Get Lost Books

Rick Steves, My Hero

I had never been a Rick Steves fan until now. For over twenty years I had thought of Rick Steves as an effective, if corny, salesman. I liked, yet resented his products: He made Europe much more accessible for those who a generation ago would have been intimidated by the idea of traveling independently and on a budget around the continent. His guides are not complete. He highlights his favorite regions and omits others. However, the places he does cover, he covers extremely well. I would say too well. The little treasures I have found over the years through word of mouth or good fortune have inevitably turned up on Rick Steves' pages. A charming family-owned hotel on a peaceful square in the Marais district of Paris that I found while wandering the neighborhood in 1993, eventually showed up in his Paris guide. His books include towns, neighborhoods, hotels and restaurants that might have been better left obscure and off-the-beaten-path. The rue Cler in Paris is known as rue Rick Steves due to the sheer number of his readers who stay in over twenty recommended hotels in the neighborhood. But beyond that, as well as his group tours of Europe - a contradiction of the basic idea of independent travel - was an assumption dating back to the post-war era of American entitlement to all that Europe has to offer. I remember sitting through one of his " Europe through the Back Door" seminars in the 1980s thinking, 'What if the local you are encouraging us to chat up just wants to be left alone?' Imagine my surprise, then, when I read an interview that Rick Steves gave in mid-September to The Seattle Times on the subject of "travel as a political act." Steves admits that he once believed that the world was a pyramid with the Americans at the top and that he 'could just share with people all the beauties of American culture.' But he doesn't believe that anymore. Now he believes that America is ruled by fear and the flag has been hijacked by war mongers. He thinks the best thing the world could do for peace would be to fund a program that sent every American upon graduation somewhere abroad for six weeks. The idea being that you are less likely to fear what you know. Steves is even on the NORML's [National Organization for the Reform of Marijuana Laws] board of directors. It was so refreshing to hear someone go beyond the usual platitudes about cultural exchange and building bridges among peoples. If you go to his website you can read Rick argue that $100 billion is more than enough to fund defense and that it is time to fully fund education, environmental protection and parks. It does nothing for Steves' bottom line, except potentially hurt it, for him to write this about the American military budget: 'Spending half our nation's discretionary budget on the military while stripping down our society and reshuffling wealth into the richest families is a tough sell. And it gets tougher and tougher. It requires fear (an enemy as big as communism — like terrorism), a distracted dumbed down electorate, and a narrowly held media. A government looking out for the little guy only gets in the way, so a disdain for government in general (and taxes in specific) must be sold to the populace.' Don't expect to hear anything like that from the publishers of the other big guidebooks. In the meantime, the next time you take a look at Rick Steves' books, know that a person with integrity stands behind them.

Lonely Planet, A Division of the BBC

Lonely Planet has been making news around the world lately. The story that is attracting the most attention, of course, is the company’s purchase by the British Broadcasting Corporation Worldwide (BBC). It may seem odd to Americans that a public institution financed by a television-use tax is spending $200 million dollars for a publishing company. It seems odd to many British as well. The Financial Times wrote a critical editorial stating, “It will add nothing new to the cultural life of the UK, nor will it show the cultural life of the UK to the world. If the sole purpose of BBC Worldwide is to make money, it might as well move into stockbroking or property development.” After this big acquisition it is curious that the BBC would then go and announce 1800 job cuts and a $200 million cut from the programming budget. Oh, that’s right. BBC and BBC Worldwide are supposed to be separate entities. BBC Worldwide is the profit-making commercial arm of BBC, that funneled just about $200 million in profits back to the BBC. (Its sales were up 8% last year to approximately $1.6 billion.) While this may be the time to fret about the future of a once independent travel publisher, I don’t feel particularly outraged. Lonely Planet is being milked by BBC for future on-line content and tie-in television productions. I think they’ll leave the writing alone. But I think Lonely Planet will be the new Frommer's. It wasn't until I was in my 30s that I learned that there really was a guy named Frommer who traveled Europe independently, on a budget and published a successful guidebook series. Without any knowledge of history, I always thought of Frommer’s as a middle-of-the-road type guide instead of the essential guide for independent travelers that it once was. Lonely Planet is a phenomenal success with a loyal customer base that Lonely Planet can count on in the future. But, let’s not under-estimate “street cred.” Neither its backpacker roots nor future cover designs will ultimately trump the word on the street. Lonely Planet is now owned by a large quasi-state corporation and can no longer claim to be an independent alternative publication. The importance of independent publishers lies in the fact that they can rightly claim to be independent voices. They have less to lose, and much to gain, in being opinionated, risky and messy. Those are just the attributes that lots of money and respectability are meant to clean up. The day after the BBC announcement, the general secretary of the British Trades Union Congress (the TUC) sent a letter to the BBC’s Chief Executive asking the BBC and Lonely Planet to support the boycott of Burma by withdrawing the Lonely Planet Myanmar ( Burma) book “immediately.”

