Travis' Place

Moving again

2011-04-27T17:05:00.002Z

In case anyone still checks this space I should notify you that in my ongoing effort to stay up to date with the changing social media, tweeting, Facebooking, blogging scene I've stumbled into tumbling. Feel free to stop by. Cheers.

Unforeseen resurrection - the return to the blog

2009-09-03T13:22:00.002Z

I’ve been looking for a good excuse to break the two year silence on this tired old blog, which was set up to keep family and friends abreast of my travels and share some insight into personal daily revelations or observations about the world I live in. This was not what I had in mind. The night before last I was deported (technically denied entry) when I tried to return home to Egypt, where I’ve happily been living for a bit over two and half years. If you’re in the friend or family category looking for an update, I’m fine and well – if not just a bit surprised and saddened by the potential ramifications this may have on my plans to return to Egypt and the work and life that I love there. If you’ve stumbled here following the misnomer of the American ‘blogger and activist’ who was denied entry and appeared in the news or activists sites, I’m afraid I might prove a bit of a disappointment. As you can see, its been two years since my last blog post, so I'm not much of a blogger - and my ‘activism’ is limited to a solidarity march for Gaza – a people and ‘cause’ for which I’m very passionate but for whom I’ve done remarkably little. So I'm not much of an activist either. However, if you’re looking for entirely self proclaimed witty, albeit terribly outdated, musings on life you’ll find that in plenty in the posts that follow.

As far as the story goes – no one told me why I was denied access to the country – and I presume the soldiers holding me didn’t really know. I was ‘in the computer’ and can only assume, as the articles written in the last 24 hours suggest, that it had to do with my presence on the march. So for now I’m happily held up with friends in London. This is more than I can say for the poor young men who I shared an immigration detainment cell with for only a night, in which some of them had been held for nearly a month. In an odd twist they were primarily from Gaza, travelling with visas but unable to cross a closed boarder, waiting in no mans land without a country to get sent back to. Their story deserves to be told – travel being just one of the hardships bore by an oppressed and ill-fated people – and maybe I will at a later date.

But I suppose as a result, here I am, back blogging again – so maybe this time I’ll get back in the swing of it and the next chapter of life, be it in Egypt or some new place I’m forced to go searching for adventure, will get chronicled more effectively than the last few years.

Life is Beachin'

2007-07-24T12:00:00.001Z

A hand reached down and helped me out of the endless turquoise water before I could even get my snorkel mask and fins off. And while I washed the salt water from my body a young man waited patiently with a towel he had retrieved from a rack not more than 3 meters away … I wouldn’t want to exert myself. Moseying to the upper deck of the 50-foot power yacht I was given soft white fluffy slippers to save my feet the heat radiating from the sun drenched deck. I found a place in the sun and stretched out to top up the tan, but before my head hit the mat a silver bowl overflowing with fresh fruit was put before me. I retrieved some grapes and fought the urge to ask the waiter to feed them to me. A bottle of water was set beside me without asking and after about half and hour … right as that moment of sweaty discomfort arrives a cold wet washcloth was handed to me in silver tongs.

Shall I continue? Half turkey, lamb leg, beef side, whole calamari, sea bass, and crabs – one meal. Frosted beer mugs, fruit smoothies, sheesha and complimentary … everything.

This past weekend I was asked along for a media trip to the Taba Hilton, recently reopened after the 2004 bombing, which left dozens dead and a collapsed wing. The GM told me during our stay that, “ the increased regularity of bombings in the world has meant that our business suffers less in the wake of these incidents” – an unbelievable reality, but a testament to human resilience and the normalization of even the most heinous circumstances. How strange when a place so comfortable and luxurious has such a dark history – but like many things in this strange world, the two coincide. Poverty and riches, my freedom in a place where so many are oppressed, dream vacations where someone’s worst nightmare took place.

The Israeli boarder is the edge of the hotel property, so guests would literally step out of the hotel with roll-on suitcases and walk over the boarder. As we drifted from the dock our second day I could have thrown a rock into Israel, but thought better than to actually turn that metaphor into action – lest I spark an international incident throwing stones at Israeli boarder guards from Egypt. They’d never believe it was just a stupid white tourist. From my ninth floor hotel room you had even more stunning views of the international waters and the shores of Israel, Jordan and Saudi Arabia.

I go along and pretend its all old hand, while inwardly bursting with a 7 year old boy on Christmas morning’s enthusiasm. I guess I ask good questions, behave professionally and generally show enough class and appear grateful … but not overly, to avoid looking desperate. At least I hope I do. It was the second such trip I’ve been given in the last three weeks. The first was to the southern city of Hurgada, where I was treated in similar style – albeit alone and having to make some new friends.
This time my trip was vastly bettered by the presence of Sarah, who I suspect is lacing my food with some of that potion #9, because she seems to be growing more beautiful to me every day.

Generally, I can’t complain. Well, I can … and embarrassingly I do. But I shouldn’t complain. I’ve found a new stride, and when I feel like things can’t get much better … they usually do. There are hiccups and hitches – nothing you can expect to avoid in life, and not every waking moment is an awe inspired revelation of earth-shattering proportions. No life is without its blemishes, as surely as I will wake up some mornings with one or two of my own. I’ve got issues, fears and insecurities that come to light and put a bit of grey in my sky. I wrestle with life, love and the pursuit of God. I question my role in this big story of the universe and from time to time wonder if I’m living it the best way. But, more often than not, I think, “wow,” and struck dumb by awe utter a silent, “hallelujah.” I’m blessed. My work is good, and there are always new possibilities and ideas on the horizon. My relationships are deep and deepening and my ‘extra’ work has made it possible to explore the beautiful place in this country. When I don’t have the extra cash to bankroll a little holiday weekend, work has come through with some sweet perks. And that’s only what’s happening on the surface – the internal exploration is so much more vivid, exciting and amazing an adventure.

Zahma

2007-07-18T07:48:00.000Z

From time to time something you see makes you realize that Cairo has infected you with its beautiful poison. It’s a city of senses. A constant, persistent and colorful show portrays the busyness of a Where’s Waldo (Wally for you limeys) book and the almost constant frame flash of an MTV music video countdown. Neon billboards rest precariously on buildings that you fear will crumble under the weight of the pigeon about to perch on its ledge. My most regular conversation (limited dramatically by my poor vocabulary and the best big words I know all make this conversation possible) is about the manic nature of the streets of Cairo.

Since I’m surrounded daily be English speaking Arabs, my Arabic is largely isolated to my doorman and taxi drivers. So I talk a lot about the usual chit chat topics of conversation one would engage in with a cabi in any country. We talk weather, football and … traffic. If you’ve never been to Cairo you should understand that traffic here comes in epic proportions and that more people die of accidents per capita than anywhere else on earth. So traffic (which incidentally has no noun form in Arabic … rather you just say its zahma ‘crowded’) is a very common topic. Also, I’m quite certain, because most Taxi’s feel that the more they discuss it, the more money they can insist you give them. Because obviously the more traffic there is, the higher the required fare. So I get in almost every taxi with the words “traffic is normal in Egypt … theres traffic from morning till night” readied on my lips - because the price negotiation begins when they see you’re white hand flagging them down … and you’re already at a disadvantage. And because I can, I usually add “there’s traffic because there is no nizam (system), only fouda (chaos). This is as much an attempt at accurately describing the state of the universe as it is ploy to up my street credibility by showing off some ‘big’ words that you don’t learn from the lonely planet language section. The less white you appear the better you chances at walking away paying an “Egyptian price” without him getting out of the taxi and creating a shouting scene at your arrival destination.

And sometimes the fouda strikes such a strange chord, making you realize the extent to which the oddities of this rare and wonderful city have been absorbed and normalized in your mind. Just yesterday I was on a four lane busy road in a taxi with a Sarah when the taxi swerved to miss a donkey cark being driven by two 10-year-old boys with a cart full of plastic bottles came straight at us through the traffic … and the only thought that crossed my mind was “they’re going the wrong way down a one way.”

It was time to get out of Cairo … thankfully I have a job that gets me out of here from time to time.

Life, limo's, luxury and love

2007-06-14T14:58:00.000Z

I know I’m rubbish. It’s been like two months and its completely unacceptable. I don’ t even know where to begin. I’ve tread perilously close to falling of the planet, but I am still alive and still breathing the sweet smell of Cairo smog … there are few places on earth with this much muck wafting about.

Lets hit some highlights – if there’s something I say that deserves more explanation, leave me a comment and I’ll tell stories by request only. I feel like each of the following list should have been given its own post.

The Passenger
I was walking into “Goal,” my favourite sheesha joint, and was stopped by a laid back, sort of permafried looking guy who is now my dear friend and agent, Nova. He asked me what I did in Cairo and if I was up for doing some work as a movie extra. I said yes, and a few weeks later found myself on the set of a new film which will be staring Omar Sharif, Amr Waked (Syriana), Khalid El Nabaway (Kingdom of Heaven) and the lovely Serine Abdel Nour, who I was chosen to dance with in 1948 costume aboard the ‘ship’ inside our media city studio. We’d head out sometimes as late as 5 in the afternoon (when I’d leave work), mostly sit around getting numb in the posterior – but occasionally getting to do some walking and in my case dancing – and finally head home by about 9am, only to grab a shower and head back to work. It’s the highflying life of a movie star without the powdery nose and entourage.

“Work”
I’m writing lots. I took the Enigma job thinking I’d have lots of free time for Arabic studies. Instead I’ve been swamped. I’ve been to restaurants for reviews, pharmaceutical conferences, hotel constructions, film festivals, music festivals, art galleries, fashion shows, costume parties and football games. I’ve asked Thierry Henry and question that made him squirm and watched Barcelona demolish the local heroes. I’ve interviewed and had drinks with, movie directors, actors, actresses, businessmen and beautiful pop stars … this is my work. Last week I got picked up on Sunday (the new Monday) morning by a limo that drove me three hours to the seaside city of Alexandria. There I met with the GM of the new Four Seasons amidst the construction of the newly finished hotel. They cleared one of the restaurant rooms for us and set a mock table and served a mock meal. We discussed his move, I was given a blue sky painted construction hat with a gold Four Seasons emblem to remember my day and told that I would be put up for a few nights on the hotel when they opened the doors. I drove back to Cairo in style, arriving just in time to shoot a commercial, in which I got paid nearly a months salary for sitting in a mock “Opera” and clapping for 20 minutes of shooting. It pays to have a foreign face – though I have a suspicion that my place in the crowd meant that only my knees were on screen anyway. No good looks required to model in Egypt, just a white face. Ha! What a farce, but I’m not going to point it out to anyone.

Romance
Perhaps my biggest news is the surprised romance that I have been so ecstatic to find. We met my second day in Egypt at a ‘white trash party’ she was hosting. There was something about Sarah’s tank top, smutty make-up and her chain smoking baby she kept bottle feeding beer too that captured my heart. Actually, it wasn’t until many weeks of friendship that my eyes opened to see her as the gem that she is. I first new in the romantic setting of the Cairo Museum … with dead rotting bodies all around me I was bound to look good by comparison. Its been a whirlwind since then, between the emotional highs and lows of both of us traveling, our movie career together (where we asked to do a kissing scene) and some Egypt adventures in the desert and on the coast.

Wishing for something worth while?

2007-06-14T14:47:00.000Z

The question that those close to me have started to ask is, “glamour magazine … why?” And things like, “did you ever see Devil wears Prada …?” And their formulating fears that I might sell my soul to this industry, start sticking my finger down my throat and trying to fit into that extra slim Armani suit and skinny tie I realize are only inquires of concern. Nothing to fear. I confess I have had one or two Zoolander experiences, when he admits to his well moisturized, fully groomed straight out of bed roomies that he wants to ‘help people.’ And they reply, “Models help people feel good about themselves and learn to wear their hair in interesting ways.” Its not really a question of “Will this luxury leviathan devour my desire for doing development” but, “how long will I muck about having a laugh with the silly modish monster before I tire of it and move on.” The answer, I believe, is “a bit longer.”

This city has a lot to offer, and I’m trying to get as much as I can. I think that anywhere that we find ourselves we learn about subcultures and people and gain more understanding. It’s just as easy to live a sheltered altruistic life of judgmental attitudes towards all the frivolity in the world as it is to be part of a ‘frivolous’ profession and have depth of character.

I guess I’m not talking about the job you do, certainly one may have a more direct effect on helping others than the other, but sometimes humanitarian assistance fails and creates systemic dilemmas that we didn’t foresee, thus negating the actual effect. So if you did what you did without kindness, authenticity and the forging of real relationship then its rather worthless, even destructive. I guess what I mean is that its seems that the importance of our character and relationships with others far outstretches what we do. It’s all going to end one day. We can’t save everyone or make the world a perfect place - thought I sure as hell will try … but we can work to perfect out motives, our understanding and our spirit of interaction. To that end I’m learning very enjoyable lessons about a whole world I’ve never explored.

That said, if you know of a job that will change the world, drop me a line.

Going South

2007-04-18T12:38:00.000Z

Thousands, maybe millions of them pursued me from every direction. I took one down and it was immediately replaced by three or four more that were twice its size – each time their numbers growing exponentially. It was 0345 hours and I had been flying all night. Their ranks were impenetrable, defeating them was unachievable. There were simply too many. Swooping down, flying so close I could feel the air swell around me as the darted close enough to draw blood. They were hungry. Even the taxi driver next to me thought the mosquitoes were ‘too many’ for sitting out – and retreated to his car, leaving me to my fate under flickering florescent lights. I had given the wrong flight time to Holly and Ben and now I was coming to terms with the reality that I would provide breakfast for the entire mosquito population of the Entebbe Airport. I wondered if there would be anything left of me. For the hour and a half I sat there I cursed the Cairo pharmacy that said they couldn’t get the right kind of malaria meds. Fortunately, I walked away unscathed, and uncontaminated with malaria.

Its funny to spend so much space utilizing my gift of verbosity on such an insignificant piece of my epic journey to Uganda. I suppose I don’t know where to begin describing my introduction to ‘real’ Africa. So I started with the first impressions … fear of disease, hot, muggy, tired. But it wasn’t long before those cares were forgetten. First in the company of Holly and Ben, who rejuvenate me more than any spa, beachfront, meditation or laying in till the early afternoon after a late night out. Theres something to be said for people that are your kind of crazy. And I, despite being slightly comatose after a night of travel, was soaking up the lush jungle terrain as we made out way to our Luxury safari lodge. My new gig at the magazine can present some fantastic perks. Very little comes from the magazine itself, but when you’re a writer, there’s a certain power you can throw around. You hold in your pocket the mighty pen, which can promote or degrade, overthrow dictators and bring down corrupt multi-national devils … or in my case, pick up a few interesting travel perks. My guilt grew that I was getting the hook up at a luxury safari lodge – but it was a deal for one full board … the writer of the article which will promote their business. After my hearts sank when I saw the glum state of the travellers hostel – which had a nice view of the hedges and gate that kept the riff raff like Holly and Ben out of my pristine Safari experience – we left the sweaty 10 sq reception room of the Hostel and wondered to my accommodation. Met by men in white gloves, a warm washcloth and fresh passion fruit juice at the door, the knife of guilt turned in my gut. Two minutes of unpresumptuous blagging with the general manager and the news that I was put up in a two room suite brought more relief than the refreshing juice … Holly and Ben got a king size bed in our two room, two bathroom luxury suite. I’ll let the views in the pics speak for themselves. They’re all from the dinning room or our back porch. The rest of our experience at the lodge can be summed up as more of the same kind of undeserved luxurious treatment. Its not a bad day when you’re sitting in the pool watching elephants on the far banks of the river.

