tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11247290397660798842024-03-07T17:42:32.520+09:00Okbojidan's Backup BlogThis blog contains notes from my bike trip around South America. For my travel blog, please visit http://okobojidan.com.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger71125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1124729039766079884.post-7249849444194904822011-01-23T07:12:00.002+09:002011-01-25T02:16:02.730+09:00Sevilla - The city of bad food<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">As the only guests of the hotel in Ronda, we thought we had an inside track on the nicest room available. Instead, we were allotted a room with two twin beds, a heater that could only be operated by a physicist, and a shower without proper hot water. Still, at least we had a roof over our heads.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">The phone shattered us awake at 6:30 am, and we quickly showered and departed for the 7:00 bus. Needing a shave, the hotel attendant scratched his beard as he processed my American Express and waved us good-bye. At that point, we didn’t know how mad we should have been at him.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Stumbling through the bus station, we realized the ticket window was closed. We toured around the building in search of the bus to Sevilla, speculating that perhaps it had yet to arrive from its previous town. In typical Dan & Caitlin fashion, we finally found one bus with an accompanying driver and asked if he was going to Sevilla. No, he confusedly explained, he was beginning his bus route to pick up the local kids for school. Thwarted.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Conversing with another Sevilla bound passenger, we ascertained the bus wasn’t leaving until 8:00. Our helpful hotel attendant, in fact, was not so helpful after all. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Still, the hour delay gave us the chance to warm up in a bright, smoke filled café with café con leches and warm breakfast sandwiches. It also gave us the chance to map out our day with the help of the LP Brick.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At 8:00 we returned to the bus stop, ready to depart, but thwarted yet again. Finally, at 8:30 the bus to Sevilla arrived, and Caitlin and I boarded, promptly falling asleep. Slowly the sleep lifted from our heavy eyelids as the suburbs turned into the ancient city streets of one of the most important cities in Spain. Sevilla was the dominant city during Columbus’ time – controlling all trade with the colonies until the river’s pollution forced the governors to move to the coastal city of Cadiz. The legacy is stunning – one of the world’s largest cathedrals and colorfully decorated parks and streets.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivIhxGsoK-hXPJd1uSmEqNQBe_aAs1iiM2v8EE_5ThCCm6y6tocu7WEf3hx4rLNlH_1F0E8ibuTC6Twlv9HKyyZwc8LI8OITDv5qB2HDuzed1chhEi7j-5jeOEOOHZ2NjIW2gdma32Y_AG/s1600/spain+18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivIhxGsoK-hXPJd1uSmEqNQBe_aAs1iiM2v8EE_5ThCCm6y6tocu7WEf3hx4rLNlH_1F0E8ibuTC6Twlv9HKyyZwc8LI8OITDv5qB2HDuzed1chhEi7j-5jeOEOOHZ2NjIW2gdma32Y_AG/s320/spain+18.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">First, we toured the ancient Cathedral, which at 6 euro a piece was no idle whim. In a classic fusion of Moorish and Christian architecture, the Cathedral retained its minaret which rose 98 meters above the city. The architects had designed the square, sloped walkway to accommodate imams on horseback, and after the 15 minute climb, I was more than ready to descend on the top of a saddle. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The city of Sevilla rose to our eyes through the mist and fog that encapsulated the city. Staring out at the medieval streets, we could just make out the bull ring in between gusts of fog and drops of rain. Setting out to explore the city in a traditional way, we scouted the best path to the bull ring and descended the fortified tower.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Although bull fights only take place in the summer, the bull ring’s staff was still providing tours of the complex. Home to the year-end festival, this bull ring is the most important in all of Spain. Touring a bull ring was the one thing I had wanted to do from the beginning of the trip, and finally I was getting the chance to do just that. Waiting for the tour to begin, I felt the Little Boy Feeling beginning to percolate inside me. Even on this cold, misty day, my excitement was contagious, with Caitlin glaring at me and ordering calm.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Bowing to the scattered assortment of tourists, our tour guide, a short, 30ish authoritative woman with dark hair, agreed to deliver her spiel in English. She opened the door beneath the Princess’s Gate and the ten of us straggled into the ringside seats, taking in the dirt and the surrounding benches. Our guide not only educated us about the basics of a bull fight (three fighters, six bulls) she also pointed out the unique aspects of Sevilla’s masterpiece. Every podunk village in Spain boasts a ring, but this one was the most famous in the entire country. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilADnuNRJh9H0Tnyki1-Lr6Sk5wkS8nEl1VlScrItCmF5tBgvQcwOds8vKbSLsKlRShszLTRxuZP8uH59xAnZI-f_MzhYizo5kFV2uIovz2Ac_ujB8Q4w2_dAlDk0HkVtQFFHenfQzKmAG/s1600/spain+23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilADnuNRJh9H0Tnyki1-Lr6Sk5wkS8nEl1VlScrItCmF5tBgvQcwOds8vKbSLsKlRShszLTRxuZP8uH59xAnZI-f_MzhYizo5kFV2uIovz2Ac_ujB8Q4w2_dAlDk0HkVtQFFHenfQzKmAG/s320/spain+23.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Feeling high after the tour, we set off in search of a meal and an escape from the driving rain. We settled on a restaurant along a pedestrian street in the center of the city. We could not have picked more poorly.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Caitlin had read that a common, cheap meal in Spain is the menu del dia or meal of the day – usually prepared for local workers unable to return to their homes for lunch or siesta. Dreaming of comfort food, instead we were served fish salad, green (think puke) soup and a stew of meat and potatoes that was wholly unacceptable. For 9 euro, we were getting a deal, but one that even the beggars outside would have refused. The only thing I could offer up about the meal, “It’s growing on me,” was the strongest complement I could come up with. The best part, by far, was the Hershey’s Hot Chocolate they brought me for dessert. Basically, our money was paid to rent on our space while we warmed up our appendages and waited out the rain. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Caitlin, in addition to seeing the ancient cities, was determined to find a new set of boots at some point during our trip. She decided that Sevilla, in the rain and on very little sleep, was just the place to begin her diligent search. I couldn’t have been more excited or helpful. After two hours of fruitless efforts, we were cold, tired, hungry, and ready to rest. Rather than wait out dinner and a flamenco show, we hightailed it to the train station looking for a smooth ride home. Seventy Euros was the price for the high speed train – which only traveled a mere 130 miles – a bit out of our price rage. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZJxYX0lz_VZnVw2WwQHHi4XOzvJNUkPP9FM5PTNZdCkEFTGaGXQYHzVJ8PvLTCnazxl_Fnt5ute_2idMUZ2bqliL1zQiz5G0iJD5GRR4Zz8icwUq-z2ZnrE7qcQcRQoGzMzGvj7G3UIsz/s1600/spain+22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZJxYX0lz_VZnVw2WwQHHi4XOzvJNUkPP9FM5PTNZdCkEFTGaGXQYHzVJ8PvLTCnazxl_Fnt5ute_2idMUZ2bqliL1zQiz5G0iJD5GRR4Zz8icwUq-z2ZnrE7qcQcRQoGzMzGvj7G3UIsz/s320/spain+22.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: right;"><br />
</div>Luckily, we caught a taxi to the bus station, and found a bus traveling to our small town of Fuengirola that only cost 30 euros – much more palatable to the bank account. Incredibly, the same four people who had rode with us from Ronda that morning, were waiting to board the bus as well. As Caitlin climbed up the bus steps, one woman reached out and held her hand signifying that they too were heartened by this coincidence. Two hours later as the bus rumbled into Ronda, we waved good bye to our companions, and waited for the bus to continue on its journey. Having left Sevilla at 6:00, we were more than ready to get off the bus as it rumbled along the Mediterranean coast after 10 pm.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But rather than drop us off at the bus station, we, as the only passengers left on the bus, hoped the kind conductor would drop us off in front of our resort. Our entreaties that began 30 miles ahead of our drop-off point fell upon uncomprehending ears. Still, as we approached Club la Costa, our pleas grew more heeded and our commands of Aqui! Aqui! finally penetrated his uncompromising ears, and he slammed on the bus breaks immediately in front of our favorite destination, our BP station. With excessive thanks, we leapt off the bus and ran to the store.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Still sore from lunch, and lacking anything for dinner, we scoured the store in search of hot dogs, bread, ketchup, and sustenance to satiate our beleaguered bodies. We fell asleep exhausted but content with the day’s adventure.</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1124729039766079884.post-67727930765442886632010-12-28T01:55:00.002+09:002010-12-28T01:59:10.705+09:00Where's that bus going?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Spain - The First Few Days</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy4ugCPuNre_tzVI8NLWinJ0Oo3L0V4MWDNehXXezAGD7ewwRSNVXSD3sprcMpLSgUYI8wq5tV2L3KiAXFb0bIcXBBiW94HbTRbWCoYDWf2Evhcoqew9JflDkDXaFw_oZSk7IadFjOP9F1/s1600/spain+7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy4ugCPuNre_tzVI8NLWinJ0Oo3L0V4MWDNehXXezAGD7ewwRSNVXSD3sprcMpLSgUYI8wq5tV2L3KiAXFb0bIcXBBiW94HbTRbWCoYDWf2Evhcoqew9JflDkDXaFw_oZSk7IadFjOP9F1/s320/spain+7.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 18px;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 18px;">That was the question that I found myself asking Caitlin many times throughout our trip.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 18px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 18px;">Sitting at the bus station in Algeciras, just back from Morocco, “Is that our bus to Malaga.”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 18px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 18px;">Cold, hungry, and tired at the bus station in Ronda, waiting for our delayed bus to Sevilla, “Where’s that bus going?”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 18px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 18px;">“Dan, that’s a school bus” Caitlin informed me.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 18px;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">These snippets were just two of the many conversations we had while trying to secure transportation. In total, between when we landed at the Malaga airport and returned one week later, we boarded 15 buses, 9 taxis, 7 trains, 2 ferries, and one private tour bus. Every time, before boarding a bus to who knows where, I turned to Caitlin and, without fail, asked, “Where’s that bus going?” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">While enduring Washington’s blistering August heat, Caitlin and I had decided that, rather than venturing to the frigid Midwest for Thanksgiving, we’d head to the Costa del Sol (Sun Coast) in Southern Spain for our holiday. Thanks to Grandpa Bob, we lined up a time share with a <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/okobojidan/Spain#5546308332698768690">view</a> of the Mediterranean for our week’s stay. With <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/okobojidan/Spain#5546308441396769234">Lonely Planet</a> in tow, we boarded the plane in Washington on November 19, prepared for a week of tapas, medieval cities, and gaudy souvenirs. Only once we opened the door of Unit 301 at Club la Costa did we realize how much transportation we were in for. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">In planning the trip to Spain, Caitlin and I oscillated between a resort with a view of the ocean and cheap hostels in cities spread throughout the country. In the end, the docile look of a beach and the comfort of the price won out. We chose a resort not far (we thought) from the town of Malaga on Spain’s Southern Coast. Known as a tourist destination for the British, we hoped the November crowd would be less than rowdy. We were right though probably too much.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmly7HthUZPksrnZxdFiV3Ejw5ET-jk29OhVqVnylj0Ns8cprDXwSbaT-o-iN6MuUYff_R3VlcsdGBbYZHXZigqCE3-tspkQAKxlIyswtPfp2suV0aPfFL9Sv5uAVHDK4s4UUUCfh2j25h/s1600/spain+24.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmly7HthUZPksrnZxdFiV3Ejw5ET-jk29OhVqVnylj0Ns8cprDXwSbaT-o-iN6MuUYff_R3VlcsdGBbYZHXZigqCE3-tspkQAKxlIyswtPfp2suV0aPfFL9Sv5uAVHDK4s4UUUCfh2j25h/s320/spain+24.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Although our resort billed itself as located in “Malaga,” the following is what encompassed getting from our front door to Malaga proper. On Sunday morning, we stepped out of our unit’s front door, walked the 10 minutes down to the road paralleling the Mediterranean coast. After waiting 10 minutes for a local bus, we paid 2.5 euro for the short trip into the village of Fuengirola. Once there, we hopped on board the commuter train, which ran every 30 minutes, and splayed out in comfort as we passed the 45 minute and 5 euro ride into Malaga. After reaching that station, we walked the 10 minutes to the city center. A little more work than we had envisioned. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Despite the struggle to get from our resort to civilization, the things that stayed with me from Spain were 1) the people and 2) the history of the country. Throughout our trip, we were constantly impressed by the willingness of the Spanish to come to our aid. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">At one point, we walked out of the Malaga train station looking rather confused, as we did during most of the trip, and a local construction worker flagged us down asking what we needed. We relayed that we were looking for the bus station. He apologized first, asked that we bear with him, and then proceeded to tell us in halting English how to find our desired goal. He couldn’t have been happier to provide us with that information. And that interaction was the rule, more than the exception as to how we were treated during the entire trip. To welcome us back to the US, a ticket attendant at JFK greeted a question like this, “I’M NOT THE ONE ON DUTY HERE. If you need something, speak to that man down there, I’m doing something else!” Welcome to America!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">From the beginning though, we knew the people in this bastion of tourism would treat us with civility – more than we could expect from American Airlines. As we landed in Malaga after our third plane ride, we waddled, zombie-like, to the baggage claim. An airport employee realized we were foreigners and kindly pointed to a monitor that informed us our foreign, American bags would come through on a different baggage claim – one that met customs requirements. Nodding graciously, we sat by that never-ending conveyor belt with a similar result: no luggage. Waddling back to customer service, a no-nonsense woman informed us our luggage had never made it to Malaga and that it would be delivered when it arrived. The couple waiting in line behind us, just happened to live in Rockville, MD, right outside Washington D.C. and had made the entire trip with us. Like ours, their luggage hadn’t. Despite their aloofness (me: Where are you staying? Them: the Marriott, in Marbella. You don’t know Marbella?), they were helpful and we bid them adieu until the following week where they would meet us on our return trip to the states.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Without luggage, we began the train & taxi journey to our resort, where we promptly passed out at 6:00 pm. Awake again at 1:30 am though, we were starving and without options. That was before we found our new favorite retail store in all of Spain: the BP station. Situated along the Mediterranean’s paralleling interstate and a 10 minute walk from 301, we stocked up on frozen pizza, eggs, bacon, ham & cheese, and orange juice for sickly Caitlin. Asleep again by 3:30, we finally woke up at 1 the next day, ready to explore Malaga. And explore we did, summiting the ancient Arabic castle with its view of the Mediterranean dropping off into the horizon – preceded by Malaga’s historic Bull Ring amid unhistoric 10-story hotels and condos. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">In 1881, Malaga bore Pablo Picassa and, in 2003, the world’s worst Picasso Museum, housed in a beautiful Shakespearean building. A two-story square house rose up from a narrow pedestrian alley promising visitors world-class paintings. What they got instead was a nice view of a courtyard from a Julietean balcony but only after enduring some less than interesting art. Needless to say, we were not impressed. Still, the tapas we shared afterward at Gorki were our first introduction to Spanish cuisine, and we enjoyed it. Small sandwiches with chicken and ham were not gastronomical ingenuities, but filling and satisfying to our Midwestern palates. Shortly thereafter, we retreated to our resort, missing the last bus and paying the 14 euro for the taxi to our front door. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXyMeXBUUxZkSY2d08Bw2uFv-nVip9VURDzvIACj0uEL8jQfKX_Thyphenhyphenkjosku6LwwzjlQ-PqtRCqEI3_53WF5WlkuGeRjgGUHheU-vG9cwWPsXB1eJKgoQexKIDaWmz0SA71NlW6heJ6f-9/s1600/spain+14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXyMeXBUUxZkSY2d08Bw2uFv-nVip9VURDzvIACj0uEL8jQfKX_Thyphenhyphenkjosku6LwwzjlQ-PqtRCqEI3_53WF5WlkuGeRjgGUHheU-vG9cwWPsXB1eJKgoQexKIDaWmz0SA71NlW6heJ6f-9/s320/spain+14.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Sleeping off a cold and jet lag, we stayed in bed until noon on Monday before getting motivated enough to gallivant down to the coastal town of Marbella. Yet again, another town rose off the Mediterranean into the hills composed of narrow pedestrian streets, plazas of orange trees, and siesta practitioners. Caitlin and I arrived just in time for tapas (which is anytime) and sat down on a patio overlooking the Mediterranean. A Tom Petty/Kenny G prodigy entertained our meal while a waiter did the opposite. This time, our tapas consisted of less than great Potato Salad but better than bad mozzarella. Satiated, we hiked the streets and dodged the mopeds back to the bus station where we embarked for the mountain village of Ronda – two hours from the Mediterranean coast. I wanted to visit Ronda for two reasons: to see the most important Bull Ring in Spain and to descend the 200 steps beneath the world’s biggest oldest bridge. We weren’t able to do either.