20) And We’re Back
The Chowder has been on hiatus for awhile. Ok, that's an understatement: the Chowder has been hibernating in a bunker fending off nuclear winter. Every blog deserves a year-long siesta every now and again.
And while I’m not promising this will be a full-throttled return – where tales of international mystery and Raelian vixens are regularly unveiled – I am committing to more than a single entry. There are many ponderings worthy of our attention.
19) Craig Ferguson
When Craig Kilburn decided to step down three years ago as host of the Late Late Show, CBS handed over his 11:00 pm time slot to a little known Scottish import named Craig Ferguson. One more time: CBS handed over the reins to a little-known Scott named Craig Ferguson.
What are the chances of that happening? The chances are small. Very small.
What does it mean? It means the man is funny. Really fucking funny.
18) The Cost of Cerveza
In 1999, when I was a senior in college, I could buy any six pack of beer for $6. That was the upper ceiling. Using the handy dandy U.S. inflation calculator, my upper ceiling should now be $7.83. I walked into my local grocery store last week and didn’t have a single option other than Bud or Miller for $7.83. Not one.
Can someone get a petition going please.
17) Humidity
I’m sick and tired of Chicagoans complaining about how humid it is in the summer. When it’s actually humid, you can see the humidity. For additional information, please visit Alabama in August. Next Numeral.
16) Anthony Baldano
The third season of Guido-laden love on the predictably outrageous Jersey Shore is cranking into gear. My tolerance for the GTL clan expired before round two began, but I do want to acknowledge the show’s creator, Anthony Baldano. When someone dreams up a cast/scenario this ludicrous, somehow gets the show aired, and then it’s a commercial success…serious kudos are due.
15) IAH
I’m an airport guy. Always have been.
Flew through Houston for the first time recently: pleasantly surprised. Had a TOTALLY different mental image of what the airport would be like. Guessing that’s because I consider the city of Houston to be a hot-as-hell-poorly-conceived-never-ending-strip-of-tarmac. For me, IAH = the highlight of Houston, which also has me wondering: how would most cities fare if you multiplied airport rating (1 to 10 scale) X personal rating for that city (1 to 10 scale). What city scores the highest? It sure wouldn't be Chicago and ORD.
14) Mike’s Hard Lemonade
I can’t believe this company is still around. Do you know anyone that drink’s MHL? Is this 2011 version of Zima with a jolly rancher?
I love vodka lemonades, and I’ve never even sampled one. Commerce’s mysteries: truly, never ending.
13) Frownbook
How great would it be if Facebook had a sister site: Frownbook. Instead of “liking” a post or leaving a comment – on Frownbook you would either “haze” their post or merely say “no likey.”
Currently accepting offers for VC funding to take this idea from concept to commercialization. The possibilities are endless.
12) Vin Scully
Amidst my west coast travels this past summer, I managed to catch a few innings of Vin Scully announcing Dodger games on two different occasions. The difference between Vin and the rest of MLB announcers is the difference between high-grade sashimi and Filet-o-Fish. The man is incomparable, and I am officially jealous of Dodger fans (for this reason only).
11) This is Where I Leave You
Anyone looking for a laugh-out-loud romp of a read should check out Jonathon Tropper’s latest piece of fiction, This is Where I Leave You. I read it, laughing every page of the way, and then I ordered three more Tropper works, all of which brought endless hours of enjoyment. If you like Richard Russo or Nick Hornby, you can't afford to miss out on Jonathon Tropper.
10) David Horvitz
“If you give me $1,626 I will go to the small Okinawan island called Taketomi and send you an envelope filled with star-sand (don't worry, I've been there before, I know where to go). I will send it from there.”
The bar for creativity spurring commerce on the internet has been firmly established.
9) Wanton Endangerment
I like this term. Planning on using it more.
Dear $1 Pick Three at Delmar: you have bludgeoned me repeatedly, indicating an extreme indifference for my human life -- I am suing you for wanton endangerment.
8) 340 Driving Methods Before You Get Your License
I’m pretty sure my driver’s education class had less than 340 methods. Less……by approximately 339 methods. Apparently, the “it’s logistics” business model comes with detailed instructions.
7) Only in Indiana
Another NCAA basketball season has arrived, which is all the more reason to look back and admire Butler’s heroic run in 2010 which culminated just short of perfection when Gordon Heyward’s last minute shot missed by a mussel.
No basketball fan will ever forget last year's championship game, but most people will forget that 29,000 people showed up at Conseco Fieldhouse on the Friday before the Final Four to see Butler practice. 29,000 people. For. A. Practice.
Only in Indiana.
6) Stolpman Vineyards
If ever near Santa Barbara or the Santa Ynez Valley in California, I would highly recommend a stop at the Stolpman Vineyards Tasting Room. The estate is known for Syrah, but they also bottle a killer Petite Sirah and a remarkable white, L’Avion, which is 90% Rousanne…..very rare in this country.
Call in advance and see if Reid is working. Don’t feel bad if you join their wine club.
5) Convenience Fees
I dare you. Tell me something “convenient” about paying $10 more than face value for a concert ticket online. Convenience fees sound like a prelude to hell where Satan hands me a shovel for eternity and then asks me to pay a “convenience fee” for borrowing it.
4) Rony Seikaly
An admission right off the bat: I’ve got a man crush.
I walk into Spy Bar one random night last year, and I’m greeted by a wall of eariffic tunes; the best I’ve heard in months. And yes, I just coined the word “eariffic.”
Anyway, before long I realize there’s a seven-foot-man-child spinning the sumptuous tracks I’m listening to at Spy Bar: former NBA great Rony Seikaly.
Go to Wikipedia and check out Rony, sure enough, there’s a whole section devoted to his music career. Wikipedia also mentions the fact that when Magic Johnson was diagnosed with AIDS, Seikaly challenged him to a game of one-on-one to show people they couldn’t contract the virus through touch.
One more time: man crush.
3) Green Light in Haiti
Amidst the rubble. Amidst the loss. A little progress. A little power.
2) Yelp
In recent years Yelp has grown from a site with a small but intensely loyal group of followers who herald from the “I will review anything from ice capades to soap on the internet” camp....to a legitimately useful site for the masses. If I’m traveling and want a good sense of my food/drink/fun options, I use Yelp.
I’m not alone.
Yelp’s ascent is a perfect example of a company cresting the hill and reaching critical mass. As Yelp matured, it managed to attract reviewers more representative of the masses -- not solely those who write in from the bar when their $2 happy hour daiquiri wasn’t strong enough for their liking. And when you get critical mass, you don’t typically look in the rearview mirror for quite some time.
Don’t be surprised if a big – as in muy grande -- I.P.O. is on the horizon.
1) The Queen
2010 wasn’t a linear year for me. It can’t be summed up with a caption like “worked a ton” or “married the South American woman of my dreams.” It was a complicated year, but if you forced me to boil it down and talk about one something, I wouldn't even blink: 2010 was about Zenyatta.
A few times in your life, if you’re lucky, you get the chance to see history unfolding before your eyes. You have a chance to partake.
Zenyatta’s historic run in 2010, and the manner in which she did it – capturing the hearts of young and old, horse racing fans and peripheral bystanders – was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. The grandstands literally shook last summer when Zenyatta surged ahead before the wire at Hollywood Park and Delmar. That hadn’t happened in 50 years. It may never happen again.
2010 = Zenyatta.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Giving Thanks
As I get older, one of my ongoing struggles is appreciating my place in the relative world. In a fight with empathy, I would be out cold on the mat.
Mentally, I know there are millions and millions of people whose existence can be measured in a single word: survival. Millions in want of food. Or needing a malaria net. Employment. A family. A roof over their head.
And if I spent time in Rwanda or Mongolia -- if I felt the pain of poverty and illness first hand -- I’m sure it would change me forever, for the better.
Empathy would be tangible. It would be real.
But I’m not in Rwanda. Not even close.
I live in one of the nicest neighborhoods of Chicago, where my rent comes with an unobstructed view of Lake Michigan and the rising sun. Friends surround me and good health -- minus an aging back – is the norm.
An outsider would take one look at my life and tattoo a smiley-face sticker to my forehead. They would be right to do so.
There’s just one catch. I’m not on the outside. I’m as inside as inside gets.
And from inside the ropes, my life doesn’t feel charmed. It doesn’t feel bad. Not in the least. But it doesn’t feel charmed. It lacks.
It’s lonely at times. Without purpose at others. Often disorganized. And darn cold five months of year (thank you Chicago).
Amidst these realities, whenever life feels a little out of focus, I try to ground myself. Remember my relative place in the world.
If only it were that easy.
Life, as aforementioned, has to be tangible. Distant points of comparison – places like Rwanda – are nearly impossible to summons amidst daily struggles.
In this realm I’m a little envious of my Christian friends who are guided by faith. Friends who live via four empowering letters: WWJD (What Would Jesus Do). That's the only point of reference they need; it’s a constant reminder of their purpose on earth.
It’s as tangible as tangible gets.
Unfortunately, I’m not very in touch with JC these days. Most religions, including Christianity, feel a little too insular for me. I prefer creeds which endorse other beliefs and the potential for other deities. I have trouble with faith which is marketed as a one-size-for-all sweepstakes.