Two Cheers for France

Two weeks ago, France's largest newspaper Le Monde's literature section featured a compelling opinion piece signed by representatives of France's independent booksellers and publishers. The piece discusses a recent legal ruling in France that prohibits the free shipping of books on online websites. The ruling was based on the "Lang law", a 1982 French law that prohibits discounting of books more than 5 per cent. The rationale is that cultural commerce, as opposed to the commerce of culture, should not be held to the vagaries of an unfettered marketplace. Similarly, France subsidizes independently owned movie theaters, whose programming of independent features and film classics serve a cultural need. "The rhythm of commerce is short, that of culture is really long," the booksellers write. What this means on a practical level is that small neighborhood bookstores and national chains, of which there are fewer in France than in the US or England, sell titles at essentially the same price. If you have wandered into a tiny, perfect little bookstore in some corner of a French city and wondered how it is they manage to survive, the more-or-less level playing field that the law nourishes might be one explanation. There are over 2500 bookstores in France today, while the number of Music/CD stores, which are not similarly protected, has declined from 2000 in 1980 to under 200 today. French booksellers make the case that bookstores invest time and money in staff training, in-store events, community outreach, not to mention rent, utilities and taxes. In France, independent bookstores' bottom line, similar to bookstores in the US is a 1.4% profit. They are up against online retail giants like Amazon and Fnac, who are not engaged in cultural commerce but in the commerce of culture. Like ticket sellers who sell theatre or opera seats, French booksellers argue that online companies like Amazon do nothing more than facilitate the movement of cultural products. By offering free shipping, the big online retailers not only capture market share, but, French booksellers argue, violate the anti-discounting provisions of French law. As a bookseller I am not only in solidarity with the French booksellers, but am in awe of the fact that questions of culture are taken seriously when one discusses trade and free markets. I am afraid, however, that laws designed for French cultural interest can only collide head on with globalization and its particular ways of doing business. While Germany, Spain and Austria also restrict discounting books, other neighboring countries like Belgium do not. It seems easy enough to imagine an online retailer basing themselves in Belgium in order to offer free shipping and a 30% discount to customers in France and Germany. Maybe that is, in fact, happening. Under the dominant logic of the European Union and the WTO, restricting those sorts of imports into France is considered a restraint of trade, national culture be damned. But cultural protection in Europe has eroded over the last dozen years as the European Union has embraced its free market. Where government subsidies and admissions once supported museums, many major European museums now rely on their gift shops for a portion of their income. Classical music and opera tickets are no bargain, in spite of government largesse. Bookstores, though, are not government funded cultural institutions, but businesses that promote culture. I fear that under the logic of open markets, France's bookstores will soon be facing what we in the US have faced for almost a generation . Online "competition," Borders, Walmart and other megastores have not only decimated Main Streets, but made the question of culture not just mute, but foreign. As for France's future, despite the best of intentions, in another generation the question of culture may seem quaint to the French as they shop around for the best deals on books.-August 1, 2007

Books And Experiences

Guidebooks are a sometimes friend. When on the road you come to understand how they're organized and what to expect from them. You rely on their opinions. Then, after a time, you find that some of the descriptions about a place are wrong: Too laudatory or too dismissive; the writing is decorative or vague; how come you didn't notice that before? You wonder if the writers have even seen what it is they are recommending or just relying on tourist board handouts. I am on vacation in Croatia, Bosnia and Slovenia accompanied by a small stack of guidebooks. At Get Lost we make recommendations based on a series' general reputation or customer feedback. To use the guidebooks while on vacation is, of course, the true test of their worth. Whatever their merits or shortcomings, I am reminded again that the test is based on the degree to which they can point you in the right direction. On the island of Vis we found a trail that led past a pebbled beach to an abandoned navy post, complete with bunkers and artillery. Most of the guidebooks explain that the entire island was closed to visitors for military reasons until 1989. None give directions as to where to find traces of this history. The limited information, the omissions, the wrong addresses and odd recommendations are indications of the limitations of the genre. It is because of these limitations that I am aware of how the books serve a particular function. With this in mind, I know, as an active participant in travel, it is necessary to put the books away, at least metaphorically, and to go out, wander and explore.

