Cuban Nomad » Travel

Broken Glass and Cracked Asphalt

Gabriel Novo — Mon, 28 Feb 2011 16:08:14 +0000

The downtown portion of a city can tell you a lot about its character like the small town feel of Charlotte’s "uptown" (its like a Fisher Price "My First Skyline") or the extreme poverty meets ultra luxury of downtown Miami. Some cities are defined by their downtown area while with others are reminders of their more unseemly qualities. I’ve been in downtown Atlanta for roughly 3 months now and it has shown me its character from the very first day.

In all the places I’ve lived only a few truly felt dangerous. Chicago is the first one that comes to mind especially since I wasn’t legally able to own a gun in my home while living there. Seriously, how do you fend off crack heads breaking into your apartment; strong language and a wagging finger or a call to 911 that’s answered 7-10 minutes later if you’re lucky? Chicago was a sketchy city filled with good blocks and bad blocks. Miami didn’t even feel that way no matter how rough the neighborhood. I remember driving through South Florida and into Haitian gang territory without worrying as much as I did in Chicago.

Fast forward to 2011 and you have me in downtown Atlanta. While the "good block, bad block" mentality isn’t as prevalent in Atlanta, you do find sketchy moments throughout downtown. Every day I walk half a mile to the client site. One, because when you sit behind a computer for 8 to 10 hours a day any kind of exercise is welcome and two, because I refuse to drive a car in Atlanta. Reminds me too much of Los Angeles.

The walk itself isn’t bad and has some cool parts, but overall there’s one thing that constantly bothers me. It’s not the rundown sections of town covered in broken glass. It’s not the cracked asphalt I stumble upon every single day. It’s the random crazy people I encounter every time I’m out and about. There’s a fine line between poverty and desperation. Ask anyone who’s visited Mexico outside of the resorts. You see long stretches of road populated with struggling towns and desperate people. You can see it in their eyes.

People struggling against poverty can have pride in their homes and work, still maintaining certain standards in spite of their situation. Desperation removes all boundaries and submerges people into their most animalistic tendencies. Every time I walk to or from my hotel there are a bevy of people looking me up and down, sizing me up to see if they should approach me for cash or roll me for my book bag. If that happens to you one or two times it’s not that big of a deal, but if it’s a daily occurrence it begins to grind on your psyche keeping you continuously on edge no matter what.

That’s my state of being in downtown Atlanta. I’ve gone to other parts of Atlanta, outside the downtown region, and had a fantastic time with friends, but whenever I’m traveling back to the heart of the city that creeping unease begins to settle in again. At first I thought the cold weather was to blame, miserable and wet with a touch of ice. Yet even when the sun reappeared and temperatures reached the 60′s the same disquiet saturated the back alleys. I’ve seen people sleeping in doorways and strung out men trying their best to stop the shakes as they ask for a couple of dollars.

Atlanta is probably a wonderful city filled with culture and beauty and there are probably many people who love this city more than any other. Sadly, what Atlanta has revealed to me are its abandoned graffiti covered businesses, hopeless street denizens and crumbling roads. I will not look upon my time here fondly no matter how many nuggets of joy are hidden in its weathered grip.

No related posts.

Another day on a plane

Gabriel Novo — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 06:26:09 +0000

With the amount of time I spend on planes, I get to meet large swaths of the American populace (or those just passing through our lovely country). Everyone going through the motions at security check points, struggling with ever restrictive luggage policies and bitter at the 7 dollar bottle of water; just trying to get from point A to point B in what is hopefully the shortest route. The glory days of air travel in the US are LOOONG gone, but even in its decrepit state there’s still some appeal.

I’ve never been to a Parisian cafe where I can sit outside sipping wine while staring at the bourgeois. Instead I have to get my fill of people watching at airports. Some people like to go into lounges, but I find the fauna to be much more interesting on the other side of the velvet rope. All shapes (nowadays a lot rounder), colors, and creeds walk by as I sit at the terminal. Occasionally one will sit down next to you and spark up a conversation, brief comments on the world, their lives or the pains of air travel. These little morsels of interaction tide us over till we can go sit in our flying metal tubes.

