Kitkats are bastards

When I was first preparing to travel to Japan, one of my friends made me a list of things I had to do while I was there. Most of them were easily achieved, and made my experience that much better. However, there was one item on the list that proved far more difficult than the rest. While it seemed to be completely within the realm of possibility originally, it came to be my greatest nemesis(other than snakes, planes, food poisoning, and ghosts, of course.) This monumental quest she tasked me with? Finding strange and wonderful flavors of Kitkats.

When I began my journey into the unknown region that geographers call The Japan, I had assumed that these Kitkats would be plentiful. Perhaps even flowing in rivers from gilded chocolate fountains, run by pug butlers, but I was wrong. 

I began my search by checking the small convenience stores in the airport, on the way to my hotel from the airport, from the hotel to dinner, and so on and so forth. While these minimarts and convenience shops did provide a bizarre set of fast foods that I had never before laid eyes on(Such as rice triangles filled with what I can only guess to have been deliciousness), they could not provide me with what I was looking for. 

Each lowly candy aisle I searched seemed to be more pitiful than the last. While one would have a full sized Kitkat bar, the next might only have "fun sized", which I assure you is fun for no one, other than the devil who laughs at those having to unwrap multiple minuscule candy bars to get the satisfaction of one! These may be amusing for use of tricking kids on Halloween, but otherwise they are completely pointless.

When the smaller stores stopped me, I moved on to the bigger ones. 7 elevens(They're bigger in Japan.), grocery stores, and the like. What I found was barren candy racks, reminiscent of old west ghost towns (no Kitkats).  As I walked in the oppressive heat, like a pilgrim on a mad journey through the Gobi desert, I began to lose heart. In a grand gesture I dropped to my knees in the middle of Shibuya Crossing and yelled "WHY GOD?!?!?!"(I actually said "damn" under my breath, but close enough.)

Despair was my only friend, heat my constant companion, and sadness the only sustenance. I dined on it day and night (Among other things, such as delicious basement curry), wanting nothing other than the sweet embrace of a variety of strangely flavored candies! It seemed that my journey wouldn't end in anything but suffering, until I stumbled upon one final bastion of hope. As I sulked my way through the underground mall at Osaka Station the words jumped out at me, like some neon kangaroo, wanting nothing but to bring me salvation in its pouch. 

It read: SUPER Market. I could only assume that as the 'super' was capitalized that they had to carry what I sought. I walked into the store, a traveller weary from thousands of miles(maybe one?) of hard travel across a desolate wasteland. My vision swam with thousands of images, Kitkats dancing in lakes of melon flavoring, crispy wafers diving into glistening pools of strawberry chocolate. It was beautiful. 

However, as is often true of wonderful things, it was not true. The candy aisle did possess flavored Kitkats, but in only two varieties. Dark chocolate and green tea... CHILD'S PLAY! Flavors that existed elsewhere, and served no purpose other than to ignite the fury of my unquenched rage. I felt the urge to flip over all of the tables, knock down the aisles, burn the remains, and leave nothing but dust, to let no one else feel the disappointment and hurt that I had, but then like a beam of orange light they found me.

Guiding away from my troublesome fate like Virgil for Dante. I passed through the seven rings of lesser candy, through the aisle, and into the orange glory of Paradiso. Sitting on the shelf like they were nothing special was a small package of orange flavored Andes mints. I knelt down (They were on the bottom shelf) and paid homage to what I could only assume to be the work of the gods. 

I picked them up and cradled them gingerly. Together we made the short journey through purgatory and onward to the checkout counter. I handed over my three-hundred yen, and they were mine. I did not dare open them on the ride home, for fear that the heat might melt their supple frames. As I sit here now, a mere three hours later, the box is half gone. 

Each bite was a new nirvana bursting forth in my mouth. Every moment was a torrent of beautiful fruit flavors dancing a ballet upon my tongue. It was by far one of the most superb chocolate confections that I have ever tasted, and I do not think I will find anything of it's caliber again any time soon... Unless of course I manage to find those damned Kitkats!

