College Football and Historic Rivalries

So today is the answer to my question. "What am I thankful for?" Today is Rivalry Day.

      We have Virginia/ Virginia Tech, Georgia/ Georgia Tech, Auburn/ Alabama. Some great battles of the south, mainly. Some century long American institutions, that have lasted from the turn of the century (and before) through today.  Every Saturday, those guys are out there. Without fail, if it's Autumn, they're playing. Someone new may be winning this week, or this year, but football is dependable. With the exception of the BCS controversy, it is not as ambiguous as the rest of the world we live in. During the women's suffrage, there was football. World War One; still football. Throughout the Depression, boys kept playing, the spirit remained. I could continue forever, but no matter what, I'm still watching Georgia Tech as they are about to take out their arch rivals today. November 29th, 2008. 

     It would be cliche to suggest that college football is essentially American. But I've already made thousands of cliche references and statements, so what's the harm in another. Damn. As Georgia scores again. Football, crowds, the stadium, the food, the passion. The screaming until you're lightheaded, and the tailgating, and the crying until you have nothing left. Bragging rights. What an excellent thing to be grateful for. 

     The commitment and dedication to your alma mater, or maybe your dream school. The friendships, the triumphs, the heartbreak. All the things that make the Olympics  great, but boiled down to the American essentials. The legacy as love of the sport is passed through the generations. (Oh if I had a daughter, sir, I'd dress her in white and gold; and put her on the campus to cheer the brave and bold. But if I had a son, sir, I'll tell you what he'd do; he'd yell "TO HELL WITH GEORGIA" like his daddy used to do.) We can even be thankful for those loud, noisy commercials! Laissez Faire, capitalism, free market trading, the American dream. Consumers. The stereotypical Americans. Hey, more consumers = more faith in the economy and greater money flow, right? So who's complaining? The ideas in some commercials are new, revolutionary, innovative. Some bring people together, some reflect traditional American ideals. But as Jonathon Dwyer makes another nice cut up the middle, lets return to the game. I've digressed. 

     The stereotypical American guy (you know, the one with the beer belly, who invites all his friends over and tells his wife to go make pizza, without taking his eyes off the screen?) has it right. Although not characterized as the smartest guys around, they recognize something maybe we should all take a minute to see. Football is simple, but, boy, football is grand. Football is just one consummation of everything to be thankful for. You're watching the American dream, and living it by simply being able to watch it. So even if football isn't your thing (I may not be able to respect you- just kidding!), there is something just as elementary out there that you enjoy. And, if, in the single entity of college football, there are so many things to be thankful for, think of how much there is to appreciate in just one other thing you enjoy.  

 

     Plaxico Burress supposedly done gone and shot himself at a club last night. Probably spent too much time playing for the Steelers; drove him crazy. And he beat the Pats for the Super Bowl last year, so no pity. The good news? He should be okay. Perfectly okay in barely any time. Good luck and good health. Another thing to be grateful for. (And the refs whistle the end of the game; I don't know about their engineering skills, but those guys sure are helluva football players!) But even Plaxico Burress is great in a way. Where else could you find an uneducated guy who shoots himself at a bar but still manages to make millions of dollars a year? And plus, I guess you have to have the bad guys, and the teams Plaxico plays for, to get the whole picture of what makes football great. Hey, even this genius is something to be thankful for. 

      Well, I've got to go for now. Alabama/ Auburn is on. Roll, Tide Roll!

A Reflective Trip in Iona, Scotland: The Journey is Long

     The first thing we did was sit down to define "community." Well, after packing our bags, shipping overseas, and landing on a quiet mile wide island off the west coast of Scotland. At this point, there was still an unsettled feeling in my stomach, still some doubt. I was not sure if I wanted to be here. Maybe I should have "forgotten" my passport.

     Our destination was the mystical, religious, and supposedly magical island, Iona, home to the great kings of Scotland, and even to MacBeth. We came as a youth group, friends from the earliest moments of childhood, and left, well, as a youth group. We also left as a family, in the figurative sense, and we carried indelible memories along with the sandy pebbles in our pockets. 

  Iona (colmkill in MacBeth) was discovered by Irish exile Saint Columba, and fast became a pilgrimage site for Christians everywhere. As the monastery and later the famed Abbey began to take form, Iona established itself as a place to strengthen one's bond with divine faith. But Iona was more than this to me. Iona was more than Ancient History, and relics, and names that I cannot pronounce. It was more than religious revival and more than tradition. Iona was home. I connected to the land on a spiritual level that I still have not figured out, however, I believe my connection to extend past religion. Iona was resilience, both to me, and in definition. After the Reformation, Iona rose from the ashes, and today stands strong as ever, making more magic. 

 We stayed at the MacLeod center, run by the Iona Community. The first night, we joined with others and defined community. What is community? How can we develop one? Apparently, we would become a group of frequently interacting people, that have mutual respect and share common goals. We would become friends and work to provide each other with a functioning and decent way of life. A loving, caring, and respectful way of life, where tasks are completed in a timely fashion and without complaint. A community. It strikes me now how similar our definition of "community" is to the definition of family. We all tried to accomplish this, and by the end of the week, we had. We had made great strides, and our former selves were unrecognizable. Imagine what one could do in a lifetime if only he fostered these same relationships, put forth this same effort, for forty, sixty, eighty years. 

