tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77717421663852998892024-03-08T11:53:42.551-08:00my notes from the field...photos/banter about the people/places I come across during this nomadic life.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger187125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7771742166385299889.post-43071323814815504672013-01-21T20:01:00.000-08:002013-01-22T19:44:59.322-08:00The full force of being alive<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zxMNyfVMvX0/UPdt1cNxKRI/AAAAAAAAFn4/YeapcxwMxrU/s1600/villa-and-zapata-in-presidential-palace-01.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="535" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zxMNyfVMvX0/UPdt1cNxKRI/AAAAAAAAFn4/YeapcxwMxrU/s640/villa-and-zapata-in-presidential-palace-01.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I've written this post before, the one where I close this blog down. My reason for shutting it down this time is much the same as <a href="http://mynotesfromthefield.blogspot.com/2011/05/nothing-gold-can-stay.html" target="_blank">last time</a>.<br />
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I get caught up with thinking about certain thoughts in my head. More specially, the thoughts asking me who am I writing these posts for. Even though each post is expressed to inspire everything is related to my life, my travels, my take on living. A self-centered theme to be sure. I'm not running away from my goal to inspire I'm merely owning up to the realization that keeping this blog going is failing to reach that goal as I see it.<br />
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There is a beautiful photo of Pancho Villa and Emiliano Zapata and a handful of others who have become immortalized in this iconic image of the Mexican revolution. In this photo I see so much, but more than anything I see a little boy. I see a little boy peeking to the side of Pancho Villa's right shoulder. (Villa is the one sitting in the big presidential chair, Zapata with the massive sombrero resting on his knee)<br />
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I like to think of this image as a brain scan of all the thoughts/feelings floating around my head at any given moment. Each face representing a different thought or emotion. Some at the forefront of my mind, some lingering in the back, but collectively they make up the full force of being alive, inspired, lost, driven, scared, brave, sad, confused and last but not least, curious.<br />
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I'm certain I've still got a lot of stories left in me, but for now, i'll be happy to share them in person rather than on this page. These days, like the ones that have passed and the ones yet to come, will be filled with many thoughts, but my hope is that I nurture that little boy stirring up a great story in my head, the one who reminds me it's better to be filled with a f*ckload of curiosity than conform to common thoughts.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7771742166385299889.post-65601120690671645252013-01-20T20:45:00.001-08:002013-01-20T20:58:16.746-08:00Been there Done that PART 3Otis Redding was playing as I settled into my taxi ride that would take me to the other end of the island.<br />
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“You just come from the big casino mon?” the cabbie asked in a thick Caribbean dialect<br />
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“you know what?” I replied, “I just got done working on one of those big yachts and I don’t know about you, but I'm reconsidering whether I want one for myself.” I said with a chuckle</div>
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“Really, why da'ya' say 'dat mon?"<br />
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I continued “I guess I was thinking life was a little sweeter on those big boats, but now I'm not so sure. What about you? Would you want one of them” turning the topic back on him.</div>
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“Well, how big was it mon?”</div>
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“Not the biggest of the bunch - I guess somewhere in the middle”</div>
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“well, I wouldn’t turn the t'ing down, ya know”<br />
We both laughed at the idea of someone just giving either of us a yacht. <br />
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He sped across the bridge that led back to Nassau, the sweet sound of Otis Redding's <i>I've got dreams to remember</i> was playing.</div>
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“Hey mon, do you mind if we make a stop off?”</div>
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“no, not at all, go for it” But I did make a mental note about how odd it was for the cabbie to be making a personal stop during my cab ride.</div>
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It was close to 1am. Paradise island disappeared behind an old one story house as we turned off into a part of town where the locals lived. I sat and stared out the open window. The cabbie drove slowly down a narrow street, stray dogs ran along side the car, a few kids dashed in front of the car, the headlights beaming brightly as they passed. One had a basket full of dirty laundry on his head, the other two were too small to carry such a load. Then another left turn onto another side road.<br />
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The cab finally rolled to a stop. “Come on, I'll buy ya some’ting to drink” he said looking over at me as the dry dust from the dirt road settled around the cab.</div>
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“Alright” I said, trusting in my new friend.</div>
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Stepping out under a flickering street lamp, two old men leaned against what looked to be an old warehouse. We made our way around the corner of the building across another small street and headed for a small sign that lit up the corner of a building. The sign “The New Pond” glowed in the darkness. Walking up to the few stairs, the cabbie pushed the buzzer. The lock was released and we walked in.<br />
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Immediately we were greeted by a line of people crowded next to the door. The line rapped around the back corner of the small store. I followed behind my cab driver as we made our way to the large refrigerators.<br />
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In the back on the floor sat a large fish cooler, identical to the one on the yacht, opening the lid I was astonished to find Heineken nestled neatly in the ice. A smile came to my face, <i>we must have just missed the last bottle of Dom Perignon</i>. Pulling two from the ice like I had done only a few hours ago, I grabbed one for myself and one for my friend. It was a surreal moment, my senses were jammed as I experienced these contrasting environments back-to-back.<br />
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Walking up to the register I set the two Heineken on the counter. Suddenly I realized I had walked right into an argument. I stepped back from the counter as an exchange of words took place between a rather large man, who stood near the cashier insisting that he had waited long enough. Although I couldn't fully understand everything being said. Caribbean dialect can be difficult to understand even if it is english.</div>
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“Who’s are these” the cashier said with a sudden yell, trying to bypass an escalating argument.</div>
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“OH, their ours” I said gesturing to myself and the cab driver</div>
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“$4.17” she said in a quieter tone than she used with the large man.<br />
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Reaching into my pocket, I grabbed for my money when I felt the cabbie’s hand on my arm, he motioned that he was treat. I thanked him and grabbed my beer. The cashier began waving a small brown bag as if to get my attention. I quickly realized I was missing an important party favor. I snatched it from her hand, pretending it was just a lapse in memory, <i>of course I knew I needed a brown bag for the beer if I planned on drinking it outside</i>.<br />
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Slipping my beer into the brown bag I was then directed towards the bottle opener which was screwed to the wall, hanging on a thin chain near the door. It was clear, <i>this whitey had no clue how to get his beer from the cooler to the curb</i>. Popping the cap off I stepped outside into a world so different from the one I saw earlier that evening. Life was using all the colors on its palette to paint this most unordinary day.</div>
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A few minutes passed. Then several more. I started to wonder if I was going to make it home. I had no idea what my friend was doing inside "The New Pond”. Just as I seriously began to question his whereabouts he popped out of the liquor store, the buzzing of the door lock echoing in an otherwise quiet night. Jogging over to the taxi, he apologized for the wait.<br />
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“sorry mon, I’m trying for the lottery and I had to get my tickets organized, you saw the line.”</div>
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I laughed out loud. “You're trying for the lottery” I said in a surprised manner, “You’re trying for the yacht I was just on!” each of us laughing together.</div>
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“that’s the truth mon”</div>
