Matador Network's Blog, page 2191

7 moments to embrace being a tourist

Photo: televiseus

I’m so over the whole traveler vs. tourist debate. By definition, a traveler is “someone who is traveling or who travels often,” and a tourist is “a person who travels to a place for pleasure.” Both of those sound nice to me, but if you’d like to expand on those terms, give Merriam-Webster a call.

Every traveler has done something “touristy” in their lifetime, so maybe we can all quit ragging on the term. Besides, there are plenty of times when I’m not at all ashamed of being a tourist.

1. When you’ve been dying to see / eat / buy something.

When I’m in Brussels, I’m going to have chocolate. And I’m not going to pass up a chance to visit Machu Picchu just because it’s the #1 attraction in Peru. We travel for a reason, and these reasons are usually inspired by things we’ve read about, seen photos of, or have watched on television.

So if you’ve always wanted to go on a gondola ride in Venice because you equated it with this idea of romance, even though some hardcore “traveler” said they wouldn’t be caught dead doing so, fuck it. You’re doing yourself a disservice if you limit your travel experiences based on what other people deem overrated.

2. When it will help impact the community in a positive way.

Kente cloth is expensive, and usually saved for special ceremonies in Ghana, so buying it is a pretty touristy thing to do. But my Ghanaian friend’s uncle was a kente weaver, and he created beautiful, custom fabrics for my friends and me. We later went to the Arts Centre Market of Accra, where they had cheaper, factory-made kente cloth. My friends felt ripped off, but I felt good knowing all of the profits had gone back to Addae’s family directly (and that the fabric was actually made in Ghana, not imported from China).

If the attraction has a positive impact on the environment and community where you’re traveling, don’t worry about being a tourist.

3. When it will educate you.

Auschwitz comes to mind. I don’t think many people would call a concentration camp “overrated” and “touristy,” no matter how crowded it feels, how expensive the entry ticket may be, or how quickly the tour guides zip you through the grounds.

Museums, heritage sites, and guided tours are all ways to experience the history and culture of a place that you won’t necessarily get by sitting in a coffee shop and “people watching.” You could read a book about it, but listening to someone talk about how Stirling Castle was built, and seeing the structure and the artifacts themselves, is much more interesting.

4. When it’s something you enjoy, wherever you are.

I’m a zipline fanatic. If I could set up a zipline in my backyard, I would. So when I hear there’s a place to zipline in whatever city I’m stationed in, I do it. Ziplining isn’t “authentic” to any culture really, and you won’t find any locals partaking in the adrenaline rush beyond the folks who work there. But ziplining through Mexico’s Sierra Madre mountains was different than ziplining through the rainforest in Costa Rica, and very different from the ropes course I explored in western Connecticut.

It’s important to choose these activities responsibly, though — everybody likes having sex, but if the only way you can get some action is by contributing to the local sex-traffic ring, you probably need to reevaluate the reason you’re traveling to begin with.

5. When your curiosity is piqued.

If I want to know what McDonald’s tastes like in a foreign country, I don’t give a crap how “touristy” I look while devouring Le Big Mac in France. If something makes you wonder, “What if?” just go for it.

“What if I meet the man of my dreams at the top of the Empire State Building?” “What if I snap an awesome photo of the Prague Castle from a cruise on the Vltava River?” “What will happen if I drop some extra change into the guitar case of this street busker in Buenos Aires?” Some of the most exciting and fun experiences I’ve had abroad came from going through these exact motions.

6. When the locals are cool with it too.

The Nathan’s hot dog stand at Coney Island is not the only place to get hot meat on the boardwalk, but I stand in the long line in the broiling sun with travelers from around the world because Nathan’s hot dogs are the bomb. If you’re in Rio for Carnival, you’re definitely doing something touristy. It’s okay, because there are people coming from other parts of Brazil to experience it as well.

7. When you have a hunch you won’t be back.

There are definitely countries I have no desire to visit again. It doesn’t mean I had a horrible experience, or that “I’m over it,” but there are other places I’d rather see before deciding to return.

Costa Rica is one of them. It’s a beautiful country and I had a great time, but I want to check out Panama, Nicaragua, and some other neighboring countries before heading back. So I did the rainforest tours, and the canopy walks, took surfing lessons and cooking lessons at Coco Beach, knowing I wouldn’t get to do it again for quite some time.

10 signs your mum is Italian

Photo: Davide Cassanello

1. Your mom chooses (in one way or another) your girlfriends.

Italian mothers can become extremely jealous and possessive over their sons. After the first date, they’ll enquire into how good of a cook she was, how clean and tidy her house was, and if her clothes were nicely ironed. But never say that your new girlfriend’s pasta sauce is better than your mom’s or she’ll hate her from the beginning.

2. You never stop suffering her public displays of affection.

It doesn’t matter if you are in your teens and hanging out with friends after school, or if you’re 40something and socializing with colleagues, your mum will always address you as Il mio bambino. She will hug and kiss you as if she hasn’t seen you in years, when in fact you just had lunch together.

