Coming to Africa, I had a picture in my mind of how it would be: women in exotic dresses carrying buckets on their heads, barefooted kids playing soccer in dirt streets, and villagers gathering along the shoreline to view the day’s catch. You can imagine my surprise when, in addition to the aforementioned expectations, I found hundreds of American twenty-somethings, all night parties, and softball.
I met Mike Dvorjak surfing in front Dakar’s Club Med. Originally from Half Moon Bay, he is living in Senegal with his girlfriend Devon, teaching at the International School of Dakar (ISD). Before the session was over he told me about a softball tournament going on in Dakar, and invited me to check it out that afternoon. It sounded too weird not to have a look.
I didn’t know what to expect. After all, we were in Africa, not exactly known for its baseball fervor; how big could a softball tournament be? On the other hand, Mike said he was making a documentary on the event, and he had some serious looking cameras.
When we passed through the security gates at the ISD field, I thought I’d stumbled out of the corn and onto Kevin Costner’s Field of Dreams; it was an oasis of America in West Africa. Coed teams played softball on green grass. Spectators in lawn chairs consumed hot dogs, peanuts, soft serve, and beer. Teammates exchanged high fives. Children chased foul balls. It was like home.
Turns out, my arrival in Senegal coincided with the West African Invitational Softball Tournament (WAIST). Half sporting event half spring break, the annual competition is held over a three-day weekend and is comprised mostly of Peace Corps volunteers from around West Africa, with local and expat teams rounding out the field. For three days the party doesn’t stop—it was a bandwagon I was happy to jump on.
The party’s nucleus was the American Club, which shares a fence with ISD. Like a country club without the golf course, the American Club boasts a swimming pool, tennis and volleyball courts, a lounge, a bar, and a snack shack. People came and went between the four softball fields to regroup with friends, take a dip in the pool, put some pink on their pale skin, and drink cold Flag (the local beer). The latter fueled the weekend
God knows these guys earned it. Peace Corps volunteers sign up for a two-year service, not knowing where in the world they will be placed, for the sake of helping others. They live with villagers, eat their food, and learn their local dialect. They each specialize in sectors like sustainable agriculture, women education/empowerment, and business development, and teach the topics to the locals. You can imagine how they look forward to WAIST, a trip to America without leaving the continent, after being stuck in a village for months on end. It made me feel silly that a few years ago I wanted to go somewhere for spring break to get away from “stressful” college life.
At WAIST, funky haircuts and costumes are not the exception but the rule. I doubt if anyone in West Africa has ever seen such a concentration of Mohawks and Mullets, and I know they haven’t seen sporting events where the players dress as pirates or play in their underwear (unless they attended WAIST any one of the last 36 years of its existence). The debauchery in the American Club extended onto the softball diamond, with outfielders setting down their beers to chase fly balls, and a girl with a boom box pacing the foul line, dancing to hip hop beats and riling up the players and fans. Never had the Peace Corps looked so appealing to me.
While WAIST is a diversion for most teams, some, like the Pirates of Mauritania, take the event seriously. This Peace Corps team spends months dispersed throughout the Sahara, and they see WAIST as an opportunity to reconnect with an American pastime and their love for competition.
“Most of us have athletic pasts. We played sports in high school and some of us in college, and we miss it,” said one Pirate. “Add to it that we’re alone in the desert most of the year and it makes WAIST that much more special. We want to win.”
Blocking their path to the tournament trophy was Senegal Three, a strong team of local Senegalese players who narrowly beat the Pirates in the finals last year, and looked likely to repeat. The Pirates, however, sought revenge.
It was around this drama that Mike focused his documentary. He filmed all of the Pirate and Senegal games, contrasting athletic and competitive Senegal Three with the Pirates, a team that practiced once a year and was relying more on heart and determination than softball skills. Mike lost sleep praying to the softball gods to put Senegal Three and the Pirates in the final.
It seems the gods were listening. In the semi-final match up between Senegal Three and The Gambia’s Peace Corps team, Senegal was trailing by three runs. In the final minutes of the hour long game, with the bases loaded, Senegal Three hit a Grand Slam to win it. The Pirates had already clinched their spot in the final, and the storybook match-up would unfold Monday afternoon on a legitimate baseball diamond that overlooked the rocky Atlantic coastline.
A wild Sunday night turned into Monday morning very quickly for most WAIST attendees, but sleep deprivation and hangovers hindered few from attending the game. Hundreds showed up, 95% of whom rooted for the Pirates, and it was standing room only along the foul line (except for one young volunteer, who was so hung over that she slept in the middle of the herd, but she did show up). Hats were removed when a player from Peace Corps Guinea tooted the national anthem on his trumpet, and the crowd sang along in near unity. The Pirates finished their final beers before the game, and Senegal Three was up to bat.
