Out there

October 14, 2009
Miles driven in the last three days: 1,000+
Highway engineering feats marveled at: 1 (Hoover Dam bypass outside Vegas)
Pounds of sand emptied from shoes: 7
Cute cafes discovered in Prescott, AZ: 2 (Raven Cafe and Wild Iris Coffee)
Websites relaunched: 1

I swear I didn’t plan this at all, but it would seem that in the span of five days I made my way to two of the country’s most remote towns: Stehekin, Washington and Supai, Arizona.

To get to Stehekin, at the upper end of the 51-mile long Lake Chelan in the North Cascades, you can either take a four-hour ferry ride (one-way), or a 25-minute flight on a float plane. Since I was there for work, I got to do the latter.

Bike rental in Stehekin.

The town is home to around 100 people year-round and #3 on my favorite bakeries/cafes in the world, Stehekin Pastry Company. And although I didn’t have time to do do any hiking, the town abuts North Cascades National Park, so there’s plenty to do. I will be back. And I’ll stay at Stehekin Valley Ranch, 9 miles up river from “town” and with cruiser bikes available for rent on an honor system.

Supai is the only permanent village in the Grand Canyon. Sixty miles down a patchwork of asphalt outside of Peach Springs, Arizona, Supai is the capital of the Havasupai Reservation. To get there? It’s foot, mule, or helicopter. It’s the only place in the U.S. where mail is still delivered by mules.

And I thought mail delivery to Jackson Hole was slow!

Seeing mule mailmen isn’t the only — or even main — reason to make the eight-mile hike down to Supai from Hualapai Hilltop. You go to Supai to see some of the coolest waterfalls in the world.

Havasu Falls, two miles past the town of Supai in the Grand Canyon.

And maybe to say you paid over $10 for a box of Wheaties.

There aren't any Bonus Buys at the Supai Grocery store.

 

Seatbacks in their upright positions

October 4, 2009

Power hungry flight attendants encountered: 2
Miles flown: 1,300-some
Beginning destination: Jackson
End destination: Hyatt at Olive 8 in Seattle
TiVo-ed episodes of Ruby watched while riding the indoor bike trainer in the wee hours of this morning: 3

I’m back after a long, long hiatus. It’s not that I haven’t had things to write about – sitting Lotoja out; turning my attention to hiking rather than biking; carrying on a five-minute conversation with a friend and calling her the wrong name (even introducing her to someone else with the wrong name) the entire time (is my amazingly crappy memory a result of MS or of Avonex?; starting to lift weights and strength train again only to find out I can no longer do push-ups (unless on my knees) and can only do two pull ups (down from a high of 16); finding way, way too many cute clothes on outnet.com; filming my first episodes of Wyoming Chronicle. It’s that WordPress is sometimes smarter than I am and I can’t figure out how to put in links and insert photos. And then I get all annoyed and stay away. Because a blog totally lacking in links and photos can be boring, even if the text is as titillating as the stuff I write.

Anyway, expect some tales of good food and wine and bike touring in central Washington this week. If I don’t first get arrested for kicking a power hungry flight attendant – over the intercom: “the seatback pockets are not approved storage spaces; any books or water bottles in them must be put underneath the seat in front of you.” I’ve got something to put underneath the seat in front of her … a can of whoop ass.

 

Famished mosquitos

July 12, 2009

Miles biked outside: 70
Miles the last nine miles actually felt like: 90
Salted Nut Rolls eaten: 1.3
Miles during which I was ready to throw my bike over a cliff (thankfully the courses didn’t take us past any during this time): 23 (Fitzy got the clicking totally fixed two nights ago, but the creaking remains.) I eventually solved the problem by tuning my iPod to Poison and turning the volume to 11. I still apologized to people I passed for the noise though. It really is embarrassing. It sounds like it’s in its death throws. Or at least that I bought it at a garage sale.
Mosquitoes I have squished on my person in the last 45 minutes: 14

So Tour de Wyoming, Day 1: Laramie to Walden, Colo. I loved the headwind that we had almost the entire way. And how coming down whatever pass it was that we went over — climbing perhaps 2,500 feet — was just as much work as it was to get up it. And the last nine miles? Roller and roller after roller. And then finally, the little hamlet of Walden appears. Before stopping in at our campsite for the night — North Park High School, I believe — I went to a gas station and filled both water bottles up with cold, thirst-quenching iced tea. Both bottles were sucked dry by the time I did make it to the campsite, which is a whole five blocks away.

