Jamón Jamón

Les Jeux Sont Faits

2011-02-26T08:26:00.003-05:00

To quote Ed Rooney, Les Jeux Sont Faits. After 5.5 days of fairly devoted veganism, I quit. I had convinced myself that I would make it to the end, despite my misgivings about life as a vegan. Fortunately, saner minds prevailed.

Last night, my friend Evo was visiting from New York, and we all gathered to go out to dinner. I made us reservations at Founding Farmers, which features classic American comfort food, along with a special vegan menu. Seemed like a good place for the ominvores and the herbivores to meet, greet, and eat. But as we sat down to dinner, Elin and I both agreed that 5.5 days was enough, and that we were done. I'm glad she agreed, because I wouldn't have stopped the venture if she hadn't also. Plus, the minute we agreed to stop, I felt like a weight had lifted. The whole week has been kind of stressful.

So what did I learn from the week. That Tofitti sour cream sucks? That Oreos are supposedly vegan? All true. But here's what else:

I think it's hard to be a vegan, but particularly if you don't have a strong moral conviction about meat. As much work that's involved, it's difficult to sustain the energy and motivation if you don't really care about whether there is meat or dairy in something. Vegan for vegan's sake is not enough.

On the other hand, it does make you very mindful of what you are eating, which is a step in the Michael Pollan direction. It's unbelievable how many unidentifiable ingredients are in the food we eat every day. And, rarely had I stopped to think about it before.

An added bonus from the week -- I remembered that I like to cook. And I learned that it's a good idea to read the recipe beforehand. And prep everything beforehand. And that I don't like chiptole. (The pepper, not the restaurant. I actually had a delish vegan lunch at the restaurant one day.)

Was it worth it? I think so. I'm glad to have done it, but even more glad to end early. Because as I said last week, I really like quitting and the relief it brings.

And Now, The End is Near

2011-02-23T21:10:00.003-05:00

Day Four, and I'm over the idea of being a vegan for a week. I spent the day feeling alternately cranky, barfy, and sick of starchy carbs.

If this experiment were a marathon, today would be like mile 20, running up First Avenue, hitting the mental wall. Except...there's no free t-shirt, no promise of a shiny mylar cape when I'm done, and it's really closer to running mile 14 somewhere out in Queens, since I just passed the halfway mark.

Strangely enough, I'm not really craving meat, so much as I'm craving vegetables. I know that sounds weird, since I can eat all the vegetables I want. But, in my effort to seek protein and avoid dairy and meat, I have been stocking up on lentils and beans, and have missed the green vegetables. I guess the idea of eating a big bowl of brussel sprouts didn't cross my mind.

Tonight I set out to make a black bean and squash chili, but ended up throwing the whole thing out. The squash had gone bad, so I couldn't add that. Then, when I tasted the beans and tomato base to see what I could add to it, I realized I don't like anything chipotle flavored. So, out it went. Meanwhile, I learned that Ritz crackers are vegan.

So, I'm thinking about throwing in the towel. It's been a fun four days. And the first couple of days were good. But this evening I feel blech. The whole point of this endeavor was to try to cook more healthy things. But instead, I found myself scarfing on Ritz crackers, instead of salad, because the only salad dressing I have in my house is non-vegan. That just doesn't make sense. And I don't even have a moral hang-up about eating meat and dairy -- I just wanted to force myself to cook more and to eat a little healthier.

I'm giving it one more day to see if things turn around.

My So Called Vegan Life

2011-02-22T21:33:00.002-05:00

Day three is nearly over, and I'm excitedly close to the half way mark. The first two days of this challenge went swimmingly well, despite eating dinner out two nights in a row. Actually, it was probably because of eating dinner out.

Last night I went to Zengo, and vegan dinner was fantastic. They had a separate menu that they brought with gluten-free and vegatarian items, and it even had instructions on how to make vegetarian items vegan. Thus, no stress of interrogating the waiter about whether there is fish sauce or butter used in various menu items. Plus, the food was delicious. We had a payapa salad, some rice noodles with snow peas and cashews, fingerling potatoes, and best of all, arepas with shitake mushrooms.

And then came Day Three. The day I stopped worrying and started to love the bomb. Er, the day I decided that my newfound love for lentils was an illusion. Partially because I have eaten them for too many meals in the past three days, and partially because I am the victim of a bad recipe. Or two.

Dinner tonight was a disaster. I made a sweet potato and lentil stew. Somewhere along the way, the idea of sweet potato and lentil stew became cemented in my head. Maybe it was a NYT article. Maybe it was a cooking website. Anyway, this fall I went looking for something using sweet potatoes and lentils, and fell upon a Thomas Keller recipe. So, when I was thinking about going vegan, I thought perfect -- I'll make the Thomas Keller recipe of delicious lentil stew. Until I looked at the recipe again. And realized it involved a pound of bacon. Which was probably why it seemed so delicious.

Anyway, I figured that I couldn't leave out all the bacon, and went looking for a vegan-friendly recipe. Instead of a beautiful, bacon-scented stew, I ended up with a big bowl of sweet potato and lentil curry mush. It was like the sweet potato casserole from Thanksgiving. But instead of marshmallows and brown sugar, there were lentils and spinach. And lentils.

Still, I ate the dinner. And as I was choking down spoonfuls of curry mush, I was thinking that if I had to choose a healthy meal, I'd much rather eat my mediocre vegan stew than an omnivore's plate of chicken and brown rice. Maybe this is how the conversion begins...

You Can't Win Friends With Salad

2011-02-21T10:45:00.003-05:00

Day one of the vegan adventure went pretty well. In the morning, I went shopping for my various and sundry vegan items for the week. I decided to go to a regular grocery store and see how well I fared. I took a long time because I was reading labels -- there are so many ingredients in things that I don't even know what they are. And also, I couldn't find non-green lentils. So, looks like I'll be heading to Whole Foods or a health food store anyway.

The real challenge yesterday was dinner at my friend Kate's house. I had purposefully planned this week thinking that I had no social obligations. But, dinner last week was postponed to this Sunday. Fortunately, we had talked about having pizza, and folks kindly agreed to order from a place where you could substitute vegan cheese. (Which I ended up skipping, because this place had a pizza without cheese that you could order. I decided that no cheese is probably better than fake cheese.)

As a gesture of goodwill -- heh -- I offered to bring a vegan dessert to dinner. After much ado and the realization that I couldn't find graham crackers at Harris Teeter without honey, I ended up making something that was supposed to be a vegan brownie. In the end, I think it would have been better suited for caulking gaps in my kitchen floorboards. It was gummy and strange, with no resemblance to brownies or anything remotely delicious.

Still, dinner was a success, even if the dessert was dismal and I lost at Scrabble. Tonight is the real challenge -- dinner out at Zengo, which features asian-latin small plates. I goofed, and thought dinner was planned for next week. I'm a little dubious about the menu offerings, and fear I'll be feasting on a tiny plate of overpriced seaweed salad. Maybe this is how the Oprah producer lost 11 pounds...

Let's Begin Again, Begin the Begin

2011-02-20T00:45:00.004-05:00

A few weeks ago I was watching Oprah and her 25th Season hoopla. The episode featured food revolutionary Michael Pollan, plus a vegan lady who convinced Oprah to get her entire staff to go vegan for a week.

It was interesting to imagine a whole office of maybe 500 people going vegan at once. Did they really want to go vegan, or were they bowing to the whims and pressures of their powerful boss? Plus, how easy is it for Oprah to be vegan, given that I'm sure she has someone shopping for her and cooking for her. Along the same vein, how easy was it for her staff to be vegan, given that the Harpo cafeteria was serving delicious vegan meals, too.

Still, despite my doubts about how voluntary the experiment was -- and whether it was a good idea to spend a week as a vegan eating fake chicken nuggets -- I was intrigued by the notion of going vegan for a week.

First, I have had Michael Pollan's book, The Omnivore's Dilemma, on my bookshelf, waiting to be read, for at least six months. And, though I've passed on it numerous times in favor of Star magazine or some pulpy mystery novel, I like the general idea of his mantra: Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants. One of my unspoken New Year's resolutions this year -- in addition the annual resolution to moisturize more -- was to try to cook more, possibly with lentils. Becoming vegan for a week would force me to cook more.

Second, I like a challenge. I recently completed my Sarah Palin Workout Challenge 2010, wherein I agreed to work out a certain number of times per week. If I missed a workout, a friend of mine would donate $10 for every missed workout to Sarah Palin's PAC, or some other politician (I use that term loosely) that I would find equally loathable. I did this for about six months, and didn't miss a workout or donate a single dollar to SarahPAC. That ended a few weeks ago, and I could use a new challenge. What could be more challenging than being a vegan.

Third, I like challenges that only last one week. I may be type A, but I really enjoy quitting things. It's liberating. And highly underrated. One week is just long enough to feel like you accomplished something, and then you get to quit.

Finally, amidst the multitude of comments about bathroom habits and Oprah's declaration that Harpo went through a record number of toilet paper rolls, one male producer mentioned that he lost 11 pounds in one week as a vegan. Okay -- you got me. 11 pounds? Results may be atypical, and maybe this guy snacked on sticks of butter before his week as a vegan. But, 11 pounds is compelling stuff.

So, here I am, approximately one hour into my decision to spend a week as a vegan. I've got a file folder full of recipes, and almond milk in the fridge. I've recruited my friend Elin to join me, because she's the most disciplined person I know. (Or is it just that misery loves company.) I have a shopping list that involves chickpeas, squash, and two different kinds of lentils. And most importantly, I have a blog where I can share my travels through a cheese-less world -- and answer the question whether a cheese-less world is a world worth living in.

Don't Call it a Comeback

2010-07-04T01:12:00.004-04:00

Earlier this afternoon, when I should have been fixing my garden or ironing my curtains, I decided instead to watch a little Saturday afternoon tv. Which really means I decided to take a nap.

When I woke up, tv still blaring, there was a movie with Ray Liotta and Kurt Russell and this long-haired Jane Seymour person, except it wasn't Jane Seymour. I just googled the movie and found out the name is Unlawful Entry. In the part I saw, Ray Liotta plays a crazed cop, and Kurt Russell and Jane Seymour, I mean Madeline Stowe, play a married couple who are being stalked by Ray Liotta. I don't know why he was stalking them, he just was. Presumably, that all was revealed while I was sleeping.

But, as I was watching the movie, I was thinking how that Madeline Stowe person was in a lot of movies in the 90's, but now I couldn't even remember her name. Also, what was the last movie Kurt Russell was in? Or Ray Liotta? I'll always remember Ray Liotta from Goodfellas. (Okay -- really, I'll always remember Ray Liotta from Corrina, Corrina.) Why don't people put him in movies any more?

I think his problem is that he's too good of an actor for a comeback. Putting Tony Manero, nee Vinnie Barbarino in Pulp Fiction as a hit man was a random genious move, given Travolta's prior work. (Xanadu, anyone?) Similarly, Mickey Rourke was so far down the road to Crazyville that when he showed up in The Wrestler, it was such a pleasant surprise. (Of course, it was like the part was made for him and the years of plastic surgery.) But, Ray Liotta is not such a crazy or superficial actor that putting him in a movie would seem brilliant or even ironic. Which is unfortunate, because I really would love to see him in a movie about the tragic downfall of a retiring professional wrestler. Or retiring ultimate fighter. (For that one, I suppose we'll have to wait for the comeback of Ed Norton.)

A Farewell to Arms

2010-06-22T19:43:00.005-04:00

It's been a long time, my friends. For months, I've been content to pass on my random thoughts via Facebook. After all, it seems to bring more comments. I long doubted that there was anything that could bring me out of my self-imposed, blogging retirement.

But, I feel compelled to write about a recent incident I heard about on the Today show this morning. Apparently a man in Connecticut or somewhere thereabouts got his hand stuck in his furnace, and decided to amputate his arm to set himself free.

Now, I understand the story where the person trapped on a giant Mountain had to amputate his arm to free himself from wedged boulders to find help and escape the rugged mountain terrain. And, I saw the season finale of House where they had to convince some woman to amputate her arm to free herself from a collapsed parking garage.

But this man was trapped in his basement. He was tormented not by a fear of wolves or frostbite or oxygen deprivation. He was not trapped in the walk-in freezer at Sam's butcher shop. No, he was tormented by the microwave beeping about the food he had left in it. It wasn't winter, where there was a risk that the furnace might somehow burn his trapped hand. He was trapped in a basement in suburbia for less than 2 days. And, at the end of the day, he wasn't really able to amputate his arm and escape -- his friends rescued him. However, they apparently had to amputate his arm anyway.

I don't mean to be glib about this. Okay, maybe I do a little bit. But, I can't help but wonder whether this man would have ever thought about cutting off his arm if he hadn't seen the endless media coverage of others who have done this. I'm not saying that he did this for media attention. But, the idea surely came from media reports. And more than that -- what does it say about the modern attention span if one is ready to chop off an arm after being trapped in a basement for a day. What's the rush? Surely it's worth waiting a few days before removing a limb. This guy supposedly had a fiancee. Wouldn't you expect her to notice your absence within a few days? Unless she's in Canada, I suppose.

Never trust a big butt and a smile

2009-03-28T09:29:00.004-04:00

Yesterday at work, I was talking on the phone to someone about a case I'm working on, when he somewhat randomly declared the following rule of life: Never trust a man in a cape.

I hadn't been expecting him to say anything about capes, because that usually doesn't come up in business conversations. But, I was impressed with his matter of fact style and conviction. And his follow up story about seeing a man in a cape at a poetry reading had me giggling.

Fortunately, I was able to restrain myself from actually discussing the merits of capes, or launching into my longstanding debate about capes versus cloaks. I agreed with the man about the omen of a man in a cape, although secretly I was thinking that a cape is so much better than a cloak.

Lately, I've been concerned that I'm no longer capable of having interesting small talk. (For the perfect example, I need only remind you of the dinner party crash and burn.) And I wondered whether it was time to bring back the old topics of cape versus cloak, or sherpa versus scribe, or my favorite -- what would whale taste like? (I had a theory that it would be like bacon, but later internet research proved it's like chicken.)

When I was clerking right after law school, I remember when we'd have conversations at lunch with the other clerks where it was not unusual to hear someone say something like, "The Constitution is a speedbump..." As much as I loved my lunch companions -- they sent me telegrams for my 27th birthday, how awesome -- another clerk and I used to beg everyone to limit their conversations to things that did or could appear in the purple section of USA Today or People magazine.

Now 10 years later, I somewhere lost the urge to talk about whales or monkeys with fezzes. Last night, at happy hour, someone started talking about a degressive corporate tax. I didn't even try to switch the topic to The Real Housewives of New York City. (Of course, I hadn't seen this week's episode yet.)

I suppose I'm maturing, but if this is 35, I'm not going.

If You Get Caught Between the Moon and New York City

2009-03-22T22:47:00.003-04:00

I just returned from a whirwind trip up to NYC, my first trip back in almost a year. It was exhausting, but great, great fun. Good shopping, good food, and most importantly, lots of good friends.

While I was visiting, it was the first time I ever wondered whether I made a mistake leaving New York. On the whole, I've been pretty content since I moved to DC. But, I don't think I've ever been as happy in DC -- or had so many drinks -- as I was hanging out in NYC this weekend.

I have been mulling over it a lot in the past 24 hours, and I've reached the conclusion that it's probably not New York that I miss, as much as I miss all my friends. I was able to see a bunch of people that I haven't seen in over a year. And, there were still a number of really good friends that I wanted to see but couldn't figure out how to fit it all in. (Next time.) If everyone from NYC lived in DC, I suspect I'd feel differently.

Still, as I was driving back in to DC this evening, and the sun was setting, I noticed that the cherry blossoms were starting to bloom. I thought how soon I'd be able to lounge outside on my patio, which is something NY apartments didn't offer, unless you had a trust fund.

Of course, just as I was smiling at the thoughts of the cherry blossoms blooming and my tree sprouting new leaves, I stumbled across a donut that someone had left on my front steps. (Interestingly, they ate the outside layer of bread and left the entire inside -- which doesn't seem very easy to do.) I suppose I could have let the trash on my front step sour my fragile enthusiasm for DC, but I decided pastrys on your front door are a good omen, even if half-eaten.

Now I'm just left trying to figure out the mystery of how half-eaten donuts fit in with all the other trash that I've found on my street, such as the tequila bottles, cut-off shorts, and electrical cord. It reminds me of this bit from Sesame Street when I was a kid, where Sherlock Hemlock found a bunch of trash and tried to figure out what kind of twiddlebug party had gone down. I'm entertaining any unifying theories.

You Ever Been to Bonus Eye-res? I Hunger for the Argentines...

2009-03-19T20:46:00.004-04:00

A couple of years ago, I hatched my Law & Order guest star theory: Whenever you see someone on Law & Order who is famous, but wasn't necessarily famous when the role was filmed, you can be sure that the almost-famous person is the killer. Time and time again, this has proven to be true. In fact, it's disappointing when you start watching the show, see Laura Linney, and realize who did it. (As if you didn't have it memorized already.)

So, I was watching a Law & Order SVU that I had recorded earlier in the week. Special Guest Star: Carol Burnett. I wondered if Carol Burnett would be the murderess. Because, I used to have a corollary to my L&O Guest Star theory, which was that famous people who showed up on SVU weren't necessarily the culprits, because who wants to play a pervy killer.

But Carol Burnett. The lady is has just enough moxy to agree to play a pervy SVU killer. I heart Carol Burnett. I love Carol Burnett. Not necessarily because of her show, or the later tragedy that was Mama's Family. I love Carol Burnett from when she played Miss Hannigan in the movie Annie. Other little girls dreamed of playing little orphan annie? I wanted to be like Carol Burnett and play Miss Hannigan. Much more character. Much more bathtub gin. In fact, I think the origin of my lifelong desire to go to Argentina is the duet that CB sings with Daddy Warbucks.

But I digress. I taped the SVU to watch Carol Burnett. I thought she could be a killer, or maybe not. And then. Then. I saw the listing that showed that CB's nephew was being played on the episode by special guest star Matthew Lillard. And then I was torn -- would CB be the murderer, or Matthew Lillard. Would my theory be blown to pieces by the two guest stars.

It all worked out well, though. Theory intact. Both of them were the murderers. And creepy as all get out. CB was a cross between Miss Havisham and Debra Winger in Black Widow. Matthew Lillard was like Tom Ripley crossed with Adolf Hitler. It was ridiculous. Check it out.

Creeeeep-eeeee.

Although that ice blue sweater is kind of nice.

Ham bone, Ham bone

2009-03-08T23:17:00.002-04:00

My roofer was here this morning to install a new skylight.

Last year, when I lived in an apartment, I could never say a sentence like that, as I owned neither a roof nor a skylight. Now, not only do roofers come to my house, but I actually call them "my" roofer.

It's just like Eldin the painter on Murphy Brown. Which may actually be the best part of having a roofer. If I ever make a sitcom of my life, I'm set. None of my neighbors at my current residence are wacky enough to qualify as the wacky neighbor. But I've got a roofer (to be played by Tracy Morgan) who can come by periodically to do things, and maybe make a wisecrack or two at my expense. People who watch the show will wonder briefly why my roof is never done, but then they won't care because the roofer is just too much fun.

Anyway, my roofer, Bernie, was here this morning, and we got to chatting while he was touching up some paint outside my house that got marked up while they were putting in the roof a few weeks ago. (See why the roof is never done -- one project leads to another.) Bernie mentioned to me that when they were working on the roof, they were practically beating off seagulls. Also, the roof was full of chicken bones. (Isn't the mental picture just prime for a sitcome of my life?)

Bernie said that he thought that all the chicken bones were brought onto the roof by the birds. Which was a timely explanation, since my very unwacky friend and neighbor, Steph, had commented only yesterday about how many chicken bones her dog finds in the neighborhood.

Her dog is lucky, since most of my recent finds suggest something much more sordid going on my block. I hatched a theory last night -- when I couldn't find a parking spot close to my house -- that someone on the block was hosting late night parties involving chicken, tequila, extension cords, smirnoff minis, and possibly condoms. But my roofer shot the chicken part to bits. Apparently the chicken bones are from the birds, and who knows about all the other stuff.

But the weird things is -- where do the birds find all the chicken bones? And do they know that when they eat poultry what they are doing is akin to eating a second cousin once removed?

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised

2009-02-25T21:31:00.003-05:00

A few nights ago, I went to a dinner party where I knew only two of the nearly two dozen guests. Although normally those odds would leave me with a case of gripping party fear and cause me to call the host with a sudden and contagious case of the whooping cough, I felt like I couldn't back out of a dinner party -- and besides, it's a great way to force me to practice my ever languishing small talk skills.

It turns out a number of people were in the same boat, knowing only the hostess and maybe one other person. Thus, it was little surprise when my table -- yes, there were multiple tables -- had a hard time getting conversation going. It seemed like each attempt to make polite conversation was, quite incredibly, worse than the last. Talk of politics drifted into talk of the Octomom, which should have been lighthearted. But that ended abruptly with a comment about abortion. Someone tried to switch topics by talking about Rihanna and Chris Brown, which lead to a story about a domestic violence victim killed by her boyfriend. Which in turn led one guest to say that the only thing worse was to talk about human trafficking -- which she then used as a segue to talk about...human trafficking.

You could blame the fact that we don't know each other. Or you could blame it all on me -- truth be told, I was the one who brought the conversation to a grinding stop with comments about abortion and homicide. (Okay -- so the small talk skills are really languishing.) But frankly, I blame television -- or lack thereof.

None of this would have been a problem if the other people at the table actually watched television. When I tried to talk about Top Chef -- a perfect topic for a dinner party, and a chance to trot out phrases like "flavor profiles" and molecular gastronomy -- everyone stared at me blankly. Nor had anyone seen the Today Show's extensive coverage of the Octomom (featuring Ann Curry), including the pre-Angelina Jolie photos, where she looked like an average person.

