Chronicles of a Professional Vagabond

Tico Tales Part 5: Armonía con la Tierra

Lance — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 02:52:39 +0000

This is a place to truly feel relaxed and unrushed, at peace and a part of nature. I already miss the barefoot jungle hikes, dozens of biting, stinging insects, homemade pizza, stimulating conversations, fresh food, shoveling shit and leaves into compost, chopping trees with machetes, and the wonderful family I made in six days.

Mastatal is a small farming community of less than 100 people. Two hours into the mountains from Puriscal it is missed on most maps, and many Ticos have never heard of it. Costa Rica’s political stability, high biodiversity, and pleasant climate attracts plenty of foreign investment, retirees, expatriates, and tourists from industrialized countries. The result is an economy with many prices comparable to those in the United States. It didn’t take long for me to realize that I was going to need to offset some of the expenses of my trip. After a quick craigslist search in the volunteer section of Costa Rica, I emailed Javier at Villas Mastatal.
Getting There -
On Monday afternoon I was on the direct bus from San Jose to Puriscal. When I got there I had a little over a hour to find the bus to Mastatal; it was suppose to be in front of the soda Doña Toña. After not much wandering an American couple that had retired to Puriscal over a decade ago pulled up in a pickup. They could tell I was lost and even had bets that I was going to Mastatal. They drove me to where they knew a bus for Mastatal stopped, but the lady at the nearby cafe said it had already passed at 1:15. The couple immediately offered to put me up for the night and drive me back to the bus stop in the morning. When I mentioned Doña Toña they drove there to see if another bus ran that they weren’t aware of. Another Gringo stood in front of the soda with a couple dozen farmers and school kids waiting for the dusty bus. Geoff was from London and also on his way to Villas Mastatal. We loaded to the back of the bus with the locals and supplies for the farms: bags of essentials from the market, stacks of sacks of livestock feed, and at least one box of baby chicks. I was stuck standing in the aisle with half of the passengers when the bus began its creep up the hill but soon took a seat on top of a sack of cattle feed. The bus meandered further into the hills on a narrow gravel and muddy road. We stopped frequently to let off locals and unload feed deliveries to farmers waiting on the side of the road. Geoff and I somehow volunteered for this task, searching under seats for the sacks with correct names written across them.
We got off in Mastatal.

one-horse town

There was a bar, a soda, and a payphone next to the bus stop. Geoff and I strapped on our backpacks and hiked the uphill road. After about fifteen minutes of sweating and walking we almost turned around, entertaining the idea that we were going the wrong way. But a truck came along, and the driver ensured us that Villas Mastatal was just ahead. We later learned that after the bus continued down the road past town, it turned around and went up this road right past Villas Mastatal.
Bienvenido –
We arrived at the farm to learn that Javier and Raquel had left for San Jose as Raquel was soon due with their first child. Three other volunteers were there: Karen from the States, Teddy and Claudine both from France. The main house was a simple construction on a concrete slab. Inside were Javier and Raquel’s three-room living quarters. Outside was the kitchen, communal and dining area comprised of two long picnic tables, two hammocks, a ping-pong table, wooden bench, and sparsely filled bookshelves. The entire structure was covered with the typical tin roof which extended past the kitchen over the garbage area, a washing machine, a second wash basin, and brick oven. From this area a path led past an outdoor shower, the composting toilet,

view from the shitter

and a private cabina for couples. The path led up the hill behind the house to our dorm building. There were ten bunkbeds with mosquito nets in the open air building with more on the second floor. A second dorm building with shower and composting toilet was down the hill from the main house.
The others were making dinner when we got there, and Geoff and I settled in for a well desired meal. Teddy had previously owned a hotel-restaurant in France and was good to have in the kitchen. Food cannot get any fresher than straight from the vine, or the dirt, or the cow, or the chicken… every meal at Villas Mastatal became a favorite.
Breakfast the next morning consisted of Geoff’s soon-to-be-famous pancakes, papaya, oatmeal, and bananas mashed with sugarcane syrup. Javier had left a to-do list, but we did not rush to get to work, as is tradition with pura vida.
The first work of the day was to shovel dirt into a pond project that did not take – a task that was not even finished when I left.Next we constructed steps down a slippery slope. The morning dragged by slowly, but soon it was time for lunch, and the day’s work was done.
Pizza Fiesta –
The next day was Teddy’s birthday. Javier came home as we were preparing lunch. After lunch he took us to the waterfall behind the farm; a trip that led us up and down muddy trails through the forest. Javier grabbed a vine hanging over the cliff-side trail and explained how someone swung far out over the ravine on a rotten vine and fell the fifty feet or so through the trees below. He demonstrated by barely swinging off the ledge a few feet on the green vine, then continued to walk down the path. Geoff and I both wanted to test the swing. Geoff swung along the trail. I took the vine and pushed off for a short ride over the ravine. I heard the snap from above almost immediately. My eyes quickly searched for something stable, and I latched onto a young, skinny tree with one arm, sliding down and scraping the skin from my arm as the vine came down around me.
After a nice, relaxing swim at the small waterfall we returned to the house to prepare for Teddy’s birthday-pizza fiesta. Geoff, Javier and I rode to Mastatal to get a case of beer. While waiting at the bar Geoff and I saw some volunteers from other farms. While the locals we had met remained warm and friendly, we found it odd that many of the other Gringos we saw on the bus or around the village appeared standoffish, ignoring our greetings and smiles.
A new volunteer –

