My life is happening a lot these days. Not only am I planning, sending, reviewing, replanning, and wondering what I'm doing most of the time, I'm also trying to squeeze some more community life into the days I have left. Not an easy task.
So far, I'm not counting down 'the last things' yet, but I'm getting close.
I took a walk by the nearly-full moon last night with German #3 and our newest BVSer, Everybody's Little Sister. It was a beautiful night, balmy, slightly cloudy-- just enough for the moon's light to be diffused over the entire landscape. We walked from Main House to the gravel pit and back again, pausing several times to just stare in wonder at the giant glowing orb above our heads. I needed that little stroll to put some things back into perspective. Yes, I'm leaving and may not enjoy a night hike like that at the Farm again, but the moon shines everywhere. And I'll be getting to see it shine on me in Europe soon, as it'll be shining on my friends all over, too. My two companions were also examples of the courage I hope to tap when I leave. They've chosen to pick up for a year and be put somewhere unfamiliar. And in the midst of all my planning and fretting and running-around-like-a-chicken-with-its-head-cut-off, I remembered that there are still quiet moments to be enjoyed here. Sometimes I need to stop and remember that I can still live here, up until the day I don't anymore.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Friday, September 21, 2007
the sands of oregon
I know, I know. This is what happens when I don’t write while I’m away on a trip. I get back with a thousand things in my head, and then my life gets in the way. Here’s the last bit of my trip to Oregon.
I spent my last two days in Oregon in Reedsport and Portland.
While in Reedsport, KT and I hiked the Oregon Dunes, a state park of giant sand dunes that stretch along three or more miles of the coast. It’s a popular site for ATVs and dune divers. Like us! The dunes are enormous! I think they may be similar to Jockey’s Ridge State Park in North Carolina, but perhaps even bigger. We wandered along the dunes, (also similar to the Sleeping Bear Dunes in Michigan), climbing the highest peaks we could find, and then threw ourselves off the top. I highly encourage everybody to crash down a sand dune. Sand is much more forgiving than rock or ice, and although you feel as though you’re being buffeted on all sides, at least the blows are being delivered by what feels like giant cushions. Drawbacks include sand adhering to every surface, and often sneaking into unprotected openings. I was still cleaning it out of my ears a week later.
After brushing ourselves off, we headed into the small borough of Winchester Bay to buy some fresh seafood for dinner. KT introduced me to the local businesses, and some friends who owned them. The town’s cannery, where we bought Chinook Salmon, snapper, and ling cod, was owned by one of her old teachers. We also stopped by the oyster house and watched shuckers harvest the shellfish that were brought in that day from the beds just a mile or two away in the bay. We learned how they “seed” lines with old shells then suspend them in the bay for baby oysters to grow on—this way the fish are protected from taking on the nasty flavors from growing in the muck at the bottom of the bay. We bought a few and tried them in different preparations at home. Yeah, I still don’t like oysters. Sorry, KT.
The next day, we took a roadtrip Northeast to Portland. What a cool city! I don’t know how to describe it, other than genuinely clean-cut. There were a lot of skateboarders of all ages, which was odd to see. Moo had asked me to do some reconnaissance to find some grittiness in case she may want to move there some day. It was weird, but there really wasn’t much grittiness to that city. But it’s not the kind of place that looks like it’s hiding its poverty and lower class. There just didn’t seem to be any. Recycling bins lined the clean streets and a major portion of the downtown is serviced by free mass-transit. Another odd thing was how we kept running into teenagers sitting in groups asking for change. I didn’t know what was going on, but by the time I realized something was up, we stopped running into them so I couldn’t ask. I wonder if it was related to the groups of people we saw camping, hobo-style, in the Japanese-American Park and under one of the bridges that crosses the Columbia River.
The Pacific Northwest was beautiful and I fully intend to return someday. I still haven’t seen Seattle, after all. Perhaps Portland will become the city that I have to live in when the time comes for me to live in a city. A good public transit system, culture, political and social liberalism, and the great outdoors surrounding—what more could I ask for?
I spent my last two days in Oregon in Reedsport and Portland.
