14 Reasons Chapel Hill, NC Is The Best College Town In America
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by 14 Reasons Chapel Hill Is The Best US College Town (story for Thrillist.com)
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Author Archives: Sam Rosenthal
by by New stories published in Elite Daily and Image Curve
So, here’s an update: I’ve published a few pieces on Elite Daily and Image Curve. Find my Elite Daily archives here and my Image Curve archives here (or click “The Human Comedy” tab on my site; I’ve listed my Image Curve collection there).
The Image Curve work is a series of short narrative fiction that I am publishing on a weekly basis. Each week, I identify a moment or situation in everyday life and create a brief fictional narrative from it. They’re all five-minute-or-less reads. My goal is to write one every week for a year, then publish them as a collection.
Some favorites from both sites:
“Timeline of Tears: How Volunteering at Ground Zero on the 9/11 Anniversary Change Me” on Elite Daily
“The Israeli-Palestinian Conflict: Why Pointing Fingers is Perpetuating the Violence” on Elite Daily
“Robin Williams Night” / “Missing Mohammed” / “Small Change” in “The Human Comedy” series on Image Curve
by by “What experiences in your life have given you hope?”
My aunt asked me to talk about experiences in my life that have given me hope. It’s interesting because she asked at a time when I wasn’t feeling too hopeful about the state of the world and where we may be headed. Every day presents us with signs of all the things we’re doing wrong as a species: The climate is warming, the seas are rising, and planes are disappearing. Population growth, wealth inequality and resource consumption are through the roof. A recent study (which may or may not have been supported/funded by NASA) says civilization may be headed for collapse.
It’s not very hopeful stuff. And yet, it is very REAL stuff in that the issues facing Earth and humanity today call for action in the Here and Now … and that action can be hard to find.
And yet: Hope. My aunt asked for experiences that give me hope.
I stood in the park the other day. It was Spring, and I was not surrounded, but IMMERSED in people from every zip code on the planet … and no one was beating the crap out of each other! I realized that, for all the conflict we see in the news, most of the time, we have learned to coexist peacefully.
That gives me hope.
On TV, across social media – and, by golly, in high-definition Real Life – I see countless examples of people coming together in unprecedented ways to bring about a better future. The good in the world is EVERYWHERE!
My aunt asked me to describe a struggle to change something that worked, and what I learned from it. I have witnessed and continue to witness so many struggles to change things – some have worked, and some have not. What I have learned is that changing things in the hope of making them better isn’t a struggle – it’s a choice. We have to choose, over and over, to use our hope to propel us forward.
As Longfellow wrote: “Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, is our destined end or way.
But to act, that each tomorrow, find us farther than today.”
It is that spirit of action that led the Jews out of bondage so many years ago. As Margaret Mead said: “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.”
Happy Passover everybody. L’chaim.
by by Sent my novel to an agent today …
They say it’s about the journey, not the destination … and what a journey this has been. The book took me in a train across the U.S., it took me to an elementary school classroom and a seven-story nightclub in Madrid, and it took me to a bar in New York City. It forced me to confront things about myself and about Life. It brought me so much.
And it taught me so much. When I started, I had no idea how to write a novel. The longest thing I’d ever written was a research paper in high school. I knew where the story would start, but I had no clue how or where it would end; it didn’t write itself, but in many ways, it did tell itself.
From the beginning, I told myself and others that I was writing this because it was something I needed to do. Whatever the outcome from here, I stand by that. No project has ever been more important to me, and I feel tremendously blessed that I have had the time to write down the things I all along wanted to say. Moving forward, the book will undergo changes and edits galore, but it’s at a point now that honors the vision I had for it seven long and short years ago.
Here’s to the journey. Here’s to Life.
by by Welcome To Mars – The Bruno Has Landed
That was my, and, let’s be honest, a lot of people’s reaction when the baby-faced singer received the Super nod. The general perception was that he lacked the chops to sizzle on such a pressure-packed stage. After all, how many hits did he really have? This was the Super Bowl, not a one-song performance at the Teen Choice Awards.
As the Big Game and Mars’ performance approached, people started to wonder if he was the right choice. News came out that The Red Hot Chili Peppers would also appear, and water cooler talk — for whatever it’s worth — surmised that perhaps the league or Mars was worried that he couldn’t handle it himself.
For whatever it’s worth, that was about the time I started to think that maybe the people who picked Mars in the first place knew something the rest of us didn’t. And man, did they!
Bruno Mars, in the parlance of our times, killed it. Many of us were familiar with his music, but not his shows. We knew he could sing and charm the camera, but did we know he could play the drums? There he was, greeted by a chorus of children canting “Billionaire,” a silhouette behind cymbals.
Yet it wasn’t Mars alone — it was Mars and his band, The Hooligans, putting on a show that was arguably as good and multi-faceted as the Seahawks’ masterpiece. One of my friends remarked that they resembled The Jackson Five, with Bruno channeling Michael at center stage — and that was before he broke out a backwards, moonwalk-esque move of his own.
Millions of viewers across the globe realized it at once: Bruno Mars’ talent is for real.
And then … The Chili Peppers barged onstage. I’m a big-time RHCP fan — own almost all of their albums, have seen them rock the house live — but every second of “Give It Away” that they played was a second of precious airtime that should’ve gone to Mr. Mars. It was as if the people who booked the show second-guessed their decision and brought in the Peppers to appeal to a larger audience. That’s speculation, but if anything close to that happened, the Powers That Be should have stuck to their collective gut. The Chili Peppers’ sound and vibe clashed with what Mars had going, and the fans would’ve been much better served without the interruption.
Luckily, “Give It Away” went away, and we got a few more minutes of Mars, alone in a beam of light, which was exactly how it should have been. He finished his final number and thanked the fans, who gave him an applause that exhibited true — and much, much deserved — appreciation.
They picked Bruno Mars for halftime at the Super Bowl. But he didn’t just play the show — he stole it.
by by Peyton Manning, Victorious in Defeat
Did you see it? What he did on the field tonight? Not during the game. After the game.
When Andrew Luck and the Colts lined up in the “Victory Formation” to kneel down and wind the final seconds off the clock, NBC’s cameras showed Manning on the Denver sidelines. Here he was, watching the guy who was given his job, his franchise, his city. Here he was, defeated in his return to Indy. Here he was, crushed.
His eyes said it all, burning across the field, staring at where it went wrong, staring holes in his cleats. Manning is an expressive guy — his slew of TV appearances attests to that – but rarely do you catch a glimpse of him the way he looked in those final, lonely seconds. He wanted this game. Wanted it badly.
But he didn’t get it. The kid got it. The kid earned it. And Manning had to take it.
Boy, did he take it. With all of those emotions, all of that feeling inside him, he marched away from the sideline. His helmet still fastened to that XL head, he walked right into the TV cameras, right into the postgame hubbub at midfield. Those first few steps, he was almost dazed, a prize fighter who’d just taken a vicious uppercut. One of his coaches patted his back, then some guy in a suit, and then he lumbered a few paces.
That’s when he shook it off. One of the Colts coaches hugged him, followed by a Colts player, followed by Andrew Luck. They shared a short word — all you’d expect — and then the handshakes really started. Coaches, players, athletic trainers, ballboys — one by one, Manning took their hands with much more than lip service. He looked each person in the face, took the time to say something, give a pat on the back, honor the moment. He stopped to talk — not once, but a number of times. Every couple steps he took, he saw someone else, and he stopped in his tracks. Out came the mitts again. A smile for one of the security guys. A quick chat with this guy, and that guy.
He didn’t need to do any of it. The man’s character and feelings for the Colts organization, for the city of Indianapolis, have been more well-documented than the Constitution. Nobody would’ve begrudged him anything if he had shaken Luck’s hand alone and headed straight for the locker room. Luck’s was the only handshake expected of him, yet it was clearly far from the only one that mattered to him. Despite all of the loss’s sting, he stayed on that field far longer than was necessary. In doing so, he showed the true class and leadership that make him far more than a great football player. He showed what makes a true winner.
by by On the year anniversary of my return from Europe
Vienna, Austria — 8/28/12
Looking back, there have been things I didn’t expect — struggling to find work, moving to New York with $250 to my name, becoming a bartender, volunteering at the World Trade Center on 9/11, living at my aunt’s apartment five-sevenths of every week. There have been things I did expect — the U.S. government proving once again the old adage that the opposite of progress is Congress, the awesomeness of Breaking Bad, and the reality that this would be, and continues to be, the most uncertain time in my life to date.
I do at times miss Spain. I miss my friends there, and the way of life, and the independence I had. I miss being able to go out on Friday and Saturday nights because my current 9-5 is from p.m. to a.m. I miss my dog, Shadow, and the house where I used to live.
Shadow
All in all, though, this has been one heck of an año.
Being away, I had forgotten how nice it is to be close to your family. While being out of the country for two years provides you with incredible experiences and mind-opening encounters, one of the drawbacks is that you don’t get to spend as much time with the people who have been there all along. I have truly relished the opportunity to be — to be — with my parents, and my sister, and my aunts and uncles and new baby cousins. Tuesday night tapas dinners in Madrid were amazing; Tuesday afternoon lunches with my grandmother will stay with me even longer. Holiday traditions, reunions with old friends, the simple pleasure of being able to call people I care about for less than $25 per minute.
New friends, too — some really good ones. A few great ones. It’s been interesting to see how we build and continue relationships even as our lives move in very separate directions. I can’t tell you how many awesome people I’ve met over the past few years — people who shared their stories, their dances, their beers, their hearts. I can now tell you, however, how many people are indispensable in my life, because that is a much smaller number. The story of every person’s earthly existence involves major characters, minor characters, extras, and a whole slew of people behind the scenes. This year has given me insight into who fits where.
It’s not like I’ve stopped adventuring, either. I was able to re-visit Madrid, and Chapel Hill. I journeyed to Ocean City, MD, Monticello, NY, and Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. I’ve ridden the Staten Island Ferry, attended the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, toured the United States Constitution Center, rocked karaoke at a Spanish wedding, and etched my name in Sharpie on the interior walls of the new One World Trade Center. (Don’t worry, I had police permission.)
There have been plenty of ups and plenty of downs, bursts of inspiration and bouts of self-doubt. That’s normal. Life is less like a forward march and more like a salsa dance — a few steps ahead, a few backwards, and a lot of spinning around to the music.
The real question for me now is: Where will I be a year from today?
There’s a certain manuscript of mine that’s been, oh, six-and-a-half years in the making. It’s close to done. That work was the major impetus for my move to Spain (other than the flamenco dancers), and it is one of the primary reasons why this year has been difficult at times. It is extremely tough, when you’ve been working on something for so long, to draw close to the finish line without projecting into the future. In other words, it’s hard to know that you’re close to completing a book without being scared to death about whether it’ll be published, if people will like it, and if it’ll be what you wanted it to be when, one day in May 2007, you were driving back to the house where your family no longer lives, and you had an idea and thought, “I’m going to write a book about that!” That day — during the summer in which I was living and working in New York for the first time, in between my sophomore and junior years at UNC — seems so long ago now. And yet, that day is every day of my life.
