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Just another reason I love my dad

2011-08-18T11:40:00.001-07:00

My dad is the King of the deal. If you've known me for a long time, you've undoubtedly been the recipient of one of his freebies... maybe a 32-ounce powerade he got for $.08, or a bottle of soda the store paid HIM to take because he had so many coupons it cost him negative dollars.

Dad is also the King of amassing shit that is given away for free in the first place. I once bought a 5-lb bag of hotel shampoos and lotions to school for the kids in the club I was running. There was enough for all 60 of them.

Whenever I visit my parents, on my old bed, alongside the neatly organized collection of purple leftovers from my sister's wedding, is a bag of random stuff dad got for free or negative cost, and generally some coupons he thinks I can use- usually contact lens, cat, or feminine hygiene-related. I visit yesterday to find that dad had been to a health fair with my sister, and they were giving away NYC brand condoms. Dad thought this was the coolest. So the bag is filled with the usual- a bottle of saline, a couple of coupons for cat littler, 2 bottles of 5-hour energy for Justin, and about 3 boxes worth of NYC condoms.

Now, you'd think this would be awkward. But keep in mind that this is the same dad that bought all my tampons, pad, and pantiliners when I was young because he didn't trust mom to do the shopping. He was the one who washed all the clothes, even the underwear with the unmentionable stains that happen when you are a menstruating female. Not really sure how mom got out of that one. He was also the dad that found the first errant condom wrapper in my pocket that alerted the parental units that I was no longer "daddy's little girl." So, in the grand scheme of things, not too awkward.

We look down at this big bag of condoms and I say "wow. I'm good, dad," not AT ALL wanting to engage in a conversation about my reproductive health choices.
He says "You have to take them.... aren't they great?"
"They're great, dad."
"I have some for your cousins, too!" and he pulls out a bag of about 50 more condoms.
"Wow, dad."

I agreed to take them and leave 'em in a bowl at the door for our guests. I think this made him happy. Those condoms will find good homes tonight.

On my way out, dad rushes to the elevator and say "Hey! I forgot to ask! Do you wear hipster underwear?" I instantly deduce that dad got the same Victoria's Secret coupons in the mail that I got for free hipster panties- I have two such coupons, but I lamented that my preferred choice of thong was not on offer.

"Not really, dad," I say, "but if you have no one else to give them to, I'll take them, size small... in fact, I am CURRENTLY wearing the Victoria's secret underwear that you got me the last time they had a coupon!"

Dad say "That, Cindy, is too much information!"

Fascinating.

Bilbao is NOT the place to watch Spain win the world cup

2010-07-14T01:23:00.001-07:00

I was under the impression that Bilbao was ugly. I feel like I read somewhere that the only reason to come to Bilbao was for the Guggenheim.
I think it’s beautiful! It’s a modern, seemingly well designed city- remarkably flat, walkable, bike paths everywhere, and some of the most interesting pretty bridges I’ve ever seen! There’s a metro, a bus system, and an above-ground tram called Euskotren. Monica and I spent the first day just walking around, enjoying the architecture.
Just about the only thing they did NOT have was a giant screen to watch the final match of the world cup. We asked a group of 4 old ladies on a bench. “No idea,” they said after much internal discussion, like they were on The View, “maybe you should ask a man!” The man we asked had no idea, and the group of young men dressed in red (Spain’s color) said that there were a couple of bars we should go to.
We go to one bar where we find some seats. People start strolling in, but instead of wearing red, they’re completely outfitted in green (the basque team color) or orange (Dutch colors.)
We were in a bar of Basque separatists. For real.
Every time a Spaniard got hurt (which was often,) the people in the bar cheered. They cheered “Puta Espana!! Espana es puta!” This delighted Monica and me to no end. We figured it was win-win… if Spain loses, we celebrate with the Basque separatists, and if Spain wins, we get the hell out of there as soon as possible and celebrate with the Spaniards.
When Spain finally scored its winning and only goal in 2nd overtime, there was a deep sigh from the bar and we got out of there.
We followed the crowd to the main plaza in Bilbao, and all of the 17-year olds in town had converged upon the fountain, taking off their shirts, cheering and screaming. Police in full riot gear surrounded the plaza, waiting. And that was that. We found no party… we just ate some tapas and went home. Kind of a let-down.

Hasta luego, Santiago de Compostela

2010-07-10T13:12:00.000-07:00

I am sitting at a bar, across from the bus station of Santiago de Compostela. I have my vino tinto in hand, hoping it serves as a sleep aid for the impending 10-hour bus ride I have ahead of me, the sad little sounds of the World Cup consolation match behind me. It's definitely time to go, but I was so happy with my choice to be here.

There was only one poster I saw around town advertising dancing at a club called NASA, on the northwest side of town, near the university. There was a lineup of about 7 bands, and it was supposed to start at 11 pm last night. I talked all the girls into going.

Constance wanted to go to a Villa Stellae event, which is a Xacobeo music festival that takes place all over town... concertos and such. It was at the Plaza de Abastos (where the local "farmers market" takes place during the day.) I had a cafe cortado doble at my favorite coffee shop called M* (one of the few places where I found WiFi, lots of newspapers and magazines) anticipating a long evening. The woman complimented my Spanish. Perhaps, this is why this place is my favorite.

I got to the market a little early. It's in the old town, which is basically a circular labrynth. I always have map in hand, as it's all the same color and I never really know where I am going. I wind up confused, and I emerge on the opposite side of town, now having to go back around the perimeter just to figure out how to get back. I get there 20 minutes late.

I am lucky that Constance is aggravated with not having found a seat, because I am completely disinterested in the music. It was a trio of sax, (clarinet?) and piano, and I think it was just CHEESY. I hear a lot of good jazz these days, and this just didn't cut it.

We are now 4 girls- Constance and Sonal (the other French girl at the school) and Dominique. Ironically, it was the French girls who had decided first that they were sick of speaking in Spanish, and would alternate between French and English. The poor Swiss-German girl looked like her head was going to explode all evening. Sonal asked me how I liked and found Santiago, as, she insinuated, that Americans were too stupid to find such a lovely little town and manage to enjoy it.

Man, do we have a shitty reputation.

We go to find this one particular spot. Turns out everyone is always as lost as I am. This was nice to discover. We somehow manage to pick up my housemate Jarred, and the two Austrians, have a drink and find out way to the north side of town.

It was 2 am by that point, and evidently in Santiago, when music is supposed to start at 11 pm, it actually does. Ugh.

So instead, we wind up at some dance club where I learn that Sonal is an EXCELLENT salsa lead, and I spend most of the night dancing whatever with her. The place was about half full with 17-year olds, as it's the only place in town for dancing that night and 17 year olds can drink in spain. I quit at about 4 in the morning.

I slept until about 2, with a brief pause at 11 in the morning for a much needed jamon serrano and cheese sandwich, after which I immediately went back to bed.

And then, I found the WiFi connection that my housemate had been talking about. RIGHT OUTSIDE THE APARTMENT. FML.

Justin and I had a really hard week connecting, because when he finished work, the internet place where there was Skype was closed, and when it was open, he was asleep. There was a very strong, peaceful spot right across the street, which I could have used all week, for free, without walking the 20 minutes, back and forth, up and down stairs and hills each time.

Well, at least my ass and thighs are thanking me. I guess the neighbors would have been pissed hearing me yell into my laptop in English every night. I guess everything happens for a reason.

I couldn't get the timing right to get back to the amazing Bodegon os Concheiros Pulperia on the corner. Man, that was some great pulpo. That's my only regret. Everything else was a pure delight.

The World Cup follows me

2010-07-08T13:16:00.000-07:00

I'm in a language school called Iria Flavia. It's a cute little school, with only about 4 teachers. It's probably the best language class I have taken all these years. My teacher, Laura, is an appropriate mix of funny, happy, serious, tolerant, well-prepared. I'm the only American in the class. That's a good thing, because I hear no English. At all. There's 3 Swedes (all about 23 years old), 2 Austrians and a Swiss girl (all 16), and a French girl, who I imagine is about 25. Everyone is tryng to speak only Spanish in class, which is surprising and really good.

On the 3rd day of school, I decide it's time to befriend Constance, the French girl. She seems a little older than the rest, and seems to be missing her boyfriend back at home. I asked her if she wanted to see the semi-final World Cup Game (Spain vs German) and she seemed really happy to do so. Dominique, the Swiss girl, was next to me, so I asked "Estas solita aqui?" and she sullenly replied "si." So we three were going to meet up for the game.

Next thing I know, it's 8pm, and the whole class shows up! One might think I would be aggravated by having to hang out with a bunch of 16 year olds, but they were all absolutely lovely. And everyone continued to speak Spanish all throughout the night, even though I learned, unsurprisingly, that everyone speaks English.

So we all wound up at my favorite bar, Pub Momo. It's got free Wifi (still much more rare than I expected around here.) The bar culture of Spain is amazing. All day long, in bars, cafeterias, restaurants, whatever, people feel free to just sit (usually in the shade except for tourists like me) and enjoy a beer, a glass of wine, a soda, a coffee. In almost all of the places, no matter how simple, when you order a drink, they also give you a small plate of snacks. And I don't mean some stupid peanuts. A little bit of chorizo, tortilla espanola, french fries... in one place I got a mini ham sandwich. They serve you a drink, and then you can sit there for HOURS and no one cares. Sometimes you practically have to beg to pay.

Tonight at Momo, a slight exception. Perhaps it was because of the World cup. They were pretty busy for that time of night, and we ordered the worst sangria I have ever had. No worries.... we were there for the game.

Spain won 1-0 with about 15 minutes remaining. I'm really jealous that the US doesn't have the same kind of soccer culture. Everyone, and I mean EVERYONE was losing their minds. Little kids, teenagers, grandparents with faces painted red and yellow, honking their horns, flying the Spanish flag. I offered to walk Dominique home, because she's a little afraid to walk home by herself. It was a really nice walk, even though it was on the other side of town, just to see everyone cheering and hugging what seemed like total strangers.

So today, I am tired. Not even because I was out late, or drank too much (I couldn't even finish that lousy sangria) but I think a week of heat and non-stop walking just hit me. It poured this morning, and all the strength I could muster went into going to class, eating a racion of pulpo a feria (Octopus cut into pieces, doused in salt, paprika, and drenched in olive oil. I promptly passed out for three hours, watched some bad American TV, a lot of Spanish news preoccupied with soccer and the heat, made a sandwich and did some laundry I am convinced will never dry.

Tomorrow, there will be dancing; Saturday, I hope the beach, before I eat some more mariscos and head off to Bilbao to meet up with Monica and Lisa!

Santiago de Compostela, part II

2010-07-06T12:49:00.000-07:00

My fortunate streak continued through the night. I get up after having slept 11 hours to discover that I could not find my key to the apartment. I looked all over the place, and although I was very tired when I dragged myself off the couch the night before, I was convinced that I had left it right on top of the couch. It wasn’t there. I scour the apartment for about 10 minutes, trying not to panic, even so much as to go into my housemate’s room (even though I had not even met him yet!) thinking that even though the proprietor said he was away for the weekend, maybe he was only gone for the night and had accidentally taken my key. A perfunctory and guilty glance on his desk, and I quickly gave up. I look in the uninhabited room 3, and I am really excited to find a SPARE SET OF KEYS!!

I am now wondering when my yin will turn to yang.

I left the housemate a note, asking if he took my keys by accident, and I head back into town.

Santiago de Compostela is GORGEOUS. Charming and beautiful. I went to the center of town, a much quicker trek now that I found the easy way to go. I had my first cafe cortado in a plaza where there was an orchestra playing classical music. I sat for a while, and an old lady dressed fully in white asked to sit with me, so that she could hear the music. I talked to her a bit. She gave me candy. She thought I was a Spaniard. Clearly, she must have been a little crazy.

My Spanish has been serving me well, so far. I mean, I’ve only been getting food, drink, and a pair of pants to wear when it’s cold (nothing I bought goes below mid-thigh.) The problem, if there is any, is that the local dialect, Gallego, is prevalent and looks more like Portuguese than Spanish. I can read it just fine, but I’m not sure if, when I don’t understand what’s going on if it’s because my Spanish sucks or if it’s because they’re speaking Gallego.

Everyone is walking around with walking sticks. It's Xacobeo, the great pilgrimage of 2010. Everyone walks and walks and goes to the immense and breathtaking cathedral. Except me. I walk right past it. One day I'll go in. Maybe.

I’ve already eaten most of the stuff I love when I’m in spain... really good gelato, ORGANIC ALCOHOLIC CIDER (that was amazing), great wine, a huge jamon serrano con queso sandwich on some crusty fresh bread, squid. And, this dessert that they sell here at the friggin supermarket by La Lechera- I discovered it a couple of years ago- it's pudding. I don't know why I like it so much, but I crave it when I get here. Once I eat tetilla cheese (that's right... shaped like a tittie,) I can move on.

Santiago de Compostela, Galicia

2010-07-04T09:29:00.000-07:00

"Don't lose your silly bandz! You won't be able to trade with the Irish children! Maybe they have shamrocks!!" says the mom in a thick Irish brogue, running after her kids at JFK, en route to Dublin.

The luck of the Irish must have been with me in full force, as I managed to score an empty seat next to me, the only one if the pilot's claims of a "fully booked" flight were true. I laid down, the last sight I remember being the jealous grimace from the young man in the middle section. I fell asleep 1/2 hour into the flight, and woke up 1/2 hour before I landed. One of the few benefits of being a really small person is the unmatched ability to cram oneself into any small space effotlessly.

I arrive in Dublin airport 5 am NY time, and I'm surprisingly refreshed. How do you know you're in Ireland? Everone is White. The women shining shoes are White. The team of young boys off to who-knows-where are White. And I don't mean just white. Blonde, light eyed, freckled.

Oh, and there's whisky tastings at every airport shop.

Although there was a 1 hour delay for my connection to Santiago de Compostela, a little bit of a mixup regarding my getting a boarding pass, the luck of the Irish continued to follow me around all day. I got another row to myself on the connecting flight, and when I arrived at Santiago, and after 5 minutes of watching all of the bags on the conveyor pass around and around, I thought to look behind me to realize that for whatever reason, my bag got its own conveyor belt, and I had the fortune of finding it before I tried to negotiate the lost luggage desk.

The girl at the visitor center finds the street my apartment is on and tells me “right now!! The bus is leaving now!” and the bus driver is kind enough to wait for me to take me to the center of town, which is happily, only about 10 minutes away. I walk to the apartment, and the proprietor sees me outside and calls my name.

The apartment is a 3-bedroom, 2 full bathroom with a large sectional in the living room that I lament not having in my real life, a full kitchen with dishwasher, a laundry machine. I’m sharing it with one other guy who was supposed to be away for the weekend.

The center of town is a good 20-minute walk away, up and down more hills than I would prefer. In fact, if I didn't know better, I would think it was all uphill. I spent about an hour wandering the cobble-stoned streets, took a peek at the cathedral,, and wandered into a bar for some tapas just in time to watch Spain vs. Paraguay for the quarterfinal of the World Cup. I had tapas of squid in their own ink and my first (but somewhat disappointing) octopus, served with a small gratis plate of mussels, olives, a beautiful hunk of crusty brown bread, and a glass of vino tinto. I watched the first half of game, leaving right before Spain scored its first and winning goal of the game. If my Spanish isn't failing me, it was the first time in history that the Spaniards made it this far, and the screaming in the bars could be heard all over town.

I wander back to the apartment, only to realize that although I remembered the street (Rua Berna) and the building number (4), and the portal letter (G), I didn’t remember either the floor or the apartment number. Shit. I panicked for about 10 minutes but then realized that when I looked at the courtyard there was a lot of laundry above me, and the the door had its lock on the left. I go the first floor (which is really the 2nd, in the European fashion) and find the only apartment on the floor with the keyhole on the left. I nervously turn this weird key into the apartments, hoping for the best, praying that some angry Spaniard doesn’t try to kick my ass for trying to break in. Success!! #1C. Just like my apartment at home. Dumbass.

Really, I couldn’t have been more fortunate all day. And, I suppose, neither could the Spaniards.

What do you do when you've got a month off?

2009-08-13T16:26:00.000-07:00

You finish all the dresses that have been waiting patiently to be finished.

This dress is called "coffee date dress" and it was really easy to make. I finished it in an afternoon. (Well, sort of... I still need to work out what kind of belt I want on it, and I have to finish the hem.) The original pattern has a great ruffle on the neck, but since the fabric is a bit busy as it is, I though I would leave it out this time. I cut a size 36, but I needed to trim down the skirt a bit. The pattern is FREE, and I'm sure I'll make it again. Next time, with a sleeve and a ruffle.

http://www.burdastyle.com/patterns/coffee-date-dress-multisize-sample

This is a butterick pattern, and I have to look up what number it is. The dress is pretty enough, but butterick patterns (and vogue patterns) just don't fit me like Burda. I'm not curvy enough, and I can't make a vogue or butterick without some serious altering.

Oh, and with the extra fabric from the green dress I made this adorable bag. And no, I won't wear them at the same time.

http://madebyrae.blogspot.com/2009/02/free-buttercup-bag-sewing-pattern.html

Sometimes you gotta be your own bossa

2009-07-19T15:46:00.000-07:00

Not understanding Portuguese is a pain in the ass.

I don't know what it is, whether it's that they speak fast here, or they're using a sick amount of contractions, or I just can't seem to figure out what anyone is saying to me, but unless people speak VERY slowly, I have no friggin' idea what anyone is saying.

It seems we're doing better figuring everything out. Trial and error is your friend.

The most complicated aspect to me seems to be the bus system. There are a ton of buses, and many of them go in the same general direction, but take different routes. Buses run frequently all day and night.

We tried to take a bus to see the "city of samba," a museum dedicated to samba. We asked the bus driver if the bus was going to the street on which it was located. He says yes. After about 1/2 hour, we ask the attendant if the "city of samba" was up ahead. He says yes, and tells us to get off. Turns out we were nowhere near it, and we had gone about 20 minutes past where it was.

We took a bus to Porcao, which is a well-known restaurant. I asked the bus attendant, and he had no idea. We got off too late, and had to walk along the water at night, beautiful but desolate. It must have been about 1/2 mile off.

We got on one bus and completely missed copacabana. Wound up in Leblon.

On a positive note, Justin figured out that the Cinelandia metro stop is just a couple of blocks from Lapa, our favorite neighbohood for nightlife.

And just when we thought we had it all figured out, we take the minivan that follows the general direction of the buses, and we get off way too early and wind up where the hookers and trannies hang out.

The most elusive to me is the cafeteria down the block. I went in to order a cafezinho and a donut. She gives it to me, and nicely informs me that the next time, I needed to get a ticket and pay first. Was I supposed to get a ticket from her, pay the cashier, then go back to her with the receipt? I still really have no clue.

I've come to the conclusion that much like New Yorkers, people in Rio are really happy to give their opinions on the matter, even if they have no idea what the hell they are talking about.

Also, I should use the phrase "slower, please" (mais devagar) a hell of a lot more often.

Justin and I went to Lapa last night (again... we love it there) to hear some music and have a mellow night out.

Lapa, on a Friday night, is insane. There's no other way to put it. Right under the Arcos de Lapa (the aqueduct) there is a street party. It's very casual, just hordes of people getting drunk and hanging out. There's food stalls and one beverage cart after the next. It's a meat market, and three tries tried to grab or talk to me, even though I was holding Justin's hand. There's a park full of drunk people, bar after bar, lots of music venues.

But this was Saturday, and with the line to the Scenarium, a gorgeous multi-level restaurant and club, about 200 people long, we wound up at Hotel Livradio, a little restaurant with a guitarist and drummer playing samba.

We order a pizza, and he asks me if I want it cut (I think) and it arrives cut into teeny bite-size squares. Really wouldn't have figured that one out.

It must have been near the end of their night when we arrived, because soon after he started taking requests. All american songs, starting off with, of course, Michael Jackson. He doens't know the words, so he's laughing, and I'm mumbling some of them, Justin and I cracking up. This blonde woman, sitting at the front, starts pointing and yelling at me "she knows!! go!" gesturing for me to sing. Hell no.

This goes on for a while, the guy trying to sing american songs, her turning around at me, us laughing (partly due to a combination of whisky and cachaca) and now the guy is totally pointing at us and teasing us, because he knows we don't understand anything he's saying (except when he said "and now, they're saying 'fuck you, man!!'". This I understood.)

So, he's done, and he walks over to try to sell us a CD, and Justin says one of the 10 complete sentences he's picked up in his short week and a half here.

"Eu toco a violao."

The guy drags Justin by the hand to the stage, puts a mike in his face, and demands he plays AND sings.

Justin protests a bit, plays one of the few songs he knows the words to, and then plays three bossa nova standards. Beautifully. Everyone in the place is turning to me and saying "He plays bossa?!?!"

I've guess I've also figured out that if you say "I play the guitar" to someone with a guitar in your hand, you'd damn well better expect to play that thing.

I cannot figure this place out.

2009-07-16T12:00:00.000-07:00

I am disappointed in myself.

I speak Spanish, I took a class in Portuguese, I went to Brasil a couple of years ago.

I should have this place figured out by now. Mais, nao.

I cannot understand a thing anyone says to me.

I can barely figure out how shit works here.

I've got a couple of things figured out. At the kilo restaurants, before you enter, you tell the person at the door whether you want the all-inclusive thing (rodizio) or just the buffet. They give you a different ticket depending on which you ask for. If you're getting the buffet, you get your food, go to the weighing station (balancar) with your ticket, and they write down what the buffet costs.

You sit down, a waiter comes by and asks you if you want a drink, or dessert, and if you order any of these things, they mark it off on your ticket. At the end of your meal, you pay at the cashier (caixa), and let the doorperson have it so they let you you.

It took two tries to get this figured out. I would say I had it figured out after the first place we went to, but at the second restaurant I accidentally stole a passionfruit mousse. Oops.

All the buffet places work this way. A lot of the music places work this way, too. We went out for a night of samba at chopperia brazooka last week, and the system was almost the same. There's a cover... they give you a ticket with your name on it, and whatever drinks and snacks you order, they just mark off the tag. hopefully your drunken ass doesn't lost the thing, or they charge you the equivalent of USD100 instead of what you owe.

This is about ALL I've got figured out.

We wento to Porcao last night. Porcao is one of the most expensive, if not the most expensive rodizios in Rio. There are three or so, and the guide book recommends that we go to the one in Flamengo because it has great views. I also happen to live three blocks from a branch of the restaurant at home.

All was well and good until Justin orders a whisky off the booze cart. He orders Johnny Walker Red (hoping that Red was less pricey than the black). Instead of the guy pouring Justin a drink, he comes back with a fresh new unopened bottle and a whole bucket of ice. Of course, I panic, thinking the guy is giving us a whole bottle of Johnny Walker, so I say "Uma botelha- nao!" The guy, sensing my panic, basically tells me to calm down and shows that there is a strip of ruler taped onto the side of the bottle. We could drink as much as we wanted, and he would count the number of doses we took. I was in the moment unconvinced, and tell him to just take it away. He and Justin laugh at me, as I'm sure he's now thinking I'm the overbearing girlfriend who won't let her boyfriend drink. (Turns out that Johnny walker red, even at this expensive place, only costs about $8 a glass.)

Porcao is a great place. The meat was incredible. My favorite resaurant in NYC is Churrascaria Plataforma, but at $60 a person, I only go about once a year. There were a bunch of different cuts of meat at the Rio porcao that they don't have at home, but all of it amazing. There was a server named Rui who, even though we had the little tag up that said "NAO OBRIGADO" meaning "STOP WITH THE FUCKING CARNAGE ALREADY" kept coming by and joking with us about eating more meat. Maybe it was the untoppable giggling from the meat coma I was in, maybe it was because we clearly were from somewhere else. He spoke English in a broken, announcer style with a portuguese accent. He was hilarious. And Justin just couldn't say no to whatever he brought by. Ostrich, chicken hearts, whatever, and even though it was clear we wanted only a little, if anything at all, Rui kept dumping it on our plate. It was 10:30 and the place was starting to clear out. He then says "OK, so you want to see the kitchen??" He brings us into the kitchen, and the next thing we know we've got skewers of meat in out hands and they're holding my purse and taking pictures of us. Amazing place.

By the way, if you go, ignore your guide book. You just DO NOT walk here. There is no clear sign to get there, there is no walking path. The valet and taxi drivers are waiting outside, and they looked at us like we were nuts when we started walking away.

There's so much I can't figure out. There's a billion busses, and even though I've tried asking the bus driver and the attendant where we get off, we (or, more likely, they) are always wrong. We tried to go to the "city of samba" museum, and even though we asked a guy where to get off, and listened, we wound up, literally, outside of Rio. We took a wrong bus from Porcao last night, and even though it said "Copacabana," we missed it and wound up at the terminal stop at the end of Ipanema. Completely confused, we got off the bus and the next bus says it's going to "Cidade da Deus" which is the dangerous favela documented in the Brazilian film that became popular all over. We didn't take that bus, and eventually found our way back.

Even though it seems that I can't get a handle on how anything is done, the people here are really patient and understanding. No one has yelled, or rolled their eyes, or told us to hurry up, or get out of their way. It would be a lot more helpful if they spoke Portuguese a hell of a lot slower, but they speak really fast and don't speak too much English.

We've got two more weeks. It just might take us that long.

Don't even get me started on the busses.

Bem-Vindo ao Rio!

2009-07-10T16:01:00.000-07:00

The Latin America jinx continues.

Our 9:40 pm flight becomes 10:10, which becomes 11 pm, all because an earlier storm delays the flight crew. The plans is ready and waiting, but the crew is nowhere to be found.

We board, but don't take off until about 1:30 in the morning.

Justin is titillated that we are served "dinner" at 2:30 in the morning. Me, not so much.

Everything else is far less problematic... easy flight to Sao Paulo, equally easy 1 hour flight to Rio. A Brazilian girl I met earlier this year hooked me up with a woman who rented her an apartment. Sight unseen, we promised to pay 90 reals (about $50) a night for a studio apartment. Faith pays off. You walk into a small room with a twin bed, cable TV and a fridge. A little further is a larger bedroom with a double bed, sofa, dresser, more cable TV (and internet- yay!) A little further is a fully stocked kitchen with lots of appliances and a washing machine.

There's no great view, or anything fancy, and we're next door to a primary school, which in Brazil evidently means that kids learn to scream at the top of their friggin' lungs ALL DAY LONG. Our next-door neighbor is hell-bent on memorializing Michael Jackson to the best of his ability, playing his songs and butchering the lyrics. But it's a great place, 2 blocks from Copacabana beach, next to more shopping, restaurants, and supermarkets then in my own neighborhood at home.

We've spent the last two days just trying to get the feel of the neighborhood, walking around during the day, getting a late meal and some drinks. The neighborhood is bustling, and although Justin claims that it's very touristy, there are many more Brazilians than anyone else from what I can tell. I hear little to no English. I wish my portuguese were more up to par. I understand what I read completely, I can manage to make myself understood, but I have practically no idea what anyone is saying to me.

All I want is some crazy amazonian fruit, which is evidently not in season here, because all I see at the markets are bananas, apples, pineapples, and oranges, and papaya. All Justin wants is some dark beer- Brazilians seem to prefer the extra-light crispy variety.

So we go to Bodeco Belmont, a block or so away. It's packed full of people, of all ages. We sit outside, and Justin speaks his first words of Portuguese to someone other than me... "cerveja oscuro." Success... dark beer. Justin wins.

The beer is served in small-ish glasses. Justin holds the glass up to drink, and the glass EXPLODES in his hand. No damage done, but the waiter calls him "superman" all night.

Justin convinces me that wearing a thong bathing suit is entirely appropriate and I convince him that he would look fantastic in a skimpy trunk. Justin wins, I lose. Again.

It's "winter" here- which means that although it's about 70- 80 degrees during the day, it gets dark at about 6:00 pm. It's a strange adjustment. We're waking up at 10 am, having a large lunch at 3, and then at 6 pm it feels like the day is over because it's so dark outside. Justin's got his violao, I've got my knitting, so we'll manage before some more caipirinhas and cervejas are in order.

This or That

2009-05-30T09:09:00.000-07:00

I go to the Coney Island show called "This or That" with a couple of friends last night. It's a burlesque/freak show thing they do at Coney Island in the summer.

It had been a long time since I had been to it, and I didn't remember much at all. My friend Amy says, "just so you know, if you volunteer to go on stage, you will be stripped to our underwear."

I was wearing particularly modest underclothes- a grey cotton bra and long striped boy shorts, clean and new, so I wasn't worried.

They start the show, and they're looking for "contestants." I volunteer.

I really had no idea what I was in for.

There's 8 of us. One by one, we're asked to fake an orgasm. The first guy goes. I am already embarrassed as hell.

Two guys go, then one girl. Then me.

The host, named "The Great Fredini," asks me my name and to tell something interesting about myself.

"I am a high school math teacher," I reply.

The crowd roars. I think it was at this point that I won.

I have to fake the friggin' orgasm. So I do, avoiding any eye contact, while thinking to myself, "what is the most offensive thing I can moan while doing this?" and it instantly occurs to me.

"Mom."

I win. Hands down.

I beat out the boring lesbian, the award-winning sword swallower who bounced up and down on the ground in splits, and the sexagenarian sex therapist, clad in leopard panties and tight purple leggings.

Evidently, people are really into the idea of a math teacher making a fool of herself. Payback.

It turns out that being a part of the show isn't just one little contest... you're part of the entire show. 2 hours I was engaged in contest with my male opponent, ALSO coincidentally a teacher, or backstage hanging out with the burlesque artists.

On an aside, this was "furry" night. All of the burlesque artists were wearing cartoon-y animal outfits.

They take me backstage and I sign a waiver. There's no turning back. They ask me if I'm wearing clean underwear. I wonder what would have happened if I said "no."

I "competed" in 4 events.

One of the furry burlesque artists puts a roll of toilet paper between her legs. I put a broom between mine. Without using my hands, I have to insert my broom in her toilet paper. I win.
They put two long tubes of fabric on the ground. I have to crawl through the tube three times, each time trading an article of clothing with the stripper. It is at this point I am on stage in my bra and panties. I win. I wonder how I am going to explain the bruised knees to my boyfriend.
I bob for phallic-shaped vegetables and fruit. It's really hard bobbing for carrots without drowning. I cut my head on the bucket. I lose, by one squash.

