Preaching to the Choir - Late Night Ramblings on American Politics
Current mood: sleepy
Category: News and Politics

I recently wrote an e-mail to Ken, one of my students in Tokyo, to let him know that I'll be back in town next week and that we can resume classes.  Ken is one of my star students and I love talking to him.  One of his hobbies is collecting English idioms, so in the same e-mail I decided to mention one to him that's near and dear to me:  Preaching to the Choir. 

I explained:  

"When someone tells you something you already know, and is talking about it too much, they are preaching to the choir.  To make sense of this, think of a church, a preacher and a choir.  The choir's job is basically to assist the preacher in bringing God's word out to the people through song.  They typically stand behind the preacher, while he faces the church members to deliver his message.  If the preacher were facing the wrong direction, towards the choir, he'd be preaching to the choir--which is a waste of time for both he and the choir.  Does that make sense?  Let's talk more about it when we see each other next."

The reason I mention this idiom, is because America, right now, is at an impasse where we are destined to fervently preach our political positions to each other.  Those of us who were Democrats in the primaries—whether we were rooting for Hillary or Obama—are still Democrats.  The discovery of John Edward's affair didn't rock our world and make us think that Iraq really was a good idea.  At the same token voting Republicans then are still voting Republicans now.  Yet somehow, at this critical point, both media and individuals feel it is important to show how 'red-neck' Sarah Palin is, or how Obama hasn't ever led a marching band, let alone a country. 

American Politics don't allow concerned citizens the luxury of knowing that their vote is their argument, but that we have to validate our choices through discourse and emotion—almost as if an emotional vote that contains conviction is stronger than a luke-warm, wishy-washy vote.  We know that's not the case.  So, when we get behind a candidate who will take a Greener position on public policy, who vows to pull troops from Iraq, or who vows that abortion is murder, why are we getting emotional?  Do we really believe that we're rallying voters to our views, or are we preaching to the choir? 

All of us wear blinders.  In my perfect world we'd give Sheppard Smith the week off (to get neutered) and tell Geraldo Rivera that his next breaking story is right across that busy highway so that the Americans who tune into FOX news would listen to NPR, or take time to reflect on their positions.  Yet I'm realistic enough to know that it's not going to happen.  For many reasons—not all logical—our minds are made up and will not be moved.

So let's shut up.  Let's put down the microphones and stop hogging the spotlight from the candidates and focus our efforts on not only actually voting, but getting others to do it too.  If a Hillary supporter tells you they're not going to vote out of support for Hillary, smack them; but, make sure they can see the concerned 'I-wish-I-didn't-have-to-do-that' expression on your face when you do.  If someone says they're going for Obama or McCain, don't just remind them where they need to be on Election Day, drive them there.  Make sure you're voting and that those in your sphere of influence are doing the same. 

And if I've exhausted the choir with my preaching, I will only ask for one more thing.  Can I get an Amen?

Currently watching : The O.C. - The Complete Third Season Release date: 2006-10-24

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Spain Continued - Estepona
Category: Travel and Places

So there it was—luggage.  Not a baby carriage, but the luggage that was going to save me from turning underwear inside out twice, that was going to cloth me with fresh—though wrinkled—T-shirts and dress shirts still laden with wonderful aromas that only American detergent and fabric softener can give.  Luggage containing not used, but brand new socks purchased from Wal-mart, cushiony and comfortable, never dried too much, never stained.  Shoes to match appropriate events awaited hikes, tennis, dinners and beach combing.  And they were there, in front of me, clipped, tight, compact, and no longer a virgin to luggage belts and the cold bellies of passenger planes.  Hardened by neglect, but still shinny in its newness--my comrade had returned from battle.

"That's it?" Asked Tom.

"That's it," I said.

"Can we go now?  The sun's almost down."

Now complete, we navigated back out of Benalmadena, to one of the newer Autopistas, a toll road more in-tune with the more developed highways of the North, which eventually merged with the NIV—Spain's national highway.  Along the way, there was a car flipped over and on fire with the police and an ambulance on sight.  Cars slowed to see to if anyone was hurt, but it was hard to tell, and the policia ushered us on.   People were orderly and respectful.  Had this been Arizona, traffic would have been backed up for two hours to satiate curiosity.

The sun sank slow, and left a trail of rays blanketing the Andalucian hills.  We were bound for an expensive hotel in Estepona, but only for one night.  The idea was to get there early and enjoy the pools, tennis courts, jet skis and other general luxury, but the luggage issue delayed us, and getting lost on the way there didn't help either.  Upon arrival it was clear that the money spent was more than well worth it.  Estepona's Golf Hotel had a wide and long lobby and pleasant smell.  There were brilliant terraces overlooking the moonlit med, and insects dancing around the flames of hotel's torches.  The grass was freshly cut and there was a tawny look to the boat house light on the beach.  The first impression was a touch too romantic for two men traveling together.

