The weather on my second day in Amsterdam started out gray and misty. Not long after sunrise I left the Easy Hotel and finished an easy walk before it was time to...walk to the Van Gogh Museum in the Museum District. Though my map-reading skills would abandon me several times in the next couple of days, on this morning the map and I worked fairly well together as I pieced together my route: turn right, turn left, go over the canal, turn right, go straight for a bit, turn left, then do some squiggly stuff until I found the museum itself. On the way I also found the Concertgebou (concert building), which Paul McCartney mentions in one of his terrible songs (and, yes, I know that could be any song he wrote after about 1970).
Because we were smart tourists, those of us who were in line for tickets before the museum opened were proud of our "beat the crowd" mentality. We stood in what had become a light drizzle until opening time, and some of us were a bit deflated when those who had purchased tickets in advance got through the doors before we did. They were, I guess, the crowd that beat the crowd that beat the crowd.
Inside, of course, I was both overwhelmed and humbled, just as I have been while visiting art museums in London, Scotland, and Chicago. As someone with very little creative ability, I have always admired artists for their ability to, well, create. Beside each of the museum's pieces are brief descriptions of such things as where and when they were created, what Van Gogh was doing at the time, and where he was in his development. I enjoyed reading each description, though I also was further humbled when I read something such as "As is evident in the painting, Van Gogh had not yet mastered perspective," or, "Van Gogh was obviously still developing a style." I'd stare at the works and see nothing wrong with either the perspective or the style.
After nearly 3 hours of ambling from floor to floor and room to room, I headed to the exit and had to work my way through the main contingent of the daily pilgrimage: dozens and dozens of people lined up to get inside.
The day's hours of artistic Dutch high culture ended with a couple glasses of beer at a bar where the bartender pegged me as an American and then asked which team I wanted to wind the World Series. He was a Yankees fan, he said, and I told him there are worse things in life. We talked a bit about baseball and American hockey as he introduced me to a "genuine" Dutch beer that was also organic.
Outside, I sat at a small table and let the evening do what it had to do as I thought, "Damn--I'm in Amsterdam!" This wasn't an epiphany, by any means, but when I travel I sometimes get so caught up in movement I need to stay out of traffic and resettle myself. The night was cool. Bike riders jockeyed fearlessly and confidently down the street. Robert De Niro's character in The Deer Hunter repeats the line "This is this" when he's trying to make a point, and it's a good line to remember when you're trying to forget the past and future both.
The next day, also early, I once again made my way to the Museum District, this time to the Rijksmuseum where Rembrandt rules. Not bad. Once while at the Art Institute in Chicago, I sat on a small chair and wondered if the disinterested security staff appreciated what surrounded them. And at the Rijksmuseum, surrounded by Rembrandt and the Dutch Masters, I thought that I'd be quite happy to sit there forever and let the art roll over me.
And that night? A culture of a different sort.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Easy Living in Amsterdam's Easy Hotel
For my most recent trip to Europe, I stayed in 3 versions of the Easy Hotel, a no-nonsense kind of place with the most basic of rooms that are suited to those who don't spend much time in hotel rooms while traveling. I'd stayed in an Easy Hotel in London once before, and I found it clean and inexpensive enough. You want to watch TV at an Easy Hotel, you rent the remote control. Wif-fi access? That'll cost you, too. You want extra towels or your bed made? You pay extra for that. But, how many solo travelers need more than 2 towels or care about their bed being made?
The Amsterdam version had been open only a week or so when I arrived and was met by Charlie, a young Englishman who was taking a "break from university because I wanted to work." He let me know that as a sort of welcoming gift from Easy Hotel, I would have free television and wi-fi access for my entire stay. A nice touch. I'd find out that night that some of the movie channels in Amsterdam aren't quite the same as the ones I was accustomed to back home--a bit more, oh, graphic. Then again, maybe those channels are available on TVs in hotels all over the world and I'm just dumb enough not to have noticed.
