Professional Gypsy & Co

Growing up I had a great fascination with computers. I spent most of my time programming, which meant that pretty much every other facet of my life suffered. Anything not tangentially related to programming took a back seat at best. I got by in school with the absolute minimum to get decent grades that would assuage my parents. It is therefore unsurprising that having taken 2 years of electronics as part of a computer science degree, I probably couldn’t unhook a car battery without seriously injuring myself and the car in the process. That is… until a lack of basic electronics kept me from properly enjoying a vacation. How hard could it be to hot wire a motorcycle? In the movies, thugs do it in 15 seconds flat, after having sprinted half way across town while dodging cars and cops.

I did what every computer savvy person would do. I spent a few hours googling everything from “Yamaha electrical diagram” and “how to hot wire a motorcycle”, to “how to steal a motorcycle”. Luckily I found the entire electrical diagram for one of the bikes. Unfortunately, I still couldn’t tell the difference between a resistor and a transistor. But I’d be damned if I couldn’t figure it out.

While Alejo slept, I came up to speed on ignition systems, starters, and spark plugs. Thankfully it wasn’t hard to figure out. All I needed was a short cable to bypass the key locking mechanism. When Alejo woke up, I brought him along for a short trek around town, asking for a “short wire to hot wire OUR motorcycles”. In retrospect, that probably wasn’t the best opener. No matter how we spun it, no one believed two homeless looking guys had brought two motorcycles across the state while leaving the keys behind. The local mechanic suspiciously agreed to give us a few short wires, with no advice or help whatsoever.

After only a morning of fiddling around (I never said I was a good thief!), I was able to find the right set of cables to bypass. Short cable in place, and voila– lights on, and the bike starts cranking. Unfortunately, Yano’s bike (which always gets experimented on first) takes a while to crank. While I’m cranking, I’m doing the dance of joy, which got quickly interrupted by Alejo screaming over the noise “hey smartass, if you ever get the bike to turn over, how the hell are you going to fill it up with gas without a key?”. Uhhhh… hmmm… “And if you manage to fuck up the ignition, I’ll kill you when the keys do arrive. I only get one week of vacation, unlike you nerds which work from home and seem to be in a permanent holiday every day.” Fair enough… I put the bike back together, and we drove around the park in the 4×4 pickup.

At this point I must add that Big Bend National Park is absolutely breathtaking, and is sadly one of the least visited parks in the US park system. The restaurant has been revamped to cater to a more gastronomically demanding crowd, and they’ve done away with the traditional hamburgers and chilli that plague campgrounds the world over. The food, though pricey for a state park ($10-$18/plate), is wonderfully succulent. The entrees are varied and are hands down better than most restaurants. There’s everything from fillet mignon, and smoked salmon, to grilled portabella mushrooms and peppers for the vegetarian crowd. The home-made soups are delicious, and the desserts leave you feeling as decadent as you’re used to.

So all in all, bikes or not, we’ve been having a blast. The views are spectacular and the food is great. Below is a link to the pictures so far, which may spoil the rest of the story, but are well worth seeing. We’re both pleasantly surprised. Big Bend has not left us wanting.

And as you can see, we eventually get our keys!

A doctor and an engineer go on vacation…  While this is most likely the beginning of cruel joke, so far it hasn’t disappointed.

When you live in the southern most part of Texas, there are a limited amount of places you can visit if you can’t convince your fellow vacationers to visit Mexico.  I’m in the unfortunate dilemma of having a few more weeks of vacation than Yano this year, and my friend Alejo is in a similar predicament, having vacation but being restricted by his US visa status to stay within the country.

We originally planned to go on a road trip with our motorbikes, but being limited to a week, we quickly realized that Texas was far too big to get out without inflicting permanent damage to our buttocks.  Instead, we wussed out, and decided to take the bikes on the back of the pickup truck where we could drive in the comfort of a/c for longer distances.  Unfortunately, we ran into the cruel reality that is Texas geography, and realized that a day an a half would only get us to El Paso which is just like McAllen, but with less things to do (if you can imagine such a place).  So, the only logical vacation not involving airplanes, involved driving as far out within a day or two, and that turned out to be Big Bend National Park in the middle of nowhere Texas (as everything in Texas is, with the notable exceptions of Houston, Dallas, Austin, and some say San Antonio).  We’d drive with the bikes on the bed of the pickup, stay in the park, and ride on and off-road all day for a week.  Meanwhile, the women would stay behind– tending the children, or in my case, the dogs and the operating rooms of McAllen.

