Koko Head Climb

We're in Hawaii again, and this time determined to return slimmer, not like last time. Our resolve was pretty strong when we woke at 5:45 this morning. I went on a run at 6 a.m. through the neighborhoods of Hawaii Kai, which was difficult because every passing retiree wanted to stop and chat. They may have all the time in the world while on their early morning constitutional, but I had plans. I had thunder thighs to subdue. Move over, sweet little old ladies!

Kate Moss says "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels", and I say to her "bah!". Lau Laus and fresh sesame poke taste way better than skinny! The Spouse feels the same way, which is why, after gorging ourselves at the beach yesterday with fish and 40s of beer in brown paper bags, we determined that we should climb to the summit of Koko Head so we could feel good about ourselves. 

The summit is reached via the old railway, which resembles a steampunk carnival ride of terror, covered in red dust and wilting hikers in brightly colored and expensive exercise gear. The track runs straight up the side of the crater, swerving neither to the right or the left. The top is quite breathtaking, with views of the windward side, Hawaii Kai, and the tail end of the Ko'olau Mountains, which are somewhat dry this time of year. Rusty metal detritus litters the top, but makes lovely places to perch and take in the view.

For other haoles interested in hiking up Koko Head, leave the backpack behind and just bring a water bottle, sunglasses, and wear lots of sunscreen (the Spouse, wearing a sloppy goatee of white sunscreen on his face and stylishly impractical clothing, began to reflect the sun immediately, blinding those were were trying to ascend with his blue-white skin). We started on the trail at 9:30, and I woulnd't recommend anyone who is not used to the heat start much later than that, as there is no shelter from the sun to speak of along the trail.

Christmas is in full swing in Ho Chi Minh City...

I have been out of China for less than 18 hours, and I am so excited to finally have access to my blog again! The Spouse and I landed in Ho Chi Minh city shortly before midnight and had a panicked tussle with the visa authorities. By the time we found our bags (flung off the baggage claim conveyor belt into the floor) and got a taxi, it was well after the middle of the night. Our driver dropped us off in what appears to be a white backpackers ghetto. With no sleeping rooms available, except in what appears to be a brothel with a really thin veneer of "hotel and restaurant" to gloss things over. Our room has high, pink, peeling walls, filthy cigarette burned carpet, and a large bronze statue of a naked woman, bold breast pointing towards the ceiling, on the side table.

Ahhh...Southeast Asia again! It's been three years, and this is a different city and a different language. It feels familiar and foreign at the same time. I miss not being able to speak the language, and my clumsy attempts to practice saying thank you are only met with eye rolls, but it's good to be back in the sticky mess of motorbikes, streetside food, haphazard construction sites, and friendly smiles from strangers.

Over a year since I have posted to this blog, and we are about to leave again, this time for China and Vietnam. We have a house sitter for the cat, notified the bank, bought hand-powered toothbrushes in lieu of our Sonicares, and secured visas. Asia calls - we've been away for too long (well, I have, at least. The Spouse was there last year, just long enough to spend a few weeks waiting out a riot in a steaming, stinking apartment in Bangkok).

We will go first to Shanghai, spend a few days there, and thn travel to Shaoxing, which was described to me by my fried Wendy Song as a small, historical village with few foreigners. This "village" has nearly a million residents and no central heating. After that we head to Saigon, and from there we have no plans. Perhaps Mui Ne, perhaps Hoi Anh...perhaps both...

This morning I discovered Google Street View. It' 8:07 a.m. and for the last 30 minutes I've been sitting at the computer, jaw slack and amazed while I cruise through the streets of downtown Juneau, Alaska. I've already snooped around Miami, and I am about to head to Alabama, because I've never seen it before and don't even have any pre-conceived notions about what Alabama looks like.

It happened a few days ago. In the morning, while I was tearing through my closet, pulling out fistfuls of T-shirts and trying ton pair after pair of jeans, flinging scarves, shoes, belts all over my bedroom the thought entered my brain: I have nothing to wear! I should buy something new.

Now comes the part where I have to start practicing self-restraint. Up until now this Challenge has been easy, but suddenly, as if I were a light bulb happily turned off, I have been very much switched on...

Notes on a Shopping Mall at 8 a.m. on a Wednesday

I have just been to the twilight zone and back, and it is called the mall at 8 a.m. on a Wednesday.

