Tsunami Relief Now

I think I'm not alone when I say that I am deeply saddened by the tremendous loss of life and devastation caused by the tsunami that hit southern Asia this past week. As of Thursday 12/30, the numbers of those who died have reached over 114,000. Indonesia alone, lost 80,000; Sri Lanka lost 24,700; India lost 7,300; Thailand at 2,400. Overall, 12 countries have been affected, over a million people are estimated to be displaced, hundreds of thousands are injured, and worse yet, thousands more could die as a result of ensuing diseases. Particularly, women and children are the most vulnerable.

Certainly, this is one of the largest natural catastrophes on record, and one that we're all made keenly aware of. With that knowledge, we cannot sit on the sidelines and be spectators reading news reports and internet pages. I urge you to donate to the various organizations that are working to bring relief to these devastated nations. I found an excellent site that has compiled a list of many of the well known non-profit organizations that are focused on relief:

• Network for Good - Link to many of the most well known organizations you can access from one page including: UNICEF, World Vision, Save the Children, American Jewish World Service, & etc.

Our help can make a difference. Consider this: At least 10 people could be reading this page at this moment, and if each of you donates just $10, and then forwards a request to another 10 people, whom of which does the same, we could raise over $1MM dollars after five iterations. It's simple math. Let's make a difference today.

God bless,
Marvin A.

Lyon, France

Lyon is the second largest city in France and it has a unique history. It is sometimes overlooked as it sits in the shadow of her older sister Paris just four hours away. Interestingly enough, Lyon began as the capital of Gaul under the Roman Empire and was once a trade center for merchant goods all throughout ancient Europe. Roman architecture is evident in the city buildings, theaters, and streets, and now the city is on UNESCO's World Heritage List. Geographically speaking, Lyon resides in the Rhone valley, home to some of the world’s most famous red wines (i.e. Cote du Rhone & Beaujolais-Villages to name a few).

The city is basically divided in thirds thanks to two rivers that run parallel north to south: the Rhone and the Saone. The easternmost third is the newest and most modern part full of modern day high rise buildings. Cross the bridge westward and the city gets more interesting as it begins to reveal its architectural nuances. This part of the city is just a sliver of land hosting old buildings with ornate facades, stuffy European hotels, charming storefronts, and overpriced restaurants. Cross yet another bridge and the historical medieval city center comes to life. In the medieval city, the buildings hold secrets of their own and the Roman theaters echo moments of an ancient past.

A friend and I ventured to find Lyon’s secrets on a chilly, yet sun-filled November morning. We took the train-lift up through darkened tunnels, to the road where the ancient Romans walked. Under my feet, a path of stones lay unevenly and in peculiar positions with overgrown grass flourishing between them. The path led to a maze of walls cut from ruined stones that have not seen a roof over them for some hundreds of years. Just beyond these ruins, up on the hillside, stood a glorious ancient theater.


Gallo-Roman Theater

I seized the stage, closed my eyes, and imagined the ancient Romans filling the seats in togas and Birkenstocks watching my performance of Homer’s Iliad. The acoustics were clear, and as I stood in silence, I listened to the winds & whispers of visitors that stood high up in the seats. I climbed the steps to become a Roman myself, and as I turned to look at the stage, I was enchanted by the city backdrop that stretched as far as the eye could see. The orange-tiled roofs glowed and the river waters glistened with absolute brilliance.

Within eyeshot the Cathedrale St.-Jean stood pompously above all other neighboring buildings on the hill. It too was an impressive structure reminiscent of many of Europe’s old cathedrals. Its architecture was cold and evoked an ethereal feeling as I looked up into the gigantic dome and the echoes resonated in my head, making me feel like a simple and diminished being. I stood amidst a rainbow of candles, each representing a prayer, perhaps a prayer for the family, or a miracle for a sick mother, or for atonement of a burdensome guilt, or maybe just a pretentious prayer by one who wanted to see the inside this cathedral. All in all, St-Jean seemed to inspire me with fresh imagination and wonder.


Prayers of the faithful at the Cathedrale St.-Jean

We said goodbye to St.-Jean as we snaked down a hillside garden full of marble statues and water fountains. Through brief openings in the trees, we caught glimpses of the cathedral for the last time. After descending a never-ending set of steps, we found ourselves on the cobblestone streets of medieval Lyon.


Neverending Steps

Here we were welcomed by the scent of fresh baked bread, almonds, and the charming restaurants that called to us like Sirens. Our hunger at that point was relentless, but knowing that the day was dwindling we resisted the temptation in order to explore the secret traboules of Lyon.

The traboules are a series of tunnels that the ancient Romans built within the ancient buildings. These shortcuts served the merchants, silk traders and vendors who wanted to protect their goods as they traveled through the city. Nowadays, many of the traboules are hidden and can only be found by pushing randomly on any given old oaken door. At first, we pushed rather tentatively on a few doors thinking that some curmudgeon of an old man might pop his head out and with a thick Pepe le Peu accent, scream “Get lost, you stupid Americans.”

Then finally, one door creaked open to reveal the mouth of a darkened traboule. We entered the musty labyrinth with careful footsteps along a narrow passage, leading up a spiral staircase, and past locked gates of what seemed like the chambers of an old dungeon. We found a long straight hall with a glimmer of light at the other end, and began to inch closer and closer when suddenly an elderly couple startled me as they turned the corner to meet my camera lens. “Pardon moi!” I said in my own pathetic version of French, and then I turned to find myself at the central courtyard of this ancient building.


Traboule

After just a brief stint of daylight in this courtyard, we re-entered the darkened tunnels into another maze-like gauntlet that led to the tail-end of the traboule at another oak door at a street along the Saone River. And so as the day began to fade, we explored more traboules, unlocking the secrets that lie within. But soon the Sirens of hunger called again, and this time we succumbed to their songs and fell at the mercy of a French bistro where we found dinner.

- Marvin A.

Barcelona - Part II

The Docks
Sunday morning was invitingly sunny and warm, so Michael & I decided to make our way to the beach. En-route, we passed through the marina at the port of Barcelona. We walked along the docks to catch a few glimpses of the hundreds of boats, whose naked masts stood idle just waiting to set sail into the Mediterranean.

