A West Side Story

The whole health care debate in Congress this past week has shown us one thing: Congress is like a real life version of West Side Story. One with less dancing, but still, it's West Side Story.

For those unfamiliar with West Side Story- it's one of my favorite musicals. It's set in 1950's New York City and follows the story of two different gangs; the Sharks and the Jets. They are utter enemies filled with a clear hatred for each other and what each represents. Conflict ensues when Maria, sister of the leader of the Sharks, and Tony, co-founder of the Jets, fall in love. And much like Romeo and Juliet there is disapproval, fighting, and death.

Here, the Democrats and the Republicans position themselves against each other much like the Sharks and the Jets. Which ones are the true Americans? Who belongs in power representing our country? And much like Maria's breakdown and monologue at the end of the movie, I say now, why are we killing each other with hate?

Reactions to this health care legislation have gotten way out of hand. There are threats to members of Congress. They are getting bricks thrown through their windows, death threats over the phone, and faxes with nooses are being sent to offices. Shots have even been fired in some cases! (And while I think a whole separate blog post can be written about the morality of our society, I am going to focus on Congress for now.)

With these death threats and broken windows, what does Congress do? Instead of coming together, joining over a common enemy, they are still at each others throats. Democrats are angry at Republicans for not condemning the attacks more forcefully. Republicans think Democrats are fanning the flames and using the threats as a political weapon.

The pure hatred each group has for each other is blinding them from seeing what is right and what is wrong. And with elections coming up in November, there is no clear end in sight.

I only hope this ends more amicably than West Side Story. But, that remains to be seen.

And in the mean time, both the Democrats and Republicans need to play it cool...

Rick's Cafe is Real

I know I have been really bad about posting stories and pictures from my trip to Casablanca. But, since I am taking travel writing, some of my papers are on my trip. And as I get them back with edits, I will post. Keep in mind with this piece- we didn't have to write the whole article, just the first few paragraphs.

Here is one about Rick's Cafe in Casablanca. For those that haven't seen Casablanca, a lot of the movie takes place in Rick's Cafe. Rick is the main character. Anyway, this place is not the same one from the movie, but it was based on it. And in looking at pictures from the film and being there, it looks very similar.

 "Casablanca" conjures images of romance and excitement. But, many who visit the financial capital of Morocco find the opposite to be true. Humphrey Bogart may not be in Casablanca, but the cafe he made famous is. Rick's Cafe easily fulfills the desire to see a side of the city that no longer, or perhaps never actually did, exist. 

Stark white walls, colorful lamps and fex clad waiters make Rick's Cafe truly a piece out of cinematic history. It may have been opened with tourists in mind, yet the two story restaurant is filled with foreigners and locals alike. This has to do with the smoky bar, which serves up cold Casablanca beer, the dimly lit lounge areas on the second floor, and the small private tables tucked away in corners throughout the restaurant. The pianist on the first floor begins playing, and the music is heard over the scraping of silverware and chatter of guests in English, French and Arabic. 

A group of almost 40, we are tucked into a back room filled with Moroccan dishware and a fireplace. The proprietor of Rick's Cafe, an American woman who looks a bit like Isabella Rossellini, comes around to our large group to greet us. She wears a large smile, and even larger jewelry drapes her neck, arms and ears.

The lounge area on the first floor of Rick's Cafe

Upon first walking in the restaurant 

 A waiter wearing a fez (red hat) 

 Clearly excited for my Casablanca beer 

Sexual Healing

Last week, South Park debuted its 14 season with an episode devoted to Tiger Woods and his sex addiction. And say what you will about South Park- it's crude, offensive and insanely inappropriate- it is one of the smartest shows on TV. And yes, I am serious. But, that debate is for another time and another blog post.

The season premiere, dubbed Sexual Healing, pokes fun at Tiger, David Duchovny, David Letterman and other celebrities who have so called "sex addictions," or have been caught in inappropriate behavior. It also validated an opinion I have held for quite some time.


Sex addiction is a huge cop-out for celebrities to not take responsibility for their mistakes.

