A Funeral for Jorge

I have been delaying this post for fear of belittling the situation. I am sorry if you were expecting to hear from me sooner, but I have been trying to figure out how to put this into words while at the same time showing my utmost respect.

The death of Jorge Ivan Cruz Gonzalez evoked something of a trauma in everyone around him. There was no time to prepare, and only two days to say goodbye. Jorge was the Philosophy Professor at Universidad de Caldas in Manizales, Colombia. He had a following of adoring students and forward-thinkers. He had a family that doted on every quiet word he spoke. And he had the right to be heard, however quiet and slurred, because he was brilliant.

I met Jorge on a sunny Tuesday afternoon in August. He had taught in the morning and promptly purchased a bottle of Aguardiente to celebrate the hours after twelve. I had just finished Spanish lessons with his daughter Paula, my now friend and roommate. We were drinking wine and whiskey "porque es martes!" and decided to meet at his favorite tienda near Santander and Carerra 23.

The first time I saw Jorge, I wanted to hug him. He was so incredibly sweet. So honest. He reminded me of my grandpa. I imagined myself sitting on his lap while he told me stories of heartache and horror and that massive fish he caught in '68. I imagined we'd been friends forever and, luckily, was immediately accepted into his community. The "boys" at the store (all over sixty) listened attentively as I regaled on stories of days gone by in the Big City. They wanted to know the ultimate question... Why Manizales?

"La gente!" I replied. "Como tu!" I spoke the truth. These were the moments I treasured most! Shooting the shit with real Colombians in a small store in Manizales. I felt like I was part of something. Laughter erupted and then was silenced by a crumpled recording of "Nathalie". They stopped everything and listened to this sad, and beautiful song. Jorge cried and took my hand while singing the lyrics. Then, they laughed and squeezed my shoulder while they poured me another plastic shot glass 

of Aguardiente.

Jorge talked with his hands, his wrists making a dance while he explained whatever grand philosophy he was enthralled with at the moment. Unfortunately, my limited Spanish prevented me from fully understanding these beautiful ideas. I wanted desperately to understand. He's written books! I want to read them! But I can't. Perhaps someday...

I spent two days with him in total. A measly amount to claim any sort of "mourning", but I did. I cried with my roommate over the injustice of her father's untimely death. I cooked for her family so they wouldn't forget to eat. I went to the viewing, but couldn't bring myself to look at him. He was so light and funny in our interactions, I knew this heavy cold body wouldn't bring justice to his memory.

What struck me most was his family. They were so close, and now one of their favorite members was gone. They consoled each other, cried, laughed, and stared blankly into the abyss of Jorge's image. They cheered to his memory as they filled a plastic shot glass with Aguardiente. They read his words and wept. They felt his presence leave, and respected the sorrow. They allowed time to grieve.

Here in Colombia, most people are Catholic. The tradition for the dead is very different than that of the United States. There is a viewing, an elaborate mass, and a Noventa. I wish I could research more on the subject, but from what I can gather, a Noventa is nine days after cremation that people can attend and pray for the deceased. Jorge has a crowd every night.

At one point, we were all joking in the tienda. We were drinking and our smiles were freer, our voices more loose. I told Jorge I liked his hat. It was a British-inspired "newsies" hat with little patterns. I loved it. In Spanish he said, "You... You can have it when I'm dead!" We all erupted in laughter. What a thought!

Two weeks later, Paula brought home his hat. Her eyes were red with grief, but her voice was determined. "He said 'You can have it when I'm dead'. It is yours." I took the hat with sadness, and a heavy dose of shame. I knew her words were true, but I felt like an imposter.

I will take your hat, Jorge, but I will think of you fondly EVERY time I see it. I will cook for your daughter, your wife, your sister, and anyone else that has felt your presence. I will never pour a shot of Aguardiente without thinking of you. I hope you're making God laugh. And get him drunk, will ya? He's far too serious...

Here's to you, Jorge.

Dancing By Myself

This is my favorite time of day. Today was gray and rainy, but the sun finally shines in all its glory around 4:30pm. It needs to put on quite a show to make up for the dismal day. That is, until night claims its natural ownership. The sun wrestles with cloud cover and changes hue from white to yellow to orange. It makes the streets sparkle as cars start and stop and honk with the familiar melody of rush hour traffic.

