Yes, i know, im just about to go to bed. Before I go… I’m here in Bogota, where a big hotel suite and crisp air combined with overcast skies and strong coffee seem to juice the mojo and inspire me to hit the keyboard. How do I end up here so often? I feel like the “hungry ghost” mentioned by the late Bourdain. I wander these cities, some more than others in search of something. At times I return again and again to haunt these areas, leaving pieces of myself behind. As i turn the idea over in my mind (always at night and when alone) I stumble on bits of clues as to why I do it. I am searching for authenticity. Authentic experiences, authentic interaction. I need the real. I am addicted to it. Hence why you will never see me haunting a cruise ship or an all inclusive resort. I can read a brochure and know exactly what that entails. I need something else. a kind of adventure, a kind of lust, a big fat fucking jump out of the comfort zone. Colombia in almost any iteration is dangerous. You absolutely NEED to be aware of your surroundings. As I talk to a range of people here though they say its gotten exceptionally better over the last decade.
I was never drawn to the easy places. London, Paris, Barcelona…all amazing cities in their own right with rich heritage and all quite easy to be robbed in, but also choked with loud tourists, selfies sticks and the circus that goes along with it. I don’t haunt those places, I only visit from time to time, typically for a long layover. Often to confirm my suspicions. I have a deep seated affection for visiting a place with no preconceived positive connotation and letting that place blast me with the magic. I have yet to fully unravel the mystery that lands me in certain places again and again. I can feel the urge to return. I think if I had to guess this would boil down to two primary things. People and food. the building blocks of any destination. Latin people, and the ingenuity they invest into their food/passion simply can not be overlooked, or god forbid ignored. I’ve been coming to Colombia for five years now and feel as if each city is its own country. from the coastal spots to the inner mountainous region, its really between Medellin and Bogota for me. I’ve not spent nearly as much time in Medellin as I have Bogotá simply because I have more people in Bogota and the flights go on sale more often. Each time I see fares under $300.00 I grab at least one. Sometimes up to a year in advance. “Colombia next year for a week”? of course. i’ll make it work. “Better buy two” The addiction for travel works like bread coupons, one can never have enough tickets to the promised land.
I am so moved by the people here, by the heaviness of their situation, that I started a non profit foundation this year to support the people escaping Venezuela into neighboring Colombia. Right now we are focused on artists and supporting their work but will soon expand. Knowing how my mind works, we named this effort The Andino Foundation. The Andes region encompasses Venezuela, Colombia, Ecuador and Peru. This gives me fertile ground to roam and search, finding the good stuff while I hopefully leave the world a bit of a better than when I found it. I have yet to grow tired of wandering. Perhaps I will slow down one day, but in the immediate future, I’m thinking quite the opposite. I’ve been so many places that have the magic, How could I not dig into these locales to the utmost extent?
Well this is a whopping pain in the ass. I packed my gear and headed to a Starbucks here in Bogota. I know I know, how could I patronize the evil empire cause their all big and corporate and stuff. Well amidst all the evil they typically have good Wi-Fi, low chances of stabbing and despite being the coffee capital of the world, I was hankering for a chai. This location is a 10 minute walk from my spot and I decided to go. At times I dig their clever furniture and amazing views from their key locations. This time though I arrive, feeling an urge to get some things out, the overcast skies and some recent events inspiring me to hit the keyboard…But the fight with Starbucks is watching all the seats disappear while you order and wait for your beverage. Found a great spot on the third floor with a view of the park, and then…no Wi-Fi. No Starbucks network, shit just vanished.
I venture to the second floor believing it to be a signal issue. I ask the girl at a nearby table if her Starbucks works in my toddler Spanish, and she says yes it works fine. Well shit. Mine still isn’t here. Give it five minutes, sip that dirty chai, feel that explosive rocket fuel caffeine begin to coarse through your veins like a super power.
Ah! We have arrived! Just when I began to feel a heartbeat behind my eyes the Wi-Fi network mystically appeared and we are good to roll! The network is snappy and seems stable. In our modern dopamine soaked culture its always interesting to be unplugged for a few hours/days, venturing into the unknown while the world stays plugged in. What are they saying about you? Who’s liked your cat photo, who’s talking shit about your bathing suit pic from 5 years again?!?! These mysteries need answering, and they need them now! Except they down. You reconnect and get 3-5 junk notifications (thank god a FB. Garage sale is happening near my home 5,000 miles away, what if I had missed that?!?!
