Since this seems to be the best place to get information out to my parents, who have requested pictures of my apartment in Brooklyn, I decided to post them here (despite the fact that an “apartment in Brooklyn” is pretty much the opposite of “travel”).  Most people should probably just skip this entry, unless you’re feeling voyeuristic.

Our apartment in Windsor Terrace as seen from the outside. There are actually two doors into our building; the left one leads into a foyer with three other apartments, while the one on the right goes directly in to our apartment. That big bay window on the ground floor is our living room window.

Our living room, festively decorated for the holidays by the roommates.

The kitchen. Small compared to most suburban kitchens, but for being in a nicely located spot in Brooklyn, it's remarkably spacious.

My bedroom. Note the projector on the right-side wall, which turns the opposing wall into a large screen when so desired.

My room, as seen from the bed. Above the stunning dresser (only the finest, from IKEA) is some hanging art from Argentina, with a copy of X-men #1 from 1963 on the wall next to it. The gong in the upper left is from Hue, Vietnam.

Closet-space. The only downside to city apartments -- there's not much of it. With some guidance from my dad, I was able to get two bars in the closet, but the thing's completely full. Up above it is thankfully more storage space.

My desk area, with the lights off, while watching Parks and Recreation.

The upstairs bathroom, located just outside my bedroom. There's another one in the basement with the other two bedrooms.

Stairs down to the basement, looked down over by Mr. Jerry Garcia. There are two more bedrooms, a wide hallway and bathroom down there, but it's mostly my roommates' spot, so I'm not posting any of that here.

Laundry machines, provided by our landlord. These are shared by the entire building, but they don't cost anything to use, which is almost legendarily awesome in the city.

The rooftop deck. We don't use it that much now, but I'm guessing it'll be quite pleasant in the spring.

So, this is apparently where one lives after traipsing about the globe for three years…

Even leaning over the bar, under the influence of an incalculable quantity of cheap beers (“two for one with a ticket,” I’m warned almost immediately, “–don’t forget to use your ticket or they’ll charge you.”), the muscular stranger sitting to my right can hardly be described as slouching.  Two sips into my second (free, courtesy of aforementioned ticket) Pabst Blue Ribbon and my thin arms already pour over the bar like a timepiece in a Dali painting, while my neighbor radiates with a solidity that gives him the appearance of having been carved simultaneously with the bar from the same piece of wood.  He’s my age, maybe older, and prominently bulky without seeming fat, casually muscular without the chiseled tone of someone that works at being so.  He likely bulked up early in high school (Judgmentally, I assume football, or wrestling.  Too blue collar for lacrosse.  I’d wager big dollars against chess club), and via an assortment of labor-intensive jobs, he likely never had the opportunity for all that muscle to deteriorate into the fat that comes so easily to one’s body past the age of thirty.

For someone that surely would’ve avoided any attempt at talking to me in high school, he certainly seems overeager to do so now.

“What are your names?” he asks us, friendly enough, offering that his own is Greg.  Louise and I answer him, though she quickly leans in conspiratorially and speaks to me quietly enough to establish a level of privacy to our conversation that doesn’t extend to my new friend, but not so quietly that he might suspect we’re talking about him.

“I can’t believe this bar!” she tells me with excited trepidation.  ”I can’t even believe it exists in the middle of the city like this.”

“I love it.  It’s an actual dive!”  I’m genuinely excited to be at a dimly grungy and antiquated bar simply for the perfectly innocent level of trashiness that it exudes.  Not even a New York City resident yet, and already I’m acting like a hipster.

“Well, I only came here because there are two-for-one drinks,” she responds.

“Yeah, just don’t forget to use your ticket,” Greg offers.

“Thanks!” I smile, without actually understanding his point, before shutting out the stocky neighbor on my right once again in favor of the far more attractive neighbor on my left.  It’s not that I actively want to block the mildly soused Greg from our discussion;  I just need some quality time with Louise.  She is going to be my new roommate after all once I resettle from nearly three years of travel into The Greatest City On Earthâ„¢.  ”It doesn’t seem that bad here.  It’s got a kind of gritty 70′s charisma.  It’s dark, and smoky and… wooden…  I would totally hang out at a place like this.”

