Breathing in Kuta, Bali

November, 2015.

All of my Australian friends warned me.

“Oh, don’t go to Kuta.”
But, I was traveling alone, and Kuta was very popular among tourists. I felt like I had to take this option.

It began as a thought. What can I do with the money I’ve saved since living in the warehouse full of artists who keep sharing their food with me? I was surrounded by creatives. Dancers, a chef, a stylist and designer, a filmmaker. All of these Aussies doing what they loved for a living. And they fucking fed me, what the fuck! How was I so deserving of these friendships?

I inherited a makeshift loft from a beautiful aerial silk artist, who coincidentally was traveling to America while I was living in Australia. I saved nearly $2,000. This was before I owned a credit card. I was smarter back then. I had a concept of running out of money. I used money sparingly. I mainly ate fruits, bread and rice and beans. I was too enamored with the idea of using this money to do something big. Not something stupid, as I normally would do. Say, order a pizza at 2 am every Wednesday. (We’ll get to that). At the time, this was, in my eyes free money. (It wasn’t, they were student loans). But, I had already accepted the money as I was intended to live in a uni-student housing program.

So I thought, ok, I’m on the other side of the hemisphere. Let’s make the most of this. Should I go to New Zealand? I know I definitely want to see the Great Barrier Reef, ok, that’s set. Let me set aside $1,000 for that. Now, what can I do with the other half?

I asked around.

“Nah, New Zealand is properly done with a van and 6 months.”

“Mate, you like to surf? Go to Indo. It’s cheap. But, don’t go to Kuta. Whatever you do.”

Fuck It

First of all, when I bought my tickets I didn’t expect any volcanic activity that would prevent any Tiger Air flight from landing in Bali. It was just volcanic ash that was preventing regularly scheduled arrivals. I don’t know how I finessed the customer service lady to put me on the one flight that flew in that week, but I must have sounded angry because I was in. I missed two days because of that volcano, but fuck it I still had 9 days. The funds I had could be stretched! Off to Kuta I went. I also stopped in Seminyak, and Uluwatu, but I was mainly living it up in the busy streets of Kuta.

And the funds were indeed stretched. That’s why it’s a popular place for tourists, especially young Australians going for schoolies. Alcohol. Hostels. Lots of bad decisions. You get the idea.

I ate three meals a day. Every day. (My friends think that’s funny, but I always say if I eat three times a day, it’s a fucking good place to be).  It was amazing. I surfed, once, before I got pneumonia (Ulcerative Colitis sucks). I got catcalled EVERYWHERE I WALKED. (I once was so tired of it that I spent all day inside my room). I almost crashed a motorbike into a wall. I unplugged my phone from the wall in my hotel room because a staff member kept calling and asking me to be their girlfriend. (Shit was fucking weird). I met a friend from back home who was staying in her own private villa. We traveled to temples, shops, and walked through busy beach streets. I also visited the monkey forest. It was so exhilarating, and it was...so overwhelming.

I felt like an undeserving asshole. I was 22 years old. I had the palm of the world in my hand. I had what seemed like so much money. And I was ashamed. I was part of a rising trend. The globalism that made it possible exploit a country, one that very much needed tourism for living wages in many of the town shops. It’s a system that my mind was not quite ready for. How could I visit a country and be respectful, but nonetheless contribute to this entitlement? That wasn’t me, I wasn’t entitled? Was I?

The answer was, and is yes. I am privileged. It’s a fucking huge privilege to be able to travel to a different part of the world, see it, and know you have a bed to come back to.

This guilt I created within my mind caused me to feel extremely lonely. And as a result, I gravitated towards people I could connect with. If we held a conversation and I looked at your eyes and felt like I could trust you, I would spend the day with you. I was searching for something. I wanted to feel real.

