Bay 12 Games Forum

Please login or register.

Login with username, password and session length
Advanced search  
Pages: 1 ... 25 26 [27] 28 29 30

Author Topic: Sandy Fjord  (Read 96283 times)

Kagus

  • Bay Watcher
  • Olive oil. Don't you?
    • View Profile
Re: Sandy Fjord
« Reply #390 on: October 16, 2009, 01:45:25 am »

Well, this was more like walking up to someone, sticking your mouth half an inch from their ear, and then panting heavily.

My guess is that someone else was relatively nearby, and I was trying to limit the amount of speech that would reach them by sticking the microphone as close as possible, then mumbling.


I also listened to a snippet of the next recording, and I apparently try to balance things out by holding the phone at arms length and shouting in the other direction.  Geez, the people I have to work with in this job...

sonerohi

  • Bay Watcher
    • View Profile
Re: Sandy Fjord
« Reply #391 on: October 16, 2009, 07:16:56 am »

You left many terrified Norwegians in your wake. "What's the foreign guy doing?" "He was talking into his phone and then he just started yelling at that tree over there...".
« Last Edit: October 16, 2009, 10:09:29 pm by sonerohi »
Logged
I picked up the stone and carved my name into the wind.

Kagus

  • Bay Watcher
  • Olive oil. Don't you?
    • View Profile
Re: Sandy Fjord
« Reply #392 on: November 05, 2009, 07:05:49 pm »

Progress is, obviously, rather slow at the moment.  Haven't had a good moment to dig into the other recordings, and time is beginning to get rather disturbingly short for me to finish this before the reunion party.  I still haven't forgotten about it though, for all that that's worth.

sonerohi

  • Bay Watcher
    • View Profile
Re: Sandy Fjord
« Reply #393 on: November 08, 2009, 08:30:50 pm »

It is actually worth quite a bit.
Logged
I picked up the stone and carved my name into the wind.

Kagus

  • Bay Watcher
  • Olive oil. Don't you?
    • View Profile
Re: Sandy Fjord
« Reply #394 on: November 09, 2009, 12:41:01 am »

Hehe.  Well, if anyone has any questions about...  well, pretty much anything about the school year, I'd be happy to address them at this point.  It's just the actual, y'know, updating that's been a bit problematic lately.

Kagus

  • Bay Watcher
  • Olive oil. Don't you?
    • View Profile
Re: Sandy Fjord
« Reply #395 on: November 14, 2009, 07:45:06 pm »

Day ????, Misunderstandimating - Cienfuegos, baby.

<<This day's recording is horribly difficult to listen to, as it sounds like I locked the phone in a chest somewhere, buried it, walked fifteen feet away and then started talking.   Some words have been lost>>

"Bus ride, today...  ?Hlug? fun, ?frounding? nothing...  Getting tired.  Listen to the tour guide babble on about...  ?Comp? of ?frrfnly? dull stuff.  -ut, I have a morning tree(???), ?gna? always nice.  Oh, yeah, free.  Went around a bit...  Uhh, ?havnshrenshniyart-draknasterfubble?(?????).  There's a GUARD."

<<That's most of the first minute of the recording.  Now you know what I'm up against>>

<<Final Note: This recording is apparently a partial rehashing of some days where I didn't put up a recording.  As such, dates have also been lost.  I assume this has something to do with Draknasterfubble syndrome.  I will attempt to patch up what parts of the story I can>>


...I had just gotten up, and my roommate was still busy sleeping off all the riotous good times we had last night (amazing how sitting and chatting will tire a soul out).  I decided to let him sleep a while longer, so I took the guitar and sat down outside to enjoy what may or may not have been the morning.

The guard from last night <<Note: A guard had come by while we were sitting out on the veranda, and started talking with us.  He was not very comfortable speaking English, and he seemed to be a bit shy (for a Cuban) in any case, so we naturally took to him quite well.  My roommate later informed me that the guard had come by before when he was the only one sitting out there, and had asked him if he could buy one of my roommate's cigars.  My roommate, liking the guard, agreed to sell him a Cohiba (three-pack for ~30 CUC) for 3 CUC.  Only later did he find out he had paid not with CUC, but with Cuban Pesos, worth 1/25 of a CUC.  Suddenly, my roommate wasn't quite so fond of the guard anymore>> came by, and commented on my playing. 

We got to talking about music, and then he mentioned that he had brought his girlfriend around to our place last night to hear me play, but I wasn't there (curfew at 11 MAKES NO SENSE in Cuba).

Now how about that?  Some dude hears a tourist playing guitar at the resort he works at, and he goes to bring his girlfriend around for a mini-concert.  "Flattered" isn't quite the word to accurately describe my reaction.

Also, the prospect of coming around again later was right out, as this was the last day we would be spending at the resort.  We had to pack up and head off that afternoon.

He looked a bit crestfallen (whether this was because he couldn't get to hear me play or because he couldn't buy anymore dirt-cheap cigars, I'm not sure).  After that, we talked for a while longer and then he went off on his patrols.


My roommate and I made the absolute most out of our remaining time at the resort.  By, of course, doing as little as possible and achieving levels of chill previously thought impossible by the scientific community (ha!  Take that, professor Draknasterfubble!).

When the buses came around to pick us up, we had a quick last-minute stockup of necessary supplies (soft drinks and snack food) for the trip.  I managed to purchase a 2-liter bottle of fizzy lemon-lime, which was easily my favorite drink so far encountered in Cuba (aside from the fresh-squeezed orange juice, of course).  Needless to say, score.  It cost an exorbitant amount of cash though.

The trip was wildly uneventful.  Around four in the afternoon though, we stopped by for "a wide assortment of Happy Fun Activities" in the lovely town of Cienfuegos.

This, of course, meant we should walk around and stare at IMPORTANT HISTORICAL STATUES AND STUFF for a while, before being herded up into some old abandoned tower where we could pick between Salsa lessons or going to a football (soccer) match.  The tower in question did, however, have a rather interesting top floor.

Everyone picked football.  No, seriously, of the entire 90-some person school, five people chose Salsa.  I think that most people were just sick of the music at this point in the trip, having had it blasted at them from every conceivable direction for about a week now.


