20 minute radius

One of the most amazing things about San Diego its diversity of activities. The city is right on the waterfront and famous for surfing, swimming, snorkeling, and sailing. Inland just a few miles the topography jumps up to a mountain playground for hiking, cycling, cliff jumping, and rock climbing while pressing further still gives way to the desert, a mecca for dirt bikers and other off road enthusiasts. Two hours to the north puts one in LA with high society in Hollywood or hip hop’s roots in Compton, and a passport is needed to get an hour south.
The past three days I had the opportunity to really embrace the local activities hitting up a night of velodrome racing, horse racing, and Comic Con – all within 20 minutes of Pacific Beach.
Tuesday night racing, or TNR as the cool kids call it, is the weekly fast race at the San Diego Velodrome. A concrete track, 333 meters in length with a dead grass infield it isn’t the prettiest thing in the world but at least San Diego has a velodrome, unlike most cities in America. I grew up in an area with rich track racing roots at the Trexler town track where legends like Marty Nolstien frequented, and Dave Wood attempted Gymkana 3 driving stunts in a pickup truck. The scene there was great with top end racing, heckling, noise makers, drunk fans, and the occasional racer pulling up to the wall to chug a beer. The San Diego scene needs a little work – there’s a lot of hipsters and a lot of people not being ridiculous – so I did my best to amp people up by going wild with the biggest cowbell I could find. I don’t know if they got amped up, or if I just drove the lamest ones so crazy the left, but by the end of the night people were starting to cheer and get into the spirit a little more. A little 6 year old was walking around under the bleachers yelling “ding ding ding” as loud as he could, so on the last preem and bell lap of the last race I gave him the cowbell and he went crazy. But in a good way, he only rang it when I told him to so as not to confuse the racers.
Wednesday was opening day at the Del Mar race track so I went and watched more things go fast and turn left. Athena did 104mph (literally) on the way there until we ran into a traffic jam miles away from the exit. We took back roads to find a parking spot, climbed over train tracks and were threatened with arrest, and followed the stream of ridiculous hats and girls with lots of makeup until we finally found our way to the track. I don’t understand horse betting at all but by the end of the day I decided the best idea is three-packs since one of my friends won $250 on a $6 bet. I can’t even describe the ridiculous attire that was pervasive in the crowd but hats that looked like a shot glass balanced on a girl’s head, white leisure suits, and parasols start to set the scene. The girl in front of me had two massive feathers sticking off the back of her hat perfectly spaced to take out two eyes in one shot, and she almost got me at least thrice.
Despite the “go fast turn left” trend, I did not go to a Nascar race on Thursday. Thankfully. Thursday was ComicCon in downtown San Diego and most stereotypes held true, set to the background of massive advertising campaigns. Every Cartoon Network, sci-fi, or animated show had hot girls in costumes to hand out tee shirts, stickers, and buttons. Show goers got backpacks 3 feet by 3 feet with their admission, and filled them up with all the shwag available. One girl filled her’s so much the bottom ripped out as she attempted to run across the street. Watching all the crowds and cars and advertising machines circulate gave me a better appreciation for urban planning, or the lack-there-of. When cars back up the traffic cops stop all the pedestrians to allow a block full of vehicles to pass. Seems to make sense at first until I realized that a block of cars contains about 8 people, and those 8 people back up 50-60 on the sidewalks. Pedicabs are regulated against, but 3 huge tractor-trailers wrapped in advertising drive around the most congested streets pumping out diesel fumes with no regulation.
I did all of this within a 20 minute drive of Pacific Beach which itself is famous for surfing and nightlife. So many things to do, so little time. Good thing I’m retired.


Awesome pedicab at Comic Con


Placid crowd at San Diego Velodrome

Back into the States!