Everything went according to plan until mile 500, when Yano calls and asks “do you have an extra pair of keys for the bikes?”.  Alejo and I look at each other with eyes wide open, and slam on the breaks.  The bikes almost ended up in the cabin and I nervously responded “huhhh… why do you ask?”.  “Cause there are two pairs of keys on the dinner table here.”  My fault entirely, I couldn’t blame the doctor for anything more than the sad state of medicine in the south of Texas. There were various insults, mostly flowing in my direction, and numerous threats of taking my bicycle wheels (which I’d brought too), to make sure I would be under the same inflicted boredom as he would be starting tomorrow.

There was no sense driving further, so we stopped at Marathon, Texas (see previous comment about nowhere Texas, and multiply it by 500).  It turns out FedEx drops by every other day, and most popular carriers will sporadically deliver this far out.  Luckily, the Gage Hotel and Spa is a quaint hotel not unlike what you’ve seen in popular westerns: cantina, guns, and pretty girls.  I’m not really sure, but I think we are the only visitors here tonight.

12 Gage Hotel

We’ve arranged with Yano (who hasn’t stopped laughing), to ship the keys overnight. “Overnight” being an euphemism for “if you’re lucky in three days”, but hey– at least we’re not in McAllen– and there are mountains [I'm not allowed to ride on the bicycle].

p.s. Oh yeah, stay tuned for a week’s worth of insults (hopefully involving running bikes).

Hay algunos que son estilistas del lenguaje.  Son aquellos que tienen un contrato como representantes de la Real Academia Espa~nola.  Cuya mision en esta vida es preservar la lengua castellana.  Yo a cambio, bastante dificil que se me hace escribir con letras mayusculas, y mucho mas tildar cada dos palabras con acentos.

Para mi el lenguaje esta en las equivocaciones, en cada expresion que diverge del estandar y se amolda a la cultura o sub-cultura en la region donde reside.

Para mi el lenguaje del puertorrique~no documenta la cultura y nos cuenta un par de cuentos que se han perdido a lo largo de una historia de centurias.  Nos cuenta de las  hechizante Islas Canarias de donde nos trajeron cuatro locos y siete medio lenguas que nos pegaron aquel acento sin las eSes y las eRres, pero que al menos nos trajeron un amor a las playas, a los rios y cascadas.  Nos cuenta de un Taino y su Yunque, y hasta del dios aquel, El Huracan.  Nos traen palabras que sin las cuales, ni hasta el gringo pudiera describir un verano en una “hammock” o la venida de un “hurricane”.

Nos ultrajan a los indios y los trabajan a morir, pero no sin antes heredar un par de ocurrencias.  Ya no decimos molesto, ahora estamos enFOGONaos.  Tan calientes como el  fogon de una mujer taina.  Ya no te invitamos a la casa, si no al bohio de la esquina.  Y rara vez estamos sudados, ahora estamos adobaos.

Despues nos traen al africano con su vudu y su danza, y otro par de palabritas.  Que si vudu, tun-tun, y hasta a veces griferia.  Y como siempre, un giro de palabras, y otro giro en una historia que se cuenta con palabras y ademanes al cantar.  Ya no te invitamos a la fiesta de Pepito, sino al bayu en casa ‘e Pepo.  Y si en el patio de su casa te caes en el lodo,  ahora te chavaste’ porque te caistes en el bache.

Despues vienen los gringos queriendo suplantar a Cervantes con aquel loco Chaquespior.  Pero no hay problema, porque ahora nos robamos mas palabras.  Extraviamos el bote  de basura, en favor en un “safacon”, que algunos dicen se asemeja al “Save-A-Can” inscrito en los envases que nos traen para botar su apreciado “bobol gom”.  Los chicos del barrio, ya no se reunen para hablar, sino se sientan a jangear (”hang out”).  Ya no te relajan, ahora te tripean (tripping).

