The Where Can We Put Patrick? Debate (or Dictate PBA's Future)

Sadly, though the everyday scenes of toiletback gore in hostel bathrooms indicate many mochileros are having as much trouble coping, I've exhausted all my endurance for the brutality being waged in my belly.  What I'm carrying, harboring, isn't temporary.  This is full fledged fuckin' possession.  I've been owned.

There is no longer debate.  If the Bolivian-Japanese stomach coalitation can't cure me -- chances they can even diagnose me correctly approximately equivalent to those of Barry taking Usain Bolt in the 100m, or of me ever asking Barry to sing me a lullaby, or anything resembling a song, anything that requires even the most elementary ability to carry a tune -- I'll be home within a few weeks, as soon as I can figure out how to navigate the thirty plus hour bus stretch from La Paz to Lima without embarrasing myself, without soiling my reputation. Gross. Something of a psychic, I can see myself poppin' bottles of bowel-cloggers and refraining from eating for several days.  Which is the worst sounding proposition I've ever encountered, but circumstantially practical.  I reread that sentence and a whimpery dammmn just mustered itself over my lips before disintegrating into inaudible particles of despair. (Update: I'll be touching down at CLT late on May 3.)

Once back in the States, where I'll remain for the rest of 2010, at least (before jumping back into travel, presumably picking back up in South America), the big question is where?  What follows is a not necessarily closed list of locations to which I'm considering temporarily relocating, corresponding pluses and minuses, and an open invitation to any and all to help influence my decision.  Sell yuh city, suckas.

