Sunday, September 16, 2007
Yo Amo Pastalitos! - Episode 9
I might have mentioned in prior blogs that the food in Venezuela (at least the stuff we were being force fed) was not the world's greatest stuff. We wanted to go out and be adventurous, sample some of the local flavor, but the opportunity really wasn't there (until the very end when we were all outta dough of course). On day 3, the start of competition, I discovered the concession stand in the basketball facility. I happend to be in there because my little phenom swimmer was to subjected to drug testing. I'd been in there first thing in the morning, but only to tape up basketball and then I hightailed it to the pool. Stopping by, or even looking for the existence of a concession stand was not an option. Regardless, I ended up there, for 2 1/2 hours, later that morning. While we waited and waited.........and waited, for my girl to pee in the cup - I made my way around to the concession stand. Little joint - sorta what one might find in a middle school somewhere. They had the usual, soda, cookies, chips - and then the not so usual, 3 different kinds of wafers (I should blog about wafers just cause I love them so much and they were completely abundant down there), odd and assorted juices, and homemade pastry type things.
Let's keep something in mind here - at our concession stands we sell what? Nachos, hot dogs, popcorn, perhaps a burger if they're real well equipped. Maybe they've ordered pizza to sell. It's virtually always something along those lines with the candy, soda, and whatnot. I suppose that hot dogs, and nachos just aren't staples in Venezuela like they are here, but these pastry things apparently are.
Well, lunch has come and gone and the bus left us ages ago, so we're sitting around waiting for my girl to pee in the cup...........still. I head back to the concession stand and order up a Pepsi. I am eyeing these pastry things and wondering if they're gonna be safe to eat. My stomach cannot handle poorly cooked food - or really greasy food - or undercooked food - or really much of anything on any given day. I'd prefer not to have an adventure in foreign concession stand cuisine ruin my day and/or my entire week in Venezuela. Nonetheless, it's my only option for lunch so I figure I should give it a go. Along with the Pepsi I ask for whatever's in the case there. Uno. The guy (who later became a fantastic friend) grabs a papertowel, picks up the pastry and hands it over. It's nice and warm and flakey. It smells pretty good and they've already told me it's filled with meat. I take a deep breath and bite in to it - completely unsure of what to expect. Well, what I got was complete and utter amazement. It was good. It was so amazingly good. A flakey filo dough, square, filled with chicken and spices. It was by far the best thing I'd had to eat since my glorious crabcake sandwich at the Tidewater at Dulles. I expressed this sentiment - "This is the best food I've had since I got to this country!" Mind you, not a single soul there had a clue what I was saying, but they could tell I was thrilled to death with my lunch. I asked what it was called. Being super dumb and full on knowing the world "nombre," I didn't manage to pull that outta my limited vocabulary. Nope, took several tries to get them to tell me what the damn thing was called - the hard way. "Pastalito!" Sweet meat and pastry nectar of the Gods - pastalito! I was so excited by this I could hardly contain myself. I don't remember if I went back for another one immediately or later that day, but I definitely went back. In fact, I went back just about every day at least once. I took whomever was interested with me and forced them to eat one as well. Surely if I loved it they would love it too - and I was right!
I believe it was day 5, I was heading over before volleyball got underway to grab myself a Pepsi and pastalito and I asked for takers. Mike was willing, so he came along. Seeing my new concession friend I said "tres pastalitos y Pepsi." Yep, I was getting right good at the Spanish (or not, but I could at least order what I wanted from the concession stand). So Mike gets the pastalito in hand and looking familiarly unsure - takes a bite. Waits for it, smiles, and says "this is the best thing I've had to eat since I've been here." Oddly familiar - yep, my sentiments exactly. I was super excited to have a friend to share my pastalito love with. I forced this experience on virtually every athelete, parent and spectator I could convince to follow me over there - each one truly pleased to have come along. I would eat pastalitos over the OV virtually any time the opportunity struck - and with all of our athletes getting drug tested it was really quite easy to do so.
I really need to put some time and effort in to one of three things. 1. Find an easy recipie and start making these bad boys at home (somehow in the oven cause deep frying is not something I'm keen on). 2. Find a store that sells them ready to cook. 3. Find a Venezuelan restaurant that would actually serve up something you'd find in a concession stand.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Tuesday, September 11, 2007 - Extreme street crossing - Episode 8
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Extreme street crossing - Episode 8
I really didn't have much reason, or opportunity really, to cross the street while in Venezuela. Our hotel was on what appeared to be the main drag. Lots of stores and such up and down from the hotel and virtually anything you could want was on the same side of the road. I did; however, have a couple of experiences crossing the street - during daylight or just post daylight hours - that were.....harrowing, shall we say?
