Tag Archives: nonfiction

In Fortune and Men’s Eyes

It was four-thirty in the morning and I was running for my life. My vision was blurred and all I could see was a shadowy figure gaining. My shirt was shredded, my jeans torn, matted and sticky with blood. My vision was blurred by alcohol. My skin shimmered with glitter in the pale lighting. I took the right turn down the wrong road and found myself being followed. I was in a mysterious passageway that stretched for miles and millennia. The question in my mind was not who or why I was being chased but how. I had to chase the white rabbit. And once I did, I found myself tumbling down, down, down the rabbit’s hole to nothingness and beyond now with that burning question. How did I get here?

Opinion may vary to what would constitute a quintessential perfect, dreamy vacation. While any argument about touristic intention may be relevant, anyone could agree that tourism at its core provides to the consumer something they may not have access or be able to observe otherwise. In this paper, I will attempt to illustrate and examine an unparalleled adventure to California from Denver and back and the events that unraveled. In order to analyze the story, I will utilize the writings of John Urry’s “The Tourist Gaze,” Jack Selzer’s “Rhetorical Analysis: Understanding Texts Persuade Readers,” and Jerome Bruner’s “The Autobiographical Process.”

In Urry’s piece “The Tourist Gaze,” he writes about the observable behaviors of those who travel. People tend to fall into patterns for the sake of comfort, familiarity, etc. and they view the world through rose-tinted lenses while they travel. With considerable explanation, Selzer dives into the depths of rhetoric. Though several fields of rhetoric are cogitated and discussed, the analysis for this paper will be rhetorically contextual as defined by Selzer. This is an autobiographical account of a travel experience to California and loosely structured to suit Bruner’s autobiographical guidelines. Travelling is not about the destination. It’s not why you leave while you’re alive but how you live once you’ve left. With Urry’s potion and Selzer’s cake, we shall tumble down the rabbit hole and through the doors together.

I awoke on a couch early one morning. A lumpy couch, a globe and the television playing softly in the background were but the few possessions left to me by my ex. She had taken everything else including the ice trays out of the freezer and my heart; a visceral act that which she removed my heart, placed in a jar and arranged it atop her mantelpiece as a conversational focal point. Bruner would argue that “the “rightness” of any autobiographical version is relative to the intentions and conventions that govern its construction or its interpretation” (40). Surely she didn’t actually remove my heart; I would dead, you may be thinking. But yet here I am, free of heart and writing this. I was trapped in a tail-spin. Partying with no regard and there was no end in sight. I had spent my entire adult life with her and without her, I had no idea who I was.

It happened one night. I put in Total Recall and dozed off. A story about a man who pays for an exciting memory only to realize the memory was his reality. I awoke on that couch sometime later. It was during the scene where the salesman was delivering his pitch to Quaid. “What is the same thing about every vacation you’ve ever taken?” he asks. “You. You’re the same. No matter where you go there you are. Let me suggest that you take a vacation from yourself” (Verhoeven Total Recall). The salesman goes on to talk about implanting memories about travelling to Mars. I could neither afford memory implantation nor a Martian excursion but the movie did give me an idea. I needed a vacation. More than a vacation, I needed to escape. I had money from my tax return. Spring break was coming up. In my mind I constructed the dream. I took the globe and spun it.

I love the ocean but hate the beach. I love islands but hate travelling on a boat. I love clam chowder and fine chocolate. What city could accommodate all those things but San Francisco? I could disappear for a week and be thousands of miles away from her. I had the money to do whatever I wanted? I wasn’t about to live like a king for a day but for an entire week. I could reinvent myself. No one knew who I was. In the ‘divorce’ she got all our friends too. I knew that I played into a tourist trope identified by Gottlieb and written by Urry stating that “[what is] sought for in a vacation/holiday is inversion of the everyday. The middle-class tourist will seek to be a ‘peasant for a day’ while the lower middle-class tourist will see to be ‘king/queen for a day’” (Urry, 11).

But unlike the everyday tourist described by Urry, I wanted to avoid the quintessential tourist destinations within S.F. I did not want to put on horse-blinders and mill around Ghirardelli Square, Alcatraz or Golden Gate Park. I had my own agenda and to widen my gaze. Though I would do many things, none stand out more than my last night in S.F. “Rhetorical analysis [or rhetorical criticism] can be understood as an effort to understand how people within specific social situations attempt to influence others through language” (Selzer 281). I strolled the pier, gorged on chowder and chocolate and rode the cable cars. But I fell into the same habits as home. I drank at the hotel bar. I fell into the cliché of the man drunkenly spilling his guts to a stranger. The common message in S.F. is love and cohabitation, a message I would hear from a drag queen named Thor(a).