• Raleigh, North Carolina
• Pros: My most frequently visited city, for the residence of a number of great boozing buddies, the best Detroit style coneys outside of MI, and Lilly's Pizza.  The 'Canes.  Chapel Hill is nearby and, in general, Raleigh is a young city.  Multiple tailgating opportunities every Saturday in the fall.  Oh, let's just say it, college girls!  Southern Belles! Now shower me with "Predator!" 
• Cons: Reliable public transit?  Job opportunities?
• Chapel Hill, North Carolina
• Pros: Friends in and around the area, bars and restaurants all walkable.  It's the better weather Ann Arbor.  And a surplus of college and just-outta-college girls.  Good pickup basketball.  Maybe I can score Duke tickets in the fall?
• Cons: The nauseating sea of baby blue.  No current job prospects.
• The Charlotte Metropolitan area, North Carolina
• Pros: This is my home.  I represent D-town, don't get it twisted.  My main folk, aka tha 'rents, and a group of, to repeat the word, beloved core relatives live in the immediate area. I have countless friends in the area, and I know which bars have pint specials when, which grungy venues have the best shows, and when my friends in One Another are rocking out.  The restaurant scene is strong. The weather is bearable in the summer, mild in the winter, even affording us the occasional cute dusting of snow, and the spring and fall are heavenly.  I also have connections I can exploit for jobs.  Importantly, there's a large Latin population with whom I can mantain my Spanish.
• Cons: Public transit exists, so I've heard.  I've lived in the area practically my entire life.
• Asheville, North Carolina
• Pros: Cool vibe, cool people (including some friends), really it's like a little Denver, CO.  More important than the people, there's the Highland Brewery.  'Nuff said.
• Cons: No job prospects to speak of, and does public transport exist?
• Chucktown, South Carolina
• Pros: College girls...at the beach. Jeeeeeeeeeesus christo! Shrimp 'n' grits. A number of close friends who might even be able to offer a room.
• Cons: No job prospects.  And how good's the public transport?
• Miami, Florida
• Pros: We might as well be talking Latin America. Cuban food. The weather, the beaches. Public transport. One of my main homegirls lives there, and probably other friends as well.
• Cons: Dexter copycats and an expensive city.
• ATL and NoLa
• Pros: Both are dirty south, Ludacris and Li'l Boosie (well, in Baton Rouge.  Wait, he's in prison for the next 4 years). Soul food. Multicultural areas.  Boobies for beads!
• Cons: Hot and sticky. Public transit and job prospects?
• Austin, Texas
• Pros: A college town, young population, etc.
• Cons: I don't know anything else about Austin, certainly nothing job related.
• Washington, D.C.
• Pros: An awesome city, with public transport, friends, and my main homie, Li'l Brodus.  Generally a place I'd love to live.  I hear there's a train that runs to NYC? Either way, there's Jet Blue.  I'd say it's about time I make good on those promises to visit NYC.  Ovechkin.  Lots of Latin folk, too.
• Cons: Lack of job hookups and $$$!
• NYC
• Pros: Not sure, but people tell me it's crazy, as in awesome.  Plus there's the public transit system, and I do have at least a few friends left in the city.  Oh, and pizza.  Even if a slice costs as much as an entire pie back home.  But maybe Latin American street eats can ease the pain?  NYC is playground hoops.  Two pro hockey teams!
• Cons: Expensive as a muhfucka.  Cold winters.  And, again, no particular job prospects.
• Boston, MA
• Pros: A cool city, people with cool accents, and clam chowder.  I've got some good friends in the city,too.  Plus amazing, Canasta-expert relatives (that I potentially exploit for work?) living not far away.  And lotttttttttts of college girls.  Some that'll be into the NE brand of hardcore. And maybe hockey. And if not, I'll be befriending drug dealers selling GH--, er, wait...
• Cons: The winter and cost of living.
• Ann Arbor, Michigan:
• Pros: The quintessential college city, walkable (and runnable), with house parties and cheap beer specials and myriad restaurants (noteably the selection of superlative middle eastern food, for the concentration of middle easterners in the area, and coneys!). The outdoor basketball courts by the CCRB fill up in the late afternoon, and decent pickup soccer is never a problem. Then there's the proximity to Kalamazoo's Bell's Brewery, which means plenty of fresh Two Hearted. And the summer is divine, especially over a few pints. Plus I have beloved relatives living nearby, and boy do they know how to have a good time (and eat)!
• Cons: The winter. See, I think snow is cute for a few days. Plus I have no particular job prospects, and am unsure if I have any friends left in the city. Lastly, an angry practically-midget ex-friend threatened in late 2008 to smash a bottle over my head on sight for stealing, no, temporarily borrowing his girlfriend. Whoops.
• A newly occuring pro: I'm not sure the Little Iranian can reach my head, and I'm offering neither stool nor knee nor boost of any variety. Plus his girlfriend might still be around...
• Chicago, IL
• Pros: Reliable, urine-scented public transit.  A playground basketball tradition. Pizza. Friends from Northwestern and back home. I wouldn't have to go anywhere for Lollapalooza. Maybe I could make friends with Twista. And if not, a strong punk rock tradition.
• Cons: Expensive. And, again, that daunting lack of job prospects.  And Candyman.
• Aspen, Colorado
• Pros: Beautiful town, mountains, and a situation in which I'll no longer have an excuse to try skiing.  Plus, one of my best friends lives there, and maybe a kickass cousin as well, if she herself doesn't relocate.  I've even been promised job help, and I hear the young folk in town keep the party lively.  And, as I'm already accustomed to running at altitude against breathtaking backdrops...
• Cons: Expensive, and maybe a bit isolated?  How far's Denver?  Can I get Bell's Two Hearted on tap?
• Portlands, Oregon and Maine
• Pros: I don't think it'll be a problem getting Bell's, or any other delicious beer, on tap. An impressive variety of excellent restaurants.  Friends in one, a favorite cousin in another. Seafood!  Euthanasia? The Latin population in Oregon is said to be growing.
• Cons: Hippies. Just kidding! But, seriously, is a shower that painful? 'Cause I kinda dig deodorized alternative chicks. Not sure about job prospects in either.  Are they expensive? How's public transit? How will I practice my Spanish in Maine?
• Seattle, Washington
• Pros: Friends in the city, iuncluding at least one great friend (who has mentioned she'll help me with finding a job).  The music scene, the restaurant scene.  Don't know much else.
• Cons: Public transport? Is it expensive? Where's the sun? Are there Latin folk?
• San Francisco, California
• Pros: I liked it when I visited, long ago, and I have a number of friends in the city. Seafood! Good beer. Public transport. Spanish to be spoken.
• Cons: Expennnn$ive. No job prospects to speak of.

That's it, now convince me.

The upside of doing nothing else...more words, more frequently.

How many consecutive hours can hippie mochileros strum out identical acoustic insults to (my) good taste on their guitars?  That cheap rum must imbue them with special appreciation powers, because I'm chocking back vomit mixed with fantasies of spearing eyeballs with the jagged splinters from that very guitar smashed over hippie heads.

With frustration on the brain and the weekend's free-drink-and-panty-chasing club-bounce scheduled for tonight, looks like it's another round of feigned interest and repetitive sidestepping, enduring mindnumbing and eardeafening, salsa-saturated hours between three-minute invitations-to-grind, aka hip-hop.  I, as a proudly grinding estadounidense, admit I neither understand nor care to understand the European practice of dancing solo.  Gimme someone spittin' fire over a heavy bassline and a chunky backside to ride up against and I'll show you some rhythm.