As usual, the first big task was to try to find out which direction was West, so as to pitch my tent in a spot that would come into the shade as the afternoon wore on. I’ve got this fancy Suunto compass/altimeter watch, but the compass part of it is (much) smarter than I am. So I just find a squatty pine tree of some sort and put my tent together. I leave it unstaked (but put all my luggage in it to ensure it doesn’t go flying away like one tent did last year) so I can move it around as the tree’s shadow moves.

So the burger at the Moose Cafe certainly isn’t the “best burger in the West” like they say, but it does come on one of the best buns ever. It’s a pretzel bun. Yum. Even yummier? The carrot cake at the River Rock Cafe a few doors down. A woman at the town’s co-op art gallery recommended it. After learning that it was not made on site, I almost opted out, but common sense kicked in just in time. Who cares where it’s made? It’s carrot cake? Even if I was only eating in for research purposes — I can see this town as a Sunset Day Trip — it was still carrot cake. Yum. And it was yum, albeit not so pretty after riding back to camp in a Styrofoam container propped on my time trial bars.

Tomorrow — to Steamboat, 50-some miles. It’s not as long of a ride as I would like, but any ride outside is better than riding on a trainer. Especially since the assclown who has the fourth season of The Wire from the Teton Co. Library is three days late in returning it. I wouldn’t have Dominic West’s tough-side-of-the-tracks hotness to distract me.

 

Channeling Sisyphus

May 4, 2009

Time spent in the Pacific Ocean while in Hermosa Beach: 0 minutes

Time spent on beach while in Hermosa Beach: 2 seconds

Time spent on 115-foot tall sand dune five blocks from beach while in Hermosa beach: 3 hours

Blisters given to me by above-mentioned sand dune: 8

Number of ascents of above mentioned dune during three hours spent on it: 40 (20 laps each on two days)

how awesome it felt when yesterday’s pedicure included soaking my feet (with open blisters) in rubbing alcohol: even better than when I would inject ski boot blisters with benzoine

Picture this. A leafy nieghborhood. Nearly indecent amounts of bouganvilla spilling over fences, many of them picket. The only thing marring the perfection of the scene? The occassional Tuscan-villa-style home. Sorry, Manhattan Beach (the town up from Hermosa Beach) isn’t Tuscany. And in the middle of it all? A 115-foot tall sand dune. With dozens of people walking up and down. And up. And down. It’s Sisyphus, minus the giant ball.

Sisyphus in the sand

I’ve got alot more here, but tonight is my weekly night of sick and this batch of Avonex isn’t particularly friendly. Don’t let me forget about the disappointment that was Mojo Pies Coffee House. I mean, if you saw a cute little yellow house sitting in the middle of the Pacific Coast Highway with a giant “Mojo Pies Coffee House” sign on its roof, what kind of pie would you envision? Maybe you wouldn’t get so specific as chocolate peanut butter, or apple crumble, or key lime, or oreo, but you would think sweet, right? And you would be so very, very, very wrong. It should be illegal to call what they have on their menu pies. And it should be even more illegal to then advertise said food products next to coffee, because they don’t go with coffee at all. Thank god there was a pinkberry right down the road. That never disappoints.

 

All good things must come to an end

March 21, 2009

 

Planes flown on so far: 3

Planes still to fly on: 1

Proving you can put the girl in a classy lodge, but you can’t take the serial snacker out of her, number of chocolate muffins and croissants I took with me as snacks from Machaca Hill Lodge this morning: 2 (muffins) 1 (croissant).

