The Blog of John Patrick Larson

(For pictures of this leg of our journey, visit Tracy’s blog here.)

You may recall my mention earlier of the Philippines being a little too rugged and not touristy enough.  Well, I apologize for sloppy storytelling when it comes to continuity because Boracay, the first major stop of our trip, was an exception to all that.  The small island only 7 miles long and as narrow as one mile wide in the middle is sublimely gorgeous, your true-to-form typical beachy paradise with white sand and warm, clear turquoise waters.

In fact it’s so typically paradisey that I’m actually going to skip over describing most of it.  It’s the sort of stuff that if you’ve already been, you know pretty well what I’m talking about, and if you haven’t, well, who wants to hear the ramblings of some dude’s time on a beach when you’ve been rockin’ the non-beach thing all along?  So instead I’m going to opt for telling the weird stories.

Two of the three mornings in Boracay I found myself waking up around 3am, bright eyed and ready for adventure (jet lag can be fun if you embrace such early morning shenanigans).  The rooftop of our resort offered choice views of the partially clouded night, painted purple and yellow by the low hanging, jumbo-sized moon.  It was the kind of serenity you hope for if you’ve ever yelled out “serenity now”, and made a fine occasion for doing a few Sun Salutations (though in fairness to the sun, I was totally saluting the moon instead).  The sandy beach below at 4am, I found, makes a great time to sit on your butt and read Heinlein by the beach-facing floodlights of Fridays’ Resort while giving out respect nods to the occasional jogger who passes by.

One morning (after enjoying beach-side ninja training of a run plus bonus cove abs) I took to exploring more the beach with a single-minded mantra of “keep going”.  I just wanted to see how far I could take it to find what I would find.  Rocky ledge to shimmy around?  Keep going.  Some stairway through dense foliage with a couple dudes standing on it in my way?  Keep going.  Looks like I’m trespassing on someone’s private property?  Keep going.  Obscure, narrow, winding path with many steps leading upwards?  Keep going.  Resort security checkpoint?  Play it cool, like you belong there.  Actually I just let ‘em know straight away that I was wandering about, checking out other cool beach-side places to stay.  I was welcomed right in, which gave me rights to strut about the property with impunity.

And what a find!  What I’d stumbled upon was this Ewok village-like formation of cabins and foliage strewn about a dense maze work of stairs and narrow paths, which opened into a system of interconnected sea-facing terraces with many nooks of cabanas and lounge chairs at varying elevations, all with spectacular views.  The place seemed deserted, which perhaps shouldn’t come as a surprise since there were about 4 occasions during my journey to it that I thought I should turn back because I didn’t belong.  (In fairness, it is also quite new and “Secluded luxury” is one of their marketing tag lines.).

While staring transfixed by the view the nice lady appeared and handed me a rate card for the rooms on property.  At $20 less a night I was a little crestfallen that we’d already prepaid our 3 nights at the Two Seasons.  We did get to experience at least some of the awesomeness when we returned the next night for sunset drinks.

A now a tale from the Poor Planning Diaries.

Just minutes before we took to the beach bound for the nearest SCUBA dive shop, I realized I forgot my contact lenses (oh I had the case, it was just empty).  My vision is poor enough to make the natural splendor of tropical coral reefs look like boring blobs, so even when you discount the whole “safety” thing my lack of lenses might’ve rendered any diving opportunities this trip completely moot (and I do love me some diving).

I opted that we head for the dive shop anyway, reckoning that I’d “think of something”.  Along the way [confronted with the possibility that surfing would also be ruined for me] we contemplated zany schemes for damage control, like having our house-sitter ship ‘em to Manila and we’d somehow pick ‘em up there (terrible idea for its complexity).  Hey, what if I could just, you know, buy some contacts here?  On this tiny island?

I had my doubts given my state-side experience, which teaches me that no “respectable” optometrist will sell you contacts unless you present a prescription given during a complete eye exam within the last year (it’s been 3 for me).  But hey, we were in a new world here, presumably a little less sue-happy and perhaps a little less stringent in their dispensary of prescribables,  and I happen to remember my magic prescription number (-5.5)… so why not find out!  I had an hour or two to do it while Tracy got schooled in the PADI basics for her first dive.

