A Toast to the New Year

This post will admittedly be smashed together with less care than I would like. That being said, I will try to finish before I head off for my New Years Eve plans. 

I never have made New Years resolutions mainly because I thought it was an arbitrary time to suddenly flip a switch and I believe change is a process more than an abrupt reformation. I am making one this year because this arbitrary time comes at a time that I recognize the need for a paradigm shift. It goes without saying but I have learned “heaps” this year as the Aussies would say.  I have, many times fallen on my face while thinking I was gracefully dancing through other people’s lands and lives. With what I’ve learned and continue to learn, I will reshape my path.

Through my experience my awareness has sharpened. I went into my travels very abruptly and very green. Luckily I had a sizeable hunger for adventure and experience and a benevolently open mind. I have however proven that it is possible to have a paradoxically open mind with a steadfast stubbornness.  That is a combination that mitigated my enjoyment of fruits my travel has had to offer.  It lead me to accept but not assimilate. 

It is important to distinguish between the two in this setting. As an American I recognize that we must accept and value other culture as a result of and a sole solution to being part of the biggest melting pot humanity has ever seen. It is virtuous to respect others and allow them their freedom to act and think as they please. However, this also acts justify our isolation from one another. Acceptance and isolation work synergistically to make two typically American qualities.

There is another face to open mindedness; a different level. It goes beyond accepting and into connecting. I have learned through a complete failure in Holland and by example in Bulgaria. There is considerably a lot more of yourself to risk when you break down your walls and/or cross the bridge and/or pick your own analogy and allow yourself to put aside some of own beliefs and ways and adopt those of the people who have adopted you.  I believe that the reward however greatly outweighs the risk.  There a fair amount of trepidation in setting aside parts of yourself to adopt new ways. The fear and the question is that some part of you that you recognize as essential to yourself will die and you will no longer be yourself.  I cannot answer that question. And even though I cannot rationally justify making the effort to adopt these new pieces (probably because I am getting texts the people are already beginning to drink) but inductively, I know it’s right.

I would like to develop this more but now is not the time. To my arbitrarily coincidental paradigm shift: To dive in and soak it in. To broaden this beyond culture to personally. To go beyond accepting differences and into easing the softening of a paradigm that I live in to allow people to invite closeness rather than the cheap acceptance. I am sincere about this but its time for me to go! Happy New Year and God Bless and give love and be free this new year;  it may be our last!

Pruning Steel: Steely Characters

When I came to life and thus my coworkers did the same, I would say it was like someone flipped a light switch. But truly, the change was more gradual. A more accurate analogy would be to say it is like the time between 5 and 5:30 when the sun rises above the building next door to the time that it is eclipsed by the roof of the warehouse and I know my first half hour of work has passed. It is about this point that I begin work mentally and start going about my day. 

A hat, safety glasses and earplugs in a loud warehouse where I spend most of my time with my head down grinding away allowed me to zone out an avoid recognizing the fact that I was working with or at least around other people. That is probably part of the reason I took the job initially and stayed with it. I couldn’t avoid however making contact with the two other guys that worked directly with me cutting off the fresh dipped steel and working it over. Chris, a 57 year-old Australian and a good man, who refuses the gum I offer him “because it will get stuck in his dentures” and illustrates the idiom “dead end job.” 

Chris gave me my 3 minute job tutorial in the beginning and we spoke few other times in the first couple weeks other than to say hello or the occasional “head,” which means move your head before it gets knocked off. He operates the crane at our end of the ware house and is damn good at it too. He also decides which headers we process or get sent to the next crew. However that is where his ambition ends.  For 18 years he’s worked for the same wage at this plant. I don’t think I would make it 18 weeks if I didn’t have to. He accepts that he will be here until he retires. He is not much of a communicator which makes it often very frustrating to work with him. As the weeks wore on I learned I would have to accept this. If I was looking for a great steel galvanizing quarterback I would have to look elsewhere. I stopped gritting my teeth around him after we finally got into a conversation about him stemming from wages. I learned that he and his wife are foster parents to several kids at a time. He grinds away to help his wife aid in the young lives of kids who have little else. After that it was easier to accept when he would return short flippant answers to my questions of ignore them. His redemption is impressive but almost common place in this warehouse.

The other guy in our section is named James and although he is Philippino, has a Spanish surname. It couldn’t be any more appropriate for him; a biblical name that carries with it those who brought the bible to the Philippines.  He gets mad when I swear.  He gets mad when I wear my Dragon shirt (pictured) or my El Paso Diablos shirt. (I get mad too though. These were the last jerkoffs to release me. But here I am.) The dragon of course symbolizes the devil and well, Diablos, you get it. He gets mad when I use his grinder, but that is slightly more forgivable in his eyes. 

He is righteous to the core; the only man I’ve ever seen bow his head before eating his lunch in the breakroom. He lives by the Word in sincerity and does his best to softly preach it.  The language is a slight barrier but I try to stay with him. His attitude toward the work is akin to sacrifice. In this case he sacrifices himself most of all for his family. He grinds away to see that his wife is cared for and his daughters continue their education in a safe and opportunity laden place. He never questions the work, or the time and energy that he surrenders. He, like the other Philippinos that make up the majority of the plant’s workforce is on a four year contract sponsored by the company to live and work in Australia. To give you an idea about how lame this job is. This plant would not run if it weren’t for this soft form of indentured servitude.

I have tremendous respect for these men. Nearly everyone is here in an effort to bring their family here or support them abroad. The job atrophies the mind, weakens the body and redeems the soul. I want to launch into political argument about immigration but I will keep it at this. This is one job among many others that affluent Australians and for that matter Americans will not do given the choice. In fact, some would choose to sit on the couch and receive a dole/welfare instead of doing this work  So many of us want to mitigate or deny immigration when the reality is the people are just humans, opportunistic and righteous, sacrificing nearly everything in hopes of a better life for themselves and the ones they love. 