When I tried to steer the conversation to the safe, popular topic of television, no one would bite. One person said -- as I so often hear these days -- oh, I never, ever watch television. And that was that. No one else would speak up and admit they even own a television, let alone occasionally watch the thing. Except for me. I responded -- Oh, I love television so much I want to marry it (or something like that).

Over the years, there's always been one person in a crowd who'll say they don't own a television, or don't own a dress, or whatever. I expect that. There's always an elbow-patch intellectual or tree-hugging hippie in every crowd. But when did the tide turn. What happened to all my tivo-loving friends, who see no problem with accidentally getting sucked into an America's Next Top Model marathon. When did it become so bourgeois for regular folk to admit to watching television? And if no one is watching television, who are all the people out there on the Internet writing passionately about Lost?

Whatever. There's no shame in watching The Mentalist. (Okay, maybe a little shame, but not enough to stop watching.) So, the next social function I attend where someone proudly says they don't watch television, I'm going to proudly respond that I watch television. That I'm addicted to television. And then, I'm going to admit that most days I drive the whopping 13 blocks to work instead of walking, that I watched The Real Housewives reunion instead of the presidential address, and that I have, on a few occasions, worn a pair of socks twice without washing.

At least that will get the conversation going.

I See a Red Door and I Want it Painted Black

2008-11-06T21:09:00.002-05:00

Okay, so I have a red front door, and it's possibly the only thing in the house that I'm not painting. Egad!

My contractor guy just finished his work, and I'm psyched. No more Sound of Music window in the master bedroom. And, he did a bunch of other stuff, too. Most of it seems to look good, but I may to get him to fix something he did, which I'm dreading asking about. I may be a lawyer by day, but when it comes to standing up for myself, it doesn't come very easy.

This weekend is all painting, all the time. I'm hoping to get most of it done, so I can relax and spend more time picking out orange curtains and orange chairs and other things orange.

Meanwhile, I'm taking a moment to watch Grey's Anatomy. I was psyched because dreamy Scot, Kevin McKidd joined the cast. But, he looks all scruufy-ish, instead of the clean-cut journalist he portrayed in the ill-fated -- but much loved by me -- series Journeyman. Actually, I started describe him as rogue-ish, but that reminds me now of Sarah Palin, and he looks nothing like her. Speaking of which, I'm a little peeved that after this election, the word Maverick now makes me think of Sarah Palin -- really Tina Fey as Sarah Palin -- instead of Top Gun. That's truly a shame.

Total Eclipse of the Heart

2008-11-02T18:51:00.003-05:00

So very tired. Painting is exhausting, and I'm beginning to wonder why I didn't try to hire someone to do it. Oh yeah, that's right -- because I have no money after buying the house, and I'm plagued with a puritan work ethic that says why hire someone to do something you are perfectly capable of doing.

But the ceilings have been painted. One whole day to paint a white ceiling, well, white. Not at all satisfying like painting a bathroom red, or removing purple paint from the bedroom.

Meanwhile, I've had a change of heart about the sellers. I was frustrated before the closing, but I've decided they are okay. They covered up all their nail holes and painted them, which is big in my book. Plus, the fixtures they installed in the bathrooms and kitchen are very nice, as is the granite countertop they added. So I'm glad we have the same bourgeois taste and sensibilities. And I now like them, on account of the spackling and the fixtures.

This is not my beautiful house...

2008-11-01T20:14:00.003-04:00

I'm officially a homeowner. Closing went well and was done in less than an hour. I tried not to think about all the responsibility as I signed all the papers. Just the fun decorating part.

I love it. I LOVE IT! It had me at hello. Well, actually it didn't. But like Tom Cruise as Jerry Maguire in, well, Jerry Maguire, after sixty days of doubt, questions, daydreams, etc., I'm all in. (I did not, however, shoplift any pooty, or any other thing for that matter.) I'm so excited.

And, I cleared major hurdles today when I had the whole family over. I thought they were going to be freaked out by any number of things. My house, being in the city and everything, does not look like it's worth anywhere near what I paid, particularly when you compare it to my parents' mcmansion in the maryland exurbs. So I thought that would freak them out. That, or the fact that the Checker's up the street has boarded up windows.

But, the weather was on my side, and it was bright and sunny as my family drove up. So, they saw the house like I did that first day, when it was sunny and warm, and you couldn't but help imagine having a cookout on the pretty patio. Everyone liked the house, and they helped me fix a few small things. PLUS -- my sister brought a bottle of ridiculously expensive champagne that she received for her wedding to toast the new house. Yay bubbly!

Up next: This week I'm hiring a contractor to fill-in a weird cut-out wallspace in my bedroom, and picking paint colors. I'm getting psyched about the move.

Would You Be Mine, Could You Be Mine, Won't You Be My Neighbor

2008-10-26T20:18:00.002-04:00

Five days until I'm officially a homeowner. I got a jumpstart on things today by stopping by a house party on my new block. I met a bunch of my neighbors, a number of whom I thought were awesome. (Sidenote: My hostess ran the Marine Corps marathon, and then had 40 friends over for chili and fall treats. Talk about raising the bar.) I'm super psyched about the block. (Although slightly neverous that I may have run my mouth too much about the sellers -- am still angry about being called a PITA. Of course, I'm not sure that anyone really liked them, either. So it may be a wash.)

This is also the first time in my adult housing life where I'll know the neighbors, too. In NYC, I didn't know anyone, except for the slightly crazy woman living next to me in Brooklyn. So, it's fun to have neighbors on the street who maybe will invite you over to play Guitar Hero or something (as was discussed this afternoon). PLUS, one of my good friends lives on the block already, so I'll have a SuperNeighbor, as I like to think of her.

Meanwhile, back at the apartamento, I've been sorting through old paperwork trying to get rid of stuff for the move. I just went through a box of stuff from my office in NYC, that I hadn't looked at since I left some 18 months ago. It's kind of fun to pack your boxes and never look back. But now I'm looking back -- at least to organize the random stuffs in my apartment.

Blue Jean...I just met a girl named Blue Jean

2008-10-25T23:11:00.004-04:00

I was watching What Not to Wear today, thinking about how I'd feel if Clinton and Stacey surprised me for a fashion makeover. On the one hand, you get $5000 worth of new clothing. And I definitely could use some more fashionable clothing. On the other hand, you have to suffer through the embarassment of having cameras follow you around in all your shlumpy outfits. Plus, I suspect you are limited to whatever store they want to send you to, as a result of their product placement. So instead of buying $5000 of awesome clothing, they would send me to somewhere random and I'd end up with all sorts of goofiness.

Meanwhile, I'm on the eternal quest for the perfect pair of jeans. In an attempt to find one good pair, I purchased 8 -- yes, that's eight -- pairs this fall. I had to try on probably 50 pairs to get to that number. I have no intention of keeping all 8, I just wanted to bring them home to compare. So seven pairs are going back, and it turns out I'm not that happy with the pair I decided to keep. The best of the bunch, for sure, but still not awesome.

How hard is it to find the perfect pair of jeans? It's the holy grail for the mid-30's woman -- how to find the pair that's not too dark, not too light. Neither too long, nor too short. Not too mom-like, or too emo. It might be worth it go on WNTW, just to get the ultimate pair of jeans.

This is not my Beautiful House...

2008-10-22T21:04:00.002-04:00

Just over a week until I close on the new house. Part of me is super excited, and part of me is completely freaked out. I suppose it's good that as of this week, I'm more frequently excited than freaked out.

Also, I made the mistake of looking up the sellers on facebook to see if they had any comments about the house. The wife seems cool. But, the husband had a few bad comments about the neighborhood, selling the house, and whatnot. Sounds like he couldn't leave fast enough. It makes me anxious, thinking "What the hell have I gotten myself into?" On the other hand, the guy seems like he may not be cut out for city living at all. Plus, he loves the crap out of McCain. An unreliable narrator, as they would say. So, I'm trying to ignore the random stuff he said -- it's not like it's stuff I didn't know, anyway.

It does raise the question, though -- In the internet age, is there ever such a thing as too much information? I'd usually answer the question, "No." I think being well-informed leads to better decisions. On the other hand, maybe there comes a point when it's just too much information. For a deliberate person like myself, all that info can leave your brain running in circles.

In any case, it will be good to own a house, have cookouts, and get out of this apartment building.

Sit back and relax, enjoy the show

2008-10-21T22:27:00.004-04:00

I went to a concert last night, for the first time in ions. It was good, but nothing exciting. I can't decide whether that's because of the artist -- Jason Mraz -- or that I'm just old. Probably both. His songs are mellow, which led to a downer kind of mood. And, I'm just too old to be at a concert unless I'm jamming out having the time of my life...like all the teenyboppers were last night. I realized that I'm closer in age to the parents outside waiting in cars to pick up the kids, or sitting in the lobby trying not to feel slighted when their kid pretends that he doesn't know his parental escort.

Also, I'm a little spoiled from the many Ben Folds concerts that I've been to. Now I know the world seems to be divided into two camps -- Pro=Ben and anti-Ben. I don't know too many people who are just blase about the man. You love him or hate him. Fortunately, a few of my friends happened to like him and forced me to a show at the 930 club, some 10 years ago. You may not like his music, but his shows are super energetic. Always had the best time dancing and singing. Immediately after the first concert I wanted to go out and buy all his old albums -- a sign of a good show.

If I weren't broke to the wind this week, trying to save for my new house, I might be persuaded to hit a second concert this week -- Ben Kweller at R&R Hotel. (I enjoy Bens.) Also, Ben Kweller is less a concert, and more of a show. I'm not sure what qualifies as a concert these days, and what's a show. But Kweller is a show, which offers much more indie yupster street cred.

Whatevs. Surely there must be some concerts that offer street cred. U2? Have been trying to go for years, but luck never seems to be on my side. Pixies reunion? The Stones? Guns & Roses? I just don't know any more. Maybe none of the above.

Dangermouse...

2008-10-10T23:01:00.002-04:00

Caught another mouse tonight. I guess it's the fact that the apartment building is in the midst of renovations, or maybe the change in weather, or probably both. But I'm so over the mouse.

Why do the mice follow me around? I am the Pied Piper or Piper Peraboo of nothing. When eventually I'm famous - or even better, notorious -- and someone writes a thinly-veiled novel about my life, they'll throw in stories about the mouse, and people will think it's made up, and book groups will form and talk about what the mouse means. Is it a symbol for how small and insignificant we can feel in the face of a huge and senseless universe? Is it a symbol for the dark side in all of us, capable of killing (by glue trap) when adequately provoked (as symbolized by mouse poop on counter)? Is it an esoteric literary reference to the Gunther Grass' novella Katz und Maus, which I was forced to read in college, in its original German? (I use the term "read" very liberally, since I was never as good at the reading of the German as I was at the drinking of the German beers.)

Man I hate the mouse.

The Bitch is Back

2008-10-03T00:04:00.004-04:00

I pulled out my passport again. It's been so long since I've traveled out of the country, I almost forgot to pack my passport for this trip. Of course, it's just Mexico, which is connected, so perhaps I'm forgiven if it seems like I'm traveling within the country.

So I'm off for a few days of R&R on the beach in lovely and beautiful, Cabo San Lucas. (Please pronounce that part like you are announcing the trip on the Showcase Showdown on The Price is Right. Of course, that prompts me to tell the story of when I went to LA to try to get on The Price is Right, some 13 years ago...but perhaps that's a different blog post.)

So, as I was saying, I'm off to Mexico. After my travels last year, this is pretty easy. No shots, no malaria pills, no Cipro prescriptions. Of course, no elephants, no dinners of impala schnitzel, no huge glaciers. Just easy, breezy traveling.

Which is good, since I spent all night hanging on to every word of the VP debate. I've got election fever, coupled with financial crisis OCD. Needless to say, between those two things, and my love of all things frivolous, I'm getting very little done, what with all the good stuff to read on the internet. And that's not even counting all the house buying minutia that occupied the majority of my September.

It's hard to believe that with all these great things to talk about that I've neglected writing on the blog for so long. So I'm back. Prepare for excruciatingly boring details about paint chips and hot water heaters, coupled with the occasional rant about political b.s. Prepare for details about my trip to Mexico and my upcoming trip to San Fran. And prepare for diatribes about how difficult it is for me to dress fashionably in the shoulder season, and how much I hate giving up flip flops. In short, if I may paraphrase (Sir) Elton John, the bitch is back.

They Say We're Crazy But I Just Don't Care

2008-06-29T22:04:00.003-04:00

It's been a low-key weekend here, the first of three three-day weekends in a row.
After three days of so much me-time, I'm bored, kind of lonely, and a little tired of Law & Order.

Which is when I remembered the fun that the internet can bring. No more boredom or loneliness. I've been reading various news websites, im-ing with a friend, contemplating how far Sexiest Man Alive Matt Damon has fallen as of late, and checking out the old You Tube in the hope that there would be new sketches with Micheal Cera reenacting important moments in history.

And then I stumbled upon one of my favorite songs from when I was growing up -- you just can't help but smile and sing along. Okay, maybe I just can't help but sing along and smile. Before the internet and itunes and ipods, I went maybe twenty years without hearing this. Now I could listen every day if I chose. (I don't though, because I don't want to get tired of it.)

Enjoy!

The Truth is I Never Left You

2008-04-28T20:43:00.003-04:00

It's two weeks into my so-called "normal" life, and I've got a mild case of the blues. It could be the rain, it could be that it's Monday. But, really, I think it's all Matt Lauer's fault.

It's that time of year again, when Matt Lauer jettisons around the globe, and thousands of Today viewers are left with the Where in the World Is . . . Matt Lauer song running through their heads all day long. Sure, the song alone is reason enough to be angry with Matt Lauer. But that's not it. I'm jealous.

I'm jealous that Matt Lauer started his whirlwind tour in my beloved Buenos Aires. (I use the term "my" as if I were a porteno myself, instead of an erstwhile visitor.) My heart was crying this morning as I watched Matt Lauer tooling around town. Eating steak and empanadas. Basking in the sun. Narrating footage of El Perito Moreno (the giant glacier I visited) and Ushuaia (the town in Tierra del Fuego where I was marooned). A year ago that was me. In fact, a year ago that was me, strangely obsessed whether Matt Lauer was going to show up for WWML 2007. (We heard a rumor.)

And so I moped about the rest of my day, so very sad that my vagabond days in Buenos Aires are over, and Matt Lauer's are just beginning. The thing is, if I were Matt Lauer, I would quit my Today show gig and buy a place in Palermo (Soho, not Hollywood) and spend my winters in the southern hemisphere. Of course, if I were Matt Lauer, there are a lot of things I'd do differently. (Although not the Tom Cruise interview where ML was glib. I wouldn't change a thing -- I'm proud of him for that one.)

But alas, I digress. Fortunately, tomorrow Matt Lauer moves on to some other place in the world, that most certainly won't fill my heart with wanderlust and wistful memories. (He's already done South Africa and Buenos Aires, so I'm safe.)

Kiss Today Goodbye...and Point Me Towards Tomorrow

2008-04-13T23:29:00.003-04:00

So, I knew it was too good to last. It had to come to an end. By this time tomorrow, the hiatus will officially be over. After a year of fun, travel, sloth, and spiritual recuperation, tomorrow if my first day at my new job, and back in the rat race.

As years go, this one would be pretty hard to top. Eleven countries visited. (Fourteen if you count layovers in airports.) Dozens of bottles of Argentine wine. Many, many great memories with friends and family, both new and old. And, literally hundreds and hundreds of photographs -- although most are too reminiscent of Cliff Claven's Florida vacation slide shows to be shared.

When I look back at where I was this time last year, I cannot help but feel joyous at where I am now. My five plus years in New York City definitely offered some good times, but also way too many gloomy times for my liking. New York is such a tough city to live in -- you have to really love it to stay. By the end of my time in NYC, my soul felt beaten down. I was bored with work and the social side of life, but even more bored with myself. I felt incapable of carrying on a normal conversation with life long friends, let alone anyone new you might meet.

Leaving New York, my job was like dropping the sandbags from a bright rainbow-colored hot air balloon. (Bad metaphor -- I hate heights and rainbow-colored hot air balloons, and I don't want to be a hot air balloon. Plus, it then just leads me to think about that movie The Red Balloon, and that poor little French kid who ran around in a gray outfit on a gray cityscape chasing the wiley red balloon. Oooh. I like that.) Ahem. Leaving New York, my job was like when the child in The Red Balloon finally catches the balloon and is joyous, after an eternity of chasing that pesky balloon through the mean streets of Paris while wearing gray and saying nothing.

Whatever the metaphor, like the balloons, these days I feel light and carefree. Well, most of the time. Tonight I'm kind of nervous about starting my job and being the new girl. I hate being the new girl. You'd think after moving seven times before my eighth birthday I'd have learned how to be the new girl. It doesn't mean I have to like it.

But back to light and carefree. The traveling was great. Really exceptional. But I also enjoyed the down time. I liked reconnecting with friends again. I liked trying to be a better friend, actually. I've really enjoyed the feeling on a Sunday night, when instead of dreading going to work, you only worry about whether you missed this week's episode of Rock of Love 2 with Brett Micheals. Similarly, I also enjoy the decadent feeling of waking up and seeing that an all day marathon of ANTM is playing, and you have nothing to do that day but catch up on America's Most Tired Model Wannabes and their latest Tyra Mail.

Also, I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE hanging out with my nephew. The first six months of his life, I was living in NYC, and saw him only a few times. But, I've been around the last year, and have earned status as his most favorite person -- except when Grammy is around to buy his love with toys. He is so happy and innocent and smart. At the risk of sounding more than incredibly hokey, I am surprised at how much joy it brings my heart just to be around him. (Not surprised at the joy it brings me to hand over responsibility to my sister, his mom, when he starts throwing a tantrum because you don't have a copy of The Backyardigans cued up for him to dance to.)

Anyway, in sum, and with no great measure of mature reflection, it was a bitchin' year. I can't believe it's over. I can't believe I didn't write a best-selling novel about my year, like the Coyote-Ugly author turned spiritual Eat, Pray, Love-self-actualization-book-whore. (The story about the porcupines in Botswana was pure money, or it would have been if I had included the part about me swilling moonshine and vomiting before said porcupine incident.)

Thanks for reading, friends. And with that, I'm off to watch the season finale of Rock of Love 2, a fitting denouement for the last night of my sabbatical.

Semi-Charmed Kind of Life

2008-03-19T19:56:00.004-04:00

In addition to avoiding diabetes and moisturizing more, entertaining is one of the things that has been occupying my time while waiting for my new job to start. Now that I have left NYC and live in an apartment that can fit more than three people at a time, plans for dinner parties, Oscar parties, and a return of the much loved Small Party (Le Petit Soiree) have been bouncing through my head for months.

So, I've been meaning for a while to write a post about hosting dinner parties, and in fact made a half-hearted effort last month in my entry about the pressure to be a crack pastry chef. The folks over at StuffWhitePeopleLike have saved me the effort, and summed up perfectly the thirtysomething's formula of hosting a dinner party and the anxieties that accompany it.

Thus, you are saved from my own personal diatribes about hosting dinner parties -- and one very gross story about how I fell victim to the bubonic stomach flu right smack in the middle of the dinner party I hosted last month. Not pretty.

I Don't Want to Wait, For Our Lives to be Over...

2008-03-17T21:15:00.005-04:00

I'm back from North Cack-a-lack-ee, and it was fantastic. We traveled to Bald Head Island, right near the NC-SC border, and just south of Wilmington, NC, the locale where the beloved teen-opic Dawson's Creek was filmed. True to the idyllic waterside (nee Capeside) scenery of The Creek, it was a fantastic trip.

Eleven of us converged upon a large beach house on Bald Head to celebrate my friend Kate's birthday. (Bald Head is fun to say, no; although not nearly as fun as Gay Head, on Martha's Vineyard.) It was like a grown-up version of spring break, or a slightly more juvenile version of The Big Chill. We drank wine, played games, ate delicious seafood and corn on the cob, and chased each other through the house with water guns. I lost countless games of cards, and read a book in a rocking chair perched just above the dunes, alongside the ocean. Dreamy.

On the downside, I have a dreadful stripe of sunburn on my lower back from laying on a bench reading a book. No, it wasn't warm enough to wear a bathing suit. I was just a fool in low-rider jeans with an inadvertent couple of inches of skin showing between my jeans and my slightly shifted t-shirt. It never fails -- take me near a beach and I'll manage not only to get a sunburn, but a striped sunburn clearly illustrating the 2-inch by 8-inch patch where I forget to apply sun block. (Usually it's a stripe on my armpits or near the edge of my bathing suit.)

One of the most fun parts about Bald Head is that cars aren't allowed. So everyone putt putts around in little golf carts. I was content to let everyone else chauffeur me around until Saturday night, when we were returning from dinner at the Raw Bar on the island. We went to the ferry to pick up a friend, and headed back to the house. But, while we had been gone at dinner, a huge storm passed, and there were fallen branches, frogs, puddles, etc. making the roads nearly impassible for regular cars, let alone the little golf cart I was driving. PLUS, it was pitch black. There aren't any street lamps on the roads, and the headlights on the cart were weak. We would have been better off with two little pen lights taped to the front of the cart. PLUS, some of the people in the cart -- not me, the driver -- were stinking drunk and noisy, and I don't know how to park when it's noisy, let alone drive.

We made it back, though. While I may be a sucky card player, I'm an awesome navigator and driver, with a sense of adventure and direction that needs neither map nor clear road. (Okay, my friend Debbi, even when drunk, is an awesome navigator and numerous times kept me from my going in the wrong direction, even though I was absolutely positive that I was right and she was wrong.) But the important thing is, we made it back.

On the Road Again

2008-03-12T00:15:00.002-04:00

In a few hours, I'm heading on the road again for mini-break down South. My friend Kate has invited a group of people to spend a few days hanging out in her boyfriend's family house on an island off the coast of North Carolina. I have absolutely no idea what the island is called, just that cars aren't allowed on the island. It should be dandy -- I'm looking forward to a few days filled with sweet tea and sunshine.

