beheard

abuela series part 1: abuela pilar

2012-02-08T13:32:00.000-08:00

i just embarked upon a new series with eileen z. fuentes about logevity and wisdom.
to read more, head to the uptown collective.

february 2012

8 is great. 29 is fine.

2012-02-06T17:33:00.000-08:00

february 2012

The Republica Update/What is Love?

2012-01-24T06:33:00.000-08:00

Ok, so not the most original question. In fact, it’s been posed many times, most notably – in my humble opinion – by the R&B quartet En Vogue of the mid 90’s and even though they recited Webster’s Dictionary on the track, even they were left disappointed with their findings.
Tonight, I sit on a plane. I sit in coach. That first row of coach where you have slightly more legroom and a front row seat to how the other half lives (as seen through the thread bare curtain that separates the first class haves and have-nots).

I fly quite a bit and seem to have a knack for being sat next to senior citizens. Don’t get me wrong, I love the elderly (more than most), but there is an implied reverence given to those who have lived on the planet decades longer than you that means arm rest priority and acceptance of personal space boundaries being crossed.

Tonight, when approaching my seat I saw just what I was up against. Not only were my row-mates old, they were ancient, and foreign! The man and woman seated next to me spoke, from what I could tell, no English, and seemed to be from the Eastern Block, so much so that they insisted on carrying all of their earthly belongings on their laps.
It was clear that the two were married, and it seemed safe to assume that an audition for the newly wed game was not in their near future, but in their very distant past. (Read More)

january 2012

Sunsets and Sausages: A Long Weekend in Europe

2012-01-20T14:37:00.000-08:00

Thirteen Hour Layover

My sister wrote me an email before my departure yesterday detailing that perhaps sometime in the near future I will want to travel with more comforts and, as I grow older, I will become mote ‘high maintenance.’ When on my 13-hour layover in Frankfurt Germany today there were moments where I thought perhaps the old broad was onto something, but I rest assured tonight, cozy in my 6 person dorm room at the Abraham House in Dublin Ireland that, at least for the time being, I still prefer to forgo the luxuries f or the exhilaration that comes with an adventure and a hostel.

Thursday night Jackie and I set sail for Ireland, by way of Germany, knowing that we were in for a long voyage. An 8-hour red eye landed us in Frankfurt at 9 am, with heavy mist in the air, and an even heavier order on the table.

I had set clear and concise goals for our brief stint in Deutchland: Beer, Sausage, Bauhaus.

Part of traveling, part of life, is realizing things do not always turn out as planned. Such was the case when my search for the Stad museum ended with my realization that Stad means place in German and all day I had been asking poor, unsuspecting Germans where 'the place' was. This was occasionally met with expressions of confusion, but was more often met with lively gestures and directions in broken English, which now leaves me wondering where exactly they were directing us.

Needless to say we never made it to a museum, but did in fact have sausage and beer, before 10 am- and then again for dinner several hours later. The crisp winter day flew by and before you knew it we found ourselves back at the Frankfurt airport, stuffed full of sausage and happily weighed down with another stamp in out passports.

With the jet lag and mounting exhaustion reaching fever pitch, we took a quick catnap in the airport score boarding a quick flight to Dublin.

A Pint and A Whiskey

Landing in Dublin I felt surprisingly refreshed as our extraordinarily amiable cab driver, Joe regaled us with tales of his time in New York in the early 80s. We soon found ourselves settled into a dorm for 6 at Abraham House and wasted no time on hopping over to the bar next door for a pint and a whiskey respectively, as see silently judged watching a girl from Wisconsin flirt her blue spandex clad ass off so shamelessly and so poorly, that I realized why I am occasionally embarrassed to be an American.

The pubs on our hood seemed to be closed for the night, so we returned to our hostel only to find more entertainment in the form of a promiscuous Norwegian hockey player and a sweet Adidas-clad single father from Scotland. Jackie grew weary of my translating English to English, as a Scottish rogue is almost more difficult to decipher than a drunk with their jaw wired shut, and we headed back to our fragrant dorm room for a not so good night's sleep.

Early to rise is what we had been hoping for but when programming my phone to alarm I did not account for the time difference. No matter, as we were awakened by the rustling of a ham sandwich being both prepared and consumed by a menopausal religious zealot below (bunk beds). We hurriedly escaped the confines of our ham cell, had a quick yet delicious hostel breakfast and hit the road on foot to explore Dublin. Fashionable girls and plenty of shops in which to find said fashions flanked the narrow streets. We lost track of time meandering and realized a bit too late that we had missed a date to eat Irish oysters with some hostel mates. We instead opted to walk over and pick up our Hertz rental car to drive north.

Not having my normal mental rubix cube challenge of speaking another language in my travels, I had decided that driving on the wrong aide of the road would be the work out for my cerebral cortex this go round. Turns out this is a much more difficult, and dangerous task.

Road Trip

According to our finicky GPS, Belfast was just a short 2-hour drive north. Minimal provisions were purchased before embarking on our journey north, thinking the M1 was a major thoroughfare and had to be loaded with places to eat. Oh America, land of the fast food joint. Our 2-hour drive became much closer to 3 factoring in my Mario Andretti speeds and a few photos ops. With nothing but the crystal clear sky turning unique shades of sunset pink over the emerald hills to feast on, Jackie and I had one thing on our minds and we rolled in Belfast after sunset: food!

We soon located a pub that served food along one of Belfast's famous muraled alley ways ( I actually watched a man painting while several policemen walked by without so much as a glance – it was amazing!) and sat for hours defrosting, hydrating and dining on why Irish people evidently consider chicken curry but what the rest of the world considers chicken soup with flour and bits of chicken. I was hungry and it was warm, so I am not complaining. Sustenance was needed, as was a place to lay our head for the evening.

Our trusty British GPS showed that the cheapest hostel in town was just a couple of books away and we headed to Linen House hostel fraught with extended Italian family's and sorority girls from the countryside.

After procuring the key to our 2nd floor room, Jacks and I were greeted with awkward silence only incurred when interrupting young girls applying far too much makeup. The Dee Snyder band was clearly on the prowl and all Jackie and I wanted was a drink, or three.

