Places to go, people to meet

Rest Cure

2012-01-28T21:00:00.000+05:30

Resort/sanatorium... fine line

Peter and I have occasionally commented to one another that we’d like to take a rest cure – that 19^th century confinement usually reserved for hysterical ladies of means. They were sent off to a sanatorium to lounge about listlessly, taking fresh air and other restorative remedies possibly/probably (I haven’t actually done that much research) involving caster oil, colonics, a minimum of exertion, simple foods, and deep breathing. Some ladies were sent off to “rest” against their will, probably so husbands didn’t have to listen to them whine about how awful it was simply to be a lady of the 19^th century (corsets, boredom, lack of voting rights, etc.). Then there was the heroine of Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s short story, The Yellow Wallpaper, which I read in Women’s Lit, who probably wasn’t too bad off when she began her rest cure, but during the course of it and due to the fact that no one would goddamn listen to her, she did in fact go quite mad and kill her doctor. I’m almost certain a rest cure wouldn’t have that effect on me.

Digression: If Peter and I went off (voluntarily, of course) together, he would probably get antsy after the first day of resting and pop off to see any historical or cultural sites in the area of the sanatorium while I stayed back to “rest” (but would end up watching cable TV channels I don’t get at home –A&E for example, which I had in my room in PV; I watched an episode of Hoarders in which one of the hoarders had 13 dead cats in her house [and over 30 live ones]. I’m assuming any sanatorium I found myself at would have premium cable). So I would rest and watch TV and Peter would learn all sort of interesting local historical and cultural facts, and I would ask him to describe his adventures when he got back to the resting area; he would good naturedly tell me what I missed, like when I’m too squeamish to see certain movies and too lazy to read certain books. Now that I think of it though (and I realize this diversion is getting out of hand), Peter would probably love to watch Hoarders with me after returning from any more worthy excursions. He did after all get himself hooked on Big Brother when we were in London, and he doesn’t even have basic cable at home.

So the four and a half days in PV were as close as I might get to my ideal sanatorium-restorative-vacation. Some might get bored lying around reading all day, dipping in and out of infinity pools, and staring at the Pacific, but I didn’t. I had a great book to read, my every other day excursions into town for tacos, and S_ to chat with now and again. I hardly spoke to anyone else, brief hellos to the other guests and staff and my Espanol taco-ordering comprised most of my verbal interactions. The TV gave me tennis, a few sitcoms, and Hoarders, and the internet connection (pool-side wifi is a wonderful thing) gave me anyone I wanted to say hi to. But the main restorative cure involved the absolutely beautiful weather and the lovely setting. Simply sitting outside in 80-degree weather is a panacea in itself. Sunshine, warm breezes, watching and hearing the waves crashing on the sand… I’m not saying that would make up for having to wear a corset and not being able to vote, but for a 21^st century lady, it’s a pretty great way to spend a few days.

Night out with S_

2012-01-27T23:00:00.000+05:30

I think I was in jr. high the first time I encountered a story with no names, just T_ and another initial, possibly M_. I vaguely remember it as a short story by Woody Allen, and I had no idea what was going on.Why didn't he just write out the name? Was this a level of literary laziness I had never encountered? Could he simply not decide on a name? The story I was reading was comic fiction so there was no need to protect anyone, so it was quite confusing at the time. Jump to, the era of everyone's entire lives on-line, and a definite need to protect the innocent.

So I went out with S_ tonight who works at the hotel. We had made a plan to go out, were going to take the bus together from the hotel to town, her usual M.O., run up to her place so she could change, and get some food. Not long after this plan was formulated, she called my room to say she could get in trouble for socializing with a guest (this had occurred to me) and that we shouldn't leave together, but instead, meet up in town. As it happened, she ended up on the shuttle to town that I was taking from the hotel (this was an unusual turn of events, she usually takes the bus home), and we got off together with the other hotel guests. It looked pretty coincidental, but this is the reason for the "S_" and the reason I deleted the name of the hotel from earlier posts.

So S_ has only been in PV a few weeks. She has a boyfriend who is from here and lives with him and his parents. She has degrees in political science and Spanish literature, no real job prospects in Illinois, where she's from, and a boyfriend in PV. So she came here, scored the job at the hotel and plans to stay. We had a nice night out. We first went to her house so she could change out of her hotel clothes, then walked along the waterfront for a while. S_ mentioned a few taco stands that she frequents, but we ended up at a fairly touristy restaurant in a fairly touristy part of town. No matter though, we had margaritas and chips and guac, and a very funny conversation about - oh, you know, life in general.

After the restaurant, we went to the nightclub where her boyfriend is a bartender. Since it was only about 9pm, there was literally no one in the joint but us and the other staff, but we had another drink and hung out for a while. He is very handsome and congenial, she is absolutely adorable, and I hope they have a lot of fun together.

So I managed to fulfill the "people to meet" spirit of the blog tonight. Doesn't happen often.

Dos Mas, Por Favor

2012-01-27T14:00:00.000+05:30

Look, it's not exactly the Rosetta Stone over here, but I'm trying.

This morning I got completely sucked into the Australian Open semi-final between Murray and Djokovic on TV and got a late start out of the room.

....Hang on, I have to move to another lounge chair, my lets are getting a little toasted.... nice that there's wifi at the pool.

So after watching Andy Murray lose/choke for the zillionth time (I used to root for him because he's British, but enough is enough with that guy), I went to get the hotel shuttle into town for more tacos. Before I left, I had a nice chat with S_ who is one of the concierges here. I had talked to her Wednesday too, she's American, just graduated from college in Chicago, and came to Puerto Vallarta to work in a hotel because, in her words "why not?" S_ and I had already had some lengthy discussions about where to get the best street tacos and today she asked if I wanted to meet her when she finished work and she'd help me find some primo street food; this couldn't have been a more brilliant idea as far as I was concerned so we made a plan to meet that evening. On my afternoon jaunt into town, I found a different taco cart than I'd bought from before and was able to get out "dos carnitas tacos, por favor" thinking that would be a sufficient amount since I had dinner plans. My big problem of the day was that I really so much prefer flour tortillas to corn, but corn torillas are way more prevalent in general, and flour ones are non-existent at the taco carts. So after I got my dos tacos, I went in search of flour tortillas. I only had about 15 minutes before I needed to get the shuttle back to the hotel, and even though S_ had tried to tell me how to get the local bus back to the hotel if I needed to, I just didn't trust my sense of direction (the bus victory in Iceland had worn off).

The first thing I had done when I got off the shuttle was to take a photo of the tortilla factory on the corner. I had noticed this place on Wednesday but hadn't taken a photo. I was mesmerized by the machinery and the tortillas flipping off the belt, and also by the steady stream of customers buying their fresh tortillas for the day. There was a sign on the wall that said "100% maize" which I knew meant corn (the picture of an ear of corn next to to the sign didn't hurt, but I like to think I would have figured it out regardless) so I didn't think they made flour tortillas. However, when I stopped at another taco cart to ask "?tortillas de harina" on the off chance that she might have some, the lady said no, and then followed up with something I didn't understand and pointed around the corner. The only thing I caught was "tortillaria" which I took to mean, "that place where they make all the tortillas," and when I questioned, "?maize" she insisted "harina." So this was an excellent bit of language exchange and I trotted back to the tortillaria and got in line. Eight pesos (62 cents) for a package of flour tortillas. I was psyched. That accomplished, I realized I needed a few more tacos because even though I'm going out with S_ for dinner tonight, I might as well get something for Saturday (I really like this hotel, but I really don't like the food here) so I ran back to the first taco cart and said in my best Spanish, "dos mas, por favor." I know those dudes were totally impressed with my command of their language. Twenty pesos later I had two more carnitas tacos to go and met the shuttle driver to head back to the hotel and the pool, which is where I am now.

today's shot of the pool

A Room with a View (and a hammock)

2012-01-26T19:00:00.000+05:30

My biggest problem today was having to move between twolounge chairs by the pool. One was in the sun and one was in the shade and Iwas going back and forth between being a little too warm and occasionally, justa wee bit cold (“cold” being a relative term here, I’d guess it was in the mid70s today). Given that the chairs were side by side, this was not a hugeproblem.

I started the day by having coffee and my fruit-and-yogurtbreakfast on my patio and then I painted my toenails. This bit of businesstaken care of, I skipped the gym and went to the pool where, thanks to thepoolside wifi, I caught up with some friends, took a dip, read a couple chaptersof a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel (Middlesex;I don’t know what took me so long, it’s wonderful), ate lunch, drank amargarita, took another dip, and then went back to my room to shower before my4pm massage.

The massage was nice and the spa was really pretty. The post-massagerelaxation area was a large outdoor deck with lounge chairs and a Jacuzzi. Thespa is on the top (7^th) floor of the hotel and the view and thebreeze were lovely.

From Ski to Sea

2012-01-25T22:00:00.000+05:30

How much stuff do nine people need for a ski trip?

So we packed up last Saturday morning and headed to Solitude for one last half day of skiing before heading home. Having taken the previous day off, I was actually ready to take a few more runs. It was another gorgeous day and since it had dumped the night before, there was a ton of fresh snow (fresh and groomed for Jenine and me; fresh and powdery for the guys) and we had another great morning swishing our way down. I knocked off first so I could change for the trip home and eventually the others all ended up at the trucks, changing clothes and having a last beer in the parking lot before calling the trip "done" and heading to the airport. We got there in time to catch the end of the Patriot's game in an airport bar which made Josh happy. We all said good-bye to Jason who was heading home to So-Cal and had an uneventful flight back to SeaTac. The snow had melted in Seattle by then and Jeremy, who it turns out lives a few blocks from me, and I made it back to Queen Anne unscathed, but very tired and a little grimy. It was a fantastic trip and hopefully I'll do it again next year.

That was last Sunday, I spent Monday running some errands, re-packing, having dinner with Cheryl, Margie and Sam, and then left on Tuesday for Puerta Vallarta, Mexico, which is where I am now. Wasn't able to blog from Utah (technical difficulties) and I was too tired on Monday, so today, after arriving last night and mostly sitting by the pool today, I was able to catch up. Back to back trips are not a bad idea. Utah was a trip, an adventure; it involved getting up every day around 6:30 am., Mexico is a vacation. I have no agenda and no aspirations for sight-seeing, exploring, or doing much of anything - I just want to rest. So far so good.

infinity pool

I got in around 5pm yesterday and had dinner at the bar by the pool. I found, as Cheryl and I have on previous trips to Mexican resorts, that the food was really quite awful - only because I guess they are catering to what the masses think of as Mexican food. Breakfast this morning was pretty good, but I didn't want to spend another $20 for poached eggs and fruit, so today I took the hotel shuttle into town for some provisions. This resort (name deleted... this being the age of people getting in trouble for naming names) is about 15 minutes from the town of PV so it's a bit isolated, but quiet and beautiful. I found a grocery store and stocked up on fruit, yogurt, bread, and cheese, and then came back and got into the pool. The water temp reminded me of when I'm taking a bath at home and the water cools off a bit - luxurious. I hung out in the pool for a while enjoying the view and then sat in a lounge chair for a while, typing up the posts about last week's adventure in Utah. I didn't want a repeat of last night's truly uninspired shrimp fajitas, so I went back into town and found a taco cart where I got 4 carnitas tacos (two for tonight, two for tomorrow) and some roasted chicken from a road-side chicken roaster.

I've said this before and I'll say it again, my almost complete and total lack of any ability to speak Spanish is pretty pathetic, but in the grocery store and at the food stands, a smile and a "I'm really, really so sorry" look goes a long way. The grocery store was easy but at the taco stand, I started with a smile and a look of deep appreciation for the idea of tacos. I pointed and asked carnitas? and he said si. I managed dos por favor and then made a motion with my arms of taking them away as he started to put them on a plate "to go?" he said, and I smiled and said si as he wrapped them up. It was then that I realized I should get a few more since I have a mini-fridge in my room. How to say that escaped me but through hand gestured he figured out that I needed dos mas and I rolled my eyes and repeated him as if, duh, any fool could and should know how to say "dos mas." Similar experience at the chicken stand. I saw a sign that had a small combo plate and repeated the word on the sign to the guy at the counter. He smiled at me and said something which I didn't understand. I smiled, looked embarrassed and shook my head. He pointed to his arm and then to his leg - ah, did I want a wing or a leg. I pointed to my leg and we both laughed.

So dinner tonight in my room, the maid just came in and turned down my bed and left a chocolate on my pillow. The Australian Open is on TV and I have nothing to do tomorrow except kill time at the pool until my massage at 4. This is definitely a vacation and not a trip.

Utah, days 3 and 4

2012-01-25T20:30:00.000+05:30

the fabulous slopes at Canyons Resort

On Friday night we skied Canyons in Park City. It's a HUGE fancy resort and I had my best day ever on my snowboard (with the brief exception of another tow-rope incident; those things continue to be my nemesis). Jenine and I did our usual routine - enjoying a cup of coffee and morning snack while the others raced off to be first in line for some lift or the other. Whatevs. We chilled for a little while and examined the map, eventually finding our way to the Orange Bubble Express lift before switching to the Sun Peaks chair. We blue squared it up all day and then met all the boys in the beer hut (oddly yurt-shaped) for a few drinks before heading toward downtown (such as it is) Park City to see if we could catch a glimpse of any celebs at the Sundance Film Festival which happened to be going on at the time. No luck on the celebs and by the time we made it down the main street with no hope of parking/walking, we decided to turn around and head home. We stopped at a brew pub on the way back to the house, had a nice dinner, and headed back to the house.

Jenine, Huey, Josh, Scott

Jeremy, Jason, Adam, Chris

I had a terrible time sleeping that night - skipped taking the Ambien (mistake) and could not fathom a day on the slopes on no sleep. So the others left in the morning and I went back to bed. I eventually got up around 11 and turned the TV on. I spent the day on the couch watching "Team America" and "Walk Hard." They were both ridiculous and a great way to pass the day. It started dumping snow by early afternoon and the others had a hell of a time getting back through the snowstorm - Chris and Jason reported taking one hour to travel 10 miles, but they all eventually made it. Apparently feeling lucky to be alive, Chris celebrated by pouring himself a tumbler of tequila and having a grand old time in the hot tub; Jason eventually got in for a soak as well while I kept my distance but freshened their drinks when they asked nicely. The others came home a few minutes later (they had been in two groups at two different resorts; the skiers went to Deer Valley which doesn't allow snowboarders, so Chris and Jason had gone to Solitude). Scott and Huey piled in the tub while the rest of us decided to go for pizza. It was a rather loud and jolly group at the pizza place (the well-soaked boys arrived shortly after we did) and we left a hefty/deserved tip at the end of the night. No one remained in the restaurant by then and as nice as the staff had been, they looked pretty delighted to see us leave.

Winter Wonderland - Ski-Tropolis, Utah

2012-01-25T19:30:00.000+05:30

Snowbird

A ski trip had never really been high on my list of trip priorities, but I will seldom turn anyone down who has planned something and says "come along!" So when Josh said we (the collective "we") could be his honorary employees thus getting us (the collective "us") half price lift tickets for primo skiing in Utah during the O_ tradeshow (name deleted to protect the innocent), who was I to say no?

This time the collective we was Josh, Jenine, Scott, Huey, Chris, Chris's friend who lives in Long Beach, CA, Jason, Adam, Jeremy, and me. I had never met Jeremy before and no one besides Chris knew Jason, but it was a fantastic group and fun was had by all. Perhaps a little too much fun was had by Chris, but this blog is not here to tattle on people who may or may not have had too much tequila and then rolled in the snow before getting back into the hot tub. But I digress.

We got out of Seattle by the skin of our teeth last Wednesday - making it past the six inches of snow that had fallen the night before and weathering the flight delays. We all eventually landed in two groups in Salt Lake City. Scott, Chris, Jeremy, Jason, and I headed to a brew pub for dinner while the others stayed in Park City where they had planted themselves upon their earlier arrival. Later we met up at the house we had rented in the town of Sandy and settled in.

Day 2: Snowbird. Jenine and I stuck to the blue runs while the others headed to the top to defy death as they usually do. Jenine and I had a great day swishing our way down the beginner runs, she on her skis, me on my snowboard. The scenery was beautiful, we found runs that were just our speed, and it was super-fun.

At the end of the day, we left the boys to more skiing and headed back to the house to change for dinner. Jenine and I had reservations for the Yurt Dinner at the Solitude Ski Resort. We were to meet at the rental shop, put on snowshoes, and tromp through the trees to our destination which was a yurt in the middle of the woods. It was a magical walk with eight others and our guide/hostess, Sarafina to a fabulous dinner.

The yurt has no electricity and was lit by lanterns; the food was cooked on a giant propane stove. Our chef for the evening was Jaseth who hailed from Mexico and had planted himself and his snowboard in the middle of Utah to shred by day and cook by night. Our five course dinner started with a delicious potato, leek, and celery root soup. It was divine - Jaseth told us he started with a mirapoix, added lots of white wine, roasted the root vegetables separately before adding them to the pot with vegetable stock. The whole thing was blended before being finished with heavy cream. It was a spectacular soup.

Course two was a little plate of grilled shrimp with a thin tomato reduction on a bed of polenta. I'm not a huge fan of polenta or tomato based sauces (except with the obvious exceptions of in a great lasagna or with spaghetti bolognese) but this dish was wonderful. The shrimp were grilled just right, and the tangy sauce and creamy polenta base made for an interesting and tasty presentation.This was followed by a baby arugala salad with grapefruit and a white cheddar cheese from a local cheesery which was flavored with espresso and lavender; it was both terrific and unusual.

And then came the main event: wagyu beef with herbed mashed potatoes and braised cabbage. This really might have been one of the best plates of food ever put in front of me. The beef was just incredibly... beefy, I think Jaseth had roasted in the oven on a sheet tray. One small caveat about the beef... my understanding of Kobe/wagyu beef is that it is very, very tender and this actually wasn't, I'm not sure why, but it took a little sawing through; however, each bite was really fantastically delicious; the outside crust of the steak was perfectly roasty, almost charred and intensely flavorful while the inside was soft and perfectly cooked to medium, which is just how I like it; it was topped with a wild mushroom sauce. Not much to say about herbed mashers, you just can't go wrong and these were great - buttery and smooth, but the cabbage was the real surprise. I like cooked cabbage okay, it's not my favorite veggie but I've certainly enjoyed it at times, but this cabbage was sublime. I think Jaseth had cooked it with the beef because it was a chocolately dark brown and just dripping with beefy flavor, yet had that smooth yet slightly crunchy texture of perfectly cooked cabbage.

And last there was the chocolate mousse. It was light, whipped, and a nice last touch. A dish of meat, potatoes, and a vegetable is one of my favorite meals, and this one, with all the fantastic courses that proceeded it, ranks right up there with the meals I had at the Cookhouse farm dinners on Vashon with Cheryl. Those were some of my favorite meals, along with those two dinners in Blois, France (same restaurant both nights) with Peter, and lunch at the George V in Paris on that same trip; those meals also included lovely settings (in both the restaurants themselves as well as the greater locale), charming service, and best friends.

Dinner in the yurt lasted a good long time and Jenine and I had fun chatting with the folks sitting next to us. It was a nice group of people, mostly it seemed, people who were having their own ski vacations at the Solitude Resort. Diane was a very friendly lady from Texas who was sitting next to me, and I talked to her a bit about my recent Icelandic adventure. Jenine and I also got to chat with another nice couple on our way out who were from Virginia and who were also really interested in my trip to Iceland. We had a nice talk about the joys of traveling. I got the impression that they hadn't traveled much, kids to raise and all that, but were just starting to explore. I have a feeling they're going to find themselves in Reykjavik one of these days.

The Blue Lagoon

2011-11-27T12:32:00.001+05:30

I'm not really one for communal soaking but you can’t really come to Iceland and not go to the Blue Lagoon, it’s just not done. And unlike the tubs at the spa at the Hilton which I visited last night, this promised to be spacious and interesting (as opposed to awkward and an invasion of personal space [sat in a tub with four other ladies in a nicely designed room which contained three other tubs which were also packed; sitting in what was at best a six-person hot-tub with strangers isn’t really my cup of tea. To be fair though, there were two nice, young therapists giving in-tub neck massages - from outside the tub- and getting a neck massage while soaking is a wonderful thing, regardless of others soaking next to you]). So the Blue Lagoon is a must, and I was definitely looking forward to the excursion.

The Blue Lagoon is located out in the middle of nowhere (most things in Iceland are out in the middle of nowhere) and close to the airport, so it was easy to book an excursion there and then a transfer on to the airport for my flight home.