Javier preparing a pizza for the oven

Chole, an American expat living in Istanbul – arrived that night. Geoff made the pizza dough with a simple recipe that Javier had. We fired up the brick oven and prepped the sauce and toppings: garlic, onions, sausage, tomatoes, and freshly made cheese. Geoff and I both attempted sliding the pizzas in the oven, but ended up with losing all the topping (which we saved for the most part). We left the fate of dinner to Javier. We got drunk and had the best pizza that I’ve ever had anywhere in the world (sorry Italy).
Co-existence -
It is interesting to watch how the earth was meant to work: all organisms existing together to promote the continuation of life cycles. Most people raised in an urban environment would brush down a spiderweb on the side of their house as soon as they see it; here they are left alone to grow to massive sizes and trap mosquitoes and other biting insects. Everything used went back into the earth or was recycled. Javier cut bottles into drinking glasses and fashioned their tops into drainspouts. We broke up old plasterboard signs to pound into our mud steps to add traction and ease erosion. We made compost by collecting, layering and mixing together a large pile of cow manure, forest leaves, wood ash, and chicken manure. The mixture was covered to “cook” and had to be re-mixed daily.
Whistle While you Work –
While working with a machete in a rainforest, and especially while also wearing a brown, brimmed hat, we tended to hear John William’s “Raiders March”constantly playing aloud in our heads. And if not then someone would start humming it. Music was always a topic of conversation on the farm, and we regularly broke into song. The most reoccurring was Teddy’s favorite: “Stand By Me.” But the machete and accompanying Indiana Jones tune were always present. It is not uncommon to see someone walking down the street or beach wearing a machete in Costa Rica. The tool can also be seen behind bars and in kitchens – it is the easiest way to get into coconuts. We used machetes for chopping firewood, cutting down bananas, bamboo, and the majority of a tree (we used an ax for the trunk). Cutting down something that will not be reproduced goes against the objective of a sustainable farm, but it was a justifiable and necessary task: the tree had grown dangerously close over the house; Javier was planting a garden and the tree blocked all sunlight from the area; all of the tree was chopped up and utilized – the large pieces were added to the pile in the woodshed to be used for some future project, and the branches and leaves were arranged into a permaculture mound that will in one year’s time become nutrient-rich soil ready for crops.
We never worked more than five hours a day and rarely more than four. That left many hours for reading, writing, and relaxing in a hammock, but we spent most of our free time interacting in card games, ping pong, chess, dominoes, and conversation. It often rained in the afternoons, as is tradition in Costa Rica in August.
the weekend -
The dealer from the local cocoa farm came by Friday afternoon with goodies for sale: freshly made chocolates in flavors ranging from ginger to pineapple to chile, solid chocolates melted into designer forms, and still warm cookies. Karen made chocolate chip cookies with an assortment of the chocolates. Javier was leaving early the next morning to visit Raquel in San Jose, and Chole was catching a ride with him.
Weekends at Villas Mastatal are free, and we were left completely to our own. We decided to visit La Cangreja National Park on Saturday. It would be my last full day. Geoff, Claudine, and Karen were leaving over the next few days and Teddy was staying for another week or so. The main entrance to the park used to be up the road from the farm, and Mastatal prospered relatively because of it. Small hostels and farm-stays sprang up to accommodate visitors that had to pass by. They are now all but gone. The main entrance is now on the main road a few miles before the village leaving Mastatal to the locals and volunteers. We walked up the dirt road to the old entrance. Through the gate we found an empty pavilion area at the top of muddy hill. There was not a sight or sound of anyone. We went back to the entrance and took a sendero into the forest. The trail cut up and down the sides of the rainforest. There were signposts and make-shift steps but no indication that other tourists had traipsed through anytime recently. The sound of flowing water grew louder and then fainter as we moved along the trail. We hurried along anxious to find some magical swimming hole or waterfall. Soon we could see the river at the bottom of the ravine, but the trail continued to switch back and forth. Eventually we came to a steel bridge where we could reach the water. It wasn’t just one river but a system of streams that split here and joined others there. The sunlight cut through the trees overhead to choice spaces on the riverbank below. Unfortunately the riverbed was too rocky for any swimming to take place, but that did not stop us from enjoying it. I briefly explored the trails that forked from each side of the river and wandered as far as I could without getting lost. The trails did not seem to have any foreseeable end nor any other hikers. We decided to go back across the bridge and continue on the path we were initially on. It circled through the forest and came out behind the pavilion that we had first come to five hours before. We left the park without seeing a single other person and made it back to the farm just ahead of the rain.
goodbyes –
As it was my last night, we decided to try another pizza dinner. Our late start and impatience led us to neglect properly preheating the brick oven, and we had to finish the pies in the conventional toaster oven. Still, it was a nice farewell meal. My time at Villas Mastatal would come to be the high-point of my trip, but one that was over too soon. I sadly gathered my things after dinner. I would need to leave the farm by 5:15am to catch the bus to Puriscal.
My alarm went off at 4:20, but I was already awake. It was still dark. I made coffee, filled my water bottle and grabbed a couple of bananas for the bus. We were up on workdays around 7am. But it was Sunday, so there was no need to get up at all. Regardless, all four of my companions got up before the sun to see me off that morning.
The bus bounced down the bumpy road alongside the horizon as I tried to not let go of the peaceful surroundings.

