Combat Illiteracy, Drink A Beer

Here's my top 8, in order of best to not-quite-as-good, favorite books I read on this trip.  Some I found, some I brought, some I exchanged, three on this list were even purchased (2 before leaving and one was brought by Kim) and some I traded (with death grips) my favorite books for, but all of these books struck me as exceptional in some format.  I read about a book a week during our trip, somewhere in the 45-52 range.  A bit more than normal, but with better success rates I think, especially considering the availability of books being limited to hostels, book exchanges at cafes/bars/etc and other travelers. I didn't write every book down and I'm sure I'm missing at least  three worthwhile books.  If I remember them, I'll put them in the comments section.  And if any of you would like to share your favorite book you read while we were gone, I'm all ears and looking forward to suggestions.  Without further ado:  

1a) All the kings men by Robert Warren Penn
Brilliant characters.  Excellent plot.  Incredibly well written.  And relevant, still.  A fully realized take on American politics.  My favorite book of the trip.

1b) Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy
The strength is in the details, in the unique descriptive nature.  They can be insane, outlandish and even morbid, but always pertinent and perfectly fitting. An incredible read.

3) 100 years of solitude &/ The General In His Labryinths by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Also read the general in his labryinths. I enjoyed this book as well.  not exactly on par with 100, though I prefer this genre, historical fiction and Simon Bolivar.  100 is long, magical realism, that is more like toned down fantasy or extremely tenous, maybe even ludicrous, reality.  It's excellent, interesting, unparalleled I guess, but I thought the above two were more poignant with more interesting characters and, simply put, better written, respectively.  

4) Labryinths by Jorge Luis Borges
Floored me at times, which doesn't happen often, but bored me at times too.  Excellent, excellent short stories, some ruined by a quite literal marriage to using the word labryinth in them.  

5) Burr by Gore Vidal
More historical fiction.  In many ways much more complex and seemingly meticulously researched than the Marquez novel.  A phenomal take on the vilified Mr. Milk: engaging, well written, historical, but not dull.  For people that don't read history, this is a good place to start.

6) Empire: a history of the British Empire by Niall Ferguson 
A history of Britain at the height of it's empirical rule, one the stretched much further and had much broader influence than I had completely realized.  Fascinating, well-written, but  written by Niall, not Neil, gives it a certain Blow Job Britain tone that might be a little less objective than I prefer. (the proceeding two books are inherently more readable, but this is much more academic. you come away feeling like you learned some shit, instead of being entertained...a good thing...sometimes.)

7) Marching Powder by Rusty Young 
Coke, jail, self-sustaining prisoner-ran economic systems like real estate sales, corner stores and fresh produce, and all this centrally located in La Paz, the chaotic capital of the least developed south American country plus it's banned in the country it takes place in, Bolivia.  Great first half, but a ruined 2nd half due to a delusional love-story.   

8) Lost City of Z by David Grann
Adventure novels get a bad rap.  If you didn't like from the mixed up files of mrs. Basel e. Weitweiler as a child you have no flair for the exciting.  But, I find as I get older, real adventure stories, or at least as real as the information the author presents, tend to capture that sense of excitment Much better than tales of running away from home.   

Honorable Mention: Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts.  This is premature (I'm not done with the megalith 900+ page book yet), and verging on unworthy, but it's such a travelers book, that I have to mention it.  Not to mention I want to go to Bombay (Mumbai) now...and India, in general.  So, even though he is prone to self-aggrandizement (though he tries to hide it), and excessive displays of description with the occassionally cringe-inducing metaphor, it's interesting, exciting and the love of this place where he decided to make a new home as a foreigner, shines through.  Thus, honorable mention. 

More Pictures, Less Time

Don't give up now, we still have a few more post coming, but they will have to wait a few days.  Tomorrow afternoon, 635pm, we board a flight to Miami, Fl, USA.  The following day we board another flight to LAX.  We will officially be Californian again sometimes between 12pm (when we get through customs) and 1pm (when we probably get through customs).  I'm not aiming for profundity here, so I'll just say this: we can't wait to see you all, everyone of you...but goddamnit.




p.s. we added pictures to the post below. Especially of note is the juxtaposition between Kim and Mask in the Bugs post.

a man, a Plan, a canal, Panama

Panama, a canal, a man, a plan...er, us in the entrance hall to theCanal, with a giant cargo ship in the background.

Any country whose name just calls out to be put into a palindrome, however simple, is a country of mine own blood. If I was clever enough, or had enough Internet time, this post would be a packet of witty, grotesque, vulgar, humorous and definitely immature (perhaps even the occassionally profound) palindromes.  Since I'm neither clever or a man with much time, this quick-hit list of Panama must suffice.

Panama is beautiful: Jungle, carribean coast, warm pacific coast (best California in this regard), safe,  and best of all it's a helluva lot cheaper than Costa Rica.  (por ejemplo: Ron in costa rica cost about $8 for a really cheap bottle, we found a bottle of whiskey for $1.50 in Panama).