Port of Barcelona

The Beach Debate
We arrived at the beach to stake out a peaceful spot among the golden sands. It was an ideal place to worship the sun, take in the waves, and watch people walk by. Here the fisherman anchored their poles deep into the sand, and the seniors fiercely played countless games of bocce.

Bocce Anyone?

As we walked along the beach, we noticed a pot-bellied old man with slicked back hair strutting his stuff like he owned the place. I can only describe it as disturbing. You know, like, make-you-feel-icky disturbing. “That’s just wrong,” I blurted out without a second thought. My remark somehow sparked an odd debate about the pros & cons of wearing a Speedo. From a European standpoint, Speedos are quite normal – a way of life – I suppose. So, perhaps I was just being an uncultured ethnocentric American. I mean, who am I to judge? I’ve never worn a Speedo in my life (with the exception of the tighty-whitey Superfriends underwear I wore as a kid). After all, there are benefits to proudly wearing that little piece of lycra. For instance, having clean tan lines, or being able to swim fast like Aquaman, or especially avoiding those annoying air bubbles in my trunks. And who knows, perhaps I might even look good in one? Yikes!

Port Olympic
After devoting way too much time to the subject, we made our way towards the Port Olympic and the giant copper fish that oddly poked out of the skyline. Along the boardwalk, a multitude of cafés and beachside bars beckoned us. So we took our chances at a place called Barnabiers. We sat down to the soothing sounds of a pan flute played by an ethnic South American guy with a rainbow colored llama-haired vest. At first, it was kind of nice as he played melodic tunes like the Song from Titanic, Chariots of Fire, Everything I do - I do for You, and Simon & Garfunkel’s Sounds of Silence. But then, we came to realize that the extent of his repertoire ended there, and the songs re-commenced in a nauseatingly endless loop. For a moment, I wished I were on the Titanic sinking to the abyss so I could be spared of the torture. To make matters worse, the service was at a snail’s pace (an authentically Spanish nuance). But after the third go around of the Sound of Silence, and me begging that it really were silent, we finally got the check.

Port Olympic

Nearby, we chanced upon the Parc en la Ciudad (Park in the City), where we found Barcelonians searching for some peace away from the busy city life. The center of the park was home to an incredibly elaborate fountain with dragons guarding its waters. Mike quickly pointed out that, "It is the architecture of kings, and not of the common people." So, like kings we marched through the trails, and paraded triumphantly through Barcelona’s Arc de Triumf.

Parc en la Ciudad

Another dose of Gaudi - Casa Batllo
Despite the miles of walking up to this point, I still craved to see more Gaudi. Like an addict needing another fix, I ventured alone to the Casa Batllo, to get an intimate view of one of Gaudi’s masterpieces. The Casa Batllo, also known as the "bone house," has a design that is both functional & aesthetic. The outer façade is adorned with purple scale-like tiles, and features these boney columns & balconies that resemble skulls. Inside, the rooms have peculiar mushroom shaped door frames, pastel stained-glass windows, and intricate chandeliers.

Casa Batllo

In the center of the building, an airy atrium made of blue tiles of every shade imaginable opens up to a skylight several stories high. I climbed the steps to a labyrinth of upper chambers where white arching rooms echoed with the whispers of curious visitors. Then through a narrow stairwell I arrived at the rooftop patio, where the roof-tiles seemed to resemble the back of a dragon with orange & green scales. Alongside it, proudly stood a pearlescent five-pronged cross crowning the building for everyone to admire.

Dragons & Crosses

I was absolutely captivated as I stood there silently gazing out over the rooftops as the dusk winds blew through my jacket. I stared into the distant mountains one last time as the faint outline of a domed cathedral faded imminently into the evening. And it was from here, I said goodbye to Barcelona once more.

-Marvin A.

Barcelona - Part I

The City - 11/05/04
Barcelona is my favorite city in Europe and in my opinion, the most ideal place to live. It’s nestled between a mountain backdrop to the west and the Mediterranean coast to the east. The warm weather (high 60’s during my stay) attracts world travelers looking to escape the cold. Barcelona is also a cosmopolitan city with a wide array of charming restaurants with delicious foods and wines to suit any palate. Most of all, it possesses awe-inspiring architecture, most notably the work of the modernist architect Antonio Gaudi (hence where the word gaudy originates). The spirit of Barcelona in simple terms is just that: gaudy, eccentric, and modern.


Barcelona

I had an ambitious itinerary and was looking forward to a full weekend of exploring this idyllic city. Two years ago, I was with Holli & a half-dozen friends from business school who cared only to drink up the night and sleep down the days. This time, a good friend (Michael) from Switzerland flew in to hang with me. We arrived after 9 p.m., the usual time for dinner here in what's called the Catalunya region of Spain. So we ventured for food to satisfy our hunger pangs in the most logical place to get oriented with Barcelona: Las Ramblas. This popular tree-lined street is sleepless and breathes with life at any hour. We could feel the rumble of the metro train below our feet as we walked down the wide median that cuts the street down the middle. We fought our way through the crowds, passing overpriced newsstands, flowery kiosks, tarot card readers every 50 feet, random guys selling beers by the can from six-pack plastic rings, and one dancing puppet show by a dreadlocked Brit. After countless rows of outdoor cafes, we swooped down upon one table, seemingly perfect for people watching, drinking beers, and munching on a variety of Spanish tapas. This was the fantastic scene that welcomed me back to Barcelona.

Wandering the Streets - 11/06/04
We started the morning navigating through the narrow corridors of the oldest part of the city: el Barrio Gotic. The streets of hand laid stone seemed to close into us, making each passage feel like we were in a maze. I imagine it’s quite easy to slip through the shadows of these streets undetected. Luckily all roads in this part of the city seem to lead to the Cathedral of Barcelona, a 13th century gothic cathedral, where the crypt of Saint Eulalia resides inside. If you want, you can put in a 50 cent Euro piece, and a light comes on for a minute so you can get a glimpse of the tomb. Kind of creepy!


