What's up with that thang?

It's something of a relief to find that we're not the only delegation in Morelia who fretted about the local violence. We've been updating our senior staff daily about the state of affairs, and we've quizzed various hotel employees, merchants, and Marcos, the most patient driver who has ever chauffeured American visitors about the city, only to hear that the problems, while acute, do not generally seem to involve the civvies. It's a give-and-take limited largely to encounters between the forces of law and those of chaos; those not buying/selling/trading/transporting drugs or attempting to interfere with same seem to have been left mostly (though, tragically, not always) alone. But even attendees from within Mexico were worried, and most of them have been quite relieved by the situation now that they're here. Things downtown are so resolutely mellow that it's hard to remember that there are concerns.

Morelia has a beautiful soaring 17th-century cathedral in the middle of town, flanked by twin plazas that serve as the center of social life for the residents. On Saturday nights, the town sets off fireworks before illuminating the cathedral's facade and towers, and there is general festivating. In honor of our conference, the town added another pre-illumination fireworks show, this one on Thursday night. The main drag was closed to road traffic, smoochy couples and young families thronged the street, teenagers in vaguely colonial costume handed out fliers for a living history production, and music about the rockingness of being from Michoacán pulsed over the speakers. At a prearranged moment, the lower windows of the cathedral began to strobe red and yellow, the music soared, and fountains of white fire rose from the front gates, then the central facade, and then the towers; mortar shells in the plazas rose into the sky, whistling sharply and exploding into flecks of gold and green. The display went on for about five minutes, everyone craning to see the showers of color directly overhead, and then it was over and we joined a line to get into the cathedral to hear a concert. Nota bene: The Orquestra Juvenil de Morelia does astonishing things; their "Marche Slav" was amazing and the organist's rendition of the "Toccata and Fugue" was masterful.

We were all very chuffed to have gone. But this morning, one of the hosts relayed a story to us that made us feel as though our preemptive worrying had been very small taters. "I talked to an attendee this morning, and he said, why there was nothing in the news this morning or warnings to the members? Because he was out last night near the plaza before the concert, and the police had closed the road, and then he heard shootings! He says this is a very dangerous place." Somehow the flocks of people heading cheerfully toward the explosions did not suggest that perhaps he was overreacting.

Of course, if you are a defenseless pineapple, mango, or jicama root, this is indeed a violent area. The gaspacheros show no mercy.

Behind pink walls, somewhere there's a blog

ARGH. I forgot to bring my camera cord, which means no uploading of photos until I get back. I'm taking them like a mad thing, though sadly I did not catch the dyslexic bus labeled "Colectivo Moerlia," being at the time too busy trying to both process the semiotics of a Mexican-style chibi Virgin of Guadalupe helium balloon and not spill my gaspacho, a cupful of chopped jicama, mango, and pineapple mixed with lemon and lime juice and layered with salt, chili pepper, and finely shredded queso blanco, a snack so sublimely juicy and generously scooped that it's served in a cup inside a plastic bag.

TRAVEL IS SO MUCH FUN, Y'ALL. And I shouldn't shout, because it's annoying and it makes the altitude headache (which, fine, I am an outlier for having one at a measly 6,000 feet, but oh God knowing that does not help) worse. But they make the Coke here with pure cane sugar instead of our agrosubsidized corn syrup, and I've seen a dude with a mullet dyed electric blue, and the Key limes stuffed with sugared coconut cost about ten cents. Some shouting is warranted. VIVA!

What we did on our holidays

The parentals recently returned from a visit to the ancestral homeland in Texas, where they toured several small museums that house whatever bits of collected (pre)historic memorabilia anyone sees fit to donate. The Bandera Frontier Museum is a gem.

Further travel lessons

• Do fly early in the morning, but make sure you get your coffee before the flight. Paying for airline coffee is an insult to humanity.
• Do remember what pocket you put your boarding pass in as you juggle it, the bags, and your ID. It is ridiculously easy to forget and put the pass in your removed-for-X-raying jacket. Having forgotten that because of forgetting the previous point, yours truly got special screening in the Nude-o-Tron 3000. On a related note, Dear Mr. President Obama, I know you've got crazy helpings of stuff to get done, and you know I love you, but whenever you get around to reforming the TSA so that it makes the slightest wee ort of sense, the overall happiness level among your better-informed voters will (forgive the pun) skyrocket.
• Do read all of the paper, or risk missing the best byline in the history of bylines, "The author is the president of the United States." And he has a kung-fu grip.
  
