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May 25, 2006
Bo
My mother just phoned me to say that Bo has died.
Bo was the manager of the tequila bar at Café No Sé – almost an exclusive area, given how often I’d take people there who knew the Café but not the tequila bar. When the juice bar – Y Tu Piña Tambien – opened across the road, they paid someone to slap flyers on every card, with about eight key points about Café No Sé. The only ones I still remember are Bad Advice, and Bo. One day I was there, and noticed a sign on the door to the tequila bar, listing the bar’s ground rules; I’m sure one of them said ‘No Ugly Women.’
Café No Sé is away from the centre of Antigua (Guatemala), so rarely attracts tourists except by word of mouth. Past flyers have advertised it with "Uncomfortable Chairs, Two Dogs, Great Coffee, Deranged Staff and Deviant Behaviour". An on-off regular, LaVon, is an artist, so his paintings fill the high walls. There’s an electoral map of the States on the wall, with ‘Dumbfuckinstan’ written over the Republican areas. A guitar hangs from the wall, with a small chalkboard underneath listing the songs which are banned from being played. A large sign on the wall says “For all your copyright infringement needs, please go to Mono Loco, because that is where we rip off all our music". The table nearest the door has a chessboard built into it. On the door which leads into the garden/seated area/tequila bar, there’s a random bizarre t-shirt hanging up for sale. According to my mother, they only started stocking dark rum after learning that that’s all she’d drink.
Bo’s story is a bit hazy to me – maybe as I’ve avoided thinking about Guatemala since I’ve been away from there. Apparently he met John, the owner of the place, in Belize, and was offered the job of managing the bar (John goes to Mexico frequently, and just so happens to stock up on tequilas while he’s there) – though that may have been more to give Bo a sense of purpose and groundedness than any likely candidacy for the role. And in doing so, he became a key feature of the whole place – maybe the great-uncle we never had, friendly and caring and almost always way over the limit, almost always wearing his red patchwork jacket. Apart from Cristina, he was the only person I’d always greet with a huge hug – then again, Cristina was usually behind the bar, and he rarely was. He’d always ask after my mother with genuine interest, and he always gave you the sense – maybe because of his age and the fact that he was in Guatemala – that he’d led a full life, however tired of it he was, although he always seemed happy and positive (and again, very drunk).
He was found this morning. Given Guatemalan rules, he’ll be buried today or tomorrow. No time to find out what got him in the end, although my mother said that from what she’s heard, it sounded like he knew he was dying, and didn’t have much longer left.
I want to end this by asking myself how I’ll remember best, although it’s not a happy memory, however appropriate it might be. It was only a few weeks after my grandfather’s death, and my mother’s first time out since then. Bo wasn’t aware, and made a number of cold statements about death, his views on it, and that loved ones dying was simply a process of life. His wife died from a simple accident in Portugal – slipping down some stairs or tripping on something – and has drifted for the several decades since. His comments were making my mother cry, and even when I told him about my grandfather, he ackowledged her grief, but did not change his stance. I felt closer to him after that night – the three of us were sat at the end of a long table; I don’t remember if I actually got a chance to say goodbye.
Bo was a fixture, and I can’t imagine Café No Sé without him. It’ll be something to experience when I return.
Posted by chantal at 11:30 PM | Comments (0)
May 22, 2006
Fragments
It’s approaching 3am, but it’s been a shitty week and a shittier weekend, and I’m listening to my favourite Cuban musician, idly wandering around San Cristóbal (Mexico) and Guatemala while I read.
In nearly 11 weeks, I’ve not paused long enough to stop and think, or so it seems. I’ve been working hard at enjoying my time in London, however temporary it might be, but then something shitty like yesterday comes along and blows it all.
I don’t know why I’m thinking of Mexico instead of Guatemala; although life in Guatemala was far from enriched, at least it was mostly predictable: the sun would shine, I would avoid my old office, and I’d go out once or twice a week and see the same faces. When I found that Dikla’d left, I was devastated.
Probably the reason that life seems more complicated in London is that I have more friends here, each with their own schedule and agenda, and juggling those can be exhausting. Or frustrating or depressing, but that depends on the day. And person.
Maybe of Guatemala, there are too many things to list which is why I’m thinking of Mexico instead – and also, Mexico was always a viable long-term destination, which Guatemala was never intended to be.
