aar, it's drivin' me nuts

I don’t like to drive. I’m not entirely sure why, but I think it has something to do with sitting in one position in one seat while hurtling down the road in a screaming box of metal alongside other screaming boxes of metal. Maybe I’m crazy, but I’m a little more into trains.

Regardless of my preferences, however, it was cheaper, more efficient, and more convenient for all involved for me to borrow my parents’ minivan and drive to Wernersville a few days ago.


I wrote earlier that I actually (kind of) enjoyed this drive. That’s true. But I still don’t like to drive. This trip, inexplicably, didn’t lend itself as well to making me bonkers. Most car rides, ESPECIALLY those in which I’m driving, get to me after about an hour. My usual response (as a passenger, thankfully) is to zone out and fall asleep. I think my brain is trying to save both my sanity and that of any other passengers or drivers. Happily, my natural response was bypassed on this 3.5-hour journey. Another thing that relieved some anxiety was the simplicity of the route—I had to take only about three roadways to get there.

The largest leg was on PA State Route 322. If you’ve ever driven across Central Pennsylvania, you must be familiar with the mixed bag of delight and cruelty that is 322.


Most of this roadway wends its way quietly through hills and valleys. It’s never particularly crowded and there are plenty of knolls and curves to keep you busy. The scenery can be beautiful, too. 322 takes motorists through mountain forests, rolling farm dales, small towns, and along the Susquehanna River. Some of my favorite sights include the rock walls exposed when the road was dug out of hillsides, and the farms that roll out beside each other amidst cornfields and pasture. The best part is the Susquehanna meandering alongside as it rambles between green islets.

However. If you’ve ever driven across Central Pennsylvania, you must also be familiar with the perpetual construction zone that is 322. Several stretches of the road are lined with orange barrels, “Lane Ends” signs, and patchy pavement. I’m
forever amused by the “Merge” signs that appear along a stretch that is already one lane (why yes, the sign in the picture DOES say “Lane Ends 1000 ft”). Just where are we to merge to? And my favorite: the half-hour portion east of Lewistown that involves driving through cattle chutes—‘The Narrows,’ as it’s called. I don’t even want to get into the detours that have been developed over the years to get the traffic around the construction.

Thank heaven for the radio. I took a particular liking to seeing how many stations I could scroll through before coming back to my starting point. Not too many, but there were a few good ones. Except for the section—I’ll call it the 60 miles between State College and Harrisburg—that received nothing but Country and Christian Rock stations. Not even NPR was able to save me.

But all in all, not a bad drive. I know, that sounds hard to believe, but something rescued me. I don’t know what, but if you figure it out, let me know—I may need it again someday.

PS - Blogger, Firefox, and dial-up don't mix. DO NOT try this at home.

bali ha'i

The place I just returned from was Wernersville to visit my old roommate Matthew. I was invited down to see him in the Ephrata Performing Arts Center production of South Pacific. His home is near where I went to college and the familiarity struck me when I got off the interstate and noticed all the farmland and even an Amish buggy along the road. Roadside produce stands and cornfields lined both sides of state route 422. There’s something very specific about the land in that area that sets it apart from other places I lived. Farmland is nothing new to me, but I think the very low hills covered in fields and dotted with barns is what makes it different. The more mountainous and forested countryside of Central Pennsylvania, where I grew up, and even Western Massachusetts, which has become primarily forest with small farms here and there are more alike to each other than to Southeast PA.

The drive was beautiful, but uneventful. I even think I enjoyed it—but I doubt it’s the start of a long romance with car travel. I arrived in the mid-afternoon, and after a quick jaunt to Matthew’s workplace to pick up a special delivery we were off to a flea market/Amish farm stand called the Green Dragon. Flea markets are such strange things! You could quite possibly buy anything at one. We saw hand built furniture, fresh produce, baked goods, tools, used junk, and even knock-off iPods. Even if you have a specific need, all it takes is a little patience and some clever sleuth work to find it. However tempting it was to buy a rocking chair and a used CD collection, all we bought were some baked goods and Amish produce. We had to leave in time to meet some of his coworkers and our friend Lyndsay for dinner.

