April 4. Temptation.

Upon arrival in Iguazu, I checked in the first hostel I saw and booked a tourist-rip-off trip for 90 pesos called gran aventura which of course turned out to be a dull truck ride followed by a boat ride underneath the big waterfall that got us really wet. On the plus side, ran into a friendly couple that promised me to send me some pictures from their camera by email since my own camera had broken. But I will to that tour tomorrow. Today, I relaxed in the small pile (piscina) talking about the hummingbirds.
I walked around in Iguazu a little afterwards. A guy ran into me on the street and brought me to a place where I was offered a free caipirinha. He told me he had been working as a tourist “guide” since he was a kid. He receives provision from bars, restaurtants and hostel every time he brings someone there. He told me this story… he was 23 and he had become father for the first time that morning at 5am but his girlfriend had a problem with her pecho she couldn’t breastfeed the baby so he needed some money to buy milk in the supermarket and asked me for it the hospital where his girlfriend stayed was twenty blocks away yes he said she is very young a couple of years ago all fifteen year old girls were pregnant around here we had some empanadas and I gave hime some milkmoney he said thank you you are a “good man” now he could do me a favour he knew a few girls that were willing to sleep with foreign men if they invite them for dinner one of them was his cousin I said well thank you I mean it sounded tempting.

In the hostel, I spoke Spanish with a small Swiss girl called Emily who constantly smiled and told me she was going to study something social in Geneva. We slept with the fan on.

April 4. Temptation.

Upon arrival in Iguazu, I checked in the first hostel I saw and booked a tourist-rip-off trip for 90 pesos called gran aventura which of course turned out to be a dull truck ride followed by a boat ride underneath the big waterfall that got us really wet. On the plus side, ran into a friendly couple that promised me to send me some pictures from their camera by email since my own camera had broken. But I will to that tour tomorrow. Today, I relaxed in the small pile (piscina) talking about the hummingbirds.
I walked around in Iguazu a little afterwards. A guy ran into me on the street and brought me to a place where I was offered a free caipirinha. He told me he had been working as a tourist “guide” since he was a kid. He receives provision from bars, restaurtants and hostel every time he brings someone there. He told me this story… he was 23 and he had become father for the first time that morning at 5am but his girlfriend had a problem with her pecho she couldn’t breastfeed the baby so he needed some money to buy milk in the supermarket and asked me for it the hospital where his girlfriend stayed was twenty blocks away yes he said she is very young a couple of years ago all fifteen year old girls were pregnant around here we had some empanadas and I gave hime some milkmoney he said thank you you are a “good man” now he could do me a favour he knew a few girls that were willing to sleep with foreign men if they invite them for dinner one of them was his cousin I said well thank you I mean it sounded tempting.

In the hostel, I spoke Spanish with a small Swiss girl called Emily who constantly smiled and told me she was going to study something social in Geneva. We slept with the fan on.

April 4. Temptation.

Upon arrival in Iguazu, I checked in the first hostel I saw and booked a tourist-rip-off trip for 90 pesos called gran aventura which of course turned out to be a dull truck ride followed by a boat ride underneath the big waterfall that got us really wet. On the plus side, ran into a friendly couple that promised me to send me some pictures from their camera by email since my own camera had broken. But I will to that tour tomorrow. Today, I relaxed in the small pile (piscina) talking about the hummingbirds.
I walked around in Iguazu a little afterwards. A guy ran into me on the street and brought me to a place where I was offered a free caipirinha. He told me he had been working as a tourist “guide” since he was a kid. He receives provision from bars, restaurtants and hostel every time he brings someone there. He told me this story… he was 23 and he had become father for the first time that morning at 5am but his girlfriend had a problem with her pecho she couldn’t breastfeed the baby so he needed some money to buy milk in the supermarket and asked me for it the hospital where his girlfriend stayed was twenty blocks away yes he said she is very young a couple of years ago all fifteen year old girls were pregnant around here we had some empanadas and I gave hime some milkmoney he said thank you you are a “good man” now he could do me a favour he knew a few girls that were willing to sleep with foreign men if they invite them for dinner one of them was his cousin I said well thank you I mean it sounded tempting.

In the hostel, I spoke Spanish with a small Swiss girl called Emily who constantly smiled and told me she was going to study something social in Geneva. We slept with the fan on.

February 6.