I pour myself a glass of wine and turn on the radio - full blast. Disfruta. Enjoy this time, this sun, this music.

Something in the bass line makes me move, and I start to dance. Then I vainly wonder what I look like. Am I too fat to move like this? But the light is so pretty, who cares, right? And doesn't this dress move so beautifully when I turn?  And no one will ever see it! So I do something extreme... I video myself dancing. In the living room of my apartment, alone. I even go so far as to introduce on video what it is I'm doing. A new low? Or a blatant disregard for my insecurities? I'll claim the latter, por favor. 

And just to top it off, it's now going public. Right here, right now. A little entertainment for your friday... I call it Dancing By Myself.

In other news, I am excited that my writing is going somewhere. I am to be published three times this month by two different publications. That's a big step for me seeing as I have only been published one other time in my life (check out the awesome chick who made that possible). I am proud of my accomplishments. These publications, however, are not able to pay for my work. In all honesty, I don't mind. I know the words are good, and the stories are important. I have enough for the moment to live and eat for the rest of this month (at least).

Last night, an article caught my eye on the value of a "Gift Economy". This man made his entire life's work into "pay what you feel the work is worth". There were no donation suggestions, and no salaries. People could have taken advantage of his services easily (read the full story here), but they didn't. In fact, he got paid more for his work than ever before.

Trusting people. Hmm. Valid concept. I am interested to try this idea as an experiment. I have written a total of twelve blog entries in the last two months (thirteen if you add the one you're reading right now). I have almost 1,000 views. I'm slowly getting my "professional writer" feet wet as I happily work for unpaid gigs. 

However, if you would like me to write something for YOU, email me at janadebusk@gmail.com.

Or perhaps you feel the need to compensate an article or two that you've already read? Sure! I have a paypal account payable to  jana_d2004@hotmail.com. These payments are not handouts and will only be accepted for specific cited work that I have already done or will do in the future.

So, today I wrote a couple articles. I heated up some Ajiaco soup for lunch, and looked for apartments in the afternoon. At 4:30... well, you know the rest. Raise a glass, and have a blast dancing by yourself.

Let Them Eat Cake... I'll Have Chorizo

There is no fast food in Manizales. Sure, you can get comidas rapidas and some damn good perros calientes after a night of salsa dancing and rum-drinking, but everything takes time. Even El Corral, a hamburger joint in the mall (and not a side restaurant, but the first real "food court" in sight at the Cable Centro Commercial) gives out a buzzer. Things just aren't fast here. Tranquilo.

I cook for my roommates every night. It has become a convenient diversion to the fact that I have still not found a steady job. But on the other hand... when have I ever had a steady job? My responsibility right now, while paying $100 a month for an apartment in the best neighborhood of Manizales, is to create. During the day, I write. 

At night, I cook. I have realized that I am very much in love with both types of creation. There are two men in "Man"izales that I am absolutely in love with; Mr. Pen and Mr. Spoon. God, are they handsome.

During the day I focus on articles for various travel magazines and blogs. Every couple days, I chug away at a novel collaboration called Letters to the Working Girl. The book is an exquisite idea and I am lucky enough to be working with a dear friend on the project, but it is a long project with no real end in sight. Speaking of long projects, I'm also writing a musical; I've always loved a good challenge. Today, I wrote a glowing review of Colombia, enhanced by my own blatant love for the country, for my local newspaper. It should be published sometime this week.

But at night... I cook.

Thai Shrimp with Sriracha. American Hamburgers with Bleu Cheese and Sauteed onions. Chicken-on-the-Bone Curry with Sprouts, Potatoes, and Yogurt. My own family's recipe of Homemade Beef Spaghetti Sauce over Angel Hair Pasta. Tomorrow I'm planning (I'm PLANNING my meals, people!) to make "Breakfast for Dinner"; egg frittata with veggies, chorizo, and maple syrup pancakes. My friend and roommate, Julia-from-Arkansas, is fond of breakfast and never has time to cook before running out the door for work.

Cooking is an art. It is creation and whimsy. Smells mix with sounds and precision blends with pure emotion. I am in love.

