PART I
8/22/16 - I have not picked up a pen to write anything personal in almost a year. Join me as we discover whether or not it’s like riding a bike.
***
One gets the sense looking at military backpacks there was another, larger race of humanoids that had ordered a surplus, and the Army scored a mighty discount taking the packs of the race’s outsized hands.
***
Q: What does wearing cowboy attire far from the nearest herd of cattle communicate?
***
Thank you, older woman, for wearing pearls while traveling.
***
Some businessmen move as though they are constantly being watched, sized up, or otherwise assessed. The eyes do not disturb them, though. They exude confidence. They exhibit an economy of motion found normally on the ballet stage. He tugs on his belt buckle because he does not suffer the slightest deviation, even from his accessories.Their hands belongs in theirs pocket when they are in their pockets.The elbow’s bend when their hand is on their hip somehow indicates the arm is only used to give directions to others, never take them. The neck is slightly tilted to communicate secure authority, while the chin is slightly elevated to communicate unquestioned superiority. The thumb and forefinger come together on the tip of the nose to remove a foreign irritant, never to detach an errant booger. His nose is surely lined with bare, silken hairs, not muscousy coarse bristles.
This posture does not require adjustment, does not need to be assumed. It is automatic, so well-practiced it appears no longer choreographed but, like Tony-winners, authentic. His is no longer the pose of an executive but an executive pose.
***
In first class, you are privileged to drink your complimentary beverage out of glassware or ceramicware. Coach swills their sodas out of disposable plastic cups. However, your snacks are contained in the same crinkly plastic bags as the riff-raff. Commonness cannot be long avoided in late capitalism.
***
The curtain was never drawn between first class and coach during our flight. Was this an oversight? Was this the result of an updated, more inclusive corporate policy? Is the extent of segregation left to the particular flight attendant’s discretion? Does she size up first class while the passengers are getting situated and determine, drawing upon countless previous flights, whether this is a group whose superiority would be more keenly felt if, by fabric barrier, they could pretend their lessers did not exist or if, by clear lines of sight, they could behold their relative status with the slightest turn of the head? Could it be that American Airlines holds back the veil to give those in coach an aspirational view? Or maybe the curtain’s casters are broken.
***
The ambient noise inside an airborne plane is the stuff of drug-sequences and psychotic episodes in TV and movies. The static is oppressively loud. It’s difficult to discern nearby utterances but not so loud the clicks and hisses of consonants are drowned-out all together. There’s a forced laugh, a nasally “oh,” an indecipherable quiver from a female voice, a moany yawn, a dry cough, the whines of metal tearing through the atmosphere, unseen pumps humming to create cabin pressure, and an sequence of hisses streaming out vents’ toothy breath. If you pay too close attention, your heartrate rises of its own accord and you wish very much to be out of this aloft sardine can.
***
I gazed a while at a cyst blooming through the bald man’s scalp in 14D. The tiny dome was smooth, shine, and pale. The man was carefully attired. Who has the means for such a wardrobe but not the means to lance such a growth?
***
Washington DC is a journalism town. Home to Newseum and print edition of Politico, I saw more people reading a newspaper on the Metro ride from the airport than I’d seen in the city of St. Louis within the past month. One gentleman brought a pair of papers with him wrapped in differently colored plastic sleeves. I assume this was to keep his news fair and balanced.
***
The National Arboretum is not proximal to any Metro stops. Metro cardholder that I was, I landed within two miles. En route, I toured a part of DC no one comes to see: boarded-up windows, unmown grass, and abandoned cars decomposing in front yards. Northeast Washington is as much DC as the National Mall, though.
Through these under-served streets, I walked and walked and walked to get to the National Arboretum, wherein I walked and walked and walked to get around the National Arboretum. Just as I was going to groan aloud in discomfort from the trail’s inhumane circumference, I intercepted a group of Sisters of Mary who I had seen enter the park before I did. The quartet were ambling serenely along, making steady progress in their orthotics. I couldn’t show them my weakness.
***
Surprising: the 20 MPH speed limit applies to all modes of transportation with the National Arboretum: cars, trucks, and bicycles. I overheard an altercation between a flabbergasted cyclist a no-nonsense park ranger. The former clearly underestimated the latter’s nonsense tolerance and escalated the situation with a few choice words. The ranger threatened to escort the cyclist off the premises. The cyclist buckled and promised to “watch his speed,” which is ironic given speedometers are not standard features even high-end road bikes.