Barrio Gotic

Just outside in the square, street performers work hard for the Euro. We stopped to watch the grungy flamenco dancers, bards speaking in broken English, flower holding clowns, ragtag puppet show theaters, juggling punks, and aspiring break-dancers. Some artists engaged us with more conventional acts such as the didgeridoo, hand drums, dueling violins, harpsichords, and classical guitar. It was all a bit charming to watch these troubadours gather the crowds as the autumn sun began to warm our faces.

Being a musician, I could picture myself playing on these streets, but I realized that it must be tough to be a performer in this competitive environment. There are just too many artists to count, and not enough Euros to go around (especially with the US exchange rate right now). As a result, Michael & I had to come up with special criteria to decide on who we’d give money to. So we came up with the notion of “eccentric creativity.” Like standing on your head while playing an instrument with your feet creative, or juggling knives creative, or even setting yourself on fire creative. This new measure seemed to work well as we found more unusual entertainment in the form of a haggard cat lady who adorned her cats with Hawaiian leis, or the statue guy who tied himself to the side of the cathedral wall in Christ-like fashion to emulate Jesus. But the most deserving performance came from none other than the headless accordionist who drew smiles from countless passers-by. Truly, these artists represented Barcelona’s eccentricity quite well.


Headless Accordianist - Can you spare a head...uh... Euro?

Michael & I would liked to have enjoyed the entertainment, but we were determined to see the work of Guadi. To do so, we made our way to the Placa Catulunya, the largest square in Barcelona. It is the heart of the city where the fountains burst with energy and people shoot pictures as pigeons swarm the brave few who offer portions of their lunch. We picked up a bus here to la Sagrada Familia.

La Sagrada Familia is the most famous cathedral in Spain. Gaudi took on this lifelong project in 1882, and died before seeing it completed. Construction still continues on today. His vision was to create a cathedral of mythical proportions that was inspired by his fervent faith and the natural world that surrounded him. When completed, la Sagrada Familia will have 18 towers: twelve representing each apostle, four representing the four evangelists, one for the virgin Mary, plus one large one in the middle representing Jesus. So far only eight towers are complete. It will have three facades: the glory façade, the passion facade and the nativity façade – the latter two being completed already. The nativity façade is adorned with stone carved leaves which look more like melted candle wax. The passion façade depicts Jesus’ suffering from a cubist perspective (Gaudi was a contemporary of Picasso).


La Sagrada Familia

The structure is enormous and boasts a blueprint inspired by the simple things in nature. For example, I ascended the complex towers through a narrow spiral staircase resembling the spirals of a seashell. The climb begins in darkness giving you a claustrophobic feeling that contrasts with vertigo as it opens up into small terraces hundreds of feet in the air. The spires are beautifully decorated with giant tiled clusters of grapes and leaves. And the columns closely resemble tree-like trunks looking up into the sky.


Treelike Columns of la Sagrada Familia

We continued our journey to Parc Guell, a hillside park overlooking the city. In fact Parc Guell, and the whole city was immortalized by the HP commercial featuring the Cure song, “Pictures of You,” filmed here on location. Here at this other Gaudi inspired respite, another musician played among the roman-style columns, while people sat on the veranda basking in the setting sun. Michael & I walked through the trails, stared at the chameleon fountain that many kissed for good luck, and admired the ornate mosaics decorating the park’s structures. It was a suitable place to watch the sun setting behind the mountains.


Parc Guell - Chameleon

Two Beds!
We headed back into the city for dinner at the oldest restaurant in Barcelona, Can Culleretes, founded in 1782. We found it on an obscure backstreet away from the busy Las Ramblas. They serve a menu del dia (menu of the day) where 15 Euros buys a three-course meal full of Spanish appetizers, baked salmon, ice cream, and plenty of vino tinto (red wine). The place though large, felt intimate as wall-to-wall people cramped in together. The walls were covered with yellow-stained pictures from the lingering cigarette smoke in the air. Wine flowed and conversations overlapped, as strangers glanced over at one another sharing the little space available. I slid between two tables practically sitting on top of one another.

A middle-aged balding Brit dined alone next to us. He smoked incessantly, and was determined to polish off his full bottle of wine. As the evening meandered on, our British friend seemed intent to talk to us, and began to recite bad jokes in his thick cockney accent. He took a peculiar liking to us. Apparently, he was on holiday, and he made sure we knew how frequently he traveled to Barcelona, and how the hotel clerks knew him by name. I politely smiled and asked him if he could recommend some good spots to hang out in. That only made things worse as he detailed the really great gay bars that he liked to frequent.

Then, I suddenly realized that from his vantage point we were two young guys having dinner together, and he probably assumed we were, you know, together. I guess I always heard of people having that mysterious gift called gaydar (apparently, the ability to sense the presence of a gay person close-by). I for some reason do not have this gift. Perhaps our new friend's gaydar was going off, but all the wine he imbibed seemed to be impeding the signal. Oddly enough, I found myself subconsciously trying to set the record straight as I deepened my voice and slipped in a few references about my wife Holli and my daughter, while I inadvertently played with my wedding ring explaining to him that I was here on business, and my friend Michael here, came to visit me for the weekend, and that we had two separate beds in our room. . .and. . .and. . . "TWO BEDS! TWO BEDS!" I so desperately wanted to shout out at the top of my lungs for the whole restaurant to hear. It was no use.

- Marvin A.

Hamburg, Germany

Hamburg Streets

It was only one afternoon, but an afternoon was all I needed to explore Hamburg. My mission was simple: go cathedral hunting. But to start, I sought coffee to revive me from the jetlag. In serendipitous fashion I came across a tiny church run coffee shop called Das Kirchencafe, at the base of the closest cathedral, St. Jacobi. I indulged in one of those miniature European espressos. It was just enough to kick me back in gear. I walked out into a gray and overcast day, and the wet air was the type you’d expect in northern Germany: hardy, thick, and heavy. It was an apt day for a leisurely stroll in the city.

The city of Hamburg was built on a port where water holds an important value. This is represented in a statue depicting a man carrying two buckets of water. Replicas of this same statue riddle the street corners of Hamburg. The man represents the people of Hamburg. And as history points out, these people made daily pilgrimages to the port's waterways to draw water and carry it back to their families for use. The statues are commissioned pieces of art, uniquely painted, each telling an individual story.

