Mexico City Day 5 - Don't Ya Need A Hug?

Day 5 in Mexico City, and I'm going running.

I like to run in other countries.  So far, I've run in Canada, Ireland, St. Maarten, and now Mexico.  Sunday mornings are good for running.  Less traffic ... less people ... less hassle.  And so, I figured I would simply step outside and pick a direction in which I hadn't already run.  I needed a direction where I wouldn't have to stop every block.  I point in the direction of Chapultepec Park and get those Nike's choppin.  I knew I wouldn't get as far as the Park.  I didn't want to get to the Park.  Chapultepec is full of Mexican Attack Squirrels.  A man in shorty shorts, Oakleys and a ball cap is not prepared to give a reckoning to something as fierce as an Attack Squirrel.

Stop!  Gratuitous Monty Python Diversion!  (I get to do this because I'm a guy): 

Upon approaching Chapultepec Park during this run (that's me in the gold armor), I was warned by an enchanter named "Tim?" about the sharp pointy teeth of the Mexican Attack Squirrel. 

As much as I appreciated the dramatic presentation where Tim's fingers jut forth in representation of varmint teeth, I had to move on so I instructed my lackey to clack those coconuts at jogging pace, and I moved on.

End of Diversion:  Yes, I realize I've lost a full half (the female half) of my readers.  I say this a lot as a married man, so no biggie to offer it once more ... I'm sorry.

As I weaved through all of the people and nodded politely to some odd fifty or so cops in full riot gear (the whole storm trooper thing is 24/7 in this part of Mexico City ... Why?)  I arrived at the Palacio de las Bellas Artes and noticed something odd.  There were people running on the street.  Yes, good friends, Mexico City shuts down its most busy and iconic avenue for runners, moms with baby strollers, kids on bikes and those weird, lanky, spandex wearing yoga people.  There are crossing guards to keep you from meeting the business end of any car in cross-traffic.  Oh, yeah.  As always, cops ... lots of cops. 

Being fully aware that my lung burn is due to the 7,400 foot elevation and not to my level of fitness (cough!), I decide four to five miles is more than sufficient.  And so, my turn around point just happened to match up with the gold statute of the Angel of Independence.  Here it is in all of its splendor. 

As an aside, I think it might look a little bit better with a good ole American ball cap perched on the top of the angel's golden brow.  Just saying.  As an American, I'm rather dogmatic about this, but everything looks better with a ball cap.  I look better with a ball cap, girls look better with a ball cap and so on.  I just last night put a ball cap on my Great Dane and, yep, he looked better.

By the way, I didn't take the above picture.  For one, there were no cars when I occupied that space.  Also, not a chance in hell I'm stopping to take a picture.  If I were to actually stop and take a picture there is a good chance that I would be unable to will my body to start up again.  Did I mention that Mexico City is at 7,400 elevation?

Instead of cars, what I found were happy people directing the joggers and bike riders.  I found that just on the right there were about two hundred aspiring yogis wallowing about like skinny walruses on their yoga mats while some equally skinny people on a covered pavilion (specifically set up on this roundabout for this purpose) hectored the sad participants into greater feats of stretchiness.  Giving loud direction by means of a bull horn seems to cut against the serenity of the practice of yoga.  Also, it seemed out of place for Mexico.  Unlike in the U.S.A., people are less inclined here to turn everything into an athletic endeavor or a competition.  In any event, I'm not following the herd of runners around the circle.  I sprint up the steps, turn myself about, raise my arms in triumph and look back on my newly conquered domain.  It was something like this but I think I was dressed better:

I'm a bit angry about this picture, actually.  I was eight years old in 1976, and I had popularized this position in my infancy.  That gave me several years of prancing, posing and preening long before Mr. Sylvester Stallone found himself on this copyright-infringing day in what looks like rags picked up off the killing floor at a slaughter house.  I originated the "arms raised in triumph" pose long before Mr. Stallone.  I'm pretty sure that by age eight I had raised my arms at least once.  Probably to reach up to Mom to get a bottle of formula or something.  I hadn't even triumphed over anything yet.  Anyway, I will be accepting a public apology from Mr. Stallone any day now.

Having chased the kids on bikes and all of those other types all the way back to my step-off point at the Palacio de las Bellas Artes, I made it back to the hotel in a rather jubilant mood.  If you are a runner, a walker, or whatever do this on Sunday morning when you are in Mexico City.  It is worth it.

