Getting Real: The Art of Finding Hope and Inspiration in Unlikely Places

I observe with unshakable attention the movement of the clear, large thimble-sized marble as it rolls in circles and passes from one of Mariano’s palms to the other. “Dar y recibir,” he chants, “dar y recibir.” Give and receive, give and receive. Mariano (director of a new, online NGO) and I always begin my days of volunteer work discussing his life philosophies, which oddly have a way of leaving me speechless. Quoting Martin Luther King Jr., he frequently says, “All men are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality.” And everyday, Mariano continues to roll the marble between his hands. Give and receive.

Mariano is one of those rare, inspirational geniuses I feel privileged to have met. His desk looks like the ground below a tree during fall on the East Coast which is covered entirely by fallen leaves. Only, in his case, his desk is always blanketed in leaves of white paper where he randomly jots down his thoughts. It’s like those times when you go, “Hey, that would be a great idea!” knowing that you should probably take physical note to remember, but don’t. Mariano, on the other hand, will reach for whatever material and writing utensil is within proximity and get the thought down before it has even a second to escape. 

I found him in the most unlikely of ways. About two months after I arrived in Buenos Aires, I was already having a break down with my friend Stephanie over the fact that I hadn’t yet found a job. And I knew exactly why not.

“My perfectionism makes me suffer in ways that are indescribable,” I wailed. “There’s always that little voice in my head that chants, ‘not good enough Megan, not good enough.’ So,  I turn down jobs I feel are not merit worthy and fail at achieving higher rank jobs because I am uncertain if it’s the ‘right fit’ or perhaps if there just might be something else better waiting.”

“So,” she said. “Do yourself a favor and just say yes to everything and if you don’t like it, then … quit. Who knows where something might lead you next.”

The idea sounded simple, but terrified me because I also hate letting people down, which is exactly what I would be doing by quitting at the drop of a hat. But I decided to go for it. Being broke can be a great motivator when it comes to risk taking. If you’re closer to zero, the less you have to lose as they say.

And that’s when I took a job as a cocktail waitress at a particular bar in Palermo neighborhood that I will leave unnamed for privacy purposes.

My employment only lasted for two weeks, mostly because of the draining work hours, where I lived from sundown to sunup and slept during the day. The night that I quit, I tripped over a table and deeply bruised my shin, got yelled at by customers because no one had come to clean up the broken glass that had been sitting on the floor for about three hours, almost got beat up for not giving someone free drinks, and on top of it all, when I was ready to go home (exhausted) at the hour of my usual departure my boss looks at me, scoffs, and says, “you’re not leaving. You don’t leave until the people leave. Now go clean up those glasses.” One major disadvantage of working under the table is that you have no rights.

At that moment, I decided that I would just live out the night until I got payed. Needless to say, I would not be feeling guilty in the least bit for resigning from this gig.

When I turned around, Mariano and his friend saw my grimaced face and waved me over. “What in the world are you doing working here?” They asked surprised, looking at me in absolute consternation as if I were a zebra in lime green boxers trying to play the accordion at a rock concert. Apparently my natural positive, sober energy was undisguisable among the crowd of transvestites and drug-using indy kids that flooded the bar. I shrugged, “I was giving something a chance that I normally never would,” commending my great idea with pride. They looked at each other and agreed amongst themselves that this was not the place for me, which I too had also realized. Mariano and his friend also were not frequenters of this bar, they had merely gotten word of its curious reputation and stopped in to observe the “quilombo,” which is Argentinean slang for chaos or disorder. 

Over a breakfast of facturas, tostados mixtos, and cheese pizza — when I finally left work at that bar for the last time — the three of us laughed and smiled enjoying conversation about the innocent simplicities of life and talking about my future involvement with Mariano’s non-profit, where I knew I undoubtedly would fit in.

It’s still funny to me that I found such a positive light in such a dark place, but I guess it shows that you never know who you will meet when you decide to open the doors completely and give the unlikely a chance. Just don’t expect me to seek employment at another bar any time soon.