The Grass Is Always Greener, or Something Like That...

I don't have the greenest thumb in the world. Hell, the only green my opposable wonder has ever seen is a crude yellowie brown excuse of a hue painted on from a misguided crack of a hammer. I've only ever really been able to successfully plant a few ideas, some of which I am still trying to weed out and others which I've been able to happily harvest. Regardless of my sub-par sowing abilities, I've got an eye for finely manicured land and respect a seamstress who weaves so much time, effort, and roots into the soil of their social fabric. I do not necessarily agree with Captain Cliché that the grass is always greener on the other side, but I do believe you should incorporate the appealing seedlings you are drawn towards into your own pasture of peace, yielding the most ideal and fertile lifestyle.

Travelling for me is an excuse to clear out the cataracts that have formed from years of looking at life one way. Reading in between the lines of a brand new book of unwritten codes enables me to write my own manual that helps guide me towards becoming a happier soul. I cant stop licking my lips at the sight of greener pastures on the other side of the cultural barricades that naturally arise from generations and generations of traditions. When placed in new greenfield territory, I'm a cumbersome cow, a hyper hyena, and a joyful Jenna Jameson fused together; grazing along haphazardly to satisfy my appetite for growth , running rabid chasing after opportunities that continue to sprout , and shamelessly exposé-ing my natural talents when called upon. That's right,not only does a cow, hiena, and ol jenny jame-o pull together to symbolize the Trifecta de Tim...they also never fail to make me smile when I see them posing proudly on all fours (shout-out to Cowgirl Dreams 2, you kept it real JJ ). As I stumble across a new lay of land, I find myself looking from side to side shifty-eyed as I hop the cultural divide, grab a handful of the emerald energy that makes the uniquely foreign lifestyle so appealing , and slyly slip them into my rucksack of ideals that I intend to seed into my own personal plot for others to freely graze in.

I first stepped hoof in Uruguay nine months ago with the inspiring nuggets of distant societies that I've collected in my spiritual satchel throughout my travels. To my delight, I found a gold mine of sprawling foreign farmland full of new customs and values, fresh for the picking . After spending 75 cents of a year's dollar in exchange for grass-gazing and cultural cultivating, I can't help but embrace the Uruguayo fertilizer that is sprinkled amongst so many facets of their daily lives; communal kindness and genuine generosity.

Here are some prime differences between Uruguayans and what I see in the States (I don't want to speak for everyone) that will help explain the subconscious sharing that I have grown to love and admire.

Beer: Ordering a beer in Uruguay can be a frustrating situation for a cheeky chap who is accustomed to ordering oh say, a 12 oz bottle of Anheuser's finest. Not so much because there are usually only two options, Pilsen or Patricia, but more so because they only are served in liters. Now in the states, the only time I ever bought a liter (40 oz basically) was when I was going to tape them onto my hands for a casual Friday night of Edward 40 hands, and in that case, it was most likely malt liquor that must be drunk within 15 minutes before it warms up. After the initial “Well that's retarded” feeling at the beer ordering station, you quickly come to realize the team building situation that the litro inevitably presents to the wayward beer consumer. I seldom see Uruguayan's having a beer by themselves, the bottle itself is a catalyst for bringing folks together to share a laugh amongst friends or to make new ones. If you sit down without a drink at any bar in Uruguay when someone has a frosty 40ish Pilsen in front of them, chances are they will offer you a vasito. One reason is because he probably doesn't want to look like too much of a drunk, but the real reason is plain and simple; that's just what you do. The vasito is an ingenious idea because it allows four to five people to drink from the same bottle before it is the next person's shout. The vasito also gives you an ice breaker at the bar so instead of doing the “can I buy you a drink” thing (do people even do that anymore?) you are inviting someone to a casual conversation in a communal pursuit to polish off the Patricia. The whole act of beer drinking is based around team drinking, always filling up each other's cup and giving you a feel-good sense of sharing. Team drinking tends to have another context in the States as it is usually associated with bingey bar crawls, case races, and Beer Olympics where the focus is on getting plastered. After your first litro roundabout, you cannot help but to carry on the same tradition next time you feel a bit parched. The only downfall with the litro is the fact that it is not very beach friendly in the fact that it gets warm fast...but maybe it's just because I haven't found a koozie big enough yet. Nothing quenches the throat quite like a crisp naty light 24 pack of 12 oz shooters, but hey the heat just encourages that much more team spirit on the beach front.

