photos
Istanbul and Publication on Matador
New article is up (and featured) on Matador: “A part of travel heterosexuals take for granted.”
I’m pretty excited about this one for a multitude of reasons. Some pictures from the adventures in Istanbul below.
–O. Ayes
Lake Malawi/Nyasa and Livingstone Mountains
conference at lake malawi/nyasa with the sun, sand, mountains, moon, stars. activities: sunrise yoga and meditations, hammock-lounging, swimming, playing, purchasing fresh samaki and dagaa at the shore, trips to the local market for clay pots, stargazing–both at the sky and the water where fisherman boats light up the horizon. objectives: simplicity, gratitude.
language acquisition and resisting hegemony
Some nights are quiet and others are filled with randomness: dinner with friends from different parts of the world–conversations about similarities and differences. I found out from a Tanzanian friend that they watch a lot of Filipino movies here. Growing up, he appreciated being able to see “slums” there: “There are no slums in America…how is it that other places around the world have them?” Perhaps mutual suffering brings empathy of sorts. And with empathy, we can begin to understand how to help each other.
We also talked about language acquisition, the futile resistance to succumb to the hegemony of the west. Here, Tanzanians are not taught phonics (how words sound and are pronounced) until A-Level, which is at 18 years old. While English is enforced in secondary (11 years old), students are not really “taught.” It’s usually rote memorization.
“What is an ‘adjective’?” shared one British teacher who recently began teaching at a local school. The kids would reply back: “AD-JEC-TIVE!” but not understand what it is. Other techniques employed by local teachers include reading a lesson in English (but not really understand it themselves) and leaving the classroom. After, the students would try to figure out the lesson by themselves.
“I hate English. I hate that I need it,” my Tanzanian friend said. He then told a story when he was in early secondary (12 or so). His friend needed to use the restroom but the teacher would not acknowledge his request because he said it in Kiswahili. So he asked my friend how to say it in English, but by the time the boy made it to the teacher’s desk again, he had forgotten the phrase. Eventually, the boy urinated on himself, in front of everyone.
I shared a story about when I was 3, and a cousin around my same age was visiting from the States. I told my family, “I don’t care if she turns blue, I’m not speaking to her in English,” as my family had suggested. I didn’t know English, besides from what I heard on songs in the radio. Why was she so important anyway, that everyone made such a big deal about her coming to visit us from America?
By the time I entered elementary school, I noticed more discrepancies. I asked my father once, “Why do I have to learn English? Do kids learn Tagalog in America?”
A discussion ensues, about resistance to western influence: “Tanzania can’t survive without participating in the global market. There’s a reason why Kenyans get hired over Tanzanians here: they can speak English.” (Kenyans begin to learn English earlier in school, as a Kenyan friend told me, and phonics is the emphasis in the beginning. A friend from Finland said the same thing.)
“But the Chinese don’t need to speak English, and they still compete.”
“The economic structure is completely different between Tanzania and China. They don’t manufacture here, things that the rest of the world needs to have. And besides, China is trying to participate even more–thousands of Americans get shipped there to teach English.”
But I understand my friend’s point: the struggle in keeping our identities when the world is bent on diluting it, or worse, erasing it all together. Filipinos, after all, know this idea very well since millions work service jobs abroad to send money home because there are very few options otherwise. “We’re the Mexicans of the world,” I used to joke with my friends, but the damage this has done to generations of Filipinos–and other nationalities who export their people–is immeasurable.
Perhaps the inequities are leveling out–that everyone now gets to compete in a global market. Some Europeans friends had mentioned the unemployment rate in the 20 percent range in their country. It could have been their field (most of them are architects), but that’s a staggering figure. The world is not sustainable yet, but maybe we’re shifting priorities.
We have riveting conversations about other things: for instance, how, if everyone in the world had a western-style toilet, we wouldn’t have enough freshwater to survive or how we refer to urination in our home countries (pee vs wee, apparently is the difference between American and Australian English). We talk about politics, adventures during our travels, our idealisms; but mostly, all of us are happy just to be where we are, sharing our lives.
–O. Ayes
Egypt: Cairo and Giza
Highlights: Arabic lessons from my driver, horseback riding (and galloping) at the pyramids during off-hours (Ramadan), kissing the Sphinx, sweet treats at the Nile during dusk, falafel at Tahrir Square.
updates from the city of dreams in action
As the Year of the Dragon progresses, lots exciting changes have arose for me in this city of dreams. This semester, I will be teaching again–this time at the City University of New York. I’m immensely grateful for the opportunity to do so and even more grateful for the freedom in being able to teach a course without a textbook! It’s a Writing Across the Curriculum course that emphasizes rhetorical analysis (or the ability for students to understand a piece of writing for its craft—how it was put together). Initially, I thought that I would use theme of social inequality, as I did a year ago in St. Louis, but there were a few limiting factors: 1.) that course had three textbooks, which I didn’t bring with me, 2.) I only have two weeks to design the course this semester, 3.) the curriculum was somewhat repetitive and didn’t fully execute the potential of a solution- or action-based approach.
