One hundred year old egg...

This weekend was the second annual “Jump the Gun Turkey Run”. In its simplest form it is an excuse to have an additional Thanksgiving dinner. More importantly it is a large group of friends celebrating the holiday together. Each person contributes a traditional or nontraditional dish and pot-luck style we feast and revel in each others company. The dinner went very well, the turkey was superb, the wine flowed, and the company was refreshing. There was however one moment that I would like excised from my memory. Kristen decided she would share some of her Asian culture by contributing a traditional culinary treat. I speak of the one-hundred-year-old-egg. If the name does not elicit an immediate gag reflex let me expand further. The egg is made by burying it in the ground for several months with salt and rice and whatever else they think makes eggs rot in a stylish fashion. The egg spoils in this closed environment, the yolk turns green and the white turns black and jelly like. Immediately upon arrival I was presented with half of one of these little demons and prompted to consume. I have eaten some gross things. I once fought off a pack of New York pigeons to finish a slice of pizza on Wall Street. When I was a kid I would chew worms with delight for the sole purpose of grossing out my sisters. With this track record I did not hesitate to accept the mastication challenge for the entertainment of others. Moments after the slimy morsel passed my lips I regretted my decision. The consistency of the egg-black was similar to gummy bears that have been left out for a few days. The yolk was creamy and sticky like peanut butter. As I chewed small pockets of gas escaped the egg and filled my nostrils with the sting of ammonia and sulfur. Imagine a bag of gym socks soaked in urine and rancid milk and you might have an inkling of what I had a mouthful of. In protest my body refused to swallow. Despite my feverish chewing the egg would not reach a safe consistency to swallow. Each moment the toxic waste stayed in my mouth the closer I came to loosing my mind. Finally I gulped the mass down only to be left with the pasty remnants coating every tooth and surface in my mouth. I chugged the closest glass of wine and ate three pickles to cleanse any lingering sensation of the absolute worst thing to enter my mouth. Luckily there was heaping plates of delicious Thanksgiving dinner to chase and bury the vile mess. The experience does not deter any future endeavors of eating strange and disgusting things. I am almost certain nothing can ever be worse than the death egg.

Last words..

sitting across from him on the train I first noticed his disheveled hair
I avoided gazing in his direction should he try and seize eye contact
peripherals baited my focus as I noticed the book he was holding was nearly four inches thick
four inches thick
at 200 pages per inch this literary treat must be worth at least 800 pages
I felt sheepish flipping through my advertisement sodden magazine
I noticed my greasy friend was a few pages from finishing this dictionary tantamount
I feigned interest in my inept text keeping an eye on the progress of my cross isle companion
what would happen as he read the last words
elephants would trot down the corridor while ballerinas danced on their backs
fire breathers following closely behind carried by albino gorillas
relishing the monumental accomplishment the reader would jump on his seat and yodel with satisfaction

he turned his last page
there must not be more than a few paragraphs now

I read a few lines of my own frivolous text trying to determine his pace
if he read slightly slower than me he would finish in no more than three minutes
sitting at a right angle mouth agape in anticipation of the final moments of a long and tiresome effort
then he reached into his coat
A TEXT MESSAGE
how can you stop in the final words to check a message
low be the day the marathoner stop ten yards from the finish line to check his stocks
thumbs twirl in response
the marathoner, stocks evaluated, ambles to the sidelines to sign autographs and kiss a baby
I nearly leap from my seat and slap the reader back to focus
nary missing my assault he pockets his phone
eyes continue lateral scans consuming letter by letter
letter by letter
letter by letter
how many letters are on this last page
at his pace I guessed this book was gifted to him on his birthday
three years ago
finally his eyes no longer moved horizontally
it was done
here come the elephants
he tossed the book on the seat by his side
and pulled out his cell phone

In a nutshell

In an attempt at keeping my stalkers and hangers-on interested here is an honest update.
My living situation is vastly improved since the move. I still reside in Brookline which is clean, aesthetically pleasing and a little pretentious, so quite fitting. My roommates are Aaron, George, and Frank (the person). Frank the person has been squatting at our place whilst he figures out his next big move. He will be moving on shortly. The apartment is kept in good order for the most part. I am happy when visitors state it is hard to believe three dudes live there. It is comfortable and nice to come home. I don’t feel the need to hide out in my office nearly as much as last year.
We have had a lot of guests the last few months. My parents came and stayed for a week. It was really fun showing them all my favorite parts of Boston. We also went on some adventures to Maine and New Hampshire. I enjoyed their visit greatly as I think they did as well. We have also had some new friends and old friends stay for a weekend here and there. As a result I gave the same super-amazing-fantastic walking tour of Boston three weekends in a row. I promise the same experience to anyone who shows up on my doorstep.
Every Sunday we have been hosting what we call “Sauce Night”. This is a large Italian style dinner for 15-20 friends. We take turns cooking, the only rule being the entrée must have some type of sauce involved. It’s always a nice end to the weekend. It also keeps everyone close and up to date.
I will admit that the last few months have been a little rough. I have been fighting a general melancholy which gets worse with stressful times. Part of it stems from the realization that my life in New England comes at the detriment to relationships back home. The distance both emotionally and physically is very taxing. There have also been some incidents at the lab which have drawn attention all the way up to the CEO. Luckily I was not hung in the ensuing witch hunt. I am under the magnifying glass however which is tremendously stressful. While I no longer seek solace in my office, I spend long hours there anyway. This has solidified my decision that I must get back in school and move forward with my life goals.
My search for a Masonic lodge in Boston continues. I have been to several social events and met some good people. It is taken much more seriously here than in SLC. As a result it is much more active. I have been invited to a few special events in the near future.
This weekend we will brew beer which is a hobby I have severely neglected. On Sunday I will be at the Patriots vs. Bills football game so watch for me in the stands. Finally, for all concerned parties, the beard is growing back nicely. Thank you for all the sympathetic and degrading comments.

NOVEMBEARD 2008!

as of 12:01am on the day of the first of November in the year of our lord two thousand and eight i henceforth declare all manly men under the eye of a God and finding themselves worthy shall with sharp implement or tool divest themselves of all facial hair which has been or may be residence upon their earthy faces the removal of which being verified by a likewise worthy and participating brother. Further it to be the practice of all manly men to abstain from the hedonistic practice of trimming ones facial hair growth with a sole exception be granted for the neckular region limited at its uppermost extremity by the hyoid bone and laterally defined by the mandible. Should a pledged adherent deviate from said practices of said manly manhood, said individual shall provide to all continued adherents, with admittedly superior male prowess, with a hereunto unspecified quantity of delicious and sudsy brew. It is with great pomp and circumstance and self importance with which i proclaim this proclamation of the commencement of the festivities of the revered and reckless revelry that is NOVEMBEARD!!

Follow link to see the hilarity that is me with NO facial hair!
Beardless Mike

Apple Picking?

People in New England do all sorts of things that people in other geographical areas may not be aware of. They draw out the vowels when they speak. They label adjacent and often intersecting streets with the same name. The most baffling I have encountered yet is “Apple Picking”. Full disclosure, I have never been apple picking, or even invited. What the hell is this “Apple Picking”? I can tell you apparently it is quite the activity which will take up most of the weekend and requires months of planning. The name suggests apples and picking. I have gathered from descriptions that you roam the marvelous apple orchards and select your fruit, namely apples. You must pay for the apples you have labored for. From the apple farmers perspective this is genius. Bamboozling city folk to drive into the boondocks, clamor around harvesting the crop, and then PAYING you for it, this deserves a Tom Sawyer award!
Now some of you liberal fat cats would argue the aesthetic and organic beauty of the scenery and process. Fine. But call it a drive in the country, or escaping the city. Picking some fruit alone does not justify a full day, or day’s time. And what do you do with the trunk load of apples some guy tricked you into picking? You make pies, and bread, and cookies, and cider. Then you force it onto your friends and neighbors and poor homeless people. I know one guy that gets some apple product every day! Poor fella has developed such a complex that the sight of a bowl of applesauce makes him hop like a kangaroo. Other parts of the country have apple picking too. And there is a certain group of people that revel in the activity. We call them immigrants. You know how I pick my apples? Out of a bin at Stop and Shop.

