White Chicks

I am forced by Tom for the third time in as many days to watch Damon and Marlon Wayans’ classic, “White Chicks.” The part where lactose intolerant Marlon (or Damon, I don’t really know who is who) gets explosive diarrhea from eating too much quiche and doesn’t know that quiche is made from cheese: SIDE SPLITTING. The part where Damon and Marlon dressed as the Wilson sisters get into a dance off and proceed to use their fresh urban street skillz to summarily destroy their utterly pathetic Caucasian competition: GENIUS. Unfortunately my 15 yr cousin doesn’t get the full benefit of Wayan hilarity. For example, when the shemales go shopping and their friend says to the personal shopping assistant, “I need something for my friend, something that says, ‘I’m not a slut, but I’m not a virgin either’, the Chinese subtitles simply say ‘I’m sorry to trouble you miss, but I need something for my friend’. UGH! Unacceptable that these pilferers of American intellectual property can’t take the time to do a proper translation. Sadly, I find myself laughing out loud with sincerity when my cousin laughs, which is pretty often.
One GREAT thing that came from Tom watching this movie is that he has acquired a taste for Arturo Sandoval. In the beginning of this movie the brothers (dressed as Cuban shopkeepers) sing “Guantanamera” to distract their would-be attackers. I told Tom I had that song and he proceeded to listen to it over and over, eventually requesting that I put it on his mp3 player. I also gave him “Hollaback Girl”. He commented, “The shit is bananas? Does that girl have a mental handicap? Why would a banana be shit?”

Crikey. Cabin fever is setting in. It’s about time to leave Henan.

My Family

When my Mom and Dad emigrated in 1988 it was my aunt (my mom’s sister) and my aunt’s then fiancé that took care of me for the four months before my dad came to bring me to the U.S.. I was five and Aunt was only 24 or so. Undoubtedly, that is the reason for the close bond that exists between Aunt and I. People would say that I had my father’s eyes and my mom’s face, but I would profess to them, often to my parents’ annoyance, that I had Aunt’s everything.

Me , Aunt , and Uncle eating late night grub (bbq squid and crawfish) . An example of the closeness between Aunt and I: I get out of the Zhengzhou train station at 7:30 am to my Aunt and Uncle waiting for me in the parking lot. Uncle wants to treat me to a nice breakfast, but Aunt refuses and says, “Who do you think Panpan is? Some sort of celebrity? No, we’re going to eat what we normally would eat!” Twenty cent bowls of porridge and hard-boiled eggs it is! Damn it’s good to be with family.

As an 11, 13 and 15 year old, my summers would be spent entirely living with Aunt, Uncle-in-Law and cousin Mei Zijie (English name: Tom). When Tom was three he had to use the potty, and neither of his parents were home so I had to wipe his butt. Even today, with Tom at 15 years of age I still hold that over his head the way a parent would say, “Do you know how many of your diapers I had to change when you were a baby!”

On my Dad’s side I have two sets of families in Henan. Qian Wang, my 21 yr old cousin just finished her 3rd year of college. She gave herself the English name “Angel”. I guess it could have been worse. It could have been “Candy”. My other cousin, Di Wang, recently finished his junior year of high school. He plays basketball religiously, and recently dyed his hair brownish. During dinner yesterday we were chiding him over the girly stickers he had on his mp3 player. Finally it came out that he has a girlfriend. I tell ya…Chinese kids these days.

Dad's side. Angel front and center.
All of my cousins address me as, ge (guh) or “older brother” while I address them by their names. Growing up an only child, this is one of the idiosyncrasies of Chinese culture that I love the most.

Roots

Henan (huh naan) with its 100 million people, is the most populous province in a country stacked with populous provinces. Henan is home to Kaifeng and Luoyang (ancient capitals of China) as well as the Shaolin Temple. Due to black market blood and plasma collections in the countryside during the 90s*, Henan is also home to one of the largest population of HIV/AIDS infected individuals in the country. Infection rates in some villages are over 70%.

