Mangiare e parlare

Saturday, while other folks sweated off half their body weight at the Siren Festival in Coney Island, I spent the afternoon tying one on in the deserted neighborhood of Williamsburg. Normally, the WB is (even more) intolerable on the weekends, but yesterday you could've rolled a bowling ball down the middle of Bedford without hitting anyone (unfortunately). Apparently it was so surprising that anyone wouldn't be at the Siren Festival that when we walked into The Southside Lounge for MORE ALCOHOL (and incidentally, they have happy hour even on the weekends at the Southside Lounge; this is both awesome and frightening) the bartender looked at us and said, "Hey, why aren't you guys at Siren?"

"Why, we're here in Williamsburg to loot, of course. Nobody's around," I replied. Her laugh implied that she wasn't sure if she'd just heard a joke or not, which is a common problem with people from the West Coast.

However, I'm not here to talk about my binge drinking. (Yet.) I am here to talk about the food in Rome.

Tragedy is when I cut my finger

Oh my God. A while ago I thought I was having the worst day ever, but I am here today, hat in hand, to tell you that No, this is the worst day ever. Hung over, lost monthly Metrocard, unreal subway problems, and now they're JACKHAMMERING in front of my building. Fuck that with a brick.

And seriously, what the fuck was Zidane thinking?

OK, so in case you're interested, here are some more vacation photos. I haven't done much with them yet, but suffice it to say there is a lot of water, a lot of fish-eating, and a very old dead guy.

I have visited a foreign country for two weeks and, as such, am now an expert on said country

Jeez. Being back isn't nearly as much fun as I thought it would be. It seems that as soon as we had finally begun adjusting to the bizarro world that is Roman day-to-day living, N and I had to board a plane peopled by the elders of an entire hilltown, who--though not rude, except for that one woman who resisted getting out of the aisle to allow the drink cart by, for which I'm fairly certain she was court martialed when we landed--treated the flight as though they were attending a 9-hour hootenanny. You pays your money and you takes your chances with budget airlines.

Frances Farmer Will Have Her Revenge On Seattle

Sorry this is later than promised, although I’m not delusional enough to think that anyone’s been waiting with bated breath for the stirring conclusion. At any rate, let’s see if we can wrap this thing up today, since Dana should be back sometime this week.

At home he's a tourist

Before we continue with the #1HS tourist’s guide to Seattle, I guess I should probably say something about the weather.

*sigh*

Does it rain here? Yes. Might it rain while you are here? Yes. Should you keep your rain-related jokes to yourself? Oh god yes. See, according to NOAA, Seattle actually averages less rain per year than either Boston or New York. Look, it does rain here a little every summer, but never very hard and rarely for the whole day. Suck it up and deal. Sniveling is frowned upon.

And now that that’s out of the way – on with the show. Here are a few suggestions as to what to see in Seattle, broken down by neighborhood.

Welcome to Seattle - Now Go Home

Hi, bmarkey here. As you may already know, Dana is off gallivanting around Italy right now, leaving the rest of us to stew in a pool of our own seething jealousy. Or maybe that’s just me. At any rate, her trip reminded me that A) it is tourist season, and B) some of you might be thinking about coming here to Seattle. Now, as a local, I am required to discourage that sort of thing. Times being what they are, though, we could use the economic boost that only you auslanders can provide. Come, bring your sexy American dollars (or, y’know, your sexy traveler’s checks), spend them, and then leave.

So, in the spirit of the Great Northwest, I will now provide you with a little useful information to facilitate your having a good time and our getting your money. Win-win.

Ciao brutto

So in just over 24 hours we depart for Italy, to stay with the Great Leader and Her Greatness, J. I have crapped 17 times this morning because as a Virgo I am governed by my bowels or something and right now I fear that everything will go horribly wrong. I know for certain that we will fall victim to a dishonest cabdriver as it's happened to two people I know, one of whom even blogged about it, apparently because he has no shame. In addition, we will get some sort of parasite that will make us crippled with the backdoor trots--it's inevitable, especially in a city like Rome, with its open sewers and marauding bands of cannibal children.

Finally, we will be set upon by an angry mob. The Great Leader is begging us to bring "The Old Glory." N said we will if he can find a bulletproof model. I said we'd compromise and bring a Canadian flag.

