Deliquency (The End)

Well, as you can see, the blog has fallen by the inevitable wayside it was always meant to (it had to end sometime…).  And with all the excitement of Bakersfield, California (honest to God: dinners, soccer tennis, Lengthwise Brewery), the blog has been harder and harder to keep up with.  Let’s be honest: we were never bloggers, just people with a blog.

And so, now, here we are, with a trip in our pocket, the lessons learned, the sights seen, and the foods eaten.  And the challenge of all this – the long, hard, completely ignored road that is a return from a trip like this – is to try and maintain the spirit of the trip as we continue on the rest of our lives.  We owe the world so much – from the sweet Russian woman who sold us our first set of Trans-Siberian tickets to the countless people who let us crash our their couches.  And the only way to repay that kindness is to pay it forward.  To honk at the Little Caeser’s guy standing on the street corner.  To give the woman at the Post Office the benefit of the doubt when she approaches me menacingly.  To visit my friend’s blood drive event without excuses.  And to make time – no matter what - for the friends and family we missed so dearly.

Will we ever go on another trip like this?  I hope so.  Will we ever eat bear again?  Hopefully not.  Will we ever take for granted the things we have, the people we know, or the moment we’re in?  Absolutely not ever.

Thank you to everyone who was a reader of our blog, and thanks to everyone who’s been supportive of us as we approach the big day.  We’re getting married in 66 days, and if traveling the world is any indication, 66 days pass you by really, really quickly.

With love, Rob and Emily.

My 28th Birthday

I think this was my first birthday celebrated overseas and I have to say, I liked it a lot.  Being in a different country made it so my mind was focused on a million interesting things that day.  And, it made a very unique birthday celebration possible. 

At 7 am, I heard a knocking on the bedroom door and loud music blaring through Don Jose and Sonia’s normally peaceful Antigua home.  I assumed that Rob and I had overslept and that the family was shamelessly waking us up, so I sleepily called out “Okaaaaay, we’re getting up.”  The knocking didn’t stop and the music wasn’t getting any softer. 

So, finally I dragged my tired body to the door, opened it up, expecting Jose to be standing there saying, “Okay kids, let’s go!” But instead…there was a mariachi band outside my door!!!  5 guys.  All dressed up.  Singing and playing instruments.  I couldn’t believe it.  It was so out of my realm of expectations for a birthday surprise that I was speechless.  The songs were new to me and great.  The outfits were awesome.  I thought it was so cool- I just wanted to jump up and down and hug these 5 strangers standing before me. 

I didn’t do that…I did, of course, get a little teary-eyed, giggled, and then sat down to enjoy the rest of my birthday serenade!  Thanks again to Nolo Jose, Isabel, Don Jose, and Sonia.  What an unforgettable birthday!!!

-Emily

Not something you usually outside your bedroom.

I think some of the lyrics included "queremos pastel" which I completely agree with.

I shamelessly asked to take a picture.

 

and then I proceeded shamelessly to act like a child.

Trouble in Thailand

In an effort to show their disapproval of the current Prime Minister, protesters in Bangkok threw blood on his front gates at the climax of three days of protesting.  I repeat: THEY THREW BLOOD ON THE PRIME MINISTER’S GATES.  I’m glad we left when we did.

Real blood.

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/03/17/world/asia/17thai.html?hpw

These Bakersfield Streets

After a week of driving, I am convinced that there is no other city in the world like Bakersfield, California.  I mean that in all senses of the world.  Below are just a few of my observations recently:

1) The standard speed limit in Baltimore is 25-30 mph on a main road and 55-65

55 miles per hour is the legal speed here.

on the highway.  And that’s plenty fast.  In Bako, people’s driveways empty out onto 55 mph international speedways, where every Colt Pickens or Juan Castillo is legally able to barrel down the main road with their heart’s abandon.  THESE ROADS HAVE SIDEWALKS, PEOPLE.  In general, I think a road with a sidewalk should have their speed limit curbed at 25 mph (Get it?  ”Curbed?”), but Bako’s Dept of Transportation feels differently.  Nearly every road I’ve driven on this week has been above 35 mph.  So, if the Audobon’s too expensive for you, come to Bako, where drag races happen legally.

2) People in Bakersfield do not employ sarcasm as a means of gaining compliance.  I think of my experience in a Target in Baltimore.  I walked in and started leafing through the circular, when I accidentally bumped into someone.  ”Well, excuse you,” the lady said.  ”I’m sorry, ma’am,” I ventured.  No response.  Now, consider my experience in the Bakersfield Post Office yesterday: no less than seven people said, “Pardon me” when asking to get by (there was a long line), and one lady who bumped into me took my arm and said, “Well, I’m sorry!” in the politest Southern accent this side of the Mississippi.  Sigh…

3) Citrus fruit grows on trees in peoples’ backyards here!  Lemons, grapefruits, oranges!