“No,” she whispers firmly.  ”I got here early and left to wait for you outside.  When I showed up, there was a guy running out with blood pouring out of his face!”  Decidedly odd for 5 pm on a Tuesday, I agree.

“Yeah, I probably wouldn’t hang out at a place like this…”  I signal the bartender.  ”PBR, please.  And a ticket..?”

“Ticket’s two for one.  But you gotta get both beers at once,” she explains.

“So you give me a ticket and then I give it back?”

“Yeah.  For the second beer–”

“–which I get at the same time?”

“Right.”  I manage to hold onto a small, yellow ticket stub for a few seconds, and two pints of America’s most beloved beer for a little bit longer than that.  We have an appointment with the cast of The Big Lebowski in just thirty minutes (the Blu-Ray of the movie is being released, and they’re celebrating with a Q&A session at the Hammerstein Ballroom in Manhattan), and it’s the kind of event that one should be both timely and mildly intoxicated for.

“You guys live around here?”

“Nah.  Well, not yet at least…”

“We’re going to be roommates!” says Louise excitedly.

“If all goes well, we’ll be moving into our spot in Brooklyn in the beginning of September.  I just got back to the States a few weeks ago after some extended traveling.”

“Me too,” says Greg.  ”Where were you?”

“Oh my god, he was everywhere!  He went to Antarctica and high-fived a penguin!”

“He didn’t actually high-five me back…”

“…and taught in China, and went to Africa!  It was like, the biggest trip ever.”

“It was ok.”  I pause, embarrassed in person by the same narrative that I ploddingly maintain a blog about online.  ”You just got back from a trip too?” I ask him.

“Yeah, I just finished a third tour in Afghanistan…”

“Oh.”

Greg has two kids, and they seem to be his primary reason for returning home from time to time.  Since joining the army right out of high school, he was shipped off to Iraq, fought in Somalia during the “Black Hawk Down” days, and has bounced back and forth between Iraq and Afghanistan for most of the past decade.  While Louise banters with the bartender, I listen as the previously mundane Greg regales me with stories of interesting and treacherous places that never managed to make it onto my travel roster, nor will they likely ever, much to the joy of my parents.

“So are you back for good?”

“No, I’m headed back to Afghanistan in two weeks for one last tour.  Found out I’ve got prostate cancer so it’s really the only option.”

“What?!”  I don’t exactly do a spit take, though my shock upon registering his previous statement is fairly visible.

“Between dying slowly over here or going out over there, it’s not even a choice.  But the main thing is, if I die over there, my kids’ll be well taken care of.  That’s why I’m doing it.”

“But prostate cancer’s got a good recovery rate.  Though I guess I’ve heard you can’t ever fuck again without viagra…”

“Yeah, you know about that, huh?  I’d never heard about it until I got diagnosed.  What a shitty side effect.  I dunno.  I don’t want to go through that.  The whole procedure… it’s just not for me.  Even if I make it, what would I do after that, you know?”  He shrugs.  ”I’ve thought about it a lot, and I know what I’m doing is the best thing for my family.  And there’s really no way I’d rather go out.”

“Hey, your choice, man.”  After a sip of beer, I profoundly add: “Sucks.”

“Yeah, it’s nuts but you know, I don’t even think anything about it anymore.  Maybe it’ll hit me harder when I’m back over there, but I’m kind of ready to go already.”  He pauses to finish his beer.  ”Cute girl.  She your girlfriend?”

“Nah, Louise is just an old friend.  She needs a roommate and I need a city to live in, so we work well together.”

“What do you do?”

“To tell you the truth, I have no idea.  I used to be a software developer, and I’ve done some writing in the past.  But right now I don’t have a fucking clue and I’m just kind of burning through more savings than I’d like trying to figure it all out.”  

I don’t add the obvious “but it could always be worse” addendum that still hangs in the air from Greg’s own story.  Louise tugs on my sleeve expectantly and I nod, quickly downing the last of my pint.  ”Well, we gotta get going, but it was nice talking to you.  Good—  Shit!  I was about to say ‘Good luck over there in Afghanistan,’ but that just seems wrong to me now.”

