nerd’s eye view

Nature’s Grace

As soon as I was old enough, I made plans to take a road trip to a secluded spot in Northern California that I had fallen in love with while on a family trip years before. I remembered that the confluence of the two rivers where we rafted was called Ishi Pishi Point, and I convinced two friends to drive the 600 miles south to go camping there with me. We arrived late at night, having passed the last traffic light or street lamp hours before, and were grateful to find the entrance to a rustic campground. In the morning we were pleased to discover that we were the only campers there.

Each day, we would roll out of our sleeping bags when the morning sun began to turn our tent into a nylon oven. We would wash up in the water spigot and make coffee before hiking down to the swimming hole. We spent a blissful week there, the same simple routine, broken only by occasional trips three miles down the road to the pay phone and roadside general store for ice and a quick call home.

On our little private beach, I would lay in the sun until my skin was taut and dry from the heat. Then, I would roll myself off my towel and head to the river’s edge. I would stand there for a minute, letting the water lap at my feet, as I scanned the cliff’s high edge for movement. I had been fortunate enough once to catch a glimpse of a bear, close enough to get my heart racing and far enough away to prevent panic. Another time I had been awoken from shallow sleep by the sound of splashing. Sitting up, I found two bear cubs playing in the river, not twenty feet away. They startled and ran when I stood up, and mama bear never made an appearance.

Wading into the river, I would stop before the water reached my hips, to draw a deep breath and then dive in. Underwater, I would swim forward to a spot deep enough to sink down without touching bottom. I would swish my head back and forth to allow the water to fan my long hair around my face. My limbs soft, they would sway just enough to keep me suspended slightly below the surface.

It was in these moments, the river’s cool current awakening each of my body’s skin cells, my hair floating all around me, my arms and legs supported without effort by the water, that the separation between me and the world would disappear. I would melt into the space that I imagine we all lived in before our birth, when there was no separation between self and creator. I would stay there, in that magic space, until the need for breath would rush me back into my own singular body, instructing my arms to reach up and pull me back to the surface.

I returned to our camping spot every summer until the year before I got married. Now I dream about the time when my children are older and I drive them the long trip through two states, off of the interstate onto the twisting country highway, and off the highway onto the narrow road winding into the mountains. I hope that there is still a place with trees as far as you can see, and water clean enough to drink, so that they too can find nature’s grace.



Posted in 29 Guests | No Comments »

Mistakes are Tuition

a.ka. The Time I Missed My Flight. Twice.

Natalie Taylor is currently revamping her blog.  You can find previous writings/portfolio here. She likes words such as “curmudgeon” and “janky” and dramatic rose ceremonies.

“It’s me Nat. So, um, I’m in Prague right now, and I missed my flight. Twice. I’m going to be okay. Yeah, you know it’s fine…Hope everything’s good at home! It’s going to be okay…. Bye.”

Click.

This is my most embarrassing voice-mail to date. There really was nothing else to do while waiting for the train to Berlin, but send awkward messages of denial to my ex-boyfriend that I was independent in a crisis; that I didn’t need his re-assurance to make me feel better about myself.

My denials occurred at The Chinese restaurant around the bend from my hostel in Holesovice. Feeling satiated from the sweet and sour chicken in the empty dining room, it was a good time to double check my flight times for my return to Amsterdam the next day. I was responsible! I was saving money on a seat sale!

I was supposed to be on a plane two hours ago.

Sheer panic surged through my body. I immediately darted my eyes to the waitress, helpless, secretly wishing the daily special was “Free return to Amsterdam. Unlimited fried rice.”

After frantically booking the cheapest return for 7 a.m. the next day, and obliterating the good travel cents I had scoured originally, I realized I had no cash on hand. There was no ATM nearby for a much-needed drink.

“What’s wrong sweetie?” the hostel’s mole and resident bartender T. inquired.

“I missed my flight. I have no money on hand.” I reeked of despair.

T. consoled me with a drink. He later tried to console me with more (to no avail).

The cavernous subterranean surroundings of the hostel’s cellar bar were ideal to soak in self-pity. Krishla – a former hut mate in Greece with whom I had unexpected reunion – became a confidant. The perfect anti-dote, in my brilliant mind, was to pull an all-nighter. I’m not exactly a morning person.

The next goal was to coax the 12 unusually anti-social Scots to show their true (imbibing) nature.

