Guayaquil and Montanita, Ecuador

2-5-2009
Montanita, Ecuador

This funky little town along the south coast of Ecuador is more a thriving South American backpacker resort than a functioning community. The small central area is no more than three or four tiny blocks packed with surprisingly comfortable and upscale restaurants, shops, and bars. In the afternoon and evenings twenty-somethings in surfer trunks and sun dresses roam these narrow unpaved streets in various states of inebriation and joyful celebration. Surprisingly, Matt and I were among the oldest tourists in town. I saw only one group with folks over 40.

The place has a frenetic, explosive energy, almost like I imagine the Wild West or gold rush towns of 19th century North America. Of course, the gold nuggets in Montanita are Chilean and Argentinian surf and beach tourists and more than half of these are women so it's not similar in that way at all. It's all a bit crazy, really. Internet cafes, night clubs, tiny hotels, and surf shops are packed into hastily constructed two, three, and even four story cinder block buildings that line streets not more than 15 feet wide. All night parties seem to happen on any day of the week. We found this out the hard way on the first night we arrived.

We choose a room about a third of a mile up the beach toward the point to avoid the noise and crowds of town. Imagine our surprise when an outdoor rave blasted us awake at 1 AM. Matt nearly lost his mind with frustration and anger, going so far as to confront the DJ, who only assured him that the party was just getting started and would last until 6 AM. True to his word, the repetitive beats rolled on all night. That lost night of sleep contributed no small amount of tension and frayed nerves to our partnership and it took us a few days of squabbling to settle town and agree to get along again.

We hired a surfing guide, Eusebio, to take us to some less crowded "secret spots" on Wednesday morning. This was a great choice. Since the surf shop's regular driver had recently moved away we took public bus, meeting at 7:30 AM to beat the tide. It's always eye opening to ride the local transport with the locals and their kids. Little children, their feet caked in mud, stared widely at the gringos. Indigenous Ecuadorians napped in simple, but dapper Western attire. A few indigenous women sported the felt hats that make Andean women famously distinctive. Since we were only travelling a few stops we loaded our three surfboards into the center aisle, nearly dominating the space. No one seemed phased by this in the least. After fifteen minutes of moving northward we jumped of the bus and began a scenic hike down a lushly forested ridge towards the fishing village of La Rinconada. Our guide was thrilled to see the new road, "I haven't seen this road before, " he told us in Spanish, "Until this year they took the fish out of here by donkey." Apparently he'd spent the last year living in Switzerland with his girlfriend. He was at a loss for what to do about the relationship. His family, including six siblings, all live in Montanita. After fifteen minutes of steep descent we came upon the village of La Rinconada wedged in a narrow valley that drains to a small, beautiful bay.

During the previous night, we noticed scores of fishing boats out to sea because of the bright lights trailing each panga. Only when we finally reached the rocky inlet at La Rinconada did we get to see one of these ingenious little lanterns. Four or five pangas lay on resting on the colorful cobblestone beach trailing their lanterns. Each lantern is built on a simple raft no more than two feet long by a foot wide. Atop this wooden raft rests a used gallon paint can. The lid is pierced with a thick wick to make a candle of the can. The whole apparatus is tied to the aft of the pangas with a simple rope.

We left our extra gear with a pleasant man on his circular covered porch overlooking the cove. Seemed like it must function as a restaurant sometimes. After some pleasant small talk between Eusebio and this guy we clambered over the loose stones, past the pangas, and paddled the 200 yards to the headland where we could see small waves breaking over a rocky point. This place did not disappoint. There was no one out there but us. The waves were clean and powerful while staying small enough to manage easily. The rocks were the only hazard but we're good enough surfers to generally avoid them. It was one of those surf sessions where you can't help but grin ear to ear, marvel at the beauty of it all, and yearn for more and more. Sadly, after about an hour and a half of pure fun the tide came up and the waves faded away. Still, it was a peak experience.

Interestingly, the surf shop we dealt with sells only real balsa wood surfboards. Such boards don't really exist in the U.S. anymore except as expensive collector's art pieces. Apparently the balsa grows locally and is cheaper than the polystyrene foam generally used as the core of a surfboard. While they're a bit heavier than modern boards, they're beautiful, sturdy, and environmentally friendly. I would have purchased one if there was and easy way to get it home. Also problematic was that the boards in the shop were the owner's boards and he prefers to custom shape a board over two weeks or so instead of selling the boards he actually uses on a day-to-day basis. Finally, the sweet young woman running the shop went to University of California, Irvine and showed up in Montanita two years ago. She simply never left. She's got no plans to leave. Lots of young people seemed to be doing the same thing here. Find a job in one of the few businesses and you can live cheap by the beach indefinitely.

