Song of the South - Day 3 - Homeward Bound

(3/22/15)

Atlanta, Georgia

I am really tired, so I will make this as short as possible. The flight kept getting pushed back, and I heard some talk that it might get pushed to the morning.  Eventually, I got the good news.  The plane was on the way from Atlanta, so I went through security after my second pipe (an Ardor and a Rinaldo), and I headed to the gate.  I uploaded my photos to Facebook.  I also published my blog, so this will be part of Day 3’s entry.  Once the plane got here and the passengers deplaned, it was the world’s shortest boarding process, everyone eager to get on the plane.  I might have gotten a few minutes of sleep, and it was enough that I felt like I would have the energy to go to the hotel instead of spending the night in the airport.

It was a bit of a hassle to get to the hotel, and I was starving.  They didn’t ask for a credit card when I checked in.  If I ordered room service, would it get charged back to Delta?  No such luck.  They wanted payment when they brought the food (a pizza and Diet Coke).  I lit up a Ramon Allones.  I neglected to cover the smoke detector, so it went off.  I panicked.  It was, however, not like Edinburgh, so a simple reset button stopped everything.  After I ate, I surfed the internet a bit, getting caught up on the news.  After that was done, I proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close so that I can ditch my cigar and get to sleep.  I’m only going to be able to get like 3 hours here, but I should get some more on the plane and the taxi, so I so I should be good for tomorrow, and then I can crash when I get home.

3/23/15

New York, New York

Well, here I am, I survived #TheSongOfTheSouth #TheExperience.  I even have enough time for a few puffs of a cigar and to write this entry before I head up to the office. After I closed, I finished my cigar and fell asleep.  It seemed like as soon as I fell asleep the wakeup call came.  I made my way to the airport.  It was quite crowded at 5 AM.  I picked up breakfast at Bojangle’s, even though I wasn’t hungry.  I figured that I would be hungry at some point before I got to the office.  I was right, and it was delicious.

I tried to fall asleep as soon as I got on the plane and put in an order for a bourbon.  Just I was falling asleep, a felt someone tap my leg.  My bourbon was ready.  I sipped it as I fell asleep.  When I woke up, we were landing, and the bourbon was gone.  I took a taxi to the cigar store, getting some sleep en route.  I lit up an Avo and shared some pictures and stories.  I then proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close, along with closing this trip.  Next stop: Florida and then to the Caribbean to finish off the Lesser Antilles.

Song of the South - Day 2 - Just Around the Riverbend

3/22/15

Epps, Louisiana (Poverty Point State Historic Site)

What is waiting just around the riverbend?  It is a question everyone has asked themselves, anyone who was too afraid to ask out his/her crush, to take the risky job offer, to make a new friend, or to embark on any dangerous adventure.  The answer to those questions is waiting just around the riverbend.  The few times in my life that I have looked around the riverbend, asked out my crush, pursued a new friendship, or got on a plane to Iran, have all come with a familiar sinking feeling.

It is a matter of inertia.  Once I uttered the word, “Emily,” I knew the rest would follow.  Once I invited my new best friend to hang out with me for the first time, to come to the Met with me, I knew the rest would follow.  Once I got on the bus that would take me to the plane to Iran, I knew I would not turn back.  In each case, I found out what was waiting just beyond the riverbend.  It just takes so much effort for me to make that first step, and I have a feeling that that is not unique to me.

While asking out the cute girl in my philosophy class is one thing, what about having to uproot your life and truly find out what is waiting just around the riverbend?  To answer that question, we must turn to the other of the two great atrocities committed by the European settlers to the new world.  I explored slavery in the previous entry.  Here, at Poverty Point, one of the largest extent Native American burial mounds in the country, I will focus on that topic.  Slavery was the worse evil, since it deprived the slaves of their ability to think, to make choices for themselves, I think, but this was also terrible.

The European settlers practically exterminated an entire race, and we continued to make and break promises to them.  For what?  So that some people here could live in small beat up homes along a highway?  Are they any happier than the Native Americans we found here used to be?  No, of course not.  They found out what was waiting just around the riverbend.  The answer was the destruction of their culture.  In its place, we have what is now called “white trash” or “hillbillies.”  However, I encourage each of my readers, if he or she believes that something positive is waiting just around the river bend to find out what lies there.

As for the adventures of today, well not much has happened, but has happened quite interestingly.  I woke up, got dressed, packed, had breakfast like normal.  I then walked to the State Capitol, Huey Long’s Monument, which is the tallest Capitol in the country.  I went to the cigar and lit up an old Churchill as I drove to Poverty Point, my only stop for the day other than lunch/dinner.  I had an epic bathroom emergency, and I’m still trying to decide if it’s Official, but certainly was epic.  Afterwards, I lit up a Fuente.

When I finally got to the World Heritage Site, I saw it, the Plaque.  I also saw something else.  I had a flat.  I asked the ranger what to do.  Theoretically, I know how to change a spare tire.  In practice, I don’t trust myself.  He said there was nowhere close enough that would be opened today.  I asked if he could help me.  

He said he would.  I took care of my business at the VC, went back to find him, asked him to take my picture at the plaque, then we went to the car.  He actually had an air pump, and, surprisingly, it held pressure.  Brilliant.  I did a loop of the mound and then went back to the main mound.  I lit up a Cohiba, walked to the mound and back.  I then got my laptop and sat on the bench with an amazing view of the mound, where I proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close, as I’m in a bit of time crunch if I want to stop for dinner.

Jackson-Medgar Wiley Evers International Airport, Mississippi (JAN)

When I closed, I said that I was in a bit of a time crunch if I wanted to catch dinner on time.  Well, two things changed.  First, the restaurant I wanted to go to was closed on Sundays.  Second, my JAN-ATL flight got delayed, which meant that I would miss my connecting flight to LGA.  The email said they would rebook me.  I figured that there was a 6 AM flight ATL-LGA that would get me to work on time.  I was right.

I stopped at Popeye’s for lunch, thinking it would make a good Now and Then Facebook post.  It was my first Official meal in Louisiana two years ago, and now that I had completed Louisiana, it would be my last Official meal.  Wait, I hadn’t said “Louisiana Complete” yet, forgetting to do so at the WHS.  I said it right there and then at the restaurant.  Hmm, what now.  I stayed in the car for a bit and lit a Santana.  There was nothing to do but go to the airport and make sure that I was on the 6 AM to LGA.

I got an email.  They had rebooked my entire itinerary for tomorrow, which would mean that I would have to spend the night in Jackson, and I would not get to LGA until noon tomorrow.  No, no, no.  That wouldn’t work.  I called Delta, and the agent was very helpful getting me on the flights I wanted.  I stopped for gas and headed to the airport.  When I got to the airport, the ticket agent told me that Delta would put me up for a hotel.  Well, that was a lot easier than spending the night in the airport smoking lounge.  He also told me where the smoking area was outside.  I headed out there and proceeded to write this entry.

