I’ve expressed my thoughts on San Juan Del Sur and Nicaragua in previous posts so I won’t rehash, other than to simply say it’s a cool place, very much up-and-coming, and if you need a good getaway (from honeymoon to backpacking), get here before it turns commercial and touristy. It’s still very untainted by massive tourism but that’s not going to last. The country is beautiful, food is good, and everything is cheap.

After this trip, I head over to Texas for a week in San Antonio and Austin before I hit the grind in Boston. More to come.

“What happened?”

I was thinking the same thing. The last time this happened to me was seven years ago in Barcelona. I’ve since sharpened my detection skills over the course of 30 or so countries, even catching one thief in Paris mid snatch. But I had a feeling it might happen on this trip. I did kind of stand out. We were total gringo’s, dressed up in big hats and sunglass flair, storming a crowded street party discotec in Granada after a long day and weekend of celebrations.

Two days earlier, we left San Juan Del Sur and made the 2-hour journey north to Granada, which was named by the explorer Cordoba after his hometown city in Spain. It’s a beautiful little colonial style city sitting just south of the capitol and right on the northern shore of Lake Nicaragua. Its location and history have made it a prominent place and it has restored itself really well, adding neat sidewalk cafés and shops along with a bustling local market to the Spanish architecture that spans the downtown. Walking the streets, I had the feeling Cuba might have a similar look.

We just so happened to stumble across the biggest weekend of the year in Granada, the Hipica Horse Parade, which basically celebrates all things horses, an animal the country utilizes abundantly. We found ourselves in one of those situations all travelers seek, haphazardly discovering a great local festival.

Marshall commented several times that there were more people and more things going on than Mardi Gras. We both agreed we hadn’t come across a party of this magnitude in some time, if ever. All five senses were overwhelmed to a point of numbness. All you can really do is try to focus on one at a time and appreciate the state of madness that you eyes, ears, or nose is experiencing. Or you can just do the opposite and drink the cold beer.

When we first arrived we heard there was going to be a big celebration. The central square and side streets were buzzing with small crafts vendors, food booths, and parade stands. Fortunately for us, the majority of people who attend this weekend, other than the locals, are from nearby Managua or the countryside so we didn’t have a terrible time finding a place to stay. Unfortunately, the festivities also brought thieves.

After we dropped our bags, we went exploring and found this barbershop called 007, which afforded us very inexpensive open razor shaves to prepare for the weekend. It’s something I would like to do more often, particularly in an atmosphere like in this shop in this town, one that preserves the older daily tradition.

The problem was that there was really no air condition so it wasn’t that comfortable. (This town is super hot. Walking into a cold air-conditioned room is fairly uncomfortable after self cooling yourself with a constant layer of sweat all day.) The other problem was that I don’t think the razor blades they used were sharp. I felt like there shouldn’t be repetitious grinding. The final problem was that the after shave also remained traditional, alcohol only, and I almost didn’t ask Marshall for feeling like a wuss, but did so and felt relieved he too experienced the 30 second fire on our face with the application of this painful post product. I escaped with one cut and Marshall with lots of little ones, lol.

“OK, what do we do next?” What do you do a lot of while on vacation? Eat. We stuffed ourselves at the premier restaurant in the city, eating $10 pit grilled filet mignon and toasty bread with yum side things I cant describe masculinely.

Afterwards we found the parade, which included very little pomp and circumstance of big decorated floats; instead opting for lots of music, dancing, and showy dresses / outfits. The funny thing about the parades we saw is that basically anyone can just walk with them. The police lazily and inconsistently placed pedestrian barriers to form the route but that really didn’t stop people, beer cart vendors, kids with trays selling gum and cigarettes, cotton candy sellers, people collecting used cans, dogs (you get the idea) all going to and fro in the middle of the show.

The party was sponsored separately each day by a different Nicaraguan beer company. One day you see signs, banners, flags, beer carts, beer girl dancers, etc with “Victoria”. Surprisingly we woke up the next morning and the entire festival had switched colors, now doning ‘Tona’, the other national beer. If that wasn’t enough, the main parade mc would find a way to say the beer name in every other sentence the whole afternoon. If he didn’t he would just start chanting it! “Victoria, Victoria, Victoria…”, next day “Tona, Tona, Tona…” which was actually pretty effective advertising because we found ourselves only drinking the beer that was being sponsored that day.

After the parade stopped, we entered this restaurant/bar that was having an after party and watched Michael Phelps pull another amazing feat of victory – I think it was number eight. We may have done some ‘Victoria, Victoria, Victoria…’ chanting in his honor.

It was here that the first night turned interesting. We were at the bar watching the Olympics when these two guys walk in and sit down next to us. They were probably mid 30s and were casually well dressed. We strike up conversation and they take a liking. Turns out they are twins, own all the Toyota dealerships in Nicaragua, are swarming with that car dealer confidence, are raging loud and crazy, and have a big lake house nearby. They lean into Marshall and say, “You guys stick around with us tonight and you won’t be disappointed.”