I got somewhat chatty with the receptionist who complimented my Spanish.  Tom seemed to think she took a liking to me and was one-hundred percent sure that I should go back and talk to her, so I did.  She told me that she was going to be in Estepona village that night, drinking with her friends.  She was pretty, and aside from her flattery, I didn't feel much for her.  But she was there and there, at that time, was enough.  After a few drinks, we made our way out to Estepona without really knowing where she'd be.  It turned out that the village was small enough to be able to decipher where local bars are and where the tourists go.  Though Estepona herself was deserted in comparison with my memories of Spanish nights, finding her took no GPS.  Tom was more enthusiastic for me than I was for myself when I found her.  Her English was shoty, the kind that's limited to hotel transactions and solving client's problems, so we spoke in Spanish and it occurred to me instantly that I really had no interest in her and that maybe just being there wasn't going to be enough.  While Tom was chatting with the bar owner, she looked at me and said.  "Me invites a un Whiskey o que?"  Are you going to buy me a drink, or what?  Her female friends were other Spaniards in the service industry, dressed casually with large hoopy earings.  They became immediate friends, but with some distance as there seemed to be boundaries already drawn.  As drink after drink went by, my stomach began to feel queasy and she started singing.  Tom checked in to ask how things are going, and before I could mouth the words, "I don't know," her voice overpowered the room in concert with a gypsy rumba.  She sashayed and snapped her heals to what appeared to be a well known song, and instead of seeing the situation for its beauty, or a hook-up opportunity, I sat there, drinking quietly, still jet-lagged, still tired from sleepless days.  Tom egged me on to take advantage of the fact that he thought she liked me, but I wasn't feeling it.  Her arms in the air, singing at the top of her lungs, prompted her mother to come out of, well, nowhere--I have no idea where her Mom came from.  The two argued for a minute and then she looked at me.  "Voy a casa," she said. 

"You live with your mother?"

"Yes, it's complicated," she said and disappeared out of the bar. 

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Facebook
Category: Friends

Hey Folks, I'm spending more time on Facebook than am I here.  Feel free to add me by going to:

http://www.new.facebook.com/profile.php?id=690550404

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My Life in Japan Part 3 - Sex, the Mafia and The Town Down the Road
Current mood: chill
Category: Travel and Places

Tonight is a special night in Tokyo.  It's not a holiday or a weekend night.  No special emperor was born today that I know of, nor has a known life changing event happened.  Tonight is special because the temperature outside is perfect. So perfect, that I set off on a bike ride to Ozaku, the town down the road--and I didn't even break a sweat.  While I feel the capacity to sing the weather's praises in four part harmony, I can never return from Ozaku without saying to myself: I need to blog about this place.  I need to tell the world about Ozaku. 

Like my small city (Hamura-shi,) Ozaku's center revolves around the pedestrian traffic near the train station.  However, unlike my city, Ozaku has few restaurants--so far I've counted three, to include Makudo Narudo, a.k.a. McDonald's and the one I was kicked out of about forty five minutes ago for not being Japanese (another blog, for another time.)  Only three eateries and yet the city is a beacon of light pollution, a sampling of downtown Tokyo that looks like it was brought in on trucks to the suburbs.  Ozaku is a Yakusa run city--full of hostess bars, a smattering of casinos, and what I assume to be brothels. 

A student of mine from my personal English instruction service, English with Eric, recently told me how to compare between the subtle differences of hostess bars and brothels.  Hostess bars can be as much a part of a Japanese man's life as sushi.  These are places where white collar salary men go for feminine charm and conversation.  For a sitting charge of anywhere between approximately $30 - $60 an hour, a man can engage in conversation with one of the hostesses--she will smile, listen to him recant his day and be pleasant.  Drinks at hostess bars tend to be priced above average and a female's drink will usually cost more.  I am curious how often salary men come to these bars, which one is the best and what makes one hostess better than another--and if there's a hostess of the month award for measured customer satisfaction.  If I were to pay for conversation, I know I would want it to invigorating, edgy--maybe be challenged, but then again, I'm American and most of the time I've spent in my own country has been spent in blue states.  I'm not much of a fan of talking and only having a pretty smile to be my response.... Sorry, I digress.  Hostess bars tend to take in a good income.  Some of the hostesses are young Japanese women; however, many also come from some of the lesser economically developed Asian countries like the Philippines and Thailand.  White hostesses from Russia, the Ukraine and so forth would not be found dead in somewhere like Ozaku--they're closer to Ginza, Shinjiku and Tokyo, where white collar gaijin come to spend their expense accounts.  Prices tend to be on display outside of the hostess bars and tend to have the terms and conditions of sitting down written in--of course--Japanese. 

My student enlightened me on how to tell difference between a hostess bar (which serves up beer, eye candy and ego strokes,) and a bar that is taking it a few steps beyond.  The key, he told me, is to see what the prices are for sitting down.  Once it starts to go up past $60 an hour to sit and into the $80 an hour catagory, a customer can expect to engage in touching--or to be touched by the hostess.  Specifically, one can expect to have their hair stroked, hand held and for a woman to not lose her cool when a customer decides to put a hand on a bare knee.  For these bars, there tend to be low level Yakusa ushering in Japanese customers (sometimes only Japanese customers) who typically pick up their stride and keep walking--getting involved with Yakusas is known to be taboo. 

Lastly, there is sex for sale.  Though this is not advertised the way it is in the canal streets of Amsterdam, with prostitutes cooing in potential Johns from their full body length windowed door.  Simply the price on the sign outside is increased.  Sex, from what I understand, goes for approximately $200. 

