Anthony

Anthony Bourdain left our shared kind of existence today. I’d say this is the first “celebrity” death that has affected me enough to bring me to tears. This experience of lamenting the death of someone you really don’t know, someone you never met, and someone you most probably would have never sat down to have a beer with is a new and strange feeling for me.

The biggest and most obvious reason, why it attacks my heart’s strings. Not caring to even pull at them and just tears them apart leaving only a wasteland behind, is that late last year my father passed away. Making me realize how much it can hurt, no one really knows this until they go through it. A pain so deep that I haven’t really known how to deal with it, drowning it by consuming some sort of distraction continuously: playing video games, reading a novel, listening  to endless podcasts, watching all sorts of youtube videos and shutting off myself from the world that is close to me. Reason why when someone dies in this world it affects me way more. My mind inevitably goes to the family members and close friends that are left behind, knowing that most likely they are feeling the sort of pain that I have been feeling since my father’s death. The sort of pain I wouldn’t wish on anyone. It brings me to tears that this is happening continuously all around the world, and we have been going through it all through our existence as a species.

That is a more generic and all encompassing reason of why death in general gets me worked up. But there are other more specific reasons of why Bourdain´s death stands out to me even more.

When I was 19 years old, a year had gone by since I had moved to Chile, from my hometown Cancun, Mexico in the pursuit of the love I felt for a girl. In Chile I started to study the thing I thought I liked or was interested the most in at the moment, psychology. When I discovered how much I hated college and didn’t like the act of studying psychology, mixed in with other factors, I fell in a deep depressive state. I didn’t leave my room for the good part of 3 months, dropping out of college. What slowly pulled me out of that state was my girlfriend at the time, but also that something else picked my curiosity and interest, something that my father had always taught us about and shared. Food and how it’s an expression or result of history and culture, and how traveling can enrich your knowledge about this. Programs on television that were playing at that time expanded on this for me, the main one being a program Anthony was in. Fast forward some years and I can call myself a professional cook, him being one of the main reasons for why I have been doing this.

Bourdain was someone I was inspired by and looked up to. He was a great writer, narrator, storyteller, he had done well in the food business, was always trying to learn, got to hang out with people that are some of the best at what they do, be that chefs that run 3 star michelin restaurants, or a guy that makes kickass barbecued pork. He was good at and doing almost everything I am still interested in to this day and wish I could be proficient at.

During these past years I have been continuously haunted with depressive tendencies and have fallen deep and not so deep into it, never as deep as when I was 19, but it’s always a looming presence. This takes me to the last reason I will cover.

 

Bourdain killed himself.

He had achieved almost everything I could dream of achieving, living the life I would like to live. Believing how that life would be amazing, and that I could be closer towards being content if I had access to everything he had done and achieved.

Going through this exalted state of constant sorrow and hurt that my father’s death (him being depressed as well) has brought upon me, has put doubt in my mind if what I have done in my life is even worth it, or that if I will ever be O.K. with my existence as a human. I always thought that if I was only good enough at X, that if I worked out and got to be better looking, if I found someone to have a deep and meaningful relationship with, if I have my good friends close by…

Bourdain had done almost everything I thought I might need to be content with myself and still decided to do what he did at the end. So what should I do so that I don’t travel that same road? Will I ever be able to manage, to hold at bay the looming shadow in me? Will the harsh conditions in kitchens destroy me, like I sometimes feel they do? Will any profession make me happy doing it?

I just keep going on, hoping that someday I will be O.K. emotionally. Seeing that my father couldn’t figure it out, and that someone like Bourdain couldn’t either makes me wonder if I will be able to.

All I can hope is that both, my father and Anthony can at last feel how that weight that pushed them down is freed off their shoulders.

Word of the Day: Summer

The cold of winter had stayed with me for too long. Seasons went by, but the cold had taken over my core, carrying winter with me where I went. Year, after year, after year went by, the ice in my heart slowly thawing away, drip by drip the icicles became small puddles that patiently waited for spring.