I’ve wandered far and wide in this post and you might be wondering what the hell the title means. Well let me tell you. In short my thesis is that solo travel teaches you grit. That’s important because grit is absolutely unequivocally important in your life. Grit is what gets you there. Facing the fear of the unknown, and pushing ahead regardless. In a place like Bogotá you are surrounded by so much grit. Every hour off every day. From the guy who commutes 2 hours each way to his serving gig, to the hotel staff that continually put in 12 hour days. When I get the opportunity to chat with these folks they rarely if ever complain, they are raising families, stretching budgets, dealing with heartbreak and unimaginable exhaustion. They could lay out their trials and tribulations all day, instead they invariably always tell me about their dreams. I soak it up and carry it with me all day, all week, and all the way home. I LOVE chatting about dreams and goals and ambitions. To me that’s the lifeblood of the human experience . Dreams take grit, and Bogota is saturated with it.
Back to basics. Feels good to write with some fire. I need to remind you, and remain vigilant myself…You are not your career. You are not your job. Your identity is not what you do to sustain yourself monetarily within society. Reducing yourself to any single characteristic, whether it be your title or your job performance, is a deeply damaging act. Just take a look here for trusted words via The Atlantic from Arthur C Brooks. In short, one vital facet of work in modern society is that your company and or institution does not give one flippant fuck about you. None. Zero. Despite all of the mission statements, and the vision boards, the nauseating amount of material about how their “people matter” If you died, they would send an email of condolences and then post an ad for your replacement. They would pay you less money if they could.
As much as our culture currently rails against objectification, this is exactly what the function of the workplace is. You are an object to produce surplus value for the company/shareholders/etc. Anything else is pure delusion. What I am saying is that we need to act accordingly. You are so much more than your fucking job. From the above Atlantic article;
“The case against objectifying others is fairly straightforward. Less obvious but equally damaging is when the objectifier and the person being objectified are one and the same. Humans are capable of objectifying themselves in many ways—by assessing their self-worth in terms of their physical appearance, economic position, or political views, for example—but all of them boil down to one damaging core act: reducing one’s own humanity to a single characteristic, and thus encouraging others to do so as well. In the case of work, that might look like judging one’s self-worth—positively or negatively—based on job performance or professional standing.
Just as our entertainment culture encourages us to self-objectify physically, our work culture pushes us to self-objectify professionally. Americans tend to valorize being driven and ambitious, so letting work take over virtually every moment of your life is concerningly easy. I know many people who talk of almost nothing besides their work; who are saying, essentially, “I am my job.” This may feel more humanizing and empowering than saying “I am my boss’s tool,” but that reasoning has a fatal flaw: In theory, you can ditch your boss and get a new job. You can’t ditch you.”
One way relationships seldom end well. In the case of getting laid off or fired supreme bitterness sets in amidst the scramble. This is a horrendous feeling, you gave everything to this company, and one day it all unexpectedly came crashing down. This is the thing, it doesn’t have to. This process can feel akin to a liberation if prepared for. Countless pundits have acted dumbfounded by the so called “great resignation” seemingly confused and enraged why people under 40 would leave their jobs. Some of us have noticed the blatant hypocrisy and been on this same trek a time or two. Toxic work cultures and shit-tastic compensation models seem to be the business’s hardest hit. Where is the great mystery?
What is the point here? why am I wiring this on an overcast Monday afternoon? I’m certainly not writing this from the “office”. The point is you have agency. You want stability, security, you want not to grind your teeth to dust at night? No one gives that to you. YOU HAVE TO BUILD IT. The beauty is, once you build your own, its like developing your own organic super power. Reclaim your voice, and stop letting things happen to you, and instead make them happen for you.
“Tens of thousands of people, most of them less capable than you, leave their jobs every day. It’s neither uncommon nor fatal. Here are a few exercises to help you realize just how natural job changes are and how simple the transition can be. 1. First, a familiar reality check: Are you more likely to find what you want in your current job or somewhere else? 2. If you were fired from your job today, what would you do to get things under financial control? 3. Take a sick day and post your resume on the major job sites. Even if you have no immediate plans to leave your job, post your resume on sites such as www.monster.com and www.indeed.com, using a pseudonym if you prefer. This will show you that there are options besides your current place of work. Call headhunters if your level makes such a step appropriate, and send a brief e-mail such as the one below to friends and non-work contacts. “Dear All, I am considering making a career move and am interested in all opportunities that might come to mind. Nothing is too outrageous or out of left field. [If you know what you want or don’t want on some level, feel free to add, “I am particularly interested in …” or “I would like to avoid …”] Please let me know if anything comes to mind! -You Call in sick or take a vacation day to complete all of these exercises during a normal 9–5 workday. This will simulate unemployment and lessen the fear factor of non-office limbo.”
