Winning the Slam

In Seattle they have a saying: It's not about the points, it's about the POETRY. And yet poets from around the world flock to the Slams to read, to perform, and to share their work for points. It's a somewhat sadistic thing to do...to get on the mic and in three minutes or less (with a 10 second grace period) read the bloody ink of your soul to a group of strangers who may not get, may not like it, and might even hold up a score card that reads 0. And yet still there are some of us who have this strange compulsion to be heard, to get on stage, put it out there and hold our breath waiting for that first inkling of response, a laugh, a sigh, anything that says there is someone out there listening and understanding. And if we're lucky we'll get it just right and the judges who could be the anyone from Toni Morrison to some douche bag who has never read or written a poem in his or her entire life, will hold up a score card with the perfect 10. It's a high.

So after more than a full year of resisting this compulsion, I slammed tonight, in the city of my birth, Des Moines, Iowa with 16 other poets (because unlike Seattle they don't cap at 8) and I won! Since there were so many of us, we only did two rounds. The top 8 went on to round 2. I read Stupid Break Up Poem #46 and of course as a follow-up The Afro-Petting Zoo Is Closed: A Public Service Announcement In 3 Parts. And my mom was there to see me win. It was a good night.

An Excerpt From Draft 9 of Ollieland...

It’s official. Summer is dead. I spent the morning digging the hole for the funeral pyre, as Solomon adorned the backyard with tiki torches and Mom prepared the corpse to be tied to a spit. Nothing says Labor Day like a Hawaiian Luau. By 6:00 p.m. I’ve been smelling pig for hours, watching its fat, succulent carcass rotate slowly above the hypnotic flames, its mouth full of blackened fruit.

“Ollie, it’s time to baste again,” Mom calls from an undetermined location within the house. I leave my cleaver stabbed through the heart of a pineapple and find the bucket of sacred pig sauce, a murky concoction made from fresh squeezed Valencia oranges, aged brandy, butter, and a blend of twenty six secret herbs and spices. I paint it on lengthwise from snout to tail, enjoying the tiny gasps and hisses as the juices sizzle against the fire. At least one of us doesn’t have to suffer in silence. The basting is hot work on a ruthlessly sticky day and I am tired and irritable. My only consolation is the pig smell saturating everything within a three block radius. It is a tangible aroma, so thick just inhaling deeply seems to leave a salty tangy meat taste in my mouth.

When it comes to holidays, it doesn’t matter which one, my mother has this incurable form of OCD which makes it physically impossible for her not to throw a party. The thing is, it’s never just a party. It can’t be simple: a few streamers and a Costco cake. No, it has to be some long, drawn out, Martha Stewart worthy extravaganza with enough gourmet food to feed a Haitian refugee camp. And as her faithful minion, bound by the seventeenth year of my indentured servitude, I am obligated to be by her side for all fifty two annual secular and religious celebrations, not to mention personal holidays like birthdays and anniversaries. It’s in my contract.

I remember my sister Jade’s ninth birthday with a shudder. Theme: Under the Sea. Everyone was dressed as their favorite mermaid (I was the dreaded Sea Witch Ursula) and then a band of musicians showed up wearing sea creature costumes. I was five and giant crabs roaming the backyard with portable steel drums was terrifying. I refused to leave the house. Then Dad had to give me the Hymlic because Mom thought it would be neat to freeze Ariel figurines inside the ice cubes floating in the blue punch. Yeah, it was fabulous. Who cares if I only almost died? It is an illness, but instead of getting quarantined or medicated, Mom gets to inflict her insanity on everyone and they love her for it. They show up in droves because my mother is the perfect hostess.

A good hostess is warm, caring, gracious, and welcoming. She gives the impression that the guest is the most important person in the world and that nothing is too much trouble to ensure their comfort and contentment. A good hostess is courteous to her guests, even if they are rude. She is detail oriented and adaptable to the needs of the situation, always ready with a back up plan. On a good day I am none of these things, and today is not a particularly good day, so I must fake it hard or do my best to be invisible or both. Mournful sigh.

Solomon rounds the corner carrying an ice chest.
“Where does this go?”
“Beneath the buffet table,” I point to the lavishly dressed table beside my workstation which is scattered with artistically slaughtered pineapples. I’ll need to clean that up before She comes back outside.
“God that smells amazing,” Solomon moans.
“Of course it does.”

By 7:00 p.m. the pineapple is curried, flambéd, and plated beautifully. It rests on the epic buffet between the lobster poofs and the green potato salad. The yard is already filling up with neighbors and family friends, mostly middle aged lesbians dressed in obnoxious dayglow flowered shirts and hell bent on congratulating me on beginning the last year of adolescence.

“Oh Olive Jane, look at you. You’re becoming such a woman,” Deborah tells me like I just got my rag and I’m in a fucking Judy Blume novel. Congratulations. You’ve got boobies and acne. The ugly duckling is now the black swan of womanly goodness, even though you’re still short and pudgy and nothing like your sister. Well you still have another year of high school. It could get better? Then she follows up with the million dollar question: “So which colleges are you applying to?”

Not the C word. Double sigh. Inhale, allow pig air to numb the annoyance. Must maintain the appropriate fake pleasant facade. Exhale, perfectly crafted lie: “I’m not going to college right away. I’m planning on taking next year off to find myself.” As if by some miracle I could ever actually lose myself.

“Well then what Olive Jane? What happens after your year off?”

Do I look like a fucking magic eight ball? I hate it when she calls me Olive Jane, like we’re all buddy buddy and it’s our thing that she gave me this stupid pet name. I want to tell her it’s Ollie or Olivia. Pick one. I only get Olivia Jane when I’m in big trouble. And Olive Jane? No one calls me that. It sounds like a dirty martini.

“I’ll keep you posted,” I tell her all sugary sweet, then let the platter of deviled eggs tilt forward just enough so that three creamy eggs slide off the edge and land with a splat on her shoes, egg side down. Hole in one. The fake look of concern masks my radiant snarky smile. I’m much too well house broken to tell Mom’s friends to fuck off, but I’ll egg their Birkenstocks and look sincerely apologetic while fetching a paper towel to wipe their toes with.

7:30 p.m. The pig is served. Solomon and Toni cart the beast to the carving station. My mother is poised, an opulent lae of fuchsia hibiscus around her neck, an oversized fork in one hand, an electric knife in the other. Vrrooom. Vrroooom. Come and get it. Though I’m salivating for a taste, as I watch the dissection my stomach begins to churn. Maybe it’s the realization that I’m not so far up the food chain. I could be that pig, happily minding my own pig business, blissfully oblivious to the impending doom, then whamo, dead and roasted so everyone can have a piece. I really don’t want to go to school tomorrow.

“Psst, Ollie.” Toni motions. “Light the torches.”

10:00 p.m. When it’s finally over and I’m alone again, I can still I feel the eyes pressing in on me from all sides. Stop looking at me. I quell the urge to break something, knowing I’ll just have to clean it up and it’s not worth it. I’ve got my manic hostess grin plastered to my face, but inside I’m seething, screaming at the top of my lungs with the volume on mute. LEAVE ME ALONE. This happens sometimes. If I can retreat fast enough, I can prevent the explosion. It hurts to breathe, even the luscious pig air feels stifling now, like a pig flavored blanket smothering me.

I move through the quiet darkness of the house, as far away from Mom and Toni as I can get. Up the stairs, past straight rows of framed family portraits: Mom, Dad, Jade, Malcolm, me. Smiling. Always smiling. Malcolm in his football uniform. Malcolm with his basketball team winning the State Championship. Jade in a midair split performing with the drill team. Jade crossing the finish line at a track meet. She is a winner too. Jade being crowned Homecoming Queen: a crowned and certified winner. I keep moving, past the ghost of family past, around the corner, through the spare room and up the last flight of stairs into the attic. I lock the door behind me; let the fake smile disintegrate, but the party induced panic remains.