New Orleans Bookfair 2005

I went to New Orleans this past weekend (October 28-30, 2005)for the New Orleans Bookfair. This year’s organizers Kyle and Jenny of Hot Iron Press bowed out after they lost everything in the hurricane and moved to Texas. Former organizers G.K. Darby and Myrtle Von Damitz III in short order put out the word and put together a great bookfair. It was a celebration, one of the first that New Orleans has held since Katrina, and a strong alternative to the Voodoo music fest held the same day a mile away. New Orleans isn’t utterly ruined, but the devastation has reduced the habitable parts of the city to a small fraction of its former self. You can drive miles through completely depopulated neighborhoods. The effect is particularly eerie at night: complete darkness and silence, broken by the very, very rare sight of light in a house powered by a generator. Rebecca Solnit, in her book about San Francisco during the dot com years, Hollow City, asks what remains of a city that has lost its cultural base. Many of the unique buildings in New Orleans survived the storm, or are, perhaps, salvageable. But what about the locals who lived in them and who have been part of the cultural fabric? As the locals go, so goes New Orleans. New Orleans will be New Orleans again only when the citizens are given the option to return as quickly as possible. Once there is a minimal infrastructure – and there isn’t yet - the citizens should be encouraged to begin returning, neighborhood by neighborhood. There are many empty lots, parking lots and major avenues that could become temporary trailer parks. While I was there, both the Ogden Museum and the Cabildo Museum had their reopening. These institutions are wonderful and unique additions to New Orleans life. However, cultural vitality, that which keeps culture from becoming little more than chloroformed things pinned onto corkboard, can only flourish when all the participants are allowed back home. The alternative will be an empty shell, a hollow city.

Snapshot South Africa

Driving down the highway with my twenty-something cousins listening to Badfinger on a corny classic rock station, I felt like I could have been anywhere. The corrugated iron shacks that lined the side of the road as we passed a Black township were a cruel reminder that this was South Africa, not a 70’s California road movie. Later I flicked through a book at a cool Zulu arts and crafts co-op in Durban. The book depicted the insides of these crude structures, the vivid colors of advertisements covering the walls as makeshift wallpaper, resembling Andy Warhol's soup cans more than anything. One man's ironic comment on consumer society is another's art created out of true necessity, for survival. I experienced South Africa as a land of contrasts and contradictions. As cliché as that sounds, it's true: from the security fences and barbed wire of Johannesburg to the Indian bazaars and candy colored Art Deco buildings of Durban; catching waves at tiny deserted beaches on the east coast, surrounded by banana farms then going to a huge American style mall where they have a wave simulator, so you can surf while mom shops. I have snapshots of my time in South Africa ingrained in my memory: a baby hippo attempting in vain to climb onto its mother's back; a herd of elephants gathered around each other at dusk, the babies darting between the tree trunk legs of their elders; the enveloping vastness of the skies and the ever changing landscape and people. My uncle in Johannesburg talked about his time as a teacher in the 60’s when he had to teach African kids from a book in which the main character's hair changed color inadvertently three times. My aunt and her husband areworking on building a new higher education system that accommodates all, so those who have had to learn from books where the hair color isn't consistent can catch up and attain the privilege of a university education. On my last morning there I woke to the sound of hundreds of voices in perfect harmony. Initially, I thought I was hearing a distant stereo. As the music floated through my window, I realized it was coming from the squatter camp in the park across the street. Waking up to the sweet sound of a hundred voices in total unity, the sound of Mbube-Zulu gospel music was one of the most transcendent moments of my trip. South Africa has that effect; it's a bittersweet place. Layla

