prettyugly.

Cars (in front of houses)

2012-01-21T07:38:00.000-08:00

What I did in LA before leaving

2012-01-18T06:54:00.000-08:00

End Gang Violence mural. Montecito Heights, Northeast LA.

Chinese food with Eric. Monterey Park

Banh-mi world. Rosemead

A haze-choked view of Downtown Los Angeles, seen from El Sereno.

The Santa Monica Bay, viewed from Palisades Park.

The same vista, except looking south, and from a spot further south.

A modern, frosted glass gate door. Wilshire Vista.

The new-ish Shore Hotel, located on Santa Monica's Ocean Blvd. drag.

Southern California landscaping.

A Tudor and a Spanish Revival house cheek-by-jowl in the Miracle Mile district.

An early Modernist house, located along 8th St., not far from Fairfax.

An ornate, wildly-decorated cacti-dominated front yard.

A winter sunset, seen reflecting off of a Metro Gold Line rider's jacket. Boyle Heights.

Back to DC

2012-01-16T14:33:00.000-08:00

Elegant rowhouses fronting Capitol Hill's Stanton Park.

A boxy, command center-looking building housing offices for Intelsat and the Honduran Embassy. Van Ness.

Tudors along Van Ness Ave in the neighborhood of the same name.

The still-new Navy Yard Park. SE Waterfront.

A turreted house on the NE corner of 19th St., NW and S St., NW. Dupont Circle.

Flat whites (Australian espresso) at the Filter Coffee House & Espresso Bar. Dupont Circle.

A favorite house of mine. Dupont Circle.

A woman and her rather enthusiastic canine companion. Logan Circle.

A beautiful, stone-clad residence. Dupont Circle.

The low winter light over Logan Circle, named after (American) Civil War general John A. Logan.

A rather decrepit-looking, once-grand mansion in need of a renovation. LeDroit Park.

Silje, Beau Thai. Shaw.

Land yacht. along 1st St., NW in Bloomingdale.

Peruvian pollo a la brasa at El Pollo Rico. Arlington, Virginia.

1/01 & 1/03

2012-01-07T08:53:00.000-08:00

A charming, wonderfully detailed Art-Deco building at the NE corner of La Brea and Wilshire.

The Dominguez Building. Wilshire and Cochran.

The Barn Lofts, 940 E. 2nd St. Arts District

Street Art. The Arts District

Matt. Arts District

Silje, East Hollywood.

Lost Angeles, Arts District

The Nutcracker.

Urth Caffe, Arts District.

An ice-blended Spanish latté on an 84f/28c degree January day.

Ronald Reagan appears on a piece of street art. Arts District

Downtown Los Angeles, viewed from Little Tokyo.

A semi-industrial street in the Arts District. Prior to the influx of artists and the loft conversions that ensued, many streets in the area looked similar to this.

Respectable. Mid-City

Perspectives of Hancock Park

2012-01-02T18:18:00.000-08:00

Below are photos from a recent photo exposé I did on the sprawling, opulent mansions of Hancock Park.

Situated at the geographic heart of Los Angeles, Hancock Park is a primarily Jewish (with a large Orthodox contingent) neighborhood best known for its wide, palm tree-lined streets and large concentration of gracious, 1920's Revival Style mansions, with many sporting various Spanish, Mission, and Tudor influences and styles. A fan of the Great Gatbsy (thanks, LAUSD!), the indulgent, ostentatious lifestyle of the Roaring 20's looms large in my imagination, something, IMO, partially reflected in my fascination with 1920's mansion neighborhoods.

Scenes of "Winter" in Los Angeles

2011-12-29T09:50:00.000-08:00

Detail of the Art-Déco Wiltern Theatre

LA Shiatsu Massage. Koreatown

Continued Art-Déco. Koreatown

Red Curry, Prael Thai. East Hollywood

A very 70's scene in Echo Park.

An ominous-looking view of Downtown Los Angeles. Echo Park

Real 'Muricans. Echo Park.

Hazelnut lattés. Drip, Koreatown.

The impeccable Wiltern Theatre. Koreatown

Winter in Wilshire Vista.

An almost too-good-to-be-true stereotypical scene in Echo Park.

Great Art-Déco details. Miracle Mile

JR. Echo Park

The City That Loves You Back

2011-12-22T12:51:00.000-08:00

Recently, I paid a visit to the City of Brotherly Love, this time staying in a charming, tri-level rowhouse in the Fishtown nabe, not far from the gnarly, ramshackle-looking Berks El stop. The area, up & coming, was nice enough, with drinking-themed amenities such as a German beer garden, Barcade, and a gastropub featuring a continuously rotating beer draft menu and an impressive 24 taps. Also, in close proximity was the East Kensington nabe, a post-industrial area that is now the center of Philly’s surprisingly robust green construction industry. Most notably, the area is home to Onion Flats, as well as being the main recipient of PostGreen’s sustainable start-up homes, namely the 100k house, located on the corner of Amber and Susquehanna.

On this trip in particular, though, I was most impressed with the food. Previously, I had never thought of Philly as really being a food city, but this trip changed that. At Honey’s, a hybrid Jewish-Southern brunch spot in the popular Northern Liberties nabe, I ordered the giant pancakes, stuffed with bananas and walnuts, and the house-made Honey Dean sausage, a breakfast sausage made with turkey and honey. The real highlight, however, was Café Lift’s whimsical “Cannoli French Toast,” consisting of Challah bread French toast, bananas, pistachios, chocolate chunks, and a cream made from ricotta cheese. Similarly, Paesano’s gut-busting “Diavlo,” a hulking spicy chicken sandwich, made with salami, roasted tomatoes, broccoli rabe, an herb cheddar spread, as well as sharp provolone, also helped in solidifying my new impressions of food in the city. Words cannot convey how relieved I was to be in a legitimate, well-appointed and –regarded restaurant, and have nary a meal that costs over $10.

In various East Coast circles, Philly is often derided as, what a friend called, the “sick old man” of the big BosWash cities. Yes, crime is certainly more prevalent and scarier there than it is in other East Coast cities, with residents being in closer and more regular proximity to violent crime. And while the city is certainly not without (more than, actually) its fair share of crime, poverty, and general blight, I have always admired the creative, youthful energy present in the city. Though Washington is not without its young people – in fact, legions of them have been moving into the city – their presence, and influence, as a whole, skews much more corporate, mainstream, and professional, unsurprising given the overbearing role the Federal Government plays in DC. By contrast, lacking a single dominant professional industry, Philly’s youth population is characterized by an artsy, almost free spirit. Undoubtedly, the city’s cheap(er) rent plays a large role in cultivating this talent and energy, as I would assume that, with rent less of an issue, residents have more time to partake in the fun, leisurely activities that create the aforementioned vibe.

What I like most about the city, however, is the great, authentic-feeling patina the city is covered in. The result of several centuries of consecutive inhabitation, there is a particular feeling present throughout the city. The closest way to describe it is a feeling that the city has been “lived in.” Almost like a pair of old shoes. Wherever you go, historic architecture and history is in abundance, with very little of it feeling new, or worse, manufactured. It provides for a cozy, generally welcoming atmosphere that is hospitable and unpretentious in nature. Walking around the city, amid soaring, hulking skyscrapers and industrial edifices – many of them, unfortunately, disused and/or abandoned – I felt as if I was in a city that, quite literally, dominated the world, and was envious of nobody. I felt like I was in the former Workshop of the World.

Turn-of-the-century mid-rises along Chestnut Street. Center City

Latté, Ultimo/Brew. Newbold

Contemporary residence. NoLibs

The 100k house. East Kensington

Unintentionally rustic-looking architecture. East Kensington

A Frankford Ave warehouse adorned in street art. Fishtown

Hulking industrial relics, including some interesting art-deco ornamentation at the upper right half of the building.. Loft District

The recently-opened Race Street Pier.

Whimsical challah bread french toast, decked in bananas, pistachios, and chocolate chunks. Café Lift, Loft District.

Lofts. Loft District

The questionable-looking and curiously-named "BJ Lounge." Lancaster Ave, Mantua

The stunningly spectacular - and somehow abandoned - Divine Lorraine Hotel. North Philly

Another idle gem. Lancaster Ave., Powelton Village

Ornately-detailed Victorian rowhouses in South Philly. Queen Village

The epic Diavlo sandwich from Paesano's. Loaded to the brim with spicy chicken breast, salami, roasted tomatoes, broccoli rabe, herb cheddar spread & sharp provolone.

The Saturday afternoon crowd at Honey's, a popular eatery in NoLibs.