I’m not sure where I want to go with this now.  My original plan was to do this Jackson-Evers entry and then do the reflections/close at Hartsfield-Jackson, but everything has changed now.  I need to do an entry from the hotel, but I want it to be a short one, since I’d rather just watch Pocahontas or play my video game when I get to the hotel.  I’ll need my sleep in the morning, so the one from Hartsfield will probably just be perfunctory to close out the trip.  I do have an hour to write now, so I guess I might as well do the reflections now and just use the other two entries to close out the trip.

Earlier today I wrote about what is waiting just around the riverbend.  What I did not mention is all the times that I did not realize that something I had wanted was truly just around the riverbend.  All the times I thought something was out of reach, whether it was a crush, a trip, or what have you, how many of those were just around the riverbend?  Most of them?  All of them?  What would have happened if I had opened my mouth and said hello to my tenth grade crush?  Would what I desired at 16 have come true?  Was she just around the riverbend, or was she an ocean away?  I’ll never know.  Along those lines, I received some kickback for how I said that I was no closer to achieving my dreams than I was at 16.  The common thread was that I am a different person than I was at 16.  Yes, that’s true.

However, at 16, all I had to do was ask my crush out and see what just around the riverbend.  At 27, right now in my life, I still do not know what’s just around the riverbend.  I am more practiced at dating and more comfortable in my social interactions than I was a decade ago.  I am more mature.  I would make a better father now than I would have then, of course.  As for the career, sure now I would make a better employee than I would have then.  That was not what I meant.

What I meant was that I don’t see the dream career/wife/child just around the riverbend.  Of course, if I find the dream job or girl, I will be more suited to pursue it/her.  That was not what I meant.  The thing is, we don’t know what’s just beyond the riverbend.  The dream girl could be sitting next to me on my flight tomorrow morning.  The dream girl could be the next girl I message on JDate.  The dream job could be someone who reads my writing and wants me to publish something.  It could be just around the riverbend, but I do not know that.

That is why I said that I was no closer than I was 16, when I dreamed about, at this point in my life, being a math professor at Princeton and married to the girl who was sitting next to me in my Spanish class.  Hmm, were any of my Facebook friends in that class?  If so, is their memory good enough to figure out who I mean?  Yeah, actually a few are, but I doubt they are among my readers.  Okay, enough on this thread.  Whatever lies just around the riverbend I will find in due time.  For now, I will reflect on my “winter” of travel.

I believe when I reflected on my Summer of Travel it was after the Colorado trip.  That was a great trip.  The trip to Andorra, not so much, and I included the Utah/Idaho trip in my photos for Summer 2014.  I will start my reflections with Jamaica.  I will not mention my travelling companion for that trip.  Since then, over the course of four months, while I smoked my Christmas Pipes, I have seen a great portion of the world.  From Flushing, New York to Greenbelt, Maryland, to Goshen, New York, I have seen the great, ah, who I am kidding.  I’ve been to India, the Caribbean, Mexico, Argentina, Belize, and bloody Antarctica.  I smoked a Cuban cigar on the Antarctic mainland!!!  How many people have done that?

I have pretty much replaced my entire travelling kit, my suitcase, my water bottle, my suit, my phone.  I love the new suit and water bottle, but I miss the old ones.  I also miss my blue suitcase.  The new black one is so boring.  While the scenery in Mexico, Buenos Aires, Belize, and Jamaica was familiar to me from my previous travels to the North American Tropics (yes, reader, I know Argentina is in South America), India and Ushuaia were both foreign and familiar.  India reminded me of Iran, and Ushuaia reminded me of Juneau.  Was Antarctica as amazing as Alaska?  I don’t know.  Was Belize better than Bermuda?  I can’t say.  I did not know just how enchanting New Mexico was.

Where am I now?  Oh, right, Mississippi.  I had forgotten.  This is familiar to me.  “The Boondocks,” they call it.  It is easy to look down on the kids as they tell stories about the fights they fought and the girls they slept with, but are we any better than them?  Is this all they know?  Would they not give it all up for a chance to move to the big city and work in an office 300 feet above the ground?  I just want to relate one story that really bothered me.  They were talking about a mutual friend, and one person said that he heard the guy had raped some girl, and another person said he heard the same story with another girl.  One of the guys then said something to the effect of, “Yeah, I could believe that about him.”  Another guy said something like, “He’s my bro, but if he does that again, I’m going to beat the shit out of him.”  Seriously?!?  This was how they handled rape accusations in Mississippi?  If that was how they really thought about it, then, yes, we are better than them (not, Mississippians in general, just that group of kids).

The world is a strange place, and different cultures appear strange to people from other cultures, but two things are never okay, no matter your cultural values: slavery and rape.  In short, no matter what, the initiation of force is never okay.  The European settlers might have seen the Native Americans as ignorant savages, but who was the savage one?  Pocahontas, who lived at peace with the earth, or Captain John Smith and his men, who used slave labor to colonize the New World and used force to displace people from their homes?  Reader, I think the answer should be clear.  On that note, I’ll close until I get to my hotel.

Song of the South - Day 1 - I've Got a Dream

3/21/15

Baton Rouge, Louisiana

As I now smoke my 2014 Christmas Pipe, the last Christmas Pipe I will smoke for the season, there is some sweet irony going on.  Most of it will have to be delegated to my personal journal, but suffice it to say that I do not define winter by the calendar or the movements of the sun.  It starts the first time I smoke my 2006 Christmas Pipe, and it end when I smoke the last Christmas Pipe of the season.  This will be last “winter” trip.  When I go to Florida, I will Officially begin my summer of travel, even if it’s only April.  A very enjoyable part of my life, which I believe has come to an end, very neatly fit into what I defined as the winter season, and, as I smoke this 2014 Christmas Pipe, I am prepared for it end, just as I was prepared for another aspect of my life to end when I smoked my 2014 Christmas Pipe in Buenos Aires.  In both cases, my mindset was to transform it into something worth keeping or let go of it.  I think I am being sufficiently vague here, but my readers who truly know me should understand.  Anyone else who is interested is welcome to ask for clarification.

The last time I was in Baton Rouge, two years ago, I was starting to fall in love with someone from the Israel trip.  I still love her, and I get a kick out of it every time we exchange a couple of Facebook messages or she likes one of my posts.  We dated, but we had no chemistry.  She rejected me, and I resolved to become a better person (not in the common sense of the word, more like a person who was true to himself and did what he needed to do to be happy).  That was two years ago today that I started down that path.  Today I made another life decision, to eliminate all the toxic relationships in my life and only keep the mutually beneficial ones.  Reader, if you find yourself cut out of my life, well, I’m not sorry.  Okay, enough about that.  It has been a whirlwind day, and I am very tired, so I have heavy doubts in my ability to properly record everything, along with the philosophy I want to include.

