"Good girls keep diaries...the bad girls don't have time to." -- Tallulah Bankhead
In all honesty, and probably to your great disappointment, I haven't exactly been as bad as Ms. Bankhead would have liked me to be, but I have been a busy little gal. Hence the perception that the blog has been stuck at September 3. Perhaps the best and most sharable of these developments would probably be my pre-9/11/06 trip to New York City. I hadn't been back to the city since the blizzard in February which is truly, appallingly, unacceptable. It won't happen again. Happily, for the first time in over a year, this visit featured beautiful, warm weather. I walked until my feet hurt, and two weeks later I still have sores. That's bad-ass.
Whither did I walk? Damn near everywhere. The delightful $20 Chinatown bus plunked us right in the middle of Herald Square, and I immediately started marching Uptown toward 30 Rock, finding myself in the middle of the belated-Labor Day parade as I went. 30 Rock and I shared a Godiva chocoalte drink in the Promenade, and in the end I couldn't really be all that mad at the building for making me lose my eyeglasses in the ladies' room.
Then off to the obligatory Met trip. I've decided that a 30 Rock stop and a Met stop are required components of each visit. Everything else is free to vary as it may. I reunited with London pal Crissie, whose cushy job copyediting historical novels and erotica for Penguin publishing got us in for free on the corporate sponsors' discount. Sweet. So there wasn't much pressure to squeeze the admission price worth out of the visit. We ambled about leisurely until we got hungry.
We went downtown for the NYU Victory Lap from Union Square to Houston Street and off to Brooklyn, where we walked through Prospect Park in search of soul food, but settled for Italian on 4th Avenue. For our entertainment, some black guys in garish cowboy outfits periodically galloped down the avenue on horses for no discernible reason. The evening was capped off by attending a comic book signing for an author I had no familiarity with, but who was offering free beer in the loading dock. Score.
Did you know that there's a funky solar-powered Cuban lunch truck that offers brunch and a flea market near Lafyette Street in Brooklyn? Neither did I, but old college pal Theo did. I still can't tell you where exactly it is, but if you Google any of the keywords above, you'll probably find it.
I went home that night, and the next day was the first time that I've been gainfully employed and had to go to work on 9/11. I was a bit concerned how this would go off, as previous run-ins this year with anniversary-related media have triggered unpleasant and sometimes embarrassing reactions. And despite having recoiled at the announcement that CNN, et. al would be replaying the coverage from five years ago, I found myself riveted to MSNBC's replay of the Today show. Some parts were especially hard to watch, and I had to turn it off and regroup. The moments of impact and collapse in particular triggered a touch of some of the good ol' dry heaves of yore. Good times. But when I got past that and started watching again, it was fascinating to see it all play out in real time. Although I remember exactly what I did and saw that day, it seemed strange to me that I could have fit it all into the time frame. It made a little more sense watching it play out when you knew what was coming. It was also interesting to be reminded of how little anyone knew about anything. One woman on the phone at the time of the second impact swore that there must be an air traffic control problem, which sounds positively stupid now, but I remember initially thinking it must have been a crazy accident as well when I first heard. I wouldn't recommend it to everybody, but there was a bit of perspective to be had from watching it again. It's not something I need to do every year, but after spending most of the morning watching it in my office, I found that the afternoon passed much more easily than I thought it would. Who knew?
Robyn
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Filthydelphia
It's not that life hasn't been rich and rewarding lately, it just hasn't been blog-worthy. I'm tickled that I rode my bike around the National Mall, went home and ate pizza and watched cartoons, and finished a very good book about Northern Ireland. But this isn't exactly material worthy of the Algonquin Round Table. It's just a decent two weeks.
That being said, I'll let the Inky do the interestingwriting for me today...
One Last Thing Start spreadin' the news...
By Jonathan Last, Philadelphia Inquirer
Philadelphians are different. I discovered this truth, as I have many others, while listening to sports-talk radio. It was Dec. 20, 2004, and I was driving from Philadelphia to Washington. The day before, the Eagles had beaten the Dallas Cowboys, running their gaudy record to 13-1, best in the NFL. But during the game, one of their wide receivers - his name shall not pass my lips - had gone down with an injury. So for two hours in the car, I listened to fans calling in to lament that without He Who Must Not Be Named, the Eagles were finished. The championship dream was destroyed. The season was over. Doom and calumny. The general suspicion of both hosts and callers was that the Eagles would not win another game. For my part, I agreed. I didn't think they'd score another touchdown.
