The Mayan Run (Or: Racism)

4/16/14

En route, CA-9, Guatemala

I suppose this is as fitting of a dateline as any to head today’s entry, since it is where I will be spending more waking hours than anywhere else.  Only seasoned readers of my Travelogue will understand the intricacies of today’s entry, so I encourage any first time readers to read the entries for 4/14/14 and 4/15/14 before proceeding.  There is an old poem that goes something like “For want of a nail, a shoe was lost.  For want of a shoe, a horse was lost.  For want of a horse, a rider was lost.  For want of a rider, a battle was lost.  For want of a battle, a kingdom was lost.  For want of a nail, a kingdom was lost.”  For me, the poem might be “For want of a suit, my 30 Goals were lost.”

We woke up and quickly got a move on, getting on the road right at 5AM as planned.  Last night, I had come up with a great plan.  I would leave the minibar key and a cigar band next to my cell phone.  I had left my cheese in the fridge and my suit in the closet.  Since today would be the only day where I would not have to cross an international border, I would not need to wear my suit, and I could wear casual clothes.  That meant that I would need to bring my suit with me and not forget it in the closet.  By leaving the minibar key and cigar band next my cell phone, I would remember to get the cheese out of the fridge, and I would put the cigar band in the pocket of me suit, which would mean I could not forget it.  It was a perfect plan, or so I thought.  I lit up a Punch, and we stopped at a gas station for bottled water, which I much needed to refill my water bottle, gas, and batteries.  I looked around for some meat, but they didn’t have any ready.  I thought I might have some of my cheese, which was in my suit pocket.  By the time we got back to the car, I decided that I wasn’t hungry, so I forwent the cheese, and we continued on our way.

The basic route of the trip, after the first few kilometers, would be to take CA-9 for 250km, followed by CA-13 for 250km, which would take us right up to the park entrance.  I decided that I would drive on CA-9, we’d get lunch, and then Fernando would drive on CA-13.  I will clear up a point of potential confusion.  I keep talking about CA-4 Complete.  In that context, CA-4 are the 4 Central American countries we are visiting, so called because they have entered into a customs/border agreement.  CA-9 and CA-13 are highway numbers.  Fernando had to take a U, so we pulled into a gas station.  It was at that point I realized what was missing.  My suit.  This was not like the shirt I left in Key West, which, after a moment of panic, I was able to have mailed to me from the hotel.  No, I would need this suit tomorrow morning, and there was no way to get it, except for one.  We would have to drive back.  “Fuck,” I announced.  While Fernando took his U, I put the hotel back in the GPS, and I was pleased to see that we were only about 30 minutes away.  Figuring city traffic and the time I would need to get the suit, I estimated it would add about an hour and a half to our trip, which meant an hour and a half less time at Tikal.  I had budgeted about 4-5 hours there, but this now meant we were looking at a 3PM arrival, if everything went according to plan.  Of course, not everything went according to plan.  There is always a Plan B, but, in this case, the Plan B was a very shitty one and would have made today’s long drive to Tikal and tomorrow’s drive from Tikal pointless, along with wasting an entire day.  Fernando thought that the park might have closed as early as 4PM, which left us less than an hour of Dutch Time, and we hadn’t eaten, and we would need another tank of gas.  It was not looking good.

I lit up a Davidoff Colorado, and we were back on the road, having minimal difficulty getting out of the city before we were back on CA-9.  Then we hit the traffic.  It was very bad traffic, so I decided we’d stop for breakfast, figuring that it couldn’t get any worse.  I was wrong.  However, we also learned that the park was open until 6PM, but I did not want to arrive there at 5:45 PM and hope for the best.  I had these delicious fried pork skins, and I lit up a Padron before getting back on the road.  The traffic got worse.  I was vigorously calculating how much traffic we might hit, figuring we could afford an hour of traffic.  Traffic can’t last forever, can it?  It came to a complete standstill a few times.  I calmed myself down, saying that, until the GPS said 4PM, I would not panic.  That would allow us enough Dutch Time to get to the park by 4:45 PM.  Puffing on my plugged Padron, I managed to calm down.  Soon enough, the traffic broke.  It turned out that there was an accident, which can really fuck up highways with one lane in each direction.  That was that.  We had an arrival time of 3:45 PM, and everything was starting to look all right.  I said that we could switch after I finished my Padron, which would be around 10AM.

I hit the nail right on the head, and it also coincided with us passing another one of those towns that slows down traffic.  It was the perfect place to pull over and switch, which we did.  I grabbed my computer, and proceeded to write this entry.  Back en route, having written this entry to put it all in perspective, it all seems so insignificant.  We are looking good on time, though we are not nearly out of the woods, and we are well fed.  If need be, other than gas, we can drive straight to the park.  It is now showing 95km to CA-13, which I hope will be a better road than this one, especially since it is more remote.  I will save the philosophical section for tonight’s portion of the entry and now close.

Tikal, Guatemala

In Saint Lucia, I said that it was sometimes about the journey, sometimes about the destination, sometimes about the perfect souvenir, and sometimes about that one perfect photo.  Like that day that I tried to climb the Pitons, today was about all four.  Writing this entry in the heart of the Mayan city of Tikal, staring at the nomination photo of the WHS, some replicas in my tour guide’s backpack, and smoking a Cohiba Siglo II, I can say that today went well.  It was a true Munich Run in every sense of the word.  After I closed, I decided that I would try to take a nap.  It didn’t take.  I was too worried.  We kept hitting more and more traffic, that 4:45 PM deadline looking more and more unlikely.  I think I lit up another cigar, though I can’t remember which or if I did.  Each time we came to small town, traffic came to a standstill as people slowed down to pass through the town.  Fernando drove like a maniac, making up precious minutes where he could, doubling his tip in the process.  The GPS got closer and closer to that 4:45 PM arrival time, and we still had to stop for gas.

I am fuzzy on all the details of the drive, since stress blurred everything in my mind.  The crux of it was, I realized that there was nothing that I could do about.  Fernando knew how important it was to me to get there on time, and he would do his best.  A different man would leave his hands to God.  That was not an option for me.  I took a nap, hoping for the best, preparing for the worst.  I woke up with a start as I heard my cigars come crashing to the floor.  There was an unpainted speed bump.  I knew that no more sleep would come, but Lo!  Our GPS was still right around that 4:30 PM mark, and, behold! there was no more traffic.  Fernando announced that we were now in the jungle and that it would be smooth driving from then on out.

For the first time today, I finally appreciated the beauty of where I was and took copious pictures of our surroundings.  We stopped for gas and food at the next gas station, and I lit up a Tatuaje Monster.  I then saw the sign that made my heart cheer, “Welcome to Peten,” which I knew to be the department where the park was located.  We had to go through an agricultural in inspection, which cost us 3 minutes and our mango, but we were on good time.  Soon enough, I saw the entrance to the park, and we congratulated one another.  Sure, it was mostly an issue of him making up for me forgetting the suit, but we did it.  We had plenty of time, or so I thought.

We first had to drive to the parking lot, and then there was a substantial walk to the plaza, the place where the nomination photo was taken.  I knew that we could make it to the site before dark to get the picture, but getting back could be a problem.  I had estimated 50 minutes to the site.  I had wanted to write this entry here, but that would not be an option if we were short on time.  The souvenir shops would close before we got back, so I loaded up, though I hate doing it in that order.  We were told it was 25 minutes to the Gran Plaza, and I told Fernando that would give us just enough time to take a picture and turn around, but that was okay with me.  Twelve hours of driving and an hour of walking, just to take a picture and turn around?  A-okay if it’s the perfect picture.

As we were walking, we saw a monkey, and that meant I could also check off the natural part of the site, since it was a mixed inscription.  Score.  I grabbed my cigar case to light up my Cohiba, but the case fell.  The one cigar that hit the ground and cracked?  My Cohiba.  “That’s not good,” I announced, just like the rest of the day, but, like the rest of the day, it all worked out in the end.  All’s well that ends well.  We made our way, and I christened the site by taking a U in the jungle portion.  It only took us 15 minutes to get to the site, which left me 20 minutes to write this entry.  I showed Fernando the nomination photo and said, “You know the drill.  We recreate this photo.”  He knew the drill and helped me find the spot, which was midway up one of the other pyramids and where I am now sitting.  He took my picture, and I took his.  He asked to be excused, which was fine so that I could have some peace, and I proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close, since it is now exactly 5:30 PM, the time we need to turn around, and my cigar is done.  The philosophy section will follow tonight.

San Jose (El Peten), Guatemala

Despite what I wrote earlier, as we left Tikal, I was planning on publishing as is with no philosophy section, yet sometimes entries write themselves.  The Mayan run, as I will now be calling it was adventure enough, but I would be remiss not include these thoughts.  The first part will be about attraction.  I have waned and waxed enough about the gorgeous girl from my high school will always be my Form of Beauty.  There is no need to further expand.  She was smart, independent-thinking, Jewish, white, petite, and about 5’7”.  I say this because I am singularly attracted to smart, independent-thinking, Jewish, white, petite girls between 5’3” and 5’11”.  I have a type, and the type is women who remind me of that girl from high school.  I very consciously avoid applying a Freudian analysis to this.

I want to focus on just one of those words: white.  One might think someone as well-travelled as I would have tastes in women that are as varied as his tastes in foreign cultures.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  I bring this up because I saw something today that shocked me only because it had been missing since I landed: attractive, (non-Hispanic) white women.  That is not to say that I did not see attractive locals, just that I was not truly attracted to them.  I could never be attracted to a black or Asian woman.  Does that make me racist?  If I said that I could never be attracted to someone who wasn’t Jewish, no one would give it a second thought.  If I said that I could never be attracted to an idiot or someone who couldn’t think for themselves, people might not believe me, but I would not be condemned for it.  If I said that I am only attracted to petite women between 5’3” and 5’11”, people would not judge me for that, either.  However, if I were to say that I don’t find black women attractive, that would open myself to judgment.

