Aracataca to San Roque (Colombia)

Stats: 104.73 miles, 15.5 avg, 6:45 hours

Since I had stayed an extra day in Aracataca, I wanted to get as far as I could to get back on schedule to make it to Bogota on time to meet Jessica when she arrived. I left Tim at 7:30 am, stopped at a panaderia to get some bread for breakfast, and then got on the road.

Northern Colombia is mostly flat but the heat was intense. It was at least in the high 90s and I was feeling like I was going to explode under my helmet. When my body temperature became unbearable, I would hurry to a spot in the shade, and throw off my helmet and sunglasses with urgency.

After going over 100 miles, I was happy to stop in San Roque. It was a tiny town close to the intersection of two roads. I got hotel for 7000 pesos ($3.50) which included a private bathroom and a fan.

I walked around the town looking for some jugos naturales – I lived for these things. Every chance I got, I stopped for one. But San Roque was barren. People stared at me as I walked by. I’m sure they were wondering how this lone gringo got here, and why he was staying. I asked around about the jugos, and I was directed to an empty table outside someone’s house. An older guy came out and I asked if he served jugos naturales. He said he did. I told him I wanted a mora, which is like a blackberry juice. He scurried off to a nearby store to get the supplies, and I waited. This was typical of Latin American small business – really casual. Not keeping supplies in stock, and not having any change when you paid with a pretty small bill, like $10.

Webcam shot in my residencia in San Roque

Aracataca (Colombia)

Tim brought me into his tiny apartment. Front room > Hallway > Bedroom. The two rooms were tiny cubes with a tiny bathroom in between off the hallway.

There were a few odd things about the bathroom. The first was that there wasn’t any door on it. So Tim might walk by the bathroom as I was taking a poo. Another weird thing was that the water was on for only a few hours each day, so Tim had a garbage can underneath where the water trickled out – out of a faucet that was high up on the wall, like a shower head. But it was nothing like a shower head. Even when the water was on, I tried to turn the handle to get more flow, but it only trickled.

Tim said I could sleep in the front room on the concrete floor. I pulled out my sleeping pad and sheet – it was so hot, I didn’t need a sleeping bag.

I showered in his humble, door-less bathroom. I stood there, exposed, dipping a basin into the water bucket and pouring it over me.

There was no furniture in the front room except a white patio chair. I offered Tim the mangoes I picked up off the road earlier that day. We sat outside – Tim on the patio chair, me on a concrete block – eating mangoes and entertaining a couple of the local crazy people who came up and wanted to talk. One guy kept shouting a word, like “Tica! Tica!” which didn’t mean anything, and seemed to want Tim’s t-shirt.

We walked into the center of town, a couple of blocks away, and got some jugos naturales. The ones I got in Aracataca were probably the best I had in the entire trip, and they were $0.60. It was incredible. Tim and I sat there drinking the nectar of some weird fruits for a while. I treated him to seconds.

Tim had a plan for eating within a tiny budget – his money comes from tutoring English to a few students (definitely not in demand in Aracataca), and selling his poetry on the street. He brought me to a meat stand where they grilled weird cuts of meat. I ate some nasty shit. Some tough, weird-textured thing, like the lining of a stomach or something.

Tim told me I could stay as long as I liked. I got a sense that Tim was lonely in Aracataca. It was a really poor place, and most of the people were uneducated. He told me that there are places to rent there that cost only $25 per month. Although Tim was a little isolated, he planned to stay there until it became a huge tourist attraction. He believes that Aracataca, the birthplace of Gabriel Garcia Marquez is the true Macondo, the fairytale place that Marquez wrote about in his books. Tim believes that heaps of tourists will visit and he’ll be able to give them tours, and start a hostel. I figure he’ll be waiting a long time.

Tim came out to Colombia from the Netherlands to start a trip through all of South America, but he spent a year in Santa Marta, and six months already in Aracataca. He’s really taking it slow, but figures he’ll get around to seeing other countries eventually. He hasn’t been home or seen his family for about two years. And he told me an interesting fact about the Netherlands. It’s not correct to call it “Holland” because Holland is a province within the Netherlands. A lot of the Dutch immigrants that came to the US seeking religious freedom were from the Holland province, so that’s how the misnomer evolved.

The following day, Sunday, he and his friend had plans to float down the river, not on a boat, or an inner tube – just float with your body. I joined them. We walked a few miles up the river, working up a sweat, and then we got in. It felt awesome. The river was really shallow though and we had to prop ourselves up over the rocks most of the time. It took us about two hours to float back to town. At that point, I was exhausted, and ready to get the hell out. As we approached our exit, there were crowds of families making soup on the banks of the river. Apparently it’s a Sunday custom.