A mural symbolizing Mexican culture and traditions - curious, given how the Italian Market area is the central lotus of the city's (rapidly growing) Mexican population. Girard Avenue.

Day 1 back home

2011-12-17T07:10:00.000-08:00

Man, it feels good. I love my perpetually dysfunctional, sometimes broken, always unpredictable, new, and fun hometown. Below are a few photos from an all-day outing.

Boss Status. Metro Red Line

Square One Dining. Hollywood.

Brioche French Toast, with walnuts, home-made vanilla cream, and bourbon sauce.

Contrasts. Silverlake

Overgrown. East Hollywood.

Despite recent gentrification (of which has trouble jumping Los Angeles St.), Downtown somehow maintains a perpetual, 70's grit and funk.

500 Days of Winter

The wonderfully Art-Deco Bollocks Wilshire Department Store, now the Southwestern Law School. Koreatown

The over-the-top, sensory overload-inducing Eastern Columbia Building, another one of LA's Art-Deco gems. DTLA.

Street Art, East Hollywood.

Scientology, Inc. Hollywood.

I Want Peace In Congo. Arts District

Coffee at CoffeeBar. DTLA

More Street Art (artist unknown). DTLA

A Dingbat apartment typical and representative of LA's Mid-Century residential patrimony. Silverlake

Wintry (heh) scene. Silverlake

Eyes on Alameda (by French street artist JR). Little Tokyo

11/23 & 12/10

2011-12-12T08:46:00.000-08:00

Arlington's supremely Modern school district headquarters

A late fall scene in a leafy part of Arlington

A now-demolished bungalow. Maywood, Arlington

A surprisingly intact row of homes. Anacostia

Parked out front. Anacostia

The National's (MLB) stadium and assorted Navy Yard development. Navy Yard, SW.

A very Christmas-y scene. Anacostia

The recently-opened Yards Park. Navy Yard

The Foundry Lofts. Navy Yard

Thanksgiving in Los Angeles, continued

2011-12-10T07:50:00.000-08:00

My flight home

Hollywood & Highland Metro

An interesting, Streamline window. West Hollywood

Home-made gumbo. Thanksgiving Day

A loft resident expressing his/her support for the Occupy movement. DTLA

Pad Thai and Yellow Curry at the one and only Prael Thai. East Hollywood

A knitted bike rack in front of Orange 20. East Hollywood

A very uninspired new luxury development. West Hollywood

Street art. Little Ethiopia

The late afternoon winter light sets on a tired-looking Craftsman bungalow. East Hollywood.

Occupy LA, pre-eviction. DTLA,

Los Angeles for Thanksgiving

2011-12-06T20:14:00.000-08:00

Last week, I visited home for the first time since moving out East. This trip was unique, because whenever I usually “go home”, it is at the end of a trip, and I am usually ready to be back. However, after 3 months in Washington, along with the fact I was returning to Washington, and not Los Angeles, I saw home through a decidedly different lens. Having grown accustomed to life in Washington, or, as a friend calls it, the “bougie Yankee buffer zone,” I went out of my way to see, eat, or experience things or places that do not exist, or do not exist in sufficient qualities, in Washington. Typically, this tends to include cheap, hole-in-the-wall restaurants (namely Mexican and Thai cuisines), beautiful natural topography, and engaging, generally attractive-looking modern architecture. And, of course, my friends.

What struck me most was the glaring differences between the two cities. The big one is just how much of the city is wasted on anonymous strip malls, gas stations, and forgettable one-story buildings. It pretty much goes without being said that wide swaths of the city are unwalkable, or are difficult to traverse, be it via foot, bike, bus, or even car. And while Washington is indeed a great deal smaller – coming in at 44sq miles, compared to Los Angeles’ 470 – a city shouldn’t be unwalkable based on size alone. The traffic was also a major nuisance. Having easy access to a subway station means I rarely deal with, or even see, the chaotic traffic that often clogs surface streets. Instead, I have been exposed to a whole new world of delays: track maintenance-related repairs, station closures, and escalators not working, etc.

Though at this point in time, it is likely that Los Angeles has a clear Hispanic (largely Mexican) majority, the city, as a whole, feels more diverse and multicultural than any other city, save for NYC. It is as simple as seeing Hispanics and Asian - groups that largely don’t exist in DC. Just looking at my inner friend circle, I have friends from and descended from a number of countries, and it is entirely common and random (meaning, I do not seek out friends based on ethnic or national origin). For being the nation’s capital, DC is still very much a black and white town (89%, as per the 2010 Census), with a few Ethiopians and Salvadorians thrown in for good measure. The city’s multiculturalism has its benefits, particularly in the food realm: from my experiences, the abundance of cheap, ethnic food is unrivaled. No other city comes close.

On this trip in particular, I visited quite a few places: Las Morelianas (DTLA), Prael Thai (EHO), Scoops (EHO), Huaraches Aztecas (Highland Park), CoffeeBar (DTLA), Garage Pizza (DTLA), and Sanamluang (EHO). I have always appreciated the décor of LA’s coffee shops. Nobody does coffee shop interior design like LA. Continuing that, I also visited the stunning, new Artisan House restaurant, a new Californian (heh) bistro/deli/restaurant in Downtown’s Pacific Electric Lofts. The reclaimed, rustic-themed interior is quite enviable, and is completely worth checking out.

Aside from the traffic, the only thing about home that seemed “weird,” was the weather. Coming from chilly, 40F/4C Washington weather, for it to be 85F/29C at the end of November was, quite frankly, bizarre. Landing at LAX on Thanksgiving morning, the first thing I had to do was remove my jacket and scarf. Still, though, as native Angelino, I always appreciate the liberal, laid back, anything goes attitude and mentality that is so pervasive in LA. By contrast, Washingtonians obsess over careers and reputations, cementing initial impressions with questions like “What school did you go to?”, “What is your [federal] level?”, and, of course, “Who do you work for?” The fact that 1 in 12 of all Washingtonians is a lawyer contributes to the bland, corporate feeling pervasive in much of Washington.

The new West Hollywood Library. WeHo

A residential stretch of Kings Rd. WeHo

Contemporary infill along Santa Monica Blvd. WeHo

Un huarache de pollo. El Huarache Azteca, Highland Park.

A barber shop somewhere along Sunset in Elysian Park (or maybe Echo Park; somewhere along the border of the two)

The Faculty. HelMel, East Hollywood

Mid-day scene at CoffeeBar. DTLA

Normandie near Melrose. East Hollywood.

Interior of the recently soft-opened Artisan House restaurant. DTLA

Stuffed tacos de asada. Las Morelianas, DTLA

DTLA skyline, as seen from the 10 freeway.

"Jesus Loves You," seen aboard the Metro #62 bus. City of Commerce.

The glorious Pad See Ewe. Sanamluang, East Hollywood

One of my favorite examples of Brutalist architecture. Spring St., DTLA

#OLA

Dodger Apparel. Sunset Blvd., Echo Park

Mr. Awesome. Hollywood & Highland, Hollywood.

11/19 & 11/21

2011-11-22T10:44:00.000-08:00

LOL

Working class rowhouses basking in the low winter light. Park View

Turreted rowhouses along a stretch of 11th St., NW. Columbia Heights

DC native, Park View

Georgian duplexes in the Petworth neighborhood

One of the better deals I have come across: Pink Snapper's $9 Jerk chicken platter. Petworth

11th St., again

Inside of Bentley's antique shop. Petworth

The salvaged Art-Déco interior of Ted's Bulliten. Capitol Hill

Dining area of Ted's Bulliten

The Big Mark Breakfast, complete with a homemade blueberry cheesecake poptart.

A uniformly black crowd along an Anacostia-bound Green Line train.

Silje, Tenleytown

The Mead Center for the American Theater. Southwest Waterfront.

The Anacostia River on a particularly grey, misty afternoon.