So it's a no brainer that sex sells and I highly doubt if many of my readers are going to come Ozaku--even when they come to Tokyo on business; but, share your thoughts all the same--would hostess bars take off in Western countries?  Can conversation be a commodity, and if so--does the mafia have to have control over it?

6:50 AM - 9 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

My Life in Japan Part 2 - This One’s Short and Sweet
Category: Travel and Places

I sat down for lunch with a friend yesterday in a traditional, but posh restaurant where most people don't have individual tables--rather patrons sit at one long U shaped table, positioned around a saltwater pool of swimming fish.  Fish that later become lunch. 

Because it was a normal duty day at the base, I was in uniform and the only "gaijin" (foreigner) there.  A polite old man came over to my left side and asked with glowing formalities if he would be permitted to sit next to me, and even made apologies as he was sitting down.  That part was no shocker.  Japanese make apologies as a simple courtesy, to ease the blow of any--however inconsequential--action that is about to follow.  The thing that made me stop chewing my food is what he said to me.  "I've never sat next to a gaijin before. My brother died as a kamikaze pilot fighting you guys, but you know, that's all is the past now. Enjoy your meal."  This was translated to me, by my friend.  There was pain in her face as she said the words.

Currently watching : The O.C. - The Complete Second Season Release date: 2005-08-23

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Portugal - Lisbon to Oporto, How I met Lucy
Current mood: productive
Category: Travel and Places

I arrived in Lisbon in a state of post-caffeine withdrawal paranoia, the kind that makes fun and lively atmospheres less so.  Yet in the airport were some fried cheese and shrimp dumplings Portugal was famous for.  I had two and something else without shrimp.  Disregard the fried cheesy artery clogging attributes of the dumplings—they had shrimp.  Shrimp are healthy, shrimp are direct protein and they represented what I should have been eating all along for the first three weeks of the trip. I wanted to have more, maybe take a few for the road, but the sun was so bright and the afternoon heat swayed me quickly from thinking about food.  Especially thinking about what they might look like some hours later. 

In the spirit of frugality, I decided I would take the airport bus the train station.  Yet it was now two-something and the sun was positioned directly over the bus stop, cooking my hung over and dehydrated body into a human jerky.  I couldn't tell if I longed for water, a café, or both.  I didn't know what I wanted, except to get to the station and to get a shower.  I had to prevent myself from acknowledging the last part.  Whatever the train schedule is, I thought, it was going to be a long time before I had one of those. I tried to hail one of the cabs, returning into the airport.  Two passed without acknowledging me, then four, then seven, but the eighth one stopped and said something in Portuguese that sounded similar enough to Spanish that I needed to get in line with the rest.  I looked around, squinted, looked around again, and then saw the curb side taxi queue outside of the arrivals hall.  I was somewhat convinced that whatever train was passing through Lisbon for Oporto that day might have been missed.  The train station is a downhill b-line from Lisbon's airport and can easily be reached on foot.  I had no sooner settled into the final resting place of second hand tobacco smoke that doubled as a taxi, as the driver pulled under a railway bridge.  "Here?"  I asked.

"Aqui," he said in Portuguese.

At first I thought that he was gypping me on the taxi fare, but it occurred to me that arguing made no sense, that quiveling over a five euro fare was going to get me thinking about it for the rest of the day, about who was wrong, who had the moral right, if a surcharge was appropriate for luggage or the airport, if he sized me up and decided I was enough of a potential victim for him to push the bend-him-over-a-barrel- fare button that might have been fifty cents for one of the local fish mongers, but a clear and crisp five euro bill for yours truly.  Had I argued with this man who was probably more or less my age, but with rotting teeth, a tweed cap and an armpit stained polyester shirt, I would have lost my day.  Five Euros for less than one hundred seconds of travel.  I imagine the local prostitutes charge less. 

Flying while hung-over and with an hour and forty five minutes of sleep under your belt is never recommended.   Drinking coffee after high priced airport coffee isn't recommended either.  Forgetting to put water in your body during this self-abusive process is also among the list of don't-dos, just as is packing a 100 liter backpack to the hilt with good-to-haves for those just-in-case moments.   I thought of this.  I thought of this a lot, with each step up to the third floor of Estação de Lisboa.  With the idea of sinking into a cushiony chair with perfumed cloth, classical music playing in the train cabin, a foot stool to let my swelling feet breathe on and an old, but distinguished waiter serving me cups of mineral water, I bought a three Euro supplement for my first class pass.  I imagined telling this anticipated waiter to please keep the lemon wedge out of the water, that my stomach is upset and the citric acid alone could induce nausea.   I envisioned asking if he would please be so kind to bring me some blinders to keep the day light out while I napped during our journey and to also, if he would, wake me five minutes before we arrive in Oporto.  I imagined him handing me a cool hand towel and relishing the opportunity to speak English with me and happy that he had yet another opportunity to make a client happy.  My imagination ran a little wild with the potential for sleep and first class service.  Yet the platform was barren and nothing like platforms of Europe's other major cities. 