While my head swivels high over the height-challenged Peruvian crowd, ostensibly scouring for a pretty thing to decorate my dormbed, I'm imagining myself transported back inside the grimy scribble-and-sticker tagged walls of Charlotte's The Milestone, a bunch of hoodied-up punk rock hooligans swimming through the standing clouds of cigarette smoke, everyone a PBR tallboy in hand, cute alternative chicks lounging around, all black eyeliner and bullsized nose-rings.  We're three hundred ears still ringing from the last set, a palpable buzz for the next act, the first thumped kickdrum to rattle our chests, the first crashing cymbal, the initial peal of guitar-in-tuning, any and all will ignite the stampede for stagefront position.  And, since this is my fantasy, I'm waiting for my fantasy headlining friends, One Another.

Afterward we're gonna hit a houseparty, a filthy-mouthed crew littering a residence with beer and bodily fluids to a death metal and laughter soundtrack, brutal, barbed insults that only best friends can toss and tolerate cutting through the cacophony.  Finally, once bodies are strewn unconscious across the apartment, somebody's gonna step around the scattered cards and toppled bottles and lurch towards their car, making an inadvisable, cop-dodging run to Waffle House, waking up the next morning both hungover and with hell brewing in their belly, courtesy to that triple order of hash browns, all-the-way.  This is where I come from, and that's what I'm missing a few months deep in fucked-stomach-dictated paralyzation.  Those friends. Those scenes.  Those $2.50 pint nights with fifty microbrews available on tap, at least eight hop-heavy IPA's.  While we're in the bar, conversing boisterously over beers with the proper measure of head, stashed in the car is this week's anti-air-freshener, styrofoam-boxed leftovers seeping fumes into the upholstery, international dinner scents -- Honduras, Mexico, El Salvador, Thailand, Lebanon, Italy, Colombia, Peru, Greece, Serbia or good ol' southern Soul Food, maybe a few slices of a meat-and-veggie littered pie; plus, if I dined within fifteen miles of Central Avenue, the obligatory monolithic slab of dessert from Landmark Diner's should-be-world-famous dessert case -- that'll follow me around until overpowered by next weekend's selection.

Upping my creeper status

Seven weeks of fantasy life stateside revived my travel bug, which is not a reference to the hosts of travel bugs thriving in my gut.  My gracious ex-boss rehired me as a part-time contractor, my relaxed office hours enabling me to booze with friends most nights of the week, then bumble into my cubicle at an hour by which the head-fog had subsided.  My paychecks enabled me to pay all my bar-tabs, procure a few new toys (like the mochilero-essential 64gb iPod Touch), and left me enough leftover change I was uncharacteristically unconcered I might've tipped fifty-Bell's-Two-Hearted-Ale-bucks on a $20 tab.  To an in-no-way deserving waitress.  Which is to say not only was she far from exemplary at her job, she wasn't even cute.

I feasted frequently, my checklist of foods to eat back home mostly satisfied, fifteen newly added pounds of hip-swelling flavor pocket reserves accompanying me back to the lands of ever-crowing city roosters and taxi-kidnappings. (Keep in mind, the chunkification of Patrick merely transforms him from gaunt to lean.)

I find myself unable to purge or even suppress thoughts of and longings for that which I've just fled again -- my back-friendly pallet on my parents' hardwood floor; throat massaging microbrews with the "pint pounders" and rounds of shots with my friends from the trenches and vicinity; bleeding beets and the procession of vegetables that color mom's home-cooked comforts; the company of family from chilly Kakalak to snow-consumed Michigan; a beautiful young woman -- as if memories and desires can no more easily be flushed than my starch-stuffed bowels.

Lima is growing on me again, the intimidating metropolis, behemoth no less, that actually offers more than the dense, guidebook-imbued foreboding.  It also doesn't hurt one's perception to depart sub-zero, sun-deficient days and disembark in full summer swing.  The women are as brown -- if not browner -- and as beautiful as ever, and intoxicated with Vitamin D I almost violated the camper-counselor code of conduct -- which is what happens when girls become women and you're in a land where age differences are more readily and legally disregarded.

Hey, look at this cute, light-skinned girl. Waving at me, no less. Wait, why is she asking me about Davidson Soccer Camp in perfect English.  You used to call me PB&J, eh? And you're from Chapel Hill?  Oh, shit.

"Wait, you're Austyn, aren't you?"

