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.
Saturday, June 25, 2005
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.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Grand Canyon Bound
We are driving route 89A (A is for alternate) northeastward from Prescott. The green and rocky hills ahead of us are becoming our surroundings as the road plunges through them. We've got house music keeping us company, courtesy of Kevin, on our slow drive. The oil pressure-warning buzzer has already gone off twice today and we've barely driven! So, we are going more slowly - but all the better to see the country we roll through.
We have wended our way high up into these hills now, and can barely see the valley where Prescott lies below us. Pines are strewn about the hills with small-leafed oaks and shrubs. Trogdor struggles to continue on up the steep hill. We are at 6,800 feet - about 1500 feet climbed since Prescott, only 30 minutes or so ago. Patchy meadows dot the roadside now, as we descend to the other side of this small mountain.
I just caught sight of the burnt orange-red rock lining the lower cliff faces of the mountain range one valley east of this one. I imagine we'll climb that range too. Hopefully Trogdor will make it up and down all day.
Jerome reminded us each of a medieval French village and a lake island near Morelia, Mexico. It's built into the cliffs facing the red rocks across the valley. The older buildings look as if they will crumble onto the two-lane road any moment. As we descend into the valley, I see a 10-foot tall flower stalk, festooning its yellowness as if to say, "I am happy to be alive! Aren't you?" A bird stood atop the brilliant blooms. I caught sight of a curly-q plume and smiled at the two fancy creatures: a sedate quail, looking like a queen on its century plant throne. It is not a sight I will forget.
Sedona is nestled into the valley of seriously RED rocks. But the most amazing element of these geomasses is their shape. Color alone is not quite enough to make them incredible. I felt as if we were driving through a magazine photo. We stopped just beyond town, where every building is red just like the rock that holds it, and seriously contemplated getting massages and staying in a she-she bed and breakfast. We finally decided not to.
While we were searching around on line from the side of the van, a woman walked up to us and began to speak, though the wind carried away some of her words. We thought she needed help with her truck, but then we realized she was asking for food after a long trek. She was not shy about it. She declined my offer to make her a turkey sandwich saying in a far away voice that she was of "the vegetarian type." We gave her some: an orange, some cheese. She asked for more, and we offered her an apple, some bread. She wanted to make sure we were giving her whole-grain bread. She seemed disappointed that we did not have crackers. Her eyes constantly drifted off to look at the mountains, her thin blonde hair whipped about in the wind. Her skin was pink-bronze. She seemed almost to will herself ghostlike as she thanked us and walked back toward town, seeming to walk gently, but disappeared around the bend in the road in no time. I think when you are hungry and have no prospects for getting food by your own means, what others might think of you doesn't matter so much. You just ask for what you need, and you probably get it a lot. It reminded me of a story I read in the Sun Magazine, about a guy who walked over the Eastern US, living on whatever he found and received from others, an experiment in having nothing. Fascinating story.
We're now camped in the Coconino National Forest off Route 180, North of Flagstaff. Birds are calling out across the pines and dinner is on the stove, to which I must now attend!
We have wended our way high up into these hills now, and can barely see the valley where Prescott lies below us. Pines are strewn about the hills with small-leafed oaks and shrubs. Trogdor struggles to continue on up the steep hill. We are at 6,800 feet - about 1500 feet climbed since Prescott, only 30 minutes or so ago. Patchy meadows dot the roadside now, as we descend to the other side of this small mountain.
I just caught sight of the burnt orange-red rock lining the lower cliff faces of the mountain range one valley east of this one. I imagine we'll climb that range too. Hopefully Trogdor will make it up and down all day.
Jerome reminded us each of a medieval French village and a lake island near Morelia, Mexico. It's built into the cliffs facing the red rocks across the valley. The older buildings look as if they will crumble onto the two-lane road any moment. As we descend into the valley, I see a 10-foot tall flower stalk, festooning its yellowness as if to say, "I am happy to be alive! Aren't you?" A bird stood atop the brilliant blooms. I caught sight of a curly-q plume and smiled at the two fancy creatures: a sedate quail, looking like a queen on its century plant throne. It is not a sight I will forget.
