Travelin' Shoes

this is what i do

2010-09-28T19:22:00.007-05:00

dardos?

2009-01-09T16:29:00.004-05:00

I guess I won another one.

Thanks, Monster Librarian, for awarding me the Prémio Dardos Award. Here's what it means:

'Com Prémio Dardos se reconhecem os valores que cada blogueiro emprega ao transmitir valores culturais, éticos, literários, pessoais, etc. que, em suma, demonstram sua criatividade através do pensamento vivo que está e permanece intacto entre suas letras, entre suas palavras. Esses selos foram criados com a intenção de promover a confraternização entre os blogueiros, uma forma de demonstrar carinho e reconhecimento por um trabalho que agregue valor à Web.'

"The Prémio Dardos is given for recognition of cultural, ethical, literary, and personal values transmitted in the form of creative and original writing. These stamps were created with the intention of promoting fraternization between bloggers, a way of showing affection and gratitude for work that adds value to the Web."

The rules are easy:
1) Accept the award by posting it on your blog along with the name of the person that has granted the award and a link to his/her blog.
2) Pass the award to another 15 blogs that are worthy of this acknowledgement, remembering to contact each of them to let them know they have been selected for this award."

So because it's an award with homework, I now have to give it to someone else... Let's see. I'm pretty sure I don't know fifteen bloggers, so I'll do my best. Here they are, in no particular order:
*KT
*Mummy Dearest

because i'm bored and have nothing better to write...

2008-12-06T13:21:00.001-05:00

1 minute, 16 seconds

Created by Bunk Beds.net

change

2008-11-04T23:57:00.004-05:00

Now that this election hubbub is finally over...

let's all take a deep breath...

and celebrate our new chance!

Yes We Can!

525,600 what?

2008-11-02T23:42:00.001-05:00

A couple of weeks ago, I arrived back in Pennsylvania to attend the wedding of a couple of friends. A year ago, almost to the day, I was called here for the same reason. A year ago, I left my job and home in Massachusetts to embark on this trip that hasn’t stopped after celebrating the beginning of my friends’ new lives together. That wedding was the omen I was waiting for to help me determine when I should start my adventure, and this one seemed like an omen, too. It marked the end of my internship on Lopez Island and brought me back to my family and home state to sort through the wonders and experiences I gathered like souvenirs.

I thought I owed myself a minute to stop and absorb what I’d seen and done. I wanted to take a slow moment to think about which goals I had met and what aspirations I may have yet to achieve. I’d lived in a foreign country. I tried my hand at farming, new languages, and lived out of a sleeping bag for the better part of twelve months. I drove 7000 miles with a friend to some of the last wild places on this continent. I learned to build houses with straw and mud. I lived in a tent for seven weeks and slept in a new place nearly every night. I figured it was a good idea to give a serious thought to my future.

So I sat and stared my future down, demanding a revelation—some great end-all-be-all moment of clarity. And my future stared right back, just as closed-lipped as ever. Not a clue, not an inkling did the murky days ahead surrender to me. “C’mon,” I wheedled, “just a teensy hint?” And the future said nothing.

Before leaving all stability behind, I figured I’d give myself a year if I could last that long. I left my plans open to finding a new niche to settle into, a new person, place, or skill to fall in love with. Perhaps I’d love the road too much to commit to anything before the end of it, but I wasn’t giving myself that much credit. I figured after three months—six months tops—I’d come loping back with my tail between my legs, afraid of all the possibilities the wide wonderful world had to offer. I counted on having to hold my own feet to the fire to stay out there.

Well, now here I am at the end of that short year. I find myself laying my adventures out like treasures before me and marveling over how... few there seem to be. I suppose this isn’t the time for short-changing myself, but I can’t help but think that I just haven’t covered that much ground in 365 days.

So that’s it then. I’m not done, I guess. The road winds ever onward and I find myself compelled to keep following it. Now, if only I had any idea what it is I actually wanted to do next... The suggestion box is open!

juggle fest

2008-10-11T19:02:00.005-05:00

It’s hard for me to believe that three weeks have passed since the end of a fantastic weekend of weirdos. The folks who have given me a room for the summer host an enormous juggling party every year. What began as a small gathering of family, friends, and a handful of strangers from Seattle eighteen years ago has become an island tradition that brings hundreds of performers and spectators alike to the front yard of Carol and Al. The story goes that on their sons’ return from a profitable fishing season in Alaska, they decided to have a party to celebrate. All the kids enjoyed juggling, the boys had sent piles of salmon ahead of themselves to the Island, and decided to see if they could get other jugglers to hang out for the equinox. So they went to Seattle and began handing out flyers to whatever street performers they could find. A few weeks later, a rag-tag bunch showed up at the gate and Juggle Fest was born. There were around thirty in that party. Nowadays, meals and accommodations are planned for upwards of a hundred people for the whole weekend.

For such a “private” party, lots of planning and community involvement happen and everything goes surprisingly smoothly. Jugglers ranging in age from the teens to seniors arrive between Thursday and Friday of the weekend of the fall equinox, and the yard becomes a buzz of clubs, balls, and antics. Tents are tucked away all over the ten acres of the property, and outhouses are set up. Everybody volunteers to help with meals, drinks, clean-up, and housekeeping. Very little actually needs to be done by each person as long as everybody participates, leaving more time for juggling!

And there was plenty of that. Despite the rain, it was hard to walk from the house to the garden without getting clubbed, hula-hooped, or drawn into a circle of flying objects. I learned quickly to juggle clubs and was passing with a fellow novice before the weekend was half-over.
Contact jugglers, the introverts of the group, shared their secrets with me, and soon enough I was balancing a ball on my elbow and passing it from my palm to the back of my hand.

The food was fantastic. Three times a day we were treated to the delicious efforts of volunteers. Giant meals of soups, fresh baked bread (I helped with a giant bake a day before the whole shebang), salmon, and homegrown vegetables kept everybody full and happy.

Conversations with jugglers I met all weekend revealed people who had been coming for years. Word of mouth alone has grown this festival and street performers come from the Northwest, as well as all over (one man was from South Africa this year), to hang out, trade secrets, and have a reunion of sorts. Some of these folk have performed in groups together over the years, and some meet up for the first time, planning to put on shows when they overlap in cities along their tours.

Even after three days, many were reluctant to leave. But soon, the place had cleared out and no longer looked like a carnival. It was just our house, our yard, our garden, with lingering promises of next year’s event hanging in the air like juggling clubs.

autumn wind

2008-10-07T00:09:00.001-05:00

The wind is howling outside my window and an inky blackness has settled already at 7:30. A chill has settled into the bones of this place and the autumn is now completely manifest.

Two days ago I helped a friend’s family put up food from their garden for the winter. We processed pounds of cucumbers and piles of green tomatoes into pickles and chutney. By the end, a few dozen glass jars covered the kitchen counter, a testament to our hours of chopping and cooking.

As the rain fell outside, Mik and I diced tomatoes, onions, and garlic while Diana marveled over the bounty the earth provided. The caustic scent of pickle brine permeated the house for more than five hours as we tackled the relentless piles of produce, Mik with an ulu and I with a chef knife. With four sets of hands attending to the several tasks of chopping, brining, and dehydrating apples, the canning went faster than we expected and we had time to sit and share stories. Mik and David compared their lives in Alaska. I chimed in with highlights from my recent trip there. Climate change and its effect on the glaciers, fishing, and landscape was a major topic and with their combined years there, we pieced together a picture of drastic change. The glaciers that they recalled couldn’t even be seen from the centers built for that purpose anymore. Salmon numbers and fishing limits have dropped. But the stories weren’t all bleak—there were plenty of anecdotes about Alaskan winters, the bus drivers that braved the snow, and cheap fun to be had in the dark days. Diana and I chatted about cheese making, an interest I want to pursue as soon as I have a spare minute and a pastime she enjoys as a way to provide wholesome food for her family. We all told tales of the places we’d each called home. Diana and David recalled Texas, Mik told of her family in Minnesota, and I drew comparisons between Lopez and the Farm in Massachusetts. The reminiscences over my childhood on my family’s dairy farm and the woods around my house in Pennsylvania impressed the back-to-the-landers.

David, Mik, and I lingered in the orchard after gathering our payment of potatoes and apples from the season’s harvest. The sun was peeking out on the horizon as it set below the thinning clouds. The slanted autumn light warmed us despite the persistent wind, and soon I was returning home to hot roasted vegetable borscht. The wind wailed like furies on the ride as my housemates reported on their day’s adventures over dinner in our warm little burrow.

pictures from the roadtrip

2008-09-28T01:34:00.002-05:00

I finally got my photos from the roadtrip on my Picasa page! Check them out!

(When you have the time. Seriously, pace yourselves. There are six...)

Super, Natural, British Columbia
The Yukon Territory
Alaska
Denali (which is REALLY BIG)
From Denali to the Kenai Peninsula
The Southeast Islands

houses for nobody

2008-09-19T15:49:00.008-05:00

The walls are up. The first coat of plaster was smeared on with little ceremony. Now we must learn again. The second coat is sandier, trickier. We work with trowels now, no longer trusting the rough precision of our hands. Pamela tells us this is where we must be more exact, our building-out must be more subtle, the plane of the wall must be more deliberate. Although we’re still doomed to follow the flow of the straw bale waves, we must produce the illusion that the wall is flat with a smooth and firm stroke of the trowels on the second coat of plaster. But it’s still mud nonetheless.

Not many of us, if any, have ever done work like this and the hawks and trowels are foreign in our grips. The first coat was more organic and made more sense even to us novices—all we needed was a firm hand to slather the mud into the straw and build out a rough coat to approximate the look of a flat wall. Even the plaster mixers must be more careful: is there enough sand in the mix, has too much clay been added? We are in near- constant communication about how well the mud goes on the wall but we won’t know the ultimate truth of our application until it has dried and (hopefully not) cracked. That’s why we begin with the house that nobody will live in.

A few of the houses we’re building do not have owners right now. Some folk have backed out long ago when the project was still being planned, others more recently as financial concerns became more looming. So we practice and perfect on these houses for nobody. The experimentation that we all, even the supervisors, are a part of is played out on these walls. We note the dryness of the base layer and look forward to how that will affect the application and curing of this second coat. We consider the proportions in this mix and wait for the cracks to appear or not.

And we sculpt. The houses with owners on-site have their own special touches: niches carved here and there at the whim of the occupant, a truth window shaped like a heart rather than a picture frame. In the houses that aren’t spoken for, we interns have the freedom to curve the window space just so, or cut a crisp corner. We can even put shapes on the walls, and soon a couple of artists emerge from our ranks. Sunbursts, grapevines, moons and stars crop up in the future kitchens and bedrooms that as yet look more like empty garages or warehouses. The whimsical forms on the walls mock the dusty, formal concrete floor and naked wooden frames. The houses for nobody seem to be choosing their own personalities now. Perhaps these homes will call their owners into being just as the current residents fashion the image and characters of their own.

the sour toe

2008-09-12T22:16:00.003-05:00

As promised, here's the video of my drink, the Sour Toe Cocktail.

This atrocity took place in the Downtown Hotel of Dawson City in the Yukon Territory.

There are strange things done in the midnight sun...

The story of the toe, as taken from www.sourtoecocktail.com, is as follows:

Toe #1 was that of Louie Liken, trapper, placer miner, and in the 1920's, rum runner. Louie and his brother Otto would cross the border to the United States in a blizzard by dog team to deliver their alcoholic cargo. During one such outing, Louie stepped into overflow and got his foot wet.Fearing that the Northwest Mounted Police were on their trail they had to continue their trip. As a result of extended exposure to the cold, Louie's big toe froze.To prevent the onset of gangrene it was necessary to amputate.

Lacking faith in doctors the brothers had no intention of traveling 60 miles to Dawson and paying one to do what they could just as easily accomplish on their own.The first step in the amputation was anaesthesia. Consuming large amounts of their 180% overproof rum, they soon felt that they were sufficiently drunk to continue with the amputation. Louie stuck out his frozen toe as Otto lifted the woodcutting axe. With one swing the toe was removed. As a reminder of the incident the brothers kept the toe, pickled in a jar of alcohol.

Years later, when cleaning the brothers' cabin, the toe was discovered by Captain Dick Stevenson. After conferring, Captain Dick and his friends decided on the rules of the Sourtoe Cocktail and started serving it at the Eldorado Hotel in 1973. In July 1980, a placer miner named Garry Younger was trying for the Sourtoe record. On his thirteenth glass of Sourtoe champagne his chair tipped over backwards and he swallowed the toe. Sadly, Toe #1 was not recovered.

skin

2008-09-06T03:35:00.000-05:00

“Here it is.” Chaz unrolled the white and brown goatskin, rock salt clattered to the ground.

“Wow. So what do we do with it?”

“Isn’t it beautiful? Basically, we’re gonna stretch it out in this frame and scrape the fat and meat off of it. I brought a dull hatchet, but claw hammers work well, too. Just be careful not to gouge the skin, though.”

And that’s what we did. We cut holes into the extremities and tied the skin as tightly as we could to the crossbars of the crude wooden frame. It stretched over the open space like a misshapen trampoline with a strong but dubious spring. Here and there along the mostly white skin were stringy chunks of white tissue and easier to spot pink shreds. Chaz explained that this hide was better prepared than the last two he was given.

“Can you believe people are just giving me skins now? I asked for one deer skin and now everybody who kills something on this island is giving me its hide. You should’ve seen the last one. I gouged it up pretty bad; it had a lot of meat left on it and I didn’t know for sure how to get it off.”

We clutched at the white strands and pulled. I took out my pocket knife to coax larger slivers free while Chaz worked with the hatchet. Eventually we met in the middle, having cleared off the fat from the leg and shoulder regions. A thin pinkish band of meat covered the skin where it met the ribs. We found purchase at the edges and pulled with our bare fingers, slick with grease until the flesh came away in one sheet. I remembered doing something like this once, long ago, with a deer. But then, I was helping to remove the skin from the body, not remnants from the hide. A simple slip of the knife blade against the clear membrane was all it took to release the pliable hide from the carcass. This was decidedly more difficult—there was next to nothing for our slimy fingers to grasp and the fat wasn’t giving up without a fight. But after an hour, we cleaned off most of the extraneous tissue just as a light rain began to fall.

I biked home in the drizzle, wondering what Chaz would do with three animal hides. I think he’s still scratching his head over it, too. Hell, we came here to build houses.

check this out!

2008-08-20T20:34:00.003-05:00

I could be writing about kayaking on Puget Sound. I could be writing about dealing with moldy straw bales and musty barns. I maybe even could be writing about potlucks and sunsets on rocky beaches as seals played in the waves. And of course, there's the goat skin that will be needing some explanation...

Instead, I need to take some time to tell you all about something amazing. Three friends of mine from the Farm where I used to live are running a marathon this October. They're leading a relay and raising money for the Farm, and along the way, working to raise awareness for mental illness and the lives it touches.

Living at the Farm for three and a half years gave me an invaluable opportunity to learn how mental illness affects so many lives. And it also brought me into contact with countless amazing people: people of compassion, of courage, of hope. One of the greatest things I learned from living and working there was how important community is in combatting the effects of mental illness as well as the stigma and ignorance surrounding it. I learned how much we need all of the people in the communities in which we surround ourselves and how far we can carry each other through difficulties.

I'm truly inspired by their passion for this run and the cause they're supporting. Please take some time to learn about my friends' project. If you feel so moved, they (and the whole community) would appreciate any financial generosity you could afford. Even taking a moment to learn about mental illness and those who work to help live with it is worth the time. Help fight the stigma!

http://run4gouldfarm.blogspot.com
www.firstgiving.com/run4gouldfarm

kismet and health care, island style

2008-08-05T00:14:00.001-05:00

I’m always on the lookout for signs from God, the Universe, Destiny, whatever you want to call it. Mostly, I look for cues to what my next big move should be: where should I live or what work should I do? Sometimes, I manage to remind myself of the little omens and gifts of generosity that land in my path.

The Universe gave me two things today: a trumpet and a tetanus shot.

My wonderful hosts are on an excruciatingly kind but misguided mission to get me to stay here indefinitely. I don’t know what they’re thinking; I work slowly, I eat a lot, and I take a long time in the shower. And I smell funny. However, they believe that if I join a small Latin band I’ll just spontaneously sink roots on Lopez, so they introduced me to a brass player here who happens to be forming one. And today, Al walked in the door with a Conn, on loan for free, from the school. My own horn (affectionately named The Beast), also on loan from my very generous and talented cuz JT, is in PA right now, still enjoying an extended respite from four arduous years of college. But the trumpet seems to follow me around, showing up at the Hacienda Buena Suerte in Spain even, and my lips are beginning to itch...

Ok, so the Universe itself didn’t give me the tetanus shot. A very kind nurse did. Four weeks on a construction sight dealing with power tools and llama excrement hadn’t landed me in the emergency room, but a leisurely day in the garden left me with a gouge from a rusty nail on the back of my heel. After being told over the phone that I could be squeezed in at the end of the day, or the end of the week, I biked my insurance-free self over to the clinic for a tetanus booster.

The nurse was very pleasant after my hour wait, and gently explained all the things that could go wrong after receiving the vaccine. But of course, it’s much better than my diaphragm contracting and my slowly dying of asphyxiation, isn’t it? *Smile* She even made me photocopies of info on the disease and vaccine to take home and ponder with my mommy and daddy. Did you know that all adults should get a tetanus booster every ten years? And that adults who get the shot frequently tend to experience the side-effects of soreness and swelling even more severely than the rest of us? Frankly, I can’t imagine walking into a doctor’s office and asking to be punched in the arm more than once every ten years. But to each his own, I suppose.

After all was said and done, the nurse asked me about my insurance plan. I sheepishly had to reply that I didn’t have one but she just beamed at me. “Well don’t worry; you get 20% off the cost if you can pay the bill today!” So out I walked, armed with this pleasant fact.

“So the vaccine will be $44,” the receptionist said.
“Is that after the 20% discount I get for paying out-right?” I asked.

The woman looked concerned and I was afraid there would be more paperwork or even an investigation into my possibly-fraudulent claim to have no insurance. “Well, we’re not going to give you the discount today, but we’re going to waive the ‘New Patient’ fee. It’s just a charge because you haven’t visited the clinic before.”

I didn’t want to argue, afraid that if I pushed too hard, some miscalculation would give me 20% off the vaccine, but have me paying the likely-to-be-nominal new patient fee twice, so I agreed but asked oh-so-politely what the ‘New Patient’ fee usually is.

“Um, let me see. That would be about... $80. Yes, $80.”

Thank Jesus for traveling karma and connections in small communities.

accolades

2008-07-29T21:58:00.004-05:00

It seems I've won an award.

The Golden Delete Key Award goes to bloggers who don't suck. It's for anyone who knows enough to hit "delete" rather than to post worthless crap.

Thanks, Monster Librarian, for thinking that I use the Delete Key with discretion. The truth is, I just don't write, therefore there's a whole lot of crap in my head that would otherwise be posted here if I took the time to sit at a keyboard.