We quickly dropped off our bags and headed to The Crown Bar, infamous for being the most bombed bar in the world. Cute private booths and ornate tile work filled the cozy bar, along with extraordinarily friendly, but not in a creepy way, Irishmen. The people in this country are genuinely earnest and open with seemingly no agenda. At first this is a little off-putting, but once you allow yourself to believe it is real, its border line magical. No matter where Jackie and I landed we have been met with helpful advice and a warm smile.

Hungry and not wanting to have Jameson floating in my belly all by his lonesome, popped next door for pizza. It was here I struck up a conversation with a man of indiscriminate ethnicity in town on business who I only later found out was Puerto Rican and Dominican. The irony that I some how sniffed out what might possibly be the only Dominican in all of Ireland was not lost on me and we had no other choice but to make him our mate for the rest of the evening.

An entire pizza and 2 homeless encounters led us to our next watering hole, where I quickly spotted an open booth in the corner and snuggled up in the well word Naugahyde for the evening. The three of us talked about what most people discuss when abroad, out own travel experiences until Jackie pointed out that a man was looking at me. It seems the mobile UN had set up shop beside us and the leering Italian man looked at me quizzically and said he was certain he knew me from somewhere. After sorting out that it was most certainly not his dreams, it was clear that we had not met and that he understood sarcasm, so I was immediately put at ease. We became fast friends. After the Dominican gave up on scoring with the endearingly oblivious Jackie, the Italian man and his Spanish friend gave us a tour of the city’s closed pubs. This was not the intention, but everything here closes entirely too early for 2 New Yorkers looking to make poor choices.

Off to bed at our toasty sorority house it was.

Fried Chicken and Mrs. Avey

This morning I awoke filled with anticipation, as I knew today I would be doing one of my favorite foreign things: a morning run. It was on this run I discovered a couple of beautiful cathedrals and the local occupy Belfast, which seemed to be accomplishing just about as much a our local chapter.

Not wanting to repeat our previous offenses to our stomachs, we chose to stop for breakfast in Western Belfast and, aside from me almost running an old man over by entering on the wrong side of the parking lot, it was an enjoyable mean. Then we re off on the PCH of Ireland, a coastal road with curves bordered by a stone wall on one side and the ocean on the other. The sights were undeniably beautiful, but the stress was undeniably palpable.

I'm a Californian. I love to drive. And I can honestly say driving this route was one of the least enjoyable experiences I have ever had. White knuckling the first 5 hours, I was concentrating on navigating narrow roadways and staying on my side of the road while missing breathtaking scenery doing my best Morgan Freeman impression of driving miss daisy on what I can only imagine converted to 35 mph on a major highway. Needless to say the natives were none too happy, but the grey hairs earned on the stressful drive were well worth it as we pulled into Kings Causeway just in time- at sunset.

After confirming that Ireland has some of the most beautiful sunsets on this planet Jackie and I were left with one question on a dark, windy, foreign road. Where to go next? Flying by the seat of our pants, per usual, we checked out the map and decided that Derry seemed like the next logical choice and I nervously navigated our way through the unlit night, with the help of our unreliable lady GPS to the small port town of Derry in northern Ireland, filled with boats, history, and pubs.

After a brief search for a Rick Steves approved pub we stumbled upon Tracy’s Bar where a well coiffed, yet severely inebriated woman shouted at me the moment I walked in the door. At first I was frightened but soon realized, I'm in Ireland and everyone is nice! She gave a couple of dining suggestions and after a disappointing meal at Flaming Jack’s and unsuccessful trek in the Arctic breeze for shelter we decided to suck it up and book a room at the far too pricey Travelodge for 45 pounds a night and return to Tracy’s Bar to spend the rest of the evening. Inebriated Lady’s fella had promised me a dance, but he was nowhere to be found, so Jackie and I, once again, had to make friends.

We had been told there would be a band there that night, and we were not disappointed. The live music was beautiful and the people were generous, continuing to buy us Jamesons. A man with partial paralysis went so far as to offer his home to both Jackie and myself for the evening, proclaiming that even though he would very much like the sex with “yous” he was really just offering a warm bed with clean sheets, he made sure to emphasize the clean part. The cozy watering hole was the perfect spot to spend out 1 evening in Derry and we were enjoying it so much that when we stumbled out at closing time, we were saddened. We extended the festivities by opting to pay a visit to the local late night Hillbilly’s where we felt it appropriate to order fried chicken to be consumed in our beds back at the hotel later. Trust me, the scene was just as repulsive as it sounds.

Mrs. Avey Returns

A planned run by the water the following day to work off our late night chicken feast did not end up materializing, but looking for a doll for my niece allowed us the opportunity to watch the sleepy town wake up and come alive. I was reluctant to leave Derry, but but Dublin and our impending return home was calling, we had to get on the road.

It was a few hours in the car we knew, so we got some distance behind us, and waited until noon search for food. We did so in Tyrone County, for which I am certain Erykah Badu named her famous ditty. We found a small 1 street town outside of Omaugh and were the first to arrive at Fairley's where we each ordered the Irish Breakfast while the elderly men seemingly fresh from the fields feasted on Guinness alone. At noon. You’ve got to love Ireland. The cook, who was another dead ringer for my childhood babysitter, had the kitchen acumen to know that eggs, means, bread and French fries all belonged on the same plate. She made sure to come out from the kitchen in which she was rocking out to Bruno Mars to ask about where we came – a common theme I have found in towns where talking to the same 30 people must get old real fast.

Back on the road we traversed back roads and rolling hills at increasing speed as my ass began to make a permanent mark in the left side driver’s sear. We were occasionally lucky enough to catchy sunlight struggle and burst through the thick clouds with it’s magnificence, raining down rays of hope and vitamin D. But mostly we were in an overcast countryside, serenaded by Death Cab for Cutie and Rhianna.

The Final Hours

Arriving in Dublin yet again was supposed to be the end of our adventure, but IRA members, split personality Ugandans and the return of ham Sammie offered a last chance at adventure on the emerald isle.

Not yet having seen the trendy neighborhood of Temple Bar, Jackie and I took a walk along the water to the district filled with restaurants and those quirky stores that house absolutely no essential goods or services but somehow seem to stay in business. I bought earrings! The woman at the revolutionist bookstore recommended a Spanish restaurant around the corner and being filled to the gills with processed meats an whiskey I eagerly anticipated a meal in which all of the 4 major good groups were represented, and was subsequently rewarded. If in Dublin, eat at Salamanca abs have the brown bread ice cream. I know it sounds strange, but it is amazing.