I was proud of myself for having found the hotel in the first place. From the train station I'd taken tram line 25 into a new city, but I managed to get off at the correct stop and after a few wrong turns made my way to the hotel itself. Good for me. So, I was happy to get the key to my room, and even slightly amused when the key opened the door to a room that was already occupied. I think Charlie and I were both lucky that nobody was in the room. Charlie was quite apologetic, and soon enough I was in the right room and busy cancelling the credit card I thought I'd lost but would find shortly after getting off the phone with my bank.
Settled and eager to get outside again, I bid Charlie goodbye and began walking around Amsterdam. I walked as much as I could, trying to get oriented, and just before dark I found a restaurant called Der Pizza Kamer. The waitress/bartender told me that the menu was in Dutch and that she would translate, but "lasagna" seems to work in nearly any language and I ordered that with a glass of wine. The lasagna was fair; the wine was average; but I was happy to have actually gotten food and drink in a new place, a somewhat major accomplishment given my aversion to going into any kind of dining establishment alone.
The first day had been a good one: I'd encountered and solved a few problems along the way, and I'd found shelter and food. I was looking forward to an early morning and getting to the Van Gogh Museum.
The Amsterdam version had been open only a week or so when I arrived and was met by Charlie, a young Englishman who was taking a "break from university because I wanted to work." He let me know that as a sort of welcoming gift from Easy Hotel, I would have free television and wi-fi access for my entire stay. A nice touch. I'd find out that night that some of the movie channels in Amsterdam aren't quite the same as the ones I was accustomed to back home--a bit more, oh, graphic. Then again, maybe those channels are available on TVs in hotels all over the world and I'm just dumb enough not to have noticed.
I was proud of myself for having found the hotel in the first place. From the train station I'd taken tram line 25 into a new city, but I managed to get off at the correct stop and after a few wrong turns made my way to the hotel itself. Good for me. So, I was happy to get the key to my room, and even slightly amused when the key opened the door to a room that was already occupied. I think Charlie and I were both lucky that nobody was in the room. Charlie was quite apologetic, and soon enough I was in the right room and busy cancelling the credit card I thought I'd lost but would find shortly after getting off the phone with my bank.
Settled and eager to get outside again, I bid Charlie goodbye and began walking around Amsterdam. I walked as much as I could, trying to get oriented, and just before dark I found a restaurant called Der Pizza Kamer. The waitress/bartender told me that the menu was in Dutch and that she would translate, but "lasagna" seems to work in nearly any language and I ordered that with a glass of wine. The lasagna was fair; the wine was average; but I was happy to have actually gotten food and drink in a new place, a somewhat major accomplishment given my aversion to going into any kind of dining establishment alone.
The first day had been a good one: I'd encountered and solved a few problems along the way, and I'd found shelter and food. I was looking forward to an early morning and getting to the Van Gogh Museum.
Friday, November 25, 2011
Holland Days
While listening to Yo-Yo Ma....
Flying over the North Sea from London to Amsterdam, I remembered how I felt the first time I truly traveled on my own from California to Pensacola, Florida. I'd end up doing a lot of foolish things in Pensacola, but the night I landed at the 4-gate airport on my way to the school the U.S. Navy had found fit to send me to, I walked out onto the tarmac, made my way into the terminal, and found that my official orders were missing a piece of information: just where that school was within Pensacola. Though I finally solved the riddle with the help of some people who must have pitied me as I stood alone and confused in my dress-blue uniform, I didn't feel comfortable until I'd gotten to the school itself and could fall back on the training I'd received in the previous 9 weeks of basic training: Do what you're told and shut up. The military is good for people who need the type of direction that prescribes what to wear, where to go, and when to eat, and though I'd eventually find I didn't need that direction, on that first night I found comfort in it.
I'd been to England 3 times over the years, but this was my first trip to Holland. I was apprehensive about what I would face after getting off the plane, not only as I was nervous when I landed in Pensacola, but also the first time I went to London and exited the train in London's Victoria Station. Up until that point everything was easy enough--a couple of airports, finding my way from Gatwick to London--but in the expanse of Victoria Station, I realized that I was now truly on my own and had to figure out how to get to my hotel. A gentleman at the information desk in Victoria Station suggested that I simply take a cab, but being both stubborn and frugal, I opted to walk. I had my map, after all, and the distance did not seem great. Very little of London, however, is constructed on grid--streets start, end, curve, swerve, and sometimes simply disappear. Street signs themselves are often attached to fences, but they are more often attached to the sides of buildings above our line of sight. (Knowing this has made navigating London much easier in subsequent visits.) After a couple hours of walking that were interrupted by a brief rest in Hyde Park, where I sat on a bench in a slight mist and ate a bread roll left over from the plane ride, I eventually found my hotel and felt much more comfortable.