Instead of reading more news on the recession or interest rate hikes or other things outside of your direct control, really narrow in on #2 above. Make a plan. Build a figurative financial “bomb shelter”. Be as prepared as possible to move on in the direction that you want and or need. Remember you are not alone.
Have you been fired? Have you left a job? What strategies helped you get through it? Are you in a better place now? Would you do anything differently? Please tell us about it in the comments.
Below is rather pertinent today. I have felt a distinct decline for my beloved profession for quite some time. A kind of impending dread. there is something liberating about acknowledging that something is over, that the rot is systemic, and that one must move on. We cling to the delusions as long as we can, but in the end, reality prevails. Please find the link to the original at the end of the piece. Thank you Joshua Dolezal.
Academe is suffering from foreign occupiers
Lessons from Václav Havel for a profession in decline
“A famous saying goes something like this: If you are not a communist before the age of 20, you have no heart. If you are a communist after the age of 30, you have no head. The line has been falsely attributed to Winston Churchill and many other world leaders, often with “liberal” or “socialist” subbing in for “communist.” The upshot is that age transforms idealism into practical sensibility.
Many of us don’t fit that mold. Just three years shy of 50, I am traveling in Prague, feeling quite at home in a city of dreamers, and drinking deeply at the well of Václav Havel, one of the Czech Republic’s most beloved leaders.
Havel died more than ten years ago, but his legacy of unapologetic idealism continues to influence Czech identity, as the tribute to him in Prague shows. The thought experiment I indulge today risks a narrow view of Havel’s oeuvre. But taking risks was one thing he did best, and so I will forge ahead in that spirit.
In an interview first published in 1991, after the Velvet Revolution restored freedom to the Czech Republic, Havel claims that capitalism and communism equally strip people of their humanity by prioritizing the needs of the corporation or the state. I am convinced that if he could see the way that colleges and universities increasingly function like corporations and sometimes like countries troubled by communist occupiers, Havel would say much the same about higher education today.
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1. It all turns on love
Havel’s core conviction is that human beings should not be forced to accommodate themselves to economic systems, but that social and economic systems should be tailored to human needs and relationships: “Man should be the measure of all structures, including economic structures, and not…be made to measure for those structures.”
An economy that is thoroughly nationalized or centralized, Havel believes, is toxic to relationships.
“Having lost his personal relationship to his work, his company, to the many decisions about the substance and the purpose of his work and its consequences, he loses interest in the work itself…. Everything falls into the enormous pit of impersonal, anonymous, automatic economic functioning, from work done by the least hired hand right up to decisions made by the bureaucrats in the office of central planning.”
It would be entirely consistent with Havel’s message to say that faculty, staff, and students should be the measure of all university structures. The people who define an intellectual community should never be made to measure for a curriculum, a governance system, or an organizational structure.
Yet higher ed flips these priorities – sometimes with the misguided aim of being student-centered, but more often because the institutional brand becomes the imperative that subordinates all human needs to its own. The brand becomes the centralizing principle in the university.
Students want degrees and jobs, but first they want relationships with one another and with passionate teachers. Alumni do not donate money to a school purely to honor a transactional exchange: you got me this high-paying job, and so I’m paying it back. Loyalty flows from nostalgia for places where we knew we were loved. I can think of nothing more destructive to the financial health of an institution than attacking the sources of this love.
One example from my former institution was a new structure for the Matriculation Convocation, when all first-year students gathered in an auditorium for a welcome ceremony that was meant to anticipate their commencement four years later. When I joined the faculty in 2005, the keynote speaker for this convocation was a professor who had won a teaching award the previous spring. That sent a message: faculty matter here. But after the college did some branding work and developed slogans that we were all encouraged to reinforce in our conversations with students, like a party platform, the Matriculation event featured a top-down lineup of President, Vice President, and a newly created administrator called a Class Dean. The professors were to sit quietly in the background in full regalia lending an aura of prestige while three administrators spoke directly to the first-year class.
Some of us entertained ourselves by playing “slogan bingo,” listening for those catch phrases the consultants had crafted that were meant to convey the sense that we were a unified and welcoming community. But what we really cared about were those students looking back at us, who wanted us to be their friends and their guides, and who we saw as our raison d’être.
The sad truth? The brand tries to commodify love. But nobody actually loves the brand.
2. The brand hates experts
The heart of a college or university used to be its faculty. These were the musicians, scientists, and scholars who defined their cities and towns in the way that Michael Jordan once was Chicago. Even in the little hamlet where I worked this used to be true. For many years it was the professor, not the president, who was the face of the college to the community.
