On Tuesday, after spending a frustrating day in the hot and dusty Pennsylvania Convention Center inhaling the exhaust from the mini-cranes and forklifts that were whizzing around the main ballroom as I attempted to set up my company's demo, I returned to the hotel in search of some dinner. My boss had just arrived after his flight delays and called me to chat and arrange dinner plans. I had eaten some soul food at Delilah's earlier in the day for lunch and managed to partake in a hoagie sandwich from Carmen's Famous Hoagies in what I was calling my late afternoon snack, but I was really looking forward to a nice dinner.
The previous evening after flight delays of my own, I lolly-gagged a little too much getting out of the hotel and ended up eating at a place called the Marathon Grill. It wasn't bad food, but was just completely unspectacular in a late-night Denny's sort of way. It was food though, and I didn't have to resort to the over priced room service menu or be couped up in my room waiting for the delivery either. (I'd save that ritual for breakfast.) Where was I? Yes, eating dinner, that's where. On the phone, my boss sounded equally as hungry as I was and should be game for whatever restaurant I might suggest. He had even asked me what kind of food I was feeling like eating. I stayed in character, being as curiously non-committal as I could be while still conveying the sufficient desperation commensurate with someone whose stomach was growling with the intensity of a lion at this point.
When I reached the hotel lobby, I saw him standing there, waiting patiently for me to arrive but still with a sunny disposition. I told him that I'd hurry to my room so that I could set my computer bag down and then would hustle back so that we could be on our way. I returned in just about no-time-flat to find him still standing there. The two of us started to walk toward the front door of the hotel toward the taxi stand when he stopped and asked, "What do you feel like?" once again, as if he had reservations, but not the type that would guarantee you a seat at one of Philadelphia's fine eating establishments. I threw out the names of a couple places and described the cuisine as he made a face suggesting his disapproval. "Is there anything to eat here at the hotel?", he asked as if he had been standing in the lobby this whole time with a blindfold and was unaware both of the 2 restaurants and of the notion that there were several hotel employees including a concierge within 10 feet of where he had been standing this whole time. It turned out that the Philip's Seafood in the lobby was closed since it was getting late and the other place in the lobby was much more of a bar than anything, so I was supremely confident that we would still be dining off the premises. When he decided that we should eat at the bar, and endure its very limited "bar" menu I thought I would fall to the floor and kick and scream like a pouting 4 year old child that refuses to leave the toy aisle at the grocery store until his mother agrees to buy him the red fire engine. Really, that crossed my mind. Somehow, I kept my composure.
Tonight, with many more choices at my disposal since it was only 7pm and another co-worker in the fold as well, I was not worried about a repeat of that fiasco. It seemed like Mediterranean or maybe even American cuisine was going to be the fare for this evening when my boss suddenly had a revelation. "Do you think they have a really good steak?" he asked me, as if I were holding the menu of either of the suggested locales in my hand. I answered that I suspected they'd have a steak available and tried to keep us all moving toward the taxi stand. When he repeated his desire for the red meat once again, I enlisted the help of the concierge, more as a token gesture than anything. Much to my chagrin, the concierge suggested a Brazilian steak house. This was not exactly what I had in mind after eating hoagies, cheesesteaks, and grits and scrapple all week. Some pretty food would have been infinitely more desireable than a red meat extravaganza. I wanted something tasty and interesting, not something that would sit on my stomach like a ton of bricks, and definitely not something all you could eat like a churrascarria, and a swanky one at that. My other co-worker was no help either, being just as polite and agreeable as I was pretending to be. All at once I remembered why I enjoy traveling alone so much.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
The Creative Process
My recipe for success as a scribe is simple. I turn off my phone, I sit at my desk in front of my laptop, and then I meditate for precisely 7 minutes and 27 seconds. When I'm done, I'm so thoroughly focused that the magic just happens and the creative juices just flow.
No, that's not at all accurate. What I really do is turn on some jazz, dim the lights, slip into something comfortable and...oops, wrong kind of magic. That's not how it goes down either.
When it's time for me to write something I just flip open my laptop and let whatever randomness is teetering on the edge of my dome make its way from my neurons on down to my fingertips and into the box on the blogger.com page that takes in all of the ingredients and allows me to mix them up like a big pot of goulash that slowly simmers until its ready for your consumption. We're getting warmer, but I can't say that this is really how it happens either.
The truth is, I have no idea. Sometimes I'm brimming with ideas to write about. Yes, it's true. Sometimes I'm driving and something brilliant comes to mind and I can't wait to get to my laptop so that I can put them into writing. I almost want to pull over to the side of the road and get it all out, but I have yet to do that. Most of the time I remember enough of the idea to try to resurrect the brilliance when I finally do get the chance to write, but many times it's no longer terribly compelling anymore. At least not to me. Most of these make it to print, but some don't. They are just left on that cutting room floor that is the My Documents folder on my computer.Incomplete. They are left as fleeting thoughts that seem to completely lack any direction whatsoever. That's if they are lucky.
I guess that's what satisfies the pros from the joes. I'm decidedly still a joe. I amuse myself sometimes with a flash of talent, but my phone has not been ringing off the hook and my email inbox is not overflowing with anyone offering to pay me for my services as a writer. Until that magical, mystical, and majestical day happens, these random rants will still retreat from the recesses of my mind on days like today when nothing seemed worthy of being recorded on this medium. I worked today. I had a nice, authentic italian dinner, a nice hoagie, and an absolutely incredible pulled pork sandwich with sweet peppers and onions on a roll. None of that is inspiring anything poetic out of me.
I feel like a musician playing the scales. Do-re-me-fa-so-la-ti-da. It's not a song, but an exercise. No one will say, "Hey, did you read that dissertation that Destah put together on the creative process? It was really groundbreaking stuff! Monumental to say the least!" This will surely be forgotten or overlooked like Joe Torre scratching his nose in the dugout as the camera pans to him and zooms in for a close-up during a World Series broadcast on Fox on a cool October night in the Bronx. It's time to let this one fade out into the hook. I don't anticipate this making its way into anyone's regular rotation. It'll be dissed, not kissed.
No, that's not at all accurate. What I really do is turn on some jazz, dim the lights, slip into something comfortable and...oops, wrong kind of magic. That's not how it goes down either.
When it's time for me to write something I just flip open my laptop and let whatever randomness is teetering on the edge of my dome make its way from my neurons on down to my fingertips and into the box on the blogger.com page that takes in all of the ingredients and allows me to mix them up like a big pot of goulash that slowly simmers until its ready for your consumption. We're getting warmer, but I can't say that this is really how it happens either.
The truth is, I have no idea. Sometimes I'm brimming with ideas to write about. Yes, it's true. Sometimes I'm driving and something brilliant comes to mind and I can't wait to get to my laptop so that I can put them into writing. I almost want to pull over to the side of the road and get it all out, but I have yet to do that. Most of the time I remember enough of the idea to try to resurrect the brilliance when I finally do get the chance to write, but many times it's no longer terribly compelling anymore. At least not to me. Most of these make it to print, but some don't. They are just left on that cutting room floor that is the My Documents folder on my computer.Incomplete. They are left as fleeting thoughts that seem to completely lack any direction whatsoever. That's if they are lucky.
I guess that's what satisfies the pros from the joes. I'm decidedly still a joe. I amuse myself sometimes with a flash of talent, but my phone has not been ringing off the hook and my email inbox is not overflowing with anyone offering to pay me for my services as a writer. Until that magical, mystical, and majestical day happens, these random rants will still retreat from the recesses of my mind on days like today when nothing seemed worthy of being recorded on this medium. I worked today. I had a nice, authentic italian dinner, a nice hoagie, and an absolutely incredible pulled pork sandwich with sweet peppers and onions on a roll. None of that is inspiring anything poetic out of me.
I feel like a musician playing the scales. Do-re-me-fa-so-la-ti-da. It's not a song, but an exercise. No one will say, "Hey, did you read that dissertation that Destah put together on the creative process? It was really groundbreaking stuff! Monumental to say the least!" This will surely be forgotten or overlooked like Joe Torre scratching his nose in the dugout as the camera pans to him and zooms in for a close-up during a World Series broadcast on Fox on a cool October night in the Bronx. It's time to let this one fade out into the hook. I don't anticipate this making its way into anyone's regular rotation. It'll be dissed, not kissed.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Odds n' Ends
The decision was made to pry open the suitcase this morning. Using the opposite of the "business end" of a hammer, I popped the case open like I were pulling an old, bent, rusty nail out of a splintering, water damaged piece of wood. Luckily, I was able to close it back up and get on my way. I made sure not to touch the combination lock again. Once at the airport, I checked the bag and headed on into the security line. I decided to switch thing up a little bit, getting a breakfast sandwich at Subway instead of the usual breakfast burrito that I enjoy in the American terminal prior to morning flights.