Years are ideas — they don’t really exist. We give our memories a timeline because it helps us write our lives’ narratives in an orderly fashion. One night this year, when I was at dinner with my father in Monticello, he described how his mother and father took him there, to the Catskill Mountains, when he was a boy. As we dined in the only decent restaurant in town, he recalled those days, when the Catskills thrived, and he told me his mother’s stories of when she was younger and the Catskills were the Las Vegas of the East Coast. I tried to spit out this idea that, in that moment which he and I were sharing — that somehow, in that space, the Catskills were all they had ever been, all they ever would be. That his mother, who I never met, was there, and that my phantom descendants, should they ever come to be, were there as well. That all time was a single moment.
I couldn’t find the words to adequately explain it then, I can’t find them now, and I doubt I ever will. Perhaps this is the closest I’ll get: As I write to you, I do it now. And when you read these words — tomorrow, 10 years from now, 100 years from now, you will still be reading them now. Not that people will be reading this blog in 2113 — hardly anybody reads it in 2013 — but you get the point: It was now when I had the idea for my book, now when I wrote the first page, now when I discovered the ending, and it will be now on the day that I send it off into the world to be what it will be, to whoever it will be.
This post began as a Facebook status; I certainly didn’t see it getting this philosophical, or this many miles off-topic. But, as this collection of time that we call the past year has taught me, sometimes, things go as you expect … and other times, a Czech seagull poops on your head.
by by Taxi Tao
Before this morning, I’m not sure if it had ever happened to me. I initiate at least nine out of 10 conversations that I have with cabbies, and today, to be honest, I didn’t feel like having one. I had my headphones on, and I was surprised when the driver asked about my journey — in an accent I couldn’t place — and wanted to know how long it usually takes to get home to Philadelphia from New York. We spoke for a moment, and then I went back to my music.
When we stopped at a red light, he said something to the cab next to us, and when we started driving, he said, “I told him that I’ve been driving a taxi since before he was born, and he said, ‘You’re still driving?’ I told him I’ve got no choice — I have two kids in college. When my kids finish college, then the American Dream will be complete, and maybe I can stop driving.”
Off came the headphones.
My best guess is that his name was spelled Habte; he pronounced it “Hop to!” And you might say he was a “Hop to!” kind of guy. Born in what is now the eastern African country of Eritrea, he moved to the U.S. in 1971. His first job was washing dishes — “I didn’t even know what a dishwasher was!” — and my gut tells me he worked a number of other jobs before moving into the mobile yellow office that became his career.
He must have been at least 60, and probably older, with milk chocolate skin and a few curls of white hair. Round glasses, warm smile. He said he has one kid at Neumann University, another at Drexel.
I asked him about Eritrea. He told me it’s a Pennsylvania-sized country with a Philadelphia-sized population, bordered by Ethiopia and Sudan … which means I could almost visualize it on a map.
“I go home to visit friends and family almost every year,” he said.
“Is it a stable government?”
“It is Ok. We are Ok, my friend.” He turned off of Market Street and headed south. “The thing with America is, people don’t realize how good we have it. When I go home to Eritrea, every single person over 20 has a gun, because there is always the threat of war. But there are no shootings. In Eritrea, if you kill someone, and they catch you, you will be hanging outside the courthouse in two weeks.” He showed me the newspaper that was lying on the front passenger’s seat. “Look at these shootings here!”
“A few years ago I took my boys to Eritrea so they could appreciate what they have here,” he said. “They saw kids playing soccer barefoot, and they asked me, ‘Where are their shoes?’ It took me a week to explain to them what poor was!
“If you ever have kids, take them to Africa, my friend. Even when I go home, it is humbling. What I make here in one day — and I call it a bad day — there, it’s the minister’s salary. So I tell myself not to compare. Cross Lombard?”
“Yeah — one more block.”
“I work 10 or 11 hours a day, seven days a week,” he said.
“Wow. That’s a lot of work.”
“I have no choice, my friend. I have two kids in college.”
I was so enjoying the discussion — a discussion I was initially reluctant to have — that we almost passed my house.
“It is nice talking to you,” he said while helping me with my bag. “You made my day.”
Likewise, my friend. You asked, “How was your trip?” And the trip was you.
by by Brave New World: The Facebook Generation
When we were born, computers were the New Kids on the Block. My family had an old-school, black-and-white Mac that ran the MS-DOS operating system and would seem as primitive as cave drawings to today’s iMiracles. During our adolescence, cell phones were larger than infants and came in briefcases. My family had in-house portable phones — how cool it was not to need a cord! — and my dad wore a beeper. We had VCRs for our movies, Walkman players for our music, and the original Gameboy, SEGA and Nintendo systems for our video games.
It all changed, at least as I recall it, with Microsoft Windows and a little thing called America Online. We would come home from middle school and rush to listen to the clicks and screeches of our dial-up modems (listen), facing the world for the first time as digital representations of ourselves; my first “screen name” was Jr24BigMac (inspired by Ken Griffey, Jr. and Mark McGuire).
Around the same time — seventh and eighth grade — our parents started reluctantly giving my friends and I our first cell phones. They were the old-school Nokias, the highlight of which was the Snake video game. (Recently, I heard of a parent who bought her seven-year-old a BlackBerry. When I was seven, those still grew on vines.)
When Apple came out with the iPod, we realized we were headed far away from Kansas. My dad’s entire record collection, which previously occupied a wall of our house, could now be easily compressed into something that fit in a pocket. Since then, the technology has only gotten crazier, and people have more or less become fused to their machines. It will not surprise me one bit when they start fitting babies with USB ports.
Nothing, though, hit my generation like Facebook. It re-wrote everything. (You could argue this point — in terms of worldwide impact — in favor of the Internet, or Google, or Twitter. For the college graduating classes of about 2008-2010, though, Facebook takes the e-cake.)
I first heard about Facebook from a girl named Jenna during my senior year of high school. She had graduated the year before and was a freshman at the University of Maryland. I was talking to her under my second AOL Instant Messenger alias — DedSxy30. (Inspired by Austin Powers, I employed it primarily because I thought girls would like it.) She told me about this new thing called Facebook that only people in college could have because you needed a college email address to join the network. Rest assured, I registered on Facebook almost the minute I received my official @email.unc.edu address.
Those were the Wild West days of Facebook, when it was normal to friend people you’d never met. I had a whole group of ‘friends’ before I arrived at school, and it was nothing strange to see each other at a fraternity party and be like, “Hey — I know you from Facebook!” Back then, you had one profile photo. One. And a wall, groups and interests. That was pretty much it. The news feed consisted of up-coming birthdays. If you wanted to share pictures, you used Webshots or something similar. MySpace was still a thing.
Then they let high school kids join the party. Then people in professional networks. Then moms, dads, grandparents, babies and dogs. They added unlimited photo upload capacity, Facebook Chat, apps, ads, and all the bells and whistles that you see today.
The world will never be the same.
Imagine: In 10-15 years, the way people communicated, shared their experiences, and interacted with the world and each other changed so much that to the outside observer it would seem nothing short of science fiction.
For people my age, those 10-15 years were the ones that marked our journey into adulthood. We are irrevocably linked to these developments, which matched our development. One day, we were in grade school, learning to hand-write and address letters to pen pals, practicing typing on desktop computers the size of buses. The next day, we were preparing for life in the so-called “Real World,” writing 25 emails and 50 text messages a day from our phones, which never left our sight.
Is this for the better?
It seems that the more in-grained we become in our social media, the less social we actually are. Take it from the guy whose friends once created the virtual group “Sam Rosenthal’s Obsession with Facebook is Disturbing.” It is now totally common to sit in a room with five young people — all of them on their Smartphones, computers and tablets, none of them saying a word to each other.
These networks may sap our net worth; there’s something about broadcasting yourself to the world as a series of images and words that, as we become more connected to our machines, increasingly disconnects us from each other — and ourselves. It is almost as if there are multiple versions of us — who we are in life, and who we are online. What scares me is that every day that passes, the latter seems more and more like the reality that matters to us.
There are two terrific articles that delve into the specifics of just how new-age technology is changing us. Neither is short — gasp! — but both are well worth reading.
One, a recent piece by Matt Labash in The Weekly Standard, describes “The Twidiocracy: The decline of Western civilization, 140 characters at a time.”
“I hate the way Twitter turns people into brand managers, their brands being themselves,” Labash writes. He adds: “A technology that incentivizes its status-conscious, attention-starved users to yearn for ever more followers and retweets, Twitter causes Twidiots to ask one fundamental question at all times: ‘How am I doing?’ … Even the most independent spirit becomes a needy member of the bleating herd.”
Most of what he writes about Twitter applies to Facebook and the rest of social media, which are quickly becoming the filter through which we view real-life experiences — and, as I see it, a separation from those experiences. Every time you take a photo of something, or make a status update or a Tweet, you remove yourself from the present moment. The impulse is to capture the moment, rather than participate in it.
Labash describes attending a speech given by Luminate’s Chas Edwards, who cited the statistic that “10 percent of all the photos ever taken have been snapped in the last 12 months.”
“As Chas speaks,” Labash writes, “most of the room is looking down into their iAbysses, thumb-pistoning away. He observes that ‘only 10 percent of you are actually consuming me. What I’m hoping is that the other 90 percent of you are online enjoying more fully this experience and tweeting it.’”
In the article, Labash describes attending a panel entitled “Are Social Media Making Us Sick?” And although the social media gurus say, “No,” — giving the author “the feel of tobacco company ‘scientists’ telling us smoking increases lung capacity” — most of the new-age crowd answers, “Yes.”
“And never mind,” he writes, “a Michigan State study that found excessive media use/media multitasking can lead to symptoms associated with depression and anxiety. An Oxford University scientist said Facebook and Twitter are leading to narcissism and an “identity crisis” in users … A Chicago University study found that tweeting can be more addictive than cigarettes and alcohol … German university researchers found one out of three people who visited Facebook felt more dissatisfied with their lives afterwards, owing to feelings of envy and insecurity.”
Heck: “A recent survey by Boost Mobile found 16-25-year-olds so addicted that 31 percent of respondents admitted to servicing their social accounts while ‘on the toilet.’ And a Retrevo study found that 11 percent of those under age 25 allow themselves to be interrupted by ‘an electronic message during sex.'”
In his 2008 article “Is Google Making Us Stupid? What the Internet is doing to our brains,” The Atlantic’s Nicholas Carr takes a broad look at how the Internet Age is re-wiring the way we think. He describes how he and his colleagues can no longer read long texts like they used to, and he feels it is because the multi-tasking, multi-channel realities of today’s media landscape fragment our attention and prevent us from concentrating or contemplating the way we previously could.
Carr’s article focuses less on social media, but it poses incredibly important questions about the direction in which we’re headed. He looks at the mission of Google’s founders, Larry Page and Sergey Brin, who “speak frequently of their desire to turn their search engine into an artificial intelligence, a HAL-like machine that might be connected directly to our brains. … In a 2004 interview with Newsweek, Brin said, ‘Certainly if you had all the world’s information directly attached to your brain, or an artificial brain that was smarter than your brain, you’d be better off.’”
This idea scares Carr: “It suggests a belief that intelligence is the output of a mechanical process, a series of discrete steps that can be isolated, measured, and optimized. In Google’s world, the world we enter when we go online, there’s little place for the fuzziness of contemplation. Ambiguity is not an opening for insight but a bug to be fixed. The human brain is just an outdated computer that needs a faster processor and a bigger hard drive.”
