This past weekend, I had the unique opportunity to attend a Papabubble candy-making workshop at Ojai Valley Inn & Spa. After doing some online research, I learned that the only Papabubble shop in the U.S. is in New York City – Little Italy, to be exact – so I couldn’t wait to see the demonstration. Maybe the West Coast would finally get a taste of these hard goods.

White Chocolate-Dipped Mini Creme Brulée

When my girlfriend and I first arrived in Ojai, we couldn’t imagine a more beautiful setting within which to learn about candy. Apparently, Ojai Valley Inn is making a push to host chef-centered, educational programs for the public – something I can definitely get behind and am honored to have been a part of, for at least one event! So after we checked in to our posh room with a fireplace, we headed over to the workshop where desserts by Pastry Chef Salvatore Marcone met us – complete with coffees, teas and real hot cocoa (as in, melted chocolate). I would be remiss if I didn’t rave about how excellent these all were, including mini creme brulées dipped in white chocolate, lavender cheesecakes and gold flake-topped chocolate domes. And I can’t forget the lemon meringue tarts – with probably the best lemon meringue I’ve ever had in my life.

Chocolate Dome

Papabubble is handmade hard candy which is made through a very time-sensitive process beginning with pots of liquified sugar. I was delighted by the story of Chris and Rachel Grassi, two artists from New Mexico who co-own the American flagship in New York City, and the discovery of their love for candy-making while on an extended trek through Europe together. They learned from friends in Barcelona, and decided to bring the traditional European craft Stateside since they figured they “had to go home, eventually.” New York proved most conducive to their business plan and product, and today their Little Italy storefront hosts a most eclectic gathering of spectators intrigued by the sight of candy being made by hand.

Liquified sugar spread upon heated marble slab

When we arrived in the hotel banquet hall, we couldn’t see the extreme boiling action going on in the kitchen next door. When the pots were finally brought out, though, they went straight to a heated marble slab. Chris and Rachel then started spreading the melted sugar evenly across the slab while using metal bars to knead the sheets as they became thicker while cooling down. And then when it was solidified, the “clay” was transferred to a heated rubber mat to undergo continued stretching. Chris and Rachel continued to stretch and fold the warm putty repeatedly with respect to their separate colored shares. And then the molding began.

Rolling and cutting the putty on heated rubber

Eventually, it was Chris who ended up with one long, baseball bat-shaped piece of putty candy he kept rolling back and forth while pulling on the skinny end. It is from this skinny end that rolls of lollipops are formed inside round metal rings. Ultra-skinny rolls are used to make small candies by chipping pieces off the sticks after they’ve been rolled and hardened. And as for where the name “Papabubble” came from, we were told one of Chris and Rachel’s friends liked to blow bubbles into remainder candy putty for fun…and the name stuck.

At the end, we were each treated to a goodie bag of Papabubble candies. One jar of herbal flavors was actually custom-made for our event in Ojai, with the city even being spelled inside the roll of each candy! (By the way – I have tried everything and though their chocolate-filled lavender candy tastes a bit like soap, their fruit and herbal varieties are all very delicious!) They have standing lollipop orders with Tiffany’s outposts in New York made with extra-special ”Tiffany blue.” You can also find Papabubble at Dean & DeLuca, Bergdorf Goodman and other high-end retailers.

Now…which high-end, Los Angeles outpost will be the first to carry Papabubble candies?! Joan’s on Third? Hello?

Papabubble workshop fee, dinner at Maravilla (post to come soon), breakfast buffet and one-night’s stay at Ojai Valley Inn & Spa were all hosted.

Papabubble
380A Broome Street
New York, NY‎ 10013
212.966.2599‎

Ojai Valley Inn & Spa
905 Country Club Road
Ojai, CA 93023
800.422.6524

It was daylight. Early morning. There was an explosion. I came to and I found myself suspended sideways, onto my right side. I stared at my passenger door tweeter a few feet below me. It seemed really far, then. It’s a really nice brushed aluminum piece surrounding a chrome handle.

I heard voices. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m okay,” I said. I said it in a really sour tone, trying desperately to be appreciative and failing. My right palm and left knuckles were bloody and so was my shirt. My head throbbed. The chemicals from the airbags deploying were … unpleasant. Whatever.

After anything big happens to me – yes, even with an explosion – I always think, “Whatever.” Next.