The Henanese are the butt of many jokes in China. I’ve told plenty of people I am from Henan to which they generally respond, “Really?! But you don’t seem like you’re Henanese!” It’s akin to the judgments a person from the East or West coast might make about a person upon knowing they are from Mississippi. There was even a book by a Henan author written entitled, “How Did Henanese Wrong You?” It goes without saying, of course, that I'll represent Henan, and so will my children's children's children.

For a week I am in Henan visiting family, which generally means doing a lot of nothing. Ojala! that my aunt has internet at home. This is how I have so much freaking time to write these blog entries.

*These “bloodheads” as they are known, would collect blood from farmers who would use this as a means to supplement their measly earnings. The collectivized blood is spun in a centrifuge in order to separate blood’s many parts. Unfortunately the separated plasma is reinjected into the farmers so that they can donate more often. One person thus literally infects an entire village. Repeat this story a hundred times and you have the story of the AIDS epidemic in Henan. See http://www.usembassy-china.org.cn/sandt/henan-jiangnan-ribao.html

How To Be A Baller

While the majority of my summer travels was, is, and will be on a shoestring budget, being in Shanghai with my homies made me want to be live life fast and loose. Just call me P. Diddy. If you're ever in Shanghai, here's a few tips as to how to be a baller AND a shot-caller.

1. Go to a club/meat market called Windows where the expats hang out seven days a week. Request “Golddigger” and crip walk. Have a Chinese female thug battle you on the dance floor. Lose. Respectfully give mad props all around.

2. Lunch at T8 in Xintiandi, the posh shopping district in Shanghai where the head chef is famous enough where your friends know the gossip regarding his compensation package.

Chris, Josh, Josh's cousin, Vince

To really seem like you are a baller, I'd recommend not taking pictures of your food.
3. Watch the US fail to take destiny into their own hands by losing to Ghana. Be upset for two and a half minutes then realize you were just on the bandwagon anyway. Buy a round, pour a one for the homies restin in peace, and continue being a baller for the rest of the night.

4. Refuse to go to all you can eat Brazilian BBQ because too much meat makes you a gluttonous person, but DO agree to dine at $20 all you can eat sashimi/tepanyaki and all you can drink beer and sake. For sashimi and sake, regardless of quantity, is refined dining and balleresque. Tip your chef generously. Wink at the waitresses if you're blessed with that talent. I am not.

5. Buy a Longines timepiece (from Xiang Yang Market. Duh)

6. Forgo Friday night at the disco for a late night 90 minute full body massage at Da Ban for $15. No scoffing guys and gals, I'm talking about the real deal. No happy endings here. Josh is really excited about his massage.

Being A Baller in Shanghai, #1342 on life's to-do list: Check! Oh Shanghai, you truly are the pearl of the Orient.

I've given you Shanghai from a baller's perspective. For an interesting report on another side of Shanghai, check out the recent NY Times front page article on the city's aging population:http://www.nytimes.com/2006/06/30/world/asia/30aging.html

Shanghai'd!

There are three Georgetown and one Chinese friend I went to see in Shanghai: Vince Cheng ('04), Chris Murphy ('07), Fu Maojie ('05, and Josh Wei ('05). Vince, Chris and I sang together in Superfood (www.freewebs.com/superfood Holla!). I wish I had one pinky's worth of the musical talent as either or those guys. Josh and I met this year through a mutual friend. We are alike in many ways, except height. He calls me big brother. Fu Maojie, whose English name is Sam, was my roommate and best friend while studying in Beijing. During finals week Sam and I, in one 36-hour period watched the entire season three of 24. Throughout the semester Sam taught me some Hainan dialect, while I taught Sam how to drink hard alcohol. Sam was in Shanghai on business for the weekend, which was why I visited Shanghai when I did. Oddly, there was a certain normalcy in having a reunion among friends in Shanghai. Why wouldn't I see people that I sang and hung out with in college in China? You gotta love living in the 21st century.

