Ode to The Bus Driver

There are but a handful of consistencies that can be counted on across the World.
In no particular order: Fanta Orange. Flip Flops. Bikes made in China.
And The Bus Driver.

I'm not one to lump anyone to another, but this cross cultural likeness is too beautiful to ignore.

You know this man. We all do.

Mighty forearms.
Elbow draped out the window, tattooed from years spent resting in the rubber well of the open window.
Toothpick. Present. Always.

Quick with a smile. Quicker with the horn.

He is not a truck driver - opting for a solitary life on the road.
No, no. The Bus Driver indulges in the company of others.
Each rider, a chance to flex his well-worn charm and wit.
If his bus is equipped with a microphone - he rocks it.

A cigarette at every rest stop.
A loafer or boot kicked up on the tire of the bus.
Happy to small talk while we wait, but when it's time to load 'em up and fly, he's all biz.

Back in the bus, a personal touch flaps from the rearview mirror.
A Manchester United flag or a symbol of the God that keeps him company on the road when we all get off.
Ask him about it. He'll share the sermon.
And for the love of that God, please keep your feet off the seats.

His native tongue may vary from country to country, let's get one thing straight:
He knows what's best.
And if you ask, or if you don't, you're likely to get a little free advice.

And truth be told, you NEED it.
THIS is a man to count on.
He'll take you where you need to go.
He'll point you in the right direction.
He'll chat you up when you're lonely.

Laugh at his rusty jokes.
Smile when you get off.
Give him a good, hard pat on the shoulder, even if touching makes him uncomfortable.

Appreciate this dude.

Thanks, Bus Driver.

Pireneos with the Funny McFunnertons

Journs, J and I rented a button of a car and took a spontaneous snowboard safari through the Pyrenees in Spain, France and Andorra. Rode hard and happily. Sang along to Bob Seger. Ate an extreme amount of yum cheese. Soaked in hot springs. Stretched out the car window to take pictures of the glory. And gave a ridiculous number of high fives about it all.

Fancy free.

More pictures to come...but here is a peek.

Loveable Espana

One month of anonymity landed me in Spain ripe for laughs with friends.  Destination: San Sebastian where Journey and Jason live a very large life.  Days of outside playing...clothes drying on the line in the tiny courtyard...nights in cozy tavernas drinking righteous Rioja and eating pinxtos. Lucky to share a bite of it with them. Off we go to Formigal in the Pyrenees to ride the snow today!  

Few images of Madrid and San Sebastian

The Genius of Francis Bacon

Despite my deep appreciation for art and culture, I'm actually not much of a museum goer. I don't know exactly why I hesitate -- might be the creepy whispering or the slow pace of the walking that goes on in museums. Ridiculous? Yes.

But I go sometimes. I've been to three museums on this trip so far. Each one had me wrapped up with thoughts and questions. These are the ones I have been to and what I gathered as the point of greatest intrigue:

Tanzanian National Museum: Artifacts from the slave trade put me in tears. Tanzania, specifically Zanzibar, was a hub for slaves being sold from Africa to the East. There were collars and chains and the most horrible images. A painful, but important, reminder of our heinous past.

Ethiopian National Museum: Ethiopia is the roots. Seriously. The roots. It's the cradle of us. Right there, in the Rift Valley, humans evolved from apes. There is really no debate about Creationism when you see "Lucy." Her bones were extracted from the Earth 30 years ago and she literally is half human, half ape. (Simbs, I'll sign an autograph for you when I return.)

Museo Del Prado: The feature exhibit was the work of Francis Bacon. I'm in love. New favorite artist. He painted abstract portraits with a bold, raw, emotionally naked style (like the one above). His stuff is beautiful and at times, almost nightmarish. If you Google his name and then click on Images, you can see it for yourself. I wanna write with a similar blend of reality and expression. And his name is Bacon. 

The Rain in Spain Falls Mainly on the...Brows

My Pop used to tell us we were "Black Irish." Said my dark features that didn't look so Irish were all about the Spanish Armada crashing off the shores of Ireland, mixing with the freckled folk and making babies with thick, dark hair and names like Murray. This was universally believed as an untruth in the family -- and mostly just fodder for laughs and ridicule.

Until today.

Got off the plane in Madrid. Not even off the tram from the terminal and the likeness was undeniable. Big, righteous brows everywhere you look! Men and women alike with unruly ones like mine, my Pops and Arantxa Sanchez Vicario's.

I've come home.
Bienvenido, SJM...

This is What Addis Ababa Looks LIke

Milled around the city with my camera this morning. This place has me captivated -- so beautiful, so gnarly, supremely human. Looks like this...

Meeting the Have-Nots

Merkato is the largest market in Africa. Addis is a very safe city, except for Merkato - which is known to be a place where tourists and Ethiopians alike get robbed. It's also a total treasure chest filled with smells, textures and wares found nowhere else on Earth.

Obviously, I was going. Left my cell phone, camera, passport and all that jazz in the hotel. Just took $400 Birr (which is like $35 US dollars). Split it up into a cargo pocket, my sportsbra and my shoe. Figured if I got robbed, I'd at least have enough money in one of the three stashes to take a taxi back to the hotel.

Sure as sunshine....

I even READ about this method of picking pockets. One teenage kid bumped into my left shoulder, and goes "excuse me, Madam." The other kid slid his hand into my right cargo pocket.

Before he could get his hands on the little bit of cash in that pocket, I grabbed his wrist like a big, mean, angry mom grabs a kids arm in the grocery store. Gave him a loud bark and a scornful scowl. I don't think he expected my resistance or my strength. Looked at me with huge eyes of terror and took off running.

I laughed it off and made my way back to the taxi pretty quickly- a litlte freaked out.

Here is the thing. If there was justice in this World, that kid would have made off with my cash. The poverty in this city is staggering. I've traveled around developing countries some, and NEVER have I seen streets filled with so many helpless kids, men and women with polio - using flip flops on their hands, dragging their legs behind them, amaiciated mothers breast feeding infants. It's capturing and it feels endless.

This is not about drug addiction, laziness or lack of initiative. This is poverty.

Lonely Planet warns to "not give street kids your money. Donate instead to one of the charities that serves them, so they are discouraged from begging." In theory, that is a very glossy idea. In reality, it's total bullshit. When a homeless 5-year old girl tells you she's hungry, what kind of monster DOESN'T give her money and a hug? Every day, I've been putting a certain amount of money in my back pocket to donate to folks.

Of course, I didn't like someone trying to steal my money. But maybe if we, countries with money, took a little better care of those without, teenage boys wouldn't need to dip into our pockets and try to help themselves.