Anyway, I'm glad for the notice and the thoughtful solid gold delete key filled with dark chocolate.

Too bad it's only digital.

aqua chautauqua

2008-07-28T23:41:00.008-05:00

I want to run away to join the circus.

A couple of weekends ago, a performance group called Aqua Chautauqua showed up in our backyard. They arrived on the south end of the island on a small fleet of sailing ships, their mode of transportation for their Summer ’08 tour. Several truckloads and a couple of busloads dumped this ragtag group of jugglers, storytellers, musicians, and their assorted accoutrements at our front door. The two other interns and I spent the day setting up a stage, lights, trashcans, and parking signs to prepare for the evening’s performance. Poor Lucy had just gotten off the ferry herself that day, not expecting a circus to welcome her to her new home on Lopez.

After the dust settled (did it really?), we shared a delicious dinner prepared in our kitchen by Chautauqua’s support team. The buffet’s scope (and it’s whirlwind preparation) was reminiscent of my old job in Massachusetts, and sharing it with such a diverse group of people seemed awfully familiar, too. Dinner seemed to flow seamlessly into clean-up and before I knew it, the band was dressed and lined up and the yard was full of islanders ready for a show.

The Fighting Instruments of Karma band led a parade of jugglers, hula-hoopers, and ragamuffins through our yard to the make-shift stage just at the edge of the woods where tents were pitched for the troupe’s sleeping. The show was kicked off with an acoustic guitar sing-along led by Faith Petric, a 93 (and ¾) year-old woman who had witnessed an original Chautauqua. We sang Acres of Clams (we live in Puget Sound, after all) and my mind was cast back to morning meetings on the Farm. The other interns who showed up were amazed that I knew the words to the simple chanty.

So many performances rounded out the night. Jugglers passed clubs back and forth, over and under, and backwards. A group of women hula-hooped on each others’ shoulders. There were folk songs and spoken word/performance pieces by children. Gags and hijinks, displays of flexibility and low-to-the-ground acrobatics drove the performance to its finale: a juggle of nine Objects of Terror that included a cleaver, a torch, an egg, and dry ice.

The whole show was built around entertainment to educate. One of the Chautauqua’s missions is to support community endeavors and build awareness in each place they stop of the community-building issues and resources available. The interns building straw houses were recognized for our work and hats were passed to raise money for my hosts’ 4 year-old granddaughter who had surgery to remove a tumor from her abdomen just a week after I arrived. So many people had come out for the show that I recognized, even after my short time here. There were a gaggle of interns and several resident builders, the people whose homes are being built. I met their families and friends and so many other islanders involved with other community institutions like the four-month-old radio station and the CSA farm.

After the show, as the crowd thinned, Levi and I started a fire in the fire pit in the yard. Those who were left crowded around to fight the chill and guitars appeared. We were regaled with Beatles covers by a band called Abbey Road Live, who had just performed a pay show on the island the night before. Another group, from the Chautauqua, calling itself the Snow Cubs played covers of songs by the Fleet Foxes, the Decemberists, and others. They had tight and haunting harmonies, backed up by guitar, mandolin, and bass. It was a beautiful way to end an amazing day.

Finally, when all the locals had gone home and most of the performers had settled into their tents tucked away in various corners of the property, I headed back into the kitchen. I met a woman named Shine who was part of the kitchen team and she asked me if I was going to run away with them. I suppose my interest was so obvious she could read it all over my face. That night I went to bed to the sounds of pans banging below my room and visions of life in the circus.

breathing room

2008-07-27T13:48:00.003-05:00

Wow, a weekend to sit still. Between island fun, circuses in my backyard, and goodbye parties there has been little time to settle down and process all that's been happening.

I guess the last couple posts haven't really been ultra-revealing about what I'm now up to, so I'll make an attempt at clarification.

I now live on Lopez Island in the northwest corner of Washington. Puget Sound surrounds our fifteen-mile long piece of submerged mountain and provides a mild summer climate of low temperatures and little humidity to this island group, the San Juans. The days are breezy and the nights chilly, but the sun is warm in the cloudless sky.

I'm three weeks into an internship here, building affordable housing with a mix of traditional timber framing, strawbales, and earthen plasters. The organization that I'm with buys land and builds homes for local folk who otherwise wouldn't be able to afford to build for themselves on this island of rising property values and small, mom & pop style businesses. I'm one of almost twenty young people from all kinds of backgrounds who have been drawn here by the prospect of learning to build sustainable homes in a low-impact way. The goals of the organization in the project include minimizing costs with materials and implementing a net-zero energy consumption program over the next several years. We've been spending our days the past few weeks building walls with stacked and cut strawbales, compressing them, and then covering them with plasters made with clay dug from the building site, island sand, and manure and straw from local farms. Most of the work of cutting and placing bales, mixing plaster, and then applying it is done by hand; we crowd into the framed-out houses as the bales rise higher and then huddle shoulder-to-shoulder against the new walls to cover them with mud before each new layer begins to dry in the sun.

My afternoons have been crammed nearly everyday with workshops, information sessions, potlucks, goodbye parties, and even small trips to the beach parks on the island, each more beautiful than the last. When there isn't something to occupy my time in the evening, I'm sharing dinner with my hosts, a generous couple who put up interns in their post-and-beam home they built with friends. They like to cook and the meals are always delicious, usually featuring fresh produce from the garden I help tend as part of my work exchange for my housing.

So that's the paradise I find myself in right now. What's new with y'all?

i live on an island

2008-07-15T01:05:00.003-05:00

I've been one week on Lopez Island in the Puget Sound. It's been a whirlwind of a week here in Northwest Washington, and here are a few phrases that describe my new life:

island time
elbow deep in llama dung
yes, there are llamas here
farmer's market: more market, less farmer
sea kayaking
straw bale houses
interns and power tools
organic EVERYTHING
sailing on the Sound
potlucks
the Lopez Wave
bicycling everywhere
fresh veggies everywhere!
ferry schedules
free clothes at the dump
1500 rubber ducks in a cement truck

Did I mention I've been here a week? My head is still spinning, but as soon as I can slow it down there will be explanations, reviews, summaries.

PS - The Alaska Roadtrip has officially ended.

the southeast

2008-06-25T11:49:00.003-05:00

I haven't posted in a while because I got eaten by bears.

Sorry.

In other news, we finally made it off the Kenai peninsula and crossed through Canada (again) into Southeast Alaska. Our first stop was in Haines, a cute town full of Tlingit art. We spent a day here looking for affordable gifts and native experiences, then it was onto the ferry for a trip down the Alaska Marine Highway to Juneau, the state's capital.

This town is spiffy: small and contained, yet full of activity. Juneau is a major stop along cruise lines, so the place fills with people every day. They hit the myriad Alaska-made souvenir shops and seafood restaurants that run up Franklin Street from the Harbor. Just outside of town are several scenic drives along the waterfront or out to the Mendenhall Glacier, where we plan to hike today. There are trails that take you along salmon runs and out to the glacier itself.

Our next stop is anybody's guess. Possibly Sitka, but apparently each of these communities along the coast has it's own unique flavor and appeal. Our ferry tickets entitle us to three stops between Haines and our final destination, Prince Rupert, BC. But which one?! We're also on the lookout for good kayaking! Maybe we'll see some whales!

signs of life

2008-06-17T13:55:00.010-05:00

A month on the road has put me into a kind of travel funk. KT and I have both reached a bit of a saturation point with seeing things and making decisions, so rather than actually writing anything worthwhile about our visits to Talkeetna, Anchorage, or Homer, I thought I’d do something a little different.

All along the road, we’ve seen signs of all types of things. The further north we reached, the more varied and exotic became the signs warning us of the local wildlife that would likely be walking out in front of the car. Here are some examples.

The antlered animals are pretty standard, right? Here we have deer, elk, and then caribou:

Even before the moose started appearing, there were sightings of bison!

Then we got into moose country. Exciting!

And when we saw our first moose, we sure knew how to recognize it! However, we then started seeing signs for a new variety of moose. Our eyes were constantly scanning the woods and shoulders for this poorly-proportioned and pigeon-toed freak of nature, lest it should amble into our path and obliterate the car.

Thankfully, we never encountered this pitiful creature.

Of course, all along the way we were being warned to beware of wild Canadian coal trucks that could bound into our blind spot at any moment!

And we’re still on the lookout for the elusive wild Northern arrow. It’s habitat has been nearly everywhere, but alas, though we’ve caught sight of all the others along the way, this creature has succeeded in completely avoiding us at every turn.

PS - Do yourself a favor and check this out if you want to know more about our time in spiffy, little Talkeetna.

the new pet

2008-06-15T14:44:00.003-05:00

Because we didn't get a husky puppy, and we thought we needed SOMETHING to pay attention to, and care for, and feed, we bought...

...a sourdough starter.

Yes. We fretted for a half-hour over whether or not a kitchen tool made with a piece of caribou antler would make it across the border, but it only took five minutes to decide that what we really needed to make this trip exciting was a plastic drink-cup full of fermenting mystery batter.

The sourdough starter comes from a culture that is claimed to be 106 years old. We bought it at the Roadhouse in Talkeetna for $2.50.

We have not yet named the sourdough.

The suggestion box is open.

denali is REALLY big

2008-06-12T12:44:00.003-05:00

This and the next two posts are my account of our trip through Denali National Park.

“When I come back to Denali…”

I can’t believe I heard myself saying these words only minutes after entering the Visitor Center. This place is so big! Too big, actually. 6 million acres big. How do you experience this massive park in two and a half days?

Well, this is how we tried.

Day 1
We checked out the Visitor Center with all its massive displays and 18-minute film of all the things we could’ve been seeing in the park if we weren’t in the Visitor Center.

Then we shuttled out to see the sled dogs. Since the 1920s, the park has maintained a kennel of about 30 dogs—all Alaskan huskies—that aid in winter patrols. The dogs are worked hard during the snowy months, 6-7 days a week, pulling patrol officers, supplies to researchers and campers, and breaking trails for winter recreaters.
In the summer, the dogs are worked far less, performing a few demonstrations a day and taking walks every night. The dogs are so socialized they bear our company with resignation. Some completely ignore us, their great fluffy tails curled over their noses as they sleep on the roofs of their houses. Others lope to the ends of their chains or the doors of their kennels to give us a sniff before offering their backs for a scratch.

After a quick hot chocolate we were ready to conquer Mt. Healy, a 3-4 hour strenuous hike that climbs 1600 feet. The trail was well-maintained, but the switchbacks and hefty inclines were a little more than we were expecting. We reached the lookout, huffing and puffing, looked around and saw… more climbing. The trail looked well-established and there were two other hikers off on a distant peak; how hard could it be? So we set off along the stony backbone of the mountain, following the exact slope of the ridge (no switchbacks this time). The ground squirrels followed us with precocious curiosity, skittering within feet of us for a closer look. We rejoiced with many photos and jokes when we reached the crag at the top. And then we remembered that we had to go back down again…

day 2

2008-06-12T12:43:00.002-05:00

Day 2
The second day, we decided to take a bus 65 miles into the park, try to see Denali, and take a hike on the tundra

The four-hour trip out wound along the only road that runs through the park. This 90-mile road is paved only for 15 miles, beyond which only park busses and specially registered private vehicles are permitted. The park decided to preserve the original single lane gravel construction to maintain Denali’s wilderness character. Our driver gave us an informed nature tour, telling us about the animals and their winter habits that they are just now breaking. The road was only opened a few weeks ago and great piles of snow still rest in the gullies on the mountainsides. Snowshoe hairs were everywhere, even squashed in the road.

The only other animal we saw in relative abundance were caribou. We had a few instances of Dall sheep, showing up as distant white specks against the emerald and tan mountainsides. A sow grizzly and her twins also graced our ride, and for a brief, shining moment, a black and brown fox trotted alongside our parked bus. We even saw a ptarmigan, that ill-fated bird that seems to be the primary prey of every creature with teeth.

At the end of our journey waited the newly opened Eielson Visitor Center and a stretch of tundra. We were among the first visitors to the new complex which replaced a much older and more intrusive building. This updated version was recessed into the hillside and was mostly invisible from the road; our bus pulled up and parked on the roof. Down below, the rest of the center housed art exhibits, a great diorama of the mountain, its glaciers, and the many climbing approaches, and a section devoted to the experience of the great mountain in many people’s words and stories. In order to be low-impact, much of the construction was done with recycled and renewable materials, as well as materials reused from the former center. This building, once inspected, is hoped to achieve the Platinum level of LEEDS certification, a green building system.

We rode the bus, saw the building, and then were ready to hit the great outdoors. Just outside of the center was a trail that took us out onto the hillsides of the tundra. We walked along established gravel paths to avoid damaging the fragile permafrost vegetation. Because the latitude and elevation, only a thin layer of topsoil manages to thaw even during the long daylight hours of the summer.
This causes the plants to adapt if they wish to thrive, even survive here. Most species are dwarf to begin with, carpeting the ground with tight, fuzzy leaf-cover and blossoming into miniscule fireworks. Larger species manage only to produce shallow root systems and short crowns, only growing to waist-height. Our trail led us to a couple of forks and since we had time and really wanted to see the gravel Thorofare Riverbed, we chose some less-traveled trails, possibly game trails, down into the ravine. As we descended, we realized that what goes down must come up, and also that the riverbed, massively close as it appeared, would take much longer to reach and probably twice as long to return from than we expected. And that’s just how things are here. Everything appears so close—the mountains, the rivers, the crags—that you can just reach out and grab them. But the proximity is one of the parks many great and humbling deceptions. All these things are so massively huge that they can’t help but seem at arm’s length, even when they are several miles away.

Our last great goal for the day was to try to catch a glimpse of Denali, Athabaskan for “the great one.” The highest peak in North America at 20,320 feet, should be hard to hide, but because of its utter mass and height, the mountain is often said to make its own weather. Warm, moist air is driven north from the Pacific Ocean to run smack into the Alaskan range and the huge mass of Denali, only to be quickly condensed into heavy clouds. 75% of the time, the mountain enshrouds itself in billows of white, and people can visit the park several times without ever catching a glimpse of its crown jewel. Alas, we too, were thwarted in our efforts, but we expected this. And I had a nice time amusing myself listening to all the binoculared visitors around me exclaiming and pointing at some phantom slope or dubious peak, that “just disappeared behind that cloud!”

day 3

2008-06-12T12:41:00.002-05:00

On our last day, we checked out the Murie Science Center and learned about Acute Mountain Sickness and the current research surrounding it. This mysterious illness strikes climbers and Denali is the premier place for its study, but it’s a hard nut to crack. Only willing participants can participate in trial studies, and even then the danger level is high, as AMS can quickly lead to fatal syndromes on the frozen, desolate mountain. Much of what has been learned has come from studying climbers who’ve gone through the painful symptoms and syndromes themselves and have had to make emergency descents in the middle of their ambitious climbs.

Our final stop was another short jaunt into the park to picnic on Savage River. This is the last point that private vehicles can drive to along the Park Road. Here are trails into the hills and alongside the gravel riverbed. We took a loop that wound through the bottom of the ravine, and crossed the river twice. There were so many people here it was hard to remember we were in the middle of one of the largest stretches of undeveloped wilderness left in the country. But the path was beautiful and we had our first chance to see some Dall sheep rams from a much closer vantage point. The sheep are entering a funny-looking stage, shedding their heavy winter coats in great patches. The rams, with their regally curved horns, perch on the nearly vertical hillsides and survey the valley in tattered cloaks.

And that was how we said goodbye to Denali, with promises for many return visits.

pioneer park & moose attacks

2008-06-10T02:13:00.002-05:00

So today we tried to leave Fairbanks.

Our first stop was the grocery store to exchange some questionable cheese. A half-hour later (it was a sixteen-ounce block; I shudder to think what any more items would’ve taken), we found ourselves in Pioneer Park, an all-things-Alaska-culture-based theme park. I couldn’t help but think TOURISM CENTRAL when the 19th Century model train ran behind the billboard letters at the main gate. But KT assured me that it was a popular attraction among the locals, too, as a friend she made last night told her. Her friend decided to settle in Alaska three years ago after living in New York most of her life. Not convinced, I made KT ask some random passers-by, one of whom actually was from Fairbanks. Apparently, the locals get their kicks there before Memorial Day weekend, and then laugh and point as the tourists fill the place up and get gouged for the rest of the summer.

Anyway, we toured a steam boat that claimed to be the second largest wooden boat in existence, wandered around original cabins that had been moved to this park and converted into souvenir shops and restaurants, and found bubble tea. This was the only place in Fairbanks that sold it, so said our restaurateur. “But there are two in Anchorage! And there’s sushi everywhere. Just don’t get any from Tokyo Express! Oh, and if you want, I can give you some bubble tea mix! I used it once for a class I taught. But if you want to order your own, don’t get it from this company! It’s too expensive!” And that’s how I walked out of a gold rush cabin pretending to be a tea house with a package of expensive lychee-flavored tea mix (“And you can even have the scoop! I only used it once!”) in my pocket. The customs officials are going to have a field day, I can just see it….

All oddities aside, however, we did find a couple interesting exhibits on the native culture. One cabin was a museum of artifacts made from skins, bones, and birch with descriptions of their uses in Athabaskan life. We learned a bit about traditional qayaqs (think kayak) made by stretching seal skins over wooden frames. It’s surprising and a bit discouraging to learn how few people actually still know this skill. Another cabin was devoted to the World Eskimo-Indian Olympics, a competition began in the 60s based on native skills such as a two-footed high kick, leg wrestling, a one-armed reach, and nulukatug—throwing someone high into the air from a blanket in search of whales and game. The games were formed as a way to help keep some native culture alive and instill unity and pride. They’re held yearly in July; I’d love to see them someday.

We left the park on a mission: find a place to dispose of our empty propane bottle. We tried the obvious places first. You know, campgrounds and gas stations that sell propane. And of course, we ran into a lot of “you can’t just throw that away, you know! Oh, no, we don’t accept them either; we’d just throw ‘em out,” before getting lost in backwoods Fairbanks. Finally, after a fifteen minute drive in a circle, we found a noisy, filthy transfer station just outside of the city on the opposite end that we needed. I crossed my fingers as I placed the bottle in a cardboard box labeled ‘propane tanks’ with permanent maker and told KT to get us out of there.

We reached Denali National Park at around 7:30 this evening to discover that their campsites were full, so we needed to find a campground among the thousands in the Denali Resort Ghetto just outside the park. The nice young man at the help desk gave us some phone numbers but DEFINITELY DID NOT suggest a nice one right on the river, so we made a call and found a nice place right on the river with some sites open. On arrival, we were greeted by two people who I’m pretty sure weren’t old enough to have work papers, let alone be managing the evening shift at a campground. Nonetheless we were directed to the sites and we picked our way down to the river.

We were making quite a ruckus and only marginally paying attention to where we were going in the crowded campground when quite suddenly about twenty people all shouted, “Look out! Move!” all at once. Not ten feet from us were a cow moose and her calf. Not one second from then was she upon us and nearly crushing KT beneath her hooves. I had just enough time to catch the great lumbering brown shape come crashing through the trees and I heard the snorts that KT surely must’ve felt on her own face. And that quickly, we were out of the way and she was plodding back down to the waterside next to her calf. We were very lucky and very shaken up—moose attacks account for more deaths than encounters with grizzlies.

