By Armando Huerta © 2005
Life memories. Going once, Going twice... SOLD to the lady in the polyester jumpsuit!
As we are once again moving to another country, we decided to take the opportunity to streamline our possessions by getting rid of bulky items and concentrating on books, family heirlooms, paintings, etc.. We figured that this would be the perfect time to fit all of our things into a storage unit permitting us to hop from full-service flat to full-service flat as our needs/desires dictate.
Figuring out what we were going to sell was pretty straightforward, all the furniture, appliances and electronics since we have less of a connection to them. Or so we thought.
It's always disconcerting to put your items on sale subjecting them to ridicule, harsh comments or just plain disinterest. Every time someone comes by to see something of yours for sale that you're treasured for years it's rather unnerving to see them roll their eyes or say something rude. My favorite: "Wow... this club chair really is comfortable. Too bad it's so ugly." This about an Italian chair we found at a famed design store marked 50% percent off where Jeremy literally grabbed the price tag before another couple could and we raced them to the register to buy it first.
Or the dining room table that I spent a year searching for after moving to a larger Boston apartment that would actually hold a full sized dining table. The only thing prospective buyers see is the fact that one of the chairs has a nick on the corner. What I see is a dear wine-soaked friend of mine, flushed face and giggling, pulling back from the table in a grand movement only so he could stand up in order to gesticulate better to the hysterical story he was telling all of us with tears rolling down our faces.
Or saying goodbye to the stainless steel stove, which thankfully was sold in less than two minutes with no rude comments, where many a nights I’d be cooking on, glass of red wine in hand, while listening to laughter and clinking glasses emanating from the rest of the apartment.
The one item that I completely did not expect to miss was the mountain bike I bought my second day at grad school, over 10 years ago. I had forgotten how I was practically fused to the frame of my bike those grad school years, I was riding it so much. While I never named the thing (though Maximillian would have been cool), I did treasure it. After all, this was the bike I'd peddle to class every day in the 100+ degree Phoenix heat. Course, as everyone would always say, "but it's a dry heat..."
It's a dry heat? What the fuck!?! The dry heat might make the air seem 10 degrees cooler but it's still fucking HOT people! This was the bike I rode back from the campus pub one night after hours of drinking with my friends only to hit a stop sign half a block from my house. Bike was fine, I however, was knocked out for 30 minutes and my sunglasses literally wrapped themselves around the pole. This was the bike that I'd take out to the White Tank Mountains in Western Phoenix at least twice a week. The bike being my only company and salvation as I biked through the dessert mountains for hours with no one around for tens of miles, taking in the still desolate landscape and allowing myself time to think about my life.
Alas, tonight there is someone coming by to see, and more than likely purchase, Maximilian. I'm glad he'll continue seeing the beaches and mountains of Rio de Janeiro for a while longer instead of the inside of a storage unit. I just hope the buyer has only positive things to say or they'll be seeing my foot on their ass as I kick them out the door.
Armando Huerta is a smart-ass who will soon be leaving Brazil.
Showing posts with label Armando Huerta. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Armando Huerta. Show all posts
December 24, 2005
August 27, 2005
Street Vendors
By Armando Huerta © 2005
Anyone who's ever been to a major city in Brazil has come face to face with the street vendors who populate the sidewalks. They aren’t concentrated in any specific part of city. You can see them on the busy shopping thoroughfares of Ipanema to the major avenues in the downtown financial districts of Rio. As luck will have it, they don't only limit their presence to major avenues with wide sidewalks but also to small cobble stoned side streets where two people can barely pass by each other on the ancient sidewalks built during the Imperial reign in the 1800s. Everything imaginable is sold by these folk: chocolate, panties, clay piggy banks, batteries, breast lifters... everything that one could possibly want.
The street vendors are a resourceful lot. Not only do they haul their merchandise from their homes in the outer regions of the city but they also carry along makeshift stands on which to display them. These can be homemade carts with rusty wheels and a ply board plank to cardboard boxes that can be folded instantly like an accordion. The reason for the wheels on some and quick dismantling stands on others is simple: evading the police. In Brazilian metropolitan cities there is a constant struggle between the street vendors and the police who try to run them off. In the event that they don’t accept a "tip" which makes them look the other way. In the downtown area where I have my office there are tropes de choque, "shock troops," whose sole job is to clear the streets of vendors. They gather in groups of 15-25 with helmets, masks, fiberglass shields and batons. Their presence is announced by the beating of their sticks in unison on the aforementioned shields like gladiators getting ready for battle. This signals the vendors to haul ass out of the area, jumping all over each other to collect their goods, dismantle their signs and run like the dickens down the street. Most often that's the case... sometimes they decide that they’ve had enough and stand their ground.
Coming back from lunch one day I had the misfortune of running into one of those confrontations. The tropa de choque had already started their drum roll and the vendors who were in no mood to run that day were collecting items to throw at them. I, like any reasonable person, picked up my pace and made a beeline for the safety of my office building. Alas, I had chosen that specific day to eat somewhere that was not around the corner and found myself navigating barricades much like a French peasant during Bastille Day. Rocks where sailing in the air one way with tear gas canisters going the other. By this point I broke into a brisk trot wrecking havoc on my shins as I was wearing my very favorite patent leather dress shoes. Comfortably nestled in a cloud of tear gas, my thoughts turned from making it to my office building to making it into any building at all! In the paper I've read of passersby being caught in the midst of a street battle and getting "accidentally" beaten to a bloody pulp by the overzealous policemen intent on grounding anyone in their way. Unfortunately the doormen in the area are used to these melees and at the first sign of one drop the metal shutters down over the doors to the buildings. My brisk trot, by then, became a full fledged 50-yard dash and I started hollering to our office doorman to open the shutters when I was a block away. Luckily he was closing the metal grate at that moment and I was able to crawl/slide under the door before rocks started hitting the building. As I always try to make lemonade with life's proverbial lemons I got to thinking that what happened wasn’t so bad after all. At least I got a nice workout.
One hour later I got the courage to venture out again so I could stop by the money machine. There on the street, where a battle of epic proportions had just taken place before my very eyes, were street vendors calmly displaying their goods in all their glory and trying to holler louder than their competition. Like I said... they are a resourceful lot.
Armando Huerta is a writer from Sao Palo, Brazil.
Anyone who's ever been to a major city in Brazil has come face to face with the street vendors who populate the sidewalks. They aren’t concentrated in any specific part of city. You can see them on the busy shopping thoroughfares of Ipanema to the major avenues in the downtown financial districts of Rio. As luck will have it, they don't only limit their presence to major avenues with wide sidewalks but also to small cobble stoned side streets where two people can barely pass by each other on the ancient sidewalks built during the Imperial reign in the 1800s. Everything imaginable is sold by these folk: chocolate, panties, clay piggy banks, batteries, breast lifters... everything that one could possibly want.
The street vendors are a resourceful lot. Not only do they haul their merchandise from their homes in the outer regions of the city but they also carry along makeshift stands on which to display them. These can be homemade carts with rusty wheels and a ply board plank to cardboard boxes that can be folded instantly like an accordion. The reason for the wheels on some and quick dismantling stands on others is simple: evading the police. In Brazilian metropolitan cities there is a constant struggle between the street vendors and the police who try to run them off. In the event that they don’t accept a "tip" which makes them look the other way. In the downtown area where I have my office there are tropes de choque, "shock troops," whose sole job is to clear the streets of vendors. They gather in groups of 15-25 with helmets, masks, fiberglass shields and batons. Their presence is announced by the beating of their sticks in unison on the aforementioned shields like gladiators getting ready for battle. This signals the vendors to haul ass out of the area, jumping all over each other to collect their goods, dismantle their signs and run like the dickens down the street. Most often that's the case... sometimes they decide that they’ve had enough and stand their ground.
