The Grass Is Always Greener, or Something Like That...

I don't have the greenest thumb in the world. Hell, the only green my opposable wonder has ever seen is a crude yellowie brown excuse of a hue painted on from a misguided crack of a hammer. I've only ever really been able to successfully plant a few ideas, some of which I am still trying to weed out and others which I've been able to happily harvest. Regardless of my sub-par sowing abilities, I've got an eye for finely manicured land and respect a seamstress who weaves so much time, effort, and roots into the soil of their social fabric. I do not necessarily agree with Captain Cliché that the grass is always greener on the other side, but I do believe you should incorporate the appealing seedlings you are drawn towards into your own pasture of peace, yielding the most ideal and fertile lifestyle.

Travelling for me is an excuse to clear out the cataracts that have formed from years of looking at life one way. Reading in between the lines of a brand new book of unwritten codes enables me to write my own manual that helps guide me towards becoming a happier soul. I cant stop licking my lips at the sight of greener pastures on the other side of the cultural barricades that naturally arise from generations and generations of traditions. When placed in new greenfield territory, I'm a cumbersome cow, a hyper hyena, and a joyful Jenna Jameson fused together; grazing along haphazardly to satisfy my appetite for growth , running rabid chasing after opportunities that continue to sprout , and shamelessly exposé-ing my natural talents when called upon. That's right,not only does a cow, hiena, and ol jenny jame-o pull together to symbolize the Trifecta de Tim...they also never fail to make me smile when I see them posing proudly on all fours (shout-out to Cowgirl Dreams 2, you kept it real JJ ). As I stumble across a new lay of land, I find myself looking from side to side shifty-eyed as I hop the cultural divide, grab a handful of the emerald energy that makes the uniquely foreign lifestyle so appealing , and slyly slip them into my rucksack of ideals that I intend to seed into my own personal plot for others to freely graze in.

I first stepped hoof in Uruguay nine months ago with the inspiring nuggets of distant societies that I've collected in my spiritual satchel throughout my travels. To my delight, I found a gold mine of sprawling foreign farmland full of new customs and values, fresh for the picking . After spending 75 cents of a year's dollar in exchange for grass-gazing and cultural cultivating, I can't help but embrace the Uruguayo fertilizer that is sprinkled amongst so many facets of their daily lives; communal kindness and genuine generosity.

Here are some prime differences between Uruguayans and what I see in the States (I don't want to speak for everyone) that will help explain the subconscious sharing that I have grown to love and admire.

Beer: Ordering a beer in Uruguay can be a frustrating situation for a cheeky chap who is accustomed to ordering oh say, a 12 oz bottle of Anheuser's finest. Not so much because there are usually only two options, Pilsen or Patricia, but more so because they only are served in liters. Now in the states, the only time I ever bought a liter (40 oz basically) was when I was going to tape them onto my hands for a casual Friday night of Edward 40 hands, and in that case, it was most likely malt liquor that must be drunk within 15 minutes before it warms up. After the initial “Well that's retarded” feeling at the beer ordering station, you quickly come to realize the team building situation that the litro inevitably presents to the wayward beer consumer. I seldom see Uruguayan's having a beer by themselves, the bottle itself is a catalyst for bringing folks together to share a laugh amongst friends or to make new ones. If you sit down without a drink at any bar in Uruguay when someone has a frosty 40ish Pilsen in front of them, chances are they will offer you a vasito. One reason is because he probably doesn't want to look like too much of a drunk, but the real reason is plain and simple; that's just what you do. The vasito is an ingenious idea because it allows four to five people to drink from the same bottle before it is the next person's shout. The vasito also gives you an ice breaker at the bar so instead of doing the “can I buy you a drink” thing (do people even do that anymore?) you are inviting someone to a casual conversation in a communal pursuit to polish off the Patricia. The whole act of beer drinking is based around team drinking, always filling up each other's cup and giving you a feel-good sense of sharing. Team drinking tends to have another context in the States as it is usually associated with bingey bar crawls, case races, and Beer Olympics where the focus is on getting plastered. After your first litro roundabout, you cannot help but to carry on the same tradition next time you feel a bit parched. The only downfall with the litro is the fact that it is not very beach friendly in the fact that it gets warm fast...but maybe it's just because I haven't found a koozie big enough yet. Nothing quenches the throat quite like a crisp naty light 24 pack of 12 oz shooters, but hey the heat just encourages that much more team spirit on the beach front.