10: The Mystical Capybara

Today's post is of a more informational nature(sort of). After a brief encounter with a majestic beast today at the Osaka aquarium, I have taken it upon myself to spread awareness of one of the earth's most astonishing creatures. A creature so regal, so elegant that most would run and hide when faced with the sheer enormity of its awesomeness. I am of course referring to the legendary capybara. 

The capybara, or ratius-ourso-magnifico is a large water dwelling rodent of South America. A full grown capybara can weigh over ten tons, in human terms, about twenty elephants. Some might say that the capybara is a fat animal, unfortunately for them the capybara is not a creature to take such insults lightly... When hurt emotionally the capybara has been known to rip arms and/or legs off of its agressor.

While the capybara may more closely resemble a bear than a rat, it is still classified in the rodent family. Scientists currently believe that long ago a whisky laden grizzly bear found its way into an otter den, and well the rest is history.

A capybara by the name of Steve, looking regal as f***

With teeth over three inches in length(Can actually be true!!) the capybara is a formidable predator. Its diet consists mainly of tasty river fish, and the blood of the unjust. When it is not hunting the capybara enjoys basking in the sun, and floating lazily down rivers whilst looking cute for tourists. While this might be seen as the capybara selling out to the man, I can assure you that it is a pretty sweet deal.

The capybara is a textbook grifter. While one floats down the river cleaning itself, the other deftly sneaks up behind the unsuspecting tourist and steals their wallets, and occasionally their souls. Human souls can be used as a form of currency on the capybara black market, which is covered in 10:2 Capybara Economics.

On the subject of capybara mating habits I fear that scientists can only speculate, as all those who have attempted to observe the ritual never returned to tell about it. What can be gathered is that they leave their traditional manses for a locale of a more sensual nature. If I had to guess, I would say a small cave, shag carpeted with the hides of enemies, filled with old Barry Manilow records pilfered from zoo keepers and other such employees. 

After the mysterious ritual is complete, the capybara female kicks the male out of their den, and sends him to want after her lustfully during the four month gestation period. At this time it is common for the male to bring offerings of various river fish, and/or the heads of rival capybara males, to prove that he is indeed a smooth operator.  After the birth of the baby capybara the male is allowed back into the den once more for the sweet lovings at which point he is tossed aside for good and sent off to work in the gold mines (See: 10:2 capybara economics).

The baby capybara while adorable, is also incredibly deadly. When born, the capybara possesses a set of hardened claws, imbued with venom secreted from its mother's womb. The capybara itself is immune to this venom as it is a complete and total badass, but to other predators it is a deadly neurotoxin. The venom attacks the animal's brainstem and essentially reduces it to the consistency of jello pudding, which the baby capybara then sucks out like some delicious brainy milkshake. These claws are trimmed a year after birth by the Capybara High Council, who as a ruling body realized long ago that if these claws persisted long after birth, the population would become soft, and their food source would be decimated.

For more information on the capybara please subscribe. The more followers, the more time I am allowed to devote to the capybara chapter of my encyclopedia... So subscirbe damn you! Or you'll have Steve to deal with!

Why does the best food come from the strangest places?

There have been very few times in my life when I have felt the adventurous urge to eat somewhere completely bonkers, but on those occaisions I have found it to be the best food. In most cases I find that my fear of food poisoning, or getting shanked to death by a psychopathic muppet chef stop me from going to such places. This story is about two and a half of such instances where my sense left me and I tasted greatness...

The first and probably still the most memorable instance comes from my 2007 trip to South Africa. My family and I had just finished a visit to the apartheid museum near the Nelson Mandela memorial in Johannesburg(I think it was Johannesburg), and somehow after all of the shocking images and sad tales, we still found ourselves hungry... Some things never change.

It was a hot day, hotter than coals being broiled in an oven that was in the process of getting swallowed by a dragon (Close to ninety degrees, I don't do well with heat or exposure to sunlight). As we were walking away from the memorial to the caravan of tour buses we spotted a group of people hovering around the back of someone's car. While I was perfectly content to leave whatever it was alone, my more adventurous stepmother and father were keen on checking it out. Which turned out to be one of the better decisions made in the history of mankind.

