Cidade Maravilhosa

Last month I spent a couple of days in Rio de Janeiro. It was the first time I had been back there since the summer of 2003, when I lived there for three months.

One night I went back to my favorite place in Rio, a big rock called Arpoador (Harpooner) that juts out into the Atlantic Ocean, dividing the beaches of Copacabana and Ipanema. I used to go there as often as I could to watch the sunset, and I managed to get there just in time to see it again.

There were probably 200 people scattered around the big rock. Some were fishing, but most were there, like me, to watch the sun set over the Dois Irmaos, or Two Brothers, the massive rocks that loom over the southern end of Rio.
As I sat there waiting, the sound of voices and laughter floated down and mixed with the noise of the waves crashing against the rocks below us, before drifting into the evening sky. But as the sun got closer to the horizon, the voices grew hushed and the crowd was quiet and we all stared in silence as the fiery globe disappeared into the sea.

Then, just as the top of the sun dropped below the horizon line, the whole crowd erupted in approval, and the evening air was filled with applause and cheers in appreciation of the show.

I love Brazil.

(The top photo is taken from my hotel window. The hotel was under renovation, so the whole building was wrapped in a semi-transparent gauze-like material. The photo that came out of it reminded me of a painting my brother might do.)

Thanksgivings Past

Last week we spent Thanksgiving at the beach in Ventura and it was fantastic. As we were sitting down for dinner looking out over the ocean, I thought of Khartoum, Sudan, where I spent the first Thanksgiving of our marriage. I was working for USAID and left two weeks after our Honeymoon for six weeks in Sudan, where we were working on the Darfur crisis.

While in Sudan, we all lived in a house a few miles from the U.S. Embassy, which I called "Real World Khartoum." One man, Jim, had been there for months, and cooking was his outlet. He decided to prepare a big Thanksgiving dinner for all of us, and and he even ordered a Turkey for $300 that was flown in all the way from Amsterdam on the biweekly KLM flight.

Although the Turkey made the flight, it never made it beyond the airport in Khartoum, where overzealous Sudanese customs agents suspected our prize cargo of carrying bird flu and incinerated our turkey (along with Jim's last hope at sanity). Somehow a frozen Turkey from Amsterdam was a bigger threat and a higher priority for them than genocide in Darfur...

Since the embassy was closed on Thanksgiving, we took a rare day off (we were working seven days a week) and organized a trip to some pyramids along the Nile at a place called Meroe up near the Egyptian border. So I spent Thanksgiving morning on camelback riding through the Sudanese desert.

And when we got home, Jim had managed to find some chicken in a little market in Khartoum and we had a fine Thanksgiving after all. I don't think I would recommend Thanksgiving (or Spring Break, for that matter) in Khartoum, but it made for a memorable holiday.

Beijing Revisited

Kim wanted to bring bring Shawn Johnson home with us. She is so tiny she easily would have fit in my carry on. On a somewhat unrelated note, we were thinking about bringing a few Chinese babies home with us at one point, but it turns out we won't need to steal one anymore.
Kim took this fantastic picture of Usain Bolt after he demolished the world record in the 100m. However, during this politically charged season, I must warn you: his first name is awfully close to "Hussein", which might mean he pals around with terrorists. Sarah Palin told me that.
They held the Olympic equestrian events in Hong Kong so we ended up going there for a quick trip. Too quick. That city is amazing.
This is part of the closing ceremony. I was told that BOCOG (organizing committee) built a replica Bird's Nest stadium on the outskirts of Beijing just so they could practice this show while the Bird's Nest was being used for Track & Field events. I would have believed that if the same people hadn't told me the Chinese women's gymnasts were all 16 years old.

Elizabeth's Wedding

We were in Salt Lake in early September for Elizabeth's and Brady's wedding. I can't say much for the Florence boys, but the Florence girls sure turned out pretty well. Isn't Elizabeth a beautiful bride?

The wedding was beautiful and the reception at the Mountain House was perfect.
Mr. and Mrs. Brady Ashdown
Brady, Elizabeth, and the next generation of Florences. I love this picture.
Here is the original cast. From left, Nathan, Andrew, Elizabeth, Susanna, Paul, and Alex.

Beijing 2008

We went to China for the Olympics. We took over 1,000 pictures but don't worry, I won't post them all. Even if I could figure out how to post more than 4 at a time on this blog. No wonder I don't post more often.
Kim (yes, I'm using her real name now. She never reads this, so it's not like it matters) doesn't like this picture, but I do.
There were 91,000 of these guys deployed in Beijing on the night of Opening Ceremonies alone. Sweet crowd control.

Kim fell in love with this guy. That's okay, I guess I did too.