Images of Fall in DC

2011-11-18T16:40:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite photography subjects in DC: kitschy church signs

Cat, Capitol Hill

Self

Fall foliage, Capitol Hill

Michael, Petworth

Abdullah, Petworth

The incredible, still-futuristic, ultra-Brutalist Housing and Urban Development HQ Building

Fall shadows, Brookland

Red car, Brookland

A monk adorns the bottle of a German beer

A post-fall scene at American University's Tenley Campus

Tweed Ride DC, Southwest

Idle rowhouses, Petworth

The always-imposing Old Post Office, Downtown

A slice of Appalachia in DC, Brookland

A postcard fall scene, Brookland

Stanton Park, Capitol Hill

A very haunted-looking house, Brookland

Instagram Round-up

2011-11-12T06:46:00.000-08:00

The Magic Bathroom

Formstone-clad rowhouses, Baltimore

Bombed-out rowhouses not far from the Pennsylvania/North intersection.West Baltimore

The Susquehanna River. Maryland/Delaware border region

Looking towards South Baltimore

Greenspace, Tenleytown, DC

NYC Skyline seen from Jersey City, New Jersey

Deli, Williamsburg

Fall in DC

First snowfall, Washington, DC

Interior of Taquería DF, Columbia Heights, DC

Dinner at Taquería DF. Black beans, though? I do not know why it is so hard to find actual Mexican chefs in DC!

Part II of my Brooklyn weekend

2011-11-01T09:49:00.000-07:00

Southbound E. 116th St. 4/5/6 platform

Looking into the relatively underdeveloped far West side of Manhattan

A (controversial) mural in Crown Heights

Delicious, Laotian-influenced, Northeastern Thai food at Zab Elee, located in Manhattan's East Village

Manhattan skyscrapers off in the distance, as seen from a largely industrial section of Bushwick

Great Gatsby-esque, Gilded Age high rises near the MoMA

Whimsical donut flavors at Bed Stuy's Dough (I got blood orange)

Chinese hairstyles adorn an Elmhurst storefront window

Presidential Money, Crown Heights

Lofty Sunset, Bushwick

Sandwich artist, Williamsburg

Bodega owner, Bed-Stuy

Saturday morning, Crown Heights

Fall reds, Clinton Hill

Suggestive liquor, East Harlem

My (not so) "pretentious hipster DB weekend in NYC"

2011-10-26T16:47:00.000-07:00

Apartment, Crown Heights.

Green Ave brownstones, Clinton Hill

The High Line II, Chelsea

Trondheim, Manhattan

Standing guard against the hipsters. Williamsburg

The Godfather sandwich from *THE* Graham Ave Meat and Deli. Williamsburg

ROA piece. Bushwick

Margarita pie. Patsy's, East Harlem

Bigote. Bushwick

Victorian homes, Ditmas Park

MoMA

Beef Randang and Hainanese Chicken Rice (Malaysian). Taste Good, Elmhurst

Wolf Shirt Man and his Wolf dog

A Bathing Ape. Elmhurst

Glass Shop Café, Crown Heights

The New Americans. Elmhurst

Baltimore: A Continuation

2011-10-14T08:06:00.000-07:00

Neatly-preserved rows of Federalist buildings, Mt. Vernon

A curious Indian shopkeeper, Hamden

Tri-level rowhouses, Charles Village

Spanish-influenced rowhouses in a hilly section of Druid Hill

Man spraypainting car, Northwest Baltimore

A ghetto fixture, West Baltimore

"Man, musta been 30 people in the last month done asked to take my picture." Eastern Ave, Fells Point

True Grit, West Baltimore

Gaia's double raven piece on the Edgar Allen Poe Homes. Fayette Street, SW Baltimore

Baltimore's grand, domed City Hall. Tommy Carcetti! Clay Davis!

Halloween decorations, Hamden

Limestone and Marble architecture, Mt. Vernon

Fells Point

Two cats, Northwest Baltimore

American Pizza and Wings, Hamden

Oppulence, Mt. Vernon

Big Boyz, Fells Point

Recently, in Washington, DC

2011-10-11T15:03:00.001-07:00

Toy soldier, Bloomingdale.

"Wisdom," Logan Circle

"Ay, man, why you ain't take no picture of me - I'm a star." Petworth

One of the few, rare good-looking contemporary residences. U Street.

Grannies, Petworth.

Beef yum. Beau Thai, Shaw.

Palettes, Bloomingdale.

Infill, U Street.

American flag, Petworth

Costumes, Columbia Heights

Rowhouses, Petworth

"The Monique." Truxton Circle

LA (!!) Nails. Park View

Capitol View. Columbia Heights/U Street border area

Dutch-influenced rowhomes, Columbia Heights

Dog and kids, Bloomingdale

First Street rowhouses, Bloomingdale

Channeling my inner Omar Little: visiting Baltimore

2011-10-10T12:46:00.000-07:00

Last week, after previously only having passed through, I finally visited the Maryland port city of The Wire fame. And I like it. Superficially, it has the raw, edgy, post-industrial feel I find beneficial to my photography, heaps of kitsch and, compared to Washington, drastically cheaper prices. As cliché as it sounds, it feels like a real city, for real people. The Salon sums the city up best, calling it "equal parts kitschy, sketchy, artsy and weird." Plus, it has the added benefit that, if all else sucked (which it doesn’t), I would at least have the possibility to walk around, pretending I am in a real-life version of The Wire.

Despite having a smaller population, it feels much larger than Washington. I primarily attribute this to its sheer size, but also to its skyscraper-having waterfront and downtown, and, the presence of heavy industry in the city. Indeed, prior to suburbanization and white flight, Baltimore boasted an impressive 900,000 people. The culture is much-less transplant-y, too. For instance, all of the sports teams flags I saw were for Baltimore teams - not like DC where Auburn, Ohio State, and Florida flags dominate. Even the culture feels unique; Baltimore-only foods like “laketrout” and pit beef are prevalent, and people in the city’s Northwest use the word “hon” extensively and with affection.

The (actual) Harbor area was nice - especially the relaxed, under-the-radar Eastern portion, with its balanced mix of residential lofts, and still-operating industrial/naval uses. In particular, I enjoyed sitting along the docks, taking in the tranquil, almost idyllic scenes. And reflecting on Frank Sobotka. RIP, Frank Sobotka.

On the topic of Frank Sobotka, Fells Point, the area depicted in Season 2, was a personal favorite. Its upper portion is a decidedly blue collar neighborhood of low-slung formstone rowhouses, Spanish-language menu taquerías, auto-body shops, and un-ironic thrift stores. The lower, coast-hugging portion is more developed and gentrified, with beer gardens, loft conversions, spendy gastropubs, and trendy, wharfside restaurants selling locally-sourced seafood. Surprisingly, the former center of Polish Baltimore does a good job balancing the old and new. I still find it bizarre, though: old turn-of-the-century buildings, complete with Polish engraving and insignia, functioning as Mexican botánicas and wire transfer businesses. I liked the vibe there.

It is the city’s kitschy aesthetic that most amuses me. The unintentionally hilarious store names, over-the-top Halloween and yard decorations, and amusing, if patronizing, street characters. And, of course, the random, feral cats milling about on rowhouse windowsills. Too, I cannot forget the hard-nosed, no BS, DIY men, who, from their stoops, greet passerbyers and keep an eye out for crime.

The city’s infamous, plentiful ghettos, however, are as bad you as probably think they are. Walking along Druid Hill Road, upon crossing the Mondawmin Mall, I definitely knew I was in Da Hood. The landscape abruptly switched from weathered, but still occupied rowhomes, to all-out abandonment; homes with burned-out roofs, hallowed shells, and structurally-unsound facades. It went from old-timey, working class ethnic whites (Irish Catholics, mainly) doing yardwork, and hanging out in dark, hazy, crappy domestic brew-serving bars illuminated by pinball machines and jukeboxes, to little Michael’s and Bodie’s hanging in front of bulletproof, Korean-run liquor stores and shuttered storefront churches. I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone: I would walk on a seemingly empty block, only to see men pour out of alleys, and curtains flutter as I passed by. In many of these ghettos, I wonder if at all there is a government presence. Lawless, all-but abandoned, and full of despair, it sure didn’t feel that way.

I will be back, though!

