When speaking of his children, my father refers to us as Samuelito and the Wayward Spawn. I am the Wayward Spawn.
Wayward have been my movements of late. After the earthquake rocked Christchurch Pete and I started re-evaluating our life's priorities, such as living in a town with a low death toll. My dad offered us his boat in Puerto Rico and we jumped at the chance, and for the last four months I have been floating happily in the Caribbean. Maybe I'm just lazy or maybe it's the heat, but I've been having a hard time trying to write and describe Puerto Rico in words. Perhaps it's because this country is just so Damn Loco.
"Oh Puerto Rico, land of the MayoKetchup," as my friend Chris likes to say, is a weird mix between Latino culture and American. Although they are technically a teritory of the United States, when put to a vote to be
A. A State
B. An independent nation
C. Neither/ I don't know
the resounding majority vote was for C. They love Burger King, Walmart and enormous shopping malls. It is very difficult to be a vegetarian here considering that their four food groups are meat, cheese, fried meat and fried cheese, all dipped in butter, fried, and then dipped in more butter. Many seem unaware that throwing trash on the street has a negative impact on their island and recycling is unheard of. The Spanish spoken here is a mutated Spanglish spoken so quickly that they often don't understand one another. "Puerto Rico," my friend Shella says, "where the women eat more than the men, and the men gossip more than the women."
All of that, though, is just a tiny piece of the greater puzzle. I love Puerto Rico. I have met some of the friendliest people here, always willing to help you out without hesitation. Puerto Ricans say hi equally to their neighbors and strangers, stuff you until you're way beyond full, smile, dance, laugh and love their families. They have immense pride in their island and rightfully so because it's just beautiful here. I have a great job working at a surfer bar called Board Riders, right across the street from a beautiful beach in Luquillo and at some point will probably try to learn how to surf.
"Puerto Ricans drive like they've run out of cigarettes," says my friend Dave. I absolutely adore Puertorican people until they get in their car, then it's like going into battle. Like most people who have at one time lived in Mexico, I consider people who stop at red lights to be good drivers. It's not as bad here but it's pretty horrible. Driving here should be considered an extreme sport as every lane is a turn lane, there's no speed limits and there are potholes the size of bathtubs at every turn. On top of all this, there is no required inspection for cars. If the entire front of your car is smashed in, none of your lights or indicators work, black clouds of smoke issue from underneath and it still runs, well then you can drive it. Scary and true, and I haven't even told you about my car yet.
I can say with absolute certainty that my car could only be street-legal in Puerto Rico, and maybe India. He is a 1992 Chevrolet Lumina/Tank named Maverick and I got him off my friend Angel for $300. Angel ran him into a lightpost and the whole left side is scraped up, there are metal shards sticking out of the drivers side door and I have no drivers side mirror. To open the hood there is a rope under the floor mats that, if pulled quite forcefully, will open it. One window won't roll down unless you take the stick out of the wedge and I don't think any of my blinkers work. Don't even mention AC or stereo. The real problem is that the car won't die. He just roars to life every morning and I can't scrap him and get my $300 back.
The good thing about Maverick is I found out he can run without oil, water or gas.
Wayward indeed.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Christchurch Earthquake 22.2.11
This is dedicated to the people of Christchurch who lost their lives, and to their families. Currently the death count is 148 and rising, with hundreds still missing. My heart and prayers go out to them.
When the earth shook Christchurch seven days ago I was sitting next to my boxing coach Adam, chatting away, stretching, getting ready for class. Without warning, the city went from calm to chaos in seconds. The ceiling tiles started falling, the long, fluorescent light bulbs exploded over our heads. Adam grabbed my arm roughly and we dashed for the doorway, arms over our heads, legs unable to balance on the rolling floor, as if it were made of ice. The receptionist at the desk screamed as a giant bookshelf fell over, nearly crushing her. I tripped and tumbled my way into the small space between the two doors, now holding about twelve of us and prayed for the shaking to end.
I heard later that it had lasted 40-50 seconds and I can say with certainty that it was the scariest minute of my life. Once the rumbling stopped and we all started breathing again, it took time to stand up and get over the shock of the experience. Small bursts of hysteric laughter filled the room and we knew we were lucky to be alive. Quickly we left the building, everyone grabbing their phones to try to make contact with their loved ones. I tried frantically to get in touch with Pete, knowing he could have been high up on scaffolding, but all lines were dead. All electricity down. All water off.
Within minutes the streets were jammed with cars trying to get home to see if their house was still up and their families safe. Luckily I was on my bike and it was easier to navigate through the traffic, large cracks and holes, piles of rubble and liquefaction: giant mounds of mud and sand that came out of the earth through the pavement. I remember being amazed at the damage but also at the efficiency of the police, fire department and many others who were instantly on scene, commanding order from insanity.
Once at home I joined my neighbors in the confusion. A man walked by with a radio to tell us that the 6.3 earthquake had taken down the cathedral, the symbol and soul of the city. A woman near me started to cry. Another car pulled up with news that the city centre had crumbled and that many people had died, the first deaths since the wave of earthquakes hitting Christchurch began in September. More news, more rumors, more stories circled us, but I didn't start breathing again until I saw Pete turning the corner and biking towards me in one piece. Only then did I allow myself to cry.