Lyndsay and I ran to buy shoes after dinner just before the play. As a condition of her staying the night for more hanging out, she needed to have shoes for a wedding the next day. We spent far too much time looking at cards and chocolates after we got the shoes, and almost missed the beginning of the play. Ok, maybe I spent too much time looking at cards….

I really liked the show; I’d never seen it before. My favorite character had to be Bloody Mary, a brash Tonganese native who was always trying to pawn off island handcrafts—and her daughter—to the marines. Most of the play was cute and light, but I was quite scandalized when what appeared to be a 10-year-old Liat seduced the 30-year-old Lt. Cable O’Brien. Matthew and Lyndsay assured me later that Liat wasn’t meant to look that young, but others were duped as well.

After the show, the three of us joined up with two other friends from college, Jen and Andy, and headed to a bar with the rest of the cast and crew from South Pacific. The crowd cheered each time another member of the ensemble walked in and Lyndsay and I were expecting the whole bunch to spontaneously break out into “La Vie Boheme.” Sadly, the atmosphere remained unmusical, even despite the deafening speaker spewing jukebox tunes directly above our table. Post post-production bar romp, the three of us stopped by an all-night, Egyptian-owned diner for breakfast food and fried macaroni and cheese bites. After that was a trip to the all-night grocery to buy supplies for the next morning’s breakfast.

I can’t believe we even bothered with sleeping because we were up early the next morning to make breakfast before Lyndsay had to leave for home and the wedding. Blueberry buttermilk pancakes from scratch (thanks, Tizzy!), pumpkin bread, bacon, and walnut sticky buns made our meal, most of it coming from the Green Dragon the afternoon before. I love cooking and eating with friends!

After seeing Lyndsay off and amusing ourselves with our computers’ Bluetooth capabilities, Matthew and I rejoined Jen and Andy for a trip to Gring’s State Park on the Tulpehocken Creek. But I got lost. I was following Matthew so I could leave after our hike, but I lost him at a yellow light and had to turn around and call him from a phone at a Body Zone. Being cell-phone-free still hasn’t gotten me into trouble!

The park was beautiful. We hiked along the creek through a well-manicured park and also what seemed like a long military parade ground. We couldn’t quite figure out why there was such a long open field just sitting there in the middle of the park, or why there was such a strange, huge, flat monument
surrounded by flagpoles in the middle of that. Aside from the inexplicable field, the park also had lots of old barns, outbuildings, and stone houses that had been restored. We walked out to a great covered bridge across the Tulpehocken, but didn’t cross it. Apparently it goes to nowhere, as Matthew and Jen told me there’s no path on the other side. Silly me for thinking we could cross the bridge and make a loop back to where we started. There’s even an old paper mill somewhere along the way but we didn’t walk that far.

I can’t believe it’s been years since last I saw some of these friends. Jen hadn’t even heard about my plans for Europe. I’m glad I got to spend so much time in their company and get to know them all over again. I wonder when next that’ll happen.

celebrating my hometown

I just got back from a trip. I arrived back in my hometown in the middle of a parade. Or the biggest audience in the world for a traffic jam. Yes, that’s probably the most traffic our downtown sees all year, total. Note, also, the lack of buildings on several blocks. This is what we’re dealing with.

But we have small-town pride! Some storefronts on the main drag have put up displays showing off the town’s past, as well some advertisement for our exciting town festival:















And here we have another lovely example, right on the parade route. There’s nothing like grabbing some business during the town’s big event.
Another parade highlight: Marching Q-tips.

After the fire trucks made their way back to their garages, the bands stowed their instruments and uniforms, and the crowds dissipated, I headed “uptown” to the festival. Houtzdale Days, as it is called, involves cramming several canopies and concession stands onto one street corner around the firehouse. Nothing better burn down for these three days or we are in BIG trouble. Local businesses, churches, and organizations run most of the stands in an attempt to raise funds and support for their various causes. My sister’s 4-H club had a stand this year, with much of the organization being done by my parents and cousins. I suppose for my family it was 4-H or soccer this year, and since the latter had occupied their time for the past I-don’t-know-how-many years, 4-H won.