     We were expected to fulfill daily housekeeping responsibilities. We spent time cleaning "toilettes," bathrooms, showers, hallways, bedrooms, and common rooms. We washed windows, dusted furniture, exchanged old, wet towels for warm new ones. We worked in chore groups, named after animals native to the island. Seals, otters, puffins. More ties between our actions and the community. They taught us a song. It went "come with me, for the journey is long." It was lyrical, beautiful. It embodied the theme of our trip, the theme of sermons, the theme of English classes, the theme of philosophers, the theme of Life.

  

  None of us had watches. Sometimes we got into trouble, but it was better that way. One of the best feelings in the world is having nothing to do. In Iona, we had lots of free time, that spanned entire golden afternoons, raspberry sunsets, and nights. Nights of eggplant skies, dotted with intricate patterns of stars, and air so crisp that it hurts to breathe in. We were free to come and go as we pleased, as long as we signed out a small, worn leather book. The second morning of our stay, we were drawn to the 332 foot stone mass that is titled simply "Dun I." We scaled the large hill, taking the steepest route up the face. We slipped and slid, yet carried on, persistent and without inhibition. It was worth is. Words cannot describe the feeling from the top. Nor can pictures, ideas, nothing.  We were addicted. We could not be kept away from Dun I from then on. We went to see the sun set, to watch sheep, and to listen. Listen to the wind whipping across, uninhibited as our spirits. We could see for miles, even on the foggiest of days. We looked down on all of our blessings. The quaint homes, the shops selling hand-knit items and Nutella, the Abbey, the farmers and dogs and our whole world, laid out in front of us. We stayed up all night, once, to climb up in the morning and watch the sun rise. The weather was bad, and we didn't get to see what we had come for, but it was okay. We had made new memories and, most of all, we knew the sun would always rise. We didn't have to see it to depend on its warmth and light and nurturing. 

     Our interests were never before peaked, our awareness never before as complete as it was on Iona. We learned so much, made so many discoveries. We discovered nothing that hadn't been discovered before, but it was all new to us. Iona was full of magic for me and it taught me. Iona was education in its purest form. It was realization. I made a family there. In a world where things seem so confusing, people so self-assured yet so ignorant, and in a world where often we see only hate, heartbreak, and sadness, Iona didn't conform. Iona did not follow the norm. No, no, no, no. It did not stick to the status quo. It opened my eyes, for the first time, to the positive. It's a good thing I remembered that passport after all. 

My Own Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives: Chauncey Creek Lobster Pier in Kittery, ME

Places Guy Fieri should go on “Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives.” Or at least you should go there. 1. Chauncey Creek Lobster Pier Kittery Point, ME Usually a mid beach-week diversion, Chauncey Creek has soon become a family tradition of its own. Years back, some family members and I stumbled across this spot in the most serendipitous of manners. My mom was out hitting the Kittery outlets, and so after grabbing some syrup and maple sugar candy from the Kittery Trading Post, we went for a drive to entertain ourselves. Hitting a lovely back road, we kept on it until we came upon this lobster pier, in operation since the 1940s.

They make the lobster rolls the real way here. No mayonnaise, just butter. The steamers are cooked to perfection, and the mussels are mouthwatering. If you’re up for it (who isn’t?) you can go for a full lobster, meaty and juicy as could be. Real lobster connoisseurs don’t bother with bibs and tools to crack the shell, either. 

Chauncey Creek is BYOB, but I would rather have fresh-squeezed lemonade anyways. And when you come to Chauncey, you are literally on a pier, floating down on the water. The joint is dog-friendly, and you will frequently spy locals and newbies alike chowing down with golden retrievers at their sides. The tables are colorfully painted and the service is great. Sometimes you can watch and feed the geese on the shore or see the employees hauling up fresh catches.

If you happen to be boating by, tie up to the dock and hop on board for an unforgettable and traditional New England meal.

Creative Piece: Cemented

"It was raining, lightly, but raining nonetheless. It wasn’t beautiful weather, and their team didn’t win in the end. But it didn’t matter. That wasn’t the point. For her, that is almost always the point but not this time. This time was different. In that dream she was the happiest person in the world. That day was the best day ever. And it never even happened. That game. That time, The jacket, the rain. Is that too much to ask?"

Creative Piece: Skiing

Why did you send it, and What did it mean? Where did it go? Away in the mountains, Buried in snow? A year has gone by We’ve seen the first snow But I’m still wondering, where did it go The frost and the cold and The smoke. Rising Drifting away Over the mountains Buried in snow What did it mean? Where are you going, Going, Long gone Over the crest Buried in snow The woods fill up But still I don’t know Why did you send it So long ago And the ride wasn't over,

The trail never ends, so

Why did you hide it, Leave it Buried in snow?

Baltimore Restaurant Series: Harbor East's Teavolve

   For my birthday yesterday, some friends and I decided to check out Teavolve, a supposedly hip cafe/ WiFi Mecca turned upscale dining experience and bar. After checking out the website, we were sold. The menu was more than promising. Grilled eggplant paninis with grilled zucchini, roasted red peppers, marinated artichokes, and organic tomato/garlic pesto. Grilled portabella mushroom salads with dried cranberries, goat cheese crumbles, an organic spring salad mix, and a house-made balsamic. The warm and flaky crossiants, or rich and fluffy belgian waffles with Nutella, sliced bananas, toasted almonds, whipped cream, and served with fresh fruit. What could be better? Trick question; nothing. Oh, not to mention tea, my favorite beverage, served chilled, hot, sparkling, infused, and in innovative cocktails (I'm not 21 but I can imagine they're quite a delight.) Anyways, we headed down to Aliceanna Street in HarborEast, in for a treat.

