... And then it's over when the clock strikes midnight

Three weeks after I departed, my trip came to a close at midnight when I rolled into Madison after a fifteen hour drive from Denver. Lots still to write about but it's a little hard to believe I don't have anything planned for tomorrow or somewhere to be.

Colorado beer run!

Arrived in Denver and went on a beer run with John and Craig at argonaut liquor. All Colorado microbrews, all the time. Attached is a picture of all the beer in the fridge of our rental condo; while at the store I had to say "we are gonna need a bigger boat."

It's going to be a good week.

We have:
Odell (my second favorite brewery) - cutthroat porter, red ale, five barrel pale ale, easy street wheat, 90 shilling ale
Oskar blues - gubna imperial IPA, dales pale ale
Upslope - craft lager, pale ale, IPA, brown ale
Great divide - Titan IPA
Boulevard - pale ale
Left hand - milk stout, black sack porter, stranger APA, 400 pound monkey IPA
BRISTOLS - laughing lab scotch ale

First World Problems: How Much Pow?

This morning I have the white person problem of deciding whether to go to Alta and it's 24" of fresh snow - but is at least an hour away from my hotel - or Snowbasin and it's 12+" which are only about 30 minutes away.

Update: apparently I'm not the only one who decided to go to Alta- I'm not even on the main road and traffic is at a complete standstill.

Oddities: Nevada and Utah

Nevada: where prostitution is legal and every gas station has a casino. I also saw my first "Mom and Pop" casino. It was in a strip mall, where you might see a Subway, but instead it was definitely a casino. Nevada's mountains are gorgeous, by the way.

Utah is interesting. Their road signs, rather than warn against drunk driving - it being Utah and all, with the Mormons and all - instead warn against driving while drowsy. I suppose that since the Mo's can't have coffee or tea this is a bigger problem than drunk driving. They also had a "speed check" system where they first showed a sign that told you how fast your car would theoretically be going if driven at the speed limit - 48 seconds per miles at 75 mph. Then came a series of mile markers showing you how much elapsed time should have passed 48 seconds for one mile, 1 minute 36 seconds for two, etc. As if 1) they weren't aware speedometers existed or 2) they assumed you would actually start a stopwatch. Perhaps it was a passive agressive way to guilt trip speeders. I almost wanted for there to be a cop at the end of the five mile stretch who would stop me, so I could explain "sorry, officer. I mistook it as a challenge to go faster, the signs seemed to be mocking me. It won't happen again" only to do my best Craig Breedlove impression as I zoomed across the salt flats.

Tartine, or, Lots of Dough

San Francisco is a special place. Within San Francisco, the Mission district is a special place. And within the Mission is a special place called Tartine.

Tartine might be the best bakery I've ever been to. If you're looking for universal acclaim, this place has it; almost everybody I spoke to who had lived in San Francisco said that this place was a must see. After going there on a rainy Tuesday, I saw why. And then I saw more why on Thursday when I stopped by again for a loaf of bread. But I digress.

My first trip I went a little nuts. I ordered $17 worth of baked goods, all of it worth at least that much. First up was the Banana Cream Tart. You can pay less for a slice of banana cream pie elsewhere, but you won't want to once you have this masterpiece. First off, it's big enough to share. I ate it all by myself, but that's just me. Imagine a banana cream pie (if you've never had one, get thee to a bakery). Basically Tartine's Banana Cream Tart just takes the classic pie - crust, bananas, custard, cream -  makes it awesomely and makes it even more awesome by adding surprises along the way. The surprises come at different depths and with different degrees of obviousness. I won't ruin the surprises for you, but I found myself saying "holy shit this is good" out loud, several times. Pro tip: don't read the ingredients before hand, on their website or on the menu, it's better to go on a journey of self-discovery.

Banana Cream Tart topped with the first of the twists

Additionally, I got two of their croissants: a pain au chocolat and a ham and gruyere filled monstrosity. At $4.75 they're almost a bargain, also big enough to share. But they're so good you'll want to eat the whole thing. After savoring the tart, I tasted both croissants, fully intending to save most of each for later. That idea dissipated quickly, especially after tasting the ham and gruyere. Again, depth is the key word. The outer layer of buttery goodness had a distinct dark but not-yet-burnt, flavor and good crispness; the inner layers almost melt in your mouth, probably containing only a perfunctory amount of flour. The filling is equally good. A touch salty to go with the slight sweetness of the butter, ham and cheese are equally as smoth in texture as the flaky dough. There is a lot going on, but yet you can completely forget it all in the bliss it brings to your mouth. The pain au chocolat is superb, but not as good as the ham and gruyere, in my humble opinion.

As I mentioned, I was so impressed by Tartine that I went back several days later for their bread and I was not disappointed. The loaf is huge. And just really damn good. Even four days later, as I write this, I have some left over still with a soft, chewy interior. The bread is as all great french style bread are: perfectly crusty on the outside and yet soft on the inside. Again, depth is the best feature of this bread. Being a wheat bread, it has a bit of a darker taste to it, along with a slight sourness that accompanies the inside. Delicious on its own, it makes one of the best peanut butter and jelly sandwiches I've ever had. Probably the only negative is that the loaf is a little hard to cut, being so big, but thats really not important.

Tartine is bakery nirvana. No trip to San Francisco should be made without a stop here. Even if you're diabetic, while this place might kill you, it might also be worth it.

A Heavenly Day at Tahoe

In the months leading up to this trip, I thought that I had chosen the worst possible year to go on a big ski trip. While that may be true, I couldn't have picked a better possible time this year to do it. Exhibit A: 40+ inches of snow at Heavenly Resort on the 17th. While it may have been St. Patricks day and the Jameson and Guinness were flowing, champagne would have been more appropriate; the snow that came in the night was some of the driest and fluffiest I have ever skied on. People on the lift were saying that much of the lower parts of the mountain had been mostly brown just a day before, but that day, there was nothing but gnar to be shred.