A fateful spring arrived; seeds had been planted among the snow by people who had noticed the soil inside me hadn’t completely been covered by permafrost. The conditions were good enough to support life in my heart. During this spring the seeds planted in me would germinate joy.

Summer came; the bounty of spring was giving fruit. Not only enough to survive, but enough to feed others, several others. People noticed this and got together to love each other under the formerly bare orchard. Loving themselves and others in new ways, where only the open and willing could reach.

Insomniac

In the past few days I haven’t been able to go to bed at a respectable or healthy time. This isn’t that common for me, usually I give a high priority to sleeping well and enough. Although I can’t say it’s a totally new situation for me either. During these late hours I’ve been trying to figure out why I just can’t go to bed unless I am totally exhausted, and I found a pattern. I become an insomniac when I am anxious. So, what causes me to be anxious?

There are two major things that make me anxious, love and my professional life. During the past week things in both categories happened. Well, on the love side of things I believe it was totally one-sided (on my side). When it comes to work, I just have been put back to my original position when I filled a higher position for a couple of weeks and some co-workers have been somewhat abusive (I work in a kitchen so this is more common than some people think). These circumstances have just fed the bug of insecurity I constantly live with, but nothing I can’t handle and I trust things will get better soon enough. Love on the other hand is more complicated for me. People towards whom I feel a crush and/or love share certain characteristics. They are people, who have a certain amount of dissatisfaction with how things work in the world. Have eyes that talk, telling stories about heart break, but still have a huge capacity and willingness to love. They see in me untapped potential and some of them, usually when we do get close, help me become a way better person unlocking some of the things they see in me. The last shared characteristic is that they usually aren’t available to be in a relationship. Either they are already in a relationship, or live somewhere else, or simply don’t feel any romantic feelings towards me. I am not sure what fucked up part of me causes this last characteristic to repeat itself so often, but it does.

It happened again. This past week I went out with two co-workers, one of them filled all of the characteristics, and was surprisingly nice towards me. This made me see this person in a new light and caused me to feel a crush during these past few days. Of course this person has a significant other, even if their relationship is in turmoil I doubt that they will break-up anytime soon or that this person feels any romantic feelings towards me. What causes anxiety for me is this urge I feel to ask this person out, or just share how tankful I am of all the loving and kind things they expressed. On the other hand I am almost certain that if I do go through it might just end terribly. These conflicting dialogs that happen in me are the major cause of my anxiety, and my insomnia is me not wanting to lie in bed with these ideas spinning in my head. So I distract myself, up until my body and mind can’t hold any longer, and just falls asleep immediately once in bed.

Should I express any of these feelings? Or should I just stop imagining things that aren’t and try and relax?

La diferencia entre amores

Ella era una mujer bellísima. Su historial con el amor es amplio y variado, pero pasajero. Teniendo muchos admiradores y pretendientes.

Él era un hombre que podría ser mucho más atractivo de lo que es, pero sus inseguridades y ligero sobrepeso hacen que no lo sea realmente. No tuvo más que un solo amor.

Los amigos de ella se volvieron amigos de él, y los amigos de él se volvieron amigos de ella pero los caminos de ambos no se cruzaban. Ambos habían escuchado mucho el uno del otro antes de conocerse.

Llego el día en el que se conocieron, ambos se sintieron curiosos y atraídos el uno hacia el otro. Curiosos y atraídos de diferentes maneras dado a sus diferentes historias, diferentes maneras en la manera de lidiar con la soledad, diferentes cosas que buscan para su vida y sus diferentes formas de amar.

Paso el tiempo,

Ella amo a varias personas. Intentando amar como ella sabía amar a cada uno de ellos, todos terminando no de la mejor manera. Rompiendo su corazón un poco más cada vez, y como el hueso que sufre pequeñas y repetidas fracturas termina endureciéndose.

Él la amaba a ella, quería tenerla cerca. No podía, no solo por las personas con las que ella decidía compartir su amor y el respetaba, sino también, que no vivían en la misma ciudad. Así que solo se podían ver durante dos o tres temporadas del año. Con el tiempo su amor hacia ella crecía, pero nunca supo cómo expresarlo o actuar a base de ella de la manera adecuada.