I’ve Got a Dream.  That is what I have been teasing on social media all day.  When I was 16, I had a dream.  How often would I fall asleep thinking the three wishes I would request if Robin Williams magically popped out of a lantern?  One, a career I love.  Two, a wife who loved me.  Three, a son to follow in my footsteps.  That was it, so simple, and I had hoped to achieve those by this point in my life.  I’m 0 for 3.  In fact, I am no closer than I was when I was 16.  When Will My Life Begin?  (To my astute reader, no, the phrase, “Mother Knows Best” will not show up later in this entry.)  My dreams now are more grandiose, to travel the world in a very specific way, 17 specific groups of sites before I’m 30, more for the rest of my life.

One of my former coworkers asked me about a year and a half ago how I would value “marrying the perfect woman” in with my travel goals.  The answer was that it would trump all of them.  I had such a perfect woman in mind.  I have come to realize that she is not perfect, that I might not be happy with her long term.  Yes, physically she’s perfect, but I would quickly get tired of that.  Again, my astute reader should know whom I mean, and anyone else is free to ask me.  How many people get to travel the world the way I do?  Almost no one.  How many people marry someone they view as the perfect woman for him?  A lot of people.  I would trade all the travelling in a heartbeat to marry the perfect woman.

I’ve got a dream.  It’s to live a simple life.  What now about the people who, 200 years ago, were denied even the simple pleasures of life?  Here in Louisiana, where the Best Picture winner “Twelve Years a Slave” was set and which I bought on Blu-ray today, I can speak to that question.  Of course, I have no idea what it’s like to be a slave, just as I have no idea what it’s like to be raped.  Rand would probably say that slavery is the worst crime that a person can commit because it takes away a person’s ability to think.  It forces them to answer to the whip and chain instead of logic and reason.  Rand viewed the destruction of the mind as the greatest of all evils.  I’m not sure where rape would fit into that.

For starters, she had some, shall we say, interesting views of sex.  Basically, anyone who would capable of rape, which requires both the initiation of force, a big no no, and then having sex outside her proscribed views of sexual attraction.  The basic theory is that a man of unbreached self-esteem (her type of hero) would never want to have sex with someone who would not want to have a sex with him.  To add to that the element of force makes it far worse.  However, I’m inclined to believe that she would view slavery as the greater evil due to its wider reaching effects, though she’d probably find the rapist to be the worse human being.

Alright, now for the events of today.  I am tired.  I am cold, and somehow today was an incredibly busy day, though, when I woke up I had only expected to visit the State Capitol and two battlefields.  Instead, I visited the Capitol, three NHLs, and 4 NPS Units (including the two battlefields).  After I woke up, I headed to get breakfast, appropriately enough at the Waffle House.  I got the works, bacon, eggs, grits, hash browns, coffee, and, of course, a waffle.

After breakfast, I decided that I would visit the three NHLs in Jackson, since there was no time crunch, and it would just affect what time I arrived at my hotel tonight.  I lit up a Flor del Antilles in the car and was on my way.  The first stop was the Eudora Welty House, where some famous writer (Eudora Welty) lived for 80 years.  I never heard of her.  I took my pictures.  They had a Plaque.  That was good.

In fact, all three NHLs had Plaques.  That was really good.  It was raining all day.  That was not good.  The next stop was the Old State Capitol.  It turned out they had a museum inside, so I left the cigar outside and checked the souvenirs, nothing good.

Then came the Governor’s Mansion.  Wait, where did “O! Brother Where Art Thou?” take place?  Yep, Mississippi.  There were some scenes from that movie at the Governor’s Mansion, weren’t there?  Well, I guess they all look the same.  I guess I’ll rewatch it this week.  That was the lot of them.

I had to finish my cigar before I could do the new State Capitol, the Official one, but, due to the parade, there was traffic and road closures.  I found my way to the Capitol and walked to the front, ditching my cigar before I took the pictures and headed back to the car.  My breakfast was not sitting well, so I headed back to the Old State Capitol, hoping I could take an unofficial U there.  I could.  After that, I think it was almost 11 AM, and I did not wind up getting to Tupelo until 2 PM.  I put in the battlefield into my GPS and was on my way, lighting up my Davidoff Nic Toro, always the first cigar of the first big drive of a trip.

The soundtrack was, as it has been, the playlist of my top 20 Disney songs.  I completely stole K---’s idea of recording herself singing Disney songs in the car and posting them to Snapchat.  It’s a lot cuter when she does it, but “everybody’s Tad Hamilton to someone.”  I have a slight suspicion as to which of my Snapchat viewers to whom I am Tad Hamilton.  It is quite ironic, since I believe three years ago she introduced me to the girl who is Tad Hamilton to me.  Wait, no, she didn’t introduce me to her.  She warned me to stay away from her saying that she was a bitch.  She is not a bitch.  She is one of the sweetest people I know, and I am very happy that she has been in my life for the past three years.

I stopped at Sonic for lunch.  Alright, I am freezing, so I will wrap up as quickly as I can.  After I ate, I lit up a Santana and ordered a Sonic Blast that I would eat later.  I made my way to Tupelo, and I saw a cigar store in town.  The only thing they had that I would have considered smoking was an Arturo Fuente, so I got two of them, one for today, one for tomorrow.  I had no trouble finding the battlefield, but something was missing.  No VC.  Uh oh.  No brochure, no stamp, no Official picture.  I took a picture and found out about the VC.  It was 10 minutes away, and another 20 minutes to the other battlefield.  The battlefield sites were each about the size of my parent’s backyard.  It was four hours later before I finally left Tupelo and headed to Baton Rouge.

I went to the VC, and I found out that they administered four NPS sites.  I did not know if the four sites were counted as four units, neither did the volunteer.  It would matter for my Instagram posts.  The four sites were Natchez Trace Parkway, Natchez Trace NST, Tupelo NB, and Brices Cross Roads NB.  The two battlefields shared a brochure.  I went back in the car.  All four were each an Official unit.  The parkway was right there.  The battlefields were 10-20 minutes in either direction.  I wasn’t sure about the trail.  He said there was a piece of the trail across the street.

Well, Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah, I would try to hit all four sites with a single cigar.  My Instagram and Facebook followers would be treated to four very similar pictures with a rapidly diminishing cigar over the course of about an hour and a half.  It was still raining.  The parkway was visible from the VC, so that was an easy picture.

I drove across the street, another easy picture, and I hiked the trail as far as it went back to the parkway, about five minutes.

I headed to Brices Cross Roads NB.  Fuck, it’s raining again.  The Confederates won that battle, forcing a union retreat and capturing a bunch of supplies and weaponry.

I headed back to Tupelo NB, getting the Official picture at last and finally announcing, “Mississippi

Complete.”  I ditched the cigar, got back in the car, and went across the street to Walmart looking for Disney stuff, nothing I needed.  I then went to Best Buy.  They had “Jungle Book.”  I also got “Twelve Years a Slave.”  Actually, I think it’s “12 Years a Slave.”  Well, either way, I got the Blu-rays, an audio cable to connect my cell phone to the speaker system in the car, and a pair of nice headphones.  I was hungry again, and I will not detail the adventures I took looking for a restaurant.