I'm in a good mood, and so I'm going to church.  Ever tried going to church in a bad mood?  What I really mean is have you every been so angry with your ne'er do well children as you are bundling the whiny complainers off to church that you just don't have it in you to smile, pray and shake hands?  I have.  This is not one of those days.  Not having received a single complaint about going to church from my boys, I'm taking in the rare joy of being happy while entering a church.

There are churches on just about every other block in Mexico City, but we are taking the opportunity to "go big" and return to the Catedral Metropolitan.  Of course, we launch out on foot because the Catedral is only about three blocks away.

A couple of curious things happened on the way.  First, there were groups of teens holding signs which said "abrazos".  I'm thinking is this perhaps a new confection.  Something perhaps a bit better than the Krispy Kreme donuts that I've been sliding down my gullet?  I observe and quickly realize that I'm about to get hugged.  I've learned a new Spanish word by observing human action.  You don't get that in Spanish class!  Hugs ... no food.  I'm disappointed.

Hold out hand for the free donut, and instead get hugged by a friendly teen.  More public display of affection.  At least this is rather G-rated.  At first, my expectation was to skirt around these friendly teens.  There are hundreds of people on the street.  I could hide  But there are groups of teens, and they fan out to offer their friendly welcome to I'm not sure what.  Avoidance of the hug gauntlet will simply not be possible, and they will not be denied.

At first, I kind of thought my reaction to this kind of unsolicited hugging would be like:

But, if you can't hide from them join them.  So bring it on.  I think I racked up about six hugs in two blocks.  Ah yes, Mexico City you are truly friendly.  Abrazos received and my good mood retained in all respects, we trudge forward.  I see the steeples and bell towers of the Catedral peaking above the buildings lining the street.  And, then, in full glory appears the Catedral.

Nothing could alter my mood, right?  Wrong.  My kids point out some jackwagon dressed as the Pope flipping off all of the people approaching the Zocalo and the Catedral.  Obviously, this guy had a negative experience with the Church or perhaps even the Pope himself.  I have to say that my Pope experiences have been pretty positive.

What's not to like about this guy, right? 

Here is John Paul II shaking the hand of the man who he had just forgiven for putting bullets into his chest.  In his younger days, Pope John Paul II picked up a Jewish girl fleeing the gestapo and secured her safety.  That woman lived through the holocaust.  In these short days of my life (I guess that's a joke), that is my image of a Pope.  And, yet, here we have the angry Pope.  Whatever the reason that he is so angry, it makes me sad.  For him and all of it, whatever it might be.  It is a curious thing with some people that they feel that causing offense to great numbers of people will make them feel better.  I think that is looking outward.  Better to look inward I think.

Ah, well, I'm not a trained psychiatrist, and I'm starting to sound like a dad.  I'll just leave it be and move on.

Anyway, it is truly something to go to high mass at the Catedral Metropolitan.  We just happened to catch Cardinal Noriega celebrating his 50th year as a priest.  To the chagrin of my two boys, it means that this mass was very long by Catholic standards.  By that, I mean that it lasted about an hour and forty minutes ... about 1/2 of any given Sunday's church time at the non-denominational church I attended as a kid.  Catholic mass is almost always over in an hour.  My kids are soft.

This being a day in which we just kind of hung out in the immediate vicinity of our hotel, there really isn't much to do but get out and mix around with the hordes of people.  And, thus, I introduce you to the Mexican Beatles:

Ah, wait, I mean these guys:

These guys were just hanging out in the street and were spot on perfect in covering Beatles tunes ... right down to the British accents.  I've got to say it is a bit odd to hear music sung in English followed by discussion between the band members in Spanish as to which Beatles song to play next.  Regardless, the music translates across language barriers.  That is a very good thing.

They weren't quite as good as Los Beatles but close.  Very close. 

I hear Juan once claimed that Los Beatles are bigger than Jesus and that Dingo wasn't even the best drummer in the band.  Seems like Juan had a bit of a chip on his shoulder.  In any event, Los Beatles aren't as friendly as the real Beatles and the Mexican Beatles.

I'm not going to go to some other part of the world and just get fat in a hotel room.  I excel at that at home.  So, I ditched the family and came back for a second listen to the Mexican Beatles a couple of hours later.  Something strange happened, they looked the same but they became the Mexican Black Sabbath and then the Mexican Doors.  It didn't sell as well because none of them appeared to under the influence of drugs or alcohol.  Something of the authenticity was lost.

