Meta Life

I met my neighbors to be exact.  Funny how such a small area can contain such a dynamic assortment of interesting and talented people yet we hardly know each other.  My ploy was simple: set up a garage sale and meet everyone who came by.  I can say that after about 5 hours, I had conversations with and introduced myself to about 15 of my neighbors.  Mostly, I was attempting to dispell all the rumors that the loft housed a sex cult or a hippie commune or a drug den.  While we may espouse some characteristics affiliated with all three from time to time, we are, sadly, just another normal household in SoMa.  The most asked question of the day had to have been, "So how many people actually live there?"  The disappointing answer is alway 4.  "Only four?!" they ask incredulously.  Yes, only four.  But the fact of the matter is that because my neighbors had never actually met me, the suspicions and misinformation are all they had to base an opinion on of me and my roommates.  

The truth is, the concept of a neighborhood is harder to define in San Francisco.  Children are replaced by dogs and families have relocated to the burbs or the Sunset.  The common ties that normally define a neighborhood such as schools, parks and single family homes are scarce if not altogether abscent in SoMa.  There are probably more bars and nightclubs per capita sharing our streets than any other district in our beloved 7x7.  Yet this should not be reason to remain strangers with our neighbors. 

If we are not ignoring each other at Brainwash, Tryptych, Rocco's or Basil, we stay cooped up in our apartments or lofts, logged into our online social networks and otherwise ignore the community that thrives just outside our front doors.  For example, my roommates and I learned about a community garden at the Howard end of Langton St.   For $35, you get the combination to the large garden and can use it at anytime as a temporary refuge from urban life.  We learned of this through a bike messenger wearing Chrome pants made by the company that employs my roommate. He volunteers in his free time to maintaining the garden.  I also had the honor of meeting a local celebrity, Kevin Epps, whose depiction of life in the projects in his documentary Straight Outta Hunter's Point is making huge strides in reviving the impoverished neighborhood and giving the children born into that situation the opportunities and the hope needed to get out of the ghetto.  Sam and George, two local small business owners, got together to try their luck Cache Creek.  It was comforting to see that they had managed to overcome the distance a few doorways create and go out on a social, non-business related outing. 

If more of us took the time to introduce ourselves to our neighbors, the networks those introductions would create and the programs/events/activities we would then be exposed to would create a community in the truest sense of the word.  I would like to think that such bonds would be strong.  As evidenced by the popularity of countless online networking and blogging sites, deep down we all just want to belong to something bigger than ourselves and be surrounded by our friends and acquaintances.  I don't think a neighborhood-based community would be impossible to forge in today's technology and information driven lifestyles but it would take a lot of work.  Why not start today by saying hello to one of your neighbors.  Introduce yourself, exchange names.  Maybe in a few month's time you too will know the names of at least 15 of your neighbors.  Who knows who you'll meet.  What interesting people live behind those doors? 

I recently returned from a 40 day trip around South America.  While that in and of itself should have sufficed as being life list worthy, one natural wonder stood out above all other experiences.  If anyone has the opportunity to go to Iguazu Falls, you must go.  As someone who balks at religious-speak and considers herself to be borderline athiest, I had what I consider to be a religious experience while standing above the Garganta del Diablo (Devil's Throat).  Minutes melted together.  45 minutes went by just taking in the incomprehensible magnitude and listening to the thundering falls speak to your soul while having your skin slowly cooled by the fine mist.  I was emotionally overwhelmed to the point that my heart actually saddened at the thought that there will be people walking the earth who will never experience such beauty...photos cannot possibly

Sandboarding diva

Today I found myself at the top of a 100 foot sand dune, at three in the afternoon, hungover and breathless after climbing up said sand dune, regretting every minute I ever fantasized about sandboarding the world famous Joaquina Beach dunes in Florianopolis, Brazil.