In Hamburg, the waterways are abundant and I walked a dozen footbridges over a series of canals that flowed through the city. Along the wider canals, colorful boats shamelessly cruise the rivers, proudly waving German flags. City buildings line the canals, except they don’t rise up like skyscrapers, they prefer to lie down alongside the rivers edge in one massive complex of a building stretching several city blocks long. The modern steel and brick structured buildings house countless shops. They share space with old wooden framed buildings, a faint reminder of old Europe.


One of the Many Canals

In essence, Hamburg is a juxtaposition of an old and new world. That's because in 1842, a fire broke out in a house on a little street: 25 Deichstrasse. The fire raged along, decimating the city in its entirety. And while most of the city was destroyed by the fire, some of it was salvaged and rebuilt. This did not last long, especially in 1945, when the allied bombs destroyed Germany. I stumbled upon the remains of one of these churches, St Nikolai. It’s an empty shell of what once was a cathedral of gothic beauty. I walked through the side door and found no shelter from the drizzling rain, it was only a hallway with no ceiling. All that remains is a lonely tower that arches high into sky with an exposed floor of ruins surrounding it. It serves as a simple reminder of the cruel effects of a war that crippled Germany.


St. Nikolai Tower

A few blocks away I spotted the clock tower of St. Michaelis cathedral. I navigated my way through an old neighborhood and up through a passageway that opened up to the church. Inside, I lit a candle at the altar, prayed for my family, and decided to climb the clock tower. Instead of taking the lift, I opted to brave the stairs and climb the 10 or so stories. It was a lonely dark climb where only steel support beams and concrete welcomed me. I felt like Jonah lost in the belly of a whale as each grueling step echoed on the cold steel in the belly of this beast. The climb took every breath out of me. At the top, I could see a sliver of light cracking through heavy iron doors, which broke open to reveal a platform offering a 360 degree panoramic view of Hamburg. The hazy gray sky made it hard to see far, but I could at least make out the ghosts of other churches in the distance.

After the tiresome walk through the city, I began to get hungry and decided to stop in the very spot where the 1842 fire began, Zum Brandanfang (the fire’s beginning) for some Konig Pilsner Beer and true German cuisine. I recommend the potato soup, fish filets with roasted potatoes, and the German cabbage. It all goes quite well with the beer. Zum Brandanfang is a charming place reminiscent of an old smoky bar with dark hickory bench seats. The cook passes food through an 18 x 24 inch sliding wood window, like those you might find in a dungeon where a prisoner receives his daily bowl of gruel and stale bread. Here the waitresses are girthy in a stereotypical German woman kind of way. They serve up patrons laughing, speaking in thick German accents, spilling beers, and smoking cigarettes. I sat there into the evening getting full, staring through the smoke filled room, focusing on the burning cigarette someone left in an empty ashtray. I got lost in a daze - jetlagged & daydreaming - all but convinced that the 1842 fire got started in a scene just like this one.

- Marvin A.

Orlando

Lake Bryan near our condominium in Orlando

What I remember most about family vacations are a few simple things: the endless drives down long stretches of highway, going swimming at midnight, shopping at outlet malls, and eating so much food that my stomach felt like exploding. Then of course there are the more complicated things: the endless drives down long stretches of highway, the arguments over whether we stop at a gas station or a rest area, listening to Whitney Houston songs playing on the radio, and finally, getting carsick in the backseat.

I’ll never forget the summer of 1991 when we packed into our maroon Chrysler New Yorker complete with velour seats. That was a hellish summer and the heat from the highway conjured up mirage pools in the distance. My brother and I were like sardines packed into the back seat. I was snoozing with my head against the window, when suddenly, I was awoken by the gagging noises of a carsick brother, followed by the ooze of warm vomit drenching down my leg and into my sock. The chunky sight was disgusting and the smell was repulsive causing my eyes to water. I was shocked and imagined my leg melting in this vile brew.

Ironically, he managed to get most of it into this plastic bag. That was little comfort as I suffered from the collateral splash. We stopped at the side of the road for damage control only to discover that the improvised barf bag had a brand new radar detector in it. Worse yet, it was on loan from our oldest brother. We tried wiping it off with wet napkins, and plugged it in to see if it worked, but it made this dying chirpy noise that faded slowly into oblivion. Resuscitating it was futile. It was even more futile explaining to our oldest brother that his new radar detector (just purchased a few weeks beforehand) was a casualty of our road trip.

Ahhh! These memories are still fresh, and always remind me of going to that one location that holds a fond place in my heart: Orlando, Florida. Forget about the fact that Orlando is over-traveled, overextended, and overtly fabricated. Orlando will forever be synonymous with everybody’s childhood friend, Mickey Mouse. It has become a yearly tradition for my family, and Disney World has become our own personal pilgrimage to Mecca. Somehow, each year I gladly part ways with the $55 gate fee and subject myself to burning hot sunlight, tortuously long lines, and the festering scent of B.O. I do it because there’s something so compelling about that darn little mouse. Somehow, he's broken into my family circle, becoming like a brother, a son almost.

This year, we were fortunate to have my cousin Louie and his family join us in our Disney pilgrimage. Their daughter is the same age as Isabel, and together both left puddles of drool as they awed at everything Disney. Izzy liked the jerky turns of Peter Pan, and was mesmerized by the oversized & underpaid Mickey Mouse suits signing autographs. Leighanne seemed to enjoy the colorful glowing lights that illuminated the castle and was captivated by the fireworks at night’s end. Meanwhile, her sister Rhianna was collecting stuffed toys as if the world was in short supply. As for Louie and I, we just sat back and watched. Over a few beers, and tired feet, we’d talk late into the night about how great it was to have a family. We felt that something incredible was occurring, something bigger than we could have imagined.

We had more than just another mundane vacation in the most commercialized tourist attraction in the world. We were carrying on a family tradition with the next generation. Sure, today our kids are a bit too young to remember, but soon they’ll ooh & ahh like I once did at this place. I’ll still fork over more money to see that little mouse. All for the sake of my kids having their own memories. Perhaps they'll recall the long car rides singing along to cheesy top 40 songs by some brand new diva on the radio. And sure enough, I expect them to get carsick too. This time though, I’ll have a barf bag waiting for them.