Great. Now it's one in the morning, and I'm hungry. Tomorrow. I'll write and cook more tomorrow.  Maybe I'll make a cake?

The Day I Met Jonathan Franzen

October was getting chilly. The sky was grey and the winds seeped slowly through the crevices of my almost perfect apartment. It was exhilarating. This weather made me unstoppable.  My breath matched my pulse which matched the steady hum of the city under my feet. Everything aligned. In the morning, on most mornings, I woke up and turned on "Music for Yoga Meditation". I rolled out a purple mat on my balcony which overlooked the sparkling New York City skyline. Perhaps this deep daily reflection influenced my perception of the world around me, but perhaps the world had just simply gotten better.

On the first day of my twenty-eighth year I met Jonathan Franzen. I was preparing for my private voice students, two girls aged nine and three respectively, and had gotten to the Upper East Side earlier than usual. It was a sunny day. Mild temperatures and blue skies with just a hint of autumn. My mood fit perfectly with the weather. I decided to stop into Oren's Daily Roast, a small coffee shop on 79th and Lexington, to further elevate my already cheery disposition. After a suggestion from the barista, I decided on an iced caramel latte and tucked myself into the corner of a bench (and the only seating) at the front of the shop.

The first thing I heard was a laugh. It was low and soft and legato.  Perhaps it was born in that part of the stomach just below the belly button and had space to grow as it rose in his mild heaving chest. I looked up and my heart caught in my vocal folds, fluttering like a teenager in heat. The blood rushed to my face and I was high. Jonathan Franzen, author of The Corrections and Freedom… the only author, other than Stephen King, to ever grace the cover of Time Magazine… Jonathan Franzen was ordering coffee and I was the only other customer in the shop. “Well, shit.” I thought. “Say something!”

As the blood drained to my fingertips, I started to notice what he was wearing; a button-up shirt tucked into jeans with a belt. His shoes could hike Machu Picchu and his hair was just like every picture I'd ever seen. It was clean and restrained to a single wisp of curl, just at the ends. I imagined it smelled like tea tree oil and possibly vanilla. Maybe musk. I thought to myself that we’d make good love. I shook the thought bubble that had formed above my brain. As he payed for the bulk coffee that he’d placed in his reusable canvas bag, I mustered up every ounce of courage that I may ever have. He walked past me, towards the door when I said, “Mr. Franzen?”

He stopped, surprised. I don’t think he was used to young women recognizing him, though I found that incredulous. He turned to me, so I stood up. I suddenly realized that my hippie skirt with sparkles and my tight brown t-shirt featuring a friend’s indie band looked absolutely juvenile next to his regal intelligence, but it was too late. There was nowhere to go but forward. 

“I just wanted to say I’m a huge fan of your work. You’re incredible. I’m Jana.” He smiled slightly and said, “Jon. Nice to meet you.” I rambled a bit - but not too much - about how I was currently reading his collection of essays, How To Be Alone, and I just… I clutched my chest. He mirrored me, clutching at his own chest. “Thank you,” he said. “No, thank you.” I replied. He smiled a toothy grin and I watched him leave the only space I was ever meant to inhabit. 

The front wall of the coffee shop was made entirely of glass, so I was able to watch as he turned left towards 80th street and disappeared. He was smiling. I was breathless. The coffee shop suddenly seemed dramatically empty. 

A couple years ago, I wrote a song about my favorite Franzen novel, Freedom. I performed it for whoever would listen. I even recorded a performance of the song and posted it on YouTube. In this video, I make a joke about dating Mr. Franzen, calling upon his agent and manager to set us up. I truly believed this tactic might actually work. On the first day of my twenty-eighth year I was as close as I’ll ever be.

Goodbye Jon,

It was an honor to be in your presence for that short and memorable amount of time.  I appreciate your brilliance. Also, I'm free Friday night... and for the rest of my life. Call me.

Sincerely,

Jana DeBusk

Clowns Have More Fun

I don't have many visitors here, so when friends come to town I put my party shoes on. Even if it's a Wednesday.

