Mexico City: Day 1 (When the Best Thing is a Mexican Cat)

In an effort to give some travel advice and to ramble a bit about some very non-serious matters, I bring you Mexico City!!!  Attendees on this trip were my lovely wife and our two oldest boys, Alex and Dominic.  Our vacation would commence in the evening of June 28, 2016, and we would return on July 6, 2016.

I've been asked several times why I would want to go to Mexico City.  It is crowded, right?  Twenty-one million people, right?  If Mexico, why not just go to the beach?  Easy answer and brace yourself - beaches are dull.  Just come clean and admit it.  Salt water and sand.  That's about it.  Add beer and it becomes tolerable.  Except for those who delight in being hot and bored, you must admit that I'm correct on this issue.  I need beer goggles to lighten the day when I'm on beach duty.  With beer served by the bucketful, my five of a beach vacation can be oh so gently nudged up to a seven.  If not, well then its a five and I'm just sitting on a bunch of rocks crushed so tiny that it doesn't hurt when you walk on it.

I don't want a five in anything, and you don't either.  Do you want to be loved by someone with the effort and consistency of a five on a scale of ten?  No.  Do you want to eat food that tastes like a five?  No.  And if beer can nudge a beach day to a seven, that still isn't great.  That is C- work, my friends, and you don't get very far in life if your highest aspiration is to get to a C-.  I aim high, so no beach!  Go with culture and history!  Mexico City is loaded with both.  There's your answer for "Why Mexico City?".

Our adventure begins with a trip to Sacramento International Airport.  That drive is bland, bland, bland.  I mean if you like smoggy air and dead weeds, then God bless ya.  We spice it up with a listen to the hit Broadway musical "Hamilton".  If you've read my travel blogs before, you know that I like to detour.  So .... Stop!!! 

A quick detour to talk artsy stuff brought to you by a fellow who thinks he knows about artsy stuff but doesn't really know stuff.  Here we go ...

What do we have in this picture?  On the right in green is, in my opinion, a genius by the name of Lin-Manuel Miranda.  He wrote the lyrics, music and handles the role of Alexander Hamilton like a champ.  If the name of Alexander Hamilton sounds familiar but you can't quite put a face to the name, I understand that Hamilton appears on the ten dollar bill.  I'm not allowed to have money in my wallet, so I pulled up a picture of a $10 bill.  I think the $10 looks something like this.

PS:  I imagine Hamilton as a bit of a dandy, so I took the liberty of giving him a very fashionable moustache that doesn't look at all like a certain dead German???  You can only be so accurate in coloring a moustache by the movement of a computer mouse.  Despite this obvious drawback, Hamilton is now made into one rather charming fellow

Back to theatre ... the guy on the left is playing Thomas Jefferson.  Hamilton and Jefferson hated one another on both a personal and professional level.  And you thought partisan politics and personal attacks by politicians were a new thing?  Now that you are up to speed on the relationship, you are witnessing a still photograph of a "rap battle" for the heart and mind of President George Washington (the guy in blue).  I'm going off memory, but I think it went something like this:

Jefferson:  Hamilton, I abjure you sir!

Hamilton:  Abju....

Jefferson: Look the word up, you Princeton educated dolt!

Hamilton:  (Crosses arms and looks smug ... the only true defense when in the presence of a superior intellect).

These kinds of personal attacks figure well in our current political discourse, so it is an easy theme to write around.  All Lin-Manuel Miranda would have to do is throw in some window dressing around this conflict to craft a winner.  How about an interesting historical figure like the Marquis de Lafayette? History buffs, you know him as the French guy who gave us an assist against the British.  I have a quote of his assigned to my memory, and it is a warning to us all.  He said, "America is great because America is good.  If She ceases to be good, She will cease to be great."  True, true.

Having judged Hamilton as top notch art, I would like to take a moment to judge the combat prowess of our oldest allies ... the French.  Here goes ...

Unlike most of the other Cheese Eating Surrender Monkeys, Lafayette was an exceptional combat officer. 

That is about as complimentary I can be, so I'm moving on now.  Wait, let me throw this in:

And I can't tell if that guy is sad or if he got a bad taste of brie cheese.  Now I will move on.

You can fly direct to Mexico City from Sacramento.  What took Junipero Serra many months to accomplish barefoot will take you a mere five hours.  Have you ever heard stories about cabbies driving the unknowing in circles in order to run the meter up?  That doesn't happen at the airport in Mexico City.  The city is carved up into zones, and you pay to get a voucher to travel to that zone.  Simple stuff.

We only had half of a day, so I took the opportunity to speak some bad Spanish to some folks who wanted to be our personal tour guides, walk to the Templo Mayor, observe about 1,500 hundred cops on the street, and annoy a Mexican cat.  Charming little fellow.  I learned in Spanish class in high school that Mexican cats will fail to great you kindly and make complaining noises at you.  Just like the American cat that tolerates you at home, the Mexican cat likewise disdains you.  I gave the little complainer that I found at El Palacio Nationale a scrub on the head because I knew he was going to hate it.

The Palacio Nationale is located on the East side of the main square, the Zocalo.  I'd like to introduce a certain villain to you.  If you know anything about the Mexica (Aztecs), you know that they were rather brutal conquerors.  So much so that many of their enemies joined Hernan Cortez in his conquest of the Aztecs.  Alas, they traded one cruel master for another (plus small pox).  Here he is ... Hernan Cortez.

Oh, wait.  That is Disney villain, Jafar.  Here is Cortez.

Striking resemblance don't you think?  Anyway, in the way that all conquerors do, Cortes leveled Montezuma's palace and built the Palacio Nationale.  My encounter with the Mexican cat occurred just feet away from this striking fellow.   

I shared this photo elsewhere.  Rather than receiving commentary relating to the artistic beauty of this sculpture or perhaps wondering why this guy is sporting with two metal balls (balance?), I got a bunch of crass commentary about his anatomy.  No need for alarm, folks.  This man is playing with cylindrical objects.  There is no threat to his masculinity posed by this sporting endeavor.

The Palacio Nationale is gilded with the art of Diego Rivera.  I must say that his striking use of color is phenomenal.  And it is all for free!  All you have to do is show the guards with automatic weapons your passport, and off you go!  Most of the art at the Palacio Nationale depicts native imagery from the time of the Conquest.  Here is a fine example (and, yeah, I know that the edges are off, but I had to look up!):

These murals face an open courtyard.  That means they are exposed to the elements!  In the interior of the Palacio Nationale, we were dumbfounded by this bit of Diego's macabre sense of art:

So, another art moment ... The female protagonist in this mural is obviously threatened by an image of Death.  Yeah, there's the goat head fella and the pointy paper nose guy, but Death is our main antagonist.  Metaphorically, Death hovers about all of us just as in this mural.  On a lighter note, it would appear that Death also should engage in sporting games requiring only cylindrical objects.  Just saying ...  and now I'm no better than those who sent me snarky comments about the two fisted bocce ball player.

