¡Dios mio!

Fearless niece Katie goes zipping in Mexico.

Puerto Vallarta.

Well, actually Nuevo Vallarta.

That's wrong. Punta Mita this year. All greater PV places -- just accept it.

Oh, en route to PV was layover in Houston. Houston? Maybe Dallas. I don't remember. But it was the only time I had been in the States during regular business hours in about a month. So any critical documents I may or may not have needed to mail to Sunnyvale, Calif., had to be filled out en route and mailed from the airport. Added (yet another) level of surrealism to the entire experience. Que sera sera.

Bro and sis-in-law and their kids, and sis and bro-in-law and their kids, and mom. The annual family shindig.  After cold Baltics and chilly but manageable Berlin weather, was sort of looking forward to Mexico climate. And it wasn't oppressively hot when we were there, but the humidity was brutal. Stupid planet.

But there was zip-lining. It was awesome.

There was eating at a beachside restaurant not in Bucerias. It was very good.

There was eating (again) at a taco place in Sayulita (the FB profile pic of me with a piece of chicken was taken there in '11), which was outstanding. Like crazy good. Shrimp quesadillas were my fave throughout the week.

There was anchovy pasta without anchovies. There were Chokis (a favorite of adults and kids alike). There was a great mariachi band and special video and song presentations (great stuff -- mainly L&M production) for mom's 70th, which was tres groovy. Though the mariachi band didn't know "Que sera sera," though they did know/play "Hotel California."

We didn't request that. They just played it. In fact, we specifically requested they not play any Eagles tunes, but no comprenden, apparently.

Crap -- I should have learned how to say "I'm sorry, I don't understand" in German and used it in Mexico. Missed opportunities. Lo siento.

Ahh, Mexico...

There was a recurrence of my cold, which sucked. There was a lot of napping those first couple of days after Europe-NY-PV trip, which was necessary.

There was fishing with Mike and mom that went from OK to godawful to solid. My nausea wasn't too bad. Mike's, on the other hand ...

There were no big fish to be found -- just a Dead Sea turtle floating around. Ha. It auto-capped Dead Sea. Again. Fine. A deceased sea turtle -- better?

(BTW -- the "ha" was for the auto-capping, not the turtle's state of being. Just clarifying. Or Clarence-ifying, as he is no dummy ...)

There also was some sort of trash floating. Our guide pulls the boat up and grabs it. It's a balloon -- with a note attached! Note is soaked, of course. We let it dry and try to read/translate it later (sis-in-law Jen has a team of experts looking at it now). It was addressed to Santa. or Satan. There were smudges. And there was something about NAFTA, but the rest was hard to make out.

Anyway, as we continue to not find any big fish (our captain was in touch w/counterparts from other boats, who also were having no luck -- prompting me to assume the balloon note said "there are no fish here"), we went closer to the shore, where schools and scores of smaller fish are said to party.

Boat stopped for about 30 second. Mike's line gets tugged. Fish caught. Go Mike Go. It was a bonita -- in the tuna family. We ended up catching 6 or 7 of those, including a few from me -- though one fish also sliced my finger open. Seems fair after I jammed a piece of metal in his mouth.

Mike also collected a yellow fin (ahi) tuna, which marked the big catch of the day. Save for the bird. Mike hooked a bird. A freakin' bird.

Mom, meanwhile, was happy showing off the power of her new hip as she hopped in and out of the boat.

In all we kept four (I think) of the fish for eating, giving the rest to the boat crew. A few nights later Mike seared, seasoned and sauced the tuna. It was really good. This coming from me, general un-liker of most seafood.

He had cooked up the bonitas a night or two before, but I slept through that experiment. Just as I slept through most of the occasions when mom allowed Mike to drive the car when he was 16.

Speaking of Mike driving cars ...

Upon his arrival at the condo complex we stayed at, the gate guard apparently asked him, in mediocre English, "are you making check-in?"

Mike, being tired from day of travel, responded (honestly), "Am I making chicken?"

Viva pollo!

And there was the ATV ride.

The freakin' ATV ride.

Some of you might recall my ATV ride of the previous year. It went something like this ...