Paso aún más tiempo,

Él se había mudado de la ciudad en la que se habían conocido y en la que ambos habían crecido. Esto causo que no se pudieran ver durante el periodo de dos años. Al acabar ese periodo de dos años, se llegaron a ver durante la mayor parte de un mes. Se habían hablado unas semanas antes de verse, ella le había dicho a él, que ella no tenía novio en ese momento. Esta era la primera vez que se iban a poder llegar a ver en la que ella no estaba ya en una relación. Él estaba decidido, de que si alguna vez en la vida se iba a dar algo entre ellos, que el desesperadamente quería, iba a ser durante ese tiempo. Se dijo a si mismo que, este era el momento de actuar sobre todos estos sentimientos que habían estado creciendo dentro de él.

Así fue, el dejo todas las inseguridades que antes le hubieran impedido acercarse a ella con claras intenciones románticas. Se acercó de esa manera y ella fue recíproca. Ayudando a crear uno de sus meses más alegres. Paso lo que parte de él siempre creyó imposible. Esto solo abrió la llave de la presa de amor que se había acumulado en su corazón. Dejándolo ciego a muchas cosas y señales, de que ella no lo amaba de la misma manera que él la amaba a ella. No es que uno u el otro haya amado más o menos que el otro. Simplemente no buscaban lo mismo del amor y no amaban de las mismas maneras.

Ella tenía muy presente el hecho de que estarían distanciados físicamente de nuevo, haciendo la posibilidad de una relación formal casi imposible. Aparte de ello, su visión de una relación era muy distinta a la de él. Ella tiene a muchas otras personas que esperarían felizmente en fila para tener su oportunidad de estar con ella. Teniendo esta diversidad a la mano le enseño a apreciar a una gran variedad de personalidades y cualidades, por igual. Haciéndola capaz de disfrutarse en la compañía de un hombre u otro. Amando a cada uno en la manera que ella sabe.

Él tenía la fantasía de construir una vida junto a ella. Estaba dispuesto a trabajar lo que fuera necesario para romper las barreras de la distancia física. Estar con ella y vivir en persona cosas que había soñado repetidamente, le genero una alegría enorme. Deseaba que ella fuera la persona con la que algún día podría ser viejo. Estaba ciego a la realidad de la situación, ella nunca seria ese tipo de persona. Al menos no pronto.

Estas diferencias en anhelos, deseos, expectativas, formas de amar y fallas de comunicación causo que la relación entre ella y él se desvaneciera.

Lo que nunca fue

Estaba caminando por el centro de la ciudad, una ciudad que nunca había visitado antes, Guadalajara. Caminando por la ciudad con dos grandes mochilas y una cámara colgando, tomándole fotos a las cosas que captaban mi atención o consideraba bellas. Al cruzar a otra calle vi algo que opaco todo a lo que le había tomado foto y tomo control de toda mi atención, tu. Nuestros ojos se encontraron entre la multitud y no se separaron. Tu llevabas unos jeans un poco rotos y una chamarra con un patrón de camuflaje militar, tu pelo castaño claro recogido, muy bella. Yo solo puedo imaginar que me veía como un típico turista gringo, pero más tirado hacia el lado mochilero. Nuestras miradas siguieron unidas hasta que nos cruzamos yendo en direcciones opuestas. Después de caminar unos tres pasos volteé a ver qué tan lejos estabas, queriendo irte a buscar, tú también estabas volteando. Nervioso seguí caminando. Volteé de nuevo, y de nuevo estabas volteando. Esto se repitió un par de veces.

