Blogaragua! (Day Tres)

Kik-a-rik-a-ree! That's the sound a rooster makes in Spanish. And that's how I was awakened on a cloudless morning. "Sweet," I thought. "A real country wake-up-call." I was, however, under the misapprehension that the rooster crowed once and then went on about his day. San Juan del Sur had an army of alarm cocks, and they blew reveille over and over again. I pondered the location of the snooze button on a bird. The eye-masked Tina and Lauren were out cold in the other bed.

As I got dressed I made as much noise as possible, hoping to end their slumber, but it was to no avail. I would spend the early morning solo, sipping fresh-squeezed OJ and failing miserably at the Sunday Times crossword while listening to the Clash's Sandinista! on my iPod.

American-Psycho-ish music digression: The Clash is one of my favorite bands. When I learned I was headed to Nicaragua I immediately thought to load this album on my Nano for the trip. It's their fourth record, actually a triple album, with 36 songs. Though some claim it was overindulgent I think it's got some of their best stuff. And the combination of punk, reggae and militance is the perfect soundtrack for Central America -- even though things have calmed there it always feels like paradise has a machine gun pointed at its head. After first coming to New York, the group was heavily influenced by the nascent hip-hop movement. Sandinista! features the first attempt at white rap (Magnificent Seven) and, unlike Blondie's Rapture which would follow six months later, it's not painful to listen to now (eating cars, anyone?). Best song: Charlie Don't Surf.

I caught up with the ladies for our first real Nicaraguan breakfast. Gallo pinto is the famous dish. It sounded cool but it was just eggs with beans and rice. The honey is amazing -- their bees haven't been nearly as cell-phoned as ours.

The hotel offers trips aboard its huge sailboat, with food and drinks and stops at area beaches. But we didn't book reservations in time. This turned out to be a blessing. While I'm sure wind-powered transport is lovely, it would have also come with a gaggle of Mimis and Jujus. Instead, we hired a water taxi. It would be just the three of us and our water taxi driver ("Estas hablando conmigo?") and some of the most amazing beaches in the world.

But first we'd have to push our boat in the water.


We motored up the coast.




Pelicans swooped down, grabbing fish from the surface. Dolphins leaped around our boat.


It felt like we'd left civilization -- the huge swarms of birds looked almost prehistoric. The kind of stuff that makes some definite non-Huckabees start to ask questions about where it all came from.

Our first stop, Bahia Majagual, housed a broken-down resort which once served as the Sandinistas' Hamptons. Now closed, the hotel's saffron-tinged line of palms remains.

A few other tourists lay in the sun. We swam, chilled, and then hopped back in the boat, going off-guide-book and instead taking the advice of our driver to head a bit further north.

We were rewarded with a completely private beach known as Arena Blanca.

It housed the vacation home of a former Sandinista Generalisimo. But he wasn't in his hot tub today. Just us.

Lauren and Deena bummed around in the surf. I channeled my inner-McConaughey and did some beach calisthenics. We were in no rush to go home.

Our four-hour tour (one more than those Gilligan suckers) cost a quarter of what the sailboat would have. On the way home, we discussed our theories on the existence of a higher power and the origin of life. But, most importantly, Lauren mentioned a town near where we grew up -- Syosset. There are some words or phrases for which I must make a pop-culture reference. When someone says "Puerto Rico" I must say "Hoooo!" When someone says Syosset, I must say "Milton Morehead, of Syosset, Long Island!" Lauren brightened... "Soapdish?" That's correct.

Salty and disheveled, we grabbed lunch at the hotel bar amongst the assholes who hadn't left the sterile pool. A kindly older couple approached and struck up a conversation, their focus mainly on Lauren. When they asked if she had attended a "Reform Camp" their intent became clear -- these were yentas recruiting a bride for their eligible son. I thought "Reform Camp" sounded like somewhere you send a juvenile delinquent. But it was their kids' Judaism that was to be reformed, not their behavior. Lauren and Eliot Goldfarb will marry this fall.

Sunbaked, we attempted showers, but had no hot water. A series of little maintenance men entered our hut, each believing the faucet should be turned to a slightly different angle. Eventually we hosed off in the cold, one frigid body part at a time.

Craving a mellow night, we approached the front desk to procure a DVD from their small library. "Maybe they have Soapdish?" we joked. Of course there was no way they'd have a random, old, never-all-that-popular American farce. The fare was what you'd expect -- recent blockbusters. And, inexplicably, under 'S'... Soapdish! This was the first of a growing number of odd coincidences on this trip that would lead some rational people to suspect some kind of divine intervention. God wanted us to watch Downey. But we couldn't get our movie right now. The DVDs were in the same room as a wild boar. And the hotel employees had to wait until the one man who could enter -- the boar whisperer -- arrived. We were sure this was a joke, perhaps an idiom that didn't translate. Nope. Boar. In the DVD library. Awesome.