Mate: There's a reason that you can't find a Starbuck's or Caribou Coffee anywhere in Uruguay. The barrier to entry for the Uruguayan market is made impenetrable by the country's crack, Mate. The raw herbal tea runs deep through the veins of each city dweller, fisherman, or goucho in the country and it's consumption can be traced all the way to the top of most family trees. Mate is essentially tea that doesn't come in fancy little packets with dippie-strings attached. In order to join the mate ranks, you need a starter set of a mate cup (imagine a mini coconut hollowed out), a metal straw with one closed end and holes in order to sip the tea without getting the particles in your mouth, and a fully accessorized thermos with your personal flair, full of hot water. Uruguayans take their mate preparation very seriously and have all sorts of rules like only the keeper of the mate may fill the mate cup along with differing mate packing and maneuvering best practices. These unspoken rules are for real...I once got blacklisted for a month from a fellow employee's mate cypher for filling up my own cup without permission. My gringo street cred' was tossed out the window with one fateful sip and took months of counseling to stop from freaking out from sheer nervousness every time the mate was thrown my way. Similar to the litro, drinking mate is a ceremonial activity that always involves offering a cup first to a group of friends or strangers, and then to yourself. If someone wanted a quick pick-me-up they'd consume their caffeine with a mad scientist concoction of redbull, double expresso, 8 hour energy, but that contradicts the core communal reason of why mate is sipped in the first place. For example, I was just at a town meeting yesterday for all of Punta del Diablo (my first town meeting ever, I was hoping to see some good ol fashioned mob rule put into action, but came away slightly disappointed) and was offered a cup from two separate strangers merely because... that's what you do. I've seen this psychology in action in the past when I've passed a few dutchies pon dee left hand side. Again, the underlying theme is sharing something everyone relates to that transcends race, language, jobs, or age and brings people together,... as opposed to smoking sheerly to get stoney bologni by yourself. Mate is an all day activity of team caffination that you can't help but to join in on and before you even think “man I could really go for a cup o joe” you'll find a steamy stimulant in your hands before you can say “Frappacino.”

Asado: I've touched on the magic of an asado in my last blog but I feel as though this Uruguayan tradition is also a perfect example of some of the greener grass I've peeped across this country's fence. The asado is similar to an American barbecue in the fact that the point of the event is to bring people together, the eating part is just a plus. This might be the reason that most Uruguayans embrace their typical cuts of entrails, random tendons, and stringy shin meat, but hence, the focus on a good time. Chorizos (sausages) are a staple as well as a huge rock salted cut of meat (somewhere from the stomach area..take your pick) and the occasional potato. Side note: Most Uruguayans hate vegetables; when asked why they don't eat vegetables a common reply is “No como pasto” or “I dont eat grass.” When the chorizo and cut are ready to serve, the grill master throws it on a huge plate that gets passed around continuously until you're full. There is something more fluid and natural about this way of team dining that warms my tummy. Now that's the way to eat, no ADD portion system, no “Well I like mine medium, mine well done..” even though many foreigners still don't get this. Everyone wants to make sure each other eat first, no “seconds” rule needs to be put in place, the group just gets it. Sharing is caring...yeah I said it, but the Uruguayans take it to a whole new lax level that characterizes their humble generosity.

Uruguay, you've got some aerating to do on your side of the fence, but you better believe I'll be germinating my land with your deeply seeded values of sharing, generosity, and community. For now, 'm off to get my Johnny Appleseed on, planting ideals along the way and continuing to work on my side of the fence. Remember, if the grass looks to be greener on the other side, chances are you are not seeing the whole yard. Learn what you can from the plots that please you and smile as you continue to watch your own lifestyle-lawn blossom and mature.

