walk this way

La Boqueria, Barcelona

noreply@blogger.com (MCE) — Sat, 27 Dec 2008 04:43:00 +0000

La Boqueria
Originally uploaded by mce323

These guys made me think of the scene in "Little Mermaid" where Ursula's eels (Flotsam & Jetsam) are incinerated by an errant shot from her trident. I didn't bother trying to explain this to the fishmonger eying me from behind the stall as I didn't know the word for "eel" in Spanish, much less Catalan.

Valencia Aquarium

noreply@blogger.com (MCE) — Thu, 15 May 2008 14:39:00 +0000

Valencia Aquarium
Originally uploaded by mce323

My second iMovie. Made from clips of my visit to the Valencia Aquarium in Calatrava's City of Arts and Sciences.

lisbon (again)

noreply@blogger.com (MCE) — Sun, 04 May 2008 15:28:00 +0000

I've been back in Lisbon for a week now. I arrived at Sete Rios along with two American girls I had befriended on the bus ride. They had been studying in Toledo and were arriving to Lisbon without a guaranteed place to stay as their couchsurfing contact had confirmed but not provided his actual address. As a marathon of cheesy movies failed to entertain us, they compulsively texted everyone they knew or had briefly met in the last few months who had any tie to Lisbon. Compounding matters, they had both overpacked to such a degree that any movement had to be carefully orchestrated. They each had two large wheeled pieces of luggage that easily matched them in height. When we got off the bus at Sete Rios, I watched as they negotiated staircases and whimpered when an elevator was not available. I took them to the metro station and showed them on a map some of the hostels I remembered. They declared me "packing guru" upon noticing my dearth of luggage. Although I'm technically a backpacker, I don't really resemble one. I hate the towering backpacks that hang over most backpackers and prefer to be as light as possible. I accept the fact that I have to do laundry every week and might have to buy some things locally. Small price to pay for my spine to remain in one piece.

Little changes in Lisbon. Jose strongarming the narrow ruas of Bairro Alto and Principe Real in his battered red car. A few new stencils here and there that I will dutifully photograph. The same blind busker on the metro tapping out the same tempo with his cane as he moves down the aisle. Quasi Pronti in Saldanha for their huge plates of pasta, although the price has gone up since my last visit. Steaming cups of bica drowned in sugar. That little backdoor bakery on Rua da Rosa where everyone clamors for a bola de berlim through glassy eyes and drunken giggling.

Class doesn't start until Monday. It's nice to be in a familiar place and even nicer to have a routine to follow for the next month. It's a nice break from hostels and sightseeing. After awhile, all the European cities start to blur together. You hand over 10 euros for such and such monument/museum/church and stare listlessly at a fresco and start to wonder if you're really absorbing anything. Everyone smokes. Worse, everyone chainsmokes. With indoor smoking having been banned long ago in LA, I'm still getting used to walking into a bar and being assailed by a wall of smoke that stings my eyes painfully. I've grown tired of smelling like a Vegas casino the following day.

barcelona, valencia and madrid

noreply@blogger.com (MCE) — Fri, 25 Apr 2008 18:16:00 +0000

I decided to condense these three cities into one post because ... well, I'm lazy. I'm sitting in a laundromat in Madrid, watching my clothes spin round and round, excited at the prospect of them being clean after spending a week in which I gradually had to subtract certain clothing items as their availability waned.

I'm staying at Los Amigos Sol Hostel near Plaza Isabel here in Madrid. It's a big change from Kabul in Barcelona. Even though Kabul was over six stories high and felt like an apartment block, it still had that huge lounge at the base where everyone could easily mingle. It also had laundry facilities, which I'm missing having just paid nearly $20 to do one load of laundry. Although Los Amigos Sol is much smaller, encompassing only one floor, it has no such lounge and thus I haven't met anyone at the hostel besides the staff. Madrid is much different in character than Barcelona. I fell into conversation with a woman at Starbuck's (I know, I know) the other day and she quoted that Barcelona was a whore while Madrid was a long-term relationship. They're both amazing cities obviously, just in different ways.

Madrid likes to talk up its similarities to New York, but this city is far too clean to be New York. Frighteningly so, even the fountains are clean instead of being repositories of used McDonald's cups and plastic bags like in every other city I've been to. Gran Via is Madrid's flashiest street and draws comparisons to Times Square but with the exception of the Schweppe's sign, is far more subdued. I should qualify that it lacks the crass banners of capitalism that make Times Square really sizzle, but is well-endowed with historic buildings with brilliantly lit facades such as the Palaco de Telecomunicaciones (seen above) in Plaza de Cibeles. I stopped into the Prado Museum, which is free most evenings and saw Bosch's Garden of Earthly Delights, but quickly grew bored after viewing the umpteenth painting of Jesus. No Jesus sitting at a laundromat or having his morning cup of coffee or doing anything besides breastfeeding or dying along with a lot of paintings of unhappy nobility. After the Prado, I wandered for an hour in El Retiro, Madrid's main green space, and was just in time to catch bucketfuls of golden hour light pouring over the Monument to Alfonso XII.

In between Barcelona and Madrid, I spent a few days in Valencia. Decades ago, the Rio Turia flooded in central Valencia and was rerouted south of the city. The riverbed itself was converted into a linear series of parks that bisect the entire city. Near the end of the former river, sits Calatrava's Ciudad de las Artes y Ciencias. Calatrava, a native son of Valencia, was commissioned essentially to create something that would lure tourists year round. He gave them an otherworldly city set adrift in turquoise pools of water. It’s the kind of place you keep photographing compulsively, clawing at its essence with your lens hoping every new shot will bring it further into focus or reveal a nuance you hadn’t noticed. Calatrava’s work is playfully wrought from sheets of bone-white plaster bent into sinuous curves that evoke any number of allusions from sails to clouds to beetles. A million analogies spring to mind when viewing his work. I waited patiently for the sun to set and was rewarded by these shots. I went to the aquarium as well, which bills itself as the second largest in Europe after Genoa. It's laid out more like a zoo than an aquarium, which is both novel and confusing as there's no easy way to navigate it. It's more like a zoo turned upside down with all the tanks below ground with stairs leading back to ground level at which there are gardens and the open air tanks.

I stayed at the Indigo Youth Hostel in Valencia, which that weekend was infested with skateboarders and their groupies. If I could write a list of hostel etiquette tips after that experience, it would include things like not riding one's bicycle in the middle of the dorm and not having loud drunken sex in a dorm you're sharing with six other people. There were shower stalls with doors down the hall for chrissakes. I became a cranky little ole man.

Barcelona is the first city I fell in love with. It was also the warmest city I'd been in thus far after London, Edinburgh and Paris. I'm sure that had no effect on my opinion. It was sad how excited I was to wear sunglasses and sandals again. I might as well have tattooed AMERICAN across my forehead, but the city is overrun by Brits, Israelis, Brazilians and Americans anyways so who cares. The Brits are the easiest to spot, they're usually pink in color and at least mildly inebriated throughout the day. The Israelis always have a serious tenor to their personalities, but I suppose I would too with compulsory military service. Americans stared at me agape at the prospect of being away from home for almost a year while the Aussies and Israelis didn't bat an eye, instead lighting a cigarette and nodding knowingly.