We, however, left town by taxi the next morning, headed for the airport in Manta, about two and half hours to the north. We had planned to take another public bus back to Guayaquil and fly from there to Quito, but a strike and public protest blocked the road to the south. Moreover, the owner of our hotel feared that the blockage would be used as an opportunity by bandits to rob the public buses. This, she explained, had happened a couple of times recently and she fears the police are involved. After hearing all of this, sixty dollars for a direct ride to the airport sounded like a bargain.

Eduardo, our driver, blasted Puerto Rican hip hop and Mexican drug ballads as we sped past concrete fishing villages and through a wildly rolling landscape that alternated between arid scrub and tropical deciduous forests covering massive hills to the east and beaches and dramatic sea cliffs to our west. The scent of diesel fumes mixed with the smell of burning vegetation. Along the coast, the cool, moist sea gave the air a distinctively marine smell like that of kelp. In a couple of towns this scent rose to pungency as we passed fish canneries and fish oil factories.

2-1-2009
En Route to Montanita, Ecuador

The bus to Montanita was first class and not all what guide books had led me to expect of Ecuador's buses. Total cost was $5.60 for a three and a half hour ride. Moreover, the passengers seemed by and large to be well off. Only later did I understand that most people heading to Montanita are actually from Chile or Argentina and are themselves tourists.

As the bus headed out of Guayaquil to the west the landscape became rolling hills covered with tropical scrub punctuated by the occasional village of drab cinder block dwellings typical of the entire poor world. Now and again a house was built entirely of sticks. Such bamboo or cane houses are generally elevated on stilts and often cling to the side of the hillsides.

After reaching the coast at the Santa Elena peninsula, the bus turned north and followed the coast closely. The landscape here is arid and treeless and much of the coast has been turned over to salt production. Huge, man made ponds line the coast. Most are for salt, with the occasional pond dedicated to tourism. North of this salty region, narrow fishing villages are wedged in between the beach and the hilly coast. The coast road runs smack the middle of these two or three block wide towns and the buildings are built surprisingly close to one another and line the highway. Every building is ugly unpainted concrete block, but the density and the the two and three story edifices give the towns and urban feel. As the bus rolls through town, you can see into the homes and shops that line the road. Young faces peer through the iron bars of concrete window frames. There's no glass in these windows.

Guayaquil, Ecuador

I met my friend Matt without incident at the Guayaquil airport late on February 1. We flew in on separate flights so there was real possibility that one of us would be delayed. After clearing customs we headed straight for the Tangara Guest House, a small hotel in a residential neighborhood in Guayaquil. The city seemed strangely quiet as we rode the taxi to the guest house. Like many urban areas in Latin America, most every building had iron bars over the windows, sturdy gates, and glass or barbed wire atop exterior walls. Even during the next day the streets were strangely vacant. As I suspected even before coming here, there is a

The hotel was pleasant enough, though, and we met two young Indian computer networking professionals who were there on a two month business trip. An American company would likely have put their employees up at a much more expensive hotel downtown. .

In the morning we headed to the Malecon, which is widely touted as one of the most successful urban redevelopment projects in South America. The entire downtown waterfront has been turned into a gated boardwalk lined with restaurants, gardens, and movie theaters. Since this development is directly across the street from the city center, the whole area makes for an attractively dense urban core. There's no doubt that the city has done a good job with the Malecon. Even early in the morning people were using the park and enjoying the river.

The Duale River is wide here. In fact, the whole city of Guayaquil is essentially in a river delta, very near to the ocean. Because of a the flood tide the river seemed to be flowing upstream. Large clumps of vegetation, much like those I saw in Bangkok, were headed north at a rapid pace in the turbid current. Young couples sat on park benches watching while it flow while holding hands and giggling.

Since we were rushing to get on a bus to Montanita, we stopped at, of all places, a riverfront McDonald's. This place put U.S. McDonald's restaurants to shame. Not only was the restaurant clean and efficient and the building both contemporary and on the river, they were playing good bebop jazz instead of the pop music drivel we invariably get in the States.


2-1-2009
American Airlines Flight 202, LAX-Miami
Somewhere over Texas

Lately these trips have taken on an air of drudgery. They've become a task. I've left home so often that it's getting very difficult to say goodbye to Catalina each time, knowing full well how much I'll miss her. This feeling is only increased by travel to poor or dangerous places since I've knowingly put myself and my happiness at even the smallest risk. It's worrisome and makes me feel selfish. Such anxieties are coloring my experiences and my observations. While I've always been skeptical, even cynical, I dwell lately more on problems and disappoints in my destinations.

Case in point is the way I feel about this trip to Ecuador right now, having just read the U.S. State Department's travel advisory for the country. It makes for a chilling read. Crime in Ecuador was up in 2007 and 2008. Americans have been victims of car-jackings, kidnappings, and homicides. "Hundreds of Americans are robbed in Ecuador each year." Public transportation is described as dangerous both in terms of personal and road safety. (The Lonely Planet guide describes Ecuadorian bus drivers as "lunatics.") The CIA World Factbook notes that economic uncertainty and a slowdown was underway in 2007. Ecuador is heavily reliant on petroleum revenues and the downturn in oil prices will certainly make crime and the economy more severe.