This year, I wanted revenge, another opportunity. On camera. For right before that documented ATV fail, I had nailed that jump perfectly, prompting me to want to do it again on video. Even our ATV guide remembered me from a year ago when we brought that up and I showed him the video, which features him cackling.

So we hit the ATVs. We get to that beach. We play around for a bit. Then I go looking for those dunes. They are gone.

Well, some are there, but they either are insanely high/large or little more than bumps in the ground.

In other words, there would be no second chance, no redemption. Mierda.

Oh well. I take my camera out of my zipper pocket and take a few pics, then return camera to pocket and zip it up.

I power down the beach, getting too close to the water and nearly flooding the engine. Got soaked, but it was fun. Then we headed to the woods and rode on dirt trails and virtually empty riverbeds (some water splashing). Eventually we get to some rock that was interesting for some reason. I don't know why. The key to the Mayan calendar was etched into it or something. Anyway...

For no reason in particular I look down to my right. Right behind my foot, sitting in a small space on/in the ATV next to hot engine/exhaust and in a tiny bit of standing water is my iPhone.

Which had been in that zipped pocket. And must have fallen out on the beach and somehow stayed in that spot on ATV for next 20 minutes.

Son of a ...

I grab it, dry it off, try to turn it off as it's blinking oddly and overheating like crazy. Eventually it turns itself off. Or just finishes frying itself. Incidentally, had this been a Blackberry I could have just pulled the damn battery out to prevent further damage. Anyway ...

iPhone soaked and cooked. Not good. Get back to condo, I stick it in a bowl (then bag) of rice for a few days. Then try to power it up. Nothing. Kaput. Well, at least it has a removable flash memory card, so I can ... oh wait, nope. Doesn't have that either.

Niece Nicola and me at super taco awesome place.

I don't even have a cell signal down there (PV -- the one place AT&T roaming beats Verizon roaming). I only brought the thing that day so I could take pictures for this blog. Thanks, loyal readers! Sheesh. Ha.

Meanwhile, back at condo, the iPad surely was beeping like crazy and saying, "I lost it! I lost it!"

Days later, back in LA, I would confirm that it's beyond repair. Insurance claim for replacement, one last-ditch effort to recover data currently under way. TtotheBD. It's only two months of vid/pics, mostly -- all from this trip -- so not end of the world, but there's some fun stuff on there. Here's to hoping ...

What else...

There was a Home Depot with a bunch of white guys standing around in front of it.

There was Owen asking for a green juice. "Oh, the jugo verde," said the American waitress. She did it again later.

When some of us ordered orange juice, there was no, "Oh, the jugo naranja?"

Mom, her friend Hank and I went to a cliff. We witnessed a fake proposal. We saw an amazing urinal. Then we went to PV proper.  Bought some beads, saw a floating angel-type person, grabbed a drink and watched deportes at a local watering hole called Bubba Gump's. Mexican futbol, the Grey Cup (CFL!) and the New York Football Giants.

Speaking of NJ sports teams ... there's a story about me being stuck behind Rider College hoops team at PV airport, how one guy though it was cool I knew they were from Jersey, how they won their division at PV tourney that weekend, how they weren't being allowed to bring the trophy on the plane... well, that's pretty much the extent of that story.

Oh, at airport when I am paying short-term parking (after dropping off sibs, who left before mi madre and I), the attendant looks at me, looks what I'm holding.

"Arroz," she says. "Por que?"

I laugh, try to explain iphone en agua story.

It occurs to me that I should have just said, "I'm making chicken."

Fiorello LaKennedy

Not my photoshop handiwork. Alf would have been on field.

Fly from Berlin to JFK. Meet the Jersey fam for fun dinner in Manhattan. (Dad fetched me at JFK and brought me to hotel later -- because my flight times are designed, apparently, to inconvenience him as much as possible.) Crash at an airport by LGA, where my flight leaves from early the next morning.

Get on airport shuttle. Spend 30 seconds trying to get seat belt to work, but it keeps getting stuck (not unlike the bonus scene in "Where's Owen" with Laurie, Mike and the Jetta. Jetta). So I finally give up, thinking "It's a three-minute ride -- what could happen?"

Dun-Dun-Duuuuuuuuuun.

We're just about at terminal when a woman in back row of shuttle walks up to front and begins to ask driver a question, distracting him for just a second.