- Marvin A.

Mexico City

Vista Mexico City

24 Million Souls
Mexico City is the most populous city in the world, with the largest concentration of people in one place. Mexico (as locals simply call it), sits in a valley surrounded by mountains, and was originally built on a dried lakebed. It was home to the ancient Aztecs, a highly advanced civilization whose wealth and power was matched only by the ancient Romans. Unlike most cities whose city center is easily visible, there is no clear delineation of that in Mexico. On a clear day, you can catch a full panoramic view of a beautiful array of concrete buildings of Mexican oranges, aqua blues, reds, and greens that spread across the earth like wildfire blanketing the mountainsides. But most days are grey, thanks to the choking pollution that fills the air with the lingering smell of oil, diesel, and dirt that festers in your nostrils, leaving a dusty taste in your mouth that you simply cannot wash away. These strange tastes add to the flavor of Mexico.

I stayed in Polanco, just Northwest of the city center, a premiere neighborhood that’s relatively safe where siesta minded policemen guard million dollar suites. The president, Vincente Fox, lives close by probably fraternizing with the diplomats who reside on embassy row. Here the streets glow with urban life – VW taxi beetles drive recklessly by US standards while businessmen frolic at outdoor cafés laughing over margaritas, and trendy restaurants serve overpriced appetizers of local cuisine such as ant eggs and worms. A Starbucks, a Marriott, and the Hard Rock Café all flourish with gringos (like me) eager to spend money. You could spend days living it up here, but I however, wanted to find some peace in the 16 acre park that resides quietly next to the hotel – Parque Chapultapec (Grasshopper Park).


Chapultapec Fountain

Parque Chapultapec (Grasshopper Park)
I heard there was a castle in the park, and so I was determined to find it. El Castillo was built in 1785 by Spain, and was the home of presidents up until the 1940’s. Legend has it that back in 1847 the Castillo was the last stand for six young Mexican military cadets who were backed into the tower overlooking their glorious city as it fell to the invading Americans. The young cadets then proceeded to wrap themselves in Mexican flags and in defiance jumped to their deaths. They are called Niños Héroes. I figured I’d climb to the top of the castle to be a Niño Héro too (except for the whole jumping to my death part).

I entered into the park asking people, “Donde es el Castillo?” They directed me to the heart of the park through the shady paths of ancient trees. As I began my journey through the wood, I noticed the iridescent green lake of Chapultapec. It was kind of eery to me, but I guess I’m the only one who seemed bothered by the unnatural glow of the lake. Locals in rowboats and paddleboats splashed around without hesitation. Soon, I found myself ambling through the Alley of Poets and Philosophers, but I didn’t see much poetry or philosophizing, only seniors enthralled in countless games of chess, and young lovers on remote benches enjoying the lazy afternoon in hushed conversation.


Ominous Green Lake

I made my way around the lake to the center of the park, where a gauntlet of tourist hungry Mexican vendors awaited. The makeshift restaurants were like circus tents erected with neon colored tarps advertising garage tacos & chalupas. Greasy cooks labored over fiery grills serving hungry customers sitting at tables of plastic lawn furniture. One look in their direction and the cook shouts out: “Tacos, Burritos, Tamales, Chaloopaaaaaz! Cuatro por diez pesos!” (Four for a $1). Further along, stands of freshly cut mangos, watermelons, passion fruit, cotton candy, tortillas, and homemade potato chips all went on a fire sale for less than 5 pesos (50 cents) as the day drew to a close.

Other vendors tried to pawn off less than desirable items: monkey puppets, Scooby Doo balloons, knock-off sunglasses, fake designer watches, pirated CDs, DVDs, vintage t-shirts with mid-1990’s TV show themes, fake Aztec calendars, and other useless trinkets that you might find at a garage sale in your neighborhood. One guy urged me to try on a dusty poncho & Mexican hat, and stand next the big plastic mule so he could take my picture. I wasn’t about to pay for the self deprecation, so I declined respectfully, but I had to be a bit more forceful with the guy in the giant Elmo suit. He was a bit scary, hair nappy, fur matted in places, even the little kids steered clear of him. Every kiosk in this part of the park sold the same thing and moving from one to the other gave me that déjà vu feeling. I felt like I entered one end of a revolving door only to come out in the same place to be greeted by more garage tacos, more plastic mules, and more giant Elmos.

The People of Poverty
Despite the circus, I respect these hard working people of Mexico – their sprit is undying and fierce. A majority of these people earn less than $100 US dollars a week. It’s true that labor costs are small here, and as a consequence it’s better for some people to earn cash selling tamales in the park than to work for a big firm earning the same amount and having to pay the taxes. So, they do what they must to quite simply – survive. Unfortunately, some just give up the hopeless tasks altogether, and join the ranks of the homeless, begging for their next meal. The homeless are everywhere, whether it's a gap toothed lady with a crumpled cup, a five year old girl playing a beat-up accordion, or a wrinkled man brushing his teeth with his finger.

I noticed a homeless mother. She sat against a fence wrapped in a navy blue blanket. She had visible red spots on her face and arms indicating some kind of infection. A small child, about three years of age sat beside her on a piece of cardboard, playing unwittingly and with little awareness of the life they lived. The mother muttered in Spanish, and stretched out her cracked hand of dirty fingernails begging for a few pesos. Honestly, I wanted nothing to do with her, and continued past her towards the Castle. But the image haunted me, and when I returned 2 hours later on the same street, she was in the same broken position. This time however, I noticed another child, who before, was hidden under the blanket. This child was just a baby of 6 or 7 months, clothes dirty from the street, hair tangled, and face smudged with soil. Her mother gazed towards me again with eyes that spoke a desperate story. I was compelled to stop this time and give her 100 pesos. Maybe it was a sense of compassion, or maybe it was guilt, either way I couldn’t walk away in apathy, the baby reminded me of my own daughter.

