Author: zora

Vigilante Justice

I’m back. The good news is I ate insanely well, from Turkish rooftop chicken to Bulgarian yogurt-and-cucumber drink.

The bad news is that some creep stole my laptop (and, it appears, my Palm, so I can’t even retrieve my addresses) while I was away. As part of Operation You’ll Never Work in This Town Again, I’m posting his details here. He also owes Tamara $600 in back rent.

The perp:

Here’s his website. Seems like a nice enough guy, if not so savvy in his style choices.

Goes by Christopher Dunivan, Topher Dunivan, Chris Dunivan, Christopher Rudolph Dunivan, and occasionally Christopher Whiteley. (He’s _not_ Chris Dunivan, mild-mannered and respectable web designer.)

Additionally, he’s a church organist, originally from Augusta, Ga. (Skidaway Island). He even likes to “romp n’ stomp for Jesus on [the organ] from time to time”. Further proof that Christians ain’t what they used to be.

In all fairness, he, semi-psychopathically, took the trouble to email me back and say it was the construction workers that he let in to use the bathroom who took the laptop. Never mind that a normal, non-guilty person would’ve felt bad about letting the construction workers in. And that my landlord, whom I trust, says the workers were never in my house. He also, semi-psychopathically, went to the trouble of leaving an envelope with a deposit slip and _no check_ at Tamara’s bank–like, what, they wouldn’t notice? And Tamara talked to an acquaintance of his who saw him using a laptop at a cafe during the time he lived in my house–though he’d had no computer when he was at Tamara’s.

Vile man. The charming officer of the 114th are on the case. Letters are being drafted to various Episcopal churches where he’s been a member, as well as to the American Guild of Organists. If anyone spots him in NYC, especially while he’s using my computer (last spotted in Chelsea), or perhaps while hooking (it’s been known to happen, apparently), please throw him to the ground and call the cops. His name is on file.

Living My Myth

The Greek Tourism Board’s new slogan is hopelessly cheesy: “Live Your Myth in Greece”. I’ve been thinking of other slogans, at least for Athens:

Athens: Like Cairo, but With Breathing Room.

Athens: Not so third-world anymore.

I don’t remember much from my trip here ten years ago–lots of to-and-fro on buses, and lots of sitting in a dim salon staring into space while my then-boyfriend shouted in Greek at his deaf grandmother. I do remember the meat sauce on her spaghetti, however, and the fact that I didn’t take seconds has haunted me ever since. And it was very cold, and Albania seemed like an exotic destination then (we never made it because there was a terrible snowstorm just around the time we got near the border, and we’d been warned about bandits armed with sharpened spoons. Honestly.)

This time around, Athens is sporting stylish new modes of transport (more subways, sexy trams taking dangerous curves on their way to the clubs at the beach) as well as stylish parts of town. I feel like I should be writing about it for some magazine, but it’s nice just to be on vacation.

I did meet a very sharp woman today who runs bike tours of Greece, which sound awesome. I’m mentioning it here in hopes that bike and travel freaks will be intrigued and pursue the matter, but that’s as far as working goes for today.

Soon Peter and I are off to Mytilini, where we may or may not be married officially in the Greek church. It first seemed that my heathen upbringing (i.e., no baptism) would be the impediment, but now it appears that Peter’s churchgoing cannot be properly documented either (i.e., the payoff to a priest in Albuquerque got a sealed letter, but the Denver diocese was quick to spot the fraud). So, while I was not too perturbed to interrupt my suntanning and ouzo-drinking schedule for an hour or so of bible-kissing and frankincense-smelling, it looks like I might not have to.

Don’t expect too much more posting for the next month…

Hiatus

A-l-b-u-q-u-e-r-q-u-e.

I am so tired of typing that combination of letters. You’d think I’d be able to do it my sleep by now, y’know, having been doing it since typing class in 6th grade, and now having typed it about 20 times a day for the past week. But no. There’s always a u going missing.