There was confirmation thereafter that I could get out – and this came with the realization that I would have to unfasten the device that had saved me in the first place. I guarantee that before this past weekend, I’ve never had to watch where I might pivot 90 degrees and fall after unbuckling myself from my driver’s seat.

Saturday morning, I unclicked my seat belt before landing in the space where my passenger window used to be. I could feel the glass bits crunch under the clink of my black motorcycle boots. I could hear them against the ground, against my teeth – I could taste them in my mouth.

I stood up and looked around. Put my forearms on my ragtop sill and saw about 8 Midcity West neighbors on the spot – after all, I had woken them up. And I had hit one of their parked cars.

“Hey, wanna get outta there?” a nice guy asked.

Get out of where? Where was I? And this car that … surrounded me? There was no way that this was my car. My car was an electric blue stunner. My car had four wheels on the ground with a wheelbase almost as long and wide as the car itself. My car is four years old and not one scratch on it to be found – not even a bumper kisser. Please let me wake up now.

My palm blood stained the back of the kind stranger’s shirt as he hoisted my 120 units out of her driver window. Chelsea’s driver window. That was my window. My car has a name. Just like Judy Jettason had a name before her. I have had conversations with Chelsea and greeted her everytime I came back to her. I congratulated her on her “whirr’s” everytime her Supercharger propelled us along fast (no turbo lag). I’d console her that I’d be back soon everytime I left her in the garage or on the street. I said “good night” to her after dusk.

When I landed on the glass-covered ground I kept walking to the other side of the intersection. And then I had a fit. “Noo!!” I shouted. “No, no, no, noooo…” as I vented my anger. I slammed my coat on the ground, my scarf. I pounded the ground with my fits, repeating how effing stupid I was. I turned around while still on my knees and looked at Chelsea: “Noo…” and proceeded to bawl on like she was the best friend I could’ve ever had. Carving Coldwater Canyon. Birthday party errands and visiting friends in the Hollywood Hills. Stable as a ’stang even on the 10W towards the beach with the top down and able to pass almost anyone I wanted if in the right gear. Dreams of taking her to Mammoth soon for some spring snowboarding – just me, my board, and Chelsea. She had seen and conquered the city; I wanted to show her the mountains.

Adrenaline, on. “I guess I should call 911,” I said to the neighbors. I pulled out my cell phone. All 8 of them looked at me and laughed – “Oh, that’s been done awhile ago.” I wondered if there was something I could do. They told me to sit down. What a preposterous idea. I continued to pace.

Ambulance. Sirens. Squad cars. A gurney. “Do you wanna go to the hospital?” Ambulance Guy asked. “No,” I said simply and waved them off. They left. A police lady on a power trip who wouldn’t let me get my coat where I had slammed it (yeah – they come in all sexes) – the men waved her off.

I am the one who demanded the sobriety test so that I could pass with flying colors (I did) and flashed my notoriously low-approval auto insurance card so that the police would start treating me with respect (they did). The police beat the twitterers to the “What happened?” question and to both I say exactly the same thing:

Crescent Heights makes a turn right there. I wasn’t paying attention. It could have been that I dozed off – but I will tell you that I remember rowing into third gear just as I was crossing the green at 3rd Street just a block earlier. Next I knew was an explosion…that’s it.

Two policemen said to that: “Oh…you drive a manual.”

That’s “what happened.” No one else was hurt, thank goodness. The neighbors confirmed to me that there is an accident in that exact spot once per month. The parked car I hit was on a turn facing the opposite direction and on the other side of the street – which means I overdid the turn because I was turning with it. If I was dozing off and going straight I would’ve hit a car on the same side of the street.

This, the first accident I’ve caused in driving in Los Angeles for 9 years, could have been exponentially worse and I know this. Yes – other people could have been involved and I know this. Yes – I know a car is replaceable and I am not. So thank you for all your insights. I know you say all of this for yourselves and not just for me so thank your lucky stars and be responsible – everyone – out there. And be fortunate.

As they loaded her onto the tow truck, I said over and over again to Chelsea how sorry I was. I chanted it. And finally, I felt it was finally out of my hands when before, I had simply refused to believe it. So, I uploaded the Twitpic and let the live micro-/blogging and documenting of this chapter begin.

