notes

Days 207-211: Kiev

Tue, 31 Jan 2006 14:12:00 PST

“Haven’t you ever wondered why the Church doesn’t allow women to be preachers?”

“Not specifically,” I replied, throwing my pack on the bed. I sat down. Icelandic Pizza Chef sat down on the opposite bed.

“It makes God less attractive to women, so they all become whores and drug addicts.”

I blinked. I had nothing.

“So the Mafia profits!” He paused to let me connect the dots. I still had nothing. I proferred the blank look.

“And everyone knows that the Mafia and the Church work together. Don’t you see? It’s so simple.” Icelandic Pizza Chef settled his argument by clapping his hands together.

Taking a cue from Socrates, I asked “You, uh, think this is a big problem?

“Oh yes. I would say that probably 90% of all women are prostitutes and into drugs.”

Icelandic Pizza Chef had flown down to Kiev to meet a girl he’d found on an internet dating site. In fact, he’d had his first date with her the day I met him. Now he needed someone with whom to confer.

“Here, I will show you.” From out of a manilla envelope he pulled a stack of high quality, glossy printouts. He spread them out across our little desk. They looked like professional studio shots. Naturally, the subject was stunning and dressed in a fabric-economic fashion.

“She did not look anything like this in real life,” he commented, “maybe it was the makeup. I don’t know.”

The first hour and a half of the date they spent sitting a few tables apart, neither person recognizing the other. Icelandic Pizza Chef then walked to a phone booth, called the girl’s cell phone, and confirmed she was the one whose nervous glances he’d been avoiding. They spent the second hour and a half sitting at the same table, neither person having anything to say to the other.

“I think it went terribly,” Icelandic Pizza Chef told me, “she acted like she didn’t want to be there.”

“Well, what did you two talk about during your date?”

“Nothing. She speaks very little English, and I don’t know any Ukranian.”

She knew enough English to ask for 500 hryvnia (about 100 US dollars) to cover her train ticket back to Sumy, a nearby town. Actual cost of a ticket: 25 hryvnia.

“Don’t worry man—it happens to all of us,” I offered as meager consolation—sure, all men get taken in by Ukranian gold digging mail-order bride dropouts—“At least you’ve learned from the experience.”

“Yes, I have. I think tomorrow I will go to Sumy and find a cheap apartment. This way I will not have to pay for her train tickets.”

I laughed, although I don’t think he was joking. Godspeed, Icelandic Pizza Chef!

But who am I to criticize? Isn’t this simply a twist on value systems we all refer to when looking for a mate? Isn’t wealth just another facet of attraction? I saw this same culture of commercial relationships in both Russia and the Ukraine. It seems the fall of the old regime brought forth a whole new viciously status-conscious class of young people. Everybody wants it—that’s why they call it money.

Russia had some internal source of wealth upon which this new culture could cultivate. I lost count of the number of balding, plump officials I spotted in St. Petersburg, driving slick Volgas with black tinted windows, letting a fur coat-clad girl (who probably wasn’t his daughter) out of the passenger side. On the Moscow Metro, I sat next to an extremely fashionable girl holding a handbag with sequin lettering. It read, “If you’re rich, I’m single.”

But the Ukraine has had no such treasure trove, instead looking to the west for its future, waiting for the big payoff. There’s a strange sense of urgency and despair in Kiev. One afternoon I walked through a towering shopping complex, brand new, full of Guccis and Pradas, fluorescent escalators, Aston Martins spinning slowly inside impressive glass columns. All the stores were empty. Shopkeepers sat bored behind pristine counters. I sat down and had a coffee there, but I sort of felt like an asshole so I left not long after.

Rick was an American business consultant looking for investment opportunities in Kiev. He told me,

“So, these two Ukranian girls are at a cafe, having a chat over a cup of coffee.

One girl says to the other,’You know, I could really use an extra 500 dollars a month,’

‘That’s easy!’ replies the other. ‘Just get another boyfriend!’

‘But where do I find a boyfriend who will give me 500 dollars a month?’

‘Hmm, how about finding two boyfriends who can each give you 250 dollars a month?’

‘But that’s still so much!’

‘Then find three boyfriends who can each give you 150 dollars a month!’

‘Devushka,’ a man interrupts from a nearby table, ‘when you get down to 5 dollars, let me know.’”