The Heavenly View out to Lake Tahoe

Salomon Shoguns

I had promised myself that if in fact I did get an epic powder day on this trip, I would splurge and rent some demo skis. I like my skis fine, but given the opportunity, I wanted to see what fatter ones would be like. Seeing my opportunity, I was set up with some Salomon Shoguns, and by 8:30 am I was on the lift. I made the mistake of not consulting a map. Had I done so, I probably would have headed straight to the Powderbowl instead of starting out with the Face, a steep, long double-black diamond run that ran from the top of the first lift to the California Lodge. Not knowing what else was there, I did it again, since the snow was still fairly untracked. Only once I went up to the Powderbowl did I understand my error: untracked pow pow through manageably steep glades as far as I could see. The trees were far enough apart that I could really fly through them, which I found out was almost a necessity, as you don't want to be caught going too slow through thigh-deep powder - you'll just get stuck. Once, after falling down, I lost a basket at the end of my pole in the struggle to get up. I found it annoying to ski without it, so I had to head down to the lodge to get a replacement - back down the double black slope.

Skiing The Face/Gunbarrel three times not only took time out of my morning, but strength out of my legs. By the time I got back up to the Powderbowl, much of the snow had been tracked over, and my quadriceps were killing me. After one run where I biffed a few too many times, I took a much needed break for lunch.

Originally I had planned to go to Tahoe with my brother, Chris, and his girlfriend. However, the girlfriend couldn't make it at all, and Chris couldn't until Saturday afternoon. But he showed up on the mountain in his best approximation of ski clothes - running gloves, and a fleece with a rain jacket over it (he is not a skier). I then gave him a crash course, trying to remind him of all the things we learned in the few times we went downhill skiing growing up and everything about skiing downhill on cross-country skis. After a few trips down the lazy slopes of the green runs, we moved onto a long blue route that took us all the way up to the top of the mountain. Up there the trees were short, needless, and plastered with snow. I regret I did not take a picture. He handled the mini-moguls well, while I would dart off into the woods in search of pow, only to pop out and rejoin him farther down the slope.

After we were done skiing, we checked into the hotel room at the Timber Lodge in Heavenly Village, which I had paid for with 30,000 Marriott Rewards points. It was nice, but all I really needed was a hot tub. After a good 7+ hours of skiing, my legs were shot and my lower back ached. After a good 40 minutes in the hot tub, Chris and I went out for dinner at a pizza place, which seemed to be the only place other than a completely empty taqueria (seriously, we didn't even see the staff) that didn't charge $20 a plate.

It being St. Patrick's day, we thought ourselves remiss if we didn't at least try to go out, even if both of us were dead tired. Since South Lake Tahoe is right on the border of California and Nevada, there are many large Casinos on the East side of town. We went into Harrah's to check out the scene, but quickly left. Though I love drinking, I don't particularly like St. Patricks day. It's annoying in the same way that Olympic years bring out thousands of people who are suddenly experts in judging diving or gymnastics along with actual experts who seize upon people's willingness to finally listen: it glorifies alcoholics in such a way that those who aren't pretend that they are, and those who are pretend that it's not annoying. That leaves litte room for people like me who have their serious drinking under control. The clientele at Harrah's this particular night did nothing to motivate me to party: lots of dudes I know I wouldn't be friends with hanging on lots of girls I know I couldn't hold a conversation with. Apparently penny slots there don't actually take pennies and you can't actually just lay down the keys to your car at the roulette table. At least the blackjack dealers had really low cut shirts. Chris and I instead got a six pack, some pizza rolls and went back to the hotel room to watch South Park.

This was supposed to capture how awesome the snow (and view) was

Hangin at the Timber Lodge

Heavenly Gondolas coming into the Timber Lodge

EPIC POWDER DAY!!!!!1!!!

Holyshit I'm so excited. Just woke up in Carson City Nevada, about to go to Lake Tahoe for another day and Heavenly, where my next hotel is, just got 48 inches of snow last night.

Day Tripping in Berkeley

Wednesday I took a trip outside of San Francisco to Marin County, north of the city, and Berkeley in the East Bay. I couldn't have picked a day with worse weather. Wednesday was gray, cold, and rainy unfortunate for a college town with hip streets to walk down and allegedly some of the most picturesque towns with some of the most stunning views of the Bay.

My day started out with a (free!) drive across the Golden Gate Bridge into Marin County. I drove through Sausalito, which I previously knew only from the Pepperidge Farm cookies with the same name. It looked nice, and apparently has great views of the bay, but all I say was a wall of gray. I moved on to Berkeley, home of the flagship campus of the University of California. Coming from the "Berkely of the Midwest", and friend to several current and former Cal students, I was keen to see what the place was like. I walked around a bit on Telegraph Avenue, the hub of student shopping and dining. I then went onto the campus itself. First I checked out the anthropology museum, where there was a great exhibit about brewing traditions around the world. The exhibit touched on the fact that almost everywhere that agriculture arose, brewing arose concurrently, which only gives further credence to the idea that our ancestors just wanted to get drunk and forming civilizations was almost completely a byproduct of their decision to band together to more easily brew beer. Probably not widely accepted, but fun to think about. I also checked out the Physics department, where my friend DY is a student; unfortunately for me, he is in Switzerland at CERN. Baller. I also tried to check out Nobel laureate George Smoot's office, but he wasn't around.

Before I left Berkeley, I stopped by the Berkeley Bowl grocery store, on the recommendation of my brother's Girlfriend. As anyone who has seen my OkCupid profile knows, grocery stores are one of my "happy places". This one was like the Shangri-La of grocery stores. Though it was pricey at points, it was a cook's dream. I went in to grab some steak to go with the wine I had brought up from Santa Barbara and walked out with an entire menu, plus some fresh citrus fruit for the road. The orange/tangerine section of this place was almost as big as many other grocery stores's entire produce sections (photo to come).

I finished my day trip with a visit to the Cheese Board pizza. On one of Berkeley's busier streets, the Cheese Board is a fromagerie with a pizza shop attached. Some will recall my fondness for the simplicity of In N Out's menu, and it doesn't get any simpler than Cheese Board pizza: they make one kind of pizza each day; a slice is $2.50, a half or whole pizza is four or eight times that, equal to the number of slices you get. The day I went they were making roasted potato, pasilla pepper, feta, mozzarella, and cilantro. I had a Boont Amber to go with it as I enjoyed my half-pizza while listening to live a live trio playing in the restaurant. On a rainy Wednesday, people were lined up out the door the entire time I was there; when the indoor seating filled up, patrons sat outside, albeit under an awning, to enjoy their slices. A cool place, and apparently a Berkeley tradition.