I feel especially blessed that no new injuries have appeared in the couple days following. I cannot believe how unscathed I came out…and neither can anyone else. Nobody. That is a testament to the safety of the New Mini Cooper – and most definitely that someone’s watching out for me. Thank you for all your kind words, all your @estarla replies. They mean the world and it was humbling knowing so many Tweeples cared. Thank you! Love you.

I’ve written this post with tears in my eyes. And so it’s time. I’m on my way to the tow yard for a final good-bye.

R.I.P. Chelsea – An e*starLA Flickr Set

Past posts about Chelsea:

Ugh, I Own a BMW (3/12/2008)

Meet Chelsea (2/12/2008)

Ahhh…

I’ve become conditioned to feel that adrenaline pumping at the mere sight of fluffy white from the sky.

I can’t help it.

The rush of high speeds down slopes of white, soft goodness. The easier the turn, the better the conditions…the more conducive to learning switch and dropping in at all angles. The farther away from hard, choppy moguls – the better.

Because I go so much, I’ve gotten picky. But I hate to be ungrateful.

So anyway, here’s a shot at the truth. Truthfully speaking – Utah lived up. That champagne snow everyone talks about? It’s true – as long as the temps are right. The backside of Snowbird: Priceless. But Whistler failed, my friends. And while we were doing hard and fast runs between our hikes to Blackcomb glacier or off the beaten path outside Whistler groms – I would get Mammoth Dump Alerts via email to my BlackBerry. Salt in the wound, much?

Had to count the blessings in Canada. Somewhere new to ride, somewhere big. Different scenery and more stashes to find – somehow, some way. The very act of Après ski itself is infinitely better in Whistler Village than in any other resort town in North America. (Meanwhile, back in Mammoth – we’ve yet to count more occupancies than vacancies in that village.) We had our fill of Zog’s Dogs, probably also the best North American hotdog stand, which sold Beaver Tails and Poutins, as well – averaging at 3 visits per day. Yes! Per day!

Second day of riding, I had a tumble on Blackcomb glacier. It was like any other run we took back there beforehand and would take afterwards. I got more speed than I could handle and subsequently tumbled. I felt my humerus come out of the socket briefly to snap back in right after. Shock! Pain! Soreness. I had had arthroscopic surgery on this shoulder just short of 2 years ago in which half the circumference of my labrum was reattached to my shoulder socket with 3 titanium hooks – the only reason why it had snapped back into place on the glacier. How much of the surgery had been reversed is still TBD pending appointment.

So with mediocre conditions, the definite highlight of the trip was visiting during a demo weekend. After some fully-dressed-in-Burton (read: n00b)San Francisco yuppies were done, we had our time to monopolize the Lib Technologies tent and got to try out ‘09-’10 boards that weren’t even in production yet. Magne-traction (beveled edges) and Banana tech (reverse camber/rocker) galore! I demo’ed the B-Pro BTX – which was worth their while because I really want the board now. The Banana tech makes it easier to turn, and I had missed the Magne-traction on my Ally MTX - the board I didn’t bring because it was a shorter length. I’ve become dependent on the MTX to keep me from sliding out…little did I know I’d need it for the hard, icy pack that I wished was in Mammoth instead of Whistler.

The grass is always greener.

It was good to ride regardless. I just need to visit Mammoth soon for some more of the pow they got coming. Call me a pow chaser!

Peep some pics:

e*star’s Whistler Blackcomb Flickr Set

captainsean’s Whistler Blackcomb Flickr Set

eekles’ Whistler Blackcomb Flickr Collection

It was the New Year’s celebration taking place at 44th and 6th on the bottom floor of ABC Studios – where they broadcast Good Morning America – and Pepsi, with their RefreshEverything campaign, was the sponsor. Stoked. Tara and I met up first and we had the pleasure of meeting and partying the night up with NY Gothamist cats, Neil Epstein and Jen Chung, and their significant others.

H’ors d’oeuvres such as shrimp cocktail, stuffed mushrooms and chicken skewers kept my dinner-less stomach happy. Open bar, a variety of fun party favors and dancing entertainment completed the night. We noticed (but could not hear) performances going on by Taylor Swift and Fergie on the TV prompters as well as Dick Clark and Ryan Seacrest fulfilling their respective hosting gigs. No matter. I got a picture with a sailor, and it wasn’t even Fleet Week.

