The Express line at K-Mart takes me 45 minutes on a Monday but this first month down in St. Thomas has absolutely flown by. Island time proving there is no time. woah. "Time flies when you're having rum" -- as Chris likes to say, managing to make the quote even cheesier than its original form. But Pat would know all about that rum fun.
That's right--I moved down here to this far-away island with ze loverboy and Patrick--we've dibbed him Reckless P because of his fondness for drunken cartwheeling down hills and jumping off roofs into trees in a borrowed cow costume.
For the first month we stayed with ex-New York Italiano Andrew "smokes weed everyday" Giordano.
Living with three dudes has proved to be the biggest culture shock yet. Like trying to get ready for my first day at work and they're throwing fireworks at me. Or seeing body parts reserved only for changing diapers on infants. Or smoke bombs and stink bombs tossed around before bed.
We've been keeping ourselves entertained though--seeing as we're all pretty broke as of right now and sticking to $6 bottles of rum to be drank at home rather than $6 drinks at the bar. We found a pair of assless leather chaps in the back of Chris's work van (what?) that provided a few laughs and a great frame for Patrick's infamous tushy. Monday I got a bottle of rum and a hoola-hoop at the ole K-Mart so it's been a pretty good week.
The people down here are all on the level. Absolute kooks. It's beautiful.
Like Scuba Steve who we met our first night out at Island Time Bar. The next day we went to the beach with him--watched him surf, and sipped from his banana-chocolate-hemp-seed smoothie.
And I'm in love. With the smoothie. With Steve. With the island. More so with Chris for bringing me down here. The constant air of possibilities and that big ole beautiful body of salt water I get to play in everyday.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Thursday, April 14, 2011
GurtyPare's Romantic Getaway in OldPeopleVille, FL
Arriving at Gurty's Gramma's condo in Florida after an unexpected 12-hour adventure made the arrival all the more desired.
Gramma Bussler's condo could not have been sexier. The front room is clad with baby-blue velvet stuffed couches with pink throw pillows, multiple chandeliers, mirrored walls and paintings of landscapes. The random sprinkling of glass angels and ceramic clowns only enhance the surrealness of this place.
Our new bedroom has a bright orange wall in front of a brighter orange dresser and two twin beds with navy blue comforters and silver metallic pillows. A color combination a robotic Tony the Tiger would adore, no doubt.
The condo's balcony looks right over that big, salty body of water I've missed so much.
Standing at the railing I look at all the people who have lived in their body's for decades longer than I've been on Earth.
They wade into the water and it's as if a de-evolution process is trying to take place. Maybe after 60 years ocean-side they'll grow back their gills and return to where we all came from. If they want it bad enough.
As for Gurty and I, we are content lying poolside, letting Artur, the 20-year-old cabana boy, adjust our umbrella and smile at us.
I'm immediately attracted, but Gurty reminds me of his past in Armenia shooting the limbs of the tied up victim who mugged his sister. Umm...
On a less violent note, while waiting outside the grocery store, an old dude from Argentina told me that Obama was born in a crystal ball. For whatever that brings to your day.
Gramma Bussler's condo could not have been sexier. The front room is clad with baby-blue velvet stuffed couches with pink throw pillows, multiple chandeliers, mirrored walls and paintings of landscapes. The random sprinkling of glass angels and ceramic clowns only enhance the surrealness of this place.
Our new bedroom has a bright orange wall in front of a brighter orange dresser and two twin beds with navy blue comforters and silver metallic pillows. A color combination a robotic Tony the Tiger would adore, no doubt.
The condo's balcony looks right over that big, salty body of water I've missed so much.
Standing at the railing I look at all the people who have lived in their body's for decades longer than I've been on Earth.
They wade into the water and it's as if a de-evolution process is trying to take place. Maybe after 60 years ocean-side they'll grow back their gills and return to where we all came from. If they want it bad enough.
As for Gurty and I, we are content lying poolside, letting Artur, the 20-year-old cabana boy, adjust our umbrella and smile at us.
I'm immediately attracted, but Gurty reminds me of his past in Armenia shooting the limbs of the tied up victim who mugged his sister. Umm...
On a less violent note, while waiting outside the grocery store, an old dude from Argentina told me that Obama was born in a crystal ball. For whatever that brings to your day.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
velvet lip curls & leather hip swings
I don't' know many 23 years old that would sign up for a week long road trip with their parents, but I also don't know many parents who consist of a beautiful duo of artistic insanity and overall skepticism with a mustache and a fiery redhead ready to work her always present inner-entrepreneur and show dance floors whose boss.