I’ve witnessed some exciting sporting events—overtime hockey shootouts, buzzer beater basketball wins, even Barry Bond’s 756th homerun—and I am dead serious when I tell you that the excitement that surrounded this game was up there with all of them. Double plays were made, leads were exchanged, and homeruns were hit. The game’s excitement was matched by that of the crowd, with girls dressed as pirates storming the crowd to announce the score after an inning, or dig their hooks in the dirt and yelling“AAARGGHHHH!” Music was blasted and chants were yelled. We jumped and screamed when the Pirates scored and nervously covered our moths when Senegal Three retook the lead. It was like being at a local team’s home game
After a rollercoaster forty-five minutes, it became clear the day belonged to the The Pirates. They beat Senegal Three 11-6. The crowd rushed the field. Beer was shook and sprayed. The MVP was named.
The elation on the faces of the players said it all—they were hometown heroes, and they managed to become so in West Africa. With the softball, the Peace Corps, the expats, and the food, America had reincarnated in Africa. If only for a few days. While it wasn’t what I expected when I arrived, WAIST provided fun, excitement, and a valuable lesson—home is where you make it.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Vego Sego
Life’s good when Vegas awakens your hidden dance moves to the sweet melody of Paul Oakenfold...
Taylor's Travels: Best of Morocco
The Morocco leg of my African journey has come to a close. As I write this, I’m on the plane to Senegal, reflecting on the happenings of the past five weeks, and want to share some of the some of my favorites with you.
Favorite Food: Tajine. This Moroccan staple can be found everywhere, though maybe not now because I may have eaten them all. Tender chicken or lamb hidden under a mound of veggies and potatoes, slow cooked in a clay pot and served to you steaming hot, the juices still bubbling, begging you to dip your bread.
Favorite Dessert: Coconut Hamburgers. At least that’s what we called them, as these cookies tasted like macaroons and were shaped like burgers. I say dessert, but I ate these things day or dark, pre or post meal. (The best way to ensure room for dessert is to eat it before a meal). In Marrakech they cost 15 cents. I wanted everyone around me to be hooked too, like a dope head trying to recruit others so the pleasure will be less guilty. “Hey! Psst! Ya you. Wanna try? First one’s free…”
Favorite Word: Upsaha. We learned this was the Arabic word for “cheers,” and used it every chance we got, sure we were impressing the locals by branching out beyond “hello” and “thank you” (“Salaam Aleikum” and “Chukran”). Then one night we were having tea with a local in Essueira and said “Upsaha,” tilting our mint tea towards him. He said, “Don’t say that. Nobody says that,” and made us feel about this big. But we later learned the guy was a lemon and continued with our Upsahas.
Favorite Saying: “In Morocco we go slow in the morning and not fast in the afternoon.” Speaks for itself.
Favorite Surf Spot: Inside Anchor Point. The actual point at Anchors is overcrowded and a bit soft, but the inside can have waves that look like the Superbank. If you’re willing to fight the current (not the crowds though, cause everyone is on the outside perfecting their cutbacks), you’ll be rewarded with long, square tubes. Morocco’s most visible secret spot.
Favorite City: Fes. I could have flown by Fes in a plane it would have been my favorite. It’s a sprawling labyrinth of narrow alleys, markets, and mosques, all perfectly placed between green mountains that make the buildings look like legos. Add to it a handful of generous and kind people I met, and my two day stay there seemed way too short.
Favorite Custom: Hand holding. Its nothing sexual (not that there’s anything wrong with that), but you’ll often see men holding hands when they talk to each other. They just made it look so natural and manly, like a high-five after a workout and a couple shots of Jack. So guys, look out, I may just hold your hand when I get home. Mostly because I love the custom, but also cause I want to see how awkward it makes you.
Speaking of awkward…
Most Awkward: Hands down the award goes to my time spent at the local “Hamam,” or bathhouse, in Fes. I was staying with a local guy (I met on the train ride up) and his family, and since there isn’t hot water in most of Fes, he invited me to the Hamam to clean up. I saw this as an opportunity to experience the culture and eagerly accepted. Long story short you strip down to your underwear and walk into these tile steam rooms, dozens of dudes sitting around and not only bathing themselves, but each other too.
So this is where the saying “you wash my back…” comes from, I thought.