Nerves and Stomach Pains

2008-03-05T12:45:00.007-05:00

So if last week I was worried about making delicious chocolate mousse pies, that's the furthest thing from my mind this week. It could be that the pie actually turned out tasty. Or, it could be that I made an awesome dinner on Saturday for some friends, thus proving I am an awesome cook. But probably it's because I was sick with the stomach flu for two days, and when I think about food even now, I still want to vomit. Blecch.

Apart from an aversion to eating again and some lingering dehydration, I'm pretty much fully recovered. Which is good, because tonight's my first night on-call for the volunteer program I previously mentioned. I got my pager and staff phone out this morning and was fiddling a little bit. Shortly, I'm going to grab my training materials and go through what I need to do tonight.

Suffice it to say, I'm a little nervous. I'm not entirely sure why I'm so nervous, since I have worked with DV clients before, and even represented them in court. In theory, you would think that is more nervewracking. But, it seems different. When I've volunteered before, I've helped with mainly the legal system, which I know fairly well. Also, by the time you met someone as a legal advocate, the urgency of the situation has tapered off somewhat , and my role at least seemed a little more one-dimensional and detached. With the new on-call program, though, I feel much more aware of the immediacy of what's going on, and much more responsible for being a more comprehensive advocate and empathetic listener (or is it sympathetic listener?). So, I'm nervous.

In any case, my first shift starts this evening. We'll see how it goes.

Someone Left the Cake Out in the Rain

2008-02-27T23:28:00.006-05:00

One of my goals for The Hiatus -- as I'm now taking to calling my soon-to-end sabbatical from working -- was to learn how to cook. Or at least learn how to appear like I can cook.

There's a certain amount of pressure a Type-A young woman feels these days to be a ridiculously shrewd career person, but in her spare time also manage to be athletic, funny, pretty, well-groomed, environmentally conscious and above all, able to whip up a fantastic gourmet meal using just the ingredients in her almost bare kitchen cabinet. Er, or maybe that's just me. No -- wait a second. Part of that might be my Type-A neuroses, but the stuff about the cooking is definitely not just me, as evidenced by the very astute writers of this here blog.

So, the past few months I've been trying to learn how to cook new things. And, although this is great in furthering my goal to learn how to appear like I can cook, even more importantly, it takes up a lot of time. A lot of time. Because I approach cooking like any other unemployed Type-A neurotic. There's perusing recipes, reading recipe reviews, shopping for ingredients, going to a different store for supposedly superior ingredients, second guessing the wisdom of selecting that particular recipe in the first place, etc. That takes up a lot of time, which is good, because I have a lot of time on my hands to fill.

Half the time I undertake to cook something, I buy all the ingredients, and then they stay in the refrigerator for days because I get sidetracked. Okay, truthfully, by the time I run around and buy all the ingredients, I've gone to multiple stores and am too tired to make anything. So, a lot of the cooking efforts never make it past the grocery-purchasing-stage.

The other half the time I decide to cook something, I fall victim to the deadly coupling of arrogance and laziness, with a healthy splash of stupidity for good measure.

First, the Arrogance -- even though I can't cook, I'm convinced that I can somehow modify the recipe slightly so that it will be even better than anyone ever imagined. This frequently involves me scrounging through my spice cupboard for that little special extra ingredient which I have no doubt will bring the recipe to the next level and make Thomas Keller come running to my apartment, like the pathetic chef that he is, begging me to please just let him in on The Secret, just this one time, of how I make my mashed potatoes so deliciously mashed potato-y. At the moment, the special ingredient of choice is The Shallot, a teeny-tiny baby onion that I somehow went 32 years without using, and which I now throw into everything to make up for lost time.

Next, the Laziness. For example, if a recipe requires something as complicated as using separate bowls for ingredients, sifting, cooling, candy thermometers, or buying a special spice of which you use only 1/4 tsp, then I just skip that step, because they can't possibly expect that anyone will actually go to that kind of effort. The exception to this rule is if a recipe calls for using a food processor, in which case I'll run to get my heavy processor and use it to chop anything and everything in sight. Food processors are fun.

Finally, there's the Stupidity. Inevitably, whenever I veer off recipe with extra spices and/or skipped steps, whatever I'm making turns out icchy. Yet, it must be sheer stupidity that keeps pushing me to continue to alter recipes at will, and expect them to turn out well. Of course, I always blame the recipe. (Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on Martha Stewart.)

You can imagine my frustration, then, when tonight I attempted to make a chocolate mousse pie, following the recipe almost to the letter. (Well, not 100%, but close.) And it turned out like liquefied mud, only less tasty. I don't understand how mixing chocolate, whipped cream and sugar can turn out to be anything other than a big puffy chocolate cloud of happiness, but somehow it did not deliver.

Obviously, I blame the recipe. But what frustration. I wasted all that time, money, clean dishes, and skill on a pie that sucked. And I had such big dreams for this pie. I wanted this pie to be worthy of a clever Waitress-inspired name. Something like "My Ex-Husband Earl is an Overbearing Hog, but We'll Always Have Paris . . . and this Pie" Chocolate Mousse Pie. Never mind that I don't have an ex-husband (yet) and don't know anyone named Earl (other than the tv show) -- it's a great name for a pie, no? Instead, I'm sheepishly showing up to a dinner party tomorrow night with a pie that should be called "Hey Guys, I'm Trying to Learn How to Cook, Sorry About How the Pie Looks...and Tastes, but Here, Have Some More Wine" Chocolate Mousse Pie. It's just not as catchy.

Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here

2008-02-25T11:32:00.003-05:00

Being unemployed and everything -- although not for much longer -- I have lots of time to think, as I've mentioned before. So lately, I've been pondering a lot about what it means to live in the present.

Oprah and the like are always touting how important it is to live in the present, in the moment. (Don't you miss the days of talk shows with the whiny Phil Donahue, where you were guaranteed to see some good old fashioned housewife drama, not have THE SECRET, whatever that is, pushed down your throat.)

Anyway, I've been thinking about just being. It's a tall order for me. I spend most of my days dwelling on past happenings, or looking forward to future events. Like today, I've been thinking about the past (Driver's Ed in high school, the Pierogie Cook-Off I went to on Saturday, the Jimmy Kimmel tribute to F*ing Ben Affleck, etc.) and the future (starting a new job, making a roast chicken next weekend for the first time, hanging out on my balcony in the spring, finding a pair of plaid clam digger shorts).

More often than not, I'm anticipating the next event to happen in my life. Even when I was traveling last year, on the trip of a lifetime one might say, I was often thinking about where I was going next, instead of just enjoying where I was. I was in the middle of Namibia, climbing 200-foot sand dunes that look straight out of The English Patient, and I was contemplating what I was going to wear to my friend Phil's wedding in New York the following month. Really? I mean, I dig the dress that I bought, but I think I could have waited until I was back in the US to contemplate such things. But even in everyday life, I feel like if you are constantly looking to the future or the past, you are destined to miss out on so much in life.

There was a brief moment this past weekend, though, where I was completely in the present. I can't say it was pleasant, but for about ten minutes, I was just being. Just being enraged, that is, while driving around the Costco parking lot looking for a parking spot.

The Costco in Arlington, VA is the only one around here. So everyone goes there. And for some goofy reason, I decided that it was worth driving down there to save a few bucks. I ventured down to the already crowded Pentagon City area, and pulled up to the gated Costco parking lot. I'm pretty sure the Pentagon City Costco parking lot was supposed to be Dante's Tenth circle of Hell, until his editors made him cut it out because the audience would not even believe that kind of horror exists.

It's pure insanity -- with people walking everywhere, cars lined up five deep to wait for one possible parking spot. No one watches where they are going, with their carts full of oversized packages of toilet paper and peanut butter. (Me -- I just wanted a big thing of cheese, and some cheap alcohol. Maybe some multi-colored baby peppers. Is that too much to ask?)

I was so in the moment as I drove around for fifteen minutes, barely avoiding hitting other cars or pedestrians traversing through the parking lot. Did I mention no one watches where they are walking? It's worse than that, though. Instead of politely moving to the side of the parking aisles, everyone pushes their cart right up the middle of the aisle, as if the super-wide aisles were made just for their cart full of oversized bags of Tyson's Chicken Chunks. And the whole time, I wasn't thinking about the future, or the past. Just about how I was going to park somewhere without killing someone first.

By the time I got in the Costco, I was too flummoxed to even shop around. I grabbed the cheese and a bottle of wine, and ran for the check out. But, I did have a brilliant idea. Prison overcrowding? A problem no more. For the worst offenders, they can just be sentenced to drive in circles in the Costco parking lot for twelve hours a day, without being able to park. I started thinking about what sort of things I'd need to do to get my plan approved to solve this prison overcrowding thing, and how the people across the land would love me for being so brilliant, and how I'd parlay that into a guest visit on Oprah, and then maybe buy some fancy red-sole Christian Loboutin shoes to wear on the show like Oprah does.

And just like that, I was fixated on the future, and no longer living in the moment.

I'm Super, Thank You for Asking

2008-02-11T20:45:00.001-05:00

I' ve been feeling kind of contemplative lately, dozens of questions running through my head. Like:

Is it weird to make your bed at 10 pm? I was reading some magazine article last week, and the author was talking about her sister's weird friend who would make her bed at night, if she forgot in the morning. Well, last night I found myself changing my sheets and making my bed at 10 oclock at night. And I wondered - Am I a Weirdo? Maybe, but not for the sheets thing. I mean, what could be better than cool, clean sheets on a Sunday night.

Who am I going to vote for in tomorrow's primary? I have no idea. I'm a registered Dem, and the two choices seem so similar. And either would be kind of exciting. I guess I should be glad that I even get to vote at all, considering DC's lack of representation otherwise. (Interestingly, both candidates were on the local station tonight touting how DC should have representation. That's a political promise I'd love to see come into being.)

What makes a superdelegate "super"? Again, no idea. But, in my head, I wish they would all have to respond to the question "How are you doing?" with the South Park Movie song "I'm Super, Thank You for Asking." Otherwise, what's the point.

Is VH1's Rock of Love only good in light of the writer's strike? I think the answer to that is no -- the show is genuinely good, in a lowbrow, trashy kind of way. For the uninitiated, Rock of Love is a reality dating show like the Bachelor, except the eligible bachelor is one Brett Michaels of Poison fame and acclaim. I'm not ashamed to admit I saw Poison live and in concert -- chronologically, this was after the Duran Duran concert, but before Crowded House and Depeche Mode. I'm also not ashamed to declare my love for Brett Michael's latest project. The contestants on the show are sleazy with a capital Ho, and not afraid to let America see that side of them -- or any other scantily dressed side of them, either. Huzzah for VH1 and Brett Michaels both for bringing this show to the masses. And huzzah to the lovely ladies who make the show everything that it is.

Have I been moisturizing enough in the New Year? Probably not. A few weeks ago, I switched focus, and was working on my new year's resolution not to get diabetes, instead of moisturizing more. (You'd think it would be easy to work on both at once, particularly since I have yet to start a new job, but you'd be dead wrong.) Anyway, yesterday I gave my skin the old glance over, and I realize I've been so neglectful on the moisturizing front. This happens every year. I start out strong with lots of product, but it only lasts a few weeks. I mean, sure, my blood sugar is probably lower and everything, but do I have soft and lovely skin? Not a whit.

Is it time to take another trip somewhere? I've been thinking about doing a little traveling again. Maybe somewhere in the US. The current thought is to check out Asheville, NC and maybe Pigeon Forge, TN. I lived in Asheville for about a year when I was in elementary school, and I had absolutely no idea what a cool, artsy little town it was. My most vivid memory of Asheville is of my seventh birthday party, where we invited the whole class to the party (because someone said that was the etiquette) and then only four kids came. We were eating little individual ice cream cups for months. So sad. Anyway, I'd love to go back and check out the town and the Biltmore Estate as an adult. As for Pigeon Forge, it goes without saying that the small Tennessee town is home to Dolly Parton's eponymous Dollywood theme park, a place I've longed to see for many years. The time has come, I think.

So that's what I'm thinking right now. Dollywood and Presidential primaries. Perhaps that should be how I decide. Anecdotally, or at least on Sunday morning political talk shows, you hear stories about how people allegedly elect the person President that they would most like to have a beer with. (It makes sense for the Clinton era, in that it seems beyond debate that Bill Clinton would probably be a more fun beer swilling companion than Mr. George H.W. Bush. I'm not sure how applicable it is to later elections, though.)

In any case, maybe I should ask myself: which candidate would be more fun to tour Dollywood with? Is Hilary more likely to whoop and holler on Daredevil Falls or would she cry like a baby at the highest, fastest waterfall ride in North America? Would Obama pout about getting his suit wet on the Smokey Mountain River Rampage, or would he shake it off and suggest we go get a deep fried twinkie dog and a funnel cake whilst we dry out? Good questions. I only wish I had called in to the local station tonight to ask.

Finally Some Pictures (well, sort of)

2008-02-05T11:03:00.000-05:00

A number of peeps have been asking me to post some pictures of my travels. But, until last night, I hadn't even downloaded the Africa pics from my camera. I was afraid the sheer volume would crash my aging computer.

After much ado, I found the cord I needed and hooked up my camera and downloaded all my pictures from Africa. All 568 pictures. So, clearly I need to do some editing, and figure out how to post a link to an album of travel pics. But in the meantime, here's one:

These zebras walked up while we were stopped at a watering hole having coffee.

And another:

Musafa

Socrates, Postscript

2008-01-30T22:19:00.000-05:00

So, as luck would have it, I arrived to class tonight and there was no sign of Sarah. Turns out she had to drop out of training for some reason. I was initially gleeful, and then I put together the fact that I think she dropped out because of a death in the family. I don't wish that on anyone, no matter how annoying they are. So for that reason, I wish she were still in class.

Besides, tonight's stuff was so emotionally draining that I don't think I could have mustered up any outrage at your garden-variety pompous intellectual. We spent three hours talking in detail about violence against women, stalking, and sexual assault. There was no smirking, and a few times it took all of my energy and focus not to bust out in tears in front of a room full of strangers. It also occurred to me that these sessions are probably a large contributor to why I've been having trouble sleeping the past few nights. I don't know how people work in these areas as a full time job -- my hat is off to them.

What Socrates Was Trying To Say...

2008-01-29T22:32:00.000-05:00

It's been a hyper-hypo kind of week for me, and I've been spending a lot of time thinking. Thinking about a job I want, thinking about my plan not to get diabetes (and how many points are in leftover bag of Reese's Pieces), thinking about how I really should get around to cleaning my kitchen, etc. Lots of thinking.

But not so much talking. This is the downside of spending time at home. You spend lots of time in your head, and much less time talking to other people. This is why I'm so happy these days when I make plans to meet up with friends for a beer -- or even meet a nice little old lady at the deli counter of the local Giant. I'm psyched to talk to people.

So you can imagine how happy I am now that I started volunteering for a local organization. I signed up last month to work with a domestic violence organization down at the DC Courthouse, and training just started last night. The amount of training is pretty impressive -- we're meeting for about 40 hours over the next two weeks to talk in depth about domestic violence and what we'll be doing as volunteers.

I've done some of this work before and found it really rewarding, so it's nice to be able to help out once again. And on a selfish level, it's been great just to have the opportunity to talk to people. And not just about which brand of turkey lunchmeat is best...but real issues that matter to people. (That's not to say turkey isn't important, just not as important as other things.)

The people running the training are fantastic. After five years of working with many, many neurotic type-A overachievers -- myself included -- it's a nice change of pace to be hanging out with the touchy-feely non-profit crowd. So far, two women have been running things, and it's a wonderful, nurturing environment. (Unlike at prior jobs, I suspect I would get bonus points for crying.) I mean, the first day we made up our own rules about how the training would run. It's such a collective and inclusive experience. I love it.

That is, until Sarah showed up. (Names have been changed to protect the so-called innocents.) Anyway, this Sarah lady missed yesterday's session, and showed up today all apologetic. And claimed the chair right next to me. I knew she was bad news almost right away from the way she reacted when I offered her my pen to fill out some sign-in sheet. There was just way too much talking for what should have been an ordinary, run of the mill, social transaction.

It turns out that after the pen incident, Sarah didn't shut up for the rest of the training session. In fact, we didn't end up finishing everything we were supposed to cover today, and I blame Sarah. Turns out she's a grad student, with some sort of social work background, although I think she may be in grad school for International Studies. So who knows. Anyway, she talked pretty much every chance she could.

Sarah prefaced her first 3-minute, multi-part question with the phrase "I know this really doesn't have anything to do with what we're supposed to be doing as volunteers, but..." My reaction was: WTF? I mean, if you know it has nothing to do with anything we're doing, then why are you asking...other than to hear yourself talk and/or show off how supposedly smart you are. (I thought that just happened in law school.)

About thirty minutes into the training, I was pretty close to my limit. For a brief moment, I decided it was my fault that she was talking so much -- after all, when we made our rules the day before, I came up with "No Question is Too Stupid." Stupid, stupid, stupid rule. How could I let myself get so touchy-feely and suggest that no question is stupid. Clearly -- CLEARLY -- that's wrong. But wait -- she missed hearing the rules because she wasn't there, so it's not my fault that she's asking stupid questions.

After about an hour, things got worse. I was having a difficult time hiding my disgust with all the inane questions and grandstanding. At first, I was just rolling my eyes and giving some pointed looks to one of the instructors to see if she agreed with me about the inanity of it all. (I'm convinced she did agree.) But after not too long, I found myself talking a lot just to try and keep her from talking.

And then, the coupe de grace. The words "Well, I think if you look to Freud -- " were barely out of Sarah's mouth before I fell apart. I nearly laughed out loud at how ridiculous she was, but I decided laughing would be in poor taste, particularly since it was a discussion about domestic violence and really horrible stuff. (Not that I was really paying attention any more, so strong was my dislike of this grad student.) Anyway, I suppressed my laugh the best I could, but I was still left with a smirk. A smirk. At a domestic violence training class. Full of touchy-feely people. And possibly some domestic violence victims.

So I ask you this: What's worse? The blowhard grad student who can't stop talking about Freud. Or, the lawyer who is smirking through a discussion about domestic violence -- and who also can't stop talking.

Not good, my friends. Not good at all.

Badly Done, Comcast. Badly Done.

2008-01-24T12:13:00.001-05:00

There are about 100 other things I should be doing right now, like finding employment or cleaning my apartment or moisturizing. But instead, I'm obsessed with my TIVO, which has recently fallen ill. It won't download any programming, and I'm distraught at the idea of having to part ways with my TIVO, now five years old.

I'm convinced the very evil Comcast is somehow behind this newest problem. They want everyone to switch over to their brand of DVR (at $14.00 a month). So, they have made it extremely difficult to get the TIVO working with their cable boxes. I knew about these problems before I moved to the district, and almost considered living in VA or elsewhere just so I could carry-on with my TIVO.

Fortunately, I think I have figured out a way to fix my TIVO, and am heading out shortly to Radio Shack to buy the doohickeys I need. In the meantime, I'm trying to figure out how to initiate an antitrust investigation -- based on hunches and conjecture -- into the oppressive ways of the Comcast overlords.

Deliver Me From Evil

2008-01-17T20:16:00.000-05:00

There a lot of things I love about DC, and I'm glad to be back. But, there's one thing I seriously miss from NYC -- delivery.

In New York -- even in the outer boroughs -- you can get anything delivered. Not just pizza. Any place. Dinner? Sure -- pretty much every restaurant. Cigarettes? If that's your thing, the bodegas will deliver them, along with a container of milk, two ferrer rochers, and a gatorade. Groceries for a party of 10? Absolutely, and Fresh Direct will even give you $25 to spend on artisan cheese with your first order.

Delivery is fantastic on a cold sleety night like tonight. Or, if you are sick with stomach flu and can't muster up the energy to leave your apartment, you simply call up the bodega and they will bring you advil, ginger ale, a box of tissues, and a sammich. It's awesome.

The DC delivery situation is far worse than when I last lived here, though. When I left DC, you could order movies, CDs, ice cream and magazine from your friendly Kozmo.com. The guys showed up within an hour, carrying your items in a bright orange messenger bag. I can't say that I recall much about ordering any food, because I think I had no money and rarely bothered to think about delivery beyond ordering ben & jerry's and coke while studying for the bar. These days, Kozmo is a remnant of the wacky dot.com era, with no replacement. As for food, it seems like pizza is the only thing you can have delivered, although I am working on finding a good thai place. This is surprising to me, since I live in Adams Morgan, where good (or at least interesting) restaurants are plentiful.

I suppose DC just isn't a delivery town the way NYC is. Which, shouldn't be surprising since DC has a slower vibe. Who needs delivery when you have a chill lifestyle that allows you time to cook and grocery shop? And overall, I appreciate the change of pace. But some nights, when you are physically exhausted and the weather sux, it would be great to be able to order some delivery dinner and a People magazine.

And Right Here is Where You Start Paying...In Sweat

2008-01-14T22:40:00.000-05:00

The last time I lived in DC -- make that, the last time I lived in the same apartment building in DC -- I used to frequent the brand-spanking new Washington Sports Club down the street in the Northern end of Dupont Circle. It was a good club, with lots of fun classes. My favorite at the time was a Step class taught by one Andre. Andre was Cuban-American, seemingly gay, and wholly awesome. The class had catchy new wave music, and Andre used to sing along, in between instructions on what to do next and shouts of encouragement. I can still remember it all like it was yesterday.

For the uninitiated, a step class -- formally, step aerobics class -- involves stepping up and down on a box in time to the music. Stepping up and down doesn't sound hard, and well, it isn't. The tricky part is when overambitious instructors start to add spins and hops and stuff like that. So it's almost like dancing, but not that technically difficult.