The day before I left Kiev, I saw a man putting coins into a slot machine. A monkey was sitting on his shoulder, and the monkey was wearing a diaper. On the train back to Moscow, I met another ex-soldier named Max. Max had coordinated joint operations with U.S. soldiers at Westpoint. Max, his friends, and I shared much too much vodka that evening, and they all agreed that I was a very nice fellow.

Days 227-229: Ulaan Baatar

Sat, 29 Oct 2005 11:34:00 PDT

Hi Mom!

Remember when I called you from the post office in Ulaan Baatar? The conversation was short, and I probably sounded distracted. Here’s why:

day 227

Mongolains are a pretty friendly lot, kind of subdued for the most part, and not particularly prone to forming hordes, as far as I could tell. But just like any society, there’s a lower crust, and Claudia and I met a number of its representatives late one evening at the Ulaan Baatar post office, where we were making a few last minute phone calls before heading off to the Gobi.

Remember during our phone conversation when I said, “Actually, hang on a sec…” and put the receiver down?

Claudia had felt something, looked down, and saw an arm up to its elbow in her bag, searching for goodies. She yelled “HEY!” and I looked up just in time to see the guy attached to the arm spin around and duck into the adjoining phone booth. I dropped the receiver, looked over into the next booth, and saw him banging numbers on the keypad, with the receiver still on the hook.

“Check your bag.” I said to Claudia, following the guy out into the lobby.

She was on already on it. “Everything is here as far as I can tell.”

He had nothing in his hands. I came back into the booth and picked up the phone. “Yeah Mom, we’re having a wonderful time here!”

Another two of the guy’s friends walked up to us, fully baseball capped and bandana’d. At that same moment you said, “And what about the Ukraine? Did you reconnect with your ancestors there?”

“Yeah uh…”

They stopped at arm’s length, looking first at Claudia’s bag, then up at me.

“Kiev was… nice.” I cracked my knuckles against my waist and stared back. “Really friendly people there ah, much more open than Russia.”

They stood there for a few minutes while I told you about Kiev and asked how the dogs were doing. They spoke to eachother in Mongolian, I think trying to decide if they could take me on. Then they walked away, and a moment later the phone card ran out.

So, sorry if I sounded distant! Next time I’ll call from a less distracting place, and I’ll not call so early. You sounded sleepy.

day 228

Claudia and I visited Naran Tuul (the “black market”), the wildest, loudest, most lawless flea market I’ve ever seen. Here’s what the Lonely Planet has to say about Naran Tuul:

The market is notorious for pickpockets and bag slashers so don’t bring anything you don’t want to lose.

Oh, good! All we brought were bags, a high-end Nikon camera, money, credit cards, and passports. Disembodied hands kept snaking out of the crowd and reaching for Claudia’s camera. She held onto it tightly.

Don’t carry anything on your back, and strap your money belt to your body. If you feel a group of men blocking your way from the front, chances are their friends are probing your pockets from behind.

Well, that certainly explains the big guy who kept annoyingly stepping in front of me, and how immediately after I got past him, the 4000 togrog I had in my pocket were gone.

Some travellers have had rocks thrown at them for taking photos at the market.

I occasionally found myself playing the “Oh, how much is that?” game while Claudia Candidly Clicked from a Corner.

Sometimes people yelled at Claudia for taking pictures, but sometimes people smiled.

Also, we went on a Sunday.

Try to avoid Saturday and Sunday afternoons, when the crowds can be horrendous.

Oops.

Quick Overview of Traditional Mongolian Cuisine

Greasy mutton
Dough
Rice

Combine the above in many exciting ways! Wrap dough around mutton and you have buuz, a sort of Mongolian dumpling. Cut dough into thin strips, drop into water left over from boiling the rice, add mutton, and you have shool, Mongolian soup.

Put little bricks of refuse plant parts into the same dirty rice/mutton water, add a dollop of yak’s milk, and you have tsai, Mongolian tea: not too bad once you get used to the floating globules of fat.

FUN FACT: Mongolian barbeque doesn’t exist anywhere in Mongolia, except for one tourist restaurant in Ulaan Baatar that caters to folks who step off the plane and proclaim, “Hey hey, show me the Mongolian barbeque!”