At the back of the car was a very large woman, ladling out what appeared to be some brown slop on top of rice with veggies. That's right, this food was coming from the back of someone's compact! I was hesitant to say the least, but then the smell hit me. It was as if Zeus himself had come down and thunderbolted me right in the nose hole (a good thing). It was like smelling the Mona Lisa, or at least what I imagine smelling it would be like, they wouldn't let me get close enough... So much for wanting the youth to "experience" art.

Quickly we made our way to the front of the throng and purchased some brown slop of our own. It was lamb curry with chickpeas and some other unidentifiable vegetables. The taste was even better than the smell, and though the burn was enough to make me wonder if I would ever taste again, it was worth it. We ate our curry, and continued to live, despite the fact that it came from the back of a car (slim odds).

Now for the part that relates to Japan! Last night I once again found myself in a situation where my wits had left me and I was willing to take a chance on anything short of gutter food. What I found was somehow below that, in a manner of speaking. I apologize in advance for the blurry pictures, but it was dark, and I was full of deliciousness when I took them. 

It was around 6:30(around midnight for jet lag time) and I had been searching for over thirty minutes, attempting to find sustenance. For those of you who don't know me (Is that anyone who reads this? Probably not.) I don't do well with prolonged periods of starvation(1-3 hours without food). I become irrational, and for lack of a better word "hangry".

In any case, I was walking down an alleyway when out of the corner of my eye I spotted a picture of delicious curry. Outside of a small indentation in the alleyway was a sign advertising Indian food and an arrow pointing down. For a good while I stopped and stared at the brick wall, wondering if I just had to run at it and believe...

Luckily before I tried anything I spotted the actual door leading down into what appeared to be a basement. I was hungry, so I followed. I made my way into what was indeed a basement, with a tiny row of chairs surrrounding a small square in which an Indian chef was cooking. 

There was no one there, which is either a sign that the quality of the food is yet undiscovered, or the past patrons are in the soup... But I was filled with the hunger and I went in anyway! I ordered a simple chicken curry and garlic naan.

My fears evaporated in a matter of moments, when rather than pulling out a gruesome butcher knife with entrails on it, he instead pulled out fresh naan dough and began tossing it right in front of me! A few cloves of fresh cut garlic, a deep frier, and some gee later I was in heaven. Once again sense had lost a battle and the food of strange places had prevailed. The meal was delicious, and counter to expectations there was no food poisoning!!

For scale, that piece of naan was bigger than my head!!!!

After my success with the curry, I even decided to eat some more random food off of the street. Stopping at the first desert-ish stand that appeared, I ordered something that I could read, but had no idea as to the meaning. I was pleasantly surprised to find it was some sort of crunchy, maple cream filled ball of amazing.

Lesson here: The best food is found when you are lacking the sense to try the logical options!

Hunting for Tanooki in Akihabara

Japan Day 1: Akihabara & The Tanooki Shrine

I woke around 5:30 in the morning as my body thought it was somewhere closer to noon. As it turns out, jet lag can be a harsh mistress. Bleerily I managed to get myself dressed and out of my hotel. I stumbled down the streets outside in search of coffee and food. Luckily for me I was able to meet up with a friend, and she showed me the way to some runny eggs and deliciously thick toast. I had not eaten in over fourteen hours, and so it seemed a bounty fit for a king. 

After scarfing down breakfast and once again filling my body with a quad shot of coffee from a nearby Starbucks it was time for adventure. I had no idea where to go, and so I took the first suggestion I got, which was to visit Akihabara. 

Akihabara is well known for its wealth o technology stores, as well as the slightly more creepy otaku culture (People obsessed with anime, manga, or anything of the like, usually to a degree that can be seen as fairly unsettling.) On every corner there was a young japanese girl beconing me into a "maid cafe"(Resstaurants where the staff dress up as french maids and refer to you as "master"...), and nearly every building had some sort if busty anime girl gazing down at me. As I passed a sign that said: "Danger: Watch out for upskirting." with a picture of a cell phone camera crossed out, I knew that I was in for an interesting day.

The second thing that struck me about the area  was that rather than selling food or nick nacks on the side of the street, a good deal of the stands were vending computer parts. From fans to processors, the side of the street was a PC builder's wet dream. 