    When we got to Teavolve, however, we realized this was a new location. The original spot is over on Eastern Avenue in Fell's Point, less than a mile a way. Not only was this a new joint, it was brand new. As in it opened yesterday. So when we walked in we were immediately surprised by the sophisticated air of the restaurant. On our way to our table (you come in and sit down where you want), we passed a bar with incredible looking desserts and pastries, quite a treat for the eyes alone. 

     As we sat down and scanned the menu, we realized that none of the options listed on the site were available. Those were the old menu options, the brunch and lunch options. But what we saw was, if possible, even better. The dinner menu featured fresh meats and fish, tempting and new flavors, creative compilations. To drink I had a sparkling pomegranite tea, which was absolutely incredible. When our food was ready, the owner, flashing a wide smile, served the entrees, and the service was surprisingly attentive for the laid back atmosphere. We were the first ever to devour Teavolve's wonderful creations, and he watched us eagerly, hoping for just the reaction we were able to give him. My friend's and my blackened salmons over apple salsas and balsamic mesculun salads were impeccable, and my other friend's thai dish looked mouthwatering. The chicken satay and noodles cooked to perfection were a fair match for even my meal. Both were creatively titled, ours "Never to Black," and his "Thai Me Back," an effortless touch that made both meals even more appetizing. 

    Located in one of the liveliest places in Baltimore, Teavolve is sure to soon be a success, and a household name. The prices are moderate, the service and food excellent. The atmosphere is cooler than cool, with candle lighting and votives that shed just enough light, and add the perfect romantic or hip touch (whichever you happen to be looking for.) Teavolve's versatility is also sure to come in handy. A college age student sat just a few tables over from us, drinking pot after pot of hot tea (kept warm by little candles), and click-clacking away on his laptop. A couple sat just across from us, on a quiet date. 

     On our way out, the owner once again approached us warmly, offering his gratitude for our visit, and hoping that we would come back soon, perhaps for one of the spot's regular live accoustic performances. He need not worry, I'll be back soon enough. With tea, WiFi, and rich and wonderful food for every meal (and in between), I might just come back and never leave.

Creative Piece: In Drawers, On Walls, In Shelves

        I keep odds and ends. I keep an eclectic culmination of many things I have done and seen in my life. In my room, I keep many things. I keep things for work, and things for play.

       I keep things with no use. Old things. Dusty magazines, my own personal archive of newspapers and prints; bulletins and brochures. Stacks of musty print, once glossy pages. Maybe some still are. Occasionally, I will look through these pages, flipping through documentations of sporting events, World news, and more. I will flip through memories, passed obsessions, and events of my childhood. I can see that one morning spent with my dad, watching airplanes take off and touch down; I can feel the crisp air as I went to my first baseball game.

       In my room, I keep masses of sports columns, programs, interviews, autographs of stars past, present, and future. I keep this accumulation of thoughts, emotions, and words; some expressed perfectly, and some less so, like a scrapbook of the World’s greatest feats and achievements. The New York Times cover page from the Red Sox’s first World Series victory in eighty-six long years. The demolition of Baltimore’s own Memorial Stadium. The U.S. Women’s World Cup team in the summer of 1999. I used to go to the qualifying matches with my dad, decked in red, white, and blue, blood pumping, lungs exhausting. And I remember watching the finals with my family and grandparents that day. I had painted my face and made signs for all of my favorite players. Then there is my collection of Michael Phelps articles and pictures, from his first Olympic race in Sydney to the scrapbook and clippings of Beijing I lay down on top of the stack just yesterday. I keep many things in those stacks. Mostly, I keep triumphs, defeats, persistence, and comradeship. I keep an element of competition, inspiration, and drive.

     On my wall, I hang pictures. I keep pictures of children from the Dominican Republic. I loved those children. When I look at the pictures I keep, I imagine what they are doing now. How are their families? Have they survived the hurricanes? I imagine being there with them, in Monte Cristi teaching English, running camps, playing soccer in the park. Joselito hugs me and tells me I am his best friend.

     I keep pictures of friends, of family, of places, of ideas. I keep pictures of places I love and places I feel at home. Of Gym Drill, of my neighborhood, the pool, of family vacations, the Dominican, Camp Lachlan. Black and white, in color, some small, some big, I keep photographs on my wall. I keep these photos there and they are the first things I see in the morning. I keep dreams and realities in my room.

     In my room, I keep inspiration, motivation, dedication, and comfort. Mostly, I keep love there in my room.     

    On my floor, I keep schoolbooks. I keep art supplies, I collect shells. On my shelf, I keep the daisy I got when I signed the Honor Statement. Brittle and brown, the dried out petals fall off and make a little pile. Old and withered, I keep the daisy because it is still beautiful. On my desk, I keep old birthday cards, like the one I found the other day. The card is from Cate Auerbach. Cate was a good friend, but she moved away in eighth grade. The card was full of grammatical errors, but I think she meant the nice things she said. I imagine she did. I hope so. On my corkboard, I keep more photos, old playbills, and tickets. On my desk, I keep my calendar.

     It’s a calendar from a previous year. But I use it anyways. Some days and weeks I have taken great care to fill things in. But other squares, I see, are empty. I must have forgotten. Sometimes I think about what life would be like if I was more, perfect, more put together, less forgetful. It doesn’t really matter, though; the calendar works, so I keep it anyway. Sometimes, my memory isn’t too good. Sometimes I forget to write in the calendar. 

