Just one of the many things we are attempting on this trip would be enough. For instance, a food tour. A national park tour. A visiting friends and family tour. A working/writing-only tour. A city sight-seeing tour. As do millions in America, we are multitasking.
I am weary of configuring and reconfiguring our plans. Tonight we are headed back to CA for a month for some more familiar multitasking between the bay area and Santa Barbara - plus a wedding in Yosemite in January. While I long for the ease of familiarity, I also feel in limbo between what I know and what I would like to know - not quite psyched up for either. Of course, we will still be traveling at home, as we have no permanent residence. So, perhaps it is really our very own place that I long for more than anything else. A home base. And yet I am disinclined to relinquish our vagabond life, in which daily life is more challenging, but also more provocative and refreshing. The pendulum has a longer swing between exhaustion and elation.
Enough of this contemplative circle of thought. How about some food?
I had my first Moroccan food in Northampton, MA back in November, before Thanksgiving covered us in our first road trip snow in Westford, MA. Tagine Kefta arrived 'neath a ceramic circus tent under warm lights in a small room crammed with tables, chairs and bodies. I reflected with delight that there are always new ways to have my favorite meat: lamb. Hankering for sweets post-kefta brought me to check out honey drops, bird's nests, and bourma. All variations of honey, papery dough, and nuts.
We have done a New York pizza tour of sorts. The thiner the crust and the more caramelized the onions, the better. I had a rainbow assortment of sushi the day after Thanksgiving with our friend Jon's family. My single contribution to the menu choices - sea urchin - was my least favorite. Both squishy and chewy and with a flavor my tongue could not decide upon, I understood why one of the characters on Lost threw it up though he was desperate for protein. Yes, we are addicted to another TV show. We anxiously await the moment when iTunes updates its show list with last week's episode. They are late. Is there some holiday break in prime time we don't know about? Bit torrent doesn't have it either.
By the middle of our 3-day stint in the fabled city of many a story (NYC), I had abandoned any semblance of dietary goodness. Two hot dogs and a surprisingly ubiquitous papaya drink late on Friday night were the clinchers. Since then I've been eating tons of pizza and corn bread and pancakes and toast (I've recently discovered that my digestive tract is fed up with the oldest domesticated grain and lets me know this every time I ingest it), and meat without regard to its life before my gastric juices.
I have learned not to listen to random people in bus stations when it comes to finding the right terminal, floor, and corridor. Luckily we had some minutes to spare while we careened around Port Authority, sweating in down jackets pressed into our backs by ungainly backpacks. Now we are in for the long wait: a flight delayed one hour, due to arrive in San Francisco at 1:45 am by our bodies. This is the first time in recent memory that battery life on laptops and iPods is of utmost concern. Not generally accustomed to 6-hour flights and all the attendant travel it takes to get oneself from Park Slope in Brooklyn to the gate at Newark's Liberty International, I was unprepared for this. Shoulda found out about that battery life law suit for my iPod earlier, before the chance to get a replacement for free expired.
While my state of mind is one of weariness and this blog seems like a lot of complaining, I have had a lot of exhilaration and glee since my last post. Since I can no longer see the beginning of this blog in my text editor, I will tell you about only one of those rapturous moments and leave the rest to arise in later posts: rounding the corner inside the traveling Bodies exhibit to see a vermillion, sea-creature spectacle of blood vessels - a human body comprised of nothing else but its circulatory system, suspended and encased in clear plastic. That was one moment in 2 hours of gazing intently at silicon polymer-preserved human bodies. Neither Adam nor I are much for museums, but this was a hearty exception.
Here's to a safe flight and to all who have helped us along our way.
Sunday, December 11, 2005
Sunday, November 20, 2005
Memories of Maine
Maine is all memories now. Now that we are in a quiet whirlwind of moving on. We have made Haymarket Cafe in Northampton, Mass. a new workspace. It's warm and dimly lit with orangey hues and endlessly satisfying music. The smells tempt me up the stairs to the case of cookies and cakes, to the delicious hot chocolate and cardamom-heavy chai. Today I made my way through a melting chocolate banana oatmeal mound and the whipped-cream topped, wide mug of cocoa. I am listening, disjointedly, to the music of other cafe-goers, shared on their iTunes. The tables are fraught with laptops in this college-surrounded town. Adam is happy to see so many macs, not in the least part because bought Apple stock recently.
Our first night here we met new friends Emily and Bucky, burners who have shared their parking lot and kitchen and bathroom and outlet and lives with us for the past few days. We danced to psytrance at Tully O'Reilly's. We ate yet another of our thai curries, this one with kabocha squash and a strange consistency we attributed to our coconut milk's stint in the freezing weather. We played Stoner Fluxx, a card game that had us exchanging confused looks at every turn. We met their friends. We toured the store/yoga/massage studio center they're busily preparing to open. We were entertained by their two black cats, about as frisky as they come. We got transportation and cafe advice. We have marveled at the ease and comfort of finding community with strangers.
Though enjoying the new digs, I am missing my friends whose lives we shared for 5 weeks in the quiet of the northeasternmost part of this giant country. The size of the states here make me realize that California is much more like its own country than a mere state. I would rather be the governor of a smaller state like Maine or Massachusetts. Not that I have gubernatorial plans, just theoretically. The sheer variety of landscapes across the continent boggles my mind repeatedly.
I am remembering the brilliant white moon and stars, how I gazed up at them on my way to bed in K&K's front yard. The chill air brightened those nightly points of light and it never ceased to call me starward when the clouds were away. I remember seeing earth's unmistakable neighboring red planet slung below the full belly of the moon.
I remember how the hill across Lake Chickawaukie turned from maddening green to canary to bronze to brown. I remember running hard and fast up and down the car-less Pheasant Street, my breath visible in the impending dusk, seeing the bare trees on the hills beyond as if they were permanent mist coursing slowly among the last of the autumn colors.
I remember endless wheelbarrow loads of firewood, during hardly thought, but instead heard endless repeats of ridiculous versions of familiar songs--like Frosty the Snowman was a strange and dapper man...or something like that--until I pushed the needle to a new song on the vinyl of my memory.
I remember so many galleries and antique shops that they all became a blur of places I stopped seeing. I remember a rain jacket yellow house and an old red car parked in front, the kind you might picture James Dean riding in, cigarette in the corner of his tilted smile, forever announcing his iconic coolness. A "For Sale" sign hung in the window.
I remember smiling at the first bite of a molasses glazed donut, from Willow Street Bakery, thinking, "Well, here it is. The real donut I've been searching for." I remember being amazed at how short this long-awaited thrill lasted, and how long my hunger for such an odd choice for an obsession remained.
I remember laughing in the living room, the four of us, entertained at the end of the day by nearly anything. Jasmine's dreamed chicken-chase, or Kevin's sugar-infused non sequiturs, or my unintended innuendos, or Adam's dependable puns, or Kelly's latest thoughts on a name for the nutkin (and extended absurdity thereon).
I remember Adam saying, "You got to ride it!" incredulous as I dismounted from the tow truck's lift, having steered trogdor to its safe transport spot atop a flatbed in downtown Camden. I remember thinking perhaps we were cursed in our quest to get to Acadia when the same wire that kept us from going that first time disconnected yet again after a mediocre meal at the Chocolate Grill in a town midway to the famed island. I remember feeling vindicated as we persevered and a quick fix had us on our way.
I remember scrambling up Nurembega Mountain and feeling so small and large at once as I crested the top, gazing down at the fjord and towns spread out wide below me.
I remember the moon laying a jagged pool of white light down on the lawn in the quiet, wee hours of the morning, as I walked to the house for a drink of water. I remember seeing the big dipper through the small frame of the bathroom window, the house quiet and the sky filling the space around me.
I remember too many Raelin quotes to record or count or remember:
"Adam, I want you to laugh at the fire!"
"I JUST want to get a diaper, Juli." (while shrugging shoulders)
"You can't look at me."
"You can't put your [arm, face, hand] on my chair."
"I need to go to the co-op and the post office."
I remember smelling sweet potato chips as I walked down the street alone in the hard rain. I remember being filled with amazement as we sat in the packed Strand Theater, watching Evelyn Glennie bust out a heartfelt rhythm on plates and cups on the ground, on a snare drum in the middle of Grand Central, wild hair obscuring her vision, percussing with a Taiko group, in a huge warehouse on pipes and bannisters and walls. I remember the rapid gathering of pieces in my understanding of what she means by touching sound.
I remember lots of delicious meals and lots of laughter and lots of dishes and dog hair and hugs and heart-melting Raelin moments. I remember friendship and comfort and not wanting to say goodbye.
Our first night here we met new friends Emily and Bucky, burners who have shared their parking lot and kitchen and bathroom and outlet and lives with us for the past few days. We danced to psytrance at Tully O'Reilly's. We ate yet another of our thai curries, this one with kabocha squash and a strange consistency we attributed to our coconut milk's stint in the freezing weather. We played Stoner Fluxx, a card game that had us exchanging confused looks at every turn. We met their friends. We toured the store/yoga/massage studio center they're busily preparing to open. We were entertained by their two black cats, about as frisky as they come. We got transportation and cafe advice. We have marveled at the ease and comfort of finding community with strangers.
Though enjoying the new digs, I am missing my friends whose lives we shared for 5 weeks in the quiet of the northeasternmost part of this giant country. The size of the states here make me realize that California is much more like its own country than a mere state. I would rather be the governor of a smaller state like Maine or Massachusetts. Not that I have gubernatorial plans, just theoretically. The sheer variety of landscapes across the continent boggles my mind repeatedly.
I am remembering the brilliant white moon and stars, how I gazed up at them on my way to bed in K&K's front yard. The chill air brightened those nightly points of light and it never ceased to call me starward when the clouds were away. I remember seeing earth's unmistakable neighboring red planet slung below the full belly of the moon.
I remember how the hill across Lake Chickawaukie turned from maddening green to canary to bronze to brown. I remember running hard and fast up and down the car-less Pheasant Street, my breath visible in the impending dusk, seeing the bare trees on the hills beyond as if they were permanent mist coursing slowly among the last of the autumn colors.
I remember endless wheelbarrow loads of firewood, during hardly thought, but instead heard endless repeats of ridiculous versions of familiar songs--like Frosty the Snowman was a strange and dapper man...or something like that--until I pushed the needle to a new song on the vinyl of my memory.
I remember so many galleries and antique shops that they all became a blur of places I stopped seeing. I remember a rain jacket yellow house and an old red car parked in front, the kind you might picture James Dean riding in, cigarette in the corner of his tilted smile, forever announcing his iconic coolness. A "For Sale" sign hung in the window.
I remember smiling at the first bite of a molasses glazed donut, from Willow Street Bakery, thinking, "Well, here it is. The real donut I've been searching for." I remember being amazed at how short this long-awaited thrill lasted, and how long my hunger for such an odd choice for an obsession remained.
I remember laughing in the living room, the four of us, entertained at the end of the day by nearly anything. Jasmine's dreamed chicken-chase, or Kevin's sugar-infused non sequiturs, or my unintended innuendos, or Adam's dependable puns, or Kelly's latest thoughts on a name for the nutkin (and extended absurdity thereon).
I remember Adam saying, "You got to ride it!" incredulous as I dismounted from the tow truck's lift, having steered trogdor to its safe transport spot atop a flatbed in downtown Camden. I remember thinking perhaps we were cursed in our quest to get to Acadia when the same wire that kept us from going that first time disconnected yet again after a mediocre meal at the Chocolate Grill in a town midway to the famed island. I remember feeling vindicated as we persevered and a quick fix had us on our way.
I remember scrambling up Nurembega Mountain and feeling so small and large at once as I crested the top, gazing down at the fjord and towns spread out wide below me.
I remember the moon laying a jagged pool of white light down on the lawn in the quiet, wee hours of the morning, as I walked to the house for a drink of water. I remember seeing the big dipper through the small frame of the bathroom window, the house quiet and the sky filling the space around me.
I remember too many Raelin quotes to record or count or remember:
"Adam, I want you to laugh at the fire!"
"I JUST want to get a diaper, Juli." (while shrugging shoulders)
"You can't look at me."
"You can't put your [arm, face, hand] on my chair."
"I need to go to the co-op and the post office."
I remember smelling sweet potato chips as I walked down the street alone in the hard rain. I remember being filled with amazement as we sat in the packed Strand Theater, watching Evelyn Glennie bust out a heartfelt rhythm on plates and cups on the ground, on a snare drum in the middle of Grand Central, wild hair obscuring her vision, percussing with a Taiko group, in a huge warehouse on pipes and bannisters and walls. I remember the rapid gathering of pieces in my understanding of what she means by touching sound.
I remember lots of delicious meals and lots of laughter and lots of dishes and dog hair and hugs and heart-melting Raelin moments. I remember friendship and comfort and not wanting to say goodbye.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
obsessions, hair, and fall
Today I drove through winding streets lined with cloud-strewn, bare branches of turning trees, watching the world prepare for winter. Many shops in these small towns were once houses, making a search for places of business a bit of a hunt. I spent far too long pondering the qualities of Claire Fontaine notebooks in a beautifully stocked art supply store on Main Street in Camden. There was an entire rack of my new favorite line of books with blank pages, and I think I touched nearly all of the notebooks on the circular rack in two passes round, testing out how flat the pages lay down, how springy the binding is when folded in half, how thinly the lines are printed, whether there were any without any lines at all (there weren't), whether it would be better to have fewer pages (so I can fill it up quicker and feel a sense of completeness sooner), or more (so that I feel quite substantial when I'm only half-way through), how large the pages should be, what color the cover is.
You can see that unless you have a fond obsession with notebooks (and pens, for that matter), as I do, this would be horrifying tedium. But this is my idea of fun. One of 'em, anyway.
I figured giving myself some leisure time browsing notebooks and pens (I did end up buying one horizontally lined, left-hand spiral-bound, green covered, 6x9 inch notebook at last) was a good way to take care of myself after having, only a few minutes beforehand, gotten a lot of hair tenacious ripped out of my skin. Not only that, the esthetician had a surprisingly difficult time getting the edges of the hard wax (a new kind for me) up so she could pull the whole strip off. Translation: prolonged pain where there is usually one quick rip and then a few seconds to recover for the next one. She was very cheery and apologized for whatever it was she was doing differently that created this rather awkward scenario. I usually give a tip, but decided it was perfectly fine not to.
I have perpetually mixed feelings about body hair. On the one hand, I'm theoretically pro-naturale. On the other, I prefer bare armpits to go with sleeveless dresses and most tank tops, and bare legs with skirts and most shorts. And I don't appreciate how socks feel on hairy ankles. On the other hand, sometimes I feel silly with bare armpits. It's like there's something missing. Especially if I have on an ass-kicking tank top and am doing something like, say, lifting weights, or standing with my hands on my hips, supervising meat-grilling. I like to feel burly. And as those of who who know me know, I have the biceps to back it up.
After at first joining the adolescent ranks of shaving legs and underarms, I swore off for years. It was a high school pact I made with three of my cohorts in Track and Cross Country. I hated shaving anyway, particularly under my arms. When one of those 3, still a dear friend, whom I consider to be more au naturale than I, told me she had her legs waxed recently, I was taken aback...and encouraged to try it out myself. It was sort of a wake-up call that I didn't have to stick with this hippie hair thing just because I had committed to it so long ago, or because it was part of my identity. I realized I was a little afraid to change in front of people who know me well. And I was afraid I would automatically be making some sort of blanket statement agreeing with mainstream TV-culture that it's gross to have hair and be a girl. I think the first time I had my legs waxed was just before our wedding 2 years ago. While the experience is rather unpleasant, at times more painful than I bargained for, the result of weeks with soft skin and no to very little sparse and soft hair is quite wonderful.
So now, I either grow it all out, or I have it waxed. No in between.
I think an Ani lyric is appropriate at this point (thanks danah!):
their eyes are all asking
are you in, or are you out
and i think, oh man,
what is this about?
tonight you can't put me
up on any shelf
'cause i came here alone
i'm gonna leave by myself
Well, this is interesting. I intended to tell you about the trees reaching toward the sky, the brilliant yellow maple next to stands of barren wooden arms, brown and papery leaves clinging tenaciously in the winds that sweep the world endlessly, moving the clouds about the blue, making a new glorious picture of the world every moment. I notice these things more when I'm moving through the land on wheels. When the scenery rushes toward me, over my head, into my eyes and heart, like dogs drink in scents with their plush, wet noses out the car window. Looking out the glass door at the lake and the changing face of the hill beyond (it's name is Dodge Mountain, but it looks like a hill to me), I get a just glimpse of that glee that surrounds me when I'm out in it, breathing the sharp, cold air, gazing at the brilliant stars, whose brightness tells me how cold it will be each night. These are some the things that will stay with me, in my bones, when we leave this beautiful place our dear friends call home.
You can see that unless you have a fond obsession with notebooks (and pens, for that matter), as I do, this would be horrifying tedium. But this is my idea of fun. One of 'em, anyway.