Rainbow

noreply@blogger.com (MCE) — Thu, 24 Apr 2008 14:39:00 +0000

Rainbow
Originally uploaded by mce323

A rainbow enlivens one of the fountains in Plaza de Espana, Madrid.

Ciudad de las Artes y Ciencias en la Noche

noreply@blogger.com (MCE) — Sat, 19 Apr 2008 17:50:00 +0000

Ciudad de las Artes y Ciencias en la Noche
Originally uploaded by mce323

A rather successful night shot of El Museu de les Ciencies Principe Felipe (left) and L'Hemisferic (right) at Ciudad de las Artes y Ciencias in Valencia, Spain.

london, edinburgh and paris

noreply@blogger.com (MCE) — Mon, 14 Apr 2008 15:15:00 +0000

In London, I stayed with Francina again, though she’s since left Mile End for the greener pastures of Clapham. She lives on one of those long blocks of repetitive buildings that make some parts of London feel like they're marching towards a vortex. Her flat is located near some railroad tracks, so the building shakes with each passing train. Towards the end of her street, there are two apartment buildings (or council estates probably) that reminded me of those aliens of ambulatory destruction from War of the Worlds.

I accompanied Francina and her flatmate Vanessa to a hat party in Chancery Lane. It seems British people love to create themed parties wherein everyone intentionally looks silly, as opposed to LA where everyone is desperately trying to look cool. Francina wore a sombrero, Vanessa wore a hat shaped like a lobster and I wore a little cap because I’m boring and figured I have no trouble looking like an idiot in my day-to-day life without the assistance of an embarrassing hat. A few nights later we went to a birthday party at a pub in Mayfair, and then to a nearby bar called Babble. Mayfair is unerringly posh, so it was a shock to overhear one of the clubgoers describing to the bouncer how he and his friend had been stabbed inside the club. It reminded me of the night Francina and I refused to leave our food one late-night at Denny’s despite the fact that a knife fight had erupted around us.

I went into the British Museum a few times. It’s a comforting thought to know that the museum is large enough that there will always be something there I haven’t seen for each time I visit London. I wandered around the Egyptian, Islamic (with Bill) and Asian exhibits, but spent the most time in their exhibit on the history of currency. Plates of Swedish copper money weighing upwards of 10 lbs were once considered pocket change, making it no surprise that they invented paper money. There was a display of coins that had been found locked away in a British bank for centuries unclaimed, interest having increased its value many times over.

London, like New York, gets all the cool stores and technology before Los Angeles. Waterloo Station has the new Dyson Airblade hand dryers in the restrooms and they are absolutely amazing. Hand dryers typically hang languidly on restroom walls all over the world, mostly unused, emblems of well-meaning environmentalism suffering from inadequate technology. Although my understanding of physics is, well, nonexistent, the Airblade eschews heating the air in favor of shooting it through a slalom-like curve at over 400 mph. In 12 seconds, your hands are dry AND you’ve saved tons of energy. I also noticed, while sitting on the Paddington Express, that they’ve intalled LED lights timed to flash in sync with the speeding train so that while looking out the windows of the subway car, you see ads on the tube walls. At least it’s innovative consumerism.

Bill and I went to the Tate Modern. I rarely enjoy art museums, loathing the concept that I have to step outside of reality and into the confines of a museum to experience human creativity. The current exhibit in the Turbine Hall is a giant crack in the floor. Seriously. Just a long jagged chasm in the shiny concrete floor. I giggled noting that in London a crack in the floor is modern art, whereas in Los Angeles, it’s a visual reminder of our own seismic impermanence.

From London, I took a night bus to Edinburgh. I got in very early, just as the sun was cresting the horizon. As the taxi made its way from Waverley Station, golden sunlight began to light the cityscape ablaze. I gasped audibly and the taxi driver smiled proudly, saying that they were lucky to live in such a lovely city. Indeed, Edinburgh is a storybook. I stayed with Vanessa’s parents just outside the city center. Her father invited me to tag along with him while he made deliveries of tires all around the countryside between Edinburgh and Glasgow. I went across the Forth Bridge in both directions, the first time in a car and the return in a commuter train. I had been dying to see the bridge since I was little. I walked up to Edinburgh Castle at the top of the Royal Mile, where I spent a few minutes giddy with excitement that I was in the exact room where Mary, Queen of Scots, had given birth. It’s hard not to become a little obsessed with Mary, whose life was shaped by treaties and tragedies, many of which were orchestrated by her rival and cousin, Queen Elizabeth of England.

I’m not sure what to say about Paris, where everything that could possibly go wrong, did. I tried couchsurfing for the first, and possibly last, time. My first couch was with the Praying Mantis, an oversexed twink who pawed me from the moment I walked in the door. I expressed my lack of interest verbally and in the numerous times I edged away from him on the couch. I felt trapped, knowing that all the hostels were full. We went out that first night with a friend of his, to whom he expressed his frustration at my lack of interest. The friend sagely responded that couchsurfing was not a dating service. After a good deal of vodka, he responded that he had hooked up with virtually all of his couchsurfers up until this point. Are twinks weaned on vodka? They always seem to think I should be impressed by their ability to drink it down like water. We went to some disco in the Marais, where the theme that night was French Pop from the 80s, which is worse than American Pop from the 80s. Like Hello Kitty masturbating using a synthesizer.

In fairness to Paris, the drama of my accommodations made me a bit grumpy. I didn’t get to do as much sightseeing as I would have liked as frequent rain forced me to seek shelter every few minutes. When my camera decided to break a few steps away from Sacre Coeur, I gave up and declared a do-over on Paris, a declaration to return and give it another shot. From the relative safety of a hostel bed.

So what did I see? I spent a few hours my first day wandering around Pere Lachaise with its ornate tombs and legions of weeping angels rendered green with time. Although there are maps everywhere noting the locations of all the famous graves, I found it much more interesting to just wander through its alleyways blindly. My favorite grave looked like the inspiration for Pirates of the Caribbean. Two of my photos from that day were featured on Gadling, Despite the betrayal of my camera, which with my heavy reliance and faith in technology I took extra personally, I walked up to the Basilique du Sacre Coeur. The Catholic Church never ceases to amaze me. The church was like Disneyland, but instead of Mickey Mouse beaming at you from cheap souvenirs, you could buy images of Mary, Jesus and the whole gang of apostles. From there I wandered over to the Cafe Deux Moulins, which was featured in Amelie. It was only a short walk away through Pigalle, epicenter of Parisien sleaze. I also walked through Ile Saint-Louis and Ile de la Cite, pausing by Notre Dame to pay my respects.

cartagena de indias, colombia

noreply@blogger.com (MCE) — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 12:34:00 +0000

click the title of the post to see a slideshow of pictures from cartagena

Nicole, Greg and I shared a cab into La Ciudad Amurallada, the walled city that forms the historical heart of Cartagena. They were staying in a posh hotel in Bocagrande, which is a cluster of upscale residential towers and hotels outside of the walled city. I had found a backpacker’s hostel online in Getsemani. The neighborhood was a bit dodgy and rundown. I turned to wave at Nicole and Greg, who were both wearing giant plastic smiles. Later they told me that they were wondering if they’d ever see me again.