Thor was the Norse god bartender. He insisted that I come out with him and some friends. I accepted. I went upstairs to change. Thor invited me out. Thora picked me up, with two of her fabulous friends. The god I met was now wearing a wig and sequined black dress. Her other friends were similarly dressed. They caught me completely by surprise. I thought I was going out with a bunch of guys. I fumbled my words and apologized for giving Thor(a) the wrong impression, that I wasn’t interested in men. The three ladies rolled their eyes as if choreographed. Steph(en) responded with, “We know. You’ve got a broken heart honey and we’re here to piece it back together.” That is, if I had my heart. One beer couldn’t hurt. So I got in the car.

They didn’t serve beer at the first bar. Luminescent martinis with tropical fruit sprouting from within the rim? Check. Loud music? Check. Inability to hear? Check. I wanted to leave. Not because of the music, the drinks or the company. I wanted to go home and scrap the rest of my trip. The third passenger Regina, with her fluffy white dress and rabbit ears to match, noticed my sadness. She assembled the Avengers and away to the second bar we went. And the third. The fourth we found beer. Country, dance on the bar, ‘knock ‘em back’ type of dive. It was by the third I started having a good time. By the fourth, I was jubilant. Cohabitation is a language we all spoke. The ladies did not love me nor I them. They saw someone in need and assisted.

Steph convinced me to hop on the bar and hop I did only to tumble over the other side. A bottle of grenadine shattered under my weight. The bartender helped me up only to accidentally tear my shirt. I excused myself. I passed through the crowd out the exit. I had walked through a tunnel the day before. There was a tunnel nearby and I was sure it was the same. It was not. There’s a difference between the Stockton Tunnel and the Broadway Tunnel. I took the right turn down the wrong way down Broadway. I heard someone behind me. Saw shadows and started running. Thora was spry running in those pumps. She saw me leave and followed. She called my name then called for a cab. We exchanged our goodbyes and the dream collapsed.

And then I woke up on a couch, to a television playing softly in the background.

Beside you in time

I did not invent time travel. I did not create a vessel in which I may be allowed to watch Washington cross the Delaware or see whether there was a second shooter on the Grassy Knoll. I am not a physicist versed in String Theory or relativity or a mad scientist with plans of world domination. I am the researcher; an outsider looking in. I did not invent time travel, but I did manage to perfect it. Well, sort of. H.G. Wells gave us the ability to imagine what it would take to travel through time. Einstein gave it a name. But I used neither a machine nor a German accent to get to when I was going.

Time is inert. No matter how much I attempt to change it, somehow alter the past it will never move. I have worked in retail for half my life. While I find the prospect of working in retail for the rest of my life repugnant and ludicrous, it does not explain why I’ve worked in retail for so long. If I do and did not like working in various jobs in the service industry, then why on Earth am I still doing it? I could, and did, ask my fellow and former co-workers why do I work in retail. Then I realized that they could not answer that question for me, that at the end of the day it was only I who could but how? How could I interview myself when I already knew the answers? There in lies the rub. I had to travel to place and time from memory to memory and ask.

In this paper, I will utilize the “The Autobiographical Process” by Jerome Bruner, “Researching People: The Collaborative Listener” by Elizabeth Chiseri-Strater and Bonnie S. Sunstein and a few interviews conducted by myself to myself but by an older me to a younger me. The title of this paper is a song by Nine Inch Nails; the title is befitting of the subject matter at hand. Because of a strong ethical code built up over two decades, I cannot allow myself to lie about the interviews regardless with whom I have interviewed. It is because of an extremely unique memory it is possible to allow myself to travel within my mind to when I was seventeen, twenty-five and twenty-eight; all years spent working in one form of retail or another. It is by these guidelines I tell my tales of travel. It is by these guidelines that I may be able to answer the question, “Why do I work in retail?”

