Don’t you love how my “New Baku post will be up in a few days” turned into a few weeks? Anyways…When I last left you, Laura and I had just arrived in Baku, the lovely capital city of Azerbaijan, situated on the Western shore of the Caspian Sea.

We woke up early and took advantage of our awesome hotel’s free breakfast. Fresh fruit, French toast, white linen, and the Gypsy King’s cover of “Hotel California” playing over the speakers. Where the hell am I again? I sized up the other hotel guests, and if their wardrobes were any indication, Laura and I were definitely the only people visiting Baku who weren’t there to sign multi-million dollar contracts regarding the extraction of Azerbaijan’s plethora of hydrocarbons. When we checked into our hotel the evening prior, the clerk asked us what company we were with. “Uhhh…we’re not here on business. We’re tourists.” (Although if I had actually answered with where I worked, I would have fit in quite well with the other guests). Yep, doesn’t seem to be many tourists in good ol’ Baku.

Our first stop was the Palace of the Shirvanshahs, located in Baku’s old city. Much of the Palace was built in the mid-1400s by the Shirvanshah dynasty (hence the name). The Palace is currently undergoing a major restoration project, so everything looks quite new. The place was devoid of tourists, so we basically had the place to ourselves.

Our next stop was Maiden Tower, built in the 12th century. No one is exactly sure why it’s called Maiden Tower, but there are several local legends you can choose from. Did a young Maiden throw herself off because her father wanted to marry her? Was it built as a fire-worshipper’s temple? The more pressing question, though, is why the hell did these guys not install an elevator when they built this thing? It was a long, winding walk to the top, but the view was well worth it. At the top, two Azeri guys started talking to us, asking us if we liked Baku, where we were from, etc. They said that someday they hoped to visit the U.S., but they were planning on avoiding California because there were too many Armenians there, and they hated Armenians. Avoiding the Great State of California because of its Armenian population? Are you guys out of your minds? We’ve got Disneyland, and beaches, and In-N-Out! Nothing could sway them, however. I was immediately reminded of a seminar at LSE that I attended…was forced to attend, I should add, but the promise of several pints afterwards was indeed tempting. This particular seminar was on the Armenian-Azeri war over Nagorno Karabakh (click here for the Wikipedia entry, because I’m too lazy to write about the conflict). Entire cities were razed, hundreds of thousands of refugees fled the area, and over 35,000 people were killed. Needless to say, there is still a lot of resentment on both sides, and at this particular seminar I was convinced a fistfight was going to break out amongst the Armenians, Turks, and Azeris. Here were some of the most educated members of their respective countries, sitting in a classroom at the London School of Economics, and almost coming to blows over a war that “ended” in 1994. If these students were going back to their countries to work for the government, then I’ve just about lost hope that the region will ever find peace.

Maiden Tower

View from the top

We bid farewell to our new Azeri “friends” and told them to look us up if they ever come to D.C. I should also mention that we never told them that we were actually using Armenia as our base of operations and merely stopping over in Baku for a few days. “Uh yeah, we came from Tbilisi…and then we are going back to Tbilisi. But we love your city, it’s beautiful.” There were no lies in that sentence, so it’s all good.

I didn’t really have a next destination in mind, so I dragged Laura on an incredibly long walk that took us along the side of a highway and into the slums of Baku. If you’re ever going to travel with me, you better be prepared to walk A LOT because I will drag your ass all over whatever city we are visiting. No joke. Katerina nicknamed my penchant for walking everywhere the “Lindsay Fincher diet” because you will probably drop a few pounds, no matter how many crepes you eat.

I suggested we grab a taxi and check out a Caspian beach. My trusty Lonely Planet said the Crescent Beach hotel had a decent beach so we hopped in a taxi and were soon speeding down the freeway towards suburban Baku, which is NOTHING like suburban D.C. Instead of TGIFriday’s and California Pizza Kitchen, suburban Baku mainly consists of ramshackle houses and rusty nodding donkeys.