Decidí ir hacia ti, tenía que irte a buscar. Al alcanzarte nos sonreímos. Nos presentamos y nos quedamos viendo a los ojos mientras toda la ciudad se movía a nuestro alrededor. Tú ibas al trabajo y yo a ni una parte. Te sorprendió el hecho de que no fuera tal cual 100% gringo y que hablara tan bien el español “Mexicano”. Te digo que solo estaré por ese día en Guadalajara y te suplico que no vayas a trabajar, pasemos el día junto y me enseñes tu ciudad. Contemplas la proposición un poco, pero no tanto, dices que sí. Hablamos sin cesar, visitando los museos y viejas catedrales. Empieza a ser hora del almuerzo y te digo que vayamos a comer a alguna parte.

– “Conozco un lugar delicioso.” Me dices

– “Llévame.”, te contesto y te agarro de la mano.

El hecho de que te allá agarrado de la mano te sonroja un poco, pero solo aprietas tu mano en respuesta y me llevas. Ahí reímos y hablamos más. Al terminar pagamos la cuenta, apenas damos el primer paso fuera del restaurante me acerco a darte un beso y me lo das de regreso. Seguimos y nos sentamos en un banco de un pequeño, pero lindo, parque donde un joven tocaba la guitarra.

-“Voy a cancelar mi vuelo.”, te digo

-“¿¡Que!?… ¿Seguro?”

-“Si, seguro.”

Todo esto pudo haber pasado, pero nunca fue.

Si mantuvimos las miradas entre un mar de gente, y si nos volteamos a ver varias veces al habernos cruzado. Pero seguimos caminando hasta que había tantas personas entre nosotros que nuestras miradas no se volvieron a encontrar. Tomamos la decisión de no cambiar nuestros rumbos, no tomar ventaja de ese pequeño momento que el destino nos dio de cambiar su dirección. Seguimos caminando…

En mi memoria siempre vivirás como la chica de la chamarra camuflajeada.

Soñé Contigo

A noche te vi en mis sueños. Fue un buffet de emociones con una gran selección. Empezamos con enojo, los dos nos reclamábamos las cosas que nos habían molestado de las últimas veces que habíamos visto o comunicado. Tú me reclamabas mis celos y yo te reclamaba tu falta de comunicación. El sabor era un poco amargo.

Después de que sacamos todo de nuestro sistema, nos sonreímos y empezamos a recordar cuántas vidas hemos intentado estar juntos, todas las veces que nos conocimos por “primera” vez, como nos enamorábamos aparentemente sin razón alguna, siempre sintiendo como si nos conociéramos desde mucho antes, y así era. Caíamos fuerte en el amor, al menos uno de nosotros siempre lo hacía. Pero pocas veces terminamos bien, o juntos. Seguimos viajando a través del tiempo, juntos repasando todo, aclarando lo que se había quedado sin hablar. El sabor en nuestras bocas cambio de amargo a algo que iría bien con un vino tinto profundo.

Paso el tiempo de manera dinámica, no lineal como generalmente lo presenciamos, hasta que llegamos a la vida más reciente, la que vivimos ahora. Hablamos de manera muy sincera y nos perdonamos nuestros errores, empezamos a reír. Nos preguntamos, ¿Cómo después de tantos intentos aun no podemos hacer que salgan bien las cosas? Es casi cómico. Nuestro último platillo fue un postre dulce, sabor nostalgia. Nos despedimos sabiendo que nuestras miradas se cruzarían de nuevo, pero que ya no queríamos comer juntos de nuevo.

Looking out the window

It’s another cloudless sunny day outside. On the sidewalks there are people enjoying the warmth, not only of the sun, but of other people.

When will my soul bask in the sun and stop looking out the window?

Day Dreaming

Here I am, as I so often am, day dreaming once again.

My mind goes to lots of places, what I would love to achieve, where I’d like to travel, what skills I’d like to acquire, how I’d love having some friends where I live. But the place it goes to the most often is, thinking about women that have crossed my life.

Was I romantically involved with them?

No, actually not. I am not that great when it comes to seduction.

Ok, with some I was romantically involved, but just with one for a long period, one for a couple of weeks, and one that we declared the mutual love we felt towards each other, but it wasn’t possible to act upon our feelings.

Did I have romantic feelings towards them?