While in Reedsport, KT and I hiked the Oregon Dunes, a state park of giant sand dunes that stretch along three or more miles of the coast. It’s a popular site for ATVs and dune divers. Like us! The dunes are enormous! I think they may be similar to Jockey’s Ridge State Park in North Carolina, but perhaps even bigger. We wandered along the dunes, (also similar to the Sleeping Bear Dunes in Michigan), climbing the highest peaks we could find, and then threw ourselves off the top. I highly encourage everybody to crash down a sand dune. Sand is much more forgiving than rock or ice, and although you feel as though you’re being buffeted on all sides, at least the blows are being delivered by what feels like giant cushions. Drawbacks include sand adhering to every surface, and often sneaking into unprotected openings. I was still cleaning it out of my ears a week later.
After brushing ourselves off, we headed into the small borough of Winchester Bay to buy some fresh seafood for dinner. KT introduced me to the local businesses, and some friends who owned them. The town’s cannery, where we bought Chinook Salmon, snapper, and ling cod, was owned by one of her old teachers. We also stopped by the oyster house and watched shuckers harvest the shellfish that were brought in that day from the beds just a mile or two away in the bay. We learned how they “seed” lines with old shells then suspend them in the bay for baby oysters to grow on—this way the fish are protected from taking on the nasty flavors from growing in the muck at the bottom of the bay. We bought a few and tried them in different preparations at home. Yeah, I still don’t like oysters. Sorry, KT.
The next day, we took a roadtrip Northeast to Portland. What a cool city! I don’t know how to describe it, other than genuinely clean-cut. There were a lot of skateboarders of all ages, which was odd to see. Moo had asked me to do some reconnaissance to find some grittiness in case she may want to move there some day. It was weird, but there really wasn’t much grittiness to that city. But it’s not the kind of place that looks like it’s hiding its poverty and lower class. There just didn’t seem to be any. Recycling bins lined the clean streets and a major portion of the downtown is serviced by free mass-transit. Another odd thing was how we kept running into teenagers sitting in groups asking for change. I didn’t know what was going on, but by the time I realized something was up, we stopped running into them so I couldn’t ask. I wonder if it was related to the groups of people we saw camping, hobo-style, in the Japanese-American Park and under one of the bridges that crosses the Columbia River.
The Pacific Northwest was beautiful and I fully intend to return someday. I still haven’t seen Seattle, after all. Perhaps Portland will become the city that I have to live in when the time comes for me to live in a city. A good public transit system, culture, political and social liberalism, and the great outdoors surrounding—what more could I ask for?
Monday, September 17, 2007
it's on the doorstep
I awoke today and found the frost perched on the town
It hovered in a frozen sky, then it gobbled summer down
When the sun turns traitor cold
and all the trees are shivering in a naked row
I get the urge for going but I never seem to go
I get the urge for going
When the meadow grass is turning brown
Summertime is falling down and winter is closing in
The Urge for Going by Joni Mitchell
It hovered in a frozen sky, then it gobbled summer down
When the sun turns traitor cold
and all the trees are shivering in a naked row
I get the urge for going but I never seem to go
I get the urge for going
When the meadow grass is turning brown
Summertime is falling down and winter is closing in
The Urge for Going by Joni Mitchell
Friday, September 14, 2007
here goes nothing
I did it.
I handed in my notice of resignation.
In four and one-half weeks, I will be jobless and homeless. In that order.
See you in Spain!
I handed in my notice of resignation.
In four and one-half weeks, I will be jobless and homeless. In that order.
See you in Spain!
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
bienvenido al consulado general de España...
"Hello. Can you connect me with the visa department, please?"
"Yes, what can I do for you?"
"Is this the visa department?"
"No, but I answer the phones today. Hahaha!"
"Ok... I have some questions about getting a long-term tourist visa for a trip I'd like to take to Spain. Can I ask you?"
"What nationality are you?"
"United States."
"Citizens of the United States do not require a visa for a stay up to 90 days."
"I know. I was hoping to stay longer. Perhaps 4 to 5 months. What are my options for that?"
"Why you want to be a tourist for 6 months? If you are in school, you need to have the school in Spain to contact our office and send in the proper paperwork."
"No, no. I'm not going to school. I'm staying with hosts and will be traveling around on my own. I don't have an official organization sponsoring me."
"Please see the website for information on this visa you are asking about. Ok? Thank you."
"Yes, what can I do for you?"