Soaked at Kirkwood

I haven't even been able to write about half the stuff I did in the bay area, it seems, and I'm already off on the next part of my trip.

I spent a wet but very enjoyable afternoon at Kirkwood ski area. The snow that fell all day may as well have been rain the bottom of the mountain but up top it gave me a nice powder day. Visibility ranged from poor to near white out at times - which was a bit harrowing - but it's really something to feel yourself plow through a mogul field full of fresh pow pow without being able to actually see it. Hopefully that's what you feel like when you die, just floating in a white out.

My all-mountain skis were woefully inadequate. Tonight Lake Tahoe is supposed to get at least a foot of snow, so I may splurge on some high-end demo ski rentals.

More to come about San Francisco, more to come about skiing.

Burma superstar tea leaf salad

Here is the much talked about salad.

A nice photo: the bay bridge

This is not from today, but from a few days ago. Today was shitty and rainy and you probably couldn't even see the bridge. But it is one of the better photos of me that has been taken of me recently so I feel the Internet needs to know about it

Good Eats: Burma Superstar

Unknown musicians often describe themselves as a mix of more popular and established ones. How many times have you heard of a band described as a mix of Led Zeppelin, U2, and Radiohead, or some other such combination? Yeah. So when Burma Superstar, a restaurant located in the Richmond -  the area where much of the city's Asian population resides - described itself as a mix of Indian, Chinese, Thai and Laotian/Vietnamese cuisines, I met that claim with skepticism. But in addition to being someplace my brother wanted to check out, the restaurant came at the recommendation of my friend Toby, who is from the Bay Area and cooks at one of the best restaurants in Madison. We waited 45 minutes on a Monday night, so I was intrigued by what I might find inside.

The signature dish is the tea leaf salad, complete with tea leaves from Burma/Myanmar, which has been featured on the Food Network. My brother and I decided we at least had to see what it was about. Myself being on a curry kick lately, having recently tasted excellent Thai and Nepalese curries, wanted to see what the Burmese had to offer; at our waitress's suggestion, we got a saucy noodle and curry dish. To complement the noodles, she suggested we go with a sauteed dish, specifically the mint chicken, another specialty, and the coconut rice, which was a must to accompany the chicken.

I won't draw out my judgments unnecessarily: the food was absolutely incredible. It was both familiar and exotic; inspirations from other cuisines were combined to make something undoubtedly unique. All the dished we tried worked well enough with their primary flavors, but also contained a complexity and depth that really required rumination.

The tea leaf salad came out first. I expected to be eating whole tea leaves, however, they were chopped up  almost in a paste and served in a bed of lettuce, along with other vegetables. Fried garlic and other crispy additions such as peanuts, sunflower and sesame seeds gave the salad wonderful texture, while a burst of lemon juice added a nice acidity. Each bite was different and seemingly better than the last. It took a while to taste and process all the flavors and texture combinations, but Chris and I both agreed end result was a terrific salad.

The mint chicken was the most surprising dish, again, completely different different than I had envisioned it. Oily, with whole sauteed garlic cloves and spicy red peppers, it reminded me a lot of a Szechuan food, but the addition of mint clearly made it Burmese. Alone it was good, but mixed with the sweet coconut rice it was almost orgasmic, a perfect pairing of  flavors. The coconut rice itself must have been made with the creamy top part of the can (see it for yourself sometime - non desert coconut milk should have a thick creamy "head") and came topped with crispy fried shallots.

The curry noodles were equally as good as everything else. They had a delicate flavor accentuated by green onion. Unfortunately, I have almost no clue was to what spices and other goodness went into the curry. This was the most Thai-like dish, almost a saucier, curry version of Pad Thai.

Myanmar only very recently re-opened diplomatic relations with the United States. I can only hope that this means we get more of their delicious cuisine here. If I'm ever back in San Francisco, stopping by here will be a must, to try some of the dishes I we didn't have room for:  Burmese Samusas, Pork and Pumpkin Stew, the other two curry noodle dishes, chili garlic shrimp. I can't wait.

Bitchin' Afternoon, Parts 2 and 3

While in Santa Barbara, I had the opportunity to have no less than two bitchin' afternoons with no less than the catalyst for the original bitchin' afternoon. Some history: the original afternoon, as I remember it, was a short run, followed by lunch, a lawn party, and even more day drinking. 

The first bitchin' afteroon took place in Santa Barbara, and included a personal tour of the city hitting such points as the Mission, a scenic drive through the hills, a stop at the beach and a beer on the pier, before grabbing some six packs and chilling in E-factor's backyard. With chips and hummus and guacamole as a snack. It was as awesome and as relaxing as it sounds. 

The next day, Eric loaded up some cruiser bikes and drove north with me as far as the Santa Ynez valley, Santa Barbara's wine country. We unloaded in Buellerton and rode in to Solvang - a faux Danish town, similar to New Glarus's swiss village in Wisconsin - for lunch. I was a little disappointed my lunch salad had Gorgonzola instead of Danish blue cheese, but hey, first world problems. 

We then took a leisurely ride through what Eric calls "Tuscany, but with palm trees". I've haven't been to Italy, but if it looks anything like what we rode through, I'm sure I'll enjoy myself when I get there. The day drinking was accomplished only by me; we stopped off at a wine shop for a tasting. The array provided for me included  lots of Pinot Noir, which I liked, some Chardonnay - which I didn't, and a local Syrah that I liked so much I bought a bottle to share with my brother and his girlfriend sometime in San Francisco. Our route happened to coincide with a century race that was going on that day, so we repeatedly got passed by riders on gorgeous carbon framed bikes, however, their race being 100 miles, and our ride only being 15, there were a few weekend warrior types that we chugged past.

I'll be seeing the E-factor in Vail in a few weeks, so there is a chance for future installments of the now world-famous Bitchin' Afternoon.

Catching Up: Splits from the first leg

One week in, I've made it about as far West as the roads of the contiguous United States will take me: San Francisco. I'll be staying here until Thursday, which finally provides me some time to catch my breath, after sprinting across the Southwest and up the California Coast. Up until now, I had only once stayed somewhere for more than 24 hours – Los Angeles, for about 36 – and my average driving time each day was 7 hours.