So, we went to a nice, enjoyable football match, in a stadium with plenty of seats to accommodate any number of visitors and a shade roof to protect them from the murderous sun.

Spoiler: Yeah, right (click to show/hide)

Notice how we are not in the stands.  Notice how there is in fact a backlog of people trying to force themselves into the stands.  Notice how we're standing in the middle of the sun just on the other side of an almost head-high wall from the game.

The only way we could see the match was to peek through those tiny little holes cut into the side of the wall, allowing us to see maybe two or three players at a time, if we were lucky and they happened to be standing right in front of the hole.

However, most of the holes were already taken. 

Instead, we just watched the people, and figured out what was going on by looking at their reactions.  This was entertaining for about, ooh, fifteen seconds.  Roughly the amount of time it took to feel like your skin was about to deep-fry itself.

The match boiled down to this:  Attempt to find viewing spot, give up on finding viewing spot, sit in shade for several minutes, leave.  I wonder how the Salsa-ers were doing.


After Cienfuegos, we hurled our fleshy consistencies back onto the bus and carried on towards hotel numero tres, which was supposed to be just so much better than the ones before (several skeptics were spawned from this comment, as most of us were in agreement that the resort was frikkin' awesome).

The bus trip proved to be like many others in its form.  Namely, a dull trip highlighted only by the incessant banter of our tour guide.  If you think history in your own country is dull, think about listening to the history of a place you have absolutely no relation with.

But, after scouring my back for several moments, I was able to re-relocate the earbuds to my phone, at which point Cuba's proud national history of trees and shrubs was drowned out by Alice In Chains and Blue Öyster Cult.  I settled back into my seat, happy that I was afforded at least one luxury today.


Unfortunately, I had forgotten to charge my phone the day before.  So I was afforded only a few minutes before my phone starved to a tragic death, right in the middle of Rotten Apple.

Welp, back to how many mulattoes you can fit in one coconut palm.


Near the hotel, we were awarded with an unusual sight to break the monotony.  A wildfire was blazing off in the distance.  My roommate whipped out the videocamera and began taking footage of the event (we were assigned the camera for that day.  We were supposed to film stuff).

Ever tried filming something far away?  How about while riding on a bus?  How about while riding on an old, cheap bus that's driving over a road filled with holes and unreasonably large pebbles?

Sadly, that footage was of little use.  The window was far too dirty to see anything.


The hotel was...  Well, as a hotel in and of itself, it was quite nice.  Very nice, in fact.  Compared to the last one?  Yeah, uh.....  No.

Still though, service was still all-inclusive.  This meant as many pineapple(-ish) slushies as we could manage, thanks to a crushed-ice machine.  Of note, however, are the wristbands themselves.  At the previous hotel, the wristbands were a smooth gray/silver.  At this hotel, they are EYE-POPPINGLY ORANGE.  If more people wore these things, vehicular-pedestrian accidents would drop by at least 64%.

After settling into our accommodations, my roommate and I decided to nab a guitar and sit out on the balcony.  It was nice, but it just didn't have the same effect as the last resort...

Unsatisfied with the non-rocking chairs, we set out to find where the action was, as there at least should be some action to be found nearby.

Turns out there was.  Down by the pool and bar, a little stage had been set up, and someone was putting on a show for the gathered audience of hotel residents.  The show itself was interactive, with several audience members who had (been) volunteered standing up on the stage along with the host.  We found a couple spare seats and sat down.

The first show we were privy to was apparently the finishing round of some sort of contest.  Three volunteers were attempting to sing "Guantanamera"... 

...through a mouthful of water.  Much hilarity and choking ensued.


After that contest was over a magician came out who was neither particularly magic nor Ian.  He tried to get a volunteer to do the same trick as he was doing, of course without telling him the trick to doing it properly (holding a small, unknotted rope inside a bottle while swinging it around).  Much hilarity and rope-dropping ensued.

Once these shows had finished, the announcer came up again and said happily "You know what we need now?  we need some music!  Do we have any musicians in the audience tonight?"

I was just starting to get into the show, and had relaxed enough to enjoy the somewhat banal performances.  As such, I was intrigued by what they would pull up for this next event.  Then, a horrible realization dawned on me.

I'd brought the guitar down from our room.  I was, in fact, holding it upright next to my chair.


Several frantic seconds followed, in which I attempted to shove the guitar at my roommate, who shoved it right back at me.  I tried to hide it, but too late, the announcer had seen me.  And as soon as he found me, the rest of the audience turned around in their seats to see who he was pointing at.

Bugger.


The crowd cried out for blood music, and I was summoned to the stage.  Once there, the announcer asked my name (took me a couple tries to figure out what he was saying), got it wrong when introducing me to the crowd, and then got me to sit down in a chair while I was set up with two microphones.  One for the guitar, one for me (HA. HA HA HA. HILARIOUS).

So, there I was.  All manner of lights were directed at me, giving light to areas of my mildly unwashed demeanor that they probably never needed to see.  All sound I made was fed into a speaker system of monolithic proportions so as to broadcast to all those in the assembled audience.  And audience that was more than ready to see yet another "volunteer" have his dignity sacrificed for their amusement.

Well, f**k 'em. 


I started to play the latin-esque number I'd been doodling with for most of the trip, and that had apparently impressed the resort guard to the point that he brought along his girlfriend to listen to me. 

The audience's collective expression changed from expectant bloodlust to surprised, and then mildly impressed.  I'd apparently even managed to grab the attention of the crotchety old Cuban who had been drinking at the bar and looking the other way.

I played two 'things' (can't really call them songs), which were really just variations of each other, and ended them both in a mildly comic fashion (I managed to flub up both times just at the end, so I figured I'd make something humorous out of it and flail around in a hilarious fashion).  It's really tricky playing stuff like that, since there's no defined end.  I had no idea when I should stop.  Luckily, I stopped before I was stopped.

In any event, I ended up winning a giant colorful cocktail for my trouble.  A worthy trophy, to be certain, but, ah... 