I do not mean to suggest that there ever was a golden age in higher education, merely that there were periods when academe functioned much more like Havel’s notion of a humane economy:
“The most important thing today is for economic units to maintain – or, rather, renew – their relationship with individuals, so that the work those people perform has human substance and meaning, so that people can see into how the enterprise they work for works, have a say in that, and assume responsibility for it. Such enterprises must have … human dimension; people must be able to work in them as people, as beings with a soul and a sense of responsibility, not as robots, regardless of how primitive or highly intelligent they may be.”
Now, the foremost imperative is the brand, often associated with revenue generating programs like athletics, proven majors, and new programs that show the institution’s response to market needs.
In this system, faculty expertise is valuable only insofar as it burnishes the brand with a patina of prestige. As the documentary film Operation Varsity Blues explains in its exposé of the college admissions fraud scandal, the word prestige derives from the French term for “conjuring trick” and the Latin praestigium, which means “illusion.”
It does not matter what faculty expertise is, precisely, only that it seems “good” or “elite,” depending on how the institution sees itself. While it is possible that a college might successfully recruit students and balance its budget in this way, doing so estranges faculty from the enterprise they work for, deprives them of a say in it, and strips away their sense of responsibility for it.
I’ll offer another athletic analogy. Pittsburgh Pirates fans the world over know that their owner, Robert Nutting, sees the team solely as a way of enriching his family. He invests only as much in payroll for on-field talent as the team earns in concessions, ticket sales, and parking. This is an absurdly low amount ($55-75 million-ish, depending on the year). He keeps the lion’s share of the profits from television and other sources ($200+ million). I can’t imagine any player ever wanting to stay in Pittsburgh, because their employer clearly does not value their talent for its own sake or care about them as people. If they succeed, they will see no reward, even if their achievement increases the value of the Pirate brand to its owner’s benefit. Few colleges or universities can skim millions of dollars in profit off the backs of their faculty, but many academics feel like Pirate ballplayers: passionate about their craft, devoted to their students (or fans), but scorned by those in charge of the money.
A professor has typically completed six years of graduate school and sacrificed more lucrative professional prospects to become an expert in their field. Participating meaningfully in a university community means being seen as a scholar, valued for that specific expertise, and promoted for those unique credentials by the institution. If the things that matter to a scholar with a high command of her craft hold little influence over the enterprise paying her salary, she naturally feels an ebbing responsibility to that enterprise.
If this seems petty, consider the rising rates of suicide among faculty: what one scholar calls “an invisible crisis.” Three sources from my research on faculty departures from academe have told me that they suffered stress-induced heart attacks that they believe were triggered by feelings of invisibility or futility at their institutions. One former professor told me that his wife gave him an ultimatum — their marriage or his job — because she was sure the job would kill him inside of a year. These are high-performing professionals who embrace challenges. It’s not the workload that’s killing them, it’s the waning sense of purpose. The feeling that they simply do not matter within their own enterprise.
I recall a meeting at my college years ago that was billed as strategic planning for the arts. A consultant had been hired to help with that, and he tipped his hand at one point by rhapsodizing about how the arts create a feeling of “us-ness.” A colleague of mine, a poet, recognized that the real purpose of the meeting was to appropriate art for a budget purpose: student retention. “I thought we were going to talk about the arts,” he said. I’m not sure I had ever seen him angry before that day.
3. Budgets should serve human beings. Human beings do not exist to serve budgets.
The brand supposedly attracts students, who pay tuition, which balances budgets. Because the brand creates a corporate identity, budget managers occupy positions with the most compensation and status. It is not lost on faculty that the next level of advancement beyond the rank of full Professor is typically a deanlet position that can build the resume necessary for further advancement into what some of us call the administrati.
Havel would say that this is a structural problem, because most incentives lead away from teaching, research, and service, the relationship-driven work that ought to lie at the heart of what a college or university is. When excellence in teaching is not affirmed or incentivized in the way that excellence in budget management is, teachers feel another painful blow to their sense of responsibility for the enterprise.
The structure for advancement in academe mimics corporate models. But the main difference in how academe actually functions is that healthy corporations have structures for sharing budget management. The scarcity of resources in academe, increasing opaqueness about how those resources are allocated, and the gradual removal of faculty oversight over budgets is much more like a communistic state than a corporation.
When I began directing a first-year seminar near the beginning of my tenure, I enjoyed nearly complete autonomy over how that generous budget was spent: on visiting speakers, on a workshop for faculty teaching the course for the first time, and on other events that enriched the program. Some years later, during a second term as director, I logged on to my computer one morning to discover that I no longer had access to the budget at all. The funds had been removed without any warning and pooled with a pot of other dwindling monies that was now overseen by an associate dean. There were no dollar amounts that I could count on for anything. Every expenditure required a separate appeal to the associate dean, who had to clear it with his superior (the actual dean), which became a form of abasement that any self-respecting expert ought to abhor.