My friend showed me around for a bit, but then had to leave to go meet someone for lunch. This left me with two hours to kill before we were to meet up again, and in a somewhat unusual move I struck out into the unknown for adventure. 

As I stepped out of the JR train station I was greeted by a massive Sega sign. Not knowing what else to do(As I have never been anywhere near Japan), I followed it into a large building. Where I found myself was a seven story arcade! Every wall on the first floor was lined with various iterations of the crane game, and each level up the building was filled with various other game types. In short, it was heaven. 

I continued following the escalators up until I was on the top floor. It was here that I found a series of around twelvebubbles, each containing a confusing set of joysticks and wall to wall screens. I pulled open the bubble and sat down inside. A voice greeted me in Japanese so quick that I was unable to understand anything other than the fact that I needed to put in coins. 

I slipped in a hundred yen and watched awestruck as screens all around my head lit up. there was a loud hum as the booth began to warm up and then I was at a menu screen, once again entirely in kanji I didn't recognize. I continued to hit the start button until a mech selection screen popped up. It appeared that I would be fighting the people in the other booths in some sort of Gundam style combat. 

A few more clicks of the start button and I was on a field getting absolutely demolished by the other players. Every once in a while I would manage to get a kill in, but with no control instructions it was fairly difficult. To top it off each bubble had a headset, and while I couldn't understand everything being said, I did catch the words heta(bad) and gaijin(foreigner) being thrown around pretty liberally. After twenty minutes of getting stomped by local teenagers I decided it was time to leave and see what else the area had to offer. 

I walked back to the train station area and connected to the Wi-Fi. I searched things to do in Akihabara, and found something very interesting. There was an article detailing a small shrine hidden down a side street just over the nearby river dedicated to the Tanooki. This is a half fox half raccoon, or something of the like that can be found in Japan, or in mario games as a wearable suit.

The article was very vague as to where the shrine was, other than just across the river and hard to find. Excited, and with adventure in my heart, I took off in the general direction the article had given me. I walked all of the side streets around the river, searching high and low for any sign of the shrine, but could find nothing. It was getting close to the time I needed to meet up with my friend, and sadly I called an end to the search. 

Luckily, my friend is also possessed by a similar sense of adventure, and was totoally behind continuing the search. Together it only took about ten minutes of searching and we found oursleves outside the shrine gates. Inside I could see the various tanooki statues, among other traditional shrine fare.

A cat hung off the side of one of the buildings, keeping watch over us as we cleansed our hands in the basin at the entrance. I walked around in silence, looking at the various carvings and representations of the tanooki. As I looked around I noticed something strange. All of the carvings had enormous balls, some measuring half the size of the animal! It was a truly humbling site.

With the tanooki shrine found we decided to call it a succesful day and take the JR line back to the hotel. While I sit in my hotel room writing this, I know I will never forget my experience with the big balled tanooki of Akihabara...

I'm On My Way to Japan!

For the next two weeks I will be traveling. Currently I am sitting on an airplane bound for Los Angeles and from there I will be flying to Narita Tokyo. Now in my sleep deprived state, I have decided to document the interesting parts of my trip on this blog!

Essentially, every few days I will be posting tales from my trip, or stories inspired by tales, inspired by life events that may or may not have occurred. Just in case that isn't vague enough for you, some of the stories will be true, others will not be, but somehow or other they may or may not be related to my travels in Japan!

Without further Ado, I give you post #1: AKA I now hate the BelAir Shuttle Company!

My journey began at two-fifteen AM in a McDonalds parking lot. While this may seem like a rather odd place for one to begin a traveling excursion, it is indeed where I started. Being the smart(neurotic) traveler that I am, I had booked myself a seat on a shuttle in advance to take from my hometown of Bellingham, to Seatac airport(About 2 hours).

In any case, my roommates and I stood huddled against the frigid cold(About 65 degrees) bidding our fond farewells beneath the dim neon of the McDonalds arch. Out of the darkness, a bus emegred from the mist, at least, I like to think there was mist, part of it might have been that my contacts were in for too long, but who's counting?