The mother’s name was Medina. She had no workable income, no home, no husband, and because she had two very young children she couldn’t work. She’s one of the many homeless, whose names and faces are forgotten. It is estimated that the number of homeless in Mexico is as high as 50,000-90,000 people. The numbers are staggering, and little can be done to help all of them. There are organizations who are dedicated to serving these people. I did some research to find them, and perhaps with our support, they can make a difference. I realize that individually we cannot resurrect all these people from poverty, but we can at least try. Here are a few noteworthy organizations I found:

• Dallas Women of Vision – A non-profit group in affiliation with World Vision. Their mission is to invest their time, intellect, compassion, creativity, and finances to meet the needs of impoverished and oppressed women and children throughout the world.
• UNICEF – The United Nations Children's Fund works to bring health, education, equality and protection to children of need all over the globe.
• Save the Children – A non-profit humanitarian relief and development organization working in more than 40 countries throughout the developing world and the United States. Their mission is to create lasting, positive change in the lives of children in need.

Into the Heart of Mexico
Every time I travel somewhere I always search for something real, original, and authentic. Usually my quest ends with an interesting person, a great picture, and delightful story. But this time my search for authenticity brought a disturbing reality that is more than just another story or picture I put in a dusty album. Instead, I found an authentic Mexico that was not in the marble clad halls and glass sliding doors of my hotel. It was a Mexico where Medina stakes out her daily spot against the fence begging for pesos, and everyday Mexicans flood Chapultapec Park to eek out a living by selling useless trinkets from wooden kiosks. The Mexico I found is among the people of the poverty stricken barrios of garage tacos, tamale stands, and unkempt souls. To think, that I just wanted to reach the top of the castle, but I think stumbled upon something more profound – the heart of Mexico. I would have had it no other way.

– Marvin A.

Sleepless in Washington

The Amazing Race
For six days (8/11-8/17) I felt like I was in an episode of the Amazing Race. I was in a whirl-wind of travel from Cincinnati, to Dallas, Richland (WA), Seattle, Rainier, and back. First stop, Dallas, Texas – to meet my brother and my new sister-in-law. Then off to Richland, Washington – to visit an old friend who lives in the desert of Tri-Cities. Next, we took a 3 hour drive to Seattle, Washington to witness the fish toss at Pike Street Market. Finally, we took a detour to ascend one of the tallest mountains in the US– Mt. Rainier.

Since I already shared my last misadventure in Dallas, I’ll move straight to Washington. The travel was excruciatingly long (14 hours, 4 airports, 2 layovers, 1 dinner with my brother & his wife in Dallas, and a half a dozen diapers). Along with me was Holli (my wife), Isabel, and Marge & Wayne (two close friends). We all came to Washington to visit our good friend Gareth and his girlfriend Andrea.

Gareth & the Fellowship of the Bink
Gareth’s a tall lanky guy of 26 years, with premature lines around his eyes reflecting experiences only a 46 year-old should have. He grew up in South Africa during apartheid, lived on a Kibbutz, went to school in Jerusalem, and then somehow ended up in Richland Washington. Somewhere in between all that he did a six month stint in Cincinnati. That’s when I met Gareth, back in the Fall of 2002. Immediately, we became instant friends. He speaks with a thick South African James Bond-like accent, the kind that women feign over and guys try to imitate. He greets others with a gritty, “Hey, how you going?” along with a mischievous smile that hints at some elaborate scheme he’s cooking up. And like me, he always seems to find trouble. In fact, the first time we hung out, we almost got arrested, because we were driving in the ghetto in a borrowed car, without a license, and he was dressed in a long leather drug dealer-like trench coat.


Part of the Fellowship

We finally met his girlfriend Andrea, who seems like his perfect foil: Challenging, outdoorsy, adventurous, and “street-smart” as Gareth says. He elaborates, “I like the little things about her, like when she opens the window despite having the A/C on in the car, all because she wants a bit of fresh air, while staying cool.” It seems like Andreas's a bit of fresh air for Gareth, but the jury is still out as to whether Gareth’s cool. :-) This trip was also Isabel’s first chance to meet Gareth. Izzy’s my daughter. She’s six months, inquisitive, smiley, loves her binky and her favorite word is “dah-dah”. She giggles like a little baby girl who just learned how to laugh, flails her arms in a highly uncoordinated drum-like motion, and drools like a leaky faucet that hasn’t been turned off completely. The cool thing is that she loves to travel as much as her dad. So both Holli & I brought her along for the ride.


Izzy & the One Bink

The West is the Best
I’ve been out west at least a dozen times now. Personally, I love the west coast, I always feel like Superman as my body makes the three hour time-change. I stay up deceptively late, party all day & night, and get up extremely early to start the day just to do it all over again. All without the need for Red Bull, although being in Washington you cannot escape Starbucks. The only problem I discovered is that Izzy does the same thing. It was brutal! Izzy did not sleep despite being tired, bringing a whole new meaning to Sleepless in Seattle. It quickly became sleepless in Richland, sleepless in Seattle, sleepless in Mt. Rainier, and sleepless for three days after we came home, because her little bio-clock was thrown off, and there was no snooze button. And when Izzy doesn’t sleep, Holli & Marvin don’t sleep. Dude, she was like a gremlin that had been fed after midnight. I wish she had a care-tag so I knew: Beware - Do not travel more than two time-zones away. Do not ride on an airplane if this thing has gas. Do not expect to sleep for 1 week after traveling. Do not take long car rides or it will turn into the killer rabbit from the Monty Python. Despite not sleeping, we enjoyed Washington.

Richland & the Columbia River
The beauty of Washington is captured in the dramatic range of its topography & climate: desert, mountains, rainforests, volcanoes & glacial peaks. Our base-camp was Richland, WA located in the south central part of the state, near the juncture of the Columbia & Snake Rivers. Richland is a desert city that has no lack of the sun, with temperatures nearing the 100’s, it turns cars into saunas. The landscape consists of earth tones, clear skies, rusty sands, sagebrush, fiery sunsets, and dusty days. The Columbia River flows alongside of the town and has clear slow moving waters that have a sedating effect on the town. I took it upon myself to take an early morning run along the river’s edge, only to overheat, because of the punishing sun. To cool off, Holli and I would wade in the waters, sorting through the smooth rocks of granite & polka-dotted feldspar as they dug into our feet.