And just so my two remaining readers can stop compulsively hitting ‘refresh,’ FYI, I’m going missing. I have to finish this stupid book. (No, no, it’s _great_ book! What am I saying?) Must write frantically for next two to three weeks. At least Santa Fe is a little easier to type.

Mmm, mouse turds

This afternoon I was wallowing in that wonderful treat the Dutch call muizestrontjes, or “little mouse turds.” (Actually, per recent official Dutch spelling changes, I guess it should be muizenstrontjes.)

That’s the not-such-a-stretch term for chocolate jimmies, or sprinkles, which the Dutch, in all their ingeniousness, sprinkle on warm buttered toast, so they get a little melty. The larger category of jimmies is called hagelslag, which means something about hail, which I now forget. But I just picture a little hailstorm on my buttered toast and get all warm inside.

Stupidly, I have never incorporated muize(n)strontjes into the Amsterdam Diet. I guess because I knew I was eating so badly in all other arenas that I couldn’t bring myself to eat chocolate-covered toast for breakfast on top of it all.

But then Rod gave me a box of hagelslag for Queen’s Day (did he buy it second-hand? I hope not), which is a variety pack of dark chocolate, milk chocolate and fruit-flavored jimmies. One little pack of jimmies is good for two pieces of toast, even if you’re sprinkling very liberally.

The classy thing is that this is very good chocolate. It’s not the crap you get on your sundae at the Mr. Softee truck. But now I’ve eaten all the dark chocolate packets, and I’m not so excited about the milk and fruit flavors. Next trip, I’m stocking up on all dark, all the time.

Was this what I ate?

Ever since my trip to Mexico last November, when a hitchhiker had me nibble on some mysterious forest critter, I’ve taken to looking at cute little animals and trying to imagine them without their fur, and smoked and stapled to a wooden board. This one looks like a good candidate:

It’s an agouti. I still have to look up the Mayan word it. It is awfully, awfully cute.

(For the full story, see the November archives–search for “What kind of meat do they eat in _your_ village?”)

Self-Promotion

If anyone wants to know my official stance on travel writing (as well as where to get all dreamy with your sweetheart in Cancun), here’s a little interview I did with a congenial travel writer named Norm Goldman to promote my new book, Cancun & Cozumel Directions. As an incentive to read, there’s a small tidbit of personal news at the end.

It’s a closed-loop system–all the links in the interview point people right back here, so those readers are coming here, only to read this link. (I swear, there are much more interesting things in the archive–try April and August 2004 for behind-the-scenes reports on the research that went into the Cancun book.)

One of these days, I will have a proper web site, but until then, let’s just continue to pretend that I do no work at all.

Late Night at the Schadenfreude Cafe

Last night, from off in the hallway, Peter says, “Hmm, that duck isn’t making me feel so good.”

A couple of hours earlier we’d had a dinner of leftover pad thai, which we’d made the night before, and some leftover duck salad from a restaurant, from Friday night. Both things we’d eaten before, to no ill effect.

When Peter says he’s feeling sick, no offense, it usually means he’s eaten too much. Which also means that I’ll probably be okay, but it all depends on the party we’ve been to. It’s far less likely that he’s about to throw up because he’s eaten something toxic.

As I’ve related earlier, I have a bit of a tetchy gut, and just about anything semi-dodgy makes me yak; when I travel, I plan on being down with vomiting for a day or two. (Miraculously, this has never been the case in Mexico.) By contrast, Peter has a GI tract of steel, and can eat steak tartare sandwiches given to him by lepers. It’s a little infuriating to travel with, in fact (‘cause, y’know, Lonely Planet says those leper-made sammies are the tastiest thing to eat in Cuba!).

So, when Peter says he’s feeling sick, and I’ve just shared a dinner with him, I have two very conflicting responses: 1) Gosh, Peter, I hope you’re fine. 2) Gosh, Peter, I hope you are sick, just so you know what it feels like for a change.