I figured giving myself some leisure time browsing notebooks and pens (I did end up buying one horizontally lined, left-hand spiral-bound, green covered, 6x9 inch notebook at last) was a good way to take care of myself after having, only a few minutes beforehand, gotten a lot of hair tenacious ripped out of my skin. Not only that, the esthetician had a surprisingly difficult time getting the edges of the hard wax (a new kind for me) up so she could pull the whole strip off. Translation: prolonged pain where there is usually one quick rip and then a few seconds to recover for the next one. She was very cheery and apologized for whatever it was she was doing differently that created this rather awkward scenario. I usually give a tip, but decided it was perfectly fine not to.
I have perpetually mixed feelings about body hair. On the one hand, I'm theoretically pro-naturale. On the other, I prefer bare armpits to go with sleeveless dresses and most tank tops, and bare legs with skirts and most shorts. And I don't appreciate how socks feel on hairy ankles. On the other hand, sometimes I feel silly with bare armpits. It's like there's something missing. Especially if I have on an ass-kicking tank top and am doing something like, say, lifting weights, or standing with my hands on my hips, supervising meat-grilling. I like to feel burly. And as those of who who know me know, I have the biceps to back it up.
After at first joining the adolescent ranks of shaving legs and underarms, I swore off for years. It was a high school pact I made with three of my cohorts in Track and Cross Country. I hated shaving anyway, particularly under my arms. When one of those 3, still a dear friend, whom I consider to be more au naturale than I, told me she had her legs waxed recently, I was taken aback...and encouraged to try it out myself. It was sort of a wake-up call that I didn't have to stick with this hippie hair thing just because I had committed to it so long ago, or because it was part of my identity. I realized I was a little afraid to change in front of people who know me well. And I was afraid I would automatically be making some sort of blanket statement agreeing with mainstream TV-culture that it's gross to have hair and be a girl. I think the first time I had my legs waxed was just before our wedding 2 years ago. While the experience is rather unpleasant, at times more painful than I bargained for, the result of weeks with soft skin and no to very little sparse and soft hair is quite wonderful.
So now, I either grow it all out, or I have it waxed. No in between.
I think an Ani lyric is appropriate at this point (thanks danah!):
their eyes are all asking
are you in, or are you out
and i think, oh man,
what is this about?
tonight you can't put me
up on any shelf
'cause i came here alone
i'm gonna leave by myself
Well, this is interesting. I intended to tell you about the trees reaching toward the sky, the brilliant yellow maple next to stands of barren wooden arms, brown and papery leaves clinging tenaciously in the winds that sweep the world endlessly, moving the clouds about the blue, making a new glorious picture of the world every moment. I notice these things more when I'm moving through the land on wheels. When the scenery rushes toward me, over my head, into my eyes and heart, like dogs drink in scents with their plush, wet noses out the car window. Looking out the glass door at the lake and the changing face of the hill beyond (it's name is Dodge Mountain, but it looks like a hill to me), I get a just glimpse of that glee that surrounds me when I'm out in it, breathing the sharp, cold air, gazing at the brilliant stars, whose brightness tells me how cold it will be each night. These are some the things that will stay with me, in my bones, when we leave this beautiful place our dear friends call home.
Monday, November 07, 2005
Today is not the best of days.
True, the sun was out.
But the quality of my experience had nothing to do with the weather.
It had to do with watching the van slide down hill a couple feet and many minutes of terror that Adam would flip the van trying to get up the slick lawn. You see, there was this idea. To use the van as a very large wheelbarrow so that the mountain of firewood would be a cinch to move to the back of the house here in Rockland. And it seemed good at the time, and it seemed like a 4-wheel drive vehicle would go down a slopey lawn and back with no problem. Kevin was a little doubtful, and it turns out he had good reason for that. The stress of the slide moment stayed with me for a few hours, really. I was without the structure I create for myself every day, having poured all this adrenaline and unexpected time into helping make sure the Adam and the van made it up to the front yard unharmed.
I retreated to the now level van, parked at an odd angle, to write a bit and to read. I'm reading The Opposite of Fate, by Amy Tan. It's a creative non-fiction book about her life as a writer. It's entirely fascinating and keeps me drawn in page after page. I felt a little better after a few chapters of a life far more outlandish and harrowing and grief-stricken than my own.
Then I made it to the post office to mail my absentee ballot overnight, since the Registrar's office didn't get the ballot out to me until yesterday. (Apparently all the voter deadlines for registration and requesting absentee ballots change when you're past the CA border). At the post office, the kind postal clerk told me that it's only guaranteed 2nd day. I asksed what could be done about this. She said nothing--Express mail is the fastest they've got. Something to do with the origin and destination zip codes made it impossible to guarantee overnight delivery. It was 4:30. I needed to get back home to start dinner. I grimaced and decided to hope for the best--why stop now when I've spent all this energy getting the damn thing here? There is a chance it will make it there tomorrow, she told me. Sigh.
Back home, I prepared my first ever stuffed, roasted chicken. It took a lot longer than I expected, partly because I misread the cooking time. Then the stuffing wasn't hot enough. I waited longer. The temperature guage poking out of the thigh (my cookbook said that was the place to put it) reaced 200 degrees. I decided to take the stuffing out and keep cooking it, so the chicken wouldn't get overdone. I carved the chicken with some difficulty, as I've done it all of 3 or 4 times in my life, mostly with raw chickens. Dinner was finally on the table nearly 2 hours later than anticipated. Then Kevin notices a slightly pink portion of his chicken leg. Adam gets this horrified look on his face. I can't believe the damn thing isn't cooked all the way. Adam points out the pink juice on the plate of chicken parts. Oh, for crying out loud! At some point I put a napkin over my head while everyone laughed about Adam's paranoia. Raelin came over to get under the napkin with me. That made me smile. I fought back the urge to give up and go to bed right then and there--cry myself to sleep.
Now I've had some chocolate and we're about to go to bed and watch our favorite distraction from life--Lost. May tomorrow bring some emotional tranquility and a better turn of events!
True, the sun was out.
But the quality of my experience had nothing to do with the weather.
It had to do with watching the van slide down hill a couple feet and many minutes of terror that Adam would flip the van trying to get up the slick lawn. You see, there was this idea. To use the van as a very large wheelbarrow so that the mountain of firewood would be a cinch to move to the back of the house here in Rockland. And it seemed good at the time, and it seemed like a 4-wheel drive vehicle would go down a slopey lawn and back with no problem. Kevin was a little doubtful, and it turns out he had good reason for that. The stress of the slide moment stayed with me for a few hours, really. I was without the structure I create for myself every day, having poured all this adrenaline and unexpected time into helping make sure the Adam and the van made it up to the front yard unharmed.
I retreated to the now level van, parked at an odd angle, to write a bit and to read. I'm reading The Opposite of Fate, by Amy Tan. It's a creative non-fiction book about her life as a writer. It's entirely fascinating and keeps me drawn in page after page. I felt a little better after a few chapters of a life far more outlandish and harrowing and grief-stricken than my own.
Then I made it to the post office to mail my absentee ballot overnight, since the Registrar's office didn't get the ballot out to me until yesterday. (Apparently all the voter deadlines for registration and requesting absentee ballots change when you're past the CA border). At the post office, the kind postal clerk told me that it's only guaranteed 2nd day. I asksed what could be done about this. She said nothing--Express mail is the fastest they've got. Something to do with the origin and destination zip codes made it impossible to guarantee overnight delivery. It was 4:30. I needed to get back home to start dinner. I grimaced and decided to hope for the best--why stop now when I've spent all this energy getting the damn thing here? There is a chance it will make it there tomorrow, she told me. Sigh.
Back home, I prepared my first ever stuffed, roasted chicken. It took a lot longer than I expected, partly because I misread the cooking time. Then the stuffing wasn't hot enough. I waited longer. The temperature guage poking out of the thigh (my cookbook said that was the place to put it) reaced 200 degrees. I decided to take the stuffing out and keep cooking it, so the chicken wouldn't get overdone. I carved the chicken with some difficulty, as I've done it all of 3 or 4 times in my life, mostly with raw chickens. Dinner was finally on the table nearly 2 hours later than anticipated. Then Kevin notices a slightly pink portion of his chicken leg. Adam gets this horrified look on his face. I can't believe the damn thing isn't cooked all the way. Adam points out the pink juice on the plate of chicken parts. Oh, for crying out loud! At some point I put a napkin over my head while everyone laughed about Adam's paranoia. Raelin came over to get under the napkin with me. That made me smile. I fought back the urge to give up and go to bed right then and there--cry myself to sleep.
Now I've had some chocolate and we're about to go to bed and watch our favorite distraction from life--Lost. May tomorrow bring some emotional tranquility and a better turn of events!
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
A day in the life in Maine
As you may have concluded, we are in Maine. Three and a half weeks have passed like water down the gentle creek that peeps out at me from the thick trees and shrubs on my occasional runs round the neighborhood. We didn't move the van from its level driveway spot at K, K & R's for a week when we first got here.
How quickly we transformed into domestic hermits after the constant movement of road travel and our one crazy night out in New York. To finally arrive here on the other side of the country, in our friends' driveway, after so many months imagining it! It put a broad smile on my face and butterflies in my stomach all day. And several days after, I kept stopping in my tracks to say, "We're in MAINE!" to whoever was at hand.
A typical day in the life here:
Wake up in the van well after sunrise. Open the back curtain a smidge to let the light in. Climb out of the layers of covers, pull on some PJs or yesterday's clothes, slip on the wool slippers I got recently with an unused birthday gift certificate, gather up my iPod (on which I record ephemeral thoughts as I drift off to sleep), glasses and clothes and emerge into the cold air for a brisk, blinking walk to the front door. Retreat to the bathroom for the normal stuff, come out and decide whether to eat or get exercise first. Decide to eat first. Make some scrambled eggs with fresh chard from the garden. On my more motivated days, I don my long stretchy pants and a short-sleeve shirt and hoodie for a stint in the basement with the weights, physioball, yoga mat, and foam roll we brought with us (see, we're using them!). Take a shower and rummage through the duffel bag of clothes in the basement for fresh duds. Read some email, write some email, read some blogs, check out what I have planned on my syllabus (without the structure of school or a job, I find I have to create schedules and deadlines or I end up having done I don't know what by the end of the day). Write my daily stream of consciousness journal for half an hour. Go upstairs for a peek at what's in the fridge and nibble on leftovers. Chat with Adam, Kelly, or Kevin. Play with Raelin for a few minutes (painting, reading books, drawing numbers on pieces of paper, stacking blocks, complete with narration "Raelin is painting dots...what are you doing, Juli?"). Do some reading (Artist's Way, Thunder & Lightning, Ballad of the Sad Cafe, or Bee Season). Do some writing (writing practice exercise, work on a short story I started back in Spring of 2004 in my one and only creative writing class, or write a blog). Make headway with some things on my to do list. Go upstairs and pile some leftovers onto a plate for lunch. Hang out with Raelin for a bit. Pet the dog and the cat. Go back downstairs and continue writing. Get distracted looking up a good name for a character on one of the many baby name websites I have bookmarked, and then resolve to use an asterisk and figure it out later. All of this work in the basement is to the tune of muffled Raelin and Kelly conversations, book reading, giggling, and the like, through the baby monitor Kevin keeps near his desk. That is unless I have decided to enclose myself in my own world to avoid my persistent urge toward distraction, in which case I put in headphones while I write. Start to smell dinner Kelly is cooking on the stove (or realize it's time to upstairs and make dinner). See the sunset across the lake on another break upstairs. Settle in at the oval table at the appointed moment for feasting. Dish up a delicious meal and talk about the day's events and ponderings and funny stories. Answer Raelin's periodic questions. "Are you talking?" is the favorite. Often my answer is, "No, I'm listening." Load the dish washer and wash the rest of the dishes. Pile up the napkins and placemats near the dog bowl while Raelin gets her nightly bath. Sit in the living room and chat or read with Adam and either Kevin or Kelly, whoever is not putting Raelin to sleep with bedtime stories. Say goodnight. Get ready for bed, gather up the various DVD-watching equipment, head out to the van for a snuggley episode of Lost, or an occasional Daily Show downloaded a week after it airs from bit torrent. Turn out the light and settle into the piles of covers. Depending on how cold the night is, put on hats and socks and long wool underwear.
What strikes me again and again is how easy it is to get used to a new place and a new rhythm. As if we've always been living in our van, cooking at "home" 6 nights out of 7, eating at the table with our friends, planning the next little outing when the rain breaks. Now that our time here is nearing an end, it feels like we haven't been here that long at all. We haven't eaten lobster yet. We haven't been to Acadia yet (more on that later). We have eaten delicious pork ribs and many other mouth-watering meals. We have been getting our work done.
The leaves on the hill across the lake are finally changing color to gentle amber-gold. On my drive to Warren (a little town a few miles away) to buy a leg of lamb for tonight's dinner I marveled at the color over and over again. It took a while, but ALL the trees are lellow now, as Raelin would say. Around every turn in the drive back to the homestead, leaves fly down from branches extended high above my head. The brilliant blue sky (a common sight for only the last 3 days we've been here) invited my gaze upward at the billows of small white clouds. New England has seeped into my heart and I will miss it (not to mention our wonderful friends who've made this far north place home) when we go!
How quickly we transformed into domestic hermits after the constant movement of road travel and our one crazy night out in New York. To finally arrive here on the other side of the country, in our friends' driveway, after so many months imagining it! It put a broad smile on my face and butterflies in my stomach all day. And several days after, I kept stopping in my tracks to say, "We're in MAINE!" to whoever was at hand.
A typical day in the life here:
Wake up in the van well after sunrise. Open the back curtain a smidge to let the light in. Climb out of the layers of covers, pull on some PJs or yesterday's clothes, slip on the wool slippers I got recently with an unused birthday gift certificate, gather up my iPod (on which I record ephemeral thoughts as I drift off to sleep), glasses and clothes and emerge into the cold air for a brisk, blinking walk to the front door. Retreat to the bathroom for the normal stuff, come out and decide whether to eat or get exercise first. Decide to eat first. Make some scrambled eggs with fresh chard from the garden. On my more motivated days, I don my long stretchy pants and a short-sleeve shirt and hoodie for a stint in the basement with the weights, physioball, yoga mat, and foam roll we brought with us (see, we're using them!). Take a shower and rummage through the duffel bag of clothes in the basement for fresh duds. Read some email, write some email, read some blogs, check out what I have planned on my syllabus (without the structure of school or a job, I find I have to create schedules and deadlines or I end up having done I don't know what by the end of the day). Write my daily stream of consciousness journal for half an hour. Go upstairs for a peek at what's in the fridge and nibble on leftovers. Chat with Adam, Kelly, or Kevin. Play with Raelin for a few minutes (painting, reading books, drawing numbers on pieces of paper, stacking blocks, complete with narration "Raelin is painting dots...what are you doing, Juli?"). Do some reading (Artist's Way, Thunder & Lightning, Ballad of the Sad Cafe, or Bee Season). Do some writing (writing practice exercise, work on a short story I started back in Spring of 2004 in my one and only creative writing class, or write a blog). Make headway with some things on my to do list. Go upstairs and pile some leftovers onto a plate for lunch. Hang out with Raelin for a bit. Pet the dog and the cat. Go back downstairs and continue writing. Get distracted looking up a good name for a character on one of the many baby name websites I have bookmarked, and then resolve to use an asterisk and figure it out later. All of this work in the basement is to the tune of muffled Raelin and Kelly conversations, book reading, giggling, and the like, through the baby monitor Kevin keeps near his desk. That is unless I have decided to enclose myself in my own world to avoid my persistent urge toward distraction, in which case I put in headphones while I write. Start to smell dinner Kelly is cooking on the stove (or realize it's time to upstairs and make dinner). See the sunset across the lake on another break upstairs. Settle in at the oval table at the appointed moment for feasting. Dish up a delicious meal and talk about the day's events and ponderings and funny stories. Answer Raelin's periodic questions. "Are you talking?" is the favorite. Often my answer is, "No, I'm listening." Load the dish washer and wash the rest of the dishes. Pile up the napkins and placemats near the dog bowl while Raelin gets her nightly bath. Sit in the living room and chat or read with Adam and either Kevin or Kelly, whoever is not putting Raelin to sleep with bedtime stories. Say goodnight. Get ready for bed, gather up the various DVD-watching equipment, head out to the van for a snuggley episode of Lost, or an occasional Daily Show downloaded a week after it airs from bit torrent. Turn out the light and settle into the piles of covers. Depending on how cold the night is, put on hats and socks and long wool underwear.
What strikes me again and again is how easy it is to get used to a new place and a new rhythm. As if we've always been living in our van, cooking at "home" 6 nights out of 7, eating at the table with our friends, planning the next little outing when the rain breaks. Now that our time here is nearing an end, it feels like we haven't been here that long at all. We haven't eaten lobster yet. We haven't been to Acadia yet (more on that later). We have eaten delicious pork ribs and many other mouth-watering meals. We have been getting our work done.
