We No Speak Americano

Colombia. That's what the parrot pulled from it's gypsy flavoured pack of cards. That's where the vacation angst ridden took a metal bird to.

Yes, after much racking, and bitching, and whining - for that's how great things come about - we impromptu-ously ran to Colombia. Uncanned. With a lonely planet and a few choicy spanish words. And the backpacking skills of the girl (I'd fall on one knee and propose to her just for that if I hadn't already married her).

We Cartagena-ed, we Cali-ed. Salsa-ed or tried to at least, drank like mad and said hi to a snow covered volcano. Which then proceeded to emit sulphuric fumes, and so our guide made us run. Colombian volcanoes, unlike colombian people are not friendly. The guide said.

In cartagena, the girl went Gabriel Garcia Marquez crazy, re-living every book of his by the streets. Even touched the walls of his house. I tried to speak spanish with hand signals.

Drank so much coffee, but more importantly slept amid coffee greens. In an old plantation house, next to a trail on which had traveled Simon Bolivar. And then drank so much more coffee. Exported some of it over to our apartment as well. Drinking so much coffee.

But then the snow monster fucked us proper. I'm convinced I'm jinxed with air travel. It's out to get me. But no pain no gain. I laugh and wink now, but when we were stranded in Bogota, with no one speaking english, and no planes departing to Neuva York, I was close to crying. The girl almost punched a few airline people in frustration. I probably would have cried for sure then.

But now, laughing and winking, I'm being the saying whew. It's good to be home. Until the next holiday, eh?

Tower Of Song

Yello.
How's the good life treating you then? Plodding along hopefully... willing to punch me for asking such staid questions?

Argh, so desperate to sound cool. Sigh. Ok fine, I take full blame. But in my defense, I didn't have anything to start with, so I shot from the hip. And I'm more Indian than cowboy (*and then proceeds to remove tongue from within cheek*).

Now I've lost my chain of thought. I was going to take the desperate cool forward, but as you saw, my consciousness stepped in. Or something like that.

So instead I'll throw a thought that's been nagging me, your way.

Vacations. I've had it with canned vacations. Like driving out to see fall colours in Vermont, or some stupid trees in DC, going skiing in the Alps/Colorado, golf holidays, going to big cities like Paris, London, or even Miami. I don't really know what exactly I have had it with, what irritates me about them. It's most likely the feeling that they feel so... so safe. So normal. So boring.

And like with most forms of angst, I don't know the solution just yet.

Perhaps Everest Base Camp; Backpacking in colombia, where I don't know the language, maybe biking across it; River rafting for 10 days across a dangerous untamable river; A drinking trip, except one inspired by the ten deadliest drinks (found here, a website The Girl found and one that'll absorb me for the rest of the year for sure).

You got solutions?

Space Oddity

I don't like the BBC.

I do however believe, that they're one of a few unbiased non-sensationalism-seeking news channels left. A belief that has been much strengthened after living in the US for a while now.

But it still stands. I don't like them.

Why? Well, there was this time when I used to watch them everyday. And loved it. Then one summer (it's always a summer that gets destroyed), I picked up a book to read, and I heard the BBC's male commentator's voice reading the words out back to me - this is the one who starts speaking once the pictures start. No matter what I tried that damn BBC commentator would chirpily pipe up in my head when I'd read a sentence. With his same sing song manner, the same pauses and the same accent. If I read aloud, he'd disappear, but that didn't appeal as a long term solution.

It was fun in the beginning and then got irritating very fast.

And it happened with every damn thing I read. The newspaper, the websites, even menu's in restaurants. Brunch tasted different that summer.

So I stopped watching the BBC. And stopped liking them. And eventually I drowned the bugger out.

But today, accidentally, while flipping channels, I saw BBC as an option, raised my eyebrows, and ventured forward as means of an adventure.

Now I'm dreading picking that book up. What if the bastard's back?

Show Me How To Live

Look ma, he changed the look.

Damn right I did. I'm a sucker for marketing - I'll buy the iphone, I'll walk down organic food aisles, sell my soul to social networking sites, and perhaps jump on a few other bandwagons along the way. So what's a little blog redecorating, huh.
Or is it peer pressure? Or something deeper. Do I need a shrink for this? Do I?

Regardless, it is what it is.
And that's how the world goes.

And so I'm back. I missed this. I'll probably disappear again. But till then....

Wasted Hours

It's probably too late. You've most likely already moved on to the next big thing and this, coming so late as it is, might leave a stale taste. But it's uncontrollable now. I have to let it out.
So I'll say this, cause I will say it, but I'll do you one. I'll say it real fast and without the danger that is emotion.

Finally!
After I'd supported the buggers for 3 world cups.12 years. They finally delivered.
Ah espania, much against your "la roja furia" name, I say you're like safe drivers. Better late than never. I don't care either way. I would have rejoiced equally if you'd sped, swerved, scratched and still won. But thanks.

There.
So much better I feel now.

And what else?
...and then there's been life. It's been trying to catch up with me for a while now...which it did and so I had to take care of that.

I'm going to sip some wine, listen to music and try and lose it once again. Life that is.

El Porompompero

Somethings are too emotional to be said all by yourself. So I'm going to use other people's words to reflect on the next 21 beautiful days, that will be spent watching a beautiful patch of green grass.

“Football, a game in which everyone gets hurt and every nation has its own style of play which seems unfair to foreigners.”
George Orwell

“I fell in love with football as I was later to fall in love with women. Suddenly, uncritically, giving no thought to the pain it would bring.”
Nick Hornby

“To say that these men paid their shillings to watch twenty-two hirelings kick a ball is merely to say that a violin is wood and catgut, that Hamlet is so much paper and ink.”
JB Priestley

“Amongst all unimportant subjects, football is by far the most important.”
Pope John Paul II

“In football everything is complicated by the presence of the opposite team.”
Jean-Paul Sartre

“Some people think football is a matter of life and death. It is much more important than that.”
Bill Shankly

“Rugby is a game for barbarians played by gentlemen. Football is a game for gentlemen played by barbarians.”
Oscar Wilde

Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa

It's going to get very real, very soon. And also wet. It might even smell of fish.

You see, I just resigned to go to another bee hive. But that's not important. What's important is that I get 10 days. 10 glorious, shiny, full of possibility days between these things they call "jobs". And it somehow coincides with the beginning of summer, the defeat of winter. Isn't coincidence a wonderful thing?

What's also important is that we've decided to unleash our inner kerouacs and go on a road trip. To catch a beach town while driving on a sea-side road. Step onto cobbled streets, eat with the local fishermen, swim in their seas, watch their sunsets, drink with their blessings. That kind of thing.

Someplace much removed from Morrissey's "Everyday is Like Sunday" seaside town. Someplace much out of an artists biased potrait of everyday small town living.

It's not completely "on the road" I will admit, marred as it is with a little planning thrown in. It's the price you pay for living in a foreign land.

And yes it's a boring thing. The being planned.

But worry not, we will throw caution to the wind. Without abandon we will.

So if you see a small rented car, going east from new york, with two, smiling like the dickens people, yell us on and if you want postcards, drop your address in the backseat.