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The Past, Present and Future

I am unemployed but actively searching. Lack of job prospects but determined not to quit.  Sending resumes out by any means necessary but “email or fax your resume” rhetoric discourages. Interview clothes no longer fit due to weight gain but I took up jogging.

 My presence in the present is a continuous struggle towards the illusive light at the end of the tunnel but there is hope that this state of being, shall too pass, opening up another of life’s venues to travel and explore-with good juju everywhere!

The present is a state of limbo in between the past and future. The past led me to the present and the present will lead me to the future.  If I have learned something from the past and applied it to the present, then the future will hold the positive outcome since I would have learned from the past.

 The past protects, saves the memories, and establishes sorrows.  The present holds the past hostage with reflections on should haves, could haves and if only’s. Regrets of the past form foundations as mistakes build upon sedimentary layers.

 The future viewed through the present unveils the abundance of projections and uncertainties and guards the if’s and going to’s as well as aspirations and expectations.  

 Overall, the future holds hope.

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New Year, New You

2011. 

A new year marks the turning point of the calendar year and the unleashing of the resolutions set to bring about great changes to ones’ life. Changes that supposedly get rid of the old methods , the old way of doing things, to make way for the new and improved methods, the new way of doing things. Blackboards are erased; to-do-lists altered and dated while corkboard pushpins are moved to the side, making room for the new postcards with the upcoming changes.

Gym memberships increase; Jenny Craig and Weight Watchers see a surge in enrollment numbers and Slim Fast stock has gone up. Nicotine products disappear off the shelves of Walgreen’s and Duane Reade and the top ten self-help books depleted from the bookstores shelves are now only available online. New steam pots adorn kitchen counters while gluten-free products stock cupboards awaiting consumption come January 2nd.

Resolutions are monumental: I will eat vegetables, I will stop drinking, I will quit smoking, I will stop dating rich men…and the list goes on.

Resolutions remind me of old clothing and old habits. Old clothing dies and ends up in the garbage or the basement and old habits don’t die but remain dormant in the unsolicited part of our brains where it ferments and turns to brain fog. That is why resolutions do not work for me. I will not resolve to do anything. It’s either done or not-no in between and no predetermined date. If it needs changing, it’s changed.

New Year’s resolutions equals new you. What happened to the old year’s resolutions and the old you?  Are they in storage at the local U-Haul?  Under the bed?  In the summer clothing bin wedged between the barrels of winter salt? Or did you conveniently donate them to charity and forgot to get the receipt?

Why the new year impulse to disregard the resolutions made during the old year?

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Life as I Know It

Life as I know it is my present state of being. I am unemployed, financially broke and experienced major changes to my lifestyle in order to deal with the have-nots of the wants vs. the needs. Although the finances bring conflict and uncertainty, life as I know it has also brought time.

Time has enabled me to pursue my hobbies which cultivate and encourage my well-being.  The hobbies expand as I explore new ideas but for now, the following are my areas of concentration: writing, piano, knitting, journaling, volunteering, and going to museums.

When life revolves around the nine to five work grind, my hobbies suffer because time is spent commuting, working, preparing lunches and dinners and living. Hobbies are regulated to an hour before going to bed and weekends after running errands and cleaning.

Work is to make money, hobbies are to flourish and nourish the artist within.  My unemployment has allowed the hobbies to consume my days and lullaby me to sleep at night knowing that I will return to them the next day.

My hobbies do not pay the rent or cover the monthly utilities. Work, when I had it, did. I send out resumes on a daily basis but the enthusiasm for finding my dream job has long evaporated. I have had those dream jobs and barely survived the physical and emotional tolls inflicted on my soul.

The truth is, even though I know eventually an interview will give way to steady employment, the thought of losing the time spent with my hobbies is depressing.  My hobbies are not moneymaking prospects for if they were, then the joy of empowerment and vindication would evaporate. The hobbies would transcend from a place of calm and comfort to the realm of capitalism, greed and survival. No. My hobbies will remain hobbies.

In the meantime, the search for employment continues reluctantly. The return to the “office” is dreaded for multi-tasking paper pushing duties numbs the brain. The “team playing” co-workers are a charade because teams (and salaries) do not function cohesively but rather as individuals competing for raises, ruthless in their office gossip and “passing the buck” on workload and responsibility.  