Two hours later we’re packed two Jeep Grand Cherokees deep with girls and guys off to their house. The twins spoke English and one other guy spoke some French, but other than that, there were no other English speakers aside from Marshall and myself. This is integration Spanish.

We drive outside the city and seem to be going through woods and up and down really steep hills as we approach the house. The Jeep has a DVD screen in the front and it’s blaring a taped concert of Guns and Roses. Fitting enough, ‘Welcome to the Jungle’ is playing as we drive.

We get out and the house is on a hilltop overlooking the lake, stereotypical in every way, a big pool sitting in between the two. We celebrated Festival Hipica with this interesting crowd in the picturesque location, catching a ride back into town at the end of the night.

We woke up the next day and moved hotels to a nicer one right off the square. We were happy to see big and comfortable beds. We found a gringo breakfast, explored the vibrant local markets, and relaxed in our place early afternoon watching the Olympics and getting ready for the horse parade.

Essentially the parade was the same gig as the previous day except horses were everywhere. People rode up and down the parade route showcasing the animal and themselves. We tried to find a couple for us to ride but knowing now, that would have not been smart.

I previously mentioned the overkill of senses at this festival. I don’t know how the horses put up with it. The truth is some didn’t. Like the previous day, the parade routes were not just for the animals and riders. All the other riff raff walked with and through, causing massive congestion. To top it off, riders made their horses ‘dance’, where the horse prances, slamming their feet on the cobbled roads, not only slipping frequently, but coming close to pedestrians feet and legs.

I don’t think I’ve ever been afraid of horses, but in this case, they were close, they were out of their element, and it was wild to watch. Marshall and I found a couple of seats at a café on the route and watched the chaos ensue ringside for most of the afternoon, taking pictures and watching people. Reggaeton music was blaring in both directions, people were dancing, drinking, and being merry with the horses infused in it all.

Afterwards, we headed to the outdoor disco and it was here that my wallet was yanked. Because of the uncertainty of this trip, I had planned ahead in case something like this happened, so the aftershock wasn’t terrible. I had a travel tie up folder that I kept most of the admin of this trip, including my passport, back at the hotel. About a week ago, sometime in Costa Rica, I emptied the contents of my wallet of everything except my driver’s license and debit card. So in this case, I lost those and a little cash, so it wasn’t that upsetting.

What was upsetting was simply the feeling of being had, the vulnerability that most people experience when something like this happens.

I was up at the bar and the place was crowded, dark and loud. When I left I became sandwiched in between three people. My hands were up in the air holding the drinks, I wasn’t making eye contact with people, and I remember thinking to myself, ‘do you feel your wallet?’ I did. I thought about it again. Suddenly the traffic jam released and I made it to open ground. I felt down to check for the wallet and it was gone. I looked back at the scene for remnants of people near me, but couldn’t determine anything. They got me. They hand off so quickly that even if I did recognize, they would not have the wallet on them by then.

I told Marshall and he said, “Don’t let this ruin your night.” It wasn’t. Fortunately, it won’t affect the rest of my trip either.

Overall, two nights in Granada were hot. Nicaragua is hot. Book your tickets down now.

Last night we arrived into San Juan Del Sur, which is a great little town that if I had known, would have skipped the expense of France and come here for the spring to learn Spanish and surf. It’s a gem of a find. The beachfront is riddled with restaurants and little bars so it’s not so lazy, but is a good mix at this stage. We found a place run by an expat couple that has a neat ambiance on the beach with an open porch to hear the crashing waves, swinging chairs to relax and geckos crawling on the wooden rafters. They were having an open mic night so we stuck around after chowing local grub to be entertained. (Mental note, I have to learn guitar and a few songs for situations like so. Mental note 2, No I don’t.)

During the open mic night, this long-haired, surfer guy stood up and sang a few songs and jammed with the owner, who was on bass guitar and they were actually really good. We seem to think the songs were original and I would venture to say he has a possible career ahead of him if he wanted. When he stood back up for the encore, he took his shirt off to sing and Marshall leans over and comments, “The music definitely sounds better with his shirt off”, for which I agreed. He fed the masculinity act by making comments in deep accents in between songs like, “Are you not entertained?”, which was a pretty funny Gladiator reference at the time. We were entertained, in a completely comfortable with your sexuality kind of way.

After the place wound down, we waddled over (we’re both short guys) to the town’s only discotec to see what that was all about and were further entertained with some large, hairy arm pitted local girls dancing with the door man/security guard, who had a beer in one hand and an AK-47 in the other. The place picked up with a mix of travelers and locals and the music switched between the reggae-ton Latin beat beats and Western dance stuff and generally we had a good time strobe light dancing with 80 cent beers and five dollar girls. Kidding.

