Turning 30

29 was the age I always dreamed of being. I was 19, at a concert, standing behind a group of guys in their 40s with beers in their hands talking about how 29 was when it all came together for them, when they had figured out what they wanted in life, but hadn´t made so many commitments that they felt old. What they said stayed with me over the next decade, a string tied around my fnger, reminding me to make 29 an epic year. Or, at the very least, to make it a year I could wax nostalgic about during my eventual midlife crisis.

And I guess I´ve succeeded at that. I won´t ever flip out and buy a sports car (unless it´s a fully restored early 90s Bright Calypso Green Metallic Ford Probe with a completely rebuilt 4-cylinder engine), but I´m sure the day will come when I´ll look at a mortgage payment or a tuition bill and dream of the days we spent in Kathmandu and Istanbul, Zanzibar and Detroit.

I can´t deny that things have changed for me. Nowadays, instead of smoking pot, I get stoned staring at the iTunes Visualizer. When my head gets turned by a woman walking down the street, she inevitably has a kid trailing behind her. I worry that my favorite musicians will have strokes instead of overdoses.

This trip has made it clear that I´ve reached the age where life changes in a year. I was 25 the last time I took off to travel the world, alone. And when I returned, it seemed that most people´s lives were the same way they had been the year before. But now, in the 10 months since we got on that plane in San Francisco, I feel like everyone I know has up and moved on to something bigger, more ambitions, more grown-up. Z finished his PhD and became a professor, B conceived and became a father, C had a baby and got married. E became a rockstar in the world of social entrepreneurship, K (my ex) is in law school and will get married in a week, J started a new job and will probably be back in China any day now, C and A started business school, A moved in with her boyfriend, K bought a farm, and L left Nepal, landed in DC to be with S and changed careers. Nothing, or no one, it seems, is the same as when I left. We are growing up. We are doing amazing things. We are growing old.

Me, I´m unemployed, unmarried, unpregnant, a renter upon my return. I don´t have it all figured out. But, I have to admit, I kinda like it, being 30 and on the road. It´s hard to feel too old when you sleep in a new bed every day. And if you need to make peace with a change, to accept the fact that `old` happens, this, a city that in so many ways has resisted change, is a good place to do it. Nowhere makes old look beautiful the way that Detroit does. You drive down the street in a `53 Olds convertible and watch the pant peel off the Art Deco buildings and the balconies crumble away from the colonial walls. You let yourself believe that a little decay isn´t so bad.

Oh, and I should say, the other reason it´s good to turn 30 in Detroit is that everyone here is hairy. Since I´ve now reached the point where hair doesn´t grow in the places where I want and does in the places that I don´t (some might say I reached that point when I was 20, but don´t listen to them), it´s hard to explain how good it feels to be surrounded by men with hairy guts falling over their belts, women with Kahlo moustaches, boys with tufts poking through the buttons of their guyaberas, girls wearing tube tops that show off the treasure trail leading down from their bellybuttons. And the backs. Oh, the hairy hairy backs. In a place where any temperature over 70 degrees is justification for a guy to walk around topless, I just want to rip off my shirt and scream ¨Hombres, Mujeres (because, you know, a surprising number of people in Detroit speak Spanish), I am part of your hirsute brotherhood! Let us celebrate the rivers of hair cascading over our bodies and band together to destroy all waxing equipment and pictures of young hairless Abercrombie models!

Fortunately, I have not been drunk enough to do this yet. Also, there is no Abercrombie in Detroit. It´s just as well, for I suppose such antics are not appropriate for a man of my age. And so, instead, tonight we´ll eat gazpacho and ceviche, drink wine and rum, walk through the dark streets. And believe it when we say that 29 was great, and 30 will somehow, unexpectedly, unbelievably, be better.

--rahul

ps. I just opened up my inbox to a whole lot of email birthday love. To everyone who sent one out, thank you, thank you, thank you. I wish you were here in Detroit right now.

