Life Outside the Cubicle

Fernando the safari guide

2012-01-29T11:19:00.000-05:00

Our second weekend in the city it was time to get out and see where the Porteños spend their weekends. It took us a while to get out to Tigre, about 30km north of Buenos Aires. First there was that impossibly long bus ride (the 152) that went out into the suburbs of Buenos Aires. The tren de la costa (also known as the tourist train) to the delta is located in Olivos, a neighbourhood north of the city that is famous for being the home of Argentina's presidential residence. Some can't be bothered to deal with traffic so they take a private helicopter out and cut their commute to about 5 minutes. Clearly we did not have that luxury.

The first thing we encountered at the final stop was a yellow booth with the words Safari Delta painted on it. A well tanned, thin Argentinian man named Fernando asked us where we were going and proceeded to give us his pitch. He runs a company that takes you out on a tiny little boat into the Paraná delta. His route is vastly different from the large tourist boats and even the small public transportation boats that ferry passengers to and from their neighbourhoods. What makes Safari Delta unique is that they cater to their customers and create personalized tours. If you want to go swimming he'll take you to a quiet spot far far away from the noisy rush of the weekend crowds. If you want to sit in the boat and explore the delta he'll take you somewhere 30 kilometers into the delta to explore the quietest rivers to see the wildlife. And, if like me, you want it all he can arrange for both of these things in one trip.

It was two in the afternoon and somehow that seemed to late to go on a customized tour. There was also the fact that none of us had brought swimwear and after being on the bus and train for over an hour we were starving. We walked out of the train station and down a little street to a kiosk that sold hot dogs. I was working on my second footlong hot dog when Fernando biked by and stopped to chat. At this point it was pretty obvious that he was a) friendly and b) helpful as he warned us of the big boats and said we'd be better off paying what the locals pay and getting on the public transport boats. Guess what happened right after we bought our 26 peso local boat tickets? Fernando double parked his car on the street jumped out and offered to take us out on his boat for the afternoon to hang out. It took all of 10 seconds to decide to go with him.

His boat is a small zodiac with no sun protection. It is mind boggling how many Porteños own big expensive boats. We passed more than a dozen boat warehouses and jet ski garages. Traffic on the river was heavy near the port but slowed to a lazy float as soon as you entered one of the little rivers off the main waterway. Aside from being a great place to show off your wealth on the biggest boat you can fit into the smallest riverways, Tigre is where the big vacation homes of the wealthy are. There are locals here as well but they live in much more rustic conditions right next to the giant weekend homes. Fernando owns a little spot called Soledad on one of the rivers. We spent our afternoon sitting on his porch drinking red wine and eating what I would consider the most amazingly tender and juicy steak I've ever had. The lush green garden surrounding his rustic cottage with it's huge cypress trees reminded me of Louisiana.

Having lost everything in the crash of 2001 Fernando came out to the delta to consider his future and reevaluate his life thus far. He watched the giant tourist boats slowly motor their way up the big river and all the bored tourists reading or taking a picture of him as he motored by on his tiny zodiac. It occured to him that people weren't getting the experience they were looking for when they came out to Tigre. Fernando was convinced that none of the people on the boat understood why so many locals came out to the delta. With no access to a private boat or a local guide it was impossible to appreciate what the delta had to offer. It's been over 8 years now that he gives private tours of the delta and his crew has grown to 4 guides (none of them young nor good-looking according to him). One of these was a former customer from Switzerland who found himself reconsidering his life's goals at 50.

Eight years of guiding tours makes for some great stories.

Buenos Aires

2012-01-27T15:48:00.003-05:00

Buenos Aires is beautiful and I'm very grateful that most of the streets and large avenues are one-way only which makes crossing them less of a life-threatening affair at crosswalks. It also keeps traffic moving in a very steady flow.

It's been a week since we arrived in Argentina and it already feels like we've been here for much longer. I suppose part of that is because we have fallen into a routine, albeit a very short lived one as it is going to change the week after next when our Spanish classes end and we take off to Uruguay. Buenos Aires has become surprisingly cool in the evenings over the week and as much as it is a welcome sensation to not fall asleep in a puddle of your own sweat but to a cool breeze I must say that I much prefer a hot summer night on a patio than a windy one. I guess you can't have it all and I shouldn't complain. People in Canada are bundling up to go outside as I write this and I'm having a pity parade because I have to wear a cardigan to protect myself from a breeze as I walk the streets in flip-flops at night.

Our neighbourhood is called Almagro and it is an urban working class barrio (neighborhood). Walking around the first night we discovered one of the best bars in the city around the corner, El Banderin. Our second night we came across a milonga down the street and then there was that time we discovered the tango school on the other corner. So all said, we live in a very convenient neighbourhood that feels a little different from the higher class streets of Palermo and Recoleta. Yes, there is an abandoned building right next to ours and then there is the matter of the garbage and dog poo right outside the abandoned building but that is a small price to pay for being generally immersed in a Porteño (this is what Buenos Airens are called) neighbourhood.

Some times you need a laugh

2010-07-22T13:19:00.005-05:00

Today is one of those days. I love antics. Especially when it involves these two:

And this chat truly is their best work.

This is wrong

2010-04-17T18:18:00.002-05:00

I saw this at a friend's place
and they pointed out one particular page that seemed...a little odd.

A sigh

2010-04-07T12:37:00.005-05:00

I made a decision to use shots of my last backpacking trip as a background on my work computer. It's on a slideshow and the image changes every half hour or so. Seeing pictures of far away places during my work day can be a bittersweet experience. For one, it reminds me that I am now back inside the cubicle. This popped up and made me sigh ever so slightly at my desk.

This is one of my favorite images from Mexico. Visiting the Zapatistas in Chiapas on a beautiful sunny day made the long ride from Oaxaca worth the sleepless, cold night on the over-air-conditioned bus.

These days I am an armchair traveller...well, aside from the road trips, weekend getaways and that one trip to Mexico a few weeks ago. One of the greatest thing about traveling is that you see something new and strange almost every day. You are exposed to situations you wouldn't usually be and dealing with these situations gives you a gauge of what kind of person you really are. It also reaffirms how important intuition is and how little we use it on a daily basis. Seeing a village of balaklava clad inhabitants would make quite a few people I know want to turn and run. Not me.

Aw my gawd!

2008-10-02T16:17:00.007-05:00

What do you get when you mix one part paranoia with two parts valium and five weeks of Spanish classes?

You get Ken, a forty-odd year old American who loves the local hot springs, "natural" Navajo cigarettes and likes to do good things with his money and wants everyone to know it. Lucky for the people of this country, he has chosen Guatemala as the location of all his future good deeds and financial generosity. However, the current economic situation in the USA is putting a damper on his parade. He stands to lose A LOT of money and is in daily contact with people in the secret service and family members that are high up in the government. Word has it that all the banks will fold and he has Trustafarian friends that have lost hundreds of thousands already.

The situation is dire and requires that he run around flapping his arms, speaking loudly in Spanglish about how much money he will lose and that he take more valium than usual. Unfortunately, mommy's little helper seems to have lost its effect. He also had to get up yesterday during a routine class meeting to apologize for freaking out and for offending people by speaking about mucho dineros. Ken's dinero is not for him though, he added while choking back tears, it's for the children he was going to educate at the escuelas he was going to open. I had to stuff my face with nachos to keep from bursting out in a howl. None of the teachers even raise an eyebrow anymore...or maybe the crazy doesn't translate into Spanish.

It seems that his Guatemalan girlfriend tried to cheer him up by putting a rat tail made of green yarn in his hair. To help with his luck she added a dreamcatcher contrapion at the end of it. I think the fact that she speaks no English and he speaks no intelligible Spanish will keep these two together for a long time and, who knows, perhaps I will witness a traditional wedding ceremony during my brief time here.

My New Love: El Rey

2008-09-28T12:19:00.007-05:00

I think I may have discovered a new king to add to the list of musical talents I love. Move over King of Romance, there´s a new mustache in town, Vincente Fernandez.

Central America has been gripped by Estos Celos fever. The last few weeks the song has been on every radio station and played in every local cantina in town. It´s a great heart-wrenching ranchera lovesong, trumpets and all.

The man does have a striking resemblance to someone else though.... Someone from long, long ago...
It took a bit of internet research to figure it out and while I was online I discovered a great little book this hunking piece of 70s machismo wrote back in the day. First I must find a computer that will let me download some software but here´s the backcover as a teaser.

A brief stop in Tilapita

2008-09-25T16:46:00.007-05:00

My attempts to save the lifes of unhatched seaturtles was unsuccessful last weekend. Instead the weekend turned into a beach fest with fourty other foreigners who had also been misled into believing that turtles appeared in abundance on the beach at Tilapita to lay their eggs. The notice in the XelaWho made no mention of the fact that none of the participants over the last three years had actually ever seen a turtle come out of the sea at midnight much less collected freshly laid eggs to take to the hatchery. Once we were given this information we decided to take Saturday night off and have a bonfire on the beach before returning to the concrete sweat boxes that were our hotel rooms.

The chicken bus on the way back was a brutal ride that erased all memory of the relaxing weekend on the beach. Chicken buses are ordinary American schoolbuses that are too old to use on North American streets and find their way onto Central American roads. Only now, they cram three people onto each bench and as many people as possible into the aisles.

Monday it was back to class with a fresh tan. Last week I had the ex-guerilla fighter as my teacher. He was an old geyser who joined the guerilla movement in Guatemala without the knowledge of his upper middle class family. He gave me a couple of very unexpected pep-talks and mentioned my origin and language skills to anyone who even dared to say hello to him on the street during our afternoon walks.

