Matador Network's Blog, page 2165

13 signs you grew up snowboarding

Snowboarder Kimmy Fasani at Baldface, BC. Photo: Gabe L’Heureux, via Burton

1. You picture everything around you with snow on it and try to imagine the best line.

Every mountainside is a potential fall line, every hill a cruiser. And it doesn’t end at natural features — that freeway overpass is definitely ride-able, and so is that cabin’s A-frame roof. I bet you could carve a sick s-curve into the side of the earthen dam over there. Man, you just can’t stop thinking about riding. The world is your canvas — whether or not it actually has snow on it, or ever will.

2. Your “sick” days and powder days tend to align.

What’s that? There’s a huge front moving in off the Pacific? 10 inches expected? *Cough, cough* I’m suddenly not feeling so good. I better stay home tomorrow and rest. If the storm, er, fever doesn’t break, then I may need another day to recuperate. Yeah, recuperate, that’s it. Funny how all those sick days occur in winter. Hmm, must be the flu season.

3. Your childhood was a menagerie of broken bones and backyard kickers.

Did the wrist and collarbone once each, ankle twice, dislocated elbow, and you have the x-rays to prove it. Growing up was a constant, repetitive cycle of backyard kickers and nighttime rail jams, ER visits, and neon casts. With each bitter layoff, your hunger to ride and resolve to finish what you started deepened so when the bone finally healed you charged harder than ever before.

4. Your first “snowboard” boots were Sorels.

Before you could afford your first pair of real snowboard boots, you were out in the backyard strapping into a third-hand Burton with a pair of snow boots. And the crazy thing is, even after all these years and expensive gear upgrades, you’ve never been as stoked as you were sliding down the neighborhood sledding hill in beat-up Sorels.

5. You’ve never ridden Alta, Deer Valley, or Mad River Glen.

Don’t want snowboarders around? Cuz we’re all crazy, out-of-control park rats whose mission is to scare the living daylights out of every skier we see? Hey, that’s fine. Discrimination and intolerance is totally okay in this day and age, right? Come on already, take a cue from Taos and let us ride.

6. You chose your college based on its proximity to a decent ski hill.

It was the unspoken reason that led you to Boulder, Gunnison, Missoula, Salt Lake City, or wherever you skipped class to ride 120 days a year. College was just an excuse to get closer to the mountains, closer to what you love. Taking six years to finish that environmental science degree had little to do with course load and everything to do with snow totals.

Snowboarder Kimmy Fasani at Whistler, BC. Photo: Adam Moran, via Burton

7. Your only pair of skis is a splitboard.

That totally counts (at least during the uptrack)! You’ve got (collapsible) poles and everything. Until the splitboard revolution happened, you never thought you’d own a pair of skis. Now, you’re all about two planks — so long as they snap together.

8. You’ve fallen in love in a terrain park.

Is there anything sexier than effortlessly sticking a 360 Japan air or a buttery front-side rail slide? Answer: No.

9. You’ve driven 15+ hours nonstop to find the snow.

Bombing a road trip from Chicago to Colorado or chasing a storm from Northern California into the Cascades, you don’t give a second thought to trading a day (or two or three) in the car for a day in the pow. You probably could have earned a meteorology degree with everything you’ve learned about weather and snow science by monitoring storm systems. Your chops under the hood are no less impressive — can’t nobody keep a 2001 Chevy Astro humming like you. These are the skills that enable you to get on the road to powder at a moment’s notice.

10. You can hot-wax your board in 5 minutes…in the back of your van…blindfolded.

Pay for a tune? That’s what tourists (and fixed-heel skiers) do. You know damn well that the difference between making it through or getting hung up in the flats and crushing or getting stuck in deep pow is a thin, evenly applied layer of temperature-appropriate wax. The skill and savvy with which you apply it is akin to a Japanese master sword-maker carefully honing a katana blade, except you get it done in a flash with only the most rudimentary of tools — wax, iron (any heat source, really. Hell, once you made do with one of those long barbecue lighters), and just enough space to set up.

11. A goggle tan is your only tan.

While the rest of your skin is kept under multiple, impenetrable layers of cotton and nylon, that patch of exposed face between your eyes and chin looks like a leathery loaf of bread left in the oven just a bit too long. And with every passing season, the goggle tan lasts longer and longer. Nowadays, there are only a few months when you don’t rock at least the remnants of a hard-earned goggle tan. It’s a badge of honor, son!

12. You consider Renee Renee an icon.

Sure, you give mad props to sponsored mainstream rippers like Shaun White and Gretchen Bleiler, but if asked who you’d most like to ride with, your immediate answer is Renee Renee — the man responsible for White Heat and the Mtn Lab’s craziest antics never gave up on dayglo onesies. The man. The myth. The legend. The Renee Renee. Keeping it real. Nuff said, ya’ll.

13. There’s always time for just one more run.

Ride every damn day. And the day don’t end and the beers don’t start flowing until the lifts stop turning. While the lifts are running, you’re always up for just one more run. Just one more.

