Pascagoula, Mississippi
After hurricane Katrina hit Louisiana & Mississippi in late August, I, like many of us, watched helplessly in the comfort of our homes as people cried desperately to be rescued from the carnage. Then I got a phone call from my friend Gareth, who invited me to do some relief work with a group he was leading from his church in Washington. I have to be honest, I wasn’t sure I would go. After all, I am a busy guy with a family, and numerous responsibilities on my plate. But on Thursday 10/6, despite my reservations, I hopped on the plane anyway.
First Impressions
Pascagoula and neighboring Biloxi were still reeling from the devastating rain, violent wind, and ensuing floods. The land was scarred by salt water, uprooted trees, and immeasurable debris that littered the roadsides. The homes that were still standing were bandaged with blue tarp on their rooftops. Closer to the shore it looked like a war zone where empty shells of buildings, scrapped wood, and empty slabs of concrete were all that could be recognized.
We wasted no time upon my arrival and crossed the railroad tracks down into the bayou. We approached a two story home with discarded furniture and personal belongings strewn across the lawn. We surveyed the damage to a home which saw waters as high as six feet on the first floor. There was a musty smell from the mold that pervaded the air. Everything that was on the first floor was unrecoverable. A framed baby picture on the wall was now a streaky water-coloring. The kitchen appliances were like lawn ornaments, and boxes of ruined family mementos were left on the porch. We tore out the drywall and sprayed it with bleach & water to kill the mold. We would have hung up new drywall, but we found termite damage beneath. Unfortunately, Melissa (the owner) and her family of five and a neighbor were all still living on the second floor.
Strange Bedfellows
I love meeting new people, but I wasn’t sure how I’d mesh with the team from Washington. We may not have been aware of it, but there was this “team building” thing going on. After all, this rebuilding effort was bound to have a galvanizing effect in pulling us all together. And yet, I was keenly aware that I was an outsider coming into a situation with a group of people who were well acquainted. Then that evening, I found out that I would be sleeping in a cramped RV with five others. It was like a bad episode of MTV Road Rules. To spice things up even more, I had to share an undersized bed with a 250 lb guy named Robert. Honestly, I wasn’t really feeling the whole “team-building galvanizing effect” thing going on as I laid there. Now, I am pretty comfortable with my masculinity, but I still had to lay the ground rules: No snoring, no flatulating, and definitely no spooning! The Washingtonians turned out to be real cool cats, and welcomed me in like their own family. I have to say, I still made an attempt to represent the Ohio contingency well.
Trailer Parks, Wal-Mart, and Welfare Checks
I have a confession to make. I’m a Yankee Northerner that gives Yankee Northerners a bad name. Holli still admonishes me for my disdain for trailer park kids and their parents who spend welfare checks on lottery tickets at Super Wal-Mart centers. I’ve been carrying this disdain for some years, then I met Shirley from Pascagoula.
Shirley was a hardworking woman born and raised in Mississippi. The premature lines that traced her face and expressive eyes told her story. It was a story all too similar to the thousands of others who live here in the Deep South. Shirley owned the rickety old single-story home we worked on, and we could tell she was a bit wary of us Northerners. For two days, we put up drywall and installed new electrical outlets in Shirley’s home. Most of the time, she was rather quiet, and spoke only to offer us a variety of Coke (i.e. Sweet tea, Gatorade, or real Coke). She bought us lunch, which we felt bad accepting considering the circumstances, but we would have felt even worse if we refused her gracious southern hospitality.
Her gratitude was quite inspiring. I came to realize that here was a woman whose home was heavily damaged, with very little left to give, yet she was so willing to give us all she had. She wrote an insightful note to us, from which we could almost hear her thick southern drawl saying:
I used to think that Northerners were not nice people. You certainly changed my mind.
These words would echo in my mind for days afterwards, helping me think a bit differently about myself. I admit, I’m a bit self-righteous about being so open to different cultures, and yet here I realized how closed-minded I really was to this particularly rich culture of America. Sometimes it just takes a face & a name. Now, I have Shirley to remind me of America.
- Marvin A.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Saturday, August 27, 2005
A Weekend in Paris
It was a lazy July afternoon in Paris as I arrived on the train from Brussels. I knocked on the hotel room door with a sigh of relief as Holli cracked the door with her sleepy eyes and hinted smile. She melted in my arms in an embrace.
Later that evening, we found a quaint little restaurant called La Petite Hostellerie nestled on a quiet side street. They served a menu of the day of traditional French cuisine for 15 Euro. We toasted our glasses of Cotes du Rhone and imbibed into the evening relaying the week's events including the London bombing that had occured just days before. I still crashed hard that night, and I don't think I've slept better in ages.
We woke up Saturday morning with a new found passion and headed for the Notre Dame. Though I'd seen it two years ago, it still it evoked the same strange feeling as before. The gothic architecture, flying buttresses, the echoing chambers, the statues, reliefs, rot iron fences, and gargoyles all have a romantic decay that exists in imagination. Throngs of people swarmed the church like bees, taking pictures & capturing images so they could go brag to their friends. It's all a bit chaotic and anticlimactic. Afterall, the real thing never lives up to the imagination.
We took the Metro to MontMartre, and entered into the artist colony where the "starving artist" lived up to the cliche. Holli & I walked through the narrow streets as hungry artists with thick French accents desperate to find their muse cried for her attention, "Beautiful lady, Mademoiselle!" Their penciled stained hands waved in her direction and their easels were ready to be planted anywhere on the cobblestone streets. Then as we advanced into the courtyard, we saw why. There were dozens of wild haired artists stuffing the square like a chicken coop. People gathered around peering over shoulders to catch a glimpse of their paintings, sketches, & water colors. Their art was a bit too commoditized for me, so we headed back downtown to have sherbets on the Seine river before dinner.