The moose decided to hang out on the bank for a while and we decided to pitch our tent a little further inland.

north pole

2008-06-08T03:16:00.002-05:00

“Where the hell are we?!”

We just turned off of Santa Claus Lane to someone crooning “Chlamydiaaaaaa” over the first radio station we’ve been able to pick up since leaving Tok.

We are in North Pole, Alaska. Population: Tourists. The first thing we saw from the freeway was the giant papier mâché Santa at the entrance to the Santa Land RV Park.

North Pole was established in failed hopes that toy makers would be drawn to the town. Instead, tourists have flocked here to see real-life reindeer, year-round ornament gift shops, and lampposts painted to look like candy canes. The place is now a suburb of Fairbanks and a frightening twilight zone to become ensnared in. The spirit of Christmas, after all, lives here all year long!

new posts!

2008-06-06T01:00:00.002-05:00

I really need to get a better handle on this...

We've stopped over a day in Tok, Alaska, to do some housekeeping and updating. When the Alaska highway was constructed, Tok ('one toke over the line...') sprang up as a camp for the construction crew. It's often hailed as the "Gateway to Alaska!" because of it's position on the highway.

And that's all I have to say about Tok. Seriously. Chicken was cooler.

I took some time to write about my last few days in the Yukon. They're posted in blogger chronological order, so if you want to read them as they happen, they are listed thus:

And yes, someday there will be some more pictures to go along, but until then, take your time and enjoy the posts. I don't know when the next will come, but I'll try to give you time to digest these ones. Seriously. PLEASE read them!

dawson city

2008-06-05T22:37:00.005-05:00

I'm beginning to notice a trend.

The further we push north into the Yukon, the smaller the towns get. And the dustier. And the older-looking. And the younger?

Dawson city is the last town in the Yukon before you reach the border by the Klondike Loop, and the end of pavement. There isn't even a bridge across the Yukon; you have to drive your car off a gravel pile onto a flat ferry which then cuts a drunken arc across the River to drop you onto another gravel landing on the other side. Once across, the asphalt peters out and you're driving on the Top of the World.

But before all that, you HAVE TO experience Dawson. This town of 1300 in the winter more than doubles with the summer. Youth come from all over the world to fill this anachronistic town. The streets are dirt and there isn't a chain establishment in site. I think it may even be an ordinance to build with clapboard falsefront and paint in garish shades of avon-lady.
Dawson has been meticulously preserved from its gold rush heyday and I think the people who live there actually would be confused if it were any other way. The businesses have names like Klondike Kate's, Diamond Tooth Gerties, and the Triple J Hotel. If you squint (and ignore the cars), it wouldn't take much to see this place as it probably looked a hundred years ago.

But anyway, like I was saying... The deep Yukon cities are peopled with twenty-somethings. College students, travelers, and drop-outs from life find their way into this town and dance for, serve, or guide the gold chasers and RVers of the summer. It's kind of surreal to enter a town and see the crazy-old buildings filled with grungy looking kids ready to feed you schlock or sourdough bread.

And good bunch of them live just a ferry-ride across the river at the Dawson City River Hostel, a cabin rental/campground/giant pit toilet run by a German who spent fifteen years wandering the world on a bike. This place has several rental cabins and a ton of tentsites all over the hillside, along with all-outdoor kitchen facilities, outhouses, and even a wood-fired bathhouse (and was THAT something else, let me tell you). Our host told us that he had 70 campers who were part of the city's platoon of seasonal employees. And the season is just beginning.

And of course, when in Dawson, do as the tourists do. KT and I had read a weird article in an Australian paper about a special drink that you could only order in the Downtown Hotel. By imbibing, you are inducted into the Sourtoe Club, an exclusive organization who's members can claim they've touched their lips to an actual amputated human toe. An old legend spurred a ridiculous tradition that now claims tourist dollars like wildfire. I haven't time for the whole legend, but the long and the short of it is that KT and I each drank a shot of Yukon Jack (major yum, by the way) with a brown, shriveled, dead toe swimming on the bottom. Don't believe me? Here's a pic:
Be on the lookout for a video.

Afterward, the vaudeville at Diamond Tooth Gerties Casino just wasn't quite as impressive...

whitehorse

2008-06-05T22:36:00.001-05:00

Here we are, in the capital of the Yukon: little Whitehorse. We’ve checked in at a neato campground just outside the city along the Yukon River. This place reminds me of a hostel with its funky signage, espresso bar, and internet center in the office.

I think the population of this city must double in the summer with the influx of foreign summer labor. KT and I have been walking around for two days and all we run into are tourists or very young workers who are “just here for the summer.” I guess I can understand. With the twenty-two hours of daylight and beautiful landscape, why wouldn’t this be a summer paradise?

Much of the place is tourist-focused with gold-rush themed shops and souvenir outlets. But the town has a hip scene all of its own away from the mainstream bustle. Coffee shops, new age health centers, and spiffy little shops are tucked away on every block. Bike travel is big here and a walking/biking path lines the Yukon as it passes through town. There’s even a recording studio here, which puts out albums by artists from all over the territory. While KT and I were looking for some home-grown tunes to sample, we were introduced to songwriters who were also Whitehorse teachers, or who drove a bus in the town’s transit system!

The town definitely capitalizes on its history. Museums cover topics from the First Nation groups that live in the area, to transportation, to life in historical Whitehorse. The S.S. Klondike, a paddlewheeler, is beached on the gravel shore of the Yukon and is viewable daily. There are even two vaudeville/cabaret musical numbers that run nightly. We asked if they were geared more to the tourist set, but were assured that the locals get their kicks there, too. Of course, just how local are the locals when they’re all actually from Ontario?

Hot town! Maybe I’ll wend my way back up here someday for a summer job spot. I sure love the sun, and wouldn’t it be worth something to tell people I lived in the Yukon?

watson lake

2008-06-05T22:07:00.002-05:00

We’ve entered the Yukon Territory! Our first stop in this beautiful territory was a small dusty town called Watson Lake. The Visitor’s Center was very helpful in directing us to places to stay in the Yukon, as well as neat sights to see.

The Signpost Forest outside the Visitor’s Center was our primary attraction in this windswept village. What began as a utilitarian signpost pointing the directions and mileage to key points along the new highway became a traveler’s tradition after some of the troops included signs pointing the ways to their hometowns in the States. Ever since, visitors to this otherwise unprepossessing town have been hanging their own signs, license plates, or whatever indications they could to leave evidence of their passing. KT and I wandered, trying to see who could find the most evidence of our home states. Then, we tried to find the sign that came closest to our actual hometowns. KT managed to find one for Reedsport, OR, but I was pleasantly surprised to find one from a town in my own little school district in Central PA. Anybody know which McGarveys from Irvona these may be?
All in all, Pennsylvania didn’t do too badly. Of course, nobody could compare to Germany. I don’t think Germans stay home very well, however. Here’s a representation of the Keystone State, here in little ol’ Watson Lake:(click the picture for more detail)

liard hot springs

2008-06-05T22:05:00.002-05:00

Liard Hot Springs may have been the best camping situation of the trip. The provincial park is home to two thermal springs that create bathing pools of 80 to 127 degree water.

We arrived in time to just miss the last available campsite, but the park officials were so kind they allowed us to pitch our tent in the day use area, just off the parking lot for the same price as a campsite. Money-grubbing bastards.

With our tent pitched, we were off to the springs. And so were 2183 retirees. It was like a scene from Cocoon. We wandered to the far pool which was much less crowded—only one other person showed up before we left—and also cooler. Eventually, we decided to throw in with the older and wiser bunch and check out the near pool. So hot! The heat from the vent that enters the pool is so great you can’t approach it directly. In order to reach the spring, you must direct cooler water up from the bottom—the hottest water is in the top six inches—and mix it up. Even then, it was too hot for me, so I contented myself to sit on the last bench before the hottest section.

The springs here provide a microclimate different than the surrounding area. The ground thaws sooner and with the warmth of the springs beneath, more warm-weather species of plants can thrive here. There are even sixteen varieties of orchids that grow wild around the springs!

One of British Columbia’s great natural wonders, Liard Hot Springs is well worth the trip. I’d even consider staying an extra day here if I had the chance in the future.

alaska and my 100th post!

2008-06-04T21:39:00.002-05:00

Wow! There is not enough time for this!

We crossed the border just this afternoon into Chicken, Alaska. Population: 21 in the summer, 6 in the winter.

Our time in the Yukon Territory was just too short. Whitehorse and Dawson City, two gems in the wilderness will beckon me back, I'm sure. There's just too much to say about each (and everything in between) to write now, so I'll hopefully compose something coherent about them later and post it at my next hotspot. Who could've guessed a dirt-road town in the mountains on the Alaskan border (called Chicken, for heaven's sake, because its original settlers couldn't spell 'Ptarmigan') would have free wi-fi? This place doesn't even have power lines or a human waste management system; the restrooms are pit outhouses and all the electricity for the handful of businesses come from generators.

After exploring our camping options ($90 for the only cabin in the whole settlement or tent camping on the rain), we've decided to push on to Tok, where our road brings us back on to the Alaska Highway, which we left for Dawson City. There we face our next big decision: south to Anchorage and the Kenai, or north to Fairbanks and Denali? We'll hit 'em both eventually, but which do we want to do first?

inching north

2008-05-30T01:08:00.002-05:00

In Dawson Creek, BC, mile 0 of the Alaska Highway (or the Al-Can) has become a tourist attraction. A white milepost has been erected in the center of an intersection in town marking its original location, but for convenience’s sake, a more ostentatious marker has been placed along the highway that most travelers take through town, nearly two blocks away. After several false starts, the war in Europe provided the impetus for the construction of the highway in 1942 as a means to connect important military bases in Canada and Alaska. The project wound up costing nearly $150 million.

Our progress northward is becoming more evident in the world around us. The sun is setting after 9 pm now, the trees are aging in reverse, and the beautiful weather that we’ve grown accustomed to is apparently arriving just days ahead of us at each stop. Moose crossing signs are appearing at smaller intervals, though we have yet to spot the great, lumbering creatures.
At our last campsite, another traveler told KT some tales about the Al-Can. He claimed to have seen eagles steal small pets from their unwitting, RV-driving owners—just swooping out of the sky to tug them, leash and all, from the astounded grasps of their masters. He said also that the Al-Can destroys relationships and that friends should never make the trek together. I’m interested in seeing which scenario we come upon first.

Tonight, we’re camped 145 miles away from Dawson Creek, at a small campsite/store/post office called Pink Mountain. I feel like we’ve stumbled upon an abandoned lumber camp. This small outpost has gas, a fully stocked shop and a meat locker out back. Although it opened at the beginning of the month, it won’t see much business until mid-June. The pipes in the camp showers won’t thaw until then, either. Most of the sites are empty with a small handful of RV’s strewn about and only three other tenters, two of which arrived just as we were winding down for bed. This was a four-hour drive from our last stop, and I marvel over driving through miles of wilderness and then passing small isolated collections of people.

PS - Check out some pics on the first days and oh, canada!

oh, canada!

2008-05-27T01:51:00.001-05:00

Our first night in Canada passed pretty uneventfully. We’ve been staying in provincial parks (think state-run camp sites), which have been anything between a parking spot in the woods to a lakeside picnic site with flush toilets and a store. Thankfully, they’ve all been pretty cheap and I highly recommend this method if you’re traversing across BC. We’ve met a bunch of friendly camp attendants and scoffed at the myriad RV’s that have surrounded us in the parks. Of course, I suppose one day we, too, will be retired and used to the creature comforts. Seriously, doesn’t ANYBODY under the age of 50 make this trip?!

Some of the more exciting points:
Our second day through Canada brought us up through the gorgeous Fraser River Valley, a lush, mossy Pacific Northwest forestland enclosed by craggy, snow-capped mountains. Coniferous forests blanket the walls of this valley, that is sometimes so narrow it only fits the river and the highway. Midday found us passing Hell’s Gate, a rugged crossing of the Fraser River. It was named thus by the explorers for its dangerous passage through the valley. Today, it is marked by a tourist trap—a cable car that descends into the ravine and deposits you on the opposite bank. A four minute ride to a gift shop and suspension bridge back across the river to nowhere, all for $16.

Who knew British Columbia had a desert? Ok, probably all of you. Anyway, the valley eventually opened into arid ranchland. Those parts that are irrigable serve as pastureland to cows and as fields of alfalfa and mysterious swaths of black fabric, later explained to be ginseng. KT compared the space to Wyoming. Scattered pines cover the dusty mountains that run along either side of the river and patches of scrub speckle the spaces between. Although rivers and lakes exist all along the valley and are fed by snowmelt in the higher mountains, very little rain actually falls here.

The towns in this part are dolled up in Wild West, Gold Rush fashion, featuring old-style facades and names such as 90 Mile House. One town, Clinton, claims to be the Gateway to the Cariboo and hosts a collection of “traveler’s trees” in the center of town—15 foot poles covered head to toe with wooden slats listing names and hometowns of passersby. There was nothing to mark the spot, but any sign would’ve been unnecessary. KT caught a glimpse of the poles as we jetted past and thought they deserved a second look. On closer inspection, we found records of visitors from Quesnel, BC, to France, marked in any way possible: blue magic marker, nail scratches, and even carved out with a router.

Day three brought us into the Canadian Rockies and across the Continental Divide. The mountains surprised us as we pulled off to a lookout point for Bijoux Falls. Here, snow was still on the ground and just ahead were the Rockies, great stony pinnacles still white with the fading winter. Just a month ago, the ski resorts in this area were still operating.

The little town of Chetwynd claims to be the chainsaw sculpture carving capital of the world. We paused only long enough to admire the line of champions outside the visitor center. 2006’s winner was carved by a Pennsylvania resident!

The towns were getting smaller and fewer the deeper we drove into BC. Signs warned us to check our gas, as refreshment was getting to be 150 km or more apart. But we arrived safe and sound at the luxurious Mile 0 RV camp in Dawson Creek. We’re here for the night, hoping to regroup before hopping on the Al-Can tomorrow. Here we bid adieu to convenient towns and unending paved road. Alright, that sounds a little sensationalist. Dawson Creek isn’t the last bastion of civilization between us and Fairbanks, but it sure is fun to play that way!

the first days

2008-05-27T01:18:00.003-05:00

Wow, has it really been seven days? KT and I left her front step on May 19, passed through Portland, OR, Seattle, WA, and then into Canada and have today arrived at Mile 0 of the Alaska Highway. That’s more than 1000 miles in a week. Ok, so our time hasn’t been great, but we’ve been having a great time! Some highlights:

Portland:
We’re hanging out with Katie’s friends, and today’s itinerary included a reading at Powell’s, the country’s largest independent bookstore. We’re here to hear Jen Lancaster, a non-fiction author who’s currently promoting her latest book, Such a Pretty Fat. The reading was held on the third floor in the Pearl Room. This place is so ridiculously large one needs to pick up a map at the front desk in order to have any idea of where to find anything. A compass wouldn’t hurt, either.
The Pearl Room houses Powell’s rare books collection and a little piece of ludicrous called the ‘Velveteria.’ As KT put it, this was “everything that ever was terrible painted on velvet.” A painting of Kiss was positioned directly behind the podium, and just to the left of that, a depiction of Jesus gazing forlornly upon a pair of torpedo-like knockers framed next door. But the Lord could’ve had his pick of boobs—they were everywhere interspersed between jaguars, unicorns, and celebrities all on fields of black velvet. Just a tad distracting, these pictures did somehow seem to fit the tenor of Jen’s reading—an excerpt on her mortifying foray into Yoga and Barbie cosmetology. Her style had a confessional, yet familiar quality to it and her audience was devoted: the Q & A section following involved a lot of esoteric questions around her other writings, past life-experiences, handbags, expensive shoes, and somebody named Fletch. I may need to scope out one of her books, although I was told I had to hate her first in order to love her through her first work.

Seattle:
We’ve finally made it out of Seattle, after zigzagging north and south along I-5 for two days. I have one question for you Seattle: is the freeway ever free?! Rush hour lasted approximately from 1:30 pm to 1:15 pm. Of course, this is only important if you’re driving along the interstate within the city limits. Which we where. For three days. Don’t ask. But I got to see the Emerald City.
We were hosted by KT’s cousin and her roommate, and their two cats, one of which was antisocial and possibly homicidal. Our visits to the city involved a few romps.
Our first stop Queen Anne Hill for a nighttime view of the famous Space Needle dominated skyline. Although the night was cloudy, the view was clear and the Space Needle was lit up as it loomed above Puget Sound.
The next day brought us to Pike’s Place for the large public market. We lunched on smoked salmon belly from the famous flying fish market—the mongers shout your order through the whole stand before sending it aloft from the iced barrow to the scale and back. After a dessert of a dozen fresh baked doughnuts, we trekked up the street in search of the original Starbucks coffeehouse. Just outside the door was a group of men singing soul acappella and we sipped our macchiatos at the counter to the soulful grooves.
A short drive brought us back to Queen Anne Hill where we strolled along the locks toward Fremont. The neighborhood of Fremont has a tradition of peculiarity and it wasn’t long before we found a giant troll eating a Volkswagon beneath an overpass. We also saw the center of the universe, conveniently denoted by a street sign, and an old soviet missile that had been erected atop one of the buildings near the center of the universe.
Trying to leave the next day, we wound up getting stuck in REI trying to run some short errands. Ok, we didn’t get held up; we were drooling over the merch. But eventually we made it back onto I-5 to leave the city before....
“Oh, KT, I think I left my camera at the house!”
So, back down the freeway we went, ultimately staying an extra night in order to skip the traffic. We even got to see Prince Caspian in the deal!

Canada:
We made the border soon the next day and met the strangest situation we could’ve never expected. No, our piles of canned goods were not confiscated. No, we weren’t questioned suspiciously about our loose itinerary (“I guess we’re hoping to be in Alaska in a couple of weeks....”). It was, apparently, our employment histories that raised some eyebrows. OK, it wasn’t even my employment history. Here’s how it went down:
Border Officer: What are your occupations?
Us: We’re unemployed.
BO: What had you done previously?
Me: I worked in a kitchen in a therapeutic community.
BO: *nods* And you?
KT: Biology.
BO: *eyebrow* Can you be more specific?
KT: I worked in research.
BO: What does that mean?
KT: I was a research biologisit... I did biological research.
BO: You’re going to have to clarify that for me.
And on it went. Poor KT left the border now questioning not only the reasons for this crazy trip in the first place, but also her entire existence and purpose in this life.

So those were the first days. This post is getting long enough, so I think I’ll break the rest up into more for later. Enjoy! Oh, yeah, and stay tuned for pictures!

passing through

2008-05-23T02:35:00.002-05:00

Ok, we're on our way for real this time. We've made a couple of stops in Portland and Seattle. So many distractions!

More later!