We didn't love our ceviche dinner. But how could we not finish all our food in a place like this? It was a supper of guilt and white wine. Deena headed back to the room early, feeling a bit under the weather. Her nose was stuffed. Fifteen minutes later, mine was as well. I dismissed it as my usual ability to outsuffer anybody around me. But we actually had the same cold, mine working exactly fifteen minutes behind hers.

Lauren and I Chardonnay-wobbled to the bar, where two couples were perusing the DVD selection. This would be the first of many failed attempts to socialize with other tourists in this country. We told them that we had dibs on Soapdish and about the boar. They smiled politely. I ordered a white russian with grey goose. They gave me a white russian and like ten shots of grey goose.

Back in Jasmin, there was no sound from the TV. Computer scientist touch screen interface product designer Tina and I pulled apart the surround sound speakers. They were color-coded. There were two red wires and no green. I boozily squatted, forgetting that I had the ability to simply sit. Eventually Tina made it work via the Costanza method, doing the exact opposite of what we were supposed to do.

Finally, our delicious Soapdish digitally unspooled. My eyelids got heavy by the time Elizabeth Shue appeared. Lauren went to the bar for another drink. They were closed so they gave her a bottle. Another entire bottle of wine. I shook my head at this sight and chuckled, my eyes like lead. I didn't make it close to my favorite line.

Blogaragua! (Day Dos)

On Christmas morning, the children excitedly awoke and stumbled out of their beds to the first of many free hotel breakfasts. The waitress (who had appeared fairly normal the previous night) was now made up like a clown in a spooky velvet painting. I half-expected her to reappear from the kitchen juggling our rolls. She'd refill our coffee and then moments later we'd catch her carrying laundry -- she seemed to be in two places at once. In fact, she was two people, sisters, both fans of Tammy Faye. It was like David Lynch had written an episode of The Brady Bunch. One of the ladies asked me and Lauren if we were siblings. While we were amused by their resemblance, the clown twins thought our judeo-faces made us brother and sister. I guess we all look the same to you, huh?! Breakfast was toast and jam and fruit. The pineapple juice (jugo de pina) down there is especially delicious.

Next up, a three-and-a-half hour cab ride to San Juan del Sur in the southwest corner of the country, close to the Costa Rican border. 3.5 hours in a cab costs the same as 20 minutes in LA. As we headed down the grand Central American Highway (2 lanes) we could feel the hotter, dryer north give way to the cooler south, wedged between a huge lake and the Pacific. We introduced ourselves to the driver, who repeated our names as Lauren, Tina, and Yerry. Dina and I quickly resigned ourselves to being known as Tina and Yerry for the remainder of the trip, quite possibly for the rest of our lives.

The road from the highway to the beach lies somewhere between Edward James Olmos and Manuel Noriega on the pockmark scale. These aren't just potholes -- it often seems the entire car could fall in. And while the SUVs are all traversing well-paved American cul-de-sacs, this route is conquered by Korean and Russian subcompacts. It's like an amusement park ride, as the driver swerves violently to avoid the holes while maintaining as much speed as possible. Often, the fastest route is to simply go off the road into a rocky (but holeless) ditch.

Our hotel was nestled in the hills high above the beach town. Piedras y Olas (Rocks & Waves) aka Pelican Eyes is one of the nicer resorts in Nicaragua. Everybody gets their own little bungalow with a terrace and view of the beach and harbor below. Ours was called Jasmin.

We quickly stumbled down into town for lunch. As we ate some fresh fish at a beach shack (I got mine slathered in too-rich red sauce) a man sat nearby swigging from a giant bottle of liquor, a gun nestled cozily between his jeans and genitals. We ate rather quickly. At one point he stood up and it became clear that the gun was simply a buckle for a belt of faux ammunition. Oh, Nicaragua!

While this was a bit scary, it was nothing compared to the beasts at our hotel. Piedras y Olas also serves as an animal hospital, and countless dogs and cats roam its paths. Lauren is not exactly a fan of our furry friends, and we constantly had to shoo away some of the cutest things on Earth as if they were savage predators.

The hotel also has a zoo. When we inquired about the sanctuary at the front desk they shrugged it off -- "if you can really call it a zoo". These people are simply used to having a bunch of monkeys wandering about, including one adorable baby Lauren named Pierre...