Then the others in my row yell, "whoa!" just in time for the driver to swerve left and (very narrowly) avoid plowing into the back of a truck that made an aggressive lane change to an off-ramp.

Good morning!

Then the people in that row yell at the girl. "It's not safe to stand there -- you would have died if we hit the truck!"

(And seat belt-less Jon would have been launched, hopefully, into the seat in front of him. Or possibly into the truck in front of him.)

The driver, who was partly at fault here, says, "um... yeah."

Girl apologizes, returns to her seat.

The Mets play nearby. Ostensibly.

Now off to PV via Tejas.

The Mets don't play in PV. But Rider College does.

That's a Eurowrap

Ready to rave?

A few more days in Berlin.

Went to a house concert. Heard an a cappella version of 1, 2, 3, 4 (original by Feist, who managed a spot in my 96-player hottish Jewish female celeb tourney). Kap never had heard that song. Wacky. One of the performers in the group might be my future wife. She doesn't know it, of course. Yet.

Then up was some Aussie woman with a disturbingly creepy but kinda cool voice.

Then an Aussie dude who was pretty good. The latter two duet-ed at the end, providing by far the best/most energetic performances of the night.

I spent some of the time wondering if Jess is better than these folk. Yes. Yes she is. Kathryn agreed.

Next day or day after I checked out an old German bomb shelter adjacent to an U-Bahn stop. Interesting history around this and other shelters. Most of them provided practically no protection that citizens wouldn't get in their homes, but it was a propaganda play. And by luck, only one of these bunkers was blown up during the war, so the Nazis could claim they worked.

After the war the Allies blew up most of the bunkers. Or at least tried. A few were built crazy well. One so much so that after several unsuccessful destruction attempts of one particular military outpost by the Brits, some German kids climbed up atop the structure and wrote "Made in Germany." Kind of funny.

Anyway, thousands of undetonated bombs still are being found in/around Berlin. There was a big accident in '94 with one of them exploding. If someone finds one on their own land, it'll cost 'em 30,000 euros to remove. Crazy.

Bunkers used glow in the dark paint so the people down there could read. It still sort of works. Guide drew smiley face on wall with flashlight then turned out lights. And there was smiley. My room in my freshman dorm had glow in the dark stars in it. I went to the art store and bought some paint, planning to write something like, "die, freshman!" on the ceiling for next year's class.

Recently, as I was packing up my apartment, I found that bottle of paint. Unopened.

My neighbors in the dorm found some porn in their ceiling with a note addressed to the future residents of that room, telling them to enjoy and please add to the collection. Some girls on the first floor had a couple of lawn chairs up there that the previous occupants had stored and then returned to pick up.

So I looked in our ceiling. There was a tampon. Not new/not still in packaging. Seriously.

Back to Berlin ... the group that manages this bunker and other sites like it discovered a metal card catalog of sorts with records of employees and, well, slaves of the Lawrence Company. Germany had promised reparations to victims of WWII, but only if they could document their situation. These records allowed some to do that. Good for them.

Of course, our tour guide -- a German woman -- couldn't resist making a couple of snarky comments ripping war and the German and Russian governments (mostly past versions of governments). I don't think many or any would disagree with the points she was making, but it seemed gratuitous and out of place.

That said, if I spend a few hours a day in a German bunker with remains of German and Russian soldiers -- many unidentified, some eventually placed in plastic bags and buried -- and limited oxygen, maybe I'd be cranky too.

But they did have an example of a Pneumatic Post tube -- air-pressurized tubes to deliver mail (think the tubes at bank drive-throughs). Actually kind of amazing how big the network was and how well it worked that long ago. It was groovy. I sort of want to build one.

Other Berlin notes...

*Witnessed a blind man swearing when he almost accidentally got on an escalator.
*Went to a film fest and also a documentary on the role of skateboarding in East Germany (the former had a couple of decent shorts; the latter -- "This Ain't California" -- was pretty solid). The ticket desk person was drawing something. Kathryn's BF says to her, "Oh, we have a budding artist here?" The girl at desk quickly covers up the art and says, "it's not a penis!"

Um... OK.

Apparently many think whatever she draws looks like a penis. We didn't see the resemblance, but clearly she has some sort of issue there.

