Transplanting a Texan

A Day on the Farm

2009-06-13T17:21:00.000-07:00

Today I decided that I was going to brave the impending thunderstorm and drive about an hour from my apartment to a local farm. After all, it's strawberry picking time, and there's nothing better that I can imagine than fresh-picked strawberries.

The farm is called Alstede, and it's near the town of Chester. It's a beautiful sleepy farm community, and the drive was gorgeous. The farm itself is well taken care of and made up nice for the visitors, and you feel right at home.

I paid 75 cents for a cardboard picking flat, and off I went up the hill to the strawberry rows. I've never seen such beautiful strawberries, fat and juicy and teasing my senses. The whole area smelled of strawberry fragrance. The farm has signs posted warning not to eat any strawberries until your flat has been weighed, and it sure is hard to comply.

It only took me about half an hour to get a whole flat filled, and it came to somewhere around seven pounds of berries. I put them in my car so I could take a look at the animals and shop in the little market they have set up. I petted the goats and talked to the bunnies before wandering into the shop.

The little shop has all kinds of local produce, but also home baked pies, quiches, and breads. They have jams, jellies, and butters made nearby. Fresh apple cider and eggs wait in the coolers. And the best part? The ice cream. A scoop of strawberry cheesecake ice cream was the perfect way to end the day.

A Visit to the Bald Man

2009-06-06T18:23:00.000-07:00

This weekend I decided to hit up the Union Square Greenmarket again to see what goodies they had available. I also had plans to try Amy Ruth’s up in Harlem, but after pushing through the crowds at the market and browsing in Barnes and Noble, I was a little too tired and grumpy to ride the subway that far.

I had seen that a Max Brenner restaurant was somewhere on the square, so I started walking the edges of the market, looking for the restaurant. I finally found out on a rather busy corner, but was surprised to get a table right away.

Max Brenner’s is mainly a chocolate restaurant, although they do have non-chocolate entrees for breakfast/brunch/lunch. I decided on an asparagus crepe, and while delicious, was really more spinach than asparagus. I also got a steaming cup of dark chocolate café mocha with such a rich taste that it was almost shocking.

The highlight of meal, of course, was dessert. I decided on The Golden Heart, a chocolate cake with a molten chocolate center. I also got toffee bananas, ice cream topped with chocolate, and a beaker of caramel sauce on the side. Everything was so rich and delicious, I could have just had dessert.

On the way out, I stopped to admire the offerings in the glass case. Among them was a syringe of liquid chocolate. Now THAT was made by someone that understands a chocolate craving.

Being a Local Foodie

2009-05-11T13:01:00.000-07:00

This past weekend I popped into the Union Square Greenmarket for a look around and to pursue a short list of foodie pleasures. It was my first visit, and I was a little surprised to find that a Falun Gong celebration (World Falun Dafa day) was being held right at the spot the market was supposed to be. I made my way along the edge of the park through a long row of artists and Chinese women with protest fliers before I finally found the beginnings of the market.

I was surprised to note that the market is more than just edible items. In fact, the first stalls had rows of brightly blooming flowers for New York gardens. Since I get approximately zero light in my shadowy apartment, I moved on past to the goodies.

The first item on my wishlist was some artisan cheese. I found a stall offering sheep's milk rounds, and after trying a bite of the blue cheese, I got a slice wrapped to go. Somehow it managed to make its way back to my apartment in New Jersey without being too destroyed.

Even though I was almost overwelmed by the stalls of every type of green imaginable, I also managed to find a place selling ramps, a type of wild leek and a sign of Spring that I wasn't sure would be on offer. I'm still trying to figure out what to cook with them.

I managed to resist the stalls selling fresh baked bread, but couldn't resist the fresh honey, still in the comb, from a New York farm. The man behind the counter was telling another shopper that he used to love giving tours of his bee farm, but due to those individuals that make a living from filing lawsuits, he can no longer let anyone on his property in case of bee sting. Such a shame!

After my little excursion to the Greenmarket, I also hopped the subway to the upper east side to visit a little shop called Kitchen Arts & Letters. This tiny place offers an array of cookbooks unmatched in any other store I know of (except maybe Amazon.com). And it's cute. And it's independently owned. If I lived in New York City, I would soon be broke from trying to acquire the entire collection, but this trip I settled for Pie.

Florida: Day 4

2009-04-30T22:31:00.000-07:00

This morning we got up and drove ourselves over to the Waffle House for a fabulously greasy breakfast. We somehow got confused thinking that they carried chocolate chip pancakes, but in fact, we were looking for chocolate chip waffles. Yes, hence the name, Waffle House. And their grits were good. And so were the hashbrowns. And yes, I ate my weight in cholesterol, but it's vacation, so it doesn't count.

After we filled up, we made our way to the other side of Key West for a look at the local attractions. I decided that even though I dislike Ernest Hemingway's sexist third-grader writing style, that I should at least go see his house, especially since everyone else considers him to be a legend of American literature. (What I really wanted to see was the six-toed cats). We didn't have far to walk, but we did get a little shock when we were charged $12 a person to get in. To see a house. Belonging to a dead guy. Wait...this seems familiar... Oh, right. Graceland is the same way.

The cats were immediately obvious, as there are apparently around fifty of them wandering the rather small property. They have the run of the house, including sleeping on the beds and the furniture that no one else is allowed to touch. The house itself is pretty typical of Florida, open and breezy, lots of windows, and a beautiful garden. It's actually much larger than it looks from the front, as we found out when we wandered through the backyard to find a pool. There were pictures hanging all throughout the house, many of people I had never heard of, but probably should have if I was a proper devotee of modern American literature. But I'm not. 'Cause Hemingway sucks. Hey, at least I got a picture of the room where the "magic" happened.

After we left the Hemingway house, we walked down the street to the Butterfly Conservatory. Once again we paid an outrageous sum for admission, but this time it was at least to see something cool. We walked into their climate controlled butterfly sanctuary and were immediately surrounded by dozens of flittering butterflies. They landed everywhere, on the pathways, on the feeding dishes, on flowers, on branches. And they were stunning in every color imaginable.

As we were walking the pathway, all of sudden we noticed something scuttle by in the shadows of the plants. It was too small to be an animal, too grounded to be a bird, too plump to be a butterfly... Finally we found the perpetrator. They're called Chinese ground quail, and they are just about the cutest little things I have ever, ever seen. I wanted to take one home. Full grown they can fit in your palm, and they were running wild under the bushes, popping out now and then.

After the humidity in the butterfly conservatory started to get to us (they keep it at 85 degrees with something like 90% humidity), we walked a couple of blocks to the farthest southern point of the US. There's a tacky little buoy set up for pictures, but for some reason they have put metal fencing around it so you can't actually pose right next to it. And then you get the lovely fencing in your pictures. Ah, aesthetics.

At that point we had pretty much tired ourselves out for the day, so we hopped back in the car for the drive back to Miami. It took us several hours, but at least we got to stop along the way at the Key Lime emporium, where everything has key lime in it! They even had key lime trees out front that we were seriously considering dragging on the plane home, but finally thought better of it.

Once we got back to our Miami hotel, we decided we wanted a little Cuban food for dinner. So, after a couple of free happy hour drinks, we asked the concierge if there was somewhere authentic nearby. He not only assured us that there was, he even offered to drop us off in the hotel shuttle van. We heartily agreed, so he dropped us off at a lovely place called La Rosa. You can see my blog about dinner here. And being the boring, lazy people we are, we went right back home after dinner to watch a little TV and get ready for bed.

Florida: Day 3

2009-04-29T21:02:00.000-07:00

Today we woke up early, AGAIN, and headed down for our free breakfast of pick-your-own-fillings omelets. The omelets just didn't seem to be as fun or yummy as the day before, but we shrugged it off. Oh, and we finally found the toaster.

After packing up all of our crap, turning in the card keys, and packing the car, we finally headed off for Key West. The highway out of Miami wasn't too bad, but the other side of the road was at a standstill. We passed a man on a grassy incline near the highway being rescued by the ambulance crew that were trying to work around his oddly positioned leg. His motorcycle was still up on the road above him. We passed two more horrendous car wrecks before we started wondering if the highway was cursed. We definitely weren't looking forward to the way back.

After a while on big open highways, we finally wound down onto the smaller highway US 1, which twisted through some grasslands at the edge of the Everglades before dumping us out on the first of the bridges spanning the Keys. And the water? The most beautiful turquoise and periwinkle blue I have ever seen.

We rolled to a stop in front of the visitor's center in Key Largo, hoping to get some information on the islands, and the glass bottom boat rides, and maybe somewhere fun to eat. My dad and sister went inside to get the scoop. Here's the conversation as they told it to me:

Sister: Hi, we'd like to get a map.
Visitor Center Man (VCM): Of what?
Sister: Um, the Keys. That is where we are, right?
VCM: Yup.
Sister: So, is there anything you recommend doing?
VCM: There's not really much to do here.
Sister: What about the glass bottom boat over the coral reef?
VCM: Too windy. Seven foot waves. Zero visibility.
Sister: Any beaches?
VCM: Not really.
Sister: Well, um, thanks for your...help.

So, with our not-really-helpful map, we continued on. My sister had nabbed a little book with restaurant suggestions when the useless man wasn't looking, and we managed to find a little seafood place in Marathon that was recommended. The place was called Keys Fisheries, and it was right on the little marina where the deep sea fishing tours left from. We got to sit on the patio area, looking at the sailboats and wild pelicans as we ate.

After lunch we headed across the Seven Mile Bridge, admiring the scenery of small sandy islands and uncountable palm trees. The old railway bridge is still standing, although the rust is slowly eating the rails away. It's the only blight on an otherwise amazing view.

We finally arrived in Key West around two in the afternoon, and we each decided on an afternoon activity. My sister and mother chose sunbathing. I chose a nap in the air conditioning. Hey, it's my vacation! We all met up later and got ready for a night on the town.

We got dressed in what we thought was casual, but still nice, but the lady at the concierge desk downstairs disabused us of that notion. Apparently in Key West, an open Hawaiian shirt and raggy shorts is casual. Anything nicer is fancy dress. In her own words: "If you're wearing a suit in Key West, you're either on trial or the lawyer." Hmm. Nice to know.

So, being overdressed for just about every restaurant near Duval Street, we set off in the hotel shuttle van for dinner. We were dropped in a nicely populated restaurant/bar area right on a marina. We stopped for some seafood at a promising looking place, but were a little surprised by how noisy it was inside. I especially loved the man at the next table, whose conversation was peppered with so many uses of the f-word, I thought it might be a record. Luckily he left shortly after we arrived.

After dinner we made our way down to Duval Street for a nice after dinner stroll. We stopped over on a small dock area when we realized the sun was getting ready to set. Only after we took our places next to a couple of other tourists did we notice the homeless camp set up twenty feet away. Or the woman passed out in the flower bed. One of the homeless men started offering to take pictures for the tourists, claiming his was a free service offered to help tourists see the beauty of the island. Oh, and of course he accepted any monetary consideration.

Duval Street was alive with all of the tourists, and the bars were already swinging at such an early hour. Motorcyclists rode by on expensive bikes, and tourists rode by on rental bicycles. The air was full of the smell of flowers and the sound of laughter. We stopped at an open air cafe, hoping to get dessert, but when I questioned the hostesss about not eating a full dinner, she told me that they weren't seating people just for dessert. I looked at the empty tables taking up half the restaurant. I brought them to her attention. She finally agreed to seat us. Our waiter was horrified when I told him. We spent $60 on dessert and wine, and our waiter got a nice tip. I'm sure the hostess got a scolding.

By the time we made it back to the shuttle pick up location, we were stuffed like happy pigs and ready for our beds. We couldn't even fit a key lime pie on a stick, which I'm still curious about. But we weren't too full to spot the Waffle House on the way home, which we plotted for breakfast the next morning. Ah, the concerns of the vacationing American.

Florida: Day 2

2009-04-28T20:27:00.000-07:00

Today we woke up early at 7:30 (hey! that's early for vacation!!), and stumbled down to the free breakfast. We filled our little cups with omelet fillings and waited for the result. We ordered greasy bacon. We ate fresh canteloupe. We reveled in the fact that we weren't spending a cent on this meal.

After making it through our morning routines, we somehow made it into the car by 9:30 for our trip to the Miami Zoo. It took us a good thirty minutes to get there, but the parking lot was nearly empty, and the temperature was hovering in the low eighties, so we were happy.

The Zoo extorted almost $20 per person from us for entrance, but just on the other side of the turnstiles, we found an area where you could feed some pelicans. Since my mother loves pelicans more than anything else, except perhaps chocolate cake, we all knew it was a required stop. Five minutes later, a zoo worker showed up to man the fish stand, and I shortly had a cone of raw fish in my hand. My dad and I were the only ones in the family brave enough to touch the slimy little fishes, so we had all the fun of feeding the pelicans. They swarmed the bottom of the patio area with their mouths open and their various amputated limbs splayed (they were rescued birds).

After getting a good squirt of antibiotic hand sanitizer, we wandered down into the zoo proper. We saw the flamingoes, orange and white bengal tigers, and an emaciated monkey. We went into the Australian animals section and were horrified to see a dying New Guinea singing dog. We pointed out to an elderly zoo keeper that the dog appeared to be very unwell, and he responded that she was fine, but just old with arthritis. We responded that maybe she didn't need to be on display if she was going to wobble around in circles like she was drugged with her tongue tip hanging out of her closed mouth.

Hoping for something a little less disturbing, we moved onto the red kangaroos, which were very happily humping the upright tree trunks of their covered area. In the corner, where we could hardly see her, was a mother with a joey in her pouch. Only his long dangly legs were hanging out, with an occasional glimpse of his small head.

We paid extra to take the monorail around the zoo, thinking that was fastest way to see the exhibits. Little did we know that the zoo had strategically planted trees so that it was nearly impossible to see anything. We finally gave up and started walking again. My favorite exhibit was probably the giant tortoises, which were amazingly active. I still can't believe they are able to move those giant bodies on those little stumpy legs.

The last animals we wanted to see were the elephant and the gorilla, so we wound our way up into the African animal section. The gorillas were all passed out, snoozing away the day. How far we are from our ancient relatives! On our way to the elephant, we passed the giraffe exhibit, and watched as some school kids fed the large male branches of leaves right from their hands. Now that's a close encounter. The elephants were covered in mud and relatively uninteresting, so we made our way to the zoo grill for a quick lunch.

On our way out of the zoo, we came upon a fully grown iguana basking in the sun on the paved sidewalk. When I say fully grown, I mean over two feet long. I hope it wasn't an escapee, because it proceeded to stalk the screaming school kids eating lunch under the trees, and I've heard they bite. What a shame for the kids. Not.

After the zoo we drove all the way back up to Miami and made our way over the bridge to South Beach for a little sun and sea and snoozing. My sister, in her skimpy bikini bottoms, got a deal on a bed on the beach with umbrella. It was basically a mattress wrapped in terry towel on a wooden frame on the beach. Fabulous.

We settled in with our sunscreen and various states of undress before we realized that we were surrounded by topless women. Almost every direction included an eyeful of brazen nipples. We were puzzled. Was South Beach a nude beach? Did we miss something? I definitely could have done without that amount of blazing white flesh in my view, so I studiously averted my eyes to my reading material.

At one point while we were sunbathing, a swimmer got caught in the riptide that the lifeguards had been tweeting at people about all afternoon. Sure enough, the lifeguard had to head out into the water with his little orange buoy to drag the idiot back in. I guess the warning flags and the fact that no one else was swimming in that area wasn't sufficient notice for the flailing swimmer that he might not want to be in that particular part of the ocean.

After reaching sufficient internal temperature and declaring ourselves cooked, we wandered back to where we had parked the car. By this point we really needed a bathroom, so we hurried to the one the man in garage pointed out. Only problem? It was a cesspool. It smelled like the worst kind of bowel distress, compounded by summer heat, no toilet tissue, and no soap at the sink. All the girls declined and elected to suffer. My dad did his best not to touch anything.

We took a stroll down Ocean Drive to check out the restaurants in contemplation of dinner. All the eating establishments had spilled out onto the sidewalks, so you literally had to walk through the outdoor dining rooms to continue down the street. As you approached each new place, a set of hosts or hostesses was prepared to shove a menu in your face and talk nonstop as they tried to lead you to a table. Every place claimed drink specials. We finally settled on a nice place called Cafe Medi, where a giant margarita cost $27. But I didn't get one. Unfortunately.

We had a leisurely dinner, complete with lots of people watching, including the strange homeless man on a bicycle with a dressed up chihuahua in his basket and the obviously not American diner with a huge hooked nose wearing plaid shorts and a striped non-matching top. And we loved watching the police tow a van that was parked in front of a fire hydrant, especially when the owner showed up after the fact and whipped out his cell phone. Probably calling the same police that had just towed his car. I can just imagine it: "Someone stole my van that was parked illegally! How dare they!"

I will admit that once we got back to the hotel, we basically crashed like a bunch of losers and went to sleep at ten. We skipped the South Beach overpriced club scene and opted for fluffy pillows. Now that's what I call a vacation.

Florida: Day 1

2009-04-27T21:48:00.000-07:00

Today I left New Jersey for my long trek down the east coast to Miami. Since I hate Newark airport, I elected to take the winding train ride down the Pascack Valley line to Secaucus, then switch to another line for Newark airport, then hop the monorail to the terminal. Time from leaving the house to arrival at EWR? One and a half hours. But at least I'm being green!!

When I checked in, I was given the option of upgrading to first class for $135. Boy, was that tempting, especially since I was using a free flight and essentially paid nothing, but I declined. It's only a two and half hour flight, so why would I need first class? I hurried over to security to make sure I wasn't delayed, and then proceeded to pull everything out of my bag to comply with TSA requirements. Laptop out. Small toiletry bottles out. Syringes of prescription blood thinner and note from doctor out. Sweater off. Shoes off. Cute woven beach hat off. Earrings off. Sometimes I wonder why I pack. I should just show up with everything in my hands.

The plane actually boarded on time, but when I got to my assigned aisle seat, a man was already in it. I had to point out that he must have accidentally on purpose claimed the aisle seat. He moved to the middle without a comment, but he spent the rest of the flight with his elbow in my side and his legs spread wide. The lady by the window and I were both forced to sit sideways to accomodate the extra air his groin obviously needed. I think if airlines are going to charge overweight people extra, they should also charge extra for men that need to sit with their legs splayed.

Shock of shocks, the plane took off on time, which I think is a record for Newark. The plane itself looked like it was about thirty years old. The strips of insulation between the ceiling tiles were falling out, and the TV monitors had aged to a nice American cheese yellow. Every time the pilot revved the engines, the entire plane shook like a gelatin. I've had quite a lot of experience flying, but I was honestly wondering if the plane was going to make it. I think the hand-me-down plane I flew from Cairo to Abu Simbel was in better condition.

We arrived without incident (after the pilot smacked the swaying plane frame onto the ground as hard as he could while landing), but then I discovered that some delinquent child had stuck their white peppermint chewing gum under the seat in front of me. My sweater, properly stowed under the seat, was now full of gum.

