True Life: I'm an Obruni

A Night at the Geneva Airport

2011-08-20T11:22:00.003-04:00

This vignette requires me setting the context. For the previous six months, I lived with my colleagues and friends, Kyle and Sebastian. While in Ghana, the three of us shared an office. As the sun would set, our office became our bedroom, grabbing seat cushions to pad the floor. So it is fair to state that I quite literally spent every waking and non-waking moment of the past six months surrounded by Kyle and Sebastian. The running joke (or depressing realization) was that we spent more time with each other than we will spend with any future partner. Following our stay in Ghana, Kyle and I backpacked through southern Europe – continuing our streak of inseparability.

With that in mind, it was time to leave Madrid and fly home. Thankfully there was a layover in the Geneva airport. Arriving at 11pm, the flight to the United States would not be leaving until noon the next day. Unthankfully, for me, I felt unusually sick and incredibly dehydrated. With my body rejecting reality, I decided to throw down big bucks to get a hotel room. So I began calling local Geneva hotels. Not a single hotel had a single room available, so it looked like airport slumber was inevitable. Fighting ninja germs throughout the night, I was just thankful to be alive come morning.

With delirium circling my head like rain clouds, I spotted an airport pastry shop. I signaled to Kyle through inaudible mumbles that we should go there for a croissant and coffee. Staggering over to the Coffee and Friends (so very appropriately named), I turned around only to discover that Kyle was nowhere in sight. Thinking to myself that he must have stepped aside to go to the bathroom, I decided to wait for a few minutes. After about ten minutes, still with no sign of Kyle, I began to wonder whether or not Kyle thought I was pointing to the I’Arc-en-Ciel instead. Fifteen minutes into waiting, I give up my search for Kyle. I decided if worse came to worst, I’ll just proceed through security and meet him at the gate.

Well twenty minutes passes, and I finally realize that the reason I can’t find Kyle is because Kyle has never been with me in the Geneva airport. I was travelling by myself back to the United States. I was just so used to Kyle and Sebastian being in my every-minute that It didn’t occur to me to think I could be the next John Nash. Embarrassed by my delusion or onset of schizophrenia, I took my coffee and found an empty airport seat and sat in silence for the next six hours. I haven’t felt this doltish since my friend Ed.

Quadrilatero d’Oro

2011-08-12T12:51:00.002-04:00

While travelling with my former colleague Kyle, we stopped in Milan for two nights. I didn’t have high expectations for this fashion capital. Few people we met before travelling to Milan spoke highly of it (even fewer when we arrived).

But I found Milan to be utterly fascinating. As the fashion capital of the world, the sidewalks are first used as runways, and second, for pedestrian mobility. Every week is Fashion week in Milan. I can say this with 95% confidence, since I stayed there for two nights. Also, I stayed at a Holiday Inn Express.

Suspiciously, I know nothing about fashion. That is an understatement. I hate shopping, I find malls abysmally frightening, and oh, did I mention that I despise shopping. Once, out of FOS (fear of shopping) I tried to purchase discount clothing through eBay. It could have gone better.

To take it a step further, one of the biggest challenges at my consulting job was my shirt-tie coordination. I’m permanently scarred from one particular memory of taking my last remaining starched shirt down the Mer-hall to get a female opinion. With me, I brought my dress shirt and the three tie-finalists. When I presented my selection to my female Mer-friends, it was as if I had just finished serenading them with Songify’s rendition of Double Rainbow. They were literally rolling on the floor laughing. Who ROTFLs? I thought it was only a cyber expression! Point noted: Matching, not one of my strengths.

So combine my fashion inscience with the fact that I was sporting a worn out pair of athletic shorts from American Eagle (isn’t worn out sort of hipster?) with a ragged t-shirt, donning my Jansport backpack from middle school (is that considered vintage yet? Is vintage trendy?), and I was attracting many eyes. Kyle and I sauntered around Quadrilatero d’Oro, home to top Italian designers such as Versace and Dolce & Gabbana. Our general rule: If we recognized the name, we went into the shop. I received death stares (threats, anthrax, etc.) at every store we visited. Judging this book by its cover, it was clear that my goodwill attire placed me far below the good fortune of being able to purchase $500 Ferragamo cuff links. Just a glance at the price tag and I was Ferra-gone-o.

Madonna Had a Child

2011-08-08T23:27:00.002-04:00

If I am to be perfectly honest, I enjoy art in various forms, but if I am to be perfectly honest, I don’t know a catnip about it. And there is no better way to develop art appreciation than in places like the Uffizi in Florence, the Louvre in Paris, or the Prado in Madrid. It seemed like every city that Kyle and I travelled to had a corresponding museum obligation.

At the beginning, we indulged in the multiple course art meal served on the plates of the Renaissance. Now, my art history knowledge during the Renaissance is entirely attributed to the Ninja Turtles. Thank you Kevin Eastman and Peter Laird for starting me on my journey of cultural discovery. Although, in my humble opinion, Donatello got the better bargain by being bundled with the other three turtles (as I found the works of Leo, Raph, and Angelo to be much more impressive).

Don’t get me wrong about Donatello. It’s not that he didn’t produce some brilliant masterpieces. I was in awe of his Madonna with Child sculpture in Siena, until I walked into room after room that was entirely devoted to paintings, reliefs, and sculptures of Madonna with Child. The Madonna with Child affiliation must have been to Renessaince artists what the organic affiliation is to Whole Food yuppies.

Patronizing so many museums gave Kyle and I the opportunity to perfect our touring technique. Originally, we decided to eavesdrop on the docent’s guided tours. After spotting a tour group, we strategically trailed them until they stopped to look at some masterpiece. With our backs casually turned, we would feign admiration for the painting in front of us (likely Madonna with Child) while trying to glean the history and importance of the work being discussed. I guess the museums had been hornswoggled too many times by shrewd visitors like myself, because nearly all of the docents talked into a microphone connected to the audio set of each paying tourist, resulting in garbled cliffhangers. This fresco was the most important work of its era because…Madonna...As you can see, the…signifies… Madonna…If you remember one thing about this museum it should be that…Madonna.

After this approach backfired, we started purchasing audio guides. It started with Kyle and I splitting one audio guide. But we immediately found it too cumbersome and socially embarrassing to hold our ears up to the same muted speaker, so we began to take turns listening to the audio guide and give each other the cliff notes.

Realizing that we were being penny smart but dollar stupid (I practiced no restraint when it came to the food and wine that I consumed), we finally succumbed to throwing down the extra Euros for our own audio guides. Finally skylarking with my own audio guide at the Louvre, I found myself smugly listening to some of the contents of the Code of Hammurabi engraved on the human-sized stele, when all of a sudden, my audio guide went static. Dead battery. , when all of a sudden, my audio guide went static. Dead battery. Great. Dead battery I and I’m only at 1700 BC. Instead of working my way through the labyrinth that is the Louvre, I poached off of Kyle until we exited for the day. I’m sure it was simply museum karma.

I’ve decided that the best strategy is to just summon Splinter and have him give me a personal tour. And besides, there’s always a chance I’ll pick up some ninjustu on the side.

Il Palio

2011-08-04T23:43:00.002-04:00

I’ll thank serendipity for bringing Kyle and I to the Palio. It just so happened that we were going to be in town for what our guidebook called Italy’s most spectacular festival event. This event, known as the Siena Palio is a twice-yearly bareback horse race around the Campo, a central plaza that draws the entire city and thousands of visitors to the city center.

The event is rather remarkable. Each of Siena’s seventeen communities, or contrades, enters a horse and jockey into the competition. Ten are selected at random to participate in the anarchistic event. The concept is simple. Each participating horse completes three laps around the Campo, the first to cross the finish line, with or without jockey, is declared the victor. The only rule is that jockeys are not permitted to interfere with the reigns of another jockey. Other than that, it’s war. In the past, communities have drugged horses and jumped jockeys on the way to the race. Our personal observation affirmed that it is, in fact, a bloodbath. We witnessed jockey’s lashing competitor horses with their switches; we witnesses jockey’s successfully pulling their fellow jockey’s off their horses. One turn in the Campo is so abrupt that they pad the side with mattresses; this cushion collision is a popular location for jockeys to be propelled from the horses’ backs.

Of course, Kyle and I (okay, me in particular) hate feeling like outsiders, so we needed to buy a bandera to support one of the contrades. Kyle admitted allegience to the pantera to which I was amenable. After all, my middle school, Rachel Carson Middle School, had elected the Panther as its mascot. Although, the final vote came down to Panther and Furry Woodland Creature, which I’m sure received the most votes, but I’m convinced that the school was embarrassed to embrace the furry woodland wonder and assumed the runner-up Panther as its official mascot. So we purchased our red, white, and blue bandanas (we’re Tea Party patriots after all) with the panther print and took our places along the Campo’s inner rail. Since we assumed our position at noon, and since the actual race didn’t begin until 7:30pm, we were able to secure front rail seats.

Front rail seats, man, they are comfortable. They were not comfortable. It was fine around lunchtime, but as more and more people tried to get closer and closer to the rail, there was less and less foot room. At times I felt like I was doing ballet because there wasn’t enough surface area for my entire foot to make love with the ground; just the tips.

The ninety second race was incredible. Well worth the seven hour wait. I mean, I’ve been to similar events before but this one is really one of a kind. The United States would never be able to replicate such an event. The main reason is because two hours before the horse race begins, everyone inside the tracks is locked in, without a bathroom. How 12,000 people can go 2.5 hours without a single one having an emergency is unfathomable. That’s a combined 30,000 weeless hours. It’s times like these that make me realize that there is such a thing as God and divine intervention.

Benedict, Where Art Thou?

2011-07-25T22:03:00.003-04:00

Having been born and raised as a Roman Catholic, Vatican City always had a particular appeal. If for no other reason then to go to the sight of so much history that I had learned and since forgotten since my confirmation/indoctrination. Knowing that Vatican City draws some of the largest tourist crowds in the world, Kyle and I made a point to arrive before the doors opened so we would not have to wait in these exceedingly long lines.

Taking the morning metro to Ottaviano, the stop for the Vatican, I noticed our railcar was, to put it politely, lacking the spring chickens. Instead, it reminded me of a 4pm Sunday trip to Cracker Barrel. I pondered how many people in our railcar were on their way to work. When we pulled into Ottaviano station and the railcar decompressed, my question was quickly answered; no one. The generally mild mannered middle aged and elderly crowd immediately turned hostile when the gates opened, akin to the crowds at Wal-Mart on Black Friday. Frail women were throwing elbows (which I found reckless, seeing as they were far more likely to break their brittle bones than mine) while the throng of retirees briskly set off for St. Peter's Basilica. Perhaps my participation in so many 5ks had me well prepared, but I suspect it was our youth that enabled Kyle and I to casually keep pace with the rosary-carrying crowd.

Within one hour, we were inside the Vatican Museums and looking at some of the most stunning art/booty ever collected, depending on how you see it. With its trove of treasures the Vatican could have easily financed the countless bailout and rescue packages.

The one disappointment from my trip to Vatican City was that I didn't get to see Pope Benedict. I was constantly on the lookout for the papal Swiss Guards dressed in their daffy Renaissance outfits. Knowing that they are only around when the Pope is in town, I assumed that Pope Benedict must have retired to his summer place, which was fine by me, since I would be dropping in the following afternoon. Alas, when we arrived at the Pope's summer place, I still didn't see the guards. Having searched the Vatican and traveled through Italy, I saw no evidence of Pope Benedict, aside from a fifteen story blow up poster of his face that filled the Piazza San Pedro. After my failed Pope siting, I've developed a new theory. Pope Benedict was captured by Lord Voldemort and his appearances at present are simply reconstructed holograms. It's amazing what we can do with technology, or magic, these days.

Tales of a Traveller

2011-07-20T11:17:00.002-04:00

Knowing how reliable the Ghanaian post can be, when I said my farewells to a year in Ghana, I decided to forgo shipping my years worth of accoutrements home and instead decided to take them with me to my first European destination, Rome, from where, I would ship the luggage back to the United States.

Unfortunately, my bags had other plans and decided to stay in Casablanca, from where my colleague-now-traveling-buddy Kyle and I had made a connecting flight. After talking with the Italian flight-care personnel, I was convinced I would be receiving my luggage, albeit a few days later. So Kyle and I set about shopping for some of the essentials to hold us over until our possessions arrived. For me the most difficult purchase was contact solution. Having accidentally spent the overnight flight with my contacts in, my eyes were oxygen deprived and showing signs of serious struggle.

It took a while to find the first farmacia, where I sauntered around looking at the pictures on each box to try to identify contact solution (Rosetta Stone didn't teach me this valuable word in Lesson 1, which was the only lesson I came close to completing). Somehow, while the pharmacist was restocking the shelf, I ended up behind the counter. She soon emerged on the opposite side and began chastising me in Italian. Finding it humorous that on the first day in Rome, I was able to land myself a gig as a pharmacist, I joked that we had traded places. The actual pharmacist didn't find this funny. I really think she just didn't understand. After returning to my proper place as a customer at the counter, I pantomimed the process of taking out my contacts. Either I have good acting skills, or she saw my bloodshot eyes, but she was able to direct me to the appropriate place.

A few more stops and Kyle and I had everything we needed until our luggage arrived. It arrived 48 hours later. The positive side of this luggage delay was that it gave me ample opportunity to eye-up (and I certainly needed it given how bloodshot my eyes were) an appropriate shipping center. I found a total utility store - FedEx, Western Union, fax email, all-in-one, and paraded my luggage to the store.

As it turns out, the shop was a cash-only, non-receipt-giving establishment that had me seriously questioning its legitimacy. But I was not about to spend the next four weeks lugging around two suitcases, a travel pack, and a book bag. As I handed over my luggage, I said my parting farewells and prayed that the suitcases would arrive in DC. As the saying goes, when in Rome, do as the Romans do. But I felt like dressing as a Centurion and pulling out my sword would not have been the most diplomatic approach. Instead, I did what anyone without bargaining power would do. I agreed to their terms and conditions and prayed for the best.

A few days later, I received an email titled: info. It's contents was as follows. salve, ho bisogno da sapere cosa cè nelle valigge. grazie. I enlisted the help of my Italian friend Serena, who interpreted and replied appropriately. It turns out that the company needed to know what was in the suitcases. After a series of emails, I finally received a tracking number.

Thankfully my luggage arrived safely at home. My prayers had been answered. Which I attributed to my proximity to the Vatican.

And so it Goes

2011-06-24T20:55:00.005-04:00

It’s funny how humans have the capacity to segment their lives into chapters. By far the most unique chapter in my life has been the one titled Ghana. It seems like just the other day I was making my decision to move to Ghana – at the same time the US lost Ghana in the World Cup.

But my time in Ghana was filled with memories. And Ghana kept them coming until the very last day. I found myself at lunch with my colleagues for a final meal at a venue known as Starbites that serves coffee and pastries (with an expanded lunch and dinner menu). We asked the manager how he came up with the name. His response – it’s a big secret. Our response – Hmm..doesn’t seem like such a secret to me. (The Starbites logo also looked like that of a Seattle coffee chain.)

Anyway, it was the restaurants’ grand opening, and four of us decided to try the bacon cheeseburger. After discussing Startbites’ marketing strategy, our burgers arrived. They looked delicious. The only problem was that they were all missing the burger. Between the two halves of bun sat a slice of cheese, a slice of bacon, a slice of tomato, and some mayonnaise. It turns out, the chef didn’t know that burgers come with the beef patty. Really? Really.

Humored to be going out on comical note, I began to prepare for the next chapter. Knowing that I was going to be traveling to Italy and France for my Ghana Epilogue, I had every intention of picking up some important phrases that would help me blend into the Italian and French culture. With Rosetta Stone, I envisioned taking the cultural high-road and travelling through Europe to avoid the potential imbroglios. As it turns out, I know two phrases. In Italian, I’ve mastered the boy runs (il bambino corre). Which I’m sure has many practical uses. And my French is a paltry voulez-vous coucher avec moi (ce soir)? My derisory understanding of these Romance languages is shameful. But at least I can't be as embarrassing as the cast of the Jersey Shore…

Everything in Excess

2011-06-15T06:16:00.001-04:00

Over the years, I have come to understand that what for many occurs in moderation, for me occurs in excess.

A few months back, my American colleague Kyle, and I, spent the better part of the afternoon trying to find a venue in Ghana that was broadcasting March Madness (read: Kyle was on the phone all afternoon, I listed to his conversation in the background). Through a series of fortunate events, we learned (Kyle learned) that Champs, the one-and-only-American-sports-bar-in-Accra, was expected to play the games. So on the Saturday that coincided with the Round of 32, we proceeded to Champs, with the intent of seeing some half-court buzzer beaters, cinderallas-in-the-making, Dick Vitale’s proclamations of upset cities. Upon arriving, the bouncer stopped us and informed us that to gain admittance, we needed to fork over $12 for an all-evening open bar. $12 for an open bar? Really? Needless to say, it changed our strategy a bit. I can’t prove it, but I’m confident we were responsible for them raising the open bar price the following week. (Yes, we returned…we are opportunists).

Maybe it is attributable to the American affinity towards consumption, but we recently went on a staff outing to the Labadi Beach Hotel’s Buffet brunch. As far as I know, it is the most gluttonous activity in all of Accra. As the proud American that I am, I was clearly in favor of the brunch festivities. The entire faculty arrived over 30 minutes early to the affair. We scoped out the offerings and strategically selected a table that provided quick access to the main serving table. As the whistle sounded to commence the buffet (okay, there was no whistle), I came out like a ravenous beast.

I one-upped gluttony. Not knowing when I would indulge like this again, I channeled my inner Kobayashi. For starters I had potato salad with peaches, chicken and vegetable stir fry, baby corn with tomato and basil salad, cold roast beef, cucumber and feta sprinkled with poppy seeds. As I moved into the main dishes, I savored potato wedges, skewers of grouper and muscles, lamb chop, spicy-yet-sweet fried plantains, stir fry noodles, British boerwors, and roast rump. I cleansed my palate with some vegetable sushi rolls dripped in soy sauce, fried eggplant with parmesan cheese and tomato sauce, and a mixed fruit bowl. To satisfy my sweet tooth, I shoved down a raspberry yogurt parfait, a Belgian waffle covered with toffee and maple syrup, a slice of coconut cake covered in a blackberry spread, a plate of strawberries doused in chocolate fondue, and a noticeable helping of tiramisu.