It is July 5th, 2002. I am an incoming junior in high school and seventeen years old. From where I stand and what I could see, I am sitting alone on a stage with a cigarette dangling from my mouth and thinking about nothing in particular. When I was seventeen, I worked at a place called Seven Falls in Colorado Springs, Colorado. It’s a tourist attraction deep within a canyon; the main attraction is a waterfall that falls seven different times in rapid succession. As a tourist, it’s a beautiful landmark of nature. As an employee, big deal. It’s cool the first time you see it but after a summer and a half, you become immune to its beauty.

There were storm clouds on the mountains. By dark, it began to rain. As the only male working that night, I was given the task to making sure no one attempted to climb the stairs that ran adjacent to the waterfall. Water makes stairs slippery, apparently. I set up an old metal folding chair under the one place where no rain fell; a performance stage intended for a small group of Native Americans to perform upon for the tourists. The night darkened well before its time and the heaven’s opened. I had little less than two hours by myself. It was dark, muggy and wet and I was on my last few cigarettes. I was alone and wondering to myself why in the hell was I there, babysitting steps when there was no one except employees in the canyon? So I approached.

My mind is a chaotic flux of wind blowing and lightning striking and ruining the meticulous order of papers (memories), as my mind often works. Attention deficit hyperactive disorder and the superhuman inability to forget to remember. With my distinct memory I am able to erect and construct the world as I remember it, emotions, distinct smells and all. In this world as I know, I walked through the rain with nary a drop touching me. I could feel my old emotions wash over me as I approached myself sitting alone on that stage. He was no more surprised to see me as I him. We both knew why I was there. It’s a funny thing to interview someone you’ve known for so long; you can skip the formalities and dive straight in. But I know me, who I was and knew that closed-ended questions would not yield the result I want; open-ended would be the answer (Chiseri-Strater, Sunstein 221-22).

Why do you work here, at Seven Falls of all places, I asked.

They were hiring. Plus, it was a seven-minute drive from home.

We could, and often did, roll out of bed and be at work before we were late.

Do you like working here, I queried.

Yeah, sure. I like working here. All my friends are here.

And I added to my youngest self’s consternation, but the pay is terrible.

This was the time when the Colorado minimum wage was on par with the rest of the nation. $5.15 an hour. Because this was my second summer, I got a quarter bump.

Look around you, my youngest self said as he outstretched his arms and cigarette ash falling onto his blue Seven Falls polo. I’m getting paid to literally sit here and smoke cigarettes.

I was a precocious, lazy little shit. I smiled and thanked myself for taking the time. We did not pay rent and we did not pay for food. All the money that we made, the $5.40 an hour, was all ours to take and blow on whatever we wanted. I didn’t have the heart to tell him what was to come. In the next year would be one of the most difficult in our short lives. And even if I did tell him, it wouldn’t have mattered. The smell of rain was sharp on my nose as I approached the first exit and through the second entrance.

It is September 30th, 2010 and I am in a bar. No surprise there; my alcohol tolerance rivaled that of Russian, German and Irish drinking champions. I have been four years sober; the twenty-five-year-old me is far from that. We are at the Fat Tire Brewery in Fort Collins, Colorado, and I am drinking with my freshly minted 21-year-old girlfriend. It is cause for celebration. So many years together and all those years, she had been drinking underage. Now it was official, and we drank and were to be merry. Eventually engaged. She was a love of my life. Between my third and fourth craft beers that I could still taste on my taste buds even now in the present, I approached.

It was a rare day off for the two of us. We could never coordinate schedules to spend little more than the night and early morning together. Months of planning brought us to this time, this place and this level of happiness I swore I could never top so long as I was with her. By now I was working from RadioShack in Colorado Springs after having been fired from Seven Falls to working part-time at the Best Buy in Fort Collins. I had the electronics background, I was a shoe-in, my slightly younger self answered when asked by me the question. The girlfriend took a job as a receptionist at a doctor’s office where the affair with a doctor began, but that hadn’t happened yet.

With the sheer volume of money, we were raking in we had to hire a second butler just to scoop up all the hundred dollar bills swirling around in our McMansion. That was sarcasm, by the way. We were at Fat Tire because it was free beer day and together, we had maybe $30 in our respective accounts to last us the next four days. We were constantly penniless but today we were drunk and we were happy.

I want to move up in management, I blurted out. Best Buy has a great management program; they don’t even need a college degree to move up!

