la mezquita, from a distance

My time in Córdoba has been a bit longer than I'd originally planned. Originally, I thought I'd be leaving Sunday morning. now the plan is Monday night. As it turns out, all the overnight trains to Barcelona are booked in advance. Way in advance. The first option I'd have would be to leave Córdoba at 10AM and get to Barcelona at 9pm. A whole day in a train. Sounds like fun.

Option 2 was to go to Madrid tonight and leave for Barcelona tomorrow morning. Except not; the earliest train for Madrid that had available seats leaves at 4:30 and gets in a 9pm. Sounds like slightly more fun, but would require me finding accommodation in Madrid tonight. And that did not sound like fun. Going to Madrid in the morning from Córdoba was not an option for cheap. Thus I had two choices: spending the whole day on train, getting to Barcelona on Monday night, or taking the overnight train tomorrow night (Monday night). The prospect of looking for a place on Monday night did not apeal to me, and coupled with the fact that a whole day on a train sounded like it would completely suck, I opted to stay in Córdoba an extra day and treat myself to a Moorish bath.

A re-creation of what a 14th century Arab bath might look like, complete with candles, music and the lot, Hamman Baths was definitely worth the 27€, even though it included 10 loudmouthed middle-aged Spaniards. You had three baths - hot cold, and lukewarm. You weren't supposed to stay in the hot or cold for very long - which I happily adhered to for the cold - but I spent most of my time in the hot. The lukewarm was for sitting and relaxing in. The Spanish spend most of their time there, and it was anything but relaxing with their constant laughter and banter. Violating the rule of silence in the baths, none of them could resist remarking how unbelievably hot the hot baths were. For a country that's renowned for its hot summers, Andaluces seem to be particularly bothered by heat. The expression usually used outside is "¡joé, qué caló!" (joder que calor) which translated roughly as "Fuck, it's hot!"

Whether it's actually hot or not is debatable. In Cádiz last week, I heard an older woman mutter 'joé qué caló' when it was 65 degrees and the wind was blowing softly.

In any case, Hamman baths was a winner. They even threw in a 5 minute massage in the middle of your three hour bath time.

Día numero uno: Córdoba

la mezquita

So far, so good. Got a place - the youth hostel - for €18 that has its own shower, toilet and everything. I'm very pleased. Also, I found the Mezquita quite easily and my dining establishment as well. The Altarea is an organic/veggie place that attracted me with its offer of specialty beer. There I was, seated with a cordobésa couple and tried my best to make myself innocuous or to not bother them. Nonetheless, they made polite conversation.

Two hours later, I was stumbling home, piss drunk, calling Becka a you-know-what for not being able to talk to me (I think she was at a movie or something). This morning, I woke up and my phone was gone. Crap. Two days into the trip and I've already lost my camera and my phone. Phone will be a bit bigger problem, not so much for the phone, but for the financial situation. I had planned to use it to keep track of all my purchases and thus get an idea how much I was spending on food, accommodation, entertainment and the like. Now I was without it.

Turns out I had gone out with the Cordoban couple after dinner and some of their friends and downed a few more beers at some trendy upscale bar (beers were still the affordable 1€ price, despite the swankiness). Then I blabbered to Becka in the hallway, considerately not wanting to awake my roommate, a Mexican. Apparently my phone did not follow me to bed, but luckily the cleaning folk discovered it the next morning and I was able to claim it at the front desk.

And thus begins my Great European Adventure Tour.

Adios, Cádiz, Hola Europa

la catedral de cádiz: a glorious site

After eschewing the 7:50AM train option for the more reasonable 4:10pm one, I set a departure time of 3:30. I left at 3:33, thereby going against my genes as the Brown family always leaves significantly after their intended DT, often by margins of hours.

I think I'm quite practiced at leaving now. I feel like I've done it so many times that it doesn't really seem that hard anymore. I remember leaving for college the first time just being excruciating. I cried for a good part of the day I left and felt hollow for a few days afterwards. Now, I sort of see it like this: if we're going to see each other again, we will. If not, then so be it. It's sort of a laissex faire attitude but it seems to protect me from the gushing tears that Becka can't seem to avoid.

I had a short moment when I said goodbye to Phil, Sara, and Alex last night, but it was dulled b/c I'd see Sara the next day and Alex in England. Plus I've promised to invite all of them to my wedding.

In the end, I've enjoyed my time in Cádiz. I'm not sure how helpful résumé-wise this year was, and I'm not sure if it would have been better to travel for the whole year, not buy the Moroccan rugs, but we'll never know. I've made some good friends but not as many as I would've liked, and with the exception of Alex, probably not as close as I would have hoped either. Part of that was the language barrier: i wanted to hang out with Spanish people to practice my spanish but didn't because I couldn't really connect with them and it was so forced. Towards the end, I really started just giving up on it and hanging out with Alex more, which ended up being more meaningful. Still, I probably could have put more effort into my original goal - become fluent in Spanish. But at this point, no use crying over spilt milk...

££££ondon

You think New York's expensive? Some Londoners fly to New York once a year to buy their new wardrobe. It's cheaper to buy them in the States, even when you add in the plane ticket.

Upset at the latest T fare-hike in Boston to $1.25 for a one-way ride? Try out the £4 one-way ticket on the Tube (~$7.80).

London is prohibitively expensive. My best friend here in Spain, Alex, told me he had two equal 'vacation budgets.' One was for 6 months of day-trips to Spanish towns, carnivals, fairs, bullfights, and accompanying friends to Morocco to buy rugs. The other was for 1 week in London.

British pounds themselves don't travel far in London. American dollars might as well be 1932 German Marks - you'd need a wheelbarrow to buy anything with 'em. Becka paid $12 for £4 at the airport despite my warnings not to exchange money there (in her defense, apparently Heathrow Airport has neglected to put in ATMs). That's a $3 to £1 exchange rate for those of you keeping score at home. That's incredibly ridiculous.

A weak dollar is one thing. The dollar's weaker than the Euro, but in places like Spain, the prices are adjusted accordingly. A beer might cost €1.20 here. That's still less than $2 for a 12-oz Bud light. But having the quantity of currency demanded be the same will just about ruin you. What costs $1 for me often costs £1 in London, effectively halving my money.

An example to illustrate. A regular french fry at a Burger King (something I regrettably had to order while waiting for Becka to arrive via the tube) might cost me $1.25 in the states. It cost £1.25 here. So I paid about $2.40 for my fries. And that's the way it is with most products. You're paying the same number, but it costs twice as much to you.

This, of course, means one of two things. Either you don't do anything in London, or you hemmorhage cash. We chose the latter.

Our hotel was just down the mini-times square ads on the left

Not without some resistance, however. We stayed in a cheap hotel, sacrificing en suite toilets and showers (meaning we had to phone reception to ask for towels and an unlocking of a shower stall, not quite the quaint bed-and-breakfast experience) for location (quite literally in Picaddilly Circus) and price (although I'd hate to see the $60/night rooms...). And I managed to nail 4 of the quite famous (and fully free) museums, seeing the Rosetta Stone (British Musuem), some Picasso/Dalí modern art (Tate Modern), fake dinosaur bones at the Natural Science Museum (seriously - a huge letdown), and a portrait gallery of all the monarchs/famous people of English history.

Some of the bleeding was expected. £15 to see the Tower of London, £10 to see Westminster Abbey, and £15 to see Coriolanus at Shakespeare's Globe theatre were all planned expenditures. But some of it was not. Like the $17 bagels we bought on our way out.

That's right. $17 for two plain bagels with cream cheese. If you took me to the best Jewish bagel shop in NY and told me that they're the most expensive bagels in the world, I'd guess they might be about $5 a pop. $10 total. And maybe I would've paid it, just to try the "best bagels in the world."

But what we had surely were not at the top of any Zagat survey or Michelin guide. I even think the place we went to was a chain. Becka was starving and ornery and we just thought we'd stop at the bagel/donut shop right outside our hotel. I remember noting that the donuts were £1.50 and I thought that was a bit high, but well within the range of acceptably inflated London prices.
Becka and I both decided we'd do bagels and cream cheese instead, figuring they'd be about the same. When we noticed she wasn't reaching into the big basket of fresh bagels and tub of smooth cream cheese, we started to be concerned. She grabbed for a bagel from the display shelf that was fully made up with cream cheese and lettuce. I gathered that we would be getting that, sans lettuce. But I was slightly confused why they didn't have fresh bagels and cream cheese when they advertised it outside.