I rolled my sweater into a ball and disembarked. After walking the two miles from the gate to the baggage claim area of Miami airport, I found the courtesy phone for the hotel. I called for the airport van, but they told me I had just missed it, and it would be another half an hour. I called my parents, who were already in the area and in a rental car, and they swung by to pick me up. The traffic was worse than awful, so it's a good thing the hotel was only a couple of miles away. By the time we arrived, our main concern was the free manager's happy hour at the hotel. Let the vacation begin!

After multiple drinks to help us forget that the hotel was charging $15 a night to park (it apparently was in the fine print on hotels.com), we were feeling pretty good. So good that we knew our dinner options were limited to whatever was in the hotel. We ended up at the "steakhouse" downstairs, where we were given overpriced bad food. Everything was lukewarm. Most of it was various versions of bad. Being intoxicated, we had no problem telling the manager his food sucked, and being from Texas, when we say your steak sucks, it really sucks. He sent over a free dessert platter. We discovered that Miami residents apparently like hot, liquidy creme brulee.

But most importantly, we laughed. We loosened up. We were damn glad to be away from a desk, away from phone calls, away from urgent and immediately and please respond. We were drinking free drinks and eating free bad dessert. It was beautiful.

Spring At Last! Or Not...

2009-03-20T12:44:00.000-07:00

Well, today is the first day of Spring, the vernal equinox. So, I was more than ready to start seeing the trees budding and birds tweeting and grass growing. Instead I woke up to a snowstorm. Big fat flakes were drifting down in a snowy cloud. It was pretty, but really, after five months of the stuff, I'm DONE. Bring on the warm weather!

Radiator Bathing?

2009-02-20T12:40:00.000-08:00

Anyone with cats is used to them finding the warmest, sunniest patch of carpet or windowsill on which to nap. The only problem with my apartment in New Jersey is that the sun very rarely makes a strong enough appearance to make patches on the floor. But my brilliant cats quickly discovered another way to enjoy their naps...next to the radiator. Now I catch them radiator bathing any time the temperature dips.

Home for the Holidays

2008-12-23T18:00:00.000-08:00

Thanks to the openmindedness of the management at my job, I was actually able to drive home to Texas for a couple of weeks for Christmas. I had some fears about actually making it home when it started to snow in eastern Pennsylvania, but luckily I made it southwest before the storm really settled in. And when I finally made it across the state line from Arkansas into Texas, I could feel the warm breezes. I could smell the open fields and the cattle. It was an amazingly homey smell, and I felt instantly relaxed.

I had to work from my bedroom, but I have to admit that watching the ducks out on the lake settle on our neighbor's boathouse is a sight I infinitely prefer to the cream and blue walls of my corporate cubical. The smells of cookies and the sound of holiday music also didn't hurt. The only problem? My mother's satellite internet is so slow that I had to revert to some ancient bit of programming in order to gain access to my email account, and then spent the whole time home fighting to get my emails downloaded before the connection timed out.
The other bit of fun we had for Christmas was visiting my sister's apartment for a little family party. The highlight of the event was when her large shelter-rescued tabby cat emerged in his Christmas shirt. I don't think I've laughed that hard in a long time. It's so nice to come back home and relax for the holidays.

Guatemala: Day 9

2008-12-01T23:49:00.000-08:00

Today was my final morning in Guatemala before heading back home. I woke up for breakfast and spent some time rearranging my suitcases so that everything would make it back in one piece (hopefully). Once I was satisfied, I went with my friend and her mother back to the main market in Guatemala City for one last walkthrough. I was looking for a painting of Antigua, but I doubted I could find anything similar to what I had seen in the actual town. I also needed ingredients for mole and some tortilla napkins.

We wandered first into the food section to bargain with the sellers and see who had the cheapest chocolate tablets. After finding what I was looking for, we proceeded to look for the sesame seeds and pepitas I needed. The pepitas didn't look very good, so we passed. After searching for quite a while for tortilla napkins, I finally agreed to take the ones that my friend's mother had purchased. She said she would find some more in her extended stay in the country.

Once I had found what I needed, I asked about getting something for the woman who had allowed us to stay in her house during our visit. My friend's mother told me that she would be very happy to receive some ham. I personally was thinking a big Easter ham, but no, it was ham lunchmeat. I think I spent a total of seven dollars on a bag of it. On the way home, I learned that ham (or jamon) is very rare and out of the price range of most Guatemalans. There are many students that learn about it in school, but never actually get to taste it. I was pretty shocked at this revelation. Think of all the ham sandwiches I had turned down as a child!

When we got back, I gave the woman my ham present, and she seemed very happy. And lucky for me, she had sent her housegirl out to purchase the sesame seeds and pepitas I needed for a mole recipe. We had a quick lunch and waited for my friend's uncle who would drive me to the airport. He showed up late (Guatemala time), and I started to worry about making my flight. Adding to the trouble, the traffic was impossible. I got to the airport with an hour to spare.

Of course the line at the airline counter was four rows deep, and it took half an hour to even reach the front. As I passed over my luggage, I was convinced that it would never make the flight on time. I also had to rush to the outgoing flight fee counter to pay my security inspection fee. When I finally reached security, I was starting to panic. It didn't help that a group of Japanese tourists were in front of me, and from all appearances, they didn't speak Spanish or English. The conversations with the security team proceeded by gestures. Somehow I managed to make it through before my flight left.

The flight to El Salvador wasn't that bad, but once I got to the airport there, I had a few hours of layover before my flight back home. I got off my Guatemala flight and was surprised that I had to go back through security even though I had gone through in Guatemala. There were no signs about water bottles (I had gotten some at the Guatemala airport), so I figured it was fine to continue on with mine. No such luck. The woman at security stopped me and demanded that I give her my bottle cap. Yes, just the cap. I could keep the bottle and the water in it. I was confused, but handed over the cap. To this day, I still don't know why the cap was illegal but not the rest of the bottle.

The flight back to New York was uneventful, and my friend's uncle was waiting for me when I finally got in around one in the morning, exhausted.

Guatemala: Day 8

2008-11-30T23:32:00.000-08:00

Today we got up at a normal hour for once and made our way right downstairs to the restaurant from the previous night. After coveting my friend’s pancakes from the night before, I was anxious to get a taste for breakfast. The only problem? The restaurant was completely boarded up still. The brother’s restaurant next door was open though, and apparently they had managed to find a canister of propane overnight. We quickly sat down, and nearly everyone ordered pancakes.

The pancakes were good, but they were less fluffy and delicious-looking than the pancakes from the closed restaurant, but at least it was light out, and we could see the lake from our seats. Little indigenous girls kept coming up to the rail of the porch to sell keychains with clay animals dangling from them. My friend bought her niece one for something like 25 cents, which she then clutched like a precious jewel for the next couple of hours.

After breakfast, my friend’s aunt and uncle went off to church, and we went with her mother, her niece, and her niece’s grandmother on a trip out on the lake. The Spanish speakers bartered with one of the young men on a price for the boat ride, and they finally worked out that we would get to go to another village and then ride around for a total of one hour on the boat. We had to jump down off the pier into the cheap fiberglass boat since the pier was obviously not meant for mooring, which seemed a little dangerous, but no one broke a leg.

We shot off onto the glassy surface of the lake, pleased that the fog from the day before had cleared, giving us a clear view of the three distant volcanoes, Atitlan, Toliman, and San Pedro. The boat took us a short distance away to the village of Santa Catarina, a town known for its indigenous weavers. The children were already waiting for us at the pier, but we made our way up the hill to where the older women were displaying their wares and using waist looms. The colors of the weaving were bright, in geometric designs. When you offered a price they didn’t like, they’d tell you no with a sad face, as if saying “I’m sorry, but you’re being cheap, and I have no food for dinner tonight if I sell it for that”. If you walked away, they reconsidered.

At the top of the hill, you could see the village stretching away up the hillside. We walked a short distance to peek into a church, but then made our way back down the hill. It was hard to catch the women at their work, because they would immediately remove their looms to try and hawk their goods to you. As we climbed back in the boat, the children followed us down the pier, still trying to convince us to buy something.

After we got in the boat, we found out that we had been conned, and that the boat was taking us right back where we started. No cruise on the lake. The money we paid was for one hour total, including the time we spent on land at the village. Once we got back to Panajachel, the older women wanted to hunt down the young man that had deceived us, but of course he was long gone. We went back up to our hotel room to wait for the churchgoers. My friend’s niece brought out some coconut ice cream that her father had made with the leftovers from the fresh coconuts we had eaten earlier in the week. The ice cream was icy and not very sweet, but still good and refreshing.

Once everyone was back, we crowded into the car and wound our way back out of Panajachel. We started climbing back up the hills that we had come down the previous day, with the hairpin turns and everything. At one point we stopped at a waterfall tumbling down a cliff where some indigenous children were playing in the pool below. After a while we made our way through back alleys of towns and empty roads until we reached Chichicastenanga, a town renowned for its market.

We had to park on a steep hill on a road that wasn’t very wide to begin with, so immediately I wondered how much of the vehicle would still be there when we returned. We made our way down the hill and into the outside fringes of the market where things like used shoes and rusted farm tools were spread on blankets. I wasn’t getting a good feeling about the market. The closer we got to the center of the market, the more and more people pushed against us, brushing past you in a way that made you clutch your valuables more tightly.

As we neared the main church, Santo Tomas, the smell of burning incense and smoke was so strong, I choked on the air. The market was very obviously meant for the locals, with a merchant sifting and measuring dry corn in one corner, and another pushing pottery bowls and jugs in another. Even the fabrics were not as bright and well-made as those in the other markets we had visited. It was a bit of a disappointment. The only clue that Chichi was a tourist spot were the numerous vendors with brightly colored masks of grotesque faces for sale.

After we pushed our way through the market, we wound over to a place called the Mayan Inn. From one of the balconies, you could get a clear shot of the graveyard on the edge of the town. The graveyard, not normally a tourist stop in other countries, was a highlight in this area due to the bright colors that each of the sepulchers was painted. It was like a pastel box of crayons on the hill.

Satisfied with our pictures, we wandered back out into the main market only to decide that the dark, quiet dining room in the inn was preferable to the noisy, smoky, quite possibly unsanitary, market eateries. So we came back and proceeded to eat a three course dinner of traditional Mayan favorites while the tame parrots called outside in the courtyard. Finished with lunch, we decided to start making our way back through the market to the car.

After a brief interlude which involved numerous exchanges back and forth of prices, and several episodes of walking away, I managed to purchase a handmade runner for about $35 that is probably worth about $100. The women bought some pottery to use in the kitchen, and we got some flannel blankets for another related family group that would likely consider them a luxury. Amazingly the car was still there, and we made it out of Chichi in one piece.

On our way out of town, we stopped at another scenic overlook. Once again children crowded the car selling sodas, but these children were different somehow, more tragically poor, more rundown and sad, with none of the cheerful optimism of youth. I stepped out of the car to get a look at what lay below us, and was startled to see an old woman tending sheep on the cliffside. She had made each of her sheep a bright woven bag for his feed.

In order to get back to Guatemala City, we had to make our way over the mountain range that lies between the two cities. Unfortunately, a dense fog was beginning to roll in just about the time we were cresting the slope. The fog was so dense, we could barely see twenty five feet in front of the bumper. After half an hour of zero visibility, combined with my continued weakness, I fell asleep, and didn’t wake up until we were in a traffic jam in some nowhere town for no reason. I’ve never seen so many cars in the middle of nowhere before. You would have thought it was New York rush hour.

We finally made it back into town around seven at night, and we had to first work on finding an internet connection for me to use. I had classwork due for my online degree. We drove to a mall, and parked in the underground garage in the tiniest parking space I think I have ever seen. We hurried inside and started looking for an internet cafe while all the stores started to close. We finally found a security guard that told us that there might be a cafe in the mall/hotel next door. We left the car where it was and walked over to the next building. Luckily the security guard was right, and we found a still-open internet cafe in a top corner of the place. After fighting with the Spanish keyboard, I finally managed to get my work done.

At that point it was nine o'clock and we still hadn’t eaten dinner yet, so we stopped at a restaurant called La Hacienda for some Mexican food. I got fajitas for the first time in weeks, but the cheese I asked for on the side was some sort of melted monstrosity that quickly solidified and cost about four times what it was worth. When we got back to the house, I was more than happy to fall into bed and sleep, stomach and camera both full.

Guatemala: Day 7

2008-11-29T23:36:00.000-08:00

Today we got up at a decent hour to get ready for our trip to the area around Lake Atitlan to the west. After a late breakfast, my friend’s uncle showed up a little late with his daughter and mother to pick us up for the drive over the mountains and out to the lake.

First we had to stop about halfway there to pick up my friend’s aunt in Chimaltenango where she was attending a Mormon retreat for the weekend. My friend’s uncle apologized for picking us up late, as he had driven early that morning (around 2 am) to the retreat site. Apparently it was very cold in the area that night, and many of the attendees were so poor they barely had clothes to cover them. Some were getting frostbite. I believe he took blankets up to the group, and I applaud him for his compassionate nature (especially at two in the morning), but I can’t help but wonder. Why was the Mormon church holding a retreat in the freezing cold of the mountain night for people with no clothes when they could have just as easily spent the money on BLANKETS. Priorities, people! You can’t pray very well when you’re freezing to death. In addition, the retreat site was locked down like Fort Knox. Only true believers could enter or leave. Needless to say, we stayed in the car while my friend’s uncle went to look for his wife. The security does beg the question: what were they doing that was so secret, no outsiders could see? Sacrificing street dogs? Then again, the Mormon temple in Salt Lake City is off limits to nonbelievers, so it’s nice to see the same paranoia has been passed down the Guatemalan branch of the religion.

At this point I should probably also admit that due to the growing bacteria population in my body, I spent most of the hours from Guatemala City to Panajachel in a state of semi-consciousness. I slept off and on, fitfully, occasionally waking to see the hairpin turns we were taking down through the mountains. The car in front of us was towing another vehicle, and the road was so steep, we could smell his brakes burning. But out to the sides, the countryside side rolled away, green and fresh, with occasional bare cliffs of white limestone. It was actually quite lovely.

About twenty minutes before we arrived at our destination, we stopped at a scenic overlook that had been paved into the mountainside. Poor indigenous families had set up makeshift stalls selling cheap knickknacks in the hopes that some tourist would buy something when they stopped. Children swarmed the car, begging us to buy little clay turtles or bottled Guatemalan sodas. Looking out past the stalls, you could see the silvery edge of the lake down below through the mist, with villages crowded against the shore. A thick cloud of fog lay over the entire lake, and the distant volcano cones were all but obscured from our view. It was a bit of a disappointment, since you could tell the view would be stunning on a clear day.

Due to our late departure and our hour layover in Chimaltenango, we didn’t arrive in Panajachel until afternoon, after two. The streets of the town were narrow and meandering, paved with cobblestones. Lots of people were on the streets, women with baskets on their heads, men unabashedly washing our Jeep drive by (a bit of a luxury in Guatemala). We originally started looking for a nice resort hotel that my friend’s godmother had stayed in, but the posada that we were directed to looked a little older and quite a bit more rundown than the pictures we had seen. We continued along a street that ran past the shore of Lake Atitlan, until we came to a little hotel called Casa Ramos. It looked a little dirty from the outside, but the rooms were clean and the tile was new, so we took the rooms.

By this point even I was starving, despite my chronic nausea, so we decided to walk across the street to a restaurant overlooking the lake. We had to push past several young men trying to sell us water cruises across the lake. It was too late in the day to contemplate the journey, so we moved on. The restaurant we chose had an open wooden deck that overlooked the lake, and a nice breeze was blowing. The sun would peep out from behind the clouds every so often, throwing a ray of light down onto the water. We ordered fruity and flowery drinks and fried fish pulled from the lake. It was plain and simple and delicious.

After lunch we decided to just take a walk around the town since it was too late to take a boat tour. Apparently the currents on the lake become dangerous towards evening, so all tours end around four in the afternoon. As we walked down the cobblestone streets, we realized that we were walking into a market area that had taken over a main street for the day, and feeling full and happy, I was ready for some shopping. At one large stall, outfitted like a Persian desert tent, I bought a beautiful handmade patchwork bed comforter for almost nothing. Women barely over four foot tall plied me with small handicrafts.

As we came onto the wide main street, we could tell it must be a special kind of market day. A group of young indigenous men and women, boys and girls, were playing marimbas that had been set up near the street. They were dressed in traditional outfits, and we stopped to watch. Further down the street, a man was setting off rocket fireworks that startled the crowd and then made them clap.

We walked and shopped until it started to get dark, and then we headed back down towards our hotel. The night was getting chilly, and my friend started to look at each street vendor’s stall for atole, a thick, hot sweet corn drink. It was so popular with the crowd that several of the first stalls we visited were already sold out. We also stopped to sample some cheese pupusas hot off the griddle.

By the time we finally made it back down near our hotel, most of the businesses and stalls were closed for the evening. We still needed to eat dinner, so we asked at a restaurant right near our hotel. The proprietor told us that he was out of propane for the stove, but we could go right next door to his brother’s restaurant. I didn’t feel up to a whole dinner, so I ordered cream of mushroom soup, later to be found was made from a packet of powder, and some French fries. I know, great dinner. But I was looking for PLAIN. Queasy stomachs need PLAIN. My friend ordered a beautiful stack of pancakes that the rest of us eyed hungrily, and we all resolved to eat a stack of pancakes for breakfast in the morning.

Now full of random tidbits, we pulled ourselves up the hill to our rooms. After showering, we fell into our beds and watched Spanish-language TV until we couldn’t keep our eyes open any longer.

Guatemala: Day 6

2008-11-28T23:31:00.000-08:00

Today I was barely successful at peeling myself out of bed, even though I got to sleep in for once. After walking, hunched like an old man and crying at every step, down the stairs of the posada (of course my room was on the third floor), I managed to sit down and eat a meager continental breakfast.

I was soon joined by my friend and her mother, and we crossed the street to the local market to do some shopping. The market was busy, like many of the others we had been to, and it was full of bright woven arts and clothes. We also saw many vendors selling beautiful oil paintings of Antigua itself, with flowers spilling from windows and bright orange suns setting in the distance. I noticed that one stand consisted of just several cheap plastic telephones, and my friend explained that most people can't afford a home phone, so they come to the market to use these. Whatever happened to pay phones? My friend's mother wanted to buy a shirt, and when she went to try it on, they arranged a hanging sheet that she wrapped around her (her daughter held it up) to keep anyone from peeking. Now that's a new way to set up a fitting room.

Once we had satisfied our curiousity in the Antigua market, we took a tuk tuk to the next town over, called San Felipe de Jesus. Gone were the crowds from Antigua, and we took our leisurely time exploring yet another market, but this time it was packed with candy stalls. Guatemalan candy is often based on fruits that are locally available, like coconut, and cooked sweetened milk. No chocolate here. Some women from the market were cooking their lunch on a grill they had obviously dragged all the way from home. A very old and obviously poor woman was wandering around, pushing prints of paintings in front of people, insistantly asking them to buy one. I wasn't surprised when she asked us, but then she wandered over to the women cooking lunch, who were probably only minutely less poor than she was.