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Jamming his brown-bagged beer between his legs, he backed taxi out from our parking spot and sped off towards my final destination. </div>
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Not much was said between us during the rest of the drive. He mentioned how tired he was from the night before. We talked briefly about what he would do with the money if he were to win the jackpot. He had given it some thought, saying he would “lock down” for a few days because of all the phone calls from his friends asking for money. “A million dollars would be enough, no more no less” he said remarking if he won one million he would be "a happy man". During the breaks in conversation he would take a sip of his beer and I reflected on all that I had lived since waking up that morning.</div>
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Approaching my stop I felt an unexpected sadness. After living a day like this what was I to do tomorrow? Or the next day?</div>
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“Take care of yourself” I said unsure how to end our unique roadtrip.</div>
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“You too mon”</div>
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I pulled a fifty from the citibank envelope and passed it to him.</div>
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Smiling I said “here, put this towards your yacht”</div>
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Taking the money he smiled back, the dark night accentuated the whites of his eyes.</div>
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“God bless ya’ mon.”</div>
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I turned towards my room. It had been a full day. I had plenty to learn from this day. Walking barefoot into the night, my yachting shoes dangled off my shoulder. A half empty beer in my hand, I had only one thought. Been there done that.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7771742166385299889.post-72552740167854382392013-01-15T20:13:00.000-08:002013-01-16T08:03:48.032-08:00Been there Done that PART 2Dressed in Kakai pants, a collared shirt, and those stereotypical yachting shoes (the ones with the thin piece of leather laced around the ankle, and of course white soled, so as not to scuff up the pretty, big boat.)<br />
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“Kevin!” I stood staring at the second level.</div>
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“Come on up.” He yelled back in a hurried tone.<br />
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I was nervous. Halfway up the gangway I tripped, only to catch myself on a thin roped railing. That thin rope separated "Brad the bartender” from "Brad the barnacle cleaner.” Acting as though nothing happened I made my way around the stern and came to a small door on the other side.</div>
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“Brad this is Deoni, you will be working with her.”</div>
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“Ok, great, nice to meet you” I said with a wide smile.</div>
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“You as well.” Her tone suggested I best drop my shit-eating grin because she'd seen her share of happy-go-luckies like me burnout in this "professional servant" industry. It was clear she was committed to being cold.</div>
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Motioning to me, I followed her, slipping through another small door that led into a living room of sorts. Framed pictures of Greek gods, possibly suggesting the owner was a direct descendant of Zeus, Ares or Hades, hung on fancy dark wood walls. We made our way up a tiny, narrow, spiral stair case to the 2nd floor which led to yet another elegant wood sitting room, until we reached a large sun deck. The deck included a cocktail bar, an afternoon tea area, and a large dinning table.<br />
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Deoni turned to me “Your bar will be outside here” pointing at the large table she continued “this is where they will be having dinner tonight.”</div>
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“ok cool, so what will I be serving at the bar?” I asked<br />
"have a look" she said walking away.</div>
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I took full inventory of the bar. Five bottles of Cristal. Five bottles of Dom Perignon. A few bottles of Chardonnay. A couple of bottles of hard A and a large white fish cooler full of ice cold Heinekens.</div>
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Like bed bugs on a cruise ship, news quickly spread that the <i>owner</i> and his guests had returned from their afternoon outing. A state of panic set in. Everyone on board launched into a frenzy, turning down the music, lighting candles, wiping down seats and counters (that weren't dirty to begin with), and placing floral arrangements on tables.</div>
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Hearing footsteps walking up the tiny side staircase I assumed my role as bartender. </div>
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“Good evening.” I said in a tone different from my usual voice.<br />
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Most of the party proceeded past me to the formal seating area under the shade from the third deck above them. Two gentlemen held back from the group to get a drink. As they approached I heard one say to the other “This is my life, you know what I’m saying, f*cking- this is it!” finishing his proclamation with a sharp slap on the back of the other man, as if to punch the dot of an exclamation point on the man's back.</div>
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“Drinks this evening?” I braced for one of them to order some crazy cocktail like J.P. Morgan’s <a href="http://sloshed.hyperkinetic.org/2009/10/23/alamagoozlum-cocktail/" target="_blank">Alamagoozlum</a></div>
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“Yes, what will you have Thurman?” a very round man said to the other.</div>
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“What do you have for beer? "I feel like a cold beer”</div>
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“I have Heineken on ice.”</div>
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“That'll be fine.”</div>
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“Make that two.” followed the other man.</div>
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Reaching down into the large white fish cooler I pulled out two bottles of Heineken. </div>
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At that moment I felt the slight vibrations beneath <i><b>Been there, Done that</b></i> followed by a jolt of motion. The dinner cruise had commenced.<br />
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As we left the harbor a soft Bahamian breeze blew as the sun fell towards the far end of the Caribbean. Motoring out and around the island we passed close to a massive cruise ship. I noticed people gawking from their balconies and imagined the conversation. </div>
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“Wow Bernie look! Look at that private yacht, who do you think it is?”</div>
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“Shit! Irene! Come and look at this boat.” </div>
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“Stan, come here, some rich people are having dinner on a yacht."</div>
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As dinner was being served I walking over to take another round of drink orders.</div>
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“Let’s have some Champagne so we can make a toast” the owner said loudly “What to do we have for champagne.”</div>
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“I have Cristal and Dom Perignon sir.”</div>
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“Cristal will be fine.”</div>
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In that moment part of me wanted to break from reality so as to better hear Robin Leech’s voice from the cheesy 80's TV show <i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ie6NY6gdXsQ" target="_blank">Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous</a></i> in my head “...and what does Brad serve when he's livin' large in the Bahamas, leave the Korbel at home for the kids, because nothing but Cristal will do for Brad's lavish parties on his luxury yacht <i><b>Been there, Done that</b></i>..."<br />
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After pouring evening cocktails I sat behind the bar eavesdropping on the aristocrats. They laughed at odd moments in strange conversations.<br />
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When the guests left an organized cleanup began. Helping with after dinner duties, I washed, dried, and put away fine china. By the end of the night I still had my same smile, but Deoni was right, this so called dream job clearly had a super-sized level of servitude with it.<br />
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When the work was done the captain handed me a small Citibank envelope. Cramming the envelope in my pocket I gave a wave goodbye, thanking the crew then disappeared out the side door down the gangway.<br />
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The night was fresh with a sea breeze. I slipped my shoes off. I could feel they were blistered from my stiff yachting shoes. Walking barefoot, strolling past other yachts, I saw other dinner parties on these magnificent boats, people laughing and drinking.<br />