At this point, we go backstage for intermission. I hear the two words no one wants to hear after they've simulated sex with a furry and been on a stage in her underwear.

"Ms. Ph****ps???"

That's right. A student I had ten years ago was working security at the show. I am positive he was much more traumatized than I was.

And, the rest of the show, Fredini keeps referring to me as "Ms. Ph****ps." I cringe each time, wondering what I might like my next career to be.

The piece de resistance, the last challenge, was a "banana eating contest." It didn't matter how many I ate, but how I ate them.

"It's not quantity, it's quality," I'm reassured.

This was not a banana eating contest. It was a free-for-all. I was biting bananas from a burlesque artist's crotch, between another's boobs, from her ass. They put me on all fours and shove and squash bananas in my underwear. My opponent's burlesque artist comes over to double-team me for some GOGA. Which clinches my win.

A fantastic time. I am so very proud.

I've never worked so hard to win a blow-up doll.

Puerto Rico

2009-02-23T17:52:00.000-08:00

I was a bit ashamed to tell people that I was going to Puerto Rico.

I went to the Bahamas once. I desperately needed to get away from it all, so I booked a 3-day, last-minute trip to the Bahamas. A day and a half "away from it all," and I couldn't wait to return.

I hate the idea of a resort. When I go somewhere new, I want to see what it's really like to be there. I want to know it people, taste its food, speak its language, learn its dance.

To sit on a beach chair in a cookie-cutter resort that looks the same as any other resort in any other country, drinking a margarita, cuba libre, mai tai or any other of the wanna-be "traditional" umbrella drinks ubiquitous to these places... it's just not my style.

I am a snob. I realize this.

Justin and I arrive in Old San Juan at sunset. Perfect timing. My bag is the first to roll off the conveyer belt at the airport and we take a very reasonable $20 cab ride to Da House Hotel, the Hotel just above and to the right of OSJ's Nuyorican cafe. It's lovely, albeit loud at night, and very reasonably priced. OSJ has some of the most bright, gorgeous, clean, and best preserved Spanish colonial architecture I have ever seen. It's full of tourists, but most of them are from cruise ships and only during the day. It's full of Puerto Ricans as well.

We ask the girl at the reception desk for a restaurant that was still open, as during the week all seems to close pretty early. She directs us to Cafe Puerto Rico, which quickly became our favorite place in town. Reasonably priced and reliably good, we both had our first mofongo overdose.

Mofongo is the result of fried green plantains being mashed and fried again with chicharrones (pork skin.) It's molded into one shape or another, often in a pilon (a large wooden pestle) , topped with some form of stewed protein. I had the bacalao, Justin had the chicken. Light it is not. But it was delicious.

I couldn't handle the tres leches cake I so desperately wanted to eat at the end of the meal, but there was room for coffee. I order a cortado, an espresso with a dollop of milk, and Justin orders a "regular coffee." He's temporarily bothered that instead of a coffee cup, the waiter brings him a tiny espresso cup. I say, knowingly, "just drink it."

Justin is so overwhelmed by the amazingly rich and deep flavor of this coffee that he can't help bursting forth with accolades to the bartender. "This is the best cup of coffee I have ever had!!" It was genuine and hilarious.

We went back twice, and by the third visit, we just walked in and the waiter said "black coffee??" Five days in Puerto Rico and we were already regulars.

After two days making friends in Old San Juan (actually, despite my grasp of the Spanish language, it was Justin who made all the friends... every time I left him alone for three minutes there was someone else he befriended... big blue eyes + mad guitar skillz + gift of gab = loads of attention) we moved to Condado, a more beachy community. It wasn't too much to speak of... wealthier, resortier, but I had points that got us a free hotel room for three days, so it was a great option.

We got a rental car and drove about an hour out to Luquillo beach. It's known for its kioscos, a line of food stalls outside a beach. I wanted ceviche, and Justin wanted some fried meat things (Puerto Rico has a wide array of fried meat things). The guy at one of the food stalls told us that there was very quiet and free beach access right behind the kioscos, and that if we needed a bathroom we could use theirs. I'm really glad we took his advice. There was practically no one on the beach. And of course, we bought food and drinks from him, so it was a very symbiotic relationship. I'd never been on a beach that was so empty before. At 80 degrees, it was too cold and windy for the Puerto Ricans to go to the beach, we were told.

We didn't have a lot of luck as far as nightlife... we got lost going to one place, were dissatisfied with the live salsa at another, got the date confused for a third. I remembered that my friend Timeka told us to go to the club at El San Juan hotel, so we wound up there.

It was fantastic. The El San Juan Hotel was what you want Las Vegas to be. It's beautiful, glamorous, and everyone is dressed to the nines. The first blackjack table we walked past had a $100 minimum bet. Needless to say, we didn't.

Club Brava was two floors full of tourists, both Puerto Rican and otherwise, but the $20 cover ensured a level of class, surprising considering the preponderance of stripper poles waiting for drunk girls to mount. (I didn't, surprisingly.) We danced to reggaeton and hip hop for as long as my thighs could tolerate. It was a great club.

We didn't wind up doing most of the things recommended to us. We managed to walk past the castillo, and that was the only "sight" we saw. We're not so into nature, so we skipped El Yunque, Puerto Rico's rainforest. Nor did we swim in the bioluminescent bay.

But, we did meet some really nice people, take in some sun, listen to some music (mostly Justin's) and eat till I wanted to pass out. Puerto Rico is really nice, and isn't just some resort. It doesn't scream "Caribbean" to me. It just screams "Puerto Rico!" trilling its r's all the way. No resort for me, thankfully, and I enjoyed a vacation I could be proud to tell people about.

Although I did have one drink with an umbrella in it. Shhh... don't tell anyone.

Bye, Thailand.

2008-08-14T06:48:00.000-07:00

I'm walking down Sukhumvit, one of the newest and swankier areas of Thailand. I'm on the sidewalk, underneath the sparkling and ultra-modern BTS Skytrain.

A man passes me on my left. With his baby ELEPHANT.

THIS is Thailand.

Modern, but not overly western. I realized this when a group of teenaged boys, in their school uniforms at night, came to me on Khao San road, the backpacker haven. They must have had a homework assignment to talk to people on English. One came up to me, giggling, with a list of phrases in his hand. "May I interview you?" he says in his heavily Thai-inflected English. One friend whipe out a cell phone, another a camera. He asks me one mundane question after the next, about why I came and if I like Thailand. I answered positively, all smiles, so that even though I knew none of them understood a word (I'm sure they were going to go home to transcribe and translate) I wanted to get my point across.: how thankful and appreciative I was of the Thai's generosity, kindness, and open arms.

As true as this was, I found myself to be less-than-impressed with Bangkok. I think it was because I was traveling alone, at the end of a very long vacation. It's known for it's nightclubs, and partying, and sex tourism. At this point of my journey, I wanted none of it.

I wanted to come home.

There is so much blatent sex tourism here that every time I saw a Western man with an Asian woman, I wanted to gag. I felt so sorry for the "bar girls," not because they were prostitutes per se, but because Western men travel across continents just to find them.

I mean, the concept of just enlisting the services of a prostitute or going to see strippers isn't SO awful to me, but the idea that people come across the planet for just that.... I was repulsed. As much as I would've been game to see a "ping-pong show" (use your imagination, mom), I felt that a woman going alone in a scene like this was just a bad fucking idea. It's so over the top, from the descriptions I've heard, that it's not even porn. It's ridiculous. Like a freak show.

It just seemed wrong.

I didn't even want to go out dancing or drinking, or anything of the sort. Not that anyone would've taken me for a Thai hooker, but I just wasn't feeling it.

I imagine that's the best part of Bangkok, and I shied away.

Next time. Which I'm sure there will be.

Asia is so much easier than I thought it would be, at least in the not-so-off-beaten-paths. All of the signs (the important ones) are in English. Everyone knows the phrase "how much?" and they're savy enough to communicate the answer, whether it's with the little calculator they carry around or by simply pulling out the bills in their own pockets to show you the cost.

I was so afraid. Of malaria, of dengue fever, of the humid weather, of the language barrier, of larger-than-life flying cockroaches (this was a biggie). I managed to avoid all of that. I realized about a week and one giant can of deep-woods-Off that I wasn't even getting bitten by mosquitoes. So by the time I got to Hua Hin, when I realized that I left my malaria pills in Bangkok, I wasn't even worried. Most people don't take them anyway.

I felt so safe, with the possible exception of Cambodia, where we made sure to have a driver everywhere. No one so much even gazed in my direction, except the moto guys. A great place to be a solo female traveler. People were either nice and helpful, or at their worst, indifferent.

I'll be back some day. But right now I'm just happy to not have to squat when I pee.

An Olympic Moment

2008-08-10T03:48:00.000-07:00

I wander into another restaurant in Hua Hin where there are no white people. These are, of course, my favorite kind.

Even more so, because everyone who works at the restauarant is crowded around a pretty decent sized TV in the front. They're watching the Olympics. More specifically, women's weightlifting, whatever the skinny division is called.

So of course, the top three contenders are Asian. American women, if they're this small, are probably gymnasts. Not weightlifters.

I sit in the very front, as to not obstruct the vision of the others. Everyone's watching. I order up some crab fried rice and green chicken curry soup.

Thailand wins.

Everyone applauds. This is Thailand's first goal, and I'm cheering along with 'em.

I think back to the rest of my trip, how I've been so fortuante to jsut show up somewhere with really good timing. I was in Bangkok on some special Buddhist day where all the entrance to the Wats were free. I was in Vietnam when the Miss World Pageant was going on. I was in Hue for the full moon, when all the stores turn off their lights, prey, and the streets are lit up with lanterns. I just happened to walk out of an internet cafe the other day, just to see GEORGE BUSH pass by me in his motorcade. I will be here Tuesday, the Queen's birthday, so I'm sure I'll see something interesting.

And I got to see Thailand get its first Olympic goal of 2008.

The soup is spectacular... green, coconutty, tender chicken. I hate the vegetables that are in there- some unrecognizable hard, bitter pea and eggplant. Forgivable. It's piquant and hot, just hot enough, hot enough to make my nose run but not make my eyes water. I wonder if that means I'm a badass or if they gave me the pussy version. The small chards of crab made the fried rice sweet and delightful.

I finish lunch, and stay longer to see as much of the olympics as I can. I take out my knitting.

One of the girls at the restaurant, Emily (her gold nameplate proclaims) speaks great English and asks me what I'm making. This is the way I interact with all Thai women here who aren't offering me (or giving me) a massage. I've been knitting on the beach, and all of the craft-hawkers stop by, motion to me to show them what I'm making. I show a picture, they give me the thumbs-up, show me what they've made. Some barely intelligible conversation later and I realize they're telling me that I have to come back to Hua Hin so that they can see the completed project. They don't even try to sell me anything. This is always a pleasant surprise.

I go to pay, as the eldest woman at the restaurant has got control of the remote and is changing it too much for my liking. I ask Emily the question I'd been dying to know- whether the soup was "thai spicy."

She laughed at me.

"Oh no!!" she says. When there's a farang at the table, we make sure to tell the chef to make it not too spicy! Was it OK?"

"It was perfect," I replied.

Question answered.

At the beach.

2008-08-08T07:00:00.000-07:00

I've got less than a week left, and I was bored of Bangkok. I decided to go to Chiang Mai, an 11-hour overnight sleeper train away, in the north of Thailand. It's the home of lots of indigenous hill tribes, a very pleasant city from what I'm told, and you can ride elephants.

I'd ride an elephant.

Chiang Mai turns out to be an exceedingly popular place. So much so that I can't get a ticket. They try to get me to get the VIP bus, which I have to imagine is not so VIP at all.

I go south, instead, and opt for the beach, which I haven't seen since Nha Trang, Vietnam. I figure I should come home with something of a tan line.

Most tourists, I think, go to Phuket (poo-kett) or Ko Samui or Ko Phi Phi (which is entertainingly enough pronounced like "go pee pee"). They've very crowded and popular. And far.

Hua In is a beach town aboiut 4 hours away by bus. Perfect. It's a popular weekend getaway for young Thais and their families. And Germans.

So. Many. Germans.

Seriously, if there's a quaint little beach town to be found, the Germans find it. And move in. And open restaurants.

I met Kim and Carla on the bus. They're sisters- Carla is taking a year off from work to volunteer and travel the world and Kim is a HS science and math teacher, visiting for a couple of weeks. The bus, which is a lot more ghetto than I expected, no suspension whatsoever, making me a hell of a lot more queasy than I normally get on a perfectly flat and straight highway, pulls over. They're talking to a Thai guy who speaks enough English to tell them that they'd better get off the bus and check underneath. The drivers forgot to lock the storage area, and some of the luggage flew out. They were safe, as was I. I had my two HUGE bags in Bangkok at the hotel I'm returning to, and my two smaller bags under my feet. Paranoia pays off in this instant. Some English woman not as lucky... her bag flew out of the bus. She doesn't seem to bothered. Weird.

We walk for about 8 minutes to the edge of the little town. It's dense with tourist shops, of the tailoring and Buddha-head variety. More 7-11's, a starbucks, a McDonald's with Ronald McDonald wai-ing at the entrance. Yet, it feels less Westernized than you'd think.

It's perfect. A beach, a little town to walk around, a night market, open-air restaurants that have no menus in English.

We find a guesthouse that's recommended to us by some people we met, and I negotiate an AC room, with fridge and shower, the most comfortable bed I've had in Thailand yet (not saying much- they're hard as fuck) for $18 a night. It's right on the water. There's a deck overlooking the water, and it has that laid-back, "I've been here for 60 years and it looks exactly the same" kind of way, and the people who work there are delightful. Glamourous it's not, (the floor is laid with contact paper that look like pergo tiles....) but really, it's brilliant. I hear the ocean crashing against the shore as I go to sleep. No joke.

I've been here a day and a half, but I've yet to see the sun.

However, it's so relaxed here, and the weather is cool and comfortable, and I've had lots of time to sit, read, watch TV, and relearn intergration by parts and partial fractions.

There's a ton of bars, and they're full of "bar girls," the gentle way to describe the prostitutes. Not much offends me, but I'm really grossed out by all these Western men who are walking around with their Thai "girlfriends." There's no shame, and you know that they're coming to Thailand strictly for the sex tourism.

The girls and I walked across the beach for a couple of hours, played with mini sand crabs (1/4 of the size of a fingernail) and lamented the death of an enormous jellyfish that washed up on shore. Huge and gross.

A couple of more days here, a few more chapters of calculus, and I'll be more than ready to head back to Bangkok to come home.

I can't wait.

Durian

2008-08-06T03:04:00.000-07:00

My friend Michelle is Singaporean. She LOVES durian.

Durian is a green, spiky-exterior large (slightly bigger than your head) fruit. The spiky outside is nature's way of screaming at you "DON'T EAT ME.'

And many people don't... when you cut away the thick outer shell, a sweet, yet musty, moldy odor fills the air. There are signs in airports in hotels that forbid the fruit, it smells so bad. My friend Amanda had a "stinky food" party once, and, as she tells it, someone brought durian and the house smelled for days. Many Asian people can't get enough of the stuff, describing it as "fragrant," while many others describe it as "pungent."

Michelle and I are in Chinatown a couple of years ago, and she convinces me to taste the stuff in the form of a shake at some Vietnamese restaurant we were passing by. In her very excited way, she giggles and shreiks "durian!! get the durian!!"

The shake reeks. It smells like old socks. I have no idea how anything that smells this bad could taste good. I don't breathe in. I take a sip.

It tastes exactly as it smells. It's vile. I pass it off to Michelle, and although she admits it isn't very good (how can there be a season for something that smells like a gym locker at its best?!?) but she drinks it anyway.

Fast forward to yesterday. I'm in Asia. It's durian season. It's time to revisit the beast.

I had hoped to try it with Mattias, Nao, and Tonia, as Tonia is a durian lover herself, but the time never came. I'm on Khao San, a seeminly unlikely place for a durian vendor to be, as the ratio of White people to Asians is roughly 100:1, but he's there.

Inside the duiran lies bone-colored pods, resembling a sickly pale foie-gras. Not a lot of actual meat for a fruit that large. The vendor has already shelled the fruit, and has a bunch of styrofoam plastic-wrap coated durian pods.

I look at him with contemplation mixed with fear.

"Durian," I say.
"Yes. Durian."

I pick up the package and smell it. It's not THAT bad. Nor is it GOOD. But I expected to recoil from the odor. Now I'm thinking that Thailand manufactures the strongest, least-porous saran wrap in the planet. That, or Thailand has some kind of "Durian light" and it's the newest tourist scam. Make 'em think they like durian.

I buy it.

It's nighttime, and I want to take a video of this, so I bring it to the hotel, wrap it tightly in the plastic bag, and hope that the aircon is enough to not make it rot and stink up the joint further.

First thing in the morning, I march down to the open cafe of my hotel and sit nearest the street. I fear the smell, that I will disturb everyone and the smell won't leave the hotel all day. I place the package neatly before me, and one of the staffers bring me my coffee.

"DURIAN!," she proclaims, laughing and smiling. She's pleased with me. I tell her that I must try it, but I don't think I'll like it. She sits with the other workers, and I can feel their gaze burning into my back.

I open the package. Smell is no worse, no better. The pods are off white, and have a thin edible ever-so-slightly wrinkled membrane that to me, makes them look like testicles. Oblong testicles. The waitress brings me a knife and fork. Now I can classily eat my durian and puke.

I carve into it and accidentally split the brittle pit in half. I peel back the membrane to reveal a creamy, cheesecake-like consistency.

Good idea, I think to myself. Think of it as cheesecake. Camembert cheesecake. Mikxed with bad-quality brie. That'll help.

I take a bite.

The first was the hardest. It tasted like it smelled. I didn't want to immediately spit it out, but I didn't like it.

On the second bite, I remembered not to inhale. It was better.

I'm now thinking that this, mixed with sweetened condensed or coconut milk, might actually make a good shake, if the durian were fresh. (Michelle agreed.)

Three bites, and I let myself off the hook. I gave a full report to the waitresses at the bar, still laughing, and gave one of them my untouched pod as a gift. She put her arm around me and gave me a tight squeeze.

As much as I did not like it, nor feel the need to ever prove myself by eating it again, in any form, I do feel the need to say that it was 1000 times better than the chopped liver I at at my sister's engagement party.

That shit was foul.

A Day of Wats

2008-08-04T05:03:00.000-07:00

Not shiny enough, I said.

You know, the one thing Angkor was missing, in my half-kidding opinion.

And then I arrived in Thailand.

One of the benefits of being in the backpacker ghetto known as Khao San, aside from the very cheap spa services, and non-stop shopping and eating, is that it is very close to the historical sights.

It ususally takes a twisting of my arm to stop wandering, shopping, and tasting long enough to get me to absorb some history, but guilty having not seen even a fraction of what Angkor had to offer, I felt compelled to devote a day to Wats (Buddhist temples.)

I get started later than I should have. I start walking towards what I think is Wat Po, the closest to me and the home of Thai Massage. I make the wrong left, and although I haven't figured this out yet, not one but two tuk-tuk drivers yell out to me "Wat Po!!" and point in the correct direction.

I ignore them, although I'm sure they are right, I've learned to ignore tuk-tuk drivers. They are obnoxious in Vietnam, persistent in Cambodia, and although until today I had no basis for comparison, I decided they were best avoided.

I turn around, and stop in front of this beautiful statue: I don't remember it's name, but she's twisting her hair, the hair serving as a fountain. There's a man there, and isntead of getting me to give money for an offering, he starts to tell me that the water coming from her head is holy, and that I should pour some on my head for luck. I can't say no to him even if I tried... he's already poured some of the water into my hand to put on my head. His smile invites me to listen, knowing that soon I'll probably have to tell him I'm not interested in his fucking tuk-tuk.

He asks the typical questions: where I'm from, what I'm doing in Thailand, how I like it, etc. He asks me to take out my map, and starts furiously circling all of the places he thinks I should go. The Golden Buddha, the reclining Buddha, the Golden Mountain. All these things are free today, as today is some special Buddha day. Also, he tells me, the government recently put out some kind of charge: people have been coming to Thailand in droves because of recent cataclysmic weather patterns elsewhere in Asia... they've been compelled to "take care of toursits." He tells me a special tailor to go to for Thai silk, a government travel agency that doesn't charge a commission for when I go to Chaing Mai. He tells me to take a tuk-tuk, as it is way too far to walk. 30 baht (less than a dollar) for the whole adventure, no more, he says, and he takes me to the tuk-tuk drive he claims not to know. He'll talk for me, he says. I am taking everyting with a grain of salt.

The tuk-tuk driver says 50 baht, and my new friend negotaites to his promised 30. I agree. My friend tells me to enjoy Thailand, and to come back. He asks for nothing in return.

Everything in Bangkok seems so close on the map. I'm wrong. This driver takes me to wat after wat. The golden Buddha is covered with 24K gold mosaics and is as tall as a lighthouse.

Shiny I wanted, shiny I got.

I love Mr. Tuk-Tuk guy... he speaks plenty of English and is very warm... even up until the point where the scam starts in. Tuk-tuk drivers are notorious for talking you into shopping trips- for no extra fee they'll take you to this special shopping place and that one. I told him that I got a lot of stuff in Vietnam, and I didn't really want to do any more shopping (although this itself is a little white lie) and the guy tells me how it is- for every customer he brings to this particular shop, he gets a coupon, and after a certain number of coupons they give him shirts, which he gives to his daughter. He promises me I don't have to buy anything, I jsut need to go in and look.

I was so delighted by this little bit of honesty that I obliged. It's an exhorbitant jewelry shop, I meander for a couple of minutes, say "thanks" and leave.

He drops me off at the Royal Palace, after I told him "no more shopping."

The Royal Palace has a strict dress code, stricter than Angkor. I saw a ton of people walking aruond Angkor in shoulder-bearing tops, and I was surprised, as I had read that that wasn't permitted. Here, shoulders had to be covered, women had to wear pants or skirts that went below the knee, men had to wear long pants.

Guards inspected your outfit before you bought your ticket. I was wearing the long skirt, but my tank top didn't pass code. So you pay a deposit of 100 bhat for each piece of clothing you have to BORROW. I take a particularly unflattering shirt and hope no one else had worn it that day.

I buy my ticket, walk around to the gate, and the new guard tells me my shoes are no good, and I have to go back to the front.

Now I'm pissed. It was tiring enough getting here... I forced myself to come here after too long of a morning (however pleasant) of wats, and I knew if I didn't do it today I wouldn't. I hardly slept the night before, my energy was fading.

Even more pissed I was when I get to the front, and they have no idea what I'm talking about, and can't explain the guard's behaviour.

I'm visually pissed. Not particularly Buddhist or Asian of me.

I sson lightened my mood: the Royal Palace, not Angkor Wat, is the Disneyland of Holiness.

I'm sad that my pictures cannot convey how shiny and opulent these buildings were. This might be one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen in my life.

One night in Bangkok

2008-08-02T05:09:00.000-07:00

Well, 11 nights to be more specific.

I flew from Siem Riep into Bangkok today, starting to feel a little bit under the weather. I take the express bust to Khao San, where all the backpackers are, as it's central and packed with guest houses. I arrive weighed down with bags like scuba gear: a regular backpack on my front, a huge travel-across-europe backpack on by back, and a duffel bag on my shoulder.

In Vietnam, when you get off the bus, there are people everywhere trying to take you to their guest house.

Not so much in Bangkok.

I figure I'd walk into a couple, ask to see the room, check on the rates, and make a decision, if only for a day to dump my crap and head out.

The first place is an Indian Restaurant/Guesthouse. Most of the guesthouses are paired with a restaurant or cafe or something. It's 300 baht, or about $9.

$9 in Cambodia gets you a rpetty nice place. In Bangkok, it gets you a prison cell.

No. Not even for a night.

I wander donw the street a bit, at this point more exhausted than I should be, and I stop off at the very lovely coffeeshp/Guesthouse. The coffee shop is beautiful, right next to the airplane bus stop. It's also about $32 a night. The room is small, but beautiful and clean inside, and already airconditioned.

One night.

So I go to Khao San Road.

UGH.

Imagine St. Mark's place, twice as wide, three times as dense with vendors and shiny street signs. 10 times the number of hippie white people.

Oh, and a 7-Eleven every 30 feet. Which is only a slight exaggeration.

I'll be here for three days, and it's close to some of the historic sights, but I'm going to make it my business to get out of here as soon as possible.

First meal: of course, pad thai. Extra fish sauce. At least the food's still cheap.

Angkor Wat

2008-08-01T20:56:00.000-07:00

One of the man-made wonders of the world, Angkor Wat is a CITY. It's a huge city of temples, which is what the name means.

It's awe-inspiring, which is what Mattias kept calling it, even on the first day when we hadn't even made it in the front door of the main temple.

It's a city made of enormous temples a gazillion years ago. Almost every piece of stone used to build it is intricately carved. It's beautiful. It took so long to build the thing that there are two completely different styles of architecture it's comprised of.

We arrived at 4:30 am, to see the sunrise. We spent 3 hours in just the main temple alone, as Tonia and Mattias are voracious documentarians, positioning all of us here and there, just right, so that we could have a photo of every angle. I''m making this sound like a negative here, I know, but I didn't feel that way at all. I got to appreciate every nook and cranny of the two temples of many that we had the strength to see, and besides, now I have a hundred pics of myself to prove I was actually there. One of the downfalls of traveling alone is that you're barely in any photo.

It's getting hotter and hotter, we're walking and walking, and by 10:30 I've had it. The heat at that point was pretty intense, and the sun was starting to break through. I noticed later on how much different I looked from 5 am to 10... my hair was much puffier, and so was my face- the humidity which I don't fare well in was taking its toll.

By 11 am, I couldn't see any more. I now understood why people get a three-day pass. You just can't see that much for a long period of time. It's overwhelming and hot.

We barely scratched the surface.

I shouldn've come back the next morning, as yesterday I thought I was going to die if I saw any more, and now I'm regretting that I didn't see enough.

I wasn't as impressed by Angkor Wat as everyone else was. Maybe this is because I am easily pleased, but not easily impressed. Don't get me wrong. It was enjoyable. And spectacular. And I'm really glad I saw it. Cambodian architecture is very unique and beautiful. Maybe it's because I've seen Teotihuacan in Mexico, the Coliseum in Rome... I'm not enough of a history buff to really appreciate all the minor details. Maybe it's because the one time we needed a guide, we couldn't find one.

Or perhaps, more simply, because it wasn't shiny. I REALLY like shiny.

The Opposite of Hitler

2008-07-30T05:34:00.001-07:00

The theme of the day is genocide, gentle reader.

I'm in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. I was really afraid of coming to Cambodia. People kept telling me how unsafe it is, how smelly, how dirty.

I am finding that it is all three.

I am lucky that I joined a group of really cool people I met coming here from a really awesome 2-day trip down the Mekong River Delta. We took boat after boat after boat, saw villagers (the tour guide started every sentence with "the local people" in his staccato English, which delighted us much more than it should have) who lived on floating houses doing their daily work. The boat tour brought us into Cambodia.

The best part, by far, was that in each passing of one rural village after another, the children, and even the adults, would run to the edge of the water, jump up and down, smiling, waving. We took great pleasure in waving back. Every single time.

The tour, run by Sinh Cafe, a very reputable company that conducts tours all around Vietnam, was great, but we never really seemed to understand the itinerary. They would pass us of from one boat to the next, one guide to the next, and everything that we did took a good 1/2 hour to 1 hour longer than we were told.

"Trust the system," I told everyone. "It seems to work."

We said this many times to each other, laughing the whole way.

When we finally got to Cambodia, the boat driver tells not to let anyone touch our luggage, as they will either steal it, or take it and sell it back to you. My luggage is huge at this point, and Sebastian and Nao (traveling with me) take pity on me and carry it for me. The tour brings us straight to the guest house that we will all be staying at, so we don't pull into the center of town and have to deal with all of the thieves and street children. Who are also thieves.

The guesthouse is packed full of people, watching a movie, and we are too tired to bother to find a good place to eat, so we trust in the food menu there. It was pleasantly delicious... US$3 (the de facto currency!!) bought me "Fish Amok,"which is the greatest name for a dish. I've never had anything like it. It was like a very thin chartreuse curry, but instead of tasting like curry, it was strongly scented and flavored by lemongrass. I pass out soon thereafter. A heavy dishlike this was a shock to the system after two weeks of light vietnamese food.

We meet at 9 am for the popular double-header of genocide: S21 and The Killing Fields.

I won't go too much into the history, Wiki it in greater detail if you like.

But here are the lowlights, if you will:

S21 was school in Phnom Penh that was converted to torture chambers for prisoners.
Then, entire families were taken to the "Killing Fields," an ex-chinese cemetary, for execution.
The Khmer rouge figured out that bullets were too expensive, so they invented crude, slow ways of killing their victims that were cheaper.
Every time it rains now, teeth and shattered boned from the mass graves rise to the surface. They are everywhere.
Young children had a special form of execution, they were held by their feet and their heads were thrashed against a tree. It was called the "Magic Tree."
Everything was done in secret and silence. Most of the world had no idea. Most of Cambodia had no idea. They played loud music in the killing fields to hide the sounds of screaming.
This all happened about 15 years ago.
Pol Pot died of old age, and his main men are alive, and have not yet been tried. The criminal court is very expensive, and Cambodia is trying to raise the funds.

They killed anyone who was educated, as Pol Pot wanted to create a working class society that would not challenge him. Interrogations were conducted so that prisoners would help the regime find their families. For, if one member of the family had some brains, then the rest of them might have some brains, too.

So, he was the opposite of Hitler.

Hitler wanted to create a perfect race with the most pure qualities. Pol Pot wanted a race of slaves that he could rule.

Our guide's father was a simple farmer. He was left alone.

We were all affected in some way. Corrinne nearly vomited. Tanya couldn't take the second half of the spectacle; she went shopping instead.

I was sad, no doubt- incredulous. I guess I had used up most of my sorrow is Vietnam, inundated with images of War. The most shocking part to me, today, if I had to pick one, was that this event was SO RECENT. The people passing by me in the street, people my age, witnessed this. They were victims. There are people everywhere who are missing limbs, or are otherwise physically deformed. There was a man that passed by that had a goiter as large as his head protruding from his neck. There were children eating food out of the garbage. Everyone alive either experienced this genocide or have parents who did.