"Is this the visa department?"
"No, but I answer the phones today. Hahaha!"
"Ok... I have some questions about getting a long-term tourist visa for a trip I'd like to take to Spain. Can I ask you?"
"What nationality are you?"
"United States."
"Citizens of the United States do not require a visa for a stay up to 90 days."
"I know. I was hoping to stay longer. Perhaps 4 to 5 months. What are my options for that?"
"Why you want to be a tourist for 6 months? If you are in school, you need to have the school in Spain to contact our office and send in the proper paperwork."
"No, no. I'm not going to school. I'm staying with hosts and will be traveling around on my own. I don't have an official organization sponsoring me."
"Please see the website for information on this visa you are asking about. Ok? Thank you."
Sunday, September 9, 2007
oregon - north coast road trip
I arrived in Portland with neither delay nor fanfare. I think I caught KT off-guard when I found her in the terminal—she had to look twice from her guidebook before she realized who was walking toward her.
“Yay!” we both exclaimed and went off in search of dinner for me. Then we climbed into KT’s car, Bosco and headed into the sunset, beginning a two-hour drive to a campground on the beach. Thrice crossing the Columbia River, we arrived at the campground in Washington state.
“Are we going to have to pitch a tent in the dark?” I asked.
“It’s a surprise! You’ll see.”
We pulled up to Yurt 83, an interesting collection of canvas, linoleum, and wooden furniture. I’d never slept in a yurt before, but Luna’s owner Christy once lived in one and I remember being fascinated by the odd mix of integrity, transience, and unlikely sturdiness that made up that tent. Walls and a ceiling of heavy canvas are stretched over a wicker frame, which in both cases resembled an old-fashioned baby-gate. The floors were both made of sturdy wooden planks, and in 83’s case, covered in vinyl flooring. Christy’s had actual windows of glass and wood frames, and 83 had a steel storm door. Ours was simply furnished with a bunk-bed, futon, and night-stand. As I recall, Christy’s held a sink and woodstove in addition to her sleeping and dining furniture. I guess what struck me as so incongruous is that yurts I’d seen were designed to be easily disassembled and portable, while the lives of those inside are not necessarily either of those.
After unpacking Bosco, we took a walk to the beach in the dark. This was my second time only to the Pacific and KT gave me advice on being watchful. This tricky ocean can change quickly and often sends “sneaker waves” that rise onto the dry beach and overwhelm unwary beachcombers. “Never turn your back on the Pacific.”
The next day, we had a five-hour drive down the coast to Reedsport, KT’s hometown. We hoped to take the trip in segments, stopping at key points between legs on the coastal highway. Astoria, Fort Clatsop, Seaside, and Newport were places we hoped to see. Anticipating a long day, we hit the road. Apparently, we didn’t know how long a day to expect. Each stop lasted longer than we expected, and each time we embarked with the intention of making real distance, only to stop twenty minutes or so down the road. There’s a lot to see in Oregon!
At our first stop, we climbed the Astoria Column, a tower of 167 steps. The outside is a winding frieze depicting the town’s history. From the top, we could look over the great bridge that spans the 4-mile mouth of the Columbia River. We also caught a glimpse of the small seaside town.
At Fort Clatsop, we saw the second replica (the first was destroyed by fire) of the camp established on the Columbia River by the Lewis and Clark expedition. We took a tour of the wooden fort, seeing the simple bunkers and captain’s quarters on either side of the tiny fortification. We also made a self-guided study of the expedition, beaver fur trade, and native whaling practices.
Our final stop was Seaside to see the haystack rocks—monoliths of granite rising out of the surf. Our conversation turned to the value and meaning of community as we walked along the beach. It seemed like an apt thing to discuss as we wandered in view of giant condos that were threatening the town’s charm and social structure.
The sun was setting over the haystack rocks as we climbed back into Bosco—we still had hours ahead of us. A while after darkness had overtaken us, we stopped at one of the many outlooks along 101 and watched the Haceta Head Light flash over the ocean. It was a clear night for stargazing and a chilly wind blew off the water.
We finally made it to Reedsport, both of us ready to drop where we stood. I was lucky—I could nap as a passenger. Sleep came quickly and easily, with the next day a new promise of activity and adventure.