3. You grew up eating the best food in town.

For an Italian mamma, food is more than just a basic human need; it’s religion, culture, identity and love. Every time you return home, the first thing she’ll ask you: “Have you eaten?” If your mamma offers to prepare you “a little something” to eat, you can be sure it is not a sandwich, but a freshly made seafood spaghetti, which is better than any other you can have in town.

4. You know how competitive Christmas can get.

Christmas is the most important celebration of the year for an Italian mother, and not only because of its religious values but as a culinary show-off opportunity among the various women in the family — grandmas, aunts, daughters in law. The competition is fierce, and you’ll have to prepare yourself physically and psychologically months in advance for the massive 30-course meal. They’ll start planning it in August.

More like this 20 signs you were born and raised in Italy


5. You know the pressure never ends.

While a regular non-Italian mother will accept your decisions once you’ve become an adult, an Italian mother will make sure you are constantly under pressure about finding a good job, getting good marks at university. She’ll nag you constantly with questions like: “Have you done your homework?” (at age 21 at university) or “Why are you not at work?” (even if it’s your day off and you keep reminding her every single weekend). She cannot comprehend why you are not doing “something.” If you are relaxing one afternoon on the sofa, she’ll make sure to let you know how upset she is about seeing you idle.

6. She always takes your side…publicly anyway.

Your Italian mum may nag you, but she won’t expect you to be the best. She’ll compliment you and treat you like a hero only because you passed an exam, or because none of your marks are lower than the passing grade. In front of the other parents, she’ll publicly announce your ‘high grades’, even if it was only in Physical Education. At parent-teacher meetings, the teachers may tell your mom you don’t always finish your homework and she’ll complain that perhaps they are giving you too much homework. She’ll take your side, but once you’re home, she’ll keep nagging you about your homework.

7. Your fashion sense is taken as reflection on her failure / success as a mother.

Even if you wear mismatched colours or pants with square patterns and a shirt with stripes to go to the post office, she’ll rant for two hours about how you look like a hobo and how miserably she failed as a mother.

8. You blame her for being a “mammoni.”

Young Italians have been known around the world to be too attached to their mothers and they are infamously called ‘mammoni.’ Mothers are to blame for this!

If you, as a young professional adult, have begun openly talking about your plans to leave home, your mum will surely think you don’t want to live with her anymore and she’ll take it as a personal offense. You won’t know how she’ll react: she may get moody, very quiet or hysterical at the dinner table, worse than a jealous lover who found out you’ve cheated on her. But you can be sure that one way or another, you’ll feel like the worst human being ever for having even thought about leaving home. If you manage to overcome your guilt and you do move away from your mamma, she’ll make sure you move into an apartment not more than 3km away from her, possibly within walking distance.

9. She is your constant clothing inspector.

You can try to move out and keep away from your mamma, but even if you go hundreds of miles away, she’ll always come to see you and, during each visit, she’ll wash and iron your clothes. Then she’ll complain about the way you folded your socks and boxers. Although some might find this a bit OCD, it’s not so bad, especially if you are a young, incompetent adult male.

10. You can only leave Italy to go to the beach.

The average Italian guy will make his mum worried every time he mentions his desire to visit a new foreign city or country, and she’ll try to discourage any trip abroad. Every single place is considered hostile or unworthy.

Me: “Mum, my friends and I are planning to visit London next month.”

Mom: “Why, what’s there you cannot find in here? People get killed there; it’s too dangerous.”

This is the same attitude for pretty much any other destination outside Italy. However, if you mention a beach destination, preferably in Italy but not necessarily, then you are excused. If you are planning a trip to Sharm el-Sheikh, a popular beach destination in southern Egypt, she’ll approve and you’ll most likely have to take her along with your wife. That’s not necessarily a bad thing though — after sunbathing for 15 hours, she’ll massage your burnt lobster-colored skin with her trusted homemade fresh tomato sauce. La mamma always knows best.

The loneliness of the travel writer

Photo: Seth Rader

I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing on a familiarization tour (industry jargon for ‘everything’s paid for in exchange for your coverage’) of North Adams, Massachusetts — an old mill town, 50 miles east of Albany — other than desperately trying not to text a boy who’s somehow become my lifeline.

I cut into my blue-cheese-and-apple burger to reveal a crumbly mess of grayish-brown meat. Letting out a sigh of remorse. I’d ordered medium rare. All of a sudden, I find myself trying not to cry.

The waitress is a flouncy 40-something with big, curly hair and a little too much conversation for my appetite tonight. Yes, I’m here alone. No, I’m not from here. Yes, I would like another drink. End story.

It just started raining and it looks like I’ll be stuck at this small town sports bar in the Berkshires of Western Massachusetts for a while. There was no parking anywhere near the restaurant. I forgot an umbrella.