Our gracious hosts also threw in a complimentary game drive. The sun rose as we went, and the silhouettes of massive cactus trees turned green as the sun gave us light. We had good luck, and spotted two large male lions (a real find), a herd of elephants, hippos, chimps, many of the 611 types of birds found in Queen Elizabeth Park and countless more amazing animals in their natural habitat.

I fell in love with Africa, and will share more on this, but I loved it for its natural, wild, almost carnal spirit. It’s a self-aware, in touch with its instinct sort of carnality – it chooses not to mask itself in the social obligation and convention we find so safe in the most of the rest of the world. I went south of the equator for the first time … and I did feel like much of my world was upside-down. Its an odd thing when you have had the privileged to travel as extensively in so many parts of the world as I have … you begin to think you know what to expect … but all my expectations were broken – and I left illuminated.

"Active" with a spear

2007-04-18T12:21:00.000Z

It’s mid-day. I’ve been out in the equatorial sun for hours, no water, no sunscreen. The sugar cane I’ve been gnawing for nourishment and some fluid is gone. I’m out of breath from running, famished, mouth is turning to cotton and I can feel my skin going red on the back of my ash-covered neck. I’m sitting on a massive termite mound with my back pressed slightly against a large African man whose name I can’t remember. He’s holding a six-foot spear. But I’m not that worried about my safety. I’m holding a spear too, and I’ve had a morning of practice. I could die now … very happily. What would I put on my tombstone? I’ve never had a life saying, quote or deep thought I deemed fit to carve in stone.

Ben and I had the rare chance to hunt Anyiri, a bush rat about 4 kilos in weight with a group of men living in an IDP camp north of Gulu. We set out early in the morning from the camp and the Equatorial sun was already blisteringly hot. I can’t fully describe the wild feeling of traipsing through the bush with a spear, look for dinner. When we thought we might have cornered one in the tall grass (short grass was up to my waist – but tall grass grew over my head) we’d simply light the field on fire and wait. Unfortunately it was dry, and the dog, who I was told “is very lazy’ couldn’t pick up much of a scent. So we spent most off the day wondering. By about mid morning we spotted our first guine fowl. I was the closest too it, but a passing fear that it might be the dog in the grass stayed my spear. We saw a second moments later, which I instinctively hurled my spear at wildly. I missed. But I was congratulated for being the first man to throw his spear that day.

It was approaching mid day and we had been fanned out walking through the grass together. There was little sound but for occasional calls of, what I can only assume meant, ‘see anything?’… ‘no’ and the tsk, tsk, ats, ats ats, whispering sounds the digs owner made to communicate with him. And then a shout. 12 men sprang into action and as I turned around I saw what looked like the wake of a boat rustling through the grass at a tremendous speed. We all took off in a full sprint towards the ROUS (rodent of unusual size) and I was following two African hunters. The first lost the trail when the rat dodged around a tree. He sung wilding with his machete, but missed. The second, our host, had given his spear to Ben, so was hunting with a large log. He was took a sweep and knocked the animal in the side, but it just rolled and broke into a straight run in the open low grass. Suddenly I was the first one in line behind the animal. I kept time with it at full sprint for about 20 meters and then hurled my spear at it as hard as I could directly at the huge rodent – unfortunately you really have to throw it just ahead of the animal… I missed. My rookie mistake didn’t seem to bother the other hunters. The adrenaline was pumping and the fact that I had actually chased down a rat and let my spear go was about all the adventure I needed. We cornered the rat in a large area of high grass … again, lit it on fire and had one more such mad dash. But no other spear was thrown and we retired to the termite hill I began the telling with – the dog lost the scent and we lost site of the lucky little beast.

Now, I hesitate to share this last bit, because the retelling does sound unfortunately egotistical, but I was so touched … if not simply boosted to dangerous levels of macho ego by the comment I’ll let it fly anyway. On the walk home Ben and I were discussing the excitement of the hunt, and the blessing of the wholly strange lives we live when he overheard the men talking in front of us. The ‘chief’ was saying, Ben told me then … “That Muko, (brother in law) he sure is a real man,” as they all laughed and agreed he added, “he is very active with his spear.”

If the thrill of the hunt hadn’t fully convinced me, the compliment confirmed I could have died very happily on that red dusty road that led to camp. Had I, I’d have liked my tomb stone to read … “Travis Randall – 1982-2007. ‘He was very active with his spear.”

Gigs, glamour and getting ‘scouted'

2007-02-25T11:13:00.000Z

My first full day in Cairo I was walking down Bagat Ali – the road I once called home on the small island of Zamalek in Cairo. As I passed a car it honked, not unusual for this boisterous city. But having passed it and well out of its way it honked again and pulled up beside me. A young man inside rolled down his window and said ‘excuse me please, but I’m looking for foreign models for a new drama at the film studio I work at. Can I have your number and speak about you working with us?’ I immediately thought it was a scam, but decided to pull my Vodafone box (freshly purchased phone and plan) out of my bag and read Mohammad the number. Two hours later we met at Goal, my favorite shisha café to discuss my future career as a commercial and television foreigner ‘extra.’ We’ve since discussed headshots and meeting his director – but I’m still uncertain whether he was more interested in my unfortunately distinctively ‘foreign’ look or a date. I’ll keep you updated on my progress.

That evening I attended a ‘white-trash’ themed party not far from my new home and met a young man named Moose (Mustafa) who responded to my introduction with ‘I know you, and I have your t-shirt.’ An unusual salutation, I thought. As it happens, when I was last in Cairo I played a talent show gig at the American University Cairo student dorm. As a gimmick I took a white t-shirt and wrote ‘Travis who?’ in black permanent marker – explaining to the student crowd that I was a bit nervous because it was my first time performing in Cairo, and I’d feel much more at home if I had a fan, and asked who would like to have a t-shirt, the obvious mark of a true fan. Turns out – Moose caught the shirt and still has it today. A couple days later I was in a small recording studio with local rockers Track 6 - Moose (the bassplayer), Omr (drummer), Walid (rhythm guitar and vocalist) and Ahmed (killer lead guitarist) rehearsing for a live gig on Nile FM 48 hours after my first introduction to their music. I squeezed in a few practices, and despite getting hit by a bus on the way to the gig – we made it out to Egypts ‘media village’ on the outskirts of Cairo for the gig last Tuesday night. My contribution amounted to singing what my mate Chris called ‘BeeGee-like’ backup vocals and trying not to sound any more out of place than ‘Travis’ sounds in a band with Walid, Mustafa, Omr and Ahmed. I thought the hip, Cairo formed band did quite well – and we celebrated in style with some midnight eats at a café where we spotted two Cairene movie stars. Clearly, I was ‘in’ with a crowd whose cool factor outweighed mine by a significant margin.

Finally, I found a job that keeps with the theme of the beautiful and the bourgeoisie, the flush and the famous. After sending an email to a magazine unknown to me I got an immediate callback asking for writing samples. I sent in a few bits (admittedly just adapted blog posts) and was offered the job right off. I’m going to be working for eniGma, a regional lifestyle magazine that enjoys the readership of the hip, young, globalized Arab elites. I’ll be staff writing – hopefully interviewing the who’s who of Arab society and getting a crash course on ‘whats on’ in Cairo and the rest of the Arab world. It’s a far stretch for a formerly development/political hack like me – but I was looking for something different, and I’m stoked for the experience.

A Bedouin Beach Party

2007-02-22T17:14:00.000Z

Here is a little vignette about the last time I was living in Cairo. More current info and a few new pics to come shortly.

Ninzil hena, we read haltering and unconvincingly from our basic Arabic phrase-book. A thin, gruff looking bus driver stared back in disbelieve then quickly turned his eyes back to the road just in time to avoid a pothole. After some convincing, which consisted of us repeating our single phrase ‘we’re getting off here’ with increasing earnest and volume he slowed and allowed us to descend. We stepped off the crowded, humid bus and were met by a fresh ocean breeze that cooled the hot beads of sweat that had seemed to have taken up permanent residence on our brows. As the bus pulled away towards the late afternoon sun its dust clung to our skin. There we stood, two self-declared intrepid adventurers midway between Alexandria and the Libyan boarder surveying the empty landscape in all directions. With giddy excitement more suited for school girls than explorers we headed straight for the coast to find our perfect plot to sleep beneath the stars.

Our plan was to leave Cairo for the weekend and find somewhere ‘unspoiled’ by the presence of men … and spoil it with our presence I suppose. We’d packed two blankets, my camera and tri-pod, a guide/phrase book and picked up some fruit and bread at the Alexandria train station. After negotiating our way onto a bus bound for Libya we set our gaze out the window for the first sign of … nothing.

My fellow traveler, Khalil was an English prep school educated Kenyan Indian. We’d just met so I knew little about him besides that his father made toilet paper or some such thing. We did share the taste for adventure and were now on what was turning into a grand one indeed. As we began to hear the sounds of the waves we also made out the figure of a man dressed in a galabaya in the distance. We presumed, as any foreigner would, that since he was Egyptian and in the middle of nowhere that he was Bedouin. So when he approached we made clear to him our masterful plan in two words: ‘beach’ and ‘sleep’ – then remembering the word for want, we added it at the end. His stern face and pantomime of someone shooting a gun and the word ‘soldier’ suggested he disapproved. But seeing as we had little more we could say and he seemed not altogether bothered by the idea of allowing us to be shot we pointed towards the sea, he smiled, and we departed. We turned west when we reached the water and after some time stumbled across a small villa, where a second man approach and soon had issued the same warning. Apparently, coastal patrols really would shoot us if we slept on the beach. Seeing the steadfast resolve to our plan he pointed down the coast and we managed to communicate the words Bedouins and tent. So we set off again towards our new destination – to ask for lodging from the Bedouins.

The sun had now set and the white sand seemed to reflect the pink and purple hues of the sky as vibrantly as the perfect blue water. We made our way west, stopping to document the evening with a few rolls of film. We came over a white rock crest saw and two small white dots on the far horizon which we soon realized where tents. As we drew closer we became nervously aware of what an odd pair we made. Khalil’s dark skin was clearly foreign, but to eastern to be Arab. Dressed in tracksuit pants and a bright red shirt, he appeared to be coming home from the gym. I was dressed in loose cotton pants and a linen shirt from Khan al Khalili (Cairo's famous market) – in retrospect they probably more nearly resembled pajamas than proper clothes. We were greeted with quizzical smiles and effusive salutations. Having explained our purpose they reiterated the warning about soldiers and offered a tent for the night. In exchange we offered our fruit and bread for the evening meal. But before we could eat, we would have to catch our food. We unloaded our bags in our shelter for the night, stripped down to the swimsuits we were all born with and plunged into the warm water with our two hosts clad in goggles and spear fishing guns. The sky was dark and the tide was high and calm. Shopping for dinner had never been such a beautiful experience. Our primitive feast was cooked in the sand and I although it lacked spices and frills it was one of the tastiest meals I can remember. The fish was like a delicious dance on your tongue.

As we sat back with full stomachs and an even fuller sense of satisfaction two more men appeared from the darkness and joined us for loose-leaf tea that got stuck in your teeth and the sweet taste of shisha. Soon the sound of an engine could be heard, and the much talked about soldiers arrived. We were warned to stay silent and remain in the tent until they passed – so as not to arouse any unwelcome suspicion. After a few minutes of animated conversation and close scrutiny of the odd looking ‘Bedouins’ cowering in the tent they moved on … presumable to shoot anyone unfortunate to be sleeping on the beach without the hospitality we were enjoying.

At around midnight Khalil left with three of our new friends to pray on a rock designated for prayer and I was left with the only other non-Muslim in our group. He promptly pulled out his hashish and offered some to me. I’d never smoked and to this day often wish I had broken my rule to partake with him. Instead I raised my hand to politely decline and turned my attention to the silhouettes of four men from very different worlds praying against the moonlit sky.

In the morning we had a hearty breakfast of foul and fruit and tried to offer our hosts some money for their hospitality. Adamantly declining they insisted on walking with us back to the road, which would take us away from our little paradise and back to the pollution of Cairo. Within a few short minutes an already overcrowded mini-bus was flagged down and we climbed into the back with a goat and waved at two men who I will never forget as they disappeared in a cloud of dust and eventually disappeared into the distance.

Waiting in a familiar place

2007-01-31T16:20:00.000Z

The sun has just set over the Nile and the dull red glow of this polluted city has cast its old spell on me again. I’m sitting contemplating my newest adventure surrounded by my luggage and the bustle of the sheesha café that I once spent countless hours lazily flipping through Arabic flashcards and puffing away on the best sheesha in the Middle East (second only to the legendary café in the backstreets behind the Umayyad Mosque in Damascus). I walked in and was greeted by Ahmed, who recalled my face right away but never could pronounce the double consonant “Tr.” He was also quick to remember asking me to bring him some beautiful new clothes from America when I returned. It appears I’ve made my first error already.

The friend I was meant to be meeting here today is stuck in Beirut for another week, so I’m waiting for a man I’ve never met to come fetch me in a few hours. My ‘rent’ for staying with him was an import of duty free liquor, half of which was stolen right behind my back when I was taking my luggage off the conveyer belt at the airport. It seems I’ll have to keep sharper wits in my new home.

My Arabic seemed to be slowly creeping its way back into my cognitive memory as I shared some deep thoughts with my driver about the weather, Cairo traffic, London’s congestion charge (unfathomable to the cabbie) and my plans to find a home, work and set up a new life here. Its cool here – but still to warm for a coat… and familiar smells poured through the window as we weaved through commuter traffic on one of Cairo’s raised highways. Through the brightly painted barriers on the side of the road I could catch flash glimpses (as if the complete picture would have been too much all at once) of apartment blocks that would be uninhabitable where most of this blogs readers come from, rooftops scattered with rubbish and teenagers playing football on gravel pitches. The juxtaposition of grit and glamour, history and high-rises makes this city a fascinating place to be.

I suspect the imminent longing for more familiar language, comforts and loved ones – but tonight I’m hopeful.

Its dark now, and its time to swap my sheesha for a shwarma and chips.

My new look

2006-11-13T07:08:00.000Z

Being back in the US is a trip. I love it, but its such a different world. From London to California.

Its hard to express – what its like going home to a people who spend the whole week shopping but don’t care how they dress.
An unusually number of Humvees - and thin bronze ladies drinking Jamba Juice and iced chai teas
The only style is blond hair- on plastic Barbie dolls in a desert mall, where nothing grows that isn’t planted there.

But that’s California, and though I love it – Denver feels more like home. I’ve thrown of the shackles of environmental conscience, my suit and tie and stingy drink portions. I’m driving a ’77 Ford Bronco (borrowed), wearing a cowboy hat, drinking gallons of Sprite in a single sitting, and spending an uncanny amount of time digging, carrying logs, and taking off my shirt as much as possible in the mile high sun that brought us 80 degrees last week (30 for you limeys and Euro readers). It did snow today though.