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Walking the length of the marina I slipped out the gate and reached one of the last intersections before the big bridge crossed over to Nassau. Just then a cab slowed to a stop.<br />
“How much to Sandyport?” I asked<br />
“17” he said quickly.<br />
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Accepting his offer I rounded the front of his cab and jumped in the passenger seat. This move was received with a look of surprise by the cabbie. But I knew Bahamians have an incredibly welcoming personality, and I thought a chat with a local would help me unwind from a rather disenchanting dinner cruise.<br />
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<i><b>(PART 3 to follow)</b></i><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7771742166385299889.post-13922605218872865032013-01-14T00:30:00.000-08:002013-01-14T00:30:03.339-08:00Pic-me-up Monday #6<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7771742166385299889.post-69090525632327622552013-01-09T19:55:00.001-08:002013-01-09T19:57:00.494-08:00Been there Done that PART 1<br />
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I tripped on the gangway catching myself a moment before the captain turned around. I was pretty sure I just stumbled upon my dream
job. I was the newest crew member of a giant yacht, one hundred and forty feet
of pure excess floating in the harbor of Nassau Bahamas. The
name of the private yacht read in big black letters across the stern <b><i>Been
there Done that</i></b>.</div>
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Maybe it was over exposure as a child to the Disneyland ride “Pirates
of the Caribbean” or maybe I connected too much to Jay Gatsby
getting his start by climbing aboard a yacht on lake Superior. Whatever the reason I took it upon myself to walk the docks of the massive resort named <i>Atlantis</i> which is located on Paradise Island, a tiny island that is connected to the island of Nassau by a long bridge.<br />
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The <i>Atlantis</i> marina is more of a watering-hole for the 1%. The place is loaded with motorized McMansions ranging from
70 to 200 feet in length. I will admit I knew very little about the yachting world and even less about how to be a deckhand but hell, like Woody Allen says, "Ninety percent of life is just showing up."</div>
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Making my way along the dock I watched with envy as deckhands prepped for another day in paradise. It seemed to me a great way to get paid while traveling the world (in style). I scanned for unsuspecting captains as a warm morning sun breached the horizon.</div>
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“Are you the Captain?” I yelled up to nothing more than a phantom passing high up on a large yacht.</div>
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A voice yelled back “no, what da' ya’ want?” His tone suggested that I wasn't the first person to ask him that question.</div>
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“Wondering if you need another deckhand?” Keep it short I thought.</div>
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“Well…” trailing off as though an opportunity danced on the
tip of his tongue.</div>
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“What are you doing tonight?” he continued</div>
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“Whatever you need done.” I said confidently</div>
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“That’s the right answer.” Now in full sight, leaning over the second floor balcony, he was late 20's, tan, and outfitted in a white short-sleeved collared shirt. Embroidered on the left chest was the name of the yacht.</div>
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“Let me get the captain, we may need some help tonight with
our dinner party.” He ducked inside.</div>
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“What’s your name?” a man different from the last one came rolling out of the 1st floor.</div>
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“Brad Myers” I blurted out.</div>
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“Where you from?”</div>
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“Canada”</div>
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“Yeah, well, we’re having a dinner party for 16 people
tonight and might need some help at the bar, you ever worked around a bar before?” </div>
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“I spent the last year in San Francisco and did some
bartending for a catering company, I’d be happy to help out” I failed to mentioned that I failed miserably at tending bar. </div>
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“Ok, well... yeah, why don’t you come by around 3 today and
help set up.”</div>
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“Great, 3, great” I could sense the word <i>great</i> wanting to spill from my mouth 20 more times but I managed to stop at two.</div>
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Without knowing what else to say, I turned to walk away from
the captain.</div>
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Just then it hit me. What the hell do I wear? Turning around on my second
step-</div>
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“What should I wear?” I said with slight hesitation while gesturing to my current
choice of clothes.</div>
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“Ya’ got kakis?” </div>
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“Yeah!” </div>
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“Wear those and we’ll get you a shirt.”</div>
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“Great!” I shouted, letting another <i>great</i> slip out.</div>
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I turned and walked away, trying to keep my body from
breaking into unbridled excitement I discreetly clenched my fist. Just like that, I landed a job.</div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7771742166385299889.post-86840443592158411112013-01-07T00:30:00.000-08:002013-01-07T00:30:05.966-08:00Pic-me-up Monday #5<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2Kyrgyzstan41.20438 74.76609800000005635.0944445 64.438949500000064 47.3143155 85.093246500000049tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7771742166385299889.post-5915389174188529212013-01-04T11:45:00.000-08:002013-01-04T11:45:15.429-08:00Velocity, best served when terminal.<br />
Liechtenstein. A small country squeezed between the borders of Switzerland and Austria. It started out as a fleeting thought in my head, to visit the country of Liechtenstein. Then progressed into a challenge by some friends to make good on my word.<br />
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Having not a clue as to how to get to the capital city Vaduz by train from Milan, I walked up to the ticket office and asked for a one-way ticket to Liechtenstein. This statement was received by the Italian ticket agent with a look of utter confusion followed by a blank stare. After a lengthy discussion in his broken english and my shattered Italian, coupled with some very elaborate hand gestures I had my ticket.<br />
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Nothing could have prepared me for how boring Liechtenstein would turn out to be. Not the eight hour train ride with nearly double digit connections coupled with a 45 minute bus ride. Not even the comments made by the police chief of Vaduz, who was kind enough to give me a ride from the bus station to the hostel, when he told me "yeah, it's pretty boring here" in response to my inquiry of exciting things to do in Liechtenstein.<br />
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Friday night in the heart of the capital city and there was not a hint of noise/music/people. It was abundantly clear my imagination was led astray. After my second conversation with a local Liechtensteinian ended with "yeah, not really a lot to do here" I conceded defeat to the sad reality that finally cornered my enthusiasm into checkmate.<br />
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How could I turn this non-adventure on its head?<br />
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<i>-Terminal velocity of a falling body occurs during free fall when a falling body experiences zero acceleration. This is because of the retarding force known as air resistance. Air resistance exists because air molecules collide into a falling body creating an upward force opposite gravity. This upward force will eventually balance the falling body's weight. It will continue to fall at constant velocity known as the terminal velocity.-</i><br />
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I knew I was next to Switzerland, a country now firmly recognized in my mind as Liechtenstein’s alter ego. And in Switzerland I knew of the town Interlaken, where reaching terminal velocity is as common as ordering coffee in Seattle.<br />
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A rustic hostel in Interlaken provided accommodation and an appointment to fall out of a plane. I was scheduled for a tandem jump, meaning in addition to a parachute I would have a professional skydiver strapped to my back who, it is assumed, would also share my desire to not become "one" with the Swiss Alps at a high speed.<br />
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Once at the air field, a small group of us enjoyed the rather relaxed briefing typical of Europe’s laissez faire attitude towards “do”s and “don’t”s. The briefing from the jumpmaster, in its entirety, was something like "Have arms next to chest when exit the plane. Don't pull on cords. I do that."<br />