-Marvin
Later that evening, we found a quaint little restaurant called La Petite Hostellerie nestled on a quiet side street. They served a menu of the day of traditional French cuisine for 15 Euro. We toasted our glasses of Cotes du Rhone and imbibed into the evening relaying the week's events including the London bombing that had occured just days before. I still crashed hard that night, and I don't think I've slept better in ages.
We woke up Saturday morning with a new found passion and headed for the Notre Dame. Though I'd seen it two years ago, it still it evoked the same strange feeling as before. The gothic architecture, flying buttresses, the echoing chambers, the statues, reliefs, rot iron fences, and gargoyles all have a romantic decay that exists in imagination. Throngs of people swarmed the church like bees, taking pictures & capturing images so they could go brag to their friends. It's all a bit chaotic and anticlimactic. Afterall, the real thing never lives up to the imagination.
We took the Metro to MontMartre, and entered into the artist colony where the "starving artist" lived up to the cliche. Holli & I walked through the narrow streets as hungry artists with thick French accents desperate to find their muse cried for her attention, "Beautiful lady, Mademoiselle!" Their penciled stained hands waved in her direction and their easels were ready to be planted anywhere on the cobblestone streets. Then as we advanced into the courtyard, we saw why. There were dozens of wild haired artists stuffing the square like a chicken coop. People gathered around peering over shoulders to catch a glimpse of their paintings, sketches, & water colors. Their art was a bit too commoditized for me, so we headed back downtown to have sherbets on the Seine river before dinner.
-Marvin
Friday, July 08, 2005
Brussels, Belgium
Brussels, Belgium - July 7 & 8
Thursday night, Tom & I found our way to Brussels. My eyes were glassy, and my thought process jumbled. I mistakenly ordered carpacio beef at dinner. What was I thinking? The slimy beef had a slight tang as it slid down my throat. That should have been the first indication that something was amiss. The next morning, I felt ill as we hit touch-and-go traffic that churned my stomach with every sick inducing turn. I burped the taste of carpacio beef, and cracked the window struggling for oxygen to stave off my urge to yak. I must say, the worst part of it was just the anticipation. Matters worsened as we entered a mess of winding roads, which under normal circumstances, would have been a scenic ride through the beautiful Belgian countryside full of green trees, woodframe houses, and flowerboxes. However, each glance out the window made the merry-go-round in my head go faster and faster.
Ironically, I was visiting a company that makes the key ingredient going into that pink anti-nausea medicine (whose name rhymes with clepto bizmall). Here I was cutting a business deal for this stuff as I excused myself every so often to go yak in the toilet. The carpacio beef came up as easily as it slid down my throat the evening before. I tried to pop a few pink pills in hopes I could spare myself future misery as I anticipated the car ride back to the Brussels Midi train station.
Strangely enough, the nausea made me experience Brussels in a way I never hope to do again: with eyes closed. The cabby drove us into the city as I kept my eyes shut to quell the queasy sensations stirring in my stomach. Nausea however plays a practical joke on the body as it heightens all your senses. Your hearing increases, your sense of smell picks up the nuances in the stale air, and your eyes hyper-sensitize to the light. I heard every rumbling stone in the street, smelled the sickly sweet flowers on the sidewalks, and felt the hot sun slowly torture me as the car jerked with every turn. I popped more pink tabs like candy mints at this point, but with little chance for success. I finally gave in and leaned out the window to make my mark on Brussels, literally. A streak of pink liquid painted the side of the cab as the driver shook his head in disgust mumbling something in Flemish while Tom turned the other way in disbelief. The cab turned another corner before we slowed to a stop at our final destination. Huh? One more minute and I would have gotten here in one piece.
"Well, I almost made it," I blurted.
The driver was not amused as he demanded his money. Tom & I looked at our watches. We were just in time to catch our train to Paris.
- Marvin A.
Thursday night, Tom & I found our way to Brussels. My eyes were glassy, and my thought process jumbled. I mistakenly ordered carpacio beef at dinner. What was I thinking? The slimy beef had a slight tang as it slid down my throat. That should have been the first indication that something was amiss. The next morning, I felt ill as we hit touch-and-go traffic that churned my stomach with every sick inducing turn. I burped the taste of carpacio beef, and cracked the window struggling for oxygen to stave off my urge to yak. I must say, the worst part of it was just the anticipation. Matters worsened as we entered a mess of winding roads, which under normal circumstances, would have been a scenic ride through the beautiful Belgian countryside full of green trees, woodframe houses, and flowerboxes. However, each glance out the window made the merry-go-round in my head go faster and faster.
Ironically, I was visiting a company that makes the key ingredient going into that pink anti-nausea medicine (whose name rhymes with clepto bizmall). Here I was cutting a business deal for this stuff as I excused myself every so often to go yak in the toilet. The carpacio beef came up as easily as it slid down my throat the evening before. I tried to pop a few pink pills in hopes I could spare myself future misery as I anticipated the car ride back to the Brussels Midi train station.