Con el tiempo nos cansamos de cambiar tanto de gobierno y nos conformamos con pelear entre nosotros por la utopia del estatus.  Nos pusimos a mirar telenovelas y adoptar un  par de frases.  Ya no son mujeres lindas sino un par de mamices alli.  Ya no estoy sin dinero sino “no tengo un chavo prieto”.  No heredamos un problema; lo que hay es una chavienda.  El borracho de la esquina ya no es borracho, sino un atomico.  Y Pablo con A.D.D, no es mas que un chapucero.

Y hasta los 80 y los 90 nos traen mas enredos, pues reflejan a Nirvana, a Guns ‘n Roses, y Arjona.  El sobrino de Do~na Estevez ya no es mas que un roquero malo, que se la pasa “de pary en pary”.  Y las papitas de McDonalds estan como tu cuando molesto: un poco crispi.

De era en era, de a~no en a~no, robando y asimilando palabras para adornar un lenguaje y contar una historia.  Asi que cuando te manden pal carajo o te manden a buscar a Do~na Juana con sus pollos, recuerda que hay historia que se pierde atraves de los papeles.  No es que somos medio lenguas, si no que contamos una historia de 2500 a~nos, y estamos apurados.  No es que nos faltan letras, si no que nos falta tiempo.  Hay tanto que contar y el espa~nol no nos da a basto.

Todo esta cool.

Aldy el de Puejlto Jico

1997

Birthday girl is 30 something today, so I decided I would make my own presents this year.  Unsurprisingly, this turned out to be a bit harder than envisioned.

The reason I’m always inclined to self-made presents, crayon painted birthday cards, and homemade pies is not only because I’m cheap, but because it takes a lot more effort to make something, than it does to go online and click “buy now”.

Ancient Japanese legend promises that anyone who folds a thousand origami cranes will be granted a wish such as long life, or an eternal marriage.  There is even a wedding tradition among the truly bored known as sembazuru, where a couple will fold 1000 origami cranes in order to be granted a happy and prosperous marriage.  It is thought that the time and energy put into folding a thousand orgami cranes symbolizes the patience and trust necessary to sustain a happy marriage.

My goal today was to learn how to fold the paper creatures, and give Yanory a 100 of them.  Throughout the next 10 years I could give her 100 cranes at either birthdays or anniversaries, and I’d be up to 1000 cranes in no time.  Yeah, well… easier said than done.

I started my day at 6am, shortly after Yanory left for work.  Papers in hand, and the determination of a young samurai, I typed y-o-u-t-u-b-e-.-c-o-m.

What the frik?  How do they get from step 3 all the way to a flapping paper crane is beyond me.  I looked for step by step instructions… same thing: the easy steps are shown and you’re somehow supposed to divine how to get from a folded square to a flying bird.

After 2 reams of papers, Aldy-scissor-hands was up to a mildly decapitated and mostly unrecognizable crane.  I was beginning to panic.  No amount of “tailoring” with actual scissors could make my cranes looked like the cranes from the small handed Japanese anime instructors on-line.  Luckily, after about 3 hours, I managed to make a recognizable crane that could actually flap its wings like the instructor’s.  Quickly, I pulled out the stop watch and folded 3 more.  Average time per crane?  5 minutes.

Now, you don’t have to be a math geek to realize that to finish 100 cranes, I would fold the remaining cranes in 480 minutes (8 hours).  And that’s assuming I make no mistakes, don’t get any paper cuts, and Yanory doesn’t come home commonly early (did I mention anesthesia was the residency to get into?).  Realizing this is an impossible task, I am hoping she’ll be impressed with 4 beautiful origami cranes, a long blog entry in her honor, and a mountain bike ride through trails this afternoon.

Meanwhile… I’m heading out to the super market to buy ingredients to bake a key lime pie from scratch.  Provided no distractions, I’m sure I can pull this off with no scorching before she gets home!

Here’s to a thousand more years with the same beautiful wife.

With few exceptions, I have found that those who think we have a great medical system know very little about medicine, billing, and how the whole process works.  It’s not that I finished a residency in neurosurgery, but in the past 5 years, I have been around enough surgeons, internists, radiologists, residents and even medical plan owners, to have a fairly good idea on how it all works, economically speaking.

