Never Connect Through Mexico City: Welcome to LA

I have probably had worse transfers in my life, but right now, at 6:45 in the morning after zero hours of consecutive sleep, I can't think of any.

I'm sitting in Mexico City airport. If it can be, at all, avoided in the future I will never return to this airport. It's not that it isn't pretty, and it's not that it isn't clean, or safe, or blah blah blah – it's that here's how my last hour was spent:

I got off my plane from Buenos Aires, and wandered around following connecting flight signs that all of a sudden stopped showing up. Then I was told I had to go through immigration. There is nothing more terrible than immigration in order to grab a connecting flight. It's ridiculous. I don't want in to your country, I want out! I never wanted to be here in the first place! But no, now I must join the long line of slovenly people looking to spend their wonderful time in Mexico. Which isn't to say people going to Mexico are slovenly, but that after the flight from 11pm to 8.30am, with the magic of time zones transporting us back to 5.30am we are all a tad slovenly. It is most likely I still smell, though now so do others, and thus all is well.

So there I stood waiting to get stamped into the country. Finally I made it to the front of the line, and bam, stamped in. Did she stamp it on any of the pages with one stamp already? No. She stamped it on a blank page. Thanks. Thanks a bloody lot. No, let us not see that there are few blank pages left, and make an effort to preserve them. Let's just rub another possible visa out of existence. That's just wonderful. I'm ever so grateful that you took the three seconds to flip through my passport. The page one over? Would have been great.

So now I'm in Mexico. I could go visit my friend in Mexico City – who knew you had to actually enter the country? Oh and while I was told in BA that my luggage was checked through, I am not trusting. And with good reason – my pack was one of the first out. I then had to have it scanned, opened, and checked through (welcome back to North America) and then placed on a new conveyor belt, which I am hoping will send it to its proper destination. Time will tell. About six hours time.

So now having been searched and cleared into the country, I must follow non-existent signs to M. Not that I've been told what M is, or that there are signs for it. I follow the signs to L, and it gets me there eventually.

Time to have my bags checked again, and get cleared out of the country. I'm so glad I had this thirty second stay.

Once more Scott Wilson your theory of “once you have the passport stamp, you've been there” falls flat on its face. I would not say I visited Mexico in these few moments, but stamp I have. Many countries I spent a long time in? No stamp.

So time to find out what gate my flight is. It is not yet listed. That's fine, I'll just plug in my laptop and hang out for a bit until it shows. Oh, but wait, the plug sockets in this airport are specially designed that you need a strange bonus prong, that all airport items have – but not you – to trip a breaker thing to allow the power to flow. So now, I sit, watching the battery drain on my laptop. Here's the thing – they have pay-wifi here. Who is going to pay for the three hour package of wifi when their battery won't hold out that long?! Mexico!

I can not tell you how excited I am to get to an English-speaking country. I didn't think I would care all that much, but after this long failing to communicate thoroughly, or having to accept being taken advantage of, because there is no way to express what you mean, I'm very excited to get to something that feels like home.

Yes, I may have a fun time at the American border – but once I'm in...

Plus, I'll be clearing through LAX this time, not Fort Meyers. I'm sure the guys a LAX are used to backpackers, yeah?

Wha – so close. So close.

So why have I not slept for more than an hour? Oh it has to do with two terrible monstrous things: Babies. They screamed. The whole flight. All nine hours of it. And the half hour we taxied around the ground. They would give ten minute breaks of silence before screaming again.

At first people started to shush them, this lasted hours. Then they gave up.

Look – here's the thing – if I screamed for ten hours, I would probably get shut down by the flight crew. So these babies should have to operate on the same level. I'm sure everyone coming off that flight is a lot more agitated and ready to snap then they were getting on. This is an in flight risk, even more so than a – shock – water bottle!

So what do we do? I propose sound-proof baby chambers, or head masks, or even a needle to put them to sleep for a few hours. Or, you know, a needle to put the rest of us to sleep. Why not give them some sort of sleepy time drug? Why not tell parents that if their baby screams for more than forty five minutes then these things will come to pass – then they can think if they want to take their child or not. Or, hey, baby flights. Get them all together and have them all suffer hell, leaving me to sleep.

Or just not let them on overnight flights. I can deal with a baby screaming in the afternoon, but from 11pm to 8am, I am less gracious.

And then, when I got off the plane, and walked by the two monsters, I discovered they were 2 to 3 years old. This is the age a parents can deal with their child, and communicate. I thought I heard real words in the screams... but no, no teacup-human would possibly scream for that many bloody hours. And yet they did.

At this age we can totally throw them in the soundproof cage near the back of the plane. And if the parents want to stay with the child, fine, they can go in too. But if they want peace, well lesson learned wee one.

Something must be done! Now lets turn off the lappy, save battery, read some more Ian Rankin – Doors Open, and find my gate!

8:20 – I have been alerted to the gate I need to board at. Gate 59 – the farthest from where I was sitting. But that's ok, because now I'm there and can read and waste time until I get on my flight taking me to America – and something I feel that I understand. And people I know. People I know is a key thing.

Then in a few days I'll by flying into San Francisco to meet up with Katherine, and perhaps use more rusty pilers to remove more earrings. But probably not. Which makes me sad. And her, happy, I'm sure.

It should be noted for the record, and back dating purposes, that today is March the 16th. Rarely do these get posted correctly, and I've given up on proper back dating. But as I write one a day, it shouldn't be too hard to figure out what day is what. Or which is which.

Also – I am almost through my Malaria pills. Still taking them, since Africa, then South East Asia, then Peru. Only a small handful left. It was brought to my attention by a medic that I would be relieved to know I couldn't possibly have chlamydia whilst I was still taking them, as doxy is used to cure such things. I'm pretty sure I wasn't looking to pick up chlamydia, but – you know – good to know, I guess.

One more hour, and I'll be off again. I hope my baggage will be on board. Seriously, I'm quite looking forward to clean clothes. It's gonna be great.

As I sat in the plane headed to The States I was both excited, and apprehensive. Apprehensive because America hates letting me into their country, and they always do new and strange things that I don't quite understand. Landing, though, I was just stoked to know that when I ran into problems I could get out of them using my words, and be understood. And that? That was really exciting.

Of course, then I landed, and quickly made my way through immigration. For the first time I had an expiration date stamped into my visa with the American stamp. The girl at the desk also told me I was Argentinian. I assured her I was not. She asked if I had two passports, and I told her that there was no way that I was from Argentina. She questioned this again, but then I told her I'd not have had to pay for the 70USD entrance visa to Argentina were I from there. Seeing this in my passport, she agreed. Points for not peeling that out yet. (Can anything bad happen if you peel out old visa to free up pages?)

And then the baggage claim. Out come the bags, away walk people with their bags, and then the belts stop moving. I have no bag. But, neither do eight other people. Who connected. Twenty minutes pass, and I go from calm, to forlorn. I love my stuff, and I'm so close to offloading a bunch of it. To lose it all now? That would be a real kick in the undesired kicking place.