While running a race, it is often helpful to get splits for specific intervals. While this trip is by no means competitive, I figured I'd record some statistics for the first half of the driving, though I consider it the first third of the trip.

Days on the road: 6

Total miles driven: 2642

Longest Drive: Madison to Oklahoma City. 837 miles, 12 hours

Shortest Drive: Los Angeles to Santa Barbara. 85 miles, 90 minutes

New Beers tried: 8 - Firestone California Pale Ale, Double Barrel Ale (California); La Cumbre Elevated IPA, South Peak Pilsner (New Mexico); Flying Dog Raging Bitch Belgian IPA (Maryland); Westmalle Trappist Dubbel (Belgium); Anderson Valley Boont ESB (California); Victoria Modelo (Mexico)

In N Out beef patties consumed: 4

Number of head-turning girls in Southern California: too many to count

Cameras in my possession: 3 – my DSLR, iPhone, and a Canon point and shoot given to me by my Godparents (technically 4, since the iPhone has two)

Times I've thought to myself, “I should just stay here and never leave”: 4 - Los Angeles, Santa Barbara, Big Sur, San Francisco.

Discs of books on tape gone through: 12 (Proust and the Squid, part of The Genome War)

Best meal: Sushi at Izakaya Hachi, Los Angeles

Honorary mention best single menu item: Chicharrones breakfast burrito smothered with Chimayo red chile sauce, Cecilia's Cafe, Albuquerque

Worst meal: yogurt covered raisins and beef jerky, my car, thankfully only once

Hitchhikers picked up: 0

Phone numbers picked up: 1, from a Kazakh girl in LA. 

Phone numbers accidentally dialed the next day, hung up, then immediately called back by a girl you'll never see again followed by a conversation awkward enough that even the E-factor comments on it: 1

San Francisco: an image.

This is one of the best photos I've taken this trip, mostly because it captures so much in a single image.
Ostensibly, it is a picture of my brother and his girlfriend after we went out for dim sum. But it also gets the transamerica pyramid, the "language of the books" sculpture, and, if you look real close, a Banksy piece. "if at first you don't succeed - call an air strike."

Chasing and racing the sun

Part I

The drive from Oklahoma to the Texas-New Mexico border is long and boring. Flat. Windy. Mostly brown on the color pallet, although the deep red earth of Oklahoma is neat. Lots of billboards for oil extraction services. The only halfway interesting thing the entire trip is a towering white cross off the interstate in the Texas panhandle, which only became interesting later, when I found out from E-factor that it is the largest cross in some mostly arbitrary zone. I just thought that I was in Texas, and crosses like that were par for the course.

Somewhere right after the state line in New Mexico, the Interstate climbs a gradually sloped hill, then drops into a completely different landscape. Previously void, the landscape suddenly contains mesas, plateaus dropping off in sharp bluffs, and small gullies carved into the ground. I hit this terrain right as the sun was low and preparing to set, silhouetting the rock formations. I felt like I was driving right at the sun, chasing it so that it might never actually set, perpetually hovering above the horizon. But since a point on the Earth's surface at that latitude is travelling about 800 miles an hour (~25000 miles circumference/24 hours*cos(latitude)), and my Civic can barely sustain 1/8 of that, I lost the sun, having to wait another day to chase it.

Part II

The Pacific Coast Highway is one of the most spectacular stretches of road in the United States. I've posted pictures of it, with more to come, but it is a zone of boundaries - where mountains drop into the sea, where clouds on the horizon obscure where the sky stops and the ocean starts. It has coves where waves crash and spray stone pillars for rocks-and-water syndrome sufferers like myself, and elephant seal beaches and sea otter preserves for animal lovers.

I have ridden the PCH once before, but never driven it, which is why I allotted myself an entire day to experience it. However, due to several conspiring factors, I got a later than anticipated start out of Santa Barbara county and was forced to the realization that I would not get to drive up the entirety of Hwy 1, which hugs the coast, before sunset. By 5:30 the sun was very low and I had not yet reached Big Sur, which meant I had choices to make: did I stop at one of the many pullouts overlooking craggy coves to try and capture the magic hour? or did I press on, in hope of making it to the famed Big Sur for sunset?

It turns out the decision was moot. The same could embankment that had earlier obscured the horizon line in such stunning way had moved inland. One of the pictures published shows the sun dropping behind that wall of low hanging clouds. Instead of an orange sherbet sunset, I watched the clouds engulf mountaintops in a eerie gray mist.

Good Eats: "Chipping In" In Santa Barbara

On my way up the coast to Santa Barbara I saw something I'd never seen before: people harvesting produce, probably migrant workers. As I see it, that's all part of understanding more completely where our food comes from. Unless you somehow grow all your own food. Someone else is picking your raspberries, kale and bell peppers. What it mean that day for me was that I was in produce country and there was plenty of it to be bought at roadside stands. I stopped off at one to pick up a gift for my hosts. I got seven small but flavorful avocados for $1 and a pint of strawberries for $3.

I was happy to see that my gifts were 1) brought to good use and 2) that I could be there to enjoy them. The avocados made a tasty guacamole that we ate as a afternoon snack. The strawberries were used at dinner, to make a chutney that perfectly complemented a juicy roast pork tenderloin that Eric's dad had made with a peppery dry rub (paprika and cayenne being the two main ingredients). Along with buttery mashed potatoes and asparagus spears grilled and drizzled with olive oil and nutmeg, we had a perfect menu. We finished all that off with cake topped with toasted macadamia nuts, which Eric's family had brought back from Hawaii, a place they visit frequently.

Complementing our entire day, not to mention dinner, were two beers from the Firestone Brewery in Santa Barbara. Sharing the namesake of Firestone Tires, though I had never heard of nor had any of their beers, Firestone apparently has widespread recognition as a top tier microbrewery. After a few sips of the California Pale Ale, it's easy to see why. Their Pale Ale was the better of the two we had, the other being the Double Barrel Ale, which was good, but not outstanding. The CPA is among the best American Pale Ales I've ever had, along with Lake Louie's Arena Premium and O'Dell's Five Barrel Pale Ale. Smooth, citrusy and just the right amount of hops, it's a great companion to a sun soaked day in Southern California.