Frankfurt's train station is always bustling between the S-bahn, U-bahn, International and domestic trains.  Paris' Gare du Nord activity cannot be contained in the train station itself, but has train station life pouring out into the city for blocks.  Berlin's Hauptbahnhof Ost has efficient and constant ticking of trains coming and going, synchronized with a large second hand on an obese Godfather-like clock that seems to not only show the time, but dictate orders to obedient well trained electric passenger carrying centipedes on wheels.  They rush off Hamburg, Hannover, Frankfurt, Mannheim, Dresden and Bavaria.  The clock sends these domestic Inter City Express trains as well as international ones like Berlin-Warsaw express out to  Frankfurt am Oder (the other Frankfurt, as we call it,) Szezecin, Bydgdoszcz and Warsaw and receives it back all from its ever pushing and pulling second, minute and hour hands. 

Yet my stone gray platform, my blocks and slabs of lifeless concrete felt like a grand mausoleum of the middle class deceased who couldn't afford etching and sculpture.  It felt like resting place for a soul that was once a train, for sprits who were once passengers and I could feel their ghosts and smell the farts and armpit stench they left behind, as if they were here but a minute ago, as if they were hiding behind a wall within my vicinity, and someone was saying to the crowd "Not a sound, not even a sneeze."    A small thin man—wearing a uniform, hat and some kind of official seal attached to his coat and hat—finally appeared.  His presence put a fire extinguisher to my existential imagination, and saved me from convincing myself that I wasn't really in one of Dante's early rings of inferno.  I asked him where the first class car would arrive, but he told me there was none on the regional train and that it would come in twenty minutes.  The single and most modern creature comfort that would be found was a non-smoking car, whose doors coincidentally opened right where I stood.  Rather, there was one other comfort—a dining car, and as luck would have it, it was adjoined to my car.  Once I had sat and sunk as far into the thinly padded chair as I could, it took a grand effort to make my way out of my chair and walk eight feet through the corridor to the next car.  Normal people with a sufficient supply of energy, I was sure, wouldn't have gone through weighing so many pros and cons as I did and wouldn't have taken so long doing it.  Though I had forgotten to conveniently blame the previous evening's party, three hour flight, dehydration and lack of sleep, I decided at that moment that I was not among the normal and desired to be, the same way a butler longs to join the tea party he's serving to, and maybe interject something into the conversation, but then realizes where his place in the world really is.  I was beginning to wonder if fatigue was and would be my permanent state. 

The majority of the passenger car I was in was refreshingly empty.  Yet it wasn't the same cause for celebration one has when they board a flight with few people.  It wasn't a sprawl-out-among-the-economy-class-rows-and-sleep moment—the kind that allows you to celebrate even with the known discomfort of seatbelt buckles and arm rests that don't ever go back far enough to let you forget they're in bed with you.   Rather, these arm rests didn't go back and the seats only tilted far enough to tease.  The dining car was somewhat atypical too.  No actual seats with tables, just stools and a bar that looked out upon the Portuguese landscape.  Looking out of the window, I laughed to myself when I shared the same thought a character in an Almodovar film (whose name I couldn't and now still can't place) made an observation when driving across the Spanish-Portuguese border.  "It looks like Spain," she said.

"That it does," I caught myself saying back to a film I had then seen six years ago and saw my own reflection in the train's Plexiglas window talking to myself.  Travel, I then realized, had an inverse effect than the mental healing I was going for—rather than making me sane, I was going somewhat crazy by keeping company with only myself.  This whole trip has been a cat and mouse game, I then realized.  Who is going to keep me from getting bored?  Sometimes the search itself was stimulating enough, even during the times I didn't win the company of a boredom killer.  And sometimes the lingering effects of good company could keep me pleased for a day or two after we split ways.  Whether I wanted my quiet solitude to change or not, it was going to be an afterthought sooner than I imagined possible.  I just didn't know it yet. 

Back in the passenger car was a cute and very well endowed North American girl with long brown hair, anywhere between 24 and 26 years old.  Her casual and loose fitting sports pants, a tank top with cleavage that looked like it was going make the levee break, running shoes and baseball cap gave her away as a North American.  So did her English copy of Lonely Planet's European travel guide.  If I were to guess her biography, I would've guessed that she came from Cleveland, that she taught the fourth grade, and keeps in touch with her parents a lot, especially her dad.  She talks his ear off on Sundays, when he would rather be watching golf or tennis on television in the comfort of central air conditioning.  Yes definitely North American, I thought to myself—no way is she from the UK.  Maybe she is.  No, she can't be.  And there's not a chance she's an Aussie, but she could be from New Zealand—they blend in well with the American population.  But she's not from South Africa.  No.  Not a chance.  She's far too comfortable in her skin and doing a great job of ignoring me.  It's going to be awkward talking to her, but it's also going to make the time go by quickly.  Let's just do this.  Go up for the layup shoot, get shoot down, and move on along our merry Portuguese way.  With all my aforementioned limitations, I didn't have a lot of clever ice breaking things to say to her and all I could come up with to dissuade this girl, woman, from her cumbersome looking travel guide was:  Excuse me, are you from the States?

There was no pause, no stopping to ask again what this stranger said to her, but only a quick and decisive closing of her book that left a muffled echo in our small shared space.  Before I was done with my last syllable, before the word "States" had fully turned into a sound, she had begun speaking.  She was waiting for me, for someone, to talk to her.  "From Montreal, actually," her head whipped around to face me.  "You?"