And yet, Cambodian people are always smiling.

I wonder how that can possibly be.

I am so happy to have come.

For my father

2008-07-29T07:44:00.000-07:00

I enter the War remnant museum in HCMC. I'm one of 3 Americans in this tour group,a dn I'm surrounded by a young vietnamese school group, running through the "tiger cages","the impossibly small cells used to contain prisoners in the war. They are laughing, delighted. The museum feels to me like a morbid theme park.

I, on the other hand, am somber. This is how I expected to feel my whole trip, racked with guilt that I even chose to come to a place that caused harm or trauma to my dad. I hadn't felt this way until today. I was surprised to see that Vietnam is a modern country, practically immaculate and full of all the comforts of home. It doesn't fell like a war-torn place, and the people seem to have less anti-american sentiment than I've encountered anywhere.

Three steps into the museum, and the first remnant I see is an actual American helicopter with a machine gun propped out the window, at what I imagine was the most effective and efficient angle for destruction.

In that instant, I am powerless. The world disappears, the giggles of the delighted children fade away. I't's just me and this gun. I just sit down, and begin to cry. I'm the only one.

I see my dad behind it, 19 years old, handsome, drunk. Wondering how he found himself here, the only place in the world he had seen besides the Lower East Side of New York, wondering how he managed to join the army to get out of the 'hood, only to find himself behind a giant machine gun.

One of the few things my dad told me about the war was how he wound up behind that gun.

"PHILLIPS. What do you want to do here?"

"What job is least likely to get me killed?"

"Gunner."

And so it was.

Dad, ever the clever, direct, no-bullshit negotiator, street smart and shrewd, even at that tender age.

I regain my composure and awalk around the museum. There's the obvious anti-american propaganda, and touts of self-congratulatory "American Killer War Heroes"

And all I can think is how happy I am that dad made it out of Vietnam, how shocked I am that he emerged from it as sanely as he did (which for many years, was not that sane at all) and how proud I am for what he, albeit regrettably and unintentionally dd for our country.

And for us, my little family.

My dad might have almost given his life for a war no one thought was a good idea. When he came home, he worked at the same job that made him miserable just to take care of us.

Thanks, dad, for being cool enough and selfless enough to let me come here. I spent a good portion of the first 20 years of my life fighting with you. I'm going to spend at least the next 20 telling you how much I love and appreciate all you've ever done for me.

Even though putting the EZ-pass from my car in the trunk when I leave it at your place drives me insane.

Happy Birthday, Dad. I love you to pieces.

A day in the life of a Saigon Tourist

2008-07-27T08:16:00.000-07:00

I had the entire day to enjoy my last day in Saigon, tour-free. I'd spent the last couple of days doing the guided tour thing, which I never do, but I knew I would never do it otherwise (more on that in another post.)

I wake up in my perfectly cool aircon room in my little guesthouse, which I adore. I walk through the narrow, busy pathway, full of people, and cross the main street to the "Sinh To" cart. I order a soursop fruit shake, always forgetting what soursop is or tastes like or if I like it (I just looked it up... it's the same as guanabana, the tropical fruit my Costa Rican HS boyfriend Oldemar used to drink) and an iced coffee. Cafe sua da, to be more specific, iced coffee with sweetened condensed milk. That and "thank you" are the only words I know after almost three weeks in Vietnam, and even though I can spell them, I can't even come close to pronouncing either.

I walk through the streets for a while, ending up again at the Central Market to pick up some souvenirs before I go. I buy dozens of little cellphone dangles, in the shape of Vietnamese woman traditionally dressed for my students- the girls mostly and some of the boys who are a little more secure in their manhood. Or womanhood. Whatever.

And then I hear it pound against the tin roof of the market... torrential downpour. Again. 3 ouf of 4 days of this, to spite me as I just proclaimed that I can't believe how little it has rained here. And I, again, without an umbrella. I know by now that waiting it out is fruitless... it can rain like this here easily for an hour or so. And it does.

I head to my favorite restaurant here, Thanh Binh, across the street from the market. Today, Sunday, it is practically empty. I finally eat something I'm not mad for. Rice cakes with crushed dried shrimp, croutons and little onion rings. I eat some of it, starting to develop a new appreciation for croutons.

Still pouring outside, and the persistent cramp I have in my left side pounds harder. My scoliosis doesn't let me walk for too long or for too many days, especially wearing flip-flops. I step into a massage place, and this is the best massage I've had yet. This little girl has the strongest arms, and although she's getting a hell of a lot more personal than I like, it's amazing. I actually felt so much better. By the time she was done, the rain stopped.

I walk back to my room and pass out for an hour.

I wake up and decide to do some more calculus at the local version of Starbucks (rant on that later as well.) I've strangely enjoyed the time I've spent catching up on what I've forgotten. I really can't spend another year playing daily catch up... I'm doing problems, reminding myself of what it's all about, taking copious notes on what it is I still have to figure out. Theory. I have no recollection of theory. I have no idea how to draw 3-D revolutions of figures around axes. Every time I finish a chapter I've photocopied, I throw it out. It's productive, and I get to lighten my load.

Except my load is increasing seemingly exponentiallly with all the stuff I'm buying. I've already bought a new, expandable bag. It's heavy as hell. But it's got wheels. I go to the tailor who's made me some more stuff. A blouse, a couple of dresses, a modern Ao Dai. It's gorgeous. She's this adorable older lady who did a better job than almost all of the tailors in Hoi An put together. She's lovely, and seems so proud of her work. I am thrilled to give her my money, and promise to post her information (which I've left back in the room.)

Off to the circus. Saigon circus, a 2 minute walk from my room. It costs $3, and the opening act is TERRIBLE. 20 people, dressed as soldiers, dancing. Badly. They're doing the whole unicycle thing, and they keep falling off. They're falling off more than they're staying on. I am excited by how bad this is going to be.

Except it's NOT bad. It's pretty damn good, actually. The production values are lacking a bit, and many of the acts aren't as elegant and a lot more corny than I'm used to, but otherwise fantastic. I'm surrounded by tons of children, and they are all laughing, not screaming, and well behaved. I wonder what's in the water that makes them so great. And cute. There's a little girl, no older than 3, who keeps trying to talk to me. He brother, every time the lights go on, asks me "how are you?" although he clearly has no idea how to proceed when confronted with a response. The clowns delight the children to no end, and the little girl finds this so funny, she slaps me on the arm, and smiles at me, as if to say "did you see that?"

I'm going to miss Saigon. I feel at home here. People are friendly. They keep helping me eat and cross the street. I miss the women, covered head-to-toes, literally, as most of them are riding around with full gloves, a conical hat, a mask, long sleeves and pants, so shield themselves from the sun. I am reminded that only white people wish to make themselves darker... the shelves of beauty aisles here are replete with whitening creams.) The motorbike guys are starting to recognize me, as well as the food stall people. One guy yells out "Hey, New York!" as he was the one guy I told where I'm from. Everyone calls me "madame."

It's not perfect... there's no way you can ride a bike for enjoyment. It's mayhem. There are no gyms. My only activity is walking and getting lost. And, there's this impossible tonal language I can't conquer.

I'm sad to leave tomorrow.

Miss Saigon

2008-07-24T06:20:00.000-07:00

I arrived in Saigon (NO ONE calls it Ho Chi Minh City, by the way) at 6:30 am after another 8+ hour sleeperbus ride.

I personally love those things. They are engineering marvels; at least for short people like me and all the Vietnamese.

Did I mention that I'm a size Medium to Large here? These people are TINY.

Anyway, they awoke us again, at 6 am with BLARING music, as they have done every time. Techno. I really do NOT enjoy waking up this way, but it's so fucked up that I have to laugh. A lot more than the guy next to me.

I have no hotel reservation, thinking I'm being smart this time, as every time I've made a reservation in Vietnam I pay some deposit and when I arrive, there's no room for me. I let some guy take me to his guesthouse.

I'm walking around like Altas, a couple of large, cumbersome packs strapped to my back. I have no idea where I'm going. He takes me to some labyrinth behind a main street. Every house has a ground floor that faces the street, and there are people at every house cooking, eating, hanging out with the whole family. The streets in the maze are unnamed. They're related somehow, in some unintelligible Queens-like fashion, that refers to the main streets that are closest.

I am totally aware that I am already lost.

He takes me to a place, and it's closed up. It's 6 in the morning, and everyone is asleep. I get a bad feelind and have him take me to the one place that I saw online. He does. That place is booked. I ask for a recommendation. He walks me to one of his friends. It's a guesthouse, sweet people living/working there. $14 a night, A/C and private bathroom.

This is the way it goes here.

I head out first thing in the morning, paying careful attention to WHERE THE FUCK I AM. The map on the back of the guesthouse's card is of little help. I decide to go around the block, just to get my bearings.

I am greeted by Mr. Tho, the PUSHIEST CLYCLO DRIVER YET. He's missing quite a few teeth, and yet, has a beautiful smile. He speaks very good English. He wants to take me around. I tell him I like to walk, thank you. He starts telling me about how he was in the war, and America's #1, and he has met lots of American people, and can he take me for a ride?

No thanks, I'd like to walk, Mr. Tho.

Mr. Tho busts out a composition book, filled with travelers singing his praises on how he showed them around the city, did not rip them off, etc. etc.

That's very nice, Mr. Tho. No thank you, I'd like to walk.

Mr. Tho follows me for 3 blocks like this. It feels like the scene from Better Off Dead, where the kid on the bicycle hunts down John Cusack, demanding 2 dollars. I swear I hear the theme to Jaws in the background.

PLEASE, MR. THO, I put my hands together in some kind of Thai wai-like prayer motion, I NEED SOME PEACE.

Now I've lost track of where I am. Shit. But at least I lost Mr. Tho.

I had a busy morning. Made a reservation for a full day Saigon City tour. I know there's no other way I'm going to do it. Saigon is big, and busy, and distracting.

I find a cute clothing shop, and get some more stuff made.

Three hours, and I barely made it around the block.

I do as Anthony Bourdain says, and I head to central market. He says, if you ever want to get a feel for a city and its people, go to the Market.

It's a market like others I've seen. Full of bootleg, clothing designers, food shops. Except this one is huge, dense, and clean. There's an awesome place across the street, where I get some grilled pork over noodles. The young woman next to me tells me I'm supposed to dump the sauce into the bowl. I was pleased that I had already done it.

The Vietnamese are always telling me what to do. It's fantastic.

I walk around, window shopping, constantly dodging motorcycles.

I get this idea to go back to Central Market for dinner, and I am delighted by what I didn't even know existed:

NIGHT MARKET.

Holy shit.

One outdoor food stall after another, serving mostly fresh seafood. It's LOUD. Across from all the seafood are bootleg vendors. It's busy, crowded, full of Vietnamese, very food tourists. I'm sitting right next to the cook, smoky, seafoody steam periodically wafting against my back. It's hot. I don't care. It's GLORIOUS.

I'm not even bothered my the torrential rain that struck me on the way back to the hotel, a good 15 minute walk. I'm drenched. The vietnamese are telling me to take shelter with them, or offering me rides on their motorbike. I laugh, and walk on. My map is soaked, and I can't read it anymore.

I miraculously find my way back.

What does this say about me? I plan a month + getaway from New York, only to be most happy, most comfortable, and most entertained by another city- one impossibly more hectic, loud, and crazy than my own??

Swimming with the fishes

2008-07-23T00:18:00.000-07:00

Why have I never snorkeled before??

Because I'm a pussy.

I don't know where my balls disappeared to.

When I was younger, we used to go to Action Park, a water park somewhere in Jersey that was eventually shut down because it was too dangerous. At least that's what we thought.

I remember, being about 11 years old, standing at the top of the "cliff dive." There were two, a shorter one with a really long line, and a longer one with no line at all. I was standing over the taller one, looking down, with some other girl. Even then, I think I was horribly impatient. The taller one wasn't more intriguing for adventure's sake, it was just more practical. Fewer people.

Some boys came over, teased us for being scared, and I said, "scared??" and dove right off the cliff. DOVE. Perfectly. (Which I only remember because the next time I jumped I JUMPED, and the upward force for the water tore that little bit of flesh that connects the upper lip to the gum. I should've dove.)

I don't know what happened.

I guess I started turning into my mom.

Snorkeling has never been a FEAR of mine, it's just that I'm not a big lover of nature. I hate slimy, icky, buggy things touching me. But for some reason, I decided to go snorkeling today.

I eat too big of a breakfast, and I get picked up along with the same guy, Martin, who wound up on my boat tour in Hue, and a couple of Quebecois and Dutch people. I'm the only one snorkeling as everyone else is an experienced diver.

I squeeze myself into my neoprene suit, slap on a pair of fins, and remember that I really HATE not being able to breathe out of my nose. My allergies are feirce, and my asthma has been acting up a bit, and I get a bit anxious whenever I feel like my air supply is being cut off, even just a little.

A quick preventative puff of the inhaler and I'm off.

Totally alone, me, the coral reef, and the fish.

Of course, I had to swim past the baby jellyfish to get there. More panic.

I was over it quickly. It was GORGEOUS. The reefs we went to are protected. The fish aren't scared. They don't swim away.

They are all shades and patterns. Stripes, spots, shimmery. Fluorescent, phosphorescent, effervescent.

Total tranquility.

Why haven't I done this before??

Besides, I look pretty good in a wetsuit.

Nha Trang - I don't care if it's not "charming."

2008-07-22T02:55:00.000-07:00

Nha Trang is a a beach town in the Southern Central part of Vietnam. It's a city, and in the guide book, it's said to be not "charming."

It's not.

It's loud, not much culture, but has a beach. Most people have recommended going another 4 hours away to a beach town called Mui Ne, which is relatively unspoiled and remote and all that other stuff that backpackers like so much.

And then I remembered.

I'm not a backpacker.

I am the quintessential city girl.

I am two blocks from a beach, which by the way, is fantastic. It might not have the bluest waters, nor the fewest number of people, but compared to a lot of beaches I've seen, ESPECIALLY those in NY, it's empty. There are so few people, and most of them are Vietnamese on holiday. The water is completely clean. And when I'm done with my little R&R beachside, I have only to walk a couple of minutes to my hotel, a restaurant, iced coffee, and, oh yeah, the INTERNET. Skype.

I hate being in remote places. I hate losing touch with the outside world. Maybe for a day, with someone I particularly like.

However, I'm not with anyone I particularly like. So I like to have distraction about me.

Breakfast, free at the hotel, was a banana pancake and some iced coffee. The pancakes in vietnam are called "crepes," but really, they're neither. Too thin to be a pancake, too thick to be a crepe. Tasty anyway. I spent some time on the phone, talking to people from home.

I went for a bike ride to the center of town and went to some random "com" restaurant that looked good and busy. Everywhere in vietnam, there are little set-ups, some are carts, some are the front room of someone's house, that sells one or two particular dishes. "pho" is noodle soup, "bun" is some protein over cold vermicelli, and "com" is some protein over rice. In this part of the country, it seems that rice wins. This is particularly good for the non-viet speaker, because you just have to look and point. Today, it was squid stuffed with beef and rice (Nha Trang is all about seafood.) Delicious. There was some disturbing soup served with it that I avoided. All for about $1.25.

I spent most of the afternoon crocheting at the beach and underestimating the power of the vietnamese sun. I had a very small conversation (in my very shitty Friench) with a man and his wife, who were on vacation from Paris. He was Vietnamese, but moved to Paris after the war. At least, that's what I think he said. His wife offered me apples. At least, that's what I think they were.

I think that another massage might round out the day quite nicely. When they're $7 an hour, it's really hard not to spend your whole time doing it. I found a place that puts you in a steamroom that smells delightfully of lemongrass before the whole thing.

Tomorrow, I'm off on a 1/2 day boat tour to the surrounding islands, where I'll be snorkeling.

This, to me, is about all the nature and tourism I can handle.

Asians and ballads

2008-07-18T09:54:00.000-07:00

My friend Annie, who's Chinese-American, hates karaoke.

At some point, she laments, the Asians all start singing these long-ass sappy ballads, about 12 minutes long.

They sing crappy American ones, too.

I'm in the bus office on a Friday night, looking to book a ticket out of Hoi An forNha Trang. It's a popular journey, and in line ahead of me is a pissed off Aussie. He can't get tomorrow's bus out of Hoi An. I make sure I book the bus for the following night, which was the original plan. It's just me and the booking agent.

And three older Vietnamese guys, in the next room, drinking, smoking, eating. One is playing an old and outof tune guitar, both due to the bad acoustics and his bad playing. The three of them are destroying "unchained melody."

I start singing along, under my breath.

The booking agent, having just finished signing off on my ticket, grabs my hand andleads me into the next room. He invites me to sit and sing. I start singing Unchained Melody. My lyrics and verse were way off, but compared to this dude, I was one of the Righteous Brothers.

We're all smiling. One guy passes me a shot of what might have been vodka. Or bathtub gin. Or isopropyl alcohol. It did the trick, whatever it was. Another guy peels me a litchi.

Hooch and and a sing-a-long. That was enough entertainment for me tonight.

Hoi An - tailoring mecca

2008-07-18T09:53:00.001-07:00

You need three days in Hoi An if you want clothes made.

Day 1. Arrive in Hoi An, probably on the overnight bus from Hue. Walk around, get a lay of the land. Almost all of these shops are the same, and there are HOARDS of them. Innumerable. Most of them are selling CRAP. Crap fabrics cut to your size. I'm happy I spend a good deal of my time playing around in the garment district. "Vietnamese silk" is not silk at all. Get ideas. Get the fever.

Day2. Start in the morning. Early. Every store you go into, you have to go through magazine after magazine, getting inspired, narrowing vision. I started at Yaly Couture, the nicest shop with the nicest fabrics, by far, I thought. I leafed through magazines for two hours. Hint: If you leton thatyou're hot as hell, thennicer stores will bring you iced bottled water andturn the fan on you, knowing that keeping you cool in Vietnam is motivation enough.

Then you pick fabrics. There are tons to choose from in a nice shop.

Then you negotiate price. After two hours of this, you might not even be able to negotiate to something affordable. The nicer stores are kind about this. The ones that are not so nice get embittered.

Then they measure you.

Lather, rinse, repeat. Which you have to do, in order to diversify your portfolio, or so to speak, in case the place you pick sucks.

Which is sometimes the case.

Do not pay a large deposit. Nicer stores won't even ask for one at all.

Day 3
Get fitted in the morning. Get alterations. Go back inthe afternoon. Repeatuntil finished or until you have to get the hell out of dodge.

For example, here was my day 3:
I go to Central Market (Ly Ly store) where I pick up my five dress shirts. This took only two fittings. I didn't specify what kind of stitching I wanted, so they gave me the cheapest kind. I don't really care. They cost $14 a pop, and they were copied from a shirt I adored that was so dead.

Off to Yaly Couture, (3 locations) where I go for my 3rd fitting of the dress I "splurged"on for $57. 40's pinup style (try explaining that to the vietnamese), square neck, tight cap sleeves, pencil skirt with a flounce in the back. Sleeves still not right... they keep working on it. Three women, pinning, discussing, strategizing. All smiles.

Off to Thuong Cloth Shop, 30 Le Loi, where I pick up my thick, melton-wool coat, extra thick with a delicious collar and toggles. I'm sure I'm not the only crazy girl traveling across Asia with a dead-of-winter coat.

Tailor #4. Forget the location. Light-green top. Sexy. I eat some random barbecued beef and noodles at a food stall. I make it as spicy as I can handle.

The Tailor at Bup Design is a bitch. She overcharges me and totally fucks it up. DO NOT ASK FOR A CORSET in Vietnam. They have no idea what it is. I told her "corset" and "very thick" and "boning" all the other detals that makes a corset a corset. She comes back with an unlined top in the shape of a corset, and instead of grommets in the back there are open buttonholes. The woman tries in vain to lace it up, it of course does not work. It gapes, it bunches, it doesn't fit, it is falling down.
We get into it. I keep arguing that this was not what I asked for. She is arguing that she doesn't understand why I don't like it, thatthefabric waas thick and I said thick, that she already paid the tailor. I am trying not to lose my cool, which is evidently a no-no dealbreaker in Asia. This same argument goes back and forth for about 5minutes. I finally say "WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO DO??" This ends the conversation. She has no suggestion. I pay for the other blouse, and I leave her, sullen and sulking. Bup Design, 68 Nguyenen Thai Hoc. Avoid like the plague.

I really don't know how this shit fits in my bag.

Hoi An - UNESCO Hertiage Site and Bargaining Hell

2008-07-17T04:38:00.000-07:00

Coming to Hoi An should have been easy and pleasant.

Easy, yes. Pleasant, not so much. The 4 hour bus ride from Hue should have been quick and painless, but the cramped seating and NO A/C made theride torture. I thnk I lost 5 pounds in water weight just in those 4 hours.

I arrive at the hotel I booked through Hostelling International. Confirmation number and everything. Single room, $12. Pool in the lobby. Nice.

The lady behind the counter tells me she has only one room, and it's $15. But I already have a room, and it's $12. She repeats that she only has one room. And it's a 4th floor walkup. I tell her I want it for 4 nights. She offers $14 a night. I tell her I already booked at $12. I can show her the receipt. Fuck it. I accept. I tell her my friend has decided to share the room with me (there are two large beds.) She now tells me it's $15 for two. The manager comes over. He tells me the room is $17. I laugh. We agree on $15 for the both of us.

And so it goes in Vietnam.

You negotiate EVERYTHING. Everything you do, everything you ask for, with the exception of the few restaurants where the signs are clearly posted. You negotiate beforehand. It is annoying as hell.

You basically only talk price when you actually really want something. Or they get pissed.

I came to Vietnam with only three tank tops. I read everywhere that dress is more on the conservative side. FOR THEM, it turns out, as they can pretty much spot a foreigner in an instant anyway. They don't care. And I don't plan on going into the rain forest where Ihave to becovered head to toe.

So I go to buy some tank tops. Every place in town has the same crappy tank tops. I look at one stall. The woman says "you want shirts?" and pulls me deeper in her store. She is smiling profusely.

I tell her I need a tank top. She tells me to buy three. She'll give me a discount. I needed two anyway, so I tell her I'm interested in two.

She whips out a rudimentary calculator and types in "170." She says "170 for2, 10 discount." She does the math on the calculator: 170 - 10 = 160 and says "160 for two."

Before I am able to say "no" or even counter, she gives me the calculator and tells me that I'm supposed to offer her something.

This woman is not only trying to teach me something, but she is teaching me to bargain.

This exact thing happened to Daniel a couple of days back. He was looking for sandals. The woman at the market gave him a price that was way too high, and she told him that he had to counter. Being also of a non-bargaining culture, he said no and walked away. The two giddy young salesgirls pulled him back, laughing, peting him, telling him he was supposed to make a counteroffer.

I think this was exactly a Monty Python bit. "No, no, you're supposed to 'aggle!"

I got her down to 120,000 dong, roughly $7.50 for them both. I look in my wallet and realize I needed anATM, but better, everyone was waiting for me at the restaurant next door. I tell her I'm coming rightback. She doesn't believe me, so she accompanies me to the restaurant and waits for my return.

I hate bargaining.

Hoi An is a sleepy little town. By sleepy I mean that I don't feel like I'm going to get run over by a motorbike.

This is a big deal.

The town is quite small and very easily navigable. There's sand on all the roads, even though it is not a beach town.

There's tailors as far as the eyes can see.

And TOURISTS.

Hoi An is notable for their tailoring business, and hoards of people come into town for a couple of days to have clothes made.

You go to a tailor and spend a good couple of hours looking through magazines. You mark off what you like. Maybe you like the top of one dress and the bottom of another. No problem. You peruse the store for fabrics. Then you negotiate the price. They take your measurements. In a day, you come back, and they alter if needed.

Sounds easy.

This process has already taken two days.

There are stores of all quality and price, and it takes a long time to find a store you like and quality of a level you can afford. You find something you like, and maybe not the material. Or, maybe everything is great, but the price negotiations come to an abrupt end.

It's full-time work.

Being that Hoi An is impossibly hot and humid, shopping for clothes is about all I have the strength for anyway.

Lauging at Whitey

2008-07-15T07:44:00.000-07:00

bun bo Hue

My last boyfriend was Filipino-American.

His family is about as Filipino as Filipino can get, from what I understand.

One Christmas, I went to his family's house, and there was all this traditional Filipino food for dinner. I love all of it, with the exception of Dinuguan, a pork-blood and liver stew, which many Filipinos can't even bear to eat.

One of his elderly relations followed me around, would point to a dish and say "did you eat that?" and I would proudly proclaim, "yes!" Then he said "you know what that is?" and I would say something like "pancit canton!" And he laughed his ass off. Over and over again, once for each dish he pointed to.

Rik assured me that it was because Filipinos have some kind of national insecurity about thier food; that they can't really imagine that other people would like it.

Really, it's just Lauging at Whitey.

And I have no issue with this. It's good for me.

White people have been making people who aren't feel like shit about their shin, their looks, their food, pretty much EVERYTHING for, well, EVER.

So if my payback is that I get snickered at, charged an extra (and still affordable) 20,000 Dong to get into a national park, then as far as I'm concerned, I'm getting off easy.

Serves me right.

I can't tell you how much Laughing at Whitey is going on in Vietnam.

I walked into a Bun Bo locals-only joint today and ordered a bowl. It's a fantastically delicious version of the noodle soup pho that vietnam is famous for. I'm the only white person in that place, and the pre-teen girl keeps turning around and giggling at me. The young boys are running towards me and away.

Everywhere I go to eat I'm looked at with puzzlement. And giggles.

Laura has an awful sunburn. The women at the market are LITERALLY pointing and laughing.

I'm trying my best to represent, by eating my way through vietnam, picking places that have the largest Vietnamese:American ratio I can find. And by that, I mean, if there ain't no Whitey I'm eating there. When I'm done, I'm as gracious with my poorly prounounced Kam on I can muster.

And I'm more than happy to take my razzing.

Fuck tuk-tuks.

2008-07-15T07:32:00.000-07:00

Fucking tuk-tuks.

They're wheeled bicycle carts in Vietnam.

You're supposed to negotiate a price with them before they take off.

I tried.

The girls told me that two nights ago, they paid 20,000 Dong and last night they paid 10,000. So I figure I'll start at 10,000 and, worst comes to worse, 20,000. (20,000 is about $1.20) So I say to the guy, "10."

He says "you decide."

I try to settle on 10,000.

He re-affirms, "you decide."

I get in.

He drives me a little, and he tries to communicate with me. In vain. I tell him I don't understand.

He stops the bike, gets out, and takes a piss.

Why he can't fucking wait until the end, I'm not sure.

He bikes me the rest of the way, trying again to talk to me, tapping me on the shoulder (please note that he has not washed his hands at this point, probably all day, I'm thinking.)

He stops about 500 yards from the entrance of the B&B.

Now I know I'm in for it.

I give him the overly generous 20,000.

He demands 50,000 and at the same time telling me that he told me that I could decide.

Now I'm pissed, because I knew full well he would do this (it's practically obligatory from what I hear) and he's posturing in the street, showing all kinds of emotions from angry, to pissed off, to near tears, trying to get me to pay him what he wants.

I'm not having it.

Now I'm just offering him the 20,000, and I start walking away.

"This, or nothing."

He's still pitching a fit.

I go to the entrance of the B&B, and now I'm waiting for him to come in. He motions for me to come back out.

I give him the 20,000 and he tells me to go fuck myself.

Fantastic. Next time I'll just risk the burn on my inner right calf.

Facing Fear and the Kindness of Strangers

2008-07-15T03:24:00.000-07:00

Hue (hoo-ay) is OK.

It's a city with a lot of history... it was nearly completely decimated by the French, and very little of its original architecture remains, with the exception of the Citadel, Imperial Palace, and some mausoleums and pagodas along the Perfume River.

I arrived on the fabulous overnight sleeper bus from Hanoi after spending 14 hours in an impossibly small (read: perfect for me) sleeper compartment. It was shockingly fast and comfortable. The greatest discomfort came from the excruciatingly loud Celine-Dion-Vietnamese-Style songstress blasting through the speakers as we set of, and at 5:00 the next morning.

That, and poor Laura, the Irish girl I met screamin,g in her brougue "Fuckinell!!" She was even more tortured than I was by the music.

Laura, Eva, Daniel and I trust this man at the bus depot to take us to his B&B. He explains that there is no committment, we can see the room, and if we don't like it, he'll bring us back. We trust him, as this is very common practice here. The place is great. The three girls are sharing a $15 room and Daniel gets his own $10 room, payable in USD. Everyone is nice, the place is clean, A/C and balcony, hot shower included.

We walk to the Imperial Palace, and Daniel is smart enough to realize that the Tuk-Tuk (wheeled cart) driver who's telling us that the Palace is closed until 1 pm is lying. Turns out a common scam is to tell tourists that attractions are closed until a certain time, so that you're more than willing to shell out some dough to take a tour of the city in his tuk-tuk for an hour or so.

There are scams abound, but they're (so far) very harmless, and not very expensive. In Vietnam, where everything is very cheap for us, even getting scammed a bit really only sets you back $3 or so.

It's really hot. Easily approaching 95 degrees. Yet, it's not humid at all, and I am thankful.

Laura and Eva are dying.

We spend the rest of the afternoon longing at the hotel pool near our B&B, the best $4 each of us had spent in a while. I even started on the math homework I brought for myself.

We go the the DMZ (demilitarized zone) bar, an expat bar in town, have a couple of drinks and call it a night. Laura and Eva take a tuk-tuk back, Daniel and I decide to enjoy the cool breeze we'd discovered for the first time that day. We of course get lost with the crappy map on the back fo the B&B's card, as lost as one can get in a tiny place like Hue, and it takes us an hour to get back.

We have an 8 am tour down the Perfume River. I'm awakened at 5 in the morning by a loudly groaning Laura. She pulled a muscle or something on the bus the night before, and now she is in such pain she decides to go to the hospital. I try to convince her that any pharmacy will gladly give her valium, but she's adamant. I can't get back to sleep, so I decide to go off to the cafe early, where there's free internet and the strongest iced Viet coffee I've had yet.