They didn’t have any room for me there, but sent me to another hostel a few doors down. As I wrote my name into the register, the owner tried to hook me up with a girl in the lobby who was “ready to go” as she termed it. I thanked her for the tip and did my best to maintain my straight/poker face.

The room had nothing except a bathroom, which was basically a tiled closet with a drain in one corner and a toilet a few inches nearby. This didn’t immediately concern me until I noticed the toilet was leaking. Luckily, I had done nothing to make this a problem. Yet. I decided to have a nap to sort myself out a bit. I was quickly realizing I was more of a princess than I’d thought. More intrepid travelers might relish the opportunity to be off the grid, disconnected and getting a real slice of the third world. I, however, wanted a soft bed and wireless internet.

A few sweaty hours later, I took a cab to Bocagrande to meet Nicole and Greg for a drink before they headed to their honeymoon on an island offshore. I arrived early and after walking a few blocks, found a hotel and slapped my credit card down on the front counter triumphantly.

I met Greg and Nicole in the lobby of their hotel, and we were joined soon after by Lucretia and Ian, who had also decided to head up to Cartagena from Medellin. Nicole had suggested I talk to them about staying at the apartment they had rented. I was shy at first, but as we walked around looking for a bar, details of their apartment began to trickle out. They had found a penthouse apartment in Bocagrande with wireless internet, hot tubs and commanding views of the water. After a few taxi rides and some haggling, I rejoined the group with my bag in one hand and a refund from the second hotel in the other.

We spent the next few days exploring the walled city on foot, beginning with the C astillo de San Felipe and then wandering around the area surrounding Plaza Bolivar, noting all the beautiful churches and exquisite door knockers. We had lunch in a random restaurant where we were entertained by a giant macaw that attempted to bite Ian. It felt decadent. More so whenever you went to the ATM and, because of the exchange rate, had an account balance in the millions.

Returning to Los Angeles, I had the worst luck throughout my itinerary. Security at Cartagena's airport was predictably thorough. I found it amusing that I was checked/patted/searched/groped about three times in the space of about 15 feet. Having been in a secured area the entire time, when would I have had the opportunity to add something to my luggage? Literally, I would get checked, walk two more feet, and go through the same procedure with the same questions yet again. In contrast, clearing American customs consisted of affirming that I was a US citizen, smiling politely and then walking away.

I had about a dozen layovers on the way back to Los Angeles. Miami, where they made announcements in both English and REALLY bad French. Charlotte, where all the gay websites were blocked by their filter and finally, Atlanta, where adverse weather caused me to miss my flight home. Luckily, Cyrena was able to host me for the night. We made a late-night fast food run and talked till the sun came up about boys.

nicole's wedding in medellin, colombia

noreply@blogger.com (MCE) — Tue, 25 Mar 2008 19:19:00 +0000

click on the title of this entry to go to a slideshow of the medellin pictures on flickr

I arrived in Medellin, Colombia after a series of delayed flights from Pittsburgh and almost immediately jumped into the most exciting taxi ride of my life. It was dark by the time I reached Medellin. The airport is located a distance outside of the city, reached by a road that clings perilously to the steep hillsides above the city. Lightning flashed periodically. Suddenly, the cab driver swung the car onto the shoulder, coming within inches of the muddy hillside. I thought of all the warnings of kidnappings I’d read and tried to recall if I was wearing clean underwear. For the record, I’d forgotten to wear underwear at all, so technically, yes my underwear was clean, it just wasn’t on my person. Anyways, another cab had pulled over and for some reason had the slip from the hotel authorizing them to charge my account for the cab ride. Why this couldn’t wait until I actually arrived I’ll never know. Along the way I quickly realized that the double yellow is more of a novelty in Colombia than a firm rule. Interesting how much faith we place in imagined boundaries manifesting themselves in paint on a roadway. I had signed up to go on the party bus tour, but arrived at the hotel just in time to see it leave. I was disappointed at first, until I realized that this now meant I could sleep instead.

The next day, I joined the tour bus to visit the small village of Santa Fe de Antioquia. It was billed as a charming artisan’s village a short bus ride away. It was neither. It was roughly two hours each way and we were only given 20 or so insistent minutes in the actual village. I made friends in the back of the bus, a bond formed by shared misery. The outing was somewhat redeemed for me by a stop to a nearby bridge over the Cauca River. I finally got to talk to Nicole and Greg for the first time since arriving. It was after all their wedding that had brought me to Colombia. Midway through our crossing, a small boy demanded to know where our professor was. Professing to having no professor, he generously offered us a well-practiced history of the bridge that might or might not have been complete nonsense.

In the evening, the back-of-the-bus crew went out to see the nightlife. The most popular nightclub was a place called Mango’s. It was filled with kitsch from the Wild West, including signage that most Americans now deem offensive. There were dancers all night. Young girls with huge fake breasts and sexy guys with arms like machine-guns and, most exciting of all, a trio of dwarf breakdancers. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to say dwarf or midget or little person but I do know that on Little People, Big World they refer to themselves as dwarves.

The next day, weary of another tour bus, we hailed a cab and took it to the center of town to do some sightseeing on our own. Our first stop was the Museo de Antioquia, which had a huge exhibit on Botero, native son of Medellin. If the name doesn’t ring a bell, the iconic globular figures depicted in his art and sculpture will. The exaggerated obesity reminded me of the citizenry of Belleville.

From there, we walked around the downtown area in search of the Zen Garden recommended by the hotel. Not to romanticize poverty or the drug trade, but downtown Medellin was fascinating to me. Chaos does not begin to describe Medellin’s street life. In many ways, it felt like an open-air 99 cent store. All of the goods for sale were knockoffs of some kind (the requisite DVDs and CDs with telltale faded covers) strewn upon blankets on the sidewalk.

I noticed a lot of people walking around with handwritten signs advertising cellular minutes. At first, we assumed they were selling prepaid cards of some kind but then I noticed that they actually had cellphones tethered to their jackets and the rates were for the use of those cellphones to anyone who needed them. Later someone told me that after the cartels were reined in, private cellphone use became tightly regulated with the government requiring a permit to be issued for someone to have one.