"I grew up in New Y---" 

"Canadian, you know, we actually speak French there too.  We all have to speak French, which I love by the way.  I actually speak French, English and Spanish, and I've been working on my Portuguese since I've been here, which hasn't really been that long, but you know, you've got to try new things.  Have you ever been to Montreal?"

"Yeah, whe—"

"I love it, personally.  But I wanted to travel this summer, get away, you know.  I was just in Spain, but I'm going back.  I have one of those Spain-Portugal passes, but the Euro is killing me.  I mean God, it's like 2 to 1 against the Canadian dollar, but that's okay, because I work for Marriott and if I want, and if there's room available, I can use my employee discount here—I just need to fax a request over to the headquarters in the States, and it's only like fifty dollars, U.S..  It's only money, right?  Where did you say you were from?"

Sleeping giants awoke.  Pandora's Box opened.  I was destined for the next hours between Lisbon and Oporto to listen, not necessarily actively,  but to be a body in which she could fire thoughts toward—not the deepest thoughts, not the most thought provoking things, but some known facts (they speak French in Canada) and some unknown ones (I get a discount at the Marriott because I'm an employee.) For the present I preferred her company, of her version of what conversation is and to see if she wouldn't catch me catching a peak at a pair of breasts she must have prepositioned not only for viewing, but to have a flood light shone onto.  I preferred this to thinking about Almodovar films I couldn't remember the title to and finding myself talking to myself though the reflection of windows. 

This is how I met Lucy. 

1:00 PM - 0 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

MySpace Deleted One of MY Photos!
Current mood: tired
Category: MySpace

Imagine my suprise, waking up to this message from MySpace Safety & Security:

5:38 AM - 3 Comments - 3 Kudos - Add Comment

New Blog Up on Lonely Planet’s Page - Ms. Vivian, Brits Behaving Badly and Belt 28
Current mood: happy
Category: Travel and Places

Lonely Planet has posted Part IV of my blog series on returning to Spain Ms. Vivian, Brits Behaving Badly and Belt 28.

Join me in this blog as we pick on my British friends, calm a flying phobic woman and discover that there can be consequences to taking a connecting flight through Gatwick during high season.

Bring on the comments!

Best,
Eric

7:00 AM - 1 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Lonley Planet Posts Work from Eric’s Travel Blog this April
Current mood: gallant
Category: Travel and Places

Dear Friends, Family and Freaks alike,

It's already started.  Lonely Planet is posting a series of my blogs on their MySpace page this month.

The blogs cover the theme of returning to Spain--where I once lived--after living in the States.  If you'll excuse the self promotion (I fired my PR rep this week...) this is a comical adventure in lost luggage, shameless stereotypes and unpolitical, but correct, observations of travelers from all walks of life.  I also talk about meeting girls a lot.
CLICK HERE to check it out and show some love by flooding their page with comments.

Lonely Planet Americas is in my top friends.  Add them.  Do it now. 


Best,

Eric

4:21 PM - 8 Comments - 9 Kudos - Add Comment

Buying 'Crap' Off the Street - Anniversary Series - The Romanian Road - Part 3
Current mood: sleepy
Category: Travel and Places

For no reason at all, I decided to emerge from the Metro at Piata Romana and start my journey into the city.  From the looks of things around me, it was a good choice.  Bucharest was bustling and I was on one of the principal avenues that connects the city, Bulevardul Dimitre Cantemir.  Though Piata Romana is far from the center, one wouldn’t really be able to tell from first glance.  It was just as crowded as New York’s 5th Avenue, and it had that same midtown feel.  The sidewalks were heavy with pedestrian traffic, street vendors and magazine stands.  Cars honked often and the auto congestion was constant.  Looking at the cars made it clear that there is a wealth gap here--one sees enough Audis and Mercedes with large engines, and also a lot of old Russian cars holding on for their dear life.  The key is in what you don’t see--middle class cars, the Hondas, Fords, Hyundais and Toyotas of the world.  Yes they exist, but strikingly few in comparison to either luxury cars or lesser models.  It seems like a great stratification exists between the upper-middle class and rich society and the very poor.
    Within minutes these unregulated beasts rolling down the boulevard left an unsubtle film on my tongue--lots of diesel fuel in the air and the pollution here is hard to handle.  

    Along the sidewalks girls in school-girl uniforms and young women walked arm in arm, and people talked over the noise.  The older teenage and early twenty something women has a universal young-university-girl sound to their speech, talking about whatever they talk about, but in an indiscernible language, with tones that pitched disapproval of something, and laughs that show they’re entertained, flattered, or embarrassed.  Worn old Gypsy women with bandannas draped over their heads had territory over sides of streets, begging with a basket, repeating their words in a meager and meek voice, but on auto repeat.  McDonald’s was open for business, and so were some of the same "fast-food" restaurants I see in Greece.  I thought to myself that if I caught the next shuttle to the moon, McDonald’s would be there too.  It will only be time before Starbucks comes to muscle in on Bucharest’s street corners, I thought.  If they can take over a mom and pop cafe like they did in Heidelberg that was open for over 25 years, they can take over Bucharest’s corners, follow McDonald’s to the moon and maybe even have a place in Central North Korea--yet instead of contemporary art on the walls, they’ll have to oblige by national law and have picture of the "Great Leader" Kim Jung Il. 