Citrus trees are awesome.

It’s unbelievable!  I feel like Augustus Gloop walking into Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory, but instead of chocolate, I see nothing but the sweet, acidic taste of limes.  Maybe it’s the east-coaster in me, but this stuff is incredible.

4) Everyone’s grass looks like golf-course grass.  The chemistry required to genetically engineer grass that is 100% the same length all the way across the lawn should win somebody the National Medal of Science.  You could stand right up there with G.W. Carver.

In closing, I like Bakersfield so far.  More to come on Thursday (Lost is on tonight, which is going to throw my entire brain into a tizzy on Wednesday).  ~Rob

The Joads Will Rise Again!

The trouble with writing about Bakersfield is that I am going to have to dispense with the cute tongue-in-cheek, slightly-exaggerated malapropisms that have so quickly become my style du jour.  People live here – not least of all my fiance, my future brother-in-law, and my future-mother-in-law.  Not to mention, I’m getting married here in about two months.

So, instead of highlighting the 40-degree swing in temperature from day to night (hello, Russia), or the fact that I encountered a truck with the bumper sticker, “EAT MY CARBON!” (perhaps the motto of another large, Communist country we visited…), I will instead attempt to provide the most truthful account of Bakersfield, California that could ever be delivered by a born-and-bred East-Coaster who has chosen Brooklyn as his permanent home.  Forgive me if I misstep, it’s with all conscious understanding.

—

Day one: Bakersfield, CA.  In my quest to discover the soul of America’s largest producer of carrots (Quick!  Go check the package in your refrigerator!), Emily and I ventured deep into farm country, which begins about four miles outside the city lines (or at least, after most of the houses stop).  In Bakersfield, “farmland” means a variety of things: A field of sheep graze right next to a grove of almond trees.  Man-made beehives, used for collecting honey, pepper the dairy farms where hundreds of cows are roaming freely.  And nestled in between it all?  Oil derricks.  They up-and-down their way through most of the fields and farmland because, as Upton Sinclair wrote in, Oil!, “Dad had explained it – money had done it.”

Gone are my wistful memories (collected from books and television) of “farms” as a place where farmers raise livestock, grow vegetables, and occasionally dabble in unique home-decorating techniques.  I say this honestly, when I thought of farming, I thought of Farmer John.  Here in Bakersfield, however, Farmer John has specialized!  One farm, one product.  Farmer John now plants almond trees, and almond trees alone, and should hereby be known as Almond Farmer John.  Or Carrot Farmer John.  Or Oil Derrick John.

You get the point.

So, Cliff Notes: Bakersfield, CA is a farming town where farmers seem to grow only one type of product on their farms, much to the mutual benefit of all.  But, “Not so!” says the Academy-Award-nominated documentary, Food, Inc. According to the filmmakers, it is this specialization that leads to increased prices for consumers, lower wages for workers, unethical shortcuts in feed production (ie: feeding a beef and corn mixture to…cows) which in turn leads to mad cow disease, swine flu, and this.

Now, this may or may not be the case.  I haven’t done nearly enough research to know, (although, I admit I enjoyed that movie).  While I’m inclined to dislike cruelty to animals, I have nothing against cruelty to lettuce plants, provided there’s no negative environmental impact.  The verdict is out on that one, but if I discover the answer while I’m here, I’ll get back to you.  Stay tuned for tomorrow’s episode: The Kindness of Bakersfield (the people here are really, really nice). ~Rob

Oil derricks.

Carrot Farmer John.

This is from our last trip to Bakersfield, but it still says a thousand words.

Under America's other Arch.

Semana Santa (Easter Week)

Although I was raised Catholic (Baptized, First Communioned, and Confirmed), I never could wrest Easter away from the Easter Bunny.  Jelly beans, Cadbury Cream Eggs, and those little pink marshmallow bunny rabbits were precisely what I pictured by the time April rolled around.  For me, the act of giving up something for Lent was simply the penitence I had to pay to earn my weight in candy (thank you Grammom and PopPop and the endless fun of the Easter Egg Hunt).

All this thanks to my residence in America.  My mother, bless her Catholic heart, did everything she could to raise me with Catholicism.  And it worked, for a time.  Freshman year of college, I went twice on Sundays and played guitar at mass.  But, it was partway into my sophomore year that I realized the guitar was the only thing keeping me in that place.  All the love in the world to Catholics, but I just didn’t want to be a part of it.