And there it was. Several years out of high school, spinning our collective wheels and circling around the one thing we both knew where we would eventually end up. Broke, broken up and listless, soon to be partying with manic cross-dressers seeking to heal a shattered soul (Pavlick, In Fortune and Men’s Eyes). The world faded from inebriation to darkness and on to nothing.

It is December 23rd, 2013 and I have just heard earth-shattering news. I am working part-time at Target before transitioning to work for Samsung and at 2.75 times the pay of Target. I am looking at my transcripts from Front Range Community College in complete and total disbelief. Three classes were attempted that fall semester: Spanish 2, Intro to Chemistry and the worst subject on the face of this tiny, blue marble. College algebra. I had gotten a 57% on the final. I needed a bare-bones minimum 70% in order to graduate and transfer to the University of Colorado in Boulder. I was sure that I bombed the class, that I ruined my chances of getting into the college of my dreams. Then one night out with my friends, I decided to check my transcript online. Spanish 2: B+ 88.4%. Chemistry: C+ 79.1%. College Algebra. Holy. Shit. C- 70.1%. I fainted. Legit fainted. My friend’s mom is a nurse and had smelling salts in her purse for such a situation; a grown man fainting after seeing his college algebra grades must be a common occurrence in her line of work.

After I was revived, I asked my questions.

Will you stay with Samsung?

Yes, I will because it’s damn good money. I can pay for my books. I can pay for my classes without using loans now.

My rebuttle. But what of the school load in addition to working 40 hours a week?

I’ll think of something, the young me responded.

We would think of something and nearly drove ourselves back to to the Jägermeister bottle we had been so fond of. We resisted the temptation. My young self was going to graduate with an associate’s and attend the school of our dreams for a bachelor’s then on to law school to get one of those degrees and then become a politician and save the world! If only my young self knew what would happen in that span of two and a half years. I didn’t have the heart to tell him. It would all come crashing down on his head; I still have the deep scar on my forehead to prove it.

Through the final memory I retrieved the truth I knew I had and shared. Jimmy, Jim and James all had answered some questions the same way. Money and people. We all knew we weren’t talking about the tourists, the restaurant connoisseurs or the customers that frequented all the different stores and businesses we worked in. It was the money that got us there; it was the people that got us to stay. As the researcher of this project, I am able to determine that while the money did get us there, it is the people that makes work bearable. But even though people make work bearable, they don’t pay our bills or our rent. So we move on. We moved up. Being an outsider all our lives, we are easily integrated as quickly as we would leave. Observation data could be simply condensed to a single sentence about all retail: every day is exactly the same; nothing ever changes, it’s always the same.

These are not random assemblages of memory cobbled together. These were key turning points in my life. They are three moments that are a culmination of a thousand moments leading up to and the aftermath they created. I hesitate to refer to these moments as demons. Even in a thousand moments, there were some good ones too. I realized that in the process of chasing down these memories to answer one question led to more questions. This is not a sustainable event that I can continue to create. My memories are exceptionally powerful and bring forth emotion. To say this paper has inspired would be an understatement. I believe I have the unique opportunity to create a new means of travel writing. It would be a twist on the concept of memory implantation from Total Recall.

In medias res. It is Latin for “in the middle of things.” Within my story I gave you but a glimpse into my past; information you may have not known had I not told you. These are my memories that which I have chosen to share. But I did not share all the details, i.e. how I came to be at Seven Falls, a craft beer brewery or fainting in front of a nurse. I am able to visit any location of any time at my leisure. This provides a powerful means of ‘travel’ but not everyone will have the luxury of delving deep within their mind. As children, we have little to no choice of where or how we are expected to travel. We are the constant companion of our parents/loved ones/others whether we like it or not. What I am to suggest is to write a list of the most iconic, most enjoyable or unpleasant locations of your childhood and why. Then travel to those locations. Write about it. Share what you want but be sure that the information shared does not necessarily cross a comfort threshold but at least pushes you close to the edge. I will attempt this idea upon completion of this spring semester; this attempt shall be called, “Hello, and goodbye.” It will be about my travels as a child and my revisiting the places I believe are pivotal to my development in adolescence and in adulthood. I am a companion of both travel and time. May you come with me and I may stand beside you in time.

