Peace River

My friend TeaJay (also if you look carefully, her husband, Clay and myself).

Tony Landa enjoying a mid-river lunch break.

It seems like a lifetime ago, but there was a time when I was not able to travel for a living. During those dark, dull days, I had to rely on cheap, accessible ways to feed my ever-hungrier travel monkey. One frequently relied upon solution was camping. I would gather a group of friends, pack a cooler, grab a tent and be practically assured of a great time. Or if I was really lucky, I would have the chance to join the annual pilgrimage of South Florida’s artists, musicians and assorted creative types who, led by the lovable Cuban imp, Conga Rey, would spend a weekend joyfully destroying the tranquility implied in the name, Peace River. These legendary outings would generally involve groups of 50 or more people driving up to the small western Florida town of Arcadia to rent canoes, pitch tents and ingest enough substances to put down a medium-sized mammal. Throughout the years, the trips have continued, but due to my frequently unpredictable and capricious schedule, I have not been able to join them for the past 13 years.

This year, I learned of the planned trip with enough notice to get the necessary days off. I also learned that, seeing as none of us are getting any younger, some much-appreciated modifications have been made to the Conga Rey bacchanalia. Now instead of the punishing endurance marathon of the 26 mile trip we used to do, it was now whittled down to a much more civilized 12 mile trip. Instead of precariously trying to balance all one’s possessions on a frequently water-logged canoe for the duration of the ride, there was now a drop-off service that delivered all the gear directly to the campsite. There was now a 2 night option, which allowed you to set up camp, kick-back and keep kicking back for an extra day. And, heaven of heavens, instead of squatting in the woods and burying toilet paper, we now had porta-potties at our disposal. Seriously, if there is a more beautiful word in the English language than porta-potty, I am not aware of it. This is not to say that my weekend would not suffer from a glitch or two. Hours before setting off for Arcadia, my canoe partner called to complain of anxiety-related intestinal difficulties. This seemingly overcome, we drove up, rented a canoe and in my eagerness to get the festivities started, got off at the wrong drop-off point and after a mere 8 miles of paddling wound up at the finish line a full two days early. We had missed the turn-off for the new campsite entirely. This must not be an uncommon occurrence, since the fine folks at Canoe Outpost did not bat an eye about driving us out to the site, where only moments before they had dropped off all our gear. Within an hour, our tents were erected, gear unpacked and I was having a cold beer with some old friends. Within ten minutes of that, my canoe partner had suffered a bout of discombobulation so severe that he chose to abscond with the canoe back to the Canoe Outpost offices. From there, we assume he somehow made the 3 hour journey back to Miami since we never did see him or my canoe again, but now, the first story of the ’09 Conga Rey trip had been born. The rest of the weekend was as I remembered. Once the sun set, guitars, drums, both real and makeshift, and even a harmonica materialized and we were treated to impromptu concerts late into the night. There was much catching up with people I had not seen in far too long, including, most distressingly, with my friend’s daughter, who was 4 years the last time I saw her and was now heading off to college. There were wildlife sightings, this time in the form of wild pigs, deer and an armadillo, all of them too swift for a beer-addled photographer to even think of capturing. There was the traditional group photo, and the eventual emergence, an hour later, of a guy who had been wandering in the woods and was now loudly wondering when we would be posing for the group photo. There was the sheer pleasure of lounging in a canoe, this time as a hitch hiker with my friends, Tony and Joe who agreed to give my canoe-less self a ride back, watching the sun shine off the water. There was Conga Rey being Conga Rey. But best of all, there was an old tried and true adventure feeling wonderfully fresh and new.

Tweet

Witnessing History, One Way or Another

The Capital two days before the festivities...

And on January 20, 2009.


Exiting towards the Purple Gate.



Karen and I holding our Purple Passes as seen through the eyes of a drunken Jamaican photographer.

Our view during the Inauguration. Photo taken by Karen Farquharson.


The famous Purple Ticket along with the much more effective Marc Train ticket.

Eight years ago, I was invited to one of the official Presidential Inauguration Balls. I gave it some thought, reasoning that it was a historic event that I may never have another chance at, my friends were going and someone else was footing the bill, so why not? The problem was that my rage at the outcome of that election was so raw and so visceral and my self-control so completely lacking that I could not envision an end to the evening that did not involve the Secret Service dragging me away as I screamed "Hail to the Thief", "Cheater" or just plain "Asshole" in the direction of the guest of "honor". I could not bear to think about celebrating a buffoon's rise to power, so I wisely stayed home .