We set off Friday afternoon, a bit of a slow start after I had to get some work appropriate shoes.(Shoes never being my strongest point). And faja had a donut craving, closer to that of a pregnant woman than anything your average 70 year old man has.
But anyways, the drive was going pretty smooth outside of the bumper to bumper traffic we reached in Chicago in the boomboom of rush hour. This caused mama J to go a lil kray, but I reminded her its all about the journey and focused on extending an aura of tranquility. Before long we were channeling The Partridge Family and singing songs far too embarrassing for me to mention here.
Just as I thought we couldn't get any cornier (but loving it all the same), Faja warned us that he brought along his 38 special in case anyone fucks with us. Thanks for keeping it real real Dad.
We arrived in Memphis at 11:11 (make a wish) and the first person I saw upon entering the south was missing his front tooth. Thank you universe for making the world so perfectly comical.
The next morning we stopped at a Waffle House, none of us ordering waffles, but feeling semi-authentically southern none the less, before heading to Graceland.
I was expecting Graceland to be quite the trip and almost wishing the three of us had some LSD to make it all the more colorful, but it fell somewhat of short of my expectations--at least in the realm of crazy Elvis fanatics.
Growing up, Elvis has always had a decently large presence in the Huebner family. Faja grew up with the King and even received fake sideburns from his sister because he couldn't grow his own. Was he pre-pubescent at the time? Nope, mid-30s.
The love for Elvis was passed through my dad to my brother Adam who has the TCB lightning bolt tattoo ("Taking Care of Business" to any newbs out there)and wore a baby blue tuxedo to his wedding held at a cabin chosen because "Elvis would like it".
If this is my family, there must be some REAL Elvis freaks out there then, I thought. Unfortunately, one woman dressed in a full gold lame' suit was the only fix I got of the crazies, but it was enough to satisfy.
Mr. Presley knew what was up in his decorating abilities. His house was pretty baller, although I think he probably spent more on his two airplanes. It was super 70's- green shag carpeting on the floor AND ceiling kind of 70s. I was in heaven.
Although I might have gotten an over-dose of Elvis in my early youth, there's absolutely something to be said about the level of originality, authenticity and spirit this man who came to be known as The King possessed.
Clearly, an alien-life form brought to us Earthly beings; providing us with new levels of rock n' roll, sassy hips and velvet everythings.
We set off Friday afternoon, a bit of a slow start after I had to get some work appropriate shoes.(Shoes never being my strongest point). And faja had a donut craving, closer to that of a pregnant woman than anything your average 70 year old man has.
But anyways, the drive was going pretty smooth outside of the bumper to bumper traffic we reached in Chicago in the boomboom of rush hour. This caused mama J to go a lil kray, but I reminded her its all about the journey and focused on extending an aura of tranquility. Before long we were channeling The Partridge Family and singing songs far too embarrassing for me to mention here.
Just as I thought we couldn't get any cornier (but loving it all the same), Faja warned us that he brought along his 38 special in case anyone fucks with us. Thanks for keeping it real real Dad.
We arrived in Memphis at 11:11 (make a wish) and the first person I saw upon entering the south was missing his front tooth. Thank you universe for making the world so perfectly comical.
The next morning we stopped at a Waffle House, none of us ordering waffles, but feeling semi-authentically southern none the less, before heading to Graceland.
I was expecting Graceland to be quite the trip and almost wishing the three of us had some LSD to make it all the more colorful, but it fell somewhat of short of my expectations--at least in the realm of crazy Elvis fanatics.
Growing up, Elvis has always had a decently large presence in the Huebner family. Faja grew up with the King and even received fake sideburns from his sister because he couldn't grow his own. Was he pre-pubescent at the time? Nope, mid-30s.
The love for Elvis was passed through my dad to my brother Adam who has the TCB lightning bolt tattoo ("Taking Care of Business" to any newbs out there)and wore a baby blue tuxedo to his wedding held at a cabin chosen because "Elvis would like it".
If this is my family, there must be some REAL Elvis freaks out there then, I thought. Unfortunately, one woman dressed in a full gold lame' suit was the only fix I got of the crazies, but it was enough to satisfy.
