Adventures

I

YANDRA SERVED BALEADAS ON THE BREAKFAST PLATES. “I got us tickets for tonight,” she announced, passing the refried frijoles plate to Manuel. “We are going to see Medea!” Her enthusiasm shone as brightly as her black curls. I had no errands except dropping resumes in the busiest streets of downtown, Robson, Granville, Burrard. I had arrived in the city just two days after the Summer Solstice, June 22nd.

“Great,” I replied as I stuffed slices of avocado down my esophagus.

I found Yandra and Manu through Facebook Marketplace. On my device, I installed a VPN from the App Store, changing my location from San José to Vancouver. My mother was against my lodging in a host family’s house while I studied my master’s abroad. With the $1,000 stipend my scholarship provided, she encouraged me to find roommates for “cheaper rent… and for life experiences.” Albeit, in hindsight, I seem to recognize anxious undertones I did not perceive when such memory was present. Before I took my connecting flight to Guadalajara, she bid me a goodbye kiss. “Don’t forget the story of Julito. Too much study made him go crazy, and the comely fellow never married.” As the plane’s wheels lifted off the tarmac, all memories bundled up. Body chills sent up through my spine, registering the elevation of my body. The security belt felt too tight on my stomach. From up above, I could see the divisions of the city. Memories accumulated. I saw myself running the cobblestoned streets of the barrio, summer trips to Tamarindo as my eyes captured the pink flowers of Almendro trees.

My mother and I had video-called Yandra and Manuel before my flight. We were low on cash and preferred preventing a scam rather than lamenting a houseless stay in Vancouver. Yandra was an international student from Nicaragua, completing her final year of undergrad in Theatre Studies. On call, her loose curls rained down her caramel skin. Manuel introduced himself as Manu, born to Salvadoran parents and completing his master’s degree in Hispanic Studies at the province’s university.

“Really, our landlord is Adelaida,” Yandra exclaimed. “She lives in another city but is almost always in the Philippines. We send our rent through remittance.”

I spent sleepless nights drooling over the most comfortable sleeps I would get in time to come. Rent was only $700, with approximately $95 in utilities every two months. Wi-Fi and laundry included, and best yet, my room had a great view from City-Broadway, looking onwards past the downtown skyscrapers, past the bridge. I was excited for what was to come. On Google Maps, I studied the streets and establishments near my would-be place. I figured the nearest SkyTrain station was only a three-minute walk. The Rapid Bus line was only a five-minute walk from the house. The excitement of new life experiences prompted me to apply to open vacancies along the bus route towards the university. Retail, antique stores, hostess positions in restaurants, I did not mind.

II

AT NIGHT, Yandra, Manuel, and I went downtown to a live performance of Medea. We tapped our blue fare cards at the entrance gate. Walking the stairs to the SkyTrain platform, Yandra, Manu, and I seemed like distant relatives. Our facial features, canine teeth prominent, almond eyes, shiny black hair, though only Yandra and Manu had curls, loose and kinkier respectively. I had straight black hair. Chirizo, like my grandma would call me in my childhood days, when dipping salty crackers into coffee habitually replaced nutritious meals.

At the theatre, Yandra introduced me to Fernando. Hitherto, I had assumed Manu and Yandra were in a relationship. Their dynamics suggested more than platonic affection for each other. On early mornings, Yandra kissed Manu on the cheeks. Once or twice, I caught them slouching on the sofa, hugging each other as they watched television.

Fernando dressed in denim jeans and a jacket, his undershirt as white as his complexion. He extended his arms to shake my own. I noticed Yandra and he were similar in stature. I appeared a baby, lithe and short among my fellows.

Only a week before, Manu and Yandra had arrived on public transport at the YVR terminal, never mind the fact that I was a stranger. Our brief interactions were arrangements and brief video chats. Here we were now, like four strangers that had shared anger, clothes, or knowledge for a lifetime. The usher scanned our tickets.

“This is amazing,” I said, marveling at the golden infrastructure.

Manu replied, “Right.”

