This is an indescribably beautiful place. As with so many of my
travels, this trip has shown me things both familiar and exotic, and
the real beauty of this place is is how these two sensations compete
and combine in ways that are unlike any you will find elsewhere on this
marvelous home of ours.
This is a land made out of determination, set in Eden and powered by faith. Faith in God, that the sun will rise tomorrow and that kindness will be repaid both in this life and the next.
Wave to me. This is the request I've heard most often. Wave to me Mr. Big American. Yes, I've run across pushy vendors and hustlers, but the overwhelming number of interactions have been with people who wanted nothing more than to reassert our common humanity through basic courtesy. These are our brothers and sisters and I don't think any event in my life has done more to assert my belief in there being a human family than this trip is.
The landscape of this trip has afforded me views of verdant hills and endless glass topped lakes dotted with the fishing canoes that appear to my eyes as being a natural part of this landscape since time immemorial.
Nothing is out of place here, a fact which renders the chaos of the cities in a tranquil light. The canoes fit with the water, the clapboard shacks, concrete apartment buildings and expansive estates all belong, right where they are. They could exist nowhere else.
This is a land made out of determination, set in Eden and powered by faith. Faith in God, that the sun will rise tomorrow and that kindness will be repaid both in this life and the next.
Wave to me. This is the request I've heard most often. Wave to me Mr. Big American. Yes, I've run across pushy vendors and hustlers, but the overwhelming number of interactions have been with people who wanted nothing more than to reassert our common humanity through basic courtesy. These are our brothers and sisters and I don't think any event in my life has done more to assert my belief in there being a human family than this trip is.
The landscape of this trip has afforded me views of verdant hills and endless glass topped lakes dotted with the fishing canoes that appear to my eyes as being a natural part of this landscape since time immemorial.
Nothing is out of place here, a fact which renders the chaos of the cities in a tranquil light. The canoes fit with the water, the clapboard shacks, concrete apartment buildings and expansive estates all belong, right where they are. They could exist nowhere else.
Hey guys...I just managed to get a few videos of my trip uploaded. So here are the videos for Days 1, 3, 4, 5 and 6 all uploaded...Day7 will be up later tonight...and Day 2 I'm having some issues with, so...yeah.
For some reason I couldn't get the videos to embed...so yeah.
7.28.09/New York, NY to Somewhere Over the Atlantic/
7.29.09/Somewhere Over the Atlantic to Accra, Ghana/
The thing that I will never grow accustomed to about Trans-Atlantic flight is the loss of a day. Trans-oceanic flight has granted us all the ability to become unstuck in time; and as that power came with disastrous consequences for Billy Pilgrim, so too does it serve as a harbinger of disorientation and doom for the modern traveler.
Or maybe it's just me.
I woke up earlier than I'd wanted but as late as I felt secure in before the end of Free Hotel Breakfast™. Because as a Fat Guy™ there's nothing I love more than free carbs. Carb loading is wise before running and 11 hours on a plane is akin to a marathon. Waffle, yogurt, croissant, raisin bran, milk...all the cornerstones of a healthy breakfast and great day.
I got 6 hours, which would have been fine if I'd gotten more than 4 the previous night. I was nervous, I was excited, I was trying to figure out how to prepare, what awaited me, what I was even doing going on this trip. I didn't know anyone where I was going; I didn't know anyone I was going with, this was a trip as far out of my comfort zone as I could imagine. And I was worried about ever finding my way back.
When I arrived back in my room I tried to go back to sleep and reclaim some of the lost hours of slumber, but it was no use. My heart was pounding, fueled by a combination of carbs, fat and anxiety. I needed to get on the move. I am first and foremost an American and Americans need to move, our inertia is so great that we cannot stop, we refuse to stop, and we must always be going somewhere. We lie to ourselves and believe that this constant motion can and will always be upwards for as much as we love movement we abhor downward motion, retrograde motion or worst of all, lateral motion. Always forward, into the breach.
I left for the airport an hour before it was strictly necessary. I needed to move.