Mr. Presley knew what was up in his decorating abilities. His house was pretty baller, although I think he probably spent more on his two airplanes. It was super 70's- green shag carpeting on the floor AND ceiling kind of 70s. I was in heaven.
Although I might have gotten an over-dose of Elvis in my early youth, there's absolutely something to be said about the level of originality, authenticity and spirit this man who came to be known as The King possessed.
Clearly, an alien-life form brought to us Earthly beings; providing us with new levels of rock n' roll, sassy hips and velvet everythings.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
What happens in Vegas....what happens in vegas??
We drive through the desert highways millions of miles below one of the most beautiful star-filled skies I've ever seen. We stare silently out our windows, our eyes heaven-sent, time and space a far memory of another reality, fingers crossed for an alien hitchhiker on the side of the road.
As we start to see Vegas, I'm surprised to see even more lights on land than up above and can't help but lose a sense of connection to the Earth but focus on embracing the world of slot machines, hookers and degenerate gamblers.
We check into Monte Carlo and make our way along the strip in search of food not outrageously out of our budgets. I buy a $10 grilled cheese and make the economical decision to pass on the $12 whiskey my body craves.
The next morning I decide to wander the strip on my own and jump in and out of art galleries, shops and kiosks, mostly just incredibly over-stimulated. This city is an abyss of distractions for the Attention Deficit Disordered mind, my eyes constantly darting from lights to cleavage to bum to slot machine to lights.
I head back to the hotel after purchasing a sixer of Pacifico, feeling like my soul has been slightly raped by the city of sin, even during the daylight hours. Jack and I head down to the slots that he hit up solo until 7 a.m. the night before.
He teaches me the ways of the slots and I soon find myself loving sticking my dollar bills in the slot, only to watch some numbers move around on the screen, telling me it's slowly taking my money, and repeat the process. Maybe it was the free double Jack & Cokes that make me feel a false sense of accomplishment.
While Jack and I are being trained in the way of the degenerate gambler, Ben and Mark are at the Chicken Ranch to film. A trashier version of the infamous Bunny Ranch, the Chicken Ranch is full of STD-free hookers at your disposal. Because if you're going to lose any sense of pride, at least you know you wont go home with the clap.
That night I met Mama J out for dinner at Jimmy Buffet's Margaritaville for margs and a plate of nachos 3 times bigger than our heads. While she's in town to sell wind chimes at a trade show, she serves also as a beacon of motherly wisdom for me and I leave her refreshed as ever to enter the testosterone posse that is our crew.
Mark's friend Tommy lives in the area and meets up with us at Monte Carlo. I'm grateful for his knowledge of cheap drink dispensaries on the strip and we head out. I get a little too drunk a little too fast and find myself going into my own world on the dance floor, a place I love to visit when it presents itself to me.
Rather than heading to the wedding chapel, we get some Vietnamese food at Pho King Long (ha). While an Asian chick is puking in the bathroom, the boys share more disturbing stories of true and false life events, attempting to make me lose my appetite. Or mind. I eat on regardless.
The next morning my Kung Pao Shrimp is a sassy little bitch and I spend a good part of the morning taking shots of PeptoBismol, hoping I don't poop myself.
We drive for a 19 hour straight journey into Oklahoma; our only stop being in Alberquerque, NM where we encounter a gay bar, multiple bums and crackheads, and one very good looking hooker.
A disheveled older woman wearing a midriff-baring T-shirt and baggy pants wants to ask Ben the meaning of life but we hightail it out of there, still hungry but content to know we are alive and disease-free.
As we start to see Vegas, I'm surprised to see even more lights on land than up above and can't help but lose a sense of connection to the Earth but focus on embracing the world of slot machines, hookers and degenerate gamblers.
We check into Monte Carlo and make our way along the strip in search of food not outrageously out of our budgets. I buy a $10 grilled cheese and make the economical decision to pass on the $12 whiskey my body craves.
The next morning I decide to wander the strip on my own and jump in and out of art galleries, shops and kiosks, mostly just incredibly over-stimulated. This city is an abyss of distractions for the Attention Deficit Disordered mind, my eyes constantly darting from lights to cleavage to bum to slot machine to lights.
I head back to the hotel after purchasing a sixer of Pacifico, feeling like my soul has been slightly raped by the city of sin, even during the daylight hours. Jack and I head down to the slots that he hit up solo until 7 a.m. the night before.