As the days have dragged on, all we can do is wait. We got electricity back late Tuesday night, and when the lights popped on cheers and applause erupted from up and down the street. Phones and internet started working again Wednesday afternoon, and every day I've been busy boiling what water we can get hold of. Every night we watch the news, watch the death toll rising, watch the city suffering and we know how good we truly have it.
The good news and hope lay with the people of Christchurch. Hours after the quake thousands streamed to streets asking what they could do to help. Everyone was hugging, helping, giving all that they had, bonding together in this great tragedy. News of disaster response teams coming in from Australia, The UK, The States, Singapore, Taiwan and Japan. Stories of ordinary citizens going extraordinary lengths to help out their neighbors. A man with a well in the suburbs has been pumping 90,000 litres of water a day for thousands. A facebook group formed and received 12,000 volunteers to help clean the streets, shovel liquefaction off the roads and go door-to-door in some areas offering whatever assistance was needed.
All of these stories have been a real inspiration and a real tribute to the people of Christchurch, and of New Zealand. The strength and heart of this small island nation in the face of devastation and pain shows what they are really made of, and what is possible when humanity comes together and gives for the greater good of all. This alone gives me hope for the future.
People of Christchurch: I thank you. My thoughts are continually with you.
When the earth shook Christchurch seven days ago I was sitting next to my boxing coach Adam, chatting away, stretching, getting ready for class. Without warning, the city went from calm to chaos in seconds. The ceiling tiles started falling, the long, fluorescent light bulbs exploded over our heads. Adam grabbed my arm roughly and we dashed for the doorway, arms over our heads, legs unable to balance on the rolling floor, as if it were made of ice. The receptionist at the desk screamed as a giant bookshelf fell over, nearly crushing her. I tripped and tumbled my way into the small space between the two doors, now holding about twelve of us and prayed for the shaking to end.
I heard later that it had lasted 40-50 seconds and I can say with certainty that it was the scariest minute of my life. Once the rumbling stopped and we all started breathing again, it took time to stand up and get over the shock of the experience. Small bursts of hysteric laughter filled the room and we knew we were lucky to be alive. Quickly we left the building, everyone grabbing their phones to try to make contact with their loved ones. I tried frantically to get in touch with Pete, knowing he could have been high up on scaffolding, but all lines were dead. All electricity down. All water off.
Within minutes the streets were jammed with cars trying to get home to see if their house was still up and their families safe. Luckily I was on my bike and it was easier to navigate through the traffic, large cracks and holes, piles of rubble and liquefaction: giant mounds of mud and sand that came out of the earth through the pavement. I remember being amazed at the damage but also at the efficiency of the police, fire department and many others who were instantly on scene, commanding order from insanity.
Once at home I joined my neighbors in the confusion. A man walked by with a radio to tell us that the 6.3 earthquake had taken down the cathedral, the symbol and soul of the city. A woman near me started to cry. Another car pulled up with news that the city centre had crumbled and that many people had died, the first deaths since the wave of earthquakes hitting Christchurch began in September. More news, more rumors, more stories circled us, but I didn't start breathing again until I saw Pete turning the corner and biking towards me in one piece. Only then did I allow myself to cry.
As the days have dragged on, all we can do is wait. We got electricity back late Tuesday night, and when the lights popped on cheers and applause erupted from up and down the street. Phones and internet started working again Wednesday afternoon, and every day I've been busy boiling what water we can get hold of. Every night we watch the news, watch the death toll rising, watch the city suffering and we know how good we truly have it.
The good news and hope lay with the people of Christchurch. Hours after the quake thousands streamed to streets asking what they could do to help. Everyone was hugging, helping, giving all that they had, bonding together in this great tragedy. News of disaster response teams coming in from Australia, The UK, The States, Singapore, Taiwan and Japan. Stories of ordinary citizens going extraordinary lengths to help out their neighbors. A man with a well in the suburbs has been pumping 90,000 litres of water a day for thousands. A facebook group formed and received 12,000 volunteers to help clean the streets, shovel liquefaction off the roads and go door-to-door in some areas offering whatever assistance was needed.
All of these stories have been a real inspiration and a real tribute to the people of Christchurch, and of New Zealand. The strength and heart of this small island nation in the face of devastation and pain shows what they are really made of, and what is possible when humanity comes together and gives for the greater good of all. This alone gives me hope for the future.
People of Christchurch: I thank you. My thoughts are continually with you.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
In Piam Memoriam
I'd like to start by saying "Thank you" to everyone that came here today. It's been a really difficult week for Pete and I, and your loving support is much appreciated. The death of a close friend is never easy, and in these trying times I feel it's best to be surrounded by my loved ones. So once again, thank you for being here. I will try my best not to cry.