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Outfitted in vintage jumpsuits, a group of us walked towards the plane. I waved to young children that were (oddly) allowed to ride their bikes in and around the runway. We boarded the loud and unruly plane, soon reaching eye level with the Alps.<br />
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Once we had reached the desired elevation the jumpmaster took hold of the buckles on my harness and clipped us together. We were going to be the first to go, seated right next to the elongated door, which the jumpmaster inched open enough to poke his head out and examine the drop zone, 13,000 feet below.<br />
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The wind consumed the inside of the airplane, you had to yell to be heard. "FEET OUT!" was shouted into my left ear. I thought briefly about discussing our options, but respecting his profession, I did as I was told and dangled my feet out the door. <br />
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Out the door and falling 125 mph I was certain my face resembled Jack Nicholson's “Joker”. I was told later, 8 seconds into the 50 second free-fall we hit terminal velocity. After the parachute opened I looked across the soaring Alps in the direction of Liechtenstein. I decided that should anyone ever ask if Liechtenstein was worth seeing I would say:<br />
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"yes, preferably falling from 13,000 feet above Interlaken Switzerland."<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7771742166385299889.post-4083795955958694912012-12-31T00:30:00.000-08:002012-12-31T00:30:05.239-08:00Pic-me-up Monday #4 (Happy New Year)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7771742166385299889.post-87499104797578374982012-12-24T06:48:00.002-08:002012-12-24T06:48:09.044-08:00Pic-me-up Monday # 3 (Merry Christmas)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7771742166385299889.post-62688748975954102802012-12-18T21:43:00.000-08:002012-12-19T08:11:43.218-08:00finding that old thrill of Christmas morning.We had a red velvet chair during the years Santa visited our house. It was bright red. I would insist on camping out behind this chair on Christmas Eve. I needed to see the man who brought me all those wonderful gifts.<br />
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But every time I tried to sneak my spot my mom would send me to bed. My sister and I had to be content with making final arrangements on Santa's midnight snack. We made sure we selected the candy cane cookies which were the best of the batch. Making sure to place our letter to Santa next the cookies.<br />
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The night was endless. Tossing and turning. The anticipation of dawn was palpable. That complete and utter joy of Christmas morning as a child is something made of magic. Magic because during those years you have no idea you could possibly feel anything other than absolute joy and happiness when that morning finally arrives.<br />
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Now, at 32, as Christmas morning approaches I'm a little older. A little wiser. I value the morning but not for reasons I used to. Now I enjoy the intangible moments of sharing laughs with my family. But I remember with great fondness how I felt during those golden years when I would lay my head down on Christmas Eve stirring with boundless excitement.<br />
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And so it was, the other night, as I prepared my alpine touring (ski) gear for a ritual called Dawn Patrol, that I caught myself feeling an old rush of excitement. Maybe it was because it was the first Dawn Patrol of the season. Maybe it was that I was excited to share some laughs with a few guys I dont get to see that often. Maybe it was because there was an element of unknown, how would the conditions be? Was there fresh snow? Would there be a clear view of the sunrise?<br />
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That night I methodically laid out all my gear, I had a list and I checked it twice. I was ready for the morning. My skis and boots, clothes, poles, everything was neatly laid out next to the Christmas tree. I switched off the light and headed to bed. The whole night I was restless, worried I would miss the 4:15am alarm I had set.<br />
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I couldn't wait. I was 10 minutes ahead of my alarm. I was up. Moving with quiet purpose, packing the car I could feel the excitement building. Coffee in hand I met up with my friend Travis in the cold dark parking lot near the base of Mt. Spokane.<br />
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From there it was a nice drive up the mountain, chatting about holiday traditions, music, and of course skiing. It was my first gift of the morning. Sharing the friendliest of banter with an old friend.<br />
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When we arrived at the bottom of the ski hill it was still dark. We started to gear up while trading laughs with Jeff, a SOON-to-be father who made the drive in his own rig due to his "on-call" status.<br />
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During our steady <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ski_touring" target="_blank">skin to the top</a> of Mt. Spokane I gave thanks for my second gift of the morning. The short span of time that had the three of us chatting among a pure white winter morning. Every tree encased in a thousand layers of snow. There was no gift of a great view thanks to a low, lingering, fog but that's like getting the thick hand-knitted socks from Auntie Carol, not even on Christmas morning can you get everything you want.<br />
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Once at the top, with the wind kicking up a good chill, we pulled off the skins and prepared for the descent. I stood there with my friends and realized I was happy. Real happy. Like little kid happy. And then came the turns. Fresh cuts in powder. Yes a gift to be sure. There are few feelings like skis slicing through the fresh stuff. Wide sweeping turns that feel as though you're floating on a cloud.<br />
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And like that, it's over. Popping out of my bindings, a round of high-fives, a couple compliments on the conditions and its back down the mountain. Its called Dawn Patrol, but really, it's the closest thing to finding that old thrill on Christmas morning.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7771742166385299889.post-55316873565888419052012-12-17T05:56:00.000-08:002012-12-17T05:56:43.608-08:00Pic-me-up Monday #2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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To all those standing in line so they can see loved ones. For the ones who weather storm delays. Missed connections, early departures, and canceled flights. Traveling during the holidays can be hell. To all of you. Deep breaths and Godspeed.</div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7771742166385299889.post-3663048036802080032012-12-12T21:49:00.000-08:002012-12-13T07:24:23.472-08:00A season of skiing, Swiss style<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--vVTFh4qjs8/UMi7Av_8nRI/AAAAAAAAFiY/64cnzzyeUj4/s1600/CDL+2009+GROUP+PHOTO.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--vVTFh4qjs8/UMi7Av_8nRI/AAAAAAAAFiY/64cnzzyeUj4/s640/CDL+2009+GROUP+PHOTO.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Group photo of one of the groups I had. The one with the "pointed finger" over his face was a handful.</td></tr>
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It was dark but light from the star-filled sky flowed over the Swiss Alps. We stayed a little too long at the local ski lodge feasting on fondue, toasting with rosé one too many times. We set out, skiing under the influence. A group of my friends and fellow ski instructors were given torches, yes, flames on a stick, by the owner of the chalet. Picture a dozen hooligans each carrying a large flame down a ski hill.<br />
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This unusually long <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Apr%C3%A8s-ski" target="_blank">Après-ski</a> ended at the village watering hole called Amadeus. It seemed only logical to ski the long set of wooden stairs into the basement bar. My best friend Stella and I still talk about that night as one of the greatest we've ever lived.<br />
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Mornings always arrived a little too soon. No matter how rough I felt I would hit the alarm and start to gather my ski attire. Sure, my socks could have used a wash, but I'd do it later. The priority in the morning was to round up an international group of little hellions.<br />
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Children from the ages of 7 to 17 were shipped up from a swanky international school in Geneva Switzerland to a Swiss village called Cran-Montana. It is widely accepted as fact that getting a group of older kids meant the more skiing and the less "cat-herding" one does.<br />
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It was my luck that I drew the short straw. I was given the young kids around the age of 7. My group consisted of Jang from Japan, John also from Japan, Marta from Poland, Elias from Finland, Loic from Texas, and Cancaan from Switzerland.<br />
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Skiing is a great sport but it requires a lot of accessories which, for little kids (and hungover adults) can be hard to keep track of. My wonderful day on the mountain would begin with my name being called out in the chaos of a 100 kids looking for their skis (preferably matching).<br />