Becka was similarly dazed and forgot to mention she didn't want hers toasted. When they came back in cheap wax paper bags, I admit I hadn't thought through what they could cost. If the donuts were £1.50, it should have been conceivable that the bagels were £2.50 or even £3. Then I would have been thinking that £5 was too much and might have refused them. When she proudly announced £9.90, a full $10 over what I could even think of overpaying, I could have said, "I'm sorry, I didn't ask for a dozen, just one bagel" and left rather dramatically in protest over the high price. Instead what I did was more or less say, "Ok, thanks. Here's your money. Shall I drop my pants and grab my ankles too?"

Truth be told, London was a great time and seeing Becka was worth whatever expenses we incurred. We did a much better mix of touristy things (mentioned before) and spending time together than we did in Paris or Venice, which were maybe a little too amped up with tourist destinations and checklists. Slowly, I'm learning how I need to travel, one little trip at a time. Soon it will be time to put it all into use, as I leave in a little more than three weeks for the Grand Finale.

Well, I should go to make sure I still have money in my bank accounts after the hit I took in London. Hopefully, I'll have enough cash saved up for the seven week trip. Or a week in London.

Grand Finale update

Here I will be listing the plan, as it is formulated, revised, and ultimately accomplished, of the Grand Finale of the Great European Adventure.

The plan is to make two circles of the continent, the first going west through Switzerland and Austria and circling through Germany to Paris, and the second going through the south of France through Italy and up though Belgium and the Netherlands to England, Scotland, and Ireland.

Time frame:
June 22 until early August 11

Destinations:
definites
Spain
France
Italy
Switzerland
Austria
Germany
Czech Republic
England
Scotland
Ireland
Belgium
Netherlands

Day to Day Plans
date doing what during the day
Thu, Jun 22
Fri, Jun 23 last day in Cadiz
Sat, Jun 24 Cordoba
Sun, Jun 25 Toledo
Mon, Jun 26 Toledo, train to Barca
Tue, Jun 27 Barca
Wed, Jun 28 Barca
Thu, Jun 29 Barca
Fri, Jun 30 Interlaken, canyoning
Sat, Jul 01 Luzern
Sun, Jul 02
Mon, Jul 03 float down Cesky Krumlov river
Tue, Jul 04 Cesky Krumlov, train to Prague, Prague
Wed, Jul 05 Prague
Thu, Jul 06 Prague
Fri, Jul 07 Berlin
Sat, Jul 08 Berlin
Sun, Jul 09 Berlin
Mon, Jul 10 Louvre, Notre Dame. Café du Pax, Opera at night (8:00)
Tue, Jul 11 Orsay, Mt St Michel
Wed, Jul 12 Mt St Michel, Paris Plage?, Louvre until 9:45
Thu, Jul 13 Versaille on bikes, nice dinner
Fri, Jul 14 Avignon
Sat, Jul 15 train to beach, beach
Sun, Jul 16 beach, other things
Mon, Jul 17 Monaco (car museum, aquarium, casino)
Tue, Jul 18 train to Cinque Terre, one or two villages
Wed, Jul 19 Cinque Terre, train to Pisa at night
Thu, Jul 20 Pisa, train to Florence
Fri, Jul 21 Florence
Sat, Jul 22 Florence
Sun, Jul 23 train to Roma, Roma
Mon, Jul 24 Roma: Vatican and Coloseum
Tue, Jul 25 Roma
Wed, Jul 26 Salzburg (Staier & Faust 7:30pm)
Thu, Jul 27 Hallstatt salt mines, ice caves
Fri, Jul 28 Amsterdam
Sat, Jul 29 Amsterdam
Sun, Jul 30 Brugges
Mon, Jul 31 get to London, tidy up things in London
Tue, Aug 01 Stonehenge
Wed, Aug 02 Bath
Thu, Aug 03 Shakespeare's home
Fri, Aug 04 Oxford
Sat, Aug 05 fly to Glasgow, Glasgow
Sun, Aug 06 Stirling (Braveheart battle scene)
Mon, Aug 07 Edinburgh Fringe Arts Festival
Tue, Aug 08 Edinburgh
Wed, Aug 09 St. Andrews
Thu, Aug 10 fly from Glasgow to Dublin
Fri, Aug 11 Dublin to JFK

Top 10 Chokes

1. Purchasing $6500 worth of rugs from a Moroccan bazaar
2. Not showing my girlfriend the top 2 sights in my hometown during the three days she was here
3. Forgetting everything I read about pickpocketers and trying to push and kick the distraction (who was pulling on my dad's pants' legs) instead of holding onto wallets.
4. Paying $17 for two bagels with plain cream cheese in London

London, part 2 of 3

Of all the cities I'll visit during this whimsical year of travel, London has got to be the one I visit most. I've flown in or out of London 14 times already, but that's hardly a reasonable measure of my time spent here. Which is currently a total of two afternoons and one evening.

All of my connecting flights to the states have been through London save one, and I've even made London a connection between Andalusia and Venice (check your europe maps to see if that makes sense). But I've only visited London for one day before today. I went to visit Elisabeth from my teaching English course in Brighton and we made it up to London for a day, but didn't do much other than meet a myriad of friends of hers and spend the day searching for a costume for a dress up party where you had to dress up as something ending in '-st.' (for the record, I eschewed the typical artist/buddhist/florist routine for 'hidden cost').

So this is my first real London as a destination. And I likely won't see much. Despite what seemed to be a short flight (3 hrs + the hour saved when you go back in time), I wasn't able to set out on the tourist trail until 4:20 and didn't get to my destination, the Natural History Museum, until 4:40. Since Becka and I have decided we won't be doing museums (she doesn't like them enough and I don't want to be burdened by someone who doesn't like them enough), and London's chock full of great museums, I tried to fit them all in today.

I saw two. And one sucked. The Natural History Musuem had a number of great, well done exhibits, particularly on dinosaurs. But they used fake casts instead of real fossils (which are all in NY. And many of their facts were wrong (I did, after all, receive a citation and an 'A' in a class called Dinosaurs! at an Ivy League school). So that dampened the thrill. But I made up for it in the National Portrait Gallery, a symposium (not sure if I'm using that word correctly and don't have time to look it up to be sure although I did have time to write that whole sentence explaining such) of portraits (some famous) of many Britons (all famous) throughout the years with accompanying explanations as to who they were and why they were famous. Great consolidation of my British royal history. Enjoyable.

Which brings me to the three lessons I learned today:

1. Trust your guidebook. It said the Natural History Museum should be skipped, and it was right. It said that the National Portrait Gallery would be good and it was.

2. Don't fret about missing connections or, in general, the little things. My taxi driver told me that the only thing you should really worry about is dying. B/c then, you've really lost. But when you miss a bus/train/plane (the first was my mishap today), it's not the end of the world. Besides, I had a great conversation with a taxi driver as a result. I learned that his whole family's military and one of them works in top secret chemicals for the americans. And he told me how to keep your windows from fogging up in your car (wipe them with water-less soap) and water from sticking when it rains on the outside (wipe a potato on it).

3. I can't remember and I have 2 minutes left on internet, so I'll write it later

Obviously if it didn't come back to me in three days, it probably wasn't that important...

What makes awkward people awkward?

My second roommate moved out yesterday, which inspired this blog delving into the subject of awkwardness. She was a lovely roommate - clean, polite, willing to share food and respectful of my habits and wishes. She returned to Wales yesterday after I helped her lug her 50 lb bag and 25lb backpack to the bus station at 6:30am. I was sad to see her go but not because I will be lonely - I prefer to live alone - but because I couldn't have had a better roommate from a compatibility perspective.

The quirky thing about her was just that - she was quirky. Better put, she was awkward. I've been around plenty of awkward people in my life, notably in upper level math classes in high school (although there were a few at Dartmouth, as well). I've always thought of myself as a compassionate and patient person and I generally get along well with them. But I can't help but feel awkward as well.