“You’re in a hostel bar playing cards with each other and not socializing with the bevy of beauties around here?! You’re not drinking?!” I yelped. They listened.

T’s specialty was the A-Bomb, a shot of the green-fairy dropped into a glass of Red Bull. The boys were ambitious to try the A-Z bombs. I lost count after “A.” Cackling and incomprehensible Scottish brogues ensued. I didn’t understand. I didn’t care. My worries were a distant memory.

“I’ve got to pack,” I sleepily slurred, many hours of giggles later. An empty hostel dorm is a god-send to a solo-traveler – except when you have a 5 a.m. wake-up call and nobody with an alarm to wake you when needed. My watch was underneath the bed. It was 3 a.m. Then I turned the watch around. The reality was mirrored back to me: 9 a.m. A stunned reflection in the looking glass.

Double Trouble: two missed flights by two hours each. No refunds.

Krishla was not impressed by the morning-wake up call. “Berlin is a four hour train ride from Prague. Go. If you’re still here after 1 p.m., I’m personally sending you on the train.” The train station was a five minute walk. I had nothing to lose.

I couldn’t venture back to Amsterdam now; Anne Frank Huis waiting for me in the foggy distance.  My set itinerary of simultaneously using the rest of  my Eurail Pass days on bordering countries was failing me. In retrospect, I learned just as much from the walking tours of Berlin than I did from the hallowed walls of Anne Frank Huis.

I was scared of my own ignorance; that I wasn’t prepared for the history lessons and that I thought I should be. Diving head-first without any plan into a known yet unknown culture was the climax of the surprises my travels had un-earthed for me.

I didn’t have enough time to explore Berlin at my own pace: its hauntingly romantic atmosphere; its sorrowful yet triumphant deep-rooted past, and a mainstay as a hotbed of culture. I also didn’t realize that, in the end, I was okay, and stronger as a result.

Why I like this story: Yeah, I missed a flight. Once. Or maybe twice. I ain’t sayin’.

Posted in 29 Guests | No Comments »

The Thai Massage

Guest post by Joanne Edmundson, a writer and an expat Canadian living in Columbus, Ohio. She would go to Thailand again in a heartbeat. Visit her at Snapdragon Ink.

My Let’s Go made the traditional Thai massage sound like an hour of innocent bliss that I would not want to miss. At 150 baht – or about $5 – I couldn’t wait to try it. It was, in fact, the only real plan I had for all of the six weeks we were going to be travelling in Thailand.

Kissing my new husband goodbye, I walked quickly down the busy Koh Samui street to the first massage place I found. A woman with waist-length hair saw me stop near the door and motioned me over. She held out her hand to me and I let her pull me into the cool and airy interior, into a waft of incense and menthol. She motioned for me to leave my sandals at the door and then led me through to the back, passing a row of mattresses lined up neatly against one wall, each covered in a crisp white sheet. “I am Saleema” she said and she handed me a pair of full-length blue pajamas that reached just below my knees.

Once dressed, I lay down on the mattress Saleema had prepared for me and waited, happily anticipating the hour ahead. We had just moved into our little hut on the beach and here I was already about to have my first authentic Thai experience. I had no idea what to expect.

Starting with my toes, Saleema worked her way slowly North, pulling, pushing, twisting, and pounding every inch of my body until she reached my head. One by one she shook each toe out of its socket and smiled at every satisfying click. She pounded her fists into my calf muscles, and pushed my thighs into unseemly positions. She yanked each finger in the same way she had dislocated each toe and then massaged the palms of my hands as if to apologize for the preceding pain. She pulled my hands high up over my head, twisted my body left and right, and dug her feet deeply into my back, while somehow using a knee over which to bend the rest of my torso. It was a baffling game of two-person Twister without the happy mat of circles. It was painful and unnerving and yet, strangely, at some point it became pleasant. I actually began to enjoy the sensations. Each pull and punch left my muscles rubbery, my body light, and my limbs rolling on the mat as if they belonged to someone else. “Ah,” I finally sighed, “feels good.” Saleema was pleased.

Before long, I realized with some dismay that Saleema was punching me in the head. There being nothing above my head, this clearly meant the massage was coming to an end. “Ah well” I thought dreamily, “maybe I can come again tomorrow.”

