Lovely double room for rent £120 p/w

Most of you probably saw at some point during the last decade, the film L’Auberge Espagnol. Back in 2008, four months into my London tale, I watched it for a second time (in French, 38% comprehension) and what caught my attention was the way how a movie can light up different emotions depending on the context. I know, no Nobel Prize for Literature is going to come about because of that quote, but in my middle class head that was actually big news. It meant that in the space of four years I shifted from the lethargy and “happysadness” of enjoying the movie through to longing for an unlikely experience, to the joy and satisfaction of being, to some extent, inside that story.

Truth be told, the English language is not something too rare for Chileans. Considering that we daily witness neon posters written in dodgy wording, teenagers in Metallica t-shirts and cheesy “boutique” La Dehesa shops. Whoever has lived for a while in countries such as France, Germany, Sweden or even Brasil, will probably know what I mean. Xavier, the main character, the very first thing he comes across to in Barcelona is a Metro station with an horrific name: Urquinaona, a catalan equivalent to Eyjafjallajökull. Straight away, a voice- over is heard with a line: “When you first arrive in a new city, nothing makes sense. Everything is unknown, virgin... After you've lived here, walked these streets, you'll know them inside out. You'll know these people. Once you've lived here, crossed this street 10, 20, 1000 times... it'll belong to you because you've lived there. That was about to happen to me, but I didn't know it yet”. That’s it my friends.

I guess I could write a lot about the no-sense and struggle I experienced during those 23 hours that passed after I left my home in Santiago to the time I arrived with two bags, a laptop and a guitar to a flat in Bethnal Green (including closed tube stations, broken public telephones and a nearly fatal street crossing).

I used to live in a flat with five people. Less glamorous than l’Auberge Espagnol but equally diverse.

William (aka “The Alien”) was a frenchy guy who worked in banking. He was certainly alienated, unable to interact with the rest of the house; I don’t know if it was due to shyness or because we didn’t fulfill his social requirements (if any). Maybe a merge of both, because he was the first person I talked to, kindly telling me that we were going to share the second floor and even gave me his mobile number. Biologically speaking, he was a good chap. However, I realized he had idiotic traits when he told me he was paying ten quid to the Indian guy on the third floor for sharing the broadband (the whole package was 12 pounds). “I sing he is making prrrrofit”, “Well of course he is making profits man! I don’t even know him and he’s already a cheeky bastard”…”Ah! And I believe he is eating my food too”. Sweet Lord. That was one of the last conversations I had with him, with the exception of a scary Facebook friend request I received from his girlfriend after a casual “ça va?” in the kitchen. I met thousands of experiments like that at Uni, nerds keen on progressive heavy metal, and definitely not the most exciting people to hang out with.

At first glance, Rich (aka “Rubbish!”) appeared to have no other discernible talent than being our sole British specimen. But along the way he became this kind of easygoing lad who wasn’t bothered by not understanding a single shit word of my then rudimentary English (“Sorry, say again?”), or was happy to repeat 15 times what he was telling with his cryptic accent. Whenever you ran out of bread and sugar, you could count on Rich to re-stock. He worked as a web programmer for The Guardian, had a couple of piercings on his lips, mad about BMX (fuck is this late 70s?), was my TV partner in the lounge and sporadically a good companion when going to the park (not gay). Our source of fun was who else, the Indian guy. I can now recall telling him about this dude telling me “Hey mate, I heard you playing guitar last night…do you know any Boyzone song?”, and the hopeless reaction of the good old Richard, “Oh Jesus”.

Rodger (aka “Comprende amigo?”) is a south african-dutch-german dude who’s spent his whole live travelling around the globe, or at least that’s what he says. As odd as his background, I’d define him as someone in between The Big Lebowsky and Anton Chigurh of No Country for Old Men. What was he up to in London? Well, he was working at Soho’s biggest sex shop and from then on I predicted this was a friendship that was to last forever (“Look buddy, I couldn’t talk or advise my kids, tell them I lived all around the world but didn’t work in a Sex Shop in Soho”, “Man! I have £5,000 in porn in my room, and it’s all brand new. One day I’m gonna sell it all and buy a car”). This was my drunken mate of the house, the one of the cool parties and long and winding chats. As the old man he is (35 y.o.) he tends to become Mr. Grumpy, like that Saturday morning when I found him threatening to blow the Indian guy’s head out with a blender. It’s also interesting to point out that he had a tattoo studio in the basement and that he used to introduce me as “Hey this is Rodrigo, my new flatmate. He’s a banker”. Sorry, I am not.