Stepping has fallen out of favor in recent years. It was popular in the early 90's, an exercise era best defined as "Post-Fonda, Pre-everyone-and-their-brother-decides-to-run-a-marathon." In fact, by the time I was attending Andre's class, it was probably already passe. But I liked it, and it worked, and eventually I moved on to spinning and even signed up for a half marathon (which I neither trained for nor attended). And I haven't looked back.

So it was with a wisp of nostalgia that I found myself this evening, heading off to a step class at that very same Washington Sports Club, secretly hoping that against all odds, Andre was still teaching there some 10 years later. The class was one of two step classes on the schedule, and it's now actually called "Ultimate Step." I figured that the "Ultimate" was just a marketing gimmick designed for the Gen-Y exerciser, sort of like "Extreme Doritos," the chip for the Gen-Y couch potato.

I anxiously waited outside the studio for class to start and made small talk with a few fellow exercisers. I asked two young, and very athletic girls whether the class was hard, my one nod to the "ultimate" nature of the description. I expected them to tell me it was fine, and I would be fine. But no. Both of them hesitated a moment and said "Well, yeah. It's really hard."

I went in anyway, figuring how hard could it be? Right next to me was a 70-year-old woman, and in front of her was a guy I would bet used to be a marine. I mean, a marine may be able to run a marathon, but he wouldn't be here if the choreography was complicated.

I could not have been more wrong. The class turned out to be chock full of dance moves, and worthy of its "ultimate" title. I couldn't keep up.

The fact that the 70-year-old woman was wearing a thong leotard (with leggings underneath) should have been the tip-off that something was erroneous with my logic. This woman could dance. Five minutes into the class, it was clear I was in trouble, but she was like a candidate for the next season of Dancing With the [Septuagenarian] Stars. She was good.

Meanwhile, I was sure that with all the fancy dance moves, the ex-Marine would be floundering with me. But I looked over, and he was doing fine. More than fine. Wait a minute -- did he just execute a perfect kick-ball-change when the instructor called one out of the blue? For realz. I kid you not. At that moment, I was sure of two things: (1) They must be teaching something new in boot camp these days; and (2) I was toast.

The class only got worse after that. I resorted to marching in place, while pretending to study the moves of everyone around me. Fortunately, I wasn't huffing and puffing for breath, so that wasn't embarrassing. Just the fact that I was bright red and marching in place, while everyone else was twirling and stepping and everything else.

But then, about ten minutes before the end of class, something fell into place. I was starting to get it. Well, not all of it. But a good 20 percent, and at least my marching in place was in time to the beat. I no longer felt like a chubby and awkward 30-something novice exerciser. At that moment, I was long and lean and powerful. I felt that the Ghosts of Fitness Past -- including Andre, Jane Fonda, and Debbie Allen during her speech at the beginning of Fame -- were looking after me as I arabesqued effortlessly onto the step.

At that moment, I felt capable of doing anything. I could run a triathlon. I could climb Mount Everest. I could lift a car with my bare hands. I could even figure out all the things wrong in those pictures where six things are different than the other picture. It was perfection.

. . . And then the moment passed. Somehow I forgot the few things I thought I had just mastered, and found myself so tired that I couldn't even march in place anymore. So I just stood there kind of bopping my head to the music for the rest of class. Oh, and I started coughing uncontrollably because some water I drank went down the wrong tube, thus causing the few people who weren't already giggling about my performance to turn and look at me.

But that one moment. . . that one ultimate moment. It's enough to make me go back next week.

Lazy Sunday

2008-01-13T14:29:00.000-05:00

I'm enjoying a dreary and depressing Sunday afternoon. Yes -- enjoying, because I'm outfitted in sweat pants and warm socks, and I have no reason to leave the comfort of my apartment today. I wish it would snow, which would not only complete the effect, but also motivate me to make some deliciously overpriced Williams-Sonoma Hot Chocolate. (It's so rich and expensive, that I feel like it should be reserved for snowy days only.)

In the meantime, I'm watching old episodes of Made on my Tivo. Made is an MTV show where teens get a life coach to help them transform into something, like Prom Queen or Soap Actor or the like. I wish Made had been around when I was a teenager, although I suspect I would have tried to become a Lounge Singer instead of the more typical Homecoming Princess. (My formative years were heavily influenced by Buster Pointdexter and The Sweeney Sisters.) In any case, I'm 33-years-old, and fascinated by plights of outcast teenagers. Some of them make my heart sad for them. Others -- such as the one I'm currently viewing with the pseudo-British kid from Cambridge trying to rap -- are like a train wreck that I watch through half-closed eyes, vacillating between embarrassment and amusement.

All the rapping has me sitting around my living room trying to dream up some rhymes to describe my day. Rhyming doesn't come easily to me, though (iambic pentameter was never my strong suit) and I've just been mumbling "swing, batter, batter, batter, swing." Oh, and trying to come up with an MC name for myself. (MC Partay Plannah is the latest -- it needs some work, though.)

Since I'm still caught up on the name, I think I'll let the folks at SNL (the Sweeney Sister successors) stand in for me with their Lazy Sunday rap.

True Dat -- Double True.

Happy New Year!

2008-01-02T14:24:00.001-05:00

I'm in shock and disbelief that 2008 is already upon us. For me, 2007 was a spectacular year -- one of the best in my life -- so it's hard to bid it adieu. It was also the first year I fulfilled my New Year's resolution. Usually I just resolve to work out 6 times a week, moisturize more, etc., none of which ever lasts past MLK weekend. But, in 2007 I resolved to go to Africa (and, of course, to moisturize more -- Africa is very dry) and I went to Africa. Resolution resolved.

But I digress. After a lovely New Year's Eve dinner party at the Madoogans, combined with way too much champagne punch, I spent yesterday snuggled up on my couch, drifting in and out of consciousness. In between my moments of slumber, I watched the Law & Order marathon in bliss.

The marathon threw a bit of a wrinkle in my Law & Order Theorum, which is this: Whenever a famous person shows up on Law & Order, they usually are the murderer. (Note: This theory only applies to the regular L&O because, as my mom points out, famous people don't line up to play sex offenders on SVU.) The classic example is Laura Linney's 1994 appearance on L&O as a nightclub singer turned murderess. See, she wasn't as famous as she is now, but she was too talented just to be an extra. Thus, she must have been the murderer.

Time and time again, this proved to be the case, with minor exceptions to prove the rule. (For example, a pre-Alias/pre-Felicity Jennifer Garner showed up in the 1996 episode Aftershock to seduce fiercely married detective Ray Curtis. But there was no murder in that episode (apart from the execution of the criminal, or the vehicle death of ADA Claire Kincaid), just cheating.

Anyway, as I was watching the marathon I found numerous holes in my theory. First up was a 1993 episode with Lauren Ambrose (from Six Feet Under) where she played the daughter of the victim. But she wasn't the murderer. Just a daughter. So, maybe the theory doesn't apply to child actors. After all, you need good talent to play children, and it would be kind of depressing to have a child killer just because it's a good actor playing the role.

But then, I saw an episode later in the day that featured both Janeane Garofalo (post-Reality Bites) and Lauren Graham (in all her perky, pre-Gilmore Girls glory, trying to seduce Det. Curtis who had just recently been seduced by Jennifer Garner). Neither one of them was the murderer in that three-part episode! So, maybe the theory doesn't apply to three-part episodes. After all, you need good talent to sustain a three-episode story arc.

So that's where I am now -- my Law & Order theory has been seriously compromised and my skin is already under-moisturized. This is not necessarily a good place to start the New Year.

Oh Tannenbaum, part the second

2007-12-20T00:47:00.000-05:00

Thanks all for the many, many British names. Some of those have been names in years past. Nigel is the first one that comes to mind every year, followed by Jeeves.

I ended up decorating the tree, but it kind of looks like I wadded up the lights and ornaments and tossed them on the tree, hoping some would stick...or hoping it would detract from the fact that more and more needles continue to fall out. At least it doesn't smell like socks and vomit, like the Madoogan tree.

But that would be a good sort-if british name: Saxonvaughmitte. Of course, to be a truly British name, you have to add a bunch of consonants that don't get pronounced, and a nice little "shire" at the end, like Gloucstershire or something.

In other news, I'm mourning the loss of a tv show. Why do the networks cancel all the good ones? First, Arrested Development. Now, Journeyman. I contemplated writing a whole blog entry about it, but the world has heard enough about my feelings on time-travel.

But back to the topic on hand. A new name. I think I'm skipping tradition and going with something non-British. Well, British inspired, but only if you follow the leaps of logic that my brain does. I shall call the tree: Puddin'. It's in honor of how British people make things that are called pudding -- like Blood Pudding -- but that are not at all pudding-like or even remotely delicious.

Plus, it means I can do a Bill Cosby impersonation every time I say Puddin'.

O Christmas Tree

2007-12-18T10:24:00.000-05:00

I got my tree last week, so it's beginning to look like Christmas in my apartment...instead of a moving box graveyard.

It was a minor ordeal to get the tree. Ostensibly, picking up a tree is easy, and I just went to the local Home Depot for a bargain $25 tree. The problem, however, is getting a tree when you are just one person. It can sometimes feel a bit lonely to get a tree -- as depicted in When Harry Met Sally -- but more than anything else, it's just awkward and bulky for one person to carry.

Of course, after all the work getting it here, I haven't decorated it yet. Just some randomly strung lights. Decorating the tree really isn't that interesting, and it requires a lot of effort. And, you get nearly the same effect if you put the tree in the corner and throw some lights on.

I may break down and decorate it today, if only to hide the fact that the branches are already drying up and losing their needles like a junkie in rehab (or a pregnant nicole richie). I'm hoping this baby lasts until Saturday, when I'm having some people over for a holiday dinner. I fear by then it will look like all the trees that get tossed out on the curb -- brown and dry and naked.

Speaking of which, I need a name for my tree. A british name. The tradition of naming the tree something british started in college, for reasons I no longer know. I'm not sure what's stranger -- the fact that we named our tree at all, or the fact that the name had to be british. In any case, I need a name. Maybe Beatrix.

Christmas Rapping

2007-12-05T00:12:00.000-05:00

I spent the day fighting the gale winds rushing across the outlet mall tundra to try and buy some Christmas gifts for friends and family. I didn't end up buying much, but I did stumble across two inalienable holiday truths today:

1 - Contrary to what the 24-hour holiday radio stations will lead you to believe, there really are only so many Christmas songs. That number dwindles even further when you're dealing with shops catering to a so-called hip crowd. So today I found myself hearing the same loungy x-mas songs that used to play on a loop in the Georgetown J Crew circa 1999, and I was immediately taken back to the trials and tribulations of folding dozens and dozens of roll-neck sweaters after store closing.

Suffice it to say that I'm over the loungy x-mas music. I'd be happy if all the stores would give up trying to be hip, and just play a loop of the classics: Run DMC's Christmas in Hollis, Band-Aid Do They Know It's Christmas, and of course, Wham's Last Christmas.

2 - While browsing on-line for a gift for my near teenage nephew, I decided to check out a sporting goods store website. Bottom Line: Remember to type in the whole name www.dickssportinggoods.com. I don't want to tell you what happens if you accidentally leave off the sporting goods part, but I'm sure the FBI has a file on me now.

To Madhu: Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner

2007-12-02T00:00:00.000-05:00

I stopped blogging once I arrived back. Nothing exciting was going on. And, the few amusing things I had to say were being said in person. I couldn't possibly share the same bits on my blog, especially considering my audience was hearing it in person.

But, I hear I still have an audience of at least one. At least one faithful reader. So, I'm going to try and blog more. But, don't be mad if I'm kind of boring when you see me these days. It's because I'm saving my best stuff for my blog.

In the meantime...

I went out tonight. It feels like the first real time that I have gone out since I moved back. That's not technically true because I've been out in DC since I moved in mid-November. But for some reason this felt like the first time back. It was nice, although a little strange -- I'm home and maybe a little tipsy by midnight.

Upstairs, my neighbors are throwing a party. Ten years ago, that was me. I can hear the music and what I think is dancing. It sounds a little like Stomp! and a little like the Rockettes. Lots of rhythmic stomping that I'm assuming is dancing. Well, not this second because a slow song is on. Were we this loud ten years ago?

Speaking of ten years ago and my lost youth, I was driving home this morning and I heard a song on the radio that reminded me of my senior year in high school -- Jesus Jones' Right Here, Right Now. Totally saccharin song, but it still reminds me of my senior year. Fortuitous timing on our part that it came out right before we graduated, and not some other year. Anyway, as I was listening to the song -- and actually listening to the lyrics for the first time -- it reminded me of how much time has passed. When we were getting ready to graduate, the Berlin Wall had just fallen and the whole Cold War ended. We were so optimistic -- geez how things have changed. I can't imagine today's high school seniors feel so care free and hopeful. I hope they are oblivious to the world's current ailments.

Not to change topics, but the theme song from Dirty Dancing is playing at the party upstairs. and the feet stomping has started again -- I can't wait for the lift! No wonder we were so optimistic.

Picturebook...A Holiday in August

2007-11-08T11:03:00.001-05:00

I still haven't downloaded any Africa photos, for fear of causing my laptop to spontaneously combust. But, I just got some pics from a friend I met during my Namibia journey. Here are a few...with the promise to actually put together photos of all my travels:

Can you believe this is Africa? It's Swakopmund in Namibia, but it looks like Germany.

Now this looks like Africa - the dunes of the Namib desert, near Sossusvlei.

More beautiful dunes. Very English Patient.

Welcome to the Old Apartment

2007-11-06T20:54:00.001-05:00

So after much ado, I finally have an apartment. I signed the lease and I move in on Tuesday -- assuming the movers ever call me back. (Seriously, the only thing harder to find than a good apartment is a reliable mover.)

Anyway, I'm actually moving back into my old Adams Morgan/Kalorama Triangle neighborhood. Well, to be more specific, I'm moving back into the same apartment building that I lived in during law school. The apartments there were so nice, and I loved the street. (I stumbled upon it one evening right before I started law school when I was driving around checking out DC neighborhoods, and then by major coincidence, a few days later I happened upon a roommate posting of someone living on that street.)

So, in the midst of my apartment frustration, I came across an ad for a one bedroom apartment in the same building -- just one floor up. And the rest, as they say, is history. Really boring history, but history nonetheless.

Of course, this time around I'm paying way more than I paid in law school for the apartment. Rent control. It's a beautiful thing sometimes. There's a woman in the building who has been there since I first moved in 1997. (She wasn't too fond of the parties I used to have, which is hard to understand -- who wouldn't love The Petite Soiree?) Apparently, as I just learned, she's been in the building since 1971. Thanks to rent control, she now pays only $700 for a 1500 sq. ft. gorgeous apartment in a great building. These are the stories that I would hear about in NY or see on Friends, but didn't actually believe.

That could be me in 30 years. Except, I wouldn't mind if the young neighbor downstairs threw a Petite Soiree. So long as I was invited.

So, We Meet Again

2007-10-25T23:53:00.000-04:00

Since I created this blog to keep everyone posted about my travels, I kinda didn't know what to do when I stopped traveling. I kept thinking that I'd write one more entry, summarizing everything I learned from my travels and revealing how many miles I traveled, and maybe even finally posting some pictures of yawning crocodiles and baby elephants and the like. But, somehow I never mustered up enough gravitas to write an entry worthy of my travels and all the self-growth that occurred. (And, I still haven't downloaded my photos, not even the awesome one of the leopard in a tree devouring a dead impala, that should be on the cover of National Geographic.)

A few times I was thinking of writing about my mini-adventures in suburbia, since that's still kind of traveling. This idea popped into my head most recently when I went a'gambling with my parents and aunt/uncle at the Dover Racetrack a few weekends ago. I was conjuring up pithy observations about the experience while playing nickel slots. (e.g., The pungent smell of desperation and bus trip hung thick in the air.) But, somehow I never mustered up enough energy to describe those kinds of trips.

But now, I've decided to break my silence, mainly just to gripe. To bitch and moan about the total absence of inhabitable apartments in the Capitol Hill neighborhood. I've been looking for a few weeks now, and I can't believe how many crack dens are out there. Wait -- that's a "Cozy, junior 1BR crack den w/ open floor-plan, and original details." It's shocking how many slumlords exist, with delusions of grandeur dancing like sugerplum fairies in their greedy little heads. And the ones that aren't crack dens, all have something strange happening, like the whole apartment is only nine-feet wide. The kookiest one so far was a building where the landlord decorated the hallways and staircases with lots of wicker furniture and tchotchkes, as if it were part of her apartment. That doesn't sound kooky on its face, but if you'd seen the knick-knacks, and met the new-age landlord, you'd understand.

There were one or two apartments that, in a moment of weakness and desperation, I almost considered taking. But in both instances, I detected some serious unease from the landlord about the fact that I don't have a job. Never mind that I have sufficient cash to pay my rent. Never mind that it's not exactly so easy to get a job in a different city, when no one will rent you an apartment in that city without a job. (Chicken? Meet the egg.) I feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, where she goes into that boutique to buy some non-hooker clothing, and they won't sell her anything, even though she has the money (and a pair of thigh high suede boots). Dammit, people. I'm not a hooker. (But if I were, I'd have a job then, no?) Rent me an apartment.

Disappointed at all the one bedrooms for rent, I have been considering the idea of moving in with a roommate for a few months until I get a job and then I'd buy a place. Actually, I should say that I was kicking around the idea of finding a roommate until I saw this ad on craigslist.

Seriously, someone shoot me and put me out of my misery. Or, shoot them. This ad belongs on gawker. I'm not sure what I find more troubling -- the fact that they are haters to liberals, or the fact that they won't let you put anything in the kitchen except a knicknack...But you should feel like it's your house, too. Really. Just so long as you don't say anything too liberal. And so long as your knicknack isn't too tacky. Cuz it isn't a frat house.

Sheesh. I need a drink after this beezwax. A drink, and an apartment.

Good Morning Sunshine

2007-09-19T06:19:00.000-04:00

It's 6:15 am, and I've been up for quite a while, dressed, and thinking about going running or something...once the sun comes up, that is. As you can see, I'm still adjusting to the time change. It's absolutely maddening.

Back on the Chain Gang

2007-09-18T16:42:00.000-04:00

I'm back stateside, after enduring a 32-hour journey back (including two flights, one super shuttle ride, a MARC train, and a ride from my dad). It was endless.

Last Thursday afternoon, I traveled from Swakopmund back to Windhoek, the capital of Namibia. I overnighted in Windhoek before flying to Cape Town to spend my last few days in Africa.

My time in Cape Town was lovely, if uneventful. This time I rented a car, which provided much comic relief, as I tried to drive on the wrong side of the road -- and with the stick shift on the wrong side of the car. There were a few close calls, and every time I tried to change lanes, I ended up turning on the windshield wipers.

Once I managed to figure out the driving, I took a jaunt down the peninsula to visit the Cape of Good Hope, revered as the most southern point in Africa and the place where the Indian Ocean meets the Atlantic. In fact, as it turns out, it's neither. But no matter. It was a pleasant coastal drive, with cliff-side roads that snaked through the cape with beautiful views. On the way to the cape point, I stopped to see the large colony of jackass penguins at Boulders Beach. Cool. I also stopped at a seaside town of Simons Town for their annual penguin festival, after seeing two people dressed like penguins riding around in a pick up truck. (That turned out to be the only exciting thing.)

So it was a good weekend. The only hiccup for an otherwise perfect trip was my discovery that my cell phone had been pilfered somewhere between Zambia and Jo-burg, and the later discovery that several hundred dollars had disappeared from my bag. I was a little upset about both events; but, in light of the fact that I've been traveling for years and this is the first time I've ever had anything stolen, I'd say that overall I've been pretty lucky if that's the only really bad thing that's happened to me.

And now I'm back in the US, with major jet lag, no cell phone, and a vague idea that I should probably start looking for a job soon. Maybe next month. In the meantime, I'm going to revel in the memory of a fantastic trip.

The Real World -- Namibia

2007-09-13T05:04:00.000-04:00

I'm still in Swakopmund, wasting some time at an internet joint before we drive back to Windhoek this afternoon.

So, I was sitting here quietly perusing The New York Times website, and this thin, blonde South African bloke started yelling loudly through the gated door. He was yelling at a woman sitting near me who was checking her email. Finally, he stopped yelling and marched into the place -- with a cameraman following him and filming his every move.

Apparently they are some sort of reality television people. So, the cameraman taped them having a short argument in Afrikaans. I did not understand a single word, but I can only assume it went something like:

Man: Why are you taking so long to check your email? I would like to go get some delicious Namibian pancakes.
Woman: Go get your bloody pancakes and leave me alone. I'm checking my email. Also, why do the back of your pants look like a thousand years of sand and dirt have accumulated since the last launder? Don't you remember you are on television?
Man: Quit your nagging, woman. I'm going to get me some pancakes.

Then, the guy stormed off in his dirty-arse pants, and the cameraman stuck around for an unnaturally long time filming the woman checking her email. Major yawn. But, I'm in the background while all this goes on, so it's only a matter of time before I'm on South African tv.

Half a World Away

2007-09-12T10:19:00.000-04:00

I'm in Swakopmund, a small town on the coast of Namibia . I have come to Namibia to give birth to Brad Pitt's (second) love child . . . er, I mean, to see the largest sand dunes in the world. (For what it's worth, Swakopmund is about 40 km from Walvis Bay, the place where the much anticipated first love-child was born.)

Instead of the fancy game camps I had previously visited, this time I'm on an overland (read: budget) safari. Basically, eight of us piled into a Land Rover and drove ten hours out into the Namib desert. I spent the last two days camping in the desert, and to my surprise, it turned out to be real camping -- not this faux camping that the other places offer -- with sleeping bags, tents, the whole nine yards.

Now, I'm not much of a camping person. In fact, the last time -- and only time -- I went camping I was probably 7 years old. But, the camping went surprisingly well. The only wrinkle occurred on the first night, Monday.