And now it’s time to acknowledge that it might have been a little crazy for someone who gets cold as easily as I do to come to Iceland in November. But it also needs to be said that me and my warm blood were doing just fine on this trip. I wore either jeans with long underwear or my ski pants, my usual three layers on top, my winter coat, a scarf, hat, fleecy boots, and a double layer of mittens for walking around in, and I was just fine (as opposed to roasting like a bacon-wrapped hot dog like a normal person might if wearing all that). However, I was a little nervous about the few steps I was going to have to take IN MY SWIM SUIT to get from the spa dressing room to the lagoon itself. I wasn’t actually sure that I would survive. Look, there was frikkin snow on the ground and I walked outside, barefoot and nearly naked… probably ten steps
before sinking down into the water. It might have been the single most physically challenging thing I’ve ever done, but it was totally worth it. It was an overcast day which added to the ambiance – the clouds were really low and the steam coming off the water swirled around the pool surface. The lagoon water is saline, ranges from about 98-102° F, and is rich with silica (hence the murkiness). There are hot spots/currents running though the lagoon so you can experience different temperatures by paddling around the pool, and the best part of the whole thing is being outside. Mostly undressed. In winter. Yes, I just said that. And then it was on to the airport, an uneventful flight back to Seattle, and a day of doing nothing at home today before heading back to the office tomorrow. I’m really glad I trusted my instincts and decided that going to Iceland for only four days in winter was not actually a crazy idea.

A Snowy Day in Reykjavik

2011-11-25T23:30:00.001+05:30

Woke up this morning to a couple of inches of snow on the ground and a date to meet one of Cheryl's friends for lunch. Benni works for an on-line music store/streaming service called gogo yoko (http://www.gogoyoko.com/) -- part Pandora, part iTunes, part CD Baby. We had a nice lunch at the Kex Hostel which is where KEXP broadcasted from last month during the Iceland Airwaves Music Fest, and then walked to the gogo yoko office which had the look and vibe of every tech start-up I've ever walked into; some things are universal, and it's always fun to meet friends of friends' in foreign lands. Oh, and that's a puffin perched on the table in the background in the portrait; from what I can tell, the national symbols of Iceland are puffins, trolls, and sweaters.

Benni and the President of Iceland

local graffiti

After I left Benni's office I went to the Hallgrimskirkja, which is in fact the name of a place and not an indication that my hands are going into spasms on my keyboard. The Hallgrimskirkja is a church, the belltower of which is the tallest structure in Iceland.

After I left the church, I wanted to do some shopping outside the donwtown-tourist area so I had asked Benni where his wife would go if she wanted to buy clothes. He told me to go to a place which sounded like "Gringotts" which I recognized as the place where Harry Potter does his banking, but after questioning the lady at the bus station, speaking to a lady on the bus, and quickly repeating what she said to the bus driver, I found myself at Kringlar, the local shopping mall. It kind of reminded me of Northgate Mall, and like at Northgate, there wasn't really anything there I couldn't live without. I would have liked to have bought a little something to take home, maybe something to wear or something for the house, but Icelandic fashion is a little too forward for me (and like next year's fashions which I've seen at home, everything appears to be shades of gray or brown which just don't work for me). I did see a cute coffee mug in a home store that I liked, but it was nearly $50 and that was $40 too many. There was a Hagkaup (excuse me) in the mall which is a grocery store (note about food shopping in Iceland: chocolate covered raisins are really popular here), so I bought some snacks and took the bus back to the hotel. Note about the bus: I don't often take buses when I'm abroad, preferring to stick to walking and subways/rail when available (not as easy to get lost), but earlier today I spent nearly $13 for a ten minute taxi ride (I heavily tipped the driver which Benni told me was completely unnecessary) and since buses are the only public transportation option in Reykjavik, I decided I had to hop on a bus. There is a small central bus terminal downtown where I found out what bus to take to the shopping center and the return bus dropped me off directly across from the hotel. I even got some smug satisfaction when a hapless traveler came up to the bus stop in front of the mall and asked a local guy how to get the bus going in the other direction, and when the guy said he didn't know, I butted in and told traveler-dude how to find the pedestrial bridge which crossed the highway and where to find the bus stop on the other side. The fact that this would have been fairly obvious if the dude had just looked around for a minute did not diminsh my sense of pride, given my deeply deficient sense of direction.

View from hotel looking toward downtown

Ice Land

2011-11-25T20:41:00.013+05:30

Yesterday was spent on an all-day tour which took me back out into the nothingness, across the vaguely lunar mostly colorless landscape, and onto a glacier for a walk on the ice. Along the way, we crossed Iceland's longest river which supports five hydroelectric plants. Icelanders get their water not from rivers though, but from deep groundwater. The water is processed only by natural filtration though the lava rock,and piped into homes -- at no cost; people only pay for the electricity to heat water, cold water is free. After crossing the river and passing the farms, some with ponies and sheep, and after a quick stop for lunch, we arrived at the glacier. We got geared up with crampons and ice axes and trudged on up. The guide gave us the run-down on the geologic happenings and history and we wandered around taking care not to plunge to our deaths by falling into a crevasse.

lunch - why aren't all hotdogs cooked like this?

Dinner was a delicious lobster soup in a yurt which was conveniently located next to the ghost museum, and the troll and elf museum. They were both ridiculously hokey and hilarious, and the visit seemed like a perfectly appropriate way to cap a day of glacier-walking and lobster soup-eating.

Reykjavik, Iceland

2011-11-23T19:44:00.000+05:30

Apartment-living, Icelandic style

It was still pitch dark at 9am on Wednesday when I got to the hotel. I left Seattle in the late afternoon on Tuesday, and 3 movies and 7 hours later, landed in Northern European sleety cold blackness around 7am. Short line at passport control then onto the shuttle bus for a drive through what appeared to nothingness punctuated by pelting rain to the Hilton. My plan had been to keep moving upon arrival, but that came with an assumption that I would sleep on the plane, which I did not, not even for a minute, didn't even try. So I got into bed around 9:30am, set an alarm for 1:30 (which I slept right through) and finally got up at 3:30 and walked into town. It's cold but not unbearable. Pants and long-underwear, couple of shirts, sweater, heavy coat, mittens, scarf, hat - pretty usual winter wardrobe for me. I think I hit just the main street of downtown Reykjavik which is lined with shops and not much else. I stopped into a few but they were either super-designery or tourist-kitchy so I didn't find anything to buy. Wandered around for a few hours, got a tiny bit lost since suddenly it was dark out again, then back to the hotel for dinner. Trying local food is really important to me but I couldn't bring myself to stop for minke whale which seemed to be on a lot of the local menus so I ended up with a lovely open-faced roast beef sandwich at the Hilton. I told myself it was authentic because it lacked a top slice of bread.

New Yorker Festival - October 2011

2011-10-09T15:30:00.002+05:30

That time of year again. Jenine and Peter; a hovel in the Bowery; hanging out with Roz Chast, Amy Poehler, and Malcolm Gladwell; John's Pizza in the West Village (who knew the best pizza is "coal fired"?); Eataly with [Uncle] Steven; and a spa day in the Hamptons. Note: If you're walking in Riverside Park and it's lousy with rats (both dead and alive), smells like death, and is "dank-ass" (quote from Jenine), you might be in the wrong place. We found the right place, went for a walk, did some shopping, ate plantain chips and salsa at a latin place, hung out at Liquor Bar (a.k.a., Schiller's but we preferred calling it "Liquor Bar"), and found Sri Lankan food on the lower East Side before heading home.

The Hamptons

at Eataly

artwork in the Bowery

Giant Squirrles in Whistler, B.C.

2011-09-25T18:48:00.007+05:30

Whistler Village

Last Weekend: Whistler. John, Huey, Josh, and Jenine. My super-cool cruiser-bike, no downhills this time, and no mud, just sunshine and blue skies. Monday morning I trotted down to the information booth in the village to ask for what I've been looking for since last summer when I got the bike - a long, flat, paved, scenic trail. I got exactly that. Through the woods, to a park, by the river, behind the golf course, across the boardwalk, under the bridge, past the seaplanes... and so it went along part of the Valley Trail loop for about 7 miles (I think). Although it did not start well. Ten minutes into my ride I stopped to adjust my bike basket which was hitting my brake cable when I heard a snuffling in the bushes near me. Huh, I thought, is someone in the bushes? Didn't think so. Continued fiddling with my basket while wondering if a bird flapping could make that much ruckus. Didn't think so. Just as I was wondering if it could be a bear, a bear walked out of the woods and onto the trail. Panic almost tied with my instinct to reach for my camera but panic won. I decided to peddle off in the other direction but then wondered if, a) one is not supposed to turn one's back on a bear, b) it was lumbering after me in an attempt to knock me to the ground, rip off a limb, maul me mercilessly, and ride off on my bike. I decided to turn back to check and it was standing in the path -- definitely coveting my bike. Then it wandered across the street and into the bushes on the other

giant squirrel

side. I was paralyzed though and didn't want to cross by the place where it came out of the brush. So I just stood there with my bike, seriously considering going back to my room to spend the afternoon watching TV. Luckily (as it was a beautiful day), I saw a gentleman coming up the trail toward me. When he got to the spot where I was rendered imobile, I said hello and asked if he knew this particular trail well; he said he did, so I asked if I should be particularly freaked out that a bear had just come out of the woods a mere twenty feet from me. He laughed and said "absolutely not, they're like giant squirrels around here!" He said he'd been walking on that trail for twenty years and that the bears don't bother anyone. "You don't have any raw meat on you, do you?" he asked; luckily, I did not, so I thanked him for his reassurance and peddled on. Great ride; I did it again sans bear the next day with Jenine.

All the photos below (except the last one) are from the bike trail loop.

maybe next time

Day 3: Goats on the Roof

2011-07-18T21:59:00.008+05:30

Jenine said it would be silly for us to go home. I concurred but we checked out of the hotel anyway (but first we watched a couple from Oklahoma shop for a vacation home in Panama). We drove south toward the ferry making a stop in Coombs on the recommendation of a chap in one of the shops in Cumberland whom we talked to on our first day out. He told us there was a farmers' market there with goats on the roof. He didn't really elaborate on the concept which of course made us want to investigate. The Coombs Country Market is a year-round market but it didn't appear to be a year-round farm stand in that there was no fresh produce to be seen anywhere (although there was some very nice fake produce, see picture below). It was more of a tourist gourmet shopping zone with cool gifty-souvenir-type things, a cafe, a bakery, a deli, and goats on the roof. We bought snacks for the 45 minute drive to the ferry and lunch to eat on the boat, and then had to high-tail it out of there in order to get to the dock on time. We made it there before the boat left but when we asked the lady in the ticket booth if we'd make it on, "it doesn't look good" was all she said. When pressed for a more definitive answer, she repeated her catch-phrase and she was right. There were two hours between the ferry we missed and the next one so we sat outside and got to [finally] enjoy some fabulous weather. Jenine studied while I read, we both eavesdropped on a group of fishermen who were also finishing up a long weekend on Vancouver Island. There were about 15 gents ranging in age from late teens (I heard one talk about his mom not letting him do something) to a mustachioed 60+ (men who fish seem to be the last bastian of mustache supporters). Halibut and ling cod were their prey and judging from their talk and the giant coolers I saw in one of their trucks, they were bringing home quite a haul. The boat ride back to Tsawwassen was spectacular and the entire weekend escapade was a smashing success.

fake produce

A Night out in Courtenay or, Always Listen to the Bartender

2011-07-18T16:15:00.000+05:30

We capped off Sunday night by first tearing ourselves away from the Home Shopping Network (as in, watching people shop for homes), then traipsing down to the lobby to quiz the young lady there about dining options in the area. “Casual,” we said, “someplace you’d go, not someplace you’d send tourists.” She understood what we were after and pulled out a book of menus and steered us toward the pubs. We ended up in a pub in the tiny village of Comox about 20 minutes away where the bartender greeted us with a smile and asked us what we were drinking. We said we were eating, and he looked genuinely sorry to have to tell us that the kitchen had just closed, this being 9pm on a Sunday in the tiny village of Comox. We asked him to recommend another place and he rattled off three, the first of which was The Flying Canoe in the Best Western Hotel back in Courtenay, adding “that’s where I’d go.” We got back into the car, both torn by the exact same conflicting thought: always take a recommendation on where to eat from a local bartender/why the hell would we go to the restaurant in a Best Western? We decided to just be our practical selves – the Best Western was closest and on the way to the other options so we would check out the vibe and menu then decide whether to move along or stay. We got to the Flying Canoe just as the karaoke was starting. Ten seconds later, Dan, who belted out several “young country” songs that night, was kicking things off with impeccable tone and inflection, hitting every note with confidence, his paunch straining his golf shirt. There was no way we were leaving. We found a booth in the back from which we could hear each other and still have a good view of people who were clearly regulars, singing everything from Kenny Rogers to the Killers, Linda Ronstadt to the Kings of Leon. And with rare exception, these people could sing. Some were just good but a handful, all of whom sang several times, were fantastic. Dan hit every note of songs we didn’t know and didn’t particularly like in his golf shirt; Kevin who had a very pronounced limp and nursed a single beer the entire time we were there, knocked his numbers out of the park then slunk back to his table where he sat alone; and Kristie rocked the Linda Ronstadt number, her voice so full of natural projection that she seemed to be holding back a little in the small restaurant lest she blow us all backward. Of course, none were as awesome as Jenine who rocked the room with “Dancing in the Dark” to everyone’s delight, especially mine. After a long afternoon of lazing around our room recuperating from our downhill adventures, it was just the right thing to end the day. Additionally, it reinforced our belief that when you need a recommendation for food or drink, always trust the bartender.

Day 2: Bikes and Mud. Lots and Lots of Mud

2011-07-17T19:32:00.006+05:30

Today we got up early, relaxed in our room, ate breakfast in the Kingfisher restaurant (skipping the 100-item Sunday Brunch) and headed to Mt. Washington for our mountain biking lesson. First we met up with Max who outfitted us in full body armor, a fashion situation I had not anticipated, then we met Cory and Derek who were our lead-guide and helper-guide, respectively. Cory gave us a briefing on the full-suspension bikes we were riding and we rode them around a paved courtyard for a few minutes getting a feel for the handling and brakes, then we rode down a path to a chair lift which took us up the mountain. There were snow banks all over the ground and everything was muddy. And when I say "muddy," I mean MUDDY. Shoe sucking, thick, quick-sand-like, deep, wet, sloppy, slick, soft, soupy, bogs of mud. Which we were about to ride through. The nearly constant rain the previous day, plus the wet, wet summer they were also having on the island made for ridiculously sloppy conditions on the trail, but there we were, two ladies who are mostly game for anything, suited up and ready to go. And the trail was steep. And when I say "steep," I mean STEEP. Death-defying, gravity-challenging, feel-like-you're-falling-forward, double-black-diamond-seeming, winding, narrow paths which cut through the woods (and snowbanks), over ruts and rocks and wooden bridges, which we rode on through the deep and squishy mud. Our boy-guides were champs, offering tips and encouragement as we careened down the trail -- stand up, keep your cranks level to the ground, keep your butt behind the seat on the super-steep parts, look about 20 feet ahead, don't grab a handful of brakes, YOU'RE DOING GREAT!!!... and down we rode. I fell twice, into the mud, bike on top of me, squashed like a bug by that ridiculously heavy bike which Derek had to lift off me, but since I wasn't traveling at any great speed and ahem, was wearing that full body-armor, I was totally unhurt. The steep parts didn't faze me too much (just a little), it was the mud... have I mentioned the mud? The steep parts were hard, but as soon as I got the hang of looking ahead (after the first fall and upon Jenine's insistent advice), that made it easier to figure out the physics of navigating the steep terrain by just trying to keep my body positioned on the pedals (excuse me, "cranks") in a way that kept me upright while the bike was pitching forward. The key was to focus on balance and not the seemingly perilous obstacles on the track which the bike effortlessly rolled over. I had a hard time with the mud though, and if it was super muddy on a really steep part, I would psych myself out a little and end up walking the bike through the bog. My shoes will never be the same. After the first ride down the hill which took about 45 minutes, I knew I was done so I announced to our little crew that one of my greatest strengths in life is a) being willing to try almost anything, and 2) knowing when to quit. So the boys took Jenine up for one more run down the same trail - stud that she is, and they rode the entire way down without stopping once - while I grabbed a New Yorker from the car and waited for their return. The boys were only concerned that we'd had fun, which we absolutely did, and from the comfort of where I type this several hours after our adventure -- in a cozy bed, in a cozy robe, with a glass of wine on the nightstand, J9 mirroring my position in her bed while we watch real estate shows on HGTV, I definitely hope to try it again. Less mud would be awesome.

This really gives NO indication of just how muddy it was.

Vancouver Island - Day 1

2011-07-16T20:22:00.005+05:30

Jenine and I got up at the crack of very early on Saturday and made for the Canadian border. We got on the ferry just south of Vancouver and made the two hour crossing from Tsawwassen to Duke's Point on Vancouver Island. After settling into our room at the Kingfisher Resort and Spa, we headed for the rocky beach to inspect our surroundings given that we were experiencing a brief pause in the relentless rain.

After beach combing for a while, we drove into the booming metropolis of Cumberland where we wandered through the business district (approx. 6 storefronts) in the rain which had resumed, then made our way back to the Kingfisher in time for our spa appointments.

Olympic National Park

2011-07-10T20:20:00.001+05:30

Camping with Ellen, Chuck, Torunn, and Steen - Heart o' the Hills Campground.

On the way to Sol Duc Falls

In the Hoh Rain Forest

Two small woodland creatures

Last Day

2011-02-15T02:45:00.001+05:30

This is all we did today (left).
As far as large beach resorts in Mexico go, this place is fabulous. The staff couldn't be more friendly or accommodating. Frankly, they seem to love me here. Nearly everyone has commented on my name and felt the need to tell me that Fernando is a man's name here in Mexico; weirdly, nearly all the staff we've interacted with have commented on it. But because of that, they remember me and I'm getting rather fond of being addressed as "Miss Fernando" everywhere I go.

So, that's it. I told everyone at home we'd probably never leave the resort, and we didn't. And now it's time to go and we're ready. We spent every moment we could outside, caught up on some reading, got much needed doses of sunshine, spent an entire day in a beach cabana while our personal butler brought us whatever we wanted to eat or drink, and we saw whales frolicking in the Sea of Cortez. Done.

Copa Cabana

2011-02-14T11:16:00.003+05:30

Today brought relaxing to a whole new level. Part of our package was the use of a cabana for the day. We saw the cabanas scattered around the beach and I was pretty psyched at the idea of spending the day outside, looking out to sea -- from a bed perched on the sand...while a "personal butler" attended to our every need. And that's how we spent today. We had breakfast around 8:30, worked out for an hour, then I took a dip in the pool and met Cheryl in our cabana. Jonathan, the pool manager whom I had met yesterday (and who told me that if anyone at the resort was causing me any displeasure, he would "take care of it," "I can make it look like an accident," he said), came by and introduced us to Carlos, who was going to be our butler, and would take care of bringing us anything we needed. Here's the list of things Carlos brought us: a banana-mango smoothie, Diet Coke, Perrier, a bowl of fruit (actually, Alejandro, the pool-boy from yesterday brought that to us), ice cream, and lunch. Most times when he came up to check on us, he addressed us as "princessas" (I don't speak any Spanish but the translation is pretty easy). It was a great way to spend the afternoon, especially when we realized that there were several whales hanging out in our direct sight-line. We kept seeing the spouty-spouts (I don't know the marine biology term for when they spit water up from their blow-holes, "spitty-spouting"?) and then once when I was looking past Cheryl, I saw a mighty splash and knew I was seeing a post-breach water show - I had just missed the main event; however, about half an hour later, I was staring straight out and I saw a grey whale come almost completely out of the water and flop over - it was in the distance, but I saw it clearly. There's a lifelong dream achieved.

View from our perch.

We left our domain, once again only because we were due at the spa, so off we went, Cheryl for a massage, me for a detoxifying (and anti-cellulite I was told, twice), moisturizing, marine algae, body-wrap. I love me a body-wrap, but the marine goo from this one was especially... authentic, and even though I've showered twice since having it done, my skin still smells like sushi. There are worse problems to have (although perhaps not for whomever is sitting next to me on the plane tomorrow).

a Day of Doing Next to Nothing

2011-02-13T09:17:00.002+05:30

Our time-share presentation was painless. We met our tour-guide-saleman, an affable guy from Brazil (with frosted hair) who had worked first in hotels in Cancun before moving to Cabo with his wife, a Canadian professional beach volleyball player. He took us to a very nice breakfast buffet which looked out over the Sea of Cortez (as the whole property does); we could see a whale in the distance, spouting and flipping its tail up. If we had to listen to a sales pitch for something we had no interest in buying, that was the place to do it. He asked us our travel habits and we were honest with him, telling him that staying at a big beach resort doesn't hold any special appeal for either of us, and that being tied to a vacation plan - regardless of the number of properties we could choose from around the world, just wasn't the way we want to travel. He asked us why we had signed up for the tour and we told him we did it for all the perks we had been offered; can't be the first time he'd heard that. He gave us his spiel anyway and showed us a couple of the condos, he ran down the cost (exhorbitant), we politely declined, and were on our way. We got all the cash promised to us back, we got a voucher for our taxi ride back to the airport, and we got the cash value of two hour-long massages credited to our room. We went directly to the fitness center/spa, worked out for an hour, made our spa appointment for the next day (we already had booked hour-long massages for today which were part of our package deal) and then we went to the pool. We found two empty loungers right nex to the infinity pool, went for a swim, and sat on the loungers for the next several hours. Our spa appointments were for 5:30pm which was the only reason we got off those chairs (we ate lunch pool-side).