Ungodly hour I woke up this morning: 4:45

Reason I was up at above-mentioned ungodly hour: to get in a bit of a workout on Machaca’s wonderful stairs (358 of them totaling 200 vertical feet each lap) between the lodge and the Rio Grande

Latest I slept any of the four mornings I was at Machaca: 5:25

Reason for the early wake-ups: same set of stairs (yes, I realize I might have a problem … the food at Machaca was just soooo good though; I wanted to eat as much of it as my stomach could hold and not feeling totally guilty about that)

 

 

So I could go on forever with this list, but I’ll get on with my post. Machaca Hill is an amazing, amazing property – and will be one of the coolest places in the world once they’re finished putting all the trails they have planned in and redoing all the rooms so the shower is an 8×8, river-rock-walled den of deluxe deluge. And the furnishings in the redesigned rooms? Well, just take a look at this awesome chair. I want it.

 

It's not in the budget, but it's beautiful.

 

And pillow.

 

So maybe my cuddling with its down-y goodness is hiding its coolness a bit, but you should still be able to tell it's awesome.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh, they’re starting to board us. I’ve got a little way to go though. They still do the boarding-from-the-back-of-the-plane thing here and I’m in row 15. They’re doing 21-16 now. Actually, I guess I’ll be in the next group. So I guess I’ll catch up with you on the plane.

 

March 21, 2009 – in the air over Belize, TACA flight #410

 

I’m sitting next to a 21, soon-to-be 22-year old who doesn’t know how to spell jewelry (“jewlry”) and who needs a calculator to do basic addition. WTF? I think she’s in college and about to graduate too. What is the world coming to? What is she prepared to do? Was I that clueless when I was almost-22? I sure hope not.

 

So another reason to love Belize? We actually pulled back from the gate 10 minutes early. Amazing.

 

Not amazing is how much work I have to do. Sans internet for three full days – Machaca’s internet connection must not be used to having 12 guests at a time that all need to be on the internet downloading and uploading files; we totally crashed it – I’m so far behind with all sorts of posts and turning articles in.

 

And, to prove the life of a travel writer isn’t nearly as glamorous as it seems from the outside, there was the schedule I was keeping: up at 5:15 most mornings (except for this morning’s 4:45) and not to bed until midnight. A few days I didn’t even have time to do my notes. I’ll have to recreate as best as I can from my memory (and we know that isn’t what it used to be). One thing my memory won’t be fuzzy on? Machaca’s two resident troops of howler monkeys. Those things really scream bloody murder better than perhaps any animal on the planet. When they really got up and making their noises the second night I was sure the entire region’s population of jaguars had congregated immediately outside the screened-in deck 15 feet from the end of my bed. But you know what? I was so tired, I didn’t care. I put a pillow over my one exposed ear and was like, “If the jaguars want me, they can come get me, but in the meantime, I’m going to get some sleep.”

 

I won’t be fuzzy on the aerobic benefits of peeling, winnowing, and grinding cacao beans either. Yes, I have a tendency to exaggerate, but I’m not at all exaggerating when I write that both using the matata – a volcanic stone shaped just-so to perfectly cradle a collection of cacao beans – and the mata – another volcanic rock that fits into the matata just-so and is

Mata, meet matata. And both you you meet the cacao beans we've peeled and winnowed.

 the actual implement that does the grinding – and the hand-crank grinder were full-on aerobic activities. My turn at the hand crank got a sweat going and, for the few seconds I tried to do it one-armed, got a pump going in my bicep that I haven’t felt since, well, I can’t remember.

Maybe I shouldn’t be counting on my various book ideas as a way to fund the house, but rather I should develop an aerobic workout utilizing cacao beans. Although any caloric benefits gained from the workout would be mostly cancelled out by the fact you’d want to eat the chocolate you had made at the end of it. I think you’d probably still come out with a slight caloric deficit if you peeled,

 

Chocolate is good for the heart in more than one way.

winnowed, ground and then ate a portion of cacao beans, but not much of one. Who knew chocolate could be one of those foods that burned more calories than it contained? Isn’t celery like that? Celery doesn’t taste nearly as good as chocolate though.

