tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41920628765656083182024-03-13T22:43:35.119-07:00Wildflower in the WindThe trials and tribulations of an aspiring writer in an increasingly paperless world.Magpiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279681985532754810noreply@blogger.comBlogger94125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4192062876565608318.post-87569779348340032172012-08-07T00:51:00.000-07:002012-08-07T00:51:34.141-07:00Dear Mr. Postman<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
Dear UPS Man,</div>
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Please... Go on without me.</div>
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I can't stand the idea of you seeing me like this, so strung out and lost, waiting for you. Only you. I'm sorry, I have no intention of making you feel bad. After all, I started this whole thing. I knew exactly what I was getting myself into when we entered into this arrangement. I knew you had other... obligations, responsibilities to which you needed to see. I knew, but recklessly I heeded none of the warnings. And no I am paying for it. Paying dearly. </div>
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You said that you would come by today. You said you would, but the day is drawing to a close and you have not appeared. I don't want to be <i>that </i>girl. I don't want to demand an explanation, and I don't want to whine. That's not me. But maybe that's just it. Maybe I have become someone who I am not. I have been waiting for you all day and it feels like an eternity. At first I would just glance at the clock, anxious, excited but playing it cool. But then the hours stretched out and I began to look longingly towards the door. And now? Now I wander around the house aimlessly. I can't get myself
interested in anything anymore except listening for your knock. It's all
I can do to not sit and stare at the door, just waiting, waiting for
you to come. Every footfall that echos desolately just outside my door, I think it's you. Every truck breaking out on the road, I think it's yours. I eagerly rush to the balcony to look down, my hear jumps at the thought of seeing you walk up the stairs. And always, once again, I am crushed, disappointed, and saddened. My neighbors walking by all give me pitying glances. I don't care. I hate myself this way. I hate it. I hate to admit how desperate I am. It's gotten so bad. So very bad. I've gotten so desperate (and I am ashamed and embarrassed to admit this) that I've started asking around to see if anyone in the building has seen you today. They all shake their heads and pity me as I turn away, dejected. Oh, you should see the pity in their eyes. Is there anything so unintentionally cruel as pity?</div>
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But you, you are not cruel. I just know you would never intentionally do this to me. Maybe you did come by. Maybe you did and I missed you. <i>Did </i>you? Did you come by? Did I somehow miss you? I must have. How could I have missed you? I have thought of very little else for these long hours I feel like there's no way I possibly could have. Did you knock and somehow I didn't hear? You must have. You must have come by. It's so late and you wouldn't do this to me, you just wouldn't. You must have come and gone, though I'll never know how I might have missed you. You left no note, usually you leave a note. You <i>always</i> leave a note. Only the heartless wouldn't leave a note. Unless of course you did leave a note and by some cruel twist of fate it was caught by the wind and borne away from me. And I am left here, desolate and alone, questioning everything. </div>
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Maybe I got the day wrong. Yes, that must be it. I must have gotten the day wrong. You must have promised to come tomorrow, not today. You must have promised that. Not today, some other day. That must be it. Tomorrow is but a few hours away... Perhaps my hope will bloom with the morning sun. </div>
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But no. No. I musn't be naive. I know it was to be today. I poured over our every previous communication and I know I was not mistaken. Today was the day. You are just not here. </div>
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I waited. I waited longer than I should have. The sun has long gone and even the last lingering glow of the liquid gold of the sunset has melted into the cool blue of night. The hours have dwindled along with the last shreds of that hope that I clung to. This must end. I can't do this anymore. Believe me, everything that we have... had... I hold dear. The golden days of our past and the carefree nature of those early times - the promise of new things, the lengthy letters we sent each other, the anticipation - all those moments will always be dear to me. But I can't do this any longer.</div>
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We've always known, you and I, that we are from different places. I
knew, I knew when we started. But as time goes by I find that not
knowing where you are is gnawing away at me. I am no longer the girl I
used to be. I hate to see myself this way and, for me, no, for <i>both </i>of us, I just can't let myself go on like this. I've become a shadow of my former self. Lonely and sad. Desperate. God I hate being desperate.</div>
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And so that is why I'm going to have to leave. I have to. I have to leave. I just can't wait any longer. I just can't. I'm so sorry. But I know you'll get on without me. You will. I know you'll move on to bigger and better things. I've always known that you would. So go. Please. Go and be great. Go and know that I only have kind thoughts towards you. I wish you only the best; more than the best even. I wish you <i>all </i>the good in the world and I wish you godspeed in your travels. </div>
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But please, if you could, do me one little favor. For me and for all that we had if you could just do me this small favor. Please come back tomorrow because I really need my replacement phone. </div>
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Thank you. </div>Magpiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07313419724758318786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4192062876565608318.post-81188063455565712562012-07-24T18:40:00.002-07:002012-07-24T18:40:49.237-07:00Typespotting There is something about hand-painted signs that I love so very much.<br />
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Last Wednesday morning I sat in the window alcove of the <a href="http://www.porkstorecafe.com/"> Pork Store Cafe </a> on Haight Street. It was a bittersweet morning but then, departures tend to be bittersweet, don't they? We three sat around at a last brunch sort of thing for a friend and I tried hard to not be jealous that I wasn't the one leaving. Because that's usually how it goes. Usually I'm the one leaving, and it was a reversal that I wasn't particularly fond of. <br />
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But then, I don't usually drink coffee either. You can't really sit at a greasy spoon and not drink coffee. <br />
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There's something obviously nostalgic about a good diner. I always feel like the scene unfolding before me needs to be written down. And let's be honest, it's probably been written down a hundred times before. But I tend to get the same feeling sitting there that I get when I read Steinbeck. It's the reflection in the malt machine behind the counter at the Golden Poppy (<i>Sweet Thursday</i>, page 166, Penguin Classics, 2008 ed.) and it's Ella sweeping up the crumbs under the counter stools (p 28). Something about it always feels like 6:30 in the morning, when you're up for work but there's nowhere you need to be anytime soon.<br />
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And the best thing about a good diner is that it feels the same every time, everywhere. And even if it's not, I'm sure my mind creates it to be. Expected is comfortable. (It's the same reason that I love airport Starbucks: no matter where in the world you are, every Starbucks is the same. And even though you're off looking for adventure, it's always nice to see a familiar face.) And it's always comfortably the same. The food is always deliciously similar, there always seems to be light streaming in from the windows. The coffee always has the same weak constitution and even the people tend to be exactly what you expect. The cooks in their white jackets and hairnets (and checkered pants, if you're lucky) tend to be the kind of hard men who, away from the controlled chaos that is their jobs, do actually smile. The tend to holler at each other over the sizzle and the din. The waitresses (because they tend to be waitresses) always tend to either be young, middle aged or old, and they always very obviously fall into one of those three categories. And they all always tend to be the usual mix of sweet and cynical, weaving as they do between the sticky tables with the orange handled coffee pot. The regulars always seem to be the same crusty types that tend to occupy the end stools at the diner in the morning and the bar at night. It doesn't matter if you're in San Francisco or just off Route 66 in the middle of the country. It doesn't matter if you are 19 or 89, if you're sitting hunched over a place of eggs at the counter of a diner, you look like a crusty old regular.<br />
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And somehow it is always Sunday morning at a diner. It's the smell of bacon and hash browns frying and golden oldies crackling over the loud speaker. Comfortable and familiar, warm and cozy. <br />
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And that's a pretty accurate description of how I feel about hand painted signs.Magpiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07313419724758318786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4192062876565608318.post-61826599739493094902012-07-16T15:52:00.000-07:002012-07-16T15:52:57.957-07:00Mood Music<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
In an entirely expected way, I have found myself once again obsessed with a particular song. </div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I've written <a href="http://wildflowerinthewind.blogspot.com/2010/10/guilty-pleasures.html"> before </a> about the evolution of a radio song and my tendency towards fixation on certain songs. About how I hear them and then leave a tab with the youtube video of the song open on my browser for the next three weeks and then listen to the song </span><strike style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">eight to ten </strike><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">three or four times a day. But you know what? I know that (much like John Lennon) I am not the only one. We all know what it's like to find a song that perfectly compliments whatever the current flavor of life we happen to be living. </span><br />
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Right now for me, that song is this song:</div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/BeManAf_TVU" width="560"></iframe><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: xx-small;">Who says that musicals are wrong? Apparently people do break out into song while walking down the street. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And it's perfect. It's perfect for the mid-summer lull and moments of bittersweet contemplation. It fits my mood and it fits the weather, which has flowed between a peaceful and lazy sunny and a cozy foggy (though admittedly I'd be happier if I could be wearing shorts and a t-shirt like she is). It is the kind of song that should be in the background while you sit at a cafe and be creative or cook in the middle of the afternoon in a kitchen that is clean and bright, and it's the kind of song that you want enveloping you in iPod isolation as you ride the bus to work and watch the people flash by. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I love the original, and it's a go-to when I'm applying my war-paint for a night out. But this acoustic cover? It's just the song to listen to while I while away my currently zen days day dreaming. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> Enjoy! </span><br />
<br />Magpiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07313419724758318786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4192062876565608318.post-9042345857238818212012-07-16T15:00:00.001-07:002012-07-16T15:00:12.109-07:00An Unneeded Explanation<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
I am technologically inept. Sometimes I joke that I'm a luddite; that's not entirely true, but it feels like it sometimes. Especially when both of my parents are social media mavens and I'm still not entirely sure what this whole "twitter" thing is or why the pound sign has suddenly become one of the most-used keys on a standard keyboard. Sorry, hash tag. See? Technologically inept. </div>
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I mean, I can Google it like the best of them and sometimes even figure out how to do the things that the cool kids do on the internets. And I often do because I am so ridiculously controlling. I spent three hours trying to figure out how to use conditional formulas in Google spreadsheets so that putting an "x" in one box on my to-do list, like so:</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2aCUHyK2XBI/UASNvMi7LBI/AAAAAAAAAFM/rdGgPWlW4WE/s1600/spreadsheet1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2aCUHyK2XBI/UASNvMi7LBI/AAAAAAAAAFM/rdGgPWlW4WE/s1600/spreadsheet1.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">This is the part where you type an 'x' into the box.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">You have to do SOMEthings manually... </span></div>
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would result in a strike-through of the words in the previous box. </div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XYpFp4TkpLM/UASNvRxHxXI/AAAAAAAAAFU/wuIFEMoudvE/s1600/spreadsheet2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XYpFp4TkpLM/UASNvRxHxXI/AAAAAAAAAFU/wuIFEMoudvE/s1600/spreadsheet2.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Like so. You know, what it would look like </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">if Google didn't hate me. </span> </div>
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I figured it would be a simple "if/then" conditional formatting formula like the ones I learned in 7th grade computer class. Turns out it's not. Turns out you can't do the that in Google spreadsheets and it pisses me off to no end. </div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I
can get that shit centered, and outlined and show only the parts of the
spreadsheet that look like a To-Do list (I can even screen shot things
and put informative red arrows next to them before adding them into my
blog), but I can't get the x to strike-through the previous box. The majority of those three hours was spent digging deeper into forums looking for the one tech-savvy saint who had cracked through the binds of Google docs and could deliver to me the freedom to format my online documents EXACTLY the way I wished them to be formatted. Turns out, no such guy. But such is my tenacity. (and/or mule-like stubbornness.)</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
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So then defeated, I complained about it to everyone who didn't care and who wouldn't listen. </div>
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This is all a long-winded way of voicing my frustration that you can't switch the primary email address for a blogger account and I don't want to a) start a whole new blog or b) have to log out of my current Google account/internet life and log back into the annoyingly cryptic email account that I created when I was 16. Because when you are 16 you didn't realize just how minutely intertwined your virtual life and your real life would come and so it seems like a good idea to create an email address that has nothing to do with your name and everything to do with your inexplicable love of airplanes, women's history and poker. Because that'll look good on a resume someday. Facial piercings I can own in a job interview, a perplexing and solidly teenage email address? No coming back from that. </div>
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And so to sum it all up, there are now two authors for this blog. They have different profiles and follow different blogs, but they are both me. I hope that's not confusing. (More than that, I hope you don't actually care. Because if you did, that would worry me.) Wish I could have merged the two but Blogger seems to think that is a horribly unreasonable request. </div>Magpiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07313419724758318786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4192062876565608318.post-1598495267741350332012-07-04T01:49:00.000-07:002012-07-04T01:52:53.731-07:00It's about time<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<b>Good lord.</b> It has been a hot second, hasn't it? </div>