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">In Marbella, I had asked the bus company when the last bus left Ronda. The attendant informed me it left at 9:30, meaning that after we arrived at 5:30 we had about 4 hours before we had to begin our return journey. Shooting out of the bus like a bull out of a gate, we descended on the <a href="http://www.turismoderonda.es/catalogo/eng/plazatoros.htm">Bull Ring</a> two minutes before it was scheduled to close. Like most of Spain, the schedule wasn’t closely followed, if at all, and we were locked out. Ronda was the premier bullfighting locale in all of Spain in the 18<sup>th</sup></span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">century giving rise to the first legendary bullfighter, Pedro Romero, and ensuring the transition from a sport conducted on horseback to one performed by matadors standing on the ground. That is to say, it’s big fucking deal. But not in November. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">The bullfighting season runs from April to October, with an end of the season festival in Sevilla. We had missed the season but not the scenery. Ronda is home to a 120 meter tall bridge built in 1793 as an update to the Arabic and Roman bridges covering the town’s gorge before it. Known as the “New Bridge” we were rather impressed. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Lonely Planet had alerted me to the Bull Ring’s meddlesome hours, but had also informed me that my 200 steps descending into the gorge beneath the bridge would be open until 8 pm. The Spaniards we met, overlooking the Arabic bridge put it another way, “Eh, this is Spain, they close when they want to.” Although we missed the steps, the two Spanish men were more than impressed with Caitlin and her charming smile. They informed us that Michelle Obama had visited Ronda just this past summer. Since the conversation was conducted in Spanish, there is a good chance we missed some things. Still, in his knowledge of America, the mid 60s man who was rather skinny and bereft of most of his hair, told us about all the states he knew: “Minnesota, Missouri, Dakota, Illinois, Wisconsin.” Where the fuck is Iowa? I asked him, not so antagonistically, and he had no idea what I was talking about. Iowa’s Tom Vilsack like charisma continues unerringly.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPCIluh-7_NrxetQHH4t6YsCRBsXuFqIADQv6VIOq3mP8ajjoU5U-eVVG4Em9OV0FopkSIz4tOxu9V6lVRe9qZO9TRnt3hpe8kJC4rQBVLJDdeAjV0AhL35XjfPtB1XgOaixR7u3XPTE6L/s1600/spain+13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPCIluh-7_NrxetQHH4t6YsCRBsXuFqIADQv6VIOq3mP8ajjoU5U-eVVG4Em9OV0FopkSIz4tOxu9V6lVRe9qZO9TRnt3hpe8kJC4rQBVLJDdeAjV0AhL35XjfPtB1XgOaixR7u3XPTE6L/s200/spain+13.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Caitlin and I quickly conquered the town, drinking from the spring fed fountain, and ransacking the children as they exited their Christmas concert. We settled in on the main drag in a nice warm tapas bar, ready to devour a snack before our bus departed. Our pendulum swung back from our sea-surrounded lunch, and the tapas we had for 1 euro should have been free. The two-year old who banged and threw his way through our dinner didn’t help the environment either. Bladders empty and fingers back to working, we ran out the door.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Returning to the streets in search of more food, we wandered towards the bus station failing to find sustenance. With an hour left, we summited the bar of a tiny, redly decorated cafe, in sight of the bus station. And the pendulum swung back harder than ever in the form of four plates of tapas: calamari, ham and cheese croquets, potato croquets, and jamon iberico – the pride of Andalucia. Now that our tongues and appendages were satisfied, we hurried off to the bus station in search of a Mediterranean bound transport. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Closed doors and locked gates greeted us. As we ran through the bus parking lot, we found a woman emptying the trash.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“Is there a bus to Marbella?” we asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“Oh no, I’m sorry, no more buses tonight.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Shit.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">We ran down to the train station, two blocks away.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“Is there a train to Malaga tonight?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“No.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“Sevilla?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“No.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">It quickly dawned on us: we were stuck in Ronda. November being the down season may have hampered our ability to see the bull ring or imperil ourselves on twisting steps, it meant all the hotels were open and desperate for customers. Lonely Planet steered us toward one such serviceable entity, and we deposited our luggage: the Lonely Planet Brick and my Ipod. Staying in Ronda wasn’t the worst option before us; it was half way to Sevilla and offered a light-infused, pedestrian downtown. Not ready for bed, we set off in search of dessert and wine. The fruit pudding I got my hands on was less than stellar, but Caitlin finally got the aceitunas (olives) she had been craving. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Around midnight, we returned back to our hotel, waking up the night manager to let us in. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">At this point, we were on our third night in Spain and had changed our clothes exactly once. That’s hardly a reason to stop traveling though, so we set our wake up call for 6:30 in time to get on the 7:00 am bus to Sevilla. Sleep while you can…<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivIhxGsoK-hXPJd1uSmEqNQBe_aAs1iiM2v8EE_5ThCCm6y6tocu7WEf3hx4rLNlH_1F0E8ibuTC6Twlv9HKyyZwc8LI8OITDv5qB2HDuzed1chhEi7j-5jeOEOOHZ2NjIW2gdma32Y_AG/s1600/spain+18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivIhxGsoK-hXPJd1uSmEqNQBe_aAs1iiM2v8EE_5ThCCm6y6tocu7WEf3hx4rLNlH_1F0E8ibuTC6Twlv9HKyyZwc8LI8OITDv5qB2HDuzed1chhEi7j-5jeOEOOHZ2NjIW2gdma32Y_AG/s320/spain+18.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;">More pictures <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/okobojidan/Spain">here </a>and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2028640&id=79700920">here</a>.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1124729039766079884.post-87580249395413975882010-01-29T12:16:00.001+09:002010-02-04T05:09:44.217+09:00A reader's manifestoB.R. Meyer <a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/doc/200107/myers">opens </a>a can of whoop ass on modern literary critics.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1124729039766079884.post-28618884200868136222010-01-25T08:01:00.000+09:002010-01-25T08:02:00.281+09:0050 Travel IdeasThe LA Times Travel Writer <a href="http://www.latimes.com/travel/la-tr-susanspano50trips-pg,0,3871467.photogallery">picks </a>her 50 favorite trips.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1124729039766079884.post-40620550701247272292010-01-10T07:43:00.006+09:002010-01-10T08:20:20.010+09:00Christmas Break<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><link style="font-family: times new roman;" rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CDaniel%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" ><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="time"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="City"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="PlaceName"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="PlaceType"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="State"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="country-region"></o:smarttagtype></span><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Standing atop the sun-drenched Colorado Rockies at 12,500 feet, I looked down forlornly at my dad who, minutes before, had navigated his way through the death-inducing moguls that now separated us.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Dad and I had just emerged from <st1:place><st1:placename>Araphoe</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Basin</st1:placetype></st1:place>’s whale of a chairlift that belches skiers out at the highest commercial peak in <st1:place>North America</st1:place>.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">To my right glared even higher runs that could only be skied after hiking to the top of a perilous summit.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">To my left, across a tree-filled valley, rose the Continental Divide that Dad and I had mischievously driven under earlier that morning.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">And below stood my dad, waiting in the shade cast by the hill upon which I stood.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Having arrived in Colorado more than 30 hours before and having visited two of the Rockies’ legendary resorts already (Breckenridge and Keystone), we sagely dispensed with committing A-Basin’s map to memory and instead navigated our own route down the mountain using our innate skiers’ sense.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">That is to say, we had no idea what the hell we were doing.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Shortly after finishing off the last of the Pecan Pie and just before beginning the annual Thanksgiving Day football game, I had prodded Dad about his commitment to skiing the <st1:place>Rockies</st1:place> over Christmas Vacation.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Since Dad is a teacher, and my office offers charitable leave, we both have lengthy holiday breaks.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">In previous years, Dad toiled away in the classroom coaching over achieving debaters while I drank away the short winter days at the bar or in the basement.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">This year, I had decided, we should spend our money providing new material for John Donne prodigies by beneficently placing our lives in danger.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Living in <st1:state><st1:place>Iowa</st1:place></st1:state>, that is no easy feat.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">And in addition to my desire to ski the superlative-laced peaks of <st1:place>North America</st1:place>, I also wanted to visit my long-lost college buddies in <st1:country-region><st1:place>America</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s most patriotic city: <st1:city><st1:place>Boston</st1:place></st1:city>.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">And so, what began as a need to ski, turned into a 10-day, 8 different bed, 15 state odyssey that rejuvenated me for months to come.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1:place><st1:city>Amtrak</st1:city>, <st1:country-region>America</st1:country-region></st1:place>’s worst passenger railway company, was supposed to provide the only symmetry to my trip by delivering me to the airport and sweeping me back from <st1:city><st1:place>Boston</st1:place></st1:city>.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">It failed on both accounts.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I have taken Amtrak exactly five times in my life and have been satisfied exactly once – on a 30-minute trip.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">And so, it was this French military like reputation that opaquely penetrated my limited concentration as I made my way to <st1:state><st1:place>Washington</st1:place></st1:state>’s Union Station at <st1:time hour="3" minute="40">3:40 am</st1:time> on Christmas Eve.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">In a little over three hours, the United States Senate would pass a wide-sweeping health care bill just a few blocks from where I was walking, and in a little over eight hours the warmth of my Grandmother’s embrace would lift me out of the cold <st1:state><st1:place>Iowa</st1:place></st1:state> winter.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">As I entered Union Station, these blissful thoughts swashed around my head, and so it was with a clamoring thunder that the Union Station clock chimed <st1:time hour="15" minute="45">3:45</st1:time> and Amtrak announced its <st1:time hour="16" minute="0">4:00</st1:time> train to <st1:place><st1:placename>BWI</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Airport</st1:placetype></st1:place></span> would not be leaving.<span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Like the French after their defeat in the Franco-Prussian War, I was despondent but in no way surprised.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Actually, my acceptance of the cancelled train wasn’t quite this lucid.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Instead, I must have looked like a newly indebted homeless man as I swiped my credit card in the ticket dispenser 23 times.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">When my itinerary failed to appear after the second swipe, I figured I had the wrong card.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">After trying all my credit cards, my dad’s credit card, my Barnes and Noble Card, my Social Security Card – remember it was <st1:time hour="3" minute="45">3:45 am</st1:time> – I finally realized my train wasn’t going to the airport.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Fearing the looming ice-storm in <st1:city><st1:place>Chicago</st1:place></st1:city> and blizzard in <st1:city><st1:place>Des Moines</st1:place></st1:city>, I knew I had to make my <st1:time minute="0" hour="6">6:00 am</st1:time> flight before the weather reduced me to spending Christmas with a United ticket agent at <st1:city><st1:place>Chicago</st1:place></st1:city>’s O’Hare Airport.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Not a prospect I found too appetizing.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">After gathering from a cabbie, that the $12 train-ride to the airport would cost $85 by car, I returned to the waiting room to cajole my fellow stranded passengers into sharing a cab.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Just as my bank account began to prepare itself for a momentous loss, an oasis appeared.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Hey, are you going to BWI?” I asked a woman walking towards me with a suitcase designed only for stuffing into an overhead compartment.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Yes, and I’m going to drive, and you can ride with me.”</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Now, as you can imagine, I was elated and immediately gave this woman a squashing bear-hug.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Actually, that’s what I envisioned myself doing, but instead I answered with some erudite response, like, “Oh ok, sounds good.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">After my new friend, Alison, got us lost and asked for directions to the airport, I soon realized how fortuitous it was for her that I had generously agreed to accept her invitation to the airport.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I was the Good Samaritan.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Alison was older than me, mid 30s I would guess, and had dark hair and glasses.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">She was skinny and seemed hardened by something in her past.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">After walking the two blocks to her car, Alison and I had driven back to Union Station, run through the departure lounge offering rides to the airport, but failed to acquire any additional passengers.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">With just the two us, Alison’s little Saab negotiated the early morning traffic and made its way to the highway.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">With about 10 miles left, the conversation turned to our assorted travels abroad.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Since Alison’s job was out-of-bounds, “Navy Intelligence,” we instead focused on what we both would rather do for a living.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“I spent a year after college teaching English in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Hungary</st1:place></st1:country-region>,” Alison offered. Flabbergasted, I gushed, </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“I lived in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Hungary</st1:place></st1:country-region> for a year during college.”</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Alison, for the first time that morning, took her eyes off the road to look me up and down and evaluate the veracity of this claim.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">And since she was “Navy Intelligence,” the prospect of lying to her seemed as if it might place my life in jeopardy.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I had no intention of doing so.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“So, did you speak any Hungarian before you moved there?” I inquired. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Yea, actually I won a scholarship to take Hungarian during the summer at a college in <st1:state><st1:place>Illinois</st1:place></st1:state>.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Was it <st1:place><st1:placename>Beloit</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>College</st1:placetype></st1:place>?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Yea it was,” Alison answered, again looking at me with her military-sharpened deductive skills churning in her head.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I continued my line of questioning like a focused prosecutor, </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“And was your teacher’s name, Maria?”</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I delivered my final question with a satisfying flourish - wishing a jury sat in the back-seat instead of dirty socks and K-Mart receipts.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Oh my God, Yes it was Maria,” Alison exclaimed as the car crossed first a dashed white line, then a solid white line, and finally rumble strips that announced Alison’s impending crash and jolted her into straightening out the car.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“How do you know Maria?” she asked.