I of course couldn't drink it.  School policy.  I had to just leave it behind, most likely to get flushed down the drain.  What a ridiculous rule, especially seeing as it had already been pushed aside on a couple occasions.  Blighters.

Not that I was particularly keen on getting schnockered, mind you.  I just don't like not having the freedom to at least taste the damn thing, or share it with my friends.  Heck, I even offered it to the teacher.  I mean, I won the damn thing, I wouldn't want it to just go to waste.


After the performance, the announcer got my name again so that he could once again (get it wrong) 'introduce' me to the audience, and mention the possibility of bringing me up to do another performance some other night.

I leaned forward and said "Don't count on it" into the microphone, but it had already been cut off.  Durn.


Ach vel, such is the life of a musician.  You're dragged around to bare your soul to hordes of faceless people, and never get the chance to really speak your mind.  Only difference is, with a real musician, they actually get to drink the stupid three-tiered cocktails.  Meep.


End of day Draknasterfubble.


<< Author's Note:  I honestly have no idea what I'm saying on that part of the recording>>

Kagus

  • Bay Watcher
  • Olive oil. Don't you?
    • View Profile
Re: Sandy Fjord
« Reply #396 on: November 19, 2009, 07:31:30 pm »

Day after, Who's Your Trinidaddy?.

With the relaxation period apparently having been left behind at the previous hotel, we were called awake early the next morning for some more "Delightful and Historic Exploration of Fantastic Happy Cuba", also known as "This is Trinidad".

Before reaching our funducational destination, we stopped off at a pottery shop.  It was here that we were allowed to hypnotize our still-sleepy minds by staring into the spinning potter's wheel as one of the artisans made mugs, pots and bowls with startling rapidity.

We also got to look at the wares already for sale on the shelves.  This collection included a staggering assortment of bowls, bowl-shaped plates, bowl-like pots, faux-bowl cups and 'I-Can't-Believe-It's-Not-Bowl' spittoons.  Plus a disturbingly large (in more ways than one) assortment of phallic figurines (including a frog who was frighteningly well endowed for an amphibian).

For as interesting as this was, there was a slight hangup.  The bus had been waiting outside, and was acting as a sort of high-powered beacon marking its location as a site of rampant tourism.  By the time we left the shop, there was a veritable flock of street peddlers waiting for us.  Within moments we were engulfed by a horde of large, sweaty women shoving bowl necklaces with bowl adornments and miniature bowls within the bowls into our faces, screeching "FIVE PESO!  VERY GOOD, FIVE PESO!" at us.

Naturally, some students of the feminine persuasion decided to pick up a few of the things.  I used this is a distraction to get back within the "safe zone" of the bus and our rather intimidating driver.


After the pottery shack, we ventured into Trinidad, a very historic city known for its uneven cobblestone streets and its, uh...   Historicalness.  I'm still not entirely sure why Trinidad is supposed to be so historic.  My guess is that it's just because it's really really old.

Now, by 'cobblestone', I of course mean 'a bunch of rocks and random debris chucked out of windows for long enough to make something that looks almost like a street'.  There was no mortar, no standardized size of stone, not even any rounded stones, or anything smaller than your fist.  Just large chunks of rock and pieces torn off of the nearby buildings.


It was in Trinidad that we walked around for a bit, saw a couple locations that were recommended to us as awesome places to go and hang out 'cause they're awesome (we would, of course, never go to these places), and then were promptly dropped off with a bit of "free time" to find our own interests before the buses came back.  Exhibiting some staggeringly high levels of creativity and independence, we stood around in a cluster and squinted aimlessly in various directions.  I took this time to scratch a small dog that had wandered along.

A few of us wandered off down one of the roads until we came across this semi-vacant lot.  Inside the lot were several chickens, a couple benches, and a band of old fogies who were rockin' it out like the revolution was still going on.  We sat down for a while and listened.

Since this was relatively late in the Cuba trip, most folks were sick and tired of Salsa music.  And since these guys were playing all the traditional favorites, it was my guess that I was the only one actually listening to them play.  The others just like staring at old people.

Since the group seemed rather proficient at what they did, and since they did a nice version of what was one of the two traditional songs I actually somewhat enjoyed, I decided to splurge and pick up a CD (which, upon later inspection, could have had its production quality mimicked by taking some sheet metal and yelling at it until it started to vibrate).  After this purchase we piled onto the bus to head back to the hotel.


<<Author's Note:  The rest of this recording is utterly incomprehensible, and I don't really remember what happened after we got back from Trinidad, so that's going to have to be it for today.  Might just have sat out by the pool and had a few sodas with the gang.  Also of note is that there are only two recordings left, although the last one is rather lengthy.  This means we're getting pretty durn close to the end of the Cuba trip, so I can finally wrap up the end of school, complete with shocking revelation.  Cheers>>

End(ish) of Day after.

Kagus

  • Bay Watcher
  • Olive oil. Don't you?
    • View Profile
Re: Sandy Fjord
« Reply #397 on: December 08, 2009, 06:27:13 pm »

Day whatever-it-is, Frankenbeans.

After the Trinidad trip, we were informed of a host of enjoyment opportunities for the next day.  We could get up really early, load onto a truck, and get to hike for a couple hours up through the tropical forest to witness a small waterfall (we could even bathe in the mountain-fed water if we so wished.  Yippee!), get up early-ish and get onto a different truck to go horseback riding in circles, or not get up at all and take the day off lounging around the hotel and sunbathing on the beach.

I sometimes feel a little bad about having spent so much time asleep on Cuba.  Then I remember how awesome it was.


After sleeping in a bit (not as much as I had expected though, just enough to miss breakfast), I wandered out into the world in search of a couple free drinks and some time to do nothing of importance.  On my quest, I paused for a moment to think about those who had opted to leave the sanctuary of their beds in order to walk mosquito-infested trails and swim in cold, rock-filled water...  Or those who felt it was somehow rewarding to wear a funky helmet and get their butt intimately acquainted with a small horse.

Can't say I envied them.

To add to the excellence, it was my turn to film that day.  However, the teacher felt that more footage of the hotel would be pointless, what with how much awesomenothingness was going on, so camera duties were assigned to another goon from F&TV who had opted to go on one of the excursions for some reason. 

