Nebaj, Guatemala: Selfless Saviors and Surgeons

“Congratulations Tim on your first surgery, you should be proud.” Let’s just say that is not the heartfelt-handshake that I was expecting to receive when I woke up at 6:00 AM this morning ( a new early morning rising record) in Nebaj, Guatemala.

Today I was ecstatic to be able to help out with a four part organizational joint effort to diagnose the people of Nebaj with their various ailments and hopefully administer a few minor surgeries as well. Luz (my new found Manhatten-bred, Dominican blooded, social entrepreneurial host) and Honest J were playing the part of translator along with a few more language gap bridgers who arrived with the “Partners in Surgery” medical team. I was tagging along to take the “auxiliary-gopher” or the “uhhh, do you need anything?” role, which I was more than happy to fill.

We all met with the surgeons, translators, and nurses (10 total) for a routine breakfast of eggs, tortillas, pica (hot sauce of freshly diced peppers and cabbage), beans, and instant coffee to go over the game plan for the day. The leader, Frank, is a spunky to-the-point engineer turned socially responsible organization owner from, you’ll never guess, Mclean, Virginia. Mclean, Virginia is literally twenty minutes from my hometown; what a small world…Wait, I promised not to say this all too annoying cliché of a line anymore, it happens way too much.

It’s the first rainy day I have seen in Nebaj, but honestly, it’s nice not to inhale clouds of polvo(heavy dust) on our brisk squinty-eyed walk to the hospital center. Roles are assigned and we begin to mobilize in preparation for the already snaking line around the shattered concrete wall that outlines the border of the ER. I am thrilled to begin my honorary gopher duty of moving boxes to the entrance, but wait. Ahh typical Guatemala, the person with the key no esta aqui nor picking up their pay as you go phone. We play getting to know you for a half-hour longer, the Americans rolling their eyes, the locals goggling with theirs as they are anxious to hear some long lost good news. The key master, who is a petite 12 year old Pocahontas look alike arrives and it is finally go time.

Jimmy rigging laundry line and bed sheet make-shift hospital rooms in a 20x20 ft space is the first order of business. We line up chairs for an all in one multipurpose waiting room, pharmacy, and diagnosis center. My role quickly changes to facilitator and smile-supplier as I streamline locals from the diagnosis center, to inspection room, over to the pharmacy if the children need a shot for their hemoglobin issues, on to the documentation desk, and finally back to the transcribers who will hopefully be able to set a surgery date for the next group of selfless saviors that fill follow in the next months to come.

To make this a real clusterfun of a time, one must remember that some locals speak Ixile, some Quiche (both Myan dialects), and some Spanish. I organize the masses with my Spanish, hand signals, smirks, and winks to ensure that some kind of order is maintained. I peek in on HJ and Luz, amazed by the translation-telephone game they are patiently playing. The stream of information plays out like this: Local quiche patient – Quiche to Spanish translator – HJ/Luz – English speaking doctor and back down the chain. This game is very time consuming but again my Guatemalan mantra reigns true; "It works."

I look outside the door and see the line clumping up around the door, growing with tired possiblepatients. A shrouded four foot nothing Mother is lifting her son above her head just like Rafiki did with baby Simba in Lion King, but this was no Pride Rock. The son had fourth degree burns along his neck that made it look as though he had gills hanging down from below his chin.

We later found out someone accidentally threw gasoline on him…for no apparent reason. The Mother, with so much hurt in her eyes for her son’s defamed face must also wait in the line, and unfortunately will not be able to receive any help by these doctors; I don't have the heart to tell her. The grim reality of the indigenous mountain dwellers' "circle of life" is not the simple, smiling and communal way of living I have seen in some of the local homes, this is raw reality. I glance to my left and notice two twin boys with cleft lips who have the biggest smiles in the room as they play peek-a-boo behind the chair they are sharing. We won’t be able to de-cleftify today, but will diagnose and set up an appointment for next month’s lip remastering team. A 16 year old girl is experiencing some gyno’ issues that turns out to be….surprise, a one month year old fetus inside her! The husband is called to share the glorious news…but there is no answer from the future father.

After the morning rush, the medical team prioritizes their prognoses, schedule four minor surgeries for the afternoon session and ask for my help. Three of the surgeries are smaller incisions to remove bumps and extra flesh appendages. I volunteered to assist with the over-sized golf ball of a sebaceous assist on one of the farmers' bellies. This thing was massive and we had five people surrounding the dazed and confused Guatemalan. The surgery team assembles and consists of the Mayan translator, Spanish to English translator, the American surgeon, his Nebajan surgical protégé for the day, and your favorite gringo on flashlight duty.