The man tells me he will check to see if there is more luggage. He comes back and says there is not. He wonders if it might have come on another flight. Time passes, and he says – ahh, it was on another Air Mexico flight, and out it came. And I hugged and kissed my pack, and told it that we had a pact that it would never do that again! But I forgave it. What else could I do? I'd also need to soon tend to its wounds with duct tape bandages, before its booboos got any worse.

Leaving the luggage claim area I silently wondered how my pack leaving Mexico city had ended up on a flight from half a country away. I did not believe this mysterious tale, and wondered what really happened to it in the in-between time.

Exiting, I was of course stopped and told that my bags would need to be searched. Of course they would.

I am becoming an expert at being searched. An absolute expert. I know when to smile, how to answer their questions, and how to laugh appropriately at each repeated joke. Ai ya. I almost broke form. Today the guy going through my pack in his snazzy black gloves, told me how cold it's been lately. “I bet it was colder where I was,” I said under my breath. Where was that, he wanted to know. But I held my tongue, and didn't say the truth – oh, just in South America. Not that warm. Please, continue to unpack my bags.

And he did. He unpacked all the sub bags from my bags, and then unpacked those. And then went through all the pockets. Now I almost have a respect for a good search – all those quasi-searches just feel like a waste of time, they're not doing anything, just pushing things around. But this guy was pretty on the ball. Of course, he left – unsearched – the same three pockets that everyone misses.

Like I said, I'm becoming good at being searched, and I bet I could get things across borders that shouldn't pass. Not that I would be such a damned fool – but, still.

I also thought about the “you packed this bag yourself? It hasn't been out of your sight?” question. I no longer answer it as, yes – no. I am more truthful. Yes, I packed it myself, and yes it was in my sight until I put it on the conveyor belt for the plane.

If you get caught with drugs in your bag, it's crap that you get charged even if they were put in your bag when you had no access to it. I refuse to shrink wrap my pack – they're just going to cut it open and search anyway. But to assume everything in a bag is the travellers is ridiculous. If I left my backpack in a movie theatre, and ten hours later, I go to pick it up with a police officer, there's no way he could prove in court that what was in that bag was placed there by me. But when you get off a flight, you are granted no immunity. Which is stupid. Because this scam is well known.

But the more I thought about it, the people who traffic drugs probably want their merchandise to get through, so they can claim it at the other end. And as such, they would probably put it in nice cases that look like they won't be searched – unlike the big duct taped knapsacks, which get hit up all the time. So I no longer worry. Still, I answer the question differently in hopes that it might help some day. Probably not.

Eventually I was told that I could repack my belongings. Great, the precarious packing doesn't take twenty minutes, go off on a coffee break and leave me to it. I love that.

But then I was through, and just had to figure out how to get from the magical LAX, with what looks like a spaceship control tower outside of it, to Santa Monica. I feared for a moment and then asked at the information booth – two women with green antenna on their heads (presumably for St. Patty's day tomorrow). They preened over my beard for a few moments, and told me that I wasn't orthodox. Then they set me up with all sorts of information, such as how to take a shuttle to parking lot C, grab the Big Blue Bus from bus bay 12, once I'm there, and how to simply ride BBB3 all the way to my hostel. Price to get from LAX to my hostel? 75 cents. I paid a whole buck. Man, really? TTC! Curse you!

So easily enough I ended up in my room, checked in, and after discovering that while wi-fi is everywhere here, and while no one else has a problem connecting to it, my computer requires me to stand in a corner, on a book shelf, in order for data transfer to work. So be it.

A few messages to a girl I travelled with in Africa, and I have perhaps set up some plans for the future. We shall see.

Out to explore.

I want to point out that this is by no means an exaggeration. This is not me embellishing. This is not me wanting to make America look weirder or wackier than it is. This is just what I saw in my one and a half hours wandering the Santa Monica Pier. Oh America, sometimes (often) I really do love you.

I turned left and saw, in front of me, the ocean. I had no idea where this hostel was located, but it couldn't be in a better spot. Ten minutes had me walking on the sand, where my mind was overcome with thoughts of everything that the last three months had brought me. I was reminded of walking the beach in Florida, but then I was transported to Dune 45 in Namibia, before being swept away to the blowing dunes of Peru. These thoughts will accompany my actions for the rest of ever. And it will be strange to discover when they pop up. Vodka and snowballs will most likely bring me to Antarctica, next winter.

I dragged myself to the present, attempting to experience it for all it was worth. A sixteen year old, with a girl in her early thirties, was dragging along a little girl. All of them were dressed in what I believe to be the national outfit for this beach – bikini top, and jean shorts, buttons undone, and opened. I wondered for a moment – was I seeing three generations together?

On the pier, I walked to the end, watching as lifeguards attempted to save a rather obese woman, collapsed on the ground. The officers with them walked up to us and said – word for word - “Move along folks, nothing to see here.” Then he swaggled towards us, hands on his hips. Television could not have set it any better.

On my way back, I heard the sound of children singing. No less than thirteen six year old girls, with faces painted like those I saw in certain colour and luminescence related districts of greater Holland, wearing green and black mini dresses, danced in line, bumping and gyrating, while singing about how they weren't girls anymore, and needed to be treated that way. The fifteen seconds I spent videoing this, as proof that such a thing did occur, was the most awkward and creepiest moment I'd experienced in some time. The fact that others were there simply enjoying the spectacle distressed me nearly as much.

On my way to escape from that nonsense I came across a man wearing a speedo, holding live snakes, while preaching about how He, not he the snake holder, but He the capital H He will save us from our rapture, if only we look and listen. For added impressiveness he did this while balancing on a rubber dodge ball.

Hardly able to process anymore, I headed back to the hostel along the pedestrian street, where I was nearly lost in a flock of breasts, topped with giant lips, which must have had bodies somewhere – I'm sure. My only solace was in the dinosaurs that offered a reprieve. They were made from bushes, and brass, and whatever else dinosaurs could be made from. There, by one, I saw another potential triple generation, where i would be older than the eldest in the lot.

With much work, I made my way through a side street and back to the hostel.

There, I was gifted with three dollar all you can eat pasta, garlic bread, and lemonaid. Lemonaid? Please. I made it for you. You are my best friend.

A donut on the pier ran more than this.

Over food I heard about the American health care issue from the Americans (I did not bring this up – but had been wondering of it for so long.) You know – when they talk, you really can see the problems with the Canadian system. Still, I told him – as his argument started to persuade me – I prefer to have a system that will sew all my fingers back on, rather than making me pick and choose which to save.

However, without that, we never would have had The Ringer.

EZE: It's a Personal Choice

Final day with the GAP: Antarctica Crew... Bye-bye.

I woke up for group breakfast. After dinner last night, this was mostly just a way to get the final moments of face time, take some last pictures, and prepare for the group departure. With eating done, and people congregating in the main lobby the taxis came one by one taking people away. Spastic waving through windows, and final parting hugs once more. One by one they all disappeared.

As I waited for my 1pm taxi, I was asked if I'd move it up to noon – and then share it. Well now, isn't this interesting? I wouldn't need to convert my 10USD bill to pay for the taxi if I just shared, so why not? Off to EZE i went earlier. And then, of course, I got to EZE. I went up and tried to check in.

I could not check in. Not until three hours before my flight.