When we got back to Tim’s place, we realized that we’d left his white patio chair outside when we left for the river. It was gone. His only chair. His only piece of furniture. He was pretty disappointed since he didn’t have the money to buy a new one. So now his only option for sitting was on the concrete block outside his place.

Tayrona to Aracataca (Colombia)

Stats: 78.83 miles, 13.6 avg mph, 37.2 max, 5:45 hours

As I was hiking out of Tayrona National Park, I was anxious to see if my bike was still at the guard’s station. I didn’t like leaving it there, but I had no other choice – I just had to trust it. When I arrived to the station, my bike was there, but not the pannier I had left. My heart sank, and I stumbled through trying to ask for my “bolsa.” After a few tense minutes of searching around, the guard found my pannier locked in a cabinet.

On my way back towards Santa Marta, the road was littered with mangoes. They lay in the gutter along the road, and no one seemed to want them. Starving for food after being in Tayrona for a couple of days, and with a big appreciation for mangoes as an exotic fruit, I stopped and loaded up with as many mangoes as I could fit in my panniers. I left with about fifteen.

I passed Santa Marta and got on the road towards Bogota.  580 miles to Bogota.

My goal that day was to get to Aracataca, the town where the famous writer of 100 Years of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, was born. While I was in Santa Marta, I had contacted a hostel through CouchSurfing in Aracataca that offered free camping to see if they’d be available to host. They hadn’t gotten back to me by the time I left for Tayrona, so I assumed it wasn’t going to work.

Late into the afternoon, a cyclist passed me going the other direction. A few minutes later, he caught up to me. He had turned around on his ride to cycle with me. Cristian was a 26-year-old psychologist who was living in Aracataca. He rode with me 10 or so miles, the rest of the way to Aracataca.

I suggested we get a drink, so he brought me to a restaurant that had a lot of photos and paraphernalia of “Gabo.” I was tired from the ride, and Cristian was frustrated with my poor Spanish. As we sat there, Cristian was discussing something with the owner about a Dutch guy in town who spoke English. The owner sent someone to get the English speaker.

A tall, Dutch guy in his mid-twenties with a shag of blond hair showed up. Tim seemed really spaced out, but he spoke English really well. “I think you contacted me a few days ago, and if you like, you can stay with me. It’s not a problem.” He was the CouchSurfer I had contacted!! The only English-speaker in town, and the only CouchSurfer in town. I guess the odds were good.

Agua Pluma

Every time I would stop to fill up my water bottles, I would have to go through the same routine. I wanted to know that the tap water was okay to drink, and I had to explain that I didn’t want to buy bottled water.

“El agua esta bueno para tomar?” – The water is good to drink?
“No, no quiero agua para comprar. Solo agua regular” – No, I don’t want water to buy. Only regular water.

Many times it was slow to get my point across. I needed a key word.  I needed the word for “tap water.”

On my way up the mountains to Tayrona National Park, I stopped at a roadside snack shop and got a Pepsi. While I was there, I wanted to get my bottles filled up with water, so I went through the same routine. The lady didn’t understand that I didn’t want to buy water, but I had noticed a hose that was giving them a constant flow of water from the mountain, so I pointed to that. “Ahhhh, agua pluma!”  Agua Pluma!!  That was the word.  After confirming that it was good to drink, I filled up.

Windows 3.1 Launch Party – Photo Wizard

Video evidence of a Windows 3.1 Launch Party from October 1992. This segment highlights the Photo Wizard that came bundled with Windows 3.1. The VHS was excavated from a time capsule and released 17 years after its creation, As the tape confirms, celebrating the release of a new Windows operating system with a “launch party” is a time-honored tradition. Although it’s an old idea, the Windows party is as lively as ever.

Special thanks to Kevin O’Leary for filming, and Ian Corey for the Photo Wizard screen shots.

Tayrona Camping Meal

When I got back, I really wanted to eat my pasta, but I didn’t have a stove. I asked a couple of guys who were walking by if they had one. They were two jovial American guys, Matt and Tim. They said they had a stove, so they invited me to come over to their campsite later.

When I arrived, I found Matt and Tim on top of a huge rock playing guitar and singing. I joined them on top, and Matt offered me an Argentine tea drink. We laughed a lot and got into some deep discussions about our hopes and dreams.