I've been to Shanghai a few times before and have seen many of the sights: catholic cathedrals, Confucius gardens, the French Quarter, and the Bund. I've indulged myself by shopping for myself and others in the multi-football field sized market filled with fake EVERYTHING. From Hermes wallets to TaylorMade 3 woods, you can find it at Xiang Yang Market. But did I venture out to these again? Besides to get my cousins a few presents at the market, Hell No. Shanghai's heat, humidity and pollution makes one LONG for a D.C. summer day. Stepping outside of your own freewill between the hours of 10am-4pm makes you a masochist by default. Some of the original gangstas (locals), O.G.s we shall call them, amble casually around on the streets in their underwear and a wife-beater, fan in hand. Oh to be so gangsta!

During the days I spent most of my time with Chris in his totally laid-back office. An air-conditioned and wireless Internet oasis. The name of his company is BUD AR. Actually it's BUDZAR, but the sign people got the Z backwards so for the first day I was there they were Z-less. Despite my lazy and unadventerous attitude during the days, we tried to make up for it with our evenings.

1. Shanghai restaurant workers playing badminton while on break. Sure beats smokin a butt. Well, they did that too.


2. Ted Novak (another Georgetowntown grad I randomly bumped into while having lunch in Shanghai), Me, Josh, Chris and Vince.

Beijing Flying Man

My father plays table tennis, swims regularly, and does push-ups. I think of him as a fit man. He is fifty-two years old. His new hobby, which he's told me about many times but I've only seen firsthand since coming to China, is paragliding. That's the one where you run off the side of a mountain and hope to catch thermals, not the one where you are sitting down while being dragged by a boat. It's relatively easy to imagine someone doing this activity, but one's father?

I get to my father's apartment from the airport around 6:30am, and we rest for much of the morning. By 1pm we are on Great Wall Expressway heading towards the training grounds (a small mountain 75km outside of Beijing) where Dad has been practicing and flying his ‘chute for the past few months. Their club is called Beijing Flying Man (www.flying-man.com), and the instructors include a national champion paraglider. Contrary to popular opinion about alternative sports in developing countries (something the populous regularly gives an opinion on, I'm sure...), they can in fact, be pretty legit. By serendipity my arrival coincides with plans the club had to go to Inner Mongolia* for a weekend paragliding trip. I chat with an instructor for a few minutes, trying to get some gossip about my father. “Your father is a really diligent student, really hard working,” one says. My skepticism of this whole thing is tempered a bit by these words. After a quick lunch of steamed buns and preserved vegetables, our caravan of enthusiasts departs. I notice everyone has a Beijing Flying Man decal on their bumpers. My Dad has not put his on.

I awaken from my half comatose state to the vast expanse of grassland that was once characteristic of much of Inner Mongolia. These grasslands are quickly disappearing due to desertification caused by overgrazing, generally poor agricultural techniques and changes in climate patterns. The sun has just set and there is no light pollution for miles. I can 1) breathe pollution-free air and 2) see the amorphous swath of the Milky Way; both rare and much appreciated occurrences in China (or the US for that matter). Our lodging for the weekend are Mongolian style circular huts. They are about 25 ft in diameter with low ceilings with about 1/5 of the space partitioned into the bathroom. A western style toilet, sink and running water are all included. From the outside it looks rather traditional, but on the inside all the amenities (besides shower) one would want. I go straight to bed after dinner because sunrise is at 4:45am.**

Since we're at about 2000meters, the weather is much cooler than the stifling heat of Beijing. When I get up to take pictures around 5am it's actually cold outside. Dad gets up around 6 and says in a rather convincingly professional tone, “The winds are the perfect for doing some ground handling.” Ground handling, as I would see, is essentially trying to keep your parachute up while you are standing on the ground. Not unlike keeping up a big kite. For beginners, ground handling is essential. Dad says he has logged about 30 hours of ground handling time compared with less than half an hour of time in the air.

I'm surprised at how impressed I am by his beautiful red, white and blue “Arccus 4” parachute. When the wind fills the 'chute and it lifts 15 feet into the air straight above his head, all my skepticism about my Dad's new hobby is dispelled. This is cool as hell. Unfortunately, the winds would pick up after our morning session, and it would be too dangerous to try and fly for much of that first day. We spent much of it riding the horses that were kept behind the compound. By the afternoon, the winds would die down and we would hike up a small mountain nearby to go paragliding. What a thrill to see Dad get airborne! The following day I got to go in a powered hangglider. One word: Tiiiight. What an unexpected and exhilarating way to start of my summer tour...