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“She was my Hungarian teacher when I studied in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Hungary</st1:place></st1:country-region>!”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">In due time, Alison relayed that she had visited Maria the previous summer and maintained a frequent correspondence.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">This bizarre coincidence that placed me in Alison’s car reminded me of a Bill Bryson story – one of <st1:state><st1:place>Iowa</st1:place></st1:state>’s most proudest productions I must say – about bizarre coincidences:</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">After saying good bye to Alison, I sat back in awe as the overcrowded bus approached the terminal.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">But before I could dwell on my Brysonian story, I found myself learning about the nuanced intricacies of various <st1:place><st1:placename>Caribbean</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Islands</st1:placetype></st1:place>.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“We’re heading to <st1:country-region><st1:place>Jamaica</st1:place></st1:country-region> this time.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">We love <st1:country-region><st1:place>Jamaica</st1:place></st1:country-region> – went for the first time in October.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">We were in the <st1:country-region><st1:place>Bahamas</st1:place></st1:country-region> for Easter, but the water is just too cold this time of year.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">St. Mother Teresa [or some such island] is also great, but the crowds there are just terrible over the holidays.”</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I didn’t know whether to be impressed or horrified about the brazen temerity with which this couple displayed their wealth.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">But their dissection of the <st1:place>Caribbean</st1:place> distracted me enough to miss my stop.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Have a great time in, er, the <st1:place>Caribbean</st1:place>,” I wished the couple, running back to the lowly domestic terminal unable to remember what intricacy of which island had attracted their fancy this year.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">When my plane touched-down in <st1:city><st1:place>Des Moines</st1:place></st1:city>, the grey-cast sky dropped light rain on the plane’s windows – withholding the ice and snow for later that day.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Dad was there waiting for me with the only foreign car in all of <st1:state><st1:place>Iowa</st1:place></st1:state>, and we were soon on our way to Grandma’s house for Christmas Eve – eyes peeled for reindeer. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">My eight-hour expired thoughts returned as soon as I walked in the door.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Smoked ham and mashed potatoes appeared on a plate in front of me before I could take off my coat.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I was finally back in <st1:state><st1:place>Iowa</st1:place></st1:state>.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">My family has been going to Grandma’s house for Christmas Eve since before I was born.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">It’s all I know, and I’m rather confused as to what I’ll do for Christmas when I’m no longer going to Grandma’s house – more importantly, what I’ll do without Grandma’s gifts.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">As always, Grandma reliably delivered, like a drug dealer, with a wonderful array of presents.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">The prescience with which she provides me bestsellers off of my Amazon wish list is stutter-inducing.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Grandpa’s touch was also noticeable in one gift: he had artistically returned all the bent nails I had left in his woodshop over the years.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">He crafted a newspaper-sized nametag out of bent nails, and while he only spelled out D-A-N, I’m pretty sure he had enough of my used-and-replaced nails to spell my name as it appears on my birth certificate – twice.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Mother Blizzard prevented us from getting home to Mom and Dad’s house following Grandma’s rehearsed celebration, but with the morning light and warnings of more snow to come, we quickly evacuated Carroll on Christmas morning and did our best to make the 2-hour drive last as long as possible – coming in at just under 4 hours.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">While the Altima and Jetta successfully navigated the iced-over country roads to Okoboji, there was no way they were getting into the drift-filled driveway without firing up the yet-to-be-christened snowblower.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">A little over a month before, just after I successfully manipulated my dad into agreeing to take me skiing in <st1:state><st1:place>Colorado</st1:place></st1:state>, Mom and I had purchased a snowblower intending to deliver it to Dad on Christmas Day.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">But, with God hating Al Gore as he does, <st1:state><st1:place>Iowa</st1:place></st1:state></span> received a record snowfall in early December requiring the early use of the no-longer-a-surprise gift.<span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">However, since the charade was co-opted, I got to use the new machine before opening presents – something I longingly desired after my snowless winters in D.C.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I bolted out of my brother’s Jetta before it came to a stop and had the snowblower churning before Mom had undone her seatbelt.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">This delay turned out to be fortuitous when my relative inexperience with operating the contraption caused me to neglect the snow’s chute, and I inexplicably placed the first row of snow directly on the Altima’s passenger window.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Sorry Mom.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">As I suffered through displacing the snow from our driveway, Mom, Dad, and my brother Matt dodged my work and unloaded the cars.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">After the driveway had been charitably cleared, Mom demonstrated her inherited Christmas aptitude by surrounding me with dozens of perfect gifts.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">An <st1:place>Appalachian Trail</st1:place> calendar, without apparent Mark Sanford associated irony, and a new coat were just a couple of the highlights.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">And since Dad already had his snowblower, he didn’t have any presents to open – sort of like a modern day Tiny Tim.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Matt got some presents too.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">What followed, though, were some much needed peaceful days of rest.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">The three guys of the family spent the vacation torturing Mom into playing card games, and I made an appearance at the local bar – mostly to belittle the locals.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Dick Cheney would have been proud.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">After just two nights, and 10 inches of snow, Dad and I departed sleepy Okoboji for the mountainous city of <st1:city><st1:place>Denver</st1:place></st1:city>.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">To continue with my theme of extended fits of transportation, we turned what was supposed to be a 10-hour drive into a 14 hour slog.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">The flat, open, sprawling plains of <st1:state><st1:place>Nebraska</st1:place></st1:state>, with an estimated population of 232 people, somehow put enough cars on the highway to crowd the road through most of the state.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Thankfully, we arrived at my Aunt’s house in <st1:state><st1:place>Colorado</st1:place></st1:state> wholly intact.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">After a delicious dinner, a few hours of sleep, Dad (with glasses in place) and I were back on the road at <st1:time hour="6" minute="30">6:30 am</st1:time>.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Now, it’s important to establish that I love skiing more than Henry VIII loved wives.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">In 5<sup>th</sup> grade Dad took me skiing at the misnamed <st1:place><st1:placename>Holiday</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Mountain</st1:placetype></st1:place> in <st1:place><st1:city>Estherville</st1:city>, <st1:state>Iowa</st1:state></st1:place>.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Dad took me outside, slammed me into my skis, pushed me towards the bunny hill, and made his way back into the ski chalet before I could say stop.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">While some sons might have been angered by this ominous inauguration, I was not to be deterred.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">As I coasted down the bunny hill, the increasing speech with which I hurtled toward the river below grew alarmingly apprehensive, and so I threw myself to the ground.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">But, after about 30 seconds of boredom, I got up, and started tumbling down the mountain.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Again, the ground started passing between my legs alarmingly fast, and so my face again met the ground, again.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">They were becoming fast friends.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">By the time Matt and Dad made it out of the chalet, I had precociously tackled all of <st1:place><st1:placename>Holiday</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Mountain</st1:placetype></st1:place> and was too confident to be bothered with such a speed bump of a resort.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Sadly, I would have to wait another 12 years before I could summit a real “<st1:place><st1:placename>Holiday</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Mountain</st1:placetype></st1:place>” in the form of <st1:place><st1:city>Breckenridge</st1:city>, <st1:state>CO</st1:state></st1:place>.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">It is with this promising beginning that I found myself, 12 years later climbing into a Gondola at the base of Peak 7, <st1:place><st1:city>Breckenridge</st1:city>, <st1:state>Colorado</st1:state></st1:place> at <st1:time minute="0" hour="8">8:00 am</st1:time>.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I was in heaven.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Dad and I emerged from the Gondola at the base of the mountain when 20 scarily cheerful employees dawning bright blue coats demanded we allow them to point us in the right direction.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">We relented.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Quite easily, the highlight of Breckenridge is the mountain’s t-bar that ejects skiers above the <st1:state><st1:place>Colorado</st1:place></st1:state> tree-line.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Little did I know, the only runs that came down from this t-bar are categorized as Double Black Diamonds.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">And while I do love skiing, no one would really characterize me as a good skier.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">But soldier on I did, and Dad and I found ourselves returning to the t-bar three more times before the day was out.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The “Little Boy Feeling” is something I have coined and believe is something for which I deserve praise and fortune.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Everyone has had the LBF at some point in his or her lifetime.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">And as we get older, it diminishes in correlation with age.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Essentially, the LBF is the sensation that swarms over your body and reminds you why you are human.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">It’s like a first date, the first time you have sex, and your first home run all rolled in to one.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">For me, the LBF usually occurs when I walk into a baseball stadium for the first time.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I remember it most clearly the first time I saw <st1:place><st1:placename>Fenway</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>:</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The first thing that hits you is the smell.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">As you catch a glimpse of the green corners of the stadium, you see the Citgo Sign light up, and the smell known to baseball fans everywhere, composed of hot dogs, sunflower seeds, sweat, and beer, dominates your nostrils.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">After presenting your tickets and entering the grandstand, you are transported back to 1920 envisioning Babe Ruth smoking a cigar and making his way to the field.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">And then the best part of all – you emerge form the concrete mass to catch your first site of the bright green field stitched with bright chalk lines, stretched beneath the Green Monster, and the LBF overwhelms your senses.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">That simple feeling of pure pleasure, childhood innocence, and blissful ignorance, is what I call the LBF. As I’ve grown older, it occurs more infrequently, but every so often it crops up, and I remember what it’s like to be 10 and content.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">And that is exactly how I felt when I stepped off the t-bar at Breckenridge’s highest peak.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Laying in the snow, water creeping into my pants, and skis careening down the mountain, just 2 minutes after my arrival, the LBF was no longer on my mind.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">About <st1:time hour="15" minute="0">3:00</st1:time> in the afternoon, the altitude, the 14-hour car ride, and the 7 hours of skiing finally got to us.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">We made our way to the run, creatively titled “<st1:time hour="16" minute="0">4:00</st1:time> run” that delivers skiers to their cars at the end of their day, and eased our way off the mountain.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">To a kid from <st1:state><st1:place>Iowa</st1:place></st1:state>, who had no recollection of <st1:country-region><st1:place>America</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s highest peaks, I was smitten. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" ><o:p></o:p>
<br />Day 1 of skiing ended peacefully enough, Dad and I returned to <st1:city><st1:place>Denver</st1:place></st1:city> in search of new glasses.</span><span style=";font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >Dad had misplaced his in the struggle to put on his skiing equipment, and the glasses apparently won.</span><span style=";font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >A mad dash around suburban <st1:city><st1:place>Denver</st1:place></st1:city> ensued, and after a bowl of chili and time with the cousins, we had a full stomach and brand-new glasses.</span><span style=";font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >Time for bed. </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Day 2 of skiing brought its own surprises.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Dad and I summited Keystone, <st1:state><st1:place>Colorado</st1:place></st1:state>, which is a bit smaller but far less crowded than Breckenridge.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Dad decided skiing moguls and black diamonds was too easy with two gloves, so he placed one of his in the valley of a chairlift, as we ascended on the seat rising above.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">He chose the resort’s most remote lift in which to deposit his glove, as if the challenge of skiing with a frozen hand seemed unstimulating.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">The ski patrol, though, was nice enough to give him a bright pink covering, a badge of honor I guessed, and we were back to the slopes – the talk of the town.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Back to the car for a quick brunch, Dad and I shifted course and made our way to <st1:place><st1:placename>Arapahoe</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Basin</st1:placetype></st1:place> to finish out our trip.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">A-Basin, as the locals call it, draws the Denverites and the extreme skiers while the tourists and posers spend their time and money at Breck and Keystone.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Clearly we didn’t fit in at any of the three.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Soon after our arrival though, we immediately made for A-Basin’s highest point, which was attained easily enough as half the mountain was closed due to insufficient snow.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">After a day and half of skiing, and nearing complete exhaustion, I found myself staring down at my dad across the hardest moguls I had ever seen.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">As I began my descent, composing my last words and remembering my Catholicism, I was quite literally, and metaphorically, departing from the zenith of my ten-day holiday vacation.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">While the break wasn’t about to cascade quite as precipitously or as violently as I was, leaving this peak meant beginning the trudge back to the office on Monday morning.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Despite my “Danger Will Robinson” feelings, I navigated the moguls much to my dad’s amusement.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">The mountain had finally conquered me.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">While earlier on the trip, I had been daring enough to attempt any run, my tired legs and fragile constitution, prohibited any additional attempts.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">After making our way through those moguls, we breezed through a few blues, enjoying the scenery of A-Basin and taking our time to wind down our long-awaited skication.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Begrudgingly, Dad convinced me to return to the car, and we began our drive back to <st1:city><st1:place>Denver</st1:place></st1:city>.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Again, Sara provided a delicious dinner of meatball sandwiches, and soon after, Dad was on his way back to <st1:state><st1:place>Iowa</st1:place></st1:state>.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I dropped by my cousin Gordon’s house, to catch his wife throwing paint at the walls. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">The paint fumes added quite nicely to my near state-of-exhaustion, and I passed out before <st1:time minute="0" hour="22">10 pm</st1:time>.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Gordon was kind enough to deliver me to the airport next morning, and due to the crotch bomber’s sudden rise to fame, security was a nightmare.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">The flight got to <st1:city><st1:place>Boston</st1:place></st1:city> easily enough though, and Courtney Griffin was there to shepherd me and my 50 pounds of luggage back to <st1:state><st1:place>New Hampshire</st1:place></st1:state>.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Having gone to college in <st1:state><st1:place>Vermont</st1:place></st1:state>, it felt great to be back in <st1:place>New England</st1:place>.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Small towns, plaques recognizing houses, and monuments to obscure 19<sup>th</sup> century presidents dominated the landscape.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">And in my quest to visit all 50 state Capitols, I dropped by the <st1:state><st1:place>New Hampshire</st1:place></st1:state> version, four blocks from Courtney’s house, and shouted with disdain:</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">"Why is it that <st1:place>New England</st1:place> can’t figure out how to do representative democracy correctly?"</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1:state><st1:place>