“You’re going to Afghanistan?” Louise asks, rejoining the conversation.  ”Wow!  Be safe!”

“Hah.  I don’t think she heard my story,” Greg says.

“Probably not,” I tell him, shaking his hand.  There are so many strange, interesting and dangerous paths a life can take.  Whether or not Brooklyn ends up being the right choice is still very much in the air, but one thing’s for certain: It’s sure as hell got nicer weather than Kabul.

The customs man is friendly, but thorough.  Very thorough.

During my recent Homecoming just three months prior, I had flown into New York City with very little fanfare, passing through customs without even a sideways glance.  Either I had been flagged this time for some reason — likely just at random — or Miami is, for understandable reasons, far more meticulous in their search for contraband.  The items from my backpack and its attached day bag companion lay spread out before me as a customs agent rifles through them arbitrarily.  Polite, but stern, he skips the small blue bag filled with emergency accessories and medicine, though thumbs through two of the books for anything that might be hidden within their pages other than outlandish Tom Robbins metaphors.

Eventually satisfied, he leaves me to repack my bags.

I’m only in Miami for two hours before boarding a connecting flight to Washington, DC, where my mother should be picking me up from the airport.  It’s August 4th and I have just under a month to savor my homecoming before departing for a year or more to China to teach software development at Chongqing University in the heart of the Middle Kingdom (the literal translation of China’s name for itself — “Chongguo”).

After nearly a year in South America, I had a naturally growing curiosity about Asia, though felt little desire to burn through too much of my savings to explore it.  While in Argentina last year, I received this email from an old friend I hadn’t heard from in years:

Hi, my friends!

I hope you are all well and that some of you are interested in an adventure, or, might know someone who could be.

You are receiving this email because I thought that you, or someone you know, might be interested in the following opportunity.  It’s no joke, Chongqing University is a great (and large) school in the heart of China, and it’s looking for computer/IT teachers to teach students the subject in English.   My friend, Ramesh, sent me the following. His English ain’t so good, but he’s not native, so give him a break.  Let me know if you’re interested and I’ll find out more for you, or connect you directly.

“I need a help from you. In Chongqing University they are looking for Computer science Teachers. If u know anyone in US wants to teach computer courses / IT Courses in China pls send me their CV. I think u know the salary level here. I can get him (or her, but they might prefer a man) around 8000CNY per month, Round trip air fare from Chongqing China to USA per year, 2000 RMB Bonus for each semester.”

That’s more than the PC [Peace Corps] paid me! WAY more.  You’d be living like a king … probably with the ability to put quite a bit of it into savings, depending on where you chose to live, or if they put you up in one of their dorms (which they very well might).  It’d be a fun experience!  In face, if I was qualified I might even go for it.

Thanks!  Please let me know if you have any interest at all.

Having no idea what I would do — work, life, etc — upon returning to the United States permanently (and realizing that the US — especially now — is one of the worst places in the world to be in said predicament), the offer was imminently tantalizing.  I didn’t actually expect anything to come of it, but sent my resume in anyway and was shocked to get a response the same day stating that visa preparation was already in the works for me.  I would return to Washington, DC, in August to apply for the visa in person at the Chinese consulate there using paperwork the people in Chongqing will have by that point provided me with.  By September 4th, I would be arriving in China.

Stateside

Despite a change in presidencies and a handful of friends either unemployed, married off or both, the States don’t seem terribly different to me.  With less than a month in town, I decide to use my mother’s house as a home base, bouncing off from there to such other illustrious spots as New York, Scranton, Philadelphia and Kilmarnock, Virginia (to see my father and stepmother).  Driving my car down to my father’s, I leave it there for the last time, as I tasked him with selling the vehicle for me (which he has since done, quite successfully) — what’s the point in continued insurance costs and depreciation when I’m gone for at least another year.

It’s nice to be here and it’s funny realizing how much I miss my friends when I am around them.  I’ve met some great people in my travels, but most of those connections are fleeting at best.  I could count the people I plan on seeing again at some point in my life on the fingers of one hand (though obviously I treasure those few connections).