So, this is a buildup to say that I'll be ghost for a couple of weeks, unless I run out of churches and art to look at. My copilot bmarkey will be here, however, and there are completely unsubstantiated rumors that Reeves might show up too.

Wish me luck that I might not crap my pants--and, thus, lose my fix--at la dogana. I'll be back in July with photos from the beach, if you know what I mean. (<---boobies)

We deal in stereotypes and slurs here

Two weeks ago I remarked to N that we were having such an actual, pleasant spring. Generally NYC goes from drippy, lame March weather straight into 80 degrees and 100% humidity. This hasn't been the case this year, with pleasant temperatures in the high 60s and white, poofy clouds.

Naturally that all had to come to a crashing stop and now the weather, all rainy and sodden and cold, bites the wax tadpole. Things would be a lot fucking better if this weather would just fucking stop. I am shaking my fist angrily, impotently, at the sky.

So today on the subway the train cleared out enough at 28th Street for both N and me to get a seat. I noticed an origami paper crane, made from a sheet of looseleaf, lying on the bench. I am loath to touch anything on the train, but I picked it up anyhow, because it seemed a shame to smush such nice handiwork it under my ass.

N suggested I give it to the small child sitting with his mother two seats down from us.

"Why, just because he's Asian?" (He was, in fact, Japanese.) "I'm not giving it to him," I grumbled.

This mother and child had been the targets of a campaign of aggressive good will since they'd gotten on the train with us at Grand Central. Two people insisted on giving up their seats--No, please take the seat! Take it!--and she thanked them profusely. Then a largish man, noticing her having difficulty opening a Gatorade bottle (who drinks Gatorade at 9 am? Aside from me when I'm hungover?), actually leapt in a sprightly manner across the aisle, grabbed the bottle from her without asking, and twisted the cap off with his ham-hock-sized fingers. He presented the bottle to her with a flourish, as though he'd laid down his cape over a puddle. She thanked him profusely. I felt that offering the kid the crane would seem a bit odd at that point. And anyhow, I think kids are overindulged as it is.

We sat there awkwardly with the crane resting on N's bag. At 23rd St., the man sitting between me and the child got up, so I put the crane on the seat between us, kind of shoving it in his direction. He picked it up tentatively, eyeing me.

"Go ahead, you can have it," I replied.

For the third time in 19 blocks, the pair had to say thank you. He looked delighted. N smirked. "See? He likes it."

I don't think the woman knew the provenance of the crane. Supposedly people make the origami cranes in a last-ditch bid at health. I'm almost certain this crane has actually infected us all with TB.

Moving along. I got onto the elevator with two people from other floors (read: MORANS) who were discussing their weekend.

"I was so tired on Saturday. I just came home and decided to order some Chinese take-out. Too tired to cook."

"Yes," the other replied, "Make the Chinaman bring you food!"

Both laughed. I don't get it. I wait until there aren't strangers on the elevator before I use racial slurs.

Donde Estan Mis Pantalones?

I declare today a national day of mourning.

Deme una rotura

If translated back into English it reads, “If you see anything, say anything”—i.e., “If you see anything (pink umbrella), say anything (I love peanut-butter sandwiches).”

What he said

In the process of doing some research for some freelance hair and skin care articles, I came across this post in the soc.culture.thai Google group:

Why you say divorce high when bus driver run away ?

He not run Po-lice him loi-per-cent sure.

He a man have to money. She work.

You want see ?

No can.

Ants on you mouth no find honey maybe bite !

Who are the people in your neighborhood?

Yes, the wildlife was amazing and the scenery beautiful in Costa Rica. But the people, though not as uniformly *beautiful*, per se, were a lot of fun too.

The Brits we met were the most fun, given their fondness for drinking, Premier League, and the Office.

The Italians we met chastised me for not knowing Italian.

The Ticos we met were unfailingly kind and laid-back.

As for the Americans. In Alajuela, we met a cranky midwesterner who described San Jose as a toilet (while our Tico bartender chopped pineapple with a machete only a few feet away) and his southern gadabout traveling companion, who was fond of those lightweight traveling vests that have 47 pockets on them.