And that’s how I met two of my friend’s in Bali. One was a man we’ll call Bryan. Bryan loved me. He asked me to marry him about 5 times. He always grabbed my hand. I was an idiot, and didn’t know how to address the situation. I would laugh and brush his hand away and change the subject. It was problematic to say the least, but still. He backed off, and said OK, OK I’m sorry I won’t bother you with that. He was just a local kid on the beach selling soft top lessons, so I took one. It was like $7 to rent his board for the whole day.

He invited me to dinner, and I said yes. I got on the back of his bike, and he took me to his house. I was keeping track of where we were, and it was daylight. I don’t talk to people about my trips when I travel alone because they inevitably get upset with me. This is why. I’ve trusted my instincts every time and known when to run away. (See Portugal.) I don’t think I would ever do this again, because I know more about the world, even though it’s only been a few years.

When we arrived, Bryan’s neighbors all walked outside to see me. I asked to use the restroom, it was communal. When I walked inside the toilet room, it was just a hole in the ground, with a makeshift curtain for the door. There must have been about 11 people in a small slab of a home with concrete rooms and makeshift doors. I walked through the hall to get to the restroom. Slowly, word spread I was there and people came out to see me. They just stared at me, one girl was incredibly embarrassed and I tried my best to smile and be low-key. Bryan had a giant smile on his face as if to say, look what I brought home and led me to his room. He wasn’t threatening to me. He showed me photos of his father. He moved here to earn a living and send money back home. It reminded me of my mom. He started crying. He told me he didn’t know if his father was going to live, but he wanted to make his last days comfortable, and send money to the rest of the family.

Would you spend your youth working hard for financial gain so you know your parent can die a comfortable death? Would you willingly leave your parents side to provide a bed and food for them to leave this earth?

Bryan and I went to go eat after that, Mie Goreng. Some dank noodles at a local spot. I can’t tell you where it is, sorry, ha. It was humid, even at night. The breeze that pushed my saltwater styled hair was gentle. I walked without purpose, many times. This is dangerous. Do not do this as a young traveler. But, I was new at the game, and I trusted the world around me. It led me to people like Bryan.

Because I can, and I will.

My second friend, she was gorgeous. And a legend. We can call her Mila. I was sitting in a bar, by myself, as young 22 year old women do late at night. It was nearing the end of the night, when Navy men eye the people left standing. I had already been sexually harassed once, by a man who asked me for a kiss forcibly kissed me after I said “no,”. I tried to find him so I could punch him in the face, but the asshole ran away. I should be writing about that, because it’s not fucking OK, but I’m in the mood to focus on Mila because she is the one worth writing about right now.

Mila was there when it happened. Everyone was just a drunk mess in Kuta passed 6pm. A fight broke out next to us, and she asked who I was here with and I said I was alone. Her eyes widened. WOW. You came to Kuta alone? Wow. Turns out, she was alone too. She was from Bali. She told me to come with her to eat. I followed. She had the sickest black motorbike outside. It was way faster than mine, and she took me to a street vendor selling fried chicken and rice. The street vendor looked at her with the sort of judgement one gives another woman when they do not approve of the amount of skin being shown. Mila stood her ground, her facial expression whispering, “try me”. She asked me why I was alone and I just explained I wanted to see the world. She smiled like she knew what I meant. Everywhere we went, people knew her. She walked into a bar, bam. Her friends hooked us up. Drink tickets, seats, what have you. She just had this smirk, one that said, here come with me, you don’t need to be with a man to lead you to safety. We’re all people. We’re all here. It was a relief. Kuta had me feeling like I was just a body, and a pretty face. One that had money, because I was a tourist. One that could handle the catcalls, the staring, the grabbing. But I was scared. And she was a sister figure in a different country. But she was also wild. I didn’t ask questions. I was just along for the ride.

There is so much I am skipping over, but this is not a regular travel blog. If you want advice on where to go, what to do, check out tripadvisor. Go to local stores, temples, nature. What I always recommend is to feel, to invite, and to share.

