Glibertarians.com 2018 Archive

Category: Travel

  • Finland Now Has Emoji Technology

    Finland Now Has Emoji Technology

    https://finland.fi/emoji/

    The Finnish language and cultural concepts can be difficult for some people to understand. Luckily, I am here to help.

     

    The Polar Bear, universal symbol of the meaninglessness of life
    The Awkward Sauna, a feeling of dehydrated arousal
    The Finnish Flag; or the universal symbol for bicuriousness in the rest of Scandinavia
    The Reindeer, “Help me, I am dying. Please send medical aid.”
    The Intoxicated Horse, “Help me, I am dying. Please send medical aid.”
    The Bonfire, the specific sadness that there is only one person of color left to burn to death.
    The Chorus, “The older men are now ready to be orally violated.”
    Bipolar Disorder, a condition that worsens as you approach The North Pole.
    The Ringed Seal, most often encountered on dating sites, indicates the user is only sexually attracted to sea mammals.
    Coal Licker, “My bipolar disorder can only be cured by licking coal.”
    The Whimsical Swastika, often used on dating sites to indicate a lack of interest in dating either of the Jews in Finland.
    The Forest Half-Vulva, “I want to go almost all the way to third base with you in the woods.”
    Sock and Sandals, “I am experiencing suicidal thoughts.”
    The Penis Wizard, “I am a dead-eyed penis wizard.”
    The Frozen Heart, “I must mourn my loved one that froze themselves to death in a suicide crevasse, please wait until next Spring before asking me out.”
    Murder Boat, “I have been or are about to be murdered on a boat. Please contact the authorities.”

     

  • Romanian Christmas Carols

    Romanian Christmas Carols

    As we are in Midwinter, give or take, the festival of the Saturnalia is upon us, and such the sound track of many a place is quite transformed – and has been, depending on each person’s luck for up to a month.

     

    It is that special time of year where in every store and on radio station you hear the same old Christmas music. Somehow, all Christmas music was made in the past and is now repeated. Also, at least round these parts, so called Christmas Fairs are popping up, giving you the chance to hear the music in the streets and squares.

     

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ImoGBimxSYw

    Some people like that – it puts them in a Christmas mood, reminds them of childhood or it goes well with the day drinking. Some people hate it and are sick and tired of the same stuff. For both these types of people the solution is simple: instead of listening to your old Christmas music, listen to Romanian old Christmas music.

     

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XKMKrDTj-0M

    Romanian carols were originally sang by well… carolers. This was when most Romanians lived in villages and it was a deeply rooted tradition. Usually a group of people would go house to house to announce the Holidays, bring a bit of cheer in the long winter days, ward off bad spirits and get some goodies and, for the adults, a bit of tuica.

     

    If you knew Romanian, you would catch two common themes in carols. One is religious, announcing the birth of Christ, and the second is about the actual act of caroling and asking people to open their homes, get the carolers inside for warmth, and bring out the goodies.

     

    Goodies are usually baked goods and a bit of brandy or wine. Also walnuts are prominent, as most fruit is was not really available in winter, although recently oranges have become a staple associated with Christmas.

     

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DWGbyTdL9a8

    Off course carols, especially on YouTube, are not exactly what they were 100 years ago, but this is a selection of the more popular ones around here, the ones some of us are sick of hearing every year.

     

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gqbQ9ZUBtM8

    Nowadays Romanians often associate carols with Ștefan Hrușcă, in both a nostalgic and mocking fashion, depending. There are lots of jokes about him, he is a bit of a joke, but not in a mallicious way and still sort of popular around Christmas. He now lives and works in Toronto, the one in Canada, and comes to Romania to sing during December and makes some extra money.

     

  • A Gem in my Backyard* – Icehouse Canyon

    A Gem in my Backyard* – Icehouse Canyon

    *There are many, this is one.

    I live in in Southern California, specifically in the Inland Empire, in a little city called Upland, 36 miles east of L.A. Nice place, I guess. I grew up hiking, playing and otherwise enjoying the San Bernardino Mountains since about 11, when my Mom took me up to Mt. Baldy, about 10 miles north of my house as the crow flies.

    There are many things to do in the local Mountains, hiking, skiing, driving, and camping, for a local kid it was heaven, and at 18 I finally climbed Mt. Baldy, and I saw Catalina Island 80 miles away. I could see all the way around it, I was that high.

    Anyway, one of the nicer trails goes from Icehouse Canyon, into the Cucamonga Wilderness, and if you go up high enough, at least as far as the Saddle, you might see big horn sheep. So, my son and I decided to take his cousin Brody up and show him the sights. An April storm had just passed and it seemed warm and dry enough, so off we go….

    As soon as we gained some altitude we encountered some nasty weather leftover from the storm, but nothing we weren’t ready for, so we pressed on, the whole hike turned dark and eerie, but that just added to the awesomeness we were shown.

     

    When we finally entered the Wilderness, we are treated to a stone that doesn’t belong here, Serpentine, again showing the suspect terrane of the San Bernardino Mountain Chain.

    Higher we went, and things were getting even more fogged in, but no Ice or excess rain so we kept going, we are City boys remember….

    We stopped at Columbine spring, the last water available, for a top off and some pics, then made our way to the saddle.

     

    This section could be in Scandinavia or something, fully socked in with swirling clouds and such.

     

     


    Once we arrived at the Saddle, we had a bite to eat. BTW look at our faces.

     

    So, Son wants to head East on the Etiwanda trail, OK. About 100 yards in we spot bighorn sheep!