A friend of mine told a tale today of a strange but touching incident that occurred in her yard today. While on her way out to run an errand, she came across a 10 year old boy on all fours pulling weeds from her front "lawn". Perhaps "lawn" is a bit ambitious as this patch of land lined by the cement walkway, sidewalk, and driveway, respectively is not exactly a shrine to Kentucky Bluegrass that would make the groundskeepers at Fenway Park proud, but you probably get my drift. Dumbfounded and greatful at the same time, she thanked him and asked him to wait while she got him so money for his unsolicited good deed. "You don't have to pay me," he replied shyly. With a puzzled look on her face, she gazed at him, hoping that the appropriate words would come to mind in response."I didn't do it for money," he continued. "I did it for the Lord, Jesus Christ." See! Prayer does work, as she acknowledged after admitting that she was feeling overwhelmed by the way the yard's declining appearance.
After a long travel day, complete with a lengthy delay at DFW, I checked into my hotel room at the Sheraton in Philadelphia. "I only have double beds left," said the lady at the front desk. I told her that I would really prefer a king, but it's late and I'm hungry, so I'm not feeling like this is the end of the world at this point. At least she didn't tell me that they were out of rooms or something like that. "I can get you a queen bed, but it has a walk-in shower," she continued, sounding more and more like she was hoping to save this room for someone else. I shrugged. My shoulders and my facial expression collaborating to say, "No me importa. Esta bien."
I took the keys and headed up the elevator to this room, just beyond the elevator shaft on the 15th floor. I opened the door and backed in, pulling my luggage behind me until it was all the way through the door. Turning on the light and glancing to my left, I was startled...by my own reflection in the mirror. I laughed at myself as my heartrate slowed down after a moment. Then I turned around to see a huge red stain right in the middle of the golden-rod colored carpet. I felt like Eddie and Arsenio after they were shown to their "meager accomodations" in Coming to America. Luckily, there was no chalk outline of a homicide victim or any rats scurrying across the floor. Peeling back the sheets, the brown hairs on the white sheets told me that they hadn't been changed and that I would be doing an aboutface to get another room.
After that situation was straightened out I strolled down to the concierge desk to find a restaurant. I wanted to get some of the world famous Mac n' Cheese at Delilah's and maybe some smothered pork chops or something, but the concierge thought that i was referring to the steakhouse and gentleman's club over near the water. I straightened him out on that and he finally put in a call to the right place, but they must've been closed. He ended up sending me to a place called Chris' Jazz Cafe who wasn't serving its dinner menu anymore since it was after 10pm, but had some great live jazz. The waitress told me to go up the street to Marathon Grill if I wanted a full meal. Your basic comfort food late night diner type of establishment, Marathon had a courteous staff and even whipped me up a Mango smoothie. I polished this off along with a salad and some Chicken Saltimboca and headed back to the jazz spot. The Robin Haffney Quintet was just what the doctor ordered, rattling off a nice cover of the Miles Davis classic Bye Bye Blackbird as I walked in. I caught the last 6 or 7 songs of their set but during that short time I was able to see each member of the group showcase their talent. The pianist did quite a nice Bill Evans with a lull-you-to-sleep style complete with facial expressions that suggested a deep feeling of each tickle of the proverbial ivories. The bassist and drummer were understated, yet crisp in their contributions to rounding out the rhythm section. The little sax man looked much more like one of Frank Sabotka's stevedores than a guy that could make you close your eyes and almost imagine that you were listening to John Coltrane. He was the one that did the talking between numbers, so perhapd he was Robin Haffney. The man with the horn decidedly had skills of his own, exhibiting a manual dexterity and precision to his notes that would leave you swearing that these guys did not need day jobs. I was in my element. Life is good.
A friend of mine told a tale today of a strange but touching incident that occurred in her yard today. While on her way out to run an errand, she came across a 10 year old boy on all fours pulling weeds from her front "lawn". Perhaps "lawn" is a bit ambitious as this patch of land lined by the cement walkway, sidewalk, and driveway, respectively is not exactly a shrine to Kentucky Bluegrass that would make the groundskeepers at Fenway Park proud, but you probably get my drift. Dumbfounded and greatful at the same time, she thanked him and asked him to wait while she got him so money for his unsolicited good deed. "You don't have to pay me," he replied shyly. With a puzzled look on her face, she gazed at him, hoping that the appropriate words would come to mind in response."I didn't do it for money," he continued. "I did it for the Lord, Jesus Christ." See! Prayer does work, as she acknowledged after admitting that she was feeling overwhelmed by the way the yard's declining appearance.
After a long travel day, complete with a lengthy delay at DFW, I checked into my hotel room at the Sheraton in Philadelphia. "I only have double beds left," said the lady at the front desk. I told her that I would really prefer a king, but it's late and I'm hungry, so I'm not feeling like this is the end of the world at this point. At least she didn't tell me that they were out of rooms or something like that. "I can get you a queen bed, but it has a walk-in shower," she continued, sounding more and more like she was hoping to save this room for someone else. I shrugged. My shoulders and my facial expression collaborating to say, "No me importa. Esta bien."
I took the keys and headed up the elevator to this room, just beyond the elevator shaft on the 15th floor. I opened the door and backed in, pulling my luggage behind me until it was all the way through the door. Turning on the light and glancing to my left, I was startled...by my own reflection in the mirror. I laughed at myself as my heartrate slowed down after a moment. Then I turned around to see a huge red stain right in the middle of the golden-rod colored carpet. I felt like Eddie and Arsenio after they were shown to their "meager accomodations" in Coming to America. Luckily, there was no chalk outline of a homicide victim or any rats scurrying across the floor. Peeling back the sheets, the brown hairs on the white sheets told me that they hadn't been changed and that I would be doing an aboutface to get another room.
After that situation was straightened out I strolled down to the concierge desk to find a restaurant. I wanted to get some of the world famous Mac n' Cheese at Delilah's and maybe some smothered pork chops or something, but the concierge thought that i was referring to the steakhouse and gentleman's club over near the water. I straightened him out on that and he finally put in a call to the right place, but they must've been closed. He ended up sending me to a place called Chris' Jazz Cafe who wasn't serving its dinner menu anymore since it was after 10pm, but had some great live jazz. The waitress told me to go up the street to Marathon Grill if I wanted a full meal. Your basic comfort food late night diner type of establishment, Marathon had a courteous staff and even whipped me up a Mango smoothie. I polished this off along with a salad and some Chicken Saltimboca and headed back to the jazz spot. The Robin Haffney Quintet was just what the doctor ordered, rattling off a nice cover of the Miles Davis classic Bye Bye Blackbird as I walked in. I caught the last 6 or 7 songs of their set but during that short time I was able to see each member of the group showcase their talent. The pianist did quite a nice Bill Evans with a lull-you-to-sleep style complete with facial expressions that suggested a deep feeling of each tickle of the proverbial ivories. The bassist and drummer were understated, yet crisp in their contributions to rounding out the rhythm section. The little sax man looked much more like one of Frank Sabotka's stevedores than a guy that could make you close your eyes and almost imagine that you were listening to John Coltrane. He was the one that did the talking between numbers, so perhapd he was Robin Haffney. The man with the horn decidedly had skills of his own, exhibiting a manual dexterity and precision to his notes that would leave you swearing that these guys did not need day jobs. I was in my element. Life is good.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Unneccessary Obstacles
As if it were not enough that we couldn't seem to get the demo system working quite right all the way up to the time when we had to ship it, we had to make the delivery of said demo a challenge as well. It was like flying from Sydney to San Francisco and then not being able to find the airport once you got there, or dribbling coast to coast and making the last defender fall down from your wicked cross-over and then missing the wide-open layup. That's almost how it went down for us.
The set-up was difficult to say the least. We had new features that we were trying to run on older hardware. We had no components to hook up that we discovered weren't quite compatible. We had a helluva time getting something to work in a non-pressure situation in the office. We worked on this for a week and even came in on a Sunday to get it done. Close to done, that is. We ended up shipping everything BUT the offending piece of equipment. We left that one behind with the understanding that I would hand-carry it to the trade show in Philly.
The plan called for me to go by the office and pack the machine in a hard covered suitcase that we had in the lab for just such an occasion. My trip last week to Canada got pushed back by a day so I wasn't back in time to go by the office at the end of the work week. I dropped by the office late on Saturday night to gather the gear and the suitcase. It was then that I discovered the combination lock on this big red Samsonite rolling suitcase. I was too tired to worry much about it at the time so I just put the empty suitcase in my car along with the server that it was to transport. On Sunday I sent an email asking if anybody in the office knew the combination. I got no response until late that evening.