She has to know how much I hate it: all the chatting, the cheek pinching, fielding nosy questions from people who haven’t been teenagers in so long they’ve actually tricked themselves into remembering high school as something fun. Haven’t they been reading the paper? Nothing is fun when you’re a casualty of war. I know they know, or at least they think they know all about it. It’s obvious by the furtive whispers and the sad faced pitying glances. I hear it in their voices as they tell me: “Your mom is so brave. You must be so proud.” But I am not proud. I’m exhausted. I’m covered in mosquito bites, spilled barbecue sauce, and lipstick prints from the really old women intent on kissing my cheeks and forehead because unlike everyone else my age, I’m still short enough for them to reach. I’m angry. I’m embarrassed and worst of all doomed to repeat the never ending story of my humiliation once more, again. I really, really don’t want to go to school tomorrow.

I need Al Green and a fresh canvas, badly. The floorboards creak beneath my bare feet. I inhale the warm inedible scent of cedar and sandalwood that clings to the attic asserting ownership of the space, a welcome relief from the siren song of pig. Lights. Cue the music. That’s better. The attic is my sanctuary. With my brother gone to college, my sister gone to New York and my dad just gone, there’s a whole lot of house and not a lot of people. I like it better this way, just me and Mom and now Toni. Mom finally agreed to let me convert the attic into an artist studio. It didn’t take much. I only had to get rid of some old junk and clean up the floors. I kept the tacky green seventies wall paper though, not that it’s very visible. The built in bookshelves are fully stocked with every art supply imaginable and almost every inch of wall is covered by paintings and collages and more paintings of various sizes and subject matters. The ceiling beams are strung with fairylights, tissue paper kites, homemade piñatas, and mobiles constructed from Christmas ribbon and the heads of decapitated Barbie dolls dipped in glitter.

I am home. I let my body rock to the baseline, nod my head. There is something so soothing about Al Green. The music salves my anger, reweaves my fraying edges. I gather up what I need: a green pale filled with paint brushes, a wicker basket over loaded with tubes of acrylic, a 20 x 20 canvas stretched and stapled to a wood frame and a mirror.

After this year I’m taking off. I have a little money and by June I’ll have some more. I’ll flip a coin and pick a coast, buy a train ticket and just go. That’s all I’ve got as far as plans. Away sounds like heaven. Inhale. Exhale. If I can just make it through this year then I can go away, but the sad reality is I could barely make it through the luau. “Lay it down, lay it down, lay it down, put your head on the floor…” Al Green implores. I am listening.

Tomorrow will be infinitely worse. It is what it is and I can’t change it, but I can do something...one thing. I can take this blank canvas and make something beautiful. I plop down onto a purple cushion and lay today down beside me. I upend the basket of paint tubes,letting them clatter onto the rug as I fish for a metallic teal. No thinking now, just the magic of fat brush strokes moving in concentric circles until the canvas is bathed in waves of turquoise and gold, sea greens and blues and more gold. “Lay it down, let it go, fall in love…”

I pull the mirror toward me. I want to see myself through my own myopic eyes: burnt sienna skin, cinnamon eyes framed with angular glasses. I am round faced with pixie ears ringed from lobe to cuff in tiny silver hoops, a round soft black afro squiggling out from my head. Eyes like my mom, nose like my dad but punctuated with a silver stud, full dark lips, and a trace of a scar down my jaw line from when I fell ice skating a million years ago. I stare at my reflection until I can see my face for what it is, not stories or scars or genetic happenstance, just shapes and angles, a collection of slopes and planes, the hard jut of my chin, the tension in my mouth, the shadows in my irises. Focus. Mr. Wu says the first step is to capture what’s there, start with the obvious.

I etch the framework in purple, blot in bitter chocolate, flecks of jade, tangerine, a dash of silver. I drag blue gray shadows across my cheeks and shape angular magenta eyelids. A soft burgundy rounds the ridges of my wide African nose. Pearl essence makes it all melt together until I start to appear, my oversized eyes magnified by copper rimmed fifties glasses, my chipmunk cheeks. I don’t smile, because no one is around to require it of me. I sneer. I bare my teeth like a warning. I paint the warrior I wish I could be; streak my cheekbones with thin crimson stripes and draw white circles across my forehead. My hair is a chunky halo of indigo violet. I paint it rough like sea waves, the unscalable cliffs of nappy mountains that jut off the canvas in rippling layers. Then I add my arms and hands, palms up like I’m trying to bang my way out of my own picture. Wu says every good work of art holds a kernel of truth, an emotion, an expression that tells a little secret about the artist. And there it is, my truth. I’m desperate to claw my way out of my life.

Will Grayson, Will Grayson

The character flaw I can most readily admit to is that I am a book-aholic and YA fiction is my vice of choice. If I have a shitty day, I don't reach for a bottle. I don't search for drugs. I buy myself a vanilla vanilla cupcake and go spend some time is the most conveniently located bookstore. Libraries are okay, but really I would rather just buy a book because 1: then not everyone is touching (read sneezing on or in general contaminating my book) and 2: if I fall in love with it I can read it until the pages start falling out.

"How many times are you going to read Harry Potter 7?" was a familiar refrain during my time living with Mz. Blu. "Until it stops being good," I'd answer. But it never stops being good. I think reading a book once is like buying a CD you like and listening to it only once. Why? Sure you know what it's going to sound like, you know the ending, but that doesn't mean you won't get something new out of it. Though there is a certain pleasure in reading a book for the first time, not knowing where the story is going to go. It's like a first kiss, unexpected, uncharted territory.

Having finished the majority of my travel collection...meaning the 10 books I brought with me from my last trip to Powell's, I found myself back at the bookstore. I was looking for something by K.L. Going who wrote Fat Kid Rules the World (if you haven't read it, you should), but ended up stumbling across Will Grayson, Will Grayson by John Green (author of Looking for Alaska, An Abundance of Katherines, and Paper Towns-three geniusly crafted YA books) and David Levithan (co-author of equally brilliant Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist and Ely and Naomi's No Kiss List and also author of several books I haven't gotten to yet and will clearly be buying next week).

Set in two suburbs of Chicago, Naperville and Evanston, the book is written in alternating chapters, narrated by two characters both named Will Grayson. One Will is gay. One Will is straight. And both Wills have issues with love and life and the whole caboodle. Straight Will is best friends with the real show stopping character of the book, Tiny Cooper, the 300lb gay football player/ writer, director, star actor, and producer of his own GSA sponsored musical Tiny Dancer. Through a series of hilariously and harsh circumstances that I won't spoil, the two Will Graysons and Tiny Cooper converge in a kick ass story of love, heartbreak, friendship, and randomness. In short, this book rocked my world. Okay, more than that, this book reminded me of what books should be like.

As I am slogging my way through draft 8 of my own first novel and wondering 1: Am I ever going to find an agent and 2:Is the book ever going to be all the way done and 3: when it's done is the book ever going to be good??? Will Grayson, Will Grayson, in addition to just being a fabulous read reminded me that what makes a book great is one's ability to connect with it and to get something out of it. The characters are so relate-able and Tiny's musical should be a real musical. I would definitely pay money to see it on stage. But more than just being entertaining, it is those brief moments of truth hidden in the jokes that make the book worth reading. I never know how to review a book without giving away too much, so I will shut up now and just say thanks John and David. You inspire me! Just wish Jodi Reamer would fall in love with my book too...maybe next week.

Molestation or Homeland Security?

For those of you who missed the headline of USA Today, Today in the Sky, it reads: "Most OK with TSA full-body scanners", but what they don't say is that getting scanned is rapidly becoming the only alternative to getting molested. TSA chooses to use the term "pat-down", but let's call it what it is. If anyone is touching my private parts and they're not a licensed gynecologist or a very very lucky consensual partner, I think it's generally referred to as molestation, sexual assault, or the precursor to getting wheel kicked in the head.