Day 2 - Opening Ceremonies. This event was held in a nice stadium that was conveniently located directly across the street from our hotel. It started right at dusk, so while there was still plenty of daylight, all of Team USA crossed the street. The street was a 6 lane with a decent size median in the middle, so if you could only make it halfway across at one time then that was ok. No serious issues crossing over to the stadium, ceremonies happend, Miss Venezuela was there - the boys went nuts, and the shindig ended. Leaving the stadium it was definitely dark outside. Probably 8ish at night, but still quite busy out as it was Saturday evening. There are stoplights in Venezuela, not unlike here, and if you're lucky there are also the crossing lights. I'm pretty sure there was no crossing light in front of the hotel, but we can all see red and green and it's pretty easy to judge when it is and is not safe to cross the road. Myself and a female athlete were standing on the corner, being the first two out of the ceremony, waiting on the light to change so we could cross. The light turns red, traffic stops, nobody is turning right, so we proceed to try and make it to the median. Not halfway out in to the road, light still red, a motorcycle comes flying through the intersection right at us. I grab the girl and pull her backwards as I'm exiting stage left myself. I swear these people don't know what a stoplight is. My best guess is that stoplights only apply to vehicles with 4 or more tires, and those with two just kind of have their own traffic laws. Regardless, we made it across safely after that incident.
Day 5 - The Lunch. You might recall my last blog where I discussed the volleyball lunch, and my adventure with Todd to every ATM within a 3 block radius. This adventure involved a good bit of street crossing. To start with, it was midday on a Tuesday - lunch time. People take lunch in Venezuela just the same as they do around here. It's a busy time of day to say the least. As we walked up to where we needed to cross to get to the pizzaria, I noticed that there was a crosswalk - of all things, a crosswalk - only it wasn't at an intersection, nor a light of any sort. Nope, just a crosswalk, in the middle of the street. Anywho, I figured a crosswalk in the middle of the street is about as good as it's gonna get around these parts, so myself and another athlete or two decide to brave it. Traffic is flying by like mad. I'm pretty sure these people have zero traffic laws, and if there are actual laws........well, they just don't follow them at all. It's kind of like double dutch - when you're watching the ropes turn, and you want to jump in, but you have to time it just right. You're trying to feel the rhythm, and when you think you've got it you make a break for it and run in. That's what it was like crossing the street. A few busses, or box trucks, or SUVs would fly by, and you'd gauge the next few cars coming up the road. Was there time to make a run for it? Would it be safer to just wait for the light to change, 2 blocks up? Two lanes are traffic free, but there's a car whizzing up lane 3 - so we should walk up to lane 3, wait for the car to fly by and then shoot the gap to the median. This scenario is ineveitably what happend. Now, on the opposite side of the median there was considerably less traffic. The light on the next block did a superior job of stopping up the flow coming at us, so we were able to just cruise across. Once 3 or 4 of us got over there, we decided that we didn't want to eat at that joint, so we braved it and walked back across. Actually, walking never really happend - we stutter-stepped really. A half jog, half walk, half back track sort of jig if you will. Once we were back with the rest of the team we decided that we'd rather have the pizzaria, so we braved the traffic yet again.
By the time we had to go do the ATM run, I felt fully confidant that I could cross the road under any circumstances because I'd already crossed about 10 times in 10 minutes. We sailed across to the ATM and coming back was no sweat either - it was the inbetween that was blog worthy. After lunch I crossed by myself cause I had to catch a bus back over to the University to cover Track & Field. Miraculously I survived that too.
Extreme street crossing - Episode 8
I really didn't have much reason, or opportunity really, to cross the street while in Venezuela. Our hotel was on what appeared to be the main drag. Lots of stores and such up and down from the hotel and virtually anything you could want was on the same side of the road. I did; however, have a couple of experiences crossing the street - during daylight or just post daylight hours - that were.....harrowing, shall we say?
Day 2 - Opening Ceremonies. This event was held in a nice stadium that was conveniently located directly across the street from our hotel. It started right at dusk, so while there was still plenty of daylight, all of Team USA crossed the street. The street was a 6 lane with a decent size median in the middle, so if you could only make it halfway across at one time then that was ok. No serious issues crossing over to the stadium, ceremonies happend, Miss Venezuela was there - the boys went nuts, and the shindig ended. Leaving the stadium it was definitely dark outside. Probably 8ish at night, but still quite busy out as it was Saturday evening. There are stoplights in Venezuela, not unlike here, and if you're lucky there are also the crossing lights. I'm pretty sure there was no crossing light in front of the hotel, but we can all see red and green and it's pretty easy to judge when it is and is not safe to cross the road. Myself and a female athlete were standing on the corner, being the first two out of the ceremony, waiting on the light to change so we could cross. The light turns red, traffic stops, nobody is turning right, so we proceed to try and make it to the median. Not halfway out in to the road, light still red, a motorcycle comes flying through the intersection right at us. I grab the girl and pull her backwards as I'm exiting stage left myself. I swear these people don't know what a stoplight is. My best guess is that stoplights only apply to vehicles with 4 or more tires, and those with two just kind of have their own traffic laws. Regardless, we made it across safely after that incident.