Oh beautiful Motor City, we come to thee

Tomorrow at 6am, assuming the hurricane gets out of our damn way, we'll be flying to what was heretofore known as "secret birthday destination" and will henceforth be known as "Detroit." Detroit is a beautiful little place not too far from Guatemala that is particularly difficult to get to when you live in America, and we're planning to spend 10 days there doing all the things that Detroitians do -- drink rum, dance salsa and smoke, um, cigars.

Now we know what you're thinking: "They're going to Cuba!" No, no my friend. How dare you even think such a thing! Of course we wholeheartedly support our administration's policy that Cuba is a scary evil place whose lack of democracy represents a significant threat to Florida, Alabama, and all those other neighboring states that are teetering domino-like on the brink of Communism. And we believe fervently that it's completely logical and consistent to restrict travel to and trade with Cuba while encouraging trade and travel to anti-democratic, human-rights violating countries like, say, China. Anyone who says that the policy discrepancy has anything to do with China's overwhelming market opportunities for American companies and the presence of a rabid community of Cuban exiles in a certain Sunshine swing State should go back to listening to Air America.

That's why we're going to Detroit. Why would Rahul want to turn 30 in one of the world's most romantic, lusty, invigorating (oh let´s just say it, erotic) cities when he can instead blow out the candles in Detroit? Why would Meg, soon to be Dr. Meg, be interested in going to a developing country with a health care system so strong that people fly from countries throughout the Carribean to see the doctors there when she could instead check out the hospitals of Detroit? What could be the appeal of spending World Series week in the most baseball-mad country on Earth watching the Pearson family's beloved Astros battle against a team with two Cuban defectors on the pitching staff when instead we could watch the games in Detroit?

We sure don't know. That's why we're going to Detroit. Say it with us, Detroit. Dee-troit. Unfortunately, Detroit's email access is notorious throughout the region for being quite spotty, so there may not be too many updates between now and Nov. 2. But you never know. Detroit is full of surprises.

The Volcano, Part Dos

When choosing where to spend the few days leading up to our flight out of Guatemala City, Antigua, with its colonial charm, seemed an obvious choice. Plus, it's home to FOUR, count 'em, FOUR volcanoes. Ahhhh, so many volcanoes to climb, so little time. Turns out it's also home to FOUR ZILLION tourists. Turns out too that we're not the only tourists who like to climb volcanoes.

We dragged ourselves out of bed this morning at the appalling hour of 5:45 (apologies to Meg's med school friends for whom that would count as sleeping in) to meet our "shuttle" to the volcano, about "45 minutes" away. Two hours later, our retired and tired American school bus and its 50+ gringo passengers arrived in the pueblo of San Francisco at the base of Pacaya. We bought some bananas from a shy little San Franciscan girl, and off we went. Our three guides had announced on the bus that all 50 of us should stick together ("Como una gran familia! ¡Que Bueno!"), but it quickly became apparent that this family was not meant to hike en masse. About five minutes into the climb, an over-eager American teen started *running* up the trail while a thirty-something woman was in negotiations with the men mounted on horses offering "taxis" to the top.

Eventually, la familia gringa was reunited at the top, where we munched on peanut butter and chocolate and checked out our surroundings. Pacaya is an active volcano that erupted four times in 2000 but hasn't spewed much lava to speak of since then. It does, however, blow off an impressive amount of hot noxious gas. Apparently today was an especially prolific day for Pacaya, and the dense mix of gas and low-lying clouds meant that we couldn't make it all the way to the crater. Bummer. But we didn't mind too much, cause we were sufficiently intrigued by the crazy yellow rocks, the old lava fields that look kinda like giant cow patties, and the sensation of being in an outdoor smelly sauna at 2800 meters.

We followed the signs back to San Francisco, and a few hours later here we are in an internet cafe listening to Michael Jackson and the Scorpions and typing on computers that are set to English instead of Espanol. We're half-expecting to see the Golden Gate Bridge and cable cars when we step outside. We haven't seen much of the real Guatemala yet, but if ever there was a time to hit the tourist meccas, it's during the World Series. Go 'stros!