When Lauren had failed to kidnap Pierre, we drowned our sorrows with drinks at the hotel restaurant atop the hill. Nicaragua has the best rum in the world (Flor de Cana) for about a dollar a drink -- even better with some of that fresh jugo de pina. I regaled the women with stories of my internet dating conquests, including a girl who claimed to only use jdate to recruit men for a charity named ORT (but who made a dating exception for me). When I couldn't tell them what ORT stood for, a terrific game began... un-acronym the acronym. The winner? Orphans Running Things. Yes, the world will be a better place when the urchins take over.

Our evening activity was a trip to La Flor, a nearby beach where turtles come to lay their eggs. We piled into a van with a couple and their two young kids. "Oh good," we thought, "children." And these kids were impressive. Inquisitive. Like the Jerry Maguire kid on crack. The parents were giving them a worldly education. Stamp collections for their birthdays. Christmas trips to Vietnam and Nicaragua. "Can't we just stay home next year?" one of them asked. After that comment they were forever to be known as "home school". Mom asked us how long we'd been out of college. "Eight years?!" home school junior gasped. "That's almost my life!"

And these were the good kids. Upon our arrival at the dark science station at La Flor we met the remainder of our tour, the Blonde Family, whose toddler twins, Mimi & Juju, had clearly left their Ritalin in Minnesota.

We and the wonder twins wobbled up the porch steps to find a bunch of armed militiamen nodding in hammocks. You see, the turtle eggs are a delicacy in Nicaragua. And poachers can make a good living selling them. So the army guards the endangered little guys. But they had no way to stop Mimi & Juju.

Our guide, Berman (yes, Berman), showed us a nest of tiny turtles that had hatched earlier today. The shell-dwellers are meant to hatch in the dark, when they have a better chance of avoiding predators en route to the ocean and freedom. So Berman saved this day-hatched nest in what looked like a pasta colander. It was our job to release them on the beach.

As we tiptoed down a darkened path, using little flashlights but careful not to use so much light as to scare the turtles, Berman stopped us to grab a scorpion and smash the stinger off its tail a few inches from some giggling kids in diapers. A family vacation!

Reaching the eerily moonlit shore, we released the little turtlitos and watched as they struggled their way towards the Pacific. Mimi was kind enough to dig little holes in the sand which prevented them from reaching their goal. The parents were less than responsive. Earlier in the evening I would have preferred to stay at the hotel and drink some more of that rum. Now I was an angry environmentalist, in love with these tiny creatures. I wanted to smack that little kid, maybe find another scorpion. A few of our green friends managed to avoid Mimi and make it to the agua (one in two-thousand actually survive). But this was just the beginning.

Berman, in the darkness, managed to hunt down a series of nests just as they were hatching. One was a healthy nest. And it was one of the most amazing things I've ever seen. One head popped up through the sand. Then another. And another. In the next five minutes, a hundred little turtles had arrived, clamoring atop one another, scrambling for some sand and a possible stumble to the Pacific. It was beautiful. It felt like something you weren't supposed to see. I loved it.

Back at the guard post, we collapsed onto a bench. The militia's tiny TV was playing MTV Dos, showing videos from the early '80s. After a transformative experience we sang along badly to Bonnie Tyler and Juice Newton as a couple befuddled men with M16s looked on.

Just then, Berman arrived with great news -- a mama turtle was on her way up the beach to lay eggs. Tina and I had visions of Egyptian cotton dancing in our heads, but we stumbled back down the beach. And it was worth it. We saw the giant turtle -- what one of the two thousand little ones we'd seen would grow up to be -- as she dug a hole with her flippers, laid her eggs, and covered them carefully, packing the ground to protect her kids, all the while undistracted by Mimi & Juju and the flashbulbs as she entered a "trance-like-state" and took care of instinctual business.

Home school fell blessedly asleep on the ride home. We got dinner in town. Somehow my quesadilla managed to have the same red sauce from lunch. Sigh. Our first attempt at Nicaraguan nightlife took us to the nearby Casa Iguana. It was not much different from Island Park, only the frat-boy types had better tans. A drunk girl fell off a stool. That was our sign to go.

We climbed the hill to our hotel, narrowly avoided an incredibly cute cat, and tumbled into bed.

Blogaragua! (Day Uno)

Buena!

Today is the first in a series of ten posts regarding my recent trip to Nicaragua, the Land of Pot Holes. Seriously, it was one of the bestest trips of my life. But how did it begin?