Next stop: Canada

are we there yet?

2008-05-18T17:40:00.002-05:00

Wahoo! The time has come! Today is the day we leave for Alaska!

Yes! Here we go! After a few frantic days of gathering, running errands, and stuffing everything (including a foldable kitchen sink) into KT's subaru, the afternoon has arrived for our departure.

It's just about time...

Any minute now...

Sigh. It's always the small, last-minute details that catch one up, no? So while we plan to leave TODAY, no man knows the actual hour. KT's been running around like her head's on fire trying to lock all the doors and windows, cancel the mail and newspaper subscription, and unplug all the curling irons. I've been making smaller and fewer piles that need attention trying to do SOMETHING to help, and in the meantime, more things have snuck into the cracks and crevices of the car. I think we may eventually tick off everything on the "before you go..." list, however, some of it may need to wait until we get back.

So, if you're in the neighborhood, do us a favor and check on the goldfish. Thanks.

if i grow up...

2008-05-14T04:15:00.005-05:00

I’m never going to grow up and be something with all these distractions around! I have too many choices!

First were the tall ships. KT and I drove down to Coos Bay, another of the small coastal towns near here with a river outlet to the Pacific. Moored in the harbor were two historic sailing vessels, the Lady Washington and the Hawaiian Chieftain. Although these ships have diesel engines, they are built with masts and rigging to be wind-powered under sail. The ships sail up and down the West Coast, pulling into the harbors to offer educational tours and sometimes short cruises.

At Coos Bay, there was an hour-long opportunity to climb on board and see the ships while asking questions of the costumed crew. Later that evening, a “battle” cruise was offered. This means people could pay $60 for a three hour sail up and down the river’s mouth while the Lady Washington and Hawaiian Chieftain fired their canons back and forth. I suppose they were also maneuvering under sail in an impressive fashion, but it just looked slow to me.

Upon talking to three of the deckhands, we discovered that these ships take on volunteers at different times of the year. Total landlubbers can pony up $500 for a two week cruise. But this isn’t just a pleasure cruise: volunteers are literally taught the ropes. After a full immersion program, the new recruits have the opportunity to volunteer for another go ‘round with more responsibilities. After some time, participants have gained enough experience to apply for jobs aboard these vessels, or others in the tall ship community. One deckhand was planning to sign on with a tug boat company—work six months on, then crew on a tall ship again during his six months off. Not a bad set-up.

These ships didn’t hold half the draw, however, as the city of Eugene. Oregon’s second or third largest city (apparently, it changes on a regular basis), is just small enough to be manageable. Very bike friendly, this town is flat enough to be laid out in a grid with plenty of parks and trails wide enough for pedestrians and cyclists to share. Eugene prides itself on its liberalism and progressive viewpoints, and the Eugene Weekly (the town’s free culture and event guide) contains a large section dedicated to political discussion and local affairs. The Willamette River runs through the center of town and is lined on both sides with a public green. Citizens are even discussing turning the old Mill Stream, a small creek that winds through the city, into a kayak path to the Willamette. Just off the river is another park that encompasses Skinner’s Butte, an abrupt hill on top of which is a reservoir for the city. The butte itself holds several hiking trails up it’s wooded sides, lookouts of the city from the top, and even a small series of columnar rock formations that make a popular climbing park for residents.. South of Skinner’s Butte and near the center of town is the University of Oregon and plenty of affordable housing options. Apartments can run as low as $350 and several families list rooms and small apartments for rent in their own homes. The downtown offers several businesses, restaurants and shops. Several farmer’s markets spring up during the growing season, owing in part to the number of organic farms that have surrounded Eugene since before they came into vogue in the rest of the country. The rest of Oregon’s great outdoors aren’t far from the city limits, either—just outside of Eugene are plenty of kayaking waters, public campgrounds, and a short drive to the Pacific coast or Portland. I quite think I’d like to call this town home for a while.

But first, as KT keeps reminding me: ALASKA!

more pictures

2008-05-10T12:48:00.003-05:00

Shameless self-advertising, I guess...

I added another (VERY SMALL) gallery for your viewing pleasure. All five of you.

These are just a couple more pictures from the Red Moshannon Canoe Race. I'm a little proud of them, so please be kind.

on the road again

2008-05-05T00:00:00.002-05:00

Ah, the road! How I missed you!

Tomorrow, I begin the beginning of the journey north. I'm catching the train to Harrisburg where my brother will put me up over night, and then send me to the airport. I fly to Oregon and then the real preparations begin.

KT thinks that being ready to leave within the week would be exceeding expectations and I think that's alright. That would give us more time to have all things in order (we're driving to ALASKA for heaven's sake!), and the weather more time to start acting its age!

I'm so excited to be moving again. Small side trips to Michigan and DC for visits with Monster Librarian and Amos have perked me up over the past couple of months, but I am definitely ready to stretch my legs. And the train is always my favorite way to get there.

It's too bad that I don't have an extra $1000. I definitely have the three days it would take for Amtrak to get me across the country. And those sleeper cars sure look nifty! I wonder just how nice it would be to see the United States from the window of a train car...

quick update

2008-04-30T00:41:00.002-05:00

Because I know you'd just LOVE to sift through my piles of snapshots...

Just in case you haven't gotten enough of my photography from the few random photos I post, you can NOW check out some albums at my picasa page!

There's also a handy link (called 'Photos.' Imagine.) at the top of my posts in that weird red bar, just between 'Idealist' and 'Profile.' I still haven't figured out what to do with that blank box that leads to nowhere. Perhaps I'll join Couch Surfing just to have another useless widget for you all to peruse...

driving north

2008-04-29T22:12:00.003-05:00

So, KT and I are planning a drive to Alaska. We’ve been decided on it for a couple of months now, but have just lately been hammering out the details. Well, as many details as she’s been letting me hammer out. I head out to meet her in Oregon in a week and then we hit the road as soon after that as we think we have our act together.

I’m not sure if I should be concerned, but since making my plans public to friends and family, I’ve been asked (at least) three times if I’ve seen the movie Into the Wild. And two of those instances definitely included the statement, “when I saw that, the main character just kept making me think of you.” Gulp.

Therefore, while it seems KT is content to throw a toothbrush and change of socks in the car and go, I’ve been feeling the need to do a little more thinking. I need all my ducks in a row—a compulsion I’m hoping to improve on a bit in this trip. It's been bad enough not wearing a wrist watch since mine broke on the Madrid Metro two months ago. In an attempt to get more of a grip on this expedition, we put together a packing list and have come up with a couple of resources for reference. The greatest thing I think we’ve had so far is everybody KT knows who has done this. She’s already mentioned how their comments have ranged from “oh, you’ll have such fun!” to, “you WILL be eaten by bears!” Hmm.

Another resource that seems almost intimidatingly comprehensive is The Milepost. This 800 page behemoth is updated yearly by its own team of field editors. Each page is packed with information ranging from border-crossing tips to ads for lodging and restaurants at every mile along the way. I’ve been trying to glean as many basics as possible only to find that it’s all basic—dependent upon which route we take and where we hope to stay. Yes, 800 pages of basics. This is what I get for wanting to be in control.

So, we leave soon and I need to get packing! While we’re definitely trying to look at this trip from the it’s-about-the-journey-not-the-destination perspective, I’d love to hear any suggestions for things to see and do once there and along the way! I have no idea what adventures lay between Oregon and Anchorage in the great, wide out-there. Well, I have a small idea. There will be dogsleds. And, of course, the bears.

spring cleaning

2008-04-26T02:33:00.003-05:00

I've been thinking about changing things up for a while. I finally got around to it.

There are still some kinks to be worked out (ie. "links to nowhere" at the top of the page...)

Whaddya think?

PS - New photos added to rollin' on the river.

paperboys

2008-04-07T23:11:00.002-05:00

Every afternoon, my youngest sister heads into town to pick up a bundle of newspapers. Sixteen people await her arrival each day with the local news, printed and delivered from the county seat.

She is the last remaining member of an informal guild that has been operating in my hometown for over fifty years: the paperboys.

I can remember delivering newspapers with cousins, sometimes on their backs, sometimes by their sides. I often accompanied a friend in junior high on my bike. The paper route once seemed to be a right of passage for kids in town: everyday they headed into the streets in force, crisscrossing along the avenues and sidewalks with their trademark delivery bags with the blaze orange strap. Living outside of town, I sometimes felt excluded from my peers and once tried to get a route for myself. The newspaper denied me one, due to the lack of customers in my neck of the woods.

A few years later, my ambitious little brother made the same request and backed it up with five new subscribers. He inherited an already-existing route, just on the edge of town and his five new patrons were tacked on to the end of it. After a few years of service and garnering even more subscribers, he passed the route on to our younger sister, who likewise bequeathed it to the last sister.

Over the last ten or eleven years, the route has lost some customers and changed shape. Along with it, the number of paper carriers in the town diminished until only one was left. And she delivers only two papers within the town proper. The rest of the peddlers have been replaced with coin-operated boxes placed on a few corners and circulation of the newspaper in Houtzdale has dropped to a couple hundred.

I can’t believe that such a quintessential small-town institution has become a novelty in my hometown. Where are the kids going to get their pocket money? How will they be able to afford penny candy and comic books? And more importantly, who is going to raise the town’s collective blood pressure?! There’s no longer a reason for the elderly to save their pennies, or sit expectantly on their porches at 3:30 awaiting the arrival of news that is “stale by now, for crying out loud!”

Soon, my sister will grow out of her paper route, too. Those customers out here on the outskirts that don’t just fall off will revert to getting a delivery by truck, which will throw their orange-bagged, rolled-up paper along the street. People will have their news and kids will have their afternoons free, but one more vestige of small-town community life will be cast to the shoulder of the highway, just like the newspaper.

rollin' on the river

2008-04-03T14:36:00.003-05:00

Last weekend my father, uncle, and I went to watch an annual canoe race on the Red Moshannon Creek. The Moshannon Creek (in Central Pennsylvanian dialect: ‘crick’) runs through several small towns on its way to the West Branch of the Susquehanna River, which flows east until it merges with the Susquehanna, finally flowing south and draining into the Chesapeake Bay.

Although not a huge affair, the event attracts quite a number of people. Spectators and participants alike inundate the creek’s banks at the Peal Bridge in the hamlet of Grassflat, where the race begins. The racers range from the serious kayaker to the “weekend warrior.”
Some come decked out in dry suits and helmets, with long sleek vessels, or stubby, maneuverable kayaks to see how many seconds they can shave off of last year’s time. Others come for a casual float, with plenty of beer weighing down the canoe and a planned pit stop on an island at the entrance to minor rapids.

The drive took us through classic mountain territory. We were lost, of course, and wound up on unmarked dirt roads many times. When looking for the Peal Bridge, we tried following the flow of the stream through the hills and woods, flanked by sagging wooden houses emblazoned with black and orange “BEWARE OF DOG” and “NO TRESPASSING” signs. My dad suggested stopping to ask for directions, to which my uncle involuntarily jerked the wheel and replied, “Haven’t you ever seen Deliverance?!” Finally, after crossing the county line for the fourth time, we pulled into a driveway. My dad was elected to approach the bearded, bandana-ed man who was wiping down his truck. He returned with directions from the amused man that included landmarks such as ‘Old Schoolhouse Road’ and ‘Cooney’s Bar.’ We joked the rest of the way about the wild goose chase we were probably just sent on.

But we made it in time for the start of the race. There were no reasonable parking spaces along the dirt lane that wound downhill to the bridge, so we shoe-horned our way into a cubby between two SUVs, our nose half-pointing into the road. The ground was covered in a brilliant array of canoes and kayaks and it was rough picking our way down to the bank. The bridge above us was out of the question, a wall of flesh pressed against its crumbling cement rail. As each heat took off, the banks cleared of boats and the audience trickled downstream to the finish line.

Eventually we, too, headed for the end of the race, just at the Snowshoe town border. There was considerably less excitement here and we spent the rest of the time gazing with waning interest at the racers pulling one-by-one out of the creek. I ran into the father of an old friend, and the distraction was enough to clinch the end of my race experience. The four of us had a pleasant chat and then it was back into the car for the return home. As we drove back to Houtzdale, I spent the time daydreaming about a kayak and a backpack....

life (and death) in a small town

2008-03-26T22:23:00.001-05:00

Two weeks ago a woman was brutally murdered in my hometown. She was beaten about the face, then slit across the throat and wrists before being left to bleed to death in her apartment.

Details of the murder, as well as the name of the suspect were rapidly made public by that indispensable tool of communication, the small town gossip mill. It must have been churning madly that day, as I heard about the deed before even getting out of bed. The murder was discovered just before sunrise.

The victim, who incidentally graduated with my father, was killed in her apartment building that was once my mother’s elementary school—a drive of less than two minutes from my parents’ front door. Her alleged murderer, her son, was in my sister’s high school class. He was later apprehended in a housing complex to which my other sister delivers the daily newspaper.

I later heard a rumor that the account had made the national news. It may have featured in the thin marquee running beneath a commentator’s head during campaign analysis on CNN. But Anderson Cooper could not have run the stories that were circulating for the next several days. Townsfolk mused over the dead woman’s failed marriage, relationships, and son who “wasn’t quite right.” My parents and siblings recalled the killer’s childhood involvement in my father’s t-ball team and my sister’s wrestling team. Everybody remembered his stint in the juvenile detention center. Even the handling of the report and ensuing investigation were under town discussion. Nobody could get enough of the accounts of the authorities asking the victim’s mother after her whereabouts before actually investigating the scene, where her dead body was reported to have been left. Nor could they be sated with one telling of the tale of the suspect’s girlfriend, throwing his bloodstained clothing in her complex’s dumpster just after the murder and then telling folk at the corner convenience store the next day how the victim deserved her fate. An interesting note: she has still not been tied to the event by the police.

I couldn’t escape, no matter where I went that day. Upon walking into a shop for a haircut, I was greeted not with a wide smile and hearty, “how are you?” but with more speculation. The grocery store aisles were lined with murmurs that evening and the phone line was buzzing with more details when I arrived at home.

Two weeks, and the upheaval has settled. Mostly. The townsfolk have moved on to other topics of conversation, but the family of the victim and her killer may never heal.

chatter, chatter

2008-03-23T08:25:00.003-05:00

Merry Chris-- er, Happy Easter from Frozen Central Pennsylvania.

Holy Saturday greeted us with 5 inches of snow. As I type, I'm shielding my eyes from the glare through the windows, fearing snow blindness by proxy.

If I were Jesus, I DEFINITELY would not have been interested in waking up to rock-hard ground and snow cover as far as the eye could see. Everybody would have to wait 'til Spring for their salvation, thankyouverymuch.

However, how better to spend a day snowed-in than to be curled up with a good book and a baking project? Can't you just smell those cinnamon rolls?

collect the whole set!

2008-03-16T12:00:00.001-05:00

The Catholic Church has recently “released” a new set of mortal sins—those that not only endanger one’s relationship with God, but basically destroy it. They join their brothers, the original seven deadlies of lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy and pride.

While the original seven relate to sins of an individual, personal nature, these have to do with sinful actions and behaviors that reach into the social sphere, affecting the communities in which we live as well as the world at large. They include pollution, genetic modification, human experimentation, social injustice, poverty, obscene wealth, and drug use.

Although the media has exaggerated the novelty of these transgressions the Church has just “made public,” socially responsible people (Catholic and otherwise) have known their evil for ages. Even the Church’s social teachings regarding stewardship of the earth and love of neighbor have made these offenses quite plain.

This does make for an interesting confessional situation, however. Three ‘Our Fathers’ and two ‘Hail Marys’ may do for cheating on your taxes, but what kind of penance would suit contributing to climate change, cancer research, or supporting a sweatshop full of Indonesian children?

I’m all for living responsibly, and I think this is an important step. Perhaps we will begin to think more about how our daily lives can build up or tear down the world we don’t see. But it will continue to be difficult in this age of globalization and middlemen. How much can we know about the products we support and the conveniences we rely on? How many people will think twice about biting into a genetically altered seedless watermelon or anything made with U.S.-grown soybeans? Even my new hikers (the makers of which provide a portion of their profits to environmental programs and promote socially responsible business practices) surprised me. I opened the 100% post-consumer-materials box, labeled with eight ways it’s environmentally friendly, to discover shoes made in China.

Now, if only the Church would pick up on that ‘original blessing’ thing.

worn out

2008-02-10T23:08:00.000-05:00

I need a new pair of shoes. My trusty travelin' shoes are about to bite the dust. I broke them in wandering the Berkshire Hills of Western Massachusetts, and they've been reliably waterproof, odorproof, and comfortable ever since. Until now.

After carrying me to the West Coast, and then across the Atlantic; tramping through Southern Spain, France, to the German Alps, and back to Spain; strolling the halls and gardens of the Alhambra to slogging through corrals; hiking in and out of olive groves to climbing the mountains of the Serrania the seams are giving way and the Gore-Tex has given up the ghost. My wonderful Merrell Passages are struggling to survive in the face of tired adhesive and New England winter.

The search is on for a new pair of kicks that can match the green wonders I must now give up. I've already begun scouring adventure outfitters, shoe outlets, and online retailers for a pair of light-weight hikers that fit like a glove and hold up to anything.

I offer a challenge: send me ideas for a new shoe. All I ask is for something firm and supportive, yet flexible enough to fit my foot like skin. Something waterproof but highly breathable that can stand up to long wear without smelling like carrion. Something light, but strong. Something that can carry me wherever my circumstances take me without complaint.

Bonus points to suggestions below $100.

Ah, goodbye, my lovelies.

the attack of the brown earth rat!

2008-01-31T15:32:00.000-05:00

So I was looking up my chinese zodiac sign (as the New Year is in a week) and discovered an interesting little something about myself.
Roosters (1981) are:

Hard-working
Shrewd
Bold
Boastful
Correct

Ok, I can handle those. I'd like to believe I'm hard-working and shrewd. I suppose I can be a little boastful at times. And I am DEFINITELY correct. Shut up.

Good career choices for us include:

Restaurant owner
Publicist
World traveler

Hmm. Perhaps the universe is trying to tell me something.

Some famous Roosters from the past are:

Confucius
Catherine the Great
Amelia Earhart
Rudyard Kipling
Groucho Marx

OMG I was once Groucho Marx for Hallowe'en!

What do you think? Check it out: http://gochina.about.com/od/chinesenewyear/p/ChineseZodiac.htm

upon reflection

2008-01-29T11:20:00.000-05:00

On completing my sojourn in Spain, I’ve decided to take some time to look back on my experiences and take down for my own future reference some of the things I’ve learned.