Mate: There's a reason that you can't find a Starbuck's or Caribou Coffee anywhere in Uruguay. The barrier to entry for the Uruguayan market is made impenetrable by the country's crack, Mate. The raw herbal tea runs deep through the veins of each city dweller, fisherman, or goucho in the country and it's consumption can be traced all the way to the top of most family trees. Mate is essentially tea that doesn't come in fancy little packets with dippie-strings attached. In order to join the mate ranks, you need a starter set of a mate cup (imagine a mini coconut hollowed out), a metal straw with one closed end and holes in order to sip the tea without getting the particles in your mouth, and a fully accessorized thermos with your personal flair, full of hot water. Uruguayans take their mate preparation very seriously and have all sorts of rules like only the keeper of the mate may fill the mate cup along with differing mate packing and maneuvering best practices. These unspoken rules are for real...I once got blacklisted for a month from a fellow employee's mate cypher for filling up my own cup without permission. My gringo street cred' was tossed out the window with one fateful sip and took months of counseling to stop from freaking out from sheer nervousness every time the mate was thrown my way. Similar to the litro, drinking mate is a ceremonial activity that always involves offering a cup first to a group of friends or strangers, and then to yourself. If someone wanted a quick pick-me-up they'd consume their caffeine with a mad scientist concoction of redbull, double expresso, 8 hour energy, but that contradicts the core communal reason of why mate is sipped in the first place. For example, I was just at a town meeting yesterday for all of Punta del Diablo (my first town meeting ever, I was hoping to see some good ol fashioned mob rule put into action, but came away slightly disappointed) and was offered a cup from two separate strangers merely because... that's what you do. I've seen this psychology in action in the past when I've passed a few dutchies pon dee left hand side. Again, the underlying theme is sharing something everyone relates to that transcends race, language, jobs, or age and brings people together,... as opposed to smoking sheerly to get stoney bologni by yourself. Mate is an all day activity of team caffination that you can't help but to join in on and before you even think “man I could really go for a cup o joe” you'll find a steamy stimulant in your hands before you can say “Frappacino.”

Asado: I've touched on the magic of an asado in my last blog but I feel as though this Uruguayan tradition is also a perfect example of some of the greener grass I've peeped across this country's fence. The asado is similar to an American barbecue in the fact that the point of the event is to bring people together, the eating part is just a plus. This might be the reason that most Uruguayans embrace their typical cuts of entrails, random tendons, and stringy shin meat, but hence, the focus on a good time. Chorizos (sausages) are a staple as well as a huge rock salted cut of meat (somewhere from the stomach area..take your pick) and the occasional potato. Side note: Most Uruguayans hate vegetables; when asked why they don't eat vegetables a common reply is “No como pasto” or “I dont eat grass.” When the chorizo and cut are ready to serve, the grill master throws it on a huge plate that gets passed around continuously until you're full. There is something more fluid and natural about this way of team dining that warms my tummy. Now that's the way to eat, no ADD portion system, no “Well I like mine medium, mine well done..” even though many foreigners still don't get this. Everyone wants to make sure each other eat first, no “seconds” rule needs to be put in place, the group just gets it. Sharing is caring...yeah I said it, but the Uruguayans take it to a whole new lax level that characterizes their humble generosity.

Uruguay, you've got some aerating to do on your side of the fence, but you better believe I'll be germinating my land with your deeply seeded values of sharing, generosity, and community. For now, 'm off to get my Johnny Appleseed on, planting ideals along the way and continuing to work on my side of the fence. Remember, if the grass looks to be greener on the other side, chances are you are not seeing the whole yard. Learn what you can from the plots that please you and smile as you continue to watch your own lifestyle-lawn blossom and mature.