The mist did not seem to matter, as I was fueled by the promise of adventure, and the slowly creeping edges of sleepiness. I loaded my things into the cargo bay of the bus and waved a fond adeu to my roommates. Of course at that point they had already left, making me look a little like a crazy person, but oh well, what happens in the McDonalds parking lot at 2AM stays there. 

Moments after I had boarded I was asleep. I had already been up for far too long (I'mn a lightweight when it comes to not sleeping) and was ready to get a jump start on jet lag. The bus roared off into the night, like a bat slightly slower than one just coming from the gates of hell. I didn't seem to notice much until I awoke to the sounds of customer complaint (like fifth on the list of bad things to wake up to.) Assuming someone had merely just been having a bad morning I tried once again to sleep.

This proved to be a futile effort, as soon the complaints had gotten louder, and more numerous. "Why aren't we moving?", "What do you mean it's some sort of mechanical failure?!" The answer to that last question seems fairly obvious, but when people are tired they tend to get cranky. Realizing that my attempts at rest were going nowhere I got up to go see what was happening. 

Outside there was a short woman yelling at the bus driver. "I have a six AM flight! Am I going to make it?" The bus driver shrugged and continued to stare intently at the front tire of his vehicle. I too had a six AM flight and was beginning to worry. 

"What happened?" I asked them, trying to be as calm and pleasant as possible.

"The bus has a flat tire." The mechanic said, conveying that he had already been asked this enough times. 

It was at this point that I began to worry, and after about ten minutes of nervous pacing I saw the outcome: If I was to wait for the bus I would miss my flight. At this point it was close to 4AM, and we were stopped at a casino that was about an hour away from the airport. It was time for plan B. I went to go find the disgruntled woman from earlier. 

She was pacing around the side of the bus, talking angrily with her other companions. "What would you guys say to splitting a cab? If we leave now we can still get to the airport on time." She looked at me with desperation and agreed. We hurried over to the valet, who, somehow was still manning his desk at four in the morning. He called us a cab, and before we knew it we were on our way to the airport once again.

We arrived at the airport with at around 5AM, and I was into my gate only ten minutes before my flight was scheduled to depart. All in all, it was a close one, but I was on my way to Japan! Nothing could stop me!

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This next part is written from my hotel room in Tokyo (Spoilers: I made it!)

However, it was not without hassle. At around 11:30AM in Los Angeles, wired on a quad shot of espresso I began the  boarding process for my flight to Narita. Whether it was the scumbaggy goatee that I had been attempting to grow (I shaved it off as soon as I got to my hotel) or the fact that I looked like I was straight out of Night of the Living Dead, but either way, the security team decided I was a threat...

I was nearly into the bridge to the plane when I was pulled out of line by an official looking man in a TSA uniform. "Sir can you step out of line please?" I was in no position to question, I did as he asked and followed him off to a side area where two other TSA officers were standing. 

It was like a criminal interrogation. They opened my bag, asked me a series of heated questions, culminating in me pulling out my itinerary and directions to my hotel to prove that I was indeed going to Tokyo for tourism. Ten minutes later I was on the plane, but it was a terrifying ten minutes. They almost had me convinced that I was a criminal by the end(Sleep deprivation will do that.)

Eleven hours later I found myself in the airport, grabbing my bags and running as fast as I could to catch my train to the hotel. A lot of uninteresting misunderstandings and wrong transfer platforms later I found myself out in the humid Tokyo air, looking at a group of streets written in kanji I couldn't read. 

The instructions for getting to my hotel only took me as far as the final subway station. After that they just said: "3 minutes on foot." Which meant that I was in close, with only infinite different directions to try. Luckily for me a highschool student saw me looking confused at the map outside and came over to offer his help. 

"You looking for hotel?" I told him yes, and showed him the vague map of my hotel. He nodded vigorously and offered to take me there. Thanks to Matsuri I was able to make it to my hotel only thirty six hours after I left Bellingham!!!

More stories to come! Below is a picture from the street near my hotel.