Then something strange happened. As I crossed the Susquehanna River and lost contact with my beloved WIP, I picked up the Washington sports station. The Redskins had just beaten a woeful San Francisco squad for their fifth victory of the season. The D.C. fans and radio hosts were thrilled. They were talking playoffs. They were talking - this is no joke - Super Bowl. These people were crazy - but, I realized, perhaps not as crazy as we were in Philly.
Philadelphians are different. We do not trumpet our difference, the way they do in New York and Boston. We do not insist that the rest of America imitate or affirm us. For whom? For what? But our cultural presence - call it the Philadelphia Diaspora - is actually vibrant and vital and growing.
Philly is a philm star now. The latest flowering of the Philly Diaspora is the intensely perfect film Invincible. The Vince Papale story used to be the stuff of local legends, but now it has been rendered into a big-budget summer flick with Mark Wahlberg as the improbable Eagles special teamer. The movie is as much about Philadelphia as it is Papale, and it's destined to be a classic. The city also had a leading role not long ago in John Turtletaub's crowd-pleasing National Treasure and is featured prominently on the small-screen darling It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. We even have our own star director in M. Night Shyamalan.
Our food is slowly colonizing the rest of America, too, as Philadelphians have begun opening bona fide cheesesteak joints in the least likely places. Tony Luke's has invaded Manhattan, as has a shop called, poetically, 99 Miles to Philly. If you ever find yourself in San Marcos, Calif., Philly Franks imports Amoroso's rolls for its cheesesteaks and Tastykakes for dessert. My world was brightened earlier this year when two Philly kids and one of their college pals opened South Street Steaks just outside Washington. They do a serious cheesesteak, and, God bless them, they're imposing Philadelphian values on the unwashed: Signs tell patrons how to order (Wiz wit', etc.) and clearly state that the owners refuse to put either Swiss cheese or mayonnaise on the sandwiches. Some would call them heroes.
Once you start looking for them, you see footprints of the Philadelphia Diaspora everywhere, from the old world (the Bavarian parliament in Munich has a giant fresco of William Penn) to the new (there's now a popular "cheesesteak" widget for the Apple operating system). Wikipedia, the giant Internet encyclopedia, even has a detailed entry for the phrase "4th and 26." Believe it.
In the end, it comes back to sports. There are Philly fan clubs all across this great country of ours, from the Eagle's Nest in Oregon to Tampadelphia in Florida. If you want to watch an Eagles or Phils game, most decent-size cities have Philly sports bars, like Famous Philly's in Port Orange, Fla., or The Shack in Santa Monica, Calif. Philadelphians abroad are never alone. In our pride and our grief, we find each other.
The Philadelphia sporting scene is beginning to take up the space in the national consciousness previously occupied by the Boston Red Sox. Where the Bosox went 86 years without a World Series victory, the Eagles, Sixers, Flyers and Phillies have now combined for 92 straight championshipless seasons. America is starting to take notice.
"Hasn't this city suffered enough?" ESPN's Bill Simmons recently asked. Prepare yourself for talk of "Philly Nation" in the coming years, because as our suffering blossoms, the Diaspora swells. It is a bittersweet arrangement.
Such is the power of the Philadelphia Diaspora that by the time Ed Rendell is elected president, I fully expect there to be a Philly version of the Emil Verban Society, the group of fancy-pants Cubs fans in Washington that counts George Will, Donald Rumsfeld and Hillary Clinton as members. (In case the governor's listening, I humbly suggest the title "The Randall Cunningham Society." For all the obvious reasons.)
Why is the Philadelphia Diaspora achieving critical mass now? Because Philadelphians are different. America is rocketing toward an ever more sterilized and franchised society, where nothing is distinctive and everything is safe. In this cultural flatland, Philadelphia stands out. We still have rough edges, mean streaks, and soft, sentimental hearts. We are the last redoubt of the real.