We ended this day by going to the Ballet Folklorico in the Palacio de las Bellas Artes.  If you enjoy dance and artsy stuff (I do) I highly recommend going.  There is something about art that makes me have confidence in the human race.  Well, except for the boys.  Despite the fact that my mother was a painter, they don't get it.

I'm going to tell you right now to not take teenage boys to this.  You WILL lose them as soon as the dude comes out wearing nothing but antlers and deer skin on his loins.  I don't care how well that guy sells the notion that he is a buck running from a hunter, the boys are just not getting past the loin cloth.  That happened in the first ten minutes of the program.  From then on, the guys were just putting in their time until they could bounce out of there.  Well, its family travel and good art will be wasted on the wrong people.

With that we close out Day 5, mis amigos!

Mexico City - Day 4 In Which My Wife Deploys a Full-Proof Anti-Thief Strategy

I'm used to the hustle and bustle of Mexico City.  The hordes of people in the Metro like this: 

No big deal.  I survived Metallica at the Oakland Coliseum for Day On The Green which looked a lot like this:

STOP!  A METALLICA-RELATED DIVERSION:

A quick diversion for a rant about my Metallica experience.  Note the picture above which is representative of the "mosh pit".  My Metallica experience was like this but worse.  If you replace the small girl behind the guy at center with a similarly sized small girl wearing these leather thingies with sharp steel studs on them on her forearms, and if you imagine those forearm thingies digging into my back for two hours, then you have some small sense of the Metallica experience.  If you also imagine the other girl reaching down to sexually assault this guy (representing me but with hair), then now you have my Metallica experience in a nutshell.  I think this combination of sex and violence was more recently encapsulated in a movie called "50 Shades of Grey".  It is probably a bit like the mosh pit, but with sexy Swedish vampires or some such.  I don't care.

I'll return to the Metro in a bit, but I would first like to make a sociological observation about Mexico City.  This is something we observed at the Zocalo, El Palacio Nationale, Chapultepec, Templo Mayor or just about anywhere else in Mexico City where 20's something men and women are found together (which is everywhere). 

The subject of this "Grumpy Guy Diatribe" is the Public Display of Affection common in Mexico City.  I never did learn the phrases "Get a frickin room!" or "Her tonsils are operable!" in Spanish, but I will learn these before I venture again to Mexico City.  I think these are a vernacular must, and Senora Sloan should have taught them to me in high school.

On behalf of the grumpy old men of Mexico City, I can only state that this new generation of Mexicans has the collective sex drive similar to that of ... I don't know ... a rabbit?  What gives?  You get away from your conservative Catholic parents and grandparents, and feel a collective need to get it on in public?  Are there no drive-ins in Mexico City for this kind of activity?

Every sociological problem has a sociological solution.  Mine is this ... Mexican Attack Squirrels are plentiful and can readily address this problem.  I hypothesize that squirrel teeth will have a negative effect on the libido.  Conservative Catholic parents and grandparents of Mexico City, you are welcome.

For the first twenty or so times I witnessed this kind of public coochie going on, I'd nudge my wife and say "Check it out."  I'm just trying to point out this odd sociological drama playing out about us.  My wife was a sociology major after all.  She should show interest or at least feign interest for my sake.  I'm sure she is thinking that this is one of my many ways to suggest that we should do the same.  Not so.  I just really, really don't want her to miss out on an opportunity to put that degree to use.  You believe that, right?

My wife pays no heed to Professor Cultural Anthropologist's observation of the human condition in Mexico City.  She is too busy deploying her foolproof anti-theft methodology.  Women of the world, take note!  This strategy is so full proof and simple that no thief would think of snatching your purse from you.  Curious?  Here we have a picture of my wife demonstrating said technique:

Notice how the purse is slung across the neck?  That's it.  This ensures that no thief can readily come up from behind and simply tug it off of her shoulder.  Instead of slipping it off the arm and shoulder, the thief will either have to dislocate her neck or kindly ask for her purse.  If the latter approach is taken, my wife would then confuse and astound the thief by deploying either of her two stock Spanish gibberish phrases.  "No Que Pesos!" or, if she is particularly surly "No comprendes!"  Truly fool proof verbal judo. 

Between my near constant reminders to her that there are people getting rather amorous all over the place, I'm pointing out to her that her security system is somewhat flawed.  As I think back on this, I was probably annoying as hell during this trip.  My wife reads a lot, but I don't think she is aware of this most modern thieving invention.  I think they are called "scissors" or something like that.