More wandering ensured and we ended up at a corner pub that was clearly designed for tourists, but with it being a low tourist season, was filled largely with chinless women from the UK and rugby boys on holiday. Jackie and I stuck out like 2 American thumbs, which prompted Aaron, our intoxicated IRA friend to come over, insist that we should get laid while in Ireland and then proceeded to try to hook us up – as if we would need any help! A little light revolutionary conversation and we were off to the pub where it all began, just beside our hostel.

Of course we got sidetracked and ended up at Eddie Rockets, Ireland’s version of Johnny Rockets (ps. They also have TK Maxx here – weird). After splitting a chicken sandwich served by the least friendly server I have ever encountered, Jackie and I ran into a ‘friend’ from earlier in the day. When we had been looking for parking that afternoon we had passed the same man several times, and being one of the, I am guessing, very few black men in Ireland, I made note. He had tried to help us find a spot, but his approach in the evening hours was slightly different because, before he recognized us, he leered and exclaimed 'nice figure' a cat call I believe was originally developed in the 1920s along with get a load of that dame's gams! When we saw who it was we began to chat and we discovered he was from Uganda and heading to a nightclub. Jackie and I were stoked to have hit such a gold mine and were excited for a night of dancing. Then we asked him his name. A simple enough question- or so we thought. He told us his name was Ricky- fair enough. Then he paused, and said – ‘I can be honest with you, I do a lot of drugs, so my name is Ricky, but in my head…Its Melvin.’ Ding-times up! Although it was had for Jackie to walk away from a good party, we both decided a possible dismembering wasn’t worth shaking my booty to Chris Brown. Hell, its not worth shaking my booty WITH Chris Brown.

That was it-the jig was up. We headed home, had our last pint, heard stories of perhaps how foolish our voyage to Northern Ireland with Southern Ireland plates was a perilous choice and headed back to Abraham house, our home for the next couple of hours.

We had already caught site of our old roommate Ham Sammie upon our return earlier in the evening, but nothing could prepare us for the offensive odor that met us at the door for bedtime. If room 32 had had wallpaper it would certainly be peeling from the walls and making a run for it from the sour cream and feet combination thick in the air. This, of course, was coupled with the cacophonous melodies of our Brazilian bunkmates incessant snoring making for a restless few hours in Lucifer's Lounge. Jackie threatened suicide by jumping out of our first floor window. Luckily I talked her down.

So here I lie on my top bunk, my last night in Ireland and glad that another adventure is in the books. An adventure made of sunsets and sausages.

january 2012

sushi

2012-01-11T07:31:00.001-08:00

uptown collective

january 2011

holiday hangover

2012-01-06T08:21:00.001-08:00

january 2012

home for the holidays

2011-12-28T18:05:00.000-08:00

december 2011

you're never too old to exercise poor judgement...

2011-12-28T17:13:00.000-08:00

photos by be heard and simmers

december 2011

#nike training - part 3

2011-12-26T16:53:00.000-08:00

photos and video by be heard for the republica update.

december 2011

holidays in the hood

2011-12-22T10:27:00.000-08:00

december 2011

#nike training - part 2

2011-12-16T14:36:00.000-08:00

photos and video by be heard!

december 2011

#nike training - part 1

2011-12-06T10:25:00.000-08:00

a quick trip to oregon, and a foray into video...

check it out at: the republica update

december 2011

jackson heights

2011-12-05T12:07:00.001-08:00

december 2011

selfish?

2011-11-30T07:09:00.001-08:00

november 2011

manhattan times and soa

2011-11-10T06:33:00.000-08:00

manhattan times

november 2011

movember hits the web

2011-11-08T14:04:00.000-08:00

Complex

Por Homme

Racked

november 2011

south america. revisited.

2011-10-27T12:02:00.000-07:00

Here I Go Again On My Own...

Unfortunately, I do not have video footage of Tawny Kitaen to accompany my daily entry, but words and photos will have to suffice. I just made it into Bogota on a dreary, drizzly day, only intensified by the abandoned streets and empty alley ways. Evidently I planned my trip to arrive on a national holiday in Columbia and entering an unknown city with the graffiti and dilapidated buildings that I normally love becomes a bit eerie with no life around them.

This is perhaps only heightened by the fact that I left my apartment at 1pm yesterday afternoon, and am just now arriving in my destination, almost 24 hours later. As much as I love to back pack, there are moments when I think I am getting too old for this shit. When I was little, my dad's wife would occasionally make note of how pretty I looked first think in the morning, before she and my father attempted to make a breakfast feast of buckwheat pancakes and egg whites. She would comment on the natural color in my cheeks. At the time I took this as one of her disingenuous, sycophantic ticks, but as I woke this morning with only 2 hours of restless sleep in an Arctic room in Panama and hours of travel preceding, I see exactly what she meant, as the flush in my cheeks left years ago, and have been replaced by pillow creases that take half of the day to dissipate and gray hairs much more easily located with the light of an airplane bathroom light.

When I first started traveling to third world countries, I became almost proud to be an American. Sure we are pompous, self involved and arrogant, but at least we have running water and timely public transportation. Or so I thought. Yesterday was a less humorous version of Trains, Planes and Automobiles with no John Hughes to perfect the story line or SNL alum to alleviate the stress. Seated next to a woman who sniffled for 5 hours straight and gripped my hand when hitting turbulence I arrived to a balmy Panama City almost 3 hours late. Luckily, the friend meeting me was patient and greeted me with open arms at arrivals. Marco, a friend I met while in Panama nearly 3 years ago was kind enough to not only pick me up, but allow me to crash at his place for my 10 hour layover in Panama.

Memory is a funny thing, for as I arrived at the Panama City airport it seemed like just yesterday I had been eating french fries with Jackie and perusing the Duty Free shops. Using the exact same facilities as 3 years prior brought on a sense of nostalgia as Panama not only holds a special place in my heart, but now in my passport as well, being the only country with the distinction of 2 stamps.

Marco was warm and generous and kind enough to arrange travel back to the airport for my short flight to empty Bogota this morning.

Not much to report on the drug trafficking scene just yet. But sit tight.

Rain Rain Go Away...

