Viva!

Less than a year ago, the Duke took his first trip to the U.S. in 13 years. As often happens for us Canadians when we haven't crossed that omnipresent line not too far South of us in a while, he expected it to be some sort of some fundamental je-ne-sais-quoi you can feel in your bones, telling him that he is somewhere different. Outside of the bottles of energy drink the size of our heads and slabs of beef jerky the side of our legs at convenience stores, the presence of Jack In the Box, much cheaper alcohol, the difficulties in finding playoff hockey on TV, the ten cents difference in the value of a dollar, and the annoyance of having to convert kilometers to miles... well, things weren't too different.

It was rather funny watching Glenn Beck ranting about the evil of compact fluorescent lightbulbs on television (we also don't get Fox News in Canada, making it a bit of a legend we needed to see for ourselves) right in the middle of laid-back Portland. The two didn't quite fit.

He remarked again, as 2009 passed, how the U.S. we visiting didn't quite seem like the U.S. we saw on TV, the one with the bling and the angry people shouting about public health care causing the downfall of the universe. While I agreed, I also reminded him that the three places we'd been that summer, Portland, Seattle and San Francisco, weren't exactly the epitome of the America that is supposed to be so diametrically opposed to Canada.

As such, I eagerly anticipated our first visit to Las Vegas this January. I figured that if any place could capture the cliched "I-saw-it-on-TV" version of America, Vegas would.

And, in many ways, it did.

There was no such thing as the dark. It was also never quiet.

Everything you can imagine is done up in lights. Even disturbingly eerie clowns...

... and Denny's.

The portion sizes are absurdly enormous. The Duke was only feeling slightly peckish, and thus ordered a fruit plate-- the smaller one on the menu. He instead received this, enough fruit to feed a family of four for a week. (Note: This picture does not include the accompanying loaf of banana bread.)

There are breasts the size and shape of genetically engineered watermelons, and skirts the size of a postage stamp.

There is more Ed Hardy than should ever exist. The designer even has his own nightclub-- entrance probably incurs a dangerous risk of a Jon Gosselin encounter.

You can get a $1 marguarita, but later on that night you will pay $10 for a vodka and soda. You can also pay $50,000 for someone to bring you some Dom to your table, or $450 for that very same bottle of vodka I have sitting in my freezer at home.

You will go crazy at the sound of people flicking call girl trading cards at you, and will start to wonder if your personal bubble ever really did exist.

Nothing is original-- every single concept, particularly in architecture, is just a plaster version of something that has been done before. Yet there is something insanely creative about all of it.

One of the first things that greats you off the plane is an ad offering you to try shooting a machine gun.

It is the middle of the desert, yet literally millions of gallons of water are used every fifteen minutes for a free fountain show.

Every washed up and/or random performer can have faith they will find a home in Vegas. Carrot Top, Andrew Dice Clay, Wayne Brady-- you name it.

Somehow topless showgirls are different than stripper. I don't know how.

Hot dogs are $1.99 but bottles of water are $5.

Tickets for the "Eiffel Tower" exclusively forbid unauthorized weddings, as apparently these are more rampant than the average person expects.

There are buffets with multiple different kind of mashed potatoes. And more mousse than any human could ever process.

And people really do gamble at 7am.

You can really sum Vegas up in one word: excess. Utterly and completely.

But it was still unexpectedly pleasant to be overwhelmed in the midst of all those lights, not quite knowing where to look next.

2009 in photos.

So, 2009 hasn't proven to be the best to me in terms of words.

But just because I didn't write it doesn't mean it didn't happen.

My hypothetical life on a hill

San Francisco makes my heart hurt a little.

There's something about a city determined by geography that appeals to me. I don't understand the connection people have to those metropolises that have just been dumped randomly onto an empty plain. Sure, I recognize the practicality of such spaces, but I find them utterly lacking in character. Perhaps it just appears that because of their lack of need to consider the environment around them, these cities aren't quite as conscious of their surrounding. When you are built in a valley or on the shore, the features of the outdoors suddenly become such a necessary part of day-to-day life, whether it be your daily bridge crossing or the hike up the hill to the grocery store.