“Maybe,” he writes, “I’m just a worrywart. Just as there’s a tendency to glorify technological progress, there’s a countertendency to expect the worst of every new tool or machine.” He cites Socrates’ aversion to the written word, and Squarciafico’s to the printed one, as evidence of the fears of new technology. Although these fears often come to fruition, he notes that “the doomsayers were unable to imagine the myriad blessings” that the new technologies created.
Maybe I’m just a worrywart, too, but the motor of the digital world concerns me about the future of the real one. Social media may be making us sick, and they’re definitely not making us happy. Facebook and Twitter deal in compulsion, not happiness. We log on seeking approval, seeking a sense of self portrayed online. It is a virtual world, and as such it cannot provide more than virtual experiences. Once you’re logged in to a social site, your brain operates unconsciously. You browse, and click, and post, unaware of why you’re browsing or clicking or posting because it’s all on impulse.
I feel like Carr’s theory about our brains being re-wired is correct. If I walk down the street, not 20 seconds pass before some alarm goes off in my head: “Check email!” or “Any new Facebook notifications?” or “Who’s that text from?” The more we use our technology, the more we’re programmed to use it.
Last summer, I spent eight days at the home of some family friends in rural Sweden. No Facebook, no email, no internet. I meditated, wrote for hours, cooked, had real conversations with my friends, and engaged with nature. My mind was at ease.
On the train ride from Sweden to Denmark, I caved and purchased a half hour of internet access. For that half hour, my brain entered Online Mode — one with the machine, completely out of touch with everything going on around me. There I was, hurtling through the Swedish countryside on a glorious morning, and all I could do was get stuck in my Bermuda’s Triangle of Facebook, email and fantasy baseball.
When my internet cut out after the half hour, I slunk back from my computer, my head pounding. “What just happened to me?” I thought. After a week without that feeling — a week without connecting my brain to that unconscious current — I became acutely aware of the empty, compulsive addiction brought on by the Net.
It wasn’t always like this. I was young, but I remember a time before people became virtual representations of themselves. My generation — the Facebook Generation — may be the last of its kind. Today’s kids have no concept of a world without user names. From the moment you’re born, now, you’ve been Facebooked, Instagrammed, Tweeted and Vined. You’ve been ‘liked’ and ‘followed’ so much, you’d think you’d won something. What have we won? More importantly: What have we lost?
Like Nicholas Carr, I, too, see danger in the dreams of Google’s founders. Syncing the human brain to artificial intelligence may provide us with unlimited mental resources, but at what cost? If we are being wired by our machines to think more like them, we risk losing the ability to think and be like humans. If we are constantly projecting ourselves, via social media, at what point do we forget that our Facebook profiles are not who we are? At what point does the digitally-projected self — the “personal brand” — become more important than the complex, ambiguous phenomenon that is the human being? At what point do we become permanently severed from the present moment?
And can you please ‘like’ this article on Facebook?
by by Matt Harvey and Me
Please make the Hall of Fame. For your sake, obviously, but for mine as well.
We often find ourselves rooting for athletes for different reasons. I’m rooting for you, Mr. Harvey, even though I’m a lifelong Phillies fan, and you pitch for the Mets. And I’m rooting for you despite our personal history.
It comes down to this:
1) I own you in one of my fantasy leagues — a keeper auction league, where I have you at $3. You have been a beast ever since you joined my squad. If you have a Hall of Fame career, that means you will help my fake baseball team win many, many games. If that ain’t a reason to root for someone, I don’t know what is.
2) You’re dating Anne V. Well done, Sir.
3) Your Mets are so enjoyably bad. Other than David Wright and Citi Field, you’re the only redeemable thing about the Diet Yankees. When you’re on the mound against anyone other than the Phils, I actually want to see Los Mets do well. You have no idea what kind of accomplishment that is. (Here’s a great Grantland article on you, and the Mets’ futility.)
4) You may not remember, but we went to college together. At UNC, you were a hotshot baseball player, and I was a sports columnist who would’ve been a hotshot baseball player had my four-seamer been just 30 mph faster.
One night — during my senior year, if memory serves — I was at one of the Chapel Hill bars typically frequented by student athletes. I saw this stunning blonde and had one of those, “I have to talk to her or I’ll regret it,” moments.
I don’t remember what we said, but I know it wasn’t long before you came over and interjected, quite poetically: “Step away, Bro.”
To which I responded, “Hey, Bro — we’re just talking. She’s allowed to talk to people, right?”
You didn’t find it very funny.
I reminded myself that practically the entire baseball team was with you, and how interesting and somewhat ironic it would’ve been had the front page in the following day’s paper read: “Et tu, Har-vey? Sports columnist hospitalized after bench-clearing bar brawl.” It wouldn’t have been good for either of us. So I walked away thinking (but not articulating), “Hit me with your pitching hand, break a couple metacarpals — see how that helps your career!”
For the health of your hand, and my jaw, I’m glad you didn’t. Looking back, I can see that you were just doing your power pitcher thing; in that bar, I was a hitter crowding the plate, and you threw a brush-back pitch to clear me off the inside corner. Now, when I watch you mowing down hitters with 95-mph gas, I know where it’s coming from. And I love it.
From a personal perspective: The more successful you become, the cooler my story becomes. So far, it’s gone from, “I once almost got my ass kicked by the UNC baseball team,” to, “I once argued over a girl with the guy who was just on the cover of Sports Illustrated and is dating Anne V.” If you make the Hall of Fame, perhaps one day I can take my (as yet non-existent) offspring to visit your plaque and be like, “See this guy, kids? If he hadn’t stepped in at that bar, I might never have met your mother!”
5) Because you deserve the success. You risked your pro career by turning down a seven-figure contract to attend college — a decision that took more guts than throwing a 3-2 breaking ball with the bases loaded. Every time you take the mound, you’ve got Empire State-sized pressure on your shoulders — it’s not easy being the Golden Boy — and yet you keep delivering.
With all my heart, I hope you win 250 career games, strike out 3,000 hitters, and claim yourself a spot in Cooperstown. Or, at the very least, bring my fantasy team a couple titles.
Pitch away, Bro. Pitch away.
Got an athlete/celebrity story to share? Email it to samrose24@gmail.com
by by Death of a Sportswriter (A Tribute to Stan Isaacs)
Still, a number of years passed before I had an inkling what Stan did for a living. I was young, and I assumed that anyone over 60 had no time or purpose in life for being anything other than a grandparent. Dave and Laura certainly never mentioned that their grandpa was a big-time sportswriter — they weren’t nearly as into sports as I was. Once, when Stan brought Dave into the Mets’ dugout and introduced him to then-manager Dallas Green. Green asked Dave if he wanted an autograph, and not having any idea why he’d want one, Dave replied, “No thanks.”
Though I practically killed Dave when he told me that story the first time, Laura said her grandfather had been proud. Stan didn’t see why someone would covet an athlete’s signature, either. He saw athletes not as gods, but as people — a novel idea today as much as it was then.
I hope Stan would forgive me for attaching sentimental value to his autograph. He inscribed it in a book he gave me — his “Ten Moments That Shook the Sports World.” He wanted me to read it while I was honing my sportswriting skills at UNC. He used to email me his columns, and I would ask him questions. The book was an even better lesson on sportswriting — and the history of sports, of which Stan played more than a minor part.
Something that always struck me about Stan’s work was how much it differed from today’s typical sports journalism fare. Under the current paradigm, most times that we read a sports story, we’ve already watched the game on TV, seen the highlights 10 times, read 15 in-game tweets, and heard it analyzed by talking heads ad nauseam. In Stan’s day, a sportswriter’s words had to tell the whole story. Reading Stan’s writing is like being at a baseball game — it is not always fast-paced and exciting, but there is beauty in the details. Stan told you what color each team wore, which way the wind was blowing, who was still hung over from the team party the night before, and how the players’ wives responded to the rowdy crowd. He told it straight-faced, with an occasional wry wink. He wrote to inform, and to give his readers a sense of the event. His words revealed that which was whimsical and hidden, the elements of the sports world that usually go unnoticed.
Stan’s family knew him in a far different way than his readers did. All three of Stan’s children were girls, and none would be an early pick in gym-class kickball. They and their spouses and children knew him not as a scribe but as a patriarch, and it pleases me to think that they all may now have occasion to revisit his work and gain some new perspective on the man they called “Dad” and “Grandpa.”
As fate would have it, I was futon-crashing at Laura’s Manhattan apartment when she learned that Stan had passed. I have been present while she has read some of the other memorials written during the past few days, and I have watched her come to see her grandfather in a new light. “I never knew so many people still remembered him,” she said. She forwarded me a Grantland article about him, and a column by Keith Olbermann, who credits Stan with writing the article in 1981 that launched his career on television. I recommend reading both, and Newsday’s tribute by Mark Herrmann, which Dave posted to his Facebook.
One thing about writers is that they hang around even after they’re gone, and I’m thrilled that by reading his work and what others have written, my friends will always be able to spend time with their grandfather.
I’m glad I’ll get to spend time with him as well. It took me a long time to appreciate what Stan meant to sportswriting. Once, while reading Jane Leavy’s biography of Sandy Koufax, Stan’s name appeared, and I called Dave and Laura’s mother and said, “Nancy, your father’s mentioned in this book I’m reading!” Her lack of surprise made me realize that Stan was a big deal. There are so many writers — I should know — and it’s easy to be overlooked.
But Stan was different: His relationship with Olbermann began when he penned a column about Olbermann keeping track of which professional athlete held the record for saying the most “you knows” during press conferences. Stan’s column went by the running title “Out of Left Field,” and his topics came from way past the fence. He wrote during a revolutionary age in sports news and was one of the pioneering forces behind it. Most sportswriters of his day wanted to be in on the glory — Stan wanted to be in on the joke. His writing has little in common with that of the modern sportswriter, and yet his “Chipmunk” style and critical regard for athletes and coaches has influenced so many who may never know it. When I read his book, I was amazed at the magnitude of the events he’d covered: the Munich Olympics, the Miracle Mets, the “Shot Heard ‘Round the World,” the Jets upsetting the Colts, Ali-Frazier. Stan was there for all of that, and he brought his readers there with him.
When Bobbie, Stan’s beloved wife of 58 years, died last year, it had already been a long time since I’d seen or written him. Based on the reports his family gave me, Bobbie’s passing was a blow from which he never fully recovered. His health and spirits sank, and his last months were unfortunately not happy ones. I dare say he would have wanted things to end differently, but we don’t usually get to choose how we walk off the field.
We don’t get to choose how we say goodbye, either. A few weeks ago, I wanted to write Stan. I wanted to tell him I was sorry about his wife, and that I hoped he was alright. I wanted to, but I didn’t. Laura said she wishes she’d been able to visit him one last time, and I’m sure some of his other family members do as well. As long as people have family members, and as long as those family members pass away, people will wish they’d said this or done that, forgiven X or apologized for Y, and that their final parting left nothing incomplete.
The funny thing is, Stan’s departure reminds me of his columns: Often, they didn’t end neatly and tidily, but abruptly, as if Stan decided he’d hit his word limit and called it a day.
I didn’t get to say goodbye to Stan Isaacs — the sportswriter, the grandfather, the father, the husband, the mentor. But I do get to emulate his style in a farewell column, and his family gets to read it.
I suppose that’s not so bad.
by by Coincidence? I think not.
They begin and end with a man named Morris Lewis Walker. Private First Class Morris Lewis Walker. “Mo.”