Fast forward eight long, long years. Finally a candidate that I'd campaigned for, that I'd invested so much hope and energy into had come out on top. And not just any candidate, but one that displays such passion, intelligence and thoughtfulness that I'd seen voters move past the cynicism that normally accompanies elections, not just here but all over the world. I was one of the 200,000 people who stood in the Tiergarten in Berlin listening to then Senator Obama address the world and witnessed Europeans enthusiastically waving American flags, cheering at the possibility of the US finally reversing its disastrous course. Now we had and I wanted nothing more than to be there to see this transfer of power take place. I tried every connection I could think of to get tickets, good liberal that I am, but in the end it was my very Republican mother who came through. After some phone calls, she managed to get me a pair of the most sought-after tickets in the land (a fact I learned while I was in Buenos Aires, a fact I have no doubt everyone in my hostel was sick of hearing about). Over the weeks that followed, I learned that my lovely, eternally-loyal friend and Obama supporter, Karen would be able to join me. Equally exciting, my brilliant, long-time friends, Francisco and Dan, who I never see enough of, had not rented out any of the rooms in their beautiful Baltimore home (aka "the Manor") for thousands and thousands of dollars (as I would've done) so now we had tickets and a place to sleep!

The evening prior to the big day, Francisco and Dan very graciously threw a party in my honor, so that I could meet their friends and we could all celebrate this magical weekend together. It was a lovely evening filled with yummy vegetarian food, good wine and great conversation. Peggy, the sister of Francisco's co-worker spoke of the need to keep one's cool when small things start going wrong by remembering that, in the end, "everything will be ok". It wasn't long until we would be quoting her extensively. It did not happen at 5 am, which is the time I set my alarm for so that we could make our 6:30 train. It was closer to 8:o0 am when Karen burst into my room to inform me that we had overslept. We had now missed our train into DC, but we immediately proclaimed that everything was going to be ok. We woke up Francisco, who rushed us to the train station, only to learn that we had not just missed our train, we had missed all the trains going into DC that day. No problem, we could handle this, we got a cab, to a metro, to a dead sprint that led us past all the signs pointing towards the purple gate, where we would be admitted into the West standing section. By this time it was almost 10:00 am. We were soon face-to-face with the now infamous purple gate fiasco. We never saw the tunnel that has gotten most of the press (where many people got stuck for hours on end), but we were thick in the midst of a mob pressed a half-mile deep against a retaining fence. There were rumors circulating of a security breech; there was talk about the gate being shut and there were tall people besieged for reports as to what they could see. Most of the folks we spoke to had been trying to get in since 5 am, all of them holding purple tickets, even if we would have woken up on time, we would have been in the same exact predicament! As the time of the actual inauguration approached, people starting abandoning their spots to seek out a bar or jumbo tron to watch history being made. We were not making any progress and people were getting restless and impatient, yet, and this is what was amazing, there was this kind, generous feeling among the crowd that we were all in this together. As the surge pushed neighbor upon neighbor, there were apologies heard all around. A woman behind me was praying aloud, hoping to get past the gate. Without even thinking, I grabbed her hand and told her everything was going to be ok. At precisely 11:30am, we did make it past the gate, where security had all but abandoned the pretense of checking tickets or even proper screenings. This still left us at some distance from the stands, but we were now free to run and run we did. We got as far as the steps leading up to the stands, only to discover that they were full and we were not going to be able to see anything. Then we heard the gunfire and knew that Barack Obama was the 44th President of the United States. We heard his speech, where he so eloquently outlined a better future for all the world's citizens. We were there. Sure, we were disappointed at being denied entrance to our rightful spot, but the sense of sight does not solely define a moment. We heard the President's oration, we felt the magical feeling in the air, we froze our asses off. It was more than ok. And unless I grossly misread the crowd, I think most of the folks around us would have agreed. Certainly, the patrons of the Irish Bar we went to afterwards, crowded with holders of purple tickets who had either seen nothing or watched the proceedings on tv, would agree. The prevailing mood was one of joy and relief albeit tinged with aggravation at the poorly organized purple section. Now, I am reading purple ticket holders' reports of "the worst day of their lives" and am saddened to think that hindsight has tarnished such a special day for some people. Would I have preferred to view my President sworn in? Of course. But I would rather not see this President sworn in than drink and dance in celebration of his predecessor, any day.