Sure, more often than not, these realities of the environment are actually a hassle. I have cursed the fact that the mountains and ocean shores in make for a series of awkward bridges, curvy roads and traffic jams in the city I live in, as compared to the convenient bold highways dumped in the middle of prairie cities. And the hills of San Francisco, while picturesque, certainly make for gasps for air, squealing brakes, and aching toes, even without an armload of groceries.

But these hills are just so damn beautiful. I adore how you turn a corner and are suddenly greeted by an unexpected and dramatic view, how the bottom floors of houses are cut into a diagonal by the sidewalk, how the old houses loom above the people walking their dogs below. Perhaps it is from growing up on the sides of a mountain, but hills just feel like home to me somehow.

As I wander about the streets, I am a little insatiable in searching out the details. I feel compelled to peer down every corner and sneak a glimpse into any open backyard, just to make sure I'm not missing something. I feel like I'm playing dress-up, adult-style; instead of wearing a tiara and pretending I am a princess, I masquerade as a local. I ride public transit and decide which coffee shop would be my coffee shop. I start imagining all the things I would do in my new San Francisco life. These include taking naps with my cat in my bay window, growing herbs on my roof, and having serious phone conversations on my front stoop. I even briefly consider taking up smoking in my hypothetical life just for the satisfaction of having a formal reason for climbing out my window onto the fire escape late at night.

Translation FAIL

Reasons not to eat a one dollar burger from a bus stop cafe in Havana

... alternatively titled "Sometimes I miss McDonald's for its predictability. And the fact that it doesn't try to kill me."

Havana

A dog lies dead on the sidewalk in Parque Central. 

For a moment, I believe it to be sleeping, an odd moment of peace in contrast to the pulse of the rest of Havana. Then I realize that I am perhaps the only one who has paused to notice.

It is not so much that it is chaos here, like that you expect in a Moroccan market or a New York subway. It is more that Havanans are just so busy living. The line between the public and private is hardly even a line, but more a series of vague fuzzy dashes. 

People are living everywhere- in the tops of formal looking ornate buildings, amidst crumbling walls. Their lives leak out into the streets. In fact, the streets are their front yards, sidewalks serving as baseball fields. They hold conversations from their narrow balconies with the people below, as though they are merely across a table from one another. The sidewalks are skinny, and as you squueze along, you can often see into open doors into their front rooms, people having dinner two feet from the curb. Women stand in their doorways, expectantly, less than arms length from all who pace by. Couples kiss each other frantically beneath dropping roofs, mere steps from their friends. Even this home we stay in, up two precarious flights of stairs, is separated from the open hallway by but a wrought iron fence. The walls of the home aren't entirely sealed in from the overlapping roofs, like a bungee corded tarp.

Yet, despite these missing walls, they just live. Unlike us, they don't lock two doors behind them before they face the world. The world is always just there.

Tampa, anecdotally

Although I'm sure palm trees in Florida are like pine trees in Canada in their commonality, there is still something about them that screams glamour to me. You could put me in a back alley or some rat ridden ghetto, and if there were palm trees, I would put on my sunglasses and pose for photos. 

However, even I wasn't quite prepared for palm trees paired with icicles. Is that even allowed?

So, yes, as of late last night, I am home from my Tampa adventures. Home to countless unanswered emails, a Google Reader of 1000+, a pile of laundry, and a whole lot of jetlag. Such is this glamourous palm-tree filled life.

***

I think I have too high of expectations for new cities. I always expect a certain level of inherent character through the details, like the billboards, the street names, the architecture. I feel disappointed when the taxi takes me through the exact same stretch of highway on the way to my hotel, no matter what city I am in. I need to remind myself that the business areas of most big cities, as well as hotel rooms, are often ridiculously generic, which doesn't necessarily say anything about the core experience of living in that city. I almost feel as though I owe it to that city to take a cab to some random residential locale so I can really see it, outside the skyscrapers and the Starbucks. Unfortunately, conference trips often mean that my only moment to spare is used checking my email or changing clothes, not gallivanting about trying to find Florida's beaches and neighbourhoods.