This week I´ve had the pleasure of experiencing the Guatemalan metrosexual. He lathers himself in sunblock while we sit on the roof under an umbrella and uses his index finger quite vigorously to rub his nose.

This is week three of language instruction and I am still not fluent. My spanish has improved a little. I am still stuck in the present tense but am making headway using the language during my five hours of class time.

Speaking to Guatemalans in English is still one of my favorite activities though. Monday night I met a nice university student that is part of another Spanish students homestay. Cancun came up in conversation and I swear he told me he saw on the Discovery Channel that American girls go there to participate in wet t'shirt contests. He then proceeded to tell me that fornication was abound during Spring Break and then it was only a natural progression in conversation to abortion. Apparently National Geographic has been making TV shows claiming that hippies loved to keep their aborted fetuses in jars around the house.

No conversation about slutty American girls and abortion is complete without a brief mention of the obviously raging hormones and unprotected sex Guatemalan teens are having. Jamie Lynn Spears and Sarah Palin´s daughter would not create a media circus in Central America for being pregnant. Girls in Guatemala, and Central America as a whole, get pregnant quite early and it doesn´t seem to be too much of a disturbance to family life with the parents. I´ve heard some travelers joke that it´s impossible to find a 16 year old Nicaraguan girl that isn´t pregnant. It´s definitely an obvious phenomenon but at least they don´t keep their aborted fetuses in jars. I don´t think the Mexican border officials would let them (abortion is illegal in Catholic Guatemala, so some people will take a quickie trip to Mexico to take care of things).

Xela and Juan Sizay

2008-09-15T19:15:00.005-05:00

After two weeks of eating myself fat in Mexico we made it to Xela, Guatemala. It feels like a little hilltown but is in actual fact the country´s second largest city. Xela is in the northwest of the country and is best known to most travellers as a place for really cheap Spanish lessons. To my chagrin one week of being here hasn´t been sufficient for me to form sentences yet. I really hoped to be completely fluent by week three.

The school is great. Chris ended up with the local drunk as his teacher the first week which has been great fun for him. He owns a bar and has bloody mary´s for breakfast every morning while trying to teach Chris to conjugate verbs. My teacher is an older pyschologist who can´t find work outside of teaching Spanish. The students are a mixed bag of travellers and missionaries. Chris refers to the group of seven or eight American students who are on their way to an orphanage mission in Honduras as Jean Paul´s Army. At least one of them is definitely not looking forward to going to church every week for the next two and a half years. He told me this yesterday over a few shots of tequilla. Needless to say I like him best.

This weekend was independence weekend (hence the tequilla). I spent most of it frequenting various bars and going to the Santa Georgina hostprings outside town. It´s cool in Xela and there´s no hot water or central heating here, so soaking in scalding water was definitely called for after all those 30 second cold showers I´ve been taking.

Week two begins tomorrow. Jean Paul´s Army will be leaving after this week.

An update

2008-09-02T19:01:00.011-05:00

The last four months in Africa have been intense.

I kept asking myself if I was getting old or if the travel was really, really hard. Thankfully a few other travellers I encountered let me know it wasn't me but the conditions under which we were travelling that made it so difficult to relax for at least a day after getting out of the latest overstuffed ground transportation. I suppose you can't really expect a completely tarmacked, pot hole free road or car that doesn't lose a tire on the road or flip over or break down in the world's third and fourth poorest countries.

Most of my Africa posts will be written in hindsight I think. Internet was extremely difficult to come by...actually, let me rephrase that, an internet connection that WORKED was extremely difficult to come by.

The same goes for good food. I guess this explains why there are no great Malian, Gambian, Ghanian or Togolese restaurants back home. The Lebanese saved my hungry ass quite a few times. Thank God for felafel and hamburgers! It seems that our Arab friends have set themselves up quite comfortably in West Africa. There's a whole sub-culture of Lebanese people everywhere from Senegal to Togo. They run restaurants (thank the Lord once again for that) and grocery stores and generally stay away from the local population.

Travel plans have changed as some of you are aware. No longer will I be roaming the vast expanse of foodless Africa where the people are the kindest I've encountered in the world and the poverty breaks your heart like in no other place. A place were you pay 30 bucks a night for dirty low end hotel rooms and five to ten bucks a meal for a piece of chicken that consists of skin and bones with plain rice. This is the continent in which we had a tire pop off our car on a highway, where four by fours flipped on sand dunes on our way to Timbuktu, where we drove into an ambush on a deserted highway in the middle of the night and walked away unrobbed and unharmed.

We arrived in Mexico last week and spent an amazing week eating our way through the street stalls in the countries capital city. Here is a little review of what I've consumed in the last 7 days. I must say that my favorite thing, corn with lime and chili, is not pictured. I could never hold the damn thing in my hands without immediately devouring it.

Other than that I spotted a penis plant* and then one night we got the royal treatment from the Mexican police. We left with our wallets 30 bucks lighter for holding open containers walking down a dark, dark street. I suppose that's better than being kidnapped by them and held for ransom. We assumed drinking in public would be okay as we had just watched a very drunk cleaning crew holding large bottles of tequila being serenaded by mariachis in a public square.

I should be in Guatemala by next Monday ready to start my Spanish language instruction before making it by road down to Peru. Clearly, this is not what I expected of my travels this year but it is definitely what I want and am looking forward to.

*there was no real proper segway to that statement but I have a picture!

Senegalese Wrestling

2008-06-15T18:58:00.007-05:00

As on most weekends in Dakar, today there was a wrestling match. Having missed the service at the Keur Moussa Monastery outside the city we decided to go to the match. This, I thought, would make up for not experiencing the African music with Gregorian chanting in Wolof.

Here is what happened in pictures:

We enter. It's 4pm. The drummers are already going near the goal post in the arena. Shortly after we are seated a group of ladies shows up and makes itself comfortable in white plastic chairs.
The rink is empty. White sandbags mark the perimeter. The ladies near the goal post start chanting into a mic. A small crowd hangs out in the sun waiting.
One by one the wrestlers arrive in the far corner of the arena. They each kneel in the sand at the doorway and, I'm guessing here, pray before entering.
Then they make their way into the sandbox and kneel down. Their team hangs out while they pray to not have their ass kicked during the match. A sheet is pulled over each player while he rubs sand into his nether-regions (I'm guessing this is what happens under the sheet. Why else cover up?)
Some wrestlers walk along the perimeter of the rink and kneel in each corner or throw something or rub sand on them or put their hands to their head. Whatever floats your boat. We begin to notice that there are a lot of wrestlers showing up.
At around 6pm they line up to find out the order of their matches. Meanwhile more wrestlers arrive and go through their routine of entering the arena and rink. The bleechers begin to fill up.
A troupe of well dressed ladies shows up. Among them is a very important man. I know this because he has printed a banner of himself and hired two people to carry it around the arena behind his posse. They are seated at the front, near the action. The music is still blarring.
The wrestlers don't stop moving. They walk continuously along the edge of the rink, some dance, some run, most walk.
The official dancers begin.
Four hours of waiting later the wrestling begins.
No one seems to care about the sport though.
Everyone is watching the dancing. When they are done their routine some of the well dressed ladies from the privileged seats at the front get up and dance.
Three matches at a time happen. The first few rounds last less than five minutes. Eliminations are quick.
Finally, the cameras turn on the wrestlers. We leave. At midnight we catch a glimpse of the match on TV. It's live.

Mauritania

2008-06-08T09:01:00.004-05:00

Essaouira prides itself on the fact that Jimi Hendrix visited in the 60s. Rumor has it he tried to buy the town. Rumor also has it that his Castles in the Sand was inspired by the remains of a fort on the beach (the album came out the year before he visited). No one ever points out that he was only in Morocco for a week and in Essaouira for probably no more than 3 days. I am willing to bet he spent most of that time high out of his mind at the hippie commune downwind. The commune is now back to being a regular town. No hippies here. Lots of windsurfers and kite surfers though.

We hit Essaouira and decided a few days in that we were going to skip the rest of Morocco and make for the border. Of course then we met a couple with a little kid from the States on the bus that lived in Agadir. they would have been interesting to hang out with since they were in Morocco to Witness.... I'm pretty sure of this because after we got off the bus in Agadir we prayed for our trip before they took off home and we got on another bus to Dakhla.

Dakhla is the furthest south you can go without a visa in your passport. Dakhla is windy and surprisingly enough not scorching hot. You'd expect a bit more heat from a Saharan city. The city sprawls out along the ocean and was a Spanish outpost until 1975 when the Mauritanians took it over. Four years later it became a Moroccan city. Coming into town tourists have to constantly show their passport. We had to make ten photocopies of our passport in Agadir to leave at each of the checkpoints before we got to the city.

The Sahara Hotel organized our ride to Mauritania with a fellow named Omar. The taxi stand consisted of two Mercedes' (the car of choice in all of Africa) parked near the police check point. I would have missed it on my own. Then we did what everyone does here, wait. It is expected. Everyone always talks as if they are going to leave at a specific hour but then you get there and end up waiting a few hours for more people to show up and fill up the car. We waited for two hours and finally had two more passengers, a man and a woman. The woman took it upon herself to feed us bread, yogurt and cookies while the driver squinted his way to the border.

The border is a formality, one which in my case led to people pointing out where I was born politely but with a definite intend to judge... at least that's what it felt like. It became a discussion topic among the driver and other passengers who whispered for a while.

The Mauritanian officals take a three hour lunch break that begins at noon and ended just as we got across the 4km of mined no-man's-land (an area strewn with shells of cars). Crossing the border is not where the formalities end. They end about 2km up the road at a hut on the side of the road with four army officials sifting through your bags. The army officials were all in their twenties and all very much asleep when we entered the hut. the guy looking through my belongings didn't really want to continue once he came across the shampoo bottle that had busted and smeared my clothes. After the search, we switched drivers here for Nouakchot.