Penn Station

Rounded rowhomes, Hamden

Tortilleria Sinaloa, Fells Point

Tacos de res

View of Downtown Baltimore from Harbor East

Fred, Wyman Park

Don't mess with Texas, Hamden

"Greatest City in America." Hamden

Love, Hamden

The wonderfully Art-Deco Bank of America building. Downtown Baltimore

Long Johns, Hamden

Porch culture, Wyman Park

Storefront humor, Hamden

30'', West Baltimore

Pennsylvania Ave, West Baltimore

Fierce cat, Hamden

The abandoned Edgar Allen Poe housing projects, Southwest Baltimore

Chav, Hamden

Kandahar, West Baltimore

Hip-Hop Chicken, West Baltimore

2011 H Street Festival

2011-09-18T06:50:00.000-07:00

Mid-September Mishmash

2011-09-15T12:31:00.000-07:00

Loulou, Uni

Religion, Bloomingdale

Bury me with Bacon, Columbia Heights

One of these is not like the others, Adams Morgan/Woodley Park

Moderne apartment, 16th St., NW

Safi, Qualia Coffee, Petworth

JFK Memorial

Bad news on the Yellow Line

Neo-French Modernism, Foggy Bottom

Fish & Keys, Columbia Heights

Church, Columbia Heights

The joint Swedish and Icelandic Embassy, Georgetown

Watergate

Georgetown street scene

Georgetown Evening

Washingtonian Impressions

2011-09-09T22:44:00.000-07:00

Now three weeks into life in Washington, DC, I would like to reflect a bit. A month ago, I moved here for school, primarily because it is the best city for my major, International Relations. The amount of internships, jobs, careers, volunteer opportunities available are incredible. Despite being the Capital, DC is smaller and more intimate than one would think. With charming rowhomes - as opposed to imposing, light-blocking skyscrapers - and friendly, sweet tea-drinking locals who always say hello, it can more resemble a genteel Southern town. Granted, a genteel Southern town with an outsized international political influence and standing.

Compared to other places, people here are extremely career-oriented. About half of the city is comprised of overachieving, ladder-climbing nerds here for government jobs and internships. It is a very segregated city, with the city’s NW quadrant and close-in locales, like Arlington, being the primary domains of the city’s young and white. In a stark contrast to other areas, these parts are typified by manicured rowhomes, new condos, bike lanes, dog parks, coffee shops, and quaint, sidewalk cafés. Blocks away from safe, yuppified enclaves, often lie places like Trinidad, an almost-exclusively black nabe best known for the (unconstitutional) intrusive police checkpoints of July 2008. By contrast, rundown homes, fried fish shacks, barber shops, and Eritrean-owned, bulletproof glass liquor stores dominate the landscape of NE and SE DC.

Still, several of my favorite DC neighborhoods are in the large, multifaceted NW section. Easily the center of DC’s political, social, and cultural scenes, it is home to my favorite (DC) neighborhood, Columbia Heights, as well as many embassy events, of which I try my best to attend. One of few integrated nabes, it is roughly one-third Latino, White, and Black, giving it a multiculturalism otherwise absent in the city. Bizarrely, it is a place where professionals and their million-dollar “dream homes” can coexist alongside violent, troublesome Section 8 housing, and crowded Salvadoran tenements. That said, it is the food options that deserve much praise: a wealth of contemporary American, Salvadoran, Vietnamese, Peruvian, and Caribbean options makes it a local culinary paradise. The cheap Peruvian pollerías are particularly abundant and tasty.

Supposedly, it is a “hipster” neighborhood, yet I see more people in suits and ties than skinny jeans, plaid shirts, vintage floral skirts, or on fixed-gear bikes. Business attire, along with awful Flyover Country university apparel. All over DC, I see far too many people walking around in University of Michigan or University of Texas-Austin shirts, as if they are still living in dorms. Curiously, DC lacks the hipster (basically, 18-35 y/o’s with interests previously deemed unconventional, but are now conventional) scene popular elsewhere. Migrants here are attracted by well-paying Federal jobs and political ambition; not hipster incubators like street art, dive bars, cheap rents, or indie music.

Bloomingdale, the first part of the city built outside of the L’Enfant Plan, is another favorite, even if somewhat isolated and lacking in amenities. Residential, with a coffee shop as its only meeting place, its turreted Victorian rowhomes are among my favorite, having every bit of the detail as the more expensive, better-known ones in Dupont and Logan. It is the city’s walkable, human-scaled rowhome neighborhoods that I find most ideal and livable.

Prevalent in neighborhoods with multi-generational native Washingtonians, like Anacostia and Petworth, is a quaint Southern vibe. People on porches greeting passerbyers, getting dressed up on Sundays, and Southern cuisine and mannerisms. Same goes for the WASPy Brooks Brothers look-alikes in Chevy Chase. On a personal note, the familiarity of sweet tea, peach cobbler and grits resonates well with my stomach. To this Angeleno, these traits, coupled with a distinctive Southern drawl, spell out an unmistakable Southern influence.

Kids, Metro Red Line

Union Station

Don, Trinidad

American flag, Woodley Park

Streamline lobby, Cleveland Park

Falafel, Amsterdam Falafel

Clarendon Metro Station

Petworth rowhouses

A Pastor's church and his car, NE DC

Best World, Mt. Pleasant

Chicken and Waffles, Capitol City Diner

Sunday morning, NE DC

Downtown office blocks

Radio PRAISE, H St., NE

House of God Inc, Capitol Hill

Trinidad rowhouses

Drank, Trinidad

Looking down N. Capitol St., NE

Portland, continued

2011-08-31T15:33:00.000-07:00

Bicycle parking signs outside of Powell's, the world's largest bookstore. Pearl District

A man and his out-of-breath companion. Morrison Street Bridge.

A tattooed cashier at the Fred Meyer store on SE Hawthorne and 39th Ave. Very "Come As You Are," IMO.

The minimalist interior of the Downtown location of Stumptown Coffee.

A NW 23rd Ave-bound streetcar. Pearl District.

Mr. 420, with his grandchildren. Old Town.

A contemporary residence somewhere near Alberta St., in NE Portland.

Green space. NW Portland.

The Moroccan hash breakfast. Tasty and Sons.

Banana/Blueberry smoothie with almond milk. Pearl District.

New infill. Belmont.

More infill. Pearl District.

A charming, obscured pre-war residence near Mt. Tabor Park.

Seth. Tin Shed Café. Alberta.

A rare sight: a black person in Portland, America's largest majority-white city.

Summer 2011, seen through Instagram

2011-08-29T11:40:00.000-07:00

One week in Washington

2011-08-28T07:08:00.000-07:00

Interior of a Virgin America Airbus A320. LAX.

Rowhouses along Florida Ave, NW in Adams Morgan.

A woman walking along 14th St., NW, in Columbia Heights.

Columbia Heights Metro station.

Eat More Chicken. Petworth.

Qualia Coffee. Petworth.

Rowhouses in Petworth.

American University's Katzen Art Center.

Tragedy (he-he). Big Bear Café, Bloomingdale.

Braids. Seen on a northbound bus on Georgia Avenue.

Columbia Heights side street.

Fierce.

Streamline apartment towers along 16th St., NW in Mount Pleasant.

Outside of the Van Ness Metro station. Connecticut Ave, NW.

Vendor outside of the Columbia Heights Metro.

Patio seating at Big Bear. Bloomingdale.

Police camera, similar to those featured in The Wire. North Capitol Street, Bloomingdale/Eckington border.

Portland: Stuffwhitepeoplelikeville

2011-08-27T10:00:00.000-07:00

This past week, I made the pilgrimage to the place where, as Portlandia now-famously described it, “young people retire.” I visited Portland, Oregon, to sing praises on its bicycle culture, urban planning policies, environmental friendliness, and a food scene that prides itself on locally-sourced produce and sustainability. And the coffee: Portland is the Mecca of caffeine and local (coffee bean) roasting. As it turns out, Stuffwhitelikepeopleville, with its high livability, is a great place to lazily spend a few days or, possibly, a few months.

With a compact footprint, and a population of ~600,000, Portland felt downright cozy. People are approachable and helpful; on public transit, people struck up conversations and commented on my hair - which nowadays, is long, unkempt and curly. I was impressed at how sincere people were in their liberalism and eco-friendliness, unlike LA, where limousine liberals take up interests out of trendiness. City-wide composting, ubiquitous bicycles, and a emphasis on sustainability and all things organic all reflected this. Even in restaurants, you make and bus your own tables, a sign of the prevalent DIY ethic. And the air really is that much better.

Biking the city was a dream come true. Traversing a city by bike has never been easier. Bike-only lanes, sharrows, and esplanades criss-cross the city, and bike parking is ample. My favorite was the Waterfront Esplanade, a series of pedestrian and bike-only trails hugging the Williamette River, including dedicated levels on the bottom of an old, freight train bridge. Bicycles are used as a mode of transportation by all walks of life, from hippies, to hipsters, to family-friendly Dads, to suit-wearing Downtown professionals. Accustomed to the only cyclists being Lance Armstrong enthusiasts, homeless, and Westside Midnight Ridazz fans riding $1000 road bikes, it was revelationary.