The leaves on the hill across the lake are finally changing color to gentle amber-gold. On my drive to Warren (a little town a few miles away) to buy a leg of lamb for tonight's dinner I marveled at the color over and over again. It took a while, but ALL the trees are lellow now, as Raelin would say. Around every turn in the drive back to the homestead, leaves fly down from branches extended high above my head. The brilliant blue sky (a common sight for only the last 3 days we've been here) invited my gaze upward at the billows of small white clouds. New England has seeped into my heart and I will miss it (not to mention our wonderful friends who've made this far north place home) when we go!
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Epic Night in New York City
The last time I was in New York City, I had only been on the earth 6 times round the sun. I have only tendrils of memories...
Looking through the heavy coin-operated telescopes from the top of the empire state building, down on an incomprehensible bumpy gray-brown landscape of concrete.
Getting a penny stamped with the emblematic pointed tower, which I later touched thousands of times back home in Oregon, as it hung on the end of a purple ribbon from the closet lamp.
Gaping at the world records displayed museum-like on the upper floors...a plastic case of fake fried chicken with the caption, "So-and-so ate 25 pounds of fried chicken in one sitting on December 18, 1980."...a newspaper photo, pinned to the wall, of a man (or was it a woman? I couldn't tell) with an enormous wad of cigarettes stuck in his mouth, with a similarly absurd description. I don't remember if I got into the Guinness Book after this surreal introduction to the genre, or whether I was enthralled because I had already gotten the bug.
Floating along the dingy Hudson on a dingy day and straining to see some recognizable part of the famous Statue of Liberty through all her scaffolding.
Playing tag and hide and seek among bunk beds and across hard wood floors, with kids whose parents baby-sat me one evening.
So, when I walked through the archway from the train tunnel and saw the white marble of Grand Central Station, I was at once transported to a childhood storybook and back again, blinking my eyes in wonder. "We're in New York!" I turned to Adam and nearly shouted, eyes wide with glee.
From the station (in which I could have wandered for probably an hour at least), we were led by grand overhead signs to the yellow taxi-lined curb. The air was hot and thick with dew. It called forth in us both the memory of our arrival in Bangkok 9 years ago. We chose a cab at random, climbed into the back, and gave him the address, realizing that knowing the cross street would have been helpful, but I figured he would get us there anyway. And he did--to the grimy, rain-drenched West 30th address of the Freak Factory.
Men slept under awnings and trash decorated the gutters. Women and men dressed in the Black Rock City garb cued up at the door, laughing and chatting. We showed our IDs and tromped up the dark staircase. Greeted by cheerful doorfolk dressed in black, we gave our name and were checked off a list, our hands duly stamped and wrists ribboned.
In we went to the din. Lights and sound streamed toward us, gathering us up into the scene. We surveyed the three dance floors, up stairs and down, navigated past great white fabric balloons that stretched from floor to ceiling, through strobing lights, and found ourselves face to face with Holly. A familiar face! Hugs were had all around as Kenny was just around the corner. They led us back stage, a bright room filled with people in various stages of donning and doffing costumes. We stashed our packs in the corner and cracked open the first of our 3 energy drinks. It was then when I felt we had really arrived. We had landed at that most desirous of destinations: a dance party 3,000 miles away from home, where two of our bay area friends would be inciting our bodies to shake and undulate in rhythm.
We moved out and into the dancing fray and began to stomp and sway and gyrate and groove and get into the beat and I looked around at all the people doing the same and smiled. It felt good to be dancing after so many days of driving. About 20 minutes into our first stint, I realized how crazy we were to think we could stay up ALL NIGHT after so many hours traveling. The morning train to Bethel was at 8:30 am. The party was to last till 6 am.
Somehow, we drifted between dancing and snoozing in corners (no chill space) and standing still gazing at the festival of wonderfully freaky people, in whose company we feel so comfortable, for 6 hours. Women in ripped fishnets and feather-festooned hair danced on platforms in front of the DJ station. My favorite was the couple who performed their own personal Capoeira dance with each other. When Kenny came on at 2:30 or so, I found myself mesmerized by Holly's feat of vibration and I smiled broadly, as with eyes closed I brought my feet down again and again in sync with Kenny's beats.
At one point during the second of these cyclical activities a light shone in my face and a voice told me, "Gotta stay awake!" I got up and stared at two large men in uniform, with flashlights. "Are you serious?" I came back, incredulous. "Yes, you need to stay awake!" came the untoward reply. Dismayed, we arose from our bench behind an apparently not-so-stealthy cloth balloon, and stared at the dance floor, wondering how we could manage until the appointed hour of departure.
Somewhere around 3 am we decided to get some air and went for a brief walk around the neighborhood. We passed Penn Station and found a clean bathroom at a bar. We avoided an angry, drunk Irish dude who brandished his Celtic tattoos and threatened an African American guy who was minding his own business. When the angry one pulled out a knife, we crossed the street. While it was all just talk, we felt a brief thrill of danger and felt our night in the big city was certainly following its reputed form.
5 am came and we were amazed--how had we lasted? We were too zombified to really think about it. Holly hugged us goodbye. We braced ourselves for the last hour, wondering where we might go to eat and wait out the hours between sunrise and sleep. Holly's form appeared a few minutes later, and relief washed over me as she offered us the floor of her friends' house for our much needed slumber. Kenny chimed in, "I mean, we could all 4 try to sleep on the double futon, but..." Smiling, we heartily accepted the floor and made our way out to the drizzly street to find a cab.
We made a bed of baby's sheepskins and cardboard, throw pillows and t-shirts. Holly wrote a note to her friends, letting them know who was sleeping on their floor, and would be tottering to the bathroom in the early hours of the day.
At 9:30 I awoke to pee and greeted a freshly showered Kenny in the hall. He had just come from the party. With bleary eyes I met Catherine and her 3-year old, curly towheaded daughter, Sophie. Catherine warmly invited us to continue our slumber in their bed, as the family had all risen. We gratefully accepted.
At noon, we rose and officially met Catherine and Blake, our incredibly friendly hosts, and their two daughters Sophie and Lila. Sophie crowed about her superman Hallowe'en costume, fed me sunflower seeds and cashews from glass jars lining wooden shelves, and Lila pranced along the top of the couch against the window, looking out at the rain streaming down the grass, filling the crevices in the stone patio.
We spent the next few hours ensconced in the rainy warmth of Brooklyn and the world of new and familiar friends. We took the umbrellas we bought just days before and watched them turn inside out at the merest gust as we marched down the street, in search of a burrito. We stopped at a cafe so Kenny and Holly could get their daily caffeine. Not being a coffee drinker myself, and having just had tea back at the house, I just stared at the monstrous and fluffy pastries in their case, trying not to salivate, and swearing these looked a fair sight better than the pastries back home. But knowing looks can be deceiving, and saving room for real food, I refrained from temptation. I gazed around at the cafe-goers, trying to understand what makes New York feel so different from the West coast. It was many small things, which crept into my mind and sent the sensation of new and exciting down to my finger and toetips, but didn't reveal a single, conscious answer.
Back at the house, we ate our burritos with forks and knives, as they fell open immediately. Satiated, we bid goodbye to Holly and Kenny. We chatted around the hour with Catherine and Blake, and felt at home in a far away place. The hour came for us to embark on the adventure back home, to our van in the parking lot of a tiny Connecticut train station. Before we left, their housemate arrived with fresh-caught tuna and disappeared again. It was the best sashimi I've tasted. Blake laid it out in pieces on a green plate with wasabi soy sauce for dipping.
Everyone waved and hugged goodbye and we were invited to come back next time we came to the city. We made our way to the subway station and after a couple tries, found ourselves on the Manhattan-bound R platform. I kept my eye on the map inside so we wouldn't miss our transfer stop at 14th and Union Square. The difference between the two stations was that of rich and poor. I suppose even public transportation follows the money from Brooklyn to Manhattan. We gawked at the lamborghinis being shown on the main floor of Grand Central, found some chocolatey cheesecake for the train, and bought our return tickets.
The ticket agent slipped a receipt under the grate and there was some confusion as to whether it was ours or the woman who'd come before us, still at the counter near our elbows, waiting. The agent grew impatient and yelled, "Sign it! Sign it!" Taken aback and living up to the infamous New York attitude, Adam came back with a sarcastic agreement. Something like, "Okay, okay, give me a minute, GEEZ!"
I read the train schedule and determined we were bound for tunnel 21. We arrived early and asked if the train already boarding was the right one. I wasn't convinced until I heard the announcer say "South Norwalk," our transfer point, which I originally thought was just an accented way of saying, "South Newark."
In our van at last, we tried our luck with hotels but the hour was late and we weren't up for a drive or dealing with people anymore. So we holed up and slept at the train station, hoping we wouldn't get rousted. At nine the next morning, I woke to see Adam's finger on his lips and a whispered, "shhh, the police are here." A few breathless moments wriggling on clothes without shaking the van ended in relief: they left us alone. We quickly broke camp (which mostly consists of tying back curtains, shoving bedding toward the rear door, and plunking various objects behind the back seat), and made for The Roos's house. We spent a 1/2 hour or so getting to know Hans's brother Mark, his wife Linda, and their 14-year old son Kyle. We ate a decent omelette breakfast at packed Jacqueline's in Bethel, made disapproving eyes at the party who stole our table, and made off for the final stretch toward Maine!
Looking through the heavy coin-operated telescopes from the top of the empire state building, down on an incomprehensible bumpy gray-brown landscape of concrete.
Getting a penny stamped with the emblematic pointed tower, which I later touched thousands of times back home in Oregon, as it hung on the end of a purple ribbon from the closet lamp.
Gaping at the world records displayed museum-like on the upper floors...a plastic case of fake fried chicken with the caption, "So-and-so ate 25 pounds of fried chicken in one sitting on December 18, 1980."...a newspaper photo, pinned to the wall, of a man (or was it a woman? I couldn't tell) with an enormous wad of cigarettes stuck in his mouth, with a similarly absurd description. I don't remember if I got into the Guinness Book after this surreal introduction to the genre, or whether I was enthralled because I had already gotten the bug.
Floating along the dingy Hudson on a dingy day and straining to see some recognizable part of the famous Statue of Liberty through all her scaffolding.
Playing tag and hide and seek among bunk beds and across hard wood floors, with kids whose parents baby-sat me one evening.
So, when I walked through the archway from the train tunnel and saw the white marble of Grand Central Station, I was at once transported to a childhood storybook and back again, blinking my eyes in wonder. "We're in New York!" I turned to Adam and nearly shouted, eyes wide with glee.
From the station (in which I could have wandered for probably an hour at least), we were led by grand overhead signs to the yellow taxi-lined curb. The air was hot and thick with dew. It called forth in us both the memory of our arrival in Bangkok 9 years ago. We chose a cab at random, climbed into the back, and gave him the address, realizing that knowing the cross street would have been helpful, but I figured he would get us there anyway. And he did--to the grimy, rain-drenched West 30th address of the Freak Factory.
Men slept under awnings and trash decorated the gutters. Women and men dressed in the Black Rock City garb cued up at the door, laughing and chatting. We showed our IDs and tromped up the dark staircase. Greeted by cheerful doorfolk dressed in black, we gave our name and were checked off a list, our hands duly stamped and wrists ribboned.
In we went to the din. Lights and sound streamed toward us, gathering us up into the scene. We surveyed the three dance floors, up stairs and down, navigated past great white fabric balloons that stretched from floor to ceiling, through strobing lights, and found ourselves face to face with Holly. A familiar face! Hugs were had all around as Kenny was just around the corner. They led us back stage, a bright room filled with people in various stages of donning and doffing costumes. We stashed our packs in the corner and cracked open the first of our 3 energy drinks. It was then when I felt we had really arrived. We had landed at that most desirous of destinations: a dance party 3,000 miles away from home, where two of our bay area friends would be inciting our bodies to shake and undulate in rhythm.
We moved out and into the dancing fray and began to stomp and sway and gyrate and groove and get into the beat and I looked around at all the people doing the same and smiled. It felt good to be dancing after so many days of driving. About 20 minutes into our first stint, I realized how crazy we were to think we could stay up ALL NIGHT after so many hours traveling. The morning train to Bethel was at 8:30 am. The party was to last till 6 am.
Somehow, we drifted between dancing and snoozing in corners (no chill space) and standing still gazing at the festival of wonderfully freaky people, in whose company we feel so comfortable, for 6 hours. Women in ripped fishnets and feather-festooned hair danced on platforms in front of the DJ station. My favorite was the couple who performed their own personal Capoeira dance with each other. When Kenny came on at 2:30 or so, I found myself mesmerized by Holly's feat of vibration and I smiled broadly, as with eyes closed I brought my feet down again and again in sync with Kenny's beats.
At one point during the second of these cyclical activities a light shone in my face and a voice told me, "Gotta stay awake!" I got up and stared at two large men in uniform, with flashlights. "Are you serious?" I came back, incredulous. "Yes, you need to stay awake!" came the untoward reply. Dismayed, we arose from our bench behind an apparently not-so-stealthy cloth balloon, and stared at the dance floor, wondering how we could manage until the appointed hour of departure.
Somewhere around 3 am we decided to get some air and went for a brief walk around the neighborhood. We passed Penn Station and found a clean bathroom at a bar. We avoided an angry, drunk Irish dude who brandished his Celtic tattoos and threatened an African American guy who was minding his own business. When the angry one pulled out a knife, we crossed the street. While it was all just talk, we felt a brief thrill of danger and felt our night in the big city was certainly following its reputed form.
5 am came and we were amazed--how had we lasted? We were too zombified to really think about it. Holly hugged us goodbye. We braced ourselves for the last hour, wondering where we might go to eat and wait out the hours between sunrise and sleep. Holly's form appeared a few minutes later, and relief washed over me as she offered us the floor of her friends' house for our much needed slumber. Kenny chimed in, "I mean, we could all 4 try to sleep on the double futon, but..." Smiling, we heartily accepted the floor and made our way out to the drizzly street to find a cab.
We made a bed of baby's sheepskins and cardboard, throw pillows and t-shirts. Holly wrote a note to her friends, letting them know who was sleeping on their floor, and would be tottering to the bathroom in the early hours of the day.
At 9:30 I awoke to pee and greeted a freshly showered Kenny in the hall. He had just come from the party. With bleary eyes I met Catherine and her 3-year old, curly towheaded daughter, Sophie. Catherine warmly invited us to continue our slumber in their bed, as the family had all risen. We gratefully accepted.
At noon, we rose and officially met Catherine and Blake, our incredibly friendly hosts, and their two daughters Sophie and Lila. Sophie crowed about her superman Hallowe'en costume, fed me sunflower seeds and cashews from glass jars lining wooden shelves, and Lila pranced along the top of the couch against the window, looking out at the rain streaming down the grass, filling the crevices in the stone patio.
We spent the next few hours ensconced in the rainy warmth of Brooklyn and the world of new and familiar friends. We took the umbrellas we bought just days before and watched them turn inside out at the merest gust as we marched down the street, in search of a burrito. We stopped at a cafe so Kenny and Holly could get their daily caffeine. Not being a coffee drinker myself, and having just had tea back at the house, I just stared at the monstrous and fluffy pastries in their case, trying not to salivate, and swearing these looked a fair sight better than the pastries back home. But knowing looks can be deceiving, and saving room for real food, I refrained from temptation. I gazed around at the cafe-goers, trying to understand what makes New York feel so different from the West coast. It was many small things, which crept into my mind and sent the sensation of new and exciting down to my finger and toetips, but didn't reveal a single, conscious answer.
Back at the house, we ate our burritos with forks and knives, as they fell open immediately. Satiated, we bid goodbye to Holly and Kenny. We chatted around the hour with Catherine and Blake, and felt at home in a far away place. The hour came for us to embark on the adventure back home, to our van in the parking lot of a tiny Connecticut train station. Before we left, their housemate arrived with fresh-caught tuna and disappeared again. It was the best sashimi I've tasted. Blake laid it out in pieces on a green plate with wasabi soy sauce for dipping.
Everyone waved and hugged goodbye and we were invited to come back next time we came to the city. We made our way to the subway station and after a couple tries, found ourselves on the Manhattan-bound R platform. I kept my eye on the map inside so we wouldn't miss our transfer stop at 14th and Union Square. The difference between the two stations was that of rich and poor. I suppose even public transportation follows the money from Brooklyn to Manhattan. We gawked at the lamborghinis being shown on the main floor of Grand Central, found some chocolatey cheesecake for the train, and bought our return tickets.
The ticket agent slipped a receipt under the grate and there was some confusion as to whether it was ours or the woman who'd come before us, still at the counter near our elbows, waiting. The agent grew impatient and yelled, "Sign it! Sign it!" Taken aback and living up to the infamous New York attitude, Adam came back with a sarcastic agreement. Something like, "Okay, okay, give me a minute, GEEZ!"
I read the train schedule and determined we were bound for tunnel 21. We arrived early and asked if the train already boarding was the right one. I wasn't convinced until I heard the announcer say "South Norwalk," our transfer point, which I originally thought was just an accented way of saying, "South Newark."