Its lovely to see friends. I’ve seen a great show, sung some diabolical Karaoke in a Mexican Bar with too many sad middle aged men – a long way from my last few adventures in hip London nightlife. But its good. Now I’m a guy with a big truck, no job, living in grandmas basement… and I spend lots of time helping out, programming TV remote controls, talking to repair men, fixing computers, typing up new address lists for her bridge group, and changing light bulbs she can’t reach – and since she’s 4’8 (142cm) that’s just about all of them.

So until the next adventure… ya’ll have a good night.

Take it easy... mucho

2006-11-13T06:56:00.000Z

So me next stop after a brief touch-down (no Kerron, not the ‘hail mary to the end zone line of scrimmage’ kind) was sunny California. There is so much I could say, and want to about this absolutely beautiful time. I was there with the honor of being a best man, and I came about 12 days early to ‘help out.’ There were really two phases of that trip. Phase one was the intimate one-on-one, or one-on-two time of sharing the deep feelings of a couple about to wed: the stresses of planning, the last minute work-outs, move-outs, tanning and general soul preparation needed to embark on that kind of journey and really be aware throughout. It was a joy and privilege. I needed to be there. I am a very selfish man. I usually think that what is going on in my life is the most important thing going on, and spending that much time with people making a decision far more important than my own was very good for me… especially because I get worse during transition time.

Phase two was the magical experience of family arriving, perfect sunny weather, beach condos, best friends, bachelor party, the buzz, the madness, the perfect ceremony in a garden of Eden and the making of the best party and professed ‘best day of [the grooms] life.’ It was idyllic. It was the best kind of romantic, magical and relaxed all rolled into one weekend. But the most telltale story came on the evening of the bachelor party. Don’t worry, its rated G.

Before the scandalous night out in the hip ocean town of Huntington Beach I took the boys to the race tracks in Los Alamitos. 15 men unloaded from the 15 passenger van (our budget limo substitution – and an excellent call) and we rocked up to sus out the place. I could sense some uneasiness and some lackluster responses to the concession stand food and poorly made drinks behind the bar, but two or three down, most of the lads didn’t seem to be too bothered any longer. I settled in on the upper level for our first race and realized the ‘track’ was going to be a tough sell if we didn’t get into it. But what better way to get into it than placing a bet.

Now, I’m sufficiently broke at the moment, but I thought ‘what the hell, if I put down the first bet – maybe even go in with a few of the guys, so as to spare an embarrassingly low bet at the handicapper – then maybe it’ll get things going. So I convinced two others to put in a fiver. Aly (it should be credited to him for making the most of it, because I think he’d agree he was the least likely to be found at a horse track full of cowboys), Alan and myself had a look at the program. Blah blah blah, lots of numbers… doesn’t make any sense… whats that? Who is that? Ah ha… horse names. Aly chose our horse. Mucho Take it Easy was his name. That’s all we knew. So after embarrassing ourselves at the handicapper… (we were clearly rookies) and having been told most people bet on multiple horses for $2 or $3 – so apparently we where high rollers… or just ignorant – we settled back into our seats for the race. The smell of grass, that cool California air, the smell of our cigars… the quick fantasy I shared with myself that I was some mob member about to make bank on a fixed race… we were ready.

And then the race started, and our Mucho was out front. We (and only we) were hollering and cheering… and then the horses slowed down… we kept cheering… they stopped… our cheering got quieter: quiet enough to realize the people behind us were laughing. What had happened? The wind had left our sail… I feared that the evening would be a dud, and it would be on my head as the best man. Finally, someone said something about a sprint (we didn’t even know that every race didn’t go around the track) and then Much Take it Easy started making its way towards the winners circle. Could we have won? Excitedly we ran back to the smug woman who had mocked our ignorant betting style and presented the precious ticket. “We think we may have won something…” we said. “Its not official for another minute” she said without even glancing at our treasured ticket. So we stand back and watch funny, nonsensical numbers flashing on the screen (we now know they were odds). Finally, its official and we hand the ticket back. Ticket scanned, anxious excitement… her eyes get big… ‘Holy shit… I don’t believe it.’ We had just won $702… on a $15 bet. Turns out we randomly selected a horse with no chance of winning – with 30:1 odds – and then it won. Needless to say the energy level went up, the legend was celebrated in style and later chronicled in a rough late night jam session of spontaneous song.

No one else won anything all night.

Leaving it all behind – and computer karma

2006-11-13T06:47:00.000Z

You will know by now that I have left London – with lots of love and a great send off. I was pursuing some jobs and contacts that seemed to slip away, and it became clear I needed to head stateside to recoup and see what the next step for me might be. The world is wide open… which is exciting and fills me with excitement and feels like an uncharted voyage. However, I must confess that the thought of a new start, when London proved such a rare fit and my year there was so charmed, does fill me with some trepidation and resurgent feelings of solitude… and the hard work, persistence and dedication it takes to ‘make’ home happen. One of my guilty comforts is the technology I carry with me. I know its laddish and unromantic, but having a computer full of the faces of your life and journey, and an ipod with the soundtrack of your travels fills me with a sense of security. I had just been saying this to someone… before I lost it all.

I should back up a bit. In February of this year I was at a very formal meeting in the speakers apartments (perhaps the most regal and impressive single room I have ever been in). I helped to set up for the speaker and event held there that evening and was told by one of the members wives to ‘take anything home I wanted.’ I confess I had mixed messages about what that meant… and I chose to take the liberal interpretation and pack a bottle of the ‘House’ (its not a pun, or clever – it’s parliaments official wine) in my briefcase. You’re wondering what this story has to do with computers. Well, as I ran to catch a train with my friend Rachel (we were racing off to make quick work of the booty I’d recovered) my bag handle broke, and the wine and computer (also in the bag) went tumbling down two flights of stairs. It was the added weight of the wine (like the pirate who drowns because of the gold stuffed in his pockets) that tested the durability of my briefcase just beyond its limits. Neither seemed hurt at the time, but the computer was like an athlete who broke his neck in a game, only to be paralyzed getting into his lamborgini. So, I stole some wine (in good conscience… except for the MP who ‘caught’ me – who I still fear has a very poor impression of me), and it broke my computer.

Still, it sat relatively dormant until the Friday before I was thrust out into the unknown world of international transition again (the time when I would have needed it the most). But more bad luck came when the files I had backed up online synced with the empty computer files left in the wake of a crash. The final blow came after my brief touch down in Denver, when I realized upon repacking my bags for the California wedding that I had left my ipod (the last vestige of techy comfort), and my only backup of computer files in the seat pocket on my flight from London. In an instant I realized that all my music, pictures and many vital documents where now gone forever…

So, the moral of this Aesop fable is… don’t steal wine from the government. The funny thing is, I’m okay with all of it. I’ve had a God given calm. It comes at a pretty high cost, but I’ve been learning that… I’m still friends with the people in my pictures, and more music will always be made… so all is not lost. In fact, new friends, memories and music have followed quickly after my little disaster.

Moving on

2006-11-13T06:37:00.000Z

I’ve been receiving a high volume of complaints about my absence on the blog again. Having confessed myspace infidelity it should be said that my soul has always been bore more honestly and deeply in this forum. It takes time to tell stories, and I’ve been fortunate enough to be accumulating them. Both Rossella and Kate (two of my most faithful readers) have urged a post. So… tonight I’ll tell a couple stories.

Rain, hail or shine…

2006-08-22T20:06:00.000Z

It’s just the kind of attitude you need to attempt a Birthday pool party in sunny ol’ England. The sun was scarce, but fun was shone all around. Thanks to mom and dad for the hospitality and pumping up the heat on the pool to keep it warm into the late night for some extended hours of swim/sauna relaxation. The rain couldn’t even deter long time friend Michael Schwartz from stepping up to the BBQ (appropriately clad in towel and umbrella – and looking a little bit like Mr Tumnus to me).

Given that I gave three days notice and the party took place about an hours journey from London I was overwhelmingly surprised by the number and diversity of my guests. There was a strong American contingent, and an obvious UK presence felt… but in addition ambassadors from South African, France, Brazil, the Central African Republic, Australia, China, New Zealand and even a native North America seamless eyed wonder – all made it out for the festivities. I crashed a party attended by Prince Harry a few months back and it wasn’t nearly so well attended by this kind of international representation, so I feel humbled and honoured to be so well celebrated. Truthfully, I do feel like a king when surrounded with such a noble group of people. Thanks to you all.

Oddly, all of my gifts (save a pair of underwear with the words 'customize your ride' on them) were either wine or Chocolate... and I was begining to wonder if the generous gifts weren't some ominous sign that I would soon be going through a painful breakup - all the more difficult to understand because I'm not seeing anyone.

The party didn’t stop there however. We went late, and some of the crowd just pulled out sofa beds and mats and we had a good old fashion slumber party. For some reason we missed out on the pillow fight, truth or dare and endless games of MASH. When the morning came we just kept on going – and after a couple waffles we jumped in the car and headed to London’s Camden Town for some of the best people watching, street food, and second hand shopping this great planet has to offer. Its such an enchanting place, with a buzzing energy and raw character. To top off the night we met my after church pub crawlers at the Three Stags for a late drink before Michael and I drove home with Rubber Soul in stereo with an added two-part harmony ringing out. Thankfully the big day was then spent quietly with the family at home, recovering from the full weekend and catching up on sleep. All in all the standard for what a Birthday weekend should be.

Re:Engagement

2006-08-22T14:10:00.000Z

If you don’t know, I left parliament last month and headed up to Harpenden England to a magical little world known by its inhabitants as ‘The Oval’ but which I tenderly refer to as ‘Fort Green.’ It’s a precious place to me, guarded by an international peacekeeping/pigeon-hunting force made up of Peter Wilburg of South Africa and India’s own internationally known hero, Phillip Powell. I was there to help lead an event “especially designed to enable young people to engage with culture via a professional calling in a specific sphere of society: the arts, education, government, business, media, etc…” and to find a wife. I’m very pleased to report I achieved both my objectives. I helped to facilitate the political side of the event and lead worship. The event (Re:Engage) was a sweet time to encourage and pray with each other and just dream big dreams about changing the world. It was healthy idealism, pragmatic and inspiring, which we all need.

In regard to my second objective… Remaliah is a lovely, low maintenance, talented kiwi who I think is about my age. There’s so much I could say, its difficult to know where to begin. My shock proposal took place after/while eating one of her delicious cookies, and knowing nearly nothing about her at the time I decided that was enough… but she wasn’t so easy to win over. Never mind that ‘will you marry me?’ was probably the third or fourth sentence I had ever spoken to her. I'm sure the reader would agree that some things cut right to the heart of who we are, and what it means to be human… and warm chocolate chip cookies are one of those things. After all Love is founded on such artificial pretences these days, not on the things that matter, like cookies. She went away and thought about it (lest you think that we are rushing into anything to hastily) and three days later baked and presented me with another cookie. This one was in the shape of a heart with the word “Yes” written in bright red frosting. We haven’t set a date yet, but you can send gifts to the "Gingerbread House, 180º Drury Lane, Candy Land" – If you forget the address just remember we live right next door to the muffin man.

*It was suggested to me by a number of reliable sources that perhaps her confectionery reply to my proposal might be nothing more than friendly banter - which I'm willing to except is probably true, though it will leave my heart in crums. But you can still send presents.

Blogging Infidelity

2006-08-21T15:31:00.000Z

I've been cheating on my blogspot. Its not that I don't love my blog anymore - I do. Its just there's this other weblog that came along... and everyone knows about it, reads it, and it gets attention when you mention it in a room. My blogspot started to feel... I don't know, homely, unglamorous. I felt obligated to write in it all the time... but this new site makes me look popular by just leaving it alone. It was fun and independent. I liked the way it made me feel, even though I knew it didn't have anything to offer me, and I had nothing to offer it. We didn't have history. It started as just a passing thought, like... 'maybe I should check that option out'... but it started to taunt me and seduce me from the screen. And then my friends all started asking whether I had one or not. So soon the thoughts became a reality… and I set up an account. But I left if for months, without telling anyone about it or even filling out my profile. It didn't mean anything to me, and life with my blog seemed better. But after a while I started getting comfortable with the idea of having it... so I shared some of my feelings, favourite movies and star sign with it... and soon I had forgotten about my first, more beautiful, and more cherished weblog. Thats why I have seemed remote and absent lately.

I've been promiscuous with myspace.

My 4th of July Tea Party

2006-07-05T14:27:00.000Z

In a symbolic act of solidarity and to celebrate our triumphal revolution against the monarchy I tossed the office stash of tea into the Thames today. I felt like it was an important childish fit to assert my independence. As you can see I was a bit grim about the whole affair. My gloomy state is primarily a consequence of the relentless anti-Americanism so prevalent in the world today. I’ve had my fair share of the abuse that has no defence… none that works at least.

I don’t know if the sentiments are simply a bitterness that after a century of genuflecting to the cultural superiority of our big imperialist brother the balance of power now firmly rests in the younger adolescent cousins hands. Or perhaps it’s simply a PR failure by the US to talk about the fairly routine (though often tarnished and inexcusable) great power politics it engages in. In a time where for the first time in history the global public opinion matters, and the hegemon is asked to carry the greater burden while maintaining norms set by nations with very different responsibilities.

A recent criticism I received was the low levels of development aid as a percentage of GNI. Setting aside that government spending is about 0.2% less than the UK but private giving puts America far above any other country's giving per capita (even before Buffett donated about four years of the UK development budget in one go), its difficult to receive criticism from distorted stats, and when you feel proud of those figures – and proud of the people that I come from (even if I am a nomadic mutt). What about all the issues that people are ignorant of? Like trade and shipping. Once upon a time Britain ruled the waves, and received great praise for protecting our seas. But post-WWII it’s the US, but its a phenomena not just in international shipping, but a pricy US defence that shares technology and assures the defence of allies, freeing up budgets for the more altruistic pursuits of public healthcare and other social policy.

Still, we have failed to engage the international community, failed to explain ourselves, failed to be humble, failed to avoid scandal, abuses of power and inflicting unnecessary suffering. I hope that good will would grow in my country, in the more problematic areas of policy like fair trade, climate change and a more aggressive policy to tackle poverty. In the meantime I fear that a well intending nation is loosing its friends by its own arrogance, and ‘go it alone’ attitude while biased foreign media vents its insecurity and applies the global media rule (i.e. that true democracies criticize themselves, and America) to potentially destructive levels.

I love the poeople of England for the place and the values… and sometimes I feel like people here think that they love me despite the place and values that come with my national identity. Oh well, I hope that I can be somewhat of an ambassador and spread the American lovin’ (I do what I can) all over the Island.

That was much longer than intended. It was a great 4th. Some wonderful friends had a party to celebrate the ‘American in us all.’ I tried to represent in my cowboy hat and Jack Daniels T-shirt (provided funny enough by an Ausie who bought it in England) – and the march of American supremacy goes on.

The Gig

2006-06-08T07:58:00.000Z

What can one really say in praise of their own performance? It's times like this you need an official looking band site with links to cool pages like ‘press’ ‘gigs’ and ‘reviews’ where you can discreetly write about yourself in the third person in ways that are not unfairly flattering, but far more self aware and esoteric than your average reviewer would bother to be. You can make up long run-on sentences and say things like, “This fresh new face on the scene bursts with a crisp guitar centred sound – moving you from tears to triumphal choruses of hope effortlessly. This underrated artist exudes passion from his pores as he pours out his very soul in songs lyrically capturing the honest conversation you’ve been waiting to have all week with a taste of the touchable spirituality you missed Sunday morning nursing your hangover. So whether you’re looking to treat your mind to a few melodies of blissful escape or transfix yourself on the weighty questions of life and purpose this altruistic artist has a song for you.” Remove that third person and the narcissism and all that really means is – “I’m just a dude no one has heard of because I don’t do this for a living or even have a CD - who doesn’t have a band, singing songs about chicks, God and the world really loudly and excitedly.”