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I did that thing where I got settled in to a new life, didn't think it much to comment on and/or found myself incredibly busy being<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> incredibly awesome</span>. Then time passed, as time is wont to do, and I started to become stressed by the lack of blog posting in my life. And THEN I'd find myself angry about the stress, which would continue to keep me from posting, just out of spite. Then I got embarrassed by the excruciatingly long time lapse and just couldn't bring myself to return. </div>
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Just kidding. Those last three things didn't happen. I just got caught up in the inertia of not posting. </div>
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But now I'm back! Don't worry, I'm still incredibly busy being <span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">incredibly awesome</span>, I just decided it's time to re-start the effort to find my 15 minutes of fame via the internet. Usually at this juncture I would just start a new blog. </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">There is something rather wonderful about a blank page full of possibilities.</span> </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">However, I've become attached to this one, and it's awkwardly long title. Besides, we have a bit of a history, this blog and I. I've told some good stories, if I do say so myself. Besides, I never decided that life was no longer<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> an adventure to be lived</span> <span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">(catch that double negative there?)</span>. And there are still stories that deserve to be told. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Don't worry, it's all part of my <b><i>Newest Grand Plan</i></b></span><br />
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<br />Magpiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279681985532754810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4192062876565608318.post-21337577283827330552011-04-15T18:32:00.000-07:002011-04-15T18:47:36.084-07:00What Happend in Vegas<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:relyonvml/> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves/> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:donotpromoteqf/> <w:lidthemeother>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:lidthemeasian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:lidthemecomplexscript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> 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mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--><p class="MsoNormal">Have you ever been to Vegas? <br /> Let me describe it to you. People will tell you that Vegas is like Disneyland for adults, but the thing is, Vegas only <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">looks</i> like Disneyland for adults. Like Disneyland, everything looks a bit fake; it’s all too pristine and oddly disproportionate. Like Disneyland, people walk around in costume and there are rides, and bright lights and loud noises. Like Disneyland, you can explore different worlds: The Venetian, Excalibur, Ceasars Palace, Treasure Island! (Interestingly, there is also a Treasure Island in Disneyland.) And adults get just as excited about going to Vegas as kids do about going to Disneyland. So yes, Vegas is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">like </i>a Disneyland for adults. But that’s not what it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">is.</i> Vegas <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">is </i>a giant pit where people go with stacks of money, preferably big bills, and then they throw those stacks of money into the pit and watch the bills flutter down to join their brethren. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> So when a friend called a few weeks ago to ask if I wanted to go to Vegas I said yes, yes I do. I figured, I was unemployed, I'd go to Vegas and make money! Because, here’s the thing: I thought that if you were wily enough (and few are), you could find your way into the pit and grab armfuls of cash to bring home with you. And of course, I assumed I was one of the blessed few.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> I was wrong. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> Once decided, I had to plan. <a href="%E2%80%9Dhttp://wildflowerinthewind.blogspot.com/2011/04/everybody-knows-what-happens-in-vegas.html%E2%80%9D">As you know</a>, I made myself a list of things that I assumed happened during every trip to Vegas, so I knew to pack only the essentials: a zebra striped dress, two pairs of high heels, a bathing suit for the daytime, a pillowcase (for the dimes I would win), something blue (for the wedding), sneakers (for the chase). I never did locate the Acapulco shirts and I ended up deciding against the fedora. I didn’t even bring anything to sleep in because I assumed that no one ever slept in Vegas ever and that hotel rooms were just a formality.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> By some miracle, I wore pants and a sweater on the plane because it turned out to be a solid 60 degrees in Vegas, with a chance of showers, for the entire time I was there.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Sadly, wearing that sweater was the best real luck I had all weekend. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">***</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I knew that luck wasn’t on my side before I even got on the plane. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I will be the first to admit that I have a time management problem. But, with a 2:30pm flight, I’d given myself plenty of time to catch the bus to the airport. And yet, somehow, I still managed to miss the bus downtown to the airport bus. I tried to walk and ended up having to book it in 80 degree weather. By the time I found the bus stop, I was blistered, dripping in sweat and too late. So I had to take a cab. And that, right there, was the first place I lost money. <br /> <br /> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">But I got to the airport on time! I checked in and joined the line for security. 1:50 pm. Perfect. My flight was scheduled to leave at 2:25. Perfect. Then I looked up at the departure board. Those angry flashing red letters read LAS VEGAS - 2:15: NOW BOARDING. Shit! SHITSHITSHIT! When had they pushed the departure up? Shit! I panicked for another 10 minutes before calling over a security guard and asking him what to do. “Will Southwest keep the door open until 2:15? Do you think I’ll make it?” He basically told me to start asking people if I could go in front of them. Most people responded kindly to "MY PLANE IS BOARDING!" A few people did not. But either way, I jumped the line, raced through security, sprinted to my gate, fumbled for my boarding pass and shoved it into the hands of the man standing at the (thankfully) still-open door. The guy took one look at my ticket and he goes “No, you're over at THAT gate.” Confused, but convinced I had no time to argue, I ran over to THAT gate and looked at the sign: El Paso - 2:25. Wrong. I’m not going to El Paso, I’m going to Vegas. So I ran back and said "NO! I'm going to Vegas!" and he looked at me and said, "Obviously you have a layover in El Paso because your <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">ticket</i> says you're going to El Paso." I look down. So it does. That’s right. Damn. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br />The topper? My flight was delayed and we didn’t end up boarding until 2:40. I slumped down in a seat, trying to hide from anyone walking by who I'd cut in front of <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>in the security line.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">NOT a good start.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><br /> <br /> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">But despite all this I made it to Vegas, hoping beyond hope that I’d just run through my allotment of bad luck. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">We were based in Excalibur: a GIANT toy castle filled with slot machines. Well, to be fair, there are other things besides slots, but I had a bit of tunnel vision. I don't know if you know, but I LOVE the slots – it’s almost a problem. I find that I did <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">not </i>blog about my disastrous experience with slot machines at a casino in Costa Rica. Probably because I was embarrassed about it. I ended up losing twice what everyone else did. I mean, when all was said and done, with the exchange rate and everything, it was really only seven dollars. But still, the memory of sitting in the blue glow of the video slot machine and mindlessly feeing it money, not even really seeing the screen in front of me, well, it’s shameful. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> So it was a familiar feeling when I walked into Excalibur and my fingers started itching. “Just one sec guys, I’m just gonna… I’m just gonna be over here for a minute. Just at this slot machine here… Just for a minute.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Inevitably that “minute” stretched for anywhere from 30 minutes to two hours. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> But that comes later.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> That first night, after getting all dolled up (gotta look good for Lady Luck, right?), our little posse hit the casino floor in full Oceans 11 slow motion. Our game of choice? Craps. Well, I shouldn’t say “our” game of choice, because <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">my </i>game of choice was quite different. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> See, someone told me that so many people lose in Vegas because they win a bit on the machines and then try to parlay that on the tables and end up losing big. With that in mind, I formulated my plan: I’d play it safe. I’d bide my time on the slot machines waiting to hit big money and then <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">never </i>play big on the tables. Also, I figured on beginners luck. I just always assumed that I’d be that person who casually drops a quarter into the machine on the way out the door and wins the jackpot. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> So we devoted the night to wandering from casino to casino, collecting chips and free drinks and I spent the entire night sneaking off to play the slots. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Disaster struck sometime around 3am. After hours of walking around in heels and feeding on nothing but free booze, I wandered off, unsupervised. My feet were hurting so I sat myself at a video roulette machine. All-too-aware that there was no one around, I suspected this would be the perfect time to win big. Nearly alone in a giant hotel, just me and the machine. The tension was palpable and you would almost hear the showdown music whistling in the background while tumbleweeds danced. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Instead of finding myself suddenly in possession of thousands of dollars, I just sat there, feeding that stupid machine money, entirely unaware that I was placing $5 bets each time. In the space of 5 minutes, I’d lost all the cash I had with me. And believe you me, it was far more than $7. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal">Depressed, disheartened and defeated, I returned to the group, head hanging low and proceeded to mope until we returned to the room a half an hour later. And that’s the story of how I wasn’t allowed on the slots by myself for the rest of the weekend. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The next day, dawned surprisingly bright. After only a few hours of sleep we took to the streets of Vegas. I wore hangover sunglasses, but only for effect; I was feeling surprisingly light and chipper. Our little tour took us into a few different hotels, and to a few different craps tables and a few more slot machines to which I a few more dollars.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">The good thing about getting up and out late, is that there is not much daylight to burn before it’s nighttime again and the adventure rages on in full force. Over margaritas and chips we planned. A review of the list revealed that, the night before, we had achieved not a single thing on it. Everything was left for that last night. Oh what a night it was going to be! On the way home, it appeared that my luck was turning. Someone cried “tiger!” and I wheeled around, beside myself with excitement and joy. Already we were going to cross something awesome off the list! But it was a cruel trick – I didn't find a live tiger, resplendent and roaring; I found giant stuffed tiger with a somewhat squished face. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br />And sadly, that's as close as I got to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">anything </i>on the list. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’ll skip over the last night, mostly because my memory does. I tried to take a power nap at about 1am and failed. Which I realized when I woke suddenly at 10am in that "too-little-too-late" frenzy, still in my dress from the night before, face smeared with makeup and the beginnings of the worst hangover I’ve ever had. Which, really is just how it should be after a night in Vegas, ammIright?bAnd while I didn’t cross anything off my list, I did get to enjoy my very own classic Vegas moment a la <span style="font-style: italic;">The Hangover</span>: a trip down an unfamiliar memory lane looking through the pictures from the night before. My favorite is a picture of me hugging someone in a penguin costume. Why there was a penguin at Excalibur, I’ll probably never know. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">On the way home, I lost $10 more dollars at the airport slots. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">And you know what? It was totally worth it. All the money hurled into the Vegas pit, the hangover, the complete and total lack of showgirl headdresses, it was all totally worth it to get to spend three days with good friends. Plus, it was valuable reconnaissance. Because next time? Oh, Vegas better watch out for next time. If this weekend was legendary, next time can only be absolutely EPIC.</p>Magpiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279681985532754810noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4192062876565608318.post-60026542016343934042011-04-06T22:21:00.000-07:002011-04-06T22:22:21.037-07:00Everybody knows what happens in Vegas<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves/> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:donotpromoteqf/> <w:lidthemeother>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:lidthemeasian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:lidthemecomplexscript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:splitpgbreakandparamark/> 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mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">I am vexed. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> This is because I leave for Las Vegas in less than 24 hours and I can’t find a single Hawaiian shirt and I seem to have misplaced my copy of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas</i>.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> I have never been to Las Vegas. All I know of Sin City, I’ve learned from popular culture. So I am pretty confident I know what this weekend has in store for me: it will involve a giant white whale of a Cadillac, a live tiger, a plot to take down a casino, three double cherries and a bucket full of dimes, at some point someone must get married by an Elvis impersonator, and I’m sure I’ll end up donning a C.S.I. jumpsuit. If I’m lucky I may even get to be chased through a casino kitchen by some sausage-fingered, neck-less hulk of a security guard who will then threaten to break my knuckles or something. And of course there will be Sinatra. That goes without saying. (Perhaps I should also bring a fedora.)</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">One thing is for sure, if I go the entire weekend without finding myself in possession of a showgirl’s headdress, then the whole thing will have been a bust. </p>Magpiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279681985532754810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4192062876565608318.post-71743443986821705302011-03-31T19:31:00.000-07:002011-03-31T19:37:32.875-07:00SXSW for Dummies and NewbiesI’m sure you’re probably still reading my last post on SXSW and so are probably SO STOKED for next SXSW. Maybe you’re already making plans, I don’t know, I’m not you. Or maybe you’re over it already; SXSW was <span style="font-style:italic;">so </span>two weeks ago. But before the bloom is completely off the rose, I’d like to take the opportunity to share with you some hard-earned tips for surviving SXSW in its current incarnation. (And I won’t lie to you, mostly I want to post this now so that I can link back to it next year…)<br /><br />Think of it as a sort of beginners guide to SXSW: for beginners, by beginners (I’m no jaded veteran, this was my first SXSW and I’ll be the first to tell you how incredible and how daunting it is)<br /><br />The usual recommendations? They apply.