Cat gave me a ride all the way to the store from WT, the farm at the top of the mountain. The store that's at that spot of the road where a short cut to Santa Cruz appears. There, I got in the store to get a 9V battery for the cigarrete-box-sized amplifier that G lent me to try plugging the uke. Cat pointed out that I could catch a ride from cars that came on either direction, because of the shortcut. First car that sheers out of the parking lot with open windows: bang! Is going all the way to Sunnyvale. So I throw my uke, my blue with silver stars toy drum into the back seat, my backpack in the front with me, and I greet Gil, who happens to be a guitar maker.
The train now goes through San Carlos, and somebody at the back of the car pulls out a guitar. I stare at the station sign, trying to recall my memories of the first time I tried to write my dad's name. How many times did I try before I got it right? When and how and by whom was I first introduced to the first letter? The hand of my mom holding my hand as she shows me how to write those organized symbols on a piece of paper comes as a sensorial memory, her body behind me, leaning to the right side over my infant shoulder and then the markers that used to always be available at my grandmother's house, the orange and green markers and trial after trial of that J (side down) or is it J? Do I catch the difference? What is it that makes that half umbrella signify the sound of the first letter of my name? R or )R)? The sound of a guitar will always remind me of my dad, especially after just meeting a guitar maker that tells me he is working on an arrangement for Ariel Ramirez's "Alfonsina y el mar".
"Do you know that song?" Gil asks. As a reply, I ask him how far we are from the station. "Probably round ten or 15 minutes", he replies in Spanish. He is from Switzerland but speaks very good Spanish, since he spent time living in Spain, Guatemala and Mexico. I pulled my uke from the back seat and started looking for the chords I've played in my guitar so many times. "Por la blanda arena que lame el mar...", I start to sing.
Y el sueño de la noche anterior:
"Con vos tuvimos una desgracia"
"Martín! Vas a la práctica?" Desde el colectivo. "Estás tocando con Silvia? Con los Hongos?"
La práctica de los brasses se llena de chicas como un equipo de volley o hockey. Me olvidé el tambor (o el temblor?).
Las duchas subterráneas, el skype de habitación a habitación.
Escondiéndome de la dueña, dando vueltas a la columna de la entrada de la casa quinta. El remolino me tira en la oficina del funcionario papá público.
"Qué divertidas serían (serían?) unas vacaciones con Juan Sánchez."