And so I've reencountered one of my favorite ex-campers, from one of my best groups ever, a continent away, after never having encountered anew in North Carolina.  Now we need to have a beer, just so I can up my creeper status a bit by saying I've had a beer with a camper.

The Hangover

Time in NC has become synonymous with dreary headfunk, the vise-like constriction of mind and motivation that a few six-packs too many of Bell's Two Hearted Ales tends to enforce indisciminately.  Those high gravity calories coupled with reckless feasting are slowly returning my Latin American-wandering lost poundage, little pockets of stored dessert puffing just above hip level.  My probably parasitic intestinal condition -- contracted from that high-class, apparently highly infested batch of ceviche -- is thriving, mind over matter failing miserably.  And I'm in a cubicle again, thanks to my old boss hiring me back for the year-end crunch.  (So you know, that thanks is sincere.)

I've turned twenty-six and used that newfound maturity to charm younger ladies.  (Well, that and the fact that I can legally buy beer.  They aren't so impressed that I'm old enough to vote.) My hair remains untouched, uncombed, unless I throw on a creeper's combover.  I find myself mumbling phrases in Spanish, mostly the filler word "pues" and sexually explicit commands, and dreaming latino on occasion, though I've avoided dumping any just-swiped toilet paper in the garbage can.

This vacation-within-a-vacation has provided ample opportunity to spend time with my family and friends, the world's only flock of folks fun enough to divorce me from Dad's in-house cinema, digital cable's assortment of boobies On Demand (in HD)!  In between social beer-bouts I struggle to whittle my mammoth collection of digital media down to 64 measly gigabytes of entertainment for the next year -- considering all the kids I let play with my gadgets, respect for preserved innocence is keeping my iPod Touch porn-free.

The same ol' P.

"It was so funny it wasn't even embarrassing."

Guatemala wrapped up without any more cougar attacks, the only drama being the chicken bus pick-pocketing of Jackson by a hamburger-crazed Chapin – a detail discerned post-robbery, when the bank statement reflected no further damage than a $6 Big Mac binge at McDonalds. Maybe other institutions, with their superior standards of security, were more perceptive; presuming that some shabbily dressed Guatemalteca probably didn’t have an ATM card. And probably wasn’t named Jackson Whetsel.

Those minimal losses little more than nuisance, San Pedro La Laguna experienced a Gringo exchange, Jackson replacing Patrick at the language school and in las calles, quickly a hit with all my knee-high friends and their families, a new white behemoth to maul at every appearance. My last days I spent circulating through San Pedro, despidiendo a mis amigos. Jackson and I were invited to several delicious meals with Josefa’s beautiful family, whose humble doll-house kitchen could barely contain our human-sized figures. We accompanied Josefa and crew to Las Cristalinas as well, a beautiful and contaminated swimming spot somewhere between San Juan y San Pablo La Laguna.

And then, after thirty consecutive hours in airports or aboard planes, after enduring multiple bag searches and questions sessions by US Customs – I got off easy compared to my highly suspect, traditionally dressed Guatemalan doll, who was aggressively squeezed and molested by overzealous agents – I landed in Charlotte, whisked away by my parents, accompanied by my grandma, toward a gluttonous satiating of nine-months building cravings. Big-ass delicious pizzas and pitchers of Bell’s Two Hearted Ale (from Revolution Pizza & Ale House in Noda). Forearm-sized cuts of pineapple coconut cake at Landmark Diner. (And good ol’ Southern charm: a gentleman’s club billboard either crude or homicidal: “Come meat our dancers.”)

My three weeks back in the States were a blur. I lost days in front of the bigscreen courtesy of On-Demand programming and Redbox, hours of zombie-ism broken only by scent-triggered staggers to the kitchen, to discover which delicious dinner from my pages-long list of “foods that make my lust for Heidi Klum seem normal” my angelic mother had prepared that night: Chicken enchiladas; Spinach quiche; Shish kabobs; Spinach salad; Roasted root vegetables; More spinach salad; Cobblers; Carrot cake…

There was a fantastic weekend in DC with lil’ bro, piping latin tunes through his plush digs, slaughtering brain cells at the DC-area Beer, Bourbon, & BBQ Festival. Then off to the latest of our beloved, tri-annual family reunions, this year on NY’s Lake George -- another weeklong family party of sporting (shuffleboard, beach volleyball, basketball, soccer, etc.); cards (an entire meeting hall dominated by our family, more groups of fours and sixes circled around tables than a kindergarten class, playing psychological warfare with each and every discard, card counting and contorted faces defining another famous Canasta marathon); and consumption (liquors and mixers smuggled in by the handle, ice horded in trashcans, the solo cups of family young and old kept brimming as we once again flirted with ejection from an “alcohol free” family center -- and I couldn’t have been conspicuous if I’d tried, my entire wardrobe soaked in and reeking of the liter of Guatemalan firewater that had exploded in my checked bag during the flight.)