It’s times like these when I know that I’m proud to be an American. Or at least proud to reinforce the international perception of the overindulgent, gluttonous, excessive American.

The Trip That Was: Part 3 Busua

2011-05-18T13:56:00.002-04:00

For the next leg of my Easter travel, my colleagues and I travelled to Busua beach, what is described as a beach that is widely regarded as among the best and safest in Ghana. Just what I wanted and needed; the perfect environment to spread out on my whicker sand-mat and read Great Expectations while bronzing in the heat of the sun (aided in part by my increased photosensitivity as a result of my long-term use of a prophylaxis to prevent malaria).

We settled on a place to stay for our time in Busua – Peter’s Place – named after Peter, the owner. The shoestring accommodation fit within our budget, and with its beachfront location, it was difficult to turn down. So we dropped our luggage in the room and began to enjoy the beach and its surrounding community.

A series of unfortunate events made me seriously question the superlatives donned upon Busua beach by the travel guide. First, the Easter holidays had just passed, and it is seemingly customary for all locals to flock to what I’ve dubbed beer by the Beach. The biggest problem with this form of entertainment is that the local drinking culture is almost non-existent, and few non-beach-natives are adroit swimmers. This intersection of beer and beach apparently led to the tragic drowning of two locals, with one missing person. During our first day in Busua, the number of drownings was revised to three, since the final missing person washed ashore.

I wish I could say that witnessing this tragedy was what kept me awake all night, but it was a calamity of a different color that prohibited my peaceful slumber. That evening, in what turned out to be the calm before a huge storm the following day, the confluence of soaring temperature, sultry humidity, and a stagnant heaven created an unbearably hot atmosphere. Of course, air conditioning was not an amenity we could afford within our budget. So I crawled into bed thinking I could sheep-count myself to sleep, but I was soon drenched in sweat and falling victim to dehydration. Soaking through the fitted sheet and pillow case, I found myself laying in the fetid odor of my bodily excrement, praying for even a hint of air circulation. If I had the chance to select torture method, I think I would have hastily sided with waterboarding. At least there was water and the prospect of rehydration involved.

When it comes to torturous nights in Ghana, the only possible contender for most torturous was my overnight bus ride. And on the subject of superlatives, I’m not sure best and safest are in my cards for Busua.

The Trip That Was: Part 2 Amedzofe

2011-05-09T09:18:00.002-04:00

After spending the better part of a day playing a friendly game of Slip n’ Slide with Mount Adaklu, Kyle and I continued onward to a peaceful and self-described heavenly getaway known as Mountain Paradise Lodge nestled in the Avatime Hills. And our first evening did prove to be a nice piece of paradise; I enjoyed the hillside breeze, the savory and well prepared meal, and the scenic outlook.

After a pleasant night’s rest, Kyle and I had agreed to suspend the frantic tourist hustle and enjoy the day in relaxation like a normal vacationer might. Both wearing our Rainbow sandals, we set off on a casual walk to the town of Amedzofe.

After a short fifteen minute stroll to the first town, alive with activity, we stopped some friends to ask for directions. They pointed us down the path to Amedzofe but not before first inviting us to the local treasure hunt. Tempting. The hunt was to begin any minute. Foregoing the quest, we began down the footpath towards Amedzofe, which as it turns out, was a quest in and of itself. The shortcut trail to Amedzofe turned out to be a two hour moderate ascent through the canyon, perfect terrain for our sandals.

But it was well worth it, as we arrived in Amedzofe to boisterous and cultural Easter activities. It seemed as though the entire town had congregated around the village square for drumming and dancing. Kyle and I did a remarkable job blending into the celebrations until one of the participating hams decided to grandstand. Grasping a live chicken around the ankles, and perhaps psychically aware of my aversion for live poultry, he proceeded to slap the chicken against my body; right arm, left arm, forehead, right ear, left ear, chest, foreface. His policy of Don’t Ask Do Touch had me obsecrating God to keep any avian influenza away.

Well, deciding I had seen (and felt) enough of the cultural festivities, Kyle and I spent the rest of the day doing exactly what we promised we wouldn’t do; hiking, hiking to another mountain summit, hiking to local waterfalls, hiking to avoid and numb my emotions to the traumatic event of the day. Maybe I should have stayed back to search for the treasure trove instead.

The Trip that Was: Part 1 Mount Adaklu

2011-05-06T11:10:00.002-04:00

Easter arrived, and with my original plans of parading my friend Bowman around to all of the tourist hot spots (and believe me, Sub-Saharan Africa is hot) unraveling, I embarked on a week of relaxation and time away from Accra. Setting off in an eastwardly direction, my colleagues and I were off to explore some of the more remote portions of Ghana.

One of the first activities we decided to tackle was climbing Mount Adaklu. My trusty guidebook indicated that there were guided hikes to the mountain summit, a reasonably demanding 2-4 hour round trip, which I interpreted to mean an easy 1-2 hour trip. Why I’ve irrationally concluded that I am entitled to revise the difficulty level and time estimates is beyond me, since I am far from 50% more efficient than the average backpacker. Perhaps overconfident from our successful mountain trek, we woke up well hydrated from the beers consumed the night before and began our pursuit of the Adaklu summit.

The first step was to get a private taxi to the base of the mountain. Before you negotiate price, it’s essential to communicate your destination, which can be a workout all by itself. This particular encounter went as follows, and is a pretty good proxy for the rest. -Where are you going? -Adaklu. -Where? -Adaklu. -Adaklu? -Yes, Adaklu. -Oh…Adaklu. (Yes that’s exactly what I said.)

Well, our particular chauffer politely dropped us at the base of the mountain and pointed upward along the path that would lead us to the mountain summit. Believing him, we started navigating our way through the poorly marked trail. After thirty minutes of hiking, we finally came to a dead end. Feeling as though we had been duped, we retraced our steps back to the base of the mountain. Come to find out, the driver dropped us at the house of an obruni family, and we had spent the previous thirty minutes meandering through the family farm. I’m not certain they were expecting visitors during their Easter breakfast, but their cordiality masked any resentment.

So after correcting our driver’s wrong, and being redirected forty-five minutes to the actual base of the mountain, we finally began our guided ascent. Reasonably demanding might have been an understatement. As I was belaying myself up the mountain, my unstable and trembling legs were fighting to keep my body upright. I guess I should have been more concerned about the descent. On the way down, my buddies were concernedly asking Are you alright? Almost echoing as I continued to lose footing and slide down the mountainside. Maybe that’s how I concluded that the hike would only take me 1-2 hours. After all, falling off the side of the mountain is definitely more expedient than the slow descent.

The Trip that Wasn't

2011-05-02T13:03:00.000-04:00

It’s always been a goal of mine to ensure that people feel that they are not imposing. And for the most part, I believe I’ve been rather successful. Perhaps too successful. In college, all of my friends, many of my acquaintances, and some strangers, knew that my room was open to anyone for any purpose. (And people took some liberties with the definition of purpose here – anything from watching television and grabbing a soda from the refrigerator to taking a nap in my bed and holding an Easter egg hunt in my room. The contents of the Easter eggs – my personal belongings, such as iPod ear buds, cuff links, etc.). This trend continued as I progressed through my early twenties, hosting countless friends at my apartment throughout the holidays. (One New Years I barely had enough space for all the guests – most illustrious of this was the sight of my friend Andrew slumbered beneath the Christmas tree).

So I made it royally clear (not Kate Middleton royal) to all my friends back home that they were welcome to visit me in Ghana at any point in time. I would be happy to show them around my new home. Unfortunately, the $1500 plane ticket put my friendship a little out of everyone’s price range. The only person committed to visit was one of my best friends, Bowman, whose residence in Jordan made friendship more affordable.

Bowman was going to spend Easter break in Ghana and, making it clear that there would be no Easter egg hunts in my room, I was thrilled to have a visitor. In the weeks leading up to the visit, I provided an itinerary and packing advice, and was strategizing on how best to give a real Ghanaian cultural and culinary treat. Two days before his arrival, I received an email. Subject: visa? Contents: I can get a visa at the airport right!?!?!?!?!?!? AH!!!! freakout! The answer, as we soon discovered, is no. Whoops. We seemingly both overlooked this major step.

As with everything in my life, I began to cause a scene. We were brainstorming elaborate workarounds, like flying into neighboring Togo and sneaking across the border. All in all, we called it off because there were too many unknowns. But not before I involved a consortium of Ghanaians to help solve our problem. Unfortunately, hindsight told us that the real solution here was foresight.

So with under a day before my Easter vacation began, I went groveling to my colleagues, begging to be a last minute add-on to their Easter adventure. Thankfully they didn’t mind. Ironically, I am often the one who spearheads the planning effort for our staff outings. Perhaps it’s time to pull me from the starting line-up and bring in the relief planner.

Meals on Wheels

2011-04-11T12:52:00.001-04:00

A few years back, I remember seeing a news clip highlighting the grocery store of the American future, Japanese present. The general concept behind this alternative grocer was that a shopper arrives and sits down in a private unit that automatically navigates the patron along the fixed track through the aisles of delight. My initial thought was that the concept was heaven for the lazy consumer, hell for the spontaneous shopper who, upon seeing the hot dogs, decided to have a cookout only to realize the hot dog buns were in Aisle 1, ketchup and mustard in Aisle 2. History will note that the slow-motion-roller-coaster-shopping phenomenon failed to gain traction in the United States, as Americans opted instead for the Flight of the Hippogriff at the Wizarding World of Harry Potter Theme Park.

Well, it turns out that Japan wasn’t the first to adopt this cloud-cuckoo-land behavior. I’m convinced that the concept was simply trying to commercialize the Ghanaian shopping experience. Every major (and most minor) artery in Accra is clogged with street vendors. And any time a vehicle comes to a stop, transit-goers are immediately propositioned by the plethora of hawkers. Over time, my perception has changed far along the inefficiency-efficiency continuum; from thinking these street-clogging hawkers were the cause of traffic to realizing they were actually enabling me to multitask and complete all shopping needs without ever having to leave my taxi.

I’ve been amazed at the amount of roadworthy merchandise. From fresh fruit to pure water; toilet paper to DVDs; hammers to livestock. The street vendors have more than a WalMart Supercenter. But what might be more spectacular than the smorgasbord of obtainables is that the vendors are able to withstand the chronic open-sauna. If I stand outside, I’m usually perspiring within one minute; after one-minute and I’m a water fountain.

Recently, the convenient backseat shopping experience has been called into question by the Accra Metropolitan Authority. This authority just passed legislation making it illegal to purchase from a street vendor unless the street has been designated for that purpose. How these vendors will adapt to the new regulation and how I shop in the future is all in question. I guess if I want to shop while sitting, I’ll have to travel to Japan…Oh, who am I kidding. I’ll probably be at Filch’s Emporium of Confiscated Goods.

Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?

2011-04-04T11:43:00.004-04:00

After living in Accra for nearly eight months, I finally received some answers. Why did the chicken cross the road? And this time I wasn’t looking for a punny answer to a trite riddle.

I’ve always been rather fascinated by the logistics and mystery of the livestock industry in Ghana. Walking around the streets of Accra, it’s very common to see an abundance of poultry and livestock living out their day-to-day lives. With so many chickens and goats promenading about, any pedestrian is bound to stumble upon them.

After discussing with some of my local friends, I have determined that the system works quite efficiently. Let’s hypothetically say I have some chickens. I’m comfortable letting my chickens roam free snatching up scraps along the streets because it minimizes my biddy maintenance. I am also confident that my chickens will come home to roost each night, as the saying goes. Let's run through some additional scenarios. So how do I know if one of those roadside chicks is mine? Actually, this is quite simple. Apparently, somewhere in the Bible (Matthew 23:37), Jesus uses the reference as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings. Dating back at least to Biblical times, newborn chicks have been led home by the mother. But how does the new chick know that this is its roost? Also simple. When a chick arrives, you just tie it up for one week until it’s conditioned to its new surroundings.

What happens if the chicken doesn’t come home? Again, simple. Tragic death by motor vehicle. But how do you know that nobody stole the chicken? Enter honor code (or the law). It is illegal to steal a chicken from the roadside, punishable by six months in prison. The consequences are even worse for goats. Pilfer a goat, and you’re looking at two years.

To the best of my knowledge, there is no legal consequence for snatching a pig. Mission Bacon: Accepted.

Friends from Ivory Coast

2011-03-29T10:00:00.002-04:00

For the past week, Didier Drogba and the rest of the Ivory Coast national soccer team have been practicing at the athletic facilities across from my office. Their arrival caused quite a stir, and hundreds of locals flocked to the soccer field to catch a glimpse of the team practicing. From my perch on the treadmill at Pippa’s, my local gym, I appreciated the change in talent. Drogba & Co. was far superior to the usual peewees.

The following afternoon, I returned to the gym, only to find out that this time, instead of practicing on the field, the team was actually working out in the gym. I was originally rhapsodized by the team’s presence, but I became very self-conscious when I realized I was working out among men of Sparta (not literally, just physically). Having the jimjams (also the gymjams) I rushed through my normal routine, thinking that no matter where in the gym I was, I was definitely in one of the Ivorian’s way. From palavering with the gym staff, I soon found out the reason they were in town was because of an upcoming Africa Cup qualifying match against West African rival Benin.

Despite my unhinged nerves and inferior physique, I was trying to find an opening line to strike up conversation with one of team members. So what brings you to Ghana? Oh the reason you’re here is because your home match is being played in Ghana this weekend. And the reason your home match is being played in Ghana is because your native land is amid civil disruption on account of two men believing they are the rightful president. Unable to find a clear conversation starter, I trudged my portly figure to the locker room and called it a day.

Figuring it courteous to support our new acquaintances, my colleagues and I decided to attend the qualifying cup match. In the course of investigating how to get to the Accra Sports Stadium, my German colleague, Seb, discovered that the stadium happened to be home to the worst stadium disaster to ever happen in Africa, resulting in 127 deaths. Overall, I would classify the game as a success. Nobody died and Drogba scoring two goals to lead the Ivory Coast in a 2-1 victory.

Stadium fare: 5 cedis. Vuvuzelas: 8 cedis. Risking our lives to support our new Ivorian friends: Priceless.

Electric Success

2011-03-25T12:42:00.003-04:00

For Christmas, my father gave me the ChromePro 25 piece deluxe electric razor set. I was like Ralph opening a Red Rider BB gun, words could not express my enthusiasm. Now I possessed the tools needed (25 to be exact) to coiffure my own hair.

When my hair had grown sufficiently long, I turned to my electric razor. After setting up a nice styling space with table and mirror, I plugged in and turned on my electric razor. I was immediately overwhelmed, bushwhacked by the intensity of the razor. Shaken up (literally) by the force of the vibration, I directed all energy towards maintaining control of the hot potato while my ears were agonizing over the tintamarre caused by the extreme vibrations. Attempting to tame my rogue razor, I used two hands to navigate the razor in a squiggle across my scalp. Approximately halfway through my attempted self-sufficiency, the hot potato became too hot and, afraid that the smoke signals were going to draw unnecessary attention to my plight, I abandoned ship. Accepting failure, I walked through town to visit my local barber, who was all too pleased to cut the other half of my hair (although not at half price).

Well, eventually the time came for attempt number two. Learning from my mistake, I knew that I needed to be more strategic in my use of the electric razor. One week prior to moving to Ghana, while roaming the aisles of Target, I stumbled upon a budget adapter/converter. For as much as I would spend on a hot dog at a New York City street vendor, I impulsively added the device to my checkout cart. Since the purchase six months prior, I had been fearful of using this questionable apparatus for fear that it had the life-ending Midas touch. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and my hair was approaching Beiber length (clearly no defense of desperation needed). Turning on the electric razor, I was ever thankful to see and hear it operating smoothly.

It might have been six months, but I was finally successful at cutting my own hair. And I learned a new meaning of smoke and mirrors in the process.

Baby Lawyer Muslim Church

2011-03-21T09:41:00.002-04:00

Beach bumming has become an extremely popular weekend activity. And while I am always an advocate for more adventurous weekends, I also enjoy the relaxing tranquility of the Ghanaian beaches.

So it was no surprise that when Friday sunset rolled around, we found ourselves with toes in the sand, sipping on rum and cokes while discussing the state of the world. Somewhere between the waves, we struck up conversation with a local schoolgirl. And in an effort to exchange a little culture, she introduced us to an exciting game that she learned and played in school.

The game was called Baby Lawyer Muslim Church. The rules were these. Each player selects one of the key words (Baby, Lawyer, Muslim, or Church). Then, on the moderator’s count, participants throw down any number of fingers. The moderator proceeds to acknowledge each finger on the table with the next key word in the sequence. So the first finger is declared Baby, the second Lawyer, and so forth until all fingers have been exhausted. The last finger and kindred keyword determine the winner. Whoever selected this keyword before the finger throw-down is declared victor, and participants proceed to play again.

I was amazed by the game’s simplicity, incredulous with the game’s ability to entertain, and bewildered by the seemingly random word selection. Jiminy Cricket! But having had a minute to make meaning of my scattered thoughts, I realized this school game highlighted an important cultural difference. In the United States, we call Baby Lawyers anti-abortionists and Muslim Churches mosques, and neither is taught in the classroom.

Mount Afadjato

2011-03-16T18:38:00.003-04:00

A recent three day weekend afforded me and my colleagues the luxury of exploring some of the Eastern region offerings around the town of Hohoe. Months ago, when we first discovered the Eastern region via our guidebook, we saw this town of Hohoe, located just north of the town of Ho, and immediately felt the impulse to hit up Ho and Hohoe. Only later did we discover that Hohoe is actually pronounced ho hoy (as in Chips Ahoy!).

After a heat-intensive journey, we arrived and settled into the Grand Palace. We decided that the following morning, we would set off to climb Mount Afadjato, believed to be the highest mountain peak in Ghana. Deciding it was time to mentally and physically prepare for the arduous mountain trek the following morning, we conversed over chilled (read: warm) beer.

The morning of our big adventure arrived and we started to look for public transportation from Hohoe to the town nestled at the foot of the mountain. Well, we ran into a number of transportation obstacles. You can get public transportation from the lorry station. So we walked 30 minutes to the lorry station, finding nothing but a set of scheming taxi drivers asking for exorbitant fares. It turns out these lorries take Saturdays off. So we turned to our next option. You can catch a ride to the foot of the mountain at the post office. Great.