After defrosting and commiserating in the Irish Bar for awhile, we headed towards the parade route, passing countless vendors selling everything from Obama t-shirts to watches to bobble heads to yes, even hot sauce. As expected, we eventually got stuck in a mob waiting to get through security. We waited for about an hour and right as we made it through, we heard a cheer go through the crowd, so we ran at an angle to catch the procession a bit further down. We had not been at our post for more than a few minutes when we saw a resplendent Barack and Michelle Obama walk past. We cheered, we woo-hooed, we forgot we had cameras. And in the words of Peggy, everything was ok.

Tweet

Going Down in Hawaii

The Pyramids artificial reef

Japanese "sculpture" normally used to grow seaweed

The depth gauge gauging.

Remains of a MidPacifics airplane

Sunken ship known only as YO-257

the sunken San Pedro

Couldn't ask for a nicer day.

Diamond Head volcano as seen from the boat

This past Thursday, my flight out of Honolulu did not leave until 3pm, so I had an afternoon and I had a mission. My mission was to do something new in Hawaii, something I had not already done. This simple criteria quickly ruled out climbing Diamond Head (already ruled out my pitiful lack of stamina), visiting Chinatown (already ruled out by my recent bok choy over-saturation), shopping for loud floral wear (already ruled by what I like to consider a semblance of sartorial taste) and trolling the island in search of 99 cent Mai Tais (already ruled out by a hangover from the previous night’s Mai Tai binge). These exclusions and the short time frame available left both myself and the very helpful woman from the Park Shore hotel’s VIP tours counter stumped. We scoured brochure after brochure looking for something that would have me in back in time, would not bore me to tears (that knocked out the free jewelry tour) and most importantly, would provide a new adventure.

The genius stroke came from the Ms. VIP. She suggested I take a ride on a submarine. When she first mentioned it, I flashed back to my only submarine-related experience. That was at the age of 4, when my mother took me to Disney World and cruelly forced me to go on the 20,000 Leagues under the Sea ride. It was a rickety submarine-like contraption that was maybe 10 feet tall and sat in 8 feet of water. I still remember being horrified, thinking that there was no possible way we would be able to breathe in this thing and that this woman, my mother, was foolishly leading us into certain death. Of course, we survived, I eventually forgave my mother and no more thought was given to underwater conveyances. Until now. With Ms. VIP's encouragement, I signed up for Atlantis Adventure's submarine tour. It was just shy of two hours, so it would have me back in plenty of time and since it was a real, descending to a depth of over 100 feet, submarine, it was also definitely a first.

The tour began on a trolley that picked me up at my hotel and took me to the Hilton, Next, came a scenic boat ride out to a designated spot, where right on cue, we watched as our 64 passenger submarine slowly surfaced into view. The submarine's passengers, all looking exceedingly giddy, disembarked onto our boat and we returned the favor by boarding the submarine. For the hour that followed, we cruised along the ocean floor, passing artificial reefs that included concrete pyramids, quirky looking Japanese sculptures, and sunken ships and airplanes. Each site was replete with marine life darting to and fro. For a non-diver such as myself, it was like a glimpse into a world that I only usually get to hear about. For the entire hour, all I felt was pure joy and wonder. At one point, I actually yelled "Oooh!!" and started poking the stranger next to me, trying to show him the sea turtle I had spotted. When I saw a spotted eagle ray, I think I may have bruised him. As soon as it began, it was over; we surfaced to find the boat waiting for us. We swapped places with the boat occupants, only now it was my turn to look giddy as hell, mission to do something new (very) successfully accomplished.

Tweet

Closing out the year with King Mango

In January of this year, I resolved to start a blog where I would document my travels or my adventures, as I prefer to think of them. With much encouragement from my friends and family (Roland, Julie, Laura and Susie, I'm looking at you), I actually stuck to that resolution and amazingly, the blog will soon be entering its second year. It has been great fun and I want thank all of those who have stopped by the site and especially Shawn, who although a reluctant commenter has been an essential part of most of my adventures.

Now what better way of ending '07 than with some photos from yesterday's King Mango Strut, Coconut Grove's light-hearted look at the year's most newsworthy events (not that the stilt-walkers were actually offering any timely political commentary, per se, but they were just really, really good and I liked the way the photo turned out).

I wish you all a fan-fricking-tastic New Year's Eve and nothing but joyous times in 2008.

Coming up next: Cancun with the Kansans in January and a tour of China in February....

Tweet

Holidays are for the birds (and for the butterflies, too)

At least, they are almost over. So instead of short-circuiting at the mall, I have opted for posting some tranquility-inducing photos from our recent visit to Coral Spring's Butterfly World. Hope they make you feel better, too. Happy Holidays, everyone!

Tweet