<br /></st1:place></st1:state></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1:state><st1:place>New Hampshire</st1:place></st1:state> has over three hundred state representatives, and its website proudly declares this is the third largest legislative body in the English-speaking world.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Is that really something to brag about?</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I presume that this large number of toiling bureaucrats was the reason they couldn’t even afford to provide them with desks, just chairs on the floor of the House.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">After our 30 second tour of the statehouse and 30 minute tour of <st1:city><st1:place>Concord</st1:place></st1:city>, Courtney and I had conquered the town.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Nothing left to do but celebrate by going to Olive Garden!</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Life was good.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Courtney and I also had the chance to see <i style="">Sherlock Holmes, </i>and I’m fast becoming a fan of Robert Downey, Jr., much to the worry of the unblighted veins in my forearms.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">The movie, however, is expertly directed, though emphasizes Sherlock Holmes’ bizarre jujitsu acumen.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Still, once one separates the Holmes created by Sir Arthur from the one created by Guy Ritchie, the film comes alive.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I found myself remembering the delightfully fun Encyclopedia Brown books of my childhood.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Courtney, two of her high school friends, and I drove to <st1:city><st1:place>Boston</st1:place></st1:city> for New Year’s where we, mostly I, prepared a delicious feast of homemade pizza.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Perhaps a little too heavy on the sausage for most, I did my best to single-handedly prop up <st1:state><st1:place>Iowa</st1:place></st1:state>’s struggling pork industry - unsuccessfully.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">The four of us made our way to a Bates party, and shortly thereafter, I appeared at a Middlebury reunion that felt exactly like the Bates party except that I knew everyone.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">How NESCAC schools differ like <st1:place>Caribbean</st1:place> islands.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">New Year’s morning brought the necessary day-after brunch, and my breakfast was coyly named the Eggstravaganza.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">The “Gourmet Deli” where we ate, had no more than four customers, two of which had registered complaints by the time we left.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Although we prepared ourselves for a “gastrointestinal <st1:city><st1:place>Chernobyl</st1:place></st1:city>,” the food left us unaffected.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Soon after, I abandoned the charming ladies from <st1:city><st1:place>Concord</st1:place></st1:city>, and met up with the Middlebury crew for a Boston Classic viewing.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Once a year, the NHL uses electric shock therapy to prod two teams into playing an actual game outside.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">This year the game was scheduled for <st1:place><st1:placename>Fenway</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Park</st1:placetype></st1:place> on New Year’s Day.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Lacking imagination, our crew ended up at the House of Blues across the street from Fenway with 500 screaming Bruins fans glued to a screen the size of the Citgo sign.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“The Bruins Score!” screamed out the announcer as <st1:city><st1:place>Boston</st1:place></st1:city> won the game in overtime.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">The roars form the stadium next door drifted into the bar, and the place generally exploded. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">What a welcome to <st1:city><st1:place>Boston</st1:place></st1:city>.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Later that night, I met up with my friend Kevin, who almost single-handedly elicited the LBF in me – by presenting me with <st1:country-region><st1:place>Hungary</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s finest pastry: pogacsa.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Kevin had spent his Christmas in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Hungary</st1:place></st1:country-region> and New Year’s in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Bulgaria</st1:place></st1:country-region>.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">He was just returning from a two-week trip abroad and found enough room to bring back my two favorite things combined: Hungary & food.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">While I was jealous, I was also fascinated.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Naturally, we had dinner at an Irish pub to celebrate our Hungarian nostalgia.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Saturday brought with it my departure from <st1:city><st1:place>Boston</st1:place></st1:city>, and finally I was due back in <st1:state><st1:place>Washington</st1:place></st1:state>, again via Amtrak.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">But first, I acquired one last, and lasting, memory of <st1:city><st1:place>Boston</st1:place></st1:city>.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">With about two-hours to spare before my train, I wandered into a bar in <st1:place>South Boston</st1:place>, where a Chinese bartender named Hawkeye gave me a coke, and the Italian owner sat lurking in the kitchen.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">After about two minutes of sitting at the bar, taking in the Ole Miss game, I soon learned about Hawkeye’s adoration of porn.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Oddly enough, the native Bostonian sitting at the other end of the bar was teaching the Chinese bartender how to run his computer.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">And all the bartender seemed to view with his computer, was porn.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“You sick fuck,” is how the Bostonian gently put it.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">As I was trying to watch the game on TV, to my left, at the bar, these two men bickered about porn-watching habits while also conducting a computer tutorial.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">To add to this fun, I took in a biography of Hawkeye’s lengthy life.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“I’ve got a 40 year old daughter, and a 40 year old wife.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">How ’bout that,” he said to me with a knowing smile.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Time to go.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Amtrak didn’t fail quite so annoyingly on the return trip to <st1:state><st1:place>Washington</st1:place></st1:state>, and only delivered me to Union Station an hour after our scheduled arrival.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">On time really for Amtrak.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Another half hour metro ride, and $15 cab put me at my front door at <st1:time minute="45" hour="2">2:45 am</st1:time>.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Unable to sleep, I turned to that childhood classic, <i style="">Mighty Ducks</i> to put me out.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Finally, at <st1:time minute="45" hour="5">5:45 am</st1:time>, after fully recounting my trip to some of <st1:country-region><st1:place>America</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s finest locations, I ended my holiday break.<o:p></o:p></span></p> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1124729039766079884.post-70594276351604756442009-11-12T12:08:00.005+09:002009-11-12T12:32:26.647+09:00An Open Letter to Robert MacFarlane<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CDaniel%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="date"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="State"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="address"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="Street"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="City"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="country-region"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"><st1:date year="2009" day="11" month="11">November 11, 2009</st1:date></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center">
<br /><st1:date year="2009" day="11" month="11"></st1:date><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.emma.cam.ac.uk/teaching/fellows/display/?fellow=172">Robert MacFarlane</a><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Emmanuel College
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><st1:place><st1:city>Oxford</st1:city>, <st1:country-region>England</st1:country-region></st1:place></p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /><st1:place><st1:country-region></st1:country-region></st1:place><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Dear Dr. MacFarlane,<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I have a complicated appreciation of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Theroux">Paul Theroux</a>, which is why I read with eager anticipation your <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/24/books/review/Macfarlane-t.html?_r=1">review </a>of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Ghost-Train-Eastern-Star-Railway/dp/0618418873"><i style="">the Ghost Train to the Eastern Star</i></a>.<span style=""> </span>I must admit, I have not read any of your works.<span style=""> </span>But you seem like someone with whom I’d get along.<span style=""> </span>You have a rich appreciation, and far superior knowledge, of literature, yet an equal appreciation for the <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/07/06/books/review/Morris-t.html">remnants of underexplored nature in developed societies</a>.<span style=""> </span>However, because of the disdain and repulsion with which you rejected Theroux’s latest bestseller<i style="">,</i> I felt compelled to write this letter.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">What bothers you most about Paul Theroux is his abhorrent pomposity.<span style=""> </span>Without question, Theroux is a writer imbued with supreme confidence.<span style=""> </span>Yet, Theroux readily admits, he has not had a happy life – or at least he hadn’t until <i style="">The Great Railway Bazaar </i>brought him fame and fortune.<span style=""> </span>And so, the egotism with which he writes can best be described as astonished pride in his own work.<span style=""> </span>Yet, I feel as if you fail to appreciate the subtlety of this confidence.<span style=""> </span>It’s not a boastful confidence, but more of an amazed, reflective appreciation of what he has accomplished.<span style=""> </span>Establishing this subtle character trait is critical because it allows the reader to connect with and get past Theroux’s arrogance – which is continuous – and appreciate the true value of his work.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">You highlight the many shortcomings of the<i style=""> Ghost Train to the Eastern Star.<span style=""> </span></i>Theroux is lazy, generalizing, simplistic, stereotypical, and above all refuses to get off the train.<span style=""> </span>And you are exactly correct in all of these assaults.<span style=""> </span>But these shortcomings are also what make Theroux’s work so enticing and captivating – much to my own chagrin.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">When Theroux arrives in a country, he records his immediate prognoses and condescending judgments of the landscape before him.<span style=""> </span>And yes, these are always simplified, lacking nuance, and overly generalized.<span style=""> </span>But they are exactly what every traveler does the instant he encounters a new horizon.<span style=""> </span>Theroux quotes Mark Twain upon his arrival in <st1:city><st1:place>Istanbul</st1:place></st1:city> who similarly generalized, stereotyped and conjured up thoughts and images that fit his preconceived notions about the inhabitants of <st1:place>Constantinople</st1:place>.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Theroux’s “banalities masquerading as profundities” are what the armchair traveler covets the most in a travel memoir – the ruminations that run through a newly landed traveler.<span style=""> </span>Whole books could be, and have been, written about the arriver’s first thoughts and feelings.<span style=""> </span>Theroux’s ability to capture these invective penetrations consumes the reader and satisfies Theroux disciples again and again.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">
<br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">Ghost Train </i>also snags the reader because Theroux finally becomes an introspective traveler – which the reader desires after its absence in Theroux’s earlier works.<span style=""> </span>You write sarcastically that Theroux’s discovery that he, more than the cities through which he has passed, has changed the most in the thirty years that has elapsed since he last traveled this route.<span style=""> </span>And while you rebuke Theroux’s explanation,<span style=""> </span>this insight into the author's psyche is yet another example of why the armchair traveler loves to follow along with Theroux – because he sees himself sitting across from the narrator as he scribbles away on the night train to Bombay.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Besides his banalities, Theroux’s “less interesting details” also help transport the armchair traveler into central <st1:place>Asia</st1:place> or backwater <st1:country-region><st1:place>Burma</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<span style=""> </span>The precise dialogue he captures and the rich descriptions of the individuals and cities that cross his radar are unparalleled in their ability to satiate the appetite of the wannabe traveler reading along at home.<span style=""> </span>Which is why I love Paul Theroux.<span style=""> </span>No – that’s a lie.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I must confess, it actually took me five tries to get through my first Paul Theroux book.<span style=""> </span><i style="">Mosquito Cost </i>was my first purchase, and I still haven’t read it.<span style=""> </span>And when I do sit down to tackle a Theroux masterpiece (<i style="">Ghost Train, Railway Bazaar, Dark Star Safari)</i>, I find myself turning the pages quickly, eagerly, but not devouring every word that passes through my fingers.<span style=""> </span>Your review is exactly correct; while <i style="">Railway Bazaar</i> opened the world to millions including hundreds of “upstart punks,” Theroux’s later works are frustrating in their oscillations between mendacity and poetry.<span style=""> </span>And these undulations are why I have enjoyed <i style="">Ghost Train </i>so much, because I listen to it as I traverse the streets of <st1:place><st1:city>Washington</st1:city> <st1:state>D.C.</st1:state></st1:place> on my bicycle.<span style=""> </span>I’m continually drawn in to Theroux’s rich descriptions – his reunion with Mr. Bernard’s son in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Thailand</st1:place></st1:country-region> – but I can also daydream whole pages away without any pangs of guilt.<span style=""> </span>Paul Theroux’s work fulfils the ADD imbued, aspiring travel writer that I am.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Until I read your review earlier this week, I had no problem drifting, for hours, in and out of <i style="">Ghost Train</i>.<span style=""> </span>But your review elicited in me an anger I have not felt since my sophomore English teacher leveled praise upon <i style="">Catcher in the </i><st1:city><st1:place><i style="">Rye</i></st1:place></st1:city><i style="">.</i><span style=""> </span>Now, every time I turn on <i style="">Ghost Train, </i>your voice clangs in my head – “How can you suffer through such ‘intellectually intolerable’ platitudes?”