Street Dogs...

Street dogs in Columbia really know how to work a crowd. Savvy, cautious, independent survivors, thin but not starving. They live an unfettered life marked by handouts from the passing crowd and deep sleep on a sunlit stoop. I bought a bag of fresh rolls, just for them. A large, shaggy Shepherd mix approached me openly as I waved a bun and called out to him. Taking it immediately into his mouth, he promptly spit it back out, staring at it on the ground as if daring it move. I picked it up and offered it again, he took it and spit it out. Given the number of mom & pop bread shops that are so common on every street, I realized that bread must be the most frequent donation the canine beggars get. This guy wanted something more substantial, egg, meat, cheese... Some kind of protein. Please, enough with the bread already! He wandered away. Four more dogs came and went, all rejecting the bread. None appeared to be starving, all just working the procession of bodies as they walked up and down the narrow street. The dogs were pros, particular about just what kind of donations they would take.

Back at home, Carla and I had a late lunch on St George Street, the main pedestrian drag for tourists visiting St Augustine. As we walked back to our car, maneuvering slowly through the crowd, Styrofoam leftovers in hand, I spotted a familiar homeless guy lounging on a sunlit stoop by the Coquina wall of the “Oldest Schoolhouse in the USA”. He's a regular at that spot, living off the generosity of the passing parade. I realized that since I hadn't touched my Shrimp dinner, it would be a special meal for the homeless guy, lying with his head propped up on one elbow. “Would you like a nice shrimp dinner? I haven't touched it!” Looking a bit like that shaggy Shepherd mix who spit out the bun, and without taking the Styrofoam from my outstretched hand, the homeless guy looked up at me and asked: “How was it prepared?” The guy is a pro, particular about just what kind of donation he would take.

Gypsy Queen

 

Flying down to Medellin,

To see my little Gypsy Queen,

I'll watch her teach the downward dog,

Add a page to my current blog,

And drink some cold cerveza.

First light calls for Cafe Tinto,

A bus ride with an open window,

Idyllic views of small Casitas,

Images of beatific Jesus,

Line hilly streets of color.

Ten days on, I'll need to fly,

A sardine can,

Built for sky.

I just so hate to say goodbye.

So I'll do no such thing.

Nos vemos mañana,

mi niña hermosa...

A "Layla" rescue...

 As is true of most mornings, I pulled up to Planet Fitness at 6:15 today. But uncharacteristically, I was able to park right in front of the main door. Inside it was a ghost town, only two other people were there. I guess some had forgotten to change their clocks and Sunday mornings are light traffic anyway. Which was fine with me. So I picked an elliptical machine right in the front row under a bank of seven flat screen TVs hanging just above. With all those channels to choose from, I can almost always find something interesting to make 30 minutes go by quickly. But not this morning. Of the seven stations available, Chuck Norris was advertizing his Total Gym on one of them and I wasn't in the mood to look at his hair, that awful dye job, and listen to him jabber. Another fitness show ran on channel 3. That guru wanted me to buy little plastic containers that are color coded to help me learn how to eat correctly. All I have to do is put the protein in the red plastic, the veggies in the green one, and so on. It's portion control for idiots. Oh, and I have to follow the workout on the two CD's that come with it. (The CD's alone are a $195.00 value!) The price for a few colored plastic containers and two CD's? Only three easy payments of $19.95. The profit margin they make on each sale is huge. No thanks, I still had five other channels to pick from. Oh shit, it's Sunday morning and all five are church stuff. There's a black preacher dancing and shouting as he wipes the sweat from his face with the small white towel that seems to be permanently sewn to the palm of his right hand. No thanks. A white lady was yelling on channel 9. I wasn't listening to the sound on any of these, just watching her get red in the face and yell. I had to pass. The last one I looked at before turning it all off and the music on, was the best. A middle age white guy, way too heavy for the red light special Kmart suit he was bulging out of while pointing at me, angry and spitting. An obvious douche. But there were thousands of people in the audience wearing suits and dresses, paying rapt attention to the fat angry guy. They were getting to me. How lame must you be to sit and listen to this blowhard yell at you or to even assume that he has anything to say that had would make it worth the unpleasantness? Pretty fucking lame. I was disgusted with myself for being a member of the human race, preferring to emulate and learn from just about any dog I had ever met over that charlatan.

So I turned it all off and the radio on. The beginning notes of Derek and The Dominoes “Layla” started playing. It was nothing short of a true epiphany as I thought: “Now. Now I really am in church! Amen brother...”