Claire and Jose were Matt and Tim’s neighbors at the campsite who were going to make dinner too, so we decided to combine forces. Jose was from Argentina and he was dating Clair who was from England. I hate English people. Jose started a fire, and Clair wanted to know what we were going to cook. I had my two small bags of pasta. “Oh,” she said, “I was going to cook pasta too, but if we’re already cooking two bags, it’s probably more than enough for five of us, right?” I told her that I was really hungry and I could probably eat a whole bag myself. So a compromise was struck: “Well let’s cook your pasta and if we want more at the end of it, we can cook up my bag.” I knew this wouldn’t happen. After cooking over a fire, and eating, no one’s going to want to start the whole process over. And I couldn’t stake claim on her bag of pasta for myself if I was the only one who was still hungry. Claire knew she would win. “Oh, and you have sauce too. Great.”

We sat around the fire drinking cheap rum as we cooked the pasta. The most notable point in conversation was when Matt asked Jose if he noticed a difference between American and UK English. I don’t even remember if Jose was able to answer. I just remember Claire jumping in to say that American English is incorrect and difficult to understand, and that Jose was learning “proper” English. She was saying this to an American audience – Matt, Tim, and I. I personally hate the sound of an English voice. Most English accents are ugly, and a few non-native English speakers have told me that it’s difficult for them to understand the UK English accent. But I wouldn’t have told Claire that because I know it’s rude.

Windows 7 Party Pack

Hey guys, great news, the Windows 7 Party Pack arrived!!  So let’s meet up on Friday evening as planned and I’ll run you through some of the tutorials.  I’m really excited to show you all the new bells and whistles.

Which theme should we go with?  PhotoPalooza, Media Mania, Setting up with Ease, or Family Friendly Fun.  I’m leaning towards PhotoPalooza.  I know all you Media Maniacs out there won’t be too happy.  Kyle, I’m looking at you.  HAHAhAH!!

Here’s what came with the Party Pack:

• One limited Signature Edition Windows 7 Ultimate
• One Deck of Playing Cards with Windows 7 Desktop Design
• One Puzzle with Windows 7 Desktop Design
• One Poster with Windows 7 Desktop Design
• Ten Tote Bags with Windows 7 Desktop Design for hosts and guests
• One package of streamers for decoration
• One package of balloons for decoration
• One table top centerpiece for decoration
• One package of Windows 7 napkins

I’ll put together a party favor pack for each of you guys and you can leave carrying a full Windows 7 tote bag.

Contents of the Party Pack:

See you Friday!!  Time to rock and roll.  Can you say “LAUNCH PARTY!”?

Windows: Bruce ServicePack and the Vista Street Band

I like this.  Bruce is a great storyteller.  Windows sales team rocks!

Windows 3.1 Photo Wizard

There’s another section of the Windows 3.1 Launch Party that will be released next week.  It’s a tutorial on the Photo Wizard included in Windows 3.1, a fairy-tale image enhancer where you can “vector” in to a photo without any quality loss.  It’s a simple interface with a smiley face tool which “does whatever I’m talking about, thinking about, or being told to do.”  Amazing usability.

Windows 3.1 Launch Party

Video evidence of a Windows 3.1 Launch Party from October 1992. The VHS was excavated from a time capsule 17 years after its creation, and released on the official launch date for Windows 7 — 10.22.2009. As the tape confirm, celebrating the release of a new Windows operating system with a “launch party” is a time-honored tradition. Although it’s an old idea, the Windows party is as lively as ever.

“When at a Windows Party …. “

Tayrona National Park

Even before I got to Colombia, I heard a lot about the Lost City (Ciudad Perdida) hike in the Sierra Nevada near Santa Marta. It was a 6-day, supported hike through rivers and jungle, and up and down mountains. It cost about $300 and would take too much time, so I decided against it.

Instead, I went to Tayrona National Park. After entering the park ($17 entrance fee), I left my bike at the guard station because the trail to the campsites and beach had sections that were narrow, muddy, or rocky.

I hiked 45 minutes on the trail with one pannier and my tent. It sucked to hike with my Ortlieb pannier – the strap was digging into my shoulder. I took off my shirt because I would have just soaked through my shirt.  It remained off for most of the rest of my time at Tayrona.  Natural one.

The campsite I got was $4 a night. After setting up, I went to visit all the beaches that were divided up by patches of jungle. The beaches were great, but beaches are supposed to be enjoyed with friends; the pleasure dies quickly when you’re alone.

All the food that was sold at the park was really expensive. I had heard reports of this from other travelers before I arrived, so I brought a bunch of food in with me: bread, pasta, fruit, and cookies. It was extremely boring, but I promised myself that I wouldn’t give in. So I kept chewing on my plain bread.