Sedona is nestled into the valley of seriously RED rocks. But the most amazing element of these geomasses is their shape. Color alone is not quite enough to make them incredible. I felt as if we were driving through a magazine photo. We stopped just beyond town, where every building is red just like the rock that holds it, and seriously contemplated getting massages and staying in a she-she bed and breakfast. We finally decided not to.
While we were searching around on line from the side of the van, a woman walked up to us and began to speak, though the wind carried away some of her words. We thought she needed help with her truck, but then we realized she was asking for food after a long trek. She was not shy about it. She declined my offer to make her a turkey sandwich saying in a far away voice that she was of "the vegetarian type." We gave her some: an orange, some cheese. She asked for more, and we offered her an apple, some bread. She wanted to make sure we were giving her whole-grain bread. She seemed disappointed that we did not have crackers. Her eyes constantly drifted off to look at the mountains, her thin blonde hair whipped about in the wind. Her skin was pink-bronze. She seemed almost to will herself ghostlike as she thanked us and walked back toward town, seeming to walk gently, but disappeared around the bend in the road in no time. I think when you are hungry and have no prospects for getting food by your own means, what others might think of you doesn't matter so much. You just ask for what you need, and you probably get it a lot. It reminded me of a story I read in the Sun Magazine, about a guy who walked over the Eastern US, living on whatever he found and received from others, an experiment in having nothing. Fascinating story.
We're now camped in the Coconino National Forest off Route 180, North of Flagstaff. Birds are calling out across the pines and dinner is on the stove, to which I must now attend!
Galavanting through the old west
On Sunday night, after the radio show, Paul, Leralee, Adam and I headed to the wide old west streets of downtown Prescott for a late night venue of some kind. We parked in front of the Prescott Brewery, but not realizing how close we were, walked 2 blocks before asking someone and turning right back round again. We had a night of good beer (what, you had beer?!, I know some of you are saying). I did and I liked it! It was blackberry flavored, brewed on the premises. The best thing was the great conversation we had for several hours. We talked the gamut from politics to war to the meaning of words, and amused ourselves with the cardboard coasters.
Paul gave me a very detailed opinion about my working blog name: memo random. He feels the word random is overused, but more importantly misused. Blog posts, even if not conceived from a conscious theme as mine will not likely be, are nevertheless purposeful acts of self-expression, borne from the context of one's life, which may seem random at times, but is actually not. There are often patterns we don't see that thread through our thought and expression. Obviously, Paul felt strongly about the use of the word random. I decided that I agree with him, although I view seeming randomness is a legitimate enough criterion on which to name a set of writings about one's daily experience. My other working blog name is: catty meets wompus. See my musings behind this blog name on my first post.
We also talked about young men we know who have decided to join the US armed forces, and what their decisions might be about, how one could possibly talk them out of it, how much influence a parent can have on such a child's decision, and the like. It was an intense discussion, but a good one. Paul holds that a parent can and should do whatever it takes to show a child the fruitlessness of at least this war, let alone others. I believe a child's individuation and autonomy have more to do with his decision than his parent's lack of convincing. Plus, there are many opinions flowing forth into the world of a 15 to 17-year old American boy. As if that weren't enough for confounding factors, it's certainly not as comfortable to believe that one's country is doing something completely wrong - a young adult, looking for something he can do to make a difference in the world, seems much more likely to grab hold of an institution that claims to do just that, and markets well, and is touted by lots of people around him, including nearly every blaring media outlet in the country. He might think, contrary to what his parents believe: what if the war is changing things for the better? Wouldn't that be great? What if my dad or mom's just bitter and I can do something useful and big with my life? Alluring thoughts indeed. That just scratches the surface of the nuances in our conversation. It was definitely a night I will remember.