I was clueless as to protocol and had to be told where to sit and which buckets of water to fetch. My host coached me through the whole thing, the five year old next to me getting similar instructions from his dad. Before I knew it there was a Hamam attendant dousing me with buckets of scolding water and telling me to lie down. If this all seems a little weird to read about, please, imagine how I felt. Then the guy starts a two-handed scrub of my back with a loofta, just leaning into it like he’s striping the deck of a boat. It felt like 80 grit sand paper, and I literally saw piles of dead skin piling up next to my face. I wanted to throw in the towel (then wrap it around me and get the hell out of there), but this torture was going on all around, and I didn’t want to be the sissy white guy that couldn’t hang.
After shedding about three pounds of skin (screw weight watchers), the guy starts cracking my back in every conceivable uncomfortable manner. With each crack he was yelling “HAH!” like he was a black belt punching through a board. By the end I was just cracking up, it was all just so weird. Combined with the fact that through the whole process everyone was watching to see how the newbie would react, and it takes the cake for my most awkward experience in Morocco.
So, I’m on my way to West Africa. The cute check-in girl waived the 150 Euro fee for my surfboard, and I have a free seat next to me so I can spread out. Off to a good start on the second leg.
Favorite Food: Tajine. This Moroccan staple can be found everywhere, though maybe not now because I may have eaten them all. Tender chicken or lamb hidden under a mound of veggies and potatoes, slow cooked in a clay pot and served to you steaming hot, the juices still bubbling, begging you to dip your bread.
Favorite Dessert: Coconut Hamburgers. At least that’s what we called them, as these cookies tasted like macaroons and were shaped like burgers. I say dessert, but I ate these things day or dark, pre or post meal. (The best way to ensure room for dessert is to eat it before a meal). In Marrakech they cost 15 cents. I wanted everyone around me to be hooked too, like a dope head trying to recruit others so the pleasure will be less guilty. “Hey! Psst! Ya you. Wanna try? First one’s free…”
Favorite Word: Upsaha. We learned this was the Arabic word for “cheers,” and used it every chance we got, sure we were impressing the locals by branching out beyond “hello” and “thank you” (“Salaam Aleikum” and “Chukran”). Then one night we were having tea with a local in Essueira and said “Upsaha,” tilting our mint tea towards him. He said, “Don’t say that. Nobody says that,” and made us feel about this big. But we later learned the guy was a lemon and continued with our Upsahas.
Favorite Saying: “In Morocco we go slow in the morning and not fast in the afternoon.” Speaks for itself.
Favorite Surf Spot: Inside Anchor Point. The actual point at Anchors is overcrowded and a bit soft, but the inside can have waves that look like the Superbank. If you’re willing to fight the current (not the crowds though, cause everyone is on the outside perfecting their cutbacks), you’ll be rewarded with long, square tubes. Morocco’s most visible secret spot.
Favorite City: Fes. I could have flown by Fes in a plane it would have been my favorite. It’s a sprawling labyrinth of narrow alleys, markets, and mosques, all perfectly placed between green mountains that make the buildings look like legos. Add to it a handful of generous and kind people I met, and my two day stay there seemed way too short.
Favorite Custom: Hand holding. Its nothing sexual (not that there’s anything wrong with that), but you’ll often see men holding hands when they talk to each other. They just made it look so natural and manly, like a high-five after a workout and a couple shots of Jack. So guys, look out, I may just hold your hand when I get home. Mostly because I love the custom, but also cause I want to see how awkward it makes you.
Speaking of awkward…
Most Awkward: Hands down the award goes to my time spent at the local “Hamam,” or bathhouse, in Fes. I was staying with a local guy (I met on the train ride up) and his family, and since there isn’t hot water in most of Fes, he invited me to the Hamam to clean up. I saw this as an opportunity to experience the culture and eagerly accepted. Long story short you strip down to your underwear and walk into these tile steam rooms, dozens of dudes sitting around and not only bathing themselves, but each other too.
So this is where the saying “you wash my back…” comes from, I thought.
I was clueless as to protocol and had to be told where to sit and which buckets of water to fetch. My host coached me through the whole thing, the five year old next to me getting similar instructions from his dad. Before I knew it there was a Hamam attendant dousing me with buckets of scolding water and telling me to lie down. If this all seems a little weird to read about, please, imagine how I felt. Then the guy starts a two-handed scrub of my back with a loofta, just leaning into it like he’s striping the deck of a boat. It felt like 80 grit sand paper, and I literally saw piles of dead skin piling up next to my face. I wanted to throw in the towel (then wrap it around me and get the hell out of there), but this torture was going on all around, and I didn’t want to be the sissy white guy that couldn’t hang.
After shedding about three pounds of skin (screw weight watchers), the guy starts cracking my back in every conceivable uncomfortable manner. With each crack he was yelling “HAH!” like he was a black belt punching through a board. By the end I was just cracking up, it was all just so weird. Combined with the fact that through the whole process everyone was watching to see how the newbie would react, and it takes the cake for my most awkward experience in Morocco.
