10 Apr La Celadora.
It all started as another teenage tantrum. The desire of “going to study abroad” should have been enough to get me already on the first plane on my way to anywhere far away from home.
But it wasn’t that easy. My parents, who sometimes can be good at parenting. They thought the excuse of “going to study abroad” and acquire new perspectives and culture and experiences was just pretty familiar to Hollywood terms, familiar enough to call B*S* and know that I was just trying to get out of home to be “living la vida loca”.
But we were both wrong. They were wrong because I wasn’t trying to go away and live my own clichē movie of the typical teenager kid in Europe. I was actually feeling asphyxiated in my own hometown. I never felt like I was a fit for that town. It was either going abroad with the excuse of “studying as an exchange student” or just escape from home. The people, the environment, the way traditional hyper-catolic societies in the south of Mexico are built in a fashion of all-together cult full of gossips and standards of a standard-life was too much for me. On the other hand, I was wrong because they were right. My intentions to go abroad was about anything but studying. I was trying to escape myself. But either way I wasn’t going abroad with their support (at all).
One of those days of ceremonious conversations with my father, when we tried to revisit the theme. He just had enough and said: If you’re going abroad, it is not for studying. If what you want is school, food and a roof under which you may sleep, then you have it here. But if you decide to go abroad, you’re on your own – But of course I already knew that… I wasn’t asking support, I wasn’t even asking for permission, I was just doing the formality of letting them know that I would leave.
So, that was it. I had a kind of “permission”. At least my parents knew that I would leave, I started the exchange process but I needed to go to a place with a good security system with free health care (because I had no plans to go with money for that purpose, or any other). A place where I could find a job easily, where the education was good, and most important: A place far away, far enough so nobody would go and look for me, and radically different so I could forget everything, even the language. So the option was clear: Denmark.
I did all the paperwork, the usual stuff and got admitted to study in the University of Denmark. Now, I needed the airplane ticket, a place to stay and of course, some money to start living. I thought that if I could get a job as a student in Mexico, I would do it in Denmark. After all how difficult could it be? ……
I got myself a part time job in Mexico selling insurance packages so I could save a bit of money before leaving. After working 4 months, I saved the awesome amount of $300. But hey, in Mexico that’s serious money! – Not really. And in Denmark, one of the most expensive countries in the world (would worth specifically less).
In some way, I persuaded my brother in law to buy me a very expensive ticket to Denmark (the most expensive airplane ticket I’ve ever paid in my life). About 15 years ago international travels where not so usual, specifically not to Scandinavia, so the “cheapest” ticket was about $1,000. Now, back then, and in Mexico, that is REALLY serious money. He always had a good heart – and a crazy love for my sister, and my sister for me. So it all worked out and I already had a ticket to Denmark!
Next step was where to Sleep. I really didn’t know anyone in Denmark… Who does? So I remembered that once of those days where I had lots of booze with random people in college parties. There was this guy who mentioned about “coach surfers”… a place on the web where you can find random people (kind of like the origin of Airbnb and less of a craigslist) where you could sleep on their coach for a couple of days. Either for free of very cheap. So that seemed like a “thing” and so I did look for that website and started to post my request of a sofa in Copenhagen Denmark for a “latino student” – Of course I was going to play the latino card here… Juanes was just the bomb in the north of Europe. And so it was Gael Garcia. And it worked…
A couple of wonderful ladies replied to me offering a sofa to stay in. So I chose the one was closer to my school and that was it. I had my airplane ticket, my student visa approved, $300 in my pocket and a place to stay at least for a couple of nights. Everything seemed like it was turning well but of course I never knew what cold feet would mean until the previous night…
Just after I packed my best clothes, my most beloved possessions, a few Mexican candies, pictures of my family and friends, my cologne and my best shoes, the reality hit me in the face, and hit me with everything. In a few hours I was going to the other side of the world with just a suitcase of worn clothes not suitable for Scandinavian winters. With enough money to feed me one day and with the promise of someone in the other side of the world offering me a coach for a couple of days. Whatever small money my parents had, they already used it to buy me some coats and snow boots, food, and two bus tickets to Mexico City and the international airport. Literally my parents didn’t even had any money left for a proper meal.
About me, I had nothing more than a bunch of dreams, faith, suppositions, and the best faith un humanity, the universe, Jesus, Sponge Bob or whatever that it would work for me. At that point I just needed something to believe in, and even praying to Walt Disney would give me a bit of courage.
After the reality hit me, then the reality transformed into panic, anxiety, and of course lots of fears and tears. It was impossible to stop anything… I had made a huge mistake just out of a tantrum and spent my families slim savings on a whim. I remember that I started to cry so loud and so desperately that I heart some steps coming from the next door. Then saw the pale light in the corridor. The same pale light that, if turned on after 2 AM, meant troubles or some horrible news. And this time wasn’t the exception…
The door to my room opened slowly, the pale light shown the Silhouette of my mom whom that night in particular, seemed very tall, strong and intimidating. I remember I couldn’t see her face but I could see her shadow and the way she was standing. She always had some rough attitude and way of standing and walking, which gave her the nick name of “la celadora” (the she-prison ward)…. And back then she was precisely honoring her nick name….
F** Denmark and my fear. I didn’t know what fear was to me, until I saw my mother’s “La Celadora” shape, standing there in the entry of my room like the Minotaur… Quiet… with the door’s knob in one hand. And the other slowly starting to look for the light switch on my room’s wall…
Shit was about to get serious… If reality hit me in the face a few minutes ago. My mother “La Celadora” was about to make it literal…
—–Intermission——
P.S. The story is too long and to cool to write it in one page. So we are cutting here intentionally. Right in the Climax and I will share the rest in a second deliverable.