On my second visit to Europe, I spent 2 days in Brussels, and there in search of my hotel I managed to get onto the right trolley but went in the wrong direction. The trolley stopped, everyone got off, and I was again alone and lost in a city until the trolley started up again and headed back the way it came. Once more I had to search for my hotel, but also once more things worked out as they should have.
In Amsterdam, then, getting through Customs and into the terminal itself was fairly easy since nearly all signage is in both Dutch and English. I knew I had to take a train from the airport to Amsterdam proper, but after spending 20 minutes trying to get a kiosk to accept my credit card or debit card, I gave up and went to stand in a long line of people who seemed to be buying tickets from real people. (Aside: I had lost one of my credit cards somewhere in London before heading to Amsterdam, and I wondered if that lost credit card would've worked at the kiosk.) The woman who ended up selling me a ticket also told me that neither my credit card nor my debit card would work at kiosks in Amsterdam because the cards did not have the requisite security built into them.
Then, in Amsterdam, I once again walked out of a large railway station and into a new city filled with large crowds and unfamiliar terrain. I felt, though, less nervous and lost than I had that night in Pensacola, the first morning in London, or when arriving in Brussels. Still, I had to figure out 2 more things: how and where to buy tickets for the tram to my hotel. Across the street from the station I located yet another ticket office, where I once again had to bypass a kiosk and speak to a person, a woman who was very helpful and patient. Since leaving London I tried to focus on one thing at a time, and this helped me solve the small problems I'd encountered. Not many years ago while traveling to the Midwest, I lost my wallet, which contained my money, my identification, and my debit/credit cards. As I sat in my hotel room and tried to reason things out, I knew that I had relatives not too far away who could lend me money, and I would soon be meeting coworkers for a training course we were attending, so they could pay for my hotel room and meals with their company credit cards. I also knew that my wife could FedEx my passport to me so I would have the identification I would need the following week when I was to fly home. I went to a local bank to see if there was any way to get money transferred from my bank in California, but the people there said it just wouldn't work out. I happened to say, "If there were a Bank of America around here, maybe I could get help there." I was lucky then that one of women I spoke with told me there was such a bank about 20 miles away. I found my way to the bank, and after proving that I was who I said I was by logging onto my bank account there, I was able to withdraw cash. The stupid thing? An hour later when I was back at my hotel, I once more searched through my luggage and found...my wallet. After I'd cancelled my debit card and credit card. I'd wanted to panic the entire time, but focusing on solving each problem (the money, the ID, the logistics) helped me stay fairly level-headed.
One of the first things I did at my hotel room in Amsterdam was call my credit card company to let them know that I'd lost my credit card in London. Then, not a minute later, I reached into my rucksack and found...the credit card I'd just cancelled. The problem I still faced, though, was how to pay for things using my debit card or remaining credit card to buy such things as food. I had enough Euros to get me through most of the trip as long as I didn't eat or do anything fancy. But, on a whim, I returned to the train station the next day to see if I could use my credit card to get a cash advance at one of the currency exchange windows. And, for a fee, I was indeed able to. So, money problem was solved.
Not much in this post, though, is especially meaningful, but I've been thinking about writing and writers lately, and even more than ever I'm convinced that anyone who calls him- or herself a writer needs to get into the world a little bit, that we can't be realistic unless we do. I think this might be why Dickens, Twain, and Hemingway resonate with so many people: They didn't simply write about what they knew, they wrote about what they lived. And if I were more of a writer, I'd probably be able to back that all up.