The spa is beautiful. The treatments rooms, like all the hotel rooms, overlook the sea, and I had one of the best massages ever. Tomorrow, we do it all again, minus the sales-pitch.

If you have to work out, this is the gym to do it in.

"We Absolutely WILL NOT Listen to a Time-Share Presentation, No Matter What They Offer Us!!"

2011-02-12T09:26:00.004+05:30

So we're going to a time-share sales presentation tomorrow morning at 8:30. Having visited resort towns in Mexico before, Cheryl and I agreed that this trip is too short to waste valuable pool time listenting to sales pitches we had no interest in. But we forgot how incredibly persuasive the airport touts could be. We were planning on taking a taxi from the airport to the resort but in order to get to the taxis, you have to pass through the gauntlet of pitch-men, and they are good at their jobs. A taxi would have cost us $80 for the 30 minute ride to the resort (which we were willing to pay [or we could have done a van-share for a lot cheaper, but it would have taken three times as long to get to our destination]) but the taxi-tout offered us a free taxi ride, breakfast at the hotel he wanted us to tour which was supposedly right next to the hotel we were heading to, a one-hour massage for each of us at the spa, and enough cash for us to take a taxi back to the airport at the end of our stay. He wore us down. We gave him $160 in cash for the RT taxi fare, all of which he was going to give us back the next day when we showed up for the tour, and vouchers for all the stuff he'd promised us, and having done this kind of thing before, we knew he was good for it. So we took our speedy taxi to the resort, checked in and then had a chat with our concierge-person, who proceeded to offer us a variety of extras and perks... if we listened to her time-share pitch. We told her we were covered and had already promised the taxi-guy, who had a bunch of our cash as incentive for us to show up, that we would go to the hotel he worked for (we had also promised him we wouldn't discuss the deal he gave us with our hotel staff, whom he knew would try and offer us their own deal); she proceeded to offer us everything taxi-guy had promised us (and we wouldn't have to leave the property), and she said she'd refund all the cash we had given him - DEAL.

So with all that behind us, we finally made it to our room, then directly out to the beach. The afternoon conisisted of reading on the beach, walking around the grounds, making all our spa appointments, dinner, and now TV/computer/books/magazines/bed. We don't need much to be happy.

Fall Colors

2010-10-27T12:24:00.000+05:30

Last weekend - camping by the Entiat River with Jenine, Josh, and Arlo, Scott, and Mike Huey. I'm not sure why Mike is the only who warrants a last name, but that's the way it is.

New Yorker Festival - 5

2010-10-05T18:32:00.018+05:30

It was actually the 11th annual New Yorker Festival, but it was my fifth year in a row attending. Peter skipped this year but I had my lovely friend Jenine for a traveling companion, and we had a great time. Unfortunately, that great time started at 4am on Friday. Our flight was at 6, hence the early start. We landed at JFK around 2:30 and headed for the subway; about 40 minutes later: Times Square. 44th Street isn't my ideal New York City address, but it was Jenine's first trip to NY, so it was kind of fun to be right in the middle of the known universe.

View from our room on the 46th floor.

We hung out in our hotel room for a little while and then headed out to our first festival event: an interview with Alec Baldwin. Alec is a funny guy, and a bit of a flirt. He told Ariel Levy who was interviewing him that he liked her dress (I thought it was ok). It was a fun interview, lots of movie clips (including one from "Working Girl" from 1988 - 22 years younger and 30 pounds lighter), and political chit-chat (campaign finance reform is his pet political cause). He also talked quite a bit about changing the divorce laws in New York state. I've heard that it's easier to kill your spouse and do the time than to get a reasonable divorce in New York; apparently he's using his influence and his experience with the process to affect legislation on this front as well. In talking about comedy and his success with "30 Rock," he gave all the credit to Tina Fey.

AND (and this is the best part), Calvin Trillin was sitting next to me during the interview! I was sort of distracted by this fact the whole time, and I just couldn't quite let it go, so when the interview was over I turned to him and said, "excuse me, Mr. Trillin?" he looked a bit startled and said "yes?" I stuck out my hand, which he shook (what else could he do?) and said "my name is Manomi, I came out from Seattle for the festival, I just wanted to say, I've enjoyed your work for a long time." He gave the smallest hint of a smile and said "thank you," I said, "you're welcome" and then left him alone.

Jenine and I were then supposed to meet my friend Elizabeth who was making the trek out from Brooklyn to meet us for dinner. Unfortunately, Jenine was jet-lagged (having just returned from China and Vietnam a few days before leaving for New York) and not feeling well, and decided to get back to the hotel for some much needed sleep while I went off to meet Elizabeth. We had a nice dinner at Harrison (pricey, noisy, good, not spectacular with the exception of our side order of fries, which were spectacular; I've eaten fries at a lot of places, these must have been fried in duck fat or something equally decadant - they were sublime) and I ended up back in the room about 12:30 - Jenine didn't even twitch when I came in.

Saturday we got up and immediately headed out for bagels, which we got at a little deli near the venue (we were back at the same place we saw Alec). The Saturday morning talk we attended was by Atul Gawande who was speaking on "How to Live When You're Dying" which was the title of his article on end-of-life matters/hospice care earlier this year. I often skim the heavy articles but this one was so interesting that I read every word. Atul is a practicing surgeon in Cambridge, he talked about how some patients choose not to treat their terminal illnesses, but to go home, manage their pain, and live out their days by actually living those days, instead of fighting death with painful and draining treatments. Atul needs to learn to modulate his voice (he's a very monotone speaker), but his talk was interesting, and by the end, several people in the audience were sobbing.

After Atul, we had just enough time to trot down a few blocks to the Chelsea Market and browse the goodies there. We bought some treats, including chocolate covered Corn Flakes (you have no idea...) from Jacque Torres and some savory crepes for a snack, and then headed back to the same theater for the "Fashion Forward" talk. I have to admit, this was the talk we had tickets to that I was least interested in, but that turned out to be the MOST interesting. Four designers, four runway models, and Judith Thurman moderating a very interesting discussion on fashion, the fashion industry, femininity, Michelle Obama vs. Carla Bruni, inspiration, fabric, draping, layering, wool, PETA, and the best part: the Rag and Bone collection (my favorite) featured mittens. No gloves, mittens. The models were all leggy, beautiful, and appeared to completely lobotomized. Jenine, an apparel designer by training, more of an industrial designer by trade, was hugely inspired by the event, and I found it incredibly interesting and entertaining, and it made me think that in my life, which is often totally void of personal artistic endeavors, fashion can be art and expression, and every day can be an opportunity to create a personal artistic statement, even if it's with other peoples' products.

We spent the rest of the afternoon and evening downtown in Soho: Dean & Deluca, Muji, CB2, Prada, Uniqlo, Pearl River, AND... Jenine is pretty sure she saw Donatella Versace in the Dolce & Gabbana store when we walked by. I insisted she go into the Prada store to not only look at the clothes, but more to check out the Rem Koolhaas architecture and design elements, which are fantastic. It's also fun to check out the sleek salespeople in their sleek clothes, although Jenine did comment about one of the sleekest salesgirls, "I feel bad that she doesn't have a rib-cage." Dinner was at Papatzul - fresh, spicy, Mexican fare which I'd had and enjoyed a few times before. I like going back to the same old places.

Sunday morning was with Steve Carell. Again, lots of clips, and lots of chat about "The Office." He answered my burning question during the interview -- it turns out that the show was in fact very deliberately re-tooled after Season 2 (the change was obvious, and hugely disappointing); the result was more viewers and numerous awards - but the changes rendered the show practically unwatchable as far as I'm concerned. It lost all its charm and all its subtlety while becoming a major hit with the masses. I have to believe all those smart actors and writers are disappointed now too, and that the turn is a contributing factor in Steve leaving after this season, but introducing myself to Calvin Trillin was as much as I could do in terms of confronting celebrities, so I didn't ask Steve to elaborate on the change after Season 2 during the question and answer period.

Our last festival event was right after Steve -- Malcolm Gladwell talking about "The Magical Year of 1975." It turns out that what Malcolm found so magical about 1975 was the fact that that's when Marvin Miller, who was the head of Major League Baseball's players' union, won the players the right to free agency, changing the economics of the game (and possibly the nation - his talk was a little hard to follow) forever.

View from the roof of the Gansevoort Hotel.
And that was the end of the festival for us. We spent Sunday afternoon walking down the High Line Park, stopped for a cocktail ($15) at the bar on the roof of the Gansevoort Hotel, made our way back to Times Square, and on a tip from our doorman, ate dinner at John's Pizza ("best pizza in the City!")

Monday morning we got up and went to Zabar's for bagels, chatted with some Israeli guy in the cafe, walked from there to Central Park through light rain, and took a stroll through what eventually became a torrential downpour. I thought we were heading south through the park back toward midtown, but at some point I realized we were actually heading north, so given the time and the fact that our bags were at the hotel (south) and we were taking the subway back to JFK, we hightailed it out of the park and to the subway on Lexington Avenue and made our way (running late) to the airport. We were so late that we got to jump the security line (escorted by a Delta agent) and made it to our gate only to find that our flight was delayed. We finally boarded and sat on the plane for two hours while a new flight path was cleared as ATC had just closed the runway we were waiting for. It was a long trip home after a super-great weekend. Can't wait for next year - I hope Jenine will go again and Peter will be back on board.

Ashland, OR

2010-08-24T03:11:00.008+05:30

Ah, Oregon. It’s population still insists on tie-dying their clothes (at least those which didn’t come straight from Guatemala), and appears to be existing primarily on raw goat milk. Never before have I seen a more fashion-generic population than during the three days I spent in Ashland. I’d always wanted to go to Ashland to see the plays at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival – an odd name for the venue given that plays run for nine months of the year, and only a fraction are by Shakespeare. 2010 is the 75th anniversary of the fest, which is one of the oldest and largest professional non-profit theaters in the nation. It employs 325 people full-time, 175 part-time, and utilizes 600 volunteers. One of the most impressive things about the festival is that they produce so many plays during a season. In 2010, eleven plays will have run on the three stages, often overlapping on the same stage, meaning one play might run on the Elizabethan Stage one day as a matinee, but the techs will break down the set before evening and a different play will run on the same stage that night. Even more impressive is the fact that actors may be in three different shows during a season. We saw Twelfth Night on Saturday, a play with two female leads (one of whom was embarrassingly dreadful), and one of the leads (the not-dreadful one) had the second lead in the musical we saw on Sunday night. Peter and I (critics that we are) determined that while the actress whom we saw twice wasn’t dreadful, she was a one-trick pony and her performance as Lady Olivia in Twelfth Night wasn’t particularly different from her performance as Miss Ritter, a 1930s shopgirl, in She Loves Me. We thought the performances in general were good (better in She Loves Me than in Twelfth Night), but not particularly stellar compared to performances we’ve seen elsewhere in the country. Those actors work hard though, and I’m sure the OSF is a great gig to get for an actor starting out. We also took a backstage tour given by one of those hard-working actors. Our guide, Kate Hurty, told us she started out as a scientist doing cell research after graduating from Swarthmore, and did community theater on the side before deciding to ditch her lab coat to pursue an MFA in acting. She was very vivacious and cute and gave a very interesting tour. She was starring in Pride and Prejudice which we didn’t see, but also had a small role in She Loves Me (in which she got to wear absolutely beautiful 1930s-style dresses, hats, and coats – the costumes in this show were wonderful).

I got a little bored with the Shakespeare, which I expected, but She Loves Me was delightful. It’s based on the movie Shop Around the Corner, which takes place in Budapest pre-WWII, and is the movie that You’ve Got Mail was based on.
Ashland is a very nice, tiny village, with nice shops, decent restaurants, and a lovely park on the edge of town. Peter and I also drove the two-and-a-half hours to Crater Lake to check out the azure blues, and they were as advertised.

The B&B where we stayed was very nice, we had a big room and big bathroom and the breakfasts were good. I was sort of expecting extraordinary, but I’m sticking with good. The ladies who ran the place were very nice, helpful, friendly, etc., and the other guests we dined with at breakfast were the same. Really nice weekend.

Odds and Ends before Leaving

2010-07-20T09:44:00.004+05:30

Heading home today. It feels like we've been gone longer than we have. My feet are sore from so much walking. Peter, who has visited more museums and historic places in the last 11 days than I'm sure any other tourist to ever visit Great Britain, has become obsessed (in a "car wreck" kind of way) to Big Brother. This is a person who doesn't have a TV in Seattle (never bothered to get a converter box), has season tickets to the Seattle Opera, went to the theater three times while we were here, and spent three hours at the British Museum yesterday looking at artifacts from the dawn of all civilizations. Big Brother.

The building we've been staying in is on the Albert Embankment which runs along the south side of the Thames (the Victoria Embankment runs along the north side; the Brits really seem to love their Victoria & Albert - well, except Charles Dickens. Apparently, he refused a knighthood from Queen Vicotria [Peter learned this when he visited the Charles Dickens' House/Museum]).

There's a scene at the beginning of Get Him to the Greek which is supposed to take place in the main character's London flat - it's the penthouse of this building!! I recognized the view from the balcony in the movie, it's the same view as from our balcony but from higher, and from the street, I can look up and see the entire balcony where the scene was shot. Okay, I thought that was cool.

The U.K. has banned smoking in public places (thank god), however, Londoners have refused to give up their fags (hee hee!) and now they (all of them) smoke to and from wherever they're going and then they smoke some more outside when they get there. I am really tired of walking down the sidewalks through clouds of cigarette smoke.

One day when I was taking the tube somewhere, a guy got on with what looked like a little amplifier. I didn't think anything of it until I saw the microphone in his hand and then I got a little worried. Within a few minutes of him boarding the train, the unmistakable opening of Careless Whisper started playing and then he started singing. I've heard people sing in the subways of New York and then ask for tips; here's the deal with those people: they sing really well. This bozo introduced himself to his captive audience as "Klaus" and then sang a few more lines. Here's the deal with Klaus: I don't think English is his first language, he didn't actually know the words to Careless Whisper and appeared to be making them up as he went along, he couldn't sing for shit. I mean, I can sing better than he could - and if you know me at all, you know that's not saying much. A bunch of us exited the train just as Klaus was screeching out "So I'm never gonna prance again, the way I danced with mules..." or something like that. We all winced collectively as we desperately ran for the stairs.

I do like London a lot, but I'm ready to go home.

[Full disclosure: I typed most of that Tuesday morning from the apartment but didn't have time to post it before rushing off to the airport. I also tried to post it from the Calgary Airport during our connection but the Canadians have an interesting concept for what "free wifi" means. I'm posting it now, Wednesday morning, from my desk in Bellevue but plan on adding a few more photos when I get home tonight. It's been fun, thanks for reading and emailing me while I was away; the blog now goes back into hibernation until the next trip. -M]

Here are a few pictures of our lovely little rented flat:

Neighborhoods of the Rich and Famous

2010-07-19T22:25:00.006+05:30

If I were going to move to London (and I'm not going to move to London), I'd first have to win the lottery (a Powerball jackpot would be best), and then I'd find a place to stay in Hampstead. The neighborhoods on the outskirts of London are great; both Kew and Wimbledon are about 30 minutes on the tube from central London, Hamstead is a little closer, but still has that "village" feel. It's also the home of several celebs (Ricky, Russell) and for good reason, the homes are beautiful, the Main Street (or High Street as they're called here) has a ton of shops and cafes with the tube station at the top of the road, and Hamstead Heath, a fantastic, wild, huge, sprawling park with a view from a hill of almost all of London spread out below it, is a 15 minute walk from the tube station.

But before heading out to Hampstead yesterday, acting on a tip (thanks Laura!) I trotted across the bridge to the Tate in search of some Andy Warhol prints. My friend Laura emailed me that she had heard that the Tate has a series of prints Warhol made of his mother in its collection, and since the apartment we're staying in is almost directly across the river from the Tate Britain, it was easy enough to run over there and investigate. I asked the person at the information desk about the Warhol collection and she said that any Warhols would be at the Tate Modern (I learned that the Tate Britain does show contemporary art, but only by British artists). The info-girl was able to look up the Warhol collection currently on display at the TM on her computer but we couldn't find the ones I was looking for, which just means they aren't currently on show, but it was a fun little scavenger hunt anyway.

Then I jumped on the tube and headed up to Hampstead. Peter was spending the morning at the British Museum, I spent the morning taking a nap (I've never really gotten over the morning effects of the jet-lag) and then wandered around Hampstead, looking in shops on the High Street, and having lunch in a cafe. At 2pm I met Peter and Sumathi at the tube station and we headed to the park, walking through really fabulous residential neighborhoods on the way. Once we entered the heath, we found Parliament Hill which affords a great view of greater London, and from there got hopelessly lost. We walked and walked down paths and tails (Hampstead Heath is 790 acres, we passed exactly one trail

map) but lost our bearings along the way and ended up in the middle of the park just wanting to get out. By asking a few different people we did manage to escape dying there and having to eat one another, Donner party-style, and made our way back to the High Street and the comfort of a bakery.

Monday night after our woodland adventure, Peter and I took a spin on the London Eye, which is a giant ferris wheel that was built for the millennium celebration; it turned out to be such a cash-cow that it remains a permanent fixture on the South Bank.

Today we wandered around the City of London with my friend Chris. When people talk about "The City" they are talking about a one-square-mile area of downtown - the financial district. About 8,000 people live there and about 350,000 people work there. We started our tour at the Royal Courts of Justice, saw a bunch of Christopher Wren-designed churches, stopped into a couple of ancient pubs, found some hidden, quiet, quaint courtyards, and then took the tube to go Sloan Square to go shopping, but ended up in the Saatchi Gallery instead. I love looking at this kind of contemporary art, mainly because it makes me laugh, usually at it, but still, what's wrong with that?

Country Life and Train Stations

2010-07-17T23:23:00.004+05:30

Today we took the train to Amberley Castle which is in West Sussex and another 90-minute train ride from London. The castle was built in the 14th century, it went through many phases of destruction and restoration, it was owned at one time by Queen Elizabeth I, and in 1989 it was fully restored and turned into a luxury hotel. Peter and I went there for lunch. The dining room is quite formal, the food is good (not necessarily better than the Sri Lankan meal I had last night which cost about $15 for two; this meal was a bit more), but the grounds are beautiful. Peter had a cold watercress soup with cucumber sorbet and goat cheese foam to start (the goat cheese wasn't really foamy, thank god, more whipped), I had a smoked chicken thingy with pea jelly... okay, I know I kind of went off on dishes made into foam and jelly and cotton candy, but I have to admit that my cubes of pea-jelly were damn good even though it sounds both vile and pretentious. We both had a pork cutlet (which was really a chop) for our main course, which was served with a layered square of sweet potato, a smear of spicy apple sauce, and star anise pan-sauce; it was good but not the best thing I've ever eaten. Oh, and there was a perfect square of something totally unidentifiable on the plate, I couldn't get my knife through it so I finally picked it up (daintily, with my pinky out) and took a bite - it was pork crackling, fried hard. The only thing missing from the plate was a side of Lipitor. My dessert was almost too sweet, a square of nougat which was kind of marshmallow-y (I'm not so fond of marshmallows) and a smear of salt caramel, covered with malted chocolate ice cream; it was okay. Peter's strawberry parfait with mint sorbet was fantastic. I really enjoy these excursions to the country-side to investigate nice restaurants. If the food turns out to be fantastic, that's a bonus, but if it's just okay, I don't mind if the trip is nice. In this case, the grounds of the castle which we wandered around after lunch were spectacular. There were a bunch of hidden gardens, flowers everywhere, an albino peacock lounging on a parapet (it didn't have its feathers displayed, and really just looked like a fat chicken so I didn't take a picture of it), sculptures, water features, a treehouse where you can arrange to have private dinners for two - the meal is really only half the fun, so even though I'd only give our meal a mere 6.5, it was well worth the trip, even though we had to arrive by train and not helicopter, like some of the guests did.