So, instead of spending the day playing the part of a boring uncle and film everyone doing stuff, I got to lie down on the beach and catch some rays.  Ended up burning myself a tad, but I felt it was an acceptable price to pay for my lethargy allowance.

The day was absolutely, consummately, and gloriously lazy.  I didn't have to do anything!  And it felt spectacular!

Dinnertime rolled around, and I was treated to some of the most massive beans I have ever encountered in my life...  They were so massive that I seriously doubt that they were in fact beans, and were in fact merely bean-shaped amalgamations.   Made from beans. 

Frankenbeans.


Interestingly enough, that was the first time I had (knowingly) eaten beans on Cuba.  This was a surprise to me, not to mention slightly shameful for the Cuban reputation.  I mean, c'mon...  This is CUBA, people!  Beans are one of the four major food groups, along with rum, cigars and fish!  How disappointing...

Norwegians, however, apparently do not accept the divine truth of beans.  I was the only person to ladle up a massive plate of beans and rice (and go back for seconds).  These pansies stuck to the foods that looked familiar to them.  This essentially covered the breadroll platter and the chunk of meat that was being slashed into submission by a couple cooks.

Hey, that just meant more beans for me.  Beans.


Around eight in the evening, we were gathered around the pool for a little information from one of the teachers, regarding the possibility of heading into town (Trinidad) later, as well as just an overview of some of the things to be covered in our last days on Cuba.

And, also, the last days of school.  We had just a couple more days in Cuba before we were set to take off back to Norway, and then it was a matter of a few days before school was officially closed down and we were released.  Permanently.  That was a hell of a lot to process...   And not a particularly pleasant thought.


I fiddled around pointlessly for a bit before the buses showed up and a selection of folks piled on to take a late-night Trinidad trip. Fate decreed that I would not mark this day down as another responsibility expertly dodged, so I was handed the camera to do some filming while we were in town.

The film itself was not particularly film-worthy...  However, I did happen to be sitting just in front of a couple Film and TVers, including the in/famous John Smith.  And, as we all know, John Smith + (anything) = One heck of a wild combination.  Because of this simple law of physics, I was able to make a recording of a delightfully harmonized song about soup and The-Artist-Formerly-Known-As-The-Artist-Formerly-Known-As-Prince.  Only a mind such as John Smith's could fathom a connection between the two...  Inspiring.


Trinidad was dark.  Such is to be expected when it's the middle of the night and you're in a town that's been around since long before electricity.  And, as anyone who has done some filming can attest, darkness does not agree with cameras.  So, even if there was something interesting to film in the late-night streets of Trinidad, nobody would have been able to see it.

However, after a bit of muddled wandering, a fair number of people ended up at Casa Musica (translation: 'A bunch of stone steps with some people playing music between blackouts and lots of old people dancing around') and stuck around to watch the show.  Casa Musica had music, dancing, fast food, and a lit stage.  Realizing my opportunity to do something, I quickly selected an angle, flipped open the view screen and positioned my body so I could hold the camera without too much jostling.

I was able to film for about seven seconds before a massive Cuban waked up to me and, in no uncertain terms, informed me that filming was strictly prohibited.  I went back to my seat (rock).

I'd already heard all the songs the band was playing, and the combination of mediocre sound control and frequent power outages yielded a rather lackluster show. 

Instead, I got most of my entertainment from a surprise visitor.  The small dog from the day before was wandering around again, and apparently found me interesting enough to scamper over for some more tousling and backscratches.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

She was quite mouthy, and I had to find something a little less sensitive than my hand for her to bite into.  My pant leg ended up being a fine substitute for human flesh.  My shoelaces would have been another choice, but she managed to untie the damn things in short order, so I felt it was best to divert her attention to something else.

After a significant amount of time and energy, I managed to play the excess energy out of her and she conked out in my lap, a mouthful of gnawed pantleg still stuck between her teeth.

I had become a pillow.  Prevented from moving, lest I disturb the cute little demon from her slumber.  So, naturally, she had fallen asleep on the part of my leg that makes that entire limb go completely dead after about five minutes of pressure.

Five minutes later, the show ended and people started leaving.  I was still playing pillow to a dog that was showing absolutely no intention of waking up again anytime this week.  Tough decision.

After relocating her as gently as I could, I hobbled after the rest of my schoolmates as they filtered out and around in search of last-minute entertainment before the buses arrived to pick us up again. 

Walking is difficult enough as it is...  Imagine walking with one leg that has fallen asleep from the hip down.  Then add several steps.  Made from cobblestone.  Cobblestone in the loosest possible definition (and placement).  Mix in the fact that you're hurrying in order to catch up to some people so that you aren't left alone in an unfamiliar city in the middle of the night.

Man, that was fun.  Ha ha.


When I made it down the steps, I could see that the students were splitting up into numerous smaller groups for the purpose of spreading out down every last one of Trinidad's many crooked streets.  I couldn't see any cronies from my standard group o' goons, so I ended up tagging along with a mini-group formed by Pirate-Goth, her roommate, and her group's tour guide (whom she had struck up an ongoing conversation with).

I really should know by now what happens when you're the only guy in a group of gals.  Namely, your inferior mind is swept up and dominated by the pervasive psychic Estrogen field and you find yourself being led around mindlessly like a lobotomized dog on a chain while they try on dresses, examine jewelery, and fawn over purely average works of art.  I filmed some of it.

However, this trip was not wholly fruitless, as I was able to make a shocking discovery...  As we all know, any overbearing government will ensure that every wall is equipped with several ears with which to monitor its citizens.  Cuba, not to be outdone, has apparently gone to great lengths to ensure that even the streets have ears.

Unfortunately, they seem to have taken the saying literally.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)


Returning to the hotel, I realized that I had filmed what amounted to about 5-10 seconds of footage, plus the soup song.  This being unacceptable, I hooked up with Hatman and investigated some of this hotel's mysteries...

Our room was at the far end of this long, slightly elevated building set to look out over the coast, so we had to walk all the way down the line of rooms in order to get down to ground level.  Right at the end where the stairs are is this strange box of sorts...