The only problem was finding the post office. We spent the better part of two hours in search of the elusive post office, with concerned citizens pointing us up and down the main thoroughfare. It turns out we walked past the post office no less than four times before we eventually stumbled upon it. (It’s no wonder it took four months for my mother’s package of brownies to arrive. And all this time I thought it was because someone literally had to swim my package across the Atlantic. It turns out, the postman spent four months trying to find the post office!)

Well, thankfully we finally made our way to the foot of Mount Afadjato. Mount Afadjato is said to be named after a local word Avadzeto, meaning at war with bush. (I guess everyone was at war with dubbya at one time or another). But really, the phrase comes from the local vegetation that can cause serious skin irritation. At the base of the mountain a sign greeted us Welcome to Afadjato. Take a deep breath. You are just about conquering 885m above sea level. Normally, I would dismiss the mountain as a hill, but unlike many of my previous hiker-friendly trails littered with switchbacks, this was rather hoofer-friendly and a near vertical climb. The conquest was rewarding, until you reach the top and realize that there’s a higher peak 3km away. Said to be the highest mountain peak in Ghana? Oh, yes. The Togo border is 2km away.

Sunday Supper

2011-03-01T11:15:00.001-05:00

Once upon a time, in an effort to further forge the Mer-bond, I invited the Mer-maids over for a Sunday taco night. The night progressed with laughter and wine (perhaps not in that order), but regardless, the night was a success. And thus, a Sunday Supper tradition was born.

Every Sunday evening, around 7pm, we would progress to the weekly hosts’ for a deliciously prepared meal. I gormandized over the sweet potato enchiladas, crab imperial, and turkey-stuffed peppers while thinking OneRepublic got it right; This has gotta be the good life. In retrospect, inviting everyone over for the first Sunday Supper was nothing short of the foot-in-the-door technique, which was pretty easy given the fact that I was entrusted with the girls’ spare apartment keys.

Well, after numerous dinner rotations, it became apparent that my toil and tears was not fully appreciated. There was first the incident of the personal pizza. I purchased dough, cheeses, and a cornucopia of toppings and thought it would be pleasant for everyone to decorate their own dough; an interactive dinner of sorts. But this thoughtful gesture was dismissed as a mere attempt to outsource the food preparation process. How rude of me.

The most notable dinner delinquency was the Sunday chili and cornbread. I won some and I lost some. I won with the cornbread. I lost with the chili. Honesty, the chili wasn’t bad, I just ran out of time so the chili still contained many vegetables…oh, how do I say it…in the raw. The cornbread, on the other hand, sat stacked on a serving dish in a pyramid that gave the Great Pyramid of Giza a run for its money (or at least a run for its taste). The cornbread was edaciously devoured by all dinner party guests. In turn, they each praised the meal with their backhanded compliments.

-This cornbread is delicious. It even makes the chili taste good. How thoughtful.

-How did you make this cornbread, I’m going to need the recipe? Oh, I travelled to my local grocer and picked it up. The key to good cornbread is all in the way you slice it. Now exposed as a charlatan, I guess it is safe to say I lost with the cornbread too.

My life has a rather circuitous way; Sunday Suppers have followed me to Ghana. Seeing as commerce is closed for the Lord’s Day, and preferring not to fast, it seemed to be the logical next step. But I’ve learned my lesson – I don’t participate in the preparation. Everyone knows that there were the hunters and the gatherers. I hypothesize that there was a third group, the eaters, who died out through evolution. Yet, somehow I have managed to survive. I always knew I was an evolutionary miracle.

Things that are Swedish

2011-02-18T09:30:00.001-05:00

While at a local Irish pub in Accra, we befriended a group of volunteers. Since first impressions can be a deal-breaker, I wanted to make sure I was on top of my game. I was having a fruitful conversation with my new Dutch acquaintance, when somewhere shortly into the conversation, Ikea, the Scandinavian home furnishing giant, became a topic of discussion. I decided to weigh in by sharing my favorite Ikea memory. Disclaimer: I was not present for the formation of the memory; it only became my memory through the retelling.

Years ago, my friends embarked on a rather ordinary Ikea run. But of course, with my friends, nothing can be ordinary. It turns out that a radio station was broadcasting from the parking lot, and a swelling crowd gathered, similar to the phenomenon when Ikea offers sheet sets on sale for $9.99. Well, it came time for a give-away for an audience contestant who was able to correctly answer a question from the DJ. Of course, my friend Katie exhibited extreme enthusiasm and was selected to demonstrate her knowledge and win the radio promotion.

In front of and broadcasted to a throng of strangers, Katie simply had to name three things that are Swedish. So very confidently, she declared Well, for starters…Holland. A rather quizzical look comes over the radio host. Actually, Holland never has been and never will be Swedish. (Although, since I haven’t conquered the time-space continuum, I can’t officially confirm that Holland will never be Swedish). But who knew that a region in the Netherlands, a Nether-region, would not meet the criteria for something Swedish?

Since I wasn’t present for the original Ikea outing, there is a chance that the fish has grown in size through the retelling, but the there are two things I am certain of. First, that the question was to name three things Swedish. Second, that the answer was Holland. Of course, I couldn’t help but rattle off a few acceptable responses to reveal my superior comprehension to my Dutch friend. Well, for starters…Ikea, Swedish meatballs, my personal favorite, Swedish fish. Perhaps boasting a bit of bravado, I pushed the envelope on my grasp of Nordic societies. Or clogs. It turns out, clogs are not exclusively Swedish. Comprehension checkmated by the Dutchman. I suppose it could have been worse. At least I didn’t suggest windmills.

Sounds Like Octopus

2011-02-12T15:05:00.002-05:00

I grew up as a what man, reflexively asking what after being spoken to. Brian, did you finish your homework? What, mom? Brian, did you take the dog for a walk? What, dad? Part of the reason was well-intentioned chore avoidance, but I’m convinced that the larger part of it was because I was, and am, audibly challenged. Perhaps I probed too far with a Q-tip growing up, or maybe it is just a natural defect, but I have found that I often have trouble processing auditory stimuli. Such is the case when it comes to song lyrics. Fortunately for me though, when I can’t understand the lyric, I make them up.

So take my hearing struggles and introduce them into a foreign culture with a slightly different dialect, and the output is scrambled eggs. Thankfully, I’m in good company. While having a pint with a local volunteer from southern Australia, he asked if I was familiar with the local hiplife song that contained the lyric Sexy as cheese. Well, I originally thought maybe the bloke had a roo loose in the top paddock, but quickly dismissed this notion when he began humming the tune. Yes, I was familiar with this song. Soon enough, I too was able to pick out the lyric sexy as cheese. The problem was that I never really considered cheese to be sexy, and if I had, I would at least have had the decency to keep such a fetish to myself. The second problem was that it turns out the lyrics are actually Sexy as she is. Clearly.

Well, I recently put my ears to the test again at Reggae Night. Reggae Night draws a melting pot of personalities. Set on the sands of Labadi Beach, the musical evening brings together a varied clientele from Rastafarian locals to hippy expatriates, from university exchange students to working professionals. This particular evening, my friends and I were blessed with a well-informed emcee, or master of ceremonies as he liked to believe. Every 30 seconds he would interject with just one word. Octopus. I was not sure why he kept drawing attention to our eight-legged mollusk. Perhaps it was our proximity to the ocean, maybe he was informing the masses that octopi are sentient creatures, but whatever the reason for the incessant interjections, I found them disruptive.

Come to find out, the microphone monopolizer wasn’t trying to warn the crowds about a potential octopus invasion, but rather exclaiming On the bus. But how can you keep demanding that I get on the bus without telling me where that bus is going? Please don’t say Tamale.

Times in Transit

2011-02-03T10:43:00.002-05:00

Travelling the roads of Ghana; sometimes it can be exhausting. Sometimes it is a fun cultural experience. But always, it comes with a story. As society has yet to master the science of teleportation, I can be thankful for my times in transit.

Tro-tros. Derived from the local Ga language word “tro” meaning three-pence, a tro-tro is the primary means of public transportation in Ghana. This informal yet seemingly codified system is the artery of Accra. It’s usually crowded and confining, yet generally furnished with comity. I once had the pleasure of sitting next to a gentleman who was travelling with his poultry. Slightly humored and mildly terrified, I tried to ignore the feathered squawks coming from below my bum. I fought to block the background bowwow, but eventually found the situation escalating. With great haste, I jumped out of my seat, feeling the chicken attacking my ankles. Causing quite a disturbance, all eyes turned to the loco hombre. I soon realized the farm foul was still safely secured. Turns out it was just my shoelaces. Who’s the chicken now, Brian?

Motored-canoe. The most efficient way to get to Ada Foah is to take the motored-canoe. The motored-canoe is 60 minutes faster than travelling by foot, and about 5,000 ore strokes faster than travelling by traditional canoe. The only flaw in water-travel is that too many people sink the ship. If you are travelling in a large-enough party, someone is given bucket bailer duty. Well, on a recent trip, the captain asked me to come navigate. I’m not sure if he wanted a short nap, or if he just thought it would be funny to have an obruni as his skipper. Either way, I was responsible for steering, speed-changing, and stopping. When we disembarked, I told the captain that perhaps I shouldn’t pay for my fare and that he should pay me for my services instead. He disagreed.

Taxis. As is true of many urban locales, taking a taxi can be as terrifying as sky diving. But sometimes this trill is stretched to the extreme and I’m fearfully waiting for the parachute to deploy. Such was the scenario one evening when my colleagues and I piled into a taxi to head across town. Unbeknownst to me at the time, the driver, let’s call him Charlie, was in the middle of a high speed get-away. As soon as we pulled the taxi door shut, our jockey, Charlie, was off like Citation at the Belmont Stakes. Like most of the world, Ghana uses a similar traffic light pattern; green for go, red for stop. Not for this cab. Red light. Be my guest. By the time we sped through the second highway intersection without regard to the cross-traffic, I was fast-forwarding through the highlights of my life. Thank Beelzebub that the Ghanaian police force found this reckless. We were pulled over and instructed to find safety in another driver. Our taxi-jockey was soon united with that Citation he deserved.

LifeTime Fitness

2011-01-31T04:24:00.002-05:00

I’m constantly impressed with my friends that possess athletic abilities superior to mine (which is basically stating that I’m impressed with all of my friends). While I have long written off my hopes of becoming a world-class athlete or Olympian, I still dabble in the art of kinesiology. Living in Ghana, I’ve been able to exercise at Pippa’s Health Centre to maintain my athletic pretense. And in this setting, I have been provided with ample time upon the treadmill to reflect upon my personal athletic timeline.

I am pretty sure that it began (and ended) in elementary school, fourth-grade. I was just entering the first season of kid-pitch baseball, where strikes are as abundant as Siberian tigers. The team’s strategy was to walk our way to victory simply by relying on the inaccuracy of the opponent’s pitcher. See, my coach was all about skill-development. Before we went to the plate, we had to first agree not to swing the bat. Even if you spotted a strike, it was best not to swing because (a) the umpire might still call it a ball, and (b) even if it was a strike, odds are the next pitch would be a ball.

It wasn’t much better for me when it came to fielding. Let’s not kid, being positioned in the outfield was never because you were the next Kirby Puckett. The outfield formula in fourth-grade was part unfortunate fielding skills, part poor depth perception skills, and part lack of speed, which, in total, had quite the charming effect on the opponent. Of course, outfield was my specialty. I preferred right-field where I could put some distance between myself and the vitriol of my coach. Needless to say, my team failed to book a win all season, so instead of putting myself through another year of torture, I cut my losses (which were many) and threw in the glove.

Well, hindsight is 20-20 right? My Pippa’s treadmill overlooks a soccer pitch, and I am often entertained by pee-wee soccer practice. Just the other day, I was watching a scrimmage where the goalie grabbed possession and decided to practice his punt. The only problem was that there was a shrimp from the opposing team standing two feet in front of him. It all happened so quickly, but the trajectory of the soccer ball was interrupted by the young face, off of which it quickly ricocheted, toppling the runt and throwing the Lilliputians scurrying in a new direction. It was at this moment that I had an epiphany. I realized that my former coach was really just looking out for my own safety. Walking to first base pretty much eliminated the possibility of a collision with the first-base man. And as an outfielder, I was far less likely to be injured by a line drive.

Well, regardless, I now stick to the treadmill. One might suspect the treadmill to be a relatively safe venture; definitely safer than kid-pitch baseball and pee-wee soccer. Let’s just say that when you’re running at 8.5 miles per hour and the power goes out at the gym, kid-pitch doesn’t sound so terrifying after all.

Caffeine Please

2011-01-24T13:43:00.003-05:00

Bookended by two red-eyes, Dulles to Heathrow, and Heathrow to Accra, I found myself in London for a short 19 hours. Not wanting to let my precious time go to waste, I planned to meet my friend Rachel for lunch, and leg it across London all afternoon.

She suggested meeting on the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral, to which I swiftly agreed. After having spent one sleepless night on the plane, I was running on adrenaline and prepared to sight-see, so I bought a day pass for the Tube, and set off for St. Paul’s. While on the Tube, I snuggly squeezed a second fleece over top of my first (since winter-weather clothing did not make the packing list) and was prepared to embrace the frigid air. Catching up with Rachel was great; she took me to a quintessential London pub where we both ordered fish and chips with a Kronenbourg lager. Her life as an expat mirrored mine in myriad ways. For example, we commiserated over the difficulty of starting anew with zero social capital.

After lunch, we walked along the Thames until she had to report to work. She pointed me in the direction of the tourist attractions, and off I went. Prior to departing, I casually asked my parents what I should see in the afternoon I had to explore London.

Mother: Well you should see Westminster Abbey, the Tower Bridge and London Bridge…

Me: Let me tell you a little something about London Bridge

Mother: …oh, Parliament and Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, and you should go to the National Gallery, Hyde Park is beautiful, the London Eye, Oxford Street…

Father: Probably Abbey Road and don’t forget to see Wimbledon.

Me: You realize that I’m there for an afternoon right? Does your recapitulation come with cliff notes? Wait…shouldn’t your recapitulation be the cliff notes?

Well, finding myself with the afternoon at hand, I set about my checklist. Unable to bear the arctic chill and with my adrenal glands taking a nap, I decided to reward myself. After each sighted landmark, I found a coffee shop for both stimulus and warmth. After splitting my time between Starbucks and UNESCO World Heritage sites, I stumbled to the underground in the direction of Heathrow, doing everything in my capacity to fend off slumberland.

Two sleepless nights and one hectic day as a tourist had me landing exhausted in Accra at sunrise. Lucky me, I arrived just in time for my first day back at work. Instant coffee. Blimey.

Perfectionism

2011-01-18T12:48:00.002-05:00

In 8^th grade, my English and Civics class required us to write a joint thesis. At the time, the task hovered over my head like Morena Baccarin in ABC’s V. Well, one of my classmates, friends, and neighbors, Greg, wrote his first thesis on how procrastination was a sign of perfectionism, which I’m sure he wrote mere hours before the semester-long deadline. So it is no coincidence that this thesis invaded my personal space. I ossified as a perfectionist around the same time as my first bout with braces.

Whenever I’ve needed an excuse for pushing something off until the last minute, I have always had a scapegoat – my perfectionism. Procrastination has a habit of crawling into all my business, including the time leading up to my flight across the Atlantic back to Ghana. When it comes to international travel, I told my parents it would be prudent to arrive at Dulles two hours before departure. So three hours before departure, I pulled myself away from Franzen’s Freedom (deeper meaning?) to begin packing for the next seven months of my life. Reserving the final hour for frantic packing for the next seven months definitely falls under my perfectionism umbrella.

No problem. Trying to pack lightly, I began gathering my belongings and started to strategically divide them according to weight and value between travelling bags. I ignored my parents’ incessant berating of Brian, shouldn’t you be packed by now? No. Brian, do you have a packing checklist? No. Seriously? No. Brian, are you a perfectionist? Why yes, I thought you’d never ask.

As it turns out, my total travelling volume exceeded my luggage volume. Well shucks. But through a series of rearrangements to optimize my luggage and through forced containment not seen since President Truman, I was able to secure my belongings. Perfect, given that now I should have been at the airport 10 minutes ago. But I was ready to leave, and thankfully my blessed birthers live mere minutes from Dulles.

Brian, what about this home haircutting kit? my mother shouted from the top steps. Shit. For Christmas, I asked for a an electric razor with the description “something I can cut my own hair with.” Papa Garv turned out to be quite the giver and bought the ChromePro 25 piece deluxe set. So instead of a relaxed and sincere send-off from my family, I frantically spent the final moments with my parents unpacking and forcing items into my one suitcase, my one travel backpack, and my one carry-on.

We sped (maybe I made this part up, my father is a law-abiding citizen and driving five over the speed limit provides as much thrill as eating an entire peach cobbler provides to Dudley Dursley) to the airport and quickly got in line at the Virgin Atlantic counter. Standing in a stationary line, I started nibbling my nails, beginning to think that my streak might come to an end at the Virgin counter. I was no longer using my perfectionism as a scapegoat, but rather the Brady Bunch at the ticket counter. The number of questions they had for the Virgin ticket agent was only outnumbered by the number of their checked bags.

My mother sarcastically conjectured Maybe this will finally teach you a lesson. Perhaps perfectionism and procrastination have their limitations. I was beginning to believe her until I finally arrived at the ticket counter. Mr. Gavron. Unfortunately this flight is overbooked and there are no more economy seats. So we’ve gone ahead and upgraded you. Upgrade? Perfect.

Backpack from Santa

2011-01-13T10:02:00.003-05:00

I asked Santa Claus for a backpack. After conducting some online research, I sent Santa an email, attaching a Christmas Wish List with the link to a possible backpack. I cautioned Santa on making a purchase before I was sized and fitted, so I was not surprised when, on Christmas morning, I found an I owe you stuffed in my stocking. With Santa’s go-ahead, I locomoted to REI, my favorite all-purpose sports cooperative, to make a Christmas purchase. I brought my friend Serena along with me to provide company and a second-opinion.

Upon walking into REI, Serena and I were immediately distracted, Serena, by the bikes on the left and I, by the headlamps on the right (not because I needed one, since Chelsey gave me, along with the rest of her male friends, a headlamp for Christmas). Finding humor in our promenade across the REI floor, Keith, a floor assistant, immediately took a liking to us and asked how he could be of assistance. I immediately became enamored of Keith because of his graspable extremities; his handle bars were the perfect complement to Serena’s bike.

