Now the good stuff...

Last night I had my most fufilling moment while teaching. I always expected it would come in the form of "tutoring" some young mind with a perfect body, but they don`t seem to be students in my classes. 
We went over MLK`s "I have a dream" and our national anthem. Good stuff. I also made them peanut butter and jelly sandwiches last week, which they found exotic and tasty.  If they think that`s exotic, wait until they see me in the bragger...
All this talk of perfect bodies reminds me,  I finally found the street where all the tranny prostitutes hang out. Its scary how good men can look in a dress from 20 yards away.  It may have had something to do with the fake boobs, the half bottle of wine I drank, the hour of Queer Eye I had just finished watching, or mayb e just God playing tricks on me in general.

My taxi driver explained that they were men, in case I didnt know about the phenomenon.   I didn`t get everything he said, but I definately understood  "un gran sopresa".  For those of you who havent been studying spanish as much as me, it means " I cant believe I`m holding a penis and boobs at the same time ".  The taxi driver also admitted that he wants to try a man 5 minutes before he dies, just to know what its like.   For men here, that admission`s tantamount to singing showtunes and wearing chaps.  Ok I guess standing on the corner in a dress and giving lube jobs to every car who stops is pretty gay too.

When he dies, I expect 1 day of national mourning (with banks and government closed) and a national yearly holiday. No exaggeration...this guy is a god here.

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After a few hours of this "bollocks," they´ve each had seriously 10 whisky and cokes (in a country where most people have 1 drink every 2 hours), and I realise they`ve probably accounted for half this pub`s revenue this month.  They told us they`ve been in BA about 3 weeks now, and come to this pub almost every night. They havent really been anywhere in the city, but just come to this pub and live in a women`s shelter.  You can`t make this shit up.  They were leaving the next day, so they were also buying the bartenders  a few drinks. At the end of the night, the bar manager gave the man a rugby jersey with the pub`s logo on the front and a #1 on the back.  Amazing. Its at this point I realize this couple has probably financed a full college education for the owner`s daugher in 3 weeks of drinking there.

We talked a little about travelling to the USA. They saw the grand canyon, but refused to travel to Las Vegas, although he really wanted to go, because then he`d HAVE to marry his girlfriend. Not a joke...it was as if he could magically stay away from Vegas the rest of his life, his girlfriend had no moral authority to demand marriage.  She`s sitting there like a deer in the headlights (she had CRAZY eyes) and orders her 11th whisky and soda.

As we`re trying to make a sly,and in retrospect, stupidly polite, exit from the bar, the man turns to us and begins another round of lecturing, this time about the fact he has MS.  After 5 minutes of shock that he`s actually talking about this, and with both my friend and I visibly yawning, I realise he`s not letting up.  He goes from the semi-humorous to the disgustingly macabre.  Tells us how he might wake up blind or lose control of his bowells any morning. Describes in detail things we never wanted to know. Gives us advice on life. Shows us places on his body where things hurt. If this had only been a 5 minute conversation, it might have been nice to reflect on it the next day, but after 30 minutes of this, Im needing 2 prozacs and a shot of tequilla just to feel normal. 

Realizing he`s been conversating by himself for a long time, he then offers this gem to us, trying to get us involved.. "so what do you two think about this kind of stuff...you know...abortion and euthaniasia?"  You know, normal barroom banter.  However its remarkably appropriate since I felt like drowning myself in the pub toilet rather than listening to that crap anymore.  After grumbling that "well...i guess everyone has to choose..grumble grumble...(please GOD make this STOP!)," he starts in again, telling us that he and his brothers have a pact to kill each other if one of them becomes a vegetable.  I dont have the heart to tell him he`s probably half barley right now from all the whiskey he`s drank in the past 3 weeks.  Then he drops the big one, that his girlfriend wants to kill herself if he dies. Nate (my friend) and I both automatically turn and look at her:  No protests from us.  It was a good time to leave so we did.

However, that moment clarified what I always felt might be my true calling here:  Advanced Ebonics Translation.  This seriously could become a big industry here and in Brazil, although my street cred might not transfer down here. Being whiter than 100% of the population doesnt help either. I might have to freestyle to show them I´m fo´ rizzle.

Other stuff....

  b) Provide an area on each subway car for one protester to plead his case to the riding public. Except that it should be something like a dunk tank, where he gets to speak for a minute, but then then people get to pull a big lever and dunk him.  I see more possibilities here...please comment.