I would never apply race or religion or gender to my business relations, my friendships, or almost any area of my daily life, except for this one area.  When I say that I am singularly attracted to white, Jewish women, why does the word white draw the most attention?  I had once argued that the people who decry racism are the people who are most secretly racist in their hearts.  Is it because I am saying something others are afraid to say?  Would someone else, unable to say the words, “I am not attracted to black women (or white men or Muslims, since I see no distinction),” just look for other reasons to reject such a woman?  Would they enter into such a relationship knowing how much they despise that woman?  I’m sure such things happen all the time.

Racism is something we feel in our hearts.  Discrimination is the action we take based on racism.  I maintain that there is nothing wrong with racism if we do not act upon it, if there is no discrimination.  Many of the people I mention who so decry racism probably do so because they are racist in their hearts.  They want to remove it from their heart, so they promote programs that curve the steel back in the other direction, completely missing the point.  If they would instead accept the way they feel and resolve not to act on it, we would not have programs such as affirmative action, Black History Month, and whatever else this “white guilt” causes to try and undo material causes of racism.

I hold that there is no such thing as black rights, gay rights, minority rights, women’s rights.  Only an individual can have rights.  A class cannot have rights, other than the collective rights of each individual member.  That is the way I live my life, treating each individual person with the respect and love that they have earned through their actions and values.  Then, why could I never be in love with a black woman?  For the same reason I could never be in love with a white man.  Any further discussion of this matter would be too far beyond of the scope of this Travelogue.

After I closed in Tikal, we made our way back to civilization, acutely aware that we did not want to be caught here after dark.  The souvenir stands were still opened, so I got another replica.  As we drove out, it got steadily darker, and it was pitch black by the time we got to the restaurant right by the turn-off to the hotel.  So glad we had made it to the site in time, I told Fernando I was paying for dinner.  There was a suspension bridge that led from the restaurant to the lookout point, and it was quite an adventure to get there and back, especially given the broken step about halfway through.  I said that we survived “the broken suspension bridge: The Experience,” and he replied that it was more like a challenge.  I immediately thought of the Captain.

During our meal, I smoked a Heisenberg Uncertainty, both to represent smoking away the uncertainty of the Mayan Run to Tikal and the coming uncertainty of getting to the hotel, and he spoke about his life story.  He grew up in Tegucigalpa and moved to San Salvador when he was 18 to study Anthropology.  He “got a girl pregnant” and dropped out to help support them.  They separated, and now he is going back to school in his final year.  He wants to be a tour guide full-time, but he would much rather have a job doing anthropological research, jobs that are few and far between in Central America.  My respect for him grew.  He then spoke about cultural values, which was the theme of last night’s entry, saying how he worked for a call center, and it taught him how Americans value things that are not valued in his culture, such as customer service and punctuality.  He said it was hard for him to understand how important punctuality is to an American.

On the flip side, I am always shocked by how little some foreign cultures value punctuality.  It goes back to my entry from the Dry Tortugas where I said that I am a man of my word.  Just as if I say I am going to do something, I do it, if I say that I will be somewhere at a certain time, I will, or I will let the person know I’m running late.  It is a matter of common courtesy, and I am shocked when people, even my own mother, do otherwise.  I suppose that I could continue on about the difference in cultural values around the world, but I have done that numerous times, and it has been played out.  It was just refreshing finding such a sharp analysis of that from this bright tour guide I found entirely by chance.

After dinner, we headed to the hotel, which was an adventure moving the car and bags multiple times to get to the room, along with two very bumpy rides in the luggage truck.  We tried to plan our trip to Rio Platano Biosphere Reserve for the day after tomorrow with no luck.  I am fully prepared to apply the Darien exception if need be, but it is a last resort, though I kind of what to do it to better establish the precedent in case I need it for Iceland and Hawaii.  After that, I uploaded my photos, headed outside, lit my Avo with lighters that desperately need gas, and proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close so that I can publish and get some sleep.  Oh, the cigar I forgot was a Drew Estate Undercrown.

The original Munich Run:

7/17/13

Munich, Germany

From henceforth, I shall no longer call them Mole Runs but rather Munich Runs.  My race to the Olympic Stadium in Munich made the original Mole Run seem like a trip to the grocery store.  Nothing has ever compared, nor will anything likely.  I am now sitting down to dinner at the First Class section of Restaurant 181, a Michelin starred experience 181 meters (600 feet) above Munich.  There are only 4 tables here, and I am spinning around right in the heart of Olympiapark overlooking the whole of the city from above while I enjoy a glass of Hofbrau, one of the best known Bavarian beers, pretending to be Dr. Steven Margolin of the Philosophy Department at Patrick Henry University.  I guess I should start from last night.  [Snip through a day of racing head from site to site and skip forward the afternoon, my race to get to the Munich Stadium before it closed.]  Anyway, I hit some bad traffic getting into Nuremburg.  It is a major city with a typical rush hour.  I definitely felt a sense of something when I entered the city limits.  It wasn’t joy or triumph, but it was definitely something.  I sat in the courtroom and made a few corny jokes to myself before I left.  I grabbed a Fanta from a shop my car and entered the church in Regenberg as my destination.  It showed a 6PM arrival, the exact time I estimated that the church would close.  Unfortunately, I hit the typical small town issues getting from the highway exit to the church, and I was few minutes too late.  I figured that the name of the inscription was “Old Town of Regenberg with Stadtamhof,” not “Remeneberg and it Cathedral,” so I counted the site, even though I got no souvenir, no plaque, and no brochure.  It is a good precedent to set.  I lit up my cigar, took a few pictures, walked around a bit, and got back in the car, entering the Olympic Stadium as my address.  I estimated that I would need 15 minutes in the stadium plus add an extra 15 minutes for lights and other horseshit associated with city driving.  My GPS showed a 7:35 PM arrival, 25 minutes before closing time.  It was good.  [Snip useless comment about Facebook.]  Anyway, as soon as I pulled out, it adjusted for traffic and showed a 7:56 PM arrival time, but the traffic jam was 76 km away, so it might have dissipated by the time I hit it.  I figured that if I was able to set foot inside the ticket booth by 8PM and someone was there, I could bribe them with a large banknote to let me stay for 30 minutes, but, if they were gone after 8PM, there was nothing that could be done.  I added 8 minutes getting out of the city, so I was now past that 8PM arrival time.  I absolutely floored it as soon as I hit the Autobahn, 210 km/h the whole time, the fastest my car would let me go.  I divided my time between thinking about contingency plans for hitting Munich at some other point during the trip and how this would always be the new Mole Run.  By the time I made the turn to Munich, I had made up about 10 minutes, allowing me to most likely arrive in time to make the bribe, but my GPS indicated that I was in the middle of a traffic jam.  I didn’t see any traffic, and I figured that I had avoided it, but I turned out to be wrong.  Sure enough, traffic was jammed up about 1 km later with no end in sight.  It wound up adding 15 minutes to my trip, with an estimated 8:06 PM arrival time, way too late to do a bribe.  Fortunately, it told me it was sending me on alternate route, which would get me in at 7:45 PM.  Unfortunately, that route had red lights and speed limits, so it was 7:50 PM by the time I had arrived at the parking lot.  I thought it would be like Berlin, where I could just pull up by the Stadium and walk right to the ticket office.  Munich actually preserved the whole Olympic Park, which was cool, but it meant that I had to park far away, and I had some difficulty getting into the lot.  By the time I had gotten out of the lot, it was about 7:53 PM, and the stadium was a good kilometer away.  I ran, and I mean ran, with my water bottle in my hand and my camera beating against my leg.  I got to the ticket office, and it was 7:59 PM.  I asked if I could still walk around, and I was told that I only had one minute.  I took out a very large banknote, and he said, jokingly, that, for that banknote, I could stay as long as I wanted.  In all seriousness, I agreed, but they asked me if I had anything smaller.  I handed them an appropriate note, and they made change for me.  I didn’t even bother asking for a student discount.

Cultural Values

4/15/14

Guatemala City, Guatemala

People like to say that travel changes the way you see the world, and, having travelled extensively, I can say it is bullshit, hackneyed cliché.  Travel doesn’t change the way you see the world.  People who travel like I do do so because they see the world in a different, because they know that the world has more to fofer than the sheltered lives they live at home.  They travel because they want to experience these new cultures.  Anyone with half a brain knows that people around the world are different in many ways.  People who continue to live their sheltered lives choose to look down on those other cultures.  People who travel the way I do (going on a tour group to China or wherever and oohing and and aahing with a herd of people at the exotic culture your guide shows you does not count), do so because they respect these cultures, because they want to compare and contrast these foreign cultures to one another and to their own.  You don’t go to a beach in the Caribbean or walk the Great Wall because you want to experience new cultures.  Anyone who comes back from Antigua thinking only of the quaintness of the islanders and the clarity of the turquoise waters has missed the point.  Anyone who goes on a cruise and spends more time at sea than on land cannot claim to experience any new cultures.  Do the people who got off the port in Basseterre realize how bad the roads on the rest of the island are compared to the few that are near the cruise terminal?  Do the people who arrive at Roseau and see a thriving city alive with people realize how dead the island is once they leave or if there is no ship that day?  I think the most important thing to learn about different cultures is what they value.  Different people and different cultures have different values.  The theme of tonight’s entry will be primary values.

I spoke of one of my primary values last night, and I will speak of another one tonight: achievement of my desires.  Other people may value differently privacy, security, religion, charity, education, any number of primary values, and rational men may disagree about those values.  However, there is one thing that completely kills any rational discussion of value: force.  No man may initiate the use of force against another man.  When you kill someone because they disagree on your religious values, you no longer have the right to any values, to anything, not even to your own life.  I have spent a lot of time the past year in the Muslim word, and I understand the emphasis they put on religion.  That’s great.  They can believe whatever they want, but they also have an obligation to let other people believe how they choose.  So too in Central America and the Caribbean is there a strong emphasis on religion, but you never hear a story about a Guatemalan killing someone for practicing the wrong type of Catholicism, do you?  Having arrived in El Salvador during Easter week, I will be making my rounds of these 4 countries, leading up to spending Easter in San Salvador.  Last Easter, I had a magical Easter in the Caribbean, and I expect the one in San Salvador to be just as wonderful.  It was clear practically immediately upon landing just how important this holiday is to these people.