Wyatt Earp proved knowledgeable in the backpacking arena and I was soon testing the REI Passage 65 Pack. He talked me through every feature, we filled it with sandbags, I harnessed up, and started trekking the REI floorspace. This provided Handle Bars McGhee uninterrupted time to showcase some additional gear I might be interested in purchasing. At the top of this list was his favorite pair of underwear. So cool that he relayed the story of a guy who used just one pair for an entire three months in Iraq. (Not so cool).

Instead of hearing other riveting testimonials, I decided I should address my lifetime REI benefits package. You see, here’s the thing. About five years prior, I was persuaded by the cashier to spend the $20 to become a lifetime member, which allowed me to reap dividends (literally) in the form of a 10% refund distributed on items purchased. Well, five years into my lifetime membership, I was still using my temporary membership card and, more importantly, had not ever received a dividend. No problem Whiskers tells me. We walk over to the computer to pull up my account information. After verifying address and phone number, he asks, is your last name Garin. Of course not. Could this really be the reason REI has been withholding my annual dividends? After correcting my last name, I was informed that my account information had been successfully updated in the system. No longer would I fail to receive my rightful dividends.

I thanked ‘Tache Twister for his assistance, and went about the store to add a few other items to my cart in the hopes that Santa might be generous enough to pick up the tab for the entire excursion. I went to check out, feeling that freedom was mine, and paid for everything. As I turned to leave the store, the cashier reviled me. Thank you for shopping at REI Mr. Garin.

The Wonderful Life

2011-01-10T11:19:00.004-05:00

One of my favorite things about the holidays is their ability to bring my friends together. Some of my favorite holidays include Dranksgiving, Foxfields, and of course, New Years. When these holidays arrive, I have to constantly tell myself that it’s a marathon and not a sprint, as the day passes in a complete blur. Often I am unable to recall the specifics of any one conversation, but my memory records the day as one terribly blissful day in the life. I envision I’m much like George Bailey in his famous run home at the end of It’s a Wonderful Life. This New Year was no different, although telling tales is probably NSFW.

Interestingly enough, I received an invitation from my dear friend Katie for a night out at Sign of the Whale, one of our favorite DC bars, scheduled for the evening of January 1^st. Sign of the Whale is not the type of bar you would usually go to on a date with sobriety. It has the perfect location, a five block walk from the metro, and neighbors with DC’s finest, Camelot (voted as Readers’ Choice “Best Strip Club” by Washington City Paper). So my presentiments had me questioning Katie's date selection and whether I could manage a night out following such a large holiday.

In good form, fifty of my favorite twenty-somethings turned out for a sober night of dancing, each of us showing up only out of fear of missing out, nobody setting high expectations. But my presage was quickly abated as we weren’t so fancy and just got dancey. Over the course of the evening, we evacuated the dance floor; we danced an Irish jig, danced the cupid shuffle, danced the dougie, and just danced. It ended up being a great night for everyone. Well, I guess everyone except the bartenders, who worked extra diligently to keep our glasses filled with ice water and coca-cola. It really is a wonderful life.

My Family Christmas Tree

2010-12-28T21:31:00.000-05:00

My mother is particular when it comes to the interior decor of the family’s colonial style home. I am most grateful for this except for when it comes time to gift-give (souvenirs, Christmas, birthday, etc.). So I am usually elated when I find a gift suitable enough for my mother’s tastes. With the exception of a red apple scented candle from Yankee Candle that is still on display in the bathroom next to the kitchen, I have learned that trying to accessorize or decorate the Gavron house is a lost cause.

Well, the same rules of decorating engagement apply when it comes to the holiday season. Ornaments are selected and placed upon the tree using a number of criteria headlined by the likelihood of the tree will appear in next season’s Pottery Barn winter catalog. Years ago, my mother started a family tradition of wrapping two ornaments, one for my sister and one for me, that we would open with glee on Christmas morning. The ornament is comparable to the year in review; it captures the essence of the year. For example, there was the time mom purchased a pleasant Shrek figurine for me because that year I apparently reminded her of an ogre (okay, really, it was because I dressed as Shrek for my high-school’s rendition of the Shrek theme-song, I’m A Believer).

Decorating the Christmas tree has always been a full family effort. In my naïve years, the entire family would converge around the tree while Bing Crosby sounded from the speakers. Each of us would work together to decorate the Douglas Fir. After the family bonding hour expired, my mother would return to the tree and rearrange the ornaments to improve the aesthetics. Well, once I became aware of this inefficiency, I defied the family and put my foot down. No, I will not decorate the tree. You’re only going to strip the tree and re-outfit it. How do you think Douglas feels when you strip him naked in the front window for everyone to see?! So now, instead of decorating, I supervise. I usually sit on the couch in a state of supervision (or more probably woolgathering). I see it as a win-win-win. I supervise, my mom spends less total time decorating, and Douglas doesn’t have to get brought up on public indecency charges.

If I had to pick one consistent challenge the Gavron family tree faces each year, it would be the angel. On occasion, we have overzealously estimated the clearance of our living room and found the angel sitting rather snuggly (and probably smugly) no room for the halo, relying more on the Beyonce lyric I can feel your halo over I can see your halo. Also, this year, I learned that we tree-topped with a tainted angel. Apparently, when my grandmother passed, my mother exercised her prerogative and took our grandparents’ angel. Which was fine, until my grandfather’s Christmas tree stopped sporting an angel since he failed to find the family angel. Well, Catholic guilt overcame my mom, and the angel was returned to the rightful owner.

Overall, Christmas 2010 was a success. Not because my sister received double the number of gifts I received, but because it was the first year in recent memory where the Gavron family tree was both stolen-angel-free and Shrekless. (Our family couldn’t seem to locate Shrek this year…hmm…maybe my grandmother decided it was time for a little payback).

End of Semester Review

2010-12-20T18:11:00.002-05:00

Five months ago I experienced an earthquake of a magnitude not felt since the introduction of Lunchables in my elementary school lunch bag. Five months ago, I relocated to Accra, Ghana. Five months is a substantial amount of time. In five months, a dragonfly lives out its entire life. In five months, an orange peel comes close to decomposing. Five months has given me the audacity to say that I’m a force of nature.

The semester had its highs and lows, but the journey was worth every minute (okay, not every minute).

In five months, I’ve learned a lot of lessons. For one, the importance of soccer in the socialization of an American abroad; for another, Ghana wasn’t made for everyone. One of the Fellows, Rhys (pronounced like the candy Reece’s Pieces, despite its near phonetic impossibility), had to throw in the towel. This Australian bloke found himself constantly battling the bacteria. For example, there was the time that the entire staff went out to celebrate Rhys’ birthday. The only problem – Rhys couldn’t join us because he was bed rested with malaria. Or there was the time that Rhys selected a restaurant for his farewell dinner, and the staff obliged, despite his absence due to…wait for it…malaria.

But for fear of coming across as an egotistic Negative Ned and feeding into the misconceptions of sub-Saharan Africa, I feel truly blessed to have the opportunity. I find myself constantly laughing at the little things. Every day after lunch I walk to the local market to get some fresh air (and a Coca Cola), and every day I walk past the same two children. Every day these children see me, smile, point, and declare obruni. I am their cardboard box; cheap entertainment.

The night before my flight to America, I found myself again playing the role of cardboard box. My students decided as part of a send-off, they would pond me. To pond – this noun-converted-to-verb has a playful (and painful) meaning in Ghana. Ponding is associated with milestones or special occasions. In my case, it was the end of the semester and my return to the United States. It is a categorically male ritual where the victim stands helplessly with his back to the group while everyone else pelts buckets of water at the weltering honoree. A few buckets (and stings) later, with one red back, my cultural experience was finished. No hard feelings. I’ll just trade my red back for the red ink when I grade their assignments next semester.

Real Ghanaians of Genius

2010-12-14T03:39:00.002-05:00

One of the lessons I learned while living outside of the United States is that it doesn’t matter where I am – I will always find real men and women of genius.

Left turn man. Struggling to locate the bus terminal based on the city map in my guidebook, the Fellows and I turned to the street smart for directions. Oh, you’re looking for the bus terminal? No problem. At the first junction, do nothing. At the second junction, do nothing. At the third junction, go straight. What? If I get to the first junction and do nothing, how do I ever make it to the second junction?

Wendy’s lady. While spending the evening in a beach bungalow at Ada Foah, I placed a dinner order of fried rice and yam chips. Three hours later, I received a plate of fried rice and chicken. Okay. Not exactly what I ordered, so I ate the fried rice, and returned the chicken. It’s cool. I’ve come to find fried rice as a sufficient meal. Well, moments later, I’m approached by the waitress. Excuse me. We just realized that we gave you chicken instead of yam. We made a mistake with your order. So you’re going to have to pay extra for the chicken. I’m sorry? You made a mistake? I didn’t even touch the chicken? I didn’t complain that I got the wrong dish? And you’re charging me extra? I’ve heard similar arguments before…

Good Friday man. Okay. I kid, I kid. Nobody in Ghana would EVER mistake Palm Sunday for Good Friday. Example #1. Example #2. Example #3.

Holy Matrimony

2010-12-08T07:20:00.002-05:00

It took me three months, and 210 meals (who’s counting?), but the other afternoon, I returned to my laptop to find a nice white envelop upon my desk, Mr. Brian penned in blue ink across the bottom right corner. I could feel my heartbeat accelerating, and not just because I had finished a bottle of Coca Cola. I’ve become conditioned to know that a white envelope on my desk contains cash, payment, money for services rendered, money for services never rendered.

This time, I opened the envelope to find not cash, but rather an invitation to Florence’s wedding. Florence is a part of the school’s kitchen staff and I was rather embarrassed for not even knowing that she was in a relationship, but felt honored to be invited nonetheless.

As the wedding approached, my nerves were building. Mere hours before the wedding, I found myself tied up (and throwing up) on the road from Tamale, and I don’t have a perfect track record when it comes to arriving to weddings on time. Thankfully, I arrived just in time. My invitation was stamped noon. It turns out everyone else’s was stamped one pm. Cool. My colleagues and I were escorted to the second row.

Well, the ceremony was beautiful, despite it not being in English. I was enjoying spectator privileges until the lady sitting next to me poked me and told me that it was our turn. I could hear the susurrous whispers of the congregation.

Our turn? What do you mean by our turn? I probed. You and your colleagues are supposed to sing a song for the bride and groom. I’m sorry…what? We’re supposed to sing a song to the bride and groom? Right now?

My mind quickly jumped into panic mode. The first song that came to mind was Cee Lo Green’s F*** You, which I immediately dismissed as being outrageously inappropriate. My next thought was, what songs do Americans, Dutch, and Pakistanis all know – Happy Birthday? I was weighing the merits of a song that had meaning for matrimony and a song that the international group of colleagues would recognize. Clearly, ubiquity trumped meaningfulness. Thankfully, one of the Ghanaians in our program recognized our visible agitation, volunteered a hymn, and began singing to the congregation. I just stood on stage awkwardly swaying back and forth. It’s times like these where I find myself convinced that I am the cultural experiment instead of the other way around.

Coup d'etat

2010-12-05T17:42:00.002-05:00

I enjoy my sports. I actively follow the local Washington teams, regularly read reviews of my alma matter Virginia (often at my own risk when it comes to football and basketball), waste weeks of my life consuming every broadcasted Olympic game, and have consistently performed mediocre at best in my fantasy football league. But like many Americans, I have not paid much attention outside of World Cup play.

I distinctly recall a time in my life, that perhaps I would prefer to forget, where I spent an entire afternoon penning posters for my family’s front row seats during the Women’s World Cup Quarterfinal match USA vs Germany. Mia Hamm vs. Birgit Prinz at Landover Field on July 1, 1999. After arriving 30 minutes late to the match due to the abhorrent Beltway traffic, the USA Women’s team was down 1-0. Also, the USA Women’s team was the only team to score a goal in the game…someone scored a goal in their own net… (this uncanny parallel to pee wee soccer should have been an early warning sign that perhaps I was following the wrong sport).

Regardless, no amount of sports fandom could have prepared me for the epic match of the season. Barcelona vs. Real Madrid. Apparently everyone was planning on watching the match. Brian, will you be watching the match tonight? At this time, still unaware that the match we were referring to was the Barcelona vs. Real Madrid match and not my University’s ACC-Big Ten Matchup, I was forced to show my hand. What match? Blaspheme. What match? Only the match that everyone in the entire world will be watching. While I would like to believe you, I can’t accept your hyperbole.

So instead of watching the contest, I decided the time would be better spent reconnecting with my pastime. Instead, I sat on my bed reading K. A. Applegate’s series The Animorphs, the saga of teenagers given the power to morph into animals in order to fight the alien Yeerks (nerd-alert) on my Barnes and Noble Nook. I was basically begging to be ostracized at the dinner table the following day. Everyone would be talking about the football match I wasn’t watching, and nobody (nobody in the entire world) would be talking about Animorphs.

What actually happened: In a truly world-class performance, so I’ve been told, David Villa led Barcelona to a 5-0 romp, rolling through Real Madrid.

What I thought happened: A coup d'etat. With the riotous and boisterous atmosphere, I really thought the government had been overthrown. Either that or the Yeerks had taken over.

The Road from Tamale

2010-11-29T02:16:00.001-05:00

Call us suicidal, but for the final leg of our vacation, the Fellows and I decided to return to Accra by way of overnight bus. After ping-ponging from bus station to bus station in Tamale, we settled on a 12 hour overnight bus provided by government-run STC, Departure, Tamale: 4pm. Arrival, Accra: 4am.

Well, needless to say, there were a couple hiccups along the way. When the bus pulled into the terminal over two hours after our departure time, I was beginning to get restless (appropriate, since I intended to get a lot of rest on the bus). But I was pleased to know that we would soon begin our road trip to Accra, where the quality of the roads, or lack thereof, meant that the on-roading experience would have an off-roading flavor.

Problem #1: Faulty shock absorbers. This is a critical component to any motorized vehicle when a significant portion of the road from Tamale back to Accra is an uneven, uncomfortable, dirt road, resulting in 50 bobble headed patrons ebbing and flowing with each change in the contour and gradient of the terrain. When you are lucky enough to be on a paved portion, it is like driving atop swiss cheese; I would classify both the road and swiss cheese as falling under the category things with gaping holes. The paved portion also staggers speed bumps, or rather speed humps as I’ve seen them referred to in my hometown, along the way. Which, if you are travelling in the dead of night, become very difficult to anticipate, and often turn into a mechanism used to catapult bus riders from their seats.

Problem #2: Just prior to boarding the bus, I ate a little something-something called red red that didn’t enjoy my company-company – it wanted out. I tried to concentrate on falling asleep, but every time I came remotely close to napping, Problem #1 interjected to remind me that the Road from Tamale had other plans for me. So I sat in tenebrous silence while the Hundred Years’ War occurred in my breadbasket.

It wasn’t long before my head was hanging out the window, the armed conflict in my belly took to the streets. There is precedence for falling ill on public transportation. The last time I boarded a 14 hour flight from Doha to Dulles I found my head buried within the barf bags. The way I see it, I’m two for two. All I need now is the train and I’ll have conquered the big three of public transportation.

Invisible Elephants

2010-11-23T14:04:00.000-05:00

With an entire week devoted to vacation, I was able to finally travel to the northern portion of Ghana with the Fellows. The weeklong adventure from Accra brought about our banaustic concerns; Will we be able to find food? Will we be able to put a roof over our head? Thankfully, yes. The week culminated in our extended stay at Mole National Park, home to approximately 800 elephants, 1000 buffalo, hyenas, and as my guidebook mentioned, a “significant population of hippos”. Side note: It turns out that Mole National Park does not, in fact, have any hippos, as multiple park rangers laughed when I inquired.

I’ll start off by saying, it really was all our fault. We knew that November was not the ideal time to travel to Mole National Park, but seeing as we don’t get to select which days Ghana declares as national holidays, we figured we would take our chances.

After settling into our lodging, we relaxed poolside before we would participate in a dusk walking safari. Upon arriving at the launch of the walking safari, the park found themselves slightly understaffed, and as a consequence, boondoggled us into taking the dusk driving safari. Not only did the price of our safari just increase threefold, but the vehicle was overcapacity. The four other Fellows sat on the roof while I sat in the backseat of the Nissan X-Trail fending off tsetse flies with my new Danish friends Henry and Tia. (Only later did I find out from German Fellow Sebastian that Henry’s name was actually the Nordic Henrick, but that’s a mere digression).

Oh, and also using the word safari fell nowhere shy of deceit. I could have gone on stroll through my grandmother’s neighborhood and seen as much wildlife as our driving “safari”. Disgruntled by my current situation in the back of the X-Trail, when the park ranger informed us that we were allowed to ask him questions, I was quick to ask So where are all the animals? (In their natural habitat was his equally hostile response). In total, from my backseat, I saw three living species that the driver identified for me (if you include the baby crocodile that I didn’t actually see, but instead saw the moving bushes as it scurried away). I also saw a python and dozens of antelope. Only later did I find out from the roofdeck Fellows that the python was a puff adder and the baby croc was a lizard. My “safari” driver only appropriately identified one of the three species I “saw” on the driving safari. His batting average on my mediocre off-roading excursion fell shy of Ted Williams’ even on an off year. I suppose it is appropriate that Nissan advertises the X-Trail as the compact SUV that makes adventures out of the ordinary.

After regrouping, the following day we stood strong and set off on both a dawn and dusk walking safari. With this, at least if we didn’t see anything exciting, we would log some solid hiking hours. It was one giant game of hide and seek, where the hiders had the upper hand. I thought that with the number of eyes and the distance covered that sheer luck would lead us to stumble upon at least one elephant. I thought wrong. Over a combined five hours we failed to identify any hyenas, hippos, elephants, or buffalo. I have heard many tales of the serious magic that occurs in Northern Ghana but for obvious reasons, did not believe it. I guess I’m a converted believer. After all, 800 elephants cast under the invisibility spell is pretty powerful magic.

Oh Canada

2010-11-20T13:42:00.002-05:00

Walking the streets of Ghana as a white American I sometimes feel as though I'm in a ring with bulls charging from all directions, but life as a matador can be exhausting. In the process of befriending an obroni, one of the most practiced strategies is to inquire about the orboni’s origin. Sometimes I offer the straight answer, Washington, DC; other times, I decide to spice it up and pose as a Canadian.

Since Canada is in such close proximity to the United States, I consider this as stretching the truth category vice lying. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that I was part Canadian; I have on multiple times been compared to the Canadians. For example, I often state sentences in the form of a question. Adult braces are cool, eh?. I also have an affinity for ice sports, from hockey to broomball. So I wouldn’t be surprised to one day find out that I am a product of the nascent Canadian baby trafficking business, smuggled across the border at birth.