“How’s that burger, hon?”

“It’s great, thank you!” I sputter with awkward enthusiasm.

A heavy suck on my fake-lime-infused margarita allows me to recover.

Inhale. Exhale. Swallow back cheap, tequila-flavored tears.

* * *

Most people are smart enough to see past the caricature of a travel writer — the cliché crafter, lounging on a beach with a free cocktail in hand. Fellow writers, bloggers, and social media expressionistas have revealed that it’s not all complimentary rooms and free meals. It’s long days hopping from hotel lobbies to galleries to a brewery that looks just like the last five. It’s early mornings and late nights, squeezing out words that may never be read.

But that doesn’t matter to the dreamer — the writer — the one who imagines capturing a destination so perfectly that a reader stops, looks up from the page (or screen) and sees it vividly, their breath stuck in their chest as they experience a moment of pure place.

From the manic energy of New York City to the sharp chill of mountainous Bolivia, my words never seem to properly align with the thrill of seeing, hearing, and feeling these places for myself — but I keep trying.

I smile back and slip a ten-dollar bill under my margarita glass, wondering how long I’ll be able to survive on overtipping. Somehow, even free meals are stretching my budget.

Travel writers strive to summon the spirit of a place in a way that immortalizes their own experiences. But right now, in this rural sports bar with abrasive noise and sickly lighting, the idea of immortalizing this burger seems miserable, even if it is free.

My eyes jump back and forth from the pervasive big screens blaring a baseball game, to the families clustered around messy tables (did that mother look miserable or just happy in a simple sort of way?), to my menu (I should have ordered a beer), and always back to my phone — its screen still desperately dark.

* * *

So the boy.

I met him on a spontaneous vacation to San Francisco. We’d made eye contact over matching ciders at Shotwell’s, his local haunt in the Mission District where groups of tech guys clustered around a pool table. Most of them averted their gaze when my girlfriends and I entered the room, causing an audible shift in the social balance of the establishment — a cliché of the San Francisco dating scene with its gender imbalance, legitimized. But he had looked straight at me and approached with confident conversation and a warm smile.

We spent a whirlwind evening together, hopping in and out of Ubers to all of his favorite bars until we found ourselves kissing beneath the twinkling lights of the Oakland Bay Bridge. He showed me the San Francisco he loves, while I shivered beneath his arm in the chilly summer night.

The next day we said our goodbyes without acknowledging the thousands of miles that would soon come between us. I texted him a photo of the Brooklyn Bridge as my taxi driver brought me home, and suggested he come experience the view in person.

A couple of long distance phone calls later and he was booking a flight to New York City, where we would continue our adventures in understanding two very different cities on opposite sides of the country — he marveling at the abundance of dive bars in Williamsburg, while I continued to poke fun at his lack of Grubhub options in San Francisco.

Showing him around a city I love felt even better than writing about one — the purity of place so effortlessly expressed through my desire to help him understand it.

But despite my love for Brooklyn, I wasn’t going to be there much longer.

“You could just not go on your trip, and come to San Francisco instead…” he’d tentatively offered towards the end of our New York affair.

The trip he was referring to was a drive around the country — a four-month journey I’d been planning for the past year. I was going to live the Great American Road Trip story, only with a feminine slant that had been left out of the genre when Jack Kerouac took the wheel. It was my chance to push my writing to the next level.

We said goodbye again, with mutual promises to keep in touch, and a gaping silence regarding our future.

* * *

I wasn’t going to cancel this trip for a guy. I couldn’t. But I was going to call him, a lot. And now, as I stare at my burger with tears brimming my eyes, my lifeline isn’t answering. Which inevitably leads to the nightly haunting of questions I don’t want answers to.

Was he seeing someone else in San Francisco?

Was he not up to the challenge of dating someone who is professionally and emotionally incapable of staying in one place?



Was I not worth waiting for?

The sight of my black screen taunts me with an endless loop of self doubt.

Families are filling the restaurant now, and the stout, wooden bar that holds up the low ceiling in the middle is surrounded by smiling guests who greet each other with hearty hugs and conversations picked up from the night before. None of them seem to notice that the burgers are terrible.

I pull out a pen and my notebook, but I’ve got nothing to say.

Stories are hard to come by in the isolating loop of eavesdropping and text-message checking.

Succumbing to my burger with small, deliberate chomps, I sense a rising anxiety that none of this is what I set out for.

Where is the adventure in experiencing this trip alone?



Would I ever be offered more than a free meal for my writing?



What the fuck am I doing with my life?!



“You’re all set hon,” offers my waitress with a genuine smile. The meal has been paid for by the tourism board.

I smile back and slip a ten-dollar bill under my margarita glass, wondering how long I’ll be able to survive on overtipping. Somehow, even free meals are stretching my budget. But a shorter trip wouldn’t be so bad.

By the time I open the door to my room at the “stately yet inviting” bed-and-breakfast that has also been provided by the tourism board, I’m soaking wet.