In our van at last, we tried our luck with hotels but the hour was late and we weren't up for a drive or dealing with people anymore. So we holed up and slept at the train station, hoping we wouldn't get rousted. At nine the next morning, I woke to see Adam's finger on his lips and a whispered, "shhh, the police are here." A few breathless moments wriggling on clothes without shaking the van ended in relief: they left us alone. We quickly broke camp (which mostly consists of tying back curtains, shoving bedding toward the rear door, and plunking various objects behind the back seat), and made for The Roos's house. We spent a 1/2 hour or so getting to know Hans's brother Mark, his wife Linda, and their 14-year old son Kyle. We ate a decent omelette breakfast at packed Jacqueline's in Bethel, made disapproving eyes at the party who stole our table, and made off for the final stretch toward Maine!
Friday, October 07, 2005
Night in Chicago, 4 days in Pennsylvania, Arriving in the big apple
Silly us for not realizing how horrid parking is in Chicago. We've been there before, though not in our own car. It took 1/2 an hour an a lot of grumbling and some fierce space-guarding to find a spot that would fit the van and trailer as one piece.
This was about all we could handle as far as excitement for the evening, though we had hoped to find a comedy show or some such locale-inspired entertainment. About this idea that the internet "saves" time: Uh, sorry, not true. Especially when you factor in a spotty cell phone card connection and not knowing thing one about where things are in Chicago. We did not find what we were looking for by the time we hit the Chicago traffic: an improv show starting conveniently an hour or two after our arrival.
After our parking fiasco, we gave up on trying to find an improv show for the night and our stomachs commanded that we find some good grub post haste. The organic food restaurant I found online turned out to be more expensive than advertised, and had nearly an hour wait, so we found a more reasonable place--surprise, surprise, and Indian food restaurant. The spinach dish touched some taste bud that had been asleep--and what a bright and beautiful morning it awoke to see! Each bite was fresh air through a sunny window on a hillside overlooking a heady field of spice crops. The lamb dish, however, was a mundane and chewy affair, rather like we were cows in that field, forbade from eating the spices surrounding us, confined to munch on dry grass cuds and trying, with marginal success, to translate smell into taste. The soft-spoken waitress, whose eyes swept away the usual barrier between customer and service employee, had told us it was her favorite dish. Another instance of how differently each person chooses favorites. Still, recommendations are a better bet than chance.
Not wanting to go anywhere (there was a WalMart 40 minutes away) after our late dinner, we opted to guerilla camp on the street. Partly due to low energy and partly due to an increased chance of being rousted, we did not put the leveling blocks under the wheels. We surrendered to a slanty night's sleep instead. Using our tiny red key-chain flash lights only, we did the minimal amount of bedtime preparations and settled in to the hot night, dispensing with the usual down comforter.
As we left the packed-in streets of Chicago (after that breakfast I wrote about in my last post), a feeling drew in like the clouds that covered over us between night and the gray sticky morning: we are almost there--the other side of the country. Road weary as I was, the feeling was tinged with melancholy. I have thoroughly enjoyed being on the road. I love seeing America and a few loved ones slowly enough to feel engaged in my experience, but quickly enough to keep this sense of movement, and to drive home the vastness of our home country.
The lakeside and Chicago skyline were early sights of Sunday morning that sparked my few memories of being here a few years ago. A great fountain enthralled me for a few moments at a stop light. The day became one endless flatland of dry corn fields and service plazas once we passed Gary, Indiana--a cluster of industrial pipes and buildings of the type you'd imagine from storybook descriptions. Oh--and toll booths. Lots of toll booths.
We spent Sunday night near Cleveland and saw The Corpse Bride in Strongsville, Ohio. What I liked most were the vibrant colors of the underworld, compared to the shades of gray in the land of the living. The story never really drew me in--I was always aware of myself watching a movie, the uncomfortable armrests, and the constant need to shift position. At the end, it joined the realm of movies after which I turn to Adam and say, "Huh. Strange." And then feel nothing significant. I realize that I could analyze the obvious themes of death, eternity, the binds of matrimony, waiting to be saved, etc., but am not compelled to do so.
We spent Monday morning in Streetsboro, Ohio, outside the VW/Audi shop next to the onramp, agonizing (Adam was doing most of that part) about how to proceed with fixing the oil leak. At long last and a few phone calls later, we opted to wait till Maine to have any more work done on the van.
The states are getting noticeably smaller now. We crossed one and a half states the first day after Chicago and another one and a half at the end of the second day. Just before Cleveland we determined that the leaves had not started changing on the coast of Maine yet, and that we would not miss the peak, and that it seemed a shame to miss out on the opportunity to dance to one of our favorite DJs (a bay area friend) in New York City. What are the chances we would coincide in the east coast? Hearing quite a lot of excitement about the event--Freak Factory--we decided at the last fork-in-the-road-moment to head for the city. This meant a slightly more southerly route on the 80.
I let go of seeing the town where my dad grew up, as going through Michigan was now decidedly off-route. We contacted a friend who lived in Chicago last we knew, but found out she had just moved to East Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania. Turns out she lives just off the 80, near the border with New Jersey. It dawned on me that we live on one end of the 80, and Michelle and James live on opposite end, 3300 miles away. Quite a mind stretch to think of that.
Pennsylvania is festooned with forests, nestled along rolling hills. I realized we must be driving through the Appalachians, though I expected them to be a little taller. I am so used to the big mothers in the West.
Half way to the eastern edge of the state, I invented a fabulous snack, which always makes me pleased as two peas in a pod. Peaches with honeyed goat cheese and walnuts (that peach made it all the way from Oakland to central Pennsylvania and was still firm and tasty!). While we're on the subject, I also made a delicious turkey-swiss sandwich with the inner leaves of a romaine head for bread, and stuffed with parsley, mint, ketchup, and mustard. And, I made chicken lettuce wraps with mint, parsley, green onions and spicy cucumber-mint raita. My how I love new, good food.
At dusk, we approached the house where we would be settling in for a few days until the venture to the city. The forests had not let up--still shielding our view from the hills and valleys beyond the two-lane eastbound freeway.
It was as if no time had passed since we'd seen Michelle at our wedding 2 years ago. We cohabitated in mellow, homebound coziness for 4 days. I did some crossword puzzles with James. We watched some Daily Shows. We started the first season of Lost, on which we are now (no surprise) hooked. I began my writing schedule and it completely changed my sense of progress in being a writer. I always knew structure was the answer, but Wow--it's hard to understate its importance now that I've settled into it. The days were wet and infused with dim light. Warm rain and greenery hung over us and enveloped me. Leaving involved a franticness I was not prepared for.
But, on Friday morning we scampered around and managed to lose Adam's keys and leave the gas can nozzle in the driveway. We left for Bethel, Connecticut an hour late, missed our train after making our way through car-choked, rain-drenched streets for 2 and a half hours, deposited our pod at the bottom of our friend's brother's driveway, found a pizza joint stacked with pizza boxes to the ceiling, melted into the warmth of cheesy vegetables (including eggplant and broccoli!) on a crunchy crust, took a nap in the train station parking lot, and woke up at every train noise thinking we were missing it again. But, we did get on the right train, endured lots of loud, drunken chatter, and arrived in New York City at Grand Central Station.
This was about all we could handle as far as excitement for the evening, though we had hoped to find a comedy show or some such locale-inspired entertainment. About this idea that the internet "saves" time: Uh, sorry, not true. Especially when you factor in a spotty cell phone card connection and not knowing thing one about where things are in Chicago. We did not find what we were looking for by the time we hit the Chicago traffic: an improv show starting conveniently an hour or two after our arrival.
After our parking fiasco, we gave up on trying to find an improv show for the night and our stomachs commanded that we find some good grub post haste. The organic food restaurant I found online turned out to be more expensive than advertised, and had nearly an hour wait, so we found a more reasonable place--surprise, surprise, and Indian food restaurant. The spinach dish touched some taste bud that had been asleep--and what a bright and beautiful morning it awoke to see! Each bite was fresh air through a sunny window on a hillside overlooking a heady field of spice crops. The lamb dish, however, was a mundane and chewy affair, rather like we were cows in that field, forbade from eating the spices surrounding us, confined to munch on dry grass cuds and trying, with marginal success, to translate smell into taste. The soft-spoken waitress, whose eyes swept away the usual barrier between customer and service employee, had told us it was her favorite dish. Another instance of how differently each person chooses favorites. Still, recommendations are a better bet than chance.
Not wanting to go anywhere (there was a WalMart 40 minutes away) after our late dinner, we opted to guerilla camp on the street. Partly due to low energy and partly due to an increased chance of being rousted, we did not put the leveling blocks under the wheels. We surrendered to a slanty night's sleep instead. Using our tiny red key-chain flash lights only, we did the minimal amount of bedtime preparations and settled in to the hot night, dispensing with the usual down comforter.
As we left the packed-in streets of Chicago (after that breakfast I wrote about in my last post), a feeling drew in like the clouds that covered over us between night and the gray sticky morning: we are almost there--the other side of the country. Road weary as I was, the feeling was tinged with melancholy. I have thoroughly enjoyed being on the road. I love seeing America and a few loved ones slowly enough to feel engaged in my experience, but quickly enough to keep this sense of movement, and to drive home the vastness of our home country.
The lakeside and Chicago skyline were early sights of Sunday morning that sparked my few memories of being here a few years ago. A great fountain enthralled me for a few moments at a stop light. The day became one endless flatland of dry corn fields and service plazas once we passed Gary, Indiana--a cluster of industrial pipes and buildings of the type you'd imagine from storybook descriptions. Oh--and toll booths. Lots of toll booths.
We spent Sunday night near Cleveland and saw The Corpse Bride in Strongsville, Ohio. What I liked most were the vibrant colors of the underworld, compared to the shades of gray in the land of the living. The story never really drew me in--I was always aware of myself watching a movie, the uncomfortable armrests, and the constant need to shift position. At the end, it joined the realm of movies after which I turn to Adam and say, "Huh. Strange." And then feel nothing significant. I realize that I could analyze the obvious themes of death, eternity, the binds of matrimony, waiting to be saved, etc., but am not compelled to do so.
We spent Monday morning in Streetsboro, Ohio, outside the VW/Audi shop next to the onramp, agonizing (Adam was doing most of that part) about how to proceed with fixing the oil leak. At long last and a few phone calls later, we opted to wait till Maine to have any more work done on the van.
The states are getting noticeably smaller now. We crossed one and a half states the first day after Chicago and another one and a half at the end of the second day. Just before Cleveland we determined that the leaves had not started changing on the coast of Maine yet, and that we would not miss the peak, and that it seemed a shame to miss out on the opportunity to dance to one of our favorite DJs (a bay area friend) in New York City. What are the chances we would coincide in the east coast? Hearing quite a lot of excitement about the event--Freak Factory--we decided at the last fork-in-the-road-moment to head for the city. This meant a slightly more southerly route on the 80.
I let go of seeing the town where my dad grew up, as going through Michigan was now decidedly off-route. We contacted a friend who lived in Chicago last we knew, but found out she had just moved to East Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania. Turns out she lives just off the 80, near the border with New Jersey. It dawned on me that we live on one end of the 80, and Michelle and James live on opposite end, 3300 miles away. Quite a mind stretch to think of that.
Pennsylvania is festooned with forests, nestled along rolling hills. I realized we must be driving through the Appalachians, though I expected them to be a little taller. I am so used to the big mothers in the West.
Half way to the eastern edge of the state, I invented a fabulous snack, which always makes me pleased as two peas in a pod. Peaches with honeyed goat cheese and walnuts (that peach made it all the way from Oakland to central Pennsylvania and was still firm and tasty!). While we're on the subject, I also made a delicious turkey-swiss sandwich with the inner leaves of a romaine head for bread, and stuffed with parsley, mint, ketchup, and mustard. And, I made chicken lettuce wraps with mint, parsley, green onions and spicy cucumber-mint raita. My how I love new, good food.
At dusk, we approached the house where we would be settling in for a few days until the venture to the city. The forests had not let up--still shielding our view from the hills and valleys beyond the two-lane eastbound freeway.
It was as if no time had passed since we'd seen Michelle at our wedding 2 years ago. We cohabitated in mellow, homebound coziness for 4 days. I did some crossword puzzles with James. We watched some Daily Shows. We started the first season of Lost, on which we are now (no surprise) hooked. I began my writing schedule and it completely changed my sense of progress in being a writer. I always knew structure was the answer, but Wow--it's hard to understate its importance now that I've settled into it. The days were wet and infused with dim light. Warm rain and greenery hung over us and enveloped me. Leaving involved a franticness I was not prepared for.
But, on Friday morning we scampered around and managed to lose Adam's keys and leave the gas can nozzle in the driveway. We left for Bethel, Connecticut an hour late, missed our train after making our way through car-choked, rain-drenched streets for 2 and a half hours, deposited our pod at the bottom of our friend's brother's driveway, found a pizza joint stacked with pizza boxes to the ceiling, melted into the warmth of cheesy vegetables (including eggplant and broccoli!) on a crunchy crust, took a nap in the train station parking lot, and woke up at every train noise thinking we were missing it again. But, we did get on the right train, endured lots of loud, drunken chatter, and arrived in New York City at Grand Central Station.
Sunday, October 02, 2005
Breakfast in Chi Town
This morning we made our way to Pauline's restaurant in Chicago's Ravenwood neighborhood on the Northside. It took two tries of inquiring with locals to get us somewhere we could have eggs without having to unload and cook in the van on the streets of Chicago, among the blocks of brick houses and tall, overhanging trees. The food was mediocre (Adam said afterward they must be in the Slow "crappy" Food movement), but the scene was a constant source of entertainment. Two families sat together, two feet from us. A couple sat next to us in the other direction. We just sat and listened and watched as our food twiddled its thumbs in the kitchen. I'd like to write it all out like a story, but I'm not sure how to do that. So, I'll just write what I remember - snippets of conversation.
"I want a chocolate chip pancake!" yelled the precocious blond boy at the end of the table.
"I want one too!" yelled the brown-haired boy who couldn't keep still in his chair.
"I don't WANT a huge meal!" yelled a third boy.
"I know what we could do while we wait for our food!" said the only girl at the table, her small mouth and freckles poised in an adorably expectant expression. "We could play..." and here she named some game I've never heard of. And of course I thought of how I never tired of "I'm thinking of animal," from age 6 to puberty. At restaurants I invariably thought of it and my mom humored me even when she didn't feel like guessing the obscure name of some creature I had just read about in Ranger Rick magazine.
"Let's all sit quietly," said the clean-shaven father with rimless glasses and a trim brown haircut.
The boy closest to us dropped his silverware and looked down at it on the cement patio where we all sat, crammed in so close the waitresses had to turn sideways to get by. He made no move to retrieve it, but sat looking chagrinned. The fair bear at Adam's elbow offered the boy his flatware set, wrapped in a paper napkin and taped tightly in green. The boy looked at him in alarm and did not accept. Adam chuckled saying, "Don't take knives from strangers!" The man didn't get the joke and explained, sounding a little hurt at being called a stranger, "Well, he dropped his knife..." At this point the mother of the young girl was saying something in an apologetic tone about having plenty of spare silverware at their table. "I know, I was joking," said Adam jovially to the knife profferer, suddenly remembering his last awkward experience of trying to make light with a Midwesterner a few years ago.
Our chai finally arrived, surprisingly with whipped cream piled on top. We both scraped it off onto our saucers and discovered bland, barely infused tepid water underneath. I added back all my whipped cream and mixed it in to get some milky flavor. It hardly hit the spot, but my body responded to the motions.
The families' food arrived and everyone's eyes popped at the size of the pancake platters. I read Pauline's tag line above us, "Where quality and quantity meet." I hoped they were right about the quality part. So much for the kid who didn't want a huge meal.
Our omelets arrived about a month later and we dug in, less enthusiastic, hungry though we were, as we discovered the claim to be only half true. Adam commented that raisins got their own distinct, cool name, so why were sun dried tomatoes left with such a mundane description for a name? That's exactly the kind of story I would go searching for and give up after an hour and a half of googling. So, if anyone knows the story, you know whom to tell.
As the food didn't hold our attention, we kept our eyes and ears on the goings on of the neighborhood. Gay couples in shorts and shirtsleeves, women fresh from their morning exercise in clinging clothes, mothers and fathers with gaggles of scrawny kids, jaunted through the doors at all intervals. A tall man with the palest brown skin walked by hurriedly every 5 minutes, each time offering us coffee, not seeing the tea bags in our mugs. The family seated near us ploughed their way through pancakes as big as birthday cakes. "I don't want to finish my pancakes cause I wanna save room for toast!" yelled the precocious one, who went on to explain that he had never actually tasted the middle school food but had heard it was quite excellent, particularly the pizza. His brother (or his friend?) listed off all the foods you can eat everyday at school in a loud voice, "You can have sandwiches every day, you can have pizza everyday, burgers, hotdogs..." he counted them off on his fingers pointedly. The precocious one took a moment to transfer his mound of pancake crumbs to his sister, who stood up on her chair to cup them in her hands and plunk them onto her plate. The couple on our other side discussed at length the meal they had had last night, how the food was not that remarkable, but the company and ambiance were lovely, asking after each other's enjoyment of their dining experience. They both weighed at least 250 each, and without hearing them speak I would have opted not to run into them in a dark alley. I love being surprised with gentleness wrapped in stereotypically gruff packaging.