Flying over the North Sea from London to Amsterdam, I remembered how I felt the first time I truly traveled on my own from California to Pensacola, Florida. I'd end up doing a lot of foolish things in Pensacola, but the night I landed at the 4-gate airport on my way to the school the U.S. Navy had found fit to send me to, I walked out onto the tarmac, made my way into the terminal, and found that my official orders were missing a piece of information: just where that school was within Pensacola. Though I finally solved the riddle with the help of some people who must have pitied me as I stood alone and confused in my dress-blue uniform, I didn't feel comfortable until I'd gotten to the school itself and could fall back on the training I'd received in the previous 9 weeks of basic training: Do what you're told and shut up. The military is good for people who need the type of direction that prescribes what to wear, where to go, and when to eat, and though I'd eventually find I didn't need that direction, on that first night I found comfort in it.
I'd been to England 3 times over the years, but this was my first trip to Holland. I was apprehensive about what I would face after getting off the plane, not only as I was nervous when I landed in Pensacola, but also the first time I went to London and exited the train in London's Victoria Station. Up until that point everything was easy enough--a couple of airports, finding my way from Gatwick to London--but in the expanse of Victoria Station, I realized that I was now truly on my own and had to figure out how to get to my hotel. A gentleman at the information desk in Victoria Station suggested that I simply take a cab, but being both stubborn and frugal, I opted to walk. I had my map, after all, and the distance did not seem great. Very little of London, however, is constructed on grid--streets start, end, curve, swerve, and sometimes simply disappear. Street signs themselves are often attached to fences, but they are more often attached to the sides of buildings above our line of sight. (Knowing this has made navigating London much easier in subsequent visits.) After a couple hours of walking that were interrupted by a brief rest in Hyde Park, where I sat on a bench in a slight mist and ate a bread roll left over from the plane ride, I eventually found my hotel and felt much more comfortable.
On my second visit to Europe, I spent 2 days in Brussels, and there in search of my hotel I managed to get onto the right trolley but went in the wrong direction. The trolley stopped, everyone got off, and I was again alone and lost in a city until the trolley started up again and headed back the way it came. Once more I had to search for my hotel, but also once more things worked out as they should have.
In Amsterdam, then, getting through Customs and into the terminal itself was fairly easy since nearly all signage is in both Dutch and English. I knew I had to take a train from the airport to Amsterdam proper, but after spending 20 minutes trying to get a kiosk to accept my credit card or debit card, I gave up and went to stand in a long line of people who seemed to be buying tickets from real people. (Aside: I had lost one of my credit cards somewhere in London before heading to Amsterdam, and I wondered if that lost credit card would've worked at the kiosk.) The woman who ended up selling me a ticket also told me that neither my credit card nor my debit card would work at kiosks in Amsterdam because the cards did not have the requisite security built into them.
Then, in Amsterdam, I once again walked out of a large railway station and into a new city filled with large crowds and unfamiliar terrain. I felt, though, less nervous and lost than I had that night in Pensacola, the first morning in London, or when arriving in Brussels. Still, I had to figure out 2 more things: how and where to buy tickets for the tram to my hotel. Across the street from the station I located yet another ticket office, where I once again had to bypass a kiosk and speak to a person, a woman who was very helpful and patient. Since leaving London I tried to focus on one thing at a time, and this helped me solve the small problems I'd encountered. Not many years ago while traveling to the Midwest, I lost my wallet, which contained my money, my identification, and my debit/credit cards. As I sat in my hotel room and tried to reason things out, I knew that I had relatives not too far away who could lend me money, and I would soon be meeting coworkers for a training course we were attending, so they could pay for my hotel room and meals with their company credit cards. I also knew that my wife could FedEx my passport to me so I would have the identification I would need the following week when I was to fly home. I went to a local bank to see if there was any way to get money transferred from my bank in California, but the people there said it just wouldn't work out. I happened to say, "If there were a Bank of America around here, maybe I could get help there." I was lucky then that one of women I spoke with told me there was such a bank about 20 miles away. I found my way to the bank, and after proving that I was who I said I was by logging onto my bank account there, I was able to withdraw cash. The stupid thing? An hour later when I was back at my hotel, I once more searched through my luggage and found...my wallet. After I'd cancelled my debit card and credit card. I'd wanted to panic the entire time, but focusing on solving each problem (the money, the ID, the logistics) helped me stay fairly level-headed.