They also have pandas, good freinds of Beth. 

Panama City has skyscrappers.  It's said that it's the Miami of central America, except more English is spoken in Panamacity.

In the bottom left hand corner, between the two poles, there is a glowing spot, that is a ginormous television, apparently there to entertain the shipswaiting to go through the canal. 

When flying in you need proof of onward travel.  A flight from Costa Rica to LAX does not suffice.  Ergo, your airline (maybe it's the innately evil Copa) might hold you hostage forcing you to buy a flight for 386 dollars from panama to Costa rica before you are allowed to board your flight from Colombia (also refusing to refund you for the flight you are going to board in two hours, thus the hostage part), meanwhile telling you it's a 20 cancellation fee, when it's actually 50...per ticket.  And then charging an unexplained tax for said purchase of 35 dillars, just to rub your face in it.  Moral: Don't fly copa, they are owned and operated by souless, destined for the depths of hell making those there even more miserable than previously imagined, humans that don't even respond to Beth crying and my ensuing yelling... and have proof of onward travel from Panama if entering the country. Sorry, that was rantish.

The canal was first begun by the French after completing the Suez.  Malaria, the jungle, and bad financing contributed to this ventures bankruptcy.  The US swept in, took over, and promised to help liberate Panana from Colombia in return for control of the canal.  This was around 1903.  70 something years later Jimmy Carter, in a moment of clear misguided judiciousness, promised to return the canal in '99.  Theorist believe it was a vain gesture, as JC's well known Y2K fear would have meant that Panananian control would have lasted between one day and 365 days.

The canal, perhaps not awe inspiring, but an impressive feat, nonetheless.

There are 400 islands off the Carribean side of Panana.  The Kuna people live there.  They are an autonmous group of Indigenious peoples.  Which is to say Panama let's them make their own rules, fly their own flag and enforce their own laws up until the point oil is found in that part of the Carribean Ocean..which is nice of them.  (side note: disconcertingly enough the kuna flag resembles that of pre-Yalta Germany, with an inverted swastika adorning its center).

Kuna don't allow foreign ownership of land, nor foreign occupants.  They do allow travelers.  For a small fee of $25 a day, you get a sand floor, a lumpy mattress, a palm-covered leaky roof and a crab-lobster-langostin dinner (or if you are Beth an uncooled can of mixed veggies and rice).  Not to mention crystalline waters, tropical fish, hammocks; a slice of paradise, as they say.  We stayed in our hut in paradise for three days and nights.  Eyna, the chief, lives their in his Coleman tent, complete with television, permanently.  We heard he doesn't have cable, but that he enjoys porn, so if you ever visit Eynas Island in the San Blas, there is your gift idea.

THis is the start of an annoying chain of paradise pictures that will surely make someone in a cubicle, at a job, in winter time jealous.  p.s. If happiness breeds stupidty, I'm clearly it's mascot.

Coconut.

Kids, Kuna, Island.  Unfortunately they didn't have some brilliant and thoroughly time wasting coconut game...my only dissapointment.

Our own slice of island paradise

Casco Viejo is the oldest, stll intact, neighborhood in Panana City.  It's also the name of our hostel.  It's nice, both are.  We were allowed to share a dorm bed for $5 a night, each.  Fate was kind to us there.

The neighborhood is strange, but interesting. All fascade, no guts.  Old colonial homes occupied by squaters sit next to posh new bar-cafes selling $8 mojitis.  4 star hotels are next to homes that are left open all day, fans blowing with gusto and old men decorating their doorsteps just to keep cool.  Anachronistic modernity meeting impoverished antiquity.  Interesting.

The main, and only, bus terminal has the biggest and most western mall, complete with stores, mall food, cinnabon and movie theatre.  Harry Potter felt much darker than the previous ones.  I think this is the best one to date.  No red vines.

No REd Vines, but plenty of wizards and coca cola.

There's no tshirts or belts with the title of this post on then.  It's a travesty.  Someone needs to contact the tourism bureau and get this in the works.  I heart panana just doesn't work.

Panama is underrated.  Costa rica is rated about right.  Which means you should probably come to panama on your next vacation, call it Billy Travel-nomics.  Panama: The Palindrome of Life.  Once you come, you'll always come back.

Lastly, panamas national booze is Seco.  It's national drink is seco mixed with milk.  And no, "White Panamanian" is not the name.

Cartagena, Colombia

Even your mustache sweats in Cartagena.  Our cleaning lady decided to get in the fun, even asking us to send her this picture for her facebook page. 

I like the word sultry.  I used to think that made me a pervert, but now, I'm not so sure.