Pura Vida Wanderlust

University of Colorado Program for Writing and Rhetoric

Do you remember the first time you were away from your parents? I’m not talking about the first of many times your parent let you at home to deliver some mail or the first night you went to spend the night at a friend’s house. I mean completely away; in other words, isolation. I remember the first time I was away and isolated. That’s how I felt when I first travelled. From the seconds after the wheels of the plane leaving the tarmac, I had the sinking realization that I was not only leaving the state of Colorado but the United States entirely. I was on my very own island; you may as well have called me Chuck Noland. The parental units with whom I had relied upon at least on a weekly basis were going to be thousands of miles away. If I were to need anything from my parents, they weren’t there. In a plane filled to capacity with people, I was isolated and away.

My parents are the cornerstone from which I have built myself as a human being. I had decided well before my parents had that it was time for me to leave the nest. Sure I would come to miss my father’s simple but fantastic Italian cooking paired often with tiramisu and my mother’s daily rants about PTA, celebrity scandals and needle-pointing but this was for my own good. It was for my own sanity. I was constantly nagged by a sensational feeling in my heart. I could feel it pluck at the strings attached and eventually I was consumed with this burning desire. This desire had me search for anything that would soothe and cool the burning within me. I needed something pure, something that would invigorate my life and expose me to adventure. I realized that I needed to travel.

I blame Ernest Hemingway. Hemingway always wrote about what he had seen and what he had experienced. Though his main characters bore little physical resemblance to Hemingway, it was well known and discussed to death in every literature class that it was Hemingway who ran with the bulls, drove that military ambulance and he who had caught that big fish only to have sharks gnaw it away. His life was so full of travel, danger and adventure; it was so exciting for me to read about his life and accomplishments that I couldn’t wait to get started on my own. One problem I encountered was that I had no idea where to start. The second problem was the fact that I lacked the funding to leave the state let alone the country. The third problem was that Pamplona was months away, I am a terrible driver and terrified of sharks and large fish.

I figured my parents wouldn’t foot the bill. So I resorted to saving. The horror! I scrimped. I scrounged for every quarter, begged for every dime and nabbed every nickel and placed it in a five-gallon water jug piggy-bank. I even had time to pick up pennies. I was saving; saving for seemed to be an impossible budget to afford such a trip. So I managed to mostly solve the second problem. I wish I could say that I unfolded a map of the world and flung a dart at it for my destination but that would be a lie. Had I actually done that and knowing my rotten luck, it would’ve landed squarely on Pyongyang.

I heard good things about Costa Rica. There were no bulls, no wars requiring ambulances and I hadn’t planned to go fishing. Problem number three solved. In Costa Rica I had heard, they’re laid back, they don’t mind tourists and they love American money. Winner winner, chicken dinner. It was meant to be discovery-of-self trip. My parents were astonished that I was able to save a single dollar. I had enough money to survive but things would be tight. I would have to downgrade from the ramen-noodle lifestyle I subjected myself to saltine crackers and ketchup in order to afford this trip but I could manage. The plane ticket would be the single costliest part of the trip. Then one day, along came a surprise.

My father handed me a tall and slender white envelope. My father is a trickster and anything could be in that envelope. Could it be money? A plane ticket? A coupon for a ‘free’ slap to the head like it was the last time? Who knew? My father knew and by the way he was smiling, it made me wary. Then I opened the envelope and immediately dropped it in shock. My father went on to inform me that he had intended to buy a one-way ticket to Costa Rica and ‘screwed up’ at the online checkout by ‘accidentally’ buying me a round-trip ticket instead. I wore on him, he said. It was about time; sweet victory never felt so good. I wondered why he told me not to buy a plane ticket just yet.

That feeling of victory quickly faded. When the wheels had touched down on the tarmac at Juan Santamaria Airport in the capital of Costa Rica, I was in full panic mode. I had uncontrollable heart palpitations and shortness of breath despite the weak gin and tonic prepared for me by the flight attendant. Fly the friendly skies, they said. It’s funny how they never mention turbulence. My head was floating in a quinine tainted fog; I wanted to deplane as quickly and cautiously as possible without making a fool of myself. Weak drink or not, I’m still a lightweight.