In the last couple of months, I also understand that some redneck in American named "Buck" created something he calls a "knife".

I recently read in Modern Thief magazine that thieves are deploying these new technologies for the sole purpose of defeating what my wife has copyrighted as the "You Can't Touch This!" security system.  Look for a purchasing opportunity coming your way on one of those paid advertisement channels that the cable company makes you pay for.  These thieves even call themselves "cutpurses".  Mark my words, some day this new word will be common to our language.

Every large city has some version of Beverly Hills, and the Polanco serves that function nicely for Mexico City.  I'll admit that I like to haggle.  I'm as shrewd as an Arab camel trader.  Nevertheless, I left off in the swanky shops of Polanco.  No need to embarrass my family with the whole nickel and dime thing.  I'll save that particular form of combat for the itinerant vendors.  Polanco is very nice.  In thinking of something "snarky" (I invented this word, by the way) to say about Polanco, I'm at a loss.  I'll only comment to state that it is rather bland in an American way.  Nice place, clean, etc.  America.

The Metro ride back was entertaining.  We hit rush hour.  Avoid that at all costs unless you enjoy pushing and shoving.  I kind of enjoy that on an individual basis.  But when you are trying to make sure that you are getting all four of you onto the Metro, it can be a bit harrowing.  Nonetheless, I will share the strategy with you.  First off, recognize that the person behind you is likely to put his forearm across the small of your back and push like crazy.  This has the salutary effect of getting you on the train.  However, not all people push the same.  It is simple physics.  A small woman is not likely to push me far, but a larger man is likely to push one of my boys a bit further.  Don't like physics?  I'll dumb it down and approach this another way by reference to an old fashioned carnival game:

If the squirt gun is moving the white horsey way out in front, the white horsey is going to leave behind the lazy black horsey.  That is not good.  As the white horsey, Dominic got too far ahead and the lazy black horsey (me) had to grab onto his shoulder and yank him back.  And, by the way, the doors don't pop open really easily like an elevator door.  You really have to push ... hard.  Absent fierce resistance to the doors, you will get stuck.

My wife and Alex demonstrated a rather ineffective technique with these doors.  Both got caught midway onto the train, and both started pushing on the door in earnest.  Problem solved, the doors grudgingly stayed open.  However, neither had the capacity to let go first.  You first.  No, no.  I insist you go first.  The result is that neither of you get on, and I'm left yelling something stupid like "One of you pull the trigger!" or some other nonsensical redneck phrase.

Nonetheless, we ultimately were able to time getting shoved in the back correctly, and we all got on the same train.  As you might guess, this pushing and shoving can sometimes lead to conflict of a near-Metallica like proportion.  One teenager pushed an old man so hard that the old man put his hands up in front of his face as if the kid was going to hit him.  This causes me to undertake what I call my "Two Second Mexican Jail Analysis."

If the teen tries to hit the old man, do I (in turn) use my God-given ape arms to reach over two other people and clip that kid on the jaw?  If so, how long will I be spending in a Mexican jail?  I imagine weeks before I even get arraigned, and I don't know "get yourself out of jail" Spanish.  This is also something that would have been handy to learn in high school.  Recognizing my inherent inability to navigate the Mexican judicial system, I just kind of stood there thinking.  Fortunately, the teen just smirked and left it alone.

Tragi-comedy avoided, and we move on in search of what must be the last Dr. Pepper left in Mexico City.  After stops at two 7-11's and one Circle K, we locate the elusive Dr. Pepper.  Total nonsense, but Alex's addiction must be fed.  Oh, and the Starbucks addiction must be fed.  Oh, and the Krispy Kreme donut addiction must be fed.  Oh, and the milkshake addiction must be fed.

Serving these addictions takes time, and we are left with the end of Day 4 (which was really just a shopping day).  To recap:

1.  Metallica concert - bad.
2.  Polanco - good but kind of bland in the way that good can sometimes be.
3.  Anti-Theft System - yeah, right!
4.  White Horsey/Black Horsey Metro Entry Technique - proper when timed correctly.
5.  Various and several American confection addictions - dumb.

End of Day 4 mis amigos!

