Running Out Of Soap

 

Oh gosh, I think I'm in trouble. 

 It's been several months since I last posted. I've been a bit busy in life sorting things out and forging in new directions. Over the time I've been away, I've traveled a little and even managed to win the first-ever 2012 United States AeroPress Championship (I'll post more on that later), but for the most part, I've been home focusing on Spro and honing our skills. That means I've been home now for over three months and not only am I just starting to feel the call of The Road, I'm noticing that my soap supply is starting to get alarmingly low. 

 For the last seven years or so now, I've been mainly supporting my soap habit (and I do bathe regularly, just in case you were wondering) through my travels. I've amassed a nice collection of soaps from luxury hotels to cheap motels that continually remind me of fond memories from past trips. It's interesting to see the kind of toiletries a hotel chooses to provide for their guests and I find equally interesting to compare them. Of course, one of my favorite soap makers is L'Occitane, but I've been saving those for when my supply of hotel soap has been depleted and it's getting dangerously close. 

What does that mean? It means I need to hit the road - and soon. Home is nice but it's best framed from afar and I can't wait to get back out there next month and get back to the life!

On Being The Boss

Every once in a while, a friend or someone I know will ask me about the challenges of running your own company and how I deal with things. To most people, the idea of running your own company, being your own boss and answering to "no one" is a lovely fantasy free of the stresses of working as an employee.

They ask me: "What's the most difficult thing about being the boss?" Truth is, it's all difficult. There is no rest for the weary. When you run the ship, it's a 24/7/365 job. There is no break. There is no vacation. There is no escape. It's all encompassing and all consuming.

But a recent turn of events has brought the real challenge of being the boss to the forefront of my mind. And that is: maintaining calm in the midst of a storm.

Regardless of what's happening in your personal life, your home life or the world outside, regardless of the personal challenges you may be facing at any given time, everyone around you, staff and guests, needs to know that you are in charge and that you have a plan.

It means that you must remain focused and calm. Steady and assured. Even when things are going completely pear-shaped. You may not have a clue what is going on. Your whole world may be in shambles, but you can never let on. No one wants to see the Leader falling apart. It's the ultimate Fake It till You Make It.

And it's one of the few times when you actually question if all of this was worth the sacrifice.

Quiet Contemplation at The RTH

Enjoying the evening at The Red Tree House.

In a city of twenty million people, you'd think madness would ensue at all hours. And for the most part, it is madness here. 10pm traffic jams, restaurants filled with patrons at 11pm, and taco joints advertising closing time of 2am o mas.

Yet in the midst of this Spanish-speaking megalopolis I find myself enjoying quiet contemplation in an oasis in the middle of the city - well, at least until that air conditioning condenser from the low-rise building next door kicks in.

You can sometimes hear the odd car or motorcycle drive by or the airliner on approach to Benito Juarez, but other than that, it's pure, tastefully appointed luxury.

Beyond my table, the house is dimly lit, the garden is filled with tropical flora and spot lights. I feel relaxed and contemplative. I have a bottle of Coke Zero, a bowl of ice and a Montecristo Edicion Limitada 2010 to keep my company and it's muy bueno.

In many respects, this house is like my own personal Fantasy Island. Built in the 1930s and remodeled in 2011, it's a gorgeous blend of Art Deco architecture mixed with modern interior design, with just the right touches of ethnographic art and artifacts from Asia and Mexico.

I love it here. In many respects, I wish I didn't have to leave. I wish I could take this with me wherever I go.

The Waiting Game

2842 - perhaps not the fastest way to the Super Bowl.

Somewhere along the line, I seem to have gone off and into the End Zone.

Years ago, I couldn't stand football, or "football" as we called it (don't ask). Then, around 2004, I secured season tickets and started going to the games. Back then, the Ravens just didn't fare too well and by 2006, I was so inundated with work I ended up only attending two games that year. Not good.

But for whatever reason, I've gotten back into Ravens Football again and decided that I should buy myself a PSL (personal seat license) for the right to buy season tickets. Even today (as in 1996 when it started), I still find it foolish for people to pay cold money for the "right" to buy tickets. It's really just absurd. But seeing that Fan is short for "fanatic" it makes sense. You have to be fanatical to spend that much money.

Prices for PSLs today have skyrocketed into the stratosphere. People are asking for twenty grand for centerfield seats. That's crazy.

With a fan base as crazy as the Ravens enjoy, PSLs have been sold out for years, but you can get a new one (or one that someone else has given up) by joining The Wait List.

The Wait List is a limited list of 3,000 people who pay fifty bucks to join, plus twenty-five dollars per year to maintain their position on The List. By the way, that price is per seat. So for a four seat position, one pays $200 upfront and $100 each year to maintain position. Of course, all the money you paid to the Ravens will be applied to your eventual purchase of the PSLs.

Signing the paperwork reminded me of a buddy in Northern Virginia. An American chap with a lifelong love for cricket. An avid player, he petitioned to join in his twenties and won his entry into the club almost ten years ago. He was on their wait list for thirty years.

Talking to my Ravens representative, who tried to steer me towards the PSL Marketplace to quickly (and expensively) purchase a PSL, told me that my wait time on the list would probably be fifteen years.

Guess that's better than thirty...

Letter to a Friend

Just recently, one of my friends in New York City was dumped by his girlfriend (who is also a friend of mine), in that painful, bewildering time following a breakup, when men feel the gamut of emotions from elation, betrayal, anger, rage, intense love, regret and much more, he asked me for help. I've been there before (many, many times, it seems) and wanted to offer him the kind of tough love I wish I had been given years ago.  Thought I would share that letter with everyone here.