Parts of the road across the Sahara are along the shimmery coast. For the most part though the ride is through the heat of the sand on a one lane highway. No air con and the wind felt like a huge hairdryer set to high blowing at you from all directions. Six more hours from the border to the capital. The city looked different from anything we were used to in Morocco. There are sandbanks that serve as sidewalks and most of the cars (although Mercedes') were basically junk on wheels. No street signs. Men in long lose blue or white robes and women in veils that looked like saris wrapped around their clothes. 11pm and the driver was angry at not being able to find the street we were looking for in the city centre. Finally we did find it but then he demanded a ridiculously high price for driving us there from the car park. The people from the Menata guesthouse came out to try and help us negotiate.

Nouakchot is calm and relaxed. The best burger outside London and North American can be had here (with an egg on it and plenty of mayo). The few sidewalks that exist are paved with seashells mixed into the concrete. The port de peche on the coast is an amazing sight of life and colour in and out of the water. Not much else to see in the capital as far as sights go. There are no banks that take traveller's cheques. The city has only two ATMs, one takes visa only and the one that takes all creditcards doesn't work yet, it may next month according to the security guard. The work week is from Sunday to Thursday. There are lots of poor people but also lots of shiny new SUVs. Slavery was officially outlawed in 1980 but there are probably still places where it exists. Alcohol is illegal but still available at high end places. They found oil off the coast of the capital (which is 5km inland). Mauritania is a US ally.

We are leaving tomorrow to be robbed at the southern border crossing of Rosso.

A few observations about Morocco

2008-05-30T12:34:00.006-05:00

Fighting

There's a lot of arguing going on on the streets here. I can't even keep track of how many would-be-fights I've seen. There's never any actual physical violence beyong wild gesituclations, loud shouting and the odd shirt grabbing. After the initial outbreak one of the two people involved will turn and pretend to walk away only to turn around after a few steps to come back with more flailing arm gestures and shouting. Sometimes there's the odd long kick that looks as though the person who is extending his foot didn't calculate the distance very well and therefore has to extend his entire leg rather than deliver a short, hard hit from the knee. More than kicking though head budding seems to be a favorite mode of attack. It looks totally ineffective and painful. The bud can't be too aggresive since injuring yourself would sort of defeat the purpose but then again, maybe there's so much anger welling up in your veins that it won't matter at all. The head bud is accompanied almost always by the shirt grabbing which makes sense since that is what gives the attacker some control over the force and direction of the bud and the victim a lack of choice in movement.

At times a third party, the peacekeeper, will get involved. He will seemingly risk his own neck by positioning himself right in the middle of the two (often mustached) fighters and extend his arms while speaking calmly. I imagine this person to be saying things like "Easy. Let's all calm down and talk the matter over" or "What are all these shenanigans about? You're grown men. Control yourselves." One of two things happen at this juncture: the fight ends with some indignant looks and with one party really walking away (and not just pretending to) or the peacekeeper is ensnared in the brawl with insults (I think) for sometimes even the PK seems to pick a side and get all indignant at one of the fighters. Sometimes the peacekeeper is a woman, usually a relative of one person involved and she usually tries to pull him away while yelling insults over her shoulder at the other person or else she just joins in and gesticulates. It should be noted that she is never grabbed or head budded. If that were to happen the entire street would end up in one massive fistfight with Mr Shirt-grabber or Head-budder.

What actually incites people to such fury is sometimes a complete mystery and other times I've seen these quarrels break out over parking tickets, with taxi drivers, after a small car accident that didn't hurt or damage anything, over bread among street kids and other times it looks like a serious fight but then one person will walk away with a huge smile turning to wave goodbye at his friend whom he just pretended to kick and yell at.

Haggling

Haggling is an art. I believe that. There are places in the world where one can haggle with a smile and then there are the experiences that make you never want to buy another shisha again. In Southeast Asia people would sometimes get offended when they quoted you a ridiculously high price for their product and you quoted a ridiculously low price back. Most times you had to leave their stall or shop.

In Morocco there's the invite to tea and a short little chat about the weather and the American presidential race and then the discussion about how the kilims and carpets are knotted in the High Atlas versus the Middle Atlas. Those sessions are easy enough to leave. Sometimes though you get the full on infuriated face gestures and pressuring. This has happened when trying to negotiate a price for a bus ride. For some reason one of the touts at the taxi/bus station got involved by quoting a price for a taxi and a price for the bus and then being impatient for us to make a decision. He pressured, he asked repeatedly for us to make a decision as though all the buses and taxis were going to dissapear all at once. A few minutes later when the price came down to a respectable number we paid. He turned and said in French with a smile "You're a nice lady". Then a public bus turned into the station and the price for a seat on that bus with the same destination was lower. I think I learned something from this experience.

The best is when a taxi driver pulls out a little piece of paper that was laminated (badly) and now serves as the official pricelist. It's official because it was printed and laminated. Negotiations center around the official lamination and prices don't drop that far thanks to the invention of the inkjet printer.

Rabat

Rabat is the capital not only of this country but also of protesters. This is my second time through and again there was protesting across the street from the hotel and in the streets. I saw some chasing going on through the trees below the internet cafe. Police in green overalls armed with black battons and headscarved women and men with signs running zigzag around the cafes and the park to avoid being caught. The police don't seem to overzealous despite the battons and the chasing. Either they are just scaring the crowd into scattering or they are incompetent and out of shape despite their youth. I'll never figure that one out.

Visa

We have a visa to Mauritania. Two months before it expires. Just 500 km of hot, hot sand between Dakhla and Nouakchot... I hope their national dishes do not consist of tajines and couscous.

Imlil: The High Atlas & the Sand Dunes near M'hamid

2008-05-18T12:45:00.007-05:00

After some searching for a departure point that wasn't going to completely rip us off we found a little bus station near the medina where we haggled for a fair price 50km away. An hour later we were in Imlil and checked into the Hotel Aksoual across the street from the French Alpine refuge. This move alone turned out to be a very good one because it turns out that the French woman running that hostel is actually crazy. She yells at her guests when they stay out beyond ten o'clock because she can't lock the door and go to bed and she charged me for wood. That's right. Wood. It was already burning and drying the clothes of her guests by the time I arrived and had a tea near the fire place. My French isn't good enough to argue so I just paid the extra dollar and left. Again, it should be pointed out, that it's not the amount of money that infuriates me but the sheer nerve that this twat had.

We met a group of three travelers and a contingent of the English army that was on a training trip up here. We played cards and learned about army drinking games, most of which are completely gross. The one I remember is called Freckles and involves someone taking a turd on the middle of a table and all the guys putting their chin on the edge of the table. Down comes a shoe and then...freckles. The crazy lady went on a special shopping trip for the Englishmen and brought back some real beer. The twinkle in their eyes and the mood around the hostel made you think it was Christmas Eve.

On that first day in town I saw a rather strange sight: a guy in a djelaba on a mule. He had a row of really beautiful white teeth and dreadlocks. The following day we walked and encountered him and his friend, Manuelle. They had bought the mule, Jebal Yusuf, two months ago and were traveling on foot through Morocco with him for the summer. We walked together for most of the way to the next village of Tachdirt.

Then it was our turn to try and climb the highest peak in North Africa, Toubkal. Despite the hiking shoes we didn't make it beyond the refuge at 3200 metres. That's about as high as I thought I'd get but Chris was really dissapointed. We had a communal dinner and slept the one night up in the refuge in a room with many old men. It's cold up at that height and one night at the symphony of farts and snors was enough for me.

The grey turned into rain on the way back down. Being drenched without central heating left no choice but to go to the local hammam where I encountered a naked crew of young ladies on an organized tour. We were all lathered and shampooed by a rather gentle Moroccan lady. This was nothing like I had heard it would be. I was sort of dissapointed to not have a matronly, big bossomed lady try to scrub with all her might the very skin off my body in the foggy heat on the concrete floor of the bath house.

After the cool mountain air it was back to Marrakech for a night before heading to the south and one of my favorite places in Morocco, Ouarzarzate. The town comes to life in the evenings when the square fills up with tag playing children, prancing teenagers, men, women, and vendors. We made it to the Atlas Film Studios with it's Tibetan monastery (a set for the film Kundun), Egyptian temples, slave market (for Gladiator) and the walls of Jerusalem. Ait Benhadou which is 25km away was largely rebuild by Scorsese and is now a UNESCO site. The pictures can be found here.

Further south in Mahamid we found ourselves on the Chicaga dunes. The town itself is very conservative and neither men nor women are aloud to show any part of their legs (I learned this a little late). The people running the Hotel Sahara were somewhat fishy. There were a few dirt bikers from Spain in the lobby and a strange English couple. He spoke Arabic and was doing translation work. She was really old and when she whispered sounded like a man. They sat in the lobby during the hottest parts of the day and incessantly photographed the front door for some reason.

I was told by some local right on the hotel steps that I was inappropriately dressed in my t-shirt and long skirt. The hotel owner, Habib, told me he was crazy. The crazy man was there again later when we left for the Sahara trek and this time told me not to let the guys touch me. Habib put a hand on my back and then our driver put his hand on my back to stir me into the back of the truck. Each time he had a chance the driver put his hand on my back or wanted to pose for a picture with his hand around my waist. It got a bit annoying and creepy but none of it was threatening.

Pushing the truck out of the sand banks and back on it's track gave me a break from being thrown around the backseat for a while. It took an hour to arrive at the base of the large golden sand mountains. Algeria is just across the sand.