Once we arrived at the Crescent Beach Hotel, we headed straight for the restaurant because we were ridiculously hungry. I had a rather decent pad thai and a great view of the Caspian. After lunch we made our way down to the beach and stuck our feet in the Caspian while bewildered hotel guests watched. Perhaps they, too, read the Lonely Planet entry that stated “The beach may look clean, but the water is heavily polluted both by oil extraction and one of Baku’s main sewage outlets.” And yes, I did read that warning, and yes, I totally ignored it and still stepped foot in the Caspian. I’m still alive aren’t I?

Ah, the perfect view

The surf is most definitely NOT up

Sewage and petroleum? Count me in

After semi-frolicking in the cesspool that is the Caspian, we decided to go back to Baku proper. We grabbed a taxi, and in my horrible Russian I asked him to take us back to the city, but to first stop near the mosque on the side of the freeway, not because I wanted to take photos of the mosque, but rather wanted a few of the oil fields nearby. Yes, he thought I was crazy, but understood my request and that’s all that really matters. He was a cool guy, trying his best to narrate the drive in the few English words he knew.

Pollution, huh?

Our next destination was the carpet museum, which on the surface sounds incredibly boring but actually turned out to be very interesting. So while I was on this “OMG look at all these beautiful Azeri carpets” high, I did what any respectable tourist would do and bought one.

All power to the carpet producing peoples!

As we were exiting the carpet shop, we were accosted by two Peace Corps volunteers who were spending the weekend “in the big city.” They were a bit surprised to run into some fellow Americans and asked “Uh, are you guys…tourists?” Yeah, why? “Well, you don’t see many people who come to Baku as tourists.” Damn, really? It was just dawning on me that Baku wasn’t considered a vacation hotspot.

We ended up having dinner at a restaurant near Maiden’s Tower. The food was stellar, and the restaurant itself was located in a courtyard dotted with trees and fountains. There were several small shops on the second floor, and after dinner we headed up there to see if there was anything we wanted to waste our manat on.

The Azeris put nodding donkeys and gushing oil rigs on their money. Seriously, how cool is this money?

The salesmen were, of course, interested in showing us more carpets even though I explained that I had just purchased one. My protests were futile, though, as they kept throwing the carpets on top of each other, turning them over to show you the high-quality materials and craftsmanship. The stack became so high, and my eyes grew so large, that I had to restrain myself from purchasing another. They were so incredibly beautiful that I wanted them all. Wood floors be damned, I was ready to cover the entire area of my room back in D.C.! Instead of buying another carpet, though, we opted to purchase a few tablecloths. The salesman invited us to have tea with him, sat us down on the balcony overlooking the restaurant, and ran downstairs. He returned with scalding hot chai, which turned sickingly sweet as we dumped large sugar cubes into our glasses.

Restaurant where we ate

The cool salesman

We ended up talking to this guy for an hour or so, listening to stories of his time in the Soviet Army, and answering questions about life back in the States (again, all this done through my paltry Russian skills). He showed us a hand woven map that displayed Nagorno-Karabakh as firmly a part of Azerbaijan. Unlike the younger Azeris we had encountered earlier in the day, though, there was no hatred or anger in his voice, just sadness at this loss of “their” territory. He wanted to know what we thought of his country, his fellow citizens, and more importantly, his hometown, Baku. “I love it!” I told him. Really? “Oh yeah, I think I’d like to work here someday…for BP!” I partially joked. “Ah,” he grinned, “like David Voodvard!” I was a bit amazed he knew the name of the President of BP Azerbaijan. “Yes, like David Woodward!” When it finally came time to bid him farewell, I promised that I would stop in to purchase some carpets when I started working in Baku, whenever that may be. It could happen, right?

On our way back to the hotel, I was almost killed by several children driving recklessly around the boulevard in their rental Power Wheels cars. Where are the traffic cops when you really need them?

(Next up: We visit a fire worshipper’s temple, mosque, and “fire mountain” on the outskirts of Baku, hop a plane back to Tbilisi, and drive back to Yerevan on a road that the U.S. Government, like, totally told us to avoid…yeah, all in one day!)