I had been upgraded to first class due to my Star Alliance (United) status and got the best seat on the plane: 1A.  I was the first one on and the first on off.  The seat next to me was empty as well.  As soon as I got on the plane, I put my eye mask on and my feet up and went to sleep, trying to catch up after getting less than three hours of sleep.  It was a mad rush to get to the airport, and I didn’t even do my printouts right.  As I pulled into MIA, the one song came on that would have made me considered risking it with the check-in time: Sk8er Boi.  Instead, I blasted the music and sang along as I unloaded the car.  My father said in his response to Sunday night’s entry something to the effect of that it was good to air out those painful memories.  I thought about and realized that the memories were not at all painful.  Sure, they were memories of a painful time, but I got over it by the end of the summer.  That didn’t mean I didn’t still want my little Sk8er Boi fantasy, which I did get in the end.  As I mentioned, I have been travelling the world for the past 2 years and helping to create wealth with my capacity to think.  She is working customer service at JetBlue (the irony), which is as far as her limited capacity to think can take her.  I won that battle.  I got my wish.  It is a very happy memory.  I have become the kind of person that could never be attracted in any way to a gorgeous ditz.  She’s still probably chasing after the Michael Zombak’s of the world.  Okay, maybe I’m a little vindictive about it, but there is no pain there.

To continue where our story left off, I looked at my watch and saw that it was fast approaching 9AM EDT.  Wait, that meant that it was 8AM CDT.  My flight was supposed to land at 7:35 AM.  What was happening?  I wasn’t yet on a time crunch, since I wanted to go to the San Salvadoran souvenir market first, and they didn’t open until possibly 10AM.  It turned out that San Salvador was actually 2 hours behind Miami, which meant that I would be getting 2 hours of sleep on the plane, not 1, which made all the difference in the world.  It allowed me to arrive in San Salvador refreshed and ready to take on the world.  I stopped for cigars at a couple of different places along the way, getting a three-pack of Trinidads, and 2 boxes, Cohiba Siglo #2 to serve as the Cigar of the Trip, and Hoyo de Monterrey, since I hadn’t had a box of those in 6 months.  The Cigar of the Trip is a very special cigar, and it was fitting to choose Cohiba Siglo #2 as the Cigar of the Trip for such a special trip, since it is my favorite cigar in the world and since I bought my first box of them the first time I went to Mexico on my own.  Typically, as a rule, I do not smoke the same cigar on consecutive days, but I make one conscious exception to that rule.  The first full box of cigars I buy during a trip, if bought before or during Day 1, can be considered the Cigar of the Trip.  It is a cigar that I can smoke every day during the trip, and I have recently started using it for the first WHS of each day of the trip.  It is done like this by design so that, when I bring the box home, I will be reminded of that trip each time I smoke one of those cigars.  If this trip is a success, what could be a better memory while I smoke my favorite cigar in the world?

Immigration took forever, and I saw the car rental place, followed by some doors that kept out the well-wishers.  I was quite sure that it would be a problem getting in once I left that area, but I also knew that I wanted my guide with me for the rental process so that I got everything I needed.  I walked out the doors and was instantly accosted by people asking if I needed a ride.  That was when I heard my name.  It was a bright, cheerful, young man, completely different from what I expected.  This was Fernando, my trusty guide, who would, for better or worse, be my boon companion for the next 6 days.  We tried to walk back to the rental car counter but were stopped by the police.  Fortunately, Fernando was familiar with the process, and he waved over to the agent who came to take care of everything.  Meanwhile, I had one of the best cups of coffee of my life.  It was just a cup of what the workers were drinking at Pizza Hut, but it was so good.  Apparently, El Salvador knows its coffee.

After Fernando took care of everything with the car for me (all I had to do was pay and sign), we went to the car.  When I got in the car, I saw the last thing I expected: an actual ashtray and a working cigarette lighter.  I was so shocked.  I immediately lit up my Davidoff Nic Toro, considering this to be a separate trip from the Florida portion.  We were on our way, chatting about our lives and various things.  I was fascinated by this man, only a few years older than I.  He was pushing 30, and I am sure he had no such list of travel goals, but here was clearly a man who loved and enjoyed his life.  As the day wore on, the conversation died down, and we still have five more full days to go.  Other than Stuart and my family, I have never spent so much time with someone for so long.  We are going to be travelling together, driving together, and even staying in the same hotel rooms.  It’s a good thing I like him.

Our first stop was the souvenir market, where I loaded up on all the El Salvador souvenirs I needed.  We probably had enough time to stop at the legislature, as well, which would have allowed me to say “El Salvador Complete,” but I constantly decided against.  Just as I have a vision of smoking some ridiculously expensive Cuban on September 12, 2017, saying “U.S. Complete” and some other miraculous string of Completes, I also have a vision of smoking my last Bolivar on April 20, 2014 (Easter) in front of the El Salvador Assembly, saying “CA-4 Complete.”  That vision does not hold as much water on April 19, 2014 in front of some Nicaraguan cathedral.

I decided that we would go straight to the archaeological site of Joya de Ceren, but I was starving, and we stopped right before we got there at a roadside stand.  I got some crisp-fried chicken, along with a local beer.  The chicken was delicious, and the beer was good enough, though I only drank half of it and just wanted it for the cap.  They also brought me a pupusa, which was practically pure carbs, but it was the national food of El Salvador, so I had a few bites just to say I tried it.  The price for this meal?  Less than a bagel with cream cheese at Zucker’s.  Joya de Ceren was a mini Pompeii, a well-preserved pre-Columbian city that was covered by a volcano.  We took pictures with the plaques and then proceeded to walk around the uncovered houses.  After we passed the first security guard, I lit up my Cohiba, figuring that the sites were technically outdoors.  No one stopped me.  While it was interesting, I wanted to get a move on and keep going.  Once we found the spot to take the nomination photo, I decided it was time to get a souvenir and move on.

After I finished the Cohiba, I fell asleep on the way to border.  Fernando woke me up right before the border, which took some time, but it was simple enough.  It took far more time to leave El Salvador than to enter Guatemala.  I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed that I did not get a Guatemalan stamp in my passport, but I’m leaning towards relieved.  I lit up Garcia My Father cigar.  Since I have spent a great deal of this trip thinking about my father, it was slightly ironic that I did not think of my father during the smoke.  I asked Fernando what the national dish of Guatemala was.  He said it was something called guachitos.  I suggested that we stop at the next place that had them.  We found ourselves in this bustling town, fresh in the middle of traffic jam.  I went to get my gauchito, which is basically a hamburger.  I said no bread, and she just said no.  I went back to look for Fernando, thinking they didn’t have them.  He talked to her, and she was just refusing to serve it to me without bread.  I thought maybe they didn’t have plates and had no way to wrap it up without bread.  Fernando told me to just throw out the bread.  It seemed so stupid, but I agreed.  She put my gauchito on a plate.  I took the bread right back on the counter.  That could not have been easier for her.  I used a napkin to hold the guachito, which came with an egg and cheese, and managed to eat it.  During this whole process, my cigar had gone out, and I hadn’t brought my lighter, so I relit it when I got to the car.  Once I finished it, I programmed the GPS for the next 48 hours and took another nap, more exhausted from the heat than lack of sleep at this point.  It should have been about 45 minutes to our next stop.

I woke up 45 minutes later, and we still weren’t there.  I asked if we had hit some bad traffic, but Fernando said that it was the police checkpoints.  Over the course of the highway, there are dozens (hundreds) of police checkpoints, which use cones to reduce the two lanes to one for a few meters.  We were never stopped, but the merging caused us to constantly slow down.  It also causes a bottleneck.  That was what delayed us, but we were pretty good on time.  After we finished in Antigua Guatemala, there were just two things that needed to be done, both before 6PM, both right next to each other: the Guatemalan legislature and the souvenir market.  We arrived in Antigua Guatemala at 3:45 PM, and the drive to Guatemala city shouldn’t have taken more the 45 minutes, tops.  We arrived, parking in a makeshift parking lot with the same kind of “attendants” that they had in Panama.  Fernando was telling me all these things to see in town.  I pulled out a small Romeo y Julieta and told him that I didn’t want to stay longer than it took for me to finish that cigar (about 30 minutes).  I walked into a little coffee shop I saw and asked for cheese, which was local and excellent, along with an espresso, also great.  There is a lot to be said about local food.  It’s always good, even when it’s bad.  Fernando said that the attendants wanted a parking fee, which I gladly supplied, the price being so nominal.  I also got Fernando an espresso.  The price for the two espressos and quarter pound of premium cheese?  About the same as a fancy cappuccino at Starbuck’s.  My cigar is almost done, so I will pause and move inside.

I lit up my Romeo on our way to the arch, which formed the main part of Antigua Guatemala and was the location of the nomination photo.  It was just a yellow arch over a bustling avenue, but by the virtue of that one picture on the WHC page, it meant everything.  We took some pictures and then proceeded to the souvenir market, which was huge, possibly unlike anything I had ever seen, but it was mostly crafts, so I had trouble finding something that would work as my official WHS souvenir.  I got a t-shirt, a pound of coffee, gifts for the ladies, two magnets, and a keychain.  The total price?  About what I would have paid for a t-shirt and a keychain in a western European capital.  We walked back towards the car, taking a slightly different route, since I had budgeted an extra 15 minutes.  I found another souvenir market, but it didn’t look right, either.  I have come to be able to instantly appraise a souvenir stand and see if it has anything thing that I need.  It is a useful skill since it not only saves times but also allows me to avoid being accosted by vendors.  I did not find anything until I was walking out, and an unlit case in a distant corner caught my eye.  I walked over to it and saw that it was not a mirage.  There was a replica of some of the houses of Antigua Guatemala.  It wasn’t quite the perfect souvenir, but it fit the bill.  We headed back to the car, right on schedule.