“Yay!” we both exclaimed and went off in search of dinner for me. Then we climbed into KT’s car, Bosco and headed into the sunset, beginning a two-hour drive to a campground on the beach. Thrice crossing the Columbia River, we arrived at the campground in Washington state.
“Are we going to have to pitch a tent in the dark?” I asked.
“It’s a surprise! You’ll see.”
We pulled up to Yurt 83, an interesting collection of canvas, linoleum, and wooden furniture. I’d never slept in a yurt before, but Luna’s owner Christy once lived in one and I remember being fascinated by the odd mix of integrity, transience, and unlikely sturdiness that made up that tent. Walls and a ceiling of heavy canvas are stretched over a wicker frame, which in both cases resembled an old-fashioned baby-gate. The floors were both made of sturdy wooden planks, and in 83’s case, covered in vinyl flooring. Christy’s had actual windows of glass and wood frames, and 83 had a steel storm door. Ours was simply furnished with a bunk-bed, futon, and night-stand. As I recall, Christy’s held a sink and woodstove in addition to her sleeping and dining furniture. I guess what struck me as so incongruous is that yurts I’d seen were designed to be easily disassembled and portable, while the lives of those inside are not necessarily either of those.
After unpacking Bosco, we took a walk to the beach in the dark. This was my second time only to the Pacific and KT gave me advice on being watchful. This tricky ocean can change quickly and often sends “sneaker waves” that rise onto the dry beach and overwhelm unwary beachcombers. “Never turn your back on the Pacific.”
The next day, we had a five-hour drive down the coast to Reedsport, KT’s hometown. We hoped to take the trip in segments, stopping at key points between legs on the coastal highway. Astoria, Fort Clatsop, Seaside, and Newport were places we hoped to see. Anticipating a long day, we hit the road. Apparently, we didn’t know how long a day to expect. Each stop lasted longer than we expected, and each time we embarked with the intention of making real distance, only to stop twenty minutes or so down the road. There’s a lot to see in Oregon!
At our first stop, we climbed the Astoria Column, a tower of 167 steps. The outside is a winding frieze depicting the town’s history. From the top, we could look over the great bridge that spans the 4-mile mouth of the Columbia River. We also caught a glimpse of the small seaside town.
At Fort Clatsop, we saw the second replica (the first was destroyed by fire) of the camp established on the Columbia River by the Lewis and Clark expedition. We took a tour of the wooden fort, seeing the simple bunkers and captain’s quarters on either side of the tiny fortification. We also made a self-guided study of the expedition, beaver fur trade, and native whaling practices.
Our final stop was Seaside to see the haystack rocks—monoliths of granite rising out of the surf. Our conversation turned to the value and meaning of community as we walked along the beach. It seemed like an apt thing to discuss as we wandered in view of giant condos that were threatening the town’s charm and social structure.
The sun was setting over the haystack rocks as we climbed back into Bosco—we still had hours ahead of us. A while after darkness had overtaken us, we stopped at one of the many outlooks along 101 and watched the Haceta Head Light flash over the ocean. It was a clear night for stargazing and a chilly wind blew off the water.
We finally made it to Reedsport, both of us ready to drop where we stood. I was lucky—I could nap as a passenger. Sleep came quickly and easily, with the next day a new promise of activity and adventure.
Monday, September 3, 2007
wedding bell blues
The last time I did this, I doubled my weekly income in eight hours. This time around, I personally insulted a culinary genius, ruined my favorite oxford, and doomed a newly wed couple to marital insipidity.
I was asked to help serve for the wedding reception of a community member’s son. It was supposed to be me, Germans #2 and #3, and a former community member from Boston. We were to help serve food and wine for 200-250 people, and then we could dance as long as we wanted! What a deal, huh?
This is how it went down. German #2 flew home to Germany three weeks early (I’m crying on the inside) because of her hand injury, so our senior BVSer filled in. And KTL was there, too, to assist Nev, the bartender. Or fill in. Whatever we needed her to do. Most of us converge on the farm across the street, which is decked in full storybook regalia. We’re not all there yet, but that’s ok; it’s early. We start to fill water glasses and finish setting the tables. An hour later, German #3 and the Bostonian are still MIA. I call Main House.
German #3: Main House, this is German #3.