In addition to being the most bike-friendly city, Portland also has the distinction of being the only city I have been to where newer, multifamily architecture looks better than old, pre-war single-family homes. Typically, that is not the case, as I prefer historic buildings. But in Portland, I had trouble finding historic buildings worth writing home about. A city of 1890s-1920s homes, most lacked ornamentation and detail, and were not much different from the simple Craftsman homes that dot much of Northeast LA. A sign of its modest, lumber town roots, perhaps?

The new buildings, however, are wonderful. All-around quality materials, along with designs that, while sharp and cutting edge, remain unobtrusive, mean Portland has some of the best new architecture. Good enough to the point that it hurts to think that a city smaller, poorer, and less relevant in the global spectrum (no diss) can design far more innovative, much better-looking buildings, at cheaper price-points to boot. And most, if not all, were LEED certified, with elaborate greywater recycling and waste-reduction systems, along with numerous windows, to best make use of (the rare) natural light. Especially inspiring was the Pearl District, a former neighborhood of low-slung warehouses and light industrial uses, transformed into neat blocks of stellar-looking 6-8 story mid-rises, streetcars, bike lanes, and spendy restaurants.

About restaurants, for a city lacking a rich immigrant tradition (Portland is 78% white, the whitest major city in the US) or many outside culinary influences, Portland was one of the best food cities I have visited. To feed its huge population of food-hungry, quasi-employed 20-something year old’s, Portland has looked inward for innovation. Restaurants offer extensive selections of local, organic, made-in-Oregon fare, appearing to compete over who can be the most “sustainable.” On several occasions, I would walk into a restaurant expecting there to be no napkins. German restaurant Grüner’s potato bun hamburger, topped with smoky bacon, pickled red onion, aioli, arugula, and house-made ketchup, was quite possibly the best hamburger I’ve had.

While arugula, spinach, aioli, grass-fed beef, and free-range chicken were all common on menus, in a stark contrast, bacon, biscuits, gravy, and, in general, pork, all seemed to be just as common. In fact, looking at the menus of one of the city’s myriad good brunch places, one feels as if they are south of the Mason-Dixie line. At Pine State Biscuits, I had the “Chatfield,” a biscuit with (boneless) fried chicken, bacon, cheddar, and apple butter. At another popular place, Tin Shed, I had biscuits smothered in white gravy and smoked applewood bacon, and cheese grits. Sweet tea was, of course, also present. The big dining trend seemed to be gourmet twists on “homeland” style meals; hearty, filling, unhealthy meals once eschewed in favor of then-new, healthier fusion and international options.

in/around

2011-08-13T22:21:00.000-07:00

8/09 & 8/10

2011-08-11T09:56:00.000-07:00

Recently, in Los Angeles

2011-08-04T23:10:00.000-07:00

GF3 test drive

2011-08-02T10:36:00.000-07:00

7/12

2011-07-13T13:57:00.000-07:00

7/05 (for the most part)

2011-07-09T11:18:00.000-07:00

6/28

2011-06-29T03:29:00.000-07:00

Mayan mocha...mmmm

6/14 y 6/23

2011-06-23T23:04:00.000-07:00

estoy de vuelta

2011-06-07T09:11:00.000-07:00

Life, Hipstamaticized

2011-05-28T21:22:00.000-07:00

No rhyme or reason to these photos, just a collection of photos taken during moments I was without my camera:

*bonus*

Villa Urquiza-ing

2011-05-07T08:34:00.000-07:00

4/30-5/02

2011-05-02T22:20:00.000-07:00

Otoño a full.

A woman shaded by an overcast. Línea San Martin, Recoleta.

A brightly-painted corner building in Palermo Soho.

An autumn scene in Palermo Soho.

Lunch with Han-Han. Palermo Hollywood.

More street art. Palermo Soho.

Mid-day lunch crowd.

Cute house, Palermo.

The view of Pasaje Santa Rosa, between Thames and Borges.

Minkel, sitting on an otherwise Diagonal Norte.

Interior of La Brigada. San Telmo

Pizza at Sara´s house. San Cristóbal.

Interior of Sara´s San Cristóbal flat.

Pelo. Avenida Córdoba.

Cien barrios porteños, eh?

2011-04-22T22:08:00.000-07:00

Fueled by curiosity, determination, and cheap mass transit, I have been on a rampage, visiting every barrio in a quest to better understand my adopted city. It is easier said than done; even with daily exploring, the only places I know extensively (i.e, inside and out), are Palermo and neighboring Villa Crespo. Still, at minimum, I can now lay claim to having a passing knowledge of the majority of the city’s barrios.

Naturally, there are some I prefer overs others, and for reasons unique to those places. Balvanera and Montserrat, despite being unlivable due to copious amounts of crime, general neglect, and serious quality of life issues, have arguably the best architecture in the city. A Flickr contact likened the maltreatment and poor state of the buildings to seeing a King wearing flip-flops. I would tend to agree; those barrios could be the SoHo and Upper West Side of Buenos Aires. Abasto’s monopoly on Peruvian restaurants is appetizing, and makes up for an otherwise hardscrabble existence. And I like the melancholy feel to the old, tired cobble-stoned lanes in Chacarita, home to the National Cemetery. The charming, noble fir-lined side streets in Villa Crespo also pique my interest.

The bustling, transient areas surrounding major transit hubs typically leave alot to be desired. Retiro’s namesake station, Chacarita’s Frederico Lacroze, and the generally crummy Constitución neighborhood all come to mind. The first two even have shanties on the grounds of the rail stations. Shanties in Argentina, called “villas,” can often be found on ill-attended to, or abandoned fiscal land on the sites of train stations. In a jarring juxtaposition common in Latin America, Retiro’s giant Villa 31 slum is a precious few minutes from the city’s wealthiest neighborhood and main transit hub. Similarly, minutes away from the famous Avenida 9 de Julio is San Cristóbal, a neighborhood of Dominican barbershops and handsome, soon-to-be torn down old houses. In the search for cheap rents, several of my friends have moved there; still, it is bad enough for an heladero to call it “picante.”

Once is a bizarre contraption, certainly worthy of its own paragraph. One of the most centrally-located barrios, Once (named after the 11 de Septiembre train station), is also one of the city’s more fascinating, and dangerous. Walking in the graffitied-up Plaza Miserere, a center of evangelical street preachers, hot dog vendors, and illegal immigrant Caribbean sex workers, one feels as if they have been transported to..City of God. Gangs of Peruvian street thugs, called pirañas, prey on commuters using the many nearby bus, subway, or train lines. The once-glamorous buildings are caked in years of filth and neglect, and its shopping district, full of immigrants hawking usually counterfeit goods, is one of the most visually-polluted places I have seen.

In a city homogeneous by Western standards, Once is an oasis of multiculturalism; large groups of Orthodox Jews, Peruvians, and Koreans call the neighborhood home. More recently, young, single men from West African countries have been moving in, and almost exclusively, sell knock-off gold and silver jewelery. On Friday evenings, one can see something altogether entirely surreal: bearded Jewish men, dressed in traditional black suites, walking to and fro synagogues. Kosher deli’s, small book-publishing houses, cultural centers and temples (that are guarded by police and protected by barriers because of this) line the side streets, mixed in with Peruvian pollerías, and Chinese and Korean-owned markets and tintorerías.

Living in Palermo, despite the proliferation of generic, “International” bistros, and having to hear hostel kids throw up every weekend, can have its charms. First, contrary to popular belief, outside of the tandem hell that is Plaza Armenia and Serrano (and the stretch of Calle Borges that tourists ply from the subway station to the said plazas), the barrio is still a barrio. Unless Armenian churches, key repair shops, low-key parillas, and Christian book stores constitute being touristy. The touristy part is full of boutiques, yoga studios, upscale steakhouses with “mood” lighting, and furniture stores that look straight out of Berlin. Although real estate agents have tried their hardest, carving the nabe into American-named sub-sections (Palermo Soho and Hollywood; renaming neighboring Villa Crespo as “Palermo Queens”) the neighborhood is overwhelmingly porteño - albeit porteños of middle (and increasingly, upper-middle) class stature. Nowadays, “Palermo” more of a brand than anything. The name has become synonymous with a luxurious, upscale lifestyle and, judging by the number of uninspired condos sprouting up like the glass weeds they are, it appears to be working. Even still, for however many alpaca scarf-clad fashionistas listening to The Clash on large Sony headphones I see, I will see three times as many half-naked viejos hanging clothes on apartment balconies, or middle class mothers yelling "vení!" to spoiled Pomeranians.

Agnieszka, Constitución.

A hidden Racionalista building in Once

The ex. Centro Gallego. Avenida Belgrano.

A particularly cruelly-modified building in San Telmo. I believe the culprit is a small grocer.