Well, after deciding on our destination, my traveling companions -- Lauren and Deena -- did much research. They purchased guide books and scoured online travel sites. They selected routes, hotels, and restaurants, often struggling to communicate in broken Spanish. I did nothing. This was awesome.

Normally, I'm the kind of person who does all the research. The kind who plans his own bachelor party trip to Amsterdam. The kind who doesn't simply stumble into a coffee shop but maps a route to Travel + Leisure's top-rated hash milkshake. But not on this trip, friends. The ladies wanted to do it all themselves and I was happy to stay out of the way.

My old backpack (actually won by my step-brother with Marlboro Adventure Miles via their Irony Awards Program) was in disrepair. So I headed to REI for a new one. This was the first signal that we were entering truly foreign territory. Flight 001 hipsters taking a voyage to trail mix hippieland. When the clerk suggested I purchase a special sheet to cover the bedding at less savory spots I scoffed, "I don't think we'll be staying anywhere like that". (Foreshadowing alert! Is it still foreshadowing if I let you know? Let's call it fiveshadowing.)

While we may have been impostors, the second I slipped on my new moisture-wicking hiking shorts, I loved playing the role. Rather than take a snooty taxi to LAX, backpacker Jared took the Red Line to Union Station and a three-dollar FlyAway bus. At the check-in line, I chuckled at all the yuppies with their foppish rolling luggage. "I'm going into the wild, fuckers! There is no Jared! I am Henry Uberscamp!"

The Uberscamp took a Continental flight to Houston and connected to Managua. There were meals on both flights. "Wow," I thought. "They don't have meals anymore. How exciting!" Well, amigos, free food is free for a reason. Both meals proudly boasted Ranch Dressing as an ingredient. Neither were salads. One was a pizza.

While I did no accommodation research, I spent the flight reading the Moon guide's history of Nicaragua. Lauren and Deena knew where to stay. I would know in which town to say we loved the Sandinistas and in which to say we loved the Contras.

Upon arrival I was approached by a taxi driver. I'd spent the flight memorizing how to tell him where I needed to go in Spanish. He gave me a price. Per the guidebook, I countered several dollars less, and he met me in the middle (Moon refers to this process as 'Jewing Down a Poor Man who Drives a Hyundai in a Third World Nation in order to Save Two Dollars').

I sat shotgun with my new friend, who asked if I was from Spain. When I told him I was American he was shocked -- my Spanish was so good. I tried to explain that I'd spent a lot of time practicing that one sentence... but my Spanish isn't so good. I took Spanish through Freshman year of college. Lauren studied abroad in Spain and Deena lived there briefly after college. Together we managed to get by, finishing a lot of each other's sentences. Pues...

Driving in Nicaragua is quite entertaining. Traffic signs, signals, and lanes are more of a suggestion type thing. And honking is totally the rage. You honk to let people know you're about to hit them, pass them, or come near them. You honk to say hi to a buddy. Sometimes you just honk.

Did I mention it was Christmas Eve? Because it was. And the Nica people celebrate the blessed birth of our lord and saviour by blowing shit up. Yes, Young Jeezy Day features fireworks, better known as tricky-tratas. This was the Managua I had just read about in the history book, its skies filled with light and smoke. The streets were lined with quaint stands selling fireworks to five-year-olds. We'd later encounter a bar in Granada called Three-Finger Jimmy's. My guess is little Jimmy loved la Navidad.

There are no street signs in Nicaragua. You give directions based on landmarks. For example: "Take me to the Royal Hotel, two blocks north and one east of the Central Plaza, across from the German Embassy in Bolonia". My driver took me to the general area, then began to ask people on the street for directions. You know how men classically hate to ask for directions? Well, Nicaraguans turn this cliche on its head. When asked for directions, men will pretend (as a matter of pride) to know the answer when they have no fucking clue. We drove around the same block for a half-hour until we finally found the place.

Lauren and Deena were already prepped for bed in our room, which was notable for its high ceilings and furniture desperate to keep up with the scale.



They'd arrived via Miami a couple hours ago, made a brief attempt at finding dinner, and upon discovering everyplace was closed settled on a delicious meal of crackers and crackers.



We were all exhausted and disoriented and maybe a little giddy. My beak was still sore from a kickboxing punch I'd received days earlier, making laughing painful. Through a tearful chuckle I confused my words, "my nose laughs everytime I hurt".

We passed out in our oversized Alice-in-Wonderland room, the world exploding just outside.

Foot with Feet

This is my favorite sign in Los Angeles. It rotates. It's on Sunset in Echo Park. It makes me happy every time I drive past. Enjoy the foot of many faces...

