Virginia, I am sorry!

I'll be the first to admit, I am not the biggest fan of Fairfax, Virginia. This is the true location where I have spent the last few weekdays sleeping between work and scampering off to much more vibrant places like Washington D.C. and oh, the beloved, honored, New York City. But it isn't just the suburbia, anywhere USA style of this place, its a bit more than you and I think... I live more or less in HotelLand. HotelLand is every major hotel chain in America, where like most else, the swanky style of travel and staying in fashion and glory away from home has been reduced to its Cheapest Common Denomenator, the chain hotel. Mr. Marriott and Homey Hyatt would be rolling in their graves if they see how the CEOs chasing the boring buck have reduced their once stylish abodes to. A lot of business travelers, I guess I am now lumped into this lot, don't like hotels after a while because they are away and miss their family. I love my family and am just fine with being on this adventure called life, wherever it takes me so I don't agree with that. I see the hotel chain as just about the most drab place in American existence. The cheap mass manufactured feel of these places seems like Walmart designed it. The food is frozen, the pool is a small square inside, nice and safe from the elements, chlorinated too kill anything less than a 5 year old and complete with an extremely bored and extremely unnecessary lifeguard. I've dug some positives out of HotelLand, such as the willingness of the awesome cleaning ladies to feed my chocolate twice a day, the availability of free San Pellegrino (which is a new affinity for me) and the many opportunities to jump on my bed to no avail and the chance to be so isolated that I just have to write more. Yippie! But all in all, I don't spend much time here. Which brings me the purpose of this post, and that's suburbian Virginia. SubVirgin, as we will call it, is completely missing the point. Overpriced houses sit in pretty little lots behind absolutely beautiful trees shedding their leaves and strutting their multicolor warm beauty between tree needle covered runways tucked in between nicely paved roads. They are ignored. Ignored by passing, agrivated motorists that spend more time in their cars than anywhere else. I luckily have my bicycle to give me hope and happiness, but I yell and feel bad for these souls, stuck in the endless circle of driving... everywhere. I have seen traffic to no ends in Los Angeles, in Bangkok and in Houston to name a few, but this place, has it just plain bad. The daily traffic radio report is a loop, played back every day while the traffic seems to increase more and more. "Oh poor humans", I say on my bike or on my own way to work, while I sneak a meditation in, "Oh poor humans, what are you doing to yourself?" I think even the big beautiful trees of all sort look on the side of the highway and say the same. Or maybe they are even laughing, causing them to shake their leaves and nuts to the ground. Either way, the metal box with wheels promises so many so much mobility has caused these poor, poor Virginians minimal 2 hour commutes to work and back, resulting in a silence where only the trees speak and only if you listen. There are malls, bars, restaurants, all very car accessible, but all very unfruitful to real life. Time and space become real barriers and sources of real stress here, where riding the metro or the bicycle can melt Time to an opportunity for a good read pr more deep breaths and Space to a fast paced, joyous blur to be enjoyed, not overcame. So I somewhat pity you suburban Virginians. You have Cheesecake Factory and Macy's, HotelLand and Starbucks, but you have time and space stripped away from you. It is a lifestyle unsustainable in so many ways, but for the meantime, you are more than welcome to join me between your tall, happy trees and their oh so warm colors in your cool, calm evenings, while I ride my bicycle on excellent pathways to everywhere and forget your traffic, time and space are even there. (gobicyclego!) teepee

Walkington, D.C.

