A Slippery Slope in Crag-laden Northwest Argentina pt. 2 of 3

"Hey, Dude," my seatmate spoke to me in Spanish, "you want some yerba maté?" I was told that it was not just impolite, but that, in fact, it was rather rude to refuse an offered share of Argentina's most potently caffeinated tea. Yerba maté has a similar caffeine content to the coffee bean, and its drank directly though the leaves, filtered through a straw in a hollowed out gourd. Resultingly, I was faced with a handful of problems:

1. I has just been abruptly awoken and I was NOT happy
2. The second to last thing I needed was caffeine through potent tea on the first hour of my overnight, uncomfortable-bus-seat-burdened voyage, and
3. The very last thing I needed was to burn the unspoken rapport between me and my bus-buddy that had already allowed me to claim over 2/3 of the shared arm rest
   

Also, I suppose that the ultimate-last thing I needed at this point was to have the bus stormed by pirates, but that was the least of my worries considering all my other woes. I didn't need the next 17 hours and 25 minutes to be spent in a constant battle for claim over the bordering land. It was at this point that I came up with a final decision, a decision which I had never used theretofore. I chose to pretend that I didn't speak Spanish.

"What?" I said in English. He motioned toward his tea. "Very nice." I said and turned to look out the window. He tapped my shoulder. Dammit, he was persistent.

"Querés?" He asked.

I needed to be persistent, too; "No sir, I would not like to caress your gourd," I mumbled in case anyone around us did speak English. He shoved the straw in my face. I surrender! This was to be a painfully long journey if I continued to surrender that easily, but I was clearly fighting a strategic war-master. I took gourd and a sip. My stomach grumbled. The dulce de leche desert from earlier had already not been sitting perfectly. I sighed.

"Great, thanks." I said to Eisenhower and handed it back. I found out that his name was less-fittingly Enrique, and we continued to engage in general discourse. I slowly began to turn my one word, curt, Spanish responses into lengthy Spanish monologues as the caffeine kicked in. My cover was blown. Enrique refilled his gourd with thermos and I refilled my vigor. We drank, talked and shared. Funny was when Enrique asked me some rather uncomfortable questions about American girls. Not funny was how much more uncomfortable my stomach felt than trying to answer his questions.

I had to excuse myself, "Pardon me, I'm going to go find the bathroom."

"It's not working."

Hoping he was talking about our newfound friendship I asked, "What's not working?"

Enrique neither assuaged my fears when he replied, "The bathroom," nor when he informed me that "we'll be stopping in only a couple hours for gas." I buried my head in hands and sighed again. Okay, I thought, I'll take a break, lean back and hopefully dream about a porcelain land with hills of toilet paper and rivers of hand soap. I pushed against my chair. It didn't move. I pushed harder. It didn't move harder.

"I'm glad you're here, friend, welcome to South America," Enrique said as he handed me some more maté.

[[Part three to follow. The horses, all the beautiful horses... hold on to them]]

A Slippery Slope in Crag-laden Northwest Argentina pt. 1 of 3

Traveling through Northwest Argentina had hitherto been enjoyable and relaxing. The clean and welcoming cities of the Salta and Jujuy provinces brought few feelings of insecurity. Yes, shockingly, the cities on the Argentine Altiplano were kempt. Overcome by a waitress’s congeniality I spent my last pesos on a recommended dulce de leche dessert and on a gracious tip. With empty pockets and a full stomach I quickly searched through town to find an accessible ATM before I boarded my bus back to Buenos Aires, but my labors ended fruitlessly and I raced back to the terminal to load my bag and squeeze into my seat just in time to begin the 26 hour haul back to the capital. Of course, at that particular moment, I was only expecting an 18 hour trip.

I sifted through my bag. My camera’s battery had died the night before but I pulled out my notebook to jot down memories from the past day. I was sure as lief to forget had I not taken the time to write down my experiences. It was customary and very easy for me to supplement writing with photography as each picture was worth, as the saying goes, at least sixty-five words.