Faculty know better than most how to live frugally. They lived in poverty for years to complete their degrees. They can be trusted to understand limits on resources, and they will do wonders with those resources if allowed to function as collaborative equals rather than as underlings grubbing for a favor from their superiors in The Party.
An occupied homeland
Academics have a lot in common with Czechs. Neither group aspires to build empires. Each is proud of its heritage but has no interest in colonizing others. When either group is deprived of its freedom or pressed into a general mediocrity by an occupying force, it prefers nonviolent resistance and persuasion.
Some can only face the future as emigrés once their homeland has been seized. Others persist and adapt as best they can. But academics and Czechs do not stop thinking of themselves as countrymen whether they stay or go.
As an emigré from higher education, I have sometimes convinced myself that the academic part of me was the problem. The part that made me different from other people. The part that still believes in the arts and humanities as more than auxiliaries to capitalism. The part of me that needs to play music, write essays, study history, and talk about books for more than 20 seconds to feel truly alive.
While reading Václav Havel and feeling the resonance between his vision for national liberty and my own view of what a healthy college ought to be, I have returned to the conviction that academe is one of my homelands. Many of my kinfolk still live there. The occupying government takes many shapes: accreditation, assessment, consulting, and marketing. The occupiers insist that we align ourselves with their priorities and thus have displaced many of us from anchors of culture, language, and heritage.
The occupying force insists on investing more resources in what has already not been working, such as the absurd new position at the University of California-Irvine: the pedagogical wellness specialist. Instead of paying teachers more, listening to them about what is making their life miserable, and giving them real influence over their own enterprise, UC-Irvine is paying someone with less experience in academe to try to convince academic professionals that they are the ones who need healing, not the system that they are being forced to accommodate. This Emperor truly has no clothes.
One of my sources for The Chronicle of Higher Education described a nightmare scenario at her institution where faculty and staff were gathered into one enormous Zoom call, informed that there would be layoffs, and then asked to stay at their computers to await further news. The layoffs then happened throughout the day in smaller Zoom meetings. Everyone was asked to return to the giant Zoom message at the end of the day to say a prayer for those who were leaving “the family.” Brotherhood and comradeship feature prominently in Communist propaganda, but few oppressors pretend to be brothers or sisters to those they are casting into exile. The cruelty of this can scarcely be overstated.
Those of us who have left academe might come back, like Czechs flooding home after the Soviets left in 1989, if the occupiers could be overthrown. But even if we don’t, we can never stop thinking of the campus and the classroom as our native places. Like the Czechs, our anthem begins with the words “Where is my home?” We know where it is.
All of this might sound like a coda to John Lennon’s “Imagine” if it were not clear that higher education is losing the public trust. People don’t think college is necessarily worth the cost any longer. Many think that college simply helps rig the economy for the rich. And I am but a drop in the sea of faculty who are voluntarily relinquishing hard-earned benefits, such as lifelong tenure, free tuition for their children, and a flexible summer schedule because we believe the unknown is preferable to an iron lid on the horizon.
Freedom came to the Czech Republic. Czechs took back what was rightfully theirs. It is not preposterous to think it could happen in academe.
Havel believed that “a genuinely fundamental and hopeful improvement in ‘systems’ [could not] happen without a significant shift in human consciousness.” He said that it was not possible to enact meaningful change “through a simple organizational trick.” Consultants and new logos and carefully honed messages will not shore up the enterprise of higher education if people are falling out of love with their work and feeling cut off from relationships that sustain them. Bolstering the brand while subordinating people to its uniform imperatives will always outrage the human need for dignity, freedom, and belonging. “
During the height of the pandemic a new bit verbiage emerged to describe being under lockdown and looking at social media feeds everyday. “Doom scrolling” is the term used to describe watching the world meltdown from your phone screen. The ice caps are melting, the penguins are dying, the oceans are full of trash, there is a raging mystery virus etc. holy shit was the news a depressing place to be. And then we ‘moved on.’. The optimism hit a bump and people began mentioning a return to “normalcy” although we weren’t quite sure what that might look like these days. Just as some grains of hope began to fall from the heavens, 20222 dragged us down into a tomb to beat our kidneys with old raggedy bowling pins. Russia has invaded Ukraine… Mass graves are being discovered, millions of people are fleeing to nearby countries, and inflation has come to grind the average American under a rarely understood economic jackboot. Things are looking desperate all over the world. Food prices skyrocketing, possible nuclear warfare, the stock market has been shredded to bloody bits and is now attracting flies. The Crypto bros are in desperate need of new underwear to survive the month, and home buyers are being squeezed by nosebleed prices plus higher interest rates.