I do not regret going, or doing it the way I did. Not at all. I think what my Australian friends were trying to do was protect me from spending time in a place that was oversaturated with entitled tourists looking for a cheap theme park. Perhaps they wanted me to go beyond that, to travel to a more remote location, one with raw beauty, less influenced by western culture, and an experience with Indonesia that honored the people that call it home. But what does that mean? That once a part of a country is globalized, it’s not worth exploring anymore? It’s been exploited? Am I really that valuable of a traveler that I deserve to come into a community less known to tourists and demand to explore it although I do not speak the language?

What I found was a valuable lesson. I found that I am a woman in this world, and this world is a frenzy of passion, friendships, con artists, money schemes, and consumerism. The world does not always value women as people. As objects, always. You can count on it, buddy.

I found that it’s new upon old, history with context that has been buried and it is our job to rediscover it. Kuta has so much history, and I believe instead of saying a place is “ruined” because of tourism, we must think about what brought a place to that level of use and disposability. Are we actively participating in that?

Aussie Aventura

How can you write about something that happened two years ago? Why would you? I don’t know. But, there is no arguing that some experiences haunt you a lifetime. There’s so much about Australia to say, I lived there for nearly six months.

First off,

the warehouse.

When I arrived at the airport, I had nothing but my suitcase - I don’t know what angels and stars lined up but there was a girl handing out free sim cards for uni students. I grabbed one and texted the girl I met in Spain. She had agreed to pick me up from the airport that night. Who does that?

She arrived in a big white van, and took me to a warehouse on a street named Hope. I met so many characters that night. I was offered so many things. But, I was sick. (Ulcerative Colitis sucks). I could not digest any food, and I had already lost some weight. I took residence in a room called “the cave” and basically hibernated there for two weeks until my student aid check cleared. Everyone at the warehouse shared food, clothes, heaters, stories and comfort with me.

Actually, the first night I ever spent in Australia ended up with (let’s call her Beth) and I, and a beautiful girl named Keanna cuddling me to sleep with chocolate. That’s what would be most important on my trip in Australia; kindness.

That’s what my whole experience abroad would remind me of. Humans are kind.

There’s honestly so much to go over. How do I write about 5 months in a different country, where my entire idea about life would be flipped upside-down to match the hemisphere I was in? Just kidding.

I’ll start with education.

The whole reason I was here, was to study abroad. I was accepted into the communications program at the University of Melbourne, and that school is not a fucking joke. It’s ranked very high in education and was one of the locations for the Harry Potter Movies. So you know it's magical.

I studied communications, screenwriting, and Australia’s history as a country, along with the history of colonization and modern culture. I also had this weird ass fucking class about the body. The caliber of education was much higher than I was used to, not even going to lie. I felt like an idiot. I did learn a lot though. For example, I learned that people will always ask you about which celebrities you know. People will ask you if America is like what they see in the movies. Does everyone own a gun?

For me, it was starting to feel more and more like my own movie. Since I found Beth, and the Cave, and cheap housing...I told the housing abroad program to piss off and kept my housing aid loans. I used that money to keep traveling. I have no regrets. 

Lisbon, Portugal

Portugal is one of my favorite places in the entire world. Granted, when Bam and I first arrived we found ourselves in a couchsurfer's home that lied about his age (which is fine), but he would not stop grabbing my ass, staring at my chest, or trying to get us to drink. So we bailed (by pretending our friends surprised us and were outside waiting...) and tried our luck at a hostel. When that hit the fan, (due to no vacancies) we held our breath and really hoped our bank accounts had enough for the night - we took a cab to a somewhat tourist part of the city (which tends to be more expensive, but better for those inexperienced travelers). I should also mention, inexperienced-young-women who were scared-of-being-put-into-difficult-situations-after-dark, travelers. 

We went to Baixa-Chiado.  We knocked on the heavy doors of the Poets Hostel. The BEST fucking hostel I've ever set foot in. I made so many friends here, loved the fucking bar crawls, loved their food, and ended up staying there for most of our trip. I'm not going to lie. One of the reasons I loved Portugal so much, is because of a person. Places do that to me. I find love with the people I find there. 