We arrange to meet at Juan Valdez, near the Cable off the avenue of Santander around noon. We're going to the Natural Hot Springs in Santa Rosa, about an hour and a half away from Manizales by bus. I greet Laurie-from-Canada with open arms. It has been a full month since I've seen her and it feels good to see a familiar face; not to mention English-speakers! She introduces me to her boyfriend, Etienne, a freckled and disheveled young man with assertive energetic eyes. He is a perfect fit for my spunky flaca friend.

Our bus takes us to the center of Santa Rosa, but there is another bus we have to catch in order to arrive at the hot springs. Unfortunately that bus doesn't leave for another hour. Fortunately, however, Santa Rosa is famous for their Chorizo and we are starving. We decide on Portal de los Chorizos and this guy, yeah the one with the hat, serves us the BEST meat I have ever tasted. Perhaps I am more hungry than I think, but en serio. Delicioso.

We finish our incredible meals and cross the street. It is time to hop on our next bus towards our destination, Termales de Santa Rosa. The ride is longer than I had thought it would be, but the winding roads are peaceful and green. I relax into my seat and gaze onto rich pastures. Cows graze lazily and barely lift their heads as our noisy bus rattles past on the twisting gravel road.

I fall asleep and only wake as the bus comes to a halt. Laurie and Etienne gather their packs and exit the bus. I follow. The entrance fee is $17,000 COP per person, about $9 USD. We hike up a steep rocky incline before seeing what we came to see. The hot springs are at the base of a majestic cascading waterfall cut into the side of a jagged green mountain. There are two "pools" to choose from, and beer and snacks are readily available for poolside purchase. We test both waters leisurely. The view is better in the first, but the water is hotter in the second. Hours pass and we realize we have missed the last bus back to town. In my previous life, this would cause a scare or at least mild irritation, but we are tranquilo.

We see a beat up jeep taking passengers. The man tells us to hop on the back and HOLD ON. Bueno! Vamos! The ride is incredible. We agree it's much more fun than a boring old bus. My muscles are tiring as I hold on to a metal bar across the back of the jeep. Night has fallen and fireflies act as field stars, the moon is low and thin. I bend my knees to prevent certain breakage as the car bangs through each divot on the patchy road. Dogs chase us a little too close for comfort. My attire is wildly inappropriate for the ride. I have knee-high boots and a sexy wool dress with no bra. I suppose I didn't plan on attaching myself to the back of a moving vehicle.

The transportation is always an adventure in Colombia, but we make it back to Manizales in good time. In fact, it's 9PM and we are ready for a drink. We quickly change into more comfortable clothes and hit the town... which is of course EMPTY. We go to three bars before landing at one of my new favorite spots, Mr. Jack. This bar usually features live music and has some incredible artwork strewn across the dark walls. Tonight, however, one wall is blocked entirely by a group of charismatic young Colombians. Students, I wonder? We sip our Club Colombias quietly and watch as the group (perhaps twenty people or so) dances, laughs and drinks. We want to do that.

Laurie voices her plan to integrate. We'll slowly get up, scatter into the group and start dancing. It works! We discover this group is a theatre troupe here for the International Theatre Festival of Manizales. My people! More specifically, they are acrobats and jugglers, street clowns and high-wire performers. We have stumbled upon the circus! We drink and laugh along with our new friends and they invite us to an empty theatre where we will continue our party even after the bar has closed.

Ron is purchased and salsa is the music of choice. A red light illuminates the small room as people dance and flip on scaffolding across the ceiling. An incredibly handsome man with tattoos and a cast on one hand takes me from the couch to the dance floor. His free hand slides up my shirt as his hips guide our dance. He has dimples when he smiles and a confidence that I haven't encountered in quite a while. His body is muscular and his lips are soft when he kisses my neck. Oosh.

He leads me to the hallway, and then a small alleyway outside the theatre. He says "Shhh..." when he pleases me, and whispers "Shut up!" when I really can't control it. His words are only forceful in the way that I like. He is kind and gentle but has a hard edge that's exciting more than it is dangerous. We almost get caught twice, but that just fuels our desire to finish.

When both our passions have come to fruition, he clutches me tightly and holds my head in his hands as if to say thank you, but the feeling is mutual. We walk back into the room, holding hands with smiles on our faces. We won't see each other again, but that's okay.

Yes. I do believe clowns have the best fun.