Last night I was riding the metro back to Eagle Rock after another spectacular night of breakdancing. My joints ached and my body was freezing cold. The layer of sweat I had quickly accumulated while dancing had immediately chilled when I stepped outside, making me a sopping wet, shivering mess. I had no idea how long it was going to take for the train to arrive. Across the station I noticed two breakers from the session. The younger guy, Adam, was practicing a spinning move and his brother Donnie was watching. I had met both of them last week on the ride back home. Among the still forms either sitting or standing, the bboys stuck out like little spots of energy. I decided to go over and say what's up. I needed some conversation to distract me from the pains coming from my frozen and aching body. I walked across the station, giving them a wave and a little bit of a two-step. 'bboy bboy," I said conspiratorily.

"Hey, what's up man?" the younger replied. "haha, white boy can dance huh?" Donnie said, couching his comment in a laughing tone. We exchanged high fives, we did the slap and pound thing. I actually pride myself on knowing what type of greeting to give to people depending on the situation (the slap and pound, the high five, the slap and shoulder pound, the hug, the half hug, or the handshake) and this seemed like the best option at the moment.

“Ah, not much. Just waiting for this fucking train,” I said, hoping to commiserate over something we both could understand, the awfulness of the public transit system. Sometimes it’s difficult to communicate verbally with other breakers. We are all so hyped up during the session, sweating bullets, thinking of move variations, checking out the guy in the corner doing a windmill nut-grab, that we can’t really muster the energy or the attention to have a coherent conversation. Plus I really don't know anything about these people except that they can do some awesome shit with their bodies.

We bullshitted a bit more about future dance sessions and then the train finally arrived, late as usual, and we hopped on. Once the doors swung shut and the chime sounded the question that both of them wanted to ask sprung forth, “so you white?” Donnie, the older brother, asked me.

“Well, yeah, I guess,” I answered awkwardly, giving a little chuckle and a shrug of the shoulders as if to say I couldn’t help the fact. “My dad is Polish”

“Polish?” Donnie interrupted, saying the word as if he had never heard it before.

“Yeah, you know eastern European, and my mom is English, Irish, that sort of thing.”

“So you all white.” Adam said in a definitive way. It was as if my description of my background didn’t make a difference. It didn’t matter what part of Europe my ancestors came from. I was white to these kids and that’s all that mattered. I realized at this moment that they probably didn't dealt with people who were “all white” very often in their lives. They might have friends with mixed backgrounds, know people with some caucasion blood, but not like me. This is one of the things I love about LA. If you walk around the city you notice that everyone is a blend of brown. Most people aren’t immediately distinguishable as a certain ethnicity type. They are a mixture of cultures. One of the first times I went to the breaking session, I went to sign my name in on the sheet. There was a space for ethnicity. I noticed that one person had simply written, East LA, as if this region of Los Angeles was its own distinguishable community. I paused for a moment, staring at this square where I was supposed to identify myself, and then I just left it blank, probably because I didn’t want to write the word 'white' which seemed so god-awful boring.

After teasing me a bit for my white boy status our conversation turned to other things. We talked about what we liked about bboying and different types of graffiti styles. Then the topic of food started and once again our differences started to surface.

“I’m going to go home and eat as much pork and rice as I can.” Donnie told me, running his hands through his hair which was sticking straight up from sweat. I noticed, not for the first time, that his hands were decorated with a snake-like tattoo, winding up his arm and through the webbing between his thumb and pointer finger.

“Yeah, I kind of sugar loaded right after we left, I had a twix and a power aid and now I’m not that hungry but I should probably have some real food.” The train shook and I reached over to grab at the pole set in the middle of the train-car.

“Is that a white boy thing,” Donnie said, laughing at my confectionary-laden diet.

