"What is the name of the movie you are producing?" the immigration officer asked me as he pulled me aside into the small interrogation room. I'm not quite sure if answering that we are producing a soap opera to promote Cross River gorilla conservation will do any better, so I remain quiet. I was once deported from Peru as a result of an overnight change to an immigration law, leaving me stranded one full night at Lima's airport eating causa peruana with the guards. I'm not sure spending a night at the Abuja airport would be as pleasant. "We are not producing any movie," I finally answered. A cool thing about my job is that I get to learn from a wide variety of people and themes. Last week I was in Mexico working with the State government on Chiapas in the planning of a telenovela that will promote women and indigenous people's rights along with sustainable development; this week I'm working with a group of Nigerian and Cameroonian experts on a radio drama that aims to inspire the pride and preservation of the remaining 250 Cross River gorillas. I read somewhere that the former president of Colombia, Alvaro Uribe, is a great pretender. He is able to appear an expert on any topic after five minutes of debriefing. I'm not claiming to seem as an expert of any kind, but I can certainly tell by now a few stories about gorillas, Ghanian fish mongers, Bolivian youth and Chamula communities. "It is not about the story, but about how you tell the story," Meesha will say quoting her mother.

We are listening to Kraftwerk as Sol stops to take a picture of me writing and drinking wine to then go back to her LP collection and select the next album to play. It's been a while since the last time we met. She selects Do you really want to hurt me? from Culture Club; we already listened to Daniel Magal and other Argentinian jewels from the 1970's. Her studio is located at the now vacant Crane Studios Building, the "graffiti building" in Queens, decorated with old collectible objects and an electric pot to prepare her usual mate. "Sol, may I use your computer to write in my blog? I want to write about this." She agreed without hesitation. "Che, Brenda, I read in your blog that Pico died in November," she said to me earlier, before plugging in her headphones and playing DJ. I have always felt some sort of admiration and creative connection with Sol. Her latest body of work titled Please Don't Leave Me explores the concept of absence and reminds me of an old project I worked on right after Javier left titled After You Left. She now plays Talking Heads. "Do you know that this album cover was designed by Chuck Close?" she asks; "the first I came to New York I went to CBGB to track their origins. I was a fan." I ask if she ever watched them play live, but by now she is dancing by the turntables and barely listens to me. Breakfast in America is now playing out loud. We might be the only ones having a blast in this now deserted and forgotten building.