One of the first things I did at my hotel room in Amsterdam was call my credit card company to let them know that I'd lost my credit card in London. Then, not a minute later, I reached into my rucksack and found...the credit card I'd just cancelled. The problem I still faced, though, was how to pay for things using my debit card or remaining credit card to buy such things as food. I had enough Euros to get me through most of the trip as long as I didn't eat or do anything fancy. But, on a whim, I returned to the train station the next day to see if I could use my credit card to get a cash advance at one of the currency exchange windows. And, for a fee, I was indeed able to. So, money problem was solved.
Not much in this post, though, is especially meaningful, but I've been thinking about writing and writers lately, and even more than ever I'm convinced that anyone who calls him- or herself a writer needs to get into the world a little bit, that we can't be realistic unless we do. I think this might be why Dickens, Twain, and Hemingway resonate with so many people: They didn't simply write about what they knew, they wrote about what they lived. And if I were more of a writer, I'd probably be able to back that all up.
Things We Didn't Say Yesterday #12
At some point you have to remember I'm not that kind of person.
Everything--and everyone--was now neatly divided. The objects had been easier than the people, some of whom might have struggled when deciding. Looking over the list of guests who had attended her wedding, Cindy found few surprises among the friends she and Chris had once shared. Her friends, naturally, had swung easily to her side, and Chris' friends had done the same. Their mutual friends seemed to have taken one of two routes: Some abandoned her and Chris all together, while others declared allegiance to one side or another.
She and Chris had not spoken in months; they had not even crossed paths though they still lived near to one another. The morning of his birthday she woke up and, still drowsy, found herself considering what type of cake to make. She wondered if she would ever forget his birthday or their anniversary. But, she was happy that the "daze and malaise" had passed, though with her wedding guest list on the table in front of her, she knew she had not severed everything completely. And in the box at her feet were the wedding pictures, the major part of any archaeological record that she and Chris had been married. He had not asked about them, and she did not know what to do with them.
Their last encounter had been in front of Stiller's Ice Cream Emporium. It was a place they'd both frequented before they'd even met, so she did not find it odd that they would meet there. Chris was sitting at a table on the patio, and she had seen him from inside. It would have been easy for her to leave without talking to him, but she no longer felt that she needed to avoid him.
"Vanilla?" she asked. He seemed neither surprised nor perturbed by her presence. She sat across from him.
"I'm a vanilla kind of guy," he said. "Strawberry?"
"Habitually," she said. "How are things?"
He shrugged. "Things are things. My mom died."
"Oh...Chris! I'm sorry. When?"
"Last month."
"Why didn't you call me?"
"Why should I call you?"
"To be considerate. I loved your mother."
He didn't say anything, and she didn't think he was especially pleased by her presence.
"How's your dad?"
"He's fine," Chris said.
"You sound bitter."
"Bitter?"
"Yeah. Bitter. You finally angry with me?"
"Which do you want me to be--angry, or bitter? Take your pick."
"Can't we be pleasant, at least?"
"We could be. We could be pleasant. But I don't know if I'm ready for that."
"That doesn't make any sense, Chris. You told me a long time ago that you weren't angry, that you were doing fine. Why the change?"
He wiped ice cream from his fingertips. "Maybe you've convinced me that I just need to start being honest."
"With you, or with me?"
"Both."
"It sounds like something that counselor told us."
"It could be. I'm seeing 'that counselor' again."
"Why?"
"Just to talk. To have someone tell me that I'm not the reason for all this. At least, not the only reason."
"I never said that you were. Did I? Did I ever say that?"
"No. But it's what you thought--I could tell. I know I wasn't a good husband in a lot of ways, and maybe now I'd be a better one. Little things don't bother me as much as they used to, and I think I understand you more now than I did when we were married."
"Good lord...you really have been getting counseling, haven't you?"
"Yes."
"I've thought about a lot of things too, Chris. I told you all along that you are not to blame. Why didn't you believe me. Why couldn't you believe what I said?"
She watched his eyes as he seemed to consider several answers. His face had changed.
"You never told me that. You should've told me then. I might've believed you then," he finally said.