Hot, verging on sweltering, moist, wet and loaded with a nasty drainage system, the streets of Cartagena are by definition, sultry.  They move, languid with people and unchanneled, undrained rain water.  Most of the city is a chaotic miasma of selling (perhaps hustling is a more apt word), shouting and honking; a cacophony of noises that leaves the unaccustomed reeling.  This is the hidden beauty of a city that, in relation to other hubs of Colombian big city life, doesn't fall prey to modernity or the structure and order which that accompanies.

The famous beauty, however, which makes Cartagena the setting of classics such as Romancing The Stone not to mention a destination for cruisers, Americans and tourist from the more affluent walks of life is its walls.  A sacked city, one that has been burned, raided, pillaged, destroyed and then done all over again countless times.  We read somewhere that the gold, silver and precious metals Spain mined (either from the people or the earth) in South America financed the empire for two centuries.  These metals weren't left in SA, but rather shipped across an ocean rife with pirating and Cartagena was often times the exit point to Spain, thus a simple target for pirates, as well as enemies.  Eventually they fortified, erecting two sets of walls, one inner and one outter. (1)  Thankfully this was either expertly done or by the time of its completion Spain was beginning to run out of its financing, because today, centuries after it was finished, the wall is still relatively in tact, standing tall and welcoming tourist to a unique and vibrant city.

The walls surrounding the inner city.

I'm rambling, so let me get to the point.  We saw a castle, we went to a rumba club, we drank Ron, we stood outside of churches (Kim helped sponsor Catholicism by paying $10 for a tour; Beth and I abstained, for moral and monetary reasons), walked the walls, drank an overpriced beer at casa de la cereza, but at sunset and atop the wall--it was worth it, ate shrimp cocktail from vendors on the street (delicious, with champagne--that's what the bottle said at least--based cocktail sauce), singlhandely destroyed trees of zapote and maracuya by drinking approximately ten juices (fresh and the best in SA) a day, and most entertainingly braved the streets of the outter wall during and after the many storms, which left us wading through (2) the streets in knee high rivers of street scum, brackish water--it was, for lack of a better word, awesome.  As was Cartagena.    

The imprenable fortress, with a statue out front of an English pirate, who may or may not have sacked and taken the fortrees. Statues in South america are mostly bewildering.

Said fortress or castle, was dark, and moist in the interior, even a bit creepy, kind of like Beth in this photo, or when she's had too much caffeine. 

       

From there we headed to Panama city via plane, for the last two weeks.  Thus ending South America on the perfect chord, with the most friendly country and with a purely South American city.  Ciao South America, we will miss you.


(1) these two sets are now no more than the American equivalent of train tracks, dividing rich from poor in a clearly delineated fashion with no questions as to where the respective parties reside.  The inner wall is an immaculate, well policed, gentrified haven for tourist, the rich and (during the day) those that serve them.  The outter wall is as I said, beautifully chaotic, but absolutely filthy and filled with not only rainwater, but trash and dirt and an abundance of degeneratees who can't or choose not to live off of tourism.  [note: the city is MUCH larger than this portion now. It's forty minutes from the bus terminal to the beginning of the outter wall.  But, a) this is where we stayed, hence our experience, b) the only affluent area we encountered in the city, besides a few high-rise condos across an isthmus from us, which is sheltered in its own right and c) outside of going to a Colombian League Baseball game (tickets paid for by the generous and outstanding Justin Segal of UCSB and Cartagena Tigre fame) and the bus terminal there is no real tourist draw anywhere else.]
(2) my favorite parts of having to Wade through each street, in order of favoritism:
A) leaving Kim at a juice stand at the start of a storm so she could stay dry.  Returning five minutes later and finding her on an island, as the street around her had flooded.  She looked bewildered and a bit frightened, like kids who are too young to understand Santa, but their parents take them to the mall to sit on his lap anyway, a big fat stranger dressed all in red with a massive beard.  Stupifying and scary indeed.
B) the people who confusingly began setting up boards across the roads as it began to rain, then brilliantly began charging tolls as the water rose.
C) the carts.  Same idea as B, but in your own little cart.  Mainly used for busier roads which still required traffic to pass.
D) Kim reaching a curb, getting one problem free leg out of the water, then lifting her other foot towards safety and BAM losing her sandle, which then began floating away.  This rceived a HUGe applaud of laughter from not only myself, but the grounp of men standing under the nearest awning waiting for the ran to die down.

Note on Rumba: as was explained to us, Rumba is a poor mans Salsa.  Or I think it was Rumba, it's what we saw at the club in Cartagena.  It's a bit like Forrest Gump doing Elvis, but faster and usually with two parties involved, though not always.  I think it is pretty to watch, though there seems to be a dissenting opinion.  I also think I could do it or somewhat dance it, which means the degree of difficulty, not to mention the necessity to be in unision with the music are essentially non-existent.

Finally, something worthwhile this baseball season...the Cartagena Tigres.  And our favorite p0layer, Justin Segal (not pictured)

Sunset at LaCAsa deCerveza. Beer was served icey cold, with a slight hint of piss, but the view was incredible.