This post is proudly produced in partnership with our friends at Dick’s Sporting Goods and Burton.

Find the 2014-15 Burton Peak Hoodie exclusively at Dick’s.

The 2014-2015 Burton Peak Hoodie serves as a solid midlayer for a day on the hill, and steps up with style when you strip off your shell come apres time. Find it exclusively at Dick’s Sporting Goods.

9 ways to make Irish people like you

Photo: Or Hiltch>

1. Get an early round in at the pub.

No one likes being the guy to remind another it’s their round! If I buy you a drink, I would like the gesture to be reciprocated without having to drag you to the bar. On the other hand, you may have genuinely forgot, or are waiting for a few lads to sly off and save yourself a few pennies. Avoid any of the controversy by offering to buy a round of drinks at your earliest convenience. As the glasses clink and a large chorus of cheers echoes throughout the pub, you’ll feel like an employed man among dole receivers.

2. Claim you like Irish music other than U2.

Ream off the Irish bands that belt out from your iTunes library without using Bono’s name and you’ll have impressed an entire nation. You can finally clinch that position as “friend” when you mention you were a massive Cranberries fan in the ‘90s, pronounce Thin Lizzy without the “h,” and recite the words to C’est la vie by B*Witched.

3. Don’t inform us what is going on in our country.

We’re well aware of our country’s financial situation and some of our questionable laws. As a general rule, we tend not to talk about the serious stuff at the dinner table; we have a strict diet of taking the piss, gossip, and banter! We already know that two guys can’t legally tie the knot and that a woman doesn’t have the right to have an abortion, but please don’t think our society doesn’t want to change these outdated laws. It’s also worth noting that someone may not share your ill-informed opinion about these touchy subjects, so, at least, have some concrete knowledge rather than starting every sentence with “I heard that in Ireland…”

4. Don’t talk shite.

If there’s a breed of animal on the face of the planet that all Irish people detest, it is the shite talker. There’s the one-uppers who incessantly need the final word on every story (If you’ve been to the moon, they brought a ladder to make sure they went further than you), compulsive liars who are having trouble following their current imaginative concoction, and those with a Wikipedia-like knowledge of any subject liable to come up in conversation! There’s a shite talker in every group, and you’ll know who they are when the troops let out a collective sigh of relief as they head to the pub’s bathroom.

5. Say “The Irish one is my favourite.”

I don’t particularly like One Direction, but I’ll be damned if you say you prefer one of the others over Niall Horan. Yea, Bridesmaids was hilarious, but Chris O’Dowd made that movie! No matter what you’ve seen or heard, the Irish at the table want to hear you say that their stars are the best. We’ve never met these people before but they are carrying the Irish flag overseas so we have to give them props…even if we’ve illegally downloaded all of their albums and movies!

6. Pronounce Irish names properly from the off.

There’s no easier way to colour an Irish person impressed than rhyming off words that are admittedly pretty hard to say for visitors! Place names like “Carrantuohill” and “Donegal” for instance are usually butchered so badly that we can sometimes come across as not knowing these places existed on our island in the first place.

People’s names are another beast entirely. It’s the same old battle you face every time you introduce yourself to another nationality. Just remember to spell your name Fo-net-ic-al-ee and hope for the best!

7. Inform us of all the Irish films you love.

First off Darby O’Gill and Leap Year don’t count! By the way, does that tradition really exist?!

It’s a shame many Irish movies don’t make it beyond our fair shores when it comes to reaching a wider theatrical audience, because we’ve made some amazing titles! My Left Foot, Once, and The Crying Game are just some of the wonderful stories told about life in Ireland. Heck we’d even love to hear all the biased history you took in from watching Neil Jordan’s Michael Collins too!

8. Praise our culture to the point we begin to like it again.

Sometimes we forget what a great place we come from, and it’s great to be reminded of it when talking to someone from another country. Come to think of it, I do enjoy all the green I’m surrounded by in the countryside, and at times I even love our accent too! All that administered praise rubs off, and so while we may pretend like we don’t enjoy hearing someone singing our praises, rest assured that we will never ask you to stop!

9. Be up for the craic.

Anything goes with us Irish, and all most of us want to do is have fun. “Craic” is our own unique version of fun and we hope you can join in too. The biggest rules for being a part of the craic are to take a joke as good as you give and know everything is for harmless fun! Sly digs, having a go at someone unnecessarily, or being in any way confrontational are frowned upon in Irish circles! Bad dancing, and the butchering of classic rock is sadly not! So the next time you’re thinking of staying in on a Saturday night, remind yourself of all the craic you’d have out with your Irish friends, hit the town and create some new memories!

Watch Cody Townsend cheat death

Cody Townsend, a 31 year-old Californian daredevil, defied death in a terrifying stunt and the video that resulted from his daring feat is breathtaking.

The stage: a vertical tight couloir in southwestern Alaska. 60 degree steep and 5 to 6 feet-wide at its narrowest.