A Tale of Two Closings

July 2005 Rand McNally closed its San Francisco store last week. The word is that they are closing all their stores, and that the San Francisco location was one of the last. On its website, Rand McNally lists only one store, in Houston. Due to a number of acquisitions, including Thomas Brothers maps, Rand McNally controls a sizeable percentage of the US cartography market. However, Rand McNally filed for bankruptcy under Chapter 11 in February 2003. A private equity firm took a controlling interest in the company. Stores began closing, and the pickings in the remaining locations grew slim. I’m guessing they will now concentrate on its cartography, especially considering how newer companies like Mapquest are licensing their own products to other map companies. (Check out the United States road atlases of National Geographic, Michelin and American Map and thank Mapquest for the cartography.) I must admit I didn’t feel all that disappointed when Rand McNally closed. I did feel a sense of loss, however, when Easy Going, a Berkeley travel shop, closed earlier this year. Easy Going was a real mom-and-pop store that will be sorely missed. Even as its shelves began to thin, they still continued to host excellent in-store events. Members of the community briefly rallied to raise money (or purchase shares, I am not certain which) to prevent the closure. But, in the end, it did close. Easy Going, like other locally owned independent bookstores, took chances on quirky titles. Like Get Lost, they carried small or self-published presses, sometimes on consignment. On the subject of locally owned, Dan Houston, a partner in Civic Economics, has done studies showing that local merchants contribute more than three times as much economic value back to the community than do chain stores. (Read an interview at http://news.bookweb.org/news/3094.html or, read one of the reports at http://www.civiceconomics.com/Andersonville/AndersonvilleStudy.pdf ). This contribution may well be augmented in the case of locally owned bookstores, which are more likely to support local or micro presses. Rand McNally is headquartered in Skokie, Illinois. It is hard to create a sense of community when headquarters does your book buying. As I understand it, the San Francisco store did manage to carry the Rough Guides, an exception allowed no other branch store. When corporate headquarters doesn’t deem it necessary, (that is, profitable enough) to stock a quality series of travel books like the Rough Guides, it probably won’t carry wonderful, small presses like Garrett County Press (out of New Orleans), Stone Bridge Press (out of Berkeley), art-Sites Press (out of San Francisco) Bored Feet Press (out of Mendocino) or the self-published Time Off! The Unemployed Guide to San Francisco, by two San Francisco authors. I hope this hasn’t sounded like a lesson in civics. I will miss Easy Going. I will miss Rand McNally less.

Ah! Iceland!

There is a weakness in guide book writing, as well as in a lot of travel narrative of using hackneyed expressions over and over and over again. It became a running joke during my trip to Iceland where, around every hill or valley, I would describe the landscape using phrases like “jaw dropping” “mind blowing” “awe inspiring”, as well as adjectives like “spectacular” “amazing” and my own favorite “beautiful”. Mostly I said, “oh my god!” I hiked up volcanoes, over lava fields and through abandoned farms, of which there are many. I swam in a cavern and soaked in the “hot pots” that any town with a population over 200 most likely has. This was despite three days of snow and temperatures in the 20s and 30s. I drove through immense valleys butting up onto craggy mountains, or ending abruptly along fjords. I saw monochromatic fields that upon closer look are full of mosses, lichens and plants. I found hot springs bubbling out of rocks or up through caverns. Reykjavik combined the charms of small town density with big city culture. The streets never seem to be bustling, neither with cars nor people. But, the cafes, bookstores, and galleries were crowded. The Reykjavik Arts Festival was going on and featured a retrospective of Deider Roth, a German/Swiss artist who lived in Iceland since the 1950s. It was a fantastic show made up of much of his work from his studio in Iceland. (He also had homes in Switzerland and Germany.) A week in Iceland was too short. Three or four weeks would have been ideal, though it would have bankrupted me. I have already mentally planned the next two or three trips back. It was amazing.