My 11:00pm flight.

There would be some time that needed killing. But I could do this with my laptop. I was told there was free internet in EZE. There is no free internet in EZE. I could watch movies after plugging in. Where could I plug in?

It took me a few minutes before I realized that this airport I was in now was the same one I flew into three weeks ago. It hit me as a rather strange awareness, honestly. But after this epiphany I found myself disheartened. I had this problem last time I was here. There was no plug sockets.

Somewhere people needed to plug in their floor cleaners, but where – where?! In the cafe. Huh. O.K. there was a plug socket, and this would require buying a three dollar soda. But with that I could justify sitting in place for the required eight hours before I could check in. So now I'd plugged in. What would I do?

There was an episode of Co-op Live to watch, and that killed an hour. Three and a half hours of podcasts, while I played Frozen Bubbles... and then it hit me. This was no longer satisfying. While I had no problem killing days doing this before, I had re-discovered the excitement of travel. And with that, rather than filling time, I felt like I was wasting time. Time that could be use for exciting discovery, and wonderful wanderings. Yesterday was a fun day of nothing, but when you have two in a row – it's much less... great.

I killed another few hours by writing yesterday's blog – and getting to this point in the current blog. And we've become caught up to the present. It's all rather eerie. Everything that's happening now is happening now in the blog. I can talk about how there are security guards wandering in slow motion, and all number of cockroaches making their way across the floor. My soda is long since empty, and I'm quite bored.

But let us discover what I'd like to write about now. Maybe Antarctica. It's not late enough to really think back on it, and re-cap it... but soon I'll be in a brand new country (well one that's not here) and a place I'd never seen. And then I'll be looking forward, rather than looking back.

First – I'll invoke my inner Professor Parker, “Let's take a break.”

I discovered that I have Sudoku on this laptop – and that killed more time. Alright – so I have one more hour before I can go check in, and get to a brand new waiting room. And then in just three hours I can board my plane, if that gets in on time – which it probably wont.

There are smaller cockroaches kicking around now. Where have the big ones gone, I wonder?

So Antarctica – what stands out? There were blues that you could never really imagine. Not in the context of Antarctica. I expected whites, and greys. And that's all. But there was so much colour. Colours that you may have seen in photos, that have nothing to do with their colour balancing, and everything to do with what was truly there in front of you.

There wasn't much blue sky, but that was for the best, I feel. I have my shots with the blue, and my shots with the blowing snow, and the grey cold skies.

The weather – it was never that bad. We had some wind, and there was some cold. But it was that type of cold that you want to feel. The cold that lets you know you're somewhere else. If you had only shorts and a t-shirt, well that would be fine, unless the kitchen staff saw you – then you weren't allowed outside, and you'd need to sneak around.

The food was lovely – magical – but I've already adapted back to one or two meals a day, and I'm feeling fine with that. The memory of what it's like to be hungry is all sorts of neat. It makes the meals better. And it makes small meals more important. I bet flight food is going to be fantastic from this point on.

Lack of internet. I didn't really touch on this – but it was great. A lot of people have mentioned it since – the moment we got on the boat, we put away our tech. I still wrote my blogs, but that was no different than other people writing in their journals. I didn't listen to podcasts, or watch movies, or play games. I didn't even think about it. Every day there was something going on. Landings, lectures, meals – so many meals, chatting with good people.

When phones beeped to life as we neared Ushuaia the spell was broken for most. I stayed out until the free wifi in the airport. And then it was back. But being out of the connectivity was a wonderful experience where you could really focus on the moment, rather than thinking of what else you could be up to.

It's like not having a cellphone. When you're out, you're out – and it's great. But then you get that phone, or you get that internets back, and all of a sudden the addiction is back, and you couldn't picture a world without them.

Alrighty – back to frozen bubble and now it's 7:45. That's about right, as another podcast ends, for me to wander to the check in desks and wait. Bye bye bugs crawling all over everything. You shall not be missed.

What an action packed day, and no – it ain't over yet.

HA! HA! I'm through. I thought it wouldn't happen for a while, but I'm through to the airport proper. It took three people to mysteriously arrange my tickets, but it was done. And, like all should be, the airport tax was included in the ticket price, so I need not pay anything extra.

Once I had ticket in hand, I made my way through the scanners, and then through customs, and then finally into the airport. I had a long time waiting for those two things, let me tell you, and in that time I realized something. I smell. I mean, I know it must be, but I hadn't fully owned up to it yet. I do. I had four changes of clothing for the Antarctica trip – I'm in number four still. You know how long I was gone for.

On the boat I wasn't prepared to spend 4USD to wash a shirt, and 3USD to wash a pair of boxers. So now, now I smell. I have a clean change of clothes for when I land in LA and I'm hoping the hostel there will have laundry facilities. And then all will be right again. But, man, I'd hate to be sitting beside me. Just saying. Well – I've had to sit near “me” before, so now tables have again turned.

Moving on.

With 11.25 peso to my name I looked for bargain. No fast food through the gate, so nothing would be cheap. But, there was a wee market selling me RocketsMAX for 3.75. These are the ultimate in candy coated chocolate saucers. M+Ms never did it for me, I'm a Smarties person. But I love the super amount of chocolate that you get in M+M peanut – so I often fall prey to them. But these RocketsMAX have the chocolate content without the peanut waste! These are chocolates of choice for me. And they fit the price.

I was now down to – what? 7.50. Sounds right. Cans of pop were 11. Huh. Oh look, a Coke vending machine. Well, I might as well investigate. Oh me lord, for only 5 pesos I can get a 500ml bottle? The bill reader didn't work. Of course not. But I saw a second machine earlier. I went to it, fed in my bills, but then my 50cent coins didn't work. Of course not. Persistence paid off here, and after many upsetting punks it finally accepted and the Sprite was mine! Now I could fill my belly and take home 2.50 as a souvenir.

You know, I thought I might fall asleep here – but luckily there's a little girl running around screaming and crashing into things/people. Her parents think it's darling. I'm happy for them.

Question – all over the world I've seen FREE PUBLIC WI-FI as an available network. I have never been able to connect to it – and it seems strange that that label is in every continent. What it it? A hardware thing reading weird? Is it a virus that opens up peoples laptops as public hosts that you can connect to (but perhaps only at close range)? Is it a real thing that mysteriously floats around.

Seriously – what's up with that? You must have seen them too – have you ever connected? I crave information!

Well there's no plug socket here, and no web access. I guess I'll just eat my candy, drink my soda, and read. That is if the little girl stops trying to poke me through my seat. Ah, at least her parents have pulled her away. Back to the screaming, perhaps?

Antarctica: Disembarkation

Five thirty the alarm goes off. The night before still seems like it was the perfect idea.

No regrets to be had as I shove final items in my pack, and take pictures of the boots I walked across Canada in back in 2006, the boots I injured my knees in in Tokyo in 2008, the boots that saw me through the Alps and the Andes. The boots that never made it to Australia. Personified more than an Ikea lamp, waiting in the rain, are memorialized before being left behind.

For some time I'd thought about offloading them. And all my hikes are behind me now. They'd been encrusted with the water's salt, and were far past their prime. Still – it was hard to let them go. But attachments are made to be broken.