You can hear Townsend checking out the chute from a helicopter saying: “I’m getting nervous”, but that does not last long. A few seconds later, we see him peering into the couloir before launching down this incredible line at over 60 mph.

In an interview with Outside, Townsend explains that right after skiing that line he thought it was the scariest thing he ever did, but when given some time he changed his mind and said: “it’s definitely in of the top three”.

Townsend’s bold exploits were rewarded by Powder Magazine‘s 2014 Best Ski Line on Saturday December 6th, 2014.

6 memories of every Bronx native

Photo: Axel Taferner

1. Visiting the Pastelito Lady

She might be one of the most treasured memories of every South Bronx childhood. Every block had one, mine was named Lydia. Lydia lived next door and would spend her nights prepping savory Latin dishes to cook and sell in the morning. Every day she’d sit on our corner, her small, worn shopping cart filled with homemade pastelitos, pasteles, and alcapurrias, and sell them each for a dollar.

With every purchase of these Dominican and Puerto Rican traditional fares, you received an aluminum foil wrapped item of your choice, accompanied by one napkin. If you purchased a bundle, or called her beforehand, she would always arrange a special deal. My mother gave her frequent business, especially during the holidays.

2. Opening the pumps in the summer

I remember my first pump experience like it was yesterday. My mother always forbade us from opening one — she hated that with every fire hydrant open, our apartments would lose water for the day. But she never prohibited running through one. And as the spring grew warmer and the summer temperatures engulfed us, like a fever in the night, more pumps opened.

I recall walking home after school one day and encountering the most enchanting fountain of water I’d ever seen. Spraying from a street hydrant, the water pressure was not too harsh, allowing for children to play in it safely. Its tall arch billowed into the street. Like a rainbow, the sun reflected off of the water and its glisten blinded me if I stared too hard. I soaked my clothes running loops under its bow, drenching my coiled hair and staining my khaki pants with dirt and grit.

Cars would drive through and pause directly under the rainbow’s spray. Neighborhood children in hues of cream, caramel, and chocolate would sprint to the driver’s window, requesting to “wash” the car for a dollar. A wash inferred wiping the car with a wet sponge and no soap. Needless to say, most drivers just wanted a rinse and would drive off, leaving the children disappointed and without payment.

3. Listening to the volume wars

Before our generation completely removed themselves from the world — retreating to their headphones and smart devices — there was the boombox. It was the catalyst for community celebration and the first thing you turned on in the morning. Portable and light, with an electrical outlet or a set of four D batteries — you were invincible.

With this blessing came the curse of volume wars. Neighbors would place their treasured portable stereos in the window, with the intent of sharing their music with the community. In one home, salsa music would lead a family into joyfully dancing the afternoon away; in another home, hip-hop rhythms would bring heavy bass and vibrating beats to rapping freestyles; in yet another apartment, wailing voices would sing along to soulful love ballads.

As one song grew louder, the second tune’s volume would rise, and then the third, and so on — ultimately resulting in musical chaos for hours. I’d listen gleefully, tuning through the outside radio stations with selective hearing.

4. Buying candy at the bodega

There were no better days than the ones when I was able to collect enough change to go to the bodega. Plastered with posters of scantly clad women and cigarette ads, lotto signage, and beer stickers, you could never quite see through the windows of these corner stores. Their worn “Grocery” signs were barely legible beneath the layers of dirt, and their lively music boomed onto the street, regardless of whether or not the door was ajar.

Most times, I enthusiastically volunteered to pick up milk for my mother, just so I could keep the change. At the bodega checkout counter, guarded by scratched and faded plexiglass, completely concealing the cashier and anything behind him, I’d gaze over the built-in shelves, displaying an array of sweets, treats, and cigarette choices. Jingling the change in my hand, I’d carefully choose three Sour Patch Kids, two cherry Now and Laters, one Jawbreaker, one Nerds, and five Sower Powers. Then I’d drop my well-spent fifty cents on the counter, proudly, and depart.

5. Finding frozen ices on every corner

Coco, Cherry, Rainbow — those are just a few of the mouth-watering flavors offered in quaint frozen ice carts and placed on every other corner of the South Bronx. With a large patio umbrella strategically tied to the structure, these wheeling carts resemble a long awaited response to distress signals: hand-painted in vibrant reds, greens, and blues, rescuing communities from the summer heat waves. Usually a plump Latin woman with leathered skin, burned orange from the sun, sits gracefully, awaiting her customers. With a smile on her face, showcasing a glowing gold tooth, she plops up from her stool, ready to serve.

On the most humid days, dragging my feet with sweat beads dripping down my back, I would spot the ice carts and join my siblings in begging our mother for 50 cents. We’d desperately run toward the stand, and like a desert mirage, it’d disappear behind a crowd of people waiting in line for their frozen fix.

Whether Delicioso Coco Helado or Piraguas, the refreshing flavors of those Puerto Rican frozen ices are forever tattooed onto my taste buds.