Me: What are you still doing there?
German #3: Waiting for a ride. Nev was supposed to bring me over when he came. I don’t know where he is.
Me: Good grief. Be ready; we’re coming to get you.
We’re thirty minutes late with champagne and appetizers. Meanwhile, I’m still trying to single-handedly fill 250 water glasses with ice. Thankfully, German #3 and the BVSer arrive to start filling champagne flutes. We’ve lost any hope for the Bostonian. Apparently, it’s not enough that pouring champagne is a slow, arduous process; BVSer can’t open champagne bottles. And the woman making the appetizers is harassing everybody because, “We need people to serve these! I can’t do it myself!” Of course not. Let me ask my staff of three to assist you while I pour ice into goblets with a red plastic beer cup. We don’t really need to get the champagne out. Classy.
Crunch time passes (we think). The guests are champagned out and the apps are getting fewer takes with each circulation. Great, a breather! Oh, but can we gather dirty highball glasses from the tables and take them to the house to be washed? The bar has run out. Ok, makes sense. We hit the floor, gathering empties. How were we to know that this was just the tip of the iceberg?
Even up to dinner time, the bar was losing the battle to the gin and tonic crowd. No matter how hard two of us were working to collect empty glasses from the crowd and send them up to the remaining two crew members who were scrubbing and cutting fruit, we could not produce enough glasses for everybody.
Finally, dinner rolls around and we’re on the buffet line. Familiar work! This is what we were actually asked to do! How sweet a feeling to know one’s task. Except for me, apparently. The head chef asks me to take over for him with the vegetarian option, only to reclaim his spoons several minutes later. “Wrong. Give me those. Get out of here.”
Shortly after the last guest leaves the buffet line, we’re sent onto the floor to begin clearing and refilling water and wine. I suppose at this point, we are also supposed to be refilling champagne flutes for the coming toasts. Except at the same time, Nev needs us to also keep gathering empty beer and highball glasses (and can somebody be washing them?). We can do this, you see, because we are bionic people.
Mid-clear, as the groom’s father is reciting “How the Whale Got His Throat,” to the crowd the head chef calls me over. “Hey, come over here. What’s your name?”
“Does it matter?” I respond. I have no idea what he wants, but I’m too fried to care. Apparently that was the wrong answer.
“Oh, why would you say that to me? Huh? What do you mean by that? Get out of here. I don’t want to talk to you. Find out how many servers there are, but don’t give him anything. He doesn’t get dinner.”
Fine. I’m too exasperated to eat. I’ll wash beer glasses instead. Meanwhile, the bride and groom are being toasted with wine. Shit.
Eventually, after making a pass of the entire tent for wine and dirty dishes I ask Nev what else is required of us. It’s 11 PM and none of us have had dinner yet. I’m ready to go home; it’s the end of the one day I had off this weekend and I may have to open the kitchen the next morning. The answer comes down, but it isn’t clear: just gather the rest of the glasses and pack them up (into what, we don’t know), wash some more glasses for the bar, and then everything else can be taken care of tomorrow. Oh, but the cake will be soon—can you stay to help set up for and serve that? Right. The cake. And people are still drinking. They probably will be for the rest of the night. And we’re supposed to take their glasses?
The cake is served at approximately 11:15 and we walk to the car shortly after washing another two racks of glasses for the bar. We’re just about to make good our escape when, “Damn, the tires are spinning. We’re stuck in the mud.” Luckily, Steve the curator of the Red Barn is leaving the house and asks us why we aren’t down at the tent dancing the night away.
We explain our situation and he offers to help us out. We start by pushing on the front of the car, trying to back it out, but only manage to get scatter-shot with muck. The next step involves recruiting the groom’s father to hitch us to a farm truck (in his tux, no less) and pull us out. Finally we are free and driving back to our beds, each not-so-much looking forward to work days and a 5 AM drive to Pennsylvania.
I was asked to help serve for the wedding reception of a community member’s son. It was supposed to be me, Germans #2 and #3, and a former community member from Boston. We were to help serve food and wine for 200-250 people, and then we could dance as long as we wanted! What a deal, huh?