This semester, I’ve decided to explore the cultural relevancy of happiness within the fields of social sciences, media studies, literature, and philosophy. I’m incredibly excited to teach, learn, and interact with students again. As in the past, I’ll be using this space to write and process my thoughts and experiences regarding pedagogy and ideas that are relevant to our lives as humans.
As if this news isn’t exciting enough, I also had an opportunity to connect with a young, world-renowned, New York Times-bestseller novelist, who encouraged me to “write books that people will read,” (i.e., non-literary). I’m not sure the direction of my craft, yet—I haven’t seriously considered the commercial fiction route—but I’m grateful to have been able to witness this genius at work so far. Creativity at its peak, transcends genre–in all art forms.
Furthermore, I’m excited to be involved with global tolerance, which promotes communication with a conscience. I am amazed, every single day, to discover the amount of ground-level and high-impact work that is being done to promote global consciousness and humanitarian efforts. Please consider joining gtconnect to share with individuals doing incredible, powerful, work. We are all agents of change, even if we are currently not in a place of freedom to be able to do exactly what we want. As long as the intent is there and followed by action, we can progress toward our ideal sense of self and community, which impacts the world, little by little, and eventually changes our current “reality”—that is, a world in which not every creature is happy or free. When our internal values are in synch with our external actions, change continues to happen. Our dreams and ideals are nothing, if we don’t follow through with action.
In the four months I’ve lived in this city, I’ve met incredible people who are promoting GLBT rights (Q-Wave) and establishing literacy programs in the Congo (The Mama Project). There are also teachers and artists and writers and dreamers who are part of the solution. And prior to moving to this city, I’ve come to know countless spirits who are doing the same. I’m continually amazed and inspired. It seems clear that our current state of consciousness involves full awareness of the inequities in the world, and our young minds and souls are getting to work to eliminate them globally.
–O. Ayes
Boracay
To finish out our adventure in the Philippines, we are currently on a 4-week stay in Boracay. Hard to imagine a place more beautiful than this with its mountains, crystal waters, karst formations, and spectacular sunsets. Even during low season, there are a lot of people here–the privacy of the Perhentian Islands nonexistent. Here, every other step is a vendor or commissioner asking if you want a massage, a souvenir, or an island hopping trip. Thankfully, we are in Station 3, which is the quieter side.
We’ve sampled a variety of cuisine, which is a welcome change from San Jose, but vegetarian and healthier, gluten-free options are still hard to come by. Prana–the only vegetarian restaurant, located in Mandala Resort–is closed for the season. Too bad because it was rather tricky to find (through back roads in the mountains and through some private property or through the busy town, up a steep hill). We do like a number of places: True Indian (a bit pricey), Yellow Cab Pizza (not gluten-free), Casa Pilar Restaurant (mostly Filipino cuisine), Arwana’s Restaurant (good salads, fish burritos), Epic (a little more pricey), 888 (some veg), El Centro (best mango shakes), Treehouse Da Mario (salads), etc.
Island hopping and snorkeling trips can get pricey, but a group trip through Allan B costs only P700/pax, including a decent buffet lunch. Nightlife includes fire dancing, beachfront bars, live music, etc. We’ll definitely return to this place.
Leaving you again, San Jose
Prior to leaving the States, we planned a 10-month itinerary to stay abroad–longer if we could find suitable jobs to further fund our travels. Mostly, we wanted to get a lot of writing done with bouts of traveling in between. The first month was easy–lots of beach bumming, spending time with family, acclimating. We got very little writing done.
In June, due to trouble finding the immigration official in San Jose, we decided to take a visa run–a 3-week trip to Singapore and Malaysia. July was more productive, as monsoon rains prevented us from enjoying the beach. I finished my second poetry manuscript and began an exercise regimen using p90x. But, as busy-minded, young Americans, we needed more activity. One can only be a beach bum for so long. The most activity we had were day trips to nearby islands, a night of bar-hopping with my cousins/aunt, or a stroll through the plaza on a Saturday night.
We considered traveling by train in Vietnam, volunteering for two months in Cambodia (where our housing was secured), then, upon finishing, more train traveling through Thailand. It worked out that returning to the States in September would be the most feasible option, as international job searching is a bit of a hassle. Even finding teaching jobs required documents with apostilles, which is not easy to coordinate remotely.