Those tubes… oh those tubes… ranging from hellish, infection filled torture chambers to Bacchus fueled merry-go-rounds to mind numbing endurance tests. I love those tubes because they get me where I need to go, but I hate the Russian roulette I play every time I sit in one. I hold my ticket, just like a lotto, hoping I won the prize of interesting companion or eye candy or empty seat, fingers desperately crossed that I don’t land a Whammy; annoying chatterbox or smelly fat guy.

Recently, I came up aces. A last minute trip always means a shitty seat since they’re the ones only those who HAVE TO get somewhere take. I was fully expecting a crap hump seat for 5 hours, sandwiched between god knows who. As I was standing in line to board I heard the gate agent call my name over the PA, like a last minute reprieve from the Governor. I almost skipped to the damn counter, thanking god under my breath for hung over VIP’s.

Another flying monkey got a golden ticket as well, making us partners in crime at the back of First Class. We had been joking since the security line—where they decided his sandals needed extra screening for bomb detection—so sitting next to him for a long haul flight with unlimited alcohol was a great combination. As we drank and chatted and drank some more, I found out he was part of the company that created the UNO card game and that Mattel bought for an obscene amount of money back in 1987. With his well stocked coffers to keep him comfortable, he now flies around the world making sales for one of his many businesses. For me the cardinal sin of air travel is being boring and this man was far from it.

I have to say it was one of the best times I’ve had on a plane. I was laughing so hard rum and coke almost spurt through my nose. With air travel usually being a grind at best, this was a refreshing change of pace.

No related posts.

Early Days: Costa Rica

Gabriel Novo — Wed, 22 Jul 2009 06:45:52 +0000

Lately I’ve been reminiscing about earlier times in my life trying to dissect them. One part that tends to be a blur, unless I sit down to concentrate on the memories, is my early childhood. An unexpected call from my Dad kicked the entire cycle into overdrive and I had to put words to paper. Here’s what sprung forth:

For as long as I can remember I’ve moved around. At first it was all over South Florida’s Miami area, hopping from neighborhood to neighborhood, searching for the elusive house my mother would feel “happy” in. No matter where we landed something was amiss and the hunt would start again. By the 3rd grade I had already been in 4 different elementary schools. Adaptability became my creed and a constant state of flux my norm. Friends weren’t easy to make because of the mercurial nature of my living arrangements and mom’s paralyzing fear of life. Couldn’t play in the front yard, I could get kidnapped; Couldn’t go to the beach/pool, I could drown; Couldn’t go to a friend’s house, she didn’t know his parents; etcetera, etcetera, ad nauseam… The fact I didn’t turn out to be a serial killer skulking in a basement still amazes me.

Nearing the end of 3rd grade I knew another move was coming up, but this time the destination caught me by surprise. Due to my father’s company opening up a new factory we were all moving to Costa Rica so he could oversee it. Ripped out before the school year finished the only thing I knew about my new school was that they taught in English (thank heaven for small favors). Flying to Costa Rica was back when air travel was still a privilege and not the airborne buses they are now. This wasn’t my first time on a plane though. Sometime when I was four there was a reconnaissance mission to Charlotte North Carolina because of a potential factory opening, but it fell through. The one thing I remember from that trip is gazing out the car window watching the leaves rain down in gold and crimson.

This was my first international trip and the start of my love/hate relationship with customs. I also bred a deep seated hatred of Miami International Airport, but that’s for another day. We took LACSA Airlines, the official airline of Costa Rica (which I *think* is still in business). Yet another first for me on that trip was seeing Cuba. The flight always shot down to Cuba and then took a right toward Central America. The land of my heritage –denied to me by political bullshit– could only be admired from 30,000 feet. I would make the trip between Miami and San Jose many more times in the three years I lived in Costa Rica and every time I tried to watch outside the window as we made that turn. Sad to say, it’s been my only visit to the beautiful island.

The climate wasn’t much different from the muggy Miami weather I had grown up in, possibly only a touch wetter. Odd thing about arriving there was that everyone in the family was sick for two weeks right at the start. When my grandmother came to visit later on the same thing happened to her. Not sure if it was our immune systems adjusting to the tropical germs or the crappy water quality. *Side note* Dealing with cholera is not fun and drinking boiled water tastes exactly like liquid cardboard. Insects are no joke in that region of the world. The laws of nature dictate that the smaller the sucker is, the more deadly it is. Tapping your shoes against the ground before putting them on was a life saving habit. I personally encountered several scorpions, tarantulas, walking sticks, cockroaches (both giant and albino) and a plethora of scary shit that defied categorization because I would usually run from it screaming.