Heading south on Connecticut Avenue, restless mind shelves the thoughts of the day and opens up the blinds of presence to reveal my location. A brisk pace is feeding me delicately with a pleasant Thursday night’s sounds and sights. The young and earning casually dine out in hip green cafés between nibbles of stylish hors d'oeuvres while the aged and powerful hammer out deals in sealed glass coffins of spit-shined silverware only taking breaths to push in thick, rare chunks of manicured meat into their strained potbellies, already rumbling with cognac and today’s dollar bills. They are not mutually exclusive, these cliques, yet opposite and resentful towards each other on the outside. I am not-so-subtly reminded that their aims of more and better by a sign to my right side offering “Organic Corporate Catering”. The 80’s power block office shells are where they both dwell and the juxtaposing mod-cafés are where they both get their lattés. The decided and the deciding harmonizing so easily on a crisp October night, that’s what this is. A Thai upscale restaurant on my right, an art deco Passport office on my left. I am here in the nation’s (or more explicitly, the nation where I was born) capital district, Washington, D.C.

The undercurrent of power is not at first obvious, but it sneaks in as a reminder once the suits start multiplying and the number of police departments are counted. Oh, there is the Park Police, that’s nice. And the City Police, that’s good, they should be here. Capitol Police, well you gotta watch the Capitol. National Police. State Police. FBI. NSA. CIA. Thought Police. Wow. A few days of observation and now I realize that my phone calls are on a little spinning disk deep in that exact observably nondescript black office complex. But by this 8^th day here, Big Brother paranoia has passed, calmed by the short height of the buildings around me and abundance of trees I don’t usually get to look at. The generally happy presence of people simply running about their day brings humanity back in the moderately intimidating city. Every ethnicity is represented in force, a warming reminder – or confusion – of what it is to be an “American” in the most “American” in “American” cities. Which brings me to the stale Anywhere, USA Best Buy and Taco Bell stink and stickiness of American Suburbia – which happens to be well represented next to my hotel, far from where I am now, on the outer ends of the D.C. metro system – thus I prefer these every-other-evening forays into Washington. Although the changing leaves and pine scent of the ‘burbs are pleasant to wake to, the animation of the city in the director’s seat of the American national comedy is just too enticing to avoid.

My walk is only slowed chuckle at the vanity of Fitness First Health Club on my left and Laser Hair Removal on my right. My stepping continues to the beat of a Spanish voice reciting a story to a near perfect one-and-a-two and a one-and-a-two cadence. Tonight’s destination is the Lincoln memorial, a dare-not-miss landmark that I have somehow managed to avoid on the past few brief adventures into the city. But this night I refuse to be run off like Cinderella to my oversized hotel bed at the strike of 10 pm, my usual boring bedtime. Oh no, I will keep marching on to see this cherry tree chopping, stoned individual and see what he is really looking at in that big comfy rock chair.

My eyes begin to peer into the eight story office cubes only kept warm by late night newbies and their accompanying florescent lighting. I start to envision a young, overly eager Monica Lewinsky doing just as I am doing, peering into these same offices and wondering how I can get into them… so then I stop thinking. My fascination drifts to the surprising diversity of ethnic foods and bikes and fashions and street corner oddities…

A successful jaywalk maneuvered, a delightfully designed building past by. One wouldn’t really know the reflecting pool of The Mall is so close if it wasn’t for the “evacuation route” signs on Pennsylvania Avenue.

A cop there, a PhD student here and to complete the symbolic trio, a matted wool blanket covering a dread-headed soul and his whole tomorrow neatly stored in his Styrofoam donation cup.

Big Brother rears his annoying head once again as even the obscure Office of Personal Management watches me with its big electronic eye while I pick my nose on purpose. Yet I quickly shrug it off to stop and stare at the giant white, water stained monoliths of the Department of the Interior. A construction crew gently pushes me onto the street and a full moon says “oh, hello” to my little bipedal self as the night gets darker and the trees more abundant. I have found The National Path, or at least what it should be called, but it is eerily lit and creepily abandonded, making me feel like I shouldn’t have said all those nasty things about George W. Bush in college, because his CIA cronies could easily jump from that odd bush over there and push me in this dark body of pond water thus making me famous for three days or so via the back page of the Washington Post.

Aside from a creepy lampposts and large weeping willow trees providing a setting that Jack the Ripper would love, I dig the welcome respite of cool air, the repetitive blink from phallic obelisk known as the The National Monument, a few dusk and just me. Its amazing how so many public, free and open places are deserted and how many benches go unfilled while pricey bars have 30 minute waits.