But this summer a former co-worker named Josie passed away. A five-year battle with breast cancer won out. She was 30 years-old.
Now I side with Christians in rallying around the letters "WWJD” – only my “J” stands for Josie. If Jesus knows anything about Josie, I’m sure he won’t mind sharing the stage.
Josie had an infectious personality. Her spirit, and joy, and laughter permeated throughout our office. She was a steadying presence amidst a group of strong personalities. On a daily basis, she improved our passionate, commerce-frenzied lot.
Josie’s memorial service was at the House of Blues in downtown Chicago, a venue capable of holding a thousand people. Nearly that many showed up. It was a blatant indication of how many people she touched, and what can be accomplished, in a very short amount of time on earth.
On that day perspective paid me a visit, and it's still hanging around today, reminding me that Josie would give anything to be in my shoes. To have one healthy day amongst us to be upset, or tired, or confused. One day – twenty-four hours -- would mean the world (and then another) to her.
And that, my friends, is tangible.
Like my grandfather’s passing almost a decade ago, Josie has become my motivational arm. Thinking about her reminds me of the triviality of my frustrations. She allows me to see the pettiness of my wants, most not even worthy of mention. And more than anything Josie reminds me to be thankful.
For every waking day.
So as one year elapses and another cranks into gear, I take this opportunity to write down a few of the things I’ve been thankful for in 2009. With a nudge towards prosperity and perspective, I encourage you to do the same.
I’m thankful for regular comforts that fill my working week: thin-crust pizza, glasses of Malbec, runs along the lake, Glee, and an iPod full of jazz and electronica.
I’m thankful for changes that came about this year: my ever-growing mane of hair, an improving dietary regimen, & the election of a President I once knew and believe in.
I’m thankful for my travels: westerly flights in winter, a drive to Kentucky for the Derby, golf on the Robert Trent Jones Trial, and a summer sojourn to the Iberian Peninsula – my beloved, emerging friend.
I’m thankful for my tenure as a consultant at Lakeshore Associates, which has offered me a low-stress means to a healthy income, while positioning me for greater prosperity and happiness in the years to come.
I’m thankful for people on the periphery of my life: the Sbucks barrista who adds free caramel sauce to my coffee (try it); the jubilant volunteer for the Salvation Army who sings carols on the corner of North Avenue, and the security officer at work who welcomes every building entrant with “you have a good day now.”
Most of all I’m thankful for all of you, my friends and family, inhabiting every corner of the globe from Spain to San Diego, Indianapolis to India, Westwood to Washington, Berlin to Boston, Nashville to the Knobs, and Copenhagen to Chicago.
Without friends and loved ones to share in the journey, whether in person or via your presence, my life would be less rewarding by leaps and bounds.
And if you reading this you are alive, and your eyesight is intact. Beyond those two realities, you have other reasons to be thankful. I’m sure of it.
Make note of those reasons. Mount the list on your dresser or add it to Outlook as a daily reminder.
I bet it will improve your focus. Make each day a little more meaningful.
Everyone needs a Josie.
Mentally, I know there are millions and millions of people whose existence can be measured in a single word: survival. Millions in want of food. Or needing a malaria net. Employment. A family. A roof over their head.
And if I spent time in Rwanda or Mongolia -- if I felt the pain of poverty and illness first hand -- I’m sure it would change me forever, for the better.
Empathy would be tangible. It would be real.
But I’m not in Rwanda. Not even close.
I live in one of the nicest neighborhoods of Chicago, where my rent comes with an unobstructed view of Lake Michigan and the rising sun. Friends surround me and good health -- minus an aging back – is the norm.
An outsider would take one look at my life and tattoo a smiley-face sticker to my forehead. They would be right to do so.
There’s just one catch. I’m not on the outside. I’m as inside as inside gets.
And from inside the ropes, my life doesn’t feel charmed. It doesn’t feel bad. Not in the least. But it doesn’t feel charmed. It lacks.
It’s lonely at times. Without purpose at others. Often disorganized. And darn cold five months of year (thank you Chicago).
Amidst these realities, whenever life feels a little out of focus, I try to ground myself. Remember my relative place in the world.
If only it were that easy.
Life, as aforementioned, has to be tangible. Distant points of comparison – places like Rwanda – are nearly impossible to summons amidst daily struggles.
In this realm I’m a little envious of my Christian friends who are guided by faith. Friends who live via four empowering letters: WWJD (What Would Jesus Do). That's the only point of reference they need; it’s a constant reminder of their purpose on earth.
It’s as tangible as tangible gets.
Unfortunately, I’m not very in touch with JC these days. Most religions, including Christianity, feel a little too insular for me. I prefer creeds which endorse other beliefs and the potential for other deities. I have trouble with faith which is marketed as a one-size-for-all sweepstakes.
But this summer a former co-worker named Josie passed away. A five-year battle with breast cancer won out. She was 30 years-old.
Now I side with Christians in rallying around the letters "WWJD” – only my “J” stands for Josie. If Jesus knows anything about Josie, I’m sure he won’t mind sharing the stage.
Josie had an infectious personality. Her spirit, and joy, and laughter permeated throughout our office. She was a steadying presence amidst a group of strong personalities. On a daily basis, she improved our passionate, commerce-frenzied lot.
Josie’s memorial service was at the House of Blues in downtown Chicago, a venue capable of holding a thousand people. Nearly that many showed up. It was a blatant indication of how many people she touched, and what can be accomplished, in a very short amount of time on earth.
On that day perspective paid me a visit, and it's still hanging around today, reminding me that Josie would give anything to be in my shoes. To have one healthy day amongst us to be upset, or tired, or confused. One day – twenty-four hours -- would mean the world (and then another) to her.
And that, my friends, is tangible.
Like my grandfather’s passing almost a decade ago, Josie has become my motivational arm. Thinking about her reminds me of the triviality of my frustrations. She allows me to see the pettiness of my wants, most not even worthy of mention. And more than anything Josie reminds me to be thankful.
For every waking day.
So as one year elapses and another cranks into gear, I take this opportunity to write down a few of the things I’ve been thankful for in 2009. With a nudge towards prosperity and perspective, I encourage you to do the same.
I’m thankful for regular comforts that fill my working week: thin-crust pizza, glasses of Malbec, runs along the lake, Glee, and an iPod full of jazz and electronica.
I’m thankful for changes that came about this year: my ever-growing mane of hair, an improving dietary regimen, & the election of a President I once knew and believe in.
I’m thankful for my travels: westerly flights in winter, a drive to Kentucky for the Derby, golf on the Robert Trent Jones Trial, and a summer sojourn to the Iberian Peninsula – my beloved, emerging friend.
I’m thankful for my tenure as a consultant at Lakeshore Associates, which has offered me a low-stress means to a healthy income, while positioning me for greater prosperity and happiness in the years to come.
I’m thankful for people on the periphery of my life: the Sbucks barrista who adds free caramel sauce to my coffee (try it); the jubilant volunteer for the Salvation Army who sings carols on the corner of North Avenue, and the security officer at work who welcomes every building entrant with “you have a good day now.”
Most of all I’m thankful for all of you, my friends and family, inhabiting every corner of the globe from Spain to San Diego, Indianapolis to India, Westwood to Washington, Berlin to Boston, Nashville to the Knobs, and Copenhagen to Chicago.
Without friends and loved ones to share in the journey, whether in person or via your presence, my life would be less rewarding by leaps and bounds.
And if you reading this you are alive, and your eyesight is intact. Beyond those two realities, you have other reasons to be thankful. I’m sure of it.
Make note of those reasons. Mount the list on your dresser or add it to Outlook as a daily reminder.
I bet it will improve your focus. Make each day a little more meaningful.
Everyone needs a Josie.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Barcelona in Review
Depicting a place, and with it a moment in time, is a delicate proposition.
A writer’s tendency is to romanticize, or deconstruct, or recalibrate. Writers – I use this term loosely – will forfeit life and limb to find a kernel of meaning in a bag labeled “meaningless kernels.”
For writers, there’s always “there” there.
That admission aside, I can’t imagine describing Barcelona as thereless. The city is an oversized aorta, pumping life in every direction. Vitality seeps from its sidewalks.
Barcelona absorbs you.
If only I could depict the sensation of walking through Barcelona’s Gothic Quarter at night, or sipping cava at sunset from Parc Guell, or swaying to the beats at Bogatell Beach. But any effort would be in vein; those sensations must be experienced first hand.
Those memories, and many others, are stored away in the hallways of my Barcelona.
My Barcelona is a vibrant playground painted in Gaudi. It is a Gothic maze, where stone-walled streets lead to hidden plazas and cavernous restaurants offer five-star meals. It is a city of overflowing sidewalks, where street vendors mingle with tapas served al fresco, and every path leads to a piazza.
My Barcelona is synonymous with the sea, beginning with the dawn which rises over the Mediterranean, and ending at dusk when the city is engulfed in brilliant beams of blue and gold light. It is the light of the sea.
My Barcelona does not sleep. It is a run at sunset. A glass of cava to welcome the first stars. Dinner at Origen 99.9 at midnight. All-night dancing along the boardwalk. And breakfast with new friends when the night gives way to morning.