In the end, I found a Chinese buffet, as extensive as any I have ever said and good quality food.  I only got two plates, more a time thing than an appetite thing.  The price, with the drink, was about the same as I would spend at Hop Won if I get soup with my meal.  I was not surprised.  I lit up an Ashton VSG and was on my way, finally leaving Tupelo four hours after I first arrived.  I stopped for gas after I ditched my VSG and picked up a coffee.  I was running short on cigars, and I knew the coffee would hold me off for an hour or so before I lit up my next cigar.

I’m debating whether or not to include this bit in the published version, but I think that I can.  She is really the only person whom I care if she reads it, and, if she does read it, well, it’s not really anything bad.  I guess I had just finished the coffee at this point when I checked Snapchat.  My crush, my Tad Hamilton, had posted something with the hashtag #bored.  Well, I was bored, too.  I was almost half asleep at the wheel, and the same 20 Disney songs were starting to get repetitive.  Hmm, maybe we could amuse each other if we were both bored.  The post said one hour ago, which technically means between one and two hours.  Was she still bored?  I saw that she was online.  I sent her a simple text.  “Still #bored?”  If she responded, maybe we could chat on the phone for a bit.  It would have been quite nice to her voice instead of Ariel and Pocahontas.  No response.  Alas.

Suddenly the idea of another cigar seemed less appealing.  An hour later, I got a phone call.  Wait, was it her?  Did she read my mind?  Nope.  It was Sokol.  He needed cigar advice.  He said that he would call me back after he lit up, so I finally lit up one, too, an Aroma de Cuba.  I got Baton Rouge a little before midnight, not long after I finished the cigar.  I had to find street parking, since the lot was full.  I went up to my room, moped in bed for a bit before I rubbed out my tobacco and headed down.  I went to the balcony outside, where I proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close since my battery is almost dead, and it is after 2 AM.  I guess I need go upstairs and do the WIJG entry.  Oh, fuck, I need to publish, too.

Song of the South - Day 0 - Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah

3/20/15

Jackson, Mississippi

Winter has come to an end, and so too will my moping.  The title of this travelogue is “The Travelling Philosopher,” not “The Travelling Moper.”  As I’m sure my readers know, I do not have much of a sense of privacy.  In fact, I would go so far as to say that I only care about privacy to conceal certain pieces of information from people who might use it against me.  My ATM PIN, that’s private.  My saddest or most traumatic memories, I would not hesitate to share those with anyone I trust not to tease me about them.

In short, I am a rationalist (with both a small r and a big R).  If there is no rational information for not granting someone information, there is no reason not to do so, unless I believe it will cause me rational harm.  However, what happens when people are deprived of their ability to make rational choices for themselves in their own self-interest?  Well, then you have slavery.  I can think of no better place to explore these themes than here in the heart of the Deep South.  In fact, the title of this trip will come from the famed Disney film: The Song of the South.  Tonight’s entry will be ironically titled “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah” for reasons that should be quite obvious to anyone who has spent time with me this week, but I’m not going to talk about that in this entry, not because I am trying to hide anything, not out of a misguided sense of “privacy,” not it is for a more pragmatic reason.  I think my readers are tired of reading about it.

Instead, I would like to focus on a bit of philosophy that I have been reading.  It is Hegel’s Master/Slave Dialect.  It relates to how we can truly become self-conscious.  That may seem to be a trivial point.  Of course we’re self-conscious, right?  Right?  Says who?  Says you?  Why should I believe you that you are conscious of yourself?  Besides, you are never really truly self-conscious.  You are conscious of your memories and past thoughts.  Reader, try being aware of your thought as you have it.  It’s impossible.  Hegel’s solution is to divide your mind into two parts, “shapes of consciousness,” each of which attempts to annihilate the other and try to get the other to recognize his shape of consciousness.

I should note that I am witnessing right now a large fight that is starting to get very physical, but more on that later.  Okay, so the shapes of consciousness.  No, I can’t focus on Hegel, this fight is getting out of hand.  Alright, it looks like it ended.  I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed a physical fight since grade school.  The short of it (the shapes of consciousness, not the fight) is that one shape becomes the master, the other the slave.  The slave surrenders itself to the mindset of the master, believing the master’s thoughts are his own.  The master thereby becomes reliant on the slave for recognition of his thoughts, while the slave, believing the master’s thought’s to be his own, achieves that independence that the master so seeks.  In a complete role reversal, the master becomes the slave, and the slave becomes the master.  It should not be much of a stretch for me reader to figure out how to apply this to real life, and it is something I will explore in my personal journal.

For now, I want to focus on the idea how there is often a master/slave dynamic in many relationships.  In romantic relationships, it is said that one party “wears the pants.”  In friendships, one friend might be said to be “the leader of the group.”  In each of these examples, the “master” decides what happens, but he is reliant on the “slave” for companionship or for help in carrying out the plans.  Meanwhile, the slave who is agreeable to anything benefits from having someone plan everything for him, having someone taking care of him, and getting to participate in the plans that he comes to enjoy as his own.  It should not be hard to see the parallel here to Hegel’s master/slave dialect.  What is more interesting is why I just told a bunch of drunk college kids, “Dumbo is the one with big ears.  Pinocchio has the big nose.”  More on that later.

Okay, the events of Day 0.  Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah.  I had a 6 PM flight, which meant that I would have to leave work early.  I had gotten approved to come in early.  I had neglected to see if it would be okay if I did my pre-9 AM work from home.  I would need to make up about an hour or so before 9 AM.  I woke up at 7 AM and went right to work.  I was starving, and I had some leftover sesame chicken from last night.  Actually, it was the whole dish.  I had been planning on watching another Disney movie while I worked, but I couldn’t bring myself to put one on.  I just had no energy.  I was going to post something on Facebook to the effect of “Watching a Disney movie and eating Chinese food at 7 AM, when will my life begin?”  I just wasn’t feeling it, so I didn’t watch the movie.

“This guy is getting more than he’s bargaining for.”  “He’s writing a story about it.”  “Blogging about it.”  “Jackson, Mississippi.”  Oh, how accurate they are.

Okay, so I lit up a Winston Churchill and heated up my Chinese food, both of which were delicious first thing in the morning, but I couldn’t finish it.  By the time I got to the office, I was completely out of it, but I managed to get done what needed to get done, barely having the appetite for my traditional pre-departure Hop Won lunch.  Oh, right, that Churchill cigar.  Well, by the time I had to shower and get ready, I wasn’t done with the cigar.  I figured I would bike or walk with it and then drop it off at the cigar.  Well, first of all, my winter coat was still in the office, and it was like 30 degrees outside.  Second of all, I couldn’t bike with the suitcase.  Third of all, it was too late to walk.  I had to put the cigar in a tube and the tube in a plastic bag.