At one point in the night I lost Marshall, but randomly found him exploring on a rickshaw headed home, when I exited the club, which was fairly entertaining and picture worthy.

Today we went surfing at Playa Maderas, which is a hot surfing location in the area. It was a bumpy 30-minute drive out from our base and we caught a ride with an old cabellero in his 1970s, barely ticking, beater of a pick-up truck. This diesel purred like a chain saw and bounced us around real nice as we made our way north to the beach. The seats were old worn leather, the glove compartment was tied shut with insulated electrical wire and the windows had to be rolled up and down with pliers. She was a beauty. He drove both ways and stayed with us for the afternoon, watching our stuff as we surfed for the low price of $10. We tipped him well.

(I’m a big fan of direct foreign investment, or stimulating the local economy, so unless I feel I’m getting cheated for the value of the service or good, I rarely bargain hard. I suppose that’s in direct conflict with my desire to keep a place unspoiled by tourism, but so be it.)

When we finished surfing (for which the tiny beach was again filled with destination surfers), we went to the only hut on the beach and bought a cold Coke to wash the saltwater blues away. They serve Coke out of bottles here and it’s a collective agreement between most people I know that Coke in bottles is far superior to Coke in cans. It was nice to enjoy that cold and refreshing Coke (shameless plug), wind down, and watch the remaining surfers do their thing.

Afterwards, we walked over to the truck and compadre has his hammock out, tied between trees, and was reading a book. I know I have issues when I mistakenly thought the book was “The Game” when it was actually The Bible. For those who don’t know, The Game is a book about picking up girls and is in a leather-bound, bible looking format. Why I would think this old guy would be reading that book, here in this nook, is beyond me. I suppose I’ve fallen off the deep end.

We arrived at the border and exited our taxi and were immediately welcomed by a friendly Nica bloak who wanted to assist us through the process and taxi us to our next destination. When making decisions on what to do in this situation, my rule is generally simple in that I allow him to work his magic at his own discretion, giving no indication of reciprocation until I believe he is worth the effort. In this case our friend was great.

Most people cross this border in buses or cars, which have specific exit and entry steps that they’re headed through. On foot it’s a whole other beast and we felt that having Jose (his name) show us exactly where to go, what to fill out, how to pay, etc was a real benefit to our stress level, which tends to accentuate when your hot, lost, confused, luggage-strained and on high alert.

To give you an idea of this border crossing, 18-wheeler trucks were lined and parked for what seemed like miles back. I can only imagine what that bureaucracy entails. Cars were basically the same. Kids, animals, vendors, and general chaos ensued through the whole hot and dusty procession of exiting CR and then walking the 100 meters to the Nicaraguan entry side. There were no lines or signs of direction, only people, lots of people, many of whom were looking worn.

Jose navigated us to the remotest of buildings and processed us through, even spotting us the cash to enter. He snapped fingers at people and they brought receipts, he carried our luggage, and then piled us into his little souped up taxi car and drove us to San Juan Del Sur. We paid $30 a piece to minimize and efficiently navigate this whole process, including taxi fare to a town 45km away, and collectively agreed life was good.

Driving through Costa Rica was absolutely beautiful, I will admit. The glowing greens in the mountains and rain forests, highlighted by the reds, pinks, oranges, and yellows of the yawning flowers, as well as the fields of coffee and pineapple plants and coconut and banana trees made the travel an experience in itself.

Not only do I enjoy watching the countryside roll for this discovery, but also for the self-thought and reflection, and the content, somewhat laziness of the moment, where I sit still, almost removed, and still get to see the world pass by. It’s an easy and pleasing thing to experience. That’s why it doesn’t surprise me to get a sinking feeling when I’m nearing my destination and realize I have to re-insert myself.

When I’m not thinking and watching, sometimes I read or write. I brought the bulky book of ‘Basic Economics’ in hopes of prepping myself during this trip for school, but that was a big mistake and lump of space in my backpack. Wishful thinking. My Apple Macbook Pro (shameless plug) has been a blessing though.

On one of the trips we traveled between the two mountain towns of Monteverde and La Fortuna, we took a jeep-like bus, then a boat, then another jeep-like bus. It was a neat leg. Marshall and I crammed up front next to the driver while other people sat in the back rows. There were two vehicles traveling together. At one point we passed a large pig loitering in the road and the driver of the first jeep stopped, got out, walked over to our driver and rattled something in Spanish that I didn’t understand. Our driver responded by shaking his head, no.

I asked Marshall what he said, and Marshall replied, “He asked if we had room in our jeep for the pig”.

After this, the other driver opened the passenger sliding door to his vehicle, looked inside, closed the door, came around, looked at his rear bumper, then walked over to our driver and said something else through the window, who laughed in response. Again I asked Marshall.