So I had an amazing time. Here are a few pics to give you taste… I didn’t take ‘em… obviously. I’d love to get up some shots of the other two talents who played beautifully and from the heart – if you have any pass them my way and I’ll post them up. It was an epic evening, relaxed and wonderful – the place was packed, mostly with friends. Becca astounded everyone in the room with her shocking talent, pitch perfect songs wonderfully crafted and full of spirit. They were wondering what an obvious pro like her was doing slummin’ with the boys. Shingy had ‘em eating out of his suave ChinAustralian hands like the charm rocker he is. I got to play all my new stuff… finishing with a joint effort Scissor Sisters ‘Take your Mama Out’ which brought at least one eager fan up onto a table, and the rest to their feet. It was a great after party, closing the place down late with many of my closest London friends around. Beautiful.

A Gig

2006-06-01T14:29:00.000Z

Just a quick note to let you know that I’ve got a very modest little gig coming up. I’m playing with (but not together) two of my dear friends with great talent. It’s a laid back songwriters circle, so we’ll just pass the guitar and share some of our own tunes. If you’re around in London and have some free time to drop by, I’d love to have you there for this intimate little showcase. I can’t promise much – but I know I’ll have fun. All needed info is on the card.

San Traviso Does Italy

2006-05-25T13:06:00.000Z

I’m officially rubbish at this blog thing. It less useful as a tool to keep ‘up to date’ with my coming and going so much as it is a place to drop in to see what I did last month. Awful. So I’ll try and add yet another broad summary and continue limping along as usual.

The weekend of May 1st I took a most epic trip with my Mom to Italy. She had just missed a vacation to Tunisia and was still feeling very much under the cloud of her father passing away, and I was feeling a bit stuck in the muck, in need of a getaway, and just under the poverty line. It so happened that my Italian roommate from my freshman year at Uni was getting married that weekend, so I booked a budget flight and arranged, and mom picked up the tab.

We hit Venice for two days before heading west to Bologna for the wedding. It was my first Italian adventure. I’ve spent very little to no time in the more common European destinations (since I usually travelled for events or some purpose rather than vacation). I was admittedly sceptical about the grounds for its popularity. No more. It was fabulous, and though my personal predilection still leans towards the grit, sand and exoticness of places like the Mid-East, I did fall in love with the place. Venice is a city like no other on earth, in part because it shares so little in common with other cities. Most cities charm is magnetically linked to its pedestrian centres, but here is a city with nothing but streets to explore without the noise or unfortunate corruption of its ancient character by the obligatory asphalt or traffic lights. I wouldn’t say its my blanket favourite, but I would venture to say it’s the best city in the world to wander – with the highest propensity for awe and simple romantic scenes. Also, I have a thing for bridges… I find them the most romantic architectural structure there is. So, Venice is good.

The wedding was equally beautiful. We spend the evening before with the surprisingly peaceful bride and groom and a few close friends, talking about Alby's sexy underwear and Elisa's inexplicable attraction to him in it. Tobi, another Uni friend I was stayin with from Germany, and I made our way to the picturesque village church the next day to see the groom greeting and kissing relatives and friends who have come fromnear and far for the special day. And though I didn’t understand a word, I’m thinking of having my ceremony conducted in Italian. Because after all my resistance of cliché romantic conceptions… Italian vows just sound the business. We then made the drive through the country (after my host and friend from Uni, Anna, took a few wrong turns, taking us past a rural strip of road with women waiting to offer services to passing truck drivers) where the reception was held in a beautiful old Villa with terrace backing to the private vineyard, whose wine and exquisite food did dances on our tongues all night.

An Arm and both Legs

2006-05-24T13:27:00.000Z

We ordered two cups of coffee in Piazza San Marco… I challenge anyone reading this to tell me they’ve ever spent that much on two cups of espresso. It works out at about $34. It was the afternoon activity – but still – thankfully I wasn’t paying… Thanks Mom!

San Traviso’s First Miracle

2006-05-23T13:28:00.000Z

I was sitting in the apartment that I stayed in while in Bologna. It belongs to another freshman year Italian friend, Anna. Mom was in a hotel while in Bologna and I crashed with the German Iron Man himself, Tobi Thomas. Legend. Before the wedding he went for a run (thank the lord I hadn’t brought my running shoes) and I stayed behind to read, and decided to make myself a cup of coffee. I opened the cabinet to see two mugs… and was presented with a minor dilemma. You see, I’m a very aesthetic person. I don’t know why I care about some of the things I do, but beautiful things sooth me, and make me feel that much is right in the word. But I am also a greedy person, and I want more… of almost everything. If there are two cookies, even if I don’t want one, I take the big one (unless I love the person who wants the other more). If there are two shirts, I want the one that cost more, because I think it must be better (thank goodness I haven’t been shopping since last summer).

There were two mugs, the large one (which would satisfy my greedy mouth more conveniently) but it was one of those trashy-looking personalized mugs with an equally ugly picture of some people on the front. But the other mug was plain (more aesthetically pleasing to me) but small… I went for the big ugly mug (no pun intended). And as I sat there reading the last few pages of Blue Like Jazz and sipping my cup of instant coffee I realised there was something pleasantly familiar about the unpleasant photograph. So familiar, I thought, “I’ve seen these people before.” And with further scrutiny I realized that there in the picture, staring back at me with cheesy grins, in a friends apartment in Bologna Italy, was my Grandma, Grandpa, Uncle, and five other people I’ve never met in my life.

Thus happened the first miracle of San Traviso.

My Italian Romance

2006-05-22T12:31:00.000Z

… her name was Rossella. We met at the wedding. She had big beautiful brown eyes, and the kind of smile that makes you blush and feel like you’ve never talked to a girl before. She asked me to run away with her to Malta. We were going to learn Maltese – she’d help me with the Italian roots, and I’d help her with the Arabic influence… and we’d take long rides in brightly painted boats out of the Valletta bay and watch the sun set and rise again having counted every star in the sky… in Maltese, and on our way home I’d routinely shock her by jumping out to swim the last kilometre in the hot early morning Mediterranean sun. She would row to shore in time to lie next to my dripping, tan, muscular body in the sand and dote on me because of my calm strength and sexiness…

… I might be slightly reading into our conversations that evening, but it was mostly implied…

Though eternal love didn’t blossom in the end, she did say one of the best things that I will take away from my trip. I told her I was travelling with my mother in Venice – since mom didn’t come to the wedding – and she immediately responded, “oh wonderful! Venice is such a romantic city” at which point I thought maybe she was being sarcastic and patronizing. But she continued, “... your first visit to Venice was with a woman that you will love until the day you die, and have loved every day of your life.” I thought it was a rather beautiful thing to say given it was our first meeting. And so it was that I had that trips greatest realisation over canapés and champagne on the terrace of the reception, sun setting over the vineyard… The highlight of my trip was travelling with the only woman that I have known even longer than I’ve been on this earth. The real 'love' story was the companionship, fun, and new friendship that I’m finding increasingly in my adulthood with my mom. As fun as wild romance and far off Mediterranean Islands would have been, it was perfect as it was… and I wouldn’t have been there with anyone else. We’ve never had a trip together like that before, and it’s exactly how I’d want to see romantic Italy for the first time if I could do it again. We make good wandering buddies, and I like that.

Bear cub Bean Bladder Bendy Boy

2006-05-08T19:09:00.000Z

Ahhh… and then there was Nick. Bear Cub, because he’s little furry, and playful – and I’ve always called him that. Bean bladder… for obvious reasons. He takes more trips to the lieu than the world coffee drinking champion. And Bendy Boy because he’s always got his head turned backwards and down by his feet somewhere. Nick cruised into town after a whirlwind tour of Europe with his sis (by the way they lost their camera, and in the technological age we live, if anyone reading this was also touring Europe during the 3-12th of April check your photos for these two in the background and send the pics to me so I can pass them on and have documented proof of their trip).

We had an epic week (nearly two) over Easter rocking the London/Cambridge/Hitchin scene.

Nick is the most visibly alive man I know and the most genuinely seeking person I have ever met. Daring words… but true. I’ve been unusually surrounded with amazing people and I love all of them for all kinds of reasons. I love Nick for his bursting life and seeking heart. It’s a visible thing with Nick… which makes him the most haphazard evangelist – he was stopped on the tube (if you’re from London you'll know well that nobody stops to talk on the tube… people avoid eye contact like everyone on the train is ‘Blind Pew’ ominously forecasting their demise with the ‘black spot.’) by a woman who ‘had to tell him that his eyes were beautiful and captivating.’ And I don’t think she was sharking, because her boyfriend was standing there nodding as she told him.

When I’m with Nick I feel like the day is a blank canvas, untainted by the colours of the last day and its like making art when we get to spend time together. We can play like little boys or delve into the depths of our dark soul issues… always looking for the most direct path to truth, and always mindful of the natural beauty around us. Its refreshing… and I never feel embarrassed about not conforming to the nonchalance of the world (Nick is a muse for the revolution), because he’s tracking – if not leading me towards more outward appreciations of the things we often try and be to cool to notice.

He’s always been like one of the family. In fact, if he didn’t have his eye on a foxy Californian blonde I’d try and get him to wait for Tina.

Nick also made his London music debut at the Stage Door, where I’ve hit a couple open mic nights to check out the local talent and lend a yankee sound bite to the mix. Nick and I conceived the great idea of plugging him into the show by taking advantage of his soprano sax skills. I was finishing up a new song, and we thought we’d try to work something out. We nailed down what we were told was an alto sax – which turned out to be a tenor – with about as many war wounds as the characters from Saving Private Ryan. We actually glued one of the pads back on with a glue stick to make it work. After considering abandoning the dream of playing to together in London, we crashed on with what turned out to be an amazing performance by the talented Bear Cub himself. Sadly, no pics 'cause they are lost with the camera. The night was buzzing with a fun nervous energy and the sweet nostalgia of a last hurrah before he headed back to Rancho Cucamonga, CA.

You’re missed my little legendary friend.

Ancient art forms

2006-05-04T14:50:00.000Z

I am so far behind on this blog I feel like starting at present would be a better idea. But my insatiable desire to please everyone prompts me to include every wonder-filled moment. My second guest to pass through – now about a month ago was Richard. I’d love to tell the whole tale, but I shouldn’t now. More photos should come but, alas, they are still undeveloped.

Richard is an amazing man. He can do more things, better than almost anyone I know. In one of our long conversations the comment was made that he is into Ancient Art Forms. He is the closest thing I know to a modern day renaissances man. He’s the kind of guy who teaches himself Latin so he can read Aquinas. He’s having his boys take fencing…. need I say more. And as he said, “I married the perfect woman” who was gracious enough to let him rock and roll with me while she chilled with their three little boys. I love ‘em. He is blessed with many gifts, but the fine pallet is perhaps my favourite. He spent much of his time instructing me on wine, cheese and the finer culinary arts he is so apt at.

But our friendship is deep and it was perfect that he was here when my grandfather passed away. I don’t know what I would have done had he not been here. We also got to do my favourite thing in the world, lead worship… he’s a legend and we had an epic time of worship… it hit the spot.

Some of you may know that I have grown to love Borough Market more than any other place in London. I love it there. But Richard makes it an even better experience, because he teaches me about what I’m seeing, and helps me see the potential in all the food. One of our many topics of conversation was about heaven, and that it must be something like this market, with smells and flavours and tastes that overwhelm you to such a degree you want to come back day after day (so we went twice).

And our gorgeous times have made me think even more about heaven. My thought is this. If heaven is a place with unlimited pleasures, where things are more real than on earth and the variety greater… then perhaps that is the perfect explanation for why we have so many unrealized dreams in life. That is to say, that which is created is deeper, more, fuller, richer and longer lasting than anything we can ever get our heads around… so God has graciously given us forever to try and sort it out. We get a taste of a few things while we’re earth bound, like my weekly visits to Borough Market… but knowing the taste before it touches your tongue… that only comes with time – just like the passions inside me to do more than I will ever be capable of in one short life. The older I get the less focused I am, as I feel like I discover new gifts, interests and desires with passing days, not less. Is that because each day I get closer to heaven?

Hmmm… More on heaven later.

Longest day

2006-04-16T13:03:00.000Z

First things first. Its been a bit since I was last on, and the last few weeks have been phenomenally busy. We’ve been absolutely crazy with some epic days with a barrage of visitors. First international guest and loved one was Maria, who came into town, mainly to see another friend from University – but she was gracious enough to pretend I was a priority, and we had the longest day ever.

It makes sense that it was a long day, since it began at about 4:30 for me. I was up really late – making about a three hour night and up to retrieve Maria from Heathrow at 6:30 or so – but tube times and all made me almost an hour late, as I sat dozing at a central station waiting for the first train to come through. But it was a sweet reunion. I forget how incredibly fortunate I am to have such stellar friends… actually I don’t really forget. I remember all the time, and in the last three weeks I’ve been extraordinarily aware of that richness in my life.

We dropped off the bags and headed out for a latte and a gorgeous walk around Borough Market… moving along to a nibble and a stroll along the South bank to Tower bridge and back via St Pauls and the Tate Modern. We were met by the most beautiful little surprises. As we strolled along I could hear what I thought was someone blasting symphony music in loud speaker, but as we walked on it became more clear we were hearing something live. It turned out to be a huge tent with the London Philharmonic Orchestra playing some Tchaikovsky, Dvorak, Prokofiev's Romeo and Juliet, and a soul swooning rendition of O Sole Mio… epic. I wanted to dance… I wish I had. But I guess I thought it was about as romantic a moment as two friends could share without getting twitterpated, and a waltz would have put my emotional high over the edge (sometimes I can keep the c-bomb in check... tick tock tick - only two people in the world know what this parenthesis means).

We saw most of the city that day, went home for a short kip and hit Soho for Chinese food and Arabic smoke… it was full and fun. I could go into even greater blow by blow detail, but what struck me was this reacuring theme I’ve brought up in many posts - of perspective. I’m convinced that a thankful heart is perhaps the best state of mind a God-centered human can have. It was great to reflect with someone who I haven’t seen in a while on the freshness of my perspective these days. I feel more mindful and pluged in, and its mostly about thankfulness, and this revolution against nonchalance. I do have to admit, good food, soul food, sunshine and a personal symphony performance do make thankfulness easier. I hope its not just a phase. But if it is… I’m making the most of it.

Goodbye Grandpa

2006-04-05T22:03:00.000Z

I don't know if its crass to share this deeply in a blog... it almost seems unfitting. But many of you knew my grandpa, and I can't be present to share my thoughts in person. So excuse the seriousness of this post. My grandpa, Hugh Bunnell passed away last Thursday. This is the only picture I have with me, its in his last months - with the loving woman that he spent 62 years with. The following words are some intimate memories and feelings I shared with my family. I hope it honours him to share them. Today is his funeral, and I’m alone, a long way away. So I guess this is part of my remembering and grieving.

