Guadalajara Glory Days #1

I'm covering the Pan American Games from Oct. 13 through 31 in Guadalajara, Mexico for the Virgin Islands Daily News. These notebook items and photos were published in the print edition.


And so it begins

GUADALAJARA, Mexico – The only Pan American Games opening ceremony general admission tickets available Friday for the public cost 3,850 pesos each, which is approximately $290 U.S. dollars. Around 8 a.m. on Friday – 10 hours before the opening ceremonies were to start – two very long lines wrapped around the box office near the Guadalajara Expo Center.

When I was there around noon, one line stretched into street traffic. That did not gain the approval of the Mexican federal police officers, who wore all black uniforms, carried semi-automatic rifles and stood in the back of marked pick-up trucks. They have had a constant presence in and around Guadalajara ever since I stepped off the plane on Thursday night.

At least four different Mexican television stations walked around and interviewed people who stood in line for opening ceremony tickets. Upbeat Mexican sports fans could also purchase tickets for other sporting events, which did not expedite the process. All walks of life waited in line under the sun: from business men wearing ties to little children, who sought shade under their parents' umbrellas.

“Everyone wants to see the basketball games – those are the most popular tickets right now,” an English-speaking volunteer at the ticket window said.

The party venue

The opening ceremony was supposed to be held at Jalisco Stadium, which is the country's third largest stadium and was built in 1950. However, the powers that be decided to switch it to Omnilife Stadium, which opened last year and cost $3.5 billion to build.

It's located closer to the athletes' village and with that kind of a price tag attached, it promises to have a much better infrastructure.

Arrivals, check-ins

USVI boxers Clayton Laurent and Tiffany Reddick arrived Thursday, taekwondo fighter Jahmar Jean-Marie arrived the day before and swimmer Branden Whitehurst has been in Guadalajara since Wednesday. USVI shooters Ned and Karen Gerard came to Guadalajara earlier in the week to get a few practice sessions in and finalize their itinerary.

“To tell you the truth, I'm not even sure where we are competing,” Ned Gerard said on my voicemail earlier in the week. “But that's why we come early. We want to take care of all the little things first.”

The Gerards open competition in the men's prone rifle and women's air and sport pistol today.

USVI sailors Mimi Roller and Cy Thompson arrived in Mexico on Thursday but they compete in Puerto Vallarta, which is on the west coast of Mexico. VIOC president Hans Lawaetz said it is a 4-hour bus ride from Guadalajara to Puerto Vallarta and they left for the coast when they got here so they could not march in the opening ceremonies.

Not everyone had a smooth trip from the islands to Mexico.

“We had about four bags missing from the flights when we arrived,” Lawaetz said. “The problem was that their opening ceremony outfits were in those bags. It took a little time but we finally got it resolved.”

When Tiffany Reddick arrived in Guadalajara, it was the first time she met Lawaetz and others from the VIOC executive board. Reddick trains full-time on St. Thomas – most of the board resides on St. Croix – as the Pittsburgh native is the very first female boxer to ever represent the territory at an international event of this caliber.

“Just a splendid young lady,” Lawaetz said. “We're expecting some big things from her.”

Meeting in the middle

How did this all start? Remember those books back when we were kids and you could choose the ending or at least the next sequence in the book? I think they talked about it in the movie 'Big' with a young Tommy Hanks.

I was sitting in the Rockfish in downtown Annapolis enjoying a happy hour drink when the V.I. Daily News called me on my cell. I went outside the pub because that's what a respectbale young man does when potential employers call.

There was snow on the ground – I think it was right after a blizzard. It was very cold and I left my coat on the back of the bar chair.

It was OK because my future employer wasted little time and got down to brass tacks, which impressed me. He offered me a job to be the lone sports writer for this little publication in paradise. I had initially applied to the newspaper from my iPhone while standing atop a mountain in Maine a few months earlier.

Now at that exact moment, I was standing in the snow without a paying job or a coat and this question was asked of me.

“Would you like to work for the V.I. Daily News?”

I told boss that I would call him in the morning, thanked him profusely and politely hung up. Since I didn't even know where the U.S. Virgin Islands were located, I immediately called a good friend who is the only person I knew who had ever visited Rock City.

I could tell he was happy with the news but it also struck a nerve in him. At that moment, Nick Wassum was completely motivated. He had to come here. I think for Nick, it was already determined before I hung up with him (and even before I accepted the gig).

“Oh yeah, Nick has been wanting to live there for years,” his older brother, Jon, told me. “I think he's been mentally preparing for the move since his first visit.”

I won't get into the specifics that surround Nick's debut on these islands but it would put that Max Tucker guy to shame.

Less than a month later, my beautiful girlfriend and I were living in a one-bedroom bunker in the brush near Charlotte Amalie and I was annoying high school volleyball coaches with nightly phone calls about how their team performed in the game that night.