As small as the deal is, everyone comes out of the woodwork for it. Driving through town becomes a game of round-abouts for three days, and don’t even think about parking anywhere within reasonable walking distance.
The poor residents of that block probably can’t even leave their homes for fear of having to park in the next town over. But sometimes people just need to squeeze in where they can. And other people need to keep them accountable.

I took some time to wander around the street party a few times, seeking food, entertainment, and people I’d recognize. I managed to cobble together a filling dinner of pirogi and halupki for $3, avoid spending any money on plastic ducks floating in a wading pool, and identify a handful of people who didn’t recognize me at first, if at all. It was an oddly enjoyable feeling to roam semi-anonymously among my old townsfolk. I didn’t feel like a visiting outsider, but I didn’t feel like a native, either.

The last thing I checked out before heading home was the BINGO game in the fire hall garage. What would Houtzdale be without Catholic gambling?

happy anniversary

I got an email today from my friend Kristen reminding me of a pilgrimage we completed three years ago. I spent about three minutes reminiscing about the people we met along the way, and then I realized that I think about them all the time anyway.

There were the three French boys who taught us how to eat like Europeans and had a great sense of humor. And our three Spanish companions, two of which didn’t speak English, but guided us along and kept us with the in-crowd. There were three sweet older Spanish women who saved us beds at a crowded hostel after a particularly long day—they greeted us with such excitement when we finally arrived (I think they were just glad to see we hadn’t died on the camino). We had a Portuguese family that we kept pace with for most of the trip. I think it was because they were traveling with at least 8 people ranging in age from 10 to 70, not because they weren’t in pilgrimage-shape. We met a couple of German men who dressed alike the whole time and had the trendiest backpacking clothes we’d ever seen. We never spoke to them, but it was fun to watch them from a distance. Another older German on a bike helped us out of a few scrapes, thanks to Kristen being able to speak that language. I always laugh to myself when I think of the Swedish couple (“the Rastafarians?” everybody asked when they came up) who I helped get to a hospital for a bug bite—they didn’t speak any Spanish and I spoke very broken Spanglish with the hostel operator and doctor to get them some treatment.

After reading that email I checked out another blog I found about life on the Camino and was reminded of all the reasons people make pilgrimages, why we pick up and leave our regular lives behind for a while. We run away from lovers, they run away from us. We need a change of job, environment, lifestyle. We hope to find ourselves, or somebody else. We hope to find something greater. Sometimes we know what we’re looking for. Most often, I think we don’t. Sometimes we just need to go back and forth a few times.

Appropriately enough, I feel I’m in the middle of a pilgrimage myself. My vacation is in full swing and I'm still on the move. I’ve been splitting my time between unwinding and planning, sitting in my parents house and driving around the countryside. In organizing my plans for my European adventure, I’m discovering even more work I have to do. My utter cluelessness is also being reinforced: the more I think about why I want to take this trip in the Fall, the less I know just why I want to do it, or what I’m hoping to find. That’s’ not a little unnerving. In that trepidation, however, I’m finding myself getting more excited, feeling the urge to go now.

Even closer to home, I have a decision to make when I return to the Farm. That’s another thing that’s been occupying my thoughts for a good portion of time. It’s not a huge decision, but it’s looming before me greater than anything else merely because it’s so imminent. I’ve tried a lot of mental tricks to help, but my mind keeps getting muddier. We’ll see.

One of the things I like about myself, yet really gets on my nerves, is this sense of searching I have. I’m always trying to get to the bottom of something, to find all the missing pieces, to see what else is there. I feel I can often liken my life to a pilgrimage, reaching for some goal that isn’t quite close enough. I’m on a ride to somewhere, only half-aware of the destination, and I’m watching it change the whole time. Maybe someday I’ll reach the shrine and kneel in exhausted reverence to the relic to which I dedicated my life’s journey. Until then I need to remember to enjoy to road. Happy trails!

the dreamaway

Two nights ago, Laura and I met Moo, her friend, and some other Farmers at the Dreamaway Lodge, a bizarre restaurant and bar that is hidden away in the woods of Massachusetts. In it’s past, the place was a speakeasy, an inn, and also Bob Dylan’s favorite retreat. Always obscure, it’s now a quirky little roadhouse that relies on word-of-mouth for advertisement. That’s probably its major selling point.