Coming back from lunch one day I had the misfortune of running into one of those confrontations. The tropa de choque had already started their drum roll and the vendors who were in no mood to run that day were collecting items to throw at them. I, like any reasonable person, picked up my pace and made a beeline for the safety of my office building. Alas, I had chosen that specific day to eat somewhere that was not around the corner and found myself navigating barricades much like a French peasant during Bastille Day. Rocks where sailing in the air one way with tear gas canisters going the other. By this point I broke into a brisk trot wrecking havoc on my shins as I was wearing my very favorite patent leather dress shoes. Comfortably nestled in a cloud of tear gas, my thoughts turned from making it to my office building to making it into any building at all! In the paper I've read of passersby being caught in the midst of a street battle and getting "accidentally" beaten to a bloody pulp by the overzealous policemen intent on grounding anyone in their way. Unfortunately the doormen in the area are used to these melees and at the first sign of one drop the metal shutters down over the doors to the buildings. My brisk trot, by then, became a full fledged 50-yard dash and I started hollering to our office doorman to open the shutters when I was a block away. Luckily he was closing the metal grate at that moment and I was able to crawl/slide under the door before rocks started hitting the building. As I always try to make lemonade with life's proverbial lemons I got to thinking that what happened wasn’t so bad after all. At least I got a nice workout.
One hour later I got the courage to venture out again so I could stop by the money machine. There on the street, where a battle of epic proportions had just taken place before my very eyes, were street vendors calmly displaying their goods in all their glory and trying to holler louder than their competition. Like I said... they are a resourceful lot.
Armando Huerta is a writer from Sao Palo, Brazil.
June 16, 2004
Partying Brazilian Style
By Armando Huerta © 2004
I’ve never been much of a fan of New Year’s Eve. The whole idea of forced gaiety because of the calendar turning has as much appeal to me as reading a Danielle Steele novel cover to cover. People are so desperate to have a good time and not be alone they get plastered on cheap booze along with plastering their faces with forced smiles like ghoulish Venetian masks.
That has been and still is my opinion but now with one major exception, New Year’s Eve in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Can you say “Holy Shit!”? The party that takes over this town on New Year’s Eve is out of control, the nucleus of it being Copacabana beach. Starting at 5pm, the police shut down all roads to Copacabana beach with exception of taxis and buses. The reason for that is the average 1.5 million people that invade the beach to see the fireworks. These aren’t just regular fireworks but a 30 minute extravaganza with fireworks being blasted off 3 barges parked in Guanabara bay. As they seem to go on forever with fake endings and several crescendos, you only truly know the display is over when the high rise Meridien hotel gets enveloped in fireworks that cascade down all sides of the building.
Adding to this spectacle is the fact that most everyone on the beach is wearing white, a Brazilian custom meant to symbolize starting the new year with a clean slate. The sight of 1.5 million people wearing white and milling about on the sand is one that everyone should experience at least once in their lifetime. Friends of mine from New York upon seeing the scene from up high were speechless for a good 15 minutes. Which brings me another way to make the experience better… get invited to a party in one of the apartments facing the ocean.
Nothing beats enjoying the scene from an elegantly furnished apartment with waiters serving champagne and a buffet at hand stocked with alcohol soaking nibbles. The building we were in this year is next door to the beautiful and historic Copacabana Palace and famed for it’s New Year’s Eve parties which cram the social columns the following morning. Last year it was estimated that 4,000 people came into the building for New Year’s Eve parties and this year guests were given bracelets in advance which allowed them to get past the bouncers stationed at the entrances to the building. It’s a Brazilian custom to try and crash parties but the turban wearing aging socialites in the building were having none of it this year. I’ve heard about the parties in this particular building for years but had never attended until now. I’m sorry I hadn’t. The elevators were crammed with celebrities, sluts (sometimes one of the same), ancient old school Brazilians in white tux jackets, bodyguards and nannies. All different but all there for the same reason, to get shitty and toast the new year. Can’t beat it...
Armando Huerta is a writer from Sao Paulo, Brazil.
I’ve never been much of a fan of New Year’s Eve. The whole idea of forced gaiety because of the calendar turning has as much appeal to me as reading a Danielle Steele novel cover to cover. People are so desperate to have a good time and not be alone they get plastered on cheap booze along with plastering their faces with forced smiles like ghoulish Venetian masks.
That has been and still is my opinion but now with one major exception, New Year’s Eve in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Can you say “Holy Shit!”? The party that takes over this town on New Year’s Eve is out of control, the nucleus of it being Copacabana beach. Starting at 5pm, the police shut down all roads to Copacabana beach with exception of taxis and buses. The reason for that is the average 1.5 million people that invade the beach to see the fireworks. These aren’t just regular fireworks but a 30 minute extravaganza with fireworks being blasted off 3 barges parked in Guanabara bay. As they seem to go on forever with fake endings and several crescendos, you only truly know the display is over when the high rise Meridien hotel gets enveloped in fireworks that cascade down all sides of the building.
Adding to this spectacle is the fact that most everyone on the beach is wearing white, a Brazilian custom meant to symbolize starting the new year with a clean slate. The sight of 1.5 million people wearing white and milling about on the sand is one that everyone should experience at least once in their lifetime. Friends of mine from New York upon seeing the scene from up high were speechless for a good 15 minutes. Which brings me another way to make the experience better… get invited to a party in one of the apartments facing the ocean.
Nothing beats enjoying the scene from an elegantly furnished apartment with waiters serving champagne and a buffet at hand stocked with alcohol soaking nibbles. The building we were in this year is next door to the beautiful and historic Copacabana Palace and famed for it’s New Year’s Eve parties which cram the social columns the following morning. Last year it was estimated that 4,000 people came into the building for New Year’s Eve parties and this year guests were given bracelets in advance which allowed them to get past the bouncers stationed at the entrances to the building. It’s a Brazilian custom to try and crash parties but the turban wearing aging socialites in the building were having none of it this year. I’ve heard about the parties in this particular building for years but had never attended until now. I’m sorry I hadn’t. The elevators were crammed with celebrities, sluts (sometimes one of the same), ancient old school Brazilians in white tux jackets, bodyguards and nannies. All different but all there for the same reason, to get shitty and toast the new year. Can’t beat it...
Armando Huerta is a writer from Sao Paulo, Brazil.
June 16, 2003
Talk to the Hand
By Armando Huerta © 2003
Just having hosted two American friends for the past week I really became aware of how much more accustomed I’ve become to Greek mannerisms and expressions. It’s natural to have picked them up after living here eight months but having my friends visiting and having to explain it to them made me become aware of how different and noticeable they really are.
The first major one is that I told them under no circumstances to show their palm with the fingers spread out to a Greek. This American habit, from hailing cabs or waving to a friend, is considered an extremely offensive gesture in Greece, dating back hundreds of years. I made the mistake on my second day, after having a 12 Euro bill placed in front of me, of asking for five back from the twenty I handed over with my hand showing the change amount with my fingers in the aforementioned way. Needless to say the waitress was nonplussed. I can only think how an American waitress would have reacted to having the money handed to her with one hand while the other was extending the middle finger.
Another difference you notice is that Greek service staff, in general, are not very effusive with people they don’t know. You won’t often see that ear to ear American smile worn by TGIF waitresses named Cindy when introducing themselves before suggesting an appetizer to start. Greeks do smile, but it is usually hard earned. There are exceptions, notably tourist traps or establishments on the island were people are more easy going. In general, if a Greek is smiling from the minute you walk into a restaurant you pretty much are guaranteed to bend over in front of the register when paying your bill.
Shorts. Americans love wearing shorts but if you want to immediately look like a tourist, wear one in Athens… or any Latin American capital for that matter. No matter how hot the weather, Greeks not on the islands or the coast, do not wear shorts. It’s considered too informal. This is funny coming from people that drive the wrong way on one-way streets and ride motorcycles down sidewalks but that inconsistency is part of the charm.