We are here today to honor the life of Captain Archibald Jack Cooper. He was a most loyal van, and yet I like to think of him more as a friend and family member. Although I didn't know him for very long he was always there for me. There to pick me up at the airport when I came back to New Zealand, there to drive us to our new life in Christchurch, there when I needed a hug or someone to talk to. He was always a good listener.
I wish I could tell you more about his past which I'm sure was as rowdy and adventurous as his last days, but all I know is that we adopted him from Mr. John Cooper, Pete's brother, who is to be commended for all the hard work, time, effort and love he put in with The Captain. John is a mechanic and although it seemed the end for Old Arch he refused to pull the plug on his dear friend. Archie's engine was rebuilt, along with multiple other surgeries, to give the Ole Fella another chance to feel the wind on his face as he trundled, gasped and wheezed his way through the mountains once again.
To me, Capt. Arch was not only a friend but a symbol of freedom. We drove up and down the length of the South Island together. He went with us up to the beaches of Kaiteriteri and Nelson, down through the mountains in the Southern Alps, along the eastern coastlines, and navigated us through the city of Christchurch, knowing that we would be lost without him. And now we are.
I look to the Universe for some answers and some peace. It tells me that everyone has their destined time on this Earth, and well, Archie was no spring chicken. He passed away driving back from Queenstown, and I bettcha he couldn't have been happier. Full tank of gas, new oil and a wide-open road, long as the eye can see. Before we knew there was something wrong he just lost power and came to a stop on the side of the highway with a nice, loud thud: his last hoorah before passing into the Land of the Unknown.
As a parting joke, Archie left us about 20 km. north of a town called Twizel, just past Lake Pukaki. For all who don't know, Twizel is more of a village in the middle of nowhere. Population: 1,200 occupants. Pete and I hitched a ride into town and walked over to the one pub in town, banking on Small Town Kiwi Hospitality to get us out of this mess before the sun set. Not much luck there, but we did find some friendly and helpful people at Shawty's, the one restaurant in town. After hearing our story, Troy the owner left his full restaurant to drive us to his house, switch cars and get a tow rope, drive out to get The Captain and tow him back into town, dropping us off in front of the mechanic's shop. All without taking any money or beer offered.
Saint Troy of Twizel, you are an Angel of Compassion for Poor Travelers. Thank you.
The next morning we got up and found Russel the Mechanic. He takes a look at poor Arch, shows Pete the blown head gasket and where water got into the cylinders, and signs the Death Certificate for 9:15 am, Tuesday, February 8th, 2011. Unless we have $1,300 to fix him. We do not. Russel offers us $50 to take him off our hands, committing his soul to the High Heavens and his parts as an Organ Donor to other sick and dying vehicles.
The next part in this tragedy involves me sweet-talking a bus driver into driving out of the way with a bus filled with people over to our van, loading up half of our life, and taking us to Christchurch. In this includes Pete's BMX bike, my snowboard, a single mattress, our bags from the weekend, an assortment of tools, snow chains, cooking pots, helmets, shoes, a tea kettle, a skateboard, and a box of beer. After seeing out tired and stressed expressions the driver, in true Kiwi Hospitality, doesn't even charge us for all the extra space we're using. Once in Christchurch we re-load into a taxi and head for home, too exhausted to even comprehend our loss.
What now? It hasn't been easy to cope with our grief, and learning to live with our loss has been a challenge this week. Archie's death teaches us to cherish the time we have with our loved ones now. Right now. "In Piam Memoriam" means "In Loving Memory," and that is why we are here today: to remember Captain Archibald Jack Cooper in our heads and in our hearts.
To end this, I'd like to quote Kahlil Gibran in his poem "Death":
"For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?
And what is to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?
Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.
And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.
And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance."
Dance, Archie, dance. And know that you will be missed.
We are here today to honor the life of Captain Archibald Jack Cooper. He was a most loyal van, and yet I like to think of him more as a friend and family member. Although I didn't know him for very long he was always there for me. There to pick me up at the airport when I came back to New Zealand, there to drive us to our new life in Christchurch, there when I needed a hug or someone to talk to. He was always a good listener.
I wish I could tell you more about his past which I'm sure was as rowdy and adventurous as his last days, but all I know is that we adopted him from Mr. John Cooper, Pete's brother, who is to be commended for all the hard work, time, effort and love he put in with The Captain. John is a mechanic and although it seemed the end for Old Arch he refused to pull the plug on his dear friend. Archie's engine was rebuilt, along with multiple other surgeries, to give the Ole Fella another chance to feel the wind on his face as he trundled, gasped and wheezed his way through the mountains once again.
To me, Capt. Arch was not only a friend but a symbol of freedom. We drove up and down the length of the South Island together. He went with us up to the beaches of Kaiteriteri and Nelson, down through the mountains in the Southern Alps, along the eastern coastlines, and navigated us through the city of Christchurch, knowing that we would be lost without him. And now we are.
I look to the Universe for some answers and some peace. It tells me that everyone has their destined time on this Earth, and well, Archie was no spring chicken. He passed away driving back from Queenstown, and I bettcha he couldn't have been happier. Full tank of gas, new oil and a wide-open road, long as the eye can see. Before we knew there was something wrong he just lost power and came to a stop on the side of the highway with a nice, loud thud: his last hoorah before passing into the Land of the Unknown.