<span style=""> </span>You penetrated my happy appreciation of Paul Theroux with such precision and directness, that I couldn’t let it go.<span style=""> </span>But I’m not going to let you win either.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <span style=";font-family:";font-size:12;" > </span> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I’m going to continue to read<i style=""> Ghost Train</i>, but only on my bike where I can ruminate about my own travel ambitions, without relying on a washed-up, bitter old man to transport me across the world.<span style=""> </span>And who knows, as I continue to ride my bike, I might just keep riding, and riding until I find myself across the world – a young, “opportunistic punk,” with my own nonsensical generalizations filling books and making millions.<span style=""> </span>If so, I’ll have Paul Theroux to thank.<span style=""> </span>Thank you for disturbing my peaceful, yet discomforting, appreciation of this complicated writer.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Sincerely,<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Dan Stevens<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">P.S.<span style=""> </span>You know what “Poor Pico Iyer” thought of this book: “Brilliant.”<o:p></o:p></p> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1124729039766079884.post-45615069196031415822009-10-01T11:46:00.003+09:002009-10-01T11:52:53.566+09:00How to Appreciate LiteraturePierre Bayard <a href="http://nymag.com/arts/books/reviews/39578/">knows </a>how.<br /><br /><blockquote>The line-by-line, cover-to-cover experience of a text, [Bayard] argues , is passé; true reading consists mainly of nonreading. By this he means not just an absence of reading but a positive set of shadow skills that we should honor and cultivate and teach to our children: browsing covers and spines, reading first sentences, skimming key passages, monitoring gossip, and b.s.-ing at cocktail parties. Deep knowledge of a particular book, Bayard contends, is almost always less important than an understanding of that book’s position in a “collective library”—the imagined cluster of books to which it’s related.</blockquote><br /><blockquote></blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1124729039766079884.post-68217148183874821362008-03-13T13:53:00.008+09:002008-03-14T15:26:06.320+09:00Life in Korea<div align="center">Isn't too Bad. In the <a href="http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=0QZsmrNm4aMWFK">accopmanying photo album</a>, I have a few pictures up of my apartment - which does suck. That will be changing on Wednesday or Thursday though. One of the other Americans at my school is cutting her contract early and heading back to the states after seven months of teaching in Korea. She's been great in helping me figure out the area and the buses, and I get her apartment after she moves out - I hope.<br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgw8DCdIcHoDbBJgNG7YleXhp2ABkPMPXLANQoS0UvTeoDj9IrBb7lw3WHZIGeC4v8e9_U4FC4T7eRZTfkKFiUrxOfvOI0bDZMZaE6sPn5_ol9I86AEs4-JKjdWahs2g6NxULvcMfd3BZg/s1600-h/1st+week+Korea+029.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5177373166550822978" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgw8DCdIcHoDbBJgNG7YleXhp2ABkPMPXLANQoS0UvTeoDj9IrBb7lw3WHZIGeC4v8e9_U4FC4T7eRZTfkKFiUrxOfvOI0bDZMZaE6sPn5_ol9I86AEs4-JKjdWahs2g6NxULvcMfd3BZg/s400/1st+week+Korea+029.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />The weirdest/hardest thing about being in Korea is the language. Unlike most of the areas in Eastern Europe where I couldn't speak the language, I can't read it here either. At least in Slovakia or Croatia you can make sense of the letters enough to figure out locations or things like computer, hostel, water, etc. When everything is in Korean letters, this is much harder.<br /><br />Because I was so fed up with the teaching the first two days, I didn't do much exploring. This changed during the past few days where I went exploring. Day 1 I sauntered through the <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg122LiMRxPHX85e2m0Zeg7SspcjCpNX2T3kFHTYAjQzYRqzF7nyD0t3g7tzYD_yRDPyGLoLr3rt6bMNwbj8rt3GVuZyy8Q5F-lL_xV9UWrsNmJmSOT8sz3gqBqsV-35OxflzcdFXv6aNmi/s1600-h/1st+week+Korea+032.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5177374489400750162" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg122LiMRxPHX85e2m0Zeg7SspcjCpNX2T3kFHTYAjQzYRqzF7nyD0t3g7tzYD_yRDPyGLoLr3rt6bMNwbj8rt3GVuZyy8Q5F-lL_xV9UWrsNmJmSOT8sz3gqBqsV-35OxflzcdFXv6aNmi/s200/1st+week+Korea+032.jpg" border="0" /></a>foreigner downtown just off of the American military base. It's full of Pakistanis, Indians, and refugees from all over the Middle East, in addition to the Western contingent. On one street I heard more Arabic than Korean.<br /><br />Day 2 I ventured down "Olympic Way" replete with statues honoring the ever important 1988 Seoul Olympics. At the end of Olympic Way was the most modern, disgusting mall I have ever seen. The real sad part was that just to the North of the mall was a 1300 year old temple being surrounded by modernity.<br /><br />The pictures throughout this post are from the temple . Apparently that's the big thing to do in Korea - to check out all the old temples. When I hear temple, I think thousand year-old relic. Sadly this is not the case for many temples since the Korean War pretty much leveled most of the country.<br /><br />Last night, I ventured back up to Foreigner town and bought a phone from a departing American. Sadly I forgot my camera, but that didn't stop me from hopping around Seoul's hippest downtown area. Since it's a city of 10 million, there are many "downtowns" but this was probably the biggest. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgurF7ckxks3OXsN5kKK8feZXRbvtbonk-SP4wKU7ePPniWFxo__J0GUueWiCXh1Be8nuMXmct2ajKAFkCUuD76yHOCpT1CptwGDjXav0BDJMtM3-Qo77d7HaZEF4k0l04WtwOV29g5lAGU/s1600-h/1st+week+Korea+026.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5177374523760488546" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgurF7ckxks3OXsN5kKK8feZXRbvtbonk-SP4wKU7ePPniWFxo__J0GUueWiCXh1Be8nuMXmct2ajKAFkCUuD76yHOCpT1CptwGDjXav0BDJMtM3-Qo77d7HaZEF4k0l04WtwOV29g5lAGU/s200/1st+week+Korea+026.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />It reminded me of the Swiss in how clean and efficient it was, especially the train station, but it definitely wasn't Switzerland. There were people everywhere. Switzerland is much more relaxed and spacious. Not the case in Korea.<br /><br />Today is Friday - Thank God. Tomorrow I'll be heading off to a town, named Sokcho, on the Eastern Coast which apparently has a huge national park and a harbor with lots of seafood restaurants (though I'm pretty sure the seafood is much different than what I'm picturing in my head right now). Until then, it's another day's work and a run through the smog suffocated streets of Seoul...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1124729039766079884.post-18533154481841128052008-03-13T13:20:00.006+09:002008-03-13T13:46:14.129+09:00Teaching in KoreaPretty much sucks. That's pretty harsh, and it's only my fourth day - but it's not too far off. Most days I teach five different classes. It's set up like this.<br /><br />9:30 - 10:50 - seven-year olds<br />10:55-12:15 - four/five-year olds<br />2:40 - 3:20 - 3rd/4th graders<br />4:10 - 4:50 - 3rd/4th graders<br />4:55 - 5:35 - 3rd/4th graders<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_TnnGiREOvNseot80micWN3oAN8D-87JNLd43iB-bAVHyt-EFIzLYWZVTR8payyXUTDNRTwFe_ILKc888c29qpNfkHimR4Nppuq8r0SjaESEiE492oGLUgZOdiFt4NWLhcpmfW_qxhQRB/s1600-h/1st+week+Korea+010.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_TnnGiREOvNseot80micWN3oAN8D-87JNLd43iB-bAVHyt-EFIzLYWZVTR8payyXUTDNRTwFe_ILKc888c29qpNfkHimR4Nppuq8r0SjaESEiE492oGLUgZOdiFt4NWLhcpmfW_qxhQRB/s400/1st+week+Korea+010.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5177078566154055682" border="0" /></a><br />This is a picture of my school - it's the building in the middle with the radio tower behind it. The picture below nicely captures the Pizza Hut on the first floor.<br /><br />The absolute worst part of my day comes during the 80 minutes I have to spend with the four and five-year olds. On Tuesday, I walked into the room, and they cried, for 80 minutes straight.<br /><br />Let me back up a second. I got into Korea on a Sunday night, caught my own bus from the airport to the city center, where my boss picked me up (late of course). I got into my disgusting apartment - later post to come - at 9 pm. My boss said, oh by the way you have to teach tomorrow morning at 9 am. Nevermind the promised orientation, acclimation, or training.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCXPnfv_hFtcWkgLtFKcg1-_GjoMO2uK2GVn3WnCztcRQK6sUqbxxA5A6VbtjCatE448IkuUtS7ASCCc8I-Egkng9MDOSVrGMwgRiuoke1eYalQfCHeyQPv04rvuYNGmrXUj290wvoada5/s1600-h/1st+week+Korea+012.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCXPnfv_hFtcWkgLtFKcg1-_GjoMO2uK2GVn3WnCztcRQK6sUqbxxA5A6VbtjCatE448IkuUtS7ASCCc8I-Egkng9MDOSVrGMwgRiuoke1eYalQfCHeyQPv04rvuYNGmrXUj290wvoada5/s320/1st+week+Korea+012.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5177081177494171666" border="0" /></a><br />I'm a pretty relaxed guy, but I was thrown into a classroom full of Korean students, having absolutely no grasp of teaching or Korean. The so-called "curriculum" was a list of three books that took about 20 minutes to teach. Here I was with 60 minutes, seven students, no ability to communicate, and nothing to do. Yea, I was screwed.<br /><br />Over the past four days, I've gotten pretty used to most of the classes. The afternoon students at least understand when I'm yelling at them, so they listen now. Those classes are only 40 minutes which makes them pretty tolerable. I've figured out the seven-year olds enough to plod on through. But today, I had the four year olds for 80 minutes, we built legos, for 80 minutes. How do you teach when they can't even understand you are supposed to be teaching them?<br /><br />Most days - I just take it one step at a time. I can handle just about anything, and now with the four-year olds, I see myself as a day-care supervisor. Let's see if they provide some training if the ever get mad at me....<br /><br />Ok well that's enough complaining about the teaching. I think the recruiting agency I went through was fine, but I think there just isn't much emphasis on training teachers to be successful at my specific school. For those thinking of teaching abroad, beware of empty promises. It's now become pretty much and in-and-out job. I'm currently taking my lunch break at home...<br /><br />Also, below is the customary "first day of school" picture.<br /> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBElaTaTAkTOnuPWLKreGb5KVhYlxrW7tAFAYZTu2gNUfPkHrMhEHRbqtVjv6BCxIIMO8JIrlU6XkAe0PJq-WPLkJ6UF1GbXCkTn05at55QOftCKHRGrP0xltphi5z8gOzV5U2JvC1H9HO/s1600-h/1st+week+Korea+001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBElaTaTAkTOnuPWLKreGb5KVhYlxrW7tAFAYZTu2gNUfPkHrMhEHRbqtVjv6BCxIIMO8JIrlU6XkAe0PJq-WPLkJ6UF1GbXCkTn05at55QOftCKHRGrP0xltphi5z8gOzV5U2JvC1H9HO/s200/1st+week+Korea+001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5177082126681944098" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1124729039766079884.post-86734285416982612462008-03-02T03:54:00.005+09:002008-03-02T05:08:31.477+09:00Leaving Middlebury (Again)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUWE_41vboVcIXWNOt7LZ3GcljJva7-O6Q3DOcx7Bvm8ruUQUZnjdvJTUAzpgNrhBCK_iGEhURiKR-P9NEAaqObqswuDyMWVZiIbC5-4doP6pxhpLXjxhc9_5VFcKgCRnlbZucwVyZwKko/s1600-h/DMZ.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUWE_41vboVcIXWNOt7LZ3GcljJva7-O6Q3DOcx7Bvm8ruUQUZnjdvJTUAzpgNrhBCK_iGEhURiKR-P9NEAaqObqswuDyMWVZiIbC5-4doP6pxhpLXjxhc9_5VFcKgCRnlbZucwVyZwKko/s400/DMZ.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5172848760834280354" border="0" /></a>This is a picture of the ever-famous "Demilitarized Zone" demarcating the de-facto border between North and South Korea. In one week, I will be living less than 100 km from one of the most contested borders in the world. I know - I'm surprised too.<br /><br />This current adventure began last Wednesday. At the beginning of the semester this last fall, I decided to "feb" myself and signed up for graduation in early February. Doing so saved me (well Mom & Dad really) the $24,000 needed for this second semester. I graduated on February 2, 2008, and had no prospects for a job whatsoever. After lounging around Middlebury for a month and enjoying all the benefits of college life without the academic requirements, I got a little bored. In between hockey games, lectures, and skiing, I managed to apply for a teaching position in Korea. Since March is a very important month for starting school, <a href="http://www.longbridgepacific.com/">Long Bridge Pacific</a> decided I needed to ship out immediately.<br /><br />Last Wednesday I had a phone interview with Sam, director of the Songpa Language Institute, and about ten minutes later, I had a job. The details of the job are still a little up in the air, BUT I do know I will be teaching English to elementary and middle school students at a language school outside of regular public schools.<br /><br />I depart for Korea this coming Friday from Minneapolis, so this next week will be quite the whirlwind tour. I'm headed home to Iowa from Middlebury on Tuesday after saying all my good byes this weekend. During my brief stay in Iowa, I have to take the foreign service exam, and then I'm headed to the airport and off to Korea - for a year. They are flying me back to the states for a week or two in April to obtain the proper work visa, but who knows how that's all going to work out.<br /><br />I'll try to be better about updating from Korea than I was from Budapest. Given this is a real job and I won't have every Friday off, I anticipate I'll be doing a little less traveling and a bit more exploring of Seoul. As always I love emails, use this address: okobojidan@gmail.com. And I'll be sure to post my mailing address once I'm actually on the ground.<br /><br />One question a lot of people have asked me is: Why Korea?<br /><br />I don't really know. I tell people there is a big demand for English teachers so they pay well, but really I just saw an ad on google, and now I'm leaving in a week.<br /><br />This is where I'll be for those a little fuzzy on their geography:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIyRuJn_WvtgFkg41M2IWKKkRceftUq4g2odPu7HmjWw-2y8d5dViwsAj-0xngebhxAcOeFM5GqIio0eL__YM3F_h-lD2pfNXPLdbKnQAB9o033UJUnvCfpHMwrDUvjo9s7-tMnX99Yf4i/s1600-h/Southeast+Asia+-+google+earth.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIyRuJn_WvtgFkg41M2IWKKkRceftUq4g2odPu7HmjWw-2y8d5dViwsAj-0xngebhxAcOeFM5GqIio0eL__YM3F_h-lD2pfNXPLdbKnQAB9o033UJUnvCfpHMwrDUvjo9s7-tMnX99Yf4i/s400/Southeast+Asia+-+google+earth.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5172852536110533554" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1124729039766079884.post-16631125296227350852008-02-29T06:00:00.009+09:002010-12-03T13:40:28.533+09:00Pictures & Other LinksThanks to Eric for giving me this idea - Here's a list of all my photos from abroad...<br />
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<a href="http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=0QZsmrNm4aMWE9">England</a><br />
<a href="http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=0QZsmrNm4aMWEs">Switzerland</a><br />
<a href="http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=0QZsmrNm4aMWEf">Belarus</a><br />
<a href="http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=0QZsmrNm4aMX8Q">Montenegro</a><br />
<a href="http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=0QZsmrNm4aMX4A">Bosnia & Herzegovina</a><br />
<a href="http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=0QZsmrNm4aMX0w">Albania</a><br />
<a href="http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=0QZsmrNm4aMXwg">Macedonia</a><br />
<a href="http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=0QZsmrNm4aMXtQ">Serbia</a><br />
<a href="http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=0QZsmrNm4aMXpA">Szekesfehervar</a><br />
<a href="http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=0QZsmrNm4aMXlw">Mt. Kekes</a><br />
<a href="http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=0QZsmrNm4aMXhg">Keszthely</a><br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/Salgatorjan%20&%20Pictures%20from%20the%20three%20castles">Day of Castling</a><br />
<a href="http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=0QZsmrNm4aMXaA">Sarospatak</a><br />
<a href="http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=0QZsmrNm4aMXWw">Vac</a><br />
<a href="http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=0QZsmrNm4aMXSg">Tat & Gyor</a><br />
<a href="http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=0QZsmrNm4aMXLA">Paris</a><br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=0QZsmrNm4aMWFK"></a><a href="http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=0QZsmrNm4aMWFK">First Week in Korea</a><br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=0QZsmrNm4aMWFb">Cheongu</a><br />
<a href="http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=0QZsmrNm4aMWFo&notag=1">Incheon</a><br />
<div><a href="http://share.shutterfly.com/share/received/welcome.sfly?fid=17ef7844efd7b4d86d9889752d9a603c&sid=0QZsmrNm4aMWGX">Columbus Day Hiking Trip</a><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/okobojidan/Spain#">Spain</a><br />
<br />