Now then, on the beach of Boracay there exists a reckless abundance of people brandishing little cards featuring small pictures of activities with large, inflated prices just beneath, so many so that “Water sports today?” may be confused by the untrained eye to be a traditional island greeting.  With such eagerness to help me get onto a sail boat for only 5000P (about $125 US) I figured I’d reply in earnest what I did need.  “Water sports today?” said the next such fellow along my sandy path  (how do they know I’m a tourist?  Ah, right: I have been judged [accurately] by the color of my skin!).  Instead of the “No thanks” that I was getting good and polished at saying,  I stopped in my tracks, looked him square in the eyes, and replied: “Right now, no, but what I am looking for is some contact lenses, can you help me with that?”

As eager to be helpful as any good salesman is, my new friend Dwayne offered to wander along and help me on my quest to and through D’Mall in search of my odd need.  We talked as we walked of hobbies we enjoyed, he when not hustling activities, me when not saying no to them, and found common ground in dance and bemusement that I suck at basketball.  He was a cool guy.  The second shop we tried at had just what I needed.  The friendly woman who tended the counter asked only for my prescription number in answer to my question (as opposed to demanding to see my papers like in the US, which now seems kinda fascist by comparison), and then wandered over to the display case to pluck out a small box.  900P and a quick use of the backroom with a sink and I was set.  Perfect vision.  No wacky postal pickup in Manila required.  Dwayne you’re the man, and a gentleman for making me work to convince you to take my 200 gratitude pesos.

Ah, and the diving was most beautiful and laden with 20/20 visual goodness.

I’d like to end my recount of Boracay with a tale of how even in splendorous paradise the simple joys never go out of style, and that simple joy is a happy hour bucket of beers.  During a beach walk when things were not yet happening at the tender hour of only 9pm, one of the hustlers at a club bar smoothly offered and got us situated at a cheap plastic table whose legs were planted in the sand just 10 feet from the rising midnight-tide.  200P (about $5 US) for six bottles of cold beer is a bargain at your local friendly dive bar, and seems triply so on the beach in Boracay.  We partook of a local brew called Red Horse while staring out at the sea.

By the time we finished the first bucket and started on our second, the bar scene behind us had filled out with a great mix of both locals and tourists, and the DJ was cranking out some bumpin’ tunes.  A Lady Gaga came on and, perhaps thanks to the graces of moderately consumed alcohol, Tracy was game to rock it out with me (yeah I like to dance to Lady Gaga, so what?).  We gave it our Red Horse best in our center, solo spot on the dance floor, and for it entertained locals and gringos alike.  I know this because they were both clapping and cheering at song’s end.  (That now makes 2 countries abroad in which I have been applauded for dance prowess, sweet!)

The night was rounded out in perfection when we happened upon a beach-side food vendor, serving up some tasty meat thing between 2 weird pieces of bread toasted nicely on his little grill of hot coals.  Ah, the simple joys.

The food sucked, we got majorly sick, and John went to a strip club.

I was too jet lagged to remember now whether or not my first report on our trip to the Philippines was quite so terse, but that, according to Tracy, is how I summed it up to our friend Doc while in LAX’s international terminal awaiting our final connection back to Denver.

Truly, I would require some more sleep and/or practice in choosing my mention-worthy highlights before I could be trusted to paint a fairer picture of the whole 18-day experience.

For it wasn’t that bad, whatever images popped into your head while reading the opening words above is most likely a far cry from how our trip went.  And it is in that spirit that I would like to acknowledge a few things up front and get them out of the way:

First, it is true that, of the now 4 international adventures that Tracy and I have taken together, this one happened to take 4th place.  And I’m not bummed by that.  After all, one of the 4 trips would have to take that slot, and I see no reason to think that particularly disappointing because this one was our honeymoon.  The flip side of that coin is the realization simply how fantastic it is that we’ve enjoyed now 4 trips of a honeymoon-esque scale and radness.