So, I’m on my way to West Africa. The cute check-in girl waived the 150 Euro fee for my surfboard, and I have a free seat next to me so I can spread out. Off to a good start on the second leg.
Taylor's Travels: A Regular
Regulars have always intrigued me. You know them, the people who frequent restaurants and bars, sitting in the same place and ordering the same thing every time. The servers know their names and ask about their families. “That would be cool,” I think, then reconsider when I imagine the monotony of it all. Same food and same scene would get boring. But when I found myself calling out to Leela of Aftas Café in Taghazout, Morocco, asking for the same chicken, chili, and goat cheese pizza I’d ordered my past six visits, I realized I may have just become a regular, if only for a short while.
Nobody called it Aftas, though; they called it “the Café.” As if there was only one in town. It sat on the beach above the colorful fishing boats, shaded by an oasis of ivy that draped down the stone walls. There was outdoor seating, but I’d usually gather with friends inside, where long cushions lined the cave-like lair. Lonely Planets and board games littered the empty tables. Moroccan cloth covered the walls, but graciously made room for an obligatory Bob Marley poster.
I’d sit with my best local friends, Younes and Tarik, play heated games of Jenga, and speak of the day’s surf. Leela would serve us.
Leela was an adorable young lady from the Sunshine Coast of Australia, and was working for her friend and fellow Aussie, Devvy, who opened the Café a few months back. (I didn’t see Devvy much, as she was always dealing with something; a broken fridge or a repairman who couldn’t come to fix the stove “because its raining”). Leela, poor thing, was clearly torn between being on vacation and working. She would chat you up for five minutes before realizing the next tables coffee was up four minutes ago. Or come around and ask you if it was you who ordered the cake.
“Nope. Wasn’t me.”
She’d give a confused look around the restaurant and say, “Oh well. Whoever it was, they’ll ask for it again.”
But after a mistake she’d be quick to appease you with a gorgeous smile and some brochette on the house. Plus, her Laissez-fair attitude towards service fit with the laid back atmosphere of the Café; like the rest of us, she was in town for a good time. Except when she had to kick out stray dogs and cats, or Taghazout’s resident glue sniffer, who would march dejectedly into the Café to bum a Dirham or a smoke off the patrons. Then she was all business.
Younes lived next door to the Café. He owned a local surf school and tour company and could usually be found at the Café. He spoke perfect English and, from his years working with international clientele, had picked up a worldly vocabulary and sense of humor.
“Jeeze Younes, where are all the girls man?”
“Ah mate, sometimes they come through but most of the time you’re stuck with Pamela Handerson.”
He was a wealth of knowledge of the local area, and had classic stories of creating and maintaining his business. Like when he was getting started and barely knew how to surf himself, so he would drive his clients an hour and a half north to teach them to surf at the one break he was comfortable surfing. Now he goes to any of the of beginner waves within ten minutes of town. In one lesson with a dozen German girls, Younes gave them a healthy shock when, before the pre surf calisthenics, he stuffed a sock full of sand down the crotch of his wetsuit. “Alright, jumping jacks!”
He would order the lasagna, and for dessert the chocolate mousse.
Tarik was fluent in four languages: Arabic, French, English and Norwegian, but spoke mostly with his face. The showman of Taghazout, he’d have anyone within earshot leaning close when he told stories, punctuated with dramatic pauses and cocked eyebrows. I couldn’t get enough of his tales of growing up surfing in Morocco. He told me about sneaking out of his house to surf at five AM, behind his father who was going to morning prayers at the Mosque, Tarik peeking around imagined corners to reenact the scene. Or how, because of a surf wax shortage, he’d collect discarded cheese wrap from his rich friends and melt it onto his board for traction, the deck swollen with lumps of bright red Edam remnants.
If the subject wasn’t surfing, he’d talk about his tenure as a rapper in Norway. While he spoke little about his group, I learned plenty of his brushes with international rap stars: Wyclef is a God. Pharell is a jerk. 50-Cent is short.
His language was littered with phrases he’d picked up from travelers, “What the fuck?” and “Are you crazy?” appearing in nearly every sentence.
“Hey Tarik, were the waves good today?”
“Are you crazy? It was good, man.”
At first I was a little uncomfortable with it, like he was saying I was dumb for not knowing the waves had been good. But I soon learned it was just his special way of saying “yes.”
Tarik also ordered the lasagna, but lived for the coffee and chocolate brulee that Devvy should be famous for.