Looking For Love In All The Tasty Places

I’m just a gringo lookin’ for love. That's right, I'm talking about good ol' fashioned, rose petals to the door, butterfly eyelash kissing-,David The Gnome nose nustling,lying in front of the couch-watching-the-Notebook-snuggling, love. Well, maybe not love exactly,but the thing that you tell girls to get in their pants at that pivotal passionate tipping point. Is that it?...no, that might have been a bit strong. But on that “getting into pants” note, what is up with the “buttons” on the pants covering the solo zipper, that aren’t really buttons? Is this the emergency break that’s built in case you suddenly realize the Lamborgini that you thought was going to take you for a spin around the ol' block turns out to be a beat up Hyundai Elantra riding on three hubcap spinners? If that is the case then well done because it calls for quite the awkward fondle for the helpless and anxious Casanova.

What I really mean by the love I am searching for is a happy medium, a connection, something more than a wink in the night club, two strong caiparinas, and the grand tour of my double-wide tent out back. I dont know what it is, but whatever aphrodisiac the Uruguayans put in the water here really brings out the “SPRING BREAK CANCUN 2011!!!!!” attitude to the beach. I am starting to think the Cumbia music must have some underwear-undressing-undertone that subliminally sends the pheromones running wild in Punta Del Diablo. I wish I could say what happens in Punta, stays in Punta, but thanks to ol’ Zuckerberg, no one is safe from your darling distant detective checking up on Big Brother Facebook to see how your “Girl’s Weekend” trip is going. Things get a bit wild and crazy round here, but still begs the question...Tim, are ya lookin' for love?

Please allow me to smear a picture of the struggle I am dealing with at the moment by breaking it down in Guayo' terms: The two types of luv (l-u-v, not l-o-v-e, big difference, ask any texter) that the hostel receptionist runs into can be best compared to the relationships I have with my two favorite jewels of Uruguayan Cuisine; Trufas and Asados.

For those unfortunate enough to never have indulged in a Trufa, let me explain what these god-given fruits of the Rocha coast exactly are. Think of the perfect mix of a dark chocolate brownie, soft fudge that makes your teeth shutter from the sugar, and the surprise of mint, dulce de leche, coconut, rum, or my favorite, white chocolate(reminiscent of my freestyling hay-day) hidden in the middle to stun you mid-chom on that second bite. When a guest is ready to pop their Trufa cherry, the Trufa veterans huddle around the virgin just to see the orgasmic, eyes roll in the back of their head- OH-face, just so we can remember our first experience…Christmas eve on your lips.

Those lustful one-nighters/early morningers (depending if you went to Bitacara,Punta's happenin' nightclub, at 3:30AM in the morning or not) are directly correlated with the feeling I get when I step up to The Fridge to decide which Trufa I want to indulge in for the night. You are looking for a quick fix, to be sensually stimulated, and basque in the 10 minutes of passionate pleasure. It doesn’t really matter what flavor it is, or what is inside the plastic covering, as long as it looks good from the outside. You know what you are going to get and you don’t care how it tastes on the inside, as long as she’s a Trufa (have to watch out with all these Brazilian Trannies running around these days.). However, after a hedonistic night of Trufa El-You-Veeing, you look back on the night and wish you thought twice about hiking back so hastily to the hostel on the hill. You feel a bit queezy in the stomach from the sugar overload of the night before, stained smears on your sheets, and an empty teeth-torn wrapper on the empty pillow next to you. You're head is a bit wobbly and are left with nothing but bad breath and a long day of “eh”-ness ahead of you.

Now on the contrary, there are the asado's that we all patiently wait for and crave deep down inside. Like the Trufa, the art of the Asado must be explained for the unfamiliar. “Asado” itself is a cut of meat, but more importantly, is the style of grilling/barbequing (depending where you are from) that the Uruguayans and Argentinians have perfected to a t, or should I say a capital A.