Los Angeles, city of dreams

My time in Los Angeles was full of revelation. Most importantly, I found out I liked it a lot more than I thought I would. I expected to find the a sprawl as unbearable as Phoenix's. Certainly, the freeway landscape exists for miles, but here it seems justified. Wedged between rolling hills and the ocean, with gorgeous weather, I can see why people choose to live here. Where I expected to find a city full of fake, lacking anything real, I found instead that L.A. was very real. From fantastic food, to fun people it had many of the things I look for in a city. I'm sure in other parts it is dirty and dangerous, glitzy without being truly good. But until I find those parts, I'll definitely be back, looking for more.

Los Angeles, while it may technically be the city of angels, it could be better described as the city of dreams. Gio, Badger's roommate is an aspiring actor. Badger has his own dreams, some of which are being fulfilled. After spending a while working on software he finally gets to do aeronautical engineering at a lab in Malibu. Every person I met while out had aspirations; nobody seemed content with where they were, for better or for worse.

Doesn't get much better than this

Driving up to San Francisco on the Pacific Coast Highway:

Night out in SB

Today I drove up the pacific coast highway to visit my friend the e-factor, who lives in Santa Barbara. Tonight we are going out in downtown, starting at Joe's, a local favorite where you can order a whiskey cokes are topped off more like long island iced teas, with barely a splash.

Good Eats: Izakaya Hachi

You never forget your first time. But for any sufficiently thrilling activity, such as sex, or, even riding a bicycle, the real thrill comes at a point after which you've overcome the initial apprehensions of experiencing the unknown where your mind becomes forever altered by the epiphany that you haven't really been living without this feeling and that it needs to occur more. When learning to ride a bike, this time between being somewhat fearful and exhilaration is fairly short. Once you realize that you're not going to crash, and that your momentum should keep you going, the rush of travelling faster than you could on your own two legs, flying down hills, sets in and you ride, just ride up and down the street until your parents call you home for dinner. Sex can take a little bit longer, since most people tend to have a terrible first time, but our hardwiring keeps us going at it until, hopefully, it comes with the power induce a flood of brain chemistry rivaled by few other experiences. For me, eating sushi took considerably longer.

I've always liked sushi. I'm generally not a picky eater, I like fish, and I'm not afraid of raw, whatever the context. But until last night, my experience was limited to what I could find in Wisconsin, New Hampshire, and a few inexpensive New York sushi restaurants. My favorite had been bbq eel, or unagi, with spicy tuna a close second. Sushi was something I had very rarely; it was good, but unless someone else suggested going to Wasabi, or Yama, I would eat out elsewhere. And then I had it in California, and everything I knew fell away in a paradigm shifting 90 minutes at Izakaya Hachi.

True to history, eating Japanese was not my idea. I originally wanted to find some Korean BBQ for dinner, or visit a gastropub called BruHaus. But Gio and Badger pressed for Japanese, and I agreed. I believed, as most do, that California sushi is just better and I anticipated going out for it in San Francisco. But sitting there I figured, eh might as well get sushi. While my company was ordering freely from the menu, I wasn't quite so hungry after happy hour and decided on the "five assorted sushi pieces" option. What came over the Sushi bar from the chef forever changed the way I looked at the Japanese, fish, and even eating itself.

Our chef chose for me: salmon, tuna, yellowtail, squid and shrimp. I started with the salmon, something familiar, and immediately found myself unable to describe it. Despite all the rolls and pieces I'd eaten before, this was something new, exponentially better, able to at the same time cause a sense of loss and dismay at what I'd previously considered sushi and yet fill me with a fullness and assurance that I was was experiencing true Quality, something good. The texture was indescribable, unlike anything I'd ever had, forcing me to reevaluate my sense of texture in food. Badger supplied some words: buttery, soft, thought I'm still not sure they provide the right description. I don't know Japanese, but perhaps they have invented the correct words to encapsulate all that sushi is. As Badger and Gio related to me later, I just sat there, quiet, almost unable to respond to external stimuli. My mouth was a happy place, a sanctuary, and it was all that mattered.

I continued down the line. Shrimp was good, though not my favorite. Squid has little to offer in flavor, but a lot to offer in its texture. Tuna and Yellowtail were equally mind blowing as the salmon. As was the trend all day, Badger and Gio sat, waiting for me to finish my drink of sake as I contemplated shat had just happened, and how I was going to get more.

Bitchin' Afternoon Part 1

The Bitchin' Afternoon is a time honored tradition that includes three main components: nice weather, satisfying food, and day drinking. This afternoon certainly qualified, as I spent the time with Badger and his roommate, Gio, in Santa Monica.

After catching up with my buddy Mike, who goes to law school at USC, I went out to the Promenade in downtown Santa Monica. After downing several cervezas and fish tacos, we went for a stroll on the beach. On the beach is a "Muscle Gym" with pull-up bars, rings, climbing ropes, and other assorted work out equipment. We all attempted to do the tarzan ring swing (video to come later); only Gio failed to make traverse the entire obstacle.

Around 4:30 we decided it was time to start drinking again. Badger had the inspired idea to find a rooftop bar, to soak in the last rays of the sun. We found one atop the Shangri-La Hotel, which is right above the beach. Happy hour there was a real find - $5 belgian beers, $4 popcorn chicken with siracha aioli and sweet potato fries with avocado salsa. We went through several rounds, watching the sun set in the Pacific.

Heismaning around the world: USC

Some may remember that instead of forcing a dumb smile in front of landmarks, I strike a funny pose, the "heisman" stiff arm like the trophy. this is akin, but far superior, to "tebowing", who coincidentally has his own heisman.

Today I am in the city with the largest population of heismans, Los Angeles (perhaps not per capita due to a recent loss in its population). Even with the vacation of Reggie bush's trophy, USC still has like 6 of them, including oj simpsons.

So I present heismaning in the hall of heismans:

Graphotos

In the past I have called them non-photos. Now I'm calling them graphotos. Basically, short vignettes of scenes I didn't capture on camera.

My most recent one was driving though some of the mountains on the way to Los Angeles through the area of palm springs. I came through the valley if the wind mills just as the sun was setting behind the mountains. There were more types of windmills than I had ever seen before: double bladed, small triple bladed, large triple blades. Dozens upon dozens of windmills churning in the rosy sunlit valley.