But actually, confusion regarding my origin on the North American continent doesn’t stop with Canada. One time I was asked by my new friend Sally if I was Mexican, which was appropriate for her to ask because at the moment of inquiry, we had been friends for a total of sixty seconds. How was I supposed to reply to an invasive question? No, but I do have an addiction to Chipotle burritos? I’m not sure why, but I find that my façade as a Canadian is much more convincing than as a Mexican.

I have another secret weapon I can pull out when doubt arises among my Ghanaian catechizers. You aren’t Canadian they say. Would a non-Canadian know the Canadian anthem? Oh Canada, our home and native land…Deal sealed. Sometime during my childhood, I was forced to learn the Canadian National Anthem. Why, I can’t recall, but I’m sure it was for something important like National Maple Syrup Day. I have even surprised myself with my ability to put this nugget of knowledge to use. Like during the recent Vancouver Olympics…anytime I watched the Olympic games, I would sing Oh Canada. I was a crowd pleaser, (euphemism implying that I was ostracized and outcasted). Life as a Canadian can be difficult. Maybe that’s why I was trafficked across the border, eh?

Guinea Pig Haircut

2010-11-12T14:03:00.003-05:00

I’m always amazed at how something as mundane as getting my haircut inevitably turns into a rather large production. So I anticipated my first haircut in Ghana would not disappoint. Despite my pursuit of nappiness my fine and oily hair is not suitable for the hot comb.

Although untested, I believe Ghana’s blossoming stylists represent something close to 10% of the country’s GDP, with a barber shop at nearly every junction. So one Sunday, when my hair was approaching carrot top status (I know, crazy, since I didn’t have red hair), when the foliage had created a nice canopy suffocating my ears, I went with a few Fellows to test our luck at the local hair salon.

Thankfully, we beat the church rush and were the first clients of the afternoon. After the stylist removed the copy machine from his store (I suppose he dabbled in the printing business as a side-job), there was room for him to invite the three of us into the barber shop. Of course, I was the guinea pig of the lot, or the vanguard as I like to spin it, and wasn’t sure what to expect. I surveyed the wall, where displayed were 50 pictures of various hairstyle options. Unable to distinguish between a single one of the 50 hairstyles, much like a game of Texas hold’em, I decided to fold before the flop and asked for a buzz cut.

Approximately 30 minutes, one Coca-Cola, and half of a confusing Ghanaian war movie later, I was sporting a fresh cut. Only later did we notice that the barber missed a chunk, and fellow Fellow, Kyle, pulled out the utility scissors to make amends, eliciting haunting flashbacks to my childhood.

The last time I took liberty to sculpt my own topiary, I was still learning the difference between right and left (and apparently right and wrong). After trimming my bangs, I asked my playmate Christina for her opinion of my new dew. Later that evening, when my mother asked about my new look, I deferred blame to virtuous Christina. Needless to say, after a few rounds of scolding, and after crying hysterically into my dinosaur comforter, I was forced to apologize to Christina’s parents for my mendacious behavior. Lesson learned; next time give the scissors to someone else. Thank you Kyle.

Dominoes and Doritos

2010-11-06T12:21:00.002-04:00

I used to think that I was extroverted, socially suave, and uncharacteristically good at making friends. Living in Ghana has shattered my rosy lenses and made me question whether or not I’ve lost my friendship flare, or if I even had such flare before. I’m not implying that I’m an eremite; I do have my clan of fellows, with whom I spend nearly every waking moment, and often non-waking moments. Our clan can most accurately be described as a group of nomads travelling in pursuit of game. We’ve exhausted all strategies, scoured different lands, and have seemingly come up empty-friended.

Probably the closest we have come to increasing our clan size was a Thursday evening in early October. It was almost a full moon, the temperature was just right for friend-making. We were at a local Irish pub when lo and behold, at the adjacent table were a murder of obronis; time to prepare for the kill. After exchanging pleasantries, we determined that the fair-skinned strangers were Teaching Fellows based in Accra for a year; you don’t say. Thinking we had the rabbit by its tail, we extended a warm hand and offered to merge tables. All signs were a go until one of the girls in the group informed us that she would rather play Dominos with her Fellows. Shut down. We spent the rest of our evening hiding in our cloud of rejection. We lost to a set of tablets with dots.

So, frankly, I was excited when I was put in contact with another obroni, an American student studying in Accra for the semester, who seemed equally eager to make friends in this anteater-eat-ant world. We elected to meet up for a drink at a local spot to sow the seeds of what would hopefully develop into a lifelong, or rather month-long, (constrained by the end of her study abroad program) friendship. Everything was proceeding towards mutualism, until she excused herself to use the wash room.

Upon returning, she proceeded, I’ve been meaning to ask. So I’m sitting on the edge of my seat, waiting for the question. Wondering how long she’s been meaning to ask, since at this point, we’ve known one another for less than an hour. I’m thinking she used the time in the wash room to mentally prepare – we’re about to get deep. Can you smell ants? What? Do I smell ants? No, but I do see dead people. How was I supposed to respond to that? I should have known that this was only intended to get her foot in the door. Once the door was open, I found myself sponging up useless facts about ants, such as this one: ants taste spicy. I know this because one time, my “friend” left her open Doritos bag outside overnight, found it the next morning, stuck her hand in and proceeded to eat the ant-covered Doritos. I suggested maybe the bag was the Blazin’ Jalapeno variety, but (thankfully and perhaps excusably?) this incident took place years ago before the proliferation of Doritos flavors.

But I am an optimist at heart. I will not let my continual strike outs prevent me from swinging the bat. I have learned an important lesson though. Don’t swing at every pitch. And if you give an ant a cookie it might turn down the glass of milk and decide to play dominos instead.

Jessica

2010-11-03T09:52:00.003-04:00

In my few months in Accra, I have observed some common Ghanaian company naming themes. I’ve determined that small businesses follow a proven formula that try to capitalize on one of three strategies:

1. Pander to the middle. Don’t try to oversell yourself. For example, Average Spot is an anything-but-unique spot where you can find Average Restaurant and Average Car Wash Bay. If it’s average quality you’re looking for, that’s us. I find their value proposition rather compelling.

2. Appeal to religion. Classic examples include Our Daily Bread Bakery and The Lord is Our Shepherd General Store. The consumer is either compelled to purchase (as is the case with Our Daily Bread for fear that purchasing from a competing bakery could result in one’s last supper) or repelled from purchase (I can’t help but think of the next line of Psalms 23:1…there is nothing I shall want from this store).

But my overall favorite is through door number three.

3. Assign femininity. Sometimes I see the connection. For example, the hair salon down the road is named Miss Etroo’s Hair Salon, I’m assuming after the salon owner. Others are less clear. For example, the high quality peanuts I purchase from the MaxMart are branded Becky Queen. Who made the decision that Becky should be royalty? Is this the justification for charging a premium price? The brand that causes constipation, I mean consternation, is Jessica. Who possibly thought that Jessica would make a good brand name for toilet paper? Give a man some privacy.

I’m contemplating opening a consultancy with the sole purpose of helping small businesses develop meaningful business names. To maximize customer interest, I’m thinking of naming my consultancy Ann Average Lord.

Dessert Storm

2010-10-31T16:51:00.001-04:00

Sometimes I forget that I am spending a year in Ghana, far removed from friends and family. With reliable (relatively speaking) internet access, it is easy to stay virtually connected. Other times I realize that the Atlantic Ocean is slightly more imposing than, say, London Bridge.

In early August, my mother put together a thoughtful care package to ship abroad. Included in the package were some freshly baked homemade brownies. Well, I’ve concluded that there’s a bottleneck somewhere in the process. Intercontinental mail has redefined my definition of snail mail. Approximately three months later, I am still awaiting the arrival of this package. But who’s counting?

As September came to a close, my mother emailed me (e > snail) a note of apology, and informed me that she had learned from her mistakes. Included in this email was a link to a 26-page Department of Defense recipe for brownies and a quip about how she should have followed this recipe instead. The benefit of these brownies – a three year lifespan, which coincidentally, is about the average lifespan of a snail.

This story supports the following conclusions:

A. The Bermuda triangle is real.

B. Snails make better escargot.

C. The Federal government spent approximately the same on Dessert Storm as it did on Desert Storm.

Anyway, I can’t wait to sink my teeth into those freshly baked brownies when they finally arrive!

The Curious Incident of the Travelling Church in the Nighttime

2010-10-26T06:34:00.005-04:00

Just when I think all of the stars are aligned against me, I come to realize that there are more stars. Such is case when it comes to the curious incident of the travelling church in the nighttime. I already assumed the variables, to include the variable time, were optimized to maximize my disfavor. But this assumption was grounded on the assumption that time was constrained by the human compulsion for sleep.

Contrary to my original belief, I’ve learned that time is neither uniform nor discrete. It is not uniform because I value certain time (e.g., night-time) more than other time. And it is not discrete because there are certain periods where time is no longer black and white, but rather gray. Were you at that fraternity party until late last night or early this morning? Gray.

Well, the tree came crashing through my window during a gray period late last night or early this morning. The travelling church was back with a vengeance, commencing worship in the middle of the night. Literally, the middle of the night?! The upside was that the travelling church heeded my advice and abandoned the camouflage tent. The downside was the congregation failed to eliminate the underlying visibility problem. My next recommendation: God could probably see you better in the daylight instead of beneath the stars, which you may notice, are now all aligned.

London Bridge

2010-10-23T19:35:00.002-04:00

When compiling a list of important travel accessories, one cannot afford to overlook the omniscient travel guide book. So before I left America and all of her great qualities (to include, as I’ve discovered, but not limited to: wine and cheese, quiet time, the GOP) I decided to invest in the gift of knowledge, purchasing the Bradt Ghana travel guide.

Through trial and error I have come to learn that on (nearly every) occasion the narrative of the guidebook is telling only part of the story. It’s as if the author thought it would be clever to withhold information so the reader could experience Ghana in an entirely different way. For example, Bradt informed me that it would cost $5 to participate in the Canopy Walk at Kakum National Park. Bradt forgot to mention the one that precedes the five. $15 and empty pockets later, my cohort and I learned the art of hitch-hiking to the local Barclays ATM.

So when, on a weekend excursion, I read that we were close to London Bridge, I couldn’t resist suggesting a visit. Bradt described the bridge as a rather odd and unimposing little bridge dating to the late 19^th century and appropriately garnished with painted United Jacks and the like – it’s worth crossing if only to have a fruit juice at Baab’s juices. After some discussion as to whether or not the walk in the heat was worth the fruit juice at the end of the bridge, we agreed to take our chances.

Unimposing it was. I didn’t realize I had crossed the bridge until I found myself outside of Baab’s juices (closed for the day). Turning around, I realized that the gutter I had stepped across was, in fact, London Bridge. I can only wonder if the reason Baab’s juices was closed on such a warm afternoon was due to juice junkie’s unwillingness to cross the unimposing little bridge.

Faith

2010-10-03T16:12:00.005-04:00

On my walk back from the gym one afternoon, I received a brochure from the Glory Gate Chapel informing me that God loves me big time. I was advised to look for a Bible believing Church and this would be the first step of my super Acceptance of His Super Love.

So, when one of my Ghanaian friends invited me to attend a church service with him, I quickly jumped at the opportunity. I knew I would be in for a cultural treat.

We would set off for church at 7:30am…early, yes, but very manageable since the travelling church that was once outside my room has decided to take up permanent residence and commences service at 6:30am.

Well, unbeknownst to me, new worshipers are invited to sit in the front row of the congregation. While I suspect it’s an attempt to bring me closer to God, I could think of a few additional reasons, (a) to make sure that I don’t fall asleep in the back of the congregation and (b) to transform me into a public spectacle since I can no longer rely on cues from my neighbor as to when I should sit and stand.

The church conformed to my preconceptions surrounding African traditions often associated with charismatic churches: the preacher’s tittup across the stage, the praise Gods, and the worship songs and hymns. I did not, however, anticipate playing such an important role in the service. Maybe because I was a first-timer or maybe because I was the only obruni in attendance, the preacher made a point to make me a focal point of his stories.

My favorite (or most terrifying) story was one he told about me and my wife. Even though I know she loved me, when my wife was about to deliver my baby, she was out of her mind and told me that I was despicable. Somehow this story was tied to the seasons, but I guess I was so distraught with my wife finding me despicable that I failed to grasp the connection of the seasons.

I suppose I didn’t mind being front and center. I mean, after all, if I hadn’t been there, how would I have ever found out that my wife was having a baby? Who knew? God works in mysterious ways.

Grocery Games

2010-09-17T05:44:00.004-04:00

One thing I have yet to fully grasp is the local flavor for pricing products. I do most of my grocery shopping at the local MaxMart, located just down the street from where I teach. And a month and a half into my residence in Accra, I have yet to comprehensively understand how goods are priced.

One thing I have picked up on – the use of discount pricing is rather popular for items that are overstocked and also that are going to expire yesterday. Actually, the MaxMart must have just hired a local marketing director, because just last week, they introduced a campaign where, if a consumer spends 40 cedis (the local currency) in a single purchase, the lucky consumer is shuffled to the wheel. The wheel, much akin to “The Big Wheel” on The Price is Right, is spun amidst bated breath as fellow shoppers wait to see which expired perishable is selected among the farrago of provisions. Speaking from experience, my colleagues and I have changed our consumer behavior. Instead of making separate purchases, we now pool our purchases to see which day-too-old crème cookie we can walk away with.

But my favorite game to play at the grocery store is actually what I’ve come to call the “Scavenger Hunt.” It’s not a well advertised game, but it’s a game in which the consumer scavenges around for the best price-volume ratio. Sometimes I even wonder if MaxMart has a random number generator used to assign prices to the products. For example, a basic can of Heinz Baked Beans can sell for as cheap as 1 cedi. Directly next to the Heinz Baked Beans sits a can of Heinz (same brand, same volume) Pork Baked Beans selling for 10 cedis. What?

The other day, I walked in to quench my thirst and buy a Coca-Cola. I had four options as diagramed below where price (in cedis) is the unit of measurement:

Scavenger hunt success. I’ll take the larger volume for the cheaper price with the pre-chilled convenience, thank you. I’m already enjoying the weekly scavenger hunts. I can’t wait to see what type of hunt MaxMart rolls out for Easter!

Coasting through the Cape

2010-09-13T06:42:00.006-04:00

With Eid Ul Fitr and the complimentary bank holiday, I was presented with a three day weekend for the first time since arriving in Ghana. So what better way to spend it than to travel to the (in)famous Cape Coast. Famously known as the home to Kofi Annan, and the ancestral home to Michelle Obama, it also boasts the Cape Coast Castle, infamously known for being a critical trading center during the slave trade.

The Fellows and I set off for Cape Coast on Friday, at sunrise, with the notion that the intercity bus ride would afford us a few additional hours of sleep. What we did not anticipate was the Ghanaian approach to mass transit. After paying our fare and boarding the bus, we took our seats and shut our eyes, only to be awakened (or Awakened, depending on how one looks at it) by a traveling preacher.

Since he was preaching in Twi, the local dialect, a language for which I can cogently only decipher select phrases such as what’s up? and thank you, my initial inclination was to believe that mayhap he was giving us a safety presentation. As it turns out, he was simply preaching. Defeated in my attempt to nap, the rest of the bus attentively hung to his every word, laughed at his jokes (which I came to find out later from our Ghanaian colleague, were using us as the punch line!), and even worshiped together in song. The sermon concluded near the end of our transport, where the preacher pulled out some over-the-counter anti-inflammatory drugs and peddled them off to the eager consumer. By the time I stepped off the bus, I was not only exhausted but was entirely disillusioned by this exploitation of religion for personal financial advancement. Ironically, the anti-inflammatory drugs might have served me well right about then.

Between stops at some seaside resorts and a side-excursion to Kakum National Park for an adventurous canopy walk, stories for another time and place (place being defined as stationary, not transitory) we soon again found ourselves in need of transportation. Having spent the better part of an hour waiting for hauling, we befriended a local university’s campus Christians who happened to have a chartered bus and happened to be travelling in our same direction. They generously opened their bus doors and allowed us to stand in the aisle. After a quick opening prayer, we (we being loosely defined) proceeded to worship using a video that spliced together various hymns recorded in the 1980s. The only one I recognized was You Raise Me Up, to which I had difficulty relating after my first church-on-the-go.

One thing is certain; my weekend in and around Cape Coast raised my understanding of travelling church to a whole new level.

If a Tree Falls in the Woods

2010-09-05T06:39:00.002-04:00

Before I left for Ghana, my Staff Manual specifically stated “There is less of a concept in Ghana that the noise someone makes, at any hour, intrudes on someone else’s privacy.” It went on for a few paragraphs, which I wrote off as a mere jeremiad – after all, I survived living in an American university setting. Well, it didn’t take me long to realize that I had underestimated the Ghanaian decibels and overestimated my numbness to my surroundings.

As it turns out, it is socially acceptable (heaven knows why) to make a ruckus at any time of day. A hypothetical example: Everyone is sleeping in our hostel because it is hypothetically 1am and you are watching the sports highlights in the TV room. You find out that your favorite team won the game. It is entirely acceptable for you to make merry down the entire hall to ensure everyone else is immediately aware of your team’s victory.

For the most part, the human body adjusts. I don’t know the science behind it, but my subconscious has learned to treat some audible stimuli as white noise, like the blind roosters who don’t realize that it’s only 3am. There are a few exceptions to this policy.

For the first few weeks, I swear someone had set up a theater stage right outside my window. In ten minute intervals, a throng of Ghanaians would be cheering and clapping for the performance that just ended. I guess I can’t complain since they had the decency to provide me a courtesy balcony seat that normally demands a premium price. Thankfully, I have not been invited back in a few weeks, and am hopeful that it was more of a traveling act than an established venue.

Then there are the morning buses. The buses are the primary transportation to and from schools, churches, magic shows, basically anything. Best practice is to quite literally sit upon the horn until you are guaranteed that everyone in Western Africa is aware of your arrival. My hypothesis is that the horn serves as a final alarm clock if you have (heaven knows how) accidentally slept through morning speakers blasting Michael Jackson or Alan Jackson.