***
There’s usually something shabby about federal properties, at least those more than ten years old. Chalk up the worn facade of our parks and landmarks to tight budgets, slothful employees, and a high volume of tourists. The rationale doesn’t alleviate the sadness. Even as an adult, the state of national treasures is disheartening.
While you’ve learned growing up that public spaces are not as well maintained as private ones for a variety of free-market-supporting reasons, you still want to believe something that’s labeled “national” is going to shine brighter. I guess that’s the kind of stubborn nationalism even the most cosmopolitan among us still harbor from all that Pledge of Allegiance recitation in elementary school.
The US federal government is so powerful. It has changed the course of world history. Phrases like “the full faith and credit of the US Government” prop up the global economy. But gilding is easily scratched off and these days, a lifetime after the world wars that made America great, we’re less inclined to re-apply the gold leaf.
***
Sociology 101: walking a mile to Atlas Brew Works, an independent craft brewery, all I saw were African Americans. Step inside. Now all I see are white people.
***
Continuity with St. Louis: mulberry trees are scrubby here, too.
8/23/16 - The cliche is true. Very intoxicated people do, in fact, slur.
8/24/16 - In my AM wanderings southeast of the Capitol, I came upon the backside of a monumental 100 foot bell tower. I walked around to the front to find a life-sized statue in bronze facing the rising sun. As with most memorials, I did not recognized the subject at first.
I approached the plaque to ID the denizen deserving of such a tribute. Robert Taft. Robert Taft… Taft… Why does that name sound familiar? Was he the head of state who got stuck in the tub? No. That was Garfield. Wasn’t Taft a president, too, though? Yes, William H. Taft was the only person to be both President and Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. Well if that Taft had such a resume and didn’t score a statue, what’d this Taft do?
I pulled up Wikipedia on my phone. Robert Taft wasn’t an executive. The closest he came to the presidency was failing to clinch the Republican nomination three times. A war hero? No, his eyesight was too poor to serve. Did he save 10,000 American lives? No, but he was a serviceable golfer. Did he at least, I don’t know, save a kitty from a tree? Apparently not. So who was he? He was William H. Taft’s son. And he was a US Senator whose claims to fame include: opposing FDR’s New Deal in the Senate, opposing US intervention in WWII until Pearl Harbor happened, opposing the Nuremberg trials as unAmerican and victor’s justice, opposing the formation of NATO as an unnecessary provocation to the Soviets, and opposing workers’ rights to unionize.
So, I guess this memorial serves as an enduring tribute to people on the wrong side of history.
8/25/16 - The Clerk of the United States Supreme Court does not wear nice-looking shoes. “Utilitarian” is the kindest descriptor I can apply.
8/26/16 - It is a challenge traveling with an 11 month old. It’s challenging doing much of anything with an 11 month old. They need to nap at inopportune times. They are hungry but refuse to eat the food you offer them. They don’t want to be in the stroller, but they can’t crawl around busy sidewalks. At bedtime, they’re too tired to sleep and too angry to relax.
To top it all off, there’s no negotiating with a baby. They won’t listen to reason, even when it’s translated into the most rudimentary language and gestures. Past a certain point of aggravation, they cease being self-interested. They become like the stuff your chemistry teacher kept in a locked cabinet: reactive and volatile.
8/27/16 - Other things that are the same in DC as in STL: red bricks, mosquitoes, humidity, house flies, the ubiquity of K-Cups.
Things that are different: the availability of public transit, population density, the vitality of crepe myrtles, the popularity of Bumper Buddies (rubber pads that hang from trunks to protect bumpers from receiving (and delivering) damage while fitting into a highly coveted yet teensy gap in onstreet parking).
***
My confession: being worn down by fatherhood and being rewired post smartphone-ownership, I can barely sustain longform thoughts. Forgive me.
***
We sought shelter from the searing sun in a grove of cherry trees on the National Mall. We unfurled a swaddling blanket on an inviting patch of grass. I peeled a clementine for Isobel. Megan pinched a piece of a cookie she had baked for us and fed it to me. The scene was idyllic: dappled shade, a gentle breeze, room to stretch, relative quiet, and natural seclusion. We would have inspired an impressionist painter were it not for the rodents.
A horde of squirrels had been descending upon us stealthily. From all directions, they encroached our picnic. Initially, I was charmed. One naively has the sense an herbivore’s approach is always motivated by love. As the scene unfolded, it became clear this was other than the manifestation a gentle woodland creature’s affection.