<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Drink Water </span>– I mean, let’s be logical here. You’ll be walking around, standing around, in the sun, drinking. You will get dehydrated. Not all venues will let you bring in a water bottle, but you have access to water everywhere. Take advantage of that access. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Use Sunscreen</span> – Protect your snow-white winter skin, the sun is damn unforgiving. Don’t let sunburn ruin your week-long bacchanalia. And this applies to performers too. You know who you are. I saw you; you were lobster red and looked REALLY uncomfortable.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Stock up on Food</span> – I don’t care if you live here or if you’re renting or at a hotel. Make sure you stockpile good, healthy food before SXSW begins. While there is a TON of free food during SXSW, tacos and beer aren’t going to sustain you for a whole week, you’re not going to want to take a break to go to the store, and you’re going to need all the energy you can get. Eat your veggies. On a similar note,<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Take Your Vitamins/Meds</span> – vitamin B, iron, vitamin C, midol, whatever. Know what you need and take it. Got a headache? Take aspirin, A.S.A.P. Heartburn? Find some Tums. Don’t try to play through the pain, it’s not worth it. Take care of your body and it’ll take care of you (or at least you’ll have less of a chance of collapsing from exhaustion and missing something awesome).<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Have a Bike </span>– Seriously, if you are anywhere within biking distance of downtown, have a bike. Parking is near-impossible and, while public transportation rocks, biking gives you more control over where you go and when. Plus it makes travel time faster and gives your tired tootsies a much needed rest.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Be Comfortable </span>– I don’t really care what this means to you. If being comfortable means wearing loose clothes that you can move in, wear those. If being comfortable means looking awesome, do that. If you will be most comfortable in running shoes, wear them. If you’ll just feel better wearing sandals, wear sandals. You know you. You’ll be out for most of the day so if you are wearing something that doesn’t make you happy, you’ll spend more time thinking about how much you hate what you are wearing than you do enjoying the moment.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Get Up Early </span>– I found this impossible, but then again, I can’t wake up before 11 on a normal day. But SO MUCH good stuff goes on before 1pm during SXSW, like panels (if you have a badge or can get around security) or day parties with free bloody marys and/or mimosas. If you’ve got a badge* you can chill out on beanbag chairs in the convention center in dimly lit rooms listening to bands perform. If you haven’t got a badge, you can chill out on benches in dimly lit bars listening to bands perform. Plus: day drinking. And I’ll tell you a secret: the best part of the fun is shuffling around in sunglasses, hung-over as hell, just like all of the other rock stars.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Wear Sunglasses</span> – See above. Plus, all the cool kids are doing it.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Have an iProduct</span> – or some sort of a smart phone. Besides being the way of the world, constantly being connected to the internet means you’ll be one of the first to know about secret shows, surprise performers, sudden parties and free food via email and twitter updates, PLUS you’ll be able to locate any venue or R.S.V.P. to any day party whenever you want to. If you needed more convincing, there’s an app for that. It allows you to search for bands by genre, check the official schedule and make your own schedule, so you’ll never end up at the wrong show or, you know, lost. Just try not to lose your iProduct.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Take a Nap</span> – Absolutely crucial. You don’t actually <span style="font-style:italic;">have </span>to nap, but you are going to need a break and if you don’t take this into account you may end up taking said break without meaning to. You may take your break wherever you want, whether this means heading back to home base, or passing out in a dark corner of a bar, one of the lounges, or against a tree in the park. Heck, you don’t even have to sleep if you don’t want to. Sometimes just finding a bar without a show or party going on, sitting on the fringes and having a drink in peace is enough to recharge your battery. Because honey, it’s gonna be a long night.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Don’t forget the Eastside </span>– I have a feeling that out-of-towners and beginners tend to miss out on the Eastside. I know I almost did. There is just so much to do around the Convention Center and on 6th street, and I’m talking a mind-boggling amount of things to do and places to go, that making it ALL the way over on the other side of I-35 <small>(it’s not really that far)</small> can be daunting. But there is just as much to do on the Eastside and more of it is free. Plus, because there are far fewer official events, there’s a more laid-back feel and less pressure to see this band or that band. It felt more like an endless summer and less like a week-and-a-half-long event.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Be Flexible </span>– You can think of SXSW as one of those choose your own adventure books. Are you going to make a detailed itinerary or wing it? Is it all about the shows for you or are they more of an excuse to escape normal life and party like there’s no tomorrow for a week and a half? Obviously, there are going to be things that you’re going to want to do and see, but the bottom line is, you’re going to have to be flexible. Because SXSW isn’t like any other festival. It isn’t a giant concert; it’s a giant clusterfuck. It doesn’t span three days and three or even eight stages in a giant field. It spans a week and a half, an entire city and includes an overwhelming number of performers. There is absolutely no way to exactly control your experience. You don’t know, your two favorite bands could be scheduled at the same time on opposite sides of the city. So I found it was better to just let go, drift and enjoy the experience.<br />If there is a show that you absolutely <span style="font-style:italic;">have </span>to see or you’ll just <span style="font-style:italic;">die</span>, get there an hour early. Sure, you’ll spend an hour standing in line when you could be living it up elsewhere, but the venues are small and reach capacity quickly. If you <span style="font-style:italic;">have </span>to see this band, you stand a much better chance if you’re first in line than if you show up 5 minutes after the set has started (when you will be S.O.L.). But the good news is that many bands play multiple shows. And don’t forget the day shows. I missed out on a few bands because I couldn’t make their night shows and couldn’t get up in time to catch them during the day. <br />Obviously, it’s your adventure. I’m not you. I can’t tell you how to best figure out what to do with your time. For my part? I found that the way to enjoy SXSW was to forget about seeing bands I knew or loved. If I ended up at their show, great, awesome. But if not, I know I’d be willing to pay to see them at some other time. Instead, I went through the WHOLE schedule and made a list of bands that I thought looked interesting or that were playing at venues, where they were playing and at what times. That way, if I ever ended up without something to do, I’d be able find something close and interesting that I knew I’d enjoy. And if I didn’t make it to their shows, it wasn’t the end of the world and at least I’d found new music to listen to. But for the most part, I tried to not stress about the shows. I tried instead to focus on just existing in SXSW, that fascinating drunken world unto itself. I focused on surviving. Aaaaand sometimes I just focused on putting one foot in front of the other. <br /><br />*<i>(NOTE - Badges vs. wristbands vs. nothing: There are pros and cons for each. Badges give you priority for shows, access to panels and lounges in the Convention Center and other such perks, but they’re expensive and I have a feeling you can end up skipping the free stuff because you have the badge and want your money’s worth. On the flip side, you could just not buy anything, miss out on the big-name bands in small venues, but instead focus on the (often free) fringe and unofficial events which are just as awesome, if not more so. And then wristbands are right in the middle there, because they cost less than badges you only get second priority and it can be frustrating when you pay for a wristband, but still can’t get into a show because the venue has reached capacity and badges get priority. Also, wristbands don’t get you into the lounges and panels.) </i>Magpiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279681985532754810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4192062876565608318.post-74921528762167178562011-03-24T19:19:00.000-07:002011-03-24T19:41:57.346-07:00As Excruciatingly Long as SXSWThe day after the South By South West Music, Film and Interactive Festival (or, as we cool kids refer to it, SXSW) is kind of like a holiday. It’s the day when all the performers and speakers pack up with relief and everybody who worked the event sobs with relief and everyone who attended secretly sighs with relief because they can finally put the bottle of tequila back on the shelf. And it’s when everybody can finally sleep for more than 3 hours.<br />For me, (and I don’t know about everyone else,) it was kind of like the day after Halloween, except instead of gorging myself on candy, I skipped around the internet listening to all of my new favorite bands like a 6 year-old hyped up on pixie sticks and milky way bars. I decided it should be a three-day weekend to celebrate and so took Monday off. But I can do that because I’m unemployed. So no worries. Tuesday I made “happy end of sxsw” cupcakes. I am milking this holiday (like all other holidays) for all it’s worth.<br /><br />And truth be told, we all deserve to relax, even those of us who spent the entire time partying. SXSW was a stretch of 10 days in which I survived on nothing but free hummus and tortilla chips, occasional bowls of oatmeal or trailer tacos and, of course, plenty of gin and tonics. I have 27 new mystery bruises and 4 or 5 scratches of which I have no memory of receiving. More than once I had to stumble home to collapse with exhaustion and/or dehydration for an hour before getting up and going out again. I got food poisoning, I cried, I got lost. Twice, I thought my bikes had been stolen. I had things thrown at me (specifically a Monster). And I wasn’t even in the worst of it, my SXSW wasn’t the bacchanalia that it probably could have been, if only I’d tried harder...<br /><br />Some Austin natives might disagree (the festival has kinda sold out, gone mainstream. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z66_RnVLOJQ%E2%80%9D">Check it out. </a>) but for me? Oh, it was all worth it.<br /><br />Why? Allow me to tell you. (and hold on to your seats kids, it was a long week, it’s probably gonna be a longer post.)<br /><br />So it’s almost cliché, but have you ever been to a concert in an old abandoned warehouse? A rave perhaps? I haven’t. But let me tell you, it is incredible. Walking into the abandoned power plant for a Diplo concert on one of the first nights, it hit me: the absolute magnitude of awesomeness that is SXSW. The power plant sits just outside the city center and is usually properly melancholy in the manner one expects of abandoned power plants. But that night it was like jumping into a LED display, a technicolored reality laced with adrenaline; even the air was throbbing and jostling. I remember it stilted, like it would be in a movie, flashes of people, so. many. people. all crushed together, teeming with life, pumping fists in the air and thrashing around, drowning in the music. It makes you feel like a part of something so Big and so Alive, so Real.<br /><br />When I think of SXSW, I think music. But when I think of lots of things, I think of music. But for many people, SXSW is all about film and tech. Did you know that Twitter was launched at SXSW? I didn’t. I mean, even the Blogger dashboard is talking about SXSW. So anyways, the first half of the festival was ALL about film and tech, so it was naturally all about Things to Do: events, giveaways, sponsored parties with free food, meet-and-greets, and general networking opportunities. I mean really, that’s what people are there for; the networking. (I didn’t really network, unless you count pestering hard-working bartenders about whether or not their establishments might be hiring after the festival.) Music seemed inconsequential, or accidental.<br /><br />I mean, we would stumble in to concerts that were half finished, or leave half way through. Long lines weren’t worth the wait, even if Prince did show up that one time after we left the line. And more often than not, if we made a concerted effort to see certain acts, we usually ended up somewhere else. <br /><br />We did see Michael Cera and even that was an accident. I don’t remember why we ended up in the bar where his band was playing; but the point is, we all looked up and went “Huh. That skinny kid up there looks a bit like Michael Cera, doesn’t he?” Well, all except for me, because, of course, I know everything. “That IS Michael Cera, it HAS to be.” Then the guy standing in front of us turned around and said “yea, it is.” (But his eyes said “shut up, some of us are trying to listen to music.”)<br /><br />***I’d like to take a moment during this transition to discuss something very serious.<br />This year, St. Patty’s day and SXSW coincided. Two reasons to party in the streets and drink heavily? Not a problem. Herein lays the problem: After making my way downtown, visions of Magners dancing in my head, I tripped up the stairs (as in skipped. Please, it was far too early to be stumbling, even on St. Pats) to the nearest pub I was stunned, STUNNED to see that there was a $15 cover charge at the door.<br />Now, my love for Ireland is well documented. As is my love for pubs. I’ve BEEN to Ireland, I’ve BEEN in Irish pubs. Let me be perfectly clear, a cover charge for a pub on St. Patrick’s Day is unacceptable. Absolutely unacceptable. It’s contrary to the whole spirit of the holiday. It makes me cranky. Also I couldn’t find any Magners. So that made me cranky too. But really? A cover charge? Just to enter the pub? That’s just purely offensive. ***<br /><br />Music eclipsed film and tech on the 15th, and oh baby, from there on in was like mainlining music. It was like living the Doppler Effect: before you could out of earshot of one act, you’d find yourself immersed in another. It was everywhere. Bands in the streets, bands playing in bars; just walking down the streets, you could just pause and listen to a song or two on your way.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-92-gpwtJg3g/TYv_dEmMqsI/AAAAAAAAAEc/oHJ_nfCrLkg/s1600/looking%2Bin.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 199px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-92-gpwtJg3g/TYv_dEmMqsI/AAAAAAAAAEc/oHJ_nfCrLkg/s320/looking%2Bin.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587840637598476994" border="0" /></a><br /><center>Everywhere.</center><br /><br /> The problem with mainlining, is sometimes you can end up in the hospital. Fact of life. Have you ever been to a Strokes concert? They’re fun, energetic. I’d say peppy, but mostly just for spite. They played at one of the free outdoor concerts at Auditorium Shores. <a href="http://www.blogger.com/%E2%80%9Chttp://lukerathborne.com/%E2%80%9D">Luke Rathborne </a>opened, I stood up near the front and he was fantastic. Here’s the thing about the Strokes that I forgot. They burst onto the scene back when my peers and I was 14 or 16. They were great. They’re still great, but their core constituency is still 14-16. Fine, there’s nothing wrong with that, but let me tell you, you don’t want to accidentally end up ANYWHERE close to the front at a Strokes concert. While whassisface is standing up there with a leather jacket and sunglasses on a night when it’s 80 degrees outside, you’re down in the pit with a bunch of teenagers and they are trying to kill you. They are trying their best to crush you to death and blow out your ear drums with high-pitched screams. Does that make me sound old? I don’t care. Do you know what it’s like to feel like you are going to die by teenager crushing? Absolutely terrifying. That’s how it feels. You’ll find yourself hoping beyond hope that security will kick you out if you crowd surf your way to the front because it may be your only chance of escape and survival.