• Don't fly to Fort Lauderdale if you need to go to Miami. Just don't.
• Don't assume that any cab with a GPS and a credit card reader has a working GPS and credit card reader. Also don't assume that the cabbie understands addresses just because he works in a city with a simple grid system. Ask him about both things before you let him sling your bags trunkward. If you ignore this and the preceding point, boy will you need to have remembered the one about caffeine.
• Don't assume that all hotels have HVAC. Those in warm states may wait until it's 40 degrees F and the guests are going blue about the jowls to bust out a sheepish, "Sorry, ma'am, this facility doesn't, um, have a heating system."
• Do enjoy the local cuisine and hooch, especially if mojo sauce and dulce de leche are involved.
  
• Don't fly out of Florida on a Sunday unless you want to share your world with a squintillion disembarked cruise passengers, an experience that, if you are me, will make you feel as though needles are growing out of your skin.
  
• Do splurge and get the Sunday New York Times. The crossword puzzle enhances sanity maintenance, while the occasional articles about Joss Whedon are unexpected motes of joy.
• Do be pathetically grateful to get home, dysfunctional Metro system and all. Express your gratitude with laundry and naps. Mebbe a little "BSG: Razor." Because, c'mon. You can't outfly your own geek self.
  

Traveler's advice

Learn the following phrases in the local lingo:

That is my companion. It is not intended as a tip.

I will call the manager.

This cannot be my room because I cannot breathe ammonia.

I will be most comfortable between the temperatures of 290 and 303 degrees Kelvin.

Madam, this bed/nest is alive.

Further useful phrases are available, of course, through the miracle of the intertubes.

Right now the most useful thing I've got going for me is rusty but decently accented Spanish. I don't think I've sold anyone my aunt's neighbor's goat, but you never know until an agitated would-be customer shows up in her yard.

I've just come from the land of the sun

Today's fecal roster includes a certain U$ Airways, which has decided that the way to make back all the money they're losing is to charge passengers for all soft drinks, including water. This decision is violently unpopular, idiotic from a preventing-DVT-related-lawsuits perspective, and otherwise profoundly pound foolish. I am a grouchy flyer at the best of times, especially now that age and abuse have given me SI issues that make cramped seating a real problem, and when I have (a) gotten up at 4:00 AM to get to the airport, (b) been sat on the runway for two hours listening to drills judder into the undercarriage of the plane so that the mechanics can get at the computers for the rudder (don't get me wrong, I really want the steering to work, but two extra hours is a literal pain in my ass), and (c) missed the pay coffee service, I am a perfect storm of inner snarl.

However, Phoenix is lovely and warm, my flophouse includes an en-suite teddy bear, and I may even get up for the Pilates class tomorrow at 8 AM, since the studio is one long stretch of bay windows overlooking the red rocks that poke out of the city here and there. This act of contrition would help mitigate my sin of intent, the room service menu's "pancake napoleon": macademia nut pancakes interleaved with caramelized bananas and fruit compote. Yes please, I will take five.

[Update: After muzzily thinking through the timing, I skipped the pancake blitz in favor of relative frugality: yogurt, fruit, and a bagel. (The pancakes can be on Sunday morning.) The Pilates class was beautiful, not nearly as painful as the ones at Big Sexy Gym, and if every workout promised sightings of rabbits nibbling the brush just outside the windows, I'd be in much better shape. It was a little awkward later running into some of the conference attendees who had also attended the class; I try to present myself a certain way at work, and it does not involve a tanktop and workout pants. On the upside, hey! Conversational topic.]

Mas fottergrafs

I'm still going through the pile of photos from California, but bit by bit I'm getting them posted to my Flickr page, so if the mood strikes you can click over to the San Francisco set and browse at leisure.

Now, if you really want to engage the old envy circuits before the holidays proper get under way, skip my pics and go straight to Iosif's New Zealand sets. He and I managed to get a flight back from San Francisco together, so for much of the flight he regaled me with Kiwi stories and photos of his adventures. As we touched down in DC, I heard him sigh, "I want to go back." Lawsy me, I can't think why.