After having been "exposed" for the first time to Diego Rivera's artwork (which I found to be stunning), it was time to wash away my alarm with some beer.  We were accosted by a guy outside of the Catedral Metropolitan who shepherded us up to a restaurant called Lucky's.  It is situated directly across the Zocalo from the Palacio Nationale and right next door to the Cathedral.  I tried to get Alex to have a beer with me because the drinking age in Mexico is only eighteen, but he didn't want to play.  I will now have to wait an additional three years for that pleasure.

Our view of the Cathedral from Lucky's was just ... like ... this ...

Not a lot of places you can get this view at lunch for less than $10 a person.  Ah, Mexico you and I have both been called cheap, but you for all of the right reasons!  And with this photo, I conclude my recap of June 29, 2016.  Stay tuned for Day 2 in which I will introduce you to some rather alarming animals. 

Portland: Marathons, Hipsters and Hating On Pirates

October 3, 2014:

I had the occasion to travel to Portland, Oregon, for the Portland Marathon.  It occurs to me that people who run marathons are likely brain-damaged in some way.  I am no exception.  I wouldn't put a pet monkey through the amount of training it takes to run one of these, and I loathe monkeys.  Worst animals ever, and I put them right up there with other things I loathe, such as clowns.  Combine these two nightmares together, and you get something horrific like this:

Whoever put that picture together should be shot.  Let me go back to the marathon thing, so I can use it as a palate cleanser.  After more than 700 miles of running, it was time to run the Portland Marathon.  I will note that the first guy to run a marathon, a Greek by the name of Pheidippides, fell over dead when he ran the 26.2 miles that encompass a marathon.  A real dumb ass if you ask me.  If you are in any way curious about my prior thoughts on that example of Darwinism applied to the human race, click on this link:

http://reddingmarathon.blogspot.com/2010/09/naked-greeks-pink-floyd.html

Back to travel to Portland.  Interstate 5 has two contrasting parts.  If you travel South of Redding, California, on I-5, you will be "treated" to the nastiest sights and smells.  Dust clouds, city sprawl, and stinky cattle pens that look exactly like this:

I once spent a good hour and a half pulled over on I-5 across from one of those stinky cattle pens while I tried to dislodge my siamese cat from under the passenger seat of my car.  I had to cut some stereo wires to get her out, and she emptied her bladder all over me.  If you ever want to feel like a fancy sports car driver and get some driving gloves on the cheap, cat pee and cat hair make lovely wooly mittens for driving.  It was a good trade.  I lost my amplifier but gained some awesome wooly driving mittens.  After the thousands of hamburgers I've consumed, I have to count this one as a win for the cows.  I'm sure they enjoyed the sights and sounds of me cussing and swearing under a blistering 105 degree day. 

In contrast, however, if you travel North, you will witness the majestic views of Mt. Shasta and then the verdant green pastures of Oregon.  The only similarity with I-5 South is that these pastures are also dotted with cattle.  Unlike I-5 South, these cows are not awaiting their imminent processing into hamburgers while huddled together in a dusty lot.  They will eventually be "processed", but at least they are happy until they meet up with Ronald McDonald.  Ronald is the sole clown I do not consider scary.  Cows fear Ronald.  I do not.

A curious thing happens as you travel further North into Oregon.  The landscape is littered with "Adult Shops".  I'm a seasoned traveler, and by "seasoned" I mean that I'm forty-six (46) years old.  I know that an "Adult Shop" is a place where adults congregate for the purpose of purchasing ... you know ... marital aids.  Is that a nice way to put it? 

Anyway, I have a couple of theories as to why these shops are prevalent in Oregon.  I will only indulge in my primary theory.  My primary theory is that the amount of "Adult Shops" is directly proportionate to the amount of rainfall received.  Oregon is a rainy, rainy, rainy place.  There are many ways to ward off depression I suppose.  Need something to spice up that dreary day?  An Adult Shop is merely blocks away!  As circumstantial evidence in support of my theory, Time magazine states that Portland has the highest number of strip clubs per capita in the good ole U.S.A.  Indeed, indeed.  Anecdotally, I think that Niagara Falls, Ontario, Canada, has us beat.  Canada has to beat us at something.

http://content.time.com/time/travel/cityguide/article/0,31489,1975826_1975753_1975585,00.html

The windows of each of these "Adult Shops" are darkly tinted, and I'd be afraid to enter for fear of getting abducted and never found.  The chances of never being found would be very high.  Usually, missing persons investigations start with determining where the person was last seen.  That would be the tricky thing because I would make damn sure that nobody saw me going in there.  I'm not known for hanging around these kinds of places, so speculation (i.e., where can he typically be found?) wouldn't help at all.  As such, I did not enter any of these places despite the fact that they are conveniently located next to the interstate.  Suit yourself, dear traveler. 

I will mention as an aside that a location just North of Chico, California, once offered topless car washes.  I drove by that bit of conspicuous debauchery on the way to coaching my kid's football game in Chico.  Not the kind of pregame appropriate for a kid, so I drive on.  Just like California to one-up its neighbor to the North.

Have I also mentioned that being Catholic forbids entry into the "Adult Shop"?  Most non-Catholics think that we use confession as a crutch and excuse to commit all sorts of sins.  Not so ... it is terrifying!

This is not something I would want to confess.  I don't think I could get a word out after saying "Bless me father, for I have sinned".  I know that any seasoned priest has heard the full panoply of human stupidity, but after the sacramental equivalent of "how do you do, father?", I would be tongue tied.  In summary, being Catholic, married and a coward has kept me clear of a lot of stuff I shouldn't be involved in.  People always say to me, "Doesn't being Catholic make you have to follow a lot of rules?".  Yes, and for me it is obviously a win win situation.  Oregon "Adult Shop" crisis averted!

We arrived at one of the hotels located next to the Portland Airport.  The day basically ended with a short two mile run that took us to the airport.  That was followed up by my second hamburger of the day.  Take that cows!

October 4, 2014:

Any seasoned runner will tell you that you should eat carbohydrate and lean proteins in the days approaching a marathon.  No deep fried foods, dummy!  Well, I'm contrary.  I persist in thinking that I'm the athlete I once was (if I ever was a very good athlete) and that I can do whatever I want.  That's what I did on the day before the marathon.  The day starts with a visit to the mecca of all things doughnut - Voodoo Doughnuts (http://voodoodoughnut.com/index.php).  I've never been, and so I took my usual approach of going to extremes.  "Yay, a new experience!  Is there a way that I can do this so that it will cause me physical and psychological harm?  Yes.  OK, then, what do I need to do?"  The forty minute wait in line and the pickup game of ping pong with the wife right after gaining entry were the only healthy parts of this experience.

Notice how afraid those Voodoo Doughnuts are of me.  They drool green in fear!  So, to "carbo load" I ate one of those Voodoo Dolls and the Bacon Maple.  The peach fritter would then follow its Voodoo brethren into my belly at about 8:00 p.m. later that evening.  Is it possible to waste some 700 miles of training on a day of eating like a total pig?  Yes ... well, almost.

While munching away in my hotel on the peach fritter, I turned on the television.  If you really want to get the feel of a community, I believe you should watch a bit of their television.  I turned on the news and saw a brief bit on adopting "special needs" dogs. 