<br /><br />Don’t worry, I escaped. There were riots after the concert. There were a lot of riots at SXSW. People tore down the fences and stole from the vendors. I bolted through what may or may not have been a new, hooligan-created exit and managed to get away before the police called a state of emergency. You see, I was late to <a href="http://www.blogger.com/%E2%80%9Dhttp://www.thekills.tv/dna.php%E2%80%9D"> The Kills </a>concert, the only concert of the whole festival that I absolutely HAD to see. When I got there and saw the line stretching back from the door, I panicked. And when the doorman walked down the line and told us all that the chances of getting in were slim to none, I started to cry. I mean, not really of course, I just furiously blinked back tears. I was stunned, like a deer in the headlights and I stood there anyways, dwelling. Good thing I did too because 15 or 20 minutes later the line moved and I made it in for the last few songs of their set! Oh, I was SO happy, I almost cried again.<br />Then something seemed off. Here’s the thing, though I’ve tried three times to see the Kills, I’ve failed each time. So I’m not 100% sure what they look like live. It wasn’t until the set was over that I realized that I’d been in the wrong room and hadn’t been watching the Kills at all, and they hadn’t sorta changed their sound. I’d have cried again (no I wouldn’t) but <a href="http://www.blogger.com/%E2%80%9D" com=""> She Keeps Bees </a>are fucking AWESOME.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2Mb6KKgU-xw/TYv_zq455LI/AAAAAAAAAEk/uHw2uOMrY60/s1600/she%2Bkeeps%2Bbees.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 210px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2Mb6KKgU-xw/TYv_zq455LI/AAAAAAAAAEk/uHw2uOMrY60/s320/she%2Bkeeps%2Bbees.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587841025834607794" border="0" /></a><br /><center>She Keeps Bees</center><br /><br />And I’ll tell you a secret. Those are the moments that made SXSW worth it. The serendipity of stumping on a band you’d never heard of that was incredible and perfect and became your new favorite band.<br /><br />Like when, one morning, I was browsing through the schedule and decided I liked the name of the band <a href="http://www.blogger.com/%E2%80%9D" com="">Fang Island</a>. Long story short, I ended up standing outside their concert along with other intrepid fans, unable to get in but still able to hear the music. Like true, die-hard fans, right? (Except let’s be honest, true die-hard fans probably would have shown up an hour and a half before the show and waited to make sure they got inside and up front.)<br /><br />Or how wandering aimlessly down 6th street one night, I heard something that fit my mood, slid into a bar and watched the second half of <a href="http://www.blogger.com/%E2%80%9D" com=""> Stella Rose’s </a> set. The drummer was wedged in the back, shirtless, dripping sweat and thrashing like Animal from the Muppets. The bassist was this little blonde pixie of a girl who was dressed like Olivia Newton John in the last scene of Grease, except minus the stilettos which somehow made the whole outfit sweet and who spent the entire show high-fiving the audience. The lead guitarist and singer wore Buddy Holly glasses and joked around like he was everybody’s best friend, but in a sincere kind of way. And in fact, you ended up feeling like you DID know the band, like they WERE your best friends and you found yourself pulling for them, wanting to see them do well, wanting them to succeed.<br /><br />Or this one afternoon when I was wandering between outdoor shows in bar yards on the Eastside and stopped for lunch at a trailer park. I chatted with the guys at the juice trailer, I ordered French fries from a school bus and questioned the guy at hot dog stand about boiled peanuts. That’s about when I realized that I’d been totally digging the band playing in the next lot. And that’s how I found that I liked <a href="http://www.blogger.com/%E2%80%9D" com="">TV Girl </a>generally and their song On Land specifically.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LUEn1P6ctQ8/TYv_-rOZEGI/AAAAAAAAAEs/B_vfdvmO9_4/s1600/trailer%2Bpark.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LUEn1P6ctQ8/TYv_-rOZEGI/AAAAAAAAAEs/B_vfdvmO9_4/s320/trailer%2Bpark.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587841214903292002" border="0" /></a><br /><center>Trailer Park Lunchtime</center><br /><br />You know how, on the last day of vacation, even if you’re absolutely exhausted, you feel like you have to cram everything that you did and didn’t do in? Yea, that was my Saturday night. Besides great music, I danced, I sprinted across the city to catch this band or that band, I met great people and made new friends, I ate fantastic late-night <a href="http://www.blogger.com/%E2%80%9D" com="">Vietnamese tacos </a> (you thought Korean BBQ tacos were awesome? Yea, just you wait). And then when it was all over, I found that someone had locked their bike to mine with a U lock. After a solid 20 minutes trying to pick the lock with my bobby pins (because I can do things like that) I was rescued by a friendly pedi-cab driver. We rolled over the South 1st bridge at 3:30am with the reflections of the street lamps dancing on the water, and there was not a soul around. It felt like city was asleep for the first time in weeks and it was such pure relief. <br /><br />Sunday couldn’t have been more perfect for a hungover holiday, couldn't have been a more perfect end. The sky was grey, not too bright, the warm Austin air coddled and everyone and everything moved slowly. In the late afternoon I made moves to a local coffeehouse and met a friend to see a recommended band. We lounged on a bench against the fence under palm trees and crossed strings of garden lights and listened to <a href="http://www.blogger.com/%E2%80%9D" com="">The Steelwells, </a> and were lulled into a calm and harmonious peace.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BddjKvkSLcc/TYwAJiPdKdI/AAAAAAAAAE0/GWzs7ntYjEg/s1600/steelwells.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 297px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BddjKvkSLcc/TYwAJiPdKdI/AAAAAAAAAE0/GWzs7ntYjEg/s320/steelwells.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587841401470396882" border="0" /></a><br /><center>The Steelwells</center>Magpiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279681985532754810noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4192062876565608318.post-27136002166894507862011-03-09T15:30:00.000-08:002011-03-09T15:41:58.735-08:00Another "lost" generationSometimes people ask me why I moved to Austin. Sometimes I answer “Why not?” and leave it at that. Some other times I launch into an explanation of how I’ve really been living in the Bay Area my entire life and how I needed a change and how Austin has a great music scene, etc., etc. Then people usually respond by mentioning that they are hearing more and more about how so many people are flooding into Austin these days. <br /><br />I usually don’t say anything after that, but I’ll let you in on a secret: <span style="font-style:italic;">that </span>is the real reason I moved here. It’s always uncool to admit to being a follower, especially in a culture that so encourages children to be individuals and cherish their unique idiosyncrasies, but the simple fact is that I moved here because everyone else is moving here. <br /><br />I could throw out clichés about how Austin is a city like no other but that would be trite and boring. And wrong. It’s not unlike any other. In fact, it’s actually very like other cities. Sure, drinks are cheaper here and the weather is hotter and for some reason I can’t seem to adapt to the driving style here, but sometimes I forget that I’ve left San Francisco or parts of LA or Portland or parts of New York. That’s the thing, Austin is a trendy city, just like all those other trendy cities, it just happens to have existed fewer years in the role. <br />The one defining difference I can see is the unashamed hipster status of this fine city. (Though, like any good hipster, Austin would categorically deny any accusations of the sort, and I’m sure a majority of the natives rightfully disapprove of the label as well.) The last time I visited Austin, a friend of mine made an anti-hipster comment and another friend turned and replied with “Get over yourself! Of course you’re a little bit of a hipster, we’re all a little bit hipster. You’re in Austin, you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t a little bit of a hipster.” And how true it is. In Austin there’s a lot of bike riding, green-living, vegan-eating, thrift-store-shopping, artsy-fartsy, politically-progressive, creative intelligent types. Oh, and everyone smokes American Spirits. Just sayin’.<br /> Of course, the word “hipster” is a bit of dirty word in the same way that the Beats of the 50’s probably hated being called beatniks because it was a mainstream label for their very anti-mainstream aesthetic. Not everyone here wears tight pants and a permanent look of superiority and boredom, nor does everyone obsess over appearing studiedly indifferent to their cherished individuality. But individuality is incredibly important here in Austin and it’s actually truly genuine. <br /><br />Possibly too important. There’s a post over on <a href=“http://hipstercrite.blogspot.com/2010/06/hipstercrite_25.html”>Hipstercrite </a href> that is filled with absolutely delicious ennui. An Austin transplant (as most of us apparently are), she begins to realize that she is “losing [her] individuality in a competition for who was the most unique.” She points out that our generation has the luxury of an overwhelming array of options, and not just in the supermarket. We were raised to believe that we can be anything we want to be, go anywhere we want to go, be with anyone we want to be with. But I think it goes even deeper. Beyond just being raised to believe that we do anything we wanted to, we also live in a culture where we can change that anything whenever we want. Don’t like your major? Change it. Don’t like your job? Quit and do something else. Don’t like your career? Switch. Don’t like your location? Move, it’s easy to do. Don’t like your partner? Get a divorce/separate/break up. <br />Worse still, many of us young people weren’t brought up with the bootstrap mentality that our grandparents and to some extent, our parents were. Occasionally the message “you can be whoever you want to be” would end with “if you try hard enough,” but more often than not, it didn’t. Or we just got bored and stopped listening half way through. My own mother tried so hard to teach me the importance of hard work and the concept of starting from the bottom and working your way to the top. But I know that I never believed her. I actually remember listening to her one day and thinking “yeah yeah. <span style="font-style:italic;">That's</span> not gonna happen. If I can be anything I want to be, why would I ever choose to fetch coffee as an intern if what I really want to do is be a CEO?” Sure, logically we know that you have to start somewhere, but let’s be honest with ourselves, how many of us believe that this doesn’t really apply to us?<br /><br />So what with the sensory overload and self-entitled assumption in the place of ambition, we wind up lost in the aisles of the grocery store, trying to figure out which of the thousand types of soap to buy before deciding to buy the one everyone else buys. After all, if everyone else is buying it, at the very least, it must not be bad.<br /><br />We move to the hip new place because that’s where the opportunities are. That’s where it’s new and exciting and fast enough that we can maybe jump into the surge and skip a few rungs on the ladder to the top. I mean, how many people moved to New York in the early 1900s to become millionaires? How many people moved to LA in the mid-to-late 1900s to become famous? When you’re young and still believe that you can easily achieve your dreams, you want to be where the streets are paved with gold. Sure, most of us end up treading water, but it is a comfort to be surrounded by other people of this lost generation who are also treading water. After all, if they all chose that brand of soap, that city to live in, they can’t all be wrong. (Talk about a mixed bag of metaphors, huh?)<br /><br />I’ll let you in on another part of my secret. That’s not the whole reason I moved here either. Sure, I want to pick up chunks of gold in the gravel at my feet just as much as the next kid. But it’s not so much that I moved here with the same mentality, it’s that I moved here <span style="font-style:italic;">because of</span> the mentality. I moved here because we’re all moving here. Ariel and I have something in common. We both <a href=“http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=14GGAQDB0SY”>want to be where the people are.</a href> And I’m completely unashamed of that because people (and I don’t know if you know this) are incredibly interesting.Magpiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279681985532754810noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4192062876565608318.post-59932402895914536362011-02-23T10:28:00.001-08:002011-02-23T13:06:16.105-08:00No plot and all together too much self-analyzationI have always liked to do things in such a way that they become Things. I have liked to do things so that they are commemorative, by starting them beginning of a month, or on the hour. I like special dates. 1.11.11 was a fun day, I really wanted to Start Something then. But then I didn't. Each of my 8 piercings commemorates a time, date or event in my life when Things changed. I have liked to make Things into Symbols. Symbols of re-birth or a new beginning or a peaceful end to this phase of my life or that stage of growing up. I like clean slates and I think I try to create them for myself at every possible turn. <br /><br />In a way, it worked. I mean, I travel so much and have moved around enough, that I can find enough clean slates to make myself happy. Which, of course, means plenty of new places to go and things to see to keep me excited about and writing about. <br /><br />But lately I've had the hardest time keeping up with myself and all my OCD rules. I stopped blogging when I came back from traveling because I didn't really feel like there was anything interesting to write about. I was back in Berkeley, slogging through my last year of college and too buried in the immature preoccupations of my age group to feel like I had anything in me but whining and pseudo-existential crises (after all, I was submerged in academia, an overdose of high-brow theoretical thinking was bound to happen, and I think the whining comes with the territory as well). <br />I could have pontificated on the concept of graduating and truly entering a new stage of my life, but I wasn't really finished with my degree, so the only thing I produce on the subject was a weak quip on my bastard graduation (that is, my illegitimate graduation ceremony... I went through the song and dance, but I wasn't really done).<br />Then I was back in San Francisco. I was having a blast, but San Francisco is home for me. It doesn't feel new or exciting. Once in a while I'd get inspired by some experience at the bar to share it with the world, but never really got around to it.<br /><br />But more important than my antipathy in the face of gracing the world with my mental ramblings, I pretty much stopped writing full stop. I didn't write in my journal, I wasn't feverishly typing out the weak skeletons of a short story idea, I even quit pretending that I'd eventually be able to write a song if I just practiced enough to get through the initial stage of crap lyrics that some bands try to pawn off on us as legitimate. <br /><br />See, over a year and a half ago I'd decided that I needed to work on freeing my mind. If I was going to write, I mean REALLY write, I needed to write. Logical, huh? What I mean is that, like writing song lyrics, practice makes perfect. Not every word I put on the page is going to be a diamond. Most of it is going to be coal. And not even substantial hunks of coal, more like spent coal dust. Not that I'm trying to become perfect. It's just that I love words. I love the way they look and the way they sound. They are tinker toys or Legos with infinite combination possibilities. And they MAKE things: ideas, feelings, history, knowledge. I digress, but the point is I love writing. It's what I do. A friend of mine recently responded to my apology for my long-winded stories with "it does take you forever to tell a story. No, it's more like you're writing me a story and then orating it." It was a compliment. At least as far as I'm concerned.<br /> <br />Anyhoozle, I was working on freeing my mind. I stopped writing in my journal on consecutive pages. If I felt like writing two pages ahead, I would. I wrote in patterns and pictures, instead of creating giant left-to-right blocks of words. And that worked for a while. I wrote all the time. It made me feel artsy, and oh-too-cool-for-school.<br /><br />But eventually I got bored. It was hard work thinking of new ways to free my mind. And every time I opened my journal, I felt like it had to be this big ordeal, I had to have Things to write about or insights into the Things I was writing about. Not to mention a cool new patten in which to write. I had to date everything (you know, in case I die famous and brilliant and they want to publish my journals for the world to benefit from. That's right, I think about that. I'm willing to bet you do too. Don't lie to yourself, you do.).