In Montezuma, we met a young woman who'd moved there after spending 6 months working on the Kerry campaign. She looked as though she would burst into tears at any moment. In Quepos, we met a naturopath, an acupuncturist, a hypnotist, and a contract killer* for the government who was accompanied by a Colombian prostitute named Monica who didn't understand English. Or maybe she was pretending. If I found myself with a 55-y-o 350-lb married john, I'd be all about the NO PEEKEE INGLEE too.

Though, to his credit, he was the most interesting person we met. He wanted desperately to spend time with us. I think he was tired of paying for companionship he couldn't talk to. I think it's odd that he didn't speak any Spanish, given that he seemed to spend a lot of time in Central and South America. He told us he'd just been in Caracas, "observing" the election for the "embassy."

He invited us to have dinner with him and Monica. We kept hemming and hawing about it, and chose instead to play pool in an American bar in downtown Quepos where we were overjoyed to hear "Hey Ya" after a week of nothing but Phil Collins and Expose. Yes, it had gotten that bad.

I feel bad now about not eating dinner with him, because he did seem lonely. And I bet he would have had entertaining (if true) stories to tell us. He might've even picked up the tab at the restaurant, but I feared that if he *didn't* offer to do so we'd be dealt a serious blow to our vacay budget. Clearly the man knew how to eat. Though maybe he'd have taught us how to kill someone with a church key or something. Ah well.

Finally, while we didn't really *meet* anyone in San Jose, we did exchange pleasantries with this guy and two friends in the lobby of the hotel. One of them had just been robbed of her passport. She was cheerful enough. I peered at them for a second, knowing that I recognized the redhead from somewhere. "You guys aren't from NYC, are you?"

"No, Hollywood."

"Oh, you just looked familiar."

[Oddly enough, this is generally the exchange I have with anyone I suspect is a celebrity. Yeah, stick it to 'em with that New Yorker insouciance. Tweak those hotshot Hollywood noses! Who tha FUCK are you, asshole? Nyaaah!

In this case, however, I honestly did think I recognized them from Greenpoint or something. It was a few minutes later that I realized who it was.]

We flew home with a number of aging frat boys who wore curved-brim ballcaps and t-shirts from bars in Montana they'd never been to.

Then, faster than we expected, we were back in NYC, where everyone looked like someone just shot their dog.
*I'm only guessing. Maybe he was just an...enforcer of some kind.

From the Beer Halls of Montezuma

After staying overnight outside of San Jose, we went to Montezuma, a town full of expats, hippies, drunks, and dogs situated right on the beach.

A few observations on Costa Rica

Before I bore you all with my travelogue I have a few things I want to get out of the way.

First of all, in my admittedly limited experience, Costa Rica is an absolutely wonderful place. Every day was better than the last. We were sad to leave. I just wanted to get that out of the way.

Ok. So. In Costa Rica, the roads are not as uniformly horrible as the guidebooks indicate, though the food *is* generally uninspiring no matter where you go. But where the roads are bad, they're very, very bad. Our car ride from the airport at Tambor to the town of Montezuma was rather harrowing. The road that brings you there is positioned roughly an 80 degree angle, and at the bottom of the hill, a giant gulf appears every time it rains. I expected the car to start tumbling ass over teakettle. I have newfound appreciation for the Jesus bar.

One of the things the guidebooks neglect to mention is the matter of toilet paper. I hope I'm not breaking some international pact by bringing it up. See, in Costa Rica, you can't put it in the toilet after you've used it. You put it in the garbage can (which is hopefully) next to the toilet. If you're not someone who gives much thought to the color, texture, and consistency of your shit, you will become so after a week.

Speaking of shitting, a fun fact: I barely did any of it. Yes, I of the sensitive stomach spent a week in Central America and pooped twice. Toward the end of the trip I was making a concerted effort to consume all the tap water and unwashed fruit I could. I blame the rice.

Finally, the music: Costa Rica is apparently where the 80s go to die. If you have a hankering for some Nu Shooz or Rick Astley, I cannot recommend visiting Costa Rica high enough. I am almost certain that the music is an effort to appease tourists, however, an informal poll of our neighbors at the bars suggested that this noble attempt fell short of its intent.

After 6 days of keyboards and computerized handclaps, I was ecstatic to hear a live John Fogerty record.

And they're up!

Here's the photos from Costa Rica. You will notice certain lapses. For example, we took very few photos in Montezuma. This is because we were drunk.