Consumption and religion. If you buy a cup of coffee or a Patéis de Lisboa, you just put your coins on the counter without any other emotion than the great taste of this combination. It’s my reason (in fact, one of my reasons) to be here in Lisbon and write in the February sun. But if you buy bigger things you know you can’t afford to buy just as you please, if you realize the money you buy that thing with is finite, you think it over, you ask questions about the quality of the product. You wait until they convince you to buy it. Until you really believe in it. The act of paying is like a little prayer. Yes, there you tied yourself to your finite being again, you bought some specific product and not another one. That product is charged with meaning now. It is almost electrified with meaning. The money, the abstract Number has become product. You have taken a step in life, you climbed the stairs. The product has delivered you. when I bought my camera, this feeling did not really arouse me. There where but a few remnants of it that still made me euphoric and I wrote more pages than I normally do. So with that new camera I promise I will take pictures and exhibit them here.
Because I must take that travel thing seriously. I don’t want to consume, living off what I have piled up in the past years, burning away my earnings, not earning anything new. Must not all newness be deflowered by the price tag society puts on it? I need labels. It doesn’t matter how good or bad the narrative is, how good you reader find the metaphores, or the anecdotes. It only matters that it has a label, a price tag. Eleven ninetynine, that’s the highest bid till date. Anybody offers any more? I felt I had to write to earn my camera back. At least to provide some justification of my being entitled to it. Because at birth we were entitled to nothing, and we are not entitled to anything we didn’t explicitly suffer for, as the Calvinist mantra goes. At the same time, the clurgy is entitled to everything. But let’s say I’m not entitled to it. So what?

That night in the hostel I was offered the very last bed they had available. It’s always like this. It’s doesn’t frighten me, all the luck. It gets boring, I get used to it. I shrug my shoulders, take it for granted. I can squeeze little meaning out of it, and I know one day it will dry out. All the luck in the world, all the most improbable coincidences combined, the angelic gestures of all the selfless beings that by coincidence unheard of cross my path will then not be able to produce meaning. At the end of a lived life there awaits us only dullness, only shades of grey that leave us unmoved, detached from the sweating cycle of life itself. It will dry out at the end of our days. But it is juicy still, o yes don’t you worry. So a woman with wonderful curls in her black hair enters the hostel room and asks me for a pen. Yes I say you’re lucky you asked a writer and I pull out a pen while I say that, handing it to her. A writer she asks interested, how nice! O yes, and I travel in order to gather some inspiration. How nice! by the way, my name is Verity. Like truth? Yes, like truth.

February 6.


Consumption and religion. If you buy a cup of coffee or a Patéis de Lisboa, you just put your coins on the counter without any other emotion than the great taste of this combination. It’s my reason (in fact, one of my reasons) to be here in Lisbon and write in the February sun. But if you buy bigger things you know you can’t afford to buy just as you please, if you realize the money you buy that thing with is finite, you think it over, you ask questions about the quality of the product. You wait until they convince you to buy it. Until you really believe in it. The act of paying is like a little prayer. Yes, there you tied yourself to your finite being again, you bought some specific product and not another one. That product is charged with meaning now. It is almost electrified with meaning. The money, the abstract Number has become product. You have taken a step in life, you climbed the stairs. The product has delivered you. when I bought my camera, this feeling did not really arouse me. There where but a few remnants of it that still made me euphoric and I wrote more pages than I normally do. So with that new camera I promise I will take pictures and exhibit them here.
Because I must take that travel thing seriously. I don’t want to consume, living off what I have piled up in the past years, burning away my earnings, not earning anything new. Must not all newness be deflowered by the price tag society puts on it? I need labels. It doesn’t matter how good or bad the narrative is, how good you reader find the metaphores, or the anecdotes. It only matters that it has a label, a price tag. Eleven ninetynine, that’s the highest bid till date. Anybody offers any more? I felt I had to write to earn my camera back. At least to provide some justification of my being entitled to it. Because at birth we were entitled to nothing, and we are not entitled to anything we didn’t explicitly suffer for, as the Calvinist mantra goes. At the same time, the clurgy is entitled to everything. But let’s say I’m not entitled to it. So what?