Warning flag!  Why would you do that to yourself?  I have one of those special needs dogs (the kind that pee all over your house, dig in the trash and bark constantly), and I must say that you are really doing a service to your fellow man by adopting one of these dogs.  By taking that dog out of the adoption pool, you saved that other fella from his own stupidity.  Here is a lesson in fatherhood, if your kid saves a just born pup by giving it mouth to mouth resuscitation, that is not the dog you want to allow your kids to keep.  The lack of oxygen at the very first moments of life leads to unholy consequences.

As we walked around the City taking in the sights (i.e., Saturday Portland Market), I started to notice the "hipster vibe".  The standard uniform of the Portland hipster is a light plaid shirt (not flannel - that honor must go to Seattle), some kind of sandals that only your mother would wear and a tee-shirt with a preachy logo on it.  Witness the "Think Globally, Drink Locally" logo I noticed on one of these unshaven muppets. 

What the hell is that slogan supposed to mean?  What does thinking globally have to do with getting drunk?  Most drunks struggle to look beyond the pint glass much less "think globally".  I realize that these two totally unrelated topics are supposed to sound smart and witty, but I'm at a loss.  Other potential tee-shirt slogans of the same vein but perhaps more logically related?  How about "Think narrowly, drink everything."  If you've ever spent time in a redneck bar, you know that at least there is a nexus for that slogan.  And those guys actually practice what the tee-shirt would preach.  Maybe, "Don't Think, Just Drink!"  That slogan would at least describe my particular malady.

Aside from the snarky feeling I get from seeing tee-shirts like this, I must confess that it did make me thirsty.  Why not go to the Portland Brewery (http://www.portlandbrewing.com/)?  I tried to be good.  I really tried.  My lovely bride of 25 years ordered up a sampler which gives you five (5) shorts of different ales etc.  Although she comes from a family that really knows how to drink beer, the girl came up short.  I was drinking water ... until then.  Fine influence she turned out to be!

I cannot stand when good beer is wasted.  I still punch guys when they spill beer.  Everyone knows this is the consequence of wasting beer.  My "bro code" kicked in so I polished off the last half.  Of course, if you are at a brewery, you have to take the tour.  Off we went, and then they comp you a bunch more beer.  Gulp, gulp.  My wife's cousin and I once polished off several pitchers of ale at the Sierra Nevada Brewery just before a half-marathon, and so I told myself that the same theory should apply to double that distance.  Gulp, gulp.

Well, on to the torture that was the Portland Marathon.

October 5, 2014:

Portland is a beautiful place.  The people are friendly.  What's not to love?  Just look at this picture!

Every long run should be preceded by the selection of music.  I created a 4 hour 15 minute playlist just in case I totally flamed out and took forever to finish.  Highlights with commentary where I fail to find the deeper meaning to the lyrics are as follows:

1.  Just What I Needed by The Cars - This song has the singer appreciating a woman who wastes all his time.  What makes this acceptable?  Because she has ribbons in her hair.  What the hell?????  Men are stupid.

2.  Pumped Up Kicks  by Foster the People - Have you ever listened to this song closely?  It's about some kid taking out his vengeance on other kids by shooting them.  "You better run ... faster than my bullets."  Oh, sh*t, I can't run that fast.  Whatever it was, I didn't do it!  Where are Tipper Gore and all her liberal friends to save us from the perverse effects of rock music.  Tipper????

3.  The Giving Tree by Plain White T's - Something about analogizing yourself to a tree that your woman cuts up into planks, builds into a boat and sails off.  Hey, buddy, why are you complaining?  You are still with her ... just in the shape of a boat.  Cling to her, my friend.  Cling ....

4.  Say It Ain't So by Weezer - A classic song for boys with daddy issues.  "You've cleaned up, found Jesus, things are good so I hear ... your son is drowning in the flood."  Something about adolescent rage because your parents said that you can't play Xbox I think.  Yep.  Nothing deeper than that, I'm sure.

This and a whole bunch of other tunes will keep me in form during the race.  The marathon starts and finishes down by the lawn area you see in the picture.  Thirteen thousand of us lined up to run the marathon and half marathon.  Before the start, all the participants sing the national anthem.  It was glorious.  Our voices cascaded down through the city blocks only to outlet over the quiet waters of the Willamette River.  It was so lovely that I resisted the strong urge to slap the goofy running cap off of every guy who didn't show due respect by taking off his cap.  It would have been kind of fun.  In the crush of bodies at the start, I could have easily slapped a couple off and nobody would have even known it was me.  Let's not stir things up, and get going!

The marathon route itself is mostly in industrial areas.  I was expecting a bit more with Portland being so charming.  The route was lined with bands, hefty belly dancers, and (for some strange reason) guys dressed up like pirates.  What would possess someone to dress up like a pirate and yell "Argh!!!  Ahoy, matey!" at a bunch of over-exhausted skinny people?  And this leads me to a moral dilemma.

I was chugging along, and saw the pirate guys.  Right as my head was nagging me to mutter out loud, "What the f**k?", one of these pirates starts calling out for high-fives.  I left him hanging.  I just didn't feel like high-fiving some off-balance, boozy guy who is doing the Renaissance Fair version of Pirates of the Caribbean.  Kind of like this guy:

 

I ran right on by.  The moral dilemma (and I actually thought about this as I ran by) is that I like to be friendly.  If someone is going to offer me a kindness, I want to reciprocate.  I really do.  Say what you will, but these knuckleheads took the time to come down to the race and wish us well.  In light of the effort, and despite the tailpipe inhaling induced desire to dress up like this, I just couldn't bring myself to do it.  It's just too damned weird!  Nonetheless, I tried to atone by spending the remainder of the race high-fiving every little kid who offered it up.  Kids are great.  I like kids, and they can be excused if they want to dress like a pirate a la Mr. Depp.  No excuse for a grown man though.  None whatsoever.

In any event, the marathon course is largely flat.  I felt good.  I was flying and well ahead of my desired pace.  In fact, I left the 3 hour 45 minute pace group behind.  That worked well until mile 18.  It was at mile 18 that we had just climbed up to the St. John's Bridge and turned back toward downtown Portland.  I could see the skyscrapers that hailed the finish a mere 8 miles away in the hazy morning.  It was at that point that the little Voodoo Doll, Bacon Maple and Peach Fritter kicked my hind end.  Mix in that delicious Cherry Stout from the Portland Brewery, and you have the perfect concoction to bring you a potent amount of misery.  I slowed and slowed, but if you know anything about me, I would rather die than walk.  You don't train so you can walk a marathon - not even 50 feet of it.  If I can yell at my kid because he isn't giving 100% at a football practice, you can for damned sure bet that I was heaping all sorts of abuse on myself.

At mile 23 I was feeling worn out and nauseous.  If one of those pirates were to show up, I would have spewed all over his buckler and soiled his doubloons.  Some dude right in front of me pulled off the road to barf, and I almost did the same.  It only takes one to start a good barf o' rama.  Nonetheless, you have to stop to barf and that wasn't happening.  I swallowed it down.  It was at this juncture that every motivational sign I saw (there were hundreds) was a curse.  You know how when someone tells you everything is going to be o.k. when you are feeling miserable?  "Thanks, but you're not helping."  It would not be good form to wrestle one of these things away from some well-wisher, rip it up and stomp on it.  I digress.