Purple Haunted Mansions and Voodoo Priests

Sometime in Winter, 2012:

Similar to all good slasher films, this story begins with two intrepid explorers in their early twenties roaring down a country road towards an uncertain destination. How I got conned into such a trope is a simple matter of how badly I wanted to see the movie Red Tails (A poor decision), and how I didn't want to go alone. Overall it may appear that I was getting the short end of the stick, but at the time it seemed like a pretty sweet trade (Damn you George Lucas!)

What I had bargained to do was escort my friend to an interview location for our college newspaper. The thing I didn't know was: A. The interview would be taking place someone’s house(Not a public place), and B. This man’s house was in the middle of the sticks, surrounded by nothing but thick forests and fields (leaving nowhere to run).

It is also necessary to mention that the interview my friend was doing was focused on an alleged haunted house in Bellingham… We were batting ten for ten on horror movie stereotypes that day. The only pitfall we managed to avoid was splitting up at the haunted house to search for clues. No, rather than going into the abandoned house we drove around the outside and examined it from a safe distance. Long story short, long-range circling does not provide enough information for a news story, and she needed more.

After many phone calls and what I can only imagine to be journalistic wizardry she got a man via e-mail who claimed to have lived in the house at one point, and who agreed to the interview. The catch of course was that in order for us to interview him, we would have to go to his cabin in the damned woods…

As we drove down the dusty gravel (Paved concrete for the most part) roads of Blaine my fears of being murdered, stuffed, and mounted on someone’s wall grew. I’m not sure how much I bitched on the ride there about how “Sketchy” things were, but I can guess that it was quite a bit. What I had been assured was a fifteen minute drive, ended up closer to about forty-five. By the time the car turned off of the main country road we were deep into the territory of what I can only assume was hill people.

When we turned off the main road I was surprised to find that most of the houses looked normal. I felt my anxiety about the whole situation begin to melt away. Maybe he’s just an eccentric old recluse, living in a perfectly normal house, with no intention of murdering anyone and eating their skin. Wouldn’t that be nice.

“That’s the house number!” She said, pointing to the one house with a winding drive, that led through large iron-wrought gates, flanked on both sides by gnarled oak trees. Their branches reached down like claws, warning visitors not to step through the ancient gates; lest they be torn apart by ravenous tree people (I've been told they prefer Treeple).

“There’s no way. There is absolutely no way that we are going in there!” She didn't seem to be too unnerved by the situation, which considering the ominous nature of the drive before us seemed a little strange. However the gate was open as if expecting visitors.

Terrified and slightly aggravated I turned into the drive. As we passed beneath the canopy of oak branches I noticed stone busts jutting out of the tall grass on both sides of us. “You've got to be F&^ing kidding me. Those are tombstones! This is a god damned graveyard! We are not going to interview a man who lives in a graveyard! What if he traps us and feeds us to zombie pirates?!”

While this may have seemed unrelated, I can assure you it was not. I had recently watched Scooby Doo on Zombie Island, easily one of the best films ever made, and was terrified that I would be trapped by some Cajun voodoo priest and killed or zombified. All of which are legitimate fears when you’re driving through a graveyard to meet an eccentric old man who used to live in an allegedly haunted house!

In any case, none of my whining or moaning would do anything to deter my friend. She was determined to interview this dude, and so we continued our drive. At the end of the small road stood a squat, one story house with vines creeping up the sides. One of the windows glowed orange from a light inside, casting an imposing silhouette of a man on the curtains.

As we parked the booming barks of two attack dogs (Medium sized pooches) filled the air. Springing from the house like lightning, these two killing machines leapt off of the front porch and immediately surrounded the car. This is it; I’m going to get eaten by Cujo. Luckily for us, their owner followed them out shortly and called them off the attack.

He was nothing like I had expected. Rather than the creepy old hunchback, or the willowy vampire king, he was merely a small, white-haired, and well-dressed man. He reminded me of John Hammond from Jurassic Park, and so I kept a lookout for raptors or other deadly beasts of the extinct variety. He called for us to come inside, and while I protested, we ultimately ended up following him in from the front door.

Now while I expected to find the inside of the house adorned with gas lamps, and unsettling oil paintings…. THAT WAS EXACTLY WHAT IT WAS!! The walls were cluttered with portraits of family members and pets long since dead, all illuminated by the flickering lights of old-timey gas lanterns (Filled in with bulbs now).