The surgery took about an hour, the surgeon meticulously schooling his Latin understudy how to stitch up the empty holethat the lemon-sized assist had left. I could not lift my gaze from the sebaceous abyss that was oozing blood constantly to the beat of the patient's heartbeat. Back in the States I would only be able to participate in this opportunity if I was in med-school, but in barely third world Nebaj, all help is welcomed with open arms. The med assistant (also a farmer in town as his day job) kept his cool and eight stitches later, we gave a round of applause and high fives all around for a successful surgery. The freshly sutured Guatemalan asked if he could go back to work for the rest of the day.

I must take this moment to give my absolutely praiseworthy props and appreciation to all the parties involved who freely donated their blood, sweat, and smiles into today’s project for the sole purpose of doing good. You see, one of the major complaints that is a real blow below the belt to many NGO employees/Peacies is the fact that there is often a detrimental lack of communication between all of these eager groups trying to help the same folks. For example, the downtrodden Nebajnite might have three different meetings scheduled on the same day from three different organizations. One party might be attempting to teach how to grow corn faster and healthier using natural worm fertilizer, one giving a workshop on why the farmer should use slash and burn techniques to diversify their crops in anticipation for a higher yield, and the last group might explain to the overwhelmed farmer that he should give up on corn for profit and

participate in a micro-lending model where he can begin selling sustainable appliances around town and in the bigger cities. It is ironic and a bit counter-intuitive, but the organizations begin to compete with one-another and the larger goal begins to become eclipsed by ego and one-track thinking methodologies of the Institutions. This sporadic pressure from different directions leaves the Mayan man confused, demotivated, and pessimistic towards any hope of progress.

After taking an exact mental snapshot in time of what was happening in that surgery room, a framed feeling of hope filled the room, and realized that progress is right here, right now, in front of my face. Five different languages, four organizations, local volunteers, and a few speckled gringos from the Northern America were joining forces to make a positive and tangible change in the community. The volunteers were paid only in the instant gratification of seeing the locals become healthier and happier; which I think we all can use a little of in life to keep us motivated.

I’ll tell you what, holding the LED light over that gracious Guatemalan turned on an even brighter bulb in my head. If we can copy and paste this model of selfless and organized help, the possibilities for measurable and exponential successful projects can be repeated around the world on an even larger scale. We prioritize issues, pick the most important and applicable concern for a group of people, keep it simple, stick with one approach and allocate the help of various groups to follow through with the plan. Easier said than done, I know, but I have seen today that with focused thought and ego absent teamwork, we can make a universal change for the better, a reality.

Lake Atitlan

"Tim, time for breakfast!" Seeing as it is only 7:30 in the morning after a long night of drinking and I haven't woken up before 11AM in the past four months, this must be the malaria meds talking. A light turns on in the room, but not the figurative "Aha moment" one. This is the light that so many hungover soles have cringed and hidden from in vampire-like fashion for hundreds of years, but here in Guatemala it is indeed time to start the morning. In my defense, I have only slept a total of six hours in the last three days and the adrenaline is running on E. Mr. Highschool then assures me that there is nothing that a freezing cold, limp-pressure powered shower head can't help to kick-start the ol' travel turbines! Thanks.

Mi amigo and I shuffle over to the breakfast spot to meet up with our mischief makers from the night before and I struggle with a game of Spanish scrabble in my head in order to communicate to the cash register cutie what I will attempt to force feed my stomach so early in the morning. A classic Guate Grand Slam breakfast of eggs, bacon, tortillas, and refried beans is the go-to. I roll the dice and order a smoothie, which is an apparent no-no since it uses the tap water ice, but mango-papaya sounds too tasty right now. The IMac is passed around the sypher and I groggily grind out a few emails to inquire about the hostel management internship I am trying to land in Uruguay, along with a few other loose ends I forgot to square-knot up before I left. Los Tres Muskateros and Co. lock down our bags for travel mode and hit the next chicken bus to our next destination, Lake Atitlan.

I strategically pick out a window seat for the three hour drive so I can avoid straddling the aisle for the whole ride. After a few sporadic stops, we rendezvous with our new addition to the touring tandem who I will call Axle Shakur (For his passionate love of Gun's N' Roses and West Coast hip-hop) from the great city of Walla Walla, Washington. We are greeted by a jolly John Belusci/John Goodman/Peter Griffinesque gringo with a shit-eating grin on his face, chowing down on a hamburguesa con queso. Salutations are exchanged and we get the show on the road for our last leg into Pana, the jump off point into the lake community. The bus slowly descends around the rim of the lake and I srtuggle to hold my chin to my mouth to keep from drooling on my Ipod as the lake begins to unleash bullets of beauty into my gawking gaze. Lake Atitlan looks like a scene from Jurassic Park; it's majestic horizon begins to whisper stories of wandering waterfalls and vivacious volcanoes that coalesce me into wanting to listen closely to what this enchanting wonder of our world has to tell me.