Catherine (aka “Wilson”) was Rodger’s girlfriend. Stereotypically aussie, she was laidback and friendly. Memorable Chicken Roasts with the Indian dude’s ketchup. I don’t know why I have this funny feeling that without her our flat would have been more than likely in unhealthy conditions. On top of that, you should praise someone whose able to deal with Rodger, shouldn’t you?

And finally, Nishit the Indian dude (aka, apparently, “Nick”). When you join a shared flat, and you volunteer on sharing some expenses, the last thing you expect is someone trying to take the piss out of you, don’t you? Moreover, being told “I don’t wanna get home and check that the money isn’t under my door”. Dear Sir, you can kindly suck my cock and fuck off.

I mean, why is it that sometimes we tend to have some sort of affection for people we must have punched in the face in first place? What’s the rational behind that? In any case, these are the Crown Jewels:

1) First chats "So buddy, what’s your English name?". "Pardon?". "Yeah, for example my original name is Nishit but I decided to call me Nick". POOM!

2) Me playing guitar on the couch For a fifth time “Hey buddy, can you play a Boyzone tune? “Ehm, not really mate” “And what about the Backstreet Boys?” “Well, let me try Quit Playing Games”. What followed was a Dantesque scene. This guy almost crying (imagine Juan Gabriel) while trying to sing with a falsetto, eyes closed and dodgy workout t-shirt, expanding the limits of self-respect and lecturing me on how to play the rhythm “because you’re messing up the song”.

3) Me sleeping on a random Saturday 10 am For a third time he wakes me up with his awful tecno-house-indian-boyband music (“one thing is to be woke up with music and another very different is to be woke up with rubbish music” Rich said). Pissed off, staring at the ceiling, I suddenly found myself surrounded by a well-known beat, with no exit but to enjoy this unique moment: DALE A TU CUERPO ALEGRIA MACARENA

4) Talking about my new hair cut Just telling the guys about this place I found in Soho where you can get a decent hair cut for a fiver, compared to the 25 quid charged somewhere else. “It’s incredible, only a crazy guy could spend so much money on that”. And that crazy guy lived on the third floor. “I paid 40 pounds for this new haircut, but it’s not only a haircut…I wanted to change my style”.

5) In the lounge having a bottle of wine The man showed his skills in the art of chating-up by bringing a bottle of white wine to welcome a Chilean friend. In the process of making Cary Grant look like a junior regular of a Holloway pub, he dropped what was apparently his best line to the poor girl. “Look, it’s very simple: I need someone to iron my clothes, you need some pounds. Would you iron my clothes?” Serial killer.

And that’s how I started to love my adoptive city.

And after that

Let's drink a toast -- it's the most I can stand to cry about. The mental energy you wasted on this wedding invitation. Let's thank the host -- you've been such a great host.

Pavement- We are underused

So the background and genesis of our story was kind of peculiar. I landed in London two years ago, only 2 months after meeting the woman who was to become my wife. Throughout that time we made the most out of what technology and science fiction could help us with, in order to get to know and learn about each other. The last and seemingly intimidating test was to organize a wedding in 4 months and 12,000 miles away from Chile. I mean, could we cope with that? If I only knew that this was only the beginning….

Nicole and our mothers managed everything on the spot over there whilst the groom, as if he was some sneaky hacker, only contributed from cyberspace via emails and webcam. I went over to Chile exclusively to get married and return after 2 weeks.

Friday the 26th at 10pm I reckoned the worst in terms of stress was already dealt with so I concentrated on creating good vibes, hoping everything would go the right way the next day at 4pm (i.e. nobody would dare to be cheeky enough to change my playlist or request raeggeton).