Unfortunately,the email that I got did not contain the correct combination. So, here I sit at my computer, shaking my head, sighing loudly and ready to throw my hands up. I've already packed my clothes and checked in for my Monday morning flight, yet I cannot rest easy because of this one loose end. I'm going to try not to think about it, but I'll have to work this out in the morning before I get on my way to the airport. As if I needed one more obstacle to deal with for this demo....
The set-up was difficult to say the least. We had new features that we were trying to run on older hardware. We had no components to hook up that we discovered weren't quite compatible. We had a helluva time getting something to work in a non-pressure situation in the office. We worked on this for a week and even came in on a Sunday to get it done. Close to done, that is. We ended up shipping everything BUT the offending piece of equipment. We left that one behind with the understanding that I would hand-carry it to the trade show in Philly.
The plan called for me to go by the office and pack the machine in a hard covered suitcase that we had in the lab for just such an occasion. My trip last week to Canada got pushed back by a day so I wasn't back in time to go by the office at the end of the work week. I dropped by the office late on Saturday night to gather the gear and the suitcase. It was then that I discovered the combination lock on this big red Samsonite rolling suitcase. I was too tired to worry much about it at the time so I just put the empty suitcase in my car along with the server that it was to transport. On Sunday I sent an email asking if anybody in the office knew the combination. I got no response until late that evening.
Unfortunately,the email that I got did not contain the correct combination. So, here I sit at my computer, shaking my head, sighing loudly and ready to throw my hands up. I've already packed my clothes and checked in for my Monday morning flight, yet I cannot rest easy because of this one loose end. I'm going to try not to think about it, but I'll have to work this out in the morning before I get on my way to the airport. As if I needed one more obstacle to deal with for this demo....
Friday, June 20, 2008
Crunch Time
It’s 12:52pm on Friday afternoon on the west coast and I am folded into seat 17A of Air Canada flight 755 from Toronto to San Francisco as we race across the sky at some 36,000 feet. There’s only about 90 minutes left to go so we’re probably over Idaho or Utah or something by now. In case you were wondering, seat 17A is not in the exit row.
I tried to talk them into accommodating me, but I guess the old tall, dark, and handsome mojo wasn’t working today. It hardly ever does. Sometimes the tall gets me over, but most of the folks at airline counters are about as sympathetic to my plight in an economy seat as Warden is to Andy Dufraine’s need for some classical music and a fluffy pillow in Shawshank Redemption. I was persistent today though. The first lady was very short with me, as she muttered something very curtly about “only center seats” through a heavy accent of some sort (maybe French), with body language that said “please leave me alone”. Glancing out the window at the rather narrow A319 that would be our bird on this fine afternoon, I knew that it would be a long 5 hours in a center seat. It’s bad enough in ANY seat back in coach, but a center is especially bad.
When another, much friendlier lady appeared behind the counter I stood back and observed her demeanor for a few minutes before approaching. I watched her smiling and even placing a hand on the shoulder of a little old man as she walked over to hand him his boarding pass. I had seen enough to know that it was worth walking back over there to see if she would be any more compassionate than the previous lady.
She also told me no, but with an infectious smile that was sorely missing from the other lady. She did however make an effort to take care of me, ultimately finding me the window seat here in 17A, with no one next to me. “There’s no one in 17B and I’ll make sure not to put anyone there,” she said, again with the big friendly smile. I smiled and thanked her and proceeded to board the plane.
So here I am turned sideways with the armrest pressing into my back, my left shoulder against the window and my right shoulder up against the seat tapping away at the keys of my laptop. I’m still not comfortable and especially not with the guys in front of me reclining their seats on me. However, twisted up like this, I can maneuver my arms to a position that will allow me to type off to the side. Anything for the pursuit of perfecting the craft. If you know a good chiropractor or masseuse, please let me know.
I tried to talk them into accommodating me, but I guess the old tall, dark, and handsome mojo wasn’t working today. It hardly ever does. Sometimes the tall gets me over, but most of the folks at airline counters are about as sympathetic to my plight in an economy seat as Warden is to Andy Dufraine’s need for some classical music and a fluffy pillow in Shawshank Redemption. I was persistent today though. The first lady was very short with me, as she muttered something very curtly about “only center seats” through a heavy accent of some sort (maybe French), with body language that said “please leave me alone”. Glancing out the window at the rather narrow A319 that would be our bird on this fine afternoon, I knew that it would be a long 5 hours in a center seat. It’s bad enough in ANY seat back in coach, but a center is especially bad.
When another, much friendlier lady appeared behind the counter I stood back and observed her demeanor for a few minutes before approaching. I watched her smiling and even placing a hand on the shoulder of a little old man as she walked over to hand him his boarding pass. I had seen enough to know that it was worth walking back over there to see if she would be any more compassionate than the previous lady.
She also told me no, but with an infectious smile that was sorely missing from the other lady. She did however make an effort to take care of me, ultimately finding me the window seat here in 17A, with no one next to me. “There’s no one in 17B and I’ll make sure not to put anyone there,” she said, again with the big friendly smile. I smiled and thanked her and proceeded to board the plane.
So here I am turned sideways with the armrest pressing into my back, my left shoulder against the window and my right shoulder up against the seat tapping away at the keys of my laptop. I’m still not comfortable and especially not with the guys in front of me reclining their seats on me. However, twisted up like this, I can maneuver my arms to a position that will allow me to type off to the side. Anything for the pursuit of perfecting the craft. If you know a good chiropractor or masseuse, please let me know.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Addicted
It’s official. I’m addicted. I can’t go a day without reading the various blogs on the Urban Thought Collective website/blog/community to which I am a contributor. I just spent an hour responding to comments on my latest submission, reading the blogs of the other authors and adding an occasional comment on those, and clicking on some of the breaking news event links on that page and the ESPN.com page. I have an excuse for the ESPN.com browsing though because I happen to be residing at the only hotel in the Western Hemisphere which does not include ESPN on its television channel lineup. At home I stay connected with the constant background noise loop that Sportscenter provides as I flip on the tube (well, the plasma these days ;-) ) while I do the dishes or nose around the refrigerator.
The blog site is just exciting though. I’m eager to see if the readers were able to glean from my writing whatever it was that I was trying to convey. I also like to see if they were entertained, providing that that was the intent of one of my entries. I like reading the other blogs just to hear the very interesting and diverse perspectives from the writers and readers on a whole host of current topics and newsworthy items. I should totally be going to sleep now. I got up early and traveled all day yesterday and then went to bed late and got up early again today. I worked all day today (and I do mean ALL day) again and I am quite tired. Somehow though, I can’t tear myself away. I’m feeling like I’m going to miss something. Perhaps this is my version of the network TV series that can’t be missed. It is my Lost or my Grey’s Anatomy, or my Desperate Housewives (none of which I have ever seen in their entirety by the way).
What’s more, there are so many of my own personal emails to respond to on my yahoo account. I couldn’t really check those today during the regular workday, as I usually would, because the customer was all up in my grill all day! And then there’s always the “Daily”. I’ve got to get something in here as much as possible. Right?
The blog site is just exciting though. I’m eager to see if the readers were able to glean from my writing whatever it was that I was trying to convey. I also like to see if they were entertained, providing that that was the intent of one of my entries. I like reading the other blogs just to hear the very interesting and diverse perspectives from the writers and readers on a whole host of current topics and newsworthy items. I should totally be going to sleep now. I got up early and traveled all day yesterday and then went to bed late and got up early again today. I worked all day today (and I do mean ALL day) again and I am quite tired. Somehow though, I can’t tear myself away. I’m feeling like I’m going to miss something. Perhaps this is my version of the network TV series that can’t be missed. It is my Lost or my Grey’s Anatomy, or my Desperate Housewives (none of which I have ever seen in their entirety by the way).
What’s more, there are so many of my own personal emails to respond to on my yahoo account. I couldn’t really check those today during the regular workday, as I usually would, because the customer was all up in my grill all day! And then there’s always the “Daily”. I’ve got to get something in here as much as possible. Right?
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Flashed before my eyes...