I visit Taco Bell.  A lot.  God, how I’ve missed it.  And no, South American food is nothing like Mexican.  (And yes, I realize there’s a very strong argument that Taco Bell is nothing like Mexican either, but we all have our vices…)

There’s little to say that’s travel-oriented, or even particularly interesting to people outside of my small group of friends and family (though I realize they’re the only ones that keep up with this blog, for the most part), so I’ll leave this entry short and pictureless.

Next stop: China

This post actually has nothing to do with travel.  It’s less interesting and insightful than the travel posts, and mostly just features me in various stages of intoxication with friends from hom.  But, as I do not own sweetHangingWithFriendsBackAtHomeblog.com, I had to post these here.

Less than four hundred dollars, round trip, nets me a ticket home and I jump on the deal.  I miss my family, my friends, creature comforts, live music with songs that don’t inevitably use the word “corazon” somewhere, Taco Bell, good pizza, having more than three beer options (all of which are Pilseners) and being in a land where the dominant language is (at least currently) my own.  My friend Flynn grabbed up a ticket to see the newly reformed Phish, Jeff’s handling a crabfest on the MD side of town and Jessica’s wedding at the Mandarin Oriental in NYC warrants a weekend of its own.  Nothing like a vacation!

Since A) a picture’s worth a thousand words, B) it doesn’t have much to do with travel and C) I’m lazy and trying to get caught up here as fast as I can, I’m just going to describe the rest of the week in pictures:

Friday

My friend Pete greets me at the door to his apartment, topless.  Maybe some people would find this sexy, but it’s not exactly my scene.  He’s just waking up.  Despite this, he listened when I’d told him I wanted to get the most out of my ten days in America, and planned out an exhaustive trip through Manhattan’s east side, covering much of Chinatown and Little Italy.  Dim Sum was my one specific request, so we started there.

I'm not sure what the name of this Dim Sum restaurant was, but it was this full on a Friday at 1 pm, and had a wide assortment of live entertainment. Â This was only about half the room, too, and yet we still had to wait for some open spots at a table.

Dim Sum. I'd love to say this was prepping me for my upcoming year in China, but apparently this is a very different style from what I'll be getting in Chongqing.

This jerky place is all the rage right now with many of my NYC friends. Tasty, and unlike anything else I've ever tried, but not as mind-blowing as the hype might've led me to believe.

If there's ever a type of candy you're looking for, there's a better shot of finding it at this place than anywhere else on earth.

Ordering knishes.

For dinner, I chose Mexican and got mildly mocked for it. Look, Mexican food is actually in short supply through most of South America and I was honestly missing some quality burritos.

Trying out some Argentinian dulce de leche liquor with Louise. I've got pics from this night with lots of people, but since she's a semi-regular reader, she gets posting priority

Saturday and Sunday in Boston

Besides scoring floor tickets to the opening night of Phish tour at Boston’s Fenway Stadium, Flynn was also gracious enough to both drive and provide lodging as well with his Bostonian friend Laurie.  Following the four hour drive to her apartment, Saturday was mostly a calm uneventful exploration of Boston’s rooftops and Oyster bars.  Sunday was the main event.

A pre-show party at our friend Mark's place. Perfect weather.

Just a few blocks from the main event

Me, Laurie and Flynn

Flynn and I are circled in red, though good luck finding me. He's easier to spot with the signature green jacket, though I'm looking off to the right.

Monday and Tuesday

Knowing I’m in town for only a week, my Virginian parents make the trek up to the big city to get a little Yancy time in.  For two days, we venture around through parks, museums (cheap ones, at least) and pizzarias making the most of our time.

At the world-famous Lombardi's Pizzaria

The brick pizza oven at Lombardi's. This guy does this pose for tourists about 87 times a day.

Wednesday Night

Despite their never really learning how to sing that well, The Disco Biscuits still play my favorite live music on the planet, and it would’ve been a shame to catch Phish — a band I’m only connected to nostalgically at this point — three times while in town, and never get to see the Biscuits even once.  Wednesday night offered up a show in Providence, Rhode Island and after weeks of sweet-talking all of my employed friends into giving in to wanton irresponsibility, I finally succeeded with my friend Brittany.  Along the way, we picked up her friend Joy at the halfway point in Hartford, CT, which would also serve as our home for the evening, post-show.