Day 226: Naushki

Fri, 28 Oct 2005 03:00:00 PDT

It’s easier to handle the vastness of the Gobi desert if one approaches it through Siberia. The brainstuff is already properly tenderized, prepared to handle the gradient of bleak to bleaker.

day 226

DAY TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY SIX distinguished itself by being a Friday that shone brighter than any Friday I’d ever seen. I had read that Mongolia was called the “Land of Blue Sky,” but I dismissed the words as atmospheric chauvanism. Were a reader to dismiss my words now, I would understand, for verily I was once in [foolish, impudent] reader’s position. But it’s true: the sky in Mongolia is supernaturally blue. There were days in the desert where I swore the shadows under rocks and on the side of dunes glowed purple, somehow saturated with the neon color from above.

Claudia and I stepped off the train at Naushki, a town on the Russian side of the border with Mongolia. Claudia reminded me that “Naushki” sounds like a dog’s name. This is why I like Claudia.

Naushki was pretty much your standard Russian/Mongolian border town. Only the occasional gimpy cow wandered up and down the seemingly deserted main avenue, furtively trying to fertilize a dirt road that had long since turned to dust.

We saw a hood-scarfed babushka waiting outside a corner grocery. The grocery was closed.

Naturally, this was the perfect place to stock up. We found a quiet grove of market stalls, each stall built from corrugated tin siding. I looked for pants and disposable razors, and Claudia found some cucumber shampoo.

An hour and two Fantas later, we got back on the train.

New kupe occupant: a young Chinese entrepreneur commuting between Erlian and Irkutsk. He and I were soon dancing the traditional Russian Ludicrous Hospitality Waltz. I offered him a cookie. He declined but counteroffered a chicken’s foot. Woah, checkmate! I ate it politely. It was delicately spiced and quite tasty. Turns out you can get a fair bit of meat off a chicken’s feet. Right after, he offered me a Tsingtao and I declined. For this he behaved offended, and asked “Why don’t you want beer?”

Guy, cut me some slack!

That night I fell asleep in my usual manner, oblivious to everything. However, Claudia reports that soon after the lights went out, she heard the sound of sheets shuffling from new guy’s bunk above. The sheet shuffling started slow, then increased both in frequency and intensity. Then all went quiet.

Days 221-225: Khuzhir

Sun, 23 Oct 2005 12:12:00 PDT

Khuzhir is the only town on Olkhon, which is the only island on Lake Baikal, which is the only lake in the world that has no lakes older than it.

day 221

Posters inside the bus station showed seating arrangements for Russia’s great, big buses, among them the Aero Queen, the pride of the Russian fleet. I looked again at our ticket: seats 3 and 4.

I said to Claudia, “Look, we’re right up front! What luck!”

Claudia pointed out the window. “Our bus is here.”

I looked out into the parking lot. Except for a couple of local minivans crowded around by locals, the parking lot was empty.

I looked back at Claudia. She was still pointing. “What?” I tried to follow her finger.

Nothing! I looked back at her and repeated, “What?” She was laughing. She pointed again. “It’s right there!”

I was completely lost.

I walked outside and a young man said to me, “Khuzhir?”

“Da…”

He pointed in the direction of a minivan’s roof peeking out above the crowd. “Paidyom!” Let’s go.

Oh boy.

Once Claudia finished laughing at me, we grabbed our packs and scrunched into the minivan. Everyone outside followed. The crowd went from outside to inside. Bags were passed overhead, stuffed behind feet, between legs, on laps. More people arrived. They were passed overhead, stuffed behind feet, between legs, on laps. My spine was bent like a curly-q.

The driver started up the engine, and a very large speaker about three inches from my ear came alive with hissing, roaring Russian techno, just in time to distract me from my excruciating back pain.

OONTZ OONTZ OONTZ OONTZ YA LYUBLYUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU

I leaned over and shouted into Claudia’s ear, “I DON’T THINK THIS IS THE AERO QUEEN,” and she laughed.

Four or five hours later, we crested a hill and the minivan stopped. Lake Baikal spread out in front of us, fantastic crystal azure in the early afternoon. The driver popped out the techno tape and put in something that began slowly, with tender plucks of guitar strings. “Baikaaaal, Baikaaal” a voice crooned. The driver waited there, at the top of the hill, to let the mood settle in. Then we rode on for some time listening to Russian folk ballads all about Lake Baikal, the perfect mix of solemnity and comedy.

Mostly comedy.

