saying goodbye to a trusted travel mate
Today, I buried my closest friend in front of a church in San Cristobal de las Casas. Although she was only three, she had lived a full and meaningful life. I will miss her.
Three years ago, I was wandering around aimlessly in the south of Mexico and I left my walkman on a bus from Oaxaca. I canŽt even blame banditos, I am just dumb. I went into the Sony store in San Cristobal upon arrival and promptly purchased a new one, and explained the rules of Olympic ice dancing to the women who were working there (Nagano games were on all of the TVs). This was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
My walkman swam across the border to Guatemala when the Mexican officials wouldnŽt let me out, comforted me under my bed in San Salvador when the bullets were flying, and survived malaria in Honduras. My walkman played faithfully through a rocky family reunion on Prince Edward Island (the fatherland). My walkman kept me company on the daily transit adventures through Main and Hastings on the way to work.
You see, gypsy blood flows through my veins but I suffer from the worst motion sickness imaginable, music is the only therapy my body will accept. My walkman has been my faithful companion when all others around me get tired, or cranky, or homesick. My walkman never balked at street food, operated on the cheapest batteries, and never complained about cold showers. My walkman refused to play "IŽll-shoot-myself-if-you-leave-me" love songs, on principle.
She wasnŽt perfect and sometimes we had trouble communicating. My walkman decided to stay a week in Seville longer than I did, for example (I think it was for love, but she has been evasive about it). My walkman kept me from hearing the announcement that the train in Paris I was taking to the airport was out of service, thus forcing me to sit for 37 minutes in darkness in the locked car with a screaming Irish woman, thus missing my flight to Toronto (the only one that day). And the volume button never ever worked. She chose the level I was to hear things (Pixies loud, Joni Mitchell less so).
Three years later I am retracing my steps, and my walkman failed me on the second class night bus from Oaxaca (my stomach failed me too, but that is another story). I think she knew the circle was complete and it was time to be laid to rest.
Two minutes after I buried my beloved walkman, some street kids dug her up. I can only hope that her organs are donated to others in need. She would have wanted it that way.
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