My hand got tired as it often would. I had written about just the breakfast I ate the day before and I gave up. To pass the time before light ran out, I pulled out a few letters from my friend back home in Chicago. They served to remind me both of the luxuries I had left in the United States and of the reasons I wanted so badly to escape the country for a year. Overall, the letters, as I best recall, were humorous and helpful to pass the time on an uncomfortable South American bus commencing its overnight journey. I’d take this discomfort, though, anytime over the monotony of the Chicago Suburbs. This was new and exciting. In my haste boarding the bus I had forgotten to grab any CDs from my suitcase which was now secured under the cabin. We wouldn’t be stopping until morning, so I was without entertainment for the night. Thankfully, I am completely diurnal during long travel. As soon as the sun set, I expected to fall asleep. I rested my head on the window where I watched the diver-sun, slow-dived from noon, meld into the horizon creating a splash of golden light.*

My consciousness swept away with the daylight. There was to be no need for CDs or camera batteries where I was going, and darkness paved way to slumber. Ah, yes, sleep! I can write about its beauty incessantly. Sleep is the brilliant state where all possibilities became probabilities. Only, unfortunately for me, the probability of being awoken was near certainty. My lucid dreams were startled back into lurid visions of the man sitting next to me.

[[Parts 2 and 3 to follow.]]
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*Note: Thank you Herman Melville.

I'm In Love with a Pig (Video)

Let's try to get this video up on the video viral charts... Handed to my roommates at a house party by our next-door neighbor. He says he's getting into the comedy scene. This is too good for anyone to miss:



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=abtSrFavwCA

Andare a Giocare a Bowling

It was Christmas day in Sorrento, Italy. The weather was chilly, but nothing else sans a lone and somber Christmas tree, which seemed to depress the lobby of our hotel rather than enlighten it, reminded us of the holiday back home. We had each other, my immediate family, but we had nothing to do. The day had closed all stores and had brought each Sorrentine to his or her relative's home; the streets were abandoned. After a quiet brunch in the hotel, we gathered ourselves outside to stroll about the empty streets of this bayside town. The wind blew sharply, giving our cheeks a rosy hue, and garbage and cats seemed to move with it along the streets. Ahead shined the sole lit sign in the entire town, and it pulled us near.

"Nice! A bowling alley," Jacob shouted and pulled me and my parents in. We had enjoyed great games of bowling around the globe. I recall at this moment a strobe-lit game amplified by harsh techo music in Germany. The conditions at the German alley acted as steroids to our final scores. The Germans were impressed with our family bowling skills, and we were certain that the elderly employee and the rest of the empty Surrentum Alley would be equally impressed.

The skills came naturally and we were making the pins fall as the ornaments fell off the hotel's tree when brushed against. I bowled a few gutter balls, a few spares and a few strikes. Jacob bowled as well, or well enough to invite glances over from four young Italian men who had just walked in. Being so empty, the sounds of our strikes bellowed through the alley. Jacob and I and our father began to joke around and we bowled through each other's legs, changed the other's name on the above screen to anagrams like G.A.Y., A.S.S. or other highbrow words like P.O.O. We were able to edit each other's scores using the "correct score" feature available on the control panel as well.

Soon later, as our hands got tired and we had successfully wasted enough of our Italian Christmas, we packed up our shoes to leave. Just as we walked away, one of the Italian men, we'll call him Antonio, saw our tampered scores above. I had changed mine to near-perfect 299, giving myself a 9 on the last frame while Jacob gave himself a 300. Antonio shrieked aloud; "Trecento! Trecento!" He blindly reached for his friends behind him to gather their attention and they all stared in awe at our perfect scores. Before we knew anything, all four men gleamed and excitedly applauded us. They searched for English words. Mario found a few; "Tree-hundred! Superior! Tree-hundred!" They beckoned and continued in celebration.

Uncertain and little embarrassed, our family hesitantly smirked, waved off their applause and exited quickly as rock stars eschewed fans aside tour buses. Once outdoors, we broke into echoing laughter and bolted back to the safety of the hotel. "I think they has a pen out so as to try and get autographs." Jake said. A good-humored, rootin- tootin', knee-slapping fun time followed until the next day when walking past a newly full capacity Sorrento bowling alley we peaked inside to see, to our greatest excitement and/or fear, that taped to the wall behind the shoe counter was a printed computer paper sign that read:

Alto Punteggio (Top Scores):

D.U.M.: 300 - 25/12/02
A.S.S.: 299 - 25/12/02

Uh...CTA bus story

I am forced to take public transportation in my morning commute. It's never a pleasant journey. Today a Canadian lady next to me on the bus was eating a breakfast sandwich. While the CTA rules clearly state that eating on the bus is prohibited, I didn't say anything. I didn't really mind at all until she dropped a piece of greasy egg on my thigh. I looked at her, and she kept eating and didn't say a word. I continued to stare as she continued to eat. No. Nothing. I uncomfortably bent over, picked up her egg and handed it to her; "I believe you dropped this." I said.