*Inner Mongolia is a province in China that borders Mongolia.
**All of China is set to Beijing time so you get whacked out times for sunrise and sunrise.

1. Sunrise and our tents
2. Ground handling
3. Shearing a sheep that would almost immediately later be slaughtered. Really gruesome process...I'll spare the details

Home

Home
The A/C is only coming out of the defroster, and we are slowly roasting in our truck. Rolling down the windows is like putting an industrial sized hairdryer to your face and hands as the heat around Phoenix is relentless. Thankfully, this lasts only 45 minutes until the a/c begins to work properly. 330 miles to L.A.

The driving is quieter than in previous days. I suspect we are both recounting in our minds the shared but I’m sure very different experiences we shared along what would finally be a 3700 mile journey. It still hasn’t fully hit me that I am moving back home. The hectic nature of a roadtrip such as ours allows little time for introspection and reflection, but this silent drive, which literally into the sunset, allows for just that. I think of the friends I’m both leaving and coming home to, the familiarity of D.C. quadrants and metro stops replaced by a sprawling freeway system I definitely wouldn’t mind holding off on using for a while. I think of BBQs at 1250 Columbia Rd with Eddie, Davin and friends, and I think of dancing like Felice’s grandfather…whenever and wherever.

Suddenly, I realize that I no longer need our atlas. I simply know which exit I’m going to take next. My mom lives on the first floor of a stucco apartment building that is on the corner of Benito and Valley, and as I pass by I yell out my halfway rolled down window, “Ma! Wo hui lai le! (Mom, I’m back!).” I park the Penske, and Brian and I go inside to devour fried dumplings Mom has just prepared. As usual Mom put a little too much sesame oil in the dipping sauce, but I don’t mind so much this time. I just smile and eat.

Dinner with Giants

Our dinner guest at Grandpa’s clubhouse is Jack Parker, Jack Welch’s predecessor at General Electric. Although the scale of business success doesn’t really get much better than heading up a Fortune 10 company, it wasn’t Mr. Parkers business accomplishments that we wanted to hear about. The conversation turned to hunting, as it seemed to do pretty naturally with Grandpa, who almost exclusively hunts fowl. Jack, however, is a big game hunter. You name it, he’s bagged it. The Big 5, as he called it: rhinocerous, water buffalo, lion, elephant and leopard. Pretty much standard trophies, from the way Jack told it. (Sheesh!) I know what some of you may be thinking; I love bloodsports! Well, to be honest, I’m not big on hunting and couldn’t really imagine killing anything either. However, when a guy tells you that in 1958 he was accompanied by one Eskimo and a team of six dogs out on the frozen water above the Arctic circle in Alaska to hunt polar bear, you can only think, “This man is ONE- BADASS-MUTHAFUCKA”. I mean, he probably didn’t even have an iPod to listen to when he had to sit inside that tent for four straight days to weather that blizzard he was in.

We get home from dinner around 9. By the same time the following day, Brian and I will be back home in Alhambra, California.

Down The Canyon and Flagstaff

It’s 106 degrees in the shade. OK, so it’s not quite 106 when we hiked, but later in the day it would be. Equipped with fruit, water and “pop” from Grandpa’s fridge we descend 1,300 ft from the canyon rim down the South Kaibab Trail. It’s a short 1.4 miles, but with so much elevation change, the climb back up gets your heart going. The views are spectacular and well worth it. I’ll yield to the pictures and save you from more reading.