We had an estimated arrival time at the legislature of about 5:15 PM, which would have been perfect.  Unfortunately, we hit some bad traffic getting into the city, and we were now facing a time crunch.  By the time we found the right side of the legislature building to match the picture I had found, it was 5:40 PM.  Fortunately the souvenir market was nearby, but it was tight.  To make matters worse, it was very difficult to get a good picture, since we needed to stand on the opposite side of the street, and the view was constantly blocked by busses.  We got the photo and raced over to the souvenir market, where I was once again fawned over by every vendor.  I held my ground, only buying what I wanted, including the all-important flag pin, some keychains, and a couple of t-shirts.  The total cost was about the same as what I spent at the market in Antigua Guatemala.  We were done for the day.  All that remained was to get to the hotel, eat, write this entry, and get to sleep, since we had to be up at 4AM to have enough time at our destination tomorrow.  I would be doing the first shift of the driving since Fernando did all the driving today, which was fine by me.  4 hours of driving on 8 hours of sleep is like a cake walk to me.  Of course, it will probably be more like 6 hours of driving on 6 hours of sleep, but that’s also fine by me, especially with cigars and company.

We hit some bad traffic on the way to the hotel and had some difficulty parking.  My debit card also got rejected for the deposit, despite having plenty in the bank.  The first thing we did when we got to the room was to order room service, since we were both hungry and had no desire to go anywhere.  The prices were right, and it was a nice selection.  I ordered the ceviche and the duck, which will forever remind me of Grace.  It is such a shame that things did not work out with her, since we have such similar values.  If only I had been more mature when I had the duck on that fateful evening last year.  While we waited, Fernando went to chat with his girlfriend, and I uploaded my photos to Facebook and sorted things out with Citibank.  They thought my card was stolen.  It wasn’t stolen the past 10 times they blocked it for being used in a foreign country.  Why would it be stolen this time?  I got them to unblock it.  Fernando got back well before the food did, and, at 8PM, we called room service to check on our order.  He spoke with them and I went outside to see if maybe they had just left.  Just as I opened the door, there was the guy with our food.  The ceviche was not to my liking, and the duck was overcooked.  The spinach was actually the best part.  I finished my meal, lit up my Hoyo de Monterrey, which I had been considering making my Travelogue cigar of the trip, but it was try, cracked, and plugged.  I will probably go back to Avos for that purpose.  I then proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close so that I can publish it and get some sleep.

Family (Or: Why Is This Night Different From All Other Nights?)

4/14/14 (Passover)

Miami, Florida

I like talk about the difference between values and opinions, since that, along with respect, is one of the most important aspects of a relationship, any relationship.  An important value to me is family, and this night that is so very different from all other nights, I will start my entry on that note.  This night is different to me because I am at an airport hotel, quite literally ready to take on the world.  This trip will be the most important trip I take until I say Canada Complete, since it will be the trip whose success determines whether or not I remove one of my tertiary goals from my 30 Goals.  Of the 17 goals that give my blog its name, one of them is to visit every North American WHS.  Visiting every U.S. and Canadian WHS are primary goals, and every NA Country is a high secondary goal.  The other countries I need to visit in North America will almost necessarily include visiting their WHS.  Costa Rica might be a little complicated, but it is practically impossible to miss the other two WHS in North America when visiting those countries, except for Mexico.  I have never formally made the 3 what I call High importance goals would be part of my 30 Goals.  They are included in the 17, but they are not required.  If the next 6 days are successful, and the success will entirely and absolutely depend on hitting all the WHS in CA-4, it will just leave the remaining WHS in Mexico standing in the way of saying NA Complete.  A few trips to Mexico to pick up those remaining WHS would fit into my travel budget, but it would be very difficult and take a hit on my cigar budget.  It would completely reshape my travel plans over the next few years, and the only way I would do it would be for the goal of NA Complete.  If I fail with CA-4 Complete, then there is no point to trying it.  That is why this coming trip is so important.

I have gotten off-topic.  Family is something I value very highly.  I often say that I view very poorly compassion for strangers and very highly compassion for people we love.  Why is family so important to me?  Because it’s family.  That means that family is a primary value.  There are some (4) members of family whom I love, others whom I don’t.  To love is to value.  I will not say that I love someone simply because they are family.  They also have to provide value to my life.  That said, they are still family, and they matter to me for that very reason.  I am not one of those people who says how much their third cousin the first time they meet them.  Love is earned, not a result of blood.  That said, they are still family and important to me for that very reason.  It was for that very reason that I enjoyed spending the day at my grandmother’s house today, sitting around with her husband, politely answering his questions.  It was the Seder that I most enjoyed since that truly represented family coming together, but I first must recall the nine or so hours from the time I woke up until the time my aunt and uncle arrived at my grandmother’s house.

I did not set an alarm, and I woke up a little before 10AM.  Not seeing a reason to stay in bed, I got up and began my day.  There was a cup of black coffee waiting on the kitchen table, and I knew that David had gone out to get it for me, not out of obligation, but because I was his guest, and he wants his guests to enjoy their time at his house.  As I was drinking it, he joined me.  In the mood for more than just eggs and wanting to get out of the house, I asked him if he knew where the nearest Denny’s was.  He did not.  My phone did.  I wasted no time to get on my way, knowing that a trip to Florida would not be complete without a trip to Denny’s.  The theme of this entry is family, so it is only fitting to describe what was missing from the meal, and I do not mean the pancakes and hash browns.  I, of course, mean my father.  The whole meal was off.  I got a Build Your Own slam with double eggs, double bacon, and two types of sausage, along with coffee, and a sugar-free dessert.  It was all really good, but something was off.  Maybe it was partly that I couldn’t have pancakes and hash browns, but, as I was driving away, I realized that it was because my father was not there with me, that we were not enjoying our breakfast together, as we have done dozens, maybe a hundred, times, glad to escape my grandmother’s idiosyncrasies for the morning before we agree that all that mattered was that my mother was happy that we were spending time with her mother.  What were a few carbs next to that?  The breakfast was taking a toll on me, and I really needed to get home, but I wanted to stop at drug store first to get some aloe, allergy medicine, and Atkin’s bars.  I easily found all three and was on my way.  The bathroom was now approaching emergency level.  I went to the back gate, but my card would not work, and they sent me around to the front gate, a process that added 7 minutes.  It turned out that it wasn’t activated, and David had actually mentioned something about that before I left for breakfast.

Just as I pulled into the driveway, I saw him on his golf cart.  He told me to hop on so that we could go get the card activated.  I wasn’t sure I could wait that long, but I did as I was told.  It only took 15 minutes round trip.  My grandmother was up, and I asked her if I could do a load of laundry, knowing that she would much rather do the load herself.  I was right.  I grabbed my laptop and the cigars I had bought on Saturday and headed out there.  I lit up my favorite cigar from the batch, a Frank Herrera Godfather, the house blend of the old owner, and got some very productive work done.  That reminds me.  I need to set my Out of Office message, so I will pause.

Okay, on my way back, I timed the drive, just for the heck of it.  Door to door, it was 4 minutes from the cigar store to my grandmother’s house.  I cannot get from my office to my regular cigar store in that time, and I only need to cross one street to get there.  I got back to work, also making my final preparations for the trip, packing and printing, as well.  My uncle was supposed to call when he was on his way, and, that point, I was going to do my final packing and sew the rip in my suit pants.  He forgot to call and showed up a little before 7PM while I was still packing.  I had done all the work I needed to do, and I was far more confident in my preparations.  We were very glad to see each other, it probably being over 2 years.  It is also the first time that we interacted as adults rather than me as just his nephew, and I discovered a marked difference in the way I viewed him.  Here was the sharp, business man my grandfather always mentions to me.  When you’re clinging to your parents and brother, having fun with his kids being the big cousin, you don’t notice that kind of stuff.  Another reason why this night was different from all other nights.  He also had a very sharp sense of humor, and we were laughing at each other’s jokes, joke that no one else got.  Another weird thing.  I had always thought of him as my grandmother’s son, but somehow it never occurred to me that my grandmother is also his mother.  I always think of her as my mother’s mother.  Obviously, I knew it intellectually, but that is not how I meant it.  After kibitzing in the living room for a bit, talking about home prices, it was time for the Seder.  As I have said, family is family.  You forgive them for things you would forgive no one else.  You make exceptions for things you would accept from anyone else.  You either reject them as family or accept them for who they are.  My grandmother practically tried to force feed gefilte fish on me, even though it was not on my diet.  She could not understand how 6 grams of carbs could make a difference.  My aunt and uncle, with a diabetic son, of course understand in great detail exactly what each carb meant.

Seders with my grandmother are always and adventure, and my reader should know that I did not find it at all surprising that my grandmother would try to force gefilte fish on me.  She did it out of love.  We did not have matching Seder books, so my grandfather would start reading, and my aunt and uncle with non-matching books had to try to find the page.  We picked and chose which random items to include and which ones to exclude.  This was not to be my aunt’s 6-hour Seder.  This is the world’s faster Seder.  For some reason, it was important to include the blessing over the lighting over the candles.  We did not light candles.  My grandmother poured us white wine, since it was the only bottle she had open.  I objected that it was supposed to represent the blood of our ancestors.  My uncle and I agreed that it would represent the white blood cells of our ancestors.  When it came time for the four questions, I started reading in English but was told to do the Hebrew version, which I did.  My aunt praised my reading skills.  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I was reading the transliteration, though I guess I just did.  After the four questions, David said, “And now let’s eat.”  My grandmother objected that she hadn’t had a chance to read a section.  She read whatever was on the next page.  My uncle then said, “And now let’s eat.”  I then objected that we hadn’t done the Ten Plagues.  I was younger, we would recreate each of the Ten Plagues, dabbing a drop of wine on our plate with each plague.  It was always my favorite part of the Seder.  I turned to the page with the Ten Plagues, quickly read their names in English and said, “And now let’s eat.”  We ate.  The brisket was good, and that was the bulk of my meal, along with a few carrots.  I also had the smallest bite of matzo, just so I could say I had some.  During dinner, we all traded war stories about our travels.  How could my past two years compare with their lifetimes of travels?  I’m sure that when I’m leading the Seder many years from now, I will be the clear winner, but, tonight, a night different from all other nights, I stayed quiet.