At mile 25 the 3 hour 45 minute pace group passed me.  Even though my main goal was to crack 4 hours, I wanted that extra 15 minutes shaved off.  Unfortunately, the girl leading that pace group was shouting encouraging slogans "Almost there!  Push it!  You've got this!"  I followed for about a half mile trying to keep pace or at least shove her off the side of the road into a planter.  I had the humiliation of watching them slowly escape me.  Ah, me.  I finished it at 3:46.  One minute off, and I will damned sure blow up 3:45 next time, and there will be a next time .... without the hamburgers ... without the beer ... without the Voodoo Doughnuts ... and without the pirates.

My bride and I hobbled the four city blocks back to our hotel.  She didn't hobble.  She felt just fine.  I showered, and fell asleep on the bed for an hour and a half.  The only thing that got me out of bed is that I wanted to meet up with some family.  That resulted in lots of barbecue ribs.  Later that night, it was Thai food.  Because I have a brain mostly composed of empty space, gears and sprockets, I haven't learned a damned thing.  It took me a day and half to shake off the niggling desire to puke.

We did manage to make it into a lovely library across from the hotel.  It was three stories tall, and it was a matter of principle to walk up and down each step.  It was worth the effort because I found a freaky book called "Outcast Samurai Dancer".  It is a picture book with explanation in Japanese.  I know freaky when I see it.  I didn't need the English translation.

The picture on the front gives you a fair enough picture of what is in the inside.  But, no, not really.  The pictures inside remind me of something out of American Horror Story.  Naked Japanese men and women in odd, twisted poses with Kabuki paint.  Looking at this book is kind of like how you can't help but look at an accident as you drive by.  Wow!  These Japanese fetishists are weirder than your standard Canadian.

OK, I've had enough of Portland.  Time to go.  Tomorrow's drive awaits and I have wounds to heal.

In summary, and putting all joking and snarkiness aside, we had a great trip.  Portland is a stunning city.  It is dotted with lovely parks and cottages.  The people are very nice.  If you have a chance to go you should.  At the very least, stop and put a hurting on one of those Voodoo Dolls.

Just look at that little guy squeal! 

Sint Maarten/St. Martin Travel Blog - Free Drinks, Snorkeling, NYC and Urinal Flies!

June 15, 2014:

The day before, while the Smelly Cat thing was going on, I managed to procure passage on a snorkeling trip with Coconut Reef (http://www.coconutreefsnorkeltours.com/).  All we had to do was pay a whole bunch of cash, walk down the road and be at La Sucriere bakery by 9:00 a.m. the next morning.  No problem because they have some wonderful pastries there, and I'm all about getting chubby.

Our little snorkeling trip came with complimentary booze and food.  Typically, this is a recipe for disaster for me.  I recall being hungry a lot as a child, and we didn't have a lot of extras.  I've fixed the economic situation as an adult.  However, if I get the opportunity for free food and beverage, I revert back and take advantage.  Allow me to illustrate:

My opportunity for free booze (or at least what I perceive as "free") typically starts a lot like this:

and ends just like this:

 



To the surprise of both my wife and children, I kept it together.  I must admit, however, that a good buzz might have dulled that kidney pounding I took on the boat.  I grew up in a small town in Northern California where we have ready access to two large lakes.  That meant I spent a fair amount of time in boats typical to the lake environment.  For you non-nautical types, that means the boats are flat bottom.  In an ocean environment, you expect the keel to reach a bit further into the briny deep.

Nope.  No sea-going vessel for us.  Ours was a boat of the "get your ass in the lake and get ready to ski" variety.  Not to worry, we had good company on the boat, the sun was shining bright, and I only bruised one kidney during the ride.  Before I describe the snorkeling, I need to once again break down a cultural misunderstanding.  Get out your maps ... and you will quickly notice that California is a huge state.  See the below novelty map which, unfortunately, has a lot of truth to it.

I live in the section entitled "Apparently Part of California".  I'm quite confident that the rest of California doesn't want us (except for the water), but we didn't like them first.  So there.  I'm not sure about the educational systems elsewhere in our fine country, but a quick look at this geographically correct map should cause you to observe ....

"Hey, maybe not all Californians live by the beach".

And now I encourage you to dig deep and reach the next logical conclusion ... think ... think ...

"And then ... maybe ... not all Californians surf?"

That is correct!  You have it!  Now you can understand us better. 

I don't live by the ocean, and I don't surf.  I live at the foot of a volcano and my part of California is widely known for supplying the world with marijuana.  That's right, your Bob Marley inspired good times were brought to you by the emerald triangle of Humboldt, Shasta and Tehama counties.  It takes me a three hour drive to get to the ocean.  I don't go there.  Everyone knows that the ocean off the coast of Humboldt county is just chock full of these:

A couple of observations about this man-eater!  First, he or she (God only knows!) is actually smiling at the camera.  Probably similar to that look a chubby kid gets on his face just before he devours a brownie.  That shark is anticipating something yummy.  Also, it's as fat as a shark can get.  I hear that wet suits don't digest well and just kind of ball up in the tummy.  Last observation ... if this photo was taken by a real human, that person is a total dumb ass.

Back to California.  The point of this thumbnail sketch of my homeland is that snorkeling is not my gig.  This was my first time.  Fully confident that all the man-eating sharks are gorging themselves on stoned surfers (probably a shark version of a pot brownie) off the coast of Humboldt, I dove in. 

It was magical.  Kind of like being in an aquarium.  We found sea turtles and manta rays too!  Well worth the $$$, and the Coconut Reef people are top notch.  Here are some of the sights from our snorkeling trip:

 



But all good things must end, right?  On the way back to La Sucriere, we stopped at a place or two for additional beer and snorkeling.  The last place where we stopped provided a lesson in cultural anthropology and human anatomy.  At this remote beach, we stole upon two men and two women completely and irrevocably buck naked.  Don't get me wrong, I've been there.  I'm very familiar with the female form.  What I am not accustomed to is the male form (other than my own).

Picture if you will two fairly attractive naked ladies laying down on the beach.  I know ... weird right?  Usually the people that slag around naked aren't the kind of people that you really want to see naked.  I suppose there is an exception to every rule.  The teen age boy in our boat couldn't take his eyes away, so I'll take this as his vote that these ladies qualify as an exception. 

I understand, but focus! 

Now, if you dare, also picture the disturbing sight of one guy standing up next to (and practically over) the girls wearing nothing but a baseball cap.  I'm not sure how this public nudity thing is supposed to work or whether there is some kind of protocol, but I'm pretty sure standing there with your jingly jangly in someone's face while only wearing a ball cap gets you some kind of nudist douchebag award.

Nonetheless, I've learned from this that if I really want to impress a girl on a beach, I need to go full monty with the exception of the ball cap.  It is indeed the ball cap that says

"Hey, I'm casual, but I'm also ready to party!"