I considered staying abroad until November to continue writing and job searching, but we heard news that several islands in the region would have no electricity by Aug. 25th. How is this possible? We cannot fathom such an administrative failure in the US (maybe sarcasm, here–as it is exactly possible). The details were murky, but it has something to do with contracts and region-wide debts. How exactly politics work in developing countries is not any more depressing than developed countries. They just have fewer resources or banks to borrow money from.
My father decided to prepare for the worse: not replacing the 25-year-old water pump/generator after it began to emit smoke. We would now have to use the outside pump to bathe. While I appreciate and admire his motto of “back to basics” (I promote the romantic, Thoreauan ideal of simplifying one’s life), I had grown accustomed to running water and electricity. I do not write longhand, so I need my laptop to write. I deemed the place no longer habitable, so I decided that I would return to the US as well. If I’m going to stay abroad, I would do so employed with my own housing, in a more developed country. I did hear back from a recruiter in Thailand and Korea, but I’d like to prepare a little longer for such a commitment.
I appreciated this time to rediscover my hometown and see how it’s morphed. The changes are moving in the direction of more unsustainability–overpopulation, Western-obsessed and capitalistic drive. Every other store is an internet cafe. Favorite TV shows/radio channels mimick Western celebrities. It was hard not to sentimentalize simpler times. One afternoon, we took a walk along the beach near the estuary, which was recently opened to accommodate the monsoon season, and found examples of this in young kids who happily played in the water, a couple carrying a load of caught fish, an older man smiling in his hut, a grandmother collecting clams with her grandchildren:
Perhaps simplicity is still here.
Malaysia
Malaysia: KTMB Jungle Line, Tanah Merah, Kuala Besut, Perhentian Islands, Perhentian Kecil, Long Beach, Coral Bay, Ewan’s Cafe, snorkeling
Mornings (Aroma Beach, San Jose, Occidental Mindoro)
Aroma Beach, San Jose, Occidental Mindoro (c) O. Ayes
St. Louis to Mackinac Island, Michigan by Automobile
After I resigned from my job at the publisher, I was asked to do a contract gig to help exhibit at a conference (Minimally Invasive Neurological Society) in Mackinac Island, Michigan. What an opportunity!
I wanted to see Michigan because I hadn’t been there since 2007, when I got my Filipino tribal tattoo done by the famous Leo Zulueta who owns Spiral Tattoo in Ann Arbor. Prior to that, I was in Grand Rapids at Camp Miniwanca by the American Youth Foundation in high school. I love that place.
I decided to drive up there because flying would be too costly, and I would have to leave her in St. Louis. Since she would be returning to San Diego soon, leaving her would have been silly.
Also, due to the strict “no extra guests” rules at the Grand Hotel in Mackinac, I booked a room in St. Ignace instead, very close to the water and just as beautiful. I would take the ferry over to the island in the morning.
The first night, we eat at Mackinac Grille, where I have awesome fish boil. I finished that plate!
When we arrive at Mackinac Island, via the Star Line Ferry, we’re not immediately impressed. It smells like horse piss and shit.
We take a horse-drawn carriage (ie, taxi) over to the Grand Hotel, and I understand what all the fuss is about. That place is magnificent, albeit over the top.
I’m stuck in the exhibit for most of the morning and afternoon, but after, we explore the vicinity of the Grand Hotel, which has its own labyrinth, as well as the circumference of the island via a tandem bike.
The sights are indeed breathtaking. This is definitely a place to return to.
To try the famous fudge, I get ice cream on the way back to St. Ignace. We have dinner at Driftwood Restaurant and Sports Bar. I go for the seafood pasta, which was delicious.
The next day, after exhibiting, we find the sand dunes on Lake Michigan. We get lost initially, but we are told to keep driving until we see cars on the side of the road. There are no signs. There’s something so freeing about an unofficial beach. The tides were low, so we walked pretty far out into the water. We thoroughly enjoy the afternoon there.
That night, we go shopping for picnic food at a local grocery store. There are fireworks at St. Ignace tonight. At dusk, we take one of our hotel comforters and our food and drinks to the nearest open area by the water. We wait and laugh at our countless adventures.
We head back to St. Louis on Sunday afternoon, after the exhibit gets taken down. I consider a career in sales so I can travel like that. Many of the exhibitors bring their families along and prepare to vacation after work.
Alas, the semester begins in a week. I’m excited and nervous.
Returning to Chicago and Back to St. Louis
We arrive in Chicago by 6pm, about 3 hours behind schedule. From Union Station, we must take the blue line to O’Hare, where our hotel shuttle will take us to Sheration Four Points. Since we will only be in Chicago for one night, we might as well stay comfortably. Besides, it was a good deal. Nothing downtown was available for less than $300 that night because of Lollapalooza in Grant Park. This is our second time in Chicago together, and the festival was going on then, too. It’s an anniversary of sorts because we had just begun seeing each other last year at this time.