The earthquake shock was gratefully livened up by my English friend Richard who slept throughout the first 45 seconds, maybe thinking the scary noise was just a train from Dalston to Hackney Central passing by his window or turbulences over the Atlantic. At 3.36 I found myself sat on the couch, calm but at the same time slightly astonished, thumb and index finger pressing my forehead:

“Fuck, this couldn’t have happened”. I phoned Nicole straight away, notwithstanding the collapse of the networks and she told me she was ok. Anyone who spent a respectable amount of time over the last 6 years reviewing facts about the Indian Ocean tsunami knows that an 8.8 earthquake 10 hours before your wedding is technically not deemed as a positive sign.

At 7.30am the chaos was evident. The venue, an old 19th century mansion, was obviously damaged and the logistic companies were not delivering anything at all. What follows was a lesson in power struggle. I headed off to the venue with my dad to evaluate options with the administration and catering people, to decide whether to postpone, cancel or look for an alternative place, bearing in mind at that point there was no electricity or suitable spots. In addition to that, a structural engineer had to perform a security check to confirm the closure and we were unable to contact some of the suppliers.

Considering that as a caterer is fairly easy to be sympathetic with your client, having 90% of the money in your pocket, it was evident and understandable that there were going to be different incentives among the parties. We decided to go ahead at around 12pm, after the helpful administration offered us a suitable and safe location in the same venue. Thus postponing the start of the reception for 3 hours but still with important issues to sort out- like renting a generator in the more than likely scenario of having the electricity shut down later in the day.

We then confirmed all our independent suppliers of music, lighting, photography, filming and wines, all of them, thankfully, friends of ours. Out of nowhere Nicole showed up with a friend and we reassured each other that we had to carry on: “Bye baby, see you in the afternoon”.

Whilst I went to check if the park where the ceremony was going to be held was closed, Nicole proceeded to her hairdresser who agreed to open his shop for her. After that, there was a succession of communication problems stressed by the fact that mobiles were having coverage issues. The worst was the inability to confirm the attendance of the minister. At that point I was more than open to have a mystic or any other kind of ceremony.

2 cold showers later, along with frantic reviewing of the newspapers, dozens of friends asking for status and an aftershock while Nicole and her sister were dressing up, we both departed separately to get married; our main focus now being to make it as simple and quiet as possible, appreciating our now anticipated limited group of friends and family joining us in such difficult circumstances.

When I arrived at the ceremony and saw the unexpected and massive number of family and friends that were turning up, most of them whom I hadn’t seen for more than 2 years, overcoming their own struggle and fears to join us in such a monumental moment for us, I knew there was space for hope. Things at last started to go our way (at 4.34pm the lovely bureaucracy of my country turned up in the figure of the minister) and I started to feel extremely emotional about it all. Coloured dresses and sunshades, trees and sculptures. Finally, Nicole arrived by her mother’s hand to the sounds of Sigur Ros music to stand alongside me.

Why did we go ahead? First of all, certainly, to be conscious and respectful of the sad context but also to understand that life inexorably keeps rolling. It was also important to value the sacrifice from our friends who travelled so far to be with us. We wouldn’t have done anything if it wasn’t for the decisive effort from our families and the understanding, support and sacrifice from everyone else involved. In the end we believe this experience was an infinitely humble example of fight against adversity, something that will definitely mark our life together.

3:38 (Dios es un excelente guionista)

(tercer y ultimo post de la trilogia Hay Boda)

“Oye y…como que música te gusta?”
“David Bowie”
“Viste Life Aquatic?!” Exclamo entusiasmado el quejicoso Alberto, con tono de quien hace más una afirmación que una pregunta.
“ehm, of corse que si” Contesto ella dando pocas muestras de convencimiento. “Pero me quede dormida”.

