Weekend warrior

It's only Wednesday and I'm finally coming back to earth after a stellar weekend.

August 5th marked the one year anniversary of when I started to hike the Appalachian Trail so I had to celebrate. I took off work, loaded up my gear, bought some 49 cent packs of Ramen noodles and headed for St. John.

I've lived in paradise for almost six months now and it was my first Virgin Islands hiking/camping excursion. It definitely won't be my last.

I settled on Cinnamon Bay, where I thought all the cool kids hung out. But when I got there, I couldn't even get anyone to answer my bell rings at the front desk. I kept ringing the bell and sat patiently. Instead of grabbing a random camp site, the lady at the general store helped me out and assigned me a spot right next to the beach.

I thought she gave me such a sweet spot because I called her "ma'am" and was polite. It all went to waste as I later found out I was one of the only campers at Cinnamon Bay that night and it was Friday.

Why the sudden absence of campers? What gives?

I later found out. But not after taking in a great sunset...


My campsite was about 15 yards from the beach and after the sun set, I decided to get started on dinner. When I hiked the AT, I was known for cooking Ramen noddles on a nightly basis with tuna and SPAM added for good measure.

Since it was an anniversary night, I went with the same. But of course I added some peanut M&M's for dessert and threw in a bag of chex mix for an appetizer.

Here's when it got hairy: the sun went down but the heat remained. It got so hot, I stripped down to my boxers while laying in my tent. I had hiked about 8 miles during the day and normally, that would knock me out. Not that night. It was just too freaking hot.

I literally picked up my tent, which was already set up with all my belongings inside, and hauled it toward the beach with the bright idea that perhaps the shore breeze would chill my sweaty bones. It helped but provided barely any relief.

When I finally did lose conscience around midnight, a flashlight glare hit me in the face and a camp ranger asked me what I was doing camping on the beach, which was not allowed.

I acted like he startled the shit out of me.

Me: "Wha! What's that?! Who's there??!! Oh my God..."

Park ranger: "Hey, take it easy. What are you doing? You're not allowed to camp on the beach."

Time to kiss some ass.

Me: "Oh please, sir. I was sweating pretty bad at my site and I brought my tent out here hoping for a breeze. I promise I'll be out of here before first light."

Park ranger: "Did you register for a camp site?"

Me: "I sure did. 8C. That's me."

The park ranger checked his clipboard and it's not like he had a lot of campers to confirm. He said he could have been a jerk but he was going to let me be. He asked me to be out of there by 6 a.m. and I promised not to leave a trace.

When I woke up the next day, I couldn't think about anything besides swimming. I had been sweating my ass off -- August is just too hot to camp in the tropics -- and couldn't wait to soak up the cool water.

I emerged from my tent around 5:30 a.m. before the sun had even shown itself and it was the perfect time for a morning swim.

I eventually gathered my stuff and started to head to the main road. For some idiotic reason, I forgot to pack a spare change of clothes so I had to put my sweat rags back on (Another AT habit).

A safari taxi driver took me back into town for $7 -- it cost two dollars less to come out of town -- and I ate breakfast at JJ's Texas Coast Cafe just before the 8 a.m. ferry left for St. Thomas.

Aside from the heat and sweat, it had been a successful trip and I was pretty proud of myself.

But there was no time to pat myself on the back because I had a pig roast to attend that afternoon. And it wasn't just any pig roast, it was the 2nd annual Brugos Brothers' Pig Roast on the North Side of St. Thomas. Brianna made cupcakes and I brought my sobriety.

I'll save that story for next time but here's a picture to wet your appetite...

Puerto Rico reflections #2

Some of you guys have asked about how crappy my hotel was so I snapped a few pics. Hotel Villa del Ray wasn't all that bad. Good people. It was a great way to see Puerto Rico, if you drove off the highway, down a meandering road where natives give you the evil eye in the middle of the jungle.

I drove by the place three times because I could not see this sign. It was face down on the ground when I finally discovered it and I leaned it up against a nearby wall. After I told the owner, the sign remained there for the next 13 days until I checked out.

It wasn't a slum or anything. This was the view from my room. The hotel was basically empty the entire time I was there (except for a few preferred customers).

After one day of staying there, the owner went on vacation with his family. They traveled to St. Thomas, of all places, for their annual summer getaway. I asked him if he wanted to do a house swap deal and he was not interested. He also left his teenage niece in charge, who liked to have late-night parties with her overweight, beer-drinking girlfriends in the pool and of course, none of them spoke English.