T party

The subway in Boston is called the “T”. It was nicknamed this for Mr. T who once saved an entire subway carload of Bostonians by swallowing a grenade. Those of you that spend your commuting hours comfortably in private climate controlled spheres are deprived the joy of communal transportation. The first thing greenhorns notice is the smell. It is not unusual to be forced intimately close to an un-showered sewage worker who is dinning on squid with garlic sauce. This leads to another point of interest. People eat, talk on the phone to their mistress, clip their toenails, pick their nose and various other personal activities without hesitance. Advanced T riders can feign interest in other activities while covertly observing these spectacles. An open book, Metro, or earphones playing no music are sufficient props to create a biosphere of personal space. “What is a Metro?” I am glad you asked. A Metro is the free daily newspaper handy at all T stops or often lying someplace on the train. It is roughly 10-15 pages of the most topical and useless news available. It is easy to spot the folks that get all their news from the Metro as they will know nothing about the turmoil in Rwanda but can give you every detail of Lindsay Lohan’s last visit to a McDonalds in Ohio. Rookies should also hold on while riding the T to avoid falling into a veteran rider with every start and stop, bump or curve. The veteran, on the other hand, can text message while holding 15 grocery bags and a 200oz iced coffee from Dunkin Doughnuts.
While a book or Ipod is a good prop, it is not necessary as entertainment is infinite on the T. Here are some fun games to play.
The Runner- This guy starts chasing the T four blocks before the stop in hopes of catching it. If he passes any other riders approaching the station, they too will start running for the train. The urge to rush and catch the T is contagious. I have seen 80 year old ladies with purses the size of saddle bags match pace with some punk on a skate board in chase of a train. The best part of this game comes when Pete Punk and Grandma get to the train just as the driver closes the door. The train stays stationary for 4 more minutes until the stop light changes but the driver refuses to open the door, or acknowledge the presence of desperate commuters. The expression of disbelief and disappointment on the ostracized riders’ faces is priceless. This game is of course much less fun when you are the runner and grandma beats you to the train.
Eye Miscontact- This game can be played one of two ways. The easiest is to look at people until they notice you and then look away quickly. Once they look away, look back, continue until they squirm with discomfort or threaten to poke your eyes out with a corkscrew. The second way to play is pick someone at random and look them right in the eye. When they notice you and lock eye contact, don’t look away. They will glance away and look back. Continue looking them straight in the eye until they get off the train or start crying. For added fun do this with a scowl or silly grin.
T Guess who- This game requires a partner to play. It is just like the guess who board game but instead of picking a random card, you pick someone on the train to describe to your partner.
“Does your person have a porn star mustache?”
“Yes”
For added challenge instead of naming specific visible characteristics try making personality judgments.
“Does your guy like secretly playing with teddy bears and china teas sets?”
“No, but he once used a teddy bear to dry his dishes because he was out of towels”


For those of you sitting lethargically in your fancy cars, press another preset stereo dial.

DOG TOWN

This last weekend a large troupe of adventure seekers and myself escaped the city in hopes of finding some ruins, artifacts, or in the least ghosts. Our destination was a place called Dog Town which is a very old forgotten city. Back in the 1600’s a few hundred people moved inland in hopes of escaping the barrage of pirates and buccaneers on the coast. They set up a village and made fruitless attempts at agriculture. It soon became clear that the soil was much too heavily laden with rock to make farming a successful endeavor. Most people deserted the village. Those that stayed were mostly widows, their husbands meeting the treacherous fate of the fisherman life. The widows kept a large number of dogs for protection and this is how the town got its name. As is often the case with places on the fringe of society a large number of shady characters collected here as well. Namely witches. Some accounts name up to 100 different witches all living in the quickly dissolving remains of a village. The most notorious witch was named Tammy. She would often be found entertaining pirates with week long rum binges. And any that passed her house without paying homage would be forever cursed. When she died the surrounding towns were so relieved that they funded an elaborate funeral for her complete with a silver lined coffin in hope of blocking her evil hexes from the grave. All the structures have long since crumbled and been hauled away. The only evidence remaining is scattered foundations and cellars surrounded by thick forest and glacier boulders the size of houses.
After setting up camp we trudged into the woods eager for a spooky encounter or amazing archeological find. I was feeling a little overwhelmed with our large group of 13 people so almost immediately wandered off. Aaron, Theresa and Jesse came with me. No sooner had the voices of the rest of the group faded away then a small hunched woman appeared from behind a dark boulder. The thing to do when one encounters strange people in the wilderness is to avoid eye contact and move away slowly. This technique works well for door to door meat salesman too. Instead Aaron looks right at her and then turns to me and says “look at the beak on that hag!” as soon as he says this we all become paralyzed. The old woman approaches. As she nears the smell of sulfur and mothballs turns my stomach but I am unable to move away. She explains that we have crossed her land without paying the proper toll. Thanks to Aarons never stopping mouth, we are now held under her spell and will forever walk the woods never to see home or rest again! We have only one chance to save ourselves from this ominous future; we must find all the ingredients for her witches brew before the sunsets. Then like a vat of cookie dough at a weight watchers convention, she disappears. We all become reanimated and when we finish pummeling Aaron set to work searching. After hours of what seems to be walking in circles we manage to find the following items:

Throat of frog


















Eye of newt















Brain of mole















Wart of toad















Red mushroom


















Purple mushroom




















Poison berries



















Leg of grasshopper

We return to the place we saw the wench and set them all down on a flat rock. She reappears like a vat of cookie dough at a bulimic convention. She is pleased that we have managed to find all the rare ingredients. She releases us from the curse but warns us never to return. Aaron offers to sleep with her. Being unflattered by his offer she tells him that for the rest of his days his forehead will be as greasy as a basket of fries. We make our way out to the car to find the rest of the group is still stomping around on hollowed ground.
We decide to wait for them while drinking a celebratory bottle of wine.
After returning to camp we feast on hotdogs of all shapes, sizes and textures. There is an improve comedy hour with music accompaniment and then we burrow into sleeping bags hoping that we wake up in the same biological condition we go to bed as.

A-Bridged

Last night we were hanging out in the kitchen discussing the finer points of Governor Palin’s stellar debate performance. Frank (the cat) came running in from the deck looking very upset. He stopped in the middle of the room and turn taking an aggressive stance looking at the door. I was not immediately alarmed; he tends to act crazy and often runs around like he is being chased by an imaginary pit bull. I looked towards the door and saw the glowing green eyes of nighttime creatures and goblins. I thought that Frank had no doubt been out talking trash to other cats and one had crossed his bridge to try and teach him a lesson. Then a small hand reached out and grabbed the screen. Frank (the person) shouted “it’s a raccoon!” Aaron, being slightly braver than a 12 year old girl in a haunted house, slammed the wooden door. I pushed him out of the way, excited to see the wild invader. When we got onto the deck I saw the distinct fluffy stripped tail end cross the bridge and scamper up the closest tree. When we spotlighted the bandit we saw TWO raccoons. It appears it was a nice couple out for an evening stroll, one large guy and one smaller female. The big guy was twice the size of Frank (the cat) which is really saying something. They were not in the least afraid of us. We sat starring at them, and they sat starring right back at us. The big guy actually hissed and growled. Frank (the cat), now backed up by all of us, was acting very brave standing on the edge of the bridge posturing at the coon’s. Now we have to figure out a way to keep the local wildlife and homeless from infiltrating onto our deck and very possibly our house. My first idea was some sort of pulley system so we can raise and lower the bridge. I consulted our in house engineer who informed me the upgrade would cost 2 million dollars and 18 months to build.