Day 5 - The Lunch. You might recall my last blog where I discussed the volleyball lunch, and my adventure with Todd to every ATM within a 3 block radius. This adventure involved a good bit of street crossing. To start with, it was midday on a Tuesday - lunch time. People take lunch in Venezuela just the same as they do around here. It's a busy time of day to say the least. As we walked up to where we needed to cross to get to the pizzaria, I noticed that there was a crosswalk - of all things, a crosswalk - only it wasn't at an intersection, nor a light of any sort. Nope, just a crosswalk, in the middle of the street. Anywho, I figured a crosswalk in the middle of the street is about as good as it's gonna get around these parts, so myself and another athlete or two decide to brave it. Traffic is flying by like mad. I'm pretty sure these people have zero traffic laws, and if there are actual laws........well, they just don't follow them at all. It's kind of like double dutch - when you're watching the ropes turn, and you want to jump in, but you have to time it just right. You're trying to feel the rhythm, and when you think you've got it you make a break for it and run in. That's what it was like crossing the street. A few busses, or box trucks, or SUVs would fly by, and you'd gauge the next few cars coming up the road. Was there time to make a run for it? Would it be safer to just wait for the light to change, 2 blocks up? Two lanes are traffic free, but there's a car whizzing up lane 3 - so we should walk up to lane 3, wait for the car to fly by and then shoot the gap to the median. This scenario is ineveitably what happend. Now, on the opposite side of the median there was considerably less traffic. The light on the next block did a superior job of stopping up the flow coming at us, so we were able to just cruise across. Once 3 or 4 of us got over there, we decided that we didn't want to eat at that joint, so we braved it and walked back across. Actually, walking never really happend - we stutter-stepped really. A half jog, half walk, half back track sort of jig if you will. Once we were back with the rest of the team we decided that we'd rather have the pizzaria, so we braved the traffic yet again.
By the time we had to go do the ATM run, I felt fully confidant that I could cross the road under any circumstances because I'd already crossed about 10 times in 10 minutes. We sailed across to the ATM and coming back was no sweat either - it was the inbetween that was blog worthy. After lunch I crossed by myself cause I had to catch a bus back over to the University to cover Track & Field. Miraculously I survived that too.
Monday, September 10, 2007 - The ATM(s) that wouldn’t give - Episode 7
Monday, September 10, 2007
The ATM(s) that wouldn’t give - Episode 7
During my unexpectedly long stay at Dulles on my way down to Miami, I thought that I might just go ahead and exchange some of my cash for some Venezuelan money. I sure as hell trusted the exchange at Dulles more than whatever the hell was gonna greet me in Caracas, so I found the nearest exchange window in the C terminal. The girl was quick to tell me that she didn't have any Venezuelan money (I later found this to be Bolivares) to give me. She said they'd probably have it in Miami, so try once I got down there. 12 hours later, while waiting in the massively long line that was our group, at Miami International, I spotted an exchanged and decided to give it a go. 5 minutes later I had exchanged $50 for 120,000. Bolivares. That was pretty damn exciting to me. Not knowing what kind of money spending situation I might be in, I was pretty sure that 120,000. would most likely get me through the next 10 days (keeping in mind that my meals and such were supposed to be taken care of by the USADSF). The money seemed to last forever. A huge litre and a half of Pepsi was only 2000 bolivares, as was an equal amount of water, and snacks and such were rarely priced over 5000. I began referring to the cash on hand as 1000 (ones), 2000 (twos), 5000 (fives), 10,000 (tens) and 20,000 (twenties). I never got my hands on a 50,000, but I know they exist. I was spending 20's like they were going outta style, and loaned one or two (thankfully got that cash back in hand a few days later). This; however, is not the purpose of my blog, but rather the back story.
Now, once we got in to Valencia there were banks everywhere. Banks, on every corner, two or three of them. You know how when you go to the DMV, and you take a number and you park yourself somewhere amoung the masses and then the little message boards light up with the next number in the que? Ya, well that's how the bank is in Venezuela. Literally........identical set up. Baffling, I know. In addition to this, there are ATMs like mad. Each bank has a row of 3 or 4 inside, and then maybe a few more outside. And infront of each ATM is a line of people going down the steps (this was a common sight each morning). I didn't have much cause to get cash, and neither did anyone I'd been hanging out with...........that was until the lunch.
We were all pretty freakin' sick and tired of the OV. The food, while edible, lacked something to be desired........... with that something being excitement. It didn't matter what you might be in the mood for - you just ate what they served you and that was all there was to it. So around day 5, when we'd all really had about enough, Todd suggested that we have a nice team lunch at an actual restaurant. Prior to this, our only restaurant experience had been McDonald's - and even that was not particularly exciting - interesting as it was. To top off the suggestion that we have a team lunch - he offered to pay..........for everyone. The exchange rate was definitely in our favor, but I was really amazed at the generousity he was suggesting. So, the team agrees that we're going out to lunch. We walk around a bit. Play in some traffic (blog about that topic to come later). And eventually find a "pizzaria" where we decided to eat. After an extreme lesson in ordering your food in Venezuela, we managed to get everyone squared away. This was all fine and dandy till it became apparent that the place didn't take Visa. The plan had been for Todd to foot the bill on his Visa, and since that was no longer an option, he figured the next best thing would be to hit up an ATM. I've used ATMs in lotsa places - even in lotsa places outside of the USA. Only one time, in Scotland, did I ever have a problem with the machine not forking over some dough. This was just not the case in Venezuela. First ATM we went to, it asks a ton of questions, wants to know your passport number and such. Ok, so we get through all that and it won't fork over and dough. Moving on to the next ATM - try things a little differently, still no dough. This process continues through at least 4 ATMs. At this point we think we'll just try for the bank teller - that was until we walked in to find that it was the DMV. Exiting stage left - we ended up walking back down to the hotel to the exchange desk there. Turns out, Todd's got mad cash on him, and can just exchange it for the necessary amount of bolivares. Truly amazing. So, with the 300,000 bolivares in hand, we make our way back down to the restaurant and pay the bill. Quite an adventure really. And, miraculously, no panic ensued (though you should know, I was on the verge).
