Dreaming dreams in daylight

A few months ago when I was still in Japan I read the short story "Sweetheart Sorrow," by David Hoon Kim from The New Yorker online. The narrator is ethnic Japanese who was adopted and raised in Denmark. At the time of the story he is a former comparative lit student attempting to eke out a life in Paris. His love interest is a Japanese girl, recuperating from mental illness far from her homeland and anything that might remind her of the land of the rising sun (not the one in New Orleans). One of the tragedies of the story is that the narrator, who feels himself very much a Dane, ends up a cause of her remission, due to the fact that his face is Japanese. The story was touching and well written and evocative. But why is it that the one Japanese character in a Western story always crazy? Or suffering from mental illness or depression (or whatever more polite term I should use)?

Here in Coimbra, surrounded by what I am sure are the ghosts of erudition and education past, I decided it was time to improve my Portuguese reading and in browsing found a novel by a one Pedro Paixão (passion) entitled PortoKyoto. After finding out that the novel starts in New York, how could I not read it? Well, it is exactly the kind of thing I want to read now, involving a Portuguese man, literary, lonely and depressed, and his impressions of New York (he is in film school after a disgraceful dismissal from teaching French). Already I am barely into the book and we have encountered the Japanese woman, suffering from mental illness and the tragedies of her past. I can´t wait until my narrator gets to Japan!

Reading is a one sided conversation at times. But I have some questions. Are these suicidal Japanese women based on people actually met? Or, is that if you are a foreigner meeting people escaping from life you are much more likely to encounter those living with phantoms? My inner world is running in circles. The life I am living here reminds me of college and I remembering all kind of things from that time and having conversations with books. One was with a novel I found here called The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid, also quite good, about a Pakistani man, educated at Princeton and working at one of the most elite fictional firms in New York at the time of the September 11th attack. His love interest is not Japanese (though she does study Tae Kwon Do) but American, and similarly unable to live in the world and cannot be brought back from going further and further into the darkness inside her.

There is just too much romance in the world for me right now, I can barely take it. Not just these readings but the light here; there are flowers, cats, laundry on the line pink concrete houses and large windows with white shutters. I imagine that the narrator of PortoKyoto looks like my Portuguese professor at NYU, though they share very little other than their homeland and love of reading. But no matter. I was hoping to contact my former teacher, "Yo, prof. I finally made it to Portugal! What do you recommend?" but it appears that he is no longer at NYU, and I am sure there are some gothic and sinister reasons for that, and if only I knew them how much more romantic would my life be! My narrator does a lot of thinking and sitting and thinking about how if he had a family his life would have more meaning. Of course he is a Woody Allen fan.

Romance, as everyone knows, is just on the other side of mortality, and I have to do something about my health quick. I don´t want to worry anyone, but I am dealing with a brief remission of my own into sinusitis and my hearing is clogged. I am sleeping and not talking 24 hours a day for a living, so I´m not too worried about recuperating but my face knows more than I do. It looks like a pancake. For the first time since living in Japan people are guessing my age younger than it is and I want to reply, "it`s the acne!"

Relaxation. And a highly erroded work ethic.

Coimbra, Portugal

Long term plans include needing to exercise, a return to Porto.

Right now I am in the newest youth hostel in Coimbra, a converted kindergarten, with spanking new furniture from IKEA, sunlight, high ceilings, wood floors clean enough to do yoga on, high pressure showers and a room for four--to myself. Though of course I wish them more business in the future.

I am confused and delighted and I miss dancing in the streets of Madrid with the friends I made there.

I wonder how I will ever work again. But I know I will because I am now fueled with a dream. My dream hasn`t really changed. Someday I will live somewhere where there is sun for most of the year. And heat. At night, and in the highest misery of winter, the temperatures are allowed to drop to 65 degrees.

I would also like for such a place to include Thai food, Japanese food, and high quality cheeses and breads.

I have improved my Spanish, Portuguese, and patience here in the Iberian peninsula. But currently things are perhaps a hair too mellow. I could use some hysteric laughter. Until then, I think I`ll read, sleep and try to jog tomorrow.

Arrival in Madrid

I arrived in Madrid yesterday, after marinating in the Valencia train station for a long time, due to my own lack of foresight in buying tickets. My train ride over was peppered with conversation from my neighbor, a young Sevillan man, travelling around and playing a guitar (so he says. He seemed to be limited to playing the air guitar). What was unique about this young man is that he was not actually any longer young but 38, though he insisted I recognize that his ojos were maravillosos. After one beer (him, not me) I thought it was okay to accept the conversation, as it was an opportunity to practice my Spanish. But after 5 beers (again him, not me) I resorted to the silent treatment and he left me alone. Happy Feet was playing and from the small part that I caught before drifting off, that is one bizarre movie.

Okay, none of that really matters, but I have to say I think I will love Madrid. You get here and everyone says there is nothing to see and talk it down, for reasons that are beyond me. This is a big city with seemingly a lot to explore and I can´t wait. I haven´t really found anyone to talk to here and miss my friend from Valencia, Jaqueline. She grew up in Uraguay but is Italian by nationality and moved there a few years ago with her son and husband. Not only was she interesting and funny and very talkative but she was patient with me and my Spanish, and as she didn´t speak any English that was all we spoke.

I found some people to chitchat with yesterday and go out for drinks with but from the start my view of their company was tainted by having to hear about terrible American culture, politics, people, and way of thinking. I hate falling into that trap of trying to educate or be educated and argue about that kind of thing. I just want to laugh and talk to people and maybe learn something about someone else and not be a diplomat for my country or have to prove my own lack of ignorance to ignorant people. The lady doth protest too much and of course I show my own insecurity perhaps by being so defensive but...I hate when conversation comes at such a price.

Am currently reading Eva Luna in Spanish, but I know if I don´t finish it before leaving Spain it may never get read. How do you say gambaro in Spanish?

I can fly to Porto cheap from here, but I´m nervous about my suitcase, which I´m sure is over the weight limit and which may fall apart without gentle handling. I have four more nights in Madrid but I may decide to extend. In fact, I´m sure I will. I´m not yet ready to leave Spain, especially after my new found gunghoness for the language. And once I get to Portugal?...