My Barcelona is the unforgettable people who crossed my path. My friend Jorge, owner of the local vinoteca. The wonderful Italians, Alessandra and Michela. The sprightly owner of Xampany, Jose Maria, with his “Catedral de Cava." The accordion player at Catalunya Station serenading passersby with Pachelbel’s Canon. And last but certainly not least, my Barcelona will always be the infinitely beautiful Sofia.
These visions of Barcelona, and so many more, are aging in splendor in my inner hallway. I’m letting them rest for a short spell, alongside a bottle of cava and a slab of jamon iberico. Before long I will revisit them in person.
The more time I spend in Spain, the more invested I become. Spain has breadth, and personality, and diversity. In that sense it reminds me of the U.S. with its distinct regions and cities, each with their own rhythm and rhyme.
None more distinct than Barcelona.
Granted, some Spaniards will tell you that Barcelona is not really part of Spain. That Catalonia is more Europe, or separatist, than Spanish.
That’s a matter of opinion, but without a doubt, Barcelona and its people are a city unto their own.
I found the Catalonians to be an absolute delight. Energetic, kind, and that most treasured of qualities: young-at heart. They cherish their cuisine, and their heritage, and above all else their beloved futbol team, FC Barcelona.
I can’t imagine categorizing Barcelona in uniform terms. It felt equal parts Catalonia, Spain, and Europe to me. The city is a transient throughway leading visitors in every direction. A new life chapter waiting to be had.
Said another way: it’s a city which opens up in front of you.
Towards the end of my trip, I snuck away from Barcelona for a few days to visit the lush, hillsides of Cantabria in northern Spain with my friends Elena and Gabi. This beautiful, coastal area looks more like Scotland than the land of Quixote's windmills.
At one point Gabi and I were having a good-hearted conversation about social and economic classes in Spain and the U.S. -- a conversation which yielded a difference in opinion. Sensing that we would have to agree to disagree, I concluded by saying, “to each their own.”
My Spanish friends were not familiar with this American saying, so I explained the sentiment and then asked them for a Spanish equivalent. They could not come up with an exact match, but Gabi suggested an alternative which immediately won me over:
“Para gustos los colores.”
I love how those words – esas palabras – roll off the tongue. They reap of inclusion. They are a reminder that we live in a world of depth and diversity, character and color -- every shade of which is deserving of respect.
Sitting in my home in Chicago, three months removed from Barcelona, los colores de Espana are still vivid in my mind. I can see the brown checkerboard of Spain’s interior, a child of the ever-present sun. I can smell the greenery of the north. I can taste the salt that comes from the unending turquoise of the sea. And I can feel the red that is the blood of Spain pumping through me, taking me back to the Iberian Peninsula -- from Andalucia to Madrid, and onto Barcelona and Ibiza.
I went to Spain this summer to be with Sofia, and I left without her. But ours is a story which is only beginning. I can’t help but smile knowing as much.
And therein lies the grandeur in life: the moment in waiting. The future is unknown and for that we should all be thankful. How boring it would be -- this masquerade, our earthly dance – if we weren’t kept a tad in suspense.
Still, there are resolute lessons to be had while on the suspenseful road. From my time in Barcelona I can tell you this: to know a place is to search for it soul, and to offer yours in return. It’s a willingness to walk down the unlit street, to talk with the local grocer, to dance the night away under a Mediterranean moon.
That much I have learned. That, and one other certainty: I will return to Spain. I am thirsty for more Mediterranean moonlight.
The brilliant author Jonathan Safran Foer reminds us that, “you leave your mark on the world an inch at a time.” I couldn't agree more, and I'm left hoping that miles and miles of Spanish inches are in my foreground, still waiting to be discovered.
The only question that remains: when, and where, will you mark your next inch?
A writer’s tendency is to romanticize, or deconstruct, or recalibrate. Writers – I use this term loosely – will forfeit life and limb to find a kernel of meaning in a bag labeled “meaningless kernels.”
For writers, there’s always “there” there.
That admission aside, I can’t imagine describing Barcelona as thereless. The city is an oversized aorta, pumping life in every direction. Vitality seeps from its sidewalks.
Barcelona absorbs you.
If only I could depict the sensation of walking through Barcelona’s Gothic Quarter at night, or sipping cava at sunset from Parc Guell, or swaying to the beats at Bogatell Beach. But any effort would be in vein; those sensations must be experienced first hand.
Those memories, and many others, are stored away in the hallways of my Barcelona.
My Barcelona is a vibrant playground painted in Gaudi. It is a Gothic maze, where stone-walled streets lead to hidden plazas and cavernous restaurants offer five-star meals. It is a city of overflowing sidewalks, where street vendors mingle with tapas served al fresco, and every path leads to a piazza.
My Barcelona is synonymous with the sea, beginning with the dawn which rises over the Mediterranean, and ending at dusk when the city is engulfed in brilliant beams of blue and gold light. It is the light of the sea.
My Barcelona does not sleep. It is a run at sunset. A glass of cava to welcome the first stars. Dinner at Origen 99.9 at midnight. All-night dancing along the boardwalk. And breakfast with new friends when the night gives way to morning.
My Barcelona is the unforgettable people who crossed my path. My friend Jorge, owner of the local vinoteca. The wonderful Italians, Alessandra and Michela. The sprightly owner of Xampany, Jose Maria, with his “Catedral de Cava." The accordion player at Catalunya Station serenading passersby with Pachelbel’s Canon. And last but certainly not least, my Barcelona will always be the infinitely beautiful Sofia.
These visions of Barcelona, and so many more, are aging in splendor in my inner hallway. I’m letting them rest for a short spell, alongside a bottle of cava and a slab of jamon iberico. Before long I will revisit them in person.
The more time I spend in Spain, the more invested I become. Spain has breadth, and personality, and diversity. In that sense it reminds me of the U.S. with its distinct regions and cities, each with their own rhythm and rhyme.
None more distinct than Barcelona.
Granted, some Spaniards will tell you that Barcelona is not really part of Spain. That Catalonia is more Europe, or separatist, than Spanish.
That’s a matter of opinion, but without a doubt, Barcelona and its people are a city unto their own.
I found the Catalonians to be an absolute delight. Energetic, kind, and that most treasured of qualities: young-at heart. They cherish their cuisine, and their heritage, and above all else their beloved futbol team, FC Barcelona.
I can’t imagine categorizing Barcelona in uniform terms. It felt equal parts Catalonia, Spain, and Europe to me. The city is a transient throughway leading visitors in every direction. A new life chapter waiting to be had.
Said another way: it’s a city which opens up in front of you.
Towards the end of my trip, I snuck away from Barcelona for a few days to visit the lush, hillsides of Cantabria in northern Spain with my friends Elena and Gabi. This beautiful, coastal area looks more like Scotland than the land of Quixote's windmills.
At one point Gabi and I were having a good-hearted conversation about social and economic classes in Spain and the U.S. -- a conversation which yielded a difference in opinion. Sensing that we would have to agree to disagree, I concluded by saying, “to each their own.”
My Spanish friends were not familiar with this American saying, so I explained the sentiment and then asked them for a Spanish equivalent. They could not come up with an exact match, but Gabi suggested an alternative which immediately won me over:
“Para gustos los colores.”
I love how those words – esas palabras – roll off the tongue. They reap of inclusion. They are a reminder that we live in a world of depth and diversity, character and color -- every shade of which is deserving of respect.
Sitting in my home in Chicago, three months removed from Barcelona, los colores de Espana are still vivid in my mind. I can see the brown checkerboard of Spain’s interior, a child of the ever-present sun. I can smell the greenery of the north. I can taste the salt that comes from the unending turquoise of the sea. And I can feel the red that is the blood of Spain pumping through me, taking me back to the Iberian Peninsula -- from Andalucia to Madrid, and onto Barcelona and Ibiza.
I went to Spain this summer to be with Sofia, and I left without her. But ours is a story which is only beginning. I can’t help but smile knowing as much.
And therein lies the grandeur in life: the moment in waiting. The future is unknown and for that we should all be thankful. How boring it would be -- this masquerade, our earthly dance – if we weren’t kept a tad in suspense.
Still, there are resolute lessons to be had while on the suspenseful road. From my time in Barcelona I can tell you this: to know a place is to search for it soul, and to offer yours in return. It’s a willingness to walk down the unlit street, to talk with the local grocer, to dance the night away under a Mediterranean moon.
That much I have learned. That, and one other certainty: I will return to Spain. I am thirsty for more Mediterranean moonlight.
The brilliant author Jonathan Safran Foer reminds us that, “you leave your mark on the world an inch at a time.” I couldn't agree more, and I'm left hoping that miles and miles of Spanish inches are in my foreground, still waiting to be discovered.
The only question that remains: when, and where, will you mark your next inch?
Friday, October 23, 2009
Ibiza Nights: Starring Han Solo
Context is everything in life.
If I tell you that I killed a woman at point blank range and it felt terrific, your innate reaction should be: me + the guillotine = first thing tomorrow. But if I tell you that the woman I murdered was an alien named Kathy Griffin who was on the verge of eradicating human life from the planet, then you’re Tweeting superlatives in my honor and buying every “You Da Man” T-shirt the BP station has in stock.