Fast forward to Saturday - our last day there. I wanted to get a little money to buy some lunch and perhaps a souvenir or two. I'd spent my last few bucks on a couple of beers and, over the course of the week, numerous pastilitos (blog on this topic to come soon). I walk out to the front of the hotel and put my card in the ATM - it won't even go through the motions with me - it just says "no" flat out. So, I move on to the next one. I got a smidge further, but still "no." I can see where this is going and can't find a reason to continue torturing myself. Thankfully I was able to successfully use my Visa at Pizza Hut - otherwise I might have starved to death.
All in all, my recommendation would be to make sure you take care of your exchanges early on when travelling in Venezuela (and probably most of South America). The ATMs are not going to give you jack.
The ATM(s) that wouldn’t give - Episode 7
During my unexpectedly long stay at Dulles on my way down to Miami, I thought that I might just go ahead and exchange some of my cash for some Venezuelan money. I sure as hell trusted the exchange at Dulles more than whatever the hell was gonna greet me in Caracas, so I found the nearest exchange window in the C terminal. The girl was quick to tell me that she didn't have any Venezuelan money (I later found this to be Bolivares) to give me. She said they'd probably have it in Miami, so try once I got down there. 12 hours later, while waiting in the massively long line that was our group, at Miami International, I spotted an exchanged and decided to give it a go. 5 minutes later I had exchanged $50 for 120,000. Bolivares. That was pretty damn exciting to me. Not knowing what kind of money spending situation I might be in, I was pretty sure that 120,000. would most likely get me through the next 10 days (keeping in mind that my meals and such were supposed to be taken care of by the USADSF). The money seemed to last forever. A huge litre and a half of Pepsi was only 2000 bolivares, as was an equal amount of water, and snacks and such were rarely priced over 5000. I began referring to the cash on hand as 1000 (ones), 2000 (twos), 5000 (fives), 10,000 (tens) and 20,000 (twenties). I never got my hands on a 50,000, but I know they exist. I was spending 20's like they were going outta style, and loaned one or two (thankfully got that cash back in hand a few days later). This; however, is not the purpose of my blog, but rather the back story.
Now, once we got in to Valencia there were banks everywhere. Banks, on every corner, two or three of them. You know how when you go to the DMV, and you take a number and you park yourself somewhere amoung the masses and then the little message boards light up with the next number in the que? Ya, well that's how the bank is in Venezuela. Literally........identical set up. Baffling, I know. In addition to this, there are ATMs like mad. Each bank has a row of 3 or 4 inside, and then maybe a few more outside. And infront of each ATM is a line of people going down the steps (this was a common sight each morning). I didn't have much cause to get cash, and neither did anyone I'd been hanging out with...........that was until the lunch.
We were all pretty freakin' sick and tired of the OV. The food, while edible, lacked something to be desired........... with that something being excitement. It didn't matter what you might be in the mood for - you just ate what they served you and that was all there was to it. So around day 5, when we'd all really had about enough, Todd suggested that we have a nice team lunch at an actual restaurant. Prior to this, our only restaurant experience had been McDonald's - and even that was not particularly exciting - interesting as it was. To top off the suggestion that we have a team lunch - he offered to pay..........for everyone. The exchange rate was definitely in our favor, but I was really amazed at the generousity he was suggesting. So, the team agrees that we're going out to lunch. We walk around a bit. Play in some traffic (blog about that topic to come later). And eventually find a "pizzaria" where we decided to eat. After an extreme lesson in ordering your food in Venezuela, we managed to get everyone squared away. This was all fine and dandy till it became apparent that the place didn't take Visa. The plan had been for Todd to foot the bill on his Visa, and since that was no longer an option, he figured the next best thing would be to hit up an ATM. I've used ATMs in lotsa places - even in lotsa places outside of the USA. Only one time, in Scotland, did I ever have a problem with the machine not forking over some dough. This was just not the case in Venezuela. First ATM we went to, it asks a ton of questions, wants to know your passport number and such. Ok, so we get through all that and it won't fork over and dough. Moving on to the next ATM - try things a little differently, still no dough. This process continues through at least 4 ATMs. At this point we think we'll just try for the bank teller - that was until we walked in to find that it was the DMV. Exiting stage left - we ended up walking back down to the hotel to the exchange desk there. Turns out, Todd's got mad cash on him, and can just exchange it for the necessary amount of bolivares. Truly amazing. So, with the 300,000 bolivares in hand, we make our way back down to the restaurant and pay the bill. Quite an adventure really. And, miraculously, no panic ensued (though you should know, I was on the verge).