Showered, stationary and not grasping walls for once, I stumbled like a zombie up to breakfast. Halls were emptying of luggage. Passengers were making their way back to dry land. People were congregating hoping for final goodbyes, parting hugs, and final words.

With all things at their end, we made our way down the gangway to the waiting bus that took us to Ushuaia airport. There, within the gift shop, terrible products were observed. And exhaustion almost brought me to purchase terribly unneeded items. Saved, at last, I was by the realization of free wifi.

For the first time I had contact with the world outside. E-mails were made to confirm plans for California, and Japan thereafter. I'd need to make Singapore, Hong Kong, and China plans before long. But there was still time for that. Not much, but some. Off we were called to the plane said to be waiting at the gate.

The plane was not there. Nor was it there an hour later. But soon thereafter we boarded, sat down, and I promptly passed out. Sleep was much required by this point. A momentary awakening came as the food tray rolled by, and then I was out once more until the touch down in Buenos Aires. Ah Buenos Aires, back again.

Bussed to the hotel where the next two nights would be spent, bags were tossed in rooms, and rather than drifting off to sleep we gathered to wander Florida street from end to end, passing multiple McDonald's, Burger Kings, and sandal shops. I had Caramelized Milk Ice Cream. Where else can one get such a flavour? Bed Bug infested hostels were also passed. Good riddance.

The streets were much the same as they were when I last wandered them, except I saw seven goths and two people wearing LOST shirts. These aberrations made me wonder two things – had LOST become even more fantastic since I'd been away, and was there a goth convention in town? Where were these people two weeks ago?

For the first time in two weeks, we all felt hunger. It was about tea-time, our usual third meal. And yet no food was brought to us. There was no one making their rounds to keep our glasses full of water. For that matter, we had no glasses to speak of.

For the first time we appreciated the meals with which we had been provided.

On the boat a buffet of fruit, yogurt, bacon, pancakes, eggs, hash browns, sausages, and all other tasty treats were laid before us. Lunch time was a salad bar, and a buffet of hot treats which ranged from meats, to pastas, to all number of things looking to fill ones belly. There were also vats and vats of desserts. Every three days there would be a separate tray of fresh cooked foods. Tea time was sandwiches, and dinner was served from one of three choices.

On the boat we didn't eat because we were hungry, we ate because food was there. And at the time that seemed like more than enough reason.

Bellies always full we never knew hunger. Now, walking the streets, hours before our next meal, the feeling was - novel.

At seven forty-five the feeling of living in a televised re-run, and the thought of bellies waiting to be filled, ended. A bus picked us up to drive us to dinner, which would be accompanied by a tango show. Before we ate we were given lessons to the dance. Ridiculous lessons which I think I might try to remember for a drama game, or opening exercise to break the ice with new classes.

And then the meal began. I would have pumpkin pasta, salad, and poached pears. The tango show would last three hours. While this might seem wonderful to some, or terrible to others, it was made acceptable by the addition of an open bar. Asking for a beer and a coke confused the waitress. Someone else at my table spoke up indicating that I wanted them separate, saving me from a potentially disastrous mix.

For three hours we watched people dance in different costumes, loosing all track of the plot. It started in 1900, went to 1940, and at some point I think one of the female dancers was metaphorically raped. It was all very confusing. Others seemed to rectify this with bottle after bottle of red wine. Red wine. Ugh. Who drinks that stuff?

Between dances an old man sung. Speaking Spanish may have made the progression of events more understandable, but perhaps not. Perhaps the plot was as impossible to understand for all viewers as it was for us.

Three hours passed and we boarded a bus. Sure the bus had no driver. And sure two strangers hopped on it. And sure when we got a driver he said he'd take us to the wrong place – but none were in much state to complain. Mostly there was laughter at the confusion.

For what it's worth, we ended up where we should have – and then beds allowed for comfortable lapse into darkness. While I was warned of my roommates snoring, I heard nothing, and slept peacefully in comfort. Beds that do not try to toss one from their surfaces are a rare and wonderful treat as of late. And the pillows, finally the right size to fit my sleeping patterns? A true delight.

Any Port in a Storm

The Drake continues to shake, though at breakfast only two glasses break. No tables are empties of their contents. People begin to recover.

The dinner that was so haphazardly glossed over, yesterday, now comes back to my memory as one that was fraught with problems and disaster. Unlike the first breakfast, no chairs broke and no people were sent flying over tables – however, wine bottles, and glasses, did smash to the floor as the boat pitched. Near the end of supper as the service staff was stacking up dishes on a table to clear them away, that table's cloth was frictionlessly tempted to fall to the floor, taking all those items piles on to with it. And jugs of water placed precariously near the edge of service stations, boarded by coffee cups? These items didn't all make it either. But, at least the water jugs were made of plastic.

I wonder if we'll ever see statistics about the things broken on this vessel?

Cape Horn was passed as we all stood in the bridge, being thrown hither and thither. What fun! Closed toed shoes are advised.

After breakfast we are told that the ship is bouncing around too much for some of the morning lectures. I once more begin to power through my novel, trying to offload whatever weight I can before I fly.

One by one we are called down to settle our tab. My visit to the doctors ran me 29USD. Not all that bad to prevent the trip from being the most disastrous thing I'd ever experienced. Sea-sickness. This is not a pleasurable thing. And the amount of people still locked in their rooms as the Drake continues to quake, speaks wonders for how important any sort of pill, tab, or patch to remedy the situation can be.

Lunch time, a final lunch, with a final dessert. This lunch is good, but not nearly as exciting as the hamburgers and hot dogs from the day of the wedding proved to be. Meal time conversations run their course, as all things start to come to a rest.

It is announced that today's engine room tours are canceled. It is said that this is due to some sort of crisis in the engine room. I imagine the first engineer just can't be bothered. And I don't blame him one bit.

In the lounge, before dinner, the stashes of vodka we all thought we would need are collected together. A bottle of tangerine, one of peach, and one of raspberry. None of us drank as we thought we might. There was so much to do, and so much to see, and even a moment hung over would mean missing part of the adventure. But here, in the final hours, we gathered and attempted to make a dent in the collection. Vodka, it turns out, is not any of our favourite drinks. Unless it's Ukrainian. And made at Antarctic research stations. Then it's bloody magic.

At dinner I try to sit at a table with some folks I know, for a final chat. I get looks from the two sitting on the end of this table. They promptly evict me, telling me seats are reserved for two others. There has never, this whole trip, been such nonsense, and it's always sit where you will when you will. This is why we all carry books to the table, to save our seats. But – one speaks up. I can honestly say there have only been two people on this trip I've felt some hostility towards, but on a boat, we keep our mouths shut. When I am evicted, I smile, and move one table over – peopled with a group of similarly delightful people who I've come to enjoy. One nods towards the lady who sent me packing, and quietly mouths to me, “she's a cow!”

Someone else having said it, I can smile in reply, and move on.

Now, it may seem petty to have added this – but it illustrates an important aspect of the trip: Two weeks is a long time to keep idle politeness in check.