 

Anyway, it was awesome to be so hunter-gatherer. We took our chocolate back to Chef Ken – who actually slightly resembles South Park’s Chef – at Machaca. He made a chocolate teacake from it the next day. It was tasty, but not nearly as much so as his lime cake the day before. The tastiest thing at Machaca though? The jalapeno jelly served with their over-the-top dessert cheese plate. I’d take an IV of that hooked up to me at any point I wasn’t already getting an IV infusion of that key lime sorbet from Cayo Espanto.

 

I had thought Key lime pie was the best thing a Key lime could aspire to, now I'm not so sure.

I miss Cayo’s rolls.

 

All right. Time to get to work. I’ll start with a post for Athleta’s Chi Blog. And of course I’ll let you know when it’s up live. It’ll be another — hopefully the last — about the 24 Hours of Sunlight.

 

Just another day at the office

March 16, 2009

Minutes I spent on a beach-side elliptical machine this morning: 0 (there isn’t one here; I’ll be doing step ups wearing a weighted pack on the pier later this afternoon)

Unbelievably early hour I went to bed last night: 9:30

 

Rather than mourn the loss of my access to cinnamon-roll French toast and the best Roll in the world — I threw some Canadian bacon on it yesterday morning and saved it for a most delicious post-dive lunch — I’m thinking that here at Tranquility Bay Resort up at the far northern end of Ambergris Caye, they’re going to really know how to fry up some eggs.

 

But before I move on from the Roll and cinnamon-roll French toast, I’d like to take a moment to mourn both.

My Roll sammie.

I wonder if Sean Connery enjoyed the same cinnamon roll French toast when he stayed at Cayo?

And now it’s time for me to enjoy my eggs, with a slice of Velveeta on top. Being the white trash-foodie I am at heart (Karo pancake syrup, Perkins, brown food), I should love them. I can’t remember the last time I had Velveeta, if ever.Because this is a work trip and not a vacation, I had better get to it. Right now it’s time to put the finishing touches on a piece about great ways to spend June’s extra daylight hours for Sunset magazine.

The view from the office this morning.

 

Private-island inspired stream of consciousness

March 14, 2009, 10:34 p.m.

 

Number of Facebook, Twitter, and Gmail posts in which I’ve mentioned “my private island:” about three dozen above and beyond however many would qualify me as being obnoxious

 

Times I thought I saw a crocodile coming to munch on me and my sit-on-top kayak: 4

 

Number of down pillows that might be missing from Cayo Espanto tomorrow afternoon: 2 (I don’t need to be greedy)

 

 

I’ve found the roll to which all other rolls should aspire. Light, yet heavy enough I could push press it. I’ll have to do about an hour of push-presses to make up for the dinner I’m eating right now. On my private deck. On my private island (at least for the night). I’ll miss lots of things about Cayo Espanto when I leave tomorrow; one of them will definitely be writing, “my private island.”

 

But back to the yeasty contradiction I am presently savoring every crumb of. It’s substantial yet fluffy, feathery even. The inside is soft and, to use pretentious food-speak enrobed in a just-so crust. And of course, like the cookies that Butler David brought to me post-kayak adventure this afternoon, it’s warm. Which is key since the butter is quite cold and would be unspread-able otherwise. But this roll, or rather, Roll (it deserves a capital “R” if anything does) is the first I’ve encountered during my lifetime of roll connoisseurship that is not a vehicle for butter but rather a creation that butter has the good fortune to grace.