Fast forward to Saturday - our last day there. I wanted to get a little money to buy some lunch and perhaps a souvenir or two. I'd spent my last few bucks on a couple of beers and, over the course of the week, numerous pastilitos (blog on this topic to come soon). I walk out to the front of the hotel and put my card in the ATM - it won't even go through the motions with me - it just says "no" flat out. So, I move on to the next one. I got a smidge further, but still "no." I can see where this is going and can't find a reason to continue torturing myself. Thankfully I was able to successfully use my Visa at Pizza Hut - otherwise I might have starved to death.
All in all, my recommendation would be to make sure you take care of your exchanges early on when travelling in Venezuela (and probably most of South America). The ATMs are not going to give you jack.
Thursday, September 06, 2007 - The Smoldering Accordion Player - Episode 6
Thursday, September 06, 2007
The Smoldering Accordion Player - Episode 6
It's due time that I put some serious effort in to describing the unique musical experience that was my trip to Venezuela. Of course it's a different country, with a different language, a different culture, different food, water you can't drink or bathe in safely, and along with all that - different music. At the start of the trip we got on a bus, and the bus driver cranked up the radio. The music was pretty salsa-esq, with an occasional hip-hop-ish tune thrown in - all of which was accompanied by Spanish lyrics (go figure). I guess about an hour or two in to the ride (lets not forget how it took us a good 4 hours to get from Caracas to Valencia on the way in), I actually recognized a song. It was a Madonna song, and initially when it started to play I assumed it would be a remake with Spanish lyrics. I was extremely surprised to find that it was, in fact, Madonna singing; however, the song had been "salsaed" up just a smidge. From there I also heard some Roberta Flack and at least one other American song, though I neglected to write down the artist and/or title. This was highly entertaining to me. and after the brief detour in to American-esq music, it was right back to the hard core salsa stuff. Now, fast forward a few days to my morning breakfast meeting with JK. I was on a pretty straight schedule - much to my dismay - of getting up around 6:30ish every morning. I would get ready, grab my kit and head down to the restaurant for my breakfast of a croissant-looking roll smeared with melocotion (which is actually a really good honey-fruit-jelly sorta stuff). At some point I did try the chicken also, but then they replaced it with some scary looking beef (and one day what appeared to be vienna sausages) - from that point on I passed on everything but the roll. Anyway, JK would always be sitting down there by himself at 7-something every morning, so we came to be breakfast buddies. One morning, as we're sitting there, I noticed the big screen in the bar area was playing music videos. Since the songs were all in Spanish and were, of course, something I'd never heard - I paid little to no attention. I did happen to look up at one point and actually watch the video. Now, here in America, we've got no short supply of hot boys singing their hearts out in to a microphone on screen (or playing the guitar, beating the drums for all they're worth, playing a piano - whatever.... you get my drift). The same thing applies in Venezuela too - except that they're possibly a little more musically diverse than we are when it comes to instruments. So, as I'm gazing at the screen I see the typical steamy guy singing his heart out in to a microphone right up in the camera lens. Behind him; however, is not a guy making love to his guitar, piano, or drum set - no, no, no. The guy behind him is steamy, smoldering really, and playing his heart out oh so passionately on...........you guessed it.........an accordion. I nearly fell outta my seat because this was so unbelieveably hilarious to me. Can you see it? Perhaps you should try and search for it on YouTube. JK, I'm sure, thought I'd lost my mind - and doubtfully for the first or last time that week. Hell, by the end of the trip the entire team probably thought I was completely bonkers - but that's ok. Nonetheless - I felt it sincerely important to relay this to the rest of you. We're really missing out up here. All we get are stringed instruments as the object of our rock star's desire, but there's a whole other world down in Venezuela.
The Smoldering Accordion Player - Episode 6
It's due time that I put some serious effort in to describing the unique musical experience that was my trip to Venezuela. Of course it's a different country, with a different language, a different culture, different food, water you can't drink or bathe in safely, and along with all that - different music. At the start of the trip we got on a bus, and the bus driver cranked up the radio. The music was pretty salsa-esq, with an occasional hip-hop-ish tune thrown in - all of which was accompanied by Spanish lyrics (go figure). I guess about an hour or two in to the ride (lets not forget how it took us a good 4 hours to get from Caracas to Valencia on the way in), I actually recognized a song. It was a Madonna song, and initially when it started to play I assumed it would be a remake with Spanish lyrics. I was extremely surprised to find that it was, in fact, Madonna singing; however, the song had been "salsaed" up just a smidge. From there I also heard some Roberta Flack and at least one other American song, though I neglected to write down the artist and/or title. This was highly entertaining to me. and after the brief detour in to American-esq music, it was right back to the hard core salsa stuff. Now, fast forward a few days to my morning breakfast meeting with JK. I was on a pretty straight schedule - much to my dismay - of getting up around 6:30ish every morning. I would get ready, grab my kit and head down to the restaurant for my breakfast of a croissant-looking roll smeared with melocotion (which is actually a really good honey-fruit-jelly sorta stuff). At some point I did try the chicken also, but then they replaced it with some scary looking beef (and one day what appeared to be vienna sausages) - from that point on I passed on everything but the roll. Anyway, JK would always be sitting down there by himself at 7-something every morning, so we came to be breakfast buddies. One morning, as we're sitting there, I noticed the big screen in the bar area was playing music videos. Since the songs were all in Spanish and were, of course, something I'd never heard - I paid little to no attention. I did happen to look up at one point and actually watch the video. Now, here in America, we've got no short supply of hot boys singing their hearts out in to a microphone on screen (or playing the guitar, beating the drums for all they're worth, playing a piano - whatever.... you get my drift). The same thing applies in Venezuela too - except that they're possibly a little more musically diverse than we are when it comes to instruments. So, as I'm gazing at the screen I see the typical steamy guy singing his heart out in to a microphone right up in the camera lens. Behind him; however, is not a guy making love to his guitar, piano, or drum set - no, no, no. The guy behind him is steamy, smoldering really, and playing his heart out oh so passionately on...........you guessed it.........an accordion. I nearly fell outta my seat because this was so unbelieveably hilarious to me. Can you see it? Perhaps you should try and search for it on YouTube. JK, I'm sure, thought I'd lost my mind - and doubtfully for the first or last time that week. Hell, by the end of the trip the entire team probably thought I was completely bonkers - but that's ok. Nonetheless - I felt it sincerely important to relay this to the rest of you. We're really missing out up here. All we get are stringed instruments as the object of our rock star's desire, but there's a whole other world down in Venezuela.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007 - Choose Your Own Adventure Elevators - Episode 5