Mexico City - Spanish Gibberish

It's July 1, 2016, in Mexico City, and I'm thinking that I need to hit another historical site.  On our first day, I had to beat away a couple of the self-proclaimed tour guides for hire that lurk about the entrances to these historical sites just so I could peak over the barrier at the ruins of the Templo Mayor.  On this day we would run that gauntlet once again, but this time I shall enter.  There will be no tour guide.  It is well worth going, and will only cost you a few dollars.

At this juncture in the blog I can take one of two routes.  I can tell you interesting facts about the place, OR I can charm you with pictures of me located at the Templo Mayor which could resemble something like this:

In the hopes of not causing you alarm and encouraging you to keep reading, I'm going with the historical route.

For those of you who don't know, the Aztecs founded their empire on an island in the middle of a very, very large lake.  Lake Texcoco was large enough and deep enough to play host to one of Cortez's ships during the Conquest.  He had the moxie to dismantle a ship on the gulf coast and have it hauled hundreds of miles inland and assembled once again at Lake Texcoco.  I guess he had a knack for making dramatic entrances.  Probably something a bit like this:

In the sense in which rock beats scissors, scissors beats paper and so on, Cortez was at least clever enough to know that canon ball beats everything.  And if you want to really make an impact, send those cannonballs from a ship.  In any event, here is a pictorial of what the Aztec capital of Tenochtitlan (now Mexico City) looked like at the time of the Conquest.

And, yeah, I know this is a terrible picture.  Borders, borders.  Why am I so bad at this?

The Templo Mayor was the religious center for the Aztecs in Tenochtitlan.  It looked a bit like this mock up.

The Templo Mayor is the pyramid in the center with the two temples on the top.  The temples were dedicated to the rain god, Tlaloc, and the chief deity in the Aztec pantheon, Huitzilopochtli.  As you might expect a lot of this happened at the Templo Mayor.

The heart flying up to the heavens is intended to represent the sacrificial victim's assent into the heavenly realms.

You already knew this was coming, but the Spaniards tore down the Templo Mayor nearly to its base.  In the sense of "You used to worship your god here, and now you can worship our God here", the Spaniards would construct a church where the native temples were formerly located.  As if nobody would notice the difference?

Aztec:  What happened to my temple?  Where is our orderly skull rack?

Friar Juan:  Uhhh.  We have cookies and juice.

Perhaps the conquistadors forgot their tradition, which I sometimes refer to as the "holy place switcheroo", but they mistakenly built the Catedral Metropolitan right next to what remained of the Templo Mayor.  Here you can see the Cathedral in the background.  In the foreground is all that remains of the Templo Mayor.

Instead of a church, the Spaniards ultimately used the Templo Mayor premises as a trash dump.  Never fear.  Archeologists love to dig through trash and they found what remains as follows:

Notwithstanding, we lost a lot of history when the Templo Mayor was razed to the ground.  Lake Texcoco was shared by two other empires who, with Tenochtitlan, formed the Triple Alliance.  Netzahualcoyotl, the ruler of one of the other members of the Triple Alliance (Texcoco) just before the Conquest, had these sage words about the transience of life:

I, Netzahualcoyotl, ask this:
Is it true one really lives on the earth?
Not forever on earth,
only a little while here.
Though it be jade it falls apart,
though it be gold it wears away,
though it be quetzal plumage it is torn asunder.
Not forever on earth,
only a little while here.

It isn't my intention to get preachy, but I mention Netzahualcoyotl because I admire him as a sage and just ruler.  We need only apply his same logic to temples, palaces and everything else that the Aztecs built.  Most of it is gone now and proved itself to be as transient as human life.

Well, I digress.  That serpent in the foreground is a representation of the Aztec god, Quetzalcoatl.  I'm rather confused by why the conquistadors wouldn't finish the job by leaving Quetzalcoatl.  Maybe all of that killing wore them out?  Maybe they just like snakes and didn't realize that it was a representation of an Aztec deity?  Either way, I'm glad they missed it.  There are two of these images, and they both are located at the base of the Templo Mayor.

And if we can "excuse" Cortez for not smashing these images of Quaetzalcoatl to pieces, what about the few other images that were left?  Here we have a chacmool that was found at the steps of the remains of the Templo Mayor still in its place. 

The chacmool are rather common features, and that is because they served a rather common purpose.  Notice that bowl the chacmool is holding?  The purpose of that bowl would be to hold sacrificial offerings.  It could be herbs, and it could be human hearts.  Just depends on whatever the occasion called for I suppose.  Perhaps the priests would just wake up one morning feeling kind of stabby?