Pets

If you have never met my cat Frankenstein much of what I am about to say will sound crazy. At the risk of portraying myself as one of those “cat people” I am going to share the new developments. Frank is a very unique cat. His distinct and fickle personality is the only reason I have him. He never likes to be held or cuddled. At the same time he always wants to be in the same vicinity as the action. Any physical contact is strictly on his terms only. And every so often he is simply a jerk chasing and biting people randomly. His favorite person to harass is Aaron, who considers himself a pants prisoner as a result of trying to protect his girlish legs from the Frank onslaught. His bad behavior has been getting worse since our last move. I am sure it is a side effect of the new training routine involving blasts of water for any unwanted behavior. We also had the idea that he was bored and needed to go outside. As our apartment is on the 2nd floor of a secure building letting him in and out at his leisure would be a difficult task. We decided as a solution to build him a bridge or cat walk if you will from our deck to the hillside behind our place. I enlisted the help of our houseguest Frank (the person) for the project. Frank (the person) being an engineer told me it would take 8 months and a million dollars. While he was busy trying to organize an environmental survey to assess the impact, Aaron and I built and installed the bridge. I was sure that Frank (the cat) would instantly run across the bridge to freedom. He refuses to use the bridge however. He stands at the end and meows but will not advance forward. The term “scardy cat” is very fitting here. We are going to add some railings, which Frank (the person) tells me will cost a million dollars and 8 months to build. Until then Aaron will continue to wear his pants and my coworkers will continue to think I cut myself from all the scars on my forearms.
In related news George and I set up the fish tank we found on moving day. It’s a small five gallon tank which we put two cichlids in. Mine is named Harpo Jr. Jr. Jr. Jr, in honor of all the Harpos that came before. George also is fostering a Costal California King snake which is really neat. We feed him mice on Sundays. We keep a bag of frozen mice in the freezer, so be careful if you are every rummaging in there for ice. I also learned from our new friends at the pet store that you can legally buy and keep alligators in Rhode Island. I am thinking of taking a road trip this weekend and picking me up a few. We can dig a moat for that cat-bridge and keep the riff-raft out!

Sports fans

Most of you are aware that I am not much of a sports fan. This lack of enthusiasm for disgustingly overpaid sweaty meatheads combined with my lack of interest in video games causes some to question my manhood. Even though I can lift almost 50 lbs right over my head! The questioning looks and insults have never bothered me much. However living in Boston without even a rudimentary support for the local teams prompts some to overlook your mere existence. I will admit that being surrounded by such communal excitement has enticed my interest. So when the chance for me to pick up some season tickets for the New England Patriots arose, I took it. Yesterday was my first professional football game. I have always enjoyed college football games but usually the mentality centers on a reason to party rather than the actual game.
I took a chartered train from Boston to Gillette Stadium with a few thousand die hard patriot fans. Scattered sparsely in the sea of red white and blue were a few turquoise Dolphin jerseys. I felt sorry for the loyal fans as they were verbally brutalized by every fan young and old. I witnessed a ninety year old lady sporting a Tom Brady jersey tell a Dolphin fan he should be riding on the outside of the train. I followed the stream of partially intoxicated folks into the largest stadium I have ever seen. The uppermost seats crested hundreds of feet in the sky surrounded by clouds. I wondered if a seat that high came with supplemental oxygen. Because my inherited tickets came from a gentleman with season tickets since 1970, my seats were much better. I sat right near midfield about halfway up with a great view of the entire field and free of any rowdy fans seated behind. Right away I decided that some people take football way too seriously. Setting geographic pride aside, it is after all, just a game. As the game progressed the stunning self-righteous roar of the local fans diminished. The underdog Dolphins at first slowly and then with increasing dominance ran right over the alpha Patriots. The term “fair-weather-fan” was defined as the stadium started clearing out before the end of the third quarter. Since it was a nice day, and because I didn’t care who won, I stayed until the Patriots third or fourth string quarterback downed the last play. The ride home on the same train was much quieter save the cheers of jubilation from the previously humble Dolphins fan. The Patriots winning record of 19 games was shattered by the worst ranked team in the NFL. I had a great time at the game regardless; I am a Dallas Cowboy’s fan anyway!

Settling in

We have been in our new apartment for a few weeks now. While is does not quite feel like home yet, it is comfortable. We have three bedrooms and two bathrooms in Washington Square. There are many fantastic restaurants and bars only minutes from our door. I have also learned that one can run from my bedroom to the subway in less than 2 minutes. I can hear the trains approaching and they do not leave me behind. We have a dinning room complete with dinning table and wet bar. The best part about the new place is that when I return at the end of a day, it looks just how I left it. I can also relax in my living room without the chance of a foreigner with little English skills, or a troupe of foreigners for that matter walking in. I don't think Frank the cat is adjusting as well. He has developed a new habit of pulling things off bookshelves. He also likes to sit in the foyer and meow for no apparent reason. His angst may be partially due to the recent training. I purchased some new furniture to class up the place and don't want him scratching it all up. He gets sprayed if I even see him thinking about it. Those that know Frank also can tell you he is very clever. The new game is he will scratch or jump someplace off limits but as soon as you reach for the spray bottle he runs off. Just when you let your guard down he returns to the scene of the crime and repeats the offense. It’s like drive by scratching and biting. I hope he calms down when I feel comfortable and release him into the streets of Brookline again. I would not be surprised to find him continuing the mischief in the streets with the skunks and wild turkeys the roam the neighborhood.

Head shrink

I had my head substantially shrunk this morning. It was essential really. You see I really dislike haircuts, always have. Not quite sure why but getting a haircut reaches the same level of procrastination as seeing the dentist and getting my face fried off with a giant magnifying glass. It’s a good year if I make it in more than three times, every four months or so. This means that my hair just keeps getting bigger and fluffier and more unruly until something makes me cut it. In the case of this haircut, there are two main catalysts.
Last week I was on the train. Sitting across from me was a small boy with jam or toxic waste on his face. He looked very happy and kept staring and smiling at me. This happens all the time. Kids just seem to be amazed by the sight of me. Especially redhead kids, they are hypnotized with my presence. I think it is because they are struck with the idea that their hair will remain red and crazy into adulthood. Some of them are happy to learn that redheads reach maturity. But a few times I see a look of desperation as the carrot top kid realizes he will always have flames on his head. Back to Jam face. The kid looked like fun, so I decided to play around with him. I stuck my tongue out, I went cross eyed, I even filled my cheeks with air and did a monkey impression. He was quite pleased and mimicked me with delight. Just when I was ready to offer to pay for his college education things turned ugly. He had now reached a level of comfort with me that he felt the need to say what was really on his mind.
“You need to cut your hair” he exclaimed
I laughed nervously, his mother tried to hush him fumbling with embarrassment.
“But mommy, his hair is all weird and red””

“That’s not a nice thing to say Bernard, tell the man you are sorry”
“Mommy he looks like the bad man from Incredibles" Luckily we had reached my stop so I laughed again like an imbecile and said something like “good looking out kid” as I exited the train.
The second occurrence that led me to believe I had a problem is when my hat started popping off my head from the pressure of the trapped afro beneath. Since my hair had become nearly unmanageable I have been stuffing it under hats. It takes some work to stuff all the hair under the brim on the sides and front. For the last week or so the sheer mass of hair became too much volume for some of my hats to contain. They slowly have been creeping skyward off my head like a weed pushing through soil. A couple times I caught a glimpse of my reflection with a hearty mass of hair exploding off my already large cranium with a cap resting on top.
The lady that cuts my hair is very nice. I always feel bad by supplying her with such a formidable task. She has earned my confidence by providing many positive haircuts. I keep returning to her as a result rather than play the hair style lottery you get with the box cuts places. She likes to talk, a lot. Of course she is a soft talker so I spent the entire time saying “Huh”, and “what’s that”. She probably thinks I am deaf or near deaf. This is further validated by the care she takes around my ears. After this mornings visit my head feels very small. I also feel a little sad. Sampson may keep his strength in his hair, but I keep serotonin in mine.