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Experiencing someone through your senses matters… its how we know them and how memories are burned into our hearts and heads. Little memories… Smells like his cologne on Sunday, sounds like the rattling ice in his milk glass as he shuffled down the hall and the sight of him sitting contented in his chair while the action buzzed on around him – so familiar - and I’ll miss them very much. I’m in London, and Grandpa was there in Denver, but I felt lonely when I heard… because I know the time has closed on experiencing a relationship with Grandpa in terms of senses, and only memories are left.

Its funny that in the first few hours of hearing about Grandpas death I found myself feeling all the clichés that one hears, but thinks you’ll have something more profound to think, feel or say. “I wish I could have seen him one last time - wish I had said more on the phone yesterday - I didn’t realize how much I’d miss him until he was gone - its seemed so sudden.” All are true, and writing anything in his honour is hard, because “no words can express how I feel.” But there are some great moments and thoughts that I will try and hang on to. And if I was with you all now, I’d have lots more things to say. I’m feeling lots of regret that I can’t be there with you. I miss you all and love you. Most of my memories about Grandpa are intrinsically connected to memories with you.

I guess I’m really lucky that Grandpa is my first loved one to die. I don’t like it. I never met my paternal Grandpa, so Grandpa was always like the family patriarch to me. He was strong, and always did outlive the doctors prognosis. Strong and determined, as if when he said that he wouldn’t go till he was “damn good and ready,” he really had some say in the matter. And in many ways I feel like Grandpa was the one in front of us all, leading the way, protecting me even… because when you’re growing up and there are two generations in front of you, the world seems safer, and when Grandpa died, I immediately became aware that time is the only thing separating us from death. Almost like he was staying off death for me to.

I nearly didn’t get through last week on his birthday… the line was busy all day, and I was going to try one last time. I’m so glad I got to say goodbye, less than 24 hours before he left this material world. He didn’t have much strength. I was so used to talking with him when he felt ill. But this was one of the few times he didn’t even mention the pain or complain… his voice communicated that it hurt, and I have never felt more sad hanging up than I did that night. He asked how I was… I said “trying to make you proud” to which he responded “oh, I’m already very proud of you. You just keep doin’ what you’re doin’.” I never felt once in all the years, even when he got mad, that he wasn’t proud of me. We both said “I love you” a few times, more than just the once that is usual… and usually it means something more like “okay then, time to go” but this time it was like I didn’t know what more to say, and neither did he, but we wanted the other one to know how we felt anyway. I think we both knew… but it felt right to say it. Just a few hours before we spoke I was telling someone how he used to pack us up in the Cadillac and how much I loved the smell, the feel of the seats, and the pride I had that my Grandpa took me to the “officers club.” It sounded glamorous to an 8 year old. I wish I had reminded him of the memory that had made me so happier earlier that day.

He wasn’t perfect, and I never was delusioned to think he was. I knew he had a temper and discovered it while skipping along the bank of the fishing pond, after repeated warnings, and tripped on the fishing line he was baiting. He snapped and told me to “stop monkeying around.” And then turned so I wouldn’t see him pull out the hook I had lodged into his hand. I guess he didn’t want me to feel bad. I loved going fishing with him… and the moment I loved was when I slowed down to his pace, finally sat down next to him on the bank and could enjoy the stillness on the pond… that moment just before sunset and we headed home was the best. I’m so glad he was active when I was young.

When I worked in his back yard, he was meticulous and firm, but fair and would leave something cold sitting on the step whenever I came in from the sun. He knew how to work hard, and he made me want to be a hard worker.

He painted me a picture… and I was so proud of it. He gave so much of his time to making me happy.

I will miss those memories – and some of the lessons he taught me, but to be honest, even they feel like they’re fading like an old reel of film played over and over – and now they are fuzzy images, but still sweet.

But the one that stands out to me is recent. I think its perhaps my favourite, and it really hit me earlier today. It brings tears to my eyes to think of it now.

A couple years ago I was up from school for one of my visits to get fed and stocked with groceries to take back to the dorms, and before I left I went to find Grandpa. He was in the back yard watering the lawn. He moved the sprinkler and came back to his old nylon and metal frame chair and his big glass of whiskey in one of those ugly glasses with the ribbon design on them. It was late afternoon and I sat down next to him, sitting there in his hiked up shorts and shirtless to display the all the scars he got from “Grandma beating him.” He was doing that breathing thing where he pursed his lips and let out short bursts of air. Slowly, as I sat there and my heart slowed it seemed like the rhythm of his breathing, the sprinkler and my heart beat were all keeping the same time. He just said one thing… “I sure do like watching the sprinkler water the grass.” That’s all. And it made me stop thinking about homework, my job, my worries and relationship problems for the moment. It sounded content, and for some odd reason, wise. I took off my shirt and hiked up my extra long shorts… and we sat there, watching the sprinkler… its more interesting than you would think, and its beautiful in lots of ways. We simply sat there on the back porch of the most average house, in the most average neighbourhood, watching the most mundane activity on the most typical sort of sunny afternoon – an old man and his grandson… and I learned something in those few minutes of sitting with him about seeing things simply… and about taking time to notice the beauty of those simple moments… the things that are worth noticing. It was emotive at the time, and I knew that was a special moment for me. Like one of those instants of perspective, standing on a tall mountain or in front of the sea… enjoying the passing of time, and feeling like part of life and the passing of time. It wasn’t the last time we watched the sprinkler together, but it was the first and best… he later explained that he liked it because if felt good to water something that was growing and make it beautiful and alive… even though the grass didn’t serve any purpose. It was the joy he got bringing it life. He always tended to things well, I think. But the thing that I feel affected by now was just the content, quiet, and the safety I felt sitting there, feeling a moment with my grandpa deeply, and staring at the water dripping on each blade of grass.

Today I took a long walk way over on this side of the pond… I walked over a field that was so big and slanted up away from me that it disappeared over the horizon. It had just rained and there were millions of blades of grass dripping in the sun, just like that afternoon. And I felt so full of life, and I felt fuller to experience that moment of life – with the backdrop of his life and death. I wished he could enjoy it, and then felt a rush of peace like the one I felt sitting next to him on the back porch, and really believed deep down, that whatever beautiful thing he is enjoying now, its even more wonderful, real and timeless than the moment I will cherish in my mind.

I could go on, but that’s long enough. I will miss him so much, and miss you all very much in this really difficult time. Its sad sitting here alone, in front of the fire in the middle of the night, but it warms me more than the fire to know that you’re together sharing a meal, supporting each other, and honouring Grandpa with your own sweet memories.

I’ll miss you Grandpa. Thanks for protecting me for so long. Thanks for helping me appreciate sprinkler moments. Until we meet in the perfect place being planned for us, goodbye.

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The last few weeks have also been a great time of life and celebration. I'll share more of that next time.

What I am Doing Here

2006-03-23T00:27:00.000Z

Loads. Its busy lately - inside and outside of work - but I'll talk a bit about work and share some photos of other activity later in the week. I had to get the work moan out of the way, not for me… but because I think its good when we all realize to some extent that we’re all looking for purpose and meaning in our vocation… even amidst great opportunities.

For instance… it didn’t change the world, but I got to represent Andy at a meeting last week. Its not glamorous, but it was a great learning experience… embarrassing is a bit more like it. At about 2:15pm I walked back into the office after lunch, and Andy asked if I could sit in for him at a meeting. I’ve had some one on ones with various people now, but in some way that was easier because I knew what I was going to talk about… what Andy thought, etc… but this was a meeting with a panel of the Health and Safety board for trains, and I was supposed to make sure they knew we were unhappy, because our constituents were unhappy, because the trains are loud… and its keeping people awake all night, loosing sleep, can’t perform at work– and the spiral goes downward.

But I didn’t know a thing about it, and I had about 10 minutes until the meeting. I’m already at a disadvantage being American (and not just because of that fact) but I don’t even know the whole “train lingo.” We just don’t do trains, and so I felt inadequate. Theres all these rolling stop, sounding boards, various noises that everyone else would have heard but me. In the end, that wasn’t what embarrassed me at all.

I stopped outside the door of the meeting. Puffed my chest out, convinced myself to convince them I was confident and walked in. A few MPs sat around the table, but I didn’t know one from the other, so I found what I thought was an inconspicuous seat in the middle (but to the left) side of the long rectangle table. I introduced myself confidently to the MP who arranged the meeting as “sitting in for Andy because he’s in committee” So far so good. We start the formal introductions and in about ten seconds its clear that I’ve made a rather obvious mistake. I realize that I’m sitting in the middle of the panel presenting the information to … me … but I didn’t know who any of the people in the room were, so my fate was decided on bad luck and a lack of acquaintance with the players around the table. So... I was stuck. I knew it was going to get worse if I stayed, but now I was too scared to move. Fortunately one of the MPs presents sensed my disease and in a very grandfatherly, albeit patronising, sort of way asked if I would be more comfortable on the other side of the table. Sheepishly, I accepeted the offer.

But I get all sorts of great opportunities. Its not just shuffling paper. Monday I got told off publicly (in front of the Arch Bishop of Canterbury) for sitting on a 1000 year old table in the Speakers Apartment. Well, the guy next to me was sitting on it, and I was just guilty by association. But the point is that I was at a meeting with the Arch Bishop of Canterbury, which is amazing. And I was in perhaps the most regal room I’ve ever set foot in. I get to write letters about things I care about and have my boss sign his name on them (which is good, because theres no real reason to listen to me). Its amazing really, if I stop to think about it, instead of being impatient with the progress. Well… its late and that’s all for now. I’ll get some pictures up soon.

What am I doing here?

2006-03-23T00:11:00.000Z

How do you know when you’re not were you should be, or that you should be where you’re not?

For the past five days I was supposed to be in Brussels, for a few days to play, and then a few days of meetings and some very exciting opportunities to meet members of the European Parliament, and get a window into the EU, which I must admit I know very little about. So I was really stoked for the opportunity to learn. But, as many of you know I’ve had a visa nightmare… in fact last night I awoke in a sweat from ghastly pictures in my mind of pasty white old men in bowler hats, monocles and trousers far to short for their gangly legs laughing sinisterly (but politely) as they placed my passport into a time capsule (along with other modern British paraphernalia like a steam engine train, Harold Wilson’s pipe and the Magna Carta) and buried it in an undisclosed location… never to be seen again. So instead of a six day learn and play expenses paid trip to Brussels, I got more cloudy weather and a utterly disturbing dream. This Island does feel smaller when you can’t leave it (for those of you who don’t know the back-story, my passport has been held up for ages in the painfully slow bureaucracy – and I’m stuck till they dig up the capsule).

Of course I love it here, and there are far worse places to get “stuck” but there seems like a bid differnce between not free to go and being free to stay. And with the year flying by I’m starting to wonder about my purpose here, and what purpose I’ll have when I leave. It’s a bit early to think about… in my mind, because I’ve always preferred keeping my options open and acting fast when the right opportunity arises. But I don’t know what that is… and… well… I’ll talk more about “whats next” some other time. I’ve been thinking a lot about why I’m here to start with. Its been amazing, but not easy. Not that I’ve been driven like slave at work, quite the opposite. More often than not, I’m trying to create work for myself, and I get the feeling a lot of people do that around here (in politics I mean). If you haven’t yet, read Holly and Bens Blog. I love them… lots… but I spoke with them the other day and they were talking about how powerless they feel. Sitting in my seat the look like the ones with the real influence, and apparently visa-versa. Don’t get me wrong there is something to be done in this place, but sometimes I feel like most of what I participate in is this grandiose shuffle of paper, where lots of people spend lots of time researching and articulating huge world problems (and minor local ones) and the people who sign, respond and have the authority barely have time to glance at them. So… is it worth me raising the profile of Uganda, persecuted Christians, poverty, famine, trafficking, genital warts, flesh eating disease and so on with someone else’s researcher? I do believe that it is… most days. I’m learning a lot every day. But its discouraging when you realise that “this is it… where it is all meant to happen.” Power and influence… but mostly you have a bunch of individuals trying to keep their heads above water… and when you deal with all the pressing issues, there’s little energy for the ones that matter (or matter to me). So I’m wondering what I’m doing here, or if the “next” thing will look like it at all.

Revolutions and routines…

2006-02-08T00:20:00.000Z

Once again, a long absence has made the thought of recounting the happenings of the last month that much more daunting. I haven’t not written for lack of material, rather the opposite. Lots has been going on, and its been a joy to be working and living in this great city.

Although the last month has been busy, its been deprived of celebrity spottings, serendipitous run-ins with mysterious women or even road trips. But I feel pretty full in the best sense of the word. I feel like I’ve been active, but not overwhelmed, busy but not stressed out, full but not bursting.

Life is becoming more routine, and it’s a darn good routine. My daily commute into Westminster by bus, bad Parliament coffee on the way to the office and opening the days mail while chatting to Kerron, Dave and James while scanning online newspaper headlines for points of interest is now casual and comfortable.

But the routine is become part of all areas of life. I’m now a proud commercial sponsor for Actimel, and its beneficial effect on a healthy start to the day. I get cheap organic vegetables delivered every Monday morning and use it to cook for myself three or four times a week, have guys night on Thursday, run two times a week, stretch and do pushups on the off days and play indoor footy with staff and MPs every Tuesday before work. I’m making random activities and outings part of the routine as well. I’m going to Museums, even alone if no one is around, and using my newfound energy and routine to motivate my seeing London. In the last month I’ve enjoyed exhibits and permanent displays at the V&A, Natural History Museum, British Museum and National Gallery, been to see “You Never Can Tell” (an amazing play by Shaw – as a Christmas gift from my kid sister Tina), and moved my parents to a new home.

Its been very busy, and the routine helps me get more done… but I’m conscious of a fine line. Because routines can bleed out the wonder, leaving your everyday experiences devoid of life – even though their very purpose, when intentional is to get more out of it. As you may recall, in one of my first few posts I mentioned a revolution of sorts. The revolution against nonchalance – which I would be very happy to re-brand as something “for” rather than “against” but I’m not sure what the antonym is, or at least I’m not satisfied with the ones suggested (passion, elation, delight, life). The dictionary (I just checked) says anxious… which may insinuate that I’m not using nonchalance correctly, but irrespectively the “Revolution for Anxiety” is less than galvanizing… “come on everyone, follow me to high blood pressure”… isn’t exactly an inspiring rallying cry. I can already see the end - which is a bad way to begin a revolution. The revolution would be quelled by government agents administering a large scale distribution of valium (a safe and legal drug that chills you out and makes everything funny) … and then the faithful few remaining trying to reignite the people by handing out bottles of Zoloft to a comatose crowd of overdosed zombies.… I was thinking of something a bit more natural.

The revolution is about not becoming lackadaisical about life, or getting tired of anything. And routine threatens that because if you don’t do the everyday stuff in some state of wonder –which takes effort – then the vehicle for getting more from life, becomes the pain in your butt cross country road trip, where you fall asleep in unmentionable places. The revolution is about doing all those cheesy things we all get crap junk emails about (singing in the rain, chasing butterflies, and living like every day was your last, because… after all life is not measured by the breaths that we take, but by moments that take our breath away) and all that blarney. Its about doing what is different, because it makes that moment more memorable. Its about fighting a system that says, 'to not enjoy something too much, is to be cool. To accept the infinite as commonplace is to be respectable and to become nonchalant about our routine (no matter how wonder-filled our life is) demonstrates you are satisfied with life as it is' – but then you stop... living.