The brave ones ventured closer while the cowardly ones fidgeted near an invisible boundary. Megan recoiled, but the spasm hardly stunted their advance. She made to shield our child. I twitched a shoe in one of their directions, but it was unphased. I feared an attack would come at any moment. We were the prey. What weapon had I? I brandished an orange peel to no avail. I had visions of Jurassic Park where the squirrel in front of me set me up for a peripheral ambush. Clever girl. I peered around to see one approaching from 3 o’clock.
Then I remembered my outrageous size advantage. I came to my senses and my feet. A shrill yell and an emphatic wave of the hand scattered the phalanx long enough for us to gather our goods and seek sanctuary in the city.
***.
Aspiring entrepreneurs in the DC area grab as big a cooler as they can tote and pedal bottles of ice cold water for $1 per wherever sweaty tourists can be found. Considering such bottles can be had for $.10 per at your local Sam’s, this is a handsome profit for little investment. The founding fathers would be proud.
***
The Incoherence of Rules: Some security guards make you remove your watch, others don’t. Some make you remove your belt, others don’t. You can take a three-inch blade into the Senate but not into the Library of Congress. You can take pictures on the Supreme Court steps but can’t post them on social media. The Smithsonian Museum of Natural History has magnetometers but not X-Ray machines. The National Portrait Gallery has neither. Federal buildings have both.
***
When you’re walking around with a baby, you’re accustomed to increased social interactions. People want to say, “Hi,” to your little one. As her parent, you translate the baby’s facial expressions (saying “Hi,” back so she doesn’t appear rude) or interpret her behavior (saying “Don’t worry. She’s tired,” when she recoils at the person’s visage). These interactions are the cause of much delay, but you semi-consciously desire them as yet another objective affirmation of your child’s appeal.
The semi-conscious becomes fully conscious when a stranger foregoes the greeting, especially in close quarters. Why won’t you acknowledge my baby? Is her cuteness not universally arresting? Some people seemingly intend to avoid her, averting their eyes to the upper left when Isobel is in their field of vision’s lower right. This sort of behavior I construe as haughty, and I judge harshly. If we are commanded to stop and smell the roses, shouldn’t we be directed to slow down and greet the babies?
8/28/16 - We learned about carnivorous plants from a volunteer at the US Botanic Garden. An example of the seeds of trivia he scattered before us: a carnivorous relative to the pineapple houses a well of liquid with a Ph level on par with Coca Cola in which its prey is dissolved.
***
Public spaces like the Smithsonian Sculpture Garden, where members of all socioeconomic strata can congregate, free of charge, in shade cast by mature trees, surrounded by beautiful (or at least interesting) works of art, and serenaded by children laughing in fountains, may be as close as we can come to heaven on earth.
8/29/16 - Tourists are quieter in the National Cathedral than in the Library of Congress.
***
Passing Aggression: midstream on a peoplemover, I was rebuked by a displeased museum employee for taking a stroller onto the peoplemover. Yet there were no signs prohibiting such behavior and the prohibition is far from obvious. In disbelief, I said, “what?” She replied, “you can’t take strollers on the peoplemovers.” Not true. I already had. I was standing with my child strapped into a stroller directly in front of me.
What, exactly, was I supposed to do now to make amends? The glass barricades prevented my immediate lateral egress. Did she expect me to run in the opposite direction in order to to exit from whence I came? Wouldn’t that be more dangerous? I hadn’t the clearance to turn the pram around. Running backwards would have been flat out reckless. The only viable option was to continue my ride and thereby prove there was no harm in what I was doing. So I did.
***
Add lemurs to the list of things Isobel loves.
***
We have taken countless escalators with Isobel in tow. For no stated reason, strollers are not allowed in the escalators at the Woodley Park Metro Station. Seeing no one around to enforce the rule, we ignored it.
Why was the rule established? There are humans wider than strollers, so it can’t be about occupying space. There are longer, steeper escalators in the DC Metro system, so it can’t be about safety. Is it simply anti-child animus in the surrounding area? Is this another manifestation of the irrationality inherent in a capital city where bureaucrats can’t help but put up red tape?
***
Whoever designed the game Don’t Wake Daddy! was clearly thinking with a child’s mind. Having lived well into adulthood, I would rather incur Daddy’s most livid wrath than spend hours putting a baby to sleep only to have her rouse 30 minutes later.
The stakes are much high in Don’t Wake Baby!
8/30/16 - The Phillips Collection boasts itself as the nation’s first museum of modern art. The permanent collection is impressive and free to view during weekdays. The gallery is spread among a few connected buildings, most of which began as residences. The third floor in one of the buildings contains special exhibits that require tickets for purchase.