Holli Exploring the Columbia

Seattle's Pike Street
Seattle differed in sharp contrast. We drove three hours through the gap in the Cascade mountain range past the town of Yakima to get there. The arid desert lands with scattered patches of sagebrush converted instantaneously into a forest of sky towering pines and lush green meadows. As we approached the city, temperatures dropped to a cool 70 degrees and the urbanites walked relentlessly around Seattle with jackets and long pants. Since we were dressed for the sauna of Richland, we were a bit chilly as we climbed the steps towards the famous Pike Street Market.

We were welcomed into the street level by the malodorous scent of fresh cod staring at us from their icy displays alongside the greasy butchers that sold them. Further down were the rainbow assortments of flowers, fresh peppers, trinket jewelry, artwork, and cheap Seattle t-shirts that seemed endlessly in supply. Up the street, flower boxes lined the windows where trendy over-priced restaurants hoped to beckon the would-be pedestrians. On the corner was a magician standing on top of a car like a preacher preaching his magic to the bewildered and awestruck.


Seattle's Pike Street Market

Despite all the chaos, the swarming crowds of people were drawn towards a different location where the sounds of Pachelbal echoed in the air. Like people enchanted by the call of the Sirens, they lined up at the storefront of the original Starbuck’s coffee shop. Here a group of four not-so starving musicians filled the air with music as their violin cases converted into money buckets filled up with loose change and small bills. A friend of mine once said that you can gauge how great a city is by the talent of its street musicians. Well if this is true, Seattle must be one of the greatest cities ever.


Mt. Rainier

Mt. Rainier & the Lake
After lunch on the pier overlooking Puget Sound, and a vanilla latte-to-go, we drove two hours south towards Mt. Rainier. We were a bit zombie-like at that point, and were awoken from our daze when “The Mountain” as locals call it, finally came into full view. It was dream-like at first, requiring a double-take to make sure we were seeing it for real. After all, it has a 14,410 ft. tall snow-capped summit that creates its own weather pattern, and stands at least 8,000 ft. above its neighboring peaks. It contains an active volcano, with 23 some odd glaciers, a dozen small lakes, and is surrounded by 1,000 year old pine tree groves. We were wide-eyed with jaws open as we drove around the mountain to chase the view as a shroud of mist cloaked the peak, revealing its contents only on occasion.


Reflection Lake

We stopped at a lake appropriately named Reflection Lake, where the black waters, meadow flowers, and surrounding pines all stood still deep in thought. This was the edge of the world, where the dank mysterious fog eerily surrounded us, as the faint sun disappeared in its mouth. Time stood still here and gave us a chance to reflect back on the day’s journey, and internalize all that we saw. We drove back to Richland through the pitch black night as the lines on the road blurred from my weary-eyes, causing me to be a bit panicky at each mountain-side turn. I pondered as Izzy finally fell asleep, and the sound of Damien Rice quietly played in the background. This is what good times are made of: friends and follies, extraordinary moments, and timeless adventures. It really was like the Amazing race, sleepless, and exhausting, but it was all well worth it. All very well worth it.

- Marvin A.

Lake Tahoe

Beautiful Lake Tahoe

Though I came to Lake Tahoe for business, it felt more like pleasure. Tahoe is a remarkably lush respite high above the Nevada deserts, 30 miles southwest of Reno and 20 miles west of Carson City. Its trees are young, less than 150 years old, because the region was logged, during the mining years. But this history takes nothing away from the magnificence of the trees, most over 100 feet tall. As for the lakeshores, they’re filled with sun worshippers drawn towards the waters, crystal blue, inviting, with calming waves, and rocks big enough to lay out and nap on. All in all, Tahoe is incredibly beautiful. It’s a bit of an anomaly— abundant with wildlife, trout, bass, chipmunks, and squirrels— compared to the deserts which are only a short drive down the mountainside. It was here, high up in Tahoe, where I aspired to conquer its mountainous terrain.


Flume Trail

Mountain Biking: Man vs. Nature
I was dropped off up the mountain trail some 13 miles away, 7,000 feet above sea level, next to Spooner Lake (a smaller lake where signs warned “full of leaches”). Along for the ride was Jason, an experienced mountain biker, a local guy, and my personal sherpa-guide. We embarked onto Flume Trail, whose name derives from the gold rush days. Back then, the loggers built wooden flumes and rushed water through them so freshly cut timbers could slide effortlessly down to Carson City. The trail was still riddled with aged wood and square nails. Nowadays, the Flume trail is a biker's haven. It was supposed to be the easiest ride starting with a “small” incline 1,000 ft. up, followed by a downhill ride that traversed to a smaller lake (Marlette Lake), and then circled around to the easternmost side of the mountain overlooking Lake Tahoe in its totality.


Tahoe Meadow

We broke into the trailhead peddling hard across the rolling meadow…the scent of pine pervaded the air, sagebrush and wild flowers of lavender, yellow, and blue dotted the mountainside. I admired the blinding white bark of poplars reflecting the blazing sun, took in the blood red sequoias dripping down to the earth, and stared upwards into the spiny pine branches rising into the blue skies. Granite rocks ranging in size of small houses to large castles took their glorious places along the trail watching me during the ascent. I stopped to crush the leaves of fresh sagebrush in my hands for a fresh scent of the wild west. I have to admit, to an urban metro like me, the great outdoors of Tahoe were quite foreign. But I can see why people easily fall in love with this place. Even I was tempted to abandon my bike, find a quiet spot, hug a tree, and sing Kumbaya.

A Humble Ascent
I guess I was naïve to think that mountain biking in Tahoe would be easy. After all, I run 3 to 4 miles a day. I soon realized it all meant nothing when you're up in thin mountain air. Soon, my “hug a tree” visions turned into a nightmarish climb up Everest. I thought I packed everything - granola bars, water, Gatorade, helmet, gloves, camera, but I guess I forgot to pack a freakin’ Oxygen tank. To cope, I began a regiment that consisted of the following: peddle until you’re about to puke, stop & gasp for air, take a drink, walk 50 paces, stop & gasp, and repeat. The vicious cycle continued for an hour until I made it to the summit at 8,000 feet exhausted and defeated.