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Choose Your Own Adventure Elevators - Episode 5
So, one of the interesting tid bits about our hotel in Valencia were the elevators. There were three of them to cover the 18 floor hotel (though there was no button for the 18th floor - there was a sign in the elevator clearly stating that the ballroom and conference rooms could be found there.)The elevator on the left was marked "service", but wasn't any different than the other two and nobody except the actual staff seemed to care that it could possibly be different. Each elevator had it's own "charm". One had buttons that were "messed up" to say the least. The number 7 was recessed in to the control panel among other aesthetic issues. Another had a very nice, modern looking control panel - silver with l.e.d lights in the center of each button. All very nice and intact - with no extreme signs of wear and tear. However, despite this elevator's "upscale look," it had a true mind of its own. I cannot speak for floors below the 14th, as that's where I stayed and virtually everyone I ever had cause to visit was on 14 or above, so perhaps the issue I am about to describe only plagued the upper floors. On occasion, and one could never predict when the occasion might arise, the elevator would not go to the floor you asked it to go to. Not unlike every other elevator on the planet - you would step in, push the button marked for the floor you'd like to stop on and the doors would close. What happend next could be anything from highly entertaining, to highly aggravating, to infuriating (depending on how much of a hurry you might be in at that given moment in time). By chance, the elevator might stop on every other floor - yet nobody had pushed any of those buttons, nor was anyone EVER waiting to get on the elevator at the unsolicited stops. Even better, the elevator might not even stop on the floor you asked it to stop on. I can't tell you how many times I pushed 14, only to end up on 15 - then opting to disembark and walk down the stairs because I wanted the ride to END. I recall one particular incident where an athlete and I were heading up to my room so that I could dispense some medication, or hand out a bandaid, or something of that matter. We got on in the lobby, hit 14, the doors closed, and the elevator actually went all the way to 14 without stopping (not to mention it actually stopped on 14). We looked at one another in amazement and I recall saying, "holy crap! That never happens!" To the best of my knowledge, that was the sole time there wasn't an "adventure" in the elevator. You just never knew, from moment to moment, what kind of ride you were in for. It could involve the stairs, or perhaps a visit to the 10th floor which was closed for renovation. More often than not it involved a visit to 5 different floors when, in fact, you only wanted to visit 1.
Choose Your Own Adventure Elevators - Episode 5
So, one of the interesting tid bits about our hotel in Valencia were the elevators. There were three of them to cover the 18 floor hotel (though there was no button for the 18th floor - there was a sign in the elevator clearly stating that the ballroom and conference rooms could be found there.)The elevator on the left was marked "service", but wasn't any different than the other two and nobody except the actual staff seemed to care that it could possibly be different. Each elevator had it's own "charm". One had buttons that were "messed up" to say the least. The number 7 was recessed in to the control panel among other aesthetic issues. Another had a very nice, modern looking control panel - silver with l.e.d lights in the center of each button. All very nice and intact - with no extreme signs of wear and tear. However, despite this elevator's "upscale look," it had a true mind of its own. I cannot speak for floors below the 14th, as that's where I stayed and virtually everyone I ever had cause to visit was on 14 or above, so perhaps the issue I am about to describe only plagued the upper floors. On occasion, and one could never predict when the occasion might arise, the elevator would not go to the floor you asked it to go to. Not unlike every other elevator on the planet - you would step in, push the button marked for the floor you'd like to stop on and the doors would close. What happend next could be anything from highly entertaining, to highly aggravating, to infuriating (depending on how much of a hurry you might be in at that given moment in time). By chance, the elevator might stop on every other floor - yet nobody had pushed any of those buttons, nor was anyone EVER waiting to get on the elevator at the unsolicited stops. Even better, the elevator might not even stop on the floor you asked it to stop on. I can't tell you how many times I pushed 14, only to end up on 15 - then opting to disembark and walk down the stairs because I wanted the ride to END. I recall one particular incident where an athlete and I were heading up to my room so that I could dispense some medication, or hand out a bandaid, or something of that matter. We got on in the lobby, hit 14, the doors closed, and the elevator actually went all the way to 14 without stopping (not to mention it actually stopped on 14). We looked at one another in amazement and I recall saying, "holy crap! That never happens!" To the best of my knowledge, that was the sole time there wasn't an "adventure" in the elevator. You just never knew, from moment to moment, what kind of ride you were in for. It could involve the stairs, or perhaps a visit to the 10th floor which was closed for renovation. More often than not it involved a visit to 5 different floors when, in fact, you only wanted to visit 1.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Manageing the four languages - Episode 4
I often find, in everyday life, that if I come across someone who doesn't understand what I'm saying when I speak then certainly they will understand what I'm saying when I sign it in ASL. At least that's what makes sense in my head. Nevermind that the reality of it is not the slightest bit true..... my head continues to think this way. To complicate matters, I've taken 4 years of French. I do not claim to be even slightly fluent in the lauguage; however, I can read it enough to get by and in conversation I might be able to convey the essentials as well as understand the essentials. Keeping tabs, I've got 3 languages in my head on a regular basis. Now, ship me off to a country where the general population speaks Spanish. I don't speak Spanish beyond "hola", as everyone knows full and well. I did want to at least attempt to learn enough to get by while I was there, but I found it increasingly difficult to manage all of the languages in my head.