“He said they could always tie it to the bumper.” The driver got back in his jeep and took off. I laughed for a while at this random exchange and was disappointed when Marshall later said he had no idea what they said and that he made it all up. Smooth.

In the town of La Fortuna we stayed at a hostel in one of those communal rooms. We were the only two guys, with six other girls which was cool at first thought but bad in the morning because we didn’t want to wake up crack early and they all did, doing the annoying zipping and re-packing game with their luggage for what seemed like hours, keeping us from beauty sleep.

The town volcano actually erupted the day we arrived, which was cool because if you looked closely you could see some ooze. Later we went hiking to the giant waterfall near the base where we people watched and swam. Sometimes on a two-dude trip if you don’t plan ahead and scout out girls to accompany you on things like this, you’re stuck experiencing the majesty together and alone, in which case you’re never allowed to comment; rather, you simply nod in approval and appreciate the moments in silence. Or you just take crazy pictures.

The night before, we went out dancing at the local discoteca, which was funny because no girls would dance with me. Actually I did get this one local girl to dance, but I think it was because I stooped and gave her major puppy dog eyes in hopes of her teaching me a little latin flavor on the floor. One dance it was and no repeats unfortunately, for they all must have an image to protect in this town, particularly in the art of salsa dancing, and when you have a white guy in sandals moving his hips like a uncoordinated bull, I don’t really blame them.

The neatest part of the night came when they randomly parted the seas of people on the floor and a guy came on the loud speaker and introduced several girls who were going to belly dance for the crowd. They did and it was ok. Afterwards, the encore showed up and it was in the form of the main belly dancer, who kicked ass. Apparently there is a La Fortuna Belly Dancing Club and she is the ring-leader. Belly dancing is pretty cool, but belly dancing to salsa infused beats is awesome. She did some inspiring things. (Sometimes I have to remember that I’m a guy and I shouldn’t try to replicate girl dance moves.)

After the show, Marshall boldly asked her to dance and she told him a cold quick no, so I didn’t feel so bad about my rejections.

I looked over at my buddy, Marshall, and we jointly shook our heads at the absurdity of this story, being told by the most quintessential long-haired, surfer/backpacker Australian bloke I’ve ever run across. He was shirtless and non-chalantly telling this story while quick-chopping vegetables, waving his chef knife in the air to accentuate his points in an aussie slow-drawl.

We were in a cramped and muggy hostel kitchen in Tamarindo, Costa Rica with a handful of fellow surfer / backpackers. We looked at the two other girls who were boiling pasta in the same room and collectively agreed through eye contact that this guy was an idiot. It was time to move on.

Last week, I quit DC and moved up to Boston, settling in a mad rush and jumping on a flight south to Costa Rica and Nicaragua for a two week surfing excursion / end of summer wind down before I start school in September. Marshall and I planned nothing of this trip except our plane tickets so it kept things flexible, if not maddening.

We landed in the west coast city of Liberia and taxied to the surfing town of Tamarindo, which was an easy choice for its beginner waves and touristy night-life, but probably not the best one. With tourism its major industry, it is over-priced and far from authentic, but we have more opportunities to absorb and explore the inner workings of these two countries as the trip progresses.

We spent the first three days learning to surf in the mornings and siesta’ing in the afternoons, generally enjoying life away from reality. Two of the nights were spent in this $14 hostel, meeting the likes of the cracked out Australian and inked up surfers and although interesting conversations were had, lack of aircon, bedbugs, and a lone communal cold water shower and toilet cemented our decision to spend an extra $15 a night to upgrade accommodations for the rest of the trip.

We walk into the room the first night, saw no sheets, stained single bed mattresses, and Marshall’s statement said it all. “Wow, this is a far cry from the Ritz where I stayed in Florida last week for my company-wide meeting.”

“Dude, we can move if you want.” I say.

“Nah,” he said, “let’s give it a shot.”

“Good, let’s go out and get some beers.”

Next morning, we slowly roll out of bed, gnaw on a couple of bananas and chug Gatorade to rehydrate and potassium up our Imperial hangovers from the casino and club. “How much did I lose?”, I ask. “My hands are cut up. Are yours?” “Yeah”, he says. “What happened?”

Marshall grabs his camera (the truest of indicators) and notices pictures taken in a progression down the dark street towards the hostel. “The city lost power last night.”, he says. “We couldn’t find our way home in the dark and had to use the flash to navigate and get inside the hostel gates. Wow.” Our clothes are sprawled on the ground and covered in mud. We conclude it rains a lot in Costa Rica and the streets are slick dark. But the only thing that’s important right now is that we have a 9am surf lesson. It’s 8:55. Andale.

30 minutes later I’m sitting in the water on my board, absorbing the rhythm of the waves as they pass under me and for the first time I feel that ease, that stereotypical connection they say surfers feel with nature, despite sharing it with a thousand other fresh gringos in the busy waters.