We moved into Cariari (a suburb of San Jose) with all the other expatriates. Even though I hoped against hope, we still retained our gypsy ways, shuffling between a couple of houses during our time there. The aforementioned school was Costa Rica Academy (now known as American International School), a tiny private school ranging from pre-K thru 12th. You could achieve all your pre-college learning at one single institution, an idea which blew my mind. Kids from all over god’s creation were attending the school, dragged to Costa Rica by their parents for various and sundry reasons. There was a framed map of the world in the principal’s office covered with colored push-pins denoting all the nationalities at the school in a global version of Battleship.

As strange as being thrust into a foreign country with a new school and new home was, it’s the only time I can ever remember being a kid. My entire childhood was peppered with adult level bullshit in one form or another (especially when we left Costa Rica for good), but while in that sweltering jungle republic I felt the freedom of being a child. Carefree for the first time, I did all the stereotypical kid things I had only read about (seriously). Riding my bike with friends, climbing trees, and getting into trouble. This may sound like Norman Rockwell Americana shit, but I honestly had no concept of what it was to be this way until then. Thankfully that was the one constant during my entire stay. Our living situation was still shifting (as per usual) and even my parents marital status decided to change things up, but whenever I think of the time I spent there, I always come back to the feeling of pedaling my bike down steep hills, picking mangos from the tops of trees and not wandering home till the sun came down.

Surprised by fond memories

Gabriel Novo — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 21:58:12 +0000

In 2007 my girl and I hopped over to the UK. From Scotland to Ireland to England, we bounced around the country, going thru mainstream and offbeat locales. Some of it was fun, an adventure to say the least, but a lot of it was very draining. The nonstop travel for months on end, the stereotypically bad weather and the culture shock (both good and bad) would wear down even the most seasoned traveler. There was also a lot of stress in our lives stemming from issues with the company I was working for – suffice it to say, I’m no longer with them — and the uncertainty of our living situation. Things settled a bit near the end of our time there, but by then we were already beat. Before Christmas came around and not under the best of circumstances, we returned to the States.

Lately I’ve been looking back at that period of my life, time having dulled some of the stress and chaos that clouded it. I don’t regret the decision, having tasted overseas living and learning to truly appreciate what we had back home. At the same time, I’d be hard pressed to categorize it as “the of best times.” Objectively, I compared it to the numerous other places we’ve lived in. In doing so, I was surprised by the fond memories bubbling forth. Wherever we’ve laid our heads to rest, there have been redeeming qualities along with the hardships, but the UK had a hidden gem in its sorted track record, which was last spot we inhabited (for a brief 4 months), Windsor.

Trains, planes, coaches and ferries had dominated our lives up until landing in Windsor. Road weary beyond belief, we were ecstatic to leave our bags unpacked for more than a week. Snagging a flat near the River Thames, we finally had a sanctuary after our whirlwind travels. Top floor with views of Eton College and Windsor Castle from our balcony, we were amazed by our good fortune. Having endured European hotels we expected the place to be cozy (a.k.a. tiny), but fell in love with its quaintness nonetheless. I never realized how much I missed normal domestic living until I finally stopped and took a breath. No more racing through train stations dragging luggage behind us, no more queuing through airport security, no more finding out where you’ll be on Monday the Friday before. I achieved a Zen calmness by how typical my days became.

With the travel requirements of my job being so extensive, this was the first opportunity we had to live like man and wife in ages. We took long walks at night (hand in hand) along the Thames, admiring the ducks and swans, we snuggled on the couch watching TV on gray rainy days, we hopped on trains to explore local farmers markets, we did our weekend shopping, talking, laughing, and smiling as we hauled the groceries back home. We enjoyed a life, delicious in its simplicity, which had long been forgotten under the haze of our jet-set ways. I must admit, after many years together, we fell in love all over again.

That moment was like a time capsule re-opened from our first days together, mixed in with the English village living you always saw in movies. These memories had been muffled by the turbulent start and finish of our journey overseas, swept under a wave of anger and resentment that blanketed our return to the States. It would have been a shame if I had left these pearls tangled in the dark emotions. I wasn’t happy with the consequences of our trip, both personal and financial, but I’m grateful that at least I can carry the joy of Windsor in my heart and when our lives get rough, reminisce on those beautiful days of just me and her.