In todos mis viajes, I can't think of anywhere that was harder to reach than Monteverde, Costa Rica. Cuzco, a town near Macchu Picchu in Peru, took three airline changes and two overnight stays in airports, but that was due more to hellish weather than destination. An old army shooting range in China required riding Beijing's public buses, which were rusty and reeked, and gray rain was dripping in as we stood for two hours each way. But at least there were roads and paths and a general feeling that you were following many travelers before. Monteverde--atop a mountain range--is only summited by riding up stone-encrusted dirt paths, that constantly dip and yawn--the shuttle felt like it was going to pitch off a cliff every other lurch.

And at the top of this god-forsaken rock pile, at the edge of civilization...I'm updating my blog and picking my fantasy football team...all on a nicer Dell than any my parents own (or my employers provide). I'm stomping on the lacquered wooden floor...and it seems geninue. Without the guy speaking Spanish at the front desk, this place might as well be upstate New York...with it, it could be Northern California.

There's some commentary that I could go into on how small the world is...but I won't. All I remember is a few years ago, no matter where I went I wanted internet access. I've made more i-cafe trips than museum visits on vacations...but given that's become a pretty mandatory thing at hotels in Central America...I think this "Internet" thing is here to stay.
- posted by DD @ 8:24 PM

 
Living under the gun

In high school, our student newspaper was kind of a joke. Not a bad joke, or even an obvious one, but more like one of those jokes that some people are in on and some people don't get at all. We had our own office and our own language, and the couple of us who ran it Senior year had no one to answer to but ourselves.

Consequently, and unsurprisingly, the paper did little to redefine the world of journalism. Perhaps our most significant contribution to the Roland Park tri-school area was playing the dunce for our sister school's newspaper across the street; their senior year April Fool's Day issue mocking us was probably longer than anything we'd done.

Deadlines meant nothing back then. College doesn't exactly force them down your throat either. Yet these big life decisions have started to pop up left and right, and you don't have a summer to ponder your choice. Grad school-bound friends are choosing their path for half a decade; others are picking jobs just to get health care. Or it's those getting married at 22 or 23, seemingly driven by the ticking of an internal clock that only they can hear.

Take a look at this webiste: I'm not driven by a ticking clock. My rate of publication is drastically sloping downhill, with apologies to the two people looking at this page. Though at work, I face deadlines every day and approximately get them done. But they're not the earth-splitting, go-abroad-to-med-school choices of some. With regard to that greater picture, it frequently feels like I'm not driving my life--it's sort of moving itself along. This past year was more of a cop-out than anything. The biggest choice I probably made was the first, to get a job.

Not long ago, DC was held hostage to a sniper. The day I went running on an empty trail in Rock Creek Park, ever few steps I whipped my head back to look over my shoulder. Before long, I had no idea where I was going. At 22, it doesn't matter where you're headed; it's more important to keep moving, seeing, experiencing. So why do I keep looking over my shoulder?
- posted by DD @ 8:40 PM

 
In the past ten days, I admittedly fell off the wagon.

But in the meantime, I was born again.

Since my last posting, I didn't find Jesus. I haven't started drinking mass quantities of alcohol (or stopped consuming minor ones). Instead, I got an address. A DC-address.

On the surface, the apartment is perfect. In practice, it's far from--no air conditioning, lack of hot water, a minor pest problem. The construction workers who stopped mid-stride left us mementos: kitchen cabinets filled with their tools. Our sofas are still wrapped up in paper, propped against the wall; in one bedroom, rolls of carpet are still tied, waiting to be laid down against the floor. My roommates doubt that it's fit for habitation.

Yet I don't care.

Three hundred and sixty-four days after I began my job in downtown Washington, I have finally moved into the city and a place I can call my own. To me, it's worth the frustration of the past few sleepless hot nights. Save a handful of memories, this last year is best left in the rear view mirror and rapidly receding.

City living is loud and expensive. It's going running on pavement, and inhaling more smog than you should. But compare that to commuter life--a routine of gridlock and expressways, the need to drive anywhere worth going. I know where I'd rather be.
- posted by DD @ 6:27 PM

 
To paraphrase Bobby Knight, God doesn't give a mouse's behind whether or not you win a basketball game. Gregg Easterbrook is pretty inclined to feel the same way about Maryland's comeback from a 31-point halftime deficit to the University of Miami.

But you wouldn't know it if you heard an athlete interviewed. Conversations are usually sprinkled with your "all thanks to Jesus" or a "glory to the gracious God." David Robinson, perhaps the greatest do-gooder in the NBA's history (so much so they've renamed the citizenship award after him), was mik'ed right after the Spurs won the NBA Finals. And the devout Christian that he is, Robinson's first shout out was more of a shout up to the Big Man (think less the Big Aristotle of the City of Angels, California and more the Big Champion of Heaven):

To finish my career in the NBA Finals and to win the championship is a play written only by God.

If you're a self-respecting, critically thinking fan, like me and my brothers pretend to be, maybe you roll your eyes at this or you tune it out altogether. We accept it like we accept other annoyances of being a sports fan--laughable arrests, the distancing egos, the possibility that Shawn Kemp might be Tracy McGrady's dad.

But why? David Robinson's a lot of things, but I wouldn't count dumb among them. And if you believe in a higher power, and go by the standard definition of 'god', it's not like the all-mighty's only allowed to worry about serious things--famines in Africa, or helping you ace your finals. With infinite knowledge and time, the Lord can meddle in whatever he wants to. It's kind of an insult to say that his power wouldn't extend to a baseball field--unless he's a fan too.

Over on ESPN, Easterbrook writes "God has nothing to do with who wins games, or throws or catches touchdowns." Maybe so--because He's in the stands too, waiting to be just as surprised and entertained in the moment as the rest of us.
- posted by DD @ 6:26 PM