Scurrying off of the bus into Pana, we play a game of "Jackpot!(or 500! depending on geography)" with the bag runner on top of the chickenbus as our bags start raining down from the heavens. My nimble frame along with my street skills I picked up from the countless "Jackpot!" games I played in elementary school enables me to go 2 for 2 on receptions for the day. Our galavanting group finds comfort in their usual chowspot to nourish our bodies with a bit of beer and belly filling food. I scan through the menu that is a tri-brid of Latino, American, and Italian eats and stop half-way through as I see a sandwhich with prosciutto. Sold. Prosciutto, Gorgonzola, and authentic hot sauces are my kryptonite, the key to my heart, the apple to my Adam, the spinach to my popeye; not to mention my favorite savory and stimulating tastebud tantalizers for my eager appetite. The waitress brings us rounds of Brahvo litros (the almost 40 oz equivalent for the homies at home) that acts as a Drain-o agent to wash out the dust from the bus as I follow the cooling current of cheap beer from my mouth, through my throat and down to rest in my stomach. Bliss.

After a few more complementary cervesas, we begin to make our way to the dock and find our Capitan who will be taking us to our hostel at one of the tiny towns patched in around the lake's shore. The views of the volcanoes are soul inspiring and I gasp as I force myself to remember that it is imperative to take a breathe once in a while. It is about 6 PM and the orange, purple, and green hues from the magestic mirage of the oncoming sunset proudly dance off the lakes body as I reach my hand out to the water to join in the "Dance in the Dusk" that is happening right before my eyes. It is said that Lake Atitlan was once polluted with sewage and toxic waste because they only had one of the four water treatment plants on-line. You would not believe that now because it looks as if the locals shock the water and filter each ounce of liquid that might happen to enter the lake every day. El Capitan kicks on the motor and we are off into open seas. The hovering horizon surrounding us is sprinkled with cornfields, hand-heaved rock houses, and your occasional mansion that reminds me that money is still among us no matter where I go.

After a few engine blowouts and choppy wave maneuvers we finally arrive at our destination's dock. There is a rubble raised pathway that guides us up the steep hill where we can see a few cabanas nestled in the middle of the jungle that we will call home for the next few days. A stoic Merlin- bearded man is calmly rocking in his chair and greets us with a german-toned "Ah-loh." Hanz hooks us up with a dormitory for eight and I get to speak to his wife to get a little bit more history of the hostel. She has written a few books about, well, "Life" she says and could not be more happy with the decision she and her husband made to trade in their high-profit/high stress lifestyle in southern germany for a humble abode in Lake Atitlan. Hanz' wife explains that she wants to start a blog about "living off the grid," which has always been an anomaly of an idea to me, since it is hard to be totally "off" when you are communicating to the outside world through cyberspace. I think "straddling" the grid would be the more accurate definition in her situation...nonetheless, I can relate to her ambitions. I also notice that it only costs about $200 American to stay here for a month...back-up plan?

Axle spearheads a game of Kings to jump-start the night and kick on some classic rock to set the tone for the night. Cigarettes are illuminating like lighting bugs and drunken "I love you man's" are tallying up as the night stretches on into the morning. Three of us stay up until 4AM laughing, thinking, sulking, and unveiling stories as different levels of each unique individual begin to emerge. It is an enlightening change to be able to exchange my beer goggles for 3D glasses tonight .

The next morning we gather our souls back together and head out on a boat to a surrounding town that boasts a 35 foot cliff jump. The trail up the mountain sends us through a shanty town that still looks inviting with indigenous smiles and home-made fires prepping pots for the ensuing family lunch. The path finally opens up to a clearing the locals cleaned out and we see the wooden structure that will be our launching pad into the lake. The troops start flailing their clothes off and we hesitantly race to start leaping like lemmings into the 2.5 second freefall. Axle Shakur wants to make a little money with a few of our amigos by placing a bet that he won't to a backflip off the freestanding dock for 100 Quetzales (about 13 bucks). A few handshakes are exchanged and the leap of faith is precedented with the famous last words, "Dude, I'm totally going to over-rotate this jump." Shakur gives a shrug, checks the camera that we are rolling, and shoots himself backwards into uncertainty. Half-rotation...full-rotation...........one more half roation, and SMACK! Axle forshadowed his fate spot on and, in fact, could not have landed more parallel with the water. An eerie silence is felt on top of the mountain as we nervously look at one another, down below for a sign of survival, then back at each other. Axle is floating on his back and finally gives us a slow-motion thumbs up like the one you have seen too many times from the injured football player being carried off of the field. Then we see three mouthfuls of blood being hawked into the pristine water. Uhh-ohh. Our beloved acrobat assures us that he just "knocked a little something loose inside," but the australian couple in kayaks below and the girls that are accompanying us start to freak out. Axle Shakur laughs it off, as he claims this has happened plenty of times before, and the father who is visiting his Peace Corp daughter grunts, "I hope he doesn't think we are taking him to the hospital"....epic.

