BUEN VIAJE!

The Toledo waiter

2012-01-26T12:23:00.001+01:00

The waiter offered my a small discount. The kindness and grace of random strangers I meet while traveling. The conversation when something like this:

Waiter: "It's the least I can do. We Chinese must take care of each other. Where are you from?"

Me: "That is very kind. I live in Paris but am from California."

Waiter: looking confused, "But you are Chinese. I mean, your face . . . and we have been speaking Chinese."

Me: "Actually I'm American."

Waiter: "No worries. You speak Chinese,your family came from China some time ago. You're Chinese."

Me: "Well Ethnically I am Chinese I guess."

Waiter: "How it is in Paris? Is it hard to find a nice Chinese girl there?"

Me: "Umm, I really just fancy a nice girl."

Waiter: "Oh you're like one of them, the foreigners (meaning any non-Chinese)."

I guess I lost my Chinese membership card on account of the last question.

Cultural differences.

Sin Nombre

2011-11-06T14:48:00.000+01:00

I rose this morning brooding, thinking about what may come in the near future.

My second autumn in Paris dashed by and old man winter and an uncertain future are fast-approaching. For almost ten years prior to arriving at the French capital, I measured my time by Capitol Hill's legislative sessions and the 2-year election cycle. With university life, I pace myself freely and according to exams, weekends and travels, paper deadlines, revolutions won and hopes unattained, intellectually challenging and sometimes intoxicating conversations, and the validity of my French visa.

Perhaps it is the season, or that my current mood tells me I have very little to trust the world about . . . the sweeping breeze, the hunchback lady by my neighborhood pub whose outings to the corner store are measured in painful steps, or just the inexplicable sentiment that all things in my life seem unsettled . . . the head is unhappy today.

The father (extreme left) playing for his university rugby club in Taipei

I never sorted out how to talk to the old man before he passed away, but having this photo around helped.

I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.

2011-08-18T03:44:00.009+02:00

Brecon Beacons National Park, Wales

Five days in Wales have passed but the songs and words still rest in my head. The Welsh rugby supporters in Millennium Stadium serenading the English . . . "bread of heaven, bread of heaven . . . feed me until I want no more!" still drone in my ears. The conversations meandered and were imprecise, but words spoken in the Swansea house where Dylan Thomas grew up brought back images, some good and some bittersweet, to reflect. As the three year anniversary of my father's passing clung to my thoughts, surfaced the verse "Do not go gently into that good night. Old age should burn and rage at close of day; Rage rage against the dying of the light". I still haven't got peace for never properly knowing the old man.

Almost four weeks ago I left Paris and reached the White Cliffs of Dover by ferry. That rainy morning on 27 July the wind blew over the Channel as if mother nature was unhappy with me. My mind raced with anticipation.

Two weeks at St. Antony's College were filled with cheers, engaging talks, new friends, good mates, hopes for the future, and unwilling goodbyes. Oxford treated me well and I didn't want to say farewell. On came Wales, with her fire breathing dragon and her gentle people. Of an uncertain night in Cardiff ending with the superb hospitality of a Welsh policeman, of kind travelers who stopped to give a lift to a perfect stranger stranded at the side of the road, and an elegant Swansea lady who put her soul and her fortune into the memories of a poet.

Cheer!

The Turf Tavern

Oxford, England

Paros, Grecia

2011-07-05T12:41:00.009+02:00

4 julio 2011

Al contrario de la ferocidad de la temperatura del día, cuando la calle estuvo vacía, por la noche los paseos de Paroikia estan tan animados y la parte vieja llena de inhabitantes locales y viajeros. La Isla de Paros me ha tratado bien los dos días pasados. Aunque la vida acá no está tan emocionante como otras islas de Grecia, me alegra este lugar. Esta isla me ha atrapado el corazón con su gente amistosa y las noches dulces de Paroikia.

Las calles de Paroikia estan tan llenas de movimiento en la noche! En realidad, tengo sueño después de un día donde he pasado abajo del sol griego. Unicamente me quiero descansar en mi propria cama. Pero con más vagando, me pierdo y me animo más. Con cada puerta que pasé, hay músicas diferentes – las familias que ríen juntas, los niños que juegan el fútbol en las callecitas - sencillamente disfrutando el verano de esta isla.

Happy birthday to the United States!

* * *

In contrast to the day, when people took shelter from the bright Aegean sun, at night Paroikia's narrow lanes teemed with life, with shops, eateries and cafes teeming with locals and travelers. Though the island is not as exciting as other Greek isles, Paros captured my heart with its well-mannered people and Paroikia's gentle but lively evenings.

The streets of Paroikia is so full of life tonight! Actually, after spending a full day under the brightGreek sun, I'm exhausted. I only want to rest in my own bed and sleep. But with more wandering, the more I lost myself in the cheerfulness of the streets. With the passing of each door a new music drifted into the air – families who laugh together, boys who play football in the alleys and teenagers who flirt on the beaches - simply enjoying a warm summer night on the island.

Joyeux anniversaire aux États Unis!

Sunrise on the Aegean

2011-06-28T09:10:00.007+02:00

So I'm on the road again. Actually, to be precise this time I am on the sea. Though four hours of sleep over the last two days of traveling by plane and by ferry made for an exhausting arrival to Santorini, it was nice to be lost in the shadows on the early morning, in my own thoughts, only to be animated by a brilliant sunrise.

Day one was logistical in nature. With arrival to Athens uneventful, sorting out the geography of this large city and the ferries were nonetheless something I was in no humor to deal with. Even prior to departing Paris, I was really not looking forward to airports, train stations and docks again. I'm just tired.

Market day on rue Cler

2011-05-29T13:53:00.003+02:00

Sunset from Pont Royal

2011-05-05T21:05:00.005+02:00

Happy hour in Belleville

2011-05-03T19:46:00.002+02:00

By Comédie Française

2011-04-22T21:44:00.001+02:00

Biking to French class in the evening

2011-04-20T18:31:00.001+02:00

Study break from the university

2011-04-19T18:51:00.001+02:00

Home in Alicante, for a moment

2011-01-30T21:33:00.008+01:00

Starting line for the Santa Pola Half Marathon

Alicante reminded me a bit of being home in Buenos Aires. As I was leaving at 07h30 for the bus to the Santa Pola Half Marathon, smartly dressed Alicantinos were joyously filing out of bars and night clubs - a wee bit intoxicated, singing, smoking, looking for an open cafe for breakfast - simply enjoying being young on an early Sunday morning.

Not familiar with the region I anxiously got the the bus station early and bought my ticket from Alicante to Santa Pola. Nervous I was for the half marathon. I hadn't properly train for the two previous weeks, and traveling solo I didn't have any trusted companions to air my anxieties. Not knowing how to handle the jitters, I closed my eyes and tried to forget about my apprehensions. It was a long 30-minute bus trip.

1:39:44 it took me for the half marathon.

Santa Barbara Castle, Alicante, Spain

The night before a valencian half marathon / Avant de une demi-marathon en Valence

2011-01-24T11:04:00.003+01:00

Un méandre / A wander

2010-11-23T07:16:00.003+01:00

Bir-Hakeim Monument

Plaza de la Constitución, San Sebastián, Spain

Soy mochilero nuevamente / Backpacking again

2010-11-12T20:41:00.044+01:00

A poster by the Pamplona Bullring / Un poster por la Plaza de Toro de Pamplona

Al contrario de las imágenes Hemingway había retratado, donde la multitud festejaba durante las Sanfermines y los amantes se peleaban, Pamplona en noviembre parecía austera y melancólica. No había muchos turistas, toros furiosos, aristócratas inglésas viajando, y con la excepción de yo mismo, pocos borrachos.

Por la mañana, me voy de España. Paris yo vengo! Era una visita corta efectivamente.

Cafe Iruño, where Hemingway drank / donde Hemingway tomaba
Pamplona

Llegué a España hace unos días. Originariamente, querría conocer el País Vasco en ambos lados de la frontera. En Biarritz, por las razónes que fueran, subí otro tren directamente para España. Que aventura!

San Sebastián la lluviosa. Con un chaparrón que no podía detenerse, la cuidad por el Urumea me parecía como una dama gris, con tanta tristeza! Sin embargo, adentro, fuera de la cólera de la pachamama, me daba un gusto la cocina vasca y unos nuevos amigos del País Vasco y de Galicia.

Pintxo bar in San Sebastián / Un bar de pintxos en San Sebastián

* * *

I had originally wanted to visit both sides of the Basque country. But for whatever reason, upon arriving at Biarritz Tuesday afternoon and after a short lunch by the beach, I immediately boarded another train directly for Spain. It wasn't a plan. But it felt right.

Pamplona Town Hall / El Ayuntamiento de Pamplona

Pamplona in November was very different than that of Hemingway´s famous novel. Without the raging bulls charging down the narrow lanes, around-the-clock San Fermin Festival goers, and the bickering lovers with multiple affairs, the city seemed forlorn, austere, melancholic. Except for me, there weren't even that many drunks stumbling around the city squares.

San Sebastián during my visit was rainy and cold. I was chilled to the bones, but found warm companionship with travelers and locals alike. It felt good speaking Spanish again! With pintxos, txakoli wine, and lively conversations with a few new Basque and Galician friends, I merrily passed two days inside, out of mother nature´s fury.

Bar Eruko for pintxos and txakoli San Sebastián

/Comiendo pintxos y tomando txakoli en Bar Eruko, San Sebastián

Mea Culpa: No protesters!/no había manifestantes!/pas des manifestants!

2010-10-28T23:23:00.002+02:00

Since I got to France I just haven't had the motivation to write for pleasure. Because I have been short on words, I'll include some photos I took today while biking around Paris.

on Saint-Honoré Street/en la calle Saint-Honoré/au rue Saint-Honoré

* * *

Desde que llegué a Francia simplemente no tenía la motivación para escribir únicamente por el placer. Ya que he estado corto de palabras recientemente, acá están unas fotos que saqué mientras estaba vagando por Paris esta tarde.

By the Lourve/Por el Lourve/Par le Lourve

* * *

Depuis que je suis arrivé en France je n'avais pas la motivation d'écrire uniquement pour le plaisir. Mais puisque dernièrement j'ai été brève des mots, voici quelques photos que je pris cet après-midi pendant je fis du vélo à travers Paris.

Place Georges Pompidou

Paris and Team Accidental Pawnstars

2010-06-14T05:42:00.031+02:00

My heart was pounding as the slow drizzle started coming down. Having turned my ankle earlier in the day, pain shot through with each step I took. First I tried singing old rugby songs from my university days. When that didn't work, my mind drifted to conjugating Spanish and French verbs.

It has been six months since I left Argentina and returned to the United States. I left Argentina with hopes, but no plans. I knew I wanted to pursue graduate degrees, but when I left South America I had no offers from universities yet. I knew I wanted no part of returning to politics and living in Washington, DC again, but didn't know where I would like to be. Although I adored Buenos Aires, it wasn't home. The trouble is, I don't know where home is.

* * *

I first heard about the Laurel Highlands Ultra Race just three weeks ago. While I have never considered myself a runner, the thought of racing around in the woods with buddies appealed to me. So, with less than two months' training, I joined two friends from college to run the 77-mile (124km) relay race on 12 June, 2010.

With very limited time to achieve a very specific goal, I set myself to train. I ran a few miles everyday, at times with friends, but mostly solo. Meanwhile, I waited for answers from graduate schools I applied to. With possible destinations like Paris, Brussels, or Brooklyn for next year, I grew increasingly excited and anxious as days passed without news.

At approximately 00h00 on race day, we the three members of Team Accidental Pawnstars set out from Washington, DC for southwestern Pennsylvania. By 04h00, we pulled into the starting line of the Laurel Highlands Ultra Race at Ohiopyle, PA. At 05h30, without any sleep the previous night, the first leg of the race kicked off.

It wasn't until my teammate finished the first leg and tagged me in for my part that my heart started racing. Time and distance passed quickly - much faster than I anticipated. It was an hour before I realized that I needed to hydrate.

Me at my first aid station

Feeling pretty good and still energetic after the 13 miles (21km) of my first leg, my second leg of the relay quickly turned into an exercise in pain management. The trail was fairly technical, with rocks hidden under heavy vegetation. Not able to see where I was stepping, I twisted my left ankle several times and my pace slowed to a crawl. For almost 10 miles (16km), my run was reduced to a wobble, with only my heart willing me onto the finish line. Nothing sounded sweeter than the sight of my last aid station and the erupting cheers from waiting crew teams as someone shouted "RUNNER COMING IN!" By the time Team Accidental Pawnstars finished all 77-miles, 15 hours, 59 minutes, and 30 seconds had passed.

Even I as write two days after the race, I am still reliving fond memories of the Laurel Highlands. I have found similar feelings amongst other runners I met on Saturday. The lovely images of running in the woods, most of it alone and among wild rhododendron, laurel, and fern, continue to flash in my head. The cheerful companionship of my two friends, and other runners and spectators, who constantly urged on all competitors, was like nothing I have experienced before in other athletic events. I may have discovered a new addiction.

Damn you Dave and Joe!

* * *

In late August, my life will take another turn as I move to Paris, France for my graduate studies. So, in eight short months after I left Argentina for the United States, I will move once again to live the happy life of an expatriate.

The last days / Los últimos dias

2009-12-16T14:40:00.007+01:00

I have two more days left in South America. But it feels like I have reached the end of my journey.

Just a day ago I was in Cabo Polonio, the most isolated town of Uruguay's Atlantic coastal region. Splendidly detached from the outside by sand dunes, no roads, electricity, and other modern amenities, perfect strangers who gathered in Cabo quickly became friends. Without distractions such as televisions, the Internet, etc., we spent hours on the beaches and long nights, cooking, making tropical cocktails and drinking wine.

But now I am tired. Sitting in a hostel in Montevideo, Uruguay, waiting for my evening flight back to Buenos Aires, I am suddenly anxious to return to the United States to see my friends and family.

* * *

Tengo dos dias más en Sudamérica. Pero ya siento que ha llegado el fin de mi viaje.

Solamente hace un dia estuve en Cabo Polonio, uno de los pueblos más remotos de la costa de Uruguay. Espléndidamente aislado por las dunas, y la falta de eletricidad, calles, y otros servicios modernos, desconocidosque llegaron a Cabo se hicieron amigos rapidamente. Sin distracciónes como la tele, Internet, etc., pasamos mucho tiempo en las playas y las noches cocinando, tomando vino y haciendo cocteles tropicales.

Pero ahora estoy cansado. Me quedo en un hostel de Montevideo, Uruguay, esperando para mi vuelo esta noches, de repente me vuelvo ansioso regresar a EE.UU para ver mis amigos y familia.

Che!

2009-11-19T04:51:00.037+01:00

Oktoberfest, Villa General Belgrano, Córdoba

"CHE!" nos decían a cada rato unos muchachos de Rosario esa noche. En esos momentos, bien ebrio y solamente alegre de tener la oportunidad de conocer a otra gente, simplemente contestaba lo mismo y me moría de risa entre mis nuevos amigos. Era la Fiesta de la Cerveza Nacional de Argentina, o el Oktoberfest en Villa General Belgrano de la Provincia de Córdoba.

Han pasado casi doce meses desde que llegué a Buenos Aires. En muchas maneras, ha sido un largo año. En ciertos momentos, me sentí aislado y quise volver a casa. Como un extranjero bien en el medio de una de las ciudades más grandes en las Américas, soy un desconocido en una tierra extraña. Llegué sin mucho conocimiento de Argentina, del idioma, y sin niguna idea de cómo los porteños me recibirían.

En cambio, me he divertido tanto, que el año pasó volando. Distinto de cuando llegué, ya puedo conversar con los sudamericanos adecuadamente. Aunque ningún argentino me identificaría como un habitante local, la habilidad de tener charlas más profundas con ellos debe ser uno de los aspectos más satisfactorios de mi viaje aquí.

Tres Morros, Jujuy

En los últimos meses, mientras preferí viajar alegremente más que documentar, he dejado de lado escribir en este blog. Desde que regresé de Brasil en agosto, he viajado a la Provincia de Córdoba por el Octoberfest de Argentina, seguí el sol hacia el norte hasta Salta y Jujuy para contemplar las Salinas Grandes, y subí cerros con tantos colores, que sin duda, Van Gogh hubiera pasado una vida entera interpretando en lienzo estas obras de la naturaleza.