As a parting joke, Archie left us about 20 km. north of a town called Twizel, just past Lake Pukaki. For all who don't know, Twizel is more of a village in the middle of nowhere. Population: 1,200 occupants. Pete and I hitched a ride into town and walked over to the one pub in town, banking on Small Town Kiwi Hospitality to get us out of this mess before the sun set. Not much luck there, but we did find some friendly and helpful people at Shawty's, the one restaurant in town. After hearing our story, Troy the owner left his full restaurant to drive us to his house, switch cars and get a tow rope, drive out to get The Captain and tow him back into town, dropping us off in front of the mechanic's shop. All without taking any money or beer offered.
Saint Troy of Twizel, you are an Angel of Compassion for Poor Travelers. Thank you.
The next morning we got up and found Russel the Mechanic. He takes a look at poor Arch, shows Pete the blown head gasket and where water got into the cylinders, and signs the Death Certificate for 9:15 am, Tuesday, February 8th, 2011. Unless we have $1,300 to fix him. We do not. Russel offers us $50 to take him off our hands, committing his soul to the High Heavens and his parts as an Organ Donor to other sick and dying vehicles.
The next part in this tragedy involves me sweet-talking a bus driver into driving out of the way with a bus filled with people over to our van, loading up half of our life, and taking us to Christchurch. In this includes Pete's BMX bike, my snowboard, a single mattress, our bags from the weekend, an assortment of tools, snow chains, cooking pots, helmets, shoes, a tea kettle, a skateboard, and a box of beer. After seeing out tired and stressed expressions the driver, in true Kiwi Hospitality, doesn't even charge us for all the extra space we're using. Once in Christchurch we re-load into a taxi and head for home, too exhausted to even comprehend our loss.
What now? It hasn't been easy to cope with our grief, and learning to live with our loss has been a challenge this week. Archie's death teaches us to cherish the time we have with our loved ones now. Right now. "In Piam Memoriam" means "In Loving Memory," and that is why we are here today: to remember Captain Archibald Jack Cooper in our heads and in our hearts.
To end this, I'd like to quote Kahlil Gibran in his poem "Death":
"For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?
And what is to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?
Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.
And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.
And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance."
Dance, Archie, dance. And know that you will be missed.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Bring on the Love
Yesterday I found out that the government housing projects across the street from our apartment are specifically allocated for people who just got out of prison and are being integrated back into society. At least living in the ghetto keeps life interesting.
Oh New Zealand, Land of the Open Front Door: I missed you. How could I not miss a country where it's fashionable for men to wear short shorts and rubber boots (stubbies and gum boots)? How could I not miss the mountains and lakes, the sheep shearing contests and the traditional family meal of an energy drink and a greasy meat pie? Whilst flying into Auckland International Airport a huge weight suddenly lifted off my shoulders and before I could stop myself a river of tears gushed forth and I was sobbing. No person has ever been that happy to be in Auckland, the only part of New Zealand forsaken by the Gods. In typical fashion, the large man sitting next to me did what any self-respecting, staunch, stiff-upper-lip Kiwi male would do when faced with emotion: He pretended it wasn't happening. One more flight to Queenstown and I was back in the arms of my boyfriend Pete after a very, very long five months away. After celebrating the New Year and spending a week with our friends, we packed up Pete's van and headed up to Christchurch for work.
(*Note on the van: Pete's brother John gave it to us when he went back to England and there has been a wee disagreement as to the name of the van. Pete named him Archie, and I named him Captain Jack. I'll keep you posted on any compromise made.)
Coming to Christchurch has been an interesting challenge in getting to know the "Big City" of 400,000 people, none of whom we know. We took the first furnished apartment we found near the city center (centre), looked around and then wondered why we had taken it in the first place. To top off all the magic ChCh has to offer, we experienced our first earthquake last week. Well, three of them.
(*Note on earthquakes: To answer some of your recent questions, yes, earthquakes are very scary. The earth and everything attached to it moves and vibrates and you know that the time has come for you to die. Instantly you wish that you had been to Paris just one more time. And then it stops. You laugh manically because you have just cheated death somehow and you look up nervously, hoping the building in stable. Earthquakes: Not fun.)
Besides that whole cheating-death feeling, Christchurch continues to grow on me. Pete goes to work everyday, scaffolding on building sites from the Big Poppa Earthquake back in August, which are everywhere; the entire city is under construction. I have been looking about for some cash work but I don't have a work visa so I'm finding it a bit tricky. I'm having fun filling the time though.
Today I...
-talked to a lady about volunteering with refugees and helping them adjust to their new surroundings, so I hope that goes through.
-broke my jandal (flip flop) and walked home barefoot. I'm down to one pair of shoes (crocs). Again.
-bought a bike. He's blue and gold, blue from the paint, gold from the rust. When the sun hits it the rusty metal sparkles. It's a total piece of crap, I love it. Name: unknown.
-enrolled in Muay Thai Boxing classes again now that my wrist has healed.
