[DISPATCH] notes from a homeless month
on travel (constant) and hoping (waxing, waning) and bitterness (transient and contradictory)
Throughout the entire month of August, I have slept in my own bed and used my own face wash exactly two times. Here’s a special, nonsensical newsletter about that. Click on the title to read this newsletter in full.
Whittier, California, United States
In seventh grade, I had the biggest crush on a skinny Mormon boy. He was blonde and I was Black so I never confessed my love. Instead I doodled “I ❤️?” on the back of my hand every math class hoping he would see it and intrinsically understand it was meant for him. We’d get married as soon as we turned 18 (he’s Mormon) and have five children (I’m an only child). Obviously, I’m an idiot and no one ever noticed my childish doodles but the point is that I’m a Swiftie. Despite identifying as such for a very long time, I never considered myself one that would do anything for the messiah. That was until said mastermind announced the Eras tour.
Despite a recent, unexpected love for reputation, I am a diehard Speak Now girlie and one of my biggest regrets in life is being 14 and poor during the accompanying world tour. (I also deeply regret not being in the audience the first time “Purple Rain” was performed but that one we can punt on my parents.) I thought I would die from the weight of this heavy burden, i.e. never getting the chance to twirl in lavender confetti. By the grace of God, the stars aligned for Victoria and I to see Taylor Swift perform “Long Live” that magical August night — decades ago, her parents decided to live in a Los Angeles suburb, her little sisters handled everything for us from start to finish and we traveled for over 70 hours. Some thoughts and photos from a very special weekend (not spoiler-free, I’m sorry!).
Los Angeles is notable (at least, I noticed it when I lived there during college) for its terrible infrastructure. When it came to arriving to SoFi stadium, I could not stop remarking how organized, efficient and easy the transportation options were for us. We went on the second (of six) L.A. date so maybe it devolved as time went on, but I have nothing but praise for the event coordinators in charge.
Taylor Swift is a cult leader. Both openers, Owenn and HAIM, took time out of their extremely limited sets to praise her graciousness and gratitude. A less cynical person would wipe a tear away and agree but I found myself wondering if their speeches were contract-mandated. Deep down, I know it's sweet and it speaks volumes about Dr. Swift’s character but when you’re surrounded by Swifties at a Taylor Swift concert, everything feels a bit sinister. I felt that at any moment during her performance, she could bring a small animal on stage and announce that it was time for the sacrifice. And people would trip over themselves to be the first to spill blood.
Taylor Swift is a rock star. She has the charisma and she has the confidence. She showed us very early on in her career that she’s fearless. She has the fans. She doesn’t have the desire which is insane.. Wild thought, but she should consider re-recording reputation with a heavy, guitar rock influence. She’s proven multiple times that she’s capable of various sounds and genres and I don’t understand why she hasn’t attempted this area. I could see her excelling in glam or psychedelic.
All food vendors at concerts need to step up their game. Victoria and I dined on delicious mac and cheese topped with chicken tenders and green onions and I nearly cried. This could be due to the fact that I have become accustomed to eating for fuel and not flavor in Colombia, but truly it was a singularly delicious meal.
There’s no point to life when you don’t eat for fun. This was my immediate thought as I ate the meal (potato and chorizo tacos, feta eggs, sautéed veggies) Victoria’s mom welcomed us when we arrived at their house.
All houses should be girl houses.
Barranquilla, Atlántico, Colombia
Several Colombian friends have remarked that the average person does not do in a month as many things as I do in a day, and I should try sitting still sometimes. I tell them I’m a rare shark: If I stop moving, I die. That being said, I’ve added a long-term enterprise that involves grant writing and organizing Colombians to my plate. To fully commit myself to this enterprise I signed up for a workshop on project design and management. In the weeks leading up to August, I mentally thought I was prepared for the travel whiplash (after all, the weather in L.A. isn’t much different than Barranquilla). More realistically, several things escaped my control.
After landing in Bogotá, I immediately boarded a three-hour bus to Tunja for a mandatory 20-minute medical evaluation. I chatted with Lorenzo over breakfast before boarding another three-hour bus to Úmbita where I hoped to decompress before heading back to Bogotá the next morning. Wrong! We received news of a national taxi strike and suggestions to stay the night in Bogotá out of fear of missing our 5 p.m. Wednesday flight. This meant I had 45 minutes to climb the hill to my house, pack for a working weekend in a humid climate, eat lunch and head back down to the bus terminal. (Keep in mind, this was Tuesday afternoon and the last time I had showered or slept was Sunday afternoon in the United States.) Some thoughts and photos from a very chaotic trip.
I love grant writing! Someone laughed at me when I exclaimed that during the workshop with the promise of, “Wait until you’re actually doing it.”
I also love kissing! And glasses of wine in the shower! And hotel suites with city views!