I spent my last night in Taghazout in the Café. The regular crew was there, among others. Tarik debuted his new rap, an ode to Jenga in the tune of Manu Chau’s King of the Bongo (Mama was the queen of Jenga, Papa was the king of Jenga, I’m the king of Jenga too, what the fuck you gonna do?) Younes concentrated on his lasagna before downing his mousse in less than thirty seconds. Leela booted out the glue sniffer in between not taking orders. And I ate my last piece of pizza. I’ll miss being a regular at the Café. The food was delicious and the atmosphere welcoming, but mostly I’ll miss the characters that kept me coming back, time and time again.
Nobody called it Aftas, though; they called it “the Café.” As if there was only one in town. It sat on the beach above the colorful fishing boats, shaded by an oasis of ivy that draped down the stone walls. There was outdoor seating, but I’d usually gather with friends inside, where long cushions lined the cave-like lair. Lonely Planets and board games littered the empty tables. Moroccan cloth covered the walls, but graciously made room for an obligatory Bob Marley poster.
I’d sit with my best local friends, Younes and Tarik, play heated games of Jenga, and speak of the day’s surf. Leela would serve us.
Leela was an adorable young lady from the Sunshine Coast of Australia, and was working for her friend and fellow Aussie, Devvy, who opened the Café a few months back. (I didn’t see Devvy much, as she was always dealing with something; a broken fridge or a repairman who couldn’t come to fix the stove “because its raining”). Leela, poor thing, was clearly torn between being on vacation and working. She would chat you up for five minutes before realizing the next tables coffee was up four minutes ago. Or come around and ask you if it was you who ordered the cake.
“Nope. Wasn’t me.”
She’d give a confused look around the restaurant and say, “Oh well. Whoever it was, they’ll ask for it again.”
But after a mistake she’d be quick to appease you with a gorgeous smile and some brochette on the house. Plus, her Laissez-fair attitude towards service fit with the laid back atmosphere of the Café; like the rest of us, she was in town for a good time. Except when she had to kick out stray dogs and cats, or Taghazout’s resident glue sniffer, who would march dejectedly into the Café to bum a Dirham or a smoke off the patrons. Then she was all business.
Younes lived next door to the Café. He owned a local surf school and tour company and could usually be found at the Café. He spoke perfect English and, from his years working with international clientele, had picked up a worldly vocabulary and sense of humor.
“Jeeze Younes, where are all the girls man?”
“Ah mate, sometimes they come through but most of the time you’re stuck with Pamela Handerson.”
He was a wealth of knowledge of the local area, and had classic stories of creating and maintaining his business. Like when he was getting started and barely knew how to surf himself, so he would drive his clients an hour and a half north to teach them to surf at the one break he was comfortable surfing. Now he goes to any of the of beginner waves within ten minutes of town. In one lesson with a dozen German girls, Younes gave them a healthy shock when, before the pre surf calisthenics, he stuffed a sock full of sand down the crotch of his wetsuit. “Alright, jumping jacks!”
He would order the lasagna, and for dessert the chocolate mousse.
Tarik was fluent in four languages: Arabic, French, English and Norwegian, but spoke mostly with his face. The showman of Taghazout, he’d have anyone within earshot leaning close when he told stories, punctuated with dramatic pauses and cocked eyebrows. I couldn’t get enough of his tales of growing up surfing in Morocco. He told me about sneaking out of his house to surf at five AM, behind his father who was going to morning prayers at the Mosque, Tarik peeking around imagined corners to reenact the scene. Or how, because of a surf wax shortage, he’d collect discarded cheese wrap from his rich friends and melt it onto his board for traction, the deck swollen with lumps of bright red Edam remnants.
If the subject wasn’t surfing, he’d talk about his tenure as a rapper in Norway. While he spoke little about his group, I learned plenty of his brushes with international rap stars: Wyclef is a God. Pharell is a jerk. 50-Cent is short.
His language was littered with phrases he’d picked up from travelers, “What the fuck?” and “Are you crazy?” appearing in nearly every sentence.
“Hey Tarik, were the waves good today?”
“Are you crazy? It was good, man.”
At first I was a little uncomfortable with it, like he was saying I was dumb for not knowing the waves had been good. But I soon learned it was just his special way of saying “yes.”
Tarik also ordered the lasagna, but lived for the coffee and chocolate brulee that Devvy should be famous for.
I spent my last night in Taghazout in the Café. The regular crew was there, among others. Tarik debuted his new rap, an ode to Jenga in the tune of Manu Chau’s King of the Bongo (Mama was the queen of Jenga, Papa was the king of Jenga, I’m the king of Jenga too, what the fuck you gonna do?) Younes concentrated on his lasagna before downing his mousse in less than thirty seconds. Leela booted out the glue sniffer in between not taking orders. And I ate my last piece of pizza. I’ll miss being a regular at the Café. The food was delicious and the atmosphere welcoming, but mostly I’ll miss the characters that kept me coming back, time and time again.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Just Far Enough
Life’s Good When…you’re on the road towards a party most likely to meet your expectations of a great time. Just far enough out of town to be considered a road trip and making new CD’s is a necessity. This past weekend my travel partners and I left town mid-afternoon south for San Louis Obispo (SLO). Our cause was to celebrate a good friends birthday, relieve ourselves from the weekday regimen, and enjoy our short get away to the fullest.