Bring on the love.
Oh New Zealand, Land of the Open Front Door: I missed you. How could I not miss a country where it's fashionable for men to wear short shorts and rubber boots (stubbies and gum boots)? How could I not miss the mountains and lakes, the sheep shearing contests and the traditional family meal of an energy drink and a greasy meat pie? Whilst flying into Auckland International Airport a huge weight suddenly lifted off my shoulders and before I could stop myself a river of tears gushed forth and I was sobbing. No person has ever been that happy to be in Auckland, the only part of New Zealand forsaken by the Gods. In typical fashion, the large man sitting next to me did what any self-respecting, staunch, stiff-upper-lip Kiwi male would do when faced with emotion: He pretended it wasn't happening. One more flight to Queenstown and I was back in the arms of my boyfriend Pete after a very, very long five months away. After celebrating the New Year and spending a week with our friends, we packed up Pete's van and headed up to Christchurch for work.
(*Note on the van: Pete's brother John gave it to us when he went back to England and there has been a wee disagreement as to the name of the van. Pete named him Archie, and I named him Captain Jack. I'll keep you posted on any compromise made.)
Coming to Christchurch has been an interesting challenge in getting to know the "Big City" of 400,000 people, none of whom we know. We took the first furnished apartment we found near the city center (centre), looked around and then wondered why we had taken it in the first place. To top off all the magic ChCh has to offer, we experienced our first earthquake last week. Well, three of them.
(*Note on earthquakes: To answer some of your recent questions, yes, earthquakes are very scary. The earth and everything attached to it moves and vibrates and you know that the time has come for you to die. Instantly you wish that you had been to Paris just one more time. And then it stops. You laugh manically because you have just cheated death somehow and you look up nervously, hoping the building in stable. Earthquakes: Not fun.)
Besides that whole cheating-death feeling, Christchurch continues to grow on me. Pete goes to work everyday, scaffolding on building sites from the Big Poppa Earthquake back in August, which are everywhere; the entire city is under construction. I have been looking about for some cash work but I don't have a work visa so I'm finding it a bit tricky. I'm having fun filling the time though.
Today I...
-talked to a lady about volunteering with refugees and helping them adjust to their new surroundings, so I hope that goes through.
-broke my jandal (flip flop) and walked home barefoot. I'm down to one pair of shoes (crocs). Again.
-bought a bike. He's blue and gold, blue from the paint, gold from the rust. When the sun hits it the rusty metal sparkles. It's a total piece of crap, I love it. Name: unknown.
-enrolled in Muay Thai Boxing classes again now that my wrist has healed.
Bring on the love.
Monday, November 8, 2010
American, Bro
Lately I've been doing a little experiment. Not for money or any actual scientific data, just curiosity. After my year in New Zealand I've contracted a nameless rare disease which renders me incapable of calling people anything else except "Bro." Pushing myself past the borders of the small island nation at the bottom of the world, I have to ask myself: How will different authority figures around the world respond when called, or referred to as "Bro"?
Note: United States of America Border Security Guards do not like being called "Bro."
Altercation: Small heated debate in the Chicago O'Hare Airport about the safety of the country Laos. I staunchly defended the Lao-wegians and questioned the validity and factual statements of the Important Man Behind The Desk. Turns out he had never even left America and I might have stated that he had no basis whatsoever to be spouting such ridiculous twaddle, and that the people Laos are wonderful and I feel safer there than in America, Bro.
Hypothesis: He could have jailed me for days, yet I regret nothing and would do it again.
I'm always amazed when they let me back into America. Not that I should be, seeing as how I hold and shiny, blue passport and was born here. It's just that I know I'm going to screw with their system and I'm always mildly amused by the thought. So a few weeks ago I sneakily waltzed back into Austin, Texas with my Bro's blazing, to surprise my family and friends. It had been over two years since I was last home so I figured I might as well make a good entrance. My secret-keeper was my stepsister Laura, who picked me up at the airport and took me home. My mother answered the door, burst into tears and tackled me on the front lawn. My stepdad Evan laughed. My brother Sam stood stunned in the middle of a restaurant but thankfully did not tackle me as he's quite a bit taller. My best friends Anja, Ruth and Brittney all screamed, and my stepmom Jasmine screamed louder. To get my dad home she told him that a tree fell on the roof and he was home quickly to find me standing in his backyard. Initially stunned like Sam, he proceeded to not let go of me for a few hours and cried tears of joy, I'm assuming for having his roof intact.
Adjusting to American life has been the real challenge here. People keep asking me what part of Canada I'm from. All my poor, unemployed friends have these shiny, flat, touch screen phones I've never seen before and there are sixteen brand new monstrosities of condos in my beloved downtown area, which I do not recall being asked permission to build. Alas, it seems Austin is growing at a rapid pace without me.
