Hardly remarkable - Unplugged

It is morning now. I sit at a park-side cafe that doubles as the chef’s home. Her kids are my waiters, their menus are handwritten, and her husband is ignoring a telephone, the size of a Nalgene, that is fastened to their wall and rings off the chain. I am beneath a gray, smooth-barked tree that spits guayava from its limbs and provides the contents for the juice I sip. Contrary to the avatar-esk mountains that teem with life and that I’ve been acquainting with over the past weeks, the tree I sit under is some of the only plant life in this densely populated city. I hold off on my first sip of morning Joe.

I remember the first time I explored a new country. It was Brazil in 2014 with two close homies. We were green and knew nothing of other cultures. In preparation for the trip, I fell prey to the ‘better safe than sorry’ philosophy and checked every box that I could possibly create for myself. Hours of internet research, appointments at the Department of public health, and a folder that neatly caressed physical copies of my passport, ID, vaccination record, debit and credit cards, spare cash, and a laminated card proving my typhoid immunity. It’s amazing what the unknown and a bit of stress will do to a person.

Despite the fact that I was going to Brazil– the futsal capital of the world, the samba-dancing Mecca, the heart of South American soccer, the home of the Amazon, the pristine white sand speedo-speckled beaches, and the place that, I dunno, the friggin’ World Cup was taking place– the most frequent phrase I heard prior to departure was: make sure you’re not seen in the street with your phone out. You don’t want to stand out, get it stolen, or flaunt your wealth.

I excused them for forgetting I had a flip phone at the time, and with seemingly no other choice, I downloaded the tales of caution into my psyche. One of my comrades brought a fanny pack that rested underneath his shirt, close to the core, and we kept our phones concealed in the fanny at all times so scary people of color didn’t steal our shit. That was nine years ago. Today, hardly remarkable, I, the rich white guy, am the one who stands out as the only person not currently nursing their phone.

The blue-inked menus are faded and tough to read but something about them is comforting, heartwarming, and smells of wabi-sabi. My waiter just handed me the check, a half-torn piece of old notebook paper with blue scribblings. I’ve pattern-matched the handwriting of the check to the aesthetically written ‘Bistec de cerdo’ and detected that the daughter’s right hand is responsible. For reasons I can’t describe, it saddens me to know that it’s only a matter of time until this family’s unique flare is swapped out for a QR code.

***

We’re unplugging in one month’s time and we hope you’ll pass the word along. Deets here.

It is morning now. I sit at a park-side cafe that doubles as the chef’s home. Her kids are my waiters, their menus are handwritten, and her husband is ignoring a telephone, the size of a Nalgene, that is fastened to their wall and rings off the chain. I am beneath a gray, smooth-barked tree that spits guayava from its limbs and provides the contents for the juice I sip. Contrary to the avatar-esk mountains that teem with life and that I’ve been acquainting with over the past weeks, the tree I sit under is some of the only plant life in this densely populated city. I hold off on my first sip of morning Joe.

I remember the first time I explored a new country. It was Brazil in 2014 with two close homies. We were green and knew nothing of other cultures. In preparation for the trip, I fell prey to the ‘better safe than sorry’ philosophy and checked every box that I could possibly create for myself. Hours of internet research, appointments at the Department of public health, and a folder that neatly caressed physical copies of my passport, ID, vaccination record, debit and credit cards, spare cash, and a laminated card proving my typhoid immunity. It’s amazing what the unknown and a bit of stress will do to a person.

Despite the fact that I was going to Brazil– the futsal capital of the world, the samba-dancing Mecca, the heart of South American soccer, the home of the Amazon, the pristine white sand speedo-speckled beaches, and the place that, I dunno, the friggin’ World Cup was taking place– the most frequent phrase I heard prior to departure was: make sure you’re not seen in the street with your phone out. You don’t want to stand out, get it stolen, or flaunt your wealth.

I excused them for forgetting I had a flip phone at the time, and with seemingly no other choice, I downloaded the tales of caution into my psyche. One of my comrades brought a fanny pack that rested underneath his shirt, close to the core, and we kept our phones concealed in the fanny at all times so scary people of color didn’t steal our shit. That was nine years ago. Today, hardly remarkable, I, the rich white guy, am the one who stands out as the only person not currently nursing their phone.

The blue-inked menus are faded and tough to read but something about them is comforting, heartwarming, and smells of wabi-sabi. My waiter just handed me the check, a half-torn piece of old notebook paper with blue scribblings. I’ve pattern-matched the handwriting of the check to the aesthetically written ‘Bistec de cerdo’ and detected that the daughter’s right hand is responsible. For reasons I can’t describe, it saddens me to know that it’s only a matter of time until this family’s unique flare is swapped out for a QR code.

***

We’re unplugging in one month’s time and we hope you’ll pass the word along. Deets here.