     Sometimes, there’s just too much going on.

     I keep my computer in my room. I keep connection to friends, and the ability to remove myself from the world. To distance myself. To disengage. I keep some DVD’s, some books. My favorite is Lily’s Crossing, about a girl in World War Two. I keep that on the end because it is my favorite. I keep Prep next to that, because I like the quirky yet lonesome Lee Fiora as she maneuvers through boarding school.

     I keep my bed in my room. Of course. Sleep is nice.

     I keep books I’ve read a million times, and stories I’ll never hear. I keep drawers filled with random items.

    And I keep filling the drawers. I keep adding to that stack of newsprint, every time something amazing happens, or something is particularly well put. I keep taking and printing photographs. 

    

     One might wonder when there will ever be nothing, or nowhere, else to add. I’m beginning to think there’s no such time.

Taking After Felicity, Kit & Addy

      Everything in my life has recently culminated into one theme. America. Whether it be the Founding Fathers or the Alien & Sedition acts in U.S. history, Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried in english, or last week's Presidential election, I've been spending a lot of time thinking about my country. Frequently, I have been asked what it means to me to be American. There, however, isn't any one thing that defines my sense of nationalism. I don't think anyone can even try to capture the love and pride I feel for my country. 

       I believe in American exceptionalism, even if I do not have a "good" definition of what that is. I believe in the Declaration of Independence. I believe in National Treasure, not due to its historical accuracies (which it lacks) but because of the truth in the emotion, the truth in one's love for our country and its beginnings. I believe in the Boston Red Sox. I believe in Bruce Springsteen. I believe in Dick Winters and the paratroopers of the 101st Airborne Division that began their journey in Toccoa, Georgia and ended it at Hitler's Eagle's Nest. I believe in Cold Stone Creamery and Golden Retrievers and baseball games (excluding the All-Star game). I believe in Thanksgiving because even though the Puritans' relations with the Native Americans were less than cordial, on that day we were able to put our differences aside. I believe in mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie, just the way Paula Deen likes it. 

         I believe in John Lewis and Morgan Freeman and Barack Obama. I believe in American Girl Dolls, like Addy and Kit, and I believe in lacrosse. I believe in great cities like Baltimore, Philadelphia, and Boston. I believe, perhaps unfairly or wrongly, that the East Coast is the heartland of the America we live in (at least the ancestral one). I believe in freedom and I believe in Oreos. I believe in Pearl Harbor, and the men who stormed the beaches on June 6th, 1944. I believe in Utah, and Omaha, and Pointe du Hoc. I believe in Michael Phelps and Candice Parker and Tiger Woods. I believe in cheesesteaks and cheesecakes and Nathan's hotdogs. I believe in the Jersey Turnpike and lobsters from Chauncey Creek in Kittery, ME. I believe in Route 66 and Sacajawea and Hollywood. I believe in soccer moms and hockey moms. I believe in little league baseball and Friday night lights, and Monday Night Football. 

           I believe in Disney World, even though I have never been to Florida. I believe in the Today Show and its captivating Sarah Palin interviews. I believe in peach orchards and Nobel Prize winners and the New York Times Sunday Crossword. I believe in tailgating and pizza. I believe in Broadway and Canal Street, and I believe in Fort McHenry. I believe in the well intentioned Robert E. Lee and in  George W. Bush, even though they made bad decisions. I believe in Paul Revere and in the Dallas Cowboys (I love Terrell Owens!) I believe in sixth grade concerts and family dinners and the Grand Canyon. I believe in documentaries and It's A Wonderful Life. I believe in diversity and talking about what makes us different. I believe in political debates and I believe in trivial conversation. I believe in being served chips & salsa when I sit down at a restaurant. I believe in baby sea turtles and I believe in yellow school buses. I believe in neighborhood pools and pick up games and ice cream trucks. I believe in the Golden Gate Bridge and Mount Rushmore and in buffalo wings. I believe in Angels in the Outfield, and The Sandlot, and The Breakfast Club. I believe in Alfalfa and Buckwheat in The Little Rascals. 

       I believe in country drives, and I hate country drives. I believe in blueberry pancakes and Lake Winnipesaukee and that if you give a moose a muffin, he'll want some jam to go with it. I believe I can fly. I believe in the Starbucks cups that say, "this I believe:" and I believe in the Green Goddess that welcomes people to New York. I believe in churning homemade ice cream on the back porch of the beach house with Grandad and in making a fort by the stream, only to find it inhabited by a homeless drunkard one afternoon. I believe in Model United Nations and in Mary Kate & Ashley. I believe in print newspapers and Dwight K. Schrute's dedication to the family business(es). 

       I believe in the Naval Academy and climbing a lard covered Herndon Monument. I believe in Memorial Day and Labor Day and Veterans Day and Columbus Day. I believe in Gossip Girl and Grand Central Station. I believe in Army Navy football and Yale/ Harvard. I believe in Western Kentucky University and the perennial Cinderellas of March Madness. On that note, I believe in Sleeping Beauty and Pocahontas and A Bug's Life. I believe in E! True Hollywood Stories and in John Wayne and Humphrey Bogart. I believe in white-water rafting and hiking the Appalachian trail. I believe in Kashi and Krogers, in Atkins and South Beach and Nutrisystem. I believe in Slimfast and Bowflex and I believe in McDonalds and the value of a double whopper. 

