A recent visit to Costa Rica coincided with Holy Week, and Juan Sanatmaria Day ( a national patriotic holiday), so the entire country shut down for days as religious and national celebrations took place. Adjacent to my hotel is the La Soledad Church who organized a bit of pageantry for the event. I stumbled upon their procession and followed it to where several other church processions converged upon the Iglesia de Nuestra Senora de la Soledad, a large Cuban baroque church in central San Jose.

Apparently, this woman is somewhat famous around Budapest for promoting laughter therapy. On this day she held her class on Margaret Island and is pictured here orchestrating a geriatric game of peek-a-boo.

I’ve always respected Hungary’s contribution to the photographic community at large as some of the best photo artists, photojournalists, scientists, and cinematographers from the past 100 years are Hungarian, including some I admire greatly like the Capa brothers (Robert and Cornell), Brassaï, László Moholy-Nagy, André Kertész, Dennis Gabor, József Petzvál and László Kovács to name a few off the top of my head without resorting to Google. What I didn’t know until I visited Budapest is the Hungarian passion for the bicycle. As an avid cyclist and cycling advocate, I was stunned to see their Critical Mass bike ride. In NYC, depending on the season, the rally only attracts a few hundred to a couple thousand participants. The same event in Budapest pulls in 50-80,000 riders! Instead of angry monthly protest rides, the Hungarians have two peaceful and festive rides every year to overlap with Earth Day in the spring, and International Car-Free Day in the fall.

This very adept trials rider, who could give Jeff Lenosky a run for his money, was one of the many cycling demonstrators who took advantage of the closing-down of Andrassy Ut, a major thoroughfare through some of the most posh real-estate in Budapest. The nervous girl on the pavement was a volunteer from the crowd who got a view of a bike most people don’t – from the underside. In this shot she could probably read the serial number off the bottom bracket.

As the world shrinks and more of us make use of greater access to this planet’s nooks and crannies, one finds that nearly every major city has a Chinatown district or neighborhood. As a result, I have found that I have to suffix any mention of my own Chinatown with the location of New York City.

A few years ago when I was living in Juneau, Alaska, I worked with a kid who’s name was long forgotten. The lapse was a result of his steady diet of ceviche, a cocktail of raw fish and lemon juice, that he consumed six or more times per week. So his meal of choice became his moniker.

While wandering the isolated roads in a unregistered pickup truck with a full cab of unlicensed drivers, we had to stuff Ceviche in the bed of the truck. Like coroners, we covered him with a sheet as it is illegal to transport a person in the back of a pickup (nevermind the legal issues presented by us in the cab who shouldn’t have been driving in the first place).