Such is the case with my trip to Ibiza this summer. I heard some of the best music in my life; did so while partying with long-legged Russian vixens; and left the island with a great tan and committed to a return trip ASAFP (as soon as fucking possible). But that doesn’t tell the whole story.
You need the context.
The reality is this: I was supposed to be in Ibiza with Sofia (probably the most beautiful woman I have ever met), but unfortunately circumstance and a personal emergency precluded that from happening. She had to forgo our trip for time in Madrid.
Unfortunately, I had already paid for our flights and hotel on Ibiza (for three nights), leaving me with a difficult proposition: go solo, and missing Sofia, or not at all.
The word “screwed” comes to mind.
Ibiza isn’t a go-it-alone destination. The island is a caravan of all-night parties, sun-drenched days in yacht-infested coves, and every imaginable form of European indulgence. The White Isle, as Ibiza is known, screams: “take five of your best friends; contemplate never coming back.”
But that’s not to say that Ibiza is all hush-hush debauchery. In truth it might be the antithesis of Vegas in that “what happens on Ibiza, shouldn’t stay on Ibiza.” The vibe, and the music, and the people are not meant for the isolation of memory.
I’d been to Ibiza once before, with five of my best friends. This trip wouldn’t be comparable to my maiden voyage. I didn’t need it to be.
I needed it to be okay without Sofia. For it not to be lonely, or confusing, or depressing. And thankfully Ibiza -- ever the game partner in crime -- delivered.
My hotel was in a prime location approximately ½ mile from the legendary night club Pacha. As soon as I arrived I immediately went for a run (note to fellow cliff-dwellers: exercise is a bridge to firm ground).
Post-run, reality set in. I had two options. I could stay around the hotel and relax in solitude, or I could venture out alone.
It wasn’t that tough of a choice.
I left the hotel and meandered towards the beach where a hut reminiscent of Daniel Caffrey’s bar in Cocktail awaited me. If ever there was need for a beverage with fellow travelers and a few of Coughlin’s Laws, this was the time.
I found a stool at the bar and began talking with a woman from Israel on vacation with her nineteen year-old daughter. They had been living in London for the better of a decade. The daughter introduced herself as a left-handed drummer born in the wrong era, upset that she missed out on the rock n’ roll of the 70s.
Our conversation was energetic and candid; together, we were introduced to the best mojitos on the island. This eclectic mother-daughter duo turned out to be an oasis for my blues. Luck, the ever-present partner of randomness, was on my side.
In actuality, luck is a requirement if you’re going to travel alone. You have to believe in the possibility, and the beauty, of randomness. It is the first and only Commandment.
Thankfully, my luck was just beginning.
After diffusing my loneliness in good company and a barrage of mojitos, it was time to turn the evening up a notch. I had no idea what Pacha was offering that Sunday night, but it was close to my hotel and my only real consideration.
But before we go there, a little background on Ibiza...
The White Isle is where the best DJs in the world, take over the best night clubs in the world, for all night sessions of electronic music. Names like DJ Tiesto, Armin Van Buuren, Sasha, and Paul Van Dyk all have a weekly gig on Ibiza during the summer. And sun-drenched clubbers ante 50 Euros a head to dance the night away in Ibiza’s sea of madness --- pure madness – from June to September.
But when I arrived at Pacha the bouncer didn’t mention any of the aforementioned DJs. Rather, on that night Pacha was hosting a fashion show by a designer I had never heard of, complimented by a DJ I had never heard of.
Not exactly the Ibiza I had in mind, which turned out to be another stroke of luck.
The best times, the most memorable occasions, emerge from the most unexpected of circumstances. For example, I met Sofia in a lounge on the next-to-last night of a trip to Madrid over New Year’s. I stared at her all night across the dance floor; she had me in a trance. Eventually I stopped Sofia en route to the bathroom with an attempt at flirtation in very broken Spanish. It elicited a huge smile from her and a response that I will never forget:
“Why don’t we speak in English.”
Eight months later -- with the help of Facebook, Instant Messenger, and a lot of international calling cards – Sofia and I had formed an unexpected and exceptional bond. Our energy was unchartable.
A random place in Madrid, leads to a stare-down, leads to an overseas connection, leads to international flights being purchased.
That qualifies as the most unexpected of circumstances.
Unfortunately, on that Ibiza night, I was walking into Pacha without Sofia’s energy by my side. The good news: within ten minutes I was talking with a girl named Marie and her four, long-legged Russian friends.
They do not make women like this in the States.
These Russians were born wearing four-inch heels and sporting legs that hurdle tables. And when you are missing an incredibly beautiful woman –- one that might be slipping from your grasp -- talking to another incredibly beautiful woman is as fine a thing you’ll find this side of Eden.
My trip had only begun and my spirits had risen by 8,000%.
Marie and I danced and threw back shot of vodkas. The night was building on itself one moment at a time. And I will never forget the death-stare Marie gave the bartender who poured her vodka, which she ordered straight up, over ice.
Before long another round of vodka, this time in a large shot glass, was quickly en route. Repeating Marie’s own words: “Russian girls are crazy.”
Which I translated to mean: “don’t dilute, or fuck with, our vodka.”
As the night progressed and the crowd started to fill in, something unforeseen and terrific happened: the night got even better.
It was as if I had been invited to a party that only locals knew about. It wasn’t your standard Ibiza fare, which is typically ordered “over-the-top with a side of meadheat.”
This night was all class. A great ambiance and a considerate crowd. Beautiful women decked to the nines paired with ridiculously good music.
And then there was the fashion show.
Envision six European runway models marching out in the middle of a legendary club in negligee, with boas wrapped around their necks. The models leave and come back, this time wearing bikinis and bug-eyed sunglasses. The music is a constant crescendo in preparation for their final parade: this time all six are wearing black latex, straddling each other on one Harley motorcycle. Two are topless.
You can’t make this stuff up.
And then at the end of the show, as the models dismount the Harley and strut out into the crowd....as the crowd erupts in relentless applause....as the best house music I’ve heard in a year starts to fade out and jubilant chaos takes over...as I shake my head in a state of delight and total bewilderment....another song emerges:
“I Gotta Feeling...”
And then: pandemonium.
In the history of the world there has never been a more perfect song, for a more perfect moment, than when the Black Eyed Peas entered the fray at Pacha that night.
All this, from a night which began dreary and alone.
That’s the beauty of flying solo: being alone forces you into the fray. It forces you to make decisions you wouldn’t otherwise consider. It forces you to meet new people, to walk into new places, to discover what the unknowable night will bring.
I met Marie on the first night, and then I met two sisters from Valencia the next day, and then I met an illegal cab driver named Josef who became my tour guide to the island, and then I met the wonderful Emily who “looks after” Carl Cox when she’s home in England.
I have new friends on three different continents as a result of going to Ibiza alone. If I could turn back the clock, I would still choose Sofia’s company any day of the week, but the end result far exceeded my expectations.
Which leads me back to the same reminder: the best times, the most memorable occasions, emerge from the most unexpected of circumstances.
Don’t be afraid of circumstances which begin alone.
If I tell you that I killed a woman at point blank range and it felt terrific, your innate reaction should be: me + the guillotine = first thing tomorrow. But if I tell you that the woman I murdered was an alien named Kathy Griffin who was on the verge of eradicating human life from the planet, then you’re Tweeting superlatives in my honor and buying every “You Da Man” T-shirt the BP station has in stock.
Such is the case with my trip to Ibiza this summer. I heard some of the best music in my life; did so while partying with long-legged Russian vixens; and left the island with a great tan and committed to a return trip ASAFP (as soon as fucking possible). But that doesn’t tell the whole story.
You need the context.
The reality is this: I was supposed to be in Ibiza with Sofia (probably the most beautiful woman I have ever met), but unfortunately circumstance and a personal emergency precluded that from happening. She had to forgo our trip for time in Madrid.
Unfortunately, I had already paid for our flights and hotel on Ibiza (for three nights), leaving me with a difficult proposition: go solo, and missing Sofia, or not at all.
The word “screwed” comes to mind.
Ibiza isn’t a go-it-alone destination. The island is a caravan of all-night parties, sun-drenched days in yacht-infested coves, and every imaginable form of European indulgence. The White Isle, as Ibiza is known, screams: “take five of your best friends; contemplate never coming back.”
But that’s not to say that Ibiza is all hush-hush debauchery. In truth it might be the antithesis of Vegas in that “what happens on Ibiza, shouldn’t stay on Ibiza.” The vibe, and the music, and the people are not meant for the isolation of memory.
I’d been to Ibiza once before, with five of my best friends. This trip wouldn’t be comparable to my maiden voyage. I didn’t need it to be.
I needed it to be okay without Sofia. For it not to be lonely, or confusing, or depressing. And thankfully Ibiza -- ever the game partner in crime -- delivered.
My hotel was in a prime location approximately ½ mile from the legendary night club Pacha. As soon as I arrived I immediately went for a run (note to fellow cliff-dwellers: exercise is a bridge to firm ground).
Post-run, reality set in. I had two options. I could stay around the hotel and relax in solitude, or I could venture out alone.
It wasn’t that tough of a choice.