We have a “full-circle” conversation on the blue line, assessing where we are now, emotionally, compared to then, when we were both freshly broken from long-term relationships. It’s been a whirlwind of a year that included healing old wounds, denying love, damaging our livers, touring Southeast Asia, maintaining communication internationally, surviving car wrecks, graduating college, transitioning into new careers, moving across the country. It feels like a script of a movie I need to write one day.
~~~
At around 10p, we take the blue line back to the Loop for food and drinks. We are not surprised by the man in a plastic bag, asleep. And back of the train, a gay male couple are comfortably in each other’s arms. I love Chicago for its culture and 24-hour trains.
We go to Cactus Bar and Grill on South Wells. Their beer of the month is Purple Haze by Abita, which I’d first tried in Syracuse last year. We get some drinks at Bennigan’s. After, we walk a while to the lakefront. Because of mosquitoes, we decide to head back to the hotel.
We ask for a late checkout the next morning. We both wear dresses: green (mine) and plaid (hers). The shuttle driver seems extra nice.
Once we get to Union Station, I’m on a hunt for Italian Beef to take to my stepfather in St. Louis. Luke’s is about half a mile away, so I run, dress and flats and all. I grab cheese pizzas and pink lemonades for us since we haven’t eaten.
~~~
The ride to St. Louis was quick. We played Plants vs Zombies, which is incredibly addicting. As soon as we arrive around 11pm, my parents ask: “You guys wanna go to a party?”
“Sure.”
“We have to pick up 3 other people.”
There are already 6 people in my mother’s 5-seater SUV. We head downtown to pick up their “friends” who are Filipino immigrants in their 20s. Soon, we are cramped in a small SUV, heading to North County, where food, people, and karaoke await us. Welcome home.
Seattle to Chicago: Empire Builder
We are prepared for this last big leg of the trip. Despite having to take two city buses to arrive at Amtrak and having a food bag tear open, we are early. We check our bags and take only our food bags and laptop. The Empire Builder train to Chicago will take 3 days, so says the attendant. It’s 2.5, really.
There are many things to laugh about during this leg. There is an annoyingly vocal, older transsexual across from us. Her travel partner–younger–sounds like Jennifer Tilly. In front of us, there is a group of Japanese girls with one Japanese man. The girls pull out tall cans of beer and bottles of wine within the first hour. We theorize that the Japanese man is their pimp. One girl gets in trouble, and we do not see her again until after the trip is over.
Through Washington, there are endless trees. Every so often, the train curves into the mountain before being swallowed in its darkness. I’m in awe of how these tracks were built.
We imagine ourselves in small towns, such as Skykomish, WA, and wonder if we’d survive being an interracial lesbian couple.
~~~
On the second day of the trip, I am vexed and slightly antagonistic. An old republican lady and the transsexual from Arkansas loudly discuss Obama, who they think is a Muslim, and illegal immigrants.
“They’re illegal for a reason. Why don’t they stay in their own countries and stop taking our jobs?”
Fifteen minutes later, I’ve had it. It is still morning.
“Excuse me, can you go to the lounge to finish your conversation? People are still trying to sleep.”
“You go to the lounge and stop eavesdropping. This is a private conversation,” says the old lady.
“The whole car can hear your conversation.”
“It’s a free country.”
“Yes, it is, but you’re disturbing people who don’t care to hear about your beliefs. I can hear you through my ear plugs.”
The transsexual asks if she wants to go to the lounge. They continue in an audible whisper, but they got the point. Later, we hear the transsexual talk to the lady about being experimented on when she was younger. After she asks for another seat assignment, we don’t see the lady again after that.
~~~
Montana surprises me. I’m expecting snowcapped mountains or more evergreens like in Washington. Instead, I see flatland and mesas, and I’m suddenly in the southwest again.
The rest of the trip is peaceful. We get absorbed in movies and computer games, mainly Zuma’s Revenge. The transsexual tries to make peace several times by asking about our activities and offering her splitter and extra set of headphones.
By the time we get to Minnesota, the train is 2.5 hours behind schedule. We’ll arrive in the afternoon, so this delay does not alter our plans much.
Portland to Seattle: Cascades
The trip to Seattle was short, a mere 3 hours, but we will be here for a total of 5 days. We wait a long time for my uncle (a long-time family friend) to pick us up from Union Station. We are starving, so we head over to King Street Cafe and are disappointed. (The Vietnamese spring rolls fell apart. The peanut sauce might have given my girlfriend hives. The chicken fried rice is the blandest I’ve ever tasted.)
My uncle lives in Bellevue, a more affluent suburb, across the bridge. We head to downtown Bellevue that night and go play pool and dance at a huge, heterosexual club. I see everything from 18-year-olds to 60-year-olds. We are befriended near the bathroom by two white women who hold us hostage with inquiries. One complains about her boyfriend. Another says it’s her first time out since having her baby daughter. We tell them about our around-the-country trip.