The two other young blokes besides me will have to wait for their introduction and this post will wait for its conclusion as I have to finish the next post before I head out for NEW YEARS EVE!

For another take on the immigration issues. Enjoy a good read out of the Atlantic:

http://www.theatlantic.com/business/archive/2011/12/the-no-brainer-issue-of-the-year-let-high-skill-immigrants-stay/250219/

Pruning Steel: White Yard

If I were at home right now I would be pruning my parents’, friends’ and neighbors’ apple trees.  This is the one month every year that my forearms become freakishly strong from clipping each tree branch. It’s cold and monotonous but I can’t imagine a more serene work environment. Isolated up on ladder in a tree, engulfed by soft cadence of rain falling on the bill of my hat or the silence of yard muted by fallen snow, I take my time to size up and select what branches are meant to be kept and which are meant to be removed. It is both an exercise in logic and parsimony and an art of creating functional balance. Inevitably my mind becomes as quiet as the day and ultimately I leave behind trees that will bear the most and best possible fruit that they can produce.  The job of a fettler is a lot like that, in that my forearms became very strong. Forget about the other stuff.

Quiet end of the day.

For the first two weeks of the job (Yes I am going to continue winging, skip this paragraph if you want to get to the redeeming part.) The job was reminiscent of the point when you become numb to the pain of having a cavity drilled, not because of the Novocain but because you just give in and accept it. I kept at it because I knew it was only temporary. If all my work-while financial forecasts were correct, I would make enough money to walk out the door at 11 o’clock, Friday the 23^rd of December and leave that misery behind. My vision of that hot late morning was one where I walk out, carefree to a car that I paid off with the satisfaction of having a credit card paid off and money in the bank which to me really meant time that could be taken to have fun!

(Ra Ra! Part) The job is not all bad though. It does have a Mister Rogers/ How Things Work beauty to it. In the beginning it was an interesting education experience on how steel is galvanized. That lasted for a day and a half. There is the slightest sense of satisfaction that I have had a small part in making somebody’s gaudy gates really appealing or some piece of mining equipment that much more durable. Sometimes the headers carrying the shiny metal resemble a mobile that even Alexander Calder would be appreciate. But most of the time it’s just beams.  There is also some excitement when the steel is dipped into the molten zinc when it burst and bubbles and makes light poles turn into acoustic cannons or boiling hot water guns. That always good for a shot of adrenaline when I forgot my coffee in the morning. Aside from all this, I’ve said it before and I am going to say it again, right now:  IT PAYS!

The first two weeks I had to rent a car to get to work because it is a 25 minute drive from my house. But, you gotta spend money to make money. By the end of the third week, while spending every spare minute car searching, I finally gave up the chase and settled for a shit bucket with wheels. (Hopefully, I will get a post up about driving it.) A couple weeks later, I sent enough money state side to pay off the old credit pit. After weeks of austerity measures that would solve Greece’s debt disaster, I night I celebrated with a meal at Hungry Jacks (Burger King) and a six pack of delicious Little Creatures (Sierra Nevada.)

My new ride with a Christmas gift from the old boss man. Notice my sweet tow hitch!

At work the next day, I discovered a level of elation that a sleep deprived hangover could not dim. I was seeing the world through rosy colored glasses. Well they were still my same safety glasses but it was like they were really REALLY clean. I started to feel like a human and the guys around me became humans as well. This is going to seem like those stupid plots when the resolution comes far too simply and the satisfaction has no foundation. But I have to head out to our optional Christmas break practice. There is more to this satisfaction because the releasing of this burden has sparked every aspect of my life here.

The boys I grind with. Temps don't get the sweet high vis gear.

On deck is the post called “All Fun and Games.” I am looking forward to writing that one because I a getting tired of dwelling on the negative. With a couple more days off I would also like to get out a couple more about driving, baseball, and well, so many things that are more fun than work.

Pruning Steel: Black Yard

Steel galvanization is the process coating steel with a layer of zinc to protect it from the elements essentially making the steel rustproof.  At the steel galvanizing plant where I work the steel is delivered into what is called the “black yard.” Out there lies the unfinished fabricated and welded steel in an ugly oily black or rusting state. From there is tied up to headers by steel wire which a gantry crane will pick up and dip into a series of chemical and acid baths in order to clean it before dipping it in a kettle of 200 degree Celsius molten zinc . Finally the header is dipped into a cooling bath of water and that’s where I come in. When I’m done with it I send it away, shiny and finished on a forklift to what is called the “white yard."

Another day.

Mostly Unedited since Thursday the 8th:

Everybody has had a job that they hate, that they consider turning their car around from in the morning, that they leave tired, achy and unhappy, that they lose sleep over, that they do in their sleep, that is risky, that is boring, that is a dead end, that will potentially give them cancer or kill them sooner, … Well, maybe most of those. This is the account of mine:

Rarely does calling somebody a “bitch” pay off especially if that somebody is your superior at work. Maybe it was the fatigue of a 40 hour work week by Thursday or maybe it was that fact that I couldn’t care less if I left the job forever so I called the head crane operator a bitch on his way out the door on Thursday afternoon.

He left with a chuckle. The Philippinos all turned and looked at me astonished. I punched my punch card and headed out the door and tried to walk as I imagined Cool Hand Luke would have done.

I shouldn’t say that it actually paid off. It just made this job slightly less intolerable. I am a fettler. For the last three weeks between the hours of 5 and 4 and 5 and noon on Saturdays, I am the tired bloke who cuts the freshly zinc-dipped steel off of the header, grinds off any irregularities, and stacks it for the forklift to take it to the pickup yard. If the job doesn’t sound exciting, that’s because it’s not. The only thing that keeps me going is Coca Cola, chewing gum and the mental math that I am doing while I am avoid getting hit by cranes, forklifts, shards of steel, molten zinc, or boiling water and steam. The job pays very well for doing something a well trained chimp could do. And considering my current economic state that I alluded to in my last post, I decided it was time to bite the bullet and pay my dues.