Voices from the porch drift up to my window as I change out of soggy clothes. The owners have family over, and I suddenly remember I’d been invited to join. Their floating conversation feeds me images of them laughing and drinking wine beneath the glow of the porch light. I can smell the citronella from here.

But I’m not going to join them tonight. Instead, I decide to turn my phone off. No texts are lighting up my screen, as much as I stare at it. I take a deep breath and make myself comfortable on the couch next to the window — savoring the company of their presence below — and I write.

It isn’t magic. It isn’t perfect. But in this moment, it’s getting closer.

Sitting there with the heat of my computer radiating through the skin of my lap, my fingers typing furiously, I realize that dreams are always a little lonely. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be yours.

In this moment, I am lucky to be pursuing mine.

What Mexicans say vs. what we mean

Photo: Maria Børja

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What we say: “This isn’t spicy at all!”

What we mean: “A lifetime of some serious chili habit has effectively numbed every pain receptor in my mouth.”

What we say: “Let’s meet at my place at six for dinner.”

What we mean: “If you happen to arrive at six prepare to see me half-dressed, in the middle of a nervous crisis, without anything ready and the house an impossible mess. You could arrive near seven to help me with the preparations and receive the early guests, or you could also arrive around eight thirty when everything is set and ready…consider what suits you best.”

What we say: “Taco.”

What we mean: “A soft corn tortilla that can actually be rolled and stuffed with whatever type of food we want. Not that hard shell thing some of you guys are used to. What is that supposed to be? We don’t even have a word for that thing in Mexico.”

What we say: “Ya merito.”

What we mean: “It shouldn’t take that long — just give me a couple minutes, an hour tops. Let’s say tomorrow just to be sure…Ok, probably it’ll never happen, but keep in mind I had the best of intentions.”

What we say: “I’m dying to see you, but I’ve been busy as hell and flat broke.”

What we mean: “Would you buy me lunch one of these days?”

What we say: “I’m so very sorry, but unfortunately I’m not gonna make it tonight! I’m so ashamed for the late notice, but a lot’s come up. My car broke down this morning, and my day’s been a nightmare since. If that weren’t enough, tomorrow I need to get up before sunrise for my meditation course, and also…”

What we mean: “I’m not coming.”

What we say: “Can I bring a couple of friends?“

What we mean: “I’m at one hell of a party right now. Mind if we join forces and show this city what a real celebration’s like?”

What we say: “I have a craving for some extra hot chilaquiles.”

What we mean: “I had the craziest weekend ever. I don’t even understand how I’m still standing! I feel like my head’s gonna explode, and I could probably use a new liver. Someone help me…please?”

What we say: “I’m stuck in traffic, but I’m on my way.”

What we mean: “I’m stuck in bed, but I’m on my way — as soon as I take a shower, check my Facebook (a quick check will do since I’m in a hurry) and put some decent clothes on. I just hope I won’t get caught in traffic.”

What we say: “Sure! I’ll see you there!”

What we mean: “I have the firm intention of going, but there are so many things that can ruin your plans on a Friday night. I’ll tell you what — if there’s nothing on TV, and no better plan turns up, I’ll be seriously considering going.”

What we say: “Can I call you back in five minutes?”

What we mean: “Five minutes is long enough for me to completely forget you ever called me. Better call me again.”

What we say: “We’re getting thirsty, aren’t we?”

What we mean: “Fuck this! Who’s buying the first six pack?”

8 signs this is your first time in Spain

Photo: Raúl A.-

1. You think noon is at 12pm.

We know it is. Technically. But reality is different in Spain: noon (mediodía) means lunch time, which could be anytime between 1:30 and 4pm. If you’re meeting someone in the afternoon (por la tarde), it will never be earlier than 4:30pm. And, remember, dinner is rarely before 9pm. How do we manage to get there without starving in the way? Thanks to one of our best customs: merienda (an afternoon snack, between 6 and 7:30pm).

2. You tried hitchhiking.

…and waited for two hours by the road. Something strange happens when you cross the Pyrenees: what’s so easy and normal in Central Europe becomes really uncommon in Spain. Don’t worry, someone will eventually pick you up, but you might want to get comfortable while waiting. A good alternative is carpooling, which has become really popular in Spain in the last years thanks to the economic crisis.

3. You try to go shopping at 3:30pm.

Although this is changing in big cities and chain stores, which remain open at lunch time, most small shops close between 2 and 5pm. Who goes shopping at lunch time, anyway? Only a tourist!

4. You only packed summer clothes.

How could we blame you? You were travelling to Spain, synonymous with sun and beaches, siesta, and fiesta! Now you realize your mistake: you’re in the mountains, not the beach, and it’s winter. Enter 10C and rain. Next time you come, check the weather before packing. You might need more than sandals and a swimming suit.