I made a friend who worked at the hostel. He graciously took us into his home once we had to leave (because we had to save our money for the trip home!). He drove us all around the city, and showed us the oldest book store (Bertrand Bookstore) with books more expensive than anything I'll ever own, and really shouldn't be touched. 

It was a touching experience to make friends in another part of the world. I loved the Poet's Hostel. I wrote them a poem goodbye.

Phone Call

The sound of your voice

travels through signals

transmitting a love

dentro de mi corazón.

Until the moment ends

and our transmission is over

 I'm left with my own misconceptions

on the back of my eyelids

Islands of words

with no where to go.

I look to the ocean

and drop them into sea foam.

We all know

the same type of lonely.

At the time, my heartbreak was kind of replaying in the back of my mind on repeat. It was all, 'hey, remember how you wanted to share these moments with that person you thought was super important to you? Well, yeah it looks like they're not that important anymore, right? Maybe not.'

---

Lisbon is layered with history and an unforgettable sense of wanderlust disguised as romance. When I was traveling here I was always high off of everyone else's stories. One that stuck with me was Fernando Pessoa. A Lisbon raised poet born in 1888, he is one of the most astounding characters I have ever learned of. Especially considering he created seventy-five of them as pseudonyms/characters/heteronyms for other works and pieces of his.

 

“The frightful reality of things

Is my everyday discovery. ”

— ALBERTO CAEIRO (FERNANDO PESSOA) TRANSLATED BY EDOUARD RODITI

Barcelona, Spain

June 18th - June 30th

Binge Write

When I landed in Barcelona, I was in love with everything, oh my god it felt like a pinche novela. I mean sure, the thought of colonization crossed my brain, the idea of Mexican Spanish not being Spanish-Spanish lingered, but fuck was it beautiful. The air, the faces of strangers, the voices I could hear and the songlike syllables ringing out differently than the shit I knew, it was different!  The excitement of finally arriving was all over my skin and it dripped out of the sweat on my hands. Especially during the moment I lost Bam as the subway train doors closed between her and I, separating us into a panic.

But I continued on, because I had to find wifi to communicate with her.

The train station at Barcelona Santa was like a parade of romance, as bodies swayed in the purple hues. It wasn’t the rush of late night commuters to and from work, no. It was something much more new. They held a community dance class at their train station, it was spontaneous to me. I was alone, and I was so in love.  

It was a trap.

As soon as we arrived at our Hostel, Equity Point near Plaça del Mar I knew I was in a tourist heavy spot. It was near the beach strip. Eventually, after finding Bam (at our hostel), and meeting some American/British dudes, I found myself dripping with anxiety (in a bad way) as I had to watch every person that walked past me to ensure I knew I was safe. I don't know if it's due to the fact that I come from a place where you just know you gotta watch people or fearing that my American ignorance would be too much, but I was on edge.

I eased into laughter with three Americans. At first I was scared that I was just clutching to what I knew, being fearful of the unknown, but they ended up becoming the tightest homies during the trip. We had some absinthe fueled nights on the beach where we discovered you couldn't wear sk8-high Vans to most of the clubs, and people generally looked down on you if you went out in beach clothes. Barcelona is classy attire only.

After a few nights of this classic fucking alcohol mess and mimosa-filled brunches, we met a group of french travelers. Now these guys, were fucking classy. As their cigarettes rested in the ash tray, and the smoke twirled around me like a mosquito, I noticed there was a beautiful man in their group. He drew me. I know it sounds cliche, but not like one of his french girls. He drew me from afar while I was in the hostel lobby  eating free breakfast. I was sitting down, eating and played the house guitar afterwards. When he showed me, I blushed. It would be the beginning of a romance that was not quite meant to be. Considering he was like, you know way out of my league. 

Bam and I were all about the music, and the parties. We were 21! So, we prepared for Sonar music festival. One of the highlights of our trip. Some artists I was stoked for were Flying Lotus, FKA Twigs, A$AP Rocky, The Chemical Brothers, Hot Chip, Jaime xx, RL Grime, and Cashmere Cat.