That’s literally what September 11 felt like to me. The. Longest. Day. In the past, whenever I told someone that I went to college in Washington, DC, the first question many people asked was “Were you there during September 11?” I always thought it to be a rather odd question, but told them yes, and if they pressed for details, would relate to them an abridged description of the day. I’ve never written anything on this site about that day, not even on the actual day itself, but for some reason, this year I felt compelled to do so. When I’m traveling, I carry a notepad around with me to write down a description of events after a day of sightseeing so that I won’t forget anything. My own experiences with September 11, however, will forever be permanently ingrained in my memory, and seem as fresh now as they did on that day five years ago.

I remember that September 11, 2001 started out as a beautiful fall day – sunny and warm, but not too warm. My roommate, Tracy, and I had English class together at 9:30 and walked out the door of the Schenley, across Kogan Plaza, and into our classroom in Monroe Hall. As our classmates filed in, one or two mentioned that CNN reported a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. I usually checked CNN’s website every morning before heading off to class, but I was running late that morning and didn’t. This was the first that I had heard of a plane crashing into the WTC, and I imagined a small Cessna, not an airliner. Another student walked in as we were discussing the incident. “No, guys, it was two planes. Commercial airliners or something.” Two planes? This was bizarre. A majority of GW students are from the New York/New Jersey area. Some of my classmates turned pale, as the enormity of the situation dawned on them. “Oh, God….my uncle/aunt/dad/brother/cousin works there.”

Our professor walked in, turned the TV on, put in the movie “The Deer Hunter” and told us to quiet down. I still have no idea why we were watching this movie in English class, but that was the lesson for the day. I was sitting nearest to the window and heard a loud roar overhead. That’s odd, I thought to myself. GW is located a few blocks from the White House, and, like most of the DC, lies within restricted airspace. I figured it must have been an F-16 or F-18 flying overhead. To this day, I’m not quite sure what it was.

A few minutes after that, a woman walked into our classroom and whispered something to our professor. She turned to us and told us to evacuate the building. “The capital is under attack.” We hurriedly shoved our papers and books into our backpacks and vaulted down the stairs along with the hundreds of other students in Monroe Hall. We ran past a GW facilities truck that was parked on Kogan Plaza. The workers were supposed to be setting up for an event, but instead they stood around the truck listening to the radio, with the strangest looks on their faces.

When Tracy and I got back to our dorm room we immediately turned on CNN to find out what the hell was going on. A reporter stood in front of a smoking Pentagon, screaming that another hijacked plane was in the air and headed straight for DC. More reports (later proved false) were coming in – a car bomb had gone off in front of the State Department, just down the street from our university, and the National Mall, the National Mall! was on fire! The light indicating I had a voicemail was blinking. I already had two messages – one from my mom, who sounded very frightened and implored me to call her back, and another from a friend in California (“Hey, dude, uh some interesting stuff going on over there. Call back when you get a chance.”) I tried calling my parents on my cell phone and landline but it was useless, all I heard was “We’re sorry, all circuits are busy at this time.” My mom finally signed onto AIM and I told her we were alright and staying in the dorm. My inbox started to fill with e-mails from startled friends in California who had just woken up.

Some of the dorms were not allowing their residents to enter them, or were being evacuated, so our friends slowly started showing up to the Schenley and took turns using our computers to get in contact with their family members. I looked outside the window, and a mass of students, unable to enter their dorms, stood outside on the streets. On Kogan Plaza, the DC Fire Department was setting up a mass casualty center. There were ambulances and police cars speeding around, streets were being barricaded, and the fire alarms in buildings all over campus were going off. As the mass of suburban commuters fled the city, we wondered what we were supposed to do. Should we stay? Or get out? How would we? Are any of the metro lines running? Even if they are, where the hell would we go, Franconia-Springfield? There was nothing we could really do but sit and watch the news. Someone mentioned we should get a bite to eat, so we headed over to our food court, J Street. I picked at my chicken caesar salad wrap as images of death and destruction played on the big screen TVs. J Street was nearly empty, and grief counselors walked around, speaking to the few students that were actually there. “Do you want to talk about today?,” they asked. “No, but thanks.”