This is how it went down. German #2 flew home to Germany three weeks early (I’m crying on the inside) because of her hand injury, so our senior BVSer filled in. And KTL was there, too, to assist Nev, the bartender. Or fill in. Whatever we needed her to do. Most of us converge on the farm across the street, which is decked in full storybook regalia. We’re not all there yet, but that’s ok; it’s early. We start to fill water glasses and finish setting the tables. An hour later, German #3 and the Bostonian are still MIA. I call Main House.
German #3: Main House, this is German #3.
Me: What are you still doing there?
German #3: Waiting for a ride. Nev was supposed to bring me over when he came. I don’t know where he is.
Me: Good grief. Be ready; we’re coming to get you.
We’re thirty minutes late with champagne and appetizers. Meanwhile, I’m still trying to single-handedly fill 250 water glasses with ice. Thankfully, German #3 and the BVSer arrive to start filling champagne flutes. We’ve lost any hope for the Bostonian. Apparently, it’s not enough that pouring champagne is a slow, arduous process; BVSer can’t open champagne bottles. And the woman making the appetizers is harassing everybody because, “We need people to serve these! I can’t do it myself!” Of course not. Let me ask my staff of three to assist you while I pour ice into goblets with a red plastic beer cup. We don’t really need to get the champagne out. Classy.
Crunch time passes (we think). The guests are champagned out and the apps are getting fewer takes with each circulation. Great, a breather! Oh, but can we gather dirty highball glasses from the tables and take them to the house to be washed? The bar has run out. Ok, makes sense. We hit the floor, gathering empties. How were we to know that this was just the tip of the iceberg?
Even up to dinner time, the bar was losing the battle to the gin and tonic crowd. No matter how hard two of us were working to collect empty glasses from the crowd and send them up to the remaining two crew members who were scrubbing and cutting fruit, we could not produce enough glasses for everybody.
Finally, dinner rolls around and we’re on the buffet line. Familiar work! This is what we were actually asked to do! How sweet a feeling to know one’s task. Except for me, apparently. The head chef asks me to take over for him with the vegetarian option, only to reclaim his spoons several minutes later. “Wrong. Give me those. Get out of here.”
Shortly after the last guest leaves the buffet line, we’re sent onto the floor to begin clearing and refilling water and wine. I suppose at this point, we are also supposed to be refilling champagne flutes for the coming toasts. Except at the same time, Nev needs us to also keep gathering empty beer and highball glasses (and can somebody be washing them?). We can do this, you see, because we are bionic people.
Mid-clear, as the groom’s father is reciting “How the Whale Got His Throat,” to the crowd the head chef calls me over. “Hey, come over here. What’s your name?”
“Does it matter?” I respond. I have no idea what he wants, but I’m too fried to care. Apparently that was the wrong answer.
“Oh, why would you say that to me? Huh? What do you mean by that? Get out of here. I don’t want to talk to you. Find out how many servers there are, but don’t give him anything. He doesn’t get dinner.”
Fine. I’m too exasperated to eat. I’ll wash beer glasses instead. Meanwhile, the bride and groom are being toasted with wine. Shit.
Eventually, after making a pass of the entire tent for wine and dirty dishes I ask Nev what else is required of us. It’s 11 PM and none of us have had dinner yet. I’m ready to go home; it’s the end of the one day I had off this weekend and I may have to open the kitchen the next morning. The answer comes down, but it isn’t clear: just gather the rest of the glasses and pack them up (into what, we don’t know), wash some more glasses for the bar, and then everything else can be taken care of tomorrow. Oh, but the cake will be soon—can you stay to help set up for and serve that? Right. The cake. And people are still drinking. They probably will be for the rest of the night. And we’re supposed to take their glasses?
The cake is served at approximately 11:15 and we walk to the car shortly after washing another two racks of glasses for the bar. We’re just about to make good our escape when, “Damn, the tires are spinning. We’re stuck in the mud.” Luckily, Steve the curator of the Red Barn is leaving the house and asks us why we aren’t down at the tent dancing the night away.
We explain our situation and he offers to help us out. We start by pushing on the front of the car, trying to back it out, but only manage to get scatter-shot with muck. The next step involves recruiting the groom’s father to hitch us to a farm truck (in his tux, no less) and pull us out. Finally we are free and driving back to our beds, each not-so-much looking forward to work days and a 5 AM drive to Pennsylvania.
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