My father voted for a democrat once...in 1972. He tells me he has since learned his lesson. His vote was based primarily on distaste for a war. I can relate.
I hope someday my kids are interested enough in me to wonder about how their old man thinks. If they do, it's certainly possible that the debate waging these days about health care just might be one issue in which they would be interested to know more about how I am wired. Maybe not.
Just in case, here's what I think...
I believe health care, at its core, is a moral issue. Everyone has a fundamental right to see a doctor when they are sick, regardless of the current balance in their banking account.
I do not know if everyone agrees with me. I am guessing that there are at least some people who see health care differently - if you are unable to afford to pay a doctor, tough luck. I do not understand this perspective, but I must concede that some may ascribe to this view.
America spends a ridiculous amount of money on health care. And yet our life expectancy is no better than many other countries which shell out less for care. This seems suspicious.
You will be hard pressed to convince me that the current system makes any sense: large corporations collect as much money as possible and then pay out as little as possible. This is the premise on which my health insurance company operates. It would seem at their core they have profit in mind; my well-being is a secondary concern.
Socialism is not a dirty word.
In an ideal world, we could let "the market" drive health care. This is the theory which compares health insurance to car insurance. And at first, I think this makes sense. Everyone is required to have car insurance in order to drive a car. Yet, car insurance companies do not pay for new tires, oil changes, or brakes. Instead, maintenance costs for a car are paid directly by the owner of the car. Insurance companies pick up the bill for catastrophic repairs.
Health insurance should work in a similar manner! Everyone should be required to carry health insurance, but such insurance would only be used to pay for catastrophic repairs. Sounds good, right? This way, people would not frivolously go to the doctor. Savings everywhere. The market would dictate costs. Capitalism rules!
The idea is seductive, but I think it has flaws. First, I believe everyone has the right to see a doctor when sick. Because I believe this, the health insurance = car insurance analogy quickly dissipates. Not everyone has a right to an automobile.
Because I believe all people have the right to see a doctor, I am a socialist. I acknowledge that to ensure this right, I must also acknowledge that there are human beings in this country who are unable to pay for their visit to the doctor when they break an arm, or are cursed with cancer, or have a child with asthma, or....
And I also understand that in order to provide health services to everyone means that those who can afford coverage will not only need to pay for themselves, but also pay for others as well. This makes me a socialist. So be it.
Now, onto the current plans on the table. Remember my principals: 1) Everyone has a right to see a doctor; 2) America wastes an assload of money on health coverage; 3) Our current system is predisposed to place a premium on profit.
All 3 items need to addressed. But here's the rub: Democrats want to address item #1 without fixing 2 & 3. Republicans tend to want to fix item #2 without caring about 1 or 3. Both parties ignore #3 because #3 has an active group of people lobbying both parties to ensure insurance companies stay in business. This is good business.
To me, the solution is one in which neither political party has the courage to suggest: a "single payer" system. Essentially, government run health-care. No more insurance companies sucking as much cash as possible out of people and paying out as little as possible. No more tax-free health premiums for those lucky enough to have an employeer to provide health care. No more absurd payouts for malpractice suits.
O my god! I'm a socialist! This will never work! Canada has a single payer system and people are dying because of it.
...then where are all the dead Canadians?
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
tommy
My bigger (even though I'm the oldest) brother was married last saturday. I have three kids now. You can see all of them in the picture from the wedding. Sam and Benjamin wore suits. Ana wore a princess dress. Somehow they all made it down the aisle at the beginning of the ceremony. Sam was in his element. He loved wearing a suit. He couldn't stop talking about it. Benjamin, not yet 2 years old, used all of his cognitive powers to shout two words repeatedly: NO SUIT!!! He wore one anyway. And with the promise of a new basketball, he walked through a sea of people. Ana was in heaven. Princess dress. Flowers. Dancing after the ceremony. The world could be no more perfect.
Tommy is married now. I am happy. We made it - my brothers and me. We were young together, and now we are adults together, altogether different people that we were as boys, yet still much the same. Godspeed, Tommy. I am proud of you.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Adolf
Adolf Aurther Martins
Died: Sunday, November 16th, ~1:00am local time, 9am in Egypt.
I was having a drink when he died. It was nine in the morning. Elaine and I were stressed beyond reason about the upcoming trip to Israel. We were conflicted and didn’t know if it was the right thing to do. So I had a drink.
My father drove us to the airport when we left for our trip. He told me that my grandfather, his father, my last surviving grandparent, wasn’t doing well. He told me he might die while I was away on vacation in Egypt. He asked if it happened if I’d like to wait until I returned to have the funeral. I said, without hesitation, ‘yes.’ But I didn’t think it would happen. My grandfather has been ill before. He’s a strong man; he would certainly go on breathing, go on living.
But then it happened. And I was wrong.
No parent in America would ever name their child Adolf anymore. But he was born before we knew the atrocities the past century would witness another man named Adolf instigate and implement such horror. And as much importance as we give to names, it’s my honor to know a name alone does not define a man. Or maybe, it’s my honor to know that the manner in which my Grandfather will be remembered is starkly and irrevocably different than the way the other Adolf from Germany is remembered. They were both involved in the same disgusting war. But their legacies will forever be different. My grandpa was kind; he was patient; I am proud that he is part of me.
He was a little like me, too. I remember one of his first days in the retirement home in New Hope (indeed, it was a new hope for him; my Grandmother had died recently before his arrival). He was living in Saint Teresea, a retirement home run by the Catholic Church. Grandpa was a Lutheran, but in retrospect, he seems to me to have been a Lutheran much like whatever I am—any port in a storm will do just fine. His mother, my beloved great-grandmother Anna, was actually Catholic. My Great Grandpa Martins, Fred (who I never knew because he died before I was born) was Lutheran. The Horror!
When my great grandparents grew up, even when my grandparents grew up, and to some extent when my parents grew up…hell, people have always been stupid about religion. Even I experienced it when I met Elaine. My own father, R. Joel, and mother had problems initially because she was Methodist and he was Lutheran. Like I said, people have always been stupid about these things.
My mother told me a story about when my father and she were engaged, or dating, I’m not sure which, but it matters little at this point, and they were back in my Dad’s hometown, probably for Easter or Christmas or Thanksgiving, since they dated while in college, and the topic came up that my now Mother was not going to be allowed to take communion at my Dad’s Lutheran church because she wasn’t Lutheran. (holy shit i should edit that sentence...it's absurdly too long.) And my dad told everyone, “fine. Then I won’t take it, either.”
To this day, I’m proud every time I hear that story, just as I’m proud whenever I think of the story my dad told me of when they were first married and were choosing a church. Since he was Lutheran and my mother was Methodist, they figured they’d split the difference and try a Baptist church…until the Baptist minister told my dad he wasn’t Christian because he wasn’t baptized. My father told him his baptism in the Lutheran church when we was 3 months old was good enough, then looked at my mom, and in front of the minister told her it was time find someplace else. And know you know why I was baptized Presbyterian. The Presbyterian minister didn’t judge my father based on the date of his baptism.
I have a long history in my blood of telling others to shove it when they place narrow, single-minded, interpretation of truth before the importance of family. I am proud of this history. It makes me who am I am today, a Presbyterian-Lutheran-Baptist-Agnostic-Christian married to an Coptic-Antiochian Orthodox, married in a Greek Orthodox church, together still searching, and yet still hopeful, and still unafraid to tell anyone to stick it and shut the fuck up if they are being stupid in the name of religion. Family matters. Love matters.
All of this reminds me of my grandfather Adolf. On one of those first Sunday mornings when he was in the retirement home, I visited him with Elaine and asked him if he’d gone to church that morning. He told me the nun (remember he is Lutheran – we don’t’ have nuns) had come in prayed with him; why go to church? The football pregame was on, for god sakes.
I’m trying hard to sum up succinctly why I appreciate this story so much. I think it comes down to a few things: No one religion, or deviation of that religion has a franchise on the truth; piousness is not measure of how often you attend a religious service; you are never too old to pray, you are never too old to pray with someone different than you.
As I write these words I am sitting along the shores of the Red Sea with my own family, smelling the salt in the air, feeling the humidity from the ocean curl my hair, and looking off into the endless distance of the ocean and reminding myself that this moment is partly a reflection of my now passed grandfather’s life. In this moment, there is a little bit of him every breath of salty air I take. I hope memories of him do not fade as quickly as the sun fades against the horizon of the sea. But I fear it will.
Tonight I sit on the shores of the Red Sea and listen to the enchanting beat of Arabic music fill my ears, and wonder of something will fill my soul. But there is nothing there. The memory of a now passed grandfather only elaborates the depths of the emptiness. The memory does not, will not, fill the emptiness.
When Adolf died, I had a drink. When Agnes died, I was driving in a car, bound for a wedding in Alabama. Both died when I was away. I hope both of them know that I wish I would have been there. Maybe they did. I guess I’ll never know. This is my horror.
I told Elaine that Adolf died alone. Is it such a bad thing? My dad, R. Joel, decided to call it a night at 11pm. At 1am, two hours later, he received a phone call from the retirement home. Grandpa was dead. A nurse checked on him and he was no longer breathing. He passed without anyone there to hold his hand. I can’t get past this. Elaine thinks it might be normal; Grandpa decided it was time. I’m sad to the point I don’t know what is or isn’t bullshit anymore.
Adolf served in the US army during world war two. He never talked about it. I only know because of the stories by father tells me. As I write these words, I am in Egypt, far from Minnesota. Adolf was far from Minnesota. And the sea I am close too, the Medertianinan, is close to where he once lived while in the Army. He lived for two years in Rome, Italy. He lived there for two years and only told me about it in one sentence, ‘it was o.k.’ Two years–one sentence. Some things are best left unspoken.
The ocean reaches out before me. The calm, windless desert night calls me. Silence surrounds me. But peace eludes me. I regret much.
There is one memory of my Grandfather I will never escape. I still think of the times when he did things with me just because he knew I enjoyed them…especially baseball games. He is dead now. And I am left with a question. Did he even like baseball?