I normally walk away from a run of the mill meal disillusioned and depressed - I've been known to look forward to especially promising meals for a week (or longer if you count the hors d'oerves at our wedding). But the cultural experience of this meal eclipsed the blunt fact of bad food. And for that, I am glad.
"I want a chocolate chip pancake!" yelled the precocious blond boy at the end of the table.
"I want one too!" yelled the brown-haired boy who couldn't keep still in his chair.
"I don't WANT a huge meal!" yelled a third boy.
"I know what we could do while we wait for our food!" said the only girl at the table, her small mouth and freckles poised in an adorably expectant expression. "We could play..." and here she named some game I've never heard of. And of course I thought of how I never tired of "I'm thinking of animal," from age 6 to puberty. At restaurants I invariably thought of it and my mom humored me even when she didn't feel like guessing the obscure name of some creature I had just read about in Ranger Rick magazine.
"Let's all sit quietly," said the clean-shaven father with rimless glasses and a trim brown haircut.
The boy closest to us dropped his silverware and looked down at it on the cement patio where we all sat, crammed in so close the waitresses had to turn sideways to get by. He made no move to retrieve it, but sat looking chagrinned. The fair bear at Adam's elbow offered the boy his flatware set, wrapped in a paper napkin and taped tightly in green. The boy looked at him in alarm and did not accept. Adam chuckled saying, "Don't take knives from strangers!" The man didn't get the joke and explained, sounding a little hurt at being called a stranger, "Well, he dropped his knife..." At this point the mother of the young girl was saying something in an apologetic tone about having plenty of spare silverware at their table. "I know, I was joking," said Adam jovially to the knife profferer, suddenly remembering his last awkward experience of trying to make light with a Midwesterner a few years ago.
Our chai finally arrived, surprisingly with whipped cream piled on top. We both scraped it off onto our saucers and discovered bland, barely infused tepid water underneath. I added back all my whipped cream and mixed it in to get some milky flavor. It hardly hit the spot, but my body responded to the motions.
The families' food arrived and everyone's eyes popped at the size of the pancake platters. I read Pauline's tag line above us, "Where quality and quantity meet." I hoped they were right about the quality part. So much for the kid who didn't want a huge meal.
Our omelets arrived about a month later and we dug in, less enthusiastic, hungry though we were, as we discovered the claim to be only half true. Adam commented that raisins got their own distinct, cool name, so why were sun dried tomatoes left with such a mundane description for a name? That's exactly the kind of story I would go searching for and give up after an hour and a half of googling. So, if anyone knows the story, you know whom to tell.
As the food didn't hold our attention, we kept our eyes and ears on the goings on of the neighborhood. Gay couples in shorts and shirtsleeves, women fresh from their morning exercise in clinging clothes, mothers and fathers with gaggles of scrawny kids, jaunted through the doors at all intervals. A tall man with the palest brown skin walked by hurriedly every 5 minutes, each time offering us coffee, not seeing the tea bags in our mugs. The family seated near us ploughed their way through pancakes as big as birthday cakes. "I don't want to finish my pancakes cause I wanna save room for toast!" yelled the precocious one, who went on to explain that he had never actually tasted the middle school food but had heard it was quite excellent, particularly the pizza. His brother (or his friend?) listed off all the foods you can eat everyday at school in a loud voice, "You can have sandwiches every day, you can have pizza everyday, burgers, hotdogs..." he counted them off on his fingers pointedly. The precocious one took a moment to transfer his mound of pancake crumbs to his sister, who stood up on her chair to cup them in her hands and plunk them onto her plate. The couple on our other side discussed at length the meal they had had last night, how the food was not that remarkable, but the company and ambiance were lovely, asking after each other's enjoyment of their dining experience. They both weighed at least 250 each, and without hearing them speak I would have opted not to run into them in a dark alley. I love being surprised with gentleness wrapped in stereotypically gruff packaging.
I normally walk away from a run of the mill meal disillusioned and depressed - I've been known to look forward to especially promising meals for a week (or longer if you count the hors d'oerves at our wedding). But the cultural experience of this meal eclipsed the blunt fact of bad food. And for that, I am glad.
Friday, September 30, 2005
Midway in the MidWest
We've traveled 6 days, from Oakland, CA to St. Cloud, MN. This morning we are driving into the sun towards a VW mechanic in Minneapolis. There seems to be some unwritten law of trips that a little ways past the mid-point, things become the most difficult. We remembered this yesterday and took comfort in the idea that this bump in the road was just that: a bump, not a long steep hill we'd never see the other side of (read: we are still getting to Maine in time to earn the well-earned name leaf peeper - and who wouldn't want to call themselves by such a ridiculously cute name!?).
The van has developed what appears to be an oil cooler seal leak, which can apparently get suddenly worse without warning (read: lose all your oil at once while driving). Adam determined this problem while we adjusted to the morning light in the Wal-Mart parking lot of Bismarck, North Dakota with some commiseration and guidance from our friend Hans and our mechanic back in Santa Cruz, Peter at Volks Cafe. Adam has been keeping an eye on a small transmission fluid leak since we left. Seeing oil spattered all over the pod and back hatch of the van gave us some alarm about the transmission, but it turned out to be motor oil. Since North Dakota is not known for its VW mechanics (I don't remember seeing one VW on the 94 in this state), we opted to limp a little bit (keeping the engine below 3400 rpm) the 420 miles to Minneapolis, where we were headed to visit my gramma.
As we drove pulled up at a stoplight in Fargo, two burly blond guys in a ford pulled up a long side us, elbows and toothy grins hanging out the window.
"Cal-i-FOR-nia!" one exclaimed in high-pitched drawl.
Imagine the stereotypical bumpkin accent. Now exaggerate it as if you were on South Park. But this was for real.
Adam and I just looked at each other in amazement.
"Did that just happen?"
"I think he was exaggerating..."
"No, I don't think so!"
We became giddy with laughter, incredulous.
Somehow, 400 miles of highway 94 took us 12 hours. We left Bismarck at 1 pm and arrived, extremely tired and about as irritable as possible, at 1 am in the Wal-Mart parking lot of St. Cloud. How did you average only 33 miles per hour?!, you ask.
Well, it could have been the extra 80 miles and 90 minutes we drove because I left my purse at the fabulous restaurant where we had a scrumptious, slow food movement dinner in Fargo. The dinner was worth the 90 minutes (mouthwatering fig-glazed pork chop and spring vegetables, the fluffiest, most tangy-sweet cheesecake I've ever tasted, delicious roast chicken, chocolate mouse that hits your tongue like a knee-weakening kiss...), but going back for my purse was most certainly NOT. Perhaps it was because we had to stop every 60 miles to check the oil level. Perhaps it was the fact that we were traveling about 25 mph slower than we have been. This all adds up fast.
Luckily, the shop where we're headed this fine bright morning is called Good Carma. And, our befuddled timing in arriving in the Twin Cities means I get to see my gramma a little bit longer than I thought I would.
The van has developed what appears to be an oil cooler seal leak, which can apparently get suddenly worse without warning (read: lose all your oil at once while driving). Adam determined this problem while we adjusted to the morning light in the Wal-Mart parking lot of Bismarck, North Dakota with some commiseration and guidance from our friend Hans and our mechanic back in Santa Cruz, Peter at Volks Cafe. Adam has been keeping an eye on a small transmission fluid leak since we left. Seeing oil spattered all over the pod and back hatch of the van gave us some alarm about the transmission, but it turned out to be motor oil. Since North Dakota is not known for its VW mechanics (I don't remember seeing one VW on the 94 in this state), we opted to limp a little bit (keeping the engine below 3400 rpm) the 420 miles to Minneapolis, where we were headed to visit my gramma.
As we drove pulled up at a stoplight in Fargo, two burly blond guys in a ford pulled up a long side us, elbows and toothy grins hanging out the window.
"Cal-i-FOR-nia!" one exclaimed in high-pitched drawl.
Imagine the stereotypical bumpkin accent. Now exaggerate it as if you were on South Park. But this was for real.
Adam and I just looked at each other in amazement.
"Did that just happen?"
"I think he was exaggerating..."
"No, I don't think so!"
We became giddy with laughter, incredulous.
Somehow, 400 miles of highway 94 took us 12 hours. We left Bismarck at 1 pm and arrived, extremely tired and about as irritable as possible, at 1 am in the Wal-Mart parking lot of St. Cloud. How did you average only 33 miles per hour?!, you ask.
Well, it could have been the extra 80 miles and 90 minutes we drove because I left my purse at the fabulous restaurant where we had a scrumptious, slow food movement dinner in Fargo. The dinner was worth the 90 minutes (mouthwatering fig-glazed pork chop and spring vegetables, the fluffiest, most tangy-sweet cheesecake I've ever tasted, delicious roast chicken, chocolate mouse that hits your tongue like a knee-weakening kiss...), but going back for my purse was most certainly NOT. Perhaps it was because we had to stop every 60 miles to check the oil level. Perhaps it was the fact that we were traveling about 25 mph slower than we have been. This all adds up fast.
Luckily, the shop where we're headed this fine bright morning is called Good Carma. And, our befuddled timing in arriving in the Twin Cities means I get to see my gramma a little bit longer than I thought I would.
Monday, September 26, 2005
Back on the Road & Biodiversity
It's day three of our first drive across the country: Oakland, Ca to Rockland, Maine. The first night we stayed in Ashland and had a sweet (though short) visit with my mom. Last night we stayed with our friend Monica in Portland, OR - another place we want to stay longer, but the leaves on the East Coast (and the thought of living in snow shortly after rolling in) call us quickly to the home our friends Kevin and Kelly and their daugher Raelin, on the coast of Maine.
We are now driving through Columbia River Gorge. It's magnificent. I think Adam has exclaimed, "It's sooo beautiful!" about 10 times in the last 90 minutes. The river is gigantic and seems to want to be a lake. The sun shines down on the valley from a cloudless blue sky, illuminating the blue and green ripples on either side of us, the freight trains moving East at half our speed, the gold hills that remind me of California, and the brown crags and humps of cliffs round every curve on 84 East.
I am thrilled to be back on the road again! An intangible quality comes over me and creates this look on my face, or so I imagine from the inside, that says: I am on an awesome adventure and drinking in every moment; I am both thirsty for what's to come, and satiated right now.
This predominant feeling doesn't permeate every waking moment - it's more of a home base that I keep coming back to, like every morning as we drive off toward a new place. There is of course, the usual share of stressed out, irritable moments, like when Adam and I are navigating via GPS through an unfamiliar city, or when we're sleepy in the afternoon and don't feel like driving or finding a place to eat, or rummagin through the cooler, or making any decisions.
Our first 6 weeks of this trip, from the Russian River where we spent Adam's birthday, to Saline Valley with Emily, to the 4 corners with the Santa Barbara Middle School and friends new and old, was much more challenging. The feeling of freedom and adventure was far more ephemeral. We've traversed the difficult part of getting and being on the road: figuring out whether it would really work, and the constant wondering and worrying about whether we had made the right decision, and why things kept breaking, etc. This new setting out - Part 3 of our Road Trip - is shaping up to be more enjoyable, with a distinct sense of the place where our control ends.
This conversation has happened in some form or another a few times in the last week:
"I'm thinking we shouldn't be driving across the country right now..."
"You think we should fly there last minute?"
"I don't know...maybe we should just stay here for a while."
"But who's to say how long gas prices will be high? We could be here for a long time if that's our criteria..."
"Yeah...that's true...hmmm..."
"I think we should just go and see what happens."
"Okay."
I find myself less attached to plans we have made, more aware of the constant possibility that conditions could change and that new decisions might be necessary or at least worth considering. This is a big deal for me - I usually hate to make a decision and then change it. And I usually hate to play things by ear for a long time. And I'm not too great at deliberating out loud with someone else, either. I always flounder around for some way to linearly determine which decision is better. I haven't found it. Sometimes I have no sense of which way to lean, and other times I have no choice but to follow a faint sense of intuition to go one way instead of the other, not knowing what unconscious thoughts lie beneath that vague pull.
Our nearly 3 months in Oakland were adventurous, no doubt: I got two temp jobs in the city and experienced my first serious commute (1 hour each way on public transportation), I started seeing a kinesiologist and am now temporarily eschewing a new list of foods, I joined a newly forming women's group, we had stuff stolen out of our van, then our van was stolen in the wee hours of the night, then we got a call from a neighbor who found most of our stuff in his recovered vehicle, then we found our van 3 blocks from the house we were living, then we went to Burning Man (deciding 3 days prior that yes, we were actually going), then moved to a new place. We did not sit around twiddling our thumbs. Though there were times we wished that's what we were doing! Or at least oil thumb wrestling, which we invented in Durango while waiting for a scrumptious meal of free-range, locally raised chicken and lamb at the restaurant where we made friends with the wait staff and learned about zero-emissions research initiative, which sounds highly intriguing, though I haven't looked into it in depth.
I am still reveling in the new, incredible experience of having a community. I'm a little sad that we are leaving that community for at least a couple months, perhaps longer. I know that it will be there when we come back. The surge of support we received when our *house* was stolen reversed the experience from a huge bummer to a heartening lesson in faith. The many, many casual evenings or mornings or afternoons spent dining or dancing or standing in the doorway with friends shifted my sense of the world as a place in which Adam and I dwell alone and must figure out everything on our own to one filled with thoughtful, caring people with whom we can share our hearts and minds and laughs and tears. It's the difference between poverty and wealth. It's the difference between the scientific forests of Germany and a WW2 Victory Garden. That's a big difference.
Biodiversity, baby. Worth more than our sense of security.
We are now driving through Columbia River Gorge. It's magnificent. I think Adam has exclaimed, "It's sooo beautiful!" about 10 times in the last 90 minutes. The river is gigantic and seems to want to be a lake. The sun shines down on the valley from a cloudless blue sky, illuminating the blue and green ripples on either side of us, the freight trains moving East at half our speed, the gold hills that remind me of California, and the brown crags and humps of cliffs round every curve on 84 East.
I am thrilled to be back on the road again! An intangible quality comes over me and creates this look on my face, or so I imagine from the inside, that says: I am on an awesome adventure and drinking in every moment; I am both thirsty for what's to come, and satiated right now.
This predominant feeling doesn't permeate every waking moment - it's more of a home base that I keep coming back to, like every morning as we drive off toward a new place. There is of course, the usual share of stressed out, irritable moments, like when Adam and I are navigating via GPS through an unfamiliar city, or when we're sleepy in the afternoon and don't feel like driving or finding a place to eat, or rummagin through the cooler, or making any decisions.
Our first 6 weeks of this trip, from the Russian River where we spent Adam's birthday, to Saline Valley with Emily, to the 4 corners with the Santa Barbara Middle School and friends new and old, was much more challenging. The feeling of freedom and adventure was far more ephemeral. We've traversed the difficult part of getting and being on the road: figuring out whether it would really work, and the constant wondering and worrying about whether we had made the right decision, and why things kept breaking, etc. This new setting out - Part 3 of our Road Trip - is shaping up to be more enjoyable, with a distinct sense of the place where our control ends.
This conversation has happened in some form or another a few times in the last week:
"I'm thinking we shouldn't be driving across the country right now..."
"You think we should fly there last minute?"
"I don't know...maybe we should just stay here for a while."
"But who's to say how long gas prices will be high? We could be here for a long time if that's our criteria..."
"Yeah...that's true...hmmm..."
"I think we should just go and see what happens."
"Okay."
I find myself less attached to plans we have made, more aware of the constant possibility that conditions could change and that new decisions might be necessary or at least worth considering. This is a big deal for me - I usually hate to make a decision and then change it. And I usually hate to play things by ear for a long time. And I'm not too great at deliberating out loud with someone else, either. I always flounder around for some way to linearly determine which decision is better. I haven't found it. Sometimes I have no sense of which way to lean, and other times I have no choice but to follow a faint sense of intuition to go one way instead of the other, not knowing what unconscious thoughts lie beneath that vague pull.
Our nearly 3 months in Oakland were adventurous, no doubt: I got two temp jobs in the city and experienced my first serious commute (1 hour each way on public transportation), I started seeing a kinesiologist and am now temporarily eschewing a new list of foods, I joined a newly forming women's group, we had stuff stolen out of our van, then our van was stolen in the wee hours of the night, then we got a call from a neighbor who found most of our stuff in his recovered vehicle, then we found our van 3 blocks from the house we were living, then we went to Burning Man (deciding 3 days prior that yes, we were actually going), then moved to a new place. We did not sit around twiddling our thumbs. Though there were times we wished that's what we were doing! Or at least oil thumb wrestling, which we invented in Durango while waiting for a scrumptious meal of free-range, locally raised chicken and lamb at the restaurant where we made friends with the wait staff and learned about zero-emissions research initiative, which sounds highly intriguing, though I haven't looked into it in depth.