What types of things does an "awkward" person do, you might ask? The most notable thing, to me, is the complete lack of fluidity in a conversation. Typically, a conversation with an awkward will go like this:

Awkward: Hiya.
Me: Hello. How was class today?
A: A bit exhausting really. (2 second pause in which Awkward appears on the cusp of saying something) I'm probably going to go straight to bed.
M: Why was it so exhausting?
A: Oh. (Another 2 second pause) I'm not sure really. (1 second) It just was.

Now what do you say to that? In hindsight, it seems like it'd be really easy to say, "Oh I'm sorry, can I get you a cup of tea" or "Yeah, I have days like that sometimes" but for whatever reason, at the moment, I'm speechless. I seriously can't think of anything to say.

That's really unusual for me. Typically I do very well in scripted conversations like "how was your day" or "what's your name/where are you from." But the remarkable thing about awkward people is that they make me awkward too. I can't think of anything to say. And I hate uncomfortable silences (although not as much as Rawson Daniel, who will make up ridiculous excuses like having a class at midnight to leave a conversation after 1/4 second of silence) so I often just try to disappear before the silence gets too long.

In addition to the stagnated conversation flow, awkward people exhibit other common characteristics as well. One in particular is clumsiness and the tendency to get oneself into awkward physical situations. Within 5 minutes of meeting her Alice swatted a full glass of water halfway across the room while making a wildly uncontrolled hand gesture. Her first laundry experience ended in her opening the door to the washer while it was still in cycle, causing a sudsy flooding of the bathroom and kitchen. She says it's quite common of her to be like that and I would agree with that statement. The question is why is she like this? Is it genetic? Is it a learned reaction to society?

There's a number of facebook groups dealing with the subject, and given the healthy number of members, awkwards tend to know and accept that they are awkward. The group "Holy Shit I'm awkward!" has the following description:

You stare at the ground to avoid premature eye contact, you trip over yourself, you can never decide whether or not to say hi to someone when you see them for the third time that day, you laugh at your own jokes, you don't know when to cross the street, every conversation you have has an uncomfortably long pause, and worst of all, you always point it out.

Without really having data to back this up, I'd guess that awkward people tend to also be quite bright. That may be not true, but it certainly seems that it is. Alice is very bright, as were every awkward person I met at Dartmouth and in high school.

I have this theory that we're all given equal amounts of abilities and disabilities. It's as if every possible trait - from height to kindness, metabolism to faithfulness, willpower to boob size were scaled from 1-100. The sum total of everyone's traits would be the same number. The reason that some people are more successful, liked, or happy than others is generally due to the culture's relative value placed on their good traits. So someone with the intellectual capacity of a fruit fly can be wildly successful if his society places value on size and he's 6'9", 315 (NFL offensive linemen). Likewise, someone who 3,000 years ago would have been devoured in his youth by a formidable beast because of his lack of physical strength can become famously successful (Bill Gates). The assumption would be that being awkward is another trait, and some people get more of it than others. I just wonder if there's a society where awkwardness is an advantage...

But I don't really know. And I got tired of searching for answers on google. So I'm going to rather awkwardly end this entry without having really said anything or concluded it properly.

musings on baseball

So I'm watching the Astros game - fourth straight after midnight start this week for me - and I heard this comment by the Milwaukee broadcasting team:

"You know, Andy Pettitte's a guy, just like Chris Capuano, who doesn't throw very hard..."

The comment continued, but what I noticed was this comparison of a 176-win, 4 time world series champ and a guy with 27 career wins. I've noticed this a lot while watching other teams' announcers. They compare another team's star to their mediocre product. It's as if someone said, "Pujols, just like Geoff Blum, seems to thrive when he's behind in the count." I don't care if Blum's a decent player. I don't care if he really does hit better when he's behind in the count. You don't compare Pujols to him. You can compare him to Pujols. But don't compare Pujols to him. He doesn't deserve it. Neither does Chris Capuano. He can be compared to other greats, but they can't be compared to him as if he's some sort of standard bearer.

This, in a way, is homerism. There seems to be quite a bit of homerism - that is, favoring your own team to the point that you appear stupid to a knowledgeable fan- in sports these days. It's not limited to regional or local media either - ESPN has apparently hired a whole slew of Yankees or Red Sox fans to write, talk about, or otherwise waste my time on info about 'the greatest rivalry in sports'. Bill Simmons, Jayson Stark, the list goes on. These guys don't apparently know that other teams exist.

(Just for the record, Pettitte was just compared to Rickie Weeks and his 440 career ABs, which is about 2/3 of a full season)

Simmons and Stark, among others, frequently act as if no other teams exist than the Red Sox and Yankees. ESPN constantly runs features about Ortiz, Jeter, Manny, or Damon's latest hairstyle instead of actually reporting significant news.

Currently, the ESPN rumor (unsubstantiated, of course) is that Clemens will definitely sign with the Red Sox or the Yankees. Whether that happens or not remains to be seen, but they're the only major media outlet that suggests that the Astros are out of the running.

To me, the Astros have to still be the favorite. They've fulfilled the three requirements Clemens asked for:

1. Competitor, with a reasonable chance to make the playoffs (2nd best record in baseball)
2. Offensive team that isn't going to get shutout in 9 of his starts (averaged 9.8 runs per game in last 5 wins)
3. Had a starter go down with injury (Backe may be out of the year)

They obviously offer the hometown benefits he's enjoyed the last few years, and I have to imagine that business-savvy Drayton McLane will match any salary because of the marketing opportunities/franchise value increase that Clemens brings. I have to believe that because no news has been made, Clemens is just playing the same game the Texans are playing with Reggie Bush - try to leverage his salary with interest in other teams (Clemens' interest in NY, Bos, and Texas)/players (Texans' interest in Mario Williams)

But I could be wrong. After all, I'm probably no better than any of these other homers...

Domesticated

You know you're in a good relationship when you actually enjoy cooking breakfast, cleaning a turtle tank, and driving 45 minutes away to go to a bead store, and you're a guy. But that's the beauty of not seeing your girlfriend but once a month: everyday tasks are actually enjoyable. Moreso when you've been traipsing around countries not knowing where your next meal will come from (dramatic way of saying "eating out") and having to pay just to breathe (hello, UK).

She even surprised me with a free dance lesson (she'd found a coupon in a newspaper) and then I surprised our dance instructor by claiming to know that Germany was in Europe. Apparently "likes to learn complicated dance moves" doesn't really intersect with "knows basic geography." Go figure.

So we had a good time. We went to Jordan's (the best pizza I've ever had) twice, like we always do (even if I'm only there for 2 days) and drank Blue Moon and Sam Adams Summer Ale, cooked apple chicken sausages and watched Astro games. She made a steak dinner for me. Basically, Becka made a convincing case for what I'm missing back in the states.

I'm rather inclined to rule in her favor: I'm currently looking for consulting jobs in and around NYC, and you have to like my chances of finding work there of all places.

But I've got to get back there first. Currently, the Grand Finale has just experienced its third stage of growth and currently is over three times its original size at 7 weeks in length. I've bought my return ticket for August 11, so now I've just got to fill in the gaps.

I'm thoroughly excited about the journey and trying to squeeze the most out of it without overwhelming myself. I'm worried that travelling everyday will wear me out, but being alone, I'll need to see more and relax less. I'm trying to balance checklist sightseeing with genuine vacation, and that's hard to do.

As much as I'm looking forward to my adventure, I can't help but get excited about the little things that await my return: getting a car, finding an apartment, and of course, doing the little chores and errands with my dearest. Call me weird. But at least I'm happy.

I'll have four please, and make it quick

Someone better test me for designer recovery steroids, because I'm just superhuman right now. I don't get affected by jet lag. I was in Portugal Monday morning and New York/Connecticut last night, with Ireland and Englad mixed in between, and yet I'm ready to go. That's four countries in two days and I'm hardly affected. My body believes it's 11AM and I'm not particularly tired. Moreover, I don't tend to have the problem going the other way across the Atlantic either.

It's mostly to do with flight times. I try to leave NY at night around 9PM ET, sleep on the plane and wake up in London 10AM (5AM ET), a little sleepy but tricked into thinking I slept through the night. With the ensuing flights to Spain, I nap a little bit more and basically get in in the afternoon and think it's the afternoon.