Tico Tales Part 4: To the Clouds

Lance — Wed, 17 Aug 2011 23:38:27 +0000

I had finally forced myself to leave Montezuma. All of the girls left too. We traveled on a sweaty bus for about an hour to Paquera to catch the ferry to Puntarenas.

not the ferry

The hour-long ferry crept across the Gulf of Nicoya. Along the way the Irish girls rationalized coming to Monteverde instead of trying to make it to La Fortuna. When we docked in Puntarenas, the bus to Monteverde was long gone. A Tica bonita from Montezuma that was going to see her mother and sister in San Jose had just missed the 11am ferry – the one that we would have had to have been on to make the Monteverde bus. She told me that the cab driver talking to me was offering a good price for the two-hour trip into the mountains and then disappeared into a car with her aunt.
Our cab driver was also an excellent tour guide and offered bathroom and photo stops along the way. He pointed out the forty year-old Puntarenas hospital, the mountainside view across Puntarenas and the Gulf of Nicoya, roadside hot springs that could cook an egg in six minutes, and countless tourist attractions that I can’t remember.
The road to Santa Elena is nothing but rock and dirt. The air became thinner and cool, and soon we were level with the rolling clouds. I stayed at Sleeper Sleep Cheaper – a kind of homestay-hostel run by Ronny, his wife Yoselin, their small children Daniel, Jazmin, and Jeremias, and the center of attention, their new puppy Camilla.
Monteverde is the name that a group of Quaker and pacifist settlers gave to the area when they expatriated in defiance of the Korean War draft. They later set aside much of the land as a biological reserve. The nearby Tico village is called Santa Elena. Tour vans, motorcycles and joggers alike zip around the winding mountain roads. Much of the area is protected land. For the hoards of tourists there are endless zipline adventure companies, observatories for everything from butterflies to bats, every range of accommodations, and tour and shuttle vans to get to any attraction in the area. After dinner I had coffee with the girls at the high-priced Treehouse Restaurant then turned in early. The next morning, after a hearty, complimentary breakfast, I explored the Reserva Santa Elena with Dutch traveler from the hostel. Life was very abundant. The moisture of the cloud forest helped the constant growing. Things grow from anywhere and everywhere. A constant cycle of growth, death, decomposition, and birth creates intense competition for a piece of the earth.

Arenal Volcano hiding under a cloud

After hiking rainforest trails all day, I pushed myself to tackle the Cerro Amigo – a one hour trek straight up to the highest point in the area where television towers are perched at 6072 feet. It was not a trail but a dirt road that went up at a constant angle. I struggled but forced myself to march on, racing the sunset and hoping for some break in the clouds to steal some sort of view. The wind got colder as I neared the top. At the top were the television towers, an ancient tourist sign, and several building. The only noticeable vantage point – which showed nothing but clouds – was next to a large wooden cross and small bench. I continued down the trail that ran between the buildings. The sound of a spinning washing machine came from the open door of the building on the right. Rubber work boots sat in the doorway. As I walked past the windows I noticed a small girl in front of a computer and a man sitting at a table, yet there were no vehicle or other signs of life anywhere in sight. The trail turned dark and muddy as soon as it entered the woods. It forked, and I took the path on the left, certain that it lead to a vista. But it only twisted deeper and darker into the forest. Soon common sense conquered my desire to explore, and I turned around while there was still a faint amount of daylight; I made it about halfway down the hill before I losing all light.
Later that night at a local rum bar I finally found Segua – a delicious red ale produced by Costa Rica’s only microbrewery, founded by three Americans in 2010.
The bus from Santa Elena to San Jose runs only twice a day: at 6:30am and 2:30pm. At two o’clock the bus was already full, so I had to take the local bus back to Puntarenas to catch another back to the capital – about six and a half hours total.