I can hear it now.  "One Venti Non-Fat Soy Double-Pump Almond Latte, death to imperialist Japan and the United States and praise be to our great leader, next order now or we’ll send you to political rehabilitation."  Yet Starbucks will have to move on to another Bucharest corner, as McDonald’s has the one of Piata Romana. I digress....  
    I came to Bucharest almost expecting to have to have the story written--I thought I’d write more or less along the lines of previous communist oppression, poverty and pretty girls (I’ll still write about pretty girls, promise.)   Yet I re-had a watered down epiphany as I walked south through Piata Romana: No matter where your plane touches down, and no matter how indigenous a zone claims to be, street vendors tend to sell the same crap.  Call it one for globalization, call it whatever you want--when I travel out as far as Bucharest, I don’t expect to see posters of Kurt Cobain and a "Legalize marijuana" Bob Marley poster, next to the air brushed white smile of Britney Spears.  The same bracelets, sunglasses, choker necklaces were in Athens yesterday afternoon during my layover, and eight hours back home in New York, they’re just being uncovered on 14th Street, about two doors down from where one can buy a hot dog or knish.  Remember those indigenous South American Indians you saw playing wood flutes in San Francisco, New York, L.A., Piccadilly Square and Rome? They’re here too--selling the same indigenous CDs.  It almost makes me think they have South American infomercials on late night San Paulo television.  "You too can be part of a traveling Indian band!  Wow tourists, make street change, sell burned CD, and sleep with lot of wo—well, at least you get first three."
    Crap is king in the global economy, and when I’m out and about on these random tours of the world, I--like any consumer--like crap.  Shouldn’t I be fare?  Shouldn’t I not call it crap, but rather low-priced-goods that a six year old from third world country worked so hard to produce?  Crap is shorter--just consider in an acronym in a language neither of us understand.  It is crap, because after said trip is over, nine times out of ten, these CDs and from a tribe you think you sympathize with at the time and the street goods are going to end up at the bottom of a drawer.
    Yet one of the cool things about these street vendors selling crap is that once in a while you do find that keeper.  You might find that pair of sunglasses you wear until one of the small screws falls out--a screw, I might add that we always vow to replace when the opportunity to stumble across a sun glass repair kit happens.  That’s usually at the same location that sells the same crap or somewhere similar or nearby.   Telling ourselves this becomes part of the same inventory of hollow promises we make to ourselves--and we all have more than one.  These promises get filed in the same drawer as the broken sunglasses.  It’s better to just buy another pair and relive the crap buying experience. 
    At these markets there’s always the opportunity to get that one name brand knock-off that your 100% convinced your friends won’t find you out on.  Admittedly, I’ve been looking to replace one of the choker necklaces I’ve had--the kind that a guy can wear and still be a guy--as I used to look good it when I was twenty four.  Sadly, as I write this, I know, that one, if not a few, if not more than ten, of my female friends who knew me when I was twenty four is reading this and saying, "No, no, you didn’t."  Worse off, they had to say no twice.  Ouch. The other great thing about these Ad Hoc outdoor markets is that they bring back a bohemian feeling of commerce that has long dwindled with the advent of Gap, J-Crew, Abercrombie, McDonald’s on the Moon, Starbucks in North Korea and--the great American pass time, which we’ve been so kind to export--the shopping mall.  While in Abercrombie you pay over fifty dollars for a cut off pair of fatigues at a set price, on the street you can and should haggle.
    Further south down Dimitre Cantemir, there is a whole city block that is dedicated to major travel agents from all over Eastern-Europe. There are sex-shops and twenty-four-hour casinos, and shops that sell random and overpriced electronics. Walking down the boulevard reminded me of New York in some parts and in some pockets Seattle, yet the majority of the Bucharest at this point had the all business Frankfurt feel to it.  (to be continued....)

Currently watching : Seinfeld - Season 9 Release date: 06 November, 2007

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Thanks Everyone - Eric’s Travel Blog is at the Top of Travel and Places
Current mood: inspired
Category: Travel and Places

Though blog rankings are flash-in-the-pan fame and change overnight, I want to thank everyone who reads my blog.  All these hits put my blog in number 1 catagory for Travel and Places.

I’ll be posting more in the near future and will be doing some work for Lonely Planet next month.  More to come on that later, but for now I just want to pass on my gratitude--thanks again!

Best,

Eric

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My Life in Tokyo - Nightlife, Love Hotels, the JR and More....
Current mood: amused
Category: Travel and Places

Okay, I should come clean with something before we start this.  I live in Tokyo, yes, but I live in Tokyo the same way that someone from Queens or Staten Island lives in New York.  And though the great nightlife districts of Tokyo are twenty miles away, to get somewhere that would only take twenty minutes in the States, takes two hours by car and an hour by Japanese Railways (a.k.a. the JR.) One of the first things I learned once my boots touched the ground is that measurements in distance are irrelevant, travel in Tokyo is measured only in time.  Since I’m not a fan of drinking a driving, traffic or paying over $50 for parking and another $25 in tolls the JR is always the best out of two choices, especially when alcohol is involved. 