Fluorescent lighting used in most offices does not help to calm this dysfunctional environment. The ghastly stark green tinged tones are reminiscent of the lighting in science labs where rats run through complicated mazes in search of a cheese reward.

At the office, while fluorescent lighting beams on them, workers run through mazes of cloth-covered cubicles. These workers do not seek the cheese. They seek answers from the human resource rep whose email citing corporate changes in bonus’ and reduce salaries has led to workplace pandemonium!  Chaos has spread! Who will lead them back to the nine to five grind?

The answer- “Who Moved My Cheese?”, piped over the office intercom by way of “Books on Tape”.  It may be the only way to pacify the office rat race workers but not the lab rats, they’re happy with the cheese.

With all this drama taking place seven hours a day, possibly five or more days a week,  in just about any office setting, non-profit or academia,  it’s not surprising that by the end of a workday, workers are exhausted, anxious and frustrated with depleted mojos.  Moreover, to think they are up the next morning ready to repeat the same drama-different day routine.  

I will continue to send out resumes and pray for a job to pay the bills. I will also continue to bask in the extra time I have with my hobbies and not allow them to end up in the drawer of forgotten items when a job breaks through.

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Is it okay?

I AM ANGRY…is it okay?

I am angry at my unemployment, my lack of finances, at the discriminating practices of thirty -something hiring managers in the position of deciding my fate. I am angry at having to live in one room of a clutter-infested apartment. I am angry with my county, my country, at the Republicans, at the President and the lack of health insurance and my unexpected weight gain.

 I am angry with dog walkers who do not clean up after their pooches and I am angry with people who abuse animals. I am angry with mom for reminding me I ate one too many chips from the super size bag she bought.

I am angry at the liquor store that sells my favourite wine and I am angry at my inability to stop drinking after two glasses. I am angry my dogs demand to be walked in 20-degree coldness with sleet coming down and black ice on the ground.

I am angry at my hair for refusing to grow and ridiculing me every morning after it had a night of partying and wild abandonment while I was asleep, passed out and snoring. I am angry with last years’ boots that refuse to die even though the traction has long eroded and because  of “waste not want not” I cannot discard them as I would a broken television set or a broken heart…

I AM GRATEFUL…is it ok?

I am grateful for my dogs because they make me laugh on a daily basis. I am grateful for “The Best Christmas Present Ever”, and for the fifteen inches of snow that makes the world seem like a beautiful place even though it eventually  turns yellow and dirty and the truth is exposed.

 I am grateful for the house I have known for forty something years and the comfort and protection it gives on bleak and stormy days. I am grateful for the food on the table, which gives me the ability to exercise and the excuse to eat more. I am grateful for belonging to a church that supports my spiritual growth and reminds me by way of divine intervention not to curse out the parishioner who just insulted me…

I am grateful my mom made it through the surgery to remove a cancerous tumour from her colon. I am grateful she tolerated her chemo treatments while making fun of her port and losing some hair. I am grateful she is here to nag me about eating too many chips.

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Dog Speak

Tobias and Pi Patel are two mini Schnauzers who are my dogs. They are seven years old, salt and pepper and have distinct personalities.  Pi (no, not named for pizza pie or the mathematical Pi but after a fictional character from a great book,) is “Fabio” in disguise. He is vain, loud, obnoxious, bullyish and cannot stand competition.  Tobias, (Toby) is a rodent hunter, always on duty patrolling for mice, squirrels or birds, sweet, caring and loves to be loved.  Both thrive on one word commands such as: Sit, Stay, Come, Down, Off, Up, Speak,  Biscuit,  Paw,  Be,  Left,  Bed,  Get,  No,  Drop, and Take. If you attempt to use a full sentence you will get the head cocked to the side, ears pointed straight up, eyes bulging, which, translates to, “This is America! Speak one word please!”  

Our communication is simple-they bark, I speak and we do not understand a word or bark the other is saying. What we do understand are the intonations and sounds behind the language. My one-word commands can be soft and high-pitched or stern and grumpy. If I say, “sit” using the latter, their butts will touch the floor in less than two seconds. If I ‘m soft, they will look at me with bulging eyes, smiling (yes, dogs do smile) and display “feign deafness”.

Their bark or “dog speak” does not contain syllables, complex English sentence structure or accented punctuation but rather tonality. Pitch makes up the tones and can distinguish if a bark signifies playtime, contentment or threatened and guarded. Toby and Pi‘s bark usually falls within these two categories and does not include mewing, snorting, burping etc.-that’s another subject to write about! 