The main thing to do at Tayrona, besides the beach, was the 90-minute hike up to El Pueblito, which is a site similar to the Lost City. I went with my water bottle and a few packs of cookies. Shirtless and wearing my short red swimming shorts, I scampered up the rocks dripping sweat, and passing old people, and school children. When I got to the top, it was pretty disappointing. The only thatched hut there was a snack stand. There was a large group of kids on a school trip sitting around eating their lunch. As I approached them in skimpy shorts with my pale, white chest exposed, they all tried to disguise their laughter. Odd, gay tourist.

With unsteady legs, I ran back down the trail, and dipped into the Caribbean.

Windows 7 Launch Party

I love the videos for the launch parties celebrating the upcoming release of Windows 7.  I love them so much that I’m throwing a Windows 3.1 Launch Party tonight and filming it.  Here are my favorites.

Win7 CreatePartyPlaylistTouch

Win7 SearchAndTaskbar

Novato, CA to San Francisco, CA – The Final Ride

unnecessarily long ride

While staying at Curtis’s house, I had ordered two Schwalbe Marathon tires to replace my old bald ones.  I was anxious to get back on the bicycle after being in Novato for a few days, but I was happy I didn’t have to be paranoid about getting a flat on my final ride.  I said goodbye to Curtis and his friend Arden.

Google maps said that my ride would only be 25 miles if I took 101 the entire way.  Well, that wasn’t really an option since 101 was a 4-lane freeway.  ‘Bicycles Prohibited’ signs were located at the entrance ramps to the freeway.  When I approached the ramp and saw one of the signs, I shrugged it off and decided to wing it.  All I really had to do was stay off the freeway and cycle southeast.

Wrong.  What I didn’t realize was the amount of waterways I would have to cross before getting to the Golden Gate Bridge.  After getting through the town of San Rafael, I looked at my GPS and turned it off in frustration.  It was just a huge clusterfuck of roads without any hint of terrain.  The most annoying part of this ride was the huge ass hills that would pop out of nowhere.  I would rather go a mile out of my way than to cycle up 250 feet only to come speeding back down to the base of another hill.  Needless to say, that was exactly what happened for the first 20 miles.

Later I told myself ‘no more hills’.  If there was a hint of an upcoming incline, I would make a turn to avoid it.  This didn’t prove very advantageous to me, as I ended up cycling the entire peninsula of Tiburon, which added on another stupid 5 miles to my ride.  When I completed the ride around the peninsula, I had to come back…to where I started. Frustration was on the rise, and I had to make it to San Francisco before 6:30 PM.  That’s when my hosts, Jen and Harry, were leaving to go to a 48 hour film project screening.  I also wanted to cycle up to the headlands to get a good picture of the Golden Gate.  It was 3:30 PM.

head-on collision

After a few more frustrating miles, a local cyclist gave me some solid directions to the bridge.  I made my way on the crowded bike path towards Sausalito.  I was going about 14 mph when I approached a family on stupid looking rental bikes.  They were all in single file and following bike path etiquette until a young girl started swerving back and forth for her own enjoyment.

BAM!  She swerved right into my front-left pannier.  I shifted my body weight downwards to brace for the impact, but she was flung off my bike like a gnat.  Looking back, it’s pretty funny how hard she bounced off me.

“Shit!” I yelled as I squeezed my brakes.  I turned around to make sure she was OK.  She just stared at me, with her legs sprawled on the bike path.  She didn’t attempt to stand up.  I didn’t know if she was in shock or just stupid.  Her parents stood there and looked at me unapologetically, as if the collision was my fault.

Again, I looked at the girl and asked her if she was OK.  She didn’t speak but nodded her head.  Her dad walked over to help her up, and I looked at her mom.  In a heavy accent, she assured me her daughter was OK.  Then they all rode off.

I was confused.  Looking around, I was hoping to see an onlooker that was as confused as I was.  No one saw it.

I watched the dad lead his children further down the path on his stupid bicycle.  He had some flag sticking off of the back that was made out of tin foil.  The other kids started weaving back and forth on the path, clueless to what had just happened.  Bastard foreigners.

golden gate

I made my final push towards to the Golden Gate and cycled through the posh town of Sausalito.  There were lots of pedestrians and rental bike cyclists on the sidewalks.  Really smart cyclists.

A mile away from the bridge, the wind picked up and was blowing hard in my face.  What was frustrating was seeing people on rental bikes pass me.  “Oh yeah!  Well, I rode from Atlanta!” I wanted to tell them in an effort to preserve my ego.  As the bridge came into view, I made a right-hand turn and cycled up a 12% grade hill to the headlands.  It was hell, but I wanted that victory shot.

I stopped at a crowded viewpoint.  A few curious people laughed at my sign and asked me about my trip.  I had been riding with a message from my cousin Kelley Howard.