Sexy TV. No matter the time of day or the channel, you’ll see breasts and ass in everything from movies to television commercials during newscasts. PAX this ain’t. I can only imagine how right-wingers whom are visiting fall to their knees while clutching their bibles to the chest when turning on Greek television. I personally like it! I think it’s enormously refreshing to see sex treated so benignly. The best part is that it’s not solely heterosexual either. On regular public channels they show unedited episodes of Queer as Folk and lesbian slasher thrillers. Good times. Good times.
Armando Huerta is a writer living in Athens, Greece.
Just having hosted two American friends for the past week I really became aware of how much more accustomed I’ve become to Greek mannerisms and expressions. It’s natural to have picked them up after living here eight months but having my friends visiting and having to explain it to them made me become aware of how different and noticeable they really are.
The first major one is that I told them under no circumstances to show their palm with the fingers spread out to a Greek. This American habit, from hailing cabs or waving to a friend, is considered an extremely offensive gesture in Greece, dating back hundreds of years. I made the mistake on my second day, after having a 12 Euro bill placed in front of me, of asking for five back from the twenty I handed over with my hand showing the change amount with my fingers in the aforementioned way. Needless to say the waitress was nonplussed. I can only think how an American waitress would have reacted to having the money handed to her with one hand while the other was extending the middle finger.
Another difference you notice is that Greek service staff, in general, are not very effusive with people they don’t know. You won’t often see that ear to ear American smile worn by TGIF waitresses named Cindy when introducing themselves before suggesting an appetizer to start. Greeks do smile, but it is usually hard earned. There are exceptions, notably tourist traps or establishments on the island were people are more easy going. In general, if a Greek is smiling from the minute you walk into a restaurant you pretty much are guaranteed to bend over in front of the register when paying your bill.
Shorts. Americans love wearing shorts but if you want to immediately look like a tourist, wear one in Athens… or any Latin American capital for that matter. No matter how hot the weather, Greeks not on the islands or the coast, do not wear shorts. It’s considered too informal. This is funny coming from people that drive the wrong way on one-way streets and ride motorcycles down sidewalks but that inconsistency is part of the charm.
Sexy TV. No matter the time of day or the channel, you’ll see breasts and ass in everything from movies to television commercials during newscasts. PAX this ain’t. I can only imagine how right-wingers whom are visiting fall to their knees while clutching their bibles to the chest when turning on Greek television. I personally like it! I think it’s enormously refreshing to see sex treated so benignly. The best part is that it’s not solely heterosexual either. On regular public channels they show unedited episodes of Queer as Folk and lesbian slasher thrillers. Good times. Good times.
Armando Huerta is a writer living in Athens, Greece.
March 14, 2003
Kitty Cat Crap
By Armando Huerta © 2003
Travel, unfortunately, isn’t always about glamorous locations, fine bone china in First Class and porters in hotels whisking your bags up to a penthouse suite. It also has a very unpleasant side, and one that I feel is worth exploring in this issue. Thus, without further ado, here is a brief grievance I have when traveling: CHEAP SOUVENIRS.
I don’t know whom I despise more, the people that manufacture this shit or the ones who buy it, then carry it home to display on the particle board shelves with faux walnut finish gracing the double wide they sought to escape in the first place. Now don’t get me wrong, some souvenirs can be very nice items to keep for future enjoyment or reflection such as a well crafted original vase, unique regional gourmet delicacies or locally produced wine, but they are unfortunately the exception and not the norm. Every city that has even an inkling of tourism inevitably has a section of town that houses nothing but store after store pandering this godforsaken crap on pea brained tourists walking around with Bermuda shorts and sunburned knees.
Even the most gracious and elegant of cities falls prey to this commerce, from the ancient capitals of Europe to the dusty towns of rural Mexico. I often want to stop the people buying this crud and deliver a couple of well placed bitch slaps to their bovine faces. You know the kind of things I’m talking about, sea shell encrusted beverage coasters, fake ancient statues and t-shirts with the destination spelled out in rhinestones.
By far the most offending item I have seen is the Kitty Cat calendar which unfortunately is available in several cities throughout Europe. If you have ever seen these calendars you know the sensation of having your face turn to ash and total loss of bowel control. It involves a calendar in which every month there is a picture of a pussy perched on some typical piece of architecture or in the foreground of a famous landmark. Hideous. For the life of me I cannot comprehend why, with all the pictures, memories, treasures one can take home from a visit to a faraway land a calendar with a succession of mangy cats posing with vacuous looks would be a top choice.
Armando Huerta is a writer living in Athens, Greece.
Travel, unfortunately, isn’t always about glamorous locations, fine bone china in First Class and porters in hotels whisking your bags up to a penthouse suite. It also has a very unpleasant side, and one that I feel is worth exploring in this issue. Thus, without further ado, here is a brief grievance I have when traveling: CHEAP SOUVENIRS.
I don’t know whom I despise more, the people that manufacture this shit or the ones who buy it, then carry it home to display on the particle board shelves with faux walnut finish gracing the double wide they sought to escape in the first place. Now don’t get me wrong, some souvenirs can be very nice items to keep for future enjoyment or reflection such as a well crafted original vase, unique regional gourmet delicacies or locally produced wine, but they are unfortunately the exception and not the norm. Every city that has even an inkling of tourism inevitably has a section of town that houses nothing but store after store pandering this godforsaken crap on pea brained tourists walking around with Bermuda shorts and sunburned knees.
Even the most gracious and elegant of cities falls prey to this commerce, from the ancient capitals of Europe to the dusty towns of rural Mexico. I often want to stop the people buying this crud and deliver a couple of well placed bitch slaps to their bovine faces. You know the kind of things I’m talking about, sea shell encrusted beverage coasters, fake ancient statues and t-shirts with the destination spelled out in rhinestones.
By far the most offending item I have seen is the Kitty Cat calendar which unfortunately is available in several cities throughout Europe. If you have ever seen these calendars you know the sensation of having your face turn to ash and total loss of bowel control. It involves a calendar in which every month there is a picture of a pussy perched on some typical piece of architecture or in the foreground of a famous landmark. Hideous. For the life of me I cannot comprehend why, with all the pictures, memories, treasures one can take home from a visit to a faraway land a calendar with a succession of mangy cats posing with vacuous looks would be a top choice.
Armando Huerta is a writer living in Athens, Greece.
February 14, 2003
The Viennese Waltz
By Armando Huerta © 2003
I often go to Slovakia’s capital, Bratislava, on business; averaging about two visits a year. As the Bratislava airport possesses the size and structural stability of a roadside hotdog stand, I generally prefer to fly directly into nearby Vienna. Call me silly, but flying into Prague and then switching onto a Czech Airlines propeller jet that sways in the air like a drunken stevedore on payday is just not that appealing. I mean, honestly… the luggage belt at Bratislava International Airport consists of a luggage cart being thrust through plastic flaps into the "baggage area" and passengers crowding around and tearing to get at their suitcases like stray dogs on a gristly bone.
Vienna is an entirely different story. While not that pretty of an airport it’s efficient, and more importantly, services Vienna which is easily one of the most beautiful capitals in Europe. True, the Austro-Hungarian Empire is responsible for the Gabor sisters, but they did balance it out with impressive architecture and grand boulevards. One only has to stroll around the Ringstrasse (boulevard that circles the old part of the city) to remind yourself that Zsa Zsa Gabor was actually born in the Hungarian part of the empire and that you shouldn’t hold that against Austria in its present day. The buildings have iron eagles sailing out from every corner and are gargantuan compared to those in other capitals, super-sized like the McDonalds fries favored by porcine American youth.
