Story-Telling

I've been thinking some today about the blog and about how even I was bored with the past post.  I don't blog for myself; I blog for others, which is exactly the way to have horrible writing, always.  No matter what the writing's topic or for what audience, if you don't first write for you, the work reeks worse than some of the awkward and awful smells of the city streets in La Paz.

Entonces, (I don't quite know what that word means yet, but I know it's used for transitions!  I refuse, at this time to elicit help from Google Translate or my personal favorite: http://www.spanishdict.com.) I've decided to tell brief stories as I think of or experience them.  Everything sounds better in story-form: history lessons, English lessons, tutorials... it's always more interesting, so here it goes.

Sundays
First Sunday Walk (From Church)
I've been approached by grown men twice in my time here, so far.  The first time was while I was walking home from my first church service at an English-speaking service in Calacoto (another neighborhood of La Paz, much like Sopocachi, where I live with the Gravity mountain bike guides).  In my long maxi-dress-made-skirt and lacy white shirt with a dark blue tank top beneath, I must have let my loose hair blow in the wind for a little too long because, apparently, the glint of strawberry-gold was too much for the gaze of a man across the street.

I wouldn't have noticed him, except he blurred into my rear, peripheral vision with such speed that I clutched my keys out of startled-ness and potential self-defense, even though it was one-o-clock in the afternoon and we were in a plaza that had enough people to be public and enough space to full-on-sprint with clear witnesses if necessary.  Mind you, this was my second weekend in La Paz, so I was still adjusting to city-life.

Tapping me on the shoulder, the slightly-flushed, middle-aged man proceeded to ask me from where I traveled, my name, and other casual, coffee-shop chat... right after his flight across the two-laned, semi-busy-as-usual traffic. (There are also random one-way streets in La Paz, much like Morgantown, WV.)  If this wasn't bizarre enough, though he was speaking English, he asked me "if we could be friends" and began to tell me about himself, his two sons (who are at least around my age, from the sounds of it...) and the shops he owns in Bolivia and California.  After asking my for my number a few times in vain, he gave me his in the hopes that "we could be friends".  Perhaps it's needless to say, but I never contacted him, nor do I know what happened to the paper containing his name and number.

Second Sunday Walk (To Church)
The second time a middle-aged man approached me, it was, thankfully, less ridiculous.  It was my third Sunday in La Paz and, after passing an emaciated homeless man who showed me what looked like a military carnet (Bolivian ID), I was deep in thought contemplating whether or not I should have given him the bus money I had in my pocket and not gone to church that Sunday.  (The poor here still baffle me as to how is best to respond to their, sometimes aggressive, pleas, but that is another story entirely.)

Entonces, I'm walking to church and one and a half blocks from the street I need to be on to catch the right mini-bus, I am stopped by a casually-dressed, well fed (but not too-often idle) man eating a saltena on the street-side.  He is much more polite, recognizing that this is not really an ideal situation for two people to meet, but he seemed earnest about wanting a fluently-speaking English conversation partner.  It would have seemed more valid if he hadn't also commented on "how beautiful [I] am" and how it was amazing that I was from West Virginia because he has never seen someone from West Virginia who wasn't beautiful.  Eventually, though, (and without divulging his life accomplishments and lineage) he disengaged our conversation so I could proceed to church, now with two perplexing and extremely different thoughts bumping into each other in my mind.

This man, I did contact because he did seem genuine, but we met once at a local chain restaurant, Alexander's, and I never heard from him again.  I think he was embarrassed with how we met (even at the time, he kept apologizing and informing  me that he was not normally so casually dressed and did not normally ever eat saltenas) and slightly embarrassed at the precautions I took and concerns I blatantly told him when it came to meeting for discussions.  I did mention the language school, though he never took advantage of IE's services, to the best of my knowledge.