<br /><br />So I stopped writing in my journal. Sometimes I'd open a Word document out of frustration just to put down some of the stuff that was crowding around in my head. But I would never think of it as legitimate. I didn't date them because they weren't legitimate, they weren't neatly contained in my little black moleskine notebook. <br />Sometimes at work I'd grab one of those little pads that servers use to take orders down on and jot out an image that I liked, or a feeling that I thought should exist in words or a story idea. I'd take up three or four pages, tear them off and stick them in my back pocket. When I got home they'd end up shoved in my desk or in the pages of one of my notebooks. <br />Even short phrases I didn't know what to do with. I couldn't write them in my notebook except on the designated page (yes, I felt they had to be organized in my mind-freeing journal) so they'd end up on random pieces of paper and mostly in the notepad on my phone. <br /><br />And then one day I just shook myself. I decided to that it wasn't worth it. That I DON'T have to organize things into neat little containers. All those random little scribblings are legitimate. They're always fun to read back over and that's what really matters, right? And it isn't worth it to wait for a momentous occasion to start writing again. I moved to Austin almost two weeks ago. I thought that that would be a great time to start writing again. Starting a new phase of my life and all... but I'm sick of trying to find reasons to start things and I'm tired of having to associate Things with Symbols and New Eras. So today, (what day is it again? The dates seem to melt together when one is jobless) randomly on February 23 I've started blogging again. <br /><br />All this is a very long, drawn-out way of saying "I'm baaaaack!"Magpiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279681985532754810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4192062876565608318.post-73263958492692338862010-10-04T22:37:00.000-07:002010-10-04T23:18:42.673-07:00Guilty PleasuresIt's happened to everyone once.<br /><br />You hear a song on the radio or in a store or on a commercial and it sticks there. Not immediately of course, but a few days later you find yourself humming it, or repeating a line or phrase from that song. <br />"Huh," you think, "that's kinda catchy. Where did that come from?" <br />You go about your business, generally unperturbed. A few days later you hear it again. You are unconscious of the fact that you recognize the song until just before the end.<br />"Hey!" you think, "that was it! That was that song! Huh, catchy song." <br />Later that day you hear it again. This time you catch on quickly and try to remember specific lines of the song to look up later, to put an artist to the song. But you have a short attention span and there is a lot going on in your life. So, naturally, you forget. <br />But then you start hearing it on the radio more. <br />"Ah! This song!" you say to yourself sagely, "I know this song." and you smile smugly while humming along. <br />And then you're into it. You're into this song. You flip through the radio stations, hoping to hear it again. <br />"What?" you reply defensively, "I kinda like this song."<br />Now it's started running through your head at odd points in your day. In fact it's running through your head quite a lot. You still don't know the whole song, but whenever you hear it, you stop immediately, even just to catch the last verse. <br />"Oh man!" you say aloud in the car, "I love this song!" You get so excited when it randomly pops up in your day. If you have the opportunity, you'll belt along in a halting, stumbling manner because this song GETS you! You've finally figured out enough of the lyrics to know that this is YOUR song. The artist didn't know it, but they wrote a song about you, about your life. It's perfect for whatever it is you're going through right now. <br />Then you realize that it is popping up in your day more and more. You've heard it three times on the radio this morning, once in Starbucks (or whichever local coffee shop you prefer to patronize) and once in the supermarket. Perhaps you are not, as you had thought, the ultra-hip music lover on the pulse of your generation. It's growing popularity is an uncomfortable reminder that everyone else believes that THIS song is THEIR song and that you are but a member of the flock. <br /><br />This, naturally, makes you uncomfortable.<br /><br />Maybe you're riding in the car with friends and one of them is running through the radio stations. You hear your song. "Stopstopstop!" you shout. (You may even slap his or her hand away.) Then you sheepishly try to save face, "I like this song."<br />But your secret shame won't get the better of you at home. You listen to it over and over on youtube. You are probably responsible for 23% of the page hits. Now you know this song in it's entirety and it still speaks to you. You lip-synch to it alone in your room, releasing all the emotion you believe is necessary for said song and punctuating it with air-punches and meaningful looks in the mirror. You imagine yourself in the music video, or set it as the soundtrack to an event in your life that will probably never happen, no matter how much you wish it would. <br />Sometimes, when you aren't around a radio, computer or any other listening device, you play it in your head. Because that's how well you know it.<br /><br />Finally, you're tired of praying that it will come on the radio, tired of having to access youtube to listen to it. <br />"I don't care!" you boldly declare. "I don't care that it is so popular! It speaks to me! I must have it at my disposal for whenever I want to listen to it! It must be able to set the tone for my life whenever I need it to! This is MY song! I WILL buy it on iTunes! And I don't care if my friends judge me because it's SO mainstream and, frankly, kinda shitty."<br />So you do. With a perverse pride you click "buy it" (for $1.29!) and watch the barber-shop bar march along while the magic of the internet takes your money and magically replaces it with a song. Like the tooth fairy, similarly painful. Then you watch the little arrow next to "downloading" spin around and around and around. <br /><br />Then it's done. The song is yours. Yours to have and to keep. You possess it. You double-click...<br />...and suddenly, it's not the same. It's like the song has lost it's shine. It's still... good, and everything, you just... don't really have the desire to listen to it anymore. Oh well. At least now you own it in case you ever do need to listen to it at a moment's notice. Hah. Like that will ever happen.<br /><br />And that is the cruel irony of the buying radio pop songs.Magpiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279681985532754810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4192062876565608318.post-74791616224095734992010-07-26T21:44:00.000-07:002010-07-26T21:44:46.717-07:00All Growed UpI have a grown up job. And I love my grown up job.<br /><br />Bartending is chemistry without the math. It's a creative controlled chaos and an excuse to spend my day chatting with strangers and friends. It's equal parts precision mixing, breezy interaction and cultivated style. <br />Some mornings I open the bar. Cool San Francisco mornings when the fog hasn't quite rolled back far enough. The streets are busy enough, but inside the bar it's quiet and calm. I like the days that are slow enough to put on the jazz station. Maybe I've been reading too much Dashiell Hammett, but to me that's what a bar should be like in the day time. A little Duke Ellington while I'm polishing the brass beer taps, wiping down the warm lacquered wood, and cutting garnishes for the day. The most steadfast regulars come in the early afternoon, around 3, and that's when I start to put out the bowls of pretzels. I'm almost in tune with their routines. Royal comes in with a magazine, orders an IPA or two and says little. Mary usually comes in with a book for a double of Jameson with a water back and a little conversation. She's easy to talk to and has an easy, infectious laugh. Pat and Mary come in for a bottle of O'Douls non-alcoholic beer and a cosmo (respectively). He looks every inch an Irish fisherman, complete with a round salt-and-pepper beard. Justin comes in for a couple IPAs and, through conversations about travel and world events, reminds me that I majored in economic development to improve the places in the world that most need improvement. Every Friday, like clockwork, old Josef comes in with his two middle-aged sons, Dean and Dev, and I get ready to serve a few rounds of Stella, MGD and Becks. Sometimes they are joined by the rest of the family, a couple of daughters and friends close enough to count as blood, but they always bring the party. <br /><br />Of course after a few deliciously slow afternoons, I've developed a hankering for a busy night. I can't wait to get into the zone of rush, on a night when everything is going right. Ducking in and out of the bar, slipping through the crowds of people to deliver drinks, or grab clean glassware, spinning glasses and bottles and pouring out a rainbow of colors in to shakers. We ARE the movers and the shakers behind the bar on nights like that, dancing from one end of the bar to the other, working together based on intuition more than communication. And can I help YOU, sir? The blender whirs in the background, seemingly constantly, over the low dim, occasionally relieved by the humming of the refrigerators and the blended margarita machine. Three margaritas, an IPA and an Amber, coming right up! On nights like that, it feels like there are almost as many people lining up around the bar and there are bottles lined up in front of the mirrors and I'm presiding over them expertly, grinning and laughing like a fool, completely high on the pandemonium. Nothing beats the feeling of presenting two perfectly poured pints and a newly shaken jewel of a martini with the crystals dancing on the top of the liquid to an eagerly expectant audience. <br /><br />And at the end of all that bedlam, at the end of the rush and the running and the occasional stress panics, when the very last regular has staggered out into the night, comes the most peaceful time of the night. If I time it right, I can get most of the bar closed up quickly, everything wiped down, screwed on, and covered up. I turn off the "open" sign and lock the bar doors. Everything is pristine and perfect in a way it can never be when the bar is open. I drag the mats and the trash cans out back into the refreshingly cold night. The chairs go stacked on the tables, their legs sticking boldly up in the air. The music is low and most of the lights are out. Even though mopping and vacuuming lengthens the distance between my weary bones and my warm bed at 2am, I kind of like this part. Wiping away the insanity of a long day. Then I turn out the lights and leave. I love the sound of my footsteps echoing in the foggy streets, disturbing the sounds of night in a city - a shower or the buzz of the blue glow of a tv, the flickering of a street lamp or a confused bird twittering the coming of the sun, yet two hours away, and of course the dim moan of far-off cars, pounding through the night.<br /><br />And that's why I love bartending.Magpiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279681985532754810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4192062876565608318.post-76599237218786947702010-06-09T00:14:00.000-07:002010-06-09T01:33:31.179-07:00Best accompanied by an acoustic guitar and harmonica tinted with the bluesSometimes I get lost in the poetry of living. I get carried away by the bittersweet melancholy of cliche moments or images. <br />There are always those scenes in movies and books where the characters do something utterly impractical but wonderfully romantic, like driving down to the river to just sit on the roof of the car and stare at the moonlight on the water, or releasing a silk scarf with sentimental value into the wind just to watch it dance away or tying hundreds or ribbons to a tree, just to sit in it and look at the sky. Sometimes moments like these seem contrived, but they're absolutely essential to the emotional fabric of the piece. <br />And, I think, to life. <br /><br />A week and a half ago I moved out of one phase of life. <br />I've been living with the same group of friends, in the same house, for three years. And a week and a half ago, after graduating, we all moved out. I was the last one to leave. Literally, the last person to lock and close the door, coming full circle. (I had, after all, been the first one to get the keys and enter the house on the first day of our lease three years ago.) Pretty much everyone had emptied out the day before, and so I spent the last night sitting alone in an empty room, in an empty house.<br /><br />And that was just how I wanted to say goodbye. <br /><br />I know I'm sentimental and a hopeless romantic. And I love to live the cliches. So I wandered around the empty rooms for a while, flipping on lights and staring at the stark white walls and remembering them filled with laughter. Remembering the time we all jumped on the bed in this room, or the time we tried to fit 12 people on the bed in that room, remembering all the nights we crammed into this room and moaned about studying, all the times I'd drag my guitar into this room for a jam session and all the nights I stayed up until all hours in late-night convo in these rooms. When I was abroad for a year, they sent me a video of the giant spider they found in this bathroom. And I loved falling a sleep in the afternoon sun that came through that window... <br />I'd stare into a room for five minutes or so and ramble on, sniffling a little.<br />Then, at some point, I remembered that my life is not really a movie nor does it have an audience and all my theatrics were for naught. So I returned to my room. <br /><br />I sat in the middle of my room, the with the only light on in the house, on the mattress of my dismantled bed with a half eaten box of take-out food and a half-finished rum and coke and played my guitar over the tinny folk-rock coming from my computer. <br />It was corny and overly nostalgic, but unlike my earlier mooning around the house, it was spontaneous and genuine and perfect.<br />I'll always remember that night removed from my body. I see it from the upper corner of the room, above the door, looking down on my own back draped in an over-sized t-shirt and dwarfed by the emptiness of the room, with my head tilted back and belting emotion out to fill my little lighted room engulfed by the thick, cool night and the scattered lights of Berkeley and stars like so many diamonds. <br /><br />The next day I packed up my mattress and guitar and whatever else was left, closed the door, and moved myself into San Francisco. <br /><br />And here I am. <br />I realized two things today: first, life is a series of short stories. Even if I'm not traveling, my life is a series of absurd, screwball and occasionally interesting vignettes. Second, if I don't have an outlet for my need to tell stories, I spend far too much time curled up at my window, staring wistfully out at the wood panels of the house next door because I can't see the stars. I will drown in wist. <br /><br />Which is, of course, all a very characteristic way of saying "I'm baAAaack!"Magpiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279681985532754810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4192062876565608318.post-18001125307624519882009-08-15T13:28:00.000-07:002009-08-15T13:34:32.960-07:00The Grand FinaleBocas del Toro was my final trip here in Costa Rica. The next bus I’ll take (besides the one that takes me back after the internet café today, will take me to San José and eventually to the airport. <br /><br />(I cannot even express how excited I am to fly again. But I won’t get into that now.)<br /><br />Ems and I met up on the bus. It’d taken her from San José and picked me up in Guapiles en route to Panamá. And at the lunch stop, eating traditional and delicious <em>almuerzo en hojas </em>(lunch in leaves) that my host mom had made us, savoring the layers of tortillas, spiced mashed potatoes and eggs that had absorbed the flavor of the banana leaves, we agreed that it was shaping up to be an amazing weekend. <br /><br />Her harrowing tale of her journey, which began waiting in a bar at 2am for a 3am bus was filled with wonderful signs that promised a beautiful weekend as had my much less harrowing tale. (Mine only started at 5:30 and included a nice taxi driver who’d dropped me off at the bus stop on the side of the highway and the ceviche preacher, a guy who sells ceviche (fish soup) at the bus stop and gives away religious pamphlets. <br /><br />And of course the fact that we’d both made it onto the direct bus was a great sign. <br /><br />After a good five hours of sleeping, we crossed the Panamanian border and hopped into a taxi with about 12 other people from the bus to the ferry to the Bocas del Toro archipelago. Being the smallest (which in this part of the world, is quite a surprise) or perhaps the blondest (not so much of a surprise), I sat on a pillow in between the driver’s seat and the passenger seat. During the hour long drive, the driver started out in stony silence, and ended up flirting in that horribly awkward old man way that was unfortunately less benign than old man flirting usually is. <br /><br />Ems only laughed at me when I told her about it.