And then Saleema sat me up on the mat. She crossed my legs one over the other, she pulled my hands behind my head, and wrapped me into a tight headlock. She stretched me backwards as far as my body would allow. I was loose and happy and I let my muscles ease into the position she wanted. In my head, I was calculating how many massages per week we could afford while we were away. And then, suddenly, there was a sickening crack and I was facing the opposite wall. Saleema had whipped me around to the right. She was grinning at me. I yelped, but she was busy twisting me to the left. “Stop! STOP!” I cried out.

There was a violent hot pain between my shoulder blades. It hurt to breathe. My back was completely out.

Teary-eyed and more than a little worried, I explained to Saleema as clearly as I could that she had hurt me. She seemed to understand but the fact that she looked just as worried as me meant that there was very little I could do. I did my best to smile politely while pushing my toes back into their sockets with shaking hands and gracelessly collecting my limbs off the mattress. I hobbled back to my wallet and paid my innocent torturess for her trouble before slipping my feet into my sandals without bothering to do up the straps. I couldn’t fathom the pain involved in actually reaching for my shoes.

When Geoff arrived back at our little bungalow, I was flat out on my back on the cool sheets of our bed.

“Hey, how was it?” he asked.

“Pretty good,” I said.

Geoff sensed the touch of negativity.

“Just pretty good?” he asked.

“Mm hmmm” I murmured, pressing my lips tightly together. They had begun to twitch; tears were imminent.

Having been raised in a family with a rather dark sense of humor, I fully expected Geoff to laugh at the fact that my first Thai massage had rendered me crippled – a crippled backpacker on her honeymoon. Even I found it a little bit funny, if darkly so. Geoff, however, was just worried and he helped me back to the same massage clinic. We didn’t know where else to go.

Saleema was also worried. In fact, every woman in the shop was worried.

As soon as I pointed at my back and said cryptically “Pain…please help” I was placed on a bed and the several women there spent two long hours rubbing medicines into my back, chattering to each other in worried, rapid Thai, and taking turns attempting to press my spine back into place. Poor Saleema was almost in tears. She kept repeating, “I sorry, my friend, I pay for doctor.” Of course, I wasn’t going to a doctor and I most certainly wasn’t letting Saleema pay for it, but I was worried too. The women kept working away and then sent me hobbling home on Geoff’s arm where I spent a long day keeping my back still.

When I woke up the next morning, my back was stiff and sore, but much better and I returned to Saleema as promised. Again, three women flocked around me and began rubbing medicines into my back, each of them treating me to another half hour massage.  It would take another four days until I could finally walk without pain and four more before I could lift my own pack.

My back would continue to go out at the site of that one dramatic twist for years to come, an indelible reminder of that first – and last – Thai massage. At the time, however, I was simply thankful to have experienced the famous Thai hospitality through the kindness of three lovely women.

Why I like this story: Things go wrong all the time when we travel. Trying new things sometimes leads to, well, discomfort. But there’s something touching about these ladies trying to make it right, and about the writer, Joanna, letting them do so.

Posted in 29 Guests | 4 Comments »

Leaving the Building

It was mid August 1977. Summer had fewer days ahead then it had behind and I had precious little time to find a new school to attend. A year commuting to a local New Jersey state college as a freshman left me wanting a real college experience… A quad, dorms, more girls and a meal plan. That led to a road trip.

The challenge: drive 700 miles from northern New Jersey to Richmond, Va. and back in one day. The destination: Virginia Commonwealth University. My driving companion: my stepfather.

Much can be said about my stepfather. The adjectives roll toward and past you like a verbal Doppler effect. You hear the oncoming words, but the latter ones make the lasting impression: Intelligent, charming, polite, corny, syrupy, temperamental, grumpy, boorish, insecure, imperious, hypercritical, hostile. Picture Charlie Rose with horns.

My stepfather lived in an alternative universe with the home planet called Hubris. Professional triumphs equaled as many personal failings. But his path to self-examination was about as far away as Bayonne is from Beijing. His type only remember and extol successes and forever bury failure in their personal backyards. Don’t dig these deficiencies up, let alone bring them up. It won’t be pretty for the excavator.

I’ll refer to my stepfather as Baymur B.H. One of my younger brother’s friends gave him this moniker, the genesis of which to this day I know not. This kid likely glimpsed the refracted light of Baymur’s one-way prism of perceived perfection and saw right through him. My guess is Bevis and… (had it been on at the time).