On stage, the actress, dressed in a white gown, exclaimed:

O Zeus! Why have you given us clear signs to tell
True gold from counterfeit; but when we need to know
Bad men from good, the flesh bears no revealing mark?

I noticed similarities between Medea and the legend of La Llorona. Both characters seemed to share circumstances. Rage of betrayal, of being subject to deceitfulness, led to their homicidal rages. What surprised me most was that both killed their children to exact revenge on their partner. The audience’s silence rather disappointed me. I stopped shaking my legs, anxious about producing distracting noise. My gluteus felt numb, non-existent, still friction on the cushioned chair. Though La Llorona is condemned to roam the earth looking for her drowned children, Medea rode a golden chariot drawn by two dragons. On this act, Medea’s chariot was suspended in the theatre’s air. Off she flew to Athens, fulfilling her vengeance against her husband.

That night, on our way home, we passed by a liquor store. Manu bought us a bottle of Pinot Noir. Yandra, as if reading my previous observations, commented on Medea’s similarity to La Llorona. I remember drinking two cups of wine, three fingers’ worth filling the glasses. Our hands extended our glasses, them cheering; “To Jose!” On the vinyl player, the record’s soundwaves sang, Here comes the sun, it’s alright. Yandra had put on the record as Fernando poured the wine.

“Where are you from?” I heard myself ask Fernando. The environmental change felt too far. A week ago, I was still in San José, speculating on where I would be now. Now, I was with three kind strangers. Though Adelaida was visiting in Manila, her son, Elios, came by the house to drop off the lease on the landing day. Elios brought an object wrapped in white tissue.

“From my mom,” he said, “for you.” When I put down the pen, I removed the tape from the tissue. As I removed the packaging, an indigo coffee mug with wings for feathers and a black beak peeking out was revealed.

I signed my one-year lease and thought about it. It is only four seasons here, two back home, of convivial residence.

“De México,” he replied, handing me the glass, his enunciation swift.

“What do you study?” he asked. I sipped my wine, buying time to think of a good reply.

“I am doing a Master’s in Global Policy,” I uttered, expecting a political joke. So far, I had known him for a day and suspected a majadero character underneath his elegance.

“Very well,” he said, interrupted by Manu’s arrival from his room, holding a mic and some cables.

“Let’s do karaoke!” shouted Manuel. As he and Fernando connected the machine to the television, Yandra approached me. From the wooden cupboard, she tipped her toes to grab a white bowl. As Yandra scooped refrigerated guacamole with the silver spoon, Fernando and Manu connected the device onto the television.

“Jose, want to go first?” Yandra asked, her shoulders tense.

“No, they can go first,” I replied. In hindsight, I pinpoint this moment as the cataclysm of a great friendship. We were all young, with dreams ahead, balancing the blessings and evils of life experience.

“Do you watch soccer?” she asked. “You look like Giovanni da Silva.”

“Not sure who that is,” I replied.

“Never mind that question. But your resemblance to Payton Talbott is crazy. Watch any sports at all?” she asked. I interpreted her questions as genuine curiosity.

“I do not, though I practiced cross country back in secondary school,” I replied. I had not known these people yet had the vague notion of what their appearance might look like. Gorgeous faces, olive brown skin, beauty present at this time of life. Too attuned to the conversation, I made a mental note of looking up these names on my device’s navigator afterwards.

“I guess that is not what I am trying to ask, tonto. Do you have a partner?”

An awkward silence ensued. Manu and Fernando sang on, Amigos simplemente amigos y nada más. The alcohol reached my bloodstream faster than I anticipated. The song evoked memories of my only relationship.

“In my senior year, I met a girl,” I said, the melodies of the song bringing a sudden chill for home.

“And what happened?” Yandra asked. Manu and Fernando went on, Decirles que al cerrar la puerta nos amamos sin control.

“We were not a match.” Though the wine’s inhabitation grew, my mind felt stable enough to deduce Yandra might be inquiring about my sexual orientation.

“Plenty of fish here. If you use dating apps, rather be careful. Manu and I do not mind if you have people over, if it is all respectful.”