The country is roughly the size of Nevada and has about 15 million inhabitants. Mestizos and indigenous people make up 90% of the population. 25% is strictly indigenous. The economy is 60% service-based, followed by industry at 34%, with agriculture a distant third. This is likely because only 6% of Ecuador is arable land. GDP purchasing power per capita is estimated by the IMF at $7200, placing it roughly in the league of Jamaica or Thailand. 38% of the population lived in poverty (less than $2/day) in 2007. This despite an unemployment rate of only 8.7%. More than twice as many people are born each year than die, but the country is growing at only .8% each year because of massive and longstanding emigration to neighboring countries and the rest of the world.

While there has been civilian rule in Ecuador for nearly thirty years, the list of presidents is mind-boggling since there has been a new government roughly every two years. The last three presidents were removed mid-term, largely because of popular frustration with economic challenges, including massive inflation and the switch in 2000 from the Sucre to the U.S. dollar as the national currency.

U.S. Virgin Islands

2-11-2009
Glendale, California

Upon reflection, I realize that in my funk, I neglected to discuss anything remotely positive about the U.S. Virgin Islands. First among these oversights is the great group of people I met on the islands, particularly on St. John. Cinnamon Bay Campground inspires a loyal group of repeat visitors, many of them retired, who come every year to camp for weeks at a time. They are a social and intelligent group and meeting them was among the highlights of my visit, especially since a couple of them took me under their wing and showed me around.

A smaller group of interesting visitors to the campground consisted of young backpackers. I greatly enjoyed an evening of cards and drinking with these folks, too. Two of them were a brother and sister team backpacking around the Caribbean. They spent the night before I met them stealth camping: sleeping tentless under a tree on the beach at a St. Thomas resort! It turns out the tree was poisonous and they were covered in rash. They were cheerful about their misfortune, though. Another of the young folks was a Republican geography major who voted for Obama. He now works in a real estate brokerage. We had interesting conversations, of course.

Also, I should say that there is no doubt that the beaches of St. John are lovely. The sand is soft and white and the water is soothingly warm. Next time I visit this part of the world I will charter a boat so as to avoid the cruise ship crowds and search for the rare coral reef that has not been damaged by carelessless or overdevelopment.

1-23-2009
John F. Kennedy International Airport
New York, New York

Much of the reason I travel is to seek out places that are genuine and unique, places where the cultural landscape draws on the local. The "historic" part of St. Thomas is a waterfront neighborhood of old Dutch warehouses, homes, and churches. The majority of these have been converted into shops selling all manner of clothing, watches and jewelry. Very little of what's sold in these shops bears any relation to St. Thomas, St. John, or even the Caribbean for that matter. Products and shops simply sprout and grow wherever cruise ships disgorge their cargo of eager vacationing shoppers. As a lover of geography I was saddened by this disconnect which, while common, is made worse by the nature of cruise ships and their cargo. On diminutive St. John there were more local restaurants, but the same problem persists only on a smaller scale with a cluster of shops and malls providing more non-essential goods: t-shirts, chocolate, jewelery and the like. These things are neither created nor consumed by locals. They are not required for life on the island. They do not reflect the history or culture of the town. My first day spent in the Virgin Islands was spent wandering in this tourist mess and pondering its meaning. It brought on a funk that I was unable to fully shake off throughout the week.

The placelessness of St. Thomas got me to wondering both about my own wanderings and disconnections from places and about the global trends that seem to be spreading American rootlessness worldwide. For decades American public places became less and less unique as suburbanization, franchises and shopping malls undermined central cities. Tourism and especially mass tourism have created scores of tropical vacation "places" that rely on careless, often drunken, travelers for their sustenance and inspiration. Such "destinations" strike me as analogous to the disconnected wanderings of many American citizens. My life journey thus far is fairly typical of these trends. As we move from city to city our children often are raised far from where their parents were born and raised. Then our families themselves are separated into isolated individual parts by moves made by young adults in search opportunity. My family, for example, now lives in widely disparate corners of this expansive country with members in New York, New Hampshire, Georgia, and Florida. Moreover, while I've spent much of the last decade in Pasadena and Glendale, I've changed apartments and neighborhoods every year or so for about 15 years now. And of course I originally hailed from rural Pennsylvania, but then we moved on to Providence. Later I traveled on to New York, Santa Cruz, San Diego, and now Glendale. Maybe this is why I've grown to love places that embrace native characteristics in art, architecture, recreation, music, and food. Remarkably I find myself immediately at home in such places even though I never lived there: places like Flagstaff, Arizona or San Francisco or Portland, to mention only a few. In other towns I'm truly lost, despite knowing literally right where I stand on the globe. St. Thomas and St. John are in this second, ignominious group. Others come immediately to mind: Ixtapa, Mexico, Phoenix, Arizona, and countless stretches of suburban America covered as they are with scattered subdivisions and soulless shopping malls.