So what is to be done?!
Right this minute? Not much. Remember this too shall pass. Off all the geopolitical situations I may read about on a daily basis I can control approximately 0% of them. I’m not saying become an apathetic shit head, or that we have no agency, but there askew things in your direct, intentional life that you CAN control and that will have a direct positive impact on your life. If the news is freaking you out and making you run for a Xanax drip….stop reading it for a while. Take a walk. Take a detox from social media…Take a Fucking breathe. A ball of anxious frustration about the possible future does you and those around you absolutely no good. Like I said before, this too she pass. Stick to your plan. If your plan needs to adapt, then make the necessary changes. I walked to a cafe here in Bogotá where I enjoy the chai latte, and they have an abundance of plants. I walked a mile or so, pondered a few of life’s damnable questions then sat down to unpack some of this shit through words. I know shit is crazy out there, but there are also unabashedly amazing things too. No one I know has been burned at that that stake for witchcraft lately, people are living longer, there is no Spanish Inquisition, we can cook food by frying fucking air…these things are giant leaps over our previous experience here on earth. Remember that before 1800 not a single country on earth had a life expectancy over 40. THINK about that. No grand parents and very few parents. You’d be more concerned with plague or famine anyway.
What I’m saying is you can still embrace optimism, and yield it like a secret super weapon. Optimism is like the force, don’t give into the doom. Become an optimistic Jedi.
…and here we are once again. Rainy days in the Colombian capital. moody mountain views and distant thunder. Strong dark coffee is perfect to fight the afternoon nap feelings. I arrived back in Bogota around 10:30 pm, cleared customs quick, the line was light, and full of edgy defense contractors and people visiting family. I had a contact come and grab me for the very reasonable sum of 30,000 pesos. The car was tiny and possibly a Chinese knock off of a South Korean model. Crammed into the front as non official taxis are a legal grey area we sped toward the pink zone, AKA Zona Rosa, one of the more unlikely places for gringo stabbings in the city. The driver was from Medellin, a born Paisa. We talked about how the food was better was there, Bogota was a bit cold, and Cartagena too damn hot. A very similar conversation I have with most Paisa’s I encounter in Bogota.
This mission was different, I had returned to the city laden with precious cargo. turns out the pure orgiastic consumer haven that is the United States consumes quantities of high end electronics like the world might soon end. Always onto whatever the newest item might be, north Americans fiendishly devour it. easy credit terms, lay-away, buy now, pay later, damn the consequences, we must have it! This means that all the slightly used gadgets plummet in value…until you relocate them to countries with a much different GDP.
My goal here was simple. After coming here a half dozen times and getting a feel for the country and the people here, I had started a non profit foundation, an organization to facilitate the repurposing of said electronics to this market, and repurposing them, then using the funds to help the most disadvantaged folks here. Enter the Venezuelan diaspora. I will write more about all of these efforts later. ( I know, I know, I NEED to write MORE). I can only put proverbial pen to paper when the mood strikes. Often times writing is cathartic for me, the mood strikes during times of elation, and times of eminent peril. Looking at the news headlines so far this year things are looking mighty grim. Thus perhaps the words will flow.
So here I am in Bogota, collecting stories, watching the rain, pondering my role in this big twisted red brick drenched place. I have two weeks here, and I return again next month. Continually scratching at the surface. Making a small difference here and there, hoping it makes a slight positive dent in peoples lives. I know at least some of them find my attempts at the Spanish language mixed with sign language humorous. Sometimes sharing a meal with someone, and laughing a bit is best kind of impact to have.
Holy shit it’s November. I’m 24 hours returned from Bogotá and Colombia is on my mind. What is it about this place? After venturing there the first time, I knew the world simply wouldn’t be the same. For the Midwestern American imagination Colombia stirs up exotic and dangerous stories. I suppose that’s why I had to go.
The stories I have encountered there keep me coming back, as often as possible. Stories of triumph, stories of despair. Realising that there are countless questions, and no easy answers. Carrying those questions with me back to the states over the years has changed me. Travel will often do that. Our very psyche must expand to accommodate new experiences and once it does, there is no going back. You can feel your previous notions creak and fracture with these new voyages. Over time they will blown apart as the former completely yields to the way things are now.