Catch up

For the last month or so I have been crazy busy, especially on the weekends. My little sister Amy was staying in Boston with me for a few months so each weekend was packed with activity in an attempt to entertain her. I am not sure if she had any fun, but I did.
We went camping in New Hampshire which is were I met Jonesy, and capsized a canoe in the middle of the night. The midnight canoe trip was supposed to be some nice quiet time to enjoy the silhouetted wilderness. It was, but it all went wrong when I tried to adjust my seat and sunk Amy, George and I into the drink. This led to an hour swim back to shore towing the waterlogged borrowed vessel. We all lost our shoes as well. My mom would like me share the lesson I learned from all this, but there is none. I guess next time I will wear shoes more securely attached to me feets. What good is life without adventure and surprises!
The next weekend Amy and I took the Fung Wah to New York City. We spent two days exploring as much of Manhattan as possible. We were able to see all the normal things you think of in New York. We also saw a hilarious Frenchman on a bicycle, a man playing the piano in a fountain, a street ball competition, and the inside of the health department. The trip was capped with a trip to Broadway to watch Hairspray.
Next I went to upstate New York to my friend Greg's place. He has an awesome house on a lake. Each year his family hosts a weekend of hanging out playing on the lake, having cocktails, playing games and participating in general shenanigans. I caught seven fish, giving each one a kiss before tossing 'em back. I made my famous mojitos for the crowd and helped organize a campfire Disney sing-a-long. The sing-a-long was shut down by the authorities for "fowl language". It makes no more sense to me than to you.
This last weekend I made a long list of things I needed to complete, some of them had been neglected. After a Friday night dinner party with friends I spent the rest of the weekend ambling about with no real purpose. Nothing on the list got finished. I did make a successful trip to Target, try and talk a tow truck company into returning a friends car, and buy some authentic 1970's clothing. It was really nice to be able to burn a weekend still.
On a closing note, I hate garbage day. Here in Boston they still collect the garbage using a truck and two sweaty mustachioed fellas. They drive up and down the street collecting the pile of trash people leave in bag on the sidewalk. This alone is not so bad. But because I walk everywhere I must first hurtle, dodge and evade the encroaching trash. But then later in the day after the collection the smell lingers. Empty trash containers emit the unpleasant odor to a radius touching the stench radius of the next container. There is no relief! Every inch of sidewalk is fully saturated with the ghost of spilled milk, discarded produce and what seem to be rancid lollipops. With all academia striving to solve all life’s mysteries in the Boston area, you would think they could have solved this debacle. Until they do, I will continue to practice walking without breathing. If anyone finds me passed out one garbage day, please roll me someplace safe.

Petrichor

Petrichor



Filtered light creates an ominous mood.

It must be considered when planning for the day.

Wool pants and dry clean only are poor choices. Don’t wear that silk blouse for sure.

Out the door, heavily laden with props for the day.

An umbrella, a raincoat, sensible shoes?

Half way to the shelter of your transport optimism teases.

Perhaps serendipitous timing will keep that umbrella from seeing action after all.

No sooner does the thought end it happens. One large wet drop stains the sleeve of the cotton shirt. Then a few moments after, another.

Rain is afraid of heights.

Each drop sits trembling high above the earth.

The drop’s instincts urge the leap into the air.

The drop has experienced this moment countless times before, but it never gets easier.

They cling to each other hatch lings not quite ready to begin life.

There are always a few brave ones and they leap first. Slowly others follow.

More afraid of being left behind than the dizzying precipice they all clamor forward pushing and shoving.

The first few dark spots on the cotton are not convincing.

Chameleon like the fabric transforms from light to dark, the umbrella snaps open.

The spontaneous stimulus to the senses is enjoyable before the unrelenting rain becomes a nuisance.

Scent is the strongest trigger of emotion

Earth and water clash together releasing trapped organic matter into the atmosphere.

Momentarily water and earth move in opposing direction and convene in the nose.

The world is crisp, pure, invigorating and alive.

Stone is cleansed of grimy buildup.

Life is dusted and refreshed by nature’s housekeeper.

Beer thief

A few weeks ago I was camping in New Hampshire at Russell pond. This place is great! The pond is surrounded an all sides by lush green hills. The water is a refreshingly comfortable temperature. It is so nice that I was not even bothered by the leaches and other pond life that was abundant. There was one moment when mother nature and I butted heads though. After a morning spent wading around in the water catching critters we sat relaxing at camp sipping some beers. I was half way through my first Sam Adams when I noticed a small black and yellow fly nosing around the rim. In an attempt to get the free loader away from my tasty beverage I blew on him. Instead of sending him on a new course, he went straight into my bottle! I held the bottle up to my one open eye peering down at the scamp. He was suspended on the top of the beer looking quite pleased. I swear I could hear him gulping down his weight in brew. I was not about to let this weasel drink up my afternoon refreshment. I tilted the bottle to my lips and began gulping down beer as fast as possible. The thought occurred that i might drink the fly as well, but so be it, serves him right! I am not much for chugging so I had to take a break. On my second round I finished the beer and again winked into the bottle. It was empty except for the unmoving fly at the bottle, somehow he had evaded my lips. I instantly felt bad for the little guy. After all he was after the same tasty treat as I, and I have respect for any beer enthusiast. I placed the bottle upside down on my hand and tapped the end until the fly fell into my palm. He was lifeless and drenched. I began blowing lightly on him hoping to wake him up, or dry him off. A little man to fly CPR if you will. after a few moments his legs began to twitch. I continued drying him with slow breaths. He eventually stood up but did not fly away. He looked dry now and it seemed the malty goodness from the brew had stuck his wings together. I considered washing him with some water but in the end figured he might not survive two swims in one day. His little legs continually ran over his body like he was frisking himself. And then suddenly his wings began buzzing and off he flew. As he flew away I think I saw him fly right into a tree, but flies can't really get drunk, can they?

Jonesy

The slightest warming of the cool night air told Jonesy that morning had arrived. With reluctance he forced his thousand eyeballs open the smallest slit and sure enough, there was the sun peeking its nosey face into the calm peaceful morning world. A moment later when all his sensory departments were operational he became aware that all his so called "friends" were long gone. He was not annoyed by the aggressive embrace everyone else seemed to always have for life. He was not even threatened by the motivated and meticulous methods they employed to find the best food. No, he was frustrated with himself. He just could never seem to replicate their success no matter how hard he tried, or how much coaching he received. Most of the others figured he was lazy or lame and simply ignored him. It was the ones that continually hazed him that really made him sad. Maybe today will be different he thought as he stretched his three sets of legs and ran his sensitive hands over his wings to make sure they were as he had left them. Confident that everything was ready to go Jonesy leapt off his leaf and into the crisp air wings instantly snapping into action lifting him higher. Today, he thought, I will find the smelliest and most delicious food!
After flying for hours Jonesy settled on a twig gasping with fatigue. Despite his optimistic and frantic search, he had found nothing to eat all morning. Meanwhile he had encountered many of his tribe who were already heavily loaded and satisfied after a huge meal. Some of the nicer ones tried to help him out giving him hints and ideas about where to find a tasty banana peel or some raunchy spilled milk. Whenever Jonesy arrived the food would be finished off or completely crowded with the feeding frenzy of his peers. As he sat on his leaf of solitude he began to feel bad about himself. Maybe the others were right; maybe he would never be skilled in his profession.
Just then electrical impulses began firing in his control panel. He was confused at first and then realized something sweetly intoxicating was near. Very near. He scanned the horizon but could not pin point where the tremendous aroma was coming from. He buzzed around in a circle pattern just as he had been taught slowly increasing the circle size trying to catch the gradient of the smell. Then, without warning, the smell hit him from below like a rain drop going the wrong direction. The intensity of the smell nearly knocked Jonesy out of his flight pattern. He gathered himself and descended directly down landing on the rim of a crater. He gazed into the deep crater the strong aroma completely enveloping him. Deep down at the bottom he could hear the pop and sizzle of whatever delicious substance that was releasing the smell. He wanted to dive down into the crater and explore whatever had attracted him. His instincts told him to be cautious however. Slowly he took a few steps down the vertical wall. After only a few steps the wall rapidly tilted horizontally, everything went dark and then Jonesy felt water surround him completely and begin sucking him below. His head dropped below the surface level and as he tried to yell him mouth was filled with sweet liquid. Jonesy's senses became conflicted as his gut told him to drink as much of this delicious substance as possible while the rest of him wanted out, and fast! Wildly he flung all six legs at full speed trying to rise himself above the ocean to fly up and away. His struggle seemed only to sink him further into the cold sticky liquid. The turbulence of the waves overpowering him slowed and a dim light allowed Jonesy to see that the liquid was not water but some type of brown foamy substance. There is no time for reflection on this, the world was tipping again and this time poor Jonesy sliped all the way to the bottom. As he opened his mouth the brown liquid floods in and fills him up. He looks up towards wavy brown light and thinks "what a tasty way to die". Jonesy closes his eyeballs and stops his spastic movements. He hears the voice of his grandfather "Fly towards the smell Jonesy, follow the stench"! In his void of darkness Jonesy smells a fantastically powerful and organic odor. As he moves in the direction of the aroma a calm euphoria flows into him.
Suddenly the stench vanishes like a minnow from a shadow and the world is bright and noisy. Jonesy feels a strong wind and opens his eyes to see what has happened. The wind rips down on him from a dark opening surrounded by red bristles. Jonesy notices that the wind carries the same stench as the brown liquid that swallowed him only moments ago. He is bothered by the wind and wants to find a safe place to hide. When he attempts to stand and fly away he struggles with the weight of his soaked body. But the wind is drying him at a quick rate and soon he is able to get his feet to work again. Once on his feet he starts checking himself for damage. Everything seems to be in working order but he is unable to move his wings. "I am crippled"! He exclaims. Horrified he runs his six hands over each wing in alternating order, left then right. Then with the slip of an alcoholic surgeon, one hand slips under a wing and with a pop they both begin buzzing with life! One final check and Jonesy is up in the air again. For a while his flight is erratic and he bumps into leaves and other members of his tribe, but eventually he returns to normal. Later that night Jonesy tells the story of his adventure that day, and how he looked death right in the nose. His story is verified by a few others that had been in the area and heard his cries. They described how they watched him fall into the pit and then his lifeless drenched body. They fill in the details of the strong wind telling that it was some monster covered in red fur that made multiple attempts to eat Jonesy. From that day on, Jonesy never had another day struggling for food. He was elected assistant to the vice secretary of stench and recovery and each day his meals were brought to him.