Proj on

William Gibson's short story "Skinner's Room," which later grew into Virtual Light and thence the entire Bridge Trilogy, is an interview between a Japanese sociologist and an old man who lives in the thriving illegal community that's colonized the Golden Gate Bridge after the much-feared Big One destabilizes it too much for traffic. The scientist, crouching in a room built out of plywood lashed to the top of one of the towers, asks what it was like to be there the night squatters swarmed the fences and claimed the bridge. Skinner, the old man, tells him about the crazy energy, the way he remembers the shoes of the man ahead of him, the roar of joy as people met up and danced on the tarmac, "they were singing, hymns and shit," and the impromptu decision to keep climbing, to scale the pylons and cables and go up as far as nerve would allow. The scientist asks him, "How did you feel?" but the old man just blinks at the question. "What did you do then?" the Japanese man prompts. And the old man says, "I saw the city."

The Japanese Tea Garden is almost empty on weekdays.

The local cuisine is intriguing.

Even the most directionally challenged can figure out the city's grid.

Hot diggety, are these good truffles.

The deity is in the details.

There is a carousel right next to the conference center.

And I really really love that the city puts up with people like me.

I aten't ded

But I am having far, far too much fun trying to walk off a metric ton of deem sum on San Francisco's sadistic hills to have made time for a full write-up. Suffice it to say that now I see how people can ignore the earthquake risk; this city is Borgesian in its beautiful dreamy strangeness (and that's without the contact highs). Walk and eat, photograph and shop, walk and eat some more, that's the order of the day. Sometimes we break it up by eating and then walking, shopping and then shooting.

If anyone is heading out thisaways soon, don't miss the chance to go to Christopher Elbow for the hot chocolate. Yes, it's $4.50 a cup, which seems kind of astronomical, but the soi disant whipped cream is actually creme fraiche drizzled over the froth on top of the cup, and the flavors in the Chinese five-spice or Venezuelan fiery cocoa will last you at least half an hour of stoned-out sippin' joy. I'm not sure but what this might be the sovereign specific for reconciling everyone to their fellow man.

Where Sam Clemens got his start

"I've met a lot of kings, and emperors and heads of state in my time, Joshua. I've met them all. And you know something? I think I liked you best."

Off to the Bay. Y'all be good, now.

Please to donning the bad idea jeans

Off the top of my head, there are about three brazilian reasons not to go beyond the usual "four gaits and maybe a little jumping" rides I've been doing for the last few years. After all, I have yet to fall off, sustain serious injury, or damage any horse during the course of those trips. The smart money says that keeping that record is the way to go. If I got to feeling bored, I could switch it up by taking out an Icelandic pony and learning the tolt, making it five gaits and maybe a little jumping.

But certain things run in the blood. Il Padre boasts a bit of Georgian and Cossack heritage, and his father kept a brace of Orlov trotters back in the motherland; La Mère, although the child of generally peaceful Anglo-Saxon farmers, lusts for edged weapons (I got her a knife in Junín and she almost wept), practices tai chi sword for hours at a go, and once spent a weekend studying kyudo. Mix those chromosomes and perhaps it's no surprise that you end up with someone who thinks that spending a vacation learning horseback archery in New Zealand from a Magyar bowmaker would be the ne plus ultra in the history of esoteric leisure-time baddassery.

I mean, the hell with always having the last word; I could learn to always have the Parthian shot.

Back in the...wait

Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, I have fought my way here, to the castle beyond the...damn, that's not right either. Back in DC, though, which in certain lights could be considered a goblin city, although so far nobody has reported sightings of David Bowie in a mulleted fright wig. The Hill Country Equestrian Lodge offered good horsey times (Diane, the hostess: "So what would you like to do tomorrow?" me: "Er, ride a lot some more?" Diane: "I think we can arrange that"), along with some moments of humility in the form of not being able to get a trained reining horse to do my will in the ring until Diane came over and shouted instructions at us both. Downsides included a drive to the airport on a guaranteed traffic-free route that is almost certainly so on the weekends but not on Friday at noon, forcing me to make up time by taking the back roads at highly illegal speed ("WHEEE! Fucking hell, town limits, reduce speed to...55?!? Are you fucking KIDDING ME?"—fo' reals, Texas highways are kind of the autobahn with added pickups); having my flights into and from Dallas delayed; and taking a divot out of the runway at National. But them's just minor kvetching.