Looking For Love In All The Tasty Places

I’m just a gringo lookin’ for love. That's right, I'm talking about good ol' fashioned, rose petals to the door, butterfly eyelash kissing-,David The Gnome nose nustling,lying in front of the couch-watching-the-Notebook-snuggling, love. Well, maybe not love exactly,but the thing that you tell girls to get in their pants at that pivotal passionate tipping point. Is that it?...no, that might have been a bit strong. But on that “getting into pants” note, what is up with the “buttons” on the pants covering the solo zipper, that aren’t really buttons? Is this the emergency break that’s built in case you suddenly realize the Lamborgini that you thought was going to take you for a spin around the ol' block turns out to be a beat up Hyundai Elantra riding on three hubcap spinners? If that is the case then well done because it calls for quite the awkward fondle for the helpless and anxious Casanova.

What I really mean by the love I am searching for is a happy medium, a connection, something more than a wink in the night club, two strong caiparinas, and the grand tour of my double-wide tent out back. I dont know what it is, but whatever aphrodisiac the Uruguayans put in the water here really brings out the “SPRING BREAK CANCUN 2011!!!!!” attitude to the beach. I am starting to think the Cumbia music must have some underwear-undressing-undertone that subliminally sends the pheromones running wild in Punta Del Diablo. I wish I could say what happens in Punta, stays in Punta, but thanks to ol’ Zuckerberg, no one is safe from your darling distant detective checking up on Big Brother Facebook to see how your “Girl’s Weekend” trip is going. Things get a bit wild and crazy round here, but still begs the question...Tim, are ya lookin' for love?

Please allow me to smear a picture of the struggle I am dealing with at the moment by breaking it down in Guayo' terms: The two types of luv (l-u-v, not l-o-v-e, big difference, ask any texter) that the hostel receptionist runs into can be best compared to the relationships I have with my two favorite jewels of Uruguayan Cuisine; Trufas and Asados.

For those unfortunate enough to never have indulged in a Trufa, let me explain what these god-given fruits of the Rocha coast exactly are. Think of the perfect mix of a dark chocolate brownie, soft fudge that makes your teeth shutter from the sugar, and the surprise of mint, dulce de leche, coconut, rum, or my favorite, white chocolate(reminiscent of my freestyling hay-day) hidden in the middle to stun you mid-chom on that second bite. When a guest is ready to pop their Trufa cherry, the Trufa veterans huddle around the virgin just to see the orgasmic, eyes roll in the back of their head- OH-face, just so we can remember our first experience…Christmas eve on your lips.

Those lustful one-nighters/early morningers (depending if you went to Bitacara,Punta's happenin' nightclub, at 3:30AM in the morning or not) are directly correlated with the feeling I get when I step up to The Fridge to decide which Trufa I want to indulge in for the night. You are looking for a quick fix, to be sensually stimulated, and basque in the 10 minutes of passionate pleasure. It doesn’t really matter what flavor it is, or what is inside the plastic covering, as long as it looks good from the outside. You know what you are going to get and you don’t care how it tastes on the inside, as long as she’s a Trufa (have to watch out with all these Brazilian Trannies running around these days.). However, after a hedonistic night of Trufa El-You-Veeing, you look back on the night and wish you thought twice about hiking back so hastily to the hostel on the hill. You feel a bit queezy in the stomach from the sugar overload of the night before, stained smears on your sheets, and an empty teeth-torn wrapper on the empty pillow next to you. You're head is a bit wobbly and are left with nothing but bad breath and a long day of “eh”-ness ahead of you.

Now on the contrary, there are the asado's that we all patiently wait for and crave deep down inside. Like the Trufa, the art of the Asado must be explained for the unfamiliar. “Asado” itself is a cut of meat, but more importantly, is the style of grilling/barbequing (depending where you are from) that the Uruguayans and Argentinians have perfected to a t, or should I say a capital A.