Their high pitch bark is present at greetings, playtime in the park or asking for another Bisquick (yes, the pancake). Deep pitched barks usually accompanied by guttural growls signifies someone coming in the main door and most especially someone coming in the main door who they don’t like which means everyone.

Can Toby and Pi comprehend my commands?  Yes. And that depends on intonation. Comprehension is conducive to intonation. If the tone normally used for the command is askew there will be interference in the dog’s perception and reactions which will likely result in “feign deafness syndrome”.  

Can Toby and Pi Patel understand English? No. If I say the word “sit” in Spanish using the tone associated with it, their butts will hit the floor in the same two seconds. “Sit” would also work, with the correct intonation in Japanese, German or just about any language, although the East African language of Sandawe with its clicks may pose a problem.  

Dog speak is dog speak. I speak. Toby and Pi speak. We are communicating on a continual basis whether we understand the language or not. Creating a bond between animal and caregiver is dependent upon communication whether verbal or non-verbal.  Without it, our relationships would be sterile and void of emotion.

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The Best Christmas Present Ever-edited by Mykl

This last Christmas, I received the best Christmas present ever. It was not a coveted Amazon gift card nor fuzzy mittens. It was not designer soaps that end up banished inside the dresser drawer, never to see daylight again. And it was not chocolate. This best Christmas present ever came from an immediate family member and was given to me right before dinner.

My best Christmas present ever was actually a full-blown verbal assault. The wounds inflicted by this person were emotional, therefore invisible. It would have been horrible to spend Christmas seething and putting imaginary band aids on these invisible wounds, so I left the scene of verbal carnage. Once I got back home, I realized there was nothing to eat in the fridge. My empty fridge, on Christmas day, was just imaginary peroxide poured on the invisible wounds. My customary Christmas ham and Chardonnay wine was replaced by Japanese takeout food and two servings of hot sake. During my solitary dinner, I realized it did not feel like Christmas anymore.

How, you might ask, does this event fit into the realm as the best Christmas present ever? During a phone call to a close friend, I described the emotional slaughter.

“My Christmas was ruined,” I babbled. Then I tried to calmly explain what had happened. While I rattled on, he listened silently. 

“Don’t you realize you got the best Christmas present ever,” he responded, in his most polite and enthusiastic voice.

“How is that,” I ask.

“You don’t have to attend a dinner again. You are finally free. Don’t you see it?”

Up until he said that, I did not see it. His words made it perfectly clear. There will be no more ‘putting up with,’ no more criticisms, no more smirkiness, no more laziness and no more drunkenness. There will be no more nasty little snide remarks. But most importantly, the narcissistic personality disorders of not one, but two family members, are gone.

“Your mother got the chance to see it. All those years of telling her about their treatment towards you, always with her ambivalent responses, has now paid off. She got to see and hear it,” my friend said.

Suddenly I realized that emancipation had finally arrived.

There are two sides to every story, as my mom often reminds me, and yes, this writing, is  my side. I do not foresee any interviews taking place with the other participants of the best Christmas present ever. Not now, not at any time in the future and not anywhere on the horizon, that I can see.

“Is it OK to eliminate this episode, in its entirety,” I asked myself. I believe so. What will it accomplish and why rehash old wounds. There will be no clarification or justification coming, none offered. Besides, this is my version of the best Christmas present ever.

What makes this somewhat surreal is the fact that I was verbally attacked by a thirty-something (I’m somewhat older) that felt the urge to suggest my need of meds to control some perceived psychosis they imply I suffer from.

I see this family member, maybe three or four times a year. We seldom talk on the phone. There is little FaceBook communication. (Does clicking on the “like” button count?) Never-the-less, this family member believes they have the authority to prescribe what I need to be taking to be in control of whatever psychosis they imagine I have. This is only a part of what was unleashed but it is the part that bothers me the most.

Our family season of dinners starts with the traditional Thanksgiving. This leads into Christmas and culminates with Easter. Dinners from earlier years were always at my mom’s apartment. She would park herself in the kitchen, preparing culinary delights with a West Indian/Spanish flair. She would be working in that kitchen from morning until long after the other siblings had gone home. She spent all her time cooking, serving, pouring, carving and doing whatever was necessary for a large family dinner. She worked at cleaning all the dishes, the pots and pans, the serving platters and ended the day putting the apartment back in order and completely cleaned.