 

They’ve actually given me two rolls. And I could eat the second one (whether now or for dessert). But I won’t. I’ve already finished a bowl of a wonderfully sharp tomato soup and have grilled shrimp with three-pepper slaw, blackened snapper, and a real dessert still to come. But wait. I can eat it for first breakfast tomorrow. I’m planning on getting up with the sunrise to 1) enjoy it and then 2) to jump on an elliptical machine (hey, they have it pretty much sitting on a beach, so it’s not nearly as bad as it sounds) so I can enjoy a slice of cinnamon roll French toast for second breakfast without guilt. And then my plan is to squeeze in another kayak adventure before my 10 o’clock massage. I left a few mangrove forests unexplored during today’s kayak outing. (Are they mangrove forests or swamps? Because there certainly is no forest floor beneath their barnacled roots.) Do Belize’s mangroves – be they forests or swamps – provide homes for crocodiles? If I were a crocodile, I’d want to live in there. Looks like lots of fun places to play. And sleep. And hide so you can pounce on clueless sit-on-top kayakers and eat them up before they know what hit them.

 

Oh, I’m already excited for tomorrow’s first breakfast. I marry that Roll if I could. How can flour, water, and yeast taste so good? Sorry Kelly, but even your rolls come second to this one.

 

But let’s get back to the crocodiles for a moment. Well, not the crocodiles themselves, but other scary water-living things. This wasn’t always the case, but, at least since reaching adulthood, I have problems walking barefoot in any non-pool body of water. Unless I can see bottom and said bottom is very clearly sandy and without pointy, bite-y, claw-y thingies scurrying about, I’ve got something on my feet. But one thing I’ve never worried about lying in wait for me in the water? Sea lice. At least I haven’t worried about sea live until now. Sorry, but what the fuck are sea lice?  Other than scary looking.

You want to go swimming with this thing?

 

Cayo Espanto has a remote controlled mosquito abatement system that sprays some chrysanthemum-based concoction into the air at the touch of a button; yet the beautiful water that would give Catherine Zeta-Jones’ emerald green eyes a run for their money and that is ebbing and flowing directly underneath the chair I’m now sitting in and the bed I’ll later be laying in is evidently a potential home to sea lice. I’m sorry, but the Jellyfish Sting Protective Lotion (“Helps prevent stings from jellyfish and sea lice”) sitting on the bathroom countertop next to the Lady Primrose Celadon shampoo and lotion just doesn’t cut it.

 

I might have managed to get lost in San Pedro’s  six-block “downtown” this morning, but I wasn’t born yesterday. The lice I’ve heard about are not dissuaded from taking up residence by lotion.

 

Oh. My. Friggin. Fraggin. Shitballs. I might have to marry my blackened snapper too. All right. That sounds a little dirty. It’s not though. The blackened snapper in question is my entrée. And it’s just arrived. And I’ll marry the bed of jalapeno polenta the snapper has so tantalizingly set itself upon too. Okay. I need to figure out how to keep some of the snapper/polenta for first breakfast tomorrow too. Did I mention I spirited away the second Roll the last time Butler David disappeared? (FYI, I’m eating all my meals on the deck of my private villa, which is on my private island (for the night), so it’s not like I’m hoarding a Roll in my pocket. I would if I had to though.) Crap it sucks Brian isn’t here. Although I have no doubt that 1) he’d have room enough for his entire dinner and 2) he’d want the portions of mine that I’m trying to save for tomorrow.

 

Butler David – Cayo Espanto’s official term is Houseman; Butler just rolls off my tongue better — is going to wonder how the hell I can eat so much. But before I can hoard the snapper and polenta for tomorrow’s first breakfast, I need him to leave. Because really, if I eat another bite now I’m going to explode. And I can’t stop eating until it’s no longer in front of me. Must hoard now. It’s like I’m the Death Star and the blackened snapper and jalapeno polenta are caught in my force field. Hey, that’s a pretty good analogy. Equally dorky and true.

 

Sometimes food is just too good for it’s own good. Or for my stomach’s own good. Big time.

 

All right. David finished battening down all the villa’s shutters and it looks like I’ve got a vacuum where one would think my mouth is. Blackened snapper and polenta in a little glass in my mini fridge. Right next to the Roll.

