How Long Is Now?

Jimmy

"I am the grandson of a slave, and I am a writer. I must deal with both... Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing"
James Baldwin, one of my favorite writers

...

Almost a year has gone by and I am still left in complete awe by the natural beauty of this country. I have to admit that at times I take these things for granted since I am in the city most of my days. Even here, when I let my guard down and I allow myself to be penetrated by the things around me, I actually get a little emotional and overwhelmed, and sometime cry by the beauty of the simplest things. I am so connected to this island and why wouldn’t I be having been born here and belonging to a long line of Dominican descendants; nonetheless, I feel like it doesn’t belong to me, like I don’t belong here. Then out of nowhere I see my favorite galletas that grandma use to serve me with coffee and milk back in Boston when I was a little girl. I look at the fresh juicy limonsillos (kenepas, mamones) on my way home from work and can’t help to remember getting a batch for a US$1 at the corner stores of Massachusetts and New York.  As I wipe the tears off my face, I ask my self why I was crying in the first place. I am still not all sure why, I can only guess. Perhaps the fact that I am experiencing all of this things that connect with my loved ones who are not here, I am alone, yet they belong in each of the stories that I find throughout these streets. 

Berlin

I have to say that Berlin was one of my favorite cities in Europe. It was full of history, museums, diversity, great public transportation, good food, and amazing night life. During my trip I was able to see the bust of Queen Nefertari, the Berlin wall (or what's left of it), the Halocaust Memorial, the Brandenburg Gate, the Hotel where Michael Jackson revealed his son Blanket from the hotel balcony, the famous greek mythology wall and a series of other spectacular things. I see myself going back to this city and getting to know it a bit closer.

Junior

When I first arrived to this country I didn't have a job or any obligations. My days were long and consisted of lots of walking, sightseeing, learning and long talks with my friend Junior. A fruit seller, Junior would sell me the sweetest mangos and pineapples. He was young, around my age; he emigrated from Haiti in order to make a little more money to help out his family back home. He knew some Spanish, enough to get through the day and sell fruits, but I would teach him some more while he taught me a little Creole.

I continue to refer to Junior in the past tense because two days ago he was killed. Junior was sitting in the usual corner where he sold fruits, talking to one of his friends when out of no where a pick up truck lost control, climbed on the side walk, and left him dead. I moved from that block many months ago and it had been a while since I'd seen him; still, he was one of the first friends I made in the DR.

His death impacted me more than I would have imagined. I went to the sight of the accident yesterday and was confronted by his blood still laying on the floor, fruits of all sorts dramatically scattered on the sidewalk and street, gloves tainted with blood that were left behind by the paramedics, and dozens of pieces of the plastic chair he always sat on.

I don't understand how and why things of this nature occur. I get it we all have to die, but why like this. This young man left his native country, his family and friends to come here and make a living, he didn't hurt anyone in the process and wasn't involved in risky activities, he was just sitting there selling his fruit on the sidewalk and was killed by an out of control driver. My friend who also knew him, told me to put this in the "things I will never understand box" and just leave it there to accumulate dust. I just hope that he didn't suffer, that his energies have been peacefully channeled and transferred to something great. Junior, thank you for your smile, the discounts and free fruits, and for just being you.

Stockholm

So this is the best that I could do for a picture from my trip to Stockholm. What can I say about this city/country? First of"all it was very clean, there were many tall blue eyed blond people, they sold everything in the form of a paste at the supermarket, Absolute Vodka comes from this place, and they have a palace with a real king and queen and princesses and prince. I enjoyed my time at the karaoke bar singing "Sweet Home Alabama" and "Summer of 69"and the hostel on a boat with cute Italians was also very cool, but the truth of the matter is that I didn't love it. I didn't really spend much time there and I didn't hang out with any locals, which would have definitely made a difference. I would have loved see the underground hip hop spots and a little more of the cultural and not consumerist side of the this city. 

A fresh voice...

I shared her blog with you before, but just in case you forgot here it is again. Her name is Fabia Oliveira and she is a dreamer, a wonderful friend and an incredibly good mom. Most importantly, in my opinion of course, she is the most honest person I know. She will say the things that other mothers are too afraid to admit and dream the things that other dreamers are to afraid to dream. Looking forward to her weekly posts!


http://mrslivingthenewdream.blogspot.com/

HOPELESS ROMANTIC

I took this picture way up high in these beautiful valleys that surround the French Riviera, they are called Le Calanques. "Je t'aime" means I love you in French.

My first weekend out in town!

This picture does a good job at describing the euphoric feelings and emotions that were running through my mind and soul during the end of the first week in Marseille. I remember the headaches from speaking in French all day every day, the excitement of being a 21 year old in a fun city, and of course, how can I forget the beginning of my six month affair with the Mediterranean sea!

My first week in Marseille

Mis Aventuras Around Europe and the Morocco

Sadly, I didn’t keep a blog while I was traveling abroad—I mean studying abroad—in France. It was an unbelievable experience and luckily I kept a journal, remember those with white pages, blue line, where you can write with this stick with ink called a pen? Well that journal is back at my mother’s home in Boston, so as I sit here reminiscing of my amazing time abroad, I will tell a little of my story through some of the fun pictures I took. Enjoy!

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