Brother, let's be honest. The only reason you want to go on a date with that girl is because you think it will help you win your ex back. It won't. It only makes you look stupid. Don't be pathetic.

I know you're in pain over the breakup. As guys, we want to win. At all costs. If a girl dumps us, we want to show her that she's losing out on the prize. Truth is, the more you play up to the ex, the more you look the chump and she stays the prize. What you want is to turn that around and that requires discipline.

As men, we want to conquer and be masculine. We want the women to fawn over us. We want them to think we're gods. When they break up with us, we want them to feel pain too. More importantly, we want to strike back in a way that demonstrates that they've lost out on the greatest thing that's ever happened to them.

Well, the more you try to tell your ex that message, you just confirm her decision to leave you.

What you need to be is strategic. Walk away. Don't call her. Don't text her. Don't be available for her. Women love attention. They want us fawning over them - even if they don't have intentions to take it further. That lavishing of attention confirms that they are the prize. You want to strike back? Demonstrate that she no longer is the prize and you've moved on (presumably to someone hotter, sexier and nicer).

The only way to achieve this is to walk away. Cold Turkey. Hard science. No lingering around, or phone calls to see how you're doing. Nothing. This of course doesn't mean that you act like a jerk to her. That only makes you look like an asshole and confirms that she's the prize and you're the lout she (correctly) dumped. Be nice. Be pleasant. Be respectful. But don't extend or accept an invitation. For anything.

And, God forbid, don't start trying to date someone that she knows because everyone knows that's just you trying to get back at her - and that makes you look pathetic.

Maybe your end game is to get her back. This is the way to do it. Demonstrate to her that your life continues on. You live a magical life that she removed herself from. She'll wonder about you. She might even call you. But the moment you lose it and act like a lout, you've confirmed her decision to leave you. The more brilliant your live is after her, the more she will question her decision - and if you want to get her back in the future, this is exactly the question you want forming in her head.

So, get out there and live. Do the things you want to do. Do the girls you want to do. The hunt is on and the world is your oyster. Date hot girls. Date nice girls. Date bad girls. But never tell her directly - even if she asks. And she will, because every girl desires to be (or to have been) the brightest star in your horizon - and if she isn't, and you're surrounded by girls who are perceived hotter than her, she'll regret it.

But the truth is, soon you'll find yourself doing amazing without her. You'll meet another girl who is more in sync and in tune with what you want in life. In time, this ex will be a fond memory in your life. A component of your life that's part of the whole that makes you. Chances are, you won't think of going back.

On the other hand, maybe the time will come when time has passed, you've lived your life, she's lived hers and then you find each other again. It will be better. It always is better.

Autobahning

Just a leisurely cruise on the Autobahn.

It occurred to me a couple of days ago on the four hour drive from Bamberg to Berlin just what this trip was all about.

The night before, I made my way down to the Christmas Market in Bamberg and found an unlikely ally in the form of the roasted chestnut guy. Ended up hanging with him for most of the evening, talking story and learning the finer points of roasting chestnuts on an open fire. I had heard it before when he mentioned the Japanese and Chinese tourists who came to Germany.

Evidently, they come to Germany (and ostensibly the rest of Europe) on some sort of Power Tourist trip where they rush frantically across the nation in the span of four days, jump out at the tourist spots, snap photos of themselves at the spot, jump back on the bus and drive off to the next photo op.

I started thinking: am I one of these Power Tourists? I mean really, I'm only in each city a superficially short time. Yes, I'm visiting the places that I want to visit, but can I really get a feel for any place if I'm just jumping cities every night?

It wasn't until the next morning, about an hour up the A9 autobahn that I realized: this trip was never about going to any one city and soaking up the culture. This was about Auto Culture. This was about no holds barred driving pleasure, sprinkled with a nightly Christmas Market and auto manufacturer tour.


My favorite road sign.

I had rented a nice car, the BMW 118i, that could power down the autobahn easily at 180kph and hold pace at 210kph. I could roll with the larger cars on the autobahn. This was about pure driving pleasure.

I mean, where else in the world can you drive no holds barred? Germany is famed for its Autobahns. Hundreds of miles of unadulterated roadway spotted with runs marked by the white circle and three hash marks that means "all restrictions lifted" - it's automotive glory.

Naysayers (and probably my mom) will say that it's unsafe and dangerous to drive at those speeds. And certainly a crash at 130mph will do some serious damage to you, but these Germans have got everyone else beat.

I'll admit, when I first pulled onto the famed Autobahns, I was a bit scared. In America, the maximum speed limit is 75mph - and even then you're talking about potential fines and even arrest. I imagined that the Autobahns would be populated with crazy drivers bulletin past at insane speeds. That I would be blitzed by a constant procession of Ferraris, Lamborghinis and God knows what else. That my little BMW would be pushed to the side by a barrage of cars whizzing by at dizzying speeds and me fighting in their wake turbulence.

Truth be told, much of the Autobahn runs at 130kph or 80mph, it even drops down to 80kph in many places. So many of the legends of unadulterated speed were just that: legends. But when that white circle with the hash marks came up, oh boy!


Even the rain doesn't slow down the Autobahn.

It took me about an hour to get acclimated to cruising at 130kph. Then, with a little encouragement of some enthusiastic VW Golf drivers, we were suddenly pushing 180kph, then 190kph and then 200kph.