The Asado, much like the “something more” type of relationship takes time. If you ask any Uruguayo o Argentinian, rule numero uno that must be upheld at all costs is “One can Never, EVER rush an asado.” The longer you wait, the more you allow the smoke to slowly seep into the pores, and hence, the better the taste. What makes the realationship with your asado so unique is the art of stoking the embers for hours, making sure you are adding fuel to the fire, and allowing the flames to flirt with the tender skin. The heat tickles, massages, and caresses the muscle and fat until the aromatic juices begin to flow. If you attempt to turn the fire up too fast, you'll burn the prized flesh and ruin what could have been one of the most savory, succulent, and satisfying meals you have had for a long time. Nothing is more rewarding then putting in hours (days, weeks, months for the memorable ones) into watching your steak or summer love mature, heat up, and begin to ooze with satiating “sabor” until finally, you are ready to sink your teeth into something real, something fulfilling, a feeling of completedness. This, my friends is not a quick, cheap fix that temporarily curves your appetite you've been longing to appease, but a genuine feeling that settles your stomach and gives you the warm and fuzzies.yes

The only problem is a few hours after you really feel that you have built a strong connection with that special someone, the inevitable occurs. Our fantasty filet must return home leaving you alone with the essensce of smoke and perfume, watching the folks walk away until I am alone stuck with my..spatula in my hand, gazing longingly as the pit of passion that once was, until the last ember fizzles out. gSure there will be more asado's, but each time it feels more real and more real, proportionally getting harder and harder to sit alone as the smoke subsides. The last cackle of a joke, crackles through the smoke, and poofs into a memory of what just was... that tangible LUV that felt so right... So what is it that I am really craving?

I don't know it's hard to say. If I had a mobile parilla (what you cook an Asado in) maybe I could follow that prized piece of meat around. Maybe I'm tired of being left alone to clean up the ashes of the fire. But for right now, enough of these asado analogies... I'm getting tired and ready for bed, but before I hit the hay, maybe I'll go grab a quick Trufa...

Smooches - Timmy Goodtimes Jackson

What is this Real World you speak of?

Working in a hostel is the closest you will get to becoming a rockstar. Well maybe not a Roberty Plant or MarkyMark, but at least the equivalent to the lead dreadie in the local reggae band here in Punta Del Diablo. El Diablo Tranquilo Hostel is the venue that I took the TimmyGoodTimes roadshow to this summer and needless to say, I think I had sold-out shows every night. I couldn't play an instrument (gave a go at the harmonica, “Amazing Grace” is under the belt) but the night shift position allowed me to be on stage behind the oak reception desk, conducting the mood of the mochileros with Tim's Twilight DJ mix, all while keeping the enthralling cool and collective mystique of the “hostel receptionista.” In the vagabonding community, the hostel receptionist is a long sought after job because of it's inherent answer to the always tickling, always itching question of “How can I sustainably travel and live in another country?” Sure, you live in paradise, everyone is on vacation, the mood is high, and even the most reserved chickidees seem to go into heat when they set their first paw into the hostel. However, here is another side of the hostel hero that tends to be overlooked. It is the plight that every bartender, scuba instructor, charter boat captain, and cruise ship server must learn to deal with; at what time does the vacation come to an end? What happens when the the initial perks and pizazz of the “dream” job begin to fizzle out and the “dream” becomes just as mundane and normal as the “real world” job you left?

The receptionist position is not a job that I took for it's financial benefits. I don't have a 401k, sales quota achievement bonuses, or 2 weeks paid vacation. My salary is not monetized but rather exchanged for an opportunity of a lifetime to run free in a wonderland playground where I can throw the frisbee with a few Frenchies at the beach, play a romantic game of “tug of war” with a tough-to-crack- Ukrainian lass, or spin around on a merry-go-round of banter and worldly lessons with the Aussie five-year-strong-world-traveler. My stock options for future exponential growth are invested in the possible ventures and opportunities that I continue to incubate with the entrepreneurial minded guests I bounce ideas with across the globe. My benefits are paid in the mysitque of “the hostel worker guy” that generates so much interest and iconic fame, it puts me on a pedestal over the other, less exotic, backpackers to ultimately intrigue and instigate conversation with girls...and the other guests too (“I mean, let's be honest”-Tim's Ego). I won't be making it rain anytime soon, but I might do a rain dance with the hippy indigie's that check in to show off my sick shamanic shuffle for some street cred once in a while. You won't see me wearing Versace, but I'll show you how it's done on the beach playing Bocci.