This table change has led to some great education, I might add. The island of Guernsey. One of the British Isles. I had no idea such a place existed, but now come to realize that while under British rule, they have their own government, currency, and closed off culture that leads – it would seem – to cultural madness. It is quite an amazingly unique part of the world, as are the other islands around it, and ones that i will look into closer in due time.

It's strange to be informed of places that you had no concept of even existing – it's like being told there's an eighth continent, and wondering how you'd missed it all these years.

Midway through our meal, the boat stops shaking, the forks come to a rest, coffee stops leaping from within the cups. And outside, there is no longer open seas, and endless horizon. Outside are the city lights of Ushuaia. Outside is the proof that we are home. Antarctica is behind us, and real life only a threshold away.

For some this means work, and family, and daily routine. For others it means travel where thought needs to be made as to where sleep will come, and how food is to be gathered.

The dream has nearly ended. But not quite.

After dinner, a final dinner, we head to the lounge where a movie starts to play. “What's it about,” I ask. She – whom I slid across hallways with on the first day rolls her eyes at me and replies, “Antarctica.” Of course.

The bottle of Raspberry vodka is grabbed, and we head off to the Polar Bear Bar.

It's the first time that I've been there this trip for any purpose other than simply looking outside through their glass walls. Sprite is used as a mixer, and over the next five hours the bottle is emptied between all those who wish to drink from it. It is the perfect ending to the trip. It is the necessary ending to the trip.

For some time the sense of mope-mope-mope that often accompanies the closing of one chapter was threatening to fall upon me. But this evening proved to be the closing that was required to make passing on perfectly acceptable.

Long conversations were held with all the right people, while jaw dropped faces, and open eyed expressions were passed on from those completely trapped between tables and walls by intoxicated conversationalists recounting the same discussion had twelve times over.

Openings, and chiming, “hellos,” were timed between passing moments of, “smell ice do ya?!”

Photographers, often locked away in sleep from nine pm stayed awake through talks of relationships, the following of passions, and lives to be lives – well until the morning had set in. Promises to get in touch when cities were passed through, made, and doctors explaining why lack of commitment is the perfect way to carry on between moments of dropping that sea sick patches might just be placebos paved the way for some to carry on to bed.

And finally officers discussed drinks by the liters, death is one engine stops, and strange sounds coming from the roof.

Pink bottle carried away, empty, by bar staff and clocks ringing four, it was finally time, after all moments had reached their optimum conclusion, for sleep. Back in my room I laid my head to pillow for the next ninety minutes that would be granted as rest.

Tiger hats, and yellow caps – photographers new and old – vodka from the continent – ice, penguins, whales, and dolphins – games invented – landings missed – waters tossed – blues never seen.

Street Art and Graffiti Desktop Wallpapers and Backgrounds: Buenos Aires, Argentina [3 of 3]

Street Art and Graffiti Desktop Wallpapers and Backgrounds: Buenos Aires, Argentina [2 of 3]

Street Art and Graffiti Desktop Wallpapers and Backgrounds: Buenos Aires, Argentina [1 of 3]

Off to Ushuaia

Dear the bed bugs that have been ravaging me the last two nights – if you could please stop, that would be great.

I woke up in the middle of the night with red spots all over my left arm, back of both hands, left and right foot, and the right side of my belly. They were as itchy as any mosquito bite I've ever experienced. Had I know of their existence I would have slept in my sleep sheet – but they had lulled me into a false sense of security by taking a week to build up to full force.

As I it now on the plane to Ushuaia I find I'm doing everything in my power to ignore the terrible itching. It is – shall we say – less than ideal.

When I woke up this morning I grabbed breakfast, and then headed back to my room to watch the recap of the Olympics' closing ceremony. Not having been nearly as addicted to the games as in years past – due to terrible soccer matches finding screen space instead of bobsledding, ice dancing, and the link – I didn't think it would be that tragic when the flame went out. Still – there was a slight tinge as the torch was lowered away and out of sight. I wonder what the feeling must be like for the city of Vancouver, planning for these weeks for so long, and then having them disappear.

There was no time to dwell on these thoughts as soon I was headed to the bus to get to the airport. Then it was a brief wait, a slight delay, and a perusal of Lonely Planet's guide to Antarctica (really Lonely Planet? Now you're just being silly.) Then I was up into the air. I tried my best to stay interested in the LotR: Appendixes, but once I got past the time lines to the family trees I started to nod off. And then I reached the three or four pages explaining the various calendars used in Middle Earth and that was just the end for me. Still, it could have been worse. Frodo could have kept popping up to fill me with rage.

I plan to do a breakdown on my feelings towards this epic text just as soon as I finish it. With only forty pages left, you'd think I'd press right on and power through. But I peeked ahead. Those pages explain the alphabet. The names of the letters, the various alphabets, and how they came into being. This has just become tedious.

On the flight I discovered that our voyage of the MS Expedition will be the first for the season as it has been having problems, and was held up in dry dock for quite some time. I'm glad that I knew nothing about this, otherwise I probably would have been tracking the progress of the ship with crossed fingers. As it is, I just learned of the problem after said problem ceased to exist.

Landing in Ushuaia is an experience. The airport is more like a delightful ski lodge than anything else. All wooden interior, with large glass windows offering a view of the snow capped mountains that surround the town in all directions. The town itself? For being the southern most in the world, it's rather large.

I checked into the hotel, allowed myself a moment or two to be amazed by the amazing room with kitchen, flat screen tv, couch, and plush chairs. I should be so lucky to end up with a place like this in Toronto when I get back.

And then I quickly dropped my gear and headed out to wander the city. All the while trying to ignore the crazy itches of the bed bug bites. I'll accept that this is a cultural experience that is important to have under my belt so that I may talk to fellow travellers about it – but that will be in the future, when the bites are gone, and I'm no longer feeling their wrath!

The town has two main tourists streets that extend down the waterfront. For the most part it's just souvenir shops mixed with restaurants, capped by an outdoors store at the end of each block. There's nothing all that special to it, but that's to be expected from a place like this which thrives mainly because of where people go from here. This is the Siem Reap, or Cuzco, of Argentina. You come here not to stay here, but because it's the doorstep to your real destination. Still – it could be a lot worse. There are apparently some great hikes, including one over a glacier, accessible from here. But, like I said in Peru, I hiked my last hike. And if I can't try to keep myself honest, well then what's to be expected?

After some wanders that introduced me to yet another hot dog (so much better than the New York variety, if only due to the double size, and the half price) and a soda I retired back to the hotel. Eight o'clock and the sun still shining. I'm told darkness will fall near ten. I wonder how this affects the locals.

The hotel was blessed with free wi-fi, and a lending library which consisted of eight books. I looked at them, one after the next, and couldn't believe what I was seeing. I wanted them all! The all needed to be mine! And quickly four were added to my collection. I replaced them with two that I'd been carrying around, not yet read – tragic that I'll probably, now, never read Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, or Jane Eyre, but I know in my heart I made the right decision.

The fact that Go West, by the Pet Shop Boys, plays now over the loud speaker only confirms my decision. Could there have been a better sign? Nay. There could not have been!

Tomorrow – boarding the boat to Antarctica. See you in two weeks!