1-21-2009
Baked in the Sun Bakery
St. John, USVI

The drinking of alcohol on this island is commonplace to the point of absurdity. No open container laws. No enforcement of driving-under-the-influence laws. So much so that locals claim that "it's not illegal to drink and drive." This claim is false of course, but in practice they're correct. Many passing automobiles carry beers instead of coffee in their drink holders. It strikes me as fundamentally sad how many people view their tropical vacations as primarily an opportunity to overindulge in alcohol. I don't mean to preach or condemn, I mean this comment simply as an observation. I've seen it all over the tropical world. Guests at resort hotels and backpackers alike, often overweight and out of shape, spend a week downing fruity drinks or endless beers from mid-morning until the early hours. They sleep off much of each alternate day and at the end of a week of such debauchery go back to whatever cold climate they'd fled feeling as if they've just had the most relaxing and fulfilling experience. I only pray they don't act like this at home, but I suspect that the beach resorts tend attract a certain kind of lazy alcoholic and that's why I meet so many of them at beaches everywhere.

These places make overindulgence commonplace and celebrate abuse. I increasingly understand alcohol as our most dangerous and debilitating recreational drug. There's definitely some ambivalence about the tourism that sustains this place. I find that most of the people who work in service here are quite rude. I'd much prefer to visit the Florida or Texas coast where both the beaches and the people are better. Wow, the English language here is a greatly changed thing. Grown taxi drivers speak a slang that is less than a creole, more a simple pidgin that is nearly unintelligible to the outside world. Great mountains, rocky soil. Tectonic uplift (along the Caribbean plate edges?) and subsequent erosion built these islands. Thin, scrubby trees. Climbing cactus. Hiking was a bit disappointing. The humidity makes every physical activity a sticky, sweaty mess, but the weather is made more comfortable by constant Trade Winds especially at higher elevations. As a result, it's the best air for being next-to-naked I ever had the pleasure to feel against my skin and this remains true both day and night. Transportation here is expensive with every taxi charging a fixed price per person, regardless of the number of people. Most trips cost between $9 and $16 and you find yourself paying these fees over and over and in each direction. There are no sidewalks outside of shopping areas so walking anywhere is a dangerous game of chicken with the speeding traffic and its drunkards.

Obviously, my mood is foul during this trip. I seem to be seeing mostly the bad side of things.

1-17-2009
Cinnamon Bay Campground
St. John, U.S. Virgin Islands

I departed Island View Guest House today by hitching a ride with some folks headed for their charter boat. I jumped out at a waterfront shopping center looking for a haircut. The place was populated entirely with locals, despite being located only a few blocks from a cruise ship terminal. After waiting for over an hour in a crowded hair salon I was able to get a haircut from Nemis, a soft-spoken guy from Santo Domingo. The salon was packed. There are six female hairdressers, most of them black. The other barber was also from Santo Domingo. It's an education just to sit in a hair salon on a Saturday and listen to everyone chat, though admittedly I misunderstood or simply missed most of their uniquely Caribbean Spanish lingo. Rushed by foot, carrying my heavy pack to the ferry terminal and just barely made it. I eagerly asked a tall, slim black man, "Is this the ferry to St. John?" He stared at me blankly and said firmly, "Good afternoon." I misunderstood him and he repeated his "greeting" more sternly. Apparently you have to greet people politely before you talk with them. He was definitely offended, though I thought his pose a bit contrived.

1-16-2008
Charlotte Amalie, U.S. Virgin Islands

Yesterday's flight was a real drag. The 3 hour layover in Miami became a 5 1/2 hour layover because of delays. I ended up arriving at the airport at 12:30 AM and at the Island View Guesthouse at 1 AM. Just as I walked up the young guy working the desk was headed home. A minute more and I'd have had to call him back from home.

While Charlotte Amalie is very pretty, it's essentially one big shopping mall squeezed into a crumbling 17th Dutch town. Walk a few blocks inland and the old houses are inhabited by locals and their scattered belongings. A block further up the hill and I was the only white face. A block more and every few lots on the steep hillside is an abandoned old home, overgrown with creeping vines. The economic development triggered by the massive cruise ships that dock here is understandably concentrated along the waterfront, but not until you see such a thing do you really understand it.
In the old Dutch shops and homes there are now Tag Huer watch shops and endless gold jewelry hawkers. Tommy Hillfiger has a waterfront outlet. But when you walk home to your hotel a few miles outside of town you pass more typical tropical scenes. Rusted out cars missing their wheels sit on blocks. Newish Toyota trucks sit outside of brightly painted little houses that cling to the cliffs like they fear they'll fall off.