Chocolate blanco and Chocolate Suiza-flavored ice cream. San Cristóbal.

A highly-decorated building in San Telmo.

Beautiful, English-influenced corner building in Caballito.

Woman. Retiro.

A sad-looking stretch of Avenida Rivadavia in Flores.

Residences in a relatively well-kept portion of Flores.

Brunch at Café Crespín. So good.

The man with the Che Guevara tattoo.

A beautiful Art-Déco school

VViejo fumando. Villa Crespo

Casa del Radicalismo Popular. Chacarita.

4/18-4/21

2011-04-20T15:19:00.000-07:00

Alot of exploring recently. As it stands, I have visited an impressive 29 out of the 48 barrios de Buenos Aires. Most-recently, I have focused on the (relatively) suburban NW part of the city; Agronomía, Parque Chas, Villa Devoto, and Villa del Parque. Apart from those, attention has been given to Caballito's beautiful Barrio Inglesa; huge swaths of the southern giant, Barracas; and the gritty, rough-and-tumble barrio of La Paternal.

It takes a thief

2011-04-14T13:32:00.000-07:00

I love this city, and all of its quirks. For instance, in when leaving in the morning, the cacophony of hola’s, qué tal’s, and buen día locos. Then there are the sidewalk cafés: sitting at an outdoor café with a friend and debating the merit (or conversely, the lack of merit) of women, fútbol, politics or, in Argentina, pizza, is unbeatable. Far from being a restaurant snob, when I am in the mood for a quality cup of coffee and place to converse, ambiance is everything.

Reflecting that, some of my favorite places belong to the new wave of cool-but-cheap restaurants popping up in slowly gentrifying places like Chacarita, Colegiales, and Villa Crespo. Le Blé, a French boulangerie on a shady, tree-lined stretch of Avenida Dorrego, is my favorite of the bunch. Its airy interior, oversized communal tables and, most of all, flaky pain au chocolate, won me over. On the other end of the spectrum, there is the bare bones, sparsely-decorated La Piurana in Abasto, whose 18ar ¼ pollo-a-la brasa “promoción” brings me in on a weekly basis.

Recently, I came across a website run by a Mexican woman who makes tortillas and other Mexican foodstuffs in her spare time. As tortillas don’t exist here, I ordered a ½ kilo of hand-made, yellow corn tortillas. After picking them up from her office in an unassuming, un-renovated Montserrat building, I got together with a friend, Gringo Mike, and made tacos. Mike, who is from Virginia, is one of a handful of Americans I have met here. Evidenced by a pair of New Hampshire college students befriending me in a lonely, un-interesting coffee shop, I have noticed that once abroad, regional (American) and political differences melt away, and people unite under a national identity.

Still, the randomness of the city is what always does it for me. Stumbling upon a death metal club on a deserted San Telmo sidestreet, at 2:30am on a Tuesday. Or walking into a bodegón and seeing viejos in full-blown suites, cardigans and argyle-patterned pants on an 80 degree summer day, drink Basque wines in cups full of ice cubes. Or the hidden art gallery in the small house next door, with no adornment or signs announcing its presence. Or the attractive older lady in the Montserrat óptica, who fixed my Ray Bans because she enjoyed my “presence.” If “not ever knowing what comes next” was a quality, BA would have it in spades.

About the viejos, they are most common in the near-south neighborhoods of San Telmo, Constitución, and La Boca. A friend called these areas the Casco Viejo of BA. True, there always seems to be alot of older men, wandering around, overdressed for the humid Argentine summer. These barrios are also the main focal points for the city’s much-loved parillas (neighborhood restaurants specializing in comida porteña, especially large, oversized cuts of beef). But as time hasn’t been to kind to these once-grand neighborhoods, viejos, often born to European immigrants, are the only whites left. I guess that is the Argentine equivalent of White Flight. Visiting is like stepping into a real-life Grand Torino movie. The paucity of whites (along with the abundance of graffiti, derelict buildings, and the [usually non-Argentine] thugs, thieves, and pregnant teenagers) lends the southern part of the city a very..”Latin American” feel.

Last week, in La Boca, I saw a guy cross a street mid-block. Initially, I thought nothing of it, as city-dwellers routinely cross during a lull in automobile traffic. Bit-by-bit, as the man emerged, I saw drops on his shirt. But as he was still in the shadowy part of the street, I wrote that off, thinking it was part of his shirt’s design. I then walked into a market, to buy a cold drink. As I walked out of the market, I saw the man again, and as he entered plain view, the entire right side of his face was covered in blood. I guess that answered my question about the “drops” on his shirt. Or the San Cristóbal grandma, with a broken nose and missing purse, crying and screaming for police. Or the bare-footed ladrón leaving the cozy confines of his Calle Godoy Cruz slum to try and wrestle a purse from a well-dressed, middle-aged mother and daughter. I have seen more crimes take place in six weeks here than I have in my whole life in Los Angeles.

I reserve a special disdain, though, for the “trapitos.” People who, in busy areas on the weekend, extort money from drivers parking their cars, “making sure nothing happens” to their cars. You see them standing on corners wearing orange vests and swinging towels in the air; the towels are used to cover their hands when punching out the windows of people who refuse to pay them.

Relatively speaking, BA is a safe city, and it enjoys low levels of violent crime. Unlike other Latin American cities, here one can stay in posh, luxurious locales like Palermo, Puerto Madero, Recoleta, or Retiro, and - for a second - squint your eyes and pretend you are in Europe. As for the occurrences above, while they don’t define and characterize life here, as they do in Caracas, or Managua, they are apparently common enough to bare mentioning.

viene para el tango, regresa para los orgasmos

2011-04-11T20:28:00.000-07:00

No love lost

2011-04-03T13:15:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite things about Buenos Aires is the sometimes grungy, always chaotic, mix that characterizes the city’s enduring clash with the new and old. The beautiful and the ugly. Strangely enough, the mix is harmonious, and has resulted in me further appreciating the city’s historic architecture. By having an always fluctuating and vibrant, eclectic mix, the city manages to escape the staid, museum-like feel found in cities with overprotective preservation ordinances. However, I still vehemently oppose the unnecessary demolition and destruction of BA’s architecture, history, and patrimony.

Although sometimes inconvenient, segregated uses for stores (i.e, no multinational, corporatized big box stores) can be rearding.. In addition to imparting character, the expertise or knowledge of somebody who has been doing one thing their whole life (most of the time, anyways) is unbeatable. While chains - capitalist jack-of-all-trades - are good at many things, but great at none, the many unique stores here, with their much-touted niches and specialties, are. Fruits from a frutería, vegetables from a verdulería, bread and pastries from panaderías and confiterías. And the more, uh, practical ones: cerrajerías, ferreterías, and talleres mecánicas. My shopping is reflective of the mom & pop-dominated landscape. Chocolate-filled croissants and “pan de campo” from a French bakery in Villa Ortúzar; pita bread, hummus and baklava from an Armenian sweet shop on Scalabrini Ortiz; juicy peaches and apples from a Bolivian family operation in Almagro; and ají peppers from Peruvian vegetable stand-owners.

Speaking of Peruvians, recently I explored their ground zero in Buenos Aires: Barrio Abasto. Abasto, the city’s former central market that, after sitting abandoned, was renovated and converted into an upscale shopping mall, sparking the revitalization of its adjacent (now) namesake barrio. Incredibly enough, some blocks that have, amazingly, gone from literal grit to glam. The streets behind the mall went from perpetually half-completed shanties and informal houses to shiny, glimmering condo towers. Having had wonderful culinary experiences there, I headed back on the advice of a food blog. Although the blog post was from 2008, the moment I read about a ½ pollo a la brasa chicken, with french fries and salad, for only $18ar (~$4), I was sold. In retrospect, I should have know that was too good to be true.

The 2011 price was 35ar for a ½ chicken, and the cheapest offering, the ¼ pollo a la brasa (just the chicken), was 23ar. Inflation here is a serious matter, with Argentina recently in the news for being on the cusp of hyperinflation. The article says Argentina’s inflation, at 11%, is the second-highest in the world, second to only Venezuela. Despite the dollar strengthening against the peso (3.75ar - $1usd in 2009, to 4.05ar = $1usd ), inflation means it is more expensive than ever. Eventually, I settled for another place with a ¼ pollo a la brasa and french fries for 17ar, a good-enough price. Yesterday I went to the supermarket, intent on buying sirloin steak. Two weeks ago, four sirloin tip steaks would have cost ~21ar ($4.93usd). As of today, I am lucky to pay 30ar ($7.40usd). Not terrible in the grand scheme of things, but not knowing prices is no fun. This has contributed to the feeling of hopelessness and pessimism here. That Buenos Aires’ best days, sadly, are behind her.