I think I started this blog the day before I flew here for good. To some unknown island in the Caribbean. That I have never visited in my life.

At about the same time, Nick started a mental countdown in his head for when he (and his lovely girlfriend) would join me in paradise and everything would be bliss. The only treacherous obstacle: he had a killer job, wore a suit to work everyday and was getting paid a lot of money. His girl also had a solid gig and went to work with great mutual friends.

Why pick up and leave?

Now I'm not saying that reading my shock-and-awe rants on this bloggy blog poured fuel on the fire. I'd like to think it did. I'm selfish like that.

It will be two years for me this February. Nick and Kerrie moved here three months ago. And I might add, they are killing it here. This kid left a great job, followed his dream and is chasing it before it slowly hides behind the horizon. Kerrie, who had never lived anywhere outside the D.C-metro in her life, is doing the absolute same.

They are riding the big wave that life sometimes throws you. I freaking love them for that.

Just the other night, Nick said, “We haven't been in you blog because we haven't done anything yet.”

I couldn't disagree more, my friend. On this island -- you can ask other misfit veterans -- people come and go. Drinking buddies, fellow sports fans and genuine good people spark your whole social existence here and then before you know it, they hit it big in Dallas, feed the Alaska fix, sail the Mediterranean Sea, get engaged to a French girl and move to London, take it easy in Illinois for a few or decide to travel the country and not have a worry in the world.

You know who you are.

Having Nick and Kerrie here is a new blend of life for me. Great people I grew up with in Herndon, Va. moved here to share this dream with me. It's a priceless gift and if I don't show appreciation more often, then I must apologize.

Wow. Strange memories inside this sweaty hotel room on St. Croix. For some reason, I wanted to pick the right night to write about these good people and tonight, I hit the parlay. (Calm down Chico, I got a great one in the works for you, my friend).

And on that note, I believe it is time to rest my weary head. I'm truly blessed to have such chronic friends on this island, Rocky City, New Jersey, Virgina, So Cali, Albuquerque, New Mexico, Cleeeeeeveland, Oh-hi-Ohh (OK, time to take Sublime off Pandora).

Salud! See you guys on the flip side. And good night.

Best bumper sticker ever

I was at the last comedy show put on by the St. Thomas Sport and Social Club and right after I spit out some of my beer from laughing -- yes, it really happened -- a friend tapped me on the shoulder to say hello.

It was Patrick Dow and I hadn't seen him since a blurry boat trip to Hans Lollik a few months back. We've chatted a few times on facebook (I heard that's what all the kids are doing these days) and we shared a vested interest in a certain bumper sticker that had been circulating through the Misfits on St. Thomas.

We promised to alert the other if one of us discovered it. My friend Bobbi has the same sticker on her refrigerator. To this day, it's one of the best ways to describe this backwards island.


Apparently, there is a guy who hangs out at Island Time Pub in Red Hook and sells them for $4 a pop. I saw them on sale for the first time at the annual Chilli Cookoff, but a quickly-approaching tropical storm prevented me from reaching into my wallet and brandishing actual currency.

Patrick: "Yea, I bought like 10 of them if you want one."

Me: "Let me get this straight, you dropped $40 on stickers? What are you in the fourth grade? Are you going to put them on your Trapper Keeper?"

Patrick: "Leave the jokes to the professionals, ass. And try not to spit up your beer next time you hear a good one."

Boating adventures and booze

I don't know why everyone loves that movie, Almost Famous, but do you remember when the main character wrote the lead to his story in Rolling Stone magazine? Something about flying over the ocean and "we're all going to die..."

Well I'll do you one better, chump.

Two weeks ago, I was with some friends on a boat and we were powering our way from St. John back to St. Thomas late at night. The ride usually takes no longer than 15 minutes. During the excursion, the boat shut off completely. Our drunken giggles and the sound of the whaling engines were suddenly replaced by severe silence as we started to drift in complete darkness.

The boat doesn't have a gas meter so we all thought we ran out. Perhaps the battery? It didn't really matter because we were in a pickle and the situation looked grim.

As everyone retreated to their cell phones and attempted to call boating heroes at 2:18 a.m. on a Sunday morning, I took off my shirt and stared at both shores. Which one was closer, St. John or Rock City? Could I swim it and be the hero? If I did make it to shore, then what?

All these questions annoyed me so I did what any rational person would do in such a situation.

I popped a bottle of champagne.

"I've been in a lot worse predicaments than this, folks," I said in attempt to chill everyone out.

For some, it really didn't matter. My girlfriend and another girl we were with had already hunkered down in the front of the boat. It looked like they were going to sleep this one off and wait for the sun to rise in a few hours.

So you can imagine their reactions when they heard the steady stream of urine hitting the warm Caribbean Sea in the middle of the night. They were really irked when they heard the cork pop off the champagne bottle.