Moo had invited us to her friend’s art show at the Lodge. In a coincidence worthy of the Dreamaway’s mystique, he’d landed the show at just about the time Moo moved here. But here’s where it gets weird.

Laura and I arrived around 11 pm to find Farmer Brown and Abe The Volunteer lounging on the screened porch, which was set for dinner in parties of two. Mismatched plates and silverware were spread over the small tables, and assorted chairs were placed around the hodgepodge pieces of furniture and artwork that decked the walls. Laura got her bearings (I’d been here once before) and we walked into the bar populated with patrons sitting barefoot on the floor, while an acoustic duo crooned to a small crowd of hippies and dogs in the living room next door. We wended our way back through the restaurant looking for Moo and the Loo Gallery (the artwork is for sale and is displayed in the single, unisex bathroom).

“Hi! I’m so glad you decided to come!” Moo greeted us in the dining room, spread in the same manner as the porch, but with tables to seat up to twelve. I felt as though we’d stepped into a mad tea party.

“We’re gonna start up again in a few minutes,” a passerby called to Moo. “You interested?”

“Oh, yeah, maybe. I’ll be right there. They’re doing this really weird thing out back in this house. We were all sketching this girl who was posing, and it was five dollars to draw and fifteen if you just wanted to watch,” Moo explained to us. “This is what I did. Hahaha!” Moo displayed some blue-pen line drawings in her moleskin pocket notebook. Five dollars to draw some strange girl with your own materials. Nice.

After crowding around the bathroom to see the blank ink drawings on display, the three of us went back to the porch. Farmer Brown convinced someone of authority to give me food, although I was pretty sure the kitchen had been closed for at least an hour. I was tossed a snack bag of popcorn from behind the bar, and so I asked the price.

“Ten Dollars.”

“I am not paying ten dollars for that bag of popcorn,” I declared. I was grateful to be offered something, but I detest popcorn.

“Ok, then just take it.”

We decided it would be a good idea to sit outside in the drizzle around the fire with the other… whatever we were by now. The dogs kept us all company.

in my mind i'm going to pennsylvania

Why do I do this to myself?

In one week, I’m taking ten days off from work. That’s a two-week vacation. This is the longest vacation I’ve taken since I’ve been at the Farm and I’m just now planning how I’m going to spend it.

I’d considered flying to Oregon to see KT for a bit. It would be nice to see the Pacific Northwest, not to mention visit with an old friend from the Farm in her natural habitat. I’d love to be guided around a new place. But by the time I got my ducks in a row, all the flights were too expensive. So instead, I’ll be spending two weeks in beautiful, exotic…

Pennsylvania. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family and I’m very excited to see a bunch of old friends again. I hope. The catch is that I have to figure out how to arrange all the jigsaw puzzle pieces of my trip together in order to make all that happen. Two weeks is a long time, but PA is a big state. And I know a lot of people there.

In an odd coincidence (I think the universe is laughing it’s a** off right now), the two weeks I requested off two months ago happen to be concurrent with a family reunion, a friend’s theater production, my sister’s soccer camp, a county fair, another friend’s business trip, my brother’s being in town, and VERY reasonable prices from Amtrak. So this all sounds as though the planets are aligned just right for me to get the most out of this trip. What is so hilarious to the universe, however, is that the planets aren’t just aligned; they’re right on top of each other. Four of these events happen in the same weekend. The other two involve the absence of two people I want to see for the first week of my vacation. If you could see my calendar, it would look like piles of colored bands, each its own event, stretching over those two glorious weeks of time off, all competing for my attention. iCal even had ellipses at one point because all the events just couldn’t fit on the days they were scheduled.

I also need some down time, a retreat to do some real thinking and planning. Hopefully, between my scrambles across the Keystone State, I’ll be able to take some time to sit still. I have a trip to Europe to think about, for heaven’s sake! I’d like to slow down for a bit to think about what I want, what will be important for me in the coming months. I REALLY need to cross some things off my to-do list.