Mercurial, yes. But this day, Baymur seemed even-keeled. Knowing him for six years, the fact that he cheerfully volunteered for the task held out hope that he had some redeeming qualities. I recognized and appreciated the effort.

Our vehicle for this journey was a 1976 Plymouth Grand Fury, the last of the Big Three land barge station wagons. Cranberry red with a cream, leather interior, it was wide and long. Pulling out of the garage, I got the same sensation of bulk when an airliner backs away from a gate.

With Baymur at the helm and me sprawled on the backseat, we set off before dawn. I awoke three hours later, the wagon barreled through Baltimore and emerging from the south end the Harbor Tunnel Throughway.

“You up?” asked Baymur.

“Yeah,” I said yawning and blinking at the sun.  “How much farther?

“About three more hours,” he said. “How about breakfast?”

“Ok, yeah, sure,” I replied.

No, not sure at all, really.

Punctuality is important to me. Our appointment in Richmond was at 12:30 p.m. and I wanted nothing to chance. Not even food.  But the quintessential breakfast guy’s stomach growled. Not too far into Virginia, we stopped.

We entered the rest area restaurant and were seated. I ordered pancakes; Baymur went for his usual eggs, bacon and short stack. The food arrived. I half-heartedly picked at my flapjacks while Baymur methodically pierced and cut his eggs, placing a piece on a portion of his buttered toast, pacing even consumption of both.

*   *   *

Fast-forward a handful years to a Saturday morning at my mother’s house where I was living temporarily. I had made myself two eggs, over easy, with two pieces of white toast and went to consume them in the den. I sat in the hunter green recliner, pulled up a TV tray, flicked on the TV and settled on a Road Runner cartoon.

Watching the show, I first consumed both eggs, leaving enough yellow yoke to dredge up with the toast. I took a hunk of the bread, and brushed it across the plate. Raising it to my mouth, I took a bite, and over a low point of the Carl Stalling score, heard a voice say:

“You ate that wrong.”

I froze.  Slowly turning my head left I saw Baymur standing outside the door, somewhat obscured by the darkness of the hallway. My brain jolted, as if pierced by a large caliber bullet, trying, vainly, to reconnect nerves that were forever to stay severed. I momentarily turned my gaze back toward the plate, and then glanced back to where Baymur stood, but he was gone. I stared straight ahead, stunned for what seemed an eternity. I was still holding the piece of bread and the bite I took fell out of my mouth.

*   *   *

I looked at my watch, but Baymur made no move to speed things up. Being the engineer that he was, he likely calculated distance and speed and already knew we had more than enough time. I was relieved when he laid his utensils to rest across his plate and motioned for the check. We exited and were back on I-95, sprinting to Richmond.

Upon our arrival, my immediate impression for the school was summed up with three words: I hated it. Virginia Commonwealth University in 1977 was an urban landscape of haphazard looking buildings and sun-baked sidewalks wilting under oppressive summer heat. No quad, just blocks of row homes and buildings that had seen better days.

A coed politely and efficiently showed us around.  My despair grew with every step. After about an hour and half, she bade us good-bye and said something like “you’re going to like it here.” I looked around, making a complete 360-degree turn where I was standing, and then looked at Baymur.

“So,” he asked.  “What do you think?”

I couldn’t lie to him.  “Well….” I let draw out, “I think its o.k.”

It was then that Baymur uttered a string of short sentences for which I hold him in high regard to this very day.

“You don’t want to go here,” he said.  “It’s lousy.  Let’s go home.  I’ll go call your mom and tell her we’re on our way.”

Life sometimes takes you out of your way to help you find something else closer by. Upon his return, Baymur told me that another school, Rider College, was interested in meeting with me. Ironically, we had driven within several hundred yards of its central entrance.

We rocketed home. North of Baltimore, after exhausting mutual topics of conversation, Baymur turned to the radio. That’s when we heard it.

Elvis died.

It was about as shocking as (later) hearing about Michael Jackson. The passing of huge star is big news. I knew who Elvis was.  But I was never a fan of 50’s era rock-a-billy, and paid less attention to the fat, jump-suited, drug-taking Elvis. For the rest of the evening, it was all Elvis, all the time.  We stopped, ate dinner, and drove the last 150 miles in darkness, arriving home at 11:30 p.m.