Joy, me and Brittany. Complete fun -- not awkward at all!

At one point Joy mentioned her eccentric landlord kept chickens in his basement. It was crucial that I investigate!

Thursday and Friday: More Phish

The gracious Lazars of Long Island offered up their two condos to our assortment of misfits (yes, two — they bought a larger unit in the same building, but haven’t sold the first one yet) for two more concerts at Jones Beach Theatre in New York.  With only ten days stateside, there would be no rest for me.

The lovely Lazars of Long Island

Stay back, Brendan -- they're all mine!

2/5 of this night were hilarious. Sadly, only 2/3 of this picture are awesome. (Sorry to pretty much anyone reading this for all the obviously private jokes that make no sense without context)

MunchkinJess’s Wedding

On very little sleep after two hedonistic nights of Phish, i put on my finest (and only) suit and made my way back into the city for a rendezvous at the Mandarin Oriental (apparently, it’s quite the swanky establishment — you can’t even enter the main lobby without a suit on) for my friend Jess’s wedding.  As she’s of Chinese descent and he’s Jewish, the wedding was a tasteful mix of both heritages, with some contemporary elements thrown in for good measure (“Here Comes the Bride” replace by a Yo La Tengo number, for instance).

Jess and Dave. Note the chuppa in the background, a traditional cloth covering over the ceremony, colored in a dark red, the Chinese color for good fortune.

Melissa ended up being my unofficial date for the evening, such that I never went without a dance partner. The photographer apparently liked us.

Sunday: Maryland Crabs

Argentinian King Crabs never quite did it for me, and I was quick to mention to traveling companions how superior our Maryland variant of the crab was, regaling all that would listen with tales of the Maryland crabfest: picnic tables covered with newspapers, wooden mallets, a bushel or two of crabs and multiple large piles of Old Bay seasoning.  Thanks to my friends Jeff (for picking up the crabs) and Liz (for hosting), I got my wish.

A quality MD crabfest

Crabs!

Monday Mimosas

Lisa, possibly one of the best people ever, picked me up early after arranging a mimosa brunch at our friend Rachel’s house.  Luckily all of these people seem to have night jobs!

Though I've recently started to tolerate Bloody Marys, I think Mimosas still win out as the number one morning beverage

Lisa and me. Something funny was apparently happening here.

Tuesday: Back to Peru

And just like that, it was over.  I spent the last of my time with my Mom; sure, I’d just seen her in Santiago, but mothers never can quite get enough time.  I let her get even more time with me by driving me to the airport.  When you’re only in the country for ten days of the year, you’re a celebrity — a walking party.  One more week in the States and I’m sure coming across people, the reaction would return to “oh, you again…” but as it stood, no greeting was anything less than a bear hug, and for an attention whore such as me, that’s enough to keep me out of the country for 51 weeks per year for a long time!

Mom and me, just before heading off. I miss those glasses. They'll be stolen the following week in Cuzco...

On to Cuzco…

Surveying the multitude of diverse and bizarre weblogs out there, a wise man once posited that they could all be categorized into three possible topics: Knowledge, Adventure and Bacon.  Knowledge blogs clearly would cover the quest for and divvying out of knowledge in any way, from professorial theses on the most esoteric of subjects to awkward, trenchcoat-wearing adolescents documenting their experiments with household cleaning supplies to find which work best to “blow shit up.”

Adventure blogs cover ballsy and/or stupid people documenting their off-the-beaten path experiences with activities normal people avoid because they actual have some basic degree of common sense.  The girl that motorcycled through Chernobyl would’ve been a perfect example of an Adventure blog, had the story not turned out to be entirely porcine.

That of coure leaves us with Bacon, an umbrella category for nearly every other tale of daily personal trial and tribulation.  As in “I got up this morning and had bacon for breakfast.”  Or “I got up this morning and had the best bacon ever for breakfast!”  That’s not to say that bacon journals are uninteresting, but their scope is limited to readers that either A) care enough about the blogger to spend time reading about his or her intimate experiences with bacon, B) care enough about bacon to read about its intimate experience with the blogger or C) find the blogger so innately compelling that even bacon literature can be uplifted to the level of high prose.