I know it sounds like childish nonsense, and I agree it does, in theory. But in practice I think it’s the way of the future. And I’m not there yet, but pressing on... A very dear friend said something that wounded me deeply last week. I was being very childish and dancing around playing air guitar and pulling silly faces and making a proper fool of myself. And the friend (who I’ve completely forgiven) said, “why do you always have to make such an exhibition of yourself?” with a very straight face. Admittedly, it crushed me at first, and I made some sardonic remark about how art is on display at exhibits, and if he was watching, my life must be like art…

Being hurt by such things show how uncomfortable I am with the revolution… it’s the “first person to dance at the junior-high dance” syndrome… and it is vulnerable to do the thing that makes us stand out. It takes more effort. Which is why I think its difficult to accomplish. And so I’ve tried to pull people into the revolution… there are a few on a text message list that I text when I see something that strikes me as particularly beautiful, and would, under normal circumstances, pretend I don’t notice. If you get more people on the dance floor your self-conscious dance moves aren’t quite so vulnerable. I was sensative to my friends comment because I'm painfully aware that you usually are preceived in one of two ways when you act in this way: one, you look crazy (which I'm less concerned about - and is not as commone as the second response). Two you look like you're trying to draw attention to your effervescent way of life in a hauty sort of way. Like, if you really wanted to just stand on the sidewalk and feel the sun on your face (as I did this morning), you'd do it in such a way that people thought you were looking at something, not obviously just enjoying the warm rays.

Let me give you two great examples from the last couple weeks from my own revolutionary journey. One, I went whale watching on my lunch break. Yep – I really did. It was very cold. Most friends said it wasn’t worth the cold – and we wouldn’t see the whale anyway (if you’re a Brit –by now you know what I’m talking about – if not a whale made it into the Thames and made a big splash in the media – and it all ended in tragedy). We didn't (but I got a photo for you to enjoy). But thats not the point. You don’t go watching because you have to see it, but because its better to go whale watching, freeze, and not see anything than to report on your day that you had an egg salad sandwich. So, myself and Rach A – you legend – went whale watching in the Thames. What did you have for lunch?

The second example is that – it may surprise you to know – theres a HUGE laser in the sky! In Greenwich, the Prime Meridian Observatory has a big green laser that shoots through the sky, and on a rain-snow-crap London weather day, it is visible for as far as the eye can see when standing at its source. And not only that, but in one step you can cross from East to West, or stand at zero degrees longitude. That sounds so geeky on screen, but if you stood under it, with even the slightest glint of revolutionary spirit – it would rock you… Conversely, you could say ‘its just highly concentrated light marking an unimportant invisible line of an outdated mapping system established by an imperialistic colonial power’ and that ‘time can be tracked in any location – making this particular point irrelevant, so it really just serves as a relic to an outdates superpower that still wants to believe it’s the center of the world.’ But you know what I say to that?… Viva la Revolution!

The Holidays Abridged

2006-01-05T03:01:00.000Z

So much to tell… There simply isn’t the time to make up for all the stories wanting to be told. I’ve ate, drank and made merry over these past holidays, honing my skills as a gastronome so much that even my over zealous metabolism hasn’t triumphed over a few holiday pounds. Each day merits a few profound words or funny remarks, each unique person who shared this season with me deserves an essay marveling at their wonderful humanness and the quiddity that makes them as they are. But because the time has long past for these stories I am obliged to entrust my confidence in whatever truth lies in the cliché that a picture paints a thousand words. So I’ll be weightier on photos, and leave the stories till I see you. I’m putting in some thoughts I may have jotted down or to give an overview or context. Still, this is likely to be the longest post of all time. In order then:

Christmas Season

What a lovely Christmas we had here. All the vital ingredients … family, a cozy home with familiar decorations and food to satisfy every craving. But I think my feelings about this Christmas can be summed up in a toast I gave on Christmas night. We were sitting down to a very lovely dinner as a family after a long walk through the magic of the bluebell woods. It was a time of good conversation, not about trivial matters or simply day to day occurrences, but deep, meaningful and enriching conversation. And as I raised a glass of excellent Rhone wine I toasted my family, that “we have more than family together, we have real fellowship.” We have all the great family connection, love and respect and all that, but we also have deep soulish sharing as a cornerstone of our relationship. And I felt a lot of that over the week I spent with them this Christmas, and that was what dominated our days together. I’m very grateful for that.

Apart from that we put our underwear on our heads (as is the family tradition), accidentally walked into the wrong midnight service, and consequently found ourselves ducking out of the Midnight Mass to race around the corner to the Anglican service, mom giggling as we ran. We had great meals and games with the Green family, which is a great family to spend time with on any occasion, but especially fun to share such precious holiday moments with them.

More thoughts and photos on Christmas in my last post.

New Years Eve

Could have been a disaster or at least uncomfortable. There was meant to be a converging of friends from all over the place/globe on the city of London for a big night out. Instead, last minute pull outs and a few flakes and it was just me and Natalia (now friend, but once girlfriend) with nowhere to stay, no transportation and no plans. We both admitted this was a bit unusual, and potentially painfully awkward for New Years (But the awkwardness was thankfully absent and Davids company was a perfect addition). We sought out a place to go, and found that the local pub would be serving up a mad “Bugsy Malone at the Moulin Rouge” theme party. It was close – and there was a transit strike on, so it mattered. Very happily we picked up a stray, whose rock star presence made the night for me. David, missing his lovely wife, who was dancing all night on a beach in India in the middle of an intensive three week yoga teaching tour, accepted my invitation and we all met up in our most convincing costumes in the (normally good for an after-work pint and Thai) Falcon, which had been transformed for the night… rather convincingly, I thought.

Memorable Moments of the evening.

David literally breaking the ice by tipping the Vodka ice luge over the back of the bar (if only the camera was poised for that one). Two gay men deciding I was an appropriate furniture fixture to lean up against in order to get better lip-force connection… whatever. David’s red champagne – compliments of the count down confetti. Natalia being bitten by David. Natalia being burned by man with cigarette who then stuck her hand in his mouth to “help.” Dancing, costumes, laughs, reading David’s text of unbelief that he did in fact smash the ice luge the next morning… and champagne. Happy New Year… if how you usher in the new year is any indication of the year to come – its gonna be weird… it will be a glorious year of strange encounters, slightly awkward situations turning out alright, unabashed fun, great friends… and an occational advil.

That just about brings us up to speed. I’ve been laying low and gearing up for work, which I am very excited to get back to after a nice long break. I know I didn't leave stories out, but sometimes I make a novel out of a moment, so this was the abridged version. Oh yes, I should also add that I had a rocking time down with Dr. Dave and Kerron in Leatherhead in between Christmas and New Year. It was an epic time, offering comfort to Dave in footy mourning and having some great guy time. Kerron, being the rediculously faithful blogger that he is, has two post on the event you could check out - he likes the site hits anyway. The footy and rest of the day here, and his uncomfortable post about sleeping with me here.

Christmas night musings and Photos of the Bluebell woods

2005-12-25T23:46:00.000Z

Merry Christmas to all…

This year I have found myself meditating on the idea of Christmas Eve. The night before, the darkness… still, peaceful, expectant and full of wonder. What makes Christmas Eve so different than any other night? It seems that no child is afraid of the darkness when its coming means the gateway to a morning of long anticipated magic.

And as adults we loose faith that morning will bring the vast pleasures and magic that is promised to us, don’t we? Perhaps its that we have seen darkness prevail for far to long and in our knowing and logical minds we render hope childish. When I was child and I took long trips with the family I would ask, “how long until we get there” and the answer would not be told in hours, but in Sesame Streets. This crude form of measure was all I could understand because at that age all time seemed much longer and time itself was a very elusive idea to be grasped. But my mind could measure what I knew. How much more gargantuan is the relative knowledge of an infinite father in comparison with a child and a parent on earth. There is something about Christmas that is meant to leave us longing, wondering, expecting… at least the Christmas I want to experience. I believe we were designed to experience a wonder that takes the fear out of night. Does a child lay awake on Christmas night, in fear of the evil that normally lurks under the cover of darkness? I think what children do get is expectation. They understanding longing, but long nights become short when you find rest and fall asleep. When parents tuck their children in and say, “the sooner you sleep, the sooner the morning comes” as mine always did, it may just be because the parent is tired and is hoping the child will drift off soon so they can prepare stockings and eat the cookies left out for Santa. But to the child it’s a promise that the night is not to be feared, and it has an assurance that the dark will be killed by the light and that with the light comes all the gifts that are awaiting. And in that moment all the anticipation will be relieved, not due to the logical realization that Christmas is for kids and hope is infantile, and that waiting up in the dark to catch Mom and Dad playing Santa will free them from childhood fantasies and finally let them grow up. No… the anticipation is over when they realize that it was all they imagined, and they don’t really remember the agonizing chore of falling asleep and trusting the night to mom and dad.

Peace on earth, good will toward men… a common refrain the last few weeks. But those of us who know better, know darkness. Some have seen great darkness in their lives, or in situations they've observed. Some of us make it our lives work seeking out the ails of the world, and yes, trying to fix them… but we’re still employed… because of the darkness. Today I spent a good bit of time on the phone with Holly and Ben in Uganda, a place teaming with darkness. My heart was so burdened by their stories, and yet so lifted by my hope in them. Bombs, landmines, war, child-soldiers, slavery… so many monsters in the dark. But its not just political, grand-scale evil. Its personal, emotional and close to the heart darkness that makes me doubt the coming of day sometimes. Painful breakups reproducing unexpected tears on Christmas Eve, fear of being alone, frustration at your own bad decisions, weakness in body and will, occupation anxiety… all these things make it difficult to hope for much child-like Christmas morning magic.

And I don’t want us all to fall asleep and leave the darkness of this world alone, but I do wonder if theres an appropriate analogy where we can just rest without fear, more full of hope, even though the darkness is the same as it is every night. The thing that changes about this night for kids is their anticipation of morning, their hope. Maybe the darkness wouldn’t seem so unremitting if we could latch onto some of that. After all the man that came to supposedly bring “peace on earth and goodwill toward men” also said we should be like children. Christmas was Gods humble road to introduce a child as the messenger of hope, and later as the example of faith. We can look into darkness and not be afraid. I’ve had that experience a few times as an adult, and can vaguely remember times as a child where I thought, “I should be afraid now, but I’m not.” And I think in both cases it had something to do with an earnest sense that light was still coming. My two favorite lines in Christmas Carols are these: “Long lay the world, in sin and ever pinning till He appeared and the soul felt its worth” and “The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.” Pinning... hoping... believing that the darkness won’t be that long… if we just rest in the promise of morning like children on Christmas Eve.

… and to all a good night.

CARE Bear Holiday Kick-Off

2005-12-21T01:10:00.000Z

The real kick-off, to use a grossly American phrase (or does it come from “football”) anyway… the kick-off to the season was in many ways a wonderful Christmas party with all the so-called “CARE Bears,” which must be the most demeaning name we could have self prescribed, but my mild objections went unheard, and I’m not that bothered what we’re called… because despite our silly, childish, 1980’s, cartoon, don’t-take-us-seriously-we’re-only-interns just think-of-fluffy-teddy-bears name, we’re fun. And due to some guilt and a complex about being a prophet of doom because in the 1980’s my favorite Care Bears were literally Grumpy and Sleepy – I don’t want to rain on anybodies fun by fussing about the name.

We had the greatest time together kicking off the big run up to Christmas by going ice skating in just about the most perfect setting. I was accused at the dinner table of being a braggart (for name dropping about travel locations and such), but I have to say that there are three truly great city ice skate locals, and this is one of them. The first is at the Városliget (City Park) in Budapest. And I mention this one first, because it’s the best (Real frozen lake, fairy tale castle, hot mineral springs a stones throw away… I shouldn’t have to go on). Then neck and neck we have New Yorks Central Park and the London Tower Bridge. I love it. Beautifully set in what was once the moat. I also have to admit that my best London mate Chris and I were there the week before enjoying the scenic skate and practicing up on our skills. If you read this Ryan, you would have loved it, and thanks to you I didn’t stink as bad. In fact, it turns out an outright bad skater from Denver, is actually moderate to intermediate in London. I love this city.

We had games of tag, and a bit of fun scooping and throwing ice. Unfortunately, in a moment of sheer madness I scooped up a handful of ice on a turn and without really thinking through my boyish antics, tossed the ice into the face of our dear intern director, Charlie Hoare. Utter disbelief was the look on both our faces when I did it, and I think he might want to hang my head on a spike from the Tower of London. Sorry…

We had a wonderful dinner together and went looking for a place to dance the night away, and found a great little free-entrance dive not far from the restaurant. We had a fun group dance to themes from Grease and Baywatch (standards in every dance club and bar I’ve set foot in this side of the pond), although I was later confronted that I had been “obviously exclusive” by two separate girls, about to different ladies. I hadn’t thought I was, but if I was asked to guess who I might have been mistakenly flirting with, I would have guess someone else anyway. Oh well, Christian dancing is a difficult art to master. I asked a couple blokes if they sensed anything, no… no foul. I did blatantly flirted with Auntie Margaret and held her hand when we were blithely told to get a buddy for the tub ride – and I didn’t do that with any of the other girls.

The only downside to the night was that I left my credit card at the bar. I didn’t have a dime on me, but Chris bought me a beer, and I thought I should return the favor, so rather than charging once, I just opened a tab. It seemed like the cool thing to do. I never do that… maybe once or twice in Egypt (name dropping again). I never spend enough to have a tab opened. I ordered two beers… two. One for me, and one for Chris. And when it came time to leave I did… I left, my credit card at the bar. And to be honest, the most embarrassing thing was going back the next day to close a tab of 5 pounds. If I had done something totally out of character like left drunk or taken a pretty girl home I would have had a good excuse to rush out and forget. But no, neither. I went home sober and alone, just a dunce who doesn’t open tabs often enough to remember how to close them. When I did go back they were doing renovations for the weekend, and the workman laughed at me when I told him what I’d done. When I returned the second time a few days later to finally collect the card – the manager snickered when I had to close the tab… big spender… I left a hefty tip to cushion my ego.

Ooo ooo ooompa loompa - and the thrill of humans

2005-12-20T23:21:00.000Z

I have had the serendipitous pleasure of a couple random street encounters with some very important people in the last few weeks. The first was about two weeks ago, and as I was walking home from work I came upon a humble group of people clambering about on the sidewalk with a few policemen blocking my road home. When I attempted to avoid the crowd and pass by I was stopped and told I had to wait. The annoyance was surprising, as if whatever they were waiting for was worth blockading such a large swath of sidewalk. Surely however noteworthy the expected person(s) was they could yield one small path for commuters like myself. And just as I was about to make a dash for the gap in the crowd (as there was only about five feet blocked off) an entourage of black cars pulled up and out popped Prince Charles and Camilla. I could have spat as far as they stood (which is close because I’ve never been much good at spatting) – and I’m almost completely sure that the Prince and I might have made eye contact and exchanged smiles. It was such an odd chance run in and spurred the most fascinating and illuminating conversation about he Royals later in the evening. Its something I don’t think we get at all as Americans, and gave me a more profound respect for the Brits and insight into the cultural undertones that lend the legitimacy attributed to the Royal Family.