And just when I thought I had seen (or rather heard) it all. This morning the local Ghanaians literally erected a church right outside my window. Commencing at 6:30am, nothing shy of 100 Ghanaians joined in worship and praise, attempting to collectively reach the ears of the heavens. And in true Ghanaian tradition, the worship portion of the service lasted until after 9am, when I finally left my hostel. On my way out, I couldn’t help but notice that the devotees all stood beneath a large camouflage tent. No wonder the parish was singing so loudly; they were simply trying to get God’s attention, and seeing as God couldn’t see them beneath the camouflage, they were making a solid appeal to His other senses.

I’m not sure if my life is The Truman Show, but I’m fairly certain that if a tree were to fall in the woods here, first, the woods and woodpeckers would be transported right outside my window, second, chainsaws would be responsible for the fall, and third, just to be sure, it would come crashing through my window.

The Emperor’s New Clothes

2010-08-21T07:33:00.004-04:00

I’ve encountered a seemingly small obstacle in my first few weeks. Personal hygiene is not something I am fond of sacrificing, and approximately ¼ of the weight of my luggage could be attributed to my desire to maintain a socially acceptable minimum aseptic standard. In retrospect, this may be overkill , but I was merely trying to live by the Boy Scout motto be prepared.

Since clothing is an extension of the physical, laundry is, of course, compulsory. Thankfully, my office has a small washing machine that makes the task of doing laundry much more efficient and manageable. Due to the naturally hot environment, clotheslines and clothespins are seen as a credible substitute for a dryer. Again, no problem.

Problem: timing. I have quickly emerged among my peers as the most accurate weatherman in all of Accra. Inevitably, the entire community now knows that when I put my clothes on the line to dry, a deluge is merely 30 minutes away. For whatever reason, anytime I go to dry my clothes, it inevitably downpours, resulting in my clean clothes smelling worse than before they were washed and impossible to wear. I blame it on the fact that we are at the end of the rainy season, where it rains nearly every day. But this hardly seems like a credible excuse when everyone else is managing fine.

At the current rate, I’m quickly running out of fresh clothes and have amassed a suitcase or two worth of mildew. It won’t be long before I’m entirely out of clean clothes and resorting to a clothing line similar to that featured in the Emperor’s New Clothes.

That's Where We Want to Go, Way Down in Ada Foah

2010-08-18T08:52:00.001-04:00

There’s a long standing question used to gauge personality; Mountains or Beaches? While I have developed a love for exploring the outdoors, somewhere along the incunabulum of my youth, I developed a beach bias. Much of my youth summer was spent on the shore – where I became intimately familiar with my family’s beach condo in Dewey Beach.

I used to enjoy leaving our property to go hang out in the sand of the beach property next door. The owner was a crotchety scrooge of a lady, who had her collection of water toys, that served just that purpose; to be a collection (the transition from the Hoveround electric scooter to the jet ski was just too much). I enjoyed hanging out on her beach searching for the horseshoe crabs that occasionally ventured to shore to mate. It didn’t take long before the Grinch posted a wired fence along with a no trespassing sign. Needless to say, she and I did not get along. She never even game me a chance. So a young lad was interested in mating arthropods; why rush to judgment?

I also have (mostly) fond memories of crabbing off the dock (the equivalent of fishing for crustaceans). There, of course, were exceptions. The dock was structured such that there were narrow offshoots from the pier’s main walkway. My grandfather specifically instructed me not to venture onto the narrow walkway; my plump and uncoordinated body made me ill-suited for anything other than the main dock. So, of course, like any boy would do, I ventured out onto the side pier. The crabs were more abundant out where the pier was narrow I rationalized. Well, it didn’t take long before I bellied up in the bay, and now there I was, trying to stay afloat in (abundantly) crab-infested water! My grandfather just shook his head. That will teach you. It did. Next time, I would forgo catching crabs off the dock in exchange for catching (horseshoe) crabs on the spoilsport’s beach.

Alas, my youth harvested in me a yearning for the beach. Not surprisingly, I’ve managed to spend my first two weekends in Ghana at the beach. With my new collection of Obruni colleagues, we decided to venture to Ada Foah, an expat friendly beach resort a few hours outside of Accra. So we took a taxi to a bus to a canoe to an island and by nightfall we arrived at Ada Foah. Accommodations are provided on a reservation system akin to what I call first-come, first-served. So since the apparent travel across the universe took longer than expected, all rooms were already full. As were those at the neighboring resort. We were luckily able to negotiate a room – the resort’s shed. Seven guys in one shed. I don’t know. I heard the Ural Mountains aren’t that bad.

Trans-Atlantic Transition

2010-08-14T18:21:00.005-04:00

A funny thing happens when you go from the daily well-travelled routine of a consultant to the unknown working environment of Ghana. You’re life is like a pineapple upside down cake right side up, like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich without the bread (and sans peanut butter, but oh how I miss peanut butter…okay so just jelly); life is incomprehensibly crazy. In advance of my full time job as an Obruni, I found myself running ragged across the Washington DC metropolitan area preparing for my great departure.

The weekend before I parted with the 3G network, I attended the wedding of two of my good friends, Bernard and Liz. While walking to the wash room at my friend’s wedding, I was approached by a boy asking my age. When I informed him that I was 24, he seemed unable to believe I could be so old. In turn, I asked him his age. He was 9. He then proceeded to inform me that he felt sorry that I still had my braces on, seeing as his sister, although only 15, already had her retainer. Really? Well, thankfully my braces finally came off, along with my pre-teen guise. But the normalcy was short-lived. I simply swapped abnormalities; going from adult braces to being a white-skinned American in Ghana. I guess I just can’t resist being different.

There was also the matter of health. Before my year-long adventure, there were, of course, the compulsory vaccinations (and the not so compulsory ones the travel clinician tried to persuade me to take. A three part painful series for rabies that cost $200 per shot – no thanks on account of this not being Jumanji and just think of how much peanut butter I can import with $600). On top of that, I had my first MRI, held at Children’s Hospital. Well, the great thing about Children’s Hospital is that you can choose what music you want to listen to during the testing. The selection book contained a diverse set of albums from Hannah Montana 1 to Hannah Montana 2, so I selected the most mature album, John Legend, which consequently lulled my into a sleepy state that was difficult to combat. Lesson learned. Next time, I’ll pick something more upbeat. Maybe Ricky Martin.

And on top of everything else, I studied for and took the Graduate Management Admission Test, most commonly known as the GMAT. By practicing my critical reasoning skills, I learned about important facts of life. For example:

Question: It is true of both men and women that those who marry as young adults live longer than those who never marry. This does not show that marriage causes people to live longer, since, as compared with other people of the same age, young adults who are about to get married have fewer of the unhealthy habits that can cause a person to have a shorter life, most notably smoking and immoderate drinking of alcohol.

Which of the following, if true, most strengthens the argument above?

Answer. Among people who as young adults neither drink alcohol immoderately nor smoke, those who never marry live as long as those who marry.

Since when did the GMAT need to start providing social commentary?

But the transition is officially complete. After a few frantic weeks in the States and a few frantic weeks in Ghana, (and a few sleepless nights and a few foodless days on account of illness) I believe I have successfully transitioned. What better way to start my next chapter; True Life: I’m an Obruni.

Fauna No More

2010-07-14T01:31:00.004-04:00

The other weekend, my roommates and I had a handful of friends over. In the course of our normal (or abnormal to any other reasonable person) conversation, the topic inevitably progressed to animality. For whatever reason, I have found myself in a congeries of conversations with this peer group, ranging from the reproductive nature of sea creatures to the posturing of quadrupeds during sleep.

So it was only logical that our conversation inevitably turned to a unique food item that speculators believed included animal product; the marshmallow. This stout cylindrical fluff, best known for its leading role in the delicatessen s’mores, was suggested to contain horse hooves. Amidst gasps and outright denials, stealthy investigation led to the conclusion that in fact, animal bones, skins, and hides are used. To top it all off, due to the extensive processing, the federal government does not even consider the marshmallow an animal product. Woof. (At least, that’s what I think the wolf said before he was skinned!)

I seemingly found this information fascinating and repulsive, and marshmallow abstinence is an early front runner for next year’s resolution. While recounting this story to my friend Ben, he decided to illuminate the fact that red velvet cake contains the food colorant carmine, which happens to be made from Central and South American ground beetles. Turning to my viral myth buster, Snopes, I once again felt victimized by this unpublicized reality. One might call this egoistic, seeing as the actual victim in this cake is the beetle.

Based on my fairly scientific research, this simple sample of two reveals that the fifth food group atop the pyramid is not fats, oils, and sweets, but rather horses, beetles and unicorns. It hasn’t been proven yet, but I’m putting money on nutritionists discovering traces of unicorn horn in that trendy cupcake shop down the street.

Iced Iced Baby

2010-06-21T23:42:00.000-04:00

For the past few months, I have observed with awe and a tinge of fear as the frenzy of Bros Icing Bros catapulted to feature articles on CNN and in the New York Times. The novel concept behind Bros Icing Bros, the effeminizing of the masculine, the simplicity of the rules, has officially launched an epidemic that will likely result in the coming of the next Ice Age.

The game is summarized by two simple rules.

1. When presented with a Smirnoff Ice, the Bro must drink it while kneeling (Getting iced).

2. When getting iced, a Bro can present their own Smirnoff Ice to cause the initiator to be iced instead (ice block).

Since first being introduced to the game, I made two complementary lifestyle choices:

1. Never attempt to ice a bro, in a subtle attempt to forge an implicit strategic alliance with fellow bros so as to avoid all contact with ice.

2. Assist all bros in becoming self-sufficient. Example: Can you grab my hat while you’re over there? (Read: If you pick up my hat, you’ll be iced.) No.

Well, my chameleonic strategy of fading into the background has done nothing but backfire (or backice). In the span of one week, I have officially fallen victim to this bubbly cancer, not once, not twice, not thrice, but four times!

1. Reaching for a popsicle. Not content with the orange and grape flavors at the top, I scavenged for the green one all the way at the bottom. Digging my hand deep into the bag, Bam. Iced.

2. Yearning to fill the void in my stomach, I opened the microwave to heat some leftovers. Bam. Iced.

3. Opening what I believed to be a cooler full of sandwich essentials taken to the beach. Bam. Iced.

4. Grabbing a beer from the case in the refrigerator. Bam. Iced.

The troubling thing is that all four icings have resulted from need for nourishment. My analysis has concluded that only a strategy of starvation could have prevented these icings. I suppose the silver lining is that I’m playing in the minor leagues, with the standard 11 ounce Smirnoff Ice. The big deuce deuce would most certainly be my Waterloo.

Swindle Me This

2010-06-12T06:02:00.000-04:00

The other evening, I was dining with an assembly of friends, enjoying my oven baked pizza, salami with fresh mozzarella and grana cheeses, and a sprinkling of grilled peppers, while making pleasant table conversation. Around the time the bill arrived, the conversation transitioned from politics jabber to credit card fraudulence.

Coincidentally, Molly, Kyle and I had all fallen victim to credit card fraud in the past few months. The fact that so many of us have become wounded soldiers in this hustle led me to believe that these thieves were becoming collectively more intelligent and furtive. But the deceitful charges led me to believe the contrary.

Exhibit A: Molly’s identity thief used her American Express card to make a $5 donation to the March of Dimes. While a thoughtful gesture, it is egregiously impractical; committing a felony without any personal payoff. Maybe this lack of practicality when it comes to personal finances is what landed you in need of this knavery in the first place. My personal belief is if you are desperate enough to need to surreptitiously borrow from someone else’s bank account, you’re not really in the position to be giving.

Exhibit B: When I called Wells Fargo to ask why all of my attempted charges were being denied, I was informed of the temporary hold they had placed on my card was a result of suspicious charges. Did you make an $8 charge for breast milk in Detroit, Michigan? This opened the floodgates for the litany of questions running through my head. Do you think I charged $8 for breast milk? You can actually buy breast milk? How much breast milk does $8 buy?

It appears that we’ve entered the age of the Skittish Swindler. What ever happened to the precept Go big or go home? I guess it’s been supplanted by Go big or March home and feed your baby.

Boinked

2010-06-09T08:00:00.004-04:00

The point of competing isn’t to trounce the competition, but to elevate yourself. – Cherie Gruenfeld, Inside Triathlon Magazine

My friends Lee and Ryan (also former collegiate athletes who could single-handedly and single-leggedly out athleticize me), recently founded a sports event management group that specializes in producing and hosting triathlons. The name, Elevation Athletics, was partly inspired by the above quotation.

Not long after hearing about the organization’s first Triathlon, to be held in Waynesboro, Virginia, fish-bowl friends/foes Stuart, Rhino, and I fell victim to the Abilene paradox, deciding to participate in the sprint-triathlon, despite this decision being counter to each of our individual preferences of physical apathy.

Preparation: The sprint-triathlon was a combined 400 meter swim, 14.9 mile bike, and 5 kilometer run; the true antithesis of what I might deem sprintable. Against the imploring of Ryan to train for the tri, the three of us found ourselves 24 hours before the race, having collectively forgone all training. I later learned that boinking is the action verb commonly used to describe this extreme physical activity without physical preparation. Perhaps in an attempt to combat the inevitability of our impending death, the day before the race, Rhino stopped by the pool and swam a few laps, Stuart went for a three mile run (after which she admittedly nearly collapsed on her bedroom floor from exhaustion), and I went to my parent’s house to pick up my mountain bike, test riding it two houses down and back. My idea of a sprint-triathlon. We calculatedly decided that the three of us would take on the tri together and collectively cross the finish line as a team.

Start to Finish: Prior to racing, registrants were required to submit their personal 100 meter swim time, off of which the participant order would be determined. Seeing as I had never been timed in the 100 meter swim, I entered Slow as a snail, placing me right behind Stuart, whose 100 meter time was Very slow. Surprisingly, about 10 individuals were queued up behind us (likely due to day-of registration); God bless them. After completing the grueling swim (to which I was mentally hummed VV Brown’s lyric Baby there’s a shark in the water as a means of self motivation), we proceeded to the transition area to move to the bikes. Well, whomever was not ahead of us after the swim certainly surged past us in the bike.Not long into the biking, Rhino had a mountain bike malfunction, her gears getting stuck in a lamentably low gear, resulting in a comedic peddles-per-miles-travelled ratio. Proceeding into the final leg, we paced ourselves during the run (a 12:30 minute mile pace to be specific). We stopped at the final water station to rehydrate and stretch out, the embodiment of chatting around the water cooler, before the last push across the finish line. After all, we wanted to make sure we had enough energy to express our excitement when we crossed the finish line; we had quickly emerged as the fan favorites and did not want to disappoint!

Reflection: The term sprint-triathlon is very deceiving. I would have elected for something along the lines of Traithlong. But I am proud that we lived up the quotation…or at least the first part of it: The point of competing isn’t to trounce the competition, as we finished a respectable 2nd…from last place.

Dixieland Delight

2010-05-31T21:09:00.002-04:00

The time finally came when my roommate Hunter and his beautiful fiancé Emily tied the knot. While I was incredibly happy for the two of them, I was less than happy about the prospects of losing the roommate (and his superior culinary skills). I was secretly hoping Emily would decide to move into the sunroom-converted-to-Hunter’s-room instead of losing both of them to the state of Tennessee. Apparently my persuasive argument wasn’t as bulletproof as La Roux.

Alas, the beautiful union did give me the chance to explore a part of the Dixieland I had never seen; Memphis. My overall impression of Memphis was that it met my general checklist of requirements for places I could live, to include outstanding barbeque, Beale Street (Memphis’ own Bourbon Street), and a religious edifice at every street corner.

I should have learned from the last wedding I attended not to wait until the week of the wedding to purchase a wedding gift. But, I was fooled yet again into waiting until the wedding week to gift hunt. As the famous saying goes, or so I remember Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me…you can’t get fooled again. Wise but inaccurate. Trying to maximize utility, and feeling a bit overwhelmed about wedding shopping, I outsourced the gift selection process to my friend Remy, whom I know would shop for wedding gifts as a career if someone offered her the job.

She informed me that the only gift in my price range was a $32 Williams-Sonoma Goldtouch Nonstick Meatloaf Pan (which might be able to convincingly double as a banana bread pan). The likely reason for this being available at all was that it was on backorder and would not be available until one week after the wedding. Done.

In addition to the meatloaf pan, Kyle and I got the newlyweds a second gift.

Background: There are a school of angst-filled Mer-maids on our hall that have a skull and cross bones welcome (or not so welcome) mat. Whenever Emily passed this doormat, she made a point to crinkle her nose and stomp on it to demonstrate her disapproval. I too, hold a grudge against the mat, and have been known to take it captive on multiple occasions. My philosophy: If you act like a pirate, be prepared to play like a pirate; a little looting never hurt anyone. Kyle seemingly disagreed, and would within the hour, find my pilferage and return the mat to its proper post.

The Gift: Kyle did some investigative research and found an exact replica of the doormat, except for substitute the skull and crossbones with a smiling yellow face. So Kyle made the purchase, and one unassuming night, we visited the pirates down the hall to make the swap. This is what I would call a win-win situation. Emily will now have a sign to stomp on at her new home, and I now have a friendly face to greet me every day after work. :-{#}

Embassy Row

2010-05-16T21:09:00.001-04:00

I often overlook and take for granted the history and beauty of Washington DC. As part of my personal initiative to learn more about the community I live in, I went with a group on an Embassy Row walking tour; what was pitched as a walk to Revel in the architecture along Washington’s grandest boulevard.

The tour began just outside the Dupont Circle metro stop, in a location I am all too familiar, as Dupont Circle is a nightlife hub. Not surprisingly, within two minutes of leaving the Circle, I found myself in a wonderland of beautiful buildings nestled among embassies I have never seen before. I was figuratively, and I suppose literally, in a foreign land.

The tourguide, a petite toady female named Terry with a quirky sense of humor, paraded us down this nouveau-riche thoroughfare, speaking to its heyday and its transformation to the current status as the home to many foreign embassies.

The expression most overused on the walking tour was As you well know. Similarly, the expression that made me most feel like a blockhead was As you well know, because inevitably, I didn’t ever know the bit of knowledge shared in the second part of the sentence. Credit for my favorite expression on the walking tour goes to the late Alice Roosevelt Longworth, who declared If you don’t have anything nice to say, sit next to me.

Interestingly enough, many of these ornate works of architecture made the home-to-embassy transformation during the Great Depression, with the families' fall from riches. Oddly juxtaposed to these stories stood the Greek embassy, or compound as it is known, because of its magnitude. I’m ready to make a down-payment on the Greek embassy. Last I heard, they were in the market for some extra cash.