I left the hotel and meandered towards the beach where a hut reminiscent of Daniel Caffrey’s bar in Cocktail awaited me. If ever there was need for a beverage with fellow travelers and a few of Coughlin’s Laws, this was the time.
I found a stool at the bar and began talking with a woman from Israel on vacation with her nineteen year-old daughter. They had been living in London for the better of a decade. The daughter introduced herself as a left-handed drummer born in the wrong era, upset that she missed out on the rock n’ roll of the 70s.
Our conversation was energetic and candid; together, we were introduced to the best mojitos on the island. This eclectic mother-daughter duo turned out to be an oasis for my blues. Luck, the ever-present partner of randomness, was on my side.
In actuality, luck is a requirement if you’re going to travel alone. You have to believe in the possibility, and the beauty, of randomness. It is the first and only Commandment.
Thankfully, my luck was just beginning.
After diffusing my loneliness in good company and a barrage of mojitos, it was time to turn the evening up a notch. I had no idea what Pacha was offering that Sunday night, but it was close to my hotel and my only real consideration.
But before we go there, a little background on Ibiza...
The White Isle is where the best DJs in the world, take over the best night clubs in the world, for all night sessions of electronic music. Names like DJ Tiesto, Armin Van Buuren, Sasha, and Paul Van Dyk all have a weekly gig on Ibiza during the summer. And sun-drenched clubbers ante 50 Euros a head to dance the night away in Ibiza’s sea of madness --- pure madness – from June to September.
But when I arrived at Pacha the bouncer didn’t mention any of the aforementioned DJs. Rather, on that night Pacha was hosting a fashion show by a designer I had never heard of, complimented by a DJ I had never heard of.
Not exactly the Ibiza I had in mind, which turned out to be another stroke of luck.
The best times, the most memorable occasions, emerge from the most unexpected of circumstances. For example, I met Sofia in a lounge on the next-to-last night of a trip to Madrid over New Year’s. I stared at her all night across the dance floor; she had me in a trance. Eventually I stopped Sofia en route to the bathroom with an attempt at flirtation in very broken Spanish. It elicited a huge smile from her and a response that I will never forget:
“Why don’t we speak in English.”
Eight months later -- with the help of Facebook, Instant Messenger, and a lot of international calling cards – Sofia and I had formed an unexpected and exceptional bond. Our energy was unchartable.
A random place in Madrid, leads to a stare-down, leads to an overseas connection, leads to international flights being purchased.
That qualifies as the most unexpected of circumstances.
Unfortunately, on that Ibiza night, I was walking into Pacha without Sofia’s energy by my side. The good news: within ten minutes I was talking with a girl named Marie and her four, long-legged Russian friends.
They do not make women like this in the States.
These Russians were born wearing four-inch heels and sporting legs that hurdle tables. And when you are missing an incredibly beautiful woman –- one that might be slipping from your grasp -- talking to another incredibly beautiful woman is as fine a thing you’ll find this side of Eden.
My trip had only begun and my spirits had risen by 8,000%.
Marie and I danced and threw back shot of vodkas. The night was building on itself one moment at a time. And I will never forget the death-stare Marie gave the bartender who poured her vodka, which she ordered straight up, over ice.
Before long another round of vodka, this time in a large shot glass, was quickly en route. Repeating Marie’s own words: “Russian girls are crazy.”
Which I translated to mean: “don’t dilute, or fuck with, our vodka.”
As the night progressed and the crowd started to fill in, something unforeseen and terrific happened: the night got even better.
It was as if I had been invited to a party that only locals knew about. It wasn’t your standard Ibiza fare, which is typically ordered “over-the-top with a side of meadheat.”
This night was all class. A great ambiance and a considerate crowd. Beautiful women decked to the nines paired with ridiculously good music.
And then there was the fashion show.
Envision six European runway models marching out in the middle of a legendary club in negligee, with boas wrapped around their necks. The models leave and come back, this time wearing bikinis and bug-eyed sunglasses. The music is a constant crescendo in preparation for their final parade: this time all six are wearing black latex, straddling each other on one Harley motorcycle. Two are topless.
You can’t make this stuff up.
And then at the end of the show, as the models dismount the Harley and strut out into the crowd....as the crowd erupts in relentless applause....as the best house music I’ve heard in a year starts to fade out and jubilant chaos takes over...as I shake my head in a state of delight and total bewilderment....another song emerges:
“I Gotta Feeling...”
And then: pandemonium.
In the history of the world there has never been a more perfect song, for a more perfect moment, than when the Black Eyed Peas entered the fray at Pacha that night.
All this, from a night which began dreary and alone.
That’s the beauty of flying solo: being alone forces you into the fray. It forces you to make decisions you wouldn’t otherwise consider. It forces you to meet new people, to walk into new places, to discover what the unknowable night will bring.
I met Marie on the first night, and then I met two sisters from Valencia the next day, and then I met an illegal cab driver named Josef who became my tour guide to the island, and then I met the wonderful Emily who “looks after” Carl Cox when she’s home in England.
I have new friends on three different continents as a result of going to Ibiza alone. If I could turn back the clock, I would still choose Sofia’s company any day of the week, but the end result far exceeded my expectations.
Which leads me back to the same reminder: the best times, the most memorable occasions, emerge from the most unexpected of circumstances.
Don’t be afraid of circumstances which begin alone.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
The Not So Monthly Stew: Barcelona Edition
20) Making Up for Lost Time
The Chowder’s pages have been stagnant. Time to change that.
The goal: three entries over the next ten days, all from Barcelona and the surrounding islands. Spread the word and man your battle stations, the most interesting man in his own world...is back.
19) He Can Speak French, in Russian.
Speaking of the most interesting man in the world, I hope you’ll remember that The Chowder was clamoring about Dos Equis’ eccentric front man eons before most of the populace started paying attention. And it appears the campaign is working: through mid-June, a period when imported beer sales dropped 11%, Dos Equis’ sales rose by 17%, moving the brand into eighth place among imports (in a tie with Stella Artois).
You have to love good advertising at work, which is why I’m tapping Euro RSCG Worldwide, the marketing savants behind the Dos Equis ads, to market my next international venture, which will undoubtedly involve Argentina.
18) He Can Speak Spanish, in English.
That would be me -- on every street and in every discoteca -- in Espana.
17) Reexamining Orbitz
Orbitz used to be a “browsing only” website for flights; no reason for visitors to pay their supplemental booking fee. That day has changed.
Orbitz no longer charges a fee, and perhaps more noteworthy, they are locking in prices with the airlines for a window of time.
I found my flight to Barcelona on Air France via Orbitz, but when I went to purchase the flight on Air France’s website, the price had gone up. I went back to Orbitz and found my original price still an option, saving me $200. AND I got great seats.
Travel junkies should take note.
16) The U.S. Dollar
Murphy’s Law: I spend extended time abroad; the dollar couldn’t be wurser.
15) Lonely Planet
I’m normally a naysayer when it comes to other people’s fancies, and travel recommendations for the masses are even less likely to get me excited. Accordingly, hopefully you will do more than raise an eyebrow when I endorse Lonely Planet in bold. It’s flat out FANtastic.
I’m also convinced LP’s demographic is anyone who 1) can read and 2) is traveling. Shopping, clubbing, food, local attractions off the beaten path: LP has the insider’s scoop on everything. A big kudos and muchas gracias to the contributing writers and editors: “TOP NOTCH.”
14) Boulevards
Is there anything more romantic than Europe’s wider-than-all-get-out, tree-lined boulevards? Even better when said boulevard is lined with eclectic boutiques and women who moonlight in Chanel ads, as happens to be the case more often than not in Barcelona. I can’t get enough.
On a semi-related note, is there anything more antierotic than a cul de sac?
13) Vaya con Gaudi
New York owes Central Park to Olmsted. Burnham revitalized Chicago after the Great Fire. Marie de Medici brought the Champs Elysees to Paris.
Their contributions all pale in comparison to Gaudi’s influence in Barcelona: the man is everywhere.
From La Pedrera to Casa Batllo to Parc Guell to La Sagrada Familia, you can not walk a mile in BCN without running into one of Antoni’s modern, vibrant, unique works.
12) The Games of the 31st Olympiad
Pondering what Chicago might look like post-Olympics (should their bid succeed)? Come to Barcelona. The ’92 Summer Games made this city anew.
There’s a whole new barrio (neighborhood) as a result of the Games and beyond it, a newly created stretch of beach that is approx. three miles long. Amazingly, Barcelona didn’t have a public beach prior to the Olympics; now their beachfront rivals Chicago.
Imagine the South Loop Lakefront – the incumbent home for the Olympic Village -- extending for another 3 miles and becoming a tourist mecca. It might just happen.
11) Netherland
Every trip deserves a good book and Joseph O’Neill’s Pen/Faulkner Winning effort, Netherland, surpasses the “good” designation by a solid margin. High marks.
10) Origen 99.9%
There are four Origen 99.9% locations hovering around Barcelona; I’m on a quest to eat at all four. Their diverse menus (all tapas) – made using 99.9% local ingredients from Catalonia – are almost too good to be true.