5. You are sure everyone is sleeping between 2 and 5pm.

Siesta is one of the biggest myths about Spain. Because everything is closed between 2 and 5pm, it must be that Spaniards are sleeping, right? Some people take a nap after lunch, true, but not as many as you’d think. Why is everything closed then? Because we love to have a calm meal with our family if possible, and do it right (cooking, having dessert, drinking a coffee afterwards). And, yes, we might also take a nap.

6. You order a bocadillo vegetal thinking it will fit your vegetarian diet.

There are some classic sandwiches (bocadillos) in Spanish bars: with tortilla, chorizo, pork loin, or chicken with cheese, calamari, the list goes on. And then you have the bocadillo vegetal, which should not be mistaken for a vegetarian option. It has tomato, lettuce, onion, and tuna or ham — maybe both. Keep it in mind next time you decide to have lunch at a bar.

7. When introduced to someone, you try to shake hands.

You offer your hand while the person you’re being introduced to leans in to…yes — she/he wants to kiss you! It’s only two kisses, one per cheek; it means nothing to us. But beware: if you’re a man being introduced to another man, you have to shake hands. He’ll be nervous if you try to kiss him.

8. You don’t eat the tapa that came with your drink, because you think you’ll have to pay for it.

Did you order a beer in a bar and also got some olives, chips, or even callos along with you drink? Don’t worry — it’s on the house, that little tapa is for free. But before you start praising how generous Spanish bars are, you should know there’s actually a business strategy behind it — they want to make you thirsty for another drink. In the meantime, you should eat the olives. You will pay the same if you leave them untouched.

Voices of America's migrant workers

Photo: Alex Proimos

I worked in your orchards of peaches and prunes

I slept on the ground in the light of the moon

On the edge of the city you’ll see us and then

We come with the dust and we go with the wind

— Woody Guthrie, “Pastures of Plenty”

The American Dream can be defined by comfort. The point is to settle into a community, get an impressive job and an equally impressive partner, buy a house with a manicured lawn and a nice back deck, and produce some children who will strive for all these same things. While many spend their lives chasing this familiar image of stability, many others find their livelihood chasing the instability of changing seasons and the varying harvests of America that go along with them.

In Spanish they’re called trabajadores golondrinas because, like migratory sparrows, they find new homes in the alternating locations of their work. They arrive to harvest a crop; when the harvest is over they migrate to the next opportunity.

But in America, we call them “migrant laborers.” We define each of them as individuals who are “required to be absent from a permanent place of residence for the purpose of seeking employment in agricultural work.”

In reality they are travelers, impossibly hard workers, and loving mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters making their way through the harvest streams of this country in order to earn their livelihood.

* * *

According to the National Center for Farmworker Health, most migrant laborers are minorities, with 83% being Hispanic and having roots in Mexico or Central or South America. The remaining population is split among Jamaicans, Haitians, African Americans, and other racial ethnic groups. Many travel as married couples, bringing their children and often even grandparents and extended family members with them along their chosen harvest path.

Due to the rural locations of their work, migrant laborers often face poverty, low wages, poor health, and dangerous working conditions, causing farm work to be ranked as the second most dangerous occupation in the United States, right behind mining. They’re exposed to pesticides and chemicals used in the fields, aggressive labor, and long hours, all for wages so low most Americans wouldn’t consider it an option.

“Working conditions vary from place to place due to environmental and climatic conditions,” I was told Maine State Monitor Advocate for seasonal farmworkers Jorge Acero. For the extent of the harvest, many migrant workers live in labor camps in the fields. Sometimes up to 10 people will sleep in a simple bunkhouse, usually without electricity or running water. A communal kitchen is made available for cooking and dining together. According to Acero, employers are always required to provide clean sanitation facilities, with enough running water for hand-washing and separate water for drinking. There also must be separate outhouses for men and women.

“One good thing is that there are multiple agencies, both governmental and NGO nonprofit-run programs, to assist migrant workers along the way,” said Acero. He personally “keeps an eye out” on his field visits to make sure requirements for healthy living conditions are being met, and will work directly with employers if he sees any problems.

“There are [many programs] out there doing what we can to assure migrant workers have a safe, healthy, and productive work experience while in their states,” said Acero.

* * *

But even with the help of advocates like Acero, many workers slip through the cracks. A 300-page lawsuit was filed this year in Maine, claiming that more than 250 violations of the federal Migrant and Seasonal Agricultural Worker Protection Act had been made during the 2008 wild blueberry harvest. The alleged violations include housing workers in insect-infested quarters, or in rooms so cramped that workers were forced to sleep on the floor each night after an exhausting 12-hour day in the fields.

A similar suit was filed this year in Michigan, when 32 migrant farm workers and seven of their children claimed that a seed company violated their rights in 2012 when they were hired to detassel corn, a labor-intensive process done when the corn is still in the ground. The workers claim they weren’t given potable water, hand-washing facilities, or toilets in the field.