The Hills of Pumamarca, Jujuy/Las Colinas de Pumamarca, Jujuy

La semana pasada, finalmente tuve la oportunidad de conocer Uruguay. No puedo explicar como me siento ahora, pero tengo un sentimiento de alegría y lamento al mismo tiempo. Mientras he tenido casi un año entero para conocer esta parte de América Latina, ya he aprendido tantas cosas sobre ella, que me parece que tengo mucho más para entender y experimentar. Como dije anteriormente, es como que solamente vi un preestreno de un libro que quizás nunca pueda terminar. En unas semanas, voy a marcharme de Argentina con una sensación de melancolía.

Punta del Diablo, Uruguay

En Punta del Diablo en la Banda Oriental, encontré un poco de paz. En ese pueblito tranquilo, estaba el Juancho, el viejo cerca del mar. Todo el día se sentaba al lado de su choza destartalada, la que quería vender por U$S10.000, y hablaba con cualquier persona que quisiera hablar. Estaba la hijita de Juan, el almacenero local, que quería practicar inglés pero sólo sonreía con timidez después de unas palabras, y los pescadores que pescaban cuando quisieran y vendían lo que fuera que el mar les reglaba.

* * *

"CHE!" a group of lads from Rosario called to us for the duration of the night. In those moments, well past soberness and only happy that I had the opportunity to met friends, I simply reciprocated in that most Argentine of greetings and let loose a great laugh amongst my new companions. It was Argentina's National Beer Festival, also known as the Oktoberfest at Villa General Belgrano, Córdoba Province.

Oktoberfest, Villa General Belgran, Córdoba

It has been almost twelve months since I arrived at Buenos Aires. In many ways, it has been a long year. In certain moments, I felt isolated and wanted to go home. As a foreigner in the middle of one of the largest cities in the Americas, I was a stranger in a new land. I arrived without much knowledge of Argentina, of the language, and without any idea how the locals would receive me.

Conversely, I have been enjoying myself so much that the year simply flew by. Unlike when I first arrived, I can now move past the basics and enjoy more profound conversations with South Americans. While no Argentine would make the mistake of thinking me a local, sorting out the communications issue must be one of the most satisfying aspect of my travels here.

The Great Salt Flats/Salinas Grandes

In the past few months, happy to experience rather than document, I have neglected to write in this blog. Since returning from Brazil in August, I have traveled to Córdoba Province for Argentina's Octoberfest, chased the sun north to Salta and Jujuy Provinces to gaze at one of the world's great salt flats, and hiked surging peaks with so many colors that Van Gogh surely could have spent a lifetime duplicating nature's work on canvas.

Last week I finally had the opportunity to explore Uruguay. At this moment I really cannot explain the feelings in my head, a cocktail of happiness and regret at the same time. While I have had almost an entire year to get to know this part of Latin America, and I have learned so much, it feels that I have so much more to see and experience. As I said before, it is like I have only read the jacket of a book that I might never finish. In a few weeks, I will leave Argentina swimming in a sea of melancholy.

Punta del Diablo, Uruguay

In Punta del Diablo, Uruguay, I found a little bit of peace. In this peaceful seaside village, there was the Juancho, literally an old man by the sea. All day he would sit on the side of his broken-down shack, which he would like to sell for US$10,000, and talk with whomever wanted to talk. Then there was the little daughter of Juan, the local grocer, who wanted to practice English, but would only smile shyly after a few words, and the fishermen who fished whenever they wanted and would sell whatever gifts the sea brought them.

Lady, the puppy at El Diablo Tranquilo Hostel/Lady, la cachorra del Diablo Tranquilo Hostel

The small pleasures / Los pequeños placeres

2009-10-21T03:32:00.009+02:00

Choripan, a 6 pesos piece of greasy sausage heaven

While Buenos Aires gradually lurches forward to spring and the Northern Hemisphere grows colder by the day, I approach the end of my sojourn in Argentina. Soon it will be December and the time for me to return to the United States.

So each time I venture out into the city, I feel compelled to take stock of my year and enjoy the small pleasures of living in the city of Santa Maria.

* * *

Mientras Buenos Aires alcanza gradualmente la primavera y el Hemisferio del Norte hace más frío cada día, se acerca el fin de mi estadía en Argentina. Dentro de poco deciembre llegará y el momento de regresar a Estados Unidos.

Entonces cada vez que paseo por la ciudad, soy consciente de mi año y disfrutar los pequeños placeres de vivir en la ciudad de Santa María.

Brazil's Gold Trail / El Camino del Oro de Brasil

2009-09-29T01:07:00.015+02:00

The namoradeiras of Brazil / Las namoradeiras de Brasil

(Written in August 2009) Up and down the hills I climbed and descended through Ouro Prêto's ancient cobblestone streets, occasionally accompanied by a chorus of church bells. In many ways the mountains and the sky around this Portuguese colonial town reminded me of northern New Mexico.

Every sixty minutes, the Church of Our Lady of Carmen (Nossa Senhora do Carmo), which straddles one of the more prominent hills of the city and overlooks Praça Tiradentes, Ouro Prêto's main town square, would ring in the new hour. But instead of the orderly bells of North American or European cathedrals, those of Ouro Prêto were somehow different - perhaps more spontaneous. Like that of an Indian marching band, with whom each note is more casually and individually articulated but somehow would harmonize to produce music, the bells of Ouro Prêto seemed to celebrate the joie de vivre that is unique only to Brazil.

St. Francis of Assissi Church, Ouro Prêto / La Iglesia de San Francisco de Asís, Ouro Prêto

Just the previous week, I was in Paraty, in Rio de Janeiro State. As the port that transferred Brazil's wealth to Lisbon, Paraty's architecture expressed the exuberance of the colonial Portuguese and their old world masters, but perhaps not the despair of the African slaves who labored this land.

The Paraty Habor / El Puerto de Paraty

* * *

(Escrito agosto 2009) Subía y descendía por los callejónes de adoquínes antiguos de Ouro Prêto, ocasionalmente me acompañaba un coro de las campanas de las iglesias. En muchos sentidos las montañas y el cielo de este pueblo colonial portugués me recordían del norte de Neuvo Mexico.

Tiradentes Square, Ouro Prêto / Plaza Tiradentes, Ouro Prêto

Cada sesenta minutos, la Iglesia de Nuestra Señora del Carmen, la que se sienta una de las colinas del pueblo más prominente y da a Praça Tiradentes, la plaza principal de Ouro Prêto, sonaran en la nueva hora. Pero en vez de las campanas ordenadas de las catedrales norteamericanas o europeas, las de Ouro Prêto eran diferentes por alguna razón – quizás más espontáneas. Como lo de una banda de India, con el que cada nota es expresada individualmente y con más informalidad pero con alguna manera armonizarían para realizar música, las campanas de Ouro Prêto paracía celebrar la única alegría de vivir de Brasil.

Solamente la semana anterior, estaba en Paraty del Estado de Rio de Janeiro. Como el puerto que exportaba la riqueza de Brasil a Lisboa, la arquitectura de Paraty expresaba la exuberancia de los colonos portugueses y sus señores, pero quizás no las desesperaciónes de los esclavos africanos que trabajaban esta tierra.

Captain "Jack Sparrow" of Paraty / El Capitan "Jack Sparrow" de Paraty

Rio de Janeiro

2009-08-25T00:16:00.005+02:00

They call her the marvelous city.

While Rio de Janeiro is a city of amazing natural beauty, with the emerald green water of the Guanabara Bay and the ocean forming a striking contrast with the granite hills of the Corcovado and Sugar Loaf, with only three days, I felt like I couldn’t possibly get to know it as I would like to.

Whereas São Paulo is geared towards commerce and seemed more of an international metropolis, with the sound of the waves and the beat of the samba, Rio de Janeiro felt like a beach town. Although Rio was once the only capital of a European country outside of Europe, and was also once the seat of the Brazilian Republic, Cariocas (residents of Rio de Janeiro) carry themselves without pretension and were quick to offer their smiles.

The Santa Teresa Tram / El tranvía de Santa Teresa

But for an afternoon of exploring the Santa Teresa neighborhood via its tram (called the Bondinho or Bonde), I was happy to drink caipirinhas on the beach and whiled away my time in Rio with the pleasures of the sand, the surf, and the sun.

* * *

La llaman la ciudad maravillosa.

Aunque Río de Janeiro es una ciudad de belleza insuperable, con agua verde esmeralda de la Bahía de Guanabara y el mar formando un contraste llamativo con las colinas de granito de Corcovado y Pan de Azúcar, me pareció que con sólo tres días, no pude conocerla como me gustaría.

A bikini vendor on the beach / un vendedor de bikini en la playa

Mientras que San Pablo es una ciudad empresarial y parece una metrópolis internacional, con el sonido de las olas y la zamba, Río parece una ciudad de playa. Aunque Río había sido la única capital de un país europeo afuera de Europa, y una vez también la sede de la República de Brasil, los cariocas (los habitantes de Río de Janeiro) se comportan sin pretensión y me ofrecían sus sonrisas fácilmente.

Pero por una tarde explorando el barrio de Santa Teresa en tranvía (lo llaman “Bondinho” o “Bonde”), me alegré de tomar caipiriñas en la playa y pasé mi estadía en Río con el placer de sentir el sol, las olas, y la arena.

A Santa Teresa neighborhood bar / Un bar del barrio de Santa Teresa

Dusk in Buenos Aires / Atardecer en Buenos Aires

2009-08-17T04:24:00.003+02:00

Buenos Aires Tango Festival / Festival de Tango de Buenos Aires

2009-08-16T01:14:00.013+02:00

It was the first day of the Buenos Aires Tango Festival and many of the concerts were free. I spent a fine afternoon enjoying the music.

* * *

Fue el primer día del Festival de Tango Buenos Aires y muchos de los conciertos fueron gratuitos. Pasé una linda tarde disfrutando la música.

A few days in São Paulo / Unos días en São Paulo

2009-08-05T19:55:00.016+02:00

Rainy rainy São Paulo . . .

Known as "terra da garoa" in Portuguese (land of drizzle), I expected very little from the city. As Brazil's commercial and financial center and the largest metropolis in the Southern Hemisphere with over 11 million in population, negotiating the city's urban jungle was indeed challenging.

Luz Train Station / Estación Luz

When I asked Paulistanos what I must see while in their fair city, many were short on answers. With only three nights and two days in São Paulo, I was content to simply roam aimlessly around the town, stopping at random places to sample Lebanese and Syrian snacks, and to enjoy freshly produced mango, passion fruit, and guava juices.

Moreover, with the largest Japanese community in the world outside of Japan, São Paulo's Liberdade neighborhood satisfied my appetite with some of the best and most affordable sushi and sashimi. Halfway through a meal, I found myself drinking a caipirinha and conversing with a Japanese businessman in a mixture of Spanish and my version of what Portuguese should sound like.

Japanese restaurant in Jardin neighborhood
/ Restaurante Japonés en el barrio Jardin

* * *

São Paulo la ciudad lluviosa . . .

Conocido como "terra da garoa" en Portugués (tierra de llovizna), esperaba muy poco de la ciudad. Como el centro de comercial y financiero de Brasil y la ciudad más grande en el hemisferio sur con más de 11 millones de inhabitantes, efectivamente fue un desfío para conocer el estado salvaje de São Paulo.

Cuando preguntaba a los Paulistanos qué debía conocer mientras estaba en su ciudad, muchos no me podían responder. Con sólo tres noches y dos días en São Paulo, me alegró deembular sin rumbo por la ciudad, deteniéndome al azar para probar unos bocaditos libaneses y sirios, y disfrutar jugos frescos de mango, maracuyá, y guayaba.

Downtown São Paulo / El Centro de São Paulo

Es más, con la comunidad japonesa más grande del mundo afuera de Japón, el barrio Liberdade de São Paulo satisfazo mi apetito con algunos de los mejores y más accesibles tipos de sushi y sashimi. A mitad de la cena, me encontré tomando una caipirinha y conversando con un empresario japonés en una mezcla de castellano y mi versíon de lo que debe sonar, en mi opinion, el portugués.

Rural Exposition 2009 / Exposición Rural 2009

2009-07-29T03:25:00.006+02:00

Argentine Gauchos / Gauchos de Argentina

Last Sunday was a brilliantly sunny day and some fresh air was in order after a typically Buenos Aires night out with some of the boys. Argentina's Rural Exposition 2009 happened to be right in the middle of my neighborhood in Palermo, so I popped over with a couple friends to check it out.

* * *

El domingo pasado fue un día soleadísimo y yo necesitaba tomar un poco de aire fresco después de una noche típica de Buenos Aires con algunos los muchachos. La Exposición Rural 2009 de Argentina estaba en bien en medio de Palermo, entonces pasé una tarde con dos amigos para averiguarlo.

Vagando por la Patagonia / Meandering through Patagonia

2009-07-16T02:16:00.039+02:00

Últimamente he tenido dificultades para pasar mis pensamientos al papel. No era la escasez de noticias, porque he tenido una sucesión de viajes por la Patagonia. Pero por lo que fuera, quizás me había entorpecido debido a la distancia del tiempo, he sido negligente con mi escritura.

Lago Argentino / Lake Argentino

Por una region tan grande como la Patagonia, mis visitas recientes solo me dejaron deseando más, sintiendo que yo solamente leí los preestrenos de un libro que quizás nunca podré terminar.

La última vez que estuve en la Patagonia en 2001, pasé la mayoría del tiempo en el lado Chileno de los Andes. Mientras el viento cortante de agosto penetraba el mejor equipo de alpinismo tenía, pasé casi una semana haciendo trekking con otros viajeros.

Este junio fue mi segunda vez en El Calafate. Con la excepción de unas de nubes en el cielo de otoño, el vuelo de Aerolineas Argentinas desde Buenos Aires aterrizó en medio de un día despejadísimo.

La Ruta 40 en la Patagonia / Route 40 in the Patagonia

Aunque ya había visto el Glaciar Perito Moreno hacía siete años, estaba exactamente tan hipnotizado esta vez, como la primera. Algunos sitios tienen ese efecto conmigo, las siluetas de los edificios de Manhattan, Sierra Nevada en California, las cimas de los Andes, las cataratas de Iguazú, y el Pacífico, etc. Sin embargo, lo que realmente quería hacer era dejar la comodidad del hostel y salir hacia las montañas con mi mochila.

Como una dama gris que no podia detener sus lágrimas, el cielo de Río Negro llovió durante mi toda estancia en Bariloche. Entonces, en vez de lo que ví en las fotos de los lagos turquesa y verde, el Lago Nahuel Huapi y sus lagos hermanos fueron simplemente una reflexión de un cielo malhumorado. Repelido por la tormenta después de tanto días debajo de la lluvia, me retiré a la compaña de otros viajeros.

Lago Nahuel Huapi cerca de Bariloche / Lake Nahuel Huapi near Bariloche

* * *

Lately I have been finding it difficult to put my thoughts down in ink. It's not for a lack of material, for I have had a series of travels through the Patagonia. But for whatever reason, perhaps the distance of time had dulled my mind, I have been neglectful about my writing.

For a region as large as the Patagonia, my recent visits only left me desiring for more, feeling like I only read the previews to a book I might never finish.

The last time I was in the Patagonia in 2001, I passed most of my time on the Chilean side of the Andes. While the biting August wind penetrated the best mountaineering equipment I had to offer, I spent almost a whole week trekking with other travelers.

El Glaciar Perito Moreno / Perito Moreno Glacier

This June was my second time in El Calafate. With the exception of a few puffs of clouds in the autumn sky, The Aerolineas Argentinas flight from Buenos Aires landed amidst a spectacularly clear day.

Although I have seen the Perito Moreno Glacier seven years before, I was just as mesmerized by it this time. Some sights just have that effect on me, the Manhattan skyline, the Sierra Nevadas in California, the peaks of the Andes, the Iguazú Falls, and the Pacific Ocean, etc. However, what I really wanted to do was to leave the comfort of the heated hostel and step into the mountains with my rucksack.

