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2005-06-06 - 10:33 a.m. Current Tune: Black Star, Radiohead Yowza. My feet are once again planted in Missouri soil, and I'll do my absolute best to recant (for you and me) the last week spent exploring the cities of San Diego and Tijuana, respectively. I suppose rumour of my job hunt finally circulated through the ears of the higher-ups and thus, a few months ago, they offered me the opportunity (privilage?) to attend the American College Health Association national conference in sunny San Diego. I was intially supposed to give some lecture on marketing and give an in-depth seminar on the CD-Rom I'd created, but feigning "cold-feet" (read: not wanting any type of serious responsibility) I downgraded to just showing off the Cd-Rom in a semi-formal presentation setting. Instead of giving a lecture each day, I now simply had to show the Cd-Rom once and be done with it. So work was basically offering me an all-expenses paid trip to sunny San Diego for a week under the pretense that I a)Show off the marketing and advertising efforts we've pinoeered, b) attend some of the other seminars and classes, especially those involving marketing ideas and c) represent the University of Missouri in a "positive" light (which I'm assuming meant don't show up to seminar's drunk, don't try to have sex with the 1000 or so students who would be attending the seminar as representatives from their schools, and don't scream "I'm a Golden God" while diving off the balcony and into the swimming pool high on LCD.) Those conditions seemed reasonable, considering that should I decide to play along, I'd be rewarded handsomely. So I shelved my job search for the last couple of months and set my sights on the West Coast. Brief synopsis of ACHA: A foundation set-up for colleges to combine their efforts in the fields of researching and treating college health issues. Members are typically physicians or managers of college health centers. National meetings are held once a year to allow members to convene and exchange informtaion on studies, new devleopments, etc... Current Tune: Shit Towne, Live Ok, back to the meat and potatoes. Memorial Day marked the day before departure and I did my best to spend it relaxing and resting due to the 4:45am shuttle departure the Tuesday morning after. Unfortunately (as is always the case) my mind would not shut down and I found myself finally dozing off around 1:30am. Three short hours later, the alarm sounded and I rose from bed like a zombie, pinballed down the hallway, almost drowned in the shower, stared-down a blurry pre-travel checklist, and fumbled with the keys, dropping them 4 times before successfully unlocking my car. In what might be the first time in recorded history, I arrived at the shuttle pick-up point before anyone else. I was not only on time, I was early. Eerie. The shuttle was uneventful and somewhat mind-numbing due to the continual droll of our shuttle driver Charlie who proceeded to recount not noly his life story, but also the in's and out's of being an airport shuttle driver. And anyone who knows me knows that I'm a considerate listner who oftens inspires other speakers to continue long after they should have shut the fuck up. Once on the plane, I settled into my Ipod and the almost 4 hour flight passed with incidence... Until the last 20 minutes. I've prolly flown somwhere around 100 times total. My family has a penchant for travel, and we've driven or flown to something like 38 states total, so flying has always been a piece of pie for me. I don't have any of the typical anxieties during take-off, landing, etc... While people around me nervously chatter or clutch their armrests with white-knuckling intensity, I usually stare out the window contemplating how they cut those perfect patchwork squares into the fields below. But lately (lately being the last 6 or 7 times I've flown) I've been experiencing an intense pain in my forehead just above my right eye during the final descent. Almost without fail, every time the plane has begun its descent, a sharp stinging pain has erupted out of nowhere right above my right eye. It feels like an intense pinching pain of the thin layer of nerves below the skin. It's been getting steadily worse, and this time it was enough to force tears out of my eyes as I gritted my teeth against the pain. I half expect an aneurysm to explode in my forhead at any moment, sending my noggin face down into my peanuts and coke. The pain subsides once the plane lands and by the time we've taxied to the gate, it has vanished. But for almost 20 minutes, I'm staring down some of the most intense pain I've felt in my 24 years of living, no kidding. Current Tune: Mrs. Rita, Gin Blossoms (Holy Jehova, Why do I love this song soooo much?!?!) Navigating the airport with 9 women, being the only male and seemingly the only seasoned traveller, is to say the least, FUCKIN FRUSTRATIN trying to get a gaggle of middle-aged women from the gate to the (clearly marked) baggage claim area. Half an hour later(!?!) we arrive at the claim, retrieve our bags and start the process of jacking a shuttle and getting to the hotel. The weather (thankfully) stayed a cool 70 degrees the entire week with only incrimental moments of