A coworker and I were sent to the Apple store in the local mall so we could begin some training on our shiny new MacBook Pros, and our class began at 8 a.m. There is a surprising amount of activity in a shopping mall at 8 a.m., and it is an especially curious sight for a girl who is committed to not shopping. I think it strengthened my resolve while I do this Challenge (although so far the Challenge as been quite easy for me since all my time is taken up with work, Spouse and friends).

At 8 a.m. the light coming through the mall skylights is pale blue and reflects off of the shiny white marble floors. Construction workers (who have already been up and working for hours) trot back and forth with tools and clatter around while installing up a new facade on the Williams-Sonoma store. Two teenage boys in hard hats clean windows with squeegees. Senior Citizens, wearing sweats, Keds, and "walk for life" name tags stroll in small groups around the halls. Puffy-eyed young mothers with strollers and toddlers and coffee cups in hand sit on benches, staring bleakly into space. Teenagers hang out in front of the coffee stand, jittery and casting longing, hormone-filled glances at each other. This is all at 8 a.m.!

The Apple store was bustling with adults sitting on tall barstools, watching their instructors. It was cozy and quiet, and I was happy to sit and concentrate on learning the many-faces of Keynote for an hour and a half. After our class was over, we walked out at about 9:45 a.m. Shops were open, people were shopping. The halls had now filled with more mothers pushing strollers and dragging toddlers, looking sleepy, looking bored. My coworker and I discussed the strangeness of the mall at 8 a.m. on a Wednesday in June. He was even more baffled than me...

Challenged

So far the Challenge is going well. I've been at it for a few days and I have had fewer shopping urges than I thought I would, probably due to the fact that I have kept busy and not become bored. My best buddy Katie is joining me, and her enthusiastic support has been an enormous help, although I must say, I think she is completely insane. Amongst her Challenges she included quitting beer. QUITTING BEER! I think that's taking it a little too far. Since this will undoubtedly reduce her quality of life and I feel bad for her I told her I would...cut back on beer. For emotional support.

I had a Red Hook summer ale with dinner last night. Delicious. Fortunately, I don't think she reads my blog very often.

I have made my own lunch and taken it to work every so far this week. The experience is not rewarding, especially at 7 a.m. when I had trying to rub sleep out of my eyes and spoon stinky tuna fish on my sandwich before showering, but at least it's inexpensive and I can carry the Spouse's tin spaceship lunch box to work.

I have also made a good effort to cook dinner, and in fact, since I won't be shopping while the Spouse is working late tomorrow I will be having friends over for some comfort food and conversation.

So far it's working out quite well!

Here is my inspired lists of things that make me happy this morning (in no particular order and for no particular reason):
1. "Au Fond Du Temple Saint" from Bizet's The Pearl Fishers (Les Pecheurs de Perles)
2. Homemade yogurt with honey
3. Ripe tomatoes (I appreciate even more since I can't eat them until the salmonella scare is over)
4. Stress-free work days
5. Warm sweaters for record cold and wet June days (second coldest June in our state history!)
6. Good conversation with the Spouse

Don't ask me why I have decided to do this - it certainly wasn't anything that I heard recently on the radio or read in a magazine or on the internet, but I want to try something called The Challenge, or Buy Nothing Day...except I am going to try it out for a few months. Some people do it for 6 months, some for an entire year. I think I shall try it until August and see what happens. Parameters: I will still purchase toiletries (only necessary ones like toothpaste and soap, etc.), socks and underwear from stores, and, of course, food. Since we are also in the middle of a remodel, and currently have holes in our chipped-painted drywall and jagged gaps in our stained carpet that reveal the cement underneath, I need a dispensation from materials for our home improvement, but they will be construction-related only.

What can I purchase? Second-hand only. If I want to read a book I will get off of my backside and walk to the library, two blocks away, that I have never used. If I need a new shirt I can buy one at Value Village as a need instead of a novelty. Same goes for useless trinkets, which I have started acquiring in number. The Spouse, who chases the trinkets away like they are rodents or cockroaches, is very excited about my challenge, although he loftily declared that he doesn't need such frivolous games because he is already an idea non-consumer. I decided to keep my mouth shut about the two Xboxes in our living room, although I couldn't' help taking a jab at the three-foot tall carpet-dryer that is currently clogging up our storage unit.

