Cartagena, Colombia

Oh boy. Looks like my new average is a post a year 🙃 But what really has my mind in a bender? For a fair bit of time last year I thought I had travelled to Cartagena in 2019. My cloistered mind failed to remember how both January and February of 2020 were technically in 2020 B.C.; i.e., Before Covid.

Some may conclude that my gap in memory and time is completely normal given our collective blackhole.   Others may say that time, as we knew it, is slowly dissolving because our days are less divided. (Will breakfast, lunch, and dinner become the next supper? A meal only mentioned in Victorian novels?) Maybe, and maybe. I have another theory though: memories condense time. And for me, memories with vivid colours makes me feel like I did something yesterday, even if some yesterdays are well in the past.

My reasons for travelling are usually art, sites, then food. But in the early months of 2020, I had this odd need to be in colour. Lots of color. Color and heat. Through these D.C. times (i.e., During Covid), I'm still in debt to my higher mind, and my friend who met me in Cartagena IRL.

Real or fake?

Duluth, MN

"I can't tell the difference between negative 5 and negative 26." My brother told me that one morning. To help you illustrate the absurd between the first and second sentence, let me remind you that I'm brown; so naturally, my brother is brown. And we fellow brown bears prefer balmy winter temperatures (well, most of us). Then arre yaar, WHAT is my brother doing in -26°F temps?! Is he carbon dating ice cores in a Nordic country? Is he measuring polar ice caps? Is he tapping for oil in the polar north? Is he doing something scientific in some arctic or antarctic region of the world because most brown people do something scientific? Nope. He lives in Duluth, MN. And LOVES it.

But because I'm a vanilla brown person, I went to went visit him in July. When the sky was as clear as Lake Superior.

Westwood, Los Angeles, CA

Whoa, Nelly. What the hell is going on with the three-tier title for this post? Well, to knock one of my favourite hooks of the 90's, "It ain't my fault". You know how people say L.A. is a sprawling city? I didn't grasp the full breadth of its sprawlingness up until today. For 2.5 hours my research included Santa Monica, Hollywood, Venice, Beverly Hills and the like. Some of these places are separate cities and some communities within the city of Los Angeles. For a city on the laid-back coast, ya pretty complicated L.A.

But I came to learn of Westwood through a neighbourhood within its community (I know, can L.A. dissect itself once more?) named Little Persia; or, better known and made official by Google Maps as Tehrangeles*. And it's about time if you ask me. As a kid, I always wondered why America didn't have more towns like Chinatown on its maps. If we're a melting pot then I wanted to know where all the seasoning was, you know?

"There's a section of L.A. that feels like Tehran, there's even an ice cream shop that sells saffron ice cream!"
"WHAT?! Tell me more, tell me more!" To a friend as I fought the urge not to colonize our conversation with Americana (i.e. "Grease"). (Hey, it was a summer ritual for me in my teens.)

(To all the health nuts, the bright yellow hue is not from turmeric -- control yourselves)

Albufeira, Portugal

Through my parents, I had heard of this magical place in Portugal where you can dive right into the ocean because the water is so warm. Where you don't have to wade in the surf joint by joint to lower your body temperature so that when you eventually go under, you don't scream, causing your own death by drowning. Seeing goosebumps catalyze the hair growth on my I-just-shaved-last-night legs, I figured their stories were more nostalgia. We arrived in Portugal in the middle of a heat wave and I was sitting on the beach shivering after a few swims; contemplating my degree of faith, burqa and all. But when we stepped on the beach in Albufeira and I screamed because the sand was blistering hot -- I thanked god for my heathen ways.

Deming, WA

Perhaps I'm turning into one of those old farts that daydreams in nostalgia because I worry if the internet is making our thoughts less enchanting. I remember being rapt in mystery for hours by the lone home on a field in the middle of nowhere. How do they survive? Are they retired? Are they farmers? What do they do?? Now, less so. They probably work from home, commute into town for groceries, and post gorgeous pictures of pies. Wait, no, galettes. They post pictures of galettes. 