We’re back in Flagstaff by the mid afternoon well before the 6:30 dinnertime Grandpa set for us, and so we decide to explore this city a little. San Francisco St. is the hip and trendy area. I mean, it does have a Coldstone Creamery. Two nice surprises: The first was stumbling upon a photography exhibition featuring Sue Bennett and Dave Edwards. (I guess First Friday gallery walks aren’t just in Dupont!) Edwards shot one of the “Top 100 Photographs” as determined by The National Geographic Society (http://www.daveedwards.com/editorial.html) Edwards’ day job is being a river guide on the Colorado, and he makes his home in Flagstaff. The exhibition was in his studio/gallery. I buy three photos of Mongolians which I intend to frame. The second surprise is a fundraising drive called Empty Bowls put on by local high school kids for a nearby food shelter. Their source of revenue was selling homemade ceramics (bowls, naturally). The highlight, however, was a performance by several girls and someone I assumed to be their hippie teacher, that upon first glance seemed to be someone’s acid trip being enacted out. Brian and I were intrigued, perplexed, and a little concerned for the sanity of these children. However, we couldn’t look away and were in fact really enjoying the show. After a minute it dawns on us that this was, in fact, a choreographed, silent rendition of the story of Peter Pan set to Jack Johnson’s “Better Together”. Totally original and delightful! But good gracious the hallucinogens these youngsters must be doing these days…

Utah

Utah
The Loneliest Road
Previously when I thought of Utah the first images that came to mind were the Church of Latter Day Saints, a big salt lake, and Karl Malone. Now, Utah will be associated with landscape that is desolate and barren so as to evoke images of Dune or some other Sci-Fi novel. Yet, there is undeniable serenity in the desert. I appreciate the beauty, of course, so long as my A/C is working properly. Thousand foot tall mesas span the horizon. The erosion from water runoff makes for interesting and symmetric ridges on the mesas’ sides. Much of drive on I-70 could be described as (beautiful) wasteland, but it does not compare to the 43 miles on US-128 one needs to take to get from I-70 into Moab. There are no power lines or exits. Billboards? Probably wouldn’t be capturing the broadest of markets. For the first twenty miles we saw absolutely no other cars. Naturally, we took the opportunity to take some vanity shots in the middle of the road. The second 20 miles was along found us along the Colorado River and in between high canyon walls.

Disappointment
We try to make it to Arches by “magic hour”, the time around dusk and dawn where the lighting makes for dramatic photographs. The sun sets before we can get into the campsite, and we do not make it. What’s worse, the campsite is full, and we must turn around and drive the 18 winding miles out of the park to find either a campground along the highway, or possibly find logding in Moab which thankfully is only 3 miles outside the park’s entrance. It’s already 10pm and we’re hungry, so first thing’s first. We choose to eat at none other than the very definition of Fare Americana: Denny’s. The nametag on our waitress reads “Tammra”. When the plate of pathetically small portioned chicken fingers and lukewarm unbrowned potato slivers disguised as hash browns arrive, they are not accompanied by the forks, knives, and plates that are “traditionally” given to customers alongside the “food” served in a “restaurant”. When we ask Tammra if we may have all of the above, Tammra responds not apologetically but with a rather surprised, “Oh, yeah…sure.” Oh Tammra…how I miss you. Unsatisfied and delirious we decide to make camp at Motel 6.

We Make Magic Hour
After 5 hours of sleep we park in Devil’s Garden campgrounds, which is the trailhead for the park’s most scenic hike. It’s 5:50 am and the sun is just rising. The good news is we make Magic Hour. The bad news is that we have a 7.2 mile hike ahead of us (if we want to see all arches along this particular trail, which we do), and the only food we have is half a box of Honey Bunches of Oats I brought from D.C. In our haste we did not think of such trifles as “necessities”. Clearly, there is no other decision to be made other than to do the full hike, Honey Bunches of Oats in hand.

It’s about eleven o’clock when we make it out of the trail. The parking lot that had one other car in it when we arrived now has over 80, including school buses and campers, with more still coming in. The sun is ablaze now, and I do not envy the people just starting their hikes. After a brief stop in the visitor’s center at the park entrance where I buy a refrigerator magnet for Mom and make a sad attempt to flirt with a couple of women from Taiwan, we are on the road again. Grandpa Paul and Grandma Mary, and Grand Canyon National Park are waiting for us in Arizona.