The rest of the day is spent village hopping and constant reminding of how lucky I am to be with such genuine new-found friends in a very special place that I have read and re-read about in Lonely Planet's Top 10 lakes in the world. We return to the dock into Pana so we can catch the S. Carolina v #1 ranked Alabama football game live; a little taste of home with my fellow Gamecock roomie. Our time spent at this captivating treasure of a location definitely left it's mark on all of us, some spiritually, and some physically. The entrepreneur in me starts to come out as I start dreaming of a life spend on jet-skis, helping to inject new tourism money into the micro-economies around the lake, and sharing a few more beers with Hanz up the hill. I hop off the boat, but before we turn to head up to the city, I give one last look, take a humble bow, and acquiesce in gratitude towards the lake for allowing me to etch a few of my own memories into the bedazzling essence of all that is, Lake Atitlan...

The Chicken Bus

Whoever came up with the one-liner, "We're packed in here like a bunch of Mexicans" was not only PC-challenged, they clearly never traveled a bit further south to see how the Guatemalans get down on the Chicken Bus. Most locals use the chicken bus as their prime resource of transportation around the country because it is cheap, but more so because they have no other option.

A chicken bus is a stripped American school bus that is driven down to Guatemala, then decked out with extra bus seats to fit the most travelers possible, make-shift overhead baggage compartments, disco balls, loudspeakers, and prayer-posters. Partybus meets tacky taxi cab. All of these "well planned" and "strategically placed" additions are haphazardly screwed, taped, and welded together to make for an hodgepodge fiasco of a sight. After the inside is so seamlessly remodeled, the bus is taken to the Latino Xzibit to go through a crash course Pimp My Ride episode where it gets tatted up with the country's indigenous symbols, Christian Saints, bright crashing colors, and indiglo lights in order to one up another and let their presence be known. Many of the names of the buses are "Saint Something" or "God's Children" which I thought was a marketing ploy to play off of the extremely saturated Christian presence here, but later discovered it is because we all need to be reminded to say a little prayer before we step foot into one of the most dangerous and unsafe modes of transportation in Latin America.

The chicken crew is a two-man digi run operation. One takes the wheel, while the other collects money and runs (literally) baggage back and forth from the top of the schoolbus to the backdoor. There is a sort of organized-chaos feel to the whole operation because once the bus pulls up to the stop, people shove themselves on to seats where they can, seven people across, twenty rows back, a bit of a squeeze. I am amazed at the memory of the money-collector as he keeps track of who came on when, and sporadically will hop over people to get paid. This bus-buddy also would then disappear out of front door, while the bus is barreling down the mountainside at 50 mph, climb on the roof spider-man style to untie luggage on top, then fly back in through a window (Indiana Jones theme song ensues in the background) with your bag when it is time for you to be pushed out at your stop. These guys are nuts, I like their style.

I should take this moment to point out the extreme variable that adds to the unreal/everyday experience of the chickenbus; Landslides. Guatemala has had a huge problem with landslides after such a heavy rain season and a well-directed tinkle from Hurricane Agatha. There is one main road that connects all most major cities that is molded into hundreds of miles of switchbacks that will take a vehicle hours to navigate when the next destination may only be a forty-five minute crow flight away. The Pan American Highway scalps its way along the rim of monolithic vegetation-rich mountainsides where one side of the road is taken out by boulders, debris, and trees every few miles. No wonder the bus drivers are hammered the whole time sipping on a little Jesus Juice to quiet down the nerves. Ohh yeah, many of the drivers drink on the really dangerous routes to calm them down/ dumb down the conglomeration of countless close calls between every stop, makes sense right? Without guard rails or a buffer zone between the end of the road and the cliff, I start gazing down the edge of the cliff and quickly snap back to reality with the stench of melting rubber tires and tortillas that the vendor from last stop hustled to the burnt out farmer in front of me.

With bruises on my bum from the rusted out suspension and rickety frame that carries us from mountaintop to mountaintop, I am a bit worn out. The chicken bus system is wild, frantic, and uncomfortable, but like most aspects of daily routines I am beginning to see here in Guatemala, it works.

Los Tres Muskateros Unite

A half-hour into my flight from Ft. Lauderdale to Guatemala City, I have a freak out moment..."Did I get on the wrong flight?!?!" Orbitz told me it should only take 45 minutes to arrive in Guat City and Perla (the half Guat/ half chinese nursing student sitting next to me) lets out a sigh of "ahh two more hours." Two hours? Oh yeah, two hour time difference...Well one lesson learned already and I haven't even gotten off the plane yet! The short-sided extent of my planning begins to ooze from my aura and leaves a little sweat stain of excitement. I laugh to myself through my nose and mutter an oh-too-familiar, "Ohh Tim."

We land, receive a good luck and exchange of information from Perla, grab my bag, and notice that my camel-back is has been snagged already. Oh well, I'll charge it to the Guatemalan game.