To Waxahachie and Back Again

Meg’s grandmother passed away two Saturdays ago. She had been sick for awhile and, to the extent that one can be prepared for the death of a loved one, everyone in the family was ready for the end. We flew back from Oaxaca to join with all the sons and daughters and grandchildren and great-grandchildren in Waxahachie, Texas, where Meg’s dad grew up, and where her grandmother spent nearly all of her life.

At the memorial service, Johnny Pearson delivered a heck of a eulogy, reaching his goal of “not leaving a dry eye in the house.” We spent the rest of the weekend enjoying the rare opportunity to have almost the whole family together (just one great-grandchild short). We ate mountains of good ole Southern cookin', played some touch football, cheered on the Astros, ate some more, told all the classic family tall tales, celebrated Dunagan's 27th birthday, looked through old photos and letters of Grandma's, traded jokes in the kitchen, and kept on eatin'. As hard as we tried, we hardly made a dent in the endless stream of desserts that the neighbors kept bringing over. In the midst of our 10th piece of calf-slobber pie, we gave thanks for Southern hospitality.

It’s said sometimes that, in America, the only times families get together are for weddings and funerals. But Rahul grew up in Jersey with extended family in Kansas and India and attended virtually no big family gatherings, in celebration or in mourning. So spending a weekend amongst a couple dozen of Meg's relatives who had spent enough time together to know each other’s stories and to laugh at one another was an amazing thing to him. Being there made us both hope that as we get older, our families will never be so spread across the world that we can’t come together from time to time and sit in someone’s kitchen together for a few hours.

We’re in Guatemala now. We passed many landslides on the way here, fresh from the last hurricane that passed through, but the roads were pretty good, except for a couple places where 50-foot long stretches of highway had dropped 1000 feet into the valley. Thanks to hastily constructed detours, we were able to keep going.

We fly Monday to a certain forbidden land (more about that tomorrow) but we’ve got one eye on the hurricane predictions and we’re hoping the weather clears for us to be able to get there before Rahul’s 30th birthday on Thursday.

As great as the rest of our travels look, it was hard to leave America this time, saying goodbye again to Meg’s family, hearing the voices of the people we love on the phone, eating bagels and Thai food and Dairy Queen and drinking Shiners on the sofa. We did our best to cushion our return to the developing world by finding a hostel with cable TV so we could watch the Astros reach the World Series on Wednesday (Woooooohooooooo!!) and we’ll be heading to a bar called El Mono Loco (The Crazy Monkey) to watch Game 1 of the World Series tonight in Antigua.

But we miss home, Meg’s dog Abby, drinking water from the faucet, eating fresh fruit without a second thought. Our trip to Texas gave us a little taste of the life that we’ll return to in a couple months, and it looked damn good to us.

¡Viva la Revoluciòn!

We made it to Chiapas yesterday (after a trip to Texas for Meg's grandmother's funeral--more about that in a couple days after we've collected our thoughts a bit). We didn't really know much about Chiapas except that some dude in ski masks were running amok here a few years ago and it's on the road from Oaxaca to Guatemala. But after 30 hours in San Cristobal de las Casas, we gotta say: Chiapas is flippin' sweet! It's got all the pretty colors and colonial cobblestone streets you could hope for, but it's high enough in the mountains that the Mexican heat and mosquitos seem to have evacuated to the Yucatan. There's vegetarian restaurants every few blocks and churros on the corner. There's pot-smoking hippies carrying guitars down the street. And there are Israelis everywhere. This is a good thing for two reasons: 1)if there are Israelis travelling somewhere, it's gotta be cool, and 2) it makes it easier to find restaurants with hummus.

As for the Zapatistas? Well, to be honest, we're not totally sure. We haven't come across any dudes in ski masks yet, but we did buy a ski mask-clad yarn-doll of Sub-Commandante Marcos. For only 1 dollar! Viva las socialist revolutions and the low prices they bring!

--rahul

Spanish Kicks Ass, Part 2

The word ¨Wow!¨ (which actually shows up in just about every American movie there is), translates in Spanish subtitles as ¨Guao!¨ We heartily encourage you to say ¨Guao¨ for all future moments of amazement.