cloudyness. Current Tune: 5:15, The Who The hotel turned out to be a sprawling resort that housed some 7000 rooms over a square mile complex. Walking form the front area back to the tower my room was in took a good 5 minutes, even at a brisk pace. There were 6 seperate pools, 7 restaurants, and unlimited opportunities for slipping off and exploring San Diego. My roomate was to join me later that afternoon. His name is Dean Anderson and he's our new sexual health peer advisor. In the hopes of developing and improving our sexual health program, the powers that be opted to do away with the rotating grad student position and go with a full time adult educator to head up the program. Kudos and whatnot. Dean is a fucking trip. 45, salt and pepper hair, deep tan, tall and lanky, and of course gay. He bounds around with the agility and energy of a man half his age, he spends most of his weekends hiking, biking or travelling, and has a quirky sense of humour that fits me to a T. We'd met once in the past for a fleeting moment, so I new very little about him prior to this week, but I had no reservations about rooming with him. Which was fantastic because we ended up bonding and becoming extremely good friends and fellow adventurers. More on that in a lil bit. So I was supposed to attend around 5 or 6 seminars/presentations a day during the hours of 8am-5:15pm from Tuesday until Friday, with Saturday serving as our "free day" to tour the city, go to the world famous zoo, etc. After going to the opening ceremonies (a key-note address by former surgeon general Jocelyn Elders) and attending my first seminar (a state of the union-esque address from some DEA agent about drugs in the college setting) I came to the abrupt conclusion that attending these seminars every day for the next 5 days was most definitely not in my best interests. Current Tune: Hip Hop, Mos Def So off with the khakis and polo, on with the jeans and the t-shirt. Sneaking out the hotel and down through the service elevator, I boarded a trolley (yes! the public transportation in San Diego is clean, quick, and a trolley to boot!) and started my San Diego adventure. Current Tune: Lukin, Pearl Jam The first day I roamed through an open air mall in what must have been the trendiest and wealthiest section of town. Dubbed "Fashion Valley" the mall was home to Banana Republic, Pottery Barn, etc... all very expensive designer clothing stores. Now, had I been in the Columbia mall, I would have been dressed in the latest fashions and would not have looked the least bit out of place. In fact, I would have prolly walked with a quasi spring in my step, confident that my American Eagle jeans and Element t-shirt would have passed as "cool" and perhaps even "trendy." Not so here in Fashion Fucking Valley. Men done up with gravity defying hair gel and blush and eyeliner(?!?) swaggered with beautiful movie-star like women on their arms, both halves sporting $500 plus outfits made up of designer slacks, button-down dress shirts, oligatory movie-star shades and of course plenty of "bling." I caught sideways glances and was sure that any minute I'd be the victim of "point-and-laugh" or at the very least have a sympathetic quarter or dollar thrown in my general direction. Current Tune: Agenda Suicide, The Faint Sensing the world closing in, and an impending anxiety attack, I left the mall and went looking for something a little more earthy. Back on the trolley I scanned the map for potential destinations. A stop labeled "Old Town" seemed to have a descent amount of potential, so I hopped off at the corresponding stop and strolled around the area. This pattern of behavior was repeated over the first couple of days at the seminar. I would wake-up, dress for the day, fuss over my semi-professional appearance, and reluctantly pick a seminar to attend. After an hour or two, my mind competely numb from doctorial reports, medicinal updates and managerial techniques, I would quitely slip away, grab a lunch-to-go and hop the first trolley I saw. Current Tune: Call Me on Your Way Back Home, Ryan Adams I visited Seaport Village, a by-the-bay little town that featured hundreds of little stores competing for the tourist dollar with their hand-made "oceany" arts and crafts. It was quaint and I opted to have dinner at a nice oceanside restaurant. Sidebar: By all expenses-paid, I mean that work was willing to front the bill for the shuttle, transportation, the plane ticket, the cost of the hotel room and meals up to, but not to exceed $10 for breakfast, $11 for lunch and $21.50 for dinner daily. So I sat down and enjoyed a nice $22 meal of fresh fish, shrimp, scallops, calamari, and oysters. It was absolutely delicious and in the end, including tip, would only cost me $6. The following night I went with some of my Health Promotion comrades (who had arrived seperately from our group) to Junior Seau's sports bar, a ginormous multi-media experience packed with projection screens and plasma TV's showing just about every sporting event happening in either hemisphere. (Of course the only soccer match was afforded a tiny 24" TV in the corner of the bar). Anywho, long story short, I woke up the next morning, got ready for the day ahead and came to the abrupt conclusion that not only was my