The doorbell rung at a very early hour on that Sunday morning. In my dreams I could hear it ringing for several minutes until I finally realised that no dream could be that annoying and that it was a real sound coming from the outside world interfering with my sleep. That could only be some moron, I thought as I started to feel awake- Someone was actually downstairs ringing the street bell to my apartment at this early time. It is funny how my first thought was it could also be a couple of ladies from the local Jehovas Witness center on a mission trying to sell their boring newsletters to defenceless and sleepy victims. I could feel my head throbbing and threatening to explode with every series of rings. The night before I had been at a colleagues leaving do and we all had been drinking at the Pitcher & Piano bar in Wimbledon before ending up getting high and dancing our asses off at the infamous FIRE in Vauxhall, officially a gay club but which was famous by its hardcore techno music and that on its Juizy Friday parties was visited by all kind of people. Once again, as it was becoming a habit since Helmuts arrival some weeks before, I had overdone it by taking too many of the pills of dubious origin and composition provided by Zlato, our Serbian pusher, and could still feel the effects. I dammed whoever it was that was standing at my doorstep and impatiently pressing the bell. My head was about to explode in a zillion pieces and someone was going to pay for that. As there was no intercom I actually had to put something on before going down one flight of stairs into the hallwat and see who the heck it was. (my flat is on the third floor above a manicure shop in one of the oldest houses in West Norwood Rd. and for that reason we do not have such a thing as an intercom). In a extremely bad mood I stumbled out of the flat and went down one to look out of the hallway window. I looked down and all I could see was a long haired guy with a woolen hat and wearing what to me looked like hippy clothes. Jose, yelled the hippy downstairs as he heard someone opening a window and looked up, this is Teo... from Valencia! he added as I showed no sign of recognition and was about to go back in. Teo from Valencia? I was like, WTF? Did I understant correctly and that hippy downstairs ringing at my door could actually be Teo, my childhood neighbour (and unlikey teenage crush)? The one I had a crush on for so many years and that one sudden morning had moved out with his whole family to another town without even leaving a forwarding address? The same Teo Ojeda that broke my heart when I was too young to even realise that a heart could be broken and that was the main reason why I still could not listen to U2s Party Girl without thinking of him, especially since that magical weekend spent at his familys holiday house some 30 years ago? It was only recently that I had heard some news about them and how his mother had been seriously ill some months ago. The news came after my mother had run into an old acquaintance of hers at the Ruzafa fish market who happened to be still in contact with the Ojedas. I remembered she had mentioned it to me during one of her weekly phone calls which served to update me with all the news and gossip about our relatives and the people we knew in an attempt to make me still feel part of it. (Honey, sure you do remember Tatin, the bakers unlawful son)

I was so surprised by this unexpected visit that I rushed donwstairs without even thinking about how shitty I must have certainly looked. As I opened the door we stared at each other for a few seconds - it was so weird to be in front of him after so many years since the last time- and after an initial hesitation, we smiled and embraced each other. I took one of his suitcases from his hands (two suitcases? I thought as I saw them withouth saying a word) and started climbing the stairs as both of us started talking at the same time. He told me he had obtained my address after calling my parents (they always refused to change their phone number and even today they still have the same one since the time I was a child) and that he had tried to contact me on the phone the night before several times and had even left a couple of messages.

I could see he was as happy to be there with me as I was to see him.

As we entered the flat, Helmut was still sleeping on the floor in the living room. He had been staying with me since his wife had expelled him from their 3 bedroom flat in Hannover after finding out, through a well-wishing friend, about the affair he was having with Saskia, his daughters Polish nanny. Two days later he had already crossed the English Channel and was calling me from a phone booth at Liverpool St. Station. As he was very skilled with carpentry and had a vast experience which he had adquired during the years he used to work at his fathers furniture firm (Bespoke & Feinste Kuechen), he had proposed to stay at my place and in exchange he would fix everything that needed to be fixed in my old apartment. With this agreement we both were saving a good amount of money and at the same time we enjoyed each others company. He also loved techno and getting wasted almost as much as I do, so that made him the perfect flatmate for our weekend escapades.