After poking around in the market, we decided to get some lunch at a local restaurant. When we walked inside, it was empty and dark, but the waitress was attentive, so we sat down. After we had ordered, a wandering mariachi band came in, and we payed them to play for us. We had them play until they were practically hoarse because it was so much fun. After we ate our lunch, we wandered over to the church for a peek. Apparently this church was rebuilt back in 1850 using stone from the church of La Merced back in Antigua. After a local family came in to actually pray, instead of snooping around, we decided to head back outside.

We then had to take a tuk tuk back into Antigua so we could make it to the tourism police's office for our tour up to Cerro de la Cruz, the Hill of the Cross. We managed to find the police station, and it turns out we were one of the first ones there. The police promised that they would drive us up if not many people showed up. I cursed every new tourist that wandered through the gates. And in case you were wondering, you need a police escourt so the bandits in the hills nearby don't mug and rape you.

About twenty minutes after the time the tour should have left, we started our walk. Hey, it's Guatemala time, what can you do? The walk through the town wasn't bad, but then we started on a steep road. I was still managing to keep up (despite the screams of agony coming from my broken and battered body), when we reached the steps. All 300 of them. I was exhausted just looking at them. Slowly, very slowly, I started up. About halfway I was ready to throw up. My body was in full protest. It was sick and tired, and it wasn't going to take anymore. I don't know how I managed to get up that hill, but somehow I did, only to find that fog had rolled in and obliterated pretty much any nice view we might have had. The volcano in the distance was obscured. The town was partially obscured. I was mad.

I sat down at the top of the hill and took some pictures, but mostly I just watched the others. There was a group at the top when we had arrived, but they looked like locals and hadn't come with the tourism police. One was in a band that played indigenous music, and he invited us to come hear him that evening. Too bad we were planning on leaving.

After I pulled myself back down the hill, we started back through the city. We passed a street that is considered to be the prettiest street in Antigua (due to its cobbled streets and greenery), called Alameda de Santa Rosa. It was rather lovely, with the horsecarts clopping down the street. We then wound our way to a church we had missed the previous day: Iglesia y Convento de Nuestra Señora de la Merced. The church was built in 1548 and reinforced against earthquakes in 1767. It is really stunning, with its bright yellow paint and enormous amount of white detailed carvings covering nearly the entire front of the church. There were tons of people out front, and some indigenous families had set up food stands. It was starting to become obvious that wherever there was church, food and commerce weren't far away.

After taking our pictures, we caught a tuk tuk back to the posada. We called our Guatemala City cab driver to arrange our trip back, and then we started walking towards the city center to find something to do for a couple of hours. As we were walking, we stopped by a silver and jade store called Pablo's Silver Shop, as I had planned from almost the beginning to get something resembling jewelry for my mother. Little did we know that we had walked into an amazing little store.

The man running the store was young, practically our age, and he explained (in perfect English) that he had taken over the store from his grandfather since he was the only one in the family that was interested in learning the trade. All the pieces in the store were made by hand, and he even took us in the back workroom to show us how everything was created. My friend even picked out her own jade stone, which was then turned into a bracelet on the spot. We thanked the man profusely, and then we continued toward the main park.

We noticed that there was a rather large group gathering in Parque Central, so we headed in that direction to see what was going on. There were no lights in the park, so we pushed our way through the crowds in the dark. The only lights were in the cathedral, which was lovely lit up in the dark. We moved through the crowds towards a stage that had been set up, complete with a group of marimba players, waiting to perform. We had to wait through some very long speeches by government officials, but we finally figured out that the fiesta was in celebration of the start of the Christmas season. After the final speech, they flipped a switch, and strings of white Christmas lights up in all the trees flashed on as the marimbas players started some traditional songs.

We were listening to the marimbas when we heard loud cracks from another part of the crowd. They were lighting firecrackers, so we went over to get a look. A man wearing an open box-like frame on his head came running through the crowd, and to my surprise, fireworks were exploding off of the frame, right near his head. I was told this was called a torito (little bull). The crowd ate it up.We watched as long as we could, but had to hurry back to catch our cab ride.

When we got back to the posada, we sat in the waiting area and started talking with the desk clerk. Turns out that he was one of the many children that live with their parents at the city dump. A program associated with the posada had pulled him out of the dump at 16 years old, given him an education, and helped him get a job. He was also learning English, and he had written an entire essay which won a contest. As he was telling us about his life (complete with a drunken father and an angry mother), he started to cry. What really got to me was when he told us that his mother hadn't wanted him to go to school because he was expected to work, but the program had paid his mother 200 quetzals (about $28), and she agreed he could go, but also disowned him at the same time. He was tortured by the memory that his mother "sold" him for $28.

After the emotion of his story, I was more than happy to crawl into the cab for the ride home, even if it was two hours late in arriving. Unfortunately, the lovely virulent bacteria that had just recently taken up residence in my digestive system made the ride home, and the next days, very close to miserable.

Guatemala: Day 5 (AKA The Day I Almost Died, Or At Least Wanted To)

2008-11-27T23:59:00.000-08:00

Today we had to get up early so we could catch a ride with our dedicated taxi driver into Antigua. I had thought it was much further away, but it only took about an hour to get there in the light early morning traffic.

After finding our posada (a Central American version of the bed and breakfast) and dumping our overnight luggage, we started walking the streets of Antigua to get oriented. Just wandering in the city, you stumble upon amazing architecture and abandoned buildings that were obviously showpieces in their time. At one point I looked up and realized I was passing the remains of a Jesuit school that I later identified as Convento de la Compania de Jesus, which was built starting in 1626 on the remains of the house of Bernal Diaz del Castillo.

We stopped at a travel agency that was advertising tours of a volcano called Pacaya. The price didn't seem that bad, so we signed up to go that afternoon. We had gotten information from a coworker back in the US that it was easy to climb, and I was excited to see actual lava. By this time our stomachs were growling, so we stopped at a small restaurant for breakfast. We munched away on traditional fare to the sounds of American pop music. After breakfast we walked over to the Central Square where we saw the Catedral de Santiago, an imposing white structure that was completed in 1680. We also got a look at the Palacio de los Capitanes Generales, with its colonaded arches.

Avoiding the buzz of traffic around the square, we made our way down another street and over to the Universidad de San Carlos. The building was one of the first universities in the Americas (it became a university in 1676), but moved to Guatemala City in 1776 after surviving the earthquake of 1773. The building now houses a museum, but we didn't have time to look around inside.

Next we came to Iglesia de Hermano Pedro and the attached Hospital de San Pedro, constructed in 1654. The church is a lovely shade of canary yellow with embellishments in white, and very obviously still in use. I can't even imagine what it must be like to go to a church that old. It is named after Hermano Pedro de San José Betancourt, a Franciscan monk that was noted as a healer.

We continued wandering past the church towards Santa Clara convent, completed in 1734, but abandoned after the earthquake of 1773. We also watched the indigenous women as we walked along. Most were selling necklaces and other trinkets, but some had fresh fruit in large baskets that they managed to balance on their heads. We also came upon a group that was washing laundry in La Union Tank, which dates from 1853, in front of Santa Clara.

Realizing it would take us just about forever to walk around the city and see all the ruins, we decided to take a carriage ride around the city. Our guide was a young boy, dressed to the nines in tight jeans and cowboy boots. We passed Iglesia de San Jose el Viejo, completed in 1761, which you can tell has taken a beating from the frequent earthquake activity in the area, but it was still stunning despite the damage. It was restored in 1942, and it is now used just for special events, so no peeking inside.

Further along we got a view of the Arco de Santa Catalina, built in 1693, which connected a convent to a school on the other side of the street. The whole area of Antigua was very active religiously back in its heyday, so there are convents and churches everywhere. The next ruin we passed was the church of Santa Teresa, built back in the late 1600's. The church has been hit by multiple earthquakes, and its final collapse was back in 1773.

The last major spot we passed on our ride was Iglesia y Convento de las Capuchinas. It's a church and convent, apparently completed in 1736, but damaged, once again, in the earthquake of 1773.

Once we finished our ride, we made our way over to Iglesia de San Francisco, where Hermano Pedro de San José Betancourt is buried. The church is still in use, and some of the gardens on the side are rather beautiful. My friend's mother bought a rosary at the church store that is made from the esquisuchil tree, a rare species planted in Antigua first by Hermano Pedro, which is thought to have healing properties. We wanted to peek inside, but mass was being held, so we stayed outside.

After the last church we decided it was time for lunch. My friend's mother had good memories of eating at Hotel Antigua (now Porta Hotel Antigua) when she was a child, so we decided to go ahead. The entrance to the hotel was decorated with traditional sawdust designs you normally only see during Holy Week, and the end of the pathway was decorated with a fountain. Since it was Thanksgiving Day in the US, they had an American buffet, but we opted to go for the traditional entrees. It was delicious, and the beautiful view of the tropical pool area didn't hurt either.

We quickly ran back to the main square to pick up some sandwiches for our volcano climb, and then worked our way back to our posada to wait for our ride. The van showed up already loaded with people, so we quickly climbed in and set off on our two-hour journey to the volcano. I spent most of the time nodding off, but woke when we pulled into a gas station along the way. I was stunned by how beautiful the hills in the area were. Too bad some crazy man went into the ladies restroom and stole the toilet paper right in front of us. No one dared follow him into the men's restroom to retrieve it, so we had to dig for tissue in our bags.

When we got to the entrance to the volcano, we each had to pay an entrance fee. People that are citizens of Guatemala get a discount to see local points of interest, so my friend and her mother paid a lesser amount. As soon as the Italian woman sitting up front found out, she spent the next twenty minutes berating the driver about why she had to pay a higher price than a local would. She just wouldn't let it go. I knew right then that we were in for it.

We wound our way up the mountainside, past farms and villages, until we reached the highest point a car can go. We all piled out of the van, and immediately we were swarmed with children offering to rent us walking sticks for five quetzals and wanting us to ride their horses for 100. Our guide wasn't much help, and he just seemed to wander around. We were told the hike to the top was over 3 kilometers. That sounded like a great distance to ride a horse, and eventually we were on our horses and ready to go.

The horses started winding their way up through the heavily wooded hills, going up and down small hills as we went. The Italian woman, who was walking, stumbled and almost fell. Several locals insisted she ride a horse since it was pretty apparent she wasn't going to make it otherwise. I got to spend the rest of the ride listening to her cry in panic every time the horse went down a small incline. At one point she even insisted on getting off the horse, walking down the small hill, and then getting back on. And she couldn't get back on herself. She had to have several locals pushing her into the saddle while trying not to touch any part of her that might get them in trouble. If I wasn't so disgusted by this petulant, spoiled woman, it would have been funny.

At one point we came to a level area, and you could see the Volcan de Agua clearly. It was a stunning view, and I was glad I was up on a horse, above all the shrubs down lower. The sun was starting in its arc towards setting, and everything was very quiet and still.

After a very long ride, we came out into an area where no plants were growing, and the dirt changed to black sand. The slope up to the volcano was barren like the surface of the moon. The horse could only go halfway up the bare slope, and when they stopped, we were required to climb the short remaining distance to where the lava was. I thought, no big deal, I've had a rest all this time, let's get started. WRONG.

The volcanic sand and rocks made walking into a near impossibility, forget climbing. Everytime I put a foot down, all the rocks under my feet would tumble out. It was like walking on marbles. The slope itself was almost 90 degrees, and I soon found myself crawling and clawing my way to the top. The air was thin, and it was hard to get a good breath. I had to keep stopping, but I could never catch my breath. Several times I considered just going right back down again, without looking at anything.

The man that had led my horse up the mountain came up and started helping us to climb. It was a little better with someone else, in addition to the walking stick, to lean on, but I still struggled. I seriously was beginning to think I was just going to die there. When we got near the top, I started to feel the heat coming off the rocks under my feet. At one point the man pointed to a red glow between the rocks I was standing on. It was lava. Right under where I was walking. That really couldn't have been safe.

Finally we reached the top, but I was so exhausted and hated the volcano so much that I didn't care. Somehow I managed to pull my camera out and snap some photos. I just wanted the day to be over. I was so grateful to start down, until I realized that down was even worse.

The sand that had slipped out from under my feet going up now made it almost impossible to get any sort of footing going down. If you put your hands down to catch yourself, the jagged volcano rocks sliced into your fingers. I constantly felt like I was going to fall, and once I started, I knew I wouldn't be able to stop. My descent was a controlled slide down the volcano. I was never so happy to see a horse in my life.

When we got to the horses we were told we needed to use our flashlights if we wanted to go down on foot instead. I looked at my friend and she looked back at me. No one had told us to bring flashlights. The sun was quickly fading. It didn't take long for us to decide to ride the horses back down, and somehow I managed to pull myself into the saddle.

The ride down was actually pretty enjoyable despite my total exhaustion. The night sky was very dark, and a million stars were shining. It was silent except for the sound of the horses picking their way down the incline. Then off in the distance I could hear some of the people that were walking down, swinging their flashlights, whistling the Heigh-Ho song that the seven dwarfs sing in Disney's Snow White.

We finally made it back to where the van was parked, and I was ready to crash. I handsomely tipped the man that had practically pulled me up the volcano and then kept me from tumbling back down. We heard a whispering that the Italian woman had managed to get herself bashed up by falling on the way down, and I was really expecting the worst. She came down a little later than the others, but with no major injury that I could see.

After getting a Gatorade at the little store and avoiding some of the local stray dogs who were fighting, I made it back into our van for the ride back to Antigua. Some of the locals rode with us partway down the mountain. The ride back was a bit of a blur due to my exhaustion, but I was very happy to see the front of my posada again. As we went inside, exhaustion was battling with hunger for my attention. I finally agreed with my friend that we would take some time to clean ourselves up, and then meet back downstairs to find some dinner.

When I got up to my room, I was horrified by what I saw in the mirror. I looked like I hadn't slept in a week, nor showered. When I pulled off my shoes, volcanic sand poured onto the flour. Black powder was on everything I owned. I just managed to comb my hair and shake out some sand before making my way downstairs.

We started walking on the now nearly-deserted streets, looking for a restaurant that was still open. We passed a couple, but they mostly looked like wine bars. Almost to the main square we finally found a small place that was still open, but we were the only customers. I ordered a sandwich, but was almost too tired to eat. I'm not sure how I made it through the meal. We stumbled back to our posada, and after a hot shower, the bed felt like a cloud in Heaven.

Guatemala: Day 4

2008-11-26T23:10:00.000-08:00

Today was designed to be a lazy day for us, especially after the exhausting climbing and hiking we did at Tikal. We stuck close to home in Guatemala City and mostly visited my friend's relatives in the city. Before we went out, I spent some time exploring the house we had been staying in. It looked small from the outside, but it wound around snake-like to a back garden area open to the elements. Also, the old woman we were staying with had an impressive collection of alcohol bottles. The dining room was cluttered but homey in a strange my-eggs-are-sitting-out-on-the-counter-not-in-the-refrigerator kind of way.

First we walked the short distance past the pinata stores and bakeries to the main square where the National Palace and the Metropolitan Cathedral stand. We had plans to visit the museum housed in the palace, but we were disappointed to learn that the next tour didn't leave until later in the day, when we would be otherwise occupied.

We walked out into the main square to look at the fountain and the children chasing pigeons. We came upon a man with several parakeets and canaries in cages. My friend's mother explained that you paid the man, and then the bird of your choice would pull a fortune from a bowl. This I had to see. I chose the little yellow canary, and he quickly pulled a paper from the bowl. Unsurprisingly, it turns out that there are many people out to get me, but with divine help, I'll make it through somehow. The fortune was actually much longer and as dramatic as a Spanish soap opera.

After we had our fortunes told, we walked down into the underground market near the square. I was immediately struck by row after row of brightly colored material and leather goods hanging from every available surface. After wandering for a little while, we stepped further down into the food section. Piles of brightly colored fruits were on every stand tempting me. We pushed through another section with stall after stall of open eateries, run by small families, each serving something different. It all looked delicious, but I knew I didn't dare eat any of it.

After sniffing all the lovely smells in the market, I wanted a little something to eat. We decided to try Pollo Campero, the local fried chicken chain. It seems to be on every corner in the city. As we waited for our box, I looked around at the other customers. The woman ahead of me was indigenous, with a baby in blankets soundly strapped to her back. It seemed so out of place in a fast food store.

We chose to take our box home to eat since it was getting close to the time we would be picked up to go to another part of the city. We managed to each try a piece before the taxi rang to pick us up. It was spicy, but I still think KFC is better. The drive to my friend's relatives' house took us through the city and up into the hills, where I occasionally glimpsed the city in the valley below. It's too bad there weren't any turnoffs to take a shot. Plus, who knew if it was safe. We also got pulled over by the local police who wanted to inspect our driver's papers. Eventually we were waved on our way.

After we had met everyone in the extended family (there were so many people, I can't even remember how many I met), we were pulled into the dining room for the meal. We were served a delicious beef stew with rice and fresh avocado. The family members patiently tried to communicate with me through my friend, the translator.

After lunch I had to use the internet, but when my friend took over and I came back downstairs, I was on my own. The group was having a type of poundcake for dessert, and they offered me a piece with coffee. They tried to ask me questions, using relatives that had taken some English classes, and we managed just fine, with a nice dose of hand signals and the few Spanish words I had managed to pick up. The biggest laugh came when I realized that the stuffed rooster on top of the china cabinet made noises in response to clapping (and I had been hearing it all day thinking I was crazy). The "gallo" was crowing. They loved the surprise on my face.

Then came time to pass out presents. Everyone got something, and my friend and her mother had also brought a load of clothes for the relatives. One little boy got a basketball handheld game, and we realized we needed batteries to make it work. My friend and I volunteered to go with her uncle to the store to grab some. I thought, simple, we're just getting batteries. But it was much more difficult.

The first store we went to was a WalMart, and we found the batteries. Group consensus decided that they were much too expensive, so we decided to walk to a small mall further on in the hopes of finding some. We had to cross a major street by climbing up and over a pedestrian overpass, and my legs were killing me (curse you, Tikal!). We pushed through the crowds loitering around the stands close on the edge of the sidewalks. One stand had batteries for a cheap price, and I soon learned they were fake dead batteries. Interesting. We finally pushed into the mall, and we found another large store with the batteries. Time invested? At least half an hour. Leg cramps? Lots. Should we have just gotten the damn batteries at the first store? Yes.

We started making our way back to the house where everyone was waiting, but this time we didn't use the pedestrian overpass. We crossed Guatemala-style. We ran across the street in front of speeding cars. And when we reached the other side, we were rewarded by a bus spewing the most noxious cloud of black smoke I had ever seen right in our faces. I probably got lung cancer from just that.

We got a ride home from my friend's uncle through the unbelievable traffic. It reminded me of New York City traffic during rush hour. And everyone's car was idling black smoke into the limited oxygen of the area. I am definitely starting a charity to buy Guatemala some catalytic converters.

Dinner was in preparatory stages when we got back, and I gratefully watched as the plantains in mole was being cooked, furiously scribbling in my book and estimating amounts (how much really is a half a plastic baggy??). In addition to the plantains, we got a scrumptious sour cream chicken, two ways, and I also got to meet even more of my friend's family. This time it was her godmother and family. They were very nice, but really, by this point I was starting to lose count. I don't know how she keeps track.