I can travel with shampoo… or short hair.
Sometimes, (1) organic and (2) sustainable mean only (1) containing carbon, and (2) able to be upheld or defended.
One needn’t sand too much rust off of a piece of metal before one can successfully slather paint over it.
The bus is definitely the way to go in Spain. The train is good, but more expensive than Amtrak.
The Serranía de Ronda is one of the most impressive places I’ve ever seen.
There are a lot of Americans out there.
Good leather work gloves are indispensable on Southern Spanish farms.
Good leather work gloves are hard to come by in Southern Spain.
Puedo hablar Español a los Españoles, pero no puedo entenderlo cuando lo me hablan.
LandRovers are badass.
And I want one.
Olive trees are badass.
And I do not want one.
Hace frio in Andalucía roughly translates to 'What a lovely night to sleep under the stars!'
Real, folky Flamenco is an otherworldly experience.
Two weeks in the middle of nowhere can last an eternity.
Two weeks in the middle of nowhere can be over before you know it.
Two weeks is a long time to do the same thing.
Two weeks is not enough time to try all the things that need to be done on a farm.
Tapas are a great way to fill up on the cheap. Especially when they come free with drinks!
I will never drive across France again unless I’m with a French person. And we know exactly where we are going.
It's nice to be home.

PS - More pictures are up from my visit to The Alhambra.

beantown

2008-01-25T17:23:00.000-05:00

On Wednesday morning, I walked out of my hostel in Madrid, entered the Metro, and did not stop moving until I arrived, on foot, at the doorstep of the Farm’s house-program in Medford, Massachusetts, nearly 18 hours later.

My friends and former co-workers there generously allowed me to stay the night, inviting me to stay another two days and leave with them on Friday. It was a surprise to walk in the door and run into so many past community members. Several I left at the Farm, and some I wasn’t sure I’d ever see again, but there they were, warmly greeting me with smiles, hugs, and questions about my trip. Had it really been three months? The familiar faces and immediate comfort bridged the three-month gap too well. I need to get back out there!

So, being in Boston for a couple days more than originally planned, I decided to go out and see a bit more of the city. I spent midday Thursday wandering around Harvard, checking out bookshops and sporting goods stores (because I need more crap to lug around in my duffel bag), then headed into town to wander the Boston Common and the Freedom Trail. Before leaving the house I downloaded an audio-tour to my mp3 player (will the wonders of technology never cease?) and equipped with this, I started the popular 2-mile amble through the city. The Freedom trail is basically a red brick path running down the middle of sidewalks, connecting sixteen historical sites in the city. It starts in the Common (originally set aside for the grazing of cattle in the city’s first days), winds through the city’s old North End, and winds up at the Bunker Hill monument, near the Charlestown Harbor where the USS Constitution is moored. Many of the sites are old original buildings, surrounded (or built over) by modern structures of concrete and glass. The trail leads directly past or through some of the sites, with plaques set up by the Parks Commission to impart significance. A fun side note pointed out by my audio-guide: an important spring, just off the trail, is commemorated by a bronze sign on the wall of a building down an alleyway. According to the guide, it was this spring that provided a good deal of the town’s drinking water in its infancy, and without it, the city may well have developed on the other bank of the Charles River. Today, the spring has dried to nothing more than a trickle, which is, ironically, piped directly into the sewer system.

Today, the folks here invited me to go to the Boston Living Center with them. Groups of residents here go into the city for volunteer projects every week and this week’s project was this community center for people living with HIV/AIDS. We left in the morning and spent the day preparing a large dining room for a lunch that is served daily to members of the center. It was great way to fill my time, catch up with acquaintances from the Farm, and meet new people who were also volunteering their time to the Center. The place operates every day and offers free services, such as community meals, informative programs, social activities, and massage to its members. Its volunteer program is an integral part of keeping its costs low and its programs available. On reflection, it just seemed strange but appropriate that I was back in a kitchen, helping to feed a multitude while “just passing through” Boston for a few days.

And tonight, I’m hitting the road again. Ever further West I go, where I stop: I don’t know.

But I have some ideas. Wink!

the alhambra

2008-01-19T07:19:00.000-05:00

I got a ticket! I woke before the light and made my way up the hill, behind the hostel to the Alhambra ticket office in the near-dark, avoiding gypsies at every corner. Although it was Monday, and 7:30, I had to take a place at the end of a 50-foot queue. Tickets were already running low by the time I made it to the window, nearly two hours later, and I worried that I would once again miss my chance. As my turn approached the window, I mustered up my hope, nerve, and Spanish skills and said, “Uno, por favor.” And the ticket seller shook her head with a wry smile.

And if you believe that, I have some beach front property in Kansas you might be interested in…

Scoring a ticket was actually a lot easier than I had expected, and had experienced the day before. My wait was probably not even ten minutes and there were plenty available to enter the Nazrid Palace, the Alhambra’s most elaborate edifice, almost right away.

The Alhambra is an ancient Arabic palace. I think it may even be the greatest Arabic palace in Europe. And as they’d done with every Islamic stronghold, the Catholic conquerors promptly turned the place into a Christian bastion,
building a new palace in the center of the fortress, and adding Christian icons to the adornments. Despite this, however, much of the original Arabic character remains and attracts thousands of visitors each day.

On my last morning in Granada, a fog had settled on the city. “Oh, great,” I thought. My chance to see this great monument and stroll through its gardens was shrouded in mist. But I think this only managed to heighten the oriental mystique of the Alhambra.

A great, stone wall, studded with soaring towers, surrounds the entire structure and makes the drop into the forested valley below appear even more sheer.
It was through this hazy forest I had to walk first, before I entered at the Generalife, or Architect’s Garden. But my first destination once inside was the Nazrid Palace.

Here is where most of the Alhambra’s noted wonders are housed. One needn’t go far within, however, to find the elaborate facades that are this place’s trademark. Doorways, windows, and walls are covered in intricately carved limestone. Minute swirls, blocked floral patterns, and Arabic script are tessellated from corner-to-perfectly-proportione-corner. Look up, and see the carved wooden ceilings, gilded and painted in stars and built into cupolas, giving the lower-ceilinged rooms the appearance of loft. From the windows, I gazed out onto the cloud-obscured city far below, as its Muslim, and later, Christian rulers and their guests did for hundreds of years.

Some of the monument was under restoration, so the famed Court of Lions and Sala de los Reyes were not able to be seen in their original splendor. The twelve carved lions that support the fountain at the center of the patio, inspiration to so many past visitors, were in a museum somewhere, meticulously being cleaned and fleshed-out for their return. The painted leather ceilings of the Sala were also blocked from view, by both scaffolding and great shrouds.
Perhaps they, too, had been dismantled and take to another place to be carefully restored. Or maybe the work is being done right there, unknown to the multitude of sight-seers that pass by the door everyday. Nonetheless, the patio was striking with the slender marble columns supporting the porch that surrounds the great basin, and the fountains and rivulets that feed the main central font.

I continued outside to the Genaralife, the Architect’s Garden, and here I met the full impact of the fog. Birds singing in the invisible surroundings gave me the feeling of being trapped in a rain forest. Although the monument’s grounds were probably crowded, I had the impression of being alone, left to enjoy the garden’s hidden beauty in the solitude of the mist. In the right season, I would’ve seen all kinds of flowers in bloom, colors and textures everywhere. But even this winter garden was stunning in its lush greenery and droves of fountains. Hedges led me through the fog in a kind of maze, as I made my way out of the Alhambra, back into the forest in the middle of this mysterious city.

staying on

2008-01-06T15:46:00.000-05:00

Today I wandered down to the cathedral and saw the Capilla Real, the Royal Chapel, where Fernando and Isabel are buried, along with their daughter Juana la Loca (Juana the Mad), Felipe el Hermoso (Felipe the Handsome), and their son. The Spanish sure knew how to make a big deal of things—two elaborate marble mausoleums were carved in tribute to the dead monarchs, and every available surface of carved woodwork was gilded. The great altarpiece had over thirty statues depicting saints, scenes from Christ’s life, and the two Catholic monarchs—even pictures of the conquest and conversion of the Muslims in Granada.

I passed through many artisans’ stalls, each hawking the same colorful Arabic/Spanish crafts: pashmina scarves, marqueta boxes, hookahs, teas, slippers, pillow cases, and brightly colored blankets and shawls. I’ve been tempted a few times to buy embroidered and embossed leather slippers, but none have looked comfortable enough.

On my way back to the hostel, I was distracted by street performers in the Plaza Nueva. I think I still hear them in the distance: three young men playing a drumbox, didgeridoo, and an electric violin while a young woman danced with finger cymbals.

Now I’m back in the hostel and I’ve decided to stay in Granada another day. Hopefully tomorrow will be my chance to see the Alhambra—tickets have been sold out each time I’ve tried. Then it’s off to Sevilla, my last tourist stop before I arrive in Aracena for my last farming adventure in Southern Spain. And then what? Who knows? But the suggestion box is always open!

el día de los reyes magos

2008-01-05T18:08:00.000-05:00

Today is the eve of the Feast of the Three Kings in the Roman Catholic Church. This feast day marks the end of the Christmas season and celebrates the day the Magi found the child Jesus and his family. In Spain, the eve is usually celebrated with more pomp and ceremony than the day itself. In Granada, there was a parade through the center of the city.

The parade was unlike any I’d ever been to in the states. Disproportionate throngs of people lined the streets so that it was difficult to see through to the actual event, which was little more than a line of nearly the same floats. The parade appeared to celebrate the history of the city, as well as the arrival of the kings, with processions of young people dressed as Roman legionnaires, Muslim soldiers, and finally Christian soldiers. Between the floats, squads of children dessed as Arabs marched. Smaller floats decorated with sequins and exotic animals made up the delegations of the kings. Children dressed in oriental and Arabic garb sat upon them and threw handfuls of candy to the crowds. The floats of the kings were decorated in the same way and emblazoned with the glittering names of corporate sponsors. Men dressed in flowing robes with gold crowns and magnificent beards threw candy by the bucket-load, and spectators young and old alike dove for the sweets as though they were gold coins. Even my American companion, Jeremy, was lunging for every pastille that landed in a five-foot radius. Each float passed in its own cloud of exultant music, generating roars from the crowd for more candies.

The paraded ended with a few of the city’s emergency services passing in review. When all was finished, the crowds spilled over into the streets, filling all the blocks I could see. The traffic lights blinked in futility, and a single car pushed its way through the horde, it’s origin and destination a mystery to me among the countless bodies.

Back at the hostel, we had homemade seafood paella and shared parade loot in the bar on the terrace. Later, fireworks filled the sky above the cathedral and we had the best seats in the city.

pictures

2008-01-05T05:42:00.000-05:00

I've finally had the chance to upload some pics! If you're interested in seeing a little of what I saw, check back to these archived posts:

back to spain

deutchland

here goes...

black gold

mís compañeros

Happy viewing!

málaga

2008-01-05T04:05:00.001-05:00

Hostels are interesting creatures. I’ve never seen a place where such an odd assortment of humanity gathers and decides immediately that it’s ok to sleep together. And share a bathroom. I was greeted in the lobby by the noise of a DVD being viewed on the wall over the bar. After check-in I was taken to my dorm where I met one of my roommates. “Nice to meet you. I’m Jeff. That corner might be the best bet for your stuff. I don’t know whose all this is—I haven’t seen them yet.” The bathroom, the kitchen, my bunk, the noisy table of youngsters downstairs. I even got a glimpse of the terrace upstairs—too bad it was a wet night. But such people! I tried to go to a Flamenco show with Jeff and three others, but nobody was at the bar. After that, I took a walk around the city, looking for something interesting and finding nothing but closed shops and snooty clubs.

Coming back into the hostel, I met a 50-something woman, an American citizen living in Ireland. I don’t even think I introduced myself, but suddenly I was being regaled with the story of her trip to Spain to recover from a month’s bout with the flu that became pneumonia. She only paused long enough every several minutes to light up another cigarette, and used these opportunities to ask me about my travels. Hearing that I’m a WWOOFer, she suggested Ireland, a farm of one of her friends in particular. It might be a worthwhile tip, I don’t know. The place sounded pretty neat; organic, sustainable, with an added spritz of Celtic spirituality. She also told me some more about couch surfing. She’s a big fan, and knows all about it, having surfed herself and also hosted 30 people since August. She even offered to vouch for me should I join, to help get me started.

And that was last night. Today was spent exploring some of Málaga’s historic features. Most of this place is a big, gross city. Apparently, it’s been a big, gross city for some time. Possibly founded by the Phoenicians, Málaga was a prime port city of Islamic Spain and a large fortress and castle were built on a hill in the center on the coast to provide defense. Even in the 16th Century a great wall surrounded most of the city.

The Alcazaba and Castillo de Gibralfaro are the two major historic sites and were built by the city’s Muslim rulers in the 11th and 8th Centuries, respectively. Next to the Alcazaba is a Roman amphitheater that is currently being excavated and restored.

For a low combined price, I was able to tour both. The Alcazaba lies over the base of a hill and was built to the contours of it. This provided extra defense with winding roads in and slanted, hairpin gateways. Within the fort a palace was also built, featuring courtyards with fountains and gardens. The wall surrounding the fort offers some amazing lookouts over the city and its bustling port.
Within some of the palace’s courtyards are exhibits of old Muslim pottery, explaining the construction, glazing, and firing techniques. There was even a giant kiln found that was used for firing the works that were found in the fort. The Alcazaba and Castillo de Gibralfaro are connected by a long, walled avenue that stretches up the hill, but oddly enough is not open to the public, so…

…One must climb a long, winding, and sometimes steep stone path to the top of the hill. Here, you can wander the mostly-empty courtyard of the castle, but the more interesting path is at the top of the perimeter wall. Here, you get great views of the whole city, the port, the interior of the Alcazaba and the interior of the castle
itself. After I climbed back down and saw what there was within the walls, I made my way back to my hostel to check out and head to Granada. Too bad there wasn’t time for the Picasso Museum. Málaga boasts as the birthplace of the famous artist and has an extensive collection on display here. Oh well, I’m not that big a fan of cubism, anyway.

back to spain

2008-01-03T14:40:00.000-05:00

I've made it back to Spain and plan to spend the next five days traveling across Andalucia with stops in Málaga, Granada, Ronda, and Sevilla. From there, it's to my final farm. I'll be there near a town called Aracena for two weeks and then I fly back to the States to do some reflection, regrouping, and renewing.

Germany was a blast and many thanks go out to Germans #1 and #2 and their families for all their generosity. Yesterday was spent in Heidelberg, a neat University city with an American base. We wandered the market street, then climbed 320 stairs to an old castle.
The place was built of red stone and crumbling in places, but still lit up all around and open for tours on the inside. We spent our time wandering the extensive courtyards and spent our money elsewhere. We had traditional Schwäbisch cuisine at a restaurant in the student quarter and it was delicious! Schwäbisch, or Swabian, is the name for the region where I was visiting my friends and the food is rich and tasty. I had Käsespätzle, a kind of noodle with cheese, and plum dumplings in vanilla sauce for dessert. But this wasn't my first taste of Schwäbisch food; I tried several dishes at German #2's house over Christmas (her dad told me to tell everyone that I was a guest in a German doctor's home and he made me EAT). We had an interesting meat dumpling called maultaschen, spätzle, sauerbraten (in the cottage in the alps), and probably other things I can't remember. Then, at German #1's house, the three of us attempted to make dampfnudeln, a heavy dumpling baked in a pot with a caramel crust on the bottom. They were tough to make, but a lot of fun and very good with vanilla sauce and fruit compote. They're meant to be a main dish in a meal, but I think they would fit better into the dessert category in American sensibilities. But whatever they were, I intend to make them again as soon as I get back home!

And so now I'm in Málaga, catching up on some internet work in my spiffy hostel before I head out to a teahouse or a Flamenco show. I'm sure I'll have more to write later after I've seen some more of this town. But until then, be well. And Happy New Year!

deutschland

2007-12-30T05:01:00.000-05:00

So, I'm in Germany. It's been a ton of fun, spending Christmas with a wonderful family, skiing in the Alps, ice skating on ponds. You know, the regular winter stuff. It's been quite a change from the beautiful Mediterranean clime of Southern Spain, but I'm glad to be reminded of what real winter weather is like again.

The countryside has been a winter wonderland for the most part. I took a train from the Northern-Central part of Germany (Kassel) to Ulm in the Southwest. The landscape was covered in a thick frost that almost looked like snow. Although we haven't had any flakes fall since I've been here, the temperature has been below freezing and the existing white stuff hasn't gone yet.

The Alps were covered and the skiing conditions were perfect. We spent a good portion of the day working our way across a resort nestled in the lower mountains that lay at the beginning of the range in Germany. We even crossed over a mountain to ski into an Austrian valley at one point.

That night, we stayed in a cottage with friends of German #2's family. These people cared for her and her brother while their parents worked as they were growing up, and taught them to ski. The cottage was situated at the bottom of a snow-covered valley and we had to ski in from the road because there was no driveway. The whole house was heated by wood stoves and furnaces and was as hot as an oven compared to the frozen world outside. We cooked a small dinner on an old-fashioned wood-burning stove and ate in the light of a propane lamp (the cottage has no electricity). I turned in early, after nearly falling asleep in the toasty kitchen. My bed was cozy in the cool bedroom. I had heavy, down-filled blankets to keep me warm after the day of outdoor fun.

Before heading home, we decided to ski-climb the hill behind the cottage and ski back down in the deep snow. As I'd never done either of those things, I provided a bit of comic relief to the event. But it was so much fun, and I should have a video pending to post. Remember dune-diving? Yeah, it went a little like that.

Now I've been dropped off at the home of German #1. I realized he has not yet made it into this blog. He's a friends I met at the Farm in MA and he left a year ago already. By the time I started this blog, he'd been gone. So far, we've made good time ticking off to-do's from our list, seeing some ancient Roman ruins nearby, ice skating and eating warm apple strudel with vanilla sauce, and hanging out with his friends. I met a very fun young woman who is American because of her parents, but has lived in Germany nearly her whole life. Strangely enough, she identifies more strongly with her American citizenship.

More details will come of my time in the small village outside of Stuttgart in the coming days. Right now, there has just been too much to catch up on and we're planning on seeing Heidelberg today. Ciao for now!

and... we're back!

2007-12-25T16:44:00.000-05:00

Merry Christmas to you all! I've made it to Germany and have been celebrating with German #2 and her family. It's been a very lovely holiday for me and it makes me miss all my friends and family back home even more. I'm looking forward to seeing you all when I get back home.

Ok, there were just too many to try to post them in an order I wanted, so I just put all the things I wrote for the past few weeks in one post. I hope you enjoy reading about my time at the funny farm; it sure was a trip.

Happy Holidays!

here goes...

2007-12-25T16:28:00.001-05:00

abandoned

My host has gone to Belgium for four days, leaving Onur, Claudia (two other volunteers) and me alone with no car. He’s given us a list of chores to complete in his absence, but it seems we’re having a hard time finding the motivation to do them. Onur and Claudia seem only to be interested in smoking our host’s weed and wasting my computer’s battery. I’ve managed to get a total of 45 minutes for myself the whole four days. Now, my laptop’s battery is dead and the solar panel has failed, too. We have no electricity and no internet. Thankfully, the water is heated by gas and we have propane ranges and wood stoves for cooking and warmth. I can handle a little blackout, I think.

spanish cowboys

Our host hadn’t been gone six hours and we received visitors. Two strangers on horseback appeared, looking for the man. They told us they were traveling around by horseback for the weekend and were hoping to stop here for the night for respite and a visit with their friend. Well, we called the man in Belgium and decided, why not? What could be too difficult about two Spanish cowboys?