Good eats: Road food

So far I've stuck to my rule of "no fast food". It's been only local food, such as the carne adovado in albuquerque or my godparents home cooking. That all ends right now, kind of. I stand before an In N Out burger, the west coast treat that should be partaken in at every opportunity. the fact that I'm insinuating it even somehow compares to the plebeian fare of burger King or Wendy's is punishable by excommunication in some California cities.

In n out really isn't anything less than a California specialty. Hemingwayesque in the menu's simplicity, they do a burger that is up there with anything. Take your Gorgonzola, shallot and mesclun greens burger and save it for next week; I may eat nothing but double-doubles when I'm eating by myself here. I swear they must really be made from unicorn, not beef, and seasoned with a leprechaun's tears.

Good eats: Turbo mate latte photos

The Godfather, Part 1

Yesterday I arrived in Chandler, AZ a suburb on the far extent of the Phoenix sprawl. I don't particularly like Phoenix; Arizona in general is beautiful, but the sprawl here is just a little too much.

My reason for stopping here is to visit my godparents, Zhou and Tan, who I haven't seen in over 20 years. More accurately, they haven't seen me in 20 years. I have no memories of them whatsoever, since they moved away from where I grew up before I was  able to form lasting memories.

My stay has been fairly uneventful, but I've gotten a chance to catch up with them, show them pictures of me and my family, discuss their lives, and of course, eat their Chinese cooking.

Zhou is The Godfather. He's a software engineer at a company that makes chips for Blackberries. He's an audiophile - Tan chides him for the number of high end speaker sets he owns - and introduced me to the Japanese new age artist Kitaro

Tan is a kind woman with a kick-ass chile pepper oil recipe. I had homemade Chinese food smothered in it; very hot, very good.

This afternoon I make the drive to Los Angeles to visit the Badger. I'll have a couple hours to burn somewhere between here and there, as I try to time my arrival to miss LA's rush hour traffic. Joshua Tree is tempting, or I could go on a quest to find a T-shirt for Buddy. Cal-State Bakersfield, Long Beach State, and Loyola Marymount are all on the list.

Me, Zhou and Tan by their pool

Aaaaaaaaaalbuquerque, or, things I'm not proud of

Albuquerque was not supposed to be on my itinerary. Instead, I was supposed to be up in Taos to ski, but a scheduling change meant I had two days to get to Phoenix from Oklahoma City instead of three, therefore, Albuquerque. This was not all bad news, as it provided me an opportunity to seek out some frybread tacos or other southwestern fare NOTE: NOT the same as Mexican (more on this later). But there was bad news: I don't know anybody in Albuquerque, and I didn't have money for a hotel room. This left me with two options 1) slum it in a Wal-Mart parking lot 2) Paratrooping. If you believe that I have some level of decency, you should probably just stop reading this post and preserve that illusion. If you already know that I am depraved, look up the term "paratrooping" on Urban Dictionary and keep reading.

I planned it out so that I would arrive in Albuquerque around 9, so I wasn't sitting at an empty bar for too long, but still had enough time to get in several salvos of pickup lines and even a venue change if necessary. Of course my first move was to go to a grocery store and buy some Chimayo chile powder (more on this in another post). After having to walk all the way back to where I parked my car to drop off the Chimayo, I went to a bar that the guy at the burrito joint I ate dinner at told me to go to. This entire night was kind of ad libbed, so bear with me.

Monday nights in ABQ are dead. The first bar I went to was a total dive. There were two hipsters playing ping pong in back, and two guys that looked and spoke like they went to Ridgemont High at the bar. The only thing I got out of it was an awesome tip on a breakfast burrito. The next bar I tried was a tapas and tap house - decent, but it was only groups of people and the only really cute girl was the waitress, who both busy and having none of it. Beginning to wonder if I would have to ask my iPhone to find nearby Walmarts, I went to the highest rated bar on yelp that was within walking distance. It's a bar on the second story of a restaurant and as soon as I walked in, I knew that if it didn't happening here, it wasn't gonna happen: decent crowd, some cute girls, and they even had O'Dell 90 Schilling Ale on tap! The bartender commented on my Wisconsin license and a couple people around me started talking to me about that. One of them was a homely girl whose family was from Neenah, WI. There is only one thing to say about Neenah - it has a foundry that makes manhole covers found all around the world. She found this fascinating. I could have bit the bullet, completed the mission right then and there, but there was a  brunette across the bar and I wanted that. So I wished the sure thing a nice evening, ordered another O'Dell, and waited to operate.

Accompanied by a cute friend and some guy, the newly acquired target was a gorgeous girl with dark features and flowing hair. I pretty much just cold-approached her and it turns out she was both a model and a total bitch. Obviously my mistake was talking to her first, so I tried to right the ship by shifting my attention and chatting with her friend, who was actually very interesting. A photographer and a runner like myself, we talked for a while about various thing including linguistics, of all topics. I began to think that maybe I could get the guy out of the picture, who seemed to be into the nice girl, and I would complete the objective. Then the model came back and I found out why they were out. The photographer girl and the model girl were going to do a photo shoot in the middle of the night and decided to get drunk first. Apparently this was needed because the model would be photographed dressed as a prostitute. My second, biggest mistake, was somehow not seeing this shoot happen. I mentioned that I would like to join them, since I had nothing better to do, but the bitchy girl was having none of it. I should have insisted, done whatever it took, because it would have been a fantastic story; I will probably have several fantasies about what would have happened had I found a way to go with them. But, rejected, dejected, drunk and out of time by this point, I resigned myself to a night in the parking lot.

The night was not without collateral damage though. On my way back to the car, I, for whatever reason, tried to open a door to a closed down restaurant/bar. I will never know why. There must have been something out of place, like it was a little ajar, because, to my complete shock, it was unlocked. Naturally I went in to explore. Then I found the bar, an almost full bottle of Blanton's single barrel bourbon and went into klepto mode. I stuffed it under my sweatshirt and snuck out the door to an empty street, taking pulls from all the way back to my car. Having already said "fuck it" to just about everything that day, I climbed into my passenger seat, put on my jacket and stocking cap, and just went to sleep parked on the side of the street.

I will add that, until I had that breakfast burrito the next morning, I did not feel really good about any of this. Maybe it's a sign to start living virtuously. Maybe the universe is just on "expert" mode right now and I'll need to up my game to continue. Anyways, I'd like to publicly apologize to the owner of a bar in Albuquerque. But it's not like anybody was drinking that anyways, it was mostly full.