And now for something completely different!

Let’s take a brief break from the Greek odyssey to talk about a life long goal of mine which I have just accomplished. I think I first became aware of my desire to follow this dream about the same time I learned to write. I have attempted to follow it through to fruition multiple times. I plan ahead and try to keep track of my progress, but it just never seemed to pan out. But today, without me even anticipating it, it happened! I used my pilot P-700 fine point pen until the ink completely ran out! I think I purchased it 8 months ago and have used it diligently every day I am in my office since. Today as I went to write down a phone number half way through the digits the pen ceased to leave a mark. Confused I tried again, and again with haste movements. Then the gravity of the moment settled on me and there was much uproarious celebration. At the constant assault of my hand alone I finally bested this high quality writing implement and with a final gasp in the down stroke of the number seven, it was done. All I have left to do now is climb Mount Everest and my life goals will be complete. I think we can all agree that with this proof of my commitment to a task, Everest should be a piece of cake!

Rhodes part 2

I woke very early the second morning in Rhodes. I wanted to see what the old town was like in the sleepy morning hours before many people are stirring. The streets were exactly like I had hoped, completely deserted. Even the stray cats were tucked away still dreaming of feta flavored mice. My first order of the day was coffee of course. This turned out to be a challenge. I did find a few cafés being cleaned and prepped for the day by their early bird geriatric owners, but they would not sell me coffee. I was enjoying having the small streets to myself so really didn’t mind all the walking in search of the Greek sludgy eye opener. I eventually found likely the only place open, and ordered two cups. I immediately drank one, and took the other to go. Feeling a surge of energy and admittedly a little twitchy, I continued my stroll. I decided I would walk in one direction all the way to the city wall and then walk the perimeter. When I reached the wall I noticed a small iron gate, closed but not locked. I quickly pushed the gate open and entered. As I have already mentioned in previous posts, I have a hard time passing up the chance to stick my nose in places it’s not necessarily allowed. I found myself standing in a rundown, maybe forgotten courtyard. The courtyard was completely surrounded by high walls with many statues in different states of erosion. All of it was covered by overgrown grass and vines. I was on a path which I followed through the courtyard. It ended in the corner opposite where I entered at a dark staircase leading down into what I thought was another courtyard. After descending the staircase it took me a few moments to realize I was in the moat!
The moat is obviously no longer in use, and luckily drained and free of shark, piranha, and aquatic tigers. As I stood at the bottom of this canyon created by two enormous walls I tried to imagine all the soldiers, prisoners, and giants that met their fate where I now stood.
The moat was about 75 yards across and maybe 50 yards deep where I stood. It was mostly high weeds with small patches of green grass. I also noticed tons of perfectly round stones, which I learned the day before are ammunition flung at the castle during an assault. I was giddy with excitement and wonder. Not like little girl giddy mind you, more of the tough just won the super bowl kind. I looked in the only two directions available, because returning the way I came was not an option, picked left, and was off. I felt like a kid rifling through his parents closet looking for a present (which I have done Mom and Pops, sorry). Any situation is made infinitely better when you know you are not suppose to be there. Periodically I would find small tunnels leading downward at the base of the castle wall. Further investigation showed each tunnel to be closed by iron grating. I am not sure if these were sewage conduits or passages. After walking a half hour or so I came across a larger tunnel than the rest with no grate. After maybe 30 feet of blind stumbling I found myself in a round cavern which I realized was one of the castle towers. I climbed a staircase that followed the curved wall upwards for the equivalent of 8-10 floors and was again standing in the morning sun. I had found my way to the top of a castle tower! I sat on the wall edge with my feet dangling and savored the rest of my caffeine sludge. Sitting so high and looking down into the grave of an ancient moat, the boundaries between reality and my imagination disappeared. I could hear the battle cries and commands shouted from soldiers all around me. Flaming arrows whizzed past an all directions. Gigantic crocodiles swam below me with armies of rabid midgets on their backs. I finished my coffee and decided to leave this bazar battle behind and see what else I could discover. I climbed back down the stairs but instead of exiting I found another passage and followed it to the top of the lower castle wall. I was now walking on the top of the castle wall.
I walked for a while but eventually came to a dead end when another tower with no entrance ended my wall walking expedition. I had to backtrack to the original passage I had found. It had been a few hours by now and I was starting to think people would be going about their business and I might get caught. Instead of going back through the court yard I felt confident I could continue in the direction I was walking and find another way back into the city. This turned out to be a brilliant plan as I more than once found passages into the city but blocked with grates. At one I stood on the outside and watched as a man walking his dog walked right past, stopped, saw me, laughed, said something in greek like "oh man, what a good looking kid trapped in the moat" and moved on. At least his dog didn't pee on me. I ran around at the bottom of the moat for a while longer before I realized there was no way into the city. I guess that is the point of a wall and a moat after-all. Well done Rhodeians, your fortified city has proven to be Mike proof. I found my out, but could not get back in. I ran back to the court yard praying to all Gods that the unlocked gate was still unlocked. If you choose for the gate to be locked please turn to page 12, If you find the gate unlocked turn to page 38, if you are eaten by a troll close the book and hit yourself 7 times in the head with it.
The gate was unlocked, I reentered the city and quickly dissolved into the mass of tourist that the most recent cruise ship had delivered. This is one of my most favorite moments in Greece. I promise not to be so long winded in the future. I know how irritating it is when you are reading a blog and it just goes on and on with all these details that no one cares about. Or worse when the story just continues with no real purpose. I can empathize with how annoying that is.I remember this one time I was reading a blog about a guy that is making the world largest ball of tin foil. He kept talking about the best types of foil and the best application techniques but none of this reveled if his ball of foil was big enough to roll over a truck. Talk about a waste of time. Up next, how I got the smallest car in the world stuck between two buildings!