         Mostly I believe in the people who have made these things possible and I believe that, because we live in America, we will continue to benefit from great minds. I believe that our country is truly special and has the innate ability and desire to pull itself farther up the ladder. I believe America is so hard for me to define because it is always changing. It is always getting better. But America never forgets the Felicitys, the Kits, the Addys, the Jackie Robinsons, or the John F Kennedys. America never forgets those soldiers and civil servants that gave the ultimate sacrifice and America never ceases to produce more and more for me to believe in.  

Good Morning Baltimore!

               Nothing rings truer than Tracy Turnblad’s high-pitched voice belting this out as she dances in the opening of Hairspray. Baltimore has so much to offer, and I feel proud whenever it is recognized on the national or world stage as the great city it is. No, I do not live on The Alameda, or in Federal Hill, or on North Avenue, or Pratt Street. I live miles north of the heart of our city. My relationship with Baltimore may be illegitimate or insignificant, but to me Baltimore is home. Baltimore is not only my home, but also the home of Michael Phelps, the greatest Olympic Champion. Baltimore is home to Cal Ripken Jr., the Iron Man, and Nancy Pelosi, Speaker of the House of Representatives. Baltimore is home to Johnny Unitas and to Johns Hopkins Lacrosse. Baltimore is home to the blue crab, and to Bertha’s mussels, and to Old Bay seasoning. Baltimore is home the greatest and most consistent defense in the National Football League, and it is home to the National Anthem. Baltimore was a part of the Revolutionary War, the War of 1812, and the Civil War. It was THE dividing line between North and South. It is home to cultural movements and to the NAACP. When it comes to great cities, Baltimore is a VERY close second to Boston.

       Yes, we have problems in Baltimore. I may me sheltered from or unexposed to these issues, unaware of their depth and significance. Yet I see a stronger Baltimore. Even driving through the “tough” neighborhoods, I see painted row houses, community gardens, children and young men playing games of touch football, and I see an incomparable mixture of culture and tradition. There are so many great things to see and do in Baltimore while simultaneously supporting the local community.           My favorite thing to do in Baltimore is go to the Waverly Farmer’s Market on Saturday mornings. Located near Pete’s Grill (home of the Michael Phelps Breakfast of Champions), the farmers market boasts the best of the local farming communities. There are fresh, crisp apples that are five times the size of ones you will see even at Whole Foods. After taking a bite of one of these, you will not buy apples from a store ever again. There is Gracie’s Gotcha Ginger, which was featured on Food Network. This family from Trinidad & Tobago specializes in making chutneys, salsas, and really anything imaginable with the prized spice. Broom’s Bloom dairy is another fantastic choice, offering selections of homemade dairy products, notably the creamy ice cream. The farmers market is filled with colors, sounds, smells, and textures that can be overwhelming. In a good way. Children pick out flowers with their mothers and one can smell the fresh brewed coffee wafting over the packed crowd.           Baltimore is currently working to restore the Charles North region, another one of my favorite areas. In Charles North, one can dine at Sophie’s Crepes or at the new Tapas Teatro for excellent fare, followed by a movie at the historic Charles Theatre. My favorite item at Sophie’s is the affordable peanut butter and chocolate crepe. At Tapas, I recommend the eggplant, the molasses soaked salmon, and the paella, which comes in a huge portion, big enough for two, at $17. Their desserts are also awesome, but you might want to save room for a snack at the Charles. The Charles hosts a number of events and movie series, including foreign films, operas, documentaries, or most recently a Barack Obama sponsored debate watch. Spending time in this region is fun and inexpensive.           The Inner Harbor offers tourist destinations, but there is nothing wrong with a local taking a paddleboat ride from time to time. Fogo de Chao, a new Brazilian steakhouse is promising, and the waterfront is always beautiful. In my opinion, the National Aquarium, designed in the 60’s, will always be timeless and state of the art. Harbor East offers another movie theatre, upscale restaurants, and retail shopping. The Pier Six concert pavilion features top artists with great regularity.        Federal Hill is great for Sundays, offering the Cross Street Market, great shopping, and plenty of bars filled with Ravens fanatics. Light Street offers unlimited opportunities for spending a weekend in Baltimore. Fells Point, too, boasts old school charm, and Blue Moon Café is a Food Network favorite. There is a great yarn shop and there are many other cafes on Aliceanna Street, and Alexander’s Tavern on South Broadway is affordable yet classy. These two neighborhoods are also filled with great boutiques, trendy stores, and quirky shops, locally run and supplied. With Hamden comes classic Baltimore culture, and to get the full Charm City Experience you have to stop by Cafe Hon.          Finally, Belvedere Square offers live concerts on weekend nights in the summer, and the market is home to Atwater’s, an exceptional sandwich and soup restaurant that doubles as a bakery. The Market also features an Italian specialty store, a health foods section, a homemade candy-stand, smoothies, ice cream, and sushi. It is pleasant to enjoy this fare while sitting at an outside table on a sunny day. Across from the market is a great Irish restaurant, Ryan’s Daughter, and numerous stationery, furniture, and clothing shops. A new addition is the hip eatery Crush, which combines traditional American food and comfort food with upscale twists (think Lobster Mac & Cheese)! Nearby is a skate shop, and the revered Senator Theater. Nothing makes a party like renting out a private viewing box at one of the oldest movie theaters in the area. Roland Park, Mount Washington, and Charles Village also offer countless opportunities to enjoy Baltimore.            There are so many great events in Baltimore, from the Fell’s Point Festival to the Baltimore Marathon, to the bicentennial celebration of Fort McHenry (now in planning). Baltimore is filled with history, culture, diversity, and passion. So come down for a Ravens game and go check it out.