After lunch, a sense of calm settled over campus. The capital of the world’s sole superpower had turned into a ghost town. I sat at my desk watching more CNN, while my two roommates laid in their beds and drifted off to sleep. My friends went back to their dorms and did the same. It seemed as if the entire campus had taken a siesta. I finally gave in, too, which was remarkable considering the last nap I had taken was probably when I was in kindergarten.

I woke up a few hours later, the TV still blaring. I wished that perhaps this entire day was a bad dream, but it was still very real. The phone system had cleared up, and I went outside to make some phone calls. It was still beautiful outside, but I had goosebumps. Imagine that, goosebumps on a warm, sunny day. While I was out there, two guys buzzed their friend on the Schenley intercom, asking where he had been all day. He replied that he had been sleeping, and, with a hint of sarcasm in his voice, thanked them for waking him up.

“How long you been asleep, man?” Since this morning, he grumbled.

“Man, you slept through the attacks?”

“Huh?”

“The terrorist attacks. The World Trade Center is gone and the Pentagon’s been hit.”

“Huuuuuuuuuuh?!”

I had to laugh. This guy had slept through the worst terrorist attack in American history, completely oblivious to the chaos outside his own dorm room.

That evening we gathered in one of my friend’s rooms in a dorm across campus to watch President Bush’s speech. From this dorm, you could see the black smoke still rising from the Pentagon. We ordered pizza (looking back, I’m amazed we actually got the pizza…I figured the whole campus would be ordering in) and watched the news. They were talking about Afghanistan and the Northern Alliance. I didn’t know anything about that region of the world, so this was all new to me. Bush gave his speech. I was glad to be among my friends.

That night, around 3am, I fell asleep to the sounds of helicopters flying overhead, their searchlights scanning the city streets. I just wanted it to be a new day, and hoped that the morning would come quickly.

We had class the following day. While my friends from other universities nowhere near NYC or DC told me their classes were canceled, SJT (GW President) had ordered us all to class in an attempt to restore a sense of “normalcy.” I silently sat through my Comparative Politics discussion. “Why aren’t you guys talking?” our TA implored us. Finally, one student said, “Well, you know…yesterday.” We nodded our heads in agreement. There was really nothing else that needed to be said.

More naps followed that week. A candlelight vigil on the University Yard. Headaches that Aspirin couldn’t cure. Syllabus topics were thrown out in favor of impromptu lessons on the Soviet-Afghan war. As American politics classes debated a military intervention in Afghanistan, tempers flared and students who lost friends, neighbours, and family members in the attacks nearly came to blows with members of the Progressive Student Union who agitated for peace. The city remained in lockdown and ugly concrete barricades circled federal buildings. More sirens, helicopters, police officers. Humvees were stationed around Foggy Bottom, and soldiers, armed with their M-16s, stood on street corners and outside metro stations. GW students who once delighted in their internships on the hill found themselves lining up to have their noses swabbed by Navy corpsman. They were given packets of Cipro “just in case.” A year later, at my internship, we were issued MREs, assigned to “safe rooms” throughout the building, and were taught how to put on a rappelling harness if, God forbid, that would be the only way out of the 7th and 8th floor offices. One of my professors remarked that September 11th marked the end of a carefree “gilded age” of American history. I think he was right.

The smell of surf wax and neoprene. A double-double from In-N-Out. The taste of salt-water. Homemade tortillas at the Old Town Cafe. The sound of crashing waves. Joe’s Crab Shack at Oceanside harbor. Tanned, happy people. Wiping out.

Oh, God, I never realized how much I missed all of it until this weekend.

I left DC Friday evening on a direct flight to San Diego, and arrived in “America’s Finest City” at 8pm. My family picked me up and we headed straight to Old Town San Diego for Mexican food. We have been frequenting the Old Town Cafe since I was a kid, and the place hasn’t changed much since then. They might have added another dining room or two, but the “tortilla ladies” are still there, making fresh tortillas while tourists watch through the windows. After dinner we drove down to our place in Oceanside. It’s a small place, but all you have to do is walk out the gate and you are on the beach. It doesn’t get any better than that. We’ve been coming to Oceanside since I was born. I know the place pretty well, and have seen it change a lot over the past 24 years. The last time I was in Oceanside was two years ago, before I left for London. I was a bit disappointed to see that the city is now becoming indistinguishable from its northern Orange County neighbours. The new townhouses are beautiful, but where did Robertito’s Taco Shop go?!