My 24 hours in Bogota has been reminiscent of my time spent in Peru in 2008. Namely, freezing. One thinks of South America and thinks warm, despite the fact that I should know better. When arriving at the hostel yesterday morning I almost immediately met a couple of girls who spoke English, one of whom was American and a teacher in San Diego and one who was a New Zealander by way of Malaysia. After a quick chat, the ladies were gracious enough to invite me along for the day and we went out into the dreary streets that were just starting to get populated mid-day, due to the public holiday.

A quick trot to the grocery store (always one of my favorite outings in a foreign country) and we returned to the hostel to make lunch. I opted for the easy white girl go to of peanut butter and bread but, as made evident time and time again my palette is that of a small child and I really only like peanut butter from the homeland which, for me, means the US. We chatted amiably with our hostel mates, mostly consisting of South American men on a holiday, one most notably from Argentina with eyes and blue as the Caribbean Sea, but I digress. We headed out to the Botero museum and took reprieve from the increasingly violent rain to stare at rotund bellies and asses alike. The museum housed many paintings and even a few Degas' (my favorite), but was mostly dedicated to the still breathing Botero and his Rubenesque ladies and gentlemen.

With grey skies and dropping temperatures the desire to wander for hours waned. We did, however, check out a few markets where I procured yet another piece of Catholic art for my secular home. En route back home, we also stopped at the most famous snack shop in all of Bogota for their famous bread with cheese and hot chocolate. My virgin run with hot chocolate was disappointing, despite their having used the same recipe for the past 200 years.

Back to the hostel to be treated to homemade soup by our hostel mates, I hid under a colorful blanket as I was wet and chilled to the bone.

As I always find in hostels, it was fraught with counter culture young people who mostly discuss what they have in common - travel. Many of the inhabitants here have quit their jobs, their lovers, their lives back home for open ended stays on the road. Part of me is always jealous they have taken this leap of faith, but part of me loves that I get a Whitman's Sampler of adventure while still returning to my home, either in New York or California and that, most importantly, I get to return to the people I love (and toilets in which you can flush toilet paper).

A few hours of darts, laughter and solitaire on my iPhone ( I have become obsessed in the past 2 days) and I was off to sleep in almost all of my clothing to awake to a new day with bright skies, frigid temperatures, and a day alone in the city.

Word on the street is there is a church 'in the sky' that I must check out.

Wish me luck....

B' Bye Bogota

Yesterday went unexpectedly, but sometimes those are the best days.

I have found then when traveling, or on vacation, when I don't have an alarm I rise early and feeling well rested. Could it be the oppressive nature of the real world is really why I hit snooze a million times each morning and not my need for some extra z's?

Yesterday was no exception. I rose early to bid my American and New Zealander friend from the previous day's adventures adieu and feasted on the hostel's complimentary breakfast of tea, bread and papaya. I happen to think papaya tastes like dirt, but beggars cannot be choosers. After chatting up a British inhabitant by the name of James we made plans to meet up after his Spanish lesson and head to Mounserrate, the church in the sky I had mentioned.

These plans were foiled when mere minutes later, Gaston, an Argentian on holiday celebrating his graduation from university asked if I was busy. When he mentioned he was heading to the Catedral de Sal I knew I had to join the fluent Spanish speaker as, not only had I read about and wanted to see this attraction in Zipaquira, for anyone who has ever seen me consume food, you knew that a trip to worship at the Cathedral of Salt was long over due. Gaston, or Gato as he asked me to call him, and I had a long journey ahead of us, taking both the Transmileneo (Bogota's Muni) and another bus to get to the Cathedral.

Once there the 28-year old and I took the tour through all of the chapels that had been created within this salt mine in addition to the tour through the actual mine, which is played up for the tourist and in which they ask you to walk through pitch black. They offer a warning previous to the tour asking claustorphobes not to partake and although I do not fancy myself one of those, walking through a pitch black tunnel miles underground being guided by a woman you don't understand can be a bit daunting.

Fears faced I got a souvenir salt rock and perused the emeralds that are so popular, and relatively cheap here in Columbia and Gato and I took the train down the hill which also provided a quick guided tour of the town which was exactly the kind of Latin American town I like. Not too big, not too small, but just right replete with elderly ladies who cover their faces with their hand stitched aprons as soon as they see my camera emerge from my bag and a feast of yucca, potatoes and chicken which had been the first real meal since I had been here and eagerly welcomed.

Since this was a full day's journey I felt lucky to have had the opportunity to meet and get to know someone new, which is one of the best things about traveling and most definitely about staying in hostels. Prior to me leaving the US I had been asked by someone I carea great deal about to stay in hotels for his own piece of mind and, much like every time I choose to follow my heart and ignore those around me, I am certainly glad I did.

Not only would I not have even traveled to Zipaquira yesterday without accompaniment, I would not have returned to the hostel last night and stayed up till 1 am chatting with 2 Argentian, a Portuguese and a British woman all here for different reasons, all with different experiences under there belt, and all willing to share a bit of themselves with strangers solely based on the fact that we all booked a bed in the same home for a limited number of days.

Recently, several loved ones have so much as intimated that perhaps I am a bit long in the tooth for travel such as this, but as I stared at the blood red sky at half past 12 last night listening to 3 men talk about the pink dolphins of the Amazon in Spanish, I realized I was just where I belong.

Today I will be making my pilgrimage to the church in the sky with one of the ladies I met last night and then catching a not-so-cheap flight to Cartegena on the Caribbean coast. I hear it is a town full of tourists, but as my travel mate from yesterday noted, as long as I don't open my mouth I am the picture of a traditional looking Argentian woman, so maybe no one will be the wiser.

Pre-Menstral Meandering

Another early morning rise, assisted by the hole in my ceiling that lets the bright morning light shine lovingly/glare directly into my face each morning letting me know another day awaits.

I was treated to a semi-scalding semi-freezing shower, a welcomed improvement from toweling myself off with a wet nap I had stolen from Friday's in midtown Manhattan before my departure the week before when there was no water for several hours at the hostel yesterday.

Breakfast was served and seconds of bread were readily ingested as I made sure to meet my carbohydrate requirement as I do not feel nutrition or calories exist when abroad.

Ally, my British mate for the day from Bristol arrived early and we happily sat having tea and coffee for quite some time discussing being women and growing older in the Western world before heading out. Nothing like a little light conversation with a stranger to get the day going.