Getting back to the States did little to calm my travel schedule. I flew from Quito to Atlanta, bailed on my Atlanta to San Diego flight and instead hopped on one bound for Washington DC. My brother Mike picked me up and we went straight to the Georgetown convocation where I found out he had a fan club of girls screaming his name from across the parking lot. I guess one of the benefits of being 6’4” is you don’t need a mohawk to stand out. I met a bunch of Mike’s friends, ate some good Mexican which I had been craving for months, and drank some bad college beer to round out the night.
Rebecca, my sister, came down from my parents’ house in the Philly suburbs the next day. We were all pretty excited to get together since all three siblings hadn’t been in the same place at once in 5 years. We’ve been able to hang out one on one a few times, but we haven’t all been in the same location since 2006 when we were all at very different points in our lives. We decided to mark the occasion by going to every T-mobile and Radio Shack store in the greater Georgetown area looking for a phone battery. It was a glorious celebration.
Later that evening was Georgetown’s Senior Ball. I put on a formal outfit comprised entirely of borrowed cloths, while Mike and Rebecca, having not lived out of a backpack the preceding 3 months, put on their own dress attire.
Now I didn’t go to any of CU’s graduation functions, but then again CU doesn’t rent out the single busiest transportation hub of the single most influential city in the world for a night and set up 32 open bars. Georgetown does. We rolled up to Union Station and were greeted by the most massive line of people dressed like they were going into a state dinner. Hair and makeup done, fully tailored suits, “sir”s and “doctor”s and “captian”s everywhere. I was surrounded by the Hollywood image of academia, but somehow this was more polished and picturesque than the movies could have ever conveyed and this was actually real. Once we convinced the doorman to let us jump half the line we entered a sea of people filling the entire Union Station hall and several of the adjoining restaurants. Some were dancing to the live band playing Beatles covers, some were picking from tables of beautifully presented hors d’hoeuvres, and at least two were trying to tick off a drink at every single open bar. We spent the night hanging out with Mike’s friends and ordering drinks by the armload, dancing to the DJ downstairs, and watching a 50 year old woman, presumably the mother of some terribly embarrassed student, sling her sultry leg over the railing of an escalator as she exited the dance floor.
Saturday and Sunday were family time and watching Mike graduate with a fist bump to the President of Georgetown, and Monday I slung a backpack o’er my shoulder again. I hit the Philadelphia suburbs, then up to Albany to see my grandmother, NYC, Philadelphia proper, and back out to the suburbs in under a week.
The East Coast has buses that run between Chinatown in all the major cities, and they are incredibly cheap. I was told my cousin doesn’t like them because, although they’re really cheap, no one speaks English and you can’t be completely sure you’re going to get where you want to go. After a couple months in South America that seemed normal.
I watched my friend’s daughter dominate on the BMX track, visited with some more family, did some east coast mountain biking (there are alternate trails TO fallen logs, not around them), and then spent a week in DC with my brother and sister to round out my time on the East Coast. Finally I climbed into a spraypainted hippie “artcar” and took a Craigslist rideshare to Boulder.

Now I'm published!

Hey! I just got a story about Canoa published on GoNomad.com. Check out the site, or the direct link is http://www.gonomad.com/destinations/1106/ecuador-canoa.html
Enjoy!

You don't have to be crazy...

The bus system in South America is a great friend of the backpacker. It’s cheap, its relaible, and generally speaking its safe. Buses run every hour or so to every major destination and most of them will let you off anywhere you want if just asked. Hitch hiking, conversely, is not known as one of the safest forms of transportation, but it is cheap and really fun.

After a long ride in a rickety bus along dirt roads I was dropped off in a small town half way between Villa de Leyva and San Gil in the Santander Department of Colombia. I was supposed to flag down a bus headed to San Gil but as I stood on the side of the road I wondered why I was waiting for a bus when cars and trucks were constantly passing me. I thought about it for a few minutes - all the kid nappings and ransoms and paramilitaries juxaposed to all the great people I had met in Colombia. I waited for the first decent looking car to pass and stuck out my thumb. The ride was short and my hosts weren’t very talkative, but just like that - first car - I was hitch hiking in Colombia.

Medellin and Cali are two large cities in Colombia connected by about 12 hours on the Autopista Sur. I decided they would be the perfect spots to hitch between so after a few days in Medellin I walked to the edge of the city and optimistically put my thumb out. I stood there, then stood there, and then stood some more. Unlike my first experience, three hours later I was still standing there, the only thing changed being my cloths were damp from the rain that blew through.

I was starting to lose faith when two kids in their early 20’s crossed the street to talk to me. We conversed a bit but were having a difficult time communicating through the language barrier. A few days earlier when two kids that age started talking to me they pulled a knife and wanted to relieve me of my money and camera. This time I was slightly more wary but gave these strangers the benefit of the doubt anyway. By the end of our conversation they had put me on a bus, talked to the driver who nodded at me, and waved as I left to a destination still unknown to me.

Not knowing where I was, where I was going, nor what instructions had been given to the driver, in true form I immediately fell asleep. I awoke a few times seeing beautiful mountain scenery speeding by the windows but didn’t rouse until the driver tapped me on the knee and motioned towards the door.

Stumbling out of the bus in a haze of sleep I looked around. I had apparently been dropped at a toll booth where I was meant to solicit a ride from the cars as they stopped. I wasn't feeling very confident about this since my Spanish isn't perfect and drivers were already being bombarded by people selling all sorts of food and another group of hitchers looking for a ride but as a few drops of rain started to fall I decided uncomfortably asking for rides was more comfortable than standing in the rain. I began browsing for my first target.