The Path opens to a somber but mighty stone piller-and-fountain tribute to those who gave their service in World War II. A unique ‘whoa’ fills the sight and respect is just the tip of my thoughts but I keep wondering, dedicated to take it all in from the white marble steps below Lincoln’s feet, now in my view.

The gravel dutifully crunches below my feet and the aligned trees shed little leaves in my path and I am soon staring up at the clean white stone structure that houses Abraham Lincoln, the uhhh 4^th? President of the United States. Shame sets in at this idea. I am not really sure at all if ol’ Abe Lincoln is the 4^th president or the 9^th. Im pretty sure it’s a prime number, but there are a lot of prime numbers. (I double check to see if 4 and 9 are prime numbers and I confide myself that they are, and I am more sure of this than I am of Abe being the 4^th President of these United States of America. My shame builds as my random access memory of my brain reminds me that a friendly Swede could recite all American presidents in order from her year as an exchange student in Indiana or some state boring enough to make a young person memorize a different nation’s national leadership. Jefferson was second right? Then Adams… oh well, Abe did good and was down with abolishing slavery – which definitely earns him a statue as impressive as this one.

The stone is white, very white... almost scary white, white like noticeably bleached teeth, really white. Either no one spills coffee in this monument or the government is on top of keeping the 15 meter statue in pristine condition. I assume the later and walk closer for a better look. Its impressive, quiet and the surroundings make one consider that this man had a lot to do with the start of the healing of the horrible dark period that America gave itself, so young in its existence.

I have met up with a fellow couchsurfer by this point at the monument. This gentleman is a nice, but harmfully nerdy late thirty something that has lived in the city for a number of years and judging by how much he is talking to me, he hasn't talked to anyone in about 5 of those years. He is nice, and I agreed to just say hello, but his mouth isn't getting that I want to see Lincoln in awe not have a beer and chat. This doesn't bother me or trample my experience. A primitive part of my brain continues the colloquial light conversation over travel, hotels, blah, blah, airplanes, blah, blah, while my inner self smiles and stares out over the National Monuments reflection over the pool that is The Mall.

This is Washington D.C., where the constant dialogue of lives cannot overcome the beauty of the epicenter of a nation.

I sit down in on the steps, and everything gets quiet. The air smells different, the silence from beyond the sound comes and I take a picture by closing my eyes.

teepeegoDC

Samoa: A year ago and today.

By Tim Wimborne, Reuters Taken: 9/30/2009

I remember it with vivid detail. Ricky, Halen and I were walking from out tiny village hut towards the famed Lalomano where the tourists in the know, or more accurately, those willing to actually spend money on their vacation, boasted about staying in front of a picturesque island and perfect snorkeling. My frugal mind suggested we walk the 3 or so kilometers to the beach, which wasn't so bad, but still ended up in hitching rides to our destination. On the walk we tried our luck with promising snorkel spots only to find that small pacific island snorkel spots are jewels and must be sought for. We kept walking and finally, Samoa started to dazzle. We found the idyllic place to see the underwater kingdom. Lalomano showed us pristine white sand, never to be replicated. Leaning palm trees providing perfect shade. See-through water that invited hours of underwater enjoyment and sunburned backs. This place was Lalumano, this place was our first calm, awe inspiring experience in our Pacific-Asia trip last year.

This photo was taken by Halen, at Lalomano.Then.