Rhodes part 1

Rhodes was my favorite part of Greece, so take a breath this is going to be a long one. After a restful nights sleep on the boat I woke with just enough time for a quick breakfast before we arrived at the port of Rhodes. On approach I was amazed by the harbor and the ancient fortified walls of the city, which I had not expected. The Rhodes harbor is home to one of the ancient wonders of the world.
The colossus is a huge statue that at one time served as the gate to the port of Rhodes. I would learn later that the statue only stood for 66 years before an earthquake toppled it. Excitement to explore made me eager to leave the comfort of the ship to the unknown and unplanned island of Rhodes. No sooner had I stepped off the boat then I was approached by a small old lady holding a picture. “I have room” she said. Instincts initially told me to avoid the solicitation, but curiosity won out and I asked for more details. Her name was Fona, and she was the best thing that could have happen to me. She explained that she had a room for “let” very close by in the old town. She also helped me make arrangements at the travel agency nearby for my remaining ferry tickets and rental car. I had expected to pay 100 € a night for a room, so when she gave me the room for 50 € it only felt like a near miss to the baby maker.
We left the travel agency and I followed her into Rhodes old town. Rhodes is a fortified city, which means it is completely contained within very high and strong protective walls. As soon as I passed through an entrance into the city I felt I had gone back in time. This was the Europe I had been hoping to see! The very narrow and intimate streets are paved with black and white beach pebbles. The pebbles are stacked tightly edgewise which makes them look very organized.
In places the contrast of white and black pebbles is organized to make intricate patterns and designs. It is staggering to think how many long man hours it must have taken to pave almost every inch of street this way.
Centuries of walking and grinding from carts and wheels have polished the tops of the stones making walking a texturous treat for the feet! The pebble streets would make heels impossibility even for the most skilled runway model. Every inch of space within the city walls has been cleverly inhabited or resourced.
This makes the streets, which are really alleys, very tight. It feels like you are roaming the dark mysterious paths of an amazing labyrinth. Doorways are spaced randomly which enter to amazing houses some nearly a thousand years old! In the most preserved buildings the pebble stone street flows into the building and supplies the flooring. Modern advances and technology are discreetly blended in to preserve the medieval style village that has stood for thousands of years.
And my room is right in the middle of all of it, down an unassuming quiet alley! As I unsling my pack and lay down for a moment on my bed I try to fathom how old the room I am in is and how many hundreds of people have spent a night here in the last five centuries.
I waste no time with rest almost immediately rebounding to head out and discover this magnificent place. Immediately after leaving my room I discover an old world synagogue. The Jewish people or Rhodes have a painful history, as is true for Jews everywhere I suppose. When WWII reached Rhodes all remaining Jews were captured. Most were murdered, very few survived and almost none returned to Rhodes. Most of the details of this tragedy were connected for me by a small Italian-Turkish man I met in the temple. His family had narrowly escaped before the soldiers arrived. He walked me around the old Jewish parts of the city pointing out where the original synagogue had stood, or other related facts. Some of the buildings had been bombed out, so not much remains besides rubble or lonesome staircases that reach into the sky with no destination. The house where his mother lived still stands and he points it out nostalgically. One colorful native catches one to what we are doing and invites us into his home which he explains use to be a Jewish household. The guy is straight out of a Grecian daydream. The skin of his face hangs loosely; his nose bulbous and pink from a lifetime of labor and alcohol. He explains in broken English that he has raised five children in this house and right next door was the site of the old Jewish university. Stepping outside and walking to a nearby playground he gets excited. Stomping on the ground he tells us that the old Jewish temple still exists underneath the dirt. He says he has been down there when the before the entrance was filled in and that the hidden room contains beautiful architecture and ornaments. The Jewish people I have ended up on this spontaneous tour with are skeptical, but I can’t help wondering what I might find after a few hours of digging. The tour group dissolves as each person returns to thought of their original agenda. I have no agenda so my wandering continues. I weave in and out of street after street, each one displaying unique characteristic of the people that live within the walls. After a while I follow a line of cannons pointing out into the harbor into the entrance to the main castle. The castle was partially destroyed at one point by a gunpowder explosion in one of the towers, but has been reconstructed. Another 12€ gains me admission.
The castle is exactly what my little boy imagination tells me a castle should be. Long halls with 30 foot vaulted ceilings open into massive rooms with even taller ceilings. Each room is decorated with amazing detail. The floors are mosaics made from tiles the size of dimes. The woodwork is richly engraved each small piece taking hundreds of hours no doubt. Some rooms have artifacts and exhibits but many are empty except for several pieces of original furniture. The awe inspiring architecture and furnishings do not elicit as much of my attention as the many locked doors and gated passageways I find however. Many times I end up gazing out a window or down a long tunnel at some off limits portion devising ways I might gain access. After a few hours of roaming, I estimate I have only seen about 20% of the castle. Above all, I wish to find a way onto the castle wall and up one of the towers. Most people would leave this desire to rest and move on. Not me, and the next morning, I find a way to drink my coffee at the top of one of the towers!

Time zone

Times zones don't make much sense. I understand how it works to try and match the day and night hours in a place to the time. After a ten hour flight on which you suddenly loose seven hours, it seems to become more about bamboozlement that anything else. After one day of transatlantic traveling I don't think anyone would argue with Einstein that time is relative. And for this reason, I am wide awake after my first night at a very early morning hour. I try to coax myself to reestablish slumber eventually deciding to start my day. Hotels in Greece include breakfast with a nights stay. Not just a doughnut and cup of juice like we are use to here in the states either. When I make my way to the restaurant I find a full spread of choices, all covered in feta cheese mind you. I am introduced to Greek coffee too. Greek coffee is made by boiling finely ground beans and then serving. No filters are used, so the coffee is stronger, but be careful because there is a layer of sludge at the bottom. I can tell you from experience it is not good to drink the sludge. I check out of the hotel room, the front desk agrees to hold my bags securely for me while I explore, and I am off!
Back to the Acropolis, now open, and charging 12 € (that symbol is a Euro for those not in the know. Basically for Americans it is constant reminder of how Bush has been driving our country into the poor house. From this point on whenever you see this symbol think (-spending that dollar amount plus a kick in the crotch-). I take out a small loan and am granted admission. I was hoping to have a nice quiet morning exploring this archeological specimen reflecting on the great moments and people who graced the same spot I now stand. No such luck. It seems every other tourist in Athens has decided to visit the same time as I. Rather than roaming about on my own finding some yet undiscovered treasure like a chest full of gold, I admire the Acropolis by following a weaving qeue line. Each time I try to break out of the line to venture into some quiet space I am redirected back to the tourist safe zones by staff that comes out of nowhere. I noticed something else which is true for most places I go in Greece. They don't have uniforms when working. Not even a semiofficial looking name badge. There is really nothing professional visible to signify that people are employed or volunteer with any establishment. In fact, now that I reflect on it, I bet some of the Grecians that made rules for me were motivated by self-amusement. So anyway, the Acropolis. Its big, old, and made of stone. It also appears to be under construction. It is completely surrounded by scaffolding and cranes and many people with no uniforms pushing and pulling parts of it back and forth. When I asked someone what they were doing they explained that it was a huge reconstruction project to preserve and restore the structure. This has been going on since it was originally built in the 70's apparently. I don't mean to sound unimpressed. I enjoyed the Acropolis very much. It was not so much the structure itself as much as the idea that I was in a place with so much history. Whenever I am in a place like that I like to ponder all the stories and events that have filled the space with life for so many years. I have an affinity for dusty dilapidated forgotten corners that encourage my curiosity and imagination. Try and keep me out of an attic or cellar. The Acropolis is not forgotten proven by the hoards of fanny pack wearing camera toting fat cats all around me. It is dilapidated and dusty, so two out of three is not bad. I had not planned much of this trip beyond getting on a plane, romp around, and then get on another plane a week later. I love the spontaneity and adventure that comes from traveling this way. As such I was very receptive to suggestion. A lady on the plane said "walk around Plaka, tis bery niece". I had a free map of Athens that the hotel had given me. After wrapping up 12€ of Greek history I pulled out the map heavily laden with local advertisements and right there next to my current location, Plaka. Plaka is Greek for strip mall. I will admit that the strip mall has an old world charm. By that I mean that there are stray cats and dogs and a strong body odor mixed with the scent of synthetic leather. Also unlike a strip mall, window shopping will open the door for strong arm selling tactics from the shop keep. I did buy a leather bracelet which I promptly tied on my wrist and still have not removed. I also found a Greece national team soccer (football) jersey (I collect them from places I travel) which I purchased for 9€ (ouch, right in the baby maker!). despite my travelers savvy, I end up eating lunch at a tourist trap. My sandwich is the size of a fortune cookie but without the chuckle or insight that you would receive after excavating the fortune within. The drink I order is served in a shot glass, but is not alcohol. I know, I know, Americans are accustom to massively unhealthy portions. I am not being glutenous I promise. Miss Flockheart herself would remain hungry after this infant portion size meal. My time in Athens has expired, I must now go back to the hotel and collect my bag so I can take the metro to port at Piraeus for my ferry to Rhodes. I am greeted at the blue star ferry by a platoon of well uniformed guys in bow ties eager to help me settle for the overnight voyage. I splurged on my ticket with a private sleeper cabin justifying it as a hotel and boat ride on the same dime, or € (damn straight in my downstairs mix up!). The boat is more than i expected. It has a couple bars, two restaurants one of which is fancy, a few lounges and activity areas, and the staff is smartly dressed and eager to assist with any request. I am feeling quite smug as I lay down for a brief nap to debrief the days moments before enjoying the night on my mini cruise to another unknown and unresearched destination.