And here are some of those stabby things.  I learned a lot about the Aztec at UCLA, but I have no rational explanation for why the sacrificial knives looked like smiling fishies.

True fact:  The popular cracker marketed to children as "Goldfish" was modeled after these sacrificial knives.  Don't believe me?  I see a strong resemblance.

Granted, the knives don't have sunglasses, but that is clearly an embellishment added by Pepperidge Farms to hide the origin story of Finn, its sinister mascot.  I know better.

Right next door to the Templo Mayor is what remains of the meeting hall for the Eagle Knights.  This warrior class was limited to the elite.  As the lowly son of a mill worker, I would not have been permitted to apply or to even enter.  As the Eagle Knights approached this august meeting area, they would be met with this image of the god of death, Mictlantecuhtli.

I'm guessing this image would cause each Eagle Knight to ponder death - a suitable subject for a warrior.  In the Aztec religion, warriors killed in battle or sacrificed after capture went directly to Aztec heaven.  People who died of old age and all women, except those who died in childbirth, didn't fare nearly as well.  Sorry ladies.  But if the Eagle Knight had a better shot at heaven than the average fella and a heck of a lot better shot at heaven than a woman, I'm not sure this image gives one a warm and comfy feeling of well being.  Would you really want to meet him?  His liver is hanging out of his body for God's sake! 

As you know, the Christian faith promises eternal life in a welcoming heaven.  Mictlantecuhtli makes no such promises.  As for me, I would have preferred to not die and just hang on tooth and nail to my frail human existence for as long as possible just to avoid those over-sized hands and the dangly liver flopping about.

After the Temlo Mayor we went next door to the Catedral Metropolitan.  I love to walk about these old churches, especially ones when construction was commenced at the time of Cortez.  One thing that you have to prepare yourself for when you enter a "Spanish" church is that they are dark and the crucifix will be bloody in its realism.  Crucifixion is a very bloody business, and the Spanish really emphasize the point.  Frankly, its hard to look at probably because it hits close to home.  It is my faith after all.

Now, each of these churches have little "do's" and "dont's" about priceless things your aren't supposed to touch or some such.  Those rules aren't for me.  I call it my "Catholic privilege".  I'm in the club, so I can bend these little rules.  I was taking a picture of a crucifix in which the body of Jesus is painted black (or perhaps it was made out of ebony) and some docent sternly advised me to not take that picture.  Everything else was fair game for my weak brand of photo taking, but this particular crucifix is inexplicably off limits?  I wanted to explain the finer points of "Catholic privilege" to him, but you know we have a bit of a language barrier so I left off.  I also didn't want to make a scene getting pulled out of the Catedral by my ankles while screaming "Catholic privilege" in English.  Shameful.

Having toured the Catedral, we decided it was time to walk back to the hotel.  In Mexico City, you will occasionally get asked for money.  It is going to happen every time you go out, but it is never aggressive.  My wife happened upon a strategy that will get you out of these situations (if you so desire).  Simply blurt out some gibberish Spanish.  It will confuse and alarm your foe.  Upon being asked for pesos, my wife blurts out "No Que Pesos" which literally means "No, What, Pesos?"  I have often wondered why anyone would waste years in high school taking French.  Now I have the answer.  It is so you can claim ignorance of Spanish and get out of passing out pesos right and left.

Another charming miscommunication that my wife used was to respond to the Spanish speaker "No comprendes" which DOES NOT mean "I don't understand" but does mean "You don't understand."  I tried to get her to lay off on this one, but she was persistent.  Telling people they don't understand their own language is not the way to make friends and will eventually get you slapped.  I must, however, give her praise for attempting to communicate in Spanish.  When we went to Quebec, I think she spoke French about three times in total and then only to say "hello" or "thank you".  How is it she feels more comfortable with the Spanish speakers?  Easy answer - her other option is French.  If you have read the previous entries on my travel blog, I think you know how I feel about the French.  Yuck.

And with that bit of story-telling, which will surely mean that I will not be served dinner tonight, I want to make it up to my wife with this post of her "dabbing".  Apparently, that is a thing and despite my boys' protestations that she is doing it all wrong (like we care), I think she looks pretty good in the soft glow of a museum alcove with this cute little guy peaking over her shoulder.

Enjoy the remainder of your day.  I will still be going hungry.