At the festival when I was let's just say at the highest point of my night, I texted my family. Why? Because I'm un poco awkward. 

I found out mi abuelita was dehydrated and went to the hospital. I was terrified. I felt so guilty for being all the way in Spain. I instantly called my best friend and begged her go to my house and tell me over the phone what my grandmother looked like.

But only because, when I was 18 years old, before this whole trip even happened (as you may have read previously) my mother refrained from letting me know over the phone that my other grandmother had passed, and it was only after my school trip that I found out grandma was gone. I wondered if this scenario happened again.

My best friend admitted she looked weak. As she spoke each word I tuned out the sounds, the makeup on everyone's faces, the smells, the sights, to hang onto each word. I made her put her on the phone.

I spoke to her, mi abuelita and I told her that she was my favorite person. Mi chula guapa, que quiero mucho.

And my mind eased. My mom sensed the fear and joked with me that she got to call off work and she was happy about that because she didn't have to bathe one of her patients in the nursing home. I laughed with her, pretending not to notice how close she works with death of old age on a daily basis. Did they know I was high? Maybe. But, they played it off just like I tried to.

I took a walk around the festival to ease my mind. Everyone around me was having a fucking killer night, and here I was looking like my world ended. Every few minutes I’d come across someone or people who would just stare at me and ask if everything was alright. Two individuals approached me and asked me if something happened, and if I needed help. The importance of checking in with someone you see may be life saving when attending these gigantic festivals, so I truly appreciated them. They were screenwriters from Spain, who proposed a magic trick to “flip” my perspective on whatever was upsetting me. They made coins disappear and reappear behind my ear, and then gave it to me and held my hand and looked into my eyes and said everything would be alright.

I found Bam, and our friends from France; we had grown closer by this point. We were like a tight knit family, speaking with gestures more than language. I appreciated them. As Bam and I approached the restroom, she had the idea to face paint for donations and to switch things up.

I was approached by a person that would actually have a huge impact on my life. She wanted one turquoise triangle on her forehead and nothing else. When I heard her speak I thought she sounded Australian, but she was Kiwi! I mentioned how I'd be moving to Melbourne for a study abroad program in two weeks. Her eyes popped and I could see she had an idea emerging. I asked her if she knew any good hostels or backpacking spots. She chuckled and said I should stay with her. I thought she was bullshitting. Nonetheless, I exclaimed I'd love to and we exchanged numbers and even texted each other throughout the night. Little did I know, She would really come through.

The next morning, I found myself roomless as our paid night was over and we had no money to pay for another. I was tired, and tried sleeping at the beach, only to be burned by the sun. I walked, I pleaded for a corner to crash in. I found a cathedral instead.

Sitting in the right center of Basilica de Santa Maria del Pi, the church's enormous frame cradled me like an ant inside of a coffee mug. It was bigger than life itself. When I walked in, I had to keep walking, because every time I stopped in front of a saint, I nearly cried. I should also mention that I did something really stupid, I walked in wearing shorts and a tank top which you should not do. It can be seen as disrespectful; and really distasteful. But at the time, I was tired, sleep deprived and it was very hot. Stupid entitled American.

The stain glass windows only let in a small amount of light as the sun illuminated them from behind. I did cry. I sat and put my hands together and le di gracias a dios por dar me esta vida. I'm not even religious, well I'm agnostic. But my mother is. I could not stop thinking about her. I almost felt like I owed it to her to be religious in that moment, or maybe faithful and hopeful in something, someone taking care of me. To have made it this far around the world, surely, hit hard right then.

Pide que cuidará  a mi familia, especialmente a mi mama. Empese a pensar mucho en ella.

There were candle chandeliers and stone floors and shiny wooden benches. It was quiet. And again, I forgot you weren't supposed to wear shorts or tank tops and bring in bright pink skateboards. Contrary to the previous night, the silhouette of purples, reds, and blue stains my memory rather strongly.