At this point I realized the greatest thing about hitching in Colombia - everyone's license plate says what town they're from. I found a plate that said Manizales on a decent looking Hyundai 4x4 and asked the driver for a lift. He agreed and soon I was rolling along in comfort talking to Juan, a software specialist in his early 40's who even spoke a little English. Actually, "rolling along" may need clarifying. He drove like I wish I was allowed to drive in the States. We were passing trucks, cars, and buses with cowboy confidence. We came into corners hot, slammed on the brakes, and accelerated out the other side. A smile started to creep across my face as he explained his job with automated machinery and the necessity to learn English while in the background his tires squeaked around 14 consecutive corners.

When I grabbed the door handle to keep from getting tossed around the car he declared "You don't have to be crazy to drive in Colombia...but it helps." I assured him I was enjoying myself which he took as carte blanche to go 115kph through a 30kph zone. (To be fair, it was the only straight and level part of the drive.)

As we neared Manizales we were stopped in traffic almost directly across the street from his mother's farm. We were told there was an accident ahead which had resulted in a motorcyclists death - a somber reminder that although driving like a maniac can be fun, it can also have dire consequences.

Instead of driving to his house and letting me find my way from there, my new friend took it upon himself to give me a complete tour of his town including the good spots to hitch from the next day, and then dropped me right in front of my hostel. It was another amazing experience hitching and beat any bus ride I had taken in the previous 3 months.

The intersection in Manizales near where I was hitching.

People in Colombia don't mess around with their mopeds. 125 cc's, 2 people, 2 massive bags, mountain roads, in the rain. Like it ain't no thang.

As the rain cleared the rain lit up a few of the clouds.

Riding in the back of a farm truck through Coffee Country.

Most of South America is built like a giant skate park. This was the only kid I saw utilizing it appropriately.

Comments and feedback, please!

I'm trying to get some activity on the blog here so if you have any comments, feedback, questions, or suggestions please post them up. Google gives stats on how many people read the blog and last month I had a couple hundred page views and about 10 comments. I appreciate the comments on FB or via email, but I'd like to transfer this into a writing gig if possible so companies need to know people are reading it. Leave some love, tell me how to make it better, tell me what you like, give suggestions on where to go, whatever's on your mind. Holla

PS - but don't leave them on this particular post. I'm going to delete it later so I don't look so desperate.

Drugs, politics, and bikes.

I'm not much of a guided tour sort of guy - I like to go where I want, when I want, and I don´t like someone else telling where I should be looking or for how long. That being said - when I heard there was a tour of Pablo Escobar´s house where visitors got to sit around in his living room and chat with his brother... I had to do it.
Juan, our tour guide came to pick us up and I jumped in the car with Julia, an Aussie girl I had met at the hostel and two other kids from hostels in the city. As we wound our way through Medellin Juan told us the brief history of the Escobar family and we marveled at how much the city has changed in the past 20 years.
Two decades ago Medellin was one of the most dangerous cities in the world. Escobar was warring with the Cali Cartel, bombs were planted in the streets, kidnappings happened on a regular basis, and it was easy to get caught in the crossfire. It was a complete non-destination for tourism and even those brave enough to go to Colombia in the early 90´s avoided Medellin. Today Medellin is a beautiful and safe city, complete with museums, botanical gardens, and a ¨golden mile¨ of high end restaurants and night clubs. It even has a metro system which was strategically built so it encompasses some of the most downtrodden areas of the city and attempts to reincorporate them into the social fabric.
When we arrived at the house we were told no area was off limits, we could take pictures of anything we wanted, and Roberto was happy to answer any and all questions. I felt like a kid in a candy store. Roberto came out and we all introduced ourselves, shook hands, and exchanged small talk. Work was being done on the garage so the first things we saw were a 1950´s pickup truck, the first vehicle Roberto bought, and a fully bulletproof Chevy 1500. Not only was the Chevrolet bulletproof, it also had fog machines, oil reservoirs to drop on the road, and a few other James Bond inspired gadgets to help evade police. We all hopped in and pretended to drive it for silly photo ops.
Next up we were shown the Harley that Pablo used for his first drug smuggling mission. In one purchase he turned a $50,000 profit, and in the early 80´s that was a lot of money.
Just inside the front door there is a bullet hole through a picture frame and into the wall, however oddly enough this wasn´t from the gun slinging days of drug running. About a year ago Roberto was tipped off that a small gang was planning on ransacking the house looking for buried treasure that the Escobars supposedly hid there. The police showed up and a shoot out ensued, taking the lives of 3 young men.
Then we moved on to the bike room. I try to keep it under control most of the time, but sometimes the bike nerd in me explodes and this was one of those times. One wall of the small room was filled with pictures and newspaper clippings from Roberto´s racing days before he got involved in drug dealing. He spent 4 years racing on the National team before coaching it for a decade, and even has a picture with Eddy Merckx. Opposite the pictures is a specially made Colnago with gold plated chianstays, head set, and fork - one of four ever made that Ernesto specifically gifted to Pablo, and Pablo gave to Roberto. So. Effing. Cool.
Outside we hung out with Roberto for a while asking him questions and getting a little better idea what his life has been like. No one wanted to step on his toes - he was so nice to let us into his home and share his experiences with us that no one wanted to offend him with hard questions. I couldn´t let this opportunity pass though, and as things got more comfortable I started asking him about the toll of the drug business and a formally Wanted man´s take on US foreign policy. He was very open, and oddly it was our tour guide who had the most amount of uncomfortable pauses.
Before we left I had to get Roberto back into the bike room to take a picture with his Colnago. Earlier that day I had flipped on the TV in the hostel and found the Giro d'Itallia on. I´m a little out of touch and the broadcast was in Spanish so I was surprised to see the Trek team in all black move to the front of the peloton with 5K to go. As I watched a little more I knew something was very wrong and then found out a rider had crashed and died the day before. I was actually very moved by the solidarity shown by the peloton and with it fresh in my mind talked to Roberto about it a bit. And since I know the words for cyclist, downhill, and bike race in Spanish I could talk one on one without a translator to one of the world´s most notorious drug dealers - unlike when I needed words such as assassinate, smuggle, and foreign policy.

