Traipsing About

For me, spring is that time of year when the "Worker Productivity Space" aka cubicle becomes absolutely the last place on Earth I want to be. The sun is shining or the rain is pouring, typically both in one day up here in Portland, as Oregon shakes off winter and moves into the next season. In turn, my expectations ramp up for a dry day on the bike, a climb on something beside seeping basalt or maybe just some local hand picked strawberries.

After a busy, career-oriented 2007, Chelsea and I have vowed to seize 2008 and make it "The Year of Fun." Yeah yeah - so I've already done one of those. Well, two certainly won't kill me, not to mention it's already been almost two years!
In line with that vow, we've headed off to Guatemala, returning to a sunny February and way too much work. March was a dreary, office-bound 31 days of servitude... Y'all work and therefore know the drill: I'm done complaining.

Loving the office environment. If I were a principal, I'd get more space. Just gotta work harder...

The real stories are the weekends of April and early May. Four different weekends, four trips:

1. For our two year anniversary, Chelsea and I headed north to Orcas Island, a small portion of the San Juan Islands, for a four day weekend. Located to the Northwest of Seattle and accessible only by ferry (woot woot!) or a large catapult, it's a beautiful little haven for a get-away. Early April finds it still frosty and cool, but the quaint little farms and gorgeous water views from the Doe Bay Resort at the far end of the island are still relaxing and peaceful. Chelsea thinks so...

Other than the two-setting heater - sauna or freeze - the quaint little rustic cabins under whispering trees are just about as perfect as it gets. Hikes in Moran State Park, catching up on a book about office craziness ("Then We Came to the End" by Joshua Ferriss), eating ice cream in the car and watching the rain fall on the Bay...those are excellent orders of the day.

View from the resort.

There is also fantastic Thai food at Two Sisters in Eastsound, where 2/5 on the "spice scale" lights a habenero pepper on fire. Housed in a neat little double wide trailer with absolutely atrocious decor, you just know the food is fantastic! With the over-zealous waitress with more arm hair than my dad, the scene is rounded out.

2/3. Dos viajes to Central Oregon, just north of Bend at the climbing mecca that is Smith Rock, about 3 hours SE of Portland on Highways 26 and 97.

Trip Uno: My friend Jonas and I meet my buddies Eric and Ben at Smith on a Friday for some weekend climbing. No planning and no arrangements, which leads to us backtracking from a closed grocery store only to find a closed Safeway, then downing massive hamburgers at a Black Bear Restaurant at 11 pm before ransacking the local Walmart in search of climbing rations. I am only yelled at once for running and Ben only drops the graham crackers once or twice...powdered s'mores are the best anyway. Not that we ever made any.

Ben, master navigator, leads us on a search for the free campsite. Following Eric and his bright yellow VW Vanagon, the clock ticking away toward 1 am, u-turn after u-turn depletes our faith in our guide. Cut to 2 am, finally in the campsite sipping hot chocolate and rum in the 35 degree weather. Jonas has a new REI sleeping bag, which turns out to be just about as warm as the shopping bag we carried our food in... Bedtime.

Ben might not give the best directions, but his sense of style is unstoppable.

Sun up. Time to climb...not. My three companions sleep while I contemplate rude ploys to wake them up. Ben gets the shaking pine tree needle bath, Jonas gets attacked by juniper berries and Eric gets a strange wanna-be-bear noise outside his Vanagon. Four hours of sleep is PLENTY for a camping trip! Breakfast is a delicious egg scramble whipped up by Eric.

Climbing. Pictures tell it best, but Smith is gorgeous, with clear blue skies most of the year, mountain ranges off in the distance, the Crooked River winding back and forth. We are joined by 150,000 climbers and hikers on the first sunny weekend in 2008, but it still can't be beat. We track the shade, climbing a few routes here and there and winding up high atop a nice ledge looking out over the land. Lunch is avocado, spinach wraps, cheese and ajvar (the classic Eastern European spread). Discussion ranges from climbing to neural conditioning to girls and then back to climbing...