 

 

 

& something else

For our last two nights in Spain, Bam and I used couchsurfing in Europe. I met a man, Salif who was from Senegal who had his friend drive an hour or so from his home to pick us up in Barcelona. He lived in Mataro and was a very, very sweet and fatherly guy. He showed us photos of his family back in Senegal and talked to us about his beliefs. He was muslim and spoke in the most poetic phrases. One that particularly struck me was "la vida es un rio de sueños", he would look at Bam and I and smile, knowing that we had just come across our own dreams in the midst of traveling. 

I asked Salif's brother to translate something given to me by the french artist before we parted ways. Salif's brother looked at me and his eyes jumped. 

"Wow," he said. 

To paraphrase; when I look into your eyes I feel like I've known you my entire life, and it feels as though I'm returning to an island in your arms, one I always knew but somehow lost. 

I smiled, and remembered the way we looked at each other that crazy night I thought my abuelita would leave me. I still have his post card on the wall, and I look at it when I think about different kinds of love. 

Madrid to Barcelona

Journal Entry

Wednesday, June 17th 2015

"It’s official. I lost my iPod somewhere on this trip around the globe. I am no longer allowed to drown out the outside world with old playlists. And I'm glad. Spanish opera hymns above me as I sit on the train. Coche 12 en el asiento 5A."

"I am surrounded by businessmen, classy ladies in chic attire, and the occasional group of backpackers. And my friend Bam. She’s like me. Seriously, we are dangerous together. We don’t really know what time really means. (We get distracted easily). Bam said this particular phrase to me on the bus last night, as we approached city centre.  At first, it unnerved me because I didn’t think it meant anything, it was cliche. But then,

BRAIN EXPLODES

We are free from the constraints of scheduled routines.

Well, once we are done with flights, trains, buses, etc. (you DO NOT want to miss a flight with Ryan Air). We will be able to roam the beach, endlessly floating in a world within the world of merchants and writers, and roamers and drinkers.

Before I landed overseas I was terrified of being a stupid American.

I thought everyone would be rude to me because of my ignorance. My age also made me apprehensive. I knew nothing about the world outside of my family, and close friends. I wasn't big on facts in history and politics, economy and not to mention, I'm exceptional when it comes to being awkward. I talk too much. My name's fucking Gabby. 

But on this train,

That fear

d   i   s   s   o    l   v    e   d

thanks to my internal monologue. It actually sounds like my mom talking to me. The soothing reminder that I knew how to speak Spanish crept into my mind. I thought to myself, "It's the beginning of my trip abroad, I know people are rude. But so far, it’s just like Los Angeles -- where people are busy and preoccupied with their own lives."

"Yes I could be an annoyance, but for anyone who goes out of their way (two awesome folks so far) that makes me believe strangers will be available when you least expect anyone to lend you a hand."

We Missed Our Flight

After I met Bam, we had a lovely night of cigarettes and more terrible planning. The next morning, she and I missed our flight from London to Barcelona. We were flying RyanAir.  We got up on time, we even had time for breakfast! We skated to the tube and made it in time (3 hours before) for our flight. They gave us a bit of shit for having our skateboards attached to our backpacks, so we would take them as carry on. It all hit the fan when we got to the front of the line and this poor dude handling like 50+ customers alone said Bam’s bag was overweight. So instead of letting her purchase an overweight ticket for her bag, they made us go to a completely new line with a shit ton of other people on the next flight already ahead of us.

If only we were brave enough to make a scene. We definitely pestered each of the poor three souls left behind the counter. By the time we got to the front of the line to get the oversized bag ticket/pricing, we were half an hour away from boarding and they wouldn’t let us on. It was a shit show, and I’ll never trust RyanAir again.

We ended up flying a different airline to Madrid. I can’t remember which - it was either Tigerair or Jetstar, but we got there at 1am or so and had to take a bus to the city centre for a last minute hostel. We lost our Barcelona airfare, and one night at the hostel. Rookie mistakes. Learn from me, do not trust Ryanair, or be a squeaky as fuck wheel. But not too squeaky! You don't want to end up viral on r/publicfreakout. 