Second, I want to grant up front that I would not recommend the Philippines to a friend.  Tracy and I wrestled with this a bit while over looking the South China Sea from our 3rd floor balcony one night, wondering if that meant we were genuinely not having a good time?  We decided that more than anything the reason we wouldn’t is because it’s TOO hardcore: we love to find travel bliss in more obscure places, preferring to sidestep touristy hot spots, but for even us the Philippines was too far off the beaten path, a bit too rugged, and even (oddly enough) not touristy enough.  One hint that we are not alone in this belief was the sheer regularity of the question “So why did you come to the Philippines?” as posed by locals to me.  I gather that they really wanted to know, as though the obvious rationale of tourism somehow did not apply.

Third, though as a rule I prefer to refrain from being a big complain-monkey, I will go on the record here and now stating that yeah, the food did kinda suck.  There’s a curious and consistent culinary quirk in the Philippines, and that is the sweetness found in everything.  Basic staples like butter and bread are infused (sans exception, it seems) with sugar, and it permeates out from those basics accordingly: even the catchup for french fries and marinara sauce for spaghetti are acutely sweet.  Once the novelty wears off, it’s just kinda gross.

That about covers the upfront caveats: I lay them out here with care because of the tendency for people to expect that your honeymoon should be this magical, unforgettable getaway where you have your first span of time together as husband and wife.  It’s a sweet presumption, for sure, but for it I feel compelled not to dash anyone’s well meaning presumptions with tales of my honeymoon that came in 4th place.

With all of those things said and done with, I wish to clearly articulate now all of the things that were fantastic about our trip to the Philippines.  Tales of our travel–free of superfluous commentary on things like sugary spaghetti–begin with the next post!

Last week Tracy and I spent a week visiting St. Louis, her to shoot a whopping 7 portrait sessions from among the adoring hoard of clients she left behind, and I to visit and catch up with as many fantastic people as I could pack in.

I was struck by how much I love St. Louis.

To wit, merely walking Melbrook lane (a stretch of road connecting the Wash U campus with the vibrant street known affectionately to locals as the Delmar Loop) evoked all kinds of grad school-era memories, which lumped together as on big ball of bittersweet, fond reminiscence.  The smell of the old neighborhood trees and other nature in the heat of St. Louis summer took me back to everything from feeling high and proud walking home after giving my first summer school lecture on programming, to hopeless romantic melancholy of pining over whichever girl I was smitten with at the time (I was so cute back then, my strategy for dating and relationships would’ve been just precious if it hadn’t been so completely ineffective!).   The years of memories unlocked by sights and smells endeared my old stomping grounds to me in the most delightful way.

Add in connections to friends and communities (I was fondly greeted with surprise as though back from the dead by at least a dozen people when out swing dancing), reference for favorite places (here’s looking at you, MoBot) and my body’s strange preference for the 100% humidity and high heat (it’s like a sauna, and the atmosphere is so delightfully full of oxygen!) and there’s little doubt that I’ll hold the ‘Lou as a sacred and special place for a long time.

Now then, this all might be a problem given my current state as a Denver resident and settling in as such via matrimonial ties: there’s probably no better way to discount the merits of where you are by clinging tightly to the merits of where you were.  But rather it has me inspired: if I was able to fall so deeply in love with one town out of living there for 8 years, how quickly can I fall in love with another?

And so I have a quest: to swiftly collect memories, experiences and favorites among the new people, places and events that are here in Denver.  I figure two new disciplines are in order to speed this process along: the first is to be a “yes” to any and all opportunities to be social/get out/experience life, and the second to forgo more often the sweet, sweet comfort zone of hanging out with my kick-butt fiancee in favor of other people.  (The latter is the tougher, but I celebrate that as a healthy sign of our sustained fondness for one another.)  This quest is along lines similar to the Gems of Denver (which is coming along nicely by the by: few clear winners but many worthy candidates), but more profound, I think.  This is more about building meaningful friendships with people, which I suspect will do much more to give a happy anchoring to this town than a really kick-ass restaurant.

The topic of the return from an international trip wouldn’t usually be sufficient to warrent it’s own missive, but this one was adventure enough to justify it.

Why an adventure?  Simple: Tracy and I both had wicked sun burns from our surfing, highly specialized to the back side from all that face down paddling about.  The burns were bad enough and the day was long enough (19 hours hotel to home) that our journey was an exercise in meta-physic:s a game in mind over matter, practice at the transformational distinction between pain (what is) and suffering (a possible interpretation about what is).