I Hope We Do

     Perhaps I should have known when Fox News projected Obama winning Ohio almost twenty minutes before any other station. But yet I was unprepared. I cried uncontrollably. My mother and my father cried uncontrollably. I have grown up, a product of a new generation, a "colorblind" generation. I am white, and yet seeing Jesse Jackson cry was incredible. He stood alone and he stood among half a million people. Jesse Jackson, wordless. It was humanizing and overpowering. Oprah Winfrey, standing in that same crowd, among people young and old, black and white. Oprah, just another person. Karl Rove, reporting for Fox, speechless in admiration. Men, women, children, and dogs dancing in the streets of Kenya, Paris, London, Tokyo. 

     Many will disagree with Obama's positions and political views. Many already do. They may be right. They are without a doubt entitled to disagree. This is America. This is the world and this is 2008. I think, however, the most important product of this election is irrelevant to partisanship and to political orientation. 

     This election is groundbreaking, not just in the context of the past, of Martin Luther King Jr. and  John Lewis, and  Jesse Jackson, and Rosa Parks. November 4th, 2008 is not only a culmination of our country's great journey; November 4th, 2008 looks to the future. No more can a black student at Frederick Douglass High School in Baltimore City complain that even if he tried his hardest in school, he would get nowhere in life. He cannot list the injustices of the world and hide behind them. He cannot use race or socioeconomic status or family situation as an excuse, a cop out, a justification. I cannot use my incomplete sense of identity as an excuse. Barack Obama is still trying to figure out who he is, with the eyes of the world upon him. The election of Barack Hussein Obama as president of the United States of America is essential because it takes away our excuses. This election necessitates that every American work harder. Every American, every citizen of the world, must be more driven, less hindered by perceived prejudices, and more responsible for his own life. 

     The election of Barack Obama not only proves something to the world, it proves something to each and every American. Barack Obama may not have everything figured out, he may even encounter many troubles over the next four years. But Barack Obama has something that this country and the world is in absolute want of. In today's world, a world of terrorism, of instability, of economic troubles, and of violence, we need Barack Obama because he is inspiring. He brings out our better angels. On November 4th, he brought out Karl Rove's better angel. We need someone who, even though he may not always do the right thing, or the most popular thing, believes in himself and in us. 

     Barack Obama believes in humanity and he believes in the world and what it can be. To have someone like this on the world stage is, in it of itself, a great gift. People may compare him to Hitler, noting his oratory and organization skills. But he is the polar opposite of Adolf Hitler. Barack Obama brings a message of hope, of faith, of love, of promise. He values thought over violence and calculation over rash or dramatic action. Barack Obama is the American dream and his ability to appeal to our strengths, to renew our sense of worth and of responsibility, is unparalleled. This, unlike policy, is irrefutable. In these ways, Barack Obama's election is bigger than politics. It is bigger than the issues our country faces and it is bigger than a game of red states and blue states. To me, Barack Obama's election is fitting, because it represents what we need most right now. We need to examine ourselves and reflect and improve. We need to be optimistic and involved. With Barack Obama's help, we can and will do this. The entire world was watching Tuesday night. Al-Jazeera covered the election as thoroughly as CNN or MSNBC. This election has helped to re-establish America's position as the leader of the world. Barack Obama can inspire. He inspired the most incredible ground game and grassroots organization ever witnessed. He inspired 600,000 Marylanders to make 150,000 calls to battleground states in two days and to send 5,000 Marylanders to Virginia and Pennsylvania in four days. He inspired artwork, songs, millions of people who donated or came to his rallies. We need someone who fills us with a sense of duty, who makes us want to do better.

    I hope that Barack Obama will realize his responsibilities as he has our needs. I hope to touch on the more political aspects of the election in the future. It is imperative that he move to the middle, make good on his word, and work with John McCain, Lindsey Graham and others. Obama must compliment his inspirational ability and use this strength to garner support, jump start the economy, improve education, and inspire Americans to take action and responsibility. Obama must use his smarts to work not only across the aisle, but across oceans. I must use Barack Obama to improve my life and better my country, my world.

   I know we can, I hope we do.

21 Films

     These films are stories of love, war, or life. Some grab me on a personal level, others are entertaining. Many of them are funny; others are deep, sad, or profound. The writing and direction is beautiful and they carry messages that appeal to a wide audience. I would recommend any of these films, so if you're headed out to Blockbuster any time soon, pick up one of the following titles:

1.Forrest Gump 2.Meet Joe Black 3.The Notebook 4.Dazed and Confused 5.Wedding Crashers 6.The Sandlot 7.Fever Pitch 8.Pearl Harbor 9.Hairspray 10.Glory 11.Animal House 12.Casablanca 13.Batman Begins 14.Mean Girls 15.10 Things I Hate About You 16.Clueless 17.Stomp the Yard 18.The Little Rascals 19.Zoolander 20.Home Alone 21.Angels in the Outfield

"Multiply it by infinity, and take it to the depth of forever, and you will still have barely a glimpse of what I'm talking about." –Meet Joe Black

