Prolegomena to my stories
No, I have no car. I, I lived and suffered. Sometimes I need, of course. Sometimes I give thanks to heaven without it.
Yes, in my house there is one. But it's not a car, is another family member. I could write a novel with weak arguments about its negative to parqueros and valet parking. My status with respect to this baby home Herbie is something of a daler on a street in Chacao.
Current hate the Caracas Metro. I lived underground friendly, clean and long distance, I hosted this little girl-student in the Far Far West of the city. My past experiences were underground movement of terror, literally. I was not more. Every time I hear tell nearby street vendors or stalls with no air between two stations, suffer horrors. Pass, thanks.
During 2010 I became the way to work a walk. My hips thanked him, and I even felt at one time a champion of justice necessary for pedestrians. With the recent change of work came the need to "jump" a few blocks to the passers who despise and involve more than a willful act of recreation, permanent and life threatening. Sorry hips, but our safety comes first.
I am a stubborn observer. Every morning I see Ávila, I check the gallery has become the street where I live and I get on a truck.
is inevitable to see and hear, though I walk armed with newspaper or a book, with iPhone hidden in iPod mode or doze. Now, I work up an agenda that looks at certain points, I figure I will expand on each of my trips.
Image: Pleilist to move
Carol Van 1
How beautiful is Venezuela
Happy Travels
After several days in which I tried to get used to using public transport in deplorable condition, I have finally managed to get on a decent truck. I sat next to a nice gentleman with whom I shared my newspaper. you lend me your body Sports? I said softly, almost sad. Claaarooo! loose me, I talk tough, I do too many long range faces and hands as a flight attendant. Sorry if I scared . I thought, but did not say.
When you flip a page, I realize that the seats are just covered and displayed in capital letters "That ( sic) is pretty Venezuela Happy Journey." Deflated and the falling down before thinking about our local tragedies, that encouraged me for a nanosecond. I raise my eyes. The palette green grass that serves as a thread from the seats, curtains and gun background for the driver. A house, I think. The flat is clean, thank God . And there it is. The detail was missing. Rudy La Scala to the shrill screams absolute decibels multiplied thousands of violent attack from the cornetitas spread over the entire surface. I think it's only one song and then continue together with other voices recorded on the soundtrack of love eighties, but it is the whole album. Oh economy.
The journey from home to work is a pair of short lines, for about 20 minutes total. When we go down the middle I've heard too much to Rudy La Scala and keyboard eighties. When I am about to get off, that emulates a trip to camp: Miii túuuuu viiida you (yes, that of the novel "Crystal") singing to screaming secretaries, students and skilled workers all of us, which we crammed into that sack bottle color. Please in paradaaaa , cry. Nothing was impossible for me to hear.
I stay 20 meters ahead, with my singing again, and seriously considering incorporating Camilo Sesto and ink on my soundtrack.
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