The dunes were beautiful and I don't think I've ever been anywhere so quiet. It was so still I could hear the steady buzz of the blood rushing through my body in my ears. The night was filled with a million stars which dissapeared one by one when the moon rose. The heat in the huts was unbearable that night and I still wonder why they don't build windows in them to allow for a breeze in the night.

The next day back at the Hotel Sahara it was time for a shower and then, a change of scenery. We left despite the warnings of the tout that there would be no buses and that there were too many tourists in Zagora. We had dinner that night in Ouarzarzate near the square.

Helpless like a rich man's son

2008-05-18T10:49:00.010-05:00

Marrakech is huge. The nouvelle ville goes on forever and, unlike in Fez, the taxi drivers are crooks here... 95 percent of them anyway. Marrakech is the tourist centre. Cheap flights from all over Europe land here and most people don't go but within 2 hours of the city after getting to this country. Hence, getting to the closest sights to the city is a battle if you want to pay a fair price. The price to get to Imlil, in the high Atlas mountains, went from 600 dirhams for the two of us to 35 each. Imlil is 70 km away. Getting that price took a whole day and a visit to the Majorelle Gardens (to split up the haggling).

The Majorelle Gardens are kept by Yves Saint Laurent. Aside from the Djemma l-fna the garden is the other tourist hub of the city. 30 dirhams gives you access to viewing a lot of inappropriately dressed tourists, some beautiful cacti patches, a couple of ponds, a bamboo forest and an overpriced yet understocked gift shop.

Marrakech's medina is beautiful and seems straight out of 1001 Nights with its covered markets of carpets and lanters and magical shafts of light. Djemma l-fna is a huge square in the medina that was once the site for public executions but has since become the focal point for Morocco's tourism industry. In the evenings food stalls are set up in the centre of the square tempting passersby with the sight and smell of barbecued meats and vegetables.

The smoke wafts across the entire square giving the snake charmers, henna ladies, musicians and acrobats a mysterious hue. Standing too close or too long around any entertainment leads to being asked for money. Constantly. Most of the musicians don't play much but spend most of their time collecting donations. Our favourite musician carries an oude, picks two out of tune chords and then you pay him to stop playing, not to keep going. The instrument looks really new and completely unused. We didn't really know that he couldn't play until we passed a stall in the labyrinthian medina and spent some time sitting with the owner who should have probably been a musician rather than a shopkeeper. He took us on a little trip across North Africa with his oude and explaining and playing various songs from pop to classical.

Sitting at one of the stalls has been a great way of meeting some of the other travellers. The first night we met a couple that after being in the country for three days and without asking us anything proceeded to tell us all they knew about how to travel the right way in Morocco. They covered haggling, the prices of carpets, the pay phones, as well as the beggars and their outlook on life.

The second night we met a hiphop hipster from Chicago who had been living in Paris for the last year but still needed help odering his coke in French. He seemed out of his environment but turned out to be on a very interesting trip. His father had booked all his travels in Africa in advance and made up his itinerary. Hassani was completely shocked that the hotel didn't have internet in his room. Instead he had to trek all the way up to the roof terrace to get wifi reception. He was also generally frightened of Morocco and its people. All the day trips were organized through his hotel and he "ain't taking no trains" anywhere. All travel was either private car or by plane. We were completely surprised to hear his itinerary. Within the week he was going to be touching down in Chad. I asked him what he was going to do and why he was going. He simply replied that he had no idea and that "Chad is at war". Apparently his dad is going to explain the significance of his entire itinerary to him when they meet in Tanzania in a month, by which time he will have been in Morocco, Chad, Nigeria, South Africa, Kenya, Namibia and Ethiopia. I would pay good money to be a fly on the wall when that conversation takes place.

The third night we met a man we first saw in Chefchaouen but back then he was a shopkeeper. By now he had closed up shop and was on a last holiday in Marrakech with a friend from France before moving to Mexico for the next three years. His wife, an American diplomat, and he had already spent two years in Turkmenistan. Somehow the prospect of living in a Mexican border town and meeting his in-laws for the first time ever in Ohio didn't appeal to him.

By day number four Chris was tired of people trying to sell him hash every five minutes. The proposals sounded almost erotic with the dealer breathing it in his ear when he passed. A day of haggling and then finally finding the proper bus station at Bab er Rabb got us on a bus to Imlil in the high Atlas mountains for some fresh air.

Teenage Weddings in Fez

2008-05-18T10:07:00.010-05:00

Fez is one of four imperial cities in Morocco. Marrakech, Meknes and Rabbat being the other three. It is a city of parts: the mellah, the medina and the nouvelle ville.

The medina is where you'll find the world's oldest intact medieval city and the world's largest car free urban centre.

The word ghetto accurately describes the mellah, formerly the Jewish quarter of the city. Most of the Jews have left this area with its cemetery of 25,000. Mellah translates into salt as Jews were often employed to salt the heads of those condemned to be executed. Here a faux guide attached himself to us and tried to show us around which led to some rather unpleasant haggling thirty minutes later.

All that aside it smells in the medina of all sorts of things, most of them unpleasant like mule poo and I guess it doesn't help that the tanneries use pigeon shit to soften the leather when they dye it. There are bees all over the sweet stalls and cats all over the streets.
We were kicked out of the hostel after our first night there because a group of 43 Dutch people had prebooked it for the next week or so. A little searching around found us on the couch at Erin, Cameron and Fraser's house. These three were students of Arabic from the States and the UK. The wall in their living room kept track of the number of deaths and fights they had witnessed in the last five months in Morocco. Erin was an awesome host. Fraser was the youngest of the three and also by far the most amusing. 18 years old and five months in an Arabic country without a word beyond asalamaleikum. His plans are to get to Damascus and really learn proper Arabic. Fraser also was totally surprised that by signing up to live in this country he had signed up to celebacy and an alcohol free existance. It seems that finding a place to buy booze is easier than finding a teenage girl in this part of the world. Half a vodka bottle, a bottle of wine and a pint of beer in he exclaimed that he would be so so attentive if he had a girlfriend in Fez. Then Fraser proclaimed that he loved tennage weddings. He was really looking forward to being the best man at his friend's wedding in June. The affaire wasn't going to be the same at all as the quails eggs and champagne wedding at Versaille he attended. This was going to be much better with the groomsmen throwing up in the background while the grandmother sniffled how beautiful the event was.

The next day we left our 15 dirham chicken and rice dinners behind. It was off to Rabat, Morocco's capital city, where that same day we encountered something that made Chris' tummy expel all its contents along with one of the quietest protests of police brutality I've ever witnessed.
I picked up an "underground" novel, The Lemon, by Mohammed Mbrat. I suppose the thing that made it "underground literature" was the sodomy/pedophilia storyline. Nothing much happened in the 130 pages other than the continuous insinuation that something terrible would happen to the runaway kid that shacked up with a man who liked to booze with questionable lady friends. All these lady friends talked about something terrible he had tried to do to them.

Alhambra

2008-05-04T12:43:00.006-05:00

There's not much you can say about the Alhambra that hasn't been said or written before. The name derives from the Arabic for red and translates into the red one. It sits high atop overlooking the windy streets of Granada.

Tickets are sold online and have been booked up until May 10. The only other choice we had was to get up at 6am and walk up the hill to stand in line for the 600 tickets sold at the box office daily. A total of 7000 tickets per day are sold. We stood in line for a chilly 1.5 hours and by 9am walked into the fort. The woman in front of us had a motormouth and couldn't stop talking about all the great places she'd been and the toilet at her hotel. Apparently it's like a car wash, you don't have to do anything. It wipes and blows air and licks you clean. Chris decided to ignore her completely. According to him she was definitely addicted to perscription painkillers.

he view from the top is dazzling as all views from this angle seem to be. The Nazrin Palace was the residence of the sultans and is the best preserved site on the grounds with is multitude of engraved arches, fountains, flowers and watery reflections. It is in this palace that King Leopold gave Columbus the means to travel to 'discover' the New World.

The following day we climbed into the Sacromonte hills where we encountered the dwellings of the gypsies. The modern day 'gypsies' are the equivalent of the hobos back home. Dreadlocked, tanned and pierced they carved their homes out of the soft hills with fences build of wine bottles.

Granada has an interesting hilly arabic neighbourhood filled with graffiti and stores stocked with shishas. The dive bar of our dreams was two doors from our hotel at the base of the winding streets leading to the ever popular St Nicolas square where we ate our picnic dinners while the Alhambra stood lit up on the hill of trees across the rooftops. More pictures here.

The Blue Chaouen

2008-05-04T12:26:00.005-05:00

It's nice to be in a place where the rooms cost 10 bucks and lunch and dinner costs half that. It won't be like this for long though. Chefchaouen, a town that until 1920 was closed off to outsiders, is in the north of Morocco. Of the three westeners that were able to enter the town, one was disguised as a rabbi and another was poisoned by the townspeople three days into his visit. Christians were not welcome here. The people have mellowed out considerably since then. These days Chaouen's blue streets are overrun by Spanish tourists haggling over kilims and alladin style lamps.

For some reason the hotels here are hangouts for the local guys. Checking into our hotel the first night everything seemed to run smoothly until the clerk noticed the name on my passport and where I was born. He smiled widely. I was immediately overcome by guilt... or rather shame. Strange how these feelings are encoded in you and surface given the right situation. We went upstairs and as we came down again the entire group of dudes stopped their boisterous game and fell completely silent. So, we checked out the next day and found more comfortabe surroundings around the corner. Everything in Chaouen is around the corner by the way since there are no straight streets.
Time is kept by the call to prayer which comes five times a day. Men start streaming toward the mosques in the various neighbourhoods within minutes of the asan. There isn't much to do other than watch people go about their daily business in their long robes, explore the souks and the hills around town and decide on your next meal. The food is standard local fare but the local goat cheese is a notch above the couscous.