I'll post occasionally about my progress/lack of progress. If anyone has tried and failed, tried and succeeded, or thinks this is crazy, I'd like to hear about it!!

The boat ride from Tarifa, Spain, to Tanger, Morocco only takes about 30 minutes. 30 minutes is enough time to cook a few cups of white rice, or to watch a sitcomm, or to have your teeth cleaned at the dentists. But between Tarifa and Tanger 30 minutes is enough time to travel from one world into a completely different one.

The Spouse and I planned to hire a guide when we arrived in Morocco, but could never agree on what exactly we were looking for (I was anti-guide, he was pro-guide). We never actually hired one, but probably just because we were too timid. Our taxi took us to the hotel that I had emailed the night before (the never received the email) and since the room wasn´t ready we left our bags and wandered the streets.

Although Tanger is 30 minutes directly south of Spain, it is in a more reasonable time zone, and is thus two hours behind Tarifa. When we hit the streets it was 8 a.m. on Friday, the holy day, and very little was happening. We struck out for the Medina, which was quite close to where we were staying. As we walked down the steps into the market area just outside the grand socco familiar scents and sounds came to me - things that I hadn´t experienced since I was living in Asia. The market smelled like raw meat - new and old - and dust, and rotting vegetables and overripe fruit, sweat, tumeric, paprika, urine, and more dust. Men were unloading trucks of live chickens, boxes of apricots, crates of socks and electronics and slippers and silver jewelry. All along the market were coffee houses with dim florescent lights and rusty tables. Everywhere there was activity, noise, and chaos.

When we reached the grand socco, which is relly just a roundabout with a fountain, a small old man with only a few teeth and a wool cap on his head kindly offered in broken English to be our guide. In his hand he held a tin cup and two fresh, still-bleeding ckicken feet. We said no as politely as we could several dozen times until he left and walked through the arched gate into the Medina.

The streets in the Medina are low and narrow. The buildings overhang some of the small alleys, so they are less like streets and more like tunnels. This makes sense considering the heat, but since there were no maps of the medina available at the tourist office and our guide book shows the heart of the old town as a blank spot, they can be a little frightening when one is lost in the evening, and we were lost often. We wandered for several hours, visited a museum, and then tried to find a place to eat, which proved to be our biggest challenge.

On almost every block there were large, dimly lit coffee shops with men drinking cups of coffee or strong, minty tea. The men sat in these shops and watched the world go past. They also watched me go past, and it was uncomfortable and menacing. Jordan was hungry but I refused to go inside one of those rooms full of stares, and I was convinced that they would refuse to let me inside if I tried. We searched for a restaurant that had another woman sitting in it but never found one. Eventually, we discovered a women´s shelter with a restaurant inside. The courtyard was packed full of laughing, chattering French men and women, with their heads uncovered, enjoying each other´s company and good conversation. Quite different from the leering men in the street cafes. We ate tagines full of couscous, chicken, and steamed vegetables, scented with raisins and cinnamon.

I could write more but that would make this post too long. I could talk about the fact that the shadows were full of skinny, pathetic cats and kitens...but no dogs. I could write about the little boy with sad eyes who the Spouse and I saw being beaten by two older men in the street, or about the long stretch of beach where families strolled slowly in the evening, or the Moroccan man with the Brooklyn accent who pestered us for blocks offering us evening from restaurant advice to drugs, or about how the white buildings turn tangering and purple when the sun sets in the evenings.

We were very anxious to leave Morocco the next morning, and were on the first boat away. We understand that Tangier is the armpit of Morocco - a dirty, dangerous, unpleasant border town. We were told that the further you go intot he country the more wonderful it gets, which I believe. I don´t judge the country or the people on my one-day experience. We simply didn´t have time to do those things, and so instead we made our way back to Tarifa where, since I hadn´t eaten any food after the women´s shelter the previous morning, we immediately headed for a restaurant, and watched men and women and children all enjoying each other´s company with totally new eyes.