People who lived "out in the county" in Bellingham weren't that much different from those of us nearer civilization. My whole perception changed however when I attended Deming's Annual Log Show. Git-r-dun and circle skirts?? Where did these folks come from?! No doubt they were thinking the same when they saw me walk by, Now she don't look like she's from here.... No sir, but I will gladly howdy and curtsy for some more of your fresh from the river salmon barbeque. 

Fort Worth, TX

I wish, I so wish, I was more obsessed with writing in this blog. So obsessed that it makes my insides feel like Julie Andrews on a hill in the Bavaria. (By the way, how awesome was Lady Gaga's tribute*?) Instead, I obsess over dumb shit like boots. For two days I research boots online like it's my j.o.b. I'll allow the first day's tomfoolery: is this cute? is that the real colour? can I walk an hour in those?? The second day, however, that was a pure obsession. I had traversed the land of That Might Be Cute and back. I had scoured sites across the pond and back. I had even ventured into the no man's land that is Bergdorf Goodman and hastily back. Now, it just boiled down to price and availability -- to no avail. Today is the third day, I wake up still slightly obsessed, note the post I'm working on and think, "I bet it would be cheaper to fly to Fort Worth, get a custom boot made there, then fly back." Tempted, very tempted.

Boston, MA

In the subtle (but oh so significant) ways relationships change you, I feel the same applies to where you live. You won't notice it right away, true to relationships, you'll notice it after three or four years in the middle of the night on the toilet -- the seat of all life altering realizations. (Take a moment, press rewind. It's totally the truth.)

But in order to determine how a place influences someone, we can't use you in Pawtucket and me in Timbuktu in this equation. We need to begin with a common denominator and use substitution. So let's take your stereotypical sexist boar for the equation: Pr*t + P. Where Pr stands for person, t for time and P for place.

Does  * 4 years + Boston  =  * 4 years + New York City? 

In my opinion, no. Stuck at a watering hole with both swines, I can actually imagine myself having a pleasant conversation about tea and red coats with the one from Boston.

One of these things is not like the other...

San Antonio, TX

San Antonio suffers from extreme parallax. (Don't worry, it's not a plague. It's actually a cool scientific phenomenon.) My cousin thinks "It's a great city!" My friend, "A small, boring town". And a gent I met recently, "It's nice..." See? Extreme. What do I think of it? Well, to his "nice" with three ellipses I concurred without a contraction and an exclamation* "It is nice! Come on, isn't the River Walk beautiful? I haven't seen anything like it in the states."

Kos, Greece

What do you make of the email you never send, the one that sits in your Drafts folder indefinitely? Do we hesitate because the words are too premature for life? So deleting it entirely would be like an abortion?? (Ooph, that's a warped analogy.) Eventually, I move mine to another folder because the feelings were lived, so why discard them? This is how I feel writing about Kos. A part of me doesn't want to include it in this little blog here, but another part, can't part with it (was that my first word play of the year?? in April?!).

Oklahoma City, OK

Have you noticed how you can get a feel for your destination by the passengers at your departing gate? A flight leaving for Dallas feels like a rodeo. And the debauchery you hear from the other end of the terminal? Well, I'd put my money on Vegas (pun intended :D). Waiting for my connection to Oklahoma City in Denver I wondered about my fellow passengers, what will they be like?

Boarding time neared and they began to arrive, one by one, in units to be precise, familial units. There were so many of them, in all different shapes and sizes! Yes, I was excited, hell downright giddy because I felt like the British commentator on the National Geographic channel: Here's a young couple with their first born. Look how the mother coddles her young child -- oh, and what's this?! An extended family in fluorescent t-shirts have just arrived. Their teenage boy has spotted our camera. He appears to be looking at his shirt...how quickly he turns away. Shy young fellow. I silently cringed for him, then felt guilty for my little game. Who am I to jest when this is what most of us want? What seemingly Oklahoma City attracts and has attracted, people who want to settle down to start a home, a family.