I'm greeted by my college undercover brother along with the third leg of our travelling tripod, Honest J. Salutations are short as we are shoved into a taxi to head to Antigua, one of the oldest colonial cities in Central America and a cherished UNESCO annointed site. Everything is moving rapidly in slow-motion as we rip around the ominous volcano splattered horizon towards Antigua. Here is where I am reminded of my strange gift that allows me to filter any and all overwhelming feelings into waves of adrenaline and excitement. My cheeks already hurt from the constant cheshiresque cheeseball of a grin that I have been sporting since I landed and cannot seem to contain. I feel my eyes popping out of their sockets because of sensory stimulation overload, I am as high as a kite, this is where I need to be, I forgot what life tastes like, yummy.

Guatemala City is the largest city in Central America, nestled in between live volcanoes and mountainous green foliage that appears to be a hybrid of tropical fauna and Mendocino Redwoods. Senor cab driver is reminiscent of every other cab captain I have encountered overseas; hang-on for dear life and enjoy the roller coaster ride of rights and lefts around the masses of chicken-toting vendors and wide-eyed Whities.

Wasting not time when we arrive in Antigua, my Peace-Corp companion takes me to "El Centro" that is of course, built around THE church of the city. I take the customary church and fountain

picture to get the touristy stuff out of the way and then have my first Spanish immersion experience, here we go! I get to practice my half-ass espanol with a local shoe-shining "digi" (what the gringos have so graciously dubbed the indigenous folks of the country) and play a game where we point out everything that is white. I should have paid more attention to Senora Engman in 8th grade Spanish one class, oh well I got this; bench, hat, shoe, face...oh yeah, I'm rolling now. My buddy C-Deff rolls his eyes as mine are beaming with glee as this is brand new to me, but annoying as hell to him. I guess being hounded for Quetzales (Guat Currency and mythical bird) for two and a quarter years can wear on you; no harm no foul.

Los Muketeros continue on to El Skybar where I am introduced to a familiar friend I will soon learn to love, Guatemala's national beer, El Gallo (which means rooster, or in USC-Alumni fashion, Gamecock)! Already on the right foot Guatemala. After a few welcome well-tequila shots we raise up our peace-pours to the sun and I radiate with the realization that this is no longer a year in the making wet dream. This moment is a tangible fabrication of everything I hoped it would be; a life changing perception of this wild wilderness of a world I worship. One more round bartender, this is going to be a long night.

Stargate to Self-Actualization

"Tim, I just woke you up 15 minutes ago, come on, you're gonna be late for your flight!" Whoa, this is too reminiscent of my middle school days where I would groan, close my eyes and chant, "I am invisible, I am invisible" in hopes that in fact, I could dupe my parents into thinking I teleported on the Magic School Bus to class. But wait! This isn't school anymore Timmy, I am off to embark on my Latin American romp of the century!

D-Day has finally arrived and I suddenly "reappear" with the quickness and fly to the shower to gather myself. "Ahh, this will probably be the last time I can pull the ol' lazy-boy-maneuver on the shower floor! I do some last minute parcel-stuffing into my bag, Momma runs through her maternal duty of making sure my backpack has zippers and ties some "flare" to it to make sure no other travel satchel at the terminal confuses theirs with mine. Watery eyes ensue along with the warmest miss-you-much kiss I have felt in a long time as Mother is sad but proud as her wide-eyed idealistic wanderlust of a son shuffles out of the door.

On que, "Rambling Man" pops up on the radio as if my Dad put together a "taking Tim to the airport mix" and we nervously peek at each other out of our peripherals and laugh. We exchange top 40 jokes, both of our minds in La-La land and watch as the signs for Reagan Airport seem to get bigger and brighter in the morning 5AM DC rush hour traffic. Guatemala is calling and with ticket in hand, I'm as ready as I will ever be to answer that call and chat for a month.

Cowboy hats, plaid shirts, sun-beaten brown faces, and i-pod touch toting gringos gather around the terminal gate to Guatemala City. I am engulfed in Spanish conversations, picking up the beginning and end end of sentences and laughing at the two toddlers anxiously attempting to deflate the perm that I'm sure their Latina mother spent some serious time on to show off to la familia when she lands.

Wow, talk about transition time. I am taking the first step out of my world and into theirs. In one hour, the Spanish subheadings I read on the Ft. Lauderdale airport's signs will magically change font to the more dominant and bold position as THE only form of public communication.

I take a deep breathe, exhale, click on the shuffle mode and whimsically walk through the Stargate to Self-Actualization. See you on the other side friends!

Helping the Self-Helpless

Society has gotten lazy. We are bombarded with quick-fixes and short-cuts that have made it too easy for us to not take responsibility of our own lives. Too often do we point a finger at the government for not "giving" us health care or being in $10,000 or more of debt from the decisions we have made. Too often are doctors prescribing happy pills to the downtrodden individual who feels as though their Xanax cocktail to start the day off will bring eternal happiness while Timone and Pumba's "Hakuna-matata" is vibing through thier veins . Too often are parents feeding their young children adderal because they "have trouble focusing on homework" when in reality, do not want to take the extra time to work with their child or be an influence in their EVERY DAY lives. Too often do we fail to take a look at ourselves, slow down, take a breath, and attempt to uncover the roots of our problem.