At 3:45 PM, I went to the cigar store to finish the rest of the cigar, get some new ones for the trip, and catch a taxi to LGA.  It was the first day of spring, and it was snowing.  Okay, so the other thing going on was that I had a philosophy paper due by the end of the day, and I hadn’t even done the reading.  Well, I finished the first of the two readings as I was getting out of the taxi.  Security was practically empty.  I tried to get on an earlier flight to no avail, afraid that my flight might be cancelled like so many of the other ones.  I sat down and started the second reading, finishing it on the plane.  I was about halfway down with the writing by the time we took off and almost done by the time the served dinner (I was flying first class).  I planned to finish the last paragraph after dinner.  When I opened my laptop, which I had just closed and not put to sleep, I was down to 7% battery.  I wrote quickly, but I still had one sentence left when it died.

My phone was almost dead, too, by the time that I got to Atlanta.  They had smoking lounges, but there were no outlets in the smoking lounge.  I went to the one nearest my gate and lit up a small cigar, a Headley Grange, but it was unsmokable.  Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah.  I ditched it for a Santana, which was not smoking great, either.  I was Snapchatting back and forth with Ray and Connor, which drained the battery.  At 1%, halfway through the cigar, which I was no longer enjoying, I ditched the cigar and headed to my gate, getting a cookie from Atlanta Bread Company, and charged my electronics as I finished my paper.

I slept on the flight, which was less than a hour.  However due to the time zone change, we landed before we took off.  I got my car, and plugged in my GPS, which I hadn’t used in quite some time.  I don’t know if the maps were out of date or if the roads were just badly marked or rerouted or something, but I kept getting lost.  I got to my hotel, and I was greeted as somewhat of a celebrity.  Jackson does not get tourists and everyone wanted to talk to the New Yorker, telling their stories about when they went to New York.  I went up to my room charged my electronics a bit as I changed into my pajamas, listened to more Disney music, and rubbed out my tobacco.  There was no view from my room, and it was nice enough outside, so I headed down with my laptop and pipe.  I got some Fritos, too.  Damn, it’s going to be 2 AM by the time I get to sleep.

Well, that was when things started to get interesting.  There was an outlet outside, and the guy sitting by it offered me his seat.  He was being a little too helpful.  Sure enough, he asked me for help getting something to eat.  I offered to share my Fritos with him, but he wasn’t interested.  Oh, right, the other thing.  This is St. Patrick’s Day weekend in Jackson, and it’s kind of a big deal here.  There were a bunch of college-aged kids, including a few girls who reminded me of the girl who has been for three years my biggest crush.  “A town full of K----s,” I thought to myself, thinking her name.

I sat down, lit up my 2013 Christmas Pipe, and proceeded to write this entry, but the evening was just beginning.  That pipe has not had much use, and this was quite possibly smoking of the pipe.  Well, there a bunch of black guys and bunch of white guys, everyone drunk.  One of the white guys had hit on the black guy’s wife, and they were arguing about it, almost getting physical.  Every time the fight escalated, someone stepped in to calm them down, and then that person got involved.  Two of the white guys brothers, started getting physical with each other, as the black guys walked off.  The security guard, who had earlier told me about how she wants to move to New York and work for the NYPD, was just watching on in amusement.

Then the college kids came back, including one who really reminded me of my crush.  It’s funny, two months ago I wrote about how I referred to her as my best friend.  Now, she’s just back to being a crush.  At one point, one of the drunken guys came back, and it looked like he was about to do something.  These college kids were perfect strangers to me, yet I knew with absolute certainty that, if he did something, I would fight to protect them.  Why?  Quite simply because one of them reminded me of my crush, someone whom I love so dearly.  Actually, one of the group who was upstairs even had the same name.

Well, he walked away, and the college kids drank beer and chatted while I watched on in amusement, wanting to be a part of their world.  I finished my pipe and finished the entry, which I will now close.  I am kind of chilly, but I don’t want to leave this scene, so I think I might write my WIJG entry before I go to sleep.  Maybe I’ll wait to publish in the morning, or I can get a cigar.  Yeah, that’s what I’ll do.  Now, the question is, do I trust them to watch my computer.  Yes, I do, but it’s not worth the risk.

George Washington Slept Here: An Orange County Adventure

3/15/15

Goshen, New York

“Beware the Ides of March.”  Well, I was not assinated by Brutus, but our little adventure would have went a lot more smoothly if I had been a little more aware.  “So basically you forgot everything yellow,” my mom had teased me.  Yes, right now I should be comfortably smoking my 2011 Christmas Pipe (wrapped in a yellow towel) and wearing my yellow parka.  Instead, I forgot both, and I am smoking a Cohiba in just my sports jacket, and I am quite cold.  However, here I am in front of the Orange County Government Center in Goshen, and our adventure has come to an end.  I said, “Orange County Complete,” though it hardly worked out how we expected.  Actually, it’s way too cold to keep typing, so I will need to pause until my mom comes back with the car so that I can continue in the warmth and not risking losing some fingers.

“George Washington slept here.”  It’s an all-too-common phrase seen at historic sites, almost a cliché even.  Some Colonial-era cottage lays its claim to fame from the night that General Washington and his officers camped there.  It gets turned into a museum, replete with artifacts from the same era, maybe even some reenactments, and, of course, the guide.  As my reader should be aware, the character of the guide is more often than not the villain.  “You can’t smoke there.”  “We can’t see both sites in the same day.”  However, what is just as annoying is the guide who will just not shut up.  I do not visit historic sites to get history lessons.  If I want a history lesson, I’ll read about it online.  No, when I travel, when I set foot in a famous, historic site, I read up for a few minutes on it before I arrive.  Then, I when I get there, I like to enjoy my cigar and take my photos in total silence.  Why?  Well, if I do that, I can pretend that General Washington is beside me.  I can pretend that the British Regulars are about to attack the fort.  I cannot do that with a tour guide prattling on.

Today, every site we went to visit was closed.  It might be said that we planned poorly, that we had back luck, even blame it on the Ides of March.  However, the truth was, it was perfect.  Sure, some other stuff went wrong, humorously wrong, but all’s well that ends well.  I said “Orange County Complete,” and that was the goal of the day.  It was a crazy plan from the beginning.  Drive an hour to Orange County, see 6 National Historic Landmarks, have lunch in the County Seat, see the legislature, and drive an hour home.  We could leave after breakfast and still be home in time for dinner, assuming everything went according to plan.  It would be nothing like the NHL runs I did in Manhattan or Brooklyn, but it would still be a fun adventure, and my mom and Raymond were on board.  Of course, I would wear my trademark maroon shirt, even though an orange one might have been more fitting.

Breakfast was going to be a game day decision.  If my dad was up before 9 AM, we would go to IHOP and then begin our adventure.  Otherwise, he would stay home, and my mom would take us at 10 AM, stopping at McDonald’s along the way.  The latter was what occurred.  Well, practically as soon as we left the house, the adversity began.  I had forgotten my Nexium.  Without it, the day would be quite miserable for me.  We would need to stop at a drug store when we got McDonald’s.  That worked.  My mom dropped us off at the McDonald’s.  Wait, my yellow parka.  Where was it?  Nope, left that at home, too.  How cold could it be?  We continued upstate towards our first stop.  I spilled my coffee on myself, scalding myself quite painfully.  We continued.  Where was my pipe?  Yep, that, too, I had left at home.  Oh, and did I mention that we were really only reliant on our phones for directions and that cell service is very spotty upstate?  That was fun.