He certainly knew that I liked it. I would stay with him for weeks at a time during the summers. My parents didn’t have cable t.v., which meant we didn’t get all of the good baseball games. And I loved baseball. Grandpa had cable. And not only did he get the games, he let me stay up late and watch them. I still, to this day, remember staying up way too late (was it maybe past midnight – an aberration to a boy) watching the Cardnials and Astros (why do I remember the teams? It was over 20 years ago)??? Staying up way past bedtime and watching a baseball game going into extra innings means much to a boy. More than you can imagine. Of all of my memories, this one stands out, but I strain to understand why.
I think in essence, it is this: an adult, my grandfather, stayed up late, way past the time he’d like to hit the hay (and even as a youth I knew it), and watched a ballgame, not so much because he cared, but because he knew I cared. It was important because it was important to me. And as I reflect on these words, I understand that my father, my grandfather’s son, acts likewise—he cares about things if for no other reason than they are important to me. If I could receive no other compliment during my years on this earth, it would be that my children and grandchildren would know that I cherish whatever they deem important. My priorities are, and will always be, whatever they love. Family matters. Love Matters.
Died: Sunday, November 16th, ~1:00am local time, 9am in Egypt.
I was having a drink when he died. It was nine in the morning. Elaine and I were stressed beyond reason about the upcoming trip to Israel. We were conflicted and didn’t know if it was the right thing to do. So I had a drink.
My father drove us to the airport when we left for our trip. He told me that my grandfather, his father, my last surviving grandparent, wasn’t doing well. He told me he might die while I was away on vacation in Egypt. He asked if it happened if I’d like to wait until I returned to have the funeral. I said, without hesitation, ‘yes.’ But I didn’t think it would happen. My grandfather has been ill before. He’s a strong man; he would certainly go on breathing, go on living.
But then it happened. And I was wrong.
No parent in America would ever name their child Adolf anymore. But he was born before we knew the atrocities the past century would witness another man named Adolf instigate and implement such horror. And as much importance as we give to names, it’s my honor to know a name alone does not define a man. Or maybe, it’s my honor to know that the manner in which my Grandfather will be remembered is starkly and irrevocably different than the way the other Adolf from Germany is remembered. They were both involved in the same disgusting war. But their legacies will forever be different. My grandpa was kind; he was patient; I am proud that he is part of me.
He was a little like me, too. I remember one of his first days in the retirement home in New Hope (indeed, it was a new hope for him; my Grandmother had died recently before his arrival). He was living in Saint Teresea, a retirement home run by the Catholic Church. Grandpa was a Lutheran, but in retrospect, he seems to me to have been a Lutheran much like whatever I am—any port in a storm will do just fine. His mother, my beloved great-grandmother Anna, was actually Catholic. My Great Grandpa Martins, Fred (who I never knew because he died before I was born) was Lutheran. The Horror!
When my great grandparents grew up, even when my grandparents grew up, and to some extent when my parents grew up…hell, people have always been stupid about religion. Even I experienced it when I met Elaine. My own father, R. Joel, and mother had problems initially because she was Methodist and he was Lutheran. Like I said, people have always been stupid about these things.
My mother told me a story about when my father and she were engaged, or dating, I’m not sure which, but it matters little at this point, and they were back in my Dad’s hometown, probably for Easter or Christmas or Thanksgiving, since they dated while in college, and the topic came up that my now Mother was not going to be allowed to take communion at my Dad’s Lutheran church because she wasn’t Lutheran. (holy shit i should edit that sentence...it's absurdly too long.) And my dad told everyone, “fine. Then I won’t take it, either.”
To this day, I’m proud every time I hear that story, just as I’m proud whenever I think of the story my dad told me of when they were first married and were choosing a church. Since he was Lutheran and my mother was Methodist, they figured they’d split the difference and try a Baptist church…until the Baptist minister told my dad he wasn’t Christian because he wasn’t baptized. My father told him his baptism in the Lutheran church when we was 3 months old was good enough, then looked at my mom, and in front of the minister told her it was time find someplace else. And know you know why I was baptized Presbyterian. The Presbyterian minister didn’t judge my father based on the date of his baptism.
I have a long history in my blood of telling others to shove it when they place narrow, single-minded, interpretation of truth before the importance of family. I am proud of this history. It makes me who am I am today, a Presbyterian-Lutheran-Baptist-Agnostic-Christian married to an Coptic-Antiochian Orthodox, married in a Greek Orthodox church, together still searching, and yet still hopeful, and still unafraid to tell anyone to stick it and shut the fuck up if they are being stupid in the name of religion. Family matters. Love matters.
All of this reminds me of my grandfather Adolf. On one of those first Sunday mornings when he was in the retirement home, I visited him with Elaine and asked him if he’d gone to church that morning. He told me the nun (remember he is Lutheran – we don’t’ have nuns) had come in prayed with him; why go to church? The football pregame was on, for god sakes.
I’m trying hard to sum up succinctly why I appreciate this story so much. I think it comes down to a few things: No one religion, or deviation of that religion has a franchise on the truth; piousness is not measure of how often you attend a religious service; you are never too old to pray, you are never too old to pray with someone different than you.
As I write these words I am sitting along the shores of the Red Sea with my own family, smelling the salt in the air, feeling the humidity from the ocean curl my hair, and looking off into the endless distance of the ocean and reminding myself that this moment is partly a reflection of my now passed grandfather’s life. In this moment, there is a little bit of him every breath of salty air I take. I hope memories of him do not fade as quickly as the sun fades against the horizon of the sea. But I fear it will.
Tonight I sit on the shores of the Red Sea and listen to the enchanting beat of Arabic music fill my ears, and wonder of something will fill my soul. But there is nothing there. The memory of a now passed grandfather only elaborates the depths of the emptiness. The memory does not, will not, fill the emptiness.
When Adolf died, I had a drink. When Agnes died, I was driving in a car, bound for a wedding in Alabama. Both died when I was away. I hope both of them know that I wish I would have been there. Maybe they did. I guess I’ll never know. This is my horror.
I told Elaine that Adolf died alone. Is it such a bad thing? My dad, R. Joel, decided to call it a night at 11pm. At 1am, two hours later, he received a phone call from the retirement home. Grandpa was dead. A nurse checked on him and he was no longer breathing. He passed without anyone there to hold his hand. I can’t get past this. Elaine thinks it might be normal; Grandpa decided it was time. I’m sad to the point I don’t know what is or isn’t bullshit anymore.
Adolf served in the US army during world war two. He never talked about it. I only know because of the stories by father tells me. As I write these words, I am in Egypt, far from Minnesota. Adolf was far from Minnesota. And the sea I am close too, the Medertianinan, is close to where he once lived while in the Army. He lived for two years in Rome, Italy. He lived there for two years and only told me about it in one sentence, ‘it was o.k.’ Two years–one sentence. Some things are best left unspoken.
The ocean reaches out before me. The calm, windless desert night calls me. Silence surrounds me. But peace eludes me. I regret much.
There is one memory of my Grandfather I will never escape. I still think of the times when he did things with me just because he knew I enjoyed them…especially baseball games. He is dead now. And I am left with a question. Did he even like baseball?
He certainly knew that I liked it. I would stay with him for weeks at a time during the summers. My parents didn’t have cable t.v., which meant we didn’t get all of the good baseball games. And I loved baseball. Grandpa had cable. And not only did he get the games, he let me stay up late and watch them. I still, to this day, remember staying up way too late (was it maybe past midnight – an aberration to a boy) watching the Cardnials and Astros (why do I remember the teams? It was over 20 years ago)??? Staying up way past bedtime and watching a baseball game going into extra innings means much to a boy. More than you can imagine. Of all of my memories, this one stands out, but I strain to understand why.
I think in essence, it is this: an adult, my grandfather, stayed up late, way past the time he’d like to hit the hay (and even as a youth I knew it), and watched a ballgame, not so much because he cared, but because he knew I cared. It was important because it was important to me. And as I reflect on these words, I understand that my father, my grandfather’s son, acts likewise—he cares about things if for no other reason than they are important to me. If I could receive no other compliment during my years on this earth, it would be that my children and grandchildren would know that I cherish whatever they deem important. My priorities are, and will always be, whatever they love. Family matters. Love Matters.
Egypt 2008
note: this entry is essentially a copy 'n paste from the diary i kept while we traveled to Egypt. As such, I haven't done much proofreading. Read at your own risk.
Roll Call:
1) My Father-in-law: born in Egypt, immigrated to the U.S. when he was thirty years old.
2) My Mother-in-law: born in Bethlehem, immigrated to the U.S. as a child.
3) James: My wife’s brother. Traveling with his wife and one daughter (and one on the way)
4) Ezelda: My wife’s sister. Traveling with her husband and 4 children. This clan is known as the “Hasapopolopolous’s” (Ezelda married a Greek man).
Summary: Together with my wife and three kids, we are a big fat party of 16 people, 8 of whom are children aged 5 or under, and one who is pregnant. Let the good times roll.
Egypt: An Adventure Just to Get There
We made it…barely. I am actually quite proud of my kids. I think they handled the trip amazingly well. I was expecting complete chaos, screaming, crying, and lots of tears, but only a little of each emerged. And considering the circumstances, the kids seem destined to be world travelers.
Our flight from Minneapolis to Amsterdam was relatively smooth, except for the crazy Asian woman who was pissed because she thought I stole her pen, the crazy American stewardess who wouldn’t stop asking me to put my kid’s seatbelts back on (you put a seatbelt on a sleeping toddler, bitch), and the sheer fact that there will never be enough alcohol in the world to make an eight hour plane ride comfortable for a woman who’s broken her neck in a car wreck (my wife). All in all, though, it was decent. The plane was mostly empty, so the kids were able to lie down and sleep (albeit with a deranged stewardess who thought they needed their seatbelts bugging the hell out of me)…by the way, does anyone have any idea why there are actually seatbelts in a airplane? I’m guessing that if a plane runs into another plane, a seatbelt is not going to do much good.
The flight from Amsterdam to Cairo was a complete fucking disaster. We flew on Egypt Air. Thanks to my NWA elite status, I am able to login prior to flights and pick the premium seats. This helped us on the first leg of the trip. For the second flight, I was told that I couldn’t pre-select flights because Egypt Air was not a partner with NWA. No problem, I was told, we have seats for your and you’ll receive your boarding passes in London. Just check-in at the transfers desk. Sounded fishy to me. It was.