We set out with clouds in the sky and wet roads from a mid-morning rain. To me this meant more exciting driving conditions. Of course because of precious cargo (passengers) I would have to be on my best driving behavior, keeping the 100+ speeds to straight-aways and just long enough for the thrill without the ticket. Although enjoying the cloudy scenery, for my travel partners rain would ruin their intentions to wear dresses and boots for the evenings events. To eager to get to our destination weather worries faded, we stopped for nothing and kept the music up beat.
Taking just under two hours we arrived in SLO around 3:20pm. Expecting to greet the birthday girl, we were welcomed by two strangers I’d never met, the roommates. Happy to be free from the driver seat I chilled out with the comfort of knowing I didn’t have to move from the broken back couch I was sitting in for two hours; cocktails began at 6:30pm, dinner was at 7:30pm.
When five o’clock hit, the living room went from about 15 people to five guys. The assembly line had started: shower, hair dryer, curling iron, make-up etc. Whether it’s one girl or ten an hour and half for getting ready seems to be a popular time frame. Now for guys, it's more like in the movies when the guy walks into the airplane bathroom (lavatory) closes the door, opens it a second later and walks out in a suit. Regardless, the time is worth it.
The preliminary stages of a great night started with cocktails at the Del Mar Bar. Once everyone was unable to drive safely the taxi cabs arrived and shuttled us down town. We arrived and filtered downstairs to a basement like special events room fully decorated and staffed. Here’s where the expectations would be met. Dinner for fifty, open bar, and good company, all compliments of the birthday girl’s parents. Extremely generous is what comes to mind when I think of this family. As the night carried on the staff quickly caught up to our drinking abilities. With every new drink a new conversation would start, vaguely remembering details, but confident in our enjoyment. After speeches and laughs from friends and family we departed at 12:30am from a dinner that began at 7:30pm.
At this point the birthday girl had thrown in the towel and retreated back home. This left about twelve of us out and finishing the night at a small bar dancing. Last call put us on the street, directionless, but happy. With rationality out the window we began walking not really comprehending how far we had to go; about two and half miles.
Once home we all piled on the living room floor, shouted at each other for about ten minutes, and finally passed out almost instantaneously. Dazed and confused, the morning brought groans and pain. Luckily I had consumed just enough water the night before to keep my head from pounding out of control. Keeping the blanket over my head to avoid conversation, I tried sleeping, failed, and inevitably wound up listening to multiple girls “catch up.” Switching from one hip to the other on a thin carpet floor I tried with desperation to sleep off a night overly consumed with fun and alcohol.
As we said our good-byes two things were on our minds: In-N-Out Burger and our beds. We accomplished one within twenty minutes of leaving San Louis Obispo. Eager to get home and rest, we were cruising, doing a safe 75mph and listening to the “chill playlist.” Reclined in shotgun and spread across the back seat my travel partners were out for the count, an hour of silence past slowly. We were close now and all thinking about one request: be cloudy and rainy at home so when we arrive we can melt in our beds guilt free. Our request was granted.
Stephen Conway
We set out with clouds in the sky and wet roads from a mid-morning rain. To me this meant more exciting driving conditions. Of course because of precious cargo (passengers) I would have to be on my best driving behavior, keeping the 100+ speeds to straight-aways and just long enough for the thrill without the ticket. Although enjoying the cloudy scenery, for my travel partners rain would ruin their intentions to wear dresses and boots for the evenings events. To eager to get to our destination weather worries faded, we stopped for nothing and kept the music up beat.
Taking just under two hours we arrived in SLO around 3:20pm. Expecting to greet the birthday girl, we were welcomed by two strangers I’d never met, the roommates. Happy to be free from the driver seat I chilled out with the comfort of knowing I didn’t have to move from the broken back couch I was sitting in for two hours; cocktails began at 6:30pm, dinner was at 7:30pm.
When five o’clock hit, the living room went from about 15 people to five guys. The assembly line had started: shower, hair dryer, curling iron, make-up etc. Whether it’s one girl or ten an hour and half for getting ready seems to be a popular time frame. Now for guys, it's more like in the movies when the guy walks into the airplane bathroom (lavatory) closes the door, opens it a second later and walks out in a suit. Regardless, the time is worth it.