Thanks for reading my confessional, now enjoy Weird Al

OK!

Oklahoma City it probably the last major city in the United States that I would ever consider visiting for pleasure, below even Houston and Newark. All else equal, I'd book a flight for Cleveland before I came here. But OKC is a convenient first stop on the way to California and my friend Anders lives here, so I have a place to stay and a person to hang out with.

He lives here, because he is a world-class lightweight rower and two Oklahoma energy companies, Chesapeake and Devon, have ponied up the cash to create a national Olympic training center. People tiptoe around the issue, but it's the “boathouse that fracking built.” Nonetheless, Oklahoma is now a hotspot of rowing (and flatwater kayaking). There is a man made “river”, with perfectly graded banks, accomplished by damming what would otherwise be shit-trickle running through downtown. The amenities are astounding – racing shells that cost as much as a house, an altitude simulating training room, erg tanks, world-class weight room. They even have a contraption that is like your standard gym rowing-machine, except you kayak on it. Truly, Anders is living the post-collegiate dream.

Anders proved more than worth as a host. In the short time I was there, we managed to see the boathouse, go out in the Arts district, take a boat tour of the course and check out his favorite coffee shop. And his driving tour of and commentary on downtown OKC was interesting. Oklahoma City is also built on energy money, it's most prominent feature is the as-yet-uncompleted billion dollar Devon tower, which unfortunately looks like an uncircumcised phallus, allegedly with a large ball at the base. Oil derricks, the giant iron pumps that slowly rock up and down, are everywhere, even on the lawn of the Statehouse. The influence of this money seems to put the city at odds with itself. OKC is definitely trying to find an identity, but at this moment it mostly seems disjointed. The downtown area, where the skyscrapers and the Thunder basketball arena are, is a ghost town at night. Major infrastructure projects are everywhere; apparently the city is moving all the interstate interchanges to the outskirts of town. Neighborhoods of un-tastefully large, Italianate houses exist two blocks from dilapidated strips of fast food joints, dollar stores and empty storefronts. In many places, buildings exist just as islands, awkwardly placed too far apart from each other. The average age of marriage for women is 20 or 21, and I'm told almost all the others are actively looking for Mr. Right. At the same time that it felt a world away from where I come from, familiar markers indicated that it really wasn't. This is in contrast to a place like Miami, where it feels like you're in another country. It doesn't have the fake feel of Orlando or Las Vegas, but the general culture in OKC seems so unoriginal – according to Jared, a native Oklahoman, the local food and drink specialties are “fast food” and “whiskey”. Yet I found myself somewhat charmed by parts of the city. That is, the hipster spots.

Anders had done a good job of scouting places and took me to some cool spots. He lives near the arts district, a small cluster of art galleries, bars and restaurants. Apparently every friday the galleries are open at night and have wine tastings, which sounds really cool. We, along with his friend Jared - think pre-weight loss Jonah Hill with an OU hat and a love for designer drugs - and roommate/teammate Vince, went to “the Other Place”, a bar with egyptian-themed murals, small rooms with sofas and drapes, for privacy, and an enormous back patio. Lots of flannel, dark framed glasses, lots of tattoos and piercings. I imagine in summer it's necessary to be outside. We didn't get to sit in one of the secluded areas, but it looked like a place I could hang out in again.

Anders scored again in the morning when he took Vince and me to the Beatnix Cafe, his favorite coffeehouse to eat breakfast and read Sherlock Holmes in. Another hipster-y place, Beatnix has eclectic décor, good coffee, and lots of Yerba Mate. The cost of living is extremely low in OKC – you can buy a house for $40k – so a good avocado, egg and cheese bagel was only $2.99. Anders mentioned to the barista/owner, Dave, that it I was visiting from out of town. Without hesitation, Dave said that I should try his signature drink, the Turbo Mate Latte, on the house. It quickly became apparent that this portly middle-aged guy in an Orange County Choppers tee was a Mate aficionado. He knew exactly how much theobromide and niacin was in each of his mate blends. The Turbo blend is specially crafted from several other Mates, peppermint, guarana, and ginseng; soy milk and a ingredient I didn't catch are added in to make it a latte. One of its features is that it contains all three types of caffeines – those found in coffee, tea and chocolate. The Turbo Mate Latte is Dave's special contribution to this world and he talks about it like it's his baby. He is definitely on to something; if you are ever in Oklahoma, find a way to get to Beatnix and get this drink. It tastes like green tea ice cream that was melted and heated up – creamy, aromatic, it tingles the taste buds and smoothly fills the mouth. Not overpowering, just enough. And it has the equivalent caffeine dose of 15 cups of green tea, so you get really buzzed, but not a jittery buzz, more like your brain is suddenly a helium ballon hovering rising up to meet the cranial dome. As we were tasting our Turbos, a regular came in, ordered a coffee, and simply walked behind the counter to open the fridge for creamer. Neither Dave, nor his other barista, who looked a lot like Skrillex, seemed to notice or care.

Certainly, I hadn't given OKC enough credit. But I doubt I'll be back, at least for a while, especially since Anders will likely be leaving in less than a year. It seems as though I'm as unsure about what I think of the city, as the city is unsure of what it thinks about itself. 

Ain't Nothing in Kansas Ain't Nothing in Kansas Ain't nothin in Kansas

Day one, on the open road! I decided to start my trip with the most brutal drive of the entire trip – a 12 hour straight shot from Wisconsin to Oklahoma City, crossing the spare landscapes of Iowa and Kansas on the way down.

The drive was going ok until I passed Topeka, Kansas. Lost in the emptiness of the flatland, halfway to Witchita, I suddenly noticed that my gas gauge had dropped significantly. Confident in the fuel efficiency of my Honda Civic, I decided to press on. However, the needle continued its precipitous drop towards “Empty” and I began to worry. I asked my iPhone where the nearest gas station was: 20 miles, back the other way in Emporia. Unfortunately there aren't really any exits on this part of the interstate, since there is literally nothing around. Not even trees or bushes, just grass and dirt. Also absent are places to turn around, so onward I pressed, the next dot on the map as far ahead as Emporia was behind. As long as the gas warning light doesn't come on. It came on. Dammit, not on the first day, I can't believe how stupid I am.