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"Brad I can't find my other glove." <br />
"Brad I lost my goggles."<br />
"Brad do I have to ski today?"<br />
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The first victory comes when I do a head-count and realize all my kids are on the correct bus. Picture sea of small helmets climbing, fighting, bobbing, onto a bus with poles and skies. Confusion does not even begin to describe this scene. Once on the bus it begins again: <br />
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"Brad I cant find my skis."<br />
"Brad I don't have my ski pass."<br />
"Brad I forgot my goggles."<br />
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The second victory comes when I can be somewhat certain that all my kids did in fact get on a gondola. Switzerland uses the gondola to transport skiers to and from the mountain, which although is a fun cultural experience, can make for some additional stress when transporting six kids, some of whom barely speak/understand english.<br />
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You also have to appreciate that competing in the "race" to the top of the mountain is a throng of Europeans with unusual determination to reach the top <i>before</i> women and children. To add to the mayhem, the gondolas or "tele-cabins" as the Swiss call them, are in constant motion which only increases the confusion: <br />
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I yell out "Jang...............Jang...............JANG come on, hurry up and get in this one." As I stiff arm an Austrian.<br />
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Jang gets pushed aside by a large adult, then manages to fall into the mass of hungry skiers, thus failing to make it on the tele-cabin.<br />
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Then I remember I'm one short. "Jang, where's John!?" <br />
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Just then John appears next to Jang. With the rest of my little ones already on a gondola John, Jang and I manage to get on the same tele-cabin. Once safely inside I complete the accomplishment with a compliment. <br />
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"Good job Jang!" <br />
"Good job John!"<br />
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The fight to the top has reached the final phase but the incessant, repetitive questioning continues inside the tiny tele-cabin:<br />
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"Brad where are we going?" <br />
"Brad when is lunch?"<br />
"Brad when is the bus coming to pick us up?"<br />
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Finally, once at the top, the sky opens up. We are surrounded by the Alps. I collect my kids and we set out across the mountain in search of fun. It was -16 C that morning. I remember these kids battling the elements to learn a rather demanding sport. I remember the days were filled with pile-ups, crashes, near misses, head-ons, and rear-endings. NASCAR has nothing on kids equipped with skis and no comprehension of speed control.<br />
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The fun I had during those few winters has no measure.<br />
Here's to a great ski season!</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7771742166385299889.post-162054689147921512012-12-10T09:31:00.000-08:002012-12-10T09:31:49.077-08:00Pic-me-up Monday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S4R3R-LShGY/UMYa6W7K1ZI/AAAAAAAAFhE/fHvbkPL-4ZQ/s1600/IMG_0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S4R3R-LShGY/UMYa6W7K1ZI/AAAAAAAAFhE/fHvbkPL-4ZQ/s640/IMG_0001.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
On Mondays I will post a photo reminding me, and maybe you, to not take life too seriously. (this photo was taken in Northwestern New Mexico, and yes, it is a real sign.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7771742166385299889.post-78541526567030847952012-12-03T14:17:00.001-08:002012-12-12T22:12:48.752-08:00In search of a new beginning one temp job at a timeRecently I paid a visit to my friends in San Francisco. Which reminded me of a time when I called that city home, if only for a year.<br />
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It was October (2004), with leaves on the ground my trusty (for the most part) 1980 mercedes benz coupe named Ruth and I set off in search of a new beginning in San Francisco California, a state where even the Terminator can find steady employment. <br />
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Even before we embarked on our adventure the optimistic outlook I held so close was fraught with pessimistic warnings by strangers and acquaintances alike; suggesting that a goal so daunting as starting from scratch in one of the most expensive cities in the United States was a task insurmountable for a psychology major with more academic warnings than accolades in a rather dismal job market, exclaiming as they did that the cost of living is dramatically higher in San Francisco than in the metropolis known as Spokane. To these warnings I looked to Mark Twain for advice “To succeed in life, you need two things: Ignorance and confidence.” <br />
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Certainly I had enough ignorance to fill all of Ruth on the drive down, I’d say even a little spilled out the open sunroof. As I drove I imagined Ruth and I as loosely representing a rebellious duo like “Butch Cassidy and the Sun Dance Kid”. Yet nothing could have prepared me for the beating my confidence was going take in the following months that included a series of temp jobs I was so kindly offered by Manpower (a temp agency). In no particular ranking I give you my previous work experience: <br />
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<b>Job #1)</b> An elf for Nieman Marcus, (no, there was no elf suit involved, however I must say being referred to as an elf is just as demoralizing). Stationed in the Epicure department, running up and down the department store, I helped outfit high-end holiday shoppers one ostentatious object at a time. <br />
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<b>Job #2)</b> A dawn until dusk door-to-door salesman. A pyramid-like-scheme, walking and talking with a Donald Trump lackey in his Hummer H2, going to strip mall after strip mall offering office supplies for a “low, low cost”, combined with intermittent prophecies crammed in my ear about how I too could one day be a branch manager like “Randy”. I could not run away fast enough when we returned to the parking lot. <br />
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<b>Job #3)</b> A data entry research slave: A part-time job with a full-time lunatic who owned and micro-managed a small food and beverage company. My short stint at this job had the stress level of a day-trader on Wall Street, the pay of a plasma donor, the mental stimulation of watching a monkey complete a Myers-Briggs test, the inspirational leadership equal to that of Larry Flint and a working environment I imagine similar to a sweat shop deep in the jungles of Indochina. <br />
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<b>Job #4) </b> A pharmaceutical sales assistant. I registered medical physicians next to a giant plastic penis for a conference on “Improved surgical procedures involving enlarged prostates.” After watching a lengthy and rather graphic video of the new method the penis was put to good use during a hands-on demonstration with fiber optics. <br />
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As the years pass these memories of my time in SF now glow with nostalgia, but the immediate aftermath of this relocation experiment led me to clear my head by walking across Spain.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7771742166385299889.post-63127715420452464472012-11-09T11:56:00.001-08:002012-11-09T13:51:38.110-08:00Then I realized - being in a rut isn't always bad.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KR5q5b3kdM0/UJ16wmZcSjI/AAAAAAAAE8s/TOg0VZVtgzE/s1600/DSC_8819.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KR5q5b3kdM0/UJ16wmZcSjI/AAAAAAAAE8s/TOg0VZVtgzE/s640/DSC_8819.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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I woke up this morning in a rut. Big, heavy questions started to roll around my head as soon as my eyes opened. So I went for a run. It was the first snow of the season. the air was crisp and cold. The kind of cold that bites. The kind that creeps under clothes and chills the core. It was clear Old Man winter was coming out of his rut.<br />
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I returned home, hoping I had run off my rut. No luck. So I turned to my trusted friend to help me realize that life isn't so complicated, that all things can be looked at in a different light and become not only non-stressful, but funny. Stephen Colbert. Watching the Colbert Report goes a long way in improving my mood. I flipped on Hulu and watched. It helped. So did the coffee. I was almost out of the woods.<br />
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Having used up all my tricks I was on the brink of returning to my rut when I had an unexplainable thought to step out onto the deck to get some fresh air. It was still morning. It was still cold and still snowing. Not heavy, the flakes floated in the air before hitting the ground. Like artificial snow on a hollywood movie set the white flakes seemed light enough to dance with each other before gathering on the ground.<br />