Grandpa Paul

My father met Paul and Mary Schilling in 1979 while he was a freshmen at Henan University. Grandma Mary and Grandpa Paul were among the first foreign tourists to visit my home province of Henan, and definitely one of the first to visit the University. Not wishing to lose the opportunity to talk with flesh and blood Yankees, my Dad approached Paul and Mary to practice his English. That initial relationship developed into a pen-pal friendship lasting nearly a decade. And when my family came to Kansas in the late 80s, Paul and Mary would always make it a point to go out of their way to visit us along their twice-yearly St. Paul, MN (their summer home)- Scottsdale, AZ (their winter home) drive. For my first Christmas in the states, Grandpa Paul was my Santa Clause. I was glad to finally be able to start returning the gestures, even if I’m still falling four or five visits, numerous presents, and incalculable effort short.

When I was younger it wasn’t Grandpa’s many accomplishments in business (e.g. CEO of Plastics, Inc.), various personal relationships (e.g. friendships with every Republican President since Ford), or even his military honors (e.g. Purple Heart in WWII) that I appreciated. Those things are not lost on me now that I’m older. However, my favorite anecdote about Grandpa and still the one I’m most impressed with is that Grandpa invented the egg carton. To confirm this, because children tend to exaggerate memories their minds, I ask at the dinner table in front of Brian, “Grandpa, did you invent the egg carton?” “You mean the one you use today? Oh yeah sure. I got two bucks for it, too!” …The one we use today? As opposed to what?! Lots of measurements of diameters and circumferences clearly took place and Grandpa tells another story about how the carton came to be, and while I will butcher the joke if I attempt to recall it, the punchline that came out of Grandpa’s mouth in a sly whisper: “What’s the moral of the story boys? The moral of the story is that you can only stretch a chicken’s asshole so far.” Brian and I roll in hysterics.

Dividing a Continent

About 50 miles northwest of Denver is Rocky Mountain National Park. As we enter the town of Estes Park, CO on US-34 we let out a collective “Daaaaaamn Gina…” Four 11,000+ peaks jut out from the horizon with their rugged bowl shaped faces. Since it’s early in the season there is still ample snow on the mountains. Our clock reads 6:45pm, and the sun’s rays are playing with the clouds, rock and snow before us. For Brian, who is from Hawaii, this scenery is jaw dropping. For me…it’s no different: I am also inspired. Within two minutes of driving into the park we need to stop for a herd of elk that crosses in front of us. Captivated, we asked ourselves as we asked many times on the trip, “…Where are we?…” Dense pine forests and winding rivers from the snowmelt accompany us all the way to Glacier Basin, which is to be our home for the night. With it’s well-maintained campsites, clean bathrooms (with Purell in the soap dispensers!), and the ridiculously photogenic field adjacent to where we would sleep, it was the Ritz Carlton of campgrounds. I heard from a friend’s uncle’s step sister’s cousin’s baby’s mama that Paris Hilton stayed there.

After the Midwest Tour d’Gluttony we went on in Chicago, Milwaukee and Lawrence, it was time to get off our lazy bums. An early morning hike to two pristine mountain lakes? Sounds pretty average to me, but we gave it a try. The reflection off the lakes was so clear we could look at the photos we took upside down and not be able to tell the difference between earth and water.

In order to get out of the park we decide to drive through it on the 47 mile Trail Ridge Road rather than double-backing out of it despite warnings that our 12’ Penske would not be the most ideal vehicle to go climbing through the tundra. The road has been cleared of snow so the drive proved to be a breeze. In fact, we saw many Winnebagos doing the drive. Our decision was rewarded with spectacular views of the valleys, peaks and forests we were just in. It took all our will power to stop only three times on the drive to take pictures! We make it out of RNP. Only eight more hours to Arches National Park…

Leaving Kansas

We leave Randy’s (Lawrence, KS) with a few more items than we came: a tent, ground pad, national park guidebooks, and an idea of where we are headed next. Among my friends Randy’s knowledge of national parks is unparalled, and thus the itinerary of our trip post-Kansas would largely be dependent on his recommendations. We end up deciding to camp Tuesday night in Rocky Mountain National Park, spend a half day in the park, making to Arches National Park in southern Utah by Wed night, spend a half day in Arches, and finally getting to Flagstaff, AZ by Thursday night.