For the money, I think we have the worst medical system in the world.  When you balance how much things costs, versus what you get in return, it’s not hard to see this.  Sure, if I suffer from a rare disease with experimental treatment in the US requiring expensive equipment, then by all means, this is the place to get treated.  But routine procedures not involving rocket science?  Please…

A recent example.

My mom convinced Yanory to get an endoscopy to make sure her frequent indigestions and heartburn, weren’t something more serious.  Since we’ve already paid our yearly deductible earlier this year with Yano’s “minor” head-on collision with a bike (don’t ask), I said– screw the plan, let them pick up the entire tab.  Get every surgical procedure on the book!

For those of you in the dark, an endoscopy is a simple procedure.  They put you to sleep.  They stick a, ahem, stick with a camera down your throat, take pictures, and analyze.  Again, not rocket science, but not something for the untrained to perform.

Today I looked at the explanation of benefits from our insurance.

The gastroenterologist who did the work billed $792, however the plan decided they should only get paid $165.  This is the man who spent 4 years in medical school, 3 years in an internal medicine residency, and 2 years for a fellowship in gastro.  This is the poor schmuck with $250,000 of debt at 6% (because not all school debt is finance at 3% by the Federal government).  This is the man with a god complex paying a yearly $15,000 in debt interest alone, and possibly $20,000 in malpractice insurance, all while trying to keep up with his friend the radiologist who billed $184 for a tangentially related ultrasound, and got paid $147.

Let’s review.  MD who did all the work and stands to get sued, $165.  Radiologist who was in the office for a few minutes and pays hardly any malpractice insurance, $147.  Note to Braulio– you got suckered going into surgery.  Radiology was the residency to get into!

Now, there are still the hospital charges.  The hospital bills $6,615.  The plan, who is sometimes partially owned by the hospital, gets paid a whopping $5,300.  But wait you say, the hospital must have provided all sorts of other services.  A bed? Nope, out-patient procedure.  A meal?  Nope, that’s what the vending machines are for.  An anesthesiologist doctor?  Nope.  A nurse anesthesist making a comfortable 6 figure income instead?  Nope.  The hospital had regular nurses trained to give anesthesia.  Oh wait, that was my mom, and I know her entire wing did not make that much that day.

I have a friend who’s making a surgery clinic so he can take a bigger piece of the pie.  But while he will take in more, the insurance will estimate down his charges because he’s not an actual hospital, but a clinic– so he can’t take the $5,300 for a brief procedure.  Meanwhile, the clinic may cost millions of dollars.

You may think I’m exaggerating, that medical plans don’t make that much, but I have a (street) smarter friend, who along with other doctors, pooled in a few million dollars and bought a failing medical plan.  The result?  He said in a year, he made more money than he had in his whole career as a doctor.  And doctors don’t exactly make minimum wage.

Another example.

The gastroenterologist thought it would be a good idea to do an ultrasound of all the poop in Yano’s belly, just in case.  As we know, the radiologist made $147 for this analysis.  However, the hospital who owns the ultrasound machine made $1,200.  Wanna know how much an ultrasound machine costs?  Anywhere from 15-50 grand.  So even if it costs $50,000, the investment pays for itself in just 40 uses.  And you don’t need to go to med school to own one!  Great investment!

The reason we pay doctors so well is not because they’re so much better than in other countries (a lot of US doctors studied abroad), but because they have such high med school loans, and because we’re a lawsuit happy country.  That, and they think they should live a half a million dollar lifestyle to keep up with the dermatologists and radiologists with their high pay, low work residencies :).  Of course, it doesn’t turn out that way, because they have the high overhead of an office downtown, 2 nurses on staff, a secretary, 4 cars, two boats, a summer home, and a wife who’s a professional shopper.

I have another friend who, after he finished his residency, went to work for a hospital making a pretty penny.  No malpractice, no office overhead, no nurses’ salary out of his bottom line, virtually no overhead.  However, he was forced to work 12-14 hour days, seeing so many patients, he was only able to provide a cursory exam.  He felt bad that he couldn’t give the level of analysis and medical care he was trained for, but the hospital has strict quotas for their doctors (read, paid slaves).  Who owns the hospital in question?  You got it… an investment group who also owns a medical plan.