Tico Tales Part 3: Montezuma Magic

Lance — Tue, 16 Aug 2011 20:37:51 +0000

Montezuma’s miniature beach-town charm had me trapped for four days. It may be the tiniest, tourist oriented village that I have ever been to. The two roads that make up “downtown” might add up to a city block if laid end-to-end. The shorter road dead-ends into the longer one which runs parallel to the gulf with beaches at each end. The town is comprised of two small supermarkets, two bars (one did not seem to do any business at all making me wonder how they stayed open), one ATM, a park, soccer field, a dozen restaurants, an equal number of pensions/hostels/guest houses, and a few souvenir shops and tour companies. I soon fell in love with the ambiance and atmosphere of the little beach village and quickly found my secret spot on a local rock to watch the crashing waves, fireflies, and shooting stars.
The next day I made it to the famous Montezuma waterfalls. The trail to get to the falls was as much fun as the falls themselves. After crossing the river it runs parallel with it before ascending into the forest. At this point there is a not-so-obvious route to the base of the first waterfall on the rocks along the riverbank . Otherwise the trail runs up through the trees and straightens out alongside the rivine, hugging the side until it disappears into a ledge that a drain pipe runs across. The path intersects with the heavily rooted, hillside climb from the first waterfall back to an identifiable trail. By this time I had developed the route into a “trail parkour” course with the roots, vines, and trees along the path. I moved through as quickly as possible while maintaining safe, secure footing for my bare feet.The trail came to a rope-assisted, vertical descent to the top of the second waterfall through the roots and rocks. There was plenty of playtime jumping from the third falls and the rope swing, but I just couldn’t build enough desire to jump from the second waterfall (sorry Chaba, I didn’t chicken out, rather the thrill simply lost its appeal).
I stopped at Chico’s for a couple of Pilsens before bed. Being the only nightlife destination in town, Chico’s Playa Bar tends to fill up regularly every night. It was on this night – when I had just become content with the public solitude of a solo traveler – that I met a four wonderful girls from Ireland that I would hang out with for the rest of my time in Montezuma and Santa Elena. We closed Chico’s down, but the beach backyard was still full. They boarded up the front of the open air building but kept the music on.
The next day I went back to the waterfall with the Irish and two girls from Canada that they rode with on the boat taxi.
I was staying at Luna Llena, a hefty walk up the hill from town. The hotel was a quiet and charming place built in the jungle hillside . When I arrived home that night a couple of white-faced monkeys began running back and forth across the tin roof. They jumped up and down, stuck their hands out, and peered under the ledge down at me and the other guests, less than two meters away. Then we noticed at least a half a dozen more in the trees to the side of the hotel. I struggled to get a decent picture with both my soon-to-be-dead, piece-of-shit camera and my ithing. Someone announced that there were howler monkeys on the other side of the hotel, and I ran to the upstairs balcony to get a view. At least six of the black monkeys climbed and swung on the branches above us. One was a baby that rode on it’s parent’s back, and two seemed to be at their adolescent stage of growth.
The next night was Thursday, pot luck BBQ night at Luna Llena. A number of people at the hotel were vegetarian, so I bought two eggplants to grill and loaf of local bread. Two of my roommates – one from California and the other from Germany – made a tasty fruit salad. The spread was massive: pork, chicken, potato salad, caprese salad, pasta salad, more bread, dip, tahini, and other delicious dishes that got lost in memory after the liters of Pilsen were introduced. With everyone full and content there were still tables of food left for the security guard to pack away and clean as everyone slowly migrated to Chico’s for reggae night.
That night made a decent farewell to Montezuma. Being the only place to party, Chico’s attracts everyone in town, locals and tourists. The crowd on the street in front was as big as the one in the bar. The party started at the sidewalk stoops across the street and extended to the beach behind the bar. All of the familiar faces in town were there. Alcohol levels were reaching dangerous heights all around, and the crowd slowly began to thin. I went to the bar for one last drink and decided on pisco since this was the closest I was going to get to Peru or Chile (for a while at least). The brand that they carried featured a moai-shaped bottle. I ordered a shot, and the bartender stared at me confused. Was my Spanish that bad? In all of his days working the bar, he told me in English, never had a customer order straight pisco – pisco sour, pisco and Coke, but never straight. He insisted on giving me a chaser even though I declined one. I easily finished the spirit, but without a clear memory of its taste.

Tico Tales part 2: Jaco to Montezuma

Lance — Sun, 07 Aug 2011 19:43:59 +0000

I never planned to stay in Jaco long – mainly just to crash for a night before catching the boat taxi to Montezuma, and only because of the recommendation of a unique hostel. The town was what I had expected: a fully Americanized surfer and beach retirement colony. I walked past the hostel several times. It was in a residential neighborhood next door to a gated community. There was no sign, nothing to distinguish it from the rest of the neighborhood except the appropriately colored red, green, and yellow fence. I walked through the open door to find a guy sprawled out on the couch watching TNT. After I spoke a few times, he looked up and directed me to the back yard. There were no signs in the place informing guests to clean up after themselves or labeling rooms; it seemed like the average shack of a couple of surf bums. I walked through the kitchen and found the Hungarian proprietor cleaning the pool. There was a beerpong table next to the pool and a string of showers and urinals along the fence. The table next to the house was littered with empty liters of Pilsen, games, random leftover souvenirs, and a bag of pre-rolled spliffs with an honor-system sign that read “3000 colones ea.” I was told not to pay until I checked out, and when I asked about a key the Hungarian told me that the gate and door were always open and that he was always there, but if I was going to be out past midnight to take a set of keys from the hook in the kitchen.
The only other guests, a couple from Quebec, (besides the American on the couch that had been there for months) cooked dinner. We sat on the patio drinking, listening to music, and talking with local expats. The “house-turned-into-a-hostel” offered the solo traveler a terrifically forced communal experience and insight into the expat community.