Beirut

This past weekend the birthday festivities continued on the Right Coast. Jim Malerba, my college roommate, celebrated his 30th just four days after mine. When we were younger Jim always used to forget my birthday. Then, four days later, I'd call and wish him a happy birthday and he'd wish me the same. I really enjoyed this. Now he's all growns up and he actually remembers mine. Sucks.

Jim's ladyfriend, The Lobster, was kind enough to have all his friends over to her family's house in Cape Cod. For me, this required a redeye to Boston, followed by the world's tiniest connecting flight to Hyannis. Cape Air is awesome. There were ten people on my flight, including the pilot, and we were seated by weight. I felt bad when several larger women were placed in front of my badass 130 pounds of muscle. Oh, and this man was behind the ticketing counter...



I'm pretty sure I saw Crystal Bernard working the snack bar.

A great time was had in the little seaside town of West Dennis, MA. We all did our best to out-preppy one another. Despite our best efforts, Jim, Reader and I could not out-pastel the sunset...



For Jim's birthday I secretly ordered him an extra pound of lobster and had the waitress stick a candle in it. We also enjoyed the musical comedy stylings of local legend Rockwell King...



This being his 48th season in residence, he has better memory nights than others, but he's a must see. Imagine if a Catskills guy had gone to a New England prep school. Now pour yourself some Jack Daniels and eat the saltiest popcorn you've ever tasted. Exactly.

There was sun, beach, kayaking, wiffleball, football, and seafood. But the best part was basically identical to college. Sitting in a basement, fighting over whose iPod went into the stereo, quoting movies (for some reason there was an obsession with the guy who pulls out the heart in 'Temple of Doom' and says "Kalima!") and playing Beirut...



Malerba considers it an insult to call the game Beer Pong. In this vehemently paddle-less version, one throws ping pong balls across a table, trying to sink them in a pyramid of plastic cups, like little white bombs smashing beer-filled Lebanese apartment buildings. When a ball lands in your cup, you must drink it. A cup of water is used for rinsing purposes. Do not, I repeat, do not look at the water cup or you will remind yourself of how uncleanly the entire affair is. The late nights were great. I'd say it made me miss the old days, but, in fact, I actually missed doing this in college due to a condition I had... a girlfriend.

Speaking of girlfriends, much thanks to La Langosta for planning and hosting. That's her and Jimmy...



My stepdad, Gary, has gone away for a vacation with his college friends every summer since they graduated. This might not be a bad idea. I'm considering beginning an annual summer one week getaway for team Stern (not just college but everybody). New location every year, but hopefully a similar group. Details to follow, input welcome.

Malkovich?

For my thirtieth birthday party, I invited all my Angeleno friends and family down to my favorite local bar. The drinks were on the birthday boy, provided the guests arrived dressed as the host. This was easier for some than others...


That's mister Mark Rizzo, perhaps the night's most accurate Stern impersonator.

Paul Briggs, the talented story artist responsible for the awesome bechesthaired caricature on my myspace page, busted out some impressive nosewear.


Extra props to the Texan for drinking the Colt 45. Needless to say, it works every time...

The ladies were not spared. Jessica kicked it new-skool JPS while Robyn Reiter busted out a high school jersey to remind the doubters that I was, in fact, once Best Speaker in the Ways & Means Committee at New Rochelle Model Congress...


Some chose to highlight my more recent extra-curricular activities. Like roller derby (Chris supports the Fight Crew, while I am a known Tough Cookies fan)...


And Muay Thai...


That's Seth 'Hoff Man, Hoff Amazing' Hoffman in the MMA gloves.

The Humpty Dance was played, the TVs displayed my favorite tape from the 107 VHS collection (it involves a little bald man in kung fu pants teaching sexual techniques in a workout video format), someone urinated in the photo booth, the Derby Dolls inexplicably arrived in sailor suits, and people were kind enough to donate a bunch of calling cards to the local Union Rescue Mission. Go here if you'd like to join them.

Thanks to all. And if you got busy that night because you looked like me? Well, now you know what I'm dealing with all the time.

I have a blog...

Hi, people who know me!

For my thirtieth birthday, my family-types were kind enough to buy me a new digital camera which shoots stills as well as video. Did you know I also received a video camera for my thirteenth birthday? Ah, how I've grown.



Now that I'm technologically gifted, I've decided to start this weblog in order to share my photos, videos, adventures & stories -- to generally update all my peoples about this life of mine.

My friend Nina (aka Shappy Doo) has one of these so-called 'blogs' and I find it really helps me keep track of what's going on in her life without the bother of actually talking to her.

So please stop calling me and enjoy...