So choose: get groped or allow the government to put you in an x-ray machine that is so detailed they can actually see your tampon. Hmm? Why is it that TSA just keeps coming up with more and more ways to strip of us of our civil liberties all the while preying on our fear of terrorism. I don't feel safer knowing I can't have a bottle of water on a plane. I am also not harboring any huge fears of getting stabbed by nail clippers or attacked by 4oz of cocoa butter. And I certainly don't feel safer knowing that now some neanderthal in a uniform will now be legally allowed to touch my genitals whenever I travel. And if you protest like John Tyner, a software engineer traveling through San Diego, you might be the one to get arrested and detained. Tyner was reported to have said: "If you touch my junk, I'm gonna have you arrested", shortly before his day went from not so great to shitty as he was denied access to his gate. I have to agree with Mr. Tyner.

Do I want to be able to travel safely? Yes, I am in no way an advocate for terrorism, but at what cost? I don't give a shit what Janet Napolitano says, I AM NOT BLOWING THIS OUT OF PROPORTION. This is very serious and very offensive. Ask yourself: How much are you willing to sacrifice to be held hostage by your fears? How many rights are you willing to relinquish to gain the illusion of safety? Because that's what it is, an illusion. You might go through the scan and the pat-down and still end up in a plane crash. Will your loved ones feel better to know you were groped before you died? If this is the next generation of security measure what comes after that? We're on a slippery slope America. We're living in scary times and I for one am saying NO. I'm not comfortable with it. I don't agree with it. Go back to the drawing board TSA and don't even think about touching "my junk".

Saluting the Dream Catchers

Shoshana likes to take photos. It's been a part time obsession of hers for a million years. Every time I go visit her, it's like photo shoot central. So finally this year she decided to do something about it. She enrolled in photography class. During our last visit she spent hours searching for good light and taking pictures of everything and anything, even me. Guess what, she's actually pretty awesome at it...so awesome in fact that she just got to show two of her photos in an art walk in DC. So while those aren't up on facebook yet, here are some that were. I salute you Shoshana for having the guts and the drive to follow your passion! Your awesomeness is an inspiration to us all.

The Prodigal Daughter

It's another sunny 70 degree day in Des Moines and I have Internet! I'm hanging out in the back room while the physical therapist works my grandma. My little room is filled with angels. Grandma collects them. They are the first thing I see when I wake up and the last thing I see before I go to bed. It's been a long time since I've thought of angels and church and the bible. I used to love to read the bible, especially the old testament where all the juicy, telenovela stuff goes down. David stories are my favorite. The boy who beat the Giant, the man who became a warrior and the king who disgraced himself for love.

But if there is one biblical story that I identify with the most it's the tale of the Prodigal Son. That's me. Prodigal. Wasteful. The kid who ran off an squandered her inheritance at juke joints and tapas bars (and a leather tannery), then came back broke and bashful to beg for a job at the stables. Except instead of getting table scraps he's greeted with a banquet and embraced into the fold. Today I am reminded how lucky I am...how blessed I've been to do the things I've done and to be able to come home after it all to a family that loves and supports me, even if they think I'm kind of crazy. It's a good day.

November in Des Moines

It is a beautiful day in Des Moines, Iowa, proof that global warming is no bullshit. It should be snowy and nasty or at least dark and rainy right? The sky is blue, the grass is still green and though the trees have mostly lost their leaves, not even they seem overly stark against the backdrop of warm and sunny. But I am in a piss poor mood. It's November again. It always sneaks up on me. I never see it coming and then here it is and I am thinking about Robin and wondering when I will wake up and just get over it. Do you ever really get over it when your best friend dies? Do you ever stop wondering what she would be like now? Where she would live? Would she be married and have kids? Would she have ever made it to Australia? I don't stop wondering and all these years later I still feel that lump in my throat.

I ran yesterday and my whole body is telling me in no uncertain expletives that you can't just eat your way across several continents thinking that long walks and the occasional night of dancing counts as exercise. I am sore and bored and I want to go home, which is dumb because I don't have a home anymore. It's like wanting to go to Atlantis. You can want to go all you want, but it's not there.

Grandma is fine, kind of. Sometimes she seems good. She toasts her own bagels and is up and dressed before I can even start to think about getting up. But at other times she is just exhausted and can barely make it from one room to the next. The problem is the exhaustion is completely unpredictable. It's a bit scary, like the body she has lived in for the last 80 something years suddenly has it's own agenda and can break down at will. It makes me want to move, just to remember not to take it for granted that I can predictably get up and walk or dance or even run, as ill advised as it may be. I can't imagine waking up and suddenly not being able to do the everyday things I always do, but I guess now I don't have to imagine it. I'm seeing it and it is some kind of terrifying. What's it gonna be like when that happens to me? Will that happen to my parents? I'm an only child. Who the hell is going to help me out? I need to marry wealthy. I think that would help. Yeah, that's the solution. I'll get to work on that soon.

Grandma and I spent the weekend with my aunt running errands and getting me adjusted. Both of them took me out driving and I felt a bit like I was in Driver's Ed again. "The speed limit is 60 here. Take a right. No, not there, at the light...no the next light." I have now discovered the Dahls, the HiVee, the brand new Trader Joes, the Barnes and Nobles, the Borders (which is where I am now until my wifi situation gets sorted out) and even the Dress Barn. Now I just need to unpack my suitcase and figure out what the hell I'm doing with my life. In the meantime I am drowning myself in books in between watching Dr. Phil and cooking up nutritious and delicious dinners. Last night was ginger pork chops with granny smith apples and red onions, a side of garlic mashed yams, and french cut green beans. This evening it's rosemary chicken with carrots and potatoes, a nice green salad, and some sweet red grapes. If only life were like dinner, I could just reach into the fridge and whip up something elegant.

La Fiesta Torcida

Finally back in Portland, having come almost full circle on my epic adventure. The trip was awesome, but I am exhausted, so for the past few days I've been laying low, vegging out in Camp REJJ which consists of a Queen sized airbed, a Project Runway marathon and lots of smoked salmon on crackers. Last night, my dad managed to pull the remote out of my hand to take me to a birthday party for my Mexican baby cousin. What ensued was actually better than reality TV.

Backing up. About a year ago my Dad became the adopted Uncle of a family of Mexicans who own a construction company. We'll call them la familia Lopez (I have to change the names for the sake of the not so innocent). There is Rohalio, the patriarch who is actually my dad's age (but he doesn't use just for men, so he comes off a little older), and his sons George, Elvis, Mario, Willy, and Carlo and their various wives and girlfriends. It was Elvis' daughter's second birthday and of course as an honorary uncle, my dad (who I am now re-naming Don Geno) had to come.

"We're starting around 4:00pm," Elvis said.
So around 6:00pm we started getting ready to go...we've learned that much. Lopez parties are on CP time for reals.
"Where is it?" Don Geno asked.
"It's by this place...you know that place..."
"Elvis, what is the actual address?"
We never did get an address, just some cross streets which turned out to be wrong, but eventually we figured it out and arrived in the parking lot of a small white church. I could smell the meat grilling as soon as we got out of the car. Having been to a few of these BBQs. I was expecting a house party, something casual, but clearly I don't know enough about Mexican culture.

Attached to the church was a big white tent set up with a makeshift kitchen where five people were grilling up lengua, tripa, carne asada, carne al pastor, and I don't even know what else, to dish up in tacos that were even better than the ones from the taco cart in Wallingford...I mean quality...and with the little sliced radishes and cilantro avocado salsa. Yum. Up the stairs and inside was a birthday party on steroids.There was a large wooden dance floor with a stage, ringed with tables and chairs and a massive pink, white, and purple balloon gazebo. The gift table was heavy laden and in the center was a multiple teared pink cake with little princess action figures colonizing every layers. I never did eat any cake because several little hands made a fast break for the toys before getting intercepted by their parents.