At about 11:40 on December 31st, we trooped outdoors to join everyone else, who had probably been there for a minimum of 12 hours by then – in single digit weather!! Not to gloat! And since I pulled the novice blogger mistake of capturing video of the ball drop with my camera vertically, I’ll defer to Tara’s awesome video capturing and editing skills here. You can see glimpses of what went on during the night (there’s even a special greeting to us Angelenos at the end ):

Happy New Year, everyone!! Cheers to a wonderful 2009.

The best part? I’m still in New York!! More to come later…

View my NYE Times Square Flickr Pics

I admit it. It really was an impulse thing. Well hey; if it’s any other American city I’d uproot myself to start over again in, The Big Apple is certainly it. Naturally, the next best thing is to visit it. I may have booked the flight to New York only 8 days ago, but hell if I didn’t have a good reason to do so on short notice. It’s almost 2009, folks! Happy New Year.

My good friend Greg has been gracious enough to put me up for the week.

My friend Tara, whom will become an even better friend by the time this trip is over , has been gracious enough to help me out with a VIP pass to ABC studios in Times Square for the New Year’s Eve celebration. Dick Clark, open bar, the works.

And just to make the trip worthwhile, I will be staying for a whole week to see the city. It’s my third time here – the first of which was marked by a performance in Carnegie Hall with my high school city-wide youth orchestra. The second – a pleasure trip. But the third time’s a charm, so needless to say, I’m excited about my New York holiday.

The winter holidays, for me, extend just a little bit further than everyone else. That happens when you have a mid-January birthday (and you happen to care about it – no shame here, man). This particular birthday is a big one, so you can expect a return to regular updating around here because a lot has been going on from snowboarding … to this New York trip … to my 30th birthday. Yeah, I said it. I’m excited about my 30th birthday. I’ll wax philosophic about that later; I got a couple-a weeks.

So this is more of a heads-up post to be checking my Twitter tonight for some live micro-blogging action and back here for follow-ups. For the first time, I’ll be ringing in the new year 3 hours ahead of my fellow Angelenos. What better way to remember such an event?

That being said, I’ve found all my furniture through Craigslist. I’ve also found all my roommates through Craigslist (I’m not one of those “room with anyone already associated with your life”-types-of-roommates). It’s the single best resource that I can think of right now for a resident of Los Angeles.

The thing about going on the internet message boards to find out about carpooling to Vegas with other volunteers for Obama is that you can’t find out too much about people by the two sentences they write about, say, when they want to leave and come back, or the kind of vibe they expect in the car for that weekend. Also, when there’s only one of two presidential candidates left to support – I know there’s that phrase, “Great minds think alike” but seriously? There’s left and right; there’s also nice and not-so-nice. Annoying and not-so-annoying.

I think, though, that even with volunteering you do happen to narrow your sample because people involved aren’t just voters. They’re supporters and volunteers that would give up their time and pitch in a little (or a lot) to further something they happen to believe in. Without tootin’ the horn or anything, I had never thought that I would ever have enough motivation to participate in a general campaign. After all, that would take committing to something, or maybe even too much. That would be pretending – somehow – that the little (wo)manpower I could provide could actually make a difference.

If you really feel the essence of what’s going on, live the life you aim to elect – carpool. Save gas, save the environment. You don’t just get someone elected so they can’t do all the work for you.

In my carpool was a fifty-something Belizian woman with the sweetest demeanor and the driver of the bunch, a forty-something high school art teacher who has been with his partner for 16 years. Their marriage is recognized by the State of California; their house, an absolutely divine ’70’s-style open concept with mod furnishings, floor-to-ceiling windows and new landscaping out back (oh, and a dog plus three kittens).

We took turns driving and Rob was kind enough to enjoy our company, not charge us for gas – and even paid for our really pleasant, delicious Italian lunch between shifts on Saturday. Merilyn was the kindest, sweetest mother figure of the group. She showed so much caring. Did I mention that it was in the 60’s (degrees F) in Vegas? So as we went door-to-door to do our surveys it was actually pretty chilly with only our body movement to generate the heat we needed. I can honestly say that the work, while very tiring, was fun. The strong and not-so-strong reactions. The interesting conversations. Utilizing literature. Moving on to the next house after the door goes unanswered even though you knew you heard someone moving around inside.