The preliminary stages of a great night started with cocktails at the Del Mar Bar. Once everyone was unable to drive safely the taxi cabs arrived and shuttled us down town. We arrived and filtered downstairs to a basement like special events room fully decorated and staffed. Here’s where the expectations would be met. Dinner for fifty, open bar, and good company, all compliments of the birthday girl’s parents. Extremely generous is what comes to mind when I think of this family. As the night carried on the staff quickly caught up to our drinking abilities. With every new drink a new conversation would start, vaguely remembering details, but confident in our enjoyment. After speeches and laughs from friends and family we departed at 12:30am from a dinner that began at 7:30pm.
At this point the birthday girl had thrown in the towel and retreated back home. This left about twelve of us out and finishing the night at a small bar dancing. Last call put us on the street, directionless, but happy. With rationality out the window we began walking not really comprehending how far we had to go; about two and half miles.
Once home we all piled on the living room floor, shouted at each other for about ten minutes, and finally passed out almost instantaneously. Dazed and confused, the morning brought groans and pain. Luckily I had consumed just enough water the night before to keep my head from pounding out of control. Keeping the blanket over my head to avoid conversation, I tried sleeping, failed, and inevitably wound up listening to multiple girls “catch up.” Switching from one hip to the other on a thin carpet floor I tried with desperation to sleep off a night overly consumed with fun and alcohol.
As we said our good-byes two things were on our minds: In-N-Out Burger and our beds. We accomplished one within twenty minutes of leaving San Louis Obispo. Eager to get home and rest, we were cruising, doing a safe 75mph and listening to the “chill playlist.” Reclined in shotgun and spread across the back seat my travel partners were out for the count, an hour of silence past slowly. We were close now and all thinking about one request: be cloudy and rainy at home so when we arrive we can melt in our beds guilt free. Our request was granted.
Stephen Conway
Friday, February 6, 2009
Taylor's Travels: Lessons from a Travel Buddy
They say (or at least my mom says) that if you really want to get to know your friends, you should travel with them. You will learn things you loathe and love about them, and it will teach you in a few weeks what a few years of local friendship won’t reveal. I just spent the last three weeks with Trevor Nelson, a relatively new friend from Santa Cruz, and learned heaps of useless and amusing stuff about him. Or so I thought.
1. He eats terribly slowly. I’d be finishing up my couscous and waving the waiter down to order the obligatory post-meal mint tea, only to realize he’d yet to move on from his salad. I couldn’t figure out where I was losing him. During following meals I slowed down and tried to match his pace, quickly learning where he was lagging (or I was speeding)—chewing. Trevor chews his food like he’s searching for a tiny piece of glass in it. I tried it. I took a bite at the same time as him and chewed. Chewed. And chewed. When the consistency of the food made Gerber’s seem like an overcooked rib-eye, I swallowed. Trevor continued for another ten seconds or so.
Another factor, though this is like faulting a headwind for slowing down a car with a flat tire, is his meticulous condiment preparation. While I would stuff my face (M.H.) with fries drenched in ketchup, he would take each one and rotate 3/5 of it in ketchup before indulging.
I was unconsciously trying to be the master of efficiency, maximizing the amount of food consumed in the least amount of time. But Trevor’s leisurely eating style reminded me that we were having a meal, not running an assembly line. If I relaxed and enjoyed the food, atmosphere, and company, the meal would be more enjoyable. Not to mention my digestive track would thank me.
2. While he chews, Trevor tends to stare off into the distance, a look on his face that suggests he is thinking of ways to solve the world’s economy or musing on the meaning of life. It’s likely though, that he’s thinking about socks. I learned of this Lieutenant Dan-like obsession mid-way through the trip, when he first ran out of freshies.
“Dude, do you have any of my socks in your bag?”
“No. Why would your socks be in my bag?”
“I dunno. Maybe I’m tripping, but I thought I’d brought more and I’m out.”
I suggested he wash them, but he gave me a smug look like, “You’ve got a lot to learn, kid,” and went out for a new pair.
One to three days later (depending on the shoe-to-sandal ratio) he would do it again. He’d look at his socks in disgust, maybe attempting the awkward foot-to-nose leg lift to catch a whiff, and declare “Gonna go get socks.”
White, black, checkered, it didn’t matter as long as they were clean and soft. He’d throw the old socks out like a junkie does an empty baggie, with a disregard for the past and anticipation for the next fix. Each time he’d slip into a new pair of fake Nike socks, I became progressively envious. His socks were making him happy. Mine were not. I would struggle into my washed Costco socks, stiff from the residual detergent I’d failed to rinse out, and wonder if Trevor was onto something. Maybe happy feet make for a happy traveler?
