian highway, somewhere in Medellín. But beyond the mild seating indignity is the discomforting presence of twelve chainlink fence posts sitting in the truck bed to the front left of us. If you like this story, grab my book Odd Jobs & After Hours for stories you won’t find online. The posts in the truck bed are a mere arm’s reach away, as Colombian roads are much narrower than I-95, and the vehicles are smaller than the Ford F-150 by a long shot. The hollow ends of the fence posts are dark as gun barrels; they seem capable of lance-like flight at a sudden stop. This helmet with its scratchy visor simply isn’t enough. Cars and trucks merge on and off the highway with all the order of popcorn kernels on a red burner rocketing upward to burst and bloom. Now Colombia’s mountains are a joy to see, a delight to hike, and no doubt a thrill to motorbike through, but second seat gives you no control over your fate, it’s more of an act of surrender to each steep tilt and turn. Why then, am I here? I was promised a monumental and world-famous piece of Colombian history, something I would never forget seeing. My friend and guide at the hostel, Andy, told me about it, but he didn’t tell me exactly what it was or where we were going. Who can say no to a mystery? Off we went. We finally shoot off an exit and roll onto commercial streets, followed by a short road with little development on either side of it. Surprisingly, we then pull into the parking lot of a church and park there. Where are we going? Confession? We walk around to the back of the church to a cemetery. “Now you will come face to face with a man who shaped this nation.” We walk over well kept grass, then a border of black marble with white patterning, then a bed of white polished stones till we finally come to a black headstone with cursive gold lettering. “Pablo Emilio Escobar Gaviria.” Here they are, six feet below. The bones of a guy who drowned Colombia in blood. The wealthiest criminal in history. Now here I am, a Gringo whose mental image of Escobar is the Netflix actor more often than his historical face, but our fellow visitor to the grave feels much closer to Pablo. The other visitor is a bald, heavier guy in an old collared nightclubbing shirt, jeans, and black dress shoes. He is keying himself up, tipping forward on the balls of his feet, trying to absorb the atmosphere around the grave. He speaks suddenly, his story bursting out of him like shaken up soda. Must be something about my appearance, because he knew to use English. “I am Escobar’s blood,” he says. “I am his nephew.” Andy the guide and I nod, and give him a little space. “Yo brother, this guy’s trash,” Andy mutters to me. “Every bastard in Colombia calls himself the son of Escobar.” Maybe he’s Pablo’s blood and maybe he isn’t, but pacing and prowling around the white stones on Pablo’s grave, the so-called nephew is surely hunting for a haunting, the type of haunting that will bring him, perhaps, a little respect. Nephew baldy seems to think Pablo is Scarface or Don Corleone, the type of gangster he can admire on the far side of a flatscreen. And admittedly, it is hard to process that here lies the grinning coke warlord who murdered nearly the entire Colombian police force in a single night and bombed randomly targeted pharmacies. After all, if Pablo couldn’t have the whole world, no Colombian could have baby formula. It’s difficult to believe it was all real, and not too long ago. But if Escobar’s tomb by day is chilling and suspect, consider the following scene by night. Later Same church, same graveyard, bright moonlight shining on the same white pebbles, and black marble border. But around midnight, a gathering begins. Do you hear the chainlink fence rattling? Figures in hoodies are clambering over it. There’s a low murmur of hoarse voices. Pablo’s acolytes are assembling for a street seance. Andy is hanging back eagerly yet uneasily, as am I. The guys in hoodies walk up to Pablo’s grave, and unzip their backpacks. Out come clinking, tubular glass objects. A flick of a lighter, and orange firelight show some of the objects to be Virgin Mary and Lazarus candles, and others to be 40 malts. One incense stick in a sandalwood board with a curled end. Flame for wicks, for the incense tip, and a blunt which they pass to the left in their circle. Now silly with liquor and screwy with weed, they sit in dark communion with Pablo’s bones. With enough chemical distortion, it seems believable that Escobar’s ectoplasm will ooze out between these white polished stones. He will give you a Mercedes and me a speedboat, and we will all live in penthouses. He will be our father, he will once more be El Patron. We have nothing and he had everything, and for that magic trick, we will ignore his every wrong. Like for nephew baldy, Pablo is something of a folk hero to them. But if you ask most Colombians, under these polished white stones are the white coals of Hell. Well, burn all the candles and blunts you want, it doesn’t look like any ghosts are coming out tonight. But what does manifest is sidelong looks, and a cold, weighty sense that Andy and I do not belong here. So quietly, we leave.
FeaturedMidnight at an Outdoor Gym in a Foreign Land Enjoy this story, and for stories you won’t find online, grab my book here. After a few strong shots of (what’s that powerful pre-workout called? Ah, yes. Tequila.) Yes, after a few shots of tequila, my friends and I are at an outdoor gym in the bustling, humid downtown of Medellin called Parque Lleras. It’s midnight. The yellow streetlights are shining through the mist, and the whole wide nighttime world is a little silly and a little whirly. We’re capping off our first night out on the town. We’ve been holed up for COVID measures for a day or two, and now we’re uncaged and running a little wild. The city is surrounded by rainforest landscape. Overhead, big green jungle palms are luffing a little bit. There’s a creek somewhere nearby. We can hear rippling water, but we can’t really see it. Under the palms, there are barbells, pull-up bars, and dip bars. The weights have chains on them so you can’t steal them. All the metal bars are painted yellow. We’re in our night out collared shirts, dress pants and shoes. Not exactly gym wear, but who cares? I’ve got a deadlift bar that’s linked to a big rattling chain running to the ground. I’m yanking the bar upward. We’re all counting each other’s reps in Spanish. Uno! Dos! Tres! Two Colombian gym bros are pumping chained-up barbells in the corner laughing at the drunken Gringos. Cuatro! Cinco! Seis! Then a new friend of ours, some mobile phone millionaire who expatriated, is wandering out in the middle of the road, walking off some soreness from the squat rack. A yellow cab whips around the corner and screeches around him. “What? Come at me bro!” screams the millionaire, arms spread out. And what intoxicant can make a creature of flesh and bone look at two tons of 65-mile-an-hour metal and say, “come at me bro?” It’s Colombia. Use your imagination. All is well once more, but we just have to keep it that way. It’s clearly time to go home, to get off the street. We say sorry and gracias to the gym bros in the corner. They laugh and say no, no, thank you guys. And on that note, we stumble back to the apartment.