He teaches me the ways of the slots and I soon find myself loving sticking my dollar bills in the slot, only to watch some numbers move around on the screen, telling me it's slowly taking my money, and repeat the process. Maybe it was the free double Jack & Cokes that make me feel a false sense of accomplishment.
While Jack and I are being trained in the way of the degenerate gambler, Ben and Mark are at the Chicken Ranch to film. A trashier version of the infamous Bunny Ranch, the Chicken Ranch is full of STD-free hookers at your disposal. Because if you're going to lose any sense of pride, at least you know you wont go home with the clap.
That night I met Mama J out for dinner at Jimmy Buffet's Margaritaville for margs and a plate of nachos 3 times bigger than our heads. While she's in town to sell wind chimes at a trade show, she serves also as a beacon of motherly wisdom for me and I leave her refreshed as ever to enter the testosterone posse that is our crew.
Mark's friend Tommy lives in the area and meets up with us at Monte Carlo. I'm grateful for his knowledge of cheap drink dispensaries on the strip and we head out. I get a little too drunk a little too fast and find myself going into my own world on the dance floor, a place I love to visit when it presents itself to me.
Rather than heading to the wedding chapel, we get some Vietnamese food at Pho King Long (ha). While an Asian chick is puking in the bathroom, the boys share more disturbing stories of true and false life events, attempting to make me lose my appetite. Or mind. I eat on regardless.
The next morning my Kung Pao Shrimp is a sassy little bitch and I spend a good part of the morning taking shots of PeptoBismol, hoping I don't poop myself.
We drive for a 19 hour straight journey into Oklahoma; our only stop being in Alberquerque, NM where we encounter a gay bar, multiple bums and crackheads, and one very good looking hooker.
A disheveled older woman wearing a midriff-baring T-shirt and baggy pants wants to ask Ben the meaning of life but we hightail it out of there, still hungry but content to know we are alive and disease-free.
the spirit of the mask comes alive in the form of dance in the Vortex
Arriving in Sedona, one of the vortex's on this planet, the energy of the place is unmistakable as we are surrounded by Mama Nature at her finest amongst giant red-toned rock formations. Due to the immense energy and spirituality of the place, Sedona attracts all types of energy healers, clairvoyants, shamans and universally in-tune people. Here are some good folk, albeit they're mostly all over 50.
We take a drive up to a higher elevation where we rent a helicopter for 20 minutes to shoot some aerial shots.
With only one extra seat Jack selflessly makes the sacrifice to let me go up, knowing how much it means to me. (Love you Jacky)
The helicopter allows us to see what no other land or air vehicle could as we hover among the rock formations and dive between canyons. We circle high above Mark down below losing his mind through dance, wearing the mask and blasting Judas Preist's Leather Rebel from a boombox.
Then we shoot some land footage of Mark half naked in his skivvies with the machete in hand, singing to the spirit of the mask on a rock. We all become one with the cacti as we pick their friendly reminders of their existence in the form of prickers out of our hands and feet, but we leave the scene with a sense of pride and fulfillment at the art that was just created and I'm grateful to be a part of it.
We wanted to get a family photo of our auras for the mantel, but that was a wrap and Vegas was hollering.
We take a drive up to a higher elevation where we rent a helicopter for 20 minutes to shoot some aerial shots.
With only one extra seat Jack selflessly makes the sacrifice to let me go up, knowing how much it means to me. (Love you Jacky)
The helicopter allows us to see what no other land or air vehicle could as we hover among the rock formations and dive between canyons. We circle high above Mark down below losing his mind through dance, wearing the mask and blasting Judas Preist's Leather Rebel from a boombox.
Then we shoot some land footage of Mark half naked in his skivvies with the machete in hand, singing to the spirit of the mask on a rock. We all become one with the cacti as we pick their friendly reminders of their existence in the form of prickers out of our hands and feet, but we leave the scene with a sense of pride and fulfillment at the art that was just created and I'm grateful to be a part of it.
We wanted to get a family photo of our auras for the mantel, but that was a wrap and Vegas was hollering.
the land of love
It's the night before our westward adventure of finding and creating magic when Ben and I are full of a healthy amount of wine and creep our way into my basement in search of Faja's mask collection. Each mask has its own spirit and the chosen ones instantly speak to us. We celebrate with more wine and look forward to the journey ahead.