Without that sort of mental fitness we would have been quite that sad and suffering pair.  Instead we came up with the following:

• Confidence that we’ll be fit travelers together for at least 40 more years, because we were just fine walking around with the stature and gait of retirees.  Knees buckled, shoulders hunched, slooooooow, small steps: turns out we can travel under these conditions.
• Elaborate strategies for minimizing the number of times we would need to sit down and stand up, including waiting around extra long before boarding the plane (to ensure our window seat neighbor had gotten settled before we took our middle and aisle seats).  (Though some strategies did backfire, like sitting around at Chile’s Too for long innings drinking tall beers.)
• Delight in popping pills together, when we decided to splurge on Airport Advil and have what is probably the closest experience to being junkies that we’ll ever come to.
• A deep and profound respect for one another as hardcore and jovial human beings, able to have substantial fun in the face of substantial discomfort.

The best was when we got back to Denver: it was cold, but with the backs of my knees as red as they were I had no interest in trading out shorts for jeans.  So it was socks, sandals, shorts, and hooded sweatshirt (and don’t forget my hobbling stride).  I looked like absolute hell.  And it was funny, too.  Just ask the lady at the King Sooper’s (grocery store) who openly giggled at me when we stopped in for some late night food.  I’m one major step closer to understanding the mentality of older people who couldn’t care less for fashion, save for perhaps what others think about their fashion.

It’s kind of liberating. :)

It was our last day on the island.  At 4:45pm we would hop a plane back to Panama City, stay another night at the Hotel California, and wake early for our all day adventure back to Denver.

There was unfinished business.  Surfing.

But we weren’t sure if we’d fit it in.  Who knew when and if we could get a surfing excursion that included a beginner’s lesson in time, and besides, that morning we thought we’d do 9am yoga.  I like to think that fate kicked in when we arrived 2 minutes late to what was, in my experience, the first and only yoga venue not laid back enough to admit such barely-late stragglers.

So we wandered the main drag in search of surfing opportunities instead.  Ricardo, the rad proprietor of La Buga dive and surf shop, had a deal for us.  (Ricardo is rad for a number of reasons: wall full of PADI certifications, friendly manner of speaking English with his kickin’ Panamanian accent with which he can always convincingly tell you it’s a great day for diving, and Tracy and I were both pleased and unsurprised to see him doing well for himself romantically, apparently dating the smokin’ hottie who fixed Tracy’s smoothie that morning).  His deal: another person was going for an excursion at 10am and we could get in for $49 a piece, including a lesson, and back on land by 1pm.  Sold.  Pardon us while we run back to our room to change.

The lesson was a quick 20 minutes in a few forms, balance, and a fun test of whether you ride normal or goofy foot (i.e. with your left or right foot forward: the test is to push you from behind and seeing which foot instinctively leaps forward to prevent your imminent face plant).  Our lesson was held on the back porch/dock, and was punctuated once or twice by Ricardo stopping by to briefly and nonchalantly pump some serious iron at the weight station 6 feet away.  (Ricardo, you’re such a bad-ass.)

And then it was off to a nice patch of wavy water just off the beach we’d visited the day before.  We jumped into the water with our boards tethered to us by our ankle leash, and our instructor positioned himself with fins and snorkel in the middle of the bobbing water, ready to guide us to hang ten glory.

The premise of surfing, I now know, is simple: hang out in one spot, bob up and down as you wait for a good wave to come your way.  When it does, paddle like hell away from it so that you have speed enough to ride the wave once it does catch you.

How did I do?  I attained the goal I’d set for myself during our lesson: I managed to stand up and ride a wave for a good 8 or 10 seconds.  That was the last of maybe a dozen good waves I’d caught: on the path to said competence I’d had one good salty gulp of the sea, nearly ran over Tracy once, and appreciated the heck out of the aforementioned ankle leash about 4 times (when you fall off the board, the board keeps going: the ankle leash is pretty much the only thing that puts a cap on how far it goes).