Friday night began with a rehearsal dinner for the wedding and ended the following afternoon with me being sicker than I’ve been in years. The dinner itself was lovely, held on the poolside terrace with traditional Colombian food and some sort of cocktail made from a tasty fruit that resembled an orange cherry tomato but tasted sweet. The night’s undoing was precipitated by Aguardiente, the local firewater. Tastes like Jager, clear as glass and stings like nettles on its way back up. Someone goaded me into drinking half a dozen or so shots of it in the course of a half hour. Then another shot. On top of the fruit cocktails. Plus the champagne. And a beer. Followed later on by a trophy-size rum concoction. And a gin & tonic. Or two. There might have been more.

Somewhere in that swirl of alcoholic bliss, we took a long cab ride to Vinacure. Vinacure was apparently a private estate whose owner decided to add an art gallery and nightclub. And a helluva lot of sequins. My memory gets fuzzy at this point, but I vaguely recall being molested by a local girl whom I ended up making out with and then hitting on our cab driver who nervously eyed a crucifix hanging from his rear view mirror. I also must mention the erotic sculptures in the restrooms and the room with dozens of showerheads emitting ponytails.

I put myself together in time for the wedding, which was held on the top floor balcony of the hotel, followed by cocktails and a grand feast. There were emotional speeches punctuated by swallowed tears of joy. Nicole could not have dreamed of a more fantastic wedding. The dancing started soon after, reaching a fever pitch with the sudden appearance of a quartet of Brazilian dancers. I danced with everyone until half past 3 in the morning. Not well of course. I can’t dance to save my life but that wasn’t the point.

Sunday, a bunch of us went to try paragliding. Strapping yourself to someone, leaping off a hillside and then careering through the breeze under a giant half-moon parachute. The view was fantastic but the actual paragliding operation was profoundly disorganized. Hours passed before any of us got to go up. The sudden appearance of clouds slowed us even further. At the end of the day, I was the only one who wasn’t able to go up. Instead I waited impatiently on the sidelines eating a steak that had the consistency of rubber, which greatly amused the locals.

The next day, most people started heading home, but I had decided to head up to Cartagena de Indias. Greg and Nicole were also heading up there for their honeymoon on a nearby island, so we ended up being on the same flight ...

marc's ark (wrapping up my all-american road trip)

noreply@blogger.com (MCE) — Sun, 23 Mar 2008 16:12:00 +0000

Currently seated on a National Express train moving slowly down Scotland’s East Coast. A moment ago, we were zooming along nicely, but we’ve now slowed to a crawl. Probably a herd of sheep on the tracks, as they seem to be as common here as Starbucks, which is less common. That analogy broke down a bit towards the end, didn’t it?

I apologize for not blogging, it shan’t happen again. I didn’t realize I had an audience.

The National Express Trains offer free wifi to their passengers. Unfortunately, it’s a bit like molasses in the sense that it’s slow, not in the sense that it’s brown and sticky and bonds like cement. I know I shouldn’t complain, there are children in Africa who don’t have wifi. Oh wait, someone addressed that.

So to catch everyone up, I survived my road trip across middle America. I learned a valuable lesson. Namely, I don’t like middle America.

The first stop was Flagstaff, Arizona, which was covered in snow when I arrived. The snow seemed to amuse the dogs, not so much me. I hate snow. It’s the STD of weather. I’m sure it’s charming and magical if you’re locked away in an idyllic ski lodge somewhere, but I was stuck in a generic motel decorated to resemble the inside of a box of kleenex so its beauty was lost on me. I also wasn’t aware that it even snowed in Arizona.

I made a stop outside of Flagstaff to see the Meteor Crater. 80 MPH winds threatened to toss me from my perch at the rim into the crater itself. I know the speed of the winds because one of the museum employees was gleefully calling out the speed from a gauge on the wall, obviously fascinated by it. Bless him.

The next stop was Albuquerque, New Mexico. Though the scenery in New Mexico was much more beautiful than Flagstaff, I hated Albuquerque. It seemed little more than a jumble of beige boxes upon the horizon. I stayed at yet another motor lodge, this one manned by a man who was obviously mildly retarded and extremely unattractive. He took out a map of the small complex and pointed out my room, which was located at the back of the building. He then proceeded to tell me to “swing around here and come in through my back end” while tracing the route from the desk where we were standing to the room. I threw up a little. I was grateful to have two dogs with me in case he attempted to bugger me in the night.

After Albuquerque, came Gallup, which intrigued me. I love industrial landscapes and the combination of snow and muted sky lent a dull grey palette that made the light seem razor-sharp. It was also well-endowed with classic neon signage.

Why did I have two dogs and a cat with me? Why was I making this trip? These are all valid questions. My roommate unexpectedly took a movie in Pittsburgh, which meant that his location shoot and my trip to Europe now overlapped, leaving no one back in Los Angeles to watch the beasts. So Marc’s Ark (in the form of a Nissan SUV) made the trek.

After Albuquerque, came Oklahoma City and my friend Karl, a native Oklahoman who’d briefly lived in Koreatown. After Flagstaff and Albuquerque, entering Oklahoma City was a treat. For the first time, there was a sense of arrival, a feeling of announcement and welcome that only a city skyline can impart. Karl took me out for a night on the town. We did the local fruit loop, the most memorable part of which was the “lunchbox” shot at a bar called Edna’s. Karl and his friend talked about it all night, making me think it must be death in a shotglass. I was wrong. It was a pleasant and refreshing mug of light beer with a shot each of amaretto and orange juice.

From OKC, I meant to pull a long drive into Memphis, but a rash of tornados grounded me in Russellville, Arkansas. I had pulled over because the rain had become torrential and I simply couldn’t be bothered to drive any further. This ended up being fortuitous as a mere couple miles down the road was Atkins, where tornados took several lives and tossed trucks upon the roadway like lincoln logs.

I drove the next day straight through to Atlanta. I saw firsthand the storm damage on the outskirts of Memphis. Near Birmingham, the highway was suddenly closed and we were routed down a backroad. I tried to ignore the frequent confederate flags. While leaving a gas station, a giant burly black man yelled out “DAMN, whiteboy been workin' out” as I walked by. I’m not sure what his intentions were.

I spent the next couple days in Atlanta with Cyrena, who is easily one of my favorite people in the whole wide world. We checked out the boys and the boys who dress like girls and got terribly drunk and sick. Just like old times. I love legitimate theater. I think I tried every Southern fast food offering available. There’s something wrong about a place where an order of chili cheese fries, 5 miniature cheeseburgers AND fries constitutes ONE extra value meal. The Coca-Cola Museum was a disappointment, but the Georgia Aquarium was fantastic.

From Atlanta, I decided to pull an all-nighter and drive all the way up to Pittsburgh. Because I’m an idiot. I got a speeding ticket in West Virginia for driving 75 in a 65 zone. The officer was a little old man who insisted on trying to pronounce my last name and took over a half hour to write the ticket. West Virginia was the only place that scared me a bit. It was the first place I’d ever experienced a true pitch black night. I’ve driven between Los Angeles and San Francisco in the middle of the night numerous times, but even on the loneliest stretches of the 5, the horizon is still rimmed with light. Not so in WV, where I was often the only car on the road with velvety black darkness encroaching on either side. Creepy.