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I walked out on the deck and was greeted by the big eyes of whitetail doe staring up at me. I stood motionless. Standing still I stared back. It was completely quiet. The kind of quiet that almost has a sound. The kind of quiet that is a noise the way only mother nature can make no sound be a sound.<br />
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I watched as the doe turned away, not seeing me as a threat she took her time fading away under the snow covered pine branches. Something made me stay. I stood there enjoying the moment when nothing seems to really matter except appreciating life for all that it is and all that it isn't.<br />
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A moment later a four point whitetail buck stepped out from under the trees. He paid no attention to me. I knew he was on a mission. I then smiled, knowing he was also in a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rut_(mammalian_reproduction)" target="_blank">rut</a>. And it was then that I realized not all ruts are bad. I walked back in the house wishing I could give him a fist bump. After all, he just helped me get out of my rut.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PwoJpjEGY7g/UJ1cj-PDRrI/AAAAAAAAE8I/Ce47HNS6tQE/s1600/DSC_8813.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PwoJpjEGY7g/UJ1cj-PDRrI/AAAAAAAAE8I/Ce47HNS6tQE/s640/DSC_8813.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This photo is dedicated to my friends Tom and Mike, both of whom I know would have rather been seeing this guy between crosshairs than worrying about aperture.</td></tr>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7771742166385299889.post-19872681451365611812012-10-29T16:20:00.000-07:002012-10-29T16:21:26.226-07:00On the campaign trail with my running mate<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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All of us need a running mate. At the moment mine is Flo Rida. With the ipod on I lace up my running shoes. Dawn has arrived and I'm trying my best to get from the bed to the trailhead. Flo Rida gets me out the door then passes the responsibility to Joe Purdy. Still getting the lay-of-the-land from my temporary digs I scramble from the bedroom down the sandy hillside until I reach the dirt path.</div>
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The trail shoots east before turning into a wide loop that descends to the bottom of the gully, from there it's a steep climb back up to the house. I never time how long it takes to run this loop. It doesn't matter. If I had to guess its only about 5 or 6 songs long. </div>
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Thoughts start cranking with each stride. I evaluate my priorities, reminding myself of Ghandi's words "actions express priorities." I think about where I want to live. I quickly reorganize my contacts that have expressed possibilities of employment. What about the French Chef who taught me so much during those weeks I helped him at that cooking school in Provence. Surly he could help me find a gig in New Orleans while I land something full time.</div>
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Joe Purdy hands off to Wye Oak. The cold morning air which first cooled my core now feels good. I can feel my heart beat. A doe jumps and bounds from the trail down into the tall brush. I stop and stare. Our eyes lock on each other. Neither of us move. The Roots start to play in my ears as we turn and run from each other.</div>
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The trail narrows into single track. I love this section. There's a short stretch here where yellow leaves litter the trail. Like a bridge that connects one season to another I race across the leaves deeper into the gully. At the bottom there's only one way home. Up.</div>
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Straight up, heart pounding, sweat inducing, its just a matter of how far I can make it before doubling over gasping for breath. No thoughts, only short strides. "Simmer down" by Bob Marley starts just as I stop on the side of the hill.</div>
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I'm on the homestretch. Only a couple hundred feet left. Switching to a slow walk, I enjoy the first rays of sun on the side of the valley. Old school Pearl Jam plays as I drop my running shoes, now damp and dirty, outside the door. Eddie Vedder has long been one of my favorite running mates in this campaign called life.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7771742166385299889.post-78986489806362633562012-10-21T09:44:00.000-07:002012-10-21T09:44:19.210-07:00Turkish delight<br />
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<a href="http://www.spokesman.com/stories/2012/oct/21/turkish-delight/" target="_blank">Sometimes my writing finds a home somewhere</a> other than this blog.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7771742166385299889.post-52737023909865804622012-10-16T16:48:00.000-07:002012-10-16T16:48:12.278-07:00Odd Job: Feeding a bunch of hungry hippies<br />
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You might think it strange to feel stress while wearing a
tie-dye apron but that’s exactly how I felt. Bear, the owner of the pizzeria in
Hope Idaho, had hired me to help him make pizza at the Barter Faire in
Tonasket.</div>
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“Find your zen.” was the only piece of advice he gave me
before turning me loose inside his retrofit van built for making pizzas. His
tricked-out 80’s Econoline is fully equipped to crank out pies. Exactly what
you would imagine if one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were selected for
“Pimp my ride”. </div>
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Just as I started to find my groove, turning out pies as
fast as I could Bear came to the back of the van, “don’t stress but we’re
gettin’ busy so keep’em comin’.” Faster I thought. </div>
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The Greek pizza in the oven needed rotating. The “Village”
was cooked and ready to cut. The pepperoni pizza needed be moved to the bottom
rack. And the cheese pizza was ready for some heat. </div>
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Shit. The cheese pizza wouldn’t slide off the peel. I
forgot to dust it with semolina. Semolina flour, made from durum wheat, allows
the pie to slide off the peel. I tried in vain to shake off the pizza but it
became stuck in the oven.</div>
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Desperate to rescue it from the inferno I scooped it up only
to drop it on the oven door. I felt like I was on an episode of I Love Lucy. I was in the middle of a culinary crime scene. I started to panic as the mangled cheese pie
sizzled on the open oven door.</div>
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I dumped the disfigured cheese in the trash, built a new
pizza and pulled myself together. After weathering the worst of the dinner rush
I rolled out my sleeping bag on the floury floor of the van, tired from working
a twelve hour day.</div>
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The next morning I awoke to Bear’s friend known as Africa
John who mockingly shouted “Barter Faire! I’m popping the yellow one!” Fluent
in French, Arabic and some Spanish, Africa is a weathered UN humanitarian
worker turned hand-sculpted-stone-bead seller. The massive encampment was
silent in the early morning as we sat with our cowboy coffee, taking a moment
to watch the sunrise. </div>
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I spent the day working the till with Dora, Bear’s Mexican
girlfriend, serving up hot tamales, puff pastries and pizza. True to its name
many customers wanted to barter for food. Hats, chocolate, organic vegetables,
pretty much anything imaginable as proven by a young man who offered to go get
his “guitar and play a Jimi Hendrix song for a slice.” </div>
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Much of what I knew as normal was constantly challenged by these unique surroundings.
After giving one guy his change he reached his hand over the tip jar and
dropped some bud in my hand. “Here ya’ go man.” Another passed by the booth
dressed in a loincloth “Yeah, I’m looking to start a land trust.” I heard him
say.</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GOU1m18mWzQ/UH3wAauFJTI/AAAAAAAAE54/OSZMitzlecE/s1600/barter+faire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GOU1m18mWzQ/UH3wAauFJTI/AAAAAAAAE54/OSZMitzlecE/s640/barter+faire.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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This “fight the system” vibe seemed to radiate from
everyone. At the Barter Faire “living off the land” wasn’t just a catch phrase
dropped at farmer’s markets but a way of life. </div>
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Families sold yearn, old blue jeans, organic vegetables and
other goods under E-Z up tents. Old vans, converted school buses and Winnebagos
resurrected from the 80s were commonplace among the long rows of campers. </div>
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I felt like a foreigner far from home. My bald head seemed
even more naked among so many dreadlocks. My “casual Friday” attire left over
from an abandon desk job was in stark contrast to brightly colored natural
fibers. </div>
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After four long days we loaded the van, strapped the
hula-hoops to the roof and headed back to the land of electricity, running water,
and cell phone reception. It was early morning as the dusty van rolled down a
long stretch of road. </div>
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A faint morning fog covered the pastures along highway 21.