We had been given mixed messages about the trek to Monserrate, but when the hostel's proprietor assured us that the likelihood of being held at knife point and robbed was significantly lower during daylight hours, we took the 20 minute walk to the cable car that precariously drags you up the mountain. Out of breath and sweaty, yet still able to see my breath I marveled not only at the city below, but at the Colombians ability to function in this altitude. Much like when I was in Peru, I feel terribly fat and out of shape until I realize just about all foreigners are having trouble with mundane movements.

Ally and I meandered on top of the hill for a while, making note of how large Bogota is and how, when you visit a place and then see if from a bird's eye perspective you realize just how little you are in fact seeing. Barely having scratched the surface, I knew that my hours were dwindling in this city for which I had developed some real affection. I made sure to buy my niece her traditional doll from one of Auntie Nani's adventures and we slide back down the mountainside and dined at the sole vegetarian eatery in the city before hiking back up to the hostel and saying out goodbyes.

Ally gave me a hug goodbye and I waved to the blue-eyed Argentian who had been exceedingly nice to me over the past couple of days, but saying goodbye to Gaston, my travel mate from the day before was actually sad. He graciously offered his home to me and my sister when we are next in Argentina and I did the same for any US needs he may have. It is strange the intimacy you feel with fellow travel mates almost immediately. It is like the intensity of reality TV without the cameras.

My cab arrived and I soaked it all in as my driver pointed out sights on our way out of town. He was one of those Spanish speakers who subscribes to the theory that if you repeat the same word or phrase enough the non-Spanish speaker will all of a sudden understand you. Never one to be rude, I exercised my neck with head nodding whether or not I understood and allowed my pre-menstraul nostalgia to kick in as I set off.

Never allow a woman to travel in this state, I beg of you.

At the airport I managed to get to the proper gate and on the proper flight and in just over an hour I landed in the far more tropical city to a far more touristy hostel. I dare say that I believe Alanis Morisette was playing in the lobby upon my arrival last night. Never a good sign.

With the sun setting and my irritation at other countries ideas of what appropriate personal space growing I went to the supermarket, picked up some fresh bread and salami and dined in my hostel before falling into a deep sleep and dreaming up an assassin movie set in Sacramento, California and starring a motley crew of loved ones and Hollywood staples.

Off for one of my all time favorite things, a morning jog in a foreign city.

I will check in soon.

A City For Lovers... Solo

Cartegena is a city of cast shadows and intimate whispers.

Cartegena is the Thomas' English Muffin of Columbia, however the nooks and crannies are not filled with delicious melted butter and sweet jam, but rather young couples canoodling at every bend. Never having been a hormonal teenager swept up in the passion of youthful exuberance and naivete I can admit that these overt displays of affection are somewhat enviable. It never ceases to amaze me that people want to be affectionate in humid climates. I speak from experience when I say the sweat trickling down my back in not an invitation to touch me.

With endless weeks of rain in Cartegena, the skies parted ( I would like to think just for me) yesterday and allowed me to do just as the tour books and locals suggest, roam the narrow, intricately woven set of streets with no particular destination in mind. Being in such a tourist friendly city is not ideal, but does allow the freedom of knowing you can take out your camera and not be robbed, as the economy here is clearly based solely on tourism.

I spent my morning yesterday city in one of the many town squares reading a book on the civil rights movement in the 60s. The warm weather was no contest for the chilling stories told within the pages of this book and the goosebumps were hard to fight off even with the sun shining down on me. I had chosen to stay in the old part of the city while here and despite seeming to lack an adequate amount of reasonable priced eateries, I would describe this coastal town as charming.

Often times when I travel I feel guilty if not constantly on the go. Hell, in my real life I am plagued by the same pangs of guilt if not constantly immersed in a useful activity, but choosing to see this voyage as perhaps a moment for a little vacation time yesterday, that is just what I did. I vacatde my overwrought mind, read, lounged and tried to breathe in the mix of sea and arepa that permeates the nostrils while in Cartegena. Relaxing does not come easily to all of us, and trying my best I stopped into a local vitamin shop/restaurant to concentrate on my book, my banana bread, and my breathing.

After hours in the sun I retreated to my bedroom, emerging when it was time to eat. The thing I have found about traveling alone is a big production of a meal seems a bit much and with street vendors and gilded restaurants meant to attract the retirement community as the options for dining here, I went back to my favorite one stop supermarket to make a couple of international phone calls and create a feast meant of a pseudo Latina Queen: a can of peas and carrots, microwave popcorn and a mango. Say what you will. It was delicious and nutritious. I thought I had stuck gold with a sausage vendor on my walk home, but after one bite of the mealy meat I can only assume was pork (please, god) I ditched the oil soaked paper bag of mystery meat by a man sleeping on the street and headed back to my room to feast while watching the Kardashian wedding with subtitles. Not traditionally Colombian I suppose, but a stress free evening none the less.

This morning I woke early, before the city began to creak with activity to run by the Sea. The city is walled in by an ancient artifice and scaling the stone steps not only ensured that my ass will stay on point for years to come, it was a welcomed change of scenery from St. Nicholas in Northern Manhattan. I was set to take a tour to the beach today, but with the unruly sea, it was canceled and I was left chatting with a far less kindred spirit Argentian man, amiable all the same, who was aghast when I told him how old I was.

Is 30 now really the age where people look at you aghast at how well you have 'held up?' I have been told on numerous occasions over the last week that I look good for my age and there seems to be genuine disbelief in the eyes of the snotty 20 something year old's eyes that a woman of a certain age can still manage to pull it together. Don't get me wrong, I am grateful for that reaction, but the arrogance of youth is both endearing and offensive.

Now, left with my last full day in this Carribbean town and a sky void of clouds beckoning me, I am off to see what the day has in store.

Sweat and Sunburn

This morning I awoke in a haze of sweat, sunburn and sick breath. (Please hold all marriage proposals till the end). Nothing completes an adventure like getting sick in a city where everything closes at 9 pm. The illness that had been nipping at my heels for weeks set up shop in my respiratory system last night, resulting in restless sleep with dreams starring a cast of co-workers past and a puffy eyed arousal.

As mentioned, after running along the Caribbean Sea yesterday morning not only did I think to myself that if I had the luxury of doing this every morning I would have buns of steel, I managed to book a tour, usually something I avoid, to a nearby beach. On 55,000 pesos, I thought it was worth the price to add boat to my modes of transportation while here and perhaps get a little color. With clear skies and mild temperatures, I thought it was the perfect day, however, moments later while eating the rationed corn flakes and mysterious pink water-type beverage served each morning to hostel guests, I was informed that the Sea was being temperamental and all boat rides had been cancelled.