Their Manzanilla rellena del Empordà -- apple stuffed with minced pork meat and veal, lemon peel, pepper, sugar, a touch of cinamon, eggs and carquinyoli powder -- might be the best $6 I’ve ever spent.
9) "Fuck You Like an Animal"
Sofia and I were finishing a late dinner at Origen 99.9% last Saturday when the restaurant put on a CD of a lounge singer/pianist, belting out remixes of American rap and hard rock songs. The next thing I know, said lounge singer is singing a melodic version of Nine Inch Nails’ “I Wanna Fuck You Like an Animal.”
Can you imagine being at a nice, albeit eclectic, restaurant in the States and hearing lounge-inspired versions of Nine Inch Nails at the end of the night?
8) T^3: Travel Agencies, Tattoos, and Topless Beaches
I thought travel agencies died with the advent of the internet. Nope. They’re everywhere in Barcelona. I don’t think Travelzoo and TripAdvisor have European counterparts.
Tattoos are also en vogue in Barcelona. And I’m not talking about the Chinese symbol for “peace” on your upper arm or a dolphin on your ankle; I’m talking visible, half-the-torso body art.
As a general rule, I think female beach-goers look better in a two-piece. But the general populace is not hanging out at Bogatell Beach in Barcelona; the beautiful minority blesses this sand. So at Bogatell, I am decidedly “pro” topless.
7) Jamon Iberico
I’ve never understood the infatuation with gourmet grocery stores. When I walk into Whole Foods I feel like it’s a packaging expedition – 1001 ways to recreate a bag of tortilla chips. But even this culinary kindergartner occasionally stumbles onto a “must-have,” and jamon iberico fits the bill.
And incredibly, I just googled “Jamon Iberico and Chicago” and my friend Guillermo Trias came up in the first search on "ChicagoFoodies.com" as the man responsible for bringing Jamon Iberico to Chicago.
I thought his import business was focused only on wine; thankfully/blessedly, that appears not to be the case.
Seriously folks, you can't make these coincidences up.
6) La Clima (the weather)
I can’t get over how good the weather is in Barcelona. It’s somewhere between 76 and 88 every day, sunny with low humidity. And for dessert you get a fresh sea breeze off the Mediteranean, keeping a crispness to the air.
And again I mumble an all-too-familiar refrain: “why do I live in Chicago.”
5) Shakira
In the States most gringos would categorize Shakira as the beautiful Colombian with superior rump-shaking skills. What most of us probably overlook is that Shakira has serious pipes…..she can REALLY sing.
Go to any bar in Spain and you’re likely to be serenaded by Shakira via the loudspeaker. I’m not complaining.
4) Cava, Cava, y mas Cava
Wine is cheap in Spain, and good bubbly (the local version is “cava”) is plentiful. REALLY plentiful. If ever in the L’Eixample neighborhood of Barcelona, you must visit Xampany: a wine store which is the self-proclaimed “cathedral de cava.”
Back in the States if you’re looking to try a new cava, seek out “Nadal.” It’s produced by a well-known family (no relation to the tennis star) in Catalonia, and “nadal” in Catalan means “Christmas.” So all the locals in Catalonia drink Nadal on Christmas.
Sounds like a worthwhile tradition to me.
3) The magicJack
You probably don’t no anyone (save me) using the magicJack, a VOIP solution which offers you a local U.S. phone number anywhere in the world. Give it a year, the magicJack’s tipping point is quickly approaching.
The call quality is excellent, the price is absurd ($40 the first year and $20 every year after), and it works anywhere you have WiFi or DSL. The magicJack is a replacement-in-wait for every American’s nauseating relationship with their local phone company.
Just remember, you heard about it here first.
2) The White Isle (Ibiza)
If your local neighborhood bar is a singly patty hamburger. And your favorite bar in town is a thick, juicy double patty with crisp lettuce and fresh slices of tomatoes. And the best lounges/clubs in New York, Miami, and L.A. are mouth-watering ½ pound sirloin burgers with your favorite fixings. The clubs in Ibiza are quad-patty-quad-cheese-two-pound-kobe-beef-Edenesque mountains.
The difference is that distinct.
An entire entry devoted to the White Isle is forthcoming.
1) Beautiful Girls
“A beautiful girl can make you dizzy, like you've been drinking Jack and Coke all morning. She can make you feel high full of the single greatest commodity known to man - promise. Promise of a better day. Promise of a greater hope. Promise of a new tomorrow. This particular aura can be found in the gait of a beautiful girl. In her smile, in her soul, the way she makes every rotten little thing about life seem like it's going to be okay.”
Truer words have never been spoken. More to come on this subject as well.
The Chowder’s pages have been stagnant. Time to change that.
The goal: three entries over the next ten days, all from Barcelona and the surrounding islands. Spread the word and man your battle stations, the most interesting man in his own world...is back.
19) He Can Speak French, in Russian.
Speaking of the most interesting man in the world, I hope you’ll remember that The Chowder was clamoring about Dos Equis’ eccentric front man eons before most of the populace started paying attention. And it appears the campaign is working: through mid-June, a period when imported beer sales dropped 11%, Dos Equis’ sales rose by 17%, moving the brand into eighth place among imports (in a tie with Stella Artois).
You have to love good advertising at work, which is why I’m tapping Euro RSCG Worldwide, the marketing savants behind the Dos Equis ads, to market my next international venture, which will undoubtedly involve Argentina.
18) He Can Speak Spanish, in English.
That would be me -- on every street and in every discoteca -- in Espana.
17) Reexamining Orbitz
Orbitz used to be a “browsing only” website for flights; no reason for visitors to pay their supplemental booking fee. That day has changed.
Orbitz no longer charges a fee, and perhaps more noteworthy, they are locking in prices with the airlines for a window of time.
I found my flight to Barcelona on Air France via Orbitz, but when I went to purchase the flight on Air France’s website, the price had gone up. I went back to Orbitz and found my original price still an option, saving me $200. AND I got great seats.
Travel junkies should take note.
16) The U.S. Dollar
Murphy’s Law: I spend extended time abroad; the dollar couldn’t be wurser.
15) Lonely Planet
I’m normally a naysayer when it comes to other people’s fancies, and travel recommendations for the masses are even less likely to get me excited. Accordingly, hopefully you will do more than raise an eyebrow when I endorse Lonely Planet in bold. It’s flat out FANtastic.
I’m also convinced LP’s demographic is anyone who 1) can read and 2) is traveling. Shopping, clubbing, food, local attractions off the beaten path: LP has the insider’s scoop on everything. A big kudos and muchas gracias to the contributing writers and editors: “TOP NOTCH.”
14) Boulevards
Is there anything more romantic than Europe’s wider-than-all-get-out, tree-lined boulevards? Even better when said boulevard is lined with eclectic boutiques and women who moonlight in Chanel ads, as happens to be the case more often than not in Barcelona. I can’t get enough.
On a semi-related note, is there anything more antierotic than a cul de sac?
13) Vaya con Gaudi
New York owes Central Park to Olmsted. Burnham revitalized Chicago after the Great Fire. Marie de Medici brought the Champs Elysees to Paris.
Their contributions all pale in comparison to Gaudi’s influence in Barcelona: the man is everywhere.
From La Pedrera to Casa Batllo to Parc Guell to La Sagrada Familia, you can not walk a mile in BCN without running into one of Antoni’s modern, vibrant, unique works.
12) The Games of the 31st Olympiad
Pondering what Chicago might look like post-Olympics (should their bid succeed)? Come to Barcelona. The ’92 Summer Games made this city anew.
There’s a whole new barrio (neighborhood) as a result of the Games and beyond it, a newly created stretch of beach that is approx. three miles long. Amazingly, Barcelona didn’t have a public beach prior to the Olympics; now their beachfront rivals Chicago.
Imagine the South Loop Lakefront – the incumbent home for the Olympic Village -- extending for another 3 miles and becoming a tourist mecca. It might just happen.
11) Netherland
Every trip deserves a good book and Joseph O’Neill’s Pen/Faulkner Winning effort, Netherland, surpasses the “good” designation by a solid margin. High marks.
10) Origen 99.9%
There are four Origen 99.9% locations hovering around Barcelona; I’m on a quest to eat at all four. Their diverse menus (all tapas) – made using 99.9% local ingredients from Catalonia – are almost too good to be true.
Their Manzanilla rellena del Empordà -- apple stuffed with minced pork meat and veal, lemon peel, pepper, sugar, a touch of cinamon, eggs and carquinyoli powder -- might be the best $6 I’ve ever spent.
9) "Fuck You Like an Animal"
Sofia and I were finishing a late dinner at Origen 99.9% last Saturday when the restaurant put on a CD of a lounge singer/pianist, belting out remixes of American rap and hard rock songs. The next thing I know, said lounge singer is singing a melodic version of Nine Inch Nails’ “I Wanna Fuck You Like an Animal.”
Can you imagine being at a nice, albeit eclectic, restaurant in the States and hearing lounge-inspired versions of Nine Inch Nails at the end of the night?
8) T^3: Travel Agencies, Tattoos, and Topless Beaches
I thought travel agencies died with the advent of the internet. Nope. They’re everywhere in Barcelona. I don’t think Travelzoo and TripAdvisor have European counterparts.