It was not long before we reached the first site, Fort Montgomery State Historic Site.  “Closed for the season.”  Lovely.  The fort itself (or the remnants) were covered in snow, along with the trails.  My mom waited in the car, but that wasn’t going to stop us from exploring.  I lit up a Montecristo, and we walked around.  There was not much to see, but, in complete silence, I was able to turn back the clock in my mind 250 years.  We walked back to the car, and I put the cigar in its tin, not being able to smoke as we drove between sites, not with my mom in the car, certainly not in her car.

The next stop was the United States Military Academy at West Point, which we had no trouble finding.  The women at the VC were very helpful and told us exactly where we needed to go for the best souvenirs and the best pictures.  We did exactly that, and that was where I got my only souvenir of the trip.  In fact, it was the only site that was open.  Oh, on that note, I’ve just been informed that this is not the actual county legislature, so we I will need to close so that we can relocate to the correct one.

“Who knew how much adventure you could have in Orange County?”  We have had to relocate.  The place we were at was not where the legislature meets.  It has been closed for some time, and they are about to tear it down.  Where we now are is the new legislative building, but it is still under construction.  Raymond is on a quest to find out where the legislators are meeting now (and find a cookie), but my mom insists that they are probably just meeting at the bar.  I wouldn’t be surprised.  

Where was I?  West point.  After a couple of ID checks and a perfunctory search of the trunk we were at Trophy Point, a wonderful photo op where all the monuments were.  I resumed my Montecristo and once more put it back in the tube when we were done.  From there, we headed to Knox Headquarters.  Of course, that was closed, too, but it was nice photo op, and I was able to finish my Montecristo.  Next we headed to Newburgh, which had two NHLs, Washington’s Headquarters and the Dutch Reformed Church.

Washington’s Headquarters, the presumed highlight of the adventure, would be our last Revolutionary War-era site, even though the name of this trip is “George Washington Slept Here: An Orange County Adventure.”  We found the headquarters easily enough, but it too was closed, and we couldn’t even get that close because of the gates.  Well, I lit up a Santana, and we took our pictures.  The itinerary had us walking from there to the church, but my mom and Raymond thought the neighborhood was too seedy and objected to the walk.

I was okay with driving, so long as I did not have to put out my cigar.  It was about a two-minute drive to the church.  The church, too, of course, was closed.  It was under serious renovation, but the fence had a hole in it, so were able to get some good photos.  I took my water bottle and poured it on the lit end of the cigar to extinguish it.  Raymond informed me that I had ruined the cigar and would never be able to relight.  I assured him that I would be able to, but I guess I should have trusted my local tobacconist.

That just left one last NHL, the E.H. Harriman Estate, the home of a railroad tycoon.  We had some trouble figuring it out with the GPS, but we got there, or, more accurately, the road that we thought led to the estate.  It had signs all over the place that forbade trespassing and sightseeing.  That was not going to stop us.  My mom stayed in the car while we walked up the road while I struggled to relight my cigar.  Eventually, we came to more “No Sightseeing” signs, but we could see a house from there, though I did manage to get a few puffs out of the cigar.  We’re still not sure if it was the right house.  I guess we don’t really want to know.  By the time we got back to the car, we were all starving.

We put in Delancey’s Restaurant, our best choice for lunch.  It seemed simple enough.  We would get to the restaurant, have lunch, go to the legislature, and I would write my entry.  Then we could head home.  It’s been almost three hours since we entered Goshen city limits.  Beware the Ides of March, or, at least, the Sunday before St. Patricks Day in a town with a large Irish population.  Half the roads were closed, and we had to take a bunch of detours.  A cop told us to take a left and three rights.  I was the only one who heard the third right, and the GPS only had us take two rights.  I was outvoted.  Raymond just asked me if I’m almost done.  I answered, “We’re going to the wrong Delancey’s now.”  “You’re not close to done, are you?”  “No.”  Yes, that was exactly what happened.  The GPS was taking us to the wrong Delancey’s, which was closed.  They had relocated.  Well, we had to backtrack and park about a quarter of a mile away from the restaurant.  

I grabbed my laptop, and we walked to the restaurant.  When we got there, they asked us if we had a reservation.  Could we really not be able to get a table after everything that had gone wrong so far today?  I heard the number 25.  It was either, “Seat them at table 25” or that it would be a 25-minute wait.  It was the former.  Some luck at last.  Raymond and I got the burgers and beers, while my mother had a salad.  We also got a plate of chicken fingers for the table.  As soon as we ordered, the place filled up.  The parade was ending, but we had caught a window.  Sure, it took a while for our food to come, but ours was the first out.  The meal was delicious, so we walked to the legislature.

I knew that it would be too cold to sit outside and write, but I had a small Cohiba.  I could light up the cigar, we’d all go to the legislature, take our pictures, and then I’d wait there, finishing the cigar, while they went to the car and came back.  I could do some writing while I waited, and then I would finish in the car, in the warmth, once the cigar was done.  It was a perfect plan, and that was exactly what we did, until Raymond said that he needed a cookie.  Okay, that was fine, I’d still be writing by the time he got back.  Well, the bakery was closed, and he came back with some bad news.  We were at the wrong county legislature.  Well, we’d have to relocate to the new one.

We did so.  We took more pictures, and I sat in the car, where I proceeded to write the rest of this entry.  He still wanted his cookie, so I suggested he try the bagel place and ask if anyone knew where the legislators were actually meeting.  He failed on both accounts.  The bagel shop was closed, and no one knew where the legislators were meeting.  Well, this would have to do.  It fit in very well with the overall theme of this trip.  On that note, I will have to close, along with closing this trip, as I have expended all of the remaining patience of my car mates, who are all agree to being The Return Journey.  Next stop: Jackson, Mississippi to say Mississippi Complete and return to Poverty Point SHS, now a WHS.

Winging It - Day 3 - The Return Journey

3/9/15

New York, New York

This usually where I write about how unadventurous The Return Journey was quickly close out my trip in a perfunctory manner.  That was not the case today.  I had two hours to kill once I closed outside the airport.  It was no effort at all to get my boarding pass and clear security, so I headed to the Duty-Free shop in search of a box of cigars and Matt’s bottle of tequila.  There was an extensive selection of tequila, but they did not sell cigars.  That was weird.  They sold cigars on arrival, and the shop there was smaller, so how could they not sell cigars on departure?!?  They didn’t.

I was starving, so I needed to get something to eat, along with another Coca-Cola Light.  I thought I might have still had some cookies left in my bag of snacks.  I got the soda and went to sit down by my gate.  My flight would not be boarding for another hour, so I had plenty of time to kill.  That was when everything started to go wrong.  For starters, the outlets at the gate did not work, and my laptop was almost dead.  I tried all the outlets in the area, but none of them worked.  Fine.  I didn’t really need it for anything.