I should rewind back to lunch, though. We had decided against the first two establishments we had walked into and got back in our car and kept driving. The menus just didn’t look appetizing so we’d decide to look for another place. We turned into many plazas, glorified and unglorified strip malls. And then at one of the business parks full of attorney and medical practices, we realized that we had driven straight into the McCain-Palin campaign headquarters.

What I wanna know is, How did they get a firetruck? Isn’t that a taxpayer asset being used for partisan purposes? Anyway, we had a play fight.

It was as if we had deliberately turned into their territory, parading in front of them with our blue peacock feathers splayed out for all to see. We shared some moments of … jeering and laughter … with a lot of “hooo” -ing and “hawww” -ing. They held up signs at our car, boo’ed at us; we held up our stickers up to them while laughing hysterically. The reality was that we were just looking for a good place to eat … while they then shouted, “Higher taxes!” at us. I was confused as to whether that was the best of what they had in their arsenal. Higher taxes for whom?

When we turned into the inside of the plaza, we realized there was really no way out but the way we came. And so, we just went back through the McSame-Palin mob. I suppose now it just looked like we were just trying to be jackasses. They pretended to put their stickers on our car. At one point, Rob (with his window already rolled down to hold up Obama bumper stickers/peacock feathers for all to see) stopped the car and asked a guy where a good place to eat was. He gave us directions to Gladstone’s.

We didn’t end up eating at Gladstone’s, but it was a moment in political activism solidarity for the books. Yeah, we may not understand each other much, but we all gave up our Saturdays to do this.

Not without its fun, though. Endless thanks to Jim and Jen for putting me up and showing me out. Also, for showing me surprisingly awesome small-plate Japanese food their budding Asian community has to offer. We also saw Santogold at the House of Blues after building our own burgers at The Burger Bar in Mandalay Bay. And then we went out in downtown LV, which has been undergoing a sort of revival. We checked out Downtown Cocktail Lounge, The Griffin and Beauty Bar. It was a nice change from the cheese you often find on the strip – more of a local, authentic vibe than inside the establishment of a huge casino club.

In closing, it was a really good trip. I can’t really reveal the specifics of the strategy of our canvassing* but I feel that I should stress that as long as you’re somewhat extraverted and excited about your candidate, it’s not an unsurmountable task. It’s even exciting at times. Getting to meet people along the way and hearing their stories and what brought them to the campaign is also an invaluable experience. I’m so glad I did it.

See my Vegas For Obama Flickr Set

*That being said, it seems like the L.A. Times has blown our cover a little bit, anyway:

- Californians for Obama are out to boost his odds in Nevada, L.A. Times

Sweet.

I feel pretty lucky to live in a city where I can hear lots of live music acts – and the abundance of shows that I’d actually like to see here is way more than I can conscientiously demand of my wallet (yeah, I have to do that thang called ”prioritizing”). So I’ll take that live music capital title with a grain of salt, the same way I’m sure surfers are content to session outside Huntington Beach, CA, which was recently trademarked Surf City USA®.

We’ll find a show in Austin to crash, somehow. We’re just happy to be along for the ride and it would be a nice perk if we can make it happen.

It’s been about a year since I’ve attended one of Tim’s film premieres, and I couldn’t imagine a better scenario. Seventh Moon is premiering at the Fantastic Fest, a “science-fiction, fantasy, horror, animation, crime, Asian and all around badass cinema”-themed film festival held in Austin. Tim (my schoolmate and friend of almost 11 years) is co-starring opposite Amy Smart in the movie and together, they play newlyweds on their honeymoon in China. Of course, this is where everything goes awry during a Chinese holiday, and supernatural forces are out to work their terror on them.

The movie is brought to you by Eduardo Sánchez, who was co-creator of The Blair Witch Project movies – and Tim co-stars in Eduardo’s 3rd film, only after Blair Witch 1 and 2. Last year, Tim spent approximately 2 months shooting the movie in Hong Kong. (You can view pics from his adventures here – and there will be more after I gift a Flickr Pro renewal to his name.)

The great thing is, we’re able to partake in the film’s premiere at the Fantastic Fest because Tim turned down a first class ticket to Austin so that he could also fly us – his 3 bosom buddies – along with him. They’re also putting us up at the Hyatt in downtown Austin for 4 nights. Yay.