Photographs of Baltimore

The Nation Believes

Contrary to what one may think upon seeing this post's title, this is actually about the Boston Red Sox, rather than politics. And the nation to which I refer is the highly regarded and widely revered Red Sox Nation. This great nation stretches across political, socioeconomic, ethnic, religious, and political boundaries. There are Catholics for Red Sox, Evangelists for Red Sox, Jews for Red Sox. I myself am an Episcopalian for Red Sox. No matter the situation, nothing brings joy to a Red Sox fan like a David Ortiz home-run. Or the boy who makes his home inside the Green Monster. Sorry Cubs fans, the Green Monster indisputably puts the Wrigley Field ivy to shame. Anyways, this boy has the power to overjoy an entire nation when he changes the out of town scoreboard, revealing to an elated group of Fenway Faithful, that, indeed, the Yankees have lost again. 86 seems to be a particularly bad number for New York. It denotes the number of years after which Yankee Stadium closed, as well as the number of years after which the Evil Empire began to unravel. But this season, we need not concern ourselves with those inferior creatures from the Evil Empire. The "House That Ruth Built" will soon be gone, and the Yanks will also end their twelve year string of post-season appearances. It's about time. Of course, we still hate the Yankees, Babe Ruth is still an unhappy subject, and no, we do not forgive Manny. The potential to face the LA Dodgers in a World Series match-up, and to hear some interesting comments from Manny, is still very real. (The Dodgers did, however, lose last night; take that Manny, Nomah, and D-Lowe.) But, for now, there are some incredibly interesting story lines to develop in the ALCS. Of course, there have been some incredible bench clearing brawls between the Red Sox and the Tampa Bay Devil Rays (no I will not omit the "devil.") And the storied reincarnation, or perhaps, first-ever birth, of the Rays, who are typically the runt of the division, if not the entire league. We eagerly await Jason Bay's first time on the big stage, and so far, not a single disgruntled, unhappy Revere man could call in to WEEI 850 and complain. Besides, "Remdawg" wouldn't take it; Bay has been exceptional. There's Beckett, coming off an injury, and Daisuke struggling with consistency. There are the Sportscenter analysts doubting the team's capabilities with out veteran Curt Schilling. (Schill, maybe you should have spent less time taping advertisements for John McCain and more time in physical therapy.)  To say the least, we of Red Sox Nation have much to be excited about when the competition comes to Beantown for Game 3. Sweet Caroline is already on cue, the sausage guys are setting up shop down on Yawkee way, and the Cask and Flagon is raging. Hopefully, we'll go in with some wins, but if not, part of my Red Sox Nation experience is dealing with pain. As is my father's experience, and my mother's, and my Aunt Elizabeth's, and my Uncle Steve's, and Uncle Tim's. And Nana's and Grandad's. 

     The once great dynasty of 1912, 1915, 1916, and 1918, was smothered by the curse of the killer B's. Babe. To fund a New York City musical? No, NO, Nanette! And Bucky. 1978 Pennant Race. (And critics says the Cubs can't win one!) Buckner. 1986. You ALL know this story, but what you might not know is Calvin Shiraldi began to self-destruct. Poor Bill and his bad knees are the scapegoats. And Boone. Aaron Boone. 2003 ALCS. Game 7. But we prevailed! Fever Pitch will tell you that, "God's most pathetic creature," is, in fact, ".... a Red Sox fan." I prefer to think of Red Sox Nation as a land of exceptionalism. Then again, maybe Mayor Rudolph Giuliani will tell you that's something reserved for America. But he's a Yankees fan, so who's listening?

Orphanage Outreach

Suspended They don't have much No, not much at all Back, forth. Swinging on the playground Back, forth. Back and forth. Symmetrical, synonymous. Like one, back and forth. They are one people, one love. The blazing orange fruit leaves and palm. So green, so lively Like the children Their smiles flash, dazzling, briefly. Exuding curiosity, hope. So young, so innocent I hope They will not become that which they see on the bench. on the corner. They swing. Suspended. Between not having much. And having it all. Counting, in unison, they jump off. Each landing a perfect ten. Her Sister's Shoulders A weekend afternoon. Late. The vibrant street music floats and wafts from the 'desolate' town like a sweet scent, upon a breeze. A child walks along, following the music Or is she carrying it? like so much else. Those shoulders already bear so much weight. she pauses. then takes her sister's hand. and leads her home. Or at least to a house. Maybe.