Much more to be said about the Royal family, but in later posts because I must move on to the truly exciting encounter I had on Friday. I had crashed late at a friends and was heading back to drop off some things before heading out for the night and a man of rather understated stature walked past. He was well dressed, very well in fact, which is unusual for a 4’4’ man. And in a moment of supreme delight I realized… I know this man. Rather, I know this true 'Blue Blooded' descendant of India's Maharajah Vinepal, best known to the common man as “Every single one of the 165 Oompa-Loompas in Tim Burtons Charlie and the Chocolate Factory." It was non-other than Gordeep Roy, known as “Deep” to his friends. I was so star struck I could only gawk, which sadly he is probably used to, but I only wish I had the presence of mind to ask for a photo op or autograph. He probably thought my chin was getting road rash because of his understated stature, but it was complete and unabashed idol worship.

I’ve realized that the excitement I get from those encounters is ridiculous, and although its normal – I mean who gets to see an Oompa Loompa beside a news stand at Victoria station – but why don’t I get that rush from every brief encounter. Why don’t I walk down the street and get overcome with exhilarating joy at the site of HUMANS. “That was a man or woman” I should shout – internally so as not to scare them – but with a sense of profound awe. After all it is amazing that every person we pass on the street is infinitely valuable, with amazing stories, emotions and dreams – as well as morning breath and dirty underwear. It’s such a challenge to be pathologically swept away with a thrill of humanity. I don’t have it yet… but I want it.

Faceless city with two faces

2005-12-14T23:46:00.000Z

I have often found myself in a position of straddling two worlds, like a rodeo show cowboy with one foot on two horses. Its difficult for me to say why I find it so disquieting, but it streches me, and the lack of simplicity to fully internalize one of the worlds and make it "home" is part of it. I have heard people call London the faceless city – because its difficult to get people to look you in the eyes and smiles are rare on the streets. But it has faces, and tonight I saw two of them.

Last night after work I went along with Dr. Dave to the Parliamentary Carol service at St. Margarets chapel at Westminster. Carols are a big ordeal in England. I went to one in the Great Hall in Parliament on Monday, St. Helens in The City on Tuesday, yesterday at St Margarets and today will be attending the Westminster Chapel Carol service for all civil servants. Its really big and the more connected you are, the more caroling you do. We don’t really have a relevant equivalent in the states, and I’m enjoying this new experience. Most of the songs are familiar transatlantically but here they’re robust with pomp and ceremony – especially those on the estate. The choir last night was absolutely angelic. Their voices filled the chapel, already crowded with some of the most powerful people in the country. Scripture readings by the head of the opposition parties and speaker interspersed with Carols and Choir songs. It was lovely, albeit a touch stuffy. It was high church at Christmas, and that’s a sweet and intriguing new experience for me. But I’ve been wrestling with the different worlds that pull at me – and wrestling with the notion that ones world is “one” of the two. This world is very real – for many it’s the only world they operate in. It’s necessarily intentional. You don’t just wear a light blue tie, you agonize, scrutinize and plan every verbal and non verbal communication. You present a face that is only half yours, because its so contrived – but over time, I imagine it becomes the only way you know yourself. I don’t know where the distinguished guests went when they were ushered out before the rest of us, but likely to continue getting lost in the sea of receptions, meetings, openings, fundraisers… I slipped out the back door in my suit, tie, overcoat and black leather brief case feeling both allured by the swank, sophistication and complexity and mildly turned off by its austere reality.

On the way home I was sitting in the top floor of the bus and mulling over my place amidst the sea of smart dress and even smarter conversation and I noticed a little girl sitting two rows back. She was watching me in the dull reflection from the window, and when our eyes met I smiled – she smiled back, revealing her missing front teeth – which I then noticed matched her mothers toothless smile - and I smiled again at the likeness. She twirled her dirty pigtail and began chatting with her mom about the days happenings in a rough cockney accent. A moment later I noticed a familiar second-hand smell wafting towards me and watched as the little girls face grimaced at the smell from a man who had just lit a spliff in the back of the bus. He didn’t seem to be bothered by the disgust of the onlookers as he drew deep and blew the smoke towards the child sitting behind me. It struck me as a particularly stark contrast from the austerity and neurotic attention to others opinions from the world I had just walked out of, and maybe because of that contrast it bothered me less. I just smiled. At least he wasn't hiding anything.

Blueberry trees and Breathing Deep

2005-12-11T12:25:00.000Z

Sometimes my joy gets drowned in a compulsive striving for grandiloquence, and strain towards excellence. As if every word merits “weight” at least as much as, if not more than exuberance and lightness. I’m very often stuck in the mud of my big ideas, and attempts at becoming a real heavyweight. In fact I was just thinking the other day when I returned home, that to be a person with aspirations to affect the world in positive ways, means you are on constant prowl for all the worlds ails. And you quickly find you don’t have to look far for extreme moral and social depravity. Sometimes its just too much – and what you need is a breath of fresh air. Usually fresh air sneaks through your closed door at unexpected times. Often it comes in the form of a person. Last weekend it happened just like that.

Sitting alone in my house on Friday night I made a snap decision to just stand up and walk out the door and jump on the train and head north to Harpenden. Late night dancing at the George treated by Philip and friends was just what I needed. After a nice sleep in I cooked up a quick breakfast, and spent the next four hours sitting around the kitchen table discussing in a highfalutin manner everything under the sun. As the day wore on some came and went. And when it was time to head back to London I found that three of the DTS students Alisa, Kimberly and Rene were also heading down to do… whatever came up. I joined them for the journey and was asked along for the night out. I nearly went home, but in retrospect did the best thing I could have. Because it was the most inspiriting and revivifying night since I’ve been in London. I was a bit stuck… no, not stuck, merely grounded. And I think being grounded is noble vis-à-vis responsibility, but sometimes the "grounded" analogy more appropriately corresponds to a broken plane , and that is not good.

In our first conversation I was challenged to tell them what I did for a “breath of fresh air.” For the life of me all I could think of was a series of very intense conversations. Even my downtime has very intense overtones. Now, if you are reading, and you’ve been a participant in one of those intense discussions… I love them, and thrive on them – but we all need to let the air out of the radiator sometimes to keep it hot. And to be fair, I’m intense by nature. I blame my dad, who made me this way, and my mom, who always told me it was true – inevitably creating a self-fulfilling prophesy.

We spent the early part of the evening in a great Lebanese restaurant in Soho, and then jumped to a hookah bar off Piccadilly circus with Alex, a legend, and hopefully new friend, interspersing our stops with a wonder around Soho and Oxford street. Alex bowed out and we spent the next two or three hours making our way from Parliament Square to St. Pauls Cathedral, dancing, singing and soaking up the night as we went. Epic… and so needed. Sometimes there just seems to like theres something lodged in your chest, and it breaks free and enables you to fully inhale rich moments of life uninhibited, and it makes for magical moments that can only be explained by Gods overly abundant spoiling nature.

I can’t really even pinpoint what it was about the night that was so freeing. The company had a lot to do with it. London itself was also in rare form. Each of them (or you if you read this) have an almost impish but at least legendary character. Theres seems to be enough energy and adventure in you for about ten lifetimes. Its light, refreshing and edgy. Conversation was deep without being heavy. Every beautiful detail of the evening and the city was noticed by someone, almost every crazy idea was acted on as quickly as it was proposed. Like lying down in the middle of the bank by the Thames and staring up at into trees lite up with indigo lights like florescent blueberry trees… Laughing outrageously as one passerby stopped to see if we were okay. She came over with the most concerned look to check on the “bodies strewn about in the street. But so long as you’ve got a pulse and you’re laughing its okay.” According to here friend she makes a habit of trying to "take home people off the street.”

The girls had planned on staying up all night and watching the sun rise in Hyde Park, but as the evening wore on, it became increasingly clear that the cold would either drive them home, or else some shelter was needed for the coldest hours of the night. So I found some room in the inn - even though we already had guests at my house. In fact they usurped my bed and put me on the floor – much to the amusement of my housemates who were understandably skeptical when they poked their heads in my door to say goodnight and saw three smiling female faces in my bed, but their initial uneasiness was abated when they saw my makeshift bed made up on the floor.

Sometimes I guess that kind of unexpected sequence of events can come together to simply make for an epic evening - what a great time to kick back and enjoy the blue lite trees on the south bank and have a sincerely needed breath of fresh air.

Pass at last

2005-12-07T11:02:00.000Z

Today, at long last, so-called security clearance was granted this nomad of ill repute with an unconventional taste in “vacation destinations” over the course of my life, and I was bestowed a pass with all the rights, authority and privileges that lie therein. I am now free to wonder the beautiful halls of Parliament unchallenged and unaccompanied. No more slightly awkward buddy trips to the loo for me. I can come and go as I please. Still, I will miss the daily frisking ritual. It had become nice human contact and interaction on a cold winter morning.

It is a tremendous relief to be sure and I’m looking forward with great anticipation to the newfound freedom. I am especially grateful to those who helped in so many ways, either escorting me from one place to another or making frequent coffee runs on my behalf (as well as generally trying to help me avoid deportation). We conducted a formal ceremony in the office to commemorate the momentous occasion, and today I began the long road towards debt repayment for assiduous coffee purchases on colleague’s credit. In accordance with the G8 summit, I have formally requested a debt cancellation up to 80 percent to ensure that I have every fair chance to establish sustainable levels of economic growth.

Thanksgiving thank goodness…

2005-11-29T00:37:00.000Z

There is a lot to be thankful for this. For one it is such a joy to have the family nearby. I took off work early last Thursday and got on a train north for the day. After a brief squall, which turned the pitch into a proper mud bath, we (myself and about 300 million other hardened athletes representing at least a dozen nations) had a illustrious game of “American”-Football on the oval. It was humorous more than once shouting down an over eager “foreigner” to the game who would pick up an incomplete pass and run for dear life… in just about any direction that suited them. The teams were huge, the weather was crap, the skill was low and the game was awesome. A perfect Thanksgiving day treat.

I’ve included some pics. I have some great video from the game, but can’t figure out how to get it up on the web. If any readers have a clue drop me a note. How cute is this little girl stealing a swig of wine… So cute I let her drink the whole bottle, that’s how cute. Obligatory turkey carving shot and chatty ladies also included.

The meal was superb, and the cooks in perfect form. The whole spread was out there, and I enjoyed a feast with Mom, Dad, Tina, new friends and old. There was too much food, a massive stack of dishes and kids trying to eat their weight in candy. What more could you ask for on Thanksgiving… the answer is a football game. I jetted back to London that night to enjoy the Bronco-Cowboy nail-biting game for a fantastic overtime victory to my home team by the 3 point spread I predicted before the game. SATISFACTION at its best… and it was only 3:30am when I dragged myself to bed to sleep off the turkey high.

The only thing that could top such a divine Thanksgiving meal is… another one on Friday. It was feast of equal proportions with some of my dearest friends in London, David and Lia. They are such a blessing in my life, and bring a richness to every interaction I have with them. Superstars… truly.

On my way home, sadly, there was a less than brilliant surprise waiting for me. I turned onto my road and started down the long stretch to my house when I noticed a small group of men walking on the opposite side of the street. Its strange how intuition seems illogical, because they struck me as trouble at first glance. One crossed the road onto the sidewalk in front of me and the others quickened their pace down the same side. As I got closer I made eye contact and just before I would have passed him I got the ever so popular south London greeting I have come to love and adore. . . “Skunk weed? You want skunk weed?” I muttered my standard, “oh yes please sir, may I have some more” and we got roasted right then and there… well not exactly. I declined (as usual) at which point he stepped into my path and blocked the way. When I tried to sidestep casually, he started to grab me - the other men had by this point crossed behind me and were breaking into a sprint for my back – and fortunately his face as he steped into my path was a clear signal of his intention and that second of anticipation was so fortunate because I started to pull away before he got a good hold and broke into the hardest sprint I’ve done down that road. They ran after me for a while, but gave up the chase after a hundred meters or so.

I think if there weren’t so many wonderful friendships blossoming, I’d be tempted to drop this whole thing at times. I’ve been benignly robbed for 8 pounds, had my umbrella nicked, denied visa, security pass, bank account, ripped on for my Americanness and now I can add attempted assault to the list of welcomes. Really, you didn’t need to role out the red carpet. If there weren’t so many gracious people telling me I’m wanted, I’d think they didn’t want me here. Its good to be loved.

But the grateful part is important. It IS good to be loved, and though the obstacles do present physical and emotional hurdles, they also illuminate the goodness of the goodness. And I can see that goodness, so incalculably worthy of thanks, everywhere. Goodness in the people who love me here, like Chris who I shared a wonderful “Monday Night Pint” with tonight to recap all the madness, fears and excitement in my life right now. Goodness in the work I am so blessed to be a part of, and the challenges of sorting out my mind, soul and theology to logical and compassionate political conclusions. The goodness of being close to and nearby a sister who had some pretty tough and highly emotional days last week – and I got to be the knight in shining armor to comfort her in the sadness, as well as remind and process some of my own. Goodness of one overarching author of love who revels in the goodness found in pain and glory. And I might have missed out on those good things with all the “lows” of this last week.

Thank goodness it was thanksgiving.

The "road trip"

2005-11-14T18:14:00.000Z

It was a gorgeous day. It was the perfect day for an outing, and since I didn’t say much about it in the last post, due to my musings – I should do the day some justice with photos and description.

The day actually began with a guys shopping trip to M&S in search for a coat for Chris. We found a very smart overcoat that screamed "I'm no intern. I have power!" Which of course wasn't true - but when your business cards say "intern" on them (as Chris' sadly did) you need all the street credibility you can get. Successful with coat in hand, we blew some time in a department store with a 249 pound scarf… I bought two.

We met the ladies (Sarah, Naomi and Clare -LtoR) and headed out of London going West – Only west because Clare, our chauffer only knows how to get out of London going west, and the closest town (of interest) to the west is Windsor… So we headed to Windsor. After a short hour tour of Windsor parking lots, Eton and surrounding area to the music of “English Christian Camp songs” led by Christopher Tapp we found a scenic parking spot in the King George the CDXLVIIIth parking garage… that’s 448th to the less well versed in the science of Roman numerology.

The town was really lovely and by that time we were jonesing for a big pub lunch – which we had right across from the humble second home to her majesty – Windsor Castle.

The food, as you can see was the quintessential pub meal... pies, potatoes and pints galore – and was exactly what I needed. I’m willing to debunk all the speculation in my last post about meager portions in order to say that I left feeling very full – but I think it may have been the Guinness.

We closed out the epic day with a long walk down the Long Walk. It was pretty long… but I would have to say it was remarkably walkable.

... its how you use it!

2005-11-14T17:47:00.000Z

Its not the size that counts – its what you do with it.