Before I knew it, that 130kph had transformed itself into 130mph.

At the car rental counter, the pretty agent told me that for 65 euros more she would rent me a BMW 650 convertible. Tempting. But I knew I would be visiting the center cities in Germany and a long, slender (and fast) car seemed impractical for street parking. The BMW 118i would suffice.

It's smart thinking for city commuting, but on the Autobahn you start to wonder what it would be like to boom past 200kph with a commanding roar of Bavarian power.

Past 180kph, the 118i pulled steadily to 200kph. But to push it up to 210kph took a bit longer, and then to push it past 210kph showed that it would take longer that I had steely nerve or available roadway.

Even at 200kph, the occasional Mercedes or Audi, or even Skoda, would blow by me with serious vengeance.

At a steady cruise at 200kph, I started to wonder: what are my tires rated? You hear stories of tire ratings and how tires can fail at prolonged high speeds. Could these sustained speeds cause the wear and destruction of my tires? What kind of injuries (or pernicious death) would I suffer with a blowout at 130mph?

I then started to wonder if I should have checked my tire pressure too before taking off today. Even as all these nervous thoughts filled my mind, I pushed them back with the notion that the engineers at BMW have anticipated all of this. They're used to driving at these speeds across their nation, they would have taken this into account and designed the car (and its tires) for just this kind of automotive exercise. I wonder just how much farther than 210kph I can take this...

The night before, I was sitting in the passenger seat of Wolfram's Audi S6 station wagon after a night of big, German beef and lovely wines. We were blasting along a two-lane divided highway, in the dense fog, at 250kph (that's about 155mph). I gripped the "Oh, Jesus" steps and feigned indifference.

During our conversation on that wild ride home, Wolfram related to me why this wasn't just okay but actually safe. Each highway side marker was spaced ten meters apart. Even in the dense fog, we could see five markers at a time, meaning that our visibility was 50 meters. Perfectly fine for our sustained speed.

He also explained the training involved in order to earn your German drivers license. Months of training and education, combined with a thorough understanding of the driving characteristics and physics of other road vehicles, such as trucks, busses and motorcycles. Add to that the insanely strict driving laws and very tough enforcement, which translates into Germany producing what is arguably the best and most disciplined drivers in the world.

For example, there's no passing on the right in Germany. Put the law aside, people go absolutely apeshit if you pass them on the right because it's insanely unsafe. And the speed limits are non-negotiable. As the limit drops, so do the drivers. 80kph means everyone is driving 80kph. A few kilometers over the speed limit can easily mean a 30-day license suspension. A few violations could mean revocation. The Germans are serious about their driving laws.


Pushing 210kph in the little BMW 118i.

In America, driving 130mph isn't inherently dangerous. In fact, I'm not worried about driving at speeds pushing 100mph. But what scares me at those speeds are the rest of the idiots on the road. Check out the jag-off in the left lane cruising at 55mph. He's there and he's going to stay there because, in America, driving is an entitlement.

Not to mention the driver in the right lane who's not paying attention and is not just going to move to the center lane, he's going all the way to the left without looking. It's his God-given right to do whatever he damn well pleases and when you crash into him at 95mph, you're dead.

In Germany, no one cruises in the left lane. Trucks, big vehicles and slow vehicles are required to remain in the right lane. Dudes who's cars can't get past 200kph stay in the center lane, and anyone who strays into the left lane knows to keep their eyes open on their rear and to get the hell out of the way.

On the Autobahn, you know that those vehicles are going to stay to the right. They're not moving left, and if they are, they're going to be looking for you. 200kph is no problem.

But it takes an enormous amount of focus and energy to drive at plus 200kph speeds. You've got to be on point and completely aware of everything and everyone around you. One wrong move and it's Game Over.

One might think that at 210kph, it'd be peachy keen in the left lane. Not so. At 210kph, you're still not the fastest vehicle on the Autobahn. Just outside of Hannover one night, I was passing on the left lane at about 200kph when I was blitzed from seemingly out of nowhere by a hyped up 5 Series BMW. He was coming at me so fast that I barely had time to process what I was seeing in the rearview mirror and move the hell out of his way.

Wolfram, who routinely cruises at dizzying speeds, agreed with me. It's fatiguing to drive at those speeds but, he noted, that at speeds above 240kph, you mainly focus on what's in front of you - because the cars cruising at plus 250kph are few and far between.

Needless to say, I didn't experience that on my trip.

In The Rainforest

Welcome to The Rainforest Lodge.

At the beginning of the day, I said to everyone: "No hiking or trekking." I just wasn't in the mood. I'm not up to the challenge.

But the girls wanted to go into the rainforest. Me? I'm not too keen on being in a place where animals and insects can crawl all over you. I enjoyed camping in the woods when I was younger, had my Land Rover and carried a gun.


In another life (or maybe this one), I think Isaiah was/is a tribal leader.

Instead, we've got Clare's Toyota Corona and Isaiah is navigating it along a rutted and sometimes rocky dirt road - the kind of road that I would relish driving my Land Rover on but not a five person saloon. We slide, bump, grind and crunch our way up the hills, around corners and up to the Rainforest Lodge, an eco-friendly resort in the middle of the rainforest.

It's actually a lovely place with dining facilities, pool and nice huts outfitted with all the necessities. You'd think you were an old-time Englishman on a safari in Africa - it's that nice. But what they don't have is television, telephones or internet.


Clare chooses Fanta.