Well, we paddled around for a while (not the teenager - he remained on the boat staring at the ladies or perhaps even Mr. Jingles) and then hit the high seas to return to La Sucriere.  After loading up on pastries, we slogged back to the hotel.  Knowing that this would be the last thing vacationy that I would do on this island, I just kind of soaked it in.  Tomorrow would be full of worrying about rental car returns, getting on a plane, not crashing into the ocean in said plane, my first experience in a NYC cab, sleeping on the floor in the airport and so on.  I'll leave that for tomorrow. 

Right then, I was just kicking rocks on the way back to the hotel and wondering why the multitude of guys with dreadlocks on this island don't let them fly instead of putting them in those nylon-looking black pantyhose sacks that bob precariously on the back of the head.  Boys, jut let em fly because that black pantyhose blob growing out of the back of your head is not a good look.

As for me, I'm thinking that the next time I go to the Caribbean, I'm going to try this out:

I mean ... this guy looks happy with his John Lennon sunglasses and fake dreads, right?  I'd give myself about five minutes in this thing before I enjoy my first fight.  However, I'm willing to speculate that if Mr. Jingle Jangle would have ditched the dead give away that he is American (the ball cap) and instead donned this marvel in Halloween-themed stupidity, he would have scored.  Just sayin ...

June 16, 2014:

I'm going to admit that the last day of a vacation sucks.  When you leave for a vacation, you are fired up and ready to endure all sorts of misery just so you can get to your destination.  Whereas, on the return trip, there is nothing to motivate you.  Nothing..  Dammit ... Nothing!

Stand by for a wife explanation moment (these are sometimes necessary):

Dear Wife:

1.  I know that we can always look forward to the love and esteem of the five male children awaiting us at home.

2.  Yes.  I love them very much.

3.  Please focus on the point I'm trying to make.  It's called exaggeration for a reason!

Now back to the vacation ...

And so I awoke to the first challenge of the day.  The pack-up.  This is when you discover that half of the crap you brought on vacation didn't even make it out of your bag.  Witness the near 15 lbs of sun block lotions that my lovely wife brought.  Enough to displace the magma in one of those Icelandic volcanoes (i.e., Eyjafjallajökull) that are always ruining air travel to Europe.  Just trying to pronounce the name of that volcano makes me angry.  So did the lotion.

For God's sake, why bring that much lotion?  You know that I'm too damned stubborn to use the stuff and would rather burn to a crisp (goal accomplished!).  And you, dear wife, with your tiny 5 foot nothing of body size, it would take you 2,000 years to use up that stuff. 

That's right ... count all the way back to the days Our Lord and Savior walked the verdant hills of Galilee, and that is how long it would take you to exhaust your supply of lotion.

Also, there is the $600 camera I bought for use on our Ireland trip.  I'm super happy that it saw duty in Ireland.  In a rare case of reverse gender roles, I nagged you to bring it on this trip even though you didn't want to because of the crime issues that were supposed to plague us in Sint Maarten but never materialized.  My fault for nagging you, but not my fault that you forgot the card for the camera.  That's 15 lbs of metal and glass hauled halfway across the world for no good reason at all.

More importantly, with all that lotion and useless picture taking stuff, where am I going to store all the booze we bought?  I must honor the priorities, you know!  Fear not, dear reader.  Each adult and underage child was able to return with his/her bottle of island cough syrup.  Mine remains unopened in the pantry.  Some day, I'll drink enough good tasting alcohol to want to have a go at the Guavaberry Liqueur.  Some day ...

All the rental car return stuff went off without a hitch.  Off to the Princess Juliana International Airport.  Princess Julianna, I'm guessing, was some kind of important Dutch chick.  I don't know.  Cool airport though.

However, I've determined that airports aren't so great when you have arrived three hours early.  Approximate check-in time at the good ole Princess Juliana International Airport?  20 minutes.  That means 2 1/2 hours at the terminal watching some stupid soccer game between Costa Rica and Ecuador or something like that.  Who cares, right?

Once in flight, however, we were on our way to New York City.  I'm not well traveled so my time in NYC during the first 46 years of my life is "0 hours and 0 minutes".  When we arrived at JFK, we had to burn about 12 hours for the layover.  I try to look at such things positively.  It simply meant that I'm going to Times Square!

Travel Tip:  If you are ever nervous about how to do things when you get to a certain place, just check on the internet.  It is always helpful and never wrong!  Sarcasm aside, it worked for me.  Once again, thank you Google!

I learned that the cost of a cab ride to Manhattan from JFK is a flat fee ($57 if memory serves), which is pretty darn good when you consider that we have four people in the cab.  The good people at Google informed me that I can pay by credit card just by sliding that card through the machine located in the back of the cab.  I also learned that the typical tip is 15% and you also have to pay for the bridge toll.  No biggie, it was still a very convenient option.  Lastly, you have to hail a cab in NYC.  You cannot call for one to arrive.  Apparently, a pre-order of a cab ride is against the law.  Not sure why.  My point is that all decisions were fully informed and made before I set foot at Terminal 4 at JFK.

We jumped in the cab and told the cabbie that we wanted to go to Times Square.  I got a newbie cabbie.  He didn't quite seem to know specifically where to go.  I can't give him directions!  I have no idea where I'm at and vaguely think that JFK is located about 25 minutes drive North of NYC or perhaps somewhere close to Quebec.  How the hell do I know!  No problem, he drove in the general direction and got us to Manhattan.  Mission accomplished.  He then asked me where in Times Square I wanted to go. 

"How the hell am I supposed to know?  I'm the frickin tourist here!  Just plop me where they have all the pretty blinking lights and huge screens.  That he did.  First some pictures and then some observations:

I know these pictures really stink.  Iphones can only do so much ya know.  The first two photos were taken around 8:00 p.m.  The last two were taken between midnight and 1:00 a.m.  The first observation about Times Square is that it gets more crowded the later you are there.  At midnight there are thousands and thousands of people in Times Square.  In the second photo from the bottom, you will notice that the ground level screen is blocked half way up.  That is because they have permanent grand stands installed so you can sit there and marvel at the noise and electricity.  Sit down and ogle the pretty lights with your mouth all agape.

Is it safe?  Yeah.  I think so.  There are plenty of officers walking around.  You can see in the first photo that the NYPD even has a small depot at Times Square.  Fair enough ... I think it is safe.  Next up ... if you like to people watch, you have definitely come to the right place.  Not quite as good as Venice Beach in California but very close.

Normally, I wouldn't be caught dead in a Toys R Us.  The one at Times Square is three stories tall, however.  Kind of a freak in the kid toy peddling game.  That means I have to go in.  It has a ferris wheel inside!  I saw it from the outside, and nudged the wife saying "We've got to go into that Toys R Us!"  Knowing full well how I feel about shopping (particularly in places that closely approach a Chuck E Cheese vibe), she looked at me as though there were lobsters coming out of my ears.  I talked her into it.  Check it out.