Now, don't get me wrong. I do believe sex addiction a real problem, disease, issue. Whatever you want to call it. I am not saying that it doesn't exist. And I am not saying all people who claim to suffer from it are making it up. I totally believe you can be addicted to sex. It actually makes more sense than being addicted to alcohol. Alcohol doesn't even make you feel good. And hangovers suck. And least after sex you don't want to rip your head off or stuff your face with Five Guys. Or maybe you do, I'm not judging.

With sex addiction being a real disease, I think many celebrities are using it as a cop-out. It's just like when these young teeny bopper stars get hospitalized for "exhaustion." Yeah exhaustion from drinking a fifth of gin and blowing coke lines seven nights a weeks.

But, seriously, think about it. Put almost any guy in Tiger Woods position, and he is going to have a smorgasbord of video vixens ready and willing at any time of the day or night.

Tiger is handsome, successful, rich, famous. What girl wouldn’t want to hit that? Honestly, I almost don’t blame him. Well, that may be going too far, but at the very least, I am not surprised. Women are throwing themselves at him on an hourly basis. Come on, do you really expect him not to cheat?

Disclaimer: I don’t condone infidelity. In fact, I don’t think it should be tolerated. And good for Elin for leaving him and taking care of herself. And also for going after him with his own golf club…seriously, I’m impressed.

So, what South Park conveyed ever so cleverly, and what I am trying to say, is that I think a lot of rich (and usually famous) men use sex addiction as an excuse after they are caught cheating.

Most celebrities think they are entitled to things us “normal folk” aren’t. And I think sex with lots of women is one of those things. Tiger said it well in his Sunday interview with ESPN.

Well, I had gotten away from my core values as I said earlier. I'd gotten away from my Buddhism. And I quit meditating. I quit doing all the things that my mom and dad had taught me. And as I said earlier in my statement, I felt entitled, and that is not how I was raised.

So, they think they are entitled, and they have sex with lots of women. Sometimes they father illegitimate children, sometimes they get impeached, sometimes they contract serious illnesses, and sometimes they are proud of their sexual conquests.

Sometimes these men acknowledge that they were wrong. It was their actions, their choices, their mistakes. But more and more often, men are saying it wasn’t their fault, it was beyond their control, it was addiction.

And as a society, we need to stop accepting sex addiction as an excuse so easily. We need to get to the bottom of the issue. We are already so interested and invested in these people lives, why not poke a little deeper? Instead, we are accepting it as an addiction and moving on.

We need to call it how we see it. Men being tempted and horny, and having the means and lack of willpower to do something about it. We need to be honest with ourselves. Let’s not try and sugarcoat things because Tiger Woods is the reason your entire wardrobe is Nike.

But, good job Tiger, for duping America, I hope the rest of your sponsors don’t drop you.

A Sunday Night of Slam Poetry

Last week I decided to venture out and explore the underground scene of Washington, DC slam poetry.

I wish I could say it was a random decision I made. Out of the middle of nowhere. Out of pure curiosity. But, it wasn't.

I had ulterior motives.

In my Travel Writing class, we were asked to read a review of a place, go to that place, and then react to the review. Was it accurate? Would I have written it the same way? Did I agree with the article's assessment?

In looking for a place to visit, Talya, a colleague, told me she was going to the opening ceremony of a three day slam poetry event.

Jackpot.

So on an unusually warm Sunday in March I found myself experiencing slam poetry for the first time. And I thought I would share this experience with all of you via what I wrote for my class. (Please note it was written only hours before it was due, so forgive grammatical errors)

Capturing Fire at The Fridge – A Sunday Night of Slam Poetry

No amount of words in the Washington Post could have properly prepared me for my first slam poetry event. The word “scary” is used, but mainly as a way to describe standing in front of an audience and expressing deep, dark feelings. The Post also uses the word “energy” but it doesn’t describe what kind of energy. It doesn’t mention the grunting and moaning from the crowd when they hear a line they like. It doesn’t capture the pain in the author’s voice at remembering a particularly hard point in their lives. And it definitely doesn’t explain the spoken word community that is hidden somewhere in the streets, bars and coffee shops of Washington, DC.