The $40 USD boat taxi was well worth the price – even if it wouldn’t have saved hours of travel time. I shared the hour long beach-to-beach ride with a British couple on honeymoon and a Dutch girl. We sped across the Gulf of Nicoya under clear skies. The bright blue ocean merged with the horizon where cotton-like clouds lingered on the left; to the right the mountainous coastline was translucently visable through this merger. We watched giant sea mammals flip in the distance, and our boat guide stopped briefly as we passed a swimming sea turtle…

Tico Tales Part 1: Manuel Antonio and Quepos

Lance — Tue, 02 Aug 2011 14:49:48 +0000

I walked out of the airport past the soliciting cab driver straight to the local bus bound for downtown San Jose. In San Jose I walked straight to the bus station and bought a ticket to Quepos. I had fifteen minutes to kill – enough time to enjoy two empanadas, fruit juice, and a nice conversation with the lady at the soda stand who repeatedly reminded me to watch my bag.

I immediately fell in love with the lushly colored countryside. The angst over getting here was gone; all that was left was to do.

I arrived in Quepos to find that there was no running water due to some malfunction somewhere. Early the next morning it was thankfully back on and I took a quick, cold shower to wash away the previous day’s travel before heading down to Manuel Antonio National Park. Manuel Antonio is a quaint little village that begins just up the hill from Quepos, half overrun with resort lodges and adventure tour companies. The park has a overpriced $10 USD entrance fee; still, it offers a chance to see amazing wildlife up close, a variety of beaches and trails, and some great views of the ocean.

The day was overcast as it had rained the night before and the trails were muddy, but still plenty of people populated the beaches. Walking through the jungle I became aware of all of my senses: vivid colors of bright blue butterflies; multi-color green vegetation; the dank smell of the decomposition of nature; and sounds from everywhere: cicadas, frogs, howling monkeys, birds, the pounding Pacific surf, and every language along the trails except for Spanish. After exploring all of the open trails, seeing monkeys, crabs, raccoons, a sloth and an iguana, being drenched with sweat assisted by an occasional light rain, and blowing the front of the soles of both of my hiking boots I decided to hike the one last trail to the waterfall before returning to the village.

The trail ran parallel to the small creek that the waterfall fed. Not far in I came to caution tape restricting further access. I thought, “screw it; it cant be that bad; the trail probably just needs to be cleared; i’ll have the whole forest to myself.” Not many meters later I came to what I assume to be the main reason for the trail’s closure: a small washout with several trees fallen over it. I easily crossed. The trail was also slightly overgrown, but it was still identifiable. I had to cross the creek in shallow water, and the trail picked up again on the other side. After the second creek crossing on slippery rocks and shaky logs, I decided that make identifying marks where I crossed so I wouldn’t get lost in the jungle alone. I crossed the creek a third time, slightly submerging one of my boots. I could now hear the waterfall and my excitement grew. I hurriedly rushed through the trail, and soon the fall was visible through the trees. I had the whole thing to myself. Thoughts emerged of swimming in the small hole, showering under the fall, skinny dipping? I pulled out my camera to take pictures first. Trying to get the best shot, not paying any attention to where I was, I stepped up on the large slick boulder, and my feet slipped from underneath me. My hip hit the solid boulder, and I instinctively kept the hand with the camera in it high, saving it and its contents. The waterfall was no longer impressive. Just falling water. I’ve seen better. Blood was running down my arm. I washed up in the pool, dressed my wounds, hiked back out of the park, bought a clean, dry T-shirt, and caught the first bus back to Quepos.

I went out that night after a quick round of drinking games with two Dutch girls. First was salsa night at Bamboo Jam in MA where I tried my first shot of guarro. It tastes like the descriptions I had heard: something between rubbing alcohol and cheap moonshine. From there we went to hear reggae at the expat friendly Sargento García. After that we were led to a small discotheque and then another…feeling tired and slightly jaded, I retired early (02:00?) and wasted the next day away by the pool and wandering around town.

48 hours in New York City: a blurry story

Lance — Mon, 20 Jun 2011 21:52:01 +0000

Two days in New York is but a tease – not enough time to explore one neighborhood much less one borough. We vowed to fit as much into that limited time with as little rest as possible, as is tradition. In the course of the journey, consumption levels reached peaks in both intake and expense, as is also tradition.

Hour 1: Leaving a couple of relaxing days in South Fallsburg around dawn, we headed back to the city.
Hour 3: Dara rushed off to work after pointing out Murry’s Bagels, leaving Steph and I with all of the decisions in Manhattan…
Hour 5: Felt up life-size Lego statues and unconsciously cursed loudly at FAO Schwarz.

Hour 6: Finally found an open bar to settle into in Greenwich Village – the bartender happy to have someone other than NYU students to talk to.
Hour 8: On a mission to find dive bars…mission accomplished many blisters later at the 169 Bar in LES. The dark bar felt like home immediately. The beer was cheap. The decor was like a tiki bar on MDMA: complete with fish tank, platforms for go-go dancers, and leopard-felted pool table. The owner, we later learned, is a former New Orleanian.