        

Mud, Beaches, and Bug Bites...oh my! (by Kim)

Parque Nacional Tayrona

Oh, the funny things that happen in South America… We stayed in Santa Marta, a small coastal town that serves as a sort-of backpacker’s gateway to Tayrona, and were happy the hostel offered a bus service directly to the park for 10,000 pesos, about $5. After unpacking and repacking backpacks to accommodate the food we were bringing in, and loading Jason up with the heavy heavy pack once again, we were ready to go. Some talkative brothers from Chicago would be joining us on the bus. The “bus” pulled up to the hostel – but, Wait! – they forgot the bus, instead sending a dilapidated old taxi for us 5 passengers. We made the best of it, squishing me, Beth, Jason, and our new chattering companion Mohammed in the back seat. He filled our time with fascinating stories of staying in 4-star hotels in Colombia, food misadventures, and musings on his inability to take a year off of work to travel.

When we arrived at the Park we prepared for a muddy hike from the first beach and place to stay, to our camping destination of Arrecifes. Actually, I should say Beth and Jason prepared for that hike while I jumped on a horse and heartlessly left them to fend for themselves against the mud, the trek, and the two loquacious brothers. As my horse plodded along slowly, sometimes in mud up to its knobby horse knee, I contemplated Beth and Jason’s hike – and was glad not to be on it. The horse didn’t turn out to be much faster than those on foot, and we reunited at La Finca Paraíso – where we were greeted by the gorgeous site of the beach cove, hugged by the jungle and palm trees, the sea strewn with huge boulders – it was beautiful. Unfortunately, there would be no swimming the first day, as the currents at this beach were very strong, as were the many signs warning of the tourists that had drowned there. We wisely rented our hammocks for the night in the hut surrounded by mosquito netting, though I would not know just how wise that decision was for a couple of days.

Hammock-crazed dreams ensued for me the next three nights. Dreams of falling, of being lost, of other people falling~ The next day we hiked to the main camping destination for backpackers, San Juan del Guía. We started along the amazing beach cutting through inlets of warm Caribbean sea and up through the forest to avoid the huge coastal boarders that stood watch over the inaccessible portions of the beaches. About half way there the trail cut up through the forest again, and here was my first experience with mud hiking. Our sandals were quickly pulled off and carried as we settled our (I settled my) unsure steps into the squishy mud, sometimes barely hitting the tops of our toes, sometimes swallowing our feet whole. It was disgusting at first, but it shortly became just another part of the adventure and if you didn’t think about what else is mixed up in the muck, it can feel pretty good – well, interesting, at least.

We arrived at the campground a bit underwhelmed with the site, but grateful for the swimmable and gorgeous beaches. We rented our hammocks (this time there was no portion with mosquito netting) stored our stuff and headed to la playa. Due to the rainy season, the water was not the crystal-clear blue we had hoped for, but it was warm and refreshing, all at once. The day was hot and humid, the waters inviting, the sun shining – most of the time. The funny thing about the tropical climate is that you can be baking in the sun one minute, feel a couple unthreatening drops, and if you don’t book it out of there, you will get soaked in a minute as the sky opens up and pours down on you. It’s pretty cool actually. Then came the night… we played cards, I finally drank the national Colombian liquor of Aguardiente (anise-flavored) and had a great time. We drifted off to sleep to the sound of reggaeton and loud drunken campers, and I had my usual weird hammock dreams, waking up hearing the occasional buzzing in my ear, but too brain-dead to realize what that meant.

The next day was spent lazing on the beach, dipping in and out of the sea, and running from the thunderstorms when they appeared on the horizon. The lightning shows were amazing! Another amazing thing – but not in a good way – was what had happened to my face since the previous night. I felt some bites on my forehead on the beach, and didn’t think much of it. Then I accidentally spotted my face in a mirror by the bathroom. My forehead was beginning to resemble a slightly less-severe version of that kid from the movie Mask. Do you remember that one? With the kid with the fucked-up lumpy face? That was me. I had at least 50 bites on my forehead alone, which were teaming up in order to form a super-mass where a forehead had once been.

Jason and Beth told me it was not that bad – what sweet liars – while I worried if I would need to wear bangs forevermore if my forehead scarred. As we trekked back to our original campsite, through piles of mud that had grown deeper and mushier over the rainy night. I took on those mud piles like none other, leading the pack for the first time ever, being sufficiently distracted by the mess on my face to consider much the mess under my feet.

We arrived back at La Finca in record time, played cards, ate and talked, while Beth and Jason continuously reassured me that the bites would go away, and I tried not to look in any more mirrors. And I distracted myself by petting the sweet cat that lived there whom I had made friends with. And then it bit me. My worries about my forehead bites floated away, as I considered the new possibility of some kind of jungle-housecat fever….

Anyway, I am alive and well. The bites on my forehead were gone just in time for work, so whew. I do not appear to have rabies or any strange cat disease, and again, all these experiences just add to the adventure and uniqueness of the trip.