On a Sunday night in March, I found myself in a hard folding chair sitting in a small art gallery, listening to individuals bare their soul. How did I end up here? After reading about the all female slam poetry group, Mothertongue, and the poetry slam event, Capturing Fire, I decided to go with a colleague and see what this slam poetry is all about. It didn’t hurt that my colleague is good friends with the host of the event.

The event was the opening ceremony for Capturing Fire, the first national poetry slam for gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender (GLBT) poets. The three day event included slams, as well as workshops and panel discussions on GLBT-themed poetry.

The Washington Post also did not do justice to the spoken word community and how small it actually is. Everyone knows everyone, and everything they’ve written. This camaraderie was seen when one poet couldn’t quite remember the order of her poem, and the crowd helped out by screaming words and lines at her. When she finished, everyone applauded loudly.

The opening ceremony was held at The Fridge, a small gallery in southeast Washington, DC. On Thrillist.com, The Fridge is described as a “graffiti’d cinder block squat housing 1000 square feet of airy, sky-lit display space.”

I could not agree more. The first thing I noticed when I walked down the side alley off of 8^th Street SE was the graffiti that covered the building. Obama head stamps, graffiti tags, and Japanese anime characters fill the brick exterior walls. The inside, one large room, lined with perfect rows of folding chairs, has some photography from local DC artists on the otherwise plain white walls.

While the sun was setting, and the last hours of Sunday were ticking away, I was opening my eyes, ears and mind to a new experience. An experience that can’t be fully described in a 250 word article no matter how hard the Washington Post tried.

I Just Don't Get It

Nobody has all the answers. Nobody can figure out everything. And it is because of this that there are so many unanswered questions in this world.

And no, I am not going to get philosophical on you and start asking "Why are we here?"

But I do wonder what makes people act a certain way. Like, why when I am in Target at 9:00 p.m. and a woman asks if I am in line, and I say yes, she decides to cut me anyway. Why? I just don't get it.

I ask myself questions like these daily. Especially working for the government, I don't understand why certain things happen, and why it's standard practice. But this goes beyond the work place. It spreads into society both in America and around the world.

I have decided to compile a list of things I just don't get, never understand, or have given up trying to comprehend.

So here it is.

• Why in some cases, toilet seat covers are found outside of the stalls. 
• Um awkward. Do you really want to grab that and hold it in your hand while you are waiting in line for the stall. And furthermore, are people going to judge you if you don't take one?
• Capitol Hill.
• Seriously, what actually goes on there? Does Congress actually do anything? I went to a hearing on the Hill today, and I am thoroughly convinced nothing will come out of it. 
• Ketchup Flavored Chips.
• Really? Do you like ketchup that much? 
• People who use Facebook as a main form of communication.
• Let's lay some ground rules people. If you are really a "good" friend of someone's, you don't comment on the fact that their status went from "in a relationship" to "single." No, see a good friend would call, and a mediocre one would text. Also, good friends don't post "Happy Birthday" on your wall and then not call you. And just so we are clear: Facebook is not a main form of communication for people you are close to in your life!
• Why people are mean to servers.
• Aren't servers real people too? They don't deserve your snippy attitude and rude comments. No matter how bad a day you are having, or how bad the service was. And when the service was impeccable, leave 20%. 
• The East Vs. West Rivalry. 
• That's like comparing bananas to kiwis. Two completely different fruits. Those are two completely different coasts. One is not better than the other, they are just different.
• Math.
• Seriously that shit is hard.
• Why people don't respond to emails. 
• I have sent emails to people with actionable items for them to complete, and have never gotten a response. I have asked important questions, and never received anything in return. I understand we are all busy, but answer a friggen email. And I don't want to be that person that has the "confirm receipt" option. That is just annoying.
• How Colin Farrell keeps getting acting parts.
• Does anyone remember Phone Booth? If you don't, good. It was terrible.
• Chuck Norris and his awesomeness. 
• The man just turned 70. Yes you read that right, 70! He's 70 years old and still banging it. I hope when I'm 70, I look like Chuck Norris.

That's pretty much what's been on my mind today. And please, share yours. Because you know that sometimes you just have to shake your head and wonder....why?

Here's to you, Daisey Bailey

On March 7, the oldest person in the United States died.