On my first visit there I was lucky enough to finagle a room in the Imperial Hotel at a daily rate that didn’t make my company’s accountant gasp for breath when verifying my expenses. The Imperial is without a doubt one of the most stellar grand hotels in the world. It sits in a prime location on the aforementioned Ringstrasse, presiding over old Vienna like a filthy rich dowager covered in pearls at a family gathering. Built by the Emperor at the end of the last century, it’s a yellow fortress of marble and impeccable taste. My room was the smallest on the floor (I always check the fire escape plan on the back of the door to see the size of my room compared to others… yes, I have size issues) yet still had a walk-in cedar closet with drawers and a dressing table, a chandelier in the main room and blue silk wallpaper soaring up to the tray ceiling. While I don’t relish eating veal because of the images of bleating baby calves that permeate my mind, I must say that their room service weiner schnitzel is easily the best I ever had the pleasure of tucking into.
Alas, I could not stay forever in Vienna, or the Imperial, so I hired a car to take me to Bratislava the next morning. As I sailed down an Austrian highway in a chauffer driven black Mercedes towards Slovakia we passed by small villages and lush rolling hills whose vivid green mesmerized me. That all changed the minute we approached the Danube and border control on the other side. The first thing you notice are the factory towers belching out smoke like a scene from Blade Runner and the gray haze hovering on the other side. As you approach, the decay and Soviet inspired design (or lack thereof) become even more apparent. To go from Vienna and the Austrian countryside towards Slovakia is to truly appreciate the differences that laid between Western and Eastern Europe. It becomes a journey through time, political ideology and wealth.
Armando Huerta is a writer from Greece.
I often go to Slovakia’s capital, Bratislava, on business; averaging about two visits a year. As the Bratislava airport possesses the size and structural stability of a roadside hotdog stand, I generally prefer to fly directly into nearby Vienna. Call me silly, but flying into Prague and then switching onto a Czech Airlines propeller jet that sways in the air like a drunken stevedore on payday is just not that appealing. I mean, honestly… the luggage belt at Bratislava International Airport consists of a luggage cart being thrust through plastic flaps into the "baggage area" and passengers crowding around and tearing to get at their suitcases like stray dogs on a gristly bone.
Vienna is an entirely different story. While not that pretty of an airport it’s efficient, and more importantly, services Vienna which is easily one of the most beautiful capitals in Europe. True, the Austro-Hungarian Empire is responsible for the Gabor sisters, but they did balance it out with impressive architecture and grand boulevards. One only has to stroll around the Ringstrasse (boulevard that circles the old part of the city) to remind yourself that Zsa Zsa Gabor was actually born in the Hungarian part of the empire and that you shouldn’t hold that against Austria in its present day. The buildings have iron eagles sailing out from every corner and are gargantuan compared to those in other capitals, super-sized like the McDonalds fries favored by porcine American youth.
On my first visit there I was lucky enough to finagle a room in the Imperial Hotel at a daily rate that didn’t make my company’s accountant gasp for breath when verifying my expenses. The Imperial is without a doubt one of the most stellar grand hotels in the world. It sits in a prime location on the aforementioned Ringstrasse, presiding over old Vienna like a filthy rich dowager covered in pearls at a family gathering. Built by the Emperor at the end of the last century, it’s a yellow fortress of marble and impeccable taste. My room was the smallest on the floor (I always check the fire escape plan on the back of the door to see the size of my room compared to others… yes, I have size issues) yet still had a walk-in cedar closet with drawers and a dressing table, a chandelier in the main room and blue silk wallpaper soaring up to the tray ceiling. While I don’t relish eating veal because of the images of bleating baby calves that permeate my mind, I must say that their room service weiner schnitzel is easily the best I ever had the pleasure of tucking into.
Alas, I could not stay forever in Vienna, or the Imperial, so I hired a car to take me to Bratislava the next morning. As I sailed down an Austrian highway in a chauffer driven black Mercedes towards Slovakia we passed by small villages and lush rolling hills whose vivid green mesmerized me. That all changed the minute we approached the Danube and border control on the other side. The first thing you notice are the factory towers belching out smoke like a scene from Blade Runner and the gray haze hovering on the other side. As you approach, the decay and Soviet inspired design (or lack thereof) become even more apparent. To go from Vienna and the Austrian countryside towards Slovakia is to truly appreciate the differences that laid between Western and Eastern Europe. It becomes a journey through time, political ideology and wealth.
Armando Huerta is a writer from Greece.
November 26, 2002
Different Customs
By Armando Huerta
As an international mutt moving around from country to country on average every three years it has always been an effort for me to say where I am from. Despite my passport since birth, growing up in various countries makes the question of what country in this world I would truly call home a challenge I have yet to overcome.
This was never the case with my father. Having lived in Bolivia up until he left in his mid-twenties to continue his post-grad education abroad he clearly and completely considered himself a Bolivian. He had actually incurred the wrath of his family by not only never coming back to live there but also marrying a blond haired, green eyed Brazilian bombshell without their approval. Many was a time when my widowed aunt, deciding my sister was the weakest link of the three children, would pull her onto her black clad lap and try to convince her that if she aided in my parents getting a divorce we could all live happily with her in La Paz.
While that, thankfully, never happened, we did, as a family, make an annual pilgrimage to Bolivia so that my father’s family (8 aunts and uncles and more cousins than I can possibly count or remember) could survey us, laugh at our clothes and accents and serve us food so spicy I would often start crying at the table (I was one of those spoiled fat cry-babies).
As is the custom with old school Latin families, the patriarch was the oldest sibling, in this case my uncle Jorge. Trust me, no one could assume the role better than he. Along with his piercing blue eyes he had a no bullshit demeanor gleaned from years in the air force where he eventually was made a general. Many a times he’d march me around the yard correcting my posture and telling me to suck in my stomach. Needless to say, that combined with the altitude sickness I experienced every single time we landed in La Paz, made trips to Bolivia fall very low on my wish list.
His imposing manner did help out from time to time however. Bolivia, in that era under a military regime, was a closed economy where electronics were prohibitively expensive and scarce. As such, we would arrive packed like gypsies, carrying not only gifts but also fulfilled shopping lists which were mostly comprised of VCRs, walkmans and Casio recorders. You could see the customs agents wetting their lips and salivating when we’d leave baggage claim, their minds registering the bribes and confiscated goods they’d bring home that day transforming their humble abodes into a delinquent mall. Alas, they did not reckon facing my uncle. The minute he would see a customs agent making a motion to stop us he’d leap over the railing screaming bloody murder and waving his military ID. The agent would become petrified as my uncle would threaten him with a beating, life imprisonment and the deflowering of his prettiest daughter. This behavior used to mortify me, while at the same time I must admit, thrill me as the gates would open and we’d be escorted out of customs by kowtowing customs agents mumbling their apologies. My uncle always appreciated the humor of those moments and would laugh the whole way to hotel, pantomiming the horrified faces the agents made as he careened down the highway from the La Paz airport immune to police…. above the law.
Armando Huerta is a writer living in Athens, Greece.
As an international mutt moving around from country to country on average every three years it has always been an effort for me to say where I am from. Despite my passport since birth, growing up in various countries makes the question of what country in this world I would truly call home a challenge I have yet to overcome.
This was never the case with my father. Having lived in Bolivia up until he left in his mid-twenties to continue his post-grad education abroad he clearly and completely considered himself a Bolivian. He had actually incurred the wrath of his family by not only never coming back to live there but also marrying a blond haired, green eyed Brazilian bombshell without their approval. Many was a time when my widowed aunt, deciding my sister was the weakest link of the three children, would pull her onto her black clad lap and try to convince her that if she aided in my parents getting a divorce we could all live happily with her in La Paz.
While that, thankfully, never happened, we did, as a family, make an annual pilgrimage to Bolivia so that my father’s family (8 aunts and uncles and more cousins than I can possibly count or remember) could survey us, laugh at our clothes and accents and serve us food so spicy I would often start crying at the table (I was one of those spoiled fat cry-babies).