6. Visiting City Island for the first time

When my family finally got a car, we joined the driving Bronxite community in enjoying summer visits to our very own, City Island. Whether late night or throughout the day, the 1.5-mile seaport located in the Long Island Sound had one main street offering access to local seafood dining. City Island Avenue led us to my family’s favorite seafood spot: Johnny’s Reef Restaurant. Johnny’s offered cash-only counter service with a waterfront view of the Stepping Stones Lighthouse.

Whenever we visited, we routinely entered the cafeteria-style eatery, separating from each other to find our preferred queues. I’d wait on the short French fries and slushy line, while my family would join the long, bustling crab, oysters, and shrimp line. We often took our meals to sit amongst the rows of picnic-style outdoor seating, dodging hungry seagulls trying to fly through guarding wires installed above us. Every once in a while a seagull would realize he could just walk under the wires, and off we’d run, protecting our food.

Why do the best places get trashed?

IN APRIL 2001, I was on a solo road trip researching Nevada light, sage basins, indigo mountains, and small town casinos for my novel Going Through Ghosts. I’d driven down out of a blizzard in Ely into delicate snow, thin sunlight, and mist rising ahead of me. I stopped in a convenience store for coffee and yakked with the young clerk. She told me there was a warm spring in a nearby cottonwood grove. “Don’t tell anybody where it is,” she said. “It’s for locals only. We take care of it.”

I bought taquitos and my coffee and drove down the little dirt road into the cottonwoods. There was a rock wall around a little pool, a trickle of water running down into a smaller pool. Cress grew along the shore. I was alone. I took off my clothes and stepped into the spring. The water was softly warm. Snow sifted onto my shoulders. I wondered if I would ever again be so purely happy.

Nine years later to the month, I slid back into that silken water. Soft desert sunlight gleamed on the cottonwoods’ new leaves. I listened to the whisper of the old trees and the silvery rill of water trickling into a series of pools below me. The locals had continued to take care of the place. They’d reinforced the crumbling cinderblock walls around the spring. They had set up a bright red battered barbecue grill beneath the biggest cottonwood and a sign that read: Please clean up after yourself. Thank you.

I closed my eyes. I was a two day drive from my old home and less than two days from the not-home to which I had fled. My time in the old home had become a patchwork of finding myself in places and with people that had once been home — and aching with the knowledge that the place was no longer home. I had uprooted myself to a new town that seemed an affluent caricature of the Western Good Life.

Home. Not home. Home. Not home. “Perhaps there is home,” my friend CG had said, “and then there is Home.” I thought of his words as water, sun, and the huge old trees held me. I realized that on this eight-day journey I might have been coming Home. I was closer to being who I’d been in April of 2001 — a woman who had believed she was a local wherever she was. The drive from Flagstaff had taken me through little western towns. That morning I’d eaten eggs and fried potatoes served by a warm-eyed woman in a mom-’n’-pop cafe. The wall behind her had been plastered with bumper stickers attacking Socialists, Healthcareists, both Clintons, both Obamas, Harry Reid, Mexicans, and god-damned global warming nuts. The woman told me about surviving eight months of chemo and how laughter had been her best medicine. I told her of a friend who’d survived the same illness, whose friendship with a wounded eagle had sustained him through chemotherapy. I promised to send her a book. As she hugged me goodbye, I saw over her shoulder a bumper sticker that said: You f–in liberals can’t have my country — or my gun. When I unlocked the trunk of my car to put my pack away, I saw the old sticker I’d put there in 2006: My cats hate Bush.

In Flagstaff and Las Vegas, friends and I talked about our deep apprehension for America. We were stunned to find that more than anything we might fear from the corporate takeover of our country, it was the lockstep thinking of a growing number of our neighbors that chilled our blood. “It’s strange to me,” Kathleen said, “how seemingly kind and decent people can spew so much hate.”

“They probably wonder the same thing about us,” I’d said (in a rare moment of clarity from a woman who often longs for the guillotine and knows better than to ever own a gun.)

My friends and I had talked about the strange phenomenon of violence to wild places — developers who talked about nuking a building site, then mitigating it; wild animal corpses hung on barbed wire fences; dirt bike trails filthy with beer bottles and human shit. “It is as though these people are raging against the earth itself,” I said. “As though they are thinking, ‘Fuck you. I’m bigger than you are.’”

I sank deeper into the warm spring. I thought about how once a friend and I had set boards with nails under the soil of a dirt bike trail and posted signs: Beware. Trail Sabotaged. I grinned and let my thoughts fade away. For a precious time, there was only my body held by the silken water; the miracle of breath moving easily in and out; and the cry of a hawk diving for a kill. I thanked the water and green cottonwood light and climbed out of the pool. I dressed, picked up a couple of beer cans in the parking lot, climbed into the car, and headed home. I wondered when I would come back. I had no doubt I would.

I have just returned from the 2014 book tour for my novel, 29. My friend and I drove away from Reno and ate breakfast in the same café with the rabid bumper stickers. I dumped over my coffee. The tweak-skinny waitress cheerfully mopped it up, grinned and said, “Honey, I’m so buzzed you could have dumped that coffee on me and I would’ve laughed.” We tipped lavishly and got back on the road.