It looks like it's supposed to be a phone booth of sorts, but that theory is dismissed as it is entirely lacking in any sort of phone equipment.  The box doesn't have so much as a power outlet in it.

So, in essence, it is a roofless glass enclosure comparable in size to a phone booth.   With a shelf


With our trained eyes, we immediately recognized this item as something to be filmed.  All we had to do was figure out something to do with it.

The details are difficult to explain (and the essence of that masterpiece cannot be explained with mere words), but suffice to say that it was a dear loss when that footage was not included on the Cuba film.  I hope only that it still exists, somewhere...


I believe we also took the opportunity (it was either that night or the one before) to film a sort of introduction to the new hotel (for the sake of the Cuba film). 

Naturally, this was done via Blair Witch-style horror movie, wherein the unsuspecting filmmaker enters into his new room, makes idiotic comments about the furnishings, pulls aside the curtains to discover a disheveled madman (me) on the balcony, then dies inexplicably.


We called it a night.  Our last one at this hotel, in fact.  The next day will introduce us to the final hotel we will be staying at on Cuba.  Which, according to the teachers, is by far the best one.

And, of course, we value and trust their opinion very highly.  Yeah. 

Beans.


End of Day whatever-it-is.



EDIT: P.S.

I'd just like to add a little something about the maid crew at this particular establishment...  Namely, the fact that they were dedicated and more than a little crazy.

When we left our rooms to wander the hotel grounds, I don't know if we were even expecting them to be made up for us while we were out.  What we got was far more than just a little sheet-pull, however...

This was something I have never, in all my time with hotels, ever experienced.  I've never heard of any cleaning crew take such pride or creative license with their jobs.  Nor have I ever seen a towel that freaked me out more.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)
Spoiler (click to show/hide)
Spoiler (click to show/hide)

We actually got to see the mystery crew behind this one time...  We were just about to take off when they came in.  They walked in to find the room in its standard state of messiness (both Hatman and I are accomplished messmakers.  Working in tandem, we were able to clutter up a room in a matter of seconds.  Although we were fast, however, we still never got nearly as untidy as some of the other students), and proceeded to playfully chide us for messing up their nicely made room and giving them so much extra work to do.

This was, of course, all in Spanish.  But rolling eyes and exasperated pleas to the heavens are part of a universal language.

Kagus

  • Bay Watcher
  • Olive oil. Don't you?
    • View Profile
Re: Sandy Fjord
« Reply #398 on: December 09, 2009, 06:24:11 pm »

Day whatever-it-is +1, Welcome to Hell Hotel.

As with the other hotel switches, we had to get up early (before noon) and load our bags onto the bus, preferably along with our personal selves.  These changes were always great fun, as I'd spend most of the evening before a move checking, rechecking and then re-rechecking my bag to make sure I'd packed everything, then sleep fitfully wondering if I'd forgotten anything, and then get dragged out of my slumber by the alarm telling me to get up and get ready for the ensuing trip.  A perfect combination.

After a couple hours on the road, we were dropped off at one of the absolutely essential points of interest on Cuba, namely the Che Guevara Monument, Memorial and Museum.  I like to call it the 'CheMMM'.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

First on the list was the memorial, where we went into a small room with low lighting, and looked at several plaques showing the (known) names of all the rebels who had been buried here along with their glorious leader.  The room was decorated with quite a fair number of flowers, and Che's sarcophagus had a little flame burning on top of it.  While we were in the room, we were asked to remove our hats and remain silent as a sign of respect for as long as we were in there.

The head kitchen lady apparently didn't get the memo, and immediately started gabbling on about the flowers the moment she stepped inside.  Someone leaned in to whisper that we were supposed to keep quiet, but she's a teensy bit hard of hearing, so the room was filled with a loud "What?" instead of a calming silence as the helpful bystander was forced to repeat the message.  She developed a rather rosy complexion after that little incident.


Moving on, we entered into the museum of Che.  Here we got to see all sorts of various things he had touched during his lifetime, including his hat, his glasses, his pistol, his binoculars, his uniform, his belt...

Speaking of his uniform, Che Guevara was apparently not a particularly large man.  He just ended up being one of those "larger-than-life" characters, I suppose.  The museum also boasted a couple encased pages of Che's diary, as well as numerous photos taken of Che Guevara and his Merry Men.  I think they may very well have had some of his cigars on display as well...


Once we were finished with the museum, everyone was herded outside so we could take our school photo with the monument.

Now, a little word about our dear, beloved principal...   He seems to think he's a photographer.  And, as with everything else he seems to think he is, he most certainly is not.

First, we took a few pictures while on the stone paving of the monument's platform.  This involved crowding together, and kneeling down on the smooth, hard ground.  For the first couple takes, it was uncomfortable.  For the next six, it was brutal.

Everyone was pleading with him to hurry up and take a good one, or to just stop taking them, or to pick a different location.  He just smiled happily to himself and kept shooting, completely oblivious to anything we might have been saying.  When we were finally released, our breath of relief was cut off by his announcement that we would be taking another one down at the foot of the platform.

This, at least was on soft grass.  But now we had a new problem.  In order to fit everyone into the shot (along with part of the monument), we had to line up in about four-five rows of students.  And unlike the photo on the platform, there were no significant elevation differences (steps), so the back couple of rows are completely hidden by the students in front.

A photo is snapped, and we in the back row realize that we will not appear in the photo unless something is done.  We come up with the plan of simply jumping up at the right moment, thus also giving a little life to the shot.  We shout to the principal that he should count to three before taking the picture, and then we crouch down in preparation of a jump.

From behind our student wall, we hear the click of a camera.  He'd just taken the picture, without uttering so much as a peep.  Someone tries to explain to him the process of counting from one to three, while everyone else (even a few in the front rows) ask him to take another photo.

Still smiling quietly to himself, he begins to pack up the equipment, obviously finished for the day.


I wasn't aware that I could hate that man more than I already did.