The HCEL seemed to focus more on clinics in the ring than on pure trail. The only other guests were doing a clinic program, so they spent mornings in the ring and then went out on trail to practice what they were learning. The clinics would be wonderful training for beginners interested in long rides (as indeed this couple were), and even a more advanced rider could learn a lot, but on balance I was happier taking ponies out on the trails morning and afternoon. I'm lazy that way, and after surviving two Equitours adventures have some sense of what to expect in terms of pain and fatigue (vacation, am I doin it rong?). If I were to consider competition in reining and somehow miraculously acquired a good horse and the money-time continuum to ship it down, Diane would be high on my list of trainers, but that's not the case at the moment. Still, it was a good way to see the park and try a different pile of gear and get all virtuously sore from the exercise. Pikshahs to come soon, whenever I can get Flickr to cooperate with my computer, which it was not doing this weekend. Perhaps the site was observing the holiday sensation that's sweeping the nation: Darwin Day!

[ETA: Photohraffies.]

Shouldn't I have this, shouldn't I have this...

...shouldn't I have all of this and
PASSIONATE SNORGLES
From you.

Tequila sunrise

Our last night in Austin, some of us make arrangements to go out to a Tex Mex place that one of our attendees recommended. It's just down the block from Allen's Boots, my personal den of temptation, and when we're told that it'll be a 30-minute wait, we take our buzzer and stroll into the store. I don't see the black boots of my dreams but am briefly tempted by a pair of Old Gringo boots in pale brown sueded leather touched with gilt. Old Gringos are for those with more money than sense, and I don't bother checking the price tag. The token Y-chrom falls in love with a pair of Ariats; the other X finds that Lucchese's last suits her perfectly. We are reluctant to leave, but the promise of a large dinner and post-meeting margaritas is too tempting.

The joint is jumping, but it's mostly an Anglo crowd, and the food is serviceable but nothing special. The margaritas, however, are excellent, available with all sorts of spendy tequilas, and between us we put away seven of them. When we leave, I find that my feet are a little farther away than usual, an effect familiar to fans of Lauriol Plaza, but otherwise we all feel good. We head to a bar in the hopping Warehouse District and trade stories over yet more drinks. I call it a night fairly early, pleading lightweightness in the boozing department. The other woman and I head back, leaving Y-chrom to lone-wolf off into the meat-markety night.

Apparently selective amnesia about my issues with tequila kicks in as soon as I'm looking at the drinks list, if this morning is anything to go by. I medicate with migas and hibiscus tea and pray for more sense in the future.

Austin breakfast FTW

I got up at a stupid hour this morning, a time when I was not inclined to deal with the taxi shenanigans that ensue whenever you have to deal with Montgomery County's eedjit cab services, and managed to sleep a few hours on the flight to Dallas. At the DFW airport I wandered around in an uncaffeinated, fasting haze until I found a Starbucks, then meandered over to my gate to find that, whoops, they were almost finished boarding. Would've been so embarrassing to miss the flight. But I got to Austin fine, grabbed a cab, slung my bag aboard, and bid the driver hie us to the Hilton by way of breakfast tacos.

"Okay," he said. "There's a place on the way. You mind if it's grungy?"

Things were looking up.

It turns out that in this case, "grungy" meant "a converted Popeyes in which the redecorating has involved knocking out the order counter, chiseling off some wall tiles and replacing them with other tiles reading 'Mi Cantina,' and adding hand-written strips to the menu board. And you will be the only guailo in the joint." Rock on. I passed on the especial del día ("carne azada") and got a taco de huevos y tocino (a small flour tortilla filled with fresh eggs and bacon) and one of huevos y queso, both enlivened with a cup of fresh roasted-tomato and cilantro salsa. Life and civility flowed back with the cholesterol. The cabbie and I traded notes on barbecue, once I'd established some fresser bona fides (he asked where I went in Lockhart; I passed the test), and he pointed out a 'cue place down the road from my hotel. Since at the last meeting I was at with this crew, our token Y-chromosome finished a pound of steak at dinner, that intel will come in handy.

I hesitate to say how much more I'm enjoying Austin than Seattle, for fear of being thought ungrateful (and really, I keep trying to write up the dinner we had at the Impromptu Wine Bar on Thursday night, but it always ends up a string of obscenity-laced superlatives and l33t-speak, "OMG so fucking good," which isn't much help, but I can sum up by saying that I didn't think the place could match the swoony food pr0n the chef's wife writes at Gluten-Free Girl and I was wrong, amen). But I like it better in Austin. It has something to do with the sun.

[ETA: The hotel is hosting a boxing match tonight. The people-watching is unbelievable; someone could write a thesis on the difference between the ring girls (travel in groups, uniformly blond, ponytailed, and mascara'd into tarantula territory) and the pros (pretty in a way that is also kind of terrifying). And this is four hours before the bell, so it's only going to get better more.]