It all happened in slow motion, just like they always say that it does. All at once I thought of my life in freeze frames, preceeded by the blinding flash of an old school camera. The expert cinematography of the Clint Eastwood directed (boxing movie) comes to mind. You remember the scene where Hillary Swank comes to in the hospital bed hooked up to all of that equipment, feeding tube taped to her mouth, battered and bruised head strapped to a board and propped up on a lonely hospital bed after just a moment before being shown in the ring against that crazy lookin’ German sista that did her dirty? Another flash and we’re looking at the long faces of Clint and Morgan Freeman in the hallway. Don’t remember that? How about Meg Ryan on that bicycle in City of Angels, arms stretched out wide, eyes closed, and big, contented smile on her face as she sped down that Sierra Nevada highway when she suddenly realizes that she is about to meet her demise in the form of an 18-wheeled logging truck that has just pulled on to the road. That scene was 5 minutes long if it was 5 seconds. The look on her troubled countenance conveyed the simultaneous feelings of fear and the thoughts of “if I had only done___ in my life…”, and “…I wonder how they’ll remember me….” It was kind of like that.
I thought of the hospital room I’d be in, trying to hold on. I wondered if they’d have the presence of mind to find my cell phone and see how they might notify my next of kin so far away in the United States. Luckily, amidst all of this doom and gloom, destruction and demise, another part of my brain was on auto-pilot, making sure that none of these outcomes would become reality.
Just off my Air Canada flight and through a relatively painless customs/immigration process, my co-worker and I were walking through the Lester Pearson Toronto International Airport without a clue about how to find the rental car counters. Signage not being one of the strong suits of this place, we had strayed well off course before being set straight by an airport employee on the ground floor. “Go back up the escalator…twice…and then turn left across the bridge and follow that hallway until you reach the parking structure. The rental cars are in there.” We followed the directions, laptop bags on our shoulders and “rollies” in tow when we found ourselves on a moving walkway and no doubt engaged in some random topic of conversation which I can no longer recall. Adhering to the “walk on the left, stand on the right” convention of this apparatus, I was about a step and a half ahead, turned slightly sideways, almost completely wrapped up in the randomness.
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that the middle eastern family of 4 that were about 20-30 feet ahead of us kept getting closer and closer. When I finally looked up to fully to see what was going on, things slowed down to that Meg-on-a-bike tempo. I doubt that my facial expression changed at all, but on “this” side of the lenses of my eyes TO BE CONTINUED in big, bold, block black letters appeared. Somehow, the wheel on the luggage cart, piled high with several pieces of luggage that the boy of about 12 was pushing, had caught the metal lip at the end of the moving walkway and had virtually locked up and was about to roll back on him as he struggled to keep it from doing so. Making matters worse, the also fully loaded cart that his mother (fully covered in a blue and white birka from head to toe steering the cart with one hand while holding the hand of her 3 year old daughter with the other) was pushing quickly ran up against the boy’s cart and also began to topple over. Somehow instinctively backpedaling on the moving walkway to buy some time, I grabbed the other arm of the little girl and lifted her in tandem with the mom (as she frantically muttered something in her native tongue) in an effort to keep her from being crushed by the mass of luggage and steel carts hurtling toward us. It seemed like this went on for 5 minutes in super slow motion. The block lettered TO BE CONTINUED was soon to be replaced by THE END as the credits were surely about to roll on us…on ME! Peculiarly, the husband had made it off the moving walkway (perhaps in the “walking 5 steps ahead” tradition) and was looking quite annoyed as he finally made it back to lend a hand in the struggle.
At long last, the walkway stopped. It was like a scene out of a Tom and Jerry or Tweety Bird cartoon where Jerry or Tweety is strapped to a piece of lumber that will subsequently have a date with a saw or tied to some tracks as the train’s whistle announces its impending arrival (and their demise) when out of nowhere some hero saves the day. That hero was some random, blue jump-suited airport employee that knew right where the emergency kill switch was. The mother and I lowered the little girl so that her feet could finally touch the ground again. The little boy and Daddy-Late-Freight started to collect the mess of luggage and cleared the way for us to walk through. The mother thanked me profusely for helping her with the girl. My co-worker and I thanked the blue jumpsuit guy and went on our way. Oddly, the husband neither thanked nor spoke to anyone. He just continued to look annoyed as he gathered the family up to continue their trek toward the parking lot. He didn’t check to see if his wife or children were alright.
I thought of the hospital room I’d be in, trying to hold on. I wondered if they’d have the presence of mind to find my cell phone and see how they might notify my next of kin so far away in the United States. Luckily, amidst all of this doom and gloom, destruction and demise, another part of my brain was on auto-pilot, making sure that none of these outcomes would become reality.
Just off my Air Canada flight and through a relatively painless customs/immigration process, my co-worker and I were walking through the Lester Pearson Toronto International Airport without a clue about how to find the rental car counters. Signage not being one of the strong suits of this place, we had strayed well off course before being set straight by an airport employee on the ground floor. “Go back up the escalator…twice…and then turn left across the bridge and follow that hallway until you reach the parking structure. The rental cars are in there.” We followed the directions, laptop bags on our shoulders and “rollies” in tow when we found ourselves on a moving walkway and no doubt engaged in some random topic of conversation which I can no longer recall. Adhering to the “walk on the left, stand on the right” convention of this apparatus, I was about a step and a half ahead, turned slightly sideways, almost completely wrapped up in the randomness.
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that the middle eastern family of 4 that were about 20-30 feet ahead of us kept getting closer and closer. When I finally looked up to fully to see what was going on, things slowed down to that Meg-on-a-bike tempo. I doubt that my facial expression changed at all, but on “this” side of the lenses of my eyes TO BE CONTINUED in big, bold, block black letters appeared. Somehow, the wheel on the luggage cart, piled high with several pieces of luggage that the boy of about 12 was pushing, had caught the metal lip at the end of the moving walkway and had virtually locked up and was about to roll back on him as he struggled to keep it from doing so. Making matters worse, the also fully loaded cart that his mother (fully covered in a blue and white birka from head to toe steering the cart with one hand while holding the hand of her 3 year old daughter with the other) was pushing quickly ran up against the boy’s cart and also began to topple over. Somehow instinctively backpedaling on the moving walkway to buy some time, I grabbed the other arm of the little girl and lifted her in tandem with the mom (as she frantically muttered something in her native tongue) in an effort to keep her from being crushed by the mass of luggage and steel carts hurtling toward us. It seemed like this went on for 5 minutes in super slow motion. The block lettered TO BE CONTINUED was soon to be replaced by THE END as the credits were surely about to roll on us…on ME! Peculiarly, the husband had made it off the moving walkway (perhaps in the “walking 5 steps ahead” tradition) and was looking quite annoyed as he finally made it back to lend a hand in the struggle.
At long last, the walkway stopped. It was like a scene out of a Tom and Jerry or Tweety Bird cartoon where Jerry or Tweety is strapped to a piece of lumber that will subsequently have a date with a saw or tied to some tracks as the train’s whistle announces its impending arrival (and their demise) when out of nowhere some hero saves the day. That hero was some random, blue jump-suited airport employee that knew right where the emergency kill switch was. The mother and I lowered the little girl so that her feet could finally touch the ground again. The little boy and Daddy-Late-Freight started to collect the mess of luggage and cleared the way for us to walk through. The mother thanked me profusely for helping her with the girl. My co-worker and I thanked the blue jumpsuit guy and went on our way. Oddly, the husband neither thanked nor spoke to anyone. He just continued to look annoyed as he gathered the family up to continue their trek toward the parking lot. He didn’t check to see if his wife or children were alright.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Forgotten
I always like to joke around with people that Father's Day is the "Forgotten Holiday". Of course there's a shred of truth to my rumination, although I try not to dwell on it too much. Mother's Day is this grand affair, eclipsed (and narrowly at that) only by Christmas. Father's have to share the marquis with Grads as in "Get your gifts for Grads and Dads". Forget mother's day and you may not live to tell about it. You will never hear the end of it if you are lucky. More likely, you'll be banished to the Kingdom of Silent Treatment, where, if there were indeed such a kingdom, jilted Mom would not be its Ice Princess but its Cold Blooded Queen. Forget Father's Day? Hey, has anyone seen the remote control? There's no big consequence for missing Father's Day.
My Father's Day started early and ended late. In typical Dad fashion, it was busy all day long filled with everyone else's activities. There was no ceremonial parade. There was no pageantry. There was no formal gift presentation. Apparently, my kids had hidden my gift behind the couch sometime yesterday and forgot all about it until almost 4pm today when they mentioned rather nonchalantly, "Hey Dad..um..don't forget to look behind the couch for your gift later on...," not even looking up from their Nintendo DS's. My daughter had a 9am basketball game, and another at 2:15pm. In between we went to breakfast. Actually, this was our second breakfast, but the first that we had a chance to relax and enjoy. I couldn't very well send her out to play without anything in her stomach so I was up at 7am making some eggs to serve with the homemade buttermilk biscuits that I made yesterday. There weren't enough biscuits left, so I had oatmeal. For the second breakfast, we dined at Stacks in Redwood City, not far from the gym where she was playing. Right after we ordered my daughter proclaimed rather proudly, "This is our treat!"