Guatemala: Day 3

2008-11-25T23:25:00.000-08:00

Today we had to wake up really early to make sure and get to the airport for our early flight to Flores, in the northeast portion of the country. Our objective for the day was a visit to Tikal, a sight of Mayan ruins that are being excavated.

Half asleep, we were driven by a taxi driver that was well-known to the family. My friend told me that taxi drivers in the capital have specific clients that they service, since it's much too dangerous to pick up random riders off the streets. Since we came recommended, we were able to get a ride. When he dropped us at the airport, we started to wander towards the door when he jumped out and told us to get back in. I wasn't sure what was wrong, but my friend's mother was thinking maybe the driver saw something, like someone coming to rob us. Turns out he had just dropped us at the wrong door!

After a lovely Guatemalan McBreakfast at the airport (no really, it was amazing how neat and perfect it was), we almost missed our flight by dawdling too long after security. Luckily they held the plane, and we still had our seats. The flight was only thirty minutes, so I didn't get much of a nap, but it helped. Since Flores is a tiny town, the plane parked on the runway, and we all got to climb down the ladder and walk out on the runway towards the main hanger. We were met by a lady from the tour company with her van.

The drive to Tikal takes about an hour, and it was an enlightening drive. Along the road were small villages, with children playing in the dirt ditches and chickens roaming freely. Here and there we saw a pig, goat, or donkey munching away. The houses themselves were part clay, part tin, part thatch, but brightly painted, and the yards were full of bright blooming plants. It was obviously a very poor area, but I'm not sure I would have minded a tin roof if my yard was full of flowers and the weather was mild all year.

Along the way we stopped at a lake called Petén Itzá, the second largest lake in the country. It's the same lake that Flores itself lies on, but we were near its far borders. The lake itself was calm and blue, and it was obvious by the number of villages surrounding it that it was a source of support for the people.

You could tell when we entered the park, because the wall of trees began almost instantly. It was like a sea of green outside the van windows, although not nearly as dense as I had originally thought. The drive from the entrance to the main information center took a while, but we finally arrived, only to discover that we had been booked on a Spanish-only tour. The tour company representative set off to find us an English tour guide, since I was convinced my friend would be exhausted after a day of translating every thing that was said. Luckily one was found, and we had our own private tour for the day.

The first obvious thing was the number of monkeys in the trees. We came upon a group of spider monkeys first, and watched as they moved through the trees feeding. Only a short time later we saw a troop of howler monkeys, but we didn't hear their call until later in the day. Their hoots echo through the forest, and can be heard miles away. According to the local people, when the monkeys start howling, it signals that a rainstorm is coming. Our guide told us that we were lucky to get away from the monkeys unscathed. Apparently they enjoy urinating on tourists. We also came upon a giant ceiba tree, the Mayan symbol for the different levels of the world. Apparently the roots represent the underworld, the trunk is the earthly world, and the branches are the world of the gods. The tree was so tall, I couldn't get it all in one shot.

Before we set off, we got a nice intro from our tour guide, including why some of the different areas (like the Lost World) are off limits. Turns out that tourists have a strange way of disappearing or falling off of things, and as these deaths happen, they close each affected section. Encouraging, right? Maybe my death would be the one to close Temple V! Our guide took us first to see Complex Q and R, smaller structures that are still in areas of active excavation. We got to see the alters where sacrifices were make, despite the damage of the years. As we walked the guide pointed out various bushes and shrubs and told us how the Mayans (and the current native population) use the plants for medicinal purposes.

The first temple we climbed was Temple IV. The wooden stairs wound in a corkscrew up the side of the structure, and we popped out of the canopy to a surprising view. In the distance we could see other temples and green as far as the eye could see. After a rest and a nice view at the top, we made our way back down. We stopped here and there, finding more signs left by the previous inhabitants, like their underground pantry for storing breadfruit and allspice. We passed the astronomical observatory, which factored prominently in Mayan life, and came to the Seven Temples complex. With one large temple in the middle, and three smaller ones on each side, it quickly becomes obvious that quite a lot of effort was made in building these structures.

The second temple we climbed was Temple V. The staircase was so steep, it was practically a ladder, and as people moved up and down, it shuddered and vibrated. Being semi-scared of heights, it definitely took self-motivation to make it up. That, and not looking down. The top was a narrow ledge with some steps for seats, and the view was definitely worth it. We could see Temple I and II over in the plaza, and the people climbing them looked like ants. Flocks of birds were resting on the peaks of the temples, far above the canopy top. Just as we were preparing to go back down, a girl that was severely scared of heights made it to the top of the temple. Her family wasn't taking her entirely seriously, but she looked terrified. My friend's mom ended up talking her down, and she made it without a scratch.

We wandered over to the plaza next, where Temple I and II are situated. As we walked we were given the brutal truth about the Mayans and their sacrifices. The Mayans apparently played a game similar to volleyball or soccer, where you could only use your shoulder, elbow, hip, and knee to keep the ball in play. The ball had to be shot through hoops in order to score. If you were the captain of the winning team, you were sacrificed to the gods. How's that for a reward after a nice game of ball? Also, if you were a beautiful virgin in Mayan times, you were definitely in trouble. You would be taken from your parents, drugged with a fungus, and then have your heart cut out and sacrificed to the gods. Sounds fabulous to me. Maybe it's better that this civilization died out.

At the plaza we chose not to climb another temple (Temple I, the Jaguar Priest's temple, is closed for climbing due to the number of deaths associated), but we did make our way up to another area where the important clan families would have lived. The higher off the ground, the more important you were. Only the stone walls are left, but you definitely get an idea of what it must have been like. Almost everywhere was the face of the rain god, glaring out at us. We also got to watch a mischievous coati searching for snacks to steal from the tourists. The coati is related to the North American raccoon, and I can guarantee it's just a naughty.

When we were totally exhausted, we made our way to a large thatched hut that contained a small restaurant. Lunch was included in our tour, so we settled in for some grilled steak and rice. I've got to tell you, a bottled Coke never tasted so good. We also got to watch the wild turkeys wandering through the area. We had a short chance to poke around at the visitor's center for souvenirs before hopping back on the van for the ride back.

We had booked a later flight back to the capital, so we had the tour company representative drop us in Flores for an hour or so to wander. The town was immediately inviting, with children openly playing on old ball courts and locals walking in the fading sunlight. We stopped for an ice cream at Sarita, a national chain, and it was delicious after a day of hiking. We found a beautiful cathedral on the Central Plaza (the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Remedy and Saint Paul of Itza Lake, whew) with a set of amazing carved wooden doors. Apparently the doors were carved by artists in Antigua and brought to Flores for the cathedral.

We continued to wander down cobblestone streets with little tuktuks swishing by, their tiny lawnmower engines growling away, enjoying the last bit of daylight. We walked down towards the lake to watch the sun setting on the horizon. It cast a golden light over the town and made me want to stay for a while. Colorful buses drove by, loaded with people on their way home, some waving at us. It was nice way to end the day.

The lady from the tour company picked us up as promised, and we shot over to the airport for the trip home. Unfortunately we happened to pick the flight that was also being shared by several tour groups, one of which was led by a really obnoxious Frenchman. My friend made nice, though, by practicing her French with a nice lady on the tour as we waited for the plane. The funniest part? Well, funny for me, not so funny for the guy it happened to. A nice Italian man had a little bit of an issue with his passport not matching the name on his ticket, and it took six officials at the airport staring at his passport and ticket before they finally pulled him aside. Poor man. I was only laughing until I got to the metal detectors though, since the girl insisted on pulling every last thing out of my backpack in search of contraband. Needless to say, everything was just shoved back inside when she was done, and I hoped my clay pot souvenir wouldn't break on the way home.

When we arrived back at the capital, our cab driver was waiting, and we were whisked back home for a late dinner. Somehow I managed to climb in bed.

Guatemala: Day 2

2008-11-24T23:45:00.000-08:00

This morning I woke up to an amazing breakfast of tamale with hen, fried plantains, lemonade, and bread. I needed my energy since we were going to hit the markets looking for fruits and other good things to eat.

Escuintla has two main markets (that I know of), and we went to the larger one first. It had a big underground parking area, and I must admit I was little shocked at this little bit of modernity. The market itself started with mostly fruit and dry goods stands, but as you made your way deeper into the crowds, you eventually found the meats and housewares.

We were picking up fruits left and right: papayas, pineapples, mandarins, starfruit, guavas, and at least six fruits I had never seen before, including the mamey sapote. Everything was incredibly fresh and inticing. As we worked our way further in, we found the meat stands, with chickens split open to show the bright organs and pork ribs hanging from large hooks. Women with large baskets on their heads wove deftly through the crowds. We even found two young women that were making fresh tortillas for sale. We stopped at several stands looking for a comal for making tortillas back home, and after much haggling, managed to acquire some. My friend's aunt even bought her daughter some chicks to raise.

We finally pushed our way back out into the sunshine, and walked across the street to the main square. We stopped at a small convenience store to get bottled water. In Guatemala these small stores are typically covered in heavy iron railings so that everything has to be handed through the spaces in between bars. We moved through the shady plaza until we could see the tall yellow cathedral. In the background was one of the many volcanos in the area. A small boy tried to sell us flavored soda served in a plastic bag with a straw for 1 quetzal.

We finally jumped into the car to head to the second market. This one was much smaller, and it appeared that many of the vendors were already breaking down their stalls for the day. Inside we found the plantains we had been looking for, and I noticed a shrine of some sort in the center of the building.

After the markets, we headed to a house belonging to the mother of my friend's aunt, who was busily making lunch for us. As she finished cooking, we wandered around and at a sweet papaya ice served in a bag that she had made for us. The main sink in the back of the house obviously ran to some sort of stream since there were live fish inside. And we saw the tiny kitten that had wandered in a couple of days previous, looking for food. He didn't look big enough to be away from his mother, but I was quickly told that in Guatemala, cats drink cow milk (even though "American" cats can't digest it). Oh, well, what can you do?

We went out into the front yard and looked at the spindly papaya trees, with large green fruits hanging, and we were told our ices had come from those papayas. We walked next door to look at the birds of a lady who lived there. She had around twenty parakeets, and they made a pleasant racket. We loaded everyone into the car and started off down the road, stopping to grab some tortillas from some obliging women cooking in their front yard. I also grabbed a shot of a personable street dog (chucho in Spanish).

We then made our way back to the sugarcane processing plant for our special tour. We had to don protective gear just to go inside, including a helmet, hairnet, earplugs, and cotton facemask. As hard as all of that made it to communicate, I still got the basic idea that the sugarcane is ground up, the juice is extracted, and then it makes its way through various hoppers getting more and more purified along the way. At the last stage some Vitamin A and some other additives make the sugar white. Then it's dumped into bags and shipped overseas. The whole thing was fascinating, and I loved the sweet smell that clung to everything that for some reason reminded me of fresh summer corn.

After our tour we drove to another relatives house, as he has several fruit trees in his yard. My friend's mother wanted a specific kind of fruit that she particularly liked, and we hoped someone could climb the tree and pick some for us. We had to knock quite a bit before he answered, as he is deaf, but once inside we marveled at the mature trees and his family of mongrels. Unfortunately the fruit had already been picked for the season, but he gave us some of his stash. We also took some shots of the volcano plainly visible from his cul-de-sac.

Lunch back at my friend's aunt's house was hen stew with green beans, potatoes, and hen eggs, plantains in mole sauce, and the fruit we had scoured in the morning. The little chicks we had gotten made a racket as we ate. We grabbed a quick nap after lunch and then rode over to a new development to see how work was proceeding. Apparently several family members had purchased plots, and a new airport in the area was promising to make the investment worth it.

We then jumped onto a local highway to find a coconut stall. The one we stopped up was manned by a twelve-year-old girl with quick wits and a knack for hacking the pith off the coconut. She quickly made us each a coconut with straw to drink the milk. We enjoyed our treat as we surveyed the sky for its intent to rain. My friend's aunt gathered all the coconut meat together and promised us coconut ice cream later in the week.

We then drove back to Guatemala City and had dinner at the house we had first arrived at. We again had beans and tortillas, but I also got to try a fava bean and beef dish that had been served earlier in the day. I gratefully dropped off to sleep after my exhausting day.

Guatemala: Day 1

2008-11-23T23:58:00.000-08:00

Well, today I arrived in Guatemala, via a 45-minute layover in El Salvador. My friend's uncle met us at the airport, and somehow we managed to load five suitcases, four people, and several carry-ons into a small red Honda hatchback. It's a good thing that Guatemala's vehicle occupancy laws are a little slack.

The house's central courtyard

The streets of Guatemala City were crowded, even in early afternoon, and we zoomed through loops and down promenades, watching whole families in the back of pickups, teenagers walking hand in hand, and scooters shooting in between lanes. When we arrived at our destination, there was no way of knowing it was a house. The door was an old yellow door, large enough to let a car through, on a non-descript street that I would never have taken as residential. A small door opened in the larger door, and we were led past a parked car into the courtyard of the house.

In Guatemala it is quite common to have a central courtyard open to the elements, even a small one, where flowers and trees proliferate. The rest of the house opens off of this center point. The house we were staying in was obviously old, and the cement was very cracked in many places, but it was homey and lived-in. You could tell several generations must have been brought up in the home.

We were given a lunch of homemade Guatemala-style chicken chow mein, pureed red beans, rice, sliced avocado, and tortillas bought fresh and hot just down the street. For dessert we were presented with plantains in mole, which I fell in love with on first bite. More on that later.

Interior of the Posada

When we had finished eating, we had to hurry over to a posada (the closest translation is bed-and-breakfast) that was holding our tickets for our trip to Tikal. My friend had stayed there on a previous trip, and I could see why. The interior was dark, but you could still see the intricate native tapestries and Mayan pottery relics displayed around the walls. The interior courtyard was filled with plants, and even some live tortoises.

The Post Office

As we made our way back, we encountered a lot of traffic, and were told it was because it was the Feast of Christ the King. We were given a quick tour of the town, stopping briefly to look at the National Post Office , where a beautiful arch spans the street overhead. We also stopped at the Parque Central to see the Cathedral of Guatemala City. Inside a mass was just starting, but we still took the time to walk the side paths and view the religious artwork. On the opposing corner stood the grand Palacio Nacional, whose construction was started in 1939. In the Parque Central, vendor stands covered nearly all of the space, and ground fireworks popped every few minutes. The citizens were obviously enjoying their day.

The Cathedral

The Palacio Nacional

We stopped back at our starting place for a simple dinner of beans, tortillas, cheese, and coffee before my friend's aunt and her family came to pick us up. We were destined for Escuintla, but before we could make it out of the city, we stopped at a square with a huge Christmas tree and several Santas. Local teenagers waived us to a parking place in exchange for a few quetzales, and we spent some pleasant time walking around, looking at all the lights and happy children. We crossed over the street to another sideroad, and took our time looking over all the food stalls that had appeared when the sun set. While I knew it would be dangerous to sample, the smells definitely tempted.

Then we began our drive to Escuintla, down steep, highly curved roads with almost no lighting. What is probably a normal trip to a native had me gripping the back of the seat in front of me with white knuckles. Halfway to our destination we could see the bright red lava pouring down the distant volcano called Pacaya that I would be climbing later. It was an eerie red smear in the darkness.

Before we made it to the house, we stopped at the sugarcane processing plant where my friend's aunt's husband works. Even at that time, around 11 at night, the huge trucks filled to the brim with sugarcane were patiently waiting their turn for processing. During the busy season the plant runs 24 hours a day, which means that several shifts of workers are needed. We watched as the trucks rumbled onto large road scales and then lumbered off to the processing area for their cargo to be dumped. The air was humid and heavy with a sweet scent from the processing.

After we arrived in Escuintla, we had a late snack of Guatemalan tamale with gallina, or hen, and I was assured it was different from regular chicken. From what I have been able to find online, a gallina is an older bird, and a pollo is a younger bird. I'm not exactly sure about this, as the meat was much different, and I suspect a gallina is a wild chicken, an ancestor of our domestic chickens. The tamale also had raisins, one green olive, and a prune for flavoring. At the clamoring of the aunt's daughter, we also had strawberry milkshakes made from very small (and very expensive, I'm assured) strawberries.

Before going to sleep the man of the house had to fix the hot water attachment for the shower so I could bathe. In Guatemala there are no hot water heaters. In each shower there is a small electric attachment over the showerhead that heats the water right there as it runs over the coils. Falling into bed was a pleasant experience, especially since it was a warm, balmy night (very unlike the frozen north I had left), and I tried to ignore the crowing of the rooster from a farm plot behind the house.

End of an Era

2008-10-26T16:02:00.000-07:00

I recently had the opportunity to visit the home of the Yankees, the House the Ruth Built. I was one of the lucky few to get a tour in this last year of the stadium's existence, and it was worth the time and money. The tour itself takes you down onto the field, to the very ground that the legends of baseball have walked for time immemorial. You're walking on the same ground that Mickey Mantle walked. You're kicking the same grass that Lou Gehrig kicked. You feel a huge sense of history in the place.

We were led down the gravel path to the memorial walk, where all the great players are immortalized after their numbers are retired. The threatening rain ensured a sobering experience. Reading the wall of retired numbers is like reading baseball history, and it's almost hard to believe that so many great players converged in one team. Like the Yankees or not, you have to admire their ability to win and ability to attract the greatest talents in the game.

When you sit down in the dugout, you can almost feel the players beside you, spitting tobacco, making jokes, cussing at poor plays. The past definitely echoes in this place. And the empty seats are disheartening. It's hard to believe that not another game will be played in this stadium. The silence is nearly as deafening as the crowds used to be.

The only ray of light is the fact that long after the stadium is pulled down, the field will remain for the neighborhood children and their families to play on. Maybe the next Joe DiMaggio or Babe Ruth will find his path on this great field.

Fall in Central Park

2008-10-25T21:44:00.000-07:00

Okay, I will admit it. There's something about a nice fall day in Central Park. Something nostalgic and comforting. The leaves are changing, the pumpkins are out, the families are out walking, the homeless women are arguing about Jesus being the savior...

I would say the day I walked through Central Park was the perfect day, but rain was vaguely threatening from high in the cloudy skies, and that cast a steel-colored shadow on everything. Otherwise it was fresh and crisp, and the park was doing brisk business. A pumpkin festival was being set up for the kids, complete with hundreds of carved jack-o-lanterns waiting for sunset for lighting. The entrees for the scarecrow contest were rather amusing, ranging from traditional scarecrows to vampires to robots. And several people were still out on the lake in small boats.

As I wandered I came upon a part of the park I'd read about, frequented by every Japanese tourist to New York. The area is Strawberry Hill, where the dedication to John Lennon is laid in tiles in the sidewalk. People leave all sorts of momentos, from the touching to the ridiculous, but I caught it on a good day. I just had to wait for the throng of Asian tourists to move on. Why don't the Brits come visit?