Mexico City Day Two - The Rise of the Mexican Attack Squirrel

On June 30, 2016, we had our first full day in Mexico City.  That means getting out and about.  Renting a car in Mexico City would be pointless.  You have to use the metro my friends.  The place were you can be mugged, pushed and shoved.  Well, there was some pushing and shoving but no mugging - it's pretty safe.

As a kid who grew up in rural California, I'll admit I have limited experience in subways, metros or whatever you want to call them.  In California, we don't do public transportation well.  We are a car culture.  I've been on BART several times, and I rode the metro in Montreal once.  In Montreal, I think we might have traveled free simply on the basis that the French speaking ticket seller finally gave up on trying to communicate with us and shoved some tickets at us.  In very limited circumstances ignorance can pay off.

In general, my expectation with subway systems is that I would be exposed to some crazy stuff like this:

That guy looks rather comfortable in his own skin, don't ya think?  Notice there isn't anybody within 10 feet of him. Hey crowd just behind him, there lots of space next to the reptile wielding guy in the overly long cargo shorts!  No takers?  And what's with the cash appearing in the lower left hand part of this picture.  I have no rational explanation for the cash in the bag other than to conclude that is bait for Slimy the Snake.  Would be thieves, you are being baited.

Or maybe I was expecting something more like this?

Nah, this guy is clearly one of America's finest.  Mexico is a Catholic culture.  You won't get treated to this kind of overt, chubby, drunken sexuality in Mexico.  Rather, the subway in Mexico City is dull.  Its most negative aspect is that it is very, very crowded.  Those 21 million people have to get around some way, right?

It costs you five pesos (about 30 cents) to ride, and you can go anywhere within the metro system on those five pesos.  We had many, many metro trips, but on this first day we were off to Chapultepec Park.  Chapultepec means "grasshopper hill" in Nahuatl, the native tongue of the Aztecs.  Still spoken today by millions, by the way.

The Park is stunning.  It is the largest public park in Latin America.  It has botanical gardens, lakes, a theme park, the Museo Anthropologia and Chapultepec Castle.  The hill at Chapultepec juts out amongst the forestland.  It was a retreat area for the Aztec rulers and also served as their burial place.  In true "I show you no respect" Spanish fashion, the Spaniards built a castle right on the spot.  I think the phrase is that "haters are gonna hate" or something like that.

Given the vast size of the Bosque de Chapultepec, the Spanish name for the Park, we were fortunate enough to pile out of the metro right across from the castle (the "Castillo").  And now you have learned a Spanish word which you are unlikely to use!  As noted above, the Castillo sits on the hill so it is readily picked out from the surrounding forested area.  See the below photo as Exhibit A.

Just behind the white marble monument you see in the foreground, we were introduced to what I'm going to call the Mexican Attack Squirrel.  As noted in the blog for Day 1, I found no tangible difference between the Mexican cat (el gato malo) and the American cat (also bad cat).  Both are content to ignore you.  Not so with the squirrel.  I have extensive experience with the American squirrel, so I speak as an expert in these matters mind you.  The American squirrel is surly ... no doubt.  However, they give you warning if you walk beneath their tree.  Another thing ... the American squirrel is a coward.  Rather than attack you physically, they prefer to attack from a distance.  Thus, the pine cone bits (and, at times, full cones) they toss at me from on high on a regular basis as I try to wheel the garbage bins out to the street.

The Mexican Attack Squirrel is not a coward.  He will make a calculated physical attack by feigning all sorts of cuteness ,and then jump right on you.  The sharp squirrelly teeth are sure to follow the alarming sense of squirrel feet (some kind of combination between a foot and fingers) on your body.  Doubt me do you?  We witnessed one such red bellied Mexican Attack Squirrel assault a child.  A child for God's sake, and this shameful assault was launched right in front of the boy's mother.  We came across some Americans feeding these furry little vicious bastards.  We warned them, but I didn't want to stay and see the inevitable carnage that would occur once the Mexican Attack Squirrel realized that they had no more food to provide.

So, Travel Tip #1:  Avoid the Mexican Attack Squirrel.  Ignore my advice at your peril, my friends.

If you are a real wimp, you can pay to get on a shuttle to the top of Chapultepec.  Take a second look at the picture.  It isn't that high up!  Walk it.  It is a quarter mile at most.  Granted, that's a tough quarter mile if you are trying to make an attack on the Castillo as the U.S.A. (listen closely to the Marine Corps anthem) and the French (how is this possible?) did at different times.  However, I come not as a conqueror, but as a tourist who has just been traumatized by a squirrel attack on a child.  I mean no harm, and I just needed to walk off the memory of the squirrel attack.  Up we go!

