Great Vino From Off The Map, Young Uruguayos, And The Big Three O...

So this will be the long awaited "matteo del norte turns thirty" addition!! Yay for aging! I want to start this one with a passage from a favorite book of mine:

"When I was very young and the urge to be someplace else was on me, I was assured by mature people that maturity would cure this itch. When years described me as mature, the remedy prescribed was middle age. In middle age I was assured that greater age would calm my fever and now that I am fifty-eight perhaps senility will do the job. Nothing has worked. Four hoarse blasts of a ship's whistle still raise the hair on my neck and set my feet to tapping. The sound of a jet, an engine warming up, even the clopping of shod hooves on pavement brings on the ancient shudder, the dry mouth and vacant eye, the hot palms and the churn of stomach high up under the rib cage. In other words, I don't improve; in further words, once a bum always a bum. When the virus of restlessness begins to take possession of a wayward man, and the road away from Here seems broad and straight and sweet, the victim must first find in himself a good and sufficient reason for going. This to the practical bum is not difficult. He has a built-in garden of reasons to choose from. Next he must plan his trip in time and space, choose a direction and destination. And last he must implement the journey. How to go, what to take, how long to stay. This part of the process is invariable and immortal. I set it down only so that newcomers to bum-dom, like teenagers in new-hatched sin, will not think they invented it. Once a journey is designed, equipped, and put in process, a new factor enters and takes over. A trip, a safari, an exploration, is an entity, different from all other journeys. It has personality, temperment, individuality, uniqueness. A journey is a person in itself, no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing and coercion are fruitless. We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us. Tour masters, schedules, reservations, brassbound and inevitable, dash themselves to wreckage on the personality of the trip. Only when this is recognized can the blown-in-the-glass bum relax and go along with it. Only then do the frustrations fall away. In this a journey is like a marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think that you control it. I feel better now, having said all this, although only those who have experienced it will understand it."

This is the first chapter from Travels With Charley In Search Of America by the great John Stienbeck. I cite it as a small fraction of the reason that I am still travelling and living abroad, ten years after my twentieth birthday, at the beginning of a decade that has gone on to be so amazing. It is such an addictive way of life. So simple with its lack of possesions and so open by necessity. Also in this passage is a concept that I have come to embrace...that of the inability to control things, occurances, and other people. When a 'bum' comes to realize that these things are uncontrollable, he allows them to be what they are, and these things in thier truth are all the more important and rewarding. This is not to say that one is to give up the course of one's own trajectory, on the contrary, by accepting the process of life as it is, one is all the more in the driver's seat of one's own actions. It is with this frame of mind that I look to pass my thirtieth birthday in Uruguay, not in the fall this time, but in the spring.

It is funny how your headspace works in relation to other things. A year ago I was looking ahead to the ominous arrival of '30' with a little bit of dread, a sore back and a pair of knees that popped and crackled more and more by the day. I saw the doorway to thirty the way that many people do. A 'Goddammit' type of moment. Thirty really isn't such a big deal at all, except that it has been made into a milestone over time. In Brothers Karamazov, Ivan Fyodorovich says to his younger brother Alyosha, that he will drink from the cup of life's vitality until the day that he turns thirty, and then he will begin to succumb to the burdens of the world. In our cultural speak in america, we refer to someone as pushing thirty and when we say this, there is a built-in sense of impending gloom. There are many ways and reasons to think that thirty is the beginning of the end...or maybe even the end of youth itself. But since that last birthday, I have strangely seemed to lose that feeling altogether, and I seem to have traded it in for a new sense of vitality altogether. The Stienbeck quote is so keyed in to the intangible allure of the world around...about the desire to be on the move, to not stagnate, to be aware and in tune with other people and lifestyles. If we move into our thirties (or at any age, moving into our futures) thinking only of jobs we don't like and routines we wouldn't have chosen, then we are indeed lambs to the slaughter of the banality of our modern existence. We have the choices to make our lives the way we want them to be, despite how we convince ourselves that we are trapped. We are smart people, we have put men in space and split atoms and dreamed up method after method of cruelly destroying other people's cultures...so it should be no stretch of the brain to come up with ways to live happier lives, where growing older isn't a curse, but more an accumulation of experience and understanding. I have already gotten the best gift I could have for my thirtieth birthday; a clean conscience and a continuing sense of wonder about the world we inhabit and the people we inhabit it with.