In the terminal I had time to kill. I didn't have a ticket or a passport or a visa, I just had a messenger bag, a backpack and a suitcase and the feeling that something was going to go horribly wrong. It had to go wrong. That delay into LaGuardia wasn't enough tragedy for a knot this big in my stomach. Things had been going too well.
Feeling the depression that comes when dreams waiting to be dashed are combined with anxiety I put on some sad Zeppelin and tried to relax.
I drifted off into my own world, unaware of all the activity around me, or the millions of people that had passed through these doors, running away, running home, seeing off loved ones...the major hubs of the jet age carry with them a wornness that tell you how important these sites are to the right functioning of our world. They're the gateways to memory, the release valve of diasporic tensions. They make all right with the world.
Then I saw him. Our trip leader. He was in the terminal, right in front of me, holding my passport and ticket, and I couldn't speak. I tried to yell at him, three feet in front of me, but nothing came, or if it came it was so quiet that he couldn't hear me over the din of the Delta international departures terminal at JFK. I jumped out of my seat, or what approximated jumping when buried underneath my bags.
A few minutes later I handed my bag to an agent, I grabbed my new companions and we set off on our journey.
The departure gate was a sea of humanity, faces, nearly all of them darker than mine, ebbed and flowed in anticipation of their trip. We'd become friends with them standing in line to check our bags, my one suitcase paling in comparison to the dozens, yes, dozens of bags they were taking home. Presents for friends and family filled the baggage check-in counter, and what couldn't be check in was now with us at the gate, ready to be taken onboard for the 11 hour flight home.
Everywhere I went I was met with smiles and questions. "You're going to Accra? Bless you." Ghanaians love Americans and this was never as apparent as when we were getting ready to board the flight. It was a nice feeling, being loved because of my nationality, one that I hadn't experienced in many years, though I've been told that while Obamania has fired up the Ghanaian love of Americans, it's not like the Bush years did anything to it.
The world slowed down as the anxiety of making sure we were on the flight gave way to the dawning reality that "HOLY MOTHER OF SHIT, WE'RE GOING TO AFRICA!" My companions and I, acquainted only for a few hours became fast friends when bonded by the reality of what was about to happen. They called our boarding group; we lined up in front of Danny Glover (yes, really) and got on a plane to Africa. We were so excited, we didn't really have time to feel badly for the two of our group who didn't manage to check in for the flight and were going to be coming out on tomorrow's flight.
It was 5pm on Tuesday when we got on the plane, it was 8:30am Wednesday when we got off.
Stepping off the plane and onto the tarmac was like something out of a movie. All of the reds and browns were turned up and muted; the color palate was something unlike anything I'd seen before. I wandered the tarmac for a minute in a daze, where was our protagonist? Where was the spy attempting to get lost in the crowd on his way to a Cold War rendezvous with a Soviet (or American) agent?
I wanted to stop and take pictures, to spend hours looking around, but none of those images would do the moment any justice, what I needed was a crane, with a cameraman shooting constant footage while descending upon the scene and circling around me. It was one of the most amazing moments in my life, and one I've tried to relate countless times...but I can't make it come out the way it looks in my head, so this is what you get.
We went through customs and noticed the warning to pedophiles posted on the wall in front of us. Long story short, pedophiles wishing to be sexual tourists in Ghana aren't welcome. Which is, I think we'll all agree, a good thing.
We collected our bags and made our way out into the world. This is when my first clue as to life in Ghana arrived. Two gentlemen came up to me as soon as I walked out of the airport and told me they were with my tour group and would carry my bags to the bus. I resisted for a while, but they persisted longer than I could resist and I let them wheel my 55lb suitcase 200 yards to our bus. Then, they requested a tip.
Then, I told them I didn't have any money, but thank you for the help.
Then, I got on the bus and didn't look back.
I don't know if it was karma or just the Vonnegut reference from above, but this is the point when the wheels came off for me. I was exhausted. I was 6 hours ahead of home; I didn't sleep more than an hour on the plane (c'mon they had Watchmen, Milk, How I Met Your Mother, and Doctor Who on the plane...and I was wicked jacked up on adrenaline.) Add in the sleep deficit I was already in and suddenly I crashed. I fought to keep my eyes open and watch Accra unfold before my eyes, but I couldn't keep them open. Eventually, I gave up trying and fell asleep.