I am still reveling in the new, incredible experience of having a community. I'm a little sad that we are leaving that community for at least a couple months, perhaps longer. I know that it will be there when we come back. The surge of support we received when our *house* was stolen reversed the experience from a huge bummer to a heartening lesson in faith. The many, many casual evenings or mornings or afternoons spent dining or dancing or standing in the doorway with friends shifted my sense of the world as a place in which Adam and I dwell alone and must figure out everything on our own to one filled with thoughtful, caring people with whom we can share our hearts and minds and laughs and tears. It's the difference between poverty and wealth. It's the difference between the scientific forests of Germany and a WW2 Victory Garden. That's a big difference.
Biodiversity, baby. Worth more than our sense of security.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
peripheral Vision pays off
1:30 am must be the witching hour. Things disappear, things reappear. Big things. Whole houses, even.
Adam and I decide to go dancing and invite our friend Marc, who also just had stuff stolen - from his house. Adam and I have wanted to go to this particular shindig for quite a long time, and now that we live here in Oakland for the time being, such things are easy. The event is called Vision. As we walk into Il Pirata on 16th Street, no one cards us or charges us a cover. We hear the beats, but don't see a dance floor. We are wondering if we came to the right place, on the right night. We stride past the bar, where 10 or so people are scattered amongst barstools and tables. We round the corner, following the bass rhythm. Up a short flight of stairs is a dance floor. One person moves with the music, standing just outside center stage, where a huge image of a dancing vixen enthralls the perimeter of people on the edges of the room. We see our friends - behind the equipment. We say hello and hug those we can reach easily. Eventually some more of those wonderful people we know show up, and soon there are 4 or 5 people on the dance floor. The music ramps up to a point at which my body does not sit still, and I move into the fray. Soon I am dancing hard, and I hardly need to consciously direct my limbs at moments. It feels so good to move! I have been aching for thumping music and an inviting space and people to dance with. The energy goes up for a while, but then we all need a break from our happy exertion, and the dance floor dies down. We go out to the car and eat some food I left in the trunk: a crisp fuji apple, brazil nuts. Marc went out earlier to hunt down something edible after realizing he hadn't eaten dinner and his favorite drink seemed stronger than usual. He came back with cheetos, starbursts, and a slim jim. Grinning broadly, he chows down.
On the way back, we talk about looking for the van. To our surprise, Marc agrees to tag along while we drive around for the 4th time in search of the van we fear we will never find, though we are hoping very sincerely that it's nearby. We tool around several dark streets on the West side of Telegraph, then head for home, having seen quite a few Vanagons, but not our beloved Trogdor. Adam decides to head us there in a different direction and comes up our cross street from the south. We are 3 blocks from home, and I catch a glimpse of the white roof of a van down a side street. "Marc, was that a Vanagon back there?" I say with a feeling that it was. "Yeah, let's turn here and circle back around." We do.
Our eyes pop and our mouths drop: it's there. Our van. Our pod. In one piece.
Oh, My God! It's just parked as if nothing were out of place on this nice-looking side street where there are shiny SUVs and little sports cars. Rich Street, in fact. We are in as quiet an uproar as we can muster. Not wanting to stop next to it in case the thief is inside, we keep going and park out of sight on the cross street. I dial 911. This is getting to be familiar. The dispatcher answers, and I start to speak, but I can't organize my thoughts in the least. "I'm calling to say that our-um-wait...I don't know how to say this...Okay, our van was stolen on Monday, and we just found it, and we think someone might be sleeping in it, and that's why we're calling you." My adrenaline is rushing like the American River where we camped with Emily on our way to Saline Valley. I say all the necessary things to the police officer as I try to keep my head on straight while Adam exuberantly punches the air and he and Marc are laughing triumphantly. We all feel like we're in a PI thriller.
Now, we wait for the cops to come. We wait. We realize it will be a while. We speculate on the thief, imagining whether he is in there or not, what he thought when he left it parked there with the trailer still attached. There is a cat meandering around the car, on the sidewalk. It looks suspicious and not too smart (it's awful curious about cars, and you've heard the story about feline snooping). We exclaim and realize everything - every person who wanders down this street, every cat, every plastic bag - looks suspicious to us at this point. We keep thinking that we see the cop's lights on the stop sign to our left, but it's just the wind moving the shadow of the trees. Suddenly the cat is on the hood of the car and Adam is reeling in shock, his arms flailing out toward the cat and onto the steering wheel. We suddenly burst out laughing and all our tension pours out into the air. Adam puts on the windshield wiper fluid and the cats leaps off the hood, slinking around the side again. Marc says, "Okay, now can we go house to house looking for my computer?" Our laughter regales the interior of our rental car and we imagine this ridiculous canvassing effort with huge smiles on our faces, wishing something like that could actually work.
Marc and Adam want to see whether the people we've seen walking down Rich Street have anything to do with our van. I remind everyone that if we see someone go in or out, we're supposed to call the police again with a special direct line in that bypasses the hold queue. We discuss it for a moment in urgent tones. He finally gets out and walk to the head of Rich Street where he can see the van. The cops arrive and circle round. I get out and join my investigative posse. I get the call they promised from dispatch. I tell them we see the officers. I ask them what we're supposed to do. "Make contact with the officer," she instructs me. "Okay," I say with utmost seriousness, blood singing in my ears, reminding me fervently that I have a body and that I can run very fast if necessary. I am not to thrilled to be out repossessing a stolen vehicle in club clothes, but now that the cops are here, I feel less vulnerable. We walk briskly, arms crossed, down the one-way street where 2 police cars are waiting in the middle, shining their brights through the tinted windows of the van. Introductions ensue. The officer jots down our information. Adam asks if he can take a look inside. I quickly inquire as to the existence of a person within. Officer J. Majucurado assures us he's vanquished that possibility - it's empty.
We can't believe we found the van! Even more amazing is the interior: completely unchanged since last Thursday, when all the stuff was stolen out of it. Things like Adam's camelback and the vent cover are even in the same places on the floor. Same with the trailer! Laundry detergent and car jack and nalgene bottle all sitting there unassumingly, dull and dusty. Hallelujah! All it needs is a jump start. The thief left the rear interior light on. He didn't close the sliding door completely. Those are the only things out of place.
Jubilantly, we arrive back home at about 2:15 am. We bid Marc adieu. Adam puts the club we just bought on the steering wheel and disconnects the distributor cap. We can't believe our luck. We'll be driving our van to Harbin Hotsprings tomorrow. YIPEE! The absence of our van has made our hearts grow fonder, to be sure. Fond hearts feel good:)
Adam and I decide to go dancing and invite our friend Marc, who also just had stuff stolen - from his house. Adam and I have wanted to go to this particular shindig for quite a long time, and now that we live here in Oakland for the time being, such things are easy. The event is called Vision. As we walk into Il Pirata on 16th Street, no one cards us or charges us a cover. We hear the beats, but don't see a dance floor. We are wondering if we came to the right place, on the right night. We stride past the bar, where 10 or so people are scattered amongst barstools and tables. We round the corner, following the bass rhythm. Up a short flight of stairs is a dance floor. One person moves with the music, standing just outside center stage, where a huge image of a dancing vixen enthralls the perimeter of people on the edges of the room. We see our friends - behind the equipment. We say hello and hug those we can reach easily. Eventually some more of those wonderful people we know show up, and soon there are 4 or 5 people on the dance floor. The music ramps up to a point at which my body does not sit still, and I move into the fray. Soon I am dancing hard, and I hardly need to consciously direct my limbs at moments. It feels so good to move! I have been aching for thumping music and an inviting space and people to dance with. The energy goes up for a while, but then we all need a break from our happy exertion, and the dance floor dies down. We go out to the car and eat some food I left in the trunk: a crisp fuji apple, brazil nuts. Marc went out earlier to hunt down something edible after realizing he hadn't eaten dinner and his favorite drink seemed stronger than usual. He came back with cheetos, starbursts, and a slim jim. Grinning broadly, he chows down.
On the way back, we talk about looking for the van. To our surprise, Marc agrees to tag along while we drive around for the 4th time in search of the van we fear we will never find, though we are hoping very sincerely that it's nearby. We tool around several dark streets on the West side of Telegraph, then head for home, having seen quite a few Vanagons, but not our beloved Trogdor. Adam decides to head us there in a different direction and comes up our cross street from the south. We are 3 blocks from home, and I catch a glimpse of the white roof of a van down a side street. "Marc, was that a Vanagon back there?" I say with a feeling that it was. "Yeah, let's turn here and circle back around." We do.
Our eyes pop and our mouths drop: it's there. Our van. Our pod. In one piece.
Oh, My God! It's just parked as if nothing were out of place on this nice-looking side street where there are shiny SUVs and little sports cars. Rich Street, in fact. We are in as quiet an uproar as we can muster. Not wanting to stop next to it in case the thief is inside, we keep going and park out of sight on the cross street. I dial 911. This is getting to be familiar. The dispatcher answers, and I start to speak, but I can't organize my thoughts in the least. "I'm calling to say that our-um-wait...I don't know how to say this...Okay, our van was stolen on Monday, and we just found it, and we think someone might be sleeping in it, and that's why we're calling you." My adrenaline is rushing like the American River where we camped with Emily on our way to Saline Valley. I say all the necessary things to the police officer as I try to keep my head on straight while Adam exuberantly punches the air and he and Marc are laughing triumphantly. We all feel like we're in a PI thriller.
Now, we wait for the cops to come. We wait. We realize it will be a while. We speculate on the thief, imagining whether he is in there or not, what he thought when he left it parked there with the trailer still attached. There is a cat meandering around the car, on the sidewalk. It looks suspicious and not too smart (it's awful curious about cars, and you've heard the story about feline snooping). We exclaim and realize everything - every person who wanders down this street, every cat, every plastic bag - looks suspicious to us at this point. We keep thinking that we see the cop's lights on the stop sign to our left, but it's just the wind moving the shadow of the trees. Suddenly the cat is on the hood of the car and Adam is reeling in shock, his arms flailing out toward the cat and onto the steering wheel. We suddenly burst out laughing and all our tension pours out into the air. Adam puts on the windshield wiper fluid and the cats leaps off the hood, slinking around the side again. Marc says, "Okay, now can we go house to house looking for my computer?" Our laughter regales the interior of our rental car and we imagine this ridiculous canvassing effort with huge smiles on our faces, wishing something like that could actually work.
Marc and Adam want to see whether the people we've seen walking down Rich Street have anything to do with our van. I remind everyone that if we see someone go in or out, we're supposed to call the police again with a special direct line in that bypasses the hold queue. We discuss it for a moment in urgent tones. He finally gets out and walk to the head of Rich Street where he can see the van. The cops arrive and circle round. I get out and join my investigative posse. I get the call they promised from dispatch. I tell them we see the officers. I ask them what we're supposed to do. "Make contact with the officer," she instructs me. "Okay," I say with utmost seriousness, blood singing in my ears, reminding me fervently that I have a body and that I can run very fast if necessary. I am not to thrilled to be out repossessing a stolen vehicle in club clothes, but now that the cops are here, I feel less vulnerable. We walk briskly, arms crossed, down the one-way street where 2 police cars are waiting in the middle, shining their brights through the tinted windows of the van. Introductions ensue. The officer jots down our information. Adam asks if he can take a look inside. I quickly inquire as to the existence of a person within. Officer J. Majucurado assures us he's vanquished that possibility - it's empty.
We can't believe we found the van! Even more amazing is the interior: completely unchanged since last Thursday, when all the stuff was stolen out of it. Things like Adam's camelback and the vent cover are even in the same places on the floor. Same with the trailer! Laundry detergent and car jack and nalgene bottle all sitting there unassumingly, dull and dusty. Hallelujah! All it needs is a jump start. The thief left the rear interior light on. He didn't close the sliding door completely. Those are the only things out of place.
Jubilantly, we arrive back home at about 2:15 am. We bid Marc adieu. Adam puts the club we just bought on the steering wheel and disconnects the distributor cap. We can't believe our luck. We'll be driving our van to Harbin Hotsprings tomorrow. YIPEE! The absence of our van has made our hearts grow fonder, to be sure. Fond hearts feel good:)
Thursday, August 11, 2005
the case of the stolen house
Lest you think otherwise, just because we're in Oakland living in a regular house doesn't mean we are immune to adventure. Last week we had about $3,000 worth of stuff stolen from our van, right under our noses really (in view of our bedroom), and THEN 3 days later, our housemate cautiously knocks on and opens our door at 1:30 am with the following words: "Um...someone just drove away in your van..."
Our van is adventuring without us, likely the new home of a heroin addict, judging from the needles strewn about the stuff we got BACK in the recovered vehicle of a neighbor a couple days ago. We hope that our beloved home on wheels will come home soon with the help of the Oakland PD.
Meanwhile, we got a healthy dose of community in action from our broad network of friends and acquaintances here in the bay area. Within 2 days, we received about 40 emails letting us know we have help if we need it for anything - from borrowing stuff to planning a fundraiser for us. How cool is that!? It's heartening to say the least. We're laughing a little and looking less mopey than we did in the first 24 hours. But there is all the paperwork. That's tonight's job.
Our van is adventuring without us, likely the new home of a heroin addict, judging from the needles strewn about the stuff we got BACK in the recovered vehicle of a neighbor a couple days ago. We hope that our beloved home on wheels will come home soon with the help of the Oakland PD.
Meanwhile, we got a healthy dose of community in action from our broad network of friends and acquaintances here in the bay area. Within 2 days, we received about 40 emails letting us know we have help if we need it for anything - from borrowing stuff to planning a fundraiser for us. How cool is that!? It's heartening to say the least. We're laughing a little and looking less mopey than we did in the first 24 hours. But there is all the paperwork. That's tonight's job.
Saturday, June 25, 2005
Weather, Winslow, and Degrees of Separation
We drove over 900 miles in 2 days, from Durango to Santa Barbara. As we approached our home landscape, I began to marvel at the weather. California's coast has AMAZING weather! Barstow, on the other hand - not so much. Just bright white light and a ground that looks bleached by the sun.
As we arrived in Winslow on our first day of driving, the song stuck in my head and I wanted to stand on a corner and see what all the fuss was about - perhaps some woman would slow down to check us out. We DO have the ambassador pod with us.
We stopped for gas and then parked on the corner of the lot, right next to the freeway, to check email and the like. As we sat, a man strode toward us - well, gimbled is a better word - he had had a few too many. Expecting an appeal for greenbacks, but not too sure what sort of fellow he was, I closed the front door where I was seated. He emerged in full view at the sliding door, where Adam sat on the cooler. The brown skin of his face was beaded with sweat, adorned with black strands of hair and a bandana. He wore dirty jeans and a flannel shirt. While my clothes are often pretty dirty too these days, I felt a world apart from this man, seemingly lost to a self-directed life, to a community that could support him, or a family to take him in, He held out a pair of sunglasses. His hands shook as he said in a gravelly, strained voice, "Hey man, you got a piece of tape?" We both blinked. Sure, we got tape. Adam rummaged in our overfull cupboard of supplies and pulled out the roll of duct tape. The man held his glasses out..."Can you...?" Adam gingerly applied the tape to the left hinge, trying to avoid touching his scabbed, grubby hands. The man held the frame and tested it, holding it up to the sky as if to check for lens scratches. "How's that?" Adam asked him. "Good...it's good," he said, his voice shaking now too. He staggered a little. He paused for a moment and then came the stereotypical question: "You got a dollar?"
"Naw, man - I just fixed your glasses!" Adam chuckled aloud.
"Alright!" the drunken man finished loudly, slapping Adam on the knee. He laughed and wandered away.
This moment, like so many others, brings to mind the tale of six degrees of separation. I long to create a map that shows all the people I have ever crossed paths with and extends out to all the people they have crossed paths with, to see how many we have in common. While Friendster does this, it would not include such a man as we met this day. An acquaintance and random stranger brush-up database would be a lot of work for the novelty of counting out degrees of relatedness among this vast human family.
As we arrived in Winslow on our first day of driving, the song stuck in my head and I wanted to stand on a corner and see what all the fuss was about - perhaps some woman would slow down to check us out. We DO have the ambassador pod with us.