Rappelling off Teddy Bear Picnic on the south side of Smith.

Ahhhh, climbing trips.

Trip Dos:

More of the same, but this time with Eric, his girlfriend Tessa, Chelsea and myself. With the addition of the ladies, there is more planning, more common sense and, as a result, not as many stories about suffering. Funny how that works! Clear mountain skies with star prickles, a sharp wind from the west and the gentle thump-thump of rock music from the neighboring camp site coupled with Eric's expert meals create the camp scene. The days are elaxed and sublime, though I come back with a solid sunburn and sore forearms. Be warned: Smith Rock is HOT when it's sunny!

4. With Chelsea headed west to the coast for a ladies weekend, my friend Don and I hit the road east. Don has a wonderful property on an orchard south of Hood River and about 1.5 hours from Portland. As if the blossoming apple and cherry orchards on his property aren't enough, Mt. Hood knocks on your window each morning as the birds fire up their twittering mechanisms and the south fork of the Hood River gargles below. Hiking, planting trees, eating meals cooked from scratch and kicking back watching the stars... It's realllllly sweet.

Mt. Hood from a pond above Don's property.

That all might sound nice, but on the way out that Friday night (after some mingling with the local yokels in Hood River), I got a solid reality check. Cresting a hill around 10 pm, we saw a blinking light off to the side of the road. Two lumps... Not good. A motorcyclist, out for a late evening ride ("see you soon honey...") had hit a deer and was down, and hard. Don stayed in the car and called 911 while I went to check it out.

First on the scene is not fun. The deer was dead about 20 feet up the road from the guy. A pale blinker light flickered on and off, illuminating a few pools of blood. The biker's gloves scattered on the road, face shield shattered, totally unconscious... Intense scene.

Suffice to say that John woke up, was coherent enough to tell me his phone number and wife's name, and that we got an ambulance out there. A definite reminder that life is feeble and fickle and that you need to seize moments whenever possible and enjoy them.

To follow up on that thought, since Guatemala I've been thinking increasingly about how short life is and how difficult it is to fit everything in. I find it hard to enjoy myself on these short weekend trips because the impending return to The Office looms less than 50 hours in the future. Who has time to cook a meal, plant a garden or read a book? I sure feel like I don't. Little items have popped that just remind me that I need to go do it now (whatever it might be), not later.

One of those little items: the IT specialist at my engineering company, 58 years old and thinking about retiring. Quiet, friendly guy... He recently had a sore throat, goes to the doctor and is diagnosed with esophogal cancer. Boom - just like that, he's into chemo and given a dire prognosis.

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Given the above, and without further ado, I would like to announce my first mini retirement. Yep, that's right: after nearly 1.5 years in a full time job, I'm quitting my cushy, well-paying, fully-insured, environmentally-conscious career as a mechanical engineer. Throwing it all away for fun, more time with Chelsea, friends and family and the opportunity to tailor a career to my desired lifestyle rather than the other way around. My exact words to my boss (other than "can I get unemployment?") were, "I don't have time to work, too many fun things to do."

The list is long, but it starts June 6th (my last day) and includes backpacking in Glacier and Yellowstone, a cross-country car trip to Boston, multiple climbing trips in the Northwest, a couple months in Eastern Europe, a trip to Hawaii to visit my sister, a trip to Italy to visit my brother (all 3 of us kids are off on a new adventure this summer), a bike ride near Crater Lake, some trips to Seattle and a few other secrets. You'll be seeing a few more blog entries and pictures, as attending to the aspiring writer inside me is also one of my goals.

Hiking down from Smith Rock with Ben and Jonas.

Grandma, stop worrying. I'm keeping the the condo on Church St. in Portland and I'll probably start working again one of these days, though only for myself and on a part-time basis. Lots of opportunities out there... Assuming all my penny stocks don't collapse into Enronville, I should be able to survive from my last day until my 26th birthday on June 18th - hey, that's almost 2 weeks, a typical vacation in the U.S!