I met a lot of new people at this workshop, most of whom had some prior conception of my character, and it served as a strong reminder of how isolated I am in the mountains. For my colleagues on the coast, an American friend — one with whom conversation is not an active act of labor — is a short bus ride away. For me, that bus ride is a minimum of two hours.
Someone remarked that he’d been told several times that my jokes weren’t funny. I don’t think I make jokes — I’m more of a shrewd commentator — but I had to acknowledge that I’ve become quite serious in Colombia. I don’t have strong feelings about that. My neighbors and friends in Úmbita think I’m hilarious.
Collaborative work reveals so much about the self!
Dua Lipa’s “Dance The Night” never makes as much sense as it does when you’re in Barranquilla.
Villa de Leyva, Boyacá, Colombia
You’ll recall that I’ve lived in Colombia for over a year. In that same time, I’ve been learning how to be an English teaching assistant. I had a full day in Úmbita before I had to leave for our mid-point training in Villa De Leyva, the most overrated tourist trap in the world. Some thoughts and photos from a very sobering trip.
This was a huge wake-up call to the fact that my time in Colombia is almost at an end. Eleven months sounds like a lifetime and it’s simply not. I have a million things I want to accomplish and not enough time to achieve them.
I have grown so much as a person and as a career-minded woman (or lack thereof) in the year that I’ve lived in Colombia. It’s all for the better but my God, the growing pains never felt more devastating.
Victoria and I shared a hotel room together and it felt like being back in her girl house. We remarked how odd it was that we hadn’t seen each other in months only to spend so much time together in three weeks.
All ice cream should be maracuyá flavored. The dairy industry is wasting everyone else’s time with these extracurricular flavors.
I need to open a karaoke bar. And we should all return to flip phones and handheld digital cameras.
Another unwelcome reminder that I am especially isolated in the mountains. I have colleagues in the Andean region that see each other every week, if not more often, due to the accessibility of their towns and general ease of comradery. I didn’t realize how much the lack of what’s supposed to be a built-in support system dampened my life here.
Decidedly Not Úmbita, Boyacá, Colombia
The only detail that mattered about where I was the last two weeks of August was that it was not Úmbita. Homesickness and travel fatigue weighed me down in Villa de Leyva to the point I began counting down the seconds I would be home, sipping on vanilla cappuccinos and pretending to read while friends came in and out of Origenes. Chiefly, I was excited to celebrate my school’s 49th birthday (a weekend packed of desfile de las velitas, carnaval, and bingo night). Wrong again.
A false sense of security — the absurd assumption I can trust people — landed me in Tunja’s carceral embrace (and then later, Barranquilla with brief excursions to Villa de Leyva, Cartagena de Indias, Santa Marta). Some thoughts and photos from a very bitter isolation (I don’t have many photos from Tunja because I left my iPhone behind in my haste to get packed and I’m not used to taking pictures on the trap phone):
This is the first time in my Colombian life that things happened for a second time and I missed them. Annual events are solid ways of reflecting on the passing of the previous year. I was there then and here now. My entire host family gathered for mass to recognize the 15th anniversary of their mothers’ passing and you can’t imagine how hard it is to explain why bureaucracy trumps community to Colombians.
Candid honesty landed me in this situation. Based on my abilities of pattern recognition, I should conclude that honesty is bad and I should never employ it in my attempts to connect with people. However, who am I if I am not honest?
If an institution is made of people, at what level does humanity evacuate the collective?
Patience is literally the most important virtue one could possess and this lifestyle change has forced me into self-improvement.
I am one person alone and I am a million people when in community.
Joni was right: “You don’t know what you got ‘till it’s gone.” What’s largely gone from my daily life in the mountains are my girls, my feral nature, my sense of wonder. There’s nothing so terrible in this world that a raised eyebrow from Vic or a violently wheezed burst of laughter from Nicole can’t assuage.
Singers should go back to performing off-the-wall, unhinged shit. It’s unfair what modernity has stolen from us. Also, we lost when performances stopped copying everything Prince did.
Small dogs deserve rights! Even the ones who are only a quarter of an inch larger than sewer rats.
Earlier in the month, I reflected that I am unnecessarily challenging myself by living in Colombia when I am so clearly meant to live in Los Angeles and spend my time researching how to buy a karaoke bar. The truth is that I am meant to do nothing but sit in the sun and drink smoothies and read and write. A great day features saltwater. Everything else is extraneous. Even though I began my period in exile with zero hope, I end it on a high note. One accompanied by clarity of self, motivation and desire.
This month’s movie: Adele Lim, Joy Ride
This month’s most played record: Taylor Swift, folklore
This month's quote:
Me: “I don’t think he actually ejaculated in the studio.”
Nicole: “I understand, but I want to hear the noises.”
Recent podcast appearances:
New Music Friday from NPR’s All Songs Considered: The best releases out on Aug. 11
New Music Friday from NPR’s All Songs Considered: The best releases out on Aug. 18
This month’s playlist:
xoxo,
a bitch you couldn’t bribe to go somewhere anytime soon