A well-regulated militia

Come the alien invasion, Seattle will be locked and loaded. At $600 a pop, Jeff Burnette's spectacular blown-glass Raygunz must remain mere objects of desire, as opposed to stylishly collecting dust chez moi. But my God do I want one.

Back from Seattle...kerflop

That was just four days? Three? And what time is it anyway? The revenge of the circadian rhythms is that you feel like little seventeen-year bugs are crawling around in your brain, resetting your mental clocks. No sense from me, not today anyway.

I checked out this morning and found that the meals I had charged to the room had been erased. Hurrah! An unexpected gift, although not hard to figure out. Herewith the saga.

Scene: A coffee shop, early in the predawn hours.
Characters: Big Guy with Earwire (BGWE), 3PJ
[BGWE and 3PJ wait for their frilly coffee drinks and eye the TV news]
BGWE: Lotta snow, huh? Eighty inches in a week and all the passes closed.
3PJ: Yeah. I'm glad we're not getting any of it.
[They chat idly.]
3PJ: So, um, are you by any chance hotel security?
BGWE: Yes, actually.
3PJ: Oh. See, I'm up on the 38th floor...
BGWE: South tower? The drunk couple at 3 this morning?
3PJ: Right. The relationship drama.
BGWE: Oh yeah. But they quieted down, didn't they?
3PJ: Well, yes. But, uh, did you know that he's passed out asleep in front of the elevators?
BGWE: Wait, was passed out or is passed out?
3PJ: Was as of five minutes ago, when I came down. She must've thrown him out. He's okay, but he's, you know. Sleeping on the floor. Not alcohol poisoning, though, as far as I could see, and I couldn't find anyone at the desk to tell, so... {What I did not say: Drunk Boy's body language clearly said, and I quote, "No, man, I'm FINE sleeping on the floor. It's cool, it's cool." I failed to take a picture and now heartily repent me of my short-sightedness. But for the record, he was sleeping with his hands in his pockets and one foot on his knee. As you do, when you are happy to sleep somewhere away from that crazy bitch, man.}
BGWE: [HULK SMASH.] Excuse me, then. I need to Deal. With. This.
[FIN]

So, long story of Nipponese-level politeness short, BGWE came back quickly to ask me for my room number and offer hotel comps, which I declined on the grounds of insufficient mental trauma, and apparently he force-majeured it into my records anyway. Which was nice, because I don't expect the hotel to be responsible for its guests' relationship fallout.

And so to bed.

Lessons from travel

If you shake the hotel-provided moisturizing hydration cream bottle,
None'll come
And then a lot'll.

The Wire is hungry

Okay, not the Wire, the yours truly, who is probably nicer and has never tried to suck out anyone's life essence and render them faceless. Well maybe the once.

One of the few missions I had going into Atlanta, apart from surviving and maintaining a veneer of professionalism, was to get down to Ria's Bluebird for breakfast. And I did, although it was hard to crawl out of bed; the preceding evening had involved a party and then vodka and sonnets and conversation until quite late, and my hotel bed was both extraordinarily comfortable and big enough to swim in. But no! Duty! To the pancakes! I staggered out.

My first impression was that Ria's is as much like an Austin dive as I've ever encountered outside that city--decor that's funky without being twee, pleasant forthright waitstaff, a mix of students and office workers and truckers, a cheerful but not overloud buzz of conversation--and nothing dispelled that impression. I can't speak first-hand about most of the menu's offerings, although the biscuits and gravy and the mushroom/brie scramble that people around me got looked excellent and vanished fast, but the buttermilk pancakes with bananas that were set down within minutes of my arrival were, as advertised, fantastic. I had to close my eyes. Two large perfectly fluffy pancakes soaked with warm syrup and topped with fruit that had given up all hope of being a healthy source of potassium, along with pedigreed coffee that was looking for some ass to kick, bliss bliss bliss. Ria's, you guys. No joke. Plan ahead and you can even work off the caffeine high by strolling through Oakland Cemetery, across the street. I did not have the time to budget and had to bolt back downtown to help wrap up the last of our meeting, but I did it with a happier heart.

Singin' the Homeland Security Blues

With apologies to Mr. Cash:

I keep a close watch on these bags of mine
I keep my ID with me all the time
I take my shoes off, and I never whine
For TSA, I stand in line.

It's good to be home.