Don't worry though, the Great Spirit of Austin remains. How could it not be? The official city slogan is "Keep Austin Weird." The Omeletry still cranks out a wicked breakfast, Polvos margaritas still kick my ass and I still know every employee at the Posse East, who welcome me back with open arms and a free pitcher of the best beer in Austin. Somehow in between my reunion with Austin I've also managed to get two jobs, which is amusing at best because we all know how I dislike working. So throughout the week you can either find me waiting tables at Cuatros on 24th and San Gabriel or behind the desk at the South Austin Gym on S. Lamar. Cuatros is great because its really chilled out, I can call my boss "Bro" and waiting tables is the easiest job in the world for someone who has the conversation skills of a late-night talk show host. The gym is fun and painful because it's owned by my good friend Randy Palmer and I have started my Thai boxing training again. Which hurts.
And yes, bowing to the technological era taking the U.S. by storm, I have purchased the biggest, cheapest phone I could find. Give me a call at 512-696-2998 if you're in the Austin area. Keep in mind that I'm still getting used to the way of life here, yet refusing to adjust to it on account that it would be bad for my soul. No, I cannot access Facebook from the dinner table, I don't have a car or TV, and I have no idea who that supposedly famous guy walking by is. Although I did accidentally flip off Kanye West yesterday. As I've stated before: I regret nothing.
I'm such a crap American, Bro.
Note: United States of America Border Security Guards do not like being called "Bro."
Altercation: Small heated debate in the Chicago O'Hare Airport about the safety of the country Laos. I staunchly defended the Lao-wegians and questioned the validity and factual statements of the Important Man Behind The Desk. Turns out he had never even left America and I might have stated that he had no basis whatsoever to be spouting such ridiculous twaddle, and that the people Laos are wonderful and I feel safer there than in America, Bro.
Hypothesis: He could have jailed me for days, yet I regret nothing and would do it again.
I'm always amazed when they let me back into America. Not that I should be, seeing as how I hold and shiny, blue passport and was born here. It's just that I know I'm going to screw with their system and I'm always mildly amused by the thought. So a few weeks ago I sneakily waltzed back into Austin, Texas with my Bro's blazing, to surprise my family and friends. It had been over two years since I was last home so I figured I might as well make a good entrance. My secret-keeper was my stepsister Laura, who picked me up at the airport and took me home. My mother answered the door, burst into tears and tackled me on the front lawn. My stepdad Evan laughed. My brother Sam stood stunned in the middle of a restaurant but thankfully did not tackle me as he's quite a bit taller. My best friends Anja, Ruth and Brittney all screamed, and my stepmom Jasmine screamed louder. To get my dad home she told him that a tree fell on the roof and he was home quickly to find me standing in his backyard. Initially stunned like Sam, he proceeded to not let go of me for a few hours and cried tears of joy, I'm assuming for having his roof intact.
Adjusting to American life has been the real challenge here. People keep asking me what part of Canada I'm from. All my poor, unemployed friends have these shiny, flat, touch screen phones I've never seen before and there are sixteen brand new monstrosities of condos in my beloved downtown area, which I do not recall being asked permission to build. Alas, it seems Austin is growing at a rapid pace without me.
Don't worry though, the Great Spirit of Austin remains. How could it not be? The official city slogan is "Keep Austin Weird." The Omeletry still cranks out a wicked breakfast, Polvos margaritas still kick my ass and I still know every employee at the Posse East, who welcome me back with open arms and a free pitcher of the best beer in Austin. Somehow in between my reunion with Austin I've also managed to get two jobs, which is amusing at best because we all know how I dislike working. So throughout the week you can either find me waiting tables at Cuatros on 24th and San Gabriel or behind the desk at the South Austin Gym on S. Lamar. Cuatros is great because its really chilled out, I can call my boss "Bro" and waiting tables is the easiest job in the world for someone who has the conversation skills of a late-night talk show host. The gym is fun and painful because it's owned by my good friend Randy Palmer and I have started my Thai boxing training again. Which hurts.
And yes, bowing to the technological era taking the U.S. by storm, I have purchased the biggest, cheapest phone I could find. Give me a call at 512-696-2998 if you're in the Austin area. Keep in mind that I'm still getting used to the way of life here, yet refusing to adjust to it on account that it would be bad for my soul. No, I cannot access Facebook from the dinner table, I don't have a car or TV, and I have no idea who that supposedly famous guy walking by is. Although I did accidentally flip off Kanye West yesterday. As I've stated before: I regret nothing.
I'm such a crap American, Bro.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Oktoberfest!
I watched as the small girl's eyes rolled back in her head and she passed out standing up. The tent was too crowded for her to fall left, right, or face-forward, so gravity did its job and she fell backward, knocking over ten people at the closest four tables. It was in this moment that I realized I had to get out of Munich or the Oktoberfest would kill me.
Oktoberfest, stated plainly, is this most incredible thing I have ever witnessed; incredible not always being a positive thing. Imagine six million people trying to cram themselves into twelve tents that can hold a few thousand. Imagine the drunkest you've ever been, next to thousands who have had more to drink than you have. Imagine the fattest man you have ever seen, wearing the shortest shorts you have ever seen, waving a thick, heavy glass beer stein near you head whilst belting out one of Germany's oldest drinking songs. Imagine chaos.