Two Spanish cowboys may have been easy but suddenly at sundown we were nine people on this host-less farm. What to do? Do they speak English? No: so poor Claudia, the only woman and native Spanish-speaker must play host alone. Are they going to eat with us? Maybe: so Onur and I better prepare enough food. Will they be staying? Hopefully not: the four others will leave, but the two cowboys need beds.

All was quickly put in order. We settled into our host’s bedroom with a big fire, plenty of beer and wine, and marijuana for the masses. Onur and I whipped up some veggies, dip, and a quick pasta stir-fry. Claudia got the conversation ball rolling and directed us through several courses of tea, coffee, and joints. Every time we thought the hour had come for the end, we wound up just boiling more water and rolling more fatties. It was 2:30 before everybody staggered back to town and the three of us were able to clean up and get our guests settled for the night. What is this place?

wild horses

Two new WWOOFers arrived from the town last night. Our host is still gone and had instructed them to walk. Apparently, he gave them terrible directions and they arrived in the dark after asking several people for help.

Sasha and Phoebey are from the States—the San Francisco Bay area—and have just come from what sounds like a WWOOFing paradise. The place is a short walk from town (there is no road access), uses solar power, and seems pretty self-sustaining. The work is scheduled and varied, plentiful. The host has clear expectations and demands. I wonder what they’ll think of this place.

Today, four healthy-looking horses showed up. These creatures wander free here, having no stables or feed schedules to confine them. They’re in much better shape than the two emaciated mares and the one with a large open wound who’ve been here the past two days. Nifty coincidence: one of the new WWOOFers knows how to ride. Onur and Claudia think this is serendipity, a gift from the universe. I think it’s a disaster waiting to happen.

We took some time to corral, feed, and get acquainted with the horses. They were saddled and mounted. And they stood in one place. Well, at least we didn’t have to treat anybody for a fall with no way to the hospital.

the serrania de ronda

This place is unlike any other I’ve ever seen. I’m living on a mountain range tucked away in the South of Spain, a park in the Sierra de Grazalema. On all sides are tall mountains, the tops of which have been shrouded in clouds for the second week of my stay. Even the valleys are dotted with hills and small towns perch on the hillsides. The cortijo itself is pretty isolated, situated along, winding dirt road that passes few houses (most abandoned) on its way to town.

Distances here are misleading. To reach a ridge a stone’s throw away by foot can take a half-hour or more along meandering goat paths, sometimes having to hop a fence or descend into a ravine before climbing back up.

I wish I had better pictures to share, but this place is just too big to fit inot a camera. And mine seems to be dying anyway, having lost its shutter button during the olive harvest in Villamartín, and now displaying a multi-colored blob where the display should be.

Trees cover most of the hills, but even bare places are peppered with oaks and shrubs. Streams cut across sections of the wilderness, often crossing the road leaving shallow arroyos, as there hasn’t been much rain this season.

In addition to the horses, there are a few flocks of sheep that wander their favorite corners of the countryside. I often hear the bells around their necks clanking across the valley from a nearby ridge.

This is the cortijo where I’d been living for most of December. For all its oddities and annoyances, I must say you can’t beat its location. It’s plopped right in one of the most beautiful places I’ve seen.

the funky bunch

Our host returned with four new volunteers, all from the States. They’d been studying in Belgium and were now doing some traveling before going home for the holidays.

The other two Americans, Onur, and Claudia have all gone, leaving me with the youngsters. In a spat of cosmic humor, Sasha told me to “look after the kids.” She is the same age. So there I was, indeed looking after them. I felt like I was spending the weekend with ‘fresh air kids,’ urban youth come into the country to escape the hardness of the city. I’d taught them to build a fire, cook, and bake from scratch. They too, would go soon, leaving me alone with Theo. It was too bad they didn’t teach me how to humor him—they learned to like it here almost overnight.

and then there were two…

For the past three days, it’s been Theo and I, with occasional Marco (Theo’s brother) sightings. I’ve done more sanding than I thought possible. In addition, I’ve run to town a few times with the man, meeting friends, having drinks and tapas, taking out the trash. The truck ricochets down the hill like a dull silver pinball, threatening to roll down the hillside.

Tonight, we roasted a leg of goat. Ok, I roasted the goat’s leg. Theo had a goat slaughtered to share with all of his volunteers and then everybody bailed. Oops. Well, between the two of us, we ate the whole damn leg anyway. It didn’t take as much effort as I thought, first to roast it then to eat it. I merely poked it in several places, shoved in some whole garlic cloves and threw the bastard in the oven. Two hours and a smoky kitchen later (oops, again), we had a tender piece of meat done just right. I hastily boiled some potatoes and sautéed some chard from the garden (Theo thinks I’m a good cook because I taught the four kids), and dinner was served. It was a short night for my host—an early dinner and some brief conversation sent him to his bed and me up the hill to my cold house.

Strange, but I never thought I’d enjoy a wood stove as much as I have the past few nights. Of course, it keeps me warm, but before I would have chosen a different heat source. Growing up, it was more often drudgery than entertainment for my brother and me to spend a weekend gathering wood with my father. And we always touched each log at least twice: first to bring it in from the forest and second when we brought it to the house from the barn (often through snow that we first had to shovel). Then there was the dust—fine layers of ash covered everything all winter. If my mother didn’t do weekly battle with the particulate matter, we would’ve been overcome, Pompeii-style.

Here, however, bringing in firewood presented a challenge—first I had to find it and then bring it in before the sun sank. Do I have enough? Are there enough different sizes to build up the fire? Then came the nightly game of actually getting the thing started, followed by regular feedings through the night. All this to raise the temperature in my little cottage a few degrees. And I’ve loved it!

And that’s where I find myself now, having fulfilled the ritual and taking time to remember these two bizarre weeks and look ahead to the events coming.

horse sense

Living at the Hacienda taught me a little bit about horses, but mostly I learned that they are not the dignified, stately creatures we often believe them to be.

As I walked out to the olive grove on my third day at the Hacienda, I was still naively viewing these creatures with a slightly mystified respect. A white mare was steadily gazing at me as I approached. I wondered what she was thinking of me, so deeply she seemed to be peering into my being. I walked a little farther and noticed that she was merely scratching her behind, quite obviously, on the tree next to her.

While ridding the corrals of manure (a job that can be done with dignity but is never stately), I tried to count the number of times the horses passed gas. I couldn’t do it, that’s how often it happened in the fifteen minutes each corral took.

The occurrence that cinched it all for me, however, was something I couldn’t have expected. And this wasn’t even one of those times that just looked comical because I caught it out of the corner of my eye. This event was actual and I swear the equine perpetrator laughed. Several horses are stabled in stalls that stand next to each other and are separated by fences between the runs on the outside. As a stallion unsuspectingly stood outside watching us walk past, the one next door craned his neck over the fence and totally goosed his neighbor! I truly believe the gooser was neighing with impish glee afterward.

Cortijo Hell-hole

2007-12-19T05:56:00.000-05:00

I made it out. Oy, that was a rough one. As usual, it´s feast or famine with the iternet, so hopefully I´ll have a ton of posts from my last place. Thanks for keeping me in your thoughts (and prayers. Seriously, that place was creepy). Right now I´m in an internet center in Ronda and will be heading to Germany tomorrow to spend the holidays. I´m so excited! More soon!

um...

2007-12-07T20:56:00.001-05:00

So I'm currently in the middle of Spanish nowhere and I'm a little worried. My host leaves soon for four days, leaving us on this farm with no car and little access to the outside world. Thankfully he has wifi here (go figure) and one of my fellow volunteers has a cell phone that she can let me use, otherwise nobody would know if I had had been murdered by my crazy, pot-smoking host. Say some prayers; this might be a rough one. TSOldtimer, over and out.

black gold

2007-12-05T10:38:00.000-05:00

I'm not talking Texas Tea, either.

The olive harvest is over. After four weeks of abusive pruning, the trees have been stripped of their fruit. It seems these trees just can’t catch a break. For starters, they must grow in this hot, arid climate and chalky clay soil. Our inexpert pruning techniques of thwacking the suckers from the trees must also be painful. And finally, the harvest itself is a truly violent occurrence. After carefully spreading a long, wide net of fine mesh around the trunk and beneath the boughs, we set about the tree with long wooden poles,
beating the olives from the branches. We harvest as many twigs and leaves as we do fruits, and have to pick them out by hand before we can collect the small round olives into the wagon. For all this work, I have yet to learn how much oil comes from pressing. A fellow WWOOFer told me that the olives are about fifteen percent oil by weight. I will never look at the little bottle of oil in the supermarket the same way again.

I’ve gleaned a little about the process by which these small black fruits become oil. We’ve taken our olives to the only mill in the area that still processes them in the “old way,” according to our host, and uses no chemicals to extract the oil, nor do they mix all the olives they receive, thus reducing the quality of the resulting oil (apparently the olives that grow here are famous in the region). Here, the olives are washed and then ground up, pit and all. The resulting pulp is mixed with some water and may be allowed to settle overnight, or immediately be sent for pressing. If allowed to set, a small bit of oil (about 7% of the 15% of the fruit that is oil) will rise to the top of the slurry. This liquid treasure is much sought after, and apparently isn’t ever for sale because there is so little of it. It is the purest olive oil, having not experienced any denaturing heat from even the cold press. My host hopes to collect some before everything is pressed. When the paste is ready to be pressed, it is spread over round woven mats and these are stacked in several layers. The weight of the olive pancakes already begins to express some liquid, and it is collected in the pan that the mats are stacked in. After enough are stacked, the pile is pressed by a hydraulic pump at a pressure of up to 400 kilograms per square centimeter (about 5,689 pounds per square inch)! This is, apparently, low-pressure to avoid producing heat that damages the oil. All the liquid expelled is collected in a vat and again allowed to settle. Here, it separates by weight into olive pulp, water, and oil. From this point, the oil is either skimmed off the top or the vat is drained from the bottom until only the oil remains. The World Book Encyclopedia tells me that modern industrial processes involve further extraction using a chemical solvent that is applied to the pulp that remains from squeezing. This mix is separated by a centrifuge and the solvent is evaporated from the oil that is left, but this oil is generally flavorless and has lost much of the color and nutrients of the cold pressed oil. I think this is the cheapest variety that can be bought in grocery stores.

We were three Americans, four Poles, and one Irishman doing the harvesting. I guess we could classify ourselves as migrant workers, foreigners following the harvest, providing cheap labor for an expensive product that the local people take for granted. According to Susan Griffith in Work Your Way Around the World, 5,000 to 6,000 workers from Morocco and Latin America pass through Southern Spain every year to work in the fruit and vegetable harvests. The large number of Moroccans that enter the country have prompted the government to highly regulate the hiring of foreign workers. Prospective workers often have to provide several layers of documentation and employers must go through a lengthy and costly process in order to obtain visas and work permits. In many cases, (like mine) these fiery hoops are ignored altogether and workers are hired undocumented, being able to obtain neither a residence card nor a national insurance card, which aid in receiving social services.

This reminds me of the situation in the United States, where we are arguing over legislation that would either make entry easier for foreign workers in order to ensure availability of services, or further restrict legal entry, allowing exploitation and dangerous working conditions. Or perhaps the idea is to allow for cheap labor at a lower risk. I can’t remember.

Even from the position I’m in now, a foreigner here with no documentation and little knowledge of the language or the culture, I can’t identify with what these people must experience. I have travel insurance and can leave whenever I want, having money saved just for this experience. I’ve joined an international organization and made a deal with my host in which I have set and fair hours to work in exchange for food and lodging—security. The Polish folk working alongside us had a slightly different perspective, however. They, too, belonged to an organization that had placed them here and provided a bit of a security net. However they had even less knowledge of Spanish than me, and were traveling in order to escape the dearth of jobs in Poland. According to them, unemployment is very high in Poland right now, and it’s common for young people to leave the country to look for opportunities elsewhere.

So: olives, oil production, migrant workers, and social issues. I guess I am learning something in Spain.

pizza!

2007-11-21T10:15:00.000-05:00

We went out for pizza last night. We drove into a nearby town called Puerto Serrano. All the little towns (and even the big ones) are strange to drive through! The streets tend to not be laid out in any kind of scheme, and they are rarely wide enough for traffic to flow through easily. American drivers would have a hard time here, being unable to navigate, or having to have patience in a blocked street. That just seems to be part of the psyche here, however, to let traffic happen. You can go or you can’t and there’s nothing that can be done but sit and wait. People even seem to approach it with some humor, honking at the pedestrians who just wander in clouds, or flitting around little trucks parked in the middle of streets.

We listened to KISS FM in the car. I think every country the world over must have this radio station. It plays the best mix of today and the 80s (with a handful of Spanish tunes). And at the Hacienda, when the radio isn’t playing this ubiquitous station, there is some kind of soft rock or American pop coming from the CD player. One can only take so much Lionel Ritchie. However, I must say I did approve of Jack Johnson, and wonder how soon we can hear that one again. Today at lunch we were graced with Van Morrison.

Moritz had given us the name of a place that sold good Italian pizza. The only things Italian about the place, however, were the pizza and possibly the little old man who worked there. The walls were covered in the oddest assortment of pictures from Tarifa to Geronimo. The radio played cheesy music, and a large television set on top of the dessert freezer was showing Sesame Street with no sound. Each table held a Connect-4 set from full- to travel-size. After we each ate a pizza on ultra-thin crust, cheesier than the radio, we shared a piadina, a specialty from the owner’s region. I was amused to note that we have that very same specialty in Central PA and call it a bilby.

community

2007-11-21T10:14:00.000-05:00

When I set out, I wondered whom I would meet on the road. Who were these people that would be my new community, although we wouldn’t necessarily have a geographical location in common? What kinds of things would we have in common? What kinds of things or places were they searching for, and would they be able to give me directions on my search? Would I be able to offer words of advice or navigation to any of them, sending them to places I’d been, or experiences I’d lived?

I’ve already met a few; the WWOOFers here at the Hacienda seemed to form a mini-community. We work together, often at the same tasks, and we share our interests and ideas. I’ve been learning why my companions are traveling, a little about what they’re hoping to learn along the way. I must say we have similar goals. None of us seems to know what we’d like to do everyday. Some of us are hoping to live simply. A few of us are trying to learn how to live self-sufficient, sustainable lifestyles. There are even some who just want to travel cheaply!

I grew close to them in a short time, and found it just as difficult to say goodbye to those who’ve gone as it was for others I’d known longer. This is one thing I’m learning about myself: I need community.

I always thought of myself as a dyed-in-the-wool introvert, needing nobody and drawing my life from my own interests. Now I’m finding that, an introvert I may be, I need the people that surround me more than I ever thought. My time growing up at home and at college taught me that I could easily be worn down by spending too much time around others. My time at the Farm taught me to balance my time between being alone and being with those others who sometimes drained me. My time in contemplation of these things has taught me that I truly draw energy from those around me, and that I surround myself with a core group of people who can sustain me even when I am alone.

Growing up, I was lucky to have a large family, immediate and extended. Not only did I share a house with three siblings and two parents, I had a host of cousins to play with and aunts and uncles all over the place where I lived taking care of me. All my grandparents lived within a five-minute drive (if that), and I saw them several times a week. Many members of my father’s family lived on the dairy farm where I grew up, and there were always holiday gatherings when all the others came back. My mother’s family, likewise, lived in town and I often spent weekends with them when we would gather at my grandparents’ house for dinner or just to read the newspaper. Saturday night was a popular time to meet up for card games and Solid Gold Oldies.

In high school, my friends rounded out my community when my cousins and I went our separate ways. We obviously spent all day together, sharing the same classes, activities, and frustrations.

College was a rebuilding of my community, and I found it in the music department. I think we were a group unto ourselves there, the overworked students (and sometimes faculty) who spent 14 or more hours a day in Zug Memorial Hall. Again, we had a space in common (Zug), similar experiences (“what did you think of Dr. So-and-so’s class today?”), and supported each other through our trials and triumphs. We were inseparable, rooming with each other, teaching each other, eating together, and having fun together. Saying goodbye was inevitable, and painful.

The Farm has been the most obvious community in my life. The people there, staff and guests, have chosen to live together. We took the step for ourselves, this time, to be intentional about building community, not being thrown together by the circumstances of birth, geographical proximity, or shared study. The concept behind the Farm is to foster mental and physical health by doing meaningful work and fostering healthy community life. Importance is placed on living together: the staff are provided on-site housing by the company and the guests share houses. Importance is placed on community events: there is a meeting for the whole community weekly, three meals a day are shared in a large dining room, and activities fill the evenings and weekends. And each person is considered vital to the functioning of the work of the place. Each team is designed to perform a task that is sustaining to the Farm, be it producing crops, preparing meals, maintaining the grounds, or maintaining the buildings, and each member of each team helps keep the work running smoothly, or at all.

Now that I’ve removed myself from those communities that had supported me, I find that I automatically grasp at those people around me, trying to mold some type of cohesion for myself. My old communities aren’t far away: my friends and family are scattered across the places I’ve been and will someday be going to. However, without physical proximity, I have a hard time drawing support from these former homes I’d built for myself. In leaving them behind, I’ve discovered that I try to rebuild immediately and realize just how important those previous communities were, are, and will continue to be to me.

¡buen provecho!

2007-11-21T10:12:00.000-05:00

It seems every language has this phrase to wish one a good meal, but the lazy English-speaking world must borrow from the French: bon appètit. These words encourage us not only to enjoy the food, but the whole experience. There are flavors, aromas, colors, and textures to savor. We are invited to relish the company of those around us. We are nourished by the feast and the atmosphere together.

Tonight’s dinner required little invitation for delight. Having but four guests at the moment, our small party was joined by the Spanish family and friends of the local folk who work here. José, one of the groundskeepers, prepared stuffed tomatoes and a dish of fried eggplant, filled with prosciutto and cheese. The food alone was amazing, but was only the warm-up for the Flamenco that filled the dining room for more than three hours!

Southern Spain (specifically the Guadalquiver valley in Andalucia) is the origin of this old art form that includes singing, dancing, and instrumental accompaniment. Lonely Planet says that it began in the late 18th century with the Roma people (once thought of as Gypsies, called gitanos in Spanish) as a singing style, produced from deep within. Later, the form incorporated instruments in the form of clapping, castanets, drums, and guitar. Today, Flamenco can be performed in any of these ways, or all together, along with dance.

Washing dishes in the kitchen, I could hear the deep, almost primal sounds of the men and women singing along to the guitar and drum box. I walked into the dining room flooded with sound and energy as members of the party sang from the bottoms of their lungs. It was as if they were challenging each other, the singers and the drummers. “Keep up with me, if you can!” “Follow me—I dare you!” Ana, a woman who once worked here I was told, belted out her poetry to a younger man who played along on the drum box. Her voice and eyes showed him the rhythm, and she clapped along to drive the beat home.