“I agree, thanks.” Now I felt my speech slurring. A sudden burning at the back of my eyes, as if behind my optic nerve, brought on blurry vision. I could not concentrate on anything. Manu and Fernando’s singing went silent. Yandra’s voice drowned out by my inner train of thoughts. Classes would start soon. What was of Alayna, my first partner. At seeing Manuel’s comely countenance, his foxy eyes alluring, his eyebrows thick, his oval face comely in its splendour, I moved from the marble counter.

From that moment on, I only remember the crash of glass shattering on the linoleum floor. I remember Yandra pushing me from my shoulders, saying, “I will clean it up.” My vision of her face, her shiny curls, her countenance lovely like a plumeria. “Get him to his room.”

III

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I woke up with fried beans wafting into my room from the kitchen. On my solid wood dresser lay a paperback of Euripides’ plays: Medea, The Bacchae, Electra. Three in one. I had not read any Greek plays since my sophomore year’s course on the Theban plays, so I discarded them as my own copies. Besides, they were in English translation, and the only books I brought with me were Valeria Luiselli’s Desierto sonoro and Sandra Cisneros’ House on Mango Street. Both belonged to my mother’s bookshelf, collected from her travels to different countries as a flight stewardess. Spined, many books from all over the world stood on my mother’s wooden bookshelf. Books on Mao Zedong, bought at Beijing’s Capital Airport, stood like soldiers on her shelves. Short stories by Amparo Dávila, bought at Benito Juárez International Airport, were on different formats at the last shelf: hardcover, paperback, mass paperback in Spanish. Never mind that I was an only child and raised solely by her, my education was above everything else.

Manu, early in the morning, strung his guitar’s strings. “Gracias a la vida, que me ha dado tanto.” Gallo pinto was served on the marble counter, four white plates lying on the mixed pattern, served with fried eggs.

“Gracias,” I said, as I devoured the melted butter savor into the toasted bread. Manu seemed quieter this morning, avoiding eye contact. On my piped pajamas, I sat on the counter’s stool, wondering whether to fry plantains for all’s enjoyment.

On my phone, a notification popped up on my Gmail account: “Jose, you have been scheduled for an interview with Mr. Gonzalez at 12:30 PM.” Shortly thereafter, Yandra woke up. I communicated this to her, to which she suggested I wear an all-black outfit.

During the interview, Don Alejandro, owner of Libro Vivo at Granville Street, said, “I am impressed that your studies are in Economics and Political Science. Come today at 3 PM for an interview.”

I took the SkyTrain to Vancouver City Centre. Sunlight shone on the skyscrapers. Green vines climbed on buildings. Cyclists rode on their lane, and what surprised me most was the respect between automobile drivers and cyclists on the road.

━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━

I got the job, attending customers’ purchases at a second-hand bookstore. I met Alejandro at the store, his collections ranging from everywhere. Book stacks lay on the floor. He only asked three questions: “What is your favorite novel?” “What is your schedule looking like?” “How was San José?” Albeit he was Guatemalan, Alejandro shared experiences of his studies in Letras at UNA. I replied with calm posture, did not shake my legs, noting that he could be a tío.

“I do not have a favorite novel,” I answered, though mentally I was immediately aware Alejandro might have been gauging my passion for literature. “Though I recently read the Medea play and enjoyed it.”

“Very good. Have you delved in the Theban plays?”

“No,” I replied. “But my schedule this summer is looking available until I start school. Expect three classes a semester.”

“How about thesis?” he asked.

“Not yet, until later. And I prefer the beaches of Guanacaste to San José.”

To this he replied, “Ay, hombre. Somos hispanos, hablemos español.” It came to mind that Alejandro wanted to hear my tico accent.

“Vale pues,” I replied.

Manu and Yandra joined me for lunch at a fusion restaurant, two SkyTrain stops before Vancouver City Centre. I ordered soba noodles, avergonzado to request a fork. My hands could not maneuver chopsticks with ease. Yandra and Manu both ordered two different futomaki rounds.

“Sorry about the broken wine glass,” I apologized. What else happened, I do not remember, though I figured it was not as disastrous, for they seemed calm.

