“crack cream”

No, it’s not what you think. It’s this treat called Tati, and there’s crack in it. And what I have to say about it is something akin to Mike Myer’s rant (as his Scottish father) in “So I Married an Axe Murderer” about the owner of Kentucky Fried Chicken who he simply refers to as, “the Colonel”. Much like the Colonel, who “puts an addictive chemical in his chicken to make you crave it fortnightly!”, the makers of Tati put what can only be crack in this delicious creation, making us crave it all day everyday.

Tati is, essentially, an ice cream sandwich — but oh how it’s so much more! It is vanilla ice cream, very creamy, very melty, sandwiched between two graham crackery cookies that taste like they have been fried in honey. Between the cookies and the ice cream is a subtle layer of chocolate sauce, unhardened. The creation is divine. It comes in this adorablely wasteful plastic tub with a yellow lid and a little button on the bottom which you can push to expel the cookie — you know, so it feels like you are working for your treat. All of this you do immediately upon exiting the store, actually in the doorway next to the trash can. The entire thing takes less than two minutes to consume, and by that point the cookies have completely softened into the ice cream, and into your belly.

And then you want another one. Immediately. But you don’t get one because you know it’s crack and it’s not good for you. You already had your fix for the day and you don’t want it to get out of control. But then you go into withdrawal, and the cycle begins again when you “break down” and buy one the next day.

Tessa and I had a most intellectual conversation about crack creme today:

Me: I think they would be more satisfying if the cookie were harder. The whole thing wouldn’t melt so fast.

Tessa: I think it would be more satisfying if there weren’t crack in it.

As always, she proves the wiser.

Brother that movie reference was for you. Now go cry yourself to sleep on your giant pillow.

Espiritu

I’m fairly convinced that “Spirit” is the quintessential American movie (not to be confused with a ‘film’ as Americans, Disney actually, doesn’t make films, they make blown up TV, i.e. movies).  Reasons why:

1. The main character is a horse. What screams the American dream more than a ‘wild’ animal without ties of any kind who doesn’t have to talk and has a huge dick (no boogie nights action but its implied, I mean its a horse).

2. There is no dialogue from the main character but a husky male voiceover kindly relays to us how he is feeling. Read: men don’t have to communicate, everyone just magically knows what is going on. That might be nice, eh?

3. The girl horse has long eyelashes and a feather in her mane. Easy social cues make life, well, easier.

4. The entire movie is an obsene glorification of the American west. Every other scene is in Monument Valley, then they magically end up in a pine forest. Teleportation is the only explanation, and what does every American want more than to teleport.  I mean, everything’s just so far away!

5. The horses can run all day and never tire. Stamina. Enough said.

6. Spirit (the title character) jumps across an impossibly wide canyon, satisfying both the need to overcome insurmountable obstacles and to be Evil Knievil.

7. I’m fairly sure the music was written by Bruce Springsteen.

Need I say more?

In other news, the adage of the day is “free drinks do not equal a good time”.  A lesson for everyone.

you need this

Okay, everyone go to the grocery store to the home cleaning supplies aisle and look for “Wypex”: it’s this blue, solid dish detergent and while I have no idea about its antibacterial qualities, the suds are fucking magic.

“No contest”

While I was explaining ultimate frisbee to a very skeptical Israeli today (he called it “nerd square” which has to stick somewhere for something: Whit, you’re in charge of making up a game in time for New Years), I made a strange connection with something Baudrillard wrote about in “America”. He talks about how America, specifically cities in California like L.A. and Santa Barbara, are achieved utopias. I have decided that this is why Santa Barbara ultimate players are such assholes. They are “living the dream”, so to speak, and because their home and their lives are such perfection attained, their ultimate must be as well. Hence them always being right. About everything. Even when they clearly stepped into me and I was giving them ample space to pivot. Totally my fault. I will never contest a Santa Barbara call again. Instead I will say, “I apologize for impeding your utopic vision achieved.” I implore everyone to do the same and see who gets slapped first.

dashing through the snow?

So it’s the season. It’s unavoidable. Especially because I decided to go to a Catholic country. Of all the things to consider while choosing a destination and travelling, I never suspected that la Navidad would be such an integral part of the experience. As one might expect, people here love Christmas, especially the kids. Last week I was living with a family with three little girls who have the longest holiday break imaginable, giving them nothing better to do than hang around the house singing Christmas carols and watching “Espiritu” (‘Spirit’, the incredible Disney movie that warrants its own post).