For now, I find myself stuck in the limbo that is work after giving notice. Projects need to be wrapped up and handed off, designs completed, loose ends tied up...and I just don't care! Strange how that works (or doesn't). I've seen the quote stating that, "Travelers fear boredom more than death" and I just can't agree more. My friend Don, joking about the part of my job requiring me to lay out ductwork, always asks me if I have time to "crawl out of the duct." Soon, I will. 10 work days remaining...

Yes, my expectations are too high for someone only a quarter century old with 1.33 years of post-college work experience. I'm a spoiled member of Generation Y and I want the world. I want 12 weeks vacation per year (+/- 10 weeks), flexible work hours and a satisfying, fulfilling career and existence. At least I know that I'm unrealistic. If I'm going to fall flat on my face, I'm going to do it now, while I'm young and cocky enough to strike out in the middle of skyrocketing oil prices, global warming and a failing economy. After all, a second summer in Oregon is just too nice to miss.

Budding roses at the Peninsula Park Rose Garden.

Wish me luck.

Pictures can be found here. The batch upload didn't quite work (you'll notice the pictures are in reverse order), but at least I tried.

Hasta pronto...

I had big plans to write a poignant, funny, entertaining blog entry about Guatemala. I even started a couple entries...which fizzled immediately into boring attempts sans gusto or insight. Where hath the inspiration gone? My theory: too many hours in an engineering office, not enough mind-space for creativity. I'll let you be the judge of the final product.

Here's a brief synopsis of my first trip out of the United States on this continent (Canada? Nope. Mexico? Not yet!) and the first since flying in from that wonderful year traipsing about:

January 17th, a midnight flight out of Portland with Chelsea, stoked to be headed somewhere, ANYWHERE, besides The Office and its ever-alluring array of spreadsheets and energy models. Too much work (mandatory overtime for 3 months) had me on edge and I was ready to test out my new pair of eyes. That's right - eye surgery over Christmas Break. No more looking smart for me. I am now a jock every day of the week!

My Spanish, languishing the last few years, was quickly tested while exchanging currency in the Guatemala City airport. Three hundred is what I want...dollars. I get 300 Quetzales (Q7.5=1 USD). Try again - 2000 Quetzales. I get Q200. Uno mas tiempo. Q2000. The extremely patient banker hands me my money and goes to count the ATM bonus charges I've racked up. Should have reviewed Spanish numbers before leaving the U.S. A quick $9 lesson in inefficiency.

We don't even leave the airport, jumping on a hopper flight north to Flores. The plane has wooden wings and one propeller is missing a blade, but at least the service is good. For $110, we skip a 10 hour bus ride and replace it with a 50 minute flight through bright scattered clouds, chatting with a twitchy Floridian with a mop of gray hair and crazy business plans. (The plane, run by Taca, was actually a shiny clean commuter jet.) Ahh, the benefits of having a full-time job.

It's not Guatemala. Nope, the Portland Urban Iditarod, which went down just yesterday, March 1st. Sleds are replaced by shopping carts, dogs by people... Awesome!

Staccato now...

Tikal, with steamy jungles and ancient Mayan temples buried in centuries of dirt and twisting vines. Insane taxi ride to catch a bus, narrowly escaping death by pothole. On the bus, corn on the cob with chili, mayo and ketchup, learning Mayan from a few rotund, laughing women. Coban, a city in the chipi chipi (constant freezing rainy drizzle), where we spend a couple nights on the outskirts of town in a hotel with no staff. Odd...

Test spatial constraints of minibus by cramming 27 Guatemalans and two sweaty tourists into bus to Lanquin. Swim in crystal blue pools of Semuc Champey, laze by sluggish river and then awake in early morning to dog-sized spider crawling on pillow. Move furniture around at 3 am while my terrified girlfriend clings to the ceiling.

Onward! Our breakneck pace continues through to Guatemala City, where we miss the last bus to Lake Atitlan and settle for Antigua. Take Jesus-music rockin', crammed-with-commuters, brightly-painted school bus through rush hour traffic to the old colonial city of Antigua and its cobbled streets and shuttered windows. People with money inside, have-nots outside, barred windows blocking their entrance.