After saying goodbye to the lovely couple at the Hostal Luna in Marbella, the Spouse and I hit the road and headed for Tarifa, a little white gem on the very southern tip of Spain. Tarifa reminded me of Pai, in Thailand. It´s laid back, sleepy, and people there know how to have fun. Because the wind tears through the straight of Gibraltar between Spain and Africa, kiteboarders from around the world converge on Tarifa for its persistently breezy weather. Thus the town feels similar to any other surf town, except that unlike most surf town this one stares at Morocco all day and is surrounded by stone walls and monuments paying homage to Guzman el Bueno.

On our first night in Tarifa we saw signs advertising a free flamenco performance. We found the cafe where the band was playing on some steps near a small plaza. The cafe was too full of people for us so we sat outside and listened to a very young male flamenco singer, a small band, and several girls keeping compas (there were no dancers). A small crowd gathered outside on the steps with us, including a rathered tall, disheveled gentleman and his little dog that cowered around with its tail between its legs. The man heard the music, straightened up, lifted his arms in the air, and began to dance. He snaped his fingers and stomped his feet, still in their flip-flop sandals, and he spun so hard that his crack pipe flew from his bag and clattered on the ground. No matter. He put it away with great ceremony, removed his dirty sandals and secured them under his bag so they wouldn´t be stolen, straightened up proudly, and tried again. He wasn´t terribly steady on his feet and eventually stumbled. The crowd laughed and he bowed. The Spouse and I watched for a while and then decided to leave before the police came to investigate the proliforation of drugs that suddenly appeared on all sides of us.

The next day we woke up and dawn and boarded a boat for Morocco.

We made a stop in Marbella after seeing Ronda. We stayed in the Hostal Luna, which is run by a sweet, generous retired Spanish couple. On our first day, as we walked out the door to go see the beach the old man was in the courtyard, concentrating on washing the bathroom mats in and letting them dry in the sun. He had neat white hair and thick glasses that made his brown eyes owlish and huge, and a southern Spanish accent. After inviting us to sit in his courtyard, he shuffled inside his apartment and returned with two beers and a plate of olives. He sat with us while we drank. When he noticed that the Spouse doesn´t care for olives the old man jumped up and disappeared into his apartment again, and returned with a plate of cashews. We were embarassed at the generosity, but also quite pleased. He resumed his mat scrubbing and squabbling in machine-gun fast Spanish with his wife, and we left for the beach.


The beach at Marbella is long and narrow, and impossible to see from the road because it is hidden by a pink cement curtain of hotels, office buildings, and condos. There is a nice, smooth promenade that stretches between the sand and rows of overpriced restaurants. People walk and rollerblade in the windy cool of the late afternoon before the evening meal. Far away on the horizon the rock of Gibraltar peeps out of the marine mist. We spent the entire day on a stretch of gritty beach under an umbrella that we cost 6 euros. After carrying my pack, sitting inside on rainy Spanish days, and walking around on cobbles for the previous two weeks the warm sand was lovely. Not even the ovewrweight, blistering tourists could spoil it. Not even the gawking Americans.

In Spain, women can sunbathe with their swimsuit tops off, whereas in America this is not allowed. A Spaniard explained American freedom to us this way "many countries think they are free, but they don´t realize how little freedom they really have. You Americans brag about being free, but you can´t even drink a beer on the beach. Women aren´t even allowed to take their tops off." Then he added that the tops are better on, to preserve some mystery. When we first walked on the beach in Marbella I sensed a profound feeling of disappointment emanating from the Spouse. The only women who were decent looking had their bikini tops firmly tied in place, whereas the only women who wanted to take them off all seemed to have three things in common: belly fat, purplish sunburns, and pendulous breasts that sagged as if someone had put two tennis balls in two gym socks and tied them around their saggy necks. I liked the beach, but for him I think it was a bit of a ...bust.

The Spouse and I found ourselves on a bus full of Swedish tourists heading for the hills to the white town of Ronda. The tourists pontificated proudly in Swedish about who knows what and snaped photos over our heads on the twisty, windy drive into the hills. We were glad to be rid of them - even my Swedophile spouse who lived in Stockholhm for a year in college seemed to have had enough.