Strangely enough, the nausea made me experience Brussels in a way I never hope to do again: with eyes closed. The cabby drove us into the city as I kept my eyes shut to quell the queasy sensations stirring in my stomach. Nausea however plays a practical joke on the body as it heightens all your senses. Your hearing increases, your sense of smell picks up the nuances in the stale air, and your eyes hyper-sensitize to the light. I heard every rumbling stone in the street, smelled the sickly sweet flowers on the sidewalks, and felt the hot sun slowly torture me as the car jerked with every turn. I popped more pink tabs like candy mints at this point, but with little chance for success. I finally gave in and leaned out the window to make my mark on Brussels, literally. A streak of pink liquid painted the side of the cab as the driver shook his head in disgust mumbling something in Flemish while Tom turned the other way in disbelief. The cab turned another corner before we slowed to a stop at our final destination. Huh? One more minute and I would have gotten here in one piece.
"Well, I almost made it," I blurted.
The driver was not amused as he demanded his money. Tom & I looked at our watches. We were just in time to catch our train to Paris.
- Marvin A.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Luebeck, Germany
Luebeck, Germany - July 7, 2005
I Just Want to Sleep
We flew on a budget airline to get to Luebeck, because it was the only direct flight. I hardly slept the night before, was suffering from jetlag, and was a bit jumpy from the adrenaline pumping through my veins. I tried to sleep, but this flight attendant with a thick Italian accent, a goatee, and a microphone gawk-box kept interrupted my dreams with offers to buy breakfast burritos, coffee, cologne, lottery tickets, stuffed animals, sausages, and other assorted snacks. It was like watching the home shopping network at 30,000 feet, but without the luxury of changing the channel.
I had a meeting in Luebeck that morning, and the muscles in my eyelids hurt from trying to keep my eyes open. Despite drinking several cups of coffee, I could not help but drifting off into light REM. Meanwhile our host was talking a thousand miles a minute without taking any breaths. He was an old curmudgeon, with balding clown hair, and rectangular glasses that hung from the tip of a crooked nose. When he spoke he raised his chin to see through his glasses and sometimes let out a guffaw when he told a joke that he only seemed to get. He reminded me of Mr. Burns from the Simpsons, and in I imagined him saying, “Excellent Smithers! Excellent!” After a long few hours of his monologue we broke for a bite to eat.
Try the Fish
We had lunch in the old town at the historic Schiffergesellschaft (Seamen’s Guild), an exotic dining hall that dates back to 1525. The hall speaks of Luebeck’s history as a sailing port where the sailors would dine and drink when docked in Luebeck. The hall is outfitted with oaken panels painted with maritime themes, which have faded & cracked over the centuries. From the ceilings hang model sailing ships, 3 to 6 feet in length, some as old as three centuries. On the far end of the hall is a raised platform which was once reserved for ship captains, and was now my personal dining spot.
I sat opposite from Mr. Burns, while Tom sat opposite from one of Burn’s cronies who had these mad scientist eyes that bulged out of the sockets when he spoke. I was still a little edgy from coffee and adrenaline and deliberately tried to avoid eye contact with the mad scientist in fear that his eyes might pop out of his head and roll towards me. Instead, I enjoyed a delightful plaice fish from the nearby Baltic Sea along with potatoes and vegetables. Mr. Burns and I began a short discussion on German politics when our mad scientist let out a stifled cough that exploded into a “GAAACCKK!” followed by a liquid spray across my face & arms. My body reacted violently as I defensively hopped up to my feet jarring the table causing the silverware to crash onto the table with a clink. I half-expected an eyeball to have landed on my plate when I realized that Tom was drenched with fluid and food bits which he calmly wiped from his face and beard.
“Sorry,” uttered the mad scientist, red-faced with hand over mouth in sheer embarrassment.
We were all stunned for the next few awkward moments, and no one uttered a word. Did he just puke on me??? He just puked on me! I did some damage control and realized that I only got collateral splash, but poor Tom got a face full of backwashed fish stew & vegetables. The awkward silence lasted for an eternity, then finally Mr. Burns turned to me, smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and politely asked, “How’s your fish?”
"Delicious!"
-Marvin A.
I Just Want to Sleep
We flew on a budget airline to get to Luebeck, because it was the only direct flight. I hardly slept the night before, was suffering from jetlag, and was a bit jumpy from the adrenaline pumping through my veins. I tried to sleep, but this flight attendant with a thick Italian accent, a goatee, and a microphone gawk-box kept interrupted my dreams with offers to buy breakfast burritos, coffee, cologne, lottery tickets, stuffed animals, sausages, and other assorted snacks. It was like watching the home shopping network at 30,000 feet, but without the luxury of changing the channel.
I had a meeting in Luebeck that morning, and the muscles in my eyelids hurt from trying to keep my eyes open. Despite drinking several cups of coffee, I could not help but drifting off into light REM. Meanwhile our host was talking a thousand miles a minute without taking any breaths. He was an old curmudgeon, with balding clown hair, and rectangular glasses that hung from the tip of a crooked nose. When he spoke he raised his chin to see through his glasses and sometimes let out a guffaw when he told a joke that he only seemed to get. He reminded me of Mr. Burns from the Simpsons, and in I imagined him saying, “Excellent Smithers! Excellent!” After a long few hours of his monologue we broke for a bite to eat.
Try the Fish
We had lunch in the old town at the historic Schiffergesellschaft (Seamen’s Guild), an exotic dining hall that dates back to 1525. The hall speaks of Luebeck’s history as a sailing port where the sailors would dine and drink when docked in Luebeck. The hall is outfitted with oaken panels painted with maritime themes, which have faded & cracked over the centuries. From the ceilings hang model sailing ships, 3 to 6 feet in length, some as old as three centuries. On the far end of the hall is a raised platform which was once reserved for ship captains, and was now my personal dining spot.