The two horn like hills behind the city give Chefchaouen it's name: the horns. People are extremely friendly here and other than being asked to buy carpets or kif (weed) there isn't much hassle. The Rif mountains in this region are home to Morocco's marijuana plantations. The word reefer probably comes from the word Rif.... Buying though is not a good idea since most of the dealers double as police informants.

Tomorrow it's off to Fez, the world's oldest intact Islamic medieval city.

And on

2008-04-30T13:55:00.004-05:00

We spent a day in Salamanca with Maria Jose on our way out of La Alberca. She was amazing. Andrea met up with us in a hot pink number and three inch heels. She had forgotten all her English within two hours of leaving the exchange program.

Salamanca is beautiful. The buildings are all golden coloured thanks to a local stone that has been used for centuries in the construction of the city center. New projects in the city center must use the same stone. We walked around, admired the astronaut carved into the cathedral and had a great seafood meal at the Pulperia de Paco across from the train station that evening. The next day MJ took us to the bus station and we were off to Sevilla in the south.

Six hours and 400km later we reached Seville where legend has it that the city was created by Hercules. This is also home to Christopher Columbus´tomb. The monument is quite grand immediately inside the cathedral doors. The Santa Cruz neighbourhood with its windy streets was home to our hostel.

Seville is also home to some of the most famous bullfighters. We went to see the museum and then a bullfight one evening. The show was quite varied. It is a cruel sport and for some reason the fact that six bulls die during one evening escapes your mind when you buy a ticket. I think the woman sitting in front of me had no idea what she was getting herself into. She started crying and made her husband leave. There's quite a bit of ceremony that accompanies this event. People wait outside for the matadors to enter and then take their seats in the arena. There was lots of blood and not all of it spouting from the animals. It used to be that the horses involved in the event would get disembowled by the bull. In 1930 they started putting protective armour on the horses making it less gory.

Each matador fights two bulls. The fight begins with the matador on his knees in front of the bull gate. He shakes his muelta and the bull charges him. He then gets up and turns following the bull into the centre of the oval ring. One of the torreros (matador) danced with his bull and killed it without much bloodshed. For his skill he received an ear and the crowd got out their white hankerchiefs for their standing ovation. Hats were thrown into the arena which he picked up one by one and threw back into the stands amongst cries of "Ole". Excellent bullfighters receive either one ear, two ears or two ears and a tail (the top price). Their poses resemble those of ballerinas at times. Their shoulders are usually thrown back and their torsos stick out in a sharp curve. The look on their faces is of absolute intensity.

Among the objectives of the fight is to get very, very close to the bull. Having their blood wipe off on the torrero's clothing shows the crowd how close they get. However, the bull can't be danced around the muelta (the cloth held by the matador) too long because they soon figure out that their actual target is the guy holding it and not the cloth itself. The guy following the standing ovation wasn't so lucky. He got shanked and not just once but twice. He bounced off the horns the second time and the bull managed to turn him and tear through his arm. He was pissed and pushed his teammates off him. He finished his fight bleeding.

I like to dancing

2008-04-30T12:12:00.009-05:00

The week in La Alberca on the exchange program went by quite quickly and, strangely, also felt like an eternity. We spoke in English, ate ham, drank wine, danced, played, went on excursions and napped. The group of Anglos consisted mainly of retired people but they weren´t all without their particular brand of charm. There was the alcoholic newscaster from the Maritimes, an old lady with a tatoo who turned out to be a little dim upstairs, the woman who lived in Bahrain for 25 years and never learned Arabic, the man with a prostetic arm, the lady traveling with her mother who was not only a monologuer but also a chain smoker who, every once in a while, would start a hacking, phlegmy cough without covering her mouth. I really thought I was going to get a slimy substance propelled at me from her side of the table a few times. Sadly, there was also a woman dying of cancer. This I didn´t learn until after the program ended from Maria Jose, one of the Spaniards. On the non-retired end of things we met Michelle, a wacky Australian, who in a past life had worked on some ´dicey´movies and also done a few episodes of Neighbours, Liam who was as proud a Scotsman as any and Doug.

Everyday someone would come up to me and speak rather slowly. It always took me a moment to catch on that they thought I was Spanish. At the end of the program an exceptionally old woman came up to me and told me she didn´t get a chance to speak to me. I told her I wasn´t Spanish and she just kept speaking slowly to me, so I repeated myself and then she just stopped talking mid-sentence when she realized what I had just said. Cathy was on the market for a Spanish stud and said ¨I haven´t done him yet¨ pointing at a rather young man and then to me ¨and you, of course.¨

The schedule for the week was busy. Days started at 8:15 with a wake up call and then 9 with breakfast. Attendance at mealtimes was mandatory. We went straight into one-on-one conversations at 10 through 1pm and then had a group meeting until 2pm. Lunch started at 2 and we were given free time until 5pm. More activities followed in the afternoon until dinner at 9pm. After the first day most Spaniards were wiped out. They had to speak in English the entire day without stopping.

The program coorinators Jez, Erika and Sabela had it pretty hard. Their days ended after we went to bed and began before ours. Peter, the Dutch bartender, was happy to have a week off partying. Apparently the other groups for this program are party animals. Usually the median age of the English speakers isn´t 70 as it was this time around.

My first one-on-one was with one of three Rafael´s. I don´t remember if it was Rafa H or Rafa B or Rafa S. Rachel nicknamed him Movie-star Raf. We chatted for a bit about his bike trip in the States and he proudly showed a picture of his kids and his bike. The hour went by quite quickly and then it was on to Carlos, a rather unusual Spanish engineer. He seemed a bit grumpy and sarcastic. He hinted that his wife was a mama´s girl. He told me he hated Madrid, a city he had lived in for the last ten years. Upon arrival at the venue he had threatened to leave immediately when he saw the group of elderly Anglos I was told. Over the course of the week it became quite evident that the man was completely unhappy in his marriage. Any jab he could take at his wife he would. We´d say something like ¨Do you think Spanish women are beautiful?¨ He´d answer ¨All Spanish women are beautiful except for my wife.¨ One evening at the bar he just blurted out ¨All Spanish men have 2 women. They have a wife and they have a girlfriend. I do.¨Rafa, the man that made me touch his golfclubs in the parking lot, disagreed. Most of the other Spanish men I asked also didn´t agree with Carlos....

Isabel was a rather, uhm, butch lady. Her hobby was collecting American army vehicles. She fixed them up with her son, the only good thing to come of her marriage. She hates her son´s girlfriend of five years intensely. She hasn´t seen her ex-husband in 10 years but is still married to him. She said she refuses to get divorced because she wants to make sure that she never gets married again. After all, you can´t marry if you are already married. She also hates Muslims. All of them. In one of the exercises we had to choose people to come on our ark. Among the list was a man named Abdul Bedouin, a medical doctor. She just flat out refused to get on an ark with a Muslim man even if he was the only medical doctor on the list. That was charming. She was funny though in her own flannel shirt, straightforward no bullshit way.

I soon figured out that most Spaniards don´t look kindly upon Muslims (or Moroccans) and Gypsies. It seems to be sort of universal for the Spanish people of this program to dislike these two groups. I thought Isabel was strange but I guess she was just less PC about the whole thing.

On the second day of the program word got out that Chris was nearly impossible to understand. We had a few accents in the group. Even the accents that I thought were understandable, like the Boston accent, threw some of the Spaniards for a loop. Chris asked Javier about some photos and after repeating himself three times Javier just turned to me and asked me to translate. Javier had a few stories from his university days. He was a political prisoner who fought against the Franco regime. His wife was a diplomat who had also been jailed several times in her early twenties.

The cutest of them all was Andrea, 22 years old, tall, beautiful and completely lost in the English language. Andrea has a job interview in June. In English. She couldn´t even keep a story about Harold´s Chicken straight. Doug explained to her that there was 2 inches of bullet proof glass between you and the person behind the counter from whom you ordered your chicken. Andrea looked at Maria Jose completely confused. He explained again. Then I tried. Maria Jose was in tears laughing. In the end we let Andrea believe that in the States you go to Harold´s, choose a chicken and the lady behind the counter then shoots it with a semi-automatic before deep frying it for you. I wish her luck on the interview.

We danced...

2008-04-17T16:51:00.008-05:00

...then I fell and I think I broke something in my posterior. The dance cave of choice was Jamboree in Placa Reial on a Monday night. It definitely wasn´t hopping but that clearly didn´t stop me from attempting something that required more balancing than I was able to do.

The Spanish hipsters have not yet moved on to a new hairdo from the mullet. They have tried to combine it with a mohawk and a Bart Simpson style spiked haircut right on the crown of their skulls. No dreadlock combination sighting yet. It is mucho horrifico to encounter these hipsters. They do have more style than the Parisians though. Surprisingly so. Although in Paris some of the young dudes looked like Bob Dylan in the 70s stylewise.

It is also quite a surprise to see so much smoking here and not in Paris (where as of January you can no longer light up indoors). Smoking does make the population here look more macho and diva like (depending on who´s sucking on the stick).

Barcelona was cool. Where else do you see a church that has been under construction for the last few decades while a mother yells at her 8 year old daughter that she is an absolute bitch and wants to kill her because she spilled the McDonald´s fries she just bought her for lunch and then storms off to leave her daughter and husband? I tell you where: across the street from Sagrada Familia on the McDonald´s patio. Also, I don´t know that Gaudi would much approve of the cash grab the Spaniards enforce at the church and the apartment buildings he built. The man got hit by a tram and taken to a poor man´s hospital because he was dressed in rags in 1926. Once the recognized who he was they offered to take him to a much better hospital. He refused and died at the hospital 3 days later at 74. They then buried his body at the Sagrada Familia.