Casi todo lo que paso la noche en que conocí a Nicole es irónico. Mirando hacia atrás y como diría Steve Jobs connecting the dots, es inquietante pensar en la secuencia de situaciones y decisiones a primera vista nimias que en retrospectiva se han tornado trascendentales. Lo se, generalmente no nos damos el tiempo de analizar y enumerar ese tipo de cosas (cuando chico una vez hice el ejercicio de concientemente contar cuantos respiros habían desde mi casa hasta el colegio: Entre 80 y 90 en 4 minutos) pero con un poco de esfuerzo y detenimiento es fácil darse cuenta que, efectivamente, la probabilidad conjunta de que todo se de al mismo tiempo es muy pero muy baja: Y si Tito en vez de convencerme de ir a la ceremonia de la ACHAP se hubiera ido a ver una película con la Nena? Y si Mono no me hubiera dicho a último minuto que “El Bora” tenía una invitación disponible para la ACHAP? Y si los guardias hubieran controlado en la entrada? Y si una chiquilla de otra agencia que solo 10 días antes me había dicho “porfa ya no quiero bailar mas contigo nos puedes dejar solas?” me hubiera reconocido y hubiera venido, de rodillas, a pedirme perdón? Y si la fiesta de los publicistas no hubiera sido un derroche con alcohol y comida gratis? Y si Tito hubiera ganado, como todos los demás ganaron, un premio en el stand de La Tercera? Y si la Nico no se hubiera quedado en la fiesta?

Me quiero detener en un personaje secundario, ese pobre diablo de Max Huber que cruzo 20 metros del estacionamiento para pedirme mi número de teléfono a las 4 am de un Jueves. Era noble el hueon. El hecho de que haya sido despedido de la pega la semana siguiente no hace sino mitificar aun más su rol y asemejarlo a algún melancólico perdedor de las películas de Wes Anderson. En retrospectiva quizás ese muchacho era la única persona cuerda entre la comedia de insensateces, descoordinaciones y torpezas que sucedieron antes de que se me ocurriera algo tan básico como pedirle el teléfono a la chiquilla que me gustaba.

Pero eso es tratar de trivializar y simplificar una historia de engrupimiento que estaba destinada a no ser como todas. Había que estar en un contexto de maquetas con pintas taquillas y poco naturales. Había que esconderse a tomar vodka sentado en el piso detrás de una pantalla. Tenía que haber 1 celular y no 2. Tenia que irse de Chile uno de los 2.


(Extracto de “Oh! You Pretty Things: Historias sin epilogo sobre un artista británico como fundamento para teorizar sobre lo realmente relevante (¡?)”, EL ensayo de la proposicion)

Plainsong

Todos los antecedentes y la previa fueron particulares. Los leedores abnegados de GSM (Mama Claudia, Abuelita Meme y Tia Lita) bien sabrán que llegue a Londres hace 2 años, tiempo durante el cual con la novia estuvimos aprovechando todo lo que la ciencia ficción y avances tecnológicos nos han entregado en el ultimo tiempo. Se puede organizar un matrimonio en 4 meses y a 20 mil kms. De Chile? Si hubiera sabido que esto recién comenzaba…

La Nico y nuestras madres manejaron toda la organización en terreno mientras que el novio, cual célula terrorista, solo movía algunos hilos desde el ciberespacio a través de emails y cámara web. Fui a Chile exclusivamente a casarme y volver en 2 semanas.

El viernes 26 de febrero a las 10pm según yo lo peor en términos de estrés había pasado y por lo tanto me dispuse en modo piloto automático: Descansar y esperar que todo fuera por el buen camino el día siguiente a las 4pm (es decir que nadie modifique mi lista de música y no pidan reggaeton).

El momento del terremoto fue amenizado gratamente por mi amigo Richard que se durmió los primeros 45 segundos y despertó pensando que el ruido era tal vez un tren de Dalston a Hackney Central pasando por su ventana o una turbulencia en el Atlántico. A las 3.36 yo figuraba en el sillón del living con mucha calma pero incrédulo, pulgar y dedo índice en el entrecejo, en estado crepuscular: "esta hueá no puede haber pasado". Llamé a la Nico milagrosamente sin problemas y me dijo que estaba bien. Alguien que paso 6 agnos de su vida obsesionado con estadísticas, datos y videos sobre el Tsunami del 2004 sabe que un terremoto de 8.8 grados a 10 horas de tu matrimonio no es precisamente lo que uno llamaría “buen agüero”.