Most of the children were in costume. Almost all the girls were some sort of princess. There were 3 Snow Whites, 2 Cinderellas, and a Jasmin. The boys were mostly super heroes or star wars characters with the exception of some very little boys who were clearly dressed by their moms: one as a duck and one as a giraffe. A few of the women had on costumes as well, and almost every woman, costumed or not, had on high heels. I felt under dressed. The men were in jeans and button down shirts with cowboy boots and hats and large belt buckles. And there I was in jeans and sneakers. Even if I had dressed up though, I still would have felt out of place. I mean I just can't blend.

My mom has the international African face, meaning that wherever she goes, no matter if it's Uganda or Ghana, everyone assumes she's from there and speaks to her in the local language. But for my dad, who is light skinned, he has what I call the Steven Segal miscellaneous brown ethnicity face. He can pass for everything...Indian, Eskimo, and of course Mexican. He's actually been practicing his Spanish to pull off the impersonation, but of course if it's anything more than Hola or La cuenta por favor...he gets busted.

We took a seat at the back table with the rest of the gringos if the family: George's wife who is White, Lonny and Chris, Lonny is Black and Chris is Chilean, as well as Lonny's daughter and grandson, plus Susy (Don Geno's coworker) and a few other Lopez brothers. The party got underway. The food was great. Elvis even went to Costco and bought Don Geno a veggie platter (since he is forever complaining about the lack of veggies at these affairs)and his own bottle of Tangeray (they know him so well). For the rest of us there was Azul tequila and real Coronas imported from Mexico. I usually feign an allergy to tequila after my own unfortunate experience in Mexico, but I had to toast la nina...so I took a shot and it was actually kind of fabulous...very smooth. Susy brought her own bottle of Crown Royal, which Lonny finished...Susy was not so happy about that. In addition to the bottle of Tangeray and the cup of ice, they also brought Don Geno his own metal shaker, so he poured Susy some gin to keep her happy. I told her not to drink it. She was warned.

Meanwhile the party unfolded in stages. First there was a DJ playing 70s soul music interspersed with Ranchero...which is the Mexican version of polka music. Then there were kids games, red light green light, and musical chairs. They even has a costume contest. Then I looked up on stage and the DJ had been moved aside to fit a huge Ranchero band. I don't know how all those people got on one stage. There were trumpets, trombones, an entire percussion section, and even a tuba. They played a few warm up songs that no one danced to, but that one very drunken lady yodelled to.

By then even more people had shown up. Have you ever been in a situation where you know way more about someone than you should? Before my epic adventure, Elvis and George took me out to lunch with Don Geno, Susy, and the very sexy Mario Lopez. It was there that I realized George and Elvis were trying to hook me up with Mario and also when I noticed Susy's interest in George. Don Geno confirmed later that yes, they had a thing going on. Did I mention that Susy is married with 4 kids and that George is also married with kids...and that said wife was sitting across the table from me and Susy not looking super thrilled to be there. Awkward. You can see where this is going right?

So the band played for a while longer and then, they took a break and a traditional mariachi band...dressed in all black with silver buttons down the sides of their pants took over. This was one hell of a second birthday. I can't wait til she turns 15. I want to see the party that's going to top this. The Mariachi band surrounded our table and serenaded us. Then, in a surprise move, George decided that he wanted to sing, so he stood up next to his wife and across the table from his lover. Someone gave him a microphone and he sang 2 fabulous love songs. I'll say this for him. He can sing...I mean really sing. But yeah...awkward.

So then the other band came back and became to play some very raucous ranchero. The lights came down, the strobe went up, my very very drunken new BFF started to yodel and stumbled onto the dance floor which seemed to signal that it was okay for everyone else to dance too. So up they went and Susy was second to the floor, led by the ever hot Mario Lopez. Can't claim I wasn't jealous. No disrespect to my Benji, but Mario Lopez is nothing but muscle. I once watched him pick up his brother Carlo and throw him onto the roof...like with his bare hands. Don Geno won't even arm wrestle him. He is the kind of dude who probably does one handed push ups for fun and man can he dance. While I'm not that big of a Ranchero fan, he made it look good. As soon as the song ended I got my turn. Wow what a dancer, and wow what a flirt. I felt conflicted...must have been the tequila. Still it was fun to be waltzed around a bit. When I sat down, Susy leaned into me and asked "Did you did your nails into his arms? 'Cause I did."

And the whole time I'm thinking if you had a shot at Mario Lopez (who is single and way better looking), what the hell were you doing with George? But I didn't say anything. I just smiled and let the yodeling girl sitting across from me pull me up to dance. Then the lights came back up and the cake got cut. George's wife disappeared. Then Susy excused herself to go to the bathroom. Mario Lopez asked me to dance again. DANGER. Thank goodness Don Geno was there...he keeps me honest. When the song ended, I came back to the table. Don Geno asked me to go check on Susy cause she was gone for a long time and looking a little wobbly, so I made my way across the floor and down the stairs to the bathroom, but she wasn't there, so I went outside, where it had begun to rain. Susy was smoking her seventh cigarette of the evening and fuming.

Me: What happened?
Susy: I went to the bathroom and when I came out some old bitch pushed me.
Me: What?
Susy: She pushed me. I mean seriously she put her hands on me and shoved me. So I came out here to smoke, but I'm just waiting for her to show up because I'm about to kick her ass.
Me: Um. Okay. Well I'm going back inside.
Susy: That's cool. I'm not asking you to get involved.
Me: Cool.
Susy: You can tell whoever you want. She shoved me. I don't even know why.
Me: Alright. I'm going in out of the rain.

I did an excellent job of keeping my mouth shut, but really I was thinking...so wait a minute. You show up at a family function for your lover, knowing damn well his wife is gonna be there. Then she figures out who you are and all you get is one little shove and you're pissed? You're dumb. No, you're lucky, because if I were George's wife, they would be calling the police on me. There...got to get that out of my system.

So I go back in and it's Don Geno's turn to take a bathroom break. When he comes back he leans in and says "You're not gonna believe this."
"What?"
"Susy is with Mario Lopez now."
Damn another fantasy ruined. So Susy wobbles in supported by Mario because she is now really really unsteady on her feet. He looks at me and asks me in Spanish "Estas contenta? Todos contentos no?" Are you happy? Everyone is happy right...and I'm thinking REALLY?! What a waste. But then I remember I have no business having an opinion about any of this. So I just laugh...because it is kind of funny and say yeah.

Though I'm not feeling particularly charitable, I get Susy seated, start her drinking water...which she promptly spills all over my leg. Then as Mario gets up to use the loo, some Mariachi dude starts macking on Susy. I mean it was annoying, but I must give her props for being a total playa. I try to get her to call her sister, because clearly she can't drive home, so she texts, but she is rapidly deteriorating. Finally I just take her phone and call her sister myself. She says she's on the way. Then, because it's way past Don Geno's bedtime, we make our goodbyes. Susy and Mario accompany me out. As I reiterate that Susy's sister is coming and that under no circumstances should she be allowed to drive anywhere...not that she could physically walk to her car even if she wanted to...Mario puts an arm around both of us.

"Estas diviertiendote?" Are you having fun?
"No." Not really. Maybe it's because I'm from Wisconsin and friends with a lot of women who can hold their liquor, but it's been over a decade since I've needed to babysit someone and I wasn't really excited about it. I mean come on. Grow up!
Mario looked surprised though and then as Susy tried to hug me goodbye, but in a shocking move her hug turned into her trying to bite my boobs. I was really thoroughly done with the evening at this point. I don't know if he was trying to lighten the mood or invite me to a threesome, but then Mario pulled down the top of his shirt and was like...if you need to bite someone bite me. That did make me laugh at least.

Goodnight kids. Have fun.

The Great American Road Trip WI to OR: Me, my dad, and a AAA map.