Athens

Athens is dirty. Very dirty. I guess is makes sense if you consider how old the city is. Which is the only reason you should go to Athens, to see the ruins. Don't be fooled either, they are ruins. Getting through customs in Greece was a breeze. After a poor choice of transit into the city I spent over an hour on a very hot bus. I decided on the bus in order to get a scope of the city. It was a bad choice because the city is not attractive. The bus I was on did not get me even close to my hotel either, so I ended up taking a taxi anyway. The city itself is very crowded and well broken in from people living there for many many centuries. Graffiti must be a hobby for everyone as well, I have never seen so much and I have been to Compton and Harlem. Everything with a surface has been tagged. Stray dogs and cats inhabit the streets with confidence. I saw a straggly looking mutt sleeping on the steps of a bank, and he had been marked with purple spray paint! A mobile advertisement for the local middle school gang I suppose. There does not seem to be any infrastructure in place to collect trash. It condenses in alleys and cutters and there it stays. This is all enhanced by the intense heat of the concrete body of the city. Plus dust, lots of dust on everything, but at least it is not humid so sweating actually provides some relief.
I had booked the hotel already, and the pictures looked nice. The hotel turned out to be acceptable as well, clean and modern. What they fail to advertise is that it is located between a brothel and a spray paint supply store that gives extreme discounts if you buy in bulk. I made a note to myself to make sure to be in the hotel at dusk to avoid being tagged, raped, mugged, or fitted for a suit. I get comfortable in my room and take a nap before breaking into the city. He is an interesting fact, in Greece you should not flush toilet paper. In each restroom there is a small trash can for the paper. In my restroom there was also a shower. But not the kind of shower we are all use to. I have instead a shower head attached to a hose going to a tap. To make things more bazaar, the shower is a small square of raised tile with no enclosure. So when you shower the water sprays all over the bathroom (read W.C.)and puddles on the floor. Now the Greeks pride themselves on being innovative in architecture from the stone age, but they have not figured out how to make a proper shower, or septic system. After my nap I get some directions to the metro and am off to see Greece! The metro in Athens is actually pretty good. I read a sign that said it took 200 years to build (how is that possible?). The trains are clean and air conditioned. The subway tunnels are the only place in the city spared from the graffiti as well. My first ride I learn that Greek people do not wear deodorant, or shower. I slightly revel in this atmosphere however, trying to immerse myself in a new culture. Only a few stops from my hotel is the Acropolis. The Acropolis was build before the first Starbucks existed! I think the first Starbucks eventually did open there about 5,000 BC, but it no longer operates. I did not get to walk around in the steps of the great philosophers at this time. The Acropolis closes at 7pm. The area surround is very nice. On the pleasant cobblestone walk up then hill to the worlds first office building there are many cafes and shops and one hidden gem. I collect vintage movie posters, and there was one posted on a wall. upon further investigation I discovered that around the corner is an outdoor movie theater. The theater is not really for tourists, it is where locals go on a nice evening. The movie that night was Klimp with Jane Fonda, old school and fabulous. The theater is in a court yard surrounded on all sides by walls covered in ivy. the screen has marble statues all around it. the seating is lawn chairs with an occasional table between. There was a concession stand when you can purchase beer, wine, snacks and cigarettes. This brings up another point. Greeks smoke, ALOT. They smoke everywhere too. In restaurants, on boats, while checking you out at the super market, and in movie theaters. I actually think the pilot lit up a cigarette while we were landing. Besides occasionally having to time my breathing in cadence with the smokers around me, the movie was great! I felt right in the middle of the culture, there were even stray cats roaming the isles searching for abandoned or unguarded popcorn. One problem did arise. After a few beers
(local beer is Mythos, tastes like Amstel) I had to use the restroom. I could see the doors, but the labels were in Greek with no universal pictures. I had to restrain myself until finally a girl went in one door and using my superior deductive reasoning, I went in the other one. I had a great Greek meal on the roof of a nearby cafe with a panoramic view of the ruins and then returned to the ghetto for bed. The next day I had a full day in Athens before catching a ferry to Rhodes.

Back from Greece!

I will start at the end. I am home, refreshed, and full of memories of fantastic spontaneous adventures! It took 36 grueling hours of traveling to return home. The finer points of the journey are arriving at the airport 12 hours early, trying to sneak into a closed restaurant to sleep and getting kicked out THREE times. Its amazing what you can get away with when you don't speak the language of the low level authority figure trying to harass you. Trying to sleep in an airport is as easy as a blind man trying to pick out wallpaper. Airports are designed to be as mind numbingly uncomfortable as possible. They should have cots available for rent at the airport. And movie theaters. I am certain whoever designed airports, never actually spends anytime in them. I have always prided myself on my ability to capitalize on circumstances. Realizing I had 10 hours to wait before I could check in for my flight to JFK I re-coned the entire terminal to find the most conducive environment for sleep. It just so happens that spot was a nice cozy leather sofa... in the closed restaurant. But I say if they didn't want people in there, they should lock the door. Well to be fair, the door was locked. It did not reach completely down to the floor so thanks to my slim figure and swift moves I was able to infiltrate and settle on the sofa. I was thrilled to be spread out on the couch reading full of empathy for all the suckers sleeping on the marble flooring. After dozing for a few hours, I was awaken by a poke and some gibberish that sounded like yiddish rap music, but may have been greek. I of course had no idea what he was saying but it was clear I should move on, which I did. I returned to my sofa 10 min later when the mustachioed fella moved on to harass other innocent travelers. This interaction repeated three times. Always the same mustache, always the same rap music, always the same bewildered and harmless look from me.
Finally I boarded my flight to JFK. It takes 10 hours to fly from Greece to NY. During this time they screened two movies which I saw none of. Served two meals, I missed both. And handed out those very important declaration cards you need to get through USA customs. Guess what, I didn't get one. This makes my conversation with the customs guy later go like this-
"declaration card and passport please"
I hand him my passport and my boarding pass
"sir, I need your declaration card"
"oh, right..... where do I get one"
"sir, they gave it to you on the plane"
"Umm, no, they didn't, can I have one now?"
"SIR, you need to get out of line and sort yourself out"
"Hmm, I assure you I am sorted"
"Sir, if you are prepared to enter the United States please present your declaration card"
"Let me see your declaration card first" I exclaimed pointing at him
At this point he picks up the phone, and I scurry off to find the elusive card.
I make it through eventually, but I would like to take a moment to give a shout out to all the Delta staff on flight 133. Thank you for making me beg for meals I missed, make my own coffee on the plane (actually kinda fun), and most of all for neglecting to give me a piece of paper to be admitted to my country. Top notch crew on that flight. When I was in the kitchen area waiting for my coffee to brew I asked one guy if he enjoyed flying all over the world all the time. His exact response was " Oh man I can't wait to retire, I hate this job!" And it shows.
I have a 3 hour layover in NY of course. At this point I feel like I have taken 12 antihistamines and drank a bottle of wine. I wander with no purpose like a drugged penguin at a fish market. After a amusing conversation with a dreadlocked guy about the conspiracies of airlines and their link to social brainwashing, I board my plane to Boston. I am seated in a three seat isle next to a father with an infant and a three year old richard simmons with a heavy british accent. At least the flight is short I think. 3 hours later, when we are enthusiastically informed that we are now only number 5 for take off I am grateful that my first impression of the young family was wrong. They are polite, quiet and highly optimistic. Once I land at Logan intl. airport it is only a matter of a bus, two trains, and a short walk and I am home!
And that is the story of my adventures in Greece! I hope you enjoyed it. What an amazing place.

Blogglectful

I have heard some complaining lately about the lack of updates here. I must admit I was surprised by the number of people that read my blog! There are a few reasons for my lack of composing. My little sister Amy is staying the summer with me. People that know Amy will agree that she is a tiny ball of vibrating creative energy that needs constant exhausting to prevent an explosion. Most of my free time lately has been spent touring her around the city, trying to convince her there is other food besides pasta, or buffering her from the influence of my roommates.
I am headed off to Greece tomorrow for a week. I know I have not wrapped up my last Trip before leaving so i should have some type of citation. I will leave it up to you to decide what may be appropriate. I will conclude the Bmore trip soon. Fair warning, some details have moved to the archive portion of my brain. This may actually work out better because it means I can make most of it up. So stay tuned loyal followers of my life saga. Also the larger portion of you that just need something else to do at work to avoid actually working.
Cheers!