A fellow guest, seated near by was informed of the same thing and I saw this as my opportunity to start a conversation. I had seen him with a British man the day before, so assuming he was British as well I did not even bother to charm him with my broken Spanish and set right into my native tongue. Little did I know, he too was Argentinian. Pablo (or Paolo, I am not really sure, so lets call him Argentian P) became my partner for the day and shortly after our morning feast we headed to a nearby beach that had been described as 'not spectacular.' With a recommendation like that, how could I resist?

A 40 minute walk along the water brought us to Boca Grande, a series of beaches located in the new city fraught with sagging European tourists in speedos and aggressive merchants eager to get their hands on my hair. Evidently they did not think my braids were sufficient. AP spoke English very well, despite having not practiced for many years and was chivalrous, ommitting the same energy that a boy I grew up with and for years considered my brother, so the vibe was easy and platonic.

Being the cheapskate I am and being the gentleman bred into Argentian men AP sprung for a couple of beach side chairs shielded from the midday sun by a yellow umbrella. Sampling the local beer, Aguila and a mango with salt (why have I never had this before?) our relaxing day by the sea was only tainted by the constant bombardment of vendors trying to sell us everything from massages to fruit salads made with passion to authentic Colombian jewelry of which I could also acquire at the local Dollar Tree. Its curious to me that many of these salespeople are young men with charming dispositions and broad, white smiles. Its like the silly American women,such as myself cannot say no to a pretty young thing. I resisted, for the most part...

Having been assumed to be Argentian all week, I also seemed to assume I had the melanin of a South American as I turned slightly pink under the Caribbean sun. After a few dips into the salty waves lapping against the black sand (a definite benefit to being with someone else, as I would never leave my camera unattended) AP and I headed back to old town, this time via taxi.

A little too much sun and a bumpy car ride resulted in a brief nap and a shower before meeting back up with AP for a late lunch at a place called Mulatta. A place of which I made special note not only because it had good food and a very cool metropolitan vibe, but because that term is considered to be antiquated in the US. I highly doubt anyone would go so far as to name their establishment the Mulatta stateside. Dated terms aside, this was the first real meal I had had in a couple of days and the generous portions of sausage and chicken, washed down with fresh lemonade were consumed in a ravenous manner.

Perhaps not as ravenous,though, if I had not stopped and gotten an ice cream cone on the way to the restaurant. Here is where I would like to give a word to the wise - ask what flavor you are requesting, don't just point. Thinking I was about to devour a sugar cone full of chocolate chip ice cream, I was terribly disappointing as I bit into the first bit of chocholate and began to chew. And them chew some more. Turns out Rum Raisin is fairly common in these parts. That does not, however, mean its good.

AP and I walked the lovers promenade along the coast as I had alone the night before and landed at one of the 2 establishments there at sunset. We sat in large wooden chairs facing the breeze off of the water and listened to the DJ's mix of euro-lounge, a combination that would usually result in my vomiting from the seemingly forced romanticism of it all, but I have to admit, it was kind of nice, almost magical. Nothing like spending a romantic evening with a stranger to make you realize how much you really love the person at home.

A little shopping in the artisinal market and a bottle of water enjoyed while watching an outdoor Zumba class and we both retreated to our respective places. It was a couple hours later I decided I needed cold medicine and bread and went out in search of it, to be met with plenty of people, but no open establishments. The streets truly do come alive here at night with the young and old side by side on street corners, and buses with disco lights and sound systems dropping off and picking up at the edge of town, but I have been spoiled by New York City and when eateries and grocery stores close before before 1 am, I am almost angry.

I retreated in defeat and had yet another meal fit for a queen of peanuts and cookies and nodded off in a congested haze.

Today is my last full day in Columbia and although I am looking forward to air conditioning and Tylenol Cold, I am saddened that yet another adventure is coming to a close....almost.

Back in the US, Back in the US, Back in the USSA

With fluorescent lighting illuminating my keyboard in what can only be called a cubicle, I am, sadly, back to 'reality.'

My last day in Columbia was long if nothing else.

As I ran along the Caribbean I tried to take in the salty air, knowing it might be a while before I am able to do so again.

I had been thinking about a shirt I had scene in the artisnal market and went back to purchase it, only to be met with a confrontational Abuela who finally acquiesced and allowed me to only by the top of a cumbia ensemble, as honestly that is the only part I would wear. She insisted it was my size, and being sweaty from my run, I didn't want to try it on, so I greedily returned to the hostile with my new colorful garb only to discover, not was it only not my size, but not that made for any woman who is post-pubescent. Like every woman, I thought to myself, if I only lose 5 pounds, but fear fitting into this may require the removal of some ribs as well.

When going to the front counter to check out, I ran into AP again, who I went to get one last fresh juice with before he had to depart for his flight back to Bogota.

After a quick drink and kiss (on the cheek) goodbye, I set up camp at one of the town's many squares for people watching, reading and general merriment. In the shade the weather was unbelievably perfect, which made it all the more disappointing to hale a cab not even an hour later to bring me back to the airport and, back to Bogota. Luckily, a make shift ad bearing Kim Kardashian's resemblance was there to offer a friendly face on that last ride out of town.

At the airport it would seem that AP had missed his previous flight, and was now on mine, so we had one last chance to say goodbye and I had one last chance to let my ovaries ache at the beauty of a little girl seated next to me on the flight. As much as dirty diapers and crying brats don't appeal to me, the chubby arms of a sleepy baby lazily draped across her mother's chest is almost enough to make me forget the temper tantrums and runny noses. But alas, still barren, I de-boarded the plane just over an hour later.

It was here at El Dorado airport, I had a decision to make: Do I attempt to salvage a few hours left here by spending money to get into town and then returning to the airport later that same evening, or do I tough it out and hang at this surprisingly amenable airport till my flight, almost 15 hours later...

So, 15 hours in the airport it was.

This was not my first overnighter in a foreign port, and I am sure it will not be my last.
All things considered, my stay was pretty comfortable.

I bought a couple last minute souvenirs, ate a couple of decent meals and slept almost comfortably on a set of chairs located outside of immigration. Note to self: travel with a blanket, as airports are always chilly.