There are a few places on this stunning planet that have had this definitive impact on me, and Colombia is one of them. I have begun to untangle these stories and sort them into what they mean. Even writing about this place has its kinds of fits and starts. Now that its snowing and a touch unforgiving outside here, the time has come to write it out.
I was robbed in Madrid. Not in a fearsome my life was in danger way, but in a ” wait, where the fuck is my wallet?” kind of way. It sucked. What I want to share with you are a few insights to help your experience suck less should it happen to you.
I know, everyone has these iron strategies they supposedly follow everywhere. Short of gluing your valuables to your nether regions they will be occasionally vulnerable. When I mentioned I had been pick pocketed, most Americans had very similar reactions. “You travel so much, i’m surprised you didn’t do this/have one these etc”. No Fanny pack for me, no taping currency to my inner thigh, etc. Heres the thing. Travel this much and youre going to have some AMAZING experiences that rejuvenate your faith in humanity, and illuminate the human condition. You will also have occasional catastrophes…the key is to take them all in stride. I had written about the beauty and enthralling nature of Madrid shortly before having my wallet stolen there. Notes From Madrid
Did this event change my feelings about the city? Absolutely not. Will I return? I sure as shit will come back. Now here are a few tips to mitigate the suck in the event you are missing your wallet.
1.) Only carry 1-3 cards on you. Bring a few more for backup, but leave those in your luggage. Cash in a separate pocket.
2.) The cards you plan in using, download and setup their mobile apps. This makes locking the card super easy once you discover it’s gone.
3.) Add your cards to your digital wallet. This is KEY. Once you have locked your cards the physical piece of plastic can no longer be used, but the digital one is still good to go.
4.) Don’t take it personally. These are professionals who do this for a living. They didn’t target you because they hate you. You look successful and not local. Congrats. This happens in every city all over the world. As long as you leave the encounter unscathed, you still came out ahead.
5.) Breathe. That cold tingle down your spine? That will fade. This isn’t the end of the world. Citi and Capital One refunded all of the fraudulent purchases and sent me new cards in 48 hours. Don’t let something like this ruin your trip!
Cards are stolen/misplaced all the time. Being prepared for the inevitable is simply part of the game. I’ve been at this just shy of 20 years, and I’ve seen a few places in that time. Finally happened to me, and while I’m still waiting for a new drivers license, things could be MUCH worse. When I noticed my wallet gone I was walking into a restaurant, I sat down, hopped on their WiFi and a few minutes later started getting alerts that my cards were making purchases. I realized what had happened, muttered profanity and locked all of my cards right there from my phone. I made a few calls and enjoyed an extra pint.
What about you? Have you ever been robbed abroad? I’ve heard a colorful spat of stories, please feel free to share in the comments.
Spain is such a twisted fascination in the mind of modern history. Spending time here having read many of said histories, this stuff proves perplexing and at the same time organically fucking beautiful each and every time. As you may not remember, Barcelona, while easy to love is not my favorite city in the wide world. barcelona-is-easy-to-love/ Madrid however is near and dear to my heart. If you possess more personality than a prolapsed sphincter you cannot hate on this country. The food, the wine, the people, the architecture…the list goes on. For me, coming here after a 5 year hiatus, a global pandemic and assorted other drudgery proved completely serendipitous.
I ended up here by chance. Seriously. When a sub $300 fare to Spain popped out of Grand Rapids MI no less…I felt/feel obligated to grab it. That’s a cornerstone of my wandering. Fate based airfare. I have a shortlist, sure, but that does not 100% dictate where I’m headed. Some diety somewhere had smiled down upon me. Carpe diem. A 5 year hiatus is enough. Surely no better sign that it was time to hit Madrid, venture to near by regions and bask in Spanish glory.
This trek I brought along a non literal guest in the form of a hardcover, recently released book that had popped up in my google news a few days prior to departure. I was going to Spain with uncle Tony.
I absolutely fucking needed this book. After Bourdain died I was incredibly confused. How could the coolest guy alive with the best job in the world hang himself in a bathroom?! What I needed was to untangle what Tony and his work meant to me, and what I was going to do with that. I annihilated this book on the flight over. Laurie Woolever did such an inspiring job collecting, synthesizing and publishing over 90 interviews. For anyone left hurt, confused, or frustrated after his passing, you need this book as well. This work is like the closure you always hope for after something shitty happens. After finishing this book I felt something. I felt moved. I wandered through these streets of Madrid just like the hungry ghost Tony had talked about before. I wrote to Helen Cho, who I adored in the Roadrunner documentary, and she even replied!!