It is morning now. I sit at a park-side cafe that doubles as the chef’s home. Her kids are my waiters, their menus are handwritten, and her husband is ignoring a telephone, the size of a Nalgene, that is fastened to their wall and rings off the chain. I am beneath a gray, smooth-barked tree that spits guayava from its limbs and provides the contents for the juice I sip. Contrary to the avatar-esk mountains that teem with life and that I’ve been acquainting with over the past weeks, the tree I sit under is some of the only plant life in this densely populated city. I hold off on my first sip of morning Joe.

I remember the first time I explored a new country. It was Brazil in 2014 with two close homies. We were green and knew nothing of other cultures. In preparation for the trip, I fell prey to the ‘better safe than sorry’ philosophy and checked every box that I could possibly create for myself. Hours of internet research, appointments at the Department of public health, and a folder that neatly caressed physical copies of my passport, ID, vaccination record, debit and credit cards, spare cash, and a laminated card proving my typhoid immunity. It’s amazing what the unknown and a bit of stress will do to a person.

Despite the fact that I was going to Brazil– the futsal capital of the world, the samba-dancing Mecca, the heart of South American soccer, the home of the Amazon, the pristine white sand speedo-speckled beaches, and the place that, I dunno, the friggin’ World Cup was taking place– the most frequent phrase I heard prior to departure was: make sure you’re not seen in the street with your phone out. You don’t want to stand out, get it stolen, or flaunt your wealth.

I excused them for forgetting I had a flip phone at the time, and with seemingly no other choice, I downloaded the tales of caution into my psyche. One of my comrades brought a fanny pack that rested underneath his shirt, close to the core, and we kept our phones concealed in the fanny at all times so scary people of color didn’t steal our shit. That was nine years ago. Today, hardly remarkable, I, the rich white guy, am the one who stands out as the only person not currently nursing their phone.

The blue-inked menus are faded and tough to read but something about them is comforting, heartwarming, and smells of wabi-sabi. My waiter just handed me the check, a half-torn piece of old notebook paper with blue scribblings. I’ve pattern-matched the handwriting of the check to the aesthetically written ‘Bistec de cerdo’ and detected that the daughter’s right hand is responsible. For reasons I can’t describe, it saddens me to know that it’s only a matter of time until this family’s unique flare is swapped out for a QR code.

***

We’re unplugging in one month’s time and we hope you’ll pass the word along. Deets here.

It is morning now. I sit at a park-side cafe that doubles as the chef’s home. Her kids are my waiters, their menus are handwritten, and her husband is ignoring a telephone, the size of a Nalgene, that is fastened to their wall and rings off the chain. I am beneath a gray, smooth-barked tree that spits guayava from its limbs and provides the contents for the juice I sip. Contrary to the avatar-esk mountains that teem with life and that I’ve been acquainting with over the past weeks, the tree I sit under is some of the only plant life in this densely populated city. I hold off on my first sip of morning Joe.

I remember the first time I explored a new country. It was Brazil in 2014 with two close homies. We were green and knew nothing of other cultures. In preparation for the trip, I fell prey to the ‘better safe than sorry’ philosophy and checked every box that I could possibly create for myself. Hours of internet research, appointments at the Department of public health, and a folder that neatly caressed physical copies of my passport, ID, vaccination record, debit and credit cards, spare cash, and a laminated card proving my typhoid immunity. It’s amazing what the unknown and a bit of stress will do to a person.

Despite the fact that I was going to Brazil– the futsal capital of the world, the samba-dancing Mecca, the heart of South American soccer, the home of the Amazon, the pristine white sand speedo-speckled beaches, and the place that, I dunno, the friggin’ World Cup was taking place– the most frequent phrase I heard prior to departure was: make sure you’re not seen in the street with your phone out. You don’t want to stand out, get it stolen, or flaunt your wealth.

I excused them for forgetting I had a flip phone at the time, and with seemingly no other choice, I downloaded the tales of caution into my psyche. One of my comrades brought a fanny pack that rested underneath his shirt, close to the core, and we kept our phones concealed in the fanny at all times so scary people of color didn’t steal our shit. That was nine years ago. Today, hardly remarkable, I, the rich white guy, am the one who stands out as the only person not currently nursing their phone.

The blue-inked menus are faded and tough to read but something about them is comforting, heartwarming, and smells of wabi-sabi. My waiter just handed me the check, a half-torn piece of old notebook paper with blue scribblings. I’ve pattern-matched the handwriting of the check to the aesthetically written ‘Bistec de cerdo’ and detected that the daughter’s right hand is responsible. For reasons I can’t describe, it saddens me to know that it’s only a matter of time until this family’s unique flare is swapped out for a QR code.

***

We’re unplugging in one month’s time and we hope you’ll pass the word along. Deets here.