I know many of you are waiting for me to follow through on the promises of last blog's cliffhanger, but unfortunately, the stories did not pan out as interestingly as I expected.
Cliff Hanger #1
Habitacíon #9: Serial Killer on the Lamb
He looked like the Smoking Man for those of you old and nerdy enough to remember The X Files, and just for the thrill of it, I have moved into his habitacíon, Habitacíon Number 9. He moved out suddenly six days ago after being visited by a young, pretty Columbian woman. I plan to search the room for forensic evidence (which can't be used in a court of law in Ecuador); nevertheless, if I find evidence, I will lift it with the tiny tweezers from my Swiss army knife (before I trade my Swiss army knife and Swiss army watch for some antiques and curiosities on Monday morning- after all the Swiss army is largely ineffectual (perhaps neutral is a better word), and its products are overpriced in Latin America), and put the evidence into the little cellophane bag my antique postcards came in. I will label the found evidence (exhibits A, B, and C) with the green, square stickers taped to the communal refrigerator; residents are supposed to use these green stickers to label their groceries (habitacíon #3, habitacíon #9, etc.), so other guests don't accidentally eat the wrong food.
Note to self #1: Don't eat the wrong food.
Note to self #2: Change green stickers to reflect my room change, even though the only thing I have in the refrigerator is a diet coke, and an empty bottle from a Fanta purchased at Bodega Toni.
Note to self #3: Return the empty bottle to Bodega Toni (Calle Mariscal Lamar y Padre Aguirre).
In my new habitacíon, I hope I will not find an underground tunnel that leads to a red light district in the Eastern Block, or another sinister human trafficking operation like the ones found in at least half of the states in the United States. I'm obsessed with human trafficking ever since my friend Robin read me an article in 2002 about the sex slaves found in Westwood, California, four miles from my house (youngest slave 7, oldest slave became a madam after 15+ years of forced servitude).
But enough about the State of the Union... while they try to figure out if possessing a human should carry a sentence (29 months on the low end, 30 years on the high end) that is greater or less than the sentence for possession of crack cocaine (5 years minimum for 5 grams), there are less important investigative journalistic efforts to pursue right here in developing Ecuador (the first country to grant Mother Earth rights under its constitution- Ecuador also recognizes same sex unions, by the way).
The following is an exact transcript from my conversation with the alleged serial killer on the lamb in the communal kitchen 3 days prior to his departure. He was tying plastic bags into tight knots and labeling them meticulously with his room number.
Him: hmmgrrmmmmhmgrrr
Me: Excuse me?
Him: hmmgrrmmmmhmgrrr
Me: I'm sorry? I couldn't understand you.
Him: Oh, I wasn't talking to you I was talking to myself.
Me: Oh, well don't let me interrupt you.
Him: I do that sometimes.
Me: Okay.
Him: Sometimes it's the only way you can have an intelligent conversation.
Really? Really. I could not make this up even if I tried. I am not creative at all, and regardless of what my grandmother, cousin Eloise, and Maya believe, I'm not even an exaggerator. If anything, I'm the type of apathetic, under reactor who tends to take 8 years longer than she should to tell someone to fuck off.
Fortunately, for me, things ended there between the serial killer and me. I resisted la comida typico of a woman from Los Angeles who might otherwise respond with the low self-esteem, self-deprecating, inner monologue, but what about me? I can't believe he thought he couldn't have an intelligent conversation with me. I'm intelligent, and I can talk. I can't believe he just said that to me.
For you hyper realists out there (http://lftblank.blogspot.com has indeed reached a far wider audience than originally expected), I really moved into the serial killer's room because it's in The Big House, one of the palatial rooms in the converted mansion, Hostal Maconda (Tarqui y Mariscal Lamar), and my adorable garden room where I sat on the porch and played my $70 handmade guitar (case included) sold to me by a charming teenager, was also the same room where every morning I woke to a new mosquito bite (37 at last count).
Even if the former occupant was a serial killer, the new room has 16-foot ceilings, looks over the atrium, has handmade and painted wooden furniture, contains 2 absolutely amazing local oil paintings, and (admittedly) smells just a little like pee.
Last night, I made an evening out of smelling the mattress and pillows (not the source), opening the drawers and armoire and smelling them (to no avail), smelling my own underwear and feet (just to be sure), and sticking my face in the toilet (nada). I had to conclude what our tour guide in Egypt, Amr, once said when a similar smell couldn't be located on our bus in 2001.
"Friends, I believe that it's not the bus, it's the area," and he motioned like an umpire calling a runner safe at home base, indicating the area-ness of the odor was more wide spread than originally thought.
Solution: Buy incense from Dubai's Shwarma and Pipe (Calle Largo y Presidente Borerro) + 4 candles from the blind man in front of Cathedral Vieja (Parque Abdón Calderón) + spill a bottle of tea tree oil in the steaming shower.
Cliff Hanger #2
Broken Finger
This was just another long, boring story about me breaking another finger (slammed it into the door), and not going to the doctor (because they don't do anything for a broken finger anyway).
Coming soon!
Catholic Existentialists and Other Entrepreneurs