Fragmentation within the family arose and began to grow. Over the years, dinners and gifts became sparse, in quantity and quality.

Those family dinners became a battleground, a family form of conflict. They were filled with critical and hurtful words. Angry and derogatory words. Judgemental and sarcastic words. My communication was ignored by them talking over it. The constant use of words such as idiot, fool, stupid, and many others, were used to describe me. Constantly being baited and goaded, over and over, year in and year out, eventually caused reactions of the most unfavorable kind. Attending these dinners eventually turned me into a reactionist. These family dinners were a form of sadistic torture. Continuing to attend these events, to please a certain family member, makes me a masochist. I always silently hoped that maybe this time, maybe this one dinner, will turn out differently.

Absolving myself of toxic family members, removing myself from family dinners is indeed the best Christmas present ever. Because it validates my existence, my integrity, my sense that I am a person that deserves respect. That validation, that sense of self-respect is the best Christmas present ever.

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Good Morning

“Good Morning”, a greeting of two words, holds the potential to influence whether a day will begin on an upbeat wave or in dourness.  These words are easy to say with little strain on the vocal chords but often neglected at the start of each day.

Did you utter, “Good Morning”, first thing, upon awakening to your children, parents, lover, roommate or spouse today?  Did your dog or cat hear these words with an affectionate pat? If you live alone, did you bother to say it to yourself while brushing your teeth?

Then again, did you wake up and immediately rehashed the arguments from the night before or greeted a family member with comments on bad breath, sleeping habits, ill-fitting pajamas or did you kick your dog or cat out of the your way en route to the bathroom?  The following might occur if your negative greeting was the start of another’s’ day:

The recipient of the rehashed argument, emotionally reacting, may get into a fit of road rage on the drive to work and face serious consequences.

The family member subjected to criticism of bad breath or whatnot may be a teacher at a public school- imagine the damage he/she inflicted on a student’s self-esteem who did not do their homework correctly?

The dog or cat kicked out of your way to the bathroom may be in a corner whimpering from an injury you caused.

Imagine if “Good Morning” greeted the recipient of the rehashed argument instead of harsh words and unresolved hurts. A pleasant drive listening to great tunes might have ensued replacing the possible road rage incident. This may also have led to a pleasant “Good Morning” greeting at co-workers once arriving at work. In turn, “Good Morning” would have a way of twinkling down and paying it forward as co-workers in turn may pass along the greeting, setting the tone of another’s workday.

“Good Morning” to the family member who is a teacher might absolve the student and possibly garner special attention during study time for help with homework. The dog or cat instead of sustaining an injury could be sleeping on its favourite chair awaiting your return home.

I live alone with two dogs (Tobias and Pi Patel) and make it a point to start the day, no matter how bad I have slept or who wronged me the day before with “Good Morning”. In fact, we have a morning routine that starts with doggie yoga, stretching, petting and singing. What a wonderful way to begin each day and it carries forward unto the morning walk with the dogs, where neighbours are greeted with those two words and into my morning jog where “Good Morning” springs forth to pedestrians and other joggers along the park path. Of course, not all greetings are reciprocated. When it is, I am acknowledged, what a feeling -I exist on the face of this earth! Moreover, when it is not I still feel good for saying it and recognizing another’s existence and placement.

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They Come Up Sometimes

Baby Bottle from the hospital

Crying, wrinkled and 6 lbs, I entered the world at 11:48pm within the delivery room at Brooklyn Jewish Hospital on January 11, 1964. As I emerged headfirst into a sterile fluorescent lit room, who can speculate if the forced expulsion from a warm human swim tank was the motive behind the crying? On the other hand, did hunger pangs, craving for food, stimulate the response? My steadfast rejection of mom’s humongous milk-filled breast confirmed that food was not the reason for the tears. I wanted nothing to do with food and after hours of coaxing and belly rubs, I gave in to the bottle.

Mom’s strict pregnancy diet, administered by Dr. Katz, resulted in little weight gain and assuming this affected the fetus, my eating habits became cemented in the womb. I emerged with an eating disorder while mom returned easily to her pre-pregnancy weight of 125 lbs.