Everyone around me seemed to be speaking an alien language. I could recognize and understand the Spanish and the English well enough but even then I had a difficult time understanding just about everything. Then I met the woman sitting politely next to me. Her name was Elaine. She had a house in Limón, a city on the Gulf of Mexico and came down whenever she could. The conversation was pleasant and she invited me to dinner, to get to know one another she said, once the plane landed. I gave her proposal some thought and realized she maybe meant to invite me for something more than just dinner. She was a cougar stalking her prey and found me, a young who’s strayed from his herd. I was in no mood to slake the appetite of a predator so I politely declined. I’m committed to my mission. Little did I know just how much I would learn on this mission. Upon this rock, I shall build my church and this church shall be me. It was time to figure out what I was made of.

I can speak and understand Spanish. But I spoke in that high school Spanish pacing and in that high school Spanish accent that makes me stick out pig among guinea pigs. My words were slightly slurred as I asked for directions to the main exit. Juan Santamaria Airport is smaller than Denver International. It’s still as confusing as D.I.A., but just not as big. Everything is written in Spanish save for a few pronouns. I realized quickly that despite being able to read and speak the language, I had no idea what anyone was saying. I was used to that high school Spanish drawl, that slow sort of Spanish speaking you get when you know the words but don’t know how to say them properly.

I say ¡Hola! and before I can ask ¿Cómo estás Usted? they’re asking me about where I came from, where do I need to go, what would I like to see first, my first pet’s name, favorite color, if I though the los equipos de fútbol de Costa Rica were going to the FIFA World Cup and then finally introduced himself as Alejandro.

Well Alejandro, I managed. Then Alejandro went on to talk about how he’s lived here all his life, he had a family of three including the wife, how his brother got him this job and never lets him forget about it at the weekly familia dinner. I would like a taxi, I blurted out.

Alejandro was the concierge of sorts and out of the hundreds of people milling from gate to exit and vice versa, he found me. His concierge spider-sense must have detected a wayward traveler, honed in on me and figured I needed assistance. To his credit, he was absolutely correct. He escorted me beyond the baggage claim and to the nightmarish world outside the airport. Everyone was shouting. Why were they shouting? I have no idea. I asked Alejandro why everyone was shouting. Because they’re cabrónes, he answered with a wry smile and escorted me to a taxi.

This is where Alejandro saved my life. I started walking over to a red car. To me it looked like a death trap on wheels. It looked to be a car stitched together with old car parts by duct tape and spit. As it turned out, it was a death trap on wheels but not for the reason you’re thinking. Alejandro swiftly scooped me away and politely scolded me. In Costa Rica, it is sometimes difficult to determine what’s a legit taxi and what’s a fake designed for nefarious intention. A taxi usually has a yellow triangle painted all over their car. Alejandro escorted me to the yellow triangle-painted car and I gave the driver the motel name that which I would be staying. The Kidnapper Deluxe I almost took had no triangles anywhere. Before Alejandro could slam shut the door, I gave him $20 American. I’ve never seen a man’s eyes light up before like Alejandro’s did. For what he had done for me, it was the least I could do in return.

Suddenly there was a bolt of lightning that lit up the dark and cloudy sky. Before the thunder could make contact with my ears, the heavens opened up and unleashed hell. I was within the safety of the taxi to protect me from the deluge of rain pelting everyone. For now, I was relatively safe from the rain in this taxi that reeked of an interesting combination of good incense and bad beef jerky.

Okay call me Chico, Chico said in broken English with a snaggle-toothed smile and slammed his foot on the gas pedal. The tiny engine whined and the tiny car rocketed forward and I was blasted backwards. Only after Chico took the first turn and me sliding across both seats did I realize that this taxi didn’t have any seatbelts. The cracked vinyl lining of the backseat helped arrest my slipping and sliding. I had never seen raindrops the size of quarters until that afternoon. I could barely see outside the windshield. I wondered how on earth Chico could see. In retrospect, he probably couldn’t see. There’s a saying that there are no atheists in foxholes. Well, this was my foxhole and you better know I was believin’ and I never stopped. Journey would be so proud.

¡Derecha! ¡Izquierda! ¡Alto! Chico narrated as he drove as if he was the suspect of a high-speed car chase. ¡Estamos revirtiendo! ¡Iquierda! ¡Izquierda! ¡Alto! Okay, we here! Esto no es mi motel. It was a veterinarian clinic. I could tell by the dog and cat silhouette on the sign. I told him no, this isn’t my motel again in Spanish. Chico blushed and apologized. ¡Derecha! ¡Derecha! ¡Izquierda! ¡Alto! Okay, we here! Wrong again Chico. Este es un supermercado. This went on for an hour and several more wrong stops. I was beginning to suspect that Alejandro had played me like in the movie Taken and Chico was taking me to a warehouse where they could sell me. Lucky for me, my parents had Liam Neeson’s phone number on speed dial. He does have a particular set of skills, after all.

