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.