“So what do you do?”
“I teach.”
“Oh, what grade? 3rd? I teach, too.”
“No. College. Writing.”
She seemed perplexed. “How old are you?”
I tell her, and she’s still perplexed. I love surprising people. And countering stereotypes.
Eventually, we reveal that we’re a couple, and we excuse ourselves a few minutes later. My girlfriend and I talk about the two. We believe that they secretly desire each other, perhaps one more than the other. Just a vibe. Later that night, we see both of them, sitting on the curb outside. One has her head in her hands.
The next day, we begin exploring the city. We take the 550 bus to Chinatown and walk through Pioneer square where we discover a random flea market that encapsulates Seattle: music, hippies, dancers, air mattresses, psychics, a modified Big Bird costume.
We walk along the pier and eat amazing clam chowder, calamari with cheese aioli, and fish at Fisherman’s Restaurant in Miner’s Landing. We sit outside and enjoy the water and sun.
Next, we explore Pike Place Market. I find a Filipino restaurant there with a recipe for chicken adobo written out. Masarap, it says.
After, we lounge on a park bench with a view of Puget Sound and Mt. Rainier.
A seagull steals a sandwich from a picnicker. Everyone laughs has he struggles to get the bag open. Eventually, a man momentarily scares him off so that the sandwich can be taken out of the bag.
The day is winding down, so we walk over in the direction of the Space Needle. We discover that a parade, the Seafair Parade, is about to begin. We are very confused about the theme: Navy captains, pirates, ethnic youth groups, marching bands, firefighters, beauty queens, unicyclers, clowns, the whole Chinatown, the Seahawk Cheerleaders.
Seattle is interesting, indeed. After ice cream, we head up to the Space Needle. The sun is setting, and the sky is a deep purple. We tour the 360 degree view, and settle inside with some tea. Such a lovely nightscape.
We take the Monorail back to the Westlake Center, where our bus to Bellevue would depart.
~~~
On our third day, we explore Capitol Hill, the LGBT hub. I get lost in Elliot Bay Bookstore for hours. I spent two years working at a bookstore, and I’m nostalgic about its simplicity and lack of pressure.
We then try the famous Bill’s Off Broadway and fall in love with their 3-cheese spinach dip and deep dish pizza (Chicken, Roasted Peppers).
Later, for dessert, we go to Molly Moon’s. The line is wrapped around the outside of the building! I am craving something nutty, so I order the Maple Walnut and is not disappointed. Next time, I’ll give the Honey Lavender a try. We walk across the street at the park and watch a game of basketball between some locals and some Catalans who work at a nearby hotel for the year.
We stay in Capitol Hill for the night. We head to The Lobby for a couple of drinks. There is a pirate-themed birthday party going on. At the end of the night, we try The Honeyhole, because the name is interesting. The clientele (older, white) does not match the music (NWA, Fuck Da Police).
Heading back to the bus station, we miss the 550 by 5 mins. We have to wait another 40 minutes until the next one arrives. Public transportation is a hassle in Seattle.
~~~
Our fourth day in Seattle is relatively relaxing. We walk around Bellevue and watch Salt at a nearby theater. On our last day, we enjoy wine, watch Netflix, eat roasted chicken that my uncle cooked. We prepare for our departure the next morning: laundry, grocery store, packing. My uncle cooks chicken adobo that we can pack for our trip east through the mountains.
Oakland to Portland, OR: Coast Starlight
Aboard the Coast Starlight again, we are less comfortable. Perhaps because the trips are shorter, the seats appear to have shorter leg rests, thus causing our feet to be swollen. The view, however, was spectacular. We see Mt. Shasta in the distance.
Below is Lookout Point, OR.
The rest of Oregon is exactly how I’d imagine it: lush, tall trees, mountains, rivers. I want to visit Klamath Falls one day.
We arrive in Portland in the afternoon. It’s suburban, clean, but diverse. There are bicyclists all over. It’s cloudy but warmer than I expected. Below is a view of Willamette River near Union Station, which has a nice bike/jog trail around it.
It is a long walk from Union Station to the red line, but we figure out a shortcut the next day, via the green/yellow.
After settling in at a much better budget hotel, Econolodge, we head over to Laurelwood Brewery via the metro bus.
The food hit the spot. Parmesan Fries, Roasted Chicken over vegetables. The beer is superb.
We watch some baseball–our hometeam, the St. Louis Cardinals are playing. Over at the next table, we are a little disturbed by the trio raucously playing a “White Trash” board game. We suppose. Afterward, we walk to another bar to play billiards. The crowd was small, but the music was good.