In just two hours out I gained two unexpected things: a sudden and profound appreciation for the scattered bits of surfer talk I’ve heard all my life (ahhh… turns out that “catching some killer waves” is worth getting excited about!), and a wicked sun burn on the back of my legs (I neglected to mention the other side of the surfing equation: after riding a wave, you spend a lot of time lying face down on the board, peddling with your arms back up to where you started–it’s a fantastic shoulder workout).

One of the main perks of heading south for the winter is the fresh produce factor.  Due in no small part to reading Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, which follows the exploits of the author and her family to eat locally and in season for an entire year, I’ve lately kept my choices in the produce aisle pretty narrow during colder months.  (You could, I suppose, argue that I’ve been brainwashed by locavore propaganda, but I’m content to tow the line for perhaps no other reason that, sure enough, tomatoes do taste bland and mealy when you have ‘em in the dead of winder–I don’t doubt that fresh veggies have a stereotypically bad rap with kids due to their now commonplace out-of-season mediocrity.)

So to be in a growing region of mangoes, bananas, and pineapples after 2 months of tubers and other root vegetables is quite a treat.  Or at least it should be.  Perhaps it’s just a symptom of island life, but the produce pickings were kinda rough on Bocas del Toro.  There were papaya and pineapple to be enjoyed, but it just wasn’t the delectable bounty that we found in Guatemala (not even any big dudes brandishing machetes ready to hack that coconut to an edible state).

But that’s not to say the food was a total bust.  The pineapples were delicious, especially when bored out to make way for a top notch pina colada.

The greatest culinary gem I found was a hole-in-the-wall restaurant on the main drag of Bocas del Toro, named Chitre.  Pony up $3.35 and pick between pork, beef or chicken, and a sweet older lady will serve you up a full, balanced plate of your meat of choice with sides like spiced rice, homemade coleslaw, or a funky pasta salad (on the lucky days there are little bowls of cilantro’d lentils).  It’s like a lunch lady Doris style experience, only AWESOME.  A number of locals had told me that the great local food to try was the rice, so I think Chitra was the most authentic, day-to-day Panamanian cuisine that I found.  I wish an eatery like that existed here in the US.  Super fast, super cheap meals that are all of filling, balanced, and utterly delicious.

Oh, and I’m pretty sure all the food there was made with love.

For the meat eaters, there’s an interesting general trend that I noticed which juxtaposes with what I found in Argentina: Argentine beef was exquisite, while Panamanian beef was tough and flavorless.  Conversely, Argentine pork was nothing to write home about (it’s true, check out my blog series about it–not a word about it), but anything with pork in Panama was fantastic.  Argentine angus, Panamanian pigs.  I wonder if every country has a meat-based strong suit?

After a well slept first night in the city, it was time to make up for lost planning due to a faulty online booking system and plan our flight to our island getaway.  This time the telephone would be our medium.  I confess: I punted on the opportunity to make my way once again with my trusty Spanish skills by saying right off the bat “Hola,  err… hablas ingles?”  Messing up accommodations for the night is one thing, booking the wrong flight is quite another.

Twelve minutes and a few hundred bucks later we were set with our domestic flight for 6am the following day, giving us another night in the city and the full day to explore.

During our milling about town we got recommendation of the Hotel California from another cab driver.  Either it was a really great place to stay or the cabbie conspiracy was a brilliantly executed marketing plan.  Either way we were sold, and true to the song by the Eagles, there is in indeed plenty of room at the Hotel California (not to mention it was a worthy place to stay!).

Our morning flight started without a hitch, but the torrential downpour on the island of Bocas del Toro had us pass it over to another airfield some 150 miles away for a 3 hour layover.  When we took to the sky once again Tracy and I were a little worse for wear.  Fun factoid: to combat growing queasiness on our second flight I thought to myself how bad Hot Tub Time Machine must be.  Doing so made me giggle, strongly enough to get my mind off the storm-laden bumpiness of our trusty two-propellor mini jet.

Man, that movie’s gonna be terrible.  Thank goodness.

Soon we were in the little town of our island paradise, complete with a dash of monsoon season.  Back here at home, thanks to google maps, I can see exactly how the landing strip fits on the little island–I wouldn’t wanna mess around trying to land there in inclement weather either.