However, my favourite billboard, seen on the ride from the airport?

Express Lube: Wednesday Night is Ladies Night

***

Academic conferences are such an odd little slice of life. It is hard to explain to the outsider the constant barrage of aggressive schmoozing, of name-dropping, of professorial rivalries, of learning copious amounts with a hangover. I simultaneously adore them and find them exhausting. The dork in me seriously holds back a squeal when finding out about some novel research findings, while the skeptic in me wants to slap my friend if she starts bragging again about which big names in the field she met last night.

Take poster sessions, for instance. Two hundred graduate students and professors, lined up in alphabetical order, standing by their assorted shiny coloured posters tacked onto bulletin boards. It is like a beauty pageant of sorts, only you are being judged by virtue of the title of your poster, rather than your ability to wear a poster. People avoid eye contact as they walk by you, or even worse, fleetingly pause at your abstract, only to walk away moments later. When I was an Honours student, I wanted no one to notice my poster, due to performance anxiety. Now I want to be the one surrounded by people asking questions, pointing at my graph, theorizing about follow-up studies. Even though I know that I am convinced at the value of the research I am doing, and I always have a number of interesting conversations at these poster sessions, I still want that blue sash declaring me Miss Psychology.

***

Quote of the trip, spoken by a friend doing her post-doc in England:

"Princess, the English take the food we deem fatty in Canada, and somehow force more fat into it."

***

The conference planners somehow had the brilliant notion of planning the conference for the very same weekend as Tampa's Gasparilla Pirate festival. Not to mention the fact that the crux of the event, the docking of the pirate ship and the invasion, take place literally right in front of the convention centre. 

Despite the best intentions of security, this made for random drunken revelers looking confused as they stumbled amidst loads of psychologists in semi-professional gear in the centre's hallways. It also made for a lot of public drinking as I made my way to the conference at 9am, for eye patches and wench costumes, for mechanical parrots, and lots of beads. It was a very odd environment to be sober in, especially when, standing outside of a hotel room door, a man asked me if I was waiting for the elevator doors to open. 

So, of course we had to skip out of at least one session to witness this debauchery first hand. As a friend and I were standing there, a man with a camera comes up, and asks us if we could pose for a photo with a nearby pirate. We happily obliged. He then asks for another favour, specifically whether we will pose for a picture with his son. Assuming his son is around 7 years old, we agree.

We walk over, and a tall boy of about 16 starts blushing, as it become clear we have been brought over by his father as trophies as such. As he puts his arms around us to take the photo, he mutters under his breath "I am so sorry. My dad is such a loser."

The oddest thing about this is the fact that we were literally surrounded by women in wench costumes, or various states of undress, and he chose us, in our conference gear.

***

I sometimes think that, as a Canadian, particularly one from a smaller town, I don't really understand sleaziness. As such, I wasn't quite prepared for the trashyness of the Tampa nightlife.

After a dinner of Cuban food and a flamenco show, a group of us decided to hit some bars in Ybor City. At first, we were looking for a salsa bar, but as we passed a string of barely dressed people on a threadbare red carpet, my companions suddenly got excited. 

"Let's go there!"

I protested, stating that it was clearly horrendously shady. They maintained that this was the perfect reason to go there, as it was an experience we would never get since we wouldn't set foot in such a place in our "real" lives.

And, so we ended up busting a move in a club surrounded by more lycra and exposed skin than I've ever seen.

The bathrooms had no toilet paper, and were covered in garbage.

Instead of grinding with each other, girls were essentially straight up fucking, some of them simulating blow jobs on seated guys as the other girl pretend to hump her from behind.

And, yes, there was a girl fight on the dance floor.

As we exited the club, a bunch of shirtless guys with a pitbull on a rope were hanging out on the corner called us over. Soon after, a man started yelling "Japan!" at my Asian friend. 

It makes waiting for the bus late at night at home seem a bit tamer...