Like a gray lady who couldn't stop her tears, the Río Negro provincial sky rained during my entire sojourn in Bariloche. Instead of the torquoise and green colored lakes of photos I saw, Lake Nahuel Huapi and her sister were a mere reflection of the moody sky. Beaten back by the storm after a day of hiking in the rain, I retreated to the fellowship of other travelers.

Parque Nacional Nahuel Huapi / Nahuel Huapi National Park

San Telmo

2009-06-24T03:02:00.026+02:00

Todos los domingos en San Telmo, el barrio más antiguo en Buenos Aires, es la sede de una feria en las calles, atrayendo turistas, Porteños, los buscardores de tesoros, y los artistas callejeros que quieren aprovechar de la multitud de visitantes. Sin embargo, sencillamente me gusta pasear por el barrio y disfrutar la música de las calles.

* * *

Every Sunday in San Telmo, Buenos Aires' oldest neighborhood, puts on a big antique market, attracting tourists, locals, treasure hunters, and street artists seeking to profit from the throngs of visitors. However, I simply like to walk around the neighborhood and enjoy the street music.

Obras sociales sexy / Sexy health plans

2009-06-05T04:10:00.011+02:00

Ya que mi seguro de viaje va a vencer en el fin de junio, estoy buscando una buen obra social mientras viviendo en Argentina. Otro día yo pasé este anuncio en Palermo Soho. En efecto, manteniendo la salud de uno podría ser sexy!

* * *

Since my travel insurance will expire at the end of June, I'm currently looking for a good health plan while I am still living in Argentina. The other day I passed by this advertisement in Palermo Soho. Indeed, maintaining one's health could be sexy.

The thief of souls / El ladrón de las almas

2009-06-01T14:56:00.021+02:00

"Club Atlético Boca Juniors (C.A.B.J.), thief of body, soul and heart.
You became my mad obsession."

It was my first Boca Juniors match at La Bombonera (the Chocolate Box). To say that football is a national obsession in Argentina would be an understatement.

* * *

Fue mi primer partido de Boca Juniors en La Bombonera. Decir que el fútbol es una obsesión nacional de Argentina sería quedarse corto.

I don't want dengue fever.../No quiero dengue...

2009-05-30T22:43:00.044+02:00

View of the falls from the Lower Trail/Vista de las cataratas de Paseo Inferior

So I was told to beware of dengue fever in the North of Argentina, for the mosquitos there are especially fierce and may transmit the dreaded disease. But nonetheless, Iguazú is a bloody big waterfall and I badly wanted to see it.

Traveling with mother is a little different than going solo. On me own I tend to move on a whim. I awake when I want to, eat and drink what and when I desire, and tend to make last minute decisions to jump on a bus, train, or plane to satisfy random curiosities. Such is the life of a solo male traveler.

The evil birds that tried to steal my lunch/
Los pájaros malvados que intentaba robar mi almuerzo

With mother, the decision-making process was more laborious, but rewarding in different ways. In this case, our accommodations were more luxurious but the schedule more structured. But I did not have the opportunity to socialize with other travelers or locals. However, the most important thing was I got to travel with mother while she is still active enough to do so.

Puerto Iguazú, a Northern Argentine frontier town separated from Paraguay and Brazil by the River Iguazú, was fairly low-key as tourist towns go. Outside of the immediate areas of the Iguazú National Park and the town's bus stations, the local denizens are desperately poor and the environment a world apart from the cosmopolitan Argentine capital. Further, perhaps due to the town's location as an international crossroad, the Argentine Gendarmes were out in force at every street corner, directing traffic and stopping buses to question travelers.

Originally founded in 1610 in present day Brazil, the San Ignacio Reduction relocated to its current location in 1696. Far from my youthful fancies of Indiana Jones-like discoveries, I reached the Jesuit ruins by a 5 hour bus ride from Puerto Iguazú, stayed at the Adventure Hostel and ordered take-out pizza. Perhaps because it was low season, but for a small dog who followed us for two hours through the ruins, mother and I got to experience the Guaraní baroque grandeur of San Ignacio Miní in splendid isolation.

* * *

Me dijeron que debería tener cuidado con el dengue en el norte de Argentina, ya que los mosquitos allá son especialmente fieros y podrían contagiar la enfermedad temida. Sin embargo, Las Cataratas Iguazú es un sitio famoso y realmente lo quería ver.

Viajando con mi mamá es un poco diferente a mis viajes solos. En esos casos yo suelo despertarme y viajar cuando quiera, comer y tomar lo que desee. Esa es la vida de un viajero solo.

Pero cuando con mi mamá, el proceso para tomar una decisión es más laborioso, pero gratificante en formas distintas. En este caso, neustro alojamiento era más lujoso pero el plan más estructurado. Pero no tuve la oportunidad de conocer a otros viajeros y a la gente local. Sin embargo, lo más importante fue poder viajar con mi mamá mientras ella puede hacerlo todavía.

The Devil's Throat/La Garganta del Diablo

Puerto Iguazú, un pueblo en la frontera que está separado de Paraguay y Brasil por el Río Iguazú, era muy tranquilo. Afuera de los distritos inmediatamente de las cataratas y la terminal ómnibus, las habitantes locales son desesperademente pobre y estan en otro mundo fuera de la capital federal cosmopolita. Además, quizás por la ubicación en la frontera, había agentes de la Gendarmería Nacional Argentina en cada esquina, dirigiendo los coches y deteniendo los colectivos para interrogar a los viajeros.

The San Ignacio Mission's Catherdral/El Catedral de San Ignacio

Originariamente establecido en 1610 en lo que ahora es Brasil, la reducción de San Ignacio se instaló en su sitio actual en 1696. Lejos de mi fantasia juvenil de Indiana Jones, llegué a las ruinas jesuitas con un colectivo que tardó 5 horas, pasé la noche en el Adventure Hostel, y pedí una pizza para llevar. Tal vez porque era temprada baja, con la excepción de un perrito que nos acompañó por dos horas en las ruinas, pudimos conocer la grandiosidad barroca de los Guaranís en un aisiamiento espléndido.

Los Buenmozos de Boulogne

2009-05-24T15:38:00.020+02:00

The chants started as soon as I exited the San Isidro train station. In Buenos Aires, the rugby derby doesn't come any bigger than the rivalry between San Isidro Club (SIC) and Club Atlético San Isidro (CASI). I found the CASI stadium by simply following the boys of Los Buenmozos de Boulogne (the "Good-looking ones from Boulogne"), SIC's supporter club.

Rather unlike the United States, where ruggers play on muddy municipally owned fields, the grounds at CASI was immaculate and the atmosphere electric. But since a friend was a former SIC player, I had my bias for the night and happily cheered for the winning side.

* * *

Las canciónes comenzaron inmediatamente después de salir de Estación San Isidro. En Buenos Aires, no hay rivalidad de rugby más importante que el clásico entre San Isidro Club (SIC) y Club Atlético San Isidro (CASI). Hallé estadio de CASI con Los Buenmozos de Boulogne, los hinchas de SIC.

Más que las canchas de rugby en EE.UU, donde los jugadores competen en el barro frecuentemente, las instalaciones deportivas de CASI era impecable y el ambiente eletrizante. Pero ya que tengo un amigo que jugaba para SIC, tenía mi prejuicio y alegremente vitoreaba para el equipo que ganó.

A gentleman in search of . . . / Un señor quiere conocer . . .

2009-05-23T20:41:00.011+02:00

Every time I take the 29 bus from Palermo to San Telmo I see this sign at the bus stop at the corner of Paraguay and Sanchez de Bustamante. The gentleman in question wants to meet girls, ladies, or Paraguayans (female). It seems to me that to him, Paraguayan women are not in the girl or lady category.

The sign says:

I wish to meet unattached single girls, ladies, Paraguayan women, to start a respectful and humble relationship. I am a single and available 48 years old gentleman. I live in Palermo at Bulnes and Soler.

Nacho

* * *

Cada vez tomo el colectivo 29 de Palermo a San Telmo yo veo este cartel en la parada en la esquina de Paraguay y Sanchez de Bustamente. El señor que lo ha publicado quiere conocer chicas, señoras, o paraguayas. Me parece que para él, las paraguayas no estan en la categoría de la chica o la señora.

El cartel dice:

Deseo conocer chicas, señoras, paraguayas, sin compromisos, solas, para iniciar una relación de amistad seria y con mucho respecto y humildad. Soy un señor de 48 años, solo, libre.

Vivo en Palermo. Bulnes y Soler.

Nacho

Autumn arrives / Llegó otoño

2009-05-13T16:35:00.012+02:00

The autumn weather is finally setting in here at Buenos Aires. The long promised rain is here and the temperature went from the low 20'sº C last week to below 15º C today. The weather is definitely changing but to me it's far from cold. Looking at how the Porteños are dressed one would think we're living in Tierra del Fuego.

But everything is relative. I remember visiting my parents in Taipei during Christmas and was amazed that pedestrians were wearing wool winter coats in 20º C climate.

Tomorrow mother is coming to visit for a month. Frankly I'm not sure how we're going to spend one month together in a 20 square meter apartment. But I am excited about her visit and want to show her Argentina.

No Spanish classes in May since my teacher is on vacation. So in an effort to improve I'm reading more, meeting more Porteños for language exchanges, and am going to start blogging in Spanish as well. After four months of learning the language I hope that I am at least coherent.

Please correct my Spanish if you wish.

* * *

Llegó el clima de otoño a Buenos Aires. La lluvia prometida esta aquí y la temperatura bajó de más o menos 20º C la última semana a abajo 15º C hoy. Sin duda el tiempo está cambiando pero puedo opinar que no está haciendo frío. Mire a las ropas de los porteños parece estamos en Tierra del Fuego.

Pero todo es relativo. Recuerdo una visita a mis papás en Taipei durante la época de la Navidad y me asombré que la gente en las calles usaba los abrigos de invierno durante el clima de 20º C.

Mañana mi mamá va a llegar a Buenos Aires por un mes. Francamente yo no soy seguro como vamos a pasar un mes juntos en mi departamento de 20 metro cuadrado. Pero me entusiasmo de su visita y le quiero mostrar Argentina.

No hay las clases de castellano en mayo porque mi profesora tiene vacacciones. Entonces en un esfuerzo para mejorar mi castellano estoy leyendo más, conociendo otros porteños por los intercambios del idioma, y empenzé escribir este blog en castellano también. Después de cuatro meces de aprender este lengua, espero que estoy por lo menos coherente.

Por favo, corrija mi castellan si lo desee.

A Yankee key

2009-05-11T21:57:00.005+02:00

Since my mother is visiting me in Buenos Aires this week, I went around the neighborhood to get an extra set of door keys made. However, every locksmith I visited gave me a blank look after they saw one of the keys I wanted to reproduce.

"What's this?" locksmith X, Y, and Z all asked.

"My door key," I would reply.

All told me they don't have the key I wanted and probably nobody in Buenos Aires does.

Finally, the fourth locksmith I visited told me I have a yankee key, that he doesn't have it either, and asked me why I'm doing with such a key.

Around the block

2009-05-03T18:51:00.006+02:00

Steakhouse across the street

Buenos Aires is full of lovely architecture. Wander around the city center or just around the block from my apartment, one simply has to look up to see alluring artwork.

House across the street

However, I don't live in one of them.

Chez Ted

Delivery service in BsAs

2009-04-24T01:29:00.005+02:00

I ordered food for delivery for the first time since I got to Buenos Aires. I haven't ordered home because it is so convenient to just go downstairs to pick up whatever I want. Within a couple blocks I have supermarkets, convenient stores, pizzerias, empanada shops, steakhouses and other restaurants, and even a couple 24 hour alcohol delivery services.

But, I also haven't called for delivery because of the language issue. Face-to-face I can communicate and sort things out. Rapid fire Spanish over the phone isn't my strength yet. But tonight, I figured what the heck and called.

Buenos Aires is a town where one can get many items delivered. Food, booze, ice cream, and others (use your imagination). I have seen delivery boys/girls on bikes or roller blades, pizza or ice cream in one hand and the mobile phone pressed to their ears, weaving in and out of traffic . . .

Tigre and San Isidro

2009-04-16T01:37:00.008+02:00

Yesterday I woke up really early for some reason and couldn't fall back asleep. As a result I finished my studies by mid afternoon and decided to take some time to explore two cities north of Buenos Aires.

Tigre is a tranquil town away from the hustle and bustle of BsAs. It is on the northern edge of the metropolitan area and water taxis are the main form of transportation for many who live or visit there.

On the way back to Buenos Aires I hopped off the train and stopped in San Isidro, a wealthy suburb and the heart of rugby football in Buenos Aires. I didn't see the Rugby Museum but simply walked around the compact historical area before catching the train back into town.

Transportation is cheap and easy. The Mitre Line, which originates from Retiro Train Station in downtown Buenos Aires, was less than AR$1. The Tren de la Costa, which is more pleasant but requires a connection at either Maipú or Libertador Station, is AR$12 one way (or AR$24 roundtrip).

For a few more photos see the slideshow below.

Patiperro: Travels in Chile during March 2009

2009-04-04T01:15:00.034+02:00

"Why did you lie?" the rather attractive Chilean Customs agent asked. Being the good friend that I am, I squarely pointed my finger at my friend and cried "he did it. He brought the apple into Chile!"

The sign said I can be fined 1 million Chilean Pesos (or is it 10 million Pesos?) for bringing agricultural products into Chile. Even at 609 pesos to US$1, it is more than what I had in my wallet.

At 2,250 meters high, Paso Los Libertadores is a major border crossing between Chile and Argentina. At that altitude, even during late summer, I was shivering cold while standing around explaining myself to Chilean Customs.

It has been since 2002 when I was in Chile. Last time I was here, it was a 36 hour affair for a friend's wedding. Chile was my first introduction to South America and this narrow strip of land between the Pacific Ocean and the Andes Mountains has a special place in my heart.

After a couple months of learning Argentine Spanish, the language in Chile seemed vastly different. Santiagueños (residents of Santiago) talk fast and chop their words into bits. It is something akin to talking to an Australian. It's not breakfast . . . it's a brekkie!

A friend called Santiago "Sanhattan." As the country's largest
city and capital, Santiago is also Chile's financial center.

"Super bien!" Monica at Ají Hostel said to me as we checked in.

So much for all the Spanish superlatives I've been learning. It reminded me of all the hours I spent in high school studying German words like "wunderbar," only to hear "super!" when I traveled in Germany.

* * *

In Chilean slang, a patiperro is a globetrotter, or one who travels often.

Santiago's proximity to sunny sandy beaches on the Pacific Ocean was one of the reasons J. and I decided to cross into Chile rather than striking north to Salta in the Argentine Northwest.

Another reason was seafood; Chile is blessed with fresh blue water fish and crustaceans. So in less than 14 days' time, J. and I have crossed the Río de la Plata into Uruguay, biked and drank wine in Argentina's Mendoza Province, traversed the Andes Mountain to see a friend in Santiago, drank pisco sour in the cafés and bars of colorful and moody Valparaiso, and idled away on the beaches of Viña del Mar.

Cerro Bellavista, Valparaiso, Chile

Formerly serving as the first major port after westbound ships from Europe and the American East Coast rounded Cape Horn, Valparaiso took in the world's immigrants, sailors, and whalers. Literally, the city's name means Valle Paraiso, or Paradise Valley.

A Valparaiso Coca Cola Driver striking a pose

This hilly city by the ocean prospered during the late 19th and early 20th century as trade with the Pacific Coast increased and gold prospectors stopped here for provisions on their way to California and Alaska. However, since the Panama Canal and the Port of San Antonio (Chile) superceded Valparaiso's commercial importance, the city reinvented itself as one of Chile's main cultural centers.

Pablo Neruda, the famed Chilean poet and communist, made Valparaiso and the nearby fishing village of Isla Negra his home. The Chilean Admiralty is also based here and UNESCO, the United Nations cultural agency, named the entire city a world heritage site. Centered around the port, neighborhoods grew out of the surrounding steep hills and residents, who are also called Porteños, still use the city's funiculars as transportation.