wallet, phone, and keys missing, but so was the bag that contained said items and all my Conference materials. Current Tune: What ever happened?, The Strokes Panic set in, the cold sweat sliding down my forehead and making the palms of my hands unbearably clamy. Trying my goddamndest to locate where in time I abandoned the bag, I finally settled on the sports bar and began the process of retreiving it. I had to a) hop the trolley without a ticket (it and the money required to purchase it were in my bag) b) locate the sports bar (I'd been fairly aloof when walking with the others and hadn't made much of a mental note as to its location, and finally c) find someone from the night before who might know where (or if) it had been picked up and stored. Current Tune: Free Girl Now, Tom Petty Luckily, I found the restaurant and after 4 failed attempts, located a worker from the night before who'd seen the bag in question. At this time I'd like to chalk a point up for the good and just side of the human race. Not only did they have my bag, but all the money in my wallet ($220), my credit cards, my IPOD, etc... were all still in the bag, unmolested and accounted for. I was prepared for the worst, to be totally honest. I was uncertain as to whether or not my bag would still be in one piece, and I was certain that the money and IPOD would be "mysteriously" missing. And yet I was (gratefully) completely wrong. Everything, in it's right place. Current Tune: Wind Up, Foo Fighters Thursday night I set up a rendezvous with my old friend Samantha who's now living outside of sunny San Diego. An old and dear friend, Sam prolly knows the "real David" about as well as anybody. Times spent with her are 100% comfortable, no bull-shit, completely true and honest moments, the kind that come to far and inbetween these days. We were going to explore the Gas Lamp district together (an amazing downtown area next to the Padres stadium that features fancy boutiques, high price martini bars and amazing nightlife opportunities) but traffic was just unwilling to comply. Unlike my trolly hopping opportunities, Sam was limited by her car, so we opted to just meet at my hotel and enjoy some drinks at one of the bars. The time passed too quickly and after a couple of margaritas and plenty of reminiscing, we parted ways and promised to continue fighting the good fight. Current Tune: Wake Up Bomb, REM I would later return to the Gas Lamp District with the Health Promotions ladies in the nights to come, an interesting seciton of town privy to the elite movers and shakers of San Diego. A terrific place to window shop, but just entering the shoppe seems to require that your bank account top out in the 6 digit arena. Boutiques featured the kind of service exculsive to "Cribbs" episodes or those nifty VH1 specials that give you the insight into the celebrity lifestyle. Women sipped on champagne while boutique workers scampered around the shoppe grabbing the lastest styles and bringing them back for the shopper's approval or shunning. We did a little bit of browsing and had dinner at an absolutely amazing Thai restaurant. The food and the atmosphere were top notch and definitely ranks in my top 25 meals of all time. CT: In the End, Green Day By now the days begin to blur together, so I'll just guess and say Friday was spent roaming the San Diego Zoo. A good 7 hours to boot, all on foot! According to Heather's pedometer (Heather being one of the Health Promotioins ladies I work with) we covered some 7 miles on steep terrain. We saw Giant Pandas (strangely human in appearance and mannerisms, and unbelievably cute), plenty of primates and of course the obligatory lions, giraffes, etc... the zoo was awesome, except for what I call the Zoologist Syndrome. This syndrome being the unfortunate condition in which everybody suddenly becomes a fucking expert on the animal they're viewing. For example, observing an otter who'd just sat-up on his hind legs, I overheard the follwoing comments: "He's imitating us! He's trying to be a human!" "He must be standing up to practice his balance! Balance is important to Otters!" "His fur is soft which means he must be young!" And on and on. I guess this really doesn't seem as ignorant and annoying in a diary format as it does over a 7 hour period. And by the way, those weren't the voices of cute little kids. Those were the observations of grown men and women. CT: Heartsong, Zwan Anywho. Friday night was spent celebraitng the aforementioned Heather's birthday in a quaint little piano bar/lounge near the hotel. Regulars sat around a baby grand piano in the center of the tiny bar and picked from their own notebooks a splattering of showtunes, Sinatra ditties and the occasional 80's power ballad reformatted for the piano lounge singer. I even heard some Air Supply at some point. From time to time, a patron would brave the close-knit karaoke circle long enough to steal the mike and enjoy their own 4 and a half minutes of fame. If they were good, they were welcomed into the circle and encouraged to select other songs. If they were horrible, which was often the case, they were shunned by the circle of regulars and through obvious body-language, encouraged to return to their seat and never reutrn to the microphone, on pain of