"Maybe I didn't use those words, but I said it in different ways. At some point you have to remember I'm not that kind of person.
"Which kind of person?"
"The kind of person who would blame you for everything."
"You chose to end things."
"Oh, stop."
"And maybe you should go talk to someone."
"I've got friends to talk to."
"So do I, Cindy. But maybe you need someone to tell you things you don't see and don't want to hear."
"It sounds as though you're blaming me for something."
"I'm not."
"I wish that I hadn't come out here to talk to you. I didn't want this. I don't want this again." With that, she finished her ice cream cone and left.
She dropped the guest list into the box that held the wedding album, set the lid in place, slid the box back into the closet. She thought that she would send the entire box to Chris, that he could carry that burden for awhile. Things had to change some more; she saw that now.
Everything--and everyone--was now neatly divided. The objects had been easier than the people, some of whom might have struggled when deciding. Looking over the list of guests who had attended her wedding, Cindy found few surprises among the friends she and Chris had once shared. Her friends, naturally, had swung easily to her side, and Chris' friends had done the same. Their mutual friends seemed to have taken one of two routes: Some abandoned her and Chris all together, while others declared allegiance to one side or another.
She and Chris had not spoken in months; they had not even crossed paths though they still lived near to one another. The morning of his birthday she woke up and, still drowsy, found herself considering what type of cake to make. She wondered if she would ever forget his birthday or their anniversary. But, she was happy that the "daze and malaise" had passed, though with her wedding guest list on the table in front of her, she knew she had not severed everything completely. And in the box at her feet were the wedding pictures, the major part of any archaeological record that she and Chris had been married. He had not asked about them, and she did not know what to do with them.
Their last encounter had been in front of Stiller's Ice Cream Emporium. It was a place they'd both frequented before they'd even met, so she did not find it odd that they would meet there. Chris was sitting at a table on the patio, and she had seen him from inside. It would have been easy for her to leave without talking to him, but she no longer felt that she needed to avoid him.
"Vanilla?" she asked. He seemed neither surprised nor perturbed by her presence. She sat across from him.
"I'm a vanilla kind of guy," he said. "Strawberry?"
"Habitually," she said. "How are things?"
He shrugged. "Things are things. My mom died."
"Oh...Chris! I'm sorry. When?"
"Last month."
"Why didn't you call me?"
"Why should I call you?"
"To be considerate. I loved your mother."
He didn't say anything, and she didn't think he was especially pleased by her presence.
"How's your dad?"
"He's fine," Chris said.
"You sound bitter."
"Bitter?"
"Yeah. Bitter. You finally angry with me?"
"Which do you want me to be--angry, or bitter? Take your pick."
"Can't we be pleasant, at least?"
"We could be. We could be pleasant. But I don't know if I'm ready for that."
"That doesn't make any sense, Chris. You told me a long time ago that you weren't angry, that you were doing fine. Why the change?"
He wiped ice cream from his fingertips. "Maybe you've convinced me that I just need to start being honest."
"With you, or with me?"
"Both."
"It sounds like something that counselor told us."
"It could be. I'm seeing 'that counselor' again."
"Why?"
"Just to talk. To have someone tell me that I'm not the reason for all this. At least, not the only reason."
"I never said that you were. Did I? Did I ever say that?"
"No. But it's what you thought--I could tell. I know I wasn't a good husband in a lot of ways, and maybe now I'd be a better one. Little things don't bother me as much as they used to, and I think I understand you more now than I did when we were married."
"Good lord...you really have been getting counseling, haven't you?"
"Yes."
"I've thought about a lot of things too, Chris. I told you all along that you are not to blame. Why didn't you believe me. Why couldn't you believe what I said?"
She watched his eyes as he seemed to consider several answers. His face had changed.
"You never told me that. You should've told me then. I might've believed you then," he finally said.
"Maybe I didn't use those words, but I said it in different ways. At some point you have to remember I'm not that kind of person.
"Which kind of person?"
"The kind of person who would blame you for everything."
"You chose to end things."
"Oh, stop."
"And maybe you should go talk to someone."
"I've got friends to talk to."