After saying bye to Roberto we saw the house where Pablo was killed, his grave site, and his former penthouse which was rocked by a massive bomb from the Cali Cartel. All of it was interesting, but the high mark was definitely seeing the human side of a legend - talking to Roberto Escobar

Roberto and I with his 1 of 4 Colnago.

Hanging out in the James Bond pickup.

Old meets new

Every bit as hot as the jungle and almost as humid, the city of Cartagena still managed to capture my heart. The history is rich, largely preserved, and accessible in the old town, while Boca Grande offers new architecture with stunning skyscraper apartments on the beach, and the Getsanami district has a great mix of local culture, abundant hostels, and is within walking distance of nearly everything. And I feel like Dickens, starting off with a huge run-on sentence.

Aimee decided our day in the jungle was now going to be called “Best day ever” but the day that followed wasn’t so bad either. We woke up after sleeping on mattresses that would have been softer if they had been made of plywood, walked out and headed toward the old city following its walls towards the beach. We soon found ourselves on Boca Grande, a large peninsula of affluence and high rise apartments, where we were immediately greeted by Kelly who really wanted to give us massages. She offered a demonstration and since my shirt was already off began giving me a massage despite all the “No gracias” in the world. Now that I was in one spot a second beach vendor came over to offer oyster shooters with lime juice. I’ve never done an oyster shooter, and I really had no intention of doing one, but I could think of no better place to do one than on the Caribbean beach in Colombia while I got a massage demonstrated to me. I wasn’t a fan of the texture on the first one, or the second or the third for that matter, but I had little choice in the matter as the man continued to pop the shells and thrust them in front of my face.

Now a third woman came over and attempted to give Aimee a massage. Feeling that things were getting a little out of control I stopped the oyster shoots at number 7, told Kelly thank you and tipped both of them before making a run for it. Nothing was stolen, they didn’t try to follow us, and although she didn’t eat random uncooked seafood from strangers ironically it was Aimee that got food poisoning the next day, not me.

Later that day we were walking though a small city park when a kid in his late teens started pointing at something. Following his finger we saw a monstrous iguana meandering around freely. Then he pointed into a tree where another one was snoozing lazily. I couldn’t believe we had walked almost ¾ of the way though the park and not seen this. Then he blew my mind pointing into the high reaches of another tree where a sloth was dangling from a branch. A sloth! Wild, in a city park! Next up was a couple monkeys teaching their skittish baby how to climb and jump around but we were completely let down by the grand finale, fish swimming around in a really dirt pool. I told him we had fish in the States and I wanted to see another sloth. He shrugged not knowing where another one was, but then looked up and found one literally in the tree above us. We gave him some money for his “sick daughter” but really I would have been happy to pay him just for showing us all that. I tried to climb the tree to get a better look at the sloth but my progress was halted by a bazillion ants and thinning tree limbs. Either way I got a pretty good picture and this time, unlike when me and Aimee met, I didn’t almost get arrested for climbing trees in a city park.

Our final day in Cartagena was spent climbing around on an ancient castel. Pictures below.

Tunnels through the castle.

Exploring the tunnels.

Feeding wild iguanas.

Close up of the sloth.