So to follow up on my last post: After getting my hair did up, I walked over to this neighborhood bar that didn't even have a name. No one was really inside when I strolled in but they had a big flat-screen TV and the Puerto Rico-Mexico gold medal game was about to tip.

I sat down and watched as the TV cameras kept panning to outside the stadium, where drones of people had gathered to watch the game on a movie screen. To me it looked like one of those soccer riots you see in Europe. "That's right down the street," the bartender told me. After breaking free of the melee just an hour earlier, I knew all too well about the shenanigans taking place.

I drank several Medalla Lights -- the go-to beer in western P.R. -- before I was approached by this loud, bare-foot guy who entered the bar drinking from a Burger King to-go cup. My first thought: this could be trouble.

The bartender welcomed him but you could tell he was hesitant. After the rambled on in Spanish about God knows what, he directed his attention to me.

"So where are you from?" he asked.

Surprised he spoke perfect English and excited about the upcoming conversation, I responded quickly.

"The Virgin Islands."

He did not expect that answer and I sensed immediate street credit.

We continued to talk and I later found out that he had spent some time in Florida and had already been married and divorced twice. He was only 25 years old. He didn't drink either.

"He's not allowed to drink here," the bartender muttered to me.

During our exchange, two rather large women sat down at the bar and started to put back shots of tequila like it was their job. We all sat and watched the P.R. game as passerby's would stick in their heads just to see the score.

"So this is what Puerto Rico is like," I thought to myself. "Good people sitting around a neighborhood bar watching their national team in action..."

Just then, a warm shot was pushed in front of me. Wha??

The ladies motioned to me to take the shot as everyone in the cramped bar was invited to enjoy one on the house. One turned into several and then I realized that these people wanted to test my drinking limit.

The bartender gave me a free Puerto Rico T-shirt, which was cool, but I was no match for these booze hounds. I walked to the bathroom in hopes that these tequila-crazed women would calm down.

Just as I come back, I watched the bartender go back into the kitchen because the ladies ordered some mozzarella sticks. And then it happened.

I watched as the 25-year-old double divorcee leaned over the bar, grabbed two bottles of booze and scampered out the door. The women started to hoot and holler and then the bartender emerged from the kitchen.

He looked at me and I had few words for him.

"It was the barefoot bandit!" I yelled as the ladies burst into laughter.

The bartender started to laugh too and my timely remark seemed to dull the sudden tension in the room. I sat back down at the bar and my empty Medalla Light can had been replaced with a fresh one while I was in the john. The bartender just shook his head and smirked at me.

"That's why that piece of shit is not allowed in this bar," he said.

Right before I left, I grabbed a picture with my iPhone of another guy that walked in later that night. He was related to the bartender in some way: cousin, nephew, fellow gang member.

The symbol shaved into his head was the logo for the Mayaguez CAC Games. He told me he had it done across the street at the barber shop. I assumed he really liked the CAC Games and he shook his head.

"Lost a game of pool," he said with a smile. "Loser got his hair cut by the winner."

It was another satisfied customer.

Puerto Rico reflections #1

Ahh, where to begin?

I remember how I felt when I barely made it out of this stadium alive. The USVI men's basketball had just dropped its bronze-medal game and even though the gold medal match between Puerto Rico and Mexico didn't tip for two and half hours, the mayhem unfolding outside was scary.

Fans were going nuts and trying to grab a good spot in the line outside the front entrance. Music was playing, booze was flowing and it started to look a little dangerous. A stadium security guard couldn't believe it when I asked him if I could leave. He gave me the "it's your funeral" look and opened the door as the drunken savages made a quick attempt to enter the venue.

I had a laptop bag for my computer and bag over my shoulder with three expensive cameras inside. I was a sitting duck -- but this duck had moves. While wearing flip flops, I broke through that raucous crowd like Brandon Jacobs, which meant a few innocent bystanders felt the wrath of my lead shoulder and elbow.

After I cleared the fray and during the walk back to the car, I realized that the game I just covered was the last USVI event at the CAC Games and a little euphoria came over me. I did a damn good job and felt like celebrating.

Passed a ghetto barber shop on the corner. Yeah, why not? I needed me a tight fade anyway.

Walked into the joint and like a lot of my entrances during this 2-week excursion, the record screeched to a halt. Actually, it wasn't a record but some ass-jiggling Spanish reggatone rap video that was playing on the TV was suddenly muted just so all the barbers could take a gander at the stupid white boy that just walked in. The barbers even pulled the chairs around so the clientele could get a look.

For some reason, there was also a pool table in the middle of the room. Which I found just adorable.