     

    They look like giant dogs, that would kick your ass, so OF COURSE idiot Son tries to get as close as possible. I laugh and tell Brody, “I can’t wait ’til that thing kicks him off the side of the mountain,” but they left, and gave us something to remember them by…..

    The downhill was uneventful, ’til I got home and found a knee-sized blister on my knee. I was favoring my left leg going down, and rubbed it on my Dickies I suppose. Don’t let anyone fool you, SoCal has gems all over the place. You might find it hard to believe the pictures my Son took are so close to a metropolis, but there it is.

    Here’s the Gallery, please slideshow this one, there are so many pictures I just didn’t have space for, it is chronological down/up/ down.

  • Evan Goes to Kazakhstan, part 2

     Read part 1 

    Now that we have been to Astana and traveled to Almaty, it is time to show how life is there. My love of markets is sacrosanct and I delight in the way they distinguish how people live across cultures. I will also show you the most beautiful place that I’ve ever been.

    OK. Let’s continue the journey.

     

    This the Green Bazaar. We’re back at the markets that I adore. Three massive floors of everything you can imagine. This is a stall for dried and preserved fruits. Here are the more Mediterranean influences on the culture.

     

    Well, now we are back in Central Asia. Goat heads carefully displayed for your pleasure. The teeth weird me out.

     

    This seems like a nice mix of cultures. The berries and spices, along with the various oils and tinctures color the scene. There’s something so exotic about strange potions in a flask. It reminds me of old-timey medicine bottles with their faded labels and antiquated language. I don’t know why those artifacts strike me so starkly. I love the typescript and aged paper. It makes me think of Jack the Ripper and Victorian England. Every color in every bottle entices me with the mystery of what they hold.

    I don’t even want to know what each elixir is. I’m rather content to keep the wonder alive.

     

    I wanted to show at least something of the city side of Almaty. This is the opera house. It looks like it could be out of St. Petersburg to these ignorant eyes. There was a show that night, and several hours after this snap it was marauded by hundreds of well-heeled patrons.

    It was time to sleep. With a flight at 6pm the next day, I had half a mind to have a relaxed morn and stay in. I awoke and realized that rest can wait. I booked an overly-expensive cab and forged my way to Big Almaty Lake.

    This fortitude turned out to be the best decision I made. In all of my life, and all of the numerous places I’ve experienced, I have never set sight on a place that was this stunningly majestic. I was literally without speech.

     

    Deep in a valley, I was rewarded with this. I didn’t know that this color of aquamarine existed. The lake was unnervingly flat. From a distance you felt like you could stroll across it like Christ.

    There’s that old yarn that the last thing you see gets burned to your retinas. If this were my last view I would have no regrets.

     

    I always dip my feet in. The water was cold, yet soothing. The beautiful, clear skies entreated me to stay as long as possible. I got my hands dirty and felt the rocks. Numerous baby waterfalls cascaded and trickled into the lake. These were the Elysian Fields–mortals are not meant to witness such a place.

     

    You even get a selfie from me. I’m very camera shy. This version of me (fatter than I am now, dammit!) has only one reason to be shared. In this shot I’m genuinely so shocked and moved by where I was that I couldn’t even pull a stupid face, the one that I always make against my will. The oxidized-copper hue of the lake, along with the surrounding mountains and scenery, were hypnotic. Look at all the tiny people near the edge of the lake for scale.

     

    I flew back to Korea a few hours later.

     

    Kazakhstan was a bit of a revelation. The food was incredible, everyone was universally nice, other than that asshole on the train. I got to see some things that I’d never seen before or since. I ate horse! I have some embarrassing stories that I didn’t share that are just for me, but that’s part of the flavor of a solo trip. You make mistakes and get lost (in more ways than one). More often than not you find yourself at a more interesting spot than the one you were looking for. The simple trick is to not mind and embrace the opportunity. Find beauty in everything you see. Wander down those scary streets.

    Traveling alone to a new place is unnerving. There is no help and there are no lifelines. The experiences, knowledge, and wisdom you get from that type of travel are unparalleled. Trial by fire. Get busy livin’ or get busy dyin’.

    My coworkers asked how my week of travel went. I don’t think that my face betrayed myself.

    “It went ok.”

    They needn’t know any more than that. This was for me. And for me to share. And I share it with you.

  • Evan Goes to Kazakhstan, part 1

    Last year, Korean Thanksgiving fell on a very fortuitous Wednesday. Where normally we would only get a 4-day weekend, the government blessed us with the whole week off. Nine days to explore.

    I wanted to do something special. I looked at the map. Where can I go? Where haven’t I been? I remembered a good friend that lived there and it dawned on me. Central Asia. Kazakhstan. Fuck it.

    My knowledge of the country consisted of two factoids: I knew it was a part of the USSR and that the Mongols used to make interesting architectural decisions when it came to their pyramid making there. Other than that–bupkis.

    This was a solo trip as well, so you’re really stepping through the looking glass with adventures like these. It’s a delightfully odd sensation. You get the excitement of exploring something new, but you also have the fear and nervousness of everything that can go wrong. My instinctive desire to discover usually overpowers my natural state of constant anxiety.

    Take off and land.

    I arrived in Astana. It’s a very fake place, sadly. It was built from scratch to create a new capital after the fall of the Soviets. It’s surprisingly modern, but it lacks character and warmth. It’s an IKEA table, well-constructed with sharp, straight lines–but it’s missing the worn grooves, scars and character of an antique. I know which I prefer.

     

    This is Astana. Yawn. There are lots of office parks like this. Places that look flashy but are mostly empty. The city has about a million people, but even the locals complained to me about its shallowness. It’s not a Chinese ghost town, but there is certainly more vacancy than demand.