Mo was one of the best friends I ever had. I use the word “was” because Mo died, in 2009, fighting in Afghanistan. An Improvised Explosive Device (IED) detonated underneath his unit’s vehicle, killing Mo and one of his fellow soldiers.
It is nearly impossible for me to put into words the effect Mo’s passing had on my friends and myself. I’ll spare you the platitudes that people usually heap on the dead, especially the young dead. We loved Mo because he was real — as real as they come. He saw right through you and on special occasions allowed you to see right through him, and this duality was magnetic. People like that leave, as Longfellow once wrote, “footprints on the sands of time.” Their actions and influence can be felt long after their passing.
Mo and I in New Jersey, summer 2008.
I don’t think that Mo’s gone. Not entirely, at any rate.
To preface this: I consider myself a highly rational person. When it comes to religious beliefs and all things supernatural, I trend toward the highly skeptical. I usually follow the Descartesian/agnostic approach of: If it can’t be proven by reason, you can’t trust it.
But.
Certain things have happened during my life that have made me question exactly how much of the Universe we humans can actually understand with our oh-so-incredible reason. They don’t all have to do with Mo, but in the interests of preserving this post’s thematic unity, I’ll relate the ones that do.
After college, I had planned on waiting tables, saving some money and traveling instead of immediately entering the professional world. A major reason I chose this was to give myself a solid chance of completing the novel that I had conceived during school. When Mo died, he changed not only the narrative of my novel, but that of my life as well.
To save for my travels, I had moved home from North Carolina after graduation. Mo’s funeral brought me back for a weekend. While I was there, I visited my friend Chetan at his house. He had some people over, one of whom was our mutual friend Heather. I told her my travel ideas — which were just that: ideas — and she said, “You should do my program in Spain!” She told me that if I spoke some Spanish, had a college degree, and was a native English speaker, I could get a student visa to teach English in Spain.
And, as all … three? … of my regular readers are aware, that’s exactly what I did. As my friend Katie likes to say, “It’s all Mo’s fault.”
Fast forward to Spain. St. Patrick’s Day. Madrid might as well have been Dublin. We couldn’t squeeze into any of the Irish pubs, so we strayed from our normal watering holes. After much prodding, a promoter convinced us to visit this bar called Star Studio. She showed us both floors of the packed bar/club, and we settled by the bar upstairs. Eventually, I got bored and split off with this guy named Magic (not making this up) to head back downstairs. Then I lost Magic, and, being my always-reserved self, started dancing in the middle of a group of Americans.
When I started to head back upstairs, I accidentally bumped a Spanish guy — bumped him good. He wheeled around with a sort of, “Dude? Really?” expression on his face. I could have ignored him. Could have told him to get over it. Could have told him worse. Could have said, “Sorry,” and moved on. But for some reason, I didn’t. For some reason, I threw my arm around him, apologized, and we started talking.
Then he told me his friend was from the States. “Ed,” he said, “come here!”
“Where you from, man?” Ed asked me.
“Philly. How bout you?”
“North Carolina.”
“No way, Bro! I went to Chapel Hill!”
“Sweet, man,” he said. Or something like that.
“What part of Carolina are you from?” I asked him.
“Fayetteville.”
I started to get a little curious. Nothing crazy, though. This guy looked younger than me. I doubted he would’ve known him. “I know Fayette-nam quite well,” I told him. “One of my best friends was from there.”
“Oh yeah man? Who?”
“Mo Walker.”
Ed’s face went white. It was as if, at the mention of Mo’s name, the whole bar had faded into some parallel, background universe. “Dude,” he said, “I went to high school with Mo Walker.”
He was one year younger than Mo. And here we were, in Madrid, talking about him. I tried to wrap my head around the odds of it: Mo’s high school had something like 30 people per class. That meant that only about 200 people could say they went to high school with him. And somehow, in a city an ocean away, I had bumped into not only one of those 200 people, but one who knew my friend well. And we only met because St. Patrick’s Day had forced us to go to a different bar, and because I had stopped to talk to a guy I bumped. If any of those circumstances hadn’t transpired, it wouldn’t have happened.
But it did. And it made me think.
Leaving Spain after two years was unbelievably difficult. I was happy there, and I could’ve stayed longer. For the first time in a long while, I was faced with a decision that didn’t feel right, no matter which way I went. I didn’t think it was wise to stay because I didn’t see myself progressing professionally in Spain, but by no means was I sure I was ready to come home.
I got home in October. I did some freelance writing and video work, and I applied to a bunch of different jobs, but nothing stuck. My bank account dwindled to amounts that would make the U.S. Treasury seem rich, and I spent my time between my mother’s place in New Jersey and my father’s in Philadelphia. I was eating a lot, sleeping a lot, and not feeling great about myself a lot. People didn’t make things any better when they asked me, “Why’d you come back from Spain?” I told them that my big, old, rational brain had thought it was a good idea at the time.
I knew that I needed a change. In one of those “Now I think of this?” moments, I remembered that my aunt had a place in New York City at which she only stayed a couple nights a week. I called her and asked if I could stay there sometimes while looking for work. She agreed, and I decided to seek employment as a server/bartender until I could find something that would make my degree useful as something more than a wall decoration.
Never mind the fact that my mom thought it was a terrible idea, and that I felt extremely uncertain; I was rather used to feeling uncertain by that point. I had to do something. So I came up last Friday with five days’ worth of clothes and 25 resumes. I started from my aunt’s place at 85th Street and walked down Amsterdam Avenue, then doubled back. Resume No. 24 was the lucky one — literally a block from my aunt’s, a new place called Hey Mambo offered me a gig.
And do you remember my friend Katie? The one who liked to say, “It’s all Mo’s fault?” Well, she happens to live in New York now. Is a bar manager at this place called Pranna. Has become one of my good friends. And told me to stop by her bar with Resume No. 25. Her boss liked me enough to train me as a bartender, even though I lacked the experience that Pranna would usually require. Seeing as Katie and I wouldn’t even know each other were it not for Mo, you could definitely say it was all his fault.
All this brings me to the really weird part. You see, yesterday was my first bartender training shift. I started off shaky, but after a few hours, I began to feel more comfortable. I was even allowed to start serving some guests. One guy gave me his card, and I noticed that he had a very Spanish first and last name, and that he was interested in the UEFA Champions League soccer matches.
“Do you have a favorite club?” I asked him.
“Real Madrid,” he said.
Just when I started to tell him that I had lived the past two years in Madrid, a woman cut us off. She was there to meet him, and she greeted him in distinct Madrileño Spanish. After she sat down and I poured her a glass of cabernet, the three of us began talking about Spain. I told them about my teaching program, and how difficult it had been to come home.
Then I heard the girl talking about UNC. “You know UNC?” I asked her.
“I went to UNC!” she said.
“Really? Me too.”
She squinted at me. “I know you!”
I did not think she knew me. “How?”
“Do you know Heather? And Chetan?”
My jaw hit the bar. Heather was the person who told me about the Spain program. Chetan was my friend at whose house Heather told me about the Spain program, and he was the friend who I convinced to join me in Spain after my first year there. “Chetan’s in Madrid right now!” I told her. “And Heather is the reason I went there in the first place!”
“I know,” she said, “I was at Chetan’s house that night. I remembered you before, but I wasn’t sure. Then when you said UNC, I knew it was you. You were at Chetan’s house because one of your buddies passed away.”
This time, my face turned white, and the whole bar faded into some parallel, background universe.
Again — what were the odds of this? In a city as big as New York, during my first shift bartending, I met the guy who was meeting the girl who was there the night I decided to move to Spain. In North Carolina, where I was because of Mo’s funeral. What were the odds that they sat at the bar at that precise hour? That she recognized me and remembered how we met?
The famous psychologist Carl Jung described these sorts of coincidences, referring to them as “synchronicities.” He thought that they might indicate an order of universal organization known as “unus mundus” — “one world” — based on the idea of a collective or universal consciousness that causes certain things to happen in certain ways. A wise friend of mine believes that synchronicities are the Universe’s way of telling us something. And I’m beginning to agree with him.
I believe that Mo had something to do with me meeting those people at the bar last night. I believe he had something to do with me going to Spain. I believe that he has guided me, through synchronous events, since his death. And I am not usually one to believe such things.
But I do. When I left the bar last night, it marked the first time since my departure from Spain that I felt as if I was on the right track again. It felt as if Mo — or perhaps the Universe — was telling me that I was exactly where I was supposed to be. Because that’s what synchronicities make you feel — a palpable sense of being exactly where you’re meant to be, in precisely that moment. For the first time, I didn’t feel like leaving Spain or moving to New York were mistakes. I didn’t feel like the “unus mundus” and I were at odds anymore.
And it was all Mo’s fault.
by by Twenty-six Candles and a Touch of Gray
White ones, actually. Long, shiny, out of place — when I pull them out, it seems they’re made of some different material than the rest of my follicle dwellers. There aren’t many; most people either never notice or never mention them. But I catch one in the mirror every once in a while, chuckle to myself, and think, “That didn’t use to be there!”
I don’t mind, really. Eventually, life marching as it does, I know that the White Hair Army — the White Stripes, if you will — is going to slowly but surely gain territory on my head. The Receding Hair Corps may launch it’s own assault. Maybe I’ll dye my hair someday, or try Just For Men, or Rogaine. Maybe I’ll sculpt the most awesome white mohawk the world has ever known. You never know.
Today, I turn 26. A friend of mine just asked me, “How does it feel to be over the quarter-century mark?”
“Feels good,” I told him. Not that it feels different than 25, or 19, or 11. The way I think about birthdays may have changed, and maybe I notice some things that are different about myself now than they used to be — a few white fibers up top, for instance — but those things are circumstancial. Life is Life. “Twenty-six” is an idea, a number ascribed to people who have been alive for a certain amount of time, a number complete with social expectations of what that person might be like. Does ascribing that number 26 to myself change who I am? Am I any different than I was yesterday because the 25 became a 26?
What about if I turn 30? Or 60? Or 90? Do I change, or does the number?
So many people dread birthdays, especially as they age. They harbor this fear that having a new number attached to their identities will somehow make them worse than they were before, that the turning of age itself will change their lives in a tangible way. Perhaps it’s because our society glorifies the young and shies away from the old. Perhaps it’s because we fear Death.
We all know deep down that we will get older. That our hair will go gray. That at some point, our youth and health will fail us. That we won’t be here forever.
But those are not things to fear! Those things are contingent aspects of Life. We start aging from the moment we’re born. To fear that is to fear the natural order of things.
Every birthday is something to celebrate. The numbers merely serve to give us perspective. Like mile markers on a highway, all they do is tell us how far we’ve been; they do not change the road. What matters much more than the numbers is taking the time to appreciate that you’re still here. Still kickin‘ — even if you can’t kick like you used to.
I have known a number of people whose highways were, based on the average, very short. They stopped at Mile Seven. Mile 13. Mile 20. Mile 22. Mile 23.
Knowing that, how can I ever be upset about a birthday? From my perspective, it is a blessing to have passed the Quarter Century Exit on the winding road that is my life. It is a blessing to be able to discover gray hairs on my head. If they all fall out someday, it will be a blessing to be here for that, too.