The next day, we take the metro train to the Oregon Zoo on a very cold morning (55 degrees). We discover that the zoo is located 453 feet above the city’s center. The sun appears around noon, and we enjoy the rest of the day. We head downtown and walk. We get Mexican food from a truck and converse with a male, Filipino flight attendant, who asks if we are students here.
Later in the afternoon, we try Bailey’s taproom. The vibe is chill, and the beer selection was plentiful.
We meant to go to saucebox across the street, but it looks a bit too bourgeois for us. We discover a gay pub nearby called Embers. I was hesitant. There were American Flags on the windows. What finally convinced me were the drag queens standing outside smoking. The place was friendly, and the music was neosoul, underground hip-hop. We were pleased. Because it was cash only, we had to leave to find an ATM.
A young, heterosexual, couple stops us to ask if there was a Subway around. (Perhaps we looked like locals.) We thought they meant, subway, the underground trail system, but they were hungry. We point them to a diner we saw near Bailey’s taproom. They are thankful.
We walk around some more and discover Someday lounge, which had amazing djs playing underground hip-hop. The locals were friendly and open. The vibe felt exactly right. We are officially sold on Portland.
Returning to San Francisco
The first time I was in San Francisco was 16 years ago–new arrivals (FOB, if you will) from faraway islands. I took the 21-hour plane trip with my father, older siblings, and maternal grandparents. My maternal aunt and uncle would greet us and take us back to Los Angeles where we would stay for several months. I hated the car ride. While I was used to ferries, boats, and planes, there was something about a car’s motion that messed with my inner ear.
I look forward to exploring the city, now that I’m older with a greater sense of awareness. We get on the Alameda/Oakland Ferry at 9:15 am. One good thing about the shitty hotel we booked is its proximity to the train station and the ferries.
We get to pier 41 and purchase a CityPASS. We decide to do the Bay Cruise and the Aquarium of the Bay first. We are freezing because it’s 12 degrees colder than usual, per the ticket attendant. I purchase a scarf and a fleece jacket.
We take the street cars and head to Powell’s Square. We’re confused about the lack of efficiency of their transportation. So many lines and variations, all heading to the same place. We head to the SF Museum of Modern Art and spend some time there.
We head further south and go to Castro. We discover the same trends we’d already recognized in Chicago, NYC, Los Angeles: there are no predominantly lesbian hubs. A sex store on Castro, for instance, did not carry much besides male toys or hetero-geared female toys. Do we not travel or have much impact economically, that we’re essentially invisible in these historic LGBT places? We did see two girls making out in the middle of an intersection, but that’s about it.
We drink Spanish wine and enjoy the dusk at Pier 1, before the ferry comes. We grab some diner food near the hotel. I wish I can remember the name of the place because they have amazing, fluffy cheesecake that we ate for breakfast the next day.
Day 2 of sightseeing includes the California Academy of Sciences, which is my favorite, and the de Young Museum and Legion of Honor. We take the bus system to arrive at these places, but the city is not difficult to navigate with a map.
We head back to the Fisherman’s Wharf to grab the famous clam chowder in a bread bowl from Guardino’s, but before we get there, a drunk, homeless white man throws a fork at my girlfriend.
We also miss a ferry and have to walk from Pier 39 to Pier 1. We head back to Oakland to board our train to Portland, Oregon around 8 pm.
Los Angeles to Oakland/San Francisco: Coast Starlight
Along the Coast Starlight, we see some of the most stunning views between Santa Barbara and San Luis Obispo: bluegreen ocean, pristine white-sand beaches, dolphins, seals. There are massive kelp visible off the coast, and I discover that there are people employed as kelp cutters.
On my right, there are mountains, clouds, and golden fields. It is breathtaking. I wish it would have lasted longer. One day, I plan on camping out here.
We arrive in Oakland at night. We reserved a room at a budget hotel, Jack London Inn, and expected less-than-stellar but livable accommodations. I did not expect a bullet hole in the glass window and a dilapidated room on the 4th floor. The hallway smells like cigarettes even though we asked for non-smoking. There are stains on the carpet. The curtains and chairs are about 30 years old. The bathroom was mildewy and smelled like stale body odor. Our theory is that because we are young, and we did not look professional, we were given the run-down rooms. The Youtube video on the website is beyond misleading.
Returning to Los Angeles
Near Palms Springs or so, I wake up and look outside to see this windfarm. I’m amazed at our destructive innovation. Even this way of collecting clean energy corrupted this landscape against red mountains.
We pass through orange groves, and I think about structured rows and equal distribution of energy. In the jungle, in true nature, there are no farmer’s hands guiding our survival, only competition and natural selection. We’re clever to have gotten this far, to no longer be affected by such factors as uncertainty and low yield.