Once before have I been in a similar situation, on the outskirts of Chicago. Exit after exit passed with no indication of gas nearby, until I finally just took one, asked for directions to the nearest pump at a Red Robin, and made it safely to a Mobil station. That time I went 15 miles with the warning light on.

Shit, can't be sure I'll make it if I turn around, Emporia being 20 miles in my rearview mirror (had I been in an old western with a Native American guide, he or she probably would have actually been able to see it). So I took my chances, variable as the gusts of winds sweeping across the Kansas plain. To save on fuel efficiency, I tucked in behind a double semi-trailer. It wove back and forth in the lane, played with by the wind. I am either going to die when this thing jack-knifes or run out of gas in the middle of nowhere on my first day, not sure which is more humiliating. 10 miles went by. There is still nothing as far as the eye can see. I pass an RV, noting that they might have a gas can if I can flag them down from the side of the road when I inevitably run out of gas. There were no landmarks to gauge how far into the void I was going, just the slow tick of tenths of miles on the odometer. I hit 15 miles, now in both literal and figurative no-man's land. Suddenly, there is a tower off in the distance. Please let that be something. I need it to be something. Sixteen, seventeen. It grows slowly larger, some more buildings become visible. Maybe it's a town, maybe it's a mirage. Then, 18.6 miles after the low-gas light flickered on, an Oasis appears. Phillips 66! I am invincible, nothing can ruin me. My knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel. I relax as I coast off the interstate, up to the pump. A road sign says “Next fuel, 33 miles”. Still on the line.

Go West, young man!

Like many Americans before me, I am about to embark upon a journey towards the Pacific Ocean. However, in stead of searching for gold, land, or a place to practice polygamy, I am in search of ski slopes and fresh powder, the best local food and alcohol, and an escape from the shit winter I've been dealt in Wisconsin.

Yes. A road trip to go skiing, in the warmest and least snowy winter in a while, in a month when gas prices are as high as base depths are low. But I don't really care. I will be meeting friends throughout the trip, some I haven't seen in a very, very long time. My trip breaks down into three basic parts:

I. The trip to San Francisco
II. Northern California
III. Skiing my way back home

Leg one of the trip will begin this Sunday, as I drive the long, boring stretch of the heartland between Wisconsin and Oklahoma City. I'll be dropping by my friend's place for a night; he's promised me a good time. I'm not sure what he has in store for me, but he is reliably fun, so I'm not worried. After that, I'll take a drive across the Texas Panhandle to New Mexico, where I won't do anything. I'll probably just sleep in my car that night. Brutal. The next day I'll haul ass again to Phoenix, where I'll get to meet my godparents for the first time I can remember. They haven't seen me in a very long time and have been very excited at the thought of a visit. I'm planning to take them out to dinner to catch up. I move on to hopefully sunny southern California the following day, where I'll crash with the Badger. Badger is a friend of mine from work (before he moved away). He's graciously offered to take vacation the day I'm there, so I think there will be some beach and maybe some clubbing, which is kind of his thing. After partying in Malibu my plan is to make a leisurely drive up the beautiful Pacific Coast Highway, stopping in Santa Barbera for sure, probably wherever I just see fit. Good thing I'm bringing the DSLR. Which brings me to ...

San Francisco.

My brother recently moved there for a job. I haven't visited him yet so I'm excited to see his "very nice" apartment in Pacific Heights. It's been almost a decade since I went to SF with my family, so I'm excited to do the grown up thing. I'll arrive on a Friday night, so I'm hopefully not too tired to go out for a drink. Apparently wine bars are big there, can't imagine why. I'm staying the whole week, so I have plenty of time to check out the Bay Area. At least one day will be spent in Berkeley. At least $200 will be spent on food in the area. I will probably eat Dim Sum every day for breakfast. I'm getting hungry just thinking about it. I've got some recommendations of places to check out from some trustworthy sources, certainly more to come on those after I go to them.

I've just realized I don't have a lot planned that week. I hope I can keep myself busy and mostly out of my brother's way.

The last part is the focus of the trip. This entire thing is only happening because I am going skiing with several college friends in Vail, CO. At the time gas was cheaper and since I had the free time and did want to visit my brother, driving around the Western US was only slightly more expensive than flying. Then flight prices dropped and gas went up, but I was so caught up in what I could do in between  San Francisco and Vail - shred that gnar gnar - that I said "fuck it, lets do this". So, in the span of about 12 days I will be skiing 8 times at Kirkwood, CA, somewhere right on Lake Tahoe, Snowbasin, Alta and Vail (and maybe Beaver Creek). Snow is starting to fall in greater quantities as I type, so I'm hopeful I'll get some untracked powder. In all this, I will pay a visit to my buddy Glenn, who lives in Western Colorado. When I asked if I could stay with him he said, "there is plenty of bear meat and homemade wine". Count me in!

Vail in particular will be exciting. I'm meeting with a group of my college buddies, something I've been doing for several years now. Unable to score the ski-in-ski-out condo one of their parents own, we will be cramming into a 1 bed with sleeper sofa rental. Lots of Lucky Pierres, aka the guy who has to sleep in between two other people when sharing a bed. Lots of awesome O'Dell beers. Lots of laughs.

Underlying all this is a quest to find Buddy, my cantankerous boss at the running shoe store, T-Shirts from as many Division 1 NCAA basketball teams as I can. I have a list of all the schools he doesn't already own shirts from that are within 100 miles of any city I'm stopping at, along with shitty directions as to where they are.  It is as follows:

arizona: arizona in tucson......california:cal poly in san luis obispo...cal state bakersfield...long beach state...loyola maramount in la...offhighway #1 above marina del rey, north of lax and south of santa monica...pacific in stocton...just east of sf...pepperdine in malabu...and santa clara in santa clara...adj. to san jose.....colorado...denver andnorthern co. in greeley..north of ft. collins...nebraska...creighton in omaha...oklahoma:  oral roberts and tulsa , both in tulsa...utah:   utah state in logan, way north of slc...utah in slc...weber state in ogden, north of slc


oh Buddy.

for anybody following, I'll post updates almost everyday. Hopefully there are some funny stories to tell.

Next time on Stranger Here ... "hey Andy, remember the time you stayed in a Walmart Parking lot and had to escape meth addicts who thought your car was a giant spider egg sac?"