Yet just like the Stockholm metro, the NYC subway, Germany’s U-Bahn, S-Bahn and Strassenbahn--just like any other public transportation anywhere in the world, there is always a last train. 

Most of us leave the house vowing to make that last train home, to stay true to a our circadian rhythm, knowing that Monday morning will otherwise be the angry wife no one wants to come home to.  Yet in the seducing concrete maze of dazzling lights and neon that’s only rivaled by the Vegas strip, vows and promises get broken, names get forgotten and people in small groups and masses start to look more beautiful as the night goes on.  Yet once you’ve had your fill and you feel like you’ve over-smoked your clothing in second hand fumes, what does one do?

The standard answer from most of my twenty-something friends is that you party more.  For me, however, I’m sort of phasing out of my tomcat days.  Coughing up hairballs at daybreak went out with parachute pants and fat shoe laces and just seems less fashionable now.  So, for a mere $210 a taxi will take me home.  For a pittance of $800 one can rent a bed at the Oakwood hotel, or even less at the Hyatt for $500.  Chump change, right?  Maybe for you, Mr. Trump, but for the rest of us who want rest without taking a second mortgage or selling off the 401K, here’s a few suggestions:

- A Love Hotel

A what?  A who?  Yes, a Love Hotel.  These novelty hotels are designed for young Japanese couples.  Because of Tokyo’s high cost of living, it’s common for unmarried people who are still in their late twenties--and even those in their thirties and forties--to continue living with their parents.  Small houses, rice paper thin walls and family members consistently up in your grill, mistresses on the side and a need for privacy spawned the invention of rooms one can rent for two and four hour increments.  Love hotels make their money by constantly turning over the room and range from budget to luxury accommodations and prices. 

Love Hotels have a ’rest’ price and a ’stay’ price. 

The ’stay’ price tends to only be five or ten dollars more than the ’rest.’  However most of these hotels don’t offer the stay if they feel they’re going to be able to keep getting ’rest’ customers.  After midnight many Love hotels cut their losses and open up their ’stay’ rates (I don’t know why this is, to tell you the truth.  If Eric Clapton’s song After Midnight isn’t any indication for prime renting time, I don’t know what is.  But I think that album is due to be released here in 2013, anyway....)  That’s where you come in, so to speak.  Either paired up, or paired off, you can get yourself a sterile, pristine room for budget prices, ranging in dollars from 25 - 60, and many on the high end as well.

- 24 Hour* Spas

Is the second hand smoke from your jacket making your eyes water?  Are you still trying to shake the image of more than seven couples with unknown personal hygiene using the same room in a day?  Maybe a Love Hotel isn’t for you.  Try one of Tokyo’s many 24 hour spas.  For approximately 30 dollars you can shower, sauna, jacuzzi, wrap up in a robe and fall asleep in a comfortable lawn chair.   Massages and milk baths also available for extra fees.  Sweat out all that Gin and Rum, steam the stale tobacco smell out of your body (your clothes are another matter.)  Don’t worry about your stuff, it’s locked up.  Besides crime and predators here are amazingly almost non-existent.  We could learn a lot from Japan, but that’s another blog. 

*24 Hour is kind of misleading.  They usually close between 0900 -1100 to refresh everything, but by that time you should have your butt back on the train home. 

- Eat

My God, I thought New York was a food city (and it is.  No disrespect to my beloved New York.  Please don’t hurt me.)  Tokyo has the most gourmet restaurants awarded three Michelin stars in the world.  Of course they’re not open after midnight, but there are plenty of great places that are.  Prices vary and English menus are often available.  I don’t recommend living on the edge and pointing at the first thing you see written in Japanese--you might end up with raw horse meat.  Nope, I’m not kidding.  Giddy up, cowboy. 

- Internet cafes

Cushy office chairs.  Desk space.  Fast downloads.  Drinks  and snacks delivered.  Get on Skype and wake up your friends in States.  They have it coming, they do it to you, those inconsid--never mind, my friends are probably reading this. 

- Movies

Okay, I have to admit I was in for a shock when I paid $18 for a movie ticket in Shinkiku.  General movie theater etiquette, like wearing your shoes and not draping your legs over the seat in front of you tends to go out the window after 3 A.M.  Leg draping unrecommended if somone in seat in front of you. 

- Gentleman’s Clubs

I’ve always found that to be a tongue in cheek cliche.  That girl you’re talking to with an unidentifiable slovic accent?  Oh yeah, I’m sure she’s into you.  Mom will love her.  Does $3,500 for a bottle of champagne sound appealing?  If so, bring your Visa card.  The Japanese mafia doesn’t take American Express. 

Currently listening : Eric Clapton - After Midnight Live Release date: 11 July, 2006

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Heading to Guam
Category: Travel and Places

I’ve been here in Tokyo less than five weeks and just found out work is sending me Guam for a week.  A couple of my colleagues and I are going to inspect another base.  Funny, I think my destiny has been sealed--I can’t go 60 - 90 days without getting inside an airplane in one form or another.  As the high temp there seems to never get higher than 86F and never lower than 76F, you’ll here no complaints from this end.