As the city enters its new golden age, the Philadelphia Diaspora will only grow in size and importance. It will be a strange sensation, but we'll get used to it. Today the cheesesteak and Marky Mark; tomorrow the world.
That being said, I'll let the Inky do the interestingwriting for me today...
One Last Thing Start spreadin' the news...
By Jonathan Last, Philadelphia Inquirer
Philadelphians are different. I discovered this truth, as I have many others, while listening to sports-talk radio. It was Dec. 20, 2004, and I was driving from Philadelphia to Washington. The day before, the Eagles had beaten the Dallas Cowboys, running their gaudy record to 13-1, best in the NFL. But during the game, one of their wide receivers - his name shall not pass my lips - had gone down with an injury. So for two hours in the car, I listened to fans calling in to lament that without He Who Must Not Be Named, the Eagles were finished. The championship dream was destroyed. The season was over. Doom and calumny. The general suspicion of both hosts and callers was that the Eagles would not win another game. For my part, I agreed. I didn't think they'd score another touchdown.
Then something strange happened. As I crossed the Susquehanna River and lost contact with my beloved WIP, I picked up the Washington sports station. The Redskins had just beaten a woeful San Francisco squad for their fifth victory of the season. The D.C. fans and radio hosts were thrilled. They were talking playoffs. They were talking - this is no joke - Super Bowl. These people were crazy - but, I realized, perhaps not as crazy as we were in Philly.
Philadelphians are different. We do not trumpet our difference, the way they do in New York and Boston. We do not insist that the rest of America imitate or affirm us. For whom? For what? But our cultural presence - call it the Philadelphia Diaspora - is actually vibrant and vital and growing.
Philly is a philm star now. The latest flowering of the Philly Diaspora is the intensely perfect film Invincible. The Vince Papale story used to be the stuff of local legends, but now it has been rendered into a big-budget summer flick with Mark Wahlberg as the improbable Eagles special teamer. The movie is as much about Philadelphia as it is Papale, and it's destined to be a classic. The city also had a leading role not long ago in John Turtletaub's crowd-pleasing National Treasure and is featured prominently on the small-screen darling It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. We even have our own star director in M. Night Shyamalan.
Our food is slowly colonizing the rest of America, too, as Philadelphians have begun opening bona fide cheesesteak joints in the least likely places. Tony Luke's has invaded Manhattan, as has a shop called, poetically, 99 Miles to Philly. If you ever find yourself in San Marcos, Calif., Philly Franks imports Amoroso's rolls for its cheesesteaks and Tastykakes for dessert. My world was brightened earlier this year when two Philly kids and one of their college pals opened South Street Steaks just outside Washington. They do a serious cheesesteak, and, God bless them, they're imposing Philadelphian values on the unwashed: Signs tell patrons how to order (Wiz wit', etc.) and clearly state that the owners refuse to put either Swiss cheese or mayonnaise on the sandwiches. Some would call them heroes.
Once you start looking for them, you see footprints of the Philadelphia Diaspora everywhere, from the old world (the Bavarian parliament in Munich has a giant fresco of William Penn) to the new (there's now a popular "cheesesteak" widget for the Apple operating system). Wikipedia, the giant Internet encyclopedia, even has a detailed entry for the phrase "4th and 26." Believe it.
In the end, it comes back to sports. There are Philly fan clubs all across this great country of ours, from the Eagle's Nest in Oregon to Tampadelphia in Florida. If you want to watch an Eagles or Phils game, most decent-size cities have Philly sports bars, like Famous Philly's in Port Orange, Fla., or The Shack in Santa Monica, Calif. Philadelphians abroad are never alone. In our pride and our grief, we find each other.
The Philadelphia sporting scene is beginning to take up the space in the national consciousness previously occupied by the Boston Red Sox. Where the Bosox went 86 years without a World Series victory, the Eagles, Sixers, Flyers and Phillies have now combined for 92 straight championshipless seasons. America is starting to take notice.
"Hasn't this city suffered enough?" ESPN's Bill Simmons recently asked. Prepare yourself for talk of "Philly Nation" in the coming years, because as our suffering blossoms, the Diaspora swells. It is a bittersweet arrangement.