I had big plans for sightseeing in Pittsburgh, none of which came to fruition. There was snow. It followed me. It’s a momentous drive into Pittsburgh though. If you approach from the south, you emerge from a tunnel and are suddenly presented with a grand vista of the downtown area. The skyline is dense but not overpowering, more of a human-scale.

That wraps up the road trip, next up is my trip to Colombia!

forward momentum

noreply@blogger.com (MCE) — Sun, 03 Feb 2008 06:11:00 +0000

It feels great to be back on the road again. I was getting restless in Los Angeles. Left Echo Park in the late morning and was in Flagstaff by dinnertime. I'm not sure if it's a side effect of having grown up in the perpetual sunshine of Southern California, but I always forget to consider weather when traveling. It's something I'm still learning. Imagine my surprise when the hillsides off the 40 started to slip beneath blankets of snow as I slid deeper into Northern Arizona. I'm now sitting in a cheap motel room in Flagstaff. A plow, dusted with white powder, sits idly in the parking lot outside.

The drive was uneventful and mostly uninteresting. A joshua tree here and there, some interesting industrial architecture and an abandoned motel complex I wish I'd stopped at. The place had no doors and was thus open to the elements, skeletal with patchwork graffiti. Needles was interesting. I didn't stop, but instead turned to acknowledge it as it flew by. Odd place. Haphazard shacks. Irregular dirt roads that seemed to snake in upon themselves like twine. There was no semblance of order to the place. It was as if an errant twister had swept up a town far away and dropped it here, bruises and all. And then someone built a McDonald's.

A snow storm is supposed to roll in tomorrow. I'm hoping I won't be trapped here another night. The next stopover is Albuquerque. I'll pass through Gallup. I know nothing about it but have heard the name many times. It's odd to be passing through places "I rarely think about and never visit".

airhead

noreply@blogger.com (MCE) — Fri, 18 Jan 2008 01:30:00 +0000

Steve Jobs ended weeks of rabid speculation on Tuesday with his annual Keynote speech at this year's Macworld. Apple followers and fanboys responded with a resounding, huh?

The biggest announcement was the Macbook Air, the long-awaited Mac entry into the sub-notebook field. When all the fanfare died down, many of us were puzzled. Myself included.

The Air tapers from less than an inch at the rear to paper-thinness at the front, but shares virtually the same footprint as the Macbook. I was hoping for a refresh of the popular 12 inch iBook from a few years hence. Also, it fits inside a manila envelope. Jobs REALLY wants you to know that.
The screen is backlit by LEDs, which make the Air more environmentally friendly by dropping the harmful chemicals used previously. Love me some LEDs.
The trackpad incorporates some of the "touch" functionality introduced in the iPhone.
Air's full-sized keyboard is backlit for low-light viewing, like the Macbook Pro.
The Air has no optical drive, though one can be purchased separately. Also, Mac developed software that allows the Air to harvest another computer's disc drive (Mac or PC) wirelessly. This was a great idea. I haven't used my disc drive more than a few times in the year I've had my Macbook. Once in awhile I'd watch a DVD, but since I'm taking my Macbook on the road with me as I did last time, it's not like I'll be taking my DVD binder as well.
Taking an additional design cue from the Macbook Pro, the Air's chassis is aluminum. Finally. I've always hated the black plastic of the Macbook, which is prone to scratches and smudges no matter how hard you try to avoid them.

Sounds great, right? The Air is gorgeous and sexy, like all Apple products although it continues the new Apple aesthetic of aluminum paired with black plastic elements. Personally, I think they clash and echo a chromatic sensibility that thankfully went dormant in the 80s. What happened to those halcyon days of iMacs in blueberry and tangerine?

Oh yes, I want one. But I'm not getting one. Despite the fact that it's only 3 lbs, twink-thin, innately portable and backpack-friendly, I think it's another example of Apple choosing style over substance.

The hard drive is only 80GB. Who are they kidding? There's also an option to switch to a SSD of 64GB, a pleasure for which you will pay an additional $1300. 80? 64? I haven't seen numbers that small refer to hard drive capacities since high school. My Blackbook has a 160GB HD, of which I only have 37GB left. Seriously, they make iPods with bigger HDs than this. Also, the processor is 1.6 with an option to upgrade to 1.8. Sigh. You can't swap out the hard drive when you get home for a decent one either because the case is sealed like an iPod.

So what is the Air meant to be? With those stats, it's not suited to be a desktop replacement like the Macbook or Macbook Pro. So is it a foray into the world of cloud computing where your computer is simply a portal to applications and content that are stored remotely? Perhaps. We're not quite there yet, however.

Also announced was the Time Capsule, which is essentially an Airport Extreme with an external drive glued onto it. In its defense, it takes the guesswork out of backups by allowing Time Machine to wirelessly perform its backups. My question is, can you backup to it when you're not actually on your home wifi network? Like, for example, from Portugal?

update on the next 100 days

noreply@blogger.com (MCE) — Fri, 18 Jan 2008 00:46:00 +0000

So, did anyone else forget that I had a blog? Yeah, so did I. No worries, I don't think anyone besides my mom is reading it.

I've been back in Los Angeles since early August. I hadn't been gone long so it was easy to slip back into the swing of things at home. Despite the familiarity, 2007 was a very strange year for me.

One analogy comes to mind. I've been in one car accident in my life. While driving (too) fast near Palmdale in my first car, my tire blew out, sending me into a series of high-speed spins punctuated by repeated slams into the concrete barrier. I screamed like a little girl. When my car finally came to rest, I leapt out heart racing and palms sweating. It had been an amazing ride, I thought, but I never wanted it to happen again.

Similarly, 2007 was easily the most tumultuous year of my young life, but ended with revelations, both tangible and intangible, that everything was going to be okay. In fact, everything was going to be amazing. In learning to let go, you are left unencumbered to embrace all the potentially wonderful things in your path.

So, now what?

The title of this post makes reference to the next 100 days. Over the last week, I drafted a (perhaps excessively complex) itinerary that has me driving cross-country, attending a wedding in Colombia and then venturing back to Europe to complete my long-postponed CELTA class in Lisbon. Lisbon will be bookended by travels in the British Isles and the Mediterranean, Middle East and North Africa. Hopefully. I reserve the right to change my travel itinerary at any time. With the exception of the initial flight into London in early March, I plan to use trains to get around as much as possible. Not only are they more friendly to the environment, but they allow a much less stressful and less time sensitive way of traveling. If you don't like somewhere, or conversely fall in love with somewhere or someone, your relationship with it need only end when you want it to, rather than being dictated by a plane ticket.