You may think these are hospital and doctors in Argentina, where my brother-in-law is finishing his surgical residency?  Nope.  You may even think they’re in Puerto Rico, where even though the doctors are all US certified, they’re nothing but a glorified third world country, right?  Nope.  This is all right here in the mainland, where we bitch at any attempt to throttle the medical system.

If someone comes up with an alternate health plan for the US, we poop on it, accusing it of socialism, communism, or some other ism.  But no one ever bothers to see how much the pharmaceutical and medical plans pay for lobbiers in congress, or how much they fund the different candidates’ campaigns.  I have not a clue if this Obamacare is any good, because I tuned out of the debate a long time ago, but I can tell you this much– anything is better than the alternative.  It doesn’t take nobel prize winning economists to design ANYTHING that’s better than the raping we call a medical system.

As an aside, wanna know how much an endoscopy costs in Panama, where I *know* the private medical system is not that bad?  $670.  Compare to the $6,000 bill here.  How about in Peru where $400 can pay for an endoscopy in a private hospital with a private room, and your own private nurse?  Of course, nothing can beat a friend who’s a gastroenterologist, but unfortunately my friends decided surgery and internal medicine were better residencies, so unless Yano needs her stomach taken out, I’m much better paying out of pocket for a vacation in Machu Pichu.

Sorry for the somber post.  I don’t even have any solutions.  But this system definitely sucks for anything but the most advanced, expensive procedures– and maybe not even that…

In the past 10 years, I calculate that between my employer and myself, we have paid at least $60,000 in insurance premiums.  How much have they actually paid back?  You got it… the inflated $6,000 for this endoscopy, and only because we had already paid the deductible this year.  So that’s it, I’m done with insurance.  Next year I’m signing up for Red Hat’s high deductible plan with a health savings account.  I don’t want coverage for anything more than a catastrophe (car accident or cancer).  It’ll cost me $1800 less a year, and the IRS allows me to deduct travel for health care tax free from the health savings account.  For $1800, I’m sure we can visit Braulio in Argentina for an appendicitis, or wait until my friend finishes his clinic.

I have this turret like response in stressful situations: it’s called traveling.  So when my boss asked me to take on more work in the coming weeks, I panicked.  Had I not done a bad enough job at Wall Street to preclude further customer interactions?  Apparently falling asleep on top of the keyboard mid afternoon wasn’t enough.  I would not be spared the pain of more customer visits.  So, I did what I do best, panic and ask for a vacation.

Vacations here are not as easy as they were back in Puerto Rico, where we could leave the dogs in the backyard and ask the neighbor to throw some scraps over the fence every other day.  Since planning around dogs is a lot more involved here, the only quick getaway involves lots of driving– so here we are, roadtripping to California and taking it slooooow.

We’ve got to see Roy in the middle of nowhere Oklahoma, and are now in Durango, Colorado staying with Troy.  Since Troy races mountain bikes for a living, it is only natural for Yano and I to go ride the trails with him.  You’d think I’d be intimidated by riding with national champions, but I’m used to getting dropped by the worst riders– this would be no different.

Troy and Cricket took us up some beautiful mountains, and after the first 15 minutes I started to wonder if my brake was rubbing, I had flatted, or if someone was actually physically pulling me back.  I slowly started drifting back with this searing pain in the back of my throat.  Little by little it was getting harder and harder to breathe and I was starting to wonder if I would pass out and fall down any one of the dozens of precipices.  ”Uhhh, can we wait for Yano?  She’s falling behind”.  Truth of the matter is, Yano was gaining on me and there was that whole macho thing.

When we get to the top of the climb Troy says, “how’s the altitude?”.  I panted, “how high are we?”.  Troy smiles and says “9000 something feet; can you feel it?”.  I was getting real dizzy by then and could only nod right before partially passing out on a nearby log.  By the time Yano came up I was lying on the side of the road wondering why the heavy breathing wasn’t helping me feel better at all.