Okay, time for my cookies.  Wait.  Where was my food bag?  No, no, no, all the exotic snacks I had picked up, they weren’t there.  What did I do with them?  The cost was nominal, hardly even worth recording, but I had been looking forward to savoring them over the course of the week.  I hadn’t eaten any of them other than a few of the cookies.  What a waste.  Well, I was starving, and there was a slight chance I had left them at security.  I told them what happened.  I even explained in flawless Spanish.  There was obviously no bag of food there, but they wanted to make a federal case out of it.  They wanted me to file a report.  I kept explaining that it was also possible that I left it in the taxi, that it was not a big deal, just a few snacks.  “Si no tiene, no es importa.”  I felt trapped.  Eventually, they shrugged, and I walked away.

I went back to the gate and killed some time on my phone until it was time to board.  The seat next to me was empty, so I slept extremely well, waking up as we made our descent.  I think I actually fell back asleep as we were taxiing.  It was 8 AM when I got off the plane, and I went to the Global Entry Kiosk.  It had the same standard questions.  As always, I clicked “No to all.”  “Are you sure?”  I hesitated.  One of the questions was if I had handled any livestock.  Hmm, what about the horse?  Did that count?  Did I still have horse hairs on my suit?  How much of a delay would it be if I answered that I handled livestock?  I was already going to be late to work.  I clicked that I was sure.  There was no issue with Customs, and the wait for the bus was too long, so I called for a car service, cheaper than a taxi.  I was shocked how empty the airport was compared to the crowd I usually see at 6 AM.

I fell back asleep in the car, and I was at the office before 10 AM, the driver cursing out the other drivers once we reached Manhattan.  I spent most of the time at work working on a spreadsheet project, and I picked up McDonald’s for lunch, loving their new Chicken Select strips, which used to be a mainstay of my diet but had been discontinued.  I headed to the cigar store, where I proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close so that I can head to class, along with formally closing this trip.  Next stop: Jackson, Mississippi so that I can say “Mississippi Complete,” along with getting the Plaque and Stamp at our country’s newest WHS, though I might go somewhere next weekend.

Winging It - Day 2 - Unfinished Business

3/8/15

Temascaltepec, Mexico, Mexico (Piedra Herrada Monarch Butterfly Sanctuary)

When I travel, it is my goal to leave no unfinished business, to fully check off my list what needs to be checked off, to make sure that I get every photo, stamp, and souvenir that I need.  Sometimes it is inevitable to have to return, poor planning or facts and circumstances prevent visiting everything I would like to see, time or seasonal closures, but I always do my best to avoid it.  That is what today has been about: unfinished business.  There were two things I was unable to include when I visited two years ago: the Olympic Stadium (not open to the public) and the Monarch Butterfly Reserves (not open in May).

In order to see the Olympic Stadium, you have to buy tickets to see a soccer match.  The butterflies are leaving next weekend.  This was my last chance for a year to see these two things.  Today, I finished my unfinished business.  I slept fitfully, constantly waking up with a dry mouth due to not having my sleep machine, and having a very curious dream that continued through each sleep cycle.  Eventually, I woke up for breakfast, which was slightly disappointing, though it was cheap enough, and the bacon was excellent.  Not wanting to forget my Sunday newspaper again, I asked Enrique if we could get a copy of El Universal.  He found one, and I lit up one of the Montecristo cigars I had brought from home.

We got to the stadium, and, unlike last time, when I was the only one there, it was packed for the soccer match with all sorts vendors set up.  I went to pick up my ticket, and Enrique came back with some bad news.  I would not be able to bring my water bottle or my belt inside.  I did not need the belt for the Official photo, but I kind of needed the water bottle.  I figured I would just wing it and try to go inside with it anyway.  First, though, I had to finish the cigar.  Olympic Stadiums do not get Cubans, but World Heritage Sites do.  The Stadium was both, being part of UNAM, which is a WHS.

I went to the famous plaque, shocked how many police officers were there, and finished my cigar starting at the plaque with the mural behind it that had the Olympic Rings.  I also picked up a keychain.  I went back and finished my cigar in the parking lot before proceeding to security.  It looked like I was going to be able to make it, but the second guard told me that I couldn’t bring it inside.  “Solamente agua.”  Nope, still couldn’t have it.  Fortunately, there was a woman outside working as a bag check, and I trusted her with my most valued possession.

I went inside, and the magic struck me.  I was finally inside.  I took a few pictures and sat down a bit before going to retrieve my stuff.  Once I got the water bottle back, I took a picture.  I was inside the gates, so I counted it.  I made my way back to Enrique.  The game had not started yet, and we made our way to the butterflies.  I fell asleep en route, waking up in need of a U.  We pulled over, and then I lit up an Ardor, which was not finished by the time we arrived.

There was a tourist village at the base, which had all the perfect souvenirs.  I will be getting them

later.  After I finished my pipe, we got me a horse.  There was zero chance I could make it up the hill at this elevation, barely being able to walk across the tourist village.  I lit up a Padron, which I happened to pick up in New Mexico, and mounted the horse with ease.  We were soon on our way, and quickly reached the place where I had to dismount.  My guide told me that I had to leave the cigar, so I smoked it for a bit more before ditching it.  It was a five minute hike to the top, but it was brutal.  We saw some
butterflies en route, but the nest was at the top, which was shockingly beautiful.  I sat down, where I proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close so that I can do what needs to be to make this WHS Official and then begin The Return Journey.

Mexico City, Federal District, Mexico

As the sun sets over Mexico’s Federal District, I find myself once more at a familiar site, just as I was this morning.  The Palacio del Belles Artes was one of the sites we visited two years ago, being as it was, I believe the nomination photo for the Mexico City WHS.  The reason I am here writing this entry is because, once more, I’m winging it.  I have taken care of all of my unfinished business, even getting a selfie with the Cohiba that I lit on the way down and a butterfly, I think.  When we got to the bottom, I loaded up on souvenirs, the prices being as cheap as they were everywhere else.

I was absolutely starving, so I suggested to Enrique that we go to the restaurant by the parking lot.  No, the food was no good, he insisted, there were some restaurants in town.  Okay, fine.  I soon saw some roadside restaurants, but we weren’t stopping.  Why not?  Well, by, in town, he meant the big city, which was an hour a way.  I couldn’t wait that long.  I was furious.  Also, one thing I have learned from my travels in the North American tropics (Mexico, Central America, and the Caribbean), the absolute best meals you can have are these roadside restaurants.  Nothing compares.  Further, I would be able to smoke outside.  He had just driven by a dozen of them.  I had some more cookies, and he said there was a place ten more minutes up the road.  It was much bigger and, I imagine, not as good, but the meal was perfectly decent.  I lit up a Winston Churchill and ordered a nice meal.