 

Oh my God. I’m still going to explode. And I’ve got some sort of sure-to-be over-the-top key lime dessert coming. I remember there was more to it than key lime – maybe some kind of curd-y something too? – but the details are buried somewhere beneath layers of Roll, tomato soup, grilled shrimp, blackened snapper, and jalapeno polenta.

 

Oh. My. God. It’s three things. A key lime tart. A key lime curd-y thing in a ramekin. And a, um, I don’t know. Some sort of devastatingly delicious drink-y thing that I could down in one

Key lime, three ways. All yummy. Although some yummier than others.

swig but which I won’t because I’m sure it’ll send me running to the bathroom. If I want to squeeze all this goodness in — and of course I do — I had better do it slowly. Bite. Breathe. Bite. Breathe. Breathe. Bite.

 

So the variation in the ramekin, although the curd-y part is much better than anything with “curd” in its name deserves to be, isn’t worth exploding my stomach over. But holy fuck. I’ve never had sorbet this good. I wonder if it’s available in IV form? It’d beat an infusion of steroids any day.

 

Now I must roll into bed, dreaming of my Roll of course.

What I can't eat at dinner tonight makes for a great first breakfast tomorrow.

My private cookies.

My private dinner.

 

Living the Life

March 14, 2009

Seconds in which I’ve been able to not smile since arriving at Cayo Espanto: 2.3

People waiting on the pier at Cayo Espanto to greet me (as I arrived via private boat): 9

What I was greeted at the pier with: the perfect iced tea (which they knew I liked from a pre-arrival survey)

 Minutes in which my personalized lunch will arrive at my private villa: 12

Number of times I’ve pinched myself since arriving at Cayo Espanto: 17

 

Since a picture is worth a thousand words:

I never want to leave. But it'd be nice if Brian could come down.

Was it just last night that I went to bed worried I’d wake up with bugs all over me? I don’t think that’ll be a problem here at Cayo Espanto. In fact, the only problem I see is that I’m not going to want to wake up tomorrow morning because that is one step closer to having to leave my new favorite place in the world.

 

BTW, the above is the view from the table I’m sitting at now typing. And the view from my oversized bed is pretty much the same too. Same goes for the view from the hammock on the side of the villa.

No problems sleeping tonight.

 

Welcome to Belize (and a possible lice infection)

March 13, 2009, 9:15 pm

 

Number of pillows at Martha’s Guesthouse in San Pedro, Belize that equal one of my pillows back home: 3

 

Number of conch fritters I ate for dinner: 3 (out of 4 possible)

 

The diameter of the corn tortilla that serves as the base of the world’s smallest taco: 2.5 inches

 

Was it only this morning that I was eating free samples of chocolate chip cookies at Paradise Bakery in the B Concourse at Denver International Airport? I just ate a pork taco and conch fritters 20 feet from a palm tree growing out of a white sand beach. (Is there any nourishment in sand? What do palm trees live off??) And now I’m settling into a “bed” that makes my therma-rest look like a Tempurpedic. I am a little worried about waking up with an infestation of crawly critters of some sort.

Not quite the Four Seasons.

Martha’s Guesthouse is no Cayo Espanto, which, judging by the aerial I got flying in to Ambergris Caye this evening, is going to provide the last bit of relaxation and recuperative energy I need to pronounce myself fully recovered from 24 Hours of Sunlight. Flying in at an elevation of 700 feet, I had no problems discerning the 150-foot pier the Cayo brochures extol. And I had no problems seeing that charming structure that sits at the very end of it … and that I myself will be sitting (and sleeping in) tomorrow night.

 

Since I haven’t yet been to Cayo, I can’t give the details of exactly how it differs from Martha’s, but I bet that Cayo doesn’t have its check out time (11 a.m.) written – in blue ballpoint pen — on the back of the door. And I bet Cayo doesn’t have another note handwritten on the wall – again in blue ballpoint – asking

Reduce, Reuse, recycle. Saving paper while alerting me that check out ia at 11. Which is really too bad, as I was hoping to hang out here longer.

guests to put toilet tissue in the trash can. And I bet I’m not going to fall asleep in a bed at Cayo tomorrow night wondering if I’ll wake up the next morning covered with bug bites or with my head crawling with lice. I really don’t trust these pillows. Especially since I need to use three of them – thereby increasing the odds of critter contamination – to raise my head even the slightest bit off the mattress. I don’t want to even think of what might be living in the mattress. But Martha’s fits the budget these days: $10.