Also, Rev. Rahul shall ride again: On Memorial Day Sunday ´06, I´ll be officiating my good friend Ritu Chitkara´s wedding in Santa Cruz. All y´all out there who aren´t married yet and are looking for an incredibly cheap ministerial-knockoff, book early! Key spots are filling up.

--rahul

Spanish Kicks Ass, Part 1

When watching a movie with the line ¨Tell me something I didn´t know!¨, the subtitle comes up as ¨Descubriste America!¨ (You Discovered America!) By the way, Meg finished her residency application last week! Send her some love for all her hard work, wouldya? Only 5 months till Match Day.... --rahul

Stick, Stick, Stick, Stick....Stick

It’s not every day that your parents fly down to visit you for a long weekend in a foreign country. It’s also not every day that they are (soon to be) celebrating their 30th wedding anniversary (!!). So when we got the thumbs-up for a Mexican rendezvous, we started dreaming up ways to commemorate the occasion Oaxacan-style.

We knew they'd be expecting the customary crazy hats, so we decided to catch them off-guard with “sombreros locos” instead. We hastily composed an anniversary ditty to the tune of “La Bamba,” the delivery of which suffered a bit from the hastiness (and Rahul’s handwriting), but we think that Mamacita and Daderoo dug it anyway. We’ll spare you the lyrics, except for the last line: “Stick, stick, stick, stick. Stick, stick, stick, stick. Anniversario. Stick.” And why on earth were we singing about sticks on their 30th anniversary, you might ask. We're sure we don't have to remind you that the 30th anniversary is the “Piñata Anniversary” (Duh!), and you can’t exactly beat the crap out of a piñata sin stick, now can you?

We then commenced with the obliteration of said piñata with said stick, with the help of mimosas and our friendly neighbors in Villa Maria, including the resident yellow lab, Rammy, who went ballistic when the candy started to drop. Once the piñata was liberated of all its crazy spicy Mexican sweets, we proceeded to the roof to feast upon our best attempt at a Oaxacan breakfast. There was a card, some tears from Mamacita, His and Hers chintzy glass rings and hugs all around.

The afternoon brought Mexican popsicles, Italian sodas and the “Mamas and Papas” New York Times crossword puzzle we’d been saving for the occasion. And then came the grand finale: a surprise, swanky 6-course dinner at Casa Oaxaca. We started at 8 and didn’t stop eating until sometime around midnight. There was a bottle of red, a bottle of white (ok, champagne), sorbet between courses, and lots of mole. When we weren’t eating, we were stealing glances at the C-list movie star we spotted a few tables down (don’t miss Nacho Libre, a Jack Black vehicle about a priest who moonlights as a wrestler in order to save his orphanage from bankruptcy, coming to theaters near you in 2006). We finished off with a cake that the waiters had prepared for the big 3-0, waddled home and fell into bed full of yummy food and love for the Padres Pearson.

We wish that we could be there for the real day (October 11th), but we’re psyched that we got another weekend together during this year of travel.

Click here for the photos. Viva Oaxaca! Viva Mamacita and Daderoo! Here’s to 30 more years!

Blammo!

Many apologies for our blogging slackerness lately. We´re still recovering from an epic weekend (full details and photos tomorrow) and we promise that this, our last week in Oaxaca before hitting the road again, will be chock full o´bloggy goodness. For now, here's a little tidbit of life down here: Mexicans love blowing things up. Any minor celebration is an excuse to light firecrackers and M80s and let them explode through the night. Sunday afternoon we ran into a parade that was apparently a local neighborhood deciding to get together, play trumpets and dance with huge papier mache puppets, and celebrate their awesome neighborhoodliness by making things go boom, causing us to flinch repeatedly and get 'Nam flashbacks. Then, Sunday night, the Mexican Under-17 soccer team won the Youth World Cup (stomping Brazil 3-0), which led to everyone spontaneously running through the streets, shirtless men draping themselves in the flag and jumping up and down in pickup trucks and, yes, intensely loud fireworks filling the sky until sunrise. This needs to happen in America: next time some podunk Little League team from Kansas manages to beat Taiwan in the World Series, I'm getting naked and setting off cherry bombs.

--rahul