I sat opposite from Mr. Burns, while Tom sat opposite from one of Burn’s cronies who had these mad scientist eyes that bulged out of the sockets when he spoke. I was still a little edgy from coffee and adrenaline and deliberately tried to avoid eye contact with the mad scientist in fear that his eyes might pop out of his head and roll towards me. Instead, I enjoyed a delightful plaice fish from the nearby Baltic Sea along with potatoes and vegetables. Mr. Burns and I began a short discussion on German politics when our mad scientist let out a stifled cough that exploded into a “GAAACCKK!” followed by a liquid spray across my face & arms. My body reacted violently as I defensively hopped up to my feet jarring the table causing the silverware to crash onto the table with a clink. I half-expected an eyeball to have landed on my plate when I realized that Tom was drenched with fluid and food bits which he calmly wiped from his face and beard.
“Sorry,” uttered the mad scientist, red-faced with hand over mouth in sheer embarrassment.
We were all stunned for the next few awkward moments, and no one uttered a word. Did he just puke on me??? He just puked on me! I did some damage control and realized that I only got collateral splash, but poor Tom got a face full of backwashed fish stew & vegetables. The awkward silence lasted for an eternity, then finally Mr. Burns turned to me, smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and politely asked, “How’s your fish?”
"Delicious!"
-Marvin A.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Cambridge, England
Cambridge, England: July 6
I arrived in Cambridge after a red-eye flight, a dayful of work meetings, kidney pie for lunch, and having to put up with my chain-smoking friend Tom who couldn't go more than 20 minutes without firing up another Marlboro Light. The weather was a bit bi-polar that day and it couldn't decide if it should be sunny or rainy, but fortunately for us, we caught it during one of its sunny moods. We parked the car at the entrance to a wrought-iron gate that led us down a shady path lined by tall poplars. The path opened up to an immaculately manicured lawn that resembled a soft green carpet worthy enough of laying down and drifting off into la-la land. But there was no time for that as the buildings of old beckoned us into their arched walkways. My eyes were drawn upwards in long sweeping glances as my mouth gaped open in amazement. Cambridge is an ancient town, and dates back to the 9th century. I could only imagine the centuries worth of quirky professors that spoke in these halls of crusty academia.
River Cam
We chanced upon the River Cam which ran through the center of the university. I noticed a boat full of starry eyed people gazing up at me as their guide paddled them through a narrow passage under a covered bridge. Their boat glided softly, silently acquiescing to the slow current that gently pushed them along. After walking over the stone bridge and through an echo-filled corridor, we entered a series of inner courtyards and finally came out through a grand oaken door. We discovered the cobblestone streets full of roaming faces ducking in & out of shops selling University of Cambridge merchandise.
Canalboats
We were desperately thirsty and chanced upon the Eagle Tavern, a watering hole full of patrons that lined its dark paneled walls and oaken benches. Since it looked like smokers were welcome, Tom ushered us in, and made a beeline to the bar. We ordered English pints of a dark amber ale which were served warm, but were bloody good. On the patio, we clinked our glasses as we said, "Cheers to the next 9 days." We each knew this was just the beginning of a long week of travels, where England was just the first of 5 countries we each would visit. Tom took a drag from his cigarette, looked around at the local Brits, and finally exhaled a puff of smoke as he said, "English women are too pasty."
"Cheers to that!" I replied.
-Marvin A.
I arrived in Cambridge after a red-eye flight, a dayful of work meetings, kidney pie for lunch, and having to put up with my chain-smoking friend Tom who couldn't go more than 20 minutes without firing up another Marlboro Light. The weather was a bit bi-polar that day and it couldn't decide if it should be sunny or rainy, but fortunately for us, we caught it during one of its sunny moods. We parked the car at the entrance to a wrought-iron gate that led us down a shady path lined by tall poplars. The path opened up to an immaculately manicured lawn that resembled a soft green carpet worthy enough of laying down and drifting off into la-la land. But there was no time for that as the buildings of old beckoned us into their arched walkways. My eyes were drawn upwards in long sweeping glances as my mouth gaped open in amazement. Cambridge is an ancient town, and dates back to the 9th century. I could only imagine the centuries worth of quirky professors that spoke in these halls of crusty academia.
River Cam
We chanced upon the River Cam which ran through the center of the university. I noticed a boat full of starry eyed people gazing up at me as their guide paddled them through a narrow passage under a covered bridge. Their boat glided softly, silently acquiescing to the slow current that gently pushed them along. After walking over the stone bridge and through an echo-filled corridor, we entered a series of inner courtyards and finally came out through a grand oaken door. We discovered the cobblestone streets full of roaming faces ducking in & out of shops selling University of Cambridge merchandise.
Canalboats
We were desperately thirsty and chanced upon the Eagle Tavern, a watering hole full of patrons that lined its dark paneled walls and oaken benches. Since it looked like smokers were welcome, Tom ushered us in, and made a beeline to the bar. We ordered English pints of a dark amber ale which were served warm, but were bloody good. On the patio, we clinked our glasses as we said, "Cheers to the next 9 days." We each knew this was just the beginning of a long week of travels, where England was just the first of 5 countries we each would visit. Tom took a drag from his cigarette, looked around at the local Brits, and finally exhaled a puff of smoke as he said, "English women are too pasty."