Going back's easier any way you do it: you're basically gaining daylight, so if you go to bed a little earlier than normal, you'll feel like you went to bed a little later than normal and you can catch up the next night, but you won't feel particularly tired either way. I dunno, maybe it's more genius and less super powers, but I prefer to think the latter.

Since I wasn't sleeping on the plane, I had to do other things to keep from crying my eyes out with boredom (which wasn't actually possible: the desert-like lack of humidity on the plane made excretion of tears inconceivably difficult). I initially tried seeing how little time I could spend in between lavoratory stops. I was terribly thirsty and brought my new 1-liter Nalgene on the plane, full from the water fountain. It expired before takeoff. I had to refill from the lavoratory (whose water has an odd milky white look for about 5 minutes), using the complimentary paper cups they provided because my behemoth was too large to fit in the sink. I did this thrice more throughout the trip. Needless to say, I set a new personal best at 7 minutes and made full use of my carefully-chosen, four-star location as aisle seat 42H, two rows in front of the lavoratory.

After sufficiently passing the time in such a way, I turned my attention to reading. After the recommendations of a few Brits, I had picked up Bill Bryson's Notes from a Big Country (US title: I'm a stranger here myself) a collection of weekly newspaper columns published in a London newspaper by an American who'd lived in England for the previous 20 years. He is literally me if I was 25 years older and extended my stay in Europe by 20 years, dumped Becka, married an English woman, and moved back to the states. He writes just like I do, or perhaps more appropriately, as I wish I did. He uses self-deprecating humor and criticism to cover up the fact that he's really just a big whiner. He is constantly fascinated by the most trivial things (like what happens when you stick coffee grounds down a garbage disposal - answer: think something similar to Mt. St Helens) and is forever engaged by miscellaneous statistics (like you're more likely to get cancer from eating pork chops once a week than inhaling second hand smoke every day of your life). Moreover, he is socially conscious (like the fact that we use twice as much energy per capita than the average ultra-developed western european does) and is hypercritical of the American way of life (well I am moreso of the europeans, but close enough). Lastly, he is living in none other than Hanover, NH while writing this book.

This means, of course that Dartmouth is given a fair mention (always favorable), as well as other local establishments such as Lou's or Rosey Jekes or the itty bitty theater in West Leb. In one of the recent columns, he describes how he was saddened to not find a diner in Hanover when he moved there. I immediately thought, "What about Four Aces in WRJ?" Sure enough, on the next page, he finds it and is immensely satisfied (although he gives the erroneous footnote that it closed a few months after the column published). The book's a great read and reasonably funny. I think it'd be more so for Brits (the intended audience) than Americans, though, so I'm rather looking forward to reading his other entries, especially one about the absurdities of the English language called The Mother Tongue and one about small-town USA called The Lost Continent.

In any case, I've got some errands to run today and then I'll probably take a nice long nap so I'd better go. It's the jet lag, you know. It gets to you.

Ireland: Land of Not very much Ire

so I think Ireland's my favorite country ever. I've only been here a few hours but it's friggin' awesome man.

So you've got the whole different culture thing, but they speak english. AND, that different culture is sort of your culture. So things like the Book of Kells actually mean something to you, and they're cool. I dunno. Maybe I just like it b/c it's english-speaking, the people are friendly, and i found a cheap hostel to stay at. Or maybe b/c I've had about 5 pints of beer. Not sure. But I like Ireland.

Highlight of the day: Guinness storehouse, narrowly beating out seeing the Book of Kells (beautifully gold-plated, spectacularly colored manuscript of the four gospels that was "the greatest prize in the Christian world" according to some Irish crazies in the 1100s when it was lost, and the Brian Boru Harp, the same that appears on the Guinness logo and the Irish Euro coin.

Denounced by my guidebook as "overrated", I found the Guinness Storehouse fascinating and well-done. A temple to everything Guinness, it featured high-tech displays showing how Guinness was made, a large section on advertisements (Guinness ads are some of my favorites), and of course, free samples.

I actually wound up with 2 pints of Guinness instead of the customary 1. I jumped the gun and started drinking my pint when it was about 5/6 full after waiting for about 3 minutes for the black to separate from the white, as I'd been told to do. When it became clear that I wasn't getting it topped off, I started in on the beer. But then the bartender flipped out and told me he couldn't let me drink it b/c "he wasn't allowed to serve an imperfect pint" or something like that. He'd have to pour me another. And it wasn't necessary to throw out the 5/6 full pint. I could drink both. You can imagine the fit I threw...

In any case, I hadn't really had much to eat since 11 am, so those two stouts hit hard. By the time I left, I was certified drunk. And cold. It's a good 20 degrees F colder here but I decided to wear a t-shirt. There was some drunk running going on, for sure.

Stunner of the day: the Guinness Book of records is not coincindentally named the Guinness book of world records. It's actually sponsored by Guinness. It was first written to answer typical Irish Drunk questions like "What's the fastest gamebird in the world?" and has grown into the largest copyright (Bible and Koran, etc are non-copyright) bookseller of all time. We've had copies of it for years, but I never realized that its Guinness was the same as the Guinness...

Head off to NY tomorrow to see the illustrious Miss Duvall. Should be thrilling, but not as much so, as a fresh pint of Guinness from the source.

Lisbon, day 1/2

After a deliciously free breakfast of hot chocolate and bread, the 6 of us started out for Belém, a suburb of Lisbon but loaded with touristy things to do. I booked a hotel at the tourist office for 20€ per night. The twist was when we saw the name of it: Dos Naçaos, the same place we'd stayed at the night before. I'd paid 35€, the others had paid 25€, but for the next two nights, I would pay 20€. It's Portugal.

At 11:30, we finally boarded the cable car for Belém. After a 30 minute excrutiatingly slow and packed ride, we made it to the Torre Belém (pictured, below left), Monument to the Discoverers (pictured, right), and the Monastery of Jerónimos.

After spending a few hours in Belém, we took a bus back that was faster (but not much) than the cable car to the Oceanarium on the opposite side of town. It was cool and definitely worth the time and money to see Europe's second largest aquarium, but didn't really come close to rivaling Shedd in Chicago. There were 4 exhibits representing the four main oceans (Indian, Atlantic, Pacific, and Artic) around the outside of the huge central tank that held sharks, sunfish (largest bony fish in water that can weigh up to 2 tons) and other larger swimmers. The Penguin exhibit was rather lame, and since I judge all aquariums by the strength of their Penguins, I couldn't give it my complete recommendation. Still, very cool, and one of the better things to do in Lisbon.

The group was a lot of fun, and even a day was enough time to get a feel for the individual characters and humor that everyone had. Lieven, one of the Belgians, needed some bootie badly and kept taking 'babe of the week' photos every hour.
We took a ton of photos, so hopefully I'll be able to include them later.

When they finally left, I felt as if we'd spent a lot more time together than just a day, and it made me realize how important it is to have someone to travel with, if just for sanity's sake.

Unfortunately, by the time we made it back to the hotel, they had given my room away 5 minutes earlier. They said I had needed to show up at 6 to ensure they don't give away the reservation. Fortunately, the woman was nice and worked her butt off to find me somewhere else. I ended up having to carry my two 20kg bags up two broken escaltors of 215 stairs each, but at the end, I found a 95€ per night hotel waiting for me with my own private bathroom and shower. Since she somehow decided it was her fault for giving up the reservation, I only had to pay 20€ each night. I think it was worth it.

After my relaxing bath, I headed out to Barrio Alto, the nightlife of the town for a bite to eat and to use the internet.

Today was nothing special, although I managed to find a fantastic old Moorish castle (Castelo São Jorge) and pretend to be an archer shooting down the Christians. I probably wouldn't have spent this day here if I had to do Lisbon again, but I did enjoy not having the need to rush everywhere and see everything before the ticking time bomb went off.

I'm not in love with Lisbon - I wouldn't agree with the Spaniard on my bus with whom I had the following conversation:

Me: Does anyone know where the bus is?
Spaniard: No. But this is common. It's Portugal. It's the third world.

...but I don't think it's got quite the history Paris or the extravagance of London. In fairness, it's probably a lot like Madrid with a bit of poor southern Spain mixed in. Not a ton to see, a few cool public squares, lots of sun, but a bit falling apart.