Once at the top, I rub the little stub of candle wax the rental place gave me onto the already slick bottom of the wooden sandboard, strap the velcro bindings to my feet and test out my balance.  Holding my Platapus and camera in my right hand, I decide to launch myself off the sandy ledge and am surprised at how snowlike the sand actually is.  That is, until you reach the bottom and try to carve a hard stop.  With snow, you finish your turn and shift your body weight back over the board and ta-da, your're still vertical.  But because sand doesn't have the same consistency that snow does, you try to shift your weight back over the board and instead, fall backwards onto your butt.  Hard landings aside, it was fun to jump the little sand lips and carve some freshies into the sand...in my bikini.  Try that one in Tahoe in January.  The locals seemed impressed with my skills.  I don't know if it was because I was the only female making it all the way to the bottom or because I was one of the few people on the dune to catch any air...such a showoff! haha.

Florianopolis has been just the right combination of adventure and relaxation I needed coming off a week of pre-planned and organized group activities.  I relished being able to plant my butt in a hammock overlooking the Atlantic and contemplating the horizon with only my thoughts for company.  The only decisions I made in the mornings were what color bathing suit to wear and whether I should shower or if it could be postponed to apres-sunbathing. 

Floripa, as it's known by travelers and locals alike, was also the start of the Kate/Cyn-City adventure.  The verdant tropical landscape, the sugary-soft white sand beaches and more of that impossibly tourquoise water have cemented this island as one of the most beautiful places I have ever visited and luckily the first Brazilian locale Kate was exposed to, (aside from the night she spent in the Sao Paolo Airport).

When she first arrived, I was staying at Hostel do Pirata near the southern most tip of Santa Catalina island.  Surrounded by tropical flora and 400 meters from the beach, it was small, quiet and laid back.  Armed with too little sun screen, a bottle of water and some beers, we spent Kate's entire first day chillaxing on the praia.  

Audio: Share a song you could listen to all day on repeat.

It's gotten me through the slow times on this trip thusfar
Killing in the Name of by Rage Against the Machine...

If you were in my ski house, you know what I am talking about...

*Cyn city

Today was a sad day for me, not only did 90% of the American contigent whom I had grown quite fond of return to the US of A, but the first of the ubiquitous and thereby cognitively dissonant (in the middle of an 89 degree January day)Christmas decorations started to come down around Salvador.  Being that it looks and feels like (maybe because it is) the dead of summer, my mind abruptly stops and make like a DJ´s vinyl backspin everytime I see a Santa Claus or a (fake illuminated pine Christmas tree).  Here, when you see a palm tree lit up like a roman candle, it is not in homage to that cutesey Corona commercial aluding to a warm Christmas, it is simply the reality for all of Brazil.  What struck me as most odd was the fact that even though most Brazilians had never set eyes on a real pine tree (well, I guess the same goes for good ole St. Nick) they consistently upheld it´s shape in the Chistmas decorations all over town.  

In the land of beautiful praias (beaches), killer samba, a deep allegiance and respect for the region´s strong African influence, crazy driving and freeway crosswalks (no kidding, you are expected to slow from 80 km/h to 0 km/h if there are PEDESTRIANS waiting to cross the FREEWAY at the CROSSWALK), you have to admire the resiliency of a people who have survived slavery and missionaries, conquistadors and European borne diseases and still come out on top, with the best rear ends in the world, to boot. 

There were 7 (not so complete) strangers, picked to live in a house (water front luxury condo on the 25th floor) and had their lives videotaped, (albeit only in 10 minute increments).  This is the story, of when they stop being polite and start getting real...the real world, Brazil.  For those of you who grew up on the weekend marathon sessions of this omnipresent grandfather of realllity shows know what I am talking about.  I hadn't really hung out with most of these kids since May 17th 1998 when we walked across a stage to recieve the good ole high school piece of parchment.  Yet we all meshed well together and ultimately were sad to see each other go our separate ways. 