It did not take long until he was woken up by our conversation in the kitchen where -as a good English host- I had put on the kettle in order to make some tea for the new arrival. Moved by the curiousity about who it was that I was chatting to so lively, and in Spanish, at such an early hour, he showed up his viking head through the door still wrapped in his sleeping bag. As I introduced each other he shook hands with Teo using his only free hand while with other one he held the sleeping bag in order to prevent it from falling and exposing him half naked in front of the hippy stranger.

I always thought that Mrs Ojeda was indeed a very sad woman. I am sure she is actually much younger than what she appears to be. Maybe the sudden death of her husband many years ago had something to do with it. I remember her from the time when they were living next door to us, that must be some 15 years ago, and at that time she already looked as old as she does now. Which is funny because according to my calculations she must have been only in her early forties.

Both she and her departed husband were strict Jehova Witnesses and they tried to raise their three children in the same faith. Two of them were beautiful daughters that were too born completely deaf and subsequently during their whole life had been unable to learn to speak properly. On every occasion they tried to communicate, only strange and somehow comical sounds came out of their mouths which made it really difficult to understand whatever it was they were trying to say. Both of them got married, on the same day, to deaf husbands and maybe for that reason they were very well accepted by their neighbours as none of them ever heard them argue a single time. The party following their double wedding was the most silent one that ever took place at the Valencia Astoria, but not for that reason was less happy. Also the deaf can get drunk, and a drunken deaf man is no less lairy than a hearing one, believe you me.

In the Ojedas house of silence -as we kids used to refer to them- lived also Teo, their youngest child. He was the only one to be born completely healthy. From day one he was the apple of their eyes and no efforts were spared in his education. His good performance at school and great social skills had made him very popular and both Mr and Mrs Ojeda felt terribly proud of him. He even assumed the role of public relations of the family and at a very early age he already represented them at neighbour assemblies. He was the perfect son, had it not been for the fact that in the late years he had quit the church and had always refused to accompany them on their weekly visits to the local Kingdom. They always hoped that one day he would get over what they considered a teenage rebellion and go back to the former Teo, the obedient and God fearing son that he had always been.

In Mrs Ojedas eyes, all the difficulties and pain that one has to endure during this life were nothing more than tests from our Lord. Her Faith never weakened but on the contrary, it became stronger after every test. During the last years she became more and more convinced that she had justly deserved a good place in Heaven. I do not know, but sometimes I suspect she just could not wait to die and finally get her reward for a life of sacrifices. She was to find out soon.

One Sunday morning, right after entering home on their way back from the Sunday Mass Mrs Ojeda suddenly felt dizzy and collapsed in the hallway. She was rushed to hospital and after many checks the doctors diagnosed a death threatening disease. I cannot remember what the diagnose was but what was sure was that she was needing an urgent blood transfusion. That was te ultimate test to her faith, she thought. The doctors tried in vain to convince her. Even a leading member of their church was called in to try and convince her. She would not give in. If that is the Lords decision, she said to whoever wanted to listen, she would die. As the disease progressed and her situation became more and more dramatic her daughters and son begged her to accept a blood transfusion. It was bad enough to lose their father when they were still young, now they did not want to lose their mother as well. Sure God could wait.

One night her condition deteriorated and clutching her rosary and her old Bible in one hand she slip into a coma. The doctors were unanimous. If she did not get a blood transfusion she would never regain conciousness and would inevitably die.

Time was running out and an urgent decision had to be made. After a family meeting with his sisters, Teo decided that his mothers life was much more important than respecting her beliefs. The Lord (if there was such a thing, the thought) would agree that a human life is sacred and that anything had to be done in order to preserve it. Even if that including going against the strict laws as shown in the Leviticus book.

His sisters and brothers-in-law, also Jehovas Witnesses but of a much more tolerant kind, opposed a strong resistance, but eventually ended up accepting his smart little brothers decision.

He was the only one in the famimly with the same type of blood as his mother and that made him a suitable donor.

Two days after she received her sons blood she opened her eyes for the first time. The whole family was around her bed and as she looked around she smiled and muttered, God Almighty! He has tested me once again and I did not let him down. That is why I have been saved....