Soul searching time - what are we doing here? Sick of bus rides and constantly shuttling about. Shouldn't we be doing something constructive while traveling - volunteering, teaching, building a business - instead of just sightseeing? Guatemala really struck both me and Chelsea as a place of division, a fishbowl where we look in on the daily life of a local people and wander around with our pockets stuffed with cash. Would I like a French dude to stand around at my office job snapping pictures every time I did something "photogenic?" ..."Yess, that ees vahry nize..." No way. We feel like intruders in a daily life and it just doesn't sit right.

A strange feeling. Different countries with different attitudes toward tourists. For whatever reason, Central America hit me from a totally different angle compared to other countries I've visited. A gorgeous place, but I felt like a voyeur.

Also not Guatemala. A hike today with a couple friends up at Eagle Creek, 40 miles east of town.

Best way to solve that: head to a place of misfits. Antigua to Lake Atitlan, a home to ex-pats who have bought up its shores (sometimes buying the land only to find that it has been sold twice - title searches don't hold much water in rural Guatemala). From Panajachel, we jump a commuter boat out to San Marcos, a small village of 2,000 people on the far shore of the lake. Dress code: soiled, bright linen clothing. Dreadlocks. Bangles on wrists and ankles. Sunny, spaced-out smile on face. People come to San Marcos for a couple days and stay for a couple years...or a lifetime. 2,000 residents and 1,700 of them are foreigners...

We stay in a beautiful boutique hotel, Aaculaax, a hotel built into the side of a mountain that flows with the natural green surroundings. Stain glass windows look out on glittering Lake Atitlan and the volcanoes ringing its shores. A simply marvelous location. And here we stay for a REAL vacation, ignoring tales of banditos and taking a few hikes, getting massages, reading a lot, lazing about over a tipico breakfast (eggs, plantains, beans and tortillas) and actually having a vacation.

At night, echoes of chants reverberate off the mountainside, courtesy of the local Las Piramides, a spiritual meditation center in the village. We meet some friendly people and are invited to a Mayan candle-sharing ceremony, where we chant and raise our voices and hands to the ancient Mayan gods based on 20 symbols. For instance: PHOENIX. I rise in the flames of power, striking deep to the core of understanding! (Picture big sweeping gestures and a bunch of stoned, drunk Trustafarians in the moonlight). I feel like a complete idiot - a bunch of foreigners encroaching on sacred soil and not a single Guatemalan even invited to the event. Needless to say, I felt a bit out of place in San Marcos...

Hanging out in Portland.

Don't get me wrong. Lake Atitlan, Guatemala...amazing. Great place to paraglide off a volcano and skip through the clouds on the wings of the PHOENIX. (Tangent avoided.) I was inspired to become fluent in Spanish after years of language atrophy. Lots of laughs, beautiful sights and some amazing people to meet. For example, check out McNair Evans and his brilliant photography. Or read something by Joyce Maynard, author of "To Die For." Definitely eat at Hector's in Antigua, between on 1 Calle between 5 and 6 Avenida. (No, seriously - go there!) Chat with the crazy old missionary woman from Alabama who has lived the last 17 years in the Guatemalan outback converting the heathen savages. Or perhaps converse with the old man on the bus who lived in New York and Texas (so many locals I met did so) and now just enjoys spending time with his 23 grandkids and 6 great-grandkids. Lots of stories out there.

You know what? (I've always known it, but writing always helps clarify.) The best part of traveling, hands-down, for me? The people. You just can't get the same insight into other cultures by watching The Travel Channel or Amelie that you can by cracking (mostly misunderstood) jokes with Antonio or practicing Spanish with Helmut, manager of Aaculaax (a local who spoke five languages fluently). So many people to meet and be inspired by. Enough chit-chat - I don't have time to write anymore about Guatemala - I need to figure out what's next! Next destination? Who knows! I'll keep you posted.

Might as well see the pictures.

Until next time...