If you look closely, you might even see a girl in the middle wearing a blue checkered dirndl (the traditional German dress). She is standing on a bench that seats six with fifteen people, toasting and singing and dancing with the rest. Her dreadlocks reach halfway down her back now and she is smacking a few people in the face with them as she dances. They don't seem to notice, the energy in the tent is all they can feel. The rhythm, the heartbeat, the central pulse pushes forward, faster and higher, beating the beat of life into every core, until nothing makes sense any longer. Then suddenly, without warning the music stops. The girl's eyes snap back into focus, she raises her glass, holding a litre of the best beer in the world, bellows "PROST!!!" and smashes it into her neighbors glass. The madness continues from there.
All together I did five days at Oktoberfest. At the end I thought I was dying because my liver was trying to kick its way out from the inside. The memories however, I would not trade for anything. I loved standing at a table with other Americans, Canadians, Irish, Germans, Chinese, and Spanish people. I love that I met half of Italy in one afternoon. I love the different cultures, languages, people from all walks of life brought together with the common goal of drinking beer and having a good time. I love that at one point I was concerned about contracting lederhosen poisoning, a highly dangerous malady concerning short leather shorts and suspenders. I love all the best friends I made and forgot in the span of minutes, and the old friends I was fortunate to meet up with. Thank you Martin who let me stay at his place, thank you Jordan and Mara for the dirndls and the beginning, thank you to Crazy Irish John, Mark and Krasna for the end, thank you Vicky and her lovely mother Tina who let me drink water on the fifth night while they drank beer, and thank you to Pete who talked to the death rattle coming out of my throat every morning and didn't laugh too much. I wouldn't have made it without you guys.
My goal for Oktoberfest was to do it right, do it well, and then never do it again. Mission accomplished: nothing on Earth could drag me back there again. Yet I am proud to have survived an exhilarating experience.
Oktoberfest, stated plainly, is this most incredible thing I have ever witnessed; incredible not always being a positive thing. Imagine six million people trying to cram themselves into twelve tents that can hold a few thousand. Imagine the drunkest you've ever been, next to thousands who have had more to drink than you have. Imagine the fattest man you have ever seen, wearing the shortest shorts you have ever seen, waving a thick, heavy glass beer stein near you head whilst belting out one of Germany's oldest drinking songs. Imagine chaos.
If you look closely, you might even see a girl in the middle wearing a blue checkered dirndl (the traditional German dress). She is standing on a bench that seats six with fifteen people, toasting and singing and dancing with the rest. Her dreadlocks reach halfway down her back now and she is smacking a few people in the face with them as she dances. They don't seem to notice, the energy in the tent is all they can feel. The rhythm, the heartbeat, the central pulse pushes forward, faster and higher, beating the beat of life into every core, until nothing makes sense any longer. Then suddenly, without warning the music stops. The girl's eyes snap back into focus, she raises her glass, holding a litre of the best beer in the world, bellows "PROST!!!" and smashes it into her neighbors glass. The madness continues from there.
All together I did five days at Oktoberfest. At the end I thought I was dying because my liver was trying to kick its way out from the inside. The memories however, I would not trade for anything. I loved standing at a table with other Americans, Canadians, Irish, Germans, Chinese, and Spanish people. I love that I met half of Italy in one afternoon. I love the different cultures, languages, people from all walks of life brought together with the common goal of drinking beer and having a good time. I love that at one point I was concerned about contracting lederhosen poisoning, a highly dangerous malady concerning short leather shorts and suspenders. I love all the best friends I made and forgot in the span of minutes, and the old friends I was fortunate to meet up with. Thank you Martin who let me stay at his place, thank you Jordan and Mara for the dirndls and the beginning, thank you to Crazy Irish John, Mark and Krasna for the end, thank you Vicky and her lovely mother Tina who let me drink water on the fifth night while they drank beer, and thank you to Pete who talked to the death rattle coming out of my throat every morning and didn't laugh too much. I wouldn't have made it without you guys.
My goal for Oktoberfest was to do it right, do it well, and then never do it again. Mission accomplished: nothing on Earth could drag me back there again. Yet I am proud to have survived an exhilarating experience.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Mama Mia
A few nights ago I almost died. Serves me right for accepting a dinner invitation from a large Italian family.
Currently I am staying just north of Venice in a town called Conegliano visiting my old friend Sharla, her Italian boyfriend Giorgio and his lovely Italian family. It was his uncle Luciano's 50th birthday and we were all invited out for a meal. It seemed harmless enough, but what do I know?
The restaurant was pretty, the company vibrant and the wine continuously flowing from large ceramic jugs. Luciano was kind enough to call ahead and inform the staff that I was vegetarian, and they were ready. The bread sticks and then the fresh baked bread for starters was flowing as continuously as the wine. Next the mouth-watering mushroom bruschetta and then a beautiful plate of grilled eggplant, squash, tomatoes, potatoes, polenta and a large square of freshly melted cheese was delivered to me while the rest were served different cuts of meats, cheeses, spreads and breads. I was just finishing my massive plate, about to sit back satisfied with the meal, when Sharla leans over and informs me that what I had just eaten was the main appetizer and that they would soon bring out the starters for the main meals. Meals. With an 'S'. My face fell.