Wanderings

While the Hotbed has obviously cooled over the last few weeks, we have a good excuse. We were on the road for most of the month of May. I started the trek in the Middle East, where I made my way from Dubai to Abu Dhabi to Bahrain to Saudi Arabia to Kuwait to Qatar. After the Middle East I had some meetings in Paris, so Agnes met me there. For some reason it took me several days to convince Agnes to fly to Paris in the springtime where everything but the flight would be covered on the company's dime, but I eventually won out. I think she was holding out for better company, but she finally gave in.

For those of you are ever planning on traveling anywhere, talk to Agnes first. She is the ultimate traveler and a fantastic trip planner. We saw most of Paris in a few action-packed days. But keep in mind, Agnes' tours are not for the faint of heart. I think we walked about 20 miles a day. Luckily she let me stop for crepes, macaroons, ice cream, and a lot of other snacks along the way.

On the last day we were there, ALL the museums in the city were free and open until 2 AM. We would still be living somewhere in one of the museums like in "From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler" if it were up to Agnes. If you don't know that book, read it now.

As for Saudi Arabia, it has to be the strangest place I've ever been. The Saudis may not like Americans, but they LOVE American things, like Chevy Caprices and Applebee's. And while you can't get Applebee's riblets anywhere in the Kingdom (I think you can get beheaded for ordering pork), you can get jalapeno poppers.

Oh, and the next time you pay $4.50 a gallon for gas, try to think of a rich Kuwaiti or Saudi sheikh in his Prada ski suit learning to ski in the brand-new indoor ski resort in Dubai, and take comfort in the knowledge that you're paying for it.

Dream On

This morning as I was getting up for work, Agnes rolled over and told me in a groggy voice filled with concern that she hadn't slept very well. The following conversation ensued:

Paul: Why didn't you sleep well?
Agnes: I was having some really bad dreams.
Paul: Oh really? What did you dream about?
Agnes: I dreamed that your mom died, and then we went out to dinner, and over dinner you told me you were a transvestite. And while you were telling me, the waitress told us that our car had been towed.
Paul: Don't worry, honey, two out of three of those things never happened.

Relieved, Agnes rolled over and went back to sleep. And I slipped on on my favorite pair of fishnets and stilettos and tiptoed out the door to work.

(Okay, that very last part isn't true, but the rest happened exactly as I described it here. Oh, and instead of "transvestite", she said "trannie")

Moving On

Last week, after a magical year in Sausalito, we packed up and moved south across the Golden Gate Bridge to the city. Like many moves, this one came with mixed feelings. We love our new place in San Francisco, but we already miss our sleepy little town. I miss seeing the sun creep up over Angel Island as I get ready for work, turning the bay from silver to gold. And I miss watching the the evening fog spill over the headlands, tumbling down the steep green hills and getting tangled in the trees above our house. But I don't miss spending $4/gallon on gas and filling up the car every week!

Do You Know This Man?

We just got back from a quick weekend getaway to the beach to meet up with family. Highlights included flautas, a long bike ride with Nathan along a 60-mile section of the Tour of California route, hanging with Nathan and Marian, freezing cold ocean water, hearing about GK and Susanna's New York adventures, racing Maisie on the beach, and of course, this dude on the left.

This is Paul, and we have the same name. Other than a professional baseball player that I found when I googled myself (come on, you know you've done it) he is the only person I have come across with my same name. His parents took a gamble by giving him this name, because besides meaning "Little One," it can carry a lot of baggage. But Small Paul has transcended all that, and at one month shy of his fourth birthday, is much cooler than I'll ever be. I won't claim that I'm his very best friend (according to Paul, that title belongs to the starfish in the red bucket he's holding) but we are pretty good buddies.

Tour of California

Last week, the Tour of California, the biggest bike race in the country, rolled through our town. Actually, it started in our town. We spent the morning walking around checking out the action. To be more specific, Agnes followed me around while I gawked at the awesome bikes and at the famous racers who warming up on our street. At one point, Agnes asked me if I ever wished I was a professional bike racer. I guess the fact that I took over 200 pictures that morning answered her question.

There Will be Blood

A couple of nights ago, my wife, Agnes (not her real name, but since she has banned me from mentioning her by name on the blog, this is her blog alias) and I were winding down in the kitchen late on a Saturday night. We still hadn't cleaned up from Christmas and Agnes accidentally swung her hand directly into the broken bulb of a battery-powered Christmas candle which had fallen and broken a few days before. I had picked it up off the floor and put it on the shelf, planning on throwing it away later. Unfortunately, I never got around to it, and the jagged bulb sliced deep into her left hand. By the time we got to the sink to wash it off, she was bleeding bad and it was obvious she needed stitches. It was almost midnight when we wrapped her bloody hand in a dish towel and sped to the hospital.