<br /><br />Finally on the main island, we found our hostel fresh with a big common room hung with hammocks and painted tangerine and lime green and littered with travelers. <br />There was a <em>nice </em>flat screen TV mounted on the wall that often showed re-runs of the Big Bang Theory and Friends and I’ll admit that it made me happy. <br />Also, it reminded me why I like hostel people so much. We scrounged dinner in the grocery store and made friends over a jenkey tuna salad, a bottle of coke and a bottle of rum. Then trooped out, sadly sans my partner in crime who, after being up for almost 24 hours, needed sleep. <br /><br />Apparently the nightlife scene in Bocas takes place in hostels. We went to the big one, the famous one that’s famous for its nightlife and I was slightly jealous. It was grungy, to be sure, but you could tell that it was just plain awesome. In fact, a couple of hours into it, I met one of the receptionists that is not only transferring to Berkeley this semester, but is learning how to surf and climb, AND likes good music AND hates bad music (as judged by me). <br /><br />I’ll admit to being a little apprehensive about returning to Bezerkeley. I mean, I’ve been gone for a year, why <em>wouldn’t </em>I be anxious? So it was lovely to meet someone in the same position. <br /><br />Soon I was too tired and walked home, even though it was raining. When I got back, there was a group of hostellers sitting up on the top porch listening to music, and the sweet sounds of Louis Armstrong singing "What a Wonderful World" came drifting down. And it certainly was. <br /><br />And if I thought that first night was awesome, I had no idea what was in store for the first full day. <br /><br />I could build this whole thing up, explaining the morning, the early intensity of the sun and the curious lack of butterflies that accompanied the whole thing, but I’d rather not. I’d rather just jump into it. <br /><br />You know when you build something up to yourself and then worry that it’ll let you down? I’ve been wanting to surf for 9 years. <br /><br />9 years.<br /><br />I looked into surf camp in 7th grade, in high school I jealously eyed those few who sometimes showed up with surfboards strapped to the tops of their cars and almost skipped school one day to drive down to Mavericks. My first year of college, I was determined that new beginnings was the perfect place to start things that I’d been wanting to do forever, like surfing and playing guitar. I even subscribed to a sear of Surf Magazine. By the time I got to Ireland, I was frustrated with the fact that I still had barely touched a surfboard and joined the surf club. Yea, like that was going to happen… not only was it cold as anything, but the exchange rate was killer and I couldn’t afford the cover for the trips. So when I got to Costa Rica I became obsessed with surf photography… those who can’t do, right?<br /><br />So you can imagine the build up that I’ve created. <br /><br />It was more glorious than I could have possibly imagined. And not just the fact that I, for once, stopped obsessing about the perfect, symbolic grand entrance and just did it. <br /><br />I thought that paddling out would kill me, but apparently those push ups that I’ve been doing have been paying off. <br /><br />I spent what felt like five hours trying, figuring out and convincing myself that I wouldn’t hit the coral or the rocks. <br /><br />See Bocas is pretty much a strictly-expert surfing spot, but there is one beach that is good for beginners, except for the fact that it’s pretty far out and you have to watch out for coral and rocks if you get too close in. It’s safe, but I had to have someone who looked like she knew what she was doing reassure me of this fact. <br /><br />The only thing that forced me back in after that first attempt was the guilt of hogging the boards we were sharing with two guys from the hostel. <br /><br />And when I got back in, elated that I’d finally, <em>FINALLY </em>made that first step, I assumed that I wouldn’t be back out that day. <br /><br />Wrong. <br /><br />About an hour later I was out there, giving it my all. The phrase that convinced me back out was “It’ll all be worth it if you catch a wave” and it <em>totally </em>was. It’s an amazing feeling that’s as close as I think I’ll ever get to flying. I’ve had something similar once before, I was sitting up on my knees in the bow of the boat up on the lake at the cabin and it was really early in the morning. The water was pure glass and I was looking down into the perfect reflection of the trees that lined the shore racing past and I got a weightless feeling like I was flying. That’s how catching a wave felt, except faster and more exhilarating with clear blue water and white spray crowding my peripheral vision.<br /><br />Although I caught a few on my knees, I did get to stand up at one point which was… thrilling, to say the least. <br /><br />Let me tell you, it was every bit as worth the sunburn that stretched across my back and the back of my legs. Two weeks later it’s finally finished peeling. And even when it was burning, and even when it was peeling, I’d check out the damage in the mirror, and just feel proud. <br /><br />I could have gone home that night and been perfectly happy with the weekend, but it wasn’t even half way done. <br /><br />That night we went to this hostel/bar called Aqua that has a pool. And by “pool” I mean “a hole cut in the dock that it sat on and a jerry-rigged diving board.” I had a long conversation with an Irish kid who’d just spent four weeks in Haiti working with kids under the protection of the local ruling gang. (After which I felt pathetic describing my days weeding, so I emphasized the machete and the size of the bugs). By the end of the night we were all swimming (and by “we” I’m pretty sure I mean “a bunch of tourists”). My sandals and shirt got stolen, likely by some drunken chick who thought they were hers. <br /><br />And at the end of the night, the sky would light up with dry lightning even though there were stars peaking through the clouds. <br /><br />The next day rained. <br /><br />And we got up late. And got out late. And then couldn’t figure out what to do. My ultimate plan had been to take surfing pictures all day and explore some beaches but there were, apparently, no waves and it just wasn’t a beach day.<br /><br />So around 2 in the afternoon, Ems and I found ourselves on one of the other islands in the middle of an indigenous village. <br /><br />It was one of those experiences that is valuable but I hadn’t expected or even really wanted. In the grey light of the rainy day, the whole village looked <em>poorer </em>than it maybe was, something that neither of us really expected. Bocas seems like such a touristy area that we were mildly shocked to find ourselves in a place so… colorless, where kids ran around in their underwear and clothes were hanging in vain on clotheslines and bony dogs skittered away. <br /><br />The village has a newly formed tourism organization that has organized a forest walk on which they explain the medicinal plants and they have an artesian craft store. If you call ahead, they can prepare a traditional meal and do a traditional dance performance. And so it was wonderful to support a grassroots, community based push to take advantage of the archepelago’s booming tourism industry that also will help boost them out of the poverty and government neglect in which they live. <br /><br />I feel like I reflect on this surprise with more negativity than my activist heart should, but I think it was just a jarring way to spend a vacation, especially since it was a vacation away from a community that also has a grassroots, community based development association, though albeit is much less poor and neglected. So I apologize for that. <br /><br />As the sun was setting, we were sitting in Dolphin Bay with our fingers crossed. And although it’d just rained earlier that day, which they generally don’t like, we saw quite a few pairs of dolphins weaving up and down. <br /><br />***<br /><br />I took a nap when we got back to the hostel, to be refreshed when we went out that night. I woke up to Ems shouting that there was a group leaving for another hostel right NOW because our hostel was closing it’s common room for the night. <br /><br />And I was <em>gross</em>. See, I’d napped instead of showering. It was cold and rainy and taking a cold shower was the <em>last </em>thing I’d wanted to do. So, still half asleep, I did my best to make myself less gross: changed the clothes, brushed my teeth and put on deodorant at the same time, and was simultaneously putting my hair in pigtails and screwing the bottle on my bottle of coke with a kick. <br /><br />We stopped first at Hostel Calypso. After a while, part of the group, including Ems continued on, but I was too deep into my conversation with the Austrian girl, the German girl and her crazy jungle man boyfriend from Ohio and the two Kiwis. Because the night was nice and the music was amazing. I can’t remember what the conversation was about, but I do know that the iPod could have been my own. The Austrian girl, who’d just spent two weeks in Mal País and so loved it like I do, and I looked through the Kiwis’ iPod and took turns exclaiming about how much we loved this band and that band. <br />I mean, they had an extensive collection of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. I know maybe two people who even <em>know </em>about BRMC and they’re a Bay Area band! And the Pogues! And the girl from Austria loves both as well?!? God I love travelers. <br /><br />So we spent all night listening to good songs that gave me that warm nostalgia. Tom Petty, Neil Young, Bob Dylan, Janis Joplin.<br /><br />Oh and get this. As soon as we’d started in with Janis, me announcing, as I always do, that she was the one what taught me to sing, the speakers ran out of batteries and had to be charged for 20 minutes. So someone turns to me and says “can you sing Mercedez Benz?” Well <em>of </em><em>course </em>I can! After two renditions of that classic, with everyone joining the last verse, and some assorted chatter, the speakers were juiced up and we continued on with our night of music and conversation. The younger Kiwi came up to me and with baleful, slightly unfocused eyes informed me that I had the best singing voice he’d ever heard. I smiled, but had to fight the urge to pat him on the arm sympathetically. Poor boy was drunk. <br /><br />Soon I got to wishing that Ems hadn't a bounced. She loves good music and she's got a fantastic voice. I started looking for a good gap in the conversation where I could slip away to drag her back. Then all of a sudden, like she'd read my mind, here comes Ems!<br /><br />It was a beautiful night, and a beautiful end to a good weekend.Magpiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279681985532754810noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4192062876565608318.post-83811515900177263582009-08-15T13:25:00.000-07:002009-08-15T13:28:31.887-07:00Mal País Theory of LifeThere are some things in life that you know usher in change. They’re not necessarily the <em>cause </em>of said change, but at least they are the <em>catalyst</em>. <br />I mean, I maintain that it’s a bit cliché, albeit for good reason, to say that studying abroad is a life-changing experience. I think it’s partly because it generally comes right around the time of the transition from teen to adult. I mean, I think most people really grow up in the last few years of college, with or without studying abroad. <br /><br />This is really just a round about way of saying that my second trip to Mal País helped me distill all this change into my new theory of life. Which is not quite like the numerous Grand Plans that litter the path behind me, but no so unlike them either. (I have been reading way too much Steinbeck.)<br /><br />I woke up on Saturday morning to start my trek across the country. I’d like to say something poetic like “the sun rose in benediction over that fine day” but I honestly can’t remember what the weather was like. <br /><br />I do however remember what the journey was like: <br />6:30 bus from Santa Rosa to Guapiles. <br />Step off the bus in Guapiles and immediately (literally, no waiting) get on the bus to San José. Get off the bus in San José, walk purposefully towards a taxi that pulls up just as I get to the curb, drops me off at the Puntarenas bus station. See you can either take a direct bus from San Jose to Mal País at 7:30 am or 2:30 pm or you can take the bus to the ferry, and then take another series of buses to get to Mal País. I got into San Jo at 9 and figured that I’d try my chances and not wait around for the direct bus. So the taxi drops me off at the Puntarenas bus station, I buy my ticket for the 10 o clock bus, use the facilties and go to wait the ½ hour until the bus begins loading, but I suppose they load as soon as tickets sell out, because as soon as I stepped up, they started loading. We left 20 minutes early.<br /><br />Perfect, I’m thinking. I can totally catch the 12:30 ferry. The next one is 1:30, but that’s not too long a wait, and it means I can probably catch the last bus to Mal País at 2:30 from Cobano. <br /><br />I should have learned long ago not to get cocky like that. <br /><br />We hit traffic and got into Puntarenas at 12:20. Well, I’m not paying for a taxi for a ferry I probably won’t catch anyways, so I figure I’ll just walk. It’s a nice day, I have a small bag and I figure I have plenty of time. I’m at the shore, which is lined with Tico vacationers and cheap souvenir stalls and food carts. The ferry leaves from the shore, so I figure I’ll follow it up and eventually hit the ferry. <br /><br />So I walk. About a half an hour later, I see a sign for the ferry, round a corner, and see a ferry. My mind starts racing. Coming or going? Coming or going!?! <br /><br />The Dos Pinos ice cream man gives me my answer. He tells me that I need to run because the 1 o’clock ferry is leaving and the next one isn’t until 3. <br /><br />I swore then, but it’s okay, because I’m pretty sure he didn’t speak English. I run. And I get to the ticket booth at 1. And I’m too late. <br /><br />So I sit down and I start to try and hold back the tears. STUPID! If I’d just taken the taxi, I’d have made it. And now I’m stuck here for another two hours. What the hell am I going to do for three hours? <br /><br />…I need a drink.<br /><br />Luckily there is a bar/restaurant across the street, overlooking the ferry dock (so I don’t miss it again). I order a rum and coke and a plate of fries (the first food I’ve eaten since 5:30 am) and continue to try and cork my tears. <br />The bar and the few tables around it are packed with locals. The rest of the tables in the place are empty, save mine, and two others that host tourists. One group of locals plays cards, and a group of five men joke at the bar. There’s a table with two old men, one who looks more Caribbean than Tico and the other who looks more Tico than anything, who aren’t acknowledging each other. The one is engrossed in an old newspaper and the other is dreaming off out the window. <br /><br />There are various plastic fish decorating the place, a few beer ads and a distinctively round clock. There is radio music coming from a 5-CD changer stero that sits on top of a NICE sound board and speaker set. One of the men at the bar walks over, drops a coin into the slot machine next to me and succeeds only in producing that distinctively tinkling noise of the turning bells, lemons and bar symbols. This one, I think, was Spider man themed. <br /><br />It was nice, and helped me pull myself out of a bit of a funk. <br /><br />Eventually, I caught the 3 o’clock ferry and found myself on the bus to Cobano unsure of the next step. Miraculously I got off at the right stop, as the sky was warming with the promise of sunset. I rolled up my pant legs and tried to ask a woman what my next move should be. I see the sign for the taxi company, but I see no building beneath the sign… So I ask “I know I’ve missed the last bus to Mal País, but…” But she interrupts. No, it’s right there. Literally it pulled up behind the bus I’d just gotten off. Off one, on the other, just like it’d started out today. <br /><br />Man I love traveling. <br /><br />I looked out the window until I couldn’t see out anymore and hopped out in front of the hostel Ems and I’d planned to meet at, content that the night was practically over. Probably she was already there.