Winter Break

Since my trip to Oregon I've been on a sort of winter break from my international travels. The break was a necessity as I was growing weary of the constant motion and its attendant problems and hassles (not to mention going broke as well). During this rest, I managed to spend lots of time with Catalina and Shannon. In December I took Catalina to see my parents in New York. My sister and her family, including Catalina's "boy cousins," came down to visit. It was a challenge being a full-time father, but such trips are always rewarding for me. I get all of Catalina's attention. We spent Christmas day with Shannon's family in Redlands, before they headed off to Puerto Escondido.

In December and January I took Catalina sledding a couple of times in the San Gabriels. Whereas last year the snow frightened her, this year she loved it, though she was still bothered by the sheer coldness of the snow and had fits when the icy stuff went into her mittens.

Most recently we traveled to Orlando, Florida, where we stayed with my aunt and uncle and then on to Bainbridge, Georgia so that Catalina could connect with her three remaining great-great grandparents! Great Grandmother and Grandfather Hartlieb are now 92 and Great Grandmother Reed turned 95 a few months ago. Uncle John and Aunt Kathi are great and gracious hosts, fine conversationalists, and good cooks to boot. It's always excellent to spend time with them.

While surf has been disappointing this winter, the real excitement came from my first two snowshoeing adventures with Shane and Ryan, former student s who are now friends. It's great fun to wander off trail into the forest. This hadn't occured to me before heading out into the snow but trails are nearly useless when buried. Moreover, the crampons on the bottom of the snowshoes allow travel up and down even steeper slopes than would be passable on snow free ground with boots.

I'm definitely hooked on the sport and will be heading for the real powder high up in the Sierras and Rockies to do some more. It's both great exercise and a way to be intimate with hauntingly beautiful landscapes. Check out the video below to see what happens when you wander off trail on too steep a slope!

Spring Planning

Well, I'm just back from a family vacation in Florida and Georgia. Catalina was able to spend time with her three remaining great-grandparents! We even managed good photos with each.

Next week, I'm headed for St. Thomas and St. John in the U.S. Virgin Islands to hike, snorkel, ruminate on the slave trade, and drink rum (is that where the word ruminate comes from?). Then it's off to Ecuador to surf and check out Quito, a world heritage city. After that I head to various locations in Chile and Argentina for two weeks. About a month later, I'll be in London for a few days, then flying to Munich, Germany and taking a train to Vienna, Austria by way of Salzburg.

There will likely be a few more trips in the midst of all of this. I must get to Austin, Texas. I'm curious about the Ozarks in Arkansas. I miss the landscapes of South Dakota. I've never been to Whitefish, Montana. Sure would like to camp in Canyonlands National Park. And I sure am determined to see the midnight sun in Alaska this summer. Finally, an Australian road trip is likely in June or August.

In between many of these jaunts, I'll be camping in and around Los Angeles while preparing a presentation on the native ecology and vegetation of the area.

Oh yeah, and I'm shopping for a house or condo. I think I'm busier now than during the regular school year. I'm definitely spending more money.

In other words, more to come soon...

More Chaos - Indian Tourists Victims of Terrorism

Yet another place I recently toured has been visited by violence and chaos. Of course the attacks were in Mumbai, not Delhi this time. Still, the bombings in Delhi and elsewhere seemed to suggest a growing violent Islamist movement in India. I was told, repeatedly, by the news media in India that the police and security forces there have just about zero penetration into these groups. It seems they have just about no Arabic speakers in the national police force. Sound familiar? A very long time ago Hsun-Tzu warned in his The Art of War that it was best to always "know thy enemy." Strange how fear and xenophobia make this such hard advice to follow.

Indian Forces Battle Pockets of Militants
By KEITH BRADSHER and SOMINI SENGUPTA
As the Mumbai crisis neared its third day, two Americans were confirmed dead and bodies were found in a Jewish center.

Thailand in Chaos, Again

I'm glad I got out of Thailand when I did, the next coup may be on its way:

Protesters swarm Thai airport, takeoffs suspended
By AMBIKA AHUJAAssociated Press Writer
Anti-government demonstrators swarmed Bangkok's international airport late Tuesday, halting departing flights, as opponents and supporters of Thailand's government fought in the streets of the city. Political tensions simmering for two years have boiled over in recent months, but Tuesday's violent confrontations in Bangkok — which saw protesters using slingshots, knives...
Click here to read the rest of the article.

Portland, Oregon - A Weekend in Autumn Heaven

11-24-2008
Portland International Airport (PDX), Oregon

I arrived on Thursday and the rain that was predicted was delivered right on time. The MAX light rail line runs directly from the baggage claim area at PDX to downtown Portland. It takes about 40 minutes, costs less than $3, and is pleasant enough. Portland's Northwest Hostel is a great place. Room 20 is typically hostel simple but it has a window, a private bath, a double bed, a dresser, and a chair. It was more than I expected for $40 a night. Strangely, one wall is covered by shallow white cupboards, as if it used to be part of a kitchen. It's clean, respectable, cheap, and in a great neighborhood. It's exactly what I wish for in a hostel, especially at this time of year when there are fewer young people and the drunken noises they make. Somehow the place gets daily donations of fantastic artisan breads and these breads, and often bagels, are distributed freely in the kitchens. Thus, all morning the old Victorian house smells of fresh toast.