It takes me less than 10 minutes. Evidently, we needed to only go down one street the night before. Duh.

I ran out of the cafe after making a phone call so as not to miss the boat, literally. I sit down on this boat, about to take a day long trip down the Perfume river, and I say to Daniel, "When I travel, I fell like I'm always looking for my stuff."And then it hits me like lightening. I LEFT MY PHONE AT THE CAFE.

motherfucker.

I just bought a new one LAST WEEK.

AND, most importantly, it's my most convenient connection to home when the internet isn't working. I felt sick to my stomach.

Luckily, I met some really cool people on this boat. Rachel, from England, has been going around SE asia on her own since February. She had Dengue fever. There is no preventative nor cure for dengue, and, according to Daniel, if you get it more than twice it might kill you. This gives me some anxiety. She's my new hero.

Martin is some ridiculously well-traveled teacher from Vancouver. He's been everywhere.

Coolest was Anh, or Andy, a Vietnamese guy, traveling with his dad. He'd just gotten his green card after living in San Diego for 10 years, and this was his first time back. He heard me complaining about losing my phone, and he interrupts us, telling us that it's better to get this ticket on the boat that pays for all of the motorbike transfers to the mausoleums. He is cheerful, happy, friendly, and adorable. W ewind up hanging with him and his dad the whole afternoon, as he tries to work his Vietnamese magic with the locals so that we don't get ripped off at every corner.

The trip down the river was gorgeous. We passed by lots of other tourboats, but also regular workers doing their work down the river. Women and men are bent over the boat, gathering river mud for laying mortar on buldings, Andy explains. It's back-breaking work.

We stop off at various locations to see temples, pagodas, mausoleums, gardens. Each one more opulent than the next.

Oh, but that motorbike.

The ubiquitous motorbike.

Everywhere you go in vietnam, there are people hangin around on these simple motorbikes, beckoning you to hop on for a ride. If you're lucky, you get a helmet. If you're unlucky, as it seems is the case more often than I can believe, you get off on the right side of the motorbike instead of the left. On the right side of the bike is the exhaust pipe, which is hotter than hot. A number of the girls I saw at the hostel had 4 - 5" diameter gaping, oozing, 2nd - 3rd degree wounds from a millisecond brush up against the exhaust pipe. This is so common, it's called getting an "Asian tattoo."

I am PETRIFIED.

But I have no choice.

I'm holding on for dear life, the bottom of my feet sweating in a way I didn't know was possible, making sure my right leg is far from the exhaust, repeating to myself the mantra "getoffontheleft."

I escape unharmed.

I have a sick feeling that much of my trip in Asia is going to be dealing with my mild paranoia.

Later in the day, I meet Veronica and Anna, from Boston. Veronica has an office phone, and lets me text my phone. I basically beg for its return. Mr. Linh at the Mandarine Cafe has it safe and sound, ready for me to pick up. They absolutely refuse the tip I try to leave, in a place where everyone is trying to get an extra $3 out of me.

This is the yin and yang of life that never ceases to give me pause and appreciate the awesomeness of how it feels when someone you don't know can affect you in a beautiful and positive way. I need to remember to do this for others every opportunity I have.

It was a very overwhelming day, but it was amazing.

Last Day in Hanoi

2008-07-13T00:45:00.000-07:00

I'm sick.

I get a sinus infection every time I travel, and at least once during the year. Luckily, I figure it out right away. Even more luckily, I've learned that if you walk into any pharmacy in any country, write down the word "amoxicillin" on a piece of paper, hand it to the pharmacist, they are more than happy to oblige. Vietnam is no different, and at a cost of 5o cents for a week's dosage, it makes me want to get about 10 for the next 5 years' worth of infections.
suddenly happy that I couldn't get last night's train out of Hanoi,

I decide the wise thing to do is rest, so I keep the hostel bed for another day, even though I am leaving tonight. At $7.50 a night decisions like these are easy.

Turns out I am a fast healer, so I don't use the dorm bed at all, but I decide to walk around Hanoi one more day.

I go to the highly recommended Cha Ca La Vong, #14 on the street of the same name, for a local specialty called Cha Ca. The woman at the restaurant brings you a sheet of paper that says "This restaurant only serves one dish: grilled fish. 90,000 Dong not including drink." This is a spurge at about $5. They bring you individual bowls of noodles, peanuts, fish sauce with chili, greens. Then they bring an individual hibachi with a pot of boiling seasoned oil on top, into which someone pours in a huge pile of greens, onions, dill.

He motions towards me what to do, but I missed it. I pour the noodles into the pot, and this young English boy yells out to him mom, "she's doing it wrong!" She's embarassed and he's now hiding his face and crying. I was thrilled, because I had a feeling I was totally doing it wrong, which I told him, but he wanted no more to do with me. So the woman continues to tell me that they put the fish on top and then I spoon it out onto the noodles. So I wait.

And wait.

They must have thought I was a total idiot.

The fish, already grilled and cut up, was already in the boiling oil. 1 point for the kid, 0 points for mom.

Anyway, it was delicious. Herby, oily, lemony, delicious.

Halong Bay

2008-07-12T02:36:00.000-07:00

A bunch of people from the Hostel pile into a minibus to Halong Bay yesterday morning. Halong Bay is about 3.5 hours away from Hanoi. Out hostel owner hands each of us an embarassingly large brightly covered sombrero, a couple of bottles of $3 Vietnamese vodka (the good stuff, much better than the $2 bottle) and a small sample sized container of extra-strength insect repellent.

"You're going to need this," he says.

We arrive at Thai Son ceramics, a rest stop on the way, that is a working ceramic factory and
handicraft village. There's also a cooperative that teaches young children how to make needlepoint scenery for sale at the place. I wish the children had looked happier doing what they were doing.

We're impressed by the boat that we have all to ourselves: it's gorgeous red wood, lacquered and large. The rooms on the boat are bigger than you'd expect; the linens perfectly pressed, the silk comforter neatly tucked into place.

There's white linens on the tables, and we're greeted by a huge meal, better than any meal on a boat for a bunch of backpackers should be.

The boat, called a junk, sets sail for the middle of the bay, where we pass by sharp conical protrusions from the water, tree-covered mini-islands. The boat stops, and some of my braver companions jump off the top level of hte boat for a swim. An Aussie jumps first, naturally.

We swim, we laugh, we dive. Over and over again.

It doesn't get any better than this," I proclaim. Famous last words.

We are guided into a limestone cave. My claustrophobic and non-outdoorsy self takes a huge breath and allows peer pressure to force me inside. I'm proud at my willingness to be blindly guide places.

The kayaks come out. I'm strangely happy about this, considering my last kayaking adventure ended in a large argument between my friends and myself, after they convinced me I would LOVE it and were horribly mistaken. I am open for anything.

We kayak into a cove, lead by our non-English speaking Vietnamese guide. There's jumping out of boats, more swimming.

Except this time, there were jellyfish everywhere.

In retrospect, this might have been the exact moment where things took a turn for the worse.

We get back to the boat, the empty beer cans are lining up quickly. It's only 5:30, feeling much later than it was. The sun starts to set, and we sit down to eat.

Dinner was much less enticing than lunch, and as we're eating we notice some very small roaches congregating near one guy's side, on the wood. It's kind of gross. I'm now recalling a conversation a spanish-speaking girl at the hostel was recounting to her friend that went something like "there were cockroaches everwhere." I think I was trying to ignore her, and now it all made sense.

We look around. There are little roaches EVERYWHERE. Not on us, as we were all covered with enough repellent to kill a small child. We're all trying to remain reasonably calm and tough, although I am the first to admis that bugs make me very squeamish. "Just don't think about it," says Lucille, sounding much less cavalier than I just made her appear.

She changes her mind after she finds a dead one in the food. In fact, EVERY table seemed to find dead roaches in the food. We stop eating. We look in the rooms- infestation. We collectively decide that the way to deal with this is to get as drunk as possible so that we just don't care anymore. Stay up until the morning, so we don't have to go back to the roach motel.

Some were already this drunk, but me, at one beer, wasn't nearly there.

'We all go upstairs on the top deck for refuge, as it seems safe from bugs, and after three shots of cheap Hanoi vodka mixed with orange soda, I got more of a headache than a buzz. Everyone is well on their way to being completely wasted, as they are the kinds of young backpackers who seem to be making their way across the continent in search of cheap and asy drinking. They play a drinking game which I described as "less of a game than a quick, methodical, rule-heavy way of getting wasted." I bow out.

I am now very bored. And headachy. And feeling the asthma/allergy attack come on strong. I look at my watch. IT IS ONLY 10:00.

Now I panic. I'd forgotten how much I hate being stuck in a place I can't get out of. I forgot how much I dislike being around young wasted people traveling. You know, the kinds that still think "what is your porn star name, you know, the name of your first pet and the name of the street you grew up on?" is fucking hilarious. I hate it all. (by the way, they were all very very nice.)

I summon up the courage to go back to the room. There aren''t as many bugs as I thought there'd be. I pump myself full of drugs. Now my heart is palpitating, and I'm not sure if it's from the panic or the meds. I talk myself out of it. I manage to fall asleep, if out of nothing but desperation. I''m sleeping with one eye open, creating all of these rules for myself like "if I cover myself with this sarong, they won't crawl on me"and it manages to work. I sleep for a couple of hours and come back upstairs. No one is making any sense. They're drunk and stoned and snuggling, god bless them.

I go back downstairs and manage to sleep for a long time.

I couldn't wait to get the hell out of there.

It's unfortunate, because the bay was spectacular.

Hanoi

2008-07-09T22:02:00.000-07:00

I am standing on the corner of a very busy intersection, one desperately needing a traffic light. I'm in a blank stare, just trying to figure out where I am, gazing at the buildings and the density of traffic, about 1/2 of which are motorbikes with 1, 2, 3 helmetless Vietnamese.

An older lady to my right smiles at me, beckons me forward.

I would liken the experience to a game of Frogger, except there is no moving side to side or back. Success depends on a confident, almost arrogant, strong walk forward, pausing at times, making eye contact. And prayer. Lots of prayer. Lanes are marked seemingly as an afterthought, a mere suggestion, as no one pays attention. Horns honk incessantly in order to signal to pedestrians and other drivers that they are approaching dangerously close. 35 years of NYC city living has not nearly prepared me for this, but I wonder how everyone else survives.

Everyone is wearing some kind of mouth covering... the pollution is heavy, and I wouldn't have noticed if it weren't for the fact that a long walk leaves me covered in filth, constant adjusting my contact lenses for relief.

At every corner, there are motorbike owners and cyclists giving me a wave, a "hello!" and a huge warm, captivating smile, trying to persuade me to tour with them. I decline, and they are not aggressive at all.

Hanoi is dense. There are streets where each store is dedicated to only one good: candy street, bootleg shirt street. There is To Tich street where you can find one storefront after another dedicated to "fruit shakes," a 50 cent misnomered concoction of mango, papaya, dragonfruit, avocado, apple, sago, sweetened condensed milk and shaved ice. There's no shake about it... the mix is to be mashed by the drinker with a spoon. Ice is a no-no for the foreign traveler, but it's practically impossible to avoid, and essential when it's as hot as it is here.

The Dong Xuan Market at the north of town is one of the most dense I have seen: fabric salespeople sit atop piles of silks. Bootleg is cheap and plentiful. I learned it is easier than you'd think to recognize what cooked dog looks like. It looks like a very large Peking Duck.

My first Vietnamese meal of the day is bun cha, a steaming bowl of noodles in broth with sliced chicken. It's delicious, about $1, and strange it is how fortifying and refreshing hot soup can be on an equally hot day. I'm in a plastic chair the size of a child's, and thinking about how great it is to finally be here.

NYC - Hanoi. Did she REALLY say that out loud?

2008-07-09T10:02:00.000-07:00

I was the last person to board my 13+ hour flight from NYC to Tokyo. I got stuck in the only foodstuff joint near my gate, and I sweated as I waited 10 minutes in line for a crappy overpriced sandwich. It turned out to be absolutely essential, as the food on the very long flight was very poor and very sparse.

I was delighted to find out that the seat next to me would be free the entire flight. It's really good to be 5'2" sometimes, as I was able to stretch out my legs completely across the seats without getting slammed by the flight attendants racing their carts up the aisle. This made me not think too hard about the guy a couple of seats ahead of me who reeked of a combination of dirty feet and ass the whole trip.

I knitted 3/4 of a child's sweater, watched some mediocre movies at the push of a button, thought about how wonderful my life is.

That last hour was grueling, though.

I arrived at Tokyo groggy, sweaty, with a four hour layover. I was briefly entertained by the graphics (coming soon) and the instruction manual for the mechanical customizable bidet that I enjoyed just a little too much. Fortunately, my gate was devoid of all life when I arrived, and I snagged one of the five 180 degree reclining loungers and passed out for hours.

After 14 hours of flight, another 5 1/2 is a piece of cake.

I arranged for pickup at the airport. Some guy who spoke almost no English picked me up, and a couple of young women from Quebec. The were coming to Vietnam after some time in Tibet. He motioned us to wait for him while he picked up the car. A minute later, a different cabbie parks the car next to us, the girls start to move towards the door, taking a long moment to realize that the cabbie was not the same guy.

The girl laughed and said to me, "It's so hard... they all look the same!"

Did she REALLY just say that out loud?

The cabbie drops me off, and asks for money, which I have already paid the hostel. I don't have any vietnamese money anyway, so I couldn't pay him even if I tried. He realizes where I am staying and I guess he realizes he'll be paid later. The two men at the desk speak no English. They take my passport and escort me 5 flights up to a dorm room, even though I am supposed to be staying in a private room. I am too tired to care to fix the situation, which would be fruitless at this point anyway. The room is immaculate, air conditionedl, complete with hot water shower and bathroom. For $8.50 a night. Free internet and Skype.

Can't complain about that. Yet.

Mermaid Parade 2008

2008-06-28T06:46:00.001-07:00

Every year, my mermaid parade costume is inspired by something that I enjoyed or did or saw that year.

This year: TEXAS.

Complete with chaps (everyone keeps saying assless chaps, which is redundant, but fun to say nonetheless) sequins and an Elvis-flair, I was definitely the shiniest mermaid on Coney Island that day.

Strangely enough, my belt buckle, the only part of the costume I did NOT make, was almost as popular as the rest of the outift.

Mermaid parade benefit

2008-05-24T15:37:00.001-07:00

(photo by Carl Saytor)
I was asked by my friend Heather to be one of the dancers at the Coney Island Mermaid Benefit. We were supposed to participate in a jam circle, a couple of dancers were going to perform (not me) and then we were supposed to cozy up next to the VIPs who paid about $250 a ticket.

It was the best party I've been to in a long time. Circus freaks, big-name burlesque artists, fellow freak lovers like myself. They were serving up coney island fare - hot dogs, hamburgers, and popcorn - making me glad that I had dinner beforehand.

We danced and shmoozed from about 7 to midnight. Everyone was SO nice. I was wearing a vintage-style top, a navy twirly skirt that I made that day (LOVE that serger), black and white shoes and one of grandma's vintage hats. A number of near-naked burlesque performers came up to me to tell me how great I looked, which was HILARIOUS because they were glamorously bedecked in pasties, glitter, sequins, feathers.

We danced all night. I had a typically naughty dance with one of my favorite dancers, Brendan. Brendan's so great because he has a great sense of leverage, and he'll get me in these crazy positions where I'll wind up with his knee between my legs, and then I miraculously pop up about 6 feet in the air. Or, I'll be bent over and he'll be smacking my toosh.

So, we're having one of these ridiculously campy and naughty dances, laughing so hard, and I realize we're being watched very closely by a couple of people on the side of us. At the end of the dance, I dusted myself off, looked at Brendan and said "Thanks! It was nice to meet you!"

I love everything mermaid.

Countdown to Mermaid Parade....

2008-05-10T08:08:00.000-07:00

I have been trying to make a sweater that embodies the spirit of the Coney Island Mermaid Parade for a couple of years now, and I think I finally did it...

The sweater pattern is from Stephanie Japel's fitted knits, and the mermaid is adapted from the Stitch & Bitch mudflap girl.

I *heart* the mermaid parade. Now that the sweater is finished, I have to get working on the costume...

Me versus NYC pothole.

2008-04-17T17:53:00.000-07:00

I tripped and fell in a pothole, on the corner of 23rd and Park ave south.

Smash. Knee perpendicular to the pavement, thank goodness, because there was no need for painful abrasion scrubbing. But it hurt and swelled up pretty quickly.

So I hobble over to the New York Sports Club (where I am NOT a member) and ask for some wipes, a bandage, an icepack. 5 minutes later, I ask for an EMT. They were really nice to me (must write a thank-you note.)

Just last week, a girl I met at the gym twisted her knee in the dance class. It was totally deja-vu.

They check me out, recommend I go to the hospital for x-rays.

They wheel me into the street.

Then I hear my name being called out.

Nothing like having one of your STUDENTS watch you get wheeled into an ambulance to add insult to injury. Literally.

(I'm OK, though. Bruised and battered, but nothing broken.)

Top Ten Things About my Trip to Austin

2008-02-26T19:40:00.001-08:00

In no particular order.
Full Photo Set on Flickr

(1) Getting kicked out of Guero's taco bar because Hillary Clinton was having her post-debate party there. Going back two nights later to see hunky Luke Wilson at a nearby table. Joking endlessly with Nicole about what we were going to tell everyone we did with him. Finding out that Joanna's cousin actually DID.

(2) Randomly going into the Continental club to see swing dancing. Having to go all the way to Austin to finally get a very-famous-instructor who-is-way-too-got-for-me to ask me to dance. Having a very large asthma attack after a very fast dance that left me wheezing, literally, all week.

(3) Having JetBlue calling us at 2:30 in the morning to tell us our 5pm flight was canceled the next day. Being mature enough to decided to get the hell out of there before we were flying in really dangerous weather. Pulling an all-nighter to pack and make the flight. Finding out the 7am flight we booked got canceled, too, after we returned the rental. Laughing hysterically about it instead of crying.

(4) Discovering that everything on the Austin highways looks the same. There is an IHOP and a Target and a La Quinta at every exit it seems, making it really hard to figure out where the hell we were. Ever. Making endless u-turns, which are on offer ALL THE TIME. Leaving Austin City Limits (not the music festival, the ACTUAL city limits) before realizing we were about 1/2 hour in the wrong direction. This happening overandoverandover.

(5) Going to BINGO, hanging with the old ladies. Almost winning. TWICE.

(6) Doing the Texas two-step with Paul. And country-line-dancing. Wearing all black and looking like a total outcast.

(7) Doing the booty-drop with Joanna, only to have my jeans tear wide open, along the crotch, front-to-back. Tying a sweatshirt around my waist, continuing to dance with cool breeze blowing up my va-jay-jay all night.

(8) Learning that they do all say y'all, even though just about all the Austinites I met were born and raised elsewhere. Realizing that they the boys are indeed gentlemanly, even if it might only be because it's real easy to buy a girl a beer when they're only $2.50. Also realizing that they become just as creepy after getting their fill of those cheap beers, but discovering that just one nod to a bouncer and that creep will get kicked right out of the bar, no questions asked.

(9) Substituting the adjective of "Everything's bigger in Texas" at will. ie: Drunker, louder... Overusing "That's What she said" like one of my teenage students would do, yet never getting sick of hearing it. Getting saucy with the waiter when he asks "Is there anything I can do for you ladies?" I reply, "That's a loaded question. Can you be more specific?"

(10) Good times with good friends, margaritas made with fresh squeezed lime and no sour mix, great music, friendly folks.

Geisha licks!!

2008-02-17T20:21:00.000-08:00

Geisha is learning to be a real cat!! She's only recently learned to lick Vespa (as it is, they barely tolerate each other.)

I can't believe I got this on video!!

2008-02-17T20:07:00.000-08:00

My brand-new 2008 Toyota Yaris! Pacific Blue. I'll pay for her next week!!!

I feel like such a grown up.

Now, what to name her??

Easier than baby sweaters... DOG SWEATERS!

2008-01-20T05:51:00.001-08:00

I made this sweater for a friend's dog when I was in Brazil this summer... but it wasn't cold enough for her to wear until recently.

I used the pattern from Stitch 'n Bitch Nation in a double-thickness sugar-and-cream yarn that I got in a gift exchange a while back.

Now if I could only get my cats to wear sweaters I'd be set.

Three math wrongs = pants for $17 a pop.

2008-01-12T11:45:00.000-08:00

I need new pants.

That is, I NEEDED new pants, and now I don't need to buy any again for the next 10 years.

I go to unnamed retail chain this morning to look at some pants. I don't usually go here, buy I've heard people rave about their pants. Even the girl at Club Monaco (where I bought three pairs of pants.... I LOVE Club Monaco) said that she gets her pants at this particular mall-rat favorite.

The pants are normally $70 - $80. They fit like a glove, and they're on sale for $30. I pick out 5 pairs, thinking that I would take them home to make the final decision. The guy in the fitting room says "They're 20% off the sale price, and if you open a credit card, you'll get an additional 15% off. That's 35% off!)

I smile.

Because he's wrong. Percents don't add that way.

If an item is on sale for 20% OFF, then you're paying 80% OF (100% - 20%) the sale price. That means that if you're getting 20% off, and then an additional 15% off, then that's the same as (.80)(.85)=.62 of the price, which is really only 32% off.

Granted, this is a marginal amount. On a $100 purchase, it's only $3 difference. But the greater the amount of sale, the greater the error. On $1000 purchase, there's a $30 difference.

I knew the cash register is programmed to get the answer right, anyway. Total cost of my purchase: $115.

I happen to walk by another store of the same chain, and see two more I want to add to the collection I'm now bringing home, sure I'll return at least three of them.

The girl at the register says, "Everything today is 30% off, and then an additional 15% off for opening your credit card. That's 45% off!

I can't let this go anymore. I explain to her that 15% off a 30% off purchase is not 45% off. She is reluctant to believe me. I finally convinced her. Total cost of the two pairs of pants: $36.

I think to ask the manager if the sale is the same for all of the stores, because I only got 20% of at the other store. He offers to do a price change.

The original cost of the 5 pants at the first store was $170. After 20% off, $136. After the additional 15%, $115. If they did it right, it would have been $170, after 30% discount, $119, after additional 15%, $101.

So they owed me about $14.

Instead, the guy returns the 20% discounted pants, $136, which is correct. He rings up the $136 again, and takes 10% off of THAT to "total" 30%. This is WRONG. Taking an additional 10% off 20% discounted merchandise does not equal taking 30% off the original for the same reason. Percents still don't add! Except this time, it counts AGAINST me. $3 worth.

I don't even have a chance to think about this, because the cashier tells me that $32 is going to be returned to my card.

$32??

It turns out that he returned the $136 to my card and forgot to "return" the $20 of discount that I received on the pants!

Not for a second did it seem to occur to this cashier that $30 is a lot more than a 10% error on $115.

Perhaps it was unscrupulous of me to not point out his error, but I was done educating for the day.

Three errors for mall store, and I pay $119 for 7 pairs of pants. That's $17 a pop.

And now I don't feel like I can return them!!!

New Year's Resolutions

2007-12-31T14:31:00.001-08:00

I never make these. But as I have been sitting in my apartment like a hermit, sick all week, I was left with a lot of time to ponder what things I do that I would like to continue and how I could push myself a little more.

Changing is out of the question. It's not realistic, and I don't really have the ganas to change, anyway. I just would like to be the best and happiest me possible.

EAT BETTER. And I don't mean "healthier." I mean BETTER. Most days, I come home from work beat, having the only energy to heat up some Trader Joe's thing, or make some pasta. One sad day I remember a meal of cheese and twizzlers. (consecutively, not at the same time. And it was good cheese. But sad nonetheless.) I think I'd rather spend the $ to eat something delicious rather than something cheap, easy, and unfulfilling.
EAT MORE THINGS IN CRUSTS. In my travels, I often marvel at the fact that no matter anywhere you go, if it's served in a crust, it's fucking delicious. Quiche, tart, empanadas, kibbeh... I forget how delicious and easy these things are to acquire and eat. They keep well. They taste good. And I am really starting to hate the better-than-average school lunch options.
TONE MY ARMS AND GUT. I've been saying this for years. Actually, every other day or so for years. Yet I never do it. I'm 35 now, and soon these body parts will be beyond repair if I don't start now. I remember that there was this super skinny girl I knew in college who was about 90 lbs but totally ripped. I remember thinking that if I was that skinny it would be easy to be that toned. Well, now I am skinny, and I'm not. No excuse.
GET OUT MORE DURING THE WEEK. Since school started this year, I basically run home and work my butt off until I am totally exhausted and ready to sleep. My gym routine has suffered, my dancing has diminished, and I don't even make dinner plans with friends. I've become a hermit. This shit has to stop, even if it's only once a week.
MOAN AND GROAN LESS. I bitch a lot. I don't really want to stop bitching completely. I realized how boring and draining it is to be around someone who is SO NEGATIVE ALL THE TIME.
DANCE MORE. I gave the tango thing a good shot this year, but I had some negative experiences that have held me back. I need to try Djoniba once more for some more samba, as it seems that the places to do it is quite limited. Maybe I'll give the swing thing another go. Either way, there needs to be much more dancing.
CALL MY FRIENDS MORE. I hate the fucking phone, but then I turn around and I haven't spoken to my closest friends in forever.
BE CLEANER. My apartment is nice. I should keep it that way.
KEEP CREATING. I've done a good job of this, and need to keep it going. Knitting, sewing (getting that serger up and running...) crafting in general. It's nice, and luckily most of my friends appreciate a nice homemade gift.
BE HAPPY. It's a choice. Hopefully if I do the above 9, #10 should be a cinch.

Happy new year!!

Baby Wrap Sweater

2007-11-04T08:30:00.000-08:00

From "Natural Knits for Babies and Moms" by Louise Harding

I've never seamed a sweater. All the sweaters I've made are in the round, so I figured I'd give it a try on a baby sweater.

The sweaters in this book are very basic and very cute. All my friends seem to have boys, so I'm not sure who the recipient of this will be, but it's cute as hell. Now I've just got to make one in my size.

The yarn is a pretty cotton I picked up in Buenos Aires.

Halloween Costume 2007

2007-11-04T06:08:00.000-08:00

It was a vintage repro bathing suit costume from the 1890's. So comfortable, and the pattern (Folkwear Patterns) fit me perfectly.

Of course, everyone just thought I was some sailor girl.

Back to School

2007-09-11T19:51:00.001-07:00

I'm pretty smart.

I would also say I am intelligent.

I am not, however, brilliant.

By "brilliant," I mean the type of person that learns stuff without anyone ever really teaching them. The Einsteins of the world. The prodigies.

For the last 5 years, I taught a freshman honors geometry course. As much as geometry is my weakest mathematical subject (I'd say trig is my favorite), there were few times I remember a student ever challenged me.

At the beginning, I was... I might not have known the answer to a question right away, or have more than one way to explain a certain concept, but that was due more to my lack of experience teaching the subject matter, and not the subject matter itself.

There was one girl, 5 years ago. She was pretty smart. I start off my logic unit with excerpts from "Discourse on the Method of Reason," by Descartes. It sets the foundation for proof. To me, he is where modern reason begins. I think the piece is beautiful. I didn't tell the kids what they were reading, or by whom, and this one girl raises her hand and says:

"Was that Descartes? Or was that Hume?"

How the hell did she know that? Of course, a pre-High School course on philosophy she took in some program.

That girl was smarter than me. She corrected me a couple of times throughout the year. Nicely. I would remind her it's not polite to make her teacher feel stupid.

Every year, I would tell these kids something along the lines of, "Some of you in here are smarter than me. I really hope you are. Someone has to go out there and cure cancer, do life-saving work. Save the world. It's my greatest hope."

And yet, for most teachers, it is their greatest fear- being stuck in a room with a kid who is smarter then they are.

Two years later, I had a kid who was really smart. Smarter than me. He went out of his way to challenge me, but due to his unfocused nature at that time, he never won. Not just because I didn't allow him to win, but because his ideas were not fully formed. To him, I would say:

"You may be smarter than me, and one day, you may know more than me. But that day is not today."

I am now teaching honors precalculus, and although I am completely confident that some day I will be as knowledgeable about the subject as I became with geometry, it's like starting all over again. I'm writing a lesson that takes me three hours to complete, because I need to refamiliarize myself with the material, think about the best way to teach it, and then plan the lesson. I need to think about what might not be so obvious (like the fact that a "subset" does not necessarily mean a "smaller" set!) but I have to plan extra, because I have no idea about pacing. Which make it look like I never get through a lesson. Which is embarassing.

I started the year with some intimidating-looking notation: set theory, universal and existential quantifiers, and asked them to translate some sentences. Pretty cool, definitely different from what they were used to, but do-able.

One of the statements, which I found on the internet, was a somewhat interesting way of stating the yet unproven mathematical conjecture that there are infinitely many twin primes (two primes that have a difference of 2.) I didn't tell them that this is what it was called, or what the conjecture was. I told them, that for extra credit, they might want to go home, try to figure out what famous theorem (heck, I didn't even call it a conjecture so as not to lead them!) it was, and to explain it to me on a piece of paper.

One young man raises his hand.

"Yes?" I say.
"I think I know it," he says.
"Well, don't tell us, because then no one will get extra credit."
"Can I whisper it to you?"
"You can write it on a piece of paper and give it to me at the end of the period."

At the end of the period, the young man hands me a folded piece of paper.

It says simply, "Twin Prime Conjecture."

Turns out he read a book over the summer that explored a lot of these topics. He named other conjectures. He understood most of them, but not all of them.

The next day, he explained the conjecture and its notation as beautifully as a poet reading a Shakespearean sonnet.

Now they're smarter than me AND they know more than me. I'm in for quite an exciting and humbling year.

Fifi

2007-08-31T20:02:00.000-07:00

"Fifi" is the name of this sweater from FrenchGirlKnits. Instead of using the suggested Rowan Calmer ($12 a skein), I used Valley Yarn's Goshen ($3.99 a skein). Not only cheaper, but the modal in the "Goshen" is really nice, making the cotton very silky, I'd imagine more than the acrylic in the "Calmer" at 3 times the price.