The resort is broken down into sets of suites in individual buildings separated by stone walkways through the rainforest. They're not close together so you can get a feeling of privacy and then gather at the communal areas for food, drink and fireside gabbing.

I think it's pretty cool and imagine Nacho, CapSwell, TheSeed, BrowserMetrics and our families taking over the resort. Would be cool.


And so does Daphne and Alice.

Of course, the downside is that it's also The Rainforest. Meaning that there's all sorts of wildlife to watch and that are watching you, sensing who is the weakest of the group and when everyone's backs are turned, they strike!

I told Alice, if that Leopard comes running, I just have to stay ahead of you!

Source Of The Nile

Oh yeah, just moving a tank. In three pieces. No problem.

I've spent a week now on Kampala's slow-moving, traffic-jammed streets and the feeling of rocketing along Jinja Road at 100kph is slightly unnerving - especially when the pavement is pocketed with potholes, wavy surfaces, debris, people and the little Toyota Corona is packed with five of us and we're careening past hawkers, buses, livestock and even overwide trucks hauling massive tanks in three sections.

Once we break out of metropolitan Kampala, the road opens up and Isaiah (my driver) is gunning it for all its worth. By any estimate, 100kph isn't that fast, but here in Uganda, as we pass wreckages of other vehicles simply abandoned on the side of the road, I wonder if it isn't a death wish. I probably wouldn't drive this fast here.


Police recruits - at The Source Of The Nile.

Maybe it's because I've started off on the wrong foot. After the mornings' thunderstorm explosion, it's been pouring in the capital and when faced with a two hour one-way drive across the country or lounging and being catered to by world-class staff, I think I'd rather stay at home.

Outside the city, the weather clears up and it's bright and sunny. Gorgeous. Large fields of sugar cane blow lazily in the wind, ready for harvest. I miss seeing sugar cane. Years ago, back in Hawaii, we used to see sugar cane growing all the time, until American labor rates, combined with government subsidies for corn made sugar an unprofitable business in America and brought High Fructose Corn Syrup to dominance.

I wonder if they harvest the sugar like they did in Hawaii: by burning it. That's when I spot a crew in the field, hacking away at the cane with their machetes. In Uganda, they do it the old-fashioned way: hard labor. The workers strip the leaves from the cane and then chop each stalk, piling them onto a truck. It has to be grueling, physical work. But in a world where labor is cheap, sugar is still profitable.


Daphne doesn't want to go in the boat.

After the sugar comes tea trees (or perhaps tea shrubbery) planted in long rows. I've never seen tea before and I'm fascinated. My understanding is that they simply pick the top leaves and let the tree (shrubbery) continue to grow. They look manicured to me. These trees are for black tea - evidently the only tea that matters here in Africa. God Save The Queen!

From there it's miles of dense rainforest, pocketed by outposts of humanity. It's not the wild jungle you expect like along the Amazon but more forest looking. And unlike American forests, there are leopards in here awaiting the forlorn Muzungu tourist wandering about.


Clare is unafraid and ready for the boat.

After a few mis-guided directions from grumpy Boda Boda drivers, we find our way to The Source Of The Nile. It's a quiet tourist spot with not many tourists: mainly our group and a squadron of Uganda Police recruits whose female sergeant is constantly trying to get her troops to stop taking pictures and get back to the bus.

It's a bit of a walk down a stretch from the parking lot to the landing, along the way vendors sell all sorts of handicrafts and what seems to be decent prices. I'd like to buy some items but I'm very conscious of baggage limits when traveling.


Mahatma Ghandi assures us the boat is safe.

While this is The Source of the Nile, it's not actually "The Source". To see that, you have to rent a boat from anywhere between 150,000 to 250,000 Shillings, or between US$65-110. Not too bad for dollars but kind of expensive for Uganda. After some negotiation for the bigger boat, Clare and Daphne negotiate the price down.

However, I don't think any price is good enough for Daphne. It's her and Alice's first time on a boat and they're a bit skittish. We try to assure them that it will be okay. Alice asks me if I can swim if the boat sinks. I tell her: "Yes, I can swim. But I would probably die here."

It's not quite the reassuring message she was hoping to hear.


The blue and yellow boats have actually sunk to the floor.

And it's true. If our boat were to sink in the middle of the Nile, with the way the current is running, I probably wouldn't survive - especially if I tried to swim. I would have to remain calm and hope the swiftly moving water brought me downriver to shore. Otherwise, if I tried to swim against the current? Forget it.

The boat is an open deck, twin Mercury 60 engined skiff that's plenty roomy and plenty powerful for our tour. We cruise the edges of the river where we see birds, a monkey and the spot where John Speke "discovered" the Nile. I always find it curious that white men seem to have "discovered" places where other people already have formed civilizations.


We see monkeys!

Finally, we make our way to a small island at the mouth of the river where Lake Victoria begins to pour into the Nile. This is the true Source Of The Nile. How do I know that? Because there's a sign.

Off to one side a tree on a concrete pylon marks the "Zero Point" of the Nile where it begins it's long journey across Northern Africa to the Mediterranean Sea. It's a journey that will take the water we see at that moment four months to make. Incredible.

On the other side is a bubbling of fresh spring water. It's another important point of the Nile where fresh water mixes with Lake Victoria to produce what I'm guessing is Real Nile River Water. I want to drink it to see if it's good but I know that will only lead to misery. I pass.


Fresh spring water bubbles up at The Source Of The Nile.