Crossing the Border

2008-10-14T10:49:00.000-07:00

Since it's starting to get a bit chilly here in the frozen north, I figured I didn't have much time left to get out to Niagara Falls before ice started blocking the river. Luckily we had one perfect, beautiful weekend with temperatures in the high 70's, and I got my trip in. The drive from New Jersey to the Canadian border takes about seven hours with no stops. I left at 5:30 in the morning with plans to be there by lunchtime.

As the sun rose over the forests of New York, I started to see the colors emerging. The leaves were every shade you can imagine: ruby, caramel, pumpkin, copper, lemon yellow. As I drove up through the Catskill mountains, the morning fog was still clinging to the lower valleys, blocking the sun. As you came up the road into the higher elevations, the sun hit the fog at just the right angle to turn everything gold.

I finally made it to the border, where the Canadian official demanded to know why I was travelling alone and only for the weekend. I must admit I was a bit offended at the implication, but I answered his questions and he let me go. I couldn't check into my hotel yet, so I walked down River Road to the falls area. The American Falls are the first ones I came to, and they were picturesque. You could see the tourists on the American side crawling on the scaffolding near the falls in their plastic parkas. They looked like little yellow ants scurrying on the rocks. The Canadian (or Horseshoe) Falls were a little further down, and you could tell most of the angry roar was coming from them. Where the American Falls are pleasant and picture-perfect, the Canadian Falls are angry and violent. The water is rushing down in such a torrent that it throws up a cloud of mist that nearly obscures the falls.

I bought a ticket for the Maid of the Mist, the boats that take tourist out on the Niagara River for a closer look. I guess I didn't realize how wet you get so close to the rushing water. Near the Canadian Falls, you almost can't open your eyes, as the spray thrown into the air is almost as thick as a cloud. I also first noticed the flocks of seagulls diving into the water after all the minnows. I walked further down the pedestrian walkway to the Journey Behind the Falls, which takes you into several caves carved out of the rock behind and to the side of the Canadian Falls. It was amazing being that close to the rush of the water and to see the fury of the falls from the backside.

For dinner I went to the Skylon Tower which overlooks the falls area. The buffet wasn't memorable, but the free access to the observation deck was. I could see down on top of the falls from that height, and I finally saw the edges of the Canadian Falls from behind the cloud of spray. From that height the sound of crashing water was muted, and there was a stillness in the cooling air. I stuck around to watch the sun set and the lights on the falls come on.

The next morning I walked down River Road again to see the Buddhist temple I had walked past previously. It was a large enclosure, with three buildings. The stupa was seven stories tall, each level holding Buddhist artwork and treasures. The temple itself was run by a real Buddhist monk, probably about 70 years old. The greater at the stupa told me that the monk performs services daily. Offerings of Rice Krispies, apple juice, and fruit had been left on the offering table, and a bag of Thai rice leaned against the table leg.

After I had my look around, I hopped back in my car for the ride back. I didn't expect much trouble getting back into the US, but the border guard was very gruff, and he quizzed me about my visit and my home and my car. He even took my car key and rooted through the trunk. Apparently if you are traveling alone for the weekend to Niagara Falls, you are either a drug mule or a Jihadist. After my own country finally decided to let me back in, I had a pleasant drive through the changing leaves back to New Jersey.

More pictures are here.

Brilliant Colors

2008-10-02T13:07:00.000-07:00

Now is the time of turning leaves here in the northeast, and I'm starting to see some pretty brilliant colors. The tree across the street from my house seemed to turn red overnight. The trees at work have already turned yellow, and their leaves are beginning to blow around the parking lot. All this color is rather stunning, but also a little shocking at how early it seems to be happening. I was even considering picking apples at a local farm, but as of today, they've already shut down for the season! I guess I still need to get my seasons straight. Now September really IS the beginning of fall, and if you wait until October, you're late.

The Great American Pasttime

2008-09-01T10:53:00.000-07:00

Anyone who knows anything about New York knows how notorious the behavior of New Yorkers is when it comes to the Yankees. Arguments, throwing things on the field, and loudly booing players on the other team are par for the course. So of course I had to go and see the fans in action. In addition, the original Yankee Stadium, built in 1923, is being pulled down at the end of the season to make way for a newer, shinier stadium. That alone would be reason for me to go. Joe DiMaggio, Babe Ruth, Mickey Mantle, Lou Gehrig, and Reggie Jackson played on that field. It’s baseball history.

The game I chose was against the Toronto Blue Jays. No specific reason besides the fact it was on a Saturday at 1pm. I was late getting to my seat since the lines to get in were so long. I stopped by the concession stand to get my obligatory hot dog and a bottle of water before making my way to my seat. For $37 I was hoping to not be too high, but it turns out I was only about four rows from the roof of the stadium. Good thing I had my zoom lens.

The Yankees started out strong in the second inning, hitting two home runs, and they continued pretty strong until about the sixth inning. That’s when the parade of pitchers started. It seemed like every inning a new pitcher was called out to the mound. That’s also when the Blue Jays started scoring runs. There was a line of twentysomethings in front of me that were obviously Blue Jay fans, and as the game went on, they got drunker and louder. Amazingly, the New Yorkers did absolutely nothing. No heckling. No yelling. No arguments. Nada. Is it because it wasn’t the Sox? Final score: Blue Jays 7, Yankees 6.

A-Rod at bat

Darrell Rasner pitching

Doing the YMCA

International Flair

2008-08-30T22:11:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite things about New York City is the international flavor of many of the areas. I also find it interesting that the UN is located in New York. I had never seen it, so I decided to wander by. Unfortunately none of the flags were flying and most of the building was off-limits. Apparently you can only see the UN Monday through Friday during business hours. I looked around at what I could, but when the giftshop is about all that's staffed, it's a bit of a downer.

To make myself feel better, I headed over to Chinatown. The area is always bustling with tourists, residents, Africans selling knock-off handbags, and old Chinese ladies selling exotic fruits. You can smell the fresh-baked Chinese minicakes the street vendors are selling. But my favorite place? The seafood shops. Everything is open in the front so you can see all the trays of seafood, glittering in the light. I must admit I stare. And drool. And someday I will remember to bring a cooler with me to the city so I can bring some of that beautiful fish back home with me.

Stained glass by Marc Chegall

All Aboard

2008-08-22T23:11:00.000-07:00

As part of a program run through my department at work, I recently got to participate in a dinner cruise around Manhattan. While the dinner itself was to awful for words, the scenery was spectacular. We got the watch the sun setting to the west, and the lights coming on all over Manhattan. Even passing underneath the bridges (Washington, Brooklyn, etc.) was interesting since they had the faux waterfalls turned on. The air was a little crisp, despite it still being summer. The music was fun and the drinks were cold.

A Trip to the Zoo

2008-08-17T21:44:00.000-07:00

The next stop on my whirlwind tour of the tourist sites of the New York/New Jersey area was the Bronx Zoo. I was particularly excited about this trip because I love zoos. I love seeing animals from all over the world, in every color, shape, and size imaginable, every animal from the okapi to the silvery marmoset.

The zoo, as expected, was full of young families, mostly Hispanic. I was actually quite surprised considering the entry fee is $15 for adults, $27 if you actually want to see everything. The fee for children is lower, but not by too much. I decided on the $27 ticket so I could have the full experience. The first ride I jumped on was the zoo monorail, and I was impressed by the view of the animal enclosures. The Mongolian wild horses looked gold in the morning sunlight. The spotted deer appeared and disappeared among the trees.

Instead of following a pre-planned route, I allowed myself to wander down the paths, looking at what I wanted. Almost every open paddock had peacocks and peahens. One zoo house had rare golden-colored ebony langurs, and the silvered leaf monkeys sat peacefully together, picking lice from each other’s hair. The black leopards were napping, and I was surprised to find that the spots are still visible among the hair of the dark coat, but only if you are close enough.

The gorilla display was fascinating. Several young gorillas were in the enclosure with the older adults, and their roughhousing excited the crowd. But always the eeriest part of seeing gorillas is when they look straight through the glass into your eyes, as if they really see you and are about to speak. I wound up at the tiger display right at feeding time. The little viewing area was completely packed with people, so many that you could barely move and see. The zookeeper showed how the tiger had been taught to stand up and sit still for shots and examinations. The feeder pushed meat cubes through the fencing with a long stick. At the end of the discussion, the feeder slipped the tiger a blood popsicle for a treat.

My last ride of the day was on the skyrail that glides over the zoo. The gondolas whir along the track through the sky, and all the people below look like ants. As I left the zoo and started walking to the subway stop, I passed apartments with the windows open. The smell of fried chicken and Caribbean sauces filled the air. Latino music drifted down the block. A man was selling flavored ices from a pushcart, pineapple, guava, and lime.

The Plain People and Gettysburg

2008-08-03T17:18:00.000-07:00

Next stop in the whirlwind tour of the Northeast: Pennsylvania! And a little something like high gas prices wasn't going to stop me!

Of course I'm totally fascinated by the Amish. They don't have cell phones. They don't have mp3 players. They don't have internet (I clutch my heart at this thought). They do have a lot of hard work. I drove 3 hours just to take a look. The first Amish-themed cultural center was ten feet from a Target. I looked at the center. I looked at Target. I sneared at the cultural center and drove away. I like my cultural centers to be a little closer to their target communities. (I would soon learn how wrong my initial assumptions were).

The next place I stopped was suitably close to farmland. It was early, and I was one of the first people to take a look around. I bought a ticket to the Amish theatrical event "Jacob's Choice". I was led into the theater and given a talk about the Amish. How they struggled with religious oppression in Europe for being too nice. How they had to get out. So they came to America with William Penn and settled in. Then I got to watch the show. The basic premise was that a 19-year-old man was struggling with his decision to join the church and commit to an Amish life, versus a modern life. It might have been touching, except for the fact that every person in his life: his father, his mother, his girlfriend, his grandfather, kept pressuring him to join the church. Doesn't seem very open to me. Seems like there is no choice. But I tried to be open-minded. I'm sure if I told my mom I was considering becoming a Satanist, she'd react the same way.

Next I got a ticket to see the "Amish house" they have set up. Everything inside is just like an Amish house would be. I was tickled. Finally I would get to see the washing boards, the icebox (with real old-timey ice to keep everything cold!), the pedal sewing machines from 100 years ago, passed down mother to daughter. But no. Instead I got to see the propane powered ringer washer. The propane-powered refrigerator. The nice propane stove. The completely modern sewing machine run by battery. Sure, they don't have electricity, but they might as well. They have all the modern conveniences without the electric bill. Sign me up! But maybe I wasn't truly being open-minded enough, so I continued to listen to the tour.

Turns out the Amish shop at the same stores we all do: Target, Wal-Mart, CostCo. They even visit Mickey D's. They go through the bank teller window in their buggies. If they want to go on vacation, they hire someone to drive them. My mouth kept falling further and further open. Where were the simple people doing things the old-fashioned way? Sure, their buggies were cute, but really? McDonald's? Even the little Amish children are being poisoned by fast food? I was horrified.

So I paid to go on a cart ride. I needed to see something green and alive. Something someone had grown. I wanted to smell a dairy cow and believe that not all was lost. The cart wound down a small side road past the farms, corn and alfalfa on one side, dairy barn on the other. Happy spotted cows swished their tails. Washing hung from the line. Not a soul could be seen. It was tranquil and lovely. A little Amish boy sold us homemade pretzels and cookies and lemonade. And then we were back. Back to the horrid commercialized Amish world.

Since I was hungry, I went to the restaurant next door, which supposedly served traditional Amish food. A little of my excitement revived. This might be fun! I chose to eat family style, and was seated with two other groups I didn't know. The first family was a father, mother, and three daughters. The father told me in intricate detail how to get to his town in Pennsylvania, despite the fact I'm not from the area and have no idea what he was talking about. The other group was a young guy and girl, both teachers from New York. The girl kept talking and talking and talking about her big vacation to Ohio. I decided not to mention how nice the Egyptian pyramids were or how much I loved Budapest.

The waitress finally brought the food. I was hoping for something good and plain and homey and delicious and old-timey. Something slightly frightening from an old cookbook that hasn't aged well (like the gelatin molds of the 50's). What I got was fried chicken, roast beef, chicken and dumplings, sausage, mashed potatoes, creamed corn, and carrots. I had to keep myself from laughing. It was like everything I had ever eaten my entire childhood, except now I got to pay $15 for the pleasure. I did get to try Shoo Fly Pie though, so I can't say the whole meal was a waste. I'm still wondering where I can get ham loaf or stuffed pig stomach. Bring on the traditional foods!

After I was full, I headed out on my hour drive to Gettysburg. This is another one of those American pilgrimage things. If your family was in the US during the Civil War, you HAVE to visit any battlefield you come across. Plus, Gettysburg was the biggest, bloodiest, nastiest battle ever, so it had my attention. When I finally got to the visitors center after a slight detour down the wrong road (damn directions didn't mention a second traffic circle between the first one and Lincoln Square), I poked around inside to see what my tour options were. Basically they are: 1) take a free map and wander around by yourself (unless you majored in Civil War studies, this isn't recommended), 2) cough up $20 for the highly detailed, highly recommended CD audio tour and proceed to drive yourself from spot to spot, or 3) pay $55 for a bus tour complete with guide. Since I don't really think any tour of a battlefield that is now a corn field is worth $55, I opted for option 2.

The tour itself is supposed to take 3 hours, but I'm impatient. At first I half listened to what the nice Civil War buff said. I listened enough to know that a lot of dumb decisions were made. I listened enough to know that 50,000 people died. I listened enough to know that some crazy man had his leg torn off, but he stayed on the battlefield, calmly smoking a cigar, directing the troops, until they came to take him to the nurse's station. I learned that saying you fought in the Wheatfields was like saying you landed at Normandy. I learned that some general was mad because Robert E. Lee had left the US Army to join the Confederates, so he had Lee's house (Arlington House) and all its property confiscated (Lee was a little behind on his taxes), and then turned it into a national cemetary so that Lee could never get it back (anyone ever heard of Arlington National Cemetary?).

And I saw some of the coolest monuments ever. Beautiful sculptures. Amazing art. They littered the roadway like fallen leaves. So many that you could never read them all. But the grandaddy of them all was the Pennsylvania monument. Supposedly almost half of the people that fought at Gettysburg were from Pennsylvania, so I guess the magnificence of the monument is warranted. I drove around for close to 3 hours, just taking it all in.

On the way back, it poured. It poured like a biblical flood. I took shelter. In a Friendly's! I hadn't been to Friendly's since...oh...1988 or so. Back when I lived in Virginia as a child, it was my favorite place, mostly because of the disgustingly goopy sundaes. So what did I get? A disgustingly goopy peanut butter cup sundae. And, yes, it made the whole day okay. Even the part where I learned the Amish use flashlights at night. Cheaters!!!!!

American Pilgrimage

2008-07-27T15:11:00.000-07:00

I think that seeing the Statue of Liberty might be the last and only American pilgrimage. Until you've done it, you tend to feel a little un-American. Foreign visitors ask you, "Have you seen the Statue?", and then you say, "No," and then they say, "Oh, I went yesterday," and then you feel like a bad citizen. I had never seen it up close, only from a ferry once, but I finally completed my pilgrimage.

If you want to actually see the Statue of Liberty, not just watch her go by while riding a ferry, you have to buy a special ticket ahead of time, but I waited until the last minute. I lucked out that someone else cancelled, and I was able to get a seat on the 9:30 ferry to Liberty Island from Battery Park. Before I took the ferry over, I wandered around a little in the park. I looked at the WWII statue of an eagle and the large concrete walls with the names of dead soldiers. I wandered over to Castle Clinton, some sort of old fort, and looked at the stone walls. Then I looked at the horrendous security line and figured I should get moving.

Going through security took about 30 minutes, and I quickly figured out that it didn't really matter what time was written on your ticket. Even if you were supposed to go at 2pm, you could get in line at 9am and be ushered right aboard. When I finally got on the ferry, it was already full of people, so I had to stand the whole way over. When we got near the Statue, everyone lifted up their cell phones and started filming it for their friends with the crappy little cameras that are built in. This is my new pet peeve: People that hold up their cell phones high over their heads for long periods of time recording video so that the people behind them can't take any pictures without their hairy stranger wrists in it.

When I finally got off on the island, I went over to pick up my audio tour player. The guy handing them out noticed that I had also paid for the hard-to-get monument tour. "You have the monument tour." "Yes, I do." "You'd better get in that line first then. You can do the audio tour later." " Line?" "Yep. There's a big line. It just gets worse as the day goes on." "There's a line for that, too?" He laughed. "This is New York. There's a line for everything."

I went over and stood in the line. I waited and waited. I watched the other people take turns with their family members, getting a chance to sit down. I watched other people get drinks and come back to give them to friends. I waited and waited. Finally I made it inside the covered secruity building. Like at Disney World, buildings only hide the longer lines inside. I waited some more. I realized I was probably the only actual US citizen in line. Finally I got to the security room. They made me pull all the change out of my pocket, take off my watch, put everything through the X-ray machine. They made me stand in a fancy new sniffer machine that sniffed all my pockets and private places in case I had hidden something explosive. They made me go through a metal detector. Just when I figured they were going to get out the latex gloves, they let me go. I had been in line for two hours.

I walked up to the main building to look around. I was already rather exhausted from standing in line for two hours, so I half-heartedly took pictures of the original torch, the giant replica of the Statue's face. I walked past all the history exhibits. I then reached a sign on my way to the viewing platform at the top of the pedestal. It informed me that I would have to climb 156 stairs in order to reach the top. I sneered at the lazy people waiting for the elevator and started climbing. Around 75 I wanted to die. I watched the elevator swish by, full of happy, unsweaty people. But I reached the top. Finally.

The view was okay, but nothing great. Downtown Manhattan. The shore in Jersey. The docks. The ships carrying cargo. I shrugged. You couldn't even see the statue from the pedestal because it was too close. So I started back down. At every new platform I kept looking to see if I could get a picture. Finally, at the last platform before the exit, I got a good look. Lady Liberty looked harsh, like she was displeased with what she saw. I tried to find the dedication plaque, the one with the poem about "give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses," but they had pried it off the pedestal and put it somewhere else. I'm sure I would have had to pay to see that, too. Now I knew why she looked so harsh. She was mad that the greedy jerks were charging $18 a person to look at her.

By the time I exited back out into the general public, I had no desire to do an audio tour. It was already lunch time, and I had accomplished next to nothing. Standing in the security line had eaten up all my time to learn anything. I went back over to the dock and caught the next ferry over to Ellis Island. I think I would have been more excited about Ellis Island if my ancestors had actually immigrated to the US sometime in recent history. But no, my ancestors had to come over back around the time of the Mayflower, so Ellis Island doesn't really hold any sort of special meaning for me. I was still hoping it would be interesting. It wasn't really. The main building is just a bunch of empty rooms and silly displays. Once again, I couldn't help thinking of Disney World. At least their tacky pastiche displays of old luggage and baskets are amusing. I wandered out back where the American Immigrant Wall of Honor is. I walked around, looking at all the names. Half of Italy was there in the D's. DeClemente. DeLasho. Del Buono. DiCamillo.