After making our way through the Heathrow airport rat maze, including security officials who were concerned I was hiding explosives in my baby’s water bottle, we found the Egypt Air transfer desk. Good news! They had seats for us! Bad News! The 5 seats were in 3 different rows. They assured me that my 3 year old would have no problems sitting by himself next to complete strangers. I was skeptical, but took the tickets and headed for the gate. The flight left in 20 minutes.
We arrived at the gate and reunited with the rest of the family (Heathrow’s maze separated us with much trepidation…it was a relief to reunite at the gate). And we found out that the Hasapopolopolous family’s seating situation was even worse than ours! Their 6 tickets (they have 4 children under 5 years), were spread around the plane in 6 different rows. Evidently, Egypt Air does not think much of separating children of 6 months, 2 years, 3 years, and 4 years from their parents. Although this might come at some relief to tired parents, the kind and thoughtful stewardesses disagreed, and set to work trying to find people willing to switch seats in order to reunite the families. We only held up departure for 45 minutes. It seems most people would rather sit on a hot airplane than give up their premium seat sandwiched between two fat people in row 45.
Egypt: Seeing Some Stuff
Giza: The Pyramids and The Sphinx
By far the highlight of my trip was my father-in-law attempting to convince security at the Pyramids that I was an Egyptian. There is a 58 LE (about $10) difference in price between the Egyptian rate to see the Pyramids and the foreigner rate. Egyptians: 2 LE (40 cents); Foreigners: 60 LE (a little over 10 bucks).
We arrived as a family in a van, not exactly seatbelt compliant. I’m still counting in my head all of the family members who went to the pyramids, but I’m fairly certain we had 20 people in the van. Again, there wasn’t exactly 1 seatbelt per person. It’s Egypt. Nobody cares. Besides, with the density of traffic in Egypt, the car never makes it over 10 mph anyway. The combination of slow speeds with bodies packed together as sardines in tin can would certainly limit any damage should an accident occur.
It seems arguing is the standard method of doing business in Egypt. And loudly. My father in law is no exception. And he demonstrated quite the ability to re-assimilate himself back into Egyptian culture. He tells me it takes him a few days for the Arabic to come back to him. In fact, he has told me in the past that he sometimes feels like a person with out a language. Nobody can understand his English in America, and when he returns to Egypt, nobody can understand his Arabic. He’s being a bit overdramatic. By day two in Egypt, he was quite comfortable yelling fluently at everyone who needed straightening out. This included the security guards in Giza, home to the Great Pyramid and the Sphinx.
Confusion reigned when we arrived in Giza. All the non-Egyptians in our van sat in the back, while my father-in-law and his sisters sat in front with the driver and yelled at the “security” guards who welcomed us at the entrance. The first argument was about whether or not we were going to be able to drive the van onto the premises.
The pyramids are on the top of a hill your ass doesn’t want anything to do with walking up, especially with a hoard of small children. The first conversation my Arabic speaking family members had with the hired help in Giza was about whether or not we could drive the van up the hill. After much shouting and pointing, we drove forward to the next checkpoint.
At the next checkpoint is where things started to get silly. You are goddam right I am an Egyptian. I married an Egyptian man’s daughter. Do you think he would have the atrocity to allow a non-Egyptian touch his daughter? Certainly not! Two Egyptians pounds is all we will pay for the Egyptian who just happens to look like a white person, and just happens to carry an American passport that says he was born in Omaha.
I believe that it was about this time that everyone was instructed to get out of the van. Bear in mind that this is Egypt; we were instructed to get out of the van approximately twenty times before we actually complied. And my wife is still mad at me for actually finally listening to the guards (I’m apparently crazy to do what a man with a gun says I should do). She maintains that I should have stayed in back and pretended to have some disease which made it physically impossible for me to exit the van.
Upon my exiting the vehicle with my blonde haired boy, absolute pandemonium breaks out. My father is “discussing” the situation, but I understand absolutely nothing of what they are saying, although I certainly understand the tone. As the voices continue to escalate, the uniformed guard points at me and says something especially loud. There’s kicking of dust, more finger pointing, more shouting, more walking in circles, and many hands in the air, followed by more screaming and pointing at me. Then, abruptly, the screaming turns to laughter, and my father-in-law heads off to building about 100 yards away and returns with 9 tickets: 2 non Egyptian tickets and 7 resident tickets. Obviously, one of the 60 LE non-Egyptian tickets was for me, but I’m still not sure how it was settled to buy 2 non-Egyptian and 7 Egyptian tickets.
Remember: 20 people. 9 tickets.
Later the same day, as we browsed around Giza, I asked my father-in-law what the guard was saying about me when he was pointing and shouting in my direction. My father-in-law smiled, “He told me that I could show him your birth certificate and he still wouldn’t believe you are an Egyptian. He didn’t believe you were Lebanese, either.”
We finished our time in Giza with a walk to Pizza Hut. As long as I’ve known my wife, she has told me about the Pizza Hut near the Pyramids (It strikes me now that my family doesn’t call the historical site Giza, but ‘the Pyramids’…strange?). Every time she visited the Pyramids they would finish their trip with a meal at Pizza Hut. This is also the designated location where you can finally take a piss.
There are not any bathrooms in Giza. Strolling around Giza, looking at the Pyramids, the camels, the crazy men on horses, the Sphyinx, the other random buildings with tombs inside but nobody knows what they are but they must be cool because there are in Giza…all this stuff takes time—several hours at a minimum. But my daughter doesn’t usually go multiple hours between potty breaks. She’s 5. The response “Just hold it,” will result in a meltdown, tears, and the need for a change of clothes. When touring Giza, we need to produce a bathroom on queue. Viola! The traveling potty. My wife found something on eBay for 40 bucks that evidently is a traveling potty. I’m not sure how it works, but it’s the size of a freesbie and if Ana needs to use the bathroom halfway up the steps of the Great Pyramid we can whip it out and everything is grand.
But my kids are world travelers. Or maybe they just have a nose for nostalgia. Ana, just like here Mommy, patronized the Pizza Hut for the very same reason her Mommy did so many years before. Once our tour of Giza ended, Ana and Elaine made a beeline for Pizza Hut. The past met the future.
No trip to Giza is complete without a ride on a camel. Ours was no different. But it could have been. We were almost gone, almost on our way back to the hotel, when my father-in-law decided he couldn’t pass up one more opportunity to “discuss” the price of something with another Egyptian. As we were loading back into the van, a man on a camel approached. We all ignored him. “La’a, Shoukran!” No thank you! 17 out of the 20 people were in the van, when abruptly, my father-in-law decided it was time to bargain. Yelling and arguing with the man on the camel ensued, followed with my father-in-law telling everyone to get back out of the van. It was time to take some pictures with the camel. Honestly, I think he just misses living in Egypt and negotiating everything by means of animated discussion. But it matters little. The kids got a kick out of seeing and sitting on a real camel up close in personal.
The Egyptian Museum
We are not exactly sure what the Museum is called. I asked my wife today the name of the Museum and she said, “I don’t know. How about the Museum of Ancient Egyptian Antiquities? Or maybe the Cairo Museum? Nobody really knows for sure. It’s just the place where all the white people go when they visit Egypt.” What everyone knows is that the staff is absolutely determined to enforce the rule "no pictures."
I’m going with the “Egyptian Museum” only because that’s what it says on my white person entrance ticket. Just like Giza, there are two different prices to enter the Museum: The Egyptian price (which isn’t advertised); what everyone else pays. The trip to the Egyptian museum was a unique experience for us because we made the visit without my father-in-law or mother-in-law. Nobody else speaks Arabic. My wife and her brother and sister look the part, but their Arabic does not pass for an Egyptian. All four of Elaine and her siblings spent significant time in Egypt as children, mostly during the summers. They are comfortable with the Egyptian customs, way of life, the culture, and they even understand quite a bit of Arabic. But all of their family members in Egypt understand quite a bit of English, but are unable to speak English very well. This translates into a fascinating communication paradigm within the family, especially as an outside observer. The family members who live in Egypt speak in Arabic to the family members who live in the U.S., who then respond in English. This goes on for hours like it’s normal.
Anyway, it was worth a shot to try and purchase the Egyptian tickets. My brother-in-law went up to the ticket booth with all Arabic writing and said “sitta” (six). The lady started pulling out 6 Egyptian tickets, my brother-in-law started sliding 12 LE (about 2 bucks) under the ticket window, and then the situation hit a snag. She asked him a question in Arabic. He didn’t have a clue how to respond—Elaine and her siblings can understand some Arabic, but don’t speak it very well. The ticket booth lady pointed to the other line. Thwarted.
Then there was the whole business of whether or not the children had to purchase a ticket. The English sign read Adults: 60 LE. Students: 30 LE. Our children are all under school age; they are not technically students. As with many other things in Egypt, the guidance provided allows ample room for discussion about the technicalities. We decided we’d try and buy tickets only for the adults and try and get through the entrance. It worked. We didn’t even need to argue about it, which after being in Egypt for a while is a slight letdown. The arguing is half the fun.
We entered the museum and decided it best if we split up. A building filled with ancient antiquities is not the best place to attempt to keep a group of 14 people together, especially when 8 of them are not yet old enough to be in kindergarten.
I was there for one reason. See the King Tut stuff. We decided to meet back at the entrance in an hour. Elaine and I were off to find King Tut. I’m not sure where James went, but I know where the Hasapopolopolous family went. Nowhere. The four kids lost their minds about 30 seconds into the tour of the museum. And we heard them from the other side of the museum.
The King Tut stuff was cool.
The Citidel
I knew little about Egyptian history when I arrived in Egypt. I intended to prepare for the trip by reading a little, but in all the other craziness of life, it just didn’t happen. And then I intended to read a travel guide about Egypt on the plane ride, but I both forgot to buy a travel guide and, well, you already ready about how the flights went. There was little time for quiet reading anyway.
There’s no use in elaborating on the Egyptian vs. non-Egyptian ticket price again, but needless to say we had a similar experience. To enter the Citidel is 60 LE if you are non-Egyptian, 2 LE of you are Egyptian. And my father-in-law was with us on the excursion. Repeat story from Giza here.
On the morning of our trip to the Citidel, I took a crash course on the history of the place based on readings from a Egypt guide book and other authoritative sites on the internet. The Citidel is a huge fortress in the middle of Cairo, built by Saladin. More recently, the Mohamed Ali mosque was built on the Citidel grounds.