As is the custom with old school Latin families, the patriarch was the oldest sibling, in this case my uncle Jorge. Trust me, no one could assume the role better than he. Along with his piercing blue eyes he had a no bullshit demeanor gleaned from years in the air force where he eventually was made a general. Many a times he’d march me around the yard correcting my posture and telling me to suck in my stomach. Needless to say, that combined with the altitude sickness I experienced every single time we landed in La Paz, made trips to Bolivia fall very low on my wish list.
His imposing manner did help out from time to time however. Bolivia, in that era under a military regime, was a closed economy where electronics were prohibitively expensive and scarce. As such, we would arrive packed like gypsies, carrying not only gifts but also fulfilled shopping lists which were mostly comprised of VCRs, walkmans and Casio recorders. You could see the customs agents wetting their lips and salivating when we’d leave baggage claim, their minds registering the bribes and confiscated goods they’d bring home that day transforming their humble abodes into a delinquent mall. Alas, they did not reckon facing my uncle. The minute he would see a customs agent making a motion to stop us he’d leap over the railing screaming bloody murder and waving his military ID. The agent would become petrified as my uncle would threaten him with a beating, life imprisonment and the deflowering of his prettiest daughter. This behavior used to mortify me, while at the same time I must admit, thrill me as the gates would open and we’d be escorted out of customs by kowtowing customs agents mumbling their apologies. My uncle always appreciated the humor of those moments and would laugh the whole way to hotel, pantomiming the horrified faces the agents made as he careened down the highway from the La Paz airport immune to police…. above the law.
Armando Huerta is a writer living in Athens, Greece.
October 24, 2002
Les Halles a la Grecque
By Armando Huerta © 2002
Flying into Athens from the United States is always tiring on the traveler with the seven hour time difference inflicting heinous jetlag. For me this is always worse since I can never seem to sleep well on planes. Instead of a nice deep sleep I always end up drifting in and out of a light doze like a trucker on a Mid West interstate when his amphetamines wear off. The end result is that I always arrive in the late afternoon and promptly fall asleep till 4:30 the following morning.
Not only is waking up at that hour extremely disconcerting, it is also amazingly boring. Good television is non-existent and after a long flight I’m pretty much always done with my reading material. Luckily downtown Athens is still alive and well at that hour and strolling the streets is not only safe, it’s entertaining.
During this last trip, upon waking up at the aforementioned 4:30am I hit the streets within 5 minutes of getting up. Sure, I had horrid bed head and smelled like a migrant cherry picker but I thought that it would probably still put me leagues ahead of most people I’d run into. Walking up the street from the dump of a hotel I was staying at (phone wouldn’t work, the patio door fell on me when I tried to open it and the sheets felt like someone was rubbing a burlap sack on my privates) I came across the downtown fish market. The complex is a Neo-Classical arcade with a soaring ceiling and large archways acting as entrances from the street.
Chaos is the only way to describe what was happening out front. Trucks were double parked, pulled up onto the sidewalks and idling sideways across the avenue out front. Workers screaming in Greek with cigarettes dangling from their chapped lips dragged kilo after kilo of fish from the back of the trucks into the market. Some of these were so large they grabbed only one at a time and hoisted them on their backs and lugged them like a basket of dirt at an open mine pit. The crowd of workers was augmented by street merchants selling cigarettes, lottery tickets and hot coffee. Inside the situation was the same with vendors dumping ice on their displays, arguing over space with their neighbors and often forming conversational circles smack in the middle of everyone’s way to exchange jokes, tips and family news. The variety of the fish being brought in was breathtaking. Every conceivable sea dweller from the Mediterranean was there, snuggled next to his brothers on a bed of ice awaiting the probing touch of a housewife seeking that night’s dinner. The fishmongers (I love that word) didn’t seem to mind my ambling about and open mouth gazing at their displays.
In fact, I would say they were proud that a foreigner would find their lives at that hour of the morning interesting at all. All I could think about was how lucky I was to see this part of Athens that most tourists, or even locals, would never experience. It was an insight into the workings of a city that I would now be calling home.
Armanod Huerta currently lives in Athens, Greece.
Flying into Athens from the United States is always tiring on the traveler with the seven hour time difference inflicting heinous jetlag. For me this is always worse since I can never seem to sleep well on planes. Instead of a nice deep sleep I always end up drifting in and out of a light doze like a trucker on a Mid West interstate when his amphetamines wear off. The end result is that I always arrive in the late afternoon and promptly fall asleep till 4:30 the following morning.
Not only is waking up at that hour extremely disconcerting, it is also amazingly boring. Good television is non-existent and after a long flight I’m pretty much always done with my reading material. Luckily downtown Athens is still alive and well at that hour and strolling the streets is not only safe, it’s entertaining.
During this last trip, upon waking up at the aforementioned 4:30am I hit the streets within 5 minutes of getting up. Sure, I had horrid bed head and smelled like a migrant cherry picker but I thought that it would probably still put me leagues ahead of most people I’d run into. Walking up the street from the dump of a hotel I was staying at (phone wouldn’t work, the patio door fell on me when I tried to open it and the sheets felt like someone was rubbing a burlap sack on my privates) I came across the downtown fish market. The complex is a Neo-Classical arcade with a soaring ceiling and large archways acting as entrances from the street.
Chaos is the only way to describe what was happening out front. Trucks were double parked, pulled up onto the sidewalks and idling sideways across the avenue out front. Workers screaming in Greek with cigarettes dangling from their chapped lips dragged kilo after kilo of fish from the back of the trucks into the market. Some of these were so large they grabbed only one at a time and hoisted them on their backs and lugged them like a basket of dirt at an open mine pit. The crowd of workers was augmented by street merchants selling cigarettes, lottery tickets and hot coffee. Inside the situation was the same with vendors dumping ice on their displays, arguing over space with their neighbors and often forming conversational circles smack in the middle of everyone’s way to exchange jokes, tips and family news. The variety of the fish being brought in was breathtaking. Every conceivable sea dweller from the Mediterranean was there, snuggled next to his brothers on a bed of ice awaiting the probing touch of a housewife seeking that night’s dinner. The fishmongers (I love that word) didn’t seem to mind my ambling about and open mouth gazing at their displays.
In fact, I would say they were proud that a foreigner would find their lives at that hour of the morning interesting at all. All I could think about was how lucky I was to see this part of Athens that most tourists, or even locals, would never experience. It was an insight into the workings of a city that I would now be calling home.
Armanod Huerta currently lives in Athens, Greece.
September 18, 2002
Leaving on a Jet Plane
By Armando Huerta ©2002
Los Roques is an archipelago about 15 miles off the coast of Venezuela. It's a chain of 150 islands, most deserted, with long white sandy beaches and a cooling breeze. I honestly have always meant it when I say that the best beaches I've ever been to in my life are those in Los Roques. Nothing compares to hiring a boat with some friends, cooler in tow, to a barren island where you can spend the day swimming, drinking, laughing with no one to bother you. You know what I'm talking about... fat housewives with so much back fat, from behind they look like melting candles. White trash families who show up with a hibachi, a complete 8 piece Wal-Mart lawn chair set and a ping pong table.
In all of Venezuela it was my favorite place to visit and I was lucky enough to go there with my dear friend Dede for Easter vacation two weeks before leaving the country for good. It was Sunday and we found ourselves in the airport, hungover and blue about returning back to reality. Well... I was anyway, Dede was heading out the next morning to Trinidad where she was going to serve as maid of honor, wedding planner and token drunk in a friend's wedding. Our regular flight had been cancelled since the plane did an emergency landing the day before with an engine engulfed in flames. (I think I forgot to mention that one of the main airlines to service Los Roques uses DC-3s which were made in the 1930s). I have no issues flying but it wasn't very reassuring to see the plane covered in black grease sitting on the end of the runway.
