Life is a Shit Sandwich

That’s a direct quote from a judge I worked for when I was fresh out of law school. He had issues. Lately, though I've thought about it because I have issues. I feel like a bit of an ass regarding my blog posts recently.

Adventures of the Cuy was recently featured on a blog that my cousin, Jen, writes about her life in New York with a 40-year old husband. Jen wrote some really nice things about Rebecca and the work that she is doing, and even had a compliment for me. She said I’m pretty funny (she meant as in witty, not looking).

But I haven’t been in a funny mood lately. As reflected, I think, in my recent posts about homesickness, street kids, the prices of things, and this one.

So, on the one hand, I feel like I am letting down any of Jen’s readers who actually decided to check out my posts, not to mention what I am doing to Jen’s reputation. They come to me looking for humor and all they get is reality. And everyone knows that’s not funny.

And, on the other hand, I feel like I am doing damage with these sentimental and feeling posts to the macho image that I believe (probably foolishly) I project. But seriously, I’m bald, have skinny legs, and cried at the end of “Brokeback Mountain”. So how macho can I really think that I am?

Early in our stay here in Quito, during our first hitchhiking adventure, Maya, Jonah and I caught a ride from an American who had been here for a year with her family. She mentioned that her sons, I think they were around 7 and 9, were just starting to enjoy the experience. She related their enjoyment directly to the fact that they had only recently made good friends.

I’ve been thinking about that idea lately, primarily because I have no friends here. Certainly, my Spanish has improved a lot – I can order food and beer and get us around the city fairly easily. But, that gets old pretty quickly when you are trying to make a friend. My other problem is that although I can get my point across (I’m pretty sure), I have a hard time understanding when people talk back to me in sentences. It really limits relationship building when you can’t understand what people are saying to you.

So, in the earlier post about homesickness, I said that I was the only person in the family that wasn’t homesick. That wasn’t truthful, I now realize. I think that I am some degree of homesick. Not homesick for the lifestyle or comforts, but for the people that I can’t be with.

I want to drink a beer with my friend in his backyard. I want to play a game of backgammon with my friend that lives across the street. I want to bullshit with my neighbor in the park while he walks his dogs. I want to hug my mom again.

I wrote a poem about my condition.

Stranger

There are a million people in this city. But I can’t talk to any of them.
My best friend is the garbage man.
But all I dare say to him is hello and how are you doing.
I want to tell him how I imagine the tired, dusty women
hawking their candy and cigarrettes look at me like a modern day Jesus
and the New Man that El Che died for spends his afternoon in the park watching a volleyball game.
I want to tell him how the boot blacks have more polish on their faces than they do on their own shoes and the children juggle hope in the street.
I want to tell him how the dogs scavenge at night with their tails tucked between their legs and when the clouds part, I can hear centuries in the sunshine.
But I don’t tell him any of these things. I’m afraid that I won’t understand his reply.

So there it is. Another, unfunny, melancholic blog post from Comedy Central. But, truly, I don’t really think that life is a shit sandwich. I just used the quote to get your attention. Life is more like a salami and cheese sandwich with lettuce and spicy mustard. And that’s good.