On the ferry from Liberty Island to Ellis Island, I had seen two Buddhist monks in their saffron robes, each holding a digital camera. At the benches past the wall, I saw one of the monks again. He was laying back, checking his text messages on his cell phone. I wonder if Buddha is okay with cell phones and digital cameras. I thought becoming a monk was all about austerity and separation from the world. But then again, I'm an American woman. What do I know about it?

I took the ferry back to Battery Park, and this time there were crowds of people everywhere. Some guys in too-tight outfits were performing for the crowds, but I never saw them do much other than wiggle inappropriate parts of their bodies. Some kids were playing in the fountains that shoot up out of the ground. I walked back to the subway slowly, watching all the people. The station was crowded when I got there, but I pushed into the train. I had to change to a different train a couple of stops later, but I was glad to get out of the tourist crowds. I had to go all the way to the tip of Manhattan for my next stop.

I got off at the next-to-last stop and wandered into Fort Tryon Park. It was quiet and calm, and you could see across the river to the green hills of the Jersey side. I wanted to just sit down and not move and take in the quiet, but I had a time schedule to keep. I wandered through the park until I reached the Cloisters. The Cloisters is part of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, so they want you to pay the suggested $20 fee to get in, and then you can go to both. I felt a little guilty, but I only gave the girl $7. I had this strange desire to explain that I was only going to look around for an hour, but I just shut my mouth and took my metal entry button and let her think I was cheap.

The art I saw was beyond amazing. It may have been the best art I've seen in New York. It was old and interesting. It was obviously heartfelt. The stone looked alive, and the tapestries felt like they had been hanging forever. Even the tombs had a air of calm resolve, as if time had erased any pain over the death. I loved it. I loved every inch of it. I wanted to go back and pay the other thirteen suggested dollars. Instead I wandered around with my mouth open.

Meeting the Windy City

2008-07-15T09:35:00.000-07:00

My job recently offered me a chance to see the Windy City from outside the O'Hare airport, so of course I lept at the chance. And since I'm a sucker for travel, I of course insisted on getting the first flight out of Newark airport on Sunday morning so that I could have the whole day to roam around. We actually took off on time (the shock!!), and got to our hotel on the Chicago River in downtown by about noon-ish. The view from the room was shocking. The river flowed past the hotel and out into Lake Michigan past the Navy Pier. Amazing.

The first thing I had to try was the stuffed pizzas. You can't come to Chicago and skip them. So I found a restuarant called Bella Bacino's that supposedly had the best. I ordered the spinach and mushroom pizza, and had to wait 45 minutes, but it was totally worth it. The pizza was full of gooey cheese and bright spinach, and tomato sauce added the punch on top. Even at 6 inches, it was so filling, I couldn't finish it.

Next I started my walk down to the Navy Pier, people-watching and architecture watching as I went. The day was perfect as can be: sunny with a blue sky, and not too hot. I finally got down to the pier, and people were riding bicycles, catching water taxis, and eating on the terraces of the restuarants. I bought a ticket for the Chicago aquarium stop of the water taxi, and hopped in when it arrived. As we pulled out of dock, I noticed that the seagulls had built nests all along the seawall that protected the dock area. Their little gray chicks stood awkwardly on the rocks.

The trip over to the aquarium was choppy, and the lakespray kept coming over the side of the boat and hitting me. Eventually I had to cover myself with my sweater to keep from getting soaked. But when we arrived at the aquarium stop, I couldn't help but admire the view. The aquarium is perched high on a hill, and you can see the Sears Tower and the rest of downtown easily from the spot. The aquarium itself was pretty amazing, with endless tanks of strange creatures, including eels, octopi, poison frogs, and fish that glow in the dark. The best part is the show tank, where the dolphins perform, that gives a view out past the planetarium to Lake Michigan.

After the aquarium I headed by water taxi to the Sears Tower. The wind in that part of town nearly blew me down, so I grudgingly accepted that Windy City was probably an appropriate epithet. I had to wait in a long line to get a ticket for the top, and of course they wanted to take one of those cheesy pictures of you that makes it look like you're hanging from the ironwork frame, but once past that gauntlet, I finally got into the elevator for the ride to the top.

Walking over to the window, the view was stunning. All of Chicago lay at my feet. I could see for miles. The pier. The aquarium peninsula. The railyard. The suburbs. The lake. It was amazing. But the whole time I felt strangely uncomfortable. I was at the top of the highest skyscraper in Chicago. What if something happened? I finished my pictures and took the elevator down, subdued.

I was dismayed to find that their was no transportation running once I reached street level. The trolleys stopped at six. The water taxis stopped at six-thirty. There was nothing. Nice idea when it's summer in your city and the tourists are everywhere. Leave them stranded in the downtown area with no transportation. A nice man finally pointed out a city bus that would take me back to the Navy Pier. Boy, was I glad he was there. And the bus showed up a few minutes later, but not before a twentysomething bum tried to sell me some sad story about not having enough train fare to get back home to mommy. I really wish I had the guts to say "I'm not here to fuel your alchohol addiction," but a woman traveling alone has to be careful.

I had a nice ride through the downtown Chicago area, and sure enough, I was deposited back at the Navy Pier. Now that it was past seven, I needed some dinner. I had originally wanted to eat at Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. restaurant, but when told the wait was an hour, I walked away. I walked the entire length of the pier, trying to find a decent restaurant I could afford. I even stopped in at a stained glass exhibit in one of the pier's buildings. Finally I settled on Riva Cafe. Upstairs they serve lobster for $40 a plate, so I figured the little cafe downstairs couldn't be that bad. WRONG. I ordered the fisherman's platter (so I could try all the different seafood), but they were out of almost everything. Then the waiter gave me a list of everything else they were out of. I looked down at the menu to try and see what was left, but finally gave up and just ordered fried shrimp. What I got were the tiniest fried shrimp I have ever seen. The food was horrible. I should have waited for Bubba Gump.

After my dinner, I still had to walk home to my hotel, and the walk seemed much longer than when I originally did it in the morning. Luckily I was serenaded by a jazz saxophonist under Illinois Avenue. Plus, I got to look in the windows of all the upscale art displays along the street. When I got back over near my hotel, I noticed that on the bottom floor of one of the buildings, a DJ was doing his radio show for an AM station. Very cool to watch. And finally I made it to my room, in one piece, but I practically fell into the bed with my clothes still on.

Livin' on a Prayer

2008-07-13T17:09:00.000-07:00

In the bright garishness of the 80's, a time of skintight black leather pants and open shirts and hairy chests, I missed out on Bon Jovi in concert. Bon Jovi singing about Tommy selling his six string for love, an intoxicating woman being like bad medicine. Ah, the good old days. Imagine my glee when I heard that Bon Jovi (hopefully with leather pants in tow) was going to be performing a free concert in Central Park on the Great Lawn. Only problem? You had to find the little radio station vans at strategic locations and be one of the first 75 people to mob them. For someone with no GPS and no clue where anything is, that just wasn't going to work. So I did what any cold blooded American does: bought a ticket illegally on eBay. Only to find out later that the whole secondhand ticket thing really pissed Bon Jovi off. Oh well. He should expect it.

On the day of the concert I got up early and rode into the city so I could be in time to wait in line all day. The line into Central Park stretched from 72nd Street all the way almost to the southern end of the park. People walking by got to give me looks that clearly said I, and everyone in line with me, was insane. Luckily it crawled along quickly, and I was soon walking the long march winding through the park to the ticket gate and bag fondle. I was deemed not a terrorist or gang banger and allowed entrance. Then I got to spend the next three hours napping, trying to keep the sun off my face, admiring the dragonflies that were keeping the mosquitos off, and trying not to look at the woman next to me. She was a horrific example of a fifty-year-old in denial, skintight black bike shorts accentuating every lump and bulge of cellulite, endless cigarettes dangling from her mouth, her voice hoarse and foul.

Luckily the opening synthesizer and chimes of the most rocking song of 1986 saved me. Livin' on a Prayer gave me chills. Damn that man can still sing. And can actually make me care about some sad sack unionized dock worker. Only problem? NO LEATHER PANTS. How can a man come to perform in front of 60,000 screaming fans and not wear his trademark leather pants? It's a mystery of the cosmos. But the hairy chest was on full display and the silk shirts were blowing open in the breeze. It was a perfect night, the grass was cool and soft, the lights were bright and hot, and the music was strong and memory-provoking. I swear the band worked their way through every decent song they had ever written, and Richie Sambora looked like he was having the time of his life.

And yes, I left early. What? You actually thought I would stick around to ride the subway with 60,000 people?

Fourth Festivities

2008-07-06T16:13:00.000-07:00

With the fourth of July quickly approaching, I knew I had to find something interesting and hopefully fun to do with my time. The fact that my street was entirely closed off to parking from 5 to 10 pm also helped encourage me to find something to occupy my time away from home. I tried to think about what was happening in the local area that might provide entertainment, and then it hit me. The Nathan’s hotdog eating contest happens every fourth of July. That’s definitely something different and interesting, right? And I had Coney Island on my list of must-sees. So at eight in the morning on the fourth I crept down the creaky steps to the sidewalk and drove over to the train station.

Coney Island is on the far side of Brooklyn, and the train ride that took me there was long, passing stops I had never heard of, and were certainly not on my Manhattan map of the subway. Luckily before I jumped the F train out of town I got serenaded by an old Chinese man playing traditional folk songs on his erhu and sian-xian (Chinese banjo) in the Washington Square station. It always helps to have these little reminders that New York is somewhere else entirely. I watched the old brick buildings flash by, covered in graffiti, complete with old metal awnings from a by-gone era.

I arrived at the Stillwell Avenue terminal around 10:30, and with the contest set to start at noon, I thought I was set. There was already a large crowd, so I pushed up into the mass to get a better view. A man in a straw hat like an amusement barker was entertaining the crowd after an R&B group finished up. As the day got hotter and the minutes ticked by the contestants were brought out and then taken back. ESPN was definitely running the show, which gave the whole event a sadly commercialized tackiness that was rather disappointing. Finally, around 12:30 they brought the contestants back out and prepared to begin. The Japanese in the crowd were loudly cheering Takeru Kobayashi, complete with his flashy blond and crayon-red hair. The Americans were waving flags and cheering Joey Chestnut. The random spinal surgeon/men’s health model/professional eater was posing shirtless, but no one seemed to care. The homeless man five feet in front of me lit up his second joint.

With only ten minutes on the clock, the eating was fast and furious. Joey Chestnut looked like he was about to regurgitate a cow. Takeru Kobayashi looked like it was perfectly normal to shove 59 hotdogs in his face. And at the end of ten minutes, it was the first tie in the history of the contest. Overtime was needed, and five more hotdogs were brought out for Joey and Takeru. Would the American allow Japan to overthrow the fourth??? Faster than seems humanly possible, the two contestants shoved the five hotdogs in their faces, with Joey Chestnut just barely managing to get the last bit of bun in his mouth before Takeru Kobayashi. America was triumphant once again! The crowd went wild! I rolled my eyes at the silliness of the whole tacky spectacle, but I’m sure Joey and Takeru are laughing their way all the way to the bank with their thousands of dollars in prize money for ten minutes worth of work.

I managed to push my way out of the crowd of 35,000+ and move into the fresh air. I briefly considered getting a Nathan’s hotdog, but the massive crowds quickly discouraged me. I decided to walk around and take a look at Coney Island, which I had heard so much about. Coney Island is basically the same as it was forty years ago, except more aged and tackier. The freak show is still there. The wooden roller coaster is still there. The ferris wheel is still there. I suspect the Puerto Rican flea market is relatively new, but at least it somehow fits into the tacky kitsch of the area. I made my way up to the boardwalk and was stunned by the mass of humanity that was on the beach. As far as the eye could see were people of every size, shape, color, age, and disposition wearing every color and style of clothing, no matter how ill-fitting or hideous. It was almost overwhelming, and quickly led to the conviction that New Yorkers have absolutely no shame. None.

I made my way to a small hotdog stand offering two hotdogs and a soda for $2.50 and decided that since I hadn’t eaten, it was deal I wasn't prepared to pass up. The hotdogs were good, if not snappy, and I quickly downed the bottled water I managed to negotiate for in lieu of soda. I also found a stand offering banana-flavored soft serve ice cream, which was new and interesting, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Around three I made my way back over to the aquarium since it was donation day. Apparently after three on Fridays you can get into the aquarium with just a donation instead of paying the full fee. They of course recommend you pay the full fee as a suggested donation amount. Sorry, but if I’m only getting a couple of hours worth, I’m not paying the full fee. Nice try though. It appeared that everyone from the contest earlier was in the aquarium with me, but I managed to see the baby walrus (the only one ever conceived in captivity), watch the penguins get fed, see the sea lion show, watch the sharks circle, and stand mesmerized by the moon jellies. It was amusing for the two hours I spent, but I couldn’t help thinking it was awfully small and mediocre for a city like New York. After the aquarium I moved back over to Nathan’s to see if the crowd had dispersed. It mostly had, so I determined to get my real hotdog from the original stand. Things nearly came to blows with the rudest, ugliest man I have ever seen when he tried to butt in line, but I eventually got my hotdog, lemonade, and the most disgustingly bad for you cheese fries in history. Everything was delicious. The hotdog snapped with each bite. The fries were firm and dense, and the orange nacho cheese was awful and delicious at the same time. The lemonade was refreshing and not too sweet. It was a perfect Coney Island meal.

After eating and taking a quick look at New York’s finest horse police, I wandered back onto the boardwalk, intent on getting a look at the pier I had seen earlier further down the beach. I made my way over and begin the long walk out over the ocean waves. The mass of humanity on the beach had spread out on the pier also, and at every space along the banister was a man, woman, or child fishing or crabbing in the waters below. A group had formed an impromptu bongo session with African rhythms echoing down that section of the pier. People were using raw chicken pieces to entice small crabs into pots. Older men were casting off the pier, often pulling up only seaweed. And everywhere were Puerto Rican flags, music, and maracas. I took pictures until I was certain I had filled my memory card, and then, exhausted, I made my way back to the subway.

On the long ride back on the N train, the whole car was serenaded by four thirtysomething men with a toy guitar, some old beer, and memorized oldies songs. Nearly everyone in the car was trying not to look at them, but also trying not to laugh. I was almost sad when I got off on Canal Street to have a quick stroll through Chinatown. Chinatown may be my favorite part of New York. It seems completely unpretentious and real. The people aren’t pretending to be anything. The businesses (except for the tacky shirt shops on the main street) are mostly herbal shops, acupuncturists, and good Chinese barbecues. It feels so earnest that it appeals. Somehow I also wandered into Little Italy, and the area was dressed as if for a street fair. The whole of it was blocked off to traffic, and all the little restaurants had filled the sidewalks with tables. I cursed my earlier hotdog and cheese fries and wished I was hungry. It was a perfect night, the tables were lit by candlelight, and everyone was chatting happily. This is the New York I am coming to love.

A Flash from the Past: Window Air Conditioners

2008-06-29T07:13:00.000-07:00

I'm really beginning to think that New Jersey might be the most backward state in the union. Here it is perpetually 1950, and no one thinks for an instant about moving forward and renovating. They still have radiators. They still lack dishwashers. They still use laundromats. Their roads are still one lane each way. But the worst? They still use window air conditioning units.

Now for the uninitiated, window air conditioning units (WAU from now on) are little boxes you stick in an open window and latch into place. They cool only the room they're actually in, leaving the rest of the apartment a sticky, sweaty mess. They run constantly, never shutting off once the temperature has been reached. And they make five tons of noise, so loud that the TV must be turned way up to compensate.

Having moved from the 21st century back to 1950, I'm utterly fascinated at the wastefulness and inefficiency of the system. Hasn't New Jersey heard of central AC? I know that there's only a couple of months a year when the temperatures warrant some air conditioning, but during those months, it can easily get to 90+ on the third floor of the house where I live. That, to me, is sufficient reason for a decent air conditioner. (My landlord tells me that the small bedroom above me, that I never use, gets so hot in the summer that the tiny WAU takes all day to cool it off).

Now I'm in a quandry. I've been trying to avoid using the WAU because I'm sure it's just as inefficient energy-wise as it is loud and unimpressive, but I'm returning to Texas for a visit in July. My quandry is this: Do I leave the WAU on while I'm gone? I'm sure it will be hot since it's the middle of July. My cats will be suffocating. But the WAU never shuts off. It will be running for four days straight, day and night. God only knows what my electric bill will look like.

The Longest Night

2008-06-14T10:31:00.000-07:00

Last night I went out with two girls from work and a Mexican in town for a training class, and for the first time I went to Hoboken, NJ. The town sits right on the river with an amazing view of the Manhattan skyline. For a Friday night traffic wasn't bad, so we arrived early and had a chance to look around. On one of the piers, two men were fishing. For what I don't know, but I'm not sure I would eat it, whatever they managed to catch.

At 7:30 we ambled over to Trinity for our dinner reservation, and lucked into an outdoor table. The dinner was halfway decent, and the atmosphere wasn't bad. We had a nice chat, and generally enjoyed ourselves. Dessert was bit on the poor side, but overall, dinner was pretty good. We definitely paid a premium for the view.

After dinner our Mexican friend wanted to go into the city. We checked into the ferries we had seen running earlier, but they were done for the night (this was at ten pm, so I wasn't exactly surprised. We ended up taking the PATH train into the city, and then wandering around. We showed our visitor Times Square and then walked over to Rockefeller Center where we had drinks at the Rink Bar. Then we made our way back to the PATH station by way of the Empire State Building. We arrived at the PATH station only to sit for 45 minutes waiting for the next train.

We finally made it back to Hoboken around 2:30am, and we still had to walk ten blocks to where we parked the car. We managed to wind our way back to Montvale, and I don't think I actually got into bed until 4:30. I was so tired, I almost couldn't sleep.

I --Heart-- BBQ

2008-06-08T18:07:00.000-07:00

I have missed barbecue. I haven't even attempted to buy or eat any while in New Jersey, because I know for a fact that I will be disappointed. And possibly sickened. So I have stayed far away, and I have been trying to pretend that I don't know how good barbecue really is. But all my hard work was completely undone when the Big Apple BBQ came to town. The pitmasters rolled in with their smokers and sauce mops, and I couldn't stay away.

The event is held every year for one weekend in Madison Square Garden, and pitmasters from around the country drive to New York City to let the locals know that they don't have everything in New York. And when I heard that my beloved Salt Lick was making an appearance, I made my plans.

This weekend was the hottest so far this year, and the sun was bright and hot. Perfect barbecue weather. You could smell the roasting pork and beef from blocks away, and it was almost as reassuring as a hug from my mother. At $8 a plate, the event required some budgeting, and I decided that I would get 2 plates of barbecue. The Salt Lick would be one, and I could choose one other.

By the time I arrived, the line for the Salt Lick was already down the block, so I quickly took my place. I could hear a lot of people reminiscing about their time at UT Austin, and driving down to Driftwood for some amazing 'Cue. It actually made me feel a little bit better knowing my fellow Texans were swarming over the tri-state area, and I didn't even know it. The Salt Lick handed out four slices of brisket, half a sausage, and some of their coleslaw. The brisket was tender, but firm, with a thick red smoke ring. The sausage was spicy, with a crispy casing that snapped when you bit it. And even the coleslaw was better than I seemed to remember.