Somehow I limped back home, huffing and puffing the whole way, meanwhile Yano seemed unphased by the lack of oxygen.  To help things along, Troy was pinning it all the way back home– in his cross bike by the way, because apparently, riding up trails in a mountain bike with us was too unchallenging.  I’m sure he could’ve done it in a road bike and still dropped me going up and down.

We got back and had a scrumptious taco night and I passed out on the couch while everyone took pictures and laughed.  My only companion was Frida who Yano had taken for a 6 mile run earlier, and had spent the rest of the day between being passed out and lying miserably under the couch.  I am definitely scratching “climb mount Everest” out of my list of things to do before I die.

Next stop, Moab Utah– at least it’s not at altitude.

By the way, we’re taking PICTURES along the way.

For those of you wondering if I survived a week-long stint of 9-5 punishment, I did!   Now if you’re curious if I’m up for repeating the feat any time in the next decade, think again!

What the hell?  Work is hard!  I’m sure 9-5 is what the framers of the Constitution had in mind when they penned the phrase “cruel and unusual punishment”.  Forget the debate over whether capital punishment is cruel and unusal, I say having to iron every morning, wear shirts with collars, long pants, and no naps in the middle of the day– that’s cruel!

The first day started with giddy expectations, kinda like what you feel on the first day of school after a summer long vacation.  I was actually excited to try on the new slacks and shirt which Red Hat was forced to pay for because, yes sir, I threw out all my dress clothes a LONG time ago (to my mother-in-law’s dismay, I got married in sandals).  Unfortunately I quickly found out that non-tshirts don’t look good fresh out of a backpack, so you have to factor in some ironing time along with your morning ritual.

After almost burning down the hotel room with the iron, I quickly found out there was barely any time to do any running, let alone cycling.  I figured I’d go for a run after work, because now I was in danger of missing my water-taxi to the Jersey side.

Work went surprisingly well, because when you don’t train for 2-3 hours before work, you’re remarkably awake, unfortunately this only takes you so far, because by 2pm you’re wondering why you’re the only one having a hard time keeping your neck in an upright locked position.

Somehow I made it to 6 pm without passing out, having survived an entire day of meetings and questions I would’ve rather responded to by email.  By the time I got back to the hotel, all plans of an afternoon workout quickly dissipated, as I entertained take-out and falling asleep in front of the TV.  How do people with regular jobs train?  I have definitely found a deep respect for masters athletes, most of which can still kick my ass, but that I blame on bad genetics, because it’s surely not for lack of rest (on my part).

I won’t bore you with the details from the rest of the week, but suffice to say that mid week I realized it was easier to wear the same shirt and pants (wrinkled or not), than have to wake up earlier to iron things.  By Wednesday I had discovered coffee and was downing espresso as if it were tequila during a spring break.  By Thursday I had rationalized that my 12 year old Clarks sandals were close enough to a shoe that I could forgo shoes and socks for the rest of the week if I hid my feet under desks at all time.  By Friday, the open bar at the hotel was looking quite tempting, and it finally dawned on me why they call it happy hour, and why weekends are such a revered period for the regular masses.

Luckily, I was honorably discharged on Friday afternoon, and was able to catch an 8pm flight back to my cave, where Yanory was waiting for me with a big grin and a sly comment: “so now do you agree that what you do doesn’t really count as work?”.  Absolutely, I now realize that I retired 10 years ago, but never stopped receiving a pay check.  If I ever get laid off from Red Hat, my only remaining skill inside of an office may be sleeping with my eyes open.

A few months ago my boss called and said, “how would you like an all expense paid vacation to Manhattan”?  He obviously knows my weakness for traveling, and you can’t beat free when being frugal.  I decided to bite: “Ok, what’s the catch?  Who do I have to go kill?”

It turns out what he really meant by vacation was, “why don’t you spend a couple weeks in the financial district while you tackle hard engineering problems for one of our Wall Street clients.”  Yano’s been busy with accreditations, tests, and the like, so I couldn’t bring her along, but I decided to give it a whirl, since the boss asked nicely, and there’s a standing bet amongst my friends of how long I’ll last working 9-5 with no naps in between like the rest of the working population.  So I’ve decided to prove them wrong!