Blades of Inglorious Bastards

2010-05-10T23:15:00.002-04:00

I genuinely am trying to live the life of the normal twenty-something. But being twenty-something with braces sometimes places me in compromising situations that no twenty-something, or any-something should find themselves in. Such was the case the other afternoon when I decided to go for a run through Arlington after a day at the office.

In an attempt to pacify my rumbling stomach, I elected to eat a few pita chips before the run, and then changed into my mesh shorts and moisture-wicking tee. As many metal mouths will attest, it is a common practice to tuck a snack away for later, and I have developed a subconscious habit of rolling my tongue along the outside of my brackets to dislodge these savory morsels. Some call this disgusting, I call it survival.

Well, this subconscious act, not even one block into my run, did not have the usual happy ending. Instead, for lack of better terminology, I found my tongue blade (the membrane that connects the tongue to the bottom of the mouth) hooked onto my lower left bracket. (I’ve since come to learn from Kyle that this is called the lingual frenulum, but I prefer my edgier name; tongue blade).

I had to immediately turn around, unable to retract my tongue into my mouth; instead looking severely challenged. I was drooling uncontrollably, and simply praying not to pass anyone I knew…or anyone I didn’t know for that matter.

Once behind closed doors and in the comfort of my own apartment, I attempted to unhook my tongue, meanwhile using a hand towel to control my slobber, before giving up all hope and upgrading to a drool bucket.

I could compose a florilegium describing the different techniques I used to free my tongue from the brace’s wrath, but to spare the graphic details, suffice it to say, I found myself desperate for assistance and fearful of finding myself in urgent care. I immediately began texting my Mer-friends to enlist their assistance in my mini-emergency. Thankfully, my neighbor Ellen remained composed and was able to decipher my words through my mumbling lisp. She provided me with the exact assistance I needed to separate blade from brace.

Thirty minutes and only a few drops of blood later, my tongue was free from the metallic grasp. Seriously? Seriously. Oh well, live and learn right?

Beam Me Up

2010-05-07T01:34:00.001-04:00

As a young professional it is remarkably easy to fall into a weekly routine and succumb to the monotony of the greater American workforce. For a young professional, this means going to work Monday through Friday, keeping up appearances by attending the obligatory happy hours, and throwing back at the same favorite bars on the weekend, where everyone thankfully doesn’t know your name. Fortunately, my Mer-friend Megha ensures that we never fall subject to the constraints of adult life.

Megha took the initiative to plan a group outing to UltraZone, where for $14.95 ($10 with a groupon) we could essentially play endless Laser Tag. I decided to continue my youthful guise and participate. I knew I had made an abhorrent decision as soon as we stepped foot in UltraZone. It was difficult to push through the throngs of Ultra-hyper metal mouths, and the Zone was soaked with the foul stench of puberty. After getting our passes, we were set to battle for bragging rights.

The last time I played Laser Tag I could count my age with my two hands. So to ensure that I was appropriately briefed on the latest laser techniques, and more importantly, understood the rules of engagement, we sat through the requisite instructional video. Three teams, Red, Green, and Blue, would compete in the arena, with only one being victorious. Since Megha had created two teams in advance, we now had the added complexity of fending off a third team of strangers. I’ve chronicled the epic journey through the trilogy of games.

Game 1, The Warm Up: We proceeded to the vesting room. The third team, comprised solely of teenage girls, flocks to the Blue vests. So we divide into our respective Green and Red teams. I spend the first few minutes in the arena getting my bearings, finding myself incessantly under fire. It doesn’t take us long to realize that the entire Blue team ascended the ramp and has assembled a full out poaching fortress, gunning out teams down while protecting themselves behind their altitudinal shield. With around 1 minute to spare, the strategy shifted and I led the Joint Forces up the ramp, reminiscent of the Battle of Bunker Hill (except for unlike the Brits, we failed to secure the high ground by the time the game ended.) The final score wasn’t even close. We got schooled by a bunch of school girls.

Game 2, Domination: With bitter tongues and a desire to win back some of (alright, all of) the pride we sacrificed in Game 1, we decided on an important course of action developed from the lessons learned in Game 1. We would unite. Two teams of us versus one team of them would surely secure a definitive victory. Having forged this alliance, we proceeded to the arena experienced veterans, and emerged as champions. Nothing like beating an outnumbered pack of puberty to boost our egos.

Game 3, ADHD: I apparently still have a short attention span, and two games was enough for my liking. So instead of participating in the third game, I wandered aimlessly through the arena looking for hidden crevices and secret passage ways (hopefully finding a connecting chamber to Narnia to rendezvous with my dear friend Ed.

Something Fishy

2010-05-05T22:50:00.002-04:00

I recently went to my family’s beach condo in Dewey Beach with some college friends for a weekend escape. It was an enjoyable weekend; similar to the Zak Brown Band lyric I got my toes in the water, a$$ in the sand, Not a worry in the world, a cold beer in my hand. Life is good today. My toes were all that got in the water because, despite the unusually warm May weather, the water temperature was cold enough to cause hypothermia. And thankfully my rear didn’t end up in the sand, despite my friends’ attempt at digging a crater under my beach towel while I was taking a leisurely stroll.

Anyway, on Saturday evening, at Stuart’s suggestion, we elected to play Fish Bowl (a game involving two teams, and three rounds). After all, we were at the beach, and had many conversations spanning the sea spectrum, from the science of estuaries to the mating patterns of sea horses. Rules are outlined below:

Each player contributes five nouns to a collective “fish bowl”. Each team alternates minutes attempting to get fellow teammates to guess the nouns on the cards. In the first round, the describer can use anything except for the actual noun to describe it. For example, if the noun is immigration, the describer might say Arizona just passed a racist law about it. The second round uses the exact same nouns, but the describer can only use one word. For example, Arizona. The final round is charades, so in this round the actor might point to the can of Arizona iced tea sitting on the coffee table. The winning team is simply the team that accrues the most points over the three rounds. Simple, right?

Well. The past two times I played, the game went as follows. Stuart assigns each individual to a team. My team always ends up being my two loyal friends, Hurley and Rhino. The other team always ends up being EVERYONE ELSE. The first time, the team was literally Hurley, Rhino, and myself versus 10 everyone elses and one Stuart. I cried foul play the entire game but nobody else seemed to care! Obviously my team lost. Well, the second time, I was ready to redeem my damaged pride, sure that with a level playing field, my team would emerge victorious. It turns out the field wasn’t level, my team was charging up an incline the entire time, Stuart standing at the top. So third time’s the charm. I was pleased to humor Stuart, finally wrestling her to her defeat. Shockingly, when the teams were formed, I was on the team of three, Stuart on the team of four. Not surprisingly, my team lost, however, if the score was calculated based on the metric points per team member, my team would have won!

I’m currently petitioning the officials at gamesecretary.com to get the rules changed. I should have known Stuart was up to something fishy as soon as I smelled the sea air.

The Middle East Part 7: Keffi-maybe

2010-05-03T19:32:00.002-04:00

My friend Bowman came to Washington for New Years. It was then that he gifted me a keffiyeh in advance of my Middle Eastern adventures. Keffiyehs are a very practical arid climate headdress worm to protect the head from direct sun exposure. I was excited, less so because it was a gift from a distant land but rather because it was one of the few Arabic words I knew.

In anticipation of my trip, I spent some time each evening with my roommates attempting to master the art of keffiyeh tying. Originally, I used Bowman’s written instructions, but soon realized I couldn’t wrap my head around his foreign instructions (or rather wrap it around my head). So I turned to youtube and futilely attempted to use instructional keffiyeh tying videos. When I had exhausted all of my options, I decided that it would be best to learn to tie a keffiyeh while in the Middle East, for authenticity’s sake.

Well, my keffiyeh emerged as soon as I touched down in Jordan. Everyone else, including Val, had this tying mastered. I haven’t felt this uncoordinated since trying to keep up with the clay pottery lesson in elementary school art class. My head looked more like it was balancing a bunched up picnic blanket that sporting a secured keffiyeh.

One evening, our tour master Bowman, took us on a camping adventure with the Bedouins. We went to Wadi Rum, traveling deep into the heart of this beautiful desert. I was Lawrence of Arabia, or at least pretended to be. It was here where I met my Arabic counterpart. I instantly befriended the Bedouin with braces.

Due to the language barrier, I used a translator to inform my new friend that I wanted to take a picture of the two of us with our braces. I’m not sure what was translated; when I saw the pictures when I returned to America, I realized he hadn't smiled. I couldn't see his braces. I had been boondoggled! I guess I can’t complain too much, he did end up fixing my swaddled heap, turning my keffino into a keffiyeh.

The Middle East Part 6: Gemal

2010-04-27T06:07:00.004-04:00

I have always had an infatuation with animals, which I can’t seem to trace back to any hereditary trait, so I’m not sure where it originated. (Maybe one day some scientist will discover a gene for animal obsession, but until then, people will just continue to think I’m weird). Another interesting point: my obsession is entirely dependent upon my environment.

For two weeks, while on a environmental restoration trip in the Shenandoah area, I was determined to spot a black bear. And for two weeks, as if knowing we were playing a game of hide and seek, the black bears hid from me. In hindsight, I guess it wasn’t difficult to hide from the loud bravado stampeding through the Shenandoah. It wasn’t until the final evening when, annoyed with my besetment of bear dialogue, the rest of the team piled into a car and we drove around the winding roads until we finally spotted a black bear. YES! Oh yea, did I mention this was after college?

When recounting this story on three separate occasions to my mother, father, and then sister, I received the exact same response. Rolled eyes and some dismissive comment about how some things never change. Apparently, as a child (and by that, I mean a high school student) my family vacationed to Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming. The rest of my family all happened to have the same memory of me forcing the family to continue trekking through the mountains in search of the elusive moose. I was apparently blackout for this entire episode, but, am thankful to hear that I did, in fact, find the moose! YES!

So it comes as no surprise that my excursion to the Middle East brought about a newly cemented camel obsession. I embraced the inner tourist and was determined to ride a camel. The opportunity did not present itself until the end of the trip, in Jordan.

Aside: While I am magnetically drawn to animals, I do not have much success in riding them. I have a fair amount of confidence that I am the only person in the world to have fallen off of a stationary horse. The scenario went something like this: Hop on the saddle, saddle rolls off, back on the ground just as fast as I unsuccessfully mounted the horse. So it also comes as no surprise that my camel-riding entourage bestowed upon me the superlative most likely to fall off a camel – which, I boastfully did not do, albeit, may have been closest to falling off.

I can count very few times in my life where I have been as happy as I was when I sat mounted atop my camel. However, after a few minutes of riding, I found myself in a balancing act, trying to protect the nape of my back from hitting the upper back saddle and sliding forward consequently causing my pants to constrict my freedom. The novelty of riding wore off pretty fast, or at least faster than the bruise on my back.

Based on my observations and research, the childhood song about Sally the camel is fraudulent and misrepresentative. For starters, Sally flat out lied about her lovely lady lumps. Camels can only have a maximum of two humps. Well, it turns out that Sally wasn’t even a camel – she was a horse the entire time! Also, a little unknown fact. Horses detest the smell of camels and are consequently harder to control around them. I can only imagine the inner conflict Sally had impersonating a camel while detesting her own camel odor the entire time. What a poser.

The Middle East Part 5: Fact or Fiction?

2010-04-21T18:56:00.001-04:00

As previously alluded to, I’m fairly confident that my journey to the Middle East could be entirely documented based on nothing more than the fine fare I feasted upon. And Istanbul was no exception. Domers and kabobs lined the street shops and roasted chestnut vendors were well within a chestnut throw of one another (on further reflection I think the Christmas Song might have been written from the streets of Istanbul) creating a fragrant atmosphere and subconsciously encouraging my gluttonous behavior.

One delicatessen Val and I were determined to try was the famed Turkish delight. While we were both set on partaking of this cultural confection, neither of us actually knew what it was. I just knew that I wanted to try it, because I remembered a close friend of mine (whose name eluded me at the time) raving about Turkish delight.

So with much fracas, Val and I tore across town in an attempt to be delightfully enlightened. Things we discovered: Turkish delight is a jelly-like confection coated in a powdered sugar, and comes in a variety of nutty and fruity flavors. Turkish delight is a bit over hyped and over rated (I would gladly default to the bordering baklava). Oh…and also that my close friend that espoused the virtues of Turkish delight was not in fact a dear friend, but rather Edmond Pevensie, from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Woof.

The Middle East Part 4: Hamam...um?

2010-04-19T19:06:00.002-04:00

Having voyaged all the way to Istanbul, Val and I were determined to participate in full cultural immersion (which I defined as anytime I found myself in a room where the Turks outnumbered the European tourists - I know, not a very sophisticated metric.) As part of this cultural immersion, no inch of culture was left untouched...quite literally.

After becoming well acquainted with minced meat, mosques and minarets, Val and I took our cultural immersion to a more intimate level by going to a hamam, or Turkish bath. Having done our Lonely Planet research, we elected to go to Cemerlitas Hamami, where the C and s were appendaged with hooks for which pronunciation eludes me, since my 4-night stand in Istanbul did not translate to Turkish fluency. Alas, we settled on this bathhouse because of its perceived ability to handle tourists.

As the wet relative of the sauna, a hamam is intended to be the trifecta of hygiene.

Step 1: Relax in the warm room, also known as a sauna, allowing the bather to perspire freely.

Step 2: Perform a full body wash and massage to cleanse the body.

Step 3: Retire to the cooling room for a period of relaxation.

Well, after paying, I was directed to my private locker room, where having done my research, I knew I was supposed to strip naked and wrap myself in the Turkish terry cloth. Private is a relative term in Turkey; as my locker was simply a confining space with a glass door overlooking the atrium. I was then directed by a series of grunts and finger pointing and thrust through a fortified wooden door. Finding myself alone in the large domed sauna with a huge slab in the center of the room, I sprawled out to fulfill step one. I found myself short of breath, not sure if my elevated heart rate was attributed to nervousness, liberation, or just my body adjusting to the new struggle to take in oxygen.

Just as I was getting comfortable, the calm was irrupted by a chanting man who came in and forcibly began to drown my body with water, rolled up my terry cloth, and aggressively scrubbed and massaged me cap-a-pie.

One important note: I'm certain that the use of the terry cloth is simply to trick the mind into the false perception that the body is clothed. I'm also certain my mind was not deceived, as I was well aware of my exposed flaccidity.

Step 2 ended just as brusquely as it had commenced. All of a sudden, there I was, still sprawled across the stone slab, with nobody instructing me on the next move. Check mate? Alone in the sauna, I couldn't even put up a pretense and imitate a more experienced bather. Instead of retiring to the cooling room, I found myself excessively sweating and beginning to feel rather dehydrated. After waiting another 10 minutes to make sure I got my money's worth, and now feeling less clean then when I arrived, I proceeded back to my locker and changed into my clothing.

I walked in the front door prepared for an unobjectionable experience and left through the same door, feeling like I had been Istanbullied around.

The Middle East Part 3: What Goes Around Came Around

2010-04-14T23:59:00.002-04:00

The Hagia Sophia was pretty much the extent of my elementary education of the Byzantine Empire; it’s grand dome literally shaping the course of architecture. So it was important for me to may tribute to this church-converted-mosque-converted-museum. Valerie and I (read Valerie) took to rapid-fire upon entering the UNESCO World Heritage site. We eventually made our way over to the Weeping Column, a column in the inner narthex that has a concavity said to provide good fortune to anyone who rubs it and feels moisture.

So, of course, Val and I stood in line with the gathering of tourists waiting for their photo op and stroke of luck. Directly in front of us was a couple with two teenage boys, overextending their time at the Weeping Column – perhaps hoping that the longer they were in contact with the column, the greater the odds of feeling a dab of water.

I thought nothing of the family until five minutes later when I noticed the one of the teens hunched over in the corner, his stomach revolting and spewing it’s content across the sacred foot-grounds of the Hagia Sophia! I was immediately insulted to think that here was this boy defaming such an architectural triumph, and took it as a personal assault as Val and I proceeded to soak our hands in sanitizer.

I swiftly maneuvered to the nearest staffer, and despite the communication barriers, made audible gagging noises while simultaneously using hand gestures and posture to demonstrate what had just gone down. Despite what I thought was a universal charade for boy yakking in corner of Hagia Sophia, the puzzled staff member left and returned with an English speaking staffer.

For the remainder of the trip, I proceeded to share this occurrence, partly out of offense, partly out of humor, with everyone. I suppose karma had its way of going around and coming around, since right before Val and I boarded our 14 hour return flight to the land of the free, we both came down with a pleasant case of food poisoning, and now recognize the value of the barf bag. It was definitely a highlight, or low light, of the trip, depending from which direction one is looking at the light. Look who got the last yak.

The Middle East Part 2: Today was a Foxfields Fairytale

2010-04-12T19:15:00.003-04:00

My masterful escapism landed my first in Dubai, the land of the nouveau riche. In hindsight, touching down in Dubai was probably my subconscious way to ease myself into Arab culture, and in reality, I can’t say I really experienced anything Arab. This constitutional monarchy, currently under the purview of Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum, is enamored of superlatives. And as such, Valerie, Christine, and I spent a few days making sure we saw everything, such as the world’s tallest building (The Burj, uniquely shaped like stacks of money) to the world’s largest mall (Mall Dubai, with more than 1,200 shops) and less spectacular triumphs, but superlatives nonetheless, like the world’s largest single piece of aquarium glass.

With 71% of the emirate’s total population being expatriates, this mixing bowl surprisingly had some unifying qualities; including a propensity for shopping and appreciation for the nothing in moderation.

Nothing summarizes this excess quite like the Dubai World Cup. With more than 50,000 racegoers in attendance, this elite horserace is the social event of the year. Wearing nothing but designer suits, custom made dresses and feather headdresses, it is essentially the red carpet event of the year, disguised behind the front of a horserace. Since Valerie and I were spontaneous spectators, we donned our nicest clothing; for me, a rough pair of khakis five sizes too large from my college years, which I am officially retiring, and a Lacoste polo shirt , the green crocodile being the only indication of my brand conscientiousness and the only visual keeping me branded above the strata of peasantry and serfdom.