This photo is the very spot where our bodies once rested, and where many lost their lives, their homes, their solidity. Now. Above: By Phil Walter, Getty Images Taken: 9/30/2009 Above: By Rick Rycroft, AP Taken: 9/30/2009 Above: (source:By Phil Walter, Getty Images Taken: 9/30/2009) This is the furthest down the road we walked to get to Lalomano - I remember this particular spot, with its abundance of Plumeria trees and a small farm on the right of this picture. Above: By Hugh Gentry, Reuters Taken: 9/30/2009 I am sure you have heard of this from the news. But thats the problem. The news runs over these catastrophes like they are of no significance. All life is valued. And with the loss of a special, special person in my life it makes it all the more touching and these events are really brought home. Thank you for reading. Everything is in change. To everyone. teepee

PS- Previous Samoa posts -

http://teepeegotravel.blogspot.com/2008/09/samoa-pics-now-online.html

http://teepeegotravel.blogspot.com/2008/09/upolo-island-samoa.html

The Revival!

June? Thats the last time I posted? JUNE??? Wow. I first and foremost apologize. So much has happened, a second trip to Copenhagen, a departure from beautiful Sweden, the 3 month return to Austin... and oh, yes, the new traveling job that has landed me back here in Washington D.C.! So one can only guess, the blog is getting fired up again and ready for a revival! I'm floating around my nation's capital at the moment, having dinner with the busy Obama family (not true), working at my new job, getting all political at bars, asking all random people about their lives in the underground metro and other great stuff to fill a nice few posts. So how about it? Do you forgive me yet if I start posting again about my experiences in Washington D.C. and then on to Chicago? Good. I knew you would come around, just as you know I can't stop traveling. (Especially when you are now getting paid to do it!) Enjoy the presence, no matter where you are. Teepee

From Prague to Budapest and back!

Pardon the gap, but as anyone who runs a meagerly read travel blog knows... it sometimes gets difficult to update on the road. For that, my return to Gothenburg today was made certain by rainy coldness, the snus packet I saw in urinal, and a new addition of bubbles in the fountain of Jörntorget (seen here).

While Gothenburg isn't that bad as I make it out to be (I was smiling while I biked around in the rain today), my 2 week jaunt to Stockholm, Prague and Budapest, Hungary was simply exquisite. Stockholm, sweden's other, more snobby epicenter treated me to great weather, a marathon, damn good chinese food and a host (who I met in Austin during SXSW) who showed me around and solidified a friendship - even though this was all for 24 hours. Oh and I forgot my camera charger... so you will have to rely on my iphone.

view of Prague near Cousin's apartment

Prague was wonderful like always, and there was the typical copious amounts of Czech beer consumed and beauty adored...

Prague by the river

view from terrace at cousin's apartment in Prague

evening BBQ on the terrace while listening to euro trance beats. good stuff. famous Lennon graffiti wall in Prague

But my visit to Budapest really knocked my socks off, where I visited my ex-boss (weird) in Hungary's incredibly beautiful capital. I expected cool communist architecture and a very eastern european vibe, but what I got was a slap in the face with awesome people, incredible Austro-Hungarian Empire architecture (awakening the history class cells of my brain that this area was once the seat of an enormous empire), and great weather to create a perfect time. There were haunted labrinths, schoolchildren filled underground caves, hungarian dive bars, ice cream, great mexican food (wha? ya!) and castles/churches on the Danube River that made this city one of my favorite in the world!

note my future top level apartment in mid frame, Danube River in Budapest

So yes, I am back now safe and sound in Gothenburg... and I leave you with a public service from the City Of Gothenburg, noting... "Get back into cycling!!!"

Upptäck cykeln igen - Göteborgs stad from ljudbilden on Vimeo.

-teepee

Sverige is svenska for Sweden in swedish.

Tjena, I have been doing a lot of Swedish stuff the last week since my side trip to Spain. Actually within an hour of stepping off the plane, I was whisked away in a Volvo (the national car of Sverige) to my first Swedish wedding. My personal Swedish designer fixed me up with hip suspenders and other nonsense that I complained about like a whiny 5 year old boy going to his first Swedish wedding. I endured introductions from two sides of a family that I didn't know and would probably never see again after 48 hours, a service in Swedish mixed with bad English songs on guitar by a great female pastor, and the toasts. Oh the toasts. I don't know Swedish, and the toasts lasted 3 hours, but was made far less than dreadful by copious amounts of buffet breaks and the occasional translation by my table neighbors. If you ever get a chance to go to a wedding where you don't know the language do it, as it will introduce you to a new level of facial feature and gesture observation and even understanding.