The next day, the three amigos board a train to Chicago; Jack listening to hip hop in his new fur-lined hoodie, Ben devising a plan to steal the bulletproof vests of the train security and me requesting and receiving a dose of bubbles from Martin the drink cart man.
In Chicago, a white rental Yukon SUV picks us up and I meet Mark, the lyricist and madman behind Everything Under. We put our bags in the trunk along with the top of the line rental camera gear and Mark tells us about a time he was high on ketamine when his mom sent him some boxes with enough packaging puffys to fill the room as he did snow angels amongst them.
Solid first impression of Mark the "wild card" if you ask me. I would soon come to realize most of Mark's stories begin with "This one time when I ate acid.." and so on.
He speaks in pure visuals with a mind flow like I've never quite experienced. Even the music he makes is a visual happening as he will say things like "make this more red" while in the studio. "Make this yellow like the eye of an alligator."
And I dib you permatripping.
With our roadie crew formed, we journey westward, listening to Mark's insanities and attempting to pass out in the back of the Yukon with raging industrial metal playing into the wee hours.
I awake delirious to a gorgeous yellow sky and soon enough we arrive in our first destination, Loveland, CO. The land of love.
We stop by Gramma Becky's for some stuffed peppers and then Boongey and his little bitty pick up Jack and I to take us to his new home up in the mountains.
I am stunned that such beauty even exists, much less that two of my best friends from high school live amongst it.
We sip our beers and sit out back on the porch, reminiscing about the olden golden days and talking about things like the effects of DMT, modern childbirth practices, and suggest the incorporation of yoga in prisons; all while getting burnt by that big, beautiful Colorado Sun and overlooking a lake and only more mountains.
After a quick 'find-my-mind' nap, Boongey and I head to a Walmart parking lot to drink vino and shots of jaeger while waiting for Regs. The long lost Regs.
He pulls up with golden locks in his silver minivan with traveling companion/dog and fedora, full of fantastic energy per usual and we trek it to Denver for the Sound Tribe after show.
The people of Colorado are of a friendly breed like I've never experienced before. On the street there is no vibe of unfamiliarity as everyone openly talks to one another. It's a beautiful thing.
Regs tries to get us in to the show for free by bribing drogas and calling the doormen "Jersey" but this backfires horribly and we almost don't get in at all. We separate and individually persevere.
Big Gigantic plays with Alex B from Pnuma Trio, V joins the party, and I am all smiles in an ocean of ecstasy vibrations and movements, the saxophone leading my way.
We go back to V's apartment in downtown Denver and watch the most beautiful sunrise on her balcony before passing out on the futon.
The next morning, we evacuate Loveland just as the forest fires are spreading and heading towards Benji and Phil's home and make it down the mountain, our hearts heavy for the people who lost their homes and the earth that lost its trees.
On our drive through the majestic mountains, Ben, Jack and I sprawl out in the back seat, feet outstretched and quietly observe our surroundings, smiles spread across our faces in pure bliss. We smoke a spliff and listen to the psychedelic genius of Terrence McKenna as we curve in and out along the mountain side.
We stop in Vail to eat, Jack and I buy a couple jugs of Mississippi Mud black and tans, and Ben and Mark buy a machete for $19.99. Best $20 spent all trip.
It's here that I see the third black person during my 2 days in Colorado and I take a swig from the love jug in accordance to the rules of the drinking game I decided upon at arrival in whitefolkland, CO.
The next day, the three amigos board a train to Chicago; Jack listening to hip hop in his new fur-lined hoodie, Ben devising a plan to steal the bulletproof vests of the train security and me requesting and receiving a dose of bubbles from Martin the drink cart man.
In Chicago, a white rental Yukon SUV picks us up and I meet Mark, the lyricist and madman behind Everything Under. We put our bags in the trunk along with the top of the line rental camera gear and Mark tells us about a time he was high on ketamine when his mom sent him some boxes with enough packaging puffys to fill the room as he did snow angels amongst them.
Solid first impression of Mark the "wild card" if you ask me. I would soon come to realize most of Mark's stories begin with "This one time when I ate acid.." and so on.
He speaks in pure visuals with a mind flow like I've never quite experienced. Even the music he makes is a visual happening as he will say things like "make this more red" while in the studio. "Make this yellow like the eye of an alligator."
And I dib you permatripping.
With our roadie crew formed, we journey westward, listening to Mark's insanities and attempting to pass out in the back of the Yukon with raging industrial metal playing into the wee hours.