When there was no guitar, there were voices. Drums were replaced with clapping hands, pounding out rhythms to match the flow of the melody. Solo voices warbled out tunes to begin a new fiesta of sound. The passion of the music spawned dancing: a couple swayed about each other, weaving their arms through the air as though through water, barely touching even when turning as a couple. Then, with a quick twirl and a clap, the song and dance ended together in a rush of music.

Late into the night the Flamenco carried on, almost cacophonous at times. Pitchers of mojito quenched the thirst that flowed about the room with the smoke of cigarettes. Slowly, the party faded and people headed home a few at a time—but not without a song on the way out the door.

moscas en la casa

2007-11-21T10:10:00.000-05:00

Reports come in from all over: the cold of winter is settling in. Switzerland has snow. Slovakia, too. In Pennsylvania, the temperature has dropped, and snow fell the first week of November. Here in Southern Spain, the weather remains hot and dry.

Andalucia sometimes experiences a phenomenon called “second spring.” Rain falls hard in October, quenching the thirst of summer and calling to life the vegetation that lay dormant. The world dons a green mantle for the winter.

No rain has come, neither has the temperature bothered to drop. The red dirt crumbles beneath my feet, rises, lingers, lands again. People say they can count the number of times it’s rained in the past several months, but the olive trees don’t mind. They seem to thrive in the parched clay, hiding moisture away in the husks of their ancient trunks and the small, oily fruits that dangle from their branches.

The flies, too, enjoy the extra time the weather has given them to be nimble in the warmth before winter’s cold sends them off. We go about the business of living and so do they. The cool hacienda is a haven from the sun in the afternoons, and we light a fire in the hearth to stave off the slight chill of the evening. We work and then bask; we dine then wash the dishes, mindlessly brushing away the myriad winged phantoms that dance past our fingers to alight once again, like the dust, on everything.

glory, hallelujah

2007-11-17T13:04:00.000-05:00

Finally the internet gods smile on me again! Sorry these have been a long time coming. For convenience, I've posted them in opposite order. That means you should read them from the top down, rather than from the bottom up, which would be blogger chronological order. There will be more to come, of course, and I have pictures that will be added to these posts once I have a faster and more reliable connection. Until then, cheers! And thanks for thinking of me!

arrival

2007-11-17T13:01:00.002-05:00

I’m in. As I write this, I’ve been four days with my first host and it is something else. A little different than most WWOOF assignments, this is a business that has paying clients visiting most of the time. At the moment we only have one, but I think we’re expecting more soon. The slow season is arriving and we’ll be having fewer guests than usual (apparently 25 was the largest number at a time in the past month). The Hacienda is a horse ranch that offers riding lessons and riding holidays to people from all over the world. It seems that mostly Germans come, but when I arrived there was also a couple from New Hampshire (they looked like total Berkshirites, by the way; the man’s son even attends Simon’s Rock College in Great Barrington, near my old Farm). The clientele this place attracts is indicative of my hosts’ nationalities: many are from Germany, with others from all over Europe. Only two Spanish women work here and they both live in the nearby town. Everybody else lives in the Hacienda (kinda like the Farm, once again…). So far I’ve met people from Belgium, France, Switzerland, Finland, Slovakia, Egypt, and New Zealand. The people who have been here longest speak German and Spanish most often, but because of the multiple origins of everybody else, English tends to be spoken the most in everyday conversation.

The set-up is grand. I have my own room with a private bathroom, three fabulous meals a day, and the freedom to wander the whole place, as I like. My primary work is in the olive grove, preparing the trees for the olive harvest; the work is hard, but not difficult. Although the whole countryside is covered in olive trees, because of the labor involved and small return, we only harvest from a small paddock of trees, with the oil and fruit produced used in-house. This is how it goes: Imagine a dwarf-sized fruit tree with hundreds of suckers creating a hedge around the bottoms of the two or three widely spread trunks. Now, my task is to cut away the suckers using a suleta (think one-headed pickaxe) and hand axe. Sounds easy enough, right? Ok, now imagine that the wood of this fruit tree is so hard the blade can’t actually sink in, yet the suckers and branches (several of which are an inch or more thick, and taller than I am) are so flexible they give and bounce when struck. The trick seems to be whacking the things hard enough at just the right point where the sucker meets the trunk to just knock it off, rather than actually cutting through. If you then factor in a temperature of 75°(24°C) and a high sun, you basically have my six-hour workday. But it’s not so bad. We begin work at 8 am, with breakfast from 9:30 to 10, then more work until lunch at 2. Breakfast breaks up the day nicely, with the work ending at the high heat of the day, leaving the rest of the afternoon (until dinner at 9) free. And I’m really enjoying beating the hell out of olive trees!

The trip here was an adventure all by itself. I was traveling for a very long time. After my arrival in Madrid, I had to immediately hop the Metro (subway system) to get to the center of the town where I immediately caught a train to Jeréz de la Frontera. Jeréz is a town in the Southern province of Cádiz. From there, I meant to take a bus to Villamartín where the Hacienda is. I made it to Jeréz just in time to miss the bus. And then my credit card wouldn’t work in any of the cash machines. It was the perfect nightmare scenario I was hoping to avoid. I’m in Spain, I have no cash, it’s 10 at night, and nobody speaks English. There I was, wandering the dark, semi-deserted streets of an unfamiliar town with all my luggage, looking for a cheap hotel. And nobody had heard of the hostel in my guidebook. Thankfully I finally found a decent hotel (read: cheap!), and the first English-speaking Spaniard who could help me. I rented a room for the night, tried to resolve my credit card problem, and slept a fitful sleep. The next day, I hit the streets again, in search of a bank that could give me a cash advance, or a kind stranger that could give me bus fare. I managed to find the latter and made it without further incident to my new home.

So now here I am, supplied with a roof, food, and labor for my hands, companions-at-arms, and an international phone card. Who could ask for anything more?

Well, ok, maybe some cold hard cash wouldn’t be bad.

mís compañeros

2007-11-17T13:01:00.001-05:00

As of the time of this typing, five other WWOOFers and assorted other staff have wended there ways here to the Hacienda. These are their stories.

Giles and Anna come from New Zealand. These dynamic Kiwis have been living on the road quite literally for the last two and a half years. To support their habit, they’ve tricked out a diesel van they bought on the cheap from a friend’s company and have quite a lovely set-up inside. There’s a bed and plenty of cleverly laid-out shelf space for their various bits and pieces. They’ve been working primarily in one of the olive groves here for the past five weeks, although they’ve also spent time WWOOFing through Ireland, the UK, France, and other parts of Spain. I’ve pretty much adopted them as my mentors through my first WWOOFing experience, asking them all kinds of questions about what to expect from work, how to find my way around, and just what they’ve been chasing after these days. They’ll be gone from the Hacienda by the time this is posted, making their way back to England by way of France, and then either returning to New Zealand or Southern Spain to settle in for a time. It’s their hope to build a place for themselves using sustainable building techniques and powered by off-the-grid renewable sources. Amazing fact of the day: Anna was a Rider of Rohan! She and her horse were extras in the LOTR film, The Two Towers!

Carl is from Slovakia and has been working short-term jobs around the world for some time now. In the last year, he spent time working in Florida with his brother, and then WWOOFing in Hawaii! Since returning to Europe, he’s been on his way around Spain, escaping the Central European winter. I certainly don’t blame him. It seems he’s been in the mood to wander from here to there just to see what’s around, picking up skills and memories along the way. Karl was one of the first WWOOFers I met here at the Hacienda and his easy-going attitude helped me feel at home right away.

Kris currently lives near Brussels in Belgium. I think he’s looking for a change a little like I was, although he’s started his search with more of a safety net. He’s still employed and is taking two weeks off to try his hand at farming and then to visit some friends in Madrid. After studying economics in university and then landing a job with a firm, Kris is wondering what other kinds of lifestyles are out there and is on the way to check some out. We both question the need for the “responsible nine to five” existence that seems to surround us, but neither of us is quite sure how to escape yet. Hopefully this time away will give him some perspective and help him to find the path he needs to take to fulfillment. By the time this is posted he, too, will be gone, but I think he should give notice at his job and come back! Who’s to say?

Brendan is a young Irish man, just arriving from other WWOOF experiences in Portugal and Northern Spain. He’s now 101 days on the road, setting out from near Dublin with a small group of friends. As his road grew longer, his list of companions grew shorter, each heading in other directions to other opportunities. Brendan comes from a university education in engineering, but isn’t interested in that kind of work right now. He’s searching for work he finds worthwhile and meaningful to his environmentally conscious lifestyle. So far, his travels have been extensive, stretching across much of the northern part of the continent.

Daniela began her work at the Hacienda as a volunteer. Her primary responsibilities have been with the horses, but after she became an employee at the Hacienda, she’s also taken other duties including grounds work and kitchen duties. Daniela is Swiss and speaks Romanisch (among several other languages; she learned English in 10 weeks as an au pair in Boston!), an old and very colloquial language, common in only a small region of Switzerland. She’s only 20 and will soon be leaving the Hacienda to begin a practicum in architecture so she can begin to study it in university. She and her small dog, Lucy, bring a lot of cheer and energy to the Hacienda and I’ll be sad to see her go in December. Perhaps we’ll leave at the same time so I won’t have to be so sad….

In addition to these, my peers, there are several other folk living and working here, with as many nationalities. We have a couple of riding instructors from Germany, a very kind and industrious Belgian groundskeeper, a Frenchman with a wide array of skills (languages, machine repair, farming, oven-building and baking to name a few!), a German housekeeper with a huge heart and great sense of humor, and the family of owners who manage the place hailing from Egypt, Switzerland and Germany. There are also a handful of Spaniards who live nearby that manage the daily tasks of house- and grounds keeping in order to keep this place in tip-top shape. Our guests also come from all over, spending their days relaxing, riding, and sharing their meals family-style with all of us in the Hacienda.

In ways not too different from my old home at the Farm, these are the people with whom I share my time, my experiences. We work together, play together, break bread together. We rise with the sun, toil beneath its rays, and then play in the evening cool, all on the grounds of the Hacienda. This is maybe too claustrophobic an experience for most people, but I’ve found this to be the most worthwhile way for me to spend my time in a place. I come to know my environment, develop relationships, and learn how to build community wherever I am.

cádiz

2007-11-17T12:57:00.000-05:00

Two of my fellow WWOOFers and I took a day trip to Cádiz. It was our one day-off for the week and we decided to stave off boredom by seeing one of the nearby cities.

Possibly the oldest city in Europe according to Lonely Planet, Cádiz stands on an outcrop of rock jutting into the Atlantic Ocean. The city is heavily fortified as a result of attacks that occurred over the centuries. The first attack, by the Dutch in 1596, led to the building of the Castillo de Santa Catalina. Other fortresses, the Baluarte de la Candelaria and Castillo de San Sebastián were built on points just out in the water. We toured the Castillo de Santa Catalina, a very empty stronghold (we were the only patrons) that has been converted to historical exhibits and contemporary art galleries. From there, there were lovely views of the Castillo de San Sebastián, a fort at the end of a 750-meter causeway. Oddly enough, the causeway is open, but the castle itself is not. Folk walk, bike, or vespa out to the end to… turn around and come back again. Also puzzling are the staircases from the bridge down to the ocean rocks that appear to be covered by the tides at times.

The town itself was very small, completely walkable from border to border in an afternoon. And if it’s afternoon, all you have to do is walk: everything is closed for siesta. Even the tapas bars stop cooking and only serve drinks from 1:30 to 5. We spent a good deal of time just trying to track down a bar that would serve us food, finally giving up and buying “artisan” ice cream instead. I had flan con caramel: delicious!

After exhausting our options as tourists, we headed back to the bus for the trip back to Villamartín. As nice as it was to get away from the Hacienda and see a new city, we all felt a little out-of-place playing tourist. I think I much prefer my work in the olive grove to gawking at a sleepy Mediterranean city. However, this trip was not without a practical saving grace: I found a bank that could give me cash on my credit card and I didn’t have to use English once. Another remarkable point of the day was when we ran into two guys from San Francisco in front of an ad featuring the Golden Gate Bridge. After a brief conversation in Spanish (in which they immediately learned I’m from the United States), they got around to telling me where they were from and finally asking if I spoke English. Weird.

and... we're off!

2007-10-31T13:55:00.000-05:00

Two weeks to the day since I left the Farm. Two weeks to the hour since rubber met pavement, and I’m starting the train trip to Philadelphia to catch my plane across the ocean.

Has it really been two weeks? Only? Apparently so much can fit into a short span, and yet so much can feel neglected. I made a weekend to trip to Harrisburg for a wedding, bought stuff for my travels, opened a bank account, closed a bank account, traveled to Ohio for a soccer game, got treated for Lyme Disease, packed (three times)… what have I missed?

I wrote briefly about the wedding earlier. It was a nice affair: the ceremony was small and personal, as was the reception. I think my friends planned and executed nearly everything themselves, with a little help from family and friends. I got to spend a weekend with three friends from high school, who I haven’t seen in several years. Although two of them had married since, and other changes have occurred, it was easy enough to pick up where we left off. A good portion of the weekend was spent playing Guitar Hero, so I think that helped, too!

I managed to visit with family a few times. On my birthday, the day I arrived home from Harrisburg, the six of us (a rare occasion when we’re all in the same room) invaded my grandparents’ house along with a few aunts and uncles. We tried to get Grandma and Grandpa talking about their youth, and we heard some good stories: the day Grandma, her brother, and ‘that skinny Catholic girl’ came out to the field to get my Grandpa off the tractor and go out; what my grandfather was like as a young man, and how my grandmother’s family liked him; and how my twin great-aunts were kept in the bun-warmer of the old wood stove to keep them warm! A week later, we had another gathering under the pretext of my homecoming. What really transpired was everybody congregating in our living room to watch the Penn State game. But I did manage to see several people I haven’t in a while, and probably won’t again for a good period to come.

At one point, I discovered a tick on my leg—the first I’d ever found on myself in PA. Despite many tick bites I’d never been treated for Lymes in Massachusetts, where it runs rampant, but here the immediate prescription was Doxicycline, an antibiotic also commonly used to treat gonorrhea. The physician’s assistant thought that might be something I was interested in knowing. This was all a little disconcerting, considering my imminent departure, my disinterest in being antibiotic-ed, and my real worry over the irritated and bruised bite itself (the PA didn’t seem too bothered by the quarter-inch deep-purple spot). Oh well, at least I won’t get the clap for my first week in Spain.

I got a new bank account! I closed my old one! That was an adventure unto itself, fraught with waiting periods, misread faxes, and finally ending in a heavy deposit that I can’t actually touch until mid-November. I hope my credit limit holds out….

And finally, after the travel insurance, trip registration with the state department (because they’re concerned for my safety. No, really.), and frantic emails and phone calls to the Spanish farms expecting me in just two days, I had time to actually gather my supplies and pack them up. Twice, just to make sure. And then, a third time because I changed my mind. Now, I have time to fret. Look out.

It’s not that I’m unprepared, or that I’m timid about what I’ve set before myself. It’s just that these small worries that I haven’t had time to consider are now coming home to roost. Before, I couldn’t be bothered with how little Spanish I speak because I had people to get in touch with. I didn’t need to worry about being mugged in the streets because I had travel insurance to buy. A further itinerary and return ticket? Are you kidding me? I had to figure out what order I was hitting up my hosts! And now, with as much of that taken care of as could be, all I’m left with are the “squirrels in my brain,” as Starpilgrim put it—the frantic fears chasing themselves around my consciousness. And the awful thing is, there’s nothing I can do about those things either! But once apprehension sets in, it’s difficult to shake. I’m breathing, and assuring myself that it’ll all work out (because IT WILL), and so this will pass. Anyway, once I get off the plane I’m going to need to make something work.

So, I’m on my way! Too bad the train doesn’t cross the Atlantic!

i'm just a'goin' over jordan...

2007-10-19T07:54:00.000-05:00

Siiiiiiiiiigh...

I made it out. My arrival in Houtzdale was marked by nothing extraordinary. As a matter of fact, I didn't even have a welcome party. My dad was the only one home and was on his way out the door to pick up his truck; I think he was eagerly awaiting my arrival so I could give him a ride.

I'm not sure if the ride was quite the head-clearing, personal-space-providing catharsis I was expecting. Mostly I was just driving. I wasn't struck by the feelings of separation until I was two minutes from my parents' driveway. For whatever reason, stopping at the intersection to Kendrick Road was the visual cue I needed to realize I wasn't going back next week, or next month, or any time in the immediate future. Half of my belongings (two-thirds of which were a bed and chair) fit into the bed of a pick-up and the other half had come ahead of me, to take up a new residence in my parents' basement. I wouldn't climb out of the truck to see Moo, or Mummy Dearest and her brood, Star Pilgrim, Roma, Bob, Steve, Flavio, CJ, or any of them at dinner in forty-five minutes. So the moral is, my dad had to greet and hug his sobbing 25-year-old son, trying to both console him and welcome him home.

Now I'm in Harrisburg. Some homecoming-- arrival only to head out the door 26 hours later for another trip, another commitment. My friends Heather and Jer are getting married this weekend and I'm here to help celebrate. I just hope no unexpected waves of realization and the ensuing self-pity overwhelm me during this joyous occasion.

In other news: Two weeks until I fly! So much to do! Help!

one-way

2007-10-10T21:50:00.000-05:00

I now have a one-way ticket to Madrid. On November 1, I fly from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, into the rest of my life!

poetry

2007-10-07T16:39:00.001-05:00

Ok, I just had to drag this out of the comments section. It's too good to be left there. Thank you, Monster Librarian, for running with my idea. This is just amazing.

He moved sullenly through the house
seemingly thwarted by the dish of bananas,
which sat upon a hideous macramé coaster of sorts
that a lover had made once.

His senses heightened as he entered the kitchen
the smell of peanut butter
invoking memories of seashells and horses,
children’s literature his grandmother had once read.

A grandmother who reeked of Borax,
who loved him as blindly as he had once loved carnivals.
But that was ages ago
before self-help and psychotherapy had gotten to him.

Tired of his life in lawn care
He dreamt of library science
And a possible career in Liverpool
where he would master the Dewey Decimal System like a mathematician bent on mastering hexadecimals.

He would sort books with ease
Quarantining the books on dragons and tracheotomies and elevators
from each other
as his ex-lover had quarantined him from her existence.

--Monster Library Student

pretty please?

2007-10-07T16:32:00.000-05:00

Now the waiting is happening. I’ve sent out emails to five farms and have heard from exactly one. I’ve been formally invited to stay on a Farm in Spain! Now, the problem is, I need to be invited to stay on at least two more. I think that would make my stay most productive and interesting. Since I sent my feelers out five days ago, I followed WWOOF’s suggestion to prod again. And then I realized I never referenced my ID number. These people probably think I’m some hobo who managed to get their address and wants to freeload on their olive farms…

In other news, I’m searching for cheap plane tickets and interesting itineraries. I’m thinking of WWOOFing elsewhere, too. Turkey is looking promising these days. However, according to the Spanish consulate’s guidelines for entry, I need to travel with a round-trip ticket in order to get my 90 days of visa-free visitation. Hmm. So, if I want to travel, oh let’s say, from the US to Spain, then to Germany, and on to Turkey before going home, do I still need a round-trip ticket? Particularly since I’ll need to fly home from Spain before my 90 days are up? This is not my idea of efficient travel. It looks like another call to the ol’ consulate will be in order. Cross your fingers and say a prayer: I’m doomed.

for grins

2007-10-04T14:26:00.001-05:00

This post is solely for my amusement. And maybe yours, too. Let me know.