Tomorrow I leave for Dublin, at 10:20 Portugal time. I'll have a day there before I take an afternoon flight to New York to see Becka. If things keep going as well as they are now, I'll be very pleased....

Peachy in Portugal

So far, excepting my week with the lovely Becka, today was the biggest success I've had on vacation. I made some friends with some intelligent europeans (and a brazilian too) and spent a pleasant and peaceful day in the company of others without having to freak out about everything going perfectly. Again, some valuable lessons learned.

I arrived in Lisbon last night at 8:30, but by the time I loaded up on Brazilian import sausage, got my metro card stuck in the machine, worked my way across town, and eventually found the neighborhood I needed to be in for cheap hostels, it was close to 11. This brings us to note to self #5: don't show up to cities at 11pm and hope to find cheap accommodations. They will either all be taken or be so difficult to get to that you will get frustrated and end up staying at the first available place, often at a premium price.

Seemingly the beginning of another disaster Munich-style, I managed to turn it around with a cool head and a more adventurous personality. Walking past an outdoor restaurant, I overheard some English. Instead of ignoring it and walking past like I might have done before, I stopped, turned around, and asked them, "Do y'all speak English?"

After kicking myself for making a worse intro line than "Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?" I was able to pull it together enough to ask a better follow up: "Do y'all know where to stay around here?"

Turns out they did. And they had a buddy who was looking for someplace to stay for the night as well. Maybe we could split a room at their hotel and save some money. Although we ended up paying $35 (for two) instead of the $25 they paid, I wasn't crying about it, just happy to have a place.

The group of 5 (including my recently arrived roommate) and I went out for a bit for some drinks and ended up meeting some other folks in the process. Of the 6 of us, we were a Spaniard (not me), two Belgians, a Czech, a Brazilian, and of course, the Emerican. Four of them were studying at Coimbra, a big Erasmus destination 2 hours north of Portugal. The fifth was working on his medical degree there as well. All were practically fluent in English, although the Belgians and the Czech were a notch above the Brazilian who was herself a notch above Pablo, the Spaniard.

Pablo and I were to stay together, in a tiny room hardly big enough for the smallish double-sized bed. All the Euros rebuffed my attempts to suggest it might be too small for the 6'2" Pablo and I to share, saying "beds are smaller in Europe than in American."

However, when I walked in their room the next morning, I remarked, slightly surprised, to Karel (Czech), "did you guys (he and the Brazilian, Ana, are dating) have two beds?"

"Yes, of course. What would you expect?"

"Well, Pablo and I slept in the same bed."

Laughter ensued. Only made worse by the following comment: "That's too bad, b/c we didn't even use one of the beds!" grrr...

Pablo and I already hadn't gotten the day off to the best start when we trusted my alarm clock I hadn't used in a month to wake us up. It worked alright, and even woke us up at 9:00 like we wanted. Only thing was Portugal's an hour behind Spain and the rest of Europe. Pablo and I didn't realize this until after we had showered, packed, and got ready to meet everyone for breakfast. Having gone to bed at 4:30, every hour counts. I whuffed.

The difference was these whuffs, these problems, this kinks in the plan, didn't affect me as much. One reason is I'm more experienced as a traveler and I've been through some pretty unfavorable situations. But the biggest was that I had other people there to cushion the blows. This was an important lesson.

Lisbon/Dublin: back on track

So after taking the long route around sevilla on the C3 local bus (there are two bus stations, one serving international destinations and the other regional ones. I had to change stations) i made it to the international bus station. After getting a testy reply to my question, "what's the best city to go to tonight so i can go to lisboa tomorrow? Faro or Lagos?" i decided to take her advice and go to window 11 for the answer. There, instead, i found a bus to lisbon at 4, getting me there at 8! What a surprise!

Original arrival was 6. I guess everything worked out after all...

now if the bus would only get here....

Lisbon/Dublin: inauspicious debut

Just got on the bus to Sevilla from Cádiz, about 5 hours later than I'd originally planned. The plan was to catch the 7am to Sevilla, change bus stations, get lost, and finally get on the 11am direct bus to Lisbon.

Considering it's 12:05 now and I'm still in Cádiz, i don't think that plan's happening.

I finished teaching yesterday night at 10:30pm, and after talking to karenne (a consultant friend) about her job, casually eating dinner, and getting into a discussion with my roommate about religion, i decided it was time to pack.

But since I won't be returning to the states again until the end of the Grand Finale® in August, I basically needed to get everything out of Spain that I won't need on my 6-week tour. This made packing a little more stressful.

By 4:15am I was done packing and procrastinating and talked to Becka, making her promise to not let me fall asleep.

By 5am, I changed my mind and decided to sleep for an hour, making her promise instead to call me.

She held up her end, but I whuffed. So did my alarms.

Now, I think I'm gonna try to get a 4:30 bus from Sevilla to Faro, a city in the famous Algarve region, stay for the night and take an early morning bus to Lisbon tomorrow.

At least, that's the plan. And that's assuming our bus driver doesn't dump our luggage out the side as he pulls away from a stop with the luggage door open again.

Updates forthcoming from my cell at least until the border...

Biblical miracles explained by science

and now for something controversial....

This professor at FSU, Doron Nof, recently published a study claiming that frigid blasts of air could have descended upon the Sea of Galilee and could have created blocks of ice strong enough for a man to stand upon. This would give a scientifically plausible explanation for Jesus's walking on water. Full article here

In 1992, the same scientist made waves with his explanation for how the red sea parted. The crossing of the red sea, he claims, could have been possible due to a ridge across the sea and high winds that blew the water over the ridge, exposing the terrain. Napoleon actually did it too, and barely made it across before the winds died down and water rushed back with tremendous force and speed. 8 minute documentary about this here.

This brings up an interesting topic, a Pandora's Box. Why is it that miracles were so abundant in Biblical times and so apparently absent today? Modern day Christians will claim that miracles exist everywhere - an alcoholic abusive father gives up the drink and turns into a devout family man, a born-again Christian survives a horrendous car wreck without a scratch, etc. But where are the burning bushes, parting seas, wines that come from water, and never ending baskets of fish and bread?

We have come to understand that the world was created in more than 7 days, that Adam and Eve symbolized rather than were the first homo sapiens, that man really did evolve. We've learned that the early people were "told" these explanations by God because they couldn't understand the complexities of evolution and science. We must also, however, recognize the human influence over all of these explanations: one man was usually "told" by God what to do, what to say, what to believe. He then relayed this message to others. Who's to say that man ever actually spoke to God? Who's to say he wasn't any different than David Koresh, Mohammed (according to Christians), or Joseph Smith (according to non-Mormons)?

Obviously the answer is faith. You have to believe things that you can't see, hear, or feel. But if humans have had thousands of different religions throughout time and even now and faith has been a part of all of them, who's to say they're not all wrong? Who's to say they're not all right? Who's to say that what Fadwa al-Addam believes is wrong and what John Sullivan believes is right?

Mr. Sullivan believes in what he believes because that's how he was raised, or someone came along at the right time in his personal development and told him that Jesus was the way. Ms. al-Addam believes in what she believes for the same reaons. When someone comes in with guns, swords, books, or money telling Mr. Sullivan or Ms. al-Addam to believe what they believe, are they going to?

The answer is it depends. If things are going well and they feel that their God, their faith, is taking care of them, and they have a choice, they probably won't turn from their religion. If they feel confused and are looking for answers and a missionary comes along, loves them and tells them that the way is through his God, then they might convert. If force is used and they are given the choice to die or convert, well, some will die and some will convert. But is their new religion any better than their old religion? What is the difference between one religion and another?

We could fill books with the answer to this trivial question, so the better question to ask is fundamentally, what is the basis for any religion? Faith in the unseen. What is this faith? Belief that does not rest on logical proof or material evidence. If there's no logical proof or material evidence, what's the proof that Islam, Hindu, Christianity or any other religion are the one true way to heaven? Obviously, there's no proof.

Thus, we must admit that there is a possibility Muslims, Jews, and anybody else are 100% right and we are 100% wrong. We can believe that the only true way to heaven is through Jesus Christ. But we must admit our own fallacy. We must admit that the best we can do is trust that this is true, and we will never know it to be true. And if we cannot know this to be true, we cannot know it to be true that everyone else is wrong.