Such is the power of the Philadelphia Diaspora that by the time Ed Rendell is elected president, I fully expect there to be a Philly version of the Emil Verban Society, the group of fancy-pants Cubs fans in Washington that counts George Will, Donald Rumsfeld and Hillary Clinton as members. (In case the governor's listening, I humbly suggest the title "The Randall Cunningham Society." For all the obvious reasons.)
Why is the Philadelphia Diaspora achieving critical mass now? Because Philadelphians are different. America is rocketing toward an ever more sterilized and franchised society, where nothing is distinctive and everything is safe. In this cultural flatland, Philadelphia stands out. We still have rough edges, mean streaks, and soft, sentimental hearts. We are the last redoubt of the real.
As the city enters its new golden age, the Philadelphia Diaspora will only grow in size and importance. It will be a strange sensation, but we'll get used to it. Today the cheesesteak and Marky Mark; tomorrow the world.
Saturday, August 5, 2006
A Girl's Gotta Doogh What a Girl's Gotta Doogh
.C. in August is a strange place indeed. A good portion of the locals leave town once Congress goes into recess. I know of at least one individual who got married months ago, but could only find time to take her honeymoon once there were no Representatives to pester about foreign ops supplementals. Those that are left are often occupied with visiting relatives who want to take in the nation's capital before school starts. All in all, it's kind of a drag on the social scene for the small minority of those who like to take their summer vacations in June and July.
I was all prepped tonight to attend the nicely random birthday party of a casual acquaintence's friend's girlfriend (again, it's August in D.C., you take what you can get). But, just as attending completely random house parties and mixers in strange houses and nightclubs are a staple of D.C. social life, so too are flaky, shaky noncommittal evening plans that fall through at the last minute. Too late to make other arrangements, it became clear that I was not going to a stranger's birthday party in Georgetown after all.
But it wasn't too late to go out myself. Spending a Saturday evening confined to the apartment seemed like a wholly depressing idea, so I decided to take myself out for dinner. I consulted my taste buds, and found they were crying out for, of all things, Afghan food.
But alas, unlike NYC, where there were three suitable establishments within walking distance at all times, Afghan cuisine is a bit hard to come by in downtown Washington. The only place I'd ever been to had dismal service and a bad attitude, but at this point my belly would accept nothing else. So I consulted my handy, dusty guidebooks and found that the next best option was in a strange land called Falls Church, Virginia. It wasn't terribly late, and I so wanted some delicious doogh and kabobs, and it was Metro accessible, so off I went to the leafy suburbs of Northern Virginia.
A lengthy Metro ride, a bus trip, and a lovely walk through some shopping centers later, I determined that a post-kebab night in downtown Falls Church wasn't gonna happen. Not exactly jumpin'. The restaurant itself was almost cleverly hidden along the main road behind an unremarkable exterior. But the trip was worth it. Such delicious saffron rice, such delectable scallion dumplings, and doogh, glorious, doogh. I was a happy girl. And I got to immerse myself in a scene wholly different than the lovable yuppie wonks in whose company I usually find myself. This restaurant was frequented by middle-aged Jews holding high-decibel conversations on foriegn policy ("Sure they're destroying Lebanon, but they're all asking for it"), nutrition ("The vegetarian combo is excellent, but I'm not allowed to have all that rice"), parenthood ("Yes, our son is thirty and he's moved back in with us, but he's quite the entrepreneur. He works all day on this website of his about overheard conversations on the Metro, and I'm sure he'll find an investor.") and travel ("My 82-year-old mother and I are taking a cruise to Alaska. It's really the only way to see the place. I don't do well with snow or weather."). It's nice to step outside your comfort zone.
While I don't intend on making a habit of solitary dining experiences, it was nice to be able to have the freedom to go on a mini-odyssey because I was cravin' some basmati. That said, I do wish Congress comes back soon, and brings the social scene back with them.