If I had a nickel for everytime I heard “So...how'd you start working here?”..I'd have a shit load of nickles. The nickel goes far down here in my Punta Del Diablo beach bubble not because of the exchange rate, but because each one of those questions leaves the guest eager to keep dropping their change into my slot-machine of stories to see what they can get out of my experience. Sometimes I talk about the mixed fruits of life that I've been able to sink my teeth into. A few I swallowed with pride, some I peeled just to admire, and most I had to spit right out. Another nickel and a taught yank of the life-lever might have me talking about the crazy late night bar stories with the Medellin Hooter's girls on Thanksgiving Day. The last pull of the slots might bring out the Jackpot of all stories; when I hooked up with triple 7's on a boat from Panama City to Cartegena. Ok, the last one is a stretch but I wanted to keep the slot machine theme rolling for the kiddies (mixed fruit, bar, 7's, get it)...

There are obvious perks working in a hostel in a foreign land, at the beach, in summer time, and being a gringo. The most obvious reason is being able to be a cultural, worldly, and educated American ambassador of peace and Obama-ness...or something like that. The least obvious well-kept secret for some is the the smorgesboard of senoritas that pop in and out during the high season, breaking hearts like Penelope Cruz. You might become best buddies with a chilled-out Porteno guitarist or conjour some sappy summer love for a few weeks and you tell yourself “Man this is the life, I dont even need to travel the world...the world comes to me!” The late night clubs, watching back-to-back sunrises/sunsets and booze-infused life rants send you flying high with gusts of gratitude you owe to the establishment that has allowed you to taste the sweet dulce de leche of hostel life. However, right when you are flying high during peak season, a change in the gulf stream occurs, you start becoming winded and slowly begin to spiral downward into a mountain pass of monotony.

A change begins occurring in the way you look at the guests along with your rock star persona; each week the conversations and “breaking free” lifestyle rants becoming more novel and cliché. You begin rolling your eyes when you see the 19 year old LIP (Long Island Princess) approaching the desk with her I'm so worldly, living in an ex-pat bubble of a study abroad program, not really wanting to throw myself out there or speak spanish to the local real live Latinos - swag. She entertains her love of the idea of traveling, one day escaping the wrath of her parents disapproval and with it, her societal microcosm of social pressures and expectations she is bouncing back and forth in. But alas, she is really just in love with the IDEA of the lifestyle. It will most likely take her a few more years and a big leap of faith to appease the pressure she feels humming in her stomach to finally realize that there is a life made specifically just for her out there.

The turbines start stalling after you hear the same comment for the 1,000^th time; “Ahh well I wish I could stay on vacation, but time to get back to the real world.” The fucking real world...if I have to hear that branded, made-up, fabricated idea of “real world” one more time, I'm going to, well, probably just snicker and shrug like I normally do. However, after a while, this comment does begin to poke ya' in the ribs. My snicker turns into an exasperated “Ugh”, leaves me a bit uncomfortable and inherently calls for some introspection on my part to dwell on this “real world” dilemma that is thrown around so loosely these days. I mean if you are returning back to the real world, what the hell am I living in. If my life is a vacation, I guess that's cool but, is that insinuating that I must one day in fact need to “return” to a “real” world? I feel pretty real during my days working here; I eat, I laugh, I work, I sleep. Then the question is, if my world is clearly “real” and they wish they could live my “real” life then why not be proactive and change your situation so your life is a“vacation.” Can anyone ever truly be working in the “real world” and on vacation? Yet before delving into these big questions, I explain the plentiful and realistic opportunities that are at these dreamer's fingertips to follow their view of an alternative lifestyle, but I still get the melancholy shrug and, “Yeah, wish I could do that.”