Not long after we arrived in Khuzhir at the home of Olga and Oleg, a nice family we’d arranged to stay with for a few days.

We spent

days 222-225

walking along the lake, indulging in Russian steam banyas, and stuffing ourselves full of bliny and other home-cooked food. It was perfect.

The bus back to Irkutsk was even more interesting than the bus up. One guy brought a bottle of vodka, nearly everyone got drunk, and a fight broke out. We’re not exactly sure of the dialogue, but from the pointing and facial expressions, Claudia and I surmise it went something like this:

Big, Red-Faced Guy seems kind of high-strung. He has massive, laborer’s hands.
Russki is a thin, good looking fellow who seems to be friends with everyone. They all call him Russki.
Driver is the driver.

BRFG: QUIT SMOKING IN HERE!
Russki: Look buddy, relax, it’s just one cigarette.
BRFG: PUT OUT THAT CIGARETTE!
Driver: Is someone smoking back there? What’s going on?
Russki: (in a low voice) Alright alright, look here, I’ll open the window.
BRFG: CLOSE THE WINDOW! IT’S COLD OUT! WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?
Russki: Look pal, just for a minute…

All of a sudden, BRFG reached over the row of seats, behind my back, grabbed Russki by his collar, and pulled him back over onto Claudia’s lap. He punched Russki in the face a few times, then wrapped his meaty hands around Russki’s throat and squeezed. Hard. Russki was somehow laughing and choking at the same time. Everyone else on the bus appeared a little uncomfortable.

Another fellow awoke for a moment during the fighting. A line of drool hung from his lips. He held a wool cap in his right hand. Tipping his head forward, he threw up a bit, somehow managing to catch it all in his hat. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, put his cap on his head, and fell back asleep.

Days 212-215: Moscow

Fri, 14 Oct 2005 08:42:00 PDT

I had it all worked out; I was going to be really cool. I bought a fresh pair of socks in Kiev, yet craftily wore them once so as not to appear as if I were trying too hard.

Now all I needed were some really smooth moves: an opening line like “Don’t speak… just breathe,” naturally followed by something adequately dramatic and significant somehow like a meaningful montage (maybe with Powerpoint), or I could do the robot. I also considered the “Let’s pick up where we left off,” with sort of a raised eyebrow and a Sean Connery smirk. But could I pull off holding a martini glass at the arrival lounge at one in the afternoon?

I watched “AF1644 – ON TIME” blink on the screen. I tried to estimate how many smarmy French guys had hit on her during the flight. I imagined Thievery Corporation playing over the intercom as they ice skated up and down the aisles, vying for position to serenade her, twiddling pencil-thin mustaches. Pretending to be stuck in a box. Those bastards.

She entered the scene in stunning real time. She approached within greeting distance at an alarmingly natural pace, somehow composed yet completely at ease.

Did I forget myself for a moment?

Did the sound of blood pumping in my ears drown out my ceaseless, nagging internal monologue?

Why, absolutely not! I cocked the hammer of my smooth moves canon and set my sights on her wide, serene smile:

“Hi,” I hiccuped, grinning like an idiot.

Crap.

Days 112-113: Boston, Reykjavik, Frankfurt

Thu, 7 Jul 2005 13:02:00 PDT

My web server recently suffered a flagrant system failure, extremely unhelpfully spitting out the journal entry that previously occupied this space.

I have chosen not to rewrite the entry: unlike beans, PURE GENIUS cannot be refried.

Instead I present:

BOSTON TO FRANKFURT An Epic Haiku Series
by Erik Frey

Sign at Bahn Mi joint
Reads “CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS” Forlorn and hungry.

Banh Mi joint address: 88 E Broadway Mall
Stall 108 [Ed: Five syllables if you read the 0 as “zero”]

Nubile stewardess. Metal cart inching closer. I’ll have the chicken.

Street signs in German
Rhyme with David Hasselhoff: AUSGANG HAUPTBAHNHOF

Inept hostel clerk. Waiting, summer turns to fall. Sorry, we’re booked full!

Guy named Raphael. A writer from John Hopkins. Loses his cool there. [Ed: But I kept my cool.]

The writer and I. Lost in a sea of hotels. Find sleep. And pizza.

Days 101-107: Montreal

Sat, 25 Jun 2005 11:31:00 PDT

A VICIOUS, NAIVE and COMPLETELY UNSUBSTANTIATED notion of the roles of women and men has existed deep within our collective consciousness for centuries, or, quite likely, millenia.