There's a small gift shop on the little island and I think the people actually live there too. A little cat scampers by and I snap a picture of it for Ana before getting back in the boat.

The tour continues with more wildlife, a couple of lizards and a bunch of horny longshoremen at the Jinja docks who call for the girls to come join them. To them, I must look like a Muzungu Baller: big man, three women, a driver, a boat driver and a nice boat. Yes, I think I must be on my way to a meeting with President Museveni...


Here Lake Victoria begins its drain into the Nile.



With Isaiah, Alice, Clare and Daphne at the Zero Point.



A cat pic for Ana.



A lizard climbs out of the Nile.



Some fowl.



Workers at the Jinja docks unload freight off the ferry from Tanzania - a 23 hour journey.



This marks the spot that John Speke "discovered" the Source of the Nile.

Exploding Kampala

Outside the world looks grey, but it's still there.


5:52am

The sound of a large explosion rousts my consciousness into awareness. As the rumbling from the explosion continues, I lie there in silence waiting for the building to collapse and crush me. For five long seconds, I'm scared.

Outside, I can hear a cacophony of car alarms and the muted howl of wind. Nothing has happened. I haven't been crushed. I start to think that I should investigate just what is going on.

My room at the Kampala Serena is build for sleeping. A plush, king-sized bed and three layers of drapes means that I can sleep in the middle of the day cocooned in comfort and darkness. As I make my way to the balcony, I wonder if I will find the world ablaze due to the works of the Lord's Resistance Army or Al Shabbab. I hear another explosion, this time a bit more distant.

As I peer out into the world, it is dark and grey. Rain and gale force winds whip through the capital. Turns out that the explosion is merely thunder. But thunder unlike I've ever heard before. In North America, the thunder cracks like a high-pitched whip. Here in Africa, it's got umph and when it hits over you (like it must have when it woke me), you think the world is falling.

Secure in the knowledge that this storm probably won't pancake my building, I return to sleep.

Two Guys Out On The Town

The nightlight is kicking at Cayenne.

It's nearly two a.m., the music is thumping, bodies writhe before us, a plate of grilled meat is half eaten, a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label is nearly finished, and for reasons I don't quite understand, I've been smoking a shisha the whole night when a crazy (but very friendly) central Asian dude comes up to our table to offer greetings and shots of tequila.

After nearly a full bottle of Black Label, tequila of unknown origin has to be a bad idea. Somehow, the guy knows my girlfriend lives in Mexico City, asking me to bring back a bottle of tequila the next time I come back to Kampala (as though I'm here every few weeks). The tequila isn't bad - maybe Cuevo Tradicional (or similar). Slightly sweet and tart, and unlike America, there's not a salt shaker or wedge of lime in sight (gracias a Dios).

We've been here for hours and while sitting at our reserved table, I've seen the club go from comfortably open to insanely packed. It's a madhouse in here. And it's the most diverse crowd I've seen yet. Americans, Europeans, Asians, Africans - everyone is here. Including that hooker I see at my hotel bar every night.

That's not to say Cayenne is a hooker bar, because it's not. People of all strata are here - mainly middle to upper class because everyone else can't afford the cover charge. Andreas knows the owner so we're comfortably ensconced at the best table in the house.

It's not the occasional hooker, or the older white men with young African girls, it's the sex tourists that surprise me. Not the stereotypical male hunting young girls (or boys), but rather the new breed of sex tourists: White (American or European) women of all ages on the hunt for real African cock. As one of our friends from the American Embassy tells us, the white girls ignore him (he's also white) because they're looking to get plowed by the fantasy.

Women sex tourists hunting men. If that isn't gender equality, then I don't know what is...

Everyone knows Andy (or so it seems). As we sit there, I meet a wide range of people who come to our table to say hi. Promoters, coffee industry types and one guy who at one point evidently was the head of Mossad in Tel Aviv. I make a mental note not to screw with that guy.

It's interesting and fun but at one point, I find myself asking "what are we doing here?" We're just sitting there, like uninteresting guys. Five years ago, Andy and I would be on the prowl. Shooting and looting. In a place like this, it would be Game On and out of control.

Instead, I'm smoking a shisha.

Two guys, once pirates, now committed, sitting at a reserve table with bottle service and smoking a shisha at 3am. Guess it's time to go home.

Turkey On The Far Side Of The World

A little late to the party.

I've spent a number of holidays away from home but none of them has revealed itself as poignant as Thanksgiving. In America, Thanksgiving is ubiquitous. In many respects, it's the most important holiday of the year as families make great effort to spend that day together. This is the second time I've been away from family and friends for Thanksgiving.

It wasn't until this year that I started to feel just how important Thanksgiving is to Americans. Forget the whole thing about how it's a celebration of the white man raping, pillaging, stealing and plundering what rightfully belonged to the Native Americans. Like Native Hawaiians, the government may have offered an apology and given them crappy land to call their own, but they're still screwed.

But Thanksgiving isn't important because of those pilgrims, today it's important because it's the time of gathering of family and friends and I find myself feeling the lack of family and friends. Even my girlfriend is nine time zones away, meaning I haven't had the chance to talk to her in nearly a week - all of which tends to be quite a bit isolating.

Being in Kampala, there's very little talk of American Thanksgiving. If anything, I've been hearing more about these mysterious Scottish Dances where Scots (or those who fancy themselves as Scots) come together to eat, drink and dance in skirts. I'm tempted to go but it's 75,000 Shillings and I'm just too darn tired to leave the hotel.


Not the typical Thanksgiving plate.