Depending on who is asking me and how I feel on any given day I am most likely to tell people that I'm from Seattle or maybe Wisconsin, but truthfully I was born in Des Moines, Iowa and spent several summers with my dad in Cedar Rapids. Our first stop out of Milwaukee was Cedar Rapids.

It was strange to be back, especially in Cedar Rapids, which still smells like burning barley and yeast from being home to the Quaker Oats factory. We had lunch with our friends and suddenly I was flooded with all these memories: learning to ride my bike, swimming all day long, birthdays at Showbiz Pizza (before it became Chucky Cheese), and going to day camp at the YMCA (my dad used to pack me canned fruit with a 3 lb can opener). Then my dad had a meeting downtown, so I called up the girl who used to be my best friend and road dog, Miss J. Though we hadn't seen each other since the third grade, I would have recognized her anyway. She looks just the same.

Miss J bought me a coffee and we got in her car and she took me on a tour of the town. Some parts were the same, but most showed signs of wear. Some places had been completely abandoned in the wake of the flood that took place two years ago. Even buildings that had been remodeled still held a mark on the outside indicated how high the water had risen. It was one of those disasters that didn't claim many lives on the actually day, but in the aftermath. People lost homes and businesses and despite the shiny new spots, over all CR had a sad vibe to it. Still I was glad to meet Miss J again. She was warm and fun and easy to talk to. I think we might just keep in touch. From there dad and I drove to Des Moines, Iowa's capitol (which I will be returning to shortly). We visited my grandma, had a glass of lemonade, then got back on the road. Iowa is flat, but kind of pretty this time of year, still kind of green with the occasional field of yellowed corn stalks. No shortage of cows or farms. In short no place I'd want to live, but even so, I did enjoy the sunset and the exceptionally clean and well spaced rest areas.

After spending the night in Sioux Falls, we woke at 0 dark 30 and got on the road crossing over into South Dakota. It was pitch black when we left and stayed black til past 7:00am when it finally started to lighten almost infinitesimally at first to a slate gray with a tiny pink patch streaking the eastern sky behind us, then finally to a light gray filled with rolling clouds. I fell asleep and when I woke up, the green familiar landscape of Iowa had been replaced by the stark gray, brown, and gold of South Dakota. The sky seemed so much bigger and expressive, the earth, so much dryer. We passed fields of dead sunflowers with bowed heads on brown stalks, and rode through places so desolate there was actual tumbleweed rolling across the highway from one empty field to the next. Black cows, spotted horses, a fox, and some dead skunks seemed to be our only company. No street lights, no rest stops, barely any other cars. We turned off 90 and onto 18 which was even more scarily deserted (no cell phone service either)so that we could visit Pine Ridge Reservation and Wounded knee.

On December 29, 1890 the Sioux sat down with the Seventh Cavalry...it's a familiar story. You can substitute Afghan with Sioux and Seventh Cavalry with US troops and it would probably read the same. What happened that day at Wounded Knee? Some call it a cultural misunderstanding. Some call it a massacre. They were dancing the Ghost Dance. When you have nothing left: your home, your freedom, your lives have been forever compromised, at least there is faith and there is song and dance, but even that was too scary to the men with guns, because dancing is a sign of an unbroken spirit. The soldiers demanded that the Sioux relinquish their weapons. But we don't have any, answered Chief Big Foot. You've already taken them from us. Though one man did have a gun, an expensive rifle that he didn't want to give up...some accounts say several men had guns hidden beneath blankets, some accounts say there was only one, but most agree that the first to fire were the white men and the first to die were the Sioux. Over 300 women, men and children died at Wounded Knee and 25 U.S. soldiers.

After a quick tour of Martin (one laundry mat, a general store, some trailers, and a few houses) we visited the cemetery at Wounded Knee. It is in the middle of nowhere and if you didn't know it was there you would just ride right past it. There is a small church made from red wood with a black wrought iron cross above it, then a small cemetery with a chain link fence and graves marked with flowers, cut stones, and crab apples. Though clearly someone had been there to tend to the graves, it felt like a place largely forgotten by the rest of society. I am not sure what is worse, going to the slave castles at Cape Coast and finding them a perfectly preserved UNESCO sight or visiting a massacre that no one ever remembers. We said a prayer then got back in the car to drive a little further onto the reservation. The Pine Ridge, while small, has a nice new hospital, a nursing school and a Sioux college in addition to a gas station and a subway (it was nothing like Martin). Even the houses seemed new, though samey, like cookie cutter versions of one another dotted across the plain.

From there our journey got a little too exciting. Due to bad signage and an unexplained detour, we ended up, literally in the middle of nowhere, and I mean nowhere. It was scary. There we were just driving through one lane miles of nothing, fields, but no farms, no animals even, just sky and road and endless frontiers stretching out into the horizon. At one point the road became gravel and I seriously wondered if we would ever see civilization again. There was no one else even on the road and if we did by chance pass by a house it was falling down, abandoned. One house had a grave yard of broken cars, but not a person in sight. We both said an Hallelujah when we made it to Wyoming and found a road that met up with the 90. There we had lunch then got back on the road. About 30 miles outside of Gillette it started to rain and wind so hard that it was shaking the car. And then came the slush. Needless to say we cut the drive short. We'll hit Montana tomorrow.

I keep thinking about Wounded Knee though.

Update from the middle...

Greetings from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, where my camera has official died. Today we celebrated my grandmother's 90th birthday. I met some cousins I'd never met before, ate a lot of chicken, and of course hung out with grandma. Working backwards from my last post, I did make it to DC where I stayed for about 10 days visiting fabulous friends and eating lots of apples. I enjoyed being greeted by good looking black men who have had the home training to actually say "Hello" as opposed to "Hey baby" or "Yo Shorty". I went salsa dancing twice, experienced the most sexy bachata experience of my life, had the perfect pisco sour, and stopped at every bookstore I saw. Then all too soon I was getting on a plane and flying to Madison.

"You can never go home again." Can't remember who said it...but it's not true. I can and do go home, usually once a year, usually in October, and even though something is always different, mostly Madison is the same...kind of flat, lots of lakes, beautiful foliage, beer and braut tailgate parties. I ate my way through the city, then drank my way through a 12 hour happy hour with some of my best friends from high school. I have friends all over, but they are not like these crazy women. These girls are shit kickers. They like to pick fights and slam shots and sing very bad karaoke. There are always lude jokes involved and inappropriate behavior that in most places might get you banned from a bar. But despite it all, they are my friends, my best friends, the people who know me like nobody knows me and somehow still love me and it was awesome to see them again. And now I am going to pass out because my Dad is waking me up at the crack of dawn and we are headed to South Dakota. More on that later...

It's All Right There

Just barely getting over jet lag. Still kind of fuzzy in possibly the least fuzzy place in the world. This is a bold city, tall buildings, bright colors, lots of noise, lots of accents, different languages, and music-music spilling out of car windows out of sewer grates, from vendor stands, from everywhere. Salsa, merengue, Al Green, Run DMC, Grand Master Flash provide the sound track for my aimless walks, where I jaywalk belligerently like the New Yorkers do and pretend I am walking towards something rather than just around. This is a vibrant place. And it's been so great to share it with veteran NY dweller DD and newbie ex Seattlelite Peaches. They each tell me about it from their perspective, what they've seen, how it's felt, what Columbia is like. "You should be a student," they both tell me in independent conversations over tea or sitting on the couch. But that time in my life is over for now at least in the formal sense, my education is always continuous.

I made my way to the Schomburg Center for Researching Black Culture, passing from White Harlem...aka Columbia... to Harlem Harlem where an older Black couple had linked hands and were bumpin and steppin on the sidewalk in front of a bootleg CD table playing Teddy Pendegrass. I like to walk around Harlem and pretend I belong here and that if I just round the corner I might run into Langston Hughes or Lorraine Hansberry smoking a cigarette and looking crazy. What famous Black person hasn't passed through Harlem at one point in time in their life or another? Will I be one more? Hmm. Don't think I'm that ambitious. I've got that Tupac mentality...fuck the fame, I'll take the cash. But still I like the History of it, knowing this is where great poems and plays were written, where songs were composed, works of art birthed into being...and here I am somehow accidentally a part of it.