San Cristóbal – I think I’ve not yet described (on here) the epic journey there – but arriving there finally after about 14 hours, and 7 ½ years – 14 ½ years in my mother’s case. Dinner in the restaurant of the hotel we’d stayed at all those years ago; drinks afterwards in the bar where Margarita and I’d watched the World Cup semifinal. Spending our days trying to revisit mine and Margarita’s haunts, always ending up back at the same bar for our final tequilas and cubas. The bliss of real-life Mexican tacos, only for my mother to get violently ill; no more tacos after that. The shock of finding that San Cristóbal, probably the poorest mini-city in Mexico, is turning into a mini-Barcelona. The Zapatistas starting their tour of the country; though I didn’t see Marcos, we caught them on various occasions during the day, and at night, when it was around -2 degrees Celsius, I wandered through the park as they settled, amazed by the range of people within their group. A week or so ago, I saw that they’d finally made it to Mexico City, and silently cheered. It’s impossible to see something like their procession and not be moved.
Maybe I wasn’t particularly happy in Guatemala, but at least I didn’t spend my time trying hard to keep positive. Life there, and in Mexico, was simple and straightforward; it never feels like that here. Here, I have friends I don’t see nearly often enough, I have my dance classes, yoga and pilates classes – I’ve had to abandon my 10-mile Sunday walks, and yet of that list, the dance classes are the only things I really do for myself. I have friends with varying stages of emotional deficiencies – and a profound sense that London doesn’t want me to be here, most profoundly reinforced by yesterday’s break-in – and Friend’s complete indifference to it, as to the fresh scabs on my face.
The week before last, I bumped into Maria – my best friend from several years ago – at the dance school, so we caught up briefly after class. Tuesday was my only evening at home, and I spent that horribly stressed while trying to work on the latest website. Wednesday I was out with my dance teacher, a few of the students, and her former accompanist (after her teasing me the week before about always being the last one out of the pub, even back then, I had to shove her and the rest out of O’Neills around midnight so I could catch the last tube home). Thursday, my uni friends, and some authentic Mexican food. Friday, a Project party; Matt and I relocated to the Rose & Crown, probably the first time I’ve actually seen him on his own since I’ve been back. Saturday, Martin – we’d had a detailed agenda for the night’s conversation, but not only did it not stand a chance due to me arriving so late, but the night carried on till about 5am.
Weeks like that are lovely, if exhausting and draining. The way I feel now, I can bottle the memories and value the diversity of the week; or I can use it towards grounds for staying longer-term. I suppose I really need to set aside Thinking Time to decide either way, but for all this time, all decisions have been in the hands of someone else who seems to have no inclinations to decide, much less talk.
The psychic I went to see a fortnight ago told me to go easy on Friend, not to rush anything, and to more or less wait till the end of next month (as opposed to this one) before making any rash decisions. I’m almost tempted to throttle the crap out of Friend (watching TV downstairs, studying or not studying) if only to get a reaction out of him, but I suppose sleep is more important.
I’ll deal with next week when it arrives. Albeit in a few hours.
Posted by chantal at 01:15 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
May 20, 2006
Shitheads (Again)
It's almost enough to make you laugh.
Saturday morning routine: wander downstairs for a cigarette, maybe clean kitchen in the process, wander into the living room for my laptop, bring it to the bedroom and spend the next few hours online.
This morning: wander downstairs for a cigarette, (idly noticing that the back door is unlocked), get heavily rained on in the process, wander into living for my snazzy brand-new laptop - and it's not there. Its predecessor, however, has been moved from its dusty corner of the last month or so to the arm of the sofa, and it's sitting open, as though someone's turned it on and lost interest.
Fume for a while, decide to go to an IT job fair, chat with Max for a bit, then head off - only to notice that my keys and Oyster card are missing. A short witch hunt later, and we realise we've been broken into - the only other missing item is Trevor's Oyster card, admittedly with all his credit cards.
I've been kicking myself over not having taken my laptop to the bedroom last night, or even yesterday when I had a strong urge to do so; I'm now mentally blaming Friend for inviting me to stay in a house where out of all of us, I'll get the most stuff stolen.
Roll on large quantities of rum - and maybe a flight back home...
Posted by chantal at 07:12 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
May 16, 2006
I Like Today
Today started abruptly. Despite my heavy-duty earplugs, I was woken by Friend rummaging around for clothes and his towel. Once I’d grunted my hellos, surprise, and general reaction to being awake, he asked, ‘Running late?’ – my alarm should have gone off an hour previously. Had I actually set it.