Instead I resign myself to another quiet Thanksgiving alone in some glorious hotel in Eastern Africa. After the gym, I stroll through The Lakes Restaurant to see just what they have on the buffet. I'm thinking of taking my dinner in the room but spy what was once a rather large turkey on the carving table. Seems that the kitchen here at the Serena are exploiting a little bit of America on its greatest holiday.

So, my Thanksgiving dinner consisted of turkey, turkey and cheese sausage, chicken tikka masala, vegetable curry, rice and a little Baked Alaska.

Not too bad for a guy in the middle of Eastern Africa.

Serena-ty Uganda

Poolside at the Kampala Serena Hotel in Uganda.

After leaving my house at noon on Thursday, I finally arrived at my room in Kampala, Uganda at 3am on Sunday morning: a total travel time of 55 hours (including a stopover in Frankfurt, Germany). Finally got into bed around 5am and slept until 1:15pm to find myself in what is easily the highlight of my entire years worth of travels.

My hosts here in Kampala are gracious and generous enough to put me up at the gorgeous Kampala Serena Hotel where luxury and comfortable living is the norm and I highly recommend anyone staying here. The staff is wonderful and the attention just right. Not too overbearing but right there when you need it.

The only downside at the Serena is the crazy sporadic Internet connection. Maybe that spot you're sitting doesn't have great reception, but move five feet to the right and a step back and the kilobytes start flying. But no matter, if the problem is really serious, one of their service techs will be here right away to help you with the matter and find the optimum location for your laptop. They'll even move your beverages and umbrella to accommodate you.

For a few moments, I thought about calling some friends and heading out into the Big City, but how often in my life do I find myself with a day to luxuriate and do nothing in particular except enjoy just being alive? That week between Christmas and New Year's in Honolulu at The Porn King's bungalow overlooking Honolulu back in 2004 comes to mind.


Danke schoen Alemania for the Montecristos.

So what better way to spend the day than in t-shirt, board shorts, slippers and lounging poolside with a pack of Montecristo Minis, some cold beverages and the occasional swim in the pool? I should note that I did bring my Foodservice Management and Controls textbook with me as part of my continuing studies retinue (which I didn't crack open once this afternoon).

After laying down some bronzing foundation on my rapidly whitening winter skin, I decided to retire from the pool to the outside lobby bar to rest and recover from the constant movement trying to avoid the shadows cast poolside from the waning sun (it's difficult work!)

I also met a woman (with her visiting son) who has been living here for four years. I asked her how she liked Uganda and she clarified that she has been living here, in the hotel, for the past four years.

At the lobby bar, I've settled myself with a pot of African tea - an interesting and slightly odd blend of tea with ginger to give it a zing, already steeped with milk and served with sugars and some cookies. Somewhere from the pool area wafts strong traditional African music. It's alluring and wonderful, and I want to wander over there and watch the musicians but I'm too relaxed to do anything that strenuous.


Working at The Mist bar.

My mind wanders back to that woman and her son. Four years. I've always secretly envied those people who have found a way to live in the best hotels of the world. How does one even arrange that kind of arrangement? I can only imagine what the rate is here for my stay. Multiply that by a month then by years???

But what a fantasy. You're daily live tended to by the best hotel people in the world. Meals prepared in the nations best kitchens. There's always a pool and a spa, a bar and 24 hour room service to satiate your every desire. The baristas here make killer coffee to the standard which I desire. It would be heavenly - and when your time comes, you can rest assured that your remains will be disposed of with care and your loved one notified with the proper amount of discretion.

If I don't return to America by December 7th, you'll know where to find me...

Foolishness

Feeling the call to duty.

It's been sitting on my desk for three days now. I don't even know why I bought it knowing that I was leaving for Africa tomorrow. I could just have easily waited until I return in December, but noooo.

I've convinced myself that I can play just one (or two) levels and then I'll be done and can put the game away until I return...

Final Jeopardy

Another round of Hepatitis A vaccinations.

It's weird, because I've traveled quite a bit in my life but every once in a while I get hit with a bout of travel jitters. That slight heaviness of anxiety and trepidation that comes when you wonder if, maybe, this might be the time the odds catch up to you.

It hasn't actually happened to me in years, but back in the day, there were times when my nervousness over flying actually caused me to push a departure day back a day or two.

I don't know why because flying is statistically safer than driving - especially my driving. But with about 44 hours before my flight takes off, I'm feeling a bit apprehensive. I once had a dream about being in a plane crash. It wasn't pleasant, but I say "dream" instead of "nightmare" because I didn't wake up scared.

Over half a million miles and most of the die hard travelers around me seem to be doing the same thing: the nonchalance of sitting there sipping your pre-flight beverage feigning boredom and a "oh, it's just another day flying" kind of attitude. Meanwhile, I wonder if they're also like me: pretending, while secretly wondering is this might be the day we plummet to the ground in a crumpled mass of flesh and aluminum. Morbid: yes.

I comfort myself with the thought that at an flight level altitude between 35,000 to 41,000 feet, the pilots have five miles to correct whatever problem might occur over that cold and vast North Atlantic. Plenty of time to address a situation. Maybe.

My itinerary has me flying a Boeing 777 across the Atlantic, an Airbus A340 down to Addis Ababa and then a two hour flight through darkness in a DeHavilland Dash-8 turboprop. Overall, it should be a pleasant enough trip - though the Dash8 doesn't offer premium seating, of which I fear the most.