The Asado, much like the “something more” type of relationship takes time. If you ask any Uruguayo o Argentinian, rule numero uno that must be upheld at all costs is “One can Never, EVER rush an asado.” The longer you wait, the more you allow the smoke to slowly seep into the pores, and hence, the better the taste. What makes the realationship with your asado so unique is the art of stoking the embers for hours, making sure you are adding fuel to the fire, and allowing the flames to flirt with the tender skin. The heat tickles, massages, and caresses the muscle and fat until the aromatic juices begin to flow. If you attempt to turn the fire up too fast, you'll burn the prized flesh and ruin what could have been one of the most savory, succulent, and satisfying meals you have had for a long time. Nothing is more rewarding then putting in hours (days, weeks, months for the memorable ones) into watching your steak or summer love mature, heat up, and begin to ooze with satiating “sabor” until finally, you are ready to sink your teeth into something real, something fulfilling, a feeling of completedness. This, my friends is not a quick, cheap fix that temporarily curves your appetite you've been longing to appease, but a genuine feeling that settles your stomach and gives you the warm and fuzzies.yes

The only problem is a few hours after you really feel that you have built a strong connection with that special someone, the inevitable occurs. Our fantasty filet must return home leaving you alone with the essensce of smoke and perfume, watching the folks walk away until I am alone stuck with my..spatula in my hand, gazing longingly as the pit of passion that once was, until the last ember fizzles out. gSure there will be more asado's, but each time it feels more real and more real, proportionally getting harder and harder to sit alone as the smoke subsides. The last cackle of a joke, crackles through the smoke, and poofs into a memory of what just was... that tangible LUV that felt so right... So what is it that I am really craving?

I don't know it's hard to say. If I had a mobile parilla (what you cook an Asado in) maybe I could follow that prized piece of meat around. Maybe I'm tired of being left alone to clean up the ashes of the fire. But for right now, enough of these asado analogies... I'm getting tired and ready for bed, but before I hit the hay, maybe I'll go grab a quick Trufa...

Smooches - Timmy Goodtimes Jackson

What is this Real World you speak of?

Working in a hostel is the closest you will get to becoming a rockstar. Well maybe not a Roberty Plant or MarkyMark, but at least the equivalent to the lead dreadie in the local reggae band here in Punta Del Diablo. El Diablo Tranquilo Hostel is the venue that I took the TimmyGoodTimes roadshow to this summer and needless to say, I think I had sold-out shows every night. I couldn't play an instrument (gave a go at the harmonica, “Amazing Grace” is under the belt) but the night shift position allowed me to be on stage behind the oak reception desk, conducting the mood of the mochileros with Tim's Twilight DJ mix, all while keeping the enthralling cool and collective mystique of the “hostel receptionista.” In the vagabonding community, the hostel receptionist is a long sought after job because of it's inherent answer to the always tickling, always itching question of “How can I sustainably travel and live in another country?” Sure, you live in paradise, everyone is on vacation, the mood is high, and even the most reserved chickidees seem to go into heat when they set their first paw into the hostel. However, here is another side of the hostel hero that tends to be overlooked. It is the plight that every bartender, scuba instructor, charter boat captain, and cruise ship server must learn to deal with; at what time does the vacation come to an end? What happens when the the initial perks and pizazz of the “dream” job begin to fizzle out and the “dream” becomes just as mundane and normal as the “real world” job you left?

The receptionist position is not a job that I took for it's financial benefits. I don't have a 401k, sales quota achievement bonuses, or 2 weeks paid vacation. My salary is not monetized but rather exchanged for an opportunity of a lifetime to run free in a wonderland playground where I can throw the frisbee with a few Frenchies at the beach, play a romantic game of “tug of war” with a tough-to-crack- Ukrainian lass, or spin around on a merry-go-round of banter and worldly lessons with the Aussie five-year-strong-world-traveler. My stock options for future exponential growth are invested in the possible ventures and opportunities that I continue to incubate with the entrepreneurial minded guests I bounce ideas with across the globe. My benefits are paid in the mysitque of “the hostel worker guy” that generates so much interest and iconic fame, it puts me on a pedestal over the other, less exotic, backpackers to ultimately intrigue and instigate conversation with girls...and the other guests too (“I mean, let's be honest”-Tim's Ego). I won't be making it rain anytime soon, but I might do a rain dance with the hippy indigie's that check in to show off my sick shamanic shuffle for some street cred once in a while. You won't see me wearing Versace, but I'll show you how it's done on the beach playing Bocci.