My plan was to go to one of the best restaurants in town when we got to Mexico City, then we’d go to the airport.  What I felt more than anything was exhaustion, and I knew that my appetite would not recover in two hours.  Further, the restaurants I wanted to go to were closed or closed early on Sunday.  Hmm, what would we do?  He said that I could walk around downtown a bit.  Ah!  Perfecto!  Then he told me that the opera house, the iconic Palcio de Bellas Artes was hosting the world-famous Mexican Folk Ballet tonight.  I would have enough time for a smoke beforehand and could still make my

flight.  Alternatively, I could leave at intermission, which would give me enough time to get to the airport and write a good reflective entry, along with uploading my photos, and have a final cigar.  I’m not sure what I’ll do.  We stopped at an ATM so I could get the rest of the money to pay him, and we discussed a trip to Guadalajara in September.

“It’s not just for show,” I just thought to myself as a thirstily took a large sip from my world-famous water bottle.  It truly is world-famous.  This morning, when we were at the Olympic Stadium, as we were leaving the car, Enrique made sure that I had my water bottle.  Then, when they told him that I couldn’t bring my water bottle into the stadium, without my prompting, he explained that I always take a picture with my water bottle.  I did not tell him about that.  He had just figured it out from observation.  Okay, so we got downtown, and the guy with the ticket met us there.  I found some steps where I proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close so that I can try to upload my photos.  I will save my reflective entry for the airport.

Benito Juarez International Airport, Mexico

It is all so familiar.  Here I am at the same airport, sititng, I think, in the same spot, as I smoke a cigar, just as I did two years ago, before my world started to go to hell.  The last time I was here, though I arrived at the airport over two hours before my flight, I missed my flight.  I didn’t miss it.  They just wouldn’t let me on.  I might as well paste in the original text:

“So, I missed my flight.  More accurately, they wouldn’t let me on the flight.  I had the wrong time for the flight, since they changed it, and it was actually thirty minutes earlier.  Since you need to check in with the kiosk two hours early, I had just assumed that it was because I had requested an exit row, so I smoked my cigar.  I had this bad feeling, so I ditched cigar and went to check in.  They wouldn’t let me check in, and I kept get the ring around.  Finally, I got alternative answers that you need to check in 75 or 60 minutes early.  Guess what!  I has only 70 minutes early when the first person told me 75 minutes, and I was 55 minutes early when the second person told me 60 minutes.  I begged and pleaded, but they couldn’t do anything, even though they called a supervisor.  That was crazy.”

Well, this time I’m prepared.  I arrived at the airport almost four hours early, which gives me plenty of time to smoke my cigar and get to the counter in time.  The last time I was here, I told Enrique that I would see him again in December (of 2013).  This is the very trip I would have taken back then.  Why did it take me another 15 months to finally do it?  I guess the simplest answer is “life happened.”  I have already discussed all the “life” that has happened since then, so there is no need to go into that any more.  Actually, as I smoke my last 2014 Cigar of the Year, the Oliva V Melanio Figurado, I will leave all of 2014 behind.  I will not write about “her” anymore in this blog, nor will I dwell on the ills of the past.  What happened, happened.  Instead, I will think about the good in my life, but that is not what this entry will be about.  This is the reflective entry, and I will reflect on the trip, not on my life.

About a year ago, I had just come back from a grueling week-long trip to Central America, seeing the true Central America, not visiting the tourist spots, seeing all the capitals.  “Who goes to Honduras?” my dad had asked me.  Well, it turned out that his best friend and his wife had gone there, and they were coming over for dinner.  We started to talk about our trips.  Okay, I’ll rephrase.  She talked about her trip while the rest of us sat there quietly, practically unable to get in a word edgewise.  “Did you go to Tegucigalpa?” I had asked.  I can’t remember if she was unfamiliar with the capital of the country she had visited or if she said that she just went to the airport there.  She said something that, even a year later, stuck with me.  “No, it wasn’t one of those kind of trips.”

In other words, they didn’t go to Honduras.  They went to a beach that was located in Honduras.  Whatever smidgeon of respect I had for her instantly disappeared.  By extension, my respect for my dad’s friend diminished for being married to her, and my respect for my dad for being friends for the with the man married to her.  Okay, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, but I still can’t believe she said that, that she would so “poo poo” the idea of going to the capital, of experiencing local culture, that she would actually spend her entire time on some overpriced beach resort and have the nerve to tell people that she went to Honduras.

“I love the Caribbean, but I hate the beach.”  That is something I have said before, and it applies equally to Central America.  The North American tropics is one of the most fascinating and beautiful and remarkable places in the world.  The only place I have visited that comes close to comparing is the Middle East, and they both experience hot climates, which makes me very tired, so I wind up spending too much time in the car napping and missing out on the beautiful vistas.  When people think of Mexico, they think of Tijuana and Cancun and Acapulco (is that the right one?).  That’s not Mexico.  Tijuana is a tourist town that’s practically a suburb of San Diego.  Cancun and Acapulco are beaches located in Mexico.

What I have seen these past two trips are places I encourage each and every one of my readers to visit.  If you want to go to the beach, go to Atlantic City or Miami or, if you feel a need to leave the continent, one of the Greater Antilles, but there is so much more to be seen in the North American tropics than beaches.  From Mayan ruins to old monasteries to splendid biosphere reserves, it is a region ripe with natural and cultural heritage, stuff that you cannot experience from a beachside tourist resort.

Call up Enrique and have him take you wherever you want in Central Mexico.  He’ll charge you about per day what you’d spend for lodging at a tourist resort, and your hotel here will cost you less than your meals at the tourist resort.  Your meals here, including alcohol, will probably cost you less than your alcohol expenditures at the tourist resort.  About those meals, whenever you are in the North American tropics, your best bet is those roadside restaurants, the ones that have non-descript names and signs with the Coca-Cola logo or that of the local beer company.  Drink the local beer, and eat fresh food that will taste better than anything you’ll get at those tourist resorts.

My first day with Fernando when we went to Central America, we stopped at one of those places to get fried chicken.  For dinner, we ordered room service from our hotel in Guatemala City, the best hotel in town.  He was shocked when I told him that I enjoyed the roadside meal more, and he said that he had to tell his girlfriend that the American liked the roadside chicken better than room service from the hotel.  The mountains here are so beautiful, too, but the elevation is a bitch.  I get winded walking more than a few feet at this elevation, and going up a flight of stairs leaves me gasping for breath.  However, it’s all part of the experience.

I have about another dozen trips to the North American tropics, and I look forward to each and every one of them.  It is a region that simply does not get boring to me.  When I left Enrique today, I told him that I’d see him in Guadalajara in September.  I hope it won’t be alone.  It would be wonderful to introduce a dear friend or a girlfriend to this region, while at the same time introducing Enrique to her.

Alright, it looks like I have enough time to write about my time at the ballet, since The Return Journey didn’t begin until I left the ballet.  After I closed, I headed to the ballet.  Actually, this is going to be really short.  The ballet was wonderful, and I truly enjoyed this last minute addition, but it was not pure happiness.  All of my stresses and doubts soon returned, and I got tired of the same music, so I left after about an hour.  Enrique was waiting for me, and we headed to the airport.  He picked me up a much needed Coca-Cola Light en route, and we recreated our photo from last time when we got there.  I went to my old spot, where I proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close so that I can publish and check in.