I refused to eat during the formative years of 1-7 and inherited the label of “fussy eater”.  Processed food was gaining preference and Lipton Tea with Pep milk (condense milk in a can) and spoonfuls of Domino sugar were my staples. In the morning, in the afternoon, Lipton Tea was the main course but not before bed. By then the sugar highs of the day had worn off and sleep was eminent. Mom could not get me to eat. Breakfast was the biggest battle, as I abhorred the usual milk and cereal course, unless it was loaded with mounds of white sugar. This battle I won continuously until Mom started to think.

“Elenita, turn off the TV and eat your cereal.”

“Where’s the sugar?”

“We don’t have any left.”

“I can’t eat it then.”

“Bubie, come here I have something very important to tell you. You’re old enough to know   this and it’s important to know.”

“Sure mommy, what is it? Did J***y do something again? I saw her do it. She did it on purpose too.”

“Oh no Elenita, this is about the worms.”

“In the backyard?”

“No, in the stomach.”

“What?!!!!”

“Little one, did you know that you have worms in your stomach?”

“Really?”

“Oh yes hunny. Did you ever wonder why your stomach growls? It’s the worms and when your stomach growls it’s them telling you that they are hungry.”

“Mommy, is that true?”

“Oh yes. And you know what happens if you don’t feed them?”

“No, what happens?”

“Well if you don’t feed them they eventually crawl up your stomach to your throat and choke you!”

My eating disorder miraculously disappeared. Food was no longer a problem. Forget refined sugar. I ate my Kellogg’s cereal and milk without it as if it were caviar and crackers.

I grew older and my tastes became refined. Chef Boyardee, Spam, Vienna sausages, pizza, hot dogs, bologna, made its way into my mouth while broccoli, spinach, lettuce, peas and just about any vegetable, made its way behind the radiators. Going to the bathroom with a mouthful of food to spit into the toilet was so cliché, a typical thing to do and not worth the trouble of concealment. I had to make a statement and disposing of the unwanted food in this manner was my “dirty little secret” which worked well, until the rotten, decomposed ordour, with the flock of roaches underneath, led to discovery, by mom.

T o say Mom was amused would be inappropriate. She was perplexed and unsure what the crime warranted in terms of punishment. The brown belt would have been severe. While Mom thought through the options, she also sought relief by informing everyone in the immediate family of my crimes against vegetables. Of course, she didn’t realize the family’s laughter and ridicule for a month would be sufficient punishment in itself. Eventually the need to punish faded but the memory of the food behind the radiator was a constant source of laughter especially around Thanksgiving when food was the focal point.

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Father’s Day June 18, 2000-excerpt

I last heard my Dad’s voice when he visited my eldest sibling to say goodbye to his grandchild on the way to the airport en route to Jamaica. I was twelve at the time and my niece was his first grandchild.

The irony of Dad’s solitary return to Jamaica was that he had left Jamaica as a married man with a wife and kids. He arrived in America in 1953 with three children, to reunite with his wife, my mom, who had travelled previously to secure lodgings for the family. The family settled in Washington Heights, NYC, because Dad found a job as a Super in a large apartment complex. My parents saved money and eventually bought a three family brick house in Park Slope, Brooklyn purposely avoiding the West Indian community on Eastern Parkway.

I became his fourth child on January 11, 1964 and his place as a nuisance in our six person fragmented family became apparent as I began to dissect the relationships amongst adults.  During my formative years, his contributions to my development were few and not substantial as his focus was on concealing his taste for Fleischman’s Whisky.

Dad lived in the finished basement while Mom, the siblings and me, lived on the first floor, 5-room apartment. When she was at home, mom ruled the first floor with a semi iron fist while Dad was a nod in passing. ‘Yes we know you’re here, not to our liking, but we have no choice but to greet you with a nod and an occasional grunt’.  He worked as a plumber, repairing pipes and whatnot of buildings in the area and I’m not sure, if he was self-employed or company employed. He left in the morning, came home, ate, went to bed only to repeat the routine the following day. 

Our father/daughter bonding took place at five o clock, Monday through Friday over a shot of Fleishman’s whisky, Dad’s method of relaxing at the end of the day and for me, nothing better to do.  With the whisky filled to the rim and holding our shot glasses (thumbs and forefingers), our glasses met in an unspoken toast and consumed in one take. Our ritual afforded a drink and nothing else.  The burning of the throat ceased some time ago along with the grimacing. As a dog that desperately waits for its masters’ approval, I too waited for the nod that approved of my emptied glass.  Whisky was much better than Ovaltine chocolate milk in the mindset of a seven-year old trying to connect with her father through any means possible.