If I had a nickel for everytime I heard “So...how'd you start working here?”..I'd have a shit load of nickles. The nickel goes far down here in my Punta Del Diablo beach bubble not because of the exchange rate, but because each one of those questions leaves the guest eager to keep dropping their change into my slot-machine of stories to see what they can get out of my experience. Sometimes I talk about the mixed fruits of life that I've been able to sink my teeth into. A few I swallowed with pride, some I peeled just to admire, and most I had to spit right out. Another nickel and a taught yank of the life-lever might have me talking about the crazy late night bar stories with the Medellin Hooter's girls on Thanksgiving Day. The last pull of the slots might bring out the Jackpot of all stories; when I hooked up with triple 7's on a boat from Panama City to Cartegena. Ok, the last one is a stretch but I wanted to keep the slot machine theme rolling for the kiddies (mixed fruit, bar, 7's, get it)...

There are obvious perks working in a hostel in a foreign land, at the beach, in summer time, and being a gringo. The most obvious reason is being able to be a cultural, worldly, and educated American ambassador of peace and Obama-ness...or something like that. The least obvious well-kept secret for some is the the smorgesboard of senoritas that pop in and out during the high season, breaking hearts like Penelope Cruz. You might become best buddies with a chilled-out Porteno guitarist or conjour some sappy summer love for a few weeks and you tell yourself “Man this is the life, I dont even need to travel the world...the world comes to me!” The late night clubs, watching back-to-back sunrises/sunsets and booze-infused life rants send you flying high with gusts of gratitude you owe to the establishment that has allowed you to taste the sweet dulce de leche of hostel life. However, right when you are flying high during peak season, a change in the gulf stream occurs, you start becoming winded and slowly begin to spiral downward into a mountain pass of monotony.

A change begins occurring in the way you look at the guests along with your rock star persona; each week the conversations and “breaking free” lifestyle rants becoming more novel and cliché. You begin rolling your eyes when you see the 19 year old LIP (Long Island Princess) approaching the desk with her I'm so worldly, living in an ex-pat bubble of a study abroad program, not really wanting to throw myself out there or speak spanish to the local real live Latinos - swag. She entertains her love of the idea of traveling, one day escaping the wrath of her parents disapproval and with it, her societal microcosm of social pressures and expectations she is bouncing back and forth in. But alas, she is really just in love with the IDEA of the lifestyle. It will most likely take her a few more years and a big leap of faith to appease the pressure she feels humming in her stomach to finally realize that there is a life made specifically just for her out there.

The turbines start stalling after you hear the same comment for the 1,000^th time; “Ahh well I wish I could stay on vacation, but time to get back to the real world.” The fucking real world...if I have to hear that branded, made-up, fabricated idea of “real world” one more time, I'm going to, well, probably just snicker and shrug like I normally do. However, after a while, this comment does begin to poke ya' in the ribs. My snicker turns into an exasperated “Ugh”, leaves me a bit uncomfortable and inherently calls for some introspection on my part to dwell on this “real world” dilemma that is thrown around so loosely these days. I mean if you are returning back to the real world, what the hell am I living in. If my life is a vacation, I guess that's cool but, is that insinuating that I must one day in fact need to “return” to a “real” world? I feel pretty real during my days working here; I eat, I laugh, I work, I sleep. Then the question is, if my world is clearly “real” and they wish they could live my “real” life then why not be proactive and change your situation so your life is a“vacation.” Can anyone ever truly be working in the “real world” and on vacation? Yet before delving into these big questions, I explain the plentiful and realistic opportunities that are at these dreamer's fingertips to follow their view of an alternative lifestyle, but I still get the melancholy shrug and, “Yeah, wish I could do that.”