Mapping Quebec's Soul

Montreal reminds me of a woman who has aged prematurely, gets a face lift, wears her grandmother's lace wedding dress to weed her garden, and then pulls a wire mesh veil over her face to protect it from the sun. She's industriously eccentric. But, that's just a squint-eyed peek from the tallest branches of a leafy tree in her backyard. The food in Quebec is great-mostly traditional French, with puddles of sauce and a few matchsticks of al dente vegetables blown out of the fingertips of a chef who has nearly sacrificed himself to his own creation. There are not only highly consistent standards, but also unusual visual uniformity-the waitresses seem replicated like a chain of paper dolls; their dark hair delicately pressed flat, as if kept between the pages of a book. The Quebecois' relationship to wine is one of unquestioning awe, but it lacks a spiritual or gustatory utility. They enjoy wine as a museum patron would appreciate art from some sort of Diaspora, or the way we marvel at lunar rocks. Unlike many extraordinary types of ale, not much dry wine is made in Quebec, yet it has become iconic. The Quebecois don't mumble in their sleep, or even curse about their beers, but when they talk about wine, it's almost incantatory. Or, could it be that beer really is sacred? It makes me wonder if wine is not a false God. Maybe there's a different language for prayers. To have a conversation in English in the mostly Francophone Cantons de l'Est can be like playing by yourself on a rainy day: You put on bright yellow, oversized galoshes and jump with both feet into the same puddle until all of the water has been displaced, the few droplets of words sprayed on your cuffs. When it's more psychically risky, it's like carrying a silver tea service, clinking and rattling, down a long hall with a receding vanishing point, as flames shoot from the walls in some mock-up house of horror. They don't want you to settle in or surrender; they want you to flee. That's why you'll often find people hanging from trees in Montreal. Mari Chourre

Snakes and Platters: Hanoi, Vietnam

"The cobra - very dangerous, very tasty" offered the stocky Vietnamese man standing before me. With one hand he was holding the tail-end of a writhing six foot cobra. With the other hand he was prodding and poking the dangerous end of the cobra, causing it to raise its head in irritation and flare out the signature concave hood for which this particular reptile is famed. Knowing that this impressive display of bravado was being performed for my benefit, I nodded my head in appreciation and surreptitiously walked back a step to a slightly safer distance. Any closer and I may have been able to put into use the first-aid snakebite treatment skills I learned in scouts so long ago and was currently having great trouble recalling. Are you supposed to suck the poison out or restrict the circulation first? This is modern day Vietnam. I had spent the previous two months travelling the length of this fertile, green sliver of a country occupying the eastern coastal region of Indo-China. Starting in the south, I now found myself in a snake restaurant on the outskirts of Hanoi. The proprietor, Mr. Tran, lived with his family in their snake pit/restaurant/family home and had been in this business for over 20 years. "The cobra is very popular, it is very poisonous and has wonderful healing properties," I was informed by Mr. Tran. I had previously noticed that the arms of many of the handlers I met were potted with fang marks. "Do many people here die from snake bites?" I asked. "No . . . not many" one handler replied. After negotiating a price for a mid-sized reptile, I was lead to a well-appointed dining area whereby Mr Tran immediately returned with my snake still squirming in his hands. Before I could ask any questions, Mr. Tran proceeded to bang the snake's head on the table in front of me. Straightening out the stunned reptile, he reached for a razor blade and made a precise slit in its belly approximately one third of the way down. As I stared transfixed, he deftly reached in with his fingers, pulled out a small, red triangular object and dropped it into my wine glass. On closer inspection it proved to be what I had suspected but did not really want confirmed: the heart - and it was still beating. I had not realized that this was going to be a part of the experience. "This is the best bit, the entire snake's energy is in the heart - you must eat it raw," offered Mr. Tran as a way of explanation after witnessing the horror on my face. Seeing that my expression had not improved, he continued draining some of the blood from the snake's wound into the glass, covering the heart and filling the rest of the glass with rice wine (an extremely potent form of Vietnamese moonshine). Never one to shy away from new experiences and cultural diversity, I closed my eyes and downed the heart-blood-and-wine cocktail. The heart was still beating as it slid down my esophagus. Whether it was the sheer shock of what I had just done, the miraculous healing properties of the snake heart or the incredibly intoxicating properties of the rice wine I could not be sure, but I certainly felt energized. Mr. Tran asked excitedly if I also wanted to try the gall bladder. This time I firmly refused his generous offer. Rafael Wlodarski