The message was ‘After 5200 miles:  useless arms, terrible tan line, dateless for 5 months, stupid sign’.  I guess Kelley doesn’t like me very much.  But I did get a lot of laughs during the ride, and throughout the day, I had cyclists asking me if I had really cycled that far.  It felt great to tell them it was my final ride.

One cyclist asked me if he could borrow my multi-tool.  In turn, he took a photo of me on my bike with the Golden Gate in the background.  I doubted he would be able frame it correctly…somehow cutting off my head or putting me directly in the middle of the frame, obstructing any view of the bridge.  The victory shot ended up pretty good.  Thanks guy!

I cycled back down to the bridge and made my way across it.  On the Golden Gate, there’s an entire sidewalk dedicated to cyclists.  I could see why.  There were a huge number of speeding cars to my left.  No shoulder.  I looked at the middle of the 101.  Insane.  No median or wall to stop two 65+ mph vehicles from a head-on collision.  Just a yellow line.  I later found out the middle lanes are called the ‘death lanes’.

I crossed the bridge and entered San Francisco.  In victory, I raised my hands into the air.  No one cared.

Medical Bills, Bad Credit, and Urgent Care Clinics

I made a big mistake.  A $600 mistake.  When I got cut on my wrist by tile back in February, I went to the emergency room.  On the ride over there, I was wondering how much it would cost me, and I was considering if I could suture it myself (just clean it, and sew it, or just glue it).  When I got to the ER, the lady at registration looked at my insurance card — I have Aetna’s $5000 high-deductible insurance — and told me it would cost me $100.  I figured it was a great price, and it would be good to just get it done, and get it done right.  So I waited a couple of hours in the ER, and then got my eight sutures.  Easy procedure.

Then I went on my bike tour, and six months later, I returned to find a bunch of medical bills.  The ER visit cost almost $1300, and then there was a $400 physician’s fee.  I don’t even remember a physician taking care of me — a nurse did.  The hospital has some contract with Aetna, so my bill got reduced down to $669, and after that $100 I paid upfront, the balance was $569.  When I called up about the physician’s fee, somehow it got dropped, so that was lucky too.

But I still have this $569 bill to pay.  It actually got sent to a collections agency; that’s how I first heard about it.  I got a call and right off, the lady asked me for my social security number — odd.  I told them I was out of the country for six months, and so it got pulled out of collections (collections agencies usually report you to the credit bureaus and that dirty mark stays on your credit history for seven years).

Before talking to the hospital’s billing office, I called around to three urgent care clinics in the area.  I asked them how much it would cost to give me eight sutures.  It averaged around $150.  $150!!  Versus $1300 at the ER.

So, the ER experience sucked, but it was a learning experience for (and it still isn’t over — I’m disputing the bill), and I want everyone else to learn from my mistake.  NEVER GO TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM!!  The only reason to go is if you’re in such a bad accident that you don’t even have a choice — the ambulance is bringing you there — and you’re unconscious.  Go to an urgent care clinic instead.  They’ll fix you up for a reasonable price.

I found this list of reasons to go to an urgent care clinic on another website:

Reasons to use a Urgent Care facility:
You have an urgent non life-threatening medical condition or injury
Your primary care doctor’s office is closed
You are not able to schedule a convenient appointment with your primary care doctor
You are away from home

Most Urgent Care facilities offer:
Board Certified physicians
Urgent trauma equipment including cardiac monitors
X-Ray equipment
Minor procedure room (sterile/clean rooms)

Many Urgent Care facilities offer:
CT Scans
Ultrasounds

Other Benefits of Urgent Care facilities:
Shorter wait times to see a doctor
Doctor visit co-pay and not emergency room co-pay (that saved us $225 per visit)
Weekend and after hours availability

Jimmy McBride: MTV Cab Driver

Do you remember Jimmy McBride, the Boston cab driver in the MTV promos in 1994?  I loved these.  Jimmy’s a great character.  1994 was the year I entered into the world of music and MTV.  Danzig’s Mother, Salt n’ Pepa’s Whatta Man, Smashing Pumpkin’s Disarm, Green Day’s Basket Case, and Jimmy McBride.

Ironic

Cannonball

Novato, CA

livin’ large

Curtis told me the previous night, “How long are you staying?  A few weeks?”

I laughed, overwhelmed by his generosity, and said,  “No, no…just a few days.”

“Man, you can stay as long as you want,” he assured me.  He made me feel very much at home, and it was nice to be in the company of a fellow Georgian.  Curtis told me he was going to have an ‘End of Summer’ cook-out for all his friends on Saturday, and he wanted to celebrate the end of my bike tour. His neighbor Cathy and her daughter Ashley came over to help us with some yard work to prep for the cook-out.

car show

Everyone in Curtis’s neighborhood is pretty sociable with one another.  Homeowners tend to congregate in the cul-de-sac while their kids play out in their front yards.  John, one of the neighbors, had an old car in a show that weekend, so we all went to downtown Novato to give him some support.