I also realize how lucky I have been this whole time, and for this I am thankful. I once spent a bit of time with a really interesting woman from Austria who was obsessed with the concept of individual fortune. In ways karma, in ways a biblical reference, in ways an athiest's sense of plain old luck. 'Darlings of Fortune' she called us. I have thought about that a lot. When I speak about fortune, especially my own, I mentally knock on wood almost constantly. I knock on wood a lot. Is it because I am supersticious? Maybe a little, but what does it hurt. At any point a darling of fortune could get runover by a truck, crossing for milk at the grocery store, or be the victim of some natural disaster. All I am saying is that I aware of all the good things that have been in my life, I am not sure how or why all these things have happened, but I am thankful for them nevertheless. My twenties have been full of great things...this is just a drop in the huge bucket, or maybe ocean: the fear and loneliness of leaving my Montana home in the rear view mirror a decade ago; hearing a man's body land and die on Jake's front steps in New Haven after he dove from the thirteenth floor of his apartment above; the cold, early mornings heading into the kitchens of cooking school in Vermont; the late-night agony of my lucha de amor with Triple P; the open heart of Boston and those great older cooks who showed me how to handle the pressures of the Big Boy Way Of Cooking; the long journey across france, the restaurants, the chefs, the violence, the misunderstanding of a new language, travelling with my father there, the beautiful Brazillian revelations I encountered in Bordeaux, the love for wine that was born in the vineyards of Burgundy and the Rhone; the sultry, steamy nights in New Orleans playing the guitar and drinking Abita Amber, the beignets and chicory coffee and the pizzas at Angeli on Decatur, the night in the pirate bar; the crashing of a car, my brother Jake staying cool despite incarceration, the fire in which my life started over again; the witnessing of death in my own Big Sky Country; the escape to Spain and the therapy of walking El Camino de Santiago, the vast sunrises in the Meseta, the muscle cramps and voice of Chris Whitley; the confused and stupid things that I did in New York; the return to my Big Sky Country, the Sweet Pea girls, hunting for morel mushrooms in the mountains with Charlie, drinking wine and playing air guitar with Scottie; the red sands of Australia, the green eucalypts of Margaret River, the bungy diving in New Zealand, the bus trips, the mountain treks, my attempts at writing prose; (Ha ha! Oy! Stick to what your good at dude!) the return again to the Big Sky, I was the chef of a restaurant!!!, my crew, my guys and gals and the things that we were able to overcome and accomplish, I am so proud of those people; the fruit smoothies of thailand; the burning sun of Cambodia; the bodies missing limbs and smiling faces of Laos; the buddhist welcome of vietnam; the bed bugs of Malaysia; the noodles of Singapore; the wide eyes and brilliant smiles of the people of Africa, quite possibly the most radiant person on the planet Mr. Sydney Sinkamba, the roaring water and perfect skies of Zambia, the horror of AIDS rates in Swazilnad and South Africa; San Francisco, with the beautiful and crass honesty of the Cups, the ethnically rich jobs I had, the people there that are missed in this moment, the evaporation of a love; the marriage of John, and then now, these adventures in south america. And music!! Such music...the euphoric crescendos of so many bands that I love...the long slow road to building my Vacant Process, the Subsiding Rust and the Grey Tree Stories. The life and sad departure of the greatest musician the world has seen. (Probably only a few of you know who I mean and most will disagree with me!!) My brothers (Ty and his Biotrekking, Bamfer, Adam, Jake, Bulldog, Jeremy)and sisters and all the incredible women I have been around. My giant group of such great friends! And my father!! And my mother!! And my second father! Great parents I have!! The tao te ching that was given to me at such a young age...the seeds that were planted by so many, the books I have read. And this is all just a tiny beginning!! How could I be sad to turn thirty!??! If my fortune ran out right now, it would have been a terrific ride! No doubt. Have there been shitty things? Oh yeah. Lots of people lost in the fray. It seems like all around there were near-death experiences, lost brotherhood, encarcerations, drug and alcohol problems, love gone wrong, disarray of a general nature and lots and lots of questioning of things. But it seems to me that the ladder we climb must be made out of both the good and great things and the bad and shameful things. At thirty I can look down at the ladder that has supported me during this climb and smile on those shitty times right along side the good ones.