"Really?!!" I said excitedly and pleasantly surprised."You have money?"
"Well..um..not exactly...," she started to backpedal. "It's your Father's Day Breakfast...from us...but...uh...you'll pay."
You know that face that the highway patrol officer makes just after you finish your lame excuse about having swerved suddenly into the carpool lane and being forced to remain there for an extended period because the cars in the middle lane would not let you merge back in? He is neither sympathetic nor amused. Well, maybe slightly amused but only inwardly. I gave her that look. We ate and hustled back to the gym for the second game and I even bought her a t-shirt from one of the vendors. After her game, I had to go to the office to work on a project that seems to be never ending. Working in my office on a Sunday is bad enough. Working there on Father's Day ought to be illegal.
I missed Game 5 of the NBA Finals between the Celtics and Lakers. I caught the radio broadcast of the 4th quarter as I lamented about how I have missed the majority of games 1, 4, and 5. Hopefully I'll see game 6 from my hotel room in Ontario, Canada as I'll have the Eastern Time Zone working on my behalf. I'm nodding off now so I had better get some sleep.
Oh, I almost forgot. The little surprise behind the couch was really nice. Accompanying the 2 linen shirts that they picked out for me was a nice picture painted by my son and a poem also penned by him labeling me as not only a good pitcher and great basketball player, but the coolest and best Dad ever. That was a nice way to end the day.
My Father's Day started early and ended late. In typical Dad fashion, it was busy all day long filled with everyone else's activities. There was no ceremonial parade. There was no pageantry. There was no formal gift presentation. Apparently, my kids had hidden my gift behind the couch sometime yesterday and forgot all about it until almost 4pm today when they mentioned rather nonchalantly, "Hey Dad..um..don't forget to look behind the couch for your gift later on...," not even looking up from their Nintendo DS's. My daughter had a 9am basketball game, and another at 2:15pm. In between we went to breakfast. Actually, this was our second breakfast, but the first that we had a chance to relax and enjoy. I couldn't very well send her out to play without anything in her stomach so I was up at 7am making some eggs to serve with the homemade buttermilk biscuits that I made yesterday. There weren't enough biscuits left, so I had oatmeal. For the second breakfast, we dined at Stacks in Redwood City, not far from the gym where she was playing. Right after we ordered my daughter proclaimed rather proudly, "This is our treat!"
"Really?!!" I said excitedly and pleasantly surprised."You have money?"
"Well..um..not exactly...," she started to backpedal. "It's your Father's Day Breakfast...from us...but...uh...you'll pay."
You know that face that the highway patrol officer makes just after you finish your lame excuse about having swerved suddenly into the carpool lane and being forced to remain there for an extended period because the cars in the middle lane would not let you merge back in? He is neither sympathetic nor amused. Well, maybe slightly amused but only inwardly. I gave her that look. We ate and hustled back to the gym for the second game and I even bought her a t-shirt from one of the vendors. After her game, I had to go to the office to work on a project that seems to be never ending. Working in my office on a Sunday is bad enough. Working there on Father's Day ought to be illegal.
I missed Game 5 of the NBA Finals between the Celtics and Lakers. I caught the radio broadcast of the 4th quarter as I lamented about how I have missed the majority of games 1, 4, and 5. Hopefully I'll see game 6 from my hotel room in Ontario, Canada as I'll have the Eastern Time Zone working on my behalf. I'm nodding off now so I had better get some sleep.
Oh, I almost forgot. The little surprise behind the couch was really nice. Accompanying the 2 linen shirts that they picked out for me was a nice picture painted by my son and a poem also penned by him labeling me as not only a good pitcher and great basketball player, but the coolest and best Dad ever. That was a nice way to end the day.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
que dia larga!
From the moment my eyes opened up to see the ceiling in my parents’ living room this morning, I knew it was going to be one of those ultra busy days. I stayed over last night because I had been down here for my niece’s graduation and thought it would be pointless to drive all the way home only to come back to go to my dentist near here, especially considering the ridiculous price of gas these days. I had hoped to get up, eat a little breakfast and maybe even do a little writing so that I wouldn’t be scrambling to get something in to UTC for my Friday deadline this week. However, brainstorming not being governed by the proverbial on/off switch in my head, I didn’t come up with anything worth until I had only about 15 minutes left. At least it was a start. I packed up and dashed out the door and headed for the dentist’s office.
After the rather thorough cleaning and fairly heavy-handed manipulating of my gum line, I was a tad sore as I headed off to work. I hadn’t planned on going to work today, but the project that I need to ship by the end of the week is dragging on and I need to make some more progress. To make matters even more urgent, it seems as though one of my co-workers is angling to take this project over and I definitely do not want to be marginalized in these tough economic times. I stayed at work absolutely as long as I could and then literally sprinted out of there at 1220pm to make it to my daughter’s 5th grade graduation in time. I knew I’d never hear the end of it if I didn’t make it to this, project or no project! I arrived just in time to enjoy the wonderful ceremony. It far exceeded my expectations as each 5th grader came on stage to give a speech about their fondest memory of the time that they’ve spent at the school. I was so proud to see my daughter articulate her story clearly and concisely, even adding inflections for emphasis to keep the audience engaged.
After the ceremony, my mom, my 2 nieces and my son and daughter went for a celebratory lunch at Barney’s Gourmet Hamburgers. It’s not like this was in the budget or anything but how could I not choose to “finance” a meal for such a grand occasion. One day of fiscal irresponsibility will not lead to my un-doing. (Enter these into evidence under Exhibit A: Famous Last Words). When we were finished, my mom and my nieces headed back to San Jose while the kids and I headed over to the east side to see if we could get my son involved in the basketball program at the church. Unfortunately, there’s not much of a program to this date as only 1 other kid showed up. Never one to frown on an open gym, we shot around until about 615pm when we had to dip outta there and head to my daughter’s softball banquet. Skyline Pizza was the venue for the 2 time defending Oakland Girls Softball League 10 and Under division undefeated champions’ (haven’t lost since 2006) festivities. Since it was dinner time, I begrudgingly ordered some pizza even though this joint definitely does not rate on my “approved-pizza-list” in this city. That is a very short list of maybe 1 and a half establishments, depending on if I can overlook the surroundings on Telegraph or Powell streets and delight in a slice of Blondie’s or Fat Slice Pizza. Otherwise, it’s strictly Zachary’s (see, My Name is Joe from a few months back).
Unfortunately, my son left me hanging and decided post-haste that he did NOT actually want to share any of the large combination pizza that I ordered. (Note: financed meal number 2 on this day). Oh well, such is life when you base decisions on the reliability of an 8 year old. I wish I could sleep for 12 hours tonight, but I know I must get up and get back into the office again in the morning. This is unprecedented. Only once before have I been to this office on 5 consecutive days, but appears as though it will happen this week.
After the rather thorough cleaning and fairly heavy-handed manipulating of my gum line, I was a tad sore as I headed off to work. I hadn’t planned on going to work today, but the project that I need to ship by the end of the week is dragging on and I need to make some more progress. To make matters even more urgent, it seems as though one of my co-workers is angling to take this project over and I definitely do not want to be marginalized in these tough economic times. I stayed at work absolutely as long as I could and then literally sprinted out of there at 1220pm to make it to my daughter’s 5th grade graduation in time. I knew I’d never hear the end of it if I didn’t make it to this, project or no project! I arrived just in time to enjoy the wonderful ceremony. It far exceeded my expectations as each 5th grader came on stage to give a speech about their fondest memory of the time that they’ve spent at the school. I was so proud to see my daughter articulate her story clearly and concisely, even adding inflections for emphasis to keep the audience engaged.
After the ceremony, my mom, my 2 nieces and my son and daughter went for a celebratory lunch at Barney’s Gourmet Hamburgers. It’s not like this was in the budget or anything but how could I not choose to “finance” a meal for such a grand occasion. One day of fiscal irresponsibility will not lead to my un-doing. (Enter these into evidence under Exhibit A: Famous Last Words). When we were finished, my mom and my nieces headed back to San Jose while the kids and I headed over to the east side to see if we could get my son involved in the basketball program at the church. Unfortunately, there’s not much of a program to this date as only 1 other kid showed up. Never one to frown on an open gym, we shot around until about 615pm when we had to dip outta there and head to my daughter’s softball banquet. Skyline Pizza was the venue for the 2 time defending Oakland Girls Softball League 10 and Under division undefeated champions’ (haven’t lost since 2006) festivities. Since it was dinner time, I begrudgingly ordered some pizza even though this joint definitely does not rate on my “approved-pizza-list” in this city. That is a very short list of maybe 1 and a half establishments, depending on if I can overlook the surroundings on Telegraph or Powell streets and delight in a slice of Blondie’s or Fat Slice Pizza. Otherwise, it’s strictly Zachary’s (see, My Name is Joe from a few months back).