We drove south above the Pahranagat Valley, the brilliant green of cottonwoods lining the White River below. A few miles further my friend said, “There it is.” The cottonwood grove that surrounded the little hot spring lay directly ahead. We pulled onto the dirt road that led in. A gate and barbed wire fence closed the entrance. The sign posted on the gate read: No Trespassing. Closed to the Public.

“What?” my friend said, “Some rich retiree bought it for themselves?”

I shook my head. “Who the fuck knows? Let’s grab a sandwich for the road and ask some questions.”

We filled the car’s tank and walked into the convenience store. A dark-haired middle-aged woman was making sandwiches for a line of locals. We ordered and when she handed over our food, I said, “What happened to Ash Springs?”

She looked up from her work. “Vandals, honey,” she said. “Nobody knows exactly who. They broke the wall around the spring. The people who own the spring decided it was too risky to keep it open.”

“Why…” I started to say. She beat me to it. “Why do people have to be so rotten? Maybe you don’t know, but a bunch of high school kids built that little rock wall around the pool. Did it for free. Did it out of the goodness of their hearts.”

I thank her for letting us know what had happened. We paid for our sandwiches and climbed back in the car. My friend and I were quiet for a long time. We were driving along the marshes between Upper Pahranagat Lake and the lower lake when my friend finally said something. “Maybe we’ll never be in that spring again. Maybe we’ll just have to add Ash Springs to the list of the Once Was.”

Walking across totally clear ice

HAVE YOU EVER WALKED ON THIN AIR? Probably not. But you could come close if you were walking on this Slovakian lake’s unbelievably clear ice. Tomas Nunuk, a hiker from Bratislava, made this video of himself and a friend walking across the lake Velke Hincovo Pleso in Slovakia’s High Tatras Mountains. The ice is so clear that you can see straight to the bottom.

Commenters have, of course, been quick to doubt the authenticity of the video, but it is possible for ice to freeze this clear: if water freezes very quickly due to a sudden drop in temperature, it doesn’t get as cloudy. And Slovakia has recently experienced such a sudden drop in temperature. But it’s very rare that a lake’s ice would get this clear and be thick enough for a man to be able to walk on.

19 things Americans learn when they come to Paris

Photo: Matthew Oliphant

1. The Champs-Élysées is actually like a big, outdoor mall.

Like many people, I had a shimmering vision of the famed street when I arrived in Paris three years ago. Then I found out only chain stores can afford the rent and there are off-putting hoards of tourists and teenagers.

2. Everyone wants to hang out with you…to practice their English.

Like in other big world cities, young people are American culture fiends. So you’re going to have to fight if you want to learn French.

3. You get really weird looks if you ask a cashier how their day is going.

In Paris, you only really get to say “ça va?” to people you know well.

4. Forget accessible metros and escalators. You are on your own for getting that massive suitcase up those looming, multiple flights of stairs.

That said, sometimes the most unlikely people will stop and help you. It really does restore your faith in humanity and Parisians.

5. The only artists in the Sacré-Coeur part of Montmartre are the guys drawing overpriced caricatures…and the pickpockets.

And, dang, those pickpockets are good. One of them once stole my change purse from my bag as I turned my head to look at the price of bananas at a market. True artistry.

6. Every Parisian has been to New York at least once and would love to recount in detail everything they did during their trip there.

Even if, like me, you come from Kansas and know nothing about New York.

7. Shops don’t have bathrooms. And restaurants don’t let you use them. So you’d better memorize the location of every Starbucks and McDonald’s around…or get really good at running in brasseries.

Hint: If you are attempting a pee-and-run strategy, walk into a brasserie and head directly for the stairs, as most bathrooms are downstairs.

8. Your French is starting to get peppered with a lot of verlan slang, which has now transformed from edgy street talk into just plain old Parisian talk.

That creepy guy isn’t louche, he’s chelou. You’re not going to chopper that sexy girl at the bar, you’re going to pécho her!

9. Charles de Gaulle is the most never-ending airport in the world, and you’ve had to walk so far you’ve almost missed your flight.

A close second for the most never-ending experience in Paris is the RER B from the city to the airport. This journey makes you want to die. Especially when the train stops for fifteen minutes in a Parisian banlieue and no one has any idea what is going on. And then it does the same thing at the next stop.

10. In Paris, M&Ms means the peanut ones.

Tracking down the plain ones is a lot harder.

11. Line 13 is the worst metro line ever.

But at least it has automatic guards in some places. A lot of the metros have no guardrails, which sounds like a recipe for a lawsuit. Consequently, you stand very, very far back and watch for people who look like they might shove someone.

12. Everything that you want to do — wire money, get a phone, open a bank account — requires a dossier including enough paperwork to wipe out a significant chunk of the Amazon rainforest.

And what other country has a RIB anyway?

13. Paris is actually pretty small for a world city.

You can walk everywhere — it takes less than two hours to get from one side of the city to the other, and that’s including the odd pit-stop for coffee (provided there are no strikes / protests / terrifyingly enthusiastic sales shoppers in your path).