I’m thrilled to be 26. Here’s to 27!
by by The Cretan Restaurant
The restaurant sat about 40 but was only a third full, and of that number, half were employees or friends of employees. The other half were vacationers, almost all of them couples. The locals presided over the place from a long table toward the back, next to the man at the keyboard. Men and women, children and their parents and grandparents. Some he’d seen singing and dancing the night before, and he had a suspicion that the longer the music played and the more drinks they had, the same would recur.
He sat on the other side of the music man, who wore a black beret over his blacker hair, which fell to the back of his neck. He had a red polo shirt and navy pants, and he sat in a high chair behind his instrument, weaving through songs in English, Italian and Spanish with ease, changing the percussion and tones of the keys as if he’d been doing it since he was a young man, and perhaps he had.
Most of the songs were in Greek, though. The night before, they had all been in Greek, the music man and the locals in duets and trios. Finishing one such song, the music man addressed the crowd for the first time:
“Ladies and gentlemen, that is Greece. And especially Crete.”
The young writer watched him as he played the first few notes of the next tune. Haunting notes, the kind that reverberate within. They made the young writer halt his pen and watch the flicker of the light from the candles in the paper bags on the tables. The tender looks exchanged by the tourist couples. The cars and motorbikes passing outside. The waiters serving plates before sitting back down with their friends as if the customers were interfering with their social lives. The steam from the grill as the balding cook turned the souvlaki.
“On a dark desert highway,” the music man sang, “cool wind in my hair. Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air.”
The young writer sipped his ouzo and smiled. This was Greece. This was Crete.
by by The Leaning Tower
I may not be Dante — heck, I’m not even Italian — but I know a divine comedy when I see one.
by by Day 39: The Dangers of Naples
When planning my day trips from my four-day base at Pompeii, a few different people hinted that I might want to skip going to Napoli — Naples — because it is dingy, not on the sea, and a bit unsafe. Other people said I should go, and that I’d be fine, and I ultimately sided with their opinion because I had originally thought Naples an important place to visit.
When I got off the train there, it certainly seemed different. Less pristine than many of the Italian cities, such as Sorrento, by the sea, where I’d been the day before. Naples reminded me more of Philly or Boston — nice in some areas, with some veritable, modern skyscrapers, but also some areas that seemed a bit more rundown and rougher.
In other words, it felt like home.
I picked up some mozzarella di bufala — quite possibly the best darn cheese in the world — and a meat they call speck, and I ate and wrote while seated between two skyscrapers in a mini-park where kids played soccer and popped wheelies on bicycles.
“What’s so dangerous about this place?” I wondered. “Seems fine to me.”
Little did I know.
Walking away from the park, I headed toward the city center, and after a time I happened upon another, more urban park, where I contemplated writing some more next to some other kids playing soccer.
Then I saw the basketball court.
Five Italian guys, probably between 20 and 23 years old, were playing three-on-two on an outdoor court. In my Spanish-inspired broken Italian, I asked them if I could play. They asked where I was from.
“Estati Uniti.”
“Hey!” They all gave my high fives. One was wearing a Philadelphia 76ers Allen Iverson Jersey with L.A. Lakers shorts, another an Orlando Magic jersey. One had a Michael Jordan “Jumpman” tattoo and called himself Derrick Rose.
They didn’t seem so dangerous, but I cautiously placed my backpack — with my wallet and phone and watch and reporting recorder and all-so-important notebook inside — by a bush beside the court. Then one of them told me to hang it next to their bags in a tree. So I did.
During the first game, which my team won, I looked at my bag a couple times. Seemed fine. And so did the guys, who were a fun-loving but competitive group. In the second game, after switching Iverson to the other squad, I witnessed the most heated, good-natured argument about scoreboard deficiency I’ve ever seen. My team lost the argument (somehow, we were credited with about eight points when we should have had 11), and subsequently the match.
Still no problems with my bag.
Third game, I played with Iverson again, and a girl who had come along who couldn’t have been more than 15 years old, but who could hit any open jump shot within 12 feet like she was Annie Oakley, if Annie Oakley could ball. We won, handily.
Then Iverson departed, and I agreed to play one more game.
I should have known better.
The Italians proved powerless against my baby hook shot, which got our team two early buckets. But then, while I was guarding Derrick Rose on one of his slices to the hoop, I landed on the edge of the court, badly twisting my ankle.
Game over.
I watched the rest from the sidelines, worried about how an ankle injury might do some serious damage to my trip, considering that I have 31 days of travel to go. Lugging a large suitcase and backpack all over Europe is bad enough when you have two good legs — a bum wheel is bad news bears.
After a while, I tested the foot and was at least able to walk on my own power. I grabbed my backpack — with everything in it — and said goodbye to my baller friends, telling them it was a pleasure except for the whole injury thing. I grabbed one of the area’s famous lemon slushies on my way to the train station, worried about my ankle. It seemed Ok, but it has stiffened up considerably since, and tomorrow will truly reveal how bad it’s going to affect me.
They told me Naples was dangerous. They told me to be careful.
They just didn’t tell me to stay away from the basketball court.
by by Day 36: Everyday People
Today I traveled from Florence to Pompeii, and at my Pompeii hostel the owner immediately brought me to the dining courtyard near the swimming pool. He sat me at a table with my pot-luck roommates, one girl from Canada and another from China. What commenced was an hour-and-a-half-long conversation about the governments in our respective countries, democracy vs. communism vs. socialism, health care systems, and a host of other issues of social import. At some point I will probably delve into the conversation in detail, particularly what the girl from China told me, and write something more specific. She paints a portrait of her country that is quite distinct from what most Americans probably believe — from what I believed, for sure.
Later, I started speaking to the people at the table next to us, a family from Barcelona, Spain. They were in favor of Catalán nationalism, which is quite the controversial subject in Spain. We enjoyed an engaging conversation not solely about their desires for Cataluña, but also about the way Spanish society functions — the good and the bad.
These discussions shared a common pathway: All over the world, people see the need for change. The systems currently in place may accomplish some of the things they should, but the masses see major flaws in the machinery. Most people feel that their countries could and should function better.
For me, the greatest issue is that we do not learn from each other nearly enough.
Isn’t it about time we started looking to each other for help? Think of how much knowledge we, the human beings on this planet, could share if we tried. One of the most interesting things the Chinese girl told me was that Facebook and Twitter aren’t allowed in her country, but everyone and their mother uses the Chinese equivalents. Many people use foreign IP addresses to access forbidden news. She described how there had been a protest somewhere, and the local government initially used force to detain people, but through social media, the citizens of the country rallied and pressured the local government enough to back down.
The world is changing. Technology has finally reached a point that communication between continents is as easy as, and sometimes easier than, communication between next-door neighbors. This technology can spread world-changing ideas in moments that used to need centuries to circulate. It also, of course, can spread the news of Snooki’s pregnancy just as quickly.
There is power in this world for positive change to a degree that we have not fathomed. That power resides in the people of this planet who are willing to come together, to work together for that change. Yes, these are broad terms, but broad is exactly what we need — participation and cooperation on the broadest human scale. There is so much we have to learn from each other. Our systems of government, education, health care, security, economics, agriculture, industry — heck, even that dreaded “R” word, “religion” — can and should all benefit from a global dialogue founded on one simple question:
How can we make this better?
And on one simple principle:
Keep It Movin.
It’s something my late college RA, Keith Shawn Smith, used to say. It took me a while to decide what it meant to me, and after a while it manifested as a call to action. A duty. Understand each other. Strive for progress. Make the world better, together.
Keep It Movin.
by by Always Amigos
We stop at a metal gate that fences off acres of Spanish pastureland. Across the dirt road, the giant Telefonica satellite dishes serve as the only reminders of civilization.
“Esto es,” Alberto says. “This is the place.”
Marta and María’s country house is something from another time. Imagine a mid-1800s Spanish ranch like you see in the movies. I don’t have to imagine; I’m on set. Vine trellises and 15 flower pots adorn the porch. The house has muted maroon walls with sky blue paint outlining the windows and the main doorway, which features an Andalucian-style painting of the Virgin of the Macarena. They have a Virgin and a Saint for just about everything here — even “The Macarena.” Álvaro, Marta’s boyfriend and one of my best friends, tells me that the family’s land extends for a 30-minute-walk’s radius from the house. María and her boyfriend, Ismael, are out riding horses. The cows will return from grazing in an hour or so. Our friend David’s dog, Conan, greets us on the porch.
Walking inside, a blast of heat hits me. Forget your modern American grilling apparatus: They’re burning freshly-hewn wooden logs in an antique oven. Heaps of different kinds of meat cover the kitchen counters. Eugenio, the ranch steward who looks like someone out of a Depression-era photograph, is helping David with the fire. The actual cooking won’t commence until the logs have been reduced to embers.
In the meantime, I break out my baseball gloves and teach the Spaniards a bit of my national pastime. It’s almost the Fourth of July, after all. We cover basic throwing and catching techniques, which Álvaro picks up quickly. Our buddy Choches … not so much. You can’t shot-put a baseball. Neither can you swallow one, although Conan the Canine Barbarian is trying his hardest. We literally need a crowbar to pry the ball from his jaws. Of all the days to leave my crowbar at home.
After baseball, Álvaro pours me my first cup of sangría. Homemade. In a punch bowl. With loads of real fruit.
“He añadido ron,” he says, which roughly means: “I spiked the punch.”
Over the course of the evening, we will drain the sangría bowl three times. And then they’ll break out the hard stuff.
Back from horseback riding, María gives me a tour of the house. It’s actually modern, but her mother shrouded it in antiquity. María shows me the 1800s clothes irons, cow bells, bed heaters and water jugs her mother collected over decades to create the effect. She also shows me her mother’s paintings, most of which feature the family’s bulls. María informs me that, much more than serving as the mere antagonists of bullfights, bulls on a ranch like this serve a vital purpose: reproduction. This, of course, prompts me to ask her if they play Barry White or Marvin Gaye to get the bulls in the mood.
Evening falls, and Marta and María’s cousin and friends arrive. David declares the fire ready, and the barbecue commences. He and Álvaro kick everyone out of the kitchen, and we move to the picturesque back porch that looks out on the pasture. The roof beams, according to María, come from an old palace in Toledo. I tell her that my house’s roof beams probably come from Ikea. We draw the huge cloth curtains to block the wind, and everyone grabs a drink and a seat. Conversation, laughter and smiles.
Soon, the first plate of food comes out. Chorizo sausage and pancetta, which is a fattier version of bacon, if you can imagine such a thing. Not exactly a kosher first dish … but wow, what flavor! Next come bun-less hamburgers, sausages, another cut of pig I’ve never tasted before, chicken wings, Spanish omelette with chorizo, and a Spanish lasagna. Sides of artisan bread and the best olives you can find. Everyone ignores the salad.
More conversation, laughter and smiles. I swear, the Spanish have created an art form out of genuine smalltalk. Not a cellphone in sight. Who needs Facebook when you’ve got sangría? We talk about everything and nothing, which are really one and the same, when you think about it. I’m the only non-Spaniard here, but they treat me like family, teasing me mercilessly for my language gaffes.
Oh, how I am going to miss these people.
When no one can eat any more, dinner ends. In the kitchen, I record a video of Álvaro and Choches dancing like idiots to James Brown’s “I Feel Good.” I then show said video to everyone on the porch. As if that wasn’t embarrassment enough, Álvaro and Choches don dresses and heels and wear them outside. Marta says those are actually shirts, not dresses. Álvaro looks like a Saint Bernard in a sweater designed for a poodle.