If you use your imagination and mentally strip out all of the pushy, doddering, camera-flash happy tourists, Ronda is a magical place. It perches on top of the mountains comfortably, and glows like a torch when the sun sets - orange and pink against the white buildings. The old Moorish town and the new town are separated by three ancient bridges which span a steep gorge and a slow green brook. It looks like a fairy tale painting and some mythical stories have been written about it, including the famous chapter ten of Ernest Hemmingway´s For Whom the Bell Tolls. Here it is the village where Pilar witnesses the fascist leaders of the town being flogged and flailed and then thrown from the cliff into the gorge, about a 300 ft sheer drop to the yellow rocks below.

We stayed in a lovely hotel on the edge of a cliff overlooking some pastoral hills that could have been in a painting. The hotel was also white and had a garden that was too windy to sit in. The only ones brave or foolish enough to be in the garden were the birds perched in the prickly pear cactus plants and the Spouse and I who sat under a blanket drinking vino de la naraja and giggling. The staff was rude to us when they spotted our backpacks earlier in the day. We paid them when we left, and they appeared genuinely surprised that we didn´t climb out of our window without payment. Score one for wheeled luggage. Apparently rich people use wheeled luggage and theives use backpacks...

Ronda was absolutely beautiful. The building were white and crumbly and the everpresent wind smelled like mountains and pine trees, but the swarms of day tourists were too much (although evenings after the last bus left were quiet and wonderful). We left the next day for Marbella.

Today is our last full day in Sevilla. The Spouse and I marvelled that, despite our long stay here, we still can´t find our way around. Our linear, square-city-block brains are incapable of comprehending the winding streets of this city. After one particulary long period of being hopelessly lost we agreed that we should never set out with a destination in mind, because whenever we try to find something we get lost, and whenever we wander aimlessly we end up just where we wanted to be (whether we knew we wanted to be there or not). The Spouse confessed that he thinks the streets are enchanted and have a mind of their own. Now every time we lose our way he mutters "faery roads are not like Christian roads..." in some sort of reference to Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, I think.

The last two days have been full of dancing. On Wednesday at sometime past midnight we stumbled into a dim, smoky bar to find it packed with locals taking their ease after a day´s work, claping and stomping to a flamenco band. A few drunk tourists with no rhythm clapped and stomped with them. Last night we found ourselves in a dimly lit courtyard watching a fiery flamenco show. On our walk home we encountered a tiny plaza that spun with couples slowly dancing tango in the moonlight.

Tomorrow we will go to Malaga to visit the Spouse´s cousin Brenda. She writes the English version of Andalusia.com. This is her blog: http://blog.andalucia.com/ We will spend several days getting lost on the coast and then who knows? We still have weeks ahead of us.

We have been in Sevilla for three days now and are finally starting to relax. Yesterday and the day before we spent time exploring, and today we have been lazily eating our way around town, stopping in for a tapa and drink at a different restaurant every hour or so. We also visted the beautifully mosaiced Alacazar and the museum of fine arts, which is jsut a few steps from our apartment.

Oh yes, our apartment...it wasn´t exactly what we expected. Thank goodness for all of the dank, mouldy, scary places I stayed in Thailand because they dulled my senses a little. The apartment is a disappointment, but because it´s not comfortable we spend as little time in it as possible.

On our first night in Sevilla we wandered deep into the Jewish quarter in the daylight and lingered until nightfall. With nightfall came rainfall and we became completely lost in the tangled, lamplit labarynth that is classic in medieval cities. Every street was completely deserted and narrow. The Spouse was wearing flip flop sandals that turned every smooth marble surface into a slab of ice. I had no jacket. Neither of us had an umbrella. It took about an hour and a lot of drunken good luck to find our apartment again. When we did find it we were locked out.

What we discovered from all of this rain in Spain (it´s been raining every day, constantly, since we got here) is that there is a pecular and delightful event every evening after a downpour. When the restaurants open after a rain chalkboard signs appear mysteriously outside of each door advertising fresh snails. The gardens look curiously messed with. Spaniards hustle with a sense of urgency to any open seat they can find.

The Spouse and I parked ourselves at a tiny cafe near Plaza de Alfalfa last night to watch the spectacle of hundreds of ravenous Spaniards stepping out in search of snails. The snails are cooked in butter and their own juices and eaten alone - sucked out of their shells loudly. The Spouse and I joined in and were presented with an uncomfortably large plate of snails, most with their little eyeballs still poking out of their shells. I am a fan of escargot because I like the sauce, but I couldn´t really get into freshly foraged garden snails. They are rubbery and taste oddly spicy. Their shells are lovely and striped, and make a pleasant, hollow tinkling sound after they are discarded.