Nine months ago in Spain, Eric and I were lucky enough to snag tickets to a local event in Spain that is both heralded and hated throughout the world. Here is my attempt to capture the essence of that experience. There are still many things I want to write about and short little pieces like this will crop up now and then when I have the desire and time to create them. Which I do right now, seeing as I'm taking off Sunday from rainy and windy Portland for three weeks vacation in southern California and the east coast of Florida. Look for more writing because it's incoming.

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The blood trail, mingled with dust, isn’t even dry before a man clad in black rakes away the evidence. I shade my eyes against the bright Spanish sun, the humming roar of the crowd in my ears and sunflower seeds cracking between my teeth as I sit on my hard metal bench. A boisterous sweaty man occupies the space to my left, exchanging crass comments with a friend a few rows down. A family encroaches on my leg room and muffled cries of “toro! toro!” drift across from the grandstand seating across the stadium. A man strides to the center of the ring, sign thrust aloft, proclaiming the name of the next matador, his profession, and the weight in kilograms of his four-legged nemesis. Let the bout continue!

It is March in Valencia, Spain and the Las Fallas festival is in full swing and the blood fervor is upon the Spanish. For 17 euros and a “muchas gracias,” I am in the middle of a cultural anomaly, a spectacle combining the viciousness of the Romans, the finesse and strength of Baryshnikov, the fanatic attitude of a Green Bay Packer’s fan and the pride of the Spanish. I’m talking about bullfighting, a tradition so old that one theory says it began to combat the Moors, who would set fire to the tails of a herd of bulls and stampede them at their enemy.

These guys are tough.

It all starts with fanfare, pomp and circumstance. Camera crews run out to capture the matadors (or toreros) as they enter for the “corrida de toros.” Sauntering out into the ring in colorful (and very manly) pink, gold, red, and purple sequined outfits tight enough to make ladies swoon, the matadors strut with their heads back and chests puffed out, proud participants in a sport redolent with panache and bravery. They strike gallant poses for the cameras as two fat men, bright feathered plumes in their hats, circle the ring on white horses. This fight has four different matadors, each assisted by three wanna-be matadors who now follow the matadors as they make their way across the ring followed by the picadors on their horses.

The ring, with two chalked-white concentric circles in the center, is perhaps 150 feet across and surrounded by a bright red fence. This doesn’t serve to protect the crowd, who sit safely in tiered seats surrounding the ring. No, the fence is there to save the matadors sensitive little behinds in case of disaster or the realization that telemarketing is a better fit for their career goals. A foothold runs the length of the fence and provides a handy launching point for a beleaguered performer on the run; set in a few feet into the ring, a few free-standing fence panels parallel to the main fence allow the matador to dodge out of the ring and make faces at a raging bull too large to slip through.

A bull deep in thought.

Warm-up consists of matadors tiptoeing about, flipping capes to and fro while practicing footwork, then leaning on the fence and sipping water. Everyone leaves the ring, the man with the sign enters, a hush falls over the stadium…

Release the bull! A shot of coiled muscle and pounding hooves tattoos the ground as it launches into the ring. A few seconds of galloping around and the assistant matadors enter, one from each bull-proof entry point. A flash of a cape, just enough to enrage the bull and goad it into rushing across the ring, and then back behind the redoubts. The short-sighted bull notices another flurry of motion across the ring – what’s that?! Thundering hooves, man dodges behind again. Again, again… The bull’s sides are heaving, sweat forming on its flanks.

Enter the picadors! The matadors distract the bull at the other side of the stadium as they ride with straight backs astride horses into the ring. Wide-brimmed hats and short sequined jackets sparkle, lances grasped in gloved hands point to the sky. The thick-chested horses, which forgot to invest wisely and so are relegated to this painful retirement, are encased in thick cloth padding and blindfolded to avoid freaking out. A flicker of a pink cape near the horse and the bull’s attention is refocused. Infuriated beast rushes domesticated creature as the picador readies his long lance for the impact. THUD! The thwack of the bull against the horse echoes through the stadium; the lance’s eight inch point stabs between the bull’s shoulder blades as it tries to destroy the horse. If the picador doesn’t lean enough in the direction of the charging bull, the blind horse suddenly is hit by a 1,500 pound animal and flipped on its back like a tiny beetle, legs kicking in the air while rescue matadors (reminiscent of clowns at a rodeo) run around trying to call off the horned assailant.

