Taxicab Confessions with Juan Valdez

Bogota was a blur: 48 hours of taxis, conversations about Colombian politics, and endless exchanges of handshakes and business cards.

A Restaurant in the Magical Bogota Airport

Arriving at the airport, I encountered an immigration agent who, after trying to communicate with me unsuccessfully in Spanish (I realized on this trip that my Spanish is useless), just gave up, smiled, and waved me past.

Wise Words of Caution from My Hotel Toilet

While I managed to somehow avoid any substantive, meaningful cultural/tourist activity while in town--including visiting the apparently impressive La Candelaria--I did see some things.

Art

After checking into my hotel, we wandered around "La Zona Rosa," hungry and disoriented, before settling on Club Colombia beers and a platter of mediocre, mulicolored epanadas at "La Casa de la Cerveza."

I didn't go here

Due mainly to the policies of a slightly frightening-yet-effective president, Bogota is considered safer now--well, at least the affluent parts. However, it is a bit disconcerting to see armed guards literally at every corner and at every entrance to a store, restaurant, or bar. I even watched through the airplane window as the baggage handlers were frisked on the tarmac.

Apparently this place has really good búfalo wings

We stopped to get coffee at the Colombian version of Starbucks and whiled away our time watching the bomb-sniffing dogs go to work on every car attempting to enter the parking garage below the mall next door.

This place was so much cooler before someone told us they have them in the U.S. too.

Dinner was at the creatively named "La Fusion," which was a Colombian-Italian/Greek/French/Asian/etc. fusion restaurant--where I had the plantain muzaka and shrimp ceviche (with plantains).

While at a local supermarket trying to pick up a cultural gift or two, a kind woman employee apparently noticed the perplexed expression on my face in the coffee isle and made me smell each kind. "Hmmm...fuerte"

The rest was just images through the windows of many, many taxis.

On the way to the airport...

Hamlet at 9,000 feet

Quito from a hill

Skirting the dramatic, dark clouds of Hurricane Ike, I arrived in Quito, Ecuador last night at around 11 PM and checked in to my hotel--a JW Marriott in the heart of "Gringolandia."

Where I bought all of my cultural gifts for folks back home

After a late dinner of pringles from the minibar and fitful night's sleep, I awoke, looked out my window at a volcano, and got dressed for breakfast. While there were many a la carte options on the menu, it was clear that the waitstaff wanted me to choose the buffet.

View from the old town

A cafe con mucho leche, a few assorted pastries, and guanabana yogurt later, Hamlet, our Ecua-doorman with a blue coat and tophat, helped arrange to have a driver take us around Quito for a few hours. So, a group of 6 assorted university admissions people packed into an SUV and headed to the old town, the colonial center of Quito, and, older than "new town."

Plaza Grande

We visited a few churches, wandered the narrow streets, and lingered in front of the Presidential Palace in Plaza Grande. A crowd had gathered to watch the weekly changing of the guard.

The Changing of the Small Men in Bright Blue Suits

Once the Palace had a fresh, new guard in place, we walked to Plaza San Francisco--in front of Ecuador's oldest church. Apparently, the builder of the plaza was a lazy man and asked the devil to help him complete the project in return for his soul. At the last possible moment the guy removed one brick, thus making the plaza incomplete and tricking the devil. True story.

Me & Quito

After a quick, bumpy drive up to the top of El Panecillo for some views of the city below, we headed back to gringolandia.

Travels with Pucho

I'm going here...



...next week.

My Birthday with Elvis

In order to help distract me from the piling on of years, LSB piled on the birthday gifts--including a shiny, new iPod (my old mini mysteriously disappeared during a recent trip) and a weekend getaway to Saratoga Springs, NY to see Elvis Costello and The Police at SPAC.

Pucho Brown II

I've been a fan of The Police since I was a small child and later developed an interest in Elvis Costello during my time as a seriously mediocre DJ for my college radio station. When this tour was announced, I felt like it was designed just for me--sort of like when you walk into a store (or watch an episode of something like "House") and hear 2-3 songs from your personal collection right in a row and think, wow, they really nailed the demographics on this one--I should buy some pants here or something. Sort of like that, but different.

pants

SPAC has this strange "beer garden" set-up: an enclosed pen far from the stage, which was the only place you could purchase and consume alcohol. Standing in the isolated alcohol holding pen, I suddenly felt like a elderly smoker who has been forced to watch helplessly as their freedoms have slowly been stripped away, year after year, until they find themselves relegated to a tiny, glass enclosed waiting area in the most remote part of the airport terminal.

So, we were in the process of drinking our Yankee-stadium-priced beers when, way off in the distance, we heard faint musical murmurs that indicated the show may have started without us. I gulped down my largish beer and helped finish LSB's smallish one and we headed out on our long journey through the masses of Saratogians to locate our little blanket on the lawn.

EC

Elvis was pretty awesome and when Sting joined in on "Alison," I couldn't have been more pleased, unless, of course, my name had been "Alison." That would have been a defining moment for me, I think. At any rate, EC finished up and the Police took the stage. Sting sounded great and Stewart Copeland had this impressive percussion set-up that looked like a blacksmith's workshop--various metal objects hanging on racks for him to hammer on now and again.

Gordo, Andy, and Stew

We met a couple on the blanket in front of us, who creatively smuggled in rum (no alcohol or glass allowed through the gates) in multiple layers of ziplock bags hidden amongst their food items. While they didn't give us any, we admired their ingenuity and befriended them nonetheless.

A beautiful evening. Thanks, LSB.

I am Lono

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We settled down at the bar and watched the rain lash the palm trees around on the beach. The Ho-Ho Lounge was open on three sides and every few minutes a gust of warm rain blew in from the sea. We were the only customers. The Samoan bartender mixed our margaritas in silence, a rigid smile on his face. To our left, on a rock in a small freshwater pool, two penguins stood solemnly side by side and watched us drinking, their unblinking brown eyes as curious as the bartender's. Skinner tossed them a chunck of sashimi, which the taller one caught in mid-air and gobbled instantly, whacking the smaller bird out of his way with a flip of his short black wing.

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"Those birds are weird," Skinner said. "I've had some real peculiar conversations with them."

The Curse of Lono, by Hunter S. Thompson

I just finished this strange, wonderful, and enormous book. I think I've read them all now, and, with the exception of Screwjack, this one was the strangest--a mix of wild gonzo narrative, twisted illustrations by Ralph Steadman, and excerpts from an account of Captain Cook's ill-fated visit to the Hawaiian Islands.

Mahalo.