That night in the hostel I was offered the very last bed they had available. It’s always like this. It’s doesn’t frighten me, all the luck. It gets boring, I get used to it. I shrug my shoulders, take it for granted. I can squeeze little meaning out of it, and I know one day it will dry out. All the luck in the world, all the most improbable coincidences combined, the angelic gestures of all the selfless beings that by coincidence unheard of cross my path will then not be able to produce meaning. At the end of a lived life there awaits us only dullness, only shades of grey that leave us unmoved, detached from the sweating cycle of life itself. It will dry out at the end of our days. But it is juicy still, o yes don’t you worry. So a woman with wonderful curls in her black hair enters the hostel room and asks me for a pen. Yes I say you’re lucky you asked a writer and I pull out a pen while I say that, handing it to her. A writer she asks interested, how nice! O yes, and I travel in order to gather some inspiration. How nice! by the way, my name is Verity. Like truth? Yes, like truth.

February 6.


Consumption and religion. If you buy a cup of coffee or a Patéis de Lisboa, you just put your coins on the counter without any other emotion than the great taste of this combination. It’s my reason (in fact, one of my reasons) to be here in Lisbon and write in the February sun. But if you buy bigger things you know you can’t afford to buy just as you please, if you realize the money you buy that thing with is finite, you think it over, you ask questions about the quality of the product. You wait until they convince you to buy it. Until you really believe in it. The act of paying is like a little prayer. Yes, there you tied yourself to your finite being again, you bought some specific product and not another one. That product is charged with meaning now. It is almost electrified with meaning. The money, the abstract Number has become product. You have taken a step in life, you climbed the stairs. The product has delivered you. when I bought my camera, this feeling did not really arouse me. There where but a few remnants of it that still made me euphoric and I wrote more pages than I normally do. So with that new camera I promise I will take pictures and exhibit them here.
Because I must take that travel thing seriously. I don’t want to consume, living off what I have piled up in the past years, burning away my earnings, not earning anything new. Must not all newness be deflowered by the price tag society puts on it? I need labels. It doesn’t matter how good or bad the narrative is, how good you reader find the metaphores, or the anecdotes. It only matters that it has a label, a price tag. Eleven ninetynine, that’s the highest bid till date. Anybody offers any more? I felt I had to write to earn my camera back. At least to provide some justification of my being entitled to it. Because at birth we were entitled to nothing, and we are not entitled to anything we didn’t explicitly suffer for, as the Calvinist mantra goes. At the same time, the clurgy is entitled to everything. But let’s say I’m not entitled to it. So what?

That night in the hostel I was offered the very last bed they had available. It’s always like this. It’s doesn’t frighten me, all the luck. It gets boring, I get used to it. I shrug my shoulders, take it for granted. I can squeeze little meaning out of it, and I know one day it will dry out. All the luck in the world, all the most improbable coincidences combined, the angelic gestures of all the selfless beings that by coincidence unheard of cross my path will then not be able to produce meaning. At the end of a lived life there awaits us only dullness, only shades of grey that leave us unmoved, detached from the sweating cycle of life itself. It will dry out at the end of our days. But it is juicy still, o yes don’t you worry. So a woman with wonderful curls in her black hair enters the hostel room and asks me for a pen. Yes I say you’re lucky you asked a writer and I pull out a pen while I say that, handing it to her. A writer she asks interested, how nice! O yes, and I travel in order to gather some inspiration. How nice! by the way, my name is Verity. Like truth? Yes, like truth.

February 2. Hostel World.

I was taken care of once more. On the day I left, they took me to the bus station in Oliveira. Sixteen euros to get straight back to Lisbon. I dozed in the bus, let a lot of thoughts pass my inner eye. Where would I go? South America? India? Which country would be next – and how about my writing. Would it be recognized, do I need that? I was tired when I arrived in Lisbon,
and I went to the same cafe I had been in 2007 and the memory made me very happy. 2007 is a long time ago, I was a child then. The coffee was good, as everywhere in Portugal. The main reason to stay here for a while and write like hell. The spirit of total freedom. It’s a shame the Iraq war was waged under the banner of freedom. Freedom that imprints itself too much in the earth’s crest is suspect. My freedom is a shadow with a pen.

It was already dark when I started looking for a Couchsurfer. None available. After a while, I found an hostel that offered affordable beds for the nights. Breakfast included. A German guy, Klaus, worked there. He was a philosopher like me, planning to write his PhD in the philosophy of
mind. He didn’t like namedropping, he worked systematically about the gap between experience and knowledge. That takes a lot of Geist. The people her were all so young, and all on planned,
carefully scheduled trips. At home, a life awaited them, a life of being a mechanic, a textile designer, a photographer, a medic, anything. It must be a good feeling when a life awaits you.