This notion depicts men as the barbarian hordes, pillaging and plundering with great ardor and beating of chests, slurping of gruel that leaves dribblets of fat hanging in our beards, knocking of horned helmets, and other behavior that is markedly lacking of the subtle refinements of polite society.

And at the height of our pillaging, amidst the splendor of ravaging a particularly scenic countryside, our warriors seem to fall, one by one. They drop their axes and grog-mugs and disappear, victim of a mysterious, unseen hand:

Women.

Soon the countryside is drowning in the screams of panicked barbachelors, and you can hear the last rallying cries:

HOLD THE LINE, MEN! NEVER GIVE IN!

NEVER SURRENDER!

Then there is quiet. The dust settles. Listen; the plastic click echoes through the valley with a solemn finality. It is the sound of the fanny pack being fastened, full of wet-naps and formula. It is the sound of defeat.

I have asked women if it really is this way, and they have always assured me that such a notion as the one presented above is VICIOUS, NAIVE, and COMPLETELY UNSUBSTANTIATED. Surely I can rest easy, knowing that there are no women guerilla training camps, or none that any woman will admit to me, though I did once hear of a women’s lecture in a packed football stadium, where it was proclaimed that “MEN ARE LIKE BUSES… YOU JUST GOTTA CATCH THE RIGHT ONE!”

I have asked men if it really is this way, and most often I have encountered the same denial, except for those few cases in dark, smokey war-rooms hidden behind grandfather clocks. Here a man will speak of marriage, and with carefully metered words, he will state that “There’s no hurry, you know.” I cannot tell if the tone in his voice is nostalgia or bitterness, but from the glow of his cigar I can make out the shape of a wry grin.

True or not, this (vicious, naive, etc) notion has tumbled around in my head in some nebulous form for some time, and it has played havoc with every one of my relationships and almost-relationships since I entered university, remaining unchallenged for many years. And then I went to Montreal.

day 101

The day started near a pair of metal rails. They hummed under the strain of their fast-approaching load. I stepped aboard, and though I was not there to hear, I suspect they hummed again as I left.

Fate chose to sit a censored guy next to me, and we chatted as the Hudson sped by in the background. He told me stories about his homeland, and when I told him that I was, in fact, visiting a girl in Montreal that I’d met in censored just a month ago, he expressed surprise, of course. But immediately after he launched into extreme fraternizing mode at my mention of Claudia, full of winks, nudges, sly grins, the works.

We reached Montreal that afternoon. Claudia was waiting at the top of the stairs, and I quickly, almost thoughtlessly went through the process of adjusting an old face to new settings. In a way, our conversation began as if we had just continued from where we’d left off in censored. Claudia led me through town and did a wonderful job of explaining the layout, even while apologizing for knowing so little. This is a thing I have noticed that people do: they apologize profusely for lack of knowledge in some area and then proceed to overwhelm you with volumes of information.

We fixed some very tasty sandwiches and walked down to the water to watch France show off their fireworks, part of an annual fireworks competition held in Montreal. I stood next to Claudia as the climax cast strobe shadows all around, and the thunder of explosions reverberated in our chests.

That evening we carefully navigated our way through a protocol of insurmountable importance: we figured out eachother’s music preferences. We shotgunned band names back and forth, with each exchange becoming a bit more excited, along with lots of “Oh oh, you really must listen to THIS.” However, I learned that Claudia really, really likes The Cure.

day 102

Claudia took me out for a lovely picnic in the park. I met a number of her friends and quietly noted how unpretentious yet ridiculously cultured they were. They would say things like, “Oh yes! Well my boyfriend is filming in Dakar right now, so you absolutely should have coffee with him on your way through.” I felt very welcome, even when Claudia’s friend Marilyn said, “No offense,” (of course), “but I think to be called an American [US Citizen] is about the worst thing a person can be called these days.”

Oh, Canadians! If I had a penny for every time I’ve heard that sort of statement, why, I could buy your country.

It was a perfect, sunny, sweltering afternoon, and the only thing missing was a swimming pool, or some kind of appropriate watercooling institution. We got high tech with a hose, and afterwards sat on Claudia’s porch steps and had a wonderful conversation.