It’s hard for me to surpass my backpacking frugal habits, so $300/night posh hotels downtown still don’t sound as exciting as a bunk bed in a hostel.  So I was sure to pack a budget guide to New York City before I embarked this morning (borrowed from the Palm Beach County Library of course).

This probably being the only day I’ll have to walk around (that whole 9-5 thing again), I decided to follow the guidebook’s walking tour of Lower Manhattan.  I’d never taken the time to properly tourist around the historical sites, so this proved an incredible experience– that is, until I started collapsing with hunger 4 hours later.

I had been starving since 4pm, but I had decided to push through it, in an effort to see the sites before sunset.  I wanted some authentic cuisine, and despite the fact that I had an ample allowance for a family of eight in just about anywhere else in the world, I decided to eat at a (guidebook) recommended hole in the wall in Chinatown.  Apparently even chefs from Nobu (one of the city’s most celebrated Japanese restaurants), still in their chef’s whites, come to dine here after their shifts are over.  I decided to try my luck, and pushed my way through a crowd of dining Asians.  This was definitely the real thing!

Not being able to read or understand most of the menu, I opted for the book’s recommendation “sauteed pea shoots”.  After a short wait, I realized that sauteed pea shoots were mild flavored lettuce looking things with a semblance of seasoning.  I quickly scarfed down the entire 2 pounds of lettuce, and ended up hungry.  I looked around at the nearby tables and the scrumptious plates around me.  It seemed I was the only one with a less than spectacular meal.  All right, let’s try this again… this time I ordered something more recognizable: chicken fried rice with onions.  Wrong again!  This other meal was what you cook yourself when there’s nothing in the fridge but left overs.  This is what you cook when there’s no seasoning, the rice is stale, you have no soy sauce, no vegetables, and you only have one egg to spread for 8 cups of rice.  Maybe a little too authentic, or maybe the entire restaurant staff, was secretly laughing at the stupid foreigner ordering the 5 English things on their menu.  Oh well, I wasn’t about to try a third plate, so I politely smiled, paid, and left.  I could hear the laughter as I closed the door.

Now, I’m all about taking public transport, but it turned out that I was in an uncomfortable corner of Chinatown, in which I was so far from a connecting subway line, that it was a wash between taking a few subway hops and a bus, or just walking back (a taxi would have fared worse with the bumper to bumper traffic).  I started to walk, and as is customary, it started to rain, so before I knew it I was running full speed, pushing small Chinese women out of the way, out-running small children on their bikes, and screaming at tourists for walking too slow.  After a couple miles I started doing some quick mental calculations:

• 2 pounds of lettuce: 80 calories
• boiled chicken parts: 200 calories
• copious amounts of rice: 700 calories
• miniscule bits of egg: 17 calories

All for a total of 997 calories.  But then you start subtracting:

• 4 hour walk: 800 calories
• 3 mile run: 300 calories

So I was basically sporting a caloric deficit which was bound to wake me up in the middle of the night with insatiable hunger pangs that are only serviced by room service (which I’m obviously philosophically against).  So I did the next best thing– I stopped at the closest hotdog stand and ate a big New York hotdog.  Unfortunately, by the time I got home it occurred to me I had only had two meals today, and had gone for a 2 hour bike ride before I got on the plane.

So now I’m sitting in the hotel room and the $15 can of peanuts is looking mighty fine, cause I’m not about to walk to McDonald’s, let alone Chinatown.  I think the fine dining experiences in the subsequent week will be kept down to a minimum of mostly recognizable plates: I’m thinking Indian food every night, because that’s never done me wrong.

So, I may update the blog in the next week, if only to amuse myself after a long day of “real” work.  I’ve yet to prove to Mirialis that I can “nine to five” with best of them.  I can even do proper overtime, and can even donn dress slacks and button down shirts for work (ok, I had to buy some last week)…

It’s been raining non-stop for the 3rd straight day, but rain cannot stop Bob.  It can deter me, but not Bob.  He wants to continue travelling: bastard!

I cycled through the Cordillera Central (Puerto Rico’s mountain range) on the third day.  The view, which in dry conditions is spectacular, was nothing more than fog scintillated by the occasional light of an incoming car.