 

At dinner tonight I realized that perhaps I should have done just a little bit of research into a ballpark figure for the exchange rate between the American dollar and the Belizean dollar. My world’s smallest (pork) taco was $4BZE. I’d say that, for me not to have ridiculously overpaid for it, the exchange rate has to be at least $2 BZE = $1 U.S. I’d be even happier if it was $3: $1 though. Not that I’m going to be buying much on this trip – don’t know how much I need a stingray carved from mahogany (Belize’s national tree), even if it is beautiful – but I guess I should perhaps still get a clue as to what a Belizean dollar is worth in my home terms.

 

Although I didn’t research my current currency exchange rates, I did actually do a bit of general Belize research. Which, for me is a big deal. I’m usually a traveler along the lines of let-me-get-there-and-get-myself-as-lost-and-confused-as-possible-(and-possibly-accidentally-offend-some-locals)-to-learn-about-the-place. But, this being work and all, I figured it’d be good to know a bit of Belize’s back story. Did you know that when the Mayans were at their most kick-ass – say, from 0 to about 800 AD – there were about  a million of them living here in Belize; that’s roughly four times the number of people of all backgrounds that call Belize home today.

 

When I’m not hanging out with sharks and otherwise exploring the largest barrier reef in the northern and western hemisphere – and the second longest in the world – I’ll be checking in with some of the 50,000 Mayans still in Belize today. I don’t have cell phone service down here and I didn’t chat with Brian about this before I left, but, since it is the Mayans that are the big predictors of the world ending December 21, 2012, and since Brian is a big fan of end-of-the-world hypotheses (is hypotheses the right word? Predictions?), I’ll ask them about that. I wonder if there’s a Mayan version of Price who’s about to hit it big with a “Party like it’s 2012?”

 

Here’s hoping tonight’s not a repeat of Malawi 2003, when I was awoken in the middle of the night by tiny ants crawling (and biting me) all over my body. Although I guess I’d take a one-night date with ants than an ongoing battle with lice. Or some sort of insect I don’t yet know about but which could maybe crawl in through my belly button, ear, nose, or some other unseemly place and lay thousands of eggs that will hatch in a few weeks and leave my insides teeming with all sorts of bad things until one day, all thousand-some of the creature spill, en mass, out of whatever orifice their mother crawled in through.

 

Sweet dreams.

 

Changing up Offices

March 13, 2009, 9:32 a.m., Denver International Airport

Amount Paradise Bakery in the Denver International Airport wanted to charge me for 1 inch of hot water: $1.67

The 7:12 United flight out of Jackson is just way, way, way too early. I swear I entered REM sleep before the flight attendant, seven minutes before we landed in Denver, nudged me to put my seat back in the upright position.

After stumbling down the B concourse to Paradise Bakery, getting a double espresso instead of a double Americano (I’m opposed to any coffee outfit that charges more for Americanos than espressos), I’ve woken up though and have set up a temporary office.

Denver International Airport office. 9:03 - 9:41 a.m.

I LOVE that DIA now offers free airport-wide wifi. Go DIA. Almost makes up for the stupid coffee pricing at Paradise. (Actually, their very ample free samples of their most delicious chocolate chip cookies almost makes up for their ass-hat Americano prices … but not quite.)

Anyway, I’ll be utilizing three temporary offices today: here, Houston, and, saving the best for last, a beach in Belize. Ambergris Caye. It rather amazes me that I’ll be in Belize by 4:45 this afternoon. It was 0 degrees when I left Jackson this morning. At the ungodly hour of 6:20.