An interesting thing I was recommended was to visit the Whole Foods; supposedly, Whole Foods was started in Austin and the one there is huge – as in, 2 stories huge. Now, I rarely shop at Whole Foods for more than cheese and random specialty items (talk about markup!) but I do love a good Whole Foods food bar. Who am I kidding? I love food.

So anyway, you’ll be hearing from me while I’m in Austin during the film festival. I figure if I’m visiting the city that is host to SXSW (though I have yet to visit for that occasion), I’d need an excuse not to stay connected. And if you have any recommendations on what to do, where to check out – I’d be greatly obliged.

Writeup: Seventh Moon at Fantastic Fest (trailer)

That is really not to underestimate the drinking abilities of the Wisconsin people, by the way. If you’re not familiar, before many of the breweries moved to St. Louis, it was Milwaukee that was their home. Also, the University of Wisconsin-Madison is consistently voted “Biggest Party School” every year.

But that’s Milwaukee. This was Munich. Nothing can really prepare anybody for Oktoberfest.

Since I arrived back home, Stateside, on the last day of September, friends would be surprised that I had attended Oktoberfest in Munich. They’d often ask, “Already?” In reality, Oktoberfest has always started in September. Traditionally, it’s been held during the 16 days leading up to and through the first Sunday of October since 1810. And according to the Bavarians, the first brewery in in the entire world is said to have existed nearby Munich as far back as 179 A.D. They really take their beer seriously.Let’s not forget the “Bavarian Beer Purity Laws” or “The Reinheitsgebot of 1513.” That’s right, the beer is state-regulated in the region. In a nutshell, that means that Bavarian beer can be made of only four ingredients for it to be classified as such, those being: water, malt, hops and yeast. Corn syrup not allowed. Enthusiasm for this “purity” has only intensified. In fact, a controversy arose only 20 years ago when they tried to regulate that all beer even being sold–not just made–in the area adhere to these laws. The EU stepped in and said it would be a violation of fair trade laws and so, even though it was disallowed, the spirit of the local breweries and the commitment to their beer tradition was only strengthened. You can also find arguments against the validity of these laws as just being hostile to the competition and in no way an indicator of quality.

But I didn’t know all that while I was in the Hofbräu tent. All I knew was that there was a crapload of people and that the Theresienwiese or Wies’n(fairgrounds) was huge–about 7 million people over 16 days, spread over 100 acres, drinking 1.5 gallons of beer–making it the largest party or festival in the world. Also, for probably the first time in my entire life, no matter which of the six Munich breweries brewed it (Spaten, Augustiner, Paulaner, Hacker-Pschorr, Hofbräu, Löwenbräu), the beer tasted really good. I’m not particularly a beer drinker, y’see, but this stuff definitely made me intrigued. So did the festivities and the spirit of this huge ass party. We couldn’t believe that we were really there. It really was just crazyness.

At noon. ‘Cause we were going to get kicked out at 4pm when the locals came to claim their reservations.

[A tip: come early to get a table on a weekday if you'd like to sit down inside a tent because at night and weekends it will be near impossible. Or with some planning and a travel group, make a reservation by FAX through the tent--typically available with groups of 6 or more.]

When you’re at Oktoberfest, you’re always with company. If you don’t come with a group, you meet people there. Roycifer and I had a ball hanging out with a couple people from L.A. (whom I met through my roommate) and their many Aussie friends they had made at a hostel in Berlin not a couple weeks earlier. There are no pretensions at Oktoberfest and it’s just a merry ol’ time. When you raise your 1-litre maß (stein)–it’s “Prost!!” We toasted the Germans at our table. We toasted the Americans across the way even though one of the guys went to $C. We toasted the Aussies. And then we toasted more Germans. Middle-aged Germans. Teenage Germans. Whatever the age, most were dressed in lederhosen and drindls. Purely awesome.

With each raising of the 1-litre stein (1.76 pints), I felt I was completing a weight workout. And though we were tempted to take an empty one, we decided not to risk the €50 ($75 USD) fine of getting caught. We purchased our replicas at a nearby stand for €8.

Droves of Italians come the first week of Oktoberfest. They make everyone known that they are the Futbol champions of the entire world. A chant they do is fashioned after the opening of The White Stripes’ Seven Nation Army and combined with the traditional Bavarian Prost song that is sung often in order to toast Prost!, you have quite a lot of singing and hoo hah.