The Sunset Limited arrives in Los Angeles on a cool morning. Union Station is busy, as expected, and full of weirdos. A shoeless woman talks to herself: “You a lie, ho.”
I’m expecting a lengthy layover, so a friend picks up me for brunch at Basix in West Hollywood. Around 11 am, my girlfriend arrives from San Diego, via Amtrak as well. She’ll join me for the rest of trip north and east.
Our first stop is Las Vegas, or so we plan. Because there are no trains going to Las Vegas, we have to take a Greyhound bus, contracted by Amtrak. Along with 10 other passengers, we wait. And wait. And wait.
Three hours later, still no bus. We are told several different stories: the bus was searched in Fresno for a possible bomb threat. (Coincidentally, there had been a fatal Greyhound accident just two days ago.) Another story involves a fire. A third story seems more plausible: it broke down.
The bus coordinator, a short Hispanic man seems to be on our side at first. After hours of our complaining and waiting, he tells us that a van can take us over to the Greyhound terminal, from which our bus to Las Vegas will depart. Some passengers are willing to do that, but I am immediately suspicious. I say to the other passengers: “He just wants to get rid of us. I’m staying.” Other passengers agree: “How do we know they’ll honor these tickets from Amtrak?” The bus coordinator gives us no answers.
We are irate around the 4th hour. It would take 6 hours to get to Las Vegas, and by then, we will have missed our first of two nights there. It was pointless to go because we would be there for one night, then get right back on a bus to Bakersfield, and finally to Oakland. Our hotel reservations were non-refundable, too.
The bus coordinator offers us only 1 night of a hotel at Metro Plaza Hotel, across from Union Station. It was ok, except the second night cost us $100. (We could not leave any earlier because our itinerary was set for us to arrive in Oakland, CA on July 25th.)
Although this is an unexpected stay in Los Angeles, we enjoy it. I’d lived here for several months, in Culver City, when I first arrived from the Philippines. LA is not one of my favorite cities; it’s a visceral dislike that I cannot explain. It could be, too, that an ex of mine is moving here, so I want to avoid it.
We go to Truck Stop at Here Lounge that night with my LA friend and her girls. We bypass the line and get in quickly. The wet dancing girls on the bar did not disappoint, but it was ridiculously packed. I am told that there are really only two places on West Hollywood for lesbians. As big as this city is, why is that the case? If I were an entrepreneur with proclivities for nightclubs, I’d definitely fill the need. Alas, I’m much too deep in academia for such a change.
Later, we go to a karaoke bar, and I try soju for the first time. It was mixed with orange juice and deceptively sweet.
The next day, we head to a Mexican market across the street and find La Noche Buena, which has the most amazing, moist, well-seasoned chicken tacos. If I return to this city, I will find this place again.
Afterward, we grab some churros from Mr. Churros, who overcharges us because I asked for it in English. The previous costumer received 4 for $4, while I paid $2 for 1. I decide to let it go, and we walk to an art gallery at la Instituto Cultural Mexicano, which was showcasing artwork on The Chicano Moratorium.
We take the subway, which is so clean, compared to NYC or Chicago, that I get an eerie feeling. The white security guard approaches us: “Where are you gals from?” and not in a friendly way. He was looking for information. We head to the Walk of Fame and do the usual tourist things.
Taking the subway back, we get a glimpse of the racial tension here.
A drunken Mexican is shouting: “This is our countreeeee!”
“No, you’re immigrants,” says a Caucasian male.
“We’re all immigrants,” says someone else.
Later that night, we see Inception at the Regal on Olympic. I’d like to see Los Angeles again, at another time. I can’t say I miss it, but it was a good visit.
New Orleans to Los Angeles: Sunset Limited
After running errands–Walmart to purchase a blanket and the post office to mail my textbooks to St. Louis–I arrive to board very late, by my standards. The line is long, and an attendant had already distributed seat numbers. I’ll be on this train for two days, so I hope to get a window seat. My gadgets and I need to be adjacent to the electrical outlet.
As I approached the coach car, I request a window seat, but the attendant insists that he cannot give the seats out of order. Thankfully, my neighbor, a Hispanic woman from Yuma, lets me have the window seat. She, too, only stayed in NOLA overnight. She did not even bring a bag.
“What do you do?” she asks.
“I’m an adjunct professor,” I say, which surprises her and prompts additional questions.
She is in social work, she says, and thinking about going into education. She talks about her Guatemalan boyfriend, and the train departs.
There are two white lesbians across the aisle who whisper and snicker. There is a French family of three, and the father needs a bath. He sits next to a black man who has trouble with flatulence. This leg of the trip will be long.
After a stunning view across the Huey P. Long Bridge over the Mississippi, I catch up on sleep for 5 hours. We arrive in Houston early and stay for 1 hour. I appreciate the nightview of downtown Houston with a bright moon.