Reflecting a money-driven single-dimensional purpose for being here, the dollar/euro-earning expats’ usual complaints are rising costs. To them, using BA as a cheap, South American alternative to Europe, is a thing of the past. Then, the feeling of a secret having been let out; that the city has sold out to tourist masses. Aside from the said inflation, blame lies with the New York Times and Lonely Planets of the world; their role in romanticizing and over-hyping the city’s affordability has contributed to this.

Anecdotally, it seems like everybody is moving to or talking about Colombia. As an avid cyclist and supporter of contemporary urban planning trends, I am a big fan of Bogotá and, more importantly, what it has been able to accomplish as a developing South American metropolis. That said, with all due respect, it is no Buenos Aires. The country itself is fascinating, but even after visiting both cities, I would never compare Bogotá to Buenos Aires. That wouldn’t be fair - the two are totally different. Anyways, the “creative” types are flocking to Berlin, as well as Brooklyn, Detroit, and Portland. The human rights/NGO crowd seems big on Cambodia and Nicaragua (the more poor and obscure a place is, the more “street cred”).

About expats: the condescending, patronizing attitudes held by some are major turn-offs. Aside from thinking BA begins and ends at Palermo (or Recoleta, or San Telmo; each attract unique sub-sects of gringos), or that the city’s only joys lie in overpriced Puerto Madero restaurants, or upscale, bad electronic music-playing Palermo Hollywood bars, the feeling of entitlement is the lamentable. Worse, girls come here, get a porteño boyfriend, pick up a bit of Spanish and begin thinking of themselves as holier-than-thou know-it-all’s. Disgusting. Along with copious amounts of whining and complaining about life here, that rounds out the norm.

On the topic of markets, probably 75% of the markets are owned by Chinese immigrants. Chinese-owned markets are so common, that people call all markets “chinos.” To say “me voy al chino” means that I am going to the market - Chinese one or not. A visible part of the porteño barrio fabric and streetscape, no doubt these markets play an important role in providing accessible foodstuffs in areas not well-serviced by traditional markets. And unlike corner stores back home, who from their bulletproof-glass windows, rip captive markets off by selling single rolls of toilet paper, or loose cigarettes, the markets here have..everything. Except for the weird 3ar fee charged for the purchase of glass bottles, I like the chinos. The halting Spanish spoken by many shopkeepers can be grinding to the ears, though.

That’s about the extent of my recent observations. P.S, Argentines, I am *not* from Brazil ;)

As I took the photo above, a police officer in an orange vest appeared. "Muchacho! Sabés que dónde estás?" I reply "Sí, ya sé. Estamos en Constitución." He then says "tenés ID? Necesito que ver tu ID." I show him my passport card, and he looks both the card and I, gives it back to me and says "Cuidado con la cámara, eh!" Heh.

3/29 & 3/30

2011-03-31T14:35:00.000-07:00

3/26 & 3/37

2011-03-27T19:18:00.000-07:00

Las últimas dos días en fotos. Tomadas principalmente en los barrios de Almagro, Chacarita, y San Cristóbal.

24 days in

2011-03-26T07:54:00.000-07:00

With a daily routine, a sense of order and normalcy has arrived to my life in Buenos Aires. Most of the time I think and speak in Spanish, and my nascent friend circle and social life, too, is falling into place. Several times a week I go to the supermarket (Carrefour) or my local “chino” (name for the Chinese-owned bodega-like markets ubiquitous throughout BA) to buy fresh ingredients to cook for that night’s dinner. Life without a cell phone has also proven to be surprisingly liberating and hassle-free; the people who actually want to see you will make the necessary provisions to do so. I am, at last, settled in.

Going outside of my home, and into the streets, is an invitation for turning my head, and constantly looking back in rapid secession. Seeing hot girls (and, really, all walks of life) is quite easy and commonplace here, since people actually walk places, and aren’t stuck inside of cars or air-conditioned shopping malls surrounded by enormous parking lots. You see alot of old people here as well; probably because Argentines don’t coup them up in retirement homes, or ship them to Florida. Day after day, nothing feels better than being out of a city (actually, country) where a culture defined by sprawl, suburban living, fast-food, and auto-centricity dominates. That said, the liberal Californian in me wishes it was possible for something to be done about the complete freedom and impunity smokers here enjoy.

I attend school in the city’s Downtown, a crowded, congested maze of banks, armored cars, pedestrians and motorcycle couriers. In many places, especially Ave. Gral. Juan D. Perón, the sidewalks are so small that walking two-abreast is impossible. That means one must walk in single-file lines, always behind somebody dragging away on a cigarette. And there is no getting out of it, lest you wish to walk in traffic, putting your life on the line. It is as if smoking here is still “cool,” whereas in the developed world, with its bans on outdoor (and indoor) smoking and cigarette advertising, we are, fortunately, moving away from it.

Elaborating on the people: for however trendy, European, or sophisticated the people may be (or are said to be), many are cold and reserved, at least on a superficial level. And provincial, too; you won’t believe the number of people I have come across who have never left “La Provincia.” The situation is better in the less-touristy barrios, where people are helpful, genuinely pleasant, and down-to-earth - even if sometimes weary or cautious of outsiders. Yes, living in a big city can mean keeping things to yourself in order to avoid being taken advantage of, or being brief to save time, but many people here are plain rude. Addressing somebody on the street with a buen día, only for it to be returned by a blank stare into the sidewalk, or an increase in walking speed, never leaves a good impression. For your well-being, I will spare any mention of the zombie-like ambiance on the subway, where nobody says as much as even a word, let alone cracks a smile. Such attitudes starkly contrast with the warm and amiable ones found in, well, just about every other country in Latin America.

Recently, I have done a good bit of exploring - primarily in the city’s rarely mentioned (except for crime!) south, as well as Colegiales. The city’s northern outpost of indie and youth culture, many of my friends live there, which means I find myself spending alot of time there (especially since it is walkable from my house). I like Colegiales. It, too, is unique: people actually live in homes there. A few nights ago, I was puzzled when a friend gave me her address, only for it to not include an apartment number. She later did confirm that it was indeed her place..phew. The barrio is also pretty well-known and respected in the street art community, visible in its graffitied-up power plant and adjacent Calle Cone having become pilgrimage sites for tourists seeking out edgy street art.

For one reason or another, I have also happened to find myself in the barrios of Bajo Flores, Flores, Parque Chacabuco and Paternal. Flores captivated me the most, and was the most surprising. In local, porteño circles, it wouldn’t be wrong to say it has a a bad reputation. In the conversations I have had regarding the city’s worst neighborhoods, Flores has had its fair share of mentions. Being the city’s most-populous barrio, it surely couldn’t hurt to visit, however short the visit. I did, and it totally caught me off guard! While Bajo Flores *is* bleak, and is to be avoided (moreso because there is nothing to do there, although crime surely is a big factor, lol), the part of Flores close to Plaza Irlanda was a joy. Blocks of neat, English, French and Spanish-influenced homes, happy-looking families out walking their dogs, and new luxury condos abound.. Being the last day of summer, I brought a ¼ pint of white chocolate and Swiss chocolate ice cream from an artisanal ice cream shop, eating it as I strolled adjacent side streets.

On the topic of prices, as an avid chef, I feel obliged to mention the oddities I have come across shopping here. Four sirloin-tip steaks cost 21ar ($5), yet a small bottle of olive oil will run you 17ar ($4.20). My favorite was seeing a kilo of garlic costing 50ar ($12.36). Fortunately, the Bolivian-owned verdullerías and fruterías (typically) have great prices on most fruits and vegetables. Despite this, I still have no clue why mangoes are 7ar a piece (almost $2 per mango). As for any imported goods..forget it about it; the price premium is unbelievable. To the rescue is Barrio Chino, the city’s fledgling Chinatown, and the place where I (and every gringo) go to buy food items that porteños don’t like. These include (among other things): spices, herbs, Asian noodles, seafood, and the gringo fan favorite, peanut butter. On a recent trip, I brought a kilo of mushrooms, Siracha chili sauce, a big bottle of soy sauce (of which is available at my local markets, but for absurd, unrealistic prices), and some hard-to-get chilies.

3/18

2011-03-18T23:57:00.000-07:00

Last Friday, I took the newly inaugurated Línea H to its southern terminal of Cáseros, where I wandered around the bizarre, ⅔ industrial, ⅓ residential barrio that is Parque Patricios.