One day I came to work and noticed a glove had hung himself near steel recycling bin. Apparently he didn't like this job much either.

Paying my dues is what I did and it was how I treated my job. I rarely spoke at work. I put my earplugs put my head down and went about my business and counted the hours until the end of the day. When I spoke it was usually a question about the job or the standard acquainting conversation. 

The next morning as I went to get my earplugs and a fresh pair of gloves he greeted me with “How’s it going Pussy?” Trying to overlook my surprise, I replied, “Good, Pussy.” The rest of that day he made jokes about pussy this and pussy that. Without intention, I had completely nailed establishing a rapport. Seeking the lowest common denominator, we had leveled ourselves despite his years of service in this environment and my steadfast respect for experience engrained in my by years of baseball.  From that day on, little by little, I acted as if I was actually present instead of as far as I could possibly get inside my head.

Tomorrow I will get the second half of this post up and this week I will play some more catchup. 

Not All Fun and Games/ Having a Winge

I haven’t updated anything in the last month for a few of reasons and I am glad I haven’t. It wouldn’t have been that much fun to read and surely wouldn’t have been fun to write and secondly, for much of that period I didn’t have a minute to spare. Now that I have sorted out my life and I am comfortably enjoying a relaxing, mildly hungover and surprisingly cool Boxing Day, I can put together the starts that I have begun in my journal and on my computer. Here are a few thing that I will hopefully catch up on in my week off between Christmas and New Years: Comestibles, the Queen, riding the train, Perth, baseball, the Footie grand final, burgers, Pinnacles, USA series, Americans, Baseball, meat pies and sausage rolls, kangaroos, Australians, Freemantle, Little Creatures, the view from the HSBC building, the weathers, the river, girls, girls, girls, Perth, Foo Fighters, the house, driving and my car, Cricket, the beach, and Steel.

Having a Winge

Have you ever wondered if you could be plopped down in a foreign place with no support net and see if you could make it? No? I recognize that I am one of few. Rooted in an affinity for stories like Into the Wild and Castaway and a twisted hunger for adventure and to challenge and prove my self-reliance, I have cultivated this question. It’s a fun hypothetical situation to chew on but it’s not one I had ever planned on testing. But be careful what you wish for or daydream about; you just might get it. I didn’t play out this scenario exactly, not even close, but I was close enough for me to get a taste and form an idea about how I would fare.

When I arrived in Perth I had $46 to my name. That buys nothing here. The club offered me a place to stay for three weeks but little else.  I picked up the bartending job and it was fun and worked out fine until it became impossible to work until three, catch a cab home and then perform well at a mid morning baseball game the following day. At the same time as quitting the bartending job I had to find a new place to live. Without a car, I train and bussed to my casual catering job that just paying my rent and everything else going on credit. After all the prior traveling this year my credit debt was starting to add up. I needed a steady, good paying job and fast.

I pounded the pavement. I put in with several labor, well actually or labour, agencies and applied for anything and everything. I worked one day unpacking containers full of soft drinks and loading them onto pallets and I worked one week in a beer and wine distribution warehouse. This worked brought me slightly into the black but it wasn’t quite cutting it. At the end that week I got a call from one labor agency who said that had a job in a steel galvanizing factory. It would only pay $19.75 an hour (a very modest wage here) but the ninth hour would pay time and a half and after the ninth hour and weekends would pay double time. I had my doubts but after considering the reality of the situation it was time to grind.

--

Having in a winge or winging are terms that I have happily adopted here that are equivalent to complaining and whining with the negative tone of “bitching” without the use of harsh language. This post has been substantially edited from the time that I began it in the middle of the hardest period here while, due to my economic circumstances, I was in a pretty bad mood.

Booy!

Halloween was a major disappointment. I saw two zombies and a trainer at the gym dressed up a steroidal Luke Skywalker. I expected not to see any Thanksgiving celebration or even an Australian version because sharing a meal was the last thing the Aboriginals and settlers would do, but I thought Halloween was a little more ubiquitous. Turns out I was wrong. Whereas in the US, it gives grown up teenagers and excuse to dress up and drink on a weekday night, the Aussies don’t need an excuse (well, except for the costume part.)

There was one perk however. I got to bar tend at a wake. That’s not the perk; that’s still to come. But before I get to that, I might point out the irony that they use a wake as an excuse to get together and drink on a Wednesday evening over Halloween! Back to the perk, at the wake there was one bored young girl hoped up on soft drinks and the excitement of her first trick or treating who amused herself by running up to guest and shouting, “Booy” at them. This was a perk because it a perfect illustration of the Australian accent. The secret to speaking like an Australian is to not open your mouth too widely. All the vowel sounds are formed with the back of the tongue rather than the lips. “Why is this noteworthy?” you ask. Because of something I learned from a Venezuelan guy while bartending for a group of private high school association mothers. (Side note: I poured my body weight Champagne that day. The kids could have gotten away with murder when the ladies picked them up from school…if they made it that far. Side side note: This was an event to memorialize Armistice Day. Don’t worry, a ten second moment of silence was held before the first bottle popped.) Side side side note, NO HALLOWEEN?!  

So the Venezuelan guy told me this, “The reason that Aussies came to speak like this is because it prevents them from opening their mouths too widely because of the flies. THE FLIES! That is another story…But if you think about it and had six flies make out with your face at once, you would understand. Then you might swipe at your face and accidentally clip your nose. Anyway it is an interesting fun fact to know and tell. And because it is just the sort of pratfall that I would make with a claim about the Dutch, I will back it up with this: Angelo told me a teacher told him this. So Aussies if you read this, take it up with his teacher. Finally the last thing I have to say is BOO! or BOOY! Depending on how close you are to open water.

In my catering uniform, cutting off my too long backpacker hair. End of that Halloween costume.