Bear was at the wheel, I sat shotgun and Dora was seated on a plastic lawn
chair lodged between the two front seats. </div>
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Sloping green forests were dotted with the yellow tips of
tamaracks and the aspen leaves flickered in the sunlight. In that moment I
couldn’t decide if I had found my zen or I was just dead tired.</div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7771742166385299889.post-30400778903679949492012-10-09T12:11:00.001-07:002012-10-09T12:15:22.040-07:00Searching for tamales on my Triumph<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Fall days were made for motorcycles. I wasn't home for more than a day before pulling the cover of my Triumph Bonneville. The open road was calling and I had an old friend to visit.</div>
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Pulling down on the throttle I headed north bypassing Coeur d' Alene, searching for unknown back roads, cutting through Rathdrum and Spirit Lake. Reaching Sandpoint I turned east wrapping around the north end of Lake Pend Oreille towards the small town of Hope Idaho.</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-belLrlB5W_E/UHOVdrqmPlI/AAAAAAAAE4I/xQ8a8yYLZns/s1600/DSC_8488.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-belLrlB5W_E/UHOVdrqmPlI/AAAAAAAAE4I/xQ8a8yYLZns/s640/DSC_8488.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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I was in search of an <a href="http://mynotesfromthefield.blogspot.com/2010/02/upper-80s-barefoot-and-100-chance-of.html" target="_blank">old friend who I met along the coast of Mexico</a> a few years back. I knew him as Oso, Spanish for Bear, but around these parts he's known as Bear. As luck would have it, he owns a Pizzeria in Hope which is a 2.5 hour drive from Spokane. </div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Kat08AtqZs8/UHOViMgMzmI/AAAAAAAAE4Q/ixD_PpA7rSo/s1600/DSC_8491.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Kat08AtqZs8/UHOViMgMzmI/AAAAAAAAE4Q/ixD_PpA7rSo/s640/DSC_8491.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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I found him back in the kitchen making pizza with his girlfriend Dora from Mexico. "We met a few days after you left San Agustinillo!" He said looking at her with a big smile. "She doesn't speak english and I still don't speak spanish, so there's a lot of quiet time." "If something gets real serious we fire up the computer and use google translate."</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oBYqP47y9Rw/UHOW32FvyKI/AAAAAAAAE44/hOCrDUI2XEo/s1600/DSC_8494.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="412" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oBYqP47y9Rw/UHOW32FvyKI/AAAAAAAAE44/hOCrDUI2XEo/s640/DSC_8494.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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We headed up stairs to the deck with a few of his friends to enjoy a giant pie with big chunks of garlic. "Grab a beer!" he said as we passed the cooler. The sun was setting over the lake as we talked about all the characters we knew back in San Agustinillo.</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tXaEreoPhk4/UHOVoCTc10I/AAAAAAAAE4k/zEZB2ucLWFY/s1600/DSC_8500.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tXaEreoPhk4/UHOVoCTc10I/AAAAAAAAE4k/zEZB2ucLWFY/s640/DSC_8500.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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The evening ended in the kitchen. I helped him prep food for the massive Barter Fair this coming weekend in Tonasket Washington. "I don't know how patriotic you are, but you fold these like you fold a flag." He said, teaching me how to prepare Spanakopita. Meanwhile Dora was making <a href="http://mynotesfromthefield.blogspot.com/2010/01/tamales-sabado.html" target="_blank">tamales</a>, "we're gonna sell tons of her tamales this weekend!"</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ogZP4IaZryE/UHOVrtszGcI/AAAAAAAAE4s/Nxm7FWH1T8M/s1600/DSC_8514.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ogZP4IaZryE/UHOVrtszGcI/AAAAAAAAE4s/Nxm7FWH1T8M/s640/DSC_8514.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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It was late by the time we reached Oso's small cabin up on the hill over looking the lake. With no chance of rain I found a flat piece of ground, blew up my pad, rolled out my sleeping bag, and balled up my leather jacket into a pillow. It was a cold night but I was warm in my sleeping bag. The sky was covered in stars.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7771742166385299889.post-36262066309156330782012-09-28T11:20:00.001-07:002012-09-28T20:26:48.667-07:00Somewhere between here and there.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I travel with one big black duffel bag. Packed with some clothes, tent, 60L backpack, sleeping bag and panniers. I like to call it my Jason Bourne bag because it has everything I need to survive a life on the road including a zip lock bag with maps and SIM cards for different countries, which as my sister reminds me, isn't quite the same as having multiple passports. But I
love my big black bag. Not because of what it contains but because of what it represents. Exploring the unknown.</div>
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These notes from the field are proof that I’m often most
comfortable in uncommon places. This blog was created to document what I see
and feel during my travels. Which is why I always begin to question its relevance
whenever I board my return flight. “What will I write about now?” I ask myself
the closer I get to the country, culture, and language I’ve known for most of
my life.</div>
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My first impulse, usually felt in the middle of wicked long
flight from the unknown to the known, is to stop posting on the blog. Maybe a
farewell post. Which is what this post would be if it were not for an email I received from a distant friend of the family. He wrote that "although it’s difficult to clearly determine, all of us have a purpose and something to offer the rest of the world." In short, I took his inspiring email as a challenge to keep telling my story.</div>
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It would be easier to turn off the blog, to not worry about
posting anymore. But I love a good story. I love to share a good story. I love
to be inspired and inspire others. If this blog reaches but a few people
who find some of what I write inspiring, than I am doing something
I believe in. Which is really all I'm searching for during this nomadic
life. Well that, and a place to live.</div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7771742166385299889.post-25313566543547690312012-09-23T14:54:00.003-07:002012-09-23T14:54:57.391-07:00Taking a walk before heading west<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3lnb3nCGLn0/UF9DcXzFpnI/AAAAAAAAE2w/roemrw3oWrc/s1600/DSC_8366.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3lnb3nCGLn0/UF9DcXzFpnI/AAAAAAAAE2w/roemrw3oWrc/s640/DSC_8366.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taking in the same view that inspired van Gogh to paint <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wheatfield_with_Crows" target="_blank">Wheatfield with Crows</a></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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My stride is often criticized for being a saunter. However, I find a slow walk allows the imagination to run wild. This theory was with me today when I stepped off the train at <a href="http://mynotesfromthefield.blogspot.fr/2010/10/visiting-vincent.html" target="_blank">Auvers Sur Oise</a>, made my way up the hill, passing <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Church_at_Auvers" target="_blank">the church</a> to an open field where Vincent and Theo are buried.<br />
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Getting from the 10th Arrondissement in Paris to Auvers happened in a flash. At 10am I caught the direct train which only runs on weekends from Gare du Nord. In 30 minutes the busy streets of Paris transformed into rolling farmlands.<br />
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Before noon it felt like fall. The sky was a solid tone of gray and the faint breeze had a cold bite. After paying my respects to Vincent and Theo I started to walk the loop that showcases spots that inspired some of Van Gogh's most well known paintings.<br />
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By the afternoon the sun started to shine through the clouds. I was making my way towards <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Gachet" target="_blank">Dr. Gachet's</a> house when I came across a bench on the side of the tiny street. I took a seat, broke off a piece of baguette, crammed it full of Camembert and started to laugh out loud as I read <i>The Dharma Bums </i>by Kerouac.<br />
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I looked up from my book every so often desperately wishing Vincent would pass on his way to meet his friend and physician Dr. Gachet. Once I had my fill of baguette and self-induced hallucinations I continued my journey around town.<br />
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Evening arrived around the same time as my train. I took my seat and stared out the window turning my thoughts towards my good friend Pat Bognar. I remembered the first time I heard her rave about Auvers Sur Oise during a Black&White Photography lecture.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7771742166385299889.post-36231595583392020712012-09-18T00:15:00.001-07:002012-09-19T00:47:17.945-07:00How I found a fratello<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A person goes through life meeting people. We are constantly meeting people. Some stick and some don't. I believe this to be even more true when traveling. During my five summers I spent working at a sports camp in Switzerland I met a lot of people. It was my first summer and my roommate was an Italian named Nicola Stella. That was almost a decade ago.</div>
