Es Lo Que Hay

The alarm sounds at 7am, and I wake to darkness, rolling towards the jolly music coming from my cheap Uruguayan cell phone, and hit the snooze button. I close my eyes for another 10 minutes.

At 7:10, my feet hit the floor. I raise the plastic blinds that cover my 8x4 ft window by pulling down on a belt mounted to the left of the window. In a second, morning light spills into the room, chasing away the night. Squinting, I fling open the window and turn off the fan.

My roommates are already up. I hear them in the kitchen. They must have class this morning. Pierre is frying eggs. I wonder if Francis has made coffee, if the coffee pot is dirty. Will I have to wash it? Do I have time? I should buy a French press; it makes much better coffee. Then what will I do with it when I leave; mail it back to myself; donate it to the apartment? I need to get a full-length mirror. Did I shave last night? Should I wear a dress or pants? I need to get black boots. I’ll shop in Buenos Aires when I go. What are my lessons this morning? Do I need to print anything?

The bus ride to Sherwin Williams takes a little less than an hour. I walk 4 blocks to the bus stop on Rivera and Julio Cesar and catch the 468 La Paz. Shit, I only have a $1,000 peso bill. The bus driver doesn’t have change. “Discuplame, por favor, tiene cambio?” I ask a few passengers before the bus driver tells me to get off.

Shit, I walk in the direction of the bus. I stop in a convenience store to buy a water. They don’t have change either. I walk a few blocks and stop at a newsstand. No change. Does anyone have change in this city? He says the grocery store might. I walk another block, grab something from the shelf and go through checkout. “Do you have anything smaller?” the cashier asks me when she sees my $1,000 bill. Geez, it’s just US$50! I shake my head no, take my change, and run to the nearest bus stop.

I’m reading Barbara Kingsolver’s The Lacuna on the bus. It’s 1940, and Lev Trotsky has just been killed in his home in Mexico City. Trotsky’s secretary, and the protagonist of this story, might be in danger if he stays, so his friend and former employer, Frida Kahlo, arranges for him to accompany some of her paintings to New York for an exhibition, as she is becoming more popular in the US. Our protagonist lost his notebooks in the police raid following Trotsky’s murder. He’s a writer. The pain of this loss—the loss of his friend, of his life in Mexico, and of his years of diaries—turns his heart bitter towards writing:

No more of that, never another typewriter. Accumulating words is a charlatan’s career. How important is anything that could burn to ash in a few minutes? Stuffed into an incineration barrel at the police station, set on fire on a chilly August evening—maybe an officer warmed his hands, and that is the use of that. Better to roam free like a chicken with no future and no past. Searching only to satisfy the hunger of the present: a beetle or lizard snapped up, or perhaps one day, a snake. Harrison W. Shepherd leaves Mexico with his pockets full of ash. An emancipated traveler.

Mmmmm, nice. I wish I could write like that. I close the book and let my mind wander as the bus makes it’s way north.

I have 3 classes this morning: Intermediate and Pre-Intermediate. I like my students. It’s so satisfying to see them learning. I love to see the lightbulb pop up over their heads. Last class, my pre-intermediates were totally getting the differences between “will” and “going to” for future tenses. They were telling me the rules by the end of the class. I could tell they were proud of themselves. So, I’ll be here through December 20. Will I make enough money to afford my life here? South American salaries and European prices: one of those special things about Uruguay and definitely a pain in the ass. But as the Uruguayans like to say, “es lo que hay.” And I guess I’ll just have to take advice from the other common Uruguayan saying, “Arregláte como puedes.” I’ll sort myself out best I can.

Sherwin Williams is just outside the city, next to a large field, and I feel like I’m in the country when I exit the bus, just barely on time, and walk down the small road leading to the plant.