Aside from the re-connections that were forged over the course of those 9 days, I came to the realization that Brazil has a life blood coursing through it that borders on what the French call joie de vivre.  And let me warn you, it's contagious.  From the first time I jumped off the 15 ft. pier (not including the leg gash that earned me 4 new sexy scars) to the sea turtles and hippie commune we visited on the way to Praia do Forte who had Janis and Mick as guests, this place is ALIVE.  The romance of visiting a foreign country nothwithstanding, who can argue against Brazilian churascarias, caipirinhas, caipiroscas, and a culture that asks if life is tudo beim? (all good).  To say I am smitten is an understatement.  If there was any way I could make my salary in Brazil, I would be there faster than you could say cachasa.  I look forward to seeing what the tropical counterpart is like.  Next stop: Florianopolis.   

Tim and Larissa were married yesterday evening.  For the American contingent it was 4 days of pre-partying, preparing and planning culminating in a beautiful ceremony and a reception that could only happen in Brazil. 

Larissa looked gorgeous and Tim looked, well, surprisingly calm given the 300 or so Brazilian guests he was being introduced to just minutes before he would exchange his vows in Portuguese. 

Crammed into a relatively small chapel with 300 other people while it's still at least 75 degrees outside and no A/C was an experience in an of itself.  I guess that´s what it must feel like in one of those small Southern Baptist chapels every Sunday, in the dead of summer.

As in most Latin cultures, the wedding started a fashionable hour and a half late at 8:30 pm.  After each couple marched down the aisle to their own theme song, including Pomp and Circumstance and Moon River (no kidding), a trumpet trio took center stage and announced the bride's entrance.  It was something I had never experienced before and can only liken it to what it must have sounded when a king or queen would have their presence announced to the royal court.  One adorable 3 or 4 year old flower girl refused to give up her doll and proceeded to create a little bed for her once she got to the altar.  Once everyone was in position, the ceremony began in Portuguese. There's something about being thrown into a religious ceremony that brings out the latent Catholic in me.  I thought I would spontaneously combust if I walked back into church but there I was in atomaton mode making the sign of the cross, lost in the romance of my high school friend marrying this beautiful, kind-hearted Brazilian woman; the love of his life.

As soon as the ceremony let out, the party began downstairs in a half indoor/outdoor elegant reception hall decorated in some of the most oppulent floral bouquets and elaborate glass center pieces I had ever seen.  There were green, pink and yellow accent lights that added to the aura of elegance.  Even though it was hot out, the waiters wore gloves and kept bringing all sorts of Brazilian goodies to our table even after several nao obregado.  And then there were the caipiroscas.  For those of you who haven't been seduced by the dangerously sweet caipirosca, let me elaborate.  Your choice of muttled fruit (kiwi, assarola(sweet small pitted fruit), morango (strawberry). tangerine, lime, and pineapple, a spoonful of sugar and topped off with half cachaca and vodka equals interesting night (read: a really strong sweet drink that will knock you on your ass after two).

We danced to Brazilian music all night long lead by an over-exhuberant dance instuctor (think Richard Simmons only Afro-Brazilian and hot) with personalized Havaianas, blinking rings/necklaces and other silly accessories until the church special even coordinator kicked us out at 2 am.  I can honestly say I have never been as drunk as I was that night at church before, ever.  And I loved every sacriligious moment of it.

Today, her parents invited all the out of town guests to a Brazilian churasca (bbq) at Larissa´s sister Tamili´s house.  We thought the chicken hearts, sausage and grilled cheese sticks with molasses were the main course and only  learned after we had gorged ourselves on appetizers that we were informed to the main course would be served soon thereafter.  That is one thing that cannot be debated:  Brazilians know how to eat.  They eat well and they eat a lot.  But mixing a little ruffage into their diet must seem like a betrayal to their ancestors, or so it seems.  After 6 days in this country I have yet to enjoy a salad or see lettuce used as more than a garnish.  The cuisine is very much meat and potato pallette friendly.  I feel like I need something other than protein, starches and carbs in my diet.  But the meat, expecially when it´s fresh off the spit, is like none other I have ever tasted.  Even ostrich tastes good here.  Mmm. 