Take for example my last visit to Border's Bookstore. I am cruising through the Travel - South American section of the store, butterflies beating against my ribcage in excitement for my pending Central/S. American romp. I begin to envision my spirit soaring over Machu Picchu, ingesting the ethereal essence of mystical mountaintops I will become one with, when suddenly I am blasted out of my daydream and brought back to the worn out wooden bookcases of Borders and a high-pitched piercing, "EEEEHHH Ahem, excuuuse me...heeelllooooo exCUUUUSE MEEEE!."

What the hell was that? Instantly I swing my head around to see a large, grumpy, middle-aged woman (picture Chris Farley playing the lady in Lunch Lady Land skit...without the hair net) with a stroller, violently flapping a piece of paper in front of the spaghetti-framed, black nail polish toting, Dariaesque looking girl behind the customer service desk . I am taken aback by the Lunch Lady's indiscrete bitch-slap worthy of an attitude, and continue to listen to see what must be so vitally important. Frightened Daria is on the phone, stuttered to the angry lady she has two people on hold, would love to help when she is finished, but if it is urgent, lunch lady can feel free to use the three open computers that read "Easy Finder: Need help finding a book, start here!"

Ms. Farley continues to yell, "I need you to help me find this book now, I am in a rush...it's called Self-Help, ahh something something." Wait, are you fucking kidding me? I begin to laugh and am waiting for Ashton Kutcher to run out to the customer service lady and tell her she got punked, but no, this helpless nagger was truly demanding that the employee drop everything she is doing to help Lunch Lady find a Self-Help book.

Wow, talk about starting on the wrong foot eh? This made me think, does this lady even want help? If she really wanted to start making a life-change, you would think that she could at least take the first step in maybe looking for the book herself, or at least go about it in a more polite way. This incident is just a trailer to the broader blockbuster smash I seem to buy a ticket to every day, called "America: Can You Just Do It For Me?"

There is such a saturation and craze in Self-Help ever since Opera blew up "The Secret" and Eckhart Tolle's "A New Earth" and started a trendy movement towards individuals starting to realize they are the only person who is truly in control of their lives and in essence, the only person who can make themselves happy. This is a nice warm and fuzzy message that actually does hold absolute truth, but seems to get muddled in the mass marketing of books, radio, and TV shows. The problem with the commercialization of these books is that the vital core competency of changing one's life around is overlooked. This relates to the quick fix/easy-way-out scoliosis effect that has begun to bend our society's backbone out of allignment. Balancing your life and discovering true happiness takes years of analyzing one's behavior every day, not just reading a book called "Self-Help" and after the last page magically become cured of helplessness (Let alone forcing someone to help you find the Self-Help Savior).

I am not saying that anti-depressants, the government, or family parenting tools are detrimental to the well-being of an individual, on the contrary, they are able to help an individual ween some of the side-effects of a core problem. In all of these instances however, the main focus should be set on splicing together the short circuit in the mainframe of Self, not to just refurbish the outer shell of our human mechanism. Let's start taking some more initiative in changing ourselves, stop pointing fingers, don't keep looking for the easy way out, and we can learn to bask in our communal future of Self-Helpfullness!

Nation's Capitol in a Nutshell

I've been waiting a while to write this one. What does it mean to be a District of Columbian? How would one characterize a Nation's Capitolist? What really makes DC...DC?

I spend a lot of break time smoking cigarettes in the park near my steakhouse establishment. I've made friends with Mr. Hey-can-I-get-a-smoke (along his pack of wise cigsayers), attempt to juggle futbol's with the local vatos, and best of all, analyze the comings and goings of the average Washingtonian to concieve what this whole city is really about.

Let's start by first pointing out some other prominent American cities and how we tend to characterize them.

Baltimore - Weird semi-NY/Boston accent, The Wire, The Purple and Black, Crabs, Roudy full-beer chuckin Preakness "Baldimore" ragers.

NYC - Long Island Jews, everyone wearing black in the winter cuz black is soo sheek, Pizzerias, The Yankees, Fashion District, Wall Street, eating dinner at 9, pregaming till 12 then hitten the meatpacking district till 5, fast-paced, taxi dodging, cell phone walking New Yoa'kas.

Denver - Recycling, Vegan everything, mini-california where everyone has vacation homes, Snowboard Brand repping Bros, disc golf, health-conscious excerise no matter where you look, nestled in between snowcapped mountains, disgusted grimaces from locals who watch the innocent cigarette smoking passerby who doesn't realize he/she mine as well be shitting all over the super clean fresh air and vibes this pretty little city exudes... and Redrocks.