As advertised, Portland is a wonderful place for walking. Over the course of the three days I spent in town itself I must have walked eight or ten miles. The city reminds me greatly of Providence, the city of my youth. The red brick industrial buildings, the turn of the century Victorians, the quaint shops and odd teenagers, all struck me as immediately familiar. Not to mention the gray skies and chilly rain that fell all Thursday afternoon and on Friday afternoon.

Portlanders love their beverages. I apparently loved them too much myself over the course of a Friday night spent in Nob Hill. I woke Saturday with a head like a brick and a desperate need for water. In the afternoon, I met up with Joshua Cohen, a fellow Brown University graduate, for a glass of wine on the east side of town. He works out of a historic building on Burnside Street as an independent architectural draftsman. Since he and his family live on that side of town too, he's able to commute by bicycle. It felt just about perfect to chat with a local whose professional and personal interest in smart growth and intelligent urban renewal are so obvious. He recommended Ken's Artisan Pizza about 12 blocks further east. The damp hike out there was great for clearing out my head and taking in the Friday night restaurant and nightlife scene along the way. There's something so familiar and pleasant to me about long, determined urban hikes. It just feels right. Ken's pizza is thin, sweet, toasted. The cheese is fatty. The sauce is peppery. In short it's awesome. The restaurant has a refined, upper crust vibe and I had to wait just to take a seat at the bar. Getting a table was out of the question. My Matello Pinot Noir was the lightest-bodied Pinot I've seen but it was surprisingly peppery and aromatic. No doubt that a couple of more trips to Portland and I'll be a wine snob of the worst sort, what with pizza joints selling so much quality "daddy juice" and tastings priced at around $5 and fully redeemable towards purchasing a bottle.

While walking about, I often had the impression that the city was asleep or that most everyone was away on vacation. This may be because I was so recently in India, which seemed to reset my perspective on crowds. Or it may be because I've lived for so many years now in frenetic Los Angeles, but there is little in the way of crowding or traffic in the city. Even more surprising is that while Portland is famous for it's intimate size and its public transport, most people still use a car and I felt decidedly independent marching across town with a backpack and camera slung over my shoulder. This was especially true outside of the northwest sections of the city, The Alphabet District and Nob Hill, where there is a real density of small shops and people do seem to march about. On Friday morning I explored downtown via the neighborhood they call The Pearl. Most of the other pedestrians were homeless people who were more congregating than they were going anywhere. Yesterday, I passed by Portland State University and was truly surprised to see only a handful of young people walking the streets. This morning, a Monday mind you, I saw almost no one on the streets of downtown. They must be inside those office towers somewhere. Despite this, I was a walking fool this weekend. Over the course of three days, I managed to hike all over downtown, Nob Hill, Alphabet City, and The Pearl. I even took a long hike on the Wildwood Trail, which stretches for 30 miles through gorgeous Forest Park. I climbed at least 800 feet through moist forest rich with autumn colors and ended up at the Pittcock Mansion, overlooking downtown. Too bad it was closed for holiday decorating. I'll take the tour next time.

Speaking of quiet and uncrowded transport, Portland's drivers are the slowest, most polite, most deferential to pedestrians on the planet. Just approaching an intersection on foot brings most traffic to a halt, sometimes in both directions, as drivers attempt to figure out which way you're headed, often eagerly waving you on. The one time I saw a car insist on taking the initiative ahead of a walker, the sense of outrage felt by the pedestrian was palpable, and eventually audible. There was nearly a confrontation. This was downtown, mind you, where in any other city the pedestrians would know they had better be damned careful before they step into a cross walk.

Yesterday was the highlight of my visit to Oregon. In the morning I drove out the old highway along the Columbia River into the Gorge, stopping to while away time in the spray of massive waterfalls and to gaze upon the Bonneville Dam and various public viewpoints and historical markers. After Thursday's cold front the temperature dropped of course but the skies cleared and I was treated to crystalline views of Mt. St. Helens and Hood from the city as I headed of to the east. Later, as the sun set I drove Route 26 right around Mt. Hood, a snowy peak so grand and bathed in light so angelically ethereal that when the road brought it flashing into view I gave out a small shout of joy and nearly wept. Along the way I took short hikes, snapped photographs of the scenery, and called my baby girl and some old friends. It was an unhurried meander in blessed and beautiful country made all the more splendorous by outstanding. My initial destination was the little riverside town of Hood River, so lauded by Outside Magazine and the other adventure travel rags. Many good wineries surround the town to the south and east so there are no shortage of places to taste good Viognier, Pinot Gris, Chardonnay, Zinfindel, Barbera, Pinot Noir, Merlot, and Cabernet Sauvignon. Apparently Oregon's numerous micro-climates make it possible to grow just about any grape well and, as one fellow taster put it, "anyone who owns south facing land is either stupid or has planted it in wine grapes." Two tasting rooms are right in town and since that was simple and convenient I headed for those. The Pines had a great Old Vine Zin, their signature wine, which is made from 100 year old vines, the oldest in the area.