We arrived in Madrid to be whisked away to an English exchange tomorrow. Most of the other Anglos on the program are retired people. One of them speaks "American" and not English. He said it twice just for emphasis. Another told him he was sorry for him. I thought I was going to see a seniors fist fight for sure but no such luck today. We were then informed that we are not to speak about the Spanish civil war with more than one Spaniard in the room as it can create a HUGE problem. We are also not to talk American politics with more than one Spaniard in the room for the same reason.

And that segways nicely into a joke Chris told me earlier today: A man goes into the washroom. He´s an American when he goes in and an American when he comes out. What is he while he´s in the bathroom? ... European.

Get it? Ur-o-pee-an.

Aside from hanging out with some seniors for lunch we went to see the Plaza Mayor where we watched some great flamenco performers. First it was musicians only and then two girls in sweats joined them to demonstrate how one would dance to such passionate singing. They soon had a very appreciative contingent of middle aged Asian males park themselves at one of the patio tables across from the musicians. I really thought that the one girl could have attempted to at least wear a clean sweat suit if she was going to show off her moves and the other one I thought was going to loose her pants right then and there which I´m sure would have distracted the guitar player a little. Again no such luck. At least the Guernica painting by Picasso at the Reina Sofia National Museum was great and lived up to my expectations. Earlier though we saw an Egyptian temple that was much smaller than I anticipated. Templo de Debod was given to Spain by Egypt for its role in saving another temple in Nubia in the 60s. The Egyptians were so grateful for their help they took this smaller temple apart, boxed it and sent it without instructions on how to put the thing back together. It took the Spanish 2 years.

I´m trying to keep warm by breathing hard. Time to go back to sleep. Pictures here.

One day...

2008-04-17T16:48:00.001-05:00

we walked so much Chris got tired and hopped on a bike right on London Bridge.

Barcelona continued

2008-04-14T17:14:00.003-05:00

There´s something awefully charming about a place with no smoking signs on all the doors and yet, the first thing you see when you enter is a 70 year old man smoking a smelly cigarette behind the reception desk. Hostel Avinyo is in the gothic quarter of Barcelona. I never thought my broken French would get me so far in Spain but it has been a lifesaver especially after Chris´ little escapade to find accommodations the first night.

Barcelona is like an unassuming high class hooker with a heart of gold. She´ll charge you through the nose for everything Gaudi but then come back at you with a lot of little surprises you didn´t expect to find in the back streets. The city boasts Europe´s largest intact mideaval centre. Add the hundreds of little backstreets further north of Stag haven Rambla and you have yourself a party like no other. I must say that the Gaudi buildings have been a bit of a downer. The apartment building costs 16 euros to enter and the church, Familia Segada, is filled with scaffolding and charges you 8 euros still. The Park Guell was great had it not been for the hundreds of teenage school kids. Everyone was ruining my perfect shot of Gaudi architecture!

I also taught Chris the three words that I need to hear from time to time while we are in a relationship. Although simple they help to strenghten the understanding between us. These words were especially necessary after our fist night here: ¨You are right.¨ It also works in the past tense. He laughed long and hard and didn´t think I was serious at first.

After many hours of walking we found ourselves a perfect park bench yesterday. It turned out to be one of our best meals: a baguette, salami and beer. Who knew you could have so much fun with your back to the Mediterranean, watching the sidewalk of people and the patrons at the grocery store.

The city has grown on us each day we´ve been here. I think Chris likes it more than Paris.

Tonight we go dancing.

Pictures to follow.

Barcelona

2008-04-12T15:06:00.003-05:00

Here I am at the Hostel Avinyo. I have a lovely little room with a single bed and a wash basin all to myself. Chris booked it a week ago over the internet for the two of us. He´ll be sleeping in a dormroom at another establishment for the night. Yup, we´re booked into two different hostels.

After the drive through dacqueries and the drive through cigarettes and the drive through banking we found ourselves in London where it was damp and grey for the most part. One day we woke up and it snowed. I thought I had escaped the winter but apparently it found me across the water.

It was nice to hang out with Hilda who was sick for a few days when we were there and then to have that one day with Lulu.

Paris was belle in a ghetto way. It´s a lot like NYC that way. Covered in grafitti and litter. The subways were cramped and old but there is a charm to that. People were friendly and the sights were well, Parisienne. We stayed in Montmatre with Sarah´s friend Mariane for the entire time. She was kind enough to leave us her tiny but beautifully cozy apartment.

The first night in Barcelona was well, loud. People here really don´t go to sleep until the wee hours of the morning and the walls at the hostel are paper thin. It´s clean and it´s comfortable though.

The King is Dead

2008-04-03T17:50:00.007-05:00

Memphis is a 7 hour drive north of New Orleans. The city itself isn't much to look at. It seems like a boring place to be but surprisingly enough, lots has happened here.

One day spent here and we managed to see Graceland, the Lorraine Motel where Dr Martin Luther King was shot and the Sun Studios.

Graceland was sort of a Disneyland for grown ups. The ride to the mansion is along a road of fast food joints and all sorts of motels named Elvis this or Heartbreak that. 27 bucks gets you on a tour bus across the street to the mansion with an audio guide dangling from your neck. It's hard not to feel like herded cattle for most of it as the entire thing is filled with tourist in one long queue walking through the various rooms. Elvis had some bad taste. I did like the 15 foot white couch in his living room but the rooshed fabric walls in the poolroom and the shag carpet on the ceiling of the jungle room where a bit much.

There was also that creepy monkey in the TV room with the mirrored ceiling. The house wasn't as big as I expected and I was absolutely shocked that they kept the upstairs closed off. In his lifetime the King never let anyone upstairs as those were his private quarters and for some reason Lisa Marie and the corporation that run Graceland kept it that way.

His shooting range and many platinum albums were impressive. Especially when you consider that he never toured outside North America in his life.

I knew this somewhere in the back of my mind but the King had a twin brother that died at birth. He also didn't name Graceland. It was named after the middle name of the first owner's wife (some wealthy couple).

We hopped in a car and headed for Sun Studios, by far my favorite of the sights. It is basically one small room with a drum set, 2 pianos and a bunch of guitars. The tour was great. Worth every penny of that 10 bucks. It's amazing to consider that so much great music came out of that tiny little room on Union Avenue. Plus, who woulda thunk that Elvis, Johnny Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis and Carl Perkins all hung out together jamming....

Sam Philips, the man behind Sun Studios, made most of his fortune investing in a little hotel chain called the Holiday Inn after selling Sun Studios.

The Lorraine Motel in Memphis stands as a reminder of the assassination of Dr Martin Luther King and the Civil Rights movement of the sixties.

The museum was interesting but the film they showed was...well, bad. Everyone was confused as to why Clinton appeared in it. The displays were really wordy and, although informative, eventually became tedious to read. There was a bus you could get on to read about Rosa Parks and the museum continued across the street from the building where the sniper shot Dr King. The man-hunt and accounts of the shooting from across the street were almost better laid out than the many displays in the motel section of the museum.

The tour guide at Sun Studios recommended a place called the Barbecue Shop on Madison Ave and Cooper. It was by far the best barbecue ever. The meat melted in your mouth and the place was filled with nothing but locals (it wasn't downtown but rather near a record shop we visited called Shangrila).

Beale street where you can get a five dollar spray on Elvis tattoo was next. The street, like Bourbon in New Orleans, was pedestrian traffic only with loud bars. We managed to find a place with a great blues band and an extensive harmonica collection. They played some great music in an old school bar atmosphere but by the third time the Dr Feelgood Potts played the "tip song" we had to leave. The night was just revving up for the guy in front of us. His wife took off on him and partied in the bar next to us and brought back an entourage. She also commanded him to pay 20 dollars for a CD by the band. My prediction is that this 60-something year old couple is definitely on the outs. At this point they're sticking around for the insurance money.

We left Memphis early the next day. 9am we drove through some heavy rains and by 5 we were looking for an Indian restaurant in Louisville. We got back to Toronto at 7am the following day.

New Orleans

2008-04-03T16:04:00.009-05:00

The drive down to Missouri took forever. For the most part it went well. We had to drive around a section of the highway that was flooded by the Mississippi. The littel towns we headed through were quite beautiful. The weather went from Toronto winter to spring, to rain, to snow and finally, sun.

The day in Springfield was pretty much spent eating. We hit Lambert's, America's number one spot to pig out. They throw the bread rolls at you in this establishment. Those rolls were like butter. They slid down my throat and before I knew it I had eaten four. Later, Chris' sister let me know that each roll was 300 calories which explained why I felt sort of full by the time the main course arrived. The evening was spent at a habachi grill where our private food artist Louis was a little stiff with his food tricks. Aisha was afraid he was going to accidentally throw a knife at her during is chopping extravaganza at the grill at our table.

10 hours later the next day we arrived in Lafayette. Home to the football sensation known as Nasser. He took us to Prejeans (pronounced properly with a southern twank as Pray-johns). All the crawfish was deep fried, the hot sauce flowed and there were lots of square dancing elderly couples. We left with a bottle of hot sauce snuggly tugged away in Aisha's purse.

Nasser had the time of his life at the Walmart later that night. He nearly had a breakdown in the frozen food isle when he confessed that Aisha and I were "stressing" him out with the multitude of choices we were providing in terms of pillow options and tuna varieties.