"Cheers to that!" I replied.
-Marvin A.
Saturday, May 21, 2005
U2 Concert in NYC: Madison Square Garden
5/21/05
This was the second time I was in NYC this year, but this time I was not going to miss U2 again. I assured this back in March, when I scoped out a spot in cyberspace the day tickets went on sale. Even still, I ended up with nosebleed seats at the top of Madison Square Garden. But who cares? I was going to see U2 afterall, and after 25+ years of their incredible music, this could be their last tour.
Holli & I rode a bus into the city on a sunny but brisk Saturday afternoon. We were animated, talkative, and high from the excitement of the show. We arrived at the Port Authority, and walked 8 blocks north on 9th Ave to 50th Street to an Ethiopian restaurant called Meskerem. It was a quaint dark place with closed-in tables and a variety of faces at each corner. The key characteristic of Ethiopian food is that it's communal, and is typically served with flat bread called "injera," which we used to scoop up juicy morsels of chicken and lamb curry dipped in savory sauces. It was the perfect start for our evening.
It was my first try at Ethiopian food, and I have to admit it was difficult for me. Not because the food was bad, but because of my OCD which had me imagining a dingy chef in a wife beater shirt coming out of the tiny bathroom next to the kitchen without washing his hands, and the food being prepared with grungy mitts, and as the food came out, someone in the bathroom pops out letting all the germs & bacteria fall on my food. Which of course, we ate with our hands that were filthed by merely opening the door, and handling sticky menus, and touching the table which was cleaned with a nasty wet rag that harbors microscopic bacteria... OK I'll stop now.
As we attempted to enjoy our Ethiopian meal, it began to rain, pour to be exact. It poured buckets while we scampered back to the subway as profiteers tried to sell poorly constructed umbrellas for $15 each. We declined and made it to the Gardens without melting.
We took one escalator after another as drunken mooks sang bad renditions of U2 songs, and girls in slinky outfits slid their way into the arena. The Kings of Leon were already playing when we finally made it to the top of the arena to our seats high above mid-court. I kind of liked the Kings of Leon, buy you have to admit that as the opening act for the biggest rock band in the world, they were not going to impress a lot of people. The Kings of Leon didn't care, they just kept rocking while people casually ignored them until they exited.
Finally, the lights dimmed and the crowds cheered, ready to explode as the excitement built when the piercing noises and delays of The Edge's droning guitar started to echo in the arena. Then U2 broke into a cut from the new album, "Miracle Drug" as the deafening roars of the crowds filled the air. It was powerful. There were several notable parts of the show:
The first was when the boys broke into "Sunday Bloody Sunday," which just electrified the place as people began to recognize the drumbeat march as if it were a theme from their youth. The second was the elliptical stage which brought Bono intimately close to the crowds. Even so much as to pull a young woman up on stage who hung from his neck as he sang "Mysterious Ways." And in front of thousands of people, she looked like she was going to climax (sorry for being crude). The third, was "Yahweh" in which the throngs of people cried out like a gospel chorus creating this incredibly spritual atmosphere. It didn't matter that the four people in front of us were toking a few joints in a clandestine manner. Finally, one of their two encores brought "Original of the Species," which Bono asked his bandmates to play as an improptu dedication for his daughter's birthday.
All in all, it was an incredibly amazing and uplifting experience. We overheard people on the way out describe the show as "worshipful". We were definitely high from the show and perhaps from the secondhand smoke. By then, it was past midnight and we had to take the 1 a.m. bus out of the city. Holli & I had no cares at that point as we frolicked in the lights of Times Square singing U2 songs to one another.
This was the second time I was in NYC this year, but this time I was not going to miss U2 again. I assured this back in March, when I scoped out a spot in cyberspace the day tickets went on sale. Even still, I ended up with nosebleed seats at the top of Madison Square Garden. But who cares? I was going to see U2 afterall, and after 25+ years of their incredible music, this could be their last tour.
Holli & I rode a bus into the city on a sunny but brisk Saturday afternoon. We were animated, talkative, and high from the excitement of the show. We arrived at the Port Authority, and walked 8 blocks north on 9th Ave to 50th Street to an Ethiopian restaurant called Meskerem. It was a quaint dark place with closed-in tables and a variety of faces at each corner. The key characteristic of Ethiopian food is that it's communal, and is typically served with flat bread called "injera," which we used to scoop up juicy morsels of chicken and lamb curry dipped in savory sauces. It was the perfect start for our evening.
It was my first try at Ethiopian food, and I have to admit it was difficult for me. Not because the food was bad, but because of my OCD which had me imagining a dingy chef in a wife beater shirt coming out of the tiny bathroom next to the kitchen without washing his hands, and the food being prepared with grungy mitts, and as the food came out, someone in the bathroom pops out letting all the germs & bacteria fall on my food. Which of course, we ate with our hands that were filthed by merely opening the door, and handling sticky menus, and touching the table which was cleaned with a nasty wet rag that harbors microscopic bacteria... OK I'll stop now.
As we attempted to enjoy our Ethiopian meal, it began to rain, pour to be exact. It poured buckets while we scampered back to the subway as profiteers tried to sell poorly constructed umbrellas for $15 each. We declined and made it to the Gardens without melting.
We took one escalator after another as drunken mooks sang bad renditions of U2 songs, and girls in slinky outfits slid their way into the arena. The Kings of Leon were already playing when we finally made it to the top of the arena to our seats high above mid-court. I kind of liked the Kings of Leon, buy you have to admit that as the opening act for the biggest rock band in the world, they were not going to impress a lot of people. The Kings of Leon didn't care, they just kept rocking while people casually ignored them until they exited.