Round Barn

Nosara, Costa Rica

My activities in Nosara consisted of four things: "surfing", sleeping, eating, and reading. Out of those four Nosara is known for one, surfing. And yoga, but after "surfing" (I was learning how to) for a good portion of the day, I was s.p.e.n.t. This can explain why I have a pathetic pool of pictures to decorate my post. Though I can't be too hard on myself because how many different angles can you take of a tree? Trees are more like it.

Chicago, IL

I once went to a documentary screening where the director told the audience, "Chicago is one of the most American cities in the U.S." I didn't know what to make of her statement considering the week before I attended an Eritrean wedding in Chicago. After the documentary, a musician clad in head to toe denim came on stage. "He's definitely American", I thought.

In beginning this post I realized how narrow my definition of American was that night. For justifiable reasons, my mind free associated race/ethnicity (and denim, but that's irrefutable) when I heard the word "American". I suppose it's natural when you continually hear that "America is a melting pot" but end up being ridiculed because of your skin colour. The chances of this happening in Chicago isn't nonexistent, but I'm sure it happens a whole lot less considering the city produced our first black president.

From afar I noticed a Turkish flag billowing next to an American one. I was downtown, so I figured it must be the Turkish embassy. I was consulting my map when the smell of kebabs billowed around me. Turkish food?? What and why?! I skipped (what can I say, food makes me giddy) along in haste to find out. I entered into what seemed like an impromptu block party rather than an official Turkish festival. The embassy wasn't anywhere in sight. It was clear the flag was raised because of the celebration, and I fell in love with Chicago right then and there.

Maui, HI

First, an aside. Sorry it has taken me weeks to write a new entry. I'm still trying to figure out my writing rhythm -- it ain't easy! Anyhow, back to the show...

I tell my younger siblings all the time, "Never, say never. I've had to eat my words so many times I'm practically a cannibal". As much as I love heat, sand, water, and sun, the desire to visit Hawaii was never there. In my mind, the people who vacationed in Hawaii were the same people who went to all-inclusive resorts and cruises. People like my parents.

In my 30's, I get it now. Hawaii, all inclusive resorts, and cruises make sense after weeks of working 40+ hours a week, maintaining a home, and chauffeuring your teenage kids around. You want to get away, not plan your getaway from life on death row. So you book a cruise where your destinations are planned, you stay at an all-inclusive where your meals are planned, and you vacation in Hawaii every year so your vacations are forever planned.

But none of this age-related mumbo jumbo mattered when I booked my ticket to Maui. Bellingham's winter had started early that year. I couldn't wait for the heat, sand, water, sun, and when I plucked my first guava, I knew I'd be eating my own words again biting into it.

And again,
and again,
and again...

Guavas are everywhere on Maui.

Baker City, OR

Entering Baker City in the late afternoon I wondered why it was a city* at all. The few stores on Main Street were slowing shutting off their lights. One restaurant was drawing a small crowd for happy hour, or an early dinner. The latter being more likely. Paused at a red light, I suddenly felt like I was in an Edward Hopper painting. The sole car on a downtown street pinned by the heavy autumn sun. Sun blind, I couldn't tell if the light had changed to green. But another light went off, the one in my head. I remembered that Baker City began during the Eastern Oregon gold rush and it once was the largest city between Portland, OR and Salt Lake City, UT. These guys keep it from smelling like either city nowadays.

Tri-Cities and Walla Walla, WA

I should apologize, my last two posts sound a bit constipated. I love writing but oddly enough this whole blogging thing has me a bit flummoxed. See, I don't normally use words like flummox and I find myself using them unconsciously. Anyhow...

When life isn't too peachy, sometimes I fantasize about living in Southeastern Washington. I know my Western Washington compatriots (there I go again!) are wondering "Why?!" Two reasons, wine and spudnuts. Walla Walla is routinely recognized as "the next Napa Valley", the spudnut's fate on the other hand may be that of a tuber. I pray not, they are glorious little devils.