I just wanted to see what happens when I type:

bananas
self-help
macrame
psychotherapy
horses
seashells
peanut butter
Borax
children's literature
carnival
tracheotomy
library science
lawn care
elevator
dragon
Liverpool
hexidecimal

Thank you.

oh boy

2007-09-28T16:51:00.000-05:00

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.

the sands of oregon

2007-09-21T10:51:00.000-05:00

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?

it's on the doorstep

2007-09-17T06:57:00.000-05:00

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

here goes nothing

2007-09-14T16:54:00.000-05:00

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!

bienvenido al consulado general de España...

2007-09-12T23:04:00.000-05:00

"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."

oregon - north coast road trip

2007-09-09T21:40:00.000-05:00

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.

wedding bell blues

2007-09-03T14:41:00.001-05:00

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.

everyone's a comedien

2007-08-26T16:53:00.000-05:00

My brother wrote a stand-up routine. I have a brother. He's the one that didn't show up in an earlier post because he almost didn't show up in time for my visit. Here are some highlights (in my humble opinion) of the jokes that might almost make him famous.

Man, I remember growing up.... Today what happens, you scrape your knee you get antiseptic, anti infection, a tetinous shot and a band aid. Back in the day you get a “Well better be more careful next time”. If you weren’t gushing blood nobody cared. Or if you did cut yourself my dad would clean it off with that greasy yellow slime that mechanics used to wash their hands, and it always has oil streaks through it from the last guy who used it. After you wash the wound with penzoil 10W 30, they put that orange stuff on it. Nobody knew the healing power of this particular liquid, we just know it burnt like hell.

Nothing is considered safe anymore and if you want anything remotely dangerous, you have to fill out paperwork, be a legal U.S. citizen, of age, and suffer through a 3 day waiting period. My brother when he was 4 years old almost cut his thumb off with a hatchet. Let me repeat that for ya, MY BROTHER, AT AGE 4 ALMOST CUT HIS THUMB OFF WITH A HATCHET. This was 1985, a person who can barely put sentences together severs his finger with a kid sized axe. Basically all my dad said after the bleeding stopped was, “It was his first time using that hatchet, I hope he learned his lesson.”

I remember, from what my parents told me, that when I was 3 years old I set my bedroom floor on fire by putting crayons into a toaster oven. Appliances today have all these gadgets on them to try and prevent anyone from injuring themselves, but 20 years ago a 3 year old kid could commit arson with some colored wax and a mini kitchen.

Kids today have child proof Tupperware containers for corrosive and hazardous materials. Do you remember what we had? Mr. Yuck stickers. That’s right that little green face meant DON’T TOUCH!!! But they never worked, one because they were always half scratched off anyway, and I basically just referred to them as Mr. Curiosity.

I was a middle child growing up though. Well I guess I still am. I have one older brother and 2 younger sisters. So my brother and my younger sister would always get new everything. New clothes, new toys, and I was stuck with my brother's hand me downs. So there I was going into 6th grade with a faded ninja turtles T shirt and some acid wash jeans. I can’t complain though, I love my brother, we had a lot of fun growing up. We lived on a farm, miles from anyone and neither of us were cool so we didn’t have any friends, so my brother was my best friend. It was great though, he always included me. My brother and I would always invent things, like booby traps. And my brother, being the smart, considerate and cautious brother that he was, knew that in order to ensure the success of said inventions we would have to test them. Yeah he included me big time. “Hey Matt, stick your foot in this rope and I’ll release the counterweight.” Wooosh. “Great that one works, now get down so we can test the next one.”

But growing up with few friends and on a farm, we had a blast. We used to run around and try and jump the holes in the loft. We’d pretend to drive tractors, then we’d try and pretend that it wasn’t us who got it stuck in the mud. But being a small child in our generation and growing up on a farm was not the best combination. Some of my dad’s favorite sayings were; “You have small fingers, try and unscrew that bolt that’s lodged in the combine there. The darn thing won’t spin.” Or also “Your kinda tiny why don’t you climb up that small chute and unclog it so the grain falls down again.”

Oh, such a {insert your own adjective here} picture he paints. Takes me right back, it does. The funniest part for me is actually remembering many of those things and thinking how the truth is indeed stranger than fiction. And may even get you put in a foster home.

Thanks for the memories, Matt!

fallout

2007-08-25T22:56:00.000-05:00

You all remember Luna, right? Well, she loved it here so much she left me a parting gift.

Fleas.

And they're hungry. I've vacuumed, washed my blankets, and still they persist. I think I can maybe starve them out-- I only sleep here, really. But the problem is they get so hungry during the day they just leap upon my legs with no mercy the moment I walk in the door. It's quite unnerving, really.

I don't know which is more disturbing: that I have fleas in my house, or that they are so visibly active.

Any suggestions? Or should I just move out?

disclaimer

2007-08-24T22:02:00.000-05:00

I’m tired. Week one of the boss’s vacation is over for me! Only one more to go. German #2 is still out with her hand injury—the pig-hand transplant is still healing. Needless to say, we haven’t been up to snuff.

This is the part where I mention my wonderful family—that mysterious bunch that hasn’t yet appeared here. I’m not really sure why. I was going to write about my visit home—a camping trip, my family reunion, the County Fair, my brother’s visit, and the disaster that was the dinner I tried to prepare. But I came home, and my life started happening again. Then I forgot everything. A psychological defense mechanism? Of course not! Wink!

My visit to Pennsylvania was just that—a visit. It didn’t feel like a homecoming, but certainly not to my family’s discredit. I always feel welcome in their home, but it is their home, not mine. My parents moved into a new house a year after I moved to Massachusetts. I’ve never lived in that house. I’ve never had a room or space that was mine there, so visits are never returns; it’s a new place to me. I have no fond memories of afternoons on that back porch, or evenings spent in that kitchen. I don’t have a favorite seat in the living room, a place to hang my toothbrush in the bathroom, or even a favorite way to sneak out late at night.

I guess that’s the most effective (if not the final) nail in the coffin of my childhood. Although I’ve been living away from my parents for the last seven years, have a real job, and now my own house, I’ve still felt very much like a child at times. Knowing that my parents’ home is not mine has deepened the realization that these new things and experiences are my own, and nobody else’s.

Wow, that was a whole lot of self-disclosure. Now onto the shallow drivel about the rest of the trip.

Because my youngest sister was gone for the first four days of my visit, I reaped the benefit of having a room to sleep in! I always feel funny about displacing Ari, so her absence made my nights a little less uneasy. Also, Ali, my mom and I got to take a short camping trip while heading out to collect Ari from soccer camp. I haven’t gone camping in nearly a year—it’s good to see the sport hasn’t changed much: run around frantically a few hours before departure trying to gather and fit more things than we probably need into the back of the van. It was nice to sleep in a tent again and do some catching up with my mom and sister.

Later in the week was Houtzdale Days. Because my parents are such involved parents, they helped organize and staff the 4-H club’s nacho concession at the festival. That meant three nights of wandering around the tarted-up block and sitting under the green and white canopy, making sure the kids weren’t setting fire to anybody. I got to experience some of the finest culture Houtzdale has to offer, and even get in a few rounds of ‘Spot the Cadaver—Digicam Edition’ with my mom. I seem to have misplaced my winning shots….

I got back from a side trip just in time for a family reunion. Getting to see cousins, aunts and uncles, and grandparents that I haven’t seen in a long time was really nice. I got to talk about my crazy plans of quitting my job, becoming homeless, and wandering nearly aimlessly around Europe. Everybody is SO excited for me. Of course, there were also all the other second- and twice removed-s that I still have no clue to their identities, so I had to play it cool and talk all like I know the scoop. I did, however, manage to have a few pretty worthwhile conversations about traveling (I need to get to Alaska and Mexico one of these days), and we had a great scavenger hunt. My team, the Lollipop Guild (my grade school cousins have NO IDEA what that is) blew all the other teams out of the water, thank you very much.

And then the County Fair. What can I say about the good old Clearfield County Fair? Well, I guess it’s been going on a long time. For over 30 years, my family had been taking dairy cows to put on display there, and my sibs and I even had the honor of holding the family corner in the barn when my cousins grew out of the tradition. I hadn’t actually been back since we stopped showing there. It was strange to be there as a visitor, and not a grungy farmer counting the hours until I could get home for a shower and some decent sleep. Sadly enormous, smelly, unruly beef steers have overrun the cattle barns which once housed glorious dairy animals. Yuck. Another odd thing about the experience was watching the Fair’s parade from the grandstand. My family had always walked out to some street corner where we were right up against the floats and marchers. In the streets were the prime positions for scavenging the thrown candy and heckling friends and relatives in the marching bands. Hard, metal bleacher seats aren’t much fun—so we had to start up some spontaneous rounds of ‘Spot the Cadaver’ and ‘Guess the Yardage of Tulle’ in the Fair Queen Court’s gowns. Bonus points for cadavers in tulle.

I guess that brings me up to the dinner I tried to cook. I bet nobody believes anymore that I actually do this for a living. Every time I’ve tried to prepare something for my family, it’s flopped. First was the pan of popovers that imploded. Then was the carrot salad that everybody thought came from the sewer (to my credit it was delicious; it just looked funny to everyone else’s untrained eyes). This time, I burned the raspberry Dijon chicken on the impossible-to-control heat of the electric stovetop. And no grocery store in the area carries any grains other than rice. I think I was lucky that I managed to find a box of mixed variety rice in the next town over. So, instead of the quinoa pilaf I planned, it was brown rice that took 45 minutes to cook. But my family loves me and they told me it was delicious anyway.

So, thank you God for a lovely stay, and what was the other I wanted to say? I talked about everyone, so what could it be? Now I remember… God forgive me. [adapted from ‘Christopher Robin is Saying his Prayers by Melanie]

stop right there

2007-08-21T16:03:00.000-05:00

Is Mercury in retrograde?

I swear, things like this only happen while my boss is away. On the first two days of this week, my co-assistant was out with a stomach bug, and then today, German #2 sliced her hand open and had to get four stitches. Thankfully, Starpilgrim and later, Mark, lent some hands to make up for the missing one. Otherwise, I don’t think the three-person Tuesday crew would’ve been able to make grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch, or dessert for tonight’s dinner.

It must have something to do with the boss’s vacation. The last time he went on a two week break, Tizzy broke her fingers and our senior BVSer twisted her ankle. I’m glad he doesn’t go away that often; we’d have some pretty crippled folk at the Farm.

serf's up

2007-08-20T22:54:00.000-05:00

So, have nothing better to spend your money on? Why not send your child to high school in a castle.

This past weekend, I helped cater an event in a castle. You read that correctly. 200 very rich people celebrating the graduations of twelve of their finest and proudest. In a castle. That also happens to be a school. PS—it’s up for sale! Buy it for me!

In an hour and a half, we turned a pile of this…

…into this:

Not bad work. The venue was beautiful, the food delicious, and the crew a lot of fun. Smitty got the gig (she’s done catering with this company before) for German #2 and me. The set up was mostly a snap, and serving food for the event wasn’t as intimidating as I was expecting. All in all, I made as much in 8 hours as I do in one week here at the Farm.
It reminded me of the time I did an afternoon’s gardening with my friend Christy on an estate for her friend’s landscaping company. Funny how acting like a serf makes the most money in a place like the Berkshires. Now, how do I make that happen every week?

i'm still alive

2007-08-18T10:57:00.000-05:00

No, I haven't been fired for poisoning everybody. I'm still here. Just haven't had much time these days.

Updates: Luna has left the building. My house is clean. It's turning into Autumn. Amos has gone back to SLC before her trip to Bolivia (lucky thing). The Spanish Consular Office in NYC has the worst phone system IN THE WORLD. My blog currently advertises for Amish Country Gazebos and The Interchangeable Shoe.

More later.

welcome back, take 2

2007-08-07T06:22:00.000-05:00

I suppose the first snag happened when I couldn’t find a ride home from the train station. “Oh, I can maybe come get you. Just call me a few days before you get back,” was what I got from a few people before I even left. But then none of them could pick me up. What to do? After some frantic calling from Kristen’s cell phone on the way to the Philadelphia train station, I lucked upon a willing participant: a new volunteer to the Farm, energetic and unfamiliar with the area. Tip off, the second.

So I was willing to wait at the station. And wait I did. “In 2.2 miles, turn left,” announced the automated voice of her electronic GPS. In 2.2 miles, I decided it was better to stay on the numbered roadway with a definite direction rather than turning onto ‘Bob’s Lane – No Outlet.’ Nonetheless, many thanks to that willing volunteer. We managed to find a cute surf-themed deli/café somewhere near the MA border in Connecticut, along one of the several, previously unexplored back roads that made up our journey. And the bastards wouldn’t tell me how they made their Jamaican Jerk Chicken wrap! It was tasty, but make no mistake: they were not making millions off their secret recipe.

I finally walked into my cute house to be wildly greeted by Luna, the shedding machine. I still haven’t found my furniture beneath the fur. I want to offer a big appreciating to Amos and Laura for keeping Luna alive while I was away—she did not develop rabies in my absence. I wouldn’t have wanted either of them to have to shoot her. And my dial tone has gone missing again. If you see it, please send it home and give Verizon the finger for me. Feel free to ask me for details about my occasional phone line; I’d be happy to complain for hours.

Patron’s death hit home when I walked into Main House and saw the empty cage. That parrot had been a bane to many an existence, but also a companion to as many, if not more, community members. He arrived from Africa 20ish years ago with a family that’s still here and has learned several phrases from the people who’ve passed through. ‘Cigarette!’ was a favorite, as well as the child-laugh of his owners’ now adult son. I used to have a whistling game with him when I would open the kitchen on lonely mornings, sending a tune across the empty dining room and getting a facsimile, or opposite sound pattern. He was one of three things that have always been here, and in my mind, should’ve still been here until long after my departure. The other two are Roma and the Red Barn, which defies the laws of physics.

Thankfully, work on Sunday was pretty uneventful, short of a few scheduling miscommunications that needed to be ironed out.

But Mondays must be Mondays, the world over, even if they’re the second day of one’s workweek. Mine started with a note: “Please replenish guest snack. Thank you.” And because I’m apparently too dense to understand that ill-defined request, there on the kitchen counter was the pile of empty cereal, bread, and jelly containers left from the previous night’s depleted snack. They don’t even belong in the kitchen! They live in their own cabinet, locked up in the dining room— the same cabinet I open and examine every morning when I REPLENISH GUEST SNACK. It’s one thing to be given a note to let me know about something I may have been unaware of. It’s an annoying thing to be given a note telling me to do my job. Sorry, Res. Team, this is how I feel.

But the best is yet to come, my friends. Yesterday will live on in the insular history of my life as The Day I Poisoned the Community. As is my custom when I open the kitchen, I brewed six pots of coffee. Monday’s roast: Café Phosphoric Acid. Apparently Sunday’s closing crew decided to clean the coffee maker, a noble chore. With industrial de-scaler. We’re talking for-the-removal-of-rust-calcium-and-mineral-deposits-caution-do-not-ingest-may-be-fatal-strength formula. Alright, so I didn’t actually poison the coffee machine. But I had to speak to the clinical director, call Poison Control, notify work leaders (without leaking to everybody else who may already have paranoia/hypochondria issues), rustle up a pH meter, and oversee the myriad flushings and subsequent pH tests of the coffee machine and pitchers. Thank you, Moo, for keeping me sane and helping me track down the Maintenance Team. Fortunately, very little of the chemical was actually used, and the closing team was thorough enough to rinse the machine so many times that it was detectable in the morning’s java by an off taste only; nobody experienced symptoms of mass poisoning.

So, if you’re reading this, you know that I can’t be trusted with your pet, car, or therapeutic community. I’m only human.

On the bright side, after these minor incidences, a couple more scheduling jumbles, team members spacing out, and a complete menu change for the next day’s lunch, everything was just swell.

I also experienced that interesting mix of greetings from people who were happy to see me back, those who didn’t know I was gone, and newbies who didn’t know who I was. My own feelings about being back are mixed. It’s nice to be home again—this is where my place is right now. And being away reminded me that there are other places out there.

welcome back, take 1

2007-08-06T11:37:00.000-05:00

Can I just say that re-entry has been... not so smooth.

More to come.

cigarette

2007-08-04T20:28:00.000-05:00

Patron, our African Grey Parrot, died while I was gone. He was at least 30 years old and has been at the Farm for... a long time. I can't imagine this place without him.

google ads and... nothing else to write about at the moment

2007-08-01T17:13:00.000-05:00

I want to know who designed the google ad crawling feature that provides my blog with links to such things as:

Parenting Advice (www.MVparenting.com)
An All-American Rejects concert
Stop Him from Withdrawing (havetherelationshipyouwant.com)

I don't remember blogging about any of these things. Have I?

In other news, my time here in the land of dull knives and electric ranges is drawing to a close. My family is getting antsy for me to write something about them, so I think that will all come in a summary blog about the time between events here in sunny Pennsylvania. Tomorrow I climb back aboard my Amtrak chariot to Philadelphia. Quick: tell me some fun things to see!

aar, it's drivin' me nuts

2007-07-30T13:26:00.000-05:00

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

2007-07-29T10:50:00.000-05:00

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

2007-07-28T23:38:00.000-05:00

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

2007-07-25T10:40:00.000-05:00

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

2007-07-22T22:44:00.000-05:00

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.

Travelin' Shoes

this is what i do

dardos?

because i'm bored and have nothing better to write...

change

525,600 what?

juggle fest

autumn wind

pictures from the roadtrip

houses for nobody

the sour toe

skin

check this out!

kismet and health care, island style

accolades

aqua chautauqua

breathing room

i live on an island

the southeast

signs of life

the new pet

denali is REALLY big

day 2

day 3

pioneer park & moose attacks

north pole

new posts!

dawson city

whitehorse

watson lake

liard hot springs

alaska and my 100th post!

inching north

oh, canada!

the first days

passing through

are we there yet?

if i grow up...

more pictures

on the road again

quick update

driving north

spring cleaning

paperboys

rollin' on the river

life (and death) in a small town

*chatter, chatter*

collect the whole set!

worn out

the attack of the brown earth rat!

upon reflection

beantown

the alhambra

staying on

el día de los reyes magos

pictures

málaga

back to spain

deutschland

and... we're back!

here goes...

Cortijo Hell-hole

um...

black gold

more stories

pizza!

community

¡buen provecho!

moscas en la casa

glory, hallelujah

arrival

mís compañeros

cádiz

and... we're off!

i'm just a'goin' over jordan...

one-way

poetry

pretty please?

for grins

oh boy

chatter, chatter