“What bet did they lose?” I ask.
Marta smiles at me. “Bet? There was no bet.”
The girls’ cousin and friends leave, and “the usual suspects” prepare for one of our customary poker games. Taking me aside, Álvaro puts his hand on my shoulder and asks me, “¿Estás agusto?”
He wants to know if I’m comfortable. If I’m having a good time. If I feel at home.
All I can do is hold my arms out and smile. “Dude,” I tell him (but, you know, in Spanish), “this right here — human beings getting together, having a good time, enjoying each other’s company — this, to me, is the peak of civilization. This is what life’s all about.”
He grins and gives me one of his huge bear hugs. He and I both know that these moments are growing scarce, for me at least. In less than a month, I leave Spain. Less than a month left with mi familia española. I’ve been with them for two years now — two incredible years — and this summer, it comes to an end.
I remember when, a couple weeks ago, I told Álvaro I was leaving, and a storm cloud passed over his always-sunny face. “Seeing you all the time,” he said to me then, “I forget that this isn’t your country, and you’re not here forever. I forget that this isn’t your home.”
Sometimes, I do, too. It’s something I’m trying not to think too much about — my departure will get here when it gets here, and in the meantime, there are wonderful moments to relish. As Robert J. Hastings once wrote: “Life must be lived as we go along. The station will come soon enough.”
I walk out into the yard. Natural beauty as far as I can see, interrupted only by the tops of the Telefonica satellites in the distance. Out here, the stars hurt your eyes. The Big Dipper hangs lower and brighter in the sky than I’ve ever seen it. Taking a deep breath, I smell the fresh air and listen to the leaves rustling in the wind.
“Samu,” they call to me from inside, “poker!”
I head in, and they’re all seated at the table. Conversation, laughter and smiles.
“Os quiero,” I tell them.
“I love you guys.”
by by Amigos para siempre
Paramos delante de una puerta metálica que guarda héctares de dehesa española. Al otro lado de la calle de arena, las parabólicas gigantes de Telefonica sirven como los únicos recuerdos de civilización.
<<Esto es,>> Alberto nos dice. <<This is the place.>>
La casa de campo de la familia de Marta y María es algo de otra epoca. Imáginate una finca española del siglo XIX como ves en las películas. Yo no tengo que imaginar — estoy allí. Espalderas de parra y 15 macetas con flores de todos tipos en el patio. La casa tiene paredes de rojo moreno, con pintura de azul del cielo rodeando las ventanas y la puerta principal, que tiene una obra en el estilo andaluz — la Virgen de la Macarena. Tienen una virgen y un santo por casi cualquier cosa en este país, incluso “La Macarena.” Álvaro, el novio de Marta y uno de mis mejores amigos, me dice que necesitaría andar por 30 minutos para cruzar toda la finca. María y su novio, Ismael, están montando caballos. Las vacas van a volver de la dehesa en más o menos una hora. El perro de nuestro amigo David, que se llama Conan, nos grita <<¡Bienvenidos!>> del patio.
Entrando en la casa, choco con una pared de calor. Olvídate de tu parrilla americana moderna: Están quemando leño recién cortado en un horno antiguo. Cantidades grandes de tipos variados de carne cubren las mesas de la cocina. Eugenio, el hombre que cuida y guarda la finca y que parece alguien de una foto de la Gran Depresión, está ayudando a David con el fuego. No van a empezar cocinar hasta que la madera se convierta en ceniza.
Mientras esperamos la cena, saco mis guantes de beisbol y enseño a los españoles un poco del pasatiempo nacional mío. Por cierto, casí es el 4 de julio, que es nuestro Día de la Independencia. Practicamos las técnicas para lanzar y coger la pelota, y Álvaro las aprende rápido. Nuestro amigo Choches … pues, no tanto. No puedes lanzar un beisbol como una bola de cañon. Tampoco puedes tragar una, aunque Conan el Barbaro Canino está intentando. Literalmente necesitamos un palanqueta para quitar la pelota de su boca. ¡Qué pena que olvidé mi palanqueta en casa hoy!
Después del beisbol, Álvaro me echa mi primera copa de sangría. Casera. Con muchos trozos de fruta verdadera.
<<He añadido ron,>> me dice, que más o menos significa en inglés: <<Be careful.>>
Durante la noche, vamos a vacillar el cuenco de sangría tres veces. Y sólo entonces sacaremos el licór para empezar a beber en serio.
Tras volver de montar caballos, María me enseña la casa. Realmente es muy moderna, pero su madre la ha disfrasado como antigua. María me enseña las planchas, las campanas para las vacas, las calientacamas y las jarras de porcelina del siglo XIX que su madre ha collecionado durante años para crear el efecto. Tambien me enseña las cuadras que pintó su madre, las cuales mostran los toros de la familia. María me dice que los toros hacen mucho más que ser los antagonistas de las corridas de toros — en una finca como ésta, sirven una funcción vital: reproducción. Esto me inspira a preguntar si tocan David Bisbal o Julio Iglesias para poner los toros cachondos.
El sol atardece, y la prima de Marta y María llega con sus amigos. David declara que el fuego está listo, y la barbacoa comienza. Él y Álvaro nos echa de la cocina, y vamos al patio atrás que tiene una vista perfecta de la dehesa. María me cuenta que la madera que utilizaron para construir el techo viene de un palacio de Toledo. Le digo que la madera que utilizaron para construir mi casa en Nueva Jersey probablemente viene de Ikea. Cerramos las cortinas para parar el viento, y todo el mundo coge bebidas y asientos. Conversación, risas y sonrizas.
Pronto, el primer plato sale. Chorizo y pancetta, que es como el beicon, pero con más grasa, si puedes imaginarlo. Desde luego que no es algo muy Kosher … pero ¡jo, qué sabor! Enseguida salen hamburguesas, salchichas y otro corte de cerdo que nunca he probado, alitas de pollo, tortilla con chorizo, y una lasagna española. Tambien pan artesano y las mejores aceitunas que puedes encontrar. Todo el mundo ignora la pobre ensalada.
Más conversación, risas y sonrizas. Los españoles han creado una arte de hablar con sinceridad y interés sobre cosas no importantes — lo juro. No es lo que les dicen que importa, sino lo que sienten. Nadie se atreve sacar su movíl. ¿Quién necesita Facebook cuando hay sangría? Hablamos sobre todo y nada, que en realidad son lo mismo, cuando lo piensas. Yo soy el único extranjero aquí, pero me tratan como familia, burlandome sin clemencia por mis errores de pronunciación.
Cuando nadie puede comer más, la cena termina. En la cocina, grabo un vídeo de Álvaro y Choches bailando como idiotas a <<I Feel Good>> por James Brown. Enseño dicho vídeo a todo el mundo en el patio. Parece que eso no ha sido verguenza bastante, porque Álvaro y Choches se visten en vestidos y tacónes y estrenan sus nuevos estilos afuera. Marta les informa que esas son camisas, no vestidos. Choches parece Luisma en Aida cuando se pone la ropa de Paz. Álvaro parece un perro San Bernardo en un jersey diseñado por un caniche.
<<¿Qué han apostado?>> pregunto.
Marta sonrie. <<¿Apuesta? ¿Qué apuesta?>>
¡Cómo voy a echar de menos esta gente!
La prima de Marta y María y sus amigos salen, y preparamos para uno de nuestros partidos costumarios de poker. Álvaro me saca a un lado y pone su mano en mi ombro. <<Samu,>> me dice, <<¿estás agusto?>>
Quiere saber si estoy cómodo. Si estoy pasandolo bien. Si me encuentro como en casa.
Solamente puedo levantar mis brazos, sonriendo. <<Tio,>> le digo, <<ésta es la vida. La gente reuniendo, pasando el tiempo juntos, disfrutando de la companía de otros ser humanos — esto, para mí, es lo mejor de la civilización.>>
Álvaro sonrie y me da uno de sus abrazos de oso. Ambos nosotros hemos dado cuenta que no nos quedan muchos de estos momentos. En menos que un mes, salgo de España. Menos que un mes con mi familia española. He estado con ellos durante dos años — dos años increíbles — y este verano, se acabará.
Me acuerdo de cuando, unas semanas pasadas, dije a Álvaro que me iba a ir, y una nube oscura pasó sobre su cara que normalmente refleja el sol. <<Porque estoy acostumbrado a verte tanto,>> me dijo, <<olvido que esto no es tu país, y no estás aquí para siempre. Olvido que esto no es tu casa.>>
A veces, olvido tambien. Es algo que estoy intentando evitar de mi mente para ahora; mi salida llegará en su propio momento, y entre medias, hay cosas maravillosas para disfrutar. Como escribió Robert J. Hastings: <<Tenemo que vivir la vida mientras hacemos nuestro camino. La estación vendrá bastante pronto.>>
Marta llama a Álvaro, y salgo fuera del patio. Veo la belleza natural en todas direcciónes, interrumpida solamente por los satelitos Telefonica en la distancia. Aquí, las estrellas brillan tanto que hacen daño a tus ojos. La Ursa Mayor parece lista para servir una ración grande de sopa casera. Respirando profunadamente, huelo el aire del campo y escucho al sonido del viento sobre las ojas.
<<Samu,>> me llaman, <<¡poker!>>
Entro en el patio, y todos están sentados en la mesa. Conversación, risas y sonrizas.
<<I love you guys,>> les digo.
<<Os quiero.>>
by by Day 14: The Story of Mike and Kim
I had been roaming the streets of Hamburg for a few hours and was heading back to my rented room to nap for a few hours before taking the city by night. Of the two people I knew in Hamburg, one was at a music festival and the other working in a bar, so my plan consisted of heading to said bar and hoping to meet some people there.
But life happens while you go from here to there. As I was walking to the metro platform to head home, I heard someone say the word “American” in American English.
Going on my theory of stranger-meeting almost always turning out in a positive way, I asked, “You guys from the States?”
They were a guy and a girl, both in their early 20s. I would include some literary description of their appearances, but we have this amazing word-saving thing called the photograph.
Kim and Mike in their Hamburg apartment.
“I’m German,” the girl said to me, “but my husband is from California.”
They asked me what I was up to, and I told them I’d been sightseeing and was going to rest for a bit before Saturday night in Hamburg.
“Are you by yourself?” the girl asked.
“You’re never by yourself when you travel,” I told her, “but … kinda.”
He followed up. “Do you have any plans?”
“Well … no … not really.”
“Ok,” she said, “you’re coming out with us tonight.”
They accompanied me to where I was staying so I could drop off my backpack and change into evening attire, and then we went to their apartment to relax and have a couple drinks before going out. All of a sudden, my night had transformed.
It pays to say hi to people.
Now, about Mike and Kim: He’s from San Diego, and she’s from Hamburg. They met in California when she was an au pair. She actually met his parents before she met him — the way she tells it, his mom met her and said, “Uh oh. I can already see my little German grandkids running around.”
“You have boys?” Kim had asked her.
“Three.”
The first time she saw Mike, she had a crush on him, and when he met her, the feeling was mutual. At a certain point, things became serious, and they had to deal with the very real obstacle of how to maintain a relationship that would have to span two continents if it were to survive. They went through stretches of months at a time without seeing each other, but they found a way to keep the fire burning.
“You have Skype,” Kim said. “You have camera sex!”