Because they are really no different than we. They too are searching for explanation in a chaotic world. They have come across it by chalking unexplained events up to an invisible God. As time goes on, we learn that more and more of these unexplained events can be explained through science. Our faith evolves. But the fundamental question remains the same: do you or don't you believe? I do, but I'm not so sure that my God is any different than the Muslim, Jewish, or Greek gods... I'll leave that for a follow up.

Comments welcome

Virgin sacrifice to the baseball gods needed

Seriously, this has got to be a joke. My internet quit on me 10 minutes before Pettitte's first pitch. It's still out, and we're 30 minutes into the game. It cut out on me yesterday too: in the bottom of the eigth with the 'stros up 1-0 and Oswalt throwing darts.

The last time it went out on me? During the World Series. I had trouble all throughout the playoffs, but as soon as the season was over, I haven't had a snick of a problem. Coincidence? I think not. The baseball gods are obviously asking for something from me. I just need an oracle to tell me what cause I can't come close to figuring it out...

I'm gonna venture to say that in the four months since baseball season ended, I've been on the internet at this time of night (2 am) 5 nights a week for all but 4 weeks, when I've been traveling or visiting someone/something. Sometimes I've returned from going out, sometimes I've just got on after eating and showering, who knows. But I've been on the internet a lot at this time of night. I'm gonna say it's my prime time. So I would notice if it normally was spotty, or had issues this time of night. But no, it's been great since the WS.

And now, it's not working. For the first time since the World Series, there is baseball on. For the first time since the World Series, my internet has decided to stop working. Nada. Zilch. I'm getting less heartbeat than Ted Williams in his cryogenically frozen state.

The most perplexing part is, I can use skype! It's not like my connecion's gone bad or i need to reboot the router. those things I know how to fix. But having skype work (clearly showing there's a connection somewhere) and the web not? The only explanation is the baseball gods are frowning upon me.

Update: The only consolation was that Pettitte got shellacked and the astros lost 11-2, which would have been nasty to watch... I just hope it's not a harbinger of an injury, b/c normally studs like that don't get roughed up unless something's wrong with them...


Update 2: I think I may have the problem resolved, but we won't know til we have a problem. A friend suggested that the problem is with my DNS lookup tool: it can't translate the www.astros.com to the 147.183.191.21 IP address where the page actually exists. Apparently these DNS lookup tools go down often in non-US countries. Now I have a backup, so hopefully this will solve the problem. hopefully.

Dubbed movies

So I saw "Crash" tonight, dubbed into Spanish. It was a pretty good movie, as best I could tell, but what really struck me was the quality of the voice-overs of the Spanish actors.

I probably couldn't distinguish between bad Spanish acting and good spanish acting when I first came over here, but I can now. And there's nothing worse than hearing that whiny Spanish woman voice that gets substituted for almost every B-movie white girl.

And I think that's why I enjoyed Crash so much. All of the voice actors - save the Chinese woman at the beginning and end of the movie - were completely believable. At times I forgot I was watching an english movie dubbed into Spanish. Even the Arabic guy spoke with an Arabic accent, something that was crucial to his character. I couldn't tell as much between the well-spoken black director and the street-talking Ludacris, but could notice a slight difference. I'm sure that for a fluent Spaniard they spoke as differently as Snoop and Carl Lewis...

But the dubbed movie, besides its obvious commentary on race relations, brought up an interesting thought. Which actor should be marketed to Spanish audiences that only see the movie in its dubbed form? Don Cheadle, Brendan Fraser, and Sandra Bullock? Or should it be the voice actors that read their lines in Spanish? While I'll concede that the body language and movement of an actor is important, his primary tool is his voice. Give someone else the power over the character's words and, in my mind, he becomes the actor.

This, of course, leads to the logical conclusion: Spanish people (and anyone else who watches only dubbed movies) cannot really have favorite actors, nor can they judge quality acting. The performance is so dependent on the voiceover that the two must be taken as one. In this sense, I think the voiceovers should be marketed to the Spanish.

"Manuel García es Tom Hanks en El Terminal" should really be the pitch.

Furthermore, are studios spending money to translate their movies? Yes, of course. Are they spending money to hire better actors to read the parts of certain actors? I imagine the answer is yes. But what happens if the German Tom Hanks doesn't want to read a certain movie, or he wants more money than the Spanish Tom Hanks? On the whole, the actors stay consistent - Manuel García plays Tom Hanks in all his movies. But who ensures this? Do the studios shell out big bucks to pay these voiceovers of their actors?

I have a ton of questions about this issue, and if I find answers, I will post them here. It's certainly an interesting topic...

Breaking news: I've decided on a profession

I haven't maybe made everyone aware of the dilemna i've been going through recently in regards to the direction my professional career will head, but it's been like having Andy Sirkus in his latest offering on my back. I've felt chained and inept without knowing what i wanted to do upon my return to the states, but I think I have finally made that impulsive yet iron-clad decision that has come to be a trademark morgan over the years.

I'm going to be a consultant. I imagine I will want to do something in management consulting or strategic consulting, but I'll have to investigate it more thoroughly. For now though, I'm very pleased with what a consulting job at a large firm (if, of course, I can find one) will offer me: great training for entrepreneurial and/or C-level work with reasonable pay, great opportunites for advancement and something that will provide me with a creative problem-solving challenge. Those were sort of my biggest three 'wants' in finding a career.

In fairness to my decision-making process, this was hardly a decision made with little forethought: I've considered a myriad of careers recently and even read a book called "Do What You Are" about choosing a career based on your personality type. I just hadn't found anything that really struck my fancy until I caught a glimpse of the job description for Mercer Management Consulting on my daily job posting summary from Monstertrak and thought, gee, that sounds like exactly what I've been looking for.

I had considered being a consultant when I was a junior, but brushed off any long-term plans because I wanted to go to Spain (another iron-clad impulsive decision made after freshman year) and just wasn't prepared to make that decision at the time.

Now, I have direction in my job search and feel more confident asking people for help. I can now say, "I want to be a consultant" instead of "I'm looking for a job, but I'm not real sure what i want to be. Can you help me?"

That will focus my search enough that I think I just might end up with work next year after all....

Alcázars, cathedrals and bull tails: Family vacation in Andalucí­a

Just four days after returning from Paris, I set off for Madrid to meet up with my family for a 9-day trip through Madrid, Sevilla, Cádiz, Granada, and the rest of southern Spain. Ironically, I was able to do the vacation while only asking for 2 days off work, teaching the Monday-Tuesday in the middle of the trip.

The trip was important in my travel development, if not quite the same familial fun as provided by former gems of family vacations like Maine, San Francisco, and Destin, Florida. I learned some valuable lessons about patience and flexibility, expectations of time requirements, and the importance of off-sight days. In addition, I made serious headways in my Grand Finale Tour planning process, receiving three Europe guides and securing a money belt, sleeping bag, and the ever important snail-shell: the backpack. Sadly, it will likely be the last large-scale nuclear family vacation the Browns take; any future ones will likely include other members (Becka) and/or consist of more manageable destinations and iteneraries.

Destination:Spain turned out to be quite a rocky trip, especially for my dad. Accustomed to being in control and critical to the family's fortunes, my dad found himself in a foreign land where he could not speak and at the wrong end of fortune's beating stick too many times. He probably knew the trip wouldn't be ideal when he sat next to a 300-lb shower-protestor in the middle seat on the back row of the 9-hour transatlantic to Germany. Between the pickpocket attempt in Madrid and the plane crash at Seville's airport the day his before return home, getting lost on confusing Spanish roads and trying to see too much probably didn't help the general anxiety level. It was really no surprise that when asked if he was tired yesterday, he responded 'Yes, I'm exhausted. I think the stress is getting to me.' The vacation, obviously, did not do its job.

Despite the difficulties, we managed to see a number of important things, including the world's oldest restaurant (Madrid), largest Gothic cathedral (Sevilla), first European city (Cádiz), and last stronghold of the Moors in Spain (Granada). And I did get to spend some meaningful time with my brother while we slept in the same rooms, something I hadn't been able to do in a while. Turns out he's doing pretty well in school now and is actually excited to get back to work and keep up his straight A's. Sweet.