OYT Discusses Things Edible

This is a post about food.

Introduction
There are all sorts of things that may seem important when travelling. Some people need the latest clothes, others look for gadgets and gizmos. Other people are more than content to simply take pictures and look at everything around them. Some people just want to get drunk, party, and black out – proof of a good night. While these groups may seem as if they have nothing in common, that's not quite true. One thing that every traveller concerns themselves with is food.

Sure there are those that eat at restaurants that cost well over one hundred dollars a plate, while there are others who will spend no more than a buck a day on sustenance. But each traveller is looking at the local foods, considering them, and eating them. I know one person who spent eighty dollars on a small bottle of Italian vinegar, and another who spent a week living off nothing more than a bag of Lassie Mog cookies, and some mysterious carrots he came across. While this may seem to put them in opposition, that's not quite true. They both have an awareness for the culinary treats around them.

Why I'm Writing This
Today I headed out of my hostel to the GAP meeting hotel. I got there, discovered no one knows when our group is supposed to meet, dropped my bags off (unwilling to allow someone else to carry them to my room – I'll eat you up, I love you so.) and then headed out for food.

I made my way past Burger King for the first time in ages. I decided that I would eat meat from the grill – as I had been shamed into thinking I was missing out on a treat. Not one to ever sit in a restaurant hungry, though, as this leads to terrible decisions and a lack of enjoyment, I hit up a street vendor selling burgers. The burger was four pesos. It was alright. With something in my belly I went looking.

I'll skip the various places that didn't meet my standards, and get to the one with a poster of ribs hanging in the window. This was the one for me. And at 46 pesos it was twice the price of the Whopper X-Treme combo, but still – ribs... Plus, there were table cloths here.

Fine Dining Experience
I place my order for the ribs and waited. And waited. And waited. Half an hour I sat. Half an hour I looked at the bread bowl that would appear as a mysterious charge on my bill if I so much as touched it. Half an hour I thought about the ribs that I was to have. I also thought of the innumerable number of whoppers that could have been prepared and delivered to me in the time it took to get my order up. I could have started a bar-be-que, flamed them, and have eaten them already. What was going on back there?

Thirty minutes later and I was presented with – pork chops. What. The. [expletive.]

Pork Chops? I didn't order pork chops. I pointed at ribs on the menu. I pointed at the ribs on the Spanish menu. What was this?! It's important to note that I do not like pork chops. I do not really like meat at all. I'm a fan of sauces, hence my love to ribs. And with a good burger, you rarely taste the meat. I'd eat veggie burgers if only they didn't cost more (or if any place other than Lick's could figure out how to work a good texture.)

But there in front of me were pork chops. I had just waited half and hour for them. I wasn't all that prepared to wait another half hour. And the point of this exercise was to eat local grill and see how wonderful it is. Everyone says that Argentina meats are the best. Fine, let us take one bite. Great. Wish they had some sauce. Oh look – lemons.

With the two pork chops eaten I turned to the fries. This may have been the only redeeming part of the whole experience. The french fries were not overly good, but they did not come with any dipping sauces either. Due to this I looked to my plate – what was left? Two lemon wedges that, I guess, were for the pork. I shrugged – the lemons soon found themselves squeezed onto my fries. And the flavour combination? Quite delightful. This is something that will require future trials, and efforts to discover the best way in which to combine this sweet and sour flavour with other things. Perhaps lemon mayonnaise could make a good fry sauce?

When it was time to pay the bill I was charged for the pork chops which cost ten pesos more. Great – I paid more to not get what I wanted. Fantastic. In theory you may think I could have said something – but when everyone speaks Spanish, looks at you crazy when you speak English, and just wanders away if you are too slow in voice, well – there's no real point to it, is there? Just one of the treats you need to accept when eating in another country.

Conclusion? Argentina meat is the same as meat everything. The grilling style is no better, nor any worse. In the future, I'll stick to Burger King – thank you very much. At least it's filling.

It look a slice of pizza, and bottle of soda consumed on the way home to make me feel as if I were momentarily full. One BK combo, and you'll not need to eat for the rest of the day.

Is that all?
But wait... there's more. Now that I have discovered that I prefer fast food to real food, I feel as if is my place, my honoured duty, to discuss various types of said food that I have discovered around the globe. More often than not this will fall back on Toronto being the best of all thing culinary. But I do not hide this. The only meal I've ever had on the road that Toronto has not managed to match was the Sausage and Rice with Lemon Shake in Cambodia. That meal haunts me. It haunts me still.

Right now we'll take a look at two things – pizza, and hot dogs.

Pizza
I don't know why the world has such a hard time figuring out how to get pizza right. Nowhere in the world is pizza as good as it is in North America. Nowhere. Well, maybe Italy – but that's not really pizza. Not in the way everyone else thinks about it. Italian Pizza is lovely, and a treat to be enjoyed. But think of it more as high quality fresh vegetables, meats, and cheeses on a thin warm bread. It is amazing – but it's not round, cut into triangles, nor eaten by Mutant Ninja Turtles, teenage or otherwise.

I've eaten pizza around the world. In South America it's like a flat bread with cheese melted on top. There is no sauce, well hardly none – maybe a bit for the illusion, just to colour. In Europe it's just a nonsensical train wreck. It's often overdone, or not done enough. They try to walk the line between North American and Italian pizza, and just fail terribly. Asia – it's best we not talk about Asia. They just can't get non-Asian food right – with the exception of steak. And then, only in Kobe, Japan. Honestly – once I asked for a fried egg – they sliced a hard boiled egg and fried that up. Thank you Asia. Thank you. Africa came close to having real pizza. They tried hard, but as it was tourist pizza, it tasted like something you'd get at a ball park. Not terrible – but nothing to write home about.

Then we get to North America. Where pizza was born. You heard me – round, triangle, boxed, thirty minutes or it's free pizza. In North America pizza is saucey the way it should be, coated with stuff – whatever stuff you ask for – and prepared to perfection. Now here the problem lies – there are so many types of pizza in North America.

You have your Pizza Hut, which you can get almost anywhere in the world – and it will taste the same in all countries. Which is the problem. It tastes the same in all countries. Have you had Pizza Hut? Sure you have. It's like eating a stick of butter. You may slightly enjoy it at the time – but don't make any plans for the rest of the day, and if you're in a one bathroom living space, make sure you don't go out with your housemates. I'm just saying, is all.

Then you have Pizza Pizza. This is my favourite – no tomato sauce, triple BBQ sauce, chicken, and x-treme cheese. This is the pizza of kings. Get two XL while you're at it. This is pizza like nothing you've ever had. And it's only available in Ontario. Well – Canada wide, but good luck finding it outside of Ontario – fingers crossed. I hear there just might be one at the UBC campus, if you're out that way.

Then you have New York pizza. New York, you have outdone yourself. You can not compete with Pizza Pizza, if only because you're such a different monster. And I love you. And I love to dip you in the packs of tomato sauce. This is what I thought real Italian pizza would be like, until I realized just how wrong that was. But your crust – your cheese – your sauce. You're just wonderful. And perhaps once every ten orders, I would order you – if I could.