The photo which was picked out and printed on the back of the yearbook almost completely conceals the back row.  All that can be seen is the top of a hat, some shades, one guy's arms reaching up, and Penguinman, who is calmly peering over everyone's heads.  That guy is really rather disturbingly tall.

And that was that.  Our school photo.  Hurrah.


After that whole ordeal, we loaded back onto the bus and headed on down to the last frontier hotel.

This place was just wrong from the moment we got there.


Here's the deal...  Making a reservation for so many people is difficult on its own, but trying to give people specific room partner assignments just makes things even more complicated.  All the hotels we had been to on the trip checked people in via a list.  Roommates were listed together, and they would get called up to the desk to check in and take their key.  Simple enough, right?

Well, someone had apparently lost the list.  Yes, they had lost the overview of who was staying where and with whom.

Cue an hour of sitting around and waiting while the teachers and hotel staff tried to work out some new system that allowed people to check in.  We first had to get called up to assign ourselves to the list, and then we had to wait again for our name to be called from the list we had just checked off on.

When I finally did get the key, it was handed to me in a piece of paper with the room number on it.

No, not an envelope.  No, not a pre-made slip for the card.  This was a piece of paper that was torn off a larger sheet of paper.

The larger sheet of paper in question happened to be a printout of the client registry.  So, the gal behind the counter had just handed me an overview of the name, nationality, and registration number of 3-some people.  This was bad enough, but that happened to be the most legible item on the paper.  I am, of course, comparing it to the room number.  Which had been written on the back in pen.

To add to this, we had to carry our baggage to a special room for safekeeping and register it with the old fart who was sitting there.  Naturally, we had to do everything ourselves.  Including find the baggage room.

Several elevator rides and hall searches later (finding a room is a tricky enough deal as it is, and it most certainly doesn't help when you can't even make out what the number is or what floor it's on), we finally found our door.

After some shoving and arguing with the electronic lock, we managed to get the door open.  The room looked pleasant enough, but it was a pretty basic hotel room.  Then we noticed the first problem.

"Uhh...   Where's the other bed?"

Now, I like Hatman.  I do, really.  But I don't like him that way.  A single bed just wasn't going to cut it.


We decided to just swap rooms with one of the couples from school, and discovered that a few other people had received single bed rooms.  A couple of these lads had already swapped with the couple we were going to consult.

Having had just about enough for the moment, we wrassled our way back into our room, and decided to just sit out on the balcony for a bit so we could relax our minds to the point of near-sanity.

That was when we encountered the second problem.  The sliding glass door would not budge.


Now, I've come up against some sticky doors in my time, don't get me wrong...  I'm no stranger to the portals of unyielding will, who can only be overcome through extensive grunting and face-scrunching.  This was not one of those doors.  It was just stuck.  Dead stuck.  It was not going to move.  Period.

By this point, I was pissed.  I had just spent almost seven hours sitting on a bus in a none-too-comfortable position, I was tired from hauling my worldly possessions around with me all over the place, I needed to arrange for new sleeping accommodations, and all I really felt like doing then was just sitting down and relaxing in some goddamned fresh air.

We went down to the desk to complain.  I ended up having to argue with the person about having two beds and a door that could be opened.  Luckily, I was more than happy to have an opportunity to argue with anyone representing this establishment, and I ended uphaving a roaring good time fighting this woman on the beds issue, and shooting down her response of "well, sometimes some of the doors stick.  You just have to push harder" with a few tales of the coordinated shoulder-ramming escapades we had indulged in to get that friggin' door open.

Eventually, she yielded on the bedding issue, and said she would send a maid up with a new mattress.  Good enough for me.


After we had settled in a bit, it was about dinnertime.  So, we decided to group up with a few of the other folks and went downstairs to find someplace to eat (this in itself was a challenging endeavor, as someone had neglected to give us a map showing the abstract layout of the hotel).  Eventually, we happened upon a restaurant that looked promising.  We were about to head in when the doorman stopped us with an outstretched hand.

I was really starting to despise this place...   Apparently, there was a dress code.  No short pants allowed, and I think they had a problem with some of the shirts as well.

In a tropical resort.  A tropical beach resort.  A tropical beach resort in frikkin' CUBA!

So we told that restaurant to go sod itself, and went on to the next.  Same treatment.  Apparently, this absurd dress code was standard for all the establishments in the hotel.  Grudgingly, we all went back up to our respective rooms and got changed.  Then we went back down, found a different place, and walked up.  Doorman stuck out his arm again.

Paraphrased conversation between the doorman and one of our group members.

"Sorry sir, but you need a reservation."

"What?  But there are lots of empty tables in there!"

"Those are reserved."

"Alright...  In that case, I'd like to make a reservation for later tonight."

"We're fully booked sir."

"Uggh, fine.  I'd like to make a reservation for tomorrow evening."

"Sorry sir, same-day reservations only."

"I will eat your children, you monkey-brained arsewhistle."

(That last comment may or may not have been made)

So that was that.  We checked every damned restaurant down there, and we got the same schtick.  No shorts allowed, must have a reservation, same-day reservations only.

After much scouring, we eventually managed to find one (1) place that did not need a reservation.  It was a little buffet place, complete with food, drink, and its own little quirks.

For instance, the drinking problem.  40-some tables, 30 drink glasses to go between them.  Several raids were performed on the other empty tables in order to find something to drink out of.  I think a couple people have have had to resort to using the flower vase as a cup.

And as for the liquids themselves, you had to run over to the drink table and pour yourself a ration from the cola bottle that had been sitting out there for who knows how long, and which had gone mostly flat.  The reason you needed to do this was because although they had a drink dispenser set up, any attempt to use it would be met with a spray of clear, warm, tasteless carbonated water, along with a trickle of thick goo coming out of the joints of the machine.  The syrup lines were disconnected.


Then there was the food.  The "buffet" was divided up into a few segments...  First, the dessert platter, then the breadrolls, then a vast expanse of watery fish, shriveled tomatoes and old potato(-ish) salad, then finally the one thing that looked like it might actually be mealworthy.  Some pasta.