Monday Morning Football

(A post that I started a few weeks ago which was far more relevant then.) Monday mornings in Perth are much like Monday mornings in Meppel. I wake up with a mild hangover and an achy body. Well at least I wake up with an achy body every other week. Due to the import rules of this league, an import pitcher can only pitch every other week. Yesterday I played 1^st base for the clubs “A grade” team which where the “boys” who have been playing with the club for 20 years have been playing. It is always fun to get a bat in my hands even when we lose by ten runs. It’s also nice not to have peel my body off my bed the next morning after an 180 pitch effort. (My thinking is that if I only get to pitch once every two weeks, I am going to make every pitch win, lose, or draw.)

Mondays are a slow day for me the Burger Shack is closed on Mondays and catering doesn’t really happen so all I have to do is get into the gym at some point.  So I wake up, cook and omelet and post up on the couch and watch whatever game the Australian Fox affiliate decides to broadcast to me. This is where my first attempt ends. I don’t remember where I was going with this but besides this; I have had some pretty successful Mondays. I got my bank account, jobs, mobile phone, internet, rental room and tax details. I guess that’s it. You can only be so successful without at car here. I will leave that for next Monday.

Look Right Then Left

You may not know this, but the Aussies drive on the left side of the road. In order to prevent another body and life flipping collision, I have learned to look right then left when crossing the street. However, most differences I have picked up on here are not that stark. Unlike the more easily recognized idiosyncrasies I noticed in Holland, the land down under is very much the same as back home with a the odd peculiarity sprinkled in for flavor. 

The first thing I have to comment on is obviously the speech. While in Europe, I often encountered Australian backpackers and in the course of regular conversation I would often have to hold back laughter because simple directions on how to find the bathroom would conjure the likeness of Crocodile Dundee and Steve Irwin the Crocodile Hunter type adventures. Suddenly a simple trip to the bathroom became exciting if not life risking adventure. Slowly though, I have adjusted and picked up the “mates,” “good-on-yas,” and “it’ll be ‘rights.” I have however, found it hard to throw the four letter C-word around in conversation let alone using it to refer to those you like and respect. But give it time, I’ll be right.

The second instantly noticeable thing is the money. I’m not talking about the Monopoly looking notes and 1 and 2 dollar coins but the prices on everything. I have slowly accepted the fact that I am going to pay 40 to 50% percent more than what I am used to paying for the same things in the States. For instance when I saw the first Kentucky Fried Chicken I had seen in four months, I suddenly got hungry for a taste of home (like I said there is a lot of similarities here.) When I had got my fill, everything had tasted the same greasy goodness but it is impossible to get out of there with a meal costing less than twelve dollars. Levis 501s-$110, a liter of Coca Cola- $4.50, a Corona -$8: its everything. I was pleasantly surprised though when I saw how cheap rent and gym membership prices were… and then I found out that these were the prices per week!  On the day that I arrived I had $46 dollars to my name. I thought this was going to by a lean six months or a shorter stay. So the following day I went job hunting. 

 I convinced myself that $1.65 bus ticket was a worthy investment in order to find work. I headed in to town from my temporary host’s housing. I wrote down the names of the hotels and restaurants where I thought I might find casual work as the bus passed them. Finally the bus ended in the center of the Perth. I started to walk around and figured I had better just start asking around. What choice did I have? The first place seemed like a safe bet: Fast Eddy’s, a hamburger restaurant would surely hire and American. What luck! They were hiring, but I wasn’t so keen on working 11 pm to 5 am. I kept that application in my back pocket with a positive outlook. Emboldened by my hint of possibility, I walked down the block. The second place I tried was a classy but youthful place coincidentally a burger joint as well.  “Are you looking for any kitchen or wait staff?” I asked, and a short conversation made shorter, he replied “come back at six tonight.”

Within a week of my arrival I had set myself up pretty well: a baseball team, part time job bartending Friday and Saturday nights and serving and flipping burgers for weekday lunches, a public transportation card, a tax file number, an Australian phone number, and an Australian bank account with a savings account rate of just over 5%, yes, 5%! I thought I had it pretty “cruisey” as they say here but then second month came. Soon I will catch up to that but the 26 year old boy lives on!...just a little busier.

Dirt Farm

After I left the Hippy Hostel I headed off I left work for a Bulgarian kid who is interest in permaculture is reflected in the name of his operation: Waste No More Farms. What that means is I went to help on a dirt farm.

 

Every time I travel I surprise myself equally if I make it to my destination soundly or if I don’t. This time was no exception. I woke up as the bus was revving to a start. I looked around and out the window. I looked across the street to the train station and saw the sign that said Казанлък. I sounded it out, “ka-za-n- something- ak. Oh shit!” I sprang up out of my seat and swooped up my stuff with the speed that riders on a particularly long bus ride would see only as crazy or dangerous. I could feel people tense and clutch their belongings and their children as I scooted towards the door. I jumped out the door as it was closing and by this point the bus driver saw that me and kept the bus still long enough to let me grab my bag from below the bus. So I arrived in another town in Bulgaria greeted by especially puzzled stares.

I gathered my things and my mind and I paid 15 cents to go take a piss on the wall of a bathroom above a drain that smelled like it really didn’t drain. I came out ready to figure out the next part. I had made tenuous contact with my host here via email and although I was expected and I had told him when I would be there, there was no final confirmation. So I did what worked in the past; I started walking. With each step my plan came together. I would find the main square of town and then find the internet café that, according to my ten year old, used bookstore guide to Bulgaria, would be nearby.  As I guessed what direction I would take I  saw a short young guy walking up to me with purpose. To me he didn’t look strange. He wore a baseball cap with a flat bill, electric green framed sunglasses, a t shirt and board shorts. To a Bulgarian his style must look as strange as I do. I would come to find that he cultivated this individuality as much as he did the worms in his farm.

We got into his biodiesel powered Mitsubishi 4x4 and agreed that a swim in the river would be a good way to cool down. When we parked I went to the back of the jeep to grab my swim trunks and told him I should change because if I swam in these shorts they would never dry off. He casually replied, “I usually don’t wear shorts.” This seemed funny to me seeing as he was wearing board shorts but ok, I thought, "when in Rome." We walked up the mountainside to find a beautifully untouched stream that had cleaned a ravine from everything but the rounded granite boulders. We lost the shorts and I jumped in. I have to admit I was a little weary of somebody seeing two buck naked guys scrambling up these boulders to get to the higher pools.