With my happy plate of barbecue, I made my way to the event tent, where two barbecuing gods (Chris Lilly and Mike Mills) were going to give a talk along with Jeffrey Steingarten and Dottie Griffith (the former restaurant reviewer at the Dallas Morning News). I had read Jeffrey Steingarten's book (The Man Who Ate Everything), and I love hearing people talk about cooking, so I was more than excited. Which inevitably always leads to disappointment. Jeffrey Steingarten was exactly how I would stereotype New Yorkers: arrogant, pretentious, and unhealthily obsessed with George W. Bush. We were at a barbecue fest, for God's sake, and the man brought up George W. Bush. I fail to see what one has to do with the other. And that was after he insulted the South ("Do you have a contest for everything in the South?"), insulted the other men on the stage (he apparently doesn't think there should be barbecue cooking contests, which would end their illustrious careers if he had his way), and insulted the Luling Watermelon Thumping festival (it may be silly, but it's a hell of a lot of fun). I had to leave. I couldn't listen to his pontificating any longer. And I haven't even mentioned the fact that he was shaking and slurring and taking too long to formulate thoughts. Might have had something to do with the Guinness can in his hand and the 90+ degree heat (what, they don't teach you about dehydration when you become a food editor?). Makes me want to throw his book away. And I NEVER throw books away.

After Mr. Steingarten sickened me, I had to rush over to Chris Lilly's tent to get some smoked chopped pork and get the taste of dislike out of my mouth. Chris Lilly's pork may just be the most amazing pork I have ever eaten. It's smokey and richly, deeply pork. It's pig the way it was always meant to be. And the barbecue sauce is not intrusive. It just accents the pork and let's the pig do the talking. It's no wonder the man has won 10 World BBQ Championships. Too bad his restaurant is in Decatur, Alabama. Actually, that may be a good thing. I might be 400 pounds if it was within driving distance.

To sum up the weekend: It is now apparent to me that I can never be a vegetarian.

Slicing the brisket at the Salt Lick Tent.

Chris Lilly doing his thing

The panelists (from left: Steingarten, Lilly, Mills)

The pork of the gods

The Lights of Broadway

2008-05-22T07:33:00.000-07:00

Since it was my birthday yesterday, and since my sister was in town, we decided it would be fabulous to go into New York City and have some fun. I managed to procure two tickets to the sold-out show Wicked, so off we went in the morning for a day of fun.

We first got some lunch at McDonald's, not wanting to break the budget for later in the evening. The showing yesterday was at 2pm, a matinee, so we took our time and walked leisurely. All sorts of people were coming in and out of the McDonald's, tourists and New Yorkers alike. You could always tell the New Yorkers. They were inevitably dressed in black and carrying some name-brand accessory. The tourists looked harried and sweaty, and I felt a little sorry for them that probably the only thing they could afford to eat for lunch was McDonald's. I wish there were more Grey's Papayas around.

When we got to the show, we discovered that the reason the show was sold out was because every school child in the city of New York was on a school trip to Broadway. They sat in front of us, behind us, beside us, complete with loud talking, lots of eating and drinking, and lots of trash being thrown about. Luckily they mostly settled down during the performance. Our seats left something wanting since they were so far to the side that we couldn't see the backdrop at all, but luckily the actors stepped forward for the main action. The show itself was good, and we enjoyed it.

After the show we were set for dinner at Cafe Grazie. I had gotten the suggestion from the Chowhound website, so I hoped it would be good. It's a small little place that you would miss if you weren't looking for it, but quiet and pleasant within. Everything we ordered was delicious, but probably the best thing we found were the mini eggplant parmesan slices my sister got as an appetizer.

After dinner we decided to take a walk, so we wandered down towards Greenwich Village, passing all the shops on Fifth Avenue along the way. Everything was closed, so we got to peek in the windows without salespeople peering back out. We finally made our way to Serendipity 3, since I wanted to try the legendary dessert shop. We lucked into a table upstairs, but the place was so small we could barely move. My sister ordered a frozen hot chocolate, and I got a slice of chocolate blackout cake. They were both delicious, but the food the other customers were getting looked just as tasty. I'm going to have to go back and try something from the entree menu.

A Taste of Home

2008-05-11T18:43:00.000-07:00

I have been desperate. Desperate for some Tex-Mex. For something that tastes remotely familiar and comforting. And there's nothing like that in New Jersey. The two main Mexican restaurants in my area are both horrible, so the future looks bleak. One restaurant made me a quesadilla with huge chunks of chorizo (don't they know to crumble it??), raw onions (slap those babies on the stove for a few minutes to take the bitterness out!), and an untoasted tortilla (a slimy quesadilla? Nasty!). The worst part is that the grocery stores around here only offer $2 avocados. And those aren't the huge South American avocados. Those are little Haas. For $2 a piece.

The Haas finally went on sale. For $1 a piece. But that's better than $2, so I splurged on three avocados, and then I spent this weekend luxuriating in the creamy dream that is good guacamole. It should hold me for a little bit. I hope.

Goodbye Little Mice

2008-04-30T07:31:00.000-07:00

It's weird... As upset as I was to find that mice were living in my kitchen, I'm probably even sadder that I've had to let them go. I think I had gotten used to them, and they were getting used to me. What can be nicer than food and water whenever you need it and nice toilet paper roll to sleep in? But I decided that wild things were not meant to live in a box, so I took them to a wooded area near my work. I had to wake them up (mice are nocturnal), and coax them out into the fallen leaves. They just sat there looking at me. I had to encourage them to run away. And now I almost miss them. I just hope they live long happy mice lives in the woods.

Little Furry Visitors

2008-04-20T16:38:00.000-07:00

For the last couple of weeks, I have had the feeling that there is something living in my kitchen. And that something is not me or my cats. I had pretty much convinced myself that it was probably some kind of monster black New Jersey roach, fresh from his immigration from the Manhattan subway tunnels. The thought terrified me, and I made sure that not a crumb was left each night before I went to bed. I was even on the point of fumigating my kitchen with Raid, especially since my cats were incredibly fascinated by the area behind the stove. Apparently when the original 100-year-old stove died, it was replaced by my current cheapest-thing-Home-Depot-had-in-stock, and whoever did the replacing left a gaping hole in the kitchen wall. This gaping hole is covered by a piece of drywall that has been leaned against the hole. Yes, leaned. Why the hell would they actually put the drywall into the hole and caulk it up?? So, obviously, there is plenty of room for nocturnal visitors to come and see what I had for dinner that night.

One night last week as I was falling into bed, exhausted, I heard a flurry of activity in the kitchen. Convinced that my cats had finally caught the monster roach, I got up to make sure they killed it. But when I confronted my white cat in the hallway, it wasn't a roach in her mouth. It was a little brown and white mouse. A little fuzzy, big-eyed house mouse, nearly terrified to death. Being a previous owner of pet mice, I couldn't stand to think of my cat taunting this one until it died of a heart attack, so I quickly moved in to snatch it from her. She resisted a little, but I finally got it away from her, and dropped it outside, where it scampered away. The next night, another mouse snuck out and was caught, and he was thrown outside also. Now, I know both will most certainly make their way back into the house, but I'm counting on the intelligence of mice (hey, scientists use them in experiments because they're smart!) to learn that I have cats, and they should probably pilfer from the kitchen downstairs instead of mine. So far, so good. No visitors since.

What the...?

2008-04-16T16:50:00.000-07:00

On one of my recent trips to the grocery store, I spent some time wandering the aisles, taking in the difference in offerings from what I was used to. The yellow rice I used in Dallas (Mahatma brand) was not for sale, but something by Carolina was. The pasta aisle was much longer than I'm used to, and the salsas were sad approximations. But then I started to notice some of the stranger things on the shelves.

I don't know about you, but the last place I would buy pate for my dinner party is out of a can at the corner grocery store.

In case you can't read the can, it says "Army Brand Chopped Pork Pattie Loaf". Why would someone put something like this in their mouth willingly?

What, pray tell, is a pork roll??? Is it somehow related to Spam???

Smells Like Italian

2008-04-02T20:24:00.000-07:00

So tonight I decided to visit the Hilton hotel's exercise room, since my company has some deal going that all the employees can use it for free. I didn't really expect much, but was pleasantly surprised by the nice, new equipment. So I get all dressed in my exercise best and make my way onto a treadmill. I start up the belt, and I'm chugging along when I smell it. The bitter overwhelming smell of garlic. It's permeating the room, choking me, clogging my throat. I look around me suspiciously. I know what's happening. One of the individuals next to me on the treadmill is an Italian. An Italian that's in love with garlic. And it's slowly releasing through his pores as he works up a sweat. You find the same phenomenon on the South Korean subway, except in that case, it's kimchi. I managed to gag my way through the remainder of my workout, but from now on, I'm bringing a gas mask.

My New Career

2008-03-22T14:42:00.000-07:00

Well, I've found what I'm going to do if I ever get laid off or lose my job. I'm going to be a locksmith.

Last night I accidentally let my front door close behind me, not realizing at that moment what a horrible thing I had done. Not remembering that it locks behind you. Not being cognizant of anything amiss until I went back upstairs and couldn't turn the handle. I was standing in the stairway, in jeans, a short-sleeve shirt, and slippers. And it was 7pm on Good Friday.

I did everything I could to get back in. I searched for some tools to help me take the doorknob off (knowing what I now know, that wouldn't have helped). I got a un-twisted hanger from the laundry room, hoping it would open the door, but also secretly hoping it wouldn't (if it was that easy, was it safe???). Nothing. Then I proceeded to walk around the house, banging on all the other doors, hoping my downstairs neighbor was home.

He answered the third door looking like he'd been sleeping. He was wearing the same thing he had worn the last time I saw him - overalls and a cotton shirt. Maybe that's all he owns... I asked if he could call the man I was renting from. No, he couldn't, because he didn't have the number. I'm dumbfounded at this point because who lets someone rent from them, and then doesn't have their contact information?

The only option I have at this point is for him to call a locksmith for me. He flips through the yellow pages and finally finds one that's open. The lady on the phone tells us that it's $35 for the man to come out, and then he'll quote what it costs to actually open the lock once he sees it. I'm thinking, no big deal, it's an old lock, a trained professional can probably jimmy it for $20. So we tell them to send the guy out.

My first indication that something wasn't right should have been the fact that the locksmith pulls up in a nice semi-new Suburban. No horrible work truck for him! He drags his toolkits upstairs and takes a look at the lock. Then he tries twisting the knob, as if I'm dumb enough to have not already tried it. Then he turns to me and says, "I'll have to drill it," in a creepy Russian accent.

I had never heard of drilling a lock. It sounded complicated. He said it would cost me $115 on top of the $35 trip fee. Yes, you saw that right. My total would be ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS. So by this point I'm thinking 1) I hope he takes a check, because I'm going to need some parental help for this one, and 2) I'm not getting into my apartment for a while, this will probably take a half an hour of major surgery. I reluctantly tell him to go ahead.

So he takes out a drill, the kind that most households have to put holes in the wall, nothing special. He puts it up to the lock and drills the keyhole for TWENTY SECONDS. He turns the lock with a screwdriver and the door opens. I'm standing there with my mouth hanging open. I just agreed to pay the man $115 for twenty seconds of work. That's $20,700 an hour, in case you're wondering. $5,382,000 a year. I currently make about $22 an hour. If I became a locksmith, I would never have to work again after putting in a year or two. Now I just need to get myself a battery-powered drill from Home Depot, and I'll be set.

NYC, Take Two. (Now With Fewer Children!)

2008-03-16T20:18:00.000-07:00

There's nothing like the sour smell of vomit in the morning. Nothing really coats your nostrils in quite the same way. Even vomit's slightly less revolting cousin, stale urine, doesn't smell quite as sharp. And what a great way to begin a voyage into New York City. It's like an initiation of sorts. And I, I was lucky enough to have that particular experience on the train ride in. But at least the ticket machine was broken, and the conductor punching tickets got to give me a long, hard look before deciding he believed me.

For this particular ugly pre-Spring adventure, I decided on an attraction that I thought would have much lower kid factor than my previous outing (to the Natural History Museum). I picked the Metropolitan Museum of Art, because frankly, it's hard enough to get adults to go look at distorted faces in bad portraits by dead people you're supposed to know all about it order to seem "smart enough" to be there in the first place. I couldn't imagine that many children would be forced along. And for the most part, I was right.

The Met is monstrously huge, falling somewhere between the Louvre (which is sickeningly, disgustingly huge) and the Dallas Museum of Art (which is just so sad that it makes you want to donate your life savings just so they can actually buy something good to hang up). I walked for five hours, mostly with glazed-over pupils, and still managed to really only see the second floor. Yes, I only really got through one floor, and that was only a cursory examination.

My favorites? The Greek and Roman statues, although relatively creepily, most of the stuff I saw were from tombstones. Makes you kinda wonder if they should put it back, like the stigma of disturbing American Indian gravesites. I also felt a certain fondness for the Asian section, but was relatively disappointed that there wasn't a set of samurai armor (hey, that's art too, right??). I wandered through room after room after room of European paintings before I finally found Monet, van Gogh, and Gauguin.

The creepiest part? The Degas paintings. Is it just me, or was the man a pedophile? There was an entire room of little girls in tutus, bent over in various submissive poses. One I could understand, after all, little dancing girls are cute. Maybe two. But a whole room?? I think the man had a problem.

And I must admit that I spent considerable time looking for the picture of Galatea coming to life in Pygmalion's arms, but was never able to locate it. There's just something about designing your own life mate, and then having them jump joyously into your embrace. So what if it's my secret fantasy?

Washing Up

2008-03-09T16:37:00.000-07:00

Today was washing day, where I finally wandered around the house to explore the laundry room that I had been assured I was allowed to use. So I dragged down a bag of laundry, determined that three weeks of clothes would all be washed in the coming hours. So, of course, at the bottom of the stairs, my laundry detergent box jumped out of my arms, flipped midair, and dumped half of its contents on the grass. I think, no big deal, it's Arm & Hammer, that means it's mostly baking soda, right? I won't really be the cause of a massive patch of burnt grass, right?

After kicking the detergent around so that it doesn't look quite as glaringly obvious, I pick up my box and manage to make it to the laundry room without further incident. The washer is empty, so I load up my laundry and get it started. But now I'm paranoid, because the load is almost completely my underwear, and I'm terrified that the weirdos that live downstairs will be fingering it when I'm not around. I can just imagine the backwoods developmentally challenged inbred spawn pulling my grannie panties out after the spin cycle and stuffing them in their pocket for later. So the whole time the load is washing, I'm upstairs trying to distract myself from worrying about it. Needless to say, I rushed downstairs as soon as I could to check.

When I went to move my laundry to the dryer, I hit an obstacle. The backwoods developmentally challenged inbred spawn had left their laundry in the dryer. I poked it with a finger, but it was cold. Obviously it had been sitting for while. I wasn't sure what to do. If I chose to leave it, I would have a load of wet underwear and three more loads waiting. If I moved it, I would have to actually touch it. I seriously debated my options for a good five minutes before finally deciding to pull the dry clothes out and stack them on the dryer. There didn't appear to be any underwear in the load, so I carefully pulled each shirt and pair of pants out and folded them neatly. But then I saw it. A pair of boxer shorts, washed and worn to the point of falling into pieces. But that wasn't the worst part. The entire posterior was covered in a nasty brown stain that I could only imagine had been caused by one thing: explosive diarrhea. I nearly threw up. I found an unbent hanger that obviously was used to pull lint out of the lint trap, and fished the nasty shorts out of the dryer. But I couldn't help wondering: what kind of person shits their underpants to such a degree that the stain is not removable, and then decides to KEEP THEM???

The rest of my washing went just fine, without incident, but I did reach a decision regarding future laundry excursions. I will now be doing my laundry at a laundromat, because paying to wash my clothes is now worth it to me, as long as I never have to see another pair of underpants that has been shat upon to that degree.

Sticker Shock

2008-03-04T22:48:00.000-08:00

Tonight I took a former teammate out to a restaurant since she was in town for training. I didn’t know of much in the area, so I asked around. The suggestion I got was an Irish pub a couple of miles away. I was told it was good, easy to find, and best of all, they have parking that doesn’t involve trying to back into a space too small for your car. Sounded great. So we make our way through the rain to the restaurant, and sure enough it’s easy to find and has parking. So we go inside and get a seat. It’s quaint and warm, just like you’d expect a pub to be. We each order a beer, and since I’m in an Irish pub, it has to be Guinness. We chat and order dinner. I think bangers and mash sounds great, perfect rainy day bar food. It’s not until I get the bill that it dawns on me how much my dinner costs. My beer? Sets me back by over $5. My mashed potatoes and sausage? Sets me back by $12.95. I’m horrified. I have the money, but who ever heard of paying $13 for mashed potatoes and breakfast sausage???

I would blame the restaurant (or the people who told me to go there), but this is a common thing in New Jersey/New York. Dinners regularly average $12-$14, and anything fancy really starts creeping up. At a steak restaurant in the Shops at Riverside, you can’t find an entrée under $45. And that doesn’t include any sides. This is all a little bit overwhelming to someone who chokes at paying $30 for a steak dinner at III Forks. Forget Zagat. I need the Poor Man’s Guide to Where to Eat Cheap.

Rolling Into NYC

2008-03-02T17:53:00.000-08:00

Today I decided to be adventurous and make my way into the city. From where I live, the best option seems to be the train. The same train that toots its way right behind my apartment every sixty minutes all day long. So I walked down the street and found the dilapidated train station and waited for my chariot.

The train itself was about what I expected with the seating being slightly better than I expected. The fare was much higher than I expected; $9.75 for an off-peak adult roundtrip ride into Penn Station. If $10 is off-peak, how much is peak?? Maybe I'm just spoiled by the $2-something ticket that takes you to to downtown Dallas. Or the $4-something ticket that will take you all the way to Ft. Worth.

The train ride from River Edge to Manhattan involves three different trains, the Pascack Valley line to Secaucus, the NJ Transit train that goes from Secaucus into Penn Station, and the subway in Manhattan. Penn Station was interesting in its own right specifically because it actually houses a Kmart. Yes, a Kmart. In the subway station. What will they think of next?? But after spending about 45 minutes hopping various trains, I finally made it to 79th St, west of Central Park. (Let me not forget the weirdo of the day: A black man with some sort of black scarf on his head covering a 12-inch cone-shaped appendage to the crown of his skull and a thin forked stick wrapped in green and yellow tape that he was carrying like a Lord of England carries a walking stick. Oh, and he was wearing black leather pants with a cube design. Because that really matches his Lord of the Bahamas theme.)

For lunch I decided to try Zabar's, supposedly a good little deli with relatively cheap food. I ordered a Ruben panini and a cafe mocha, and then sat down at the only table: a long, family-style arrangement. When I got my panini, it was cold in the middle and relatively tasteless, and the cafe mocha tasted more like plain Folgers than anything. I was in a state of mild shock because 1) New Yorkers spend more time bragging about their amazing restaurants than anything else and 2) even though it was specifically recommended in a major travel guide that will remain nameless, the food was not good. I choked down the sandwich, trashed the mocha, and ran across the street to Starbucks for a real coffee. I should have gone to Gray's Papaya; at least I know they're good.