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Now, after several summers/winters in Switzerland, countless beers shared across the globe, and a master's program that gave me the opportunity to live in Torino, I have infiltrated Stella's social circle. His network of friends is unlike anything I have ever known back home. Stella's collection of friends have shared the same playground, they remember the names of each other's high school girlfriends and, having remained close even after university, formed an enduring bond often reserved for brothers.</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-M_YDgeDjzZY/UFbFoLZ0t7I/AAAAAAAAE2A/LSaO6rRPDlI/s1600/My+brothers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="622" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-M_YDgeDjzZY/UFbFoLZ0t7I/AAAAAAAAE2A/LSaO6rRPDlI/s640/My+brothers.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Top row: Mimmi, Guido, Fabio. Bottom row Matteo, Stella</td></tr>
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I have one wonderful sister but no brothers. Growing up my older sister taught me things I would have never otherwise known. But just as I can appreciate what she has taught me I have always been envious of others who have brothers. I imagine that dynamic would be different. Just as my sister instilled in me a sense of style (which has worked with varying degrees of success) I believe a brother would teach skills from the other side of the spectrum.</div>
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Fortunately I found five brothers. This small group of guys who were Stella's friends when I met them nine years ago have since become some of my closest friends. Roughly the same age, we have watched each other evolve, sharing advice and insights along the way. I have come to appreciate each of them with their own distinctive personality. Jokes and jabs aside I admire how they look out for each other, overcoming challenges not alone but as an elite squad of friends finding their way through life.</div>
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Who knows why we meet the people we meet. I can't guess why a random set of circumstances led me to work that first summer in Switzerland. But one of the many things that traveling has taught me is to never take anything for granted, whether it is finding a shepherd who shows you a hidden source of fresh water or getting the "ok" to stay at the Shakespeare and Co bookshop. Logistical good fortune aside, the people I have met from traveling are what I am truly thankful for. To have found such a friend as Nicola Stella will remain one of the greatest gifts of my life, made only sweeter because through him I have found five brothers I would have never otherwise known.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7771742166385299889.post-47350762915749912212012-09-06T08:14:00.002-07:002012-09-06T08:14:50.468-07:00So long Sardinia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S_Qj9PJtsoI/UEir_s9CBkI/AAAAAAAAE0Y/Smiw5y2-nIY/s1600/DSC_8078.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="432" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S_Qj9PJtsoI/UEir_s9CBkI/AAAAAAAAE0Y/Smiw5y2-nIY/s640/DSC_8078.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
I pedaled a little slower on my last day in Sardinia. It wasn't from tired legs but from not wanting to leave. It may be considered Italian by the mainland but never before have I had to remind myself where I am than on this enchanting island. Sardinia consumed my imagination with its beautiful beaches and soaring mountains. Even the shortest interaction with locals had me wishing I could speak Sardinian dialect. Not being able to listen to these proud people tell their stories will forever haunt me.<br />
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It's another all night ferry from Olbia to Genoa for Lyudmila and I. From there a train to Torino to share a long dinner with old friends.<br />
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<i>Editor's note: I was just along for the ride. Up steep climbs, cranking hard on the pedals, Lyudmila managed without a single flat tire, broken chain, or snapped cable. Nothing. She never quit me.</i><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7771742166385299889.post-14978585064435356182012-09-04T09:49:00.000-07:002012-09-04T21:39:12.613-07:00When you wake up next to a bicycle.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3hzQPoQDF_E/UEYbImTnVAI/AAAAAAAAEz0/ERZv4gJluzo/s1600/DSC_8059.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3hzQPoQDF_E/UEYbImTnVAI/AAAAAAAAEz0/ERZv4gJluzo/s640/DSC_8059.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Dawn breaks as I roll over (off my sleeping pad) and see her (Lyudmila) leaning up against a tree, staring at me through the thin netting of the tent. Like a dog that wants to be walked my bike wants to go for a ride. Secretly I'm just as excited to start the day.<br />
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The first hour of each day on this cycling adventure is like they say in photography terms the "golden hour". I break down camp. Every item has its specific place in the panniers. Every movement starts the flow towards that first crank of the pedals.<br />
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Finally setting the wheels in motion, leaving behind the known for the unknown, we begin the search for the most important destination of the morning. AN OPEN CAFE. Like the <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2012/09/02/us/sniffing-out-a-subtle-scent-to-help-save-some-whales.html?pagewanted=all" target="_blank">black lab that can pick up the scent of Orca scat</a>, Lyudmila somehow steers me towards the lonely tired cafe owner firing up the coffee grinder.<br />
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Once inside the ritual is always the same. Go straight for the warm croissants that are always found in this magical little plastic set of shelves, pull a napkin from the dispenser and pick out the one with the surprise inside (apricot jam) while ordering "un cappuccino". Then stand at the bar and bask in the five minutes of banter between the bartender and whoever else is up at the ass crack of dawn.<br />
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And then it beings. The real sense of adventure hits me when I start to ride away from the cafe and find the open road under my wheels. Everyone is waking up. Starting their day. The road is quiet, the only time the road is quiet. The sun still fighting with the moon for earth's attention. The cool air is giving way to the heat of the day.<br />
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I pass an elderly man and greet him with the best Italian tone I can muster.<br />
"Buongiorno!" it just rolls off my tongue.<br />
Looking surprised he sends me a soft reply with a smile.<br />
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The road unfolds in front of us and we follow it, wherever it goes.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7771742166385299889.post-71817302743422822722012-09-01T04:56:00.000-07:002012-09-01T04:56:04.100-07:00Bentu maestru and amazing beaches in SardiniaMy mother is famous for quoting the idiom "<a href="http://idioms.thefreedictionary.com/It's+an+ill+wind+that+blows+nobody+good" target="_blank">it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good.</a>" But as I pushed my pedals in order to go <i>down hill</i> I couldn't help wonder who or what was benefiting from the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mistral_(wind)" target="_blank">Mistral</a> (or <i>Bentu Maestru</i> in Sardinian).<br />
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The powerful wind that whips down from France started on my second day in Sardinia. The locals have told me it will blow for three days. Taking it slow and steady I head over the middle section of the island, going west to east over the mountains. For now, a few photos from my time along the southern coast.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Jz7WyYBkluM/UEHwg9oOyRI/AAAAAAAAEyU/J_TWXkLGKS0/s1600/DSC_7925.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Jz7WyYBkluM/UEHwg9oOyRI/AAAAAAAAEyU/J_TWXkLGKS0/s640/DSC_7925.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The beaches of Sardinia have to been seen to be believed. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ucHiu5N-Z8M/UEHw8UwXWKI/AAAAAAAAEyg/VAORqoNUij8/s1600/DSC_7943.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ucHiu5N-Z8M/UEHw8UwXWKI/AAAAAAAAEyg/VAORqoNUij8/s640/DSC_7943.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Killing some time as I wait for the ferry to reach the small island of San Pietro just off the southwest corner of Sardinia</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2VkYqKq7UWs/UEHxVmZpR-I/AAAAAAAAEyo/CM7crh55OH8/s1600/DSC_7949.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2VkYqKq7UWs/UEHxVmZpR-I/AAAAAAAAEyo/CM7crh55OH8/s640/DSC_7949.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flamingos in Sardinia. They glowed pink in the early morning.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OOqxCpHBWgE/UEHxyC6KieI/AAAAAAAAEyw/jCF05y_9Lgw/s1600/DSC_7956.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OOqxCpHBWgE/UEHxyC6KieI/AAAAAAAAEyw/jCF05y_9Lgw/s640/DSC_7956.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reaching the far side of San Pietro.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8SpmHDWT4Lk/UEHySeNFzNI/AAAAAAAAEy8/NWhqGtR7HQI/s1600/DSC_7962.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8SpmHDWT4Lk/UEHySeNFzNI/AAAAAAAAEy8/NWhqGtR7HQI/s640/DSC_7962.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The people of Sardinia are proud to be from this island. I have noticed more than one tattoo outlining the island's shape. So it came as no surprise when I saw this mini cooper, sporting the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flag_of_Sardinia" target="_blank">flag of Sardinia</a>.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kYhertBOYmc/UEHysnihrmI/AAAAAAAAEzE/fkmb3vs41mY/s1600/DSC_7966.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="408" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kYhertBOYmc/UEHysnihrmI/AAAAAAAAEzE/fkmb3vs41mY/s640/DSC_7966.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kids at play during the rough seas created by the Mistral</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WG_hQqNM5fY/UEHzB2yS6RI/AAAAAAAAEzQ/9JanziyN-3k/s1600/DSC_7985.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WG_hQqNM5fY/UEHzB2yS6RI/AAAAAAAAEzQ/9JanziyN-3k/s640/DSC_7985.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset along the coast.</td></tr>
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