My siblings were the recipients of Dad’s verbal and controlling abuse in Jamaica-West Indies-not Jamaica, Queens. I was born in Brooklyn, New York in America and for eleven years, Dad the semen donor, was a figure without much substance; he took up space without any useful purpose.

 Mom, my mom, sought refuge from the husband by way of her 9-5 job and Saturdays where outings with the “girls” (aka her sister) was spent at Roseland for ballroom dancing and socializing. Those Saturday nights would find me clinging to her high-heeled choice of the evening,  begging for her to stay home instead of leaving me in the babysitting hands of my brother and sister who took great pleasure in torturing and teasing me while watching Creature Feature horror films. The oldest sister was always out on a date with a boyfriend who eventually became her husband.

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A Dog in Honduras

At one time, I was a good-looking dog, that is before I came to live in Tela Vieja. Right now, I’m living quite well under a shack behind a hotel with sand for my bed and cool breezes at night.

I arrived here, young and skinny with a toned body. My face was handsome until the fight with the pit bull over territory. He bit off my left ear and left a bloody stump, which the sand flies feasted on for days. However, the right one looks okay and my teeth are sound.

 Before I came here, I lived with a man whom I called “Jefe”. Along with his wife and son, we lived on someone else’s property in a small wooden one-room house. It had a tin roof, dirt floor and a door to close at night. The kitchen was out back, andconsisted of a pit with a spoke for cooking and a concrete slab for a table.

The son was small and frail with grayish skin that resembled a fish. He might not have been well because he stayed in bed most of the time and when he did come out, the wife put him in a hammock by the palm trees. He could not walk or maybe he did not know how. I was not sure but maybe we could have played together.

The wife was not nice to me. She worked all day, cleaning and taking care of the son. Her body was hunched over and she had deep lines running through her face, which did not add to her looks. She never missed a chance to hit me with the broom whenever I sneaked into the house for shade or in search of food scraps. I usually ran and hid in the weeds which  made her angry.

I loved Jefe!   I knew what he thougt and what he was going to do because it was easy to read him. “¿Perro, que estas hacienda?”,  he would sing or say to me with sluryy words. He was a happy man who worked hard in the fields returning home covered in dirt. He was stocky and round with brown hair and an unshaven face topped off with a black hat and a feather sticking out on one side. He had the widest brown eyes that smiled at me when I pleased him.

Jefe loved to play games of paper with other men. They would sit around the concrete slab out behind the house and throw paper at each other. The paper had funny drawings on it and every time Jefe played with them, green paper that was kept in his pocket ended up on the table. If Jefe gave away many green papers during the game, we went hungry. During the last game , I think he finally made the connection with giving away the green but it was too late.

For two weeks, the family did not have enough food. Jefe would say, “¿What do I do now?” to the air and the son cried endlessly, “I’m hungry. When are we going to eat?” The wife walked around talking to herself and pulling out strands of her hair. She beat me senseless when I got in her way.

At the end of the first week, Jefe had to steal mangoes from the neighbour’s year. The wife screamed at him for embarrassing her and he spent the rest of the day with his head hung low with shame. I had a hard time trying to eat those mangoes due to their shape and my mouth but my stomach was knotty and hurt from hunger.

The end of the second week Jefe broke down and stole a bag of rice from the Mercado. He stared at me and I swore he said, “Meat would go nice with the rice. ¿Como cocinar?” Later I heard him ask the wife, “Should I season it first?” In addition, she was too quick with her instructions on seasoning ‘tough meat’.

At that point, I knew there was no choice but to take my chance on the streets. I made my way down to the hotels near the beach. I figured food was not far from where humans playbecause humans and garbage were inseparable.

My life is now on the streets and I cannot complain. I hunt for food in the morning and at night; the dumpsters behind the hotels are packed with discarded meats and moldy bread. Weekends are wonderful because the city people rush to the beach with their picnic baskets. They invade the area for leisure and pleasure and I can smell the food in their baskets. Sometimes its arroz con frijoles (rice and beans) sometimes pan de coco o (coconut bread) and on rare occasions pork or steak. My stomach growls and I salivate at the aromas.

When they leave on Sundays, the discarded food, which they call garbage, stays behind. I have to fight with the local perros to get at the food. First, I chase away from the food, down the beach, then run back and grab it before the others get it. The others are the turkey vultures and they are vicious but I can outsmart them most of the time.