Announcement: My Second Book is Coming This week, I found a print shop in Tepic, Mexico, and spent thousands of Pesos on printing out the first draft of my second book. The printer whirred and clunked, and I paced as it spat out all 303 pages. It will be my first official novel. It’s titled, The Drifter’s Curse. It’s the story of a young man who gets cursed in Morocco after dating the wrong girl, and wanders from country to country trying to break it. Amid the bazaars and forbidden underground dance clubs of an ancient city, the narrator stumbles into the bloody world of real-life witchcraft. Wander with him through the foggy castles and beery pubs of the U.K.. Join him as he brings a single mother and her daughter to tour former Nazi concentration camps, earns room and board by working a farm in Spain, treks through the surreal salt caverns, mud volcanos, and eternal flames of Romania, and searches for his family on the Greek islands. It’s a story that pushes the real world as close to fantasy as it gets. If you look back at my flight paths, I circled the globe to get it. It is a work of fiction, but far more of it happened than you might ever think. I have at least two more drafts to complete before I consider the final product ready. No, I don’t know how long that will take. Beyond the story, I have a lot of decisions to make, like whether or not to find a publisher this time, or go independent again. I invite your input and thoughts, either in comments on this post, or by emailing me at: tomzompakos@gmail.com Thank you! Get my first 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.
Spice Heat. Sweat beads on every surface of my head, and runs in rivers down my temples. My mouth opens to pant like one of the skinny street dogs that scamper up and down the flooded mud roads, with their round rocks jammed together in ankle-rolling jumbles. On my plate are three tacos and a blistered chili pepper. We’re in a building that looks like a jail cell somewhere in San Blas, a largely forgotten, beat down coastal town in Mexico. My friend Juan covered his tacos in a creamy looking light orange salsa, an innocent looking green one, and only bothered to warn me about the third dark red, oily salsa. Assuming I was safe with two out of three sauces, I copied him and slathered them atop the taco happily. Bit a corner of the blistered chili, and half of a taco, admiring the fresh-baked tortilla made in the bakery across the street, the tender all-day stewed cut of cheap meat, the white cabbage and cactus salsa, but soon I got hit with the flamethrower. Every pore of mine opens, and chili oil floods out. Eyes dilate as if by a drug. It’s the type of spiciness that ignites your tongue, makes your ears pop; brings about a momentary deafness. In that spice induced tinnitus, Juan, whose perma-sweat stains the knees of his jeans chalky white with dry sodium deposits, garbles the praises of the food. For him, it is done just right. My American mind searches for a safe haven, but apparently real tacos aren’t served with sour cream, yogurt sauces, or even cheese. This place doesn’t have drinks, so I can’t ask for so much as a cardboard box of milk. There’s no air conditioning in this concrete box with black bars and no glass for windows. Fans blast hot air in my face, rattling and whirling. Sound returns, and outside, the night is frenetic with barking dogs, chattering street hawkers, babbling gossips, and the blaring horns of Ranchera music, and the pulsing speakers of boom boxes. The wings of billions of blood sucking insects beat. Smells of burning trash and coconut husks, which are set ablaze to keep the mosquitos away, float through the shop, brought in by the fan. There’s no wind. The warm water we’ve been brought makes everything worse. Tongue turns to red ember. Eyes melt away from their sockets. Shoe leather smolders around my feet. It’s more than a meal, it’s a right of passage, a diabolical transformation. I somehow finish the small tacos, and stumble out into the night, leaving hundreds of Pesos on the table. Juan follows me, mildly concerned, mildly amused. My head explodes in flames and I gape at him as a flaming skull. We pass a kid with a cart full of sour candies for sale, and- are you serious? Three bottle of different hot sauces to be poured into an open bag of candy. I run from the sight, smoke trailing from behind me. A woman sells popsicles, and tells us it’s two for one on lime with jalapeño, and pineapple chili. Juan is tempted. Those are his favorite flavors, but I breathe fire on him to voice my objection to peppered popsicle. He finally gets the point, and orders a coconut milk popsicle for me, and takes jalapeño lime for himself. One bite of the coconut ice and I realize, I just might make it, I just might survive. 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.
Rain on my Toes – Manchester, UK. Rain on my toes! To wake me up in the middle of the night. Water found a channel in the dark ceiling overhead, here on the top bunk of a hostel in Manchester, UK. Sleeping here because of a long train delay on the way to Wales. The room is under a convenience store. Mountain Dew, 7-Up, Mars Bars and vapes in the shop overhead. Cranky people shuffling to the basement rooms in basketball shorts, flip flops and tank tops. One guy selling weed to other people from his large knit cap. Somebody watching videos on his phone who really doesn’t care that most people are trying to sleep. He either doesn’t have headphones or doesn’t use them. There’s maybe nine people in this room. The fluorescent lights turn on automatically whenever someone opens the heavy door. Outside, rain pounds the whole city. Weekenders drunk to the gills wandered around puddles, pissing on buildings. Talking and belching loud as can be in the dark night. Most places to eat were closed by the time my late train arrived. I wrap my feet in the dry part of the blanket and cram into the half of the bunk the drops don’t reach. Pillows over my head to shut out the world. It’s just one night, it’s just one night. 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.
Most Vendors Do Candy Coffee on some porch in Medellin. When a street vendor wanders by rolling a cart with candy. I shake my head no when he points at it. Then he takes something out from under the cart. Some enormous rectangular object as big as his entire wingspan. He leans it on the front of the cart and lifts it. It’s a copper relief of the last supper. In case I wanted to by that instead. Where did it come from? Nicked from a decommissioned church? He covers it back up, and walks on down the road. Someone must want guava candy, sugar cane, or an enormous copper relief. 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.
Acting 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.
Lost 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.
Cookie 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.
No 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.
Scenes 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.
Wheelbarrows 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.