    Under advice from my friend who used to teach here, I only stayed in Astana for about 36 hours. It was fun. But again, very bland.

     
     

    I did quite enjoy this Art Deco building. Reminds me of the Chicago Tribune building.
     
     

    This is the Hazrat Sultan Mosque. It’s the biggest in Kazakhstan and the second largest in Central Asia. Architecture is a very interesting cultural thing–in my experience, the further away from yours they are is inversely related to how interesting you find them. My friends and I joke that if you see one temple, you’ve seen them all. Mosques are a bit more distinct. They still don’t approach my adoration of cathedrals, which I can pick apart detail by detail.

    I rather liked this one, though. Most that I’ve seen have been old and weathered. The pristine white was an interesting change for me.

     
     

    Ok, ladies and germs! This is where the real adventure begins. Look at the cute little face on the train! The star is his nose!

    It was a 13-hour overnight journey down south to Almaty, the cultural capital of Kazakhstan. I soon discovered that this train was Soviet. As. Fuck. This was quite the adventure. It’s the embodiment of why I live the way that I do.

     
     

    I sincerely apologize for the lack of a better shot–the train was rather jumpy. These are the central steppes. I kept imagining Mongol hordes tearing along the side of the train, just like I used to imagine Sonic jumping over obstacles to collect rings when I was a kid looking out the window on family trips. Kansas flat with a hint of foreboding.

    Now, I must discuss the state of the train itself. I got a first class ticket, because I’m not an idiot. This entailed staying in a private room with double bunk beds. My roomies were pretty cool. Spoke enough English to casually chat and enough sense to leave each other alone for long stretches.

    The rest of the passengers were parallel with the train, with three bunks above each other on both sides of the aisle. It was probably at 150% capacity, all cramped together and quite unnerving to this introvert. I would’ve had a panic attack if I had to stay here. It had undertones of a prison car.

    Crossing between train cars was frighteningly surreal. You open the door and you are open to the air. There are weak chain guardrails that give you little reassurance. The boardwalk is shifting violently with every jolt and jar of the train. It’s blisteringly loud. Then you open the door to the next car.

     
     

    There you are greeted with a furnace. It is totally open. You trip and you fall into it. I would advise against that. There is a coal pail on the floor to refuel. I feel obligated to remind my dear readers that this is located in a particularly jangly section of the train. You are climbing up a mountain–three points of contact at all times.

     
     

    This is the bathroom. All hail the productive qualities of Soviet engineering! I think it’s very indicative of what the train was actually like. Let’s just say that I had some disturbing urinary experiences here.

     
     

    Now I get to talk about this crazy fuck.

    It’s pretty late. I go past all of those furnaces to get to the food and drink car. I bought some vodka and sat down with something to read. This guy starts talking to me. Uselessly. He doesn’t speak English and I can’t speak Kazakh or Russian. So we are Charlie Chaplin-ing our way through a conversation that I have absolutely no desire to have.

    He ended up being an asshole and gesticulated my drink to the floor. I’m fed up, but I didn’t want this maniac following me to my bunk. I went into steerage to throw him off the scent. He tails me, incredibly drunk. Between the train cars, that crazy earthquake-land of rattle and danger, he grabs me. He’s physically threatening me–he wants my tablet. We struggle against each other. I am pinning his arms and trying to get leverage over him so he can’t take what is mine. This aggression escalated as I told him in no uncertain terms to go fuck himself.

    I break loose and get to the next car. He follows. I start making a scene but he was mostly doing it for me. Passengers called for security. Men in green uniforms with red stars on their caps came in and broke it up. They told me to go back to my room.

    I wanted to have another drink and calm down. So I went back to the beverage car, where the lovely clerk told me that that guy was trouble and that I got lucky. Then the guards came back in and berated me for not going back to my bunk as I was told. Being yelled at by men wearing Soviet uniforms is darkly chilling. An uneasy and bouncy sleep followed.

    ***

    I arrived in Almaty. It’s a gorgeous city. This time, instead of focusing on the town itself or on my quirky little streets, I’m going to give you mountain folk what you crave the most.
     

    This is Zailiyskiy Alatau. The pines were perfectly blanketed with snow. The sky was a blue that I don’t have a word for. It was a serene backdrop for the clouds, floating through peaks at 13,000 feet. This is more like basecamp. Now we need to go to the top. The cable car was out of service so I had to get a cab.
     
     

     
     


    The clouds meandered through the valley–slowly swirling through as playful ghosts. Breathing in the clouds and exhaling my own. Always relish The Tingles. They are fickle and do not last.

    I had a gorgeous and hilarious descent from the mountain. “GOOT!” the cabbie endlessly shouted at anything he thought was positive. Which was absolutely everything. It’s still a catchphrase that I use. It’s delightful having an inside joke with a friend, but it can be lovely to have one just for yourself. You seem more like a crazy person that way.

     

    Back in town, it was time to see some Soviet monuments.


    GOOT!

     


    GOOT!

     

    “Велика Россия, а отступать некуда. Позади Москва!”
    “Russia is large but there’s nowhere to retreat. Moscow is behind us!”
    These are from the ‘Park of the 28 Panfilov Guardsmen.’ Monuments celebrating soldiers from an Almaty infantry unit who died defending Moscow against Nazi attackers.

    I am enthralled by Soviet art. It’s has a bold, cartoonish quality to it that perfectly matches my palette. The over-the-top themes of protective violence, the aggressive lines, wrought in iron–strike me the way Monet does others. It takes all kinds. As I look around my apartment, almost half of my decor is based on Soviet propaganda. Don’t hate the player, hate the game.