Mary Josephine Ray died Sunday at age 114 years, 294 days. A sad day for her family, friends, and the Guinness Book of World Record editors, Mary remained active until about two weeks before her death.

Many credits to her name she was the oldest person in the U.S., the second-oldest in the world, and the oldest person to ever live in New Hampshire. She also loved the Boston Red Sox and ice cream.

She leaves behind two sons, eight grandchildren, 13 great-grandchildren, five great-great-grandchildren.

But what many of the news stations didn't say, and what was mentioned only briefly in articles, it that Mary Josephine Ray died on the same day as the third oldest person in the United States.

Yes, on Sunday, Daisey Bailey died in Detroit. Daisey was 113 years, 342 days.

And also interesting, is that Mary Josephine Ray died a few hours before Daisey Bailey. Which means, for a few glorious hours, Daisey actually moved up the ranks and held the silver medal for being old in the United States.

But her story, somewhat more difficult to tell, was kept out of the papers. People don't want to read about a woman who outlived all four of her children and suffered from dementia.

So for the family Daisey left behind- 20 grandchildren and 30 great grandchildren- let's have a moment of silence. Of thought. Of respect. For the woman who was the oldest black woman in the world...and for a couple hours was the second oldest person in America.

Here's to you, Daisey Bailey. I tip my hat to you. And don't let anyone tell you second place isn't good enough.

Just a Reminder

Walking to work from the bus stop this morning, I looked to my left down Pennsylvania Avenue and saw the Capitol Building. 

I started thinking about the fact that I work for a government agency which helps improve the lives of millions around the world with food, education and health services. 

I also realized that  in a few months it will  be warm enough to eat lunch outside and I will again be munching on my salad with the White House in front of me.

There are dozens of free museums to see on any given day. 

Monuments which honor past leaders who've paved the way or soldiers who lost their lives for our freedom. Arlington Cemetery, a national landmark, is less than four miles from my apartment.

There is always something going on in DC. Art exhibit openings. Film festivals. Jazz in the park. 

Protests. Parades. Restaurant Week. Half marathons.

And this weekend, I am even going to my first ever poetry slam.

So, yes, sometimes

...well a lot of the time...

I complain about living in DC. 

But I need moments like this morning to remind me why I decided to stay here.

So, to our Nation's Capital. Sorry I hate on you sometimes. You really aren't all that bad.

A Long Journey Home

Sometimes when one is traveling home after a vacation or business trip, everything goes smoothly. Trains run on time and don't break down. Flights leave the runaway right on time. And the traveler makes it home to the warmth of a cozy and familiar bed, and to the ones they left behind.

And then there are times when almost everything that could go wrong, does. And this was one of those times.

Let me preface this with saying I had a great time in Morocco. It really is an interesting country, full of culture and life. And although Casablanca is not nearly as romantic and beautiful as the name (or movie) suggest, it still has its own flavor and quirks. The Hassan II Mosque is breathtaking. It sits at the edge of the city overlooking the ocean. Big enough to fit 25,000 worshipers instead and another 80,000 outside on the courtyards, it's amazing how small you can actually feel when standing next to those massive doors. It's hard to picture 100,000 people praying when there are groups of kids running up and down stairs and playing in the courtyard.

And Marrakesh (about a three hour drive away from the coast of Casablanca) is also amazing. (And definitely more beautiful and culturally rich than Casablanca) The Medina (old city) has a huge bazaar which sells everything from Moroccan slippers to spices, and everything in between. The Medina square starts to come to life at around 3:00 p.m. when men pull their carts into the square and start setting up shop. In no time they have their grills and tables set up and are offering up tasty treats for those lucky enough to find a seat.

And the training I went for was also really beneficial and interesting. I feel learned so much in just four days, and was able to make valuable connections with others at USAID who work overseas.

So all in all, it was a good trip, but I was ready to leave Morocco and head home.

Clearly, the universe had other ideas for me and my colleague, Ryan.

We arrive at the airport at 7:30 a.m. (2:30 a.m. EST). Our flight is at 10:40 a.m. to Paris, and then we have a 4:40 p.m. to Dulles, to arrive in DC at 7:15 p.m. EST. Easy-peasy. Right? Wrong.