At about 11:30 the tables cleared slowly. Everyone seemed joyously happy and pleased with themselves. The Spouse and I wandered back to our damp, wretched apartment and fell asleep to the sounds of night birds and wailing cats. Ah, España!

It´s Raining in Madrid

We made it to Madrid and today are heading to Seville on the high-speed train. It´s been six years since I was last in Europe and there were some things that I forgot about, like what it´s like to ride a subway in a country of garlic eaters at rush hour with an enormous packpack on. We missed our conencting flight in Charles de Gaul airport, and for some reason (exhaustion? dehydration?) I fainted while waiting in a sandwich line between our flights. Well...technically I slumped over on to a table took a very quick nap in fropnt of a lot of people.

It´s 6:30 in the morning now on a Sunday and the streets are full of tipsy twenty-somethings who, after being kicked out of the bars for the night, are staggering around trying to figure out what to do.

Sleep-Walking Towards Repose

This morning the Spouse and I are putting the final touches on our packing and in an hour we'll head to the airport and then off to Spain. We are leaving this miserable, moldy, cold state for warmer weather and more picturesque scenes. Weather.com just informed us that is equally as cold and rainy and miserable in Madrid as it is here. Awesome.

We considered taking wheeled luggage. We probably should take wheeled luggage. We're old now - technically in our "late 20s", which means that, against our will, the days of shabby hostals and dodgy guest houses are over. Still, the thought of wheeled luggage repulses us. We take wheeled luggage on business trips and not because it is more convenient but because it looks better.

True, the backpack is symbolic of that worldwide scourge, the "western traveler", that sandal and khaki cargo shorts-wearing clueless young person who turns up in remote places trying to find parts of the world where they will not see any other western travelers. While I was traveling in Asia I think I managed to avoid being a western traveler most of the time (although there is one incriminating picture of me on a beach on Koh PhiPhi wearing a sun dress and a full backpack).

While we are in Spain we will be something entirely new to me: middle-class leisure traveler. We are staying in hotels and renting an apartment. We will eat at restaurants instead of subsisting on the typical western traveler diet of crusty, impossibly fresh bread and stinky cheese. Here we are - so worn out by our lives that we are not interested in adventure, only rest. Is it healthy to feel like you're ready for retirement when you're only 27?

At least we haven't succumbed to wheeled luggage though.

Go ahead...drink that $4 latte...

The price of rice is up. Doubled, in fact. This is bothering me. Yesterday I threw away some purple cabbage because it didn't look fresh enough. What has happened to me?

I wrote to Kham Chuen and asked him if OPC is still receiving donated rice. I just heard back. They aren't.

Usually the shelter would receive about 10 - 16 bags of donated rice a month, as well as cans of oil, bags of yellow beans, parcels of salt, and bags of vitamin-enriched flour. Now that those supplies are cut off they are paying for them on their own - with the higher prices. Apparently someone donated 1000 baht to the shelter recently (roughly $25 US, give or take the weak dollar) and that was enough to buy one sack of rice and some dried fish.

I am formulating plans for a fundraiser later this spring, and all of the proceeds from my Etsy site will go to help feed the kids. Kham Chuen reports that they are in good health.

I miss them...

Homemade Brigade - Fine art and Music

April 19, 2008

Ok, so I finally got my hands on the new Homemade Brigade poster - unfortunately it is two and a half days away, so sorry for the late notice. This month's edition starts at 4 at Freshy's in West Seattle, and, as you can see from the poster, continues until "whenever". Sounds good to me. I have been assured that the music lineup is pretty awesome this time around, and that a cap on the number of wire-and-bead earring sellers has been established...

Location: 2735 California Ave, next to the PCC

Time: 4 p.m. - whenever

I started an Etsy site! The spawn of a boring, gloomy Seattle Saturday afternoon - this site is further evidence that am completely unable to chill out and relax. If anyone is in the market for retro, vintage, or just funky housewares, I've got the stuff for you - and at about 1/16th the cost of Anthropologie!

Check it out: http://www.etsy.com/shop.php?user_id=5550960

It's um...still a little under construction.