The hills of Valparaiso

In honor of Mr. Neduda, I guess it is fitting I got into an argument with a French communist barmaid.

Malas palabras

2009-03-16T17:34:00.013+01:00

“Chicos!” the man outside the Retiro Bus Station in Buenos Aires belted out. “Need a taxi?”

Strange, with only two months in Buenos Aires, that typically friendly Argentine greeting instantly set me at ease, like I am home. After two weeks of traveling, I guess I am home - or at least where I currently park myself when not on the road.

* * *

“Acá?” my friend J. asked as he pointed at the tourist map. Detecting our American and French accent, the hostel attendant seemed amused and smilingly corrected us. “Aquí,” she corrected us using what Spanish speakers in most other Latin American countries would use for “here.” How easily one adapts to the language of your host country - except we’re in Uruguay, not Argentina!

Crossing the Río de la Plata into Uruguay is about as easy as entering France via the English Channel. After checking in at the Buquebus ferry station in Buenos Aires, immigration and customs officials from Argentina and Uruguay efficiently processed passengers through the formalities. In a little under an hour, I had crossed the muddy waters of the Río de la Plata and was on foot to find a bed for the night in Colonia del Sacramento.

Stretching approximately 50 kilometers wide, the Río de la Plata both connects and separates Argentina and Uruguay. The two nations share many things in common; both speak with a similar accent, a common history with the Spanish motherland, and the near fanatical habit of drinking mate.

It was not always so peaceful. During more turbulent times, the Portuguese crown occupied what is now Uruguay and had designs on the modest Spanish settlement that is now Buenos Aires. Colonia was established as a fort to deter Spanish incursion north of the river and to monitor Castilian maritime activities in the region.

Colonia is like a town frozen in time. Ceded to the Spanish in exchange for Madrid’s recognition of the Portuguese crown’s dominion in Brazil, the town lost its former raison d’être. Possessing little industry, Colonia’s historic old city is tidily preserved; the old city gate and a section of the fortification still remain to welcome modern day visitors. To Porteños, Colonia is a daytrip to enjoy what Buenos Aires doesn’t offer – soft sandy beaches along the river. To many North American and European expatriates living in the Río de la Plata region, the ferry crossing is an easy trip to renew one’s 90-day tourist visa.

* * *

It is good to be on the road again. After weeks of being stationary in Buenos Aires, I am happy to be traveling again - to see new places and to explore. Travelers tend to be kind; we exchange information about logistics, places to visit, books to trade, and share meals and wine. In a short night in Colonia, I broke bread with a Canadian, a Norwegian, a Quebecoise, and a French girl. Conversations flowed freely and some of us exchanged contact information with the promise of future encounters. Who knows if we will ever meet again?

But some travelers also astound me with their lack of regard for the local culture and language. An European I met in Colonia, despite 2 months in Buenos Aires, didn’t know how to order a beer in Spanish. An American I ran into in Argentina, marched right up to a Porteño and demanded in one word “bathroom!” No "please" or "por favor." Perhaps their time in South America is so short they cannot bring themselves to be polite?

One issue with being away from Buenos Aires is that I am not in my Spanish class. However, outside of conversations with my friends and other travelers, I try to speak exclusively in Spanish. This brought both amusement and compliments from South Americans. In many places, obviously accustomed to throngs of tourists and well versed in English to serve their business needs, they seemed pleased and humored to see a foreigner making the effort to speak their language. Many replied to me in English but reverted to their native tongue after noticing my efforts to engage in Spanish. In addition, once outside of touristic areas, Spanish is king and I've no other option but to improve.

* * *

“You speak Spanish with a Porteño accent,” Mauro*, one of Bikes and Wines’s employees giggled. That comment was later echoed by Alejandro, an amiable young mountain guide we hired to take us up the 3,500 meters tall Cerro Arenales near Mendoza. "Malas palabras," Alejandro laughingly joked. "You're learning all the bad words from Buenos Aires."

“Well at least I’m learning something in Buenos Aires,“ I thought to myself. It was shortly after 10am, almost a little early for wine tastings.

Originally the idea sounded intriguing. What could be more fun than visiting Mendoza wineries on bike!

However, with an empty stomach and five or six wineries to visit for the day, I imagined the prospect of falling off the bike after a wee tipple and like Humpty Dumpty never getting up again. Further, unlike the quaint country lanes of Napa Valley or the Santa Ynez, Mendoza’s wineries are set in the working neighborhoods of Maipu and Luján de Cuyo. That translated into Mendocinos going about their daily lives and city buses and cars roaring past us.

“Hola! de dónde sos?” the owner of Bikes and Wines and the adjacent ice cream shop greeted me. “Soy de California,” I replied, “from California.” When J. pulled in and the proprietor heard his accent and asked my friend “Vous être francais? – are you French?” So the conversation went on in English, Spanish, and French.

“They call me Gulí,” he said. With a friendly wave he invited us to sit down for ice cream after we had returned the mountain bikes. Among many flavors on the offering one he is experimenting is Malbec ice cream. Introducing us to two of his friends sitting on the terrace, Gulí returned to serving his customers, both travelers and Mendocinos.

Traveling in South America, one becomes accustomed, or even immune, to seeing poverty. It is everywhere, in the subway, on the streets, casually but constantly confronting you; the shoeless children begging for coins; the older ladies who should be enjoying their retirement but instead is selling cookies on the street corners.

However, while Argentina, like any country, has issues lifting its economically challenged population into middle class, education is excellent. Most Argentine university graduates speak far better English than I can manage in Spanish. Many are also fluent in French. Biking around Mendoza’s wineries, I rode past a secondary school advertising its instructions in Spanish, English, and German. With Gulí and his two friends, our conversation flowed from English to French. I requested the opportunity to use my Spanish and they were happy to oblige. One lady, who was quite advanced in age, even told me she is learning Chinese!

* * *

“Watch out for flying fruits!” Mike at Hostel Lao cautioned. Mike is an Englishman who left the United Kingdom, traveled the world, and settled amongst the vines with a Mendocina who speaks Spanish as if she is singing.

With that warning I was off to see one of the world’s biggest wine festivals. Starting with the Bishop’s blessing of the grapes on the last day of February, the culmination of Mendoza’s wine harvest festival, or Fiesta Nacional de la Vendimia, kicked off with Vía Blanca, or the parade of queens.

Designed to promote Mendoza as a wine region, each department within the province is represented by a queen. Ranging from 18 – 25 years old, smartly dressed and parading about downtown Mendoza atop lavishly designed floats, the queens vied for attention and hurled native products from their region into the crowd. It is astonishing to see these petite beauties launching objects, some quite large, 5-10 meters into the masses. In two hours, I saw grapes, apples, cantaloupes, and even bottles of wine flying through Mendoza’s brightly lit sky!

Perhaps giddy with too much Malbec, the parade announcer in front of me would turn every 15 – 20 minutes, ask where I’m from, then promptly ignore my response and cry out for the crowd to welcome the visitor from Japan.

* * *

Next, how I almost got expelled from Chile and my week by the sea in Valparaiso and Viña del Mar.

* I’m not sure if that was his name because I forgot to ask for the spelling.

Protest Entre Ríos style and horses have oranges for breakfast

2009-02-14T22:38:00.030+01:00

Hugo Ramón, my landlord for the weekend, had his legs spread about shoulder length apart. With the right foot slightly in front of the left and his eyes glaring straight into mine, he demonstrated the proper form of taking mate. Hugo cupped the mate with his right and and comfortably rested his left hand on his hip.

Why have a steak when a few cows are available?

"When talking to a gaucho you must show all your hands and look them straight in the eyes," he said in exceptionally slow Spanish for my benefit. "No surprises." Pretending to have a poncho and a knife, he faked a stab and retreated quickly while shielding himself with a make-belief poncho.

Hugo is not a gaucho. He is a painter and he rents his spare room out to Carnival tourists. Like others here in Entre Ríos Province, Hugo incessantly drinks mate, an herbal tea common in Argentina, Paraguay, Uruguay, and parts of South of Brazil.

A Gualeguaychú protest against a proposed paper mill across the river in Uruguay

* * *

I arrived in Gualeguaychú late on Friday afternoon. Having no reservations for a bed or a room at a hotel, I arrived with my tent and sleeping bag figuring I will sort myself out along the riverside beaches if need be. But alas, even the campgrounds are full! It is Carnival weekend.

"Che, che," Hugo yelled at me as I walked by his house. "Need a room?"

It´s perfect. The room is dark, hot, and slightly damp. But Hugo and his family speak no English (I got great Spanish lessons all weekend), are massively friendly hosts, and even showed me around town in his vintage Malibu.

All for 25 pesos a night . . .

The host's opinion of Carnival tourists came free of charge: Porteños (dangerous and crazy), Chileans (feminine and gay), Americans (can't dance and drink too much).

Gualeguaychú Carnival

* * *

"Lluvia," Samuel, one of Aurora's employees, said to me as he motioned to the sky. It is already 11pm on Sunday night. But if rain is coming, I better arm my tent with its rainfly. Sure enough, as the day broke in the morning, rain came pouring out of the heavens.

Not more than an hour ago, I got dropped off at the side of a remote highway, approximately 6 hours north of Buenos Aires. With nothing but the stars, my headlamp, and highway markers to guide me, I had two simple choices - hike the 12 km to Parque Nacional el Palmar's campsite, or take the 4 km walk to Aurora del Palmar, a nearby private reserve reportedly with superb campsites.

"Leave it to me," the Neuvo Expreso bus driver said to me earlier in the afternoon at the Gualeguaychú bus terminal. "I will get you to the Parque Nacional el Palmar." Marcello Daniel Bauza, broke into a big smile when he found out that I lived in Washington, DC. "I used to play professional soccer for the Washington Diplomats," the driver said to me. "How about if I speak English to you, and you can practice your Spanish with me?"

Sunset at La Aurora del Palmar

So off we went for the three hour ride, with the red glare of the bus' speedometer reflecting off our faces, chatting in Spanglish. At what we thought was the right distance marker, Marcello yelled "now!" With more of a rolling pause than a stop, the bus door swung open and I jumped out with my rucksack.

One worry I had walking on Highway 14 to Aurora del Palmar is the pace of traffic. Because of the rural nature of the route, I am not visible to oncoming cars and trucks until their headlights are close enough to reflect off my backpack. Keeping the headlamp on more as a warning to passing traffic, I took care to step off the road whenever cars came by.

2 km after I passed the national park marker, a white Toyota pickup with Argentina's national park ranger crest on its door stopped 100 meters in front of me. "Where are you going?" the driver grinned at me.

Horses and sheep have oranges for breakfast at La Aurora

More pictures of the trip can be found here.

To Gualeguaychú

2009-02-13T12:14:00.003+01:00

On the road again.

For 34 pesos this Flechabus will get me to Gualeguaychú, home of Argentina's carnival, or el Carnaval del Pais. I adore Buenos Aires but feel a constant urge to see the rest of this country. I will spend two days in Gualeguaychú and move north to Colón, another river town in Argentina's Mesopotamia. I've got my gears with me and will then travel to Parque Nacional El Palmar for camping and a safari in Argentina's subtropic north.

On another note, I find myself adopting some Porteño habits. I carry my Guía T (bus guide) with me everywhere I go and find myself hoarding coins (my reason for doing this is explained here). Instead of using my credit card at the supermarket or at restaurants, I will use cash just to break up the larger bills and to get coins for bus rides.

My shameless marketing and time to Carnaval (don't think it's a verb but ...)

2009-02-06T16:28:00.018+01:00

I actually haven't touched a steak for a whole week! Not improbably but I must break my fast today.

Señora Hu, the owner of Restaurante Lai Lai, waved at me as soon as I entered the eatery last night. "Come! It's past 10pm and we're just about to have dinner," she said to me. "Join us." Such offer of a family style Taiwanese meal is difficult to resist.

The señora got me a liter of Quilmes and disappeared into the kitchen. "I've been cooking," she happily said as she reemerged. "The kitchen staff don't know these dishes well enough." So at no cost to me, I had three cup chicken (a Taiwanese specialty), mapo tofu, and a plate of fragrant eggplants stirred fried with garlic and basil.

Señora Hu has taken me in - all on account of my Taiwanese-accented Chinese. It's no matter to her that I am American and not Taiwanese. She's offered help with Buenos Aires know-hows and her perspectives as an immigrant who came to Argentina with nothing but her family and faith. So for last night, she refused payment for my meal.

If you are in Buenos Aires and read this blog for some odd reason, visit Restaurante Lai Lai in Barrio Chino - especially if you want authentic Taiwanese/Chinese dishes outside of the usual fried rice or beef with broccoli. Details on Guía Oleo are here.

On another note, I am off this afternoon to get bus tickets for Guayleguachú's carnaval. While there are options closer to home in Buenos Aires, Gualeguaychú is only a three hour bus trip. The festival is documented here by a friend and here by a travel web site on Argentina.

Ricos tacos

2009-02-05T03:13:00.008+01:00

Since I am an Angeleno, I naturally think proper tacos should be cooked and served out of the back of a roach coach. But, I am in Argentina, the land spices left behind.

Except for an annoying but light cough, I am better today. I went to my Spanish lesson this afternoon and was able to be up and about. By 9pm I was craving dinner, and more importantly, a proper pint. I didn't want a liter of watery Quilmes, but desired a beer with taste.

"RICOS TACOS" the neon sign in front of La Fabríca del Taco declared!

La Fabríca del Taco's tacos

Unnatural! Proper Mexican in Buenos Aires?

The carne asada tacos came in about the right size. But alas, the tortilla was flour instead of corn and the meat a wee bit overcooked. But the tacos did come with plenty of chopped onions and cilantro and I had three salsas to choose from: poco picante, picante regular, and muy picante (a little spicy, regular spicy, very spicy).

Muy picante salsa was actually spicy. I broke a sweat and asked for more lemonade.

Poco Picante, Picante Regular, or Muy Picante!

On the way home I stopped at Antares, a neighborhood brewpub I've yet to try. As a friend recommended, Antares brews are atypical of other Argentine cervezas. They were rich with flavors and served in proper British pint glasses.

Antares Pub in Palermo Soho

A caffeinated life

2009-02-04T17:39:00.005+01:00

I woke up Monday morning with a cold. My head was twirling around and I lost my voice. I had to cancel my Spanish lesson and stayed home to recover. But there's only so much time I can spend inside before I lose my mind!

Although Café del Botánico is right downstairs from my apartment and has far better food, I only go there for their medialunas. So, I packed my books and my homework and headed to DiVino, my usual neighborhood café and vinoteca. For the price of 7 pesos/US$2 for a cup of café con leche, I sat at DiVino for nearly four hours and read, wrote my journal, did my Spanish homework, and watched Palermo go by on bikes, roller blades, on foot, and in cars and buses. I stayed until dinner time (which is 10-11pm in Buenos Aires) before I headed home.

It probably helps that DiVino has a lovely waitress who doesn't pay me a bit of attention no matter how much I try to speak to her in my poor Spanish.

Castellano only please!

2009-02-02T20:38:00.012+01:00

"SPEAK SPANISH," the man seated in front of us demanded! As my friend and I were the only English speakers on the bus, it was very obvious that the indignant man was speaking to us.

We're were not speaking loudly by any measure, especially with the bus engine roaring and the traffic flying past us. Nonetheless, my friend and I lowered our voices and tried to take the man's concerns in mind.

Once again he turned around and let loose another volley of demands. Now - in my amateurish stage, my ability to understand rapidly-spoken Spanish is poor. Further, it was only 17hr00 and the man smelled heavily of alcohol. Between the pace of his speech and the slurring, I understood very few of his insults. Nevertheless, I got the point.

I understand where he is coming from. I am a visitor to Argentina and I should respect the local language and customs. As Americans, we demand the same of visitors to the United States.

But I am trying. I have been to Spanish school, hired a tutor, and sought out language exchange partners to make Porteño friends and practice my Spanish as much as possible. But it takes time and I've only been here for three weeks.