And for more see my <a href="http://middlebury.facebook.com/photos.php?id=4403153&ref=pb">facebook </a>albums</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1124729039766079884.post-60514103872612325202007-11-29T03:45:00.000+09:002007-11-29T03:49:27.555+09:00What Everyone Misses About the Iowa Caucuses<o:p style="font-family: times new roman;"></o:p><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> As a proud Iowan, I often ask myself – what do we really have to brag about? Sure we have world famous attractions like </span><st1:country-region style="font-family: times new roman;"><st1:place>America</st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-family: times new roman;">’s largest Czech and </span><st1:place style="font-family: times new roman;"><st1:placename>Slovak</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placetype>Museum</st1:PlaceType></st1:place><span style="font-family: times new roman;">, the </span><st1:place style="font-family: times new roman;">Midwest</st1:place><span style="font-family: times new roman;">’s largest frying pan, and the home of the first soldier to die in World War I. Assuredly, these hallowed halls whet the appetite of the would-be tourist. But not to worry – we have the caucuses!<br /><br /> The </span><st1:state style="font-family: times new roman;"><st1:place>Iowa</st1:place></st1:State><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> caucuses bring millions of dollars to our state every four years and begin the process of determining the leader of the free world. But wait, who really cares? Not Iowans, that’s for sure. For the last several months and for the next two as the Iowa Caucuses approach, polling data and school visits in </span><st1:state style="font-family: times new roman;"><st1:place>Iowa</st1:place></st1:State><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> will dominate the national press – and be skipped over by most Iowans.<br /><br /> This is the sad incongruity between national perceptions of the “noblest form of democracy,” and the reality in </span><st1:state style="font-family: times new roman;"><st1:place>Iowa</st1:place></st1:State><span style="font-family: times new roman;">. On </span><st1:date style="font-family: times new roman;" month="1" day="3" year="2008">January 3, 2008</st1:date><span style="font-family: times new roman;">, the first votes (sort-of) will be cast for the eventual president of the </span><st1:country-region style="font-family: times new roman;"><st1:place>United States</st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-family: times new roman;">. And they will be done so by no more than about 150,000 largely white, middle-class, citizens from, just one, heartland state. This is not meant to be a drag on Iowans – we take our job seriously.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> Well I should say the roughly 5 % of the state that caucus take their job seriously. So when the national media swarms on </span><st1:state style="font-family: times new roman;"><st1:place>Iowa</st1:place></st1:State><span style="font-family: times new roman;">, it makes the viewer in </span><st1:city style="font-family: times new roman;"><st1:place>Tallahassee</st1:place></st1:City><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> or the reader in </span><st1:city style="font-family: times new roman;"><st1:place>Seattle</st1:place></st1:City><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> think Iowans are something they are not – a bunch of political geeks descended from some abnormal heritage well versed in the treatises of Locke and Montesquieu. Most of us barely got past Federalist #10 – something about factions?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> So Iowans don’t care, oh shit! Not really. The media likes to assign a mythical advantage to whoever wins the </span><st1:state style="font-family: times new roman;"><st1:place>Iowa</st1:place></st1:State><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> caucuses. This notion also is largely incorrect. Oh sure, Kerry won Iowa and won the Democratic nominee in 2004 as did Bush for the GOP in 2000, but Iowa played a very minor role in the victories of those two candidates. Polling data shows, those two candidates were already on their way to winning nationally without the supposed “boost” they gained from </span><st1:state style="font-family: times new roman;"><st1:place>Iowa</st1:place></st1:State><span style="font-family: times new roman;">’s anointed aristocracy.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> Finally, no one </span><i style="font-family: times new roman;">really </i><span style="font-family: times new roman;">knows what is going to happen come January 3. When only 5% of the state is likely to participate, reliable polling data is hard to accumulate. And even when polls do reach upwards of 1000 “likely” caucus goers, who really knows if a) they will go, or more importantly if b) they will switch their support during the two hour marathon butting heads with the Orange Bowl. The media speculates daily about the polls coming out of </span><st1:state style="font-family: times new roman;"><st1:place>Iowa</st1:place></st1:State><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> and shapes how the rest of the nation feels about the candidates when in actuality, anything could happen.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> Iowans are a proud bunch; we’re not easily persuaded by fast talking politicians dressed in nice suits. In that regard the politically active citizens of the state are some of the most gifted observers in selecting the next POTUS. That being said, the caucuses are hardly the best democratic measure aimed at jump-starting the race for president. The large majority of Iowans are not as active as they should be, and </span><st1:state style="font-family: times new roman;"><st1:place>Iowa</st1:place></st1:State><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> does not matter as much as everyone wants it to. And while I like saying I’ve met all the leading contenders, the </span><st1:state style="font-family: times new roman;"><st1:place>Iowa</st1:place></st1:State><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> fray wastes millions of dollars and hours of energy. It also undercuts democracy – presidential candidates are ignoring most of the country. </span> <span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: times new roman;"><br /><br /> Like Bruce Wayne in the newest Batman movie, I am telling you to get out of my house for your own good.<span style=""> </span>The candidates and the media need to get out of </span><st1:state style="font-family: times new roman;"><st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Iowa</span></st1:place></st1:State><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: times new roman;"> – it’s bad for </span><st1:country-region style="font-family: times new roman;"><st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt;">America</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: times new roman;"> and it undermines the nomination process.<span style=""> </span>I’ll be sad when </span><st1:state style="font-family: times new roman;"><st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Iowa</span></st1:place></st1:State><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: times new roman;"> no longer dominates the press every four years but I guess I’ll have to find solace in cooking really big pancakes while sipping Bohemian beer.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1124729039766079884.post-83442474462107325052007-11-12T15:03:00.001+09:002007-11-13T02:56:02.538+09:00A week at Midd<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEV9zWLHgXcju0Ij7kUtCmsA7k-JhQSkZGMFiM2Tx2h9bOQsdn62NTzQeyxVSXjoINRju9hGJwpfkU-l3Nm-hlMIMuoz_Rw1gy8_n0dZ7kmVyZxTs40MSizu1vX4h1r5GWaJOITuUehBYc/s1600-h/667px-Rajiv_Chandrasekaran_by_David_Shankbone.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5131831331474245890" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEV9zWLHgXcju0Ij7kUtCmsA7k-JhQSkZGMFiM2Tx2h9bOQsdn62NTzQeyxVSXjoINRju9hGJwpfkU-l3Nm-hlMIMuoz_Rw1gy8_n0dZ7kmVyZxTs40MSizu1vX4h1r5GWaJOITuUehBYc/s320/667px-Rajiv_Chandrasekaran_by_David_Shankbone.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>The past two weeks of Middlebury life have been in a way ultra typical, but in a way also extemely interesting. It started last week when <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rajiv_Chandrasekaran">Rajiv Chandrasekaran </a>came to speak on campus. He is an editor at the Washington Post and wrote the book Imperial Life in the <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Imperial-Life-Emerald-City-Inside/dp/1400044871">Emerald City: Inside Iraq's Green Zone </a>about the first few months of the US invasion in Iraq. He was very journalistic in that he didn't really offer any political views or blame. </div><br /><div></div><div>He did, as he does in the book, highlight a lot of the atrocious planning mistakes commited by the Bush Administration. It wasn't really anything new or different from the book. The one thing I took away was how journalists could conduct their investigations so much easier immediately after the fall of Saddam. Now Western jounralists can't even leave the green zone and Iraqi journalists do all the investigating, and even they are at risk. I do recommend the book though as a basic run through of how we messed up. Chandrasekaran has a lot of unique takes on the whole situation and is very good about not blaming the soldiers or State department. </div><br /><br /><div></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVlcAi4XU5lst_XTyC7FeJLJeAzKmWbzmb_XVSC78Z7B9lsiU39v3v6fXMmtv7baB7q-smpCJOnzCw97zZ5tOqUalERM3Lh82LFNSoDl_KE1jrqC1k2RvabyhyQDozqbQ3HFvkmrIbxz2E/s1600-h/zagreb+skyline.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132009894739577106" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVlcAi4XU5lst_XTyC7FeJLJeAzKmWbzmb_XVSC78Z7B9lsiU39v3v6fXMmtv7baB7q-smpCJOnzCw97zZ5tOqUalERM3Lh82LFNSoDl_KE1jrqC1k2RvabyhyQDozqbQ3HFvkmrIbxz2E/s400/zagreb+skyline.jpg" border="0" /></a>This past Wednesday, I was lucky enough to have dinner with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_W._Galbraith">Peter Galbraith</a>, an expert on Iraq and former Ambassador to Croatia under the Clinton Administration. The public library where I work was sponsoring Ambassador Galbraith, and I was invited to dinner. I was a bit disappointed because I thought the other adults failed to really address the expert mind we had at the table - instead we were discussing how young kids are so tech savy (never heard that before). But after awhile we got around to a more serious discussion.<br /><br /><div></div><div>Turns out that Galbraith went to Oxford and Harvard with current Pakistani #1 dissident <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Benazir_Bhutto">Benazir Bhutto</a>. From what I have been reading in the press, I wasn't the world's biggest fan. When Bhutto was Prime Minister, she wasn't exactly a pillar of democracy. She also inherited the post from her father, also again not exactly a morally stable person. I had my reservations, so when Galbraith talked about his close friendship with Bhutto, I was a bit mystified. Over the course of dinner, though, I think Galbraith backed it up with some so-so examples. </div><br /><div></div><div>Although Galbraith was ambassador to Croatia, its not really his thing. Which was sad for me because of my current interest in that country. He spoke about the Dayton Accords and the war in Bosnia, but not with any real passion. He saved that for Iraq - which he worked on during his time at the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. The other big idea Galbraith had was partition in Iraq. Again, from everything I read, it doesn't seem that partition works. Most experts agree that the Sunnis and Shia do not want the country split up, and neither group wants to lose the <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjefUXqnONPf8AtrOJqCFtnlLspwGQ55V0_GaneDqkqOyGLGREDSF72aVd-Q1r1YF0QAlNTv7OUnNZBfR91_xwMIy5F4F6lG-yfmlP2BAzbOQIQ3yVotvrtj2kee-Dbhh230UWtCY-revmh/s1600-h/js24w_yeltsin_wideweb__470x343,0.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132011947733944610" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjefUXqnONPf8AtrOJqCFtnlLspwGQ55V0_GaneDqkqOyGLGREDSF72aVd-Q1r1YF0QAlNTv7OUnNZBfR91_xwMIy5F4F6lG-yfmlP2BAzbOQIQ3yVotvrtj2kee-Dbhh230UWtCY-revmh/s320/js24w_yeltsin_wideweb__470x343,0.jpg" border="0" /></a>Kurds. In my view, it makes sense on just about every front to let the Kurds go their own way. They've earned it, they've instilled stability, and they have a homogenous geography. Sadly, the question of oil revenues prevents any movement in this direction.</div><br /><div></div><div>The final highlight of my week was dinner with <a href="http://www.orrick.com/lawyers/Bio.asp?ID=150047">Eileen O'Connor</a>. She was a journalist for ABC and CNN in Moscow during the 80s and 90s. While I thought her political conclusions about the situation in Russia were a bit underdeveloped, she told fascinating stories about her interactions with Russian officials. O'Connor was the only journalist to discover <a href="http://www.cnn.com/WORLD/9609/20/yeltsin.button/index.html">Boris Yeltsin's </a>heart attack in 1996. In the wake of this coverage, O'Connor was threatened by groups and followed by hitmen. She found out that she had a price on her head, and officials were encouraging her to leave the country. Not only that, she was pregnant at the time. (Photo Credit: AP)</div><br /><div></div><div>This was just one of the many interesting stories she shared with us over the course of the evening. For me dinner with important people is alwasy difficult. I have no manners, and I'm generally awkward. I'd just like to editorialize and brag that I didn't have any large gaffes during the meal. I managed to not spill any food, or apply any stains to my clothing. This was really promising for me and I hope my luck continues.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1124729039766079884.post-12022671729346483402007-10-21T07:30:00.000+09:002007-10-22T00:09:12.205+09:00The AccidentLast Friday after carefully deliberating for about 30 seconds, I decided to head down to Wesleyan University in Connecitcut to visit my friends Laura and Sara with who I studied in Budapest. I was about 2/3 of the way there enjoying a fine biography of Eisenhower and talking to my mother on the phone when it happened. If the narrative is getting a little boring - the pictures should excite you.<br /><br />I was traveling South on I-91 in very heavy rain going about 60-65 mph. All of a sudden the car completely lost control and fish tailed a complete 180 degrees. So, I'm facing the wrong direction in the middle of the freeway traveling backwards at about 60 mph. I'm pretty sure I avoided any heroic words of wisdom at this my finest hour and instead went with the ever-used response to dramatic situations: OH SHIT, OH SHIT, OH SHIT, OH SHIT.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_MqF4e1imDT8DJPl8kS-f6QCl-9917IMf9MYOP2pdilY8DecovWmQm66jVD0Xk6VrrB6Tq2yZtRCxHuYnao6sMfwNipe7zpReca5eiQX5ij1M3VVlNokx2WLYlluFoeRAKQBKtTqNNswp/s1600-h/PICT3651.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123803067211100722" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_MqF4e1imDT8DJPl8kS-f6QCl-9917IMf9MYOP2pdilY8DecovWmQm66jVD0Xk6VrrB6Tq2yZtRCxHuYnao6sMfwNipe7zpReca5eiQX5ij1M3VVlNokx2WLYlluFoeRAKQBKtTqNNswp/s400/PICT3651.JPG" border="0" /></a> So after I was facing the wrong direction and careening down the highway, I eventually continued this path but moved over to the ditch. After awhile of careening through the grassy ditch, I met the trees further off front and center. Because of the angle, I hit the trees with the back end of the car and basically turned an Alero in a trunkless Prius. I couldn't really see the road at this point, but I found the phone that had ended up on the floor. I explained to my mom that I wasn't hurt, and then turned to getting the hell out of Massachusetts.<br /><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123803316319203906" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOTXwrqRV0uxXdsbMCptTy8aEN4fbeiQPotkV0YRO_BHX0XVpyU3nMdZITQapaB834BCrb3QgUAHYvm54gcvLmCN-lj3wPuxCOLH80yiUMElcD_Dm7P7YnrXr18S7QTA9KD9DxDtvvmfjL/s400/PICT3650.JPG" border="0" /></div></div><br /><br /><p>Calling 911 should usually be a calming element, but when the guy asked where I was and I couldn't pinpoint it exactly cuz all interstates look the same, he grew hysterical. I was thinking, "I'm the one that just about died and you're yelling at me?" He couldn't deal with my calm antics so he transferred me over to the Massachusetts state Patrol who were very helpful. </p><br /><p>Except its apparently a crime to crash, so i got a citation for impeded operation because apparently it wasn't enough that I just had a near-death experience and my car was totaled. Bud Light needs a new commercial, "Here's to you Massachusetts State Patrolman" - Asshole.</p><br /><p>The tow druck driver was great, dropped my car off to get fixed and left me and all of my car's belongings at the local Dunkin Donuts - wow what an unfriendly place, but the homeless guys that wandered in were comforting. I wasn't the only squatter. </p><br /><p>Luckily enough, my friends Erik and Emily agreed to come down and rescue me from the coffee world and took me back up to Midd. On our way back I got these pictures of my tragic car. </p><br /><p>Good thing is I came out uninjured, neck hurts a bit and I discover a few bruises everyday but nothing major. I've driven so much and never been in a serious accident - oh well guess it happens to everyone.</p><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123803780175671890" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY5e6psDOXdNKCeuLpo_FcgqR6UA1mfr5nE0PkzMTTLJ1wi4EBiNy4cygtl5YfVY8Lt8_b2eMWKMZy8MINL3Qz26JQ8cgKUdEH9ldC-j17-aYTTHOJNJkrtEtq6Laigme3fiDcuQrIMCi1/s400/PICT3649.JPG" border="0" /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1124729039766079884.post-58132016488244213472007-10-08T01:44:00.000+09:002007-10-08T02:11:13.705+09:00The Bi-polarity of college lifeLast night, <a href="http://www.ocrush.com/">Orange Crush </a>played to the ever affectionate crowd of Middlebury College. They are a really good 80s cover band that biannually returns to Midd. The college is in the midst of trying to raise $500 million over the next several years. They raised half of it last night. This brings me to my point, there were a few hundred of the smartest college students, myself included, dancing like idiots to Madonna and Bon Jovi. All I could think about was how these crazy people were going to run the world someday and make that $500 million several times over. Many of them have Teach for America and Goldman Sachs interviews planned alongside shots of vodka.<br /><div></div><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118638635325633042" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL0-HAkrnkVzPA3JIgXA7Uw0CRM9w97VUjlwzjSi-kr67D_UxRAYpK4HGJK8av0pFKW5fSPOCLTnw_62LkUy0kFQ1DpAi86UVWu-sQ4jpJPkv_3Ndiwixk0cjPHf7ucyjD7Ttw_ZYOX7fZ/s400/800px-Absolut_Vodka_10_bottles.jpg" border="0" /></div><br /><p>I mean I know everyone needs to loosen up and have a good time, but imagine the feedback of 20 yr old facebook pictures of Steve Jobs or Donald Trump passed out on a couch in a college dorm. How will social networking sites shape the future - it shall be interesting indeed.</p><p>In other news, <a href="http://www.middlebury.edu/administration/rcfia/conferences/clifford/#bios">James Piscatori </a>, a noted Middle East scholar at Oxford spoke at Middlebury. I went to his key note address and came away appreciating the voice of British academics. They have a way of capturing eloquence in speeches unheard in the states. Or as my friend Dexter said about <a href="http://www.newamerica.net/people/anatol_lieven">Anatol Lieven</a>, "he talks funny." </p><p>The substance of his talk was interesting as well. Well not really, because he was quite general, but the intersting thing he said was that there are factions developing in the Middle East and <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBkZFQSlwIT0ualdAguDrnWIxa9fkhl1uH40VazYC5JVGhXGGqgjYTHuh_iDwIATT6MbhITMxh11TLx24ZV0UIt4F5K-tBrKM_Nd1WZSJHQ3M7OKyWJevcFL9y7ojVawGGUoGKEWLQ3lJm/s1600-h/2007_04_16t074341_450x300_us_iran_nuclear_ahmadinejad.