The whole structure was quite impressive, especially the big mosque.
But what I’ll remember most about the trip is the incessant photographing of my children. Before the trip, my wife warned me that our kids were going to be, at times, treated like celebrities. Words can’t explain the pandemonium we experienced at the Citadel.
Over the course of the week, our children became quite familiar with complete strangers smiling at them and briefly touching their hair. In actuality, I think they were actually totally oblivious to it after a while. We couldn’t walk more than 3 minutes in the mall without a stranger finding it impossible to resist the temptation of touching yellow hair sitting on top of a head with subtly Egyptian features. Ben (our youngest) took to it the best. He waved and chatted and smiled with every Egyptian he could find.
The situation at the Citidel was at a completely different level. There were bus load upon bus load of school students touring the grounds at the same time as us. We literally had hundreds of children, I’d guess about age 10-13, taking pictures of us, mostly using their cell phone cameras. And the young girls in droves wanted to touch my boys. They smiled and yelled and waved and formed an endless boundary of bodies for us to walk through. I quite honestly felt like I had a small level of appreciation for what it might feel like if you were famous. It was cute. Ben enjoyed himself. Sam hid in the stroller. Ana struck poses for the camera.
Israel: The Lost Trip
The plan for our trip to Egypt called for a short sojourn to the Holy Land. Our reasoning was relatively simple; Israel isn’t far from Egypt, so why not? Besides, my mother-in-law is from Bethlehem. As long as we are seeing the father-in-law’s family, why not double down and see the other side, too?
I will elaborate on the entire experience, but if you want the crib notes version, I’ll give it to you now: Complete Clusterfuck.
About two months before the trip, we first had the bright idea to go to Israel. I was excited. In a previous life I as a seminary student (witness the url to this blog), and seeing some things in Israel sounded quite appealing. I don’t find myself getting overly exhuberent about the life changing experience it might be for me to walk in the places where Jesus walked, but still, it is Jerusalem; maybe a first hand experience would reinvigorate a now rather faint sense of piousness (doubtful), or at the least provide some perspective on why the world’s peoples are so hellbent on killing each other for a small piece of real estate in the middle of the desert (again, quite doubtful; I could life to be one thousand and never understand).
We started our quest for transportation from Cairo to Jerusalem online. Our frist thought was to look for railway transportation. Fat chance. How about a boat ride? A cruise through the Mediterranean might be nice. No way. You can, however, take a boat ride from the western bank of the red sea to the Jordanian shore on the Eastern side of the Red Sea, thereby traveling from Egypt to Syria and bypassing Israel altogether. Brilliant.
How about airfare? Egypt Air doesn’t fly to Israel. Are you kidding? My wife poked around a bit more, and discovered that you can take a flight to Amman, Jordan for quite cheap, and then board a bus bound for Jerusalem. We looked into it a bit more, and it certainly didn’t sound like anything which remotely sounded safe with several kids in tow. Hell, I don’t even think I would try it alone if I knew I had just a few months left to live.
Enter Air Sinai. Are they Egypt Air? No! And how do I book a ticket? You might be able to book a ticket if you call their office in New York. We called. 600 bucks per ticket. Mmm. I wonder if they have an office in Tel Aviv. Yes. We called. 700 bucks. How about if we call Egypt Air and find out if they know about this. No! We had family in Cairo drive to the secret Air Sinai office in Cairo. They might be able to do something for us for $450 per ticket. Come back the day before you leave. Cash only, of course.
We arrived in Egypt on a Friday. The plan called for leaving for Israel on Monday. My father-in-law took a taxi to the secure, undisclosed location of the Air Sinai office on Saturday morning, thinking he’d show up, buy some tickets (cash only, of course), and be back for lunch. Around the time we were sitting down at the hotel restaurant for dinner, he returned we 8 tickets for 12 people. We were assured the children 3 and under didn’t need a ticket, but might need to buy a 400 LE boarding pass upon arrival at the airport. Sounded reasonable.
Monday morning came. My father-in-law arranged for a van and a driver for the entire time we were in Egypt, and the driver had specific instructions to pick us up at the hotel at 7:00 am. Our flight for Tel Aviv left at 9:00 am, and it was only about a 10 minute ride from our hotel to the airport. We choose our hotel partly because of it’s close proximity to the airport, both for this flight and also the flight home at the conclusion of the trip. There’s one flight out of Cairo to Amsterdam (our connection) each day; at 4am. It made sense to be close to the airport.
The van never showed up. We still don’t know what happened to the driver. After all the trouble it took to arrange a van and a driver for our entire trip, we only used him for the ride form the Airport to the hotel the first night, and on day 3 when we went to the pyramids. After he missed picking us up for our flight to Tel Aviv, we decided we no longer wanted his services. For the next two weeks, every time we needed to go someone, we hailed cabs on the street. Ever try to hail a cab for 20 people? An exciting experience! But at least it gave us a daily outlet to participate in one of Egypt’s national pastimes—arguing over the price of a cab, and then arguing more at the end of the cab ride because inevitably something happened during the cab ride to increase the fare from the agreed upon rate when negotiations concluded at the beginning of the ride. There are no electronic devices which keep track of how much the ride is costing.
And the morning of our trip to Tel Aviv, we hailed cabs at 7:30 when we realized the driver wasn’t coming for us. We arrived at terminal two (the terminal our tickets told us to go to) at 7:45. At 7:55 we were hailing cabs again for a ride to terminal 1, where the flight was departing from. At 8:10 we were arguing with the security guard in terminal 1 about whether or not the children 3 an under needed it a ticket. He brought in four other security guards, and no amount of arguing was going to let us pass unless the little ones had tickets. We needed to go to the Air Sinai offices and get tickets for the little ones. No problem, where’s the Air Sinai office in the Egypt airport? Oh…that’s right…there isn’t one. Maybe Egypt Air could help, since Air Sinai is technically a division of Egypt Air (although you won’t find anyone that will admit it).
What’s strange about the episode in security is that Egyptian airport/hotel/museum security is lax about just about everything. During the course of the 2 weeks we were in Egypt, I probably walked through 50 metal detectors with a pocketful of coins, my belt on, and my phone and camera in my pocket. Each time, the metal detector lost it’s mind. Once or twice a guard took the time to stop and pat me down, felt my pocket where my phone was hiding, and asked me “phone?” I would nod my head without taking the phone out of my pocket for him to see and I was on my way. We took two additional flights while in Egypt, a roundtrip excursion to Hurghada, a small resort town on the Red Sea. During both of the trips, we had luggage filled with liquids, gels, knives, and scissors. We put the luggage on the x-ray machine in security and I don’t even know if anyone was looking at the screen to care.
But the fact that the small children didn’t have tickets was enough to damn near throw is in jail. Keep in mind that this was the security check to enter the Airport, not the one after checking in with the airline. After this security checkpoint is where we would have needed to discuss the issue with Air Sinai as to whether or not the children who were going to be sitting in our labs would actually need a ticket or boarding pass. The security guard didn’t care. Thou shall not pass.
So off to the Egypt Air office we went. Sure, they could get us the tickets for the little ones. They called Air Sinai and got right to work on it. At 9:45 they thought they had the processing complete. Would we like to purchase them? Our flight left at 9:10. We decided it wasn’t a good use of money. No problem my friend! There’s a flight which leaves at 11:15 for Istanbul and we can make a connection there to Tel Aviv. It’s a little longer, and there might be a small upcharge. We agreed. We’ll take it. No problem my friend! We’ll call Air Sinai and start working with them to transfer your tickets to Egypt Air. On moment please.
At 10:45, 30 minutes before the flight for Istanbul was scheduled to take off, and 10 minutes before the gate closed (remember we still needed to make our way through the security circus again) Egypt Air finished their urgent processing of the tickets in conjunction with Air Sinai. They just needed a credit card to charge the additional $10,000. We never made it to Israel.
Later, I found out from my wife that during the fiasco, the same security guard who wouldn’t let us pass also took the opportunity to verbally harass my wife while I was at the Egypt Air counter arguing about tickets. He was offended that the women in the family (my wife, her sister, and her mother) were “allowed” to have so much verbal interaction into how to handle the situation. Evidently my wife isn’t very good at doing what her husband and father say. I wish I knew how to say go fuck yourself in Egyptian.
The incident at the Airport that morning is a perfect example of the broad characterization of the people I met while in Egypt. There are two categories. The first is those whom generally have a sunny disposition on life, who are kind and willing to help whenever you need assistance, and everything will happen eventually As they say “no problem my friend. In a minute.” There is no hurry to get anything done, and we might as well enjoy the wait. The second category of people I met are the assholes. There are much fewer of these, I can count them on one hand. But I will remember them. The security guard, the night manager of the club room at the hotel in Cairo. And there’s a few more that aren’t worth mentioning.
We never made it to Israel. There wasn’t another flight available for travel from Cairo to Tel Aviv for the remainder of the two weeks we were there. Instead, we opted to join Elaine’s brother, James, who decided to spend a week in Hurghada instead of Jerusalem before we even arrived in Egypt. He correctly predicted that getting a family of 20 onto a flight from Cairo to Tel Aviv would be complete chaos and wanted nothing to do with it.
Hurghada: Invaded by Russians
Instead of traveling to Israel, we (sans father and mother-in-law—they ended up finding a way to Israel) spent four days at the beach. Things could be worse. The red sea is beautiful. Other than that, there's not much to say about our time in Hurghada, except:
1) I enjoy listening to the ocean
2) I could get used to doing nothing all day buy sipping tea and watching kids splash in a pool.
3) Hurghada is a Russain vacation destination. The entire resort was like one big party in Moscow. Why do Russian parents think it’s O.K. to let their kids go swimming without swim suits on?
Sam sleeps with his hands behind his head now. I think this is a new development. I first noticed it in Egypt, as he fell asleep one night watching the Disney channel in our hotel room.
Egypt: we will be back, but not for the food
Everything tastes a little different here. There’s McDonalds, but it’s not the same. There’s Hardee’s, but the burgers aren’t quite right. One night we ordered KFC for the kids. They took one bite and started crying. There’s some weird spice that American children do not find finger lickin’ good. Pizza? What the hell happened to the sauce? We ordered pizza one night and it was soft bread with some weird ass goat cheese on it. Again, one ‘n done – one bite from the kids and they were looking for something else to eat. French fries are almost edible, but we stayed in the nicest restaurant in town. The potatoes still tasted a little off, and there a good crunch was missing from the texture, but all in all, my kids would eat them.