After dinner, we went back to the living room, talked some more, and then came back for dessert.  My uncle apologized for the plate of carbs in front of me, but I had my coconut Atkin’s bar, which I called my macaroon.  We talked some more, and it was getting late.  Each minute we talked, no matter how enjoyable it was, meant one less minute of sleep.  I asked my grandmother for the needle and thread and stitched up my pants.  Not wanting to just announce my departure, I realized that if I came back to the table in my suit, it would wrap things up.  I was right.  We said our goodbyes, I thanked my host, and we were on our way.  I lit up a Padron and stopped for gas before getting on the highway.  The traffic was bad, and I didn’t get to the hotel until 11:30 AM, far behind schedule.  I won’t even be getting 3 hours of sleep tonight, but tomorrow is one of the easier days.  I can have my guide do all of the driving and sleep in the car.  The room was non-smoking, despite the fact that I had requested a smoking room, so I knocked the non-smoking sign behind the desk, covered the smoke detector with a towel, it up my Avo, and proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close so that I can get a little sleep.

Power: Not Just Weight Times Speed

4/14/14

At sea, Yankee Freedom III, Gulf of Mexico

What is it about being on a boat or driving on an open road that feels so wonderful?  My first thought was the sense of freedom, but where is the freedom in being stuck in a small car or boat with nowhere to go?  Why do I not feel that same sense of freedom from exploring around a new city?  I certainly feel an amazing sense of freedom when doing that, but it is not the same as I feel on a boat or on the highway.  My next thought is the sense of power.  Rand calls the cigar the ultimate symbol of man’s power, and a Freudian analysis of that would probably accuse her of penis envy, the cigar obviously being a phallic symbol.  However, that was not how she meant it.  No, the lit cigar dominates man’s absolute dominion of nature, his ability to conquer one of nature’s most powerful forces, fire, and use it to produce an object with a controlled burn.  She continues how watching the smoke come out of a lit cigar promotes creative and productive thought.  If the lit cigar represents our dominion over fire, then does the boat represent our dominion over water?  Does the car represent our dominion over land?  That seems an inadequate answer, but I think it is close to the mark.

The answer is that speed represents power, not in the sense that power equals weight times speed.  (I might have missed the mark on the physics there, but, more often than not, when you have something that seems logical, and the units line up, it will be correct.  I twice aced a physics exam where I hadn’t paid attention all semester merely by combining the given values in the way to produce the correct units for the answer and hoping the correct quantity followed.)  I will not explore why we enjoy power, as I consider that too axiomatic for further discussion.  After I closed last night, I went to work on setting up the blog, no easy task, and it must have taken me an hour from the time I closed to the time I sent out a notification to my Gmail contacts.  I took meticulous care to edit down the entry to a readable length and to make sure there was nothing in there that would reflect poorly or upset anyone.  Then it was off.  There was no taking it back.  Actually, that wasn’t true.  I could have just deleted the post, but that was not a good option.  What if by not using a great entry as my first entry, I set people off wrong and was never able to gain a readership?  It kept me up for another hour.  I was looking at less than 4 hours asleep once again.

The captain just mentioned something about there being no lockers and that we operated on the honor system on the island, which reminded me about something that happened last night that I forgot to record.  I saw another cigar store on the walk to the restaurant, the biggest one yet, and I walked in.  It was completely empty.  I looked around, all around, and I could not find anything.  The only thing other than cameras that was stopping me from helping myself to 100 cigars was the honor system.  I am not a thief in the night (nor in the day), and I had no desire to deprive a business of its property.  Even the computer was left unattended.  I was so confused.  I really wanted a cigar, and I chose one.  What I was I to do?  I picked up the cigar, took my smallest banknote out of my pocket, walked over to the camera, looked up, held the cigar and the banknote, and put the banknote on the counter.  The cost of the cigar was actually slightly more, but my next smallest banknote was much too large, and I reasoned that the price of the cigar included the operating costs of the store, and, since no one was operating the store, I could take a little discount rather than trying to figure out how to make change.  I walked away, laughing, thinking about the guy’s reaction when he came back to find my banknote on the counter.  Alright, alright, I have gone on for more than 800 words, and I still have not made it yet to this morning.  I should make a game to my readers of how many literary and movie references they can find in each of my entries, since there usually are plenty.

I woke up absolutely freezing, and I then realized why they said not to lower the temperature below 72F.  I immediately turned off the air and crumpled the note I had been planning on leaving criticizing the rule.  I carefully planned how much time I needed to get to the boat by 7AM, and it meant I needed to be out the door by 6:30 AM, which left very little margin for error.  I got my bags ready and hopped in the shower.  I got out, figuring it was about 6:20 AM, which would have put me right on schedule, and checked my cell phone.  It was 6:32 AM.  How was I so far behind schedule?  Showers always seem to take longer than I expect.  Does some sort of time warp occur between the time you take off your watch and put it back on?  It never makes sense.  I raced to get dressed, grabbed my bags, and ran to the car.  I tried to back out.  It didn’t work.  I was park too close to the car on my right to back out to the left.  It was the Wachau Valley (full account available upon request) all over again, but I did not have 20 minutes to get through it (actually, I did), nor did I have enough daylight to safely back out to the right and drive in reverse.  I managed to repark my car so that was now hugging the car on the left, which allowed me to safely back out to the left and exit the parking lot.  I went to the front to drop off the gate opener, and, as I was walking back to the hotel, I saw something across the street from the hotel that made me laugh.  It was the town hall.  Only because of the joke I made last night did I stop to take a picture.  Even though I had not had a Cuban (or even a cigar), I announced “Key West Complete.”  I made my way to the ferry terminal, parking at the first garage I saw on the right street, which was a mistake because there was actually a lot right at the terminal, but it was okay.  The walk made me feel alive, ready to take on the world, all before 7AM.

When I checked in, I showed the guy my ticket, but he wasn’t interested.  He asked me name.  I had taken the student discount, so he asked if I was a student?  Yes.  Where?  Hunter.  I could have just as easily said Gatherer, and he probably wouldn’t have known the different.  Maybe I should have said Patrick Henry University.  He then asked if I had an NPS pass?  Yes.  He was shocked that someone so young would have a park pass.  If he knew me, that would probably be the thing he found least shocking.  I now had 30 minutes to kill before we started boarding.  I decided to read Les Miz.  I only got through a chapter or two before he made the pre-boarding announcement.  There was only one part of it that mattered to me.  No smoking on the boat.  Well, that changed things.  It also meant that I had brought too many cigars, that I had only needed one or two, instead of four.  We boarded, and I  was starting to feel queasy.  Figuring that my health was more important than weight, I ate the whole half of a bagel, even though it exceeded my carbs for the day, and just had a few bites of ham.  I knew that it was probably the rocking motion of the boat at the dock that was making me feel queasy, but I also knew that I had never had trouble with boats before.  Actually, that’s not true, but I can’t remember the last time I was nauseous from being at sea.  I also can’t remember the last time I have been this sick in general.  However, as it always does, logic won out the day, and, as soon as we were on our way, and I was outside on the top deck, I was feeling better.  I sat down and proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close.

Garden Key, Florida (Fort Jefferson, Dry Tortugas National Park)

“There is a prospect greater than the sea, and that is the sky.”  I was going to say that the sea does nothing for me, despite the fact that my parents are both in love with it, even if one of them cannot go out on it, but that is not quite true.  However, I do agree with Hugo’s sentiment.  What is a boat ride out on the sea when you can flying 700 mph 30,000 feet above it?  What is turquoise water when you can watch a red and orange sun set into it?  Charles often jokes that they offered tourist flights to Mars, he would soon see a picture of me on the Red Planet, holding my water, and smoking a cigar.  Space, being the extension of the sky, is, of course, an even greater prospect.  What is an arctic sunset when you know the spectacle of the Northern Lights will follow?  What are skies of blue and clouds of white when you know a black night full of white stars will follow?  No reader, for me the sea is not a reason to travel.  The last time I went to the Caribbean, I did not so much as get my feet wet.  For me, the attraction that the sea holds is the view of the things that come with being close to the sea.  I mean island culture, old forts, and quaint little towns, all with the water in the background.  After I closed, I did a little more reading, and I started to think that, although my phone could take the water, it might not handle salt water quite as well.  There would only be one problem if my phone got fried while snorkeling, and that would be getting in touch with my cousin, with whom I would be having dinner tonight.

I hold my word to the utmost regard.  If I tell someone I am going to do something, I do it, no question about that.  If, for some reason, I can’t, I make sure to find a way to tell them that I can’t.  A couple of months ago, my grandfather wanted to have dinner with me, but I told him that I had a date that evening.  He replied that of course I would rather be with a lovely young lady than my old grandfather.  That was absolutely untrue, and I was actually a little hurt.  I would much rather have seen my grandfather than I girl about whom I didn’t care.  It is just that I am the kind of person who does not back out on a commitment because something better comes along.  If it was reversed, meaning that I had made plans with him first, and I had actually really liked that girl, I might have called him and told him and asked if we could reschedule.  He would have understood, but, again, that is not the point.  I told my cousin I would have dinner with him, so it would have really bothered him if I left him hanging because I decided to take my phone snorkeling.

I considering wrapping the phone in a plastic bag and cutting a whole for the camera lens.  Then I got it.  I would use the resealable bag I was using for my cash, debit card, and ID.  I had found a feature on the phone that let you use it when wearing gloves, so I figured a plastic bag would have the same effect.  I gave it a try, and it worked brilliantly.  I could press the buttons, and the pictures were quite clear.  We got off the boat, and I went straight to the sign.  I asked someone to take my picture, and I handed him the bag.  It was then that I realized, though he did not, that he was also holding my cash, debit card, and ID.  It was okay.  We had just passed an armed park ranger when we got off the boat.  I wasn’t worried.  I proceeded the VC, got my brochures, souvenirs, and stamps.  I knew that would be the first thing I did, but I had no idea how I would spend the rest of the four hours until I had to be back to the boat.