I, albeit sad to see my family go, am ready to get back into routines, go to the gym, plan my last two trips to Lisbon/Dublin and The Finale, and practice some Spanish. I have effectively been traveling or planning trips for over a month now, and although I am welcoming the 2-week break, I am also emboldened by my new knowledge of how to travel and am looking forward to subsequent journeys.

Carnival in Cadiz

If you haven't heard of Cádiz's legendary Carnival, you likely aren't from Europe. Often considered one of the top 4 pre-Lenton celebrations along with Venice, Rio de Janeiro and New Orleans (pre-Katrina), Cádiz's "celebration of sin" as one of my more Catholic students put it, is truly a sight to be seen but little known to us Americans. Unlike New Orlean's Mardi Gras (Fat Tuesday in French) which features wildly drunk co-eds flashing white-capped fraternity t-shirted jocks for beads, Carnival here centers around song.

A month or so before the Friday before Fat Tuesday, which itself is 46 days before Easter (you follow all that? If not, here's a good explanation for why Easter changes every year - a hint: it's based on crazy pagan traditions like the sun and moon...) singing groups compete in four different categories to pass through to the semifinals and eventually the finals of a giant competition. The concurso attracts many great songwriters from the region, but few from outside of the province find success due to the appetite for specificity among the audience. Many non-gaditano Spaniards do not understand Carnival lyrics (which are often critical of local public figures and can be quite hilarious), so I hardly bothered to try.


The concurso starts in early February with nightly competitions in the Gran Teatro Falla, and lasts until the aforementioned Friday, when it culminates in an all-night finale (literally - it ended at 8:30 am this year) featuring the lucky groups to have survived the two stages of elimination. But that night is not the hit-the-street crazy affair one might think it is: instead, every faithful and true-blooded gaditano watches the competition at home, on TV, with family, friends, wine and a lot of food. The best comparison I can make is it's like the Super Bowl, but it starts at 11:30 pm.

The craziness starts the next night, with the fiesta de las disfraces, or costume party. Unlike Carnavale in Venice, where costumes are ornate, participants are masked, and behavior is civil, the costume party here best resembled those in the Dartmouth fraternity basements on Halloween. Beer, pieces of costumes, broken bottles, and other sticky substances coated the alley streets until the next morning. Costumes were often anything you could put your hands on, and groups of 10 or more dressed identically were common. Best I saw? Italian Mafia members who staged a shootout across the street with a rival gang. I never imagined I could see so many people in these small streets at once. One gaditana I know said there were a million people here that weekend. In a town of normally 160,000, that's un montón de gente.

Being a festival, there were booths and temporary eateries sprinkled throughout the town, and this led to the discovery of buñuelos which, although they were nothing more than freshly fried donuts, could be combined with chocolate and powdered sugar to make a delectable treat. Let's just say it made braving the crowds worth it, and I became slightly obsessed.

Cadiz doesn't have that much to see, and it is often covered in a day or less by backpackers. The two major sights to see are the mayhemic mercado central that drawfs the infamous Rialto Market in Venice in both areal size and sheer mass of fresh food, and the half Baroque/half neo-classical Cathedral. However, despite living here and having two and a half days, I managed to not take Becka to either of them. This sheer choke has inspired me to create a list of the top 10 chokes on my trip. Obviously the rugs will be added to that list as well. That will appear shortly.

We did, however, eat cheaply and well, and Becka fell in love with tapas, which in theory, are cheap (~1.50-2€) small plates of food (4 will fill most Europeans, Americans need closer to 6) that you sample with others often standing up. Some American restaurants have taken advantage of the novelty of this idea by serving small amounts of food but for large plate prices, but here, for the most part, they're still cheap.

Cádiz was both a pleasant introduction to Europe for Becka and a nice way to start our trip peacefully and comfortably. After waking up at 6am to catch our 7pm flight to Venice (yes you read that right - we had to get to London to catch the Venitian flight; it wasn't a transfer) and making it to Sevilla, we started playing the waiting game...

Romantic Get-Aways: Paris and Venice

Despite the excrutiatingly long time between posts, I have not once again stopped posting to the blog; rather, I have spent significant time traveling with the lovely Becka Duvall, aka the girlfriend, in Venice, Paris, and Cadiz, and have been unable to post until now.

Overall, the 9-day extravaganza was a wonderful voyage, although perhaps a bit more expensive than I had imagined it would be. Seeing Becka after almost two months off, showing her my hometown in Spain, and visiting Paris and Venice, albeit as sight-mongering tourists, were all definite plusses. I learned a number of things about travel and Europe that will undoubtedly serve me well as I plan the Grand Finale of the Great European Adventure in June-July. Although in hindsight I think both the missus and I would have preferred a slower, more romantic trip, we successfully navigated our first full-length vacation together, and have returned to our respective countries with photos, memories, and intact valuables.

Now I will try to fill in the rest of details of the trip in the four days I have before I'm whisked to Madrid by the fastest train in Europe (the AVE from Sevilla to Madrid) to meet my parents and brother. For now, however, I must go to sleep to rest for a grueling 9am-10pm learning english/teaching spanish day...

Note to Self: A collection of lessons learned, observations made

I will continuously update this collection of notes to self as I encounter new situations that I must remember so that I don't duff the same things over and over again Nate-Robinson-Slam-Dunk-Contest style.

Note to self

1. Never trust people who are nice to you in Arab countries, speak more languages than they should, claim to be professional rug buyers, and offer to take you to the best rug shop in town. Especially don't trust them with your huge limit credit card.

2. Don't rent a car in Europe by yourself and expect to save money over taking the train. Gas costs over $5 per gallon.

3. Don't rent a car in Europe and expect to get places stress-free and quicker. Even with four people and 5 maps, navigating foreign roads can be extremely difficult.

4. There's a reason everyone travels in the summer: it's warm. Almost all of Europe is the latitudinal equivalent of the US north of Tennessee. Biergartens, gondola rides, and casual strolls through royal Parisian gardens are best enjoyed when the temperature is not below 30°F.

5. Don't show up to cities at 11pm and hope to find cheap accommodations. They will either all be taken or be so difficult to get to that you will get frustrated and end up staying at the first available place, often at a premium price.

6. Don't carry suitcases. They are for overweight, uneducated Americans who don't know how to travel. Hip Euros carry backpacks, and if you want to fit it, you'd better get with it. Plus, many cities have cobblestone streets and tight alleys, making navigation with a large suitcase almost impossible.

Houston: Loyalty vs. Objectivity

So my good buddy Jon Hampton sent me this link to Bill Simmons's post-NBA All-star game (which he deems the Black Super Bowl) article, which was actually quite good. Nice writing, great stories like watching MJ play cards and getting real worked up until his wife gets there and he "looks like somebody who took a no-hitter into the ninth, then gave up a triple off the left-field wall."

But Jon sent it to me because of how much it ripped on Houston:

"Maybe Houston doesn't suck any more or less than 20 other major cities, and maybe the people are friendly and likable, but the fact remains, you would never come here for any reason, other than these three:

(1) For work.
(2) To gain weight.
(3) To get shot."

This article has churned up the age-old debate I have with myself. I'm torn between two principles that are extremely important to me: loyalty, and objectivity. This is an impossibly easy choice for many people. Many red-staters lack objectivity - or don't seem concerned about it - and refuse to open their minds to look at the choices they make, their lifestyles, their political decisions, etc, and live in ignorance. Many yankees, on the other hand, seem insincere to us southerners b/c they're so damn objective, cold and calculating that they seem to lack heart. Which they often do.

But I've had the fortune/misfortune to grow up with an open mind but was raised to be faithful to what I know and believe. And this makes opinions about Houston difficult for me to make. It's my home, but I know it's not a beautiful city with a historic past and trendy future. It's a fat armchair quarterback sprawled over the sofa of Southeast Texas, spilling into the rest of the state. But I have roots there and I love it.