     

    And that’s where I leave you for now. Stay tuned for Part 2! It will take you further into Almaty and my adventures there.

    GOOT!

     
     

  • A Glib Goes to Hanoi



    I went to Hanoi with my mother in early September. It was my fourth trip to Vietnam. I’ve worked my way up north–started off in Phu Quoc with the ex; spent 2015-2016 New Years with her in Saigon (it was cheaper than celebrating in Singapore); had an amazing time in Da Nang last year; and finally this.

    Vietnam is a very unusual place. One advantage of colonialism (for me!) is that the French Romanized the language. I’ll never get the tonal bits right but it’s fairly easy to at least kinda-sorta sound out signs and menus. The French influence is also very easy to see–with food and architecture–as you’ll see later. Some people call it (and Laos, etc) “Paris in the jungle.” The people are universally friendly and do not be fearful to be an American; The American War is in the past and people are more than happy to have us around. Wounds heal.

    The swarm of scooters and spiderweb power lines swirl around every street. It’s oppressively hot and everything is out in the open. Life is more low key. Evenings are shared with the family open to the air. There aren’t many rules.

    It was very difficult to whittle down these photos. I picked out 104 that I thought were worthy of my highlight reel. I’m limiting myself to ten for this post. I think that is excessive, but I just can’t help myself. It would be to cheat you.  *I lied. Turns out be 13*

     

    (Click to enlarge images in new tabs)

    Hello, Hanoi! It has about 8 million people but much of the city consists of these little side streets. Full of food and many shops—expect bike mechanics and people sewing. Right off the sidewalk with shutters open.

     

     

    Mopeds are everywhere. And yes, the hats are a real thing.

     

     

    I picked this instead of the statue of Lenin that I took from the bus. It is only open for a few hours every morning and it never worked with our schedule to see the preserved body of the North Vietnamese leader. I’m OK with that. I’d be forced to be reverent to the embodiment of something I find evil. I still would have because transgression is fun, but it wasn’t to be.

     

     

    This is the Hanoi Hilton. They have a guillotine and supposedly John McCain’s flight suit from when he was shot down. It was hard to pick a photo to represent this. The weird clay people with ankle shackles were very unnerving. Not sure I made the best choice. Fuck it.

     

     

    Now Mom and I went to Ha Long. This was a cave within the mountains. Unbelievable formations and absolutely gorgeous.

     

     

    Tons of fishermen and tourist boats sailing. Many come up to yours to sell bananas and other treats. The bigger boat was refueling the smaller right before this pic. They stopped to have a smoke and snack. The world goes slower here.

     

     

    Boy falls in love with world. Craves more.

    Hands down my favorite picture of the trip, and one of my favorites of all time. It was beautiful watching him absorb the atmosphere, just by himself. I imagine that I looked like that as a child. I try to feel like that as often as possible. There’s a big world out there, and I intend to experience as much of it as I can.

     

     

     

     

    Ha Long Bay. It is very difficult to express how shockingly beautiful this place is.

    The innumerous cliff daggers jut out from the ocean in divine randomness.

     

     

    Just like that.

     

     

    Dog in the market. My mother thought it was a baby pig. I decided not to tell her the truth. Markets in Asia are always a fascinating experience. You can buy bottles of blood and every intestine and bit of whatever animal du jour. As a former butcher, it’s good for people to see the process up close, with nothing wasted.

     

     

    Here is some of that French influence. Based on Notre Dame. Gorgeous but also dirty. This layman blames the grime on the slash-and-burn farming popular in Southeast Asia. Buildings and Baguettes. Album name. Mine.

     

     

    This little alley was mostly empty, but has many shopfronts and homes alike. There is a market on the tracks during the day. They move aside when the train comes through. I wanted to watch that but my mother was concerned about making our flight—I missed it by about 30 minutes. So it goes.

    Same street. Every shop front is open and exposed to walk by. This how shit be, yo.

     

     

    Sorry that I don’t have more city shots. It is indeed a very large place, but that’s not really my thing. Some people like mountains or the sea—I like quirky little streets. Back alleys and mischief. Everywhere I go I always visit a big local market. I love watching people buying and selling—and most importantly—just living. Seeing life for how it is and minimizing touristy stuff, although most things are touristy for a reason.

     

    Most people fill their lives with spouses, children, or their work. I’m largely empty in those ways. I’ve filled my life with memories of the places and people that I’ve met across six continents. Sometimes that makes me sad, but mostly it just makes me want to explore some more and try to fill that hollow cup. There is more out there to discover.

    Yukon, ho!

  • Traveling Transalpina: the highest road in Romania

    No, not that kind of high… Just 2150 meters above sea level.

    Romania as a country is not exactly well known for its quality infrastructure, although, to be sure, that is relative. It is mostly serviceable, overall, if you don’t like your car too much. Which cannot be said for many a country on our fair planet. We have roads and stuff, although not great on the freeway front. We have yet to have a two lane road crossing the mountains, which generally creates bottlenecks when you try to drive to Transylvania and, further, to Western Europe.

    In fact the bottle neck on the main Road coming to Bucharest from the west is called the Black Hill and it is dark and full of hairpin curves, which sucks when you are stuck behind a truck. It sucks even more at night when the visibility is awful. Accidents are exacerbated by the fact that frustrated drivers often pass recklessly when in a hurry. If you are not in a hurry, a rare case in these times of ours, you can cross the mountain on the scenic route. It may take two hours more, but the roads are almost empty and you can’t beat the view. Sometimes, as the saying goes, one should take the high road.