death. I sipped on Irish coffee's and we shared stories about the health center, the seminar and other general topics. It was a cozy and easy way to spend a Friday night. Which was fortunate considering the day I was about to have. CT: Peggy Day, Bob dylan I awoke Saturday to the sound of Dean in the shower. We'd become comfortable in our routine of Dean waking up, preparing for the first seminar of the morning (at 8am) and setting the alarm so that I would sleep through the first seminar, but not the second one. Being Saturday, the last day of the seminar, there were only two classes being offered. Resolute to attend both classes and be a good little worker, I got all dressed up only to find out they'd been cancelled. So Dean and I pondered how to spend our entire Saturday. The answer to me was immediately clear and infalliably simple. "Tijuana. Dean, let's go to Mexico." Perhaps it was all the Kerouac or Hunter S. Thompson I'd been ingesting lately, but I had a hankering to go exploring and lose myself in a foriegn land. Dean, being the natural adventurist he is, agreed without hesitation and within 15 minutes, we were Mexico bound. CT: Narcolepsy, Ben Folds The trolley took us all the way to the border for a scant 5 dollars. San Diego skylines and high rise apartments gave way to more desolate two bedroom shacks and grafittied cement walls. Sparkling clean boulevards transformed into narrow trash filled alleyways. The trolley's patrons changed from Manhattenites on their way to a power lunch to long-faced hispanic/americans either on their way to minimum wage jobs or back home after working the night shift. As we neared the border, I became more and more aware of my "whiteness." I didn't look like an ignorant tourist, but I by no means came across as a borderless, weathered traveller. Getting into Mexico turned out to be as simple as navigating a barbed wire maze of tall fences and pushing through a single set of turnstyle bars. Upon entering we were immediately bum rushed by children with dirty faces, holding discarded McDonalds cups and asking in borken english for "Money please Mister." Sometimes they approached with candy, trinkets or a juggling routine, all in the hopes of receiving some kind of compensation. Dean, being the Captain of Karma he is, made sure to give a quarter to every single child that approached. They would offer up an enthusiasitc "Thank You!" before stumbling after the next white face. I was a little hesitant to make too many donations (I'd brought a scant $50 with me and I was confident that I would end up donating to one child only to be approached by a sadder looking, more pathetic child just around the bend.) CT: A Whisper, Coldplay After about a half mile, we arrived on the main boulevard in Tijuana. Alive with excitment and activity, we made our way past hundreds of outdoor restaurants, trinket carts, and most surprisingly, pharmacies!? On the main boulevard alone, there must have been at least 20 pharmacies. Outside of each often stood 3 or 4 "pharmacy technicians" dressed in generic white doctor coats. As we passed by, they would shout "Hey man! You need cheap drugs? Come have a look!" Printed on gigantic white signs next to the doors was a listing of all the drugs they had to offer, and in big letters, "No Perscriptions Needed!!!" Prozac, Viagra, etc... all the expensive perscription drugs big in America were offered for dirt cheap prices in these little pharmacies. Americans could be seen inside dropping $50 and getting armloads worth of painkillers, penis stiffeners, mood swing dampaners, etc.. CT: Sunshine, Josh Rousse We passed by, uncertain as to the legitmacy of the drugs offered, as well as the disciplinary action taken by boarder guards upon finding hundreds of dollars of perscription drugs in bags coming back to the US. Noting all the people purchasing the drugs, we could only asssume that it wasn't illegal to transport controlled substances over the border, but we were uncertain and certainly unwilling to try. We enjoyed a fantastic and authentic meal at an outdoor cafe a little off the beaten path. Our plan had been to emerge ourselves in Mexican culture, as far away from the touristy area as possible. After abour a two mile walk away from the main boulevard, the trinket merchants gave way to clothing and grocery vendors. The white faces melted away, and soon we were the only caucasians as far as the eye could see. CT: Factory Girl, the Rolling Stones We ducked into a tiny cement building with drapes on the doorway that turned out to be a tiny bar. Upon entering we were immediately scrutinized by twenty or so pairs of eyes. It was clear that this was a locals bar and our prescence was not only unusual but somehwat unwelcome. Doing our best to seem at ease, Dean ordered a Corona and I got a Pacifico. From what I'd heard, the Mexican people see Corona as a pretty lame-ass beer, and looking around the bar my theory was confirmed. The locals were all gulping down Pacifico or tequilla, so my selection had improved my standing among the patrons. A jukebox sprung to life blaring accordion and garbeled lyrics. Women appeared out of the booths and began shuffling around the dance floor. A middle-aged woman approached Dean and motioned for him to dance with her. A