It being the desert, I consumed probably about four liters of water on Monday. Even so, I felt really dehydrated. I went to bed kind of early, since we were waking up at 5 am to see the sunrise on the giant dunes. About three hours later, the four liters of water kicked in, and I woke up desperately in need of a bathroom. But, our guide had warned us about the jackals that come around the camp at night. So, I spent the better part of an hour in the tent, debating whether I would be eaten by jackals if I trekked across the camp to the building with the bathrooms. Eventually, I decided that this must happen to other people and they don't get eaten, but that walking across camp was still too risky. (Surely our guide would have told us that story.) Finally, I ended up availing myself of the natural desert facilities near our tent, but the whole time was freaked out that a jackal was going to jump up and bite me in the arse. (At least I didn't see any porcupines.)

Anyway, minor unpleastantries aside, the dunes were amazing. The area with the dunes looks like something from a science fiction movie -- one hundred foot tall dunes made out of red sand. Hiking up one of the dunes is pure torture for your legs. I was thinking that if I could find a way to recreate the giant sand dunes in LA, masses of starlets and bored housewives would give up their trendy stripper pole workout for the ultimate uphill sand dune workout.

In addition to the dunes, the extended time driving around in the Land Rover gave me a chance to see other parts of the Namibia. The landscape varies from huge sand dunes, desert plains, multi-colored rocky mountains, and slate blue lagoons. It seemed like most of the country was untouched. Oh -- and in addition to the beautiful landscapes, the nighttime sky out in the desert was amazing. Minimal light pollution for miles and miles, so you can see hundreds of stars and comets. I've never seen the sky so clearly.

Oh, and I saw a bunch of ostriches. (Or is it: I saw a bunch of ostrich. Either way, that's what I saw.)

Oh...

2007-09-07T15:27:00.000-04:00

Forgot to mention that I racked up another visit to a UNESCO World Heritage site today: Robbins Island, where Nelson Mandela was a prisoner for some 18 years.

There were also penguins.

One Lonely Night

2007-09-07T14:50:00.001-04:00

I've been ambling around Cape Town for the past two days, and I have to say, I dig it. It's pretty chill, with lots of cafes and sunshine. I'm here for one more day, and then on Sunday I leave for a camping trip in Namibia. I still can't get over the fact that I'm going camping -- even if it is supposed to be fancy camping. Considering how on edge I was staying at the budgety hotels in Asia, it should be highly amusing to see how I react to camping out in the middle of the desert.

No matter, though -- it should be worth it. Apparently there are dunes the size of small mountains. Should be just like the English Patient.

Otherwise, I'm having kind of a lonely evening. It's Friday night in Cape Town, and I am seeing lots of people heading out on the town. (Or gearing up to have people over to watch the opening night of the World Cup of Rugby...I don't know that for sure, but it just seems like that's what people are doing. Rugby is huge here.) It makes me wish that I had my friends around to head out to dinner, or to come over and watch some rugby. Of course, none of us actually care about rugby. But, then again, I don't care about other sports either, so it wouldn't be any different than having a super bowl party. Everyone would hang out and gossip and eat cheese dip.

I've been traveling alone for about two weeks now, which is just about the longest I've ever traveled on my own. For the most part, it's gone smashingly well. I met oodles of people at the various game camps, so there wasn't too much time to feel lonely. Even here in Cape Town, it didn't bother me until tonight. I think it's because it's Friday night. I suppose that I could go out to an Irish bar and watch the opening night of rugby -- you are bound to meet a kooky Australian who will hang out with you. But, that's not really my thing, even if I do enjoy a kooky Australian.

Apparently I'm not the only one feeling lonely tonight in Cape Town. I grabbed a cab back to the hotel tonight, and the cab driver repeatedly offered to give me a full body massage. "No sexual activity," he said. Just a massage. Which would have been a creepy enough offer until he started telling me how much he was looking forward to giving me said massage. Needless to say, I had him drop me off a few blocks early.

I'm meeting some of the strangest characters on this trip.

No Gnus is Good Gnus

2007-09-06T04:17:00.000-04:00

On Monday morning, I left Zimbabwe to go on another safari, this time in Botswana. As promised, the setting was absolutely beautiful. In addition to the dry bushy-type landscape that I saw in South Africa, the area I visited in Botswana also had lush, grassy floodplains (which look just like it sounds). There were flat grassy areas as far as the eye could see, interrupted in spots by the Chobe River and other little water inlets.

My room at the game lodge was more like a hotel than a game camp. (Apparently Liz Taylor and Richard Burton got married there for the second time in the 1970's.) In any case, the view from my room was spectacular -- there was full wall of windows that looked across the very narrow Chobe River to Namibia, where a herd of elephants was grazing. (I had no idea that the game lodge was only about 50 yards from Namibia.)

The game lodge is in a national park in Botswana, so you can't go off the roads like we could in the private game reserve in South Africa. This means that you don't get to see the animals as closely, and you can't follow them through the bush. On the other hand, the sheer number of animals hanging out in Botswana was far greater than SA. Every ten minutes or so, we'd stumble onto a new herd of elephants. That's one of the impressive things about being on a safari, period -- instead of seeing three or four elephants in a zoo, you see dozens at a time.

Though the Botswana park had more animals (in terms of numbers), there seemed to be less variety than SA. Most of what I saw were giraffes and elephants and various varieties of 'lopes. Unfortunately, giraffes and elephants don't do much more than eat, so it can get kind of boring. I also saw a gun (wildebeest), which I had been dying to see. Turns out they are probably the second ugliest animal in nature, after the warthog. That's unfortunate, since I have had a strange fascination with gnus dating back to the days of newsman Gary Gnu on The Great Space Coaster.

The game lodge was huge by African standards -- some 60 people were staying there. As a result, it lacked the warm and fuzzy feeling that I understand is pretty typical of the smaller camps, and that I myself reveled in while staying in SA. Still, I managed to meet some interesting people while I was there -- including, if you can believe the odds, an associate who currently works at my old firm (Washington office, though, not NYC).

Monday night, I ended up having drinks with a random group of people, that included two photographers (traveling separately), a Botswana tourism official, and an Irish woman. We talked for quite a while, and when it came time for me to head back to my side of the lodge, it was pretty late. Whereas the camp in SA didn't let you walk around at night alone, the Botswana lodge had said it was okay to walk on the lit-paths.

So, I headed off on one of the lit paths towards my room. I was about a third of the way there, when I realized that the whole common area of the lodge was pitch black, and I was going to have to walk through that to get to my room. I mustered up all my courage and started to head through. Then, I heard a rustling, and had a mini-heart attack. I was sure a lion was about to eat me. Some chairs moved, I held my breath...and a huge, gargantuan porcupine waddled out of the dining area right onto the path I needed to walk on. I know porcupines are more friend than foe, but I'd never seen one in person, and it was huge. And I was kind of tipsy.

I ended up running back to the patio where the others were still having drinks, and the Botswana tourism official -- a very petite woman and unlikely bodyguard -- kindly walked me back to my room. (She had worked at the lodge before, and apparently has no fear of deadly porcupines.)

The rest of my stay was fairly uneventful. Lovely landscapes, nice people, but no further porcupine or gnu sightings.

Yesterday, I left Botswana for Cape Town, where I'll be for the next few days, at least. So far, me likey. As much as I loved visiting the nature reserves and parks, it's nice to be back in civilization for a while.

P.S.

2007-09-02T11:00:00.000-04:00

I don't know how, but I forgot to mention that while I was touring Vic Falls (the Zambian side) two different groups of people stopped me to take my picture. One of the groups even posed with me in the picture. I don't know if it was my awesome fashion (Gap, circa 2005), or my blonde hair. Either way, I'm not used to such idolatry.

Dr. Livingstone, I Presume

2007-09-02T10:17:00.001-04:00

I'm in Zimbabwe at the moment, visiting one of the seven wonders of the natural world and UNESCO World Heritage Site, Victoria Falls. The falls are the largest in the world, the water plunging from a cliff down to a gorge 300 feet below. Impressive, for sure. But, the visit kind of reaffirmed my previous guiding principle about waterfalls: that is, they are fine to see, but don't go out of your way to do so.

I mean, the falls are great. But it takes about an hour to see them from every which angle. And then you are done. And there is nothing else really here. And my travel agent booked me here for three nights.

Still, it's a big draw and there are many, many tourists here. Interestingly, more than half of the travelers that I have seen are over 50 years old, many seeming to be from the US. (By contrast, when I was on safari, Americans were overwhelmingly in the minority, and there were a number of younger people, too.) A surprising number of the tourists here sport khaki safari vest/jackets while walking around. Sure, it's Africa, but about the hardest thing people are doing here is trying to track down bottled water from the porters at the fancy hotel. It's funny, though, because in the vests everyone looks like either an AP photographer read to go on assignment on Beirut, or Dick Cheney on a fishing trip.

Given the demographics of the visitors, you can imagine my surprise at how many adventure companies there are that offer the chance to bungee jump from the bridge near the falls, or to raft through Class 5 rapids. I can't see that appealing to the over-60 set. But that's the main thing to do around here, apart from viewing the falls. However, you couldn't convince me to partake even in the US, where there are tons of safety measures and liability concerns. (You can sense the huge difference between the American legal system and the Zimbabwe system by the number of people that are freely allowed to walk out into the water maybe a half dozen feet from falling -- to their deaths -- into the LARGEST WATERFALL IN THE WHOLE FREAKING WORLD.)

Deciding to pass on the bungee jumping, I took a trip this afternoon into Zambia, which is on the other side of the falls. Not much to see there, either, except for the falls, at a slightly different angle. Oh -- and there seemed to be more 8 foot high wooden giraffes available for purchase, which I secretly kind of want, although I have no idea how I'd get it home or what I'd do with it in the US.

Oh -- I forgot to mention what Dr. Livingstone has to do with any of this. For some inexplicable reason, that phrase popped into my head several times since arriving in Africa, and I had to fight an urge to say it. I must have read it in my guidebooks before I left. Apparently the infamous Dr. Livingstone was a British missionary/explorer who "discovered" the falls in the 1800's when he came to Africa. Years later, he went missing and a reporter for the New York Times tracked Livingstone down to a town farther north in Zambia, supposedly muttering the now famous phrase when he encountered Livingstone.

And with that exciting history lesson, I'm off to head back from town to my hotel. Tomorrow morning I leave for Botswana, where I'll be spending another couple days on safari. (Yay safari!) They say Botswana has some of the most beautiful and undisturbed landscapes in southern africa, so I'm really looking forward to the trip.

And Where Shall I Begin?

2007-09-01T07:14:00.000-04:00

So, the safari turned out to be even more fantastic than I ever imagined.

I went to a game camp named Motswari in the northeastern corner of South Africa, right near Kruger National Park. The camp is located on a huge nature reserve that is actually a conglomeration of a number of privately owned farms. But, there's no fence between Kruger and the reserve. So, the animals migrate freely to and fro. Plus, the bonus is that on the private reserve, you can drive off the main road (which you can't in Kruger), so you can see the animals closer.

I call it a camp, which is really not a fit description. Sure, it's a camp, in that every one's living in the middle of the african bush. But, I had my own enclosed bungalow, complete with a super comfy king size bed, down bedding, huge freestanding tub built for two, rain shower, etc. The accommodations could easily rival some of the nicer places in the US.

On the other hand, you can't walk outside your bungalow by yourself at night, lest the hyenas may eat you. (The Westin should consider adding that amenity!) Although I didn't see any, supposedly elephants have been known to wander into camp. I did, however, see a huge group of baboons hanging out across from the lounge. (The lounge is an open air pavilion where you have tea in the morning, and lunch in the afternoon.)

The schedule is more or less set each day. Someone wakes you up at 5:30. You have some tea or coffee, then it's off for the morning game drive. You get back around 10 am, eat breakfast (delicious omelettes), and then are free to take a nap or go on a guided walk. But, that's about all there is to do. Then, they serve a lunch at 2:30 and you're off again on the late afternoon game drive. You get back from that drive at 6:45. Dinner/drinks were about an hour after that. That's it.

So this was the schedule every day. I did skip one of the morning drives. But otherwise that's what I did. The game drives were awesome. You tour around in an open Land Rover with stadium seating. I saw oodles of animals: lions, leopards, giraffes, elephants, zebras, warthogs, rhinos, hyenas, all varieties of antelope, etc. It was amazing how close some of the animals came to the vehicle. Thursday morning, we had a herd of elephants pass about 10 feet away from the car. That same morning, we also had a leopard walk about two feet behind the back of the vehicle. Surprisingly, it's not as scary as you'd think.

But even without the animals, the scenery was just so beautiful. It is the end of winter and the dry season, so it's not anywhere near as green or as lush as it is in summer. But, it's beautiful nonetheless. Lots of short trees, tall golden grasses, and the most amazing sunsets. (Each night we stopped during the drive to have a drink -- a sundowner -- and watch the sun set.) Plus, the temperature was like the late days of spring in the US -- sunny and pleasantly warm, with a light breeze.

When you get there, you are assigned a guide and tracker who look out after you for your stay. As a result, you also are driving around and eating dinner with the same people for a few days. I met some interesting people -- some good, and some just bad.

The first two days I was in a group that included all Europeans: a very friendly couple from Serbia and France; a stoic German couple that never talked; and, a gregarious Italian man and his wife, named Roberto and Roberta. Roberto liked to try to make jokes in the very little English he knew, and you found yourself laughing heartily along with him, even though his jokes tended to be something like "Buffalo? I like buffalo mozzarella."

Then, they all left, and a group of Americans joined us. They included a husband and wife from Ohio, and their college aged son. They were all in South Africa because the husband was attending a competition wherein he would shoot targets with an 18th Century musket or some such firearm...if that tells you something. The wife seemed extremely bitter that she was in Africa, which could be because she doesn't like 18th Century musket shooting competitions...or it could be that she is just plain racist, as evidenced by the comment I overheard (but won't repeat) the first night they arrived. Their son was a disaffected youth, who didn't seem to realize how awesome it was that his parents TOOK HIM TO AFRICA. I talked to these folks some, but they pretty much whined and hated everything. Except for the photo opps. They had huge crazy professional cameras with foot-long lenses, and took thousands of photos. I thought they were going to explode with delight when we stumbled upon a group of buffalo locking horns...with beautiful backlighting...and the right amount of dust to really set off the lighting. But, even as annoying as they were, it still couldn't bring me down. Mostly I was kind of amused.

By the last day, it was just me and an English couple from outside London. We, along with our guide, were about the same age, and all got on very well. Oh -- our guide was really cool, too. He was a little reserved by American standards, but very nice and extremely smart. His love of the bush and the animals was contagious, and by the end of the trip, I found myself completely taken with the area...and had managed to develop a mini-crush on our guide, too. (After he took a few of us on a walk through the area around the camp-- carrying a gun to protect us from elephants and such -- it was completely impossible not to be crushing a little bit.)

So, I ended on an extremely high note. The last day was just sublime -- very chill company, the most beautiful weather, morning tea across from a small river filled with hippos. Just perfection. I felt completely calm and relaxed, like I could have stayed there forever.

I was surprised at how very sad I was when I left on Thursday. As awesome as the whole trip had been -- the last day in particular -- I realized that I would never have that experience again. To be sure, you can go back to an area, or even stay in touch with people you meet on a trip. But, I was acutely aware that it would be impossible to recreate how wonderful that particular moment had been, and sad that the moment had passed.

So that was my safari experience. I loved it so dearly, that it made me startlingly sad to leave.

...and it is Awesome

2007-08-30T10:30:00.000-04:00

I've just emerged from my safari, and it was amazing beyond even my grandest expectations. I have a novella to write about the experience, but need to surrender the computer that I'm currently on. I'm hoping to write more this evening, particularly since I leave at the crack of dawn tomorrow for Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe.

But, in short, it was so freakin' awesome. I kind of want to move here and be on permanent safari.

I'm Here....

2007-08-26T01:47:00.001-04:00

I made it to Jo-burg yesterday, as did my luggage. (I had my doubts about the luggage, but it arrived.) And, as soon as I arrived, I'm off again. I leave in about 20 minutes to fly up to safari land, where I'll be on safari for the next five days. Yay, giraffes and zebras!

On the Road Again

2007-08-24T12:02:00.001-04:00

I'm leaving for the airport in about a half hour. I'm so thrilled, that I almost fainted several times this morning. Woo hoo!

It's a little bit funny...this feeling inside

2007-08-21T13:16:00.000-04:00

I'm leaving on Friday, and this week should be a flurry of last minute errands and packing. But, thanks to the internet, I ordered a new camera on-line, so I there's no need to leave the comfort of my home today. It's rainy and cold out, and I have to say, this is precisely the kind of day that would always make me want to stay home from work and lounge in pajama pants -- particularly since I spent all day yesterday traipsing around in the rain in Philadelphia, city of Brotherly thugs, trying to get additional pages added to my passport. So today, due to the joyous fact that I'm not working, I can spend the day playing Excite Truck on the wii. (I love my life.)

The one other thing I might muster the energy to do today is to find some new music for my trip. I've got an iTunes gift card to burn, but am really out of the music loop. When I was in high school and college, I really liked music and was hip to whatever new music was coming out. These days, though, I have no idea what's new and awesome. I blame it partly on the dirth of even nominally decent radio stations in New York, but largely on my ever-advancing march to middle-age.

In any case, whatever the cause, I'm tired of every song I own, and I have a fifteen hour flight. (Someone please tell me why I decided to load so much Elton John onto my iPod. Seriously? Of course, now that I took the time to load it I don't feel like removing it.)

I'd really love any recommendations for songs/cds to download...or any good books for that matter.

I Bless the Rains Down in Africa

2007-08-15T22:19:00.001-04:00

The trip is booked. Well, almost booked. I still need to send payment tomorrow, and there is one side-trip I'm still trying to work out. But, ostensibly, the deal is done. After much ado, I'm leaving next Friday for Southern Africa, including stops in South Africa, Zimbabwe, Botswana, and in all likelihood, Namibia.

I'm so freakin' excited. I plan to spend the next week alternatively singing Todo's Africa, and/or doing the african dance from Can't Buy Me Love in celebration of my trip.

Weather's Great...Wish You Were Here

2007-08-08T12:13:00.001-04:00

I'm still in Maryland right now, trying earnestly to finalize plans to head to Africa later this month. It's taken much longer than I ever thought to plan something, partly because Africa is so big and I had no idea specifically where I wanted to go -- other than the fact that I wanted to see elephants and giraffes.

Now that I finally have my act together and have an idea of budget and locales, I can't get the travel agents to plan something fast enough. I'm ready to leave as soon as possible. But, it takes forever to work out even the most basic details, because I email the travel agent, and they have to talk to their people in Africa, and so on. And, I'm driving the travel agent crazy with my frequent comments on their proposed itineraries. (Things have changed a lot.) The current plan, which I suspect will ultimately work out in the end, but not before I end up pulling my hair out, is to leave for South Africa in the next two or three weeks.

In the meantime, I'm planning to cool my heels over a long weekend at the beach with my family...and possibly another sojourn to the beach next week with a friend.

It does amuse me somewhat, though, that I'm completely stressed out right now about trying to plan this trip. I'm worrying out about planning all the details of the trip with the same fervor previously reserved only for worrying about old cases or crushes. It's kind of ridiculous, though, when your largest concern is whether you can get a reservation at the "nice" game park in South Africa, or whether the trip to the passport agency for extra passport pages will infringe upon a night out with old friends. These are the kind of worries I should always have.

Orioles Magic...Feel it Happen

2007-07-29T20:24:00.000-04:00

It's been many years since Baltimore had a baseball team that caused any excitement. But this weekend, Oriole fever was back, as Baltimore went crazy in support of hometown hero Cal Ripken (Jr.), who was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame.

When I was growing up -- and an Oriole world championship was still fresh in the city's memory -- we kids fell into two camps: Cal Ripken fans, and Eddie Murray fans. Cal, of course, was the beloved shortstop and number 3 batter in the lineup. Murray was the cool first baseman, and batted fourth, clean-up. I suppose someone could make up a theory that who you liked more said something about your personality: either you were a fan of the quick and talented shortstop, a hometown hero; or you were a fan of the cool powerhitter, who could always be counted on to bring in the winning runs. Me -- I just liked Cal Ripken because he was cute.

I was working in the Camden Yards warehouse building in 1995 when Cal Ripken broke the iron man record. The feeling around the stadium was electric, and the celebration seemed to last for days. From my cubicle in the warehouse building, I had absolutely no view of the baseball field -- in the pre-law school job, my view was of various medical dictionaries and the men's restroom. But, we would go downstairs at lunchtime to grab a dirty water dog for lunch and enjoy the crazy anticipation of Cal's triumph over Lou Gehrig's longstanding record.

This year, I'm far away from Camden Yards and did not partake in any celebratory activities. But, on Friday night I had a dream about Cal. (Completely G-rated, I promise.) I dreamed that I went to an after hours club on Friday -- that part actually happened -- and when I emerged from the club, someone had manufactured a snowstorm like they did in Dubai, all in honor of Cal's induction. There were piles and piles of fake snow, and Baltimore folk were wearing Orioles jerseys and tossing snowballs at each other. In my dream, I dropped onto the snow and started doing snow angels for Cal.

When I woke up on Saturday morning, two thoughts came to mind. First, I thought it's too bad that Baltimore doesn't have any oil-rich princes/Oriole fans who are willing to sponsor a snowstorm in honor of Cal. That would have been cool. It also occurred to me that perhaps that last beer was not as good an idea as it seemed at the time. (Of course, without the last beer, there would have been no inspiration for the fauxstorm.)

I Dreamed of Africa

2007-07-26T12:29:00.000-04:00

It's painfully quiet here in Maryland this week. I've been working with travel agents to plan my next trip -- Africa -- and the planning is moving at a snail's pace. At this rate, I'll be visiting Africa in 2009, and none of the countries will have the same names anymore.

Last week, I took a quick trip up to NYC to see some friends, which was weird. Not the friends, but being back in NYC. Within hours of arriving, I felt my blood pressure jump sky-high. There's something about being back that makes all my anxieties and neuroses boilover. So, for that reason I'm glad I've moved. But, I do miss my friends. And, all that hustle and bustle of the city reminded me that I'm not doing anything right now.