Maintaining the Halloween spirit

I'm a bit of a traditionalist when it comes to Halloween.

And when I say traditionalist, I mean I like to pretend that I am still ten years old.

I don't like Halloween for "adult" reasons, like having an excuse to sluttify everyday careers and show off my goods in a socially appropriate context, or to dance in said underdressed state under a blacklight at an overpriced club.

I like it for the kid reasons- creativity, haunted houses with cold spaghetti as brains, finding ways to put on a winter jacket while still keeping your costume intact, face painting, jack-o-lanterns. Oh, and CANDY.

I am convinced that my love of candy corn will lead to my downfall in some way or another.

(As a side note, when I went to the epic grocery store last, their bulk section had about five different varieties of candy corn. I felt like a small town girl who had just set foot into downtown NYC-- my eyes are now open!!)

My love for Halloween is such that I continued trick or treating until an absurdly late age-- well through high school, in all actuality. We weren't those teenagers who just put on a hat and sneered at those opening the doors in a misguided attempt to get free candy, later egging the houses of those who denied us. We still went all out in our costumes, but were respectful of those who denied us candy due to our age (although we may have pouted a little when they closed the door). Perhaps it was a small town thing, but it was actually quite standard to keep shouting "Trick or treat!" well into adolescent.

Despite my small stature, I have now ceased my knocking on people's doors in a request for candy. Sadly, though, I have still not had the opportunity to be on the other side of the door, handing out candy. All my life, I've lived in seemingly inaccessible locations-- down long driveways, in back lanes locals didn't know existed, in basements suites and apartments. The year the Duke and I started dating, I eagerly bought bags full of assorted candy and headed to his place on Halloween, as he had a front door out onto a main street-- apparently too main and busy of a street, as not a single ghost or witch knocked on his door. I may have been a little crushed.

This year, Hallowe'en is looking to be a bit of a bust, in all honestly. I live in an apartment, so no trick or treaters. For some reason, I have been invited to three parties on Saturday the 1st, when Halloween is on Friday. Furthermore, the party I am most obligated to go to is a non-Halloween bridal shower, meaning I will have to forego the two costume parties-- though I may insist on showing up in costume. On Friday, everyone seems to be wrapped up in going to overpriced club events, and I flat out refuse to pay $50 to listen to a bad DJ merely because it is the 31st and there are some fake cobwebs hung in the bathroom. I want a *real* costume party, dammit, with creepy punch and Monster Mash playing over the stereo!

At least my Halloween spirit hasn't been totally crushed, though, as yesterday did involve a surprise birthday party at a pumpkin patch...

A pumpkin in a pumpkin... can you handle it?

Our various jack-o-lanterns...
My jack-o-lantern. He looked like a pretty evil demon until I added whiskers, though I still think there is the slight possibility he may watch me while I sleep.
So at least the kid in me was able to cling to Halloween a little longer this weekend...

The one in which I befriend marine life

Before we begin...

I know my posts located on other sites have been getting less love lately, but I feel compelled to tell you that my all-time favourite post is published over on Lauren's wonderful Testament series today. (just one click away... seriously!)

***

To continue on the warm and fuzzy theme...

By Friday afternoon, I have convinced myself that my chosen profession is rife with pompous jackasses, after a rather unfortunate professional workshop-- although, granted, the day was nearly made worth it, not due to exciting new information on the latest version of the IQ test, but rather as a result of large platters of free cheese.

Still, when I see the Duke waiting at a bench outside the venue, I sprint across the walkway in sheer excitement... for all I know is that he is picking me up to drive somewhere mysterious for our anniversary, and that he had forced me to pack and/or point out clothing for nearly every plausible occasion so as not to clue me in on our intended destination.

He leads me to a beige rented Corolla, stocked with all the trip necessities, including suitably convoluted Google Map directions and five cent candies. The map only leads us on the first half of the trip, to the ferry terminal. We manage to be one of the first cars on the ferry and are located at the very front, so, instead of joining the masses upstairs amongst screaming children and overpriced chicken fingers, we remain in the car, listening to the Beatles, Pink Floyd and the Rolling Stones, and watching the lights of the port slowly approaching.