We got back to London in time to have a 45 minute rest before heading off to Waterloo Station for The Railway Children, a play based on a children's book about a family in post WWI England. The mother and three children go off to a home in the country when the father is hauled off to be tried for treason (which the children don't know at the time, and which is a farily sophisticated plot-point for a children's story, I think). Their adventures center around the village's train station, the station-master, and the people who come and go from the trains. Except for in two scenes, when an actual life-sized train-prop appears on the platform (the stage is a real train platform with the audience sitting on either side and the tracks in the middle), the train is represented very convincingly with sound and light effects. The three children are played, also convincingly, by adult actors, and the story is quite charming, although in addition to the treason plot-point, there is also a slightly watered down pro-Marxist element, also unusual for a children's story, but then again, children need to learn about Marxism from somewhere. There was one very intense scene in the play where the children see a landslide on the track, and we can all hear a train approaching, and the children know they have to get the engineer to stop the train or there is going to be a horrible accident. The two girls have red petticoats on under their dresses which they remove, ripping one into two pieces, and all three of them wave the red flags wildly as the train approaches, with the older girl standing in the middle of the track so she is sure to be seen. I have to admit, I was pretty stressed. The actors did a good job of conveying the emergency of the situation but the real star of that scene was the sound design - it truly sounded like a train was approaching and three kids were trying to stop it - ONE STANDING DIRECTLY IN ITS PATH. Even though I was fairly certain the scene wouldn't end in carnage, I was still pretty anxious... the power of theater man, the power of theater.

An Ordinary Day

2010-07-16T11:32:00.001+05:30

Today I did one of my favorite things to do in a foreign country, I went to the movies. I like doing it because it's something that mostly local people do so it's a way to blend in and not feel so touristy. I also like doing it because I love going to the movies anyway, so why not do it while on vacation. I've been reading Russell Brand's autobiography (called My Booky Wooky) which was conveniently left here in the apartment, and since I've been a fan of his since discovering his radio show podcast on the BBC website a couple of years ago (he was forced to resign from that gig after a controversy that's too complicated to go into here), Get Him to the Greek was the obvious choice for a movie today. I thought it was completely hilarious. The first 15 minutes or so involve a music video for a song (he plays a rock star in the band, Infant Sorrow) called African Child, which is so ridiculously offensive and condescending, it's called by one critic (in the movie), to be "the worst thing to happen to African culture after famine and war." The interesting thing about the moive, I thought, as I happen to be currently reading an autobiography by its star, is that while Russell didn't write the script, the guy who did clearly had read Russell's book and based the character (a completely self-indulgent, heroin and alcohol-addicted, imature, destructive, hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold-type) on the real Russell Brand -- the pre-clean-and-sober-Russell, who was quite a tragic figure. I thought the movie was very funny; the book is very funny too, but very heart-breaking as well.

After the movie, I met Peter at the Royal Academy of Art and Science to see the John Singer Sargent exhibit. I had seen his exhibits of portraits when it was at SAM years ago, and while I don't usually go for portraiture, I remember really liking that exhibit. This one was mostly of seascapes in France and Italy and it didn't strike me as much as the portraits, but it was still very nice. The photo isn't from the exhibit, it's from the Tate, I took it on the first day in London, and it's stunning.

For dinner tonight, I met my friend Sumathi who is a friend I know from my months in Sri Lanka, but who is British (Sri Lankan-British), and we had dinner at a Sri Lankan restaurant just a few tube stops away from where I'm staying. My instinct was to completely pig out on Sri Lankan food because it's so delicious and this place was completely authentic, and who knows when I'll have the chance to have it again, but I managed to control myself. It was very fun catching up with Sumathi, she was my closest friend when I was living in Sri Lanka in 2008, and it's always fun to meet up with friends in foreign lands.

Taking the Waters

2010-07-16T11:19:00.000+05:30

Yesterday we went to the town of Bath which is 90 minutes by train from London. Jane Austen's characters were always going to the town of Bath - not that I've read any Jane Austen, but I've seen all the movies, which counts. Bath is a beautiful town; all the buildings are a sandy color, a river runs through the town, there are parks everywhere, and it's the site of the ancient Roman baths which is the main tourist attraction. The baths were constructed 2,000 years ago and are amazingly intact. The main bath still contains water from the same source that filled it in 43 AD as the thermal spring is still active and the construction is still water-tight. The Roman baths were built as a temple to the goddess Sulis Minerva, as well as a spa, an exercise facility, and a gathering place for both social and business activities. So, sort of... St. Marks meets Gene Juarez meets 24-Hour Fitness meets Starbucks.

After checking out the ancient baths, I went to the modern bath for a soak in the mineral springs. The Thermae Bath Spa was built a couple of years ago and the water is considerably less slimy-looking than in the ancient one.

A Spot of Tea

2010-07-14T21:28:00.001+05:30

Today was about organizing things, shopping, and snacks. We were supposed to go to the town of Bath today but when I checked the weather in the morning, the forecast was for rain all day so we changed our plan and got a few other things done in London, where there were only a few light showers. Peter went to some museums, I went to Victoria Station to change our train tickets, and then we met in Leicester Square to inquire about theatre tickets. Peter got a ticket to As You Like It at the Old Vic for tonight, he also got a ticket to the London Opera for Friday, and we both got tickets to The Railway Children on Saturday; I have no idea what it's about but it's being staged on a disused train platform in Waterloo Station, and apparently a train actually passes through the set - cool. Then it was off to the department store, Fortnam and Mason to look at the food halls and have some tea, followed by a stop at Harrods where the food halls are even more impressive. I can't imagine actually shopping at either of these stores, they are packed with tourists and totally chaotic - at least on the lower floors where the accessories, perfume, makeup, and food halls are. Maybe the upper floors where the clothing is located are more pleasant, we couldn't bring ourselves to investigate. Lots of ladies in burkas shopping in both stores; I'm guessing they're Saudi as it would take an oil well or two in the family to be able to shop at either; we saw a cake that you could order for about $6,000; truth told, it looked kinda gross.

Wimbledon

2010-07-13T10:41:00.002+05:30

Today I fulfilled a lifelong dream: to visit the All England Lawn Tennis Club, home of Wimbledon. It didn't even matter that the tournament had been over for a couple of weeks, I still count the excursion as a major achievement in my life as a tourist (leaving just Euro-Disney and the Corn Palace to complete the list). I took the guided tour of the grounds and visited the tennis museum, which had some really good exhibits about tennis through the ages (ladies used to play in corsets and stockings; one of the sponsor's give-aways in the 1920s was a pack of smokes). The grounds of the club look a lot smaller in person (why is that true of so many things? People are always talking about how television rots the brain, how come no one complains about how is skews the sense of size?), but seeing Centre Court, the press area, Court 18 where the epic 138-game match took place, and all the other places I've watched on TV since I was about 12, was super-exciting. Membership of the club is about 375, there is a waiting list of about 1,000 and a rigorous screening process to get in. Our guide told us that the easiest way to get in (and the dues aren't even that much - less than a gym), is to win the tournament since all singles winners become honorary members.

The tour was really enjoyable, but one thing you are absolutely, totally, and without equivocation NOT allowed to do on the tour of the All England Lawn Tennis Club, is touch the grass.

The Royal Botanic Garden, Kew

2010-07-12T23:32:00.000+05:30

or Kew Gardens, as it's more commonly known, is actually a 300-acre park which was established in 1759. The botanic research and preservation institute that runs Kew Garden is responsible for the world's largest living collection of plants, and apparently they keep track of quite a few dead ones too as their preserved specimens number over 7 million. Peter and I spent a very pleasant morning walking around the park, the highlight of which was the waterlily house. There was also a really nice butterfly exhibit where I leaned that a person can spend an awfully long time trying to get just the right photo of a butterfly.

After we left the garden, we took the tube back into Central London to the Victoria and Albert Museum, where a touch of home hangs in the central lobby; and then because I had watched The Young Victoria just a few weeks ago, we took a stroll past the Royal Albert Hall and the Prince Albert Memorial. Peter and I split up after that and he continued a long, circuitous walk back to the apartment passing the Queen Victoria Memorial and Buckingham Palace along the way, which prompted him to ponder at dinner, "I wonder where they'll put the Queen Elizabeth Memorial when she croaks." Good question.

Real Food

2010-07-11T11:22:00.005+05:30

Molecular Gastronomy is something in which I have very little interest. I don't want essence of unsprouted parsnips wafted toward me as a first course; I don't want duck served to me in pellet form; I don't find the idea of granita, mousse, or anything "popsicled" outside the dessert tray in anyway appealing; call me pedestrian, I don't care, I like to chew my food. Which is why we had lunch today at The Hinds Head pub in the village of Bray, and not at The Fat Duck Restaurant next door. The chef-owner is the same for both; the food couldn't be more different. Here are some offerings on today's menu at The Fat Duck: Nitro Poached Green Tea and Lime Mousse, Pommery Grain Mustard Ice Cream, Chicken Liver Parfait, Snail Porridge, Salmon Poached in Licorice, and Blood Pudding with Confit of Umbles. I have no idea what an umble is, but if I did, I'd probably want them straight-up grilled with a side of mayo. Conversely, the menu at the Hinds Head included Highland Beef with Yorkshire Pudding, Braised Pork Shoulder with Crackling and Roasted Potatoes, a Venison Burger, and several other, toothsome options. I had the grilled hake with mashed potatoes, bacon, and peas; Peter had the poached cod on a bed of crab and lemon; side of french fries; and a pickled lemon salad with fresh herbs to start. Dessert was a cherry tart with yogurt ice cream.

Bray is a tiny village outside the town of Maidenhead; Maidenhead is a 30-minute train ride from London. I had read about both restaurants, made the obvious choice between the two, and Peter and I set off late-morning on the train. From Maidenhead we walked down the road about half an hour to Bray, where there is nothing much besides some picturesque homes and the two restaurants. After lunch we asked our waitress if there was anything to see in Bray or any shops to look in, she smiled and said "no." The service in the pub was excellent, the food was lovely, and we left stuffed full of food, as opposed to pheasant-flavored helium, or whatever they were serving next door.

London/Venice

2010-07-10T11:46:00.006+05:30

Little known fact: there is a small network of canals in London. Well, "network" might be a stretch, but there are canals, and they are very pleasant to walk along. This morning we got up at a very reasonable time, made it out the door around 10am and took the Tube to Camden (neighborhood-home of Amy Winehouse for those of you keeping track; we didn't see her). We walked through the giant Camden Market and made our way down to the canal for a long walk to Regents Park. There are long, narrow barges on the waterway, some motoring through with tourists, some which appear to be permanently moored live-aboards (nothing like the appealing houseboats on Lake Union; more like a claustrophobe's nightmare). The London Zoo abuts the canal and is part of Regents Park (you leave the canal- path at the warthog exhibit to enter the park). We walked through the park and came out on Baker Street (where Sherlock Holmes kept office space; we didn't see him) and planned on taking the Tube from there to somewhere else, but being as the entire Circle Line was closed, and the fact that I didn't notice that some other line went through some other station where we could have connected to the place where we were going but didn't, we ended up somewhere else where we weren't really going and didn't necessarily want to be. Navigating London can be a little complicated. We ended up back at the apartment around 5pm and I called my friend Chris (using my London cell phone, which h I hadn't used in over two years, but which worked just fine after I purchased a new SIM card from Carphone Warehouse) and we made a plan to meet him in the quiet neighborhood of Wapping, which is further east along the Thames, and where we could hit a few pubs I remembered from my previous trip here. We started out at a pub called the Town of Ramsgate which is a lovely, rustic spot with a breeze blowing in off the river, and ended at the Pride of Spitelfields which is in Shoreditch; Shoreditch is a bit of scene on a Saturday night, but we managed to avoid the boozers and clubbers and snagged a table in the pub, which somehow remained empty except for the giant cat sleeping on one of the chairs. From Shoreditch we caught a bus which dropped us off right in front of the apartment, and after a long if not particularly eventful day, it's time for bed.

Day 1: Stay Awake

2010-07-09T21:36:00.013+05:30

I have now been awake for 29 hours. We landed in London around noon and arrived at our flat about 90 minutes later. The place is great, we're right on the Thames, central to most everything, not too long a walk to the nearest Tube station, in a very nice place with a balcony over-looking the river, blah, blah, blah.

I can't really think straight because, as I mentioned, I've been awake for 29 straight hours, and if you know me at all, and of course you do otherwise why would you be reading this? you know I like my sleep. Our only goal today was to STAY AWAKE until 8pm, which we have, and now I'm feeling very, very loopy. We arrived, unpacked, showered, changed, and hit the sidewalk. We walked to the Tate to check out the Turner collection. Many of J.M.W. Turner's famous oil paintings have that lovely, hazy, "unfinished" look; apparently, that was because he didn't bother to finish a lot of them (ADD?). We left the Tate and walked and walked and walked to the Millennium Bridge (my favorite of the London bridges) which takes you across the river directly to the Tate Modern. We were fading by that point and immediately got some snacks in the cafe before I suggested we just check out the room with the giant Mark Rothko paintings and then head back to the apartment. Turned out the Rothkos are being refurbished and there is only one on display hanging in one of the regular galleries, lumped in with about 20 other wildly varied pieces. When I was at the TM last, there was a rather large room, dimly lit, hung with nothing but giant, red Rothko rectangles; the paintings struck me as being exceptionally powerful hung in a group like that and I was hoping we could sit in that room for a few minutes to gather strength to walk back, but it was not going to happen. My second favorite piece in the museum was also no longer on display - that would be Jeff Koons' Three Ball Total Equilibrium Tank which, if it's not clear from the title, is three basketballs suspended in what looked to my untrained eye, to be about a 50-gallon fish tank (being both untrained in modern art AND fish containment, that's my best guess; I mean, I'm pretty certain about the basketballs, but I'm guessing on the size of the tank). Since we couldn't view that... piece either, we made due with a Monet and some rather violent Cy Twombly scribbles, and left. Walking back, fighting the urge to just curl into a ball on the river-path and sleep, we passed the National Theatre. The NT does a series of free summer programs, and an outdoor dance performance was going to start in 30 minutes. We decided this would be a good way to kill more time, and waited it out. The performance took place on a clear Plexiglas stage, while the audience sat in reclining chairs underneath, looking up at the dancers though the stage. Each performance was 8 minutes, forty-eight people could sit in the chairs for each performance. We made it into the first group. I'm not sure the piece was necessarily enhanced by viewing up the ladies dresses, but it didn't hurt. After the performance we continued down the river path back to the apartment. We arrived around 8pm, which was our goal time to stay awake until. I'm banging this out while Peter takes another shower (it's pretty hot out); and in a few minutes I'm going to take an Ambien and go to bed. It's bright as day out but I don't think I'll have any trouble sleeping. Goodnight.

And Then There Was Snow

2009-03-04T04:06:00.002+05:30

That being the case, needless to say, I’m home. And it was a long trip getting here—first Bangkok, Tokyo, Portland, Sacramento, then two days in Sacramento before driving north through rain and sleet to Portland where I spent then night before making the drive home to Seattle. Except as soon as I arrived in Seattle, I dumped my suitcases and then drove another thirty miles north to my storage unit to get all my winter clothes and shoes; loaded up my car, drove back down to Seattle, and spent the next six hours unpacking. I finally got settled into the place where I’m staying (which is the same place I was staying before I left, with my friend Gail in Ballard), spent one night there, and then moved to my friend Margie’s place on Queen Anne since she happened to be out of town and graciously suggested I stay at her place while she’s away. So I’ve been on my own for the first time in five months (as has my brother; I’m sure he misses me terribly). Last Wednesday night was the first night I spent at Margie’s, and when I woke up in the morning (5am, jetlag), it was snowing and snowing and snowing. Margie’s condo is on a bluff looking over Lake Union with a view all the way across to downtown so I had a great view of the massive (well, 2 inches at least) snowfall covering the city.

But back to Bangkok.

Cheryl and I left the [nasty] beach and headed back to Bangkok and the Davis Hotel, which we had grown very fond of on our first couple of days in town. Great staff, great room, nice gym, lovely spa, roof-top pool—what’s not to love? We also found a great little café down the street which we went to nearly every day for the rest of our trip. The owner, Tay, was a young guy who had spent 12 years in the U.S., had an amazing design-sense, great taste in music, and had his coffee beans specially roasted to his specifications. The café was a lovely oasis off the busy street where we would have breakfast or lunch before heading out, usually via sky train to whatever destination was in line for the day. On most days it was one of Bangkok’s huge shopping malls, but we did also make it to another very cool temple, the night market, and the Moon Bar on the 56th floor of the Banyan Tree Hotel which gave us an amazing perspective on how large a city Bangkok is. We made the neighborhood around the hotel home, ate at the same Thai restaurant around the corner several times, got snacks at the grocery store across the street, drank iced chocolate at the ice-cream place across the street; I went to the gym every day, Cheryl went to a spa every day, we both went to the pool every day – it was a nice way to end the trip.

And now I’m home. The snow has melted, the sun is out (off and on), I’m shopping for a condo, and hoping to go back to work soon. If going back to my old job doesn’t pan out, I’ll find something else to do I’m sure, but right now I’m mostly trying to find a place to live and settle back into life in Seattle. I do love this place.

Thanks to everyone to who went on this trip with me by sending me emails, commenting on the photos, and keeping in touch. Part of me felt like I never left because my friends always seemed so close; on the other hand, I missed everyone terribly and am really glad to be back. And that’s the end of the blog for now, will maybe resurrect it if I go somewhere else, but I’m really looking forward to staying put for a while.

Hugs and kisses to everyone reading,
-Manomi

We Hate the Beach

2009-02-14T16:22:00.003+05:30

So… you know how a lot of people love the beach? Cheryl and I are not two of those people. We sort of already knew that about ourselves, we’ve been to Mexico a couple of times together, and both of us have been to Hawaii many times, and don’t get me wrong, we love those places, we just aren’t sun worshippers, and god knows, I don’t need a tan. But for some reason we figured a beach in Thailand would be different; we should have known better. The beach we chose is called Railay and it’s a 45 minute boat ride from a town called Krabi which we flew to from Chiang Mai. We got here today, wandered from where the boat dropped us to our hotel… and then really didn’t know what to do with ourselves. The beach is very small, and we’re not crazy, we recognize that it’s beautiful, and sure we could slather ourselves with sunscreen and possibly go in the water for a swim (doing our best to avoid the jelly-fish), but then what? What we ended up doing was sitting by the pool for a couple of hours while both individually but simultaneously coming the conclusion that we should leave. Soon. It’s just not for us. It’s a very small beach and the area around it is kind of crowded with a few shops, a few restaurants, and lots of tourists. This seems to be the place for a typical European family vacation. It’s also full of hippies. And couples. And hippie-couples. No offense to Europeans, hippies, or couples, but it’s just not the atmosphere we were looking for. Railay is also a rock-climbing Mecca and I had considered doing a climb or two since they have a lot of beginner routes, so first I made some inquires at the local climbing school, but then left with the prospect facing some limestone cliff in the blazing sun versus heading back to Bangkok, we decided to just let the beach go – and leave tomorrow… after one day here.

I’ve always had this love-hate relationship with the beach. I love the ocean and I’d rather be looking at open water, waves, and surf than any other scenic view; I LOVED my beach-front hotel in Galle where I stayed during the lit fest, and spent what seemed like a lot of time staring at the water and letting the waves hypnotize me; I’d rather go for a walk on a coast-line in Northern California, Oregon, or Washington than anywhere else, but a tropical beach where there’s really nothing to do but lie out in the sun and maybe go for a dip before practicing my hacky-sacking skills, isn’t for me. Or Cheryl, so we’re heading back to the city—back to Bangkok.

Last Stop: Thailand

2009-02-12T14:46:00.013+05:30

On February 7th, I finally had four months worth of stuff—both brought and accumulated, packed up, had said good bye to all my friends in Colombo, told Velu how much I was going to miss his cooking and his company, and made my way to the airport for a 1:30am flight to Bangkok. I was on my way home via a vacation in Thailand (you know, because I needed a vacation after four months of loafing around Sri Lanka). My friend Cheryl met me at the hotel in Bangkok for the beginning of a twelve day stop-over in Thailand on my way home to Seattle. We were both really tired that first day in Bangkok; I hadn’t slept at all the night before because of the middle-of-the-night-flight, and Cheryl’s connection in Tokyo had been cancelled so she was actually late getting to Bangkok and had been traveling for a day and half by the time she got there. So we napped much of our first day. Eventually we got up though and made our way to a lovely Thai restaurant which had been recommended by two different friends and had a lovely dinner before heading back to the hotel. Really good Thai food here.