Voy a apolillar a la playa

2009-01-27T13:59:00.017+01:00

The gentle sound of the lapping waves and the still-hot but gradually setting sun inspired a siesta after the rigors of lunching at La Huella, the José Ignacio beach bungalow that serves everything from sushi, the never-missing selection of steaks, to grilled brótola, a fish commonly found in the region's waters. So it is timely my friend just taught me apolillar, an Argentine slang meaning "to crash," or to fall asleep.

"Hello I am the sushi director at La Huella," the blue-eyed woman in a mildly Asian-inspired outfit said to us as we settled into our seat. Well that's the first time I've met a sushi director anywhere!

But that's the pleasure on traveling - to be surprised - sometimes good and sometimes bad.

* * *

Thanks to the generosity of a couple friends and their family, I visited Punta del Este last weekend. A region situated on Uruguay's eastern coast, the beach resort is the summer playground of well-heeled Porteños and Brazilians. Out were my usually frugal affairs of hostel bunks and a liter of Quilmes beer; I passed the weekend feeling distinctly underdressed during social affairs.

But a lovely weekend it was. Unlike the oven that is Buenos Aires during the summer, the Atlantic sea breeze, the sandy beaches, and the chic eateries of La Barra and José Ignacio all contributed to softening my will to return to the city - as enjoyable as Buenos Aires is.

It is easy to forget that not all the world live like this.

Of chilled Chardonnays while overlooking an Uruguayan sunset, a vivacious grandmother who rode the waves on an inner tube and advised that the best way to improve my Spanish is to date a pretty Porteña, a former diplomat who powered up his boat to offer me a tour of Punta del Este, to a night at a fashion show my friend produced, I am unlikely to repeat such a weekend any time soon.

* * *

So yes - voy a apolillar a la playa, or I'm going to crash on the beach.

In business to lose money

2009-01-20T18:15:00.009+01:00

Famous is the difficulty of finding coins and getting businesses to make change for large bills in Buenos Aires. Where have all the coins gone? "No sé," or "I don't know," said every Porteño I asked. My Porteña roommate tells me she sometimes go from bank to bank trying to collect enough change for the week.

Just this afternoon I went to the local Disco supermarket and bought a baguette and an orange Fanta. The bill came to AR$4.91. I gave a 5 peso note and got 10 centavos back. Three days ago I took a taxi home and the meter told me AR$5.80. I gave AR$10 and got back a AR$5 note. How do businesses deal with taxes and audits when their receipts don't square up with cash on hand?

Coins are essential in the Porteños' daily lives. One needs coins to take buses and many Subte (subway) stations loudly display "NO HAY MONEDAS," or no coins to make change. So if one wants to buy a 10 trip Subte card (AR$11), it's best to turn up with exactly AR$11. Where to come up with that 1 peso coin is another story.

Thinking about this makes me tired. Time for a siesta.

Cats in the park

2009-01-18T15:05:00.006+01:00

A change in weather today brought about a different pace of life. Suddenly Porteños are wearing coats and the outdoor crowd at Café del Botánico downstairs is a little thinner. Bloody hell it's only 21C!

Just yesterday it was 39C and unbearably hot. But for some reason I don't mind. Is it because I am not in Washington, DC looking at federal workers setting up bleacher seats and portable toilets for the Obama inauguration?

Nonetheless the warm weather is driving my thoughts to the beach. The news reported that my momentary respite will end soon and summer will vengefully return next week. Thank goodness a Porteño friend invited me to join him and his girlfriend at their Punta del Este beach house in Uruguay next Friday.

On another note, the Botanical Garden across the street is a curious institution. It's lovingly manicured and a peaceful sanctuary from the hustle and bustle of Buenos Aires. I can hear and see all the activities from my balcony. Families gather, couples neck, and children frolic amongst the greens. But unlike most parks I know, dogs aren't allowed (blasphemy!). The Botánico seems to be a haven for cats. Heaps and heaps of felines nap lazily in the park and jealously guard the entrance should an unsuspecting fido decide to intrude.

Desayuno Porteño*

2009-01-15T02:38:00.008+01:00

I am becoming less and less aware of my surroundings. I still pay attention to where I'm going and continue to trot around like a puppy's first time out in a new neighborhood, letting my curiosity get the best of me. But after eight days in Buenos Aires and a few days of Spanish classes, I am feeling more settled and more comfortable.

I still have a great deal to learn, but can now converse in basic Spanish phrases, like ordering food at restaurants, asking for directions and change, or directing taxis to my desired destination.

I now have my local bakery (Café del Botánico), where I get my breakfast of two medialunas** and one café con leche***. I have been frequenting the same empanada/pizza shop, and most recently, discovered a new neighborhood tapas cafe, where one can order what seems like an infinite variety of small dishes from a bar. Just yesterday the pizza shop owner took my order, heard my strange accent (I made the mistake of pronouncing the number 15 in French instead of in the school-taught Porteño accent), smiled and quizzed me about where I'm from, and asked me to return often.

Today, as I took my 30 minutes walk from my apartment to my Spanish language school, I discovered that I unconsciously took my iPod and had been listening to music and my BBC World News podcast. While walking with an iPod would be normal for me in New York or Washington, I have been too busy exploring to care about listening to music on my walks.

I guess I am making progress. I am now more comfortable with my new home and the new language.

However, this clothing store on the way to school didn't escape my attention.

* a continental breakfast of a cup of coffee, two medialunas, and a glass of juice. All for less than US$3
** the Porteño version of the croissant. It is slightly sweet but every bit as good as the French version
*** the Latin American version of Café Au Lait

The Redcoats are coming

2009-01-11T20:49:00.020+01:00

How the professionals do it

History has it when British troops marched on Buenos Aires in 1806, residents of San Telmo slowed the advancing invaders by pouring pots of boiling water off their balconies.

By evidence of this blogger's Sunday visit to San Telmo, a neighborhood that claims to be BsAs' oldest district, the British are still coming . . . and the Americans, the Germans, the Italians, the Japanese . . .

Instead of scalding foreign toppers with hot water, today's Argentines are showering the visitors with unending tango music and Buenos Aires largest antique market.

* * * *

Too much playing tourist makes me cranky.

When I lived in Washington, I would get impatient with visitors who clogged up the Metro's escalators. Moreover, I've plenty of time in Buenos Aires. Unlike the average tourist with a fortnight in Argentina, I'm planning to stay here and learn the language.

But what is one to do when one's curiosity overcomes one's phobia of big crowds and overpriced restaurants? It's a fine Sunday with a breezy 25 Celsius. Time to have a walk.

Besides, my Spanish classes start tomorrow. It's almost time to stop being a tourist, live a more structured life, and more importantly, start learning the language, culture, and the city's people.

What the chica made me do after I stole her hat

Ironically, tonight I am joining an Argentine and a former Washington Rugby Football Club teammate to watch the Pittsburgh Steelers at a pub.

For those who are interested in seeing my stumbles about San Telmo, have a look at my photos on Picasa.

Barrio taiwanés?

2009-01-09T17:41:00.005+01:00

The bus system in Buenos Aires is confusing. Unlike Portland or Washington, where one can easily find bus schedules and routes online, managing the BsAs bus system, or colectivos as they’re known here, can take a bit of time.

“I’ll take you to the nearest stop and get you on the right bus home,” the owner of Restaurant Lai Lai assured me.

I wasn’t expecting this level of service when I got to Buenos Aires’ Barrio Chino last tonight. I was simply looking for a meal to take me a little closer to home, and perhaps an ethnic Chinese or Asian grocery store to get some instant noodles. But when Señora Hu, Lai Lai’s owner, heard my Taiwanese-accented Mandarin, she invited me to stay longer and chat. My initial hope of a short meal and some time to reflect and write my journal turned into an animated conversation about my trip to Argentina and Hu’s 20 plus years’ stay in BsAs as a Taiwanese Argentinean. It’s funny that my first substantive conversation in town wasn’t in English or even Spanish, but Chinese.

I would compare Belgrano to some of the more fancied American neighborhoods like Brentwood in Los Angeles or parts of Park Slope in Brooklyn. Originally founded as a northern suburb to Buenos Aires, Belgrano has been integrated into the city and is situated close to venerable institutions such as the Argentine Polo Ground. The neighborhood is home to chic cafés and fashionable boutiques. Unlike Palermo, which still retains a bohemian air about the neighborhood, Belgrano denizens look like the country club type. Barrio Chino sits deep inside Belgrano.

“Actually, many Barrio Chino restaurants are Taiwanese-owned,” Señora Hu expressed with a certain level of pride. While English is my primary language, as a Chinese speaker, I definitely detected many Barrio Chino business owners speaking Mandarin with a Taiwanese accent. I even overheard a Chinese supermarket owner speaking to his friends in the Taiwanese dialect, which is as different to Mandarin as Portuguese is to Spanish.

More than two decades ago, my parents worked up the courage to move the family to the United States. But my folks had the advantage of being solidly middle class and university-educated. These Taiwanese and Chinese immigrants came to Argentina and other parts of South America not knowing what to expect, mostly without capital and spoke no Spanish.

* * * *

I feel like I am spending a lot of time documenting my initial days here in Argentina. Perhaps I’m spending too much time blogging. But I feel like I should take every opportunity to record my experience here.

Kiosco

2009-01-08T18:55:00.008+01:00

A Palermo parilla I lunched at today.
Steak with garlic mustard sauce, salad, and sparkling water = AR$24/US$7.

Third day in Buenos Aires and I am in full discovery mode. As a newcomer to Argentina, every street corner is overwhelming my senses. I fully examine storefronts and restaurant menus and constantly look up unknown words in my pocket Spanish dictionary. It is exciting to be in a new city and learning about a different lifestyle. Who knows how long this sensation will last? But I’m going to enjoy this feeling before life becomes routine.

Kioscos are to Buenos Aires what 7 Elevens are to Taipei. Gringos may think the ubiquitous 24/7 convenience stores are a North American habit, but the Taiwanese have perfected the concept and have dotted their cities with more 7 Elevens than mailboxes.

My local Kiosco

Kioscos are similar to the Taiwanese 7 Elevens. They are usually small and narrow holes in the wall that sell everything from mobile phone recharge cards, sodas, snacks, tobacco, and alcohol. My Porteña roommate tells me Kioscos are on nearly every BsAs block.

This morning I registered for a one-week intensive Spanish class at the Daniela Wasser Schoo l. As a crash course for visiting North Americans, Europeans, and other tourists, it is a bit expensive at US$190 for 20 hours of instruction. But since I speak almost no Spanish, I don’t want to wait until March for the Universidad de Buenos Aires’ Español para Extrajeros program to start.

BsAs seems to be mostly an Ibero-Italian city. Aside from the language, the Spanish and Italian culinary influences are especially noticeable. Outside of local dishes like steaks, steaks, steaks, and every other available cow part, one can readily find pizzerias, pasta, tapas or heladerias (Italian ice cream shops) and confiterias (bakeries and cafés).

But walking back from Daniela Wasser School earlier this afternoon, I stumbled upon perhaps an Arab neighborhood (or at least a group of Middle Eastern restaurants) in Palermo, on Avenida Raul Scalabrini Ortiz between Cordoba and Nicaragua. While the initial eatery I encountered had an unassuming front with a simple Comida Árabe sign, I soon came across four or five other Arab restaurants, complete with garish faux Middle Eastern facades and advertised belly dancers. I think I’ll take some time out to explore the first of these eateries.

PS – I also realize that I live on Arab Republic of Syria Street (Republica Árabe Siria).

Looking out my balcony onto Republica Árabe Siria. Jardin Botanico to the left.

Suerte!

2009-01-08T04:58:00.009+01:00

It is very sunny.

That was my first impression of Buenos Aires (BsAs) as my flight descended upon Argentina’s capital city. Having just left a cold and snowy North American Christmas, summer in January is fantastic!

* * * *

I feel like a child. I am in a foreign land where I lack proper command of the local language and sound less coherent than a 2-year old. This shortcoming makes life in my new home very interesting, at least until I improve my Spanish.

Subte station in Buenos Aires

“Where are you from?” two señoras asked in Spanish as I stepped into a locutoria (calling center and Internet cafe).

“At least I got that one,” I thought to myself. Struggling with my two rucksacks with a combined weight of around 40kg, I replied in the most disgraceful Español, “Yo soy Californiano.”

“Suerte!” they wished me luck as we parted.

My poor Spanish makes daily life more difficult. For example, on my first day I went shopping for a prepaid mobile phone SIM card. While I returned with the right item, I couldn’t successful call customer service and activate my phone. This morning I went to the supermarket and had an entire conversation in Spanish with a very nice señora. Aside from telling her that I am American and I’m in BsAs to study Spanish, I haven’t a clue what we talked about. I just nodded, smiled a lot, and said muchas gracias whenever the lady offered another helpful suggestion.

* * * *

shady Arenales Street just around the corner from my apartment

Palermo is my new neighborhood. From my balcony I can see the leafy Jardin Botanico (Botanical Garden) across the street and I can find life’s necessities all within a few blocks; Disco, a local supermarket, is three blocks from my apartment; I found a nearby store that carries wine from Familia Bianchi, one of my favorite Malbec producers from the Mendoza region; the Subte, Buenos Aires’ subway, is literally right at my building’s front door.

Palermo, the neighborhood of Jorge Luis Borges, is geographically large and culturally and gastronomically diverse. From what my roommate told me, Palermo Soho (because it is trendy like Soho) offers some of Buenos Aires best boutique shopping and bars; Palermo Hollywood (because of the area’s high concentration of movie studios, actors, and directors) is geared towards the fashionistas and entertainers; while Palermo Chico, sitting prettily by the Rio de la Plata (River Plate), is one of the city’s most exclusive neighborhood.

Russel Street in Palermo Soho

* * * *

It is almost 1:30am now. As I gaze across the Jardin Botanico at the nearby highrises of the Belgrano neighborhood, it is getting increasingly challenging to keep my eyes open. Tomorrow is another big day; I will be going to a language institute to register for a beginner Spanish course to start next Monday.

Go day

2009-01-05T20:21:00.003+01:00

Departure day is finally here. I get on my flight from Washington, DC tonight and will arrive at Buenos Aires at 10am tomorrow morning. The last minute details are mundane, but I had a bit of running around this morning, closing my bank account, visiting my credit union to withdraw some US currency, and to visit my dogs, whose ashes are buried at Folger Park on Capitol Hill. It's a bit emotional to leave them behind and I'll think of them often.

Mentally I am swinging between a high level of anxiety and excitement. I'm excited to get on the road and explore my new world, but also question if I've made the right choice to quite my job and head to a new country without any assurances of what I'll find. But c'est la vie.

I can't believe I managed to fit my life into a 70 liter and a 40 liter backpack. Except for a couple books and sweatshirts I left behind, everything else got in. Buenos Aires isn't quite the backwoods and I'll be able to get the common items while I'm living there, but I tried to take Rick Ridgeway's attitude regarding packing for a trip. When he and his team prepared for their trek across the Tibetan high desert, Ridgeway's mantra was " If we don't have it, we can't get it, and if we can't get it, we don't need it."

Next stop, BsAs.

Mother's tears

2009-01-01T16:16:00.005+01:00

Goodbyes, it's one of those things I'm not very good at.

Standing in the 5:30am Portland wind and rain, holding mother as she cried in my arms, was heartbreaking. I'm sure my absence is much harder on mother than on me. I am leaving once again for another continent, and with the exception of this weekend in Washington, DC, will be away from family for the better part of 2009.

Arriving at Portland International Airport this morning, I saw scenes similar to what I went through earlier; mothers saying goodbye to sons and daughters; families saying farewell to departing fathers and mothers. Before 9/11, I never noticed how many military personnel move through civilian airports. Since Oregon does not have a federal military base, and judging by their unit insignias, many servicemen and women I saw this morning are reservists and national guards being deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan. What a challenging farewell and start of a new year for their families!

What's a Walla Walla?

2008-12-31T06:21:00.023+01:00

"This is Walla Walla kiddo," Mr. Sapolil Cellars winemaker said as he commented on the eastern Washington State town's lack of nightlife. I was originally keen on visiting Cayuse, but a big SOLD OUT sign at the winery's tasting room redirected me to its neighbor.

It has been a bittersweet Christmas, a week of celebrating mother's return to the States but also my goodbye as I leave in January 2009 for my adventures in Argentina.