After about 15 minutes of racing around, I decided Sod This, and joined him outside for a cigarette. When I got to the station, I realised I’d forgotten to go to the toilet, so managed to miss a Tube that way.
Once I managed to get on the Tube, it was to find myself standing a couple of people from a previous boss’s doppelganger. Worse still, once I got a seat, it was right opposite him. (The photo I took as proof didn’t turn out too well). He got off at Hammersmith, and a woman sat down next to me and promptly nodded off. Thankfully she never noticed the large spider crawling down her leg.
I texted Gonzo once I got to the Tube platform, but within minutes of arriving (and cheerfully distributing the post), I received a meeting invite with both Gonzo and Daisy (line manager and boss, for those who don’t hear me call them that on a daily basis.)
I skipped my gym session, treated myself to a salad from Eat instead (but the chile oil salad dressing from the canteen really had never met a chile), and spent the last few minutes before The Meeting breathing deeply and trying to turn myself from a sarky git to a Meek Pleb.
The meeting was to inform me that if I arrived after 9am again, I would be issued with a Written Warning. Apparently I had alarm clock (user) malfunction a few weeks ago, but I have yet to send out my disclaimer which says, no, the Piccadilly Line was suspended en route to work. Still, it’s a plus; I’d expected to spend the meeting discussing whether I got one week’s or one month’s notice.
Had my salad from Eat for lunch – the chile oil salad dressing from canteen seemed to be missing chiles; mind you, it’s been so long since I’ve been able to make the short distance to Eat that I barely remembered how to prepare the salad. Also I had to buy some more tea, as I’d left all of mine back at the house. Bugger.
I’d just paid for my dance class and was heading off to the studio, when I saw an oddly familiar face – Maria. (She was a few people behind me in the queue).
Maria’d been one of my best friends 4-5 years ago, and I’ve not seen her since; I spent much of the class thinking about her and glowing about having seen her again after all this time; we caught up briefly in the pub afterwards, hopefully I’ll be doing her Monday class from now on, and her my Wednesday class.
I’ve been grinning like an idiot since.
Ach, hell, I’ve been grinning most of the day anyway….
Posted by chantal at 01:12 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
May 05, 2006
Bloody Knackered
I really really want to write about my colleagues. Hopefully soon I can describe them temporarily as my ex-colleagues, then never more afterwards.
This week has turned out to be an unexpectedly sociable week. When I’m home, I have websites to work on. When I’m out, I have websites to work on when I get home. I’ve been knackered for a week, and I’m starting to forget how it feels to be otherwise.
On the plus side, not only have I regained all my former flexibility from dance and yoga classes past, but surpassed it.
On which note, I need to find some bizarre stretches for my lower back so that I don’t spend tomorrow in agony. (If I could count on a seat on the Piccadilly Line, I could at least bring some ice with me to ice away the worst of the aches on my way into work).
Sleep well.
Posted by chantal at 02:07 AM | Comments (0)
Big Kid
I’m grinning like an idiot. I don’t plan to stop. Well, it’s almost 1am, Friend is asleep, so I should probably have a quick shower and get to bed soon… but I don’t want to stop grinning.
I shouldn’t grin, I should be sad – tonight was officially The End Of The End. The final official Project bash – it’s only weeks till it’s all over. I pretty much took my current job as it’s only a block from my old office, and maybe two blocks from where they’ve all moved to; much as I love being back in my old stomping ground, it will just be depressing when they’ve all gone, and the Rose & Crown no longer holds familiar faces on the nights I go there.
Myles was local IT back in FBC (my old office); we became good friends (and smoking buddies) while I worked there, and promptly lost touch as soon as my job ended. Just before Easter, Matt invited me to a Project birthday bash, and when I arrived at the pub, there was Myles standing at the bar. I’d known for a week or so about tonight’s party, but as Matt had made no mention of wrangling me an invite, I assumed none would be forthcoming. Myles texted me yesterday morning, I emailed back yesterday afternoon; he mentioned that he was going to tonight’s party, and by this morning, I was on the invite list. A very bizarre situation (for me): going to work in gym clothes, and bringing non-gym clothes to change into for after work.
Matt forwarded me the original invite email, including the URL for our venue – some kind of corporate entertainment centre, with hundreds of video games, ‘techno bowling’, dodgems, pool tables and so forth. It looked very snazzy in the photos. It looked very dated ‘90s (or late ‘80s) in real life.