Robyn
I was all prepped tonight to attend the nicely random birthday party of a casual acquaintence's friend's girlfriend (again, it's August in D.C., you take what you can get). But, just as attending completely random house parties and mixers in strange houses and nightclubs are a staple of D.C. social life, so too are flaky, shaky noncommittal evening plans that fall through at the last minute. Too late to make other arrangements, it became clear that I was not going to a stranger's birthday party in Georgetown after all.
But it wasn't too late to go out myself. Spending a Saturday evening confined to the apartment seemed like a wholly depressing idea, so I decided to take myself out for dinner. I consulted my taste buds, and found they were crying out for, of all things, Afghan food.
But alas, unlike NYC, where there were three suitable establishments within walking distance at all times, Afghan cuisine is a bit hard to come by in downtown Washington. The only place I'd ever been to had dismal service and a bad attitude, but at this point my belly would accept nothing else. So I consulted my handy, dusty guidebooks and found that the next best option was in a strange land called Falls Church, Virginia. It wasn't terribly late, and I so wanted some delicious doogh and kabobs, and it was Metro accessible, so off I went to the leafy suburbs of Northern Virginia.
A lengthy Metro ride, a bus trip, and a lovely walk through some shopping centers later, I determined that a post-kebab night in downtown Falls Church wasn't gonna happen. Not exactly jumpin'. The restaurant itself was almost cleverly hidden along the main road behind an unremarkable exterior. But the trip was worth it. Such delicious saffron rice, such delectable scallion dumplings, and doogh, glorious, doogh. I was a happy girl. And I got to immerse myself in a scene wholly different than the lovable yuppie wonks in whose company I usually find myself. This restaurant was frequented by middle-aged Jews holding high-decibel conversations on foriegn policy ("Sure they're destroying Lebanon, but they're all asking for it"), nutrition ("The vegetarian combo is excellent, but I'm not allowed to have all that rice"), parenthood ("Yes, our son is thirty and he's moved back in with us, but he's quite the entrepreneur. He works all day on this website of his about overheard conversations on the Metro, and I'm sure he'll find an investor.") and travel ("My 82-year-old mother and I are taking a cruise to Alaska. It's really the only way to see the place. I don't do well with snow or weather."). It's nice to step outside your comfort zone.
While I don't intend on making a habit of solitary dining experiences, it was nice to be able to have the freedom to go on a mini-odyssey because I was cravin' some basmati. That said, I do wish Congress comes back soon, and brings the social scene back with them.
Robyn
Monday, July 10, 2006
Somebody Help Me
This is really sad...
I've just discovered the World Series of Pop Culture trivia show on VH1 and after watching it for 24 minutes, I know I'm addicted. I can feel it in my little capillaries. It just may be the best television program ever. Maybe I like it 'cause I rock so hard at the pop culture trivia. Maybe I need counseling...
Then I saw an ad for the second season of Flavor of Love and I literally foamed at the mouth.
Maybe this is what happens when you're forced to spend eight hours a day watching CNN and writing about pandemics and natural disasters and infant mortality rates.
They're back from commercial now...gotta go. I may not be back. Tell my family I love them.
Robyn
I've just discovered the World Series of Pop Culture trivia show on VH1 and after watching it for 24 minutes, I know I'm addicted. I can feel it in my little capillaries. It just may be the best television program ever. Maybe I like it 'cause I rock so hard at the pop culture trivia. Maybe I need counseling...
Then I saw an ad for the second season of Flavor of Love and I literally foamed at the mouth.
Maybe this is what happens when you're forced to spend eight hours a day watching CNN and writing about pandemics and natural disasters and infant mortality rates.
They're back from commercial now...gotta go. I may not be back. Tell my family I love them.
Robyn
Thursday, July 6, 2006
Gettin' Sweaty with Strangers
Dear God was it hot here on the 4th of July.
Don't get me wrong. I understand that DC tends to be less than comfortable in the summer. It's a swamp. I can deal. But this past Tuesday bordered on inhuman. The heat index was well over 100, and it was muggy muggy muggy. It was not the ideal day to go watch a parade with people I barely knew, but by golly, that's what I did.