DD thinks I should move here, get a job and write on the side, join the ranks of starving artist living in an over priced poorly fenshuied apartment with six other people sharing a bathtub in the kitchen. I used to want to live here, even applied for several jobs, but now, I don't know. Maybe. I can see the appeal of living somewhere where on any given corner I can buy Shea butter or hair oil, where a tall good looking Black man can walk down the street and not be the only one I see all day. I could learn to love that. Plus there is the Nuyorican and the poetry scene. I'm not ruling it out, but there is the whole fact that after several months I really don't know what I want to do other than right...or what I'd be willing to do anyway. The list of things I'm sure I'm not interested in has gotten considerably longer, whereas the other list is beginning to read more like a bibliography with one source...me.

Yesterday I found myself catching the subway to a part of Brooklyn I'd never been to before, Williamsburg. Take the 1 to the A train, transfer to the L and get off on Bedford. Then what? I stand on the corner looking touristy until my friend shows up and takes me to a Thai restaurant with a rectangular reflecting pool at the base of a statue of Buddha in front of a lotus tapestry. All around us are swings and long metal beaded curtains that look like they should tingle like bells.

"So what do you do again?" We make our way through the basics...new friends that we are communicating in a familiar mix of Nihonglish /Englanese. She is a designer and I am? Writer? Ex teacher? Ex Academic? Traveler...yeah, that fits my current identity. I am a traveler. A woman of leisure as DD would say. We eat until we're over full then wander around the mixed artsy neighborhood looking at books and scarves and funky lamps until she has to go. I linger a little while longer, then pass by a young lady telling fortunes. She is light brown with big dark eyes, slender, and with an accent that doesn't disclose her origen. Mexican? Turkish? New Yorker? Bimio. Hard to tell.

Her: "It's $10 for a palm reading."
Me: "Okay"
Her: "You are a traveler. I see a lot of travel in your past and in your future. And you're spending money like it's water."
Me: LOL. True.
Her: "But it's okay. Money isn't your problem. Yes, you will have money."
Me: Really? Good to know. I thought it kind of was part of the problem.
Her: "You're going to live a long life. Very long...longer than you thought you would."
Me: Hmm. How long did I think I'd live? 80? 90? Old for sure.
Her: "And you'll be successful. You're very creative. But your success won't come as soon as you think it will. You're going to be frustrated."
Me: I paid $10 for this...she's right, I am spending too much money.
Her: "You have to be patient."
Me: She can see all that and not see that I'm a totally impatient person.
Her: "In the last five years you've experienced a significant loss. Did someone close to you pass away or something? You're sad and worried. You don't sleep well for all the worrying."
Me: "Actually I sleep pretty well." Even in different beds every few days.
Her:"There is someone in your life who is a negative influence. YOu have a lot of close friends and family, but there is someone who is more of an acquaintence who is negative...it's like that person is jealous and doesn't want to see you succeed. Though it might not even be a conscious thing, that person's negativity is impacting you."
Me: "Can you see a name or something? Can you tell me more about the person."
Her: "I don't know the name, but you should be careful. You are a positive person, even with your sadness, you still live and act in a positive way, but you must be careful of other people's energy."
Me: "You see all that from looking at my hand?"
Her: "Well I also read your aura. Oh, and that guy you're with...it's not gonna work out. You haven't had very good luck with love. I don't really see it working out. Maybe in five years or so...maybe, but I don't see that very clearly."
Me:Maybe it's just time for me to go. "Thanks."
I decide not to get the Crystal healing or the past life reading. Maybe the palm reading was enough.

I look at my palm and wonder if it reads like a subway map filled with different routes, but with fixed destinations, points of fate that cannot be moved or tempted? Another mystery to ponder while getting lost in New York. Naw. Time to go to DC.

New York State of Mind

Traffic, skyscrapers, parks, and city kids abundant. Oh, and I am loving the diversity. When you first arrive in customs there is this video they play on a loop over several TVs that explains how the process works. But first there is this welcome montage of scenes from around the country with people from all different backgrounds extending a welcome to the USA. It's actually very cool because you also see scenes from all 50 states. Though at the time I thought it was also a little misleading because it makes it look like white people aren't the majority of the population. Now after spending a few days in New York, it makes sense to me a little more...because here in this city there is such a great mix of cultures. Walking through Harlem it seems like no two people have the same skin tone, the same hairstyle. No one is speaking the same language. It's beautiful. Here I am anonymous...not a black girl, or an American, just another person.

So what am I doing here? Everyone keeps asking me. Mostly I am just chilling, recovering from jet lag...went to movies, caught Eric Bennet in concert (damn he's fine), shared some meals with friends, and bought some over the knee hot black boots that I'm learning to walk in. I am processing the trip so far, but also I catch myself reminiscing about being 18 and going off to school, finally making the great escape from WI or more truly from my former life. Here I am surrounded by the energy of youthful exploration. My two close friends in NYC are both students at Columbia, so I am staying on campus. Definitely don't miss dorm life, but do kind of enjoy eavesdropping on people's conversations. It's like reality TV. Bearing witness to this American right of passage...grow up, turn 18, go off to school and find yourself. What no one ever tells you is that figuring out who you are is an ongoing process. When you're younger it's great because you can go somewhere where everyone is doing the same thing, but when you get older and need to do it all again, there is no specified way for how...so I am inventing my own way and finding myself through this journey. It's a blessing.

More Spain Pics...

Back in America: Where you can call someone an asshole and they will understand you!

Goodbye Madrid. I will miss you. Iberia actually let me on the plane this time so I landed in Casablanca, Morocco with a full day ahead of me before my next international flight. I found my luggage and cleared customs only to discover that despite my previous guide's assurance, there was no one waiting for me there. What to do? Hmm. I had time. I decided to wait. A half an hour went by and still no one. The longer I waited, the more I felt like a mark...a woman alone, traveling with lots of luggage. Several strangers approached me asking me in French and Arabic, then finally a rough approximation of English. Did I need a hotel? Did I need a taxi? Yes, but who to trust? Trust the internet. I found a place to plug in, then googled a list of hotels and somehow managed to book myself a room at the Hotel Atlas.

After a short cab ride, I found myself in the same hotel I had stopped in at the beginning of my journey, but this time with no guide and no group to navigate the language barriers. I did manage to get my room though. From then on my Casablanca stay began to deteriorate. It took me over an hour to get a towel from house keeping and the staff at the front desk and the housekeeper were rude to me. When I asked for a second towel to dry my hair the lady told me no. Who does that? She had a cart full of clean towels and I could only have 1. Why? Did she think I was going to steal it? I've never been to a hotel with a towel quota. I decided to just let it go though...not a big deal. Then I went down the store in the hotel lobby and tried to buy a souvenire for a friend and again experienced more rudeness. I mean was it me? Was there something about my behavior soliciting this response. I felt like I was pretty polite and doing my best to make do with my little miniscule French.

After a nap and some TV in English I decided to have a late lunch. Rather than spend hella on a cab into the city only to be lost and frustrated I decided to stay and eat at the hotel. The waitstaff was very slow, and when I say slow I mean glacially slow...to the point where I wondered if this was some kind of permanent pergatory that I might never escape from. Once I finally left I stopped by the reception desk to ask for a wake up call and they were beyond rude...dismissive, curt, served others before me, at one point completely ignored me. I felt diminished. But still managed to silence the inner bitch really wanting to come out.

A bit later I was reviewing my finances online and discovered they charged me twice for the same room. And so we had to have another uncomfortable interaction. Lots of eye rolling on both sides. They did refund my money (though I checked today and those fuckers re-charged me for the room...now I will have to contest the charge.