* * * *

We collected our rental car amidst a dull Oregon rain. It was already mid-morning but it felt early. Although it's already December 28th, most of Portland still slumbered in its post-Saturnalia food coma.

Portland International Airport, NE 181st Street, Gresham, and Troutdale . . . . One by one, mother, the sister, and I counted as we sped past Portland's eastern suburbs and into the Columbia River Gorge. Anticipating the majestic views of the river valley, we were instead greeted by a steady and increasingly energetic rain. It was as if mother nature desired no visitors and did its best to turn back the city slickers.

At the end of the last ice age, the Missoula Floods angrily rushed millions of tons of ice down the Columbia, cutting through the volcanic Cascade Mountains and creating the 80-miles long Gorge. Jagged bluffs, sometimes up to 4,000 feet/1,200 meters, now flank the mighty river's northern and southern banks.

Multnomah Falls

But on this wintry day, Mt. Hood and her shy sisters hid behind a thick white veil.

I cannot say exactly when the landscape changed, perhaps at the Dalles, the end of the Oregon Trail. The narrow and dramatic Gorge gave way to open sky and a high desert landscape befitting of Clint Eastwood's spaghetti westerns.

* * * *

Although I am a Willamette Valley and Burgundy Pinot Noir man, my first bottle of L'Ecole No. 41 Estate Syrah filled my head with fanciful imagination. The Blue Mountains, the high deserts bordering Idaho, and very warm summer days and the cool nights welcome the migrants from the South of France to the new world. Merlot from Bordeaux and Syrah from the Rhône have found a happy home in Walla Walla.

Excitedly ejecting myself out of our rental car each time we pull up to a new winery, I sampled offerings from L'Ecole No. 41, Woodward Canyon, Bergevin Lane, and finally Sapolil Cellars. But while the Syrahs were definitely worth the four hours drive, what struck me the most is the contrast between the winemakers' connection to the land they farm*, and their commitment to produce creative and quality wines; some converted rocky family plots that were unsuitable for planting wheat or onions but are great for the vines, while others came from as far away as France because of Walla Walla's freewheeling wine making culture.

* * * *

Unlike our eastward drive two days ago, today's trip back to Portland was smooth and relatively free of nature's wrath. Although it was still cloudy, the sun occasionally came out to play.

Today, the Columbia River Gorge was a pensive grand old lady who cautiously permitted us into her realm.

* Many Walla Walla winemakers commented that they're 3rd or 5th generation Walla Walla residents.

For lodging we stayed at the Walla Walla Inns' downtown location.

Progress

2008-12-23T01:08:00.006+01:00

I feel a bit like General John Burgoyne, the British commander who fought the Continental Army while refusing to part with his creature comforts. It's not like Buenos Aires is the wilderness of the Adirondacks, but . . .

Before

Attempt # 1 - Stuff everything in the rucksacks and hope they fit. It didn't work.

Attempt #2 - Tidy up the tarp, lay out the gears in a somewhat orderly fashion, then repack the rucksacks. It was better, but not there yet.

Attempt #3 - Remove 20% of my clothes, then repack. Almost there.

I'll have to have another go at it. All this packing worked up an appetite for dinner and a few pints.

I am willing to turn down some of my clothes but refuse to slim down on my wet/cold weather gears and my books (which adds at least 20 lbs to my pack). We all have to make sacrifices for the revolution.

After - ish

Are you local?

2008-12-11T00:11:00.004+01:00

As Grizzly Adams steered the raft down the New River (actually we paddled up the river since the New River flows south to north), I struggled with getting my head on right. The previous night had been rough. Camped out along the Shenandoah River, out tents got washed out by the inbound hurricane and we spent the whole night shivering under our improvised tarp city. Short of sleep, knee deep in mud, and wet and cold, we did what any sensible weekend warrior would do - we drank our entire weekend's supply of alcohol in one night.

Actually Grizzly Adams isn't our guide's name. But since I can't remember what he called himself and he was one towering, bearded, jolly and loquacious fella', Grizzly Adams it is.

"In West Virginia, a non-native only becomes local when the last person who knew you when you moved into town dies," Grizzie imparted upon us. "I arrived over 20-years ago and I'm still not local."

As much as I adore trekking and camping on the Appalachian Trail and rafting and rock climbing in the New River Gorge, I have no desire to pick up and move to the Mountain State.

But just now when I was laboring away at the gym, I got to thinking. How long must one live in a place before one becomes local? I have spent most of my life in three cities: Taipei, Los Angeles, and Washington, DC.

In the self-styled entertainment capital of the world, one earns the privilege of being an Angeleno as soon as one moves into town, find a trustworthy barman, bagel shop, burger drive through, and sort out one's favorite beach and roach coach (Southern Californian lingo for taco truck).

In Washington, very few I associate with are natives. Except for some generations-old Chevy Chase or Fairfax County families (which are outside the city limits anyway), many Washington residents are from somewhere else and go somewhere else for Christmas and Thanksgiving. After 16 years living in Washington, I hold a Brooklyn driver's license and still call myself a Californian.

Even in Taipei, most are from elsewhere in Taiwan or China. As a Japanese city originally designed for 600,000 residents, the City of Azaleas still works off the same 1895 grid but is now bulging with 2.6 million residents. Do the math and it's fairly obvious that most Taipeiers are from somewhere else. Around the time of the last big war, gramps moves the family to Taipei from Miaoli County, a quiet farming community 142 km south of Taipei.

I'm going to Buenos Aires soon. What am I going to be? I'm quite sure I won't be a Porteño. But am I going to be a traveler visiting Argentina or am I going to be a Buenos Aires resident?

NOUS SOMMES TOUS AMÉRICAINS

2008-12-04T02:28:00.016+01:00

“Mate, be back in a little while.”

We watched with our jaws to the floor as the kilted man hoisted his bagpipes and headed out the hostel. It was an unlikely gathering of strangers right before Christmas. The Argie, a Mexican, and I, all in our 20s, and then the 40-something Scot checked in. After playing his pipes for sometime in the cobblestone streets of altstadt Zürich, the Scotsman came back and we headed to a pub on Hauptbahnhof Straße to celebrate his earnings. Travelers make friends easily.

Street tag in Bern, Switzerland in December 2001

After my month-long sojourn in Chile and the south of Argentina, it was back to business on Capitol Hill. My unstructured and pleasurable life of a hobo was over.

“You gotta turn on CNN!” my friend screamed into the phone.

It was a perfect September morning in Washington. The day was sunny and warm and the sky was the bluest shade of blue. Having just returned from South America ten days ago, I was taking my time easing back to life in the rat race.

I watched in amazement as the news commentators debated about the gaping hole in the World Trade Center. Hours later, the Twin Towers tumbled to the ground and the Pentagon was ablaze. Mobile phones crashed and thousands of Capitol Hill staffers, members of Congress, lobbyists, police officers, and visitors wandered the grounds.

“A plane is heading for the Capitol!” some speculated.

Just then a sonic boom thundered across the southern sky. I dropped behind a metal file cabinet and thought it was my time - and I couldn’t even use the mobile to call mom. But it was an air force fighter climbing to intercept possible inbound airliners.

What followed was months of anger and confusion. The government had to act but anthrax chased us out of our Capitol Hill offices. We held meetings at cafes and I scribbled floor speeches and drafted legislation in hallways and on notebook paper. Those were uncertain times.

NOUS SOMMES TOUS AMÉRICAINS, declared France’s Le Monde.

We are all Americans indeed. Outside of my family, the first people to contact me about my safety were Marie and Xavier, a Parisian couple I met at San Pedro de Atacama in Chile. Travelers make friends easily.

“It’s time to stop being scared,” I thought to myself. “It’s time to travel again.”

Three months after that day of days, I bought the first cheap ticket to the first attractive location I saw. It was Zürich.

To where others have gone

2008-12-02T04:37:00.028+01:00

I stared into the frigid waters of the Strait of Magellan. The August wind was angrily sweeping across Seno Última Esperanza (Last Hope Sound) and the temperature was well below freezing. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the desperation of the Portuguese sailors who passed through the same spot on All Saints' Day in 1520.

"I should have my head examined for visiting the Patagonia at the height of winter," I muttered to myself as my escaping breaths were exhaled into the frosty air.

Situated at the southern extreme of the Chilean Patagonia, I imagined Punta Arenas to be the bottom of the Earth. Antarctica expeditions depart from here and penguins waddle its shores. The British-found port city (originally named Sandy Point) has a rich history as a penal colony whose first governor was executed by revolting prisoners. The town subsequently earned its keeps as arriving Germans, Croatians, and English and Welshmen got rich raising sheep and drilling for gushing black gold. But nobody told me the same rampaging prisoners also captured two visiting ships, marooned their passengers, got piss drunk on looted cognac, and were quickly recaptured.

Later day travelers, like Bruce Chatwin, imagined Patagonia to be the perfect nuclear bomb shelter because it isn't near anything worth bombing. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid came to the south of this continent to escape from pursuing sheriffs.

But overall, aside from visiting Austral Beer, the world's most southerly brewery, Punta Arenas in August is as Lady Florence Dixie said in 1881, "there may possibly be drearier places but I don't think it is probable."

Why do I travel?

Standing at the edge of where the famed Portuguese explorer once roamed, the same thoughts I had in Joshua Tree, Bangkok, Wadi Rum and Aqaba, and many other places raced through my mind. As Richard in Alex Garland's novel "The Beach" was motivated to have a go at the mysterious lagoon, I've been tempted as far as I can remember to strike out and travel to faraway places, where I would be free from guidebooks, gringo-priced cafes and pubs, and cheeky taxi drivers.

"Buscando una habitación?" the woman at the Puerto Natales bus station shouted at me.

Still groggy from the four hour bus ride from Punta Arenas and shocked by the icy Patagonian air, the only Spanish I can conjure up was a confused "permiso?"

"Oh you're American," she immediately switched to flawless English.

"Bugger! That obvious eh?" I thought to myself.

Pointing at the Chilean flag patch I used to repair my coat, "I thought you're South American," she said.

"Have a look at my place. No need to pay if you don't like it. I can organize tours to the Perito Moreno Glacier and the Torres del Paine National Park if you like."

So much for getting away from other gringos and Europeans.

Cecilia was a kind woman who ran a tight ship. Casa Cecelia in Puerto Natales was one of the best guesthouse I've stayed in. The shower pressure was strong, the water was hot, the kitchen and bedrooms were spotless (and heated!). She also sorted me out on treks to go on and rides to the parks.

The walk from where the bus let us off to the first warming hut with hot showers, food, and bunks was five hours. I made the hike with a Japanese girl on her gap year and a Maltese couple. The only way to get supplies in and out of Torres del Paine is on foot or mules. Fast-falling snow was a faithful companion during our whole trek to Refugio Pehoe.

We walked mostly in silence, each awed with the scenery and each with our own thoughts. Dampened by the wintry weather, not many trekkers are about the park. We've almost the entire mountain to ourselves, except for the hungry pumas.

Reading list

2008-11-26T14:25:00.012+01:00

One issue I'm still sorting out for my Argentina journey is my reading list. Do I carry everything to Buenos Aires with me and deal with the weight? Or ferry a few down initially and have friends send my collection after I'm settled? I've heard some horror stories about the Argie postal service.

But here's my initial list. Anybody with further suggestions?

Into Thin Air - John Krakauer
L'élégance du Hérisson - Muriel Barbery
The Wings of the Dove - Henry James
Persian Fire - Tom Holland
Kitchen Confidential - Anthony Bourdain
i, Lucifer - Glen Duncan
The Postman - Antonio Skámeta
On the Road - John Kerouac
Gabriela, Clove and Cinnamon - Jorge Amado
1491 - Charles G. Mann
The Lemon Tree - Sandy Toland
Writing New York - Phillip Lopate
The Peloponnesian War - Donald Kagan
Travels with Herodotus - Ryszard Kapuscinski
A Thousand Splendid Suns - Khaled Hosseini
Full Woman, Fleshly Apple, Hot Moon - Pablo Neruda
The Power and the Glory - Graham Green

Stepping off . . .

2008-11-20T16:29:00.018+01:00

I sat across from my ex, my nose stuffed up and my head fuzzy from my cold. We were at the Lighthouse, a Korean tofu hot pot specialist in suburban Washington. It's one of my favorite meals during winter and I probably won't find it once I get to Buenos Aires. In a way, this is a farewell to an aspect of my life in DC.

I have been a bit flighty lately. As my shove off date to Argentina approaches, I am realizing all the tasks I need to accomplish prior to leaving. There are academic commitments to fulfill and office work to to finalize. There is the boxing up of my apartment and the packing and repacking of my two rucksacks. The list is endless and unforgiving. But I'll get them done.

But the real weight on my chest is the idea of moving on. Although I made that choice quite some time ago, the idea that I will soon step off the edge is truly giving me the butterflies. I've been on many solo trips before, from the sands of Arabia to almost the bottom of the Earth. But for the first time I am off on a journey not knowing if I will return. I feel like I am charting a course without a map.

Ever since I was a wee boy I've been told to follow a professional path - be a lawyer, a banker, etc. I read my parents' disappointment as I detoured time and again and eventually ended up working on Capitol Hill. But at least that was a professional field right? I was working and breathing the same air with decision makers who can change the world. But was I?

Friends came and went and I am still standing on the same spot. It's time to go.

As I personally said goodbye to friends, I am realizing that I'll be alone pretty soon, with nothing to bank on except my wits and my savings account. I know I've plans for graduate school in Europe, but I also need to have my head right before I get there.

Perhaps this was how my parents felt years ago when they forfeited the comfort of their homeland for the unknown promises of California.

Free music!

2008-11-12T23:01:00.006+01:00

The weather in Washington is finally cooling down. During the last few days we went from sweater climate to coats and scarves weather. Walks to the Metro stations are getting more hurried.

One attractive aspect of autumn in Washington is the National Gallery of Art's Sunday evening concert series. Started as a service for returning war veterans, the shows are free of charge and I've spent many Sunday nights there.

We're approaching Christmas and I've been feeling more unsettled as the year's end nears. For the first time I'll have no father to cheer. It's not that I even like Santa and his gang of helpers, but the thought that I can't even ring dad and wish him a good holiday. . . .

Saying grace

2008-11-11T01:31:00.006+01:00

The man stopped me cold tonight as I walked from the gym back to my office. He was saying grace.

"Dear Lord, thank you for ....."

What does he have be thankful for? He doesn't even have a home. It is approaching winter and he is sitting outside in the cold, reduced to the kindness of strangers for his everyday sustenance. But there he is, giving thanks for the blessing of a meal.

I paused for a second but quickly moved past without acknowledging his moment of privacy. "Better get back to the office," I thought to myself.

The uni boys won!

2008-11-10T01:12:00.006+01:00

My boys won the Potomac Rugby Union Div. III championship match yesterday!

Down 15 - 5 with 20 minutes left, American University ran in two tries and a conversion to finish the match 17 - 15 winners.

Tomo, our fullback and Japanese import, was the man of the match.

Eureka!

2008-11-08T12:41:00.002+01:00

We're safe now :)

Early Friday morning thoughts

2008-11-07T16:18:00.012+01:00

I hate to dwell on the Taiwanese protest issue, especially since I'm not in Taipei to personally witness it. But I had to skype my mom last night to see about her welfare. She was under the hot sun all day to protest police actions limiting public speech.

Some may ask what the big deal is. Why are the Taiwanese protesting a trade deal that will expand direct flights and shipping lanes between Taiwan and China? Perhaps they're not. Perhaps they are protesting against the rollback of hard-won civil rights. One has to remember that as recent as 1987, the island nation was governed by a dictator under marshal law.

To protect a visiting Chinese diplomat, the Taiwanese government deployed 7,000 - 9,000 police in riot gears, erected wired barricades and blocked off several square kilometers of downtown Taipei, detained individuals for expressing their political views about China, and shuttered an area business without properly served warrants. One does not engage in such actions without eliciting a response from a free people. Reminiscent of Beijing on June 4, 1989, the university students have started an around-the-clock sit-in and are being dragged away one-by-one by the police for their troubles.