In three years in DC I had rarely done the 4th of July properly. One year we went down to the Mall to see the fireworks, and the preceding two years I had seen them from my semi-obstructed view on my roof. But I had usually spent the day hours hiding from tourists. But a new friend that I made while kayaking last month insisted on seeing the parade, and I was keen at the time. I don't think I need to do it again.
Maybe since it was my first big-city holiday parade I had higher than ususal expectations (not counting Greenwich Village's Halloween parade, which is less of an organized public event and more of an eventful public orgy -- you should really check it out), but I was underwhelmed by the DC Independence Day parade. It seemed to be heavy on marching bands from Wisconsin and Asian-American community groups, though the all-girl marching band from Taipei was incredibly intimidating, and had fabulous boots. I don't know what it is with the Taiwanese and DC civic events (see the previous entry on dragon boat races), but they like to come here to kick ass and drink bubble tea -- and they're all out of bubble tea.
They did have a lengthy section dedicated to Vietnam vets, complete with helicopters on trucks going through the streets. It was nice to see everybody cheering for the hundreds of vets that turned out to march, so that was worth enduring the heat.
Despite the inclement conditions, I was in unusually gregarious spirits, and new friends were made. One particular companion of Kayak Friend seemed to have the scoop on all kinds of get-to-know-your-neighbors events, and invited us all to a friend of a friend of a friend's house on Capitol Hill. It's not uncommon for the young singles scene in DC to include going to a complete stranger's house for some kind of potluck, so off we all went. I'm not sure I ever did meet the people who actually lived in the house, but that also is par for the course. I did run into Old High School Friend Alex Angert, whom I last met at a similarly random house party around Halloween. DC is too damn small a town.
Having partaken of somebody's hospitality long enough, it was time for fireworks. By this time we were a merry, sweaty band of people who had known each other an average of 10 hours in total, and were very chummy. We found a semi-undiscovered vantage point on the steps of the Library of Congress to watch the festivities, and all found seats on the Metro afterwards. Good times.
I have no idea how many of those people I will ever have contact with again, but it was a fun, spontaneous holiday. It sure beats watching it on PBS. And since the DC social scene has proven to be so damn insular, chances are I'll be seeing some of them at some other stranger's house sometime on Labor Day.
Robyn
Don't get me wrong. I understand that DC tends to be less than comfortable in the summer. It's a swamp. I can deal. But this past Tuesday bordered on inhuman. The heat index was well over 100, and it was muggy muggy muggy. It was not the ideal day to go watch a parade with people I barely knew, but by golly, that's what I did.
In three years in DC I had rarely done the 4th of July properly. One year we went down to the Mall to see the fireworks, and the preceding two years I had seen them from my semi-obstructed view on my roof. But I had usually spent the day hours hiding from tourists. But a new friend that I made while kayaking last month insisted on seeing the parade, and I was keen at the time. I don't think I need to do it again.
Maybe since it was my first big-city holiday parade I had higher than ususal expectations (not counting Greenwich Village's Halloween parade, which is less of an organized public event and more of an eventful public orgy -- you should really check it out), but I was underwhelmed by the DC Independence Day parade. It seemed to be heavy on marching bands from Wisconsin and Asian-American community groups, though the all-girl marching band from Taipei was incredibly intimidating, and had fabulous boots. I don't know what it is with the Taiwanese and DC civic events (see the previous entry on dragon boat races), but they like to come here to kick ass and drink bubble tea -- and they're all out of bubble tea.
They did have a lengthy section dedicated to Vietnam vets, complete with helicopters on trucks going through the streets. It was nice to see everybody cheering for the hundreds of vets that turned out to march, so that was worth enduring the heat.
Despite the inclement conditions, I was in unusually gregarious spirits, and new friends were made. One particular companion of Kayak Friend seemed to have the scoop on all kinds of get-to-know-your-neighbors events, and invited us all to a friend of a friend of a friend's house on Capitol Hill. It's not uncommon for the young singles scene in DC to include going to a complete stranger's house for some kind of potluck, so off we all went. I'm not sure I ever did meet the people who actually lived in the house, but that also is par for the course. I did run into Old High School Friend Alex Angert, whom I last met at a similarly random house party around Halloween. DC is too damn small a town.