The blueberry “barrens” where he works — millions of acres of wild blueberry bushes — are located right across the street from this compound. It’s made up of small cement houses painted a powder blue, a communal eating area where two Mexican food trucks are parked, and a soccer field where three teams — the Americans, Mexicans, and Hondurans — will face off in a tournament sponsored by their employer, Wyman’s of Maine, at the end of the season.

Violations such as these are nothing new in America, yet they are rarely publicized. Many workers are afraid to speak up for themselves because they might be penalized with fewer hours or a lower wage. In many cases, there’s a significant language barrier between employer and worker, causing migrant laborers to feel even more helpless.

The United Farm Workers of America (UFW) is the nation’s first labor union for farm workers, known for its slogan “Si Se Puede!” It was founded by Cesar Chavez in 1962 and is currently active in 10 states. The UFW is known for giving migrant farm workers a voice.

Rafael Vega has been a citrus worker for at least 20 years. He told the UFW: “This contractor paid us in cash, and one day me and my coworker asked her to pay us with a check so that we could report to social security, and she became upset and fired us all, the entire crew.”

Another citrus worker, Javier Cantor, voiced similar fears: “I know my legal rights are being violated by this contractor, but I do not complain because my other coworkers do not complain and I am afraid to speak up for myself.”

Employers often operate under the mindset that there are plenty of laborers willing to work and work quietly. Greg1 is a former blueberry raker in Washington County, Maine — the blueberry capital of the world and often the final stop for those following the East Coast Migrant Stream. He raked with his family as a child and remembers making $2.25 per 23-pound box. In 2011, he returned to rake as a 28-year-old man and was given that exact same wage. His crew — comprising both local and migrant workers — went on strike for a day, demanding a higher amount. Greg remembers that his employer actually agreed to raise the wage to $3. But not before threatening the crew members, claiming that “if they didn’t like the pay, there were plenty of other workers waiting to take their job.”

When payday came around, the crew received only $2.75 per box.

* * *

Migrant laborers in the US are known to travel throughout three different “streams” — Eastern, Midwestern, and Western.

Many followers of the East Coast Stream begin in Florida picking citrus. They then make their way up the coast picking high-bush blueberries in North Carolina and New Jersey, where they use their fingers to pluck large berries out of trees and into a basket secured at the waist. Later comes the wild, low-bush blueberries of Maine, where a hand rake is pushed and dragged over the top of the bush. Sticks, leaves, and rocks are winnowed out before dumping these smaller berries into a box. From there, workers may choose to continue north in Maine to pick broccoli or potatoes in Aroostook County or move on to Pennsylvania for the apple harvest.

Enrique is a 20-year-old from Georgia who’s been following this exact path with his father and made it all the way to the Maine’s blueberry season in August. He said that living conditions are different for every harvest. In North Carolina, he was able to stay in a hotel room, paid for by his employer. “If you put enough people in a room, they’ll pay for it,” he told me.

After North Carolina, Enrique’s New Jersey employer provided a “big house” for the crew to stay in together.

Here in Maine, he’s living at a labor camp in the town of Deblois. The blueberry “barrens” where he works — millions of acres of wild blueberry bushes — are located right across the street from this compound. It’s made up of small cement houses painted a powder blue, a communal eating area where two Mexican food trucks are parked, and a soccer field where three teams — the Americans, Mexicans, and Hondurans — will face off in a tournament sponsored by their employer, Wyman’s of Maine, at the end of the season. Enrique said that even though it’s a lot more rural than past places, and he hasn’t had the opportunity to leave the compound and see the community, there are a lot of reasons why he likes living at the camp.

“I love it here. It’s more natural,” Enrique said. “People are more chill, relaxed, calm…. Everyone talks to each other. You have friends all the time.”

Enrique was sitting next to one of these friends, Luis. The two met at the camp in Maine even though they both came from the same previous destination, the high-bush blueberry harvest in New Jersey. Luis made it to Maine with his mother, grandmother, aunt, and uncle. After the blueberry harvest’s end in August, he’ll return home to West Virginia for his senior year of high school.

“This is my second time in Maine,” Luis said. “I might not return. I’ll try and find a more stable job after graduation.”

Unlike Luis, Enrique will travel on with his father. Together they’ll head to Pennsylvania to pick apples in the fall. “Then we’ll come back [to Maine] to make — ” he used his hand to draw a circle in the air and poked imaginary sticks into it — wreaths.

Wreath-making is another of Maine’s labor industries that’s dominated by migrant populations. Workers assemble sprigs of pine around wire circles to be shipped all over the world in time for Christmas Eve. The work takes place inside a large factory, also located in Washington County. It offers a familiar place for workers to come back to and consistent work throughout the winter.

Here in Deblois, Enrique knows where he’s heading next, but his mind is still focused on making the most of the blueberry season. “It’s mental. You have to keep thinking ‘I’m a machine. I’m a machine.’ If you don’t, your mind gets depressed and you don’t make that money.”