3. Trevor is easy, and to me that’s the most important characteristic of a good travel partner. He travels with an open mind and pliable plans, and answers any “This or that?” question with, “Whatever, I’m easy.”
“You want to go to Marrakech or stay in Taghazout?”
“Whatever, I’m easy.”
“You want to eat in or out?”
“Whatever, I’m easy.”
At first it was simply refreshing and made life easier for me, I could call the shots. But after getting this response over and over, I saw the benefit really lay with him. No plan was concrete, everything was possible, and whatever happened he would be cool with it. This attitude is worth more than money or languages while traveling. The millionaire fluent in Arabic might let a Moroccan rain storm ruin his vacation. Trevor would go play in the puddles (then promptly change his socks, of course).
While I like to believe that I share these easy going tendencies, Trevor is clearly easier than me, and showed me how smooth life’s sail could be if I loosened up even more.
Trevor is back in the states now, and I will finish the trip solo. He rubbed off on me, unintentionally teaching me small life lessons during our trip, things that will make the next few months more enjoyable. In fact, as I write this, my feet rest snuggly in a fresh pair of socks that feel like down comforters on my toes.
1. He eats terribly slowly. I’d be finishing up my couscous and waving the waiter down to order the obligatory post-meal mint tea, only to realize he’d yet to move on from his salad. I couldn’t figure out where I was losing him. During following meals I slowed down and tried to match his pace, quickly learning where he was lagging (or I was speeding)—chewing. Trevor chews his food like he’s searching for a tiny piece of glass in it. I tried it. I took a bite at the same time as him and chewed. Chewed. And chewed. When the consistency of the food made Gerber’s seem like an overcooked rib-eye, I swallowed. Trevor continued for another ten seconds or so.
Another factor, though this is like faulting a headwind for slowing down a car with a flat tire, is his meticulous condiment preparation. While I would stuff my face (M.H.) with fries drenched in ketchup, he would take each one and rotate 3/5 of it in ketchup before indulging.
I was unconsciously trying to be the master of efficiency, maximizing the amount of food consumed in the least amount of time. But Trevor’s leisurely eating style reminded me that we were having a meal, not running an assembly line. If I relaxed and enjoyed the food, atmosphere, and company, the meal would be more enjoyable. Not to mention my digestive track would thank me.
2. While he chews, Trevor tends to stare off into the distance, a look on his face that suggests he is thinking of ways to solve the world’s economy or musing on the meaning of life. It’s likely though, that he’s thinking about socks. I learned of this Lieutenant Dan-like obsession mid-way through the trip, when he first ran out of freshies.
“Dude, do you have any of my socks in your bag?”
“No. Why would your socks be in my bag?”
“I dunno. Maybe I’m tripping, but I thought I’d brought more and I’m out.”
I suggested he wash them, but he gave me a smug look like, “You’ve got a lot to learn, kid,” and went out for a new pair.
One to three days later (depending on the shoe-to-sandal ratio) he would do it again. He’d look at his socks in disgust, maybe attempting the awkward foot-to-nose leg lift to catch a whiff, and declare “Gonna go get socks.”
White, black, checkered, it didn’t matter as long as they were clean and soft. He’d throw the old socks out like a junkie does an empty baggie, with a disregard for the past and anticipation for the next fix. Each time he’d slip into a new pair of fake Nike socks, I became progressively envious. His socks were making him happy. Mine were not. I would struggle into my washed Costco socks, stiff from the residual detergent I’d failed to rinse out, and wonder if Trevor was onto something. Maybe happy feet make for a happy traveler?
3. Trevor is easy, and to me that’s the most important characteristic of a good travel partner. He travels with an open mind and pliable plans, and answers any “This or that?” question with, “Whatever, I’m easy.”
“You want to go to Marrakech or stay in Taghazout?”
“Whatever, I’m easy.”
“You want to eat in or out?”
“Whatever, I’m easy.”
At first it was simply refreshing and made life easier for me, I could call the shots. But after getting this response over and over, I saw the benefit really lay with him. No plan was concrete, everything was possible, and whatever happened he would be cool with it. This attitude is worth more than money or languages while traveling. The millionaire fluent in Arabic might let a Moroccan rain storm ruin his vacation. Trevor would go play in the puddles (then promptly change his socks, of course).
While I like to believe that I share these easy going tendencies, Trevor is clearly easier than me, and showed me how smooth life’s sail could be if I loosened up even more.
Trevor is back in the states now, and I will finish the trip solo. He rubbed off on me, unintentionally teaching me small life lessons during our trip, things that will make the next few months more enjoyable. In fact, as I write this, my feet rest snuggly in a fresh pair of socks that feel like down comforters on my toes.
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