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)

Zona Cafeteria

The view from our cozy, country hostel.

Here is the shortened, abbreviated, devoid of facts history of coffee. The stories generally involve either a boy in Ethiopia sometime in the pre-1000's finding a herd of goats full of more vigor than normal, putting two and two together (plant + goat = BAM = coffee) and voila, we have a future 21st century success story. Or, the other story goes that instead of a boy, it was a man. But anytime you take the discovery of something so general, you tend to get the Hiriam Bingham Boy syndrome. Coffee was probably discovered before (or after) one of these events and by a multitude of people independently, but alas, we like a good (or at least personal) story, which is probably why the boy story tends to precede the story of the man and why Wikipedia says that the stories don't appear in writing until sometime in the 16th century, giving more credence to the view they are simply a stories.
What does seem to have some truth or at least general acceptance--which passes for truth more often than not--is that the origins of the coffee plant are in the vicinity of present-day Ethiopia. You might even be able to extend that grossly large zone to the horn of Africa (making it grossly larger and more inaccurate, though the inaccuracies of just Ethiopia as the primer growth zone might be inaccurate in of itself), but since this is really devoid of facts anyways, that would probably be just fine. More importantly than the above is that coffee does seem to have first been roasted, then mixed with water and drank somewhere in Arabia and the first coffee shops probably somewhere in Turkey (Starbucks thanks you, I do too, but Seattle, you're--as a friend of mine might say--on my shit-on-your-counter-list). Globalization, trade, colonization and deliciousness eventually spread this dark little bean across the world entering into the beloved Colombian (read: South American agrarian) culture somewhere in the 1700's.

Celebrating Spencie´s birthday with a ¨Feliz Cumpleaños¨-marked Aguila. (Though I do not recommend this beer. Colombia´s other two beers and the ever-popular, easily available Budweiser, are much more tasty.

Which brings us to our current situation, Colombian coffee in the Zona Cafeteria. Colombian coffee has done marketing wonders. The man, the donkey, the legend: Juan Valdez has to be one of the most recognizable symbols of the coffee bean in the world. He brought a pre-Starbuckian world into its coffee-own, paving the way for the future uber.com/consumption of the late 90's and continuing through the 2000's. Which makes it no surprise that a) we decided to visit the coffee region of a country famous for it's coffee (the second most famous exported crop-derivative in Colombia, in fact) and b) that we toured a coffee plantation. (1)

(1) c would be that we also went to a small, organic family farm instead of a large, industrial chemicalized farm, but it didnt really fit into the context of my a, b, c's.

The following is what we saw, slurped and sort-of understood from our guia de cafe.

This is a banana tree. Apparently banana trees are (at least for an organic farm) immeasurably helpful for a coffee farm. They provided shade from the sun, food for the farmers and help to replish the soil of some of its nutrients. Our guide informed us most coffee farms utilize banana trees. He listed off a few alternatives, but none contained all three of the benefits which banana trees supply.

Free coffee at the end of our tour of Don Elias. They were incredible cups of joe, fresh, straight out of the roaster, and completely organic. Our only complaint, they were drip-coffee strong in an espresso-sized body. We could have used a tad more coffee considering they had plenty at their beckon.

Our guide grinding our just-off-the-oven coffee beans. This farm is part of a collective, which means they don´t have their own industrial-sized drying, roasting or grinding facilities. They simply sell their first crop of the year to the collective (they harvest twice a year) and keep the second harvesting for themselves to drink (our guide says he has 6-7 cups a day) and sell to tourist at completely bloated rates (us, for example). They sell the coffee beans to the collective shucked from their shells, but still wet.

Since they aren´t distributing massive amounts of roasted coffee, they simply roast the beans ov´r an open fire, in a pot. Our guide said they simply layer the bottom of the pot, put a cover on it and roast them for an hour. Listo, ready to grind and swill away.

This is their grinder. Not exactly Starbucks-like, but efficiently hand cranked and owning to an exponentially more tasty coffee.
This is their drying tent. The beans on the ground are almost dry. The guide said if it is warm that it only takes about a few days to dry the beans, but if it is damp and cold (which if our visit is any indicator, is about 85% of the time) it could take upwards of eight days. Not exactly the Juan Valdez method of coffee production, but a nice family farm with great organic coffee.
Beans. Dried, but not roasted.
I believe the english name for this is hopper. It takes the unshucked coffee beans, then shucks them. The beans then have to sit in water for no more than 24 hours, for reasons which were un-understandeable to me.