Tattoos are also en vogue in Barcelona. And I’m not talking about the Chinese symbol for “peace” on your upper arm or a dolphin on your ankle; I’m talking visible, half-the-torso body art.
As a general rule, I think female beach-goers look better in a two-piece. But the general populace is not hanging out at Bogatell Beach in Barcelona; the beautiful minority blesses this sand. So at Bogatell, I am decidedly “pro” topless.
7) Jamon Iberico
I’ve never understood the infatuation with gourmet grocery stores. When I walk into Whole Foods I feel like it’s a packaging expedition – 1001 ways to recreate a bag of tortilla chips. But even this culinary kindergartner occasionally stumbles onto a “must-have,” and jamon iberico fits the bill.
And incredibly, I just googled “Jamon Iberico and Chicago” and my friend Guillermo Trias came up in the first search on "ChicagoFoodies.com" as the man responsible for bringing Jamon Iberico to Chicago.
I thought his import business was focused only on wine; thankfully/blessedly, that appears not to be the case.
Seriously folks, you can't make these coincidences up.
6) La Clima (the weather)
I can’t get over how good the weather is in Barcelona. It’s somewhere between 76 and 88 every day, sunny with low humidity. And for dessert you get a fresh sea breeze off the Mediteranean, keeping a crispness to the air.
And again I mumble an all-too-familiar refrain: “why do I live in Chicago.”
5) Shakira
In the States most gringos would categorize Shakira as the beautiful Colombian with superior rump-shaking skills. What most of us probably overlook is that Shakira has serious pipes…..she can REALLY sing.
Go to any bar in Spain and you’re likely to be serenaded by Shakira via the loudspeaker. I’m not complaining.
4) Cava, Cava, y mas Cava
Wine is cheap in Spain, and good bubbly (the local version is “cava”) is plentiful. REALLY plentiful. If ever in the L’Eixample neighborhood of Barcelona, you must visit Xampany: a wine store which is the self-proclaimed “cathedral de cava.”
Back in the States if you’re looking to try a new cava, seek out “Nadal.” It’s produced by a well-known family (no relation to the tennis star) in Catalonia, and “nadal” in Catalan means “Christmas.” So all the locals in Catalonia drink Nadal on Christmas.
Sounds like a worthwhile tradition to me.
3) The magicJack
You probably don’t no anyone (save me) using the magicJack, a VOIP solution which offers you a local U.S. phone number anywhere in the world. Give it a year, the magicJack’s tipping point is quickly approaching.
The call quality is excellent, the price is absurd ($40 the first year and $20 every year after), and it works anywhere you have WiFi or DSL. The magicJack is a replacement-in-wait for every American’s nauseating relationship with their local phone company.
Just remember, you heard about it here first.
2) The White Isle (Ibiza)
If your local neighborhood bar is a singly patty hamburger. And your favorite bar in town is a thick, juicy double patty with crisp lettuce and fresh slices of tomatoes. And the best lounges/clubs in New York, Miami, and L.A. are mouth-watering ½ pound sirloin burgers with your favorite fixings. The clubs in Ibiza are quad-patty-quad-cheese-two-pound-kobe-beef-Edenesque mountains.
The difference is that distinct.
An entire entry devoted to the White Isle is forthcoming.
1) Beautiful Girls
“A beautiful girl can make you dizzy, like you've been drinking Jack and Coke all morning. She can make you feel high full of the single greatest commodity known to man - promise. Promise of a better day. Promise of a greater hope. Promise of a new tomorrow. This particular aura can be found in the gait of a beautiful girl. In her smile, in her soul, the way she makes every rotten little thing about life seem like it's going to be okay.”
Truer words have never been spoken. More to come on this subject as well.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
FMyLife
It happens. Life makes everyone want to scream.
Some days you’re busy as hell; the next you can't do anything right. Then, just when you think the tide has turned and life is finally approaching an uptick, your ex shows up at your favorite bar sucking face with Johnny Mullet.
But if you’re going to swing for the fences while on planet earth, you’ve got to be willing to smile and scratch your keester when you strikeout for the 14th straight time. Sammy Sosa Hommmmmmm Runnnnnns don’t come easy, and lulls are part of the program.
Life absolutely, positively demands that you keep trudging through the ravines. And it sure as hell doesn’t hurt if you can laugh your way through a bad year (or decade) if/when your current market value is on par with a 12-inch broom.
As for me, life is pretty darn good, I’m just busier than hell. There is very little balance in my work/life balance equation. Very little time to write in these pages, which disappoints me to no end.
I guess the twelve-hour work days are wearing me down a tad. That being said, last week the long work days bothered me more. This weekend I learned about a website which put my minor aches and pains in their place.
So here’s a directive, the next time you’re feeling down, or mistreated, or like a Twinkie submerged beneath a lake in Siberia for eternity -- click on www.fmylife.com and know that your life could be ten times worse.
After reading some of these tales of woe, your plight is going to feel like a four-handed massage in Margaritaville.
Just as importantly, FMyLife will make you laugh and smirk in empathy. A blessing, whether your life is at its apex or nadir.
A sampling of my favorites FMyLifers are below.
Today, I checked my facebook, and my wife of 5 years was listed as single. I then write on her wall that it is ok to announce to be married. She writes back saying that we have to talk and to come to the kitchen. My wife divorced me over facebook. FML
Today, our class' last assignment was returned. I was annoyed to see my teacher gave my paper an F, so I doodled him hugging a giant penis on the front page. Soon after, he realized he'd forgotten to record our grades and asked to recollect the papers. FML
Today, my husband came home from work angry. He started yelling about how much he hates the neighbor's kids and that he never wants to have children. I was going to tell him I'm pregnant tonight. FML
Today, after a tiff with my boyfriend, I said to him, "You could at least PRETEND to love me sometimes." He responded with, "I do pretend to love you!" FML
Today, I came home to find a puppy in my backyard. Thinking it was lost or a stray I took it to the pound. My boyfriend came home and asked me if I had seen my present. The puppy. We went back to the pound to get it, but it had already been sold. FML
Today, I was mowing the lawn of my brand new house, located in a very nice neighborhood (I am a hispanic male), and a lady in her nice white cadillac drove up and asked me, in extremely broken spanish, if I could mow her lawn too. FML
Some days you’re busy as hell; the next you can't do anything right. Then, just when you think the tide has turned and life is finally approaching an uptick, your ex shows up at your favorite bar sucking face with Johnny Mullet.
But if you’re going to swing for the fences while on planet earth, you’ve got to be willing to smile and scratch your keester when you strikeout for the 14th straight time. Sammy Sosa Hommmmmmm Runnnnnns don’t come easy, and lulls are part of the program.
Life absolutely, positively demands that you keep trudging through the ravines. And it sure as hell doesn’t hurt if you can laugh your way through a bad year (or decade) if/when your current market value is on par with a 12-inch broom.
As for me, life is pretty darn good, I’m just busier than hell. There is very little balance in my work/life balance equation. Very little time to write in these pages, which disappoints me to no end.
I guess the twelve-hour work days are wearing me down a tad. That being said, last week the long work days bothered me more. This weekend I learned about a website which put my minor aches and pains in their place.
So here’s a directive, the next time you’re feeling down, or mistreated, or like a Twinkie submerged beneath a lake in Siberia for eternity -- click on www.fmylife.com and know that your life could be ten times worse.
After reading some of these tales of woe, your plight is going to feel like a four-handed massage in Margaritaville.
Just as importantly, FMyLife will make you laugh and smirk in empathy. A blessing, whether your life is at its apex or nadir.
A sampling of my favorites FMyLifers are below.
Today, I checked my facebook, and my wife of 5 years was listed as single. I then write on her wall that it is ok to announce to be married. She writes back saying that we have to talk and to come to the kitchen. My wife divorced me over facebook. FML
Today, our class' last assignment was returned. I was annoyed to see my teacher gave my paper an F, so I doodled him hugging a giant penis on the front page. Soon after, he realized he'd forgotten to record our grades and asked to recollect the papers. FML
Today, my husband came home from work angry. He started yelling about how much he hates the neighbor's kids and that he never wants to have children. I was going to tell him I'm pregnant tonight. FML
Today, after a tiff with my boyfriend, I said to him, "You could at least PRETEND to love me sometimes." He responded with, "I do pretend to love you!" FML
Today, I came home to find a puppy in my backyard. Thinking it was lost or a stray I took it to the pound. My boyfriend came home and asked me if I had seen my present. The puppy. We went back to the pound to get it, but it had already been sold. FML
Today, I was mowing the lawn of my brand new house, located in a very nice neighborhood (I am a hispanic male), and a lady in her nice white cadillac drove up and asked me, in extremely broken spanish, if I could mow her lawn too. FML
Friday, February 27, 2009
On Protocol.....
At the end of the day, after the last whistle is whet and the last shoe drops, cast every other classification aside and divide the world’s inhabitants in two: those who are capable of talking on a cell phone while taking a shit in a communal bathroom and those who find this behavior reprehensible.
I am firmly in the latter camp. The same can not be said for all my colleagues at work.
Just last week I was on le toilet letting nature take its course. I had my sights on a quiet, solitary stall session. It wasn’t to be.