(entire Swedish wedding album)

The wedding went without a hitch and the night was danced away, rocking the peaceful surroundings of huge pine trees, a tranquil lake and fields of blooming flowers, short green grass and other assorted fairy tale setting features.

Moving on to the next middle class Swedish tradition ... The Summer House. The summer house is a house by a lake/fjord/coastline that Swedish families gather to celebrate long hours of light during the summer, due probably to the lack of sun during the winter/fall/spring/every month of the year rather than July-August. Here, the infamous Midsummer Celebration occurs with all its silly Swedish drinking songs, Schnapps in the amounts only Scandinavians can consume, and some kind of dancing around a pole. I hope to experience this in late June and I will report back with interesting stories... Oh yes, but the Summer House. Karolina's parents in particular have been blessed by the old Nordic gods to have probably the most beautiful piece of property in the northern latitudes. Just an hour outside of Göteborg, there is a little house next to two other even littler houses in a small neighborhood tucked in the trees facing an enormous flank opening to a massive fjord. Its granduer of nordic beauty is unrivaled; upon arriving at the signature little grass roofed houses, large steep mossy rocks give way to a blue-grey abyss, where one walks slowly to give awe-inspiring moments of catching your breath and to take it all in. As one with any experience of admiring nature beauty on a God scale, it is hard to take all in at once. Epic songs of deep sound echo through your head as you admire this place that awakens thoughts of "whoa". Your deep appreciation is only broke when you take off all your clothes and jump into a shivering shock of ice cold water and dive into laughter of being at this really cool place.

See all of Summer House album

After coming back from the cosmos, a feast was prepared, made possible by fresh garden greens, a old school grill and a late sunset that makes you stick to your dinner chair far longer than necessary. The cold sets in, you start the fireplace and read like an old retiree after tending to a farm.

Life snapped back at me once I was back in G'borg where the city life of movies, out to dinner and a birthday were celebrated. The week piles up again for me, with cool plans/tasks of fixing bicycles for free in the park, finding old bicycles to restore, and cooking for a Friday graduation party filling up each day until I leave for a few days in Prague to visit my cousin... toodles... from the abyss

teepee

Spain! Spanien! España!

(central Alicante, Spain)

("cartas" = mail/letters in old Albaicin neighboorhood in Granada, Spain)

(the Alhambra, Granada, Spain)