All enthusiasm aside, I burned out after about 20 minutes when we started looking at giant sized candy.  The novelty of large packages of candy wore off after about 30 seconds, so I figured I'd gaze out onto the street.  I was looking out the window and what to my wandering eyes did appear (Christmas reference intended), but naked people!  Yeah.  They seem to haunt me on this trip.  At least these girls were painted.  Apparently, they were done making money as painted ladies and were changing into street clothes right there on the sidewalk.  The confusing paradox of seeing this on the sidewalk while being surrounded by hundreds of screaming kids in a Toys R Us kind of epitomizes my NYC experience.  Normal and weird all mixed in together without any logic to it whatsoever.  I like that.

A note about New Yorkers.  You can immediately spot New Yorkers.   They will be walking faster than the tourists.  They might also have a look of annoyance because the hordes of tourists are in the way.  You always hear that New Yorkers are rude.  I'm not sure about that and classify this as the NYC equivalent of "All Californians Surf". 

I wouldn't say rude.  I would say "busy" is the more appropriate adjective.  The waiter at the pizza place didn't want to chat.  He had no interest in hearing my "thank you" for bringing water.  No.  That waiter is dropping off four glasses and a pitcher, you pour it yourself and he won't be there to receive your ever so folksy "thank yee". 

To be fair, we probably annoyed the hell out of that guy.  My children have been taught to say "thank you" and they both work for Starbucks and can appreciate a customer "thank you".  In comes the water, and we mouth four "thank yous" not all together.  We sound like a damn glee club.  If you are polite in this way, you probably do think it rude if the waiter just takes off and doesn't acknowledge your niceties.  Nah ... he is just busy and has no time for the country yokel.  I get it, but I'm saying thank you anyway.  Deal with it.

After six or seven hours of Times Square, we decided that it was time to go back to Terminal 4.  I hailed a cab, and off we went.  Enter cabbie #2.  This guy was also a newbie.  When your cabbie asks you which bridge to take to get back to JFK then that is a problem.  Thankfully, I paid attention on the way in, gave him what he needed and he zig zagged our way back to the airport.  This guy made up for his lack of geographical skill because he didn't recognize speed limits or any of that stuff.  I like 80 mph in a 50 mph zone.  Not that I'm in a hurry, but it was fun.  I'm not getting the ticket!

Having arrived at our destination, the only thing left to do was bed down for two hours of sleep on the floor of Terminal 4.  If you've ever slept on the cold ground (i.e., camping, hunting), then this was the exact same body heat sucking thing.  We managed to retain a couple of those postage stamp sized red blankets from our Delta flight out, so we used those to the best of our ability.  Anyway, you don't get good sleep when the tile floor is cold, the door to the outside is thirty feet away and is constantly opening and shutting, and the custodian on the driving floor waxer can't seem to get his job done and get the hell out of the portion of Terminal 4 which we've claimed as our own.  And here is our very own patch of JFK.

When treating JFK as your home for the evening, a trip to the potty will obviously be in order.  So, I slide up to a urinal and see a fly.  You know I'm going to pee on that fly, right?  I have to.  I do, and I score.  Wet fly! 

No, wet decal. 

Somebody has figured out the male instinct to pee on stuff and is making a mint selling decals to the airports.

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=121310977

It would appear that if you are aiming at something you are less likely to pee on the wall, your hand, your shoes, the floor, the guy at the urinal next to you and so on. Well, if they were trapping stupid males at the bathroom, yours truly would be dangling from the ceiling in a net.

The flight and trip back was rather uneventful.  I won't bore you with the details.  Thanks for reading about our trip to Sint Maarten.  I'm acutely aware that my travel blogging style is far from a recitation of facts, dates and the posting of photos.  To me, travel is about the experience and how it relates to the traveler.  Every traveler has a unique set of experiences.  The enjoyment of travel is simply the relation between ourselves and what we experience.  It's different to everyone. 

I'm more likely to tell you a story rather than post a picture.  It's better that way.  It's more like me.  And with that, I send you off with some photos of the family while at travel in Sint Maarten.  God bless!

St. Maarten/St. Martin (Day 4) - Where I Buy Racist Booze!

June 14, 2014:

Every vacation has to have one of these days.  The dreaded shopping day.  I recall when I was a kid my mom would drag me around for shopping.  There were many, many days when I would rather just sit in the van while my mom would spend an hour or so in a fabric shop.  That's right, I choose 110 degree heat in a parking lot over shopping.  Perhaps that will provide a bit of perspective.

On this pleasant morning, however, we packed it all up and headed to Phillipsburg.  From our hotel, Phillipsburg is a short drive over the mountain pictured in the photo below.  After wandering around a bit, I found a place to park and we walked into the "tourist" area.

This is where hordes of American tourists decamp from their cruise ships to speak loudly, wave American flags, mistake where they are located, and complain when the food and drink isn't supersized.  There is so much to love about Americans.  And, yes, I was annoyed that they don't give free drink re-fills in this country.  Some people from other countries just don't understand us.  Click on the link and Go America! 

In any event, the beach side touristy area of Phillipsburg is much nicer than the rest of the town.  Here are a couple of pictures of what it looks like in the "non-murdery" part of town:

If you travel one block to the North, you find a slightly more "stabby" street where all of the heavy lifting (i.e., shopping) takes place:

On this street, we slogged up and down for the good part of four hours.  If you have read the Ireland Travel Blog (look to the right and click on anything 2013), you will know that there are certain rules that you must abide by while shopping on vacation.  Because I'm in an Old Testament kind of mood, I state them as follows:

Rule #1: If the Lord thy God did not maketh it at thy place of vacation, thou shalt not purchase it!

Rule #2:  Thou shalt not waste thine tythe by spending thine shekels for the mere sake of spending thine shekels!

Rule #3:  Thine purchases shall be reasonable in price, lest ye make the male thou hast covenanted to adore and serve weep!

On this particular trip, my beloved violated Rule #1 by spending our shekels on one of those fancy charm bracelets from Pandora (http://www.pandora.net/en-us).  I'm happy that she is happy about the purchase, but if you are wondering, she hasn't worn that bracelet since.

To illustrate Rule #1 by means of an internet example, you can easily find Pandora bracelets by searching Google for key words such as "outrageous", "expensive" "charm" "platinum" "rube" and "sucker".  If you prefer to make Google searches with key phrases, try "Why in God's name?" "I'm going to die young from job-related stress, so she could buy that?"

As for me, of course I followed the rules.  I went to this place:

 

 And purchased this bit of local in bottle:

In an age of heightened sensitivity and racial angst, I bring you the most racist bottle of booze I could find.  This liqueur is only made on the 37 square mile island of Sint Maarten/St. Martin.  I didn't buy it because it tastes good.  It doesn't (unless you like the taste of cough syrup).  I bought it because it is unique to this part of the world.  That trumps all.  I'd bring home dirt if I had to.

In a nation that is mostly populated by the descendants of slaves, the bottle art doesn't seem to bother the good people of Sint Maarten/St. Martin.  However, if this product were sold in the U.S.A., you can be darned sure that the label would have to go.  I offer proof by means of example.

In our country, the following rogue's gallery has been eliminated from the popular consciousness:

Aunt Jemima:

 

Aunt Jemima, I miss you.  I love, love, love you and your breakfasty goodness.  I'm not sure what is going on with the garish red lip stick, but rest in peace, Aunt Jemima.