     

    The high road in this case can be one of two. The older and better known is Transfăgărășan, made famous by Top Gear, back when Top Gear was good. The lesser known one, although it’s well… higher – the highest in Romania – is Transalpina. Both Roads were expensive and unnecessary wastes of resources by the government, one by the communist times the other by the ehm… let’s call them capitalist times. But since they are there now, it can be nice to drive. So I thought I would show the Glibs some pictures of my trip over the Transalpina. And yes, there are many such photos on the internet, many better ones, but these are mine and that’s the point.

    Depending on the route taken, at first the road starts as a standard road between villages, although empty and off the beaten track.

     

    Historically, the road is assumed to be ancient, first started who knows when as a path for taking sheep over the mountains. It was allegedly used by some Roman troops when fighting the Dacians. The Austrians though of making it a road in the 18th century. For most of its history it was just a mountain path, although wider than most such paths. The German army partially paved it with stone and gravel in the First World War, although it was not used much. Romania widened and improved the road in the 1930, when, although not fully paved, it could be crossed using an off-road vehicle.

    Finally the road was fully paved between 2009 and 2015.

    The maximum speed limit is 30, but you would not drive faster anyway given the windy nature. A man could have a lot of fun here on a motorbike. Not me off course, but a man could.

    If you fancy a bite on the road, you can stop at a sheep station (stâna in Romanian) where you can eat polenta, sheep’s cheese, sour cream, and well… mutton. The mutton is a stew and a sort of never ending pot, which sits on a fire and meat is constantly added to cook in what is mostly its own fat and juices and some onion.

    Where there are sheep there are sheep dogs.

     

    Towards the end you go to lower altitudes when the forest starts again.

     

    You can see lakes in the forest if that is your thing.

    Or take a detour through the countryside,

     

    The roads may not always be paved

    And you can encounter some traffic.

    You can visit a church build in 1100 over the ruins of a Roman mausoleum which was built over the ruins of a Dacian temple.

     

     

    After a long day on the road you can stay at a nice hotel and golf course in Transylvania, in a quiet area far from the main road. This was the view from the room

     

     

    Anyway this about covers it. A short trip through Romania. Can’t really think of an ending paragraph right now so I am going to leave it like this.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • Forty Years Later – Chapter 4

    Catch up on the earlier Chapters: 1, 2, 3

    (click to enlarge images)

    Day 5

    The next morning I discovered the last indignity from the motel. There was no hot water. Not even a drop. I had to settle for washing my pits and crotch and using clean clothes to face decent society.

    Having seen the results of the dinner buffet, I wasn’t expecting much for the breakfast buffet and my pessimism was correct. Same bored guy behind the counter took my breakfast order. I took the opportunity to re-check the board for the cavern tours and was pleased to discover that I had mis-read it; the $50 tour was for another area and the standard tour was only $20, and I even got a discount for AAA when I bought the ticket. The cavern tour made up for all of the hassles that I had endured with the motel and restaurant. It was simply magnificent.

    I was almost solo with my attractive tour guide but at the last minute a family from somewhere in Eastern Europe joined us. I can usually pick out a language (even though I cannot speak it) from its sounds and a few vocabulary words that I can recognize. I never knew for sure but they sounded Slavic to me.

    Like Carlsbad Caverns the entrance to the cave was not the original entrance. An elevator took us down (and back up), followed by a walk of a mile or so. It is a “dry” cave (unlike Carlsbad) and therefore has a different sort of cave formations. The walk also took us by the old Civil Defense fallout shelter and a hotel room located 250 feet below the surface. Our guide said that she had spent her honeymoon there and the total darkness and total silence was actually too much to take! They had to turn on a nightlight in order to remain the night!

    I finished the tour around mid-morning and resumed my trip on US-66. Someone, I’m guessing the Tourist Bureau from the Seligman area, has sponsored a series of signs along the road, similar to the Burma Shave signs of the past. I thought that this was a clever way to promote the historic road. There is a lot of interest nowadays for the promotion of US-66 of bygone days, as my trip was discovering. I think that Americans are missing a lot of their heritage by blasting by on the limited-access Interstate Highway. A forgotten America still exists on the back roads that is not part of the Interstate Exit conglomeration of chain motels and fast food restaurants.

    At Seligman I climbed back on the freeway to deal with the truck traffic.

    I took the exit to drive through Ash Fork, as the road had diverted in the past. I had not remembered the Ash Fork was famous for its stone quarries, particularly shale and flagstone. Most of the houses in town were made of stone and many of them looked to be quite old.

    I wanted to see the statue that Winslow had erected of the guy “standing on a corner in Winslow Arizona” and missed it on the westbound trip so I exited the freeway and drove through the town in the other direction
    I recall hearing the refrain, “Spend the night in a wigwam!” ever since I was a child. One of the few remaining authentic Wigwam Motel ™ franchises was located in Holbrook Arizona and, since I was committed to doing the “tourist thing,” I reserved a wigwam. I am so glad that I did.

    The original design was from the 1930’s and the park in Holbrook is one of three remaining in the country. The layout is quite clever with a surprisingly large bedroom and a bathroom with shower at the rear. The park has numerous old cars parked at nearly every room, adding to the nostalgic flavor of the place.

    As I sat in the lengthening shadows of my last night on the road I used my cell phone to call my buddies who were gathered for our weekly poker game. A bit later I was finally got to visit with some neighbors who were having a little party in the parking lot. We chatted for a few minutes, then they moved on to a party downtown and I moved on to my bed in the wigwam.