Yeah, towards most of them, at some point or another.

Feeling that way towards them always created an internal conflict. Since my day dreaming mind always ends up thinking about them, and how with most those feelings weren’t mutual or acted upon, for a long period of time thinking about them hurt me very much. This kept on going until one day I said to myself “I don’t want any more friends that are girls.”

None the less, looking back, most of my closest and deepest friends are women. My fondest memories are made with these magnificent women I’ve just happened to cross paths with.

My English teacher. How we started challenging each other intellectually and how we wanted to take our interactions outside of school. That wasn’t possible due to school policies on how teacher-student relations should take place. Then I dropped out and we went out for coffee several times and talked for hours, she even invited me to have dinner with her and her husband at their place. It was very enjoyable.

The ex-girlfriend of my best friend. We met each other when both of them were dating, and have been the deepest of friends ever since. She helped me love myself a little more and connect with a spiritual side of me I never thought I’d have.

My ex-girlfriend. We met in the weirdest of ways. Online, on a MMO videogame. I moved to another country for her. Ok, I was running away as well. During that period I learned a lot about life. Bless her heart for putting-up with me for so long, when I was such a troubled kid.

A long-term crush of two guys from my high-school group of friends. She doesn’t speak to them anymore but we still talk, quite often. She’s the hardest working, most productive person I know. She’s always up to something, I admire her in lots of ways.

My college classmate. We met on our way to class, got along really well and stayed at the subway station after school, talking for hours on end. I haven’t been able to talk about so many subjects in such an open and understanding way with anyone else. That created tension with my girlfriend at the time.

A girl I met at a “d. school” event. We hit it off right away, exchanged contact information, wrote each other a couple of e-mails, went out in the city to a new place each time, and wrote tons of new e-mails. She did “damage-control” with my dark side like no-one has, and probably never will. Opinionated, intelligent, strong character. We loved each other, but she had a boyfriend.

My best friends long-term crush, now my long term crush. Our mutual friends had talked about her to me and about me to her. We both don’t trust anything people “over-sell”. So when we were going to meet at last we didn’t think we’d like each other that much, but we did. We got together without our mutual friends shortly after. I developed extremely deep feelings towards her quicker than with anyone else, without an apparent rhyme or reason. It still doesn’t make sense to my logical mind. We live in different cities, so we only get to see each other when we both visit our shared childhood city. The last time we saw each other, we had a short, but intense affair.

These life experiences are where day dreaming takes me, more often than not, even if it’s only for a few seconds. They always put a nostalgic smile on my face.

The women I mentioned aren’t the only ones that have impacted my life, of course, but they do appear in my day dreams the most often.

There still is sporadic communication with all of them, except with my ex. But none of them are really a part of my life right now, and that makes my life seem poorer for it.

So… I guess I do want women in my life, even if they are just friends.

Trying to be productive

So what is being productive?

If you search for “productive definition” on Google, the first thing to come up says:

“Pro-duc-tive:

adjective

Producing or able to produce large amounts of goods, crops, or other commodities.”

The third definition goes more in hand with what I believe being productive is, and it says:

“Achieving or producing a significant amount or result.”

For me specifically, it’s doing anything that takes you closer to your goals or further develops your proficiency in your hobby(s) or passion(s).

So my current passions or interests are cooking and writing. My day job is in a kitchen, so there’s that for one of my passions, but lately I haven’t been writing. I could list thousands of reasons/excuses for it being this way, but we all know, deep down, that when it comes down to it no matter how long your list of excuses is, none of them are valid.

So in an attempt to produce a significant amount of writing, I took two books, two notebooks and my laptop with me to work, so that when I got off I could go to a nice non-profit café where lots of other people go to be productive. After two hours of sitting around watching people around me be on their laptops, reading some poems from Benedetti, and eavesdropping on an informational interview about how the interview process at Google worked, that was going on at the table next to me, all I could come up with was this.

Let’s hope that if I come back I can produce something better.