The rest of the day was spent trying to get acclimated to being in Ghana and fighting to stay awake. It was brutal and I fell asleep at 10p only to wake up at midnight. I stayed up until 3 before falling asleep again.
7.29.09/Somewhere Over the Atlantic to Accra, Ghana/
The thing that I will never grow accustomed to about Trans-Atlantic flight is the loss of a day. Trans-oceanic flight has granted us all the ability to become unstuck in time; and as that power came with disastrous consequences for Billy Pilgrim, so too does it serve as a harbinger of disorientation and doom for the modern traveler.
Or maybe it's just me.
I woke up earlier than I'd wanted but as late as I felt secure in before the end of Free Hotel Breakfast™. Because as a Fat Guy™ there's nothing I love more than free carbs. Carb loading is wise before running and 11 hours on a plane is akin to a marathon. Waffle, yogurt, croissant, raisin bran, milk...all the cornerstones of a healthy breakfast and great day.
I got 6 hours, which would have been fine if I'd gotten more than 4 the previous night. I was nervous, I was excited, I was trying to figure out how to prepare, what awaited me, what I was even doing going on this trip. I didn't know anyone where I was going; I didn't know anyone I was going with, this was a trip as far out of my comfort zone as I could imagine. And I was worried about ever finding my way back.
When I arrived back in my room I tried to go back to sleep and reclaim some of the lost hours of slumber, but it was no use. My heart was pounding, fueled by a combination of carbs, fat and anxiety. I needed to get on the move. I am first and foremost an American and Americans need to move, our inertia is so great that we cannot stop, we refuse to stop, and we must always be going somewhere. We lie to ourselves and believe that this constant motion can and will always be upwards for as much as we love movement we abhor downward motion, retrograde motion or worst of all, lateral motion. Always forward, into the breach.
I left for the airport an hour before it was strictly necessary. I needed to move.
In the terminal I had time to kill. I didn't have a ticket or a passport or a visa, I just had a messenger bag, a backpack and a suitcase and the feeling that something was going to go horribly wrong. It had to go wrong. That delay into LaGuardia wasn't enough tragedy for a knot this big in my stomach. Things had been going too well.
Feeling the depression that comes when dreams waiting to be dashed are combined with anxiety I put on some sad Zeppelin and tried to relax.
I drifted off into my own world, unaware of all the activity around me, or the millions of people that had passed through these doors, running away, running home, seeing off loved ones...the major hubs of the jet age carry with them a wornness that tell you how important these sites are to the right functioning of our world. They're the gateways to memory, the release valve of diasporic tensions. They make all right with the world.
Then I saw him. Our trip leader. He was in the terminal, right in front of me, holding my passport and ticket, and I couldn't speak. I tried to yell at him, three feet in front of me, but nothing came, or if it came it was so quiet that he couldn't hear me over the din of the Delta international departures terminal at JFK. I jumped out of my seat, or what approximated jumping when buried underneath my bags.
A few minutes later I handed my bag to an agent, I grabbed my new companions and we set off on our journey.
The departure gate was a sea of humanity, faces, nearly all of them darker than mine, ebbed and flowed in anticipation of their trip. We'd become friends with them standing in line to check our bags, my one suitcase paling in comparison to the dozens, yes, dozens of bags they were taking home. Presents for friends and family filled the baggage check-in counter, and what couldn't be check in was now with us at the gate, ready to be taken onboard for the 11 hour flight home.
Everywhere I went I was met with smiles and questions. "You're going to Accra? Bless you." Ghanaians love Americans and this was never as apparent as when we were getting ready to board the flight. It was a nice feeling, being loved because of my nationality, one that I hadn't experienced in many years, though I've been told that while Obamania has fired up the Ghanaian love of Americans, it's not like the Bush years did anything to it.