Our good friend Diego Rivera makes an appearance at the Castillo with murals of revolution.  The first represents a conquistador slaying an Aztec eagle knight, and the second is from the Mexican Revolution expelling the French. 

PS: I'm incapable of taking a good picture of art.  I admit to an alarming lack of caring in this regard.  I'm a mess.

It strikes me that the history of Mexico is rife with conquest, revolution, conquest and so on.  Our own country was certainly not immune from this cycle of violence, but Diego Rivera's art really brings the message home for Mexico.

The Castillo gives you a rather commanding view of the city. 

Take note of the air quality.  June is the rainy season in Mexico City.  You can expect temperatures in the mid 70's.  After all, Mexico City sits at 7,400 elevation.  It rained for about an hour each evening while we were there, so you can see that, even with the rain, the air quality can still be scientifically described as "CRAP".  The EPA would love getting its mitts on Mexico City.  Lot's of regulating to do. 

The Castillo no longer houses presidents, conquerors etc. so you can walk about quite freely without necessity of diplomacy or armament.  Although priceless objects of art are just laying about, you couldn't abscond with this carriage used by French Emperor Maximillian even if you were foolish enough try.  Way too many cops.

Wanting to put some distance between ourselves and the Mexican Attack Squirrels and also being desirous of getting a bit more culture, we headed down to the Museo Anthropologia.  This vast museum houses artifacts from most of Mexico's indigenous cultures. 

Stop!  Time for another art moment!  Let's take a look at this fella.

I'll admit it, this guy is kinda scary.  His hands are positioned to push himself up from the sitting position and do something dastardly.  Yet, check out the head dress!  How did these deities get around with so much baggage?  Pretty sure if that fella did get up, he is falling on his butt.  Gravity is a cruel master.  At least in art, my God just kind of whisks around with that white shock of hair flowing free in the breeze.  It's rather majestic and non-threatening.  And have you ever noticed that the First Person of the Holy Trinity (God the Father) is never depicted sitting about.  Nope.  He's airborne, busy and doesn't want any kind of headdress impeding his movement.

From the Olmec culture, we have this rather huge head.

The real reason I put this picture in is because my wife is in it.  She makes everything just a bit more fun.  Want to spice up a dull picture of a rock carved into a head?  Add a pretty girl.  I do understand that about photography.  But, I digress.  I think I've seen this head in a Simpson's episode as follows:

Granted, it was supposed be an Olmec head gifted to Bart Simpson for saving the life of Mr. Burns, but they painted it up all wrong.  Frankly, Bart's Olmec head looks a bit more South Pacific to me, but who am I to raise objections.

Now to get the gruesome part of this trip.  As you know, the Aztecs (and many other Mesoamerican cultures) were rather fond of human sacrifice.  After all, Huitzilopochtli doesn't make the sun rise without a river of human blood.  We all know that this is how it works.  I would like to leave Huitzilopochtli be for a while, and discuss Xipe Totec, god of the harvest.

Here is statute of a priest of Xipe Totec.

As noted above, Xipe Totec is the god of the harvest.  To the Aztec, the harvest represented life, death and renewal.  Think how the corn grows, dies, and spreads its seed.  You know where I'm going with this, right?  Someone's gotta die. 

The sacrificial victim would be treated like the living embodiment of the god himself for the duration of the year.  Honors and awards at such a young age!  Pretty good gig ... for a while.  However, at harvest time, that heart gets plucked out, the victim is skinned and a fellow like this guy depicted above would wear the victim's skin for a period of some twenty odd days.  You can't really tell from this photo, but this fella has four hands.  That is because the priest had two hands and they left the two of the victim attached to the skin for good measure.  I imagine this would impede eating Captain Crunch out of the bowl, but sacrifices (pun intended) must be made.  That oval around the mouth depicts the skin from the victim.  Not the kind of breathing hole I would prefer.

For those of you that thought my liberal arts education would amount to nothing, you are mostly right.  However, I was at least able to disgust some of you with what I learned at UCLA about Xipe Totec.  You are welcome, and I will just have to be satisfied with that for now.

Perhaps you need a bit of a palate cleanser before I leave off on Day 2?

Remember, all is not as it seems. 

On Day 3, my wife will speak what I call gibberish Spanish.

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!