Time does not exist

A phone call from my parents who are spending their holidays in Northern Spain in the same little village where we used to go every year when I was a child, was enough to tele-transport me earlier today to that distant and mythical Kingdom which is my childhood. Because if there is a place on Earth which represents that time, that will be Canicosa de la Sierra (Burgos). A small village with more cows than people. There is also a prairie with a little river and extremely tall pines. All over that area there are also huge rocks. To give you an idea of the sheer size of these rocks, some of them are so big that on their surface a whole cemetery was carved in. There are holes with the shape of human beings of all sizes, some of them are smaller, for children, other are even tiny, suitable only for babies or newborns. I cannot remember if these tombs where dug buy an old Iberian civilization or by the Muslims, that lived in that land some 500 years ago. Whoever they were, they really found the perfect spot for final peace. You just would not believe how mythical that place can be. I was always mesmerized. We used to spend every afternoons and evenings in this prairie, we, children, chasing each other among the rocks or looking for tadpoles in the nearby creek while our parents sat reading their books or just relaxed on the hammock. Children. There so many of us. It was not just me and my siblings but also my cousins and half of the village´s children which somehow managed to pack into my dad´s white Seat 124 (which was later substituted by an orange 1977 Seat 124-D especial, which eventually was replaced by a 1983 Peugeot 505 turbo).

Oh dear, I am sitting at the balcony in this summer night (Winter here, in the Southern Hemisphere) and am so frustrated that I have to work on these August days. Just the thought of missing the sacred month of vacation makes me feel so jealous of all those back home. I even feel jealous of those which are grossly underpaid and condemned for life to awful jobs. Because even they go on holidays in August. Because in Spain, as in France, everybody goes on holiday in August. The whole country stops. Offices close and overall production is kept to the minimum. The country's productivity plummeting to a minus while every one is heading to their summer houses at the beach, the hills or their grandmother´s villages. It is a hot and sleepy season during which the days are longer than ever -and so are the customary siestas-, a real luxury during the rest of the year and a must during this month.

I just cannot believe it has only been three weeks since I came back from holidays. I already am in a desperate need of a holiday and I despair when I realize that there are still five months to go until I fly home for Christmas.

Only good news is that for the next days I will not be much in the office. On Thursday I am flying to Rio for an event and I will be able to take Matt with me in the hotel. Three nights in a row. That itself is already a luxury. He is already there. School holidays are over (the return to classes was postponed because of the swine flu) and he is now looking for an apartment to live during the new semester. Then on Sunday I will fly from Rio to the Northeast of the country where I will be doing some presentations and trainings, which will keep me busy until Friday, and then, Shabbat Shalom.. As by magic, another week will be gone. Soon after that a month that to me seems has barely started, will be over. As simple as that. No one can stop time going by so quickly. That just reminded me of a song we learnt at our English class with Mr. Silverio (call me Silver). I was only twelve or thirteen years old, and in spite of more than twenty-five years in-between, I clearly remember it. It was sung by Anne Clark and I found it mysterious and for some reason, very disturbing.

Which Fassbinder film is it,
in which an armed man bursts

into a flower shop and asks,
which flower expresses days go by,
and they just keep going by endlessly,

endlessly pulling you into the future?
And the florist says: white lilies...

In that very moment, while the tape recorder was playing that song in our English class, I closed my eyes and after a while I opened them only to realize it is already 2009 and I indeed have been pulled into the future.

The Melting Pot

Writing a diary and exposing it for anyone to see can be a very dangerous thing. Obviously we all want to be read, but ideally blogs should be read by total strangers so we can completely feel free to write about our darkest thoughts without having to worry about how writing this or that will affect the image people already have of us. The problem is basically that if you start a blog and want to be read you have to start by inviting people in. And you can not just do it with strangers. They will immediately assume it is like one of those virus-ridden spams that invite you to click and access the best nude pics of Asian teens ever only before infecting your PC with all kinds of trojans and next generation worms.

One more reason why I cannot trust anyone. Because we all have many faces. Well, at least I do. For instance, just ask my brother and my sidekick Edu about me and then compare both opinions with that of my boyfriend Matt. Three different personas with only the name in common. Fully exposing the different versions of me would be shocking to all of them and this could have catastrophic consequences in my life. And I am not kidding. Separation and divorce being some of them.