The world slowed down as the anxiety of making sure we were on the flight gave way to the dawning reality that "HOLY MOTHER OF SHIT, WE'RE GOING TO AFRICA!" My companions and I, acquainted only for a few hours became fast friends when bonded by the reality of what was about to happen. They called our boarding group; we lined up in front of Danny Glover (yes, really) and got on a plane to Africa. We were so excited, we didn't really have time to feel badly for the two of our group who didn't manage to check in for the flight and were going to be coming out on tomorrow's flight.
It was 5pm on Tuesday when we got on the plane, it was 8:30am Wednesday when we got off.
Stepping off the plane and onto the tarmac was like something out of a movie. All of the reds and browns were turned up and muted; the color palate was something unlike anything I'd seen before. I wandered the tarmac for a minute in a daze, where was our protagonist? Where was the spy attempting to get lost in the crowd on his way to a Cold War rendezvous with a Soviet (or American) agent?
I wanted to stop and take pictures, to spend hours looking around, but none of those images would do the moment any justice, what I needed was a crane, with a cameraman shooting constant footage while descending upon the scene and circling around me. It was one of the most amazing moments in my life, and one I've tried to relate countless times...but I can't make it come out the way it looks in my head, so this is what you get.
We went through customs and noticed the warning to pedophiles posted on the wall in front of us. Long story short, pedophiles wishing to be sexual tourists in Ghana aren't welcome. Which is, I think we'll all agree, a good thing.
We collected our bags and made our way out into the world. This is when my first clue as to life in Ghana arrived. Two gentlemen came up to me as soon as I walked out of the airport and told me they were with my tour group and would carry my bags to the bus. I resisted for a while, but they persisted longer than I could resist and I let them wheel my 55lb suitcase 200 yards to our bus. Then, they requested a tip.
Then, I told them I didn't have any money, but thank you for the help.
Then, I got on the bus and didn't look back.
I don't know if it was karma or just the Vonnegut reference from above, but this is the point when the wheels came off for me. I was exhausted. I was 6 hours ahead of home; I didn't sleep more than an hour on the plane (c'mon they had Watchmen, Milk, How I Met Your Mother, and Doctor Who on the plane...and I was wicked jacked up on adrenaline.) Add in the sleep deficit I was already in and suddenly I crashed. I fought to keep my eyes open and watch Accra unfold before my eyes, but I couldn't keep them open. Eventually, I gave up trying and fell asleep.
The rest of the day was spent trying to get acclimated to being in Ghana and fighting to stay awake. It was brutal and I fell asleep at 10p only to wake up at midnight. I stayed up until 3 before falling asleep again.
7.27.09/Santa Fe, NM to New York, NY/
It's been a while since I've done one of these traveling posts. Hell, it's been a while since I've done any posts.
In the absence of these posts I've searched for America in towns throughout the land, Colorado Springs, Sacramento, Lamy, Los Angeles, San Diego, Wasau, Amarillo, Monte Rio, Springfield, Springfield and most points in between.
I've also been to two continents, attempting to know more about who I am by visiting the places my family came from. From large towns in Colombia where everyone sounds like my father to small towns in Spain where everyone sounds like my mother it's been a long few years and I've been remiss in documenting it.
I woke up in the morning nervous. I was anxious and groggy and my stomach was angry. It begged for a breakfast that I didn't have time to provide and it was annoyed that I'd taken my anti-malarials on an empty stomach.
Coco's truck pulled up a bit early. Early enough that Nena wasn't yet awake enough to see me off. So I shook her awake and kissed her and my mother and my son goodbye.
The road from Santa Fe to Albuquerque is unjustly maligned. It is El Camino Real. The route the conquistadors took north from the ruins of Tenochtitlan, towards what they believed to be cities made of gold. Today it is a commuter route, taken by Santa Feans as they flee the city and state workers as they come up the mountain to punch in. And people speak ill of it.
I love it.
I revel in it.
I tear at its beauty.