My teacher doesn’t stop yelling at me to paddle, paddle, paddle, in his thick Costa Rican accent (which still resonates through my head three days later), and each time he says it I get angrier because I feel like I’m paddling my head off and not going anywhere. My arms are already tired, my chest is rash sore, and I’ve swallowed a gallon of salt water. Despite this, I feel lucky because I stand up and ride my first wave. It feels great. I give Marshall the howie sign, yelling at him that he owes me a cold beer for doing it on my first time, then crash and burn in the foamy aftermath at my lack of concentration.

We did this each morning for three days, each afternoon saying it was our last and then enthusiastically saying the next day, “let’s do this again”. There’s definitely something compelling about surfing.

Marshall’s trip so far has been a little bit rougher. We rented scooter motorbikes yesterday and his camera fell out of his pocket during a ride along the pedestrian filled, pot-holed streets and was never found. Today while surfing, an overeager speedster punk ran into him, causing Marshall’s board fin to break off, slice and wedge into the guys board, causing cash damage to both and ending his day.

We’ve decided Tamarindo has bad karma. So we hopped a bus to Monteverde, a mountainous town in north central Costa Rica known for its rain forest canopy tours, caves and waterfalls. After a couple of days in this area, we venture with fingers crossed into Nicaragua, unchartered Nicaragua, known for it’s beauty, gringo convictions, and US backed government coups. Pura Vida.

As I work with and learn from these folks in the organization, I try to think about what common theme contributes to their success. It’s become clear that aside from their big brains and corporate comb overs, they have all learned to use a specific business vocabulary (bizcabulary) that encompasses power verbs and clichés to express their point and provide vivid imagery and emphasis.

The folks often speak in active, not passive voices (think “I will”, not “I should”), massaging the proposal process to a point of selling business perfection. They are at the top of the business buzz word hierarchy, and I can’t help but smirk at the meaty phrases overheard during my hundred meetings summer.

I think some people go home at night and even spend time dreaming up these terms, hoping to impress the following day. Sometimes if I look close enough in meetings, I can see nods of understanding and approval (and sometimes an occasional sneer of jealousy) from peers after strong bizcabulary usage.

Action words are coveted in review sessions. One might gain points by using words like flesh out, target, bench mark, streamline, hyperfocus, optimize, re-square, tweak, noodle-up, scrub, spin, mine, synchronize, populate, leverage, and button up.

Solutions are sought after, ones that are fundamental, self-sustaining, or turn-key.

You don’t get together or meet, you mobilize or circle-back. People don’t just understand, approach, or think about work or ideas, they bore down, wrestle, and tackle them.

I hear the typical clichés like “That’s apples and oranges”, “Let’s keep our engine running”, and “This is the only long pole in the tent”, but I also hear more interesting ones like “That’s like drinking your own bathwater.”, “What’s the pedigree of the pricing model?”, and “There could be up to 20% in negotiation slop”.

You might hear a particularly garrulous manager say something like, “stop the arm flapping”, “let’s grab those floating thoughts”, or “fix the hangers”, which leads me to think about snotty things.

Some managers revert to kid speak to appeal to the masses. You might hear, “Just for gee whizzes”, “I want a warm and fuzzy”, “I need a sneak peak”, “Let’s meet for a pow-wow” and “Check off your Tiggy Boo list”.

Some are politically correct. “Keep it simple, Simon”.

Many want report cards, red-lines, layers, optics, and sanity checks. They also always talk about centralizing power. I’ve seen madness when documents don’t have document configuration control. Tasks need single belly buttons and you should never vector your sub-assignments to others without the task head approval.

It kills me sometimes. I hate to think one day I’d have to conform, but I suppose such is nature of big business, and that understanding and speaking the bizcabulary is simply apart of the game.

—

Some time ago, I was perched on a bar stool near the back of the Adams Morgan Bar, Asylum. It was an off night, Tuesday or Wednesday, and I was feeling royal sentiments of anti establishment. After the nth beer I was tired of thinking and was bored counting the tattoo colors on the bartendress.

Sitting three seats down to my left was an older man, who had recently arrived and was sipping slowly on something strait. He wore unimpressive clothes, having a style that you notice only after second glance. I would not have paid attention to him under normal circumstances; in fact, I would have probably status’d him as riff raff, but it was the song he was singing under his breath that caught my attention.

“In the twilight glow I seen her
Blue eyes crying in the rain.
When we kissed goodbye and parted
I knew we’d never meet again.”

Willie Nelson. I thought, alright! Normally, in this town, I wouldn’t be that surprised, but it was the accent for which he was quietly singing with that made me think twice. He continued through the song, delivering words to himself and I stared, trying to place this man in some stereotype or profile. I was having a hard time.