Most English-language press gave awful coverage to what's going on in Taipei. The New York Times outlined the inked trade deal in an article, and added that the Chinese envoy was met with "a handful of protests." The best part - one of the contributing writers wrote the story from Paris. The South China Morning Post out of Hong Kong focused on police officers injured by the protesters and a quick scan of the Sydney Morning Herald produced nothing on the subject. All this nothingness about a demonstration that drew over 100,000 marchers. I know, Taiwan is not my country. But I have roots there and like to cheer for democracy advocates.

I've turned to on-the-ground bloggers who are providing primary accounts of what occurred in Taipei the last few days. The Far-Eastern Sweet Potato wrote an eloquent summary of what that writer saw at the Thursday protest. Emotions came to me when the writer wrote "Perhaps no scene touched me more than that of a middle-aged police officer crying as he surveyed what was going on, caught between his responsibility to his troops and the people he is supposed to be serving." Mucha Man, another blogger in Taiwan, took some fantastic photos of the protest.

Thanks to Baino's Friday Fuckwit, I had a smile this morning.

Fightin' Scots

2008-11-06T18:49:00.015+01:00

Is Scotch a drink or a person from Scotland?

My friends from north of the Tweed would have a pretty firm answer about that question. But for some reason, when waves of immigrants came to the States from Northern Ireland, the Ulster Scots became the Scotch Irish. Many Americans can trace their ancestry back to the those who participated in the Plantations of Ireland.

In looking at things I want to do before the end of 2008, I hope I will be able to up myself to New York City for the Black Watch, a National Theatre of Scotland play about the Royal Highland Regiment's experience in Iraq.

Studio 360, a public radio show in the States, just ran a captivating interview with Gregory Burke, the play's writer.

Words

2008-11-06T15:53:00.009+01:00

In passing last night my mother asked me the damndest thing. She asked me if the American people would willingly subject ourselves to be ruled by a black man. The question surprised me.

Does her question expose her own biases? Or does it just reflect what she thinks about racial relations in the United States? She didn't bring me up to judge on account of skin color.

Then there is the semantics of the question. Maybe I can't properly translate her words from Mandarin to English, but I just can't see a democratic nation being ruled by anyone. We're subjects to no monarchs or dictators. Democrats are governed, not ruled.

On another subject, for those interested in geeking about politics in East Asia, the Taipei rallies my mother and I talked about was adequately summed up by the View from Taiwan. If the cited sources are accurate, the abridgement of civil rights is quite breathtaking.

Siege in Taipei

2008-11-06T02:40:00.013+01:00

I've been so wrapped up about the U.S. election I've been neglecting some of the news from across the big pond. Skyping my mother tonight she reminded me that we Americans were not the only ones struggling for democracy yesterday. The Taiwanese also have a wee donnybrook of their own in Taipei. As I previously blogged, an ongoing visit from a high-level Chinese envoy is attracting a bit of attention from Taiwanese democracy advocates.

Since my mother has been attending demonstrations in the Taiwanese capital, I've been quite worried about the escalated police presence and recent government detentions of opposition lawmakers and party officials. Denied permits to demonstrate against the Chinese diplomat, many Taiwanese have resorted to besieging government buildings hosting Beijing's top negotiator to Taiwan. According to my mother, who was at a Taipei protest yesterday, police efforts to break up demonstrations have resulted in scores of injuries to the civilians. Another rally is scheduled in Taipei today and organizers are expecting 100,000 to march.

I admire my mother for acting on her convictions. Democracy is a fine thing to stand up for. Since my father's passing in September my mother has been very keen to express herself on this issue. However, I also question if Taiwan and China's toxic history with each other is clouding the people's judgement. After all, the Chinese negotiator is only in town to sign accords to expand shipping and flights between the two countries.

Nonetheless, Taiwan has a special place in my heart. It's the land where my grandparents are buried and it is a fellow democracy. Go you good thing!

*Photos - Banner in the top photo declares "Taiwan is a country," referencing China's campaign to deny Taiwan de jure nationhood. Bottom photo - no explanation necessary.

The hangover

2008-11-05T19:34:00.006+01:00

The streets were blocked and it became impossible for cars to move through U Street. Washington, DC was a town in celebration last night. Nonetheless, being the negative nelly that I am, I hesitate to think that a simple election will change the course of a country. We've had eight years of wars, partisanship, hurricanes, and economic meltdowns. Mr. Obama has the challenging task of quickly righting the American vessel.

It was an interesting night. Moving quickly after work, I met up with two American and three French friends. Amidst cheers for Obama and partisan hollers supporting McCain, we spent the night hoping for a favorable outcome and explaining to our Gallic friends the intricacies of the American presidential election system. The surprise of the night wasn't the strong Obama victory. But I was rather taken with how hopeful and exuberant people were in their celebration. It is Washington, where we treat politics like sports. But people were high-fiving each other like they just posted the winning score for the World Cup.

I wish words can capture the emotions of election night, but I haven't the skills to adequately express what I saw. Now the world has its expectations of what our new government ought to look like, I hope they won't be surprised when Obama does what Obama needs to do to win a second term at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Facebooking on democracy

2008-11-04T18:50:00.016+01:00

So many people are excited about the vote today. Personally I'm quite conflicted. I'll be happy when it's over and the proper result certified without another judicially-assisted banana republic episode. One just cannot imagine what Americans are capable of.

I'm also amazed about the number of non-Americans who are keen on our election. I know they mean well but this is our election. I'm no supporter of the Grand Old Party but I don't need the world to tell me about the wisdom of an Obama presidency.

Some of my friends' facebook status today:

"is an active part of democracy. VOTE!"

"is calling DC for Obama."

"can't believe it's finally election day!"

"is going to vote."

"says go rock the vote! This country needs change!!!!"

"is basking in the warm glow of voting for the Dems!"

"Line to vote in col heights is only 3 blocks long."

"is voting strategically instead of sincerely. Sad."

"is everyone...please go and vote!"

"America, are you ready for some change ???"

"pfffff, you cannot even vote"

Here is to election-themed cocktails.

Picture of the day

2008-11-04T17:03:00.003+01:00

Going up on DC Metro's escalator.

Proper toppers

2008-11-04T15:58:00.019+01:00

It was a light crowd for the Melbourne Cup. But it was the night before and all the cool kids in DC are out geeking about the election.

I've never been interested much in the ponies. But a buddy who works at the Australian Embassy got a few of us on the guest list. Wagering and bottles of crownie and VB aside, I had a duty to humor all the ladies with large funny hats.

It was a mostly quiet affair. But the crowd got more animated as the Aussies bid up the horses under the "Calcutta" rule. Perhaps last night's gaming process is a down under method, but I was a bit confused.

Inspired by Paddy in Buenos Aires' post about Barrio Chino in BsAs, I had myself a bit of a walk around Washington, DC's Chinatown. Originally a German-speaking neighborhood around the turn of 20th century, Washington's Chinese quarter is Chinatown in name only. Priced out by costly condos and the city's insatiable appetite for more office space for lawyers and lobbyists, the Chinese have long moved on. Except for a few serviceable Asian restaurants, the area is mostly populated by yuppies.

In an effort to retain the neighborhood's history, the city government requires all businesses in Chinatown to display some form of Chinese characteristic. Interpreting the municipal ordinance loosely, area businesses satisfied the government mandate by opting for Chinese signs.

DC Chinatown also has a partisan tinge when it comes to politics - Chinese politics. Many of the family and provincial associations still maintain their loyalty to the Chinese Nationalist Party (AKA Kuomintang). One can still spy Republic of China flags during the lunar new year parade and the many still celebrate October 10th as the Chinese national holiday (rather than October 1st, which is the People's Republic of China's national holiday).

If I can have a wish right now I wish I can either get a few more hours of sleep, or be at Buenos Aires for the annual pillow fight.

Ocean to the west and mountains to the east

2008-11-02T03:46:00.007+01:00

Growing up a Southern Californian meant around-the-year sunshine, beaches and tall mountains close by, and wineries. Aside from New York City, no other North American metropolitan area can match the Los Angeles region's culinary offerings. Growing up a Southern Californian meant playing beach volleyball one day and skiing in the mountains the next; it meant having dim sum for brunch and having fish tacos for dinner. While Los Angeles hasn't been my home for quite a number of years, I still fancy, in concept, what the city has to offer.

I've had the luxury of traveling to the Pacific Northwest from time-to-time. I used to have work in Portland, Oregon and still have family there. The region occupies a special place in my heart. For one, the geography of the Northwest is similar to that of Southern California's; the Pacific is to the west, and the mountains are to the east.

I was recently in Seattle, Washington for a few September days. Here are a couple photos I took.

Comings and goings

2008-11-01T05:29:00.006+01:00

Unfortunately, because I have to turn in some work in the morning, I am desk-bound at home tonight instead of out chasing Marie Antoinette and Catwoman. But as I am taking a stretch from my work, I can't help but giggle about the collection I've amassed on my desk.

My buddy M. just returned from his around-the-world trek on Thursday. Typical of a DC population, I always have friends coming or going. We're just a nomadic people.

We traded war stories and brandished bottles collected on the road. M. has been working the vines at a Bordelais chateau and I was recently in Oregon and Washington. So we've a few bottles of French, Oregon, and Washington to top off in the next few days!

To keep the beer cold

2008-10-31T15:53:00.002+01:00

We call these contraptions beer koozies and they're ubiquitous on California beaches or at Texas BBQs. Although I am partial to a bottle of Mendoza Malbec or a Burgundy or Oregon Pinot Noir, I don't travel without my koozies (at least not well). Useful for keeping the brew tip top under hot weather, koozies double as my camera case while on the road. Seen above pattering about beaches in Taiwan, this beauty is coming with me on my Argie walkabout.

30 October, 2008: morning and dusk in Washington

2008-10-31T00:06:00.005+01:00

Looking out my office window with a view of the Navy Memorial. Most dry days one will find either a naval ceremony or kids trying to hop from one continent to another.

I felt like walking after work today so I crossed the grounds on the National Mall to get to the L'Enfant Plaza Metro Station. This is a view west looking at the sun setting behind the Washington Monument.

Small monuments and first class dining service

2008-10-30T17:15:00.003+01:00

Washington, DC is a city full of monuments. Designed by a Frenchman in the Republic's early days and constructed mostly during America's years as an aspiring global power, it is an urban landscape fashioned to impress. With the U.S. Capitol, and major memorials in honor of Messrs. Washington, Lincoln, Roosevelt, and Jefferson, the District of Columbia is dotted with majestic but predictable neo-classical edifices.

However, I prefer the small pleasures. Although it is far from being a neighborhood park, the National Gallery of Art Sculpture Garden has been one of my favorites in DC. The grounds are populated by art that doesn't take itself too seriously and the summery water fountain transforms itself into an ice-skating rink during the colder months. No matter the weather, one can often find families enjoying the garden's offerings. I snapped this photo a few years ago while tripping over myself.

I've begun the process of packing up my apartment. Among years of possessions, I most prize my books and photos. Although it'll be sad to part with much of my library collection, I am slowly turning my pre-digital camera photos to electronic files. This was a picture I took at Hong Kong's Mid-Levels.

How about that for fine dining!

Latest news from the Swamp on the Potomac

2008-10-30T17:09:00.008+01:00

Obama Undertakes Presidential Internship To Ease Concerns About His Lack Of Experience

Good times all the time

2008-10-29T15:39:00.019+01:00

Avalancha de éxitos!

It's reported that the Obama campaign bought a 30-minute spot tonight on CBS, NBC, FOX, and Univision.

I know it's a crucial election, but a half-hour infomercial? How good is that! It's like selling kitchen knives on the tube. And I don't even have a television . . .

On top of that, whatever policy differences I may enjoy with the Republican nominee, I believe that he may be an honorable man. But charging Obama with delaying the Baseball World Series with an ad? Mr. McCain jumped into the infomercial fracas by saying “No one will delay the World Series game with an infomercial when I’m president.”

You're darn tootin'!

Delaying baseball for politics; that would be um . . . un-American. Whatever that may mean.

Super Bowl with El Jefe

2008-10-29T12:07:00.008+01:00

As I prepare to ditch Washington, DC, things I remember from my 16 years living by the Potomac River.

2000 Super Bowl party at the White House. The former football fan-in-chief was walking around working the room:

PRESIDENT CLINTON: Thank you son for coming to my Super Bowl party.
ME: Thank you sir it's great!
PRESIDENT CLINTON: How do you like it?
ME: [long pause due to brain freeze, stupidity, and confusion] Free suds and pizza, I love it!
PRESIDENT CLINTON: [Awkward silence and walks away]

Scary indeed

2008-10-28T14:21:00.025+01:00

One of the benefits and downfall of being an insomniac is that I stay up until the wee hours, listening to BBC World Service and running weird thoughts through my head. It's almost All Saints' Day and the Halloween spirit is coming out to play.

First up - The British Beer and Pub Association reported yesterday that Britons are drinking fewer pints. Outrageous! What is Old Blighty without copious quantity of bitter on draught? What's next, Aussie publicans stand in bars with no beer and Mexico dry out of margaritas?

Since I live in Washington, DC, Halloween has traditionally meant one thing - political campaigns. This is when campaign workers and junkies conjure up their last ounce of energy and make their final push to advocate for their candidates.

Campaign signs are everywhere and even sporting events provide no escape. Tune into the Major League Baseball championship series and one is likely to receive a blast of Barack Obama or John McCain ads, each accusing his opponent of being unpatriotic, bad for the American economy, socialistic, or a George W. Bush clone.

Yesterday Uncle Ted's trial ended. Otherwise known as Senator Ted Stevens, the gentleman from Alaska was found guilty of failing to report US$250,000 of free gifts. Fondly known as the feisty and Incredible Hulk tie-wearing guardian of federal earmarks, Mr. Stevens based his trial defense on the following points:

He didn't know US$160,000 wouldn't be enough to pay for the transformation of his rustic one-level Alaska cabin into a two-story house with two decks, a new garage and amenities like a whirlpool and a steam room.
He did not ask for the gifts, such as a sled dog, gas BBQ grill, massage chair.
When he received the unwanted gifts, he did not enjoy them, especially the massage chair he frequently used at his Washington, DC home.

The best part is - Mr. Stevens does not lose his job. As a member of the self-styled "most deliberative body in the world," Stevens cannot be expelled from the U.S. Senate without the consent of 2/3 of his colleagues. So, should he stand for election and win his seat on November 4th, it is possible Mr. Stevens can serve both his prison sentence and his 6-year Senate term at the same time.

So much for the ideals of Senatus Populusque Americanus.

Scary indeed.

Confidence man

2008-10-27T22:34:00.005+01:00

Bunko, con, flim flam, gaffle, grift, scam, scheme, or swindle. It's all the same.

I haven't been across this man while traveling in South America, but had a similar experience years ago when I ran into a woman who told me a similar sob story in Santa Monica, California and on Capitol Hill in Washington, DC.

Bugger your Chinese Taipei!

2008-10-27T15:20:00.023+01:00

Mr. T., one of my dad's friends from prep school days sent me this photo early this morning. Both Mr. T. and my mother are in Taipei participating in demonstrations against Chen Yunlin's (陳雲林) upcoming visit. As the chairman of China’s Association for Relations Across the Taiwan Strait, Mr. Chen is in Taipei to talk about China - Taiwan relations (to many Taiwanese that translates into Chen is in town to force Taiwan to become part of China).

The Taiwanese are passionate about their politics and they use all their democratic rights to express themselves. I suppose I would be a bit upset too if the most populous nation on Earth has a few thousand missiles pointed at my backyard.

If one were to politely translate the sign into English, it'd be something like "I bugger your Chinese Taipei!"

Because China claims Taiwan as part of the People's Republic, Taiwan can only participate in international athletic competitions under Chinese Taipei, not under the island's actual name. Taiwan also participates in other international fora under the Beijing-imposed name, and is not permitted to be involved in international organizations like the United Nations and the World Health Organization, where de jure nationhood is a requirement for membership (however the Palestinian Liberation Organization and the Knights of Malta, both non-state actors, enjoy WHO observer membership). As some may know, although Taipei is Taiwan's capital and its largest municipality, Taipeiers are only 2.6 million out of the nation's 26 million inhabitants.