Maybe you are a much more simple human being and never had this kind of concerns.. Somehow I doubt it. At the end of the day we are always acting. Our different roles depending mostly on the audience (and who's paying). I am positive even Eva Braun saw a rather different Adolf to the one we all know. And I am sure so did Stalins mom, for as much as I am concerned.

I have my suspicion that whoever invented and developed the first blog sites that allow anonymous people to write about their frustrated lives was problaby recieving money from the Government. Now you must think that this is just another bonkers conspiracy theory. Let me put it this way. Our governors are always worried about any threat that could disrupt peace in an every day more neurotic society. And I know for a fact that some people out there are real walking time bombs. We all have seen them. We all can spot them in our circles, be it acquaintances, work colleagues, relatives or even friends. The sad truth is that in today's neurotic society people hurt. And they hurt a lot. Now that I think about it, I believe we all are in some degree timebombs. But many around us are really living at the edge. Pain and suffer is accumulating behind their dull facade. All you need to do is to scratch a bit on that surface and you will see that the inner clock is ticking and it is just a question of time that the pettiest reason will set them off and simply go postal. Hiroshima and Nagasaki would just be a prank comparing to the result if people really let go what has been boiling inside. And I am talking of megatons.

Society needed a place like this for us to vent off all the inner turmoils. Because we are sensible people who know better than just wait until Sunday for our weekly football match when we can leave work, wife and children behind and, among our peers, let our inner beast out for a couple of hours before duly heading home for diner.

Blogging is merely a more sofisticated (and subtle) tool that lets us, law-abiding citizens with a delicate soul, to discretly yell all we need to yell. For us it is certainly cathartic and purifying, for you reader, hopefully even entertaining.

Hail to thee, blithe spirit...

It is a Friday mornig and that is reason enough to make me feel upbeat. As usual, on my way to work, the lady at the trafficc light aproaches me and offers a package of sweets in exchange of some coins. I always make a point of giving her some cash. She must be in her sixites and ever since I have been driving to work I always see her at the same traffic light, a busy junction halfway to work. She is always there, patiently offering her products to sleepy and mostly uninterested drivers. Someone told me once that each of them has an allocated traffic light so there is no competition issues among the many people who make their living in the streets of São Paulo.
She always wears flip-flop sandals, even in the coldest winter mornings. Sometimes she uses an old scarf which tucked around her neck and up to her nose protects her not only against the cold but also against the many fumes coming from the exhaust pipes of the trucks that fill the Bandeirantes Avenue at any time of the day. As I gently refuse to accept her merchandise after I have given her some money she opens her eyes and rolls them up in amaze while raising both arms as if to thank God and the Holy Heaven. She also mutters some words to wish me well. On every occasion that this ritual takes place I do feel content but cannot help to feel embarrassed at the same time and always end up flushing and looking away and checking through the rearview mirror if the other drives are paying attention to us.

It is difficult not to feel condescending. The first times I gave her some money I did not have the courage to refuse the packs of sweets as I did not want to make her feel like a beggar instead of a merchant. But the sad fact is I do not like those sweets and they end up cluttering my car until I finally decide to give them away.

When I leave home I always keep some coins aside to give away at the different stops by the traffic lights. São Paulo has hundreds of people of all ages whose survival depends only of charity. You might argue that giving money to beggars in the street only increases the problem and that If you really want to help the needed you can contribute by giving money every month to a charity of your choice. Well, that too used to be my argument for never stopping and looking away. Until one day I realized that I was just not helping anyone otherwise. I am too lazy to get into all that trouble and subscribe to a charity of my choice. Besides, I always regarded with most suspicion all those non-governmental charities and non-profit fund-raining organizations with well paid board directors whose only purpose seems to be to organize flashy events and gala diners. Of course this is only an excuse for being selfish and a lazy bastard as not all of them should be put in the same category. I am sure there are still good people out there meaning well. Somewhere.

Anyway, helping the needed in order to create a a more fair society is an important mitzvah for both observant and non-observant Jews, so I really should make the effort to try and reach out. Maybe one day I will evolve enough and do something really useful. Until that day, I try and handle my bad conscience by giving money. Especially to the old lady at the traffic light. Like the adverts of that discount supermarket say, Every Little Helps. Or at least, so I hope.