More fun was the tasting room at Naked Wines. This intimate place, pun intended, feels more like an upscale coffee shop than a wine tasting room. It even has couches and armchairs. Their wines all have childishly suggestive titles, such as the Escort Pinot Gris or the Penetration Cabernet Sauvignon. Each wine label is delightfully naughty. Many of their white wines, we are told, suggest ripe melons and the Cabernet is aggressively forward. I assure that I'm being much more polite than their labels, which I'm told make it impossible to sell their wines in a few states, though I'm sure in these same states it'd be no problem to find gory and violent films, video games, and even comic books on the shelves. Tasteful paintings of an athletic nude adorn the walls and it can't be a coincidence that Pictures of Lily by The Who was one of the songs on the Muzak system. Surprisingly most of their many wines were quite good and I ended up buying a bottle and a wildly inappropriate shirt for Catalina ("What happens in preschool stays in preschool.") Next it was on to Double Mountain Brewery, famed for it's locally-distributed high hops content beers. After two little tasters and some chit-chat, I headed around the corner to the larger, regionally-distributed Full Sail Brewery. They've got a great little restaurant with a panoramic view north across the Columbia River and Gorge to the steep southerly slopes and valleys there. Late afternoon light played across these hills as I devoured a fresh spinach, bacon, and tomato salad and tried three tasters of their brew. The hands-down winner was Wreck the Halls, a high alcohol lightly malted ale dosed with incautious masses of hops.

I managed to be sensible and restrained about all of this alcohol and instead of ending up fatigued or downcast I instead felt renewed and hopeful. The drive home took me up into the hills surrounding Mt. Hood. A thin layer of snow covered the landscape at those elevations and I had a wondrous slow winter tour of the area and its firs, cedars and jagged white peaks.

Finally, while falling asleep last night I glanced at Friday's posting and realized that without any deliberate planning or haste I managed to accomplish all I had hoped in Oregon.

LAX to Portland, Oregon - LAX Flyaway is Cool!

Terminal 3, LAX

I should fly Alaska Airlines midweek more often. ;-) There's nobody around this morning. How cool it is to go to the airport in Los Angeles and spend no time in lines. Moreover, by taking the FlyAway bus service from Union Station, I didn't even have to spend my morning driving through traffic. These buses run every 30 minutes from Union Station to LAX for $4. They depart at nearly all hours of the day and night and, by using the carpool lane on the 110 freeway, get you to the airport quickly and pleasantly. Now I've just got to kill some time in the airport. Thanks to my new Acer Aspire One for making web connections and blog updating so easy. This little laptop is the first portable computer I've owned that really is small enough for a lap. It weighs only 2.2 lbs, works great, and costs less than $400. The future is now.


When I arrive in Portland it will be raining. It's already raining hard up there now as a winter cold front moves through the area. As much as an inch of total precipitation is expected. It looks like I'll get the proto-typical Northwest experience this weekend, which is just as well. When I was packing I realized that I don't own a raincoat of any sort. Only in Southern California could I get away with living 15 years without one. I brought my snowboaring parka, but it's not really waterproof. I may need to upgrade during the trip. It's a good excuse to do it and the Columbia Sportswear outlet store and flagship store are both in Portland.

It's really nice to not have any specific plans for once. On the other hand, in addition to drinking great microbrewed beer and local wines, and eating organic food, I do have a few places I hope to visit during this quick four day trip:

• Powell's City of Books, one of the world's largest bookstores


• Forest Park, west of downtown, for a hike through rainforest inside an urban area. There are beautiful maps of the park posted at The Art of Geography, a cartography and wilderness photography project


• Hit some of Portland's great happy hours. Check out UrbanDrinks.com, a great tool for finding a happy hour at any time in Portland or Seattle. This could be dangerous if it fell into the wrong hands. Somebody better contact the authorities. :-)


• Columbia Sportswear Outlet


• Wander the neighborhoods in Portland


• Drive to the Columbia River Gorge and, hopefully, see Mt. Hood

Back to Bangkok - All Aboard the Night Train!