I awake delirious to a gorgeous yellow sky and soon enough we arrive in our first destination, Loveland, CO. The land of love.
We stop by Gramma Becky's for some stuffed peppers and then Boongey and his little bitty pick up Jack and I to take us to his new home up in the mountains.
I am stunned that such beauty even exists, much less that two of my best friends from high school live amongst it.
We sip our beers and sit out back on the porch, reminiscing about the olden golden days and talking about things like the effects of DMT, modern childbirth practices, and suggest the incorporation of yoga in prisons; all while getting burnt by that big, beautiful Colorado Sun and overlooking a lake and only more mountains.
After a quick 'find-my-mind' nap, Boongey and I head to a Walmart parking lot to drink vino and shots of jaeger while waiting for Regs. The long lost Regs.
He pulls up with golden locks in his silver minivan with traveling companion/dog and fedora, full of fantastic energy per usual and we trek it to Denver for the Sound Tribe after show.
The people of Colorado are of a friendly breed like I've never experienced before. On the street there is no vibe of unfamiliarity as everyone openly talks to one another. It's a beautiful thing.
Regs tries to get us in to the show for free by bribing drogas and calling the doormen "Jersey" but this backfires horribly and we almost don't get in at all. We separate and individually persevere.
Big Gigantic plays with Alex B from Pnuma Trio, V joins the party, and I am all smiles in an ocean of ecstasy vibrations and movements, the saxophone leading my way.
We go back to V's apartment in downtown Denver and watch the most beautiful sunrise on her balcony before passing out on the futon.
The next morning, we evacuate Loveland just as the forest fires are spreading and heading towards Benji and Phil's home and make it down the mountain, our hearts heavy for the people who lost their homes and the earth that lost its trees.
On our drive through the majestic mountains, Ben, Jack and I sprawl out in the back seat, feet outstretched and quietly observe our surroundings, smiles spread across our faces in pure bliss. We smoke a spliff and listen to the psychedelic genius of Terrence McKenna as we curve in and out along the mountain side.
We stop in Vail to eat, Jack and I buy a couple jugs of Mississippi Mud black and tans, and Ben and Mark buy a machete for $19.99. Best $20 spent all trip.
It's here that I see the third black person during my 2 days in Colorado and I take a swig from the love jug in accordance to the rules of the drinking game I decided upon at arrival in whitefolkland, CO.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
the insanity that is Buenos Aires
For Martins last night in South America, the Boomtang crew headed to Thelanious Bar for some live jazz music. Martin was planning on renting a suit for the occasion, but some things don't always go as planned.
The EcoYoga Park reunion folk were maybe a little too excited for the laid back crowd at the jazz joint and we got very aggressively shhh-ed at one point, but enjoyed ourselves thoroughly none the less.
Later, we headed back to the Baits Hostel where I found myself shaving the chest of some local musician as I figured he had too much hair for his own good.
The next night I wanted to take it easy so Katherine and I went back to Thelonious for "just ONE drink". That one drink turned into dancing on top of the bar until 8 o'clock in the morning.
B.A. was making me lose my mind-so Laura and I decided to head back to EcoYoga Park for another week to find some peace of mind.
We met some more wonderful souls and had some good down time but then headed back to BA for our last 10 days in Argentina.
These last 10 days were a whirlwind of mate sessions in the park, walking around Palermo wanting to buy everything in sight, watching tango in Recoletta, trying to find good vegetarian food in a city that prides itself on meat, and falling in love at least 50 times a day.
We stayed at the Baits hostel in Palermo Viejo, which in my opinion, just may be the greatest hostel in the world. Melvin from California managed it and was the most lovable man-always calling us "sweetie" or "babe", telling me how to get to the ATM and sharing his Sarracha hot sauce. The common area of the hostel had beanbags and a bar. Nuff said.
Laura and I stayed in a dorm room with Aunty Nee Nee and Katherine (both loves of my life from Round 1 EcoYoga Park), a man from Haiti who spoke neither English nor Spanish(no clue how that worked out...)and Julian. Ohhh Julian.
The most adorable little Colombian photographer. He'd wake up with his hair a crazy black tangled mess upon his head, make some fresh squeezed OJ and have a cigarette for breakfast. His street English was better than mine and he always had something sassy to say and shoes you envied.