I walked up and down the street looking at cars, not really knowing what was what.  “Whoah, this is a 19XX model,” someone would say.  “Look at that finish!”  I would look, nod, and say ‘cool’.  I have zero knowledge about vintage cars (or all cars at all for that matter).  They’re just not interesting or impressive to me.  For me, they’re hunks of metal to get me from Point A to Point B.  I couldn’t care less what year it was manufactured or how many horses it has under the hood.

Curtis told me John’s car wins an award whenever it is entered into a contest.  Even though I knew jack shit about his car, it did look pretty sleek.

bolinas, a town of annoying kewl wannabe’s

Curtis felt like getting out of Novato and going on a day trip to somewhere interesting.  The destination:  Bolinas.  Bolinas is a town tucked away in a lagoon 10 miles to the northwest of the Golden Gate Recreational Area.  Its ocean waters are home to some of the highest concentrations of Great White Sharks in the world.  The people of Bolinas don’t like their place thought of as a tourist location, so the locals notoriously tear down street signs that lead to the town.  Jared, Bob’s roommate in Arcata, warned me that they’re pretty malicious to outsiders.  He told me that one time he camped on the Bolinas beach, and a few locals banged on his tent and yelled for him to get out of there.  He didn’t go anywhere.  They were just acting like dicks and trying to get a rise out of him.

Cole, Cathy, and her kids all came with us.  Trapped in the tiny back seat of Curtis’s SUV, I started getting nauseous on Route 1 once again.  Thankfully, Curtis let me drive the rest of the way.

We all went to the one restaurant in town.  The food was great, but everything was at a premium price because all the ingredients were organic.  And they were the only restaurant in town.  Just looking at the servers and the people at the restaurant reminded me of Atlanta’s Little Five Points, and not in a good way.  This was the ‘kewl’ spot in this area, where people wanted to look like an artisan, vagabond, or musician.  It was pretty annoying and came off as pretentious.

Our waitress was terrible and had a huge attitude.  I guess she has the liberty to treat customers like crap because there is nowhere else to eat in town.  That and she looked really cool and different.  Curtis has a big personality and likes to joke around with people, so naturally he joked around with the waitress when she came to the table.

“Let me guess your name…is it Bertha?” he said playfully.  I wasn’t sure how the name Bertha popped into his head.  When I think of that name, the big fat fish from Mario comes to mind.

“Oh, is that a cheesy way to find out your waitress’s name?” she said with her back to him.  She was getting some drink pitchers for another table, and Curtis was just trying to get her attention so that he could make a change to his order.

She had some other bitchy remarks throughout the rest of the meal and flaunted her unadultered pretentious attitude.  She brought Curtis wine when he asked for beer (I don’t know how that happened), and she insisted that he was in the wrong.

After dinner, we all went to the beach.  I wanted to sit down with some grungy hipsters and talk about the local indie music scene but later decided against it.

stalkers

Curtis’s friend Diane invited us to a chocolate party at her house.  Sounded good.  Jude and Sean, the stalking duo I stayed with in Eugene, Oregon, were headed back home from San Francisco and stopped by to see me in Novato.  Curtis insisted that they go to the chocolate party with us.

We walked into Diane’s house and saw a table full of chocolate.  Everything in some way involved chocolate in the recipe.  After a few hours of talking and eating, nearly everyone felt disgusting.  I felt like I had to have a salad just to let my body know I wasn’t in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.

It wasn’t until a few hours later that the headache subsided and I agreed to go play a game of tag outside with the neighborhood kids.  The game had some sort background story revolving around monkeys and gorillas.  I can’t really remember how it was relevant, but all I know is that I whooped some ass in tag.  I started to get really into it, and at one point I had to tag all four kids before they touched base.  The last kid was about to hit base with their foot, so I stupidly made a dive to touch their ankle.  I guess I forgot I was on asphalt.  The kids were laughing, and my hand was bleeding.  And I didn’t make the tag.

cookouts

That weekend, Curtis had a huge cookout for all his friends and neighbors.  About 80 people showed up, and Curtis was able to feed them all for around $100.  Pretty good.  Ribs, vegetables, potatoes, steaks, desserts, and drinks.  When people showed up, Curtis would announce them as if they were royalty.  When some of his shyer guests arrived, he would announce them and offer a piece of background information on them.  That way, his more talkative guests would have some starting point for conversation with them, leaving the shy guests unable to retreat to a corner and remain awkwardly silent.