I eventually got used to his erratic driving. I had to keep my wits about me because Chico was now pulling up to my umpteenth stop when I recognized the sign. It was my motel! Holy sweet mother of God we had finally arrived. I kissed the rain stained street and inhaled deep the throes of the alien jungle surrounding the city. I gave Chico a $10 and bid him farewell. He gave me his card and told me if I ever needed a driver, Chico was my man.

I wobbled into the clean, well air-conditioned and static lobby and plopped my passport down onto the counter. A beautiful and svelte blonde woman manned the desk and was surprised hearing a slap against her counter. An expatriate in her own right and she was an American studying at the local university. Her name is Julianna. We exchanged pleasantries before checking in. I was exhausted and wanted nothing more than anything resembling a bed. Julianna remarked that it had been a while since she’s been able to speak English with anyone so she invited me to dinner. An invitation I accepted. No feelings of being stalked this time around. I had a feeling that good food and good conversation were going to be on the endangered species list while I was there.

Julianna was an incredible cook; her room had a kitchen as it was her apartment attached to the lobby. The motel belonged to her tia. Julianna was her ward, receptionist, turn-down service attendant, chef, and pool cleaner when the pool was in season. She cooked for me ‘simplicity’: fish, rice and beans and some funny looking bananas called plátanos and some vino to take the edge off. The smells were incredible and indescribable. And for dessert, she had prepared tres leches con pasas. Made from scratch by her earlier that day, she told me. It was sweet, delicious and simple. It was all I could ask for. I was to be the only guest at the motel that night so she rolled out the frayed red carpet for me.

After the pleasant dinner and polite conversations, I was escorted to my room. When the door opened I dropped my backpack in surprise. I paid for some hay in a manger and I received the presidential suite. One hell of a bargain, I thought. Julianna bid goodbye with a wink Everything inside was huge and I suddenly felt very small. I took in everything that had happened that day as I laid down on the bed stuffed full with clouds. I sought to summarize the day in a sentence or even a few words. I started with impossible. It was impossible to condense the day into a single sentence let alone a handful of words. Then I thought about Hemingway. WWHD? Drink alcohol, bed a good-looking woman, travel somewhere exotic, write a short story about it, and win another literary prize, not necessarily in that order. I could strike one thing off that list and I started with that. This is my second strike off that list:

To travel to a destination never been explored is to experience purity in its finest form. To be consumed by experience of alienation is to invite a metamorphosis of self. Never before had I had been consumed by wanderlust. And when I did travel, I desired nothing more than to go back home. My ambitions began with boredom and bled into anxiety. Isolation in a world full of people blended well with my growing confusion and doubt. Flirtation and flattery by Elaine inflated my confidence. A terrifying taxi trip by Chico would aggravate my anxiety and created a dense, disconcerting fog around that island of mine. Wilson? Wilson!

Kindness by Alejandro and Julianna were my guiding lights out and away from this fog. There is no cure for homesickness but there are ways to ease it. Little did Elaine, Alejandro, Chico, and Julianna know how much of an effect they had on me. I had gone from becoming an appetizer for dinner, paying for a family’s dinner, compelled to provide and provided to with compassion by a traveler for a traveler.

My travels within the world at large was less about the destination and more about experience. This was what Hemingway was all about.  I wanted to be like Hemingway but be myself simultaneously. I had no idea who I was. I want to travel and subject myself to danger and adventure and chronicle it all. It took me travelling to Costa Rica to realize this. I still don’t know fully who I am, but I knew this was my start. In Costa Rica, they say pura vida, meaning pure life. Without my lust for travel, this story could not have come to fruition; I didn’t know how to live until I left home.

I wanted to leave home and when I did, I wanted to come back. I realized that balance between both worlds was the key; it was the only way to unlock the secrets of self. Pura Vida Wanderlust is my thirst for purity, for travel and for my life. If you ever have a chance to discover who you are, take it. Doubt be damned. Trust in yourself. We’ve only one life to live and this is our chance to enjoy it. So go. Find your Elaine, your Alejandro, your Chico or Julianna. Find your pura vida wanderlust within yourself.