We all laughed, and I reflected on how vital technology has become in maintaining long-distance relationships.
Possibly what solidified their future as much as anything else was a snowboarding accident that left Mike in a coma for three days. The doctors told Kim that he might not remember her when he awoke.
But he did, and he found her by his side.
“I thought about how selfish I had been,” Mike told me, “asking her to move to my country, when I was done school and she still had to go to school, and she knew my language and culture and I didn’t know hers.” The accident made him realize that he would have to give as much as she was if the relationship was going to work. “Marriage is all about 50-50,” he said to me later.
“You see people getting together like this, but it’s only in movies,” Kim said. For both of them, living the storybook has been a very cool thing.
In their home, we discussed differences between the two cultures. Mike said that he thinks the schools in Germany are much better than in America and has been impressed by how Germany rebuilt itself after World War II. He said that some people take advantage of the welfare system, but that the universal healthcare system is phenomenal.
Mike and I out in Hamburg.
He also talked about something that I have been noticing more and more during my travels: “A lot of people see America as a country that’s more free of mind, but in a lot of ways we are much more repressed than they are here.”
Some of the things we discussed were the drinking age of 18 and the difference in how bars in Europe often close at 5:00 or 6:00 a.m., as opposed to the norm of 2:00 back home. We both agreed that the Europeans learn to party more responsibly in part because they have more hours to do so. This results in much less of a binge drinking culture, and therefore their judgment is less impaired when it comes time to find a way home. And because of the lowered drinking age and less severe drug laws, people experiment in a culture that fosters doing so in a way that allows the individuals to learn life lessons sooner.
“Over here,” Mike said, “people think that Americans are free to do what they want, but actually (Europeans) are more free to do what they want when they’re young, and because of that they’re more mature.”
I have seen both sides of this coin, and I have met plenty of immature Europeans. These views only apply to the sections of Europe that Mike and I have visited, and I hesitate to over-generalize. Overall, though, I do feel that the nightlife here is done in a much safer and more responsible way than it is back home. Thinking back to high school and college, there were so many occasions when people made incredibly stupid decisions that the youth in Europe do not seem to make nearly as much.
So it is interesting when my parents and everyone else send me messages to be careful.
“I’m like, ‘I feel safer here,’” I told Mike and Kim. “Nobody has guns!”
Anyway, they introduced me to some Hamburg rap — Hamburg hip-hop is a local point of pride, and rightly so. I can’t understand the words, but there are some serious beats.
Then they told me that the Beatles got started in Hamburg, and that we could go to bars where they used to play. Mike showed me a quote by John Lennon: “I might have born in Liverpool — but I grew up in Hamburg.”
Kim with a lady who was out in the middle of the Reeperbahn madness, totally in her element.
We went to the Reeperbahn, which is the major Hamburg bar area, which has some elements of Las Vegas and the feel of a cool college town. We hit up Kaiserkeller, which was one of the places the Beatles played the most (the Wikipedia article linked above is worth a read if you’re a Fab Four fan). Downstairs, Kaiserkeller had a room dedicated to the group, which newspaper clippings under the floor.
We Can Work It Out.
Ringo baby.
Later, we visited my friend Caro at her bar, and they played the song “You Never Can Tell” immortalized in the movie Pulp Fiction. We danced, and the song resonated as a description of Mike and Kim’s relationship.
At one point in the night, I scribbled in my notebook: “Just saw Mike and Kim dance together. Some of the best communication between human beings I have ever seen. If they ever have problems understanding each other, all they have to do is dance together. A tremendous blessing.”
As all young married couples do, they will encounter their share of hardships along the way. When Kim wanted to go home at about 4:00 and leave Mike to stay out with me, it was the first time they had ever separated during a Hamburg night. There are many things they will have to figure out during their journey together — how to split time between two continents certainly among them — but they strike me as two people who have enough passion for each other to overcome many difficulties. Put another way: There are some pictures of them that are a bit too … fiery … to post in this space. I hope that fire never leaves them, and that they have a wonderful life together.
Mike and I waited until 6:00, when we headed with some native Hamburgers (was dying to use that all post) to the famous fish market, which was the last Hamburg “Must Do” on my list. Only open Sunday mornings, they serve fresh fish by the shipyards in the harbor. The fish was delicious, as was the Hamburg sunrise.
Parting ways, I wished Mike from San Diego the best as he headed home to his wife from Hamburg. And as I walked back to my place to sleep for two hours before my train to Paris, a familiar tune came to my mind.
It was a teenage wedding, and the old folks wished them well
You could see that Pierre did truly love the madamoiselle
And now the young monsieur and madame have rung the chapel bell,
“C’est la vie”, say the old folks, it goes to show you never can tell
——”You Never Can Tell” by Chuck Berry
by by Una carta a España — y a mis españoles
Ya ha pasado una semana desde que salí de tu tierra, y todavia no me parece real. Los dos años que pasé contigo (y con vosotros) fueron dos de los mejores años de mi vida. Eres un país increíble. Me da igual lo que pasa con tu gobierno, o tus mercados, o tu IVA. Esas cosas no describen lo que es un país — no describen a tí, España. ¡No te lo creas!
He visto todas esas cosas empeorando, y he visto a la vez una nación que resiste. Sí que tienes gente sufriendo, y esperamos que mejoren las cosas, pero tienes un corazón el tamaño de una de tus montañas, y un espíritu que, como tus noches de fiesta, nunca acabará.
¿Qué es un país? ¿Sus tradicciones, sus historias? ¿Sus paisajes, su naturaleza? ¿Su música, su arte? ¿Su ocio, su gastronomía?
De esos elementos, tienes todo. A veces estás un poquito orgulloso por eso, pero no te puedo echar la culpa. Tienes razón. Deberiás ser orgulloso, aunque tienes que aprender algunas cosas. El mundo está cambiando y tú, España, tendrías que cambiar con ello. Mi país tambien.
Pero pregunto otra vez: ¿Qué es un país?
Sobre todo, un país se refleja en su gente. No es que cada una de tus personas, España, sea buena, pero la gran mayoría de la gente que yo he conocido sí que es.
Entonces, ahora quiero hablar con mis españoles:
No es algo fácil salir de tu país del nacimiento, donde has crecido y vivido toda tu vida, y mudarte a un país situado en otro continente, con otro idioma y costumbres completamente distintos. Pero gracias a vosotros, sobreviví la gran mudanza sobre El Charco, y crecí a sentir como en casa en vuestras casas. Por vuestra culpa, España robó un gran trozo de mi corazon. Supongo que eso es natural, porque es un músculo rojo.
Lo que más me impresionaba fue como habeis abierto vuestros corazones para incluirme en vuestras vidas. Hay ejemplos sin numero, pero aquí hay algunos: Como la gente de mi colegio, Santa Quiteria, me ayudaba con cualquier cosa cuando llegué. Como me llevabais al médico, me enseñabais el español y me explicabais como funccionan las cosas en este país bonito pero a veces loco. Como llamabais mil veces a la Comunidad de Madrid para resolver el lío de mi visado. Como nuestro conductor del autobús me regaló vino y lomo para Navidad, y como recogió a mi madre, su novio y yo para llevarnos en una excursión durante su tiempo libre. Como el marido de una compañera de trabajo llevó a mi padre, mis amigos y yo en dos viajes a Segovia. Como guardabais mis cosas en vuestras casas mientras yo estaba en los E.E.U.U. durante el verano, da igual como olían las bolsas. Como me dabais consejos y apoyo en mis momentos de duda e inseguridad. Como preparasteis una comida típica americana y nos dejasteis jugar un partido del fútbol americano para el Día de Acción de Gracias. Como me invitabais a vuestras casas. A vuestras cenas con amigos. A los partidos del fútbol y los cumpleaños de vuestros niños. A vuestras cenas de Navidad con toda vuestra familia.
Nunca olvidaré estas acciónes tan bonitas.
De verdad, nunca pensaba en ser profesor de inglés o trabajar en un colegio público. Vine a España para escribir mi libro, viajar y aprender el español. El programa de Auxiliares de Conversación simplemente era mi forma de lograr estas cosas porque así conseguí un visado y un sueldo.
Sin embargo, algo muy interesante me pasó una vez en España: Me convertí en profe. Enseñando en el colegio y en mis clases particulares, con gente entre 5 a 65 años de edad, me cambiaba, y no por poco. Los niños del colegio, aunque están a veces loquísimos, son muy buenos, y muy especiales a mí. Espero que les haya enseñado algo, por lo menos como sonreír, reír, y agradecer la vida. (¿Qué más hay que aprender?) Por mi parte, sé que ellos me han enseñado mucho. Y en mis clases particulares, me pasaba lo mismo. Era impresionante como fui para reunir con mis estudiantes en sus casa, y acababa conociendo todas sus familias y sintiendo tan bienvenido que siempre era difícil salir.
Hay muchas, muchas personas que voy a echar de menos — mis amigos de Santa Quiteria, mis estudiantes, los Seguras & Companía, y los cracks del mejor bar del mundo, Las Hoces de Duratón, y el equipazo Mago Tromini F.C.
Gracias a mis compañeros de piso Victor, Kris con Ka, Nate y Clara, por sobrevivir.
Gracias especiales a David, Vanesa y Almu por incluirme en vuestra familia y vuestro circulo buenísimo de amigos, por dejarme vivir en vuestra casa, y por soportarme. Lo agredezco más que sepais, y siempre estaís en mi corazon.
Y a mi Hoces familia: He pasado muchos de mis mejores momentos en España con vosotros. Noches normales, fiestas, partidos de poker y fútbol, y las veces cuando traje mi familia y mis amigos para introducirles a mi rincón madrileño preferido — siempre voy a guardar como tesoro estos momentos tan bonitos que hemos compartido. En vuestra companía he pasado de extranjero completo a español adoptado.
Últimamente, ¡a los guiris! Mis Auxiliares de Conversación, mis compañeros de Teatro Kapital, mis amigos de erasmus y Study Abroad, y los demás: Ha sido un placer conocer a vosotros. Sé que, el mundo siendo como es, no sabemos cuando nos vamos a volver a ver. Pero da igual — hay que apreciar lo que la vida nos da, y nos ha dado unos ratos especiales juntos en un país que nos atrayó, por cualquier razón. Espero que nos veamos otra vez, y si no, que estéis muy felices.
Españoles: Tio Sam no ha muerto. No preocupo tanto por veros, porque, como dice Fito, <<Tarde o temprano, sé que voy a volver.>> Así que esto no es <<Adios,>> sino <<Hasta la próxima.>>
A todos (y espero que no haya olvidado nadie): Gracias por todo, ha sido un placer de mi vida compartir mi tiempo en España con vosotros. Y gracias a tí, España, por ser como eres.
Os quiero,
Tio Sam
P.S. Mi correo electrónico es samrose24@gmail.com. Escríbeme cuando querais, y si quereis mi dirección en los E.E.U.U., dime. Me gustaría mucho tener notícias vuestras.