I hit-up Surfride boardshop the next morning to buy some surf wax. I also decided to purchase a neoprene top because I heard from reliable sources that the water temp was dropping. When I got in the chilly water I was amazed at how warm I was. I should have purchased one of these years ago! I spent the day surfing, bodyboarding, and frolicking in the waves (yes, I was so happy to be in the ocean again that I will admit to actually frolicking). By the end of the day my arms were KILLING me from all the paddling. (I need to work on my upper body strength or something…maybe lift weights? I don’t have a pool here in D.C. so any suggestions on how to get the arms back to strength would be appreciated.) Later that night we met up with some family friends for dinner at Joe’s Crab Shack. Joe’s Crab Shack is incredibly tacky and cheesy, but I love that place.

We were up early the next morning for the drive home to Palm Desert. My grandma hasn’t been doing well health-wise these past few years, so I went for a visit. I was in PD for maybe an hour and a half. Went home for a few minutes. No dog. New fountain thing in the front yard. New artwork. One of my walls was painted a maroon color. I picked out two books and a pair of soccer shorts and left. Back to the beach.

Sorry I didn’t tell any of you guys I was back in town. I was in a bad mood that morning anyways, so it was probably for the better. On the way back to Oceanside we stopped at In-N-Out. I devoured my burger and fries in less than 5 minutes. More surfing in the afternoon and a BBQ with some family friends that evening.
Monday was my last day in California, so I went to the beach for a few hours and then we went down to San Diego. That evening, before my 10pm flight, we went to a Padres game at Petco Park. I hadn’t been to the Padres new stadium yet and wanted to cross it off my list of ballparks to visit. The stadium is beautiful. If you visit, be sure to have a “Diego Dog” (bratwurst in a Kaiser roll-like bun topped with cabbage, pico de gallo, and a sauce with a hint of mustard). Also, check out the little kids playing wiffleball on the mini-diamond behind left-field. With the addition of Petco park, the revitalization of the Gaslamp Quarter, and the new condos and apartment buildings, it appears that downtown San Diego is actually turning into an area worth living in.

My flight left at 10:20pm. Redeye. Didn’t sleep at all on the plane – I never really can. Landed in Dulles at 6am. Welcome back to a rainy and cold Washington. It took me over two hours to get home using the bus and metro. I took a quick shower, ironed my shirt, and was out the door and off to work. It was pouring rain, and there were pools of water half a foot deep collecting on the sides of the streets (typical DC incompetence). My pants and socks were soaked with putrid gutterwater. “Oh Lindsay,” I thought to myself “you made a terrible mistake coming back here.” Why, why, why did I move back to this goddamn hellhole swamp city?! It’s no secret that I despise this city, but I’ll be here for a few more years at least. Maybe I’ll go back to California after that, or overseas, or maybe even Houston. Who knows, it’s not really worth pondering right now.

This trip to California was exactly what I needed, but now I’m hurting for some more time in the water. I want to continue surfing, and I want to get better. I was really sucking it up this past weekend and it’s clear that I need a lot of practice. Therein lies the problem, however. The nearest beach is a 3+ hour drive and oh yeah, I don’t have a car. So, I’m going to start looking into purchasing a vehicle so I can take some weekend trips to Ocean City or Virginia Beach or the Outer Banks or wherever the hell the east coast surf is. I’ll probably buy some sort of gas-guzzling SUV, because didn’t ya hear, Chevron found all this oil out in the Gulf! Pretty sweet, eh?

Second, I’m looking into taking a surf trip to Costa Rica next summer. I know, I know…Lindsay might actually visit a country that wasn’t part of the Eastern Bloc. I’m about as surprised as you are.

So in a few months I guess we’ll find out if I’m a) going to buy a car; and b) going to Costa Rica.

New Baku post will be up in a few days.