Luckily we were rescheduled on another, more modern carrier and were hanging around the airport waiting for the flight to be called. Before I go any further I should say that the airport in Los Roques is nothing more than a glorified parking lot. The short runway is pock marked, a wooden saw horse separates the passengers from the tarmac and there is no lighting of any kind. For that reason, understandably, flights are forbidden after 6pm. Our flight was one of the last that night, scheduled to leave at 5:30, so we had time to grab a sandwich and return to the "concourse" before departing. Much to our surprise, when we were walking back from the main street to the airport we saw the plane taking off. It was 5pm and that fucking piece of shit was sailing off into the wild blue yonder. After tearing the ground staff a new asshole we ran around trying to get seats onto another plane. I really didn't mind staying another night but Dede had to make the sole flight from Caracas to Trinidad that was leaving at 8am the next morning.
We had befriended some locals, one of whom was the daughter of a chartered flight company owner in Caracas. He was happy to send us a plane but couldn't that evening because a plane couldn't get there and turn back around before closing time. Dede at this point was ready to kill someone and I was searching for another pack of cigarettes to tuck into. As luck would have it, a couple on their way back from Miami had stopped in Los Roques for a lobster dinner before heading back home. Our new-found friends were familiar with the pilot and asked him if he minded some extra weight on the way back. He was game and we found ourselves ushered to the end of the runway where his plane was parked. It was gorgeous. Dark blue body, gray smoked windows.... As we approached the door I saw that the entire entrance vestibule had mahogany paneling. Mother of God... We were flying back in a fucking private jet! Here we were smelling like airplane fuel, cigarettes and Barney from the Simpsons and we were about to be whisked back to Caracas in contour leather chairs, plush carpeting and picture frame windows. We were for all intents and purposes hitchhikers being given a ride.... it just happened that it was on a someone's jet. Dede still talks about the grin I had on my face when we took off. It was as if I was a child again when flying was still a miracle and every flight an adventure.
Armando Huerta is a writer from Athens, Greece.
Los Roques is an archipelago about 15 miles off the coast of Venezuela. It's a chain of 150 islands, most deserted, with long white sandy beaches and a cooling breeze. I honestly have always meant it when I say that the best beaches I've ever been to in my life are those in Los Roques. Nothing compares to hiring a boat with some friends, cooler in tow, to a barren island where you can spend the day swimming, drinking, laughing with no one to bother you. You know what I'm talking about... fat housewives with so much back fat, from behind they look like melting candles. White trash families who show up with a hibachi, a complete 8 piece Wal-Mart lawn chair set and a ping pong table.
In all of Venezuela it was my favorite place to visit and I was lucky enough to go there with my dear friend Dede for Easter vacation two weeks before leaving the country for good. It was Sunday and we found ourselves in the airport, hungover and blue about returning back to reality. Well... I was anyway, Dede was heading out the next morning to Trinidad where she was going to serve as maid of honor, wedding planner and token drunk in a friend's wedding. Our regular flight had been cancelled since the plane did an emergency landing the day before with an engine engulfed in flames. (I think I forgot to mention that one of the main airlines to service Los Roques uses DC-3s which were made in the 1930s). I have no issues flying but it wasn't very reassuring to see the plane covered in black grease sitting on the end of the runway.
Luckily we were rescheduled on another, more modern carrier and were hanging around the airport waiting for the flight to be called. Before I go any further I should say that the airport in Los Roques is nothing more than a glorified parking lot. The short runway is pock marked, a wooden saw horse separates the passengers from the tarmac and there is no lighting of any kind. For that reason, understandably, flights are forbidden after 6pm. Our flight was one of the last that night, scheduled to leave at 5:30, so we had time to grab a sandwich and return to the "concourse" before departing. Much to our surprise, when we were walking back from the main street to the airport we saw the plane taking off. It was 5pm and that fucking piece of shit was sailing off into the wild blue yonder. After tearing the ground staff a new asshole we ran around trying to get seats onto another plane. I really didn't mind staying another night but Dede had to make the sole flight from Caracas to Trinidad that was leaving at 8am the next morning.
We had befriended some locals, one of whom was the daughter of a chartered flight company owner in Caracas. He was happy to send us a plane but couldn't that evening because a plane couldn't get there and turn back around before closing time. Dede at this point was ready to kill someone and I was searching for another pack of cigarettes to tuck into. As luck would have it, a couple on their way back from Miami had stopped in Los Roques for a lobster dinner before heading back home. Our new-found friends were familiar with the pilot and asked him if he minded some extra weight on the way back. He was game and we found ourselves ushered to the end of the runway where his plane was parked. It was gorgeous. Dark blue body, gray smoked windows.... As we approached the door I saw that the entire entrance vestibule had mahogany paneling. Mother of God... We were flying back in a fucking private jet! Here we were smelling like airplane fuel, cigarettes and Barney from the Simpsons and we were about to be whisked back to Caracas in contour leather chairs, plush carpeting and picture frame windows. We were for all intents and purposes hitchhikers being given a ride.... it just happened that it was on a someone's jet. Dede still talks about the grin I had on my face when we took off. It was as if I was a child again when flying was still a miracle and every flight an adventure.
Armando Huerta is a writer from Athens, Greece.
August 23, 2002
Jacaranda Hookers
By Armando Huerta © 2002
As a senior in high school I was well familiar with what a hooker was and how she went about her business. That’s not to say that I experienced the pleasures of the flesh with one, just that I was savvy. After all, in my corner of the world, Sao Paulo, Brazil, it wasn’t considered too bizarre for a father to take his son to a whorehouse when he became of age. In this case, usually, that meant 16. Sometimes it wasn’t even a brothel, sometimes they had a willing (or rent desperate) secretary who would do the trick. Needless to say, it made for some interesting lunch-time conversations.
Anyway… back to the hookers on the street… This school, as most American schools overseas do, had grades kindergarten through 12th grade. The school was pretty much divided by elementary, middle and high so you rarely saw the little tykes running around, pissing on themselves or eating paste. That was until you rode the school bus. Those buses, Mercedes Benz with curtains and wood paneling, were a hodge-podge of children crying, minor petting and us seniors in the back trying to steal a smoke without the driver noticing. The curtains helped a lot. On our route home we’d always pass by the Jockey Club.
Now, the Jockey Club itself is an extremely elegant and prestigious club, unfortunately the same cannot be said for the street it’s on. Being that there are no cross streets down the whole length of the Jockey Club, hookers, or roda bolsinhas (purse twirlers) as they are called locally, loved to ply their trade by parking themselves by the jacaranda trees that lined the street at regular intervals. Traffic being horrific in Sao Paulo, every now and then the bus would be stopped in front of these ladies and pandemonium would break out. Surprisingly, it wasn’t us seniors with our alleged maturity but the children who’d react the most. The minute they sensed the bus would slow down they’d pull open the windows, lean their arms out and start to pump them while chanting "Puta! Puta! Puta!". The equivalent of "Whore! Whore! Whore!". Mind you, most of these kids did so in horrid accents and with their blond hair swaying much to the amusement of the hookers. The bus driver, however, was not as easily amused. He’d try anything to get the bus moving again, from honking his horn repeatedly to bumping the car in front.
One day a hooker, well known to us by now, decided to give us a treat by pulling up her blouse and showing her sweater steaks for all to see. Normally this would have been greeted by screams of encourgement, instead, in this instance it was greeted by blood curdling cries of terror. It seems the trade was a bit rough in those days because the prostitute felt the need to protect herself by carrying around a gun in the elastic waistband of her powder blue micro skirt. When one kid screamed "She has a gun! She’s going to shoot," the bus almost tipped over with all the kids rushing to the other side to escape the expected rain of bullets.