After I had made my best effort to clean the cement dust that had glued my hair together we headed off. Our first destination was to pick up about 20 liters of raw fuel from the fryers of a nearby hotel. From there we headed to his farm. The farm sat on a half acre between a metal fabrication shop and a furniture shop. To be honest, it didn’t look like much. It looked like mulch. (sorry it was too easy) There were some tall rows of dirt beds with nothing growing on them. I saw one thriving cherry tomato plant. All kinds of questions were forming in my head which luckily would soon be answered.

He went on to show me his waste oil processing system to refine his biodiesel. He explained to me that his business plan was an organic fertilizer and worms business. We dug into one of the rows to reveal what looked like one part cow manure and one part worms. It was amazing! He had planted very exotic looking native plants whose roots repelled moles. He had planted trees with large prehistoric looking leaves in random places. These trees turned out to be the fastest growing trees on earth and can be harvested for hardwood in only seven years. He had all these things but in an organization pattern that made nearly no sense at all to me as far as maximizing production, but that is the difference between Bulgaria and the bottom line driven American I am. It has potential though.

We spent my short time there building a very rudimentary worm casting “sieving machine,” (framing an old mattress with tightly woven wire) digging an outflow channel for his rainwater collection pond, and building a compost bin. It was an interesting experience having to cooperate our two working styles. I had to ease back from my highly accessible material, planning and measuring, build for permanence paradigm and sit back quietly watch him burn through fence posts with a dull chainsaw. Nevertheless we accomplished a good bit.

Though his resources are limited, his ambition and passion are great. He recommended a documentary to me called Dirt. If you have not seen it, I highly recommend it too. He embodied the goals of the film. He told me all about how we can avoid the use of pesticides and fertilizers if we provide healthier dirt and environments to our plants. He also, as his farm’s name suggests, is more interested in the ideals of a sustainable future of food production than he is in his bottom line. I admire his substance. At 23 he had pardoned himself from the college to career sentence and jumped into a business. He has an interesting perspective on his business. Whereas Bulgaria is not a rich country but he has concerned himself not with his economic growth but with the security of the self-sufficient style of life and wellbeing of his country’s future. 

A Bulgarian flag flying lantern from the balcony of his home. Grape vines climbing up the side

Unfortunately I was only able to Not Waste five days with Dimo. While I was there I received exciting news that would shake my world up even further than running around Bulgaria.

The sign entering the town entering the town that I returned to after the "dirt farm." You have to learn how read Cyrillic or you are not getting anywhere. Most signs do not have translation.

This is a little out of sequence and I have got some more catching up to do but I’ll get there. I just got my own internet today.

27

I turned 27 on a bus approaching the border control between Bulgaria and Turkey. By the time the 17 hour day ended I was celebrating 4000 feet in the air over China having a beer and watching the Hangover. Since started this blog there have been a lot of things that tied themselves together in the meaning of the name of this blog. Before I start, let me excuse myself for any mistakes or lack of editing of this post. This is the morning after celebrating my teams' first win/game for my new team in Perth, Australia. I guess writing while hungover is becoming a common occurrence but if it was good enough it was for Hemingway and Bukowski its good enough for me.

After wearing 17 in high school, 27 was always the number that I chose for my baseball jersey. It is also the number of outs in a baseball game; recorded consecutively, they make a perfect game. At 27 years old I chased a game for 26 years. A game that, for me and many others, defines their childhood, connects them to their home, their family, and their friends.  Just yesterday I got a whiff of the familiar sharp smell of pine tar I said, "this reminds me of the best days of my life." It reminded me of the time of my life where I was first getting a taste of freedom and but still getting spend care free time playing a game with my friends. At seventeen my love for the game became my life. For the next ten years, like any love, I completely committed myself to it, I made any sacrifice that it demanded that I make, and I gave my life to it and got back some of the worst pain and the greatest glory. Everything in my life was framed by the game and I have been far beyond lucky to have friends and family, teachers and coaches who have allowed me to live in this frame.  The game has led me on a great journey that has introduced me to the best human beings that I know over miles of north American road and eventually to Holland.

I thought Holland might be the end of this wild road after some odd ups and downs in the last few years. I guess it seems appropriate but then again nobody ever recorded the 27th out.  Just like the conversation that got me to Holland, I first that was a joke but a few days past and a serious commitment was made to play in Australia. Less than a week later I was leaving a little village in Bulgaria where I woke up to sounds of roosters crowing to hearing Magpies cry in new home here in Perth. 27 is going to be another great year of  baseball and I'm praying for extra innings.

My computer is broken so I will skip a couple of posts about Bulgaria that are on the hard drive for now.

Dirty, Smelly, Happy Hippies

Last Friday

The ringing of the cow bells and the rooster crowing is the only thing I can hear above the smell of my armpits. It’s a quaint place called the Happy Hippy Hostel. This last week I have been helping a South African/British couple realize their dream of creating an eco hostel in rural Bulgaria.  With no running water and the closest thing to a shower being a dip in the river, I feel a little bit ridiculous even allowing my lap top out of my bag, but it is about time that I catch up on my blog. 

The hostel is being created out of what used to the villages school house. It is two stories and has four main class rooms and four other smaller rooms.  The classrooms have been converted into two dorms, a bar/meeting area and a dining room. It amazing to see how this place has progressed in since it’s the present South African “hippy” bought it for $17,000 (US) four years ago. 