And then, the corollary to the latter: If he’s sick, then I am truly screwed. How sick am I willing to be just for a little petty satisfaction?

As I’m sitting in my chair, writing and mulling over this dilemma, Peter does indeed start throwing up. It doesn’t sound pretty. I’ve very quickly lost my nerve—I take it all back. I never wished he’d be sick. Evil, evil, evil. And is that a dull ache I’m feeling in my own gut?

From here, it’s waiting—to see if I really get nauseous, and to see if he has to throw up again. If it’s just a one-shot deal, then it was pure gluttony or just too much chili in the duck (that shit was deadly hot), and I’m off the hook. I’m mentally calculating the ratio of my dinner to his—I’d really had only a few bites, because I’d had a bunch of bread and cheese beforehand. So, 1:4, maybe? Does that mean I’ll puke 75 percent less?

Just about the time I’m really beginning to question my own digestion, Peter rouses himself from bed to throw up again. I am still wide awake, sitting up writing, and now I know I am fucked. I close up my computer and ready myself for misery.

But I’m an old hand at this. So I’m regaining a teensy bit of that schadenfreude, because I can puke up my dinner like a pro, and I know I’ve been through a lot worse than that meager bite of duck (or was it the shrimp in the pad thai?) can do to me. It has been a few years, so I’m a little rusty, but it’s just like riding a bicycle. There, one quick visit to the toilet, and I’m feeling much better. (But I can tell that won’t be the end of it. Not sure how I know, but it’s one of those things you get good at judging.)

Meanwhile, Peter’s coming around for his third visit, and moaning a bit—“No màs,” he says weakly, futilely. I can’t say I’m actually enjoying watching him, because it is awful to see someone you love suffering for something they didn’t set themselves up for (if it’s their own damn fault, well, that’s different). But there is this nasty little core in me that is taking a sick pride in my years of experience with food poisoning, dysentery and so on. From the age of eight, I think it was, and that roast beef au jus at Villa di Capo in Albuquerque, in which the beef had a fascinating iridescent gleam to it, yet I still ate it because the au jus part was so fancy-sounding… Certainly, controlled vomiting was never a life skill I aspired to perfect, but I’ll take what I can get.

“Hon,” I want to say to Peter as he huddles on the bathroom floor, “this is nothin’.” But he’s already heard my worst barfing story, so I try to look at the bright side: “At least we’re not so in synch that we need the toilet at the same time. At least we don’t have diarrhea too. At least we’re not in a palm-thatch backpackers’ hut somewhere up the Mekong with only a pit latrine.” And to myself I say, “At least I had only a couple bites of dinner.” Evil, evil, evil.

We made it through the night, having heaved up everything by about 4am. The next morning, Peter said, “I think that’s the most I’ve thrown up, well…ever.”

Damn it. This robs me of all satisfaction, as it only reminds me of all the times I’ve gotten sick and he hasn’t, of what a strangely lucky duck he is (ew, duck, just the mention makes my head spin a little). Is there a German word for the sort of schadenfreude that comes back to bite you in the ass?

Photos You Won’t See in the Book

For now, there are only three, but they represent the less tourist-friendly, seamier side of north-central New Mexico quite well.

First, we have a scene that could have been taken straight from my middle-school years (in NM, it’s mid school, not junior high, for some reason). I was never one of the bad kids who skipped school to drink beer and listen to heavy metal; in fact, I was given detention in fifth grade for, during another slow moment in “gifted” (read: “do nothing”) class, saying, “…sucks!” down the hall in response to Mario Martinez saying, “Heavy metal!”. But I am perfectly familiar with where you might want to go drink the beer and listen to the music, if you had the opportunity, and I came across just one of those spots while hiking with my mom on my first day back home:

And even though I wasn’t a metal fan, I could still not deny that the best band ever was Kizz [sic]. Snicker.