Also, I decided to broaden the focus of my blog from solely being a travel log to including more of my other interests. Anyone familiar with my compulsions knows what they're in for while the rest of you may, or may not, be pleasantly surprised.

So, there's the rub.

putting the silver in silverlake

noreply@blogger.com (MCE) — Sun, 19 Aug 2007 00:43:00 +0000

Last night, I went to The Other Side, a piano bar tucked off Hyperion Ave in Silverlake, or Silver Lake to you purists. I like the former, but anyways, that's off-topic.

I'd walked by it a million times, but had never ventured inside. A friend of mine was singing there and invited me. The interior, much larger than its discreet entrance implies, is what I imagine the Midwest to look like, which is to say it looks like an old X-Files episode that took place in Iowa.

So there's a guy at a piano, a cast of regulars that he sorts his way through, an audience composed primarily of AARP members and a few hipsters giddy with irony. Many of the singers chose old standards and lesser-known numbers from the 20s. I'm always intrigued with how much music has changed. Not better or worse, just different. How song lyrics used to be more clever, witty and narrative, as opposed to melancholic overtures focused primarily on sexual innuendo and unhealthy relationships. It was fun to listen to a woman whose lust for a well-dressed man was in perfect harmony with the cacophony of a trolley.

A violinist also performed, and right after her set, a saxophonist joined the pianist on all the numbers. I was struck by how different the personalities of the instruments were. The piano, shy and assuming, passive, content to wax and wane alongside the singers. The defiant violin, coaxed to life by the performer, struggling against her. I noticed a sheen of sweat on her forehead as her eyes focused intently on her fingerwork. I had been lulled by her playing and forgotten that work was being performed. In contrast, the saxophone seemed delighted and participatory, glinting in the lounge light.

Anyways. In other news, the interview I did with the Pastor of the WeHo Church is up over at Outlicious TV. I've been too afraid to watch it for fear of discovering how bad I might look on camera. Apparently, the church folk also linked to it from their front page. They made a little slideshow (is that seriously an animated GIF) of images from the interview and picked a particularly unflattering one of me.

Off to Sunset Junction!

scenic van nuys

noreply@blogger.com (MCE) — Mon, 13 Aug 2007 05:09:00 +0000

your seat cushion can not be used as a flotation device in the event of a water-landing

The San Fernando Valley ... as unimpressive from the air as it is from the ground.

Yesterday, Brian let me tag along on his flight. Contrary to popular belief, twinks can operate light aircraft. He takes lessons at Van Nuys Airport, which is apparently the nation's busiest general aviation airport. I'm not exactly sure what that means, but impressive nonetheless.

It was my first time in a small plane, and despite Brian's obvious skill, it was a bit scary. You feel everything in a small plane. In case you haven't had the experience yet, everything feels like sudden jerks during which your life flashes before your eyes. At one point, the flight instructor stopped the engine as a practice exercise. Brian responded admirably and I tried not to cry.

Afterwards, we went shopping. Fun was had by all.

forgot about the party in graca

noreply@blogger.com (MCE) — Wed, 08 Aug 2007 06:21:00 +0000

created with admarket's flickrslidr

I almost forgot! Thanks to Neto, Jose, Stephanie, Jorge, Denis, Luis and Mario for a wonderful party last Thursday. It was a fantastic way to say "ate logo" to Lisboa.

sweet home california

noreply@blogger.com (MCE) — Tue, 07 Aug 2007 22:10:00 +0000

the joys of flying standby

After some creative truthtelling, I arrived at LAX around midnight last night. I flew standby from Heathrow to DC, and from there obviously back to LA. Not bad if I say so myself, considering I showed up at Heathrow around noon without a flight.

For those of you wondering what the hell I'm doing back in Los Angeles and why I'm not still in Europe as my original plan dictated, to you I say ... I changed my mind. I decided to come back to LA, regroup and formulate a new life plan. The biggest change was the realization that I don't really want to move and settle anywhere at this point, and definitely not to Lisbon. I loved Lisbon, but any town where I can't get a meal and chapstick at 3AM is not my kinda place.

The plan (this week) is to hang out in LA for a month or two and plan a more extensive trip for the Fall. I decided I'd rather continue travelling than setup camp somewhere, barring any love-at-first-sight moments with beautiful European locales and/or men. My family also needed me to be around for awhile, so the pieces lined up just so to make this a good time to come back for a spell.

I flew into London on Friday morning. I found a cheap fare on TAP, Portugal's national airline, that beat even EasyJet. I soon found out why. The pilot wasn't what I would call skilled. I've never been afraid to fly, nor was I fearful on this flight, but I did experience a few moments of hesitation and had to make a few self-reassurances that I was wearing clean underwear when I saw the plane rolling wildly from side to side after dropping elevation so rapidly my stomach leapt uncontrollably into my throat.

I'm always amused at unnecessary obligations, especially those dictated by governments. I enjoy watching flight attendants perform the safety features dance. Typically, they wear blank expressions while robotically gesturing towards the various safety features while their audience stares blankly at them if they're indeed paying attention at all. Makes you wonder how necessary it really is. The smarter airlines make videos, so at least the flight attendants aren't stuck with one more irritating task.

Friday night, Bill and I wandered around London. We met up around Euston Station and walked up to what I think was Islington, where we had terrible sushi. I'd call it overpriced, but that's pretty much a given in London. Francina had warned me that sushi wasn't one of London's specialities, a warning I should've heeded.

Bill took me down one of the canals, skirting Hackney as we made our way into Brick Lane. Apparently, all of England's waterways are connected. We saw dozens of houseboats along the sides of the canals and I started daydreaming about a life spent floating through London. I turned to Bill and on the spot asked him to marry me and move onto a houseboat, but I don't think he heard me or at least pretended not to. Regrettably, I forgot my camera.

We got up early the next day to take the train down to Brighton for Pride. Not much to say about that. After many substances, a Pride is a Pride is a Pride. A good time was had by all. We ended up staying the night in Brighton after missing the last train to London. Bill and all his friends are from Belfast, so I was completely amused to sit nearby and be charmed by an accent I'd previously only heard on cereal commercials.

And now back to LA. Amelia the cat was predictably underwhelmed with my return while Georgina the puppy peed herself in excitement. Aw.

unsettling lisbon

noreply@blogger.com (MCE) — Wed, 01 Aug 2007 07:38:00 +0000

birthplace of one of the world's most influential imperial empires ... and the frontal lobotomy?

Yup, no joke. A post from BoingBoing popped up on my feedreader yesterday outlining the history of the modern lobotomy. Apparently, the specific procedure that would rapidly evolve into the notorious "ice pick" lobotomy was first performed right here in Lisbon by Dr. Antonio Egaz Moniz. His work would later inspire Dr. Walter Freeman, who refined the procedure and brought it to the United States, where he performed it on thousands of patients whose questionable diagnoses of mental illness were deemed beyond the reaches of medicine. Freeman performed his lobotomy on none other than Rosemary Kennedy, but not Frances Farmer, which was an urban legend.