Manu and Yandra did not reply but abruptly asked which courses I would take.

“Just three, all seminars on human rights violations in Central America.”

“Ah,” replied Manu. I found myself gazing at his countenance, as lovely an artwork to be gazed at, not touched.

“My brother in Managua is working on cases of land grabs in Reserva Maíz,” Yandra stated.

“Tell me more,” I replied, forking noodles in my bowl.

“Well, just a lot of land deforestation and illegal land grabs,” she said. I was acquainted with Nicaragua’s political turmoil, the 2018 student revolution, the Ministry of Education shut down. Albeit I never visited, I found myself saying, “I would like to visit Granada, maybe do boarding at Cerro Negro.” The closest I had been when I was fifteen, on a school excursion to the Río San Juan, or el desaguadero as people from Los Chiles call it.

We headed to Stanley Park for an afternoon walk, Yandra enthusiastically sharing on the Indigenous cosmovision of the Siwash Rock. Along the seawalk, an enormous rock housed a fir tree on its top. A smaller rock lay a couple of minutes away.

“Father and son,” she said. “The father was turned to stone, for his love for his son was greater than spiritual codes.”

IV

According to Yandra and Manu, this summer’s temperature had risen to a heat dome. The average temperature was around 37 to 40 Celsius, an average day in San José. For work, I wore shorts and tank tops. Over the following days, the heat worsened. Alejandro booked me for three weekly shifts: closing, a full weekend shift, and any other day. “Para que conozca la ciudad,” he said. Besides Alejandro and me, Aarsh was the other worker. On the days we coincided, in between customers and tidying paperbacks and hardcovers, which was impossible, Aarsh exchanged languages. He introduced himself in Spanish. “Soy Aarsh, soy de Irán, nací en Teherán.” He taught me how to introduce myself. When I managed to upsell a customer general merchandise, Aarsh would exclaim, “Bravo, khosh-tip, way to go!”

I invited him along with Yandra and Manu. Sometimes Fernando had his evenings free and joined us. The five of us rented those temporary bikes, but Fernando and Manu often preferred to go on a double scooter ahead of us. I still tried to figure out the dynamics. Yet I pushed away cynical thoughts and appreciated Yandra’s care for me. I thanked her determination in supporting my transition. I bought books for them, Gioconda Belli, Rigoberta Menchú, Roque Dalton. Alejandro’s bookstore was popular among hispano-hablantes. He stocked all the great classics.

The heat got worse. There was no air conditioning in the house, despite being modern. Yandra explained most houses did not have it.

“Most only have heaters. A hot summer is rare here.”

The news reported six hundred people, most elderly, had died in a span of three days.

“People never exposed to climate like ours,” said Fernando. I almost never heard him speak. When he talked, it was usually to address Manu or Yandra. He never directed a word to me.

Then Yandra interrupted. “We are going on a two weeks’ vacation. I booked the days off.”

Household chores would be divided between Manu and me. I did not mind at all. Washing the dishes, picking up dirty laundry from my bed, they were the closest activities to my old life in San José. The thought that I would someday return had not yet resurfaced in the sphere of consciousness.

“We are going?” asked Manu, scrolling on his device, his gaze still attached there.

“Granada,” said Yandra, fidgeting with a plastic hair gripper, “for Fernando to meet the family.”

On their farewell night, we cooked a batch of gallo pinto and carne asada. Manu filled soft corn dough, filling the ball with chicharrón, and flattening the dough like a pancake on a hot grill. Neither Yandra nor Fernando held a United States visa. Their flight would stop over in Cancún, then Managua. It was scheduled for 5 AM, so they had to be at the airport terminal earlier for check-in and whatnot. Alejandro had shifted me for an opening shift, so I wanted to get as much sleep as I could. I bid them my goodbyes, shaking Fernando’s hand and kissing Yandra on the cheek. I said good night to Manu.

When I woke up, I headed to the kitchen from my room to fill my empty glass from the water filter jug on the fridge. Manu stood in shorts, his muscles prominent. He gazed at the patio from the window, his arms holding a guitar with its string loose. Feeling confused, not knowing what to make of it, I asked, “¿Todo bien, hermano?”