And don’t think for a minute that we didn’t try the local flavors. We have family here, remember? We attempted to find some food the kids were comfortable with because they aren’t a big fan of the authentic local cuisine. And this is a family raised on middle eastern cooking from their mother and grandmother. I think the problem was the quality of the produce and products, not the dishes themselves.
For the most part, all five of us survived on bread and cheese. You can’t fuck up bread, and in Egypt they do it absolutely right. We went to Spinney’s, the local grocery store, every morning and bought fresh baked flat bread. For the cheese, there was an assortment of local cheeses we purchased, but my daughter’s favorite was without question the “cow cheese,” a brand of cheese that not only, we assume, was made from cow’s milk, but also featured a cartoon cow on the package. I too, ate quite a bit of flat bread with cow’s cheese. It was delicious the first three days, to the point that I was holding my nose at the audacity of American suburban life and it’s lack of good local walk-up bakeries. On day fifteen I ate it only because I thought I was going to pass out from consuming nothing but black tea and honey for the first five hours of the day. Fuck quaint little walk up bakeries. I want buffalo wild wings.
Again, my kids basically live on Middle Eastern cuisine at home, so I’m a bit baffled at why they did not enjoy the food in Egypt. Same goes for me for that matter. There is not a good way for me to explain it. Everything we ate tasted mostly good…but not quite. I’m looking forward to getting back to the States.
I’m writing this section during my final hours in Egypt. It is 11:30 pm, our flight leaves at 4 am, our cab leaves for the airport at 1:30 am. Two hours to go. My wife and kids are in the hotel room trying to find a short few hours of sleep. I am electing to stay up and avoid the alarm at 1 A.M., which would undoubtedly be met with “who and where am I?!!” I am a heavy sleeper. It is difficult for me to put the hamster in my mind back on the wheel if I have only been sleeping for an hour or two.
I hope we come to Egypt again. Not for the food, of course. And I know we saw a part of Egypt that only few Egyptians see in their lifetimes—we stayed in the nicest hotel in Cairo (but it was cheap—my father-in-law was able to secure the Egyptian rate for us ☺). I am a bit conflicted about staying in the most extravagant hotel in Egypt, knowing and seeing what actual life in Egypt is like. For anyone who has spent time in a third world country, you can probably understand how I’m feeling. Every morning we were served an immaculate breakfast (that did not taste quite right…but almost) by extremely kind waiters who I hate to even know what they make for a daily wage. On the nights we returned to the hotel with extra food from dinner, instead of keeping it for ourselves and throwing much of it away, we walked the halls of the hotel until we found someone cleaning a room. On one occasion, the young man started to sob when we gave him two bags of leftover food from dinner.
I am sitting in the hotel lounge. Moments ago, my waiter came up to me and asked me how much the laptop I am using costs. I hesitated. I was embarrassed and ashamed. I have so much. I need so little. The things I want are not needs, but luxuries.
We spent time with our family who lives here in Cairo. We traveled to their houses and then
served us dinners, HUGE dinners. Their “houses” are small apartments, and yet my impression is that they are still far better off than most Egyptians.
During one visit, I was looking out the window of one family member’s house, which is located on the 8th floor of the building. Standing next to me was my daughter, Ana. We were looking out at the buildings across the street. On one building, it was evident that there was a family living on top of the building amongst trash and rubble, without a roof over their head. “Why do they live there, Daddy? Where is there house?”
“Some people live outside without a roof because the don’t have enough money to pay for a house with a roof. And aren’t we lucky to have a roof on our house? We had so much stuff, don’t you think?”
“Yes, Daddy. I am happy we have a roof. But why did God not give them one,
too?”
What would you say?
We will be back someday, god willing, because we have family here and because our children were immersed into a different perspective on life while they were here. There is something intangible and invaluable about spending time with family. I am happy beyond words that we came; I hope some day we will find our way back.
James: you owe me 181 dollars
Roll Call:
1) My Father-in-law: born in Egypt, immigrated to the U.S. when he was thirty years old.
2) My Mother-in-law: born in Bethlehem, immigrated to the U.S. as a child.
3) James: My wife’s brother. Traveling with his wife and one daughter (and one on the way)
4) Ezelda: My wife’s sister. Traveling with her husband and 4 children. This clan is known as the “Hasapopolopolous’s” (Ezelda married a Greek man).
Summary: Together with my wife and three kids, we are a big fat party of 16 people, 8 of whom are children aged 5 or under, and one who is pregnant. Let the good times roll.
Egypt: An Adventure Just to Get There
We made it…barely. I am actually quite proud of my kids. I think they handled the trip amazingly well. I was expecting complete chaos, screaming, crying, and lots of tears, but only a little of each emerged. And considering the circumstances, the kids seem destined to be world travelers.Our flight from Minneapolis to Amsterdam was relatively smooth, except for the crazy Asian woman who was pissed because she thought I stole her pen, the crazy American stewardess who wouldn’t stop asking me to put my kid’s seatbelts back on (you put a seatbelt on a sleeping toddler, bitch), and the sheer fact that there will never be enough alcohol in the world to make an eight hour plane ride comfortable for a woman who’s broken her neck in a car wreck (my wife). All in all, though, it was decent. The plane was mostly empty, so the kids were able to lie down and sleep (albeit with a deranged stewardess who thought they needed their seatbelts bugging the hell out of me)…by the way, does anyone have any idea why there are actually seatbelts in a airplane? I’m guessing that if a plane runs into another plane, a seatbelt is not going to do much good.
The flight from Amsterdam to Cairo was a complete fucking disaster. We flew on Egypt Air. Thanks to my NWA elite status, I am able to login prior to flights and pick the premium seats. This helped us on the first leg of the trip. For the second flight, I was told that I couldn’t pre-select flights because Egypt Air was not a partner with NWA. No problem, I was told, we have seats for your and you’ll receive your boarding passes in London. Just check-in at the transfers desk. Sounded fishy to me. It was.
After making our way through the Heathrow airport rat maze, including security officials who were concerned I was hiding explosives in my baby’s water bottle, we found the Egypt Air transfer desk. Good news! They had seats for us! Bad News! The 5 seats were in 3 different rows. They assured me that my 3 year old would have no problems sitting by himself next to complete strangers. I was skeptical, but took the tickets and headed for the gate. The flight left in 20 minutes.
We arrived at the gate and reunited with the rest of the family (Heathrow’s maze separated us with much trepidation…it was a relief to reunite at the gate). And we found out that the Hasapopolopolous family’s seating situation was even worse than ours! Their 6 tickets (they have 4 children under 5 years), were spread around the plane in 6 different rows. Evidently, Egypt Air does not think much of separating children of 6 months, 2 years, 3 years, and 4 years from their parents. Although this might come at some relief to tired parents, the kind and thoughtful stewardesses disagreed, and set to work trying to find people willing to switch seats in order to reunite the families. We only held up departure for 45 minutes. It seems most people would rather sit on a hot airplane than give up their premium seat sandwiched between two fat people in row 45.
Egypt: Seeing Some Stuff
Giza: The Pyramids and The Sphinx
By far the highlight of my trip was my father-in-law attempting to convince security at the Pyramids that I was an Egyptian. There is a 58 LE (about $10) difference in price between the Egyptian rate to see the Pyramids and the foreigner rate. Egyptians: 2 LE (40 cents); Foreigners: 60 LE (a little over 10 bucks).
We arrived as a family in a van, not exactly seatbelt compliant. I’m still counting in my head all of the family members who went to the pyramids, but I’m fairly certain we had 20 people in the van. Again, there wasn’t exactly 1 seatbelt per person. It’s Egypt. Nobody cares. Besides, with the density of traffic in Egypt, the car never makes it over 10 mph anyway. The combination of slow speeds with bodies packed together as sardines in tin can would certainly limit any damage should an accident occur.It seems arguing is the standard method of doing business in Egypt. And loudly. My father in law is no exception. And he demonstrated quite the ability to re-assimilate himself back into Egyptian culture. He tells me it takes him a few days for the Arabic to come back to him. In fact, he has told me in the past that he sometimes feels like a person with out a language. Nobody can understand his English in America, and when he returns to Egypt, nobody can understand his Arabic. He’s being a bit overdramatic. By day two in Egypt, he was quite comfortable yelling fluently at everyone who needed straightening out. This included the security guards in Giza, home to the Great Pyramid and the Sphinx.
Confusion reigned when we arrived in Giza. All the non-Egyptians in our van sat in the back, while my father-in-law and his sisters sat in front with the driver and yelled at the “security” guards who welcomed us at the entrance. The first argument was about whether or not we were going to be able to drive the van onto the premises.
The pyramids are on the top of a hill your ass doesn’t want anything to do with walking up, especially with a hoard of small children. The first conversation my Arabic speaking family members had with the hired help in Giza was about whether or not we could drive the van up the hill. After much shouting and pointing, we drove forward to the next checkpoint.
At the next checkpoint is where things started to get silly. You are goddam right I am an Egyptian. I married an Egyptian man’s daughter. Do you think he would have the atrocity to allow a non-Egyptian touch his daughter? Certainly not! Two Egyptians pounds is all we will pay for the Egyptian who just happens to look like a white person, and just happens to carry an American passport that says he was born in Omaha.
I believe that it was about this time that everyone was instructed to get out of the van. Bear in mind that this is Egypt; we were instructed to get out of the van approximately twenty times before we actually complied. And my wife is still mad at me for actually finally listening to the guards (I’m apparently crazy to do what a man with a gun says I should do). She maintains that I should have stayed in back and pretended to have some disease which made it physically impossible for me to exit the van.
Upon my exiting the vehicle with my blonde haired boy, absolute pandemonium breaks out. My father is “discussing” the situation, but I understand absolutely nothing of what they are saying, although I certainly understand the tone. As the voices continue to escalate, the uniformed guard points at me and says something especially loud. There’s kicking of dust, more finger pointing, more shouting, more walking in circles, and many hands in the air, followed by more screaming and pointing at me. Then, abruptly, the screaming turns to laughter, and my father-in-law heads off to building about 100 yards away and returns with 9 tickets: 2 non Egyptian tickets and 7 resident tickets. Obviously, one of the 60 LE non-Egyptian tickets was for me, but I’m still not sure how it was settled to buy 2 non-Egyptian and 7 Egyptian tickets.