I decided to go snorkeling first to get it out of the way.  I changed into my bathing suit, and went to the beach.  The snorkel gear was cheap, uncomfortable, and shoddy.  I got in the water, and my flippers and filled up with sand and rocks.  I was practically tripping all over them.  I took some pictures of myself to show to Jimmy, who refuses to believe that I ever go in the water.  Then it was go time.  I went underwater and started taking pictures of myself.  I heard the distinctive click of the camera, but I could not see anything.  My goggles were filling up with water, as were the nosepiece and the snorkel.  I panicked and quickly surfaced.  I couldn’t breathe.  I was aspirating seawater.  I repeated this process many times, trying different things, but none of it worked.  I considered going back for another set, but I decided against it.  I just hoped that I would have some useable pictures.  I used my shirt to dry everything off, and I could see the salt stains on the outside of the big.  I checked the pictures, and I found one or two that were decent.  I know had to make a decision.  Would I walk around the island with my Cuban or get lunch first?  As I was walking back to return my gear, I joked to myself that I could say “Democratic Florida Complete.”  I realized that that was actually no small deal and decided that I would say that. 

My appetite was finally back, and I decided that I would get lunch first.  I was very hungry, which was a good sign.  Another good sign came when I made my way to the top of the fort, figuring I could see the whole island by walking around the top of it and plan my next move, and lit up my Partagas.  Even though it was as dry as a bone, it tasted fine.  My appetite was back, and my taste for cigars was back.  I was certainly not 100%, but I was clearly on the mend.  The guy at the ferry terminal had told us that we could smoke on the island, just not inside the fort.  If anyone had questioned my smoking, I was prepared to smartly answer that I was on top of the fort, not inside it.  No one said anything.  As I walked around, enjoying the wonderful view, I saw one perfect spot, but I also saw a sign there that said “Beach Closed,” so that was a no go.  When I got to the end of my loop, I decided that I would just sit down here at the top of fort.  I did exactly that and proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close.

Boynton Beach, Florida (Hunter’s Run)

This was the third time that I went to Key West, and this was the third time that I left in terrible pain.  The first time, it was bug bites.  The second time, cat allergies.  This time, sunburn.  The thing about sunburn is that you do not feel it while you are getting burnt.  No, that cruel trick of nature is what allows you to sit out in the sun for an hour without sunscreen as you write your Travelogue and only feel the pain when you get back to the boat.  The pain then steadily worsens for the next 10 or more hours until it becomes beyond excruciating, and there is really no cure for it other than time.  When I got back to the boat and changed, I sat down with my laptop.  I forced myself to get some work done, and looked over all the RFPs I had brought with me, understanding the scope of work of each one, and created a .txt document with the necessary information to price each one, but I did not have the energy to actually put them each together.  I don’t know what possessed me to go upstairs and get even more sun, though it’s possible I hadn’t yet realized that my burn was not a tan.  We were soon on our way, and I reworking my 2015 vacation schedule that traded some a couple of days in the Caribbean for an extra day in the Canadian Prairie during my Yellowstone trip and an extra day on my crazy Sweden/Finland trip.  I really want to say Scandinavia Complete before I’m 30, but it is not one of my 30 Goals.  It got me thinking about Completes again and made me want to be able to better formalize the definition for subnational entities, at least in the U.S.  

*(This paragrah will drag in if you're not until all the minutia of what motivates my "checklist style" travel and can be easily skipped.)  I defined a NATION complete as all WORLD Heritage Sites and the NATIONAL government building (plus the Cuban and meal and any Olympic Stadiums), and I defined a STATE complete as all NATIONAL Park Sites and STATE government building (plus the Cuban and the meal and anything required to say the NATION complete).  That established a clear pattern.  I would define a COUNTY complete as all STATE parks and historic sites and the COUNTY government building (plus the Cuban and the meal and anything required to say the STATE complete).  I could then define a CITY complete as all COUNTY parks and historic sites and the CITY government building (plus the Cuban and the meal and anything required to say the COUNTY complete).  That seemed too simple, though.  I could probably walk over to Town Hall in Scarsdale, take a picture, and say “Scarsdale Complete.”  I decided to add a more federal element to the definition.  For a U.S. COUNTY, it would have to include all National Landmarks.  For a CITY, it would have to include all sites listed on the National Register of Historic Places.  For Scarsdale, that is an easy feat.  There are 5 of them, 3 of which are less than a mile away from my parent’s house.  In fact, I might have visited all of them already.  I bet I could do Scarsdale Complete from scratch in under an hour with no car.  In fact, I’m going to try it next time I’m there.  Westchester Complete is more of an ordeal.  The reason all of this is important is that I structure a lot of my goals around my home.*

I think it only fitting that I should include completes for my home STATE, COUNTY, and CITY, even though they were not parts of the 17 Goals I have set for myself for my 5 Years of travel, but do I count New York City or Scarsdale as my home city?  The idea of going around to every place in New York City on the National Register of Historic Places is beyond onerous, even just the National Landmarks would be a huge undertaking.  I decided that, as far as the government is concerned, I live in Scarsdale, so that would be the one I used.  How did I get so off-topic?

Anyway, I decided to stop futzing on the spreadsheet and write a proposal, which zapped all of my remaining energy, so I turned off the computer and soon found myself drifting off.  I spent most of the boat ride in such a state, not caring that the sun was hitting my burnt skin, since the pain was still just discomfort at that point.  It’s like when you stub your toe, and signal that tells your brain that you stubbed your toe gets there much quicker than the one that tells it that your toe should be in pain.  I knew the pain was coming, it just wasn’t there yet.  I opened my eyes once we got in view of Key West, and I had cell service again.  I expected my phone to blow up with questions and comments about my Blog.  Reader, as I write this, I have seen that 15 people viewed the first entry, including 2 from the Facebook link.  Where are your comments?  Was last night’s entry so bad that you stopped reading before you got to the end?  Not even the ladies at the office, who comment on practically everything I post, said anything.  Was my comment about their obsessive cleaning taken the wrong way?

I answered the emails I received from my mother, and I was soon back on dry land and starving.  I decided that I would pick up a little snack and settled on some Florida Stone Crab claws, which were served cold, in the shell, and overpriced.  This was not exactly finger food, so I had to sit down at a bus stop and finish it before heading to the car.  My appetite fully back and my taste for cigars with it, I decided it was time for a Davidoff Special “R” Colorado Claro.  I had had a few puffs, but, as soon as I left the garage, I realized that I needed to get gas and a newspaper before I left the island.  I was able to do both at the same spot, but, once I relit the cigar, it just wasn’t the same.  As I was driving north, I saw a sign that said that 4 people were killed this year in accident fatalities (on the Florida Keys highway).  It was the kind of sign that had to be changed by hand.  I soon saw another sign that said there was a major accident in 24 miles.  I went 24 miles and saw no sign of the accident, and then there it was, the traffic jam.

My cousin had not yet texted me the name of a restaurant for our dinner, so, figuring I would be stuck for a while, I looked up some restaurants by him and found one that looked good.  I texted him that as a suggestion, but he decided to bail out instead.  I said that I could meet him anytime he wanted tomorrow, but he said that that would not work either.  This world is full of people who either look for reasons to do things or look for reasons not to do things.  I am the former.  My cousin is the latter.  I was still hungry, so I decided that I would stop as soon as I finished my cigar and had let the car air out enough.  All that was left of the accident was a motorcycle on its side, cordoned off by police type and marked with evidence markers.  I morbidly said to myself that they had better change the sign from 4 to 5.  This reduced the bridge from one lane in each direction to one lane total, which meant the police had to alternate the traffic.  I felt bad for making the joke, but now I don’t.  It was a single vehicle crash, meaning that this idiot crashed his bike into the barrier because he was going too fast or trying to make some kind of illegal maneuver.

About an hour later, the sun was starting to set, but I had to turn around to see it, which was not safe.  Just as the sun was setting, I pulled into a little parking on the beach, and the sun went into the water literally the second that I turned around to see it.  With no point in staying, I turned around again and got back on the highway.  I decided I would stop at the first place I saw, which was a place called Habanos.  Not exactly having a schedule, but the traffic having added 20 minutes, I was now looking at an arrival at my grandmother’s house past 10PM, which would be late, though I had no schedule for tomorrow either, so it didn’t really matter.

The food came out very quickly, and I scarfed it down, particularly enjoying the grilled seafood platter.  That was when the Dutch Time (a term I use to describe wasted time through no fault of your own, since I had so much of it my morning in Amsterdam) came back, but it was more like Michelin Time.  (I once had to start walking out of the restaurant to get my check at a Michelin 3-star restaurant after waiting for it for almost an hour.)  It was 15 minutes from the time I finished eating to the time they came over and asked if I wanted anything.  15 minutes with my plates and glasses in front of me on the cramped table they gave me and 15 minutes later that I would be driving home in the dark.  I was pissed.  After 10 minutes, I decided that I would give them a 10% tip.  By the time it got to 15%, the tip was down to just a dollar banknote that I would leave to let them know I didn’t forget.  After I asked for the check, it was another 5 minutes before I got the check, which I immediately paid with a single banknote that I knew would cover the bill.  He asked me if I needed change?  Yes, I needed change.  The banknote would have provided a tip over 50%.  He wasn’t even going to get a 5% tip.  It was 5 more minutes before he brought the change.  I left my dollar banknote and walked away.  I grabbed the cigar I took from the empty cigar store last night, along with two other possible ones for later.  I lit it up, and it tasted great, but it was rolled poorly.  I powered through, though, and the ride was unadventurous.  I had been listening 00’s music the whole ride up from Key West and for a good deal of the trip in hopes of hearing some of the songs I liked from high school.  I had not yet heard a single one until I was getting off the highway onto Atlantic Avenue.  It was “Unwell” by Matchbox 20, which I once considered my favorite song for a bit.