Two days later, Curtis, his friend Arden, and I were all invited to another cookout at Jean-Luc’s house.  I felt like I was getting the royal treatment in Novato.  It was easy to talk to people once they found out where I was from and how I got to Novato.  It felt good to have a story define who you were in that moment.

There was a French kid there that thought giving peace signs was still cool.

browned

Later that night, I made my special dish.

Yo Curtis and Arden, you got BROWNED! (Note that Curtis is too busy for browning.  He’s all business.)

College Days: List of Things I Hate

Here’s a list I composed back during college of things I hated.  This was around 2005.

• Referring to eating or dining as “grabbing food” or “grabbing some dinner.” Very crude. Gross “dynamic” language.
• Describing things as “little” when they’re not small: “You’re LITTLE party,” “You’re LITTLE organization,” etc. It’s condescending.
• When someone calls you “big guy.” “Hey big guy” – that’s so demeaning. Way out of line.
• Talking about wanting more Cowbell, and laughing it up although it’s the most played out SNL skit ever! “Cowbell! Ha ha! Yeah, cowbell … I want more of it!”
• Brad Pitt. Annoying actor. Smug.
• Bright Eyes. Also really annoying.
• Collecting DVDs. Really wasteful and you’ll probably watch it once. Collections suck too.
• Interviewing for a job. It’s basically the worst situation you can be in. Selling yourself to a boring job; it’s painful. Answering all those stupid questions and keeping up a “positive energy” the whole time is grueling.
• Talking “intellectually” about some theoretical subject, and even having an “intellectual argument” to the point where it becomes a competition to see who’s smarter. It’s safer to keep intellectual topics out of conversation; no one wants to know how smart you are.
• Competition between majors, particularly engineering, to decide which is “better.” “My classes are harder so my major is better.” What the hell? Are we supposed to decide what we want to study based on how hard it is? This is retarded, and rampant at gatech.
• Popped collars on golf shirts. I hate this. Especially when it’s pink. And even worse when it’s a baby blue with a pink one on top. Two pastel layers of popped collar. Why are you wearing two polo shirts at one time? The attitude is gross! I imagine these people talk about how they got drunk and how it was so funny, or maybe how it was soooo crazy! It was the funniest thing EVER!
• Mullets. They’re not that funny. It’s kind of the same as the cowbell. Or Chuck Norris.
• The phrase “Rocks my balls off!” or “Rocks my face off!” and so on. It’s embarrassing.
• Fascination with Robots, Ninjas, Pirates, and Chuck Norris. I see this too much — Robots as a MySpace interest. You probably think this makes you sort of unique and funny because it’s sort of childish and immature.

Losing Things

I had forgot my wallet in Costa Rica, and then I lost my USB drive somewhere else along the way. It’s not like me to be so careless. But the bad streak continued.

In Santa Marta, I went to read my Spanish-English parallel-text book of short stories out by some rocks by the water. I brought my coin purse and added a $5 bill so that I’d have enough to get something to eat on the way back. I found a good rock to sit on, placed my coin purse on a rock next to me, and then started reading. It was a windy day, so I checked on my coin purse every once in a while. But then one time as I checked, it was gone. An empty feeling struck me instantly. I searched the rocks below, and in all the crevices, but I didn’t see my orange Guatemalan coin purse anywhere. Then I got in the water, and scoured the sand systematically with my toes, walking back and forth in lines as if I was in a search party. A couple of teenagers came by and asked what I had lost. They helped me for a few minutes, and then wished me good luck as they left. I never found it.

I realize it wasn’t a big loss. It had some change and that $5 bill, so maybe $7 in all, but that purse had sentimental value – a token from Guatemala – and that money could have bought me something – a couple of meals, or even two nights stay at the hostel.

College Days: Handcuffed at MARTA

After seeing a show on April 21, 2004 at the Variety Playhouse in Little Five Points, I walked back to the MARTA station at Inman Park with my friend, James. It was a dark and quiet night. Since it was late and so quiet, I had the idea that if we didn’t see anyone around, we would go through the handicapped gate as I saw plenty of other people do before.

As we approached the turnstiles, there was no one in sight, so I made the move to the handicapped gate and slipped through. But two MARTA cops came out of an unmarked door as we were approaching the Westbound stairs. One of them asked “Why didn’t you pay the fare?” I thought about making up a story, but I knew that they’d see right through it and be pissed that I thought I could fool them. All I could come up with was “I apologize.” Then I was told to “Turn ’round,” and I got ‘cuffed! James and I were brought inside their room and told to stand up against the wall. The officers searched through our pockets and got both of our IDs. As they were writing the citations, they told us that since we both had out-of-state IDs, we would have been put in jail for the night and brought to trial the next morning if we hadn’t been students. They also told us that usually they would have let us go, but since they were in training at the moment, they had to do it the official way.