We didn’t really know what we were doing, we couldn’t get wifi. We just asked the bus driver what the most common stop was for hotels and hostels and he took us there and we asked strangers for directions at 1am. PROTIP I CAN SPEAK SPANISH. We got to a hostel and they luckily had a room. We had a quick shower, thanked our lucky souls and knocked out.

London Loser

Well, I got to London after a direct flight that fucking felt like forever (like seventeen hours?). I actually happened to sit next to my classmate’s mom, and she was sweet. (SMALL FUCKING WORLD) She let me sleep on her shoulder. How did I afford this plane ticket you ask? Well I worked two jobs - and I had some help. My dad, and his (pretty bad) credit. Overall - it was purchased a few months or so in advance. There are tons of websites you can look into for planning plane ticket purchases. A great one is Scott's Cheap Flights. Hopper is another app you can check out. Overall, go on the off season my friends. A year in advance isn’t necessarily the smartest move - sometimes flight prices drop three months out. The key is the time of year, the airline, and purchasing round trip vs. oneway (do the math). Round trip was typically the best for me that year.

London was hilarious. I couldn’t figure out the tube at all. My luggage almost fell down the escalator, and everyone had a sad mug. It was gray, the city smelled like cigarettes - and I met this Eminem slim shady kid, cheery as fuck to see me. I was relieved. He said he felt sorry for me.

He helped me get to the O2 (the Millennium Dome) by dropping his plans and taking me straight there. He was 22, and a sweetheart. He was going to be a father soon. I lost his number, which is a damn shame. But, he did mention Nando’s - so I’ll be forever grateful. Nandos is like this famous chicken restaurant that everyone raves about - it’s a chain but it’s pretty delicious and they have blazawesome hot sauces. So that was London for me the first time around. It was pretty bland, but it was still all exhilarating for a girl who used to chill on the block. 

Fluke Fortune

We string along emotions throughout events, events that make up what we know as “a day”. These emotions are pushed and pulled and morphed into an acceptable exhibition for the public, displayed brightly (but not so brightly) in hopes of masking your true mental state.

I wear a mask in public, we all do. I began to perfect the color, shape, and flavor of my mask through the arts;

              Teatro 

Well actually, through my older brother referring me to theatre because I was ditching school and he volunteered at Plaza de la Raza. I met my first love there, among many other passions that blossomed into lifelong endeavors. It’s a shame the Cal Arts Community Partnership (CAP)/Plaza de la Raza Theatre program officially ended in 2017, after 27 years of magic and raising people like me.

Through Plaza, I would score a scholarship to study at Cal Arts for a summer program called "CSSSA", where I would meet kids from all over the world dedicated to becoming serious artists, performers, writers, musicians, actors, and dancers. They were studying in order to contribute to the world of elite arts I believed was so not me.  

One of the friends I met, we'll call her "Bam" was particularly edgy, which I was drawn to in my apathetic teenage years. We snuck away to smoke cigarettes and established a camaraderie early on. The program would eventually end, and I would return home - back to my life in LA.

I'd learn my grandmother passed away while I was attending CSSSA and my parents kept it from me. I'd also learn my dog got hit by a car and would also die, and then my little cousin would soon pass due to health reasons. I thought my little summer of "art" was just a pretend go away session, and then I had to come back to reality - (that shits not for you tonta).

Still, it was a great learning experience. So much so, that I believe it brought on an uncontrollable amount of stress. That, or all the shit I did as a kid finally caught up. I was diagnosed with Ulcerative Colitis my senior year of high school, before I left for college. But that's another story.

The reason all this is important is because I ran into Bam three years later, while I happened to be on my lunch break in my college town. I saw a girl skateboarding in a dress and I thought, hey I do that...I should go talk to her. And I instantly recognized her as the girl I shared a cigarette with that summer at Cal Arts.