The carols, though, there is something so troubling about hearing Christmas carols here and it’s not the spanish translations. Actually, the fact that they are in spanish make them infinitely more bearable than the inundation that I would be receiving were I still in the U.S. What has been bothering me, or at least making me shake my head at the world a bit, is that in this tropical country Christmas is still associated with, well, “dashing through the snow”. What’s up with that? This just screams globalization in all its great irony (perhaps only the Alanis Morrisette variety). Were these songs written in Hollywood? Does it prove the commercialization of the holiday to such an extent that it doesn’t even have to make sense, environmentally?

I don’t know, this is half rant half giggle for me. What I really want to hear is a song about Santa on a beach…in Oklahoma. Is it too soon after the storm for that one? My apologies, Oklahoma. Too easy.

Why horses?

A few days ago Tessa and I participated in what can only be categorized as the most overt of tourist activities: a horseback ride.  True, a group of tall white women as we five riders were would stick out in any crowd, especially here.  One can only imagine the magnified effect of mounting an animal, one that makes us both taller, and more foreign.

 Also, riding is difficult.  Most people I know have little to no experience on a horse, including everyone I was riding with save our guide.  I hadn’t ridden in about five years, and while there was a time when I was very comfortable in a saddle, that time was not yesterday, and I was a bit afraid of losing my seat a few times.  So the question remains, why is horseback riding such a ubiquitous tourist activity?  Is it really so romantic that people just don’t realize what they’re getting into, the days of soreness not included, and touring companies happen to be well-attuned to this part of the anglo psyche?  It’s just so hoity toity that we are too embarrassed to do it in our regular lives but we feel some license in a foreign place so we excuse ourselves of our ridiculous impulses (this, I suspect, is the reason for a large part of the embarrassing or regretful impressions that foreigners make). 

All of that being said, of course we had a great time.  Sugar cane and coffee fields, vistas of shadowed valleys, a roaring waterfall, near-catastrophic galloping spurts, and a really sore ass.  Love tourism.

“shiiiit man…”

We met a boy named David who had taken lessons at this school for some weeks this fall and has since been travelling.  He was from North Carolina, probably about 21 years old, and very “chill”.  He swore a lot, but in that nice, drawn out way that only southerners and potheads can say “shiiiiiit” and “fuuuuck” and get away with it.  Sitting with him in the town square, talking about having to sell his kayak and how he’s so sad to be missing Ladies’ Night at the local bar, I quickly realized that I was speaking with the prototypically perfect Central American traveler.  His accent is horrendous, his appearance is, to be generous…clothed, his goatee is patchy at best, and he walks through this country with such ease and more than that, implicit and explicit respect.

So I could go on about gender inequality and how Tessa’s having such a hard time getting work as a raft guide and if she were a dude bla bla bla but you get the point.  David’s perfect and I’m not but we were wearing almost the same shirt so I think that should count for something besides the hint at homosexuality.  Mine, not his.  Obviously.

 And for a Papa H. update: Ernest apparently didn’t attend the Nobel ceremony because he hates tuxedos.  Wearing underwear was the most dressed up he ever wanted to be, and he was never known to do so. 

Papa Hemingway

I thought she was joking. No way is there a mostly anecdotal biography of Ernest H. titled “Papa Hemingway”! On this rare occasion, however, Tessa spoke the truth and was kind enough to read some of her favorite gems to me while I was suffering from a mysterious flu-like illness.

El mejor: Papa H. was cheating on his first wife and as soon as they were divorced and he married his mistress, he became impotent. He tried everything to overcome his ailment, visiting doctors, drinking calf’s blood, the works. Finally his new wife, a devout Catholic, suggested that he go to church and pray about it. Papa H. was at the end of his rope at this point so he went and said a little prayer. When he came home, he claims they “made love like they invented it”, and he has been a Catholic ever since. I have hardly known a better reason to practice religion.

Dinner conversation

A few days ago…

Canadian: I love the Ticos!  They are all so nice!

Today…

Tessa: If there’s one thing I hate more than Canadians it’s do-gooders.

Me: What’s the difference?

Tessa: Canadians have tasers.

In other news, I like how it’s socially acceptable (even encouraged and at times demanded) to not wear shoes during air travel.  That’s nice.  There should be more of that.  I’m not wearing shoes right now and it feels great.

yup.

I did it.  The latest and long-awaited step in a life of self-involvement.  Enjoy and do comment.