This last week we have spent our days lugging cement one bucket at a time to the roof of this school house to build a brick wall around when will soon be a terrace complete with a brick bbq and brick planter boxes for grapes. Its hard work but its freeing. I don’t have to wear shoes or a shirt, I’ve got a great tan and at the end of the day the food is out of this world.

before

The South African creator left home at 17 and has been a traveler, a squatter, a raver and luckily for me, a chef over the next 17 years. He calls himself a hippy but it is interesting to see how his version of hippy is different from the eccentric Bay area hippies of Berkeley and Sebastopol that I am familiar with. First off, he is the most ambitious hippy I could ever imagine.  His motivation for this project is on par with that of Bill Gates. Second, we sit on the roof laying bricks listening or rather feeling trance music pump through my body. Finally, around 10 o’clock every day everything stops for a proper English tea time. Although we all smell like hippies and leaving our clothes on the shore of the river feels more like a hippy it just goes to prove a person is his place before he is his identity. A Dutch baseball player is Dutch before he is a baseball player , a South African Hippy is South African hippy is South African before he is a hippy and the girl who recently showed up is an American before she is a dental hygienist.

She is the girl who traded her steady nine to five for a ticket to Sophia and dove right into her soul search in this basic style of life. There are a few good things about her arrival. The first is that I have to floss every night. I haven’t showered in a week but I’ll be damned if I didn’t floss the last three nights in a row. The second is the two hours I got to spend unloading the four months of things that I could only relate to another American and finally the shiny new mirror that she provides to me.

a gypsy "gift"

Each time I run into another American it’s a reflection. Sometimes it’s like seeing myself in a dust window or pewter bowl and sometimes it’s a still water or freshly polished silver. The two 19 year old college guys that I spoke with in Amsterdam, the two Alabaman nurses in Prague, the Canadian (that counts in this case) college hockey player on the beach in Valencia, or in this case the freshly polished silver of a dental hygienist from New Hampshire. With each conversation I run across things I have taken for granted, things I have left behind and things I have a new appreciation for. The bricks and sun have stole my energy for the details here but sometimes these reflections are laughable; the changes being more evident than the remainder. It’s a cop-out but I will leave this to another post that I will promise and never write. Off to enjoy some silence and sunset.

More words. None are mine.

I ran around Bulgaria some more. I've been staying in a hostel that is a little more quaint. I have been busy and tired at the end of the day. Something really cool happened here yesterday. After working with just the two proprietors of the hostel for two days,  an American girls/princess who showed up here directly from Boston. Initially I unloaded an earful on her that I could not have expressed to anyone here. She too has been keeping up a blog. Her entry for today is priceless and captures the beauty and innocence of the culture/way of life/solitude shock. This is her third day in Bulgaria and first full day putting in work at the hostel. From http://workin-for-the-weekend.blogspot.com/ Enjoy: 

Dirty Splinters in my Dirty Hands

Lord have mercy...  I no longer have bank teller hands, but I now have construction-worker hands.  Re-cap of my day:
1. Woke up, and had a wicked good breakfast.
2. Spent several hours sanding a wooden rail... I can't remember the last time I had splinters in my hands.
3. Had English tea (which I think all people should adopt in to their culture).
4. Got more splinters.
5. Had lunch (I felt like I was living in the Shire with other hobbits, having first and second lunchies (lunch and tea time within a 90 min time span)
6. Picked crab apples
7. Began to pare crab apples (which they are so small, every time I tried to pare one, I ended up removing the core stem, and most of the skin on my pointer finger)
8. Switched to dish washing... which was a scam, because it was over an hour worth of dish washing...maybe like three hours worth -no lie?  And let's just put it this way, I fo'show use way more water just brushing my teeth than I did washing, lunch, tea, canning, and distilling dishes.  The sink is broken, and get this, I was wiping oil out of a pan, worried about oil clogging their septic system, and it hit me... I am in rural Bulgaria -they have no septic system.  Turns out, the 'septic pipe' drains onto their lawn.
9. Bonfire
10. Dinner
11. No shower. Hairy legs. Dirty skin about to be n my nice sheets.

Also, Bulgaria fun-fact, the reason why some of the cops drive Porsche cars is because whenever they bust anyone (drug dealers and all); if the car (which is usually stolen) isn't claimed, the police get to keep it after 5 months.

People in Holland, I am still alive. I appreciate all the care that you have extended my way.
I will put a post up this weekend. Na zdravi!

Where am I? Part II

Leg lock

The question entered, not so much as it blasted into my head. It fired through my nerves that screamed out in pain. My knee was not meant to bend this way!  After I tapped him twice on the ribs, I began to regain the sense of the rest of my body. I felt his grey pony tail on the side of my foot.  My knee was locked in between his knees. His hips were pushing into my thigh and his ankle was lodged into the bend in the front of my hip. My back was in a pool of sweat on the mats of the gym floor.

The sweat couldn’t pour out fast enough. This was somewhere in the second hour of my second session of jiu jitsu training in an old goat barn. The rock and mortar walls of the barn had been there long before the pine floor had been set down on tires to mitigate the impact of throws and takedowns. The man who was one good crank away from separating my knee was an nth level Black Belt of multiple martial art disciplines who ended up in Bulgaria after pursuing his craft all over the world. 

Stuffed peppers for lunch? Yes please.

Every night after training a tasty meal is hot and ready for us from an British ex-model. We sit down share scratch spread with a ex Royal Navy officer who rounds out this quiet expat compound in rural Bulgaria. After dinner comes cold beer and a gorgeous view to ease into the night after a day of work and training. It’s hard to believe only four hours of work a day could get me all this.  I am here due to a reference from and internet work/holiday network, but the immediate explanation only gives a weak a basis for the answer to the question.

The Bird

“You know what they say about a chicken with its head cut off,” he smiled. I looked back up at him, he continued but I didn’t hear anything. I could only see on the blood that had splattered on his glasses and cheek.  The chickens head was at his feet, the contours just visible in the fresh crimson blood.

I was glad it was over, mostly for the chicken. Ten minutes before, I had been chasing the doomed cockerel around his pen. Finally he cornered himself and I snatched him.  I held him by his legs and hanging that way, he finally settled down. “Grab him like this,” and he showed me with his thumb and index finger, “right behind the head. Hold tightly and stretch him as far as you can. Give the neck a quarter turn and jerk it sideways until you hear a ‘crack.’”