After years of a stressful job and the otherwise hectic pace of NYC, I had thought that doing nothing would be delicious. And it was, for a few days. But, now I'm anxious to start traveling again.

I had made myself a list of everything I planned to do in my down time, which included, among other things: watch the first two seasons of Lost; take up yoga; learn to cook impressive gourmet meals; have a torrid affair, preferably with someone foreign; learn Spanish (possibly in furtherance of the aforementioned affair); read Walt Whitman; organize all the stuff in piles spread throughout my parents' house; knit a scarf; shower daily; build houses for Habitat for Humanity; buy a bike; go hiking; oil paint; read all seven of the Harry Potter books; go running; play tennis; see Canada; moisturize more; write a book; etc.

So far, I've learned to make garlic bread, watched four episodes of Lost, read a few chapters of the new Princess Di biography, and launched a vigilant campaign to rid my parents' house of the pests and pestilence that have recently descended upon it (strangely coinciding with my return). Oh, and I secured my sure damnation with an insincere promise to accept Jesus Christ as My Lord and Saviour while serving as my nephew's godparent at his christening last weekend.

Somehow I feel like I could be doing something more. I'm entertaining suggestions...

Shut Up and Dance

2007-07-16T15:44:00.000-04:00

So, now that I'm home from Asia and other foreign and exotic lands, I'm a little bit at a loss about what to write. I'm in the midst of planning the next leg of my trip (to Africa), but it looks like I won't be heading out until at least mid-August.

I spent the past few days enjoying various festivities at my friend Megan's wedding. I have known Megan since about two hours after I arrived at college. Megan had the room right next door to me in my freshman dorm, and walked over that first afternoon to introduce herself and check out my room. We became fast friends, and then were roommates for the next three years in college. After college, we lived in different places -- and for a while on different continents -- and then we both ended up moving to New York in the fall of 2001. So, after many years of being separated, it was nice to be living in the same city again.

Coincidentally, Megan also happened to grow up in Baltimore, about 15 minutes from where I grew up. So, this weekend I was right here in Maryland at her wedding, playing the role of bridesmaid. After some 15 years of friendship, it was an honor to be in Megan's wedding. (And, it was the least I could do, considering it was Megan's idea about the elephant riding in Thailand.)

It was a beautiful wedding with good food, great friends, and is turns out, probably too much dancing. I woke up Sunday morning with multiple dancing injuries. My knee was scraped and bloody from the patented super-spin move my friend Chris and I created -- and then flubbed during the last dance of the evening to the theme from Dirty Dancing. (We got too greedy, and should have stopped after our fourth perfect execution of the move.) Also, I somehow threw out my hip while twisting to the oldies, and it still hurts when I walk up stairs. And, my toes had kind of lost all sensation from wearing strappy sandals all night long. But, it was worth it. I had a great time.

Joanie Loves Chachi; America...Not So Much

2007-07-10T08:46:00.000-04:00

So, I was traveling just about three months, and apparently the country has fallen apart while I've been away. That is to say -- who thought it a smashing idea to give Paula Abdul and Scott Baio each their own television series? Haven't we suffered enough?

Sheesh.

Hello...Is it Me You're Looking For?

2007-07-09T08:32:00.000-04:00

I made it back to the US in one piece. It only took three flights and some 31 hours of travel time. I'm so exhausted and tired of airports -- I don't even want to think about where I'm traveling next.

But, I'm also bored. I've been in air conditioned -- and ice rich -- bliss for less than 10 hours and I don't know what to do with myself. I'm too whacked out from the time difference to sleep. I already voraciously tore through every gossip magazine I could get my hands on while stuck in O'Hare airport. I have no patience for Matt Lauer this morning. I guess I'll go head to the tailor and start the necessary groveling to get my bridesmaid's dress altered in time for the wedding this weekend.

Thai Me Up, Thai Me Down

2007-07-06T09:21:00.000-04:00

I'm fully recovered from whatever hit me last week, and have been enjoying myself in Thailand since Sunday. From Sunday until yesterday (Thursday), I was in Chiang Mai , where, as promised, I went on an elephant ride. (His name was Camus.)

It's a little hard for me now to convey how excited I was about riding the elephant, since the novelty of seeing elephants has worn off. There were tons of elephants around Chiang Mai. And, on my way over to this Internet joint, I passed a baby elephant hanging out front of an Irish pub called the Dubliner. (Apparently, he has good taste.)

But, the day of the elephant ride I was psyched. I've been daydreaming about riding an elephant since February, when I started seriously thinking about this trip. As soon as I got to Chiang Mai, I signed up for a group tour to ride elephants, do a mini-trek, and see a few outdoorsy things.

It was a strange group that I ended up with for the excursion. There was a woman from California and her five-year-old son. And...there were these two young French-Canadian women who just spent the past four months volunteering at a Thai orphanage. But more importantly...they liked to sing...crazy children's songs...all day long...in French. They were like a cross between Mary Poppins and the Smothers Brothers, sent on a southeast Asia goodwill USO tour to save orphans because Celine Dion was too busy in Vegas hanging out with her older husband/manager, Rene.

They sang children's songs the whole freakin' day. They sang to the five-year-old. They sang in the mini-van. Even when we took a haphazard, bamboo raft down a murky, disease-filled river, they sang cheerful songs about being on the river. When we got to a ethnic hill village, they did several song-and-dance numbers for a poor, speechless little child. (This time they sang in English, and they were joined by the little American five-year-old who was trying to keep up with their songs and moves.) By this point, the tour guide just threw his hands up in the air and walked back down the hill to the mini-van. I was torn between following the tour guide, and gawking at the seemingly endless song-and-dance spectacular...Er, I mean, supporting the French-Canadians who help orphans.

Meanwhile, the woman from California became obsessed with orphans. All day long, she kept posing questions to the French-Canadians about what the orphanage was like and what she could do for the orphans. I admire her desire to help, but the frequency of her questions was a little overboard. Even the kind-spirited French-Canadians seemed a little weary of all the questions by the end of the day. I think my favorite was on the way home when she asked if she could send an old digital camera to the orphanage, and then suggested that maybe her son's class could become pen pals with the orphans when he starts kindergarten next year. It was all I could do not to speak up and tell her that most kindergartners don't know how to read or write, let alone read/write Thai. But, the French-Canadians saved me from sure damnation by kindly pointing out that the Thai orphans don't speak English. To this, the California woman responded that the children could draw each other pictures. I really did admire her spirit and optimism.

So, needless to say, the elephant riding was probably only the second-most memorable part of the day.

I'm in Bangkok right now, which, contrary to the view of many people, I actually kind of like. But, I may be delirious from all the gelato and European baked goods I've been consuming since I got here. (Who knew there was such deliciousness in Bangkok?) Pastries aside, it's pretty seedy here, and there are massage parlors and "fancy" ladies everywhere. It makes me very sad how the city shamelessly -- maybe even proudly -- caters to the sex-pat crowd at the expense of so many women and children. But, Bangkok is hardly alone on that point.

And, on that uplifting note, I'm off to grab a beer at the Dubliner and see if I can strike up a conversation with the Elephant. Tomorrow's my last day in Asia. Sunday I have a marathon 25-hour journey back to the US for my friend Megan's wedding. (My favorite part is that for one leg of the trip, I leave Tokyo at something like 3 pm on Sunday and arrive in Chicago eleven hours later... but at 2 pm on Sunday, earlier than when my flight left. Time travel is so awesome.)

For Every Paradise, There's a Parasite

2007-06-29T22:37:00.000-04:00

Thursday morning we headed out from Hanoi for an overnight trip to the nearby Ha Long Bay, yet another UNESCO World Heritage Site. (Counting Hue, that makes FIVE UNESCO World Heritage Sites -- ahh, ahh, ahh, aaaaahhhhh.)

We booked an overnight stay on the boat "Jewel of the Bay" and were off. By some stroke of luck, we ended up being the only passengers on our boat. So, Marcella, Barb, and I had a staff of probably seven or eight waiting on us. It was cool. Also, this meant that the really annoying blow-hard American ex-pat on the van to Ha Long Bay was not on our boat, thus preventing one of us from committing murder.

The bay is beautiful, with small green mountains periodically rising out of the water. There are caves in the mountains for you to explore, too. The only downside is that there are dozens of other boats out on the bay with you, seeing the sites at exactly the same time. (I think the government licenses the boats only to go to certain sites in a particular route.) When we put down anchor for the night, I counted over three dozen other boats surrounding ours. Also, there were people in rowboats going from boat to boat trying to sell water and Ritz crackers and what not. Though I love a Ritz cracker -- who doesn't? -- I think the presence of all the other boats takes away a little bit from the peaceful idyll that the bay could otherwise be.

Unfortunately, I probably should have bought some Ritz crackers. Something I ate on the boat or elsewhere did me wrong, and I got sick yesterday morning. (We shall call it Ho Chi Minh's Revenge.) I was pretty much miserable and in bed from yesterday afternoon -- when we returned to Hanoi -- until this morning. I'm 33 years old and have traveled half way around the world, and all I wanted was my mom to be sitting next to me, with a cold washcloth and some red jello.

I'm all dosed up on antibiotics now, thanks to the prescience of the docs in my pre-trip travel clinic, who thought to give me a prescription to bring with me to Asia. Of course, I laughed when I saw that the side effects of the drug they gave me to treat Ho Chi Minh's Revenge are nausea and diarrhea, the very same symptoms the drug is supposed to alleviate. But, in any case, I'm definitely feeling better and am able to get out of bed.

Today's my last day in Vietnam, and it's pouring like a mutha. Tomorrow I head to Chiang Mai in northern Thailand, where among other things, I plan to lounge in a fancy hotel, ride an elephant, and get a massage. I'm super excited.

We're on a Road to Nowhere

2007-06-26T22:24:00.000-04:00

After our stay in Hoi An, Marcella and I made our way up the coast to a nearby city called Hue. Hue was the imperial capital during the 19th Century and part of the 20th Century. It's also probably the closest city (as opposed to town) to the North-South Vietnamese border.

Monday morning, Marcella and I got up at the crack of dawn to take a half day tour of the DMZ and surrounding areas. The border between N. and S. Vietnam was at the Ben Hai River (technically the 17th parallel). The DMZ was created in the 1950's, and if I understand correctly, is basically a 5 km stretch on either side of the river. I can't say what the DMZ looked like during the Vietnam War, but now it's just an area full of rice paddies. You can't really tell when you are entering or leaving the area, and there's nothing really to see in the DMZ itself.

But, we also visited the Vinh Moc tunnels, just over the border in North Vietnam. The Viet Cong created several kilometers of underground tunnels as a base during the Vietnam War. The tunnels go something like 23 meters underground, and were pretty complex (also pretty narrow). Eventually, village people came to spend time in the tunnels, and more than one baby was even born there. It's interesting though. Our Vietnamese guide kept emphasizing how the tunnels were civilian tunnels, and the museum at the tunnels showed pictures of all the babies that were born and the movies that were shown inside, etc. But, picking up one of my guide books, the first thing you read is that the tunnels were built and used by the VC as a base. That part was conveniently not discussed on the tour.

Interestingly, on the way to the tunnels, we saw a team of British people searching for mines in the land right along side the road. I was pretty surprised that some 30 years later, there is still a need to search for land mines -- particularly, because this was an area some 15 meters away from the side of a road leading to a major tourist attraction. I would have thought that if there were still any mines left, they would only be in remote locations.

Anyway, after going to the tunnels, Marcella and I set about trying to make our way back to Hue (which was about100 km to the south). We had been promised by the tour operator that someone would pick us up from the nearby town of Dong Ha and take us back to Hue. But, that's not quite how things worked out. First, we were taken to a restaurant in Dong Ha and told to eat lunch and wait for someone to pick us up. Then, someone took us on a moto from the restaurant to the bus station.

At the bus station, we were shuffled onto a local bus. "Bus" is a generous word. It was actually a beat up mini-van smelling vaguely of stale urine. We climbed on board and waited for the bus to head back. Strange experience.

While we were waiting, the woman in front of us kept eating things, and then tossing the leftovers and various food trash out the window. Then, she pulled out a glass cup that looked like chocolate milk on ice -- but with vegetables floating in it. She offered up a sip of the milky brown concoction to us, and we declined. When we refused her offer, she frowned, and pinched my arm.

I forgot to mention that the busyard also reaked of urine. I got the brilliant idea -- from watching Silence of the Lambs -- that I would smear some Tiger Balm under my nose to stifle the smell. I had no prior exposure to Tiger Balm, but it's apparently well-known in these parts and among certain Western tourists. I have no idea what it actually is, but it kind of smells like Vick's and supposedly has similar healing qualities (except with green Tiger packaging). Hence, my idea to smear the stuff under my nose to block out the icchy smells. But, my skin started burning like crazy after I put on some of the balm, so I was then furiously rubbing off theTiger Balm. And, then, the crazy woman in front of me -- she of the goofy food and chocolate milk veggie shake -- complained (via pantomime) about the smell of the Tiger Balm.

Soon enough, we were on our way, smooshed into the van. Where I was sitting had no leg space, so, although I was the tallest person on the bus, I was literally squatting on the seat, my knees poking into the seat of the crazy woman in front of me. (She, incidentally, had her feet stretched out and was lounging in the spacious front row.) Instead of daydreaming about ice, I found myself wondering about deep vein thrombosis and how long that tv journalist was cramped into the tank in Iraq before he died.

The bus was kind of a local run, and was constantly on the lookout for new passengers. So, every time we came close to what could be described as a residential area, it slowed down to a crawl and laid on the horn. This went on for the whole trip -- some 75 km. We picked up and dropped off various people along the way. Eventually, Marcella convinced them to rearrange so that I ended up in a seat with leg space (love Marcella).

We stopped on the outskirts of Hue briefly, for some reason I can't figure out. But, as soon as we pulled into the bus station, a horde of men started running after our bus and shouting. When the bus stopped, we realized that many of the men seemed to be shouting at Marcella and I, trying to convince us to take a moto ride from them. Some of the men started sticking their hands through the open windows of the van, and the people on the bus shut the windows, resulting in many dirty looks and stares from the men outside the van.

A few minutes later, we were in Hue. Our arrival was mostly uneventful, except for a small incident with the woman sitting behind me. When we got close to the bus station, she started climbing over our seat, and pushed me out of the way so that she could be in our row of the van. When we arrived at the station, the door opened, and I tried to get out. No sooner had I leaned forward towards the door, then the 90-lb woman from the backseat pushed me out of the way and literally scurried across my lap so that she could leave the van before me, rather than wait ten seconds for me to go first. Meanwhile, the people on the van started yelling at Marcella and I to get out of the bus because apparently we had not left fast enough.

Anyway, we made it back to Hue in one piece (with no apparent Deep Vein Thrombosis) and even squeezed in a short visit to some royal tombs. Yesterday, we left Hue for Hanoi, where we'll be for the next few days. So far, Hanoi seems pretty cool.

Ice, Ice Baby

2007-06-24T01:54:00.000-04:00

It's so freaky-deaky hot here, that I often find my mind wandering, daydreaming about ice. Seriously, I spent the better part of a 5 hour bus ride in Cambodia fantasizing about having a drink with ice. (It's too risky to have ice here, because you don't know if it's made with purified water.) Or, a snowcone. I would probably be willing to sacrifice part of my liver or my spleen for a giant snowcone, right now. Even a little snowcone from one of those Snoopy Snowcone machines I had when I was little that ended up giving you melty water and big ice chunks instead of a crushed ice treat. Either way, I'd take it.

It's not just icey drinks that fill my head, either. I think about how much I would pay for a big block of ice, so that I could spend the afternoon sitting on it. Is two months salary too much to ask? (Heck, I have a dress made out of bathing suit material that would be just perfect for ice perching.) Or, I daydream about doing the backstroke through a pool of crushed ice, the way some people dream about diamonds. There was once an MTV Gauntlet challenge where the contestants had to melt a giant chunk of ice by sitting on it. I initially found the challenge and the contestants' methods of ice melting a little tacky -- although I did watch every single minute of the episode, probably more than once. I now think they were the luckiest goofs on the face of the earth.

Sometimes, I'll think about the places in Dubai where you can pay to ski indoors. Or, how some people in Dubai once threw a special man made winter carnival so that the local children could see snow for the first time and toss snowballs at one and other. That would be really cool. Of course, United Arab Emirates is rich beyond belief with oil, and Vietnam ... well, not so much. So, regrettably, I think the likelihood of any snowball fights in my near future is quite dubious.

I could fly back to Argentina and hang out with the icebergs again. (It would be nice to have some steak or jamon y queso, instead of noodles noodles noodles. At this point, I'm pretty much over noodles.) But, I'd want to sit on the iceberg in my bathing suit, and I think you could get tossed out of the country for those kinds of shenanigans. (Unless I pretended it was some sort of protest...Argentines love themselves a good strike or protest.)

Pret a Porter (or Sashay, Chante)

2007-06-22T11:03:00.000-04:00

Greetings from Hoi An, a quaint old city on the central coast of Vietnam, that I think may also be another UNESCO World Heritage site. (Three UNESCO world heritage sites -- ah, ah, ah, ahhhhh.) I was having problems accessing my blog since we arrived, but I think I finally figured it out.

Hoi An is famous for its tailors, so I've spent the past few days running around having things made. I'm like an addict. So far, I've had three dresses made from three different shops -- with varying outcomes. They take your measurements and you pick out the style and the fabric. Major fun. I had one knockoff of a J Crew dress made -- it turned out kind of cute, but not too exciting. (I still want the one in the catalog.) I also had a dress made out of the Hawaiian print fabric usually used for men's bathing suits. That one is interesting, as it is made to my exact measurements -- meaning, it fits like a wet suit (albeit a lovely chartreuse flowered Hawaiian print wet suit that I could wear straight from swimming in the pool to a cocktail party). I kind of love how ugly that one is. And, there's a third dress that I have to go pick up tomorrow.

But enough about dresses. Actually, I haven't done too much more than that. I dared to ride a bike into town today, which was just crazy foolish. I thought traffic in Argentina was bad, where the lanes seemed more like suggestions than requirements. But here, it's a tangled web of cars, motos, and bikes, and people only sometimes stick to the right side of the road. In that equation, bikes always lose. I thought that I was going to die by moto several times.

I think tomorrow I'm going to finally do something and see nearby attractions Marble Mountain and China Beach. (China Beach was a show that I never watched, but my college roommates loved, and now I kind of wish I had watched it...I have, however, seen Escape from Witch Mountain, which as far as I know has nothing to do with Vietnam except for the fact that Vietnam has mountains and I am going to visit one tomorrow, but that will have to do for now).

Clearly the heat has poached my brain.

24 Hour Party People

2007-06-18T08:00:00.000-04:00

Barb and I made our way from the beach to Siem Reap, a trip that involved multiple tuk tuk rides, two bus companies, one annoying toddler, many strange food smells, and about ten hours on the bus.

But we're here, and today we got to see a bunch of really cool temples (including Angkor Wat), but I'm too exhausted from climbing so many steps and what not to say much about them. So instead, I'll tell you a amusing nugget from the beach.

Many of the bars and restaurants at the beach would send someone up and down the beach handing out fliers to people about their latest parties. I think the fliers are what turned us on to the bar Monkey Republic. (Sidenote: We saw pink-bottomed monkeys today, and Barb fed them mini-bananas.) But, my favorite fliers were for a bar that we never actually went to, The Dolphin Shack (or Dolphin Club, or Dolphin Room or some other beach name like that).

The first flier we got from the Dolphin Shack advertised "Free Shit Shots" at their party that night. I can only assume -- and seriously hope -- that this was a translation snafu, but I can't figure out for the life of me what they meant to write. I was even more amused when we got their flier the next day, and it advertised "Free Garlic Bread at 1 am for all the Party People."

Now, I like garlic bread as much as the next person. In fact, maybe even more than the next person. But, I've never been enticed to go to a party for free garlic bread. Nor can I imagine that so-called party people would be enticed by bread smeared with garlic. Actually, I suppose it depends upon what they mean by party people. There were an awful lot of pizza places at the beach advertising "happy pizza" -- a few bucks extra will buy you pizza with marijuana on it. I suppose free garlic bread would be a nice side to that pizza.

Needless to say, I did not partake of the pizza or the garlic bread -- or the shit shots, for that matter.

Holiday in Cambodia

2007-06-15T05:59:00.000-04:00

Greetings from Sihanoukville, Cambodia's answer to the Euro-crowded, Thai beaches. Barb and I are enjoying a few days of relaxing in the sun before we head north to check out the temples of Ankor.

The beach is beautiful, but ridiculously hot. Also, I had about a half dozen women randomly touch my legs today and cluck about my shaving habits, all in an effort to convince me to have my legs threaded on the beach. I didn't take offense after I saw them doing this to every other woman on the beach, too. And, I got off easy. Someone just yanked out thread and started trying to demonstrate on Barb.

Fun on the beach aside, the one thing that you continuously observe here in Cambodia is the pervasive poverty. For anyone who has been to an impoverished Caribbean country on vacation, imagine something ten times more dire. It's really incredibly sad, particularly since many of our interactions are with children selling things or begging for money.

Barb and I befriended one eleven-year-old girl this afternoon who was selling bracelets on the beach. Unbelievably smart, funny, and fluent in English, this girl was not in school, but spent the day going up and down the beach from person to person. (There are many other children like her.) We learned later in the day that both her parents had died, and that her five brothers were home while she was working all day. At one point, she laid down on my beach chair next to me and took a nap for a while. It was both cute and sad.

And here I thought the beach was going to be uplifting after trips earlier this week to the War Museum in Vietnam, and the Killing Fields in Cambodia (one site of Khmer Roughe genocide). Pithier stories coming soon, I promise...