Modifications:
Although the pattern called for 5 skeins, I used 6, making the top longer than suggested and making the sleeves a bit longer as well. It's knit top-down in the round, so you can try it on as you go. I went from a size 7 needle to a 6 in the midriff, cinching the waist a bit. The original pattern calls for the ribbing to start at the bustline, which my friend Michelle and I both thought looked a little dumb, so I started the ribbing under the boobage. I also couldn't tell if the center cable was supposed to be in the back as well, so I omitted it. Now it's easy to differentiate between the front and back. Of course, with my killer A-cups, I didn't need to add any short-rows for ample busts.

It's a really easy and fast knit... only took a couple of days! (Will add pic when I get some light...)

Never trust anyone who tells you "We can do it in a day"

2007-08-31T17:14:00.000-07:00

Old Floor (looks pretty here, but so not up close....)

(New Floor: african walnut - chocolate brown)

Day 1
The flooring guys were supposed to be doing my flooring today. At 12:30 pm (after I woke up at 8:30) they arrive and say "we're going to drop off the materials and start tomorrow."

No question if that's even OK, and tomorrow is the start of Labor Day weekend. I don't even bother with the installer, who has nothing to say in the matter, and has weak english.

I call the company, and they say "We can't help it, two of the guys on the team are sick." This is after the guys told me they had traffic from Jersey.

I tell them that it's not a problem that it's a two day job, BUT THEY SHOULD HAVE TOLD ME IT'S A TWO DAY JOB." I can't believe that they just expect that people can just take two days off from work like that. (I'm not working right now, but still.)

So they're coming tomorrow. God help them if they don't finish, because then they can't finish 'til Tuesday and there's not way I can take tuesday off from work (it's the 1st day!!)

Day 2
When I called the manager yesterday, I said "Do you understand that if the job cannot be finished tomorrow, it can't happen at all. I have to go back to work on Tuesday, and no work can be done over the weekend." (building rules.)

David GUARANTEES ME that the guys are going to come, look at the floor, and if there's ANY DOUBT that the job cannot be done, they won't start.

Disappointing, but in two weeks I'm off for the jewish holidays. Two days to get the job done, and the materials have already been delivered.

The guys show up bright and early this morning, and get started right away at 9 am. They barely take time to snack on the breakfast I made them. They're working!

At 1 in the afternoon, one of the guys tells me that the floor is indeed NOT LEVEL like the salesman told me, and that a layer of plywood needs to go down in order for the floor to come out even.

Oh, there's NO WAY this is going to be finished by 4 pm, I'm thinking.

The foreman asks if they can go until 5, because if they don't finish today, their boss is going to kill them.

That is, if I don't kill their boss first.

Tuesday's my first day back to school. I can't take off next week. My cat, who I left in the apartment because she's such a scaredycat is OK in hiding for the afternoon (behind the counter in the kitchen) but if the apartment isn't done then I have to get her out so she doesn't walk around in the debris.

Atalanta was so gracious to offer to apt-sit when they come back Tuesday, but this means that she's relegated to the only part of the apartment that is untouched by the mess... my 10 sq ft kitchen.

Argh.

That;s how they get you

2007-08-18T18:14:00.000-07:00

I recently changed my email address, so I've been updating all my bill pay stuff.

I realize I have premium cable. HBO, Cinemax, etc.

$30 a month.

I HAVE NEVER WATCHED ANY OF IT.

Ever.

I am remembering now that I got it free for a month, as a promotion.

Last July.

That means I've spent about $400 over the last year, paying for HBO that I've never watched. Argh.

The reason you become a teacher

2007-08-16T09:18:00.000-07:00

emails like this are few and far between, but when you get one it's reminds you not only WHY you became a teacher, but what you should be striving for every day.

"i just want you to know that {school I used to teach at} was the best thing thats happened to me. I know i am who i am because of you and all the teachers there. You had a serious impact on my life. but specifially on how i analyze things. I question everything and i appreciate all your efforts more and more everyday...im enjoying my life very much now and i hope you understand that you had something to do w/ that...ive been waiting to say that for a while. I typed that 6 years ago. Im glad i finally got to paste it"

Teaching is the best thing I've ever decided to do. I can't imagine doing anything else with my life.

I Heart NYC

2007-08-15T07:42:00.000-07:00

There's nothing that makes you appreciate what you've got like leaving it for a month.

Every summer, I go somewhere for a month. This started in 1997, with a monthlong trip all around Switzerland. (And yes, there was enough to do in a month in Switzerland. It's enough time to get to know a place pretty well, but not too long that you're just dying to go home.

I know I live in the greatest city on earth, but I do have a xenophilia... I tend to love something just because it is different. Or I WANT to love something just because it's different.

Like moqueca de camarao, the traditional shrimp stew made from dende oil, coconut milk, and coriander. I wanted to LOVE it, but really, it was just OK.

I have been thinking for the last year of teaching abroad for a year, and I had this idea that I wanted to live in Brazil, or Buenos Aires. And although there are things about these places that I truly adore, I really don't know if I could be really happy there, even for a year. The older I get, the less time a year seems to me, but just after a few days in back in NYC, I really wonder if anywhere is as great as this place.

I love that there is 24 hour transportation that is relatively safe, efficient, and cheap.
I love that no one walks up to me and says things like "Can you believe how many black people there are here?" or "Man, these black people can really dance!" or pulls on the corner of their eyes to make the squinty-eye thing when talking about Asian people. People still think it, but at least they don't SAY it.
I love that I can walk around the block, and I can find any kind of food I want. In general, the diversity of everything is incredible. You want to shop for shoes? There are 100 places with different styles and and prices for everybody.
I love that there is a nightlife that starts at a reasonable hour. I just can't deal with adjusting my time clock to go out at 1 in the morning. Even if it is on the weekend.

There's so much more.

I was thinking about this, as I was biking home last night from my dance class. It was dusk, and I passed by one of those double-decker tour buses. Someone was starting at me from the top of the bus. I waved, and I was just happy to be part of the scenery.

I *heart* NYC.

Shoe Whore

2007-08-14T08:21:00.000-07:00

I am a shoe whore.

The black and whites are regular shoes I can wear dancing. The others are dance shoes I can wear to work.

Black and whites are an obsession of mine. The red heels are a delicious shade of wine which cannot be discerned from my crappy photography skills.

The vampy patent-leather job reminds me of something from a 1990's Madonna video. Mostly I got them because they reminded me of these shoes from Lucila Iotti, some designer in BA, whose shoes were gorgeous but were only in these impractical (for me) combinations of colors and at $150 a pop, I couldn't justify it.

I know officially own 4 pairs of tango shoes, and I'm not much of a tango dancer. Perhaps if I buy some more, I will be better.

I *heart* shoes.

Restaurants of Note in Buenos Aires

2007-08-06T21:39:00.000-07:00

Gran Bar Danzon: I’ve now eaten here three times in the last 4 months. The food is spectacular, the setting glorious. It’s a little medeival inside, with candles and dark silver walls, perfect dark lighting, a gorgeous wine bar (if you’re into that). The perfectly grilled langostines were served with an amazing cauliflower puree (so much better than it sounds). The stewed veal entrée in a malbec red wine reduction was some of the best stewed meat I’ve ever eaten, and the dulce de leche souflee was, according to Mark (a big food nerd) one of the best three desserts he’d ever eaten. Great prices. Make a reservation.

Desnivel: This is the best bang for your buck, if you can deal with harried waiters known for their obnoxious and inattentive behavior (although the one I had on the 3rd try was quite nice). It’s no-frills, but some of the cheapest and most delicious parillada restaurants we ate at. The area in the back is nicer than that in the front. It’s packed all the time, especially on Sunday when San Telmo has its market. Provoleta, a round hunk of provolone cheese coated in flour, grilled, and topped with olive oil and oregano is delicous. They’ll tell you to get the lomo, the prized Argentine tenderloin, and it’s the most tender bu the least flavorful. It’s served in a sauce, and the sauce is OK, but it destroys the potatoes that accompany it. And papas noisette, little formed and fried balls of potato… not so good. We had the asaso de tira (beef ribs) and they were short on meat, heavy on fat, but very flavorful and delicious. We tried to order the butterflied bife de chorizo (a popular cut) just to taste it (we saw some girl devour it earlier in the week) but the waiter absolutely refused, telling us it was way too much meat. He was right, and it was very kind of him to spare our wallets and arteries like that.

La Cabrera (Norte): Holy crap. Gorgeous restaurant, cozy and intimate. La Cabrera was totally booked, so we were sent down the street to La Cabrera Norte, the new restaurant they had to open up to keep up with demand. We asked the waiter if the bife de chorizo was large enough to share, and he said “yeah, sure.” This thing was HUGE. Perfectly cooked. And it came with about 11 little dishes with accompaniments, like mashed potatoes, both regular and sweet, green beans, onions in wine; like the kimchee you get with every korean meal. There were also a number of very unnecessary sauces to accompany your meat if you chose. We ordered almond and parmesan-stuffed olives as an appetizer, and there were about 30 of them. The bread was delicious, there were free sopressata-provolone appetizers; that with the along with the huge bowl of french fries I superflously ordered (they actually were soggy, anyway)… we hardly made a dent. And the whole meal didn’t top USD$30. I think we had dessert. I can’t really remember. La Cabrera is a must.

Trendy restaurants in Palermo Viejo. There are a number of trendy restaurants in even trendier Palermo Viejo that all have the same idea going on… gorgeous, split level, loft-like spaces, option of eating inside or out, at sofas or tables, very reasonable three-course weekday lunch menus. The food is not traditional argentine, but tries (and sometimes succeeds) to be inventive. We ate at Janio, Mott, Cluny, Bar Uriarte. There are more, and they’re blocks apart. We preferred them in that order, and I believe that they all had prices that were close, with Bar Uriarte’s lunch menu topping out at about USD$15 per person. The atmosphere is nice, the service is excellent, the food ranges from good to great, no one rushes you to leave. All in all, the best way to eat a non-meat-orgy meal.

Happening: It wasn’t. Recommended to me by this guy Marcelo, who is Argentine. It’s in Puerto Madero (I think there are others). Beautiful restaurant, nice waitstaff. On the night we arrived, there was no one there practically, but it was during the winter vacation where I think lots of locals are skiing in Bariloche. The meat arrives very overcooked, and although we didn’t ask for it done rare, they never asked. When I asked the waiter why no one asks how we want meat cooked in BA, he said, “It’s generally served medium well, or someone will ask you. Why, was it not?” No, it wasn’t. And the crema catalana had a crust you needed a drill to get through, The custard, when you finally got to it, was overcooked.

Te Mataré Ramirez: It means “I will kill you Ramirez.” It was without a doubt, the WORST MEAL I HAVE EVER HAD IN A RESTAURANT IN MY LIFE.

It’s billed as an eclectic, erotic-themed restaurant. The menus have long, poetic, entendre-filled names and descriptions that take you a good 20 minutes to read and decipher… it would probably be more like 15 if the lighting weren’t so bad you could hardly read the menu or see the food. There ware names like "I surrendered to a deliciously vulgar pleasure," which I barely understand in English, much less Spanish. There was a floor show where people had puppets doing very naughty things. Humorous, and possibly funnier than that, as my Spanish is mostly academic and not too colloquial.

We weren’t too hungry, thank god, because we only had to suffer through two entreés, as opposed to that and a couple of appetizers. Mark ordered the duck confit. I don’t know much about duck confit but it was a scary shade of pink and Mark said it tasted like undercooked pork. I had the veal, which was served shredded, in a timbale, was dry as hell and had no flavor whatsoever. Then thin jus that accompanied it didn’t help. There was a smathering of cannelini beans, probably out of the can, vinegared, and A SOLITARY 2 INCH PIECE OF PICKLED CELERY. It was god awful. And at about USD$25 an entrée, by far the most expensive meal we had.

We left angry, and ready to kill Ramirez, wherever he might be.

I just can’t learn to dance this way

2007-08-06T21:38:00.000-07:00

I had this dream that I was going to spend my month dancing and eating my way through Brazil and Argentina. I managed to do the eating part quite well. A little over a month, and I did not cook one meal myself.

The dancing part was more difficult.

I stopped taking dance classes in Brazil when I realized that the quality and authenticity of instruction in New York is at least equal, probably better, and more professional. They start on time, there are more classes of more variety offered more times during the day. The Salvador dance schools felt like chop-shop operations, only offering classes 2-3 hours per day, all at the same time at every school, and the rates varied so much that you didn’t know what to expect. One woman charged me 25 Reals, about USD$13, the same price it would be in the US. And I’d had better classes in the US. I was satisfied with what I did, but I didn’t feel I was really getting something special learning there versus learning in NYC.

On the contrarty, there are SO MANY dance classes in Buenos Aires, that it’s hard to focus. They’re practically all day and night, all over the city. It took me a week to get up the motivation (and to not feel badly dragging my friend to watch me suck at tango for an hour) to take a class. I finally settled upon Tango brujo, a store and dance studio around the corner from the hostel.

The class was a mixed basic-intermediate level. People were at all different levels, none too great but all seemingly more experienced than me. They taught one move, and we practiced the move over and over again. I could not get it. I’m not so sure too many others did either, but I defintely couldn’t do it. My body weight and position was all wrong, and they kept trying to fix it, and I just couldn’t do it. All these instructiors focus so heavily on technique, which is wonderful, but there’s so much going on at the same time just to take this one small step, it’s very hard to perfect.

After toying with this one move for about 15 minutes, we had to put it into practice. Unfortunately, I’ve never danced before outside the 3 private lessons I’ve had, so I don’t know how to do any of the other stuff, either. My partners are leading things I just don’t know how to do. And, nice as they were, they’re saying, “no, we’re not doing that move, we’re just dancing.” But I don’t know how to dance in the first place.

I need a progressive class, at least until I get a little more comfortable with the basics. I need a class where everyone is slightly better than me, so that I can understand what I need to do and I don’t have to figure out if what I’m doing isn’t working because of me of because of my partner. I have to dance with a limited number of moves that I am trying to perfect. Learning samba, I can jump into a class. I’ll pick some of it up, and some of it I won’t. But if I mess up, I only have to deal with me, not with someone else.

I just couldn’t function in a drop-in class. I’m not disappointed. It gave me more time to dedicate to the other side of the tango passion… the SHOES. So I left BA with not so much a better understanding of the dance, but I now have a 4-pair mini-collection of tango shoes to inspire me.

Montependejo, back to BA. A comparison in tango spectacles.

2007-08-04T07:28:00.000-07:00

Montependejo- This is what Mark keeps calling Montevideo. I am so sad to report that if there is something great about Montevideo, we just didn't see it. The city center was slightly delapidated, and reminded me of what Cuba must have been like 30 years ago, before it totally fell apart. It is barely modern, with the old and the new juxtaposed in a very unique way (businessmen in suits walk by horses that cart away recyclables.) Barely modern isn't a bad thing, but it's really hard to understand in a capital city where half of the country's population lives.

We went to the recommended folklore show called "El milongon" that explores the dances of Uruguay: Candombe, the afro-uruguayan dance that comes from the same place as Brazilian Candomble, tango, and gaucho-style taiko drumming and stepping.

It was awful.

The Uruguayans have a tango tradition, but according to the Argentines (for whatever that's worth) they don't really. They production was totally lackluster, cheesy vegas at best. I don't really know good tango, but I know bad tango, and this was it. Tango has an air of seriousness, but the FOUR dancers were not only not smiling, but there was no passion whatsoever in their gaze. In fact, ennui and depression was the only feeling conveyed.

The candombe was just pathetic. Especially after witnessing an actual candomble ceremony in Brazil. There was one expressionless older woman and an overenthusiastic Sammy Davis lookalike.

The gaucho bit was fantastic, but it was a brief flash of light in an otherwise very dark and depressing hour and a half performance, which was about 2 hours too long. And at USD$20, a total ripoff.

We went back to the town center to find hardly anything open, so we had to go back to the same restaurant, as the two others we found open were completely empty. To El Fogon's credit, the 5-meat parillada we had was divine.

We had changed our 2 pm Buquebus departure to 7:15 am, just to get out that much earlier. Even the all-day rain we came back to in BA was a welcome relief.

Back in Buenos Aires, we decided to see a real Tango show. The advice was to see Señor Tango, often described as the most popular tango spectacle. It's in Barracas, a somewhat shady part on the border of the city. The price of admission includes car service to and from the event.

The location is a converted warehouse made to look like Moulin Rouge. It was huge, with three levels housing 1500 people. It was packed to capacity almost, as it is almost every night.

I can't even describe it. There were horses. The women were impossibly thin with freakishly long legs dancing incredible tango. Showy. Sexy. Each set of dances took you through the history of tango, from its seedy origins to the 80's slightly scary look, to hollywoodized tango to the present.

It was 2.5 hours, no intermission.

There was an amazing orchestra, half of the members were only about 19 or 20 years old. They had a couple of old bandeon players join them for a couple of songs.

There was an amazing tenor singer, at times accompanied by a pair of twin women singing in perfect harmony. when they closed the show with "Don't cry for me, Argentina," it was all I could do to stop from crying myself.

It was glorious.

Montevideo, Uruguay

2007-08-02T10:03:00.000-07:00

I have a couple of colleagues from Montevideo, and the last time I came to Buenos Aires, each of them asked, "Did you go to Uruguay?"

So, after our little side trip to Rosario, Mark and I decided to go to Montevideo.

We took an hour long ferry ride and a 2.5 hour bus ride from Colonia to Montevideo. It is freezing cold, and considering that we´re right on the River, it's especially freezing. Right now, I´m wearing three long sleeve shirts, two pairs of socks, the hat Johanna made me in Brazil, and my leather coat. It's not quite cutting it.

The hostel faces Plaza Independencia, in the center of town. The hostel is also freezing cold. It's in an old building, no insulation (although we're starting to think that there is no insulation here at all, anyway). There's a space heater which warms the space immediately in front of it. But the hostel is cheap and clean, and that's all that really matters.

We have to change our money to Uruguayan Pesos, totally different from Argentine Pesos. When we arrived at the bus station, there was only one ATM machine, and it didn't operate on any of the cash systems our money cards use. They primarily have a system called RED or Banelco, where we use Cirrus, or Star.

So Mark changes USD$60 to Uruguayan pesos just to get us in a taxi, and perhaps some dinner. The conversion rate is not an easily calculable 2:1 like in Brazil, or 3:1 in Argentina. It's 23:1. 23 pesos to the dollar. I'm not quite good at dividing by 23, nad dividing by 25 I can do, but I hate estimating.

We are tickled by the big McDonald's sign that says "Delicious and with low prices" and right underneath it it says, "Extra crispy sandwich, $40". The fact that the Uruguayan peso uses the same exact symbol for the USD makes everything look very expensive. Our dinner last night came to $700 and it was all we could do to stop ourselves from cracking up.

It turns out that it is exceptionally difficult to use an American ATM card here. We had to go to 10 different banks to find one that would give us money. And yet, there are 10 money exchange places on every block. And, most of the ATM machines give you the option of taking out USD, whether you use an American bank card or not. Many of the stores, not even touristy ones, give quotes in USD as well as in Uruguayan pesos. We can't quite figure this out.

There is a small pedestrian boulevard. There is not much of note. Actually, there´s not much going on in town at all. We went out last night, and the only stuff that seemed to be open was a couple of obars, pizza places, and strip clubs.

Oh, and the casino. Right around the corner form the hostel.

I'm not a gambler. I actually hate it. I know I'm going to lose, so what's the point. Mark isn't either, it turns out. But there was nothing else to do.

The casino was tiny, NON-SMOKING (awesome), and most importnatly, WARM. We get $100 (uruguayan, about USD$4) in tokens. We shared a machine, playing video poker and video roulette, and worked out strategies on every coin, just for entertainment's sake. It was strangely enough, hilarious. Every time we won, I demanded it cash out, just to hear the sound of the tokens. We played for an hour before we were bored. I really don't know how people do this all night. We turned our $100 into $400, laughing so hard because it looked like so much money, but it was only about $13.

To celebrate our big winnings, we went on a search for hard cider (about all I like to drink), walking for what felt like forever before we found something that was open. The cider cost about USD$2. We had to sneak it back to the hostel, hard to do because we can't seem to figure out how to open the large, old, big, wooden door to the hostel that you have to pull, then push (we got yelled at for shoving it open with the force we thought it required). The cider tasted like it was apple juice and vinegar strained through pantyhose.

We did manage to get a good dinner that night, at a parilla called "El fogón"... an order of pulpo a la gallego (octopus) and an entrecote, a banana liquado and the most delicious and large piece of dulce de leche semifreddo, drowned in hot chocolate sauce we couldn't finish between us. The meat portions are smaller here, just as tasty as in BA, and more expensive but still very reasonable.

We also shared a "Pamplona de cerdo," a cheese and bacon stuffed pork roll on the grill at the mercado del puerto, kind of a small south street seaport. The best part was that we were sitting right in front of the parilla dude, and we just watched him fling meat around while we were eating. It was like watching a sushi chef in action.

Interesting was the trip to the Manos del Uruguay store. It's my favorite wool brand. It's made in a cooperative in Uruguay, and the yarn is thick and thin, very soft for wool, and it comes in the most beautiful variegated colors. In the US, it's USD$13 a hank. There are a number of Manos stores in Montevideo, and they only sell wool in one of them. The stores are dedicated to sweaters and handicrafts made from their awesome yarn. We get to the store that sells the yarn, and all they have is a huge bin with whatever leftover yarn they have from making the sweaters. There was a Uruguyan woman there, and when she heard us speak english, she went on a rampage. She ranted about how much it costs in the US, and how it's totally ridiculous that they don't sell the actual yarn in the stores, but whenever she comes to visit, she buys a ton of it anyway, at U$400 per KILO, about USD$17. You can get a kilo for a little more than you would pay for a hank, which is about 200 grams. I bought 2 kilos.

All in all, not much going on in Montevideo. We'll be happy to leave first thing in the morning.

Comparing BA to NYC

2007-07-31T07:12:00.000-07:00

Things BA does better than the US

Quality of the meat: Argentine does meat. High quality. Unfortunatley, although I speak spanish, they know we’re tourists, and keep conversation to a minimum. The first couple of places we went for meat, we forgot to ask for it cooke “A punto,” which means “medium rare.” The first couple were well done, and although the flavor was good, it killed the meat. I finally asked the waiter at “Happening” in Puerto Madero if you have to specifically have to ask for the meat cooked the way you like it, because where we’re from you’re always asked, he apologized and said he was sorry it was not done “a punto,” which is how it is supposed to be done. Perhaps they think americans like it this way?

Customer service in the stores: You have to be buzzed into almost every store. The stores have one of every style on display. You have to ask for your size. In some stores, I tried on 20 pairs of shoes. When I was done, and I didn’t buy anything,, I would say “thank you” and the response was always the same: No, por FAVOR! With that emphasis. It was like they were calling you ridiculous for thanking them for their help. It’s really nice.

Taxi drivers: You get into the taxt, they ask you where you’re going. You give the direction. If you simply say anything else to them, they talk, and talk, and talk. One guy, on the way back from Boca, gave us a whole tour of everything we passed by. He told us about the volunteer fire department, the house that was completely settled by the Polish, the one across the street that was settled by Italians. He pointed out where Peron was brought down, and the marble pilars that were left destroyed from the protests. They’re educated, proud of their city, and want to tell you all about it while asking about your experience. This has happened a number of times.

Coffee: the coffee is delicious. Everywhere. It’s served in coffee shops, cafes, bars. How nice to walk into a bar, in the cold, and order a nice cup of hot coffee. And it’s almost always served with a couple of little cookies and a chaser of water (sometimes sparkling!) Of course, at an average of 5 pesos a cup, it’s relatively quite pricey.

Tipping: 10% tip is recommended at restaurants. Taxi drivers don’t expect to be tipped. I tipped one and he laughed at me.

Lack of strollers in the streets: People carry their kids IN THEIR ARMS! No strap-on device, very very few wide strollers taking up space in the narrow streets. I really don’t know how these thin women carry their 3-year olds around in their arms all day long, but that seems to be the way it’s done.

Things BA is lacking

Toilet can’t handle paper: One would expect in a modern city like this, you’d be able to flush the toilet paper. But alas. You have to place your used toilet paper in the receptacle beside the toilet, stinking up the place until you throw out the garbage. My friend Mark is particularly distressed by this. I was smart enough to not tell him until he arrived.

Change: There is a big problem with change. The bank machines dispense mostly $100 bills, but everyday items don’t cost nearly that much. You have to hoard your change. If something costs $11, and you give them a $20 bill, they ask you if you have anything smaller. In fact, at the train station today, there was an advertisement begging people to stop hoarding their change and that they have to pay with it. Why can’t the government take some $100 out of circulation and replace them?

Complete disregard for vegetables: The “salads” here are disgusting. Canned vegetables. Iceberg lettuce. Vegetables cooked beyond all recognition. Poor, poor vegetarians here.

Sidewalks and dog poo: Sidewalks are COVERED in poo. There are lots of stray dogs. There are lots of owned dogs. I really don’t know which are to blame.

People digging through garbage: At night, people young and old, slash open the garbage bags that line the street and dig through them. With panache… they sit amongst the bags and make themselves at home. I assume they’re homeless, but a lot of them look pretty clean to be homeless. It’s more gross than sad, especially knowing that a lot of those bags have to be filled with used toilet paper.

Intersections with no stop signs in palermo: Palermo is a relatively new neighborhood, and not “very touristy,” claimed our taxi driver last night. So they have not yet insalled traffic lights. Or stop signs. At almost every crosswalk. The drivers just have to know to slow down.
Crazy bus system: There are 140 bus lines that service BA. The Guia T is a thick booklet that you need a PhD to decipher. It’s some crazy three-part system where you have to look up where you are, then look up what bus lines pass through that 5 block square, then where you’re going. It’s total insanity.

I don’t know what I expected for 10 bucks a night

2007-07-31T07:02:00.001-07:00

I had been told by a couple of people familiar with Rosario that it was a nice city, about 4 hours away from BA. The girl at the hostel told us that it was nice, but there wasn’t anything touristy there. We changed our hostel reservation from 3 nights to 2 nights.

A good idea, in fact, because as nice as Rosario seems to live, you can really see almost everything there is to see in two days. Even their toursim touts “Rosario en 48 horas…”

We get to Rosario Sunday night, about 7 pm. The hostel is 9 blocks from the bus station, but we opt for the cab ride. It was hard finding a hostel, as there really is no tourism here, but I managed to find one on hostelworld.com that claimed to have WiFi, showers in the rooms.

We are the ONLY people at this hostel.

Literally.

The hostel is one of the most threadbare hostels I have ever been in. The walls have holes in it. The beds are sinking in the middle, which is shocking because it seems like no one has ever been here. The door handles are helt together with pins. And by pins, I mean pins, sticking out in a rudimentary way.

I ask where the shower is, as the room has a small room with a toilet. Mark pokes me and points… THE SHOWER HEAD IS RIGHT OPPOSITE THE TOILET. That’s right. There is no bathtub, there is a shower head, no curtain to separate where you shower from where you answer nature’s call. You shower and squeegee the floor when you’re done.

Oh, and the shower is dripping. There is a bucket under the shower head, and there’s a dirty towel on the floor underneath it.

Mark is horrified. He’s never had an experience like this, and although I have, it was quite a step down from the BA hostel. I gave him the option of leaving, but he decided to tough it out. He took it a lot better than I though he would.

It’s also colder in the hostel than it is outside. And it’s COLD outside.

I’m not sure how many layers of clothes I slept in. and I’m not sure how I was brave enough to shower in that bathroom, but the water was very hot and had good pressure. The floor wasn’t dirty at all, and even though I’m kicking myself for leaving my flip-flops in BA, it wasn’t bad at all. I showered in steaming-hot water, and when I wanted to wash my face, I used the cool water from the sink. Kind of surreal. And not nearly as gross as I expected.

The next morning, the young guy working the desk, who looks just like Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High, made us a couple of cafés con leche, gave us a basket of croissants and dulce de leche for speading. The best breakfast we’d had, actually.

Eating in Rosario
La Huella: corner of Carlos Pellgrini and Entre Rios. Entre Rios 1702. There were not a lot of people there on a Sunday night, but it was a really nice-looking restaurant, lots of exposed brick. Clean as a whistel, good prices, and it’s parilla. Can’t mess up grilled meat THAT badly.

There is a room on the side, which we’re noticing a lot in these restaurants in Rosario, that’s a kid playroom. Fantastic idea! It’s staffed, and while the Rosarinos are indulging in wine and three-hour meals, the kids can play, make friends, and not bother the hell out of their parents and the other diners.

We chose a table right in the path of the playroom and this one particulr kid’s parents. He must have run back and forth about 10 times. The kid comes by the table and stares at me, and our breadsticks. I ask him if he wants one. He nod. I give him a breadstick and he runs to his mom and uses it as some kind of magic wand. The next time he ran by, he just took our breadstick. It was pretty cute, surprisingly.

Mark orders the “matambre” of veal in a roqufort sauce. Matambre is some kind of thin rolled, seasoned meat. I order the grilled lamb. “A punto,” this time. And an order of Canneloni a la Rossini, which a colleague of ours and some cabbie had previously told is divine. We are a bit saddened to discover that there are people in the restaurant eating SALAD and it’s actually not made of shitty iceberg lettuce and some sad-looking vegetables. Could’ve used that.

Mark’s veal comes, and it’t about two plates long, covered in Roquefort sauce. The sauce is divine, and the veal is tasty but not what we’re used to… they included the flavorful but very chewy layer of fat. My lamb is perfectly seasoned. The canneloni is not actually made from rolled pasta, but crepe dough, filled with escarole and DROWNING in bechamel. Wee’ve seen many people order many pasta dishes at many restaurants at this point, and it seems that’s how Italian is done in Argentina. Ick.

Overall, the food is great. The waiter is attentive, enjoying practicing his minimal English, smiling, polite, helpful. Mark ordered “panqueques con dulce de leche,” which isn’t pancakes at all, but perfectly done crepes, carmelized on top and filled with dulce de leche. I order the budin, but I’m quite happy when I realize our quite lovely waiter didn’t hear me order it. Sharing the crepes was decedence enough. Oof.

All that, and a couple of cups of coffee, set us back a grand total of US$25. Holy cow.

The best part? The waiter asked us where we were from, and he not only gave us all his Rosario recommendations, but he insisted we take his bus pass to we could get back to the hostel without taking a cab. He opened his wallet right up and insisted we have it.