“Hello, I’m Edward.” The man said in a kindly voice, that did nothing to hide the air of malice that I was so sure was hiding just beneath his bushy white beard. I shook his hand and introduced myself, but still felt as though murder was imminent. After introductions he led us into a small sitting room, which of course was adorned with stained glass, large wood bookcases, and more oil paintings.

“Would you like some sausages? I rolled them myself this morning.” My friend, luckily had the excuse of dietary restrictions, but unfortunately I wasn't quick enough to find an excuse of my own, and soon found myself eating the no-doubt-poisoned sausage. They came arranged nicely on a silver platter, and tasted terrible.

Slowly the tension inside of me began to fall as there were no zombies busting through the floorboards, and no angry poltergeists tossing furniture. The interview began, and I sat awkwardly, watching the ancient paintings, making sure that their eyes weren't moving. You can never be too careful.

The interview culminated in Edward saying that he didn't believe in ghosts and thought that most of the myths surrounding the mansion he used to inhabit were just that, myths. After the interview he showed us around his house. Every room was packed wall to wall with precious works of art from all over the world. One of the hallways was made entirely of stone, and had little alcoves carved out for lighting. It was unlike anything I had ever seen.

From large statues of Chinese dragons, to maps of old England, the man had everything. I wish I had taken pictures, but my phone was dead from using the GPS to get there. Edward spent around thirty minutes touring us around, and then we said polite goodbyes and left. Overall one of the craziest things I have ever experienced.

In the end, neither of us were murdered, there were no voodoo rituals, and we made it out in one piece. Red Tails sucked the big one, and was by no stretch worth nearly getting eaten alive by cannibalistic ghost people or attack dogs. However the experience is something I will never forget…

"Camping" on the Columbia River

June 2011: Two intrepid explorers embark on a dangerous journey into the untamed wilds of the Columbia River. 

To begin this tale it is necessary to mention my family’s poor luck with anything camping related. Much like the famed movie family The Griswolds, we the Macaulays have a long history of vacation related accidents or mishaps. Ranging from food poisoning to nearby shark attacks shutting down beaches near a hotel, if there is something that can go wrong, it will. 

This tale is of one ill-fated summer camping expedition from long ago. It was a hot summer afternoon in late June, my father had just put the finishing touches on his newly remodeled boat and was ready to take it out for a spin. For some reason my sun-addled brain registered this as the perfect opportunity to attempt the mysterious activity known as camping. 

As a little history behind previous camping attempts: The last time we had attempted such a venture was over four years prior, and had ended up with the entire troupe of camping families being scared off by the heavy rainfalls of the Pacific North West, and instead detouring to stay at the Four Seasons in Seattle...

It  took us thrity minutes to put together what we felt was necessary for an overnight trip to one of the many islands that dot the Columbia river: A tent, some chocolate, fire wood, things to make fire with(I think they're called matches(Pronounced Ma-Chuz), but I can't be certain...), sleeping bags, water, and for good measure, a large net (You never know when you’re going to need one.) We loaded up the boat and took off for the nearest boat launch.

Of course when camping, it is always a good idea to check your dates. For us, this was a step we had skipped, and so we learned that it was Memorial Day Weekend only after we had hauled the boat thousands(ten) of miles.

 Every boat launch was full and had over a two hour wait. Defeated, we resolved to go home and try again later that night when some of the river yuppies would have gone home to their condos (Why anyone would ever buy a condo in Vancouver, I have no idea… Perhaps if they were aficionados of strip malls and fine bowling establishments?)

Later that night we tried again and were able to launch the boat. Minutes later we were on the water and searching for a campsite. It was around dusk by the time we were out on the river, but the heat was still unbearable, making the journey all the more epic and dangerous! 

In any case, my father had already pre-scouted a location for our trip, to avoid any of the traditional pitfalls that usually accompanied our trips. It was a secluded Island of the slightly ominous variety with a small beach cove, about a mile from the house. Goal within view, we sped off into the Columbia river, throwing caution to the wind, and began our long awaited trip.