Avery farm is home to Tobasco island. Not much happened there other than the discovery that Hasina really loved chipotle sauce (or chipo-totly as she likes to call it). The drive to New Orleans was beautiful. Much of the drive is on a bridge above the largest swamp basin in the world. I watched a vulture fly out of the trees and feast on some road kill along the way.

The French quarter seemed pretty much untouched by Hurricane Katrina. The quarter was back to its middle aged tourist splendor. I've never seen so many 40 year old couples in one place in my life. Decatur street was a favorite with us. We headed to Angeli for dinner the first night. The bars and restaurant at the edge of the quarter on these streets were among the most interesting.

We got used to Nasser being catcalled by men passing us quite quickly. "Hey big guy" "You been working out?" and "Raging Cajuns, wooh!" was the usual. He seemed used to it.

That first night we bored Nasser to tears with our choice of Fritzle's with its jazz music. Jazz was born in this city. The name comes from the perfumed jasmine oil the women used to wear around the musicians in New Orleans.

Bourbon, where we spent the majority of the next night, was...well, just like you expect it to be. Closed off to traffic with loud bars from beginning to end. Nasser didn't get Id'd at a single place and somehow we all had to pull out our driver's licenses once he entered the establishment in question ahead of us. A slap on the back by a 300 pound guy gets you in anywhere. A few hand grenades and beers on the street got Aisha & Hasina the courage to ask for beads. After the first string graced their necks they were hooked. The hookers on the balcony of the Barely Legal club kept showering Bourbon street patrons with beads. Half the crowd was standing with its camera pointing at the crowd of bead fans while the other half was photographing the jiggle fest on the balcony. The night ended with pizza at 13 on Frenchman street off Decatur.

The voodoo temple on the edge of the quarter drew us the next day. Priestess Miriam was working in the shop while her Canadian husband surfed the net in the back. We managed to get past the paraphernalia to the temple in the back with its many altars. It was one of the most colourful rooms I've encountered in a long time. Priestess Miriam was a funny lady. She took various strange phone calls and gave Chris a mojo bag that will protect him on his travels. The priestess pointed us toward the St Louis Cemetery after handing me a prayer for the road in 2008.

The cemeteries were a little disappointing. Not because there was a lack of tombs but because I didn't realize that so many people had died so recently and been buried there. Something had given me the impression that the cemeteries were filled with corpses from the 18-9th century and not 1967. Also, I thought these places were filled with sculptures? Lafayette Cemetery was located in the Garden district. One of the more beautiful places in New Orleans with huge homes featuring beautiful gardens and extensive wrought iron fences and balconies.

By far the most relaxing day came with our trip to Audubon park. Huge. Beautiful. I want to live there. We picked up some groceries consisting of rotisserie chicken and various other treats for our picnic. The sun was warm and the trees were stunning.

The last day was spent eating. Craw fish followed by espresso at Khave off Frenchman street followed by middle eastern on Magazine in the Garden district followed by bread pudding. Hmm.

Nasser got on the bus back to Lafayette.

This is how I feel about winter

2008-03-07T12:03:00.003-05:00

There's been nothing but storms and ice and grey yuckiness to deal with over the last few months. It's getting to be a bit much. We still have a few more weeks of this ahead and a winter storm on the horizon for this weekend.

Man, I can't wait to get out of here!

News from the cubicle

2007-10-19T13:49:00.000-05:00

Shannon is going to call a place that rents kilts to men.... This is an important part of her job and she loves it. Retail clients rock!

Scott will never do opium. It's dangerous. I had a moment when I mistakenly assumed hash was made from poppies.

Meanwhile, I am going to look for landroutes around Africa. It looks like going from Morrocco to Syria via Namibia and overland up the eastcoast of Africa is not going to happen with my limited budget. It's time for a rethink.

Around the same that I will be rethinking my Africa route (on the road), Dena will be going to Iran...or maybe France where she can't be waitressing because they don't tip their waitresses in Europe. Maybe I may be going to Iran with Dena to offset her father's teariness and partake in over-eating caviar.

Hallo-Jacko

2007-10-18T16:13:00.000-05:00

The nose is too big on the mask. Apparently the real deal is detachable.

2007-08-27T10:18:00.000-05:00

true dat

2007-08-21T08:38:00.000-05:00

true dat

1. Used to acknowledge a statement said by another.
2. Used to agree with another.

See Also: Fo Real

Student 1: Teacher always gotta be on my case. Its gettin' racial up in this piece.
Student 2: Oh, true dat, true dat. She be rollin' like she own tha mo fo.
Student 1: Fo real, shawty

Honest Ed is Dead

2007-07-12T15:40:00.001-05:00

Sadly. It happened yesterday, July 11. He was 92 years old.

The man opened one of my favorite stores in the world. I wrote about it in April.

RIP Ed.

Milkmen

2007-07-12T15:16:00.000-05:00

Fathers Who Breastfeed

Here's an excerpt of an article I thought was interesting to read. Mother Nature sure does have a few surprises up her sleeve....

I first became interested in male lactation in 1978 after reading Dana Raphael's book, The Tender Gift: Breastfeeding. Although Raphael only dealt with the subject briefly, she did say that men can and have produced milk after stimulating their nipples.

While my husband David had no interest in nursing our son, we both were intrigued with the idea. We had just had our first unassisted homebirth and were excited about applying our positive thinking techniques to other aspects of our lives. Although Raphael had written about milk production through nipple stimulation, perhaps, we thought, David could do it simply through suggestion. He began telling himself that he would lactate, and within a week, one of his breasts swelled up and milk began dripping out. When we excitedly showed my father (a physician) David's breast he said, "Obviously there's something physiologically wrong with David." The fact that David had willed himself to do this, did not impress him. We knew, however, that this was yet another example of the power of the mind.

If you would like to read this in all it's glory click here.

Reading that made me think of one of my favorite Family Guy scenes.

New/Old Hair

2007-06-15T09:56:00.000-05:00

I'm thinking about getting some bangs just like in the good ol' days.

Brian's opinion on my new hairdo

Not sure if this look works for you:

Googoosh

2007-06-01T10:49:00.000-05:00

AKA Iran's Madonna. She sings one of my favorite songs ever!

Googoosh survived the Cultural Revolution in 1979 and remained in Iran well into the nineties. She started her life as a child performer and actress and branched out into singing back in the 1960s.

My fondest childhood TV memory of Googoosh is her performing in a pink negligee and frilly pumps on national Iranian television! Unfortunately that video isn't on youtube.

She's so purdy.

Thriller!

2007-06-01T10:25:00.000-05:00

This scares me....

Guys are Crackers

2007-05-28T09:21:00.000-05:00

While I was in New York on the May 24 weekend a bunch of guys somewhere in Ontario decided to take a bromantic trip to a cottage and spend their time drinking beer, hanging out and sticking firecrackers were the sun don't shine. It gets better. They documented it with photos and video. Thankfully the video is shot in the dark but there are moments of illumination....

The man in the video above did it on purpose. The guy in this little film didn't. You decide what's funnier.

Wakey Wakey

2007-05-26T22:23:00.000-05:00

This is what it's like waking Aisha up early in the morning....

Rock Paper Scissor World Championships

2007-05-25T13:02:00.000-05:00

OMG! I was so bored a minute ago but then I found out that the Rock Paper Scissor World Championships will be held in Toronto this coming October. Best of all, the championships will take place at a brewery.

RPS is "a decision making game of wits, speed, dexterity and strategy between players who are unable to reach a decision using other means."

Who wants to go? It's October 13, 2007.

Their site states:

As always, the World RPS Championships will be an open event so if you think you have what it takes to compete at the highest level that the sport has to offer, you can leave the event just like England's Bob Cooper (pictured below) did last year : as World Champion of RPS.

My kind of math

2007-05-25T09:02:00.001-05:00

I may have many talents but math ain't one of them. This is how I would approach the following math question:

Our first night together

2007-05-24T15:50:00.000-05:00

Thank you Brian!

Just another day in India

2007-05-15T14:35:00.000-05:00

Ahh, I miss it.

What is this?

2007-05-04T14:51:00.000-05:00

So, I got bored of looking at apartment ads and found this gem on Craigslist:

Friday gig perfect for a female college student

You are available today for a 1/2 hour massage.
And you get paid!

And then there's this:

Great job for a confident female - body paint!

You have always wanted to try it.
Here's your chance! Have you entire body painted tonight!

Wait, there's more...

2007-05-02T13:23:00.000-05:00

I'm not quite desperate but this was amusing. Threesome anyone?

RENT EXPENSIVE? Rent-free for Bi-Girl !!!!

RENT IS A BURDEN!!!I HAVE A one bedroom furnished apt to share in central Toronto FOR BI-GIRL. For info e-mail me with your pic.

He's really trying. Here's another ad posted today:

If You Are A Bi-FEMALE! Stay in Toronto RENT-FREE With Me!!

I am OFFERING FREE RENT if You are a bi-female who is cute, petite and honest!, I live in a 1 bdrm. furnished apt. in Toronto. If you understand and speak English; if you are in your 20’s-30’s then I will share my Furnished 1 bdrm. Apt. with you for free. If you have a snapshot, please E-mail it along with a contact number!

This guy is creepy and a Rice King:

free room available to asian girl

(18-30 years of age) who is also willing to get into a fun relationship with me
i'm 32, 5'10, european, retired, good looking
mike

Looking for a home...but not that sort of home

2007-05-01T15:20:00.000-05:00

So, I'm in the process of looking for a place to live and it's been a rather fun filled experience thus far...not really. There are some rather freaky ads out on Craigslist today.

Here is someone looking for a hooker-type roommate:

$1 Free housing for cute woman

Hi,
I have a 2 bedroom apartment. One room is my bedroom, the other is my music room.
I'm willing to share my bedroom and my bed with a nice woman, for free.
I'm 29, 5'6, single, good looking. If you're a nice woman you can house for free in Toronto.
Just let me know if you're interested.