Sunday through Tuesday night, we had the privilege of staying with Paul's friends, George and Susan. We had lots of stimulating and laugh-filled conversations with both of them and very much enjoyed spending time in their home and around Prescott. They have a spunky and lovable golden retriever, Sadie, who was especially lively while we visited since she'd been cooped up for a week with an injured paw.
On Tuesday, I went for a run around the square downtown. Wow, was that hard. Running at 5,200 feet, after not getting much cardio exercise for a month or so, will take the wind right out of your lungs. I had several aches from the start. But, I was glad I did it. It had never occurred to me that I could people watch (or rather, listen) while running. It's all I can do to keep running let alone look at, listen or talk to anyone or anything. But, I somehow heard a few things on my rounds and realized it makes running more fun. It gets me out of the isolation I usually feel when running, but not enough that I can't focus on moving my feet.
We're leaving lovely Prescott today, after a dazzle-eyed food shopping spree at the beautiful natural foods store on Iron Springs Road. We're headed for the Grand Canyon via tiny Jerome and the red rocks of Sedona. We might camp outside of Flagstaff and get to the canyon on Thursday.
Paul gave me a very detailed opinion about my working blog name: memo random. He feels the word random is overused, but more importantly misused. Blog posts, even if not conceived from a conscious theme as mine will not likely be, are nevertheless purposeful acts of self-expression, borne from the context of one's life, which may seem random at times, but is actually not. There are often patterns we don't see that thread through our thought and expression. Obviously, Paul felt strongly about the use of the word random. I decided that I agree with him, although I view seeming randomness is a legitimate enough criterion on which to name a set of writings about one's daily experience. My other working blog name is: catty meets wompus. See my musings behind this blog name on my first post.
We also talked about young men we know who have decided to join the US armed forces, and what their decisions might be about, how one could possibly talk them out of it, how much influence a parent can have on such a child's decision, and the like. It was an intense discussion, but a good one. Paul holds that a parent can and should do whatever it takes to show a child the fruitlessness of at least this war, let alone others. I believe a child's individuation and autonomy have more to do with his decision than his parent's lack of convincing. Plus, there are many opinions flowing forth into the world of a 15 to 17-year old American boy. As if that weren't enough for confounding factors, it's certainly not as comfortable to believe that one's country is doing something completely wrong - a young adult, looking for something he can do to make a difference in the world, seems much more likely to grab hold of an institution that claims to do just that, and markets well, and is touted by lots of people around him, including nearly every blaring media outlet in the country. He might think, contrary to what his parents believe: what if the war is changing things for the better? Wouldn't that be great? What if my dad or mom's just bitter and I can do something useful and big with my life? Alluring thoughts indeed. That just scratches the surface of the nuances in our conversation. It was definitely a night I will remember.
Sunday through Tuesday night, we had the privilege of staying with Paul's friends, George and Susan. We had lots of stimulating and laugh-filled conversations with both of them and very much enjoyed spending time in their home and around Prescott. They have a spunky and lovable golden retriever, Sadie, who was especially lively while we visited since she'd been cooped up for a week with an injured paw.
On Tuesday, I went for a run around the square downtown. Wow, was that hard. Running at 5,200 feet, after not getting much cardio exercise for a month or so, will take the wind right out of your lungs. I had several aches from the start. But, I was glad I did it. It had never occurred to me that I could people watch (or rather, listen) while running. It's all I can do to keep running let alone look at, listen or talk to anyone or anything. But, I somehow heard a few things on my rounds and realized it makes running more fun. It gets me out of the isolation I usually feel when running, but not enough that I can't focus on moving my feet.
We're leaving lovely Prescott today, after a dazzle-eyed food shopping spree at the beautiful natural foods store on Iron Springs Road. We're headed for the Grand Canyon via tiny Jerome and the red rocks of Sedona. We might camp outside of Flagstaff and get to the canyon on Thursday.
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