I don’t remember the last time I got tipped by a waiter.

The oldest trick in the book

2007-07-29T07:00:00.000-07:00

I had become so paranoid about carrying anything around in Salvador, that I have been extra diligent about where I put my things. If I carry a bag, it is tucked firmly underneath my arms. Most of the time, I have money in every one of my pockets. That way, if I get robbed, I not only have something to give, but not that much. My back-right pocket is designated as communal money for Mark and me… it pays for dinner, cabs, and bus rides so we don’t have to fight over who pays for what.

One day, I decide to strap on the backpack for the first time, laptop packed, to use the WiFi that seems to be at every restaurant and every café in town. The internet at the hostel sucks, and there are only two computers that are always being used.

We get about two blocks from the hostel, and all of a sudden, Mark and I are shit on by birds. It’s on my hat, my new leather coat that I just picked up, and all over Mark. We’re groaning. It seems as though this happens to Mark a lot, and I’m sort of laughing, but he is pretty pissed.

Out of nowhere, a couple come by, patting us down with napkins to help us. How nice, but now I’ve got the feeling of someone rubbing bird shit in my head. I tell them a couple of times that that’s not necessary, that we’re a couple of blocks from the hotel, and I walk away. It’s kind of hard to get away from them. I turn back, and Mark, overwhelmed, not able to speak Spanish, is now being aggressively cleaned by these people. It all happened so quickly that I was thinking to myself, but couldn’t manage to get the words out, “Mark, just walk away from them!”

It happened more quickly than it seemed, but it took him a moment to walk away from them.

Even though we were hungry, and on our way to go to dinner, both of us had to go back to the hotel and take a shower, clean off the backpack and clothes as best we could. The bird shit stained my new leather (a leather cleaner should be able to take care of that…) and got on the hat that Johanna made for me, which I desperately needed, because of the cold.

It wasn’t until a day later when we saw another guy at the hostel, his backpack covered in bird shit, hearing him tell the same story, that we realized that we were victims of the oldest trick in the book. Someone squirts something on you, they rush over to help you clean up, they steal your shit.

They didn’t get anything from us, as I had all my money neatly tucked away, and so did Mark. But the guy at the hostel had been robbed really badly just the day before, and the same couple went after him again. Luckily for him, he had nothing to steal the second time.

I feel strangely vindicated that I didn’t get robbed, and that I wasn’t actually covered in bird shit. We’re still trying to figure out what foul viscous liquid it was, and how they managed to get it on our heads.

I guess I gotta REALLY learn to tango.

2007-07-23T19:33:00.000-07:00

I look like a tango superhero in these.

That I bought.

Today.

Ack.

(Bought at Darcos Magic shoes, about $75)

Men are icky in Argentina, too, it seems

2007-07-21T06:53:00.000-07:00

MOM AND DAD... YOU MIGHT NOT WANT TO READ THIS ONE

I leave the comfort of Nega Maluca to go to the Salvador airport. I get there quickly, having treated myself to a taxi versus a taxi + bus in the middle of the hot winter daylight. I arrive to discover that my plane was delayed an hour and a half. I also discover that I don’t technically have a connection, I’ll be waiting on the plane at Sao Paulo while we pick people up to go to Buenos Aires.

Smooth flight. And thank goodness, as just a couple of days prior there was a horrific, completely avoidable, 200+ fatality airplane crash on TAM landing at Sao Paulo. There is a runway there that was deemed too short for dangerous weather, and it had been shut down for a while, but it was decided they were loosing too much $ with the runway being closed that they used it. The plan landed too fast in wet weather, sped down the runway, crashed into a gas station, and blew up. Awful.

I’m tired, I’ve got a throat infection. I can’t lie down on the airport floor as everyone else does, as this particular floor isn’t carpeted. But Salvador airport has one thing that I’ve always said should exist at airports: a salon offering MASSAGE.

I don’t feel stressed enough or sore enough to warrant a massage, but at USD45 an hour, I felt like maybe it was a good idea. I could lie down. Nap. Wait.

They sure are a lot more open than we are. She didn’t leave the room while I undressed, and didn’t feel it necessary to cover me with a towel at some point. I had to tell her I was going to sleep, to stop her from talking to me for the full hour as it appeared would happen. It was a pretty bad massage. But I did get to rest. Naked, On a table.

I’m glad I got that massage, as perhaps it prevented the total meltdown that should have happened later on.

I land at Buenos Aires at around 3 am. An older couple I met on the way allowed me to share their car service, as we were both going to the center of town, and the next bus wasn’t to arrive for an hour.

The husband is annoyed that I gave his wife 50 pesos. But it was worth it to not have to wait. I was getting quite tired.

I get to V&S Hostel Club, a familiar sight, as I stayed here a couple of months prior.

I ring the bell.

No answer.

I ring two, three times more.

No answer.

I ring the bell for what feels like (and may have actually been) 15 minutes. I bang on the glass door, as I remind myself of the time I put my hand through my bedroom window at college. It was a highly unpleasant experience, and I made sure it didn’t happen again, despite my growing anger.

The night watchman, Juan, comes to the door.

I tell him that I have a reservation, that I’ve paid. He says no one is there.

“What do you mean, no one is there?, I ask”

“No one is there.”

No one is coming until 8 am, and it is only 4:15.

This same conversation goes on back and forth too many times. He will not let me in the vestibule. I am yelling. I try to convince him to let me in the vestibule. He won’t. He repeats himself over and over again, without a change in disposition. I’m thinking he’s a bit slow. I am yelling in the middle of a quiet, desolate street, that I cannot believe he is going to allow me to be alone in the street for hours.

He tells me there is a hotel a block away.

I walk a block away, with my 25 kilo bag,, backpack, and knitting. I am exhausted.

I come back. He has already gone away. I pound again. He comes out and says he will walk me to the other hotel.

I start crying. Oy yes, I pull the meek female card. Except it was pretty real. Bawling.

Now he totally changes.

He lets me in, sits me down on the stairwell, rubs my arm, and says over and over again, don’t cry, don’t cry. It’s OK. Don’t cry. I sat there crying this way for a good couple of minutes, with him rubbing my back and telling me not to cry. It was very sweet, actually.

I stop crying, and tell him that he was very kind, that I just want to go to sleep. The cold marble floor was so much better than being outside, waiting in the cold for four hours, with all my stuff, but without the jacket I had planned to buy once I arrived.

He still was petting my back. At this point, it was enough, but I didn’t say anything.

I lay down on the floor. He comes over and pets my arm some more. I try to go to sleep.

He sits on the stairwell, right next to me. Watching me. I figure he still thinks I am going to break in and rob the place. Quite a good plan, actually, if that was what I was into.

About 20 minutes later, he comes down the stairs and tells me that there is a small library where I can go and be warmer. I thank him again for his kindness.

He tells me to sit on the chair, it’s comfortable. I tell him I want to sleep, and the floor is wonderful, thank.

I lie down. Put my towel on top of me like a blanket. He sits in the chair right next to me, petting me to go to sleep. I am quite annoyed by this already.

He is now petting my face, my arm, my back, whispering me to go to sleep. I can’t, with all this touching. It was definitely overkill, and it was so annoying and uncomfortable, but the last thing I wanted to do was to piss him off so he’s throw me out again. I loie perfectly still, to make it seem like I am sleeping. I’m not worried… we’re right next to the dorm rooms that I stayed in the last time I was at this place, I’m just annoyed and tired and wanted so much to be left alone.

Every time I turned to adjust, he would start again, telling be to go back to sleep. This went on for about an hour. Then, right before 7 am, he comes over, pets me some more, tells me that he has to go. He wants me to call him, He gave me his number. I was so happy he was leaving, I say, OK, bye, goodnight.

This response was not what he was hoping for.

He told me again that he had to go. His hand is now up my shirt. I said “Please, I’m trying to sleep, go, leave me.”

He doesn’t stop. He told me again he had to go. I take his hand off me and tell him I am sleeping.

He lies down next to me. I say no and push him away.

He tells me to keep my voice down, everyone is sleeping.

He tries to kiss me full on the mouth.

Now I start screaming in English, “I CAN’T TAKE THIS ANT MORE. JESUS FUCKING CHRIST PLEASE LEAVE ME BE” and he runs off.

It wasn’t traumatizing, just completely exhausting. I don’t know if he was mentally changellened as I had originally thought, but there was definitely something wrong. I really can’t understand how he could have gotten the impression that I was interested in a fling on the floor of this hostel. I was crying, begging to sleep. The weired thing is that I really think he thought there was something between us. He left me his number!!

8 am sharp, I went upstairs, looking like something the cat had dragged in. I said “Good morning. I’m Cindy. We have a problem. I arrived late at 4 am yesterday, and was locked out, I have no idea why no one thought to tell me that there wasn’t a 24 hour reception when I said I was arriving at 3 in the morning, but when I got here, your night watchman felt me up in my sleep. All night. I’d like to talk about this later, as I really just want a bed right now, and I see you have other people waiting.”

As this is Latin America, I knew I wasn’t going to be compensated for this financially. I didn’t even bother. He didn’t do anything wrong enough for me to press charges. They say he’s worked here for 10 years without any problem, and they were horrified,

I didn’t have to pay for sleeping on the floor, luckily.

A gem of a day

2007-07-19T14:07:00.000-07:00

Today is my last full day in Salvador. I'm feeling a throat infection coming on, so I decided to meet Sinead for a lovely lunch at a kilo place that has a nice patio down the block.

She says, "My pousada owner recommended this secret place just across the way from your hostel. I want to look at some at the imperial topaz that are only mined in Brasil."

We ring a bell. We have to pass through three different locked doors. We are met by this lovely woman who speaks perfect English. She brings us through this very exclusive looking showroom and says, "Do you have some time, or would you like to just see the stones?"

It's Brasil. Of course we have time.

She orders one of the workers in the store to bring us cafezinhos. Proper espressos. They brought it to us on a tray.

She goes through a half-hour presentation of the history of mining of emeralds in Brasil. She shows us pictures, on her ginormous flat-screen computer monitor, of their particular mine and their workers, searching for emeralds. The shows us rocks that have emeralds in it. Rocks that don't. She explains that you need very specific conditions to produce an emerald. The black volcanic rock and the white quartz must press together to form the emerald. It was like "the miracle of birth." The birth of an emerald.

She then rings for Francois. He is the gem expert.

Sinead says something about not being sure if she is actually going to buy something. I said I was only there to accompany her. He says something about not being a salesperson, really. The gems sell themselves. Sometimes you have a stone that's been in your family for 17 generations, and one day the owner walks in. Most people come in not having any intent to buy anything. Usually they walk out with something. Or maybe they don't. No bother.

He brings out a tray of quartz, organized in a grid. He turns on his electronic scale, which is attached to the computer, and the weight and conversion chart to dollars and euros appears. The quartz is, well, quartz. Practically glass. Unremarkable.

Followed by topaz. Blue topaz, the only stone they carry that's not mined in Brazil, and whose color is not natural.

Then a tray of tourmalines.

Amethysts.

Followed by aquamarines.

Traysandtraysandtrays.

He has a tray with nothing on it save a piece of white butcher paper that lines the tray. From each tray of stones that emerge, he takes a stone that elicite an "ooh," weighs it, places it on the blank tray and writes the price next to it. By the time we're done, we have a tray in front of us of the prices and varieties of all the stones we really liked.

He works his way through the trays, from the basic quartz to the ultimate... the emerald. He showed us emeralds that costs 1700 dollars a carat. He showed us topaz that cost $5 a carat. He put some of the more expensive varieties next to less expensive. Sometimes there seemed to be a difference. Sometimes there did not. He emphasized that if you cannot tell the difference, get the cheaper one. He says that for most people, the sentiment of the gift is much more valuable than the cost of the stone.

He is the anti-salesman.

He is witty, funny, charming. He knows his shit. In a tray full of stones, if one gets out of place, he can look at it and just know where it belongs. He doesn't pressure us in the least. He speaks 6 languages. He has been doing this his whole life. I can't imagine EVER BUYING JEWELRY IN ANY OTHER FASHION.

I needed a bathroom break and a second espresso.

Sinead couldn't decide. She had an appointment, leaving me there alone, enchanted, poorer than I was yesterday. She's be back, though, ad I know she's at her dance class, dreaming of pink kunzite.

Oh, did I mention that they can make the setting of your choice, in silver or gold, in less than a day?

I must have something.

This kind of personal attention, in New York, is unheard of. Not that I have ever BEEN in a store in New York like this, but I imagine if the owner spent TWO AND A HALF hours of his time educating you, browsing with you, letting you go back and forth... Once you've picked a stone type, he calls his worker in the back to bring packages of the stone in the same shape, different sizes and qualities... We saw millions of dollars worth of jewels. I would imagine that if you didn't buy something, they would be quite annoyed.

I'll never know if Francois would get annoyed, as I did not walk out empty handed.

In the end, I practically apologized for not being able to afford more. I fell in love with a bicolor green/pink tourmaline that I could just not justify for myself. It's ridiculous that my last day in Salvador I spent shopping for jewels indoors, but it was one of the most fun days I've had here.

D.Klay Gems and Arts
Largo da Cruz do Pascoal #27
St. Antonio alem do Carmo
0055-71 32428188 or 3241-2320
Salvador - Bahia - Brazil CEP 40301-405
www.brazilgems.com.br
dklay@terra.com.br

Awesome Things to Eat in Bahia

2007-07-18T11:40:00.000-07:00

And yes, I have eaten all of these things. The food is very rich, very delicious, usually very affordable. I've eaten Bahian food every day, for every meal, just about, and I am not remotely sick of it and do not have a hankering for ANYTHING from back home.

Acai na tigela: acai is a huge amazonian blueberry-like fruit that they serve freezing cold, in a bowl, with granola and bananas. I ate it for breakfast, but they eat it all day long. Very refreshing and nutritious (although they load it with sugar, so who knows?)

Empada: I love anything in a crust. Uma empada is anything in a crust. They are a bit dry, but I like them that way. Besides, the brazilians seem to like slathering it with ketchup and/or mayo, which is just gross in any country.

Coxinha: A fist-sized teardrop-shaped fried thing stuffed with (dry) chicken.

Acaraje and abara: Black-eyed pea mash, fried (acaraje, the better of the two) or boiled (abara), served by a Baian women in traditional white dress and turban. They split it up the middle, and fill it with vatapa, a shrimp and dende-oil paste. They cost anywhere from 1 to 4 reals, depending on the neighborhood and if you want it com or sem shrimp. Order it spicy (picante) or not. note: The shrimp are heads-off but shells-on, which horrified the young brit at the hostel. He couldn't imagine why anyone would eat shells, as pulling the shells off the shrimp was the whole point of it all. Silly boy.

Sorvete: Brazilian ice cream. My personal opinion: the hierarchy of ice cream goes something like this: Italian gelato is the big winner, with Spanish gelado coming in a close second. Brazilian ice cream is a tie with Argentine, depending on whether you prefer exotic fruits (Brazil) or crazy dulce de leche flavors (argentina.) American ice cream lags far behind, unless you consider Chinatown ice cream factory ice cream. Flavors I've had: milho verde (sweet corn. It's buttery!), coco, graviola (also known as soursop or guanabana), maracuja (passionfruit, the brazilian passion), banana carmelada, amendoim crocante (chunky peanut butter,) the ubiquitous tiramisu. My favorite to try was cupuacu, some Brazilian fruit Sean didn't like, but told me I had to try it. I asked for it at the ice-cream place, and the asked "Are you sure? You should try it first." He was right. It was odd.

Comida a kilo: You know those buffets they have by the pound in Korean delis? Same thing, except in a restaurant. And all the food is Brazilian. Costs anywhere from 1.30 per 100 grams and up, depending on the day and the neighborhood. My favorite way to eat here. Fast, cheap, and you can have a little of this, a little of that... Perfect for the harried or the indecisive. Oh, you weigh it first, then you eat (don't lose the ticket!!) then you pay. Weird. There's one called O Quilombo on Avenide Sete de Setembro that's pretty good and one called "Komida a Kilo" on Largo de Carmo (right around the corner from my hostel) that is good, cheap, and has a couple of tables overlooking the bay.

Stuff from the corn cart: All over, there are guys selling corn (milho) from a cart. They sell ears of corn, sweet and delicious I've heard, except that I can't eat corn on the cob because of my fake tooth. Also from the cart, there are two types of corn product. One looks like a tamale, it's a sweet corn pudding wrapped in a corn husk. The other is some corn-flavored tapicoa (?) thing, chewier in texture, wrapped in a banana leaf. Both are delicious. I have no idea what they're called. They'll ask you if you want it for now (agora), in which case they'll slice it open for you.

Dessert: Eat it. Whatever it is, it is bound to be good. Budim (flan) made wither from milk or from sweet corn. Moist cakes made from tapioca, covered with sweetened condensed milk. Casadinhos are balls made of two kinds of sweetened condensed milk, condensed further, rolled in sugar. Get the smallest one possible. They're tooth-rotting sweet. Sonhos (Donuts) the size of sandwiches. Share with a friend. Or make one.

This may be the proudest day of my life

2007-07-16T18:39:00.000-07:00

I never really studied in high school. That is, until the AP BC Calc exam senior year. We got to the part about shells and discs, if anyone remembers what thats about, and I found it very difficult. Every problem, I would say "I can't find the length and the width." The teacher, Mr. Skouras, would calmly tell me how each time, but I just didn't get it. Finally, one of the other kids in my class said "oh my god, STILL? What's wrong with you?"

It was that moment I vowed I was going to kick his and every other kid's ass in that class on that exam.

I studied day and night. I would be in math class, working on whatever Mr. Skouras assigned, and at the same time, would be working from my Kaplan review book. Mr. Skouras walked over to my desk one day, to peer over at the mountain of papers I was furiously working on (probably thinking I was writing more notes to pass to my friends), to find that it was math. All math. He gave a somewhat surprised and pleased look and walked away.

I got a 5, the best possible score. It may have been the proudest day in my life.

Until today.

I went to Escola de danca, the most professional operation in Pelo, to take an afro-brasilian dance class. I took Ulrika, the Swedish girl I've been hanging with, and this Danish girl tagged along. The class next door was just finishing, and the music and dancing was so fast, we were totally intimidated. We told ourselves that maybe it was the progressive class for real dancers.

The class we took was what I would consider very basic level, but it was very physically demanding. We were sweating like crazy after just 10 minutes. The dance steps he chose were simple to follow, but the strength training portion was really painful. There were brazilians and foreigners in the class.

Many African-based dance styles have a posture that is completely opposite to much traditional dance. In ballet, for example, the hips are tucked under and the stomach is pulled in. In African dance, the butt is thrust out, the knees are slightly bent, and the shoulders are back.

I'm in the back of the class, the appropriate place to be in a dance class that's new to you, or if it's a level that's too difficult. Otherwise, the instructor will often MOVE YOU to the back, and that's very embarrassing. So I'm the last one to move across the floor, and the teacher looks at me with a sideways glance as I move to the back of the room again.

He calls me forward.

He tells me to do it again.

He says, in portuguese, "THIS! THIS is what your bunda (ass) is supposed to look like when you do it! Do it again!"

I'm an American in Brasil, and he uses MY ASS as as an exemplar.

This definitely beats the 5 on the AP calc exam.

I get back to the hostel, read my email. I got an email from the editor of the National Council of Teachers of Mathematics magazine that I subscribe to. My alternate solution to a problem I had submitted to the editor a while back is going to be published in the magazine.

Math and booty, coming full circle.

The best night dancing of my life

2007-07-15T20:28:00.000-07:00

I went to the Sunday practice session of Olodum, the favorite Bloco Afro (carnival dance group) of Salvador. They gained international notoriety playing with Paul Simon some years back. The practice is FOUR HOURS OF NONSTOP DRUMMING, although some of the drummers substitute out throughout the practice. It costs $10.

Not only is the drumming amazing, deafening and completely overwhelming, there are the same group of dancers that show up at all these dance events in Pelo, leading people in the carnival dances. It's the same afro-brasilian type dancing that I do in New York, so I was very excited.

I was dancing next to these guys, and (although I took it with the same grain of salt I have learned to accept all Brazilian compliments with) one of them told me I danced like a Brazilian. And he didn't even try to get into my pants, so it may have been close to the truth!! One of them will lead a step, and the rest of us follow, and so on, for hours. I stood right next to them and danced for HOURS. I was completely drenched with sweat, entranced.

It was the best night of dancing in my life.

"My heart is yours": dancing disappointent in Pelo

2007-07-15T06:20:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, when traveling, I have these grandiose plans of doing everything there is on offer... and then I kick myself when I look back and have only done a fraction.

I had planned to dancedancedance. I had this idea that I was going to take dance classes all day, and go out dancing at night. I was going to finally learn that samba thing that americans can't seem to pick up.

It's been just over a week since I arrived, and I have hardly done any of it.

With Sinead's help, I found two dance schools. One is Escola da Danca, located off the Rua de Oracao near the Terreiro de Jesus. This is the dance school with the most classes. There are two types of classes: ones you have to sign up for the month (or longer, I'm not sure) and "cursos livres" which you can join on any particular day. Unfortunately, there are at most two classes per day. One is at 6:30 and the other is at 7:30. They have classes in Blocos afros, afro-brasileiro, samba, and a couple of others I wasn't terribly interested in. It's expensive (by Brasilian standards) at 20 Reals per hour of class. Classes are only Monday - Thursday.

Sinead told me there was a samba class there at 4 yesterday, but it wasn't listed on the posted schedule. So between my lack of great portuguese and the guard's not giving two shits about me or making the studio money, I thought it didn't exist and went home. Sinead said it was brand new.

Another school is the Diaspora Center, located around the corner. The classes are an hour and a half, for 15 reals, although by the time the teacher started, it was really an hour an 10 minutes. Better for me, really, cause I can never commit to 1 1/2 hours of class (he said he was waiting for others to show up... only two of us had showed up that day.) I took a class in Orixa dance. In a candomble ceremony, each orixa has a certain dance that is reflects its attributes. The dances are not terribly energetic, and this class hadn't kicked my ass in quite the manner I was hoping. Not that I was any good at what I was doing, it just wasn't very high-energy. They have one, maybe two classes a night, at the same time as the other school! Also only monday - thursday.

The third is the Obispo center for dance, located at Rua do obispo, just off Praca da se. It has dance classes at night, although I was more interested in the african dance class they have on Monday and Wednesday at 11 am! I'll try to get my butt over there on Monday.

This is also the place when I went dancing last week and last night. Every saturday, they have some live band and dancing in their studio space. Last night was samba. My samba is improving, although it looks nothing like the dancing of the girls here, who seem to float on the floor while moving their tiny, compact asses in every possible direction. It really is a sight.

Pelorinho, often called Pelo, is not Salvador. Salvador is a big city, almost none of which I have truly experienced. I just don't want to leave Pelo. There are clubs on the beach, but that is quite a distance away, and getting there is not too much of a problem, but I'm worried about returning late at night. Also, there is free amazing music here in Pelo all night, every night, right on my backyard. I am happy here. People take day or weekend trips to islands where the beaches are more tranquil, more nature-filled. I have no interest in traveling to a remote place to enjoy nature. Pelo's a small town, but it's vibrant, and I'm a city girl at heart. "Getting away from it all" to me, is going to a smaller city.

I recognize so many of the men here already. When you go to these dance events, there's the same group of amazing male (and female, but mostly male) dancers showing off amazing dance moves in groups, or pairs. Imagine the recurring dancers from "Soul Train," my dad's favorite show in the 80's. At some point, each of them goes off to dance with a different tourist. The guy who came to dance with me was the best dancer I had ever seen. I must have danced 5 different stlyes of dance with him by the time all was said and done. A salsa song came on and he said "I really don't know how to dance salsa" and his salsa was better than mine could ever be. I really wanted to see what he could do, but he kept letting me dance in a certain way, and he would imitate it, probably to be flattering. I'm a good dancer, but he was AMAZING.

We must have gotten through about 5 songs before he said to me, in portuguese "My heart is yours."

Oh, now, why'd you have to go ruin it??

Another dance later, and I snuck out of the club to go home. Then the guy from last week sees me and says "I'm arriving, and you're going home??" Argh.

I have about 5 1/2 more days here before I'm off to Buenos Aires, for tango and meat, and I hope it's enough to feel like I've gotten the full Bahis experience.

Although the full Pelo experience seems to involve waking up next to a guy in a favela, which another girl here did the other night. Ack.

Candomble... the ceremony that ends with a big fucking donut.

2007-07-11T18:43:00.000-07:00

I went to a candomble ritual today with Sinead and a bunch of others from the hostel. Candomble is an african-based polytheistic religion where the gods are called orixas. Practitioners often are dressed all in white. This particular group was from the yoruba nation, originally from Nigeria. We had a guide who picked us up, drove us there and back, and gave us whatever explanation we needed, for $20.

There was lots of drumming, a lot of old women dressed in big white lace dresses, further wrapped in colorful cloth. The cloth is wrapped tight to hold in the spirits. They walked in and out of the house backwards. They danced with their eyes closed. There was random screaming. Singing. Hugging. The drumming was less energetic than it was trans-like... repetitive beats, accompanied by singing in yoruba. This went on for about an hour and a half, and then they passed out plates of food if you wanted to eat (I had a rather bad meat pastry already outside the house of worship.) Then there was a clothes change, followed by more of the same. Except they were danced dressed as certain orixas that they have "received." The initiated members have all "received" a particular deity, and dress in that fashion. That's about all I picked up from this journey... there was so much going on that I didn't understand, but it was very interesting. Odd. Good. But long, and I had to stand which I hate.

They had some fine looking Brazilian desserts, which are only sold in gargantuan proportions. I ask the lady for a Sonho (donut) filled with Doce de Leite (Dulce de leche). This donut was, no exaggeration, 2 pounds. Dense and doughy, rolled in cinnamon sugar. $1.

The candomble was fine, but it was a glorious donut.

Samba and Forro

2007-07-11T07:27:00.000-07:00

I spent a long day of finding a "nice beach" outside of town called Itapua, only to turn right back around and come back. By the time I got there (about an hour's bus ride,) the weather had gone south. I had an abara (the same as an acaraje, only the bean mash is boiled in a banana leaf) and took the bus right back.

Jenny managed to drag me off my ass, having been tired from nothing, to take a "free samba dance class" at the School of Angola Capoeira. It was a very basic class, but it was exactly what I needed to finally learn that crazy move that defines samba and differentiates it from the other african style dances I have learned. The one where their little asses are moving in a thousand different directions, but you're not really sure how because their upper body is completely still and relaxed. At the end of the lesson (which turned out not to be free at all, but a very cheap $5.50, something I expected but seemed to piss off the english girls on a tight budget) I think I had a pretty good grasp of it. Very exciting, considering that I had planned to spend my days taking dance classes, and I hadn't yet done it in the 6 days since my arrival. There's just so much to see and so much going on...

I met Sinead, an Irish girl who just came from Buenos Aires (which just saw its first snowfall since 1918. Fuck!), who is essentially doing the same trip I am, in reverse. She spent 2 weeks in BA learning tango, and is spending the next 3 in Salvador to learn tango! She is also traveling sozinha (the delightful portuguese terms for being alone, but not ALONE) so we made plans to start going to classes together! She's done some research and has also been a bit put off that the classes are not so organized or easy to find.

Tuesday night is THE night to go out in Salvador. Every Tuesday there is some kind of free music performance at a large set of stairs in the center of town (which we were just a bit late for), followed by a percussion disply. Olodum, very famous percussion group (they re eived international notoriety after performing with Paul Simon on some tour) owns this town. They played in the street while a group of locals and tourists followed three amazing dancers in some routine that they put together. It was awesome.

After that, off to the main square to hear some live forro. Forro is a partner dance that is very similar to cumbia, which is close to west-coast swing... lots of one and two-handed turns. Then they mix in a little lambada, where the legs were the bodies are very close, and the legs sandwich each other, and there is a small grinding motion. Lastly, there is an "aerial" move which I can't really describe with words.

We met up at the square, where this one brazilian guy was sitting with a group of the english girls and some American guy with a real gift for accents. The guy kept trying to teach the english girls Forro, whoch they did not like so much, so they shoved him in my direction, telling him I was an excellent dancer. (They whispered "sorry!" and giggled..)

This guy was an excellent dancer. I picked it up right away, including the little aerial bit. I danced a couple of songs before the intense headache I woke up to returned.

The best part about dancing in Brazil is it seems to be the only thing that, ironically, stops the Brazilian men from trying to get in your pants.

This guy could not have been older than 17, yet had this way of asking everyone how old they were before inventing an age he wanted to be.

Walking in town at night bring on a lot of touching. Not even flirting, which would be fine. It goes from touching to making out. If you're lucky, there may be a few words of conversation or a dance.

I am now pretending I speak and understand no portuguese.

One guy came up to me, told me I was beautiful, and I looked at him like I didn't understand him, and Jenny took over. She said I had a boyfriend, that she had a boyfriend, and the third girl we were with had one as well. He literally said "Do you know anyone who doesn't have one??"

Then Alex approached me, and he didn't speak any english, but he spoke very good spanish. He said he liked me because I danced with such "happiness and spirit." There was no touching, so I talked a bit longer. He works on a boat, and told me he'd take me on a boat ride to Morro de Sao Paulo, a popular island that's a ways away from Salvador. Free, he said.

Uh-huh.

We spoke for a couple of minutes, and he said he'd really like to take me out. I said I had a boyfriend. He said he had a girlfriend. Then he asked me for a kiss. Just one. Hmmph.

The crazy thing about it is they really don't need to act this way. They are all gorgeous, with terrific bodies. Perhaps if the foreigners would stop screwing them...

There was some really good salsa playing at a local club, but I decided I had enough touching for one evening. Jenny and Naomi got a meat on a stick, grilled up by some woman on the street and we made our way back.

The worst tattoo ever.

2007-07-09T19:28:00.000-07:00

I have been hanging out with the gaggle of young English girls, and I've become pretty fond of Jenny, perhaps the coolest 19-year old I've known since I was 19. They're all part of some English program called "gap year" or something like that, where they fly off to some country to do a volunteer program of some form of another. Jenny taught English in Parana.