"So do I, Cindy. But maybe you need someone to tell you things you don't see and don't want to hear."
"It sounds as though you're blaming me for something."
"I'm not."
"I wish that I hadn't come out here to talk to you. I didn't want this. I don't want this again." With that, she finished her ice cream cone and left.
She dropped the guest list into the box that held the wedding album, set the lid in place, slid the box back into the closet. She thought that she would send the entire box to Chris, that he could carry that burden for awhile. Things had to change some more; she saw that now.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Serenity in Yosemite
I often think that, when it comes to writing, procrastination is really just figuring out what to say. So, having sold myself on that, I'm putting off what I should be working on and instead spending time here. What the hell.
Taking advantage of a loose leash late last week, I packed some cold-weather clothing and headed the car south and east to the Yosemite Valley. My friend Tom introduced the place to me not many years ago, and I've been returning as regularly as possible. And because I'm getting fatter and older and lazier, I opted to rent one of the tent cabins at Curry Village, a shelter from potential storms that meant I wouldn't have to set up my own tent and sleep on the ground.
Arriving at Curry Village around noon after a long but enjoyable drive that included the discovery of a small coffee shop in the small town of Mariposa, which I found not because I was looking but because I saw 2 men walking up from a side street, a paper coffee cup in their hands. I parked the car and walked down that same side street, found the shop, and walked away with something called an Oregon Chai. Maybe it's similar to Starbucks chai latte. Tasted good enough that I would also stop on the way home 2 days later. I talked to the owner about how long he'd been there (6 years), about the science of advertising his business (his wife says he has "sign anxiety"), and the number of people he employs (5). Amazing how much a person can learn in a 2-minute conversation.
Anyway. Arriving at the desk 5 hours before the official check-in time, I was given keys to a tent because "we just happen to have one available." I had to wonder just how many unheated tent cabins would actually be occupied that night (though it would turn out to be quite a few, including the one beside me, one in which an man older and fatter than I slept well and snored loudly). The desk-clerk asked if I was there "for the conference," and I assured him that I was not. After stowing my pack of clothing I simply started walking--I'd say "hiking," but I'd be more accurate saying "strolling." All of the walkways and common tourists areas were filled with visitors, and most of them had white nametags hanging from their necks.
I love cities, their commotion and energy, but I also very much enjoy being anywhere else. The air was cold and fresh, and that first night was cold enough that 6 wool blankets laid over me weren't enough to keep me warm. But, warmth would've cost me $65 more a night, and I thought it was a fair tradeoff. The next day got a late start but managed a hike (certainly not a stroll) to the top of Vernal Falls where several months ago 3 young people walked around a guardrail, slipped into the water, and tumbled over the falls: a 25-foot float that led to a 300-foot fall that ended in a sudden stop in the rock-filled pool of water below. I looked at the waterfall and tried to imagine their terror at realizing what was going to happen. If we're lucky we die without such terror, though perhaps if we take our time dying that terror is longer.
Eating an apple and drinking some water at the top of the falls, I watched some clouds move in and realized how cold I had become: the sweat on my layers of long underwear wasn't drying, so I started hiking down just to regain some body heat. (Every see the movie Body Heat? It's kind of old, a little racy; I wrote a college paper on the opening scene, which I must've watched 20 times.) When I got to the road, I found the bus stop, intending to ride to the Valley's small deli where I could pick up a sandwich. After a few minutes I was joined by a man who was toting a fair amount of good camera equipment. I had camera-envy. "You hike to the Falls?" he asked. "I did," I told him. "You here for the conference?" "No," I said, and I let it hang there for a moment. "Which conference is that?" He looked at me. "The Al-Anon conference," he told me. "Nope," I said. I couldn't tell if he was sad. Maybe he had camera-envy, too. "I didn't mean to imply anything," he said, and I assured him that no offense was taken and no apology was necessary. "It's called 'Serenity in Yosemite'," he said, and we talked about the Valley's beauty.
We both eventually got on the shuttle bus, and though I was still quite chilled, I got off at the deli as he continued on. When I got my sandwich, I came outside to find another shuttle that would take me to Curry Village. The man was still on the bus, and we exchanged greetings. It's sometimes nice to see a friendly face.