A day in a California Kitchen

Lately I’ve been staying latter, on my own time, to help the chef with the prep for the special of the day.

“I want this shit blanched for only ten seconds. TEN SECONDS! I want them still crunchy, you got it cabron?” referring to sliced pieces of asparagus, “And these for a minute and then peeled.” he says, shaking a six pan of fava beans.

“Yes Chef!” I answer, while I run for a pot and start filling it with hot water.

“For these I want three cups of cider vinegar, two cups of sugar, skin of two peeled lemons, ten cloves and ONLY ten wey, some black pepper corns and bay leaves. You bring it to a boil and pour half of the liquid on these”, he says, as he signals with his right hand towards a container of rectangular, thinly peeled pieces of carrot, “and the other half on these.” and lifts a small container of rhubarb sliced at a bias, with his left. “In plastic containers! Always in plastic, you never want to pickle things in aluminum containers”.

“Yes Chef!” I answer emphatically, as I gather the mentioned ingredients and put them into a separate pot than the one filling with water. One… two… three cups, one… two… I count as I pour the ingredients the chef mentioned.

“Oh! You… gabacho, medio gabacho, don’t reduce the liquid too much. If not it won’t be enough.” says the Chef as he walks away.

“OK!” I scream back

The pot has enough hot water now, I turn off the water, grab both pots and go towards the sauté station. I turn on two burners on high flame, leaving both pots to boil. Around me there are fifteen other Mexicans, most of them undocumented. Some are getting their station ready, others are cleaning after themselves and leaving. The clock hits 3:30pm, shift change, lunch cooks out, dinner cooks in.

“Que pedo wey?”

“NO MAMES!”

“Ay que lindo”, said in a caricaturized homosexual tone of voice.

All of these things I could hear being said by different people around the kitchen.

“Nos vemos wey.”

“Nos vemos mañana chilango”, I answer back as we slap our hands together and fist pump in one fluid motion. Both liquids started boiling, I do as the chef ordered me.

The clock hits 4:00pm, now the busboys change shifts. They are the whiter more “presentable” of the Mexicans. The ones leaving loosen their ties, while the ones arriving arrange it, with the constant clatter of dishes playing in the background. This sound comes from the station of the Salvadorian dishwasher.

“Quien dijo miedo!?”, he screams to pump himself up and show he is unafraid, willing and able to get the job done, as the dishes of the lunch shift stack up.

The rhubarb and carrots are pickled. The asparagus and fava beans are blanched. I start chopping parsley, peeling fava beans and cleaning beet tendrils.

The clock hits 4:30pm, last but not least, the waiters shift change. The kitchen stops being Mexico and becomes the U.S., it changes from mostly Spanish or Spanglish being spoken to English. The waiters are the only white people besides administration, and me.

“Bye guys”, the waiters leaving say one by one.

“Adios”, the kitchen answers back.

“Hello”, the waiters arriving say one by one.

“Hola”, the kitchen answers back.

Around the kitchen the same jokes can be heard over and over again, every day. It’s like the kitchens staff mantra to deal with the constant pressure and stress.

The clock hits 5:00 pm.

“Ok, where are we at?” I hear the chef say behind me.

“I pickled and blanched everything. Here’s the parsley as well, chef.” I answer

“Dude! Where the fuck are the lemon peels!? Te acuerdas que te dije cabron!?”

“Yes chef, I remember, I fucked up.” I say as I run for some lemons, peel them and stick the peel in the pickle mix.

“No man, it’s too late it won’t absorb the flavor” he grabs a pickled carrot and pops it into his mouth. Does the same with the pickled rhubarb. “No pasa nada pinche guero, they taste fine”, he says. Then he goes towards the blanched asparagus and fava beans and tastes them as well. “Excellent. The pasta dough we’ve got is too thick and dry, we will finish this special tomorrow, I’ll bring a pasta machine and we’ll do it ourselves. Go home you’ve been here since nine in the morning.”

“Ok, Chef.”

“Hasta mañana.” We say to each other as we slap our hands together and fist pump in one fluid motion.