For anyone who is unfamiliar with this Micronesian island, feel free to click here. God knows, I did. 

I love this job.

Currently watching : Harvard Man

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My Name’s not Rachel Ray - Anniversary Series - The Romanian Road - Part 2
Category: Travel and Places

Repost from March - 2007
____________________

My name is not Rachel Ray, and I do not write about breakfast.  Oh, never mind me trying to convince you of this--this is more of an exercise in self restraint.  I pride myself in writing about the odd quirks of travel, the this-and-the-that which your tour guide and travel book won’t cover.  I decided long ago that I wanted to bring to the table a certain non-sequitur, a je ne sais quoi, that focused on most of the things that go out of focus in travel literature.  This is why I have to tell myself that breakfast, such a common thing, an ordinary segment in the life of anyone who can afford time or money wise to feed themselves is not something that a self proclaimed travel writer writes about.  The thing is, however, that breakfast at the Phoenicia Grand Hotel is nothing common or ordinary, it is extraordinary and deserves to be mentioned.

I could have overlooked it if it were not for the brilliant omelet bar in the corner of their dining salon where hotel guests can get a variety of mushrooms, meats, vegetables and fresh basil or feta whipped in with their eggs.  I could have moved on to the next chapter if it weren’t for the cheeses on that wrap around the whole curve of their display table and the cheeses in the cooler--none of which whose name I really know besides the obvious mozzarella, feta, etc.  There are brilliant pastries, cakes and cookies.  There are cold meats, hot sausages, bacon, stuffed pork chops in fine red pepper spices and about four different varieties of baked and fried potatoes.  There is rice and eggplant and, God only knows what else--I not only don’t recognize everything, I also can’t read all the signs.  This isn’t brunch, this is breakfast, and if I weren’t looking too closely and wasn’t hearing what seems to be Romanian to the untrained ear, I would say that this is a Las Vegas buffet.  Don’t like the varieties of coffee we have you for you?  No problem, we’ll bring you an espresso, latte or cappuccino.  The tea not to your liking?  Ask the staff, we’ll see what we can do.  Peach, orange, strawberry, cherry juices and morning cocktails.  Soups, delicious and wonderful soups that I’ve been deprived of, and fresh fruit coming out tray after silver tray.

How did I bag paying less than one hundred U.S. a night for this?

Know that the trick to employ when approaching such a beast is to not get carried away--way easier said than done. The idea of such a buffet is to appeal to the international crowd the hotel serves--not to eat through all the hotel client’s countries in one sitting.  Such will result in heartburn, lethargy and a general sluggishness over the rest of the day.  It will kill the zest for the next meal and leave your pallet closed during open season.  Reject what your mother taught you--take what you want, but don’t feel obligated to eat everything on your plate.  Breakfast is included in the price and no one in a third world country is going to applaud your effort to gorge yourself or get to eat the leftovers you or the hotel throw away.  

Room service at the Phoenicia is quite pricey and so is the mini-bar.  Not a waiter, hostess, concierge or receptionist will bat an eye toward a hotel guest who decides to take a few sodas or waters out of the refrigerator and up to their room.  But you couldn’t?  You can, may and should.  

I’m far too much of a hypocrite to take my own advice, especially on the first day of such a frenzy.  I was up early with all the suits of the international business world and the only man in the house not wearing a tie.  Yet after breakfast I went back to the room for a nap and then, as penance for my gluttony, downstairs to make heads and tails of the hotel’s gym.  Then I had to enjoy something the rest of the world has, but my small villa in Crete doesn’t--water pressure.  I took a nice long man-shower and shaved while the it was still steamy. I wasn’t ready to meet Bucharest until the early afternoon.

I decided that I’d brave some of the public transportation, but not all of it.  In order to get to the Bucharest Metro system, I’d have to go to tobacco stand or kiosk, buy a ticket, wait for a specific numbered car, get off at an unpronounceable street and walk three blocks.  The hotel’s bell hop told me all
of this, and I decided that it’s much better to just take a taxi to the Metro.  This taxi driver was much more calm and far less colorful than last night’s pimp that took me to the hotel from the airport.  Yet I found it odd that when he pulled out of the hotel parking lot, he went to complete opposite direction
of where I was told the metro station was. "You’re taking me to the Metro, right?"

"Of course."  He said.

"Then why are you going this way?"

"You want Metro, right?  Is this way."

We passed a sign that said Metro with an arrow indicating we should turn right, and I was halfway baffled.  Was this man going to take me to the border of Montenegro to get some extra Lei out of me?  I understood the confusion, however, when he pulled into the parking lot of a huge K-mart like store called "Metro." 

"No," I told him.  "Not here.  Metro, you know like choo-choo," I motioned my arm straight and mimed a moving train.

"No want here?  Metro you say me," he said and we both shared a pause to breath in the air of stale cigarette smoke and moldy taxi seats. "Ah!," he exclaimed, "station?  You want station?"

"Yes, the metro station."

"Next time say ’Station.’"

"Got it."

Currently listening : Jamie Cullum - Live At Blenheim Release date: 16 November, 2004

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Anniversary Series - Pimps, Prostitutes and Cab Drivers -The Romanian Road - Part 1
Current mood: grateful
Category: Travel and Places