But, as with everything, there had to be a catch.  This was not just some bucket of pasta you could scoop up from.  No, this was one dude sitting behind a counter and taking orders.  You would select which ingredients you would like to have in your sauce, then he would make up a batch of pasta with that sauce from scratch, ladle out one serving for you, and dump the rest into a trash can.  Next order?

The line curved around the wall.  This was stupidly wasteful, and also incredibly slow since each person had to wait in line, place their order, and then have him make it up from scratch before you could get some of it.  Woe betide the hungry man who wishes for a second plate.

There was one dish of pre-made pasta sitting next to him, but it was lukewarm and also running rather low.  I just scooped up from there, leaving a little for the next man in line, and went back to search for anything else that happened to be edible.  I found rice.

No, not chinese fried rice.  Just rice.  White rice.  White rice which had been given full opportunity to dry out over the course of the day.

My dinner was rice and pasta.  Supplemented by some dried buns and flat cola.  "Best hotel" indeed.

The pasta was utterly and completely tasteless.  It obviously had some sort of sauce on it, but whatever combination of spices was put in there, it made the whole thing taste like absolutely nothing at all.  All it had was texture, and that texture happened to be slime.  Lukewarm tasteless slime.

I'm afraid, however, that I cannot extend such compliments to the rice.  I have no idea how you manage to screw up rice, but the expert chefs working there had done their damnedest on it.  I'm assuming they found some unidentifiable dead rodent out back and snuck it into the rice pot when it was being cooked up.

After the meal, I decided to give myself a much-deserved treat...  So, I walked over to the dessert tray and loaded up a small plate.

They tasted like water.  Seriously, water.  And it wasn't even particularly good water.


After dinner, we went back to our rooms to get settled in a bit more.  While walking down the hall, I noticed a new door that had opened up on one side, which apparently led into the service storage room.  I saw a folded up bed in there, and became hopeful that the maid had indeed come by and set up a second bed for us.

Entering our room, my hopes were crushed yet again.  No extra bed.  The glass door was also untouched, as I had expected.

We waited for a while, thinking that maybe the maid simply got called off on something urgent while she was bringing the bed to us.  Then, finally, my brain started putting two and two together...

That *was* the bed.  Their method of providing a second bed for us was getting someone to stick it in the storage room on our floor and then leave the goddamned door open for us.  I put my face in my hands as I tried to wake up.


Once my efforts to shed this horrible dream from my mind were proven futile, we went back down the hall to get the stupid thing.  We rolled it out of the storage room, down the hall, and into our room.  This was, absolutely and consummately, insane.

And then it got better.


After shoving the previous bed aside far enough to make room for the new one, we opened it up to find it was lacking something.  Namely, sheets.  Man, these people just went above and beyond the call of duty...

We visited a couple other rooms and borrowed their extra blankets until we had amassed a good enough number of rags to make something resembling a set of bedding.  Then I took one of the pillows off of the other bed and finally plunked myself down for just a couple moments of rest from the day...

The bed sank down a good six inches, and screamed like a banshee while doing it.  A foam mattress.  Hilarious.


I really hated that place.


End of Day whatever-it-is +1.


<<Author's Note:  This was actually the last recording I had, but we're still missing a day.  Not sure what happened there.  I'll try and patch up what happened from memory for next time.  Luckily, I actually happen to remember a few things about that day, so it shouldn't be too difficult.>>

Kagus

  • Bay Watcher
  • Olive oil. Don't you?
    • View Profile
Re: Sandy Fjord
« Reply #399 on: December 12, 2009, 08:15:49 pm »

Last Day -1, Dawn of the Endtimes.

Waking up on the auxiliary bed was almost as bad as sleeping on it.  My body ached from the pathetic mattress, and the blankets that served as sheets had bunched up in only the most uncomfortable places.

Against all odds, we had actually managed to open the door to the balcony the night before, but only after an extended period of primal grunting and hammering it with blunt objects (in a sense, we had used the door as an embodiment of all the hotel's ills, and resolved to put all our strength into defeating it.  Regardless of what condition it might be in when we were finished).  And only then did it give way with a sickening crack.  We had decided not to fully close the door afterwards, for fear it might lock up again, so the sounds and temperature of the outdoors also contributed to my awakening.

We got up, attended to our morning business in the Throne of TerrorTM, and went outside to sit and watch the morning/noonday sun shed its light on the actually quite respectable ocean view from our room.

The so-called Throne of TerrorTM was the bathroom of our hotel room.  This place was sanctuary to a broken toilet seat, a disturbing lack of toilet paper, a fair amount of rust, and numerous dark stains on the bottom of the bathtub which I can almost assure you were not part of any artistic pattern.  It also played home to an assortment of mystery aromas, which I'd rather not attempt to describe.

After Hatman had finished his morning smoke, we steeled ourselves for the undoubtedly harrowing experience of finding something to eat.

Not finding any other alternatives, we headed into the Feast of FliesTM buffet, hoping for something more than the tasteless slimeworm platters and warm, flat cockroach ichor of our first encounter.

We were actually pleasantly surprised.  The food still wasn't good, not by any stretch of the term, but it was at least trying to be fresh.  And they had a new bottle of cola.

Speaking of cola, I ended up finally talking with one of the staff (who were so elusive you'd swear they were endangered creatures) about the drink dispenser.  Much division of labor later, three men were able to combine forces and effectively stand back to watch the maintenance lady shove the tubes around until something happened.  Most of the syrup tubes were even hooked up with the correct dispenser slot.  I was impressed.

I was also somewhat impressed that this five-minute job had gone ignored or undiscovered for so long.  Obviously, these people were dedicated to their work.  I'd never seen such dedicated slackers.


The food provided us with the strength to return to our room and sit around for a while.  After entertaining ourselves for a while with the Taiwanese News Network, we donned water-excursion apparel and went down to the beach to see if this fantastic hotel could somehow manage to screw that up too.

The beach was actually quite well done.  The sandy part was long and flat, and was almost entirely made of sand.  It was a bit harsh, what with a complete lack of shade or wind breaks (the beach was haunted by strong winds that drove sheets of biting sand along its reach.  Actually quite therapeutic, if you're a masochist), but it was well-stocked with beach chairs for our usage.  Also a couple flags, for some reason.