I also hear Chicago has some good 'zza. I'm not gonna lie – I've heard of their deep dish – and quite frankly, I like their style. One of these days, Chicago, one of these days.

Hot Dogs
O.K. let me level with you – as a kid, I hated hot dogs. I hated them in buns, and I hated them in my Kraft Dinner. They were disgusting, and terrible, and gross. All the hot dogs I ever had as a child were boiled. Learning that you could flame them up, and then learning there were other syles of hot dogs out there – well that was the break through. That was as magical as learning there were more types of bread than “white.”

Seriously North America – why do we lead children to believe all hot dogs are Schneider's, and best cooked in steaming water; why do we tell children the only breads are Wonder?

Now when you combine these realizations, and have a well cooked dog, in a delicious bun you're half way there. For full perfection you need toppings.

I've eaten hot dogs all over the world. I've had them in five out of the seven continents. And let me tell you one thing, Toronto has the best you'll ever find. This may sound strange, but believe you me, it's true. We don't push our hot dogs in movies, or let others in on the secret. Nor do we make our dogs a tourist attraction, but my lord they are the best.

I need to start from the hot dog we've all been led to believe is superior. The New York street dog. You'll see these in movies, you'll see them on t.v., and you'll hear people talking ab out them. Some pieces of fiction have these 'superior hot dogs' flown in from hundreds of miles for the true authentic experience. This is ridiculous.

Lets try an experiment. Look at your index finger. Are you looking at it? Good. Now picture that in a bun. There's your three dollar hot dog. And when you get it, you will be asked, “do you want ketchup or mustard?” As in one or the other. Asking for both makes you the crazy one. New York street dogs are over priced, undersized, and un-delicious. They are the ultimate in consumption disappointment.

Now, once we accept the terribleness of these dogs, we can move on. It's not that simple though, because people will fight you trying to express how great these are – even people who should know better. So warped have their minds become. These are the same people who probably love the pretzels there too. Sure, why not. Saves you from having to buy a salt lick for your pet cow, buffalo, or other large land mammal.

Now let us shift over to South America where I was told to avoid the Peruvian hot dogs as they've been known to make even the locals sick. This is not a good sign. In Buenos Aires, Argentina, however, they have many a dog shop. And there you'll get a New York style dog – small, thin, unimpressive. It is twice as long, however, and comes with ketchup, mustard, and these little chippy things they like to put on everything down here. These are a step up from New York, but still – nothing to write home about.

In Japan you can find “American Style Chili Dogs.” These are New York style dogs with chili on them. They are just that. It's distressing that Japan couldn't screw up the New York style dog any more than it already had been. It's a faithful recreation – but a copy of terrible is still terrible.

Now, shall we shift to Europe, where the Scandinavian countries have turned their street meat into a tourist attraction, inviting people to try all the vendors? Nowhere is the push for the best higher than in Iceland. Reykjavik has some of the most delicious dogs in the world. They're almost as different from North American ones as Italian Pizza is from Canadian pizza. These dogs may be a tad on the small side, but they have special sauces, and these fried little onion bits that act as flavour crystals bringing you one step closer to heaven! These are the second greatest hot dogs in the world. Still – their price point of three or four dollars, and the need to eat many to become full, leaves them somewhat lacking. You'll also find your culinary experience becoming quite repetitive. Your dog is fixed behind the counter, and handed to you topped. There is no room for personal customization here.

Now we come to the Toronto dog. The ultimate. And what makes it so wonderful? Is it that it's only two dollars? No – but that is a nice addition. Is it that the hot dogs are huge, all beef, monsters – well, that doesn't hurt, I'll tell you that. But the real beauty is that which you are denied in Iceland. Personal choice.

Every Toronto street dog vendor has a booth with no less than five sauce, sometimes more than twice as many. You have your ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, bar-be-que sauce, and relish as standard. You often have two more types of mustard, another BBQ, hot chili sauce, sweet chili sauce, flavours of mayonnaise – the list can go on and on, really. It includes, terrifyingly, squeeze cheese. Best

Then you have your toppings. I recommend taking the meat out of the bun and laying the base sauce, and a few toppings, then putting the dog back, and allowing the madness to continue.

The standards here are pickles – as many as your heart desires, onions, sauerkraut, black olives. These are your sure things. More often than not you will also be met with hot peppers, corn relish – for those into such things, green olives, bacon bits, and more strange and wonderful things than you can possibly imagine. It's rumored that there is still the odd vendor that even has cheese!

And when you bite into these dogs you taste something you didn't think you ever would from street meat. Pure, unadulterated, satisfaction!

The Day Goes On
In my hotel I was flipping through the channels to find the USA vs. Canada Olympics gold medal hockey game. There it was. I watched the first period where Canada took an early lead; I watched the second where Canada put in a beautiful – teen movie styled – goal; I watched America bring it back to within one with a sloppy let in.

The GAP meeting was beginning. There was no way I could attend. It just was not in the cards. Sorry – but there's hockey. Back home all eyes in the country are tuned to this game. Forget the meeting! Then as the third period neared completion I put on my socks, tied on my boots, and got ready to make my way down to catch the tail end of the information session. One minute left before Canada wins the gold, thirty second, twenty four seconds – Are you kidding me! America ties up the game with under half a minute to go?

Waiting through the intermission my roommate came back asking about the game. My heart nearly broke as I explained it. I was told that the group was going out for dinner. But I could not leave. Six minutes into overtime he left to meet in the lobby. Here was a painful game to watch, and I was missing out on potentially good food. Seven minutes in, I couldn't take it. My finger nails were all but gone. Just as my roommate was exiting the elevator on the ground floor I let out a great scream, no doubt terrifying the people on floor four. Canada had taken the Men's Hockey Gold once more! All over my home country cars were probably honking their horns – without even a driver to issue such a command, and beers were no doubt being shared. Here? No one cared. No one knew. But I cared – and I made damn sure people knew, even if that knowledge came about from an assumed psychotic man – late twenties – large mass of facial hair. They knew.

Putting my shoes on once more, I headed down to the lobby, catching them before they left. Then we headed out to the grill.

Argentinian Steak
O.K. - look, the place I was at before? I had pork there. And pork is no good unless in rib form, bacon form, ham form – pretty much any form but chops. That was the problem. The steak here? Fine – I'll admit it, I'm glad I spent the money, I'm glad I had it. Steak – I'm finally starting to come 'round to it. Hopefully some day I can appreciate it like Cypher did, in The Matrix, to the point that I too would sell out my people, including half of the Wyld Stallions, to the leader of the Elves, so that I could embrace its flavour once more.

Good for you delicious steak. You done good. They also had a starter that was just cheese. Cheese with herbs put in the oven. It's the type of crazy thing you do when you're young and think you created a masterpiece – don't pretend like you never did it too. But then you get older and you think you're too old for it, because grownups don't sit down with a brick of baked cheese. Oh yes they do. Oh yes they do! Bless you Argentina. Bless your clotted, cholesterol-filled hearts. I'll eat you up. I. Love. You. So.

A Live-Blogged Kind of Day

Midnight – well, clearly I was away from the internets at this time, so the live blogging could not quite yet begin. Which was tragic. Still – what would it have said? Going to sleep. That was the plan anyway.