San- Francisco - Buddah repping-dharma bums, can't tell the difference between the backpacker and the wayward change-inquirer (both who you still smile and wave to as you pass), marijuana musk around every corner, hot pink shorts for the "boys", Fullhouse..haha, bright colors and faces from the Mission, businessmen walking down Van Ness with a smile and a wave; and a conglomeration of content/unique INDIVIDUALISTS pulled by the mysterious magnetic force of the Golden Gate Bridge that leaves folks unable to understand what exactly brought them to San Fran, but that it was the only thing that DID in fact seem right at the time.

Lets now take a peek at Washington DC's unique characteristics that contribute to it's opaque and not-so definitive image that make it slippery to put your finger on.

First off, the folks who spend the majority of their time in DC...arent from DC. Every day, Masses of commuters flock in from Northern Virginia and Maryland for their 9-5 and appear to be the "faces" of DC. This is the first problem in defining the Washingtonian...much of the population during work hours consists of Virginians and Marylandites, not actual Washingtonians. Not only is the city full of individuals paying taxes to three different states/"districts", you also throw in the thousands of transplants from around the country and world that temporarily live in DC to the mix and it makes for an interesting melting pot of ideals, sports fans, and styles. To make the city even more disparate, you sprinkle in masses of the more underprivileged and lower income True Washingtonians (whose soapbox savior was the maniacal Mayor Marion Bary...) who end up being overlooked, overshadowed, and stomped on to form the bottom crust of this potpourri filled patchwork pie of a city. After initial inspection of the core constituents and demographics of the nation's capitol, one can see how it is very difficult to start defining "The Washingtonian".

Piggybacking off of the transplant/commuter anomaly, we should look at how the major professions and careers that make up the bread and butter of the district adds to the confusion of a defined image of the Washingtonians. The core of Washington seems to be the Diplomats, Congressman, Lobbyists, Politicians, and Lawyers along with their underlings that flock to the nation's capitol throughout the year. DC is a playground of policy for these individuals who are from different cities, states, and countries that are lobbying their interests for their constituents elsewhere. DC is the country's home base, and must promote an image of neutrality. The political individuals in the city, therefore must promote an image of neutrality as well. Neutrality seems to go hand in hand with the absence of individuality and uniqueness, which are the common traits for these "prominent" figures of Washington.

The bar at my restaurant is a perfect petri dish to analyze the comings and goings of the "power class" of DC. We have everyone from senators, lobbyists, lawyers, to BP bigwigs dwell around our bar every day and night. Some have grown to know each other, all wear solid colored dress shirts and a blue blazer, and love to talk big. In fact, the majority of our customers appearance and demeanor can be compared to the entrees we serve at Bobby Van's Grill. They look the part, are dressed with all the proper trimmings, and garnished with expensive appearing accessories. In reality, they are just overpriced, not who they say they really are (Our "Prime" dry-aged steaks aren't even prime..or dry aged) and leave you with nothing but an expensive bill and a bad taste in your mouth You see, none of the "power class" of DC wants to stand out or deviate too far to the left or right of their comfort zone that can be described as a perfect balance of "blah" or "ehh." When you look into their eyes once their buddy passes by, they let their guard down and give off a very unsure vibe, as though they are all trying to follow this image that they don't even understand themselves. It can be compared to high school kids who feel as though they need follow the ways of the "cool" kids, when they are not even sure or know why the cool kids are in fact cool. In their defense, the core competencies of their jobs rely on making sure they don't "shake the boat" in any way, and present an image that correlates to more votes, more clients, or more money AT THAT CERTAIN TIME. This is neither good or bad, just...interesting.

Lastly, most city-dwellers can at least find a common ground in a sports team that brings these incongruent pods of people together...but alas, Washington struggles with this angle as well. Lets start with the Washington Nationals. Here we had an opportunity to unite DC with a new baseball branded team, and since they've struggled for so long, most lost interest. The Washington Capitols provided a glint of hope once Ovechkin came on board, but hockey still isn't respected enough on the national stage for Americans to start gloating about whose hockey team is better in casual bar-corner conversation. The Wizards??? Kind of cool when Jordan game back...yeah. We had some bandwagon fever for a time, then Mr. Gilbert Arenas had to bring a gun into the locker room and folks just lost interest completely. But wait...the Washington Redskins!!!! Many Maryland commuters love the Ravens, transplants love their home team, and Redskins fans only really get excited before the season starts (whining, cussing, and "fuck Snyder!" ensues post game 1). So without a strong foundation of sports tradition and the absence of even the slightest hint of bandwagon fever, the clueless classification of the Nation's Capitalist ensues.

Washington symbolizes the strength and stability of the country and provides a framework for individuals to gain, usurp, and communicate power for the benefit of themselves or their constituents. But a framework doesn't make a city a city. Heritage, culture, and unique individuals with common interests shape the image and "feel" of a city. I constantly ask myself where is the meat and potatoes of this city? Where's the balls of DC? And I think it is safe to say that it is a city of comers and goers, a TRUE melting pot of society living side by side (at least 9-5) where ones comes to either make something of theirself or merely make a trip to see the national mall. However, once the career stint or day visit is over, the visitors make a move out of the city to return home. So Take what you can from the city, give a wave to my buddy the Blackberry-toting Bum off the 12th street bridge, and save some time to take a mental snack break in this nutty nation's capitol. Whether you call Washington DC a city, a district, or a capitol, it is truly an anomaly... and I think I like it that way.