My attitude becomes calloused from the onslaught of questions from the same semi-interested visitor who is more comfortable with saying their dreams are impossible because of some cop-out excuse. I have to bite both lips to keep from screaming, “Dude, quit and be about it.” I can feel the lever on my slot-machine begin to get a bit rusty from the sand-blasted shenanigans of the summer wind. Its getting harder and harder to keep spinning out stories and weaving wild and wander-lustful allegories to the eager listeners. I can see that my “real world” is starting to become more like the “real world” that others keep telling me about and my “vacation” might be coming towards an end.

But I think this is normal, and I think it's ok.

Pants and sneaks now take place of trunks and Havaianas, and you know what, it feels really, really refreshing. It has been very fulfilling to experience the transformation from summer to winter, my old reception job to the business development side of the hostel, and the “hey everyone listen to me talker” to a more humble listener. I now realize that I can't be annoyed or pull the too cool for school card with the freshly “on the road” dream gazer who is buzzing from the magic of the road and new found feeling of timelessness. The excitement recharges my batteries and reminds me that it is unfair to judge that privileged exchange student from Buenos Aires who has Kerouac qued up her in her Kindle, just because I have volleyed the “So what's your story...” ball back and forth countless times. These are the exact same questions I used to ask every hostel receptionist, and if it wasn't for their genuine , thought-out feedback, I wouldn't have chosen this path either. Even though I might know where the top 40 conversation will inevitably go, my callouses begin to soften when I see the familiar sparkle in their eye; the secretive glimmer that whispers “I know something that you don't know.” They know that they have no idea what they are doing, but know that it this is the most real they have felt for a long time.

Here I am now, with hoodie draped over half my face, feet wedged in between the couch cushions for warmth, and watching the contracted locals on horseback fill up the potholes and mini-ravines that have been left by the flash floods of Punta Del Diablo foreigners this past Summer. Just as my vacation has transitioned into a more repetitious “real job”, my playground has turned into a think tank. For the first time in years, I have committed to stay in one place for more than 12 months in order to focus on a few new projects, both personal and professional. I am, in one sense or another, returning to a “real world” of thought, while most will say I am still on “vacation.” This real world/dream job/vacation anomaly tends to throw people for loops, changes their points of reference, and poses many tough questions for an individual who is not too sure the society-imposed “real world” is what they want out of life. The real world should be thought of as the environment (not necesarrily the location) you live in where you are proactively committed to growing intellectually, spiritually, financially, and/or physically. In high-season summer, I would have to agree with most that I was on “vacation” from the “real world” paradigm because I had no focused intrinsic goals for the summer other than to sit back, sip on some mate, and stoke the embers in the parilla until the Asado was ready. However, as my reception job became more “real” and the fresh milk of the “vacation” began to spoil it gave me the opportunity to focus on how I could really combine a dream job, in a vacation atmosphere, making money and adding new skill sets in order to create my own, personalized Real World. By throwing myself out there and taking the initial dream job at the hostel, my “vacation” has now yielded a new opportunity for a bigger and better “dream job” to travel around S. America networking with other hostels in the “real world.”

My call to action is to think hard about your "real" job and if you are truly happy. Your “dream” job , whatever it might be, has the absolute potential of becoming a “real” job. It is vital to take a step outside the “real world” grind to sometimes discover that there are endless lifestyles and job opportunities waiting to be discovered through the new people, experiences, and ideas you will encounter out of the comfort zone of your daily real life. Your ideal job might one day become boring, where you feel like you are stuck in the mud of the road that you used to stamp your feet in freely, the road that led you to this initial dream job. At that point, it is time to reassess what you have learned and leverage the cliff notes of success you have attained into your next dream. This sounds cliché and easier said than done, of course, but believe that the craziest folk with the most obscure passions will make it work, leaving the wisher's on the sidelines of the dreamer's path to self-fulfillment. If you are cognizant of what you do well, then put yourself in a position where you can use those competencies to make your dream world a reality...and who knows it might just start with a vacation.