Map Maker, Map Maker, Make Me A Map

When I was a kid, a playmate of mine insisted we play "treasure hunt." For three-year olds, it was a rather complex game. First, my friend and I acquired a piece of paper and a marker from my mother. Then, with intense effort, my friend slowly drew one continuous looping line across the paper. His hand glided from the middle of the page to the upper right corner, then traveled down to the left on a dizzying path which crossed the paper's center point at least twice before arriving at its final destination. He marked the end point with a large X.

"Here is the treasure," he told me. "We have to follow this map to find it."

I put my head next to his and we studied the map, glancing up at the wilderness that once was my kitchen so as to orient ourselves.

"See, we are here," I said pointing to a spot on the scribbled paper. "We have to go this way to start."

And we took off. Each footstep was taken with extremely slow care and confirmed immediately afterwards by glancing at the map. We argued over which way to go when we reached the mountain of the stairs. Did the map suggest we proceed upwards, or was it suggesting that the treasure was underneath? Did we need to abandon the map in order to overcome certain obstacles in our path? If so, how would we rediscover our route?

When I was seven years old, my dad took me for a walk on the paved paths that wound through the woods in our neighborhood. As we approached a fork in the path, I considered the possibilities. We could proceed to the right and attempt to conquer the towering mountain ahead, or we could swerve downhill to the left. We chose the first option, and as I approached the crest of the hill, I felt I was entering a new civilization. What were these structures before me? Houses never before seen. It was a new city, a different world. We had taken a shortcut that led to the end of the street directly behind our own. I had seen these houses a dozen times before, but approaching from the forest, I felt I was discovering a previously uncharted land.

In fourth grade, I decided that there was no point to continuing my studies. My ability to be amazed by the familiar was dwindling. My teacher told me that all the oceans, seas, and continents had been explored. There were islands smaller than our town, far away from any civilized areas, where explorers had charted topography and recorded the activities of wildlife. There was nothing left to explore. That era had ended long ago. I was born in the wrong century.

When I was nineteen years old, I set off on a journey around the world. The ship which carried my "floating university" was in constant motion, always bound for some point east. I sat on the rear deck and stared off into the western sky. Surrounded by blue waves, I scoured the horizon for other ships, searched the water's surface for whales and sharks, and as the sun dipped below the edge of the sea, I turned my gaze upward to concentrate on the previously unseen constellations that hovered above me. This was exploration. Yes, maybe everything I saw already appeared in some book, some essay, someone's research journal, but none of it had ever been experienced this way before. That was all mine.

There are two kinds of exploration. There is the "heroic exploration" of Magellan and Columbus. Today, that kind of activity is practiced by scientists and researchers, studying every smaller or ever larger bodies in hopes of finding something previously unknown.* But there is also the "cogitative exploration" of those who hunt for experience, for the opportunity to reflect, for the feeling of fanatical satisfaction that arises from seeing/feeling/hearing/doing something for the first time and loving it.

Maybe all the maps of the world have already been made. I might never gaze down from a mountain peak and see an uncharted territory below me. But there is plenty left to explore. Fourth grade teachers don't know everything.







*Berry, Wendell. Life Is A Miracle, Counterpoint, Washington, DC, 2000. p. 55.

International Insomniac

Tonight I find myself writing from under the covers of my glorious bed in Columbia, MD. No, I am not hallucinating, I am in the United States. Thanks to a generous plane ticket of a gift from my mom, I am spending 80 hours at home -- an all too short visit with my beloved friends and family. However, tonight (my third night north of the border), the sandman has refused to come, and so here I sit, the light of my laptop reflecting in my eyes, while the Discovery Channel broadcasts dreamlike images of Earth into my bedroom. (Planet Earth is still the best show ever.)

The voyage to Columbia -- and it does deserve to be called that -- began at 5:45 Friday morning when I arose in my Tehuacan bedroom. After a quick shower and even quicker breakfast, I walked the seven or eight blocks to the bus station, with my Vietnamese day-pack strapped to my back and a purseful of transportation documents on my shoulder. I arrived 20 minutes before the departure of my prompt 7:00 bus. Arriving in Mexico City at 10:30, I had several hours to kill, as my flight to the States would not depart until 3:20pm. I locked up my belongings at the bus station, and set off to explore.

After a short metro ride and a long walk, I arrived at the zocalo, the city center and middle of the MC historic district. I was prepared for some street vendor browsing, crowded intersections, and a cheap lunch. I was not prepared for the sight which greeted me: 100 men dancing in the street, clad only in shoes and tiny, strategically placed signs displaying the face of a Mexican senator. That was it. 100 naked men... dancing. Yeah.