Back at my tent, I ate the sandwich and shivered. When the sandwich was gone I walked to the showers and let hot water warm me up. After reading in my tent for awhile, I started walking again, making my way to a bar near Yosemite Lodge where I was charged $10.50 for a simple gin and tonic. The bar wasn't crowded--at least, I didn't see anyone wearing nametags. Toward dark and wandering around Curry Village, I found that 2 buildings were full of people watching some type of video: Al-Anons watching that night's keynote presentation. I found a dark corner outside one building where I could hear the speaker through the window. She was a comely blonde woman who interspersed "shit" and "fucking" quite well into a somewhat humorous personal story about her own journey into the group. Finally, when my feet were called, I sauntered back to my tent, read some more, and finally went to sleep with my blankets over me and the tent-neighbor snoring happily.
That second night was warmer than the first, or I was more tired and more acclimated to the cold. The next day I awoke to a light rain. I packed my things and loaded my car. I walked to the cafeteria for some hot oatmeal, and as I sat among many Al-Anons again, snow started to fall--big, wet snowflakes. I drove through snow until leaving the Valley, then drove through rain, then drove beneath sunshine for the rest of the way home. There I settled into the sofa and turned my attention to my students' papers and questions, trying hard to not lose what I'd gained over the previous couple of days.
Taking advantage of a loose leash late last week, I packed some cold-weather clothing and headed the car south and east to the Yosemite Valley. My friend Tom introduced the place to me not many years ago, and I've been returning as regularly as possible. And because I'm getting fatter and older and lazier, I opted to rent one of the tent cabins at Curry Village, a shelter from potential storms that meant I wouldn't have to set up my own tent and sleep on the ground.
Arriving at Curry Village around noon after a long but enjoyable drive that included the discovery of a small coffee shop in the small town of Mariposa, which I found not because I was looking but because I saw 2 men walking up from a side street, a paper coffee cup in their hands. I parked the car and walked down that same side street, found the shop, and walked away with something called an Oregon Chai. Maybe it's similar to Starbucks chai latte. Tasted good enough that I would also stop on the way home 2 days later. I talked to the owner about how long he'd been there (6 years), about the science of advertising his business (his wife says he has "sign anxiety"), and the number of people he employs (5). Amazing how much a person can learn in a 2-minute conversation.
Anyway. Arriving at the desk 5 hours before the official check-in time, I was given keys to a tent because "we just happen to have one available." I had to wonder just how many unheated tent cabins would actually be occupied that night (though it would turn out to be quite a few, including the one beside me, one in which an man older and fatter than I slept well and snored loudly). The desk-clerk asked if I was there "for the conference," and I assured him that I was not. After stowing my pack of clothing I simply started walking--I'd say "hiking," but I'd be more accurate saying "strolling." All of the walkways and common tourists areas were filled with visitors, and most of them had white nametags hanging from their necks.
I love cities, their commotion and energy, but I also very much enjoy being anywhere else. The air was cold and fresh, and that first night was cold enough that 6 wool blankets laid over me weren't enough to keep me warm. But, warmth would've cost me $65 more a night, and I thought it was a fair tradeoff. The next day got a late start but managed a hike (certainly not a stroll) to the top of Vernal Falls where several months ago 3 young people walked around a guardrail, slipped into the water, and tumbled over the falls: a 25-foot float that led to a 300-foot fall that ended in a sudden stop in the rock-filled pool of water below. I looked at the waterfall and tried to imagine their terror at realizing what was going to happen. If we're lucky we die without such terror, though perhaps if we take our time dying that terror is longer.
Eating an apple and drinking some water at the top of the falls, I watched some clouds move in and realized how cold I had become: the sweat on my layers of long underwear wasn't drying, so I started hiking down just to regain some body heat. (Every see the movie Body Heat? It's kind of old, a little racy; I wrote a college paper on the opening scene, which I must've watched 20 times.) When I got to the road, I found the bus stop, intending to ride to the Valley's small deli where I could pick up a sandwich. After a few minutes I was joined by a man who was toting a fair amount of good camera equipment. I had camera-envy. "You hike