<br /><br />Turns out it was not and she was not. <br />The hostel is really funky – it’s called Casa Zen and houses one of the best Thai food places I’ve ever eaten at (and <em>that </em>is the kind of place Mal País is). Sadly, it does not take reservations, and turns out, it was full up. <br /><br />It’s 6 at night, dark and I have no where to sleep and no idea where Ems is except that she <em>had been </em>at a protest that morning and was hoping that she wouldn’t get arrested like the leaders had been the previous year. <br /><br />And being the brilliant child I am, I didn’t leave her a note as I wandered off into the night. I walked into the only other hostel I knew, the Backpackers and confronted the guy at the desk. <br /><br />“Look, I know it’s a long shot in the dark, but do you happen to have two beds available for tonight?” <br /><br />And he did. <br /><br />Long story short, I found beds, I found Ems wandering the streets and all was right with the world. <br /><br />But the thing is, that’s not really the part that prompted the Theory of Life. <br />Nothing <em>specifically </em>did. I mean, I could give you a run down of the whole weekend, like how we talked over Thai food for like two hours, even though we’d only been apart for two weeks, went out that night with some of the hostel kids (lots of kids from Norway, Israel and Florida), like how we got up early the next morning, out of habit, and ended up walking down the beach to take pictures and ending up trekking for three hours ending up in the middle of nowhere, almost burned to a crisp, thirsty, hungry and pissed off. Or how at that point we decided to trek back on the road and stop at the first place we saw, and how after walking for 45 minutes hadn’t seen <em>any </em>but thankfully got a ride in the back of a pick up with the surfers who’d had to break it to us that we were 3 km away from the hostel and 1 km away from any food. And how delicious that food was and how beautiful it was to spend the rest of the afternoon napping in hammocks amongst reds, oranges and yellows. <br />I could tell you about how I didn’t get <em>one </em>good picture of a surfer all weekend, but played a ton of pool with a kid from Germany, a kid from Ireland and two guys from Florida.<br />I could bring up the fact that, save the thai food, we didn’t eat at one of the planned places because we were only there for a Sunday, when everything is closed. But it was amazing anyways. <br /><br /> Basically, it wasn’t the weekend I’d planned, but that was just fine. As I stood on the ferry, watching the retreating landmass that I loved so much, I got the urge to turn back and just stay. Just say “fuck it,” leave the internship and try to find a job waitressing or as the receptionist that they were looking for at the Backpackers, perhaps just until my flight home, perhaps indefinitely. Struggling with a bittersweet melancholy, that was only partially due to that deliciously oppressive heat of the dog days of summer, I watched the sun dancing around on the top of the water and then slanting down through it. It reminded me of the cabin. <br /><br />I don’t think that I can ever really accurately describe the vibe of Mal País except that it is a community, heavy with ex-pats, that enjoys surfing and yoga and feels intrinsically artistic. It is a place that makes me want to surf and to sit on the beach and write and draw in my notebook and eat food that includes lemon grass and ginger. It’s not the most breath-taking beach in the country, and it definitely doesn’t really feel like a part of Costa Rica at all, but it’s one of those places that I know I’ll go back to.<br /><br />The last time I had that feeling, that peaceful melancholy that follows an impulse to throw it all away and just stay in a place, and the surety of return, I was sitting on a wall above the sea in San Sebastian. We were waiting to head to the train station to catch the train that would take us back to Paris to catch the flight that would take us home, after two months, to start college and the rest of our lives. <br /><br />But it was kind of nice this time. Because something about that weekend with people whose attitude towards life I so admired because it blends a profound appreciation for life with a calm and inner peace that I’m not ready to lose myself to but to which I aspire, and also a purely logical “what are you waiting for?” which is actually more of an answer than a question. <br /><br />Which of course, was exactly the attitude that got me surfing the following weekend in Bocas del ToroMagpiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279681985532754810noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4192062876565608318.post-35465237773826838212009-08-09T08:35:00.000-07:002009-08-09T09:11:44.908-07:00Surprise Post!!So I forgot the most important thing I had to do on the internet yesterday, so I'm back again today... which means I can give a quick general update.<br /><br />In the past two weeks I've been to Mal Pais again, one of my favorite places in the world that prompted a change in attitude about life, which in turn got me up on a surf board the next weekend in Bocas del Toro. Thus I've already fulfilled a couple life's goals: learning to ride a motorcycle and surfing. But I feel as if each of those weekends deserves it's own post, so those'll come later.<br /><br />But because life moves slower on the finca, I can do that more quickly. <br />When I got back from Mal Pais, we'd recieved a new volunteer, who will always be referred to as "el muchacho de francia." Come to think of it, I don't think I ever learned his real name. <br />MK says he reminds her of the clones from Clockwork Orange, only he doesn't talk. As for me, I just could never get the Talking Heads song "psycho killer" out of my head when he was around.<br />He's just "raro." The entire community was made uneasy about him. I mean this kid had grossly long fingernails and long gross hair and it quickly became apparent that he didn't shower. Or talk. He'd just stand there staring for hours, with a bucket hat and this crazy rain poncho, or ride around on his bike talking to himself. They sent him back before the week was out... <br /><br />Just around the time that the french girl showed up. They didn't know each other, and she's way less wierd than he is... but a little too eager and intense. She has yet to grasp the pace of life here... that is, slow. There's just so much she wants to do she's trying to organize all this stuff and I just want to continue doing what I've been doing. <br />Which has set up quite a contrast between us. I actually feel like more a part of the community than she seems to be because I'm living there, as opposed to visiting there. I mean, I've been in this country for seven months, so I don't really feel like I've arrived at another culture in the farm that I'm working to save. But she's arrived here doing volunteer work and has that... distance that so many volunteer workers have. It's like she's not a part of the community, she's visiting it, helping it and so NEEDS to do AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE AS FAST AS POSSIBLE. But I feel more like I'm working, you know? Like I've just moved to another town to work. It doesn't feel new and special and I don't feel that separation from the community. At least not anymore. <br /><br />See, I have this theory, it takes me exactly half the amount of time I have in a place to overcome the full roller coaster of culture shock. Since I only have six weeks in this place, the culture shock has expired and I'm just... here. <br />And things feel normal.<br /><br />Work on the farm hasn't really changed. We still mostly weed, but on rainy days, instead of sorting beans, we've been re-making picture maps of the functions of the farm. Which I like, because, well, I like drawing. <br />In the afternoon we've started teaching English to the 4th graders at the school. I could gush all day about that. About how bad of a teacher I am, completley unable to command attention, or explain things concisely, but how it doesn't really matter because they all love the class so much and because MK is a really good teacher and we have so much fun playing all the games that I learned in Spanish class. About the kid who likes to tell us how we should do things, but who is super cute because he loves the class so much. About the quiet kids who are really smart, and about the loud kids. About how we have teams and play games and how excited they get. About how awesome it is to have them all come up and give us hugs goodbye at the end of the day, and how I feel like a rockstar walking around town because their parents greet us with grateful smiles and they shout our names across the plaza. <br /><br />It's one thing that I know I'm gonna miss when I leave.<br /><br />That and the clouds. <br /><br />See, yesterday was the perfect late summer Saturday. A day of break after a week of work and rain, the sun finally came out, glancing hot white off the glossy palm fronds and banana leaves and the clouds raced and danced across the piercing blue sky. While waiting for the bus, I watched a spider make it's web and the butterflies drunkenly refusing each perch they approached, stumbling onto the next one. And the youngest age gang of kids trooped around the plaza, deeply engrossed in their games, the same games and using the same code that we all used to use and that we've mostly forgotten to time. A band held together by nothing but age proximity, where girls aren't "GIRLS" but just another member of the band and where everything can be anything and there is nothing but the present, the moment and the game.Magpiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279681985532754810noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4192062876565608318.post-33662828341105137322009-08-08T11:20:00.000-07:002009-08-08T11:21:56.362-07:00Gah!!! <br /><br />no time to post. I know it's been a while. my apologies.<br />I forgot my memory stick and I have to catch a bus in 9 minutes. <br />Expect an overload of updates next saturday!Magpiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279681985532754810noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4192062876565608318.post-16123885942556375112009-07-24T11:41:00.000-07:002009-07-24T11:43:40.783-07:00Day 12: (Thursday 23)Yesterday instead of painting we hid in MK’s room and slept. It was fun, kinda like a sleepover. <br /><br />But today we couldn’t escape it. <br /><br />The morning started off bad. It’s been a tough week. When I say that I <em>have </em>to get out of here this weekend, I’m not exaggerating. It hasn’t rained during the day all week which means I’ve spend five hours every. single. morning. hunched over in the burning sun, dripping in sweat, swinging the same machete around in the same way. And it <em>hurts </em>all over. <br /><br />But you know, that which does not kill you…<br /><br />So today we started out doing the same thing. And then, miracle of miracles! Plans changed! Apparently the director has been teaching his kids to ride a motorcycle. They’re actually almost as numerous as cars here. It’s a practical thing… dirt bikes just <em>work </em>better on dirt roads.<br /><br />I’ve become rather accustomed to shying away when he comes bounding up. He has an incredible store of energy and never seems to shut up. He’s rather like a born-again agriculturalist. As in he came to organic agriculture later in life and is so passionate that he believes he can convert EVERYONE! He tends to wear a digital watch and I tend to try to catch a glimpse of the time so as to time him. I’m sure he’s talked for more that 15 minutes straight at a time. <br /><br />This morning was no different. Shoot, he’s on his way, look busy!<br /><br />But turns out that all he wanted was to invite us to ride around on the motorcycle.<br /> <br />Oh heaven! Check!<br /><br />It was every bit as magical as I dreamed it would be, flying around on that little dirt bike. It took me about five minutes to learn how to kick start it, put it in gear and to remember what it’s like controlling something with a manual engine. Then it was pure gravy. The bolder I got, the more amazing it was. I figured out how to put it into second and started to take the turns close and low. I’d make the big square of the soccer field a couple of times, zagging through the hillocks, pulling up and roaring past the goal posts. After just two turns of 5 minutes each it felt so natural, so comfortable that it wasn’t novel anymore. <br /><br /><br />I cheated on my truck. <br /><br /><br />We painted again today. We decided not to share less with the children this time, so it was less like finger-painting hour at the local kindergarten. Plus we were using rollers. <br /><br />But even with that, we must have looked like the Keystone Cops or something. A veritable comedy of errors. Without the comedy part. There’s this lack of communication between the two of us, the director and the head of the development association. I still haven’t figured out if it’s because of a lack of Spanish proficiency, or a <em>perceived </em>lack of Spanish proficiency. I mean first it was the base color. We’d discussed it a couple of times and our plans clearly showed that we were going to use a yellow. There are no yellow buildings in the town so we thought it would round out all the blues and greens. Also it’s a color that doesn’t show dirt much. This was pointed out numerous times. But when the paint arrived there was about a quart of yellow instead of a gallon. When we finally get to talk to someone about we find that we’re supposed to try to use as much of the <em>existing paint </em>(light blue and dark blue) which was left over from two other buildings. Then it was the doors. When we painted on Tuesday, we did the doors and windows a light blue. Turns out we have to re-paint the doors black because they need an anti-corrosive paint. This wasn’t communicated at all after any of the <em>three </em>times that I said that we were going to paint the doors light blue. <br /><br />So we started out frustrated. We tried to paint the bottom half blue and the top half with the quart of yellow we have, but argued about whether or not it was actually a good idea to use the yellow at all, seeing as there was no way it would go all way round. So we had two splotched of yellow painted and the whole thing taped out before we figured that it wasn’t going to work. At all.<br /><br />So we’ll just paint the whole thing dark blue?<br /><br />Turns out the dark blue is really more purply. Whatever. Don’t care now. Let’s just get a color down and deal with the thing later. So we start painting in crazy directions and at crazy intervals. Eventually a couple kids start helping and it’s more haphazard (though admittedly less messy). Finally this guy who’d been watching for a while (in a way less creepy way than the young guys usually watch), took the roller from MK and started to paint. Started to paint with perfect lines and an expert evenness and professional speed. <br /><br />Who is this masked mystery man?!<br /><br />Well, a professional painter for one… MK’s host mom’s cousin for another.<br /><br />Lessee. If we started around 12:45, then he probably started helping us around 1:45 or 2. By that time we’d done about half of one wall. <br /><br />By 4 we’d finished all four walls, detailing on the bottom and light blue detailing around the doors and on the windows. <br /><br />Our savior even showed us how to clean off the oil-based paint that had splattered us with smurf freckles. <br /><br /><br />That’s about when the director showed up and informed us that the head of the development association actually had wanted us to use two different colors. Really? NFW! I had no idea!<br /><br /><br />But alls well that ends well. We sat ourselves up on a lonely wall with a cold Coke and an ice cream and watched the sun slip down towards the horizon, dreaming of coming weekend adventures.Magpiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279681985532754810noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4192062876565608318.post-64584340960111182002009-07-24T11:39:00.002-07:002009-07-24T11:45:17.701-07:00Day 10: (Tuesday, 21)MK and I have this joke about the finca being the perfect sight for a horror movie. I mean seriously? It’s in the middle of nowhere, it’s an HOUR bus ride to the nearest city (I was wrong earlier when I said 30 minutes… that was me being optimistic). Every once in a while it storms like there’s literally not going to be a tomorrow. We’re working on this farm with giant man eating bugs and killer plants (you know, more or less), and to top it all off the director who seems to have suspiciously boundless energy and turns up unexpectedly. We’re pretty sure he has a secret laboratory hidden somewhere in the finca. Perhaps under the papaya patch. Perhaps in the large drying house. <br /><br />And then, as if to confirm this whole horror movie thing, today I was walking around taking pictures of cool things on the farm, you know, frogs, butterflies, pineapples… that kind of thing. And BAM! I fell into water up to my knees. I know that wasn’t there last week because we toured the finca last Monday and I’m almost positive that we came up to the pineapples on their left, exactly where I fell. I mean, if it hadn’t have been me, it would have been really <em>really </em>funny. Tromping along (which apparently tromping is an actual, real word… who knew?) dry and smug in my clever way of slacking, then the next I’m pitched forward flying towards the ground face first, stopped only by the fact that I was knee deep in water. <br /><br />I squelched back to the entrance to the finca, my left foot making suck-y noises every time I lifted it up. Shlomp shlomp shlomp. <br /><br />But it was really okay. The rest of the day was filled with puppies, butterflies and sunshine. Literally. <br /><br />Oh, except when we started to paint the changing rooms today. Our Tom Sawyer bit failed miserably today in the form on roughly a BILLION kids throwing oil-based paint at each other (essentially) and making fun on each other and us in Spanish that they either didn’t think we understood or thought we couldn’t hear. GAH! Now my hands smell of whatever <em>paint-remover </em>They said was okay to use. Whereas yesterday I bowled a kid over by accident, I almost did it on purpose today…Magpiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279681985532754810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4192062876565608318.post-42140060464296402642009-07-24T11:39:00.001-07:002009-07-24T11:48:11.961-07:00Day 9: (Monday 20)I opened up <em>Cannery Row</em> today. The very first pre-chapter asks how you can possible put people and characters and <em>feelings </em>down on paper. <br /><br />And that really struck a chord because I really feel like I haven’t been <em>doing </em>that quite right here. <br /><br />I mean, in the first place I have to deal with culture shock. Which is a concept which I didn’t really take seriously at first. I mean, come on, I travel all the time. It’s like, culture shock is like jet lag, right? Something that everyone talks about that doesn’t really affect me? Except that it does. And I’ve come to understand that this year more than I ever thought I would. <br /><br />It’s tough right now because I’m in this double jeopardy place. I’ve long gotten over my Costa Rica culture shock. I’m comfortable and happy and all of the sudden I uproot myself and relocate to a place that is so different than anyplace I’ve ever stayed for a prolonged period of time. PLUS I have to deal with the knowledge of my impending reverse culture-shock. <br /><br />I spend a lot of time here while I’m working on the farm, daydreaming about stuff I’ll do when I get back. During those long hot nights when I can’t sleep because the heat is just <em>there</em>, not oppressive necessarily, but sneaky in that it’s almost unnoticeable except for the fact that you can’t sleep. During those long hours in the sun where I do repetitive and physically straining farm tasks. I think about the airport and how excited I am to <em>be </em>in an airport again. I can’t remember the last time I went this long without seeing the inside of an airport. The orderliness, the false cleanliness, the giant windows that flood light and the steady feeling of transience. Everyone coming or going, planes leave, tons of planes, hundreds of planes, experience, novelty and excitement just saturates the air. I can’t wait to be back in an airport. I hope my layover is long. I also think about stuff I want to do in The Bay, Giants games, tea in the fog, Coit tower (though I don’t really know <em>why</em>), Ocean Beach in the evening with the windows rolled down, Haight street… just all my favorite things that I’ve already probably hashed out a million times here. <br /><br />But the problem with that is, while it helps me power through the culture shock, the ticking off of the days, I miss things too.