I thought it was a great idea. It was a minor celebration to mark the end of a great adventure.

It all started about 10 hours earlier when Brianna and I met Scottie H and Benji at the marina, where they keep their boat. It was raining when we arrived and we just sat in our cars and waited for the storm clouds to push off.

"Shit will burn off," Brianna said while mocking one of my favorite island quotes.

For some odd reason, Moose and Marcus bought about two cases of Schaefer beer. You know, the good stuff. The cans are only 10 oz. so that justified the need to crush at least 20 of them before we got to shores of Cruz Bay.

Once there, we picked up a few more beach beauties and went to a nearby bay for some scurfing. What is scurfing you ask? Well if you didn't waste your time clicking on that link, it's basically like water skiing but using a surf board. We did that for about an hour and a half. Maybe that's how we ran out of gas?

After the scurf action, we decided to go back to shore and visit the fine establishment otherwise known as Woody's. We had already crushed our Schaefer supplies, mixed vitamin water with Cruzan dark and I guess we were all had the happy hour shakes. What turned into "one shot and we'll move on" turned into a shot frenzy and a $362 booze tab.

If there was a break in the sloppy conversation, Scottie H would lock eyes with you and tap his wrist with two fingers. In most civilized cultures, this gesture usually references what the current time is. To Scottie ("Boating!" was his war cry), this meant it was time for another round of shots. Though I didn't take part in each of them, Jager bombs, Cruzan 151, Washington Apples and Statue Of Liberty shots -- the one where you light your finger on fire -- were all consumed.

It's during those critical hours that follow when I want to hire a stenographer. For obvious reasons.

I do recall wandering into a sophisticated bar called Castaways where Scottie H grabbed the soda gun that servers use to refill drinks and shooting different liquids at innocent bystanders.

Later on, there was a debate with a cute bartender named Ricki. No, not about another gaudy bar tab. The bartender grew up on St. Croix, as did Scottie, so a little trash talk about their rival high schools started up. Since I cover high school sports for the Daily News, I felt I had some knowledge on the subject and decided to chime in on the discussion.

What did I say? I'm not too sure. I don't really remember. All available stenographers, please send me your resume.

At some point, I remember watching the Mayweather-Ortiz fight at another bar. I had a great conversation with a Islander who was a huge boxing fan. I told him that I wrote the article about the USVI professional boxers earlier in the week and he hugged me. Then he bought me a shot. It was a great symbol of respect shared among two sports fans.

The blurry St. John experience started to fade when we got back on the boat in Cruz Bay and warmed up the engines for a return trip.

Later on, when the engine went dead, the champagne was drank and after Moose proved his vast knowledge of 90's alternative music via Pandora to me, a savior joined the party.

Our friend Emily, who was also on board, somehow got in contact with a friend of a co-worker of a former roommate of a dental assistant and he rolled up to our drifting boat on a dingy with a 5-gallon drum of gas. We offered him money and he passed and he wouldn't even take a sip of champagne. A true American hero who did not seek any praise.

After a few pleasantries, he set off back to St. John and we were able to start the engine again. Most people would go straight home after such an ordeal and be happy they didn't have to spend the night out at sea.

What did we do? We got to shore and stopped into Caribbean Saloon for one. Make that many.

It was just another typical Saturday in paradise.

Muscles are sexy

Today was the day. I joined a gym.

Well, not really. I recently moved and now I am located very close -- about 75 yards -- from this gym. I don't want to divulge the name of said gym because that would violate the meathead-to-gym confidentiality agreement.

That and I haven't really signed up as a member yet. I don't plan to, either.

The girl in charge of the front desk is a former basketball stud from the island and she told me she's the only one working from 6-9 a.m. Basically, all the big wigs roll in around 9 and after they soak up their morning coffee, they will go to extreme measures to foil my evil plan.

So I checked out the place this morning and it's pretty legit by island standards. A gaggle of middle-aged soccer moms, fresh off their salsa dancing workout class, congregated near the front desk and each of these bored puppets stared at me during my shady entrance.

"He's new. Is he even a member? Should I tell someone? What am I going to do with the rest of my day?"

After I meandered through that sweaty mess, I looked around and saw only two other meatheads there lifting weights. It was like 9 a.m. so I was a little surprised. Where is everyone? Work? Sleeping off a Tuesday hangover?

I was doing neither so I made a promise to myself that I would come to this gym everyday at 9 a.m. and pump iron until the cows came home. Or until I was offered steroids in the locker room. Whichever happens first.

One of my college roommates was really into lifting. He took me out to his gym a couple times and really kicked my ass. And then he would inject steroids into his ass so I guess it was a fair trade.

OK. I'd love to keep writing but people in my office keep walking behind me and grabbing ganders at my computer screen.