Navigation among the buildings and their various levels is as confusing as you’d expect such a post hoc arrangement to be. Having reached the end of the line of our trip, we discovered a short staircase that, by my math, let to what must be considered the third floor. Stenciled information was on the distant wall facing us and a painting could be seen through a gap in the gallery’s labyrinth. A young woman stood on guard at the top of the steps next to an elevator.
“Is that the third floor?”
“Yes.”
“Can we take that elevator down to the first floor?”
[Pause while consulting mental rule book.] “No, I’m sorry.”
Oh art museums! You insist on showing us who’s boss.
***
PART II
3/13/17 - DC bound again. This time, instead of summer’s highest highs, the forecast is calling for spring’s lowest lows. Hence the trouble with travel. Like boxes of chocolate, you never know what you’re going to get.
Travel should be classified as a type of gambling. You bet with your airfare and lodging based on the odds of seasonal averages. But maybe late March is in the uppers 20s or maybe mid-August is one of the wettest on record. Win big and you prize includes: relaxation, new experiences, and liberation from the daily routine. Go bust and you’re flitting between awnings with an umbrella or you’re up to your ankles in snow, no where near your sight-to-see, settling for overpriced food in your hotel restaurant instead of exotic food off the beaten path.
***
My taxi driver was named Mohammed. He immigrated to America in 1979. He served as a translator for the US Army in Afghanistan for 52 months. Like most who have been in war zones, he alluded to “having seen things” including limbs blown off by Soviet-era mines. He also was witness to marriages ruined from long-distances. When commended for his courage, he said, “[w]e believe we’re all going to die someday. Maybe today. Maybe not.”
I’m not sure that observation lessened his service, though his tone suggested humility. An awareness of our mortality and the uncertainty of when it will occur drives most out of danger rather than into it. If I could speak 30% of four languages like he can, I wouldn’t sign up to be put in harm’s way--especially for my adopted home. Translators are the modern-day drummer boys, out on the frontlines with no weapon.
Mohammed also held a number of certifications in concrete engineering in his country of origin. His wife was not a US citizen, however, so he could not be contracted by the Department of Justice. Those skills won’t be employed here. He had passed a driver’s test, though, so he worked 18 hour days now.
He is a single example of the variety of human beings who chauffeur other human beings around for a living and call them sir--all the time… as in, “No, sir. I don’t worry about it. People say things, these things and these, and no. I’ll be fine,” in reply to his customer’s concern over the current US administration’s anti-immigrant platform and the discrimination it has encouraged within our nation of immigrants.
Remember him.
***
Fun fact: when a plane gets “de-iced,” an employee in a cherry-picker sprays the plane with some sort of steaming, foaming liquid. From inside the cabin, the experience is like being inside a car washing during its sudzing phase. #themoreyounknow
***
Despite the inauspicious start, I have been all over today! As planned, I walked the entire length of the National Mall. I went on two guided tours, one at the National Gallery of Art and the other at the US Botanic Gardens. I learned about Renoir and menthol, Byzantium and castor oil. I saw half-bloomed cherry trees and frostbitten magnolias. I saw people remove their caps before an etching of the Gettysburg address and adolescent girls rare back on their Wheelies to skate around the observers. I have consumed more calories from cookies than from any other food item. I have been kicked off an apartment building’s covered steps and have eaten dinner while being sleeted upon. I ended up at a local watering hole, where the day is being punctuated by a Manhattan.
***
I watched an indigent man bend down to stare into the reflecting pool fronting the Lincoln Memorial. I expected him to wash his face. Instead, he plunged his hand into the frigid water and retrieved tossed coins. I expected him to put the coins in his pocket. Instead, he stood up and threw the coins farther into the pool.
May his wish be granted.
***
Overheard: “This is the best view in all of DC,” passionately said by a patron to a bartender while looking longingly into his eyes.
3/14/17 - The District of Columbia basically shuts down after an inch of wintery mix, yet walking is only slightly hazardous.
***
In the Robert and Arlene Kogod Courtyard, between the National Portrait Gallery and the Smithsonian American Art Gallery, people of all stripes congregate. Kids and the older nonconformists walk across the permanent rectangular puddles unseen spigots generate on the slightly slanted floor. New entrants look up and reach for a camera, either on their phones or the SLR in the shutterbug’s bag. Old men read books alone at round tables. Students study in semi-circles. Art devotees make a beeline from one museum to the other, ignoring the structure as too functional to be beautiful. Boys screw around atop the smooth marble slabs whose curved lines and soft corners lure them. Loaners bear their bellies to the heavens as their t-shirts ride upwards when they supine. Families call a time-out to plan their next steps. Old friends catch up perpendicular to one another.