On my way to the American Museum of Natural History (AMoNH), I was stopped for directions by a young Australian man. This is something I have never understood. Every time I go to NYC, I'm stopped by someone needing directions. And evitably I have no idea where they're going because I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHERE I'M GOING. But for some reason I must look like I know. I pointed him down the street to the nearest subway station, hoping and praying that the A train stopped there. I think it did. Maybe I'm not as bad as I think...

The AMoNH is amazing. I didn't realize that it was the basis for the museum in Night At the Museum, but you can tell as soon as you go inside (I didn't go in the main entrance, or I would have noticed before I even entered). Even though the $20 entry fee is really a "suggested donation", I ponied up anyway. It's for a good cause, right? I even paid an extra $2 for the planetarium show, narrated by Robert Redford. And if it hadn't been for the kid sitting behind me screaming "I WANT TO GO HOME!!!!!" during the planetary collision scenes, I would have really enjoyed it.

The rest of the museum was spectacular. The dioramas were amazingly lifelike, and unlike the Natural History Museum at Harvard in Boston, these stuffed mammals weren't falling apart in tatters. The dioramas were artistic and stunning, but one of the funniest was the diorama of Isfahan, complete with a little man on a flying carpet. Museum workers with a sense of humor, oh my! Although I did hear one pretentious New Yorker comment, "How silly. Now people will think they really had flying carpets." GROAN.

The Barosaurus in the entryway

The gorilla diorama

More pictures are here.

The Mall of America

2008-03-01T19:56:00.000-08:00

I figured it was about time that I stopped hiding in my apartment and attempted to navigate the rat's nest that is Route 4/Kinderkamack/Main/Hackensack Ave. After all, I was missing out on the three malls within a five mile radius of my house. Who could resist? So today I finally sucked it up and went out roaming.

The first mall I managed to locate was the Shops at Riverside. Looked good from the outside, with plenty of eating places, including Maggiano's, and a Barnes & Noble. After driving in circles for about ten minutes, I finally found a parking place. I walked into the mall only to discover that it was filled with shops such as Hermes and Tiffany's. I almost laughed out loud. It was THAT kind of mall. At this point it was already lunch time, so I decided to try the Thai restaurant that was just inside the entrance.

The place was pretty and quiet and relatively empty, but the biggest shock was that it smelled like pink bubblegum. I kept craning my neck around to try and locate the source of the bizarre smell, but no luck. I ordered green curry, and that's when I experienced my first unexpected bout of reverse culture shock.

There I am, eating my so-so curry, when this older couple gets seated next to me. The woman, obviously starring at my meal, asked the waitress what I was eating. She told her. The woman said she wanted some. The waitress said, "Are you sure? It's very spicy." The woman insisted. After the waitress walked away, I really had to struggle with whether or not I should tell the poor woman that I'm from Texas, and this lovely curry I'm slurping down will probably take the skin off her tongue if she's not used to spicy food like I am. Before I could find the right way to phrase it without weirding her out, the curry arrived. I could almost instantly hear the poor woman's nose running as she sniffled away. Then she told her dining companion, "This sure is spicy!" in a wavering voice. Ah, well. Maybe I should wear a sign that says "Beware: Chili Eater".

After lunch I managed to find my way around the Route 4/Route 17/Garden State Parkway rat's nest and made my way to the Garden State Plaza shopping center. And I must say, I have never seen such a zoo in my life. It was like the day after Thanksgiving and the day before Christmas combined. The whole state of New Jersey was there. It took me 20 minutes to find a parking spot. The walkways were packed. The line for Auntie Anne's pretzels was fifteen people long. The line to get into Johnny Rocket's wrapped around the corner. I felt claustrophobic. I quickly ducked into the movie theater for a show.

After the movie, I forced myself to do a loop around the mall to check out all the stores. Kids screamed and ran under my feet. Ugly guys strutted like peacocks. Every girl had Uggs and too much makeup. My migraine was massive to behold. I finally managed to crawl to my car before the sun set and somehow found my way home. And I promised myself never to go to that mall again on a Saturday.

Angry Drivers Aren't Just a Cliche

2008-02-27T20:25:00.000-08:00

Everyone has heard about the NY/NJ angry driver phenomenom. The horrible Italian-American riding your bumper, his hand on the horn, brights flashing, screaming "Whaddayadoin!!!" out the window. I really and truly hoped it was just a story people tell other people to keep them from moving up here. But it's not. Because I saw that guy. He really exists. But thank goodness, I wasn't the one he was angry with.

I was pulled up at a light, waiting for the green signal. On the other side of the road, a woman in her Lexus was pulled over into the driveway of a bank, but about five inches of bumper was still sticking out into the road. A man in a pickup truck pulls up behind her and lays on the horn. At this point I'm thinking "Okay, she's blocking the bank entrance." I can understand his frustration, if not the necessity of holding his hand on the horn until she moves.

So she pulls back out into the road and travels about 20 feet further, pulling over into a residential driveway, but it turns out the guy didn't want to get into the bank. He just wanted her to get her five inches of bumper out of the road. It didn't matter that he could very easily have pulled around her. It's all about territory and rights. It was HIS road, and HOW DARE SHE expose her five inches of bumper in his lane. The lady is obviously searching for something on the passenger seat or floorboard, because I can see her head twisted over to the passenger side, and her arms flailing around. Meanwhile, the man behind her is continuing to hold his hand on the horn because, once again, she has five inches of bumper sticking out in the road. But this time he's flashing his bright lights at her and gesticulating wildly. I'm desperately hoping that the lady finds a shotgun on the passenger floorboard and shoots out his tires. He continues in this manner for about another half a minute before finally pulling around her. Everyone behind him has no problem whatsoever doing the same.

I don't think I've ever been so angry for someone else before. If I had had a baseball bat in my car, I might have gotten out and taken it to his hood. But I can only console myself with the knowledge that karma will have its way with him, and he'll end up some old sadsack welfare cripple living off of $400 a month while neighborhood kids throw rocks through his windows.

Real Snow

2008-02-22T18:15:00.000-08:00

In Texas we don't get snow. Yeah, sometimes some white stuff falls from the sky, but it never sticks around, and it's almost always laughable. And it's not cute fluffy snow, but hard, angry ice snow. Kids are inevitably disappointed by the low fun-ness factor. But in New Jersey, they get snow. Real, fluffy, sink-into-your-socks-despite-your-pant-leg snow.

I woke up at six am to find the whole street white. But what really woke me up was an unfamiliar sound. THUMP...sccccrrrraaaaaaaattttccccchhhhh. The sound of a snow plow scraping along the asphalt, pushing the short inch of accumulation aside. "How quaint!" I think, and rush outside to get a closer look. Fluffy stars are falling from the sky, covering my hair and sticking on my jacket. I'm as excited as a ten-year-old, especially since it's relatively obvious that I will not be going to work. I plod back inside, and show my cats the snow that's caked on my shoes. They lick it cautiously. And then I dive back into bed, hoping for a nice long early morning nap.

THUMP...sccccrrrraaaaaaaattttccccchhhhh. THUMP...sccccrrrraaaaaaaattttccccchhhhh. THUMP...sccccrrrraaaaaaaattttccccchhhhh. Every five minutes. THUMP...sccccrrrraaaaaaaattttccccchhhhh. My street is apparently the only street in New Jersey that needs to be plowed. THUMP...sccccrrrraaaaaaaattttccccchhhhh. Okay, it's pretty obvious I'm never going back to sleep. So I spend the day huddled under my electric throw, wishing that my cable TV and internet had already been hooked up, listening to the excited cries of neighborhood children.

1552 Miles...8 States...And a New Home

2008-02-19T09:28:00.000-08:00

It's probably a good thing that I didn't have an internet connection when I got to New Jersey. I needed a few days to calm down before jumping online to lambast the entire state and everyone living in it. But before I get to that, the rest of my trip.

- The mountains of Virginia are as lovely as I thought they would be in daylight, although much less steep than I expected. Maybe I just chose the smoothest route, because I'm sure there's a twisty mountain road somewhere.

- West Virginia and Maryland I can't really comment on because I spent a total of twenty minutes passing through the corner of each one.

- There was snow on the ground in Pennsylvania. Absolutely coating the farm fields until the whole landscape was white. I was okay with the snow because it wasn't on the road, and my car was warm. Otherwise I would have had an issue.

- I find it interesting that the bridge over the Delaware River between Pennsylvania and New Jersey is a $3 toll if you're trying to leave, but free if you're entering...

- The bridges in western New Jersey over I-78 all have small American flags fluttering against the chain link guard fence. Rather unexpected.

- There are no street signs in New Jersey. Okay, so there's some. But not nearly enough.

Which brings me to New Jersey. I tried following Mapquest's lovely directions for getting off Route 4 and into River Edge, but there was no exit labeled Johnson Ave, so I ended up in Teaneck. Don't ask me how. I still have no clue how to get back to Route 4 from where I live. Luckily the man that is renting me my apartment came and rescued me.

So on to the apartment. I knew that the apartment was in an older house, and that the carpets probably needed to be replaced, and that it really should be painted, but the reality was so much more horrifying than I had imagined. The carpets are maybe 30 years old, the paint is peeling off the walls in large chunks, the wallpaper in the bathroom on separate walls doesn't match and is peeling off, and the whole apartment smells like mothballs. But the most horrifying thing was how DIRTY it was. The man was beaming as he told me how he had cleaned the place up before I came, and I was trying to smile and nod so I wouldn't scream. I was afraid to touch anything, or I was certain I'd get Ebola or something only slightly less nasty. Even the plates in the cabinet had food crusted on their bottoms.

Later that night, I finally ventured out to find a grocery store in the hopes of getting something to eat. I followed directions my parents gave me, and thank goodness, the streets I needed to drive on had signs. The A&P I was aiming for was nowhere in sight, so I finally pulled into another store I had never heard of. I walked the aisles looking for something to buy, but half the shelves were empty. It was really kind-of creepy. I only picked up a couple of things (no milk or eggs!!! too scary!!!), making sure to check the expiration dates. Turns out the store is closing on the 23rd, for good, so it was pointless to know where it was. Luckily I spotted a Chinese food take-out restaurant down the street, so I got to eat dinner. And yes, it was good. And yes, it was super, super cheap.

The next day a good Samaritan showed me how to get to work from my apartment, and then took me to Linens & Things to get some household essentials. You see, the pots and pans I was supposed to use had been placed under the sink, which leaks, and they were all rusted out. The silverware drawer was full of plastic knives, tacky IKEA children's picnicware, and some random mismatched silverware. I had to buy a whole new set of pots and pans, silverware, and a sharp knife.

Last night I spent the whole evening scrubbing the kitchen, and I'm only halfway done. But at least I have clean plates to eat on and pots to cook in. And I even found a grocery store near my job, so I can get more food and cleaning supplies as needed. Now I just have to figure out where the heck I'm going.

The Shenandoah Valley, VA

The Appalachian Mountains

1147 Miles From Home

2008-02-15T22:11:00.000-08:00

Tonight I'm blogging from a slightly less nasty Best Western in Lexington, VA. I had a full day, but only drove in two states, Tennessee and Virginia. Here are my thoughts:

- The hills of Tennessee are really lovely. Except when they're marred by a sign that reads: "Adult Bookstore XXX DVDs Books". See #2 below.

- Oh my God, there really is a town called Bucksnort. I still can't believe it. I really thought my dad and sister made it up. But there it is, adult bookstore and all.

- There is something called Frozen Head State Park in eastern Tennessee. And you know with a morbid name like that, I'd have to look it up. It's apparently named after a mountain in the park called Frozen Head. Still sounds morbid to me.

- The police in Virginia need something to do. Because they're all out on the highway looking for anyone who actually dares to go over the speed limit. And I especially love the signs that say "Speed limit monitored by aircraft". They're really serious about their speed limit.

- The Shenandoah Valley is really lovely, I think. It was night time, so I'm not sure, but I think it would be lovely. All the exits off 81 go down into the valley, which I'm sure is probably picturesque during the day, during the spring.

Good 'Ol Bucksnort, TN

A farm in Tennessee

534 Miles From Home

2008-02-14T20:05:00.000-08:00

Tonight I'm blogging for you from a dumpy Days Inn on the outskirts of Jackson, Tennessee, a town I didn't even know existed until yesterday. Today's adventure included driving the three hours from Dallas to the Texas border, running as fast as possible through Arkansas, and finishing up with a quick jaunt through the western edge of Tennessee. My thoughts?

- Texas is big. REALLY big. I still can't believe it took me three hours to get to Texarkana from Dallas. And gosh, I'm going to miss that largeness. It just overwhelms you. Everything else in life is going to seem small from now on.

- The Red River is really red. I always thought it was just a stupid name, like "Brushy Creek" and "Dry Sandy Creek". (Yes, those are real names of waterways in Texas.) But the water is really and truly a shade of red. Must be the clay bottom.

- Hope, Arkansas, is so small that if you blink, you'll miss it. After the ginormous sign proclaiming President William Jefferson Clinton's birthplace, you'd expect a little more. But then again, it's ARKANSAS. You can still marry your first cousin, for gosh sakes.

- The White River is not white. Hey, I had hopes after number 2 above.

- The Mississippi River is amazing. I've seen it probably ten times in my life, but it still makes me pause. That waterway is the lifeblood of the whole center of the country, and you can feel it. That, and the glass pyramid on the Tennessee side is pretty cool.

- Someday I want a penthouse in one of the skyscrapers in Memphis that are right on the Mississippi River. Can you imagine that view???

- Elvis is not worth $27. Yes folks, that is how much it costs to visit Elvis' tacky shrine. I did pause for about half a second to consider it, but then I realized that $27 would buy me a prime dinner at III Forks in Dallas. I don't care if he was the King.

Downtown Little Rock, AK, in the distance

Welcome to the Arctic

2008-02-12T17:45:00.000-08:00

So, as I was enjoying the blossoming of Spring in Dallas yesterday, complete with bright blue skies and plenty of bright sunshine, I wondered what the weather at the same time in northern New Jersey was. Maybe in the fifties? Forties? It couldn't possibly be that large of a difference. After all, it was a stunning 72 degrees Fahrenheit in Dallas.

So off I went to the trusty internet to get my dose of reality. Northern New Jersey? High temperature, 23 degrees. Fahrenheit. HIGH temperature. I was too horrified to look at the low. Suddenly I felt the need to go clutch my electric blanket close to my heart. Maybe I need another one. Or three.

Giants vs. Patriots

2008-02-03T22:28:00.000-08:00

Having lived in Texas most of the last twenty years, I'm relatively used to football being an essential part of life, right after air, water, and food, and often slightly before shelter and human interaction in the needs hierarchy. Texans are constantly talking about what Jerry Jones is thinking, what T.O. said, and who Tony Romo is currently shagging. It's life in Texas. So when "America's team" choked in the playoffs, I ceased to really care who won the Super Bowl, although I might have considered watching it for the commercials.

Now, you would have to have spent the last six months under a rock to not know that the Patriots had a perfect season leading up to the Super Bowl. They were unstoppable. And something about that kind-of appeals to the neurotic perfectionist part of me, so when asked who I was rooting for, I chose the Patriots. And then I remembered where I was moving to.

Imagine if you will, New York City, full of its nasty obnoxious fans, except now they're really angry nasty obnoxious fans. Apparently New Yorkers take their football as seriously as Texans, and I could just see how this would turn out badly if the Giants lost. In fact, I was unsure if the resulting riots would expand to include parts of New Jersey in the general bonfire of hatred that has been redirected from the Yankees in the offseason. Would my apartment even still be standing when I got there? Or would the city tear itself and all of the outlying suburbs to pieces?

So I changed my mind. It would be infinitely better if the Giants won. And God must be watching out for me, because they did.

Home, Sweet Illegal Apartment?

2008-01-26T21:15:00.000-08:00

So after an exhaustive search of every apartment website and craigslist posting that didn't involve a broker and their ridiculous fee, I have finally found an apartment. No, it wasn't the little 2-bedroom cottage that seemed so appealing on first glance. That's for section 8 only. (They have section 8 housing in Bergen County???) It's a furnished 2-bedroom on the top floor of a house, and I'm so exhausted at this point that it looks better than anything I have ever seen.

The most wonderful individual in the world (name removed to protect my co-conspirators) went and took a peek at the place for me. And yes, I didn't see it myself because I chickened out of flying to NJ at the last minute when they said it was going to snow. I'm a Texan! We don't DO snow!! Anyway, she said it was a good size, but in poor repair, so it's lucky that I'm feeling motivated enough to consider painting it. Heck, maybe I'll grow to love those flaking paint chips. Stranger things have happened.

But now I've come to find out that my little den away from the world is actually an illegal apartment. Apparently this, and many other, houses are not zoned for multiple occupants, but no one can pay their outrageous mortgages, so they rent out portions to tenants. I felt kind of sleazy for a minute, but the feeling quickly passed. Especially when I remembered how much money I'm saving. Now here's to hoping the zoning police don't break my door down in an illegal apartment sting operation.

The Great Apartment Search

2008-01-22T19:07:00.000-08:00

So one thing I learned relatively quickly about New Jersey is that they like laundromats. They like them so much, that most people don't have access to a washer and dryer that don't take coins. And coming from my petty, spoiled little Texan background, I'm frankly quite horrified. The thought of some baglady wandering into the laundromat and fingering my delicates gives me a chill. I thought I had finally moved past the point where I needed to do laundry dorm-style, missing socks and stolen shirts and all. Is it so wrong to want my own washer??

Another thing I've learned is that pets are rather frowned on. Through the cold winter nights, you should cuddle your body pillow, not your precious pooch or kitty. Animals are evil and stinky and mess-making, and no civilized apartment complex will admit them. Which puts me in a pickle, since my cats are my children. (Hey, at almost-30, you start to rationalize these things!)

So the search is on. For an apartment that is slightly larger than a closet, that admits two cats, and preferably doesn't require me to share the laundry facilities with 50 other people. Oh, and did I mention that it has to be under $1200 a month?

How to Transplant a Texan

2008-01-20T21:01:00.000-08:00

Transplanting a Texan is actually rather difficult. Most of us thoroughly enjoy our neverending sunshine, margaritas on the deck long into November, and the smiling happy faces everywhere. The only place I really want to be transplanted to is Austin. But when you have a job that sucks, and a job that doesn't suck is offered to you, with a large raise in pay, you'd have to be stupid to say no. So now I'm moving to........New Jersey.

I've heard New Jersey called many things, most of them unpleasant. The most memorable is "The Smelly Armpit of the US". Now, I'm trying to reserve judgment, but from what I saw of the trash liberally blowing along the side of the Garden State Parkway on my way from the airport to Bergen County, I'm afraid I'm going to come to agree. And there's always that strange response I get when I say I'm moving there: "WHY??"

So I thought I would start a fun little blog for all my friends at home in Texas, and all my new friends in New Jersey, who no doubt will try and convince me that New Jersey is in fact NOT an armpit or toilet. I'll post all the culture clashes and weirdness that I encounter on my little journey back east. And we'll see where it all ends up.