Because it is a road made of dreams. It has been paved and repaved not just in the 400 years of Santa Fe's lifetime, but also in the centuries before as those that came before sought to escape the harsh climates of the mountaintop and valley.
Today, it's taking me away for a few weeks. The journey of 8000 miles begins with a trip to the airport. An hour down the road to go half a world away. Today, it will fill my dreams with new thoughts, replacing the stagnate psychedelic technicolor of my tropical fever dreams.
I get my last breakfast burrito for a while and watch a small child play with his father at the table next to mine, and I think of my own son. Still asleep in my bed, not knowing that his father is gone for a while. I thought this would be easier.
We land in Denver and I am reminded of where I am. The soldiers and cowboys of Albuquerque have grown and multiplied and been joined by aspiring tennis prodigies and families on vacation. This is where I am, this is the America I inhabit, one of stereotypes made real and denied. I realize now that I've grown to love it, even as I've pined for a return to the safe, humid embrace of the midwest.
We land in New York, at LaGuardia after circling over Pennsylvania for nearly an hour due to thunderstorms. I'm immediately hit by the smell of the place, warm yogurt mixed with humanity. I think Travis Bickle should have started here with a mop and some febreze, but that would have been a boring movie.
My bag arrives in its time and I take a cab across Queens to JFK. Past CitiField, past the US Tennis Center, past the houses and corner stores and subway to my hotel. I check in head up to my room to change. There's a whole new America out there to see, so I make like Strayhorn and take his train to Manhattan. I lament the changing of his line, but revel in his melody, sweet and thick and airy and perfect...
This is the America my America should meet. If the breakdancer on my train met the cowboy neighbor, I think they would be friends. Their opposing instincts would find common cause as the breakdancer would explain how to make small spaces large and the cowboy would teach how to make large spaces small. If the West Indies Preacher on my train were to meet the soldier on his way home they would be friends...
This is a place different than that I flew in from. It is different from the Chicago I long for. It is other and it is familiar. The smells, the sounds, the vibration of the deck below my tired legs. The Village bar where an NYU manchild screamed the lyrics to the love theme from Johnny Dangerously would be at home in so many of the places I've visited, but it could only ever truly exist here, in the pale blue neon light of New York.
But now it is time to leave these Americas and go someplace else.
I don't know what awaits me there, but I long to see it, to touch it to add it to the collection of memories and sensations that has come to define my world.
I hope to record it better than I have been.
I hope to record it as I used to.
I hope to record it as it is.
It's been a while since I've done one of these traveling posts. Hell, it's been a while since I've done any posts.
In the absence of these posts I've searched for America in towns throughout the land, Colorado Springs, Sacramento, Lamy, Los Angeles, San Diego, Wasau, Amarillo, Monte Rio, Springfield, Springfield and most points in between.
I've also been to two continents, attempting to know more about who I am by visiting the places my family came from. From large towns in Colombia where everyone sounds like my father to small towns in Spain where everyone sounds like my mother it's been a long few years and I've been remiss in documenting it.
I woke up in the morning nervous. I was anxious and groggy and my stomach was angry. It begged for a breakfast that I didn't have time to provide and it was annoyed that I'd taken my anti-malarials on an empty stomach.
Coco's truck pulled up a bit early. Early enough that Nena wasn't yet awake enough to see me off. So I shook her awake and kissed her and my mother and my son goodbye.
The road from Santa Fe to Albuquerque is unjustly maligned. It is El Camino Real. The route the conquistadors took north from the ruins of Tenochtitlan, towards what they believed to be cities made of gold. Today it is a commuter route, taken by Santa Feans as they flee the city and state workers as they come up the mountain to punch in. And people speak ill of it.
I love it.
I revel in it.
I tear at its beauty.
Because it is a road made of dreams. It has been paved and repaved not just in the 400 years of Santa Fe's lifetime, but also in the centuries before as those that came before sought to escape the harsh climates of the mountaintop and valley.
Today, it's taking me away for a few weeks. The journey of 8000 miles begins with a trip to the airport. An hour down the road to go half a world away. Today, it will fill my dreams with new thoughts, replacing the stagnate psychedelic technicolor of my tropical fever dreams.
