Not Cool For Cats.

The cat was staring at me and I stared right back at it. There was a mixture of the deer in the headlights and what the fuck are you going to do about it look in the cats eyes. It knew I had caught him taking a shit in the flower bed and it was waiting for my move.

I leaned my bike against the shed and slowly bent down to pick up a rock never breaking eye contact. I made my best baseball pitchers impression and whipped the stone in the direction. CRACK! The stone hit the fence no more than a foot away from the cat. The cat jumped four feet into the air, skidded across the damp lawn, and scrambled over the fence into the neighbours yard. It was never my intent to hit the cat just to scare the shit out of it. Which I'm sure I did literally.

The next morning I go through my routine and head to the back door. I slide open the glass door and start to walk out when I get a feeling like I should look down.

Right where my foot would have landed there is a tightly coiled pile of cat shit. The little fucker almost got his revenge.

This is one of the many reasons I think cats are the evil spawn of Satan himself. Well that and the fact that I'm allergic to them.

This story is true. You can ask my mom.

The Confusion.

In two hours we will be getting the fuck out of Dodge and heading north to the border. Frankly I can’t wait, but I don’t want to go home. Things I don’t want to deal with are sitting at the border waiting for me and those devils will always find you.

What’s the last thing you decide to do before you walk 4km with a backpack on your back? Decide to go to your local Starbucks. We jay walk across the street from the hostel to the Starbucks throw our bags on the floor and table.

First things first I order my Americano (I am in the land of the free after all) then it’s on to flirt with the cute barista who is asking where we are from. There is no one behind us in the line so we have a bit of time to chat as I move down the bar to wait for my warm beverage (caution contents are hot) and the other barista joins in the conversation. We talk Canada something I could do all day, and what patriot couldn’t.

Finally I get my drink and I head to the island where I can get cream and a lid for my drink to be greeted by an older Mexican man with a wild smile on his face. He gives me a wink, and I’m pretty sure my face went to the perplexed “what the fuck face” pretty quick.

He throws up both hands as if to surrender and goes in a thick Spanish accent “No No, No…That was for the Senorita.”
I respond with relief “Oh! No worries.” It was a good thing because I needed to take a piss and I didn’t need him trying to rape me in the bathroom.

I head to sit down at the table with Darryl moving my bag of beer and cds from my chair onto the table plop down to enjoy my last coffee in America. Just then this tanned arm reaches around me and grabs my bag on the table. In quick response I grab it and pull it down to the table and say “This is mine.”

The wild smiling Mexican man shakes his head and in his thick accent says “No!”
“I’m serious this is mine not yours,” and he releases looking around the store and the smile fades.

This is it. I’m going to die in 2hrs before heading home. Shanked prison style in a fucking Starbucks. A fucking coffee house. I’ve wasted my life.

He realizes his bag is on the table next to us and apologizes. That’s it I think it is done. He will leave us alone I can go on with my coffee,  the goose bumps can recede, and I won’t die in America this trip.

The wild smile is back and he comes to introduce himself as Salvador Sanchez but won’t leave us alone. I’m trying to quicken our conversation to an end so we can get out of there or he will leave us alone. He regales his life story in an accent I can’t quite break and our faces probably show panic. Eventually a Spanish speaking employee comes and helps get rid of Salvador for us, and after he leaves all the baristas let out a “what the fuck?” Under their breath but within ear shot of Darryl and I.

We chat about it for a few more minutes then rush off to catch our bus back to Canada. I think I'm done with this country for a while.

 

The Tourist.

Weaving between fish mongers and fruit merchants I’m flagged down by two locals. Clearly I’ve been spotted for what I am another tourist in another tourist trap. I am caught off guard and pulled from my thoughts to answer a question.

“You like hip-hop?”
“Ah yeah? I guess…” I bumble out. To confused by why I got asked this strange question in a foreign land.
“I could by your t-shirt. It’s pretty neat.”
“Um... sure I guess so. Why else would I buy a shirt?”

My shirt isn’t a hip-hop shirt. It isn’t advertising Run DMC, K-OS, or NWA. It’s a plain blue shirt with some kind of funky jazzed up Aztec drawing some designer at Old Navy thought would be hip.

“Can I free style for you?” says one of the guys in some kind of traditional Peruvian knit hat.
“And if you like what you hear you can buy his album” chimes in the bigger and more intimidating of the two.
“Sure…shoot,” I’m not going to lie I’m nervous. This shit is a little to weird and a little to shady to be going down in a farmers market.

With a clear of his throat this guy starts spitting rhymes right there amongst crappy tourist novelties, papaya, and fish that didn’t smell all that ripe.

I am floored. This guy is spectacular. After he finishes He introduces himself as Rajnii Eddins and his bigger more intimidating friend Greg. We get to chit chatting about the piece he had performed and about some of the turmoil of being an independent artist. I end up picking up his disc of his Greg who is a genuinely appreciative of me for giving my time and money to hear his friend Rajnii. Apparently it doesn’t happen often.

There is something to be said about getting your music heard this way. If you are passionate about your craft I’m sure you will do anything to share it and eventually you will be rewarded with a captive audience.