A HUGE THANKS to my wonderful sister and to Jason, who were the best hosts ever and really helped me to enjoy the entire experience, and ease me into the quick-paced travel I had set up for us. And thanks to them for livin’ large with me with private rooms, and another thanks to Jason for being my personal leftover-food-disposal system. I probably helped him gain a couple of those pounds he had lost along the way. It was such a wonderful, fun trip, especially because I had you two to share it with!!! I love you!

our feet, after hiking through the mud.

IIIIIIIIIIiiiii Like Botero Butts, I Cannot Lie. I Cant Deny...

Medellin. Med-a-lynn Med-a-yeen. Med-a-jeen. Finally.

Eccentricities Include: most identifiable Colombian artist known for outlandish and dissproportionately sized bipods and four leg-ge-ders. Famous politicians doubling as drug dealers (Pablo Escobar). Difficult to pronounce name due to dialectecal differences within Colombia. A raging nightlife scene for backpackers, but a reputation for seediness for said late-nighters.

Things-that-are-surprising-but-not-particularly-noteworthy: Many of Colombias main food stuffs originate not in Bogota, but Medellin. Bendeja Paisa, as well as any other Paisa (name for those native to Medellin) meal--the predominate namesake of any food outside of that found on the street--purportedly bores resemblance to the food of medellin, thus making Medellin the culinary capital of Colombia...my favorite type. Unfortunately I didn't know this upon arrival and only glimpsed the best and most inspired food of Colombia. Meaning most of what i ate leaves much to be desired. The metro in medellin is not very large owing to the relatively small space the citys center incorporates. However, it was second only to Santiago, Chile in its cleanliness, ease of use and general enjoyment upon embarking/disembarking its rails. (2). And, lastly, weekends and holidays see the partial closure of one of the citys main arteries for the sole purpose of allowing bikers, walkers and, the un-oft seen, rollerbladers to have unfettered access to a car-free street. Medellin: an unheralded bastion of environmental progressivism. Bonus: Vacationers there include Californians, Euros and mid-west copilots with liberal leaning Spanish fluency.(3)

Geographical/Topographical/Climatical Info: the city feels small, is sandwiched between two mountain ranges (it's actually in a valley in the same mountain range, but for visual purposes...) on the northern-eastern-central highlands, thus higher than the coast, but lower than Bogota. It's known as having the hottest women, the mildest climate and a reputation that proceeds itself (none of which, and I say this in all honesty, we witnessed. Not exceptional women, rained a lot and What reputation? (4) This is why 1 and 1/2 days does not do a city justice.)

Things-to-do: botanical gardens. Botero park, stacked (sometimes quite literally depending on the statue) (5) full of botero sculptures, an exploritorium reportedly based partially on SF's (we skipped this), a cerro overlooking medellin with a recreated (read: fake, useless tourist trap, with nice views and crappy ice cream)) village at the top and a supposed excellent discoteca scene, which we missed because Beth and I for the first time since Rio were drunk enough to want to go out to da'club, but ended up flying a bit too high, and crashed before we could mobilize the troops. Probably a great more to-do's, but those were ours in this city of perpetual spring with a reputation of indulgences and pleasures which we recused ourselves from partaking in...

1) Botero is columbias version of Diego riviera, I believe, Beth disagrees, that he ripped off the guy. But, as the Neil diamond impersonator from my dads wedding said, it's not impersonation, but rather paying homage to...(fix that)And, admittedly, I enjoyed me some botero and HIS big ladies to Diego, Frida and theirs. So, if he improved, I guess I approve, maybe even to a level of guilty pleasure. Google Botero Horse, you won't be dissapointed.

(2) This isn't saying much because we've only encountered four metro-style train systems in South America, but take my word for it, their system is nice.

(3) Kim, beths sister, also puked on the bus from bogota. Her bag still smells and her vomittung had a stand by me impression, threatening a storm of regurgitation, stymied only by beths quick-thinking newspaper-on-the-floor action.

(4) Some American told us " everything you hear about medellin (dramatic pause), it's true.". We were too ashamed to admit we'd heard nothing, so we feigned excitement and changed the topic. Now, we still have no clue.

(5) People are pervs. Some of the sculptures, located in an outdoor park and accessible to all, had severely warn spots seemingly due to excessive touching by visitors. Unsurprisingly, all reachable (the statues are large) breast, penii (pluralized?) and toes were warn so thin that the colors had been transformed. I believe in the preservation of art, as such my solution to this problem is the installation of a warning sign informing all that the excessive rubbing of statues eventually causes blindness. And if that doesn't work, something condemning all that inappropriately touch statues to the 7th level of hell. Catholic countries have easy solutions.

So as not to disappoint, here are two Botero butts.  The top clearly getting her freakshow on, while the bottom just simply has some Bunz, capital B.