I’ve concluded that there’s no translation for moderation in Arabic. Our cheap Apron tickets ($100USD) permitted access to the Bubble Lounge where we were able to purchase bottles of Dom Perignon ($100USD) and watched the masses crowd the bar much like a college freshman chases the Natural Light at a fraternity house but with a greater degree of finesse. The entertainment after the horse races concluded, and unfortunately after much of the crowd cleared out for the evening, was a Santana and Elton John concert. And the crowd sings along: I don’t have much money (liars) but boy if I did, I’d buy a big house where we both could live. And some Ferragamo shoes, and a new BMW.

The Middle East Part 1: Setting the Stage

2010-04-08T01:02:00.002-04:00

Fore nearly two years I have tried hard to assimilate into real life, a true struggle at best. In this exploration, I have reached the early conclusion that my favorite part of the real world is the vacation. It provides you with the light at the end of the nine-to-five tunnel, and affords a month-long lead up of anticipation. And while I am a mere amateur, I like to believe that I have mastered the art of escapism.

So it is not surprising that for the past month, I have been working towards a two-week tour of the Middle East. Since college, I have had a deep personal conflict with the Middle East. I’m not sure why it selected me, but for whatever reason, it has a history of stealing some of my closest friends. Being more of a diplomat than a warmonger, I elected to forgo the armed conflict and err on the side of arbitration by paying the pan-continental region a visit.

Along with my Mer-friend Valerie, we established an aggressive itinerary with stops in Dubai, to visit Christine Devlin, a pseudo-resident working for a strategic consulting firm; Istanbul; and Jordan, to visit Bowman Dickson, who works at a Jordanian prep school. The trip seemed like one big scavenger hunt, having our Lonely Planet checklist of places to see and things to do. We had a whirlwind of a time, thankfully snapping enough picture to provide a smattering of JPEGs combating for honor of new Facebook picture.

Caveat: Most of the photo documentation is attributed to Valerie since I am photographically challenged. For my college graduation, I treated myself to a nice digital camera, a ten mega-pixel camera with great optical zoom and fun features. The first time I took a picture with it went like this. Zoom, snap, drop, whoops. It only took me one picture to break this investment. Talk about an expensive smile! In round two, I changed philosophies and opted for the cheapest digital camera I could find. As a consequence (that I’m attributing to my frugality and not my mishandling of the equipment) the lens doesn’t function properly; rather, it mimics the sound of a wind-up toy with each command to power the camera on or off. Suffice it to say, Valerie’s artistry and perspective will become my own memory of the Middle East as the passing of time will likely require these snapshots to (literally) paint the picture.

The escape was a phenomenal experience, and I now feel imbued with Middle Eastern culture (and cuisine!). Although, I will say, I feel remorseful for my pre-trip categorization and declaration of my excursion to the Middle East. I suppose my conceptualization of the Middle East was attributed to the Disney sensation, Aladdin, which, in hindsight, is rather offensive. I found myself wondering…is this where Aladdin took place? After two weeks, the verdict is still out. Each of the locations along our scavenger hunt were dramatically different (more detail to come), and to categorize them as one in the same is a travesty. The only thing that remained consistent throughout was my ability to find myself turned around in unfamiliar magic carpet lands (although I could only locate non-magical carpets, which were expensive!), and my ability to dream about work. Subconsciously dreaming about my reality while consciously attempting to escape it – how’s that for meta.

Sir, Some Vodka with that Oyster?

2010-03-14T20:08:00.002-04:00

My coworkers and I recently attended the First Annual Beer and Oyster Festival in the Sunset Room of the National Harbor. I’m not sure how we found out about this First Annual event, but for a pretty penny, we were entitled to over 60 beers and wines, and over 24,000 oysters.

For any oyster connoisseur, this Festival is utopia. The event boasted over 10 different types of oysters shipped from around the world. I, however, prefer Oysters Rockerfeller, or other grilled varieties, not having the appreciation for raw, which limited my selection to about 1,000 of the 24,000. Thankfully, the additional sliders and shrimp were able to combat the effects of the beer.

Most of the day was rather enjoyable. While gusting outside, the view from the Sunset Room provided a view above the piers jutting out into the water, the sun still high in the blue sky, much to the Sunset Room’s chagrin. The interior layout was similar to a bazaar or marketplace, with vendors formed in a labyrinth guiding the attendees through samples of roasted pecans, beer, shrimp ceviche, beer, gelato, beer and so forth.

The affair became more impish, and I certainly became more whimsical with each additional tasting; until I took umbrage at the Oyster Shooters station. As previously mentioned, I do not run to the front of the line for raw oysters. So what could make a freshly shucked raw oyster with its juice any better? Clearly, vodka, hot sauce, and garlic. None of these variables sound independently enticing, so this power four combination reeked of temptation. I wanted nothing to do with this oyster shooter, but succumbing to employee/employer peer/superior pressure, I stepped to the plate. Needless to say, the look on my face told the entire workforce that my intuition was correct. The sun had officially set on my afternoon.

Hoos For Hoosiers

2010-03-07T17:56:00.002-05:00

One of my best friends Chelsey Jones was turning a quarter of a century. In celebration, a collection of the East Coast’s finest decided to organize a surprise birthday visit to Bloomington, Indiana, where Chelsey is currently enrolled as a graduate student. Not wanting anyone to underestimate our collegiate pride (nor our pretention) we swiftly titled the trip Hoos for Hoosiers.

Each participant played an integral role in shaping the trip. Having the prescience to know that Chelsey would be emotionally moved by our surprise, I emailed her Hoosier cohort to put out the flash flood warning.

The Brains of the Operation: Me, I mean, I didn’t get the name Brain Garvon for nothing.

The Decoy: Everyone knows that in the execution of every great surprise, there exists a decoy. Our friend Hang stepped into this role and planned her trip with Chelsey to ensure that the weekend was wide open.

The Plan: Hang and Chelsey were planning on dining at Chelsey’s favorite Thai restaurant…Noodles and Company. Little did Chelsey know that dinner would transform Hang from a one-woman wolf pack into a full-fledged wolf pack.

The Surprise: I can’t be certain on this, but if tears are a good proxy for level of surprise, then Bloomington had a certifiable peppa twister.

After our fine cuisine at Noodles and Company, we spent the rest of the weekend doing what young professionals do best, wining and dining, yes, in that order. The two days were filled with memories, pictures, and one-liners that Mrs. Grundys would find objectionable.

I’ll be honest, I wasn’t sure what to expect of Bloomington, Indiana. I like to consider myself fairly well traveled, though officially, I’ve only been to twenty of the fifty states, mostly along the east and west coast, cutting out the greater part of real America. Well, I enjoyed my wayfaring; almost feeling a bit compunctious of my longstanding landlocked prejudice. Officially, this surprise weekend to Indiana University was my first visit to what I later found out the U.S. Census Bureau calls the East North Central division of the Midwest region. Seriously? With three of four cardinal directions and two directionally neutral word segments, it’s a relief we found the right state. Hoosier Daddy?

Be Mine

2010-02-15T00:09:00.002-05:00

Saint Valentine; he is among the elite in American history. He is among the Final Four of demigods (along with Martin Luther King, Saint Patrick, and Columbus) to have a national holiday in his name. I’d even go as far as saying his idyll celebration of love among intimate companions has been pretty instrumental in shaping American foreign policy over the past few decades. I would also conjecture that he was a relatively homely man, since more people associate his day with a naked baby with a crossbow than with himself. But that is beside the point.

Now, for all the love Valentine exhumes, the holiday has an ironically polarizing effect, drawing people into a game of tug-of-war, with those on Team Hate sporting macabre clothing in an attempt to draw Team Love off of cloud nine. On the scale from one to love, I usually fall somewhere around indifference. Historically speaking, I am more often than not (alright, always) single on Valentine’s Day. This doesn’t bother me because my independent spirit can’t be restrained by the shackles of a relationship (or so I rationalize). And the optimist in me see’s Valentine’s Day as an annual self-evaluation. What went wrong this past year? What improvements can be made for the upcoming year? (For example, I’ve come to terms with my flawed logic when I hypothesized that braces would up my game).

Well, this year, I decided to throw a little oregano in my Ragu. I received an email advertising for a Vanetine’s one time cooking class in Sunny’s Kitchen. For $55, the class offered to impress your someone special with the following 3-course menu: Caprese (tomato basil with fresh mozzarella) salad, wild mushroom risotto, roasted balsamic asparagus, Thai marinated flank steak, and chocolate covered strawberries. Class will also include tips for setting the mood to make Valentine’s Day 2010 unforgettable! My friend Molly and I signed up, figuring that we would at least get a decent meal out of the experience.

Well, one week prior to Sunny’s cooking class, I receive a call from an unknown number. Whenever I receive a call on my cell phone from an unknown number my heart sinks slightly. My mind immediately wanders, wondering if I incorrectly filed my taxes the previous spring, or, with frequency that even surprises me, I think maybe it’s someone calling to tell me it’s the Truman Show (which would really bring some of the pieces of my puzzle together). Hello? It’s Sunny from “In Sunny’s Kitchen”…[sign of relief]…informing me that we are one individual shy of being able to host the Valentine cooking class. How many is one short? Three. In order to host the cooking class a total of four individuals needed to sign up for the class. Molly and I aside, only one other individual in the entire Washington Metropolitan area found this cornucopia of food intriguing? Where is the love? Apparently not in DC (another point I use to rationalize my single status). Sunny said he would call me in a few days to give me the final verdict.

If the omens hold any truth, it looks like another year of celibacy. A few days later, Sunny called me back. With the Snowmageddon that pummeled the region, Sunny was able to save face. This culinary class was cancelled due to inclement weather, not lack of interest. Looks like not even Sunny could keep the sun out this Valentine’s Day.

Snowmageddon

2010-02-09T00:02:00.001-05:00

Having grown up in the Washington DC area, I’ve always had a fond appreciation for snowfall. At an early age, I learned the direct relationship between inches of snow and number of days off from school. But just like a good mathematician, learning the intricacies of differential equations comes with experience and time. As a young professional I am just now learning the impact of an impending blizzard on worker productivity. Empirical evidence indicates that nearly 100% of commerce and roughly 50% of worker productivity is spent in anticipation of the snowstorm.

Of course, the threat of even the slightest flake-falling or flurrying frightens frantic families from facing the fear of famine (V : Vendetta :: F : Frozen vapor) and likely accounts for a 30% surge in daily grocery store revenues, with more extreme surges for staples such as milk, bread, hot chocolate, Aunt Jemima, and Yellow Tail Shiraz. But when the National Weather Service issues a blizzard warning and snowfall predictions are approaching record flakage, a state of emergency is preemptively declared for the inevitable Snowmageddon.

As a consultant, I have the uncharacteristic joy of having two email accounts; one account with my firm and one with my client. Usually the dual account system provides me with a method for keeping my colleagues on their toes; a game of anticipation (to which account will I email? Or receive an email with one and reply with the other). But I have never been more entertained with having two accounts than the day leading up to the historic DC snowpocalypse. Two accounts = double the snowy emails.

I’ve captured the 10 emails I received the day before the snowfall to demonstrate the workforce’s alow and aloft commitment to local weather:

10:19am – Client sends National Weather’s Winter Storm Warning

2:16pm – Client sends Inclement Weather Policy and Guidance

2:26pm – Boss 1 sends Tailored Storm Caution

2:43pm – Client sends Safety Tips for Blizzard

2:56pm – Client sends Updated Inclement Weather Policy and Guidance

3:02pm – Business Assurance Office distributes Updated Winter Storm Warning

3:21pm – Boss 2 emails Tailored Storm Caution

4:15pm – Facilities sends Snow Related Towing Enforcement Notice

4:32pm - Client again sends Updated Inclement Weather Policy and Guidance

5:35pm – Client distributes Gospel; Announces 4-Hour Early Dismissal for Federal Government

I won’t even bother documenting the number of emails I received the day of the storm… (Government at its best: I received three emails alone documenting the hours and offerings of the client’s first floor eatery). The emails were falling so fast the authors didn’t even have time to plow the e-streets before blasting out to the entire office. The ensuing snow forced one victim into sending the revised schedule for the Handicap Stutter Bus…only to then get a follow up email within the hour correcting this to read the Handicap Shuttle Bus.

And to think I made a big deal about the calm before the storm. SnOMG!

David and Goliaths

2010-02-05T17:54:00.002-05:00

Again riding the coattails of my roommate, Kyle, I was invited to sit court-side for the melee between two of the worst teams in the NBA; the home-team Washington Wizards taking on the Sacramento Kings. Normally, attending a Washington Wizards game is about as exciting as discovering a penny, the Lincoln Memorial dully shimmering back at you amid a rainbow of motor oil. Combining the abysmal records of the Wizards and Kings with the fact that Gilbert Arenas, the Wizards point guard, was recently suspended for being literally caught with the smoking gun sans smoking, the only redeeming quality was the ability to sit courtside.

For the greater part of the first half, we sat in some of the best seats at the Verizon Center. My perspective as a spectator has always been angled downward toward the action; never before have I been level (or rather below level) finding myself looking up at the athletes…and forget looking at the Jumbotron unless you preemptively took aspirin in anticipation of the oncoming neck strain. Sitting courtside made me appreciate the talent of NBA stars – not everyone can live their life as a giant. While the talent is enough to land them multimillion dollar contracts, watching these leviathans interact with a seemingly doll-sized world made me unremorseful for having neglected to drink my glass of milk with dinner every evening as a child.

Having apparently not gotten exposure to the titans in the Verizon Center, we went to the Wizards Club Lounge during half-time. While sitting at our table nursing Bud Lights and snacking on Nature’s Promise Vegetable Chips, our friend Remy spotted Gheorghe Muresan from across the room. Standing at 7’7”, Remy recognized him from his role in the hit movie My Giant. Not being able to find an escape from the Goliaths, I turned to what I do best in moments of insecurity – rodomontading.

I spent the greater part of the second half expressing to those around me that I would have, in fact, been a professional basketball player had all the stars (and genes) aligned. In a matter of minutes my theory was foiled by Earl Boykins. Standing at an inspiring 5’5” and posting 13 points to secure a Wizards victory, I realized I had to revise my supposition. I’m now using the excuse that I have philosophical differences with the NBA; I am simply a staunch supporter of the 2^nd Amendment.

Broomballer

2010-01-25T23:36:00.004-05:00

My Mer-friend Megha recently organized a game of Broomball. Played on an ice-rink, broomball is similar to hockey, substituting sneakers for skates, a miniature kickball for a puck, and plastic brooms for hockey sticks. With the approaching Winter Olympics, I was excited to take my athleticism to the ice.

Although I don’t often socialize my aspiration of being an Olympian (or at least knowing one), it has always been a deep dream of mine. So when the opportunity presented itself to demonstrate my foot skills on the ice, I couldn’t resist.

Just a few weeks prior, some friends and I went skating at the National Gallery of Art’s Sculpture Garden Ice Rink. Along for the ride was our eager first-time skater, Jess. After lacing up and taking to the ice, she hugged the walls while the rest of us tried to teach Figure Skating 101. As the fast learner I know her to be, I had high hopes for Jess, thinking she’d likely master the triple salchow after a few hours on the ice, and would eventually go on to claim gold in Vancouver, and consequently, fulfill my lifelong goal. By the end of the two hour session, a few numb appendages later, I revised my position and am now setting her sights on 2014.

Anyway, another weekend of winter athletics had me yearning to demonstrate my icy instincts. We arrived at the Kettler Capitals Iceplex, most of us novice broomballers, not knowing what to expect. Upon arrival, we took to the ice with our brooms and divided up into our respective teams. $10 and one hour later, we concluded our game in a 2-2 tie, managing to send one girl to the Emergency Room (whoops). I'll admit, I left the ice feeling pretty smug; after all, I only fell once and thought I was pretty broomballer. But even with only one fall, I still spent the following week recovering from the innumerable bruises that had my body resembling a spotted leopard. I now have a greater respect for Jesus; we attempted to simplify the miracle by walking on frozen water, and even that proved to be near impossible.

I guess if I’m ever going to have a shot at landing in the winter Olympics, I’m going to have to get a pied-a-terre in Whislter. It’s either that or seriously take up curling.

Synsepalum Dulcificum

2010-01-18T09:31:00.001-05:00

On the second Friday of every month, EFN Lounge draws an eclectic crowd assembling for a common cause; synsepalum dulcificum. Commonly known as trippy fruit, this West African berry contains a glycoprotein molecule that binds to the tongue causing acidic and sour foods to taste sweet. My friend Mimi organized a group adventure, and frankly, I couldn't pass up this science experiment.

Usually I am not one to like surprises, particularly when it comes to edibles. I much prefer to know the taste and texture of my nourishment so I can preemptively send an expectation based on my other senses to my brain. Any dissonance caused by the inaccuracy of my signaled expectation results in a mental eruption to rival Vesuvius. But this idea, while unsettling, was still worthy enough of wasting a Friday evening in pursuit of sweet-toothed happiness.

Like all good scientists, I’ve documented my observations:

1. Set Up: The instruction manual for eating the berry such that you maximize its impact was too long. The whole production paralleled my middle school years spent attempting to master the art of tying maraschino cherry stems into knots with my tongue. And much like middle school, things fell apart in the execution. Somewhere between rolling the berry on my tongue, removing the skin with my teeth, trying to determine which pieces of the berry you’re supposed to eat, which pieces your supposed to dispose of, my mind received the common command: information overload, power down.

2. Experiment: The buffet of consumables at EFN Lounge included a variety of citrus fruits and unsettling beverages (vinegar, Tabasco sauce, soy sauce, etc.). I quickly filled my plate and whet my palate. While one New York Times report indicated that berry trippers became literally like wild animals, tearing apart everything on the table, I went for the more civilized approach, starting with something simple (lime wedge) and working my way up to the big ticket items (shot of vinegar). Overall, I found EFN’s website to be misleading. EFN indicated that lemon wedges become candy canes, hot sauce becomes donut glaze, goat cheese becomes cheesecake. My taste buds had a different experience – lemons tasted like lemonade, limes tasted like limeade, vinegar tasted like…vinegar. My conclusion: I either got lost in the how to or I got a placebo (my money is on the former) See 1. Set Up.

3. Effects: It is important to remember that the berry’s impact is limited to the taste bud. While to some, Tabasco sauce tasted like sugar water (let’s come clean, nobody thought hot sauce became donut glaze), there was no deceiving the rest of the digestive tract, beginning with the burning sensation in the back of the throat.

4. Conclusion: If all the raindrops were lemon drops and gum drops, and if all the snowflakes were candy bars and milkshakes, I’d (a) not be standing outside with my mouth open wide and (b) have to guess Synsepalum Dulcificum was responsible.