While in Espanola, home of the low-rider, on my March trip, I encountered all of the town’s (and New Mexico’s) social problems handily summarized for the nonliterate:

That bottom ideogram is a bottle in a crumpled paper bag, just to clarify.

And, finally, lordy, the shocking revelation that there is something under the Virgin Mary’s skirt:

Photo quality is terrible on that one because we were in a dark little adobe church, and I couldn’t use a flash. But that’s the church-keeper helpfully answering one tourist’s oh-so-innocent question with way too much information. Alas, I couldn’t get a pic of Jesus’ amputated legs because the angle was all wrong–you’ll just have to trust me.

A Public Dis

This is a little petty, but what are blogs for if not petty venting? One day in Albuquerque, I encountered several shockingly inhospitable bed-and-breakfast owners, and it put me in a very bad mood. The worst of the lot was Adobe Garden B&B in Los Ranchos.

Now this looks like a nice enough place–it’s recommended in one or two other guidebooks, and maybe also in the CVB listings. It’s near a few other must-visit B&Bs, so I put it on my to-cruise list. I pull up, gather my credentials, and ring the bell. Some guy opens the door a tiny crack and peers through. I start my spiel: “Hi, my name’s Zora, and I’m a writer for Moon Handbooks [extend hand with business card]. I’m working on a new guide to Santa Fe and Albuquerque, due out next spring. I’ve heard good things about your place, and I’m wondering if I can take a quick look around.” I smile winningly. I am dressed in a nice silk skirt and color-coordinated tank top and shoes. I do not look threatening, crazy or disreputable–only a little sweaty and still a tad sunburned.

The guy opens the door a teensy bit wider, then laughs nervously. Hmm, is he maybe just a guest? Or the simple-minded brother of the owner?

He finally opens the door all the way and asks me in. “You’d better talk to my wife,” he says, and laughs nervously again. I wonder if I’ve unwittingly arrived in the middle of a drug deal, an orgy or the septic tank overflowing.

His wife comes along, and I give her my spiel, and hand her my card. (Hubby didn’t take it.) She looks me up and down, and says, “Huh. Moon Handbooks? Never heard of them.”

Now, it’s true, Moon is not the best-known name in guides, even though it’s been publishing since 1973–before LP and Rough Guides by many years. Usually people who don’t know what Moon is phrase it a bit more nicely, as in, “Moon Handbooks–I’m sorry, but I’m not familiar with that line–can you tell me more about them?” Because typically someone in the travel industry recognizes that they should be savvy about the various outlets for publicity their business might have. (And not to draw easy comparisons about general savviness and cosmopolitanism, but in Santa Fe, a very high number of people knew about Moon guides, or at least pretended they did.)

Anyway, I forge ahead with my spiel, and again ask to see a room or two. The woman says, “Hmmm, let me see…” and starts walking into the dining room. Then she turns around, looks me up and down again, and says, “Actually, no. We have no rooms to show you.” Not apologetic, or regretful that she’s passing up the opportunity for a guidebook writer to say something nice about her place. More in the vein of, “No way, you scam artist. I can see right through you.”

Her husband is laughing inappropriately again. I ask for a brochure at least, and she reluctantly gives me one, and physically hustles me toward the door. “Why don’t you drop off a copy of your book?” she practically sneers. I have to explain that, duh, I haven’t written it yet, but she’s not really listening as she and her husband slam the door (and probably triple-lock it) behind me.

Now, maybe I’m being paranoid, and something else entirely was going on, but I’m pretty sure they were the paranoid ones, and were convinced I was trying to case their house or something. For chrissake, if I were trying to scam them, I would’ve claimed to be a writer for Frommer’s or something everyone knows, right? I’m just hoping that the next time they go to a bookstore, they notice the presence of Moon Handbooks, and feel a pang of regret. Or they Google my name and see that I have written other travel guides and can be trusted to see their precious place.

End of public defamation. Please visit the Moon Handbooks website for more information.