As our tires rolled from the ferry dock to the road, and we struggled with nonsensical directions, I gradually became aware of our destination-- a small, rugged community on the opposite side of the island, known for its forests, surfing beaches, and wildlife.

The road there is one of the crazier highways I've been on-- full of twists and turns, fringed by enormous trees. As we edge closer to our destination, the fog grows so thick that we have to forego headlights and inch along. One of the first things we see once the mist cleared were signs warning us of the possibility of tsunamis. Welcome to the open ocean.

We pull into our hotel around midnight, the air thick as we stepped out of the car. As we open the glass door in our room, we can hear the ocean below, though the fog prevents us from seeing it. We walk towards the water, the orange glow of a beach fire glowing in the distance. It is almost eerie how far we walk, with the blurry view of the waves still crashing distances away.

Shockingly, the Duke, the king of lazy mornings, suggests that we set the alarm the next morning to make the most of the day. I have my morning coffee looking onto the misty ocean. Breakfast is Eggs Benny with delicious local ingredients, like smoked salmon and dungeness crab.

We then take a walk along the ocean shore. It is funny how the lack of sunlight, something I would find depressing in the city, somehow adds to the mystique of the area.

The shores are oddly smooth, so smooth than the sheen of a millimitre of icy water acts like a mirror.

We drive the five minutes to town, which is more aptly described as a village, free of traffic lights. Wandering around it does not take long.

The fog is starting to peel away, so we decide to book a late afternoon whale watching trip. We are lucky to only have to share our yellow ship, the Miss B Haven, with two other people, and our captain, Tim Tom, who has an natural ease on the ocean. We skim across the water at first, wind whipping through our air, sailing by green islands and rocks piercing the water. Gradually, we start hopping over waves.

We near two other paused boats. Between them is a school of sided dolphins, frolicking in the waves. As the boats slowly skip along the ocean, the dolphins leap about in their wake.

TimTom, a grin on his face, simply states "Pretty cool, eh?"
The dolphins gradually bore of us, and scamper away.

It is, however, only about ten minutes later than we see the next fellow on our list... a grey whale.

We first detect him by the spray of his blow hole. He swoops up and down multiple times. Another one joins him, surprising us by his rapid surfacing mere feet away from us. Tim Tom tells us that, were they to use their blow hole too nearby, we would be greeted by a tremendous stench.

It is hard not to be overwhelmed by something so monumental and exotic.

Next, it is the island of stellar sealions. They are the true stinkers, massively lolling about on the rocks, roaring at us passerbys. 

 Seals great us as we float by, bobbing in the current. We drift by a rocky island rife with seabirds, and a family of otters cavorts amongst the seaweed, their heads barely distinguishable.

And, as a final farewell, we catch site of a juvenile humpback whale. He moves quicker than the grey whales, swimming through the water at speeds that seem impossible for a creature so gigantic. But, just before he disappears from sight, he dives below the water with his tail reaching towards the sky.

As we make our way back to the harbour, the rocking of the ship nearly lulls me to sleep.

The evening was capped off by an amazing meal, and drinking red wine out on the beach.

(Oh, and maybe watching E! True Hollywood's story on the New Kids on the Block. Shut up.)

The next morning, we check out of the hotel set ourselves off to exploring the nearby national park, stopping every few kilometers to see a new sight.

There were boardwalks running through the temperate rainforest...

Yet, somehow, a few minutes down the road, the landscape of a bog felt like nearly another planet, with broccoli like trees with pallid grey limbs spurting from the spongy moss.

Soon afterwards, to finish where we started, an open beach.

After that, it was back on the open road, with stopovers at random small town restaurants and to ogle more looming trees, pulling back into our apartment at midnight to alarm clocks and a backlog of emails. Still, it is the escapes like this that make that day-to-day tedium so much more bearable.

And me? I'm still in awe that someone likes me so much to plan something like this. And I'm one hell of a lucky girl.