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118642565220708898" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBkZFQSlwIT0ualdAguDrnWIxa9fkhl1uH40VazYC5JVGhXGGqgjYTHuh_iDwIATT6MbhITMxh11TLx24ZV0UIt4F5K-tBrKM_Nd1WZSJHQ3M7OKyWJevcFL9y7ojVawGGUoGKEWLQ3lJm/s320/2007_04_16t074341_450x300_us_iran_nuclear_ahmadinejad.jpg" border="0" /></a>they have some political power. Pluralism is prospering. This is promising but also very scary. The power of Islamists can rise and fall with the attitudes of public opinion. In Morocco and Turkey, Islamic parties have swept into power and have largely gone about their tasks through peaceful means. </p><p>In Pakistan, Egypt, Jordan, and other places, politicized Islamic groups have not responded through peaceful means and continue to threaten the stable order in those countries. My thoughts after reading and talking with friends who have travelled to the Middle East and the Islamic world is that countries that are open will choose peaceful leaders. The young and moderates in Iran don't like their president and want normal relations with the world. The Algerians I taught English to were more pragmatic about US middle east policy than a lot of Americans I've talked to. </p><p>So I thought it was really promising that Piscatori said factions were developing, but it doesn't mean democracy is proliferating. There is a lot the US can do to promote these various groups. The other intersting thing I took away from his talk was the idea of a larger Sunni and Shia blocs developing in the region. The various groups in Iran and Iraq are cooperating to a larger degree than I had thought, and doing it despite US warnings. This is me not Piscatori: America would be within its soveriegn rights to attack Iran for this action, though I think its a bad idea. </p><p>While the development of factions is promisng, the idea of large religious ideological blocs is a bit scary. Still the development of the reformation led to the rise of the nation-state and eventually democracy so we should be weary of criticizing all macro religious developments. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1124729039766079884.post-70628646894835606542007-10-04T10:19:00.001+09:002007-10-04T10:45:48.516+09:00It's Pure PoliticsFirst off, I had better respond to my brother Matt's <a href="http://okobojicat.blogspot.com/2007/08/in-responses-to-dans-blog-on-iowa.html">argument </a>about my post on Iowa and its caucuses. <br /><br />The one thing I like from his argument is that the primaries/caucuses should be consolidated later in the year. This is great, but it will never happen. John Edwards started running for the nominee on November 3, 2004. The candidates and the states will never allow the dates to be reigned in, though I support this whole-heartedly. <br /><br />Instead let's try to get what we can. Matt lives in Tacoma, Washington, probably the biggest thing undercutting his entire argument. He tries to say that Iowa is more conservative than "some places in America." True, we are more conservative than about 10 states and more liberal than about 30. Matt also thinks Iowa is pretty homogenous. Wrong. Iowa City, and Des Moines are much more socially liberal than the rest of Iowa. And that is where all the poeple live. Iowans widely elect Senator Tom Harkin, one of the most liberal members of the Senate, and Charles Grassley, largely one of the most conservative members. The representatives are all over the spectrum and the Statehouse is largely split down the middle. To say Iowa isn't mainstream America is laughable. Sure we're not Seattle, New York, or Chicago, but we're sure as hell not Topeka, Birmingham, or Columbus. <br /><br />And Matt does make a good point, Gravel, Kucinich, and Paul do have some good, new ideas. That doesn't dispute the fact that they are still idiots. To have the foreign ministries of several countries, and the US State Department issues its own statement is definitive evidence that I'm right, they are idiots.<br /><br />So, what does this mean. Iowa should stay first. We are responsible. We shouldn't be first alone. As we saw with Kerry, Iowa does matter, maybe a bit too much. Let's have Iowa, South Carolina and a Western state be the first three barometers of the candidates. Some geographic and political diversity would be a valuable addition to the contest, but Iowa deserves its place.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1124729039766079884.post-47680086861042908462007-10-04T09:54:00.000+09:002007-10-04T10:51:24.389+09:00I'm BackIt has been quite some time (shout out to Dallen) since I have written anything on here. A couple of friends and relatives focusing on international affairs and politics have thrown up links to my site, so I might shift my discourse to covere these areas and humour them. Since this is my first post since this summer, I thought I would go two routes: A) update a little bit about the personal life and B) throw out some views on the current political scene.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5117279497219781122" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGl70PCL-nUTkYPMNbNPjmrze0Fe8jLjs2yO05-0y7un7WIKJu9AqxnTP4QTRgcqsgrO0162wvlXR30gj5d2IWEMB94Q2vtJZqlTj1zMosYVQzjktdeHWek7nNp4n5YjJUN7VClczM1I4-/s400/My+Spring+Break+Pictures+138.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><br />First and foremost, my recent proposal for a Fulbright Scholarship in Croatia has taken over my life(picture is Dubrovnik). After consulting with professors and removing all references to the first hand "tourism" I had hoped to experience, I shifted my proposal to studying Croatia's accession to the European Union. Croatia is currently the leading contender among all European states. Before the EU Constitution failed in France and the Netherlands, Croatia's hopes for accession looked more promising than ever. Now they have some ethnic tensions, macroeconmic policies, and judicial statutes to remedy before they can become a full member.<br /><br /><br />I wasn't too excited about my actual proposal, just swimming in the Adriatic, when I got an email from several professors in Croatia that agreed to sponsor my proposal and offered to publish my results in the Croatian yearbook on EU law. This was quite a wake up call, and now I'm just counting down the days until I find out when I'm leaving. I just discovered today that <a href="http://www.vermonthumanities.org/index_files/firstwedmidd.htm">Clinton's ambassador to Croatia and a Kurdish expert </a>is speaking at our town's public library. My charm will come out in full force on that night.<br /><br /><br />Also, I've decided I want to be a foreign correspondent for a major newspaper as my life's work, so hence why I've started up the blog again. It's a good way to keep my energies focused on the news and keep me writing.<br /><br /><br />Middlebury is such a terribly busy place, and I've come out of my shell a bit as a senior. I've been hiking, playing soccer and golf, partying, and trying to fit in academics as well. I'm also writing about the women's soccer team for the newspaper - I'll throw up some links for those interested. Our IM soccer team is awesome when we show up and terrible when I'm the lone member on the team present.<br /><br /><br />I'll be much better at keeping updated from here on out with lots of witty tirades - I'm already thinking of some of the stereotypical people on this campus I hate, but I'll hold back for now.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1124729039766079884.post-43649769621914561872007-08-10T06:27:00.000+09:002007-08-10T06:28:22.795+09:00Why Iowa Must not Change its Primary<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFUeCCeOJ8G5c-qfvblNT6Q2xnjmsaDTIQ0TqwRtddm2c2KFPknY_4Z32GmLVCZw2s7W68x1gs8WsUE34GZKuCho6c7B3A3AK1RQrspUOk65aQjP8iQYrTW7nmpqXBLmKVilOI30UuYtfU/s1600-h/cow.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5096815609647684882" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFUeCCeOJ8G5c-qfvblNT6Q2xnjmsaDTIQ0TqwRtddm2c2KFPknY_4Z32GmLVCZw2s7W68x1gs8WsUE34GZKuCho6c7B3A3AK1RQrspUOk65aQjP8iQYrTW7nmpqXBLmKVilOI30UuYtfU/s400/cow.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>I'm from Iowa, you think we like the candidates invading our state earlier and earlier every year? Well when it was President Bush or Al Gore visiting, we got a little excited about the pomp and circumstance, but hearing about Edwards' 12th visit or some hick from Arkansas or New Mexico visiting Des Moines, we really get peeved. Moving up Iowa's primary date will only make this worse, and here's why keeping it the same will make the process better.<br /></div><br /><div><a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/08/09/AR2007080900642.html?hpid=topnews">South Carolina </a>is just the latest of several key states that have moved up their presidential primaries. More and more states are moving their primaries to the beginning of the 2008 calendar year seeking to draw some of the attention from Iowa - it isn't working. The candidates are still focused on Iowa, and this is a good thing. Iowa represents main stream America and that's a good place to gauge how the contenders are doing. We have the two most <a href="http://nationaljournal.com/voteratings/pdf/06twinsodd.pdf">separated senators </a>but the state is pretty much evenly divided during presidential campaigns. We're good where we are because we're a moderate state but not beholden to any particular ideology.<br /></div><div>The second reason we shouldn't move our primary is because other states will be too intimidated to move past us. There would be a huge uproar from any number of folks from the presidential candidates to interested parties in Iowa. This won't happen as long as Iowa stands strong. Instead, what is happening is a consolidation of the major primaries in just a few weeks. The process has something to gain from this, i.e. fewer stories with mentions of Dennis Kucinich, Ron Paul, Mike Gravel, and Tom Tancredo. The sooner those guys are eliminated, the sooner <a href="http://politicalticker.blogs.cnn.com/2007/08/04/tancredo-bomb-muslim-holy-sites-first/">Mecca and Medina can rest safe</a>, and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0rZdAB4V_j8">parks everywhere will no longer feel humiliated</a>.<br /></div><div>I think its long past the days when we could hope campaigns would only last a year. Now, they begin as soon as that last ballot is cast in the midterm elections, and in some cases earlier. Until campaign finance laws are changed, candidates will be jumping the gun earlier and earlier every year. The only way to put a halt on this absurd process is to at least keep the primaries in same calendar year as the election. Knocking off people like Kucinich and Tancredo will allow the real candidates to have a better, more engaging debate about the relevant issues. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1124729039766079884.post-15179698832276240832007-08-01T07:20:00.001+09:002007-08-01T08:29:37.135+09:00How I kept British troops in Basra<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSe77edGgnM7ezHHS8-Alma8I3YaaPfJvaqrDxmIa23WC5rlE4Z3tBw5hwBCnJsJMoXcpzm2o7d-2TEj_IQyGGNIw1sw7oBhV79DreM7tUatrO678OjlW7YLdSJswb8xuQez9S6ChBYQHu/s1600-h/gordon+brown.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5093500732413795554" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSe77edGgnM7ezHHS8-Alma8I3YaaPfJvaqrDxmIa23WC5rlE4Z3tBw5hwBCnJsJMoXcpzm2o7d-2TEj_IQyGGNIw1sw7oBhV79DreM7tUatrO678OjlW7YLdSJswb8xuQez9S6ChBYQHu/s320/gordon+brown.jpg" border="0" /></a> Yesterday, I single-handedly changed America's relations with Great Britain. I was standing on the National Mall, as I often do on Monday afternoons reserving the field for the award-winning Harkin Heroe's softball team. Since a storm was brewing and the humidty induced sweat in my hair was being replaced by bountiful rain drops, I had to put Harry Potter away and find other means of entertainment. Thank God I had a soccer ball because that's what shaped everything.<br /><div></div><br /><div>Well unlike Mr. Bush, I knew that Gordon Brown wasn't a <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/07/30/AR2007073001597.html?hpid=topnews">famous rugby star</a>, though he did play in high school. And like every male with the slightest interest in sports born outside of North America, loves soccer. So I enter the story on Gordon Brown's historic first visit to the United States as PM. As I was practicing my <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P-bWsOK-h98">Ronaldinho impression</a>, Bush and Brown's motorcade drove by me on the mall. I saw Brown look right at me, and then turn to Bush and make a comment. I'm pretty sure this is what he said in his gruffy, Scottish accent:</div><div></div><div>"Damn, you eejits actually play football, what kind of pitch is that w/o goals."</div><div>"Damn straight we play football, the American way."</div><div>[mutters under his breath] "He really is as dumb as yer man said."</div><div> </div><div></div><div>Still, this is my thought: Today, <a href="http://www.ft.com/cms/s/dd9507dc-3ed2-11dc-bfcf-0000779fd2ac,_i_rssPage=61e21220-6714-11da-a650-0000779e2340.html">Brown announced </a>that he would delay bringing troops home from Iraq. After seeing yours truly play the world's sport on the National Mall, a certain nostalgia came over Brown. America can't be all bad if we have youngsters playing soccer right here in our nation's capitol. I can't give up yet, no matter if the leader of the free world is a dimwit. I think the city of Basra owes me (and Brown) a thank you.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1124729039766079884.post-34603647486364494892007-07-23T07:37:00.000+09:002007-07-23T08:11:35.015+09:00Happenings<div><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP_I7ykjlmEBLKudy2F6OIDspsLWs0MvENMI7XZICozAmewQoQy-2xEbD-n3V9USM7MWUdCYT7dBbFxcKXaIElp1097z5ibkatLUUmbo8sEldvQK_pGUleELpbTqEsWA6Mxk_m3pekBszQ/s1600-h/slovene+ambassador.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5090154244220607650" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP_I7ykjlmEBLKudy2F6OIDspsLWs0MvENMI7XZICozAmewQoQy-2xEbD-n3V9USM7MWUdCYT7dBbFxcKXaIElp1097z5ibkatLUUmbo8sEldvQK_pGUleELpbTqEsWA6Mxk_m3pekBszQ/s400/slovene+ambassador.jpg" border="0" /></a> So this is my new best friend, Samuel Zbogar, the Slovenian Ambassador to the US. We spent some time chilling last week at the Slovenian Embassy in Georgetown. A delegation of the 21st Century Forum of Des Moines was in town meeting with various DC agencies and one trip was to the Embassy. The group is designed to promote Democratic politics in young professional circles around Iowa's capitol. I've been growing a beard lately (see the picture) so I fit right in.<br /><div></div><div>The Ambassador was great, very engaging. I was quite surprised becasue based on the US ambassadors I've met, I figured he <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhowGS5jeElunGvgieqteHDPO1oVbCXIVb_6zArZwpILLda8KwDjPOkpsImd-A-IUWSXIn0QTUYa-lAGYGqOHCKORHcJM9ozCiiRWW2LM0ZfpwfVkIGRZpygCNZKJvIBqFgTBDjpqXZmSHy/s1600-h/beard.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5090155116098968754" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhowGS5jeElunGvgieqteHDPO1oVbCXIVb_6zArZwpILLda8KwDjPOkpsImd-A-IUWSXIn0QTUYa-lAGYGqOHCKORHcJM9ozCiiRWW2LM0ZfpwfVkIGRZpygCNZKJvIBqFgTBDjpqXZmSHy/s200/beard.jpg" border="0" /></a>would be about 60, grey, and a political appointee. Instead he was a very dynamic guy who as you can see is pretty young and appointed based on, surprising I know, a meritorious system. I got his attention when I asked a question about Kosovo and Russia - and he was very diplomatic about giving no answer whatsoever. </div><div></div><br /><div>Other happening in DC include losing my cell phone, a DC United Football (soccer) game, lots of softball, and Nationals games 2 and 3.<br /></div><div>When I say I lost my cell phone, I can imagine the irresponsible connotations of a young college student this must conjure, but none of them are fitting - I'm sure. I left it on a park bench in Alexandria, VA. What an idiot. But let me just digress a bit and discuss how cell phones have revolutionized social life. I may sound like an idiot complaining here, but just think about it. We are almost always on the move planning on calling later to meet up at a certain place. Theres lots of changing of plans, destinations, all conveyed over cell phones. Plus no one is on time in this generation so amendments to pre-agreed to plans are inevitably required. So, for one who has lived without a cell phone for over a week now, I'm not sure how I feel about this. I'll be <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj15SB47nfUHlovdw1BOaQpluI7dALubZHfzVvAC7HDXBEunJNgooeSpv-7GRKjh1WR0_6IcA03NPWSa1PcwAY4o4akGXfpvIRW5ukVeA51JSEvJTa0WZDRT2d9mFhzTfTZavZzcRaNzTvM/s1600-h/jiminez.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5090157559935360194" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj15SB47nfUHlovdw1BOaQpluI7dALubZHfzVvAC7HDXBEunJNgooeSpv-7GRKjh1WR0_6IcA03NPWSa1PcwAY4o4akGXfpvIRW5ukVeA51JSEvJTa0WZDRT2d9mFhzTfTZavZzcRaNzTvM/s320/jiminez.jpg" border="0" /></a>ecstatic tomorrow when I finally get reconnected, but should we really place such reliance on being connected to other poeple? That's all I'm saying.</div><div></div><br /><div>These last two Nationals games have been awesome. Well not really because they still play in RFK stadium which abslutely blows, but becasue the Nats have won in dramatic fashion. Scoring the game winning hit in the 10th was D'Angelo Jiminez who had something like a .079 batting average. The game was a bit depressing for awhile becaue of the rain that sent most of the stadium packing, but I was there until the end. (Just so I don't get sued, photo is from the Wash Post).</div><br /><div>Game 3 was also a nail biter, but this time I felt like my own cuticles were in danger. Mark, another intern in Harkin's office scored 6 free tickets and a parking pass that were 8 rows behind the 1st base dugout. Talk about being right on the field. After a pretty good pitching performance and weak hitting by the Rockies (12 runners LOB), Austin Kearns hit a bomb in the bottom of the 8th to close out the game for the Nats 3-0. </div><br /><div>In softball news, I'd say both teams are getting better, though Harkin's performance at the States of the Big 12 Annual tournament is not a very telling sign. We were out quick after an 0-2 performance and I'd say the free lunch and booze were serious hurdles for much of our outfield. (Mark screaming "we've got 'em right where we want 'em" as we walked in a run making the score 14-1 perhaps is a good example.) Last Monday we showed the "Hill's Angels" from Clinton's office a thing about taking over Iowa. On Wednesday, the think tank league matchup of the night against a State Department team proved too much for my New America colleagues, but we had some pretty tasty half priced burgers after the game. My gigantic wound is by no means healing and I'm wondering if I'll ever have hair on that part of my leg again. If not, at least its a good story to tell. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5090160978729327826" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFw77TGoSIVYkbCuTKc0J_5OymNP08QINILFy_zn8BqMM3PXjaq9IYlUQwkHo37D5QZ1JIyMDl4C_HzyT1tvI-wg_-l3NGP8nR3OJGsNfAJ-3uugbIf8o5xRFptkiErP6QSxR8scsjEMV3/s400/Mary+Spring+Break+Pictures+002.jpg" border="0" /></div><div>Been doing a lot of reserach on Saudi Arabia. I don't think America has ever been more secretive about our relations with an ally than we are with the Kingdom. Feel free to prove me wrong. </div><br /><div>And in news that everyone seems to be trying to figure out, Harry dies in the 7th book. Ok not really I don't know and haven't read any reviews, just throwing that out there to scare some folks. </div><br /><div>Next week should be a fun one, two softball games, reunions for DC 05 interns and Budapest 07 friends, plus I'm being dragged to Harry Potter #5 the movie and paid to drive to the beach in Delaware (ok that one I can handle). Maybe next weekend I'll get back up to New York and wine and dine with the famous grandma of Sara Greene. </div><div> </div><div>Oh the DC United games was pretty exciting, a 3-3 draw with lots of action. We scalped tickets of course for less than the price and sat about 20 rows back from one goal post. The atmosphere is so much different than a Nationals game. First off, everythink said over the intercom is in English and Spanish. There is so much more electricity in the stadium and the game is much shorter making sure you don't miss anything. My first pro soccer experience was great, hopefully theres more where that came from. </div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1124729039766079884.post-66038732751029973072007-07-17T12:58:00.000+09:002007-07-17T13:05:26.319+09:00An Epic Wound in the making<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlVoR3Pq3YrBj7VJVe1r2hZqoH1bdKrZOQCsqWZ9KwKYBKnrpDkDpfZgmpoyYtdGxZkQrQ9r-QiMUs9X4SVpKvLCq2O7UIMCbcsYfGh2nWYJlM2zfE7f9zi16QLcant1WDU62Af5GDtRpM/s1600-h/PICT3640.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088010566083421842" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlVoR3Pq3YrBj7VJVe1r2hZqoH1bdKrZOQCsqWZ9KwKYBKnrpDkDpfZgmpoyYtdGxZkQrQ9r-QiMUs9X4SVpKvLCq2O7UIMCbcsYfGh2nWYJlM2zfE7f9zi16QLcant1WDU62Af5GDtRpM/s400/PICT3640.JPG" border="0" /></a> So this is a pretty amateur photo taken just a few minutes ago, but i'm sure its going to develop into an epic wound. I say this because I'm going to play a lot of softball and probably not slow down.</div><br /><div>I made the worst of the wound on Friday during our softball victory over the DCI thinktank. Let's just say I rounded first a bit too far on a gravel field and bit the dust. And no I didn't come out of the game - i had to cover up the blood well enough so no one would say anything.</div><br /><div>Then today in a game on the national mall, I was not going to make the 1st out at third in my quest for a triple - the sacrifice: reopening the wound. </div><br /><div>And with a game tomorrow and a tournament on Saturday - I'm guessing there's no rest in site. So like I say an epic wound. Below is a photo of the original wound.</div><div> </div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088011768674264738" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFAI6HW5Ia3ZxhSmqtDCI-IbTgs98XGl_SNxu1igxqGYG83okC1r60Fqel87Twlbhpazk2ngxPu-dmTYJt37xcfiiQSCI138IN1vizjLnb2_axG_nkI32SQKryOMEI73SYYEi-4vfcjArq/s400/Ouch.jpg" border="0" /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1124729039766079884.post-61993770913785744952007-07-12T23:11:00.000+09:002007-07-12T23:13:10.706+09:00Cage of Death<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh0fAzbU7arJANPhfo-YeKpFTm83EVUmx4Xb8uZLd3hRsi9o6OwID9pqKQxqSEdRUY9CpWCis7vinXZk_5XICuFodVRZut_QuZjwECDs_wyxdGwp0K5-QhOi2DXu-JcqWTqXdEH05RqiXX/s1600-h/Gifts+308.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5086313182123140738" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh0fAzbU7arJANPhfo-YeKpFTm83EVUmx4Xb8uZLd3hRsi9o6OwID9pqKQxqSEdRUY9CpWCis7vinXZk_5XICuFodVRZut_QuZjwECDs_wyxdGwp0K5-QhOi2DXu-JcqWTqXdEH05RqiXX/s400/Gifts+308.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>When I say I work in a cage - I actually mean it. Compare this to the picture below of my New America office. </div><br /><div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1124729039766079884.post-36513370862700863882007-07-09T11:09:00.000+09:002007-07-12T02:36:21.821+09:00What a week<div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFVtXieeHBQUYLcEXSkN9C9Juap_-kBQmooAQSFB4GXPvLb6BAJffEmp5NzUZYWg-Swt1qhwa2pIJaFUdwdjKaOZbaLqybiRWWbdq1bLPrsp29FNq0wKPa9hg6b1FNuCaLovq5_NicFWSF/s1600-h/Week+in+New+York+002.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5085675080300674690" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFVtXieeHBQUYLcEXSkN9C9Juap_-kBQmooAQSFB4GXPvLb6BAJffEmp5NzUZYWg-Swt1qhwa2pIJaFUdwdjKaOZbaLqybiRWWbdq1bLPrsp29FNq0wKPa9hg6b1FNuCaLovq5_NicFWSF/s400/Week+in+New+York+002.jpg" border="0" /></a> <div>I've had a pretty unbeatable week of events. I think the starting point was last Friday with the game in Baltimore and only got better. Monday - Nationals vs Cubs, Tuesday - BBQ feast with view of downtown DC, Wednesday - fireworks on the National Mall, Friday - Yankees vs Angels at Yankee Stadium & VIP tour of Statue of Liberty, Saturday - Coney Island and Live Earth Concert, Sunday - swimming in Maclean. </div><br /><div></div><div>O let's just get this out there - I love baseball and road trips, so its natural to say I'd be up for anything. When my friend on Thursday was like, hey we're going to new york tomorrow - you should come, i was like why not. But i'm getting ahead of myself - Fireworks in DC. </div><br /><div></div><div>Boston and New York might be the only other places equal to DC for the 4th of July. I'm sad to say that this was my second time ever not being in Okoboji, though happy this time its for DC and not Yale, Iowa (pop. 287). Oddly enough, Alex, the friend who was gonig to New York had been to Yale, Iowa for the 4th of July and knew Tim Sheaf a good friend in the debate world. </div><br /><div></div><div>Anyway, when I think of 4th of July, I think of bbqs. Well indeed thats what most of the day consisted of. First at Renee's, then Courtney and I ventured to various work bbqs before shots<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2qrmhdNvIFSi4oEzrcmA7Lg95DEHgGu70qAeRWX4SnzSPpdoty-Kgs9qNCPhCFQHm09jL6XkpcT8KMe7TkoK3Fl3_aLQ9nPQuKfh2u3kjA6nSnhyl2ezJ7sLD45A93oeIreyaS_Gxp7x_/s1600-h/Week+in+New+York+028.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5085991937217969810" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2qrmhdNvIFSi4oEzrcmA7Lg95DEHgGu70qAeRWX4SnzSPpdoty-Kgs9qNCPhCFQHm09jL6XkpcT8KMe7TkoK3Fl3_aLQ9nPQuKfh2u3kjA6nSnhyl2ezJ7sLD45A93oeIreyaS_Gxp7x_/s200/Week+in+New+York+028.jpg" border="0" /></a> of Hungarian palinka and then fireworks on the mall. They are really special not because of the quality, but because the Capitol and Wash. Monument in the background, standing next to Lincoln and Vietnam, and capping a whole day of bbqing. Not bad. </div><br /><div></div><div>I forgot to say that Monday was spent watching the Cubs destroy the Nats at RFK. How come the stadiums I live in close proximity to always suck. The Metrodome and RFK have to be two of baseball's worst stadiums (after Montreal disappeared). Still I was happy to see the Cubs win - who as of today are only 4 games out of the wildcard.</div><br /><div></div><div>Its ok though, Friday night I got up to Yankee Stadium which is like the Vatican for Protestants. Sure you can admire how great and awesome it is, but it still has a lot of baggage that goes with it. Plus I sat in the bleachers with two New York fans making it espcially depressing. I got to see those famous lights for a very long 14-9 game. I forgot my camera all day Friday so no pictures. </div><br /><div></div><div>Also, I love driving in NYC. Basically you are restricted by traffic and stoplights, not by speed limits so its pretty exhilirating. Its much better than driving in DC. In DC I get frustrated becasue there are cars everywhere, but in NY its just buildings and people which are less antagonistic. </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5085992624412737186" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4xmhyphenhyphengFvKk8nsdCHT2QSSKb98L9yywhzO2tffYG9cfEJYIYZyfZUJdwZFEbHkVNgedrJo31lW0oxZ30ecIeVJQqQIYkeqk1I_J4jbzz1t2s5g9P_wd5s1Ex5Fy0-2YoRtNWwg7ejFqp50/s320/Week+in+New+York+029.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div></div><div>Friday night, Sara (friend from Budapest) and I trekked all the way out to Brooklyn and got about 3 hrs of sleep before a 7 am view of Coney Island. Odd feeling for a board walk that early, but surprisingly lots of people were out. After a couple of hours on the beach, it was off to the <a href="http://www.liveearth.org/">greatest concert ever</a>. 10 hrs of music with headliners like Dave Matthews, the Police, Bon Jovi, Akon, Kanye West, Ludacris, John Mayer, etc played at Giants Stadium in New Jersey. It was pretty unreal and we had an amazing time. Charles - the guy that got the VIP passes and tickets is in the picture. On stage is my good friend Alicia Keys. We were pretty exhausted by the concert on Saturday so chose to just stay in for the night. Only took about 4 hrs to drive back to DC on Sunday and I was home for about 20 minutes and couldn't stand the heat. My good friend from school Amelia invited me over for a swim - and 4 hrs later i drug myself out of the water. </div><div> </div><div>Great week - should have some more stuff about what I'm doing at work and the upcoming DC United game - I've never been to a soccer game - still dont' think it will compare to European soccer.</div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1124729039766079884.post-66473629477847469812007-07-03T05:22:00.001+09:002007-07-04T02:55:53.875+09:00Three quick thoughtsWhere have all the men gone?<br /><br />I was doing some research yesterday, and I came across the fact that the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Northern_Mariana_Islands">Northern Mariana Islands</a> (a US territory) have the highest female to male ratio of anywhere in the world. There are 100 women for every 77 men, and for some incredible reason tourism is <em>declining</em> in the region. Guess it's high time i flew to the Pacific.<br /><br /><br />Dissemination of Information<br /><br />Here at the think tank, we've created a blog that should be up and running in the next few weeks. Althuogh its exciting that I'll have another forum for my thoughs, one being more academic, I'm also kind of displeased with the thought of yet another blog. This goes to an idea my friend <a href="http://katiejbates.blogspot.com/2007/06/voluntary-blog-extinction-movement.html">Katie </a>wrote about awhile ago - yes on her blog. A friend from Budapest, who maintains her blog from Prague now, explains that there are way too many blogs out there people should voluntarily remove their own blogs.<br /><br />I like this idea, because its true, there are too many blogs - even professional bloggers that do nothing but write posts all day. It seems to me there are so many blogs out there, there are more people writing and less people getting all the info. Its great there is such a variety of info available, but with all of it available, there has to be a corresponding trade-off, I'm just not sure what that is yet. And yet here i sit writing a blog post so...<br /><br />Iowa in the news.<br /><br />Ottumwa, Iowa has recently been in the news because of the new iphone. Steve Jobs used Ottumwa as an example of why he had to pick AT&T for the iphone network. Only two companies had wirless internet networks that could reach this part of the state - so he had to choose. <br /><br />Iowa always pops up in the news as <em>that other place</em>. I was reading another article awhile back and Iowa was the home of Joe six-pack for some study. Also back at Middlebury last year, a professor arguing about foriegn policy and how complicated it was, used for example that a person in Iowa wouldn't understand the nuances of foreign policy. As a very ardent supporter of Iowa, this is all quite discomforting. We're not really known for anything excpet attracting the leading presidential candidates. These guys know much more about Iowa than any natural politician should. American politics is a circus, but thats not the point.<br /><br />I guess its good we get in the news for something, but we really have to work on our reputation so we're not always - that other state.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1124729039766079884.post-2085301198479481082007-07-01T02:00:00.000+09:002007-07-01T03:04:50.030+09:00Fun with Renee<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO_x1bwGaOHePbn3jbtb7r8pVjnKT3s6B86Uk49MFhPJxL52EdCjI_CaVYSicBVQsr0Oa4n8LmjQLrHsrbrv8ImiYwLfKpoJQdCoWRIcgkvq580aD-hbvDpgEWojzAXi-vz3238PHRxBrc/s1600-h/Orioles+game+001.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5081910884804054802" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO_x1bwGaOHePbn3jbtb7r8pVjnKT3s6B86Uk49MFhPJxL52EdCjI_CaVYSicBVQsr0Oa4n8LmjQLrHsrbrv8ImiYwLfKpoJQdCoWRIcgkvq580aD-hbvDpgEWojzAXi-vz3238PHRxBrc/s400/Orioles+game+001.jpg" border="0" /></a> <div>My cousin Renee is out here for the summer interning at a hospital in the district, so we've been hanging out a bit. I have to recount two of our adventures. First was an epic bike ride, second was one of my favorite pastimes - Major League Baseball.</div><br /><div></div><div>Last Thursday, Edwin and Rosalie graciously invited Renee to dinner. Renee is living in an apartment and probably doesn't get all the home cooked meals like I do. So we agreed to meet up at the capitol at 5:30 for the ice cream social and then head out to Virginia for dinner. Well Renee decides we should both ride the whole 10 miles on ONE bike. Mind you this is not flat, <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgabJNiOvKufHvU_1Cc-Q1JfTysI-0kFBiZs7QN7FC53JflPDntWOCNR5iXWSPj-lObsCsRPAx31c6oVC3HMNB2VQG-uM52fvaaxVVlg_3m-0ZeA4oUk9IcN2oFFNRku37VPxyPK8vxih6Q/s1600-h/Orioles+game+002.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5081916141844025122" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgabJNiOvKufHvU_1Cc-Q1JfTysI-0kFBiZs7QN7FC53JflPDntWOCNR5iXWSPj-lObsCsRPAx31c6oVC3HMNB2VQG-uM52fvaaxVVlg_3m-0ZeA4oUk9IcN2oFFNRku37VPxyPK8vxih6Q/s200/Orioles+game+002.jpg" border="0" /></a>and there is a thunderstorm brewing. So after we're riding for precisely three minutes, Zeus releases his full arsenal of rain. It just poured and poured for about 10 minutes. Rather than seek shelter, we powered through. </div><br /><div></div><div>Needless to say we received just a couple of funny looks from drivers. At this time, there were no pedestrians to be seen - thats how hard it was raining. Well about 3/4 of the way home I get a call from my grandpa in Iowa. We're late for dinner and he's the messenger. Trouble is, I can't call Edwin and Rosalie back because Verizon messed up their phone system and they couldn't receive calls. Well after about an hour and half (ride usually takes between 45 min and 1 hr) Renee and I finally struggle in soaking wet. Our hosts were as happy as could be and made us some delicious pork chops and veggies. I think I will discourage Renee from riding that far on one bike ever again.</div><br /><div></div><div>Our second adventure was up to an <a href="http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/recap?gameId=270629101">Orioles game </a>in Baltimore. Naturally I love baseball, but I've never really described what I've nicknamed "the little boy feeling." You all have had it at some time or another, but maybe you just haven't given it a name. It happens at different times <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp37lsH75Vc9HLAshyOcFzV3IaXRabMVK7os9An7BALIU4WsiBFtB4T-c2e9Z70EiJkFxNFRNap97M0Jt5VyuUww72b6OsIJWPFpGb6Q_Aq58TDLKqBO_GzHdWiIYGZrpBlLhspOqZsPqK/s1600-h/Orioles+game+013.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5081916369477291826" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp37lsH75Vc9HLAshyOcFzV3IaXRabMVK7os9An7BALIU4WsiBFtB4T-c2e9Z70EiJkFxNFRNap97M0Jt5VyuUww72b6OsIJWPFpGb6Q_Aq58TDLKqBO_GzHdWiIYGZrpBlLhspOqZsPqK/s320/Orioles+game+013.jpg" border="0" /></a>for different people. For me, it happens when I enter a baseball stadium - every time.</div><br /><div></div><div>Let me try to describe it. When you're a little kid from rural Iowa, going to a baseball game is a big deal. So you walk into that stadium and see all the lights, the flashing neon signs, all the people, the green, green grass, players with names like Puckett, Ripken, Sandberg, something inside you just makes you really excited. Sure you might call it butterflies, but its something more. Its experiencing something that is very rare and something you've done in your head a thousand times. I had it when I stepped onto the Rialto in Venice, and when I entered Times Square for the first time. It no longer comes for games in the metrodome, but I definitely felt it upon entering Camden Yards. Call it corny or what you will, but I am comforted every time it happens - I haven't grown up yet. </div><br /><div></div><div>Surprisingly we actually got to see a really good game. Orioles first basemen Aubrey Huff hit for the cyle, something that only hapens once every 800 games - about the same odds as seeing a no-hitter. I've seen two cycles but never a no-no. The angels looked good early, taking a 5-0 lead, but then let the Orioles back in who when it swung in their favor 7-5. The Angels rallied back with a 2-run homer in the top of the 9th to take the final lead of 9-7. Great day for baseball.</div><br /><div></div><div>Renee and I also got to venture on American public transportation - train up and bus back. It was weird randomly talking to passengers, something I never did in Hungary (that whole language barrier), but I did miss Hungarian prices ($7 for the train and $10 for the bus). I think it would have cost $2 round-trip in Hungary. Oh yeah, they were giving out those sweet orange hats during the game...<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5081917387384540994" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik5tUpcsNCglNn62chfs9HSh4XppxfvFC084gjK-hMX8JxICHXLFIX8bXIaej4Bw7NTQfYG5_DfQFZVUjsWK5PEyBsZiIj65RdbykJ3JWpVJTHuKAa9saQ-dvrARcLfKSzXNSBmepne77f/s320/Orioles+game+016.jpg" border="0" /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1