I swear that she replied; "Oh. That ain't mine." I gave a confused smile and asked, "Are you sure?"

She reached out and quite literally swiped it from my hand and, I SHIT YOU NOT, put it back in her sandwich. I am still in awe at what happened, I wanted to share it with the interweb.


Oh...and when I left the bus, I looked at her and said; "You're right...that wasn't yours. Got you good." The bus drove off.

Google Earth / Google Maps

Aside from the consumption of a good three to fours hours of each day, Google Maps also offers another notable quality. It hosts my photos from panoramio.com. I've posted photos from all over the globe onto this website and after Google purchased Panoramio, it began to host the photos for viewing on Google Earth and Google maps. I have some popular photos posted in Greece, Brazil and Argentina (popularity guided by user comments, views, favorites and other factors about which I know very little). However my most popular photos are in Chicago and Los Angeles. Here's what you do. Go to maps.google.com and then click the little box on the satellite map image that says "More" click "Photos" and voila, the first images shown over Chicago and Los Angeles are mine. Props to Jacob who took the Chicago City Skyline photo. The Los Angeles photo is of a house used in Hollywood as a Witches "Spadena" House for a movie set. These are not my best photos, one is not even my own, but I'm proud to see these photos just a mere two clicks away on any computer. I'm still not a popular as my only blog reader who appears on Wikipedia, but we all have dreams.

West Side Park

Because my only reader, Jeff, appreciates baseball, I thought I would post a quick little fact I found out this week:

West Side Park (The West Side Grounds) is where the Cubs played between 1893-1915. It's where they won their only two world series'. It's where they won 116 games in one season, setting a major league record. It's where Tinker to Evers to Chance became the most famous double play combination in the history of the game. Its where Three fingered Mordecai Brown (who had four fingers, btw) pitched countless complete games and where Ty Cobb lost to the Cubs in the 1908 World Series. Honus Wagner and Christy Matthewson fell victim to many Cubs teams in this era. Tris Speaker and Cy Young and Nap Lajoie played there and had the Cubs not moved to Weeghman Park in 1916 so would have Babe Ruth. It's dimensions were:
Left field: 340 feet; center field: 560 feet; right field: 316 feet.

It's where Cap Anson got hit number 3,000 and Kid Nichols got his 300th win. It's also exactly where my office building is at the University of Illinois Chicago Medical District.

No one else may care, but I now feel a newfound and ethereal bond with the courtyard right outside my window that quite literally served as the foundation upon which the Chicago Cubs would build my favorite franchise. The building I work in sits where right center field and its grandstands would have been if the stadium has not been torn down in 1920 and sold for lumber scraps. I can actually close my eyes and picture being at the last Cubs world Series win in 1908. This of course is aided by the following embedded photos, which all came from the Chicago Daily News archives (and are public domain because they were printed before 1923). Enjoy the pictures!

Click on each one for more detail!

The West Side Park during the 1912 Season with new grandstands.

My office building currently sits in what used to be right-center field, my windows look out upon where home plate sat.

The 1908 National League Pennant above the box office at Lincoln Ave. and Polk St.

Spectators in the grandstand in right field were only 316 ft, from home plate and sit about where I sit at work. Many have bullhorns.

On August 30th, 1908

The Cubs' mascot at West Side Park!

Cubs' Coach Cap Anson ceremonially throwing the first pitch of the 1908 Season.

Pirates' Shortstop Luis Rivas, er, I mean Honus Wagner wearing a backwards cap at the West Side Park.

Mordecai "Three-Fingered" Brown warming up on the first base line.

Spectators after a regular season game.

Ty Cobb probably getting one of his forty-two career Major league hits.

President William Howard Taft waving to spectators as as he enters the Cubs West Side Park.

President Taft greeting New York catcher Chief Meyer.


Current location of the third base bleachers, Polk Ave. Shame.

For more photos search for "West Side Grounds" at the Chicago Daily News Archives.