I guess it was better not to see the mountain tops, because I doubt I would’ve finished the day had I seen I what I was up against.  After crossing 4-5 mountain towns, I called it quits in Cayey.   I dragged my sorry looking drenched self into a quaint restaurant on the side of the road: Lechonera (pig roaster) El Cuñao.

El Cuñao (literally, brother-in-law) sells traditionally slow roasted pig, and has been doing so for over 65 years.  Three generations of the Lopez family along with a couple dozen locals serve a myraid of customers on any given day.  On a busy Sunday afternoon, there’s a staff of over 20 workers.  The restaurant serves a variety of local plates (the rice and beans are to die for), but their mainstay is roasted pork.  Over 20 pigs weighing over 100lbs each end their careers in El Cuñao every week (100 per week during the Christmas holidays).

El Cuñao is yet another of the plethora of well oiled family run restaurants along the mountainous region.  Its walls are lined with local and international sports figures, and every conceivable local political figure from the 40’s, till today.

One of the owners welcomed me, and a little after learning of my odyssey, offered me a large bathroom/cabin to camp for the night.  I spent all afternoon talking with locals, eating arroz-con-dulce (rice pudding), and quietly typing away since I have full 3G signal on my cell phone.

I am continually amazed at the local hospitality in the rural areas.  I would’ve spent quite a few cold rainy nights out on the side of the road, had it not been for the generosity of folks along la Cordillera Central.

If you’re ever in town, El Cuñao is definitely a place to stop by, not only for the food, but for the exquisite ambience.

The first day was largely uneventful, thankfully. I ended up dragging Bob through 50 miles of which the last 10 were excrutiatingly painful, mostly because I wasn’t aware the front pads were rubbing the brake disc. I spent the night in Ponce, where I managed to score a Couch Surfing host at the last minute. So no camping needed; real bed!

The second day I had no such luck. I rode the longest 25 miles ever.  All uphill. I went from Ponce to Villalba, all the way to the outskirts of Toro Negro, which unbeknownst to me is right smack in the middle of the highest peaks in PR. And when I say peaks, I mean peaks. None of this Colorado sissiness where hard gradients are 5%.  I’m talking 10%+. I’m sure the civil engineers who designed these roads couldn’t design a slanted sidewalk in a place with snow.

And yes the Bob weighs like I would imagine carting around a guy named Bob would, if you had to drag him uphill all day. At 3 hours (mostly) uphill, I decided to call it quits, when I realized the only
convenience store was all there was until the next mountain pass (ok, they’re not mountain passes, but with Bob slowing me down, they’re a lot harder than the Boulder molehills I did last summer).

So here I am in Divisoria, which is technically Orocovis despite what Villalbenses say. And I must say, good old traditional Puertorican values are alive and well in the center of the island. I am in make-shift
gas station that also doubles as convenience store, bar, restaurant, cafe, dance club, casino, and meeting place. This is what I envision Cheers would be like, if Sam would’ve ever gotten around to
diversifying.

Here mothers still bring their kids for alcapurrias after school (ethnic for deep fried treats), grandpas buy shots and beer for their grandchildren, dad’s train pool sharks posing as 15 year old girls, and most importantly, store owners let complete strangers camp in the cafeteria terrace
after hours.

Edwin, the store owner and empire manager for the entire Orocovis/Villalba frontier owns the cafeteria, gas station, bar, convenience store, rental cabins, and apparently half of the 12 houses
in all of Divisoria. The man is a credit to capitalism, and kind soul to boot. He has not only let me camp here, but has poured me endless cups of (free) coffee, stuffed me with all the leftovers from the cafeteria, and has given me enough financial advice to fill a senior level accounting textbook. With a man like him at the helm, Lehman Brothers would’ve never folded.

Yano was worried about this trip, mostly because of the exaggerated crime rates in Puerto Rico (well, and my propensity to fall off of bikes face first). But as I expected, the farther you get away from the coast, the kinder and good natured people are. I’ve been fed, clothed, given extra blankets, and given a kick ass (mostly) water proof roof to shield me from the 60F rainy and windy weather up in the middle of nowhere.

Welcome to “La Cordillera Central”, where at my current average in the mountains of 4mph, it may take me until June to get to get back home.  Yanory better hire a taxi  when she arrives on Monday.