Feuilletton: A Broken Novel
Chapter 2
Luckily we spent four days in a festival, the Tropical Wave. I had a massive dose of Italian sober at that party, alcohol and cocaine, cocaine and alcohol. An European party in Colombia can be a little affected by this massive dose of coke. We are not use to that, we usually have a different diet at the free party: plenty of key to stay mellow, some pressies to don’t lose the flow, an acid to make the right foundation to the journey, sometimes a little drop of cocaine just to brainstorm. One dollar one gram is not an offer that you can lose indeed. Sometimes ten dollars for the very pure that make you sweat and talk and sleep wherever you want. Tropical Wave was not a free party indeed, more a gathering of tekno travelers that decided to pay an expensive ticket to reach the other side of the world. Less politic, more cocaine, but very good vibes with all that folks. Luckily the last night I shred my self with a good dose of swiss acid and 2cb. They say that swiss people are only good with chocolate and clocks, but for sure they have to add something at the list. I needed at least one night before to meet my brother. A freak from California, completed altered but in name of an abstract god that heal him consciousness from some other dimensions. Not my gig. Last time I saw him it was about three years ago, at that time I was still considering him part of my family, we had a good childhood beside everything, He wanted me to visit in between California and Oregon for so long, he was talking about this holly land that he founds, growing weed, fast money, spirituality. I didn’t believe in spirituality at all, I tried to follow that path when I was younger, but was not suit for me. I was feeling much more identity in a western manifestation as a free party than somewhere else: trips in India, ayuhardedic medicine, dance of the sun, shamanism, for me where nothing more than empty words applied to this white folks. But he was my brother and he convinced me with this story of the fast money, plus I was interested in agricolture and the idea of growing pot was quite interesting. Nothing more wrong than that. When I arrived in Oakland I struggled to step on the US soil, never flight to San Francisco in September if you are a young european with a pot smoker face. They stopped me at the boarder, their brought me into a empty white room, just a desk a US flag and a gorilla that wanted me to admit my fault. He was sure I was in US to work with pot, and he was right indeed. But there was nothing proving it and I had a long story of permanence in California, part of my family was grounded there, my father has in second family in the Napa Valley, there he has conceived that freak of my brother. I called him while the gorilla he was pushing me to go back to my fucking Europe, I didn’t get an answer. The gorilla was saying I just had a call, I told him I know my right and I’m not in a fucking jail, he calmed down. I called at home, at the Napa Valley, the grandmother of my brother answered, she recognized my voice and she told me that was ready to prepare some lasagne. My dad is kind of a grand dictator, in his vision doesn’t exist that a grandmother doesn’t know how to make lasagne, tagliatelle, cappelletti, fegatini, salsa verde, focaccia, a good tomato sauce, a good ragù, coniglio in umido, stufato di cinghiale, if there are not cinghiali at least porks, different kind of cakes and first of all the tiramisù. Basically in his vision the world is just a big italian peninsula, one of this dick that goes in the other side of the globe to impose his culture, as he did with the wine: he arrived in California with the idea of replicate the same receipt of his beloved sangiovese, doesn’t matter the terroir, the soil, the environment, the climate, he wanted to do exactly the same using a shit ton of alchimia and he did, this motherfucker. The worst is that people are still appreciating it. I’m happy that I don’t see that bastard since years, I’m sad to be part of his lineage, I’m sad that I will meet the other side of his lineage in a few days. I didn’t see that fatherfucker in California, finally. When they let me out of the airport I took a room in Motel 6, at first he told me he would have picked me up, after he change is mind telling me that he would have sent me the contact of some good friends, I already knew my sort when I catch the flight from Madrid. I was a little tipsy when I get out of the plane, that gorilla put me sober again and I wanted to get some cocktails before to crash in my double queen size bad in that shithole. No way, just a shit midnight breakfast in Denny’s and couple of episodes of ridicoulsness. I searched for a car in marketplace, I wanted to be independent despite he told me I had nothing to worry about, nut I wanted to be independent and to take a trip in the country, at the time I was still kind of feeling a link with U.S., I spent sometimes there when I was a kid. But the car they were all over prices to me, so the day after I took a greyhound to Grants Pass, Oregon, the town were my brother was living. At that point I still didn’t have any news from him.