And a lot of “I’m going to the bathroom.” I didn’t even know if it was grammatically correct or not, but my phrase to the Germans inside the tent all that day was, “Wo ist der vey tsay [WC]?” Where are the water closets? “Wo sind die Toilette?” When outside, you look for the cupid and where he points his arrow. And I really have to commend the fairgrounds for appropriating enough stalls for everyone–after some research, I found that they added 20% more toilets in 2005. But at one point, I had lost Roycifer, my beloved traveling partner. He had just never come back from the water closets. It happened either in the Hofbräu-Festzelt or Armbrustschützenzelt (serving Paulaner), I’m not exactly sure which. I followed the Aussies around a bit through the rain and at one point deliberately, artfully ripped a hole in my jeans by tripping onto my right knee *snort*. Luckily, I was able to meet up with him again one U-bahn ride, a transfer and an S-bahn ride later–back at the hotel.We never did Oktoberfest again that week. We had our fill of crazy–and it was great.

Love,
*e

Random German beverage glossary:
Apfelschorle – Apple juice and Sprite
Spretzl – Coke and lemonade
Radler – Weissbier and Sprite

There is a lacking of internet in Southern Italy, thereby preventing me from blogging much from that country–but who wants to be on the internet when you could be out seeing the ruins of Pompeii, the grottos of Capri, the churches of each historic town or the hanging cliffs of the region, anyway? So I’m going to continue blogging about the trip. For now, I’m going to reminisce a little about that boot-shaped country, on which we spent much time on the “front ankle.”

It doesn’t usually make a difference what day it is when you’re on vacation (what does matter is when it’s rush hour), but it was Saturday when we visited Positano. Positano is positioned along The Amalfi Coast on the way of our drive from Sorrento to Ravello. It was where most attendees of the wedding were making their day trip before the wedding celebration on Sunday.

It would be an absolute beautiful day on The Amalfi. Since by Friday most of them had already checked into their hotels in Ravello, the site of the wedding, we sucked up some international roaming minutes and coordinated the meet halfway in Positano. We heard it was a beautiful town, so what better way to see it?

And it was Positano that was on the cover of our trusty Frommer’s The Amalfi Coast travel guide book. Houses on a cliff reaching toward the sky. Grey, pebbly beach below. The clearest water I’ve ever seen stretching across the sea. In fact, it was this water through which I could count each individual grey pebble–at least to the depth of two feet.We met up with the suspects at large and had a snack or two. Ice cream (for Lisa, of course), pizza, bruschetta, panini … We had learned to say Il canto per fervore (that is, the check, please) by that time because when you travel, forget even ”excuse me,” you are going to ask for the check far more often. Unless you are more polite than I am, which wouldn’t be saying much.

I don’t know if there is a more beautiful place on Earth than Positano, but I have certainly never met up with friends at a place more beautiful than this.

People ask me if I bought anything in Italy. Aside from the advantageous exchange rate–from the side of the Euro–I wouldn’t exactly dub The Amalfi Coast as a place to make your shopping finds. After all, it’s not Florence. Naples might have been the place to shop–reals and fakes alike–but to be quite honest, everyone had eventually developed a hate-hate relationship with the city by the end of our trip.*

The specialty item you find in Positano, and most any town on The Coast, was Limoncello. It’s a sweet liqueur, if a bit pungent–obviously flavored with lemon. The region is lined with lemon groves and that is their thing. You could also find linens and other random unfashionable garb to buy, but I figured that if I was going to buy things in Italy for myself or as souvenirs for other people I might stick to the fashionable finds. I did find a pair of shoes in Sorrento that was of a sub-brand of Miss Sixty called, “Killah.” We saw a lot of Diesel, G-brand and Miss Sixty, actually, throughout the trip. My guess is that they all originate from Italy.In Positano was where we’d spend our only day of the trip lying on the beach. A few of us stayed on the paeon side where it was free to loiter there while some others paid 10 Euros to use the city’s fancy chairs complete with sun shields. I think they were given a towel to use, too. Joe, the groom and a half-Ironman, made laps in the extremely salty water for a workout while Sandy the bride made laps on land.

There was barely any sand. Whatever sand there was, it was grey, and closer to the beachfront it was huge rocks and pebbles. Not exactly recommended for beach running. But the water was so blue, so clear–and so salty. While going into the water to cool off, some of it touched my mouth and it was almost unbearable. At one point I stood in the water atop the hurtful pebbles and rocks below to find the rest of my body buoyant. I looked down and could see my toes in the water, my feet barely treading. This was certainly a special place.

