Happiness and a safety ensued.....but would it last?
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-- Xeno and Robert --

How unusual. Many questions begin to boggle our bio babe's brain. How did such an apparently harmless thing tunnel through the rock to make it's home? How to open a channel of communication? With such a friendly gaze, our beast scholar decides to inch closer. Just another step. Almost arms reach then

   

Survival mode Art.

aka the angry gondolier. Waiting to scam the next tourist

bought local parma ham and cheese. Every morning I would sit and with my shity knives and very slowly "chop" my breakfast and food for the day on the floor by the river


 to far far away, to a more local and ugly part of Venice, where I found peace.

Hey I thought I would relate my first trip that I've arranged for pure pleasure and completely alone! 



Tourism to me is a strange phenomena. It has transformed Venice to what I imagine the end of days would be like, where everyone needs to see, eat and buy enough for the rest of eternity. My initial plan was to read and work outside in a beautiful location, and armed with better coffee and wine. I thought it was sound plan. I was a fool. I couldn't sit down anywhere to chill with an espresso, I actually got shooed off, and over charged for bad quality (I was cool with all this as I felt I was doing tourist trap tourism.) This morning I had to return to Venice. On a sunny summer Sunday morning, and it just so happens there is a race in the grand channel. To get to the island of Guidecca where I'm staying I need to get a water bus (cost 50 euros for 4 days of water buses), however they are mostly cancelled because of the race! With only 2 water bus lines remaining the queues are massive and it is beyond boiling hot. I have come to believe the climate is slowly transitioning to a fiery hell, so as that no one will notice when we get there. As there are no exact regulations on how many people fit on a water bus everyone just crammed on it and I find myself completely stuck in the middle of a group of giant Americans, like playing an opposite version of piggy in the middle. Luckily I have a map on my mobile of all the boat tracks and I'm using GPS. Of course the first thing the boat does is go completely off any track and leave the perimeter of my saved map. So I have no idea where the boat is and I don't know whether to break down and take comfort in the surrounding blubber or freak out and then receive a group hug. Somehow I recognise my island after ages and I get off onto a blissful paradise. Exactly like the central island of Venice, with little channels, little open market places and sprinkled with restaurants and coffee shops over looking Venice and the river. The difference is they are all empty and reasonable priced. I'm exhilarated to find a more local side of Venice. My hostel is gorgeous. It has it's own student bar and tomorrow is games night with Go. 

The author in a brain specialist

My university has this approach of treating everything as a Natural Sciences problem. I am not in the position of judging this milenar policy, but I cannot help but laugh at some of the consequences, such as the physicist who holds the "Chair of Sociology" and has Assimovian dreams about society, and the brain experiment that I am taking part.

Being not satisfied with the current way teachers handle the development of motor coordination among children (Kindesmotorischekoordination), the swiss have decided to improve it by applying an electrical current to one's head while performing some physical task. As I cannot tie my shoes properly, I was considered the perfect subject. I also received 15 Swiss Francs per 1 hour session, which made this the first time my brain literally made me some cash.

It was particularly difficult to find my conference accommodation  in Lisbon. Those I questioned in town about the whereabouts of the district of my hotel, Monte de Caparica, talked about it as if it were a far away place, mentioned only in Legend.
    "Oh, Monte.... Yep...I've heard of it. But that there's on the other side of the river. Now, you don't want to be going over there. In fact, no one goes over there."

Strange I thought. My printed instructions said it was only 4 miles from the centre. How hard can it be to get there?

After further bewildered answers from the Lisboans, I decided to switch on wilderness mode, and navigate my way in the right direction. Sniffing the wind, and checking my GPS provided bearings, I headed south to the dreaded Monte. After a train - bus - metro ride, I arrived in Monte de Caparica. (I later improved on this, by taking a train- boat- metro instead. Boats are nicer then buses)

Now in Monte, I had to find the road of my hotel. I turned once again to asking the locals, but they could only afford a silent stare when I asked them directions. They were a strange people south of the river, with their characteristic red hats and green boots




After a long monologue with my long faced grazing neighbor, the answer came to me. Soon after the great voyages that marked Portugal's history, it dawned on the Lisboans that they could also travel by land around their city.

 So they called upon an ancient counsel to figure out this land transport stuff. Two things were determined in that meeting. First, which family would be responsible for the transport for each squared kilometer of Lisbon. The second: a vow never again to talk or meet with the other families. Thus began the public transport system, through an asynchronous anarchic effort. Each train, bus and metro system on each side of the river, belonged to a different private company with their own credit system. The only thing in common: credits were stored in identical green cards you had purchase. Once a green card had been soiled with the credits of one of these systems, it would no longer receive any other suitor.

Turned out that 6 cards were not enough. When trying to travel from a particular train station in town, none of my 6 cards worked. I asked the local public employee. He thought it was absurdly funny that I thought I could use one of my current lines of transport credit to pay for the local journey, when it was well known that this station was owned by a different company. I took to yelling at him after this. I really let him have it, letting him know that Lisbon's public transport system was a mild improvement over walking. About as efficient as paddling one of their massive sails boats over land. That I would have had more success getting around town by trying to build vehicle out of their famous round cream pastries

He subsequently wouldn't sell me any tickets, told me try one of my alternative transport suggestions. Didn't matter, I decided to go on a night walk anyway, and buy some tasty pastries.