salsa dancer himself, Dean jumped to his feet and begun shuffling with the lady. The dance floor was tiny, and beer puddled in most places, creating a dirty and slick area where 8 people crammed together trying to dance as best they could. Despite the windowless walls and the solitary light bulb, the room was still warm and sweat poured freely from the patrons foreheads. I gulped down my Pacifico and never saw the hand that cradled my crotch coming. A woman in her mid 30's giggled as she fondeled my balls and invited me to dance. I declined the offer citing my inability to dance (which is soooo not true, I was just not ready to dance with my ball grabber.) CT: Little T&A, Rolling Stones She seemed a little dejected and reluctantly shuffled back to her booth. Dean finished his dance and we slammed our beers and headed back out into the streets. We spent the day exploring churches, haggling with street vendors and snacking on local cuisine. It was amazing, and only the second time I'd been outside of US borders (the first being to play soccer in England.) I saw a completely different way of life, one that had been completely hidden to me inside our comfortable US borders. People were out of their homes, interacting with each other, a real sense of community... CT: The Last Polka, Ben Folds Five After awhile Dean and I found oursselves in the Red Light District of Tijuana. Strip joints and motels lined the streets and outside of each stood approximately 60 women ranging in age and shape. Beautiful mexican women in tiny skirts, their hair done up in pigtails reclined against the walls of the clubs, lollipops in their mouths. As you passed by they'd whistle, stick a leg out, or flash a breast in the hopes of getting your attention. Dean and I, feeling the intoxicating allure of sex and danger, ducked into a strip club to see the sights. We were immediately greeted by 3 waiters and 6 strippers. The bar was semi-empty and the only other patrons were hispanic. I'm sure we reeked of money (haha, the joke was on them, by this time I had a mere $25.) The waiters brought us 4 beers explaining in broken english that they were buy one get one free. We accepted, paid the waiter and started watching the show. CT: Climbing to the Moon, The Eels. We were instructed to pick the women we wanted to see strip. I let Dean do the picking (we both loved the irony of a 45 year old gay man slecting the teenage mexican stripper we were to enjoy) and the ladies began dancing. Women appeared out of nowhere and forced themselves onto our laps, kissing our cheeks and whispering broken english into our ears. It didn't take a translator to tell what services were being proposed. I waved my hand in casual disregard and the waiter took it as an order for more beers. Drinks were piling up on our table and more and more girls were appearing out of nowhere to consume them. Drinks would be paid for and then the change would be snatched up by the girls surrounding us. I could smell a racket developing. CT: Could Well be In, the Streets By this time poor Dean was drunk and completely oblivious to the game that was being played. Girls would order drinks, Dean would give the waiter money, the change would return, breasts would be shoved in our faces while hands pocketed the change. Attempts I made to grab the change were parried by crotch grabs and more breasts. Girls were coming up to me in pairs whispering "You want two at once?" Things were becoming surreal. The strobe light was confusing my depth perception, the music was pounding far too loud and the constant groping was doing its damndest to keep me thinking with the wrong head. I watched two women fondling each others breasts and had it not been for the brushing of a hand on my wallet, I would most certainly have fallen victim to the careful combination of booze, music and sex. Whether intentional or not, the possible grifting attempt brought me to my senses and after a little convincing I was able to remove Dean from his seat and out the door. The ladies followed in droves begging for us to join them at their motel rooms but I would have none of it. Suddenly back in control of my facilities, I steered Dean back towards the border. Half an hour later, we were within stumbling distance of the US. The line of cars trying to get out of Mexico by nightfall was unbelievable. It stretched for what looked like at least a mile. The line of pedestrains was just as long, and it took us close to an hour to navigate customs and finally make it back across. The US doesn't give a crap if you leave, but man, getting back in is a real trip. CT: Here Comes the Sun Again, M. Ward We made it, a little poorer, but no worse for the wear, back into the good ole US of A. The next morning, at 3:30am sharp, I was up and packing to catch my 6:45am flight. Looking back at my time in San Diego, I'd come to the follwing 5 conclusions: CT: D'You Know What I Mean?, Oasis 5) While the allure of big city life excites me, I don't think I will ever find true happiness in it. The trends, the constant "keeping up with the Jones' mentality, etc... just doesn't do it for me. Alright, this entry is long enough. I'm getting quasi-philosophical and that's never a good sign.
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