We stopped for gas and then parked on the corner of the lot, right next to the freeway, to check email and the like. As we sat, a man strode toward us - well, gimbled is a better word - he had had a few too many. Expecting an appeal for greenbacks, but not too sure what sort of fellow he was, I closed the front door where I was seated. He emerged in full view at the sliding door, where Adam sat on the cooler. The brown skin of his face was beaded with sweat, adorned with black strands of hair and a bandana. He wore dirty jeans and a flannel shirt. While my clothes are often pretty dirty too these days, I felt a world apart from this man, seemingly lost to a self-directed life, to a community that could support him, or a family to take him in, He held out a pair of sunglasses. His hands shook as he said in a gravelly, strained voice, "Hey man, you got a piece of tape?" We both blinked. Sure, we got tape. Adam rummaged in our overfull cupboard of supplies and pulled out the roll of duct tape. The man held his glasses out..."Can you...?" Adam gingerly applied the tape to the left hinge, trying to avoid touching his scabbed, grubby hands. The man held the frame and tested it, holding it up to the sky as if to check for lens scratches. "How's that?" Adam asked him. "Good...it's good," he said, his voice shaking now too. He staggered a little. He paused for a moment and then came the stereotypical question: "You got a dollar?"
"Naw, man - I just fixed your glasses!" Adam chuckled aloud.
"Alright!" the drunken man finished loudly, slapping Adam on the knee. He laughed and wandered away.
This moment, like so many others, brings to mind the tale of six degrees of separation. I long to create a map that shows all the people I have ever crossed paths with and extends out to all the people they have crossed paths with, to see how many we have in common. While Friendster does this, it would not include such a man as we met this day. An acquaintance and random stranger brush-up database would be a lot of work for the novelty of counting out degrees of relatedness among this vast human family.
Friday, June 24, 2005
The hot way home
We are passing gigantic rock formations between Shiprock and Gallup, New Mexico. This one looks like an enormous drizzle sand castle, hardened in some spectacular weather event. This one looks like huge alien eggs, oval but partly flattened, huddled together standing up in a ring, awaiting the right moment to hatch.
The sky is filled with disney clouds, and the ground is yellow-brown, scattered with faint green desert plants. As cars and trucks hurtle past us on this two-lane highway through the Navajo Nation, gusts of wind are hurled at us, as if a great being were throwing balls of invisible matter at the side of the van.
We drove through Farmington for the third time on this trip. This time, the town seemed to have spruced itself up. It no longer had that depressed feeling of old, dry, hot, falling apart scrubbiness. I saw tree-lined streets and shops whose colorful signs did not glare out at me, but rather formed an ensemble.
We pass horses and cows grazing on impossibly thin grass, amid mounds of earthquake-upturned sandstone. We just passed a chestnut horse with one thin white stripe down its hind leg. We often catch the smell of green hay from the trucks transporting a load of bales to and fro. The hay seems to add moisture to the air, making this landscape seem ever so slightly more pleasant.
We left Silverton just past 8 o'clock last night, after getting a jump from a friendly neighborhood preacher, Scott Bobo, as he introduced himself. We had run down the battery trading off laptop and phone chargers with one plug for hours while Adam and I dealt with our situation in various ways - phone, writing, email, excel charts.
We spent the night in Durango again (didn't think we would see the town for a long time when we left it a few days ago), at the WalMart. This time, I did not buy anything, newly motivated to eat the food we had in the van (which is a lot, since I bought a week's worth before heading to Purgatory), and not to come with any more supply needs given our new financial state of mind. Apparently, this displeased the WalGods and they sent in a massive sleep interrupter: the 2-hour parking lot street cleaner. Since Adam could barely sleep anyway, it was more of a drown-out-thoughts machine than a sleep interrupter, which may have been just as well since his mind was working overtime on thinking up how to deal with a sudden loss of business prospects. I, on the other hand, did not fare so well.
In the morning, I slept as long as I could before the sun drove me up and out of Trogdor's very warm top bunk. Tired of scrambled egg whites and pan toast, I decided on savory french toast. I poured the extra egg white over the two pieces of soaked bread and let it form an omelette. It was much better than egg white scramble. And the pan let go of more egg. I am very relieved to be using a new pan since Albuquerque, as it does not require a monumental amount of elbow grease to get egg remnants cleaned off.
I finally talked to a friend on the phone today about our latest snafu. Adam's method of dealing with crisis is to talk to everyone he knows, which he did most of yesterday afternoon and evening. It took some pushing past mental barriers for me to make contact - I have such specific parameters for how I like to talk on the phone: not in a loud car, not when I'm around anyone else, not when I don't feel like talking. I decided to shine these on since the result was not talking to anyone. It felt so good to make that connection. Writing can only do so much.
The sky is filled with disney clouds, and the ground is yellow-brown, scattered with faint green desert plants. As cars and trucks hurtle past us on this two-lane highway through the Navajo Nation, gusts of wind are hurled at us, as if a great being were throwing balls of invisible matter at the side of the van.
We drove through Farmington for the third time on this trip. This time, the town seemed to have spruced itself up. It no longer had that depressed feeling of old, dry, hot, falling apart scrubbiness. I saw tree-lined streets and shops whose colorful signs did not glare out at me, but rather formed an ensemble.
We pass horses and cows grazing on impossibly thin grass, amid mounds of earthquake-upturned sandstone. We just passed a chestnut horse with one thin white stripe down its hind leg. We often catch the smell of green hay from the trucks transporting a load of bales to and fro. The hay seems to add moisture to the air, making this landscape seem ever so slightly more pleasant.
We left Silverton just past 8 o'clock last night, after getting a jump from a friendly neighborhood preacher, Scott Bobo, as he introduced himself. We had run down the battery trading off laptop and phone chargers with one plug for hours while Adam and I dealt with our situation in various ways - phone, writing, email, excel charts.
We spent the night in Durango again (didn't think we would see the town for a long time when we left it a few days ago), at the WalMart. This time, I did not buy anything, newly motivated to eat the food we had in the van (which is a lot, since I bought a week's worth before heading to Purgatory), and not to come with any more supply needs given our new financial state of mind. Apparently, this displeased the WalGods and they sent in a massive sleep interrupter: the 2-hour parking lot street cleaner. Since Adam could barely sleep anyway, it was more of a drown-out-thoughts machine than a sleep interrupter, which may have been just as well since his mind was working overtime on thinking up how to deal with a sudden loss of business prospects. I, on the other hand, did not fare so well.
In the morning, I slept as long as I could before the sun drove me up and out of Trogdor's very warm top bunk. Tired of scrambled egg whites and pan toast, I decided on savory french toast. I poured the extra egg white over the two pieces of soaked bread and let it form an omelette. It was much better than egg white scramble. And the pan let go of more egg. I am very relieved to be using a new pan since Albuquerque, as it does not require a monumental amount of elbow grease to get egg remnants cleaned off.
I finally talked to a friend on the phone today about our latest snafu. Adam's method of dealing with crisis is to talk to everyone he knows, which he did most of yesterday afternoon and evening. It took some pushing past mental barriers for me to make contact - I have such specific parameters for how I like to talk on the phone: not in a loud car, not when I'm around anyone else, not when I don't feel like talking. I decided to shine these on since the result was not talking to anyone. It felt so good to make that connection. Writing can only do so much.
A snafu
As I wrote my last post, while sitting in the cafe, Adam learned some disturbing work news: 3 WebGlow projects seem to have fallen through. The first phone call he made coincided with the first clap of thunder. The second one was accompanied by a request to leave the cafe so the proprietors could attend a funeral. The entire town seemed somber and we joined right in with them, though for a more private debacle.
We were in the van for hours, Adam worrying and talking to friends and family on the phone, us trying to decide what to do now that a huge chunk of our financial prospects (what enables us to travel as we are) are in jeopardy. We decided that our trip back to CA for the community campout events we were already planning needs to be a longer stay so Adam can work more efficiently, meet with his squirrely clients, and focus on work without the extra challenge of being on the road. And, so I can get a temporary job and help our cash flow.
We are feeling rather jarred and sad to be suddenly on our way back "home" (even though we don't really live anywhere) for we're not sure how long.
The good news is...we have done the hardest part of our trip: moving out of our house, putting nearly all our belongings in storage, figuring out what equipment we need for our trip, buying it, and figuring out how it works with all the variables present on the road, and just rolling with the punches for 6 weeks.
We had yet to stay in one place for longer than 3 days, which is what we realized would be the best way to approach the balance of work, play, and logistics. I had yet to establish a real writing practice. Adam had just started to feel like working on the road was possible.
As many of our friends said...what could be so bad about living the bay area for a couple months with nearly all your friends around you, supporting you, until you feel like you're in a place to get back on the road?
We were in the van for hours, Adam worrying and talking to friends and family on the phone, us trying to decide what to do now that a huge chunk of our financial prospects (what enables us to travel as we are) are in jeopardy. We decided that our trip back to CA for the community campout events we were already planning needs to be a longer stay so Adam can work more efficiently, meet with his squirrely clients, and focus on work without the extra challenge of being on the road. And, so I can get a temporary job and help our cash flow.
We are feeling rather jarred and sad to be suddenly on our way back "home" (even though we don't really live anywhere) for we're not sure how long.
The good news is...we have done the hardest part of our trip: moving out of our house, putting nearly all our belongings in storage, figuring out what equipment we need for our trip, buying it, and figuring out how it works with all the variables present on the road, and just rolling with the punches for 6 weeks.
We had yet to stay in one place for longer than 3 days, which is what we realized would be the best way to approach the balance of work, play, and logistics. I had yet to establish a real writing practice. Adam had just started to feel like working on the road was possible.
As many of our friends said...what could be so bad about living the bay area for a couple months with nearly all your friends around you, supporting you, until you feel like you're in a place to get back on the road?
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Silverton Thunder
While thunder and rain grace the huge mountains that surround us, we are warm and dry in a lazy Silverton cafe, being serenaded by Chicago, playing on the little TV set in the corner. We decided this morning that the spot we picked out along Hermosa Creek in the Purgatory Wilderness area did not afford enough privacy, and decided to just keep driving along our long route back to California and find another camp spot for the next few days. We packed up such that moving around the van requires acrobatics, but at least all the dishes were done and put away. And, having a second dishpan makes a world of difference in my enjoyment of the task. Next to the rushing of the creek, in dappled sunlight, I went about the task standing up at our roll-up table (another improvement), trying to let it sink in that doing dishes in the woods next to a creek is unusual and wonderful. It worked for only a moment. I find that I get used to the beauty and freedom of my surroundings so quickly, and the little irritations are harder to dismiss as normal.
We spent most of the afternoon yesterday driving around Purgatory, looking for a spot without other people next to us, and with as few mosquitoes as possible. As soon as we hit about 8,000 feet on the way North from Durango, I got incredibly sleepy and remained so until we went to sleep around 10 or 11 at night. We pulled off the road at one point and Adam led us down a hill to one of the many streams. Inspired by Adam's gleeful look and apparent disregard for temperature, I dunked myself in the shallow water of the creek, screamed loudly, bonked my head on a rock below the surface of the turbid water, and leapt out, grinning.
On the way up the mountain toward Ouray, the place we think we'll be happy with, we saw a stalled motorcyclist, still inside the line on the mountainside of the two-lane, winding highway. We pulled over on the cliff side and called out to see whether he had cell signal. We waited a minute while he tried to make a call, and then offered him our satellite phone. This is cool, I thought, we're helping someone out with our techno gadgets. We got out some flares to put out on the road around the corner, given his dangerous parking spot. It took about half and hour for him to get in touch with whoever he was calling, and he finally moved his cycle off the road, to our relief. So, no need for flares uproad, and truckers would now stop yelling obscenities at him as they rounded the corner. Turns outs he had seen a rock come out from under a car he was following and misestimated where it would land. His front rim is in bad shape. His name is Gary. He works at Google. So that makes him...Gary the Googler.
So, now we're talking a breather in the thunderstorm here, checking email, making a few calls, mailing a few things, and drinking warm beverages. The narrow-gauge train we heard so often in Durango comes all the way over the 10,000 foot passes, about 50 miles to this mountain-ringed old mining town. The downtown street is wide enough for diagonal parking on both sides and wide wagons passing each other in each lane (which I'm sure it once accommodated). The post office is a small blue house with red trim and a wooden sign announcing its establishment in 1875. I am surprised to find that there are all the same sorts of chai and tea as there are anywhere else. The snow-speckled mountains around us, the black smoke of the train, and the old buildings make this place seem more remote than it is.
I have been retooling my sense of "remote" as we pass through towns like this one, and those that are so unbearably hot that a truck drive through them seems like punishment (though I think most truckers have air conditioning, which we do not). If there's a road, it's just not very remote. No matter how high and windy and bumpy the road, supplies can get there. And people move there. I feel ever more fortunate that the places I have lived are not unbearably hot or incredibly remote (although the latter has its plus sides, certainly), nor ugly sprawl. Perhaps it's just that I am used to my sense of home in California. But the constant increase in California's coastal population indicates otherwise. There are places we've passed through where I could see myself living, particularly Flagstaff and Durango, where there seem to be some ex-Californians who got sick of the traffic and the lack of distinct seasons.
Every time we arrive in a new town (that is not gross like the oil field town of Farmington, New Mexico), my excitement for being on the road rekindles and I drink the place in. I love figuring out where things are on the map, and successfully finding the real places. Or just wandering around seeing where my instinct takes me. Still, there are always things that crop up like weeds late in the growing season that can only be removed by hand or hoe. There was the internet cafe that had friendly staff, hormone and antibiotic free beef...but no power outlets. In a city, one can only drain the batteries only so much before the generator is needed (or a long drive) to charge it back up. One expects to find sources of power that will not incur the wrath of locals like the generator will. An internet cafe seems like a good bet...they ARE inviting you in to use a laptop. Then there was the restaurant recommendation, complete with directions, that did not materialize after several hungry blocks. Upon asking some obvious locals where the place was, they proclaim they've never heard of it. I balked at walking those hungry blocks back to a place we had already been, so we perused the menu of the closest breakfast joint and headed in. The room was stuffy. One mediocre breakfast later, we head back down the street, semi-satisfied. I see the place originally recommended to us, with a slightly different name. Such is the life of wanderers.
We spent most of the afternoon yesterday driving around Purgatory, looking for a spot without other people next to us, and with as few mosquitoes as possible. As soon as we hit about 8,000 feet on the way North from Durango, I got incredibly sleepy and remained so until we went to sleep around 10 or 11 at night. We pulled off the road at one point and Adam led us down a hill to one of the many streams. Inspired by Adam's gleeful look and apparent disregard for temperature, I dunked myself in the shallow water of the creek, screamed loudly, bonked my head on a rock below the surface of the turbid water, and leapt out, grinning.
On the way up the mountain toward Ouray, the place we think we'll be happy with, we saw a stalled motorcyclist, still inside the line on the mountainside of the two-lane, winding highway. We pulled over on the cliff side and called out to see whether he had cell signal. We waited a minute while he tried to make a call, and then offered him our satellite phone. This is cool, I thought, we're helping someone out with our techno gadgets. We got out some flares to put out on the road around the corner, given his dangerous parking spot. It took about half and hour for him to get in touch with whoever he was calling, and he finally moved his cycle off the road, to our relief. So, no need for flares uproad, and truckers would now stop yelling obscenities at him as they rounded the corner. Turns outs he had seen a rock come out from under a car he was following and misestimated where it would land. His front rim is in bad shape. His name is Gary. He works at Google. So that makes him...Gary the Googler.
So, now we're talking a breather in the thunderstorm here, checking email, making a few calls, mailing a few things, and drinking warm beverages. The narrow-gauge train we heard so often in Durango comes all the way over the 10,000 foot passes, about 50 miles to this mountain-ringed old mining town. The downtown street is wide enough for diagonal parking on both sides and wide wagons passing each other in each lane (which I'm sure it once accommodated). The post office is a small blue house with red trim and a wooden sign announcing its establishment in 1875. I am surprised to find that there are all the same sorts of chai and tea as there are anywhere else. The snow-speckled mountains around us, the black smoke of the train, and the old buildings make this place seem more remote than it is.
I have been retooling my sense of "remote" as we pass through towns like this one, and those that are so unbearably hot that a truck drive through them seems like punishment (though I think most truckers have air conditioning, which we do not). If there's a road, it's just not very remote. No matter how high and windy and bumpy the road, supplies can get there. And people move there. I feel ever more fortunate that the places I have lived are not unbearably hot or incredibly remote (although the latter has its plus sides, certainly), nor ugly sprawl. Perhaps it's just that I am used to my sense of home in California. But the constant increase in California's coastal population indicates otherwise. There are places we've passed through where I could see myself living, particularly Flagstaff and Durango, where there seem to be some ex-Californians who got sick of the traffic and the lack of distinct seasons.