 

Next Up: Little Black Sambo.  Sambo's restaurant overlords realized that Sambo was no longer accepted in the U.S.A., and promptly replaced him with Indian Sambo (A slightly less racially insensitive purveyor of pancakes, bacon and eggs?)  

Little Black Sambo and Indian Sambo, I miss you so much.  You gave your name and image to my favorite breakfast diner franchise.  I so enjoyed your adventures as they were displayed in the menu and always hoped you would eat that damned tiger made of butter.  Both Sambos, I'm sorry you never ate the butter tiger.  He coveted your pancakes and really deserved to be eaten.  RIP, Little Black Sambo and Indian Sambo.

And, last but not least, Disney's Song of the South:

Okay, Song of the South, I don't really miss you.  That "zippidy doo dah" song really sucked.  Out of principle, I must also despise all video which has actual people appearing alongside animated characters.  There is just something grotesque about it.  In short, this is one casualty of political correctness that I can say I'm happy about.

Before I leave the subject of Phillipsburg and shopping, I have a confession to make.  I engaged in an activity of which I am mostly not proud.  Witness my shame below:

By the way, most of that hair loss was due to a pair of clippers that I deftly employed prior to this vacation.  I swear that be so.  I really do.  I am not lying about this.  No need for deception.  I have nothing to hide.  Are you convinced yet?  Shall I continue?  No.  Moving on then?

Moving on.  We returned to our hotel for more fruity drinks and perhaps a bit of sitting on a beach chair under an umbrella.  I don't know how I did it, but I convinced my lovely wife to get the drinks despite the fact that she was confident that the female bartender hated her.  However, my karma would get the best of me because as I was making my way off the beach to spare my wife from having to deal with the grumpy bartender lady, I was confronted by the Aloe Lady.

What is an Aloe Lady, you ask?  An Aloe Lady is a person who wanders around on the beach with aloe leaves in hand ever-prepared to slap some of that sticky cactus-looking crap all over your sun burned body and massage it in until you are sticky and about to cry.  This one Aloe Lady saw me coming with my sun burn, and I know she was thinking that she is going to make a sale. 

Not so fast, Aloe Lady!  Your super human powers of persuasion will not convince this cheap bastard to spend one dime on your massage.  I say "No" to the offer - this time politely waiting for her to open up the negotiation.  I learned at Orient Beach that if you tell an aloe lady that you don't want a massage in advance of allowing them to ask, they get very, very offended. 

I've learned how to dance now.  I patiently wait and then parlay with a "No, thank you."  My polite retort doesn't shake her confidence it all.  She was expecting it.  According to the link I posted above, Americans are considered annoyingly polite by people from other countries.  I didn't know that, but the Aloe Lady did.  I'm clearly at a disadvantage.

I throw her off with a bit of polite small talk about things not related to cactus based massages.  During this break in the action, I see a small glimmer of pity in her eye.  Her eyes fall to my sun burn, and she offers me a free massage on the burned areas.

This unexpected offer of generosity frightens and confuses me.  The hint of concern is clearly feigned.  I recover quickly.  I'm sure she sees lots of burned white guys.  I know that she knows that if she gets her hands on me with a free bee, I'm going to pay her a little something.  My honor and dignity would require it.  So, Aloe Lady, you have gazed into my very soul and played your trump card. 

Ah, no!!! 

I resist, thank her very much and break off before my ability to resist is worn down. 

I win!  I win ... and I retreat quickly a bit bruised.  Just before I see my bride approaching with two of those fruity drinks in hand, I pray:  "I thank you Lord for granting me the courage and strength to defeat the Aloe Lady.  You have kept me from stickiness and granted reprieve to my wallet.  Amen."

After sucking down a couple of those girly drinks, it was time to head up to the room.  On the way up, we ran into a friend we met a couple of days before.  I introduce you to Smelly Cat.  My kids are like me in some ways, and one of them is a love for pop culture.  This cat was a stray and was probably named "Molly" at one time or something mundane like that.  Not anymore, because Smelly Cat is much better.  She even has her own song.

On the first day of our arrival, Smelly Cat  followed my oldest daughter all the way into the hotel.  Not having seen Smelly Cat for a while, I thought that maybe she ended up as that delicious barbecue smell I mentioned in a previous blog.  Alas, no.  Smelly Cat was there in full ratty, skinny and stinky glory.  However, she paid no attention to my kid.  Because cats are obnoxiously independent, Smelly Cat ignored my kid in favor of some chubby son of a tourist. 

Isn't it the nature of cats to despise what loves them?  I knew some girls in high school like that too.  The way you handle those girls is to feign some interest and walk away entirely unconcerned.  By the way, it doesn't work unless you mean it!  Same goes for Smelly Cat.  I had a date with some Red Stripe ale anyway.  Thank God we were not at home.  Otherwise, I would have found Smelly Cat as an unwelcome guest at my home.

Time to rest up so we can do some snorkeling anyway.  Good Night from the front door of our room.

Sint Maarten/St. Martin (Day 3) - Where I Discuss Bee Wearing & Break Down Cultural Divides

June 13, 2014:

Having acquired my mandatory "White Guy On Vacation" sun burn, I now had to sleep with it.  Usually I have enough sense to burn only the top of my head and face.  I'm concerned that there may be a corrolation between pattern baldness and how many times you have burned your scalp to a crisp.  I've done that more times than I would like to admit, so the future is not looking so good.

Having assured my short, but quick, trip to male pattern baldness, I decided that I would prevent those areas from sun burn but instead direct attention to burning my torso.  The worst sun burn I ever had was induced by my over indulgence in alcohol in Mazatlan.  I regrettably passed out on that griddle of a beach the next morning.  What I should have learned is that drinking and passing out on a beach is bad for you.  It earned me a trip to see the medic on the ship and a near threat to report me to the captain for not being ready to stand watch.  Go Navy! 

No, an an unrepetent sense, I'm going to state that isn't what I should have learned.  What I learned is that drinking is fun, and passing out is an unfortunate by-product of fun.  What I should have learned is that the equatorial sun is brighter, hotter and has a lot more of that UV ray roasting power.  I didn't learn this lesson, so I earned another trip on the "You Should Learn From This" buggy ride on this vacation.

Burning my chest and stomache was like putting on a shirt made of wasps.  Kind of like this ...

Oh wait ... sorry about that.  That is a shirt with the crappy metal band "Wasp" on it.  One of the first bands to lie that they are Satanists so kids would buy their bad records.  Ah me, I never bit on that one.  There are much easier ways to shock and offend your parents.  Why kill your dignity in the process?  I've done that in several other ways, many of which my family can attest.  If you ever had so much to drink that your five year old son asks your wife if "Daddy is going to die" then you have also learned a lesson in bad parenting and humility all at the same time.

Moment of self-realization:  I've made myself sound like a drunk in this blog.  A point of clarification ... I'm only an occasional drunk?

As for the shirt made of wasps, I had something more like this this in mind.

Let me get myself together here ... pause .... pause ... ok, I felt a bit like this girl looks except every one of those bees was stinging the sh*t out of me.  Welcome, bees, to my bed so that every time I roll over you may sting me!