Maybe it’s the stunning architecture, the undulating, hypermodern trusses that stitch a roof together over the Georgian gray stone facade and the Neoclassical tan sandstone facade. Maybe it’s the 50 feet that one would have to climb to reach that silver ceiling. Maybe it’s the brightly colored tropical plants and potted trees standing erect in the windless, unnatural microclimate. Whatever the cause(s), the aural atmosphere is hushed. The water trickles in sheets down linear drains. People restrain their voices’ volume, a price they pay to peacefully assemble. Even children refrain from squealing, only disturbing the otherwordliness with the gentle patter of their miniature shoes.
3/15/17 - You know that calm that overtakes you while seated at a storefront window, watching the world go by? Everything reminding you that you are in here and still, inoculated from the bustle. Being rather than becoming. You exist. Them? They are in flux. You watch them dodge obstacles--puddles, parked bikes, other pedestrians, tree planters. You are unmoved, unchallenged. You are the Buddha under his bodhi tree while the passersby by are trapped within the cycle of samsara. You are the saint, flinchless before his martyrdom, while the crowd desperately avoids their persecution. You are the judge enthroned before the fidgeting accused, while the jury whispers its gossip. You are the director before your stage, the actors and stagehands running helter skelter.
I felt that while eating Peruvian fare at Chicken Rico.
***
An incomplete list of people on the subway: those who stare straight ahead, those who stare at the floor, those who listen to music and look nowhere in particular, those who listen to music and cannot help but make rhythmic movements, those who stare at their phones and tap out messages with their thumbs, those who only touch their phones when skipping a song, those who text fervently with one index finger, those who stare at their phones and scroll up on their ebook or article, those whose agonized blinks and extended shut-eye indicate it has been a long morning/day/night, those who look around and make notes in a pocket notebook, those who look at you out of the corners of their eyes and watch you making notes, those who talk to their friends when their friends clearly don’t care about anyone’s opinions concerning the dangers of driving with bicycles on the road or other inanities that ought not be uttered, those who look worn-out with shopping bags arrayed around their feet, &c.
***
I have made it nearly 32 years in my life without going to a bar three consecutive nights. Yet, here I am, once again in the Red Derby. Consider it research. I’ve gotten a read on the regulars.
Groups of men arrange themselves along the wall, taking turns yelling out punchlines and laughing. A pair of women have contorted themselves to face each other for the kind of heart-to-hearts four Tecates/PBRs (respectively) make possible. Certain solitary men stare into their drinks, stirring them sporadically for want of something else to do. The waitress tonight, who is different from the waitress from my first visit two nights ago, stands in the same designated waitress location. She scans the room looking for a need to meet. She darts out and back like a child playing jailbreak. The music is loud enough to derail any prospective long trains of thought that inevitably wind downward into despair. The patrons raise the voices to compensate, which gives them a sense of accomplishment every time a sent message is actually received. The ambient decibel level also contrasts nicely with the outside world, insinuating the action happens In Here rather than Out There. This is the place to be. The manager dims the lighting as the night’s march requires. The bartender selects the soundtrack for his pours, but he does not control the volume.
***
When you’re away, you can’t deny that home still endures without you.
***
Sunsets tend to be lackluster in DC. Despite the height restrictions on new construction, sightlines rarely reveal the horizon. Too much of the city is in a basin.
3/16/17 It must be a real hardship, working at an art museum. The docent’s clothing budget must gobble up most of their meager wages.
***
I attended a lecture tonight on Toulouse Lautrec, the Male Gaze, and women’s representation in art. (Needless sidenote: as the lecture progressed, it struck me “super” has replaced “very” or “really” as the most popular emphatic adverb.) The speaker’s announced thesis was “whether celebrity can overpower sexism.” From this question rather than assertion followed a free-wheeling, highly participatory discussion that hovered around points rather than landing on them.
What follows is a synopsis of statements uttered during the lecture, both by the speaker and the audience. (Editor’s note: the statements have been slightly altered for brevity. The statements resisted alteration for clarity, however.)
Questions Raised But Not Answered
What’s the difference between the sexualizing, objectifying, and marginalizing created by the Male Gaze and the same when a female celebrity does creates it herself?