Jenny got a tattoo on her ankle and a particularly gruesome tongue piercing in Sao Paolo. The guy gave her something to numb her tongue, except it didn't work, and then he used a needle instead of a gun. Ick. Being 19 , a number of them got a tattoo as well.

And being 19, some of them are making poor choices.

One chose a tattoo that was just words, no art.

It said, "Woo-Hoo!"

Woo-hoo indeed.

"So I wake up next to this guy at the favela..."

2007-07-09T18:27:00.000-07:00

Dancing
There was a "flamenco and rumba" concert at one of the cultural centers the other night. It was a fusion band that was mostly flamenco, and I don't know how much rumba, but it was really amazing. I went with about 10 people from the hostel: a gaggle of British girls (average age 20) a pair of swedish girls, and one guy named Sean who lives on Bleecker street in NYC.

Finally. Some dancing.

I danced my little heart out. Quite effectively, from what the brits told me. I danced with some guys, a little too close for my liking, but that seems to be how it's done here. There was none of that gross stuff from the night before...they really like the ladies, but evidently they like the dancing just a touch more. I left at about 2 in the morning, which was about the time that the brazilians were choosing their foreign make-out partners for the evening.

The next morning, one of the the Swedish girls had the best opening line for a story:

"So I'm waking up to the guy in the favela...."

(A favela is a pretty dangerous shanty-town, often run by drug lords, fyi)

The favela room had no wall, so she was getting rained on in the middle of the night. Then it took him two hours to take her home (you can't just walk around a favela unaccompnaied by a favela-dweller because it's too dangous) because it was raining so he didn't feel like working...

Ah, Brazil.

Bargaining at the beach
I had my first day at the beach. The closest beach is in Barra, a part of town along the coast about 20 minutes away by bus. It's a very narrow strip of sand, but clean with a consistency of brown sugar. A dream to walk on. The ocean floor is the same. Gorgeous. Sean accompanied me, which was great because as much as I like to do things alone, it's safer to have a companion, and I thought I'd be harassed less with a man around. no one bothered us at all... there were mostly families there that day.

The water was a perfect lukewarm temperature despite being winter. The sun was warm but not too strong. There was a man who walked by selling fried cheese on a stick for one real, about 50 cents. He walks down th beach with a tupperware container of pre-cut cheese and a small grill. Delicious.

I haggled with a sarong vendor. I liked this giant sarong of the brazilian flag. He sits onth the beach, smooths out the sand, and writes "25" with his finger.

I tell him I understand portuguese. But no thanks.

He erases "25," and writes "20," determined to conduct this transaction without words.

"No thank you, I say."

"17," he writes.

I say "two for 17."

"2 for 25" he says.

I hate haggling. Now I have two brazilian flag sarongs.

Was that a red light?
Sean and I went to Yemanja, a restaurant about halfway between the hostel and the airport, recommended for its baian cuisine. Sean, despite being 22 and a recent Columbia grad, has developed the same love of trying new foods, and despite being a poor college student, doesn't mind spending some money on good food (unlike most of the hostel residents). Both of have wanted to try "moqueca de camarao," a traditional stew of shrimp, dende, coriander, manioc... but in Bahia, the dish is usually made for two. It was delicious, and definitely could've fed three. A couple of strange desserts, a couple of caipirinhas later and we staggered out and waited for a bus for an hour before I opted for an expensive taxi ride.

At some point, I notice that Sean is looking behind him. The taxi passed through a red light. Full speed. then another. And another. I counted a total of 6. It turns out that it is too dangerous to stop at red lights here at night (carjacking), so after 11 pm it is legal to speed through lights.

Nice.

Random initial thoughts on Salvador da Bahia

2007-07-07T14:16:00.000-07:00

I went out last night at about 1 am with a bunch of girls from the hostel (and I mean girls. I am by far the oldest person at this hostel.) "Going out" time in Brazil is notoriously late (although not as late as in Buenos Aires, where people go out on a Tuesday at 2 in the morning...) so were were surprised to find that almost everything was closed in Pelourinho except for one gross bar.

Pelhourinho, where I am staying, is the historic center of town. "Pelourinho" means "whipping post," and it was here that the enslaved Africans were beaten, tied down, and whipped. It is very hilly, all cobblestone. It has rained a bit every day so far, making the cobblestones very slippery and hard to negotiate. The people here are accustomed, and everyone: kids, the corpulent, the old, seem to have no trouble, even in their worn flip-flops, which are standard attire. It is "very touristy," which is actually not terribly so, but there are tourist shops and people trying to sell you something in the main squares.

Almost everyone is some shade of black. Except for the tourists, who are white. The English girls I was with, who were all tall and blonde.

Making us quite a spectacle.

I have heard that Salvador is less dangerous than other parts of Brazil, but that I should be wary of being robbed. In theory, there is safety in numbers, but I'm starting to wonder if it's not so safe to travel with a bunch of really white people. And I mean WHITE.

We went to the only happening spot, basically a cobblestoned intersection outside this bar, where people were drinking beer and dancing to loud Brazilian music. I could've gotten into the dancing, except the ratio of men to women was about, conservatively, 40:1. There was no mistaking us for Brazilians, much less Baians, and they swarmed upon us like killer bees, speaking whatever little English they knew, pick up lines and quotes from Borat, trying to get us to dance.

Persistent motherfuckers. And the TOUCHING!! So much touching. Not "bad touches," but lots of touching the shoulder, lower back, and especially elbow. So it could be worse. But it's annoying. And they didn't let up. I grew tired of it in about 5 minutes. Some of the more adventurous girls opted to dance. I was not having it. I turned around and went back to the hostel.

On the other hand, I walked alone this afternoon, took a bus to the mall (amusingly enough, called "O Shopping" in Brazil), had lunch, went shopping, came back, and no one bothered me at all.

By the way, the trip to the mall was to find a battery and charger for my camera because I stupidly left it at home. Probably in my couch. Fuck. There will probably be no pics of Salvador unless I invest in some disposables. Cameras are impossibly expensive, and my Canon ELPH, pretty reasonable and common in the US isn't even sold in any of the stores I went into today.

I am looking forward to many things I haven't seen yet... I have to go the couple of recommended cultural centers for dance classes. This is really what I want to do when I'm here. Tuesday night is the "big night" to go out, which means live music and percussion groups in the streets. Wednesday I'm going to go to a candomble ritual. Candomble is a spiritual, polytheistic religion prevalent here. There are a coulple of folkloric shows that are supposed to be amazing. They're all at about 8 at night or later, leaving me the rest of the day to spend at the beach.

If it ever stops raining. It's a comfortable temperature, much more pleasant that in New York. There are hammocks and a very bohemian bed-sized cushion with pillows in a nook that's on an open patio at the hostel. I'm really just satisfied hanging out here during the rainy parts of the day and the evening, as the music plays and I share travel stories with the others from the hostel.

Oh, and despite the warm weather, it's winter, which means it gets dark at about 5 pm. Weird!

I am not in love with Bahia, but I do like it. The food is amazing (heavy as it is) and it's easy enough to navigate if you speak some basic portuguese. (My portuguese is basic, and I'm afraid it's not getting better any time soon.) It's beautiful in that run-down old historic sort of way. More to come.

The airport in Salvador is quite lovely this time of year

2007-07-06T15:59:00.000-07:00

Last night, Camilo from the hostel, called the airport about 6 times looking for someone who knew something about the whereabouts of my luggage. He would get one person on the phone, they would call someone else, get six more numbers... someone somewhere said that my luggage was at Salvador airport, but it was too late to go.

I went to the airport 10 am (only an hour bus trip this time!) to find that, as predicted, my luggage was NOT there. I waited a bit, and was told that my luggage was still in Sao Paulo and would be arriving at 4 pm. I decided to take a bus back to the center of town and do a little window shopping in case I needed to replace the contents of my bag...

I went to a "kilo restaurant" somewhere in the middle of town. It's a buffet that charges per 100 grams (today, about $.70). I don't really know what I was eating... some chicken, some fish, some unidentified mash of starch, dried shrimp and dende oil... about $3. Delicious, easy, and fast. Run by Chinese people.

I get back to the airport (another hour trip) and the 4:00 flight arrival becomes a 5:00 arrival (even though a woman told me that it was delayed an hour, but it wasn't.) Waiting, waiting, waiting. And some more waiting.

Israel beckons me to come inside. There is my bag! I hug him, and tell him I love him. He gets giddy and hugs me some more. Then he asks me out. All in portuguese! "Nao posso," I say, and go on my way.

I got back to the hostel about 7:00 pm... just happy to be wearing a new set of clothes in this gorgeous city.

I'm now at the hostel, sitting on a floor cushion with an American and two Englishmen talking about travel and food. Yum.

Going to Bahia

2007-07-06T02:25:00.000-07:00

Perhaps I have some Latin America jinx.

I knew going in that it was going to be a difficult trip down, as I had to go from NYC to Miami (3 hrs) to Sao Paulo (8 hours) to Salvaldor (3 hours, with 2 hours in between). It wasn't until I got to Laguardia that I found out my miami flight was delayed 2 hours (and mom checked!) Then my Sao Paolo flight was delayed an hour and a half.

The flight was not a bad 8 hours, although it would have been much better had I been one of the lucky few who got a pair of seats to themselves. I would've slept like a baby. July 4 is a good day to fly. And flying out of Laguardia was great... it took me 5 minutes to check in, instead of waiting on line for 2 hours which I've grown accustomed to.

Then I missed my Salvador flight, but they were good enough to have re-booked me for a flight an hour later before I even got off the plane. That was very efficient and considerate, I thought.

I was very confused in Sao Paolo... tired, equipped with only a few phrases in Portuguese (although I seem to understand when spoken to). The girl told me some gate, some number, but figured out about a half an hour later that I had to 'disembark,' which meant not only to clear customs, but I had to leave the airport, and essentially check in again at the domestic wing.

It wasn't until I reached Salvador that I learned that I HAD TO TAKE MY OWN BAGGAGE WITH ME.

Fuck.

I'm neither upset nor surprised for some reason. The guy filled out a report, told me that they'd get the luggage to Salvador, probably that day, and gave me his extension.

The people in Salvador are SO NICE. Every time I've told people I need some kind of help today, they've put their hand on my shoulder, and either told me where I need to go, or even in the case of the flight attentant, walked me to where I needed to be.

I get to the bus stop at the airport, which you'd miss even if you're looking for it. The sign posted said that there wasn't a bus for another hour and a half. So I stagger back into the airport and wait.

I think waiting is what I'm going to have to get used to around here very soon.

I get back to the bus stop 20 minutes early to discover that there's a bunch of local buses that make the trip from the airport to the center or town, circling around the whole city. A very scenic view, air conditioned (freezing, actually), but another hour and a half. For the $2.

Somehow, without a decent map (did I mention I forgot to print the hostel directions?), I get to the hostel. This was after staggering around for 25 minutes, lost. I finally was going to take a taxi, and the taxi driver told me it wasn't worth it. Too many turns. I should just walk, and he told me how to get there.

The hostel is clean, but basic. Perfect for what I need... Wifi (which will be great if I can charge Rik's laptop... converter in the suitcase...) a clean shower (clean clothes also in suitcase)... free breakfast and coffee ALL DAY, and I can cook and leave leftovers in the fridge.

I am glad I chose the private room, which was only $30 a night. I can (and will) be doing the dorm room thing for a bit while I'm here, but it was really great to come to the hostel exhausted and not have to deal with anyone else.

Oh, except one of the cats who lives at the hostel, who climbed into bed with me a couple of times during the night, through the open window. So cute!

Salvador is beautiful. And not a Paris kind of beautiful, but the kind of beautiful that Cuba should have been. Old colonial buildings and churches, painted in garish shades. Bahian women dressed all in white, serving up acaraje, bean patties fried in fiery dende oil, stuffed with shrimp (haven't had one yet.) Cobblestone streets at gradients my calves and thighs are already cursing me over. Music pouring through the streets.

I realized at about 7.30 last night that I hadn't eaten more than a couple of power bars that day, so I went to the corner bar for something. I ordered a plate of fried fish (don't know what kind) with a side of dressed tomatoes (that's salad, evidently) with pirao, a mash of manioc, dende oil, and spices. My first caipirinha.

The pirao was (other than a touch oversalted) out of this world. Savory, salty, hot, stick-to-your ribs. Better than any mashed potato I've ever had. I was definitely drunk off one caipirinha on the empty stomach I was working with.

I was exhauted, drunk, wearing clothes I have worn for what I felt was days. Luggage only possibly waiting for me at the airport, a 4-hour excursion in the near future, I bet. And yet, I feel completely at ease.

Must be the Moon Video

2007-06-24T10:40:00.000-07:00

Woo-Hoo!!

I was in a Chkchkchk video, and I'm not even on the cutting room floor!!!

The Last Mermaid Parade?

2007-06-24T07:56:00.000-07:00

The mermaid parade is definitely my favorite NYC event. It's full of creative people from all walks of life, all ages, all body types... rumor has it that this may be the last one because Coney Island has been sold off to some developers. Heartbreaking if true.

My costume has been sitting in my closet for a year waiting to be worn. I was "Samba of the Sea." It was a gorgeous day.

My Mermaid Photos

I am a really crappy photographer, but my friends' pics are SO much better. (The one of me at the left is Lynn's...)

Lynn's photos

Eli's Photos

After the parade, when I was all hot and dehydrated, I realizes that I lost my car keys. Needless to say, I was really pissed and stressed about it. I get back to the car to find that some guy from an auto repair down the block saw my keys, took them for me, and left a note. He had this real brooklyn accent and said "You're so lucky... someone would have stolen that car so fast!!" I paid him off with a couple of chicken tacos from the corner deli and a 24 oz Budweiser.

I love New York.

Interweave Lotus Tank and Burda Flounce Skirt

2007-05-13T18:31:00.000-07:00

It's really shocking when you make something and it actually fits....

Lotus Lace Tank from Interweave Knit Summer 2006

I got very sloppy with the seaming in the construction, but if it drives me crazy, I'll put some rhinestoney shoe clasps where the straps meet the body, near the armpits.

I made it with some emerald-green cabled mercerized cotton I picked up in Florence last summer, with a size 4 needle. Size 4!! The lace pattern took some time to get right, 'cause my A.D.D. self couldn't focus on the 16 line repeating pattern.

The sweater is worked mostly in the round from the bottom up, so it was pretty easy to cast on fewer stitches and just work fewer repeats of the pattern. Then I worked the straps almost according to pattern so they would be long enough.

Denim Flounce Skirt, Burda June 2006.
I had made this skirt in houndstooth a while back (still haven't taken a picture of it...) and it fit so great I made one in a dark wash denim. I love the flounce and the v-shaped back.

The front is just as cute, but in the picture Rik took I look like I've got a serious spare tire going on. Very unflattering.

A perfect outfit for a gorgeous spring day... even though most of it was spent inside watching a very awful Spiderman 3 (Kirsten Dunst getting hit in the head was the best part of the movie. What the HELL is it with her? Who did she sleep with to get famous?) and eating a very delicious steak and the best latkes ever at Sammy's Roumanian.

The craziest 12 consecutive minutes ... NYC style

2007-05-10T18:20:00.000-07:00

Jim Crow in Chinatown
Rik and I are in Chinatown, walking away from our favorite little Vietnamese hole-in-the-wall called Nha Trang Centre. (I strongly recommend the fried calamari, flash-fried flower-shaped squid, and the barbecue beef, btw.)

We're walking down the street, and we pass an old-school style Asian-run barber shop. There's this little Asian boy, about 5 or 6 years old, cute as a button, hanging out in front. Screaming. At the top of his lungs.

"BROWN PEOPLE ON THAT SIDE OF THE STREET! WHITE PEOPLE ON THIS SIDE OF THE STREET!"

Over and over again.

"BROWN PEOPLE ON THAT SIDE OF THE STREET! WHITE PEOPLE ON THIS SIDE OF THE STREET!"

Which was hysterically funny in that way that's totally not funny at all, and is only funny because it's coming out of the mouth of this way-too-young-to-say-this boy. Who is neither brown nor white, technically.

So I ask, "Oh! Which side should WE be on?"

To which he replies "THIS SIDE OF THE STREET!"

It was nice of him to keep us together, considering I'm pretty white and Rik is a delicious shade of light brown.

Unsheathed Racism on the Subway
I say goodnight to Rik, and get on the subway. It's me and 3 others when I get on- an Asian man to my left and a Latino couple in front of me.

A Black homeless man gets on, and walks up to me first, proclaiming his homeless status, begging for money. Instead of ignoring him completely, I look up from my magazine to acknowledge him at least, and I realize that he is shabbily dressed, and his penis is sticking out of his shorts.

Great.

That'll teach me to look up.

Then he walks to the Asian man, and begs for money in that really offensive way people do when they're making fun of Asian people.

"Ching Chong Ching! Oh,... I need money! Ho-less! Ho-less!"

I think to myself, I would love to say something, but this man is homeless and dirty, and his penis is sticking out. I'd like to not die tonight.

I just became one of THOSE New Yorkers.
The Time Out New York magazine I'm reading features this railroad station that was the location of a brutal murder in the 60's, one where evidently there were a number of witnesses and people did nothing.

I'm really into my magazine at this point, ignoring the world after penis-man left. At this point there are a number of people on my train car. Maybe 25 or so.

Out of the corner of my eye, in front of me, are two Black teenaged boys. Out of the other corner of my eye, in the seats on my far left, are another two Black teenaged boys. I think nothing of it.

There is loud laughing. I still think nothing of it.

Next thing I know, the two boys on my left are on top of ONE of the two boys in front of me, who is now in fetal position. They are pounding on his head and shoulders with their fists and elbows. They are laughing. The boy next to the boy getting beat does not have a look of fear or upset on his face.

The two boys walk away, laughing. The boy who got hit now lifts his head, looking a bit swollen and very pissed off. The boy's friend is saying "ain't nobody on this train gonna help you! They take your stuff, man? They take your stuff?"

I now realize, as does the rest of the train, that this was not a joke. These were not a group of friends. A kid just got jumped RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME, and I did nothing.

I'm a high school teacher, and EVERY DAY I walk past kids hitting each other, wrestling each other, and whether I know the kids or not, I say something. EVERY TIME, the kids tell me that they're friends, they're just playing. I stop them anyway.

And this one time, when it actually mattered, I said nothing. I swear, I had no idea they didn't know each other. I had no idea that they weren't just playing around.

So I get off the train (it was my stop anyway) and I tell the employee in the booth that a kid was just jumped and robbed in the train. I wanted to tell her more, but she said "OK, thanks..." and waved me off.

Only in New York.

Places and things I recommend

2007-04-09T14:55:00.000-07:00

Private Tango Lessons
Ramiro Rosenvasser and Luciana Brillantino (they speak English!)
ramirorosenvasser@gmail.com
lulabrillantino@hotmail.com

Ramiro and Luciana were so nice. They came to my hostel to teach, so that I didn't have to try to find them. They tailored the lesson to my ability, not the other way around. Bonus: both of them very pleasing to the eye.

Restaurants

Janio Malbria 1805, corner of Costa Rica, Palermo Viejo. Has an outdoor patio, one of the few without umbrellas, important for us stupid americans who want to eat and bask in the hot afternoon sun at the same time. Inside is big, pretty, and spins nice music. Inexpensive midweek "menu del dia," three courses for about 30 pesos.
Gran Bar Danzon Libertad 1161, Centro. Delicious. Pretty. Make a reservation. Same owner as Bar Uriate, and Sucre, which was highly recommended to me by the porteno in the seat next to me on the ride down.
El Palacio de la Papa Frita three locations. Basic food at a good price. Marcelo's favorite. The potatoes are puffy. Craziness.
Desnivel Defensa 855, San Telmo. Bad service. Casual atmosphere. Great meat at a ridiculously low price.

Online Restaurant Guide to Buenos Aires: Oleoguide

Tango Shoes (more I found at this address)
The street called Suipacha has a block it calls the "Tango Street". The strange thing about buying tango shoes is that many of them are either made to order, so when you walk in, first they ask you your size and bring you what they've got. They might not have it, and they might not be able to get it. A couple of places quoted me US$50 to ship to the US, but that's 1/2 the cost of the shoe. If you have limited time in BA, shop early.

Centro Artesanal del Tango, - Suipacha 256 -- 4326-5377
Darcos, Suipacha
Flabella, Suipacha 263
Scarpe Mahara, Suipacha 332. Small selection, not so unique or elegant, but maybe better for beginner or older dancer.
Comme il Faut, Arenales 1239 #3M. Hands down, the best looking and most unique shoes. Called the "Manolo Blahniks" of tango shoes. Start here, buy something. Everything else is inferior.
Bailarin Porteno - Suipacha 251
Tango Brujo, Esmeralda 754. Pretty store. Carries copies of the tango city guide.
Victorio, Montevideo 224

Shoe Stores

Angls, Arenales 1602 (Centro)
Paruolo, Honduras 4785 (Palermo)
Pepe Cantero, Costa Rica 4522 (Palermo)
Viviana Valdez, Talcahuano 1184. Nicest people. Got a cute little pair of handmade, tan leather kitten heels with brown scalloped trim here.
Josefina Ferroni, Armenia 1471
Lola Narsh, Arenales 1130

Clothing Stores

Fiorini Wichimachki, Gurruchaga 1532 (Palermo). Cutest little dresses, lots of reverse stitching.
Complot (various stores) Punky, but in a good way. Very cheap.
Del Plata Leather, Suipacha 909 (centro). Nice people, not pushy at all. Made my gorgeous leather pants in a day. Lots of unexpected and pretty colors. cuerosdelplata@yahoo.com.ar
Maria Aversa, El Salvador 4580 (Palermo)
Del Plata Cueros, Suipacha 909, Microcentro. Leather!!

Yarn
There are about three blocks filled with yarn stores. Mostly wools and acrylics. Yarns are priced to sell by the kilo, mostly, so start thinking metric, if you don't already. I wish I remember the cross street to start at. Anyway, there's a "Scalabrini Ortiz" subte stop, and it's not too far of a walk.

Milana, Scalabrini Ortiz 1062 (My favorite.)
Moussa, Scalabrini Ortiz 973
Arte Natural, Scalabrini Ortiz 1019. Not a yarn store, actually. They make and sell buttons, closures, toggles, etc. cut from wood.

Photos and Videos from Buenos Aires, full set

2007-04-09T14:43:00.000-07:00

Photos from Buenos Aires Trip (flickr)

Video of me dancing with Luciana

Video of Andy playing football with a young boy in La Boca

Final Days in BA

2007-04-09T13:37:00.000-07:00

Last tango
I am so sad that I didn’t have any time for more lessons. My third, and sadly, final lesson of this trip was with both Ramiro and Luciana. Ramiro starts our small “warm-up” by having me bend to the floor, starting from the head, bending at the waist, feeling and articulating each bone from the top of the head down the spine, to finally, the waist. In order to “help” me, he is walking his fingers slowly down my spine. All the while, he is whispering, in a soft, italian-inflected spanish, in that sensual way Latin men are known for.

I later learn that one of the girls at the hostel was watching, green with envy. Ramiro is very attractive.

A moment later, Ramiro talks to me about the tango closed position, aptly named the “tango embrace.”
He says “How do you hug your friend?”
I say “I don’t know… like this,” slightly confused by the question, as I hug him, giving his tall, lean body a slight squeeze.
He corrects me. “No, a close friend,” and wraps his arms me, diagonally, like a messenger bag, and holds me quite close, continuing to lecture me about the appropriate body position in that same, tantalizing castellano.

If everyone gets this kind of treatment, I can see why tango is so instantly popular, and why Americans converge upon Buenos Aires to learn it.

Living the BA good life, and feeling quite a bit of guilt.
I came to Buenos Aires for three reasons.

MEAT
TANGO
LEATHER

Every conversation I have with a porteno, at some point (usually very early on) gravitates towards the value of the American dollar. The current rate is about 3 pesos to the dollar, but everything is priced like in the US. For example, a taxi ride that would cost about $12 in NYC costs 12 pesos in BA.

Perhaps it is my imagination, but I keep feeling like the question I am being constantly asked “The exchange rate is good, no?” is one not of curiosity, but of slight sorrow, self-pity, and resentment. Not too long ago, BA was one of the most expensive cities in the world, on par with NYC. Now, Americans and Europeans arrive in droves, buying up the local wares, filling up the best restaurants in town, seeing the broadway-quality shows at rates no average porteno can afford to buy.

At first, I was very excited to be living like I will never be able to afford to in my own city. Two meals a day in some of the finest restaurants in town, where an appetizer, dinner, dessert, beverage cost roughly $20. Walking down their version of SOHO with not one, but two, three shiny bags of shoes (I finally became successful in my shoe quest) from their local designers, costing what would be $200, $300 a pop here. I felt decadent, I felt rich, I felt…

Guilty.

At least once a meal, you have to shoo away young children, begging for money at your dinner table, once begging for our leftover drinks and empanadas. I look around as I eat my Sunday Brunch at Janio (Two hockey-puck sized tenderloins in a delectable gravy, accompanied by a spinach-tomato sautee and a gratin potato, about $10) and recognize that it is filled with tourists. There was a table of college-aged English girls to my right, certainly taking for granted the luxury that I seldom get to appreciate.

I feel guilty.

I wonder if rich americans every feel this way. I wonder how long I would have to be here before I too, take my new-found wealth for granted.

Facing my fears in the most Chichi of places
Despite my guilt, I decided that my “last meal” of sorts should be not a parrillada (as just the look and smell of grilled meats is starting to make me sick) should be at one of the nicest restaurants I can find. My guide book recommends Tomo I, which they say is often cited as the best in BA, but it’s in one of these very expensive hotels, clients dressed to the nines, and I would not have been able to pull off that look. I decide upon Gran Bar Danzon, within walking distance from the Hostel. My newest dorm-mates, Susanna and Peter (from the Hague) and Pablo (from Madrid) surprisingly decide to join me.

This was the kind of place you’d find in the meat-packing district, on a week that was not Semana Santa you’d probably need a reservation a week ahead, dark and pretty, full of the most beautiful people in BA.

Susanna and Peter balked, because we could only get a space at the bar, they had already eated, and really had joined me for conversation. So it was me and Pablo, practicing my spanish, talking about the value of apartments in our respective cities. I am surprised I understand the Spanish for the “housing starts” economic indicator. He is quite nice. His family is from San Fermin, the city where the Running of the Bulls takes place, and I had a nice time recounting my horror story from years back.

I order an incredible veal stew braised and served in a reduced port wine sauce. The meat is deep brown, almost black, slightly reddish in color. A sprig of thyme delicately draped across the top. I cut it with a fork. One of the other dishes was a Ojo de Bife (ribeye) served atop a deconstructed morcilla sausage. Pablo orders it, solely for the purpose of making me taste morcilla for the first time.

Traditional morcilla is Spanish Blood sausage. It is literally congealed blood, cooked with onions and spices, of course, in a sausage casing. I am an adventurous eater, but I have a deep fear and loathing of offal. Although morcilla isn’t quite a sweetbread, it’s close enough.

One time, I was telling an ex-colleague that I had a great sausage in Seville, and she asked me if it was morcilla. After describing it to me, I felt my stomach turn, sickened by the idea that some year prior I may have ingested a sausage of blood.

Pablo gently talks me into it. A dime-sized portion rests on the end of his fork, inviting me to taste it. I take a deep breath. I open my mouth. I quickly close it. I can’t do it. He tells me not to think about what it is. I don’t want to insult him by scorning his native food. I think to myself, “at this restaurant, I’m sure that this will be the best morcilla I will ever encoutner.” I succumb.

It tastes like blood. Well-seasoned, creamy blood. There’s a first and last time for everything.

Luckily, the dulce de leche tart, vanilla ice cream, and banana puree was enough to reward my courageous foray.

Final thoughts on BA
BA is a bustling metropolis. I am a city girl, and I thought from what I had heard and read that I would love it.

It wasn’t love at first site. After about 3 days, I said to someone “it’s OK, But I don’t think I could live here.”

It’s a huge, urban sprawl, and even during a week where, stuck in mid-morning traffic, the taxi drivers say “oh, this is nothing. Everyone is out of town.” There is a subway system that only seems to circumscribe where anyone would want to go. There is a comprehensive bus system, which even after a week, I was too confused and intimidated to try. Even the blocks are huge, so walking, even when the weather is nice, exhausts you.

Petty theft is rampant, and I consider myself smart,vigilant, and/or lucky enough to not have been robbed. Violent crime is not a problem outside the dangerous neighborhoods, but I witnessed the aftermath of at least two robberies, and they weren’t even stupid tourists. I kept three hands on my purse at all times, and would walk down a street, crossing the street over and over in avoidance of anyone who was not an old lady or a young couple. I never was totally comfortable.

The stuff you want to see and do are nowhere near each other. I spent more time traveling to where I was going than at the place I was going to. The days fly by.

They have a ridiculous problem making change. If the bill is 12 pesos, and you try to pay with 20, they ask “do you have anything smaller?” It’s so hard getting a hold of small bills and coins, that the taxi drivers often told me that I didn’t need to worry about giving them the extra 48 centavos or whatever. I imagine this is one of the problems with the devaluation of their peso… it used to be worth 3 times as much. The bills are the same, but the cost of everything is 1/3 of what it used to be.

After I got a better feel of the city, and started talking to the people, my thoughts changed. Portenos are full of life and energy, and are very friendly, if you speak the language. I engaged in so many conversations with so many people, curious about why I was visiting, what I did, where I was staying, what I enjoyed.

Like New York, no one really seemed to know where anything was, but were happy to give you their opinion. They seem to understand what is wrong with their city, but love it all the same, and are so proud to share it with you.

It’s a bold, vibrant city, with amazing nightlife, beautiful and warm people, a movement and heartbeat all its own. I was very sorry to leave and I’m dying to go back.

Although I’m very pleased to be eating this plate of vegetables right now.

La Boca

2007-04-06T13:38:00.000-07:00

I was exhausted last night. My intent was to go to a tango dance (called a milonga) and not dare (a) either wear my crazy new shoes or (b) actually dance, but to see the Tangueros in action. Of course, this does not take place until after 1 in the morning (on a THURSDAY,) and I'm not exactly a night owl. So, the plan was to take a late dinner in the neighborhood, take a nap, and head back out. I'd be taking a cab back and forth, so even if I stayed for a short while, at least I did it. I tried to go to a new restaurant, but it was closed, so I wound up back at Marcelo's favorite Palacio de la Papas Fritas. Had a rather boring (yet huge) plate of fried merluza (alternating fish and meat, as is every other tourist I've met...), a side of mashed pumpkin (bland, but a welcome change from the ubiquitous potato), and a monolithic proportioned piece of budim de pan con dulce de leche. Oof.