That was the sensation I had as we worked our way through Panamanian customs, phoned to make a reservation, and chatted it up with our cab driver en route to our evening’s accommodations.  In spite of two months of utter neglect of Spanish practice (that’s how delighted I was to be able to express myself in English again back in January, without first mentally checking if I had the requisite vocabulary), it came right back without a hitch starting with my first practical exam of calling a hostel to check for availability, ask the price, comprehend the price (numbers over 30 are still a little shaky for me), and make a reservation.  Tracy, my lovely on-site professor of Spanish vocab and comprehension nodded in approval as I worked my way through the process.

Soon we were on our way.  During the 35 minute long ride from the airport to the city, our cab driver was goodly enough to indulge my (usual) desire to practice Spanish, talking about weather, the city, where to stay, and recommendations of what to see.  He heartily recommended we stay at the Hotel California, and offered to take us there instead of our planned hostel.  Despite its rad name, we decided to stay the course, though whether out of suspicion of what may be an impartial recommendation, or to keep with good karma of honoring the reservation we’d already made, it is not clear.

At our simple hostel I changed quickly, and the shorts & sandals-worthy 85 degree temperatures plus the gecko on the window of our bathroom both made me happy to be in Central America once more.  Especially after the frosty air of Denver just that morning.

Accusations are starting to fly that I’m turning into a total winter bird.  I have no defense. :)

In two days my lady love and I embark on another instance of our created definition of life well lived, namely travel abroad.  This time it’s to Panama.

How did we pick Panama?  Turns out this time we let the airline gods do the dirty work for us.  We knew a quick trip to Central America was a great way to get cheap access to warm weather and tasty produce as we seek to ride out the last few weeks of winder, so we put fare watches on a couple of candidates: Honduras, Nicaragua, Panama, and even Guatemala for old time’s sake.  Panama asserted itself as the winner when the price dropped eighty bucks on day two of the watch to a cool $420 per person.

Our preparation level is delightfully shaky.  Though we have picked up a copy of Frommer’s (we heard tell of the Lonely Planet coverage of the canal’d country to be rather weak), we remain unclear as to where we’ll go or what we’ll do.  Our efforts to plan as much have been deferred by an apparent technical failure that prevents us from booking online a flight to Bocas del Toro, a set of islands that promise pristine beach.

I like to think I could fix the problem in about 10 minutes with access to the server, but with my Spanish now being 2-months rusty I think I’ll not try to offer my assistance.  We’ll instead just figure it out when we get there.  Stay tuned!

The sister of a friend contacted me recently looking for tips for her upcoming visit (as she puts it, “I like touristy things but my friend and I (who will be there for 2 weeks with me) are more interested in good food, good wine, good people and dancing!”).

Armed with both hindsight and fond recollection, I came up with the following.  Bear in mind that the exchange rate during my visit was about 3.8 Argentine pesos to the US dollar, so to get dollars the mental math is just to divide by four, then add a little more.

• The Japanese botanical gardens.  5 or 8 pesos well spent and the weather should be great for leisurely wandering about (hopefully not too hot!).  The restaurant there has primo sushi.
• Practica X tango dancing.  Ten pesos gets you in for great dance every Tuesday night with a great crowd geared towards more relaxed tango practice, complete with a lesson at the start.  http://practicax.net/ for complete details.
• Ricoleta fair on Sundays.  Right on the grounds surrounding the famous Ricoleta cemetery, it has tons of stands featuring artesian crafts and more importantly great crowds of people laying about on the lawn, enjoying yerba mate and often live music.  Try the “pan rellenos caliente” being peddled about, a hot tasty snack of stuffed bread for just 8 pesos.
• Freddo helado.  Ice cream that is kinda ritzy at 15 or so pesos a cone, but well worth it.  My favorite cone combo is the regular chocolate and the regular dolce du leche.
• If you’re in to meat, parrilla (Argentine-style grilled meats) can be found all over.  One superb experience I can recommend is at a restaurant called Miranda.  50 pesos gets you an amazing beef tenderloin (lomo).
• Duck your head into any bakeries (patesseries) that have nummy things on display.  I highly recommend anything with dolce du leche in it, especially the churros.

The other day I paid about 7 bucks for a so-so steak at the local King Soopers.  It made me appreciate and miss places like Miranda and Roberto’s meat counter.