I had thought "ice pick" was merely a colorful euphemism. Nope. They literally took large metal picks and hammered them into the skulls of unlucky patients. I was amazed at how imprecise the procedure was. The doctor basically jabbed the instrument into a hole bored into the skull and blindly severed anything in its path. Apparently you get a Nobel Prize for that.

The article links to an NPR story on Howard Dully, who underwent a lobotomy at Freeman's hands at the age of 12. Although he seems to lead a normal life, he is obviously deeply wounded (pun unintended) by the incident. At 56 years old, he confronts his father regarding the procedure for the first time, who claims that his second wife railroaded him into it. He accepts no responsibility for his role in the procedure and is mostly dismissive of Dully.

A bit of a tangent, but fascinating all the same. I refrained from including any photos from the article and I'll pass along a warning that they are somewhat graphic and potentially NSFW.

street art of lisbon

noreply@blogger.com (MCE) — Fri, 27 Jul 2007 14:05:00 +0000

besides broken glass and empty plastic cups emblazoned with the super bock logo, the streets of bairro alto are covered in interesting stencils

I'm totally fascinated with all the stencils I've been seeing around Lisbon, primarily in Bairro Alto and Chiado. They're everywhere in those areas. They range from political, traditional, sentimental, blatantly commercial to the startlingly artful. Be sure to check out the full set below, the stencils come in all shapes, sizes and political persuasions. It's been my mission to photograph as many of them as possible. I've always loved graffiti. Admittedly, not the most graceful of arts, but I loved the idea of the street as a canvas. I just always wished that the "artist" would pick a subject other than the alphabet. The stencil artists seem to be the next logical step, blending the verite of street art with sophisticated imagery. Whether they convey a message or not, you can't help but smile or be coaxed into rumination when passing one. Granted, not all of them contain visceral political statements, but like art, many inspire an emotional reaction.

As for me, I got out of the closet I was staying in at Pensao Globo. The staff there was very friendly, but the room was unbearable. At only 20 euros a night, the price was right, but not having a window of any kind and only a few square meters of space left me a bit claustrophobic. I was relieved when a friend offered me a place to stay at his apartment near Principe Real, which has been wonderful. It's got a great view and a bed I actually can stretch out on.

I have decided, however, to leave Lisbon. It's a beautiful city, which goes without saying, and I definitely want to visit again, but it starts to feel small after not long. I'm not speaking geographically. A wonderful experience, but it's time to move on. After a weekend in London, I'll be back to LA the first week of August. Family calls. I plan to regroup a bit and start planning the next leg of my journey for a few months from now since this "test" trip proved successful. Life, after all, is a journey, verdad?

Created with admarket's flickrslidr

yes, I'm alive

noreply@blogger.com (MCE) — Thu, 19 Jul 2007 18:01:00 +0000

In my ongoing dialogue with Lisbon, I have learned the following ...

Although theoretically sidewalks prevent you from mingling with oncoming vehicles and the ensuing injury resulting from that union, you run an equal risk of breaking your neck tripping over one of the beautiful, but often misplaced, sidewalk stones. Use extra caution when rain is added into the mix causing the angled ruas to turn into slip 'n slides.

Bars are for getting drinks, streets are for consuming aforepurchased drinks.

Regardless of where you are and what time of day it is, water will fall on you when you least expect it.

If it's on the table, you'll be charged for it.

Although often seen, I recommend against wearing sandals in Bairro Alto.

Lisbon can be shy and unassuming. Despite all of its grandiose monuments to its glorious past, it's still a small town in a world that has largely forgotten its significant contributions to history. Or maybe it's just Americans that have. This omission has fueled many of my conversations here. I've been grateful for the impromptu history lessons.

Europeans like to quiz you on their geography, and then act irritated when you get something wrong. I like to turn the tables every now and then and ask them where Ohio is. Always a puzzled face followed by a polite smile. My other favorite game, since I don't speak Portuguese well, is the language game, wherein you rattle off whichever languages you speak and the other person does the same until you find one in common.

I took a break from blogging over the long weekend. I met an adorable guy and ended up spending the whole weekend with him and his friends. Although I've enjoyed travelling alone, it was fun to have someone next to you to share in the sights and insights. We took a day trip to Sintra together, where we climbed the steep stone stairs and weaved our way through Australian tourists to the top of Castelo dos Mouros for a breathtaking view of the entire region.

We spent Tuesday at Caparica lounging in the sun. Once again, I forgot to wear sunscreen. I hate putting on sunscreen. I find it irritating, yet I rarely make the connection that spending a few minutes being sticky and irritated is far preferrable to being irritated and sunburnt as I am now. My back looks like a stop sign.

created with paul's flickrslidr

back to lisboa

noreply@blogger.com (MCE) — Tue, 10 Jul 2007 15:55:00 +0000

fyi, porto can be done in 3 days

I learned that Porto can easily be done in a few days rather than the week I spent there. I never did get around to crossing the river into Vila Nova de Gaia and trying some Port. I was too busy using the city as one giant cardio playground, I racked up several miles a day walking back and forth along the Douro between the hostel and the center of town. My favorite walk was when a random woman asked me for the time and then started arguing with me about it, namely I was right and she was drunk. Porto’s scenery is stunning, best appreciated from the center of the upper tier of the Ponte D. Luis I or from the top of the belltower of the Igreja dos Colegios.

I arrived in Lisbon yesterday evening, enduring one last evening at the hostel before switching to the Pensao Globo in Bairro Alto this morning. It’s a few more euros a night, but I get my own (tiny) room with a private shower. The only real downside is that my closet of a room doesn’t have a window, so hopefully I don’t wake up in the middle of the night and have a panic attack spurred by claustrophobia.

I’m glad to be back in Lisbon, it’s already becoming familiar with the streets no longer mystifying me. Pensao Globo is also much better located, right near Principe Real in Bairro Alto, which is one of the more interesting corners of Lisbon. Also gayer. Much more to walk to in this area. I also finally found a great café that offers free wireless, which really made my day. Mar Adentro Café. Friendly staff, tastefully modern and aforementioned free wireless. Too bad they’re not open all night.

I took the video that opened this entry last night while wandering around Bairro Alto. All the pharmacies have green signs like this, though not all are as garish as that one. I love it. LED goodness.

porto

noreply@blogger.com (MCE) — Fri, 06 Jul 2007 17:55:00 +0000

bridges and wine

created using paul's flickrslidr

I actually arrived here on Wednesday, but have been having some minor technical problems in Porto. Firstly, the hostel I'm in is subpar. Although housed in a spacious, modern building, it lacks a lot of basic amenities like laundry, internet access and a locker in the room. Coupled with that is the fact that it's located fairly far out in a suburb that is eerily similar to the Westside. There are transit links, but I've found it much more enjoyable to walk along the Douro River into town. Takes about 40 minutes. Part of the allure is being near the Ponte da Arrabida, a sexy bridge of white stone that is the first of Porto's many bridges as you enter from the Atlantic.