Where To Go?

Maybe I am suffering from a mild case of cabin-fever being trapped in the house for a week thanks to the Blizzard of the Preteens, but am I really ready to leave? What is the deal with this travelbug that has always been a part of me, I can't shake it! We share quite the symbiotic relationship, me being it's vessel to satisfy it's basic needs of change, new experiences, and spontaneous junctures that appeases it's appetite for growth. The bug in turn helps to shape my life into one worth living and searching for. When I grow comfortable and aware of the repetitive daily schedule of my life, I feel as though my brain begins to atrophy. I begin to become anxious that in fact, I am comfortable in my present position...wierd right? Well, I am living at home, making enough money to move out but then what, become a professional server at Bobby Vans, working week to week, looking forward to what movie I'm going to illegally download to fall asleep to? I need a destination, I need to book a ticket, I need to TRAVEL!!! But I need to save money. So here I am, able to go anywhere that I have ever dreamed of, but where to?

Tales of a Crumber

A little update for the masses/handful of bored friends at work who give me a minute of their day:

TimmyJ is now a proud and professional crumber at Bobby Van's Grill in Washington, DC. The title of crumber is one that must be earned not expected. The crumbing class is a more distinguished echelon of servers in the restaurant industry that reminds me that the years I spent waiting on tables was not in vain. A crumber is never bought, but handed down from generation of servers to generation. It takes the most astute, charming, and driven individual to have the honor of "Crumber" bestowed upon thy title. One must earn the sacred piece of metal that is bent at a crisp 150 degree angle to ensure any and all crumbs can be removed from a guest's 2X1 foot area of eating space.

What this means to the lamen is if a restaurant requires their waiters to pack the coveted crumber, it automatically constitutes for getting tipped out a hell of a lot more for the mere ambience of the restaurant and some overpriced steaks. Don't get me wrong the steaks are hell-a good, but as the more tenured and self-proclaimed "professional waiters" have told me...the days of waiting tables as a profession in the States are over. I love listening to these veteran waiters' war stories.."I remember when I could look at a shmuck who walked into the restaurant who didnt have the proper attire on and tell him to go down the street where he might feel more comfortable" or "If a customer gave me lip, we'd make sure they wouldnt be dining with us again."

Judging from these comments, you can tell these guys take their jobs very seriously and are passionate about what they do, which is awesome. The only problem is their "time" is essentially over...like most aspects of American culture... we are time starved, we don't know how to relax and enjoy a slow dining experience, and the standards of service have declined proportionatly to the standards of the experienced restauranteur. American dining culture is almost non-existant, hence why a small shift towards slo-dining has begun to emerge. Just like any business, the restaurant mentality has been to "turn and burn" tables, and even the upper class of customers have forgotten "how to go out to dinner" because of the saturation of these T&B establishments.

I just think this is an interesting microcosm of American culture because the small restaurants (just like any small business) are not able to offer a wine and dine experience where the "crumber" is well respected. No one is to blame; not the time-starved uneducated diner, the corporate restaurants that offer the same great meal across the nation, nor the mentality of profit driving owners. It is just a shift of the times; A look at how America has replaced the emphasis on the experience, memories and dignity of fine dining, with a cheapened, packaged, and forgotten culture.

But to me, this means I don't have to work as hard, I carry around a crumber to uphold the image of a prestigious establishment, and make more money for it. I live in the now, and feel for the elder waiter vets, but if their golden age has passed then maybe their crumbers have seen their last scrape.


A little Catch-up if you are interested:

Yes, after embarking on my timeless road to self-actualization, four months of unemployment, cruising through 15 states, countless sour patch kids who kept me awake on the long nightdrives (ie Nebraska) and lesson-learning on my never-ending road to self-actualization, I have come somewhat full circle in my figure-eight of life. My first circle of the figure-eight can be transcribed as follows:

- My last job before I set off for college was slinging pizza pies and pasta at Macaroni Grill


- Go to USC for four years


- Land a sales job with NCR for 1.5 years


- Quit my job and travel for a quarter of a year


- Come back home and get my "crumb" on


- Preparation for cycle #2

Now, I am gearing up for the transition into the next fabrication of my next cycle that visually, can be compared to completing one circle and following the line into the upward momentum that will be the beginning of the next epic cycle. For the next few months I will be using snippets of my restaurant life, DC debauchery, and out of state excursions to tie in some of the lessons I learned on the road and to Tim's Four Pillars to Success (More to Come) that I believe any individual can keep in mind to make you life easier, happier, and wholesome...ENJOY!