    Day 6

    I had breakfast where the locals eat, Joe & Aggie’s Place. All that one could ask for, large helpings of terrific food and a bottomless pot of coffee.

    In the parking lot there was a family of foreign tourists apparently taken by my motorcycle. When I walked up in my leather chaps and vest they were enthralled. The husband asked if I would pose with their children and I suggested putting the son on my bike for the photo. It looked like the daughter wanted her picture taken, too, (and I would have been glad to oblige) but I think that the parents felt that they were putting me out by the photo op. Hell, I didn’t care, it was fun being thought of as “an American biker.” I got an extra internal kick from knowing that my Harley-riding friends would be in distress by the foreigners being impressed with a biker on a Japanese bike.

    After my encounter with Stogie I looked for other motorcyclists to ride with. On the way back I caught up with a fellow on a Honda 350. I held with him for a few miles, but he was traveling much slower than I wanted to so I said, “See ya” and went on. At Continental Divide I stopped at the Stuckeys for fuel and, upon leaving, encountered my friend on the Honda. We stopped for a few minutes to chat and then I went on.

    To avoid the truck traffic on I-40 and to bypass Albuquerque I planned my trip across the reservation from Gallup through Crownpoint to Cuba. Again, wonderful scenery on a two-lane blacktop with no traffic. The road meanders from small town to town as it winds toward Cuba.

    I was only a few miles away and had the lunch from El Bruno’s on my mind as I followed the Rio Puerco into town. Suddenly my reverie was interrupted by the impact of an insect on my exposed neck and the instant application of pain. I had run into the business end of a bee and the sting was rapidly swelling. I’m pretty sure that I’m not allergic to bee stings but I was still worried that the swelling might cause my windpipe to close. Fortunately the pain and swelling subsided in a bit and I was able to enjoy my lunch.

    After spending the night again with Bruce I headed east toward home. The trip back was uneventful until I arrived back on my home turf in Albuquerque. I hit the freeway at the peak of rush hour. I had heard horror stories about the horrible traffic jams in Los Angeles, yet the worst traffic that I encountered was right in my home town!

    I pulled into home right at dinner time. The family came out to greet me and hugs were liberally spread around. As I had been riding the hard saddle of the dirtbike almost non-stop my first words upon arrival were, “My butt hurts!”

    I was home.

    The last leg of the trip was in sight. A while back my uncle sent me a copy of a column from a motorcycle magazine where the author gave tips about road trips. One of the tips was a reminder that the last day of the trip is still part of the trip and one should not hurry the finish. A suggestion was to stop at the local bar on the way home and savor the trip just before it is over. I stopped at Los Ojos for a beer and found some folks to listen to my tales before heading up the hill for the last 20 miles.

    I was home.

  • Trashy tries creative writing, sci-fi style [Part 1]

    I occasionally get the fiction writing bug and put together a short story. Usually they suck because I’m not a creative writer and I’m usually just blowing off some creative steam since I write highly technical documents at my day job. Anyway, I have a start of a short story I’d like to share for the hell of it. If there’s sufficient interest, I’ll write and post more of it on here.

    ————

     

    A subtle jolt signaled the end of the ride for Lt. Van Balych. The doors to the elevator slid open with a light rumble, and his first step onto the gravitative section of the NASS Umbique was a bit shaky. He hadn’t been in space in quite a while, and he had forgotten that it takes a day or so to get one’s space legs under them. The hallway he stepped into seemed neverending, an artifact of the wholly uninspired design of the Nakayama-class orbital patrol frigate. “Brutalism meets Flash Gordon,” quipped another Ensign during then Ensign Balych’s first space assignment, also on a Nakayama-class orbital patrol frigate.

    These frigates were disproportionately sized for their role in the North American Space Force, almost 80% the size of a Xie-class cruiser. However, the asteroid belt wasn’t nearly as contentious a place as had been expected, and the cruisers spent most of their time doing the job of orbital patrol frigates anyway. In a political “compromise,” the newest generation of orbital patrol frigate, the Nakayama-class, was designed to be the best of both worlds, a frigate with the resources of a cruiser. The result was a 700 meter long ship that looks like a boxy rolling pin. An ungainly angular command section contains a bridge, a forward engineering compartment, and a forward weapons array along with an associated magazine. The middle 500 meters consists of a spindly core around which the gravitative section rotates. The gravitative section is a 5-deck modular cylinder kept at 0.85g. Each module is a 500 meter by 50 meter rectangular strip that can be fully isolated from the other modules in case of emergency. The modules interconnect with adjacent modules through bulkheads every 100 meters. The rear section is a bulbous EM drive section. There is an aft engineering section and an aft weapons array, but they are usually remotely controlled unless heavy damage is taken at the front of the ship or maintenance is required.

    Van looked at the instructions projected on his glasses and began walking down the monotonous beige corridor, passing door after door of crew quarters. One of the nice things about having a ridiculously oversized ship was the fact that everybody got their own room. “26-B-12,” he mumbled under his breath, passing an Ensign in a purple trimmed uniform, indicative of a weapons controller. Yes, NASF ripped the whole colored uniform thing from Star Trek. It was supposed to be a morale boost, but it is more of a fleetwide embarrassment than anything. Van looked up from his half-aware cadence down the hall to see 26-B-17 on a door to the left. He shifted his gaze to the other side of the hall and acquired 26-B-12 a few meters further down. As he reached his arm out to push the entry button on the wall, the door recognized his wrist implant and opened with a mechanical whirr. “It’s an accordion door, of course, because that’s the least complicated type of door to design and maintain. These doors never fail!” Van sarcastically thought, remembering back to the multiple occasions during his stint on the Svenson when the door to his quarters jammed.