Cruel and unusual punishment would only begin to describe this bird’s demise. Chased around, and paralyzed after two attempts to severe his spinal cord, it was only over after two hacks with the hatchet. “It takes practice.” the woman would later assure me.

"Get that one. He picks on the others."

I had plenty of time to contemplate the whole event, not to mention the whole concept of raising, slaughtering and consuming meat while I plucked the bird. I sat in midday sun in the garden pulling against the grain as I was instructed. I think it was when I was pulling the feathers, still covered in half dried blood, on the front ridge of the bird’s wing, when the question came to me. 

It came first as a rumble in my stomach and then as a tightening of my throat and finally wafted around in the air with buzzing flies and the smell of chicken innards. As more feathers came off, the question subsided. Eventually the bird had more in common with the ones you see in the supermarket freezers than the one that had woken me at down that morning with his persistent call.

Conscience/ body separation was not enough ease my mind from this task. It was only when I rationalized the situation by accepting that the bird had made metaphysical change of form that I became hungry for the chicken chili at lunch. I guess it’s good that I didn’t have to gut and clean it before I ate.

Where Am I? Part I

Sunrise

I was far enough away that the sounds of the seagulls and the waves sweeping in were audible over the pumping electronic beats behind me. I was sitting next to an Indian guy who I met from a South African guy who I met because his girlfriend was the son of a Bulgarian-American who I met on the plane. The Indian was telling me something about the waves and the music that, after a night of partying, sounded pretty metaphysical. As I sat in the sand watching the sunrise over the Black Sea and listening to this guy, I took the last pull of my beer and the question drifted into my head.

It had been a great night, if you could call it that. I got off the plane 18 hours before. I met this dual citizen because we struck up a conversation after he overheard me speaking English in the Amsterdam Airport. He offered to help get me on my feet when we got to Sofia. Apparently what that means in Bulgarian is get a taxi for us to the train station, show me the best place to change currency, treat me to one of the best meals I’ve eaten in my entire life, tell me about a party on the Black Sea, set me up with a bus ticket and give me a sightseeing tour of old Communist Sofia from the eyes of a former rebellious punk teenager.

This guy is the epitome of cool. After I rode an overnight bus across the Bulgaria to Sunny Beach on the Black Sea, I arrived at 2 am. I met up with him, his daughter and her boyfriend and we partied and danced to the music of an internationally renowned Dutch DJ until the sun came up. It’s easy to put the sequence together now but at that time the question was as potent as the beats.

Ferry Corstien at Cacao Beach

Sunset

The sun behind the hills left an orange glaze on the warm evening air. I stared out over a field of sunflowers weighed down heavily and ready for harvest.  The train rumbled west and the breeze was refreshing after peeling myself off the seat after a much needed nap.

It was a long trip.

I finally had the energy to address the questions swirling in my. If I was this rested at the beginning of the day, chances are I would not be here right now. I could still be partying in Sunny Beach or driving to Istanbul with the Indian guy. As I have found, when traveling in a sleep deprived hungover stupor, luck largely outweighs reason as the explanation to for most consequences.

It was luck that walked me by the small Sunny Beach bus station the night before while searching for a cheap hotel. It was luck that woke me up at 11:34 to get out of my hotel before noon checkout. Luck got me on a bus whose last stop happened to be the Burgas train station.  Really dumb luck justified buying the train ticket two a city I had never heard of and who’s name, among other things, I could not even read thanks to the Cyrillic writing on the ticket. But most of all luck taught the lady in my train car enough Spanish for her to: help me buy tickets on the train, tell me how to meet my connecting train and allow me to use her cell phone. Her destination was even only one stop before mine on the connecting train! As the British woman I planned to and actually did end up meeting here told me last night, “Sometimes life depends on the turn of a lucky card.” Sometimes it depends on a whole deck.

Gratitude II

An Open Letter to the Blue Devils,

It was over as fast as it began, faster. After spending the summer as my blog describes, “playing, coaching and learning about baseball in the Netherlands,” faster than you can say “Play Ball!” it all came to an abrupt stop. 

I found out it was not possible to extend my 90 day European Union visa around the 90^th day of my stay. I am not exactly the most law abiding citizen, but I do not consider myself and international criminal either. At the risk of being deported, paying fines and/or a three year black list from traveling to Europe, I opted to leave. 

Obviously it was a hard decision. My team only had 3 games left and it may have been possible to stay under the radar until mid-September but after pouring over many a internet travel forum the chances of getting caught really began to outweigh the chances of the alternative. 

I left out of Schipol airport on August 18^th, 93 days but the same day three months later that I entered the country. I made it out and maybe I could have stayed, but what’s the point in looking back. For being the first time in over ten years that the club brought in an American player, we had a successful summer. The juniors learned and ton and it has been evidenced in every one of their practices and the men’s team went 6-3 in the time that I was there and will maintain their place in the 1^st division. It was too short but it was a success.

It was a great success for me too. I probably learned as much about coaching as the guys than they learned about playing and had a great time playing with the guys. I thoroughly enjoyed playing and clowning with both my teams and learned that the celebration in the club house after the game is even better than winning the game. I hope someday my junior team will get to discover that.

Thank you to everybody who made it possible for me to get there, my new Dutch family, all the people who took care of me while I was there, everybody who was willing to speak English to me, everybody who was willing to forgive me for my Crazy American ways, everybody who bought me a beer, the great bartenders of the club house, my catcher, everybody who taught me something about Meppel or Holland, the parents who drove us to games, my teammates, the grounds men for the beautiful field and club house, everybody in the club. Also thank you especially to Nanno, yes Nanno, Bert, Bert, Bert, and Peter. I am forever grateful to all of you.  I really hope is that the guys I coached learned a lot and will enjoy the game with their new knowledge and make the 90 days turn into a future of good, fun Blue Devils baseball.