Sister Act II by Kim Sadler

Tolú –

The small Caribbean beach town of Tolú is a town based around tourism, but unlike many of the places we had already been, this town was popular with Colombian tourists. It was recommended by my coworker who is from Medellín. It was really my first experience with the ‘culture shock’ people kept asking me if I had experienced in the bigger cities (I had not – this could also be due to the experience and helpfulness of my two travel gurus, Beth and Jason). We stepped off our bus into the humidity and heat of the Caribbean, which I welcomed with open (and un-jacketed arms) and were quickly surrounded by fast talking, Caribbean-accented (harder to understand) bicitaxis wanting to take us wherever we wanted to go – but us not really knowing where our hostel (or where we were yet), it was a bit overwhelming. We decided to take the bici-taxis, loaded one up with a heavy load of backpacks and Jason (the least heavy of the load) and peddled off (well, they peddled).

It became obvious there was only one place in town gringoslike us stayed anyway, as we were called to throughout the trip “Villa Babilla” – our hostel complete with kitchen, and many outdoor areas, including a great rooftop deck, a serious dog named Scooby, and an adorable kitten, Pistachio.

We did our usual walking around everywhere in the town, which was filled with school children in uniforms (we peaked in at their outdoor classroom), barefoot people everywhere, mototaxis, collectives (small, local buses), restaurants, shops, and street peddlers. We walked along their boardwalk where I bought a pretty shell bracelet, and turned around at the hotel we had been told marked the spot where gringos should no longer go. OH, and we got some juice. I can’t remember the specific kind, but with that juice, my love affair with Colombian fruit juices had begun, and I became semi-obsessed. I mean, they are literally the best juices I have ever had in my life, with all kinds of new (and some familiar) fruits – zapote, lulo, maracuyá (ok, that’s passion fruit, but maracuyá sounds so much more exotic), guava, mango, and zapote, zapote, zapote ~ if you couldn’t tell, that one was my fave.

Though the beaches left something to be desired (no long stretches of white sand here, but there were small patches of dirt-colored sand~), the sunsets were beautiful and the Caribbean vibe relaxed.

We took a bus to "Ciénaga de la Caimanera” to enjoy a very relaxing canoe trip through a mangrove (mangroves are various kinds of trees up to medium height and shrubs that grow in saline coastal sediment habitats in the tropics and subtropics – mainly between latitudes 25° N and 25° S. – thanks Wikipedia. ) forest?, swamp? I am not quite sure what to call it, but it was very pretty and relaxing for everyone but the man rowing the boat. They took us through a little labyrinth path to a floating house of sorts where we took in the lovely view, bought an ice cream for a cute kid name Fry, and Jason and I sampled freshly-shucked oysters from the river. I was a bit nervous about accidentally ingesting river water, but luckily all was well. And the oysters were quite delicious with a nice, non-spicy cocktail type sauce-

Also of note, it seems as a main tourist attraction they are holding some cute sloths hostage in the main plaza banyan tree. You can spot them if you look up into the tree cluelessly for many minutes, then the locals figure out what you are doing and point them out to you. The reason I believe they are being held hostage is because Beth and I witnessed one poor guy’s failed attempt at escape, as he clung to a telephone wire for his poor little life, while being yanked and eventually dropped from a bit of a distance onto the floor (Sloths have no strong legs to land on – poor guy) – then was carried by the neck (cat-style) back to his tree of imprisonment. On the other hand, it was super cool to see a sloth up close like that!

Another note: the mannequins in Colombia all have large breasts... and I just really love this picture (as did the store security guard, who laughed at us)

Tip Your Glass

Raise a toast. To all those reading this tonight have one drink to South America. After over ten months we are officially in our last few weeks and tonight is our last night in Soith America. We are jumping on a flight first thing tomorrow morning for the central American city of Panama. Cheers to SA, it's done us a solid...

Godfather-in-Law...

...A Love Story, not to mention our second guest post from none other then Sister Vickers, eh Caltigirone. Without further ado:

  Italy is sort-of a ridiculous country.  It’s a great place – don’t get me wrong – but there are so many things about it that feel like a scene from a movie or a cartoon.  People regularly speak with so much passion and animation that even a discussion of the weather appears as a heated argument to an untrained ear.  Women really do lean out of high windows as they clip their laundry to the line and call to their friends in the street below.  Often I see men walking with their arms draped around each other’s shoulders in a display of friendship.  Basically, everything that Hollywood has ever taught you about the country that’s shaped like a boot is absolutely true.  Sometimes it seems that all that’s missing is a soundtrack, but often enough there’s a fellow with an accordion playing it in the street.

  I moved to Italy this past July, but it wasn’t until the end of August that I realized I had moved here.  At first I thought I was just passing through.  My boyfriend and I had been living in Denmark for almost a year at that point, and we decided that we didn’t want to repeat the previous winter (record-low temperatures and difficulty finding work).  Luca, my sweetheart, is Italian, and he suggested we save up some money so we could get out of Scandinavia and head to his homeland in time to join his family on their seaside vacation; then we could just continue traveling south, aiming for warm weather and cheap travel.  It didn’t take much to convince me.  Within a few weeks we had gotten rid of everything except what fit in our backpacks and we pointed our thumbs south.