On our second day in Bangkok we made our way via taxi and river boat, to the Grand Palace, former royal residence and current Buddhist temple. Cheryl has never been to Asia before and while I had been to the Grand Palace a couple of times, it was really fun to go there with someone who had never seen any Asian temples before. We wandered around the palace grounds, checked out the jade Buddha and the other lesser Buddhas, took tons of photos of the various buildings with their crazy, gilded, tiled walls and details, and then made our way down the road to the temple of the giant, reclining, gold Buddha. I don’t know if that’s it’s official name, but take a look at the photos, what would you call it? After that we were tired and hot so we made our way back to our hotel for a rest and then got up and headed to one of the night markets in Bangkok to try and find some food on a stick for dinner. The market we ended up at (via sky train) wasn’t terribly exciting so we ate at a Thai restaurant that we passed on the way, no tourists in sight, and pretty good Thai food. Then as we were walking from the sky train station back to the hotel, we passed the kazillionth road-side massage parlor and decided we needed foot massages. These massage places are EVERYWHERE, and they are CHEAP, and they are NOT fronts for prostitution (although there are plenty of those two, although not right where we’re staying). We were in a room that looked like a hair salon except instead of hair cutting stations, the room had a long row of reclining chairs with footstools in front of them. We plopped in chairs, side by side, and the little Thai ladies went to work on us. What we expected to be a one-hour foot massage turned out to be a one-hour foot, leg, shoulder, back, skull, arm, and hand massage – for $9.00. It was a much slower walk back from the sky train station than it had been to it.

The next day we left for Chiang Mai. Chiang Mai is a one hour flight north of Bangkok, a great town that had been recommended by friends who had been here; it’s main draw for us was a Thai cooking class that sounded like a lot of fun. We arrived Tuesday and spent most of the first day just wandering around town. We passed a bunch of temples, walked through some markets, found the cooking school we wanted and signed up for a class, came back to the hotel to rest, and then made our way to the Chiang Mai Night Bazaar which is a bustling night-time market. Neither Cheryl nor I are much into shopping right now so it was fun to see the sights and the booths and all the crazy stuff for sale, but we didn’t buy anything, just ended up eating some pretty decent Indian food for dinner there ($6.00 for the two of us). On the way back to the hotel, we stopped at another road-side massage place and had much the same treatment as in Bangkok—a big open room, but thick, foam mats on the floor this time instead of recliners, some Australian dude on one side of me, Cheryl on the other, and again, tiny Thai ladies who started on our feet but worked their way up. This massage was more in the “Thai massage” style, in that it was very physical—basically the person giving you a massage is contorting your body into yoga poses while you lie there like a flounder. Frankly, this is the only way I ever want to do yoga. This was also a good massage experience but there was a bit too much chatter going on in the room for my taste. I like it quiet when someone is rubbing me all over. We paid $6.50 for an hour this time.

The next day was dedicated to Thai Cooking School. We were picked up from our hotel and driven about 30 minutes out of town to the school which is part of a small, organic farm. There are cooking stations for three classes of twelve students and we had a great time with all the people in our class. Our teacher’s name was Nice and she was a lovely young Thai woman who did a great job of conducting our class. One of the cool things about this particular class was that we got to choose the dishes we made from a small selection of options. Cheryl and I both made green curry with chicken, coconut milk soup with chicken, chicken with cashew nuts, pad Thai, and sticky rice with mangos. It was all delicious and fun – starting with our trip to the market where Nice gave us a tour of ingredients and shopped for our supplies. We were tired by the end of the day and since half our food was sent back with us as leftovers, we didn’t have to go out for dinner that night.

Which brings me to today… today we went to Tiger Kingdom. Cheryl has had a life-long dream to pet a tiger and here was the opportunity staring us in the face, how could we not? Tiger Kingdom is a place where you very simply pay to pet a tiger. You pay by size. I petted a small one ($15), Cheryl petted three different sizes ($30). And sure, arguments can be made that people should not be petting wild tigers, but the fact is these tigers are bred in captivity, raised by humans, are part of a zoo-breeding program, and exist in order to perpetuate the species. And yes, it’s possible that they’re all on giant doses of Xanax, and/or could rip our throats out at any given moment (Roy-style), but… we really wanted to pet a tiger, and managed to do so without getting maimed.

Tomorrow we head for the beach.

The Galle Literary Festival, 2009 -- Part II

2009-02-02T21:43:00.001+05:30

There wasn’t much I was interested in checking out on Saturday. I went down to the fest at about 11:30 to catch Colin Thurbron talking about his 7,000 mile journey from China to Turkey. Colin is an quietly entertaining speaker, very… British in his delivery, and a hell of a nice guy. After his talk I hung out with some of my friends, we wandered around the “Fort” area of Galle which is where almost all the festival venues were – it’s an old Dutch fort from the Dutch colonial times, with ramparts all the way around, fending off attacks by sea I suppose. Now the fort is mostly a tourist area with shops and restaurants. We wandered around, running into people we knew… Sumathi and Sophie, friends from Colombo, and Jess whom we had picked up along the way; she’s on a break from university in Australia and traveling around India and Sri Lanka for a month with her mother. We also ran into Ellen, and Melony and Tenzing, and about half a dozen other Colombo homies.

We made it back in time to see Edna O’Brien who was billed as “Ireland’s most famous living writer” or something like that. I wanted to read at least one book by one of the Lit Fest authors, and the one I got my hands on was one of Edna’s. It was good, no denying her ability as a writer, but her talk was a little confusing. She spoke for 45 minutes and it was like listening to Garrison Keillor on mushrooms. She rambled and ambled on and on, and I had no idea what the f she was saying. I talked to at least three other people afterwards who said the same thing. She had notes which she referred to, made quotes, brought up Dickinson and James Joyce, and closed with a poem about Obama, but seriously, I have no clue what she was going on about.

I went back to the hotel after that, back into the pool which I had to myself (LOVE the tiny hotels with just a few guests at a time!), and then my four-poster bed for a nap. The closing night party was Saturday night so I had to rest up. At about 10pm, my brother and Riyaz came to pick me up for the party which was at the Lighthouse Hotel, probably the most prominent hotel in the area and one of the major sponsors of the festival. The party was on a terrace which was pretty much the roof of the building and it was pretty rocking. Ran into more friends there whom I hadn’t seen at the festival, had several margaritas, danced until my shirt was soaked through, and finally shut the place down with Riyaz and Sunila (who was finally, FINALLY very nearly done with her massive task of getting this event over and done with) around 2.

Slept in Sunday, packed up, and caught a ride back to Colombo with my brother. There was another party for staff and volunteers back on Geoffrey’s island on Sunday night, but I was all partied out and decided to skip it and head back on Sunday afternoon.

I thought the festival was wonderful – it was a great combination of speakers and friends and beach vacation. Congratulations to everyone, especially Sunila, for putting on such a great show.

If anyone wants to see the entire festival line-up/program, you can do so at www.galleliteraryfestival.com.

The Galle Literary Festival, 2009

2009-01-30T20:00:00.017+05:30

When I was in Colombo last Christmas, everyone was talking about the Galle Literary Festival coming up in January. I was due to leave before the festival started and was really sorry to miss it. When I planned my current trip, I made sure that I would be here for this year’s, and I ended up volunteering to help with some of the logistics, an offer that was eagerly accepted; had I known how much work I was in for, I might not have done it and there were moments when I wished I hadn’t, but now that I’m at the festival, it’s wonderful, and I’m pleased to have had a small hand in bringing it about.

First of all, a shout-out to the “real” staff… Sunila inherited the Festival Director title when the original festival director ended up dropping out. It wasn’t at all what Sunila originally signed up for but she did an amazing job. Her main staff were all so amazing – wonderful to work with and just great people, and there were so few of them working to put on this rather large and getting-to-be-prestigious festival. I spoke to Sunila a few days before it started and she told me she’d been up for 48 hours straight, but she never lost her sense of humor or her kind and respectful way of dealing with her staff – they all seem to love her as I do. My task wasn’t nearly so involved as what the others were responsible for; my job was to book all the airline reservations and purchase the tickets for all the authors who were coming in from abroad. Most were coming from Delhi where another literary festival was taking place just before this one, but others came from England, Singapore, the U.S., Australia, and one from Entebbe, Uganda. Our two airline sponsors were Sri Lankan Airlines and Emirates. So after corresponding with 14 writers from around the world, dealing with their flight requirements and last minute changes and many phone calls with my contacts at Sri Lankan Airlines, Emirates, and Cathay Pacific, I got all the tickets booked and purchased, they, along with 36 local Sri Lankan writers arrived here in Galle for the start of the festival on January 28th.

I also arrived on the 28th for my first festival event which was a tour called “Where I Escaped the Tyranny of the Typewriter” which is a quote by Arthur C. Clarke (a long-time resident of Colombo before his death in 2008), and which was a tour of Taprobane, the private island owned by Geoffrey Dobbs, the festival founder. The island is tiny and has a wonderful history including once being owned by a British count, and Arthur C. Clark had been among its distinguished guests. Geoffrey has done quite a bit of restoration work on the house that sits on the island, as well as adding a small infinity pool and overhauling the gardens. He led us around the house and property giving us information about its past an present before having lunch served on one of the terraces.

There were only a few festival events later that day, but as soon as I got to my hotel and saw how beautiful it was, I opted to skip all of them and just enjoy my room and the sound of the waves crashing just outside my windows (for my volunteer services, the festival gave me the room for four days, an all-event festival pass, and two tickets for the island tour which wasn’t covered by the pass).

Only 4 bungalows (left) and two rooms at this hotel. My room is the one surrounded by the shutters on the top right side of the photo - windows all the way around 3 sides.

This photo doesn't do my room justice. It was gorgeous - really plain but huge and comfortable.

The following day, I managed to wrench myself from the lap of luxury and make my way back to Galle (my hotel is about 15 minutes from town) for three events. The first was a conversation with Colin Thubron and Pico Iyer, two travel writers with very journalistic styles. They were both very interesting and since they were the two nicest authors I dealt with, I didn’t want to miss their event. The name of their talk was “Global Souls” and it was about their work traveling and writing around the globe, and about how technology has made it so much easier for so many of us to be global souls – that is to understand the world globally, even though we may not travel to the far-flung, we can still understand it. At the end of the discussion, the moderator (who is a professional media-type which made a huge difference in the quality of this interview) asked the two gentlemen if there was any place to which they would not travel or recommend as a travel destination. She prefaced her question by saying that when she interviewed Paul Theroux, he had said that he could not imagine going to a country that recruited child-soldiers (so I guess he’ll stay out of Sri Lanka); Colin Thubron said he had to agree and that there were places in Africa that intimidated him for that reason; Pico Iyer simply replied “Atlanta, Georgia.”

The second event I went to was a conversation with MJ Akbar and Ameena Hussein on writing about Muslim households. I know Ameena from Colombo and MJ Akbar was kind of a pain about his air tickets, but their conversation was very interesting. MJ is clearly very passionate about the beauty and compassion of Islam, and he was very articulate about its strengths and values and very forceful in his stance that Islam does not need reform, but Muslims do. What he said was so interesting because it’s exactly the way I feel about Christianity—that it is inherently good and valuable, that its teachings are universal, exclude no one, and don’t exist outside a spirit of love, peace, and non-judgment, but that a lot of “Christians” have corrupted it to a level of insanity. I think a lot of people in the audience were Muslim and he received a lot of applause when he made points against “the enslaving of women” and the twisting of the “marriage laws.” The third and last event I attended was a conversation with Germaine Greer and Tarun Tejpal entitled “Writing Taboos.” This was one of the most anticipated events for a lot of people and the most disappointing for me. Germaine Greer became an icon of feminism in 1970 when she published “The Female Eunuch,” a book I haven’t read, but one I’m sure I’d disagree with ideologically if her talk yesterday was any indication of her positions. Tarun Tejpal is a journalist who has recently published a novel called “The Alchemy of Desire,” which I gathered contains a lot of sex. I would have been interested in a conversation about “Writing Taboos,” but instead just heard two people discussing their political agendas.

I headed back to my hotel after that although there was programming on into the evening; this is my last beach-trip before heading home and I wanted to enjoy my lovely surroundings… the swimming pool, the palm trees, the waves crashing, and the solitude of this quiet, little, boutique hotel.

Today was day three and I went to two events: a discussion about the Dali Lama by Pico Iyer who has known him for 30 years, and a talk by Michael Morpurgo who is a British author of over 100 books for children and young adults. Two things: it turns out that I’m really not that interested in the Dali Lama although he sounds like a super-nice guy; and if you forget to remind people to turn off their cell phones, they won’t, and they might even take a call while an author is on stage, as one woman did in the second row while Michael Morpurgo was speaking.

The Meeting of Two Blog Posts

2009-01-25T22:05:00.003+05:30

In one of my first posts, I introduced Ellen Sojka, who at the time I met her was volunteering with an organization called Emerge Global. You might recall I explained that Emerge Global supports young women who become pregnant as the result of rape, helping them earn a living through a jewelry-making cottage-industry, as well as educating them and teaching them to care for their children. Then a few weeks ago I met Sharmini who manages the Books for Asia program for the Asia Foundation–their goal being to match libraries and other learning institutions in need of books with the books donated to them by American publishers. I knew Ellen’s organization had a teaching/learning component since one of their key goals is to teach the girls English and other marketable skills, thus making them more employable, and I thought maybe Ellen would like to get some books from the Asia Foundation program. So I tracked her down, put her in touch with Sharmini, and last Monday I went to the Books for Asia office and helped two very enthusiastic women pick out books. Ellen was thrilled to be getting them, and Sharmini is so enthusiastic about any organization that helps the needy in Sri Lanka, especially when it’s done with the goal of self-sufficiency, so it was really a great match.

Ellen has found funding for her job since I first met her; she is now committed to being in Sri Lanka for the next 18 months, working to keep this fledgling program up and running as the Country Director, along with the organization’s State-side counter-part in Boston. It’s a big job for a woman who just graduated from college last year, but when I talk to Ellen about the goals of the organization and how the girls it serves are transformed, I have no doubt about her dedication to this mission or her ability to make a difference in the lives of the people she’s working with.

I Heart Singapore!

2009-01-16T23:45:00.025+05:30

I wanted to get out of the hustle of Colombo, so yesterday I came to Singapore. Singapore is a City/State, an independent republic and former British colony, which seceded from Malaysia in 1963. I love it here. It’s Tropical-Urban-Asia-Lite. Let’s do a little comparison to Colombo – Singapore: population: 4.8 million; Colombo: 5.6 million. Singapore: pristine and orderly; Colombo: filthy and chaotic. Singapore: everything runs on time; Colombo: don’t hold your breath. Singapore: no one hassles you; Colombo: just try walking down the street without someone getting in your personal space. Singapore: safe no matter where, no matter what time; Colombo: not. I wanted a break and I wanted to see a little more of Asia than just Sri Lanka, Singapore fit the bill.

I’m only here for two days so my agenda is fairly limited. I got in yesterday at about 3pm and immediately caught the shuttle from my hotel to Orchard Road. Orchard Road is the shopping-Mecca of Singapore (and Singapore is the shopping-Mecca of Asia; some people consider Dubai to be the shopping-Mecca of Asia, but we all know how I feel about Dubai. This is making me wonder if there’s good shopping in Mecca). I expected a long road of storefronts from Gucci to what I hoped would be shops more in my price-range. What I found was a long road of shopping malls – not shop after shop, but mall after mall, one after another, both sides of the street. I know that probably sounds like hell to a lot of people, and contrary to popular belief, I do NOT love to shop, but I was in the mood, it was part of the reason I came here, and it was, if not exactly “fun,” successful. No major damage was done to the bank account; while things here aren’t as cheap as in Colombo, they’re still pretty cheap (at least in the kinds of stores I went into), and a lot more stylish. All I did yesterday was shop, eat, and walk. I only bought three things but I covered a lot of ground and watched a lot of people. At the end of the day, instead of taking a taxi or the MRT (metro) back to my hotel from the center of town, I walked back which took about an hour. It’s warm here but not sweltering and I wanted to get a feel for the place by walking; that was Day 1.

Today I started the day by eating some gyozas on a stick. There is absolutely no reason to put gyozas (I have a feeling the plural of “gyoza” is “gyoza,” but I’m going with“gyozas” anyway) on a stick, but I was emailing a friend last night who suggested I eat some food on a stick today, and there they were. This was back on Orchard Road, to which I returned in order to stop by the tourist office to find out about tours of the city. I’m not usually a “city-tour” kind of traveler, but I wanted to get a feel for Singapore outside the shopping district so I bought a ticket for one of those hop-on, hop-off tourist buses that are in so many places (this one was actually run by the same company that does Ride the Duck Tours; god help me). The double-decker, open-top bus travels in a circle and you can, you know… hop on or hop off at any designated stop and catch the next one that comes around when you’re ready to move on. I didn’t really want to walk around any of the places it stopped, so I just rode the entire circle to see a bit more of the city and got off nearly back where I started; this took about an hour. In a way, Singapore reminds me a bit of Dubai (although Dubai is about eight times its size), but without the soullessness and with far more green space.

Actually, the only similarity to Dubai is the prevalance of modern architecture, although I think Singapore’s is much nicer, and remnants of Singapore's colonial history remain which is also nice. After finally hopping off the tour bus, I did a bit more shopping (since I was back on Orchard Road) and then took another tourist bus to the Night Safari. This was my other big reason for coming to Singapore. So many people had told me how cool the Singapore Night Safari is and I wanted to check it out. If I understand correctly, it’s a tour that runs next to the zoo, or it might actually be part of the zoo, I couldn’t quite tell. You ride a tram around a loop that passes by about 30 animal habitats, and this being Singapore, all the animals seem to be standing right at the edge of their habitats for optimal viewing – they appear fluffed and waiting, teeth brushed, smiling for the cameras, and all but waving their paws at the tram as you go by. Lions, tigers, sloth (I just found out that the plural of “sloth” is “sloth”), a rhino, flamingos, elephants, giraffes, giant anteaters, capybara (the world’s largest rodent; not sure about the plural form but you definitely wouldn't want even one scavenging through your trash), and many others. Most of these animals are more active at night, hence the beauty of the Night Safari; so instead of trying to get a glimpse of a napping tiger in the far reaches of a den at the zoo, the habitats are designed (and the evening meal set out) in such a way that the animals end up strolling around right in front of the tram-way (okay, the lions and tigers were napping tonight, but they were really easy to spot; one of the lions was lying on his side with one leg in the air). And to address the obvious problem of animal-spotting at night, the habitats are lit so they are illuminated enough to see the animals, but the light is in no way glaring; it was however, too dim to get any decent photos – flash photography being strictly forbidden.

After the safari, I didn’t want to wait around for the tourist bus to head back to town (the zoo/safari being on the outskirts) so I took the city bus straight from the animal park to the nearest MRT station (and this being Singapore, one of the nice helpers at the park told me exactly where I’d find the bus stop, what number bus to get on, and the name of the MRT station it would go to). The bus arrived five minutes after I got to the bus stop and about half an hour later I was at the MRT. A few words about the Singapore Metropolitan Rapid Transit: it’s the cleanest metro I’ve ever seen but that should go without saying since Singapore is the cleanest city in which I’ve even been. I think littering and graffiti might be capital offenses here. You could perform surgery on the MRT station floors. And here’s a brilliant thing: all other metro stations I’ve ever been in are covered with used metro tickets; people world-wide seem to have no hesitation about dropping their spent tickets on the ground as soon as they are no longer needed. Aside from the threat of death (I think) which keeps people from doing that here (okay, I’m actually thinking hard about it right now and realizing that I’ve not seen one piece of litter, no cigarette butts, no paper, no garbage of any sort on the ground since I’ve been here), the Singapore MRT has enacted this simple anti-littering/pro-recycling scheme: when you buy a single-ride ticket as opposed to a re-loadable metro card which you would keep, you automatically pay a 1 SGD deposit on the ticket. All you have to do to get that dollar back is feed your used metro ticket back into the ticket machine before exiting the station. Brilliant.

I just remembered where I was going with all that… so after I left the Night Safari, I took the bus to the MRT and the MRT to Clarke Quay, which is the Pike Street/Fisherman’s Warf/touristy area on the Singapore River in the middle of town. My goal was to eat some pepper and salt crab which I’d been told was the city’s signature dish. Turns out pepper and salt crab is ordered by the kilo and a kilo of crab seemed a little piggy for dinner, so I got pepper and salt prawns instead – they were great and the people-watching at Clarke Quay was fun, and after dinner and a long day, I came back to my hotel room to type this up.

Tomorrow I’ll have enough time for lunch here before heading to the airport to go back to [filthy, chaotic] Colombo. Not sure where I’ll spend the afternoon yet, possibly at the Raffles Hotel where the Singapore Sling was invented; the drink actually sounds both completely disgusting and kind of good to me,* but drinking alone in the middle of the day might be a slippery slope. It might just be more food on a stick and a little more shopping.