Rocking my best homeless chic ensemble of insulated leggings replete with polka dot socks and converse, coupled with a gold shirt, blue pull over, purple hoodie, jean jacket and orange beret, I was all Fanta Girls rolled into one homeless package, served with a side of backpack.

With a futile attempt to get on an earlier flight and a friendly conversation with a woman who possessed a thick Southern accent and interesting history, I slept for short spurts at a time and 9 am came surprisingly quickly.

With a sleepy eyed wave goodbye, I said goodbye to yet another country. My 21st to be exact and as I sat on the plane and continued the contemplation about what my next travel goal should be, I decided on a terribly predictable one.

30 countries in my 30s it is.

Just over 9 years to go, and 29 countries left to visit...

october 2011

rising above

2011-10-24T09:25:00.000-07:00

uptown collective

october 2011

playing house

2011-10-15T07:02:00.000-07:00

october 2011

The Republica Update/Please Like Me Syndrome

2011-10-13T06:54:00.000-07:00

Many girls have a strange reaction to men who treat them poorly. It’s some sort of Pavlovian response where, if you are mean or disrespectful to us, we are in turn, super nice and accommodating in the hopes of turning things around and making us all one big happy family.
No longer a naïve girl and a mere saddlebag away from womanhood, I have made a choice remedy this juvenile issue. I too have been a victim of the please-like-me-more syndrome and I have reached a point either chronologically or logically that deems it unacceptable to be disrespectful. It seems logical, I know… (Read More)

october 2011

cigar shop

2011-10-12T10:49:00.000-07:00

uptown collective

october 2011

west side

2011-10-07T07:04:00.000-07:00

october 2011

i'm live

2011-10-06T13:04:00.000-07:00

long overdue, my website made it's premiere last week on the world wide web.
check it out!

www.beheardphotography.com

october 2011

renaissance fair 2011

2011-10-05T06:26:00.000-07:00

uptown collective

october 2011

dipset

2011-10-03T13:52:00.000-07:00

vibe

october 2011

childish gambino

2011-09-30T07:46:00.000-07:00

september 2011

rick the ruler

2011-09-29T06:33:00.000-07:00

vibe.com

september 2011

my block

2011-09-28T06:29:00.000-07:00

uptown collective

september 2011

saturday in the park

2011-09-21T06:51:00.000-07:00

uptown collective

september 2011

the platano festival/the uptown collective

2011-09-19T11:35:00.000-07:00

uptown collective

september 2011

lock it down

2011-09-17T19:58:00.000-07:00

september 2011

The Republica Update/Intervention by Text

2011-09-16T09:35:00.000-07:00

The word intervention has become much more prevalent in the American vocabulary thanks to shows like A&E’s appropriately-titled ‘Intervention,’ which takes the docu-drama approach to one’s battle with addiction, and ‘How I Met Your Mother’ which had an entire episode centered on interventions, like when your friends have to reason with you to stop wearing red cowboy boots, as you can so not pull them. This is what loved ones are for, to keep you in check. To let you know when you’ve gone too far.
Traditionally, interventions are for people with an addiction, usually alcohol or drugs with the occasional gambling problem thrown in there for good measure. Said intervention gives the people who are nearest and dearest to you the opportunity to confront you, detailing your missteps on the path to self destruction and how it is not only affecting your life, but their’s as well (insert guilt here). (Read More)

september 2011

fire trucks revisited

2011-09-07T08:42:00.000-07:00

uptown collective

september 2011

flowers are nice

2011-09-06T10:56:00.001-07:00

september 2011

3000 miles in 72 hours: part III

2011-09-04T09:17:00.000-07:00

august/september 2011

orgullo

2011-08-31T10:52:00.000-07:00

uptown collective

august 2011

dusk

2011-08-24T06:29:00.000-07:00

uptown collective

august 2011

The Republica Update/I Am White

2011-08-23T10:01:00.000-07:00

I am white.

It is painful for me to admit, but it is time I came clean. I was raised, for the most part, in white suburbia along with friends who came from homes with similar economic situations and ancestry with similar cocktails of European blood.

The reason I make note of this is that, despite the fact that I grew up in an analogous environment, fraught with middle class ignorance and small town aspirations, my parents somehow aided in my ability to break free of my pedestrian upbringing and be open to new experiences and new people. No small feat for a girl who could name the black kids she went to school with.

Most everyone I know has experienced some sort of discrimination. Many believe that being a white kid from the suburbs makes you immune to such scrutiny, but it most certainly does not. In college my co-workers paid no mind to the fact that I too was sweating my ass off and taking all of the double shifts I could handle because they were under the assumption that my daddy paid for everything. An assumption made all the more humorous when you actually know the man that (with my mother) gave me life. At first I was offended, and then became indifferent. (Read More)

august 2011

3000 miles in 72 hours: part II

2011-08-22T19:01:00.000-07:00

middle of nowhere, california

august 2011

3000 miles in 72 hours

2011-08-18T11:33:00.000-07:00

I went home last weekend for a wedding and my Trentenera Part II. The trip was brief, but well worth it. Each time I go home I not only question why I left, but am more certain in the fact that the best people I have ever and will ever know, remain there.

august 2011

peralta project with soa present complejo

2011-08-16T11:53:00.000-07:00

complejo

august 2011

fire trucks

2011-08-10T11:51:00.000-07:00

august 2011

nightlife

2011-08-09T07:47:00.000-07:00

i was honored to be asked to shoot a couple nights at my favorite local watering hole, apt. 78 who has been hosting a series of djs this summer...

august 2011

The Republica Update/Do I Have To Hop On The Baby Train?

2011-08-03T19:10:00.000-07:00

I am not a mother and although I will admit to the increasing frequency with which my uterus aches at the site of chubby cheeks and tiny tennis shoes, I am not sure I ever will be. I am maternal no doubt, and with a dozen stints as a bridesmaid under my belt and a rapid increase in my unofficial aunt hood status one would think the next logical step would be to get myself knocked up. With my peer group immersing itself in the world of procreation I often am left to wonder if I should be hopping on the baby train?

When I was a little girl I either played school with my girlfriends, where I was the teacher and therefore the boss, or passively played GI Joes with the little boy in my neighborhood who’s inherent ability to make gun and explosion noises always left me green with envy. Sure, I had a couple of dolls that I tossed about, but playing Mommy to Bianca, my Cabbage Patch Kid, never really occurred to me.