First thought was: who on Earth booked this place, and why? If you could find a less inviting place, I don’t want to know. But going to the toilet, and seeing all the games on offer, it started to make sense. Maybe less sense while struggling through a few games of pool with Matt – thank god for Gary jumping in and substituting for me, but infinitely more so when we decided to go upstairs to play with the dodgems; I was wrestling with my straps when Steve Blakey jumped in next to me, asking me which of us should drive. He had four tokens; however long a token lasted, I spent four times that ‘trying to help’ (mostly shrieking and leaning hard, occasionally shoving other dodgems out of the way, but never managing to nick that damn water pistol) and pissing myself laughing; I wanted to signal Matt to take some photos which I could send back to my mother, but seeing him with the camera pointed, I assumed that that’s what he was doing. He wasn’t.
There was a sort of ‘80s disco dancing game. Michael Watson spent much of the night on it, however when I tried doing it with our former director, it made no sense whatsoever. Walking past the would-be horses was a risky situation – they were part of a video simulation, and the men on them (I never saw any women on that game) always came off dripping. I gave an Irish contractor a cigarette, in the hope of playing some game which vaguely resembled ice hockey but without the ice or the hockey, but I just ended up losing my lighter instead.
Actually, maybe it was only three rounds in the dodgem with Steve. Not only was I blinded by my hair each time we got crashed into, but my seatbelt had a nasty habit of snapping. I’d shriek at Steve who to aim for, but sadly he generally ignored me; maybe that was because I noticed that Matt and Gary were making a particular point of crashing into us during the first round, something I could only blame myself for.
There were no free dodgems after that; I stayed to watch another round, then started missing my drink. (I had several stashed around the bar area downstairs, true to form). Maybe I was going to the toilet, or only wandering around, but I noticed our Director and General Manager at a babyfoot table, along with our long-lost commercial guy and another former friend. While I watched, a game ended, someone bowed out, so it only seemed natural that I join in – on the General Manager’s side. Yes, I’ve spent a lot of time living and working in France, and spent much of that time playing babyfoot – but like pool, which I’ve not played in 8 years, 11 years without babyfoot is a similar handicap. Nonetheless, Ian and I creamed the Director. Twice. Oh what a happy feeling….
Ian lives near where I’m staying, so we shared a cab back. He wanted to know about my current situation, which isn’t specific enough to really be able to talk about. It did occur to me at one point that I should be selling myself better, in the hope of a job with him, but actually it was a relief to be able to describe the overall situation with someone who knows nothing at all about it, and who isn’t connected to me in any particularly close way.
I’ve got a good idea of railways, and how the projects operate. I went to a JLE reunion, and it was just like a PSU bash, only the people looked a bit different. We talked for a bit about PSU and how well it worked, but I guess in reality, the only thing which really distinguished it from other railways projects were the personalities – but that will always be the case. I told Ian about the psychometrics package I tested years ago which told me I ‘oversocialise at work’ (Ian asked ‘what does that mean?’), and also that as a former archaeologist, working on the Project was like working on a very extended excavation – where your colleagues are a more vivid part of your everyday life than anyone else – and for far longer.
Maybe that’s just me. I joined the Project shortly after leaving Dublin, and right when I was trying to move to Paris. Ian was trying to establish how committed I am to settling down, yet for the years I worked on the Project, it was my entire life. My colleagues were my friends and my social life; anyone else was just detail. Although I’ve only once invited a friend (Friend, in fact) to a Project bash, another friend has accidentally met up with Project folk, and concluded that we’re basically cliquey and boring.
I can’t stay awake long enough to continue this train of thought. Maybe it is just me. I know I’m predisposed towards working environments which involve heavy socialising – voluntarily, not my current grunting in lieu of extreme violence towards my colleagues.
It’s been a bit over a year and a half since I left the Project. My favourite nights out are usually the ones when I meet up with Matt, Gary or any other Project faces. By contrast, the friend I’m staying with is from a later job, and my friend Martin is my predecessor from one job, and I never met him till long after.
I can’t stay awake long enough to reread ths – nor will my contacts let me – but I’m still grinning like an idiot, and I still don’t want to stop. I kept joking tonight that the average age of the Project dropped by about 40 years tonight – and how oh so true that was. Good clean fun and all that crap.
And with my favourite people.
And talking of which, I’m finally off to bed.
Posted by chantal at 02:03 AM | Comments (0)