Ben Sollee and His Haunting Cello

Fifteen dollars.  In Clarendon, $15 can buy you three cucumbers, a kale bunch, and sushi roll from Whole Foods or you can walk a block over and give it to the door guy at the Iota Music Club and feed your soul with something good instead.

I had not heard of Ben Sollee before.  However, as I was in a crowd-following mood, I noticed that Iota seemed really popular this particular evening and thought I would go check out what the hype was all about.

A preppy nerd appeared on the stage with his cello.  In high school, this would have been the look you were trying to avoid, but he adjusted his black framed glasses and belted out a tune.  Wow -- no one would dare stuff Ben Sollee's amazing voice.  It's the kind that an audio recording just can't do any justice.   

But then there's his cello.  When he plays a solo on this instrument, it is haunting.  The rest of the room is silent in listening to this eery poem. 

Originally from Kentucky, his music is a blend of bluegrass, folk, and jazz.  But there is something cool, modern, and totally hip about the guy.

Ben Sollee performs as part of a trio.  He's accompanied by Jordon Ellis on percussion and, in this particular show, the fantastic Phoebe Hunt on the fiddle. When you watch her on stage, she has these moments where she just seems like she's in her own world.  The music surges out of her soul.

Ben and troupe are out promoting their newly-released record, Inclusions.  However, if he's passing through your town, go catch his beautiful performance in person.  

I love it when a random night of wandering provides quite a treasure.

Avocado Summer Salad

I love avocado!  This is a great healthy side dish for a summer BBQ.  It is like unmashed guacamole.

2 Avocados
Juice of 1 Lime
Juice of 1 Lemon
1 tsp Cumin
1/2 tsp Garlic Powder
1/2 tsp Adobe Powder
1/4 tsp Sea Salt
1 cup Edamame
1/2 cup Peas (frozen)
1/2 cup Corn (frozen)
1/2 cup Grape Tomatoes
1/4 cup Red Onions


Make the citrus dressing by mixing the lime juice, lemon juice, cumin, garlic powder, adobe powder, and salt.  Pour over the diced avocados.  Add the remaining ingredients.  Allow to sit in the refrigerator to marinade and chill for at least 2 hours.

Serves 6.

Race Report: A Novice Gives Her First Real Tri

DC Triathlon -- Almost 5 months of training and today was the big day.  I woke up at 3:45am, body glided the heck out of myself, put my trisuit on, and grabbed my pre-packed transition bag as I headed out the door for the start of my first triathlon.  After a police-escorted (totally fun) ride through DC from Athlete Registration to the transition area the day before, She-Ra was parked and waiting for my arrival.  I inflated her tires and put all of my gear out.

Swim

At 7:00am, it was time for the Sprint waves to start.  I asked someone to zip up my "race fit" (aka:  really tight) wetsuit, put my goggles on and tucked my hair into my green cap.  I stood in a group with several other women wearing their green caps.  We were permitted to head to the swim start by colored waves (determined according to gender/age group) and jumped off the dock two at a time.  Out of fear of this being my last breath and needing someone to identify my body, I introduced myself to my jumping partner before I plunged into the murky Potomac River.

When I resurfaced, I was gleeful realizing that I wasn't getting kicked in the face by the hundred other athletes who could swim faster than me.  Instead, by jumping two at a time, we could get out of the way before the next set of swimmers made their plunges as well.   

I swam towards my first large orange buoy.  It was as big as my urban bedroom in a town where square footage is at a premium.  It didn’t matter if you broke your prescription-goggles right before the race, these were not to be missed. 

After spending the past 6 weeks in a series of panic attacks whenever I hit the water, I shamelessly admit that I spent half of my swim in a calm-inducing backstroke and 30 seconds hanging off the side of one of the safety kayaks "de-fogging my goggles."

Relief brought a huge smile to my face when I scrambled back onto the dock after completing 800 meters.  I banana-peeled myself out of my wetsuit and ran back to the transition area to grab She-Ra.

Bike

With my helmet strapped on, I ran through the grass in my wobbly cleats towards the beginning of the start line.  All of the USAT rules ran through my head while I rode down the street yelling, "On your left please."  It's cyclist-polite for "Get out of my way!"  

Speed demon, right?  Wrong.  I watched an athlete pass me while riding with no hands on his handlebars.  Oh well, at least I was outriding SOME people.

I came across my first hairpin U-turn.  I had to be totally controlled while hoping that everyone knew what they were doing too.  I liked it!  I grunted while trying to stand on my pedals to get them going quickly again.  You know...because I think I'm a speed demon!

Then, the purrr of a motor came up from behind.  I checked my position since I knew a race official was on the back of that motorcycle.  Just like when you pass a police car on the highway, you automatically slow down even though you have no idea what your actual speed is, I automatically slid to the side to make sure it didn't even remotely look like I was drafting behind anyone.  Officer, I swear I sneezed and accidentally ended up behind the other bike in perfect alignment.  I was not drafting!

Run

All of the technical hairpin U-turns on the bike were a lot of fun.  However, it's just not as much fun in running.  Out and back, out and back, out and back, out and back…at one point, I found myself apologizing to the runners around me for cursing after realizing there was yet another out and back to go through. 

Sometimes you are faced with that imminent life-changing fork in the road of life.  I came across that fork this day.  Sprint or International?  Sprint please!  I followed the Sprint distance fork in the road as if I was sliding down the Rainbow Trail shortcut in a game of Candyland.  Weeeee....

Finish line  

Friends and family greeted me at the finish line.  For their patience, they each got a huge sweaty hug.  I collected my medal and thought to myself...boy, I'm glad that's done! 