  What a world of difference from where I had been living before!  Fresh, amazing fruits and veggies; kind, warm people with big laughs; cheek kisses for hellos; warm weather that lasted well into the night; a sea that I could actually swim in.  There were considerably fewer people speaking English in Italy than what I had encountered in northern Europe, so socializing mostly consisted of lots of smiling and saying ‘ciao’ and ‘grazie’ and sometimes drawing things.  Still, the family embraced me, the food enticed me, and the weather enchanted me, and pretty soon Luca and I were talking about setting up camp in Italy for a while so he could finish his university degree.  I was happy with the plan except for one nagging problem: I had already overstayed my European visa so living in Italy meant living as an illegal immigrant in a country where the political climate of the past ten years is particularly unfavorable toward foreigners.  How will I find work?  Our savings won’t last long in a European city.  What will happen if the government notices my presence?

  [Insert Marlin Brando voice here:] “I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse.”  It was apparent that Italy had it in its power to either embrace me as one of “the family” or else make my life very difficult.  I had a choice:

  On the one hand I had the option to live as illegally in Italy.  I could struggle to make money despite my professional degree.  I could live in fear of governmental authorities.  I could have minimal access to medical care despite the program of socialized medicine that the citizens enjoy.  And I could be deported or jailed at any moment for no reason other than the wrong person taking note of my existence.  That’s a lot of inconvenience to deal with just for some fresh fruit and warm weather, but of course there was more than these temptations compelling me to stay in Italy.  There was also love.

  That brings me to the other hand: on the other hand I wore an engagement ring given to me by a sweet, handsome, shy, smart, good-hearted Sicilian boy.  I’d already spent a few weeks with his huge family and they loved me.  I’d already spent a few months with this boy and we loved each other.  So all we had to do was sign some papers and have a big party and all of my troubles would disappear.  I could stay in Italy or any other part of Europe for as long as I desired and I could have Italian citizenship in just a year and a half.  I could work and earn money as a professional which would be a relief from the tight-budgeted lifestyle we’d been leading.  I could have access to healthcare that even my own country didn’t offer me.  And I could have a big party.

  Let’s just say that I didn’t need a horse’s head on my pillow to convince me.

  So I’m now a married woman.  I’m Signora Caltagirone (though I haven’t legally changed my name).  I’m living in Pisa with my husband (ooh, it still feels strange to say that!) where he’s attending the university and I’m circulating my resume among English-language schools and international schools.  I’m planning the menu for my first Thanksgiving as a wife and I’ve accepted that it will probably include some sort of pasta.  There are moments when marriage feels entirely different than the life I led just weeks before, but in other moments it feels very much the same.  Really, very little has changed: I now have a sparkly ring on my finger, a lot of photos from a lovely party, and Italy’s enthusiastic blessing upon my existence.

  I still shake my head when I walk down the street and pass a row of Vespas parked in front of the gelato shop, or when I hear a pizza chef signing as he tosses dough, or when I glance up at the world’s most famous architectural debacle swarming with tourists wanting to be photographed “holding it up”; I still laugh at true-to-life stereotypes of this land but when the laughter finishes a loving smile remains.  There’s a reason Italy shows up in movies and TV shows so often: the daily life of this place is wonderfully entertaining!  And as ridiculous as this country is, it’s the place I’ve chosen to call home.

Italians´ Make Good Food, Better Weddings

Jet setting to Italy for a week has its consequences, primarily the unfortunate byproduct called jet-lag. (1) Combined with a wedding, lots of out-of-town visitors and a side-trip, i had little time to do on-the-second updates.  Apologies, but alas, this chronological annotated timeline will have to suffice (with accompanying photo journey).

(1) I'm not sure I really believe in this myth of jet-lag.  Proper planning, meaning more or less plane sleep, based upon an analysis of difference in time, arrival time and activities upon arrival should negate any real effects...oh, and lots of coffee, if necessary.  This is to say, I'm using jet-lag as an excuse.  Live with it.  At least you get photos.

Nov. 1, Mon:
Exit Bogota.  Enter world of pre-packaged food, free Coke, plugged ears, and bad in-flight movies starring Nic Cage.

Nov. 2, Tues:
2+ hours sleep, 3 hours in Madrid, arrive Milano 5 hours late.  Jesus Cristo, this is what the first world looks like.  Clean.  Meet Hi-Mae (my sis) and Assunts (ex-step-mom) at train station.  Sister loves, LOVES my Aaron Burr chops.  To Casanate con Bernate.  Food from Angela sparks something deep and sweet inside me.  First good cheese since Argentina.  Sharp provolone, peppered goat chhese, Swiss and fontina.  Whooof.