Love,
*e

P.S. – I forgive the vocal American youngsters seemingly on MTV Spring Break Without MTV behind me who were thrilled at the aspect of being in possession of alcohol in Italy while playing albums of Jack Johnson straight through, or on repeat, I’m not sure which.

I felt it our duty to visit Dachau, one of the notorious concentration camps during Nazi rule, because you just couldn’t come for Oktoberfest, drink up and have only a merry ol’ time at a festival … and completely ignore the tragic memory of a people who was at one time destined for extermination a few miles away. I couldn’t do it. While reading Oktoberfest history, I learned that the festival was actually canceled from 1939 to 1945 due to World War II. (More on Dachau later.)

So we did Dachau in the morning and rushed our way back to the clock tower at the Rathaus at Marienplatz, the meeting place for Mike’s Bike Tours. They were to meet there at 12:30 for about 15 minutes to get the tourist schpielen on it before leaving to get bikes. Due to the bus schedule and irregular S-bahn schedule, we got there at 1pm, huffing and puffing (not to mention we were a little ambitious about it because Dachau is a little bit ways out). Luckily, Roycifer looked at the brochure he picked up for the tours, and it happened to have a map of the location of the office in relation to the meeting place, which is where they were to walk next.

We followed the map–by running–and found the office empty; thankfully, the girl who was there was able to call one of the tours and tell them that there were “2 more coming,” and instructed us on how to get to the garage. Again, we ran. A guy set us up with bikes and then took us to meet the first stop on the tour–where one of the groups still was.

Cool. We were set.

Our tour guide was from Hawaii and the people on the tour happened to be mostly American. I met some Chicagoans, some Joiseyans, some Brits … and of course some Californians. There were a group of three girls, actually, who somehow made it known that they were from Californ-I-A by the time we joined up.

The lunch stop was at the Chinesischer Turm, which means “Chinese Tower” and it overlooks the second largest beer garden in Munich. It was our second time drinking Hofbräu Weißbier but this time, we were determined to try the edible goods–of which there were many. And the bratwurst and spare ribs were delicious. So was the dill-sour cream sauce that was on top of our potato wedges. Mmm.

That sauce. Those ribs. That bratwurst. The beer. Mmm, sauerkraut.

Before I tell you more thoroughly about my Oktoberfest experience in another post, let me summarize about the beer by stating some facs: my 5′4″ 120-lb frame drank almost 4 beer steins (1 beer stein holds over 2 pints, btw) in about 8 hours, yet I didn’t get sick or have a hangover the next day. Yes, that Bavarian beer is special.

More kraut:

Nice rubber sidestrips.

After lunch, we “happily” got back on our bikes. At one point, a group of us in front (yeah we’re nerds) paused to wait for those behind us to cross a street together. I noticed I was next to one of the “girls from California.”I tried to initiate some friendly conversation by smiling at her and saying,

“So where in California are you from?”

She says, “Southern!” and smiles back.

“Nice, wherearound? I live close to the Beverly Center.”

She pauses and says, “Oh I’m from Orange County. You’re from L.A.-L.A.?”

And she goes on, “I actually hate L.A.” and scrunches her nose ever just a tiny bit.

I, too, paused a tiny bit. Then, I cocked my head & widened my eyes. I exclaimed while still smiling, “Oh my gosh, really?? I actually hate Orange County!!”

Fin.

I mean, I have to give her some credit for her capacity to harbor all that hate. I, too, spend all the hours of my days thinking about how much I hate Orange County that whenever somebody mentions “Orange County,” “The O.C.” or “Laguna Beach” that hate for the group of cities surfaces to the forefront of my mind. The traffic lights at 8-laned intersections that never turn green even when there’s no one crossing the intersection. The only beaches in Southern California. [ ] The orange-skinned mother-daughter pairs shopping Fashion Island in matching Juicy Couture sweatsuits and matching Miniature Schnauzers. The surfer bro fans of Jack Johnson, the most talented musician to ever live.

However, I’m not even so sure that I might volunteer that information the first thing I said to someone I just met from that region.

Munich. Bringing the world together. Feel the love…

Love,
*e