Thirty-three years later, I realized that trip was filled with endings and foreshadowing. The first true American superstar of the television era had passed on. So, too, did a younger version of myself as I traveled through Baltimore and Washington, D.C., two cities that would shape my personal and business lives for years to come. I also realized that my stepfather, for all his many flaws, proved to be a calm and worthy travel companion.

For a day at least.

Six weeks is another story entirely.

R. Allan Reed is a collector of people’s first and second most favorite places on earth at his destination blog, SecondSpot.com. He’s looking to accumulate one thousand new spots by year’s end. He lives and works in Naperville, Ill.

Why I like this story: Diners, road trips, ghosts and Elvis. Really, do I need to say more?

Posted in 29 Guests | No Comments »

Teddy’s Travels

“I’ve got something for your protection”, M. told me. “Come to my room… “

I eyed him skeptically. But hey, following a guy to his room… I was under a dark sky, early, early morning in Roatan, an island off the Caribbean coastline of Honduras. “Por que não?” (Why not?). I was wondering if I would get kissed or something. Every time he had a few drinks, M. would try his moves on the girls. But now, he was searching the inside of this backpack, looking for… I didn’t know what. Then from the depths of his luggage he produced a little teddy bear, with a green t-shirt with two wooden buttons.

This was how Teddy first came to me. Teddy didn’t scream when leaving his father’s arms for the arms of his new mom. Maybe he was in shock! Certainly he had no idea where life was taking him.

The group was leaving the island, crossing Honduras and heading to Nicaragua. I was staying behind with Teddy (and his wooden buttons) for my protection. My clothes were ridiculous, compared with Teddy’s. One week before, I had arrived in Guatemala City with no bag. I waited and waited and waited. “Such slow services, even slower than in Lisbon”, I thought. My bag never came.

At the IBERIA counter, an old couple was complaining that their bag was also missing. Their daughter’s wedding dress – she was getting married the next day! – was in their luggage. I asked for an emergency kit or money for my immediate needs, thinking IBERIA would give me something – and something for the old couple. The answer? “Essas cosas solamente en Madrid.” (Those things only in Madrid).

I left the airport – with no luggage – and headed to Antigua to join my group and M. (Teddy’s father). For the following week, I dressed as a happy clown, with every piece of my loaner wardrobe coming from a different country. And week later, I was following M. to his room, and adopting Teddy.

I had been screaming all the way from Antigua to Roatan, over the phone with the airport, cursing IBERIA in half Portuguese half Spanish. I was so mad, not even the banana pancakes could calm me down. I wanted to kill someone from IBERIA, but lacked the method to do it. I decided I would go back to Antigua – at any cost — and the get the damned bag myself.

M. left with rest of the group — the Swedes, the Aussies, the girls from the Lakes, the rednecks, the British girl, and the Canadian hypochondriac and I took a roaring flying creature to the mainland, with Teddy by my side. From Honduras we went to El Salvador and from there to Guatemala and Antigua, all the way back.

Teddy and I would join the rest of the group, two days later in Granada, Nicaragua, almost an eternity since Roatan. But first, we made a scandal at the IBERIA counter, where I’m sure the memory of Teddy and I still provokes terror.

A friend later pointed me a French movie called “Amelie Poulain”. A man is too passive to leave his garden. His daughter “kidnaps” his garden gnome and gives it to an air stewardess friend. The stewardess takes it around the world and sends back pictures of the garden gnome in different, famous, places.

Teddy was better than a garden gnome. He joined all my travels and I sent pictures of him to M. and the rest of my travel group. I took Teddy to Rio de Janeiro;  he got drunk there on my 40^th birthday, I took him sailing down the Mekong, from Thailand to Laos, to visit the Ho Chi Min mummy in Hanoi, to Saigon, to the killing fields in Cambodia, and to the Angkor Wat ruins. I forgot to take him to Rome, last year, he was really mad, so I took him twice to NYC, and Miami Beach where he got more tanned than Gunther, a friend he made in Bangkok, at the gay beach.

Teddy has now a Facebook page to let know all about his travels. And he’s getting ready for Goa, in India, and Nepal, Tibet and Bhutan … and who knows where else. Security controls all over the world are used to Teddy’s profile at the x-ray machine.

