Sometimes I awaken and I do not know where I am.

Sometimes I awaken and I do not know where I am.
What room, what bed, what time in my life?
Then something:

The sound of women speaking so quickly I can not tell if it is an argument or a tale of surprise.
The whistle of the bus as it breaks for the Policia Acoscado and then floors the accelerator for the next.
A toneless whistle like Ruby's, practicing till she is faint.

Or the pungent smell of chicken boiling in the early morning making me nauseous.
The barking of small dogs with protection on their minds.
The sharp footsteps of high heels.

Sometimes I dream of an artist I have never seen, who makes sculptures from printed tin.
One looks like a spinning kite I lost to Saint Margret's Bay.  She takes medicine cabinets and safety deposit boxes and makes each document or vial into a museum piece and disappears.

Sometimes I awaken and I do not know where I am.

I hear the whir of the fan and watch my coloured curtain float with the breeze.
The blender forcing juego pulp, systematically from #1 to #8, then stops.
The sound of hammer on concrete day or night.

Sometimes there is no sound at all.
An eerie silence of absence and I know it is a forgotten Saint day. 
A holiday no-one speaks of but honors.

Sometimes I awaken and do not know where I am.



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TO TRAVEL IS TO BE JUDGED

   I have been in Medellin, Colombia for over a month now. Yesterday on the metro I saw my first other North American or "English Speaker", as we are politely referred to. Other names are Americanos or gringo or some other semi silent mutterings. The whole train which had previously been staring at Ruby and me shifted to the man from "North Western University"; to see how we would interact. We ignored each other. They went back to examining Ruby and me. This is innocent curiosity but it is much harder on Ruby; who likes to be the observer. Still it is strange to be the centre of attention and not be engaged.


   The building that we live in is in the Barrio called Laurles. It is cloaked by acient laurel trees that chop up the side walks and leave concrete tutonic plates. The buses pass every 5 minutes and deisel fills the air, yet it has some of the few original houses remaining; sandwitched between apartment towers. It is a communty of seniors. Of people who remeber what the city was like before amazing infrastructure, construction, "Exito" grocery chains and foreigners. They will not ride the elevators with us.


   I awoke the other morning to two women speaking heatedly outside my door to the absent neighbours who had just returned on my quiet side. My Spanish is limited but the tone of voice and the "something " Canadians was very clear. I heard a man say "sorry". Then a woman did an excellent immitation of me saying "Jesus Christ!" I'm pretty sure it was the same woman who when Ruby could not open the downstairs lock and accidentally pressed the #502 instead of #402; yelled at her as Ruby repeatly said "pardon". She called her a "Punta" before she hung up. A single woman overheard-as everything is overheard here- and came to her help. Gratefully.


It bothers me to be thought of as the "Ugly Canadian" or as not even belonging to a country but a Language.

   I had to tell my students again last week that I was Canadian. "British , Austrailia, American ..what's the difference.. you're all English speaking?" I had to respond " Mexico, Spain and Peru,; they all speak Spanish ...how can they be any different than Colombians? Silence. A good teaching moment. Remember, they are grade 9's.

   The noise of the city has been my greatest adjustment.I am slowly understanding its charm. No one needs an alarm here. The sounds of the school across the street start at 5am with the guard mutt barking at the guard. At 6am the younger children start sitting on our steps to chat. Noon is a cacophoney of Elementary and Seniors switching school days as mango sellers and taxis surround them. 4pm the seniors arrive to exercise to latin music in the small concrete playground. 7:30pm school gets out and its chaos in the dark. Some adults huant the halls doing various jobs. 10pm the dog says goodnight.

   I thought of my years in Vancouver and my landlord Manuel; who never really learned English, even after 30 years. He would occasionally kill chickens in the garage for a special Portuguese dish. That memory came back the first week, when the same screeching woke me up. After 4 days with little or no sleep, I launched myself out of bed and headed up the stairs to complain. Thinking there was a hen house on the roof I passed my neighbours door and went higher. I ran into the sunshine to find about twenty giant green parrots squaking at unbelievable volume. Startled by me, they flew off gracefully over Medellin to the Botanical Gardens. I had to laugh at my stupidity and  nearly cry at the beauty of this tropical moment.

   The sounds of Sunday morning prayers through a loudspeaker are not the neighbours upstairs, as previously thought. It is a man's megaphoned voice, bouncing off the buildings, as his avacado and banana cart proceed slowly, slowly, by. Hopful that somebody, anybody, will want one at this hour.

   Walking with Ruby today thinking of my negitive reputation in the building I remembered I had yelled "Jesus Christ!" as I jumped out of bed at dawn to discover the parrots. I'm wondering if I will ever have enough language to explain or if it would futher offend. I have been here only a month but my whole perspective has changed.

Valentine Acrostic Poem 9A

Happiness is fleeting
Endless affection
And hope
Renewal of true love
Tonight

Arrival

   In Colombia the day starts at 5am. You wake to people in full conversation at raised volume. Children are sitting outside the public school by 6am. Swarms of motorcycles surround the small yellow taxis. Everyone is dressed, pressed, made up, and alert.
   My conductor, Don Alvaro arrives 15 minutes early. I have mascara on one eye and no shoes. I grab my books and go! The door man calls me senorita and smiles. I have not had doors opened for me in a long time and I take my place in the back seat. They open again.

   The school is busy at 7am and there is a red eyed philosophy teacher between my desk and my books. I look for another place as the sun rises the oldest students pretend to warm up for exercises. I am alone in the outdoor cafeteria and begin to wake. The mountains look at me. There is a force of men working the grounds: sweeping, pruning, and rebuilding amongst the lemon, mango, and laurel trees. Blue budgies fly above, there is a school dog that guards the perimeter, he looks more dingo than dog, the student do not touch him. His name is Monica.