14. Everything closes early because eating dinner is more important than anything else.

Whatever errands you need to get done, do them on your lunch break or not at all. Then again, some offices also rank lunch pretty highly and will close during lunch time. And everything is closed on Sunday, too. So you might just have to take a day off to get to the post office, bank, or any kind of bureaucracy-related office. Just make sure it isn’t a public holiday when you go.

15. It’s really hard to tell when to transition from bonjour to bonsoir…

When night falls at 4pm in the winter, which one do you say? No idea but guaranteed that the person you are talking to you will respond using the word you didn’t use, just to let you know that you got it wrong.

16. If you want to go shopping at Galeries Lafayette / Printemps / anywhere near Opéra, you learn to get there when it opens, especially during the holidays.

While holiday window displays are beautiful, the hoards of tourists and bona-fide Parisians shopping ‘til they drop are not beautiful and are actually very aggressive. Climbing over what is essentially a brawl to get to the only pair of jeans in your size isn’t as much fun as it probably looks.

17. Most cafés and restaurants still don’t have wifi. Sorry.

And if they do, it often doesn’t work. Once again, sorry.

18. French people adore English gerunds.

Example: Le “parking” (parking lot), le “footing” (jogging), le “jogging” (sweatsuit), le “brushing” (blow dry), le “timing” (timing, as in good timing), le “feeling” (feeling, as in good feeling), etc.

19. Waiting in line outside for three hours just to get your carte de séjour is the worst ever.

Now, why not strike up a conversation with the Moroccan woman with three kids in front of you or the man behind you who is from Congo-Brazzaville and who desperately needs papers to get a job here? And, in case you forgot, you’ll remember how lucky you are to be an American in Paris.

Open this on your phone and you’re standing in Grand Canyon National Park

Coordinates: 36°00’58.3″N 111°58’37.3″W. We are standing on the Tonto Plateau, having hiked three miles down the Grandview Trail from the South Rim of Grand Canyon National Park. Two miles to the north the Coconino Saddle rears up and obscures the canyon rim, and down below, deep in the gorge, the Sockdolager rapids blast through mile 78.5 of the Colorado River.

[Note: Click on image and move cursor or swipe with your finger to see different perspectives. You can also zoom in and out.]

Before us a towering and flower-studded yucca stalk points the way to Horseshoe Mesa where a handful of hikers are making camp. The sun is an hour and a half from setting, the still air is becoming suffused with golden late afternoon light. It’s warm. We hear nothing except the a low and rolling whooooosh of canyon wind against red rock. We are alone.

Across the canyons and chasms to the east, Coronado Butte and Ayer point seem to be filling with a lavender light while westward folds of the park begin to glow yellow-white. Ravens ride the canyon thermals, scooping themselves up with warm canyon winds. We watch as dozens of lumbering bees busy themselves on the yucca stalk and drink from the small yellow blossoms.

For a topographical view of our position, we refer to Google Maps:

What views are you getting today?

Feature image by Matador Ambassador Henry Munter.

30 burliest bungee jumps [PICs]

SINCE ITS MODERN BIRTH in New Zealand in the late 1980s, bungee jumping as extreme sport has seen rapid progression and pushing of boundaries. The current tallest commercial jump is at the Macau Tower 321 meters (1053 feet).

Pretty much anywhere you travel these days, there’s likely to be a bungee jump offered as an ‘activity’ through a local tour operator. Here are some of the most intense to keep an eye out for.

This article was originally published on October 15, 2012.

1

Interlaken, Switzerland

At the Stockhorn Bungy site, you jump out of a gondola 134m (440ft) over the mountain lake of Stocksee. In case you were wondering: "The reason he is in his boxers is because he swam in the lake before this photo was taken."Photo: Alan Light

2

Souleuvre Viaduct, Normandy, France

Located in La Ferrière-Harang, France, the Souleuvre Viaduct was a 1,200ft-long 19th-century railway bridge. All that remains today are the 60m (200ft) stone support towers, which have been commandeered as bungee platform.Photo: Florian Giffard

[image error]

3

Kölnbrein Dam, Carinthia, Austria

This dam in southern Austria is 200m (656ft) tall, but you're dropped from the top of a crane that dangles you a good few meters higher.Photo: familiental.com

4

Rjukan, Norway

Norway's "toughest bungee jump" launches from the 84m (275ft) suspension bridge at Vemork. "Skilled jumpers describe the experience as very special and very tough because it is like jumping into a funnel."Photo: ESPEN SJØLINGSTAD HOEN

5

Europabrücke, Tyrol, Austria

Just south of Innsbruck, "Europe's Bridge" spans the Wipp Valley with a length of 777m (2,550ft). The jump platform, set on the underside of the bridge, is 192m (630ft) off the ground -- one of the world's top 5 in height.Photo: eschlbeck.de

6

K2 Tower, Liege, Belgium

Near the town of Liege and easily accessible from Brussels, the K2 Tower is 56m (185ft) and is the only bungee jump in the country.Photo: Insane Focus