We got to the hospital, checked in a couple of times (this ER had a multi-stage check-in process for some reason) and waited for about 30 minutes before they took us down the hall past two sheriff's deputies and into a room. It turns out our new neighbor was a prisoner from San Quentin. He moaned and screamed for the next 2 hours as we sat and waited for a doctor to come stitch up Agnes' hand. After a while, an orderly or a nurse or a hospital technician (I'm not really sure if those are even real positions in the ER) came in and prepped Agnes' hand, brought in some supplies, and warned me that I was more likely to faint than Agnes was. We laughed at that, because you would have to be pretty lame to faint in the ER.

After a while, I started to get bugged because I forgot a book to read and I had already read all the latest articles on the '08 primaries on my blackberry and Prison Mike next door wouldn't shut up. Finally the doctor came in and she took off the bloody dish towel and started to stitch up Agnes' hand. I stood up to get a better view and was surprised at how ragged the cut was. That's all I kept thinking. "Wow, that's a really ragged cut." After a couple of minutes of watching, a wave of nausea hit me and it felt like someone had turned up the thermostat to 150 degrees. I took off my sweatshirt and felt like I was going to throw up so I sat back down. I started to feel even more dizzy and the doctor stopped stitching and looked over at me to see what was wrong. She told me to put my head down between my knees, and I heard her say, "Wow, he's really pale." I slumped over in my little ER chair but I felt like I was underwater and her voice had a strange echo. I heard the shuffling of feet and before I knew it, my head was cradled in the ample bosom of a large Hispanic nurse, who rocked me gently as she lowered me to the floor. I remember hearing her say "he's going, he's going," in her gravely smoker voice.

The next thing I knew, I was lying on the floor, looking up at a semi-circle of doctors and nurses standing over me smiling. "You fainted," the bosom cradler proudly announced. As she shuffled off to get me crackers and apple juice, I heard Agnes, still being stitched up, ask me if I was okay. They helped me up and put me in a gurney directly across from her so she could laugh at me while they worked on her hand.

When they finished with her stitches, I overheard the doctor tell her two things: first, she couldn't believe my brother was an ER doctor, and second, I wasn't allowed to drive home. So after nearly three hours in the ER, I sheepishly walked out of the hospital and got into the passenger seat so my injured wife could drive me home with her one good hand.

As we drove, I told Agnes that my fainting episode qualified as one of my most embarrassing moments. Funny, my all-time most embarrassing moment was also in a hospital. I was eighteen years old, groggily coming out of elbow surgery, I awoke to a room full of 20-year-old nursing students, who were there to watch and learn how to take out a catheter. Sorry, I'm still not ready to blog about that one.

Identity Crisis

My wife said I could have a blog for Christmas, but this gift came with a list of conditions I had to honor before the blog was born:

1. She would not post, read, be asked to read, be asked to visit, or even be mentioned by name in said blog. So as far as I understand it, this blog is basically the bastard offspring of a cyber pre-nup and a restraining order. Is that weird? I'm sure it will get weirder.

2. The blog must be called the "Hotbed of Genius."

Obviously, wife does not like blogs and has no interest in participating in what she has referred to as "online scrapbooking" or "glorified Christmas cards." But I do have to say that I like the name she gave to this blog. It came from a travel book we read while we were getting ready to go to Scotland in November. The book described Edinburgh as a "hotbed of genius," which we loved. Besides, it is better than the first name she suggested for the blog, which was "Stare hard, retard."

Maybe this blog is a way for me to come to grips with being in my 30s. These days I don't even recognize myself. I am losing my hair at an alarming rate (actually it is just migrating south to my back), I know what a 401K is (sort of), and I read Russian literature for fun. What went wrong?

So a recent work trip to LA only fueled my budding identity crisis. The meetings were held at the Disney Studios in Burbank, and on the first day I drove my rental car slowly through the striking writer's guild and made my way to the security booth. They asked for ID so they could print me a badge. The Disney badge they gave me had a photo and everything, so I was impressed (I am easily impressed). Only later did I notice my name:

Ladies and gentlemen, meet Paul Feorofe. I looked around at some of the other people attending the meetings, and the security guy got their names right, so I'm not sure what happened. And the guy in the booth took my name from my driver's license, so it wasn't like he was trying to read my terrible handwriting or anything like that. Other than the F, the dude wasn't even close. What kind of name is Feorofe, anyway? I think it might be Scotch-Romanian. Or possibly Comanche Indian.

So the next day I was curious if the dude in the booth would get it right. My interest was piqued when I saw that it was a different guard on day two. Would I be Paul Feorofe again? No, even better.

Paul Orekct. There's really not very much I can say about that, except that Paul Orekct is an awesome name. Maybe they were giving me a stage name. After all, I was in Hollywood.

Or maybe Disney just has a really awesome security program that is so high-level that they give you an alias when you check in. I guess it would make sense, most of the Disney guys I met with were former CIA people anyway. But still, Paul Orekct. That is fantastic.

So stay tuned. Paul Feorofe, er, I mean Paul Orekct may have more to say. Too bad Mrs. Feorofe-Orekct hates blogs, she might enjoy this.