Hour 10: The need for solid substance led us back to the West Village – Katz Deli was too crowded and chaotic for two inebriated and traveled souls trying to refuel, refresh, and regroup. We ended up at the tourist friendly Jekyll and Hyde.

Hour 11: Waiting for Dara to get off of work, Steph and I continued our stumble through the West Village, gained the blessing of a drag queen in a gay bar, and made good decisions about bad tattoos.
Hour 12: At Down the Hatch Dara needed to catch up, so we pounded back-to-back beers and back-to-back shots, as is tradition.

Hour 16: With Stephanie snuggled in for a mandatory nap, Dara and I headed to Brooklyn for a reggae weekly – myself nearing total intoxication. The place soon filled up and I was buying drinks for the selector and the bartender was buying us shots.
Hour 20: Riddim sounds blurred into images of a cab and nap back to Manhattan. I caught my third wind of the day and joined freshly-woken Stephanie on a mission for late night pizza and found the best $1 pizza that I have ever had drunk.
Hour 21: We found an intimate 24-hour French bistro with tasty creme brulee and tiramisu. I struggled to finish a heavy pour of Frenet-Branca while Steph enjoyed champagne…

Hour 23: Barely made it from the table to the cab before passing out.
Hour 28: Up and somewhat rested, we plan to meet D for lunch at noon and head to Laguardia at 2:30/3:00 via the train and bus to catch our 5pm flight home.
Hour 31: Got turned around on the way to Hell’s Kitchen, so we were only able to see Dara for the last half hour of her lunch break. (See you laters are just as difficult as goodbyes) We decided to walk the High Line back to Chelsea and get something to eat there before packing.

Hour 32: We decided on the 3-course prix fixe meal at the Italian restaurant over the simple and cheap Thai joint.
Hour 33: At 3:30, one and a half hours until departure, we were still savoring the main course.
Hour 34: Slowly packed and strolled to the J line. Steph’s virgin eyes lit up as our train passed the three walls of graffiti murals covering the 5 Pointz building.
Hour 36: We enjoyed cheesecake and single-shot airplane bottle on the back of the Q33 bus to LGA and got to the US Airways counter at 6pm for our 5pm flight.
Travel Tip #27: you can extend your trip one day without paying the $150 change ticket fee when your flight is the last one of the day by “missing” the plane. Since it cannot be a “voluntary change” it must be the next available flight.
…which in our case was in twelve hours at 6am.
Hour 38: Enjoyed cocktails, fajitas, and wine at the hospitality of Dara’s bosses on the Upper West Side.
Hour 39: Cocktails and shots at Local with locals – one learned humility from Dara.
Hour 41: Frenzied search for a cab to Anthony Bourdain’s Les Halles before they closed at 12am – the last check on Steph’s culinary bucket list.

Hour 43: Full and content. Mixed reviews on the food, some for what one could expect for barging in on a kitchen fifteen minutes before close.
Hour 44: Beers on the fire escape back in Chelsea followed by a quick nap.
Hour 46: Groggy goodbyes are easier.
Hour 47: Cleared security in the empty airport by 5am with an hour to spare ….and no open bar in sight for hours.

Vacation Proclamation

Lance — Sun, 07 Mar 2010 22:42:39 +0000

I am in desperate need of escape from this world – a return to reality (as most people know it) on vacation: the annual ritual of modern man that offers therapeutic escapism. For me it is a chance to return to daylight, to spend waking hours outside with breathing fauna and flora and fresh dirt instead of inside of smokey, neon-lit bars surrounded by constant consumption and never-ending drama… Besides the additional maladies that come with the mythic reality of my day-to-day life, night shift work in it-self creates health problems and disrupts natural circadian rhythm.
I will soon pass strangers at MSY coming to visit my world: to party past noon, drink in the streets, and spend too much money in strip clubs. “Enjoy yourselves,” I say to them. “Have fun, but don’t be a douche; be careful; spend lots of money and tip everyone graciously…”

“It’s Our Time Down Here”

Lance — Mon, 31 Aug 2009 00:15:06 +0000

“Our time” is a sentimental notion we attach to those periods we never wish to lose, a bond created between a place and a band of brothers and sisters sharing their defining moments, the moments when Truth resonates despite any external antagonism, moments when, as Hunter S. Thompson put it, “whatever we were doing was right… we were winning…” When time has no meaning at all it is most precious.
Music is the heartbeat of an era, and it is the youth that mostly and closely relates to the tempo of the time. It is that special time in life when freedom, curiosity, innocence, individuality, and an overall zest for life all culminate to an apex…that limited time when discovery of the world and all of its evils leads to endless rage and vows to resist tyranny and reside outside of conformity.