7

Verzasca Dam, Switzerland

The dam of Lake Vogorno in Ticino, Switzerland is mainly known for two reasons: 1. being jumped off of by a stuntman in the opening sequence of the James Bond film Goldeneye, and 2. inspired by the movie, becoming the world's third-highest bungee jump at 220m (720ft).Photo: urbantitan.com

8

Val d'Anniviers, Switzerland

Niouc Bridge in Switzerland features a 623 foot jump situated in the beautiful Pennine Alps. Photo: Bungy Niouc

9

Navajo Bridge, Marble Canyon, AZ

The company Bungee Expeditions operates a non-permanent jump site on the Navajo Bridge, which launches from a height of 142m (467ft) above the Colorado River, near the North Rim of the Grand Canyon.Photo: MakeLifeMemorable

10

Santa Eulalia, Peru

Organized trips depart Lima for this jump point at the gorge of Santa Eulalia, which is more of a swing than a true bungee jump -- they call it puenting.Photo: Victor L Antunez

11

Perrine Bridge, ID

At 148m (486ft), this bridge over the Snake River in Twin Falls, Idaho, makes the list of top 10 highest jumps, and is frequently used by BASE jumpers as well. This shot does an awesome job demonstrating the scale of the site.Photo: p.m.graham

12

Bhote Koshi River, Nepal

Nepal's Last Resort jump takes place 160m (520ft) over a river gorge -- one of the highest in the world. Rafting + bungee packages are available from local operators.Photo: plannepal.com

13

The Hague, Netherlands

This is Bungy Jump Centre Scheveningen, with a 60m (200ft) drop over an ocean pier in Den Haag. Walk-ins welcome weekends April-October, plus Wed-Fri in July and August.Photo: oijulia

14

G-Max Reverse Bungee, Singapore

Yes: reverse bungee is a thing. The G-Max in Singapore has a three-person capsule which is shot like a slingshot into the sky. Photo: Choo Yut Shing

15

Kuta Beach, Bali

AJ Hackett operates a 45m (150ft) tower at the popular tourist beach on Bali's south shore. No pressure.Photo: Shreyans Bhansali

16

Fortuna, Costa Rica

With the area around the Arenal volcano being branded an 'adventure travel destination,' there are multiple bungee, swing, and other freefall options in the region.Photo: eslblogcafe

17

Victoria Falls Bridge, Zimbabwe/Zambia

Spanning the international border of the Zambezi River, the bridge has a 111m (365ft) bungee jump. This is where an Australian tourist had her rope snap on New Year's Eve, 2011 -- she free fell into the river and somehow came out alive.Photo: Spy007au

18

Vidraru Dam, Romania

This massive dam on the Arges River in central Romania has a 166m (545ft) jump, one of the highest in Europe.Photo: tudortescoveanu

19

Bloukrans Bridge, South Africa

The world's highest commercial bridge bungee launches from a height of 216m (709ft) above the Bloukrans River. In 2010, it was the site of a new world record for oldest bungee jumper when Mohr Keet, 96, gave it a go.Photo: Kirsten Cater

20

Helsinki, Finland

Every summer, alongside other beach activities, Finns can bungee jump from a crane at a height of 150 meters. Photo: Karva Javi

21

Queenstown, New Zealand

Queenstown's urban jump gives you a sweet view over the city and can be done at night. You jump from 400m (1,310ft) above town, though the drop distance is much less.Photo: m.bjerke

22

Macau Tower

Macau Tower has the world's current highest commercial jump -- 233m (764ft). From Wiki: "The Macau Tower Bungy has a "Guide cable" system that limits swing (the jump is very close to the structure of the tower itself) but does not have any effect on the speed of descent, so this still qualifies the jump for the World Record."Photo: Matador Community member Sakshi Sadhana

23

Verdon Gorges, Provence-Alpes-Cote d'Azur, France

A 182m (600ft) jump in southeastern France, off of the Pont de l'Artuby.Photo: shivapat

24

Naranjo, Costa Rica

Tropical Bungee has been throwing people off the 80m (265ft) Old Colorado River Bridge since 1991. They run day trips from San Jose, with departures at 8am and 1pm. Photo: Allen Sin

25

Victoria Falls rope swing

This swing takes off from the same platform as the Vic Falls bungee jump (shown above). Matador co-founder Ross Borden says, "I did them both and the rope swing is way scarier and way more fun."Photo: Marcello Arrambide

26

Kawarau Bridge, New Zealand

The birthplace of commercial bungee jumping, first established in the late '80s. At 43m (140ft), the jump's height would be considered short these days, but it probably didn't feel like it to the first person who paid AJ Hackett to tie them to a rope and push them towards the river.Photo: Mombas

27

Rheinkultur Festival, Bonn, Germany

At Rheinkultur in Bonn, they had a crane apparatus that raised you up some 90m (295ft) and waited patiently till you got up the nerve. Bummer that after 30 years, the festival was permanently cancelled in 2012.Photo: Thomas Weidenhaupt