It will be hard for me not to want to raise children in Houston if I am blessed with that opportunity. But at the same time, would I rather they were raised in another city and call that home? Maybe yes. Thus the decision will have to be made: loyalty or objectivity. And I'm not sure I'll know which one to make. In the end, though, it's not my choice alone - Becka will have some say in it. And, after all, we probably won't even have any choice at all: we'll simply go where the jobs take us...

thoughts on loyalty vs. objectivity? send me a comment...

Moroccan Rugs and Con-men

Back in December, I went on a few vacations. Over the course of five weekends, I was in five different countries (Spain, Morocco, England, Texas, Yankeeland). This is the story of the second weekend: Morocco.

With a Thursday holiday and a Friday 'puente' (bridge) linking the X with the SS, I felt the obligation to make a trip somewhere. Somewhere turned out to be Morocco, which, only is a 35 minute (or 3 hour, depending on how busy the port of Tangier is, but 35 minutes is promised) ferry ride away. The original plan was to see Fez, the heavily recommended arts center of Morocco with its medieval labrythny Medina and Fez-donning locals. That changed, however.

We met these two interesting guys from Italy/Germany and Morocco/Barcelona who spoke, respectively 7 and 4 languages, and ended up taking a trip into the Sahara on camels, riding by light of the stars and staying in a Berber tent among the "tallest sand dunes in the world." This was great fun (once in a lifetime experience) and was accompanied by a 15 hour trip back that led us through dunes, arid desert, high steppes where shepherds lost in time herded their flocks of sheep through the treacherous tundra-covered passes, the Atlas mountains and a snowstorm that would close the roads to all traffic shortly after we passed, fields that harvested plastic bags, the chaotic Moroccan coast, the strait of Gibraltar, Jaco-like (Spring Break '05 what?!) Tarifa and back to Cadiz.

Although the geography class went as smooth as butter and the Arabian night in the Sahara was unquestionably cool, the damage was done beforehand. Apparently our two eclectic friends were some sort of con men/scam artists/ crooks/ evil sneaky Africans, whatever you want to call them. I went with English Alex and Tammy, a friend from high school. She and I left Morocco with 7 rugs and about $8000 in debt. $6700 of that was mine.

Now, this wasn't just some splurge purchase (I don't have that kind of money to spend) but a "sure thing" investment gone horribly awry. Even Alex thought it a good idea but hesitated to pull the trigger. Tammy settled at 2 rugs and kept them both as expensive gifts for herself that she hoped would value greatly one day. Mine were straight up money-making schemes. If you knew me in college I'm sure this is somewhat predictable. But c'mon - even I've never done anything on this scale before...

When the rugs got back to the states, my brother took them to some rug dealers who surmised that $1000 for all 5 rugs would be a "good price." At that point, I Sherlock-Holmesed that somewhere in their story, these guys must have been lying.

Not sure if it was that they said they bought rugs themselves and sold them in a shop in Barcelona where people pay "4-5 times the prices we pay here in Morocco" or when they told us that "you can only buy 6 legally, but Rassack (the septalinguist) orders them to all his family and friends and basically circumvents the system" or when they asked "do you have a student card? You can get a big discount on the student card at the rugs stores" (not true), but they got us. I assume that despite all appearances, these guys were neither buying rugs to sell in Europe nor were they even going back to Europe at all. My guess is these guys basically hunted down tourists and brought them to the rug store, where they received a commission for the overpriced sale.

The worst part is my instinct said no, but my desire to make money to pay for a car/apartment upon my return, a trip through Europe, or typical things for a career commencer to need, overwhelmed it. Instead of starting out with some bling in the bank, I'll start out my job next fall with good-ole' consumer debt (albeit on a 0% interest credit card until Jan 15), 5 rugs, a lesson learned, and a damn good story to tell my grandkids.

The most interesting thing about the whole trip is that we thought the two were long-conning us. We just didn't think it was the rugs. In fact, halfway through the trip, Alex and I decided to write a fictional story about three tourists that do the identical trip and in the end, decide the guides are conmen and turn them over to the Algerian police. Who turn out not to be police but the "real bad guys." Realizing their error too late to save them, the tourists are forced to get over their guilt quickly to save themselves. Think of it as a slightly more boring Michael Chrichton thriller, with likely underdeveloped relationships and a lack of drive amongst the characters, whose sole desire in the story is to find out if it's a con or not.

Until quatralinguist Tony pulled a fast one on Tammy and stole a kiss through a dirty trick, however, the story coincided with reality - we weren't sure if we were being conned or not. In the end, I guess we were - but it wasn't really a long con. We had been conned at the rug store, and they went through the motions afterwards to thank us for our business...

Map of Where I've been

I'm posting a map in the links section with the map of europe colored in to illustrate the countries I've been. It will be updated as I visit new places

Stereotypically Colored = Visited
Gray = have definitive plans to visit
White = unvisited and currently unplanned

Pull that jersey off the rafters: I'm back

After a lengthy retirement, I've decided to return to the blog in typical OCD force, with a flurry of enthusiasm and stories, only to increase the likelihood that I wind up overwhelmed when I realize I can't devote three hours a night to telling my stories like I will do tonight...

In any case, I'm going to backdate my posts covering a slew of topics and a few vacations, including trips to London, The Sahara Desert and Morocco, Germany, and various places in between.

Personally, I'm in a good place right now, and no longer grind my teeth at night in agony over my purgatorian status as far as having a job for next year is concerned, and recently (as in Today) I have decided I have achieved a level of Spanish high enough that I will be comfortable speaking to my children completely in Spanish, one of my main personal goals for this year. This is no small accomplishment, but I also realize I have a long way to go before I can even consider myself proficient in the world's #3 and the USA's #2 language. But we're taking positive steps...

Bombing Down the 'Bahn: Trip to Germany

If you've never driven down the Autobahn, I recommend it, if only to tell people that you did so. The thrill of driving 100 mph and having a BMW whiz past you at least 40 mph faster is like nothing else. I, unfortunately, had the bad luck to drive the majority of the time at night, and since I am one of the millions of Americans who suffers from the harmless congenital stationary night blindness (can't-see-shit-in-the-dark), I was forced to drive significantly slower than I would have preferred. Still, it was nice to be free from the nerve-wracking process of cresting hills at 77 mph, afraid there's a quota-filler t-rexing in the bushes below...

After sleeping in the backseat of my rental car and ensuring i wouldn't be discovered during the night by covering my car with snow before bed, I awoke on Saturday morning cold, alone, but in Munich. An interesting city best saved for the summer's biergarten outdoor drinking fests or the fall's infamous Oktoberfest, Munich was enjoyable if only to experience the Weissbier, pretzels, and Weisswurst veal sausage. (These three things made up 90% of my weekend diet). But I recommend going in the summer when you can experience it at its best.

Although I thought renting a car would cut down costs of hotels (I slept in the car for two nights) as well as provide me with the luxury of freedom, I found both to be utterly untrue. I haven't felt as shackled with something in a long time when I had the rental car parked illegally in Munich, and between the parking garage and the following general principle, I spent way way more on the car than I would've on a train ticket:

For one person:
car + gas - train ticket - hostel cost = net loss

For multiple people:
car + gas - 2+ train tickets - hostel costs for two = possible net gain

Although my Saturday was a low point of loneliness, missed opportunities, closed museums, and walking in snow, my trip was saved after I went to the world famous Hofbrauhaus, "prosted" 2.5L of beer (84 ounces, or 7 beers), and woke up with my eyes sealed shut on Sunday. For the first time in the history of the world, I think I drank away sorrow, and went on to see a fantastic how-things-work science museum (the mostly bilingual Deutches museum) and eventually Neuschwanstein Castle, the fairy-tale castle built (and never inhabited) by Mad King Ludwig II that would eventually serve as the inspiration for Disneyland's Sleeping Beauty castle.

The castle was great - don't get me wrong, and you should probably see it for yourself if you ever venture to these parts. But beware - no one ever lived there (Ludwig, and his money, disappeared when only 1/3 of the interior rooms were finished), and you should probably go to the overlook bridge, because it's impossible to see the postcard view without climbing a mountain or two, and the view from the ground makes breadth and depth hard to appreciate.

My trip to Germany was a lot more expensive than I thought it would be (round trip airfare, after all, had only cost me $35) but a good experience, if nothing more than to teach me the valuable lesson that vacations and rental cars are best done with someone else.