In the meantime, I think it's time for a drink at the bar up the street called the Monkey Republic. (Fantastic name.) Speaking of which, yesterday I saw some monkeys randomly hanging out on a building in Phnom Penh, which I was not at all expecting. I had no idea there were monkeys here. Lizards and malaria-infested mosquitos - yes. But monkeys? I dared not imagine. A definite bonus (although I was slightly disappointed that neither monkey had on a fez).

Naps (but no Apps)

2007-06-12T22:51:00.000-04:00

Things are looking up. My luggage finally arrived yesterday, and I'm off in a few hours to meet up with Barb in Cambodia.

The time difference is really throwing me off, though. We're eleven hours ahead of the east coast US. So, right now it's really 10 am on Wednesday morning, even though I think the blog entry probably says it's 11 pm on Tuesday night.

Anyway, late Tuesday afternoon I went back to my hotel room to take a nap while the rains were a-coming, and I couldn't make myself wake up for dinner. So, I slept from 4 pm until 3 am. I've now been up since 3 am, apart from a short nap I took around 6:30 am. (I did catch an awesome made for tv movie with Melissa Joan Hart and a special about climbing Mount Everest in the middle of the night.)

I'm hoping things straighten out when I meet up with Barb. Now, those who know Barb are probably laughing a little bit, because Barb really loves to sleep. But, I think having someone else around will keep me from going to bed at 4 PM!!! (First the orthopedic walking sandals, now going to bed in the afternoon. Next, I'll be watching Lawrence Welk and complaining about my bunions.)

Good Morning Vietnam Redux

2007-06-11T11:17:00.000-04:00

So some eight hours have passed, I've had a long nap, a beer, and a chance to talk to the luggage people. Word on the street (tr: a United Customer Service operator in New Delhi) says that my luggage made its way to Hong Kong, and supposedly arrives in Saigon yet tonight. So, my current mood -- aided much by the nap and the beer -- is one of cautious optimism.

Prior to the nap-taking, I spent the morning trying to find some clothing more appropriate for the climate and also that I hadn't been wearing for two straight days to travel. Hopefully my luggage arrives tonight, but I once went five days without luggage on a Caribbean vacation. Thus, I have learned to anticipate the worst-case scenario.

Shmanyway, two different people I talked to sent me to a large market to buy "cheap" (tr: counterfeit Polo and Lacoste) clothing. It was an interesting, if not demoralizing, experience. Problem number one is that I am an Amazon woman compared to most Vietnamese people. Yesterday on the plane to Saigon I ended up helping everyone put their bags in the overhead compartment because I was pretty much the only person who could reach without standing on the seat. Seriously -- I kid you not. Anyway, when I went to buy some t-shirts at the market, two women just said to me "too big, too big." Not exactly what any girl ever wants to hear, but particularly not when already jet lagged and devoid of any remotely clean clothing.

Another person tried to sell me some pants, but then physically blocked me into her stall when I tried to leave without buying the knock-off $20 Tommy Hilfiger linen crop pants (style: Chicos circa 1998), that were somewhat amusingly in a size XXXXXL. I had to ask her probably about 30 times to let me leave before she did, and then she called me "crazy" when I walked away. Given the six inches and umpteen pounds I had on her, I wasn't concerned physically about being trapped. But, I did not want to create a scene/commit an assault in a market in a communist country where I don't speak the language and they supposedly are fond of arresting people.

In the end, I ended up buying some t-shirts in a supermarket, and went back to the hotel to stalk the luggage people and take a nap. I'm hoping for less adventure tomorrow, and more straight-up communist propaganda. (The War Museum and Reunification Palace are on my agenda.)

Good Morning Vietnam!!!

2007-06-11T02:56:00.001-04:00

After some 24+ hours traveling, I made it here. I wish I could say the same about my luggage or my sunny disposition.

My Arm Hurts So Much I Could Barely Type All of This

2007-06-05T23:04:00.001-04:00

Only a few days before I leave for Asia. I'm starting to get a little anxious. It might be the four shots I got that are causing my arm to feel like it's going to fall off. (In case you were concerned, I'm now protected against Hepatitis-A, Polio, Typhoid Fever, Tetanus, Diptheria, and Whooping Cough, but still vulnerable to Dengue Fever and virulent strains of TB brought onto planes by punk-ass Americans who selfishly insist on traveling despite doctor's warnings.)

I have a sense this trip is going to be very different from my time in Argentina. Already, I've been jumping through hoops to get a Vietnam visa and to book a flight from Vietnam to Cambodia. (Vietnam Air does not take credit cards, apparently.)

Minor travel anxieties aside, though, I'm pretty darn happy right now.

Tomorrow's agenda: finding sporty sandals that don't look ridiculous or like I'm in an osteoporosis commercial, and figuring out where exactly I'm going to stay when I get to Saigon on Sunday. (I'm wondering whether I have to call it Ho Chi Minh City, because Saigon is fewer words, and despite overwhelming evidence of my long-windedness to the contrary, I support using fewer words when it comes to naming cities. They Might Be Giants should write a song about that!)

Don't Cry for Me Argentina

2007-06-03T09:27:00.000-04:00

After much ado, I'm finally back in the U.S. I made my way out of Tierra del Fuego, and arrived home a few days ago -- although about 25 hours after I was supposed to be home.

It's been a flurry of activity since I got back. I was down in DC on Thursday and Friday getting my visa for Vietnam and seeing friends (and also having my car fixed after it decided to fall apart on Thursday -- you'd think it was made by Aerolineas Argentinas). Barb was in town doing the same thing, so we went shopping for stuff for the trip. Then, I stayed with my friends Madhu and Elin, two of the most gracious hosts ever. They always make you feel right at home -- even though when I have tried to return the favor I have managed to lock them out of my apartment in the middle of the night not once, but TWO separate times.

Right now I'm at my parents' place in Maryland until I leave for Vietnam early on Saturday morning. It's pretty relaxing out here, and I'm delighted that I don't have to try to figure out what I'm saying in Spanish before I speak. Also, it smells like honeysuckle.

I think I'm adjusting back to American culture very easily -- last night I had a dream that I was in a reality show kind of like The Amazing Race, and that I got in a fight with Donald Trump about it. I suppose you could call that a nightmare. If this is what my subconscious is thinking under so-called normal circumstances, I can't wait to see what kind of strange dreams I have once I start taking the malaria pills.

Marooned

2007-05-28T17:00:00.000-04:00

So I'm stuck here in Tierra del Fuego thanks to the evil machinations of Aerolineas Argentinas and the Russians, if you believe my mother's theory about the control they exercise over the weather. I was supposed to fly out of here this morning to Buenos Aires, have a 7 hour layover, and then fly back to the US tonight. The 7 hours was key, as my experience with Aerolineas Argentinas is that most flights are several hours late, for no apparent reason.

This morning, the Beagle Channel and surrounds were blanketed by a thick fog, that I'm told "never happens." So Aerolineas waited two hours after the flight time -- which is about when the flight probably would have taken off under so-called "normal" circumstances-- and then cancelled the flight altogether, with no other flight out of this god foresaken place until 9 pm at night. Goodbye 7 hour cushion. Meanwhile, shortly after the flight was cancelled the weather cleared up and the sun came out.

I spent the afternoon fighting with Aerolineas Argentinas and Delta (who holds my BA-US ticket). Basically, both airlines told me it wasn't their fault, and Delta said that if I missed my flight and wanted to fly out tomorrow (or any other day this week) it would cost the pretty sum of $1000 USD. I shite you not. Talk about extortion. This prompted a minor emotional meltdown, complete with tears, which none of the Argentine men working at the airlines reacted well too. Finally, I went to a locutorio and called Delta directly in Phat-lanta, where a kind woman named Judy worked the system for me and got me a flight out tomorrow with minor ticket-change fees.

Bottom-line: Aerolineas Argentinas is dead to me. I declare a pox on all their houses. Too bad they don't seem to care. At all. Delta managed to squeak onto my probation list, largely because of Judy -- although if I had ended up paying $1000 to fly home I would have insisted on free drinks on the international flight. And, by association, every time I am forced to say "Tierra del Fuego," instead of getting all excited about the fuego part like I used to, I shall spit, with a french accent. Tierra del Fuego -- Ptwah.

The silver-lining in this cloudy fog is that I get to have one last afternoon in Buenos Aires, where I plan to get a pedicure and fill my belly with all the steak, wine, and empanadas it can hold before my 12+ hour flight home.

It's the End of the World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)

2007-05-25T16:19:00.000-04:00

I hesitate to write this, at the risk that I sound like I'm gloating. But, anyway...

I just got to Tierra del Fuego, pretty much the end of the earth. My hotel is on the edge of a peninsula in a small town named Ushuaia. The oversized 15 foot window in my room looks out across the Beagle Channel, with the Andes mountains right on the other side of the Channel. (I have a 180+ degree view of the channel and mountains.) It's snowing a little bit, and I'm lounging on my king-size bed covered up with a caramel colored wool-llama hair blanket. The hotel has satellite TV, so when I get bored with the view, I can watch Law & Order or MTV. In a little while, I'm going down to the hot tub, which also happens to look across the Beagle Channel to the Andes mountains.

If I had known life could be this good, I would have quit a long time ago.

Seriously.

Have a great memorial day weekend, all.

Iceberg, Straight Ahead

2007-05-25T15:00:00.000-04:00

On Wednesday and Thursday, I went to the Parque Nacional Los Glaciares. Truly amazing stuff.

I should warn you ahead of time -- this is going to be a long one. If you want the short version, it goes something like "Blah, Blah, Blah...Icebergs...Blah, Blah, Blah...Glaciers...Blah, Blah, Blah...Breathtaking." For everyone else who is bored at work or has nothing better to do, read on.

Wednesday -- In Which I Glimpse Icebergs

The first day, I got up super early to go on a boat excursion on Lake Argentina and check out some of the so-called "smaller" glaciers. It was completely pitch black when we left at 7:30 am -- the sun doesn't rise in El Calafate until around 9:30 am. This was the first time in my life -- and probably the last -- that I managed to be up before the sunrise three days in a row.

We entered the park and started to board the boat, and immediately I realized how underdressed I was for the excursion. I had on a ski coat (without my liner, which I didn't feel like packing) and that was about it. In my sleep-deprived stupor, I couldn't find my gloves. And, I didn't even bother packing a hat or scarf. I'm not sure how after 17 years of schooling it did not occur to me that a trip to see glaciers -- on a boat -- might be cold.

But, I played through. Being cold was not the worst part of the boat trip. No, shortly after I got on board, I realized that by some stroke of horrible luck, every irritating person I had encountered thus far in my trip from Buenos Aires to El Calafate was on the boat. Cranky old American woman who yelled at her husband in the BA airport? Check. Woman I almost took out at the baggage carousel in the El Calafate airport? Check. And, oh yes, all 40 of the loud and pushy, middle-aged Argentine businessmen staying at my hotel? Check.

But again, I played through. The cranky American woman turned out to be nice, and her husband was a ridiculously cute 70+ year-old New Yorker now living in Queens (originally from Brooklyn) who had been married for 50 years (but not to the cranky woman) before his wife died (may she rest in peace). The woman from the baggage carousel also turned out to be nice. The businessmen continued to be overbearing, but these are little problems.

Anyway, the glaciers we saw that day were pretty awesome. But, even cooler were the icebergs. The captain navigated our boat through a minefield of icebergs to get to the Upsala glacier. There were a few (seemingly) close calls, and it was all I could do not to yell out "Iceberg, Straight Ahead" in a goofy cockney accent. (For the record, it's the same British accent I use when saying "Hallo Guvn'r.") Of course, then I would collapse into giggles and the people near me would shoot me strange looks.

The icebergs ranged in size from big to small. They also ranged in color -- some looked like small translucent ice sculptures rising out of the water, others were mammoth chunks of jagged windex-colored ice, and a few even reminded me of the icey "blue" flavor of the striped Good Humor snowcones from my youth. A few pics:

Thursday -- In Which I Glimpse Awesomeness

On Thursday, I went to see the BIG glacier -- Perito Moreno. This glacier is HUGE. It's 5km wide, 30km long, and rises some 60 meters above the water. It's so big that on the other side of the glacier is Chile.

The glaciers are all nestled in the Andes mountains. The first time I saw the Andes mountains was last fall when we all went to Argentine wine country, Mendoza. We went horseback riding on an estancia at the foot of the mountains. It was without question one of the most memorable days of my life, in large part because of the scenery. Beautiful blue sky, puffy white clouds, and the overwhelming and majestic mountains. So, I was excited about seeing the mountains again in Patagonia.

The thing is, I cannot even begin to describe how beautiful the Andes mountains are, and how it makes me feel to be around them. Neither words nor pictures come even close. The same thing is true of the glacier Perito Moreno. It is truly breathtaking. I spent a long time just staring at the glacier at different observation decks. I felt very small and humbled in the presence of the grandeur of the scenery, blessed to have the opportunity to see it in person, and connected with nature in a spiritual (albeit non-religious) kind of way. I'm including some pictures, but these pale in comparison to the real thing:

You can't see it in these pictures, but earlier in the day there was a full double rainbow over the glacier.

One of the things that's cool is when the glacier "calves." Calving is when a piece of the glacier breaks off into the water, forming an iceberg. I saw a huge 50 meter piece of the glacier break into small pieces and fall into the water. You can tell when the glacier is about to calve, because you hear a loud, thunderous rumble.

The other interesting thing is how different the scenery is in El Calafate, the town where I was staying about an hour away. My hotel overlooked Lake Argentina, the same lake that surrounds the glaciers. But, in El Calafate the lake is a beautiful, deep turquoise blue color, as if you were in the Caribbean, whereas near the glaciers it is a more translucenty shade of blue. Also, the land on the way from El Calafate to the glaciers is borderline desert -- brown, flat plateaus with sheep and yellow calafate plants dotting the landscape. There are no buildings around except for a random estancia house every now and then, and you can see across the land for miles.

This is near the entrance to the park.

And Now A Word From Our Sponsors

2007-05-24T22:56:00.001-04:00

Okay. They aren't my sponsors, but I wanted to share with you my favorite commercial from Argentina television. I don't know if it's the music or the look on the guy's face or the fact that I've been trying for a month to figure out what the guy says when he arrives at the girl's house, but I find it cute. Which is good. Because it's on all the time.

Oh -- And if anyone who speaks Spanish could tell me what the guy acually says, I'd be forever grateful.

And Now Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Programming

2007-05-24T22:10:00.000-04:00

Sorry for the brief hiatus. Last time on Jamón Jamón: I was in Buenos Aires having a jolly-good time, and getting ready to leave for Patagonia.

Buenos Aires

Monday was my last night in Buenos Aires, and we went out for final hurrah on the town. Barb, Missy, and I met up at this fantastic bar called Milion. They took an old, fancypants townhouse mansion and turned it into a bar. If we were in New York, I guarantee that this bar would have a velvet rope and bottle service and preppies would be getting The New York Times to write articles about how they have a prep school reunion there every week. (And I would have to come prepared with a huge stack of "you are a douche" cards.)

But, fortunately it's not in New York. So, it is just a normal bar, but in the coolest setting. You enter through a side door off the street, presumably where the carriage used to drop off the lord of the house before heading back to the carriage house. Anyway, you go up a fancypants wrought-iron staircase to the second floor bar. All the architectural details of the old house are there, like old doors and beautiful carved wood molding. But, it's still manages to look hip. It's an eclectic mix of people, too -- from a group of suits enjoying some post-work drinks, to someone entertaining their grandparents, to regular people like us. Even better, it's cheap. Combined, we had six huge glasses of delicious wine -- probably the equivalent of twelve glasses, if the bartender had been filling the glasses to regular level. Total bill for all the drinks: 39 pesos, or about $13 USD. Un-friggin-believable. So, not only is the place spared from being overrun by pretentious status-seeking wannabes, it's ridiculously cheap. Best. Bar. Ever.

Afterwards, we tried to go to my favorite restaurant in BA, La Cabrera, only to find out it was closed on Mondays. I was crushed, as it is truly fantastic. So, we went somewhere else and had some tasty steak and empanadas. Then, I said my goodbyes and headed home to pack. I was pretty sad to leave Buenos Aires. But, I have a strange feeling I'll be back soon enough.

Patagonia

So, Tuesday morning I was off to Patagonia. I was working on about four hours of sleep, and I made my way to the airport looking like I had slept even less. (Of course, there were women there dressed like they were getting ready to go to a charity benefit or Junior League luncheon, or whatever they call it down here. I have always had a serious distrust of anyone who shows up to an early-morning flight in makeup and heels and a small purse. Why don't they have toothpaste on their sleeve and an overstuffed carry-on to schlepp around, like everyone else?)

After several hours in the airport waiting for Aerolineas Argentinas to decide they felt like operating aircrafts, I flew into El Calafate, a small town in southern Patagonia on the edge of the Andes mountains, and a short trip from about a gazillion glaciers.

I have lots more to say about the last two days in El Calafate, but I'm ex-hausted from all this activity and heading off to bed. Also, if I kept going with this novella, no one would read anything. So, like a bad episode of Lost, I'm leaving you hanging. More details -- and hopefully some pictures -- tomorrow.

To the Left, To the Left

2007-05-20T23:39:00.001-04:00

It was a good weekend here in South America. Very sunny, very mellow. My friend Marcella is now here in BA, which has been much fun. The first time I visited Argentina last fall, I went with Barb, Marcella and our friend Lorie. Now, three of the four of us have quit our jobs as lawyers and are spending some time traveling. Barb was first, then me, then Marcella. (We're anxiously waiting for Lorie to quit, but I think that fact that she's getting married next weekend might throw a wrench in that plan.) Anyway, so we're all here in Argentina for the moment, and it looks like we're all going to Asia next month together, too. I'm very excited.

We spent Friday night out celebrating Marcella's return to BA -- and well, celebrating life in general. It made it very tough for me to get up at the crack of dawn on Saturday to go to Uruguay, but I played through. I took a rapid ferry from Buenos Aires to Colonia, Uruguay -- it's another of those UNESCO World Heritage sites, and apparently one of the 1000 places to see before you die. So, I only have 999 left. (1000 seem like a lot of places, no? I mean, it's not very selective. I can't even think of a 1000 places total in the world, let alone 1000 places that I think I need to see before I die. I think they need to do a little editing of that list.)

So, Colonia was cute. It's a coastal town in Uruguay established in the 16th Century, I think. Lots of cobblestone streets and old buildings. I went to Colonia with Marcella's friend Ashley, and we wandered around the streets and ate lunch on the water, watching the sailboats go by. It was fantastic, but it did make me miss summers in Maryland spent hanging out on the water.

Tomorrow is my last day in Buenos Aires before I leave for Patagonia. I'm planning on taking care of some last minute errands and shopping, and hanging out with Barb and Missy. I can't believe a month has gone by so quickly. I also can't believe that we have only known Missy for a couple of weeks. In my old life, knowing someone two weeks meant that you probably had dinner once or something. But here, Barb, Missy and I have been running around the last two weeks as if we have all been friends for years -- sipping fancy cocktails in the afternoon, singing Beyonce's Irreplaceable, scouting out high priced hookers in hotel bars over sterling silver bowls of pringles, and generally having a great time. I think it's a completely different timetable when your life centers around leisure. And, I also think that traveling makes you more open to meeting people in a way that I had neither the time nor the energy for when I was in NY.

In some ways, my trip reminds me of being in college, when your whole life was basically about new adventures and new people. There was a certain feeling when you were younger that anything could happen, and your whole life could change completely in a moment. As I grew older and more jaded, I lost that feeling of hope and promise and excitement. I'm glad to have it back, even if it turns out to be only for a few months.

Bangkok, Oriental Setting

2007-05-18T01:24:00.000-04:00

I just bought my tickets for the next leg of my trip after South America: Vietnam, Cambodia, and Thailand. Thanks again to everyone who passed on good ideas about where to go and what to do in SE Asia. (I'm open to any other suggestions.)

I can't wait to go there...and I can't wait to ride an elephant in Thailand. Until then, I'll continue to hum One Night in Bangkok. (They play that a lot around here, being in love with the 80's and everything.)

P.S.

2007-05-17T11:45:00.000-04:00

I forgot to mention that on our walk over to Palermo yesterday Barb's purse mysteriously disappeared. I think it was either the work of a very talented purse snatcher or a faulty strap. We're still not sure. In any case, Barb is very prepared for such scenarios, and didn't suffer too great a loss.

My favorite part -- if it's not too rude to have a favorite part in this kind of unpleasant situation -- is that Barb was less upset about losing the purse, than the fact that she had lost a bunch of small bills and change that she had been hording for weeks. (Like I said -- Smalls bills are so valuable that people will resort to a life of crime and purse-snatching just to get a hold of some.)

Hot, Hot, Hot

2007-05-17T00:17:00.000-04:00

I'm leaving Buenos Aires in just under a week for Patagonia, and I can't believe the time has gone so quickly. Tonight -- or should I say this afternoon -- I met up with Barb and Missy to have lunch and wander around Palermo, ducking into various shops along the way.

Palermo is the neighborhood next to mine (Recoleta). Recolata is kind of like the Upper East Side, with a lot of fancy hotels and shops. (I learned on Monday that the Alvear Palace, one of the fanciest hotels in BA, which also happens to be around the corner from my apartment, will bring you Pringles in a sterling silver bowl when you order a drink there. It's right up your alley, Doogs. I have decided that's how I'm eating Pringles from now on. Enough of this can business.)

But, I digress. Palermo is kind of more like the Village. Well, I say Palermo, but there are actually a bunch of different subsets of Palermo: Palermo proper, Palermo Chico (near the MALBA art museum), and Palermo Viejo. Palermo Viejo is where I like to go out for dinner or drinks, and it is broken up into Palermo Soho and Palermo Hollywood. (The two mini-barrios are separated by railroad tracks. Palermo Soho is hip/chic, whereas Palermo Hollywood is literally on the wrong side of the tracks -- it's pretty cool, but still has plenty of areas that have not yet been gentrified.) Confused yet? It took me the better part of a month to finally figure out what part of Palermo I was in. Don't ask me to tell you why they are called Palermo Soho or Palermo Hollywood.