28

Donauturm, Vienna, Austria

On set days in Vienna, you can jump 152m (500ft) off this tower in the middle of the city. Find more info .Photo: chepedaja

29

White Canyon, Lake Powell, UT

There's no permanent setup on this bridge in southern Utah, but you can book with Bungee Expeditions to take you out, which is what these guys did when they needed to shoot for a commercial. Photo: Screenshot from Bungee Jump Lake Powell

30

Pentecost Island, Vanuatu

Where it all came from, and definitely the burliest jump on this list. It was footage of the "land dives" performed by the island's inhabits, brought back by David Attenborough and crew in the '50s, that led to the practice of modern bungee jumping. Pretty incredible tradition worth a closer look. Photo: whl.travel

21 signs you were a punk rock kid

Photo: foxxyz

THE LA and San Francisco punk scenes began flourishing in the 1970s with bands like Black Flag, the Germs, and Dead Kennedys. And as waves of people migrated to tract homes and shopping centers in the suburban sprawl, so did the music.

At its roots, California Punk Rock is still rife with the anti-establishment wails and raw energy that its founders wove into every coarse lyric and chord. Through the decades however, it’s evolved to reflect California’s changing demographic. Adolescent fans in the ‘burbs who couldn’t make it to punk shows in the cities began taking up instruments and staging their own acts. In doing so, they wove bits and pieces of their California lifestyle — predominantly surf and skate culture — into the music, and became part of a movement that has given punk some of its most profound contributors.

Whether you grew up in the city or the suburbs — in California or another place — California Punk Rock may have had a hand in raising you.

1. You’ve lost blood, teeth, or your voice in a Pennywise Bro Hymn mosh pit.

And it didn’t slow you down one bit. Spit out teeth. Sing. Repeat .

2. Bad Religion taught you more about history and vocabulary than high school did.

Why wouldn’t they? Lead singer Greg Graffin landed himself a PhD from Cornell and a professorship at UCLA. He knew what he was talking / singing about and he sounded way less bored than your history teacher. Is your fecundity a trammel or a treasure? Well played, Dr Graffin.

3. Dead Kennedys’ album art scared the shit out of you.

In the best way possible. The cover of Plastic Surgery Disasters still haunts me in a way that makes me want to change the world.

4. You weren’t — and probably still aren’t — a fan of authority.

Whether you were waging subtle war with your parents, your school, or the police busting your balls for skateboarding in the Vons parking lot, you could always put on Pennywise or Face to Face and feel like they had your back via headphones.

5. You have, or may have considered getting, a Strung Out Astrolux tattoo.
6. You know what (cartoon) Milo looks like, and are well aware that he went to college.
7. “Possessions never meant anything to me, I’m not crazy…”

You just finished that verse in your head.

8. When someone says Goldfinger, you don’t think of 007.
9. You or someone you know owns Brian Cogan’s Encyclopedia of Punk.
10. Your parents dropped you and your friends off at local punk shows when you were 14.

Or it might have been your friends’ parents. Either way, if the show included songs about the tyranny of parents, I hope you or your friend kept quiet. Also, you should call said parents and let them know how cool they were for giving you a ride.

11. Your belief DIY ethics had nothing to do with Martha Stewart or Bob Villa.

You only needed one more paycheck from In-n-Out to finally buy that four track recorder and then you had it made, Descendents style.

12. You’ve worn a T-shirt for the sole purpose of offending someone.
13. Upon hearing Black Flag, your dad said “that’s not music” and made you listen to the Eagles for three hours.

Rude.

14. A part of you was crushed the day that No Use For A Name’s Tony Sly died.

Way too young. Sometimes I cry when I watch Lagwagon’s Joey Cape cry about it on film.

15. 924 Gilman St.
16. You had a crush on the lead singer from Tsunami Bomb.

Uh, she was a Punk Rock Queen.

17. You had a crush on the lead singer from Pulley.

Uh, he was also a Major League Baseball Player.

18. You can understand what is coming out of Rancid’s Tim Armstrong’s mouth.
19. No matter what you think of Green Day now, you know Dookie was still one of the best sounding punk albums ever released.
20. You’ve been kicked out of a show at House of Blues Anaheim or San Diego.

The bouncer was also 6’6” and 300 pounds of Satan, and he tossed you around like a rag doll. You might have also shouted, “This place isn’t even punk!” To which he laughed and closed the doors on you.

21. You love Punk Rock no matter where it came from.

No matter if it’s from California, Chicago, New York, Florida, Sweden, or Tokyo, if it’s punk and it’s rock, you probably love it. The fact that punk has spread to so many ends of the earth is testament to its collective nature. Do we have our own history and brand in California? Sure, but in the end, it’s all about hearing something and feeling like you have an army of support behind you — and at shows, you often do — regardless of what your qualms or hardships in life are. Provided you’re not being a dick. But we can always write a song about that if need be a la Jello Biafra’s Nazi Punks Fuck Off.