*Singapore Sling
1 1/2 ounce gin
1/2 ounce Cherry Heering brandy
1/4 ounce Cointreau
1/4 ounce Benedictine
4 ounces pineapple juice
1/2 ounce lime juice
1/3 ounce grenadine
dash bitters

Singapore Post-Script [Saturday]
I had trouble falling asleep last night, so at 5 am when I was still awake, I popped a sleeping pill and finally drifted off. I ended up getting up around noon, so instead of going into town for lunch and coming back to the hotel to get the airport shuttle, I decided to take the MRT straight to the airport and kill the couple hours I had before my flight shopping and eating there. I knew from flying in that there was practically a mall at the airport (I suspect there’s a mall at the cemetery), so I knew I’d be fine. I got there (another flawless trip on the MRT for less than a quarter of the price of the shuttle) and wandered around until I saw a drugstore and a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf. Nisreen had asked me to pick up something for her from a drugstore (the selection of goods in Colombo being limited) and I hadn’t done it the night before so I was glad to see one at the airport, and I really wanted a nice coffee drink, so I was in luck. I had about 25 SGDs left and I wanted to spend it all before I left so I bought Nisreen two of what she wanted and picked up some other items in order to spend the rest of my cash. What I didn’t do was check the price of an Ice-Blended Mocha before I did my shopping, and when I got to the Coffee Bean, I was exactly a dollar short. Crap. I didn’t want to take out more money from an ATM (the whole point being to get rid of money) and I really wanted my drink. So I went back to the drugstore and asked the girl behind the counter if I could return one of my items and get some cash back. She hesitated and called the manager over. They were both very polite, but it seemed apparent that a return would be a problem, but finally the manager said okay and asked for my receipt. Which I couldn’t find. Not in my pocket, not in my wallet, not in the bag with the goods. The manager very nicely said she could not do a return without the receipt. I’m usually a pretty easy-going person and I know the shop-people don't make the rules, but I was on the verge of tears. Seriously, I wanted that mocha (have you had one? They’re all chocolaty and icy with a small jolt of coffee…). The girls seemed puzzled by what the big deal was and I don’t think they quite understood what I was trying to achieve. Finally I explained that I just wanted to buy some coffee but I didn’t have enough cash so couldn’t the manager please just return one of the items that I had just bought? Please? “How much do you need?” she asked. “Just a dollar” I said, “Oh, okay” she said and looked at the other girl; they smiled at each other finally understanding what was going on: crazy-lady needed a dollar to go buy some coffee. The manager smiled at me and then opened the cash register and gave me a dollar. “Oh… no…” I said, “don’t you want to take this item back and give me a refund?” I asked. “No no,” she said, “can’t do without the receipt, you take this dollar and if it’s not enough, you come back.” Big smile. “I… are you sure?” “Yes, yes, you take it!” “Thank you!” Now I really did feel like crying, but I thanked them again and went to get my coffee. As I was standing in line at the Coffee Bean I couldn’t get over how easy it was for that girl to help me once she understood what I needed. It seemed weird that she couldn’t just do the return, but I suppose it would be easier for her to reconcile the register being a dollar short than to do a return without a paper-trail, or maybe she was going to put the dollar back out of her own wallet, I have no idea. But once she understood my dilemma, her kindness was effortless. I ordered my mocha, added two pieces of cheesecake to my order, paid with my credit card, and went back to the shop. The two girls did a double-take when I walked in. “Okay? Did you get it?” they asked. “I paid with my credit card” I said, and handed them each a little bakery box and the dollar back, “but it was so nice of you to try and help me.” “Oh no!... Thank you!… Not necessary!” they laughed and looked at each other, raising their eyebrows and looking embarrassed, as though I’d given them gold ingots instead of dessert. “Thank you” I said, “that was so kind, what you did for me, I appreciated it so much.” And over my shoulder as I walked out, “you made my day.”

Sometimes when a place has been good to you, you have to pay it back. With cheesecake. Even if it means going home with a few extra bucks in local currency.

In the interest of full disclosure…

2009-01-10T01:02:00.007+05:30

Sri Lanka is a great place, don't get me wrong. But it's not all beaches and good times.

I made a conscious decision not to write about the civil war
that’s been going on in Sri Lanka since 1983 (although the ethnic conflict has “unofficially” raged for much longer). The decision was an easy one to make, I simply don’t know that much about it and didn’t want to editorialize about such a complex issue when, unlike so many of the ex-patriot friends I have here who are working in the human rights arena or doing development work, learning more about the war and dealing with its effects have nothing to do with my reason for being here. Yesterday however, the chief editor of a local newspaper who was know for criticizing the government in general and its policies on the war specifically, was gunned down in broad daylight not too far from where I live.

From the BBC News Website:

Mr. Lasantha Wickramatunga, 52, had been highly critical of government policy and the war with the Tamil Tiger rebels. He received numerous death threats through his career and was detained on several occasions because of the controversial nature of his stories.
In his last editorial he accused the president of pursuing the war to stay in power.

"Winning the war? Then there must be elections around the corner. It is no secret that the war has become [the president of Sri Lanka] Mahinda Rajapaksa's recipe for electoral success," he wrote.

According to the newspaper report I read, the hit took place while Mr. Wickramatunga was driving to work yesterday. Four men on motorcycles surrounded his car forcing him to stop. One gunman got off his bike and broke the passenger-side window with a steel bar but did not fire; another broke the driver’s side window and shot him point blank in the head; a third man got off his bike and fired through the windshield; the fourth circled the front of the car preventing escape; all four rode off after the shooting and none have been apprehended. Passer-bys rushed Mr. Wickramatunga to the hospital where he died of his injuries.

Since I feel the need to report this as something of note that has happened while I’m here, I feel I should also give a brief history of the “conflict” in Sri Lanka. The following is based on a very small amount of research.

Tamil people are an ethnic minority in Sri Lanka making up about 18% of the population. They are native to Tamil Nadu, a state in Southern India. Tamils in Sri Lanka are broadly divided into two groups. Sri Lankan Tamils (or Ceylon Tamils) and Indian Tamils. The latter group are descendants of Tamil people who were brought from India to work on the country’s tea plantations in the 19th century and, for the most part, are not party to the conflict. The Ceylon Tamils however have come to inhabit particularly the north and eastern parts of the island via waves of migrations and invasions over a couple of millennia.

In 1956, S.W.R.D. Bandaranaike was elected the fourth Prime Minister of Sri Lanka. One of the first things he did after coming to power was to make Sinhala the official language of the country and downgraded the official status of English and the Tamil language. Anti-Tamil policies such as this led to the eventual formation of several militant Tamil groups in the early seventies. One of these, the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE), emerged as the dominant group and has waged a violent cessation campaign against the government with the goal of forming a separate Tamil state on the north peninsula of the island. The LTTE is widely considered to be a terrorist organization and wages its campaign largely by assassinations, suicide bombings, ethnic cleansing, and recruitment of child-soldiers; the government responds to these acts by bombing civilian-populated Tamil areas.

Many Tamils are fully entrenched in lives outside the north and east parts of the island and have no desire to change this status. These people have worked and lived in Colombo for generations, they have become fully integrated without losing their cultural heritage, and have no need or desire for a separate Tamil state. However this group, concentrated in and around the capital Colombo, faced the brunt of the anti-tamil riots of 1983, and as a result many of them have since migrated out of Sri Lanka.

The beginning of the civil war in 1983 is attributed to an incident in which the LTTE killed 15 Sri Lanka army soldiers in the North; some Sinhalese civilians angered by news of the ambush formed mobs and started killing, raping, and assaulting Tamils, while looting and burning their properties in retribution for what happened. Sinhalese civilians were equipped with voter registration lists, burning and attacking only Tamil residences and business, while army and government officials stood by. The government declared an emergency curfew in Colombo the next day; however, the police were unwilling, or unable to enforce the curfew. The army was then called in to help the police. However the violence continued the next day, and began to spread all across the country, engulfing areas with sizeable Tamil populations; Tamil people were dragged from cars and beaten or hacked to death with knives and axes.

The pattern of assassinations and the killing of soldiers/officials on both sides followed by bombings from both sides, with intermittent peace-talks and negotiations has continued since 1983.

The sunsets here are indeed beautiful, the beaches pristine, and the food fantastic. There are fabulous night-clubs, hotels, parties, and restaurants, and sometimes it’s easy to forget that there’s a war going on even though Colombo is also a city with a huge army presence. I am routinely stopped for identification by soldiers holding machine guns almost every night that I go out; this is a part of life my Tamil friends (who can be identified as such by their last names) find much more nerve-wracking than I do. This is a city where everyone is searched for explosives every time they go into the mall or into a major office building. It is a city where government and police corruption is obvious and rampant, and it is a place where the chief editor of the Sunday Leader, Lasantha Wickrematunge, criticized government opposition parties for staying "mute" in the face of obvious corruption, suggesting journalists were having to do their job for them, and paid for it with his life.

Christmas and New Year's Eve

2009-01-02T17:20:00.020+05:30

My parents came to visit for Christmas and are still here. This is the first time all four of us have been in Sri Lanka at the same time since I was five. It has been interesting to watch my parents react to this place. They’ve visited over the last ten years or so but from the time we moved permanently to the States, there was about a 30 year gap before they ever returned, and while it’s clear that this is all familiar to them as “the homeland,” it’s also clear that this is not the same place they left. The traffic, congestion, and pace have increased dramatically, attitudes are different, and of course there’s this pesky war going on.

Christmas came and the parents and my brother went to my mom’s old Methodist Church in the morning while I slept in. Here's another this country is really pretty damn small–story: my mom told me that the lady who was sitting behind her in church had a really nice voice and she had enjoyed listening to her sing during the service, so when it was over, my mom turned around to tell her so. The lady thanked her and wished her a Merry Christmas, and then as my mom turned to go she said “aren’t you Mignon?” which happens to be my mother’s name, so a little startled, she said “yes” and the lady said “I’m… ” and said her name; she turned out to be the sister of one of my mom’s old school friend’s (who had happened to have dropped by for tea the day before); my mom didn’t recognize her, having seen her last about forty-five years ago, but the lady remembered my mom. This kind of thing happens ALL THE TIME here.

Lunch at Deepika's
We went to my cousin Deepika’s for lunch that afternoon, a very nice and low-key affair which included Simon and Neluka, whom my brother and I also know, their two girls, my aunt, and my cousin’s husband and their little girl; the kids spent the afternoon chasing my cousin’s yellow lab all around the garden. Deepi had ordered the entire meal from a hotel and it was quite good, a mix of Sri Lankan curries and a turkey. We spent a leisurely afternoon at her house and then headed home to rest up for our own guests who were coming for dinner. They arrived in the evening: my mom’s cousin Bryan, her other cousin Rando, Rando’s twin daughters who are eighteen and whose names I can never remember which hardly matters since I can’t tell them apart, Melanie from Nilan’s office and her husband Tenzing, my mom’s old school friend Rani and her other old school friend also named Rani (and the sister of the singing lady from church). Velu had made a turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, ham, fish, peas and carrots, and a few other dishes. The funny thing is, it’s the first time anyone in my family has served a traditional western Christmas dinner (although I guess it was more like Thanksgiving… some people have turkey again at Christmas – right?); we usually have rice and curry in California.

The next day we left for the beach. We took off from the house at about 1pm and made our way down the very busy Galle Road. Along the way, Cyril, my dad (a bit of a nutter) began, as is his habit, to read aloud the signs along the roadway. “Pizza Hut” he said, followed by “Litter World.. that’s strange… maybe it’s for cat litter…” he said (I have no explanation for the thought process that might have led him to that). “You can’t see the ‘G’ in front of that?” my mom asked. “Oh, ‘Glitter World’” he said. “Are you planning on reading all the street signs between here and the hotel?” I asked (it was about a three hour drive). “Manomi,” he replied, “I am an old man, it is my prerogative to annoy the young people.” A little while later my mom said, “there’s my grandfather’s house!” as we caught a brief glimpse of the De Alwis family home, a colonial estate and the only residential house left on the fully commercial Galle Road (the part that runs through Colombo anyway). My mom said she used to play there as a child, and that there were coffee trees in the back garden and all the cousins used to collect the coffee beans when they went over to play. I asked her if they were actually roasted and ground into coffee; she paused and said, “we gave the beans to the servants, eventually there’d be coffee.” One of my mom's cousins inherited the house and plans on moving into it from Ottowa where she lives now.

“Malay Curry Hut” Cyril said.

Eventually we got around to the bottom of the island to the Heritance Hotel in Ahungalla. It’s a nice place, a bit like the place in Negombo where I went with my cousin Shalini (Deepika’s sister; she went to Thailand for Christmas), although I think that place is actually a little nicer. Riyaz and Nisreen and their boys also joined us there as did Melanie and Tenzing, and while we shared a few meals, mostly everyone did their own thing at their own pace and just relaxed.

On the 27th we drove another hour around the south side of the island to our friends Cheryl and Jehan’s place. I’ve known them since I was around ten I think -- they used to live in San Francisco. Cheryl and Jehan have this awesome weekend place on the beach, and we spent the afternoon hanging out there and had yet another stupendous lunch with them. Then back to the hotel and back home on the 29th.

The sunset at Cheryl and Jehan's started out like this...

...and ended like this.

New Years Eve had us, Riyaz and Nisreen and Melanie and Tenzing at the Bay Leaf restaurant for dinner. December 31st is traditionally a big party-night in Colombo but we happened to have picked quite the dullest spot in town. There were lots of people dining there but for some reason there was absolutely nothing festive in the air. I didn’t actually mind, we had a nice table outside, had some drinks and didn’t get around to ordering dinner until almost 11pm, so we were still eating when the clock struck twelve. We clinked each other’s glasses, said “happy new year” to one another and went back to our dinners and conversations. I was home by 2 and on email being the first to wish a few friends at home Happy 2009.

Books For Asia

2008-12-23T21:25:00.013+05:30

On Saturday I went to the Asia Foundation’s Christmas Party where I met Sharmini Nagendran who runs the Foundation’s Books for Asia program in the Colombo office. Books for Asia is one of the Foundation’s oldest programs (since 1954) and it provides new texts and other educational resources to schools and libraries around the country. At the Christmas party, Sharmini invited me to come to her office and see the books, so I did that today. The books are gorgeous. They are top of the line text books (over-run stock) published for the U.S. educational market and they are vibrant and appealing, the pages are crisp and clean, the graphics are beautifully done, they have that new book smell. The two main publishers who donate to the program are Houghton-Mifflin and Harcourt Press, and these are the most current texts available. The Asia Foundation gets them for free and distributes over 75,000 books to mostly rural and village schools. Sharmini was clearly very excited about the program and her enthusiasm was infectious; I immediately thought of Ellen from Emerge Global, whom I mentioned in an earlier post, as someone whose organization might need some books. Emerge Global provides housing and education and earning opportunities to young women who have become mothers as a result of sexual abuse and been forced to leave their homes. One of the goals of the program is to educate the young women in English so I thought these American texts might be useful to them. I just sent Ellen an email to let her know the books were available and to let me know if she thought Emerge Global could use some.

After I had lunch with Sharmini, I went to the British Council library and then to meet Lakshman at the coffee shop in Majestic City. Lakshman is a movie buff and we often end up discussing films. He told me about Der Untergang (or Downfall) which is a historical account of the last ten days of Hitler’s life in an underground bunker, in which among other things that go on down there, the wife of Joseph Goebbels kills her six children by first forcing them to take a sleeping drug and then clamping their teeth closed on cyanide capsules before Goebbels kills her and then himself. I assured Lakshman I would absolutely not be seeing this particular movie. I then I told him about Hamlet 2 which is about the funniest damn thing I’ve seen in a long time. Riyaz joined us eventually and then Riyaz and I went to the head shop across the street so he could buy a Zippo lighter for a friend’s birthday present. The shop was tiny and had a little smoking parlor in the back where some very stoned-looking dudes were hanging out. The proprietor appeared to be sporting the worst toupee I’ve ever seen [yes, I realize that’s apropos of nothing]. A guy named Ranjith whom I’d met on a previous trip to Colombo was in the back and seemed pleased to see me, but not so much that he was able to get up out of his chair and come over to say hello. Oddly enough, the proprietor was more than happy to let me snap a few pix.

Back to the Beach

2008-12-15T15:44:00.013+05:30

Friday was another Poya (full moon) holiday, so my cousin Shalini, my aunt, uncle, and I went to The Beach Hotel in Negombo for the night. Negombo is north of Colombo, same direction as the no-dolphins place, but much closer to town – only a 90 minute drive (the other place took over 3 hours to get to). We left late in the morning and got there in time for lunch. After lunch, the relatives all went for a lie-down in their beautiful rooms. I think the quality of a hotel room can be judged by its bathroom; the room Shalini and I were sharing had a giant oval tub with a built-in vinyl pillow and the shower had sandstone tiles and was about the size of a walk-in closet, but I digress. I didn’t feel like napping so I put my swimsuit on and went to read the New Yorker on one of the lounge chairs which were laid out in a small grove of coconut trees. Or I should say I tried to read; the issue I had was from mid-November so there was a lot of interesting post-election analysis, but I also had my iPod with me and the music, the breeze, and the view of the blue, blue Indian Ocean* right in front of me proved to be mighty distractions.

*Short geography lesson-interlude: It has been brought to my attention that the body of water to the west of Sri Lanka is more technically the Arabian Sea, not the Indian Ocean. Upon further research, I learned that the Arabian Sea is a region of the Indian Ocean so you can decide for yourself which is more correct. Due east of Sri Lanka is the Bay of Bengal, also part of the Indian Ocean; only to the south are the open waters of the Indian Ocean itself.

I don't know how long I was out on my lounge chair but when I headed back up to the room, Shalini and my uncle were heading down for a walk on the beach so I dumped my stuff and went back out with them. There is a place for local-access to the beach near the hotel so there were a lot of non-tourists out although it was far from crowded. It was nice to see people from the small town out enjoying the beautiful beach and their own beautiful country. People seemed happy to be out on such a nice evening – children were playing in the sand, kids were playing in the surf (the water was super-warm), a few teenaged couples were sitting on the sand in the shade of fishing boats with their arms around each other, talking quietly and looking vaguely uncomfortable to be seen together, but making the most of the best and cheapest date-venue anyone could hope for.

When we got back to the hotel, Shalini and I went for a swim in the pool or rather, she went for a swim, I did half a lap then floated around on my back and wondered how I’d gotten so lucky. Then dinner, a DVD in our room, bed, breakfast, and back to Colombo the next morning.

Saturday night I went out to dinner with Anthea, a colleague of Nilan’s who is also the Asia Foundation director in Kuala Lumpur, and Melanie, Nilan’s new deputy director in Colombo who has just transferred from the Foundation’s office in Kabul. Anthea is Sri Lankan-Canadian, grew up in Toronto but has lived in various places in Southeast Asia over the last ten years; Melanie is an American from Vermont who lived in Kabul for the last five years, but who has also spent most of her career doing NGO work in Asia. It turns out that she was working for the Asia Foundation in Nepal in 1996 when I happened to be in Kathmandu and was a guest at her boss’s house for dinner. She wasn’t at that dinner-party, but she had been to other dinner parties at that house – an almost “small-world” connection to add to my list, along with 1) running into my half-sister whom I’d only met once before, seven years prior to the incident of running into her randomly in a hostel in London (this happened over ten years ago); 2) meeting people in Anchorage where I was spending a few months in 1989 who knew my brother in Berkeley; 3) my brother working with someone in Bangladesh who was the sister of someone I worked with at that same time at the Intiman Theatre in Seattle… the world is a small place. Anyway, I got to tell Anthea and Melanie my story of being a guest at that terribly fancy dinner party at Melanie’s former boss’s house in Kathmandu (Nilan had told me to call the director of the Asia Foundation’s office in Nepal when I got to Kathmandu, I did and he invited me to dinner). Before that evening was over, the degree of sickness I experienced after excusing myself to one of the guest bathrooms was like no other I’ve had before or since; I told my hosts I was ill and they suggested I crash in one of the guest rooms for about an hour while the other guests arrived; eventually I pulled myself together and tried to go down to dinner but ended up nearly passing out at the dining table. I managed to get myself back to the guest room where I remember literally falling onto the bed and staying there until the party was over. The next morning I was due to get on a helicopter bound for the Himalaya, which I did, but that’s a whole different story (and in case you’re wondering, it was food poisoning not a dreaded parasite, so I was fine in about a week). That story is a real crowd-pleaser. I told it to the other two ladies while we were dining (maybe not the best timing… I cleaned the story up quite a bit for the blog) at an Italian restaurant where we had a terrific wood-fired pizza, some decent house red, pasta, and salad. We then moved to the Colombo Swimming Club (not as posh as it sounds; it’s been under renovations forever and has the aura of a bombed-out hotel) where we were joined by Nilan and Riyaz and Nisreen and a giant pitcher of margaritas. Melanie told us about her life over the past five years in Afghanistan, where she couldn’t walk on the street without a male escort but where she was also present at a forum with the Afghan president and 500 women from the various provinces, many of whom felt free to stand up and interrupt the president with questions and concerns during his presentation on women’s issues. Nilan told a story he’d heard, which Melanie confirmed as being true, about a certain Afghan warlord’s crime against another governing minister… which now that I think of it, is too brutal to recount here. She also described what a missile flying over your house sounds like (long, loud whistling noise before impact).