He raked 150 boxes on his best day of the Maine harvest — nearly $340 but not a typical workday. Most rakers average about 80 boxes. Enrique says that even though working in the harvests is “good money” — and it’s how his father earns a living all year long — he wants to go to school to be a sound engineer.

“Then I can come back to places like these and offer them opportunities. You meet all different types of people here. I would like to hear and share their stories.”

1Name has been changed at source’s request.

GoPro life vs. real life

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SOMETIMES I WISH I owned a GoPro, but then I wonder if I’d ever actually use it in the ways it was meant to be used. This video makes me feel a lot better about my severe lack of “cool” when it comes to travel filmmaking. Our lives can still be awesome even if we don’t jump out of planes, ski down treacherous slopes, and surf epic waves. I give Mike Fry a lot of credit for putting together a video that people can actually relate to; using a GoPro to film everyday activities is just another way to tell our personal stories.

Signs you're from Western Australia

Photo: Sunova Surfboards

1. Board shorts are your wardrobe staple.

If you’re a West Australian bloke, chances are you have more board shorts in your cupboard than underpants. Originally intended as surfwear, “boardies,” as you like to call them, are your go-to item of clothing for just about any occasion. You wear them to go to the pub, jog around the block, at family barbecues, and dinner with the missus. You even have a ‘good’ pair of boardies you keep for special occasions.

You team your boardies with a pair of thongs, which, being Australian, you well know is an item of rubber footwear (and not ladies’ lingerie).

2. You know that a Sunday session has nothing to do with going to church.

The Sunday session — the West Australian tradition of going to the pub on Sunday afternoon for the sole purpose of turning up to work on Monday with a hangover — is your religious experience. You’ve probably frequented the Sunday session at the Cottesloe Hotel, or OBH, with more regularity than a Catholic nun attends mass. There, you’ve learned a zillion new words for getting drunk. You no longer get “pissed,” you get “maggot,” “paralytic,” “hammered,” and “shitfaced,” and you’ve probably “spewed” in a taxi on the way home.

3. You’ve been to Bali more times than you can remember.

For the rest of the world it may be the Island of the Gods, but for you Bali is a party island that’s practically in your backyard. It’s where you first got laid, learned to ride a motorcycle, ate more nasi goreng than you care to remember, and surfed some of the best waves of your life. You’ll probably get married to your sweetheart at Mick’s Place on Bingin Beach and take your family on a six-day, all-inclusive package holiday to the Royal Beach Hotel in Seminyak for July school holidays.

The Yanks have Puerto Rico, the Euros Mallorca, but you’ll always have Bali.

4. You saw Europe out of a bus window.

After having ‘done’ Bali, you wanted to see the rest of the world, which you did looking out the bus window on a 21-day Contiki tour of Europe. You probably did this after going to university and before getting married. To prove it, there’s a photo of you in boardies and thongs standing in front of every recognisable monument between Lisbon and Prague doing the hang-loose gesture.

5. You think it’s perfectly normal to take the plane to work.

Your father did it, your best mates are doing it, and you probably do it too. You know that FIFO stands for “fly-in, fly-out,” and you think nothing is strange about traveling by plane to work on an oil rig, go underground at a gold mine, or drive a bloody big truck around an iron-ore mine site. You think working for four weeks straight and getting two weeks off are perfectly reasonable working conditions.

6. You know that Aussie Rules, and not rugby, is the real deal.

No matter whether you’re a West Coast Eagles or Fremantle Dockers supporter, Aussie Rules is your football game of choice. If you’re not yelling obscenities in the pissing rain at Patersons Stadium every weekend between February and September, you’re watching your team on a flatscreen with your mates whose names all end in “o”: Gavo, Shawno, Thommo, Davo.

While you’re watching the footie, you’re probably getting through two cartons of beer and eating Mrs Mac’s meat pies and sausage rolls.

7. For you the sky is perpetually blue.

Being from the sunny state, with more sunshine than any other place in Australia, you know blue, cloudless skies are the order of most days. While most of the east coast is either drowning in torrential rainfall, burning under yet another bushfire season, or experiencing Melbourne’s usual forecast of four seasons in one day, you’re used to perfect beach days every day between October and April.

8. You bring your “esky” to every social gathering.

How do you recognize a West Australian overseas? Answer: he’s the one that turns up to a party with a portable cooler full of beer. The West Australian habit of BYOB ensures that wherever you go, your esky is your constant companion, and you’re guaranteed a cold beer.

9. You know Western Australia is the best place to live.

Sydneysiders have the hip nightlife thing going, Melbourne has the arts scene, but you know that the west coast’s beaches, the not-too-shabby surf down south, and the booming economy with high wages is the lifestyle envy of the rest of the continent. Western Australia is where it’s at, and you wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Walrus gathering on Alaskan shore

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THERE IS SO MUCH ABOUT GLOBAL WARMING that I still don’t know. But when over 35,000 walruses gather in the same spot, because they don’t have enough room to properly breed and rest, it’s a pretty big indicator that climate change totally has an effect on all of our ecosystems. Part of me wants to chalk it up to “the ever changing tides of nature” and some Darwinist bullshit, but at the same time, it still sucks that receding glaciers and melting icebergs may cause walruses (and other marine animals) to die off a lot sooner.