The driver, meanwhile, was dead white and honking like his life depended on it. (or at the very least his job if one of the kids were to become target practice for a weary hooker). The poor tart, however, was perplexed. She thought she was doing us a favor and was probably not used to having her goods disparaged in such a manner. The next day the driver found a new route, 20 minutes longer and not nearly as interesting.
Armando Huerta is originally from Brazil. He will be residing in Athens, Greece.
As a senior in high school I was well familiar with what a hooker was and how she went about her business. That’s not to say that I experienced the pleasures of the flesh with one, just that I was savvy. After all, in my corner of the world, Sao Paulo, Brazil, it wasn’t considered too bizarre for a father to take his son to a whorehouse when he became of age. In this case, usually, that meant 16. Sometimes it wasn’t even a brothel, sometimes they had a willing (or rent desperate) secretary who would do the trick. Needless to say, it made for some interesting lunch-time conversations.
Anyway… back to the hookers on the street… This school, as most American schools overseas do, had grades kindergarten through 12th grade. The school was pretty much divided by elementary, middle and high so you rarely saw the little tykes running around, pissing on themselves or eating paste. That was until you rode the school bus. Those buses, Mercedes Benz with curtains and wood paneling, were a hodge-podge of children crying, minor petting and us seniors in the back trying to steal a smoke without the driver noticing. The curtains helped a lot. On our route home we’d always pass by the Jockey Club.
Now, the Jockey Club itself is an extremely elegant and prestigious club, unfortunately the same cannot be said for the street it’s on. Being that there are no cross streets down the whole length of the Jockey Club, hookers, or roda bolsinhas (purse twirlers) as they are called locally, loved to ply their trade by parking themselves by the jacaranda trees that lined the street at regular intervals. Traffic being horrific in Sao Paulo, every now and then the bus would be stopped in front of these ladies and pandemonium would break out. Surprisingly, it wasn’t us seniors with our alleged maturity but the children who’d react the most. The minute they sensed the bus would slow down they’d pull open the windows, lean their arms out and start to pump them while chanting "Puta! Puta! Puta!". The equivalent of "Whore! Whore! Whore!". Mind you, most of these kids did so in horrid accents and with their blond hair swaying much to the amusement of the hookers. The bus driver, however, was not as easily amused. He’d try anything to get the bus moving again, from honking his horn repeatedly to bumping the car in front.
One day a hooker, well known to us by now, decided to give us a treat by pulling up her blouse and showing her sweater steaks for all to see. Normally this would have been greeted by screams of encourgement, instead, in this instance it was greeted by blood curdling cries of terror. It seems the trade was a bit rough in those days because the prostitute felt the need to protect herself by carrying around a gun in the elastic waistband of her powder blue micro skirt. When one kid screamed "She has a gun! She’s going to shoot," the bus almost tipped over with all the kids rushing to the other side to escape the expected rain of bullets.
The driver, meanwhile, was dead white and honking like his life depended on it. (or at the very least his job if one of the kids were to become target practice for a weary hooker). The poor tart, however, was perplexed. She thought she was doing us a favor and was probably not used to having her goods disparaged in such a manner. The next day the driver found a new route, 20 minutes longer and not nearly as interesting.
Armando Huerta is originally from Brazil. He will be residing in Athens, Greece.
July 26, 2002
I Love Greece
by Armando Huerta © 2002
I arrived into Athens, Greece on a Sunday early in the morning after being on a plane for two days enroute from Montevideo. Needless to say I was more exhausted than a truck-stop hooker servicing a Nascar convoy. This was to be my first of many trips to Athens and although tired, I was still as excited as a Catholic school girl having her panties pulled down by the fumbling fingers of a pimply neighborhood boy. The new airport, which rocks, was still being built so we landed in the old one that was built around the time Aristotle Onassis owned Olympic airlines. During that time he was also porking a woman previously married to the Presidential son of an Irish bootlegging scion but that's another story...
The first thing I noticed was that we didn't pull up to a gate but parked right on the tarmac as buses lined up to take us to the terminal. So far nothing was out of the ordinary since lots of airports still do that but my tranquility changed when I saw the dogs. Dogs under the plane, dogs humping behind baggage carts, dogs napping smack dab in the middle of a runway. It seems our little furry four legged beasties find the airport tarmac to be the lounge venue of choice. It was one mangy dog after another, of all various breeds and colors like a Benetton ad, making themselves as comfortable as can be on the hot cement. Course, I'm still not sure if they were indeed dogs or Olympic Airways sterdesses on break. After having a cigarette in baggage claim (I LOVE Greece), grabbing a cab and checking into the hotel I was ready to crash on my bed and recoup my energy. Alas, that was not meant to be.
The Greeks are a very hospitable and social people and insist on taking foreign visitors out on the town as I was soon to find out. I wasn't in my hotel room but five minutes when my client calls to tell me she'll meet me in the main square in twenty minutes. I took a whore's bath in the bathroom sink and charged down the hills in Kolonaki to Syntagma (Constitution) Square. (For those who are wondering how in the hell I knew the way, we drove through the Square on the way up to the hotel, thank you very much.) The second I arrive a Range Rover full of Greeks pulls up and a door swings open. I only recognize one person who's squeezed in the back so either she's brought friends or I'm about to be kidnapped. Since I've always been a fan of Range Rovers, and this was a model previously only sold in Europe and unbeknowdest to me, I figured even if it was the latter was the case the ride would still be worth it and jumped in.
The restaurant they chose was having an opening celebration that day but there was a table in the back reserved for our party of eight. After making our way through throngs of Greeks trying to sing and gyrate to Paradise by the Dashboard Light (which most Americans can't do either incidently) we sat down. Immediately everyone, EVERYONE, pulls out a pack of cigarettes and puts them on the table. All eyes turn to me and then I sheepishly pulled out my pack and laid it down too. Everyone roars and starts slapping me on the back while motioning to the waiter for the menu. I was IN! What followed was a 5 hour meal with more wine bottles than people on the table and at one point I had to prop myself up on the table with my knife and fork to keep from passing out. When the meal was finally over we made our way through the crowded cobblestoned streets back to the car. One restaurant after the other was packed to the brim and in one block we passed by three establishments where things were so rowdy people were dancing on the tables and screaming. This was a Sunday afternoon! Sunday! AFTERNOON! The only thing that gets that exciting on a Sunday in the US besides a football game is a Southern Baptist Revival and let's just say neither are my entertainment of choice.
I turned to one of my new friends and asked her, "This is crazy! Look at all these people partying and carrying on in the middle of the afternoon. Is it a holiday or a celebration of something?"
She replied in that wonderful Greek accent while gesticulating with a flattened hand in motions away from her body, "Ehhhhh..... No. In Greece, on Sundays... we just start a little earlier."
I love Greece.
Armando Huerta is a writer from Boston, MA.
I arrived into Athens, Greece on a Sunday early in the morning after being on a plane for two days enroute from Montevideo. Needless to say I was more exhausted than a truck-stop hooker servicing a Nascar convoy. This was to be my first of many trips to Athens and although tired, I was still as excited as a Catholic school girl having her panties pulled down by the fumbling fingers of a pimply neighborhood boy. The new airport, which rocks, was still being built so we landed in the old one that was built around the time Aristotle Onassis owned Olympic airlines. During that time he was also porking a woman previously married to the Presidential son of an Irish bootlegging scion but that's another story...
The first thing I noticed was that we didn't pull up to a gate but parked right on the tarmac as buses lined up to take us to the terminal. So far nothing was out of the ordinary since lots of airports still do that but my tranquility changed when I saw the dogs. Dogs under the plane, dogs humping behind baggage carts, dogs napping smack dab in the middle of a runway. It seems our little furry four legged beasties find the airport tarmac to be the lounge venue of choice. It was one mangy dog after another, of all various breeds and colors like a Benetton ad, making themselves as comfortable as can be on the hot cement. Course, I'm still not sure if they were indeed dogs or Olympic Airways sterdesses on break. After having a cigarette in baggage claim (I LOVE Greece), grabbing a cab and checking into the hotel I was ready to crash on my bed and recoup my energy. Alas, that was not meant to be.