My social life is approaching normalcy and a small little orbit in my new universe seems to have begun with a chance combustion of chemicals that no one can explain the origin of. It centers around some fantastic new friends, some of whom asked me along for a “road trip” last weekend. On of the first things you must understand in the road to assimilation and ultimately celebration of the differences that bisect the trans Atlantic cousins is the vastly different cultural conceptions of size. In this case I discovered that the only criteria for what they called a road trip was five of us in a car on a 45 minute drive. In America that could be a trip to the grocery store. The world is so much more compact around here. Houses, doorways, streets, farms, cars, sidewalks – its all squeezed at the sides to fit. Like when you’re packing for a weekend away and you don’t want to take the big bag and appear to high maintenance, or metro in my case, but you can’t quite squeeze that extra shirt you're not even sure you’ll need. So you pinch the bag and strain the zipper, hoping it wont break. That’s kind of how the country feels… pinched. Whats brilliant is that they use every bit of space economically. Yesterday an older gentleman, with whom I had the privilege to go walking with in the country, was going on about the utter waste of a three meter strip of grass that lay beyond the boarders of a local farmers fence. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen such anally efficient use of space. The thought would never have occurred to me. But everything is smaller… to their credit the people are smaller (slimmer as a whole – though I’m not much of an ambassador for whats been called the “fattest nation” – Even that title is a misnomer since Australia has actually overtaken the US in the worldwide race to obesity. Either way –first or second- its not a mantle any nation wants to carry).

Part of the smaller is better mentality downside for high metabolism young men like me is that at double the price, you get half the food. Small vs Big: Upside – the fat prone stay thinner, Downside – the skinny go hungry. But it is not, as I have tired to be convinced, because the brits are simply more self disciplined. These one-sided high ground ideas from either cousin will get us nowhere fast. Both of us lack the discipline to eat better. In the states the fat prone demonstrate their lack of discipline by eating ALL the food on a big plate of food. Here they’re simply so afraid of obesity and or stingy they don’t even tempt themselves with big portions. Good for large people – bad for me. If both countries could be more self-controlled, maybe I could enjoy a big gulp and a Chipotle Burrito transatlantically. Don’t get me wrong you can get a “big gulp” of “Sprite” in England– its called “six lemonades” and will cost you about $20. That’s another interesting but unrelated culture gap – the guys in my office seem to think that by renaming American products like Sprite and 7up it will make them more English (for you Dave).

Smaller size does indubitably lend itself to some of the quaintest settings I’ve ever seen. I’ve caught some flack here for using ‘quaint’ to describe small things that I like because I guess some think its demeaning, but I don’t mean it to be – and to maintain some fairness “big America” and “quaint little England” both suggest negative and possative properties. I try to be an equalitarian when it comes to praise and criticism. An English village pub is in purpose no different than a roadside biker bar in Smallville USA. The boots, babes, boobes, bikers, jukebox and booze are bigger – but no better. The rustic class of a village pub is something only to be aspired to. I was in one over the weekend nestled in a quaint village adjacent the only other shop in town - the tool shop. It was occupied with a few locals enjoying the local Ale and gossip. A black cocker spaniel waddled up wagging its stump for attention and a charming wide eyed boy raced after him to be sure it wasn’t a bother. Of course it wasn’t. It was idyllic. It was the most flawless example of homey and quaint – and embodied the best of small things.

I’m diverging from the topic – so much so that I’ll just start a new post.

"Nice on You!"

2005-11-11T23:37:00.000Z

I was very blessed this last week. It has been full of adventures, interesting meetings, enjoyable work tasks, visa shenanigans and wrong numbers that resulted in me leaving sheepish voicemails in the box of a sexual fantasy counseling service… very eventful. But the highlight, by far, was that my lovely sister Holly had an unexpected stop in the UK and we got a chance to catch up a bit.

The rest of my family are such legends, and I am very proud of them. Holly and Ben are current champions as they head off to do amazing work helping to restore emotional, mental and spiritual peace to the beautiful people in Uganda. In addition to being heroes, they're my best friends. Consequently, leaving them a couple months back, with the thought that their three-year commitment without US home leave could mean a long separation, was pretty gutting. But it seems that Gods character must be to pour out a little extra lovin’, and I'm afraid someone out there may be going without, because I sure feel like I get a double portion sometimes (If you, the reader, are going without, let me know and I'll be happy to give you back what I haven't used already). Holly and I met after work and had the best time wandering around the gorgeous and enchanting scene above. Strolling across Westminster Bridge we were draw by the smell of hot roasting caramel peanuts, and I stopped to purchase a bag. The man serving the peanuts was all smiles, blinged-out with some gold teeth and seemingly unbothered by the cold from the look of contentedness on his face. I thanked him and he replied "nice on you!" which was, I believe, the nicest thing he knew how to say in English. His reply struck both Holly and I as more of a blessing than a simple "you're welcome," or, even more cynically... just poor English. And it warmed our hearts very much, which is good because the batch of hot roasted peanuts we had just bought was very cold.

We later met up with Tina at my neighborhood pub for drinks and Thai, and spent the next few hours together sincerely enjoying each other and the interaction of two sisters and a brother as much as any ever have. I couldn't help but point it out then and most once again note what a rare gift it is to have not only familial, but friendly love for each as much as we do. And the whole evening reminded me that the distance we've had has never been too terrible, and there has always been a way - usually unplanned and unexpected - that I am graced by random visits with my peripatetic family. I think it made our second goodbye a bit more hopeful.

It was as if a very loving hand had reached out, handed us something extra special (hot peanuts) and said... "Nice on you!"

Fawkesy Ladies

2005-11-06T01:22:00.000Z

This is going to be a long story, really a series of three vignettes about eccentric women on and under the streets of London – uninformative, but intriguing.

Today is Guy Fawkes day, when the British celebrate the day his plan to blow up parliament was found out and thwarted. Very peculiar to name the day after the antagonist. It would be like calling the 4th of July "British Monarchy Day" or Martin Luther King Day "KKK Day." See how nonsensical it is? To celebebrate they light bon fires and blow up lots of fire works, also a counter-intuitive way to celebrate the day an arsonist and explosives terrorist nearly burned down the Palace of Westminster. At any rate it’s wild bacchanalia around here and people where in unusually jovial spirits. I had a lovely day with family, old friends, and was en route to meet a new friend for a drink near Angel. On my way out of the tube there were a couple of very loud women laughing uproariously in the tube and as I passed by with a hundred others who alighted at the same stop they singled me out to take a photo of them. They explained they wanted to mimic the poster on the wall – a picture of a male ballet dancer lifting a woman upside down, legs spread in the splits. I advised them against it due to their apparent levels of intoxication and thus the potential danger to ones person, but before I could say Guy Fawkes the first woman was doing a split hand stand up against the poster wall, and the second was holding her shirt up… or down, or whatever direction it is when you’re upside down. I just stood sheepishly as stoic faces streamed past the three of us. After a few moments of confused thrashing about they told me to just snap the picture as it was –the second women useless and shamed by the ability of the first, just stuck here head between the other legs and lifted one leg in a Plié. By now I’ve joined in the laughter at this outrageous antic, snapped the photo and politely declined the offer to go drinking at their flat. It wasn’t until I was half way up the escalator I realized what a fool I was. If not for my own delight, then for yours I should have taken a photo myself, so I promptly ran down the wrong direction of the escalator to request the picture on text. Sadly, they were nowhere to be found. So I turned back with nothing to show for the ridiculous incident but a goofy grin on my face.

I was late meeting my friend, but she was later – due to the predictable train delays in this wonderful city. So I people watched. But after a short while I realized I was being watched myself. Standing under the florescent lights of the tube awning I noticed a very intriguing woman standing a few meters away. I do sometimes notice women, but this one I noticed in a very different sort of way, and she was very much noticing me. She held a tabloid close to her face, covering most of it save her eyes. She wore high red boots, a long black skirt, trench coat with the sleeves pushed up and black leather gloves with lace arm warmers. She had large black hair and when she lowered her paper it revealed dark lipstick, over-applied on oversized lips. There was something very Carmen San Diego about her. And then she did the most unbritish thing one could image. She made eye contact. But not just eye contact – she gazed. I know what you’re likely to be thinking about her possible vocation, but I don’t think its so. For one, I’ve had that look – and this was not it. Also, she looked concerned or afraid, but more in an overstated 1920’s silent film melodrama sort of way. She then raised her eyebrows, not to say “well hello there” but something more like “good, you’ve noted my presence” and then before I knew it she was mouthing words – not bad words, like it was a code or message that I should have been expecting. And then just as I was finally turned conspicuously facing toward her with a bewildered look on my face – she looked straight up, as if someone was listening from above, dropped her tabloid, turned and ran away down a dark alley and again I was left to ponder the exchange as the loud sound of her stiletto heals faded into the night.

Finally, my friend arrived, and saved me from these surreptitious women of the night. It was nice, but not nearly so interesting as the other meetings. After our dinner I was seeing my friend off at her stop, and was mid hug when another woman approached us. My friend stepped off the train and abandoned me to my fate with yet another curious woman. This one, though less hilarious or mysterious, but still strange, as the all the trains had been rerouted, and the woman that approached was pointing at a map and rambling on in Portuguese. I apologized for not speaking Portuguese and asked (5 or 6 times) where she was going. “Blah Blah la la la blah Blah blahsito blamino, Clapham North” – she said… my tube stop – but we were both going the opposite direction – coincidence? I think not. I think she was sent by the women in the leather gloves. I offered to escort her home, keeping a wary eye on her at all times. When she sat down, she sat next to me and stared at me intently, body turned fully around in the train seat, but if I looked up she would quickly pivot back to a forward facing position. When we stopped to change trains she followed me one step behind, despite my effort to just walk next to her. She looked nervous and anxious and kept looking over her shoulder, and held onto the strap of my bag as we walked, as though letting go would mean being lost in the dark passages of the underground. Onlookers gave quizzical looks at me with and the Brazilian woman attached to my bag. With no English words and a lot of sign language I learned her name (though I suspect it was a spy alias), occupation, purpose for visit, that she was from Brazil, had been in London for two months and is leaving on Tuesday. I guarded my information more closely. I made sure she got off, as she was snoring loudly in a matter of two minutes lull in our conversation (again, an obvious dramatization). She followed me out and walked the same way home, about fifty meters behind me until I was inside my house. Now lying in bed I wonder if I might have dreamt it, but think I was very awake and also that these intriguing women would make very good characters in the next Woody Allen movie.

The Scenery

2005-10-27T00:58:00.000Z

Culture shock is maddening. When one is making the adjustment to a place as similar to ones own nation, as the UK is to a Yank like me, its particularly frustrating. It isn’t poor facilities, inability to communicate in a common language (though that one is up for debate) or that I’m laid out with Montezuma’s revenge as in other culture shock experiences I’ve had. Its frustrating, because its so irritatingly passive. It bothers you to death, without being impolite enough to piss you off entirely. Its not that I’ve found a lack of lovely people, friendly faces and kindness, I have and I love them to death – its just an inevitably awful part of adjustment.

As a good friend just wrote “it is tough going from (home), where you are the center of a number of universes, to there where you peripherally orbit others.” And home is your Universe – and you understand the laws of nature. I guess I like being the center of the Universe… and I like spelling centre with an “er” without having to explain myself.

I’ve been having an exasperating time with bureaucracy. Everything is a perfect circle, where if I keep moving in the direction I’ve been ever so politely told to go, I am guaranteed never to get anywhere… with passes, visas, bank accounts etc… It feels like an insider, isolating, island-mentality state playing ring around the rosy with the fresh-faced American. I’m not averse to playing by new rules, but the rules in the game are rather indistinctly defined.

And after tonight I’ve decided, I am going to love it. I’ve described culture shock in Britain like running in the sand – instead of a solid path. You expend twice the energy to go half distance. On my worst days I run. I tune out the world with driving tunes and run in the park, with overstated breathing and unnecessary embellished grunting as I drop for pushups in the mud and rain. Tonight I ran so hard I threw up.

It felt great.

I was running on a solid surface, and I was passing those lovely limeys like Mario Andretti at the Daytona 500. I felt equal… but faster.

But the reason I decided tonight that I’m going to love this adjustment is the same reason, given the choice, I would choose to run on the beach over the solid road by my house…

the scenery.

I am seeing so much from here…

Gulu Walking

2005-10-25T00:42:00.000Z

This past Saturday I finally dragged myself from bed around midday (attributed to some late night dancing). After some dream interrupting phone calls from Mom to plan meeting up later on I grabbed a quick bite I headed out to catch the tube and light rail out to the Docklands. Its a different world out there. You borrow down into the tube surrounded by the old “worn-in” look of central London, and pop up in the world of reflective glass and a modern motif. I found my way to a little old (in the American crappy 70’s style sense of the word “old”) church with about 60 or 70 people watching clips from Invisible Children.

I joined my Mom for the Gulu Walk, a solidarity event taking place all over the world this past Saturday, to show support and perhaps raise some awareness of the deplorable situation in Northern Uganda. We had a decent turn out (for what was expected) and trooped across 8 miles of London, chanting with Ugandans and chatting about the latest with Mom. I will say that if you want to get to know the ins and outs of a new city and have a social justice streak, solidarity walks are the way of future. I had to give up the Meningitis charity walk in Harpenden because of a conflict in scheduling, and you can imagine how gutted I was when I realized that I missed the Playtex Moonwalk that took place in June. I’ll try and catch it next year. I hope they cover historical West London this time around.

In honesty the event was very cool, and I was gutted that I didn’t have a sleeping mat, to join the rest of the walkers sleeping in the streets of London, only to walk the 8 miles back in the morning (as the Children in Northern Uganda do every night). In addition to not having a mat, I didn’t know anyone, and only Tina (my little sister) did. She offered to come and introduce me and say “this is my brother Travis, he walked with you today and would like to sleep with you.” But I thought that would be an awkward introduction.

Working on the chain

2005-10-12T16:32:00.000Z

Yesterday I was handed my first "real" task on the job. The MP I'm working for (Andy Reed, Labour, Loughborough constituency) asked me to put together some points for the International Development quesitons this morning. I plunged in, nervous being so close to the action, fearing I'd get hit by a ricocheting bullet. This morning I had the honour of sitting up in the gallery for the question time and for Prime Minister quesitons. I'd focused most of my research on Sudan/Darfur but Andy was called on for the Afghanistan topic. It was wonderful to have done something (albeit a measly contribution), and then see an effect right away in the the House of Commons. It was particularly enjoyable because I was safely perched in the gallery behind the new protective glass screen - to shield nervous researches from stray political bullets.

And although I've been told it was a relatively mild day, the big guns came out for PM questions as the opposition fired away at Tony Blair. Anyway, it was good fun for this yankee.But for now, back to sorting mail, writing letters and playing office cricket.

New kid on the Block

2005-10-11T06:54:00.000Z

I just arrived about a month back, and the time has flown by incredibly fast. I've pitched my tent in Clapham, which is a groovy spot on the South side of the Thames. Young "20 somethings" with a wanna be professional attitude and easy access to the cosmo London life - without the jacked up up tourist/posh price of living gravitate to the area. I'm living with a few other dudes, who have graduated to professionals, but like the vibe of the borough enough to stick around. The place is lovely, and unusually large - by British standards. Clapham also has a spiritual heritage as it is the location for those who at the onset of the 19th century called themselves the Clapham Sect (their most well known member being the the infamous Wilberforce). He and this band of faith-filled politicians shook things up and brought about the abolition of slavery in Britain.

I've started work in Parliament (office pictured above), but things have been slow. I was given my first real task today, and it felt deeply liberating to have a purpose, though the task was simple enough. It has been a new adventure, and although I feel like I'm swiming in deep water and taking in more mouthfuls than I can totally take in, the inadequacy I feel is a nice change of pace from my previous stint as laid back student, youth worker and worship leader.