We find out at about 9:30 a.m. that our flight is not delayed- but all together canceled! Due to weather conditions and an air traffic controller strike in Paris, they are not sending the flight out. Which the staff from Air France did not announce to the folks waiting in line to check in. We only find out because the group of German tourists we were sitting with overheard us talking and told us.

The next step? Wait in line at the Air France ticket booth so the entire flight can get rescheduled. So Ryan and I wait in line...for another hour, when we realize- that nobody is behind the desk! Yes, you read that correctly. Out of everyone who works in the Casablanca airport, only one person has the ability to reschedule flights, and she wasn't at the airport. Nope, she is on a train on the way there. So the hundreds of people who need to get re-booked and out to Paris waited...and continued to get more and more frustrated.

When this employee finally arrives, everyone cheers, and then instead of staying in the orderly line everyone has been in for the past 2 hours, they all rush up and swarm the booth. Banging on the window, screaming, yelling. Standing in the back of the line, I am certain we are not going to get out of Casablanca that day.

In talking with a couple of folks who spoke English, it becomes clear that the two other Air France flights are full. And in seeing two men get into a physical confrontation and push each other, I decide then and there I could not wait any longer.

Luckily our travel agent gave us an 24 hour emergency number to call. So at around 12:00 p.m. (7:00 a.m. EST) we did, and from the States, a women booked us on a flight leaving Casablanca at 7:40 p.m. that evening. This flight path: Casablanca to Dakar, Senegal to Washington, DC landing at 6:00 a.m. EST.

What else could we do? We say yes and she issues the tickets over the phone.

After waiting in the airport for close to seven hours, Ryan and I finally check in, go through security, and go to our gate, just to find out, our flight is delayed another hour. Which worried us because we have that 1:50 a.m. flight to catch to DC.

Once we board the plane we are also delayed, for what seems like no reason at all. But finally we take off.
 The four hour flight landed in Dakar at around 12:45 a.m. About an hour to get to our next flight.

We rush through immigration only to find out we have to go outside to get into departures. We rush to the South African Airways booth only to see we can't go in. After some convincing (well begging really) the man takes our passports to see if we can get in. He comes back five minutes later and says:

"It's not possible."

In that moment I look around the Dakar airport. Small and cramped, people lined up on the floor sleeping like sardines. Just moments before Ryan told me he saw a woman cleaning up her own vomit.

My heart sank, my throat was dry, and I had the distinct feeling that I was going to be nauseous.

I look up at this man ready to cry, and he has a huge smile on his face.

"I'm just kidding!" He says with a loud laugh.

Not a funny joke to play on a couple Americans at 1:00 a.m.

Now trying to check in, the ticket lady tells us someone has canceled our seats for us and the only way to get on the plane is to buy new tickets. We explain to her the seats were not bought with our credit card, and we don't understand how they could have been canceled. Again, the nausea is creeping up on me.

After what seems like an eternity, but is probably only 15 minutes, she gets a supervisor to check the main system, and thankfully, our seats are there- just under the wrong booking code.

She issues us our tickets, and off we go through immigration and security again. We have about 30 minutes before the plane leaves. The same man who played the joke on us is now ushering us through the airport. We cut all the immigration lines and get our passports stamped. We cut through security and are the firsts in line. We make it to the gate, get on the last bus heading to the plane, and board with only 10 minutes to spare.

I can finally relax. It's almost 2:00 a.m. (9:00 p.m. EST) and I should have been back home already, but at least I wasn't stuck in an airport in Senegal.

Upon landing in Dulles at 6:00 a.m., Ryan and I also realize that our luggage didn't make it through. We had a feeling it was going to happen, but I held out hope that my blue suitcase would come down the conveyor belt.

It didn't. 

I filled out the proper forms. And was told I should have my luggage by Tuesday mid-day. Still no word.

I walk into my house at 8:00 a.m. EST (1:00 p.m. Casablanca time), and make it to work by 9:00 a.m. The 25 hour journey is finally over.

I am back in the States, and back at work, like none of this never happened.

I would think the horror of Sunday was all a dream if it wasn't for the crick in my neck and my missing luggage.

But, man, does it feel good to be home.