The truck’s A/C is substituted for vent as the hot and sticky weather of eastern Kansas gives way to brisk 55 degree temperatures after a couple hundred miles heading west on I-70. Eastern Colorado is just as flat as Kansas (although a couple thousand feet higher. We eagerly await our first glimpse of the Rockies. Maybe it’s because of elementary school American history and stories of the Oregon Trail, or maybe it’s from old western movies, but there is definitely something about heading West that feels good to the soul…

On The Road

After six days and 3112 miles, we arrived early this evening at my family friend's Flagstaff, AZ home. We are planning to wake up well before sunrise, as we have become accustomed to doing the past few days, in order to see the Grand Canyon at it's viewing best...

Our journey started last Friday with a fully loaded 12' Penske rental truck. All of my belongings stuffed in the back, and all the music and my bonsai riding up front. Hoping to get out of D.C. before Memorial Day traffic, we leave the house by 7:15. Within 20 miles of leaving 1250 Columbia Rd. NW I received a $143 speeding ticket. I was going with traffic, but I was also in a large yellow moving truck. Thank you Virginia state trooper. You are the best. With the inevitable traffic violation out of the way, we're off. The first day was a straight shot to Chicago. Through massive rainstorms in Ohio and Indiana where we were driving 40mph with our emergeny blinkers on, we finally see the Sears Tower around 6:00pm. Around 8 we make it to our accomodations for the night in Elmhurst, IL. If you don't know Kaitlin Fahey, you should. You should also go out in the city of Elmhurst at midnight with Kate and her best friend Zoya. It's a guaranteed good time, especially if you start the night with 2 shots of tequila and especially if you keep saying to your friends, "These vodka sodas taste like water. They don't have any vodka in them...do they?" Recipe for fun. A special shout out to Jan, my Polish brutha from the other NW (Chi-town): Thanks for making it out to visit in the morning. We had a blast!

Up in Milwaukee, WI the next day was a reunion with my friend and teammate, Davin. Let me just say that Papa Fischer, Davin's father, makes a damn good paella (both veggie and meat-eater). However, remind me never to eat at Kopp's custard stand next time I'm up in Wisconsin as both Brian and I could feel the cream flowing through our arteries constricting as we were eating those...desserts? Saturday evening we went to the quintessential Milwaukee bar, and I learned how to play darts (cricket); my new favorite game. We closed Wolski's Tavern. Punto.

Sunday evening/Monday: Lawrence, KS
Memories flood into my head as I pull off I-70 onto the West Lawrence exit. Brian is forced to listen as I ramble on about the parks and recreation facility where I spent my summers playing basketball, the church parking lot where I learned to drive, and the street corner where my best friend jacked his car. The local grocery store where my friends worked summer jobs, my junior high... All this within 10 minutes of pulling into the city. Our host is Randy Baum, who I've known since the 6th grade and with whom I've traveled extensively in China. That night more cricket is played at a local college bar where I see other kids I went to junior high with. A trip for both them and me. The next day we go to Randy's grandma, Rosie's house. Have you ever had baked honey apples served on top of pork chops? Apparently they go really well together. And, of course, you can't forget the thick, dripping-made gravy to top it all off. All the while lightning lasting almost a full second per strike is sounding off all around. I love Kansas thunderstorms. In the evening we go to buy a road atlas, as we've been relying strictly on maps.google for the duration of the trip. Since the remainder of the trip will be spent in the national parks out west, spending $5.50 on a huge Rand McNally at the local Wal-Mart Supercenter seemed well worth it.

Monday/Tuesday/Wed
As it is getting late in AZ and we have yet another day of national parks ahead of us, I am cutting this email short. A farse, since it's already rather long-winded. Expect another one coming up about camping and hiking in majestic Rocky Mountain National Park, the vast and desolate southwest, and the miracle of erosion that is Arches National Park, not to mention the Grand Canyon.