According to an article in The Guardian, “In recent years, sea ice has receded north beyond shallow continental shelf waters and into Arctic Ocean water, where depths exceed two miles and walrus cannot dive to the bottom.” Walruses have trouble finding food and must compete for resources on and near dry land. “Young animals are vulnerable to stampedes when a large group gathers on a beach. Stampedes can be triggered by a polar bear, human hunter or low-flying airplane.”

Image via Corey Accardo/AP

Examples like this cause me to pay closer attention to what changes I can make in my daily life to help slow the process of global warming and climate change. Hopefully a greater emphasis will be placed on this issue by our world leaders, and we’ll see better moves at preventing future damage to our ecosystems.

20 signs you're from Italy

Image by Nicola Albertini

1. The first car you drove was a FIAT.

Either an old model Fiat Panda, Fiat Uno, or Fiat 500.

2. Sundays are religious ceremonies.

Based around calcio (soccer) matches on TV in the morning and afternoon, and then evening post-match discussions with your friends in bars. CALCIOOOOOO!!!!!

3. The only breakfast you know is brioche and cappuccino.

Espresso, bread, and Nutella are also allowed, but having anything else in the morning is just plain weird!

4. You can speak Italian sign language.

When you leave Italy you realize that the only people capable of understanding your hand gestures are other Italians. You learned it as a child, but nobody else in the world seems to understand your country’s secret and ancient ‘hand code.’

5. The first time you ever had wine…

You were probably six years old and it was mixed with a little bit of water.

6. The first time you ever had an espresso…

You were probably four years old and it was mixed with a little bit of milk.

7. By the time you were 14…

You were driving a scooter, a Vespa, or a moped (and had modified it so it could reach a Ferrari’s speed).

8. Touching and kissing comes easily to you.

It’s not strange to kiss your male friends on the cheeks, or even a girl you’ve never seen before in your life.

9.You drink espresso all day.

You have it at breakfast or brunch or both. After lunch and after dinner, you serve it to your guests and you have it as a guest. At the end of your workday, to be considered a ‘Real Italian’ you’ll have consumed an average of 7 to 15 espressos.

10. Your typical lunch is a four-course meal.

A typical menu will be starter, small pasta dish, meat or fish with a side dish of at least 2 kinds of vegetables or mixed salad, and dessert. You’ll also have with it few glasses of wine, a shot of Montenegro liquor and of course, an espresso.

11. You’ll have pasta at least four times a week.

But always with different sauces and shapes. If your mum cooks the same pasta more than once in the same week, obviously she is not well.

12. And pizza once a week.

At least. It’s usually consumed without a starter or dessert as it’s quite a heavy meal.

13. Italian style weddings.

Although we’re becoming more and more modest in organizing our weddings, traditionally, Italian weddings are known for their 10-15 course meals and celebrations that last the whole day or more.

14. You’re reminded that you should be a devoted Catholic.

Every time there’s a christening, wedding, or funeral, you’re reminded of your religious roots. You’re still not sure what a christening is, but thinking about it makes you happy because at yours you got loads of presents from everybody.

15. Christmas is obviously the best.

You will eat tons of amazing food cooked by several women from your huge extended family. Besides the Christmas tree, you’ll also recreate the nativity scene (as a good Catholic), possibly adding an extra plastic character, like a Tyrannosaurus Rex, in it.

16. At some point in life you started smoking.

Hopefully you’ve quit, probably not. But if you still smoke, your first cigarette will be in the morning while drinking an espresso. The mix of those two items will be the only constipation cure you’ll ever know.

17. You know what aperitivo stands for.

A variety of mixed drinks found ONLY in Italy, accompanied by a vast selection of food, available in any decent bar between 6 and 9pm. It supposed to be an ‘appetizer’ before going home and having a real dinner, but in reality aperitivo ends up with you coming back home at midnight drunk, full, and merry.

18. Everyone starts shouting during discussions.

Everyone in Italy gets animated, starts shouting, and is borderline offensive when talking about some delicate subject such as calcio or politics. Once abroad, you’ll have to make a real effort to talk softly and in a controlled manner.

19. Your sense of fashion:

Dressing nicely at every occasion: it’s a part of being Italian! You know about colors and patterns, materials and textures even without ever have studied them. Dolce & Gabbana, Gucci, Cavalli, Valentino, Versace, Armani, Prada, and many others were all part of your unofficial education.

20. As soon as you leave Italy you’ll miss the bidet.

You sadly realize there’s nowhere else in Europe where the bidet used as much as back home, and toilet paper only is just not good enough.