I felt my brain stem on fire, I felt all the wanderlust, all the yearning, uncertainty, doubt, apprehension and drive that has provided the rocket fuel for my travel adventures come bubbling up. Sorting through the mental gurgles…Going to Poland in 2003 opened the door, Ireland, Russia, and Thailand a few years later shredded what was left of that door down to the hinges. After Russia in 2005 there was no going back. I was a hopeless addict. Not some corny weekend warrior with a clever passport cover and cruise tickets…I mean I was done for. Married to the road. It was the fall of 05 when I realized my life would be different than most folks. The SUV, kids in matching outfits, trendy luggage sets, house in the burbs, the golden Labra-doodle thing with the dumb name and the deceptively adorable wife…? Wasn’t going to work for me. I’d be dedicated to the pursuit. Engaging the beast, like some holy warrior so it doesn’t engage me. Peeling back that onion, Pushing those boundaries, running down a dream by any and all means possible. Saving myself, because who the fuck else is supposed to do it? Would it be pretty? Hell no. I just knew (hoped) it would be worth it. To this day, I am unmarried, no kids, no pets. I have a few houseplants. I am am a travel addict. Pure and (not) simple. Tony’s show No Reservations, encapsulated that dream. My buddy showed me the Ireland episode and after that I was hooked. I devoured Bourdain’s written words like the holy gospel, and never looked back. Deep discount fare to Istanbul? Let’s do it. Christmas in the Balkan’s? I’m there. My parents friends were convinced I worked for the CIA, or some clandestine service. FB friends from high school thought it must be drug running, weapons smuggling or some sordid combination. The rumors made smile, and build more infrastructure to travel more…with no sign of slowing down just yet. Up until 2018 uncle Tony was always there like some wayward Saint with daft wisdom to encourage me along.
“The only way that we can live, is if we grow. The only way that we can grow is if we change. The only way that we can change is if we learn. The only way we can learn is if we are exposed. And the only way that we can become exposed is if we throw ourselves out into the open. Do it. Throw yourself.”
I threw myself into traveling, into experience, into the unknown. I’m eternally grateful for that. Grateful for the influences along the way that pushed me to do it. Grateful to Bourdain for such brilliant work.
Being here in Madrid, finishing that book and hitting these streets I felt a kind of familiarity. Like coming home in a way. Perhaps that’s what we are all searching for.
Wow, here we are. I can imagine you, like me have had quite the year(s) worth of experience in my absence. My last post was January of 2020. I had shit to say but I simply stopped. I used to think of reasons, justifications, and all the rest. Then, some months in, the reality simply dawned on me… I didnt owe anything to anybody. Then the world imploded with Covid. I was on my way back from the Philippines when international air travel came to a stand still. I wrote personal things during the pandemic and built a bad ass reading list as I quarantined solo and did my part to come out of this pandemic okay. 60 or so books down things were looking on the up and up. A few choice elements of normalcy returned. I had 7-9 trips or so end up canceled over that time, and for someone who measures a real sense of time through excursion planning, the adjustment was quite real.
All of a sudden you realise that you aren’t going fucking anywhere. I hunkered down, went a bit stoic on it, and kept reading. I was working,still teaching, investing and keeping mostly sane. 2021 brought the defeat of Donald Trump and a kind of optimism that things might be headed in at least a *better* direction. I was finally able to leave the country a few times. Mini jaunts at first to Mexico, Costa Rica, and Colombia. I needed those. I have a kind of pensive lust for the “road” as it were, and if not properly satiated, I may run amok like some depraved beast. August of 2021, 2 years to the date since I last assaulted Europe’s shores found my sorry ass wandering around Dublin, Ireland. A proper pint of the dark stuff, and onto Croatia we went. I kept thinking back to Sicily(my last Euro trek), I kept thinking back to the world before Covid, before masks, mandates and madness.
Croatia was bright, beautiful, warm, soaked in Aperol and oh so perfectly European. I didnt quite have my footing yet while there. after 2 years that felt like 20 away from the continent, this was a bit like an intro round. wobbly, excited, overzealous, and eager. Prom night like fumbling at the then guarded treasure that is serene travel joy. Finding my stride proved a bit more difficult than anticipated. Returning from my conquest of the Adriatic, I waited in anticipation for the next cheap fare to come along…and BANG! thats how I ended up in Spain. My ass currently going numb in this cheap hotel chair and rickety desk. the sounds of Madrid’s boisterous Saturday night rampaging through the window. My jamon drunk senses imploring me to get back on this saddle of writing. You see I actually packed a real hardcover newly released book on this trek. Blazing through about 90% of it on the plane over I arrived in Madrid hungry and deep in thought. That’s for my next post. Turns out i’ve got some things to untangle…and WordPress just billed me for another year.