Needless to say when the next day arrived I was very ready to get the hell out of Morocco. So I got all my stuff together and headed down to the lobby where the rude receptionists directed me to the airport shuttle. By the way, at no point during my time lugging my big ass suitcase, my backpack, and my other bag did a single bellhop lift a finger to assist me. Nor did the shuttle guy. In fact, he took one look at me and told me that he would take me in a half an hour...but I needed to go then. Then he looked at my ticket and saw I was leaving from Terminal 3 and said he wouldn't take me there. He told me I needed to take a cab. With only 30 dirham left in my pocket, I knew I didn't have enough cah for that and so I did the thing I'd been really trying not to do. I became the ugly American. I got indignant, entitled, and obnoxious..."What do you mean you're not gonna take me to the airport? This is an airport shuttle right? I'm not asking you to take me anywhere outside of the airport so I don't understand what the fuck your problem is. Your whole job is take me to the airport!" Of course his English was about as good as my French, but I'm pretty sure my tone and facial FU were translating pretty clearly. I was just getting worked up when some white Moroccan lady came up behind me and told him she needed to go to the airport too and suddenly everything was cool and the shuttle was leaving right away. After he dropped her off at her terminal, he picked up another passenger then took me exactly where I need to go...for which I was grateful, but I couldn't help feeling kind of pissed. Why did we have to go through all of that?

Once at the airport I went through 6 security check points, waited behind a family of 8 FOREVER to get boarding passes, and somehow managed to get on the plane only having to cuss out one more person in the process...this really rude lady at one of the airport shops who insisted on helping every single white person in the store before me. REALLY?! So I'm finally on the plane and saying a few thank you Gods and please forgive me for being such an asshole today when...well nothing happened, the worst kind of nothing. The plane didn't move. We sat on the tarmack and then we sat somemore and then we sat even longer. Every once in a while there would be an announcement in French, Arabic, and English saying "sorry for the delay" but at no point in time was there any kind of explanation of what the hell was going on. And then after about two hours, (again with no explanation) they just opened the door and people started getting off the plane. I don't think I've ever had that happen before. It was very disconcerting. We were shuttled from the airplane back to the airport where after another 30 minutes they finally announced that they would be re-boarding our flight at 6pm. It was 2:30pm. The flight was supposed to leave at 12:30pm.

The only thing I'd had to eat all day were Spanish cookies and pretzels. So I befriended two nice Nigerian gentlemen and a Japanese lady who was very excited to speak to me in Japanese. I was just happy to have people with whom I could communicate period. First we went upstairs to see if we could find some food and more importantly some liquor. As a Morocco is a muslim country, there was barely any wine or beer and certainly no cocktails, so the Nigerians and I made a little pit stop at duty free shop for a bottle of rum. Then we bought some Hawaii soda from a very rude woman who not only handed the Nigerian his change with her left hand (something taboo in Morocco and Nigeria...as that is the hand you wipe your ass with) but she was just in general a heinous bitch. I almost took her picture to put her on the wall of shame. Starving my ass off, I tried to buy a charwarma. I waited to be served for 20 minutes and when it was my turn the people at the restaurant decided they didn't have food. I'm not making this up. "Yeah sorry. Go somewhere else." Then I tried to buy a burger at the place with that heinous bitch from before (I was desperate), which was another long wait, only to discover that they didn't take credit card and I didn't have enough Dirham.

Pissed, hungry, and ready to slap someone, I went back downstairs to discover that Air Moroc was handing out vouchers for food. So we waited in a very long and slowing moving line only to discover that the vouchers only worked for one restaurant up three flights of stairs and on the other side of the airport. Of course they couldn't just tell us that when they handed out the vouchers. We had to go on a scavenger hunt. When we finally got there, there was no place to sit, so we had to split up. My Japanese friend found a seat with some White people from the plane and the Nigerians and I shared a table with some man from I have no idea where. Then we waited. We ordered. We poured ourselves some drinks and we waited some more. After an eternity and a lot of rum I looked around and realized that every White person from the plane, including the ones who had come in after us had been served and were recieving desert and we still hadn't gotten a thing...not even someone to clean off the dirty table. For the third time that day alone, I once again had to bring out the ugly American before we were finally given a plate of dry chicken with rice and french fries...no apology. I really wanted to punch someone. Seriously, the situation really took me there and I found myself tingling with adrenalyn and a great desire to bang someone's head against the wall. Never a good feeling to have in an airport.

After lunch we made our way gradually back to the waiting area. 6:00pm came and went and we were still there going on hour 8 of being stuck in the airport with no information about why or when and if we would ever get to leave. Half the bottle of rum was gone. We ran out of Hawaii and switched to Fanta...not as good. Finally as the sun was setting they loaded us onto a bus to take us to a plane. Yeah! Except the bus only did a loop around the airfield then took us back to another lobby where we went through another full round of security. That's when they decided to confiscate my rum and I lost it. I pulled out the receipt and started yelling at the guy, who of course couldn't understand a word I was saying, so some bilengual Moroccan with a NY Yankees hat came to translate for me...so I'm yelling in English and he's yelling in Arabic and everyone is getting pissed off and I'm calling everyone every kind of asshole and telling them that if they take my bottle they can give me back the 14 euros I spent on it..and of course I fucking opened it. I was stuck in the airport for 9 hours with no information about why...and then I was channeling Spanish because Spanish has the best swear words. You can tell someone things like: I shit on your dead ansestors....sounds kind of weird in English, but in Spanish, it just rolls off the toungue. And then I just turned and walked away...rumless and pissed, both middle fingers in the air to make sure they were clear on how I felt...at which point I was taking to a privacy cubicle where some female security guard felt me up and down and then I figured I better just get on the plane before I went to jail for punching an airport security agent. 8 hours later I arrived in New York, tired, enraged and in the middle of the night. It took another 2 hours to get through customs and the whole time I was thinking I HATE EVERYONE. I HATE EVERYTHING. I'M NEVER TRAVELING AGAIN...which of course is impossible, but that's how I felt.

And I also couldn't help wondering why it was so different to be in Morocco alone as opposed to with the group. The only place I felt uncomfortable in Morocco was this little French town we stopped in on the way to Fez. And ever there, the rudeness didn't seem so personal. I have to wonder is this how all the other dark skinned Africans are treated. It's funny how that works out. On one hand I receive a certain amount of privelege simply by being American. My passport gets me through lines faster and with less bullshit, but then there is still my other identity, my skin color which comes with a whole different set of complications. It would be nice to believe that I just had 2 shitty days and that people were assholes just because they were assholes, but I have to wonder what was really happening and why? More importantly when is this kind of bullshit going to end. I am so tired of all these white people telling me that because Barack Obama is my president that now racism is over, everything is all cool. They can say it as many times as they like, doesn't change the reality. Wish it would.

Enroute to NYC, but thinking of Spain: Ya te echo de menos

No Quiero Ir...

Ya me queda poco para regresar...I only have a few days left in Madrid and I don't want to leave. Had coffee with my friend from Finland, then walked around Bilbao and such enjoying the cool autumn breeze and rocking my fabulous Moroccan red leather coat. It was bittersweet. The thought just keeps repeating in my head that on Thursday I'll be on a plane back to Casablanca...then on Friday to NYC. I called Iberia and got my flight reinstated so I am actually going to be able to leave the country, but the truth is I just don't want to go. I want to stay and perfect the art of making tortilla de potata. I want to have tapas in Puerta del Sol and watch the sun set over the Templo de Debod. I want to figure out what the hell they put on the sauce that goes over the papas bravas...besides Tabasco. I want to drink mojitos in La Latina and finally check out the poetry readings in Lavapies. I'm not even gone yet and already I'm having separation anxiety. But all good things...