This week is going to be all about the Galle Literary Festival for me. It’s half coming together, half imploding. I’ve been corresponding with writers all over the world trying to nail down their travel needs and this week I will start booking their flights – I hope; I think Nisreen might still be finalizing the sponsorship deals with the airlines. Some of the most prestigious writers who are coming have been the most friendly and easy to work with, other younger folks new on the scene have come across as a little full of themselves. Eventually I think all the issues will get worked out and it will be a very cool event.

Adamaly Place

2008-12-02T22:25:00.045+05:30

Not much happened last week so last Sunday I went out for a few minutes and snapped a few pictures around the neighborhood. Nilan’s house is on a street called Adamaly Place. It’s a quiet, residential lane with a mosque at the end which unfortunately blocks the view of the Indian Ocean just beyond. This mosque is thankfully a very quiet one. Nilan coincidently lived next to a mosque in Jakarta, and when I visited him there several years ago, they very noisily made the call to prayer 5 times a day. I don’t know how anyone could pray or meditate on the greatness of God after their nerves had been jangled in such a manner; God knows I wasn’t feeling very prayerful after that kind of racket. But this mosque is very respectful of the neighbors. Adamaly Place is a side street off Galle Road which is the main road running along the coast in Colombo. It’s right in the middle of town, walking distance to my aunt’s house, and a block from Majestic City which is the biggest shopping center in Sri Lanka. Majestic City is a four-storey mall with a movie theater and café, a snack shop and a grocery store, several ATMs, all manner of electronic and clothing shops, and several shoe stores. Aside from the benefit of living next to a place with a grocery store and ATMs (you thought I was going to mention the shoe stores, didn't you...), the main benefit of living next to Majestic City is that everyone knows where it is, so I never have to worry about getting home from wherever I happen to be because I can just tell the tuk-tuk driver “near Majestic City” and they know where to take me – Colombo is still a maze as far as I’m concerned.

Here are some pictures of the neighborhood.

This is the ox that is usually parked at the top of the lane. He is used to pull an oil cart which I think contains kerosene - possibly for use in residential stoves. I was a little nervous taking this picture; I didn't use the flash.

The famous Majestic City on Galle Road.

Across the street from Majestic City.

Fruit stand around the corner...

...or, if you'd prefer, the place that sells WHOLE deep-fried chickens.

In case you missed that.

The local Kwik-E-Mart.

The house where I live; we have the right side of this very non-descript building which is essentially a duplex. The only way in is through the garage.

Once you go through the door from the garage into the house, you're actually back outdoors in this internal courtyard.

The other main living space is the living room/dining room. There are also a few bedrooms, a few bathrooms, a den, an office, and of course a kitchen. It sounds larger than it is, but it's very comfortable -- if a little on the shabby side (some major renovations would not be out of line).

The mosque at the end of the lane.

Dolphins 3, Raiders 0

2008-11-23T21:20:00.050+05:30

This is why I came to Sri Lanka. Well, this and to get out of paying any rent. Or cooking any meals. And I wanted to meet some new people. And hang out in cool places. I've talked about living with my brother and all that goes with that, and I've mentioned so many cool people that I've met, and it's not that Colombo isn't cool, it is, in a grimy city kind of way (who doesn't love that?), but I may have just returned from Paradise. Riyaz, Nisreen, their kids, Nisreen’s brother Moru who is visiting from New York City, and I went to Alankuda Beach in the sleepy town of Kalpitya this past weekend. Riyaz, Nis and the kids had been there twice before, the draw being the “thousands of dolphins” that supposedly swim off the shore of this resort north of Colombo. The drill is, you get up at 6am, go out in the boats, and supposedly the sea is lousy with dolphins. None of the people I know who have been there have ever seen one, but the place is fabulous and they figured the third time would be the charm. No luck. It was raining Sunday morning at 7am when we got to the boat-house; a group was just coming back in having searched for about an hour—not a fin to be found. The group coming out of the boat was cold and wet and more than a little annoyed at the lack of mammal sighting, but it’s difficult to stay annoyed for any length of time at Alankuda. I think the pictures make that case pretty well. We decided to bag the dolphin hunt and spent the morning relaxing, snoozing, reading, eating, drinking, swimming, and hanging out in pretty much the same fashion we had the previous day. Here’s what it all looked like:

You walk down this path to get to the cabanas; there are four on the property, plus a little guest house. Turn into one of the openings in the path...

The cabanas sleep four (plus two kids) very comfortably.

Everything is very open-air, including the bathroom.

The best part, as described by one of the kids: "the magic coconut tree shower."

This is the main building where everyone hangs out and it's where meals are served.

We arrived on Saturday just in time for lunch.

Crab curry!

Evening: kids are in bed, everyone else is hard-core relaxing. Notice the iPod docking station on the right.

Did I mention the pool?

There's a pool.

This is one of the boats we would have gone out in to see the dolphins that weren't there.

Rishard and Adam.

Moru, Nisreen, and Riyaz.

For Those About to Rock...

2008-11-16T22:22:00.007+05:30

Photos are a little random this week. 1) The view from the pool at the Mt. Lavinia Hotel where I spent most of last Saturday 2) The nightclub at the Taj, post-battle of the bands 3) The Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf Cafe where I wrote most of today's post

I don’t even know what I did last week. Thinking… thinking… um, Wednesday was a Poya Day which is a national holiday in observance of the full moon. I am not kidding. Sri Lanka is a Buddhist country and since Buddhists use the lunar calendar for religious observances, every full moon day is a public holiday. So since everyone had the day off from work, Riyaz invited me to have lunch at his mother’s house with Nisreen and the kids and another friend who was in town visiting from France. Riyaz’s mother lives in a giant house with a lovely garden and a staff of six. The “staff of six” was mentioned by Riyaz when his mother commented to me, “I live alone, my husband passed away four years ago and all my children have left me” to which Riyaz pointed out that there were six servants in the house so how alone could she be? Nisreen’s response to her mother-in-law’s “all my children have left me” quip was to look at me and roll her eyes. Mrs. Jafferjee is actually really nice and interesting and not as much of a Jewish mother as I imply (she’s Muslim), but I have noticed many similarities between Sri Lankan mothers (irrespective of religion) and the stereotypical Jewish mother. They both seem overly interested in feeding whomever happens to be around, the marital status of those people, and whether or not you’re a doctor. But I digress. Lunch was absolutely delish, rice and chipatis and chicken curry and about five vegetable curries and even more small dishes of sambols and other tasty delights. The other friend who joined us was Alex from Toulouse; he lived in Sri Lanka for a couple years about six years ago but now he’s back in France and here on a one-month holiday. Before we left Mrs. Jafferjee’s house, he borrowed a mountain bike of Riyaz’s (which Riyaz said he'd owned for years and ridden twice) as he planned on biking from Galle to Hambantota then up to Nuwara Eliya (where all the tea plantations are; that’s an uphill ride by the way) before heading back down to the coast and catching a ride back to Colombo. Riyaz thought he was absolutely nuts and that the idea of riding 60 miles a day was crazy, but Alex is French, the French ride, it’s in their blood. On the other hand, I’ve driven along that coastal highway past Galle, the drivers are insane. We were a little worried that Alex didn’t have a cell phone; he left on Thursday and no one’s heard from him since. I’m sure he’s fine. That was Wednesday afternoon. Wednesday night I met the NGO girl-gang at the Commons Café where we were having a book/DVD-swap. That’s when all of them/us get together and throw all the books and DVDs that we’re done with into a big pile and trade. I couldn’t believe it but no one took my copy of “Seduce Me at Sunrise.” DVDs are super-cheap here and they’re all bootlegged. There are shops everywhere that sell just about every DVD you could want for about $2. My friends tell me they wouldn’t even know where to legitimately rent a DVD—that business model simply doesn’t exist here. I went in one of the shops last week and “Quantum of Solace” was already on the shelf ($2); Seasons one and two of “30 Rock”? $7 each. Met a bunch of new girls at the swap: Sophie is from England (I think), Connie is German, and Lisa had just arrived a couple days prior from D.C. Yesterday I visited Sumathi at her house and her new house-mate, Amelia from Stockholm, had just arrived that morning. All of these young women have studied political conflict-resolution or want to work for human rights which is what brings them to Sri Lanka, where this is plenty of the first (at least the “conflict” part) and not enough of the latter.

I have no idea what I did on Thursday. Nilan had been out of town all week in the Maldive Islands attending the inauguration of their new president (I really don’t know how he gets himself invited to these things). He came home Thursday night and left on Friday to meet a friend in Bangkok for the weekend. I wanted to go out on Friday night but couldn’t find anyone else in the same mood. Sumathi and Rachel were both staying in, Riyaz had to attend a friend’s baby-naming ceremony, so I stayed in too and read an incredibly mediocre book until about 1:30am which is when I usually go to sleep.

Saturday, after I got back from Sumathi’s house, I went out with Riyaz and Minoli to the Colombo Swimming Club for drinks and snacks, then we met Lakshman at the Taj Hotel where there was a “battle of the bands” competition going on in one of the nightclubs. Sadly, the competition was over by the time we got there which is a bummer because Lakshman said that a couple of the bands were really good (all the musicians were teenagers). We hung out for a few minutes anyway and then the four of us went to Sugar which is a nightclub, but as it was only about 12:30, it was fairly empty. We chatted with a few people who Riyaz knew in the club, including a girl from the Maldives who is a liquor distributor, and a guy who works in local radio; Riyaz had told him that I had worked in radio in Seattle, which prompted him to say, “I don’t want to brag, but I’m the best radio producer in Sri Lanka.” I asked him what kind of music was played at the stations he worked for and he said “all retro – 60s through the 90s.” I winced and then said incredulously, “you must be kidding me... can you tell me why no one in this country seems to have any interest in listening to new music?” He seemed completely thrown by the idea of “new music” and said with genuine excitement, “people love the Eagles and Led Zepplin, but all they know is Hotel California and Lyin’ Eyes, we give them all the other great songs that those bands did!” to which I responded, “who cares, it’s still the fucking Eagles – they were big THIRTY YEARS AGO!” Unfazed, he told me he’d be in touch.

Later that night at the coffee bar in the Cinnamon Grand Hotel where Lakshman, Riyaz, and I finally went to get some peace and chill out, I asked Lakshman (he’s the composer I mentioned in a previous post) about the bands who had competed at the Taj earlier. He reiterated that a few of them were really good, and we started talking about music and angst and saying what you have to say through art. I mentioned Kurt Cobain and Elliot Smith and how they turned deep depression and tortured souls into something artistically revolutionary (Kurt) and beautiful (Elliot) [at least until they killed themselves], and he said that these Sri Lankan kids aren’t depressed and they aren’t tortured, but they have lived their entire lives surrounded by war and corruption, they have something to say and they’re saying it by writing music and ROCKING OUT, which we agreed is always a good way to express yourself; so to those kids, we salute you.

Post-Election Day

2008-11-09T18:08:00.007+05:30

The excitement has died down a bit. Being in touch with friends at home has been great – I can hear the excitement in the letters and voices, and the emails that have come in from a few unexpected places have been great. A colleague from my office in Seattle wrote to tell me:

“I think one thing this election did was to bring America back to ALL the people—the young, the old, the poor, the rich, people of color, and even those life-long Republicans who realized a change was needed… We called our son at Colorado State University last night and he was so excited, so happy, so thrilled to be part of this history with his first-time voting experience.”

He and I had had a conversation one day at work during which I voiced my doubt in the American public’s willingness to elect an African-American, but he had faith that the obviously better choice would prevail. I don’t think he ever believed that McCain could win; I wasn’t so sure. There was an article in the New Yorker about a month ago about Obama’s chances among white working-class voters in Ohio. These are people who work two and three jobs to make ends meet, people who have no health care, and who “voted overwhelmingly for George W. Bush twice, by seventeen percent in 2000 and twenty-three percent in 2004.” The article quoted a registered voter in Ohio: “I’m not going to vote for a Republican—they’ve had their chance for the last eight years and they’ve screwed it up,” she said. “But I really just don’t trust Obama. He only says half-truths. He calls himself a Christian, but he only became one to run for office. He calls himself a black, but he’s two-thirds Arab.”

I listened to a This American Life episode that followed Obama staffers in Pennsylvania who faced the same kind of ignorance and prejudice, and another segment of that episode followed former Hillary supporters and life-long democrats who were campaigning hard for McCain. The segment about the Obama campaign in Pennsylvania focused on union workers who were trying to convince fellow union-members that Obama was the right choice for them. And when they were confronted with “I’m not going to vote for him because he’s black” which they heard repeatedly, they were trained to change the subject to the issues, although one [white] phone-bank volunteer did cheerfully first try, “well, his mother was white…”

So that’s why I wasn’t so sure. And then when he won, with the help of both Pennsylvania and Ohio, I couldn’t believe it, and I have never been so happy to be wrong. But I made the comment in my last post that maybe it was time to stop talking about the fact that our new president is a black man because “at some point, that’s got to stop mattering.” I think that was naïve of me. The more I read and talk to people post-election, the more I understand how monumental this is, and the more I realize that the U.S. electing a black man as president is huge, and worth talking about for as long as people feel like talking about it. The day after the election, Velu asked me if I was happy with the results. I told him I was very happy. He said, “I think it good for a black man to run your country. I think the world think it good for a black man to run your country.”

And then I read letter to the editor in the New Yorker. This was pre-November 4th, but after the magazine had officially endorsed Obama:

“In endorsing Obama, the editors suggest that his election ‘could not help but say something encouraging, even exhilarating, about the country, about its dedication to tolerance and inclusiveness.’ As a seventy-four-year-old African-American who was involved in the civil-rights protests in the nineteen-sixties, I, too, have drawn a connection between Obama and the journey that the United States has made in its attitudes and actions with regard to race. I remember watching as black people went to the town hall to register to vote carrying American flags; the local police jerked the flags from their hands and turned them away. My parents told us of how German soldiers detained in Arkansans were served in white-only restaurants while black soldiers in uniform were forced to go to the backs of those restaurants to get food from the take-out windows. Many civil-rights workers, black and white, died attempting to push the U.S. to live ‘the values it proclaims in the textbooks.’ The election of Barack Obama will not mean that struggles about race will be no more, nor will it erase the painful memories of my generation. But it will be a clear sign that my four-year-old granddaughter will grow up in a nation quite different from the nation that existed when I was her age. And, because of that, every American has a reason to rejoice."

Gilbert H. Caldwell
Ashbury Park, N.J.

On November 4th, 2008, Mr. Caldwell, a seventy-four-year-old African-American, and the twenty-year-old white son of my colleague at work, cast the same vote. And from what I can tell, the nation did indeed rejoice.

Election Day

2008-11-05T20:31:00.006+05:30

Last night for me was yesterday morning in the U.S - November 4, 2008. I emailed a friend at 6:30pm which was 5am in Washington and told him I was nervous… I feel badly about that now – lack of faith. We exchanged a few emails that morning/night and he seemed to think Obama had it in the bag. The returns wouldn’t start coming in until the next morning for me so I went to bed and was wide awake today at 6am; computer was on, numbers were reported for Kentucky and Vermont – I checked in with my friend in Washington and he was seeing the same results at the same time, and commented that it truly is a small world. At about 7am, there was a power failure at the house and I was without internet for about 20 minutes; by the time I was back on-line, Obama had a substantial lead and I emailed my friend: “LOOK AT THE SCORE!” (I seemed to have mistaken the election for the Superbowl, but whatever). By 9:30am I was in the grand ballroom of the Colombo Hilton at an election-watch party given by the U.S. embassy, I’d say it was one-third ex-pat Americans, the rest Sri Lankans – several hundred people. When at about 10am here CNN finally called it, a huge cheer went up in the room and I couldn’t quite believe it. In fact I didn’t believe it because CNN was “projecting,” and only a small percentage of the precincts had reported numbers; it seemed premature to me. Until John McCain came on and gave his concession speech. Then I looked over at Rachel who was next to me and just said “oh my god!” And then I said it again. That’s when I finally believed it.

I’ll admit that I never though Obama had a lock on this, and I certainly never dreamed it would be a fucking LANDSLIDE!! But 349 to 162 [so far]? and 7 million more popular votes? Clearly I didn’t give the voting public enough credit. My brother made the comment at lunch today, “he couldn’t have done it without the white-redneck vote, so good for them!” And I have to agree. He wasn’t elected wholly by “his” people. People, perhaps millions of people, disregarded their baser instincts and decided to take a shot; they looked past… whatever they had to look past, and voted for change. They bought the message, they bought the hope, they bought they hype, they bought the promise, and for a lot of those people, they finally, and perhaps reluctantly, bought the idea that it didn’t matter that he didn’t look like them. And now I hope we can all stop talking about the fact that he is a black man and get to the business at hand – because at some point that’s got to stop mattering. At some point I hope we stop reinforcing the enormity of that one point, because if America is what he said it was in was in his acceptance speech, it never should have mattered in the first place.

"It's the answer spoken by young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Latino, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled - Americans who sent a message to the world that we have never been a collection of Red States and Blue States: we are, and always will be, the United States of America."

In the history of presidential elections in “the United States of America,” has any winning candidate ever mentioned gay people in a victory speech? That was a beautiful thing and it was a great speech.

I still have a few more months left on my trip here, but I was shopping around for flights back to Seattle in February today, and I have to say, I was excited by the prospect of returning. I think it was a great day for America and I’m looking forward to getting back home.

P.S. We had a little informal balloting process at the Hilton this morning. The final count, delivered by the ambassador, was Obama: 281 - McCain: 32.

Rachel Weeks

2008-11-03T17:34:00.007+05:30

And now on the "...people to meet" front, I'd like to talk about my friend Rachel Weeks. My brother introduced me to Rachel last December and I ran into her again randomly last Thursday at an Oktoberfest party at the Hilton (that's right, Oktoberfest in Sri Lanka, complete with beer garden and German polka band). When I met Rachel last year, she was in Colombo on a Fulbright Scholarship having graduated from Duke with a degree in Women's Studies. Rachel is the most fashionable feminist I've ever met, and therein lies her story.

Over lunch last December, Rachel told us that she had decided to start a business in Sri Lanka. Her Fulbright project had to do with "ethical fashion" and she wanted to turn her research into a living-wage business. As anyone who has ever looked at the tag in their t-shirt from the gap knows, Sri Lanka is a huge manufacturing center for in the garment industry. Reebok, Nike, the gap, Old Navy, and Victoria's Secret are just some of the major chains whose products are made here, and while the big names [probably] don't employ child-labor and [maybe] don't have huge marks against them on the human-rights violation charts, they are known for paying their factory workers [often less than] a subsistence wage. Rachel decided that she, a recent college grad with no experience in the garment industry, could do better than that for the largely female garment-manufacturing work-force. Why? Lack of greed. The profit margin on $100-sneakers is huge, and while the price of shoes continues to go up, wages for factory workers goes down. Manufacturing works as a market-driven economy; the big-wigs at Nike know that if Sri Lankan factories demand higher wages for their workers, they can simply close a plant and open another one in Bangladesh, a country so poor that workers will work in exchange for food, or India where children will act as indentured servants to work off debts incurred by their parents.

Rachel's idea was to start a garment business that supplied officially licensed clothing to colleges and universities in the States; her clothing line would in turn support a factory opened by her manufacturing partner which would pay women a living-wage to make the clothes. And the clothes would be cute. Having ethical standards, supporting women, and being anti-sweatshop is all well and good, but Rachel Weeks is a feminist fashionista… the clothes had to be super-cute.

She went home to North Carolina shortly after I met her last year, secured a small loan, hired a designer (who had worked for Calvin Klein and Betsy Johnson, among others), developed a collection, had a photo-shoot on the Duke campus using students as models to create buzz, produced a catalog, and got an order for 10,000 pieces from the Duke University Store. And now she's back in Sri Lanka working with her partner to fill an empty warehouse by the airport with sewing machines, fabric, and whatever else it's going to take to make those yoga pants, fitted girly-t-shirts, sweatshirts that don't make girls look like boys, hoodies, and tote bags, and everything else that's in her collection, all of which will be emblazoned with Duke University logos. As soon as the first needle hits cloth, she'll go back to the States to work on getting orders from more schools. She's already got an order pending from UNC Chapel Hill, so keep your fingers crossed that she gets a signed purchase order from them soon.