That sudden realization lead to another scary thought. Hold on, that means that by the time you reach my age I will be 60-Sixty!! Why on Earth would you feel attracted to me when I am sixty? Ok, let us say I stay fit for the next 20 years and I will somehow manage to look...what, fifty? Can a fifty year old looking guy (who already hit 60) be found sexy by a 40 year old guy?. As shocking s this thought might be, there is no reason to assume he will not feel attracted to me anymore. Proof of that is that now he is only 20 and loves my body. I guess each person is a different world. Thank God people have such different tastes. He likes more mature looking guys (He will not admit this; he claims to simply like good-looking guys, regardless of their age).
The fact is I always fancied younger guys. Even when I was a schoolboy I used to have a crush on younger boys. Luckily, the school I attended was an only boy`s institution, a catholic school belonging to the Don Bosco network. To me girls were only a species represented by my sisters and my cousins friends, so never really saw a reason to miss the female company. Funny how when I think of that distant time when I was Matts age I remember considering 23 year old guys too old for me..Look who´s talking now.
Two weeks ago I flew home for a two week vacation. My sister Anita, who is only four years younger than me and happens to be an extremely sensible woman, told me off for dating such a young boy. She did have a point, though. He might be a brilliant student (he is currently in his second year of architecture) but the fact is the cultural gap is huge and should not be ignored. After all, I grew up in the late 80s and blossomed in the 90s, which to him is as a distant time as the Vietnam war is to me.

My Life Sucks

You would think I am such an idiot for choosing , in these turbulent times, to be a gay and a Jew. I agree you might have a point, although only the second part could be considered a choice. If being gay really was to be a choice one would not be stupid but crazy. My point: Why choose a marginal life when you can have it all, right? Anyway, not that I care much about what you might think of me. I do have a good life, do not get me wrong. The caption My Life Sucks serves only to the purpose of attracting random people with nothing better to do than type stupid sentences in Google and see what comes out. Exactly, people just like you. I sure do have a nice life. I am what you would consider a successful young man, with large international experience and great career prospects. Of course my great looks combined with the fact that I could survive in 7 different languages helps a lot. And I am not just saying that without a reason. I have worked for a multinational IT company for almost 9 years, and two years ago I was lucky enough to be offered relocation from our London offices to this blessed place in South America. The place is São Paulo, which as you probably & wrongly thought, is not in Argentina but in Brazil. (And, for the record, they do not speak Spanish but Portuguese). Because of the simple and superficial fact that I have blue eyes and a fair hair, I knew I would feel welcome. This might come as a surprise to you, but I do get laid much more here than in Europe. At least among Caucasians. During my last three years in Brazil we could say that 100 % of the guys I picked up were Latinos, Asian or mixed race. Not even in mixed Spain, my homeland I was this successful among the horny young men. When I was offered the possibility of moving south I did not think twice. Of course it is far, of course I would not be able to see my family and friends as often, but hey, you only live once. Thanks to msn we can stay in touch with mom from any corner of the planet, so I thought, why not? Adventure, adventure that is just what I so often daydreamt while looking out from the office glass walls opposite my desk and into the rainy streets of west London. I did envision sunny beaches full of dark skinned boys with perfect white teeth playing volley in tight Speedos.

Of course reality proved me wrong, as Sao Paulo is more like NYC or Hong Kong, full of business meaning guys rushing from one place to the other with their lives dangerously depending on their Blacberrys.

Now back to me. My groomed look and lovely boyish smile disguises perfectly the fact that I am approaching the dreaded 40. Over the hill they say. So be it. But before it gets downhill, I am preparing myself and will not be caught off-guard. On workdays I train hard, I run on the treadmill 6 to 9 kms every day. I lift weights and monitor carefully what I take into my mouth in a desperate attempt to stop the time. You really do not have a choice when you are dating someone 20 years younger. Last week as I was lying in the hotel bed next to Matt, exhausted but happy after what you would call a good performance, I asked him: I have been out since beginning of the 90s; looking for you...meeting many nice looking guys but none of them was you, where have you been all this time? Only to immediately realize an amazing and somehow shocking fact, he was being born at that time. Jeez.