A picador in mid-stab.

Usually, though, the bull is punctured and bloodied a couple times before the picadors are called off. Next, enter what I can only describe as a Praying Mantis Matador. Sans cape or sword, the man holds two barbed spears with feathered shafts and stands with back arched and weapons held ready to strike. The bull rushes, not at a cape but at the matador himself. A quick jumping dodge to the side, a striking downward motion, and the spears snap off in the bull’s back and dangle to the side with their points lodged deep. Two more lunging strikes and the bull has been harried by flitting capes, punctured by long lances and stabbed with six feathered spears.

NOW the main matador, that fearless creature of pride and derring-do, enters the ring, jettisoning his jaunty hat in the center of the ring and engaging the “ferocious” bull. Blood and sweat darkens its panting flanks, running down the sides and dripping onto the red clay dust. The crowd is expectant, fresh beers in hand and catcalls ready. Using a straight-bladed sword, the matador holds his cape to the side, enticing the bull. Befuddlement seems to be the bull’s primary feeling, but eventually the dancing cape sucks him into a charge. Dodging to the side, the cape and matador dance out of bull’s path at the last instant, safely spinning away.

Preparing to strike the final blow.

The ultimate mark of bravery is for the matador to turn his back on the bull, demonstrating his mastery over the animal. If the matador is talented enough (or the bull weak from loss of blood), a quick swish of the cape can bring the bull to its knees or even force it to bury horns in the dust and do a front flip, slamming onto its back as the crowd goes wild. Flaring hips at the bull and showing disdain also generates cheers; a prematurely weak bull or a matador’s poor style produces boos and a flurry of seat cushions chucked into the ring by indignant spectators. There is a fine line between brilliance and the mundane, and this one performance doesn’t even begin to allow me to judge the difference, though I am impressed by the poise and flair of the matadors.

Not scared of anything...

Soon, it is time to strike the death knell. Shadows are growing long and there are more bulls to be dealt with. The matador exchanges his straight blade for one with a curved tip. If the bull can charge, the matador sucks him in one more time and then slams the blade deep into the bull’s back right between the clavicles, hopefully severing the aorta. An exhausted bull doesn’t even charge but sits with head down waiting for the bell to toll. When it does, a quick topple to the side and the bull lies vanquished with tiny dust clouds swirling around it. An assistant matador runs out and taps the bull between the eyes with a short knife, finishing it off. Twin Clydesdale's are harnessed to the dead bull and trot out of the ring, the bull’s body cutting a wide swath in a curving arc out of the stadium. Game over.

The trail of the dead bull as rakes clean up the mess.

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Or is it? That warm March day in Spain, I saw seven bulls leave trails of blood in the dust. Men with rakes ran into the ring to manicure the ground, fresh chalk lines were laid, a sign raised to announce the next contest. Now, I am not a squeamish person, relish a good steak, and rarely think about animal rights and then only if someone kicks my dog. I do know one thing: that is the first and last bullfight I will attend. I'm glad I went, I respect and appreciate cultural differences and societal traditions around the world, not to mention great athletes, but I couldn’t get into the whole scene. Speaking with fellow foreigners after the bloody event, I found a similar reaction: “Wow, that was intense…what a scene…never again.”

What struck me was the unfairness. Nowhere, not once, did I feel like the bull had a chance. If the matador had been thrown into the ring in a mumu with only a plastic fork to engage in beast-y-mano combat, THEN I would have been cheering. It was like Shaq versus me in a dunking contest - no chance, I would DOMINATE. No way was the bull going to win, and there were a lot of people involved to make sure things went as planned.

But then, even with all that, if you are in Spain, it is a worthwhile and intriguing way to spend a few hours. Be prepared for the above. If it sounds awful, avoid; if your interest is piqued, check it out. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Pictures.

Until next time…