Remember: 20 people. 9 tickets.
Later the same day, as we browsed around Giza, I asked my father-in-law what the guard was saying about me when he was pointing and shouting in my direction. My father-in-law smiled, “He told me that I could show him your birth certificate and he still wouldn’t believe you are an Egyptian. He didn’t believe you were Lebanese, either.”
We finished our time in Giza with a walk to Pizza Hut. As long as I’ve known my wife, she has told me about the Pizza Hut near the Pyramids (It strikes me now that my family doesn’t call the historical site Giza, but ‘the Pyramids’…strange?). Every time she visited the Pyramids they would finish their trip with a meal at Pizza Hut. This is also the designated location where you can finally take a piss.
There are not any bathrooms in Giza. Strolling around Giza, looking at the Pyramids, the camels, the crazy men on horses, the Sphyinx, the other random buildings with tombs inside but nobody knows what they are but they must be cool because there are in Giza…all this stuff takes time—several hours at a minimum. But my daughter doesn’t usually go multiple hours between potty breaks. She’s 5. The response “Just hold it,” will result in a meltdown, tears, and the need for a change of clothes. When touring Giza, we need to produce a bathroom on queue. Viola! The traveling potty. My wife found something on eBay for 40 bucks that evidently is a traveling potty. I’m not sure how it works, but it’s the size of a freesbie and if Ana needs to use the bathroom halfway up the steps of the Great Pyramid we can whip it out and everything is grand.
But my kids are world travelers. Or maybe they just have a nose for nostalgia. Ana, just like here Mommy, patronized the Pizza Hut for the very same reason her Mommy did so many years before. Once our tour of Giza ended, Ana and Elaine made a beeline for Pizza Hut. The past met the future.
No trip to Giza is complete without a ride on a camel. Ours was no different. But it could have been. We were almost gone, almost on our way back to the hotel, when my father-in-law decided he couldn’t pass up one more opportunity to “discuss” the price of something with another Egyptian. As we were loading back into the van, a man on a camel approached. We all ignored him. “La’a, Shoukran!” No thank you! 17 out of the 20 people were in the van, when abruptly, my father-in-law decided it was time to bargain. Yelling and arguing with the man on the camel ensued, followed with my father-in-law telling everyone to get back out of the van. It was time to take some pictures with the camel. Honestly, I think he just misses living in Egypt and negotiating everything by means of animated discussion. But it matters little. The kids got a kick out of seeing and sitting on a real camel up close in personal.The Egyptian Museum
We are not exactly sure what the Museum is called. I asked my wife today the name of the Museum and she said, “I don’t know. How about the Museum of Ancient Egyptian Antiquities? Or maybe the Cairo Museum? Nobody really knows for sure. It’s just the place where all the white people go when they visit Egypt.” What everyone knows is that the staff is absolutely determined to enforce the rule "no pictures."
I’m going with the “Egyptian Museum” only because that’s what it says on my white person entrance ticket. Just like Giza, there are two different prices to enter the Museum: The Egyptian price (which isn’t advertised); what everyone else pays. The trip to the Egyptian museum was a unique experience for us because we made the visit without my father-in-law or mother-in-law. Nobody else speaks Arabic. My wife and her brother and sister look the part, but their Arabic does not pass for an Egyptian. All four of Elaine and her siblings spent significant time in Egypt as children, mostly during the summers. They are comfortable with the Egyptian customs, way of life, the culture, and they even understand quite a bit of Arabic. But all of their family members in Egypt understand quite a bit of English, but are unable to speak English very well. This translates into a fascinating communication paradigm within the family, especially as an outside observer. The family members who live in Egypt speak in Arabic to the family members who live in the U.S., who then respond in English. This goes on for hours like it’s normal.Anyway, it was worth a shot to try and purchase the Egyptian tickets. My brother-in-law went up to the ticket booth with all Arabic writing and said “sitta” (six). The lady started pulling out 6 Egyptian tickets, my brother-in-law started sliding 12 LE (about 2 bucks) under the ticket window, and then the situation hit a snag. She asked him a question in Arabic. He didn’t have a clue how to respond—Elaine and her siblings can understand some Arabic, but don’t speak it very well. The ticket booth lady pointed to the other line. Thwarted.
Then there was the whole business of whether or not the children had to purchase a ticket. The English sign read Adults: 60 LE. Students: 30 LE. Our children are all under school age; they are not technically students. As with many other things in Egypt, the guidance provided allows ample room for discussion about the technicalities. We decided we’d try and buy tickets only for the adults and try and get through the entrance. It worked. We didn’t even need to argue about it, which after being in Egypt for a while is a slight letdown. The arguing is half the fun.
We entered the museum and decided it best if we split up. A building filled with ancient antiquities is not the best place to attempt to keep a group of 14 people together, especially when 8 of them are not yet old enough to be in kindergarten.
I was there for one reason. See the King Tut stuff. We decided to meet back at the entrance in an hour. Elaine and I were off to find King Tut. I’m not sure where James went, but I know where the Hasapopolopolous family went. Nowhere. The four kids lost their minds about 30 seconds into the tour of the museum. And we heard them from the other side of the museum.
The King Tut stuff was cool.
The Citidel
I knew little about Egyptian history when I arrived in Egypt. I intended to prepare for the trip by reading a little, but in all the other craziness of life, it just didn’t happen. And then I intended to read a travel guide about Egypt on the plane ride, but I both forgot to buy a travel guide and, well, you already ready about how the flights went. There was little time for quiet reading anyway.
There’s no use in elaborating on the Egyptian vs. non-Egyptian ticket price again, but needless to say we had a similar experience. To enter the Citidel is 60 LE if you are non-Egyptian, 2 LE of you are Egyptian. And my father-in-law was with us on the excursion. Repeat story from Giza here.
On the morning of our trip to the Citidel, I took a crash course on the history of the place based on readings from a Egypt guide book and other authoritative sites on the internet. The Citidel is a huge fortress in the middle of Cairo, built by Saladin. More recently, the Mohamed Ali mosque was built on the Citidel grounds.
The whole structure was quite impressive, especially the big mosque.
But what I’ll remember most about the trip is the incessant photographing of my children. Before the trip, my wife warned me that our kids were going to be, at times, treated like celebrities. Words can’t explain the pandemonium we experienced at the Citadel.
Over the course of the week, our children became quite familiar with complete strangers smiling at them and briefly touching their hair. In actuality, I think they were actually totally oblivious to it after a while. We couldn’t walk more than 3 minutes in the mall without a stranger finding it impossible to resist the temptation of touching yellow hair sitting on top of a head with subtly Egyptian features. Ben (our youngest) took to it the best. He waved and chatted and smiled with every Egyptian he could find.
The situation at the Citidel was at a completely different level. There were bus load upon bus load of school students touring the grounds at the same time as us. We literally had hundreds of children, I’d guess about age 10-13, taking pictures of us, mostly using their cell phone cameras. And the young girls in droves wanted to touch my boys. They smiled and yelled and waved and formed an endless boundary of bodies for us to walk through. I quite honestly felt like I had a small level of appreciation for what it might feel like if you were famous. It was cute. Ben enjoyed himself. Sam hid in the stroller. Ana struck poses for the camera.
Israel: The Lost Trip
The plan for our trip to Egypt called for a short sojourn to the Holy Land. Our reasoning was relatively simple; Israel isn’t far from Egypt, so why not? Besides, my mother-in-law is from Bethlehem. As long as we are seeing the father-in-law’s family, why not double down and see the other side, too?
I will elaborate on the entire experience, but if you want the crib notes version, I’ll give it to you now: Complete Clusterfuck.
About two months before the trip, we first had the bright idea to go to Israel. I was excited. In a previous life I as a seminary student (witness the url to this blog), and seeing some things in Israel sounded quite appealing. I don’t find myself getting overly exhuberent about the life changing experience it might be for me to walk in the places where Jesus walked, but still, it is Jerusalem; maybe a first hand experience would reinvigorate a now rather faint sense of piousness (doubtful), or at the least provide some perspective on why the world’s peoples are so hellbent on killing each other for a small piece of real estate in the middle of the desert (again, quite doubtful; I could life to be one thousand and never understand).
We started our quest for transportation from Cairo to Jerusalem online. Our frist thought was to look for railway transportation. Fat chance. How about a boat ride? A cruise through the Mediterranean might be nice. No way. You can, however, take a boat ride from the western bank of the red sea to the Jordanian shore on the Eastern side of the Red Sea, thereby traveling from Egypt to Syria and bypassing Israel altogether. Brilliant.
How about airfare? Egypt Air doesn’t fly to Israel. Are you kidding? My wife poked around a bit more, and discovered that you can take a flight to Amman, Jordan for quite cheap, and then board a bus bound for Jerusalem. We looked into it a bit more, and it certainly didn’t sound like anything which remotely sounded safe with several kids in tow. Hell, I don’t even think I would try it alone if I knew I had just a few months left to live.
Enter Air Sinai. Are they Egypt Air? No! And how do I book a ticket? You might be able to book a ticket if you call their office in New York. We called. 600 bucks per ticket. Mmm. I wonder if they have an office in Tel Aviv. Yes. We called. 700 bucks. How about if we call Egypt Air and find out if they know about this. No! We had family in Cairo drive to the secret Air Sinai office in Cairo. They might be able to do something for us for $450 per ticket. Come back the day before you leave. Cash only, of course.
We arrived in Egypt on a Friday. The plan called for leaving for Israel on Monday. My father-in-law took a taxi to the secure, undisclosed location of the Air Sinai office on Saturday morning, thinking he’d show up, buy some tickets (cash only, of course), and be back for lunch. Around the time we were sitting down at the hotel restaurant for dinner, he returned we 8 tickets for 12 people. We were assured the children 3 and under didn’t need a ticket, but might need to buy a 400 LE boarding pass upon arrival at the airport. Sounded reasonable.