Meanwhile, I’ve forgotten how much longer I’ll be living with Cabin-Fever, the Rabid Cat. I’ll probably still be in quarantine when my vacation starts.

Pennsylvania, here I come! Maybe I’ll see you there.

tools of the trade

Here are some more tools that I'll list among the links on the right:

Lonely Planet's Traveler's Forum
World Nomads Job Service (Thanks, Monster Librarian!)
Interexchange, a job placement/travel/cultural exchange program

Happy trails!

the rabid cat, revisited

I think someone is getting a little stir-crazy.

It seems Luna has decided that, since I'm not home during most of the day, the best way she has to show me her affection and appreciation is to shower me with requests to be put out while I'm trying to sleep. Particularly in the wee hours.

She's a very vocal cat; her MO is to growl as she prowls about. The growling usually means nothing more than, "hello there," or, "is it tea time yet?" or, "you're in the room, so here you go." But then she decided that incessant meowing would better get my attention.

That being mostly ineffective (I know she's there, I just can't put her out as she would like), she's taken to scratching at my furniture. These are definitely calculated attempts. I can count the number of yowls it takes before she decides to have at my couch.

But last night, she tried a new trick. It involved leaping first to the window sill above the head of my bed (keep in mind her schedule here), talking to the glass a while, and then pawing at the screen that's at the top of the open window (I open some of my windows in reverse due to the bunker-like nature of part of my house). My favorite part, however, was when she decided to leap to the screen and hang on with all her kitty might until she just had to fall onto my face. I think she has a learning disability; she tried this trick at least three times.

Thank goodness the cows were a little more well-behaved this morning; I'm not sure I could handle one of them deciding to sit on my face at 6:30 am.

breakfast club

Ding Ding

“Please share a silent moment with me before we share breakfast…. Thank you. Enjoy your day!”

I weave my way around the tables in the dining room, narrowly missing chairs and bleary-eyed diners as I snag my French toast and oatmeal. Not everybody has already been up for an hour and a half. I pass Roma, the oldest member of our community who’s been here since the ‘20s. She shouts my name and shudders as I make my way outside to the picnic table. At least she’s not announcing that I’m a bad boy today.

KTL, a social worker on our clinical team, sets Roma’s breakfast before her, a morning ritual since Roma has become unsteady on her feet the past couple of years. I sneak a glance to their corner table as I thread my way back outside with a fresh glass of orange juice in my hand.

The nonagenarian pokes at her plate. “French toast!” she announces to the room. “Parlez-vous?” she mumbles to herself.

dinner & a movie

Friday night brought us wood-fired pizza and homemade ice cream at the Harvest Barn. We haven’t done that in a coon’s age. It was the first of the year (and hopefully several for the summer), and it’s always celebratory. There’s something about shaking up routine, even for one night that gets me excited. Not to mention fresh-baked pizza from a hand-built brick oven. I wonder how many more of those I’ll find out there.

The after-dinner entertainment consisted of a game of American football. Although I hate the sport, I was happy to see so many community members participating. The idea was born of one of our guests from Ireland, and he drummed up most of the support. I spent a few minutes on the sidelines with the small crowd of spectators, amazed that so few of the athletes and cheerleaders had a decent idea of what was going on. Having grown up in a town where football was a pretty big deal, I found it hard to escape a rudimentary understanding. I never did come to like the game, however. I couldn’t stay long to marvel over such an unfamiliar ignorance, as I had to bike back up the hill to change and grab some blankets for…

…'A Hard Day’s Night’ on the side of the woodshed! Just across the driveway from the Harvest Barn’s tiered lawn (perfect stadium seating) is a broad woodshed that makes a perfect screen. Farmer Brown chose the flick and set up the equipment while Moo and CJ made greasy popcorn for everybody. Amos spread blankets and people wandered down just as darkness fell for the beginning of the movie. The movie was amusing in itself, but I found I got more enjoyment from gazing out, Amelie-style, over all the watchers stretched out on blankets.


Ah, such a night. And for the next movie, my vote goes to ‘Psycho.’