With Karolina's stress point reaching a dangerous and scary level due to her looming Medical Final Exam that solidifies her place in the DoctorWorld, I spent several hours coming up with a solution for both of us for me to get the heck out of the house. After deciding against touristy Turkish and Greek resorts, I settled on a flight to Alicante, Spain because it was cheap, sunny and Mediterranean. Besides, I was ready for speaking a foriegn language I could actually comprehend and speak, as well as a warm beach, obnoxiously strong coffee and the loss of my freakishly white skin. I arrived and navigated Alicante's superb public transporation without a hitch only to find it was rain day and the place was absolutely deserted. I retired to a local overpriced hotel, as my plans to camp would have to wait until tomorrow, napped, got out for coffee and then settled unto a bar stool at a local Cervecería to reaquiant myself with the local cañas (also known as tap beer). After a caña and some secos (nuts) later, a friendly smokey man with crutches struck up conversation with me and we soon were chatting about life, Morocco (where he was from), Spain, castles, ... his recent divorce ... his kids he can only see every other weekend ... and finally = awkwardness. He offered his car for me to drive around the next day, and kept buying cañas, so I went to a trendy little bar down the street with him and persuded him to talk about more pleasant things like where the best place to go hiking was or where the nude beaches are. The night ended, I was weirded out, but I still had my wallet and none of my free beers were spiked. All and all good. I woke up the next day to sunshine, singing spanish ladies outside my open windows and beaches peppered with people in little euro bathing suits. Juan gave me a ride to the camping place and I told him that I was feeling sick and that I would call him as soon as I took a siesta. He willingly believed this because in Spain you cannot doubt or impede a person´s siesta. Doing so is a major crime. So, the next few days were spent sleeping in a tent, laying on the beach, reading, running, relaxing and visiting the massive Castillo in Alicante. I made friends with my neighboors - the crispy Dutch couple who had been coming to Alicante for 15 years (you could tell) - but European senior citizens and their sleepy migrant town can only be so entertaining for so long. So I looked at a map, found Granada and said hello Andalucía, south of Spain, here I come! Seven hours on a bus, 2 dubbed Disney films, one near heart attack (not me some other guy - weird story, this has happened to me twice, once on a bus from a Honolulu hotel to the airport and then now on a bus in Spain, so please if you have to go into cardiac arrest do so without being with me on the bus) and 3 million smoking pit stops later I reached Granada, a beautiful old city tucked between the Sierra Nevadas and punctuated by a little river and long Moorish history. I did the hostel thing, which was funny because even I felt too young for it, and slept soundly in anticipation for my visit to the Alhambra in the morning. The Alhambra is a beautiful, beautiful Moorish place that is unlike any I have seen before (Note: I have not seen any Muslim sultan palaces before). Yeah, its toursty, yeah, its old, but YES its beautiful. The wood and stone work are unparalleled and its history transports you into a remote to my European-Christian oriented past and just makes you want to drink sweet exotic tea, smoke elegant fruit flavored tobacco and lay with your sultan buddies on fine Persian carpets. So without further muddled words to describe the pictures.. check it out yourself!

View all

Get your own

My return was relatively uneventful - a falafel that made me sick here, some sweet exotic tea there, a shorter more pleasant bus ride back to Alicante and a slumber party in the airport - but Sweden was nice to come home to and it brought me right back to my next adventure - The Swedish Wedding (see tomorrow's post!) Taylor

Copenhagen, Denmark

(Öresund Strait wind farm) I like bikes. I really do, I promise you. So when I emerged from the underground, freshly excited from the high speed trip over the longest combined road/rail bridge in Europe (Öresund Bridge), I walked into the light of a bicycling paradise that makes Amsterdam look like the Austin of cycling communities (sorry, us Austinites just isn't there yet). The buzz of cyclists, the smell of rubber and thousands of bikes in sight aroused my senses and excitement to an imaginary level. Bike racks were filled to capacity and cars stuck out like ugly heaps of metal. Everyone, of every type, was on a bike and I felt naked without one. Copenhagen is beautiful. The Danes got it right with their bike dominance, blend of old Spire-dominated archictecture, wind generator farms peppering the Öresund Strait and sleek, sexy, simple design identified in buildings, furniture and public spaces. This city is alive and moving -literally, by bike - in all directions with a extremely multicultural and metropolitain look. Oh and don't even get me started on how awesome Christiana is... After sitting in awe and snapping pictures of bikes with my iphone for an hour and a half, I hooked up with my Couchsurfing host at a booze filled skatepark a few steps away from his house. The city was a bit crazy that day because of the May 1st celebrations which observe and support the Working Party around the world and are so Red that they would make McCarthy's head explode. But communism aside, it is mostly just one massive party. I may have had a late night, but I was no where near this guy, when I woke up the next day: The trip was way too quick as I only spend 2 nights and 2 days hanging out with my couchsurfing host, his temporary roommate (a Canadian who had recently migrated on a ferry to Copenhagen after living in Iceland for 4 years) and the most wonderful Danish family known to man, who kept me very happy with games, jokes, wonderful food and warm smiles for my entire stay. Thank you, those pancakes were incredible! So, sorry I forgot to charge my camera and there are so few pictures of Copenhagen, but hey - it may be better off that way! TP