It occurs to me that I should have contacted my brother or father, but they did not know I was passing through Houston or traveling this summer. According to my itinerary, I did not have enough time to stop here anyway. (I did not feel bad about this since I’d just seen both of them twice this year, which is more than the usual.)
We continue on board the Sunset Limited, and I write poems until late into the night. I intend to finish my second manuscript–a series of disjunctive, non-linear poems–before I arrive in Los Angeles where I would meet my significant other and continue the trip northward. I am at poem 25 of 30. Aside from the man of flatulence in front of me, I am as happy as can be.
For breakfast the next day, I have a banana, an apple, and mixed nuts. My neighbor–the woman from Yuma–stayed in San Antonio, although her ticket was for Tucson. We pass a ravine:
It was windy, beautiful, breathtaking, short-lived–exactly what life should be. (Those are my neighbors who wished to get across as quickly as possible.)
The landscape for hours is amazing: vast blue sky, green horizon, hills, wildflowers, prickly pear atop cacti, which reminds me of the best margaritas I’ve ever had at a now-closed Delmar Loop bar, Mirasol, in St. Louis.
I read about a town called Langtry, Texas, which was named after a saloon keeper’s love: a British actress he had never met. I think about our obsessions and their legacies.
Somewhere near Mexico, I have no cellphone service for three hours. There is something freeing about disconnection, a theme I have previously visited in life and in poems. I’m sure I will again.
Behind me, a 4-year-old child reads a story about Harriet Tubman to her grandmother. A spelling lesson follows after.
We stop in Alpine, Texas. There is no platform for us to step on, only rocks. Not much is here but sun and distant hills.
In El Paso, we switch to Mountain Time. A lady gets left, and the passengers discuss it for some time.
New Mexico greets us with a haze of gold, sunset, rain, mesas. Cornflower blue sky. Cerulean storm clouds.
The Arizona desert disappears into the blackness of the night. I want to see it during the day. We stop in Tucson, and a friend brings by a chicken sandwich from McDonald’s. I find out that Mountain Standard Time is really Central Time in the spring.
Another night passes, and the morning brings another adventure.
Returning to New Orleans
I am picked up by a black man with long dreadlocks, wearing a canary yellow shirt, driving a maroon SUV. He’s my former admissions recruiter from the Honors College I attended as an undergrad. We subsequently became dear friends. He is now a real estate agent loving/living in NOLA and has been trying to get me to move here for the past 4 years.
The last time I was here was in November of 2006, for the V-Day conference at Tulane University. There I had met Eve Ensler, writer of the Vagina Monologues and an awe-inspiring activist, and other kindred souls. Compelled by the city’s recovery, its inherent beauty, its mixed culture, I began to wonder about the possibilities of living here one day.
We head immediately to the French Quarter because I’m only here overnight. Tomorrow the train for Los Angeles departs at noon. We try Napoleon House, but it was closed. We walk the quarter, and serendipitously, I run into friend from undergrad who is a tour guide. She joins us for dinner at Market Cafe.
“How do you know each other?” asks my friend, the tour guide.
“She’s my wife, but she left me. This is our daughter.” He pulls out a picture, and we continue the joke for a while. I order a shrimp po’ boy since there are no oysters available due to the BP oil spill. Afterwards, we all share a decadent and enormous slice of bread pudding.
The tour guide asks the real estate agent about a haunted mansion near Lincoln. It was Nicholas Cage’s mansion, but he is now selling it. We hear about its history: the wife of a doctor experimented on 30 slaves there.
The tour guide continues to talk excitedly about New Orleans. I learn that the slave trade here was different from the rest of the U.S. The French commission laws were more lenient, allowing slaves to marry freemen. Children could not be sold if one parent is free. If two slaves had children, the family must be sold together. Slaves were allowed to sell crafts on Sundays. There was Conga town, which was named for the percussive music that was played. There was system of plaçage, which I had read about while reading the works of Alice Dunbar-Nelson. It was Irishmen and freemen who built the canals, which guaranteed malaria. Slaves were too valuable.
As per tradition, we continue with the night. We head uptown in the Garden District to a pub called Bulldog. There we meet up with friends of the real estate agent, Filipina sisters, and enjoy the 75-degree night next to a fountain made with beer tap handles.
Later in the night, we head back to the French Quarter to Bourbon Street. We end up at The Pub, which has a drag-king show. I learn about the NOLA Bounce.
A guy named Wayne buys the tour guide and I drinks. We feel sorry for him because his daughter did not show up. There’s not many places where parents party with their kids.
As we were leaving around 4am, we stumble into a pizza place.
“What can we get for $1?” I ask the Iraqi server who had been trying to flirt with me. We each receive a slice of pizza. The night ends perfectly.