We exchanged numbers, and she casually mentioned backpacking Europe to me - because she was moving to arts school in Scotland. It was a serendipitous comment. I had just applied to study abroad in Australia. Why Australia? Because it was fucking far away, my ex had just dumped me, and yeah he may have once mentioned wanting to go there. I was partially heartbroken, partially willing to go to the other side of the world to see it. It didn't matter that I didn't know how I was going to afford it, or how to go through security at the airport. It didn't matter that I had no real knowledge of anything other than who I perceived I was.  

I called Bam.  I told her my plan. And we planned. Terribly.

I'll get into the logistics later, as money is always tight no matter who you are, but the plan was this:

I'd buy a ticket to London and meet Bam at her aunt’s house. We'd fly out to Barcelona from there, and then to Lisbon. She'd take the train from there to continue her travels, and I'd fly back to London and catch a flight to Melbourne to study from there.

Code–switchin’: The Gateway to Travel

The compartmentalization of ourselves in America begins at a young age.

Grease seeped through my paper bag lunch and stained my backpack. It was 2nd grade and I wondered why I didn't have tupperware filled with mac and cheese like Elizabeth. My papas con carne melted on my small tongue, but the embarrassment of being "too mexican" stopped me from eating. My stomach pinched me like my abuelita's fingers often pinched my chubby cheeks. I was seven years old, and it was the first time I threw my lunch away.

Back then my mom dressed me in bright yellow dresses and rainbow sandals, a popular outfit found at the local flea market. She would braid my hair. It was so painful that I cried for hours. I once successfully convinced her to not brush my hair a few days in a row. I didn't know how much appearances mattered at that age. I just went along with what adults told me. My best friend’s family adopted the nickname “chuntie” and “beaner” for me, and since they laughed while calling me that, I thought it was funny too.

Clumsy mistakes we make as children teach us how to code switch. When we reveal our home lives to strangers at school and are corrected to keep those behaviors private, that's when we learn. When I was younger, it was not “cool” or “smart” to speak two languages, well actually it just wasn’t cool to speak Spanish. I straddled home and school, English and Spanish, not-that-Mexican, and Mexican. And I lived in a highly Latino area.

Eventually, my parents taught me how to code switch with language. At home I spoke in broken Spanglish, and at school it was bully English, for survival. I was quick with my words, looking for the most vulnerable part of anyone and parading it in front of the class. I knew who to strike before they attacked me.

My parents immigrated to Los Angeles in their twenties. They learned new systems, identities and communicated with all kinds of people during their assimilation into American culture. They are still learning how to, and so am I.

Code switching is a beginners guide for travel. I’ve recently heard it to refer to switching into parts of your identity to fit into the cultural scenario of the moment, though for me it originated with language - going from English to Spanish and back. It’s a powerful tool that can transport you outside of your comfort zone and into someone else’s. You are straddling identities, time, moments. It is essentially the rough draft for culture shock.

According to the 2010 Census data, 97% of the population in East Los Angeles identified as hispanic. So of course I needed to experience culture shock in my life.

Growing up, my family and I were lucky to travel. People like us just generally could not afford road-trips, our parents could not take the time off work. Sure, sometimes our families went to Mexico to visit a dying relative or just reconnect, but we didn’t have National Lampoon’s vacations every summer. My friends were roughly in the same boat.

We grew up knowing it was just like that for us. We saw classmates, acquaintances, and friends pass away before we turned 18 in my neighborhood. Code switching then turned into something else for me. I would change and alter my behavior and language to fit into different clicks, institutions, and it helped me step out on moments of grief.

I could talk to the homie about some mess regarding the latest shit that happened on the block, but know that my teacher’s didn’t pigeonhole me. It was fucked up. But it also saved me from a life I probably wasn’t smart enough to survive. I knew how to try new things, bad things, which inevitably hurt me. But I also knew how to run away with it, and I knew how to hide from a lot of things that could have drowned me. And with that, came my love for traveling. Which you'll read about. Maybe you'll think about similar experiences.