He's a super talented photographer and is currently working on a new project for a gallery in BA of about 15 different people's facial expressions. Aunty Nee Nee, Katherine and I all did individual photo shoots with him which was really cool. I of course had basically one expression as I couldn't help myself from breaking out in nervous laughter, but the photos turned out pretty nice. All the love and best of luck to you Julian.
I tried to chill out on too much of the late-night night life scene this time around and having such a great group of people from all over the world in the hostel made it nice just to chill there with a couple beers and some good conversation.
We did make it out a couple times though, most memorably probably when we went to Club 69.
The Baits hostel crew headed to the club around 2 AM (the only appropriate time to go to a club in BA) and danced around in waves of house music while colorful transvestites danced on stage next to break dancers. I fell in love with a Brazilian man who asked me to be his wife and we planned our wedding. I think it nearly would have happened if I didn't meet up with the rest of the Baits crew and was released from the mild trance these Brazilian men so infamously can put you in.
With Laura out on the coast with Sarah and Andy for the weekend, I took a day all to myself to walk around this vibrant, pulsing city for hours, popping in and out of stores that caught my eye and making my merrily way to the modern art museum.
On the walk back, I stumbled upon a falafel place (!!!) and officially had one of the best days ever, feeling alive with my new sense of confidence in a city so far away from home and the comfort bubble that comes with that.
The EcoYoga Park reunion folk were maybe a little too excited for the laid back crowd at the jazz joint and we got very aggressively shhh-ed at one point, but enjoyed ourselves thoroughly none the less.
Later, we headed back to the Baits Hostel where I found myself shaving the chest of some local musician as I figured he had too much hair for his own good.
The next night I wanted to take it easy so Katherine and I went back to Thelonious for "just ONE drink". That one drink turned into dancing on top of the bar until 8 o'clock in the morning.
B.A. was making me lose my mind-so Laura and I decided to head back to EcoYoga Park for another week to find some peace of mind.
We met some more wonderful souls and had some good down time but then headed back to BA for our last 10 days in Argentina.
These last 10 days were a whirlwind of mate sessions in the park, walking around Palermo wanting to buy everything in sight, watching tango in Recoletta, trying to find good vegetarian food in a city that prides itself on meat, and falling in love at least 50 times a day.
We stayed at the Baits hostel in Palermo Viejo, which in my opinion, just may be the greatest hostel in the world. Melvin from California managed it and was the most lovable man-always calling us "sweetie" or "babe", telling me how to get to the ATM and sharing his Sarracha hot sauce. The common area of the hostel had beanbags and a bar. Nuff said.
Laura and I stayed in a dorm room with Aunty Nee Nee and Katherine (both loves of my life from Round 1 EcoYoga Park), a man from Haiti who spoke neither English nor Spanish(no clue how that worked out...)and Julian. Ohhh Julian.
The most adorable little Colombian photographer. He'd wake up with his hair a crazy black tangled mess upon his head, make some fresh squeezed OJ and have a cigarette for breakfast. His street English was better than mine and he always had something sassy to say and shoes you envied.
He's a super talented photographer and is currently working on a new project for a gallery in BA of about 15 different people's facial expressions. Aunty Nee Nee, Katherine and I all did individual photo shoots with him which was really cool. I of course had basically one expression as I couldn't help myself from breaking out in nervous laughter, but the photos turned out pretty nice. All the love and best of luck to you Julian.
I tried to chill out on too much of the late-night night life scene this time around and having such a great group of people from all over the world in the hostel made it nice just to chill there with a couple beers and some good conversation.
We did make it out a couple times though, most memorably probably when we went to Club 69.
The Baits hostel crew headed to the club around 2 AM (the only appropriate time to go to a club in BA) and danced around in waves of house music while colorful transvestites danced on stage next to break dancers. I fell in love with a Brazilian man who asked me to be his wife and we planned our wedding. I think it nearly would have happened if I didn't meet up with the rest of the Baits crew and was released from the mild trance these Brazilian men so infamously can put you in.
With Laura out on the coast with Sarah and Andy for the weekend, I took a day all to myself to walk around this vibrant, pulsing city for hours, popping in and out of stores that caught my eye and making my merrily way to the modern art museum.
On the walk back, I stumbled upon a falafel place (!!!) and officially had one of the best days ever, feeling alive with my new sense of confidence in a city so far away from home and the comfort bubble that comes with that.
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