Lifetime List of Things to Do:  Complete a Triathlon.  *Check!*

Just give me a few days before I decide on my next race. 

Some People Get a Bike Fitting and Don't Need One...

Then, some of us don't get a bike-fitting, but apparently need one.  I'm in the latter.

Since I am a begginer cyclist, I did not know if it would be worthwhile to get a professional bike-fitting yet, but all the stars happened to line up just right so that I won one in a raffle drawing.

I brought my bike over and spent 3 hours with Josh Frick at CycleLife in Georgetown getting measured, analyzed by a computer, tested on my flexibility, and observed on my riding technique.  I left the process with a lot more knowledge about my own physical makeup -- for example, the reason my left foot is even more flat-footed than my right foot is because my left leg is about 6 mm longer than my right leg (for real?).  He raised my seat BY INCHES and changed out my handlebars so I was no longer doing a push-up trying to straddle the bars for dear life.  The result was that my upper body felt much more open.  In addition, with my legs stretched out to an efficient length, my cadence improved by 10%.

(Holy crap!)  They weren't kidding when they said a professional bike-fitting would be worth it. 

Thanks, CycleLife and Josh!

Posse

In Costa Rica, there was "Pura Vida." 

In Haiti, it is "Posse."  This means "Chillin" and is a perfect word for a state of mind here. 

Sak pase?  Posse.

On the drive back from Jacmel, our van was hit with a torrential rainpour.  The roads turned into shallow rivers.  Umbrella-less pedestrians rolled their pantlegs up and covered their heads with whatever they had...showercaps, handtowels, plastic sheets....  Cars, vans, and trucks pretended to be Haitian boats and trudged slowly along.

I watched three men piled on one motorcycle fall into the water when the bike went up in an accidental wheelie.  My vanmates laughed and the poor guys luck.  Then, *THUD* our van hit a pothole.  Karma for our laughter hit us 40 minutes later when we were stranded on the side of the road.  Our driver scooped rainwater up to poor into our overheated engine.

After having been crammed into the van for 3 hours, I rolled out of the van with some of my vanmates.  We realized we were at least two hours from home.  There was nothing we could do, but posse.

So, we participated in our favorite pasttime while waiting for our engine to cool...we opened some Prestige and waved at Blancs as they drove by.  Did you know that the door latch in the side panel of a van door makes a perfect bottle opener?  After a couple of beers, it was a fun evening. 

Poossssseeeeee!!!

Trinity House and the Stinkin' Cute Kids

A daytrip to Jacmel brought a welcome break.  It was my first trip to Trinity House, the third home in the St. Joe’s Family trio.  Trinity House is a home for 25 former boy slaves.  It is also a daytime school to 110 of the neighboring children, many of whom may still be in current child slave situations.  Trinity House provides two meals, an education, and clean clothes to children who may otherwise be in situations where this is not provided.

I took a tour of the school and disrupted the classrooms with some candy breaks.  As soon as I walked into the courtyard, several gleeful five year olds rushed towards me – each with the goal to grab one of my hands.  They looked at me with wide eyes and huge smiles.  This is what amazes me about the Haitian people.  It does not matter how little they have, they are happy for what they do have.  

One look at these innocent smiles and you wanted to empty your pockets into the school.  They chased me around from room to room.  They wanted your return smile and approval.  It was the least I could give them.

A tour of the facility included the bakery and neighboring land where the Trinity House plans to expand its coffee operation and living quarters to house more children/volunteers.  Now, what does a bakery and coffee have to do with impoverished children?  Trinity House is fortunate to have many American supporters to help provide its funding.  However, Michael wants Trinity House to provide an income for itself as well.  As a result, they are building a bakery and teaching the people how to professionally bake, roast and bag coffee, and also manage a business. 

Two hours later, a fresh baguette and loaf of bread were hot from the oven and ready for me to bring back home.  A whiff of it told me they would be divine.  In addition, the bakery manager gave me her email so that I could send recipes to help grow the business.  I wish them lots of success as they teach the community something new that also will continue to give back to the Jacmel community.

I mean...really...how could you NOT want to help these guys?

No Blanc Here

For entertainment, I sat on a stoop by the main road, drinking Prestige (the local beer), while watching people drive in and out of town with some volunteers and a Haitian worker of the organization we were volunteering at.  Every time we saw a fellow Blanc drive by, we would wave and raise our beers. 

The term Blanc in Kreyol means foreigner.  In French, the literal translation is White.  I think the French translation is more applicable however; as an Asian Woman, I’ve never heard the word “Blanc” being chased after me like it does my Caucasian counterparts in Haiti.  The Blancs tend to draw more attention.  I just get a lot of curiosity about my origination. 

It’s a daily debate that I get into – often more than once a day:

Haitian: "Where you from?"

Me: "The U.S."

Haitian: "You look Japanese or Chinese."

Me: "My family is from Thailand."

Haitian: "Yes, that's what I thought. So, what is your language?"

Me: "English."

Haitian: "No, I don't think so."

I have come to realize that in a country that is predominantly of one race (everyone else is a Blanc), the idea of America the Mixing Bowl is quite foreign.  I have had people accept that I’m Italian (“Thailand” apparently sounds like “Italian”), tell me that I must speak Spanish (something non-English), and flat out tell me that I’m lying before they can accept that I am from the US and English is my primary language.

As a result, on a daily basis, I have learned to change my response from claiming that I am from China to finally explaining that I was born in the US.  Luckily, two for two, the latter finally seems to stick and I am getting fewer looks of confusion now.

Regardless, when someone says Chinwa, I know they are talking about me.