Tokyo Story

On my first night in Tokyo this past February, I ventured out to Shibuya. The subway ride across town was exhilarating. The crowds are unbelievable on the trains and through all the connecting tunnels in the stations. It makes Paris look quaint. In Shibuya there were millions of people walking around among all the buildings with all their neon advertisements. I went looking for a place to eat, and I was stopped by the police who asked for my passport. Oddly, an hour before, I had stripped myself of my money belt, thinking that at last, after three weeks in Laos, I wouldn't need to be carrying all my documents and money in that sweaty uncomfortable thing. I showed the policeman my California driver's license. Not good. Within five minutes I had five cops surrounding me asking me to come down to the police station. I was marched through Shibuya (you know everyone is looking at you) to a police box, then further on to a station. There they put a number around my neck and took a mug shot. Then, in a big room, full of - guess what? - foreigners without passports, I was handed over to an immigration official who was so young and good looking that he looked like one of those typical mis-castings from a big budget police movie. A translator came and I was made to fill out forms and have my fingerprints stamped. All the while, they were very polite while I was getting grumpier and ever so slightly sarcastic. They kept asking for my understanding, which I said I could not give. They just had to be sure I was not here working illegally. At the same time, there was this ineptness to the proceedings. There were probably 50 cops and immigration officials, who were wearing regular street clothes and had these little arm bands with some official words on them safety pinned on to their sleeves. Everyone kept asking everyone else what to do next. I understood enough Japanese to know that they both believed me and wanted to let me go, but knew that they couldn't. They finally decided to drive me to my guesthouse (on the other side of Tokyo) so that I might show them my passport. I said I would agree only if they would then drive me back to Shibuya so that I could finally have dinner. They thought I was so funny. At the same time, I asked my immigration official if he were really an immigration official. He insisted he was. I said that he was too cool to be an immigration official. "Cool?" "Yeah. Your look. Your shirt, your jacket, your style. Too cool." It was an odd power dynamic. This guy’s authority seemed limited to the official badge safety pinned to his sleeve. Thank god I had the hotel brochure with the address on it in my pocket. I got into the police car with three cops and my immigration guy and off we went in slow moving traffic. The only thing that made it bearable was watching the GPS traffic system built into the dashboard of the car. The map would tell you which lane to be in, and to prepare to turn left after the second light in 400 meters. I was fascinated. After 40 minutes we got to the guesthouse and luckily the front desk clerk, Michio, hadn't left yet. After telling the police to keep their voices down he accompanied us to my room. He told me to take my time finding my passport while he made me a cup of tea. I was getting frazzled and started pulling things apart. At last, with passport in hand, the immigration guy went downstairs while one police officer kept me in my room. I was brought tea by Michio, who told me he had informed the police that this was my first visit to Tokyo in 20 years and that “this was very bad for Japan.” The immigration guy returned with my passport and made an obligatory bow and apology. I gave a look as if to say "Um hmm. Yeah, better luck next time," and they all took their leave. Michio unlocked his bike and walked me to an all-night ramen restaurant, where he introduced me to the barman, telling him to give me a good meal because it was my first time back in Japan in 20 years and I had just been arrested. Finally it was 11:30pm and I went back to my room where the futon took up nearly the entire space; having said that, it was the most comfortable futon and the nicest, thickest down duvet that I have ever slept on. Even the feel of the sheets was fantastic. I slept so well. -Lee Azus

A New Orleans Style Book Fair

The New Orleans Book Fair had its second anniversary this past October 25, 2003. New Orleans’ Garrett County Press’ publisher, GK Darby and Babylon Lexicon’s Myrtle von Damitz were the major organizers of this unpretentious but rowdy event that showcases New Orleans strong literary community. You have to love a book fair that funds itself by having readings and concerts in bars, and selling gumbo and jambalaya next to a full bar on the book fair floor. (Compare that to the Los Angeles Festival of Books, a vast, sprawling affair sponsored by Barnes & Nobles, Borders, the Los Angeles Times, Starbucks and Target among other conglomerates.) Most of the publishers were micro or small (the largest publisher there had to be Verso) and local or Southern, though there were publishers from all over the country. Last Gasp Publishers and AK Press represented the Bay Area. It is inspiring to stand at a publisher’s table, which the organizers of the fair charged each participant the grand sum of $7.00 for, and know that the publisher and/or author is probably standing on the other side. There were zines and graphic novels, poetry and non-fiction books. Verso was selling three books for $20.00! In one section of the venue, the loading dock/storage space of the Contemporary Arts Center, Myrtle von Damitz organized an exhibition of hand made books by local artists. Readings were held throughout the day on a yellow school bus -when the emergency lights are flashing, an author is next to the steering wheel reading –that was parked on the exhibition floor. The after-party and the after-after party were as unusual as the book fair: author Michael Patrick Welch (“The Donkey Show”, Equator Books) sang and played guitar at the Mother-In-Law Lounge (more gumbo and rice), and DJs and live percussion played all night on two floors of an abandoned brothel on North Rampart Street. Happy to say, there won’t be corporate sponsorship of this great book event any time soon.