It turns out, the men were actually accompanied for a dozen or so similarly clad (or rather, unclad) women, who sported nothing but shoes. The women, naked from head to ankle, tan, and jiggling all over the place, were handing out fliers. From the flier, I learned that this enthusiastic crew was part of a movement called the 400 Villages, which represents the rights of indigenous farmers based in the state of Veracruz. The villagers had traveled to Mexico City to hold this demonstration in protest of Senator Dante Delgado, the former governor of Veracruz. The demonstrators accuse Delgado of stealing their land and "demand the return of the land of the dispossessed and incarcerated." (direct translation from flier)

The sight of the dancing men, unencumbered by clothing, and the appeals of the woman haunted me for the rest of the day. It was a sight unlike any I had ever seen. It proved not only that Mexico City has no public indecency law, but that democracy and peaceful protect in Mexico City really functions better than in most U.S. cities. After I watched the protest for a few minutes, I continued my walk around the historic district. Two blocks from the zocalo, I saw a smaller gathering of unarmed police officers. They seemed prepared to intervene at the protest, should the need arise. But I don't think it did.

The protest was stunning, dramatic, even crude, yet perfectly legal and perfectly managed by law enforcement. It made me a little jealous to see such a well-functioning peaceful protest, but then I began to think: are these protests only tolerated because the police know they will be fruitless? After all, this has been going on for years. Or will this desperate cry for the public's attention and the government's reparations be successful? Learn more about the story here.

I had to return to the bus station at 1:00, and after that I headed to the airport. After confusion among airport staff as to where to send Delta customers for check-in (the counter just moved to the newest wing), I was rushed through check-in and security with my plane mates. We left on time and flew over New Orleans right at sunset. After a layover in Atlanta, I landed in DC at 11:15pm. Met by my mom and stepdad, my sister, and her fiance, I found the homecoming to be everything I hoped. After the airport, we went to IHOP and chit chatted over hot chocolate, coffee, pancakes, eggs, and french toast for 2 hours.

On Saturday, I lounged around the house until late afternoon, when I enjoyed a delicious Thanksgiving dinner at Pittsburgh South (my friends' house in McLean, Virginia). My late fall good cravings fulfilled, I met more friends and family today in Columbia for bagel brunch. Chinese food for dinner with Dad rounded off the weekend of indulgence. Tomorrow I have some stateside errands to run (banking, a haircut, battery shopping), lunch with one friend in Baltimore, and then dinner with another in DC. I leave for my journey back to Tehuacan at 7:55 Tuesday morning. This whirlwind weekend is the result of more than 30 hours of travel -- but so far it's all been worth it.

My return to Mexico will mark the beginning of the end of the semester -- just three more weeks of classes. Then, I'll start a 20 day backpacking journey that will take me as far as Tikal, Guatemala. I hope to find the answers to some of my Mexico questions on trip, but I know that the journey will leave me with more question marks than could ever be erased in 20 days.

A Lesson in Painting

Last night I was rereading old blog entries from the MySpace days, and I found this gem that I had completely forgotten I even wrote. Now seems like the perfect time to dust it off and reintroduce these thoughts to the world. Read on...

An ignorant man once said, "Fuck Pittsburgh, Virginia's the best state!" I beg to differ. Pittsburgh, obviously, is not even a state. But if it was, it would be the best one. Here is a short list of what I love about Pittsburgh:

• the sports-loving people (post-super bowl blissfulness leads to the most peaceful "riot" in sports history)
• the eclectic mix of architecture (cathedral of learning, meet ppg place)
• cheap beer (25 cent tuesdays, dollar drafts every day)
• yinzer pride (n'at)
• affordable cost of living (hello to having my own place)
• good thrift stores (though laurel thrift will always have a place in my heart)
• the hills and rivers/geography/topography (the view from mt. washington)
• the fact that a blue collar past has led to an adamently liberal politcal present (no republican mayor in more than two and a half decades)
• diversity (south oakland was home to both dan marino and andy warhol... what a great dichotomy)
• tradition (not that pitt contributes to this, but the rest of the city has it right)
• being undervalued (no bandwagon yinzers in sight)

So with all these wonderful things filling me up with joy everyday, why am I so antsy? Why am I dying to hop on a plane?

The answer is in the first part of this post: Pittsburgh is not a state. It's not a region. It's not a nation. It's a dot on the vast planet Earth. The people and things who make this place so great are tiny little drops of paint on an infinitely larger canvas. I want to explore the other dots and see each as what it is: an individual part of the masterpiece that is this world.

Pittsburgh isn't a state, but it is a state of mind. And when I go elsewhere, I won't really be leaving this place behind.

Planet, I am going to leave my footprints all over your fine canvas. And the paths I cut, the lines I draw, the corners I strain to reach will all be connected on one looping, crazy trail that ends where it began -- Pittsburgh is the best state.

-December 18, 2006