I took off my camera bag. I put my laptop computer bag next to it and looked around. No one spoke English. Or at least they acted like they didn't.

Finally, a guy with a pool stick in his hand and a snazzy haircut told me in broken English that they were closed. Almost relieved to leave the room, I shrugged my shoulders and grabbed my luggage. I must have walked about 40 yards down the city street when the same guy came out and yelled to me. I couldn't understand what he said but he motioned for me to come back. So I did.

I walked in again and he started to clean off the only open barber chair in the corner of the room. I put my bags back down and then asked him a great entrance question.

"What, did you lose?"

"Nah," he answered. "I never lose."

And then through some interesting descriptions, I told him how I wanted my hair cut. It was the first time I had been in a barber shop since I moved to the V.I. in February -- my girlfriend takes the clippers to my dome -- so it was refreshing to sit there and let this guy line me up.

He really put some effort into it and gave me the best haircut I'd ever had. A lot of people thought I looked Puerto Rican during the trip but this little enhancement sealed the deal.

He charged me $7, I gave him $13 and I walked out of that inter-city Puerto Rican pool hall/barber shop a new man. It was a great feeling.

I felt so good that I decided to celebrate by having a few beers across the street at a similar establishment. But instead of haricuts, this particular place specialized in cans of Medalla Light and warm shots of tequila.

Yes, it was a fun night and it was just getting started. But I'll leave that story for next time.

Puerto Rico - Day Seis

So I'm walking out of a USVI baseball game and I run into this young fella. He tells me his name is Juan and that he is from Columbia. He then started to tell me about how he couldn't find work in his home country and came to Puerto Rico to make the big bucks.

Real estate? Nope. Stocks? Nah. Pyramid schemes? Not even close.

Juan has decided to sell Vuvuzelas to the fat-wallet spectators at the CAC Games. In a totally unrelated story, the sale of headache medicine has skyrocketed in Mayaguez.

Now if you even gave the World Cup a gander, you surely saw these Vuvuzelas in action. It's basically a plastic horn that people blow into to make some low-tone buzzing sound, that disturbs and drowns out the normal sounds you can hear at a CAC sporting event: athletes cursing in Spanish.

I decided to ask him a few questions. At first, he kind of ignored me because he was busy ripping people off for $4 a horn. Then he kept calling me "bro," which I thought to be condescending. So of course, I had to fuck with him.

Me: Hey, gimme a horn. I'll blow into it and help you sell them.

Juan: No way, bro. Four dollars.

Me: But I'll work it off. I'll help you sell. In America, it's called pitching the consumer. Don't you know anything about sales?

Juan: You're from America? I couldn't tell.

Me: What? Is that supposed to be an insult? What happened in the 1994 World Cup? The only thing Columbia is know for is Chavez. Or is that Venezuela?

Juan: That's Venezuela, bro. We had Pablo Escobar.

Me: Yeah, yeah -- I saw the Entourage episode. HBO taught me the history of your country, my friend. What do you think about that?

Juan: HBO?

Me: Never mind. How about I give you three dollars for the horn?

Juan: No. Four dollars, bro.

Me: Please stop calling me bro. Do you have change for a five?

Juan: No.

Me: Alright, chief. You sonofabitch. Gimme a horn. Here's a five spot.

He handed me a horn without looking at me and then gave me a dollar in change. I immediately started to blow patriotic U.S. songs with the horn just to annoy him. I also started to scare away his customers, which really started to annoy him.

Juan started to give me the evil eye and blowing the horn got old fast. A little boy walked up with his father and wanted a horn. Right before the dad asked Juan how much, I handed the horn to the little kid and told him to have fun.

Immediately after I cheated Juan out of another sale, he started to yell in Spanish to one of the stadium security guards and that was my cue to leave. A security guard started to walk toward us and I just grabbed my camera equipment and headed for my rental car.

"See you in the promise land, bro," I muttered as I walked by him.

I couldn't help but smile as I arrived at my car. I showed him, huh?

In retrospect, I was not proud of my juvenile behavior but I rarely am. It was just another example of the pure sportsmanship and crisp demeanor that have soiled these CAC Games.

Puerto Rico - Day 5

Maybe it's the beard? Or perhaps, the charm and good looks.

For some reason, young PR girls keep coming up to me and asking me questions. The questions are always in Spanish and then they see the polite confusion on my face and run off giggling with their friends.

It's starting to really annoy me. It's like I have a 'Kick Me' sign posted on my back and I don't know it.