Finally, the lights dimmed and the crowds cheered, ready to explode as the excitement built when the piercing noises and delays of The Edge's droning guitar started to echo in the arena. Then U2 broke into a cut from the new album, "Miracle Drug" as the deafening roars of the crowds filled the air. It was powerful. There were several notable parts of the show:
The first was when the boys broke into "Sunday Bloody Sunday," which just electrified the place as people began to recognize the drumbeat march as if it were a theme from their youth. The second was the elliptical stage which brought Bono intimately close to the crowds. Even so much as to pull a young woman up on stage who hung from his neck as he sang "Mysterious Ways." And in front of thousands of people, she looked like she was going to climax (sorry for being crude). The third, was "Yahweh" in which the throngs of people cried out like a gospel chorus creating this incredibly spritual atmosphere. It didn't matter that the four people in front of us were toking a few joints in a clandestine manner. Finally, one of their two encores brought "Original of the Species," which Bono asked his bandmates to play as an improptu dedication for his daughter's birthday.
All in all, it was an incredibly amazing and uplifting experience. We overheard people on the way out describe the show as "worshipful". We were definitely high from the show and perhaps from the secondhand smoke. By then, it was past midnight and we had to take the 1 a.m. bus out of the city. Holli & I had no cares at that point as we frolicked in the lights of Times Square singing U2 songs to one another.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Just Missed U2 at the Waldorf
U2 - I missed you by a few minutes
It was Monday 3/14 in the early evening, and I had just come back from a long walk in Manhattan to my hotel at the Waldorf Astoria. I approached the entrance as I noticed a line of limousines parked out front and a mob of people begin to form. I was curious to see what the fuss was all about and turned to some dude dressed in all black armed with a digital camera trying to jockey for position. I asked him what was going on. He looked at me with a smug face (as if I should know) and said that there was some big rock 'n roll event at the Waldorf. "Cool," I thought, but I wasn't going to wait around to see who was about to come out of the limousines, so I walked through the crowds, and up through the crystal chandeliered lobby where more people were ready to catch a picture of the so-called "rockstars." These people are nuts I thought to myself as I went up to my room.
Then, I woke up this morning and opened the paper and what does it say, U2 Inducted into the Rock 'N Roll Hall of Fame at the Waldorf Astoria on Monday 3/14... WHAT?I couldn't believe it. I missed my favorite band in the world by a matter of minutes. How stupid could I have been? This was definitely some wierd twist of fate!
-Marvin A.
It was Monday 3/14 in the early evening, and I had just come back from a long walk in Manhattan to my hotel at the Waldorf Astoria. I approached the entrance as I noticed a line of limousines parked out front and a mob of people begin to form. I was curious to see what the fuss was all about and turned to some dude dressed in all black armed with a digital camera trying to jockey for position. I asked him what was going on. He looked at me with a smug face (as if I should know) and said that there was some big rock 'n roll event at the Waldorf. "Cool," I thought, but I wasn't going to wait around to see who was about to come out of the limousines, so I walked through the crowds, and up through the crystal chandeliered lobby where more people were ready to catch a picture of the so-called "rockstars." These people are nuts I thought to myself as I went up to my room.
Then, I woke up this morning and opened the paper and what does it say, U2 Inducted into the Rock 'N Roll Hall of Fame at the Waldorf Astoria on Monday 3/14... WHAT?I couldn't believe it. I missed my favorite band in the world by a matter of minutes. How stupid could I have been? This was definitely some wierd twist of fate!
-Marvin A.
Monday, March 14, 2005
NYC: Manhattan
In the heart of the Village is Washington Square, where supposedly Bob Dylan got his start in the '60s playing for crowds in front of the great arch. Elms and NYU buildings surround the square, along with ghosts of literary greats such as Fitzgerald, Ginsburg, and Keruouac. I found their local haunts where aspiring writers have foresaken the notebooks of old and replaced them with laptops. The LP shops are now CD shops where I found the complete collection of Galaxie 500. Around the corner, I found the "Porto Rican," a coffee importer that sells fresh coffee beans from the far reaches of the earth, and serves its finest from a cramped kiosk in the back corner. The long line of people placing orders could rival any Starbuck's in Manhattan, and the coffee tastes much better.
I walked up the street and entered the White Horse Tavern a musty old watering hole with a dark oak bar and long benches. I sat on a bar stool imagining what it must have been like on that cold November day back in 1953, when the famous poet Dylan Thomas reportedly drank 18 whiskeys to his demise. I drank a beer in his honor.
As the sun began to set over the Hudson, I high-tailed it over to Union Square to catch up with my cousin who works close by. We descended into the depths of NYC subways and re-surfaced at Grand Central Station, where we made our way up to 46th street and a local Japanese restaurant: Yodo. The narrow restaurant was already packed with young urban patrons crowding the bar as we interrupted their conversations as we passed between them to order a round. Yodo is complete with a sushi bar, and kimono wearing waitresses serving hungry patrons. The pea-green walls could go, but why complain when the first order of sushi is free (I had the spicy tuna), and Sapporo on tap is just $3.25 a glass. Is there a better combination, especially in Midtown Manhattan? I suppose we could have closed the place down that night, but I had to get up early.
-Marvin A.