Monday morning came. My father-in-law arranged for a van and a driver for the entire time we were in Egypt, and the driver had specific instructions to pick us up at the hotel at 7:00 am. Our flight for Tel Aviv left at 9:00 am, and it was only about a 10 minute ride from our hotel to the airport. We choose our hotel partly because of it’s close proximity to the airport, both for this flight and also the flight home at the conclusion of the trip. There’s one flight out of Cairo to Amsterdam (our connection) each day; at 4am. It made sense to be close to the airport.
The van never showed up. We still don’t know what happened to the driver. After all the trouble it took to arrange a van and a driver for our entire trip, we only used him for the ride form the Airport to the hotel the first night, and on day 3 when we went to the pyramids. After he missed picking us up for our flight to Tel Aviv, we decided we no longer wanted his services. For the next two weeks, every time we needed to go someone, we hailed cabs on the street. Ever try to hail a cab for 20 people? An exciting experience! But at least it gave us a daily outlet to participate in one of Egypt’s national pastimes—arguing over the price of a cab, and then arguing more at the end of the cab ride because inevitably something happened during the cab ride to increase the fare from the agreed upon rate when negotiations concluded at the beginning of the ride. There are no electronic devices which keep track of how much the ride is costing.
And the morning of our trip to Tel Aviv, we hailed cabs at 7:30 when we realized the driver wasn’t coming for us. We arrived at terminal two (the terminal our tickets told us to go to) at 7:45. At 7:55 we were hailing cabs again for a ride to terminal 1, where the flight was departing from. At 8:10 we were arguing with the security guard in terminal 1 about whether or not the children 3 an under needed it a ticket. He brought in four other security guards, and no amount of arguing was going to let us pass unless the little ones had tickets. We needed to go to the Air Sinai offices and get tickets for the little ones. No problem, where’s the Air Sinai office in the Egypt airport? Oh…that’s right…there isn’t one. Maybe Egypt Air could help, since Air Sinai is technically a division of Egypt Air (although you won’t find anyone that will admit it).
What’s strange about the episode in security is that Egyptian airport/hotel/museum security is lax about just about everything. During the course of the 2 weeks we were in Egypt, I probably walked through 50 metal detectors with a pocketful of coins, my belt on, and my phone and camera in my pocket. Each time, the metal detector lost it’s mind. Once or twice a guard took the time to stop and pat me down, felt my pocket where my phone was hiding, and asked me “phone?” I would nod my head without taking the phone out of my pocket for him to see and I was on my way. We took two additional flights while in Egypt, a roundtrip excursion to Hurghada, a small resort town on the Red Sea. During both of the trips, we had luggage filled with liquids, gels, knives, and scissors. We put the luggage on the x-ray machine in security and I don’t even know if anyone was looking at the screen to care.
But the fact that the small children didn’t have tickets was enough to damn near throw is in jail. Keep in mind that this was the security check to enter the Airport, not the one after checking in with the airline. After this security checkpoint is where we would have needed to discuss the issue with Air Sinai as to whether or not the children who were going to be sitting in our labs would actually need a ticket or boarding pass. The security guard didn’t care. Thou shall not pass.
So off to the Egypt Air office we went. Sure, they could get us the tickets for the little ones. They called Air Sinai and got right to work on it. At 9:45 they thought they had the processing complete. Would we like to purchase them? Our flight left at 9:10. We decided it wasn’t a good use of money. No problem my friend! There’s a flight which leaves at 11:15 for Istanbul and we can make a connection there to Tel Aviv. It’s a little longer, and there might be a small upcharge. We agreed. We’ll take it. No problem my friend! We’ll call Air Sinai and start working with them to transfer your tickets to Egypt Air. On moment please.
At 10:45, 30 minutes before the flight for Istanbul was scheduled to take off, and 10 minutes before the gate closed (remember we still needed to make our way through the security circus again) Egypt Air finished their urgent processing of the tickets in conjunction with Air Sinai. They just needed a credit card to charge the additional $10,000. We never made it to Israel.
Later, I found out from my wife that during the fiasco, the same security guard who wouldn’t let us pass also took the opportunity to verbally harass my wife while I was at the Egypt Air counter arguing about tickets. He was offended that the women in the family (my wife, her sister, and her mother) were “allowed” to have so much verbal interaction into how to handle the situation. Evidently my wife isn’t very good at doing what her husband and father say. I wish I knew how to say go fuck yourself in Egyptian.
The incident at the Airport that morning is a perfect example of the broad characterization of the people I met while in Egypt. There are two categories. The first is those whom generally have a sunny disposition on life, who are kind and willing to help whenever you need assistance, and everything will happen eventually As they say “no problem my friend. In a minute.” There is no hurry to get anything done, and we might as well enjoy the wait. The second category of people I met are the assholes. There are much fewer of these, I can count them on one hand. But I will remember them. The security guard, the night manager of the club room at the hotel in Cairo. And there’s a few more that aren’t worth mentioning.
We never made it to Israel. There wasn’t another flight available for travel from Cairo to Tel Aviv for the remainder of the two weeks we were there. Instead, we opted to join Elaine’s brother, James, who decided to spend a week in Hurghada instead of Jerusalem before we even arrived in Egypt. He correctly predicted that getting a family of 20 onto a flight from Cairo to Tel Aviv would be complete chaos and wanted nothing to do with it.
Hurghada: Invaded by Russians
Instead of traveling to Israel, we (sans father and mother-in-law—they ended up finding a way to Israel) spent four days at the beach. Things could be worse. The red sea is beautiful. Other than that, there's not much to say about our time in Hurghada, except:1) I enjoy listening to the ocean
2) I could get used to doing nothing all day buy sipping tea and watching kids splash in a pool.
3) Hurghada is a Russain vacation destination. The entire resort was like one big party in Moscow. Why do Russian parents think it’s O.K. to let their kids go swimming without swim suits on?
Sam sleeps with his hands behind his head now. I think this is a new development. I first noticed it in Egypt, as he fell asleep one night watching the Disney channel in our hotel room.
Egypt: we will be back, but not for the food
Everything tastes a little different here. There’s McDonalds, but it’s not the same. There’s Hardee’s, but the burgers aren’t quite right. One night we ordered KFC for the kids. They took one bite and started crying. There’s some weird spice that American children do not find finger lickin’ good. Pizza? What the hell happened to the sauce? We ordered pizza one night and it was soft bread with some weird ass goat cheese on it. Again, one ‘n done – one bite from the kids and they were looking for something else to eat. French fries are almost edible, but we stayed in the nicest restaurant in town. The potatoes still tasted a little off, and there a good crunch was missing from the texture, but all in all, my kids would eat them.
And don’t think for a minute that we didn’t try the local flavors. We have family here, remember? We attempted to find some food the kids were comfortable with because they aren’t a big fan of the authentic local cuisine. And this is a family raised on middle eastern cooking from their mother and grandmother. I think the problem was the quality of the produce and products, not the dishes themselves.
For the most part, all five of us survived on bread and cheese. You can’t fuck up bread, and in Egypt they do it absolutely right. We went to Spinney’s, the local grocery store, every morning and bought fresh baked flat bread. For the cheese, there was an assortment of local cheeses we purchased, but my daughter’s favorite was without question the “cow cheese,” a brand of cheese that not only, we assume, was made from cow’s milk, but also featured a cartoon cow on the package. I too, ate quite a bit of flat bread with cow’s cheese. It was delicious the first three days, to the point that I was holding my nose at the audacity of American suburban life and it’s lack of good local walk-up bakeries. On day fifteen I ate it only because I thought I was going to pass out from consuming nothing but black tea and honey for the first five hours of the day. Fuck quaint little walk up bakeries. I want buffalo wild wings.
Again, my kids basically live on Middle Eastern cuisine at home, so I’m a bit baffled at why they did not enjoy the food in Egypt. Same goes for me for that matter. There is not a good way for me to explain it. Everything we ate tasted mostly good…but not quite. I’m looking forward to getting back to the States.
I’m writing this section during my final hours in Egypt. It is 11:30 pm, our flight leaves at 4 am, our cab leaves for the airport at 1:30 am. Two hours to go. My wife and kids are in the hotel room trying to find a short few hours of sleep. I am electing to stay up and avoid the alarm at 1 A.M., which would undoubtedly be met with “who and where am I?!!” I am a heavy sleeper. It is difficult for me to put the hamster in my mind back on the wheel if I have only been sleeping for an hour or two.
I hope we come to Egypt again. Not for the food, of course. And I know we saw a part of Egypt that only few Egyptians see in their lifetimes—we stayed in the nicest hotel in Cairo (but it was cheap—my father-in-law was able to secure the Egyptian rate for us ☺). I am a bit conflicted about staying in the most extravagant hotel in Egypt, knowing and seeing what actual life in Egypt is like. For anyone who has spent time in a third world country, you can probably understand how I’m feeling. Every morning we were served an immaculate breakfast (that did not taste quite right…but almost) by extremely kind waiters who I hate to even know what they make for a daily wage. On the nights we returned to the hotel with extra food from dinner, instead of keeping it for ourselves and throwing much of it away, we walked the halls of the hotel until we found someone cleaning a room. On one occasion, the young man started to sob when we gave him two bags of leftover food from dinner.
I am sitting in the hotel lounge. Moments ago, my waiter came up to me and asked me how much the laptop I am using costs. I hesitated. I was embarrassed and ashamed. I have so much. I need so little. The things I want are not needs, but luxuries.
We spent time with our family who lives here in Cairo. We traveled to their houses and then
served us dinners, HUGE dinners. Their “houses” are small apartments, and yet my impression is that they are still far better off than most Egyptians.
During one visit, I was looking out the window of one family member’s house, which is located on the 8th floor of the building. Standing next to me was my daughter, Ana. We were looking out at the buildings across the street. On one building, it was evident that there was a family living on top of the building amongst trash and rubble, without a roof over their head. “Why do they live there, Daddy? Where is there house?”
“Some people live outside without a roof because the don’t have enough money to pay for a house with a roof. And aren’t we lucky to have a roof on our house? We had so much stuff, don’t you think?”
“Yes, Daddy. I am happy we have a roof. But why did God not give them one,
too?”
What would you say?