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Adventures across Europe often lead us underground, mostly in the metros commuting here and there, hopping turnstyles, or smiling at scratch-tagging kids running from car to car.
Like on a History Channel program that vanished while I was abroad, much of Europe disappears underground. Centuries of civilizations built on top of one another hide histories, hidden passages, catacombs, tunnels, and sometimes ancient city blocks. Almost every bar that I ended up in in Paris had a basement discotheque jamming out sounds to pulsating bodies no matter how small or dank or airless the crumbling stone cellar was…

- underground
Many of the large clubs in Prague and Budapest have multiple levels winding below ground in twisted mazes. Barely more two decades ago all of the clubs were truly underground to every social and political connotation of the word – a way of life under authoritarian rule. I can only imagine them with the romantic perspective of a Western up-bringing: casually strolling past Red Army guards on a winter night with a sharp wind attacking from the Danube…ringing the bell on a dark doorstep dangerously close to the guards…repeating the memorized phrase in my mothertongue to the old woman that answers the door…following the long, dark hall to the sixth door on the left and down the stairs past bald bouncers that require an additional password and into…

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One of my favorite discoveries in Clubland, Europe was not a club – it was a machine, a living, mechanical building with moving parts and breathing walls and a metal garden…green smoke lingered in the air and exotic substances smuggled in from Mos Eisley lined the tables. The corridors meandered through different levels, mostly below ground, some circled back into the same room…that night the two rooms of music offered happy hardcore and hard drum & bass/hardstep leaving no relief anywhere in the building from the mental strain of the high decibel sounds at 160+ beats per minute… After a few hours of aimlessly wandering between the two sweaty dancefloors and pulsating wall and flashing lights and closing bars, disoriented delirium set in. Realizing the approaching denouement we settled into seats by a spinning propeller to wait for the metro to reality which started running at 05:00.

- under ground
The tunnels of the Buda Castle Labyrinth in Budapest were dug millenniums ago by the underground rivers that feed the natural thermal springs of Hungary. The Turks connected the tunnels with cellars in the Middle Ages and they were used by military maneuvers, bomb shelters, and escape routes though the second World War. Only a portion of the labyrinth is open to the public with a cheesy history-of-man time-line setting and faux prehistoric cave paintings, statues, and “alien” artifacts. I had read of a fountain of free-flowing wine somewhere in the Labyrinth not on any map, but all of the Hungarian locals that I asked dismissed it as an urban legend.
We arrived at the labyrinth an hour before closing and were given the oil lamps that visitors use after 6pm when the tunnel lights are turned off. This only added to the feeling of being some fedora-donning explorer. We explored the dark, dank passageways and came to a brightly lit room. In the center was the fabled fountain covered in ivy and basking in a brilliant light from heaven as if Hollywood had designed it. I felt like a weary treasure hunter who had finally proved to himself and the world that the search for the myth was not some far-fetched wild goose chase. Only after we all drank from one of the four spickets spewing red wine and filled empty water bottles did I notice the faded sign warning in three languages that the wine was not safe for consumption. Was this alcoholic liquid that remained unsealed in a dank cave many meters underground and constantly being aerated through pumps, tubes and concrete really unhygienic, or was the sign merely there to keep tourists from drinking the well dry? I didn’t get sick.

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The Quinta da Regaleira in Sintra, Portugal took on its present day design after Carvalho Monteiro acquired the property in 1893 and commissioned architect Luigi Manini with the four hectare palace and garden project. The walled grounds are heavily treed with lush paths lined with statues of classical gods, grottoes, an aquarium, tennis court, fountains, greenhouse, chapel, lakes, and stone towers. The overall theme revolves around Monteiro’s interest in esoteric and metaphysical ideologies; it is a place where magic and landscape meld into a journey for the initiate. Structures have alchemical, Masonic, and Templar symbolism and such names as The Terrace of the Celestial Worlds. There are numerous entrances to underground passageways throughout the garden that are suppose to symbolize a path between darkness and light, between Heaven and Earth.
Much of the tunnels is pitch black except for the occasional rope light lining a few sections. As we stumbled along in the dark behind the beam of my single flashlight splashing in the small stream in the middle of the tunnels that drained rain water, as the laughs and screams of young tour groups echoed in the distant, as Brandon realized that he could see much better underground without his sunglasses on, as I explored uncharted cave crawlspaces in the crevices of dark corners, and as we came upon the seal in the center of the floor of the Initiatic Well we all felt that we were on our own Goonie adventure, and that it would be over the moment we ascended the 27-meter spiral stairway that circled the well to the surface.

“but it’s our time…It’s our time down here”
When “our time” is over it becomes the “good ‘ole days”. The glory and certainty of its prevalence fades into forgotten dreams and failed missions. Its brilliance dims until it is indistinguishable from the gray exterior world. It is inevitable that it must die. Even though growing up does not necessarily mean giving up the revolution of youth, it does mean giving up the immortality of it. Even if time goes on ad infinitum, the moment is mortal and is gone before it is recognized as such.
“Our time” is defined by discovery. When discovery ceases, the era is over. No matter how meticulously documented it may be, the era will never be fully understood except by those that lived it. The Truth is dead because it is forgotten or given up for other endeavors as we ride up “Troy’s bucket” to “our parent’s time.” But in the cycle of things as they are, it continues. Only after it is gone does an era earn its reverence, respect, and awe…always by the next generation searching for something similar, their own piece of immortality, their own dream, their own second on this planet when nothing else matters because what is happening here and now is the best there is.