And now we pause for a moment for a segment I like to call "When Art Meets Stupid".

Let's just start this segment by agreeing that this picture is stupid.  The girl in the picture is likewise stupid and let's throw in the photographer and "artistic" director as well.  I'm guessing the artistic director of this shot felt that what was really lacking in the art world was a proper understanding of "bee wearing".  I must admit I've never understood it. 

"Look at me!  I'm wearing bees!"

Maybe this bad photo will focus my obvious lack of artistic comprehension.  I'm going to make an unsuccessful attempt at understanding, and will put myself inside the head of the artistic director.  I need to get a grasp of this earth shaking development in the art world.

1st Principle:  Proper bee wearing requires a nude female model. 

Most things are improved with a little bit of nudity.  I'll illustrate by example.  Let's say I've known you for years, and we are hanging out together eating some bowls of cereal.  Well, the cereal is good but it is pretty boring listening to you slurp while cereal falls from your open mouth to the table.  I take a spoonful and stare at you.  Slurp, slurp.  You take a spoonful and stare at me.  Slurp, slurp.  Not much there, really.

However, if you were to eat those Cheerios buck naked, now you have my interest.  By the introduction of a bit of nudity, we've now turned the mundane into something interesting if not a bit creepy.  By the way, if you are male you are not invited to eat Cheerios at my house.  Everyone should eat their cereal in the privacy of their own home.

By this one small example I've managed to convince myself that art demands that, if we are truly trying to bring an artistic flourish to bee wearing, the bee wearing model should ... nay ... must ... be naked.  Moving on ...

OK, so the nudity suggestively covered by a billion bees captures my interest, but what does it all mean?  Art should convey some sense of meaning.  Otherwise, its just stuff.  If I'm the artistic director, I'm basically going to tell you something artsy, fartsy like:

"The nakedness of the model evokes feelings of isolation.  In her nakedness ... she's alone ... even when surrounded by thousands of our bee friends.  She sits upon a chair that resembles a torture device in an unapportioned room while rays of sun create a halo effect to high light her isolation.  The (pardon the pun) naked austerity of the photo shows how alone and isolated in society we are.  I'm so lonely ... help me."

Stepping outside the mind of the artistic director (because I can't stand it), I'll be me again:

"Or ... it could mean that bees aren't people so naturally she feels alone.  Bees aren't good company.  Have you ever had a conversation with a bee?  Discussed politics, religion?  No.  You haven't.  I suppose we enjoy the social construct of eating with bees if you count their efforts to pile on to your steak while you are trying to eat it.  If I stood on your steak and threatened to slap you if you got near it, you would not think me good company.  You may feel alone and isolated because you take pictures of naked girls wearing bees!  You, sir, are strange, and you owe that poor dumb girl an apology."

I'm going to move on from the the "When Art Meets Stupid" segment.  I feel like I've done my bit to reconcile art with the bee wearing community.  Besides, I spent my whole childhood having conversations with myself.  I should not indulge that any further as an adult. Back to the vacation.

On this fine morning, we went to Loterie Farm (http://loteriefarm.com) which is nestled near the summit of Pic Paradis, the highest point on St. Martin.  The "Flight Zone" is the part of the Loterie Farm experience where you go to the top of Pic Paradis and then zip line (is that a verb?) all the way down.  If you are actually reading this because you think I might pass on something useful to a potential traveler to Sint Maarten/St. Martin, then here it is.  Go to Loterie Farm.  Nuff said.

And now for a segment I call "Weird Signs I Saw While Traveling", here is one from the grounds at Loterie Farm:

The sign is in French, naturally, and it requires that "Le ramassage des fruits est interdit."  Now, I'm not sure why people go around massaging fruit in St. Martin.  Is that French thing?  If so, keep them away from bananas.  That is just unnatural.  I wonder why it is only the re-massage of fruit that is forbidden ... um.. interdit.  Can I massage your fruit once, but not twice?  I know the French are an odd group, but massaging fruit once (acceptable) is perfectly normal for them.  Go for a second fruit massage, and they land you in jail.  Is it possible I've misinterpreted the language?  I don't care.

At the start of the zip line experience, one of the guides convinced a guy from New Jersey in our group that you had to pass a strength test to zip line.  Made him military press a weighted bar bell four times over his addled head.  I guess nice guys from New Jersey are totally clueless because that dude went to work right away.  Idiot!

Think of the money, man!  They wouldn't be able to make much money if you had to qualify by pressing 150 lbs over your head four times.  Duh.  Ana Cortez couldn't do it.  She was too cool to try.  Likewise, I ran the economics of it and acted cool with the guide.  Nothing like two bros looking at some other schlep getting suckered and thinking to one another ...

"That guy is a total dumb ass." 

I'm not sure why men enjoy witnessing the humiliation of other men ... we just do.  I don't share culture or skin color with the guide, but we both knew that was funny.  And there you have it, my cure for racism and cultural mistrust.  Just find some clueless dude to humiliate.  Let the boundaries fall and the male bonding begin.

The drive in the pick-up bed up to the top is worth the price if you are into paying to be scared.  Every time the driver pulled the clutch to catch a lower gear, I was pretty sure we were just going to stall out and commence the screaming and dying all the way to the bottom.  Always having a contingency plan in mind, I was just going to bail out of the pick-up to the side of the road if it did that.  Probably should have shared that plan with the wife and kids.  Ah, maybe next time.

In any event, after a quick five minute speech about "if you do this, you die, if you do that you die" we were off and zip lining.  I went first followed by the ever lovely and dangerous Ana Cortez.  Our guide, Robert, let us go so he could handle the screaming group of girls above us.  Pretty much we had the run of the place all the way to the bottom.  I must admit that flying 100 feet above the rain forest while gazing to the bottom of the island and the azure ocean below is very charming.  Here's a picture I took from the top of the zip line:

After this adventure, we returned to the hotel to enjoy some of that "swim up to the bar" stuff.  By the way, no one tells you that to swim up to the bar you have to flog hordes of children splashing, screaming and near drowning in the pool.  That does not appear in the pictures.

One thing I must convey about our hotel area.  The air along the whole street is permeated with the smell of grilled meat.  Vegetarians, you would vomit in disgust.  For me, I was thinking that for heaven to be proper (and it must be, right?), it must have the smell of grilled meat. I'm a proper Catholic, so I get to go to Catholic heaven which is just downstairs from protestant heaven.  If I were a buddhist and were to reincarnate, I suppose the ever present smell of grilled meat would make me look more like this:

And, yes, due to my bad karma, I'm sure I would reincarnate into something like this hideous, drooling Komodo Dragon.  Maybe I should stop making fun of people in this blog, so I can avoid this near certain fait as a reptile?  Nah.

In any event, sometimes the smell of grilled meat is just a stumbling block for the unwary.  I ate some jerk baby back ribs that night (I will not post a picture!), and I think it sucked what remaining moisture I had in my body right out of me.  Must ... replenish ... with ... beer.  Recover, rest, and prepare for the next day of shopping.  You didn't think I would avoid that, did you?