A Coffee Cooperative in Nicaragua

If it weren't for word of mouth, I would have skipped Finca Magdalena altogether. The Finca is a large coffee cooperative situated on the lower slope of Madera Volcano. The Nicaragua Footprint Handbook only mentioned it as a place to crash in hammocks before or after hiking the volcano, one of the two volcanoes on Ometepe Island in Lake Nicaragua (Lake Cocibolca). The main plantation house, built in the 1880s, has very primitive rooms (from $1.75 to $3.00); there is also a great little cottage with private bath for $13.00. The Finca (or, officially, Cooperativa Carlos Díaz Cajina #1), overlooks the neighboring Concepción Volcano and the lake. Most everyone staying there was interested in climbing up the volcano or lying in the hammocks: one could lie in a hammock on the veranda and look out for hours without getting bored. I took walks through the coffee groves, went through the bean fields, went to look for petroglyphs. More importantly to me, however, was that I was staying on a working coffee cooperative farm. Twenty-nine families run the farm and sell the bulk of their organic coffee at fair trade prices to an association in Vancouver, Canada and to the Bainbridge-Ometepe Sister Island Association in Washington State. The profits are returned to the cooperative and the town of Balgüe (one kilometer below the farm) in the form of health and education projects. In addition, the cooperative leases plots of land to the villagers to raise their own crops for personal use. The workers are full of stories of working this land, as landless peasants, when the dictator Somoza owned it before the Sandinista revolution in 1979. Their stories, the walks through the coffee fields and the petroglyph sites on the 850 acre farm, as well as sitting on the veranda, were the highlight of my trip in Nicaragua. For more information and to purchase coffee beans, see www.coop-cdc.com.

In Caracas, from Emily Brady

It has now been two weeks since I moved to Caracas. I've been reading in the paper about all of the anthrax scares in the States, and I feel thankful to be so far away from it, albeit in a totally different world with its own set of worries. My impressions are a mixture of awe and bewilderment, which like anywhere means that it is going to take me a while to get to know this place. For a start, the Irish in me marvels at the volatility of tropical weather. The sun is shining brightly down on you one moment and the very next dark clouds have quickly moved across the sky, releasing a torrential downpour of rain which can last minutes or hours, until the sun shines brightly again and the cycle repeats itself. Needless to say, these are ideal conditions for plants; huge leafy vegetation flourishes in the city, in spite of the pollution and concrete. From the little room I rent out from a Venezuelan family, I can see a large green lawn, seven palm trees, and at the moment I have a slight glimpse of the Avila peeking through the clouds. The Avila was such a pleasant surprise. The Northern edge of Caracas is separated from the sea by this huge mountain: a national park full of hiking trails and waterfalls waiting for me to explore on some Sunday afternoon. Back in the city, the Avila is a great way to orient oneself, making it almost impossible to get lost, even amidst all of the skyscrapers. Caracas is a city of modern architecture, especially of tall buildings which, like weeds after a tropical storm, apparently sprouted up during the first Venezuelan oil boom in the early 1970s. Today it is a big modern city, whose reputation for being dangerous is well known and merited. I still haven’t figured out if this is due to the economic disparity between the rich and the poor, or because of lax law enforcement, or the availability of firearms, or maybe a combination of these factors and more; but Caracas has an element of danger that is always lurking there to remind you. Caraquenos go about their daily lives in scenes reminiscent of South Africa: bars on most windows, and laws that allow motorists to run red lights after dark to avoid car-jackings. Caracas also pays hommage to American commercial culture, something I was disappointed to learn, with a dizzying array of shopping malls and fast food outlets. I notice more McDonald’s and Wendy’s here than I have ever seen in any American city, and they seem to be very popular. Fortunately, there are areperas, small little restaurants serving arepas, Venezuelans equivalent of the hamburger, which are a kind of heavy, thick maize pancake which is emptied out and stuffed with chicken or pork or whatever your heart so desires. I have taken to lunching on a chicken arepa, accompanied by a freshly whirled mango smoothie, turning my back on the fast food joint across the street and trying to remind myself that I am in a foreign country. With salsa music blaring from most shops and strange men whispering compliments to me as they pass by, this is not hard to do. Life in Spanish is trying, but rewarding too. So few people here speak English, which means that most people patiently wait as I fumble awkwardly through their language, politely responding and usually with a smile. It is such a welcome and refreshing change from the stressful encounters I had when first learning French, and I hope to be conversing fluently in Spanish all the sooner. Although I am feeling too old to be living with a family and am looking actively for a new home, there is something comforting about being called ‘mi amor’ by Luisa, my landlady. After a week and a half of very inadequate training, today I began my new job as a high school English teacher at San Jose de Tarbes, the all-girls Catholic school. Traditional Venezuelan music is played at high volume from loudspeakers around the school as the girls arrive to begin their day. This morning the whole school’s attention was focused on a small Venezuelan nun in a blue habit standing in the middle of the courtyard. In her hands was a ceramic Virgin Mary wrapped in plastic. Apparently the Virgin has been known to cry tears of glitter, and after having been deemed a “miracle”, is now traveling around the country to schools and homes of the glitter believers. All of the girls were called out of their classes to say “good-bye” to the Virgin as she was leaving to continue her journey. “She is not saying good-bye, but rather that she will be return,” the nun screamed into the microphone. The girls looked vaguely uninterested. As far as my new vocation, time will tell. And so, here is a brief introduction to my new life in Caracas. If I had more time I would write about my trip to the Caribbean coast this weekend, where I swam in its warm waters and ate grilled fish, how the car blew a tire on the way home and how we had to hitch-hike over the mountain in the back of a banana truck…but I’ll save that story for next time.