There was no one between us and my eyes must have been burning, because he stopped in mid verse and without looking up or over at me, said in a low and accented voice, “Am I the first Russian you’ve ever seen who likes the Willie Nelson?”

My tongue seemed frozen in headlights and it struggled to move. A transitional “ahh” murmured while I tried to compose a reasonable response parallel to my puzzled read on this guy.

All I could retort was an unoriginal spin of his own words, “Why would a Russian like Willie Nelson?” I asked, which looking back was watered down brilliance because it opened the door to this guy’s story and a world I hadn’t comprehended touching that night or ever, for that matter.

“40 years ago I met him here in Washington at a small party,” the man said. “That cowboy sang soul music to us. I remember ‘Blue eyes crying in the rain’. I will never forget.”

“40 year ago? Wow!” I was intrigued. “That was early in his career. Where did you see him play?”

He stared at me for a moment and then sipped his drink. “You must be a fan,” he said. “Would you still be a fan if I told you it was in a safe house, a Russian safe house, which at those times was the central point of mother Russian communism in the United States.”

“Wait…what?” I was stunned.

“Yes, your all-American cowboy, Mr. Nelson, did at one time toy with our ideology. To his credit, he was only a guest, and very friendly, and shall we say…relaxed…he never caught on. We think he was more anti-government than anti-American. But that didn’t stop John Lennon or Elvis.”

“Whoa,” I said. “What are you talking about?” I blinked a couple of times to refocus my eyes and simultaneously looked down to ground the flurry of content.

When I looked back up the man had moved from his seat to a stool directly in front of me. He was glaring at me intently. With a slyish smile, he said “Comrade, these kinds of things were daily occurrences at The Mansion back then.”

—

Dmitry had engaged in front line KGB espionage activity against the western world since his first assignment after university in the late 1950s. He was a bright student, a strong linguist, and had success capturing useful information early on as a junior agent. He quickly earned himself tenure and a permanent position in the United States for the Russian agency, where he was stationed to recruit, or turn, US government employees and generate a steady flow of intelligence.

Agents in that day had been housed at a location on O Street in Washington DC, called The Mansion, which consisted of a number of separate adjacent houses that had been owned by a locally prominent front man.

The front houses themselves were beautiful, treasured tributes to cultures around the world, adorned with the finest and most eclectic range of furniture and artwork. From European tea parlors to Alaskan Log cabins, the motif of each unit left many in awe. It was here that guests were invited to dinner parties and intimate gatherings. The owner’s underground tenants often watched or even joined the soiree, always screening for tidbits of information and possible recruits.

The basement’s of these units had been gutted, connected, and transformed into a highly technical and strategic operations center where agents lived, monitored, processed, and planned their espionage activities. Trap doors, passages, and underground tunnels linking the complex were secretly installed at the onset of the operation. Because of the extreme care and discretion taken by those involved (not even the owner was allowed into this underbelly), the hub had successfully served as the single largest spy operation against the United States by the Russians in the middle of the Cold War, right in the heart of the capitol city.

Dmitry had lived and operated out of The Mansion for several years. His success of infiltrating some of the US’s most meaty agencies had been unparalleled and he was looking to simultaneously develop an effort to counter balance the massive anti-communism campaign in the States by generating grass roots support. To do this would take the turning and subsequent indoctrination of some of society’s key figures. It was his thought that by targeting America’s pop cultural icons and role models, he could puppet them into winning over a broader, younger base. His primary concern rested on initial contact. He simply did not have access to these people. As fate would allow, his concern would be answered in a most unexpected manner, one that would test his loyalty against his heart.

—

One Friday during the mid 60s, Dmitry had been out to dinner and was having a drink at one of the popular political after-hours hangouts in Georgetown. He had been conversing with several groups, probing for clues that might indicate potential targets. The night had been flat though and Dmitry was tired. He was about to leave when a girl walked by and caught his eye.

He smiled, reached out and touched her arm, stopping her to say hello. Her name was Elizabeth and they struck up conversation, making a quick connection. She was a southern blue-eyed beauty, smart, but overtly naive, Dmitry realized. He was charmed by her warmth though, and drawn to her right away in the most basic of instincts. The evening struck a chord and they started seeing each other, against his better judgment as distractions in his line of work were not tolerated and potentially fatal.

Dmitry learned that Elizabeth’s parents were polar; her Mom classified the epitome of a Type A personality and her Dad was the exact opposite, a laid-back hippie and professional musician. Elizabeth’s personality spanned both and was a result of her mother’s insistence for perfection and her father’s feather-like altruistic search for peace through music. Dmitry wasn’t drawn to her liberal side, but he saw an opportunity in the musical connection.

As it turns out, her father had toured with some of America’s leading musicians, the likes of Bob Dylan, Willie Nelson, John Lennon and Elvis Presley, and she was still chummy with several members from their bands. Dmitry knew if he could have face time with any of these figures, his charm and persuasion could lead to conversion which could initiate the implementation of his counter campaign to further influence the younger population, America’s Future.