The height of falling aside, I also comfort myself with the thought that the airlines are notoriously cheap. Forget all the amenities that have gone away over the years, the airlines are cheap enough that they A) don't want to lose airplanes because they cost millions, and B) they don't want to pay penalties, fines, legal costs and compensation to bereaved relatives. Not to mention the bad press and it's in their financial interest to land their passengers safely.

I often wonder why some of the other frequent flyers like to line up in the premium queue an hour before the flight. You know who I'm talking about: those strange folks (usually in a suit) standing on that tiny red carpet wanting to be the first on the plane.

Me? I've got little interest in being stuffed into an aluminum tube that may just take me to my demise. I like to be the last person on the plane. I'll wait until final call.

Deep down inside, I understand. Faced with the constant possibility of checking out in a fiery ball, we want to feel a little pampered. Ensconced in some semblance of civility and calm, as opposed to the mass huddle happening in coach.

So that maybe, as we plummet to the earth clenching our seventh "free" cocktail, after eating a four course meal, sitting in our leather-bound, lay flat reclining chair, we'll feel some semblance of comfort...

Meanwhile, I've got my vaccination card up-to-date, my bags to be packed and a healthy optimism that the airlines don't want to lose any more money!

Black Is All Black

Oh, yes...

It's odd to me when I think upon how the New Zealand All Blacks have not won the Rugby World Cup in 24 years. I always think of them as the greatest rugby team ever. The ones we idolize and strive to emulate. They were the baddest, toughest and most fierce team in the world.

Or maybe that's just because I was always envious of their Haka.

As a young captain on Hawaii Loa College's RFC team, I was new to the sport and relied upon my teammates experience playing throughout their youth in the leagues of the Pacific Rim or at boarding school in England.

But nothing was ever as terrifying as playing in the Hawaii leagues. Big, tough, burly Polynesian men racing to cream this chubby Filipino boy. I admit, I was scared shitless half the time. I came from genteel living. This was maniacal, crazed and utter mayhem - like Lord Of The Flies, without the literal killing.

I knew I was in new element when, during one match, a referee made a call that did not quite agree with a rather solid-looking Fijian. He approached the ref and promptly clocked him on the top of his head with a downward swing of his burly arm. The ref crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

I could hear the smack on the head crisply and clearly, half a pitch away.

Needless to say (or maybe I should underscore it), the player was immediately red carded and banned outright from the sport for life. But that ref looked worse for wear and I certainly was a bit more intimidated by these solidly built men from the South Pacific more than ever.

Today, the All Blacks (my All Blacks) take to the field against France in the World Cup Finals. And as much as I like the cuisine, countryside and cities of France, I like my All Blacks better.

You can guess whose jersey I will be wearing today.

Shines Like The Top Of The Chrysler Building

I've returned again to New York City where I've secured a (relatively) cheap room at the Gran Hyatt Grand Central for a couple of nights and where I'm reminded that scale is a bit different in NYC. Thirty-three stories above 42nd Street and I can barely see out the winder and only the very top of the Chrysler Building...

Roasting Illustrated

French Heirloom Chicken ready to go.

Perusing the latest issue of Cook's Illustrated, I came across their quick roast technique for roasted chicken and decided to give it a try. The key is to heat a skillet first, placing the chicken on the skillet and the dark meat to cook with conduction while the rest of the bird is heated with convection.

Cook's Illustrated gives a different preparation of the meat for those trying to jam a roasted chicken in after work and in time for dinner, but I wanted to go with a more traditional method of seasoning. A little softened butter, rosemary, lemon, sweet onion, salt and pepper. And since I'm not really in a rush, a pop in the refrigerator to dry out the skin a little.


Into the skillet.

After a very successful test a couple of weeks ago at Vanessa's, I grabbed another French heirloom chicken from KCC Natural Farms in Forest Hill, Maryland. I had come across KCC at the Towson Farmer's Market and the thought of a French heritage bird intrigued me. The flavor was so good that I grabbed a couple more.

If you're used to grocery store, commercial chickens, these will look positively anemic. Afterall, they're only about three pounds. Those grocery store Purdue suckers are upwards of five pounds with massive breast meat that comes from a short life sitting in your own feces.


Fresh from the oven.

With the bird in hand and a solid helping of minced rosemary in butter, separate the skin from the meat with your hand, starting by the tail bone. Rub the butter into the space between the skin and the meat and be very liberal with your butter.

From there, it's a simple squeeze of lemon over the skin then a stuffing of the remaining lemon half and half an onion in the body cavity before trussing legs and wings. You want to truss the legs together and the wings to the body to prevent scorching (with the wing tips) and even cooking. Good results can also be had by leaving the legs dangling but it doesn't make for a nice presentation.


A little bit closer.

After a brief spell in the refrigerator to dry out the skin a little, select a skillet that is just wide enough to hold the bird and high-walled enough to contain the juices that will emanate from the meat. Place the skillet on the center rack of the oven then preheat the oven to 450F.

Once at temperature, remove skillet and place bird in center. It should sizzle nicely. Place the bird in skillet back into oven and roast for 25-30 minutes (the bigger the bird, the longer the time). Once the time has been reached, DO NOT OPEN THE DOOR and shut the heat off, allowing the residual heat contained in the oven to continue cooking the bird. Do not open the door at all.


Eat with a pan sauce.

After another 30 minutes in the oven, remove bird from skillet and allow to rest for 20 minutes. During this time, you can make a pan sauce by deglazing the pan of fond with some onions, white wine and whatever else you feel like putting into your sauce then mounting it with a little butter.