Thanks so much,

De Amerikaanse

Getting It

Friday, August 12th

The birds are chirping outside. I hope that means it’s going to stop raining. There is a soft to drizzle and grey skies. It’s a nice fall day here. It’s August 12^th.This kind of rain reminds me home in fall. It’s the rain you welcome because you need it. It provides the time to look out the window, take a much needed breath and reflect. It’s especially nice when you are as hungover as I am. Last night I was at Meppeldag and this morning I learned the phrase, “'s avonds een vent, 's ochtends een vent”  From what I understand, the translation is essentially this: Drink like a man at night then act like one the next morning. Whatever, I’m just going to type this morning.

Despite my hangover my eyes are wide open. These last three weeks have been like a whole summer for me. In that time I have done more than any one summer playing baseball in the Midwest. I have been looking back through the bits and pieces in my journal trying to make sense of it all. I read them and the feeling in my chest is something between, gratitude, appreciation, and the question of how I could be so lucky. I got to spend 8 days living with people from Spain, 10 days living with people from Czech, and the better part of a summer living with people from Holland. I have gotten such a perfect taste of Europe. I don’t think I would have it any other way. 

These three peoples are very distinct and represent very different perspectives and ways. The three countries came from different language families, religious backgrounds, climates, battles, and peoples. Whereas I am tempted to speculate on why they are the way they are, I think it’s probably best that I describe them based on my experiences. 

When I left Holland for Spain, I had questions about what I was doing in Holland. I had a hard time understanding the people and the place. When I got to Spain I was overjoyed. What a change! I heard the people speaking a language I could understand. The weather was dry and warm and people were out just enjoying it. I watched them and I got it in 10 minutes.

 In the week I spent with the Spaniards at the English immersion program, I found passionate people who were very open and expressive.  It reminded me of my life in Puerto Rico. I had a fairly good understanding of these people and their open nature makes them easy to understand. I spent a week smiling, sharing, talking, laughing, eating, and dancing. I got to act naturally and it was easy.

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When I returned to Holland for a few days, I said to myself, “What the f*ck? La gente esta muy loca.” (This is a line from a popular dance song here now.) It was cold and wet again. I spent some days in my room, riding my bike to the baseball field and resting. 

When I went to Czech, as I said in my first post about Czech, I thought this place is very different. It was very different from anywhere I had ever been. I spent the first few days watching the people. I watched people watch each other. It seemed like people were always aware of each other and watching out of the corner of their eyes.  Sitting on a train is a great place to see the subtleties of non-verbal interaction. The people sat straight in their chairs and faced forward, eyes covertly observing the others. I can’t help but to think there is still a residual sense for the obligation for order from the era before. I watched them talk to each other. Their faces moved minimally as they spoke. Not understanding the language didn’t help me understand either. I thought it was hopeless.

Finally, I asked. It was the peak of my frustration. I saw a lot of pretty girls in Prague. A lot. My problem is, when our eyes met, their eyes would shoot directly to the ground or sky or just about anywhere else. I wondered what I was done wrong. Finally I just gave up trying to make sense of it and I asked a member of the sister baseball club in Prague why this was happening. He chuckled, “Maybe this is how they make you more interested.” “Oh, interesting,” I replied.  What I meant was, “This is lame.”

On the train ride home, my world turned inside out. A typically pretty Czech girl sat across the aisle and one row in front of me. I looked and she looked away. I watched without watching and then I saw everything. This description is for another post but I discovered a subtlety in the people that I previously could not have even imagined. By the end of the third day I got it.

I took my new insight and began to pay attention. The people talk with their eyes, barely. If you aren’t watching closely you won’t understand anything. If you stop making eye contact, a kick to the leg of the table, a clearing of the throat, a tap on your arm, or my favorite; batting eye lashes will bring you back in. As I write this I feel a little guilty to essentially bastardize the subtlety but for those at home, this is too good. 

So we ate, drank and talked. I was treated like a king as is the Czech tradition of treating guests. I spent a day a few days with a couple families and in their own homes they are some of the warmest people I have ever met. We ate and then I ate some more and was I offered more until finally I just had to say no. The delicious Czech beer kept flowing and the conversations broadened. Finally, I was exposed to insights to Czech and the real attitudes and real criticism of America. I love sincerity and honesty. That’s what makes the beer so delicious.

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So I returned to Meppel. I came back with a cursory understanding of the relationship between the Czechs and Dutch that has developed since the time of communism. I thereby began to understand the Dutch. When I returned it was like somebody flipped the switch and there was light on the Dutch people. I began to hear the things that go unsaid. 

On the second night back it was Donderdag Meppeldag (Thursday Meppelday). This is a real Meppel party. Live music in every square in town and the beer poured more than the rain. The people came to life and I began to get it. Two and a half months later, I began to get it. 

I am beginning to understand the narrow bounds of what is normal among the Dutch. If you don’t walk inside them, they will know and you will too.  They will continue to extent a warm welcome to a visitor as is the typically Dutch way but an outsider will remain just that until they give a little way. I am starting to play inside these lines and it’s getting much easier.

The birds aren’t chirping anymore and the clouds look like they mean business. Well, I’m back in Meppel, but for some reason it feels different. I look out of my window at the world outside but now the only thing between it and me is glass. People asked me when I came back from Spain, “Are you happy to be home?” and I always returned a vague reply about being happy to be back but this was not my “home.”

My perspective changed while waiting to claim my luggage in the Amsterdam airport. I asked my host and my Czech travel guide, “Are you happy to be home?” He paused and he replied, “I feel at home in both places.” After 60odd years living in Meppel he had not fixed himself to the notion that home is a person’s origin. The answer is staring me in the face. I look across the living room to see a little decoration that says “Home is where the Love is.”

Ge

So I am back in Meppel with a different feeling because I think I am finally getting it. I’m living in the lines and spending less time trying to figure everything out (that is never going to happen) and more time enjoying the place and its people. The care from the people is there, maybe acceptance is next.