Oi! from Salvador, Bahia, Brazil!  Feliz Ano Novo!  Man, has it been an adventure and a half and I'm only into the 2nd day of my trip. Although the trip here was from hell, once I set foot on the Sol Estella Maris resort and Tim handed me my first beer, I knew it was going to be tudo bem (all good). 

After the 24 hour layover, I thought the worst was behind me.  Ah...but those pesky Fates had more in store for me.  I arrived in Sao Paolo on time, checked in without a hitch, and boarded my punctual, plush flight to Salvador.  The flight attendants all looked like they moonlighted for Victoria's Secret and no one spoke any English.  After the 52 hour ordeal I thought, "I'm finally in Brazil!"  My flight landed in Salvador, my luggage returned to me unscathed after our extended separation and I was able to call Larissa (the bride) and tell her I was on my way.  I must have jinxed myself.

I should have known I was in for an adventure when the cabbie told me my address was incomplete; he needed a reference.  Um, excuse me, I'm the tourist and you're the local, remember? This was the same address Larissa had just verified and my friend Jon had just used to arrive at the hotel without a problem.  The first sign we were in trouble was when the hotel phone number didn't work or rather no one would answer it.  So getting directions via dispatch was a no-go.  He then decides to ask random people on the street if they've heard of Rua B.  Nada.  We are literally driving around following local's best guesses as to where this street is for about 45 minutes.  I have gotten out of the car several times to try any one of the 4 local phone numbers I was given in case of emergencies.  No luck there either.  Somehow, by pure luck, he decides to drive down a street at random.  Almost at the same time we both exclaim "Rua B!"  I thought by then I was golden.  After driving the entire street from end to end several times, I tell him in Spanish to take me to the phone a block away so I can call my friends one more time.  In the international language of fuck you he tells me, in not so many words, that he is so fed up with the language barrier and my helplessness that he instructs me to get out and takes my backpack out of the cab.  While I'm not freaking out yet, I am starting to really worry. 

By now, we (and by we I mean me, OBVIOUS tourist wearing pants and hiking shoes in a beach town with a backpack) are getting stared down by the locals.  Almost as an afterthought, the asshole cab driver from hell sees a local man whose house happens to occupy the same corner as the phone booth and tells him in Portuguese my Mexican ears understand, "Watch her bags for her.  This area is dangerous.  She's a crazy tourist who doesn't know where she's going."  WTF?!  This dick is just ditching me here in the middle of Stella Maris at 4 pm?!  The sun only had a couple more hours left in the horizon.  The man kindly takes my bag behind his (no joke) 9 foot electrified fence and tells me he'll watch it while I get myself sorted out.  15 minutes later and STILL no answer and I officially begin to freak out.  Those of you who know me know it takes a lot to get me rattled while traveling.  I go back to the gate and ask to be directed to the nearest internet cafe just in case Tim had emailed more complete details about the hotel in the last 24 hours.   With a look of pity on  his face he tells me he'll walk me there because, (surprise!), it's dangerous.  I'm worried but hopeful.  At the very least I can google the hotel, right?  Nope.  Closed because it's NYE.  Now I'm weighing my options:  that dumpster behind the gas station looks like a good place to hide and miss NYE, or take a 100 Reals cab to the condo where I'll be staying after NYE even though everyone is in Stella Maris and miss NYE.  Solid options.  Another look of pity from the man and he takes me back to his house.  At this point the whole family has been apprised of the situation with the "crazy tourist who doesn't know where she's going" and I've become their project.  His wife takes me inside to allow me to use the family's computer and we have a hit.  The hotel is on Rua B (duh).  Energized by this information they grab my bag, pile into the car and decide they will take me to the hotel because it's on the next street over.  I don't have the heart to tell them the cabbie and I already tried that. 