I thank M. every time Teddy pops from my bag in some faraway place, I start laughing. I’m glad I followed M. to his room that morning in Roatan… I’ll never forget that moment.

Cristina Garção ‎is a Portuguese journalist. She lives with Teddy in Lisbon.

Why I like this story: I’ve traveled with Teddy! I held him up in front of the  dancers at Angkor Wat so he could have his picture taken. Little bear is better traveled than I am, and he never complains.

Posted in 29 Guests | No Comments »

The Las Vegas Impostor

“You see that girl? She dyed her hair for this trip. And that one? I guarantee she bought those shoes specifically for Las Vegas.” Julia* sipped her coffee as she eyed the people riding the elevator from the entrance of Mandalay Bay up to the concourse that connected the resort to Luxor, one of the other properties on the Las Vegas Strip.

I studied the 20-something women that Julia had pointed out. The first had long reddish hair with a kick of blond highlights that added volume while the second teetered on a pair of spiked, jeweled black heels. Were they made by Prada or perhaps Gucci? I had no way of knowing. It was 110 degrees out, and I was rolling in a pair of Old Navy flip flops.

Sitting with Julia at The Reading Room, just off to the side of the elevator, was always an enlightening experience. She was a pop culture professor at one of the local colleges and studied the ebb and flow of Las Vegas eccentricities with a researcher’s eye. People-watching on the Las Vegas Strip was an entirely different experience with someone who looked at the passersby as subjects and statistics rather than just glammed up girls and guys on the prowl.

Las Vegas is a peculiar case study, really. The place I call home is a destination for people hoping to live out their desires of celebrity sightings, wild pool parties, extravagant meals, all-night parties and get-rich-quick casino gambling. The thinking seems to go like this: They wouldn’t do these things in their everyday lives, so why should they do them as their everyday selves? As a result, according to Julia, people undergo plastic surgery, have Botox treatments, buy outlandishly expensive clothing, stuff their feet into uncomfortable shoes and get new hair styles specifically for their trips to Las Vegas.

On any incoming flight to Las Vegas, it’s easy to tell who the visitors are. They’re the ones drinking too much, laughing loudly with their friends and wearing clothes that are way too uncomfortable for a plane ride. I get that. The energy in Las Vegas is addicting.

Once they hop off the flight, they live their alternative life for the duration of the trip. They shop for things they will never really wear once they get back home, continue to drink too much, drop too much cash at the nightclubs, wear itty bitty swimsuits they wouldn’t dare show their mothers and spend the night with strangers.

As Julia and I lounge in our torn jeans and cheap t-shirts, our hair tossed back in ponytails, we watch these women and men who have gone out of their way to live it up in Las Vegas. This adult playground is like a never-ending Halloween party, with people in costumes, walking around as made-up characters. This façade is also what overwhelms and turns so many people off from the city, which is unfortunate because beyond the boob jobs and tough guy acts is a fascinating city with an unusual history, wonderful cuisine, opportunities for adventure enthusiasts, a thriving arts scene and lots of philanthropic work.

Julia and I people-watch for hours, and it’s easy to point out those who have come to Las Vegas to escape their usual lives, but I much prefer to see those who, like me, wander around in jeans and flip flops, enjoying the company of those they’re with without worrying about what others think of them. These are the people who will go home with good memories rather than bloated credit card bills, STDs and a hangover.

When people ask me about my recommendations for visiting Las Vegas, I frequently think of the afternoons I sat with Julia at The Reading Room (which is now long gone and has been replaced with a frozen yogurt shop). My advice is to embrace the eccentricity of Las Vegas but to do so in moderation and with your integrity intact. Don’t do anything about which you wouldn’t tell your significant other. If you wouldn’t post the photo on Facebook, don’t take it in the first place. Wear things you would wear in your own city.

I hope that when you leave Las Vegas, you are happy and fulfilled by your experience. But the ultimate goal is this: Don’t be singled out by Julia. That’s how I know you’re a Las Vegas imposter.

*Not her real name.

JoAnna Haugen writes the online travel guide WhyGo Las Vegas (http://www.lasvegaslogue.com) as well as her travel blog, Kaleidoscopic Wandering.

Why I like this story: Because honestly, Vegas freaks me out. And reading this makes me feel better about my reaction to Sin City.

Posted in 29 Guests | 1 Comment »