    Van stepped into his new quarters and was hit with a familiar smell. Despite the Umbique being almost two years old, nobody had been in this room since the pre-launch inspection. The new quarters smell was unmistakable. He dropped his duffel on the downright luxurious queen sized bed and scanned the room. The configuration was familiar, bathroom to the left, closet to the right, bed in front, desk next to the bed. Around the edges of the floor were angled windows that reminded Van of prisms. They were an attempt to give a view of the starscape that wasn’t just a porthole drilled in the floor. Officers were assigned quarters on deck 5, and non-comms were assigned windowless quarters on deck 4, a not-so-subtle insult given that the quarters on deck 5 could hold the entire 220 person crew thrice over.

    Van stepped into the bathroom, which automatically illuminated upon his presence. He looked into the mirror and swept off the remnant disheveledness that lingered from the four hour ride to orbit and then to the Umbique. He had been greeted by a Lieutenant Commander at the airlock and couldn’t remember her name. She was cute, if a bit swallowed up by her high-collared uniform. Balych toggled through the menus on his glasses with a sensation that resembled muscle memory and called up the ship’s crew roster. In a matter of a few seconds, he had filtered the list and found a picture of a soft-faced Lieutenant Commander trying her hardest to look tough. “Lt. Cmdr. Aria Snelling,” the dossier headlined. As quickly as he had looked up the information, he shut down the search and focused back on his reflection, running his hand across his cheek. He frowned at the rough feel of the five o’clock shadow and returned to his duffel to retrieve his laser razor. A quick two minutes later, he was baby faced and bald, which was how men were expected to groom themselves these days. He had a mild shudder as he thought about growing a beard and hair, which were considered old fashioned and a little bit tacky. Van gave his quarters one last glance before walking out and heading for the bridge.

    Lt. Balych had been assigned to the Umbique as Chief Compliance Officer, a natural extension from his prior role as a Senior Compliance Liaison at Space Consulate Canaveral. His task on this cruise was to ensure the regulatory compliance of all transports flying the common transit routes between the asteroid belt and the Inner Ports. Human space travel was still in its infancy, and very little exploration had been done outside of the asteroid belt. However, a few colonies had been established on the Moon and on Mars for various industrial purposes, including ore refining, spaceship manufacturing, and automated manufacturing for Earth consumption. These Inner Ports, including the many ports on Earth, were abuzz with commerce. The transit routes that connected the Inner Ports with the asteroid belt were traveled by a unique group of people, the Boomers.

    The elevator slowed to a stop with a small jolt and Van felt the last of the gravity go away. He held onto the railing until the doors slid open. With a small push, he stepped into a small corridor and eased back down onto the floor. The command section did not rotate, and technically had no gravity, but a magnetic field interacted with metallic microfibers woven into his uniform to provide the illusion of a minimum of gravity, something like 0.2g. It was enough to be able to walk around, but took some getting used to. Regulations stated that a crewmember could only spend 6 hours per day maximum in magna-grav sections of the ship to prevent the onset of microgravity ailments like bone density loss. Van walked past a couple of doors that led to command crew conference rooms and stepped up to the door at the end of the hall marked “Bridge”. He almost smacked his face into the door as a buzzing noise accompanied a red flashing light to signal his denial of access. A moment later, he heard an alarm sound from the tactical station on the other side of the stubbornly closed doors. Van quickly located the access list for the bridge on his glasses and scanned the list for his name. He found it instantly and confirmed that the access code on file matched to his wrist implant. He stepped forward again and the door slid open. The tactical officer pivoted in her chair and quizzically looked at Lt. Balych as he rolled his eyes. The bridge was vaguely reminiscent of the old NASA mission control center in Houston. He had never seen it in person, but there was a faithful mockup at Space Consulate Canaveral that he had seen many times. Three rows of computer stations were stacked in front of one another, all facing a bank of three screens at the front of the bridge. Van stood on a riser near the rear of the bridge and was looking downward at the command center. Three chairs sat in the middle of the large riser, a surprisingly large space for only three chairs and an emergency console on the back wall. The flurry of activity overwhelmed Van’s senses for a moment before his mind was able to adjust.

    The bridge crew consisted of a Captain, two Commanders, four Lieutenant Commanders, and six Lieutenants. The Captain and Commanders inhabited the three throne-like chairs in the back of the room. Lt. Balych approached the throne and cleared his throat. It was time to put on a show. In his best Swahili, he addressed Captain Mbeke. “I have been transferred under your command as of today, March 18, 2162. I am glad to be of service to you.” He intentionally and expertly avoided any offensive gendering, sideways glances, and assertiveness. It was especially difficult to keep his eyes from wandering when addressing Captain Mbeke. Xhe was a mountain of a woman, err, gender-nonspecific human. The image kept popping into Van’s head of mashed potatoes, because Mbeke’s morbidly obese body had the color and texture of mashed potatoes with gravy. Lt. Balych had addressed morbidly obese Captains before. 40% of Captains required a mattress instead of a command chair because they were too big for the command chair (which was already designed for a person of 450 pounds). However, Captain Mbeke had wedged xherself into the command chair, clearly in denial about xher 600-plus pound girth. Van had researched Captain Mbeke prior to boarding the Umbique, and knew much more about xher than likely anybody else on the ship. Captain Mbeke was born Stephanie Dawson, and was the daughter of Second Consul Blandon Dawson, one of the most powerful politicians on Earth. After spending 6 months living in South Africa, Stephanie Dawson became trans-racial and transgendered, and eventually changed xher name to Salani Mbeke, coopting a traditional Congan surname. Most senior officers were appointed directly to their positions due to political connection, and Captain Mbeke was no different. She was 32 when she was appointed to the Captaincy of the Umbique, without even stepping foot at officers’ school. Similarly, the Commanders and Lieutenant Commanders had all likely been appointed to the vessel as political favors.  Running an orbital patrol frigate was seen as a cushy job for the elites, given the low danger, the high amount of control, and the sumptuous allure of harassing the junior officers and non-comms. Normal people like Lt. Balych capped out at Lieutenant, with a select few making it to Lieutenant Commander.