The view from my office

2008-10-26T19:24:00.017+01:00

Unlike yesterday's monsoon-like weather, today is perfect. The temperature is a mild 60F/15C and the sun is shining brilliantly. But it's also the kind of autumn day that makes it challenging to dress. Sit in the sun and it's too warm to have a sweater or a coat on. Walk in the shade and it's too chilly to be in a short sleeve shirt. Ah how I want everything to be just perfect!

This is a view from my office looking out. It's not a very good quality photo because I only have the webcam on my laptop. But since I spent so many years in Washington, I owe it to posterity to capture my experience here. This is one of them.

But how I have learned to dislike my profession (politics and lobbying)! I know democracy is suppose to be messy and it's still the best form of governance humankind can devise. But Buckley v. Valeo or not, must America spend so much money on the process, especially when such givings are directly linked to political and policy decisions? I cannot imaging that James Madison, author of Federalist #10, would be very happy about the divisiveness of today's American government.

Ten years in Washington, DC and I feel like I have lost my way. As my friends from Down Under say to me, time to go on a walkabout.

But it is a lovely view.

The simple pleasures!

2008-10-26T01:37:00.016+02:00

Despite my massive hangover this morning, I joined the American University boys for their rugby match. It was driving down rain, the wind was blowing hard, and I was soaked to the bone. But how satisfying it was to watch the boys play creatively and win 53 - 0 under the worst condition.

While far from perfect (they could be more patient and better organized), they played as we coached them - they thought for themselves on the pitch instead of playing like pre-programmed gridiron footballers; and they played for their mates rather than as fifteen individuals. It was basic rugby and the boys did most things right. They took care of the fundamentals - the scrummaging, tackling, rucking, mauling, and passing - and the score spoke for their efforts. The joy of seeing good footy unfold in front of one's eyes ....

Rugby has always been a steadying influence on my life. Although because of it I might have hit the sauce a little too hard or strayed from my studies during my university days, the sport also gives me great pleasure and saw me through both good and bad times. For that reason I go out to support the AU boys.

Vous être ou vous être pas?

2008-10-24T18:51:00.008+02:00

"You Taiwanese (in Mandarin)?"

Without giving me a chance to reply, the neighborhood Chinese buffet owner was quick to launch into her thoughts about former Taiwanese President Chen Shui-bien's corruption scandals. For 99.9% of the world who aren't keen on Taiwanese political news, the former head of the island's Democratic Progressive Party has been accused of all sorts of bad behavior while he served in office (like lining his own pockets and money laundering).

I'm getting off message here. What I'm trying to say is I'm confused.

When I'm in the United States and I speak with Chinese speakers, they hear my accent and assume that I'm from Taiwan. But in reality, I only have the accent because my parents speak Taiwanese Mandarin with me at home.

But when I am in Taiwan, I stick out like a sore thumb. I look like an American; I dress like an American; and I wait in line for services like I'm an American. I say my "thank yous" to shopkeepers and even acknowledge street vendors promoting their wares like I'm a polite gringo. Although my accent may disguise my nationality for a little while, locals find me out very quickly. For one I don't parler the newest cool street slangs like the local kids.

Sometimes the Taiwanese also accuse me to be a Singaporean. I guess it makes sense; I speak both English and Mandarin well enough and Singapore is one of the few places on Earth that considers both tongues their official language.

When I'm in Europe people assume I'm American because of my accent. I was once mistaken to be Japanese Peruvian when I was in the Chilean Patagonian town of Puerto Natales.

I don't know what I'm saying anymore. I just remember starting this entry because I'm really confused. Now I'm more confused.

A displaced Californian

2008-10-24T01:26:00.003+02:00

I have lived in Washington, DC for 16 years, but it's not home. I was born in Taipei and went to grammar school there, but didn't have a say when the family moved to Los Angeles. I travel the world with my pack, but I have a California Republic flag on it instead of Old Glory. My first language is English, but sometimes my thoughts come out in Chinese or French (or a few words of bad Spanish if I'm really confused). The only place I ever felt like home is when I'm on the move.

Kissy people

2008-10-21T18:34:00.012+02:00

I did not come from a family of kissy people. When we greet each other or bid farewell, a simple "hello" or "bye" will do. It is simply not our way (or is it just me?) to passionately express ourselves. I can't even remember the first hug my mother gave me. Maybe it was when I left for college?

Since I moved to the United States in my youth, I've had to climatize myself to a whole host of new embraces. Women squeal with delight when hugging each other; men bump chests, high five each other, or slap each other's gluteus maximus after scoring an especially thrilling touchdown or hitting a home run.

Because I've made a number of French friends in the past few years, I've had to get use to kissing. Don't get me wrong, it is lovely to receive kisses from French girls. We've kept it simple with just a small peck on each cheek. But I'm also told that in France, it could upgrade to three or even four kisses depending on the region. I look forward to sorting out that mystery when I get there.

My most awkward moment - dinner with a group of South Asian Muslims at their home in Portland, Oregon.

It started out as a business meeting because they disagreed with the Israel policy of a certain Congressman I worked for. After being on the receiving end of their anger for over an hour, they rolled out a luxurious dinner and invited me to stay. During the meal they were warm, kind, and wanted to know everything about my interests, my background, and my family's health. However, when they introduced their wives and daughters to me before the meal started, I idiotically extended my hand to greet them.

STUPID! STUPID! STUPID!

At least they invited me to return to join them in the annual Intel vs. Microsoft cricket match - mind you with tea and not pints (there's another questions - how does one sit through a cricket match without a few pints or a flask?).

Argentina is constantly on my mind now. As I struggle to stay awake at the office or do my school work, I remind myself the freedom I have to gain next year.

I wonder what new cultural adventures I'll have next year?

There's no crying in baseball

2008-10-20T16:46:00.008+02:00

Saturday night I was at the bar having a few drinks and catching the Red Sox/Tampa Bay ALCS game. Out of no where I teared up thinking about dad. This is the first time in my life I can't ring him to talk baseball.

Dad and I never had much to discuss. But we were always able to talk sports. Dad and I both played rugby and baseball is a close second favorite. Even in our roughest hours we can always talk about how the All Blacks are doing or the bums at Chavez Ravine.

I need to stop feeling so down. I've been blogging a lot about dad's passing and need to start getting on with life.

Willamette Dammit!

2008-09-27T17:48:00.026+02:00

McMinnville, Oregon - I ran west for twenty minutes. The problem with running with an iPod is that one cannot hear one's own breathing and footsteps. I like hearing my own rhythms when I run. But I also like time to fly by faster while conducting an activity I consider torturous. Music helps. On my return trip, I was rewarded with a glorious Oregon sunrise.

I'm burying dad this afternoon in Portland. I have been thinking for quite some time, without any success, about what to say at the service. While it's just going to be family, something should be said about pops (or perhaps nothing at all should be said).

The overnight excursion into the Willamette Valley gave me space to think about my past, my relationship with my dad, and about what I face in the immediate future. However, after spending yesterday afternoon amongst the vines and the evening at Hotel Oregon, I still haven't the foggiest the path my heart will take this afternoon.

On a more pleasant subject, I visited a few Yamhill County wineries yesterday and this morning. One shall remain nameless because their pinots tasted like a oafy Newfoundland who went for a swim in an oak barrel full of muddy water. However, Chehalem's just-released 2005 Reserve Pinot Noir was a lovely lass! She is young, cheerful, but mysterious enough to go for a second date. Unfortunately, at $60 per bottle she is also a spendy date. But I did get a very tasty bottle of 2006 Chehalem Corral Creek, who is feistier than my usual preference for pinots. This is a bottle to pop open and enjoy soon rather than sit in the cave (or under my bed).

Arriving in America with an extra large Stetson and cowboy boots

2008-09-26T07:34:00.019+02:00

Portland, Oregon - The slurring Englishman and I discussed the virtues of a six-pack of Scrumpy Jack at Bridgeport Brewing Company. It's not everyday that one gets to debate the fine points of a Hereford cider over a piss, but the rant distracted me from the business of dad's burial arrangements and the USC Trojans' loss to Oregon State University tonight. Who loses to a football team called the Beavers?!

I arrived at Seattle - Tacoma International Airport at 18:40 on September 24, 2008. It's only the second time I traveled internationally with my dad; the first time was in 1980, when my family of four last took a vacation together.

It's difficult to imagine that my mother, sister, and I arrived in the United States in Spring of 1983, without ten words of English, and me with a fancy for cowboy get-ups and Wild West movies. I would soon fall under the spell of David Hasselhoff and Knight Rider (little did I know at the time that the program's producer labeled the show a "sci-fi thing, with the soul of a western"). Quelle horreur!

I had friends and poor grades at my elementary school in Taipei. I was happy. Moving to the States was my parents' choice. Since becoming a Californian, I have spent most of my energy fighting my parents' dreams, and have wasted their efforts to provide me with a proper education.

But the last two weeks of reflection with my mother was nice. While it wasn't entirely pleasurable, it is good that I had one of the unusually frank exchanges with one of my parents. I told her that I want to leave the U.S. for graduate schools in Europe, I'm not getting a MBA, and that I am not entirely happy that I didn't have a say in our family's move to North America in the early '80's.

So they won't rent a gringo a motorbike

2008-09-24T10:16:00.029+02:00

Hualien, Taiwan (written on paper on 09/22/2008) - I took the 13:15 train out of the Stalinist-styled Taipei Main Station on September 20th, the day after dad's wake. I questioned if it is appropriate or if I'm emotionally ready to strike out on my own so soon after dad's service, but c'est la vie. I need to get away from people.

The train glided smoothly past crowded Taipei suburbs, polluted industrial parks, and emerald green rice paddies. As the conductor announced Ilan, a coastal town with an especially heavy aborigine influence, the scenery suddenly opened up, with the sky and the turquoise sea becoming one.

I don't know how, but I found myself a surfer hostel in Hualien; I wasn't even aware that the Taiwanese are keen on riding the waves! With the past twelve days consumed by death and family, it's great to not have to answer questions. Travelers at the hostel only cared about where I'm from, what I'm planning to do on the coast, and if I'm ready for another tall boy of Taiwan Beer (a brew that rivals a biggin' serving of Miller High Life, the champagne of beer) - and a Swedish couple was happy that a bilingual American was able to help them arrange a rafting tour for the next morning.

Hualien is endowed with an abundance of natural beauty. Sandwiched between 3,700 meters-tall peaks and the Pacific Ocean, the town made me happy. Unlike Taipei, the sky is blue, the air clean, and the beaches are absolutely empty!

I was in the mood to move on my own and explore up and down Highway 9 and Highway 11, two coastal roads hugging the Pacific. While I originally fancied a Sanyang Wild Wolf 125cc, the local rental agencies wouldn't oblige me since I'm without a Taiwanese bike endorsement. So I resorted to dodgey tactics and found a dodgeyer agency to rent me the dodgeyiest of all scooters, a Kymco 125cc without a functional speedometer or fuel gauge. I just had to sign a lengthy Chinese-language consent form waiving the agency of all responsibilities for my well-being (they didn't think I can read Chinese), and promise that in the event of an encounter with local flics, I would plead ignorance in English and do whatever the Taiwanese 5-0 desires.

But the blasted thing got me around the coast for two days.

Am I weird?

2008-09-19T17:13:00.008+02:00

Is it strange for me to want some time to reflect, to relax, and to get away from people? I sent dad away today. Is it wrong to want space to sort myself out?

In challenging times I tend to turn inward - to internalize my feelings to try to make sense of all that's happening around me. Mother understands, I think. She vocalizes no judgement on my trip south tomorrow.

But all my relatives seem to think I'm strange for traveling to Hualien on my own. I mean - it's just a three hour train ride in a country where I speak the local language. Are people really that uncomfortable with solitude or just not adventurous enough to strike out on their own?

Bones, trains, and ghouls

2008-09-17T10:50:00.017+02:00

Taipei, Taiwan - I visited grandma this morning. Although I didn't think much of it before, it was important for me to pay my respects to my maternal grandmother; she did raised me in my youth while my parents were frequently away.

Grandma's remains were cremated upon her passing last year and now reside in a Buddhist temple in Xindian, a Taipei suburb. I said bones because unlike the American cremation system, the Taiwanese cremation service incinerates the flesh but leaves the bones intact. Since the location isn't serviced by the Taipei Metro, mother and I bumbled about the Taipei city bus system until we found the correct service that got us to the temple.

After dad's wake and cremation on September 19th, I plan to leave the next day for Hualien, a seaside city on Taiwan's east coast. The city is famed for its scenic coastal highways (I plan to hire a motorcycle when I get to Hualien), big wave surfing, and Taroko Gorge, a park that has been compared to Zion Canyon. I desperately need to get away from people. I know my family and my parents' friends mean well, but I just want to get through this process alone. Is that so wrong?

It is nice to visit a country with a proper rail system. Unfortunately, since Hualien is on the east instead of the west of the island, it's not serviced by the Taiwan High Speed Rail (台灣高速鐵路). The east coast, which faces the Pacific, is rocky, mountainous, and highly unsuitable for trains to travel at a high speed. But I've got the regular service, provided by the Taiwan Railway Administration. Trains leave Taipei Main Station every 30-40 minutes and the ride will take three hours. The roundtrip ticket is US$26 - not bad! I just bought the tickets this afternoon.

I am doing all these blogging from the Taipei Brewery, a former producer of Taiwanese suds during the early part of the 20th Century. It is now a non-profit modern/performing art complex that is host to art exhibits, black box theaters, and fashion shows. For some reason there is a Hong Kong group here this afternoon and they are throwing a Halloween in September party; so I seem to be the only person who isn't dressed like Mardi Gras in this café.

Two things

2008-09-13T06:39:00.002+02:00

I'm still not sure about the differences between an hurricane and a typhoon; they're both windy, rainy, and angry.

While on the subject of things I'm still confused about, L. and I scribbled down questions during our drive through the Jordanian desert. While visiting Wadi Rum, we both wondered about the meaning of "rum." We know "wadi" means valley. What is rum? Maybe reason enough to make a return visit to Jordan.

It has been raining for three days

2008-09-11T17:29:00.035+02:00

Taipei, Taiwan - Sinlaku is making its way ashore on Taiwan's east coast today (this entry was started and marked 9/11/2008 but I actually wrote and published it 9/13/2008 Taipei time). The "super typhoon" packs a punch of over 110 miles per hour wind speed and is forecast to bring approximately 1,000 mm of rain over the course of its brief sojourn on the island.

Although the typhoon brings a moody quality to Taipei's concrete jungle, I've been finding it refreshing to have once-crowded streets all to myself. So I've been just walking. I'm not sure if it's part of the healing process or if I am seeking escape from the reality of dad's death. But I walked ....

On September 11th I turned in dad's passport to the American Institute in Taiwan (AIT). For those who are not familiar with the absurdities of the Sino-Taiwan-American relations, the United States government doesn't recognize the government of Taiwan as the island's legitimate authority. But realizing the importance of trade, commerce, and perhaps common decency, Congress passed the Taiwan Relations Act of 1979 and established AIT as a non-profit organization to provide American representation and consular services in Taiwan. There is no Old Glory hanging over the front door of our unofficial embassy in Taipei and no Marine guards. Just a low key institution on No.7, Lane 134, Sec. 3, HsinYi Rd., Da-an District, Taipei City (106-59 台北市大安區信義路三段134巷7號) that focuses on "people-to-people relationship" between the United States and Taiwan.

Alors - I turned in dad's very official passport to a non-official organization to obtain an official U.S. Department of State Report of Death of an American Citizen Abroad, a document that is necessary to apply for and transfer all of dad's social security benefits to mother.

I still have the wake and the cremation ceremony to organize for September 19th. The way it is conducted in Taiwan, I'm not sure if the services are for dad, or for the elders who rule over the clan. As my father's only son, I have been mindful to personally hand-deliver the invitations to the right family members, and to appropriately confirm their status as my senior.

I will be very happy to finish the Taiwanese chapter of dad's life and look forward to finally putting him to rest amongst the Cascades.

Dad's passing

2008-09-11T00:55:00.005+02:00

09:25 on September 10, 2008 at Mackay Memorial Hospital in Dansui, Taiwan