First, there's english. Seeing how this is my first and primary language, I always start with it whenever speaking is necessary. Unfortunately, in a Spanish speaking country, this doesn't get one very far. My second instinct is to sign. First, I sign because I'm with the deaf team - therefore ASL should be an acceptable form of communication - except when you're away from the team.....and then second, in my head it's what's supposed to come next after English fails....
Now we move to where French comes in to play. I can't communication in English, I can't communicate in ASL, therefore, next up to bat is French. Well, no, next up to bat is supposed to be Spanish - yet I don't know any Spanish. In utter frustration I try and try and try to conjur the word I am trying to say - in a language other than the one I primarily speak - but all that I can come up with are things in French (and that, my friend, will not get you very far in a Spanish speaking country).
Needless to say, I spent a huge part of the 10 days trying desperately to communicate with some really great, patient, and friendly Venezuelans. We've all exchanged emails and I've employed Google Translate to try and help me out at least a little bit. I'm positive that the translations are extremely literal, so I am not hopeful that my exact meanings are getting through (but it's better than nothing).
Manageing the four languages - Episode 4
I often find, in everyday life, that if I come across someone who doesn't understand what I'm saying when I speak then certainly they will understand what I'm saying when I sign it in ASL. At least that's what makes sense in my head. Nevermind that the reality of it is not the slightest bit true..... my head continues to think this way. To complicate matters, I've taken 4 years of French. I do not claim to be even slightly fluent in the lauguage; however, I can read it enough to get by and in conversation I might be able to convey the essentials as well as understand the essentials. Keeping tabs, I've got 3 languages in my head on a regular basis. Now, ship me off to a country where the general population speaks Spanish. I don't speak Spanish beyond "hola", as everyone knows full and well. I did want to at least attempt to learn enough to get by while I was there, but I found it increasingly difficult to manage all of the languages in my head.
First, there's english. Seeing how this is my first and primary language, I always start with it whenever speaking is necessary. Unfortunately, in a Spanish speaking country, this doesn't get one very far. My second instinct is to sign. First, I sign because I'm with the deaf team - therefore ASL should be an acceptable form of communication - except when you're away from the team.....and then second, in my head it's what's supposed to come next after English fails....
Now we move to where French comes in to play. I can't communication in English, I can't communicate in ASL, therefore, next up to bat is French. Well, no, next up to bat is supposed to be Spanish - yet I don't know any Spanish. In utter frustration I try and try and try to conjur the word I am trying to say - in a language other than the one I primarily speak - but all that I can come up with are things in French (and that, my friend, will not get you very far in a Spanish speaking country).
Needless to say, I spent a huge part of the 10 days trying desperately to communicate with some really great, patient, and friendly Venezuelans. We've all exchanged emails and I've employed Google Translate to try and help me out at least a little bit. I'm positive that the translations are extremely literal, so I am not hopeful that my exact meanings are getting through (but it's better than nothing).
Wednesday, August 22, 2007 - Donde Busscar? - Episode 3
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Donde Busscar? - Episode 3
"Donde busscar?" "Where's the bus?" This became a favorite phrase of mine during the trip. Thanks, Todd, for introducing me to it
Yet another recurring theme over the course of the 10 days was the absence and/or malfunctioning of the buses. This theme is present from the very begining when we arrived at the airport. A bus was supposed to be there to fetch us upon arrival. Instead we stood on the curb and waited for two hours until two different busses came to take us on our 4 hour ride from hell. This continued on the next day when trying to go from the hotel to the University for volleyball practice. Bus was supposed to pick us up a good hour -hour and a half before it actually did. Continuing in that same vein - after practice we must have waited for at least another hour for a bus to get us then. This sort of thing happend over and over and over again. You could ask anyone who was still at the University well past the time they should've left - "what are you doing here?" And they would reply "we're waiting on our bus." The same could be said for entire teams standing out in front of the hotel.