That same night (I think) a group of us went to the same cafe where I dropped the Coke Zero down the stairs. This time, while Kathryn worked, John (BF), Pernilla and I photoshopped Kathryn's cat's face onto Darth Vader. Productive.

Going postal.

We leave, some guy asks me for something, I say, "lo siento, no comprendo." Then the guy switches to English asks for coins, for money. I resist laughing and manage a puzzled look (which wasn't difficult, actually, as I was puzzled as to why he thought I was speaking English). I say, "no comprendo. hablo espanol." He walked away. Had he broken into Spanish I probably would have given him 20 bucks for the effort.

Of course, then a few deaf people surely would follow ...

Last full day, I take Kathryn and her roomies (Maggie and Leah) to brunch to thank 'em for putting up with me. Somehow Israel-Palestinian conflict comes up. Brief talk, then we let it go. Then I find myself all fired up about it for the next couple of hours. Seriously, took me a while to chill.

(Also, place couldn't figure out how to use my credit card b/c of the lack of chip thing, which continues to be annoying. Swipe, enter last four digits! Anyway, Kap had to cover lunch. Oops.)

Get back to flat after going to a market, all is fine. It's a touchy/emotional issue. Varying opinions, none of which are 100 percent "right" on either side.

(The market wasn't even there anymore. So I got a pretzel.)

Next day Kathryn and Maggie are walking me to bus stop on my way out of town. Kathryn says, "Did you see the t-shirt whatshisname was wearing at the meeting last night?" It was a meeting for the documentary Kathryn is producing on Mali. "No," I say, thinking she'll tell me it was a They Might Be Giants t-shirt.

Nope, it's apparently some anti-Israel shirt.

"Why would you tell me that?!," I ask. "It took me hours to calm down yesterday and you bring it up again as I'm leaving?!"

It's funny now. And I was caught off guard by how fired up I got by the whole thing. But four weeks in Europe before my only political-type argument (was soooo close to making it out unscathed) -- not a bad effort.

So off I go to Tegel, and then to JFK, thus concluding this season of Bomb's Away Euroadventuring. Good time. It wasn't a life-changing trip, but I needed/enjoyed it. Chillin' with friends and meeting/hanging with cool new peeps was great. Coughing on and off for four weeks? Not so much ...

Damn Heathrow.

Next up ... a day in NYC, a week in Mexico, the downfall of the iPhone.

And the most probing question asked of any of us during that week: "Are you making chicken?"

Stuck in cement

Pic courtesy of the tubes. 

Prague has a Jewish quarter.

Well, based on size it's more like a Jewish eighth.

Which reminds me -- I had a dream that I was writing a screenplay/was in a movie about Zack Greinke or Josh Johnson or some other pitcher coming back from a layoff and having to face Eddie Gaedel in the first inning. Of course everyone already knew of that famous matchup, but my job was to focus the movie more on the pitcher rather than No. 1/8. I had some ideas ...

Anyway, there's a synagogue which, due to sloppy hearing/translation, is called the Old New Synagogue. Seems like something out of Futurama.

Then there's the story of Golem. No, not LOTR nonsense -- rather, it's rabbi nonsense. Lazy rabbi created this creature -- the Golem of Prague -- to do his bidding. One night he forgot to put creature back to stony sleep. So Golem went nuts and tore the town apart. Apparently Mary Shelley was inspired by this story, and it also was part of a Simpsons episode.

Golem, in his stony state, apparently still is locked away in the synagogue, (hopefully) never to be reawakened.

There are several other synagogues here, plus a well-preserved (but tiny and crazy) cemetery -- and other buildings. Why everything survived WWII? Hitler was planning to create a museum here to an extinct race. How'd that work out for ya, Adolf?

Anyway, next day -- my last in Prague -- I go to check out the cemetery. Because Prague wouldn't give the Jews more room to expand the cemetery, they had to build up and bury bodies/coffins on top of one another, creating a crazy/uneven plot of crooked tombstones. It allegedly provided some inspiration for the memorial in Berlin.

So I arrive. They charge admission. Fine, whatev. But wait -- you can't just buy admission for the cemetery, but rather for four or five sites in the Jewish hood. I have neither the time nor the interest to see all this stuff, but they shoot down everyone who asks for just a cemetery ticket.