About that moment Giorgio and his uncle recognize my tortured facial expression and burst into loud Italian laughter before informing the family of my misunderstanding. What followed, after everyone stopped laughing at my expense, was the perfect combination of pleasure and pain. What followed was a nine-course meal of more breads, bruschettas, salads, spiced aubergine, garlic stuffed tomatoes, six or seven different cuts of meat for the other eight members at the table with whole roasted onions and lemons, a lovely, creamy fish plate for me called Baccala with more polenta than I ever dreamed possible, topped off with more breads, meats, cheeses, and potatoes.
Sharla looks at me with pity and shares a pearl of wisdom, clearly a victim of Italian dinners in the past. "Just keep eating until your jaw stops moving. Then you know you're finished."
After a stunning meal sparkled with laughter, I sit back exhausted and rub my poor belly. Espresso appears in front of me, to my delight, and we sit and chat and they poke at my tattoos and ask me questions about traveling. We sit and no food comes, and I am relieved. Bottles of Prosecco, Italian champagne, appear next, and then the cake. The most amazing cake in the world. In my disabled state I could only pick up my fork again, but after the first bite I could have eaten the entire thing. It was fluffy and light, rich and dense. Crispy in places and creamy in others. Lemony and buttery, chocolatey, layers upon layers of bliss. It tasted better than sex, probably closer to what babies taste like. This cake is proof that the Gods exist and love us.
We all lick our plates and sit back again, smiling. About that time my body informs me that it can't handle anymore, and Luciano informs me that the Grappa is on its way. First the regular Grappa, then blueberry. If you don't know what Grappa is, it's the pure alcoholic form from grapes. It tastes like burning rubber, but in a nice way. When they brought out Limoncella, a drink of lemon rind, sugar and more alcohol, my head was spinning and I was done.
The whole event lasted five hours, and I am grateful for having survived. We are invited to another family meal tonight, so in preparation I'm not going to eat anything today. Hopefully they'll have more cake.
Currently I am staying just north of Venice in a town called Conegliano visiting my old friend Sharla, her Italian boyfriend Giorgio and his lovely Italian family. It was his uncle Luciano's 50th birthday and we were all invited out for a meal. It seemed harmless enough, but what do I know?
The restaurant was pretty, the company vibrant and the wine continuously flowing from large ceramic jugs. Luciano was kind enough to call ahead and inform the staff that I was vegetarian, and they were ready. The bread sticks and then the fresh baked bread for starters was flowing as continuously as the wine. Next the mouth-watering mushroom bruschetta and then a beautiful plate of grilled eggplant, squash, tomatoes, potatoes, polenta and a large square of freshly melted cheese was delivered to me while the rest were served different cuts of meats, cheeses, spreads and breads. I was just finishing my massive plate, about to sit back satisfied with the meal, when Sharla leans over and informs me that what I had just eaten was the main appetizer and that they would soon bring out the starters for the main meals. Meals. With an 'S'. My face fell.
About that moment Giorgio and his uncle recognize my tortured facial expression and burst into loud Italian laughter before informing the family of my misunderstanding. What followed, after everyone stopped laughing at my expense, was the perfect combination of pleasure and pain. What followed was a nine-course meal of more breads, bruschettas, salads, spiced aubergine, garlic stuffed tomatoes, six or seven different cuts of meat for the other eight members at the table with whole roasted onions and lemons, a lovely, creamy fish plate for me called Baccala with more polenta than I ever dreamed possible, topped off with more breads, meats, cheeses, and potatoes.
Sharla looks at me with pity and shares a pearl of wisdom, clearly a victim of Italian dinners in the past. "Just keep eating until your jaw stops moving. Then you know you're finished."
After a stunning meal sparkled with laughter, I sit back exhausted and rub my poor belly. Espresso appears in front of me, to my delight, and we sit and chat and they poke at my tattoos and ask me questions about traveling. We sit and no food comes, and I am relieved. Bottles of Prosecco, Italian champagne, appear next, and then the cake. The most amazing cake in the world. In my disabled state I could only pick up my fork again, but after the first bite I could have eaten the entire thing. It was fluffy and light, rich and dense. Crispy in places and creamy in others. Lemony and buttery, chocolatey, layers upon layers of bliss. It tasted better than sex, probably closer to what babies taste like. This cake is proof that the Gods exist and love us.
We all lick our plates and sit back again, smiling. About that time my body informs me that it can't handle anymore, and Luciano informs me that the Grappa is on its way. First the regular Grappa, then blueberry. If you don't know what Grappa is, it's the pure alcoholic form from grapes. It tastes like burning rubber, but in a nice way. When they brought out Limoncella, a drink of lemon rind, sugar and more alcohol, my head was spinning and I was done.
The whole event lasted five hours, and I am grateful for having survived. We are invited to another family meal tonight, so in preparation I'm not going to eat anything today. Hopefully they'll have more cake.
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