The Greeks are a very hospitable and social people and insist on taking foreign visitors out on the town as I was soon to find out. I wasn't in my hotel room but five minutes when my client calls to tell me she'll meet me in the main square in twenty minutes. I took a whore's bath in the bathroom sink and charged down the hills in Kolonaki to Syntagma (Constitution) Square. (For those who are wondering how in the hell I knew the way, we drove through the Square on the way up to the hotel, thank you very much.) The second I arrive a Range Rover full of Greeks pulls up and a door swings open. I only recognize one person who's squeezed in the back so either she's brought friends or I'm about to be kidnapped. Since I've always been a fan of Range Rovers, and this was a model previously only sold in Europe and unbeknowdest to me, I figured even if it was the latter was the case the ride would still be worth it and jumped in.
The restaurant they chose was having an opening celebration that day but there was a table in the back reserved for our party of eight. After making our way through throngs of Greeks trying to sing and gyrate to Paradise by the Dashboard Light (which most Americans can't do either incidently) we sat down. Immediately everyone, EVERYONE, pulls out a pack of cigarettes and puts them on the table. All eyes turn to me and then I sheepishly pulled out my pack and laid it down too. Everyone roars and starts slapping me on the back while motioning to the waiter for the menu. I was IN! What followed was a 5 hour meal with more wine bottles than people on the table and at one point I had to prop myself up on the table with my knife and fork to keep from passing out. When the meal was finally over we made our way through the crowded cobblestoned streets back to the car. One restaurant after the other was packed to the brim and in one block we passed by three establishments where things were so rowdy people were dancing on the tables and screaming. This was a Sunday afternoon! Sunday! AFTERNOON! The only thing that gets that exciting on a Sunday in the US besides a football game is a Southern Baptist Revival and let's just say neither are my entertainment of choice.
I turned to one of my new friends and asked her, "This is crazy! Look at all these people partying and carrying on in the middle of the afternoon. Is it a holiday or a celebration of something?"
She replied in that wonderful Greek accent while gesticulating with a flattened hand in motions away from her body, "Ehhhhh..... No. In Greece, on Sundays... we just start a little earlier."
I love Greece.
Armando Huerta is a writer from Boston, MA.
June 14, 2002
The WHAT Lounge?
by Armando Huerta
In early May of this year I was flying from Warsaw to Prague in Business Class (natch) on LOT Polish Airlines. One of the benefits of that, besides a faster check-in, is the use of the Business Class lounge. Nowadays, with check-in being required so much further in advance, while I wait for my flight I often look forward to sitting back in a nice leather chair, glass of something or other in my hand and a complimentary magazine to flip through. (Usually something I wouldn't be caught dead buying like Paris Match, HELLO or some other Euro-trash rag) Now, don't get me wrong, I am not above mingling with coach/economy/steerage trash but when presented with an alternative, I pick the latter. I'm all about alternatives... music... cuisine... lifestyle... but I digress.
There is something enticing about going into a privileged and restricted space instead of sitting on a pleather chair next to some dribbling baby while watching the family across from you package and repackage their home cooked meals into grease soaked cardboard boxes kept closed with red twine. When you're in a business/first class lounge you minimize exposure to the sort of person who takes time off from their oh so difficult crossword puzzle found in the back of an in-flight magazine to scratch their genitals with the pen they were using. Not to mention people in wife beaters and flip-flops. Granted, we are not on the maiden voyage of the QE II but it's hardly Daytona Beach people. A little decorum please…
Never having flown LOT out of Warsaw before I wasn't privy to their lounge. Sometimes ignorance is bliss. After hoofing it to the end of the terminal I came upon a blacked out glass door with Fantasia in neon lights overhead. Now, I know that Europeans are far more progressive than the puritanical bible beaters that populate the United States, but even so, I was stunned to find out they had strip clubs in the airport! Alas, it wasn't a voyeuristic palace of flesh but the rarefied and privileged business class lounge I was so desperately seeking.
Fantasia.
Are you fucking kidding me?
As I was buzzed in I prayed that indeed the name was derived from the whimsical Disney movie with water lugging brooms and dancing hippos. Unfortunately the only hippos in there were overstuffed businessmen straight out of a New Yorker cartoon. They were about as graceful and cute as a naked hermaphrodite riding a seventies bike with a banana seat. Course... my eyes weren't directed at them but to the center of the room. Hard not to when you have strobes pulsating greenish light onto a pole. Not a Pole my friends but a pole! Unfortunately, before I could find out if the buxom, ridiculously blond lounge attendants were going to put that pole to use my flight was announced. I will never know if right after I left "Cherchez La Femme" began to blast on the speakers and an over the hill stewardess... I mean flight attendant, came out swinging her hips and jiggling her honeycombs with the nipples fetchingly concealed by pasties stamped with the airline logo. Maybe that's a good thing...
Armando Huerta originally from Brazil, lives in Boston, MA.
In early May of this year I was flying from Warsaw to Prague in Business Class (natch) on LOT Polish Airlines. One of the benefits of that, besides a faster check-in, is the use of the Business Class lounge. Nowadays, with check-in being required so much further in advance, while I wait for my flight I often look forward to sitting back in a nice leather chair, glass of something or other in my hand and a complimentary magazine to flip through. (Usually something I wouldn't be caught dead buying like Paris Match, HELLO or some other Euro-trash rag) Now, don't get me wrong, I am not above mingling with coach/economy/steerage trash but when presented with an alternative, I pick the latter. I'm all about alternatives... music... cuisine... lifestyle... but I digress.
There is something enticing about going into a privileged and restricted space instead of sitting on a pleather chair next to some dribbling baby while watching the family across from you package and repackage their home cooked meals into grease soaked cardboard boxes kept closed with red twine. When you're in a business/first class lounge you minimize exposure to the sort of person who takes time off from their oh so difficult crossword puzzle found in the back of an in-flight magazine to scratch their genitals with the pen they were using. Not to mention people in wife beaters and flip-flops. Granted, we are not on the maiden voyage of the QE II but it's hardly Daytona Beach people. A little decorum please…
Never having flown LOT out of Warsaw before I wasn't privy to their lounge. Sometimes ignorance is bliss. After hoofing it to the end of the terminal I came upon a blacked out glass door with Fantasia in neon lights overhead. Now, I know that Europeans are far more progressive than the puritanical bible beaters that populate the United States, but even so, I was stunned to find out they had strip clubs in the airport! Alas, it wasn't a voyeuristic palace of flesh but the rarefied and privileged business class lounge I was so desperately seeking.
Fantasia.
Are you fucking kidding me?
As I was buzzed in I prayed that indeed the name was derived from the whimsical Disney movie with water lugging brooms and dancing hippos. Unfortunately the only hippos in there were overstuffed businessmen straight out of a New Yorker cartoon. They were about as graceful and cute as a naked hermaphrodite riding a seventies bike with a banana seat. Course... my eyes weren't directed at them but to the center of the room. Hard not to when you have strobes pulsating greenish light onto a pole. Not a Pole my friends but a pole! Unfortunately, before I could find out if the buxom, ridiculously blond lounge attendants were going to put that pole to use my flight was announced. I will never know if right after I left "Cherchez La Femme" began to blast on the speakers and an over the hill stewardess... I mean flight attendant, came out swinging her hips and jiggling her honeycombs with the nipples fetchingly concealed by pasties stamped with the airline logo. Maybe that's a good thing...
Armando Huerta originally from Brazil, lives in Boston, MA.
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