This is not a hostel anymore.

It is not a hostel. It's my house. My home for a while. Feels like it. Pictures, posters, music, windows, kitchen, people, key, living room roof, stuff! Not a hostel ANYMORE. Used to be. People still come and knock the door of the "Planet Travelers". Couchsurfers find a shelter. Common backpackers don't! Don't anymore...!
House/ home full of musicians and people who love music. But this is not enough. Other musicians who used to live in this house with such an amazing character, still come and hang out with the common tenants! The house fills up with violins, harmonicas, trombones, accordions tambourines, guitars and nice people. And always has people playing sax, guitar, accordion, celo, etc etc...

Post stay: Second semester in the most perfect house and neighborhood I could get. Kensington Market. Augusta Avenue. Ex-hostel. Music, food, people. And a roof.

Living room. Ouzo, tsoureki, cigarettes, friends, music. Brock-sitar and Tangi accordion jamming...





My housemate Brock tocando su saxofono.




Sitar (Brock) behind glass doors.






Tangi with accordion. Mike smoking. Living room moments. Drinks and cigarettes. Still winter. Warmth in the cold.



Almost spring. Cold. Sunny. Breakfast in the backyard. Raccoons, graffiti, milk with cereals, some bread with nutella. Eyes closed absorbing sun. Music.


Ouzo, haloumi, marshmallows, roof, friends, easter, clouds, breeze, view. I miss the roof and all that comes with.




It is midnight in the market.
(The Market Song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RUSgPlLrcxM&feature=related)





Roof and beers with friends.




Enjoying the view and the silence that a roof can offer.

Concertum-concerti

Rodrigo y Gabriela. At Phoenix in Toronto. Melodies. Rhythm. Blind coordination. Passion. Spontaneous. Again: feels stronger when you are by your self.
LnJos

THIS IS PARADISE but/and Mr. V. is dead.

Back to Toronto. New start. Cameron House on Queen Street West. "This is Paradise" it says. It is someone's paradise. Mine when I am there. Could be yours as well. Music: violin, harp, guitar, flute, accordeon, piano, SAW, trombone, drums, banjo. And Kevin Quain with the Mad Bastards. Sunday. Perfect new start. Promising semester.

Post hoc: New amazing start but somehow going back and then forward again. Weird stuff happen when other people get involved; and when YOU get involved.Weird; very weird. Pushes you forward, then feels like it holds you back, then you leave it and go forward again. Regret? No regrets. Everything is part of it.

And then I guess Mister Valentine is dead.

LnJos

Antithesis

Salt plains. Desert. White. Infinite. A non ignorant driver is required. "Hotel de sal" every some kilometers. An ostrich. A pig. Cactus.

Wake up at 4.30am. Drive through desert. Arrive at the geysers. Watch the sunrise. Cold. Blanket. Sun. Boiling earth. Earth. Then in the jeep again. Music: 5 songs (Viva Cochabamba, Lambada, Bolivia and 2 more).

Arrive at the "eaux thermales" source, natural mineral spa. Breakfast. Freezing cold. Warmth. Decision to take off clothes and get in water: difficult (cold...)! Did it. Relaxing. Feels like a heaven in a heaven. Almost silence. Almost because you can still hear the water and some birds. You can feel the water coming out of the ground. Bolivia. Earth.





LnJos

New, different and same.

First life experience in my traveling history. Bolivia. New world for me. Such a different way of living. La Paz: street, colours, "indigenes", loud, food, colectivo, honking, real, busy, children, dos bolivianos, trufi, Angelo Colonial . Poverty -as part of life- is life. That's how it is. Travel with a local, mi amiga paseña Lucia. Villages such as San Juan de Rosario: llamas, children barefoot, almacen, dogs, no asphalt, one car, one motorcicle, chicken.

The "appearance" of people's lives differs from "ours". BUT people are the same. PERSONS. Simpleness. Mothers, children, husbands, bus drivers, homeless people. Nice people. Saudade in the eyes. Close your eyes and see the magic.

LnJos

Air-ports

Air-Ports. Ports. Ports to anywhere. 12 hours waiting in a port. So many destinations. Take any plane and go to a certain anywhere. Whatever anywhere. Announcements for Latin America, for North America, Europe, Caribbean, unknown places, unknown for you, known for others. You are going to one of them. But for now you are there. Alone. For 12 hours. Watching, listening, whistling, singing, taking pictures. Left a whole one-semester-experience behind. Can't sleep on the benches because they are made to prevent people who need sleep from sleeping there. Looking for a spot to immortalize the image of the sunset. Ending up at the 6th floor of a parking lot. In a nonsense city called Miami. On your way to La Paz- Bolivia. Realize that Miami has actually a raison d'être: being a port for elsewhere.

LnJos