Anyhoo, I went out with Barb and Missy this afternoon in Palermo Viejo, and we ended up shopping, going to an extended happy hour (which exists in name here, if not really in spirit -- Portenos aren't big drinkers), and then going for a late (spicy hot) dinner at one of the three Thai/Vietnamese restaurants in town. After weeks of tasty but mild beef and cheese and jamon, the three-alarm curry was a nice change-up.

All in all, it was a good day. As I was out tonight, I was thinking that I really could continue like this forever.

Gooooooolllllllll!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2007-05-14T11:52:00.000-04:00

In my next life, I want to be a soccer hooligan. Wait -- I take that back. I want to be a South American futbol player. Millions of fans adore them. Plus -- they get to wear cleats, cute striped knee-high socks, and slide across the grass. (I love it when they slide, or when they all line up in front of the goal in a wall of men.)

There are two soccer teams in Buenos Aires -- Boca Juniors and River Plate. I was told that Boca fans are more gritty compared to the bourgeoisie who root for River Plate. I took that to mean the Boca crowd would be rowdier. So, with that, I went to a soccer game last night at La Bombonera (tr: The Chocolate Box), the Boca Juniors' stadium.

We got to the stadium about the same time as Boca arrived. They pulled up into a bus, and then throngs of fans threw an impromptu mini-ticker tape parade while the players exited their tour bus. Awesome!

Our seats for the game were in the upper deck, where the rows of seats ascend in a super steep angle. It took about a good 45 minutes before I wasn't freaking out about how high up we were and how easy it would be to tumble down the steps to my death.

I recovered, and watched the game. The soccer was cool, but it was more interesting to see how excited the fans were. One whole end of the stadium is reserved for the die-hard fans. They jumped up and down the entire game -- over two hours. Also, they have their own drum section that lead the many ballads that the fans sing to the team. The singing went on non-stop for the whole game, too. As far as I can tell, most of the songs were something like: We sing, Boca, We love you even more, Come what may. I was told not to be surprised if the stadium started shaking from all the jumping, but that never happened.

Interestingly, there is a separate section just for the visiting teams' fans -- it is separated from the rest of the seats in the stadium by a twelve-foot wall covered with barbed wire, and a line of policemen. Also, when the game is over, the visitor fans have a separate entrance, and everyone is held at the bottom of the stadium while the visitors leave.

I didn't see any brawls between fans of the two different teams, but I was amused at how people here approach injuries on the field. Probably 3 or 4 Arsenal players fell down during the game and didn't get up until the medics came out. Unlike the US, where everyone claps when an injured person is taken off the field, the Boca fans jeered (by whistling, if you can believe it) and then sang a song that went something like: Let's go, Let's play, Get your faking arse off the freakin' field. Okay, well maybe not that last part. But that was the sentiment, if not the literal translation.

It's really amazing to see how passionate the fans are.

Also of note: at the game, they serve the usual hot dogs and hamburgers, but also something called Choripan. It's basically a delicious Chorizo (sausage) sandwich, all for the grand total of roughly $1.30. But, they do not sell beer in the stadium. I guess everyone is rowdy enough without the cerveza. That's probably okay, though, since Argentine beer isn't that good. At half time, we all joined the mob of people trying to get a Choripan. There are no lines, just a mass of several dozen people surrounding a woman at the grill and waving small-bills around. (Small bills, by the way, are horded, here. I have no idea why having change is such a big deal, but it is. You seriously plan your day trying to figure out ways to acquire more small bills, short of resorting to prostitution or street miming.)

In the end, Boca tied with Arsenal 1-1. I found the tie very unsatisfying -- someone should win, dammit. (It would have been the perfect time for goal kicks and the wall of men.) The guide who took us to the game was much more zen about it. He said that it was not a loss, and that they would have the opportunity to come out and play again. His reaction surprised me a little, since he's kind of a super fan, with Boca tattoos and Boca paraphernalia from 15 years ago that he superstitiously wears to every game lest Boca may lose. But, I guess it's like the songs they sing about Boca -- Boca fans have an unconditional love for their team.

Chile - Part Two

2007-05-11T16:57:00.000-04:00

So we're back from Chile. It was such a fun trip. Barb, Missy and I flew to Santiago for a few days, with a day trip in the middle to Valparaiso. I wish we had spent more time in Chile, but for some reason that I don't know remember, we only booked a few days away.

I had heard mixed reviews about Santiago, so I wasn't sure what to expect. Some things turned out to be true -- as reported, there is a thick layer of smog that blankets a good portion of the city, and makes viewing the nearby mountains difficult. But, the area of town we stayed in (Providencia) was pleasant and sunny, with no smog -- and lots of bars serving pisco sours and playing awesome 80's alternative music.

We decided over drinks that Santiago is the Vince Vaughn to Buenos Aires' Brad Pitt. Sure, BA is beautiful, glamorous, photographs well, and is the subject of many articles. But Santiago is cute in its own way, and, I think, a bit more easygoing. What I will probably remember the most is how friendly and outgoing the people we met in Santiago were. Oh -- and also that for some strange reason there are a lot of hot dog restaurants.

We took a day trip to Valparaiso, a smallish port town on the coast of Chile. Valp'o is apparently a UNESCO World Heritage Site, although I really have no idea what that means -- it's just something I keep seeing in guide books. Except for the few blocks near the water, the rest of the town is built into a mountain, with colorful houses stacked atop each other all the way to the top. We wandered around the various streets and checked out the house of Pablo Neruda, a Chilean poet.

Some pictures (if you are into that kind of thing):

The town is full of vibrant colors -- either from the house paint, the art, or even the graffiti -- much of which is stenciled repeatedly onto walls. (If you look, there's a little Sid Vicious stencil in the left hand side of the one picture.)

Greetings from Chile

2007-05-10T04:05:00.000-04:00

Beep, beep.

Everything's Gone Green

2007-05-07T23:07:00.000-04:00

I'm heading out to Chile for a few days. But, I leave you with a little gift until I return. By request, I happened to take some photos the last time I was in the neighborhood near the Cat Park (aka the Botanical Gardens). Enjoy!

Take me to your leader.

More cats.

The stagnant fountain adds to the Grey Gardens feel.

Just so you know I'm not completely heartless -- kittens!

Don't Stop Believin'

2007-05-06T16:40:00.000-04:00

Everything 1980's is very popular here in Buenos Aires. I see people wearing 80's style clothing on the streets with no apparent irony -- off the shoulder numbers, or slouchy boots, or sequin headbands. (I've also seen a few trucker hats, too, which I associate more with 2002 Billy-Burg Hipster, although in reality the original incarnation was in the 80's.) The 80's fashion is probably a trend that the portenos should embrace one last brief time for posterity, and then set it free.

But, the music. The music. I'm loving the 80's music. Because, it's not just mainstream 80's. I'm hearing tons of Cure and New Order and I'm loving it. Last night Barb and I met up with our new ex-pat friend Missy at a local bar. (Thanks for the intro, Kelly.) I seriously felt like I was in high school again -- apart from the fact that we were drinking $6 beers (instead of Bartles & James) and were out way past curfew. They played New Order and Depeche Mode and Blondie and even the somewhat obscure song by Camoflauge, "Love is a Shield." (I hesitate to call Camoflauge a one-hit wonder, since I'm not even sure the song qualifies as a hit. Still, it was a hit to me, and I played it over and over again when I was full of after school, teenage angst.)

I'm surprised at how many lyrics I still remember from the old songs. It made me wish that my friends from high school, Becky and Dana, were there with me to sing it out. It also made me want to track down some Kar-a-oke. Suffice it to say that the music is making me very happy.

Also making me happy -- my friend Danielle and her mom arrived this morning. We just spent the afternoon wandering around a street fair in my neighborhood and the Recoleta Cemetery. The cemetery is an old, gothic, Mausoleum-filled cemetery, home to the grave of Evita Peron and many, many feral cats. (As far as I can tell, there is no direct connection between the two, although both have helped make Andrew Lloyd Webber a very rich man.)

The Long Hot Summer

2007-05-05T00:48:00.000-04:00

So, it's fall in Buenos Aires -- essentially May is their November. Yet, it is so hot and humid right now, it feels like I'm living out the movie A Time to Kill. Except, instead of looking all glowy and glisteny and sipping lemonade, I feel like I came out of a swamp. And there's no Matthew McConaughey around trying to pretend that he's a lawyer, instead of a pot-smoking, naked bongo player possibly having a clandestine affair with america's beloved sports hero, Lance Armstrong. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.)

The interesting thing is that the Portenos think it's kind of cold out. I see people walking down the street in a jacket and scarf, and it's 70 degrees out. I guess because the weather is pretty mellow here, they get excited when it drops slightly, and they get to break out their fall clothing. It reminds me of when I was a kid and always wanted to wear a new outfit to the first day of school -- even though September in Baltimore was usually swampy and it was completely inappropriate to wear a sweater and jeans to school. Proof in point -- the second day, I always wore shorts.

I went to dinner tonight with Barb at this awesome Italian place we stumbled onto. I love BA restaurants. While we were waiting for a table, they brought us Champagne to ease the pain that we had to wait about five minutes for a table. (They also do that at my favorite restaurant, La Cabrera, too. More on La Cabrera later.) We had apps and a fantastic bottle of wine and yummy pasta dishes. Total bill was less than $40. And, they brought us a little cordial of Limoncello at the end, just for good measure. It's so civilized.

So now, I just got home from dinner. (If you don't wake up until 2 pm, then dinner at 11:30 pm makes perfect sense). My belly is full of yummy food, and I'm going to try to do something to moderate the swampiness. Sweet dreams, all.

My Super Sweet Sunny Afternoon

2007-05-03T16:42:00.000-04:00

I had the best of intentions to go to the museum yesterday, again. But, I was walking over to the museum through the park, and it was just too sunny out. So, I decided to lounge on a park bench and spend the afternoon reading my book and people watching.

Others apparently had a similar idea. There was this one woman, though, who wandered into the park with a HUGE, super-sized, two-weeks-in-Europe, suitcase. I was kind of curious what she had in the suitcase. A picnic? A puppet show? Illegal drugs to sell? After about ten minutes, she pulled a radio out of the case. I waited. Fifteen minutes later, about five or six people showed up. Suitcase Woman pulled some sparkly hats out of the case, distributed them to the group, and then started teaching everyone a choreographed dance routine.

My first thought was that this was some sort of practice for a South American episode of My Super Sweet Sixteen. But, the dance lacked the precocious raunchiness that characterizes most SS16 dances. Also, instead of singling out one person, humiliating her for no apparent reason except maybe that she's prettier than the birthday girl, and then telling her that she can no longer be a VIP at the party, these people all seemed to be getting along.

The group stopped dancing, and then they put on garbage bags, also from the Super Sweet Suitcase. Interestingly, they not only put the garbage bags on top, but also over their legs, as if they were signing up for the sack race at their dad's annual company picnic. After that, they walked -- or hopped -- over to me and asked me to take a picture. Which I did. (And then snuck one on my own camera.)

Then, about five or six other people walked over and joined the group. The new people asked me to film a video of the Super Sweet Garbage Bag Dance Troupe, using their digital camera. I was expecting someone to do something exciting -- like the dance, but with the trashbags on. No one actually did anything, however. After about twenty seconds of filming a bunch of people standing around, they said thanks and took back their camera. And, even more strange, the people that asked me to film it just stood next to me. I mean -- why bother asking a stranger to film something if you aren't going to be in the film? Maybe they just wanted to direct. (Seriously -- who doesn't these days?)

May Day!!!

2007-05-01T10:43:00.000-04:00

Today is a national holiday in Argentina, May Day. I'm not entirely sure what everyone is celebrating. I'm told that it's sort of like our Thanksgiving, but somehow I doubt that there will be turkey and stuffing (or anything that doesn't involve mayonesa, Argentina's favorite condiment). I've asked around whether there are any parades or festivals or maypoles or whatnot, and so far, I've heard of nothing -- only that maybe people will catch up on sleep, and that everything is closed today.

It's been a pretty chill few days. The weather was sunny and dreamy the last few days. Yesterday, I went on a very fun bike tour around town and I now find myself sunburned and covered in mosquito bites. But it was worth it. Over the weekend, Barb and I met up in Palermo to wander around, and also to have dinner at a fondue place. (I love this place: $25 total for the dinner for both of us, including one of the best bottles of wine on the list.)

A number of peeps from home have asked about my Spanish. It's kind of hit or miss -- I can function, and am great at ordering in restaurants, but I can't really emote or carry a conversation. For the most part, people are happy that you are just trying. But not always... The other day, I took a cab back to my apartment and the cab driver was trying to have a conversation with me. I told him that I didn't understand, and that I only spoke "a little Spanish." Even after this, he kept asking me questions in Spanish, and I told him again that I didn't understand. His response, in Spanish: "A little Spanish?" followed by uncontrollable belly laughter.

He clearly sucked, but it got me thinking about taking Spanish lessons. I think that I'm going to try and take some classes. I hate not being able to talk to people, other than to live out the dialogues from my seventh grade Spanish class, which I still remember, word for word. For example:

1: Buenos dias, Senor.
2: Buenos dias, Senorita.
1: Como esta usted?
2: Muy bien gracias, y usted?
1: Asi, Asi.
2: Ay -- lo siento.
1: Adios. Hasta la vista.
2: Adios. Hasta manana.

Thanks, Senor Randolph. I'm grateful for everything we learned, but if only you had taught us a dialogue about how to make an appointment for a hot stone massage.

A Day in the Life (in ten paragraphs or less)

2007-04-27T09:56:00.000-04:00

The past few days I have been tooling around town doing the kinds of things I might have done if I were home in New York. Yesterday, I tried to motivate myself to do something enriching -- i.e., go to an art museum -- but I ended up skipping it for now and taking a nap. (That basically summarizes my entire NY cultural experience in a nutshell.)

One of the things that I did manage was go to a couple spinning classes at a local gym. Spinning here is, in theory, just like in the US -- a bunch of people sit in a room of stationery bikes and change their pace, position, etc. according to the music. The first day I went was an experience in humility. This class ended up being kind of like a party, though, just with a lot more sweating.
The instructor spoke in a streaming mumble of Spanish the entire time, with his mouth really close to the microphone, thus further obscuring his mumble. I didn't understand a word, which the instructor figured out before class when I asked him (in poor Spanish) where to buy water. My so-called back-up plan to just watch what everyone else was doing fell through because no one was doing the same thing. Everyone was riding a bike, but some people were standing, others were sitting. The guy sitting next to me was translating what to do, but his translations were a bit cryptic. ("Three minutes -- you go!" Go where? These are stationery bikes.) Meanwhile, the instructor was cruising around the classroom chatting with people. At one point, I know he gave me a shout out during the continuous mumble, but I have nary a clue about what he actually said. Nevertheless, I really enjoyed the class and promised the instructor I'd come back tonight.

I also went to see a movie, Disturbia (called Paranoia in Argentina). Nothing too unusual about the movie theater. It's assigned seating like it is in Europe. Oh, and it's cheap. I think I paid about $3.50 for my ticket. The one thing that cracked me up was the concession stand. I ordered popcorn and a drink, and the woman tried to upsell me just like they do in the US. For cincuento centavas mas, you can get the larger drink.

The movie was in English with Spanish subtitles, so I continued my learning experience. At least during the parts when my eyes weren't closed. It was crazy scary. When I came home that night, I was up until 5 in the morning because I was convinced one of the neighbors was a serial killer. I mean, with the screaming kids and the unnaturally loud waterfall, it all makes sense. (5 in the morning, by the way, is why I ended up skipping the museum yesterday.)

One good thing about the Argentine lifestyle is that people like to stay out late, and up late. So, for example, if you go to an 8:30 pm class at the gym, there's still time to meet for dinner afterwards. Or, if you stay up until 5 am scared to check out the noise in your bedroom for fear it's the psychopath neighbor poised to bludgeon you with a potato masher (you having hidden all the knives in the apartamento in case this very scenario happened to occur), there's good tv on to keep you occupied.

So, I watched this awesome BBC documentary about Kurt Cobain. Basically the only people who would agree to talk to the filmmaker were a bunch of random and peripheral nutburgers whose only connection seemed to be that they had allegedly taken drugs with Cobain and Courtney Love. Oh, that and the crazy executioner guy that Courtney Love allegedly tried to hire to kill Cobain for $50,000. Seriously, the guy was straight from central casting, with a big beer belly, no shirt, and a black, leather executioner's mask. I think deep down he's probably a really lovable teddy bear of a guy who is misunderstood because of the mask...oh, and the song he sang about killing whores.

One interesting thing I learned: according to Kurt's high school girlfriend, Kurt weighed about 120 pounds, and was really self-conscious about it. He would layer on two pairs of long underwear, jeans, a shirt, sweatshirt, flannel, coat, etc just to appear bulkier. So basically, me and my friends spent our college years in unattractive grunge-esque attire, wearing ugly flannel plaid shirts and ill fitting men's jeans, all because Kurt Cobain was self-conscious about his skinniness.

By the end of the documentary, I had gotten over my fear about my psychopathic neighbor, and had moved on to being scared that Courtney Love would come to Argentina and kill me. Bitch is crazy. I'm taking a big risk even posting this. But I do it all for you guys...

Barefoot in the Park

2007-04-24T19:10:00.000-04:00

Today was a beautiful day, so I wandered over from my neghborhood, to the nearby Palermo section of town, where there are a multitude of parks and plazas and what not. When walking around, I realized what Central Park has over lots of other parks. So far, the BA parks I visited were very pretty, but not so much peaceful. One of the city's main roads -- with TEN lanes -- cuts through the various parks, which leads to lots of traffic noise.

Finally, I decided to walk over to the Botanical Gardens to sit and read my book for a while. The strangest thing about this park -- the biggest attraction was not the foliage, as you'd expect given the name. No -- there were probably several hundred feral cats roaming the grounds, and it's not that big of a park. I've never seen anything like it. Very Grey Gardens. Needless to say, not being a cat person, I was a little creeped out and left. I felt like I had stepped into a crazy sci-fi movie where cats took over the planet, and I figured it was only a matter of time before all of the cats figured out my vehement anti-cat stance and clawed me to my death. I was cursing myself for not bringing my camera to take a picture of the cat park to show everyone. (Sorry -- I doubt I'll be going back.)

Tonight I'm heading out with my friend Barb to a Scandinavian restaurant that apparently serves something other than beef or jamon. This should be exciting. The other night, Barb and I went to an Italian place for dinner and ordered a salad to try to balance out our daily meat intake. What arrived was a plate full of about a half pound of shaved proscuitto and a little bit of arugula on the side. What can I say? Portenos love their jamon.

Can You Hear the Lambs Screaming, Clarice?

2007-04-23T14:05:00.000-04:00

It's been rainy and/or overcast the past few days that I've been here. I think that I brought the bad weather with me from North America. (I heard this past weekend was just gorgeous up in Maryland.) The good thing about being unemployed, however, is that when it's raining, you don't have to do anything you don't want to. So, no trudging through a torrential downpour to do something that you didn't want to do in the first place, such as go to work and quibble about discovery, or run an errand or something.

Today, for example, I'm hanging out on my couch and watching a tv movie called "An Unexpected Life" with Rizzo from Grease, S. Epatha Merkerson, and Ru Paul. A strange combination, to be sure, but after running around in the rain yesterday, I'm enjoying chilling like a villian for a little while. (Plus -- I'm learning a lot from the spanish subtitles.) I'm contemplating what to do next: either to go for a run, or to take a bath in the jacuzzi tub. Tough choices.

My apartamento is generally nice, with a few quirks. One of the things that you never know when you rent an apartment are those hidden things that you only figure out after moving in -- like really low water pressure or lots of noisy neighbors. My apartment in Brooklyn had such bad water pressure that I always felt like I was living out that episode on Seinfeld with the low water pressure bad hair.

This apartment doesn't have the water pressure issue -- exactly the opposite, in fact, as I've soaked the entire bathroom each time I've showered. No, it's just noisy. There's a unnaturally loud waterfall in the back alley/courtyard. Even with all the windows closed, it sounds like a mini-Iguazu Falls. But, I've gotten used to it. I discovered today that the back of my building abuts an elementary school. Holy cow -- are these kids or soccer hooligans? Starting at what seemed like the crack of dawn, the kids were acting out some sort of schoolyard Lord of the Flies. Or, so I assumed because I can't actually see them. I could only hear them screaming and howling and guffawing at about a thousand decibels. Not exactly music to one's ears when nursing a hangover. It was so loud that even with all the windows closed, and I was in another room in the apartment with the doors shut, you could still hear the shouting.

This went on for a few hours, and oddly enough, this phrase popped into my cloudy head: "Can you hear the lambs screaming, Clarice?" It occurs to me that it is not normal for Hannibal Lecter quotes to pop into one's head when thinking of kids, but this is how my strange, pop-cuture filled brain works. I wish that were on tv right now -- I'm sure I'd learn a lot of Spanish from the subtitles.

I'm Here!!!!!

2007-04-21T11:25:00.000-04:00

I arrived in Buenos Aires this morning. I've been here a few hours -- just enough time to check into my apartment, shower, figure out the internet in this place, and stock my fridge with agua con gas and queso. (Most of the essentials -- I'm still lacking some wine, though.)

The trip down here was super long, but was the best that one could hope for under the circumstances. I somehow lucked into an exit row seat on the plane with no one sitting next to me. I think that's as good as it gets in coach. (I take that back -- the only thing that would have been better is if the hot Frenchman that I saw in the waiting area would have ended up in the exit row seat next to me. But, you can't have everything.)

Interestingly, I was surprised to learn that on Delta, booze is no longer free on international flights. When did this happen, and what is this world coming to? I'm so disappointed in Delta. Badly done, Delta. Badly done, indeed.

I'm sure I'll have more details to report later... my friend Barb is on her way over to say hola.