The next song was probably the single song I wanted to hear more than any: “Sk8er Boi” by Avril Lavigne.  Oh, how I loved that song.  I knew every single word.  I even wrote a paper about in my 9^th Grade English class.  The reason I so loved it, other than that I loved Avril, was because I wanted to be that Sk8er Boi.  There was a girl that rejected me the year before in a way that make the Mean Girls like nice.  I was going to write that she humiliated me, but she didn’t.  I don’t get humiliated that easily.  In fact, she wound up humiliating herself.  I had asked her by Instant Message (remember those) if I could have a dance at the upcoming school dance.  She agreed.  I was shocked.  Was it my parents who gave me the advice or someone else?  But I was told by someone of an older generation not to approach her during a slow dance.  Throughout the dance, I kept trying to walk up to her, and she kept walking away.  Eventually, one of her friends walked up to me and told me I was making her feel uncomfortable.  (I had approached during fast songs, and no one ever told me that fast songs were for "grinding.")  I left, dejected.

Ever the gentleman, I apologized to her and figured that would be that.  She did not let it go.  She concocted a boyfriend who was going to “meet me” during recess, and she even messaged me in his persona.  After that played out, and I was clearly no longer interested in her, and she saw that her game spent, she pretended that it didn’t even matter anymore if I liked since she had become a lesbian.  This girl was one of the stupidest people I have ever known, and I knew that when I first asked her.  It just didn’t stop my 8^th Grade self the way it would stop me today.  She then had her friends ask me if I still liked her?  I honestly answered, “Not anymore.”  But I had?  Yes.

In 9^th Grade, all I wanted other than the adorable girl in my English, History, and Design classes, whom I thought I loved when I had no idea what love meant, was for that gorgeous idiot to “see that man that boy could be” and learn that “there is more than meets the eye.”  I wanted to be the Sk8er Boi and her to be the “pretty face” with “her head” “up in space.”  That was why I so loved that song.  That was why I knew every word.  It gave me hope.  I suppose, in a way, it has come true.  I’ve spent the past two years travelling the world.  She works in customer service at JetBlue.  “What more can I say?”  I rolled down the windows and blasted the music, seeing how many words I would remember a decade later.  The answer was most of them.  I was so distracted that I missed my turn, but I didn’t care.

I made my way to my grandmother’s house, and she greeted me.  I had committed the unforgiveable sin of stepping on a leaf and bringing into her house on the bottom of my sandal, so I had to immediately take them off and put them in my room.  I asked if she had any aloe or lotion for my sunburns, which were starting to become excruciating.  She got me some hand lotion.  I started to rub it on my lower arms first, and she told me to rub it on the upper arms.  I responded that I was rubbing it where it was most painful.  She said that she would think the upper arms would be most painful.  It took every ounce of self-control I had to not respond, “I think I would know what was most painful.”  She also made me hot dogs, and it took a lot of convincing for me to get her to agree that I would prefer my hot dogs crispy rather than just warmed up.  Eventually, she went back to her book and asked if I would be okay to take them out of the toaster when they were crispy enough for me.  After the hot dogs, I went to my bedroom where I checked the views on Blog and was shocked to see 39 page views in just 24 hours.  I suppose a bunch came from me but certainly not 39.  I then proceeded to write this entry, which I will close, since I still need to edit the Blog version.

Fulfillment versus Enjoyment

Preview:

I encourage each of my readers to think of the standard by which he or she most measures his or herself.  I thought about, and I decided that I measure myself by how well I meet the goals I set for myself, the challenges I choose to undertake, and the profit I bring to my company.  However, I thought of those people, myself included, and it is clear that they do not spend every waking hour to further their achievement of those standards.  Where was the disconnect?  The answer was quite simple.  There is a difference between fulfillment and enjoyment, between pride and joy.

4/12/14

Key West, Florida

I have decided that I will start publishing my Travelogue, or at least an edited version, starting with this entry.  It is only fitting that I started my Travelogue the first night I stayed at a hotel (as opposed to with a relative) on my last Florida trip, smoking one of my favorite pipes, and I will start the Blog under similar circumstances.  My current readers will know that the Travelogue has become more and more philosophical, and the theme of tonight’s entry will be fulfillment versus enjoyment.  The philosophy usually fits in as the expansion of some thought or thoughts I have while I am travelling, but it can also come in the end as a reflection.  There certain abbreviations that I use, people mentioned on a first name basis, concepts that may seem unclear, all of which will be explained in either foot notes or parenthetically, or to avoid offending people who are mentioned, though it is not my policy to do so in the version I currently send out.  If I receive enough positive feedback, I will edit down the first year of the Travelogue and publish that in some form as well.

Without further ado, I begin where I closed last night.  It was 2AM when I finally sent out the Travelogue, but it might not have been 4AM until I fell asleep.  The room was hot, and I was sweating.  I tried wetting a towel and wrapping it around my legs, but that did not help.  I was just hot and sticky.  Eventually, I fell asleep, and I woke up before 9AM.  Since I did not have a set schedule for the day, as I usually do, I did not set an alarm, and I estimated that I could have probably slept until noon.  As I was getting changed, I heard David (my grandmother's second husband) knock on the door and ask if I wanted coffee.  I have been very sick for the past 4 days with practically no appetite, and I hadn’t had a cup of coffee since Tuesday morning, but I knew that the coffee was free, and the worst that could happen was that I would not drink it.  David is a very generous man, but there is one thing demands.  If you order something, you sure as hell better finish it.  I did not think that that rule would apply to free coffee.  I went outside to their back porch, and I looked across the “lake” at the golf course, and I do not think I ever realized how beautiful of a view it was.  I have probably seen that exact view on over a hundred mornings, yet this could have been the first time I ever thought to take a picture of it.  Then, it was time to test my new Samsung Galaxy S5 for water-resistance, since I intended to take it snorkeling tomorrow.  I first dipped it in the pool and quickly dried it off.  It was still working.  I then tried to take a picture underwater, but it would not work.  I remembered on my S4 that I could adjust the volume key to either zoom or take a picture, so I tried to find that setting, but it was nowhere to be found, so I took a shot.  I put the phone underwater and pressed the volume key.  Voila!  I had a nice picture of my face.  I sent Young (my boss and the man I respect more than any other in the world) the picture, since he had advised me not to test the water-resistance of the phone and because I knew that my smiling face was pretty much the last thing he expected to see first thing in the morning, and I called my cousin to see what his schedule was for the weekend, since I would be passing by his city on my way to and from Key West.  We decided to meet for dinner tomorrow night, and he kept talking for quite some time until we lost the connection.  It was so good to hear him happy and energetic as opposed to the depressed state he was in the last time I saw him.

I then heard my grandmother ask who was up, and I said that I was.  She asked if I had seen David, and I told her that I had not seen him but that he had asked if I wanted any coffee.  She was confused because she heard me talking to someone, so I told her that I was on the phone with my cousin.  After she came out of her bedroom, she asked what I wanted for breakfast.  After I ate my breakfast and we chatted for a little, I thanked her for breakfast and excused myself.  I came to think about how much she goes out of her way to make sure I’m well-fed and provided for while I’m here, and that led to me thinking about how people measure their self-worth.  That’s not the right word, and I am trying to think of a better one, but it will serve as a place holder once my reader sees the point I am trying to make.  Ah, it should be the standard by which they measure themselves.  My grandmother probably measures herself to some degree by how she takes care of her guests.  David does, too, in addition to how well he helps his community board.  Some of my co-workers measure themselves by how well they take care of their children, two of them being single mothers.  I respect that tremendously, but what bothers me is when I hear them measuring themselves by how much time they spend cleaning, sometimes to the point of obsession.  It bothers me more than anything, I think, because they are short-changing themselves.  They each have to take care of two children on their own, an unimaginably difficult task, especially in New York, especially on one paycheck, especially without any child support and alimony, and they choose to measure themselves by the extremes they go to in cleaning their homes?  Returning to my original point, my mother likely measures herself by how well she takes care of her family, my father by the support he provides to his family, the way he has raised his children.  My brother measures himself by the contributions he makes to cancer research, his fiancé by the effect she has on saving the environment.  I encourage each of my readers to think of the standard by which he or she most measures his or herself.  I thought about, and I decided that I measure myself by how well I meet the goals I set for myself, the challenges I choose to undertake, and the profit I bring to my company.  However, I thought of those people, myself included, and it is clear that they do not spend every waking hour to further their achievement of those standards.  Where was the disconnect?  The answer was quite simple.  There is a difference between fulfillment and enjoyment, between pride and joy.  Both are Efficient Causes of Happiness, so they must be balanced out in order to avoid becoming either a Stoic or a Hedonist.  I continued to think about this as I got dressed, reorganized my cigars, and got packed for the next two days.  I decided to leave my suitcase there and only take what I would really need for my journey.  I said goodbye to my grandmother and went to the car.  As soon as I stepped out into the sun, I had to turn around.  I rang the doorbell, and my grandmother answered, asking knowingly, “What did you forget?”  “My sunglasses.”

Once I got back to the car, I lit up my Ashton ESG, hands down the best cigar made outside of Cuba, but it had no taste.  I was still too sick to really enjoy it.  As I was driving out, I decided to stop at the cigar store.  Loving the fact that I could just walk in without having to worry about what to do with my cigar, I opened up the door, and I did a double take.  Was this the same cigar store?  It was half the size.  “It looks different.”  I announced. The guy was not very knowledgeable, but I picked out ten cigars, since that carried a 10% discount, and got a tin of butane.  He rang me up, and I paid in exact change.  The price seemed a little high, so I looked at the receipt.  Sure enough, the discount was not applied.  He had some difficulty figuring out how to process the refund, so I asked if it would be easier for me to just take another cigar.  I knew that I probably could have taken a more expensive cigar, but that would not have been fair.  I chose one that I liked that was almost exactly 10% of what I had just paid, and I was on my way.  I was feeling really spent and exhausted.  The drive was less than two hours and should have felt like nothing, but it seemed to last forever, and the ESG was not gaining any more flavor.  As I was approaching the park, I remembered something my dad had said about his father when we went over a decade ago.  If we had asked him to come with us, he would have been glad to because he all wanted was to spend the day the day with us.  With my David and my grandmother, it was different, they decided that they didn’t need to see the Everglades, and that was that.  This was not an issue of fulfillment versus enjoyment, but rather differing definitions of enjoyment.  I finished the cigar just as I saw the entrance sign for the Everglades, and I got out to take my picture.