Part of the Beth Takes Pictures of All South American Dogs That Are Cute Series. I think this is number 342, a conservative guess.
Who knew, apparently coffee plants have flowers too. It´s the romantic coming out in the coffee plant.
Unripened coffee beans on the plant. When they are ripe they turn bright orange and red, at which point they are harvested.


Quick rundown of plants. This farm utilizes two types of plants: the Arabic strain and the Colombian strain (which must be some derivative of the Arabic strain since that is where the plant originated, but I digress). Our guide said the Arabic strain produces for 20 years while the Colombian strain produces for only 10 years. However, all-else-being-equal the Colombian plant is supposedly much more resistent to plagues, disesase, etc. Thus the diversifying of the plants within the farm. Once those times are reached, the farm can cut the plants off (like pruning roses) and grow them anew for another 10 years and 7 years, respectively. At the ending of these periods, the plants go through menopause and are no longer...fertile.

More beans.
And, lastly, me, walking through the coffee farm. Because what good post wouldn´t have a picture of me with a dumb face on...

...Back to Cali, Cali (Colombia)

Because, at some point, people just don´t want to read...(1)

You´d think we could have given you a better lead picture of Cali, but in all honesty, it´s just not that pretty of a city. It´s known for it´s night life, Salsa to be exact, which we were too lazy to take in (or perhaps too intimidated, as many clubs had big signs with handguns encircled by a red X).

We were in Cali for one week and this is the one and only tourist excursion we took. Unfortunately they had no gorillas, no panda/polar bears, no crooked-necked giraffs and no sloths, my favorite exhibits at the zoo. I did have Beth though, which made it the most entertaining trip to the zoo I´ve been since my first time.

This picture doesn´t do this tiger justice. That paw is legitimately at least 1.5x larger than Beth´s head. No wonder children gawk when they get to this exhibit.

Da´ Steets, of Cali. And some old man in a plastic chair scratching himself. That about sums the streets up perfectly.

Takin´it to the steets...uh, lily pads. Beth took our trip to the zoo by storm, dancing, singing and trying to SAVE THE ANIIIIIMALLLLS.


Us leaving Cali after one week of relaxing. This is going to sound absurd, but the truth is, after traveling for almost 9 months now, we just needed a place to sit and relax. We made dinner everynight, watched movies, had a few glasses of wine and even caught a couple of baseball games on television. Sometimes a city may have a lot to offer and you just don´t really care, because you want to do absolutely nothing. I´m sure when we are back in our Cali that we´ll be waxing philosophical about how much we wish we were back traveling through South America, but alas, this was Cali (Colombia) for us, just like Sundays at home.

I´ve never been to a petting zoo with Beth, but I´d like to. I´m taking bets now on things she would get arrested for.

Disclaimer: Beth made me take this picture. I´m not, I repeat NOT, wondering where the titties are...

Question of the week: If you were a dead pig on display in a grocery store, what halloween costume would you choose? A pirate is definitely in my top 5. Jesus (Jewish), Hurley, A scandalous hospice worker and Tony Danza (in The Garbage Picking Field Goal Kicking Philadelphia Pehnomenon) would round out my top 5.


Beth also made me take this picture, which, as I´m looking back through our pictures from our Cali days, makes me wonder if I´m genetically closer to monkeys than I realized. ¨Jason, put a plastic bag hat on your head.¨ ¨Ok.¨ ¨Jason, stand next to this monkey mirror and act REALLY surprised.¨ ¨Ok.¨ ¨Jason, pose with a tittie sign.¨ ¨Ok.¨



And the dignity goes on, and on, and on... Me, as a flamingo.

All I need is a cubicle, a banana and someone telling me to hit the keyboard and I´ll feel right at home.


Colombia has officially entered the pantheon of ¨greatest countries in South America¨. No, they don´t have poker rooms in their grocery stores (though that is a brilliant idea as well), but they do have Costco-style tastings which happen to include free beer...but no cocaine. (Note: Much to my dissapointment Colombian beer is, even free, subpar. We are in Bogota now and have ran across at least two brewpubs though, so I´m holding out on a final verdict.) 


(1) I´ve been contacted by the ADA, because apparently one of my old coworkers--and I won´t mention names (Caleb)--reported that this blog is not friendly to reading-troubled people.  And thus this post was derived.