Every time we arrive in a new town (that is not gross like the oil field town of Farmington, New Mexico), my excitement for being on the road rekindles and I drink the place in. I love figuring out where things are on the map, and successfully finding the real places. Or just wandering around seeing where my instinct takes me. Still, there are always things that crop up like weeds late in the growing season that can only be removed by hand or hoe. There was the internet cafe that had friendly staff, hormone and antibiotic free beef...but no power outlets. In a city, one can only drain the batteries only so much before the generator is needed (or a long drive) to charge it back up. One expects to find sources of power that will not incur the wrath of locals like the generator will. An internet cafe seems like a good bet...they ARE inviting you in to use a laptop. Then there was the restaurant recommendation, complete with directions, that did not materialize after several hungry blocks. Upon asking some obvious locals where the place was, they proclaim they've never heard of it. I balked at walking those hungry blocks back to a place we had already been, so we perused the menu of the closest breakfast joint and headed in. The room was stuffy. One mediocre breakfast later, we head back down the street, semi-satisfied. I see the place originally recommended to us, with a slightly different name. Such is the life of wanderers.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Leavin' the desert - back to Durango
We follow the weather very closely. Something I never bothered with in Santa Cruz. Whatever the weather was, I wanted to be surprised. People would say to me, "it's supposed to be in the 80's this weekend," or, "I hear it's going to rain all week." To which I would simply shrug and say simply, "Oh." Thinking, "Who cares? Why worry about what the weather will do? Now I have this weather forecast in my head that's going to occupy my thoughts."
It was almost like someone telling me how good a movie is, and then having expectations, and seeing the movie and thinking, "that's not what was supposed to happen." Because the weather rarely seemed to follow the casual forecasts of my daily experience.
Now we are checking the weather in every new place before we decide to go there. Flagstaff: thunderstorms. Durango: chance of thunderstorms. Taos: no thunderstorms mentioned, but in the high 80's and 90's and will add more hours to our trek back to CA late next week. Hmmm... Several hours later we finally make a decision, though still not entirely sold on it: Durango tonight. Purgatory tomorrow (no, not the biblical one). Stay in or around there till we head back to CA via Salt Lake City and Carson City. It just says "chance" of thunderstorms after all. These are probably just short afternoon storms, not like the rainy season on CA's central coast in the winter.
We are mostly just glad to leave the desert again - Albuquerque was in the high nineties at least with very few trees. Which was fine while we were taking a vacation in an air conditioned hotel room, but not so fine when we decided to go out for dinner, or pack up and leave the place. And our fridge got well above 100 cooped up in the van for 2 days with no ventilation or shade (and the cooler ice melted entirely). Our food died. Or came to life, depending on how you look at it. The milk had an amoeba-like growth in it that smelled of sourdough bread. Yet another reason to check the weather and stick to the temperate spots. I find myself thinking of the lizards we've seen gracing the rocks of this arid country. Our priorities have moved closer to theirs: Stay comfortable. Conserve energy. Move only when necessary.
We are now on the move, heading North on 550. Reveling is blaring over the noise of the wind, and we are feeling good. We sing along, and the trumpets toot us toward Colorado.
It seems whenever we are in one place for a while (that's not too hot or too cold), we are happier. No need to pack up and drive, to reorganize our amazing assortment of stuff at too frequent intervals. But then I also revel in moving through the landscape, on our way to somewhere, but not thinking about the destination, just looking around at the mountains and dry washes and streams and highway signs. There is always something new to see out the window. Every second. I notice so many things while we are on the road, like the cloud patterns or the freckles on my shoulder in the side view mirror, or a herd of cows with colors I have never seen. And I love the way my mind moves with the road.
I think home can be many places. It's not really even a particular place. It's wherever I feel that i am most myself: on the road, by a mountain lake for several days, at a cafe or a library, or in the zone with my little stone tablet, oblivious to my surroundings entirely.
It was almost like someone telling me how good a movie is, and then having expectations, and seeing the movie and thinking, "that's not what was supposed to happen." Because the weather rarely seemed to follow the casual forecasts of my daily experience.
Now we are checking the weather in every new place before we decide to go there. Flagstaff: thunderstorms. Durango: chance of thunderstorms. Taos: no thunderstorms mentioned, but in the high 80's and 90's and will add more hours to our trek back to CA late next week. Hmmm... Several hours later we finally make a decision, though still not entirely sold on it: Durango tonight. Purgatory tomorrow (no, not the biblical one). Stay in or around there till we head back to CA via Salt Lake City and Carson City. It just says "chance" of thunderstorms after all. These are probably just short afternoon storms, not like the rainy season on CA's central coast in the winter.
We are mostly just glad to leave the desert again - Albuquerque was in the high nineties at least with very few trees. Which was fine while we were taking a vacation in an air conditioned hotel room, but not so fine when we decided to go out for dinner, or pack up and leave the place. And our fridge got well above 100 cooped up in the van for 2 days with no ventilation or shade (and the cooler ice melted entirely). Our food died. Or came to life, depending on how you look at it. The milk had an amoeba-like growth in it that smelled of sourdough bread. Yet another reason to check the weather and stick to the temperate spots. I find myself thinking of the lizards we've seen gracing the rocks of this arid country. Our priorities have moved closer to theirs: Stay comfortable. Conserve energy. Move only when necessary.
We are now on the move, heading North on 550. Reveling is blaring over the noise of the wind, and we are feeling good. We sing along, and the trumpets toot us toward Colorado.
It seems whenever we are in one place for a while (that's not too hot or too cold), we are happier. No need to pack up and drive, to reorganize our amazing assortment of stuff at too frequent intervals. But then I also revel in moving through the landscape, on our way to somewhere, but not thinking about the destination, just looking around at the mountains and dry washes and streams and highway signs. There is always something new to see out the window. Every second. I notice so many things while we are on the road, like the cloud patterns or the freckles on my shoulder in the side view mirror, or a herd of cows with colors I have never seen. And I love the way my mind moves with the road.
I think home can be many places. It's not really even a particular place. It's wherever I feel that i am most myself: on the road, by a mountain lake for several days, at a cafe or a library, or in the zone with my little stone tablet, oblivious to my surroundings entirely.
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Durango Donut
I've decided that most foods just taste better when made with non-lab-based ingredients. Like flour that's just ground grains (not reconstituted bran, germ and what-all). No dough fillers or oils made into butter and lard substitutes. Even donuts, the epitome of reconstituted, uber-processed food (just look at the ingredient list in a krispy kreme). No, I'm not kidding. It's not just because I was raised on health food. I like junk food just as much as the next dude. Probably more, actually (if you don't count gas station candy that has no chocolate). The best donut I've had since I was 10 years old was not from a donut shop at all, but in the frozen food section at a health food store in Durango, CO. It was glazed apple, made by Nutrilicious. It was soverlicious (if you don't recognize this word, you haven't seen this video clip from Democracy Now).
The aforementioned donut has entirely recognizable ingredients. I let it thaw and discovered that the purchase I made just for irony (sure, with a small hope of real taste) was really it - the first really good donut I've tasted in 16 years.
For those of you who don't know, I have an occasional and minor obsession with donuts. I decided maybe a year or two ago, after having a highly disappointing donut at Santa Cruz's local chain donut shop, that there had to be a good one somewhere - that it was not just my morphed memory of that sugar twist at Puck's donuts in Ashland (which, from my taste buds' point of view, has now joined the mediocre donut shop ranks) that elevated my standard above achievable.
But does this mean my search is over?
It's been about an hour since I swallowed the last morsel (which I had to follow with water to keep from choking - that's how hearty it was). My obsession has, for the moment, abated.
I want to check out the scene at donut shops around the country and see who hangs out there, and write about it. Might as well try the donuts while I'm at it...and I'm sure the sudden craving for fried cake will return as I walk in the shop for ostensibly cultural and journalistic reasons.
Plus, I want to someday make my own donuts.
And, I've not tried what most real donut hounds know is the prime way to sample the day's fried goodness: getting to the shop early in the morning, when the things are fresh. I've been assured by many this is the way to taste donuts.
Stay tuned.
The aforementioned donut has entirely recognizable ingredients. I let it thaw and discovered that the purchase I made just for irony (sure, with a small hope of real taste) was really it - the first really good donut I've tasted in 16 years.
For those of you who don't know, I have an occasional and minor obsession with donuts. I decided maybe a year or two ago, after having a highly disappointing donut at Santa Cruz's local chain donut shop, that there had to be a good one somewhere - that it was not just my morphed memory of that sugar twist at Puck's donuts in Ashland (which, from my taste buds' point of view, has now joined the mediocre donut shop ranks) that elevated my standard above achievable.
But does this mean my search is over?
It's been about an hour since I swallowed the last morsel (which I had to follow with water to keep from choking - that's how hearty it was). My obsession has, for the moment, abated.
I want to check out the scene at donut shops around the country and see who hangs out there, and write about it. Might as well try the donuts while I'm at it...and I'm sure the sudden craving for fried cake will return as I walk in the shop for ostensibly cultural and journalistic reasons.
Plus, I want to someday make my own donuts.
And, I've not tried what most real donut hounds know is the prime way to sample the day's fried goodness: getting to the shop early in the morning, when the things are fresh. I've been assured by many this is the way to taste donuts.
Stay tuned.
Sunday, June 05, 2005
Geographical Largess
The drive from our national forest haven to Mather Campground on the South Rim was long. It felt like we were climbing a slow, gentle mountain. The trees seemed to shrink the closer we got. All the while I felt a tightness in my chest, anticipating what this enormous hole in the earth would feel like when I saw it. This would be my second time, technically, to the Grand Canyon, though I was a mere 1 year when my parents and I visited last.
On the advice of our new friend George, we stopped a few miles from the park entrance in Tusayan, with everyone else and their tour bus, to see the Imax film that would help us with our depth perception upon seeing the real thing. The theater was packed, as were all other spaces where people might tend to congregate: the gift shop, the bathroom, the parking lot, the front desk, the sidewalks. The film had magnificent footage, mostly depicting sequential exploratory rafting expeditions down the Colorado. The history of the European contact with the canyon was presented by a sultry male voice, which proclaimed that little is known about the people who lived in and around the canyon prior to the 1600s when the first Spanish conquistadors set eyes on the gaping 10 miles of space from South to North rim. As the history lesson proceeded, the horrendous cliches increased to a constant serenade. I began to sink lower in my chair. Adam and I exchanged glances and rolled our eyes. We tried to focus on the visuals and ignore the incredibly sappy voice over that reminded us why we groaned at movies in High School History class.
The campground was hidden from the rim by pines and juniper. We had a whole 3 days before we would head East to meet the Santa Barbara Middle School on their end of the year bike trip to the 4 corners, so we were anxious to get set up and do a real test of working/writing/living in this home on wheels. Adam got the dish pointed in record time. We planned out the following day for the first time since we'd started, allowing several hours to explore around the canyon rim. Near dusk, we extracted the bikes from the trailer (also the first time on our trip) and got them pumped up for a ride to the rim.
Excitement mounted as we looked at the visitor map and headed off in the direction we thought would take us to the Mather lookout. It turns out that the Grand Canyon Park staff much prefer that you take a shuttle to view the wonders than walk or bike or otherwise try to navigate through the forest to the edge of the precipice. The signs were sparse. After starting to head back to the highway, we turned around and found the lookout. The first glimpse sent a small wave to shore in my belly. And then, it was just there: miles of empty space framed by colorful crags of rock.
In the days that followed, with more lookouts, we realized the rim can only be seen so many times before our eyes just glaze over and we can't fathom what we're seeing. With only a few days to spend there and my tenuous knee strength, we did not venture into the canyon. If we return, I know we will venture down into the chasm, hopefully Havasu Canyon.
We learned that while popular campgrounds are certainly livable and afford some luxuries like running water and not having to dig a daily hole, they present the likelihood of unsavory neighbors. Ours, for the duration of our stay, were on three sides: two friendly groups we enjoyed chatting, watching mellow elk, and eating smores with, and one family whose mother or grandmother (we couldn't tell which) could be heard at all hours chastizing her hubby and two young charges in a voice I though was only fit for a wicked stepmother in a fairy tale. It was incredible, the things that came out of her mouth:
"If you want our help you're going to have to use your brain. I'm not going to tell you how to do it! Any third, fourth or fifth grader would know how to do that. Just figure it out and stop bugging me!"
"Come here and look at this. What's wrong with this picture?! You left this out for the birds to crap all over it!"
We thought up what me might say to her, and concluded that nothing we could say would do anything but create more animosity. Amazingly, the kids seemed as cheerful as could be. They played until they were yelled at, then went back to playing with the cat (on a leash) and dog, both of whom seemed the woman's favorites in the family.
Across the street of our camp loop, we met a brother, sister and their friend from Albuquerque and Kansas City. It was great to connect with people out of the blue. So far we had met friends of friends, but had not made any friends or acquaintances on the sole circumstance of being on the road. We attempted to make jiffy pop over their campfire and managed to get half of it popped, and unburned. Yum. They shared their smores and trail mix with us. We swapped trip stories and travel recommendations and discussed racial profiling at length.
On the other side of our camp, we met a family from Minnesota who had moved to a town near Tucson but were headed back to their home state, saying it was not conservative enough in their new surroundings. They apologized several times for bothering us but with our encouragement finally came over as a group to chat. Actually, the elk who skirted our campsites were the catalyst. The mother in the family was quite concerned about the 4-legged creatures, wondering if they would trample their tent in the night. We did our best to reassure her this was highly unlikely. They stayed till it grew dark, and began saying they'd better leave us alone. After another several minutes of inching further toward their campsite, I realized with a grin: this is a long Minnesota goodbye.
On the advice of our new friend George, we stopped a few miles from the park entrance in Tusayan, with everyone else and their tour bus, to see the Imax film that would help us with our depth perception upon seeing the real thing. The theater was packed, as were all other spaces where people might tend to congregate: the gift shop, the bathroom, the parking lot, the front desk, the sidewalks. The film had magnificent footage, mostly depicting sequential exploratory rafting expeditions down the Colorado. The history of the European contact with the canyon was presented by a sultry male voice, which proclaimed that little is known about the people who lived in and around the canyon prior to the 1600s when the first Spanish conquistadors set eyes on the gaping 10 miles of space from South to North rim. As the history lesson proceeded, the horrendous cliches increased to a constant serenade. I began to sink lower in my chair. Adam and I exchanged glances and rolled our eyes. We tried to focus on the visuals and ignore the incredibly sappy voice over that reminded us why we groaned at movies in High School History class.
The campground was hidden from the rim by pines and juniper. We had a whole 3 days before we would head East to meet the Santa Barbara Middle School on their end of the year bike trip to the 4 corners, so we were anxious to get set up and do a real test of working/writing/living in this home on wheels. Adam got the dish pointed in record time. We planned out the following day for the first time since we'd started, allowing several hours to explore around the canyon rim. Near dusk, we extracted the bikes from the trailer (also the first time on our trip) and got them pumped up for a ride to the rim.
Excitement mounted as we looked at the visitor map and headed off in the direction we thought would take us to the Mather lookout. It turns out that the Grand Canyon Park staff much prefer that you take a shuttle to view the wonders than walk or bike or otherwise try to navigate through the forest to the edge of the precipice. The signs were sparse. After starting to head back to the highway, we turned around and found the lookout. The first glimpse sent a small wave to shore in my belly. And then, it was just there: miles of empty space framed by colorful crags of rock.
In the days that followed, with more lookouts, we realized the rim can only be seen so many times before our eyes just glaze over and we can't fathom what we're seeing. With only a few days to spend there and my tenuous knee strength, we did not venture into the canyon. If we return, I know we will venture down into the chasm, hopefully Havasu Canyon.
We learned that while popular campgrounds are certainly livable and afford some luxuries like running water and not having to dig a daily hole, they present the likelihood of unsavory neighbors. Ours, for the duration of our stay, were on three sides: two friendly groups we enjoyed chatting, watching mellow elk, and eating smores with, and one family whose mother or grandmother (we couldn't tell which) could be heard at all hours chastizing her hubby and two young charges in a voice I though was only fit for a wicked stepmother in a fairy tale. It was incredible, the things that came out of her mouth:
"If you want our help you're going to have to use your brain. I'm not going to tell you how to do it! Any third, fourth or fifth grader would know how to do that. Just figure it out and stop bugging me!"
"Come here and look at this. What's wrong with this picture?! You left this out for the birds to crap all over it!"
We thought up what me might say to her, and concluded that nothing we could say would do anything but create more animosity. Amazingly, the kids seemed as cheerful as could be. They played until they were yelled at, then went back to playing with the cat (on a leash) and dog, both of whom seemed the woman's favorites in the family.
Across the street of our camp loop, we met a brother, sister and their friend from Albuquerque and Kansas City. It was great to connect with people out of the blue. So far we had met friends of friends, but had not made any friends or acquaintances on the sole circumstance of being on the road. We attempted to make jiffy pop over their campfire and managed to get half of it popped, and unburned. Yum. They shared their smores and trail mix with us. We swapped trip stories and travel recommendations and discussed racial profiling at length.
On the other side of our camp, we met a family from Minnesota who had moved to a town near Tucson but were headed back to their home state, saying it was not conservative enough in their new surroundings. They apologized several times for bothering us but with our encouragement finally came over as a group to chat. Actually, the elk who skirted our campsites were the catalyst. The mother in the family was quite concerned about the 4-legged creatures, wondering if they would trample their tent in the night. We did our best to reassure her this was highly unlikely. They stayed till it grew dark, and began saying they'd better leave us alone. After another several minutes of inching further toward their campsite, I realized with a grin: this is a long Minnesota goodbye.
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