Nearly everything I’ve pushed out onto the Internet in the past has fallen squarely into the bacon genre (and please, for those observant Jews in the audience, note that “bacon” here is a metaphor.  A succulent, non-kosher metaphor, but a metaphor nonetheless).  As I’m currently looking at close to a year abroad (assuming I suffer from neither critical injuries nor critical boredom), I have for once in my risk-averse (read: kind of pussy) life the opportunity to write something from the riveting Adventure angle. 

Don’t hold out on Knowledge from me any time soon, though.

Why you shouldn't urinate into the Amazon

My biggest fear with keeping this blog, even if it won’t likely ever be seen by anyone outside of family and friends, is that I’ll eat up a year of my life and a sizable chunk of my bank account with little to say or show for it.  Actually, that’s a lie; my biggest fear is the Amazonian candiru fish that has a penchant for urine and is known for swimming up into urethras and getting lodged into that tight, delicate spot with their spiky outerbody.  Yeah, actually, writing a crappy blog doesn’t even compare to that fear.  Let’s be honest.

Miami’s got me for a solid 24 hours until my next flight which takes me into Quito.  It’s a good breaking-in to what will likely be the format of my life for the next year; it’s my first hostel experience, most of the people here speak Spanish and I’m already sweaty and dirty.  Check-in isn’t until three, but they were kind enough to draw up a map for me of South Beach, and I walked around for an hour or two with my backpack left in the hostel’s storage room.  There were plenty of other people’s belongings in there, but as literally all of my worldly possessions are in that bag, I’m a little skeptical to just leave it laying around.  When I reach South America, I’m sure my suspicious nature will kick into overdrive. 

Walking along South Beach, I was able to deduce that toplessness is apparently legal here, though limited to women either over 50 (years of age) or over 300 (pounds of weight).  Meanwhile, within feet of said offenders were many of the most perfect sets of sunbathing breasts I have ever quickly glanced at while pretending I had seen something interesting in nearby sand.  All were cruelly locked away as though the local constable never informed them that they had the same rights and privileges as their more expansive and/or ripened sisters.  It was a veritable apartheid, and for the first time in my life I felt an urge to become more socially conscious to the injustices of the world.

Ocean Drive in South Beach is a long stretch of pastel-colored, art-deco inspired hotels with ritzy names to match their 50s-movie-theatre image, like “The Majestic,” ”The Avalon” and, uh, “The Leslie.”  Locals (immediately recognized as such, since no tourist can take on such scruffy, carefree appearances in the amount of time the typical vacation lasts) ambled down the streets without a visible sense of urgency, and I envied them.  I have a hard time going anywhere slowly, even if I have nowhere in particular to be.  Traffic and long lines (hardly fun for anyone) kill me.  Despite this, I am generally always late, regardless of destination.  Hopefully with a year of having nowhere in particular to go, I’ll be able to adapt the sense of calmness employed s effortlessly by the homeless and developmentally disabled.  Wait…

The homeless, while not exactly in large numbers, seemed to congregate outside pizza joints asking for change, and while I wouldn’t even oblige them under normal circumstances, these days I’m rejecting the requests with extreme prejudice.  Financially speaking, I had a lucky streak that makes a trip like this theoretically possible.  But whether I choose to call it “unemployment” or “temporary retirement,” it doesn’t change the fact that no new checks will be coming in for a while and I need to make every cent go as far as possible.

That means I need to break from my classic vacation philosophy of “This is vacation.  Make every second as awesome as possible, regardless of cost!”  There are a lot of seconds in a year, and if I’m going to hang out with penguins in Antarctica and hangglide by Jesus in Rio de Janeiro, it means cutting back on nearly all day-to-day costs.  Cheap foods, uncomfortable means of transportation and very little alcohol — Love the stuff, and it definitely makes meeting strangers a bit easier.  But even if it gives me horrible, explosive diahhrea, water’s still cheaper.

However, they’ve got an incredible happy hour special about to begin here so, as with most things involving sobriety, that’ll have to wait ’til tomorrow…

Hopefully I’ll have something adventurous and interesting to write about shortly.  Until then, enjoy the bacon!

Sweet blog.