I walked up the street and entered the White Horse Tavern a musty old watering hole with a dark oak bar and long benches. I sat on a bar stool imagining what it must have been like on that cold November day back in 1953, when the famous poet Dylan Thomas reportedly drank 18 whiskeys to his demise. I drank a beer in his honor.
As the sun began to set over the Hudson, I high-tailed it over to Union Square to catch up with my cousin who works close by. We descended into the depths of NYC subways and re-surfaced at Grand Central Station, where we made our way up to 46th street and a local Japanese restaurant: Yodo. The narrow restaurant was already packed with young urban patrons crowding the bar as we interrupted their conversations as we passed between them to order a round. Yodo is complete with a sushi bar, and kimono wearing waitresses serving hungry patrons. The pea-green walls could go, but why complain when the first order of sushi is free (I had the spicy tuna), and Sapporo on tap is just $3.25 a glass. Is there a better combination, especially in Midtown Manhattan? I suppose we could have closed the place down that night, but I had to get up early.
-Marvin A.
Saturday, January 15, 2005
Hocking Hills State Park, Ohio
12/26/2004
Hocking Hills - Sphinx at Old Man's Cave
Somewhere between the confines of sleepy suburban Cincinnati and the wandering foothills of eastern Ohio, lies Hocking Hills State Park. It was just a few days past Christmas, and a group of kids from my youth group were eager to drive the two hours for a day hike. We all had a bad case of cabin fever having been locked in our homes as a result of a winter storm that dropped two feet of snow in our city.
It took just an hour to get past the sprawling neighborhoods and into the middle of nowhere where our first stop was at a rural WAFFLEHOUSE diner. I figured I’d take these guys out into rural America to broaden their horizons a bit and see what life is really like out in farm country.
Our table was adorned with sticky laminated placemats that doubled as menus containing simple pictures of food and corresponding prices. The great thing about the WAFFLEHOUSE menu is that you don’t even have to read: just point and grunt. One of my kids demonstrated the ease of this method by pointing a big clumsy finger at the picture of the chopped steak as he uttered an, “Ugh-Ugh” and an “Oh-Oh” in perfect caveman dialect. Our scraggly-haired waitress understood the routine and asked if he wanted hash-browns too. “Uh-huh!” he replied emphatically.
Wafflehouse Menu: Ugh-Ugh!
The food was simple and consisted of four basic food groups: burnt toast, greasy hash-browns, runny eggs, and black coffee with an oily film on top. Any semblance of healthy food was relegated to a banana muffin that sweated inside an individually wrapped plastic sheath. Believe it or not, the greasiness we called food tasted delicious. The only complaint registered was by the girls who were appalled that their coffee didn't taste like Starbucks. I kindly informed them that it wasn’t too long ago when coffee only came in one flavor: black.
The denizens of Wafflehouses usually consist of plumber-butt truck drivers and senior citizens who favor plaid shirts. But that morning we noticed a group of road weary twenty-somethings who were chain smoking at the adjacent table. I wondered if they were conducting an anthropological study on rural dining, as we were, when one of my friends recognized a familiar sound of Hebrew. Coincidentally, my friend (being from Israel) also speaks Hebrew, so he proceeded to say hello to his peeps. Turns out these Israelis were drifting the highways of rural Ohio on their way to NYC for New Year’s. It was all kind of strange. I mean, what are the chances of my Israeli friend meeting fellow Israelis out here in the boondocks? I noticed that after a few brief words of conversation our new friends kindly pointed & grunted their orders too.
We drove another hour on a winding two-lane road in the countryside passing dead corn fields and beat-up old barns. It was an endless road full of the tell-tale signs of rural America: old tires converted into flowerbeds, wind-chimes made from aluminum cans, and those metallic colored balls that look like oversized Christmas ornaments sitting on pedestals. I have to admit, I was feeling a little out of place in my Volkswagen as I passed one Ford F-150 after another, each donning its own gun rack and NRA bumper sticker.
When we finally arrived at Hocking Hills state park we were ready to scream from being cramped in the car for so long. We took our energy out on the trail that began with an icy descent down narrow steps. The whole time I was thinking of this documentary I watched on public television called Touching the Void where this guy broke his leg at the peak of an icy 21,000 foot mountain in Peru, and had to climb down this giant glacier all by himself. The only difference was that I had not broken any bones yet and I descended a whopping 210 ft in total.
Old Man's Cave
We traversed the icy paths into this sweeping arch called Old Man’s Cave. Hanging from the cave’s mouth were icicles that resembled teeth-like fangs melting slowly from the semi-warm air. The icicles were the size of pillars with jagged edges dripping water incessantly. I told the kids to avoid going directly under the icicles in fear of the ice falling and crushing them like a pestle and mortar. Around us were massive boulders which served as cold resting places where we sat to look over the edge and admire the evergreens that spotted the sky. Down below we spotted fallen trees that lined the rushing waters of the creek. We crossed over a moss covered bridge and followed the creek bed towards a giant stone that resembled the head of a Sphinx. The waters led over a 30 foot waterfall that dropped into a small pool where the waters froze into a thin sheet of ice spread out over a stone plateau.
After having lunch inside the dwellings of another cave, we began to hike back reveling in the day. Not before we climbed through crevices and icy rocks defying all sensibilities just to get a few pictures. And despite an incident where a kid fell knee-deep into bone chilling water, we all managed to get back to the trailhead in one piece. And so I pointed to the car and in perfect caveman speak, I bellowed an, "UGH-UGH!" and they knew it was time to leave Old Man's Cave and become civilized again.
- Marvin A.