Does portraying a woman recognize a man’s dependence upon women or exploit women?
Do men realize they need women?
Does empowerment lose its meaning when whatever you chose is empowering?
Uncontested Observations
Men look at women. Women watch themselves be looked at.
Celebrity started off as female because the public at the time was dominantly male.
Women have more agency in how they are seen because of social media.
Empowerment is culturally defined.
Providing for yourself through voluntary sexualization is better than relying on a man for provision.
Don’t derive self-worth from others’ judgments.
Disagreements
Whether it is permissible for women to publicly sexualize themselves
Whether Toulouse Lautrec is feminist because he didn’t portray women flatteringly
Whether depicting ugliness is humanizing or objectifying
Whether likability is only a woman’s concern
Whether Beyonce has subverted sexism
Whether Beyonce has subverted sexism
Whether doing whatever you want and paying no mind to the judges is normative
Whether doing whatever you want and paying no mind to the judges is prohibitive because you still are playing into the judges’ values
***
3/18/17 - A man kicks a mound of icy plowed snow while waiting to cross the street. Another man approaches, body-language indicating rage.
Enraged Man: “How would you like it if I kicked you in the head like that?!”
Kicker: [no response]
EM: “Don’t you know that ice is made up of water and oxygen and life like everything else in the universe?!”
K: [abruptly jaywalks across four busy lanes of traffic]
***
“Girl, I’ma miss you so much,” a man says into the Buick dropping him off at Union Station.
My heart melts. It’s uplifting seeing a grown man express his affections publicly.
He continues, “Hey, listen, when I’m home, I’ma fuck the shit outta you!”
My heart cools off.
***
I took in a jazzy, extended cut of Katy Perry’s Fireworks performed outside the Navy-Archives-Penn Quarter Metro station. Two people paused to record the song on their phones. A woman danced lethargically. Most who exited the station observed the urbanite custom of casting down eyes when disinclined to patronize a busker.
***
If I’m Thomas Jefferson in the deistic analogue of heaven, I’m wondering what I did wrong. How come everybody loves Abe Lincoln? Why did he get the prime real estate? He only preserved what I started. He freed slaves, but I free an entire nation! I founded a college, gave Congress its library, and was an amateur inventor! I served as a foreign minister, secretary of state, vice president, and president. I doubled the country’s territory, and yet I’m the one relegated to an out of the way nook you can’t even see from Lincoln’s palatial throne! He gets to be the national mall’s bookend, and I’m on a separate shelf!
***
Has there ever been a flight in which a passenger does not conflate the overhead light button with the flight attendant button?
***
For the first 15 minutes in the air, I spied a tween girl two rows up watching videos on her phone. They were videos, some brief and some extended, of herself. The longest was after demonstrating how to draw an elaborate symbol I did not recognize. In most of these clips, the girl made funny faces at the camera and tossed her hair around. In one, she recorded her brother brooding in a hoodie with the hood up, clearly annoyed at the invasion of privacy. Having had enough, the girl put the phone away and pulled out a tablet from her bag.
I was planning on finally getting around to talking about the business part of my business trip, to summarize the content of professional development presentations and probe the underlying values therein. Before I could undertake any heavy-thinking, though, my attention was drawn back to this girl’s tablet. Curious to see what movie she’d be watching, I took in the the opening credits. Upon seeing the American Girl company’s logo, I could not look away. With zen-like concentration, I pieced together the unfolding plot of a silent-for-me film, lacking as I did access to one of the girl’s earbuds. What follows is a detailed synopsis, as best as I could write.
[Author’s note: this passage functions as the conclusion. There are no Easter eggs or closing thoughts after this plot summary. Should you read it all, you’ll see why the author was too spent to put a bow on the present that is this travelogue. He hopes you’ve enjoyed your vicarious trip and acknowledges your persistence for having made it so far.]
The main character (presumably the movie’s American Girl) is introduced in the opening outdoor scene. She holds her own in a tropical (Brazilian, judging from the soccer jerseys the extras are wearing) clime and proves herself both adventuresome and resourceful as she saves her dad’s life when he inexcusably walked off a cliff only to land precariously on a ledge below.
Despite only recently being reunited and on American soil (gathered from the backdrop’s relative opulence compared to the slummy streets in the opening credits), the dad once again departs for a trip and brings along with him the newly introduced older brother. Mom and American Girl (AG hereafter) smirk at each other as they now have total reign over their well-manicured house. The pair soon celebrate their malelessness with a vignette of feminine tomfoolery replete with whacky dress-up outfits, many flashbulbs, and scoops of ice cream.