Unfortunately, my son left me hanging and decided post-haste that he did NOT actually want to share any of the large combination pizza that I ordered. (Note: financed meal number 2 on this day). Oh well, such is life when you base decisions on the reliability of an 8 year old. I wish I could sleep for 12 hours tonight, but I know I must get up and get back into the office again in the morning. This is unprecedented. Only once before have I been to this office on 5 consecutive days, but appears as though it will happen this week.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
steal away
It seems as though I will never get to write tonight. I opened my computer in the front room and was suddenly engaged in a conversation. About 20 minutes later, I moved over to the living room and popped open the laptop again. I was followed. My 9 year old niece bombarded me with questions.
"What are you doing?"
"What is that?"
"What does that do?"
"Why are you doing that?"
"Is this what you do at work? It seems boring."
"This almost seems like a real computer."
I felt like the guy being interrogated by MacAuley Culkin in Home Alone? It was Home Alone, wasn't it? Who was he talking to? John Candy? Maybe that was Uncle Buck. Hmmm? I don't know. But you remember the kid and his penchant for getting under the skin of adults. My niece has definitely got that MacAuley Culkin thing going on. She looks at you with the deadpan of a triage nurse at a county hospital, scarcely reacting to any of your responses as if she hardly believes anything that you're saying. I eventually closed up shop again and talked to her for a minute before thinking of a suitable distraction to keep her busy. I handed her my cell phone and queued it up to one of the 2 games that are on it. Well, actually, its really only 1 game because solitaire doesn't rate in my book. Bubble Breaker fit the bill and so engrossed was she after about 30 seconds that I reached for my laptop again.
Just as I did, my sister came up over my left shoulder.
"What's that?"
"Whatcha doin'?"
"Are you working on something from work right now?"
The apple clearly does not fall far from the tree. I'm at my parents' house this evening and its still a pretty full house as the festivities following my niece's (the one that is 9 years the senior of lil' Ms. Culkin from above) graduation are winding down. I'm coming to grips with the fact that I'm not going to get any writing done tonight. I was hoping to steal away to a corner and let the words just flow but it's just not happening. Oh well, it's not the end of the world. There's always tomorrow. Besides, my sister is hardly ever in town so I may as well enjoy her and everyone else's company. It's always nice to sit and chop it up with family. There's something about having the face to face contact that the telephone just can't provide. We chatted about what she's been up to, recent triumphs and milestones reached in her life (besides hitting the big 4-0), and working outdoors.
Overall, it was a pretty good evening. My mom and her cousins collaborated to put together a fabulous spread of beans, rice, enchiladas, and various salads. My Uncle Levi brought his world famous tri-tip steak for the occasion. I was lucky to get some because it went quickly and I came late after getting stuck at work. I think he marinates this stuff in sugar or something because it is absolutely delicious. I'll be grabbing a spot on the couch tonight because not only am I tired, but I have a dentist appointment at 9am. I'm probably still firmly operating on Central Time since I was doing so for almost 2 weeks and there's no sense in driving all the way to Oakland (from San Jose) to turn around and come right back in the morning during rush hour traffic. I'm so tired that I don't even really care that my wonderful bed will be vacant tonight. I think my bed deserves a name. I'll work on that. The randomness is flowing out of control now. Clearly it's time to go to sleep.
"What are you doing?"
"What is that?"
"What does that do?"
"Why are you doing that?"
"Is this what you do at work? It seems boring."
"This almost seems like a real computer."
I felt like the guy being interrogated by MacAuley Culkin in Home Alone? It was Home Alone, wasn't it? Who was he talking to? John Candy? Maybe that was Uncle Buck. Hmmm? I don't know. But you remember the kid and his penchant for getting under the skin of adults. My niece has definitely got that MacAuley Culkin thing going on. She looks at you with the deadpan of a triage nurse at a county hospital, scarcely reacting to any of your responses as if she hardly believes anything that you're saying. I eventually closed up shop again and talked to her for a minute before thinking of a suitable distraction to keep her busy. I handed her my cell phone and queued it up to one of the 2 games that are on it. Well, actually, its really only 1 game because solitaire doesn't rate in my book. Bubble Breaker fit the bill and so engrossed was she after about 30 seconds that I reached for my laptop again.
Just as I did, my sister came up over my left shoulder.
"What's that?"
"Whatcha doin'?"
"Are you working on something from work right now?"
The apple clearly does not fall far from the tree. I'm at my parents' house this evening and its still a pretty full house as the festivities following my niece's (the one that is 9 years the senior of lil' Ms. Culkin from above) graduation are winding down. I'm coming to grips with the fact that I'm not going to get any writing done tonight. I was hoping to steal away to a corner and let the words just flow but it's just not happening. Oh well, it's not the end of the world. There's always tomorrow. Besides, my sister is hardly ever in town so I may as well enjoy her and everyone else's company. It's always nice to sit and chop it up with family. There's something about having the face to face contact that the telephone just can't provide. We chatted about what she's been up to, recent triumphs and milestones reached in her life (besides hitting the big 4-0), and working outdoors.
Overall, it was a pretty good evening. My mom and her cousins collaborated to put together a fabulous spread of beans, rice, enchiladas, and various salads. My Uncle Levi brought his world famous tri-tip steak for the occasion. I was lucky to get some because it went quickly and I came late after getting stuck at work. I think he marinates this stuff in sugar or something because it is absolutely delicious. I'll be grabbing a spot on the couch tonight because not only am I tired, but I have a dentist appointment at 9am. I'm probably still firmly operating on Central Time since I was doing so for almost 2 weeks and there's no sense in driving all the way to Oakland (from San Jose) to turn around and come right back in the morning during rush hour traffic. I'm so tired that I don't even really care that my wonderful bed will be vacant tonight. I think my bed deserves a name. I'll work on that. The randomness is flowing out of control now. Clearly it's time to go to sleep.
Monday, June 9, 2008
y que mas?
I’ve talked about so many food and “hanging out” related aspects of my time in Bogota, Colombia but have deliberately left out some of the behind the scenes stuff that served to enrich the whole experience. Had I not, I may not have slept at all while I was there. There are only so many hours in a day, and if I may make like Wyclef Jean and pontificate about what I’d do if I were president, I’d start by advocating the 30-hour day. With 30 hours, I could still plan on 8-10 hours of sleep and cram all of the other things that I have to do into the other 20 odd hours. But enough on that. Back on Colombia.
Each day we had a hired driver named Juan Pineiro that took us to and from the office in a rather cozy Hyundai mini-van. A lifelong native of Bogota, Juanito was our unofficial tourguide/mobile concierge/ambassador for all things Colombiano. What sometimes seemed like detours to merely get out of the constant gridlock often ended up being slow strolls/guided tours through some of the lesser known parts of town along with the requisite insight that only a true Colombiano could provide. It was Juanito that showed us where the tallest skyscraper (colpatria) was and where the house of "El Mexicano" (allegedly a titan of the underground economy usually associated with Colombia) stood.
Each day we had a hired driver named Juan Pineiro that took us to and from the office in a rather cozy Hyundai mini-van. A lifelong native of Bogota, Juanito was our unofficial tourguide/mobile concierge/ambassador for all things Colombiano. What sometimes seemed like detours to merely get out of the constant gridlock often ended up being slow strolls/guided tours through some of the lesser known parts of town along with the requisite insight that only a true Colombiano could provide. It was Juanito that showed us where the tallest skyscraper (colpatria) was and where the house of "El Mexicano" (allegedly a titan of the underground economy usually associated with Colombia) stood.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Fotos
I've got lots of great photos to help you to experience some of the things that I've been talking about. I'll do that shortly, but probably not tonight. Maybe there will be wi-fi in the airport, and maybe i'll be sitting there with nothing to do, and maybe I'm not going to be inspired by anything I see so I won't be writing.
Don't worry, you'll enjoy them. I wish I had a better zoom lens. I wish I had a zoom lens at all. Oh well, for now I'll just be a scribe.
Don't worry, you'll enjoy them. I wish I had a better zoom lens. I wish I had a zoom lens at all. Oh well, for now I'll just be a scribe.