A las 7.30 el caos quedo en evidencia. El Campus lo Contador de la PUC y su casona estaban obviamente inhabilitados (aunque aperrando firme en pie) y el proveedor del mobiliario (mesas y sillas, vajillas) no quería despachar nada ese día. Lo que siguió fue muñequeo político del mas alto nivel. Me fui con mi papa a Lo Contador y evaluamos con el banquetero y la administración del lugar que hacer, si es que postergar, cancelar o buscar de urgencia otro lugar ya que no había electricidad ni espacios apropiados, además que debíamos esperar a un ingeniero estructural para confirmar la clausura del lugar y algunos proveedores no contestaban el teléfono.

Entendiendo que como banquetero es fácil ser comprensivo con tu cliente con 90% de la plata en el bolsillo, era evidente e inevitable una diferencia de incentivos por ambos lados. Decidimos seguir adelante oficialmente tipo 12, una vez que Lo Contador nos ofrecio un lugar seguro, postergando el inicio de la recepción en 3 horas pero con un pequeño gran problema: Debíamos conseguirnos un generador para la electricidad en el realista caso de que más adelante en el día se cortara la luz. Confirmamos a nuestros proveedores independientes de música, iluminación, fotografía, filmación y vinos (por cierto que todos amigos nuestros). En eso aparece sin aviso Nicole con una amiga y nos damos cuenta que estábamos alineados y nos reaseguramos el uno al otro que debíamos seguir adelante. “Chao mi amor nos vemos en la tarde”.

Mientras yo fui a confirmar que efectivamente el Parque de las Esculturas donde se iba a realizar la ceremonia estaba cerrado con candado, Nicole llegó donde su peluquero el cual pese a todas sus complicaciones accedió a abrir su local. Hubo una sucesión de problemas de comunicación acentuados por el hecho que los teléfonos celulares no tenían señal. Lo peor fue no poder confirmar a la oficial del registro civil. En ese punto ya estaba abierto a hacer una ceremonia media chamánica o de cualquier otro tipo.

2 duchas de agua helada mas tarde, revisión de los diarios, decenas de llamados de amigos preguntando status y una replica mientras la Nico y su hermana se vestían, nos fuimos cada uno por su lado a casarnos con el objetivo de simplemente poder hacer de esto lo mas sencillo y tranquilo posible, con un limitado número de familiares y amigos que nos acompañen en circunstancias tan difíciles para todos.

Cuando llegué a la ceremonia y vi que nuestros amigos (algunos con pintas lamentables, otros jugandosela toda) y familiares llegaban en masa sobreponiéndose a sus propias dificultades y miedos para acompañarnos en este momento tan trascendente para nosotros, supe que había espacio para la esperanza. Las cosas se empezaron a dar al fin a nuestro favor (a las 4.34 la espectacularidad y profesionalismo de la burocracia chilena aparecio magicamente, en la forma de la oficial del registro civil) y a mi me empezo a tiritar la pera. Vestidos y sombrillas de colores, árboles y esculturas. Finalmente apareció Nicole de la mano de su madre mientras de fondo sonaba Glosoli de Sigur Ros (para los melomanos la lista de la ceremonia incluyo tambien a Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Cat Power, Nick Drake y The Cure).

¿Porque seguimos adelante? Lo primero, obviamente, era estar conciente y ser respetuoso del triste contexto pero tambien entender que la rueda sigue girando. Había además un sacrificio que había que saber valorar de todos nuestros amigos que viajaron desde otras partes de Chile y el extranjero para estar con nosotros. No hubiéramos logrado esto sin el esfuerzo decidido de nuestras familias y la comprensión y apoyo de Ma Isabel y la gente de Lo Contador, Flaco Labbe y el sound, Cristobal y la magia de la luz, Ninion y el non-stop de las fotos, Charly por los vinos high-end, Chicho y la magia del cine, diseñadora y peluquero, banquetera (aperraron con todo nada que decir) y decoradora, garzones, cocineros, cuidadores del parque, etc. Creemos que fue un infinitamente humilde ejemplo de lucha contra la adversidad, algo que definitivamente va a marcar toda nuestra vida juntos.

Ahora las esperanzas puestas en que Chupete Suazo salga goleador del Mundial.