The family must have business dealings in Brazil because, having had their fill of independence, the mother and daughter join the fellas down there. The men are conspicuously absent from the scene. If AG’s facial expressions are indicative, she’s clearly fed up most of her waking hours and has no reservations showing it.
A gorgeous early 20s Latina woman (LW hereafter) is working on a MacBook and seems like a prime candidate for guiding the AG through this ordeal of being without male guidance for a while.
A visit to the local law enforcement office tells me Dad has walked off yet another Brazilian cliff and dragged Brother down with him. Before I can even put into writing my prediction the ingenue and the AG are going to go adventuring to cheer the girl up, the two are already on a mo-ped.
Next comes the montage of the girl taking artsy pictures of the exotic foreign landscape. Fun aside, the two set about the business of locating the paterfamilias and son. The pair show a shopkeeper a picture of AG’s dad and the man shakes his head no. When the girl takes a few pictures inside the shop, it’s obvious this man is in on what appears to be a dad-napping because this observant (American) girl is well on her way to blowing the Case of the Missing Men wide open. Meanwhile, in a quick cutaway, we learn Mom is working with local police on a parallel track. The polices’ body language and ill-fitting uniforms scream ineptitude.
The females follow a van a symbol on it identical to one AG captured with her camera inside the shop, establishing ties between this shopkeep and the van.
The van winds its way out of civilization with the good gals not far behind. The Latina refuses to take a shortcut through the jungle in her beautiful floral dress and coral cardigan, so AG hops off in hot pursuit solo. Begrudgingly, the Latina follows behind, but the race is unfair since AG has more sensible footwear with which to hunt down criminals. AG, who won’t be deterred, hops into a raft to pursue the van down a river, though how the van and the river go together I cannot guess, vans needing to stick to roads.
After a brief confab on the bank, AG and Latina reprise the roles of Frodo and Sam Ganges as they set off down the river. We watch more of the AG not taking no for an answer until--surprise, surprise!--they’re strung up in a net just like in Looney Tunes. The captives are in luck, though, when their captor proves to be a plucky indigenous girl (IG hereafter) who climbs tree trunks expertly and who picks up the rudiments of foreign languages at prodigious speed despite being educated in the bush.
Scratch that, the girl in the loin cloth knows English and is not mortified by technologies like smartphones. The good luck continues as IG has seen AG’s dad and wants to join the search party. In a thinly veiled metaphor, IG chops off LW’s heels so the latter can pick up the pace back to whence IG came. LW is not pleased, but personal growth is rarely pleasant.
Meanwhile, AG is having a grand time adventuring, which shows that--in a reversal of roles--LW can learning something from AG.
IG and AG become fast friends. IG’s mother arrives on the scene decked out in a startlingly crude “Indian costume” but progressive points are scored when IG’s mom wields a machete at the newcomers until she recognizes them as part of the universal sisterhood. LW, out of nowhere, pulls out a cell phone and dials AG’s mom, presumably to have her pull rank and end this flat-footed charade. But, wouldn’t you know it, service in the jungle is good enough to place the call but too poor to support successful verbal communication.
Proceeding with the AG’s plan for want of alternatives, the threesome go to the village where they are met by a great many intense male gazes. The ice is broken by a gray-haired matriarch who takes the visitors in stride and, as expected, is well-versed in tribal symbols such as those seen on villainous vans and Brazilian shops and is probably going to draft an army of men who will save the day but only by her order.
We cut away to the shopkeeper’s sparkling Mercedes SUV, a sure sign of ill-gotten gain, parked next to the abandoned and too-readily identifiable mo-ped on a backwoods road. The hunters have become the hunted’s hunted. Clearly, the shit is already airborne and is minutes away from coming in contact with the fan blades.
Back in the village, the women paint their faces and the men perform a tribal dance for the visitors, which is probably also summoning jungle spirits to be on femininity’s side in this particular girls vs. boys conflagration. IG, AG, and LW share a heart-to-heart and make amends, though the source of discord is unclear. The AG is invited to the center of the dirt dance floor, which seals the bond between native and foreigner. Now, AG is AKA IG2.
Another cut away reminds us how poorly greased the gears of official justice are. The tempo of local police’s movements demonstrates a motivational deficiency to help the Americans. Nonetheless, you can tell the two groups of good guys’ and the group of bad guys’ vectors are on a collision course.
