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.