That evening we went out for Afghani food, and I accidentally insulted Claudia. Not only did she gracefully provide an avenue for me to remove my foot from my mouth, but took me out for icecream afterwards! We talked late into the night.

day 103

I took some time to explore Montreal, walking down St. Laurent through Chinatown and Old Port. In Old Port I found Montreallers relaxing with their feet in a big city fountain. Everyone here is so laid back! On the way back, I walked up St. Denis and admired all the cafes. Everyone here is so hip!

Claudia took me for a bike ride up a large hill that overlooks the city. From the top we watched the sun set while families clicked pictures and toddlers tumbled around us. I began to really take note of just how accessible everything is here. Everyone bikes or walks, and there are even designated bike lanes throughout the city.

That night I had my first ever poutine. Heaven.

day 104

Claudia gave me a tour of her neurogenetics lab. This place was from the future, with doors that whooshed open and closed, machines that shook solutions for you so no one had to shake them themselves, and space age microscopes with so many buttons that I nearly had a seizure. It was interesting to see Claudia move from room to room and interact with her workmates. She had a quiet command, an elegant self-assuredness to her movements. I could tell this was her element.

That afternoon was a Shakespeare play:

O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; They pray—grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.

days 105-107

Montreal Jazz Festival! I met Albenna, another of Claudia’s friends, and every day was full of great food, music, and conversation. But most importantly I learned a few things about Claudia that really impressed me, and now I intend to write a few sentences in praise of her.

First off, Claudia smells nice. This is not really vital to my point, but I thought I’d mention it anyway.

One of the things I noticed when I first stepped into Claudia’s apartment was that the place was arranged very deliberately. In one corner stood her light table, slides, slidemounts, and prints. She kept her camera equipment on a set of shelves nearby. Across stood a small table with her computer. In the same manner, her main living room had shelves full of books with all her favorite authors, great big atlases that she would open on her lap with a resounding thump, and collections of photography. In another corner, her favorite music albums surrounded a small stereo. Her kitchen was arranged in a way that showed a love of cooking and eating, and her bedroom and bathroom were arranged in that way that showed a love of comfortable things and girly things. Each corner of her apartment was a small altar to something that she loved.

By itself this may have been nothing special, but the more I got to know Claudia the more I saw that she didn’t just have a deliberate apartment, but that she lives a deliberate, passionate life. She flies through her days like a rocket, but if one stops her in mid-flight, she can always name the purpose of her every random movement.

At one point, Claudia opened up her giant atlas, and we both studied it on her couch. She said to me, “Well, where shall we go?”

“You told me you like trains. Want to do the Trans-Siberian with me?”

“That would be lovely!”

And so we decided, just like that.

Days 96-100: Woodstock

Mon, 20 Jun 2005 14:17:00 PDT

I took an unofficial break from my official tour in Woodstock, New York. Little did I know that I had picked the one place in the country that seemed wholly crafted, from its geology to its local culture, to be the perfect retreat. Janie took me in for a few days and gave me the best overview of Woodstock I could ever hope for.

day 96

I sat on a small, round pillow with my legs crossed. My eyes were shut, and I was examining the little spots behind my eyelids, wondering,

“Is this meditating? Am I meditating right now?

...

Egg and cheese sandwich.

DAMN! Start over. Okay.

Am I meditating now?”

Across from me, incense burned in front of an impressive, guilded gold shrine covering the entire wall. To my left, three Tibetan buddhist monks were chanting incantations from sacred scrolls. Their voices weaved in and out, sometimes falling into a low-hum common rhythm, sometimes falling back out into rambling cacophony, then whispers that carried me away, then a loud CLANG! One fellow had large cymbals that he’d smack together just as I was beginning to relax. Another had a drum that he hit to punctuate the breath he took between phrases. The third guy, the head monk, had no instrument.

We were high in the mountains, and as we left the monastery, I could hear birds chirping, a gentle breeze, and nothing else.

days 97-100

Janie and I explored trails, old streams and waterfalls. We had THE BEST PANCAKES IN NEW YORK (or quite possibly, ON THE EAST COAST, or IN THE COUNTRY, or dare I say… IN THE WORLD!) at Sweet Sue’s in Phoenicia. Janie introduced me to Krause’s Candy Store, and I stocked up on some truly excellent chocolate. I took time to catch up on my notes and spy on deer while swimming in the outdoor pool.