Nervians, Assemble!

O general e o cozinheiro

"Será uma morte lenta", assegurou o general, "faz parte do contrato", enquanto o cozinheiro deslisava sua faca pelo pescoço de Felipe, linhas verticais em torno de seu pomo. O suficiente para um fino traco vermelho sangue brotar.
"Não, não, por favor, você não entende, eu num posso morrer.. tenho muita coisa pra vê ainda". O general ouvia o garoto suplicar do canto da sala, longe o suficiente para não manchar sua farda, mas perto o suficiente para garantir que o contrato seria cumprido. Os termos eram claros, a morte viria, lentamente, das mãos de ambos.
"Olha o que eu fiz pra vocês? Bah, eu ando aqui em Cuzco faz um tempo já, fiz umas merdas, eu to sabendo, mas quem eh que não faz?". A faca continuava seu caminho pelo peito. Mamilos, barriga, umbigo, tudo já jorrava sangue. Mas o cozinheiro sabia que essa era só a parte "lenta" do contrato, não a morte.

"Porra, eh dinheiro que vocês querem? Não tem um puto na minha bolsa, mas deve ter alguma coca." "Folha de coca?", o general respondeu prontamente, e a faca do cozinheiro interrompeu sua jornada a dois dedos do umbigo de Felipe. "Não velho, porra, o pó, não deve ter muito, mas eh tudo de vocês". Os olhos do general voltaram para o mesmo vazio de antes, e o cozinheiro terminou seu trajeto. O garoto já era vermelho de cima a baixo, mas ainda não tinha gritado. Dor não estava no contrato. Para o próximo passo, o cozinheiro precisaria de outra faca. "Não, espera, eu entendi, eu sumo daqui, não, a boca, aaaaahrg". Felipe resistia com toda a forca que restava, mas cortar a língua de alguem para o cozinheiro era tao natural quanto fatiar cebolas.

"Preste atenção, Felipe. Você vai morrer. E lentamente. Dor não está no contrato, mas a sua língua era necessária". Mais um detalhe contratual do que puro sadismo, a língua dos jurados de morte tinha que ser removida para evitar argumentacão. Um pouco de dor também torna a próxima parte mais aceitável, da algo para o jurado pensar enquanto a morte não chega. "Nosso contrato foi firmado pela sua irmã, onze meses atrás, ainda no Brasil. Ela quer que você morra, e lentamente". O sangue jorrava pela boca do garoto, mas o cozinheiro providenciara que a cadeira estivesse levemente inclinada para frente, evitando um eventual sufocamento, e consequente quebra contratual.

A expressão nos olhos da pessoa que acabou de descobrir quem ordenou sua morte varia muito. Muitas riem, algumas choram descontroladamente, outras juram vingança - mesmo com a língua cortada. Na classificacao feita pelo general, Felipe decidira pelo descontentamento e profunda tristeza. Nos ultimos três meses que acompanhou Felipe, o garoto ligava frequentemente para Porto Alegre, para o mesmo numero que, meses antes, havia firmado seu contrato. De certo que reconhecer o nome de seu assassino deve causar sofrimento, mas o general gostava de deixar essas divagacoes filosóficas para o cozinheiro.

Já pálido, o garoto nao resistia mais. O chão já continha grande parte do seu sangue. Mas o cozinheiro sabia que aquela deveria ser uma morte lenta e, tal como as clássicas tentativas de suicido por corte dos pulsos, uma pessoa raramente morre por hemorragia se o corte não atinge uma artéria. E, é claro, a sobrevivencia de Felipe não era opcao, nem mesmo uma possibilidade. Sua morte era um fato, e o cozinheiro havia garantido isso com a quantidade e profundidade exata de cortes pelo seu corpo. Uma lenta, mas relativamente indolor, morte estava assegurada por hemorragia.

O general contudo ainda não havia feito sua parte. Retirou um pacote de pilulas brancas do bolso e caminhou lentamente em direcao a Felipe. Nao para deixar a cena mais tensa, mas para evitar que gotas de sangue respingassem em suas calcas. "Engula essas garoto, vai te ajudar", disse o general enquanto gentilmente forcava as aspirinas pela garganta de Felipe. A ausência de língua torna o processo de engolimento mais complicado, mas o sangue ajudou as aspirinas a descerem.

Sentados, o general e o cozinheiro permaneceram pelos próximos setenta e cinco minutos em silencio, observando o garoto, em hemorragia intensa, sangrar até a morte. A gravacao só então foi interrompida. Embora considerada uma quebra de privacidade pelo general, gravar a morte de um jurado havia sido uma forma muito mais limpa de provar o comprimento do contrato do que como nos velhos temos, quando uma cabeça na caixa era pratica comum do mercado. Morte às 12:07, Cuzco, Peru.