Orphanage Outreach

Monte Cristi, Dominican Republic Orphanage Outreach June 2008 Each day, it becomes clearer to us that "last year" has come to embody the experiences we shared during our weeks in Monte Cristi. With each passing day, it is evident that all of our intentions lead us back there next year, and undoubtedly, with next year, will come many opportunities to reminisce about this year (which of course will be next year's last year). There will indeed be much to remember. Luckily, there will be many people to share these memories with. Within each of us is a collection of images and quotations, conversations and gestures. This shoebox captures a wide range of emotion and a variety of people. Every single one of those people is absolutely, inarguably, beautiful. We remember so vividly the wild, fast paced message chain on the eve of our trip, the trepidation, hesitancy, and confusion. Uncertainties regarding food, dress, what terminal to arrive at, when to arrive, even which airport we would be departing from. We remember the unsettling tension, and then the excitement. We dragged our bags from Fast Park, or wherever, and across the floor, filled with ruts and scratches from the beginnings and endings of so many peoples' journeys. The feeling of spotting a familiar classmate, a friend, out of the crowd of people waiting to be checked in. The relief when the chaperones came, and upon stepping through the security line unscathed. The worry, as boarding time approached and all but one of us sat quietly. We were waiting, hoping we would not leave without her. The joy to see her rush onto the plane, as we took off down the tarmac, signals cleared. We remember the feeling of savoring that last piece of pizza, that last Vanilla Bean Frappuccino, in Miami, before departing for uncharted, unfamiliar territory. We remember the languish of waiting in the newly discovered heat and poverty, we handled baggage situations. The growing comradeship on the long bus ride, down poverty stricken, dust blown roads, was tangible. The excitement upon finally arriving at our home for the next two weeks, or possibly a home in an even more permanent sense. The feeling of being let loose on our kingdom, our palette, to paint and make our mark upon. A clean slate, an opportunity to reinvent oneself, but also to change someone's life, or perhaps the lives of many. The warm, familiar satisfaction of eating a home cooked meal, in the company of lifelong friends. The pages on the calendar fly by from this point onward, uncontrollably flapping, leaving a whirlwind of random and beautiful memories in their dust. Our first morning, the sky an unfathomable shade of blue, the light seeping through the thatched roof and across the wooden slats of the porch, as we sit; reading, thinking, pondering, missing, preparing, sharing, laughing. Our first walk into the seemingly strange town, so lively and happy, even shrouded in darkness. The jovial charisma of the manager at the Chic Hotel, where we exchanged money, and the excitement accompanying glances of people and places and things, animals, and plants, and foods, lifestyles so diverse, so unfamiliar, but at the same time unified, similar, rich in beauty and tradition. The first morning at Batey Maguaca, learning the ropes, building the beginnings of trust, friendship, and love, with children who live in huts, lean-to's, and shacks, among cows, and sheep, and goats. The same uncertainties reflecting back at us from their faces, their eyes, as we unload the bus. The gradual trust as we discover more meaningful relationships. The frustration of afternoon Science Camp, the children reserved and unwilling to participate. The joy and pride, multiplying day by day. The sadness of being ripped away from our home at the Bateys, the embodiment of our love, attesting to the bonds, inseverable and forever.

The Beach on Friday, each grain of sea salt, each wave of sand, each touch of blue in the water, etched indelibly into our minds. The gentle surf, the waves lapping away at El Morro, during our sunrise venture.

With each day, the waves take another trace of sediment and rock away, undetectable from one moment to the next, but powerful and forceful over a span of moments, years, endless time, that spreads across the expanse of golden shore. That first night in the park, playing soccer under the stars, 

The rush of warm blood, a quilt of emotions and personalities, stitched together with the world's most beautiful and universal game. The high tensions and the trivial nature of the game. The warm breeze, the slowly sinking sun, the beads of sweat as they drip down our foreheads are precursors of the exhaustion to come. The slowing pace of the game, night, witnessed for the first time in all of its magnitude and splendor. We remember the good natured apprehension upon the arrival of others. The conversations; frivolous, playful, others mature, full of substance. The simple gestures and shared love of soccer, people, smiles, lollipops, hugs, kisses on the cheek, and friendship, that above all "transcend every language barrier." The now familiar groove of the Kiddie Camp, the crunch of chocolate wafers, trickling of water, lemonade. Joselito wants lemonade. The crinkling of saltines, the smooth spread of the rich, creamy, peanut butter. The birthday cakes and goodbye parties. The late night conversations, card games, and learning experiences. Making picture dictionaries for security guards. The security guards make a home for us and share stories of their lives, their families, their culture, their experiences. The irritation of learning a new card game before mastering it. The concept of orienting oneself with something greatly unfamiliar, seemingly a hindrance at first, but in the afterglow, in hindsight, a necessity. Something basic yet powerful. The apprehension upon arriving at the Haitian border, and being out of our friend's line of sight. The relief upon emerging from the jungle of vibrancy, intact and whole, but nonetheless changed, bettered. The juicy mango and papaya, displayed in rainbows on silver platters.

The small, sweet, quenching satisfaction of a limoncello, hand picked, and glowing, ravished by late afternoon light. It lies in the palm of an eight year old's hand. He holds it out in offering, as a gift, a sign of friendship, of acceptance, of loyalty, of gratitude. 

His brother holds out a bracelet and slips it onto your wrist, begging you not to forget. Not to forget him, his brother, the children, the soccer, the park, the night, the warmth, the town, the country, but instead to remember everything that boy is, has, and stands for. Above all, these children; they stand for hope, we exist to give them hope, but instead, they fill us with hope. They exude happiness, they exude power, strength and ambition. Confidence. It is these gestures, these memories, that tell us we have succeeded in what we set out to do. That small bracelet, with its intricate beading and tight clasp, means the world. It shows that similarities overcome differences, love overcomes hate, loyalty overcomes infidelity.

The reluctance, hesitancy, sadness, full fledged refusal to leave the park, leave the children, our children, until we are dragged kicking and screaming to the bus. The anguish, melancholy, and heartache, of the unending bus ride, the beginning of our return to where we live. Where we "live." I think our real home is in that park, with those nights, and those hugs, that joy, that unity, that sense of pride, that irrevocable, unbreakable bond between us and them. Alexis was correct in the end, philosopher that he was, when asserting that "love has no age." Truly it doesn't. Not only are all of us of different ages and backgrounds, the statement applies as a double entendre, as the love we know with these people will never age, never grow old, never fade, falter or disappear. It is the star that never loses its glow, never falls, and never deteriorates or weakens. Our love is forever.