Days 91-95: New York

Wed, 15 Jun 2005 13:44:00 PDT

I’ve been here for a fortieth of a millenium, and I still haven’t learned the formula governing my admiration for another person. Sometimes I recognize a certain grace, a magnanimous spirit, or perhaps simply an overwhelming congeniality. It’s the kind of quality that makes me lean back in my seat and say, “Now so-and-so, boy, what a character!”

Whatever this quality may be, it seems to saturate New York City. It holds everything and everyone together in a body temperature solution of awesomeness, kind of a fish bowl of fabulousness. These conditions were created years ago, I think, when the gravity of so many disparate cultures and brashly contrasting ideologies finally became too great; they all collapsed in upon themselves.

day 91

Glass of wine in one hand, bread with Brie in the other, Landon turned to me and said, “Frankly, if you can drive a car through the man’s vibratto, it’s pretty much over.”

We lay on our plot of land within a city-block layout of picnic blankets spread across Central Park. A spectacular opera performance was taking place not 100 yards in front of us, but few paid attention. Instead there were myriad conversations, uncorking of bottles, and Ann indulging in the attention of a recently arrived Frenchman, for whom I suspet she had not completely pure intentions.

Later, Ann, Landon and I had drinks at the Abbey, and like mowing the lawn, it made me feel like my dad.

day 92

At Rose’s Turn, a piano bar in Greenwich Village, a young man with spikey hair and too much cologne leaned in towards me and growled, “You know, drinking tequila makes me really hot.” Then he tried to follow me into the bathroom. Girls howled and kicked their heels high into the air.

The bartender left his station for a few minutes and sang:

It’s a simple wish
That everyone has had from time to time
So, I know you’ll understand me
When I share my dream with you

I wanna be rich, famous, and powerful
Step on all my enemies
And never do a thing
I wanna be rich, famous, and powerful
So all I have to do in life
Is sit around and sing

I don’t wanna work, struggle, or compromise
When I set a goal, I wanna reach it right away
Cause paying your dues
A-ha, that’s just for other guys
As for me, I want what I want
And I want it all today!

A drunk Jon Lovitz-lookalike made a request. “Hey hey… have you ever heard of a song called ‘Piano Man’? Could I sing that?”

The piano player looked at him sideways. After much cajoling (and a $20 bill), Jon Lovitz got up and sang “Piano Man”.

The highlight of the evening was hearing Ann sing. Oh so sultry!

days 93-95

Ann showed me the ferry, her old stomping grounds in Brooklyn, and we had relaxing tea and good sushi. She introduced me to her friends Tom and Mark who helped me to contemplate what it meant to be a moister. I got to see Seth, my step-step-half-brother, and he gave me a tour of his workplace at the New York Times, followed by tapas.

Days 83-92: Washington, DC

Tue, 7 Jun 2005 20:10:00 PDT

If every city of the world was a flavor of icecream, I would describe Washington, DC as Neopolitan. It’s rather unextraordinary yet dependable, plain but accomodating, and if you have discerning taste, you chomp the hell out of that chocolate section, and leave the strawberry and vanilla for someone else. Leah and Carrie helped me do just that.

days 83-92

I sat in the waiting room of Heather Wilson’s congressional office in the Canon building, on Capitol Hill, surrounded by emblems of Our Great Nation, Our Fantastic State of New Mexico, and Our Pretty Respectable 1st Congressional District. Chile ristras adorned the necks of solemn busts, holding testament to both New Mexico’s proud history and its singular culinary vision: One Spice to Rule Them All.

Next to me stood a table held up by two muscular legs, complete with jeans and cowboy boots. Trumpets blared in the distance.

The receptionist at the front desk stood up, pulled a magazine about three inches out of its postal envelope, and addressed the rest of the office.

“Who ordered Hustler?” she asked.

A head poked up from behind a monitor across the room. It swivelled, first to her, then to the buxom blonde peaking out of the manila envelope, then to me.

“Uh, yeah, about that,” the man behind the monitor carefully replied, “Larry Flynt sends a copy of each issue to all the congressional offices on the hill. It’s sort of a political statement, I guess.”

He looked at me and broke a small smile. I smiled back, doing my best to appear like I was not mentally recording every moment of this.

“Just put it in the periodicals cabinet in the back.” he said. “And Christina…”

“Yes?”

“Uh… probably a little more subtlety would be appreciated in the future.”