Then, the water.  You know, with all the rest of the hotel being the horrid shack that it was, I think the water could easily pull it up to at least a three-star.  Soft(-ish) floor, and huge cerulean-blue waves that just kept coming and coming.  Get out beyond the relatively small crash zone, and it's perfectly fine for a little relaxed swimming or just floating.

But, of course, that's not what I was interested in.


I was not going to avoid these waves, or play the weakling and run from their might.  No, I was going to meet them head-on, and take the battle to them.

There is something brutally satisfying about attacking a wave that's about as tall as you are, and then straightening yourself up to shout taunts at the open ocean.  I punched, kicked, tackled and headbutted wave after wave after wave of the briny fury, and cackled insults at its paltry attempts to defeat me.

Okay, sure, I got thrashed a couple times, but it just made getting up more satisfying.  Plus, nothing like a pint or two of seawater to clear out your sinuses.


I forget how long exactly we spent out on the front lines of the battle of Man v.s Mar, but it was long enough to deplete my excess energy reserves.  I trudged back to the lawn chair we had claimed, getting sandblasted all the way, and lay down to let the sun dry me out and warm me up for my next waterfight.


The combination of vocally belittling one of the elements and getting the *^&! stung out of me by the sandstorms served to release quite a bit of pent-up frustration, and also worked wonders on returning circulation to the parts of my body that the substitute bed had temporarily crippled.  I felt I could almost begin to like this haven of misfortune.


When we were finally done for the day, Hatman and I went back up to our room to conduct our standard operational procedures in regards to leisure activity.  In effect, going out on the balcony to talk and look out into space.

It was here, as we relaxed in the afternoon sun and stared out across the expansive surface of the marine realm, Hatman's cigar smoke wafting lazily in the air as we chatted about music and the nature of idiots, that I confided in him a secret which had been weighing down on me for a bit.

As it would appear, my heart had waited barely a few days after finalizing the issue with X before throwing itself at the mercy of another.  Someone I had been acquainted with for nearly the entirety of the school year, and whom I had shared a fair number of personal moments with (in all honesty, this was at least a step up from X, who was completely unknown to me at the time of my infatuation).

Pirate-Goth.


I'm still not completely sure how this happened so suddenly, but I presume it had something to do with the special circumstances I was in.  We were in Cuba, a tropical island in the Caribbean with dancing, drinking and white sand beaches, and the end of Skiringssal was all-too-clearly in sight.  Perhaps my mind had felt a small glimmer of panic, that I had gone through a year of the most favorable conditions for a relationship without so much as a lingering touch to call my own.  Perhaps my subconscious scrambled to find any prospective candidate to fling itself at, that I might redeem my self-worth by inspiring at least a flicker of a heart's flame.  Perhaps it found someone that I remembered had all but proclaimed her attraction to me, back in the early days.

Whatever the reason, I found myself longing to speak with her, to spend time with her.  To touch her.  Throughout nearly all of Cuba, this thought had lingered in the background, always pulling at a piece of my head as I walked the streets of Trinidad, or sat on the verandah of our bungalow, or journeyed down to the bar to get a can of cola.

I had spent the past couple days actively trying to seek her out, that I might inform her of the feelings I had, and which were only growing stronger and more distracting day by day.  But she had grown increasingly distant and difficult to find, and was always occupied with some other affair on the few occasions I did manage to find her.


I discussed the complexities of my situation with Hatman.  I told him about how I managed to be wholly infatuated while still doubting my own feelings as a mere trick played by a mind consumed by a need to be accepted and admired.

We talked about the nature of the desired object herself, and how she seemed haunted by more than enough of her own troubles to need any of mine.  I agreed, and wondered if maybe that played into it as well.   That I was somehow trying to ease whatever secret troubles she might have by providing her with a suitor.   

You can tell I've got a difficult mind when I'm by far the last person to know what I'm thinking...


Finally Hatman convinced me to, at the very least, wait until we were back at school.  Let her have the rest of the Cuba trip without me hounding her.  Let her push the world away and just relax, free of any serious thoughts.  For all I knew, she'd probably had far more than her fair share.

And so the day turned into darkness, and I surrendered myself to yet another night with an empty heart and a head full to the brim, but with at least some deal of contentment in knowing I had made at least one right decision.


Of course, sleeping could wait until after watching a few more Taiwanese News Reports and children's cartoons with John Smith.  Man, I wish I could remember the dreams I had that night...

End of Last Day -1.

Zironic

  • Bay Watcher
  • [SDRAW_KCAB]
    • View Profile
Re: Sandy Fjord
« Reply #400 on: December 13, 2009, 01:21:39 am »

Kagus you are a static character.
Logged

sonerohi

  • Bay Watcher
    • View Profile
Re: Sandy Fjord
« Reply #401 on: December 13, 2009, 01:23:08 am »

Or is he? Dun Dun Duuuuun.
Logged
I picked up the stone and carved my name into the wind.

Kagus

  • Bay Watcher
  • Olive oil. Don't you?
    • View Profile
Re: Sandy Fjord
« Reply #402 on: December 13, 2009, 03:16:54 am »

That's an awfully strange comment to make about a life-changing experience...

All the same though, I will admit to a fair amount of author placement.

Zironic

  • Bay Watcher
  • [SDRAW_KCAB]
    • View Profile
Re: Sandy Fjord
« Reply #403 on: December 13, 2009, 03:21:05 am »

That's an awfully strange comment to make about a life-changing experience...

All the same though, I will admit to a fair amount of author placement.

I stopped reading around page 25. You're just too static. Keep the same opinion. Do the same things. Pages 26 and 27 could be the most dynamic epic novel I could ever read, but I became depressed due the staticness.
Logged

sonerohi

  • Bay Watcher
    • View Profile
Re: Sandy Fjord
« Reply #404 on: December 13, 2009, 09:45:53 pm »

It actually is entertaining and quicker paced reading about Shithole, Nowhere Cuba, and the horrors it put Kagus through.
Logged
I picked up the stone and carved my name into the wind.
Pages: 1 ... 25 26 [27] 28 29 30