Strangers and Friends
The fact that my friend Yesi is such a poor representation of her own people may be why I allow myself to hang around her. Being with her is like being a part of some comically mismatched duo. My skin is darker than hers, I am infinitely more passionate, more romantic, much more relaxed, and in other words more of everything she should be as a Latin woman. This is what is going through my head while I sit at the kitchen table of her friend’s house, bored out of my mind, listening to them whine and babble about relationships, staring at her eyelashes thinking about how much they bother me.
I can’t believe I fooled myself again into thinking I would have fun with her. Every time the idea to do something fun comes up, she always is tired, or she has a headache, or she has to study, or it is raining. Today I agreed to go to the nearby city of Guano with her. That would be fun. But today it is raining. My boredom is alleviated a little by the thought of that Japanese-American woman I met at the hotel who almost had a breakdown because her hair was wet and there weren´t any hair driers, this woman against who the whole world apparently has conspired, riding on top of that train in the thunderstorm. I know there isn’t a hair drier on that train or any way to power one except with steam.
I make no effort to hide my boredom, but unfortunately the hostess is the only one to notice, and I use my usual line to cover up my social disgraces: “I am sorry. It is not the custom in my country.” She looks confused. “Is it the custom in America to ask for coffee and not drink any?” I’ve got myself in a tight spot. In front of me is an unbearably sweet cup of coffee and it would be an insult to refuse to drink it. But the first two sips have almost put me in a coma, and the unbearable ballads of the Backstreet Boys in the background are about to push me over the edge. So I fudge a bit and say I’m diabetic. I hate lying, and I am further perturbed with Yesi for bringing me into a situation she should know I would not enjoy and that would force me to lie in order not to offend her friend, when I had only really agreed to do something else. They bring out another cup of coffee, sans sugar. I thank them heartily.
Oh great, now they’re talking about how much I look like Juanes, and I guess it doesn’t help that I am in fact wearing La Camisa Negra. I don’t really look like Juanes. I look forlornly out the window wanting very much to run wildly through the rain, stomping in all the puddles. When I get like this, I pretend not to understand anything anyone is saying to me, playing the dumb American. “What? Como again?” Maybe it will get me politely ejected from these décor-less walls with the silhouettes of us sitting around the table in a slightly more exciting picture than reality, as well as the saccharine ambience created by this sadly uncultivated collection of music.
But I know I will hang out with her again soon. I think I am addicted to the challenge of having fun in extremely dull circumstances. It’s like a new extreme sport: Xtreme Boredom! I like the way people look at me strangely when I am pushed to my outer limits of desperate behavior. I like the way Yesi laughs and says I am loco. I have never been more proud of being an American when I can amuse all the Latin folk in the room with my outrageous antics. Being so incredibly displaced provides almost unlimited potential for comedy. For example, I get a big kick out of the fact that Yesi has no idea that it is so blatantly obvious to me that she is attracted to me and continually drops not-so-subtle hints, and I play dumb. “I’m sorry. I do not understand. It is not the custom in my country.” I can’t bring myself to quit. And I like the fact that Yesi smiles more now, and is generally healthier. This girl is good for my sense of self-satisfaction.
I am saved by an invite from another friend. We head outside into the comedy represented by the fact that she will invariably be cold despite her comically oversized jacket and scarf as I remain comfortable in jeans and light sweater. “It is because you are a hot man,” she says slyly. I pretend not to pick up the reference. “Yes, my metabolism is fairly high.” We go pick up eyebrow-acrobat Victor for a pizza dinner. He is Yesi’s best friend, and as different from her as I am. We end up buddying up a little and taking turns jabbing at Yesi. “You guys are horrible friends,” she says, failing miserably to cover up her smiles.
She never wanted to ride the train before. Now she wants to ride the train with me. I am reminded that the best way to appreciate a place is to show someone else around in it. People need to have strangers around, and everyone should try being a stranger every once in a while.
Tags: Travel
Aaron Baldassare