A week back in NC -- divided between bars, my left-side-of-the-couch spot in front of the TV, and the kitchen -- closed out my vacation within a vacation. The debaucherous 4th of July was extended a few days and celebrated in Raleigh with Kibbs, Russell and Bruce, with special guest appearances by Saul, Shane, Dave, Mike Janes and lots of random girls (whose numbers may or may not be programmed in my mom’s cell phone).

And so I -- sleep deprived after consecutive nights of cervezas and reminiscing about Central America, desde la comida hasta el incredible baile tipico de la Garifuna, la punta; after several weeks of postponing even the most cursory South American planning – materialized in sprawling Bogotá, Colombia with a hostel reservation somewhere in La Candelaria, a hip but grimy section of the city dotted with universities, museums, cafes and bars, teeming by day and unsafe to walk at night. I spent six nights in Destino Nómado, a fine hostel in a less-mugged area, telling myself every night that the next day was the day I’d do the planning necessary to divorce myself from the city. But the draw of bandeja paisa (the traditional Colombian variety platter), arepas (fried cornmeal discs stuffed with cheese and/or meats), and obleas (Frisbee-sized wafer-discs sandwiching generous slathers of dulce de leche, various fruit jellies, etc); the steady diet of watery beer and aguardiente as prescribed by dorm-encountered friends Paul and Raul; plus my boundless laziness kept me captive.

But, for travelers, sometimes laziness breeds opportunity. I was in Bogotá to play futsal against locals. Around to stretch a 30th-floor clubbing session until after-sunrise, in a posh discoteca where coke was snorted as liberally as air despite the omnipresent security. I was available to play tejo, the traditional, alcohol- and shit-talking powered Colombian drinking game involving cases of beer, refills of cases of beer, and tossing metal weights down an alley toward an upward slanted clay-pit, with a metal ring in the middle, on the rim of which are placed small bags of gunpowder – when the weight smashes a pouch against the metal rim, there’s a LOUD and visible explosion, lots of clinking and rejoicing.

I walked the city with Paul and Raul, observing extremes of poverty and wealth – sheet metal- and tarp-walled homes in the shadows of highrises and luxury condos; horse drawn carts behind BMWs. From atop a skyscraper we marveled as the endless city crawled over the surrounding mountains into infinity, gawking at the public-transit-only highway lanes, clogged for miles with exhaust-spewing buses bumper to bumper, packed as tightly and inching as uniformly as trains.

Finally the route out of Bogotá materialized, though not without calamity. After Paul, Alex and I accidentally boarded a bus going away from el terminal de autobuses, we climbed mountainside slums into the far south of the city – where Raul, Colombian himself, had previously mentioned is the place “even Colombians don’t go. Maybe they’ll find the pieces of your body.” Our route terminated in a black-bus filled parking lot, the silence outside that property suggesting the days decapitations had already been performed. After asking at least five people – from idling bus drivers to tiptoeing locals shocked to learn that gringos, like themselves, are born with bodies assembled – we ascertained that at a nearby corner buses passed heading toward the terminal, where we arrived with, not in, bags.

Paul and I arrived in quiet, colonial Villa de Leiva at night, creeping into town in a chorus of incessantly blaring horns and sky-illuminating explosions, accidentally absorbed into a procession as townfolk with blankets draped over their shoulders, slipped over their heads through a single center-cut hole, sauntered past sipping Colombian lagers. For a few days every July -- as happens in every Latin town at some specified point during the year -- Villa de Leiva is transformed into a party, it’s massive central square turned into a maze of vendors, a bullfighting ring constructed, outsiders converging for a few days of dance-and-alcohol saturated revelry. The distant throb of reggaeton became my lullaby.


A daytrip to Santa Sofia for six hours of high-octane hiking was about the only accomplishment during that few day stay, before we departed for Bucaramanga. Where the only notable accomplishment -- beyond practicing my mango peeling and platáno y yuca frying techniques -- has been the daytrip to El Cañon de Chichamocha, a dramatic gorge gutting the Colombian highlands.

And I can’t imagine the sun-baked coast will cull more activity from this hammock-bound loafer.