Hocking Hills - Sphinx at Old Man's Cave
Somewhere between the confines of sleepy suburban Cincinnati and the wandering foothills of eastern Ohio, lies Hocking Hills State Park. It was just a few days past Christmas, and a group of kids from my youth group were eager to drive the two hours for a day hike. We all had a bad case of cabin fever having been locked in our homes as a result of a winter storm that dropped two feet of snow in our city.
It took just an hour to get past the sprawling neighborhoods and into the middle of nowhere where our first stop was at a rural WAFFLEHOUSE diner. I figured I’d take these guys out into rural America to broaden their horizons a bit and see what life is really like out in farm country.
Our table was adorned with sticky laminated placemats that doubled as menus containing simple pictures of food and corresponding prices. The great thing about the WAFFLEHOUSE menu is that you don’t even have to read: just point and grunt. One of my kids demonstrated the ease of this method by pointing a big clumsy finger at the picture of the chopped steak as he uttered an, “Ugh-Ugh” and an “Oh-Oh” in perfect caveman dialect. Our scraggly-haired waitress understood the routine and asked if he wanted hash-browns too. “Uh-huh!” he replied emphatically.
Wafflehouse Menu: Ugh-Ugh!
The food was simple and consisted of four basic food groups: burnt toast, greasy hash-browns, runny eggs, and black coffee with an oily film on top. Any semblance of healthy food was relegated to a banana muffin that sweated inside an individually wrapped plastic sheath. Believe it or not, the greasiness we called food tasted delicious. The only complaint registered was by the girls who were appalled that their coffee didn't taste like Starbucks. I kindly informed them that it wasn’t too long ago when coffee only came in one flavor: black.
The denizens of Wafflehouses usually consist of plumber-butt truck drivers and senior citizens who favor plaid shirts. But that morning we noticed a group of road weary twenty-somethings who were chain smoking at the adjacent table. I wondered if they were conducting an anthropological study on rural dining, as we were, when one of my friends recognized a familiar sound of Hebrew. Coincidentally, my friend (being from Israel) also speaks Hebrew, so he proceeded to say hello to his peeps. Turns out these Israelis were drifting the highways of rural Ohio on their way to NYC for New Year’s. It was all kind of strange. I mean, what are the chances of my Israeli friend meeting fellow Israelis out here in the boondocks? I noticed that after a few brief words of conversation our new friends kindly pointed & grunted their orders too.
We drove another hour on a winding two-lane road in the countryside passing dead corn fields and beat-up old barns. It was an endless road full of the tell-tale signs of rural America: old tires converted into flowerbeds, wind-chimes made from aluminum cans, and those metallic colored balls that look like oversized Christmas ornaments sitting on pedestals. I have to admit, I was feeling a little out of place in my Volkswagen as I passed one Ford F-150 after another, each donning its own gun rack and NRA bumper sticker.
When we finally arrived at Hocking Hills state park we were ready to scream from being cramped in the car for so long. We took our energy out on the trail that began with an icy descent down narrow steps. The whole time I was thinking of this documentary I watched on public television called Touching the Void where this guy broke his leg at the peak of an icy 21,000 foot mountain in Peru, and had to climb down this giant glacier all by himself. The only difference was that I had not broken any bones yet and I descended a whopping 210 ft in total.
Old Man's Cave
We traversed the icy paths into this sweeping arch called Old Man’s Cave. Hanging from the cave’s mouth were icicles that resembled teeth-like fangs melting slowly from the semi-warm air. The icicles were the size of pillars with jagged edges dripping water incessantly. I told the kids to avoid going directly under the icicles in fear of the ice falling and crushing them like a pestle and mortar. Around us were massive boulders which served as cold resting places where we sat to look over the edge and admire the evergreens that spotted the sky. Down below we spotted fallen trees that lined the rushing waters of the creek. We crossed over a moss covered bridge and followed the creek bed towards a giant stone that resembled the head of a Sphinx. The waters led over a 30 foot waterfall that dropped into a small pool where the waters froze into a thin sheet of ice spread out over a stone plateau.
After having lunch inside the dwellings of another cave, we began to hike back reveling in the day. Not before we climbed through crevices and icy rocks defying all sensibilities just to get a few pictures. And despite an incident where a kid fell knee-deep into bone chilling water, we all managed to get back to the trailhead in one piece. And so I pointed to the car and in perfect caveman speak, I bellowed an, "UGH-UGH!" and they knew it was time to leave Old Man's Cave and become civilized again.
- Marvin A.
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
Drink Coffee & Help Tsunami Victims
Attention coffee drinkers and friends of coffee drinkers!
I've discovered that World Vision, Seattle-based Tully's Coffee, and Amazon.com have teamed up to raise $1 million for tsunami relief.
The deal is as simple as drinking coffee. Just visit www.amazon.com/tullys and purchase the:
I've discovered that World Vision, Seattle-based Tully's Coffee, and Amazon.com have teamed up to raise $1 million for tsunami relief.
The deal is as simple as drinking coffee. Just visit www.amazon.com/tullys and purchase the:
- Regular- Tully's World Vision Tsunami Response Blend or
- Decaf- Decaf Tully's World Vision Tsunami Response Blend
You'll end up with a truly satisfying cup of coffee knowing that the net proceeds will go to World Vision for disaster relief. Talk about a win-win for all of us that is so easy. Better yet, this will be going on from Jan. 5 to April 15, so we can keep coming back.
God bless you & the tsunami victims
-Marvin A.
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