Although you can't really compare Lisboa and Porto, despite their respective residents' assertions, I will say that Porto is the more immediately stunning of the two. The Douro cuts a sharp, twisting path through the region, creating steep cliffs on either side. Porto seems to spill over these cliffs, occasionally clinging desperately to hillsides and other times falling into the water headlong.

My first night, I was frustrated and disappointed with the hostel, so I took a walk to clear my head. Even in the middle of the night, dozens of people were out fishing along the banks of the Douro. The area around the hostel is all new development, but as you walk into town, the familiar sights of Portuguese architecture begin to unfold. The south bank is the town of Vila Nova de Gaia, home of the Port industry. Many of the buildings are topped with neon signs advertising their brand, quite beautiful at night.

The entire central district of Porto is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. I wandered up and down the side streets and alleys, never growing tired of the twisting, cobblestoned streets. All of the buildings look as if they'll collapse at any moment, but every building is still in use, often with a dozen laundry lines cluttering its facade. It can be a dangerous walk, the American instinct is to close off historic buildings, but here they remain in use and thus the danger comes when a car suddenly appears around a bend and you have to stand back tight to the wall so it can pass. Many a grandmotherly senhora grabbed me by the wrist when I wasn't paying attention and saved me from certain death at the hands of a Citroen.

I visited the Igreja de Sao Francisco near the riverfront. It dates from before the 15th century, but has had countless additions and upgrades, including one in the 18th century that added gold to virtually every surface inside. It also has a catacomb area. Most of the crypts are from the mid-19th century with a few exceptions. If you wander to the back corner, there's a window in the floor where you can glimpse a large pile of bones. Literally. Unfortunately, no photos were permitted inside and I decided to follow the rules.

Tomorrow is Porto Pride, I'm mostly staying out of curiosity to see what kind of Pride would be put on by a conservative city in a closeted country.

the joys of hosteldom

noreply@blogger.com (MCE) — Wed, 04 Jul 2007 11:55:00 +0000

angry maids, loud french kids and shaky beds

I've had a week of sleepless nights at this hostel, thanks in no small part to one of my roommates. He's an older gentleman who snores like a chainsaw all night. Incredibly loud. I think I noticed the glass of the windows vibrating. Apparently, he left last night, because when I walked in I was greeted by two hot blond guys. I don't even like blond guys and these were the Abercrombie-type I specifically abhor. But they were so friendly and did I mention they were shirtless? Yeah. Thank you, hostel gods. Too bad I leave today!

gay lisboa

noreply@blogger.com (MCE) — Wed, 04 Jul 2007 00:48:00 +0000

the (few) gays of lisboa

West Hollywood it isn't. The gay nightlife here is quiet, but friendly. Gay Lisbon is confined to the Bairro Alto and a bit further north at Principe Real where there are a few tiny bars and discos. Although many guys have told me that it's gradually changing, the population is generally conservative when it comes to homosexuality and guys here tend to stay closeted.

Friday night, my hostelmate and I decided to grab a drink together. I knew he was straight and didn't say anything about my orientation just to keep it simple. I don't mind drinking cheap beer and staring at hot girls after all. Neither of us knew where to go, so we wandered toward Bairro Alto because I knew there were lots of bars down there of all persuasions. Things don't pick up here until the early morning, so even at 1030 we were ridiculously early.

We had a picture-perfect European dinner on a terraced alleyway abutted on both sides by historic stone buildings. Midway through dinner, an elaborately costumed family had their own parade on the street above us. It was hard to hear them though as about half a dozen different guys were whispering offers of drugs in my ear. I think the restaurant makes a habit of trying to screw over unsuspecting tourists though. Not long before we cashed out, I noticed a guy at the table below arguing with the waiter about the bill. I thought that was kind of tacky and dismissed it ... until we got our bill, which listed things we hadn't ordered and inflated prices for things we had. As soon as I spoke up, they whisked the bill away and it came back correct. Interesting. I also found it strange that they put things on the table when you first sit down. One dish that you're charged for as a cover, and another plate of ham that you're only charged for if you eat. Wait a sec, how many hours has that ham been passed around?

While my hostelmate was in the bathroom, the table next to me struck up a conversation. Two guys from Quebec who were on their way to a bear bar. I explained I was with a straight guy who I hadn't bothered telling I was gay. When my hostelmate returned, there was an anti-climactic reveal and then we all set out together. My French was pretty good, and even better after a few cocktails. My hostelmate ended up being really cool with everything, though he did ask me to go to the bathroom before him to make sure it was safe.

Saturday night, I ended up by myself at Agua No Bica near Principe Real. I met a friendly drag queen who gave me the lowdown on the nightlife, which amounted to a few sentences since the scene is so small, but it was nonetheless appreciated. I met some other American guys and we all set out to Brickabar, a disco nearby. Discos here don't get good until after 2 am apparently. Works for me, I hardly sleep anyways. A good time was had by all.

I had my first Portuguese date last night. We had dinner and coffee, then went down to the riverfront at Belem to walk around. We stopped at Pasteis de Belem, which has been serving pasteis de nata since 1857. Pasteis de nata is easily one of the most delicious desserts I've ever had. It's a light, flaky pastry with a creamy center upon which powdered sugar and canela (cinnamon) are sprinkled. Heaven in the palm of your hand. Beyond that, the walls of the labyrinthine Pasteis de Belem are covered in azulejo tiles and there are antique cash registers scattered throughout.

We walked to the Torre de Belem. I was awestruck. It was built in the 16th century in the Manueline style, which is native to Lisbon, to defend the Rio Tejo and Lisbon from invaders. I placed my hand on the cold stone and just stared at it for a long time trying to comprehend that I was interacting with a structure that had stood for over 500 years, and would in all likelihood stand for hundreds more. I giggled as I remembered my favorite part of the Pirates of the Carribbean ride at Disneyland when you first enter the besieged village. It looked much like this, except that I knew there were no walls enclosing it or air-conditioning or floodlights or anything else supporting an illusion. Just a tower of stone in the night air with bats overhead and a full moon traversing the sky above. Absolute magic.

Tomorrow, I'm taking the train to Porto for a few days, then back to Lisbon. I must say, this experience has certainly built my confidence. Throwing your life into a suitcase and flying to another continent with only a vague plan really forces you to think on your feet. It's been liberating. I think I've done fairly well so far, haven't wasted too much money or painted myself into any corners. The biggest mistake thus far was bringing the wrong suitcase, namely a duffel with no wheels. What was I thinking? Wheels were invented a millenia ago and it only just occured to me last week to make use of them? Brilliant.

some movies

noreply@blogger.com (MCE) — Wed, 04 Jul 2007 00:45:00 +0000

two movies I made on saturday

The first shows this neat fountain that "erupts" volcano-style every few minutes. The second is just some cute otters at the aquarium.