Having partaken of somebody's hospitality long enough, it was time for fireworks. By this time we were a merry, sweaty band of people who had known each other an average of 10 hours in total, and were very chummy. We found a semi-undiscovered vantage point on the steps of the Library of Congress to watch the festivities, and all found seats on the Metro afterwards. Good times.
I have no idea how many of those people I will ever have contact with again, but it was a fun, spontaneous holiday. It sure beats watching it on PBS. And since the DC social scene has proven to be so damn insular, chances are I'll be seeing some of them at some other stranger's house sometime on Labor Day.
Robyn
Saturday, July 1, 2006
Back from Aruba
This week I returned from Aruba, and re-entry has been a bit rough. It was a typically beautiful week there, wherein my days were mainly spent chasing pelicans in the ocean, eating seafood, reading Larry McMurtry novels, watching the World Cup, and trucking out my absymal Spanish and Papiamento to the amusement/irritance of the local populace. Working in my windowless nook in waterlogged DC is none too appealing this week.
As I've blogged about Aruba before, I won't waste your time with the same old tish and piffle. Noteworthy activities this year included engaging in some quality sibling bonding time getting wasted with Bobby in the clubs and pubs of Oranjestad, winning $35 at blackjack (whilst wasted, thankyouverymuch), and climbing the highest point in Aruba -- a 188m-high hill named Mt. Jamanota (but we call it Mt. Bobs, because we're strange).
This is also the first time I've been back since the Natalee Holloway debacle. Note of caution: There be some opinionated pontificating ahead, mateys. Click away now if ye be afeared. The effect on the island is very clear -- much of the downtown area is noticably more empty than it's been in previous visits. This has the Family Shepherd hopping mad. While none of us have any doubt that something terrible happened to Ms. Natalee and those responsible should be brought to justice, Aruba remains a very safe, stable and friendly place. It's not the Third-World hellhole that some of this good nation's media outlets like to portray it as. The crime rate there is very low, especially compared to other Caribbean countries. Truthfully, I feel safer there than in DC. It just so happened that one year, something bad happened to a pretty American girl, and now the whole economy of the country is suffering badly. I don't believe that the Aruban government is trying to protect anybody, because whatever power any suspect's parents have, American tourists and their dollars have way more. There's just no evidence at this point to charge anybody. I truly hope they find out what happened, but in the meantime, the entire country shouldn't be held accountable for the nefarious deeds of a few. End of sermon.
Robyn
As I've blogged about Aruba before, I won't waste your time with the same old tish and piffle. Noteworthy activities this year included engaging in some quality sibling bonding time getting wasted with Bobby in the clubs and pubs of Oranjestad, winning $35 at blackjack (whilst wasted, thankyouverymuch), and climbing the highest point in Aruba -- a 188m-high hill named Mt. Jamanota (but we call it Mt. Bobs, because we're strange).
This is also the first time I've been back since the Natalee Holloway debacle. Note of caution: There be some opinionated pontificating ahead, mateys. Click away now if ye be afeared. The effect on the island is very clear -- much of the downtown area is noticably more empty than it's been in previous visits. This has the Family Shepherd hopping mad. While none of us have any doubt that something terrible happened to Ms. Natalee and those responsible should be brought to justice, Aruba remains a very safe, stable and friendly place. It's not the Third-World hellhole that some of this good nation's media outlets like to portray it as. The crime rate there is very low, especially compared to other Caribbean countries. Truthfully, I feel safer there than in DC. It just so happened that one year, something bad happened to a pretty American girl, and now the whole economy of the country is suffering badly. I don't believe that the Aruban government is trying to protect anybody, because whatever power any suspect's parents have, American tourists and their dollars have way more. There's just no evidence at this point to charge anybody. I truly hope they find out what happened, but in the meantime, the entire country shouldn't be held accountable for the nefarious deeds of a few. End of sermon.
Robyn
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Overheard at the Airport
Good ol' boy and kin observing a pair of South Asians at ATL: What are those, Buddhists? I thought they denounce all worldly possessions. What, do they fly for free? Buddhists fly for free now? Shoot. [pause] Know what I saw in St. Louis? An Amish restaurant. Now how can that be?
Robyn
Robyn
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