Midnight:twenty – Started playing Frozen Bubbles (a puzzle bobble clone) and listening to pod casts. Each podcast was an hour in length.

1:20 – first podcast over, up to level 69 complete

2:20 – second podcast over, bloody level 70 (I hate level 70!) just completed!

3:20 – up to level 98 completed.

4:00 – level 99 completed.

4:30 – level 100 (game) completed.

4:35 - well clearly my mission to fall asleep at a normal time has failed. You will also notice that Levels 70, 99, and to a lesser degree, the last level, have been driving me insane Also – you'll notice I played more than four hours straight, a game that was a good two decades old. Imagine the progress I could have made with a good game, or – you know – something more productive. Still – what is one to do when podcast-listening?

4:40 – accepts that podcasts are filling a void, and no longer delightful to listen to in the same way they were. What did I used to do to fill the time? Oh yeah – talk to people. It's been some time since a good in person conversation. Get me out of BA!

4:45 – sleep.

5:30 – people whose names I don't know wake me up to say goodbye. They know my name.

8:00 – everyone is moving out today, save me. I have one more night here. But everyone else is up – including those who had just got in from partying, so who am I to sleep?

8:27 – off to breakfast. Bread, spreadable cheese, cereal, juice, and chocolate that is hot. What fun! (post finally goes live.)

9:27 - finsihed breakfast. Is delighted that Microsoft is making people responsible for their words over the interwebs. Remember kids: Don't game angry.

11:37 - woke up fully clothed in bed. Apparently going to grab my book didn't work out so well after breakfast. Clearly I didn't get enough sleep last night. Waking up was to the voices of the cleaning staff - though it was for the best, as, in my dream, I was trying to escape a mansion with some classified knowledge on a USB drive, while grabbing one of those red promo-bags from War Inc. I don't think the escape would have gone well - and I had no desire to be stabbed a few times like I was in a dream a few days ago.

12:03 - showered and clean. Bed was made when I emerged from the shower. Oh cleaning staff.

12:04 - Trying to sort out my month of march - looking at a world map and fight sites. Ugh - I hate this part.

12:55 - I have come up with two alternate universes of travel plans - one where he goes from japan to singapore to china to new zealand, the other where he goes from japan to china to singapore to new zealand. Now I just have to wait to hear back from three or four people about what plans work best if I want to meet up with them. Ugh - I hate travel planning. These flights will cost about two thousand dollars all totaled. Closer to three in the first reality. I just can't think about it. And the flight from New Zealand to Australia that I don't want to consider yet? Oh snap - if I fly JetStar it's very reasonable... only around five hundred. The future looks good.

Well I did a good load of work just now. Good for me.

1:05 - Since Stockholm (remember Stockholm? The boat-hostel?) I have been asking myself whY I play CastleAge on Facebook. The answer is still unclear - though I wonder what I'd be doing with my time otherwise?

I now demand that I finish reading Return of the King. Sure I finished the book (more on that later) but I now need to read the Appendices. Ugh. Tolkien!

I will read some LameBook.com first.

2:04 - Just got back from Burger King. If I never eat another burger again, that'd be o.k. My food options are limited in this part of town, and BK whopper actually tastes like a real burger rather than strange fast food. And it's filling too - you can eat McBurgers for hours without being full. Ten Cheeseburger Challenge indeed.

I continued to read LotR:RotK:AI and I tell you, I could not care less about the Numanwhositz and the Dundanwhatitfaces. And yet to feel like I've really read the texts I need to break free and push through it.

I will continue to read while copying, resizing, and uploading photos of Jesus Land.

2:42 - finished adding photos to all the older entries - the videos are still not up. YouTube claimed they'd stop supporting FireFox 2, so I gave up (can't get FF3 on this netbook) but now they're saying you just can't use the new stuff - so I am backlogged with uploads. You can check them out on my site though, as they go live. Youtube/oneyeartrip/

I also posted an entry that I somehow missed uploading a few days back.

3:23 - just updated my post about Jesus Land, and uploaded pictures there. Now that's done and over with, and we're all up to date. I still have no way to fully process that which I witnessed yesterday. I need to know what other people - the god fearing type - think of this park. 40 foot Jesus is not kind, but terrifying. I just kept thinking of th Simpson's where those mascots came to life. How would 40 foot Jesus try to kill us? With his Halo of doom (not unlike Xena's weapon) I'm sure.

4:14 - is officially mind numbed. I'm bored. That's it. I could go use the printer to print out my Antarctica voucher, but - you know - not yet... Then what would I do later? I could pack - but laundry is not back yet. I could - ahh I will write all the things I've been putting off. Yes, this is the most exciting day of travel yet. It also strikes me that there is a season of House and The Office to watch - but really, I couldn't be bothered. MONKEY NEWS!

5:14 - It's five-fourteen. Do you know where your children are? The third football game in a row is playing. There must never be a time when a professional game is not playing. That is what I've come to understand. Just watched Kirsten Dunst in a Turning Japanese youtube video - my brains are about to melt. Time to see if laundry is ready so as I can pack up, and feel like I'm doing something slightly more productive.

5:47 - I've now finished packing, and scrapbooking all my bits and pieces up to now. Well that didn't take nearly as long as I thought it might have. Time to read more LotR:RotK:AI

6:30 - Alright Arwen that's about enough of you. Now what - maybe South Park streams online somewhere at a volume that will block out the creepy guys talking about their spandex Spider-Man costumes.

7:24 - Streaming South Park is a wonderful thing. The Whaling Episode? Fantastic - until deadliest catch showed up... Still a good first half.

8:13 - South Park = caught up on. Time to kill some time by experiencing the British version of The Office. What a action/adventure filled day!

8:20 - British Office Overruled. I like your sci-fi but your comedy still pains my heart. And with that I shall take my leave of the internets and the common room and retire to a place to quiet and recluse (my room on good ol' floor number five - open and close to elevator doors before the machine will move - and the bathtub has four taps. Hot and cold for shower; hot and cold for bath.) I'm sure I'll be back down here. I mean, what else would I do? Sleep?

Anyway - if I don't manage to make it back - I'm not sure if I'll have internet at my hotel tomorrow. And a few days later I'll be on a big ol' boat where there will definitely not be internet. By March 16th I expect I'll be in a hotel in Santa Monica, California - and there there will be interwebs. This is a good assumption, I believe. So there we go.

9:09 - well that failed. Ran into my parents on skype, and am now looking into cruises. I will into cruise, I will not cruise. O.K. Time to re-group and re-focus. Now I have to check into how to get from LA to San Fran. I'm thinking the bus. I've since heard that might be sketch - but I don't really want to fly

10:03 - Flight booked bridging LAX and SFO. Yeah it's more expensive than the bus - about two or three times... but hey - it's much faster. Kinda - not counting getting to and from the airport. I just don't wanna screw up this connection. Tra la la.

10:20 - printed out Antarctica voucher, and flight details - now off to bed to read more LotR:RotK:AI and AII. Ohh - progress.

11:45 - time for bed.

Midnight: yaaaaaaaaaaaaaawn!