As we neared the island I could see our perfect spot, somehow untainted by the flabby extremities of beached river yuppies. It was too good to be true, as we approached the anticipation mounted! Perhaps we will finally reach our goal and taste the sweet nectar of the universe that is camping! I thought, foolioshly.

Not a moment after the pleasant thought had passed through my brain the boat lurched and I was thrown forward onto the bow. Out of nowhere we were stopped, the motor was wining, and my face had been forcefully acquainted with a navy blue seat cushion.

It was at this time that I recalled one of the many dangerous geologic formations that populate the Columbia River, sandbars, second only of course to the fabled driftwood monster (More commonly known as driftwood.) The nature of the sandbar is of course to lie in wait for the river level to drop and then snag unsuspecting boaters with its muddy tentacles.

As I looked over the side of the boat, I could see that we were now in what appeared to be only about two feet of water, with murky and foreboding sand at the bottom. 

“You alright?” My father called. 

“Yeah, I think so.” The real interaction was much less pleasant, and may have involved a good deal of cursing/name calling, but end the result was the same. I was over the side of the boat, pant legs rolled up, putting all of my weight again the boat to dislodge it from the bar. A few super manly shoves and we were floating again.

“Ok, this time I think we’ll go a little slower.” My father, the captain said, confident that this was the last error we would make on this journey. Just as the captain of the Titanic before us, our confidence was foolishly misplaced in a boat that was "unsinkable"...

I hopped on the bow and looked for our campsite. After the sandbar there was only a matter of a few hundred feet through a narrow channel, and we would be there. Soon we would be sipping cokes and roasting hot dogs (Which we forgot), on the beach.

My Dad started the engine and we were all ahead slow….

Straight into another sandbar! Once again I found myself in the water, using my rippling (Underwhelming) biceps to move the massive(Somewhat small) boat. With a triumphant roar(whimper) I dislodged the boat and we were off!

 As we threaded the mouth of the channel, I knew that we had come to the end of our sand-bar ridden hell. The island was less than fifty feet away, and I could almost feel the gorgeous white sand(Brown mud) beneath my toes. That was until I heard a sickening scraping come from the underside of the boat. The all too familiar lurch came.

“That’s no sandbar…” Is what I like to imagine I said, but the truth was once again probably much closer to a host of  expletives and unsavory nomenclature for both the boat and the captain. 

We had "High Centered" the boat, which for those of you who are unfamiliar with nautical terms, means that the boat was balanced on a rock, with the point on its midsection. Or as it known to the layperson: "Totally Screwed".

The cursing continued as we tried to figure out a solution. The motor was now whining loudly, trying its to push us anywhere but on the rock. But this would not happen as it had been lifted part way out of the water. The boat made sounds that I had previously thought to be reserved for dying animals, or birds of prey. In short we were up a creek, and had broken the paddle through repeated abuse. 

Eventually we figured that if we both stood on the back of the boat, it ought to tip us so that the motor would dip back into the water, and for the first time that day we were correct. The back end of the boat tilted lazily into the water and my father gunned the engine to pull us off of the rock. We flew backwards momentarily, and then once again we were moving through the water with ease.

At this point in time a normal group of people might have given up, called it a wash, gone to one of the more populated campsites and had a lovely evening. My father and I are not normal people. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing multiple times and expecting a different result. Normally I like to think of myself as sane, but I can't say that we stopped trying to reach our ill-positioned campsite.

We were hell bent on having this camping trip, and so we moved to try further up the river. Never-mind the fact that we might have put a hole in the boat, we were going to continue on until we had a "manly" bonding experience. 

To make a long story slightly longer, we found a campsite and made it there safely, having the camping trip we had always dreamed of achieving....

Is what I would like to say had happened. The reality is that on the way to the next site we managed to find three more sandbars before finally saying "F%$# it!" After the fifth sandbar that day we found that our camping trip was doomed from the start, and resolved that next time we attempted such an adventure, we would do so on land. 

That night we went home and had a campfire in the backyard, where we took pictures that looked like we were "roughing it" and sent them to my stepmother. We burnt the hotdogs and ate a frozen pizza instead. Overall, pretty solid camping trip....