The trick was whether to involve Elizabeth. Admittingly, he had fallen for her and had done so under the radar and without exposing her to his profession. He was experiencing the best of both worlds and didn’t want to tip the scale in either direction.

He thought hard and concluded that the only way to pursue his objective was to involve her. He eased into the subject over several weeks, not exposing the true operation but saying he was apart of a club that promoted understanding in alternative forms of government and hoped she was willing to be open minded in the message. The duality of her upbringing left feelings of uncertainty in this request, but her leftish spirit, coupled with her feelings for Dmitry led her to attend a few meetings. Elizabeth was soon indoctrinated and was willing to do anything for Dmitry to promote the cause.

—

“Wait a second.” I had been sitting on this stool, imprinted with fascination, listening to this man captivate this story to me that was strait out of a Tom Clancy novel.

“You can’t be serious, right? This girl, Elizabeth, fell for you and used her musical connections to allow you to spread communism to the some of music’s greatest legends ever? They came to The Mansion, hung out, played music, and were converts? I don’t believe it. Communism failed. Why are you still allowed in this country?” I was surprised at my blunt outburst.

He lamented, “Son, you’re jumping ahead, you’re jumping very far ahead in the story.”

—

As it turns out, there were many musicians at the time who were willing to hear out the alternative. The US government’s insistence on remaining in Vietnam had cut deep at the heart of public morale and musicians were at the forefront of anti-government activism.

At the request of Dmitry, Elizabeth had set up an evening where Willie Nelson, John Lennon, and other cultural icons (both up and comers and those with establishment) came together to engage each other over dinner, discussing the state of current affairs and sharing ideas. The meeting took place at The Mansion.

Many, many things were said in the first gathering. In one heated discussion a memorable line was passionately said by John Lennon, ‘All we are saying is give peace a chance’, which ad-libbed into a sing-along later that evening. Willie Nelson also tested a song that he eventually released, a bluesy, soulful, ‘Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain’ that touched everyone, and would echo through Dmitry for years, as it became a sad and ominous foreshadowing of both his relationship with Elizabeth and with the communist movement.

The evening was a success and resulted in many more that included a cross section of America’s leaders and outspoken celebrities. The KGB, only a basement away, monitored each gathering closely and specific individuals were targeted according to their personalities, beliefs, and impact analysis of their conversion to the ideology.

Dmitry felt that the KGB was making real progress in screening and capturing the correct figure-heads for implementing a successful campaign. In addition he felt his relationship with Elizabeth was as strong as ever.

What was never far from his thought was that one slip up could compromise the whole operation, Elizabeth’s safety, and his life. He had spent a career practicing the skills necessary to ensure that wouldn’t occur. But he was not prepared for the event that would confront him in 1969.

—

‘I’m pregnant’, were the words that left Dmitry speechless one chilly fall afternoon. ‘We’re having a baby!’ Elizabeth was ecstatic and couldn’t contain her excitement, smiling from ear to ear as she looked at him for any sign of reciprocation. His dormant, apathetic response troubled her, and it troubled him too. He was speechless. This unexpected news overwhelmed him with massive uncertainty, and returning a mutual feeling of excitement to Elizabeth was the last thing he was capable of doing at the moment.

Her excitement slid from question to concern to hurt and she stormed out of her house, slammed her car door and drove away. Dmitry’s eyes remained fixed on the ground as he chewed over the next move. As a KGB spy, a baby with an American girl would not work. One thing was certain; he could no longer balance the relationship and this line of work.

—

Elizabeth was devastated. She had known Dmitry was involved in controversial organizations, but did not know the depth of his involvement or his employer’s origin. His lack of emotion or excitement was crushing.

She pulled over in a park and called her mother from a pay phone in tears. While explaining her calamity, she held no reserve and leaked her concerns about Dmitry’s work and controversial ideology. She felt this could be causing his dissent.

This news concerned her mother. She was convinced that if Dmitry was involved in controversial work, he was not the right person to take care of and support her daughter and their baby. She was determined not to let instability affect Elizabeth in the way her husband’s profession had affected her marriage. As a mother, she would do anything to protect her daughter’s interests. She consoled Elizabeth with comforting words of support and hung up the phone. She then opened the phone book, looked up government agencies, and called the local office of the FBI.

—

The FBI opened a case on Dmitry and gathered proof that he was a foreign operative. They also discovered the houses jointly known as ‘The Mansion’ were a front for something greater than its facade. Before storming the place and arresting Dmitry, they agreed he could be a prime candidate to act as a double agent. They approached him with the offer, saying they knew the full extent of his and the KGB’s involvement in DC. If he was willing to give up allegiance to Russia and provide all his accessible information to the US Government, then he could be exonerated from all espionage related charges and enter into a relocation program.