They told us that the court date would be in two weeks. That was a problem because it was the end of the year, and I was going home to Florida in ten days. I explained my situation. One of the officers shrugged it off saying that I’d be able to go down to the courthouse before the court date and they would “work with me.”

The whole time as they were writing the citations and asking us questions, we stayed in our shackles. Once we were let go, I asked if we had to pay the MARTA fare for the ride we had intended to take about 40 minutes prior. The officer told us to just go on our way without paying.

The officer made out that the courthouse would be flexible with my situation and I would be able to take care of all of it before I left for home. Well, he lied. The courthouse told me that I HAD to show up on the court date, since it was my first appearance, and if I didn’t, there would be a warrant for my arrest. It was only because I befriended a woman at the courthouse who was sympathetic to my situation that I was able to get my case heard before I left Atlanta. She got me on the judge’s docket on Thursday (before I was to leave on Sunday) by talking to the court clerk. So, my case was heard, and I was given 20 hours of community service to complete through the pre-trial intervention program. It was even nicer how the community service could be completed outside of Atlanta. So, I did 20+ hours of work with Habitat for Humanity, which I enjoy anyhow.

I had been really nervous that this would show up on my permanent record, which would screw me for the rest of my life. I imagined how I’d never be able to get a job since this would show up on my background check. Who would employ a thief? But, when I got to court, I was told this was only a citation, so it wouldn’t stay on my record.

It was a relief to have all of that taken care of, but it taught me how easy it is to screw up, and how easy it is for things to change drastically.

What’s ironic is that earlier that evening, before the show (and before “the incident,”) I had attended the IMPACT scholarship dinner along with all of the other IMPACT scholarship recipients. We had received the scholarship because of our leadership and accomplishments on campus. We were told that we are the “leaders of the future,” “the best and the brightest,” and all that. So, six hours after I was being honored for being such an upstanding and honorable person, I was handcuffed for trying to skip on the MARTA fare.

Please don’t tell me how “It was only $1.75! Why didn’t you just pay?” I realize how stupid it was, and I even had enough money. It was a mix of being tempted and being “pumped up” at the time. I know it was a dumbass move.

So, next time you feel tempted to skip out on paying public transportation, remember my story, and weigh the $1.75 against the possible consequences.

Sex and Drugs in Santa Marta

Hostel Miramar was a good find.  I stayed in the 5-bed dorm room, which was pretty dingy and really hot, but it was only $3.50 per night.  The backpackers who were staying in the same room saw my bike parked by my bed and asked me about it.  When I told them the story, they were impressed and I remember the English girl saying, “I have, like, mad respect for you.”  It’s nice to have people be impressed by what you’re doing, but I try to be careful in that hostel setting.  I didn’t want to succumb to that annoying, typical, hostel battle of who’s travel experience is more raw and exciting.

The first night in Santa Marta, I wandered around the waterfront, and sat down outside a convenience store where they served drinks.  After having a Coke and a beer by myself, and getting up to leave, two Colombian guys, who were drinking next to me, asked me where I was from and invited me to sit down with them.  They bought me a lot of beer; I think I had six by the end of it.  Arturo and Eduardo were both lawyers, married, and in their forties, but they were passionate in telling me about the whorehouses in the area.  They instructed me that “putas” in the whorehouses are safe (and great fun), but that the prostitutes on the street probably have HIV, or else they’ll try to drug and rob you.  Apparently, some street putas put a chemical on their nipples that’ll put you to sleep.

Is this what you’d see at a Colombian whorehouse?

My lawyer friends urged me to visit one of the whorehouses.  Arturo even offered to take me to one.  I was drunk, and so I was thinking, “When in Rome …,” but it would have been weird.  Although it seems that whorehouses and prostitution are an acceptable part of the culture in Colombia, I explained to my friends that it’s strange and taboo in the US.  In the end, I decided against cultural immersion.

… or would you see this?

Arturo gushed about Colombian cocaine – top quality and great prices.  As Arturo raved about it and made sniffing gestures, Eduardo sat back, disinterested.  Eduardo was obviously not a drug user, but Arturo was passionate about it.

When Eduardo left for the airport, Arturo and I joined his friend at another table.  Rene was an old, fat man who carried a cane.  He spoke good English.  As Rene explained, it was because he had lived in the US for some years.  However, Arturo told me that Rene had spent five years in jail in the US because of his involvement in the drug trade – that’s why he spoke good English.