A waitress at some steakhouse last night said I could pass for Puerto Rican if I didn't say anything and just nodded all the time. I guess it was a compliment. She said the second I talked, it was very obvious I was an American.

Like there's anything wrong with that.

The other day, I was at La Piscina -- that's 'pool' for all you non-Spanish speaking bastards out there -- for the swimming relay finals and these two girls that worked security or something got right in my face and started to bark questions.


I tried out my best Smokey impression: "I don't understand the words that are coming out of your mouth..."

Then they got mad and moved on to someone else. I guess I looked prominent or something. I later found out they wanted to know if that was the last race of the day and if they could finally go home. Apparently, some child-labor laws are being broken and the teenagers in Mayaguez are getting over-worked for these CAC Games.

I started to vent with some of the USVI boxers the other day about my lack of communication. I think I was just happy to talk to someone in free-flowing English.

Clayton Laurent, a USVI heavyweight boxer, was already making an impression on the PR faithful.

"I just ask if they speak English and if they don't, I just move on to the next chica. The ladies here are spicy," he said.

I had no idea what he was talking about. Spicy? It's like I finally found someone to speak English with and I'm still shaking my head.

Then a group of older women hollered at me when I returned to my hotel two nights ago. I was exhausted and half a sleep by the time I made it back around 11 p.m. They were drinking and hanging out near the extravagant hotel pool and almost in unison, they gave me a construction worker whistle, like it was something straight out of Ugly Betty.

I raised my hand to acknowledge them but never stopped walking. Normally, I would have made new friends despite the language barrier but they caught me on the wrong night.

I was a tired Gringo, which means dumb white boy. At least I'm learning a little Spanish.

Puerto Rico - Day 3

It took me coming to the Central American and Caribbean Games to realize how small and sometimes insignificant the U.S. Virgin Islands can be when compared athletically to the other countries in the region.

The athletes have repeated that same theme to me multiple times as I interview them for another losing story.

The USVI has only about 100,000 people. Puerto Rico has 5 million and even though their fans have showed up in force to support their countrymen, they are hardly the most-populated country here. Countries like Columbia and Venezuela are cleaning up at the medals podium and have sent teams of journalists to cover all the action.

The USVI has not won a medal yet and they sent me, a photo/writing extraordinaire.

The newsroom is packed with dark-haired Spanish-speaking reporters yelling into microphones for reasons I do not understand. Web casts? Audio clips? I'm not really sure. All I know is that it's very distracting when I'm trying to dictate quotes from an athlete who spoke to me on the sideline of a packed gymnasium with a DJ who had a ridiculous volume preference.

The music here is garbage. Maybe it's because I don't understand Spanish. Yeah, that's probably it because you can see all the fans mouthing the words to the songs.

I was hoping for a little help from The Buzz, an alternative rock radio station that I listen to while on island. It broadcasts out of San Juan and here's the kicker: it's EN INGLES! As soon as I got to the western quadrant of Mayaguez, nothing but static.

I didn't bring any CDs and I forgot a wire for my iPod. So my 20-minute ride to and from town are consumed by my own singing. It is not a pretty sight.

Well, I'm about to go watch the USVI women's basketball team take on Jamaica for the bronze medal. Hopefully, the ladies can pull it out or it's going to be another "close but no cigar" story.

Cuba is not participating at the CAC Games. I wouldn't mind a cigar right about now.

Puerto Rico - Day 1

Jeez, Puerto Rico has mountains! What a freakout.

These things were huge and I almost crashed my rental car while trying to maneuver my iPhone for a picture. My boy, Johnny Colucci, warned me of the mountains but I did not expect this.


Driving on the right lane was refreshing and I hit 80 m.p.h. while negotiating the island. I wasn't in a hurry. It just felt good to put the pedal down for once (the speed limit on St. Thomas is like 35 m.p.h.)


Flew into San Juan this morning, rented a car and drove to the West Side (always the best side, right?). The whole trip took about two hours and I made a stop at Burger King. I really don't like that place but they do not exist on St. Thomas so I felt like getting my yearly Whopper fix.

I'll be in P.R. for the next 12 days to cover the Central American and Caribbean (CAC) Games. It's a precursor to the Pan Am Games and Olympics. The USVI sent like 100 athletes so it should be a good time.

Right away, I'm looked at differently when I speak English to these people. Still trying to figure out how to politely say, "I don't speak Spanish. Please answer my questions or I will punch you in the face."

Nah, just jokes there. I would never physically harm anyone. Well, maybe Palin. She deserves a swift kick in the mouth. Wow, now I'm getting political. My head hurts.