Bmore day one

When I finally decided to take this trip to Bmore I found all the hotels within a reasonable distance to the conference center were completely booked. After some creative searching I found a hostel fairly close, with a bed, and only $25/night! I know that many people have this negative impression of hostels. I will also admit that for the modest traveler they are not ideal. I have stayed in hostels before, in NY and Vancouver. I know what its like but for a simple place to sleep and shower I find it acceptable. The hostel in Baltimore is described as occupying an old mansion. It has been recently updated with new private bathrooms, lounge area, and modern kitchen. This placed has all these things. It also has a display of "art" in the common area. The art has a extremely dark motif, like Tim Burton and Steven King took a community art class together and had to collaborate on their final project. One of the pictures is of a couple sitting at opposite ends of a large dinning room table. They both look like quasi-human dolls. The wife has her head on the table with blood leaking from her ear to a puddle, she stares blankly forward. The husband has his wine glass up in a toast, he has no eyes, void dark spots fill his ocular cavity. It gives the room and building a nice cozy feeling that encourages comfort and a sound nights sleep. Even still, the sheets are clean, the bathrooms are spotless, and the building is secure.
After picking my bunk, top of course, and unloading my things I went out to discover the city. I heard about this local bar that is acclaimed for the great selection of fine beer. I walked there with a new friend, Jacob, staying in my room, and presenting some research at the conference. Our entire basis for choosing each other for company was based on the fact we both sported the same complimentary messenger bag for registering for the scientific forums. He has turned out to be an intelligent, funny and relaxed friend. So there we are, complete strangers having a pint together. This situation repeats itself often in my life. I had contacted some couch surfers from Baltimore for advice with touring the city. One of them, Michael, met us at the Brew Art and took us out for a driving tour of the city. He showed us all the sections of town and gave good facts and stories as well. There are all the usual spots, the harbor, mostly touristy, the rehabbed yuppie neighborhoods with 20 somethings walking their dogs, the artsy section, the gay hill, the financial skyscraper vista. After we have driven through, around, and back around all these places Michael asks "how brave are you two?" I answer for both of us by saying "really brave, why". Michael explains that being a local he feels we should see ALL of baltimore, the good, and the bad. He takes a few turns and we find ourselves in "Pig Town", the ghetto. It is alarmingly obvious how racially divided the sections of the city are. Even more disturbing how typical they are of the socioeconomic stereotypes you would expect. At this point it is 11pm, there are elementary school kids running around the streets ambitiously involved in rowdy play. Large groups of teenagers cluster on the corners doing nothing much at all. Rows and rows of track houses apparently none with air-conditioning cause the occupants to escape to the stoops for some relief from the heat. When I ask about the crime rate Michael tells me that this part of Baltimore is regularly listed in the top ten most dangerous cities in America with a tinge of pride in his voice. There is no police presence. Instead there are surveillance cameras mounted on poles 30 feet above each intersection. Each camera has a flashing blue light announcing its existence. Instead of preventing crime, they film it. This may deter trouble within the invasive eye of the camera, but no doubt simply moves any shady activity to dark corners and alleys. The flashing beacons can be seen for miles in all directions creating a false sense of security. Before the imminent car jacking occurs we return to yuppieville and the red light district for cocktails to finish the night off. Drinks are cheaper here than Boston, I make up for it in quantity.

B-more...?

This morning I woke super early...8 am. For someone that makes his own schedule this is EARLY. I had a plane to catch at 11 am for Baltimore. The international sleep medicine conference is happening this coming week and the Children's hospital funded my attendance. More on that later perhaps.
I did not have a suitable suitcase (ha) to transport the dress clothing I needed. I have always either traveled with a simple duffle bag or a backpack. Both of which would cause permanent wrinkles and creases in my dry clean only garments. I asked my roommates. The only offer I had was a medium sized red leather suitcase of Aaron's. I suitcase may of had its heyday sometime in the 70's but even then only the most brazen would be seen carrying it about. Of course Aaron fits this category of panache. The kid has not one, but three pair of white leather gatorish shoes. Being my only resort, I packed it up and off I went. I am now the guy sporting a nicely fluffed red afro, and suitcase to match.
Nothing really to mention at Logan intl.' airport. Security is a breeze, I always travel with only a carryon, no matter how long the trip. I did take the smallest commercial plane I have ever seen. There was no room for carryon, so they took my fancy bag as I boarded stowing it in the hull. Do planes have hulls? Is hull the right word? Anyway, tiny plane. I felt like a giant as the overhead was at shoulder level and the seat was nostalgic of my days as a toddler. My seat companion was my favorite type, a businessman, and frequent traveler. We exchanged simple pleasantries, worked out a arm rest sharing agreement, and then never spoke again.
Once we had arrived I stepped off the plane and was smacked in the face with very offensive weather. Last night I wore a sweater out, and now I felt like I was standing in a sumo wrestlers armpit after a especially rowdy match. But there is good news, unlike in the west were sweating actually makes you cooler as it evaporates, in the east it just accumulates and forms tiny rivers which all flow to awkward and uncomfortable collection points about your body.
The guy unloading the hull grabbed my manbag by the fastener, which immediately snapped, spilling the contents onto the tarmac. He looked around sheepishly, stuffed it all back in and slammed it onto the cart. Which leads me to the end of my travels for the day, a mile walk around the airport to find the light rail. Then a half hour ride into the city, all the while with my bag wide open displaying the valuable contents. Finally a mile trek back through the armpit to land me at the front desk of the hostel I am staying at looking like I have just finished a swim, What is Baltimore like? I will let you know, when I know. First impression, dirty.

Gloucester MA

This weekend George, Jessica and I took a field trip to Gloucester. This town in Massachusetts is the oldest fishing port in America. It is also where they filmed the movie the perfect storm. I was told before leaving that it has the best beaches in New England. Go ahead and giggle about "beaches juxtaposed with New England". I cannot say much for the beach atmosphere, partly due to the overcast weather we had that day, but it is very beautiful. There is a very pleasant fishing motif heavy present as well. It seems every house had lobster traps in the front yard. The houses are the typical grand New England style you would expect. We did not have an agenda, and since Jessica had left her Tourist for Dummies guide book at home I found myself once again aimlessly walking through an unknown town talking to strangers. The people are refreshingly friendly and helpful. Without much prompting they will not only offer great advice, but also share their life story. We met Kristen upon arrival who had moved from California to take care of her ailing grandmother. Jay had a very impressive job as a resort appraiser, and boasted that he grew up in the most picturesque house in Gloucester. By far the most memorable people were met would be the local mafia. Oh, now I have your attention I am sure. It was around 11pm when we realized we had never gotten around to the delectable seafood dinner we had planned. Our search for food was proving extremely difficult, each place we entered had stopped surviving anything but a liquid diet. We resorted to walking the streets asking people in hopes of finding the local seafood midnight jackpot. I approached a group of gentleman smoking cigars on the sidewalk. I introduced myself and asked if they knew of anyplace to get dinner at this hour. The quickly replied that we should step inside the establishment they stood in front of explaining there was a italian buffet inside. George and jessica being famished quickly entered. I lingered speaking more to these kind older guys, and entered with them. I immediately noticed two things. One, this was not a restaurant. Two, every person in the place was Italian and seemed to be starring at me. I found my way to the back to find George and Jessica merrily enjoying plates of italian appetizers. Still feeling the skeptical examining gazes I explained that we "probably should not be here, and that I think we might get our own pairs of cement loafers is we stayed." My friends seemed only mildly bothered. Soon a few rough looking men approached me and started what became a short interrogation. After answering a few questions with responses like, "I don't know anyone here" and "please don't make me take a dirt nap" I was saved by the guy that invited me in. He seemed to be affluent and once he said "they are with me" no one really bothered us again. I chatted with him for a while trying to make a good impression. He actually asked for proof of my Italian heritage, which I made by showing him my passport.
A DJ started playing dance music, with almost no one dancing and this is where we go from being outsiders to relished guests. The three of us, no doubt elated at not being "offed" danced up a storm. In fact George and I started pulling heavily made up women onto the dance floor. Many were thrilled. Let's be honest, they were all thrilled. However the respective husband was not always thrilled, and more than once our dance partner was pulled away from us, or we were persuaded to find a new one by a subtle but threatening look of disapproval. We made friends, ate their food, drank their booze and danced with their women. Best of all I am alive and well and writing you the story of how it happened. I will end by saying at the end of the night we thought it better to leave the town and make our way safely back to Boston.