“All good,” he said. He walked to his room as I dispensed my water. It was after this awkward interaction that his appearance faded in the heat of the summer. At nights, I could not hear his sweet melodies, though I could not tell if it was because he was not home or because it was broken.

The heat reverberated the loneliness of San José. I began to call my mother more often. She would catch me up with the affairs of el barrio: Don Carlos’ daughter had gone out with her Domingo siete. I, in turn, expressed my excitement for the semester to come, my experiences at Libro Vivo.

V

All changed after Yandra and Fernando’s vacation. On their comeback day, Manu ordered us an Uber there. We stood in the entrance area, waiting for them. Yandra and Fernando were now in our periphery, and we ran up to welcome them.

At home, they unpacked trinkets and sweets for us. “Cajetas from Estelí.” Fernando extended his arms and gave Manu an egg of tissue paper. As Manu unpacked, a red-backed motmot figurine reflected in his eyes.

The next day, however, Yandra received a call. “It is my mother,” she said. I sat on the divan, hearing her. “My brother has not communicated since last evening.” I nodded. “He was doing a rally near the plaza. My mom is very worried. She is asking me to go back. She says with desaparecidos time is crucial. It could be that he will end up in a nasty cell at El Chipote or being tortured somewhere.”

“¿Va a ir Fernando contigo?” I heard myself ask in Spanish.

“My mom says it is crucial that only I go now. She is paying for my ticket.”

“And what about your job?”

“I do not know yet.”

She did not go the following day, but two days after. I am not sure what Yandra pulled off with her workplace. Once again, she flew down to Mexico, then Managua. Still no sign of her brother.

Fernando and I dropped her off at the airport. Manu had gone the night before on Amtrak to Seattle and would be back this evening.

“What time will you be back today?” he asked me.

“I finish my shift at 7 PM,” I lied. I did not work and hoped to spend the day on the North Shore to avoid loneliness at the house. I bid him goodbye. I headed to Waterfront, the final station, then went to the cannabis shop for a half-gram sativa preroll and a lighter. The attendant passed me a black jet lighter.

The waters of the SeaBus led me to the North Shore. From there, I took the bus route to Grouse Mountain. “You have to learn to be on your own,” I remembered my mother telling me every time I invited her for bachata nights on campus.

The hike left me tired, the mountain elevated over 4,000 feet. I purchased a plastic water bottle and some granola bars to chew on the way. At the top, I pressed my finger down on the jet lighter. Inhaling the smoke caused my throat to irritate. I felt itchy, and suddenly the whole city was in beautiful splendor. I felt my hair strands dancing with the wind. The way down was a rugged path, and in my condition, I decided to purchase a gondola ticket. I remembered Medea suspended on a golden chariot.

Aerial views of pines. Canada was a new home, a temporary home. I would have to assimilate to all of life’s circumstances on this hemisphere of the world. I took an Uber ride from there to North Shore Station, and from there, the SeaBus downtown. I closed the second Uber’s car door and walked up the stairs to the house. The keys unlocked the entrance.

On the white divan, Manu sat on Fernando’s lap, facing him. His hands slid down Fernando’s Real Madrid shorts. Their lips met like two oceans converging. A small red vial stood on the divan’s foot, red packaging, yellow font between a lightning bolt, SUPER RUSH.

━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━

I fished off coins from my wallet and head to the bus station. Three coins: a toonie. On one side: first ring silver-plated, golden-plated second ring imprinting a polar bear on melting ice caps. The loonie is golden, features a duck. It slips from my sweaty hands, onto the concrete. The driver allows me to pass.

━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━

The square windows reflected the orange dusk the vespertine brought on. The city was on its splendour. My footsteps clacked on the cobblestoned streets, tud tud tud. The rush of cars on both sides of the traffic streets reverberated in a low hum. At some point, my inner intensity blended in with the city’s madness rush into a balanced reality again. I went back home late at dawn, that is all I remember. The bartender took my order; I was physically there lost in the music, though mentally I balanced the pros and cons of silence or condemnation.