They grab my planner and start calling all the emergency numbers from their cell phones.  15 minutes later, tired of driving around asking every other person on the street if they've heard of the hotel, I've resigned myself to missing NYE with all my friends and paying about $60 USD to get to the condo and ring in the new year solo but safe.  Suddenly, one of their cell phones ring and it's Larissa!  She finally checked her phone and is giving the locals directions.  Apparently, the reason no one has ever heard of the enormous five star resort-hotel is because it opened THAT VERY DAY.  We were the first guests to stay there.  On our hunt we heard a bunch of people ask if we were looking for the hotel novo (new hotel) but since I had no clue and neither did the locals it was dismissed as a possibility.  Dumb.  We finally pull into a palm tree lined drive leading to the sprawling resort the size of a San Francisco city block.  No joke.  I'm practically in tears from relief at this point; the emotional roller coaster had finally gotten to me.  But seeing Tim and Larissa and knowing there were amazing kind-hearted Brazilian souls behind my finding them made all that instantly fade away.  I arrived at the SFO airport at 11:15 am on December 29th and arrived at the hotel at 5:15 pm on December 31st.  Whew!  Let the party begin!  Cyn-city made it to NYE!

And what a party it turned out to be!  People dressed in all white formal wear running into the ocean to jump 7 waves, dancing in the pool, spraying each other with champagne (thanks Em!), lighting candles (thanks Ala) all to soundtrack of Brazilian dance music.  We went to bed at 4 am, tired, drunk and so incredibly happy to have spent New Year's Eve with friends old and new in a foreign paradise with foreign constellations bearing witness to our revelry.  

We spent the better part of next day recovering, in the pool, while the staff brought us cold cervejas.  At 4 pm, we check out of luxury, board the bus and head back to the condo.  To be honest, after the resort, I thought the condo would disappoint.  But when I got off the elevator on the 25th floor and was greeted by sweeping 180 degree views of impossibly turquoise water and a sun hovering just above the horizon line it finally hit me: I'm in Brazil!.  I guess the saying is true, one must experience the lowest of lows to truly appreciate the stratospheric highs life sometimes sends your way.  Brazil, the land of samba, bahianas, bolinhas de peixe, and gorgeous people...I think I'm in love.  And yes, the sinks drain counterclockwise.  

After staying up the entire night before my flight packing, putting my crap in the crawl space, and fishing last minute items I had forgotten back out, I was tired, cranky and ready to board my 12:50 pm flight to Dulles and sleep the whole way.  Ah, but the Fates had other plans. Many of you expected my first communique to be from Salvador, Brazil about NYE but instead I am stuck in Dulles International, killing time, for 24 hours.  Unfortunately, my first flight out of SFO was delayed by over an hour before it even arrived resulting in my missing my connection and spending the night in Dulles while waiting for the next available flight; an entire 24 hours later.  Now, "That's a bummer, man."  So before I even got off the ground, I added an entire day to my travels, endangering my NYE plans.  Oh well, you have to suffer a little to throughly enjoy the good stuff, I suppose. 

South America promises to be one of the most exciting and memorable trips I will take in my lifetime.  Aside from the history and natural beauty of the continent, one of my closest friends is joining me on the 8th and two more friends join us in Lima.  I also get to see old friends from high school and have the honor of seeing one get married in Salvador.  Not to mention experiencing the electricity of Carnaval in Brazil is something many Americans never get to experience first hand.  I can hardly contain my excitement to finally be one of the revelers I have, up until now, only read about or caught glimpses of on the E! channel. 