Finally, it's time to carve and eat. I recommend the use of hands.

Tooling At The Gem Show

This is what I see at a gem show.

I really must be a simple creature. All around me, I'm surrounded by gold, jade, emeralds, rubies, gold, silver, Rolexes, Breitlings and diamonds galore - all I can see are tools.

Every few months or so, my mom enlists me to drive her to a gem show somewhere. Today, we're in Chantilly, Virginia - just a few minutes from Dulles airport and a nearly two hour drive (damn that NoVa/DC traffic) from home.

For me, it's a non-issue but the array and selection of jewelry is amazing. Everything and more that you've never seen at Zales or Jared. If there's some kind of jewelry that you want, they probably have it here. Need to find the perfect engagement ring and wreck yourself of $15,000? They are only too happy to help. Want to find that right estate (read:used) watch (preferably a gold and platinum, diamond encrusted Rolex Daytona)? They've got plenty.

What you don't have (read:I) is the experience and knowledge to take advantage of the situation. It reminds me of antiquing - that honored practice of going out on weekends on antique furniture hunts only to be taken by the smarmy dealer with the pencil moustache whose studio artists have demonstrated their mastery of distressing techniques.

Color, cut, clarity - who the hell knows and understands these things??? To pass the time, I ask a vendor to show me a 1.15 carat diamond. He tells me it's $6,500. Huh? Are you serious? He encourages me to look at it through a 10x loupe and I see flaws. Nothing too dramatic but flaws nonetheless.

In the parlance of diamonds (and I presume emeralds, sapphires and tanzanite), they're called inclusions and those, along with color, clarity and weight determine just how much the diamond will cost you. To me, these prices are outrageous and a total extortion.

Diamond lovers (and their sellers) will tell you that it's one of the world's most rare and exotic gems. Complete and total hogwash. Diamonds are a dime a dozen. If that weren't true, you wouldn't be able to buy a diamond encrusted saw blade on the internet for thirty bucks. It would cost you thousands.

Let's face it. Diamonds are everywhere and the psychosis that is DeBeers has invaded our mindset. The saying goes that you should be able to afford two months salary. That's 24% of your yearly pay. Does that sound reasonable?

But I digress.

Bewildered by the prices of diamonds, I walk around the show and find a booth that I haven't seen before: the jeweler's tool vendor. This guy has it all - anything and everything you need to work on jewelry. Mini anvils, tiny pliers and tweezers, the cool-looking loupe that diamond dealer was using to show me the flaws. I like this place. It brings me comfort in a sea of over-priced diamonds and bead-crazed women.

Like Home Depot, I want to go nuts here. All sorts of weird and exotic tools that I could use in the kitchen. Take that ultrasonic bath - how can I use that? It's only $150. Or that weird contraption that I don't even know what it is. I want to use it. Heck, I need to use it.

In the end, I leave with a bag of goodies. A couple of close out gram scales that were downright cheap, a loupe so I can posture like I know what I'm taking about when I talk about H color, and a couple of other items that will make a fine addition to my tool kit.

I leave the show for the long drive home with a bag of tools from a gem show. About right.

Sunday BBQ

The Secret Weapon: Velveeta.

At my core, I'm a very simple creature. I grew up in 70s and 80s America. An immigrant family, we ate cheaply and I grew up with very simple fare: Lipton iced tea, cheap cuts of meat and Kraft macaroni and cheese. For many years, I didn't know one could have a mac-n-cheese that wasn't orange.

So, when I finally got around to learning about food and cuisine, I found the upscale mac-n-cheeses, with their fancy cheeses, to be interesting and good but not as soul satisfying as that commercial orange mac-n-cheese. Yes, one could make a deliciously tasty mac-n-cheese with a bechamel base, four cheeses, lardons and penne pasta, and I can whip that up without a second thought, but it's the orange mac that's eluded me.


A smoker full of barbecue.

Eluded in the fact that the world now revolves around easy to make macs, like Easy Mac or instant mac-n-cheese. And while those can be decent enough, nothing is quite like the days of boiling the noodles, adding butter and milk and that orange cheese powder. Now, that's Classic Americana!

I've always fantasized about making the true down home, could be nasty and definitely bad for you, mac-n-cheese but never had the opportunity, until now. With a group of our friends guaranteed to eat it, we set out to making this Ultimate Mac-N-Cheese: One large block of Velveeta, 3 liters of macaroni, half a stick of butter and 1/2 cup whole milk. Stir it all together and eat with a spoon!


Smoked skirt steak.

From there, it's barbecue and more barbecue. With the smoker running at full blast, it doesn't make sense to cook anything any other way. Some kind of protein? Into the smoker! Old shoe? Into the smoker too!

On order for the evening is a taste of the old school Ono Grill. Some baby back ribs, a little brisket, a sirloin and a skirt steak and it's nearly non-stop meat. Want some veg? Does Velveeta Mac-N-Cheese count? As it goes, it's a couple of slices of this, a scoop of mac and a drink. A little while later, it's a scoop of rice and a couple of ribs and some sauce. Want dessert? There's more Mac-N-Cheese, and I think there's some cold, sliced watermelon somewhere nearby.


Making the Mac-N-Cheese.




Skirt Steak: All Sliced Up!




Gerry's fancy broiled breaded mac-n-cheese.




The girls watch Yo Gabba Gabba!




Smoked sirloin, beef brisket and racks of short ribs.