Here's someone trying to get back at their landlord:

$350 BEDBUG INFESTATION & Men Urinating on the Floor!

Bright blue building on the right as you head West towards Landsdown on College:Address 1232 College Ave. Major bedbug infestation. No amount of spraying have resolved this problem in 3 months. Blood stains on the walls should have been a clue! They were actually crawling up the walls. Want a permanent itch, rent from me!

This guy wants a maid:

$550 Mature Eastern European gentleman will share comfortable, furnished ho

Mature Eastern European gentleman will share comfortable, furnished home with a neat, tidy lady in the area of Yonge & Steeles. Three minutes to TTC and shopping. $550/month includes cable, internet, laundry, and parking.

Count your blessings

2007-04-24T09:22:00.000-05:00

I guess everyone already knows that I dream frequently and with great intensity about leaving my cubicle. Every once in a while though I count my blessings. This morning I read an email from my brother and started to count my blessings:

It's sunny
It's warm
I'm going to Montreal on the weekend
I won't be stuck in a car with my parents going to Montreal on the weekend

Here is what my brother wrote me about his trip:

So we made it to Vegas.....and in typical Jamal style. Thanks to dad's driving my life flashed before my eyes no less than 5 times. Once we made it to the airport we missed our flight to Sacramento, so we had to wait in standby for the next flight over. After two mind numbing days at our cousin's house, we've made it to Vegas and are staying at the cheesiest, tackiest hotel I've ever seen (look up the frontier and you'll know what i mean)...Although it's not too bad I've been in worse. It's so trashy. The moment I walk in I see some 50 year old woman bitching about some employee cutting her off from her gambling. She was waisted. The place is crawling with grannies addicted to their slot machines. Wish you guys were here.

It's like riding a bike... only more painful

2007-04-23T16:12:00.001-05:00

I really did myself in this time. It all goes back to Saturday afternoon when I went to pick up a Salvadoran, Colombian and Mexican sausage for the dinner barbecue I had invited myself to that evening. I was walking out the doors of Segovia in the market when the owner called out after me "Behave yourself." I replied with "I will" and he then smiled and responded with "but not too much". At this point in the day, and weekend, I was convinced that I was a) going to have a nice dinner, b)was going to enjoy a good clear Sunday and c)needed to carry my sunglasses on me from this day forward to keep me from squinting into the blue sky.

The meat was awesome. I didn't drink for, oh, the first two hours of the evening. It all took a turn at the dinner table with a bottle of wine...well, maybe it was shotgunning the beer with Ryan before dessert when it all went to shits...or the shot of Aquavit after dessert...or the other bottle of wine before I decided to take up smoking.... Regardless, by the time we got to the Newfie Corner I was in the bag. There were two tables at the bar: ours and a set of older people. Coming out of the washroom I walked over to the older people and then had to SEARCH for my table. Oh yeah. KLASSEEE. Needless to say, I cabbed it home and awoke bright and early the next day wishing I hadn't made plans to go rock climbing.

Granted I've nursed hangovers before but for some reason, this one was particularly bad. I remembered faintly from my backpacking days someone telling me to take Vitamin B to get rid of hangovers. I remember trusting this person because he was clearly a drunk and would have to have figured this out after years of experimentation with various "vitamins". Sadly, due to the sledgehammer effect in my brain I couldn't remember what I was looking for when I got out of bed and started to rummage through my bag. On the upside, I did find my house keys which I thought I had left in the door on the way in the night before.

Just as I was about to pop an Advil a glimpse of a conversation with another friend about the dangers of taking Advil to cure hangovers flickered by. Apparently it's hard on your liver. I turned to cashew nuts while contemplating other cures. The nuts were not doing it.

Eggs. Someone said eggs because they are greasy. The smell of eggs makes me want to vomit when I am hung over, so that one was vetoed almost immediately. Then I spoke to my sister. Toast, she said, would help soak up the alcohol. There was no toast in the house. Plus, I figured by now my blood had 'soaked' up the alcohol and carried it to my brain which was being pounded like a piece of schnitzel.

Bananas are high in potassium (which helps regulate water in the body) and the natural mood enhancer Tryptophan. Bananas also build up depleted blood sugar levels AND I had a banana! I ate the banana. Then I felt sicker because it was too sweet. More salty nuts fixed that problem.

Here's a hangover cure that I had not yet tried: apples. They're high in fibre and all those good vitamins that help you deal with alcohol digestion...? By the time I had the apple it was time to go climbing.

Let's just say that I forgot to straighten myself out a few times when I was lowered off the wall and hence, was lowered to the ground onto my back. Also, I felt I had something to proof. No clue what. Much to my delight I managed not to puke on anyone from above. However, I did manage to give my partner a good solid case of rope-burn. Then it hit me like a truck whilst walking up the street: an incredibly huge poster of Il Divo...

...immediately followed by a Burger King restaurant. This is a tried-tested-and-true hangover cure: whoppers. Two Jr Whoppers, large onion rings and large fries did the job.

Today it is Monday and the head's still pounding a little...at certain intervals it pounds a lot. I think it's trying to tell me something in Morse Code. I'm never drinking again. I may have Burger King for dinner tonight again to clear up this hangover once and for all!

Nursing a hangover. Ahh. Who woulda thunk that I would blog about it one day?

....Oh man, it just started to pour and I didn't bring an umbrella...or a jacket for that matter.

Let's Talk Fitness

2007-04-13T13:03:00.000-05:00

Most of us live in our cubicles. I know, I know, this blog is called Life Outside the Cubicle but let's face it; when we're not sporting flip flops and a backpack looking for a cheap hostel room in Beijing or Manila or Istanbul, we are sitting in a chair at a desk within the confines of our cube. Now, it is difficult to maintain a positive outlook on life when this is the case. It is also difficult to maintain a six to eight pack when sitting is our life. So, I would like to present some easy to follow ab exercises that can become part of your daily work routine. You need nothing more than a floor, a chair, some toight pants, and perhaps a cubicle partner. My cubicle partner is called Anna and I know she would love nothing more than to hold a towel over my head (read on to understand this one).

Ready? Let's get started!

Sprawl out on the floor face down and do some easy back and ab warm ups. ....Hold up. Perhaps we should discuss wardrobe before we get on the floor.
For all you fellas out there I suggest some tight cycling shorts, no shirt and a cap to keep those locks from getting snagged. Now, be careful when selecting your bottoms. You don't want this to happen...

The male camel toe is not a good look. It will give you the wrong kind of attention from all your lady friends. Tuck in your shirt if you must but please be aware of any wrinkles as they may interrupt the linear contours forming the flow of your package.

If you work the sort of office job that requires you to wear a suit worry no more. As long as your suit is comfortably baggy and the pants are pleated you too will be able to acquire the ever elusive six to eight pack.

Now that we have that out of the way let's start with some easy to follow chair exercises.
Phew, I don't know about you but I am all warmed up and ready to go!

Lower abdomens first.

Okay. A few more leg raises. Don't worry, practically no one will notice you doing these exercises at your desk. Most cubicle walls are at least 4 foot 8 inches (give or take) and will comfortably hide your lower ab work.
Let's not forget the obliques. Your obliques aid in the twisting of your trunk and strengthening them will help you in any activities where you rotate your trunk. Some such office related activities include leaning down sideways in your chair to pick up food products you may have dropped because you were staving off boredom by stuffing your face at 10am.
Back to the rectus abdominis, a muscle responsible for tilting the pelvis. Now, at this point people may notice the top of your shoes sticking out from within your cubicle walls. Lower your chair as low as it will go to continue exercising inconspicuously.
Those obliques won't strengthen themselves people. Here is another variation of the exercise that engages your transverse abdominis as well as your internal obliques.
You can add the scissor leg variation to the above exercise to keep it fresh.

And now for the chair finish (remember to lower your seat) raise your arms and stretch out your legs like so...

and bring them together like so...

As you can see, a six to eight pack is within easy reach of your chair.

Now go get'em tiger!

Floor Exercises
We touched upon floor exercises briefly above. Here is a simple crunch for all you ladies out there. Once again ain't nothing to it. Simply put down a flattened cardboard box, take off your shoes (for comfort), loosen any tight or restrictive clothing and start crunching! Fellas if you would like to avoid the awkward package-hanging-crunch just form frog legs by placing the bottom of your feet together with your knees facing outward.

If you have a cubicle partner, as many of us do, mine once again is named Anna, you can enlist his/her help. All you need is a chair and a towel. Simply get on your knees (don't get excited now), place a towel on your head and have your cubicle partner stand behind you on a chair holding one end of the towel up like so...

Now pull forward! Forward! Forward!

Note that this exercise might involve some worker's compensation if your partner is standing on a chair with wheels. Also, people may wonder why your partner is standing on a chair as she will clear the 4 foot 8 inch walls of the cubicle with her upper body. I suggest that you do this exercise near some shelving to hide from prying eyes.

With a healthy diet and these easy to follow ab exercises a 6 to 8 pack should be yours within a few weeks. Don''t use your cubicle as an excuse for floppy abdominal muscles.

Turn that one pack, beer filled gut into a six pack, beer filled gut!
Go! Go! Go! Go! Go!

He didn't say how much cash...

2007-04-05T15:57:00.000-05:00

Torry wrote:
"Run across the street naked for your blog? Pah-lease... I get naked for cash on the table."

I write:
"I'll wire you $10. Now, get naked, take a picture and send it to me for the blog!"

I need all of you to help me get this guy naked on the street by posting a comment. Not all at once.