About thirty seconds into the proceedings I hear the squatter to my left barking out international travel arrangements on his cell phone to a woman at United Airlines.
Here we go.
From that moment on I couldn't keep my thoughts in check, they had already booked a first-class ticket to Mordor. And they -- my thoughts -- kept asking the same question over and over: "how?"
How did frequent flier #3442000741 get to a juncture whereby he’s making airlines reservations in a communal bathroom? Had he: 1) been on hold for twenty minutes and refused to quit the United queue when a higher, digestive master came calling (best case scenario) or perhaps 2) his day was so busy he had to double up on duties (less encouraging) or finally it’s possible 3) he really didn’t care who heard about his upcoming trip to Australia out of ORD, leaving at 2:23 PM on March 23rd and returning two weeks later (deserving of the guillotine).
Regardless of the events leading up to the call, I still can’t believe 31B wasn’t deterred by the prospect of a co-worker or manager (!) bumping into this conversation. Wouldn’t sharing a bathroom with 100 people on a floor of business deter you from merging your business with your business?
There’s an instruction manual for everything in this world, even for off-on devices. Perhaps we need a user guide to bathroom protocol as well.
Moving onto another group needing a protocol overhaul....
Somebody needs to call the Better Business Bureau and rein in the Starbucks baristas – they’re getting sloppy with their pours.
Every day I buy a grande coffee at Sbucks; every day the barista asks me if I want a little room for cream and sugar; every day I say “a little” (emphasis on little). Seems like a reasonable exchange, but then the barista hands over my coffee and the little room has turned into a suite at the Ritz: 1/3 of my coffee is gone.
Now let’s think this through.
My entire cup of coffee costs Starbucks in the neighborhood of $.20. They sell it to me for ten times that. Knowing as much, if you’re going to err on one side of the “little room” equation, wouldn’t you leave more coffee in the cup and allow customers to pour some out (if needed)? Isn’t that more logical than potentially alienating a customer over $.02 of coffee?
Isn’t it?
And while we’re on the subject of coffee, here's another matter for shared contemplation: why does everyone make a big deal about “fresh” coffee beans? It’s not like Juan Carlos, manager de bean fields in Colombia, has a just-in-time inventory system and a FedEx loading dock for straight-to-Sbucks consumption.
In actuality, Juan Carlos’ management “system” starts and stops with Alejandra – Juan Carlos’ niece and most talented field operator/picker of beans – who yells at her overweight, good-for-nothing uncle twice hourly: “Juan Carlos, another bag of beans is ready you hijo de puta...come and get it.”
After forty minutes of Alejandra's hiena-like screams, Juan Carlos will stumble to action: calling his brother Jorge on the walkie talkie. Jorge is on siesta but agrees to come pick up the next bag of beans three hours hence forth, after siesta and his favorite program, Amas de Casa Desesperadas (the local version of Desperate Housewives), is over.
Jorge will then take the beans to the processing plant. Juan Carlos prefers the ferment-and-wash processing method, whereby the remainder of the pulp is removed from the bean by breaking down the cellulose and fermenting the beans before washing them with large amounts of water, or in this case, saliva.
When the eight-week fermentation is complete, Jorge’s beloved, Vilma de la Flores, sprays “aroma” scents from an 800-liter spray bottle onto the beans, ensuring the beans leave Colombia smelling of earthen soil and poverty.
Once the beans are spray-scented and packaged, they are a meager three ships, four ports, and two U.S. eighteen-wheelers away from Chicago delivery. Estimated duration: 24 days.
Putting things into perspective, from the time the beans are picked until the time they are pressed into coffee, the Afghan people have lived through four dictatorships and three Khaled Hosseini novels.
Not that I'm upset with Juan Carlos in the least. His magic beans are my morning’s savior, every morning. Rather, my point is this: is it really fresh beans (aromas) that we care about? Wouldn’t you drink a Juan Carlos’ roast circa ’78 if it tasted bien and offered the necessary morning jolt?
In this realm know that Knobs “Old Bean” Coffee is now seeking investors, with immediate plans to serve customers on a knob near you. Anyone who picks up a copy of the offering memorandum will also notice that our marketing slogan is already intact: “Maximum caffeine & maximum taste...poured to the brim every time....using the oldest beans we could find.”
Howard Schultz: did you get our Christmas Card? The one posted from Southern Indiana. No matter, I'll fill you in on its message.
It said: "your days are officially numbered."
*2% of the proceeds from Knobs “Old Bean” Coffee will go directly to the “Save the Vixens of South America” Fund – our preferred philanthropic partner for the new millenium.
I am firmly in the latter camp. The same can not be said for all my colleagues at work.
Just last week I was on le toilet letting nature take its course. I had my sights on a quiet, solitary stall session. It wasn’t to be.
About thirty seconds into the proceedings I hear the squatter to my left barking out international travel arrangements on his cell phone to a woman at United Airlines.
Here we go.
From that moment on I couldn't keep my thoughts in check, they had already booked a first-class ticket to Mordor. And they -- my thoughts -- kept asking the same question over and over: "how?"
How did frequent flier #3442000741 get to a juncture whereby he’s making airlines reservations in a communal bathroom? Had he: 1) been on hold for twenty minutes and refused to quit the United queue when a higher, digestive master came calling (best case scenario) or perhaps 2) his day was so busy he had to double up on duties (less encouraging) or finally it’s possible 3) he really didn’t care who heard about his upcoming trip to Australia out of ORD, leaving at 2:23 PM on March 23rd and returning two weeks later (deserving of the guillotine).
Regardless of the events leading up to the call, I still can’t believe 31B wasn’t deterred by the prospect of a co-worker or manager (!) bumping into this conversation. Wouldn’t sharing a bathroom with 100 people on a floor of business deter you from merging your business with your business?
There’s an instruction manual for everything in this world, even for off-on devices. Perhaps we need a user guide to bathroom protocol as well.
Moving onto another group needing a protocol overhaul....
Somebody needs to call the Better Business Bureau and rein in the Starbucks baristas – they’re getting sloppy with their pours.
Every day I buy a grande coffee at Sbucks; every day the barista asks me if I want a little room for cream and sugar; every day I say “a little” (emphasis on little). Seems like a reasonable exchange, but then the barista hands over my coffee and the little room has turned into a suite at the Ritz: 1/3 of my coffee is gone.
Now let’s think this through.
My entire cup of coffee costs Starbucks in the neighborhood of $.20. They sell it to me for ten times that. Knowing as much, if you’re going to err on one side of the “little room” equation, wouldn’t you leave more coffee in the cup and allow customers to pour some out (if needed)? Isn’t that more logical than potentially alienating a customer over $.02 of coffee?
Isn’t it?
And while we’re on the subject of coffee, here's another matter for shared contemplation: why does everyone make a big deal about “fresh” coffee beans? It’s not like Juan Carlos, manager de bean fields in Colombia, has a just-in-time inventory system and a FedEx loading dock for straight-to-Sbucks consumption.
In actuality, Juan Carlos’ management “system” starts and stops with Alejandra – Juan Carlos’ niece and most talented field operator/picker of beans – who yells at her overweight, good-for-nothing uncle twice hourly: “Juan Carlos, another bag of beans is ready you hijo de puta...come and get it.”
After forty minutes of Alejandra's hiena-like screams, Juan Carlos will stumble to action: calling his brother Jorge on the walkie talkie. Jorge is on siesta but agrees to come pick up the next bag of beans three hours hence forth, after siesta and his favorite program, Amas de Casa Desesperadas (the local version of Desperate Housewives), is over.
Jorge will then take the beans to the processing plant. Juan Carlos prefers the ferment-and-wash processing method, whereby the remainder of the pulp is removed from the bean by breaking down the cellulose and fermenting the beans before washing them with large amounts of water, or in this case, saliva.
When the eight-week fermentation is complete, Jorge’s beloved, Vilma de la Flores, sprays “aroma” scents from an 800-liter spray bottle onto the beans, ensuring the beans leave Colombia smelling of earthen soil and poverty.
Once the beans are spray-scented and packaged, they are a meager three ships, four ports, and two U.S. eighteen-wheelers away from Chicago delivery. Estimated duration: 24 days.
Putting things into perspective, from the time the beans are picked until the time they are pressed into coffee, the Afghan people have lived through four dictatorships and three Khaled Hosseini novels.
Not that I'm upset with Juan Carlos in the least. His magic beans are my morning’s savior, every morning. Rather, my point is this: is it really fresh beans (aromas) that we care about? Wouldn’t you drink a Juan Carlos’ roast circa ’78 if it tasted bien and offered the necessary morning jolt?
In this realm know that Knobs “Old Bean” Coffee is now seeking investors, with immediate plans to serve customers on a knob near you. Anyone who picks up a copy of the offering memorandum will also notice that our marketing slogan is already intact: “Maximum caffeine & maximum taste...poured to the brim every time....using the oldest beans we could find.”
Howard Schultz: did you get our Christmas Card? The one posted from Southern Indiana. No matter, I'll fill you in on its message.
It said: "your days are officially numbered."
*2% of the proceeds from Knobs “Old Bean” Coffee will go directly to the “Save the Vixens of South America” Fund – our preferred philanthropic partner for the new millenium.
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