As you know, I can ramble on. I, in my twenties, was described on one website as being didactic, which to me means: 'talks to much'. Sometimes this is true. Other times I am quiet as a tomb for days. Here though, on this blog, I am blabbering on. I should have just said, "I am fine with turning thirty." If this seems to be an overindulgent rant about myself then I apologize. If I was with any of you right now I would raise a glass to say thanks for being in my life, your lives mean a lot to me. Anyhow, thanks for indulging me that, you can consider yourselves to have given me a birthday gift already...thanks.

So here I am in Montevideo. I must say that I really do fancy this joint! It is a really down to earth place...and the wine!! Dios mio the wine. I am a lover of the lesser known varietals, the grapes that don't get reviewed in the press, and this is the place for those varietals. I had a terrific visit to a winery called Bouza the other morning and we tasted, among other things, an Albarino!!! And an albarino/chardonnay blend, a tempranillo/tannat blend, and a tannat/merlot blend. They make these in 100% bottlings too. In stores I have seen gewurztraminers, reislings, sauv blancs, viogniers, shiraz, tannat and all sorts of other random varietals, all the ones I have tasted have been terrific. Oh to be a tannat farmer!!!

On that same trip to the counryside, I got to see where the garbage people and thier horses go when they have a full wagon from the city. Again, it is a sad thing, but it is the way that they survive. I feel like the day to day of poverty is difficult for us to understand in the first world. It isn't a college student who needs to only eat ramen noodles to get through the semester with beer money. It isn't the 'trust-a-farians' that busk on the street in the Haight. It is something that has an old presence in the Big World, it is as old as our history, and it is vast in the world outside of our luxury. I am humbled by it, and I have love in me for these people who rummage through the dumpsters. What more to say...

Yesterday I met some young tattooed guys on the street and hung out with them for a couple hours. It was interesting, and humbling in another way. That of my language ability here! Young people always speak slang and they almost always talk really fast. I must say I had a tough time following the local tongue of Uruguay. The tv I can follow pretty well, and older people are no problem, but this was sorta rough. I could generally follow the conversation, but it almost seemed like another language. Made me think now hard it would be for a young chinese transfer student to understand a valley girl in LA. These guys were cool though and it was funny how 'cool' I seemed to them just cause I was from america. We talked music mostly. There are a huge number of guitar stores here and it seems like every young tattooed or pierced person is in a band. I listened to these guys music and it was good. It reminded me of my teens and my love for early metallica and testament. They had that Che thing going on that I discussed a few blogs ago.

Mate is the thing to do here. (Pronounced Mah-tay) In the street like two out of three people are carrying the wooden cup in one hand and the thermos in the other. Here and in Argentina it is not a coca derivitive, it is made from a local herb, and it is definalety, by our standards, an acquired taste. They either have it sucre with sugar or amargo (bitter) with no sugar. Most will consume between one thermos and two each day. I have been intrigued by its presence. The news lady on tv is drinking it during the broadcast. You can buy the cups alongside plates and pots and pans in housewares stores. Taxi drivers somehow maneuver the streets here with cup and thermos in hand. Heck the guy behind me working the desk at the CiberCafe has one going now.

It is a rainy day today. And again, just like blues music, everywhere you go, it is what it is. A hot cup of mate sounds good right now. I have been walking around and i have passed numerous faces peering out steamed up windows with that faraway look in thier eyes. Rainy days are rainy days. When I see these faces and moods, they make me think of a many things, today it is a line from a Neruda poem that I tried to memorize once. It is from memory and you have to remember that I speak like a little kid around here, but here it goes.

Todos estabamos esperando,
Como en las estaciones en las noches de invierno,
Esperabamos la paz,
Pero llegaba la guerra.

All of us were waiting,
Like through the seasons, the winter nights,
We were awaiting peace,
Instead, there came war.

It's just a metaphor, but it stretches out a long way. Thanks for tuning in...by the next broadcast, my twenties will be over!!!