11-9-2008 Suvarnabhumi International Airport
Bangkok, Thailand

I just devoured the most wonderful fresh spring rolls ever made. Strange that a kiosk at the airport is the first place they've been on the menu. This airport, like much of Thailand, or Asia for that matter, is a curious mix of the very new and the traditional. The structure is a gleeming blend of polished steel and glass. Long escalators ferry travelers and staff from the ground to the departures area four floors up. Japanese and Thai restaurants, book shops, and Starbucks entertain a noisy throng of international and Thai voyagers. Once again, every petty desire can be satisfied here, but as a result it is far less interesting than more authentic (read: impoverished) destinations. Travel is remote and less-developed locations is continually fascinating, but it is also exhausting and sometimes frightening. There's nothing novel about this observation. It's just that I'm only starting to appreciate it personally. Having traveled now in Mexico, Costa Rica, Canada, France, Italy, Denmark, Norway, India, Thailand, and 49 of the United States, I'm finally starting to have a sense of both the range of human and physical landscapes and my own responses to these places.
Spent last night on an overnight 2nd class sleeper train from Chiang Mai to Bangkok. They were sold out of 1st class air-conditioned seats, which I'm embarrassed to say I would prefer at this point in my life. It was miserably hot and humid. I had the upper bunk, which made things worse and the curtains the conductor installed only served to block the fan, not the light, which was never extinguished. Foolishly, after having a double-sized Singha beer with dinner, I forgot to purchase water before going to bed so I essentially roasted away with dehydrated with heat acne spreading across my back and shoulders as my legs continually cramped up. I may have slept three or four hours, if that. Normally the silver lining of such basic travel would be the chance to talk to, or at least observe, locals. Sadly, the entire car was filled with foreign tourists on holiday so I could only listen to loud-mouthed Canadians boast about which professional athletes hailed from their towns. I have no idea why they chose this topic, but they kept at it for longer than I would have guessed possible.

Now that I think about it there was only a single time on this trip that I feel I managed any insight into Thai life. This was when Ken took us to a local barbecue and we were the only farang present. It was great to see Thai families, couples, and small children enjoying themselves in the open air restaurant. Basically a sheet metal roof, about thirty feet above, shields 25 long tables and hundreds of simple chairs. Plus their idea of a barbecue is quite different than ours. At a Thai barbecue everyone grills the protein, not just the men. Everybody has great fun collecting small amounts of various meats, fishes, and god-knows-what. It's all carted back to the table where it's grilled on small tabletop metal grills that are ringed with boiling water. In this water, the juices from the meats and fishes, plus the various greens and noodles that are dropped into it, create a flavorful and fragrant soup. Meanwhile, large bottles of Singha beer and soda pop are brought around to each table.Like the Thai, I used the same chopsticks to grab the raw meat as I did to collect it off the grill and consume it. I was having so much fun that I didn't realize this until about half way through the meal. At that point it was way too late to worry about it, though I soon caught myself unconsciously boiling the ends of my chopsticks in the soup from time to time.

Since my tour ends today (I canceled the second half because I'm sick with longing to see Catalina), I had to crash clandestinely in Les' room. We both fell asleep at 8 AM, immediately after a breakfast that only served to make me feel even more nauseous, and slept until 10:30. I then shoved my things in my backpack and made my way to Khoi San road for a bus service to the airport. I pray there are none of the crazy delays I experienced on departure from LAX. I'm not sure I could handle it very well right now, though I guess I would just sleep on my bag and ask an airline employee to wake me when the plane finally boards.


There are so many photographs and statues of the king and royal family scattered throughout this country that I can't help but think of the kind of repressive regime depicted by Orwell in 1984. Of course, the decentralized chaos and technology of contemporary life make such complete control impossible. Still, there's no doubt that the state is working hard to instill strong nationalistic fervor in the populace. Every morning, all Thais stand for the national anthem, which is broadcast on all television and radio stations. The television version depicts happy, altruistic types going about the business of saving people or defending the country. Strangely, many of the Thai music videos played on public buses fit this mold as well. Saccharine sweet singing by overly earnest young men and women is interspersed with scenes of tragedy, school collapses, floods, and the like. Our heroes rush to aid the victims as mothers and wives weep openly. Also, in the center of Bangkok, near the Grand Palace, civic architecture is a combination of impressive Buddhist temples and even larger government edifices and boulevards. Over many streets, on many intersections, there are elaborate golden archways commemorating the king, the queen, their siblings, and the like. On the first day of our trip, the park across from our hotel (not coincidentally called the Royal Hotel) was deployed with seemingly hundreds, if not thousands, of soldiers, musicians, citizens, and police, all in their ceremonial best. Apparently, we stumbled on a dress rehearsal for the memorial service for the king's sister.

Finally, I failed miserably in my attempts to communicate with locals. After nine days here I can say exactly two things in Thai: "hello" (Sawasdee Khrap) and "thank you" (Kap Kun Khrap). That's a pretty miserable showing, my worst ever. The language is damned hard to grasp and this is especially true if you spend every night drinking beer with European tourists. I better do the next trip independently.