And seeing as how I walked halfway around the place looking for a vantage point, only to find nothing, seemed I had little choice.

Fine, I'll pay.

Sorry, no credit cards.

Crap.

Bilbo! Bilbo Baggins - he's only 3 ft tall. Similar to Eddie Gaedel.

I wander around for 10-15 minutes looking for an ATM. There's a high-end shopping area nearby, but no ATMs to be found. As if they look down upon carrying such silly little amounts of cash.

Finally find an ATM. Get back to cemetery, buy my way in, rush through it, nearly knocking kids from tour group into tombstones. Which actually was fun.

Wild place. Glad I saw it.

The path leads you to a street exit, but the adjoining building (one of the 37 places covered by my mega-admission ticket) was said to have paintings/drawings done by children while they were in a concentration camp. Apparently a woman started teaching art as a way to distract the kids. I was curious to see.

So instead of going to exit, I wind my way back through path, dodging tour groups, and reach main entrance (next to building I wanted to see). It's closed. With an iron gate. I ask someone how to get out. They say go all the way through the cemetery.

Crap.

So I do, dodging tourists again. And it lets me out halfway around the block, meaning I have to book back to entrance.

Why? Because my train back to Berlin isn't all that much later, and I also had been wanting to cross a famous bridge and perhaps get a better view of the Prague castle. But this escapade was wasting all of my time.

So on way back to entrance, I'm passing a bunch of street-side merchants. One couple asks one of the trinket sellers why some menorahs have nine candles and others seven. She says she doesn't know and leaves to ask someone else.

Sigh.

I stop and explain the difference between a Chanukah menorah (Chanukiah) and a standard one. They ask what religion it is for.

"Um, Judaism." Der.

Guy explains he knows that -- wants to know significance of the nine-pronged candelabra.

Ahh, the story of Chanukah. I tell it in about 18 seconds. Hit the high points. Regaining my creds, Gennady!

I resume trip back to the cemetery entrance and pass not one but two small vantage points to the cemetery. No, they weren't great views, but had I seen them earlier this whole charade might not have happened. Argh.

Finally I get back to the entrance but decide I don't even want to go in. I try to give away -- for free -- my admission ticket, which still is good for every other Jewsite in the 'hood, save for the cemetery.

No takers. Stuck with this ticket I didn't even want to buy. I'm totally getting Jewe... Eh, never mind.

So I go in. It's a synagogue. With no art from little kids. Apparently that's in the museum part, which is closed.

Son of a ...

Just to be spiteful, I surreptitiously take a pic in a no-photo area. Of course, that pic got washed away (karma?), but more on that later.

Shine on you crazy Diamond.

Finally leave -- though I do pick up cool souvenirs (Golem, clock, another clock) for me and 'rent and step-'rent -- and head to the famous bridge that tourists "have" to cross in order to rub a plaque for good luck. But only one part of plaque. Not the dog part, which is bad luck. According to yesterday's crazy tour guide.

I'm on my way. Guy tries to get me to go to opera. Oprah? Maybe. Opera? Nah.

I say no and keep walking. Then I realize I made wrong turn. Pass him again. I wave him off again, though he was a bit more persistent this time.

Start going to bridge, realize I'm going to miss train if I don't head to station right then. Argh. Fine. No bridge, no castle. I turn around and head to the subway, passing opera man one more time.

He sees me, smiles, holds up 1, 2, 3 fingers as he says, "uno, dos, tres!"

I don't think I even used the "lo siento" thing on him.

Anyway, get to train station. Train back to Berlin. Get off train. Head to escalator. There's a line. Old guy in front of me sees me considering heading left (where the fast walkers go) and blocks me. I laugh out loud. He turns and looks at me. When we get to escalator he goes right, I pass on left and am gone, yo.

In all, Prague worth another look. Maybe full two days. Interesting history, some cool sights. One iteration of this trip had me there for five days. That would have been overkill. Urge Overkill. Sister Havana -- you'll be a woman soon.

Never heard of Neil Young?! What about Neil Diamond?

Turn on your heart light, ET.

Ohhhh... Almost forgot. Kafka was from here. I think Oxnard of Saturn mentions him in a song ...