I get my last breakfast burrito for a while and watch a small child play with his father at the table next to mine, and I think of my own son. Still asleep in my bed, not knowing that his father is gone for a while. I thought this would be easier.
We land in Denver and I am reminded of where I am. The soldiers and cowboys of Albuquerque have grown and multiplied and been joined by aspiring tennis prodigies and families on vacation. This is where I am, this is the America I inhabit, one of stereotypes made real and denied. I realize now that I've grown to love it, even as I've pined for a return to the safe, humid embrace of the midwest.
We land in New York, at LaGuardia after circling over Pennsylvania for nearly an hour due to thunderstorms. I'm immediately hit by the smell of the place, warm yogurt mixed with humanity. I think Travis Bickle should have started here with a mop and some febreze, but that would have been a boring movie.
My bag arrives in its time and I take a cab across Queens to JFK. Past CitiField, past the US Tennis Center, past the houses and corner stores and subway to my hotel. I check in head up to my room to change. There's a whole new America out there to see, so I make like Strayhorn and take his train to Manhattan. I lament the changing of his line, but revel in his melody, sweet and thick and airy and perfect...
This is the America my America should meet. If the breakdancer on my train met the cowboy neighbor, I think they would be friends. Their opposing instincts would find common cause as the breakdancer would explain how to make small spaces large and the cowboy would teach how to make large spaces small. If the West Indies Preacher on my train were to meet the soldier on his way home they would be friends...
This is a place different than that I flew in from. It is different from the Chicago I long for. It is other and it is familiar. The smells, the sounds, the vibration of the deck below my tired legs. The Village bar where an NYU manchild screamed the lyrics to the love theme from Johnny Dangerously would be at home in so many of the places I've visited, but it could only ever truly exist here, in the pale blue neon light of New York.
But now it is time to leave these Americas and go someplace else.
I don't know what awaits me there, but I long to see it, to touch it to add it to the collection of memories and sensations that has come to define my world.
I hope to record it better than I have been.
I hope to record it as I used to.
I hope to record it as it is.
Previous Week's Weight: 264.0lbs
This Week's Weight: 263.0lbs
This Week's Loss: -1.0lbs
Total Weight Lost: -5.0lbs
Next Goal: 254.6lbs
Pounds to Go 8.4lbs
This Week's Weight: 263.0lbs
This Week's Loss: -1.0lbs
Total Weight Lost: -5.0lbs
Next Goal: 254.6lbs
Pounds to Go 8.4lbs
Continue reading This Week in Weight Loss.
Yup, it's back and I'm three weeks behind, so here's the quick recap
June 4, 2009
This Week's Weight: 268.0lbs
Next Goal: 254.6lbs
Pounds to Go 13.4lbs
June 11, 2009
Previous Week's Weight: 268.0lbs
This Week's Weight: 266.2lbs
This Week's Loss: -1.8lbs
Total Weight Lost: -1.8lbs
Next Goal: 254.6lbs
Pounds to Go 11.6lbs
June 18, 2009
Previous Week's Weight: 266.2lbs
This Week's Weight: 270.0lbs
This Week's Loss: +4.6lbs
Total Weight Lost: +2.0lbs
Next Goal: 254.6lbs
Pounds to Go 15.4lbs
June 25, 2009
Previous Week's Weight: 270.0lbs
This Week's Weight: 264.0lbs
This Week's Loss: -6.0lbs
Total Weight Lost: -4.0lbs
Next Goal: 254.6lbs
Pounds to Go 9.4lbs
June 4, 2009
This Week's Weight: 268.0lbs
Next Goal: 254.6lbs
Pounds to Go 13.4lbs
June 11, 2009
Previous Week's Weight: 268.0lbs
This Week's Weight: 266.2lbs
This Week's Loss: -1.8lbs
Total Weight Lost: -1.8lbs
Next Goal: 254.6lbs
Pounds to Go 11.6lbs
June 18, 2009
Previous Week's Weight: 266.2lbs
This Week's Weight: 270.0lbs
This Week's Loss: +4.6lbs
Total Weight Lost: +2.0lbs
Next Goal: 254.6lbs
Pounds to Go 15.4lbs
June 25, 2009
Previous Week's Weight: 270.0lbs
This Week's Weight: 264.0lbs
This Week's Loss: -6.0lbs
Total Weight Lost: -4.0lbs
Next Goal: 254.6lbs
Pounds to Go 9.4lbs
Continue reading This Week in Weight Loss.