For years, I fancied myself a tomboy. To be perfectly frank, I still do and although I have traded in my baggy jeans and boxer shorts for leggings and wedges the ultimate embodiment of becoming a woman, motherhood, is still just a theory for me. Being a mom is something grownups do when they have mortgages and lower back pain. Sure I pay rent and have a bad ankle and cannot deny the fact that I too am aging, with stray greys sprouting up as reminders of time passing, but I am not that grown up? With my own mother still asserting her parental rights over me, I certainly do not yet feel ready to be a mother myself. (Read More)

august 2011

living it...

2011-08-03T08:18:00.001-07:00

uptown collective

august 2011

laundromat

2011-07-29T10:55:00.000-07:00

july 2011

The Republica Update/A New Found Respect for Couples

2011-07-25T10:12:00.000-07:00

For most of my nearly 30 years on the planet, I have been singing the praises of the single life. Its not that I don't understand the human condition of wanting to be loved, and its not that I inherently think relationships are bad, its just that I come from a broken home and was raised in the Spice Girls era of girl power, so the need for a partner never really occurred to me. I often tell the tale of listening to Boys II Men’s meaningful slow jam ‘End of the Road’ as a girl and my mother insisting that no one ever “belongs” to me and I am never to “belong” to anyone else. Mom clearly wasn’t feeling Wanye’s Cooleyhighharmony. I, in turn, have always viewed the desire or requirement of a companion as a weakness.

I considered my autonomy one of my more favorable attributes, indicating strength and self-reliance. I thought I was taking the more arduous and stoic route. Man, was I wrong. (Read More)

july 2011

lets clique

2011-07-21T07:53:00.000-07:00

there is a new dating site called clique in the nyc area that functions like a linkedin for lovers. i had the distinct pleasure of shooting their latest campaign as seen below. i encourage all of the single ladies (and men) to sign up. only catch, you have to be introduced, so do some research and make a love connection...

july 2011

urban cowboy

2011-07-20T06:37:00.000-07:00

uptown collective

july 2011

sherman

2011-07-19T14:25:00.000-07:00

july 2011

waiting for tego

2011-07-18T15:22:00.000-07:00

stereotypically musicians, and dominicans, are not known for thier punctuality. last thursday raggaeton sensation tego calderon proved both of those to be true. nearly 3 hours late, i did not get to homeboy perform, i did get to take a few shots, while waiting for tego

july 2011

be heard. literally.

2011-07-15T08:33:00.000-07:00

i had the distinct honor of partaking in a dialogue about photography uptown last night on the voices of uptown radio show with carolina pichardo and claudio e. cabrera.

claudio, one of the hosts, clearly has the voice for radio.
i will stick with my day job.

july 2011

the boys of summer

2011-07-13T14:59:00.000-07:00

july 2011

The Republica Update/Frienemies With My Ego

2011-07-13T06:31:00.000-07:00

I have made it a point in my life to stay in touch with lovers from the past. I use the word lover loosely, as the level of intimacy I achieved with any of these men runs the gambit. For the most part, this has been a pleasurable experience, maintaining the connection I felt at some point but creating a less complicated relationship with limited expectations.

This does not seem to be standard practice and recently I have started to see why. It seems no matter how evolved or disinterested you think you are, the inevitable feelings of ickiness come creeping up. It was during a recent bout with ickniess that I had to take a moment, look myself in the mirror, and decide whether it was genuine emotion spurring these feelings, or simply ego. Our egos seem to get in the way of the decision making process from time to time and, as I get older, I learn to pause and evaluate it’s intrusion before taking action.

I am not arrogant or self-involved, however, I like most human beings am subject to the proverbial bruising of my ego. I find that since I seem hell bent on making my life as difficult as possible, this injury is often self-inflicted, making it all the more painful and frustrating. I am well versed at taking my lumps but that doesn’t make it any more awesome. It still sucks to do something foolish or stupid or downright mean and then have to own up to it. But alas… (Read More)

July 2011

the gw at night

2011-07-13T06:29:00.001-07:00

uptown collective

july 2011

The Elixir SOUL Food Series/The Uptown Collective

2011-07-10T06:50:00.000-07:00

uptown collective

july 2011

uptown

2011-07-06T06:33:00.001-07:00

uptown collective

july 2011

the hood diaries

2011-07-05T14:10:00.000-07:00

as part of my eternal quest to be afraid of nothing, i participated in my 2nd annual shameless fourth of july. last year a mini grill was propped up in front of my building, without so much as a stoop and meghan and i ate chicken and asparagus in 2 newly purchased chairs.

this year we upped the anty and had a feast, replete with my coffee table serving as both a spot for dining, as well as my first dominoes lesson. the dishware was provided by both my old roommate as well as yankee stadium and madison square garden. not sure i have ever felt more like a new yorker. the soundtrack of euro techno and gaga was provided by my next door neighbors, as i do not so much as own a stereo.

i wanted to make sure i got proof of said event to not only illustrate my ridiculousness on a daily basis, but also to have proof of the fact that my cooking acumen is reaching new heights. pun intended.

july 2011

Same Sex Marriage Victory/The Uptown Collective

2011-07-05T13:48:00.000-07:00

uptown collective

july 2011

The Republica Update/FU FB

2011-06-30T07:42:00.000-07:00

In recent years the landscape of human interaction has shifted. Standard social practices and regular verbal communication have all but vanished and in its wake we are left with hash tags and ‘like’ buttons to show our loved ones how near and dear to our hearts they are. They are so near and dear, in fact, that we take 3 seconds out of our day to push a button on the internet and let our sprawling network of family members and one night stands know that we think ‘Sarah’ looks great in that dress or ‘John’s’ beer bonging shots are hilarious.

You all know what I am talking about. At one time or another, we have all succumbed to the power of The Book. No, I am not talking about the bible, as that offers no fleeting 15 minutes of fame, shameful or otherwise on the World Wide Web. I am talking about Facebook, the brainchild of a boy genius that has taken over the world in a way never before seen. (Read More)

june 2011

summer storms

2011-06-29T07:53:00.000-07:00

june 2011

f diets

2011-06-29T07:49:00.000-07:00

june 2011

accessorizing

2011-06-22T10:45:00.000-07:00

uptown collective

june 2011

dyckman bar/the uptown collective

2011-06-21T19:49:00.000-07:00

uptown collective

june 2011