"What is he writing? Should I tell someone? It's too hot today."

If they are not careful, I will rip off my shirt and expose my crazy muscles. Then a sudden roid rage will ensue followed by a protein shake. Better hold off on that plan for now. Wait until the muscles come and then I will take over the world.

Just like Arnold.

NFL action on island

Tropical Storm Maria was a complete tease. She was on a direct line for the USVI but passed north by about 50 miles. So the alleged day of reckoning turned out to be another sunny day in paradise.

Now what I am going to do with all the canned raviolis I bought? I'm sure I'll eat them eventually.

Moving on. So it's 12:50 p.m. on Sunday and the NFL is about to kick off its Week 1 action.

I was excited. My laptop was on the coffee table so I could monitor my fantasy teams, my stomach was full of cheesy eggs and I was still wearing my pajamas. It was shaping up to be a classic Sunday.

Then the satellite goes out.

I let out an angry yelp that was definitely rated R and frantically searched for answers. It wasn't because of a damaged signal or an approaching storm. Nope. The box literally turned itself out.

I looked at my watch. 12:57. Three minutes before kickoff? Sonofabitch.

I wasn't about to miss the opening game of the year but earlier in the week, I announced to my beautiful girlfriend that I was going to stay away from the bars this season. I wanted to preserve the girth of my cash roll, prevent the ensuing hangovers and spend some quality time with my lady while we shout at New York Giants together.

While I sat there and watched a TV screen full of static, my palms started to sweat. I considered jumping through the front window and running wind sprints until I passed out.

Brianna: "I can tell you're about to freak out. Why don't you just go to the bar?"

Sober NFL fan: "But I'm trying to save some money. We're paying for this satellite with the New York feed so we can watch all the Giants games. Did you hear that? I think I'm starting to hyperventilate."

Brianna: "The Giants game is on at 4. You didn't know that?"

My lady always knows what to say to clam me down. I kissed her on the forehead, put on my Giants jersey (no showering for this guy) and grabbed the dog leashes. She knew exactly where I was going.

The Dog Pub near downtown St. Thomas is a great spot. You can put your dogs in a large cage and let them duke it out while you sip suds at a nearby bar and watch football. The owner is a Giants fan. I knew this bar to be my one safe haven on a unpredictable football Sunday.

People always ask me if there is a big football fan base on the island and there definitely is. Despite the very lack of available sports bars, there are plenty of import fans from all across the States.

Check out my San Diego friends Chris and Maggie. Yes, that is their new baby already sporting Charger threads.

Hooter's (aka Hoots McGoots), Caribbean Saloon and Shipwreck Tavern are also wise selections when watching football on St. Thomas. The good people at Sib's open early for football but they are hardcore New England fans while just about any other drinking hole is a crapshoot.

The Giants ended up losing to the Redskins (for the first time since 2007) but I still had a great time at Dog Pub. Brianna's car got slammed into by some drunk leaving Shipwreck but that's a whole different story and I don't feel like typing anymore.

Maybe I'll swing by Dog Pub for one on my way home? Perhaps. Wouldn't you want to know? Good day to you, sir.

Get my glide on

The name of this bloggy blog is "Living In Paradise" but I tend to makes moves to different parts of the world. From time to time, I need a vacation away from my vacation, you know what I mean?

The fat Creole guy from The Waterboy said, "Home is where you make it." I think that's what he said. Well, I believe you can attach the idea of paradise to the same statement.

Last month, I spent two weeks in the States and was able to visit family in the Outer Banks, NC. I used to live there during some insane college summers so those barrier islands have seen me at me best ... and at my worse.

During my post-recent trip, I tried some hang gliding for the first time. Went there with a fellow thrill-seeker, otherwise known as The Hersh. Just another decent soul frolicking around the earth.

If you have a shred of athletic ability, then hang gliding is for you. It's like skydiving but not as crazy and similar to wind surfing but without the sand in your mouth. If you have the right people around you and a decent hill or cliff, it's very easy to pick up on your first try.

I had those elements around me at Jockeys Ridge in Nags Head and Mike, the instructor, was a cool guy. Therefore, I strongly endorse their company so check out their web site.

I've spent $100 on much worse things.

Now ladies and gentlemen, it's time to fire up some YouTube and watch me fall on my face. Check out instructor Mike, who actually laughed at me when I did a nosedive into the sand.

The second attempt was a little better because I grabbed some decent air. I almost landed it, over-committed at the end and ultimately, fell on my ass.

My goal was to stop eating sand.

On the last attempt, I finally landed the sonofabitch. At the time, I thought I did it all by myself but after The Hersh sent me these videos, I saw that Mike helped me at the very end. What a letdown. It was like when my dad got drunk, forgot to put a dollar under my pillow and the tooth was still there in the morning.