Siesta: Practicing the Spanish National Sport in Portugal

I have reached the point in my trip where I am absolutely exhausted. If I never see another bus, train, or plane, it might be too soon. And I still have three planes, a bus, and a long car ride before I find myself even close to back where I started. Do I regret it? No.

Just spent the last four days tooling around Portugal. Lisbon (Lisboa) is a lovely city that reminds me of several cities. As you enter the city to your right is a huge platform with a statue of Christ with his arms out like the one you might see in Rio de Janeiro (only Jesus is smaller because by the time the got around to constructing the Christ part, some asshole had stolen the majority of the money donated by all those faithful Catholics). Past this if you're on the A5, you'll find yourself crossing a bridge identical to the Golden Gate Bridge in San Fransisco (built by the same firm). Then as you walk around in the old part of time you'll find a very cool elevator and some street cars that remind me a lot of what you might find in Vina del Mar in Chile. But despite the familiar parts, Lisbon manages to pull it all together in a way that is beautiful and uniquely Portuguese from the tiny uneven hand made cobblestone sidewalks, to the lovely plazas filled with statues of men on horseback. I found myself pleasantly enchanted. We arrived with several hours of daylight left, so though I was tired and cranky from the ride, I decided to walk a bit and made my way right to the heart of the city.

Sunday afternoon seems to be the same everywhere, a time to chill, to have a glass of port or to sit in an outdoor cafe watching the world pass you by. While the rest of the city seemed dead, closer to the water there were lots of people and surprisingly lots of black men, just hanging out and eating their queixadas (little cheese tarts that taste like cinnamon and are a must try delicacy found in any Portuguese bakery or cafe). Where in Madrid I have seen a large population of what appear to be African vendors, in Portugal there seemed to be a lot of Brazilian or African men just hanging out, seemly much more integrated into the population. I wonder what the difference is. I didn't find anyone I could ask though. I walked all the way down to the waterfront which reeked of freshly caught fish, then made my way back to the hotel for a grilled cheese sandwich and sweet glass of port.

The following day I visited Sintra and Cascais with the tour group. Who goes to Portugal in late September in the middle of the week? Lots of old people from Brazil, Argentina, Venezuela, Columbia, and Mexico. I was the only person from the US (the second youngest...the youngest being my 11 year old friend). There was one woman from Vancouver, Canada (the only person on the bus who didn't speak Spanish). Everyone seemed to stick to their nationality though I was adopted by the Mexicans. I made friends with a family on a trip from Mexico City to New York to Madrid. The mom is a jewelry designer and sells her work in stores around the world. She was in Madrid for a jewelry exhibition, but wanted to take her son and her mother to visit Portugal. So we walked the gardens and the castles together, accompanied by my seatmate, another gentleman from Mexico city.

Portugal seemed to have more Castles per capita than restaurants. Every time you turn around...oh that's so and so's palace. Oh, that's King Whoever's summer house. In Sintra we visited a beautiful castle called Castelo Dos Mouros, the Castle of the Moors. It was built by the Moors in either the 9th or the 10th century, but then taken over and remodeled by King Ferdinand the 2 in the 19th century. That's the short version. All around were these beautiful gardens. The entire town of Sintra is like one huge botanical garden. Everything grows there from kiwi to agave (what they make tequila out of), jacaranda, cork trees, pine tree, oaks, eucalyptus. You name, it grows in Sintra because it's a perfect temperature almost all of the time. After a fabulous lunch of Bacalou (a typical Portuguese dish...cod fish grilled in a strew of onions, tomatoes and spices) we headed to Cascais, a beach town filled with charming little shops. Afterwards we went back to Lisbon. I planned on having a night cap, but I was so tired I couldn't pull myself out of the room.

The next day we went to Fatima. Fatima is a city famous for being the site where three little kids met the Virgin Mary. Mary seems to be following me around Europe. Just before arriving to the city we made a pit stop for coffee at what I can only describe as a one stop shopping for all things Christian. It was literally a warehouse store filled with everything from statues of the Virgin, including a whole selection of glow in the dark Marys, to rosaries, vestments, candles, vials of holy water, crosses made of all different materials and engraved with common names, and of course postcards and port and the obligatory gallo (or Rooster) which is everywhere.

SIDE NOTE: The Rooster Story. There are several versions, but the one I liked the best is about a young man who was a pilgrim on the Road to Santiago. There are several Inns on the road that serve as resting places for pilgrims. Our hero chose the wrong Inn. He was a quiet man who, while polite, wasn't that entertaining of a guest. Somehow his silence managed to offend the woman who owned the Inn. She waited until he wasn't looking and then hid a valuable crystal vase in his backpack. As soon as he left, she called the police and told them she'd been robbed. They found the pilgrim matching his description around midday and asked him if they could look through his belongings. As he was no thief, he readily agreed, having no idea that he was being set up. Of course the police found the crystal vase...which the pilgrim had never seen before in his life...and decided that he was guilty. The penalty at that time was life in prison, but before they took him in, they asked him if he had any last requests. Since it was around lunch time, he asked the officers to feed him one last good meal. So one of the officers took him to his home where his wife had prepared a roasted chicken. The pilgrim, for the millionth time told the man that he wasn't guilty. Then he asked God for a sign of his innocents. If I'm innocent, then that chicken will get up and walk away. Of course the chicken was dead and roasted, so the likelihood of it walking anywhere was pretty slim. But that turned out to be the miracle, the chicken rose from the plate and crowed the pilgrims innocence. The pilgrim didn't go to jail and a colorful rooster became a national logo for Portugal. END OF SIDE NOTE.

So we entered Fatima. The bus dropped us off at the Cathedral which is actually 2 cathedrals, one new and one old, a small chapel, a fountain with curative properties, a garden, a candle store, a candle alter, and a large open space in between it all marking the territory of the compound. I drank the healing water, washed my hands and feet, bought 3 candles, lit one, and prayed. Despite all the people and all the rampant capitalism, I did feel like I was on holy ground. I let the energy of Fatima course through me and ground me. And then, since I still had an hour left, I wandered around the town which was filled with stores selling Virgins. I really don't care for the whole religious tourism thing. It seems cheap and opportunistic. So I bought myself a pastry and was happy to go back to Lisbon.

After being surrounded by so many people wanting healings I found myself with a headache and feeling kind of motion sick and ready to be alone. I promised my Dad I would get him a sweatshirt from the Hard Rock Cafe though, so when we got back to the hotel I just dropped off my candles and set off with Pedro and the Suarez family in tow to buy a shirt and bottle of port for la Bea. This ended up being a much longer excursion that I intended. We found the Hard Rock with ease, then decided to lunch at a little Italian spot. Afterward, we wandered down towards the waterfront where we discovered Papa Bubble, an old-fashioned artisan candy shop where they make hard candy and lollipops by hand. We watched them stretch the candy and it was delicious and kind of whimsical. It was dark by the time we got back to the hotel.





Then we were up early the next day and on our way to Merida where we saw Roman ruins...which just made me think about the US and how similar we are to the Empire of ancient Rome. We're taking over everywhere and replacing the native cultures with our own made up brand of crap. While it was fabulous to turn on the TV in the hotel and have not only CNN and BBC in English, but also MTV, VH1, and 2 Fox channels playing Grey's Anatomy, House, Bones, and several of my favorite shows in English. It was also a little scary. I mean why? There was plenty of TV in Portuguese to watch, but there is something kind scary about how popular the US is...it's not exactly popular, it's like some insidious form of colonization. Conversion by media. And it's not just here...it's in Spain too and Africa. I remember being in Ghana and being asked for t-shirts or jeans, anything US. But why? It's definitely something on my mind. It makes me wonder if pretty soon there'll be no point to traveling because we'll all have assimilated into the same thing...and is that really a good thing? I mean yeah UNESCO is out there turning all these cultural landmarks into world heritage sites, but is this unity or international colonization? I'm happy to be back at my Madrid home.