Now, if it wasn't that the bus just wasn't showing up - it was that the bus was broken down (theoretically a legitimate excuse for not showing up). I'd heard some stories about busses breaking down with a whole team on board, but I hadn't actually experienced this for myself until pretty late in the week. Our bus did not show up, so we decided to get on Mexico's bus. We were pretty sure that the bus had been driven down from Mexico city by the looks of the thing and frankly I was really unsurprised when it broke down while trying to pull out of the spot it was parked in. We all unloaded (thankfully we hadn't actually left the University) and commenced standing on the curb as we'd grown accustomed to over the past 7 days or so. That bus sat in the University parking lot for the remainder of our time in Venezuela. Every day we'd pull up and say "well, the bus is still there." I guess there wasn't really any hurry to have it towed away and fixed - I'd venture it's still there now. I think busses assigned to team USA broke down no less than 5 times during the course of the week, and I was relieved to have only been on one of them and even more pleased to not have been stranded in the middle of nowhere when it happend. I believe during one incident, the entire boys basketball team had to be cabbed in - 4 at a time - because the bus broke down half way between the hotel and the University.
My favorite "bus" incident of the entire trip was just prior to the Mexico bus break down. Earlier that day I'd been on a bus from the University to the OV. It was kind of a small crappy bus (believe it or not, the busses we normally took were very nice charter busses - far nicer than the charter busses we have here in the US), but we weren't complaining cause it was taking us where we needed to go. As a general rule, driving is pretty eratic in Venezuela (at least that was my experience), so the bus lurching all over the road really wasn't a shock. As we're driving, and lurching, and swerving, a work truck pulls up beside us. Now, this guy can't drive either (of course) and he (or the bus, I'm not really sure which was at fault) side swiped us. Not once......but twice. The bus bore the marks on the right front side and right rear side. As soon as it happend I was like, "well I can't believe it took us nearly all week to get in to an accident." The bus pulls over, as does the truck. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that this will be a quick and easy review of the accident and we'll get to go sooner rather than later. To my utter amazement, the drivers take a look at the bus, then the truck, agree that the world won't come to an end, and we're on our merry way.
Donde Busscar? - Episode 3
"Donde busscar?" "Where's the bus?" This became a favorite phrase of mine during the trip. Thanks, Todd, for introducing me to it
Yet another recurring theme over the course of the 10 days was the absence and/or malfunctioning of the buses. This theme is present from the very begining when we arrived at the airport. A bus was supposed to be there to fetch us upon arrival. Instead we stood on the curb and waited for two hours until two different busses came to take us on our 4 hour ride from hell. This continued on the next day when trying to go from the hotel to the University for volleyball practice. Bus was supposed to pick us up a good hour -hour and a half before it actually did. Continuing in that same vein - after practice we must have waited for at least another hour for a bus to get us then. This sort of thing happend over and over and over again. You could ask anyone who was still at the University well past the time they should've left - "what are you doing here?" And they would reply "we're waiting on our bus." The same could be said for entire teams standing out in front of the hotel.
Now, if it wasn't that the bus just wasn't showing up - it was that the bus was broken down (theoretically a legitimate excuse for not showing up). I'd heard some stories about busses breaking down with a whole team on board, but I hadn't actually experienced this for myself until pretty late in the week. Our bus did not show up, so we decided to get on Mexico's bus. We were pretty sure that the bus had been driven down from Mexico city by the looks of the thing and frankly I was really unsurprised when it broke down while trying to pull out of the spot it was parked in. We all unloaded (thankfully we hadn't actually left the University) and commenced standing on the curb as we'd grown accustomed to over the past 7 days or so. That bus sat in the University parking lot for the remainder of our time in Venezuela. Every day we'd pull up and say "well, the bus is still there." I guess there wasn't really any hurry to have it towed away and fixed - I'd venture it's still there now. I think busses assigned to team USA broke down no less than 5 times during the course of the week, and I was relieved to have only been on one of them and even more pleased to not have been stranded in the middle of nowhere when it happend. I believe during one incident, the entire boys basketball team had to be cabbed in - 4 at a time - because the bus broke down half way between the hotel and the University.
My favorite "bus" incident of the entire trip was just prior to the Mexico bus break down. Earlier that day I'd been on a bus from the University to the OV. It was kind of a small crappy bus (believe it or not, the busses we normally took were very nice charter busses - far nicer than the charter busses we have here in the US), but we weren't complaining cause it was taking us where we needed to go. As a general rule, driving is pretty eratic in Venezuela (at least that was my experience), so the bus lurching all over the road really wasn't a shock. As we're driving, and lurching, and swerving, a work truck pulls up beside us. Now, this guy can't drive either (of course) and he (or the bus, I'm not really sure which was at fault) side swiped us. Not once......but twice. The bus bore the marks on the right front side and right rear side. As soon as it happend I was like, "well I can't believe it took us nearly all week to get in to an accident." The bus pulls over, as does the truck. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that this will be a quick and easy review of the accident and we'll get to go sooner rather than later. To my utter amazement, the drivers take a look at the bus, then the truck, agree that the world won't come to an end, and we're on our merry way.
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