Where to start...
Fatherhood.
It's not the deal I thought it'd be.
I'm not really sure what I expected fatherhood to be like. As with so many things in this life there was no instruction manual to help you get ready for it, and the books that are written are too mom-centric for me to handle.
So I've winged it.
One of the funny things about my life is that the best things are often defined by how they don't suck. Like when I decided I wanted to marry Nena, I knew I wanted to marry her because I knew my worst days with her would be better than my best days without her. Same goes with Tico. Even the worst days, like the two ER visits and the subsequent hospital stays, are better than Tico-free good days.
Right now I'm spending a lot of time with Tico. My job's affording me a lot of telecommuting time so I'm able to hang out with him and learn who my kid is. By and large, he's an awesome guy.
Fatherhood.
It's not the deal I thought it'd be.
I'm not really sure what I expected fatherhood to be like. As with so many things in this life there was no instruction manual to help you get ready for it, and the books that are written are too mom-centric for me to handle.
So I've winged it.
One of the funny things about my life is that the best things are often defined by how they don't suck. Like when I decided I wanted to marry Nena, I knew I wanted to marry her because I knew my worst days with her would be better than my best days without her. Same goes with Tico. Even the worst days, like the two ER visits and the subsequent hospital stays, are better than Tico-free good days.
Right now I'm spending a lot of time with Tico. My job's affording me a lot of telecommuting time so I'm able to hang out with him and learn who my kid is. By and large, he's an awesome guy.
To all those who emailed yesterday (or commented) with congratulations, thank you.
But you really should check the date on the post....
It really is a goal of ours to live there, but it's not a goal we're going to achieve any time soon.
Though, it's nice to see that so many folks believe it could happen...anyway, I should run. Tico just peed all over, well, everything.
But you really should check the date on the post....
It really is a goal of ours to live there, but it's not a goal we're going to achieve any time soon.
Though, it's nice to see that so many folks believe it could happen...anyway, I should run. Tico just peed all over, well, everything.
A few months ago, like, around the time I applied for the fellowship that's sending me to Ghana I was encouraged to apply for a job at The American School of Barcelona.
Well, we're moving there this summer baby...
WHOO!
We're pretty psyched. Tico will get a chance to grow up around his cousin Lou and learn Spanish the way I did, by hearing it around him all the time.
And Barca. Dude, Camp Nou...it a'int Wrigley Field, but it'll do awesome.
Well, we're moving there this summer baby...
WHOO!
We're pretty psyched. Tico will get a chance to grow up around his cousin Lou and learn Spanish the way I did, by hearing it around him all the time.
And Barca. Dude, Camp Nou...it a'int Wrigley Field, but it'll do awesome.
Well, the bracket is set and it's time for my annual NCAA Tournament Pool.
If you're new here and want in, email me at first.last {at} alumni.carleton.edu.
Rules are simple. No money, just pride. Set your bracket and talk smack for a few weeks.
64 points up for grabs every round divided out amongst the total number of games.
First Round: 32 games=2 points per game
Second Round: 16 games= 4 points per game...
First round has upset points. Get the seed in points for picking the game.
Everything locks Thursday @ 12:25 p ET.
If you're new here and want in, email me at first.last {at} alumni.carleton.edu.
Rules are simple. No money, just pride. Set your bracket and talk smack for a few weeks.
64 points up for grabs every round divided out amongst the total number of games.
First Round: 32 games=2 points per game
Second Round: 16 games= 4 points per game...
First round has upset points. Get the seed in points for picking the game.
Everything locks Thursday @ 12:25 p ET.