So even though my trip had a minor hiccup, I have already met some amazing people as a result that made this unexpected lay-over worth it.  I sat next to a woman from Concord who is now living in Pennsylvania.  She had three people close to her die in recent weeks and was sobbing quietly while writing in her journal.  After getting the flight attendant to bring her tissue and water, we got into a two hour conversation about her life and the choices she must make in the next few months.  At the end of the flight, she thanked me for getting her to talk.  All her familiy and friends live in California and it's just her and her husband in Pennsylvania.  Instead of writing about making positive impacts on others souls, I was able to support this complete stranger during a trying time in her life.  She echoed my sentiment that everything happens for a reason.  While I think she was referring to her loss, I took that comment to heart and suddenly didn't care about losing a day in Brazil to travel.  She made that entire sleep deprived leg of my flight entirely worth it.  Just before we each parted ways, each sprinting in a desperate attempt to make our connections, we did the usual traveling friend ritual and exchanged contact info with a promise to call upon the other if we were ever in the area. 

I took off to Customer service because my flight was no longer listed on the departure board (a bad sign) and once told that the plane was still there, I took off full sprint to the gate in a valiant attempt to reach it in time. I arrive, breathless, with my heart thumping in my throat and the departure area was a ghost town.  The customer service agent lied to me!  I drag my pathetic ass to the counter and tell the man I was just directed to the gate 3 minutes ago because the plane was still there.  His response, "Aww, those guys will tell you anything."  Grrr...back to customer service.  In line I meet some Australians heading to Buenos Aires...from Melbourne. Weird.  Apparently they saved 2K by routing their trip through the States.  So we chat and it turns out they will also be doing the Inca trail.  We wait in line only to get the somber news: the airline will only give us a discount coupon for a hotel and they are not even giving us meal vouchers for a 24 hour layover.  Undeterred, I spoke to the supervisor, who kindly issued me a $100 trip voucher but told me I still had to pay for a hotel.  At that point the Aussies approach me and ask if we could split the room.  Sure! that saves me 2/3's of the cost.  So we start to leave the gate when the rep that helped them said she will be able to get them a free hotel and meal vouchers.  She asks me if I was on the same flight and says she can hook me up too.  Score!  I'm all about the collateral freebie. So here I am, typing away, killing time, after a free night in a nice hotel and free airport food in my belly.  Life is good. Maybe I'll go get a mani-pedi? :)

How do you fake work for the last hour and fifteen minutes at the job you are about to leave.  For three and a half years I have been at this firm, toiling away in the world of complex litigation and toxic torts, and was just about ready to fashion a paper lasso and hang myself or die of boredom when I had one of those "aha" moments. 

Rainier 8.24.07

For some people, it only takes a subtle hint from life to take diverge from the safer, more familiar road of life they've chosen.  For me, it was more like a last-minute two-lane change from the last part of the off ramp before you hit the sand bins in the middle.  It took a gruelling assent up Mt. Rainier and then finding myself at Burning Man after the adventure two days later.  Seeing the sun rise over a sweeping 200 degrees of what seemed like the entire world on one side and having a steep, glaciated, 14, 410 ft. beheamoth at my back that I was about to conquer was my "ah-ha" moment.  Nothing can describe the feeling of seeing the the last 3000 feet I had just climbed by starlight finally illuminated by the first rays of sun and feeling a true sense of physical accomplishment.  It was, quite honestly, the hardest physical challenge I have ever undertaken.  Coming down from that mountain and reveling in the ensuing emotional high only to encounter the creativity and vibrance of Burning Man and my close friends that had finally made it to that beloved event was almost more happiness than my heart could take.  That juxtaposition of nature's extremes and the attendant feeling of invincibility was what finally shook me out of my desk jockey daze.  

Rainier 8.25.07

One week after Labor Day, I waltzed into my boss' office with a shit-eating grin and told him I was quitting.  Six weeks later and here I am...biding my time until my margarita going away party and the last moments I will spend on the 36th floor of this cold steel building as an employee of this wonderful firm.  I will dearly miss all my co-workers, many of whom have become friends but am excited beyond words at what lies ahead.  These hiking boots were made for walking and walking is what they'll do...all over the world.  Let the adventure begin... 

Burning Man 2007 063