My attitude becomes calloused from the onslaught of questions from the same semi-interested visitor who is more comfortable with saying their dreams are impossible because of some cop-out excuse. I have to bite both lips to keep from screaming, “Dude, quit and be about it.” I can feel the lever on my slot-machine begin to get a bit rusty from the sand-blasted shenanigans of the summer wind. Its getting harder and harder to keep spinning out stories and weaving wild and wander-lustful allegories to the eager listeners. I can see that my “real world” is starting to become more like the “real world” that others keep telling me about and my “vacation” might be coming towards an end.

But I think this is normal, and I think it's ok.

Pants and sneaks now take place of trunks and Havaianas, and you know what, it feels really, really refreshing. It has been very fulfilling to experience the transformation from summer to winter, my old reception job to the business development side of the hostel, and the “hey everyone listen to me talker” to a more humble listener. I now realize that I can't be annoyed or pull the too cool for school card with the freshly “on the road” dream gazer who is buzzing from the magic of the road and new found feeling of timelessness. The excitement recharges my batteries and reminds me that it is unfair to judge that privileged exchange student from Buenos Aires who has Kerouac qued up her in her Kindle, just because I have volleyed the “So what's your story...” ball back and forth countless times. These are the exact same questions I used to ask every hostel receptionist, and if it wasn't for their genuine , thought-out feedback, I wouldn't have chosen this path either. Even though I might know where the top 40 conversation will inevitably go, my callouses begin to soften when I see the familiar sparkle in their eye; the secretive glimmer that whispers “I know something that you don't know.” They know that they have no idea what they are doing, but know that it this is the most real they have felt for a long time.

Here I am now, with hoodie draped over half my face, feet wedged in between the couch cushions for warmth, and watching the contracted locals on horseback fill up the potholes and mini-ravines that have been left by the flash floods of Punta Del Diablo foreigners this past Summer. Just as my vacation has transitioned into a more repetitious “real job”, my playground has turned into a think tank. For the first time in years, I have committed to stay in one place for more than 12 months in order to focus on a few new projects, both personal and professional. I am, in one sense or another, returning to a “real world” of thought, while most will say I am still on “vacation.” This real world/dream job/vacation anomaly tends to throw people for loops, changes their points of reference, and poses many tough questions for an individual who is not too sure the society-imposed “real world” is what they want out of life. The real world should be thought of as the environment (not necesarrily the location) you live in where you are proactively committed to growing intellectually, spiritually, financially, and/or physically. In high-season summer, I would have to agree with most that I was on “vacation” from the “real world” paradigm because I had no focused intrinsic goals for the summer other than to sit back, sip on some mate, and stoke the embers in the parilla until the Asado was ready. However, as my reception job became more “real” and the fresh milk of the “vacation” began to spoil it gave me the opportunity to focus on how I could really combine a dream job, in a vacation atmosphere, making money and adding new skill sets in order to create my own, personalized Real World. By throwing myself out there and taking the initial dream job at the hostel, my “vacation” has now yielded a new opportunity for a bigger and better “dream job” to travel around S. America networking with other hostels in the “real world.”

My call to action is to think hard about your "real" job and if you are truly happy. Your “dream” job , whatever it might be, has the absolute potential of becoming a “real” job. It is vital to take a step outside the “real world” grind to sometimes discover that there are endless lifestyles and job opportunities waiting to be discovered through the new people, experiences, and ideas you will encounter out of the comfort zone of your daily real life. Your ideal job might one day become boring, where you feel like you are stuck in the mud of the road that you used to stamp your feet in freely, the road that led you to this initial dream job. At that point, it is time to reassess what you have learned and leverage the cliff notes of success you have attained into your next dream. This sounds cliché and easier said than done, of course, but believe that the craziest folk with the most obscure passions will make it work, leaving the wisher's on the sidelines of the dreamer's path to self-fulfillment. If you are cognizant of what you do well, then put yourself in a position where you can use those competencies to make your dream world a reality...and who knows it might just start with a vacation.