At that moment I laughed, thinking that this was a silly comment and that eating candy was a ‘me’ thing, not a white thing. I have always had a sweet tooth and I can’t resist treating myself to some sugar, especially after I have worked out hard and felt that I earned a bit of indulgence. But once I got home and the conversation seeped further into my brain I realized that it is a white thing. Donnie and his brother aren’t spending money like I spend money. I probably take out around $20 a day from the bank. Some of this goes to groceries, toiletries, and other essentials, but a lot of it is spent on little things. I might buy a coffee at starbucks, or a cookie at subway, or a bottled water at 7-11 or a nice bottle of beer at the corner liquor store. None of these small, incidental purchases cost much but they end up totaling quite a bit of cash when I buy at least one, sometimes several of these items a day. Donnie isn’t spending money like this. He waits until he gets home to eat a meal and I’m sure he isn’t buying bottles of Evian after the break dancing session like I do. The other reason that consuming like I consume is stereotypically white is that the wealthier i.e. the whiter you are, the more likely you are to consume non-essential things on a routine basis. One of my friends lives part-time in Napa, an area of sprawling mansions and wineries. He shops at a store which is entirely devoted to the non-essentials. This store caters to the wealthy and stocks items such as: organic jams, fine cheeses, aged wine, Italian olive oil, natural sea salt, and dark chocolate. These are not things that one finds at your local supermarket. On a more mundane scale, many of the things I take for granted and rely upon as comforts are not enjoyed by the poor. Take coffee for instance. There is not a coffee drinking culture among poor people. I remember catering a lunch once and drinking a cup of coffee after we had eaten our meal. I was the only caterer who drank coffee. The other people considered it as simply something we served to the guests.

Poor people do not have the luxury of feeling tired or the leisure time to try to get rid of that feeling with a drink. Poor people simply stick it out. And to say that coffee is a cure for tiredness is a lie. Everyone who drinks coffee knows that if you are truly exhausted coffee isn’t going to improve your performance on anything. It might prevent you from falling asleep but its not going to help you ace the SAT if you’re taking the test at the end of an all-night bender. Coffee makes us perkier, dissipates low levels of sleepiness, and makes working a bit more tolerable because all of us have a little buzz going. It’s a non-essential that poor people do without.

Well Donnie and his brother got off at the next stop and I was left alone to my philosophical, bourgeois musings. Maybe Donnie and I come from different world with different habits I thought. But we both love being bboys and that’s all that matters.

I love Portland and I have to put in this entry about it. I know this is supposed to be a travel blog but I am rationalizing making this entry because I am a visitor to Portland now more than a native inhabitant. Coming back to the city for five days as a visitor put it in a new light for me.

I feel conflicted tooting Portland's proverbial horn because there are so many people who have already done an excellent job of doing so. Portland has an unbelievable reputation. There are constantly articles in the New York Times talking about how hip and eco-friendly Portland is and I have had countless conversations with people who haven't been to the city but want to really bad because they hear that it's 'so cool.' All this Portland ego-stroking used to really get on my nerves. I didn't understand what was so great about it. I was born and raised around the city and while I enjoyed some of the spots with local flavor such as Powell's, the bookstore that spans an entire city block (not as big as it sounds, Portland's blocks aren't nearly as large as a bigger city's blocks) and voodoo donuts, the donut store open all night long, I found the city rather small compared to the other metropolises on the I-5 corridor (Seattle, San Francisco, Los Angeles.)

It takes some seperation to find out what you truly love. This is true of both women and cities. Coming back to Portland made me appreciate old things that I had taken for granted and discover new things that I had not previously known or enjoyed about the city.

Old Thing: Walking around downtown there are always a ton of people. there are people walking on the sidewalks, riding bicycles in the street, and hangout out in squares. Not like LA where you feel like an intrepid adventurer if you step outside your car. New thing: Oregon beer culture is great. Walking through the beer aisle in Safeway is like walking through a speciality drinks store in any other city. Old Thing: Running in Tryon Creek state park. I used to do it a lot when I was younger but I forgot how lush and beautiful the forests are. New Thing: drinking coffee and reading books in the cafes downtown. Portland has a great coffee culture I wasn't aware of. Walking in the pearl district I see a coffeeshop every block. Old Thing: Going out to good movies that are pretty cheap. Portland has a ton of movie theaters that play intellectually stimulating films at low costs, with nice seating too!