Nov 3., Wed:
Meet my Italian Aunt Lucy for first time IN Italy.  She's happy, I'm happy.  We eat speck, salami and padona.  More happiness.

Nov. 4, Thurs:
Get tour of Gussola, my cousin Simonas bakery/store, eat prosciutto de Parma. Aunt Lucy and Silvano are crazy, they want to spend three extra hours with ME, so they drive me to Lucas family's home.

Nov. 5, Friday:  
Wedding one day away.  I'm called to duty in unlikely ways.  Apparently my inner seamster (seamstress, in masculinity) shone thru.  Jaime's dress maker asked me to sew some fluff.  Success.  Dinner at a pizzeria.  Gorged.  Happy belly, happy Jason.

Nov 6., Sat:
Wedding.  Gorgeous.  Jaime looked Beau-Ti-ful, like Audrey Hepbburn classic, if classic was spelled cissal (it's backwards).  Made jokes about the mayor, who was marrying Luca and Jaime, being the head of the locale fascist club.  Good times.  Went to dinner.  10 course meal, approximately. Wine, all-you-can-drink (note: this is basically status quo for every meal in Italy).  Then to Bardello.  More food, more wine, more dancing, more ceremony (this being the circle ceremony: hippie-dippie, vow-filled happiness).  And most importantly a happy Jaime and Luca, like palpable happy--the best kind.

Nov. 7, Sun:
No church.  Just a mild hangover.  Lunch. Tortelli stuffed with prawns, zuchini and something else tasty.  Tiramisu.  Sister and me grocery store time.  Gelatto.  Contented.

Nov. 8, Mon:
7am flight.  No sleep.  3am wake-up.  2am lasagna de Gina, because I could (Gina is Lucas Nona, there was leftover lasagna from dinner on the counter.  Everyone was sleeping.  I ate, guiltily, sneakily, stuffing my face an hour before waking my sister to drive me to the airport.  No regrets.). One hour drive tirns into 2.15.  Airport one hour before departure.  Tutti Bene.  Ate my way through Italy, a wedding and two families homes.  Success.     

There were two ceremonies. The first in city hall with the mayor (decked out in an Italian flag sash and all) and one with just family and friends at Luca´s parents restaurant. This was taken in the beautiful park outside of city hall. The first picture of the newlyweds on a benc.

There were also two feast. The first took place at a family friends restaurant, the second at Luca´s parents restaurant, which also entailed dancing, singing, toasting, speeching, more eating, caking and an abundance of other fun activities.

Not all wedding all the time, I had the pleasure of visiting my Italian Aunt (half sister of my mother) in Gussola, about an hour outside of Milan. This is Lucy, her husband Silvano and myself. I stayed out there just one short night, and I´ve promised to return for no less than fifteen days--Lucy would accept nothing less. Her hospitality, as with Lucas´ parents was astounding.

Lucas´parents live in Casnate con Bernate, just a few minutes outside of Como, Italy. We took a couple of field trips into the city. This shop left my mouth watering. I think I weirded out the owners by standing and oogling for five minutes, my strangeness climaxing by taking a picture of their ravioli spread through the window.

The elderly in Como love their bicycles. Every which way you turned they´d be pedaling around town.

An evening view of Como from the Bardello, Lucas´ parents restaurant.

Lake Como as seen through this happy couples eyes. The Italians I came across were incredibly nice. I was trying to take this picture across the street and someone stopped their car in the middle of the street, gesturing or me to take the picture as others were honking their horn at him to move on.

What appears to be the remmanants of some ancient stronghold/castle/prison in the middle of Como. I didn´t go very many places in Italy, but the ones I did visit seem to be these strange juxtapositios of modernity and antiquity. Not something we see much in California.

A mildly extravagant house overlooking the shores of Lake Como.

The happy couples´first post-matrimony walk in the park adjacent to city hall.

A lipstick malfunction averted. As I was taking this Jaime asked if I was photoing for the blog. Apparently I was.

The Cataligirone clan (I probably misspelled that). Salvator (or Boss), Jaime, Luca, Angela and Mirko.

The women Cataligirone.

You are not allowed to take photos in supermarkets in Italy either. so, Jaime slyly snapped a photo with me and a giant Mortadella. The selection of cheese and cured meats would make any vegan disgusted, but for me it was like a whole new wonderful world.

Uncle John heckling me, or perhaps it was the other way around...

I only got one pizza when I was there, which was a shame. A sea of mushrooms, sausage, cheese and onions.
Either an Italian or Danish tradition, or perhaps both, with the first visit to the bathroom of the bride/groom the opposite sex jumps up and forms a line to kiss the bride/groom before the other returns from the bathroom.

Cutting the cake. I think Jaime made Luca eat his piece of fruit tart, though technically not raw.


Family de Jaime.

And lastly, the night before the wedding a true Italian heart with tomato sauce, crust and all.