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!

One Week and 7 States Later

(Sept. 15 :  After one week in gorgeous Denver, CO following our Kansas University PiKap Ragefest)

One week and seven states later, I feel absolute peace and...a hell of a lot lighter.  Is it because I've been living off of sandwiches and crackers?  Maybe the half water / half local brew liquid diet that has sustained my thirst for adventure?  No, its more intangible than that.  Less of a physical lightness and more of a long awaited exhale of anxiety and heavy uncertainty that has been exchanged for a Fresh Breadth of Freedom, Absolute Awareness, and an Ethereal Presence of spirit.

I feel alive, I feel a life, I feel the essence of life.  After years of guessing and searching for what is Right, what is my purpose, what the fuck am I doing giving power points to the Director of Technology about why my cash register is better than IBM's...I feel fresh and new, Tim 2.0.

Speaking with Smiles, Laughing with Love, High-Diving with Hello's, and Gingerly Jogging with Jokes have helped to lie down the foundation of my Yellowbrick Road to Cali's Emerald Triangle ("Follow the yellowbrick road" tune ensues with Tim and Rashad highskipping along, holding hands, cheeeeezing like hell). 

Hardheaded Happiness

(Oct. 1 - En route to Richmond after spending two weeks driving back and forth on the 101 along the beautiful Cali coast )

As I continue my sabbatical for Self-Actualization, I'm constantly reminded of how hardheaded I can be.  It's not like I'm boycotting reason and throwing cases of common sense overboard into the Boston Harbor, revolutionary style.  Nor am I trying to squeeze into a new attitude for my David Beckham meets Anthony Bourdain swagger down the catwalk of daily life...It's just for the simple reason... that I have to.

I question everything.  From debating with my parents Law and Order style about the pros, cons, and logical reasoning behind why in fact,  I couldn't sleepover two weeks in a row at my best friends house...to why I feel being a habitual ganja groupie has kept me healthy for 6 years, only coming down with minor colds once in a Red Sun.

Each time I go to a Mexican restaurant to this day, and the 4 foot nothing food runner pulls up with 19 plates balanced on his arms, head, and one leg and I hear a faint "Very Hot Plate" squeak out behind the gross amount of mexi-lard goodness me and my buddy just ordered, I always have to give the plate a poke.  You know?  I really have to see what these Mexicans think is hot, sometimes I get burnt, sometimes I don't.

But it's the questioning that Intrigues me....

What is hot?  Well than, what is a career?  Why can't I be homeless?  Why do we have to have the "title" of girlfriend to magically and "officially" be together?  DARE said  don't do drugs, they'll ruin your life.  Yes they can, but not mine; they've shown me things and led me to meet people I would have never met, who knows I might even to venture to say that if it wasn't for my first toke of the magic dragon, I might still be in a safe and secure 9-5.  (I say this not to knock a 9-5 whatsoever, but to prove a point that if I followed what Mr. Officer told me blindly,instead of beginning to question "authority", I would be a completely different person, on a different path).

I do agree with Mr. DARE on one point.  Weed IS a gateway drug.  Weed is a gateway to Greenfields of Curious Thought, analysis of the "Counter Culture" and the Prescription Pill Plethora of synthetic love that my generation holds onto so dearly.  I am neither condoning weed/drugs nor attempting to be a liberal hippie reciting Timothy Leary and Jerry Garcia sonnets of free love and Psychedelic  salvation.  I'm just saying, for me, I must question and experience everything I can, I wish I could take yours or her word for it, but dammit, only I can interpret what type of an effect that action or thought will have on me.

Dangerous?  Sometimes

Stupid?  A lot

Am I lucky I don't get seriously hurt or get arrested? YES, Big up to my guardian angels who are on their last straw with me.

But, Discovering TRUTH out for myself?

Absolutely necessary and priceless...(and the plates are never really THAT hot, I mean come on now)