It's simple really, the factory she'll support is going to pay its workers a little bit more than the average garment factory-wage, but that’s going to make a huge difference. It's going to be the difference between barely surviving and actually being able to save. It's going to be the difference between barely surviving and actually being able to spend – on more than just the basics. These women are going to be contributing to the local economies of their villages where they could not before, so not only are their own incomes going to increase, but that in turn will affect the livelihoods of their neighbors. And the only difference between what Rachel is doing and what Reebok does, is that her profit margin will be narrower. Oh, she'll still make money, when the clothes sell and the orders and re-orders come in, she'll make money; maybe she won't make over a million dollars a year which is what the CEO of Reebok makes, but she'll do just fine, and 30 women will have a little more food for their families.

I spent most of the day with Rachel yesterday, and I had a great time. It turns out that being inspired by the cool endeavors being undertaken by new friends is even better than having meals prepared and served by the household help, going to the spa, and never having to make your own bed.

But wait, there's more... As Rachel and I were running around together yesterday, we ran into an acquaintance of hers, Ellen Sojka. Ellen came to Sri Lanka from Boston by way of M.I.T. to work [unpaid] for a non-profit called Emerge Global http://www.emergeglobal.org/. Emerge is an organization that supports Sri Lankan girls (mostly teens and pre-teens) who have become pregnant due to rape. It provides not only a safe haven in terms of housing, but also educational and economic opportunities for the girls through a jewelry-making business. The beaded jewelry is sold in the U.S. through etsy.com http://www.etsy.com/shop.php?user_id=5570822&order=&section_id=&page=1 user_id=5570822&order=&section_id=&page=1 and I have to say, the photos don't do it justice - the necklace Ellen had on when I met her was even more fabulous than it looks on the website (or in my photo).

With election day almost upon us, I’m hoping that the U.S. is about to experience some pretty damn big, sweeping, monumental changes; I’m looking for huge changes from people with vast amounts of power. Neither Rachel nor Ellen have any political power but they are affecting huge change. It may not seem like Rachel paying someone $30 more a month than she was getting before is huge, but when it’s the difference between eating to survive and eating to be full, that’s huge – if you’re the one who’s hungry.

The Week In Review

2008-10-26T22:04:00.011+05:30

This is the main street half a block up from my brother's house. His house is down a very quiet side-street, but this is what waits at the top of the lane.

Busy week in Colombo. In addition to going to the gym every day and reading my books from the British Library, I went out a bunch, and did a little work on my two projects. The first work-task was to come up with a possible flight itinerary for the author Germaine Greer to get to Sri Lanka for the lit fest at the end of January. I’ve heard of Germaine Greer and I know her to be a feminist icon but I’ve never read any of her work. She’s the big name for the lit fest this year. Her travel arrangements are complicated and involve several cities over a couple of months, but I finally found something that I hoped would work for her and emailed it to my contact at the lit fest office to run by her assistant. None of the authors will get a fee for showing up to the lit fest, but their airfare and accommodations while in Sri Lanka will be taken care of. Emirates, which is the airline I came out on, is one of the festival sponsors and is donating two business class tickets, and luckily, all legs of Germaine’s travel can be done on that airline. Sri Lankan Airlines is the other major sponsor and I pity whoever comes in on that one. Remember last December when they lost my luggage for FIVE DAYS? Well apparently, the same thing happened to Gore Vidal when he came for the lit fest last year, and he had a MELT DOWN at the airport when his bags weren’t there. For the record, I remained amazingly calm when it happened to me. The other work-task I did was to research some major film studios in Dubai, Toronto, and Hyderabad, India. The one in India is craaaaazy. It’s the world’s largest film studio (2,000 acres), has over 500 set locations, can accommodate 60 movies being in production at the same time, and is a huge tourist destination (over a million visitors a year). It’s slogan is, “Walk in with a script, walk out with a film in the can!” It’s also a popular venue for weddings and corporate events – for weddings, they’ll replant the flower gardens to match the color of the bride’s sari. The reason I was reading up on it is that the Sri Lankan government is planning to build a big film studio outside Colombo and my cousin Sam who is Sri Lankan but a film-maker from Australia, is acting as a consultant on the project and has asked me to help him with some research.

Wednesday night is quiz night at the Inn on the Green pub and I went along with Riyaz and the rest of the gang. It was a close match, but we won (again). There are about eight teams that show up most weeks, but only our team and one other is any good. This week the scores were pretty close between us and them during the whole game, and we were tied at the end of the last round. The quiz-master asked a tie-breaking question which we both got wrong, then asked another which we both got right. Finally he said, “whoever comes closest to guessing my weight wins.” We won. The prize is cash which usually covers the team’s bar bill, so it’s a pretty fun night.

On Thursday I went out to dinner with some girls I know here. Anita is a Sri Lankan-Canadian from Toronto, Sumathi is a Sri Lankan-Brit, and Bidisha is an Indian chick from Calcutta. They all work for local NGOs. We met at a South Indian vegetarian restaurant not far from my house and had a fantastic dinner – for $18. No booze, but still, pretty damn cheap. After dinner we decided to go to the bar at the Taj Hotel to have a drink. The Taj is a huge, 5-star-hotel; standard rooms are only $110 a night, so if anyone wants to come and visit me… The hotel looked pretty empty and the bar which was super-nice, was completely empty. As in, we were the only four people in there. There was a dj and a small dance floor, nice seating areas, a pool table, and three bartenders/waiters who looked very bored, but they were pleased to finally have something to do when we came in. We pointed around the empty room and asked them what the deal was, and they said that on Fridays and Saturdays it was a little busier, but mid-week, no one much came in. I asked if the hotel was mostly empty and they said that not a lot of people were coming to Sri Lanka these days, which I knew. Note: civil war is not good for the tourist industry. I don’t think anyone was blown up this week but in the first week I was here, a bomb blast at a government office a couple hundred miles north of here killed 27 people, and the following week, an assassination attempt against the Minister of Agriculture (it’s believed) by a suicide bomber killed 1 person (not the Minister). The newspaper reported where the bomber’s various body-parts landed after the explosion. Anyway, we had a good time at the Taj before catching a couple of tuk-tuks to get home; the four of us had jammed into one to get from the restaurant to the hotel – this is not the best way to travel, especially if you get stopped at a police check-point, which we did (not because we were ridiculously crammed into a three-wheeler, just a random stop to show bored-looking soldiers who carry machine guns our IDs).

The highlight of the week was definitely last night when Riyaz, Nisreen, and another friend named Minoli went to see a Sri Lankan movie called “Machan” which essentially means “dude” in Sinhala. The movie was so good! It’s based on a true story which was in the news in 2004. A group of young men (and some not so young) who had been denied visas but who wanted to get out of the country, mostly so they could work and send money home, posed as the Sri Lankan National Handball Team and got invited to a handball tournament in Germany. Once there, the just disappeared; none of them were ever caught (and by the way, no one in Sri Lanka plays handball, none of the guys on the “team” had ever heard of it before). The movie is funny and sweet and sad; it takes place in the slums and working-class sectors of Colombo, a part of town I don’t see. Nisreen who grew up in Bombay, commented that there, there is no division between luxury and extreme poverty. She said you can walk out of the most exclusive nightclub in Bombay and there might be a whole shanty village right next to it. In Colombo, while there are crippled beggars on the street in front of the shopping mall that’s right around the corner from the house where I live, the large, sprawling, impoverished neighborhoods aren’t so close to the middle- and upper-classes. The movie was well-acted and captivating. Another cool factor about this movie is that a friend of ours who is a composer and who occasionally joins us for quiz night, wrote the score. The film has already been accepted into the Venice International Film Festival, it would be so cool if it was submitted for and accepted into SIFF.

And that was my week.

A Quiet Saturday

2008-10-18T16:04:00.006+05:30

Started the day the same as always, with Velu the cook/housekeeper bringing my breakfast to me on a tray. I sat in the dining room this morning as opposed to in the open courtyard-area of the house which has comfy chairs and a coffee table. I suspect that Velu doesn’t wholly approve of me eating out there instead of at the table; he has worked as a cook for the Italian and British Embassies in Sri Lanka and is probably used to a more formal atmosphere; he addresses me as “madam” which is the custom here, and now that I think of it, he probably doesn’t know my first name. This morning I had oatmeal with banana, honey, and chopped walnuts. When I first got here, I made my own breakfast but I got the impression that I was in Velu’s way in the kitchen, so now I sit and read while he makes whatever I want and brings it to me.

Important note: yesterday I became a member of the British Council Library – a lifesaver! It’s walking distance from the house and while the selection of fiction is miniscule compared to any real, City library, I’m in no position to be picky since the last book I read was called “Seduce Me at Sunrise” and involved the seduction of (and not just at sunrise) an English maiden by a gypsy-blooded ruffian. It turns out (in case you’re wondering) that their passion for one another could not be ignored despite major obstacles such as her frail health and his violent past (plus there was the aforementioned issue of his gypsy heritage). Lot of “throbbing” went on in that book, as well as some “savage hunger” quite a bit of “heaving” and “…desire flaring high and wild, leaving no room for sanity.” I pretty much couldn’t put it down, but I owe that mostly to the fact that it was in English (and only partly to the “heaving”). But now thanks to my new library card, I have a couple of less torrid novels at hand.

After breakfast I went to the gym, but before I left, I told Velu that since I could make do with leftovers already in the fridge (my brother is away for the weekend), there was no need for him to do any cooking today, so if he wanted to leave early that was fine with me; I thought this rather magnanimous of me. Then I gave him two shirts to iron. I had a massage booked for 12:30 but was going to the gym, which is conveniently located right near the spa, first. The three-wheeler-guy who usually takes me to the gym wasn’t at the top of the lane this morning so I flagged one down which was passing by, this took less than two seconds. Three-wheelers or “tuk-tuks” are sort of a cross between a golf cart and a motorcycle, with aspects of a lawnmower thrown in. They are loud, emit stinky exhaust, and weave crazily in and out of traffic; they are my main mode of transportation around town. After working out and showering, I walked to the spa and was immediately handed a cool drink and a very cold, wet washcloth to sponge off with. It’s really hot here. Not as bad as it’s going to be in the spring, but still, even the short walk from the gym to the spa left me feeling a little grimy. The spa was lovely and tranquil, the massage was fantastic and cheap ($38 for 90-minutes; tips aren’t expected), and when I got home, my two shirts were pressed, folded, and sitting in my wardrobe.

Good Buddhists Don't Have ADD

2008-10-12T13:55:00.006+05:30

I’ve been in Colombo for a few days now. Mostly lying low at my brother’s house, emailing my friends, and wondering what I’m going to do with myself for the next few months. I have a few leads though: my friend Nisreen has asked me to be on the volunteer staff of the Galle Literary Festival (Galle is a city SE of Colombo) and wants to assign me the task of booking transportation for 26 authors who will be coming to the festival in January. They’ll be coming to Sri Lanka from all over the world and frankly the job sounds like a nightmare, but I want to keep busy and I’d like to be involved with the festival so when she asked, I said “sure.” Also, my aunt who is on the board of the Center for Women’s Research has asked me to edit and help finalize some reports on domestic violence for the organization. Not the cheeriest of subjects but I’m happy to put my skills to use for the cause. And my friend Riyaz (Nisreen’s husband and my brother Nilan’s best friend) is trying to put together a sort of film society with the help of Sam, someone I met last December who is a distant cousin of mine and a documentary film-maker, and thinks I should become involved in that project. They’re hoping to have a film festival in the same vein as the literary festival and have already screened a few grim-sounding documentaries with moderated discussions afterwards. And since I happened to have brought my DVD of “The 40-Year-Old Virgin” with me to Sri Lanka, I’m sure I can contribute heavily to that endeavor.

Last night I went to the neighborhood Buddhist temple with my aunt to hear the weekly lecture. The program started with a few minutes of guided meditation. I find that during meditation of any kind, the best thing to do, contrary to popular belief, is to really let your mind wander; I mean, a person can focus on their breathing for only so long – it’s breathe in, breathe out/inhale, exhale – there’s really no place to go from there. So I spent the few minutes having spiritual ruminations like, “I wonder what monks wear under those robes… I can’t believe I wore sandals when my toenails aren’t polished… Am I going to get West Nile virus from all these mosquito bites?... Will Nilan’s cook make that awesome crab curry again soon?... If a monkey bites you, what kind of medicine would you get?...” It’s possible that I wasn’t really meditating the way the Buddha intended. Once the guided meditation was over, the lecture began. It was on Mindfulness. Buddhists seem quite obsessed with the concept of Mindfulness. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for paying attention to life, and I actually believe that when you are mindful of the body, as the dude giving the lecture said, and concentrate of every little thing – walking, eating, listening, breathing – something does happen on a physical and psychological level that probably does bring one closer to enlightenment, but the guy lost me when he talked about being mindful “…in everything… even going to the bathroom…” I… um… yeah. There are certain things that I really believe you should just do (so to speak) without giving them too much thought. But I’m glad I went to the temple. I think most Americans have a very romanticized view of Buddhism and don't really think it's a religion just like all the others, complete with doctrine and rituals that believers are expected to follow. I talked to my aunt about that on the way to her house afterwards. It turns out that one of the previous lectures at the temple this year had been on that very topic. She said that a lot of people, not only Americans, embrace Buddhism for the practical help it lends to their lives in the form of mediation and other stress management tools, but agreed that that’s not the ultimate point of the religion.

My aunt’s cook had made chicken curry and snowflake-shaped, savory pancakes for dinner. I can honestly say it was a meal that would bring anyone closer to nirvana.

Next Stop: Dubai or, The Kindness of Strangers

2008-10-08T13:53:00.012+05:30

I landed in Dubai at about 8am, twelve hours after leaving New York. I had a 10 hour layover and I wanted to see a bit of the city before making my connecting flight to Colombo. So off I went, out the doors and into the heat. The taxi line was absurdly long and since I had inquired about the bus routes before I exited the airport, I went to the bus stop, got on a bus, and started inching through traffic. Going a couple of miles on that bus made the 520 commute seem like doing laps at Indy and there was no gorgeous lake, trees, or mountains to take the edge off – just a lot of concrete. I finally got off the bus with the intention of taking a taxi the rest of the way to the Burj Al Arab Hotel (“The World’s Most Luxurious Hotel” according to the brochure; rooms start at $3,000 per night). My plan was to eat lunch at one of the 8 restaurants in the hotel, look around the lobby, get a glimpse at who the hell pays $3,000 a night for a hotel room, then catch a cab back to the airport. It didn’t quite work out that way. After getting off the bus and walking for a while in the heat through a landscape covered with concrete and more concrete, I was starting to wilt. I walked a few blocks to a hotel thinking that would be a good place to hail a cab… I waited and waited, hand out, sweat running down the back of my legs, and my shirt sticking to me. There were simply very few cabs about, and the few that passed were either taken or seemed to be in an awful hurry to get the hell away from me. There was a guy standing half a block up from me also trying to get a cab and I realized that if any did plan on stopping, they’d get to him before me, so who knew how long I’d be out there. I was wondering exactly how long I was going to stand out there and concluding that I truly had no other options, when another person came by who was also trying to get a cab. She was rather stunning, African, and friendly, and she came over to commiserate about how awful the taxi situation in Dubai is. I told her I’d been standing out there for over half an hour and I wasn’t quite sure what I was going to do. She asked where I was going and I told her; she said she was trying to get the World Trade Center where her car was parked and which was on the way to the Burj Al Arab. Without really discussing it, we both understood that we’d share a cab if either of us could get one, and then finally, FINALLY one stopped for us. We both got in and she directed the driver to where her car was in her flawless English, which was smoothed over by a French accent, and topped off with a slight African lilt, giving her that sense that Africans who speak perfect English have, which make them seem as though they have a much deeper understanding of the words than anyone else. She told me she had only been in Dubai for 6 months, that she had moved there with her husband and two kids from London to take a job with Barclays Bank, and that she was originally from Senegal. She also mentioned that the Al Arab was in the direction of her house, and that she’d be happy to drop me off at the hotel when we got to her car as opposed to me continuing on in the taxi. Dubai is hot and oppressive; the landscape is harsh and jagged and monochrome; I felt a little like I was in Wall-E, and there was no way I was going to quickly give up the company of my nice new friend, so I thanked her and accepted. When we got to her car, she absolutely would not let me pay the cab fare; I kept insisting but she just wouldn’t let me do it. “Save your money for the taxi ride back to the airport” she said. She also mentioned that she wasn’t sure I could even go into the Al Arab since I wasn’t a registered guest, and mentioned a complex near it that would maybe be a better option for killing time. I thought the hotel website said that non-guests could dine there even if they didn’t have a room booked, she said it was worth a try, so we got in her car and started heading toward the hotel through a whole different part of the city which was also concrete on concrete, giant buildings, and the same depressing, unnatural, lifeless landscape which was all of Dubai, as far as I could tell. She gave me a little tour along the way pointing out various buildings and talking about how the city is laid out. It was a good 15-20 minutes of being chauffeured in her brand new SUV before the Al Arab came into sight, and I have to say, it really is ridiculous. I’m sure it’s spectacular in some sense... but, I mean, really? It just seemed like one more indication of excess beyond my wildest imagination. Of course that wasn't going to stop me from trying to get in, I mean, a girl's still gotta eat. We drove up to the gate and the nice security guard asked if we had a reservation. I said “No, but I was hoping to eat at one of the restaurants.” He told me that only people with reservations could go through the gate, but he handed us a brochure and said that I could call right now and make a reservation at one of the restaurants and then I could go in. It just seemed like too much at that point, and my new friend suggested that she take me to the complex just down the road which had a huge shopping arcade, lots of restaurants, and a nice view of the water. I said that sounded great. I asked if she had to get right home because I would have loved to buy her lunch, she said she wished she could join me but her kids would be home from school soon and she had to get going. When she dropped me off at the round-about in front of the building complex, I noticed that there was a taxi rank in front and said “Oh fantastic, I won’t have to worry about getting a cab back to the airport!” and she said “Yes, that was one of the reasons I thought this would be a good place for you.” I thanked her profusely, shook her hand, and headed in for a nice lunch and a quick perusal of the shops. I didn’t buy anything; at that point, I was pretty sure I already had everything I needed from Dubai.

First stop: NYC

2008-10-06T04:10:00.008+05:30

Just before I left Seattle, a friend told me he thought I was a “liberal, elitist snob.” In a text message. He meant it in the nicest possible way, but of course I was totally offended and pointed out that I couldn’t possibly be considered an elitist or a snob since I was friends with him. In a later conversation, I mentioned to that same friend that I was going to the New Yorker Festival, an annual literary and arts festival held in Manhattan every October…
“elitist” I heard him mutter under his breath. I chose to ignore him.

The festival was fun. The first talk I went to was a discussion entitled “Extreme Sports” with Greg Child, an Australian mountaineer; Andrew McLean, a ski mountaineer; and Lynne Cox, who swims long distances in arctic waters. (For an amazing article written by Lynne about swimming the Northwest Passage, check out http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2008/04/21/080421fa_fact_cox). The three talked about what inspires them, showed video footage from various expeditions, and took questions from the audience – most of which were directed toward Lynne; even the two mountaineers agreed that what she does terrifies them. I spoke to Greg Child briefly after the talk. I told him that I felt my own claim to fame is that if you google my name, you are directed to an article he wrote in 1997 for Outside magazine in which he quotes me; he seemed moderately amused at this news. The second talk I went to was “The Ethnic Theory of Plane Crashes” given by Malcolm Gladwell. I can’t remember a more interesting or entertaining ninety minutes. He talked about aviation, linguistics, interpersonal communication, how mitigating language can kill people, why it’s obvious that a Jamaican woman would make a better commercial airline pilot than a Colombian man, and why Atticus Finch, one of the most beloved characters in American literature is really a ruthless, racist jackass. I don’t know if he gives the same discussion in his new book (Outliers: the Story of Success, due out next month) but it would be worth checking out just in case he does – although I don’t think he covers the Atticus-Finch-as-jackass-topic in the book since he mentioned that he had just come up with the theory a few days prior. The third talk I went to was an interview of Matt Groening by cartoonist Lynda Barry. Matt seems pretty cool (a bit “Hollywood” but of course he can be forgiven); Lynda is a truly horrible person and is probably also a ruthless, racist, jackass... I actually thought she was really cool after the interview yesterday and had written something nice about her, but I saw her again today and she TOTALLY dissed me, and taking revenge in this blog, which might be read by literally tens of people, is my only recourse.

Okay, so that’s my first post. I have to go now – they’re waiting for me down at the dog track.

That's the best I could do for somethng non-elitist I might be on my way to. I'm not really going to a dog track... but I could be. Oh never mind.