We will be back someday, god willing, because we have family here and because our children were immersed into a different perspective on life while they were here. There is something intangible and invaluable about spending time with family. I am happy beyond words that we came; I hope some day we will find our way back.James: you owe me 181 dollars
Monday, October 06, 2008
chili
(i created a "chili" label for all of my chili recipe testings)
Yesterday's recipe:1/2 lb spicy pork sausage
1/2 lb steak, cubed
1 red pepper
2 red onions
6 garlic cloves
few pinches of cumin
handful of ancho chili powder
1 bottle of beer
1/2 can red beans
1 can of black beans
2 habernero peppers (from my garden), whole
1 16 oz can of fire-roasted diced tomatos
2 tablespoons brown sugar
12 oz chicken stock
Thoughts:
I like the recipe. Nice heat, putting the habernero's in whole seems to give it good heat without over powering. And I don't have to chop them up, which my contact lenses appreciate later in the evening.
I think I want to try and chop the meat a little smaller, such that the meet chunks are about the same size as the red beans, maybe slightly larger, but not much. I think this would give the chili a nice consistent look/feel.
As always, I add the black bean immediately before serving. This provide the Chili with good texture. Overall, the cooking time for this chili was good, about 2 hours. I judge the best time to cook the chili by the doneness of the meat. Too much cooking, and the meat has nothing left; not enough, the meat is still not tender enough.
I don't like the look of the red pepper. I'll go back to using a green one next time.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
a basketful of lemons
I got a basket full of lemons and they all taste the same
A window and a pigeon with a broken wing
You can spend your whole life working for something
Just to have it taken away
If you are looking for our secret spot, drive west from Denver. Once you arrive in Glenwood Springs you know you are getting close. The air smells cleaner, cellular phone signals begin to flutter, and the liquor goes up in price by 50%. Keep driving.
Carbondale comes into view, a small little town on a fork in the road. Stay left and you’re off to Aspen. Hang right and the secluded beauty of the mountains, the forest, and rushing rivers greet you as a friend who welcomes you back to remember the moment you shared with her once before.
Now turn off your cell phone. Stop checking if you have a signal. I assure you it’s not going to work. It’s baffling how addicted we’ve become to technology. ‘No Signal’ might as well mean ‘no idea what to do now.’ Calm down. It’s going to be o.k.
Leave the highway. Make a time to find your way. Watch the dust settle back to the earth behind you. By now, the anticipation should be absolutely bursting inside your veins. Remember the river which separates peace from chaos? It’s approaching. You are going to cross it soon. Just one more turn and you’ll see her. You can already hear the rapids echoing though the canyon, a voice from heaven reminding you to take a deep breath, relax, and cherish each moment as it slowly passes into the embrace of memory.
I have basket full of lemons; thank god someone had enough foresight to bring vodka. Matthew, Joshua, Jesse, Jason and I spent four days in perfect peace. Just like last year, we crossed a small mountain creek and in an instant an enormous gulf emerged between us and the rest of the world. We were alone, free to think and dream and reflect. Or: time on our hands, whiskey in our blood, strategies for the next horseshoe game consuming our thoughts, and plenty of arguments about why Jesse and I have enlightened progressive political views and the rest of the rotten bastards we camp with will just never get it.
But alas, this is the camping trip which reminds Cletus why he never wants to work on a dude ranch. I might cook his breakfast, but he still has to saddle my horse and listen to me snivel about how my ass hurts. My biggest problem is that horses don’t much like me. Horses make me anxious. They are big, moody animals.
There’s a fundamental problem with being anxious around a horse. I believe we are all control freaks at heart. But when I sit on a horse, I don’t feel like I am in control and I start to feel nervous, especially when I kick bruises into its ribs and it still won’t go where I tell it. My suspicion is that when the rider gets nervous, the horse (at least the good for nothing ass-clown my “friends” make me ride), starts to get twitchy. I know, I know…horses can be controlled by people-just beat the shit out of them and they’ll get the point. Or, as my good buddy Cletus admonishes me, “Wrangle that horse, cowboy!” But I ain’t no cowboy and I like my worldview just the way it is. I’m no closer to a cowboy than I am a mermaid.
There ain’t no reason things are this way, and there are no explanations why I should be friends with people so different than me. Republicans! Readers of this space know it well - I don’t have many friends and I don’t care to. But could it be that the crazy idiots I sit around a campfire with really aren’t that different than me? We have common hopes, common passion for a better world, and a shared enjoyment of discussions which border on argumentative. As I reflect on our differences (I like showers, they like backstroking through a muddy river), I begin to wonder if maybe we are much the same. Horses make me nervous but I do my best to look brave and ride them anyway. Jack Daniels makes Cletus and Josh nervous but they do their best to look brave and ride it anyway.
I am being intentionally short on the details. And yet, not much happened. That’s the beauty of the trip. We literally get together, sit around a fire, and tell Matthew why cows are bad for the environment. (read the article for yourself: it takes 8kg of grain to produce 1kg of beef). Of course, there’s a few more things which happened, but the river keeps our secrets. I’m already thinking of next year. Josh, it’s your turn to bring the lemons.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Friday, February 15, 2008
sing it to me martin
Too cool not to watch. Martin's body is a wonderland. Loving me is like loving a fifth of the finest bourbon. Just ask my wife.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Monday, January 07, 2008
new music monday
Check out Pandora.com.
I love it - you tell it what song or artist you like, and it creates a radio station of songs that are similar. The scientific analysis behind different music is impressive. For example, I enjoy Elliott Smith because it features "Electric rock instrumentation, mild rhythmic syncopation, demanding instrumental part writing, minor key tonality and electric rhythm guitars."
For the best music of 2007. Just go read what Speckled Mind says. He knows music better than anyone I know. Seriously - where do you find the time to find all the good music?
I love it - you tell it what song or artist you like, and it creates a radio station of songs that are similar. The scientific analysis behind different music is impressive. For example, I enjoy Elliott Smith because it features "Electric rock instrumentation, mild rhythmic syncopation, demanding instrumental part writing, minor key tonality and electric rhythm guitars."
For the best music of 2007. Just go read what Speckled Mind says. He knows music better than anyone I know. Seriously - where do you find the time to find all the good music?
Sunday, January 06, 2008
new hampshire debate
I watched the debate last night. I'm just that much of a political wonk. And I followed along with the nytimes live blog.
My favorite comment:
As for the democratic debate: I see a Obama-Edwards ticket brewing. First, Hilary only hurt herself by getting red faced mad and claiming she has 35 years of experience making change. Here's the problem - when she talks of her "experience" she's implicitly asking people to vote for her because she's Bill's husband, not because of her own merits. Her "experience" is that of a President's wife, not as a president. And she tried to reform health care....i don't think it ended as succesfully as she'd like. If she's spent 35 years making change, why are things so shitty now? If this is "change," I'm not interested.
Back to the Obama-Edwards ticket. Obama is now the front runner. As such, he avoided direct criticisms of Hilary. He left the attacking for Mr. Edwards. Brilliant. John knows he's not going to be nominated, so why not start campaigning for Vice-President? I like it.
And he kept up the attacks today while campaigning, too! Check out this report from the New Hampshire campaign trail, where Edwards calls the Clinton campaign "without conscience."
My favorite comment:
As I watched the Republican debate, I was reminded that my favorite Republican candidate, John McCain, is much to hawkish for my tastes. Never fear - if Hilary wins the Democratic nomination I'll probably still vote for McCain, but reluctantly. I don't like the "Muslims are out to get us so we should fight wars to prove we are badasses" rhetoric.I wish someone would say the following to Hillary:
Senator, I served with Bill Clinton; I knew Bill Clinton; Bill Clinton was a friend of mine. Senator, you’re no Bill Clinton.
As for the democratic debate: I see a Obama-Edwards ticket brewing. First, Hilary only hurt herself by getting red faced mad and claiming she has 35 years of experience making change. Here's the problem - when she talks of her "experience" she's implicitly asking people to vote for her because she's Bill's husband, not because of her own merits. Her "experience" is that of a President's wife, not as a president. And she tried to reform health care....i don't think it ended as succesfully as she'd like. If she's spent 35 years making change, why are things so shitty now? If this is "change," I'm not interested.
Back to the Obama-Edwards ticket. Obama is now the front runner. As such, he avoided direct criticisms of Hilary. He left the attacking for Mr. Edwards. Brilliant. John knows he's not going to be nominated, so why not start campaigning for Vice-President? I like it.
And he kept up the attacks today while campaigning, too! Check out this report from the New Hampshire campaign trail, where Edwards calls the Clinton campaign "without conscience."
Saturday, January 05, 2008
new hampshire
As a Obama supporter, I'm a bit anxious about the outcome in New Hampshire. I'm especially interested to see how the independent vote falls on primary night. According to the Iowa entrance polls, Obama drew significant support from independents. But a New Hampshire favorite, John McCain, also draws well with independents. Will John and Barack compete for votes in New Hampshire?
Friday, January 04, 2008
iowa
Obama won Iowa. David Brooks from the New York Times summarizes best here.
I listened to Obama's speech last night and was inspired. You can watch it here.
I listened to Huckabee's speech and I now understand why he's gaining momentum. He's just downright likable. You listen to him and understand that even if you don't agree with his policies, you agree with his personality. Of course, voting for someone who is likable is what started this mess: many of us (myself included) voted for Bush Jr. in 2000 because he was "likable."
I listened to Obama's speech last night and was inspired. You can watch it here.
I listened to Huckabee's speech and I now understand why he's gaining momentum. He's just downright likable. You listen to him and understand that even if you don't agree with his policies, you agree with his personality. Of course, voting for someone who is likable is what started this mess: many of us (myself included) voted for Bush Jr. in 2000 because he was "likable."
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
if you build it they will come
The latest poll from Iowa has Obama leading Clinton and Edwards. Can't wait to see what happens on Thursday.
Link
I've heard all sorts of statistics about how winning the Iowa caucus doesn't mean much in terms of who eventually wins the nomination. Remember Howard Dean?
It's a bit unnerving to think that two small states (Iowa and New Hampshire) tremendously impact the outcome of our presidential election system. Or is it? Check out this article at the economist.
Link
I've heard all sorts of statistics about how winning the Iowa caucus doesn't mean much in terms of who eventually wins the nomination. Remember Howard Dean?
It's a bit unnerving to think that two small states (Iowa and New Hampshire) tremendously impact the outcome of our presidential election system. Or is it? Check out this article at the economist.
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