<br /><br />I mean, I got exactly what I wanted here. I wanted to start living off the grid in an area that’s not like that 2% of the world I’m used to. I wanted to work hard, like really hard. I wanted to work so that at the end of the day, my body would just <em>hurt </em>and I’d have innumerable mysterious scratches, bruises and pains. I wanted to drag myself up everyday, whether or not I want to, because I’m <em>obligated </em>to. <br /><br />Because I don’t know what that is like. <br /><br />And honey, I got what I wanted. I signed up for this, and it ain’t day camp. <br />And as hard as it is, emotionally and physically, I just have to remember that. And I also have to just look up once in a while from my whining and my frustration and things that go bump in the night, because I’ll see the sunset, just like it did today. <br /><br />This afternoon, after back-breaking work on the farm which made me dizzy and light headed, MK and I washed the outside of the changing rooms that we’re going to start painting tomorrow. Of course, all the 12 year old boys in eyesight, who are still on vacation and thus have little to do, eventually drifted over. I’m not sure if it was horsing around with the hose or the possibility of recruiting us as two more soccer players that enticed them, but either way, we totally pulled a Tom Sawyer. By the time we finished one wall, they had “finished” the other three. Well enough at least. <br /><br />So then we played soccer, barefoot in the muddy field. The two resident gringas (literally) alternately played with competitive ferocity and collapsed all over each other in laughter at the absolute horror that is our soccer skills and swore loudly. I got a leetle too excited when I realized that I wasn’t spent after about 5 minutes and ran around like a madman. Then I realized, it’s okay to throw elbows around my compatriot, not so much around 12 year old boys. I definitely bowled one over at one point. He was okay. <br /><br /><br />So to recap: <br />Farm work: check<br />Community development project: check<br />Bonding with the youth: check<br />Teach English: check. Oops….<br /><br />Then somehow another group of kids absconded with our ball, so, game over. I got at least 5 goals. Beat that!<br /><br />We chatted for a while, then I headed home for dinner. I greeted the few people I knew as I walked by, tried not to seem put-off when I was greeted by people I <em>didn’t </em>know. I could smell the smoke of a campfire coming from my house. My new host mom cooked rice on an open flame today and it was every bit as good as she said it would be. Then I turned around. The sun was setting in the distance. It started as a perfect arc that blushed pink in the periwinkle sky. (Bear with me here for a second; this is going to get really… prose-y). Then it grew warmer and warmer until the arc was lit up with the particular yellowy-orange of a mango. The clouds were low in the sky, threading through the mountains off to the left, smoky and thin like a sumi painting. I always thought the phrase “purple mountain’s majesty” was a little corny, but I discovered tonight that it’s no exaggeration. The jagged mountains in the distance were a deep royal purple against the lush greenery that was lit up orange. And then the opposite side of the sky was blushing in response, having caught the reflection of the breathtaking sunset. And I swear, no joke, there was a faint rainbow off to the right. Just one pillar, one side of the rainbow, fainter than and disappearing into the reflected sunset. <br /><br />And just down the dirt road, picking its way through the rocks and the puddles that I do my best to avoid when biking to and from work, one of the neighborhood mutts with a hangdog look, lopsided pointy coyote ears and pale blue eyes watched me.Magpiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279681985532754810noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4192062876565608318.post-43806881301868275562009-07-24T11:37:00.000-07:002009-07-24T11:49:36.015-07:00Day 8: (Sunday 19)I sneeze like crazy here. I can’t explain it. I think I sneeze at least twice a day. Well, I mean every time I sneeze, I do it twice, so… But already today I’ve sneezed four times. Yesterday I think I sneezed six times. <br /><br />And don’t even think about making a joke about how I’m probably allergic to work. Because I’m not working today. So there.<br /><br /><br />Yesterday it we had something like the storm of the century. (Actually, I’m sure it’s pretty commonplace here, but I think the last thing I experienced that was even close was that hurricane in South Carolina. And I was in this house that was almost all glass and I remember the giant windows bending inward.)<br /><br />The day went pretty well, I took the hour long bus ride to Guapiles to use the internet café. I had to stand for most of it because by the time the bus gets to Santa Rosa (our pueblo), it’s full. About 40 minutes in, it had cleared out a bit. I was leaning up against a seat with two little boys and the littler one crawled up into the lap of the bigger one so that he could see out of the window and they both looked up at me to signal that I could sit down. I wanted to catch the 3 o’clock bus so I only had an hour to work on the internet. <br /><br />God it’s hot. <br /><br />Anyway, so then last night it started to rain. Pounding down on the tin roof and leaking through all of the cracks. And then the lightning started. Blinding light exploding into the house. It’s such a literary cliché to say that the lightning flashed a lit up the entire room, but that’s not true. It’s so powerful and intense that you can’t <em>see </em>anything for those split seconds. And then the thunder comes in, gut wrenching and rumbling down to the tips of the toes. I think it lasted at least until the light of the morning, or somewhere around there. I’d know because I was awake for most of it. At some points I literally thought the tin roof may fall in crushing me under it or something. I mean I know that the cement walls would get in the way of that, but man!<br /><br />But it was all okay, because today is Sunday so I got to sleep in until 9. <br /><br />And now the power’s out and I’m working on borrowed time… I wonder what’s gonna happen at 6 when it’s dark, except maybe I’ll just go to sleep.<br /><br />I can smell a fire outside (either for cooking or burning trash). And the dogs barking down the lane. And the geckos singing. And some cicadas too. It’s funny how quickly one can become accustomed with something.Magpiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279681985532754810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4192062876565608318.post-76730200756242054522009-07-18T13:31:00.000-07:002009-07-18T13:32:12.024-07:00Day 6: (Friday 17)My bike broke yesterday. We also discovered that there actually ARE people our age here. They were blasting around last night on motorcycles and big ole trucks. <br />Gah. I have that ominous feeling that comes with becoming accustomed to a place too fast. Like nothing bad has happened in the past day or two so I’m super on my guard because it’s coming. It probably involves cockroaches. Except today I did have to deal with flying ants. I’ve always hated flying ants. ALWAYS. They’re so gross when they crawl around on the ground and I hate the idea that the can get close to my face without my realizing it. <br />Yesterday we did more machete weeding. I upset an ants nest at one point and thinking about it gives me hives even now. They all came spilling up from multiple holes in the ground. I refused to work in that particular area for the rest of the day. Then it started to rain and we sorted beans for the rest of the day. Well the rest of the day until lunch at least.<br />Today, for a change, we sorted beans. All red ones this time. It rained all day practically, on and off. But we got some snacks out of it… Pejibayes (which I hope I’m spelling right and which have the texture of an egg yolk but are oddly reminiscent of an artichoke heart) and guanabana (which is a fiber-y fruit).<br />MK went back to San Jose today and we said goodbye like a pair of saps. It was like we’d never see her again or something. Lots of “here’s looking at you kid” finger guns and I think I said “well…” about a thousand times. <br />Talked to my new host mom while America’s Next Top Model in Spanish played in the background. She has 7 kids. 6 boys and a girl, and they’re all out of the house. Her husband died years ago. <br />Man, this getting up at 5 am thing is really killing me. I napped for three hours today. Three hours. And now it’s only 8:30 and I can’t seem to keep my eye lids open. But five weeks from right now I’ll be back in San Jose, ready to head back homeMagpiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279681985532754810noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4192062876565608318.post-20483314901267992952009-07-18T13:30:00.002-07:002009-07-18T13:31:07.138-07:00Day 4: (Wednesday 15) Only 38 more to go!Got up late. Sore, with a side of foreboding. Yesterday was hard. I don’t think we realized that we’d have to deal with a second culture shock. This stuff is gonna be hard to get used to. <br />Out the door around 6:05 got to the finca at around 6:30. It was threatening to rain. <br />The first order of business was to make the “green tea” which is really just green leaves (lettuce, papaya leaves and two other types of leaves) liquidated and then to drink it. While we were collecting the leaves, the nausea started to set in for the both of us. The green tea helped me a bit, but poor MK was having a hard time of it. I guess we looked so pathetic that we got an easy day. We sat around sorting through beans. Like dried beans for cooking. We separated the good ones from the bad one. For a good three hours. Then Don Julio made us this tea called “Big Man” which is supposed to cure any stomach malady. More like kill it. He kept telling us that it was bitter but, boy!, we had no idea. Grossest stuff. And it stayed in your mouth for the next 20 minutes too, even though we took a spoonful of honey afterwards. (P.S. Mary Poppins lied. A spoonful of sugar does NOT make the medicine go down. It just helps a little.)<br />So it was a simple morning. Which was good. It’s been quite a transition.<br />Lunch, nap. Around 1 Don Julio shows up and we go for a bike ride to play billiards? But unfortunately the bar was closed. So we headed back to town and he chatted all the while about how now we’re going to find the head of the Community Development and talk about our afternoon projects and then play volleyball with the kids. Some of us were still tired and sore and gently suggested that a few of us may not make it if we try to cram all that in. So it might be better if we got to rest. <br />So MK and I sat and talked for the next two and a half hours or so and it was good. Much needed. Not like we hadn’t talked for three hours that morning, but we’re still sorting through this new culture shock, so it was good. <br />Then we played with the kids. It was really fun, actually, and we found some energy hidden somewhere. I suck at volleyball. I mean really. It’s more a game of “keep away from my face” and I laughed practically the entire time. MKs pretty good. Then more kids showed up and it turned into a giant soccer game. We inched out to the edge of the room and spent the rest of the game watching and getting a feel for the community of kids. It was fun to watch. <br />It’s closing in on 8:30 now and my eyelids are drooping. I’ve gotta get to sleep if I’m gonna get up tomorrow…<br />Ugh. Daytime is so much easier than night time. Daytime is when I take a liking to the community and reflect on how living with my new host mom is like living with someone’s grandmother and to marvel at how I’m learning to survive the heat…<br />Nighttime is when I pray that the mosquito net works and start considering heading back to San Jose for the weekend. <br />I mean I only have five weekends here… After this one, there’ll only be four. I want to take one of those to go visit Ems in Malpaís (I just love that place) and one to go to Bocas del Toro. That leaves two after this weekend is over. MK goes back every weekend and made a very convincing argument today… I am really going to miss San Jose and if I can spend more time there, that’d be nice… plus I’d get to an internet… I guess we’ll see…Magpiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279681985532754810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4192062876565608318.post-32868561664699375512009-07-18T13:30:00.001-07:002009-07-18T13:30:35.636-07:00Day 3: (Tuesday 14)Will put UP the mosquito net tonight instead of wrapping myself in it. Enough is enough. <br />Up at 5:15. Finca at 6. 6 AM. 6. <br />We spent the day giving the pineapple patch a bikini wax. With machetes. Which is to say, I got attacked by a herd of pineapples. No seriously. Even though I had a machete to protect me, you should see my arms, they’re all sliced up. <br />But let me tell you, that stuff is HARD. Spending 4 hours hunched over, swinging a machete and trying not to hit yourself? And then to move to the baby rice plants and try desperately not to chop them up or step on them with your giant rubber boots? (Though, I have to say, I feel super savage with those boots. They go half way up my calf and I like to tuck my jeans into them so that they balloon out a bit, like a paratrooper or a member of the rebel army. Plus I wear a bandana which always makes it cooler. <br />As if that weren’t enough, we then milled sugar cane with this double-sided roller thing that took two to work. We squeezed out six or seven sugar canes. Delicious. <br />I’m not quite sure how we made it back on those rickety bikes. I mean it’s been a while since I’ve hurt that bad. More lunch, ate even less. The “meat” leaves quite a bit to be desired and honestly? I’m finally tired of rice and beans. <br />And hour and 20 minutes, lunch and a shower later, we met with Don Julio at the bus stop to go to Guapiles to hit the internet café. Bus costs roughly a dollar and takes about 30 minutes. Add an overwhelming heat and two girls who are sore, emotionally as well as physically, and you’ve got yourself a recipe for disaster. Well, not disaster I guess. It’s just not the recipe for a fun outing. <br />Plus I had a splitting headache, so I don’t remember much. I do remember that I got to the internet café and realized I’d forgotten the memory stick with the Finca Log on it. Dumbass. <br />But I got to chat with momala, (glad to know the fam is home safe) and answer a few (though not all) long overdue emails. <br />Afterwards we got ice cream, I remembered to buy a fan and we headed home. <br />Where I set myself up with this little fan attached to the edge of the bed, and the mosquito net all up. I feel like a 9 year old princess in her fort. It’s awesome.<br />Fingers crossed it’ll be a better sleep tonight.Magpiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279681985532754810noreply@blogger.com0