Dmitry’s conflict ate at him from the inside outwards. To give in to the Americans would require him to give up his citizenship, loyalty, communism, career, and his fellow colleague’s safety. In return, he would have security, freedom, Elizabeth and a new family. If he resisted the offer, he would lose everything and retire in prison for life. Was he willing to sell his life long loyalty for this price? It was a dilemma he hoped to never face.

He lived his whole life in a structured, bureaucratic framework and was now handed the opportunity to break free. Given the space, would he, could he enjoy his new life? While he initially resented Elizabeth’s free spirited outlook inherited from her father, part of the mentality had grown on him. Living in America had given him a new perspective that he felt, more often than not, was eating at his communistic core. Starting a new life was possible. He would simply have to come to grips and give up everything he once believed and understood. For Elizabeth, he felt the transformation was worth it. He accepted the FBI’s offer.

—

Elizabeth, in the meantime, had begun to distance herself from Dmitry. She was following her mother’s advice and protecting herself. She still loved him and was happy about his acquired encouragement towards their baby, but because she didn’t understand the full and precarious extent of his professional predicament, she couldn’t grasp the impact it was having on him or on his renewed commitment to her. All she could replay in her mind was his initial reaction at the news of the baby. His momentary uncertainty insecurely ate at her on a daily basis, reinforced by a mother’s selfish love.

Simultaneously, in responding to the government’s demands, Dmitry had been working double duty and was not around to understand Elizabeth’s distance. He felt alone in the world. He could not talk to Elizabeth about the full extent of his conflict for fear of her safety during the transitional period. He could not talk to his colleagues or family back home, and he did not fully trust the Americans.

As he handed over packet after packet of information (including safe houses, agent alias’s, US born KGB operatives, and full details of The Mansion), he constantly second guessed his decision. His inability to communicate these feelings sequestered his emotions and emptied him in a gradual decline until he became void and lifeless. He was in full denial of his current state of mind and the effect it was having on their relationship, feeling that this mess was nearly over and justifying that Elizabeth and their child would be together soon.

One month before her due date, and one week before the FBI ultimately raided all known KGB operations in the United States, Elizabeth broke the news to Dmitry that she was moving home to her family to raise the baby and that she thought it best that Dmitry go his own way.

She had fallen out of love.

—

We sat in silence for several minutes, staring at our empty drinks. I looked over at Dmitry. It was the anniversary of the day she left him, one week before the raid at The Mansion, the largest FBI bust ever recorded against the KGB. A new life had been forced upon him, and years later he was still alone. In remembrance to his former glory, he quietly sang to himself…

“In the twilight glow I seen her
Blue eyes crying in the rain.
When we kissed goodbye and parted
I knew we’d never meet again.”

—————-
Willie Nelson, Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain

One of the other reasons for delays in writing is that I’ve found any after hours creative energy is geared towards either enjoying DC and my friends or into absorbing other mediums. One I’ve really enjoyed is Ted.com’s list of interesting speakers. I’ll prop this site up for a brief moment, only because I find it fascinating how one 15 minute speech can be such an inspiration. I’ve spent countless hours surfing around this site, which is an organization dedicated to sharing ideas and has used the web to blast out sound bites from their great seminars over the last few years. Speeches like Benjamin Zander’s on revitalizing classical music, Hans Roslings talk about analyzing statistics on improving third world countries, Isabel Allende discussing passion, and Sir Ken Robinson on revitalizing creativity in schools, I’m thoroughly enriched and entertained, in a dorky intellectual kind of way, but none-the-less, energized in the sense that the organization tries to accomplish.

I enjoyed a good 4th of July, walking around the National Mall taking in the Smithsonian’s Folk Life Festival, which this year highlighted Bhutan (which is a Himalayan country that places more importance on Gross National Happiness than on it’s GDP), a big showcase on NASA, which was really neat hearing various astronauts and scientists talk about their experiences past, present and future, with the agency. The reason I was really drawn to this years showcase was because their third highlight was the great state of Texas, which produced some BBQ and a little Tejano music, but overall, was the least impressive produced events of the three, to my disappointment. Afterwards, I hopped around a few parties and found my way to a downtown rooftop to watch the fireworks. Part of me wanted a big soundtrack (something other than the 1812 overture) to back up the grand display over the mall, something like this, but was substituted this year with rain.

I’ve been put up in a hotel this summer, which is nice but hardly the green oasis I lived in France, and I find myself missing my time there more and more (I suppose a natural after effect). Little things are making me happy, like eating frozen grapes, driving with loud music, afternoon exercise room jogging to the chauncy soundtrack of TMZ celebrity trash tv, smiling at uncomfortable silences while in elevators, and so on.

I’m looking forward to traveling some in August, someplace Latin, and then beginning school in September. It’s always good to look forward to something. And this post is…wait for it…done.