Every country has its traditions related to drinking. The English have warm ale and chants, Germans have wheat beer and sausage, Americans have natty light and beer pong, and the Spaniards have Canas and tapas. A Cana is a small glass of beer, about 8-10 ounces according to my expert reckoning, and a tapa is a small serving of food which is served gratis (without charge) with every drink.

Tapas are a great tradition. I make this statement without reservation, even as I leak more gas than Saudi Arabia from all the salty, greasy fried food I have been eating and the excessive amount of beer being thrown down my gullet. The tapa is not usually a gourmet dish, although in Madrid I did have some excellent sea food tapas. Usually the food is along the lines of some sort of potatoe fries concoction drenched in a ranchy type sauce or small sandwichees with proscuitto and mayonnaise.

My first experience with tapas was in Granada, a small mountain city. I believe that most Americans would have a similar response as my brother and I when we entered our first tapas bar, utter shock. “You mean this is totally free?” I asked disbelievingly, staring at the little dish of cheesy noodles and pretzels sitting in front of me. “Es Gratis?” I reiterated.
“Si,” the bartender simply retorted, already moving on to the next customer. Now this was a foreign culture. Not only had he given me a dish for free but he hadn’t even charged me for the beer yet. I would return to this particular tapas bar several times in the trip, not because the tapas were especially good but because I liked the way the bartender would yell “chico!” at me and slap my beer down on the counter for me to pick up at my leisure.

This was a refreshing experience after living in the states where nothing is free except water at restaurants and Wifi. In our culture deals are communicated through upgrades. It’s always a better deal to buy the extra large instead of the medium or get two instead of one. Morgan Spurlock famously criticized this “super size” culture in his muckraking documentary on McDonalds. Corporations are acting irresponsibly when they tempt already unhealthy people to eat and drink to excess with tantalizing deals. But while it might not be a good idea to get the supersized double Bigmack or the Xtreme Gulp slurpy it is usually a good idea to have a little food while you’re drinking.

There are many benefits to the tapas culture which I feel are worthy of enumeration. Firstly, serving food with alcohol makes people get drunk less quickly. This means less fouling out, less bad decisions, and more fun. Secondly, people eating and drinking for longer periods of time is good for both the patrons and the operators of the drinking establishments. People become more socialized, enjoy their nights out more, and have fewer hangover, and bars get more money from their patrons. Spanish drinking nights are also extended because of the types of drinks Spaniards guzzle. Popular drinks include tinto verano, which is red wine mixed with seltzer, and, drinks which mix fanta or lemonade with beer. These minimally alcoholic drinks allow Spaniards to eat, drink, and tapas hop well into the wee hours of the morning. My brother and I found out about the protracted Spanish nightlife schedule the hard way when we showed up at a dance club at 1am ready to party. I’ve never been told by a club manager to come back later. Even when a club is totally dead the manager will say something hopefully optimistic like, “ there’s plenty of room to dance.” But this night we were told to come back at 2 at the earliest. I’m pretty sure there was no one at the club.

Lastly, and most importantly, the tapas culture ties drinking to other activites besides, well, drinking. In Spain drinking, eating, and conversing form a triumvirate of activities which are inseperable from each other. Drinking is a gastronomic and social phenomenon in Spain. When I step into a tapas bar I notice all sorts of people. There are young people, old people, business people, students, even kids. Because drinking is tied to other activities it is less demonized than in the states. Drinking is a normal and accepted form of consumption. This is a marked difference from the states where many young adults put on an uncompromisingly sober face to their parents and then get as fucked up as possible in basements, garages, and pool houses when the adults backs are turned. This is simply another symptom of our supremely capitalist mentality which values products and end goals over processes and experience. (I totally ripped of this last comment from Herbert Marceuse’s One-Dimensional Man.)