    Captain Mbeke, leaned up into an erect sitting position, a fire building in her eyes. A guttoral exhale signaled that the fury was about to be unleashed, a song and dance Lt. Balych had experienced many times before. He tried to act and look as unimposing as possible, hoping to let the gale pass with minimal damage. In perfectly unaccented English, Mbeke screamed, “YOU DARE BUTCHER MY LANGUAGE?? YOU HAVEN’T EVEN BEEN ON MY SHIP AN HOUR AND YOU INSULT ME??” Her arms shook with rage, the dangling fat counter-rotating and flapping like a flesh-colored flag in a hurricane. The sound of skin-on-skin slapping was vaguely sexual, but only disgustingly so. Van purged the thought from his mind before the thought of a walrus mating with a bowl of jello made him visibly cringe and offend the gelatinous woman even more. Mbeke shifted over to look at one of the Commanders and said in a broken voice, “The safety of this bridge has . . . been. . .  violated!” Her lower lip began to pout and water glistened deep in her fat-swollen eyes, her words punctuated by a rhythmic heaving whistle unique to such a morbidly obese person trying to suppress her sobs, “I’ve. never. been. so. humiliated. in. my. liiiiiiiiiiii-hi-hi-hiiiiiiifffffffffffe!!” She broke down into a blubbering mess, her pasty mashed potato skin turning bright red with the effort. The Commander to her left motioned to one of the Lieutenants who escorted Lt. Balych off the bridge and into one of the command conference rooms. Van was happy that the ceremonial victimization of the Captain was finished. Tradition or no, he could never shake the thought that it was a bit ridiculous. There were better ways to put new junior officers in their place.

    Lt. Eva Baxter dropped the portable reading device on the conference table with just enough gusto to signal to Van that she didn’t want to be there dealing with onboarding a new bridge officer at the moment. Even though Baxter was likely a normal person who went to officer training school and didn’t come from a life of privilege, the systemic disdain held by the appointed senior officers tended to infect the rest of a ship like a virus. “Here is all the information about your job responsibilities, the layout of your bridge console, access parameters, your shift assignments, and protocols for communicating with senior officers. Read it all and memorize it,” she gruffly monotoned, punching buttons on the reading device. With a final button click, the entirety of the manual was uploaded to Van’s glasses, as indicated by a progress bar projected on the bottom of his left lens. She then proceeded to look him head to toe, a gesture he knew all too well. “We run the consort system here, have you been a consort on any of your previous assignments?” her disinterested demeanor staying unchanged, despite the shift to a sexual conversation. “Yes, I was consort to a Commander on my previous space assignment,” Van responded, momentarily flashing back to a memory of a sexual encounter with Cmdr. Bordreaux on the Svenson. “Good,” the emotionless Lieutenant dismissively muttered, “you’re not the Captain’s type, and the Commanders both already have enough consorts, so you may end up with a Lieutenant Commander.” An unofficial policy adopted on some of the most female dominated ships in the fleet assigned the male junior officers to female senior officers for sexual liaises. Neither the men nor the women needed the sex, as sexbots and sex toys were more than adequate to satisfy any sexual desire they had. However, the consort program gave the female senior officers another avenue to show their disdain for the junior officers, and especially for the wholly emasculated male officers. Consort sexual encounters were notoriously humiliating to the men. Some of the women even took perverse joy in pegging their men while making every effort to let the men know that they were less than trash. Lt. Balych had been lucky the first time. Cmdr. Bordreaux was a bit more traditional, and wasn’t particularly comfortable with the dominant role she was supposed to take in the consort relationship. Mostly, she just wanted companionship. Van was nervous that he’d get a true believer in the consort system this time around. His ass clenched at the thought.

  • “THE STEVE SMITH SANCTION” – The Conclusion

    Hapless bunch of …
    They are used to useless circling in the Hague.
    @#$% missed the turn…now I have to circle back.

    OK, here I am. Just going to have to wait it out. Sure hope this dart with the neurotoxin is enough to take down STEVE SMITH. If not, there will be one less fondue miner laboring for the Swiss…

    Wait a minute – there is a nice little shadowy spot. I think I will try there.

    Perfect.

    Wait a mimute…there is someone in the shadows! Limping?

    “You are walking with a limp.” I readied the dart.

    Instead of a roar or STEVE SMITH TALK, I get “I am 2 months from 90 and have had 3 back operations…of course I am limping, jongen!”

    “Dad?!”

    “Oh goody, you retain some wits about you.”

    “So it was you…what was with all the hints?”

    “Those were the places I lived in 1951-1953 when I started medical school. Figured the only way to get you there was via STEVE SMITH.”

    “That isn’t fair!”

    “It worked, ja?”

    “…ja vader.”

    “Oh, jongen even remembers some Nederlands. I trust the lesson has been learned?”

    “Ja. Listen to father and stay away from the SMITHS.”

    “Correct, jongen. Time to go home now. Nostalgia is fine, but our family left here for numerous reasons. Busybody bunch of…”

    THE END