P.P.S. Ningúna persona menos yo mismo ha corregido esta carta, así que tiene que tener algunos errores. Los he dejado para mostrar lo que he aprendido del español con vuestra ayuda, y tambien lo que todavia tengo que aprender. Si alguien quiere corregirlo y enviarme una versión mejor, lo agradecería.
by by Friday in Retiro – a very short story
Behind the courtyard and the pathways and the trees was the classic Madrid skyline, with those beautiful old charming buildings that matched the beautiful old charming Madrileño couples taking their Friday strolls. To the right of our two foreigners on the wall, a tan man kneeled behind a makeshift metal drum, playing it with the soft hammers of his palms. In front of him, a group of young men sat around a friend of theirs, who twirled a type of yo-yo device between two sticks. A master of his craft, just like the drummer man who she said she usually saw in other parts of the park, but was glad he was there today. They had sat near the music man, and the yo-yo boy, and he had looked at the courtyard and the fading light and listened to the music and the chatter of the birds.
“Tell me a story,” she said. “You’re a writer. You should be able to tell me a story.”
He held his hands out in front of him, over the edge of the wall, as if to hold up the whole courtyard for her.
“This is the story.”
by by The Oddyssey Begins
Pardon me for not posting for some time; the past month-and-a-half I have been extremely busy moving out of Madrid and planning the subject of this post. After my tenure as an English teacher in Spain ended when school did, on June 26, I have officially become a long-term vacationer, living off my savings like they do in Boca Raton. The earnings I accumulated while working as a club promoter at Teatro Kapital — yes, Mom, it was about more than free drinks and girls — is the money that needs to last me until October 1st, when I will return to America.
First things first: I’m not in Kansas anymore. Or Madrid. With great pain in my heart, I bid farewell to the city that has been my home for the past two incredible years, and along with it, the people who made Madrid so special — some of the best people I have ever had the privilege of knowing. I harbor a strong hope that many of them will remain a part of my life for years and decades to come. Deciding to head back to the States instead of staying for a third year was extremely difficult, and saying goodbye was ever harder.
But saying goodbye was a good deal easier because, instead of flying directly home to experience re-entry depression, I was beginning (one of) the trip(s) of my lifetime. My “Odd”-yssey, if you will.
Seventy-one days. Nine countries. One continent. One jeopardized bank account, and one heck of an adventure.
Here’s the itinerary, as it currently stands (dates listed are those of arrival and departure in each city):
-July 22-23: Warsaw, Poland
-July 23-24: Stockholm, Sweden
-July 24-August 1: Hemso, Sweden
-August 1-3: Copenhagen, Denmark
-August 3-5: Hamburg, Germany
-August 5-8: Paris, France
-August 8-10: Lyon, France
-August 10-15: Nice, France
-August 15-17: Turin, Italy
-August 17-19: Cinque Terre, Italy
-August 19-23: Tuscany, Italy
-August 23-27: Somewhere in Italy. Probably Florence and one other town.
-August 27-31: Pompei, Italy, with day trips to Naples and Salermo.
-August 31-September 3: Rome, Italy.
-September 3-7: Heraklion, Crete, Greece.
-September 7-13: Rethymno, Crete, Greece.
-September 13-17: Bali, Crete, Greece.
-September 17-24: Chania, Crete, Greece.
-September 24-26: Mykonos, Greece.
-September 26-27: Athens, Greece.
-September 27-28: Vienna, Austria.
-September 28-October 1: Prague, Czech Republic.
-October 1: Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA.
I intend on posting updates whenever I can, ideally with some pictures and anecdotes.
Now, how I got where I am, in Stockholm:
About nine months before November 12, 1986, my parents had a romantic evening in Philadelphia … and roughly 26 years later, on July 22, I flew from Madrid to Warsaw, Poland. Considering the fact that my last night in Madrid ended at 7 a.m. — a just send-off from the city that truly never sleeps — the flight to Poland was a snooze. Upon landing and taking a bus to the city center, it became clear that this was a different kind of place. The language, for one thing, blew me away — all kinds of r’s and z’s and y’s tossed around in ways that would light up a Scrabble board. I was further impressed by how modern Warsaw was; except for the assorted Communist-style apartment buildings, I might as well have been in Chicago.
Last night, after checking into my hostel, I went out for a couple rounds with some fantastic people from Holland, Belgium, Poland and Sweden (although the Swedes live in Norway). They told me all about some guy they called Harry because he resembled one of the “Sticky Bandits” from the movie Home Alone. Apparently, “Harry” felt he looked more like Matthew McConaughey — quite the discrepancy.
Somehow managing to wake up at 9:00, I met Robert and Anna, the Swedes who reside in Norway, and we toured the historic Warsaw ghetto area. There wasn’t a ton to see (the Nazis didn’t leave much standing), but there was enough to give us a sense of how it had been, and what happened there. Eating breakfast at a cafe by the original tenement buildings was a highlight.
Later, we had a tremendous Polish lunch — kippered herring with veggies, pancakes with chanterelle mushrooms, a Polish meat/kraut/bread dish, and a cheese and fruit plate. Then I parted ways with my new friends and Warsaw.
At the airport, my suitcase — which weighed 23.0 kg when I left Madrid — somehow weighed 27.4 kg in Warsaw. Not only had I not added things to my bag between flights, I had actually removed some. The airline baggage said I needed to pay 60 euros — 20 per extra kilogram. I knew of a great place he could shove those 60 euros. After 15 minutes of re-arranging my things and making a hurricane mess of the bag check floor, he let me go at 24.4 kg, saint that he was.
Stockholm is impressively green. Trees and grass for miles outside the city, and a few million buckets-full of water inside it. They call Stockholm the Venice of Sweden, and it’s easy to see why. At 10:00 p.m., the guests of City Backpackers hostel went on an improvised walking tour — six Germans, five French people, two Australians, one Dane, one Lebanese guy, one Russian, one French Canadian, one Spanish girl, and one American idiot. A wonderful way to get a feel for the city, take pictures, exchange cultures and languages, and broaden minds.
Tomorrow (well, later today), I plan on renting a bike and continuing the Stockholm tour, doing some writing (which is why I’m here), and then heading to the Stockholm train station to truly kick off my journey. Tomorrow marks my first train trip using my Eurail pass, which will be my main form of transportation during this adventure. I am taking a train to the north of Sweden, where our friends have what has been described to me as a small, private island. I will be there for a week.
Of course, being on a private Swedish island isn’t all it’s cracked up to be: I won’t have Internet access! Which is why I’m rushing this post out now, at 3:45 a.m. Stockholm time.
Buenas noches, and see you all in August!
by by Madrid, where it’s so hot that …
… a cold shower is the highlight of your day.
… you can get heat stroke while eating your 10:00 p.m. dinner.
… the are no clouds in the sky because the sun disintegrates them.
… you can brew your café con leche on the sidewalk, giving new meaning to the term “nice, earthy flavor.”
… you can practice Bikram Yoga in your living room.
… you really would do anything for a Klondike bar.
… even a camel would say, “Screw that.”
… when you leave the nightclub at 6:30 a.m., it’s time to apply sunscreen.
… as I write this, I am sweating profusely. Indoors. At midnight.
… thanks to global warming, the city will be uninhabitable in 20 years. Heck, it’s practically uninhabitable now!
Contact Sam Rosenthal at samrose24@gmail.com or Follow @BackwardsWalker.
by by Words to know, wherever you go
Here is a list to aid you. The concept is simple: In whatever country you visit, if you know how to say the following words and phrases, you can communicate on a basic level with the people who live there. Before your trip(s), look up and write down the corresponding translations and pronunciations in a pocket-sized notebook (or your handy-dandy iWhatever). Then carry the list with you and try using your new vocabulary – you’ll be amazed what happens!
(Note: The Spanish translations are listed in italics. If every American knew these words in Spanish, and if every Spanish speaker in the States knew them in English, race relations in our country would be much improved.)
Words to Know, Wherever You Go:
- How do you say … ? (This one is all-important, as long as someone is capable of translating for you.)
- ¿Cómo se dice …? i.e. ¿Cómo se dice “basketball?”
- Hello / Goodbye. / See you later.
- Hola. / Adios. / Hasta luego.
- Hola. / Adios. / Hasta luego.
- Please / Thank you / You’re welcome. (Manners matter. Throw in a “Thank you very much,” if you want to get fancy.)
- Por favor. / Gracias. / De nada. / Muchas gracias.
- Good morning / Good afternoon / Good evening / Goodnight.
- Buenos días. / Buenas tardes. / Buenas noches.
- My name is … / What’s your name?
- Me llamo Sam. / ¿Cómo te llamas?
- Nice to meet you!
- ¡Encantado/a de conocerte! or ¡Mucho gusto! (In Spanish, questions and exclamations are punctuated, respectively: ¿ … ? and ¡ … ! and nouns have masculine and feminine forms, usually ending in -o/-a)
- ¡Encantado/a de conocerte! or ¡Mucho gusto! (In Spanish, questions and exclamations are punctuated, respectively: ¿ … ? and ¡ … ! and nouns have masculine and feminine forms, usually ending in -o/-a)
- Where are you from? / I’m from …
- ¿De dónde eres? / Soy de …
- Yes / No / Maybe
- Sí / No (Kind of essential.) / Quizá or a lo mejor (maybe)
- Beer / Wine / Water (in order of importance)
- Cerveza / Vino / Agua
- Where’s the bathroom?
- ¿Dónde está el baño? (Other words for bathroom: aseo, servicios)
- I like … / I don’t like …
- Me gusta … / No me gusta …
- Delicious! (Everyone likes having their cooking complimented.)
- ¡Riquísimo! (ree-KEE-see-mo)
- How much is this? / How much does this cost?
- ¿Cuánto cuesta?
- ¿Cuánto cuesta?
- How are you? / I’m good! (Because you’re always good. Even when you’re not.)
- ¿Cómo estás? / ¡Estoy bien!
- ¿Cómo estás? / ¡Estoy bien!
- This / That (These and Those for advanced travellers)
- Esto / Eso / Estos / Esos (There are gender-based versions of these words that are more appropriate, but these are sufficient for basic communication, which is the goal here.)
- Esto / Eso / Estos / Esos (There are gender-based versions of these words that are more appropriate, but these are sufficient for basic communication, which is the goal here.)
- Personal pronouns (if you don’t want to point at people to indicate who you’re talking about)
- Me Yo
- You Tú
- Him Él
- Her Ella
- It Lo / La (masculine / feminine nouns)
- We Nosotros
- Y’all (You, plural) Vosotros
- They Ellos / Ellas
- You’re beautiful. / You’re handsome. (Because you just might see someone cute and want to tell them. Or you just might want to make someone feel good.)
- Eres guapa/guapo. Bonita/o is also worth knowing.
- Eres guapa/guapo. Bonita/o is also worth knowing.
- Good / Bad
- Bien / Mal
- Good luck!
- ¡Buena suerte!
- ¡Buena suerte!
- Cheers! (Guaranteed, this will be one of the first things you learn.)
- ¡Salud! or ¡Chin chin!
- ¡Salud! or ¡Chin chin!
- Take care. / Be well. (These go beyond saying goodbye to someone, and can be used to show more genuine feeling.)
- Cuidate. (Pronounced “KWEE-dah-tay.” Literally, “Take care of yourself.”)
- Cuidate. (Pronounced “KWEE-dah-tay.” Literally, “Take care of yourself.”)
So there you have it. Just the basics – enough to get you by. Carrying a short list like this is much easier than toting an English-to-whatever-language dictionary. The next time you travel to a foreign country, give the list a try – you’ll be glad you did.
That’s all for now – ¡Cuidate!
Contact Sam Rosenthal at samrose24@gmail.com or Follow @BackwardsWalker
by by