Propoganda for Potential Expats

Lance — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 21:52:17 +0000

I envy those with dual citizenship. The options for living under two different flags are appealing, and if one is in the EU then the entire Union is open for choices. As life at home grows old other cultures become more intriguing, and a different balance between freedoms and regulations can be explored. In another couple of generations of globalization the value of having two passports will be much more apparent.
Europe has hit me with a brick of inspiration, opportunities, and amazement. With so many places one must live here for a period of time to fully ingest even the first course. I fantasize about transplanting myself with at least a few choice friends here to join the European expat community. The EUR/USD is 1.4044 right now (July 29, 2009 16:47 EST), and the Euro has yet to look back since it surpassed the value of the dollar at the end of 2002. Economic reasons aside, living in a different country for a period of time offers a fresh perspective on life and the global impact of everyone’s actions, and Europe has the densest area of culture and history. It is a little more of a change than moving to a different state, but adaptation to the new daily life can be just as quick and easy… And two or three years that normally slip by as forgotten memories in the daily, familiar grind will bring endless experience in a new culture.
Since one-way flights are so cheap here, any city can be chosen as a home base and jump-off point to the rest of the continent. Most signs point to Amsterdam for my first choice of new homes. Not necessarily my most favorite new city, but the opportunities make it a highly optimal option: everyone speaks English; the city already has over 40,000 full-time American residents; it is a wonderfully international city with many possibilities in the tourist market; it is a highly intellectual and eco-friendly environment; The Netherlands American Community Trust helps and funds cross-cultural organizations and business between the two countries… and whether or not it is due to the widely-known liberal laws and tolerances of Holland, there seems to be respect and peace among the people in the streets – a sense of balance in the Force…
Expatriation is difficult only in possessing the right information and procuring the proper papers. Although the entire process is very time consuming, today anything can be learned from enough hours Googling. At the same time it has become much more difficult to exist under the radar in a foreign country, so the prospective expat must become more creative in finding a need for himself in his prospective home…

¿Homesick?

Lance — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 03:37:16 +0000

Trapped in the timewarp between hemispheres and cultures, my mind still in metrics… I’ve somehow been home for days. Travel between Barcelona and New Orleans took an ungodly amount of hours: Bus from Barcelona to Girona, missed connection; rescheduled flight from Girona to London Stansted Airport; Bus from Stansted to Heathrow; flight from Heathrow to Newark, NJ; nine hour overnight layover in Newark Airport; delayed flight from Newark to home…
Home is a foreign concept. It is that place with which we find comfort, familiarity, and identity but after months on the road seems difficult to relocate. Already back at work, I am still adjusting to the tiresome sleep-schedule of the nocturnal industry while trying to deal with the utter weirdness of being home. It offers enough change to almost simulate the feeling that I am still traveling – all that was once old becomes excitingly new again, for a moment at least.
My first night in my hostel home in Horta was world music night. We had wine and cheese and random people passed around a guitar and played international classics and favorites. The Swiss girl whose job I was about to take sang songs in Spanish, French, German, Portuguese… I was intrigued by the romance of the stories she told about these traditional songs about Brazilian politics or French love affairs. And as she played and sang “The House of the Rising Sun” for “the guy from New Orleans” I was equally mesmerized by the familiar words and quickly remembered how unique and fascinating my home is, how it’s just as captivating as any other exotic far-off land… I felt something that may have resembled homesickness, but it quickly faded due to the constant awareness that my time in Europe was rapidly coming to an end.
Barcelona is much like New Orleans – in every way that I cannot seem find words to relate… It is warm and slightly humid for summer, but nothing compared to the sauna at home. Things are completely unpredictable here. All Night Loitering is tolerated until an official or police officer politely asks you to move so they can clean the stoop/beach/grass. Alcohol is not sold in the markets past 11pm, but there are always hundreds of beer-sellers in the street to offer “beer, cerveza, cold beer…” I watched the street price of a can of Estrella Damm bounce between 1 and 1,50 euros from June to July depending on supply and demand…
I became attached to my happy community in Horta. It was originally a village on the outskirts of the city when Barcelona consisted of nothing more than the Roman province of the city center. Horta is a small community of neighbors, schools, markets, parks, but no tourists. One actually gets the feeling of being in Spain. It is tranquil, peaceful… My home was the Garden House Hostel, a three-floor house build around the turn of the 20th century with a tranquil garden and rooftop terrace where I would take my afternoon siestas in the sun. The hostel attracts only the most decent of travellers.
Settling down after a period of travel is difficult enough: Everything in travel is new and changes every moment. Burnout causes new sights and parties to become boring, making new friends and remembering names becomes unimportant, and exchanging facebook info before checkout time is not worth getting out of bed for. Anchoring down to one place does seem to alleviate travelidos, but if one lives at a hostel, assimilation continues to be difficult when great friends are made only to leave hours later for other realms. Travellers remain high on the fresh places they are discovering, but for the hostel resident there are only fresh faces – they constantly change, staying long enough to spark an interest, a hint of connection, similarity, inspiration..and then they leave again in an energy fueled by freedom and the unknown…
“And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.”
-T.S. Eliot