My original plan was to hit up the main VC (Visitors' Center) first, take my picture with the (World Heritage Site) plaque, recreating the one from 2001, and then head to Flamingo VC to get my last (National Park passport) stamp, but that seemed shallow.  Shouldn’t I wait until I had that final stamp, finished the brochure I had been working on for 13 years, and the recreate the picture?  I had to pass by this VC again on the way back.  I decided to head into the VC, get the new brochures, stamp them, and then head straight to Flamingo VC.  There were a lot of stops along the way, but I decided to skip them.  It was not an issue of a time crunch but rather one of exhaustion.  I knew that I needed to sit in an air conditioned car to recover and that I would not enjoy the stops until I had gotten that last stamp.  I was also starting to get really hungry, but my appetite was still not there, so I had one of my Atkins coconut bars, which hit the spot perfectly.  In fact, I will now pause so that I can have another one and light up another pipe.

My plan at this point was to get my stamp, light up my cigar, say Everglades Complete (Complete is an interesting concept.  It means I am completely done with a destination and never need to return there.  For a country, it means see every World Heritage Site and Olympic Stadium, take a picture outside the main government building, have a Cuban cigar, and eat a local meal.  For a Canadian Territory, it means the same thing.  For a U.S. State, it also means every National Park Site in that state.  For a National Park, it means to have a Cuban and get my brochure stamped at each VC.), walk around that area a bit, get as far south as I could before turning around and heading back.  Some context here.  I had discovered this morning that the southernmost point on the U.S. mainland was actually by the Flamingo VC, but it was not accessible.  The closest you could get would involve a strenuous hike sure to take at least half a day.  I didn’t have half an hour of hiking in me.  I decided that I would get as close as I could by car, walk the water, and then call that point the southernmost point.  I went inside to get some souvenirs and that precious stamp.  The rangers were fawning over the vintage brochure, and I lined everything up perfectly for the stamping.  All of my other stamps, from different years, were clean and crisp.  As I was inking the stamp, I thought to myself how funny it would be if I messed up the stamp.  I tested it on the pad and double-checked the date.  I lined up the stamp right on the brochure, pressed down, and immediately knew that something was wrong.  The stamp felt wobbly.  I checked the brochure, and I was devastated.  The date had not come out.  I stamped again, and the year was visible, but the rest of the date was not.  I would now need to have three stamps.  Had I ruined my brochure?  Had all of my hard work gone to vain?  I realized that the problem was that the way the brochure was folded, the stop was on one of the folds, and one side was a little thicker.  I unfolded the entire brochure, carefully lined it up so that the stamp would still be over the VC icon and that the date would still be visible.  This was my last chance.  There was no room to do a fourth stamp without it being obscured.  Contact!  It worked.  It wasn’t pretty, but it worked.  I stamped the new brochures and went back outside.  I had cut my Bolivar and was about to light it up when I realized that view I saw was just like any other body of water in the world.  This was not the Everglades I knew.  How could I say Everglades Complete to such a vista?

I decided that I would light up the cigar at the southernmost point.  I looked at the map of the campground and realized that the best option was a little recreation area nearby.  I parked and walked straight to the water.  I then had to decide where exactly would be the southernmost point in that area.  I carefully walked back and forth, figuring out exactly where that point would be, and I found it, declaring it “the southernmost point on the U.S. mainland that is accessible by walking for less than a mile.”  Had anyone else ever stood on that spot with that intent in mind?  I lit up my Bolivar, no easy task in the wind, and finally announced, “Everglades Complete.”  It was so refreshing to not be on a time crunch, to be able to spend 10-15 minutes walking around to figure what point would meet that crazy definition I had chosen.  I decided that I would do the drive back to the main VC Yosemite style, stopping at every interesting vista and stopping point for some pictures.  Having finished the fulfillment phase of the park, I could now move on to the enjoyment, and I did.  I put down the window, blasted the music, and made my way.  It was great, marveling once again at the beauty of the Everglades.

I finished my cigar after the last stop and was soon back at the VC.  I was worried since it was late in the day that I would have trouble finding someone to take my picture at the plaque.  I was wrong.  I asked a guy in his 30s, figuring he would be excited to try the new S5.  He didn’t even notice, but he took some pictures, including the one where I recreated the pose from 2001.  I then realized that I had posed with the new brochure not the 2001 brochure, so it was back to the drawing board.  I asked an old guy, who was less familiar with technology.  He asked where to press to take the picture.  I had changed the settings so that you can press anywhere, so I said the line I had been waiting to say, “Just tap on my face.”  He took some pictures, and they came out great.  Triumphant, I was ready to leave the park, and I was starving once again, my appetite finally back.  I stopped at the gator shack I had seen on the way in.  Some woman was standing next to me as I was looking at the menu, and the cashier asked if we were paying together.  The woman said that I could pay for her if I wanted, and I laughed.  The cashier didn’t get, so the woman said that we were not.  I should have taken her up on that offer. The value that I would have gotten from that joke would exceeded the cost of her meal.  I ordered some gator bites, which came with fries, and some pieces of gator salami for later.  When my food came, I ravenously downed all of the gator, and a few fries, which probably put me over my carbs for the day.  I went back to the car, lit up a Jaime Garcia, and was on my way to Key West.  I am starting to fall asleep, so I will pause to recover a little bit and move inside.

The ride to Key West was also relatively short, by my standards, about 3 hours, but I was still spent, so it, too, felt like an eternity.  When I got out of the car, I got a notification from Google that my Gmail account had been suspended for a Terms of Service violation.  I went into full panic mode.  How could I contact them to resolve it?  Can you call Google?  Do they have real people working there?  Other than the programmers, why would they need any employees?  I pressed the “Contact us” button, and practically instantly I received an email to work email saying that the problem had been resolved and that I should try again.  It still didn’t work, and I was distracted through the whole check-in process.  I went to move my car and get ready to head out.  I had forgotten to put the guest parking permit on the car, so I had to go back for that.  Meanwhile, sunset had come and gone, but there was still the possibility of getting to the famous Southernmost monument by civil twilight.  I figured that I might be able to find a replica of the monument, which I would only allow myself to buy after taking a picture with the original.  The main street of Key West, Duval Street, was like a miniature version of Bourbon Street, filled with bars, souvenir shops, and cigar shops.  I was in no state to drink and wanted to wait until I had the picture with the monument before I bought the replica, but I did stop at each cigar shop, getting a few more sticks.  When I finally got to the sign, there was a family having their picture taken, which took quite some effort.  Since they had imposed on someone else, I knew that they would not mind me imposing on them to take mine.  They did.  It is an interesting part of the social contract, though Rand would entire dismiss the kind of Social Contract Rousseau describes, that you can almost always ask a total stranger to take your picture.  In fact, many times when I’ve taken a selfie, I’ve had strangers come up to me offering to take the picture, though I almost always refuse, preferring the selfie.

As I walked back I said something to the effect of “Alright, time to get a replica, some dinner, light up a pipe, write my entry, go to sleep,” sensing the humor in it, I continued, “go to Dry Tortugas, have dinner with Roy, go back to Jackie’s, spend Monday relaxing, have a Passover Seder, head to the airport, go to Central America, and hopefully say CA-4 Complete,” thereby laying out my whole plan for the next eight days.  I stopped at every souvenir shop on the way back, but I could not find the replica except at one place where it was too big and overpriced.  I wound up going back to the place where I had first seen it, and it was of a lower quality, but the price and size was right.  I also got a couple of keychains.  I just needed a t-shirt.  I walked into another store and announced that I wanted a Southernmost t-shirt in XXL, and he had the perfect one.  I joked to myself that I could now say “Key West Complete,” but I reminded myself I still needed a meal and a Cuban and possibly an NP if Dry Tortugas NP was part of Key West.  I guess I would also need town hall, but it was just a joke, not a goal.  It was now time for dinner, so I went to the crab shack that the receptionist at the hotel had recommended.  During dinner, I looked for a picture of the Everglades to send Kayla (a very pretty girl I met when I was collecting autographs with whom I have remained in touch and who lives in Orlando), since I had told her I would be going to the Everglades instead of Orlando, and I realized that I had neglected to take the kind of scenic landscape pictures I had recently started taking to use as wallpapers for my laptop.  I found one that kind of worked and sent it to her, but I was upset that I made missed the swamp for the bushes, so to speak.

The food was good, but my appetite was gone.  I had ordered two appetizers, and she commented that I had barely eaten it.  I said that I wasn’t that hungry and asked for a slice of Key Lime pie for dessert, knowing I could not leave Key West without having a slice of Key Lime pie.  I had three small bites, two more than I needed to have, since it was practically pure carbs and very much not on my diet, but I justified it given how little I had eaten.  I headed back to the hotel, got myself situated outside, lit up my Ardor, and proceeded to write this entry.  During my first pause, I went inside to turn down the air.  I saw a sign that said not to turn it below 72F.  I need a very cold room to sleep.  Reader, I am sure there have been moments in your life when you have wanted to say something but held your tongue.  Furious, I grabbed the pad and wrote the following note: “TELL ME THAT BEFORE YOU TAKE MY MONEY IF YOU EXPECT IT TO BE FOLLOWED!!!”  I turned the AC down as low as it would go to 61F and wrapped the note around the remote.  I lit up my Castello and continued my entry, which I will now close so that I can finally publish it.