A Visitor in Iran: Shiraz

Gozde Avci sent us this story from her recent trip to Iran: N. proposed to visit the Bogh'e-ye Shah-e Cheragh Mausoleum in Shiraz. When we arrived in front of the mausoleum, I was already taken in by the ambiance. The entrance was dominated by the blue, Taj-Mahal-looking dome and Ayatollah Khomeini's surdimensional picture. Our first attempt to go inside failed. The guard at the entrance did not approve of the way I dressed, telling me that my coat was too short (!!) and I was not covered enough……after all that effort I made.

Question: What is your favorite building?

Asked over the last several months to Get Lost customers: Taylor Brady: The Central Rail Terminal, Buffalo, New York, which is abandoned and has been, I think, since the mid-70s. It's this wonderful and kind of overwhelming late deco building. The more ornate sort of roundness of certain kinds of deco has kind of dropped out and it's a very angular building. It has a sort of central tower and a large squat structure around it. Going inside is like exploring a cave: there is water dripping from this high, vaulted ceiling. Some of the signage is still there so you can see where they used to sell the magazines, where you used to have to go down to catch the subway; things like that. It's a beautiful building. It actually shows up in, what's that movie? Joseph Cotton, Marilyn Monroe…Niagara. It's the train station in Niagara. Phyllis Martin: The Hollyhock House. It's a Frank Lloyd Wright house in L.A. It sits on top of this hill and overlooks L.A. It's like the house is a continuation of the hill. The outside of the building has these stone hollyhocks. The inside is beautiful. It is something very different from anything I had ever seen. There are gardens in the middle. And the child's room is incredible. It's all dark wood. So instead of a happy person growing up in this room, I expect somebodyd with some brains to come out of this environment. Tanya Hollis: The fire house near Noe. On Noe maybe? It's a beautiful fire station and it's aqua colored and it has three beautiful red lights across the top. And it has beautiful stainless steel lettering. Joh Sanphillippo. I like Falling Water a lot. If I had to narrow it down, it would be the guesthouse at Falling Water. Not the proper house, which is lovely, but the guesthouse is more intimate. It's my scale, which is small. It's integrated nicely with the landscape and the leaves all around it. There is the water feature, which I like. You can go in and out of the house graciously, as you can at most Frank Lloyd Wright houses. It is elegant without being ostentatious.

Crazy Horse: A Note from Turkey

Former Staffer Emily Brady lives in Paris. She sent us this recent dispatch: Greetings from Istanbul! I have only been here a week now, but it feels like longer. I am staying with my lovely friend Gözde and her boyfriend Xavier. The attached photo (editor's note: there is no photo) is the view from their balcony: To the right is Europe; And to the left is Asia. Topkapy´ Palace, the Blue Mosque, Aya Sophia: it's all there for me to wonder at while I eat my breakfast.