AG’s mom, for the first time in this feature film, shows concern about being daughterless in addition to be son- and husband-less by crying into a pillow. It’s going to be a long night for her.
Meanwhile, this particular tribe of indigenous people sleep in hammocks made of a material so finely woven I’m thinking they must have more commerce with civilization than they let on. The way the camera lingers on AG’s serenely asleep face, you can just tell that shit and fan blades will come in contact first thing in the morning.
It turns out the gray-haired matriarch can’t spare an entire troop but she does dispatch AG, IG, LW, and a pubescent young man, who proves to be of little help. When he hesitates to engage the enemy when their path crosses with a lone bad guy talking on a sat phone, AG’s grit and gumption propel her into conflict. AG grabs the sat phone from the unsuspecting bad guy’s hand. Instinctively, he pursues the fleeing girl. She leads him into a trap, though, and soon he’s dangling from yet another net and fecklessly flailing for comic relief.
Safe for now, AG calls her mom to update her on the gang’s whereabouts for the past 18 or so hours. Unfortunately, AG sasses her mom. AG’s mom, though she is in a desperate need of any family at this point, will not tolerate sass and abruptly hangs up--daughter stranded in the jungle or no.
AG rejoins IG and puts the upsetting call behind her as the two prepare to part ways. The two play patty-cake, a custom that transcends culture, and IG gives AG a token bone necklace as a party favor.
AG’s mom, who could have saved the police a lot of trouble had she kept her cool on the earlier sat phone call, has pretty much put two and two together with the nefarious shopkeep now. Her lightbulb moment is excellently timed because AG and LW, who have hitched a ride on an excellently timed and strangely empty tour bus (passing by on a jungle road?!), are being pursued by--you guessed it!-- the bad guy and their demonic red van, who had been cruising down the same stretch of jungle road at that same exact instant.
AG and LW get away because the bad guys are dumb-dumbs. In a twist, the pair ride stolen (but who cares?) bikes to start chasing the bad guys because they are empowered females who turn the tables on patriarchy. The good gals track the villains back to their Ominous Factory/Lair.
LW, whose coral cardigan is as pristine as the day she bought it, put her heel-less foot down about AG rushing into an open Ominous Factory/Lair window. If you’ve been paying attention, you know AG will not be denied. She shows courage and skill climbing scaffolding reminiscent of the IG’s now infamous prowess with tree trunks.
The bad guys, while bad, are also deferential and, judging from read lips, refer to their commander as “boss” instead of his Christian name. AG has scampered around the Ominous Factory/Lair and located her brother, who has been caged as though he were a common zoo animal. With expected resourcefulness, she busts him out of the cage only to get herself caged as well when the bad guys, who are so bad they smuggle exotic animals in addition to brothers, break down a rather flimsy factory door.
While jointly incarcerated, AG and the brother get to the heart of their relational matter. From the look on his face, the brother is taught a lesson about respecting women. Having spoken her truth, AG picks the lock with a bobby pin the bad guys unforgivably overlooked when interring her. For good measure, the AG frees the captive animals the bad guys should have been guarding. The beasts all make a quick escape minus the sloth, who is a B Grade animatronic in close shots.
Brother, AG, and LW run into the squad car on cue, which was carrying AG’s mom. The reunion is cut short by the feckless bad guys feckless attempt at escaping. Local law enforcement is not reticent when engaging to suspects. The bad guys flail around like soccer players fishing for yellow cards when they tangle with the fuzz.
The denouement is accelerated when the police free they missing pater familias from the bad guys’ pirate ship. An individual male proves he is good for something when Brother pushes the nefarious shopkeep into the river as he was trying to evade the authorities. The shopkeep bobs humiliatingly in the water, his oversized shirt looking a bit like a dress undulating around him.
We flash forward to home life and hugs and promises to never return to Brazil. It turns out LW and Brother are an item, which explains LW’s raison d’etre in hindsight. Brother and AG talk in her room. Brother demonstrates character development by showing far more respect to AG than he had 90 minutes earlier in the narrative. AG is looking more sophisticated than ever.
In the final act, AG scores an art exhibit for all her photos, conveniently allowing her take both a stroll down memory lane and a recap for those of us watching the story on our screen of choice. AG shows what to this reviewer is a bit too much excitement for a dress she receives in the mail, which is probably available in stores and online purchase.
I didn’t actually see the final scene and rolling credits because we were landing at that point. My money’s on AG being turned into a doll by tribal voodoo.
(return to Travel page)
(return to Travel page)