Monday, June 2, 2008
People Watching
Perhaps the greatest thing about where I’m staying is that it allows me to engage in my favorite past time. Well, yeah, eating is my favorite too, and this place is great for that, but that’s not what I’m talking about. Exercise, well, yeah it would probably be cool for that too. I could run around these parks a million times and I don’t think they’d ever get old. Can’t say that I’d be terribly eager to run on the street here because that would mean I’d have to be made hyperaware of the traffic, since things like stopping at stop signs seem to be optional. But no matter where I’m at, be it a crowded street, a busy airport, or standing at the door to the sanctuary, I can always be thoroughly entertained by the people watching. There’s never a shortage of interesting things to see in this world, but perhaps people are the most entertaining. Whether they are just doing ordinary, mundane things, or if they are congregating and carrying on with one another, there’s never a shortage of observations to be made.
This place is absolutely wonderful for this pastime. Not only am I in extra-heightened-soak-in-everything mode since I’m in a foreign place, but there’s also the whole idea that language (both verbal and non-verbal) issues come into play as do cultural differences. For instance, in Oakland, I might walk in and out of an establishment (restaurant, store, school, whatever) and a security guard probably won’t even acknowledge my presence with a nod, much less a hello or good afternoon. Quite to the contrary, every single security guard, concierge at the hotel, hostess, taxi driver, street vendor or otherwise here in Bogota gives you a buenas tardes if you’re within earshot. At each stop light during the never-ending traffic (okay, it is pretty easy to get around after 9pm…), I’m delighted by street performers, people selling dulces, cacahuates y aguacates. The other day, I saw this bare chested kid (and its not warm here right now)put on a bike helmet, and throw himself into the longest continual breakdancing headspin that I may have ever seen. Luckily, I actually had some change on me that time and rolled down the window so he could come by for his donation at the end of his show all prior to the light turned green. He put a little more on it, acting like he was terribly dizzy and disoriented to give it the vaudevillian flair, upon his dismount,and then he took a bow. At another light, I paid close attention as the team of dulce vendors worked in tandem. Going down the rows of stopped cars, the first guy went by and placed a little bag of what looked like candied peanuts on the mirror or partially opened window of each car. There was a girl that followed behind him that collected the goods, almost just as soon as he had placed them on each vehicle. Another girl, followed behind the first, collecting money from any of the drivers who had collected the bags from the window sills or mirrors and taken them into their car. Also at many of the major intersections, there’s always the Ejercitos (Colombian National Army) standing there with their camouflage and some very imposing weapon. Almost without fail, they have their hands in a “ready to shoot” position whether they’re holding an M-16 or shotgun, wearing a cap or their very impressive looking silver helmets. These cats are way more intense than your average beat cop and given their daily mission in the city here, must be quite accomplished people watchers, their stakes a bit higher than a casual observer like myself.
The king of all the people watching spots that I’ve seen here so far has been the restaurant Salteado de Angel (also check for this one in the next Destinations . How do you like my shameless self promotion? I prefer to think of it as a no frills commercial). I don’t mean to keep raving about this place, but “Salto” has the corner on the Southeastern corner of Parque de la 93. Apparently, this is the SPOT. I went there because I liked the way it looked when we drove by one day and told mis companeros that that was where we were going tonight. It looked every bit as nice as any restaurant I’ve ever been to in San Francisco or otherwise, with its huge windows, dim lights and eclectic selection of furniture. The food and wine list were great as well (I’m really not trying to give up the goods here. Check it in Destinations) and the bathroom…Wow! The hostess, yet another bonafide head-turner, by the way, showed us to a table, but spying a corner table with two big windows from which to take in el Parque, I asked that we be seated there. She complied and the people watching was on. Boy was it! On Friday and Saturday night this is a dancing spot, but I guess Sunday night is date night. The Colombian people that I have seen, especially in the types of spots I’ve been frequenting, have been very striking, so it was not surprising that this place was no different. You almost hope for an average looking couple just to prove that there is such a thing here. No, not really, I just put that in here for levity.
However, after awhile, mis companeros y yo started to notice a trend with the comings and goings here. Perhaps there was something a tad dubious about them. Sure, it’s not out of the ordinary to see a young lady with an older man, but there were way too many instances. Perhaps this is the “under” spot for the chicks-on-the-side. Naw, that doesn’t even seem logical. If you were trying to hide, you wouldn’t go to this place with all of its big windows and prime viewing of el Parque. We were having a good time with this analysis and the Los Vascos Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon was making our observations and laughter a little more audible to the rest of the room, but we didn’t really care. Then, like data points in an oft repeated lab experiment, we keyed in on the more subtle nuances of these pairings. The older guys weren’t all that dashing like the Colombian guys, nor were they very Colombian. In fact, some of these cats were downright square, and very definitely European or American businessmen. When they started showing up with more than one very attractive Colombian woman, we had reached our conclusion. Sunday night is ESCORT night!
Stiff, European businessman type with a 19 year old Colombiana on his arm. “ESCORT!” we exclaimed and then heartily laughed. Two European guys walking uncomfortably as if somebody were watching them (nobody but us) as they tried to be inconspicuous, with 2 Colombianas half their age? “ESCORTS!” Another guy, another lovely young girl? “ESCORT!” Older Latino lookin’ guy with a young girl? “Hmmm..Escort o su hija?” This would take some further investigating. She was playing him a little close when they sat at the table near ours. “ESCORT!” Meanwhile, we were treated to watching the hostess walk by to seat these people each time they came in. I don’t gather that the hostess position is easy to come by in this town by anybody that doesn’t cause guys seated at corner tables to watch them come and go. Four chicas coming in here to dine? Remember, our corner table had two large windows so we could see folks walking from across el Parque and also getting out of “amarillas” (taxis), and then we could watch them walk all the way up the ramp to the front door. “Noche de las mujeres?”was one suggestion offered up before the judges ruling could be confirmed. This one took awhile, we’d have to revisit it. From across el Parque, past the fountain and the flowers, emerged two Colombianas y un gringo? “Hmmm…Escort? Si! Ella es nervioso y se trajo su amiga…ESCORT!” We could’ve done this for hours. Don’t sound surprised, you know I’m easily amused by now.
This place is absolutely wonderful for this pastime. Not only am I in extra-heightened-soak-in-everything mode since I’m in a foreign place, but there’s also the whole idea that language (both verbal and non-verbal) issues come into play as do cultural differences. For instance, in Oakland, I might walk in and out of an establishment (restaurant, store, school, whatever) and a security guard probably won’t even acknowledge my presence with a nod, much less a hello or good afternoon. Quite to the contrary, every single security guard, concierge at the hotel, hostess, taxi driver, street vendor or otherwise here in Bogota gives you a buenas tardes if you’re within earshot. At each stop light during the never-ending traffic (okay, it is pretty easy to get around after 9pm…), I’m delighted by street performers, people selling dulces, cacahuates y aguacates. The other day, I saw this bare chested kid (and its not warm here right now)put on a bike helmet, and throw himself into the longest continual breakdancing headspin that I may have ever seen. Luckily, I actually had some change on me that time and rolled down the window so he could come by for his donation at the end of his show all prior to the light turned green. He put a little more on it, acting like he was terribly dizzy and disoriented to give it the vaudevillian flair, upon his dismount,and then he took a bow. At another light, I paid close attention as the team of dulce vendors worked in tandem. Going down the rows of stopped cars, the first guy went by and placed a little bag of what looked like candied peanuts on the mirror or partially opened window of each car. There was a girl that followed behind him that collected the goods, almost just as soon as he had placed them on each vehicle. Another girl, followed behind the first, collecting money from any of the drivers who had collected the bags from the window sills or mirrors and taken them into their car. Also at many of the major intersections, there’s always the Ejercitos (Colombian National Army) standing there with their camouflage and some very imposing weapon. Almost without fail, they have their hands in a “ready to shoot” position whether they’re holding an M-16 or shotgun, wearing a cap or their very impressive looking silver helmets. These cats are way more intense than your average beat cop and given their daily mission in the city here, must be quite accomplished people watchers, their stakes a bit higher than a casual observer like myself.
The king of all the people watching spots that I’ve seen here so far has been the restaurant Salteado de Angel (also check for this one in the next Destinations . How do you like my shameless self promotion? I prefer to think of it as a no frills commercial). I don’t mean to keep raving about this place, but “Salto” has the corner on the Southeastern corner of Parque de la 93. Apparently, this is the SPOT. I went there because I liked the way it looked when we drove by one day and told mis companeros that that was where we were going tonight. It looked every bit as nice as any restaurant I’ve ever been to in San Francisco or otherwise, with its huge windows, dim lights and eclectic selection of furniture. The food and wine list were great as well (I’m really not trying to give up the goods here. Check it in Destinations) and the bathroom…Wow! The hostess, yet another bonafide head-turner, by the way, showed us to a table, but spying a corner table with two big windows from which to take in el Parque, I asked that we be seated there. She complied and the people watching was on. Boy was it! On Friday and Saturday night this is a dancing spot, but I guess Sunday night is date night. The Colombian people that I have seen, especially in the types of spots I’ve been frequenting, have been very striking, so it was not surprising that this place was no different. You almost hope for an average looking couple just to prove that there is such a thing here. No, not really, I just put that in here for levity.