Anywhoo, I didn't have any more cash for one of the toll collectors on the highway, which set up another uncomfortable scene.

Drove past my hilarious hotel three times before I saw the sign, face down on the side of the road. I picked it up and leaned against the post to be a nice guy.

Then I saw the dump. Old. Crappy. But it does have a pool.

Like always, it looks nothing like the pictures from the website.

When I asked if it may be OK to switch hotels later on in the week -- my current one is about 20 minutes outside of Mayaguez, where all the CAC Games action is -- the hotel owner said it would be difficult because they are so busy this time of year.

I didn't say anything and just shifted my head outside toward an empty parking lot. No, I'm sorry. There was one car out there. It was my car.

He told me they have a pool. Did I mention that already? And cable TV. I gave it a quick remote surf before I went to the first USVI baseball game this afternoon and there were exactly 12 channels, mostly in Spanish.

Go figure.

Puerto Rico in sight

I wish I had paid more attention to Senora Sneed in my Spanish III class in high school. I was a diligent student during my first two years of Spanish but by the time I had moved up to III, I think I was already a senior and starting to coast through school.

It's coming back to bite me in the ass.

I leave tomorrow for a 13-day mission in Puerto Rico, where I will be covering the Central and Caribbean (CAC) Games. The USVI is sending 136 athletes and coaches in 11 sports so I'm going to be running around like a lunatic.

It should be a good time.

Already, just from phone calls to media people in Puerto Rico, I can tell that I will be treated like a second-rate citizen due to my non-Spanish speaking skills.

Wish me luck. Godspeed.

Donnie, you're out of your element

I have been a busy bastard these last few days as our newspaper's preview coverage of the Central American and Caribbean (CAC) Games has kicked off. I leave for Puerto Rico next week for 12 days of sun, fun and ... more fun.

How do I make this simple for you? Basically, an athlete has to do well at the CAC Games in order to qualify for the Pan American Games. If they do well there, then the Olympics are next. Pretty basic stuff.

Unfortunately, the USVI athletes have not fared well at any of these sporty parties, which I'm quickly finding out as I make calls and drop in on our territory's finest athletes.

Now I have to be brief here but a funny thing happened when I drove over to the St. Thomas Bowling Center to talk with the USVI's national bowling team.

First of all, I didn't know we had a bowling alley on the island. It's only six lanes and open on the weekends but a score, none the less.


In between gripping questions like "What's your most inspirational moment inside a bowling alley?" and "How much do you bench?" I decided to throw the three local bowlers a curve ball question.

V.I. journalist: So I can only assume you guys have seen The Big Lebowski, what do you think of that movie?

Older female bowler: You talking about Kingpin?

VIJ: No, but that's another fantastic movie about bowling. Some believe it is also where I got my nickname but let's not go down that road.

Younger male bowler: I've heard about it but never seen it. Woody Harelson, right?

VIJ: No, again. Are you telling me that I have to lecture you guys, the best bowlers on the island, on the differences between these two legendary flicks?

Both the bowlers chuckled politely but they abruptly stopped when they saw the seriousness in my eyes.


You got to be kidding me? That's why the USVI has not won a single bowling medal at the CAC Games since 1966 (the year we started sending "athletes" there).

I asked both of the bowlers, and their coach, to screen the movie before their next practice. Then I asked them to call me so they can tell me how much it changed their lives.

The bowling preview ran in Tuesday's edition and I just checked...

No missed calls.

Marathon Man

I guess I should have posted this earlier in the month but it just came across my mind. Funny how that works.

So I made a little trip to sunny San Diego the first week of June to visit friends, drink brewery ale, eat Mexican food and oh yeah ... I did a little running.

Yeah, so I ran a marathon. Big whoop, wanna fight about it?

Before I left for my trip, my editor found out about my marathon mission. She asked me to write a Before and After column for publication and I didn't know what to think at first.

Then we decided to publish a picture of this physical specimen running down a local beach bare-chested and full of life.

"So you want to sell some newspapers, huh?"

Shameless self-promotion here ... if you want to read all about my running exploits (and provide our web site with some unique page views) click on the links below.

I personally like the first column better.

BEFORE

AFTER

A few days later, I got an email from an old friend in Annapolis, Md. who gave me some positive feedback from my marathon antics. He told me that reading the column inspired him to sign up for a marathon himself and he quoted some of my words in the email.

It was one of the best professional compliments I've ever received. Thanks, buddy and good luck. Remember to put band-aids on those nipples.