I’m sure it looked bad when two hikers effortlessly passed me by with mocking smiles, and also when a pack of hardcore bikers trekked along in syncopated rhythm…crank, crank, crank… I was pathetic! After awhile, all these mountain bikers started to look the same, especially when all I saw were their backs as they passed me. Even my sherpa guide got tired of waiting and charged ahead, but not without leaving a few words of wisdom, “Don’t feel too bad when the girls start to pass you.” Sure enough, not five minutes later, a mountain biking girl came barreling up the mountain behind me. Dude, she was more of a man than me. She punished the mountain with a Lance Armstrong like ferocity.


Sequoia Trees

Reaching the Summit
When I finally made it to the top, the trees opened up to the heavens and there stood my sherpa-guide Jason, and the mountain bike girl. In triumph they looked at the “You are here” map, sun-bleached, and framed in scratched plexi-glass. And so with a swallow of pride, I threw my bike down, limped towards them, and complimented them for a hard ride. After brief introductions, it wasn’t long before I noticed something peculiar about mountain bike girl… she had hairy armpits! And I’m not talking about just a little bit of fuzzy pit hair. These were hairy mothers… they were like shrubs, wild, Kramer-like hair extruding everywhere. In a word: distracting. I mean hard-to-carry-on-a-conversation distracting. Even sherpa-guide Jason thought the hair was a bit unusual.

Hairy armpit girl must be from out west, I thought. She fit the stereotype. Ironically, I found out she's from Cincinnati. How whacked out is that? Turns out she's a biologist studying a certain species of chipmunk that only lives up in the Lake Tahoe region. To think she actually made a living as a tree hugger. I kind of wondered if she ate a steady diet of nuts & wild berries too. Hairy armpit girl was a seriously crunchy granola tree hugger. I totally respect that. As for me, I suddenly realized that I am just a wanna-be tree hugger. Oh well, maybe I can find myself a little bumper sticker that says, “Have you hugged a tree today?”

-Marvin A

New York City - Times Square

Marvin's Misadventures
With little anticipation and even less expectation, I present you with the first installmant of my blogs: "Marvin's Misadventures". My intent in becoming a blogger is not to bore you with meaningless minutiae and frivolous banter about the places I travel or people I meet. Instead I'll focus on one experience or two in each blog, capture the moment, and peel the onion just a little bit to see what lies beneath waiting. It's in these experiences I hope to give you a taste of life, at least my life, whether I'm sitting in a musty wine celler converted into Jazz club in downtown Prague or simply eating a pannini sandwich from the corner store at 7th & 42nd Streets in Manhattan. Wherever it is I hope you can savor the experience with me.

The Bus Ride
Well, this being my inaugural blog, it only seems fitting that it's set in one of the greatest cities in the world: New York City. It was Saturday, July 3, and my two cousins Lori & Leslie, along with my brother Mike & I were riding the bus from New Jersey into the city. It cost $6.75 from Lake Hiawatha, a rather sleepy suburb where my other cousin Louie lives. The day was beautiful, sunny, with a translucent blueness in the sky. I stared at the city as it arose in the distance in an array of odd shapes, block buildings, and jutting points reaching upwards. It grew impendingly large as the shapes began to fill the landscape. I made a conscious effort to turn away from time to time, because I learned when I was young not to stare out the window too much in fear of getting nauseated from motion sickness.

We arrived at the Port Authority on 42nd & 8th streets at 4:30 p.m., and having drank plenty of water I had to go, if you know what I mean. As I walked into the men's room, there stood a tall gangly guy with stringy hair, kind of hunched over, standing awkwardly in the middle of the restroom. He looked like he was in pain when he suddenly knocked impatiently on a stall door shouting, "Are you almost done in there?" I held my laughter as the look of urgent distress came over his face (I guess he had to really go). Then suddenly, he got on all fours to look under the stall to see if anybody was actually in there. I walked away with a remote nod of my head, whispering to myself, "Only in New York. Classic."


Times Square

New York City - Times Square
We walked out onto 42nd street and into the moving wall of people that amassed outside the station. We stopped at Starbucks (where else) for a frappucino and trekked a block up to Times Square. Time Square has this chaotic brilliance about it. I think it's the way the street erupts as people wrestle their way along sidewalks, navigating corners, avoiding street vendors selling "I love NY" t-shirts, and street urchins playing the drums on buckets as they collect pennies and nickels. Meanwhile countless videoscreens feature Diet Coke, Samsung, Cadillac, Discover, Toys R Us, all hypnotizing as you wait to cross the street. It's a Chinese buffet-like feast for the eyes and a cacophonous symphony for the ears. Yet somehow it all comes together in a wierd harmonious way like an urban fractal. Times Square is the butterly that flaps its wings setting chaos into motion forming something utterly breathtaking.

Virgins
Traveling with my brother and cousins to NYC was a treat. My boisterous cousin Leslie was in sheer delight, begging me to take her picture at each corner. She giggled like a little girl as she proudly announced, "I'm a virgin to New York City." My brother Mike in his own quiet way was awestruck, head looking upwards as the sounds of horns honked, smoke filled the sidewalks, and the pungent smell of humans pervaded our nostrils. He too was a virgin. My ever stylish cousin Lori sauntered along with calm coolness, as if the streets of NY had no effect on her. You could tell she was not a virgin. As for me, this was only my second time in NYC, and there was still a pulsating rush in my veins. I guess you could say I am a bit of a virgin too (if that's possible).


Lori, Mike, & Leslie (All as Bubba Gump)

Final Thoughts
I vaguely remember the first time I was in NYC even though it was only a couple of months ago. I was by myself then, but this time I was with family. The cool thing about being with them was that they put NYC into context. I'm the type of person that tends to remember the moment more vividly when others are around. The colors seem brighter, the smells are stronger, and the pictures are more meaningful. It's all about having someone to share with, laugh at (or with), and take your photo without the fear of your camera being stolen. Mike, Lori, & Leslie were all that for me!

- Marvin A