However, after awhile, mis companeros y yo started to notice a trend with the comings and goings here. Perhaps there was something a tad dubious about them. Sure, it’s not out of the ordinary to see a young lady with an older man, but there were way too many instances. Perhaps this is the “under” spot for the chicks-on-the-side. Naw, that doesn’t even seem logical. If you were trying to hide, you wouldn’t go to this place with all of its big windows and prime viewing of el Parque. We were having a good time with this analysis and the Los Vascos Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon was making our observations and laughter a little more audible to the rest of the room, but we didn’t really care. Then, like data points in an oft repeated lab experiment, we keyed in on the more subtle nuances of these pairings. The older guys weren’t all that dashing like the Colombian guys, nor were they very Colombian. In fact, some of these cats were downright square, and very definitely European or American businessmen. When they started showing up with more than one very attractive Colombian woman, we had reached our conclusion. Sunday night is ESCORT night!
Stiff, European businessman type with a 19 year old Colombiana on his arm. “ESCORT!” we exclaimed and then heartily laughed. Two European guys walking uncomfortably as if somebody were watching them (nobody but us) as they tried to be inconspicuous, with 2 Colombianas half their age? “ESCORTS!” Another guy, another lovely young girl? “ESCORT!” Older Latino lookin’ guy with a young girl? “Hmmm..Escort o su hija?” This would take some further investigating. She was playing him a little close when they sat at the table near ours. “ESCORT!” Meanwhile, we were treated to watching the hostess walk by to seat these people each time they came in. I don’t gather that the hostess position is easy to come by in this town by anybody that doesn’t cause guys seated at corner tables to watch them come and go. Four chicas coming in here to dine? Remember, our corner table had two large windows so we could see folks walking from across el Parque and also getting out of “amarillas” (taxis), and then we could watch them walk all the way up the ramp to the front door. “Noche de las mujeres?”was one suggestion offered up before the judges ruling could be confirmed. This one took awhile, we’d have to revisit it. From across el Parque, past the fountain and the flowers, emerged two Colombianas y un gringo? “Hmmm…Escort? Si! Ella es nervioso y se trajo su amiga…ESCORT!” We could’ve done this for hours. Don’t sound surprised, you know I’m easily amused by now.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Turista
Today was the first day that I did not have to get up at the crack of dawn, stuff some food down my throat, and head to the office of the main telecommunications provider here in Bogota, ETB, that is protected like the front gate of the Pentagon. More on that later(probably a different day), but suffice it so say that neither Nino Brown nor Frank Lucas put their employees through more just to get in and out of the office each day.
It was a rough night in which vast amounts of Santa Rita y Aguasardientes were indeed imbibed. Suffice it to say that there was no hope in me getting up before noon on Sunday. Mis companeros y yo had half talked about perhaps going to the office again, but since it was Sunday, we didn’t really put a firm commitment on it. Now, that’s a funny thing there…commitment. Let’s talk about being committed, for just a second if you don’t mind. When you say “I’m committed”, just how committed are you? Are you a little committed? Are you committed when it’s convenient? Well, let’s rap for a minute. I don’t know any good way to break it down because there are always so many shades of grey, but try this on for size. I skipped breakfast this morning and since it’s my favorite meal of the day, it’s been on my mind. Nothing says breakfast quite like bacon and eggs. With the help of this fabulous bacon and egg breakfast we’ll delve deeper into the concept of commitment. First of all, you’d have to agree that chicken in this scenario is pretty committed to the breakfast effort. Without said chicken, there’d be no eggs, and without the eggs you’d just be eating what is essentially a side dish in the bacon. So the chicken is pretty committed, putting in all that work to donate some eggs to the cause. But that pig…. Now the pig is DAMN committed!
Long story short, we went out like some chickens today. I logged on for a couple hours and tried to take care of a couple tasks that would allow me to be that much further ahead when we went to the office tomorrow. But when I called them and started a sentence about going to get some lunch, they told me to hurry up because Juanito was on his way to get us for a trip to Monserrate. I guess going to the office was out. It’s not like I put up much of an argument or anything. I was down like four flats to go see a tourist spot way atop the city. We saw an incredible church and rode on something called a Teleferico up this very steep mountainside and rode down on a Funicular. All I could think about was some scene from a James Bond movie where they were fighting in one of these cable cars in the sky and the cable broke and, well, you get the picture. Good ol’ 007 survived. Or maybe I’ve got that mixed up with some other movie. It sounds like something that Bond would get caught up in. After a surprisingly good lunch at some place up on the mountain called La Casa de Santa Clara, we rode back down the hill for another impromptu touring courtesy of Juanito.
He took us to the Plaza de Simon Bolivar, and on through el barrio Candelario where, speaking of movies, I’m almost certain that the Harrison Ford movie Clear and Present Danger must’ve been shot. It was a peculiar little neighborhood with dark cobblestone street that would have one name up the street and another name down. Confused? Well, consider pulling up to an intersection as you’re riding up 3rd street for instance. In any regular city in the world, 3rd street might intersect with, say, Oak Street. Oak Street would be Oak Street if you turned left or if you turned right. Not so in Candelaria as to your right it might be Calle de Maria y a la izquierda es Calle de Antonio. I must’ve snapped 40 or 50 pictures and actually got a little winded walking up and down those hills. It sure felt good not to be sweating work too much today. I know it’ll be waiting for me tomorrow, so there’s no use wasting any cycles on it today. I even picked up some regalos for some folks. Que turista fantastica!
It was a rough night in which vast amounts of Santa Rita y Aguasardientes were indeed imbibed. Suffice it to say that there was no hope in me getting up before noon on Sunday. Mis companeros y yo had half talked about perhaps going to the office again, but since it was Sunday, we didn’t really put a firm commitment on it. Now, that’s a funny thing there…commitment. Let’s talk about being committed, for just a second if you don’t mind. When you say “I’m committed”, just how committed are you? Are you a little committed? Are you committed when it’s convenient? Well, let’s rap for a minute. I don’t know any good way to break it down because there are always so many shades of grey, but try this on for size. I skipped breakfast this morning and since it’s my favorite meal of the day, it’s been on my mind. Nothing says breakfast quite like bacon and eggs. With the help of this fabulous bacon and egg breakfast we’ll delve deeper into the concept of commitment. First of all, you’d have to agree that chicken in this scenario is pretty committed to the breakfast effort. Without said chicken, there’d be no eggs, and without the eggs you’d just be eating what is essentially a side dish in the bacon. So the chicken is pretty committed, putting in all that work to donate some eggs to the cause. But that pig…. Now the pig is DAMN committed!
Long story short, we went out like some chickens today. I logged on for a couple hours and tried to take care of a couple tasks that would allow me to be that much further ahead when we went to the office tomorrow. But when I called them and started a sentence about going to get some lunch, they told me to hurry up because Juanito was on his way to get us for a trip to Monserrate. I guess going to the office was out. It’s not like I put up much of an argument or anything. I was down like four flats to go see a tourist spot way atop the city. We saw an incredible church and rode on something called a Teleferico up this very steep mountainside and rode down on a Funicular. All I could think about was some scene from a James Bond movie where they were fighting in one of these cable cars in the sky and the cable broke and, well, you get the picture. Good ol’ 007 survived. Or maybe I’ve got that mixed up with some other movie. It sounds like something that Bond would get caught up in. After a surprisingly good lunch at some place up on the mountain called La Casa de Santa Clara, we rode back down the hill for another impromptu touring courtesy of Juanito.
He took us to the Plaza de Simon Bolivar, and on through el barrio Candelario where, speaking of movies, I’m almost certain that the Harrison Ford movie Clear and Present Danger must’ve been shot. It was a peculiar little neighborhood with dark cobblestone street that would have one name up the street and another name down. Confused? Well, consider pulling up to an intersection as you’re riding up 3rd street for instance. In any regular city in the world, 3rd street might intersect with, say, Oak Street. Oak Street would be Oak Street if you turned left or if you turned right. Not so in Candelaria as to your right it might be Calle de Maria y a la izquierda es Calle de Antonio. I must’ve snapped 40 or 50 pictures and actually got a little winded walking up and down those hills. It sure felt good not to be sweating work too much today. I know it’ll be waiting for me tomorrow, so there’s no use wasting any cycles on it today. I even picked up some regalos for some folks. Que turista fantastica!
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