Best known for its large concentration of hospitals, and former slaughterhouses, the area was plain strange. Out of the three barrios I visited that day (the others were Boedo and San Cristobál, of whom border Pque. Patricios), Pque. Patricios was easily the roughest of the three, with its feel becoming increasingly antsy the further south (towards the stadium) you went. Not a dangerous feeling, or anything, but more of a feeling of not belonging. In a weird twist, most of its low-slung aesthetic is comprised of small-scale industrial uses, such as mechanics, or warehouses. And on any given cobble-stoned side-street, you can see delivery vans zipping around, delivering goods.

The other thing that jumped out at me was how cheap everything is down there. I randomly stumbled upon a small neighborhood cafe - a place with the “barrio” factor turned up to level ten - and ordered a café con leche and three medialunas...for the small price of 8ar. The same item in Palermo or Villa Crespo (the rough-and-tumble, but still gentrifying, historically Jewish and Armenian barrio five blocks to the west of me) would set me back a good 15-16ar; double the price. While I knew that in the past decade or so, Palermo had become a must-have “brand,” I had no clue that price differences were that stark between it and the rest of the city.

Collectively, with its all-star cast of blighted porteño ghettos (keeping it real with: Avellaneda, Bajo Flores, Barracas, Constitución, La Boca, and Nueva) Pompeya and copper-skinned Mestizo and Andean masses, the city’s south must be the Bronx of Buenos Aires.

3/16

2011-03-17T04:03:00.000-07:00

A basque chick and buildings included within Avenida Callao's newly-designated área protección histórica:

Two weeks in BA

2011-03-15T12:42:00.000-07:00

As my recent photos imply, I am now living and studying in Buenos Aires, and have been doing so for the past two weeks. To say the least, it has been a rather unpredictable and turbulent two weeks. Finding an apartment, university enrollment, and other things, like buying a pre-paid phone (only to have it stolen) with no Argentine identification, and getting used to local customs, do indeed eat away at your time and well-being. Initially, things were a bit hectic, being in new-ish place, but as of writing, things are, at last, starting to appear more stable and permanent. I have made the (admittedly rare) decision to share with you a few of my observations and thoughts on living here:

There is a particular vibrancy and perpetual sense of uncertainty here I definitely enjoy. Enjoyed enough to come back, anyways. Mainly the architecture and way of life. The city’s much-loved architecture is plentiful and makes living here a constant visual treat for the eyes, whereas the social life-driven, work-to-live (and not live-to-work, as in the US) ethic and outlook is easy to appreciate. Coming from LA, finally living in a city that doesn’t shut down at 5pm, is wonderful. Same goes for living in a place life is routinely dictated by automobiles and the access they provide.

The food takes more getting used to than expected. Variety is limited, and basics, such as spice and vegetables (in restaurants, that is; I have no problem finding them in markets) are practically unheard of in porteño restós. Fortunately, the ample supply of Armenian and Peruvian food, as well as food from the indigenous-influenced north of Argentina, somewhat makes up for the slack. Unapologetically, I do miss how easy it was to get fresh, authentic Mexican, Indian, Thai, and Vietnamese food at cheap prices. And there is no way I could have predicted ham creeping its way into my diet, with a surprising regularity, to boot. Rarely did I eat it back home, but now that I am here, I have it in (or should I say, find it in) empanadas, on top of steak sandwiches, or served raw in dinner appetizers. Finally, being honest, at times, I do miss American (er, estadounidense) breakfast. Actually, I miss any sort of breakfast - American or otherwise; the only food porteños eat before noon are croissants, washed down with a cup of café con leche.

I have fared better with the adoption of customs unique to the River Plate region. I am gradually beginning to greet both friends and strangers, men and women, with kisses on the cheek. And somewhat begrudgingly, I begin most mornings with coffee and croissants (out of that being the only “breakfast” item moreso than out of pleasure). Too, a token few Argentine phrases have begun to trickle into my neutral Spanish (saying “chau” when leaving; “mirá vos” when congratulating friends; saying “eh” at the end of questions; gradually pronouncing Mayo as “Ma-sho” instead of “Mah-yo”). Conversely, I had no problem joining in on the city’s universal appreciation for classic rock, as well as the embrace of all things kitsch. Kitsch things, like bars themed after 1950’s, Nuclear Age America (Mundo Bizarro), and love hotels with Egyptian Pharaoh suites. My favorite is Picaflor, a sweaty, sultry Peruvian nightclub in Almagro, of whose cologne-drenched masses can be seen (and smelled, too) heading to/fro within a several block radius.

The lazy, inefficient, well-entrenched and -padded bureaucracy gets on my nerves, though. To live here is a matter of getting used to waiting. Waiting in line for the subte, enrollment processes for school, lengthy lines in the bank, and waiting for nonexistent restaurant service. Same goes for the levying of fees and taxes on imported goods mailed or delivered to you. No getting around that. Apartment searching was frustrating, too. The majority of the apartments here are drab, unadorned, 1970s efficiency units. Wi-Fi access is not nearly as common as it should be, and many of the said apartments, with their blank walls, and “views” of other apartments, are plain depressing.

Currently, I am in Palermo, living with two Colombian girls. Writing about the city’s largest nabe, and the love-hate relationship porteños have with it, could fill up a few paragraphs. Anyways, among other things, I enjoy the barrio’s abundant park space and plazas, for they are perfect for people-watching and passing time. On the other hand, its restaurants, of which there are many, is somewhat of a double-edged sword. There are indeed many, but a fair number of them, maybe even the majority, are super high-end, exclusive-type places where you pay $50+ (per-person) for “contemporary” and “refined” Argentine cooking, or a porteño’s (unfortunate) take on sushi. Having alot of restaurants nearby doesn’t make much of a difference if they are all overpriced. A few blocks away from the tourist hell that is Plaza Serrano, one can find still-affordable steakhouses, fruit and vegetable stands, and unsung cafés undiscovered by tourists and their big bucks. Eight-block hike to the subway aside, the quality of life here is pretty damn good.

Coins, like public green space, are highly sought after, and are treated with the kind of attention afforded to precious minerals, such as gold. Although I have always looked after, and kept an eye on my spare coins, their rarity means I have to take it to the next level. This is primarily because coins are the sole payment for riding the city’s venerable colectivos (buses). The city’s chaotic, incredibly unorganized system of buses, complete with each route run/managed by a different operator, actually comes in handy. Knowledge of buses is necessary for traveling after 10:45pm, or for visiting the vast portions of the city inaccessible by subte during the day.

That’s all for now. Here are some completely unrelated photos taken (mainly) in Once, a surreal Orthodox Jewish barrio that feels like something out of a Woody Allen movie.

in and around the barrio

2011-03-11T08:21:00.000-08:00

3/05 & 3/06

2011-03-07T07:19:00.000-08:00

3/03 & 3/04

2011-03-04T16:00:00.000-08:00

A weekend in the Cradle of Liberalism

2011-03-03T05:49:00.000-08:00

hogar dulce hogar

2011-03-02T15:22:00.000-08:00

Highland Park bike corral opening!

2011-02-18T15:00:00.000-08:00

And the rest: NYC

2011-02-14T19:23:00.000-08:00

580 Carroll St., Park Slope, Brooklyn

Bánh mì, Sunset Park/Borough Park, Brooklyn.

Mexican guy, Bushwick, Brooklyn

industrial camoflauge, Sunset Park, Brooklyn.

street art, Bushwick, Brooklyn.

Art-Deco buildings, Highbridge, The Bronx.

Marlo from The Wire (lol), Marcy Ave platform, South Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

red door, Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn.

40 Bond, Noho, Manhattan.

girl, Sunset Park, Brooklyn.

2/04

2011-02-04T19:45:00.000-08:00

Adriana, Mid-City, Los Angeles

Spanish duplex (L), and Modernist Dingbat (R), Mid-City

Haas Bldg., Broadway, DTLA.

Man on bike, Main St., DTLA.

La Abeja restaurant, Glassell Park, Los Angeles.

garage, Mount Washington, Los Angeles.

questionable renovation, Mount Washington, Los Angeles.

views from Mount Washington, Los Angeles.

Pieces of D.C

2011-02-03T15:10:00.000-08:00

Hmm..not particularly impressed with any of these, but I figure I better post them now, or they'll end up lost somewhere in my photo backlog. One of these days I will get around to doing a proper visit of DC (and Portland, and Detroit, and Cincinnati).