I staggered off to bed, had a terrible night's sleep that I never really woke up from (alarm was still on NY time, duh.)

This morning, after a quick jaunt to get my leather pants made, after my second tango lesson (I love tango now, by the way,) I went with Georgie and Andy to La Boca, a neighborhhod often referred to as 'dodgy at night.' I was happy to have company, because everyone warns about the danger of La Boca.

It was glorious. There is a small strip, admittedly touristy, filled with outdoor restaurants, tango dancers, singers, bandeon (accordian) players... colorful and alive. We had lunch (pasta for me this time... tasty but overcooked) and walked around for a spell.

Leather Pants

2007-04-06T13:34:00.000-07:00

Leather Pants. Cut to my size. In a day. A DAY. Brown, distressed, supple. About USD150. Enough said.

Today, I was Carrie Bradshaw

2007-04-05T15:39:00.000-07:00

Last night, I went with my hostel-mates to a parrilla restaurant, finally, called Desnivel in San Telmo. It was the one highly recommended to me by Jorge, who was my neighbor on the plane. Unfortunately, no one wanted to eat parrilla. Everyone wanted the lomo, the tenderloin, grilled to perfection and doused in a variety of sauces with a variety of french fries, a bargain at about 8 USD. I really wanted the ribs and flank steak parrilla, but I wasnt going to do it alone (although I may soon...)

It was as good as expected. Even though (or perhaps, more so) because of the waiter. He was the Buenos Aires version of the Soup Nazi.

We got into the restuarant, and although there was no one waiting to be seated, we were asked about 7 times if we were a group of 7. It was 10 pm, and I was starving. And we're standing next to the grillmaster (there was only one for this huge restaurant, and he was WORKING) watching him cook all that delicious meat. Torturous.

We sit. No one speaks spanish but me, so they point. I start to speak to him in spanish, and he wants none of it. I'm trying to ask him what is better, and it goes something like this...

'Tengo preguntita. Que es mejor, el lomo o el ...'
'EL LOMO.'

No smile, nothing. Pen in hand, pretty much just writing it down. Perhaps he was just in a foul mood. He never brought us bread, or checked on us, he didn't even want to take our order when someone wanted dessert. He shouted something to the effect of 'don't be in such a hurry!' so we got the check instead.

Tried to find a tango venue, and no one could point us to one. Evidently, many of the Porteños are out of town this week.
---

Which brings me to today. If this is what Buenos Aires is like when nobody's here, I'm truly afraid to see what it's like when it's busy. I constantly wonder where the time has gone.

I decided that I was done shopping. Everything sucks. I wanted to see ONCE, the bustling district where most of the immigrants live. But first, I wanted to see the tango shoe store.

Oh. My. God.

This particular store was called Comme il faut, Arenales 1239, Puerta 3 Dpto M. There are about 3 shoes on display. They ask you what size you are. They bring you what they have. All the time, I am sitting there, drooling at the ones that this other woman was trying on, but they don't carry my size. Incredible color and texture combinations. Hot pink and purple. Red leather and black pony. T-strap, open toe, whatever. But only what they have. And she brings me this thing.

Purple leather lizard, with a 3'' stiletto heel in matching iridescent purple. There's a braided T-strap in iridescent aqua. It's dreadful. It's impractical.

Incredibly sexy.

I must have them.

I shouldn't. REALLY. They're about USD100, and I don't tango. Yet.

What an inspiration, though. Maybe these will make me dance. They'll make me dance BETTER.

I decide to do what I normally do when I cam gun-shy... walk away, and if I'm still thinking about it, I'll come back for them. I'll look online to see if there are more tango stores nearby. There HAVE to be. This is BA. Except time is of the essense, because it's Semana Santa, they're closing the whole weekend, and they're not sure when they're closing today.

But it was 12:30 afternoon, and I had plenty of time.

I go back to the hostel, to get my ATM card and take out some cash. Along the way, I see two more shoe stores, not for tango, but I wander in, and I find a couple of pairs I like. Like the others, I think about it, and head towards the hostel.

Meanwhile, I was supposed to call the tango instructors at noon to arrange for a 2pm lesson. I found only one phone in the street, it didn't work. I got back to the hostel at exactly 2pm, and send them an email that the afternoon is not good for me. At 2:30, a woman approaches me asking be about tango lessions. It takes me a good minute to realize that it was the couple I made an appointment with, and they had been waiting.

Now all I want is to look at tango shoes. But I do the right thing, and had my lesson.

OMG, it was awesome!! I'm slightly retarded, but I must be a lot less retarded than people who have never danced anything. That's what they told me, anyway. It was particularly great because while I was dancing with Ramiro, Luciana would position my body in the proper way.

There are a ton of tango shoe stores, evidently. About 5 on one block, walking distance from the hostel. It seems that here, at least, popular tango shoes are made in crazy color combinations. The shinier and crazier, the better. One place called 'Darcos Magic Shoes' makes them in the back of the store. You specify the style, the style and height of the heel, the color and fabric. It takes 12 days, although they can make it in 6 hours. one man was not so eager to help me, but there a creepy close talker who I suffered talking to in order to get some help. Incredible store, though. A lesson was taking place in the corner.

So I finally decide that I must have those crazy shoes which the Porteña called 'divine' so I start walking. I still haven't taken out any money (ATM booths are not as plentiful here as at home, and there seems a 50% chance that the machines don't function...) so I try to take out $, get diverted passing by some tango show which I decided to buy tix to for tomorrow night (it's USD 20 so if it sucks, who cares) and hail a taxi. It takes forever. I get to the store and they'r still open. I tell her to get the shoes while I get some money. I have to walk 2 huge blocks to get it. I'm pooped.

I get the shoes, and two more. A cute pair of nude-colored with dark brown leather trim kitten heels at 'Viviana Valdez', Talcahuano 1184, and a pair of peep-toe grey leather wedges at Mandarine (address currently missing...). I pick up a little surprise for some folks along the way (not telling what yet).

And then I walk into a leather store, which are a dime a dozen, but this particular store called out to me. They had some pretty grey leather (to go with my new shoes??) in the front, and the man wasn't pushy like the others. They'll make me apair of leather pants, cut to my measurements, in a day. A DAY! About $150.

Just call me Carrie Brashaw. How decadent.

¿What the bloody hell did I get accomplished today?

2007-04-04T15:31:00.000-07:00

When visitng Buenos Aires, plan small. Everything takes a lot longer to do than you think (IMO.) I had small plans today. And I couldn't quite manage to complete the small plans I had made.

I wanted to visit Recoleta, a neighborhood that's pretty wealthy, full of manors and expensive shops and restaurants. In typical hostel fashion, you talk to one person (in my case, a Mormon from Utah named Dan), you exchange about 3 sentences, and you make plans for dinner. I talked him into having parilla with me (hard to do that alone,) but by the time we were done, we were a total of 8 people (Nima, Dan, Dan, Georgie, Peter, Andy, Korn), many of whom had a lot of meat the night before and needed a night off, and we're not leaving for dinner until 10 pm. I was expecting the experience to be quite unpleasant. Group dinners are often a fiasco I avoid like the plague. Type A personalities like myself don't like to wait around while everyone takes their sweet-ass time, making group decisions (worsened by the fact that no one knows each other, so no one wants to step on anyone's toes or be in charge, trying to figure out the check. Actually, it turned out better than I thought. We went to a pizzeria (which here, also seems to always have empanadas) and I had an odd assortment of empanadas. A couple of beef ones, well-seasoned and mixed with olives and hard-boiled eggs, a cheese-and-onion (needed salt, but what doesn't?) and one stuffed with, no joke, creamed corn, which I could have done without. Although, it's hard to beat ANYTHING stuffed in a crust. Recoleta was dead on this Tuesday night, so we cabbed it back to Palermo, had some drinks, and I finally got to bed at about 4 in the morning.

Anyway, I wanted to see Recoleta during the day. Blah. It's the upper-west side, on a much grander and more spread-out scale. I wanted to see the cemetery, which is supposed to be very creepy and notable, but I meandered in the wrong direction, and wound up very close to the hostel. Save that for another day.

At this point, I'm starving, and all I wanted was to have another nice lunch under the beautiful Porteño sun. Harder than you'd think. Only stupid americans want to sit IN THE SUN, and although there are many cafes that had outdoor seating, most of the seats either have umbrellas or are strategically placed in the shade. Or both. Walking, walking, walking. Dizzy. Fuck it. Back to Palermo via taxi. And you can't just say 'Palermo,' because it's SO GINORMOUS that you need to give them an avenue and a cross street.

So I tell the taxista to take me to Persicco, an ice cream shop that's supposed to be one of the best ones. To tide me over before I find an actual restaurant. Today's flavors: marron glace (glazed chestnut) and mascarpone, which contained fruit to my surprise. I dealt, but I really don't like fruit adulterating my creamy or nutty dessert. Certainly not without prior knowledge. I literally asked her 'what's the pink stuff?' Eh. It's creamy and rich, flavorful. It's no gelato. It doesn't have to be, I guess, but eh. Like the other desserts I've had here, just a touch sweeter than they have to be.

At this point, I haven't had any real food, and I decide to head back to around where I ate the other day. I finally ate at about 3:30, at some cafe that had outdoor seating in the sun. Unremarkable, but decent. I had more fish with maybe some of the best mashed potatoes I've ever had (after adding some salt...) I decided to go back into a store or two, and almost bought a pair of black jeans, tapered to the ankle, zippers on the back pocket.

And then I remembered how much I REALLY HATE THE 80s and I just couldn't do it. I'm DONE. Although, I found this really nice shoe designer called josefina ferroni where the shoes were beautifully made, but everything was Flash Gordon style. And I'm not exaggerating. I drooled slightly over a pair of high-heeled, ankle-high, METALLIC BLUE with a silver lightening bolt on the side. Truly ridiculous, but I'd feel like a superhero. And btw, only one of many metallic blue shoes I've seen.

I still don't have a towel, because I failed to follow a simple rule here: when you see something you need or like, BUY IT right away. Even the few chain stores here don't often carry many sizes of something, and just because it's in one branch does not mean it's in another. Often, it's not. And every store has only one size out of anything they have. You have to ask for your size.
Anyway, I saw one or two places where I could get a towel, and put it off. Bad, bad idea. But I did manage to get flip-flops, so I'll be dripping wet when I put on my clothes, but I won't have to put my feet on the slimy bathroom floor.

My tango lessons were a bust as well. I emailed a couple highly recommended to me on yehoodi, and they wanted to charge me 80 american dollars for an hour and a half. The going rate is 100 pesos per hour or less. At the rate they're charging, the lesson had better come with a happy ending.

So I texted the instructors that do the free lesson at the hostel (which I skipped because I'm a big snob) and they're planning on meeting me here tomorrow.

Oh, and I found the yarn district. I managed to contain myself.

Tonight I damn well better be eating some parilla. And if my new friends back out, I'm going at it alone. And they want to see some tango. I'd better get prepared because I don't think anyone has a plan.

If shopping were a sport, I just did the ironman.

2007-04-03T16:43:00.000-07:00

I decided to spend the day in Palermo, a part of town so big it's subdivided into three sections: Palermo SOHO, Viejo, and regular Palermo. OK, there's nothing to do there but shop and eat. Really. And so I did.

I woke up about 10:30... thankfully one of the guys in the dorm made a little too much noise. I realize that I desperately need a towel. And a pair of flip-flops for the shower, as by the time I got my sorry ass out of bed, everyone had showered. Ick. I used my shirt from two days ago to dry myself off. Double ick. I missed breakfast, which was fine, because my stomach was still yelling at me for having eaten meat and fried food for both meals.

Last night, about 9:00 (approaching the Argentine timing), I went to the very highly recommended (by Marcelo) Palacio de las Papas Fritas. It's a very simple place (Marcelo calls it 'Old School'), well known for the 'papas souffles,' disk-cut potatos fried in oil so hot, they puff up. I had the Bife de Chorizo (a huge hank of rump steak), accompanied by the famous papas. There was also a small 'salad,' but the Argentinian salad is nothing to speak of. The meat was good enough, tasty, but the cut didn't do much for me, the fries were great.

But the dessert. Oof. Called Budím, it was a very thick bread pudding, with flan flavoring, topped with a thick layer of dulce de leche. Holy shit. All that, a cup of coffee, a bottle of mineral water, was $27 pesos (about $9.)

So I go to Palermo. I shopped all day. It takes all day, as Palermo is HUGE. Walking around for SIX HOURS, I barely passed the same store twice. It's full of small cute boutiques that make you ring a bell to enter, but aren't full of snobby salespeople.

I didn't buy anything. The clothes are pretty much price-wise, on par with the US, but THE ENTIRE CITY IS STUCK IN THE 80s. ARGH. I guess things are similar in NYC, but I haven't been shopping in a while. You know, I suffered the 80s thing once, and that was PLENTY. Skinny flats meant to be worn with leggings, and there are plenty of those. Bat-wing tops made from brightly-hued jersey knit, adorned with gold. Jeans aplenty, but from the 700 pairs I've tried on, they either make my thighs look and feel like sausages (slim fit), or they're perfect in the thighs and calves and are big in the waist.

I got hungry about 2 in the afternoon (and desperately needed coffee) and meandered with that slight wobble I get when I've gone too long without eating. I happened upon a cafe that had tables outside and in the sun (only a stupid american would want that... but it was clear, about 75-80 degrees, beautiful, and I'm pasty white) and when I looked at the name, I realized that it was a place called Janio, recommended to me by Kephram and Ellie. Three course lunch for 16 pesos (divide by 3, people. About $6.) First course. a couple of sweet cheese kreplach sauteed in butter. Then a fried merluza (more fried, but at least it was fish) with mashed potatoes. I went easy on them both, but then they bring me a coconut cream torte, with some kind of graham cracker crust, creme anglaise on the side. Fuck. That, a double coffee, and a bottle of water... total 27 pesos.

I took the subway again to the big Abastos Mall. I can see why malls are so popular here. The city is so spread out, the traffic is pretty intense, the subway really doesn't go where you need it to go. I was done shopping by this time, really, but I wanted some ice cream that BA is evidently famous for. I knew there would be some, along with a bathroom and a place to rest my tired feet.

There were two across from one another... Freddo (long line) and Munchi's (no line). I know that no line is often a bad sign, but I wasn't thrilled with the flavor selection at Freddos. I had a double... 'coconut with dulce de leche' and 'flan with dulce de leche.' In case you were wondering, yes, that's dulce overkill. I was shaking fron the sugar high. Although, I decided, if I should die, I'd like to be embalmed with the stuff. If at all possible.

I have yet to book any tango time, as Marcelo's suggestion has not contacted me. Perhaps if I can stop eating and shopping for a minute, I'll get a chance to do it.

NYC to BA, Take III: Por fin!!

2007-04-02T16:44:00.000-07:00

I get to the airport with my new traveling buddy, Maria, 3 hours before departure. I don´t have a seat and the flight is overbooked. I am dismal. Perhaps I was not meant to be there.

I check in. I ask about the upgrade to business class. I{m offering to pay. Nothing. Seat assignment at the gate.

They board practically everyone, and it{s me and many people I recognize from Friday night, waiting rather impatiently. The bitchy flight attendant says nothing other than "we{re trying to get you a seat" rather nastily, and can{t seem to understand why we're pissed off. She retors, after a couple or requests for more info, "I do this every day, if you'd all just give me a minute!!" While we're all waiting for seats, some woman is complaining that she can't get the vegetarian meal she requested. Sorry honey, take a number.

Anyway, my stomach starts turning, but a coupl eof minutes later, I'm back on business class. YIPPEE!!

And thank god. It's a 10.5 hour flight, leaving at 10 pm. And we were delayed an extra hour and a half getting out, because it had been raining earlier that day. So it was essentially a 12 hour flight. I had a liquid dinner ("would you like the wine glass or the large glass of pot?" he says. As if there was any question. I had to SLEEP!)

I put on my BOSE noise-cancelling headset, curled up into the same position I normally sleep in, one knee up to my chest, one stretched out, and closed my eyes (in case you were wondering, they do indeed cancel noise. I swear, there was some argentinan dude on my right who did not stop talking the entire trip.)

I remember stretching my legs and feet a few times (they swell when I fly), repositioned my body and the headset, now instead of being hooked into my ipod, is now just tuning out the loquacious argentine.

I wake up to a screaming baby, and look at my watch: 8:30 am. EIGHT FUCKING THIRTY!! I don't even sleep that long in my own bed. That made all the difference in the world.

BA was a comfy 75 degrees today, sunny but not too hot. It's a national holiday, so I was advised by Jorge (sitting next to me on the plane) to visit San Telmo, the antiques district. I figured out the subway (called Subte) pretty easily, and took a ride there. It's cute. Nothing too interesting. The only quote I remember from Frasier was "I am not one for whom antique is a verb." I feel the same. But really, I was just happy to be parading around the city, linen skirt blowing in the gentle breeze, shoulders being kissed by the sunlight. It's been too long.

I tried to go to the Parilla (Grill restaurant) Jorge recommended to me, but there was a couple of impediments:
(a) Packed.
(b) It seems that it was a "2 or more person" thing.
(c) ORGAN MEATS. They don't mess around. I saw sweetbreads, morcilla (blood sausage), and other entrails. Bah. Must do that with Rik, who'll eat pretty much anything.

I wound up at a small cafe on the edge of San Telmo, nothing special. I had a veal cutlet with fries, a double cafe cortado, a bottle of mineral water. About $6. Ridiculous.

I came back to find Calle Florida, which evidently is the place to get leather. It's fine. It's pretty much a large pedestrian mall with lots of stores, one leather purveyor after another. It was pretty much like the Florence leather market, though much cheaper. I'm not saying leather pants are not in the cards, but I haven't yet committed.

I also made it to Galeria Florida, one of a number of Buenos Aires malls. Packed. Nice enough. Kept me busy. I got to walk. That's all I was really after today anyway.

One thing that's troubling me is the friggin' keys here. They're these old school skeleton keys. There's one for the front door (to get in AND get out), there's one for the room. I can't seem to get them to work without hurting myself. And when I was in a restaurant today, I locked myself in a hot bathroom for a while. No joke.

It's nearing 9 pm, so I think I'll head out for dinner and call it a night. I didn't pass out, get sick, or get lost. I call today a win.

NYC to BA ,Take 2: The Huelga

2007-03-31T07:55:00.000-07:00

I was very happy to have been able to rescheduled my ill-fated trip to Buenos Aires for Spring Break. Over the last month, once every couple of days, someone stops me in the hallway and says, "Oh, how was your trip?" and I recount the torturous event. "I'm going spring break," I say.

Recently, people have been asking, "are you excited? You must be excited." After all, I have waited a long, long time.

I'm not too pessimistic, but I'm pretty superstitious. Especially about flying. Flying scares the bejeezus out of me. I haven't been too excited about this trip. It's like I used up my excitement in February. So I reply, "Yeah, if I go this time." This response generally inspired reactions of sympathy or exaggerated eye-rolling.

I decide to get to the airport 2 hours ahead of time, rather than three. Good move, even though it's a big holiday week with easter and passover coming. There's hardly anyone there. I am about 4 people from check in, and one of the flight attendants whisper "Latin America is on strike, flights to Sao Paulo and Buenos Aires are canceled."

My mouth drops open and I LAUGH.

Unbelievable.

It turns out that it's actually Sao Paulo Airport where the air traffic controllers are striking, but because it's so closer to BA, flights are being diverted there and AA (seemingly the only company) doesn't want to go.

Luckily, I am near the front of the line, and the flight attendant re-books me for Sunday. I decided to book it, even though I'm losing two days. That is, if AA decides to fly on Sunday.

One person ahead of me is a girl named Maria, whose parents are flying Avianca from Bogota to BA to meet her. Their flight is still a go. She is pissed. Turns out, she lives exactly three blocks from me. We cab it back home, and make plans to do the same on Sunday night. Maybe.

Hell, at least this time, I had my bags, was able to re-book, and could GO HOME. I call it a win. Except I'm getting tired of visiting JFK as my vacation. And who's going to pay the thus far $75 in cab fees from needing to take an unplanned taxi ride?

To be continued...

Frankie and Dawn, the swingin' foster kitties

2007-02-20T08:45:00.000-08:00

Rik and I are joint-fostering a couple of tabbie kittens for a week or so. Rik's named them Frankie and Dawn, after legendary lindy-hoppers Frankie Manning and Dawn Hampton. They're about 8 weeks old, and practically fit in the palm of your hand.

They would be completely out of control, if it weren't for the fact that they are very bonded to each other (although they are gaining independence from each other more and more each day) and they keep each other busy with their constant chasing each other around the apartment wrestling.

They're very well-socialized, and as much as they love each other, they seem to really like people. Last night they fell asleep on my lap as I was watching CSI.

Dawn, at first the more aloof one, has become the mushy one. She likes to perch on my shoulder and go to sleep.

Flight #955: NYC to BA with a layover in NYC

2007-02-16T15:35:00.000-08:00

I had a flight to leave JFK for Buenos Aires at 10:10 pm January 15.

I show up at the airport 7:40, and queue up on what might be the longest line I've ever seen in my life. I patiently wait on this line for 2 hours to check in. After all, even though I hate to stand and wait, I knew I'd be sitting and waiting for 10 1/2 hours cramped in coach on a redeye.

At this point, I had already gotten two phone calls from Orbitz saying that my 10:10 flight was postponed to 11:10, then 11:30. I laid down, listened to This American Life, and waited.

It wasn't until about midnight before I boarded and realized that by some miracle of miracles, I was bumped to Business Class.

BUSINESS CLASS!! WOO-HOO! I get into my reclining, wide seat, buckle up. Pump up my lumbar cushion. Cozy up in my QUILTED American Airlines blanket. Put my shoes in the American Airlines shoe bag that was thoughtfully placed on my seat. Lubed myself up with my AA complimentary hand lotion.

"Do you want a drink before take-off? Some champagne?" purrs the flight attendant.

Of course.

I peruse the wine and dinner menu, specially selected for American Airlines flight #955 business class passengers. I decide on the dessert Port to help whisk me off into oblivion. I decide to skip the pepper-crusted beef and potato-leek soup, as delightful as it sounded. All I wanted to do was sleep. Although yes, Ms. Flight Attendant, I would like to be roused from my sleep to have breakfast in the morning.

I figure I got about an hour's nap before the lights turned on, having moved only a couple of feet from the gate, when the pilot says "Prepare for Landing."

This was not a good sign.

We were deplaned at 2:00 a.m., for what we were told were "mechanical difficulties."

I called "same seats."

I lie on the moldy, carpeted floor, bra undone for comfort, contacts out, rendering me near-blind, dopey from having been awake since about 5:30 the previous morning. I wait.

They claim there's another plane, and they're going to try their best to get us on it in about an hour and a half.

4 a.m. Flight canceled.

Not due to weather. It's because since so many flights had been backed up for DAYS since the storm, crews were working overtime as it was, and at some point, it is deemed unsafe for them to fly. I agree, I must say. The crew goes home.

Needless to say, people are angry. There is yelling. Chaos. Crying children. Crying adults. I just stare into space. Speechless. There are 3 people working. There are no flights. They look anyway. They patiently and calmly field all sorts of questions and abuse. They advise us to call AA to try to get a flight, although I had to ask 3 times for the number. I try in vain to get a flight. So do countless others. My phone dies in the process, as one helpful Texan tries her best. I watch people stand at a desk for hours, in hopes of scoring some kind of ticket the hell out of New York.

One woman was missing her own wedding. Her and her whole wedding party.

Another was going to miss connecting with her 6 year old son waiting at the BA airport for her.

Countless families with two, three, four young kids. Some of whom not only can't get to BA, but can't get back to Boston, where they live and where they flew from earlier this morning.

A woman from Moscow, who had better luck calling her travel agent IN MOSCOW, who was on her 2nd of 4th leg of a journey taking her from Moscow, to NY, to BA, and then to ANTARCTICA. She was able to get a flight within the 1/2 hour to BA (through Miami?) but couldn't seem to get her luggage. Can't go to Antarctica without clothes, obviously.

Howard Jones' 80's ballad "No one is to blame" is poignantly playing in the background.

As tired as I was, as disappointed and depressed as I was, and as much as I had just about given up hope of ever leaving NY at this rate, I knew I was not going to compete with the problems most of these people were going to face over the next couple of days. The earliest flight ANYWHERE wasn't going to happen until Monday. At least I had a home to go back to.

Except that I had promised it already to Maria and Mireille, Rik's friends from Amsterdam, who were hopefully going to have less trouble coming to NY than I was having trying to leave.

I give up. I feel as though my soul has left my body. I want to curl up into a ball and sleep for 7 days. See no one. Talk to no one.

Just then, a man in his mid 40's asks me if I got a flight. If I was from Buenos Aires, because he heard me talking in Spanish. Tells me that he's going to Sao Paulo, to BA. He'll get there tomorrow night. He has to give a couple of lectures on Sanskrit.

He asks me to have coffee with him. I tell him that I appreciate the offer, but I am really in no mood to have coffee. I want to go home and go to sleep. It is now 5 in the morning. He keeps pressuring me to have some coffee with him. Asks what I do. Why I wanted to learn Spanish. Why I'm going to Argentina.

I really can't tell you how little I wanted to be hit on at this point and time. I am really surprised I didn't get more aggressive.

I get away from HornySanskritMan and, deflated, trudge downstairs to get my luggage.

Just when you think it can't get any worse. I now see about 200 fellow flight members. They can't find anyone to unload the luggage.

It wasn't until 6:40 in the morning that I was able to get out of there.

***

I get home about an hour later, after a $50 cab ride that AA is damn well going to pay for. I nap for a couple of hours. I decide to call AA again.

My mom always says that no matter what pile of shit I step into, I always land on my feet. Something good always happens.

I calmly convince one of the managers that simply crediting my account for the $1078 ticket was not sufficient after my suffering. She helps me find and reserve a $820 ticket for spring break, and issues me a $250 credit for my troubles as well. I'm sure there will be no Port wine nor pepper-crusted beef this time. I had to go to Columbus Circle (after a big plate of Pad Si Ew to fortify me...) in the freezing cold, on minimal sleep, to get the voucher applied.

So, Buenos Aires, I know you won't wait for me, with your blazing summer sun, open-air milongas, carnival in session. Pero espero que te conocere pronto.

Animal Advice to Parents from the Childless

2007-01-30T19:14:00.000-08:00

OK.

So, when I'm volunteering at CityCritters, we're basically all stuck in a 3' x 10' space. Sometimes it gets pretty crowded.

For some reason, there were 4 volunteers there, including myself, and a couple of people who were eyeing the kitties.

And then she arrives.

By biggest nightmare.

A mom, with a DOUBLE WIDE STROLLER, occupied by twin girls, about 1 1/2 years old, writing and screeching upon arrival.

There are lots of parents who bring their kids by to see, touch, and talk to the kitties. Some of them every week. This, in theory, isn't a problem. What IS a problem is that most of these parents don't understand/take time to/care to explain the nuances of introducing one's self to an animal that doesn't know you.

I remember this lesson well when my dad taught me. First I was to ASK THE OWNER IF IT WAS OK. If the animal was friendly. He told me to approach slowly, not with the fingertips but the back of the hand. Let the animal sniff you. See how it reacts.

But no.

Most of these parents let their kids jam their hands in the cages. Without asking. These animals are, well, ANIMALS, and almost all of them are rescued from the street, still traumatized, displeased to be in a cage.

So "double-wide" walks in, and instantly, my colleagues turn to me. This is my unofficial job. To deal with the children and their parents. Which, if you know me at all, is a huge testament to how much the women I work with HATE kids. I OF ALL PEOPLE am the most patient with them.

"Double-wide" crams her stroller in as far as it will go. It doesn't go far, but blocks all entrance and escape from our little workspace. The kids are screeching. I say "Are you interested in a cat?" because if she's not, she's gotta go.

"Oh yes," she says, "we already have one at home. But she runs away from the girls when they try to pet her, and it upsets them."

As I glance at the two banshees squirming in their carriage, I'm not really wondering why that might be.

I explain that NO CAT is going to allow toddlers to run after them, pick them up and squeeze them. But maybe she should consider an older, mellow cat.

Their cat is 19, she says.

"Double-wide" is now perusing the cats, judging solely on appearance, inquiring "This one's cute! what about this one? Can the girls pick them up?"

No.

I explain that I had just walked in myself, that I didn't know any of the cats, that I don't just reach in and pick up cats I don't know.

She keeps asking. I keep saying no. I tell her that if she really wants, I would open the cage so that the girls could pet them. At her own risk.

She lets one daughter out of her stroller. She reaches in vain to try to pet the cat. The other one is now screaming bloody murder out of what I figure to be manipulation, frustration, and jealousy.

She lets the other one out. She is totally in the way of the other 8 people in our cramped space. Yelling, stomping, screaming, totally ignored. I physically pick her up and move her so that she doesn't slam her head into one of the open cages.

Mom asks about the cat that was literally brought in from the city shelter 3 minutes prior. The cat has had no adjustment time. The cat was evicted from her home, separated from her owner and sister. Mom insists I let her screaming daughters pet her.

I suggest she leave her daughters at home and pick a suitable cat then. She ignores me, almost as much as she is ignoring the incessant wailing of the terrors I can only assume she created in her own image.

I open the bottom cage. Mom pets the cat. She allows one of the girls TO WALK IN THE CAT'S CAGE TO PET THE ANIMAL.

I pull the kid out and say "OK. That's enough. I can't allow you to put your children in danger. I can't do this anymore."

Parents, please follow the advice my dad gave me. Teach your child to ASK PERMISSION to touch ANY ANIMAL. Accept that sometimes it's not a good idea, even if your kid might not like it. Teach them that NO ONE, including small, scared animals, do not like to have even well-meaning fingers poked in their faces.

UNDERSTAND that people who work with animals are usually only responsible for those that are not human. They're not there to babysit or educate your kids.

Take them to the damn zoo instead.