Had I lived in Guatemala, however, I might be stoned for these heathen thoughts. Here, Catholicism is like Islam in Jordan: well over 90% of residents ascribe to the religion, but it’s not officially sanctioned as the national religion (like it is in Iran and Saudi Arabia).  Here, every little boy is enrolled in religious education courses, just as commonly as they are enrolled in karate and soccer classes.  Businesses are closed on Sundays, not because there’s a law, but just because people are at church!  So, it goes without saying then, that Ash Wednesday, Lent and Easter are so much a part of the culture here that cities all but shut down on Sundays during Easter time.

Lent – La Cuaresma, in Spanish – strikes not the joyous tone it does in America.  In Guatemala, Lent is a sad time.  According to the Bible, this is the time when Jesus was being persecuted and taunted, eventually leading up to his torture and death at the order of Pontius Pilot (who, in his defense, was bowing to the will of his people, and like all politicians, just wanted to be reelected).  Easter, in contrast, is the celebration of Jesus’ rising – a joyous occasion for all.

So, imagine, if you will, an intensely Catholic country mourning the persecution of the son of the Lord.  Not a happy time.  And in Guatemala, they let you know it.  Parades march down the streets playing music not unlike the sad anthem of The Godfather.  Priests are dressed in full black and deep purple robes, complete with black pointy caps that resemble Klu Klux Klan hats, but are actually part of the most traditional Spanish (as in, from Spain) Catholic uniform.  Sawdust is laid on the cement and artists come from all over to paint intricate rug designs on top of it.  All this accompanied by a float that is taller than most of the buildings nearby, that is carried on the shoulders of 80 men (40 per side).  Combine all that with a strange somber carnival-like feel (street vendors, outrageous parking fees), and you have the feeling of La Cuaresma

All this on just the first weekend in March.  My cousin Mauricio tells me that during Semana Santa (Easter Week), the floats are carried by 140 men, and that cars are outlawed from the city center.  My current views on Catholicism aside, THAT is something I would like to see someday.

Altar boys carrying a Cuaresma float.

Another float, more altar boys, and PURPLE!

A sawdust carpet. The float marchers walk on them as they parade through the streets. Sawdust, people! Sawdust!

Gotta be honest: stole this one from the internet. But, here is Semana Santa.

Homecoming

Well, we’re back on the road again. Guatemala this time. After a 4am Arecibo ride to LaGuardia, Emily and I drearily boarded a Spirit Air flight headed to Ft. Lauderdale. A two-hour layover was over lickety-split and we boarded round two of the terribilis Spirit Air (more on this later) for a quick jaunt across the Gulf of Mexico.

Upon arrival, all the things that made our trip around the world so indelibly impressed in our memory came rushing back. The dusty, duct-taped boarding ramps. The tattered uniforms of airline workers. The half-English bathroom signs. After departure, we headed down to baggage claim for adventure number three: the airline (graciously) announced “No mas equipaje” while we were standing there bagless. So, hola Guatemala, pero we don’t have any luggage. It was then that we knew we were truly back on the traveling wagon. (Fear not: our bags came on the next carload, about 10 agonizing minutes later).

My grandfather Jose and grandmother Sonia picked us up at the airport and we were out on the road in no time. It’s a curious thing, meeting one’s somewhat estranged relatives. On the one hand, you know these people so well; your mind has built a story all in and around the few fleeting memories you have of being with them. But, the reality is somewhat more dramatic. After a few awkward pauses, you’re essentially forming a new relationship with these people, and gone are the webs you’d woven throughout the years.

My grandfather remains a jolly, sarcastic Teddy Telly Savalas look alike, relishing in his younger-than-he-looks physique. My grandmother (for honesty’s sake, stepgrandmother) is likewise just as I remembered her: sweet, beautiful, an excellent cook, and capable of endearing folks to her in a matter of minutes.

After a quick stop off at El Palacio Real Restaurant (consumed by the table: 12 blue mini-tortillas, two sandwiches of lomita and salsa, two chicken tortillas, two plates of black beans, a few slices of queso fresco, four Gallo beers, a Michelada, and a Coca-Cola Light), we were headed back to my grandfather’s house in Antigua, a place I haven’t been in two years, but has been near and dear to my half-Guatemalan heart since the day I laid eyes on it.

These might be a soulful few days for me. I’m feeling emotional about returning to this place. We will do what we can to update you since finding good internet here is about as likely as the Guatemalan soccer team qualifying for La Copa Mundial.

Breakfast outside of Antigua with (from l to r): my dad, Emily, Sonia, my stepmother Isabel, and my grandfather.

My grandparents at a friend's house for a late lunch.

Guatemala

No internet here (the fact that I can post this is a miracle), but we`ve been writing posts on our laptop and will post them (along with pictures) when we get back to California on Thursday.  Saludos!

Our Nation’s Capital (Through Dan Brown’s Eyes)

You can buy a bootleg of just about anything in China.  From DVDs to CDs to Louis Vuitton bags, the streets of Beijing are oozing with pop-shops intending to take advantage of the Chinese government’s pretty-much-hands-off policy regarding fakes.

But, regardless of how ubiquitous the knock-off culture is, I didn’t expect it to extend to books.  I just figured books were…off-limits to dealers.  I mean, Usher and Prada are going to make millions no matter what they do, but it’s a rare author who pulls in that kind of cash.

6,500,000 copies sold.

But, I was pleasantly surprised when Emily bought me a copy of Dan Brown’s The Lost Symbol. Not only is DB one of the only author’s to crack the million dollar mark,  but he also happens to be a guilty pleasure of mine.  And so, it was with great gusto that I sat down to page one while in Bangkok.

For those of you unfamiliar, the plot focuses on Robert Langdon (again) and his adventures in our nation’s capital while on the quest to uncover the deepest secrets of the Freemasons.  The book is peppered with street names, building schematics, and other DC-trivia that will excited anyone with a passing interest in things that are awesome.

The Washington Monument is huge. And I've never been up to the top. For shame!

Fittingly, the number one thing on my To Do list in Baltimore was to visit Washington DC, a short 45-minutes jaunt down I-95.  And so, we did.  We visited the Smithsonian Museum of American history.  We brushed up on our Tea Party knowledge (the Samuel Adams Tea Party, not the Kevin McCarthy Tea Party).  We also took the opportunity to remind ourselves what the hell the Whiskey Rebellion was, in addition to seeing an exceptionally cool map outlining America’s naval strategy during the Revolutionary War.

I will be honest: I didn’t remember much of that stuff.  It took a few times of reading the placards to really commit those facts to memory.  But, I was glad I did.  As embarrassing as it is to say, it took Dan Brown to get me excited about visiting some place that has always existed.  And for free!

But, so what?  So what if it took a novel to spur me into action?  The only thing that matters is that I went, I (re)-learned a lot, and I paid nothing (even the parking was free!).

Now, generally I have shied away from giving advice on this blog, mostly because I know that people get enough of it already.  So, let’s not consider what I am about to say as advice.  Let’s just say, I wish I had known this stuff before I left (because the true ramifications on this around-the-world trip are all but breathing down my neck).  I wish I had gone to my nearest museum.  I wish I had toured Baltimore and St. Louis and New York like I was a tourist.  I wish I had sucked it up and paid the fee to see the Empire State Building (still never been), and the Walter’s Art Gallery (ditto, although I may have gone when I was a youngin).  I wish I had driven in the city enough to not get lost.  And I wish I knew more places to tell people about when they came to visit.

And so, now is my chance.  I commit myself to becoming a tourist is New York and Bakersfield, and to rediscover Charm City and DC, without shame or reproach.  Wish me luck.

Again, huge! I don't know what building this is, though. The EPA?

George Washington as a Greek God. Hmmm.

Charm City

We’re back in the home of The Wire, and after some urging from Claudia and Justin (in the form of cheap Miller Lite’s at Shucker’s Bar & Grille), we decided to spend some time in Fells Point, which is a little barrio in downtown Baltimore.

I’m struck by how much the city has changed since I left for college a decade ago, but how it feels more familiar to me than it should.  As a high school kid, I didn’t spend much time in downtown Baltimore.  Sure, I did my fair share of traipsing through the Inner Harbor and eating free samples from the Fudgery, but I definitely can’t say I have more than a passing familiarity with the financial part of Baltimore City.

And besides, a lot has changed.  New department stores have been installed in old warehouses.  Refreshingly, that’s really similar to some areas of New York (hello, DUMBO and Soho).  Walking through the streets in Fells Point and Federal Hill, I was reminded a lot of the old Navy Yards in Brooklyn, or a walk through Brooklyn Heights.  Moms pushed strollers over to a new sushi spot for lunch, criss-crossing a small local theatre outlet, a Jewish deli, and an American Apparel.  It’s an odd place, where anything old is chic, as long as it’s been refurbished.

But, I suppose that’s better than letting places fall into crumbled waste.  Lots of the buildings in Fells Point haven’t been bought up just yet.  One in particular, a red brick two-story, sat with broken windows and a beat-up front door, just asking to be a $1,800-a-month apartment in a few months.

So, Baltimore city – in certain parts – does have a lot of similarities to the place I now call home.  And that makes me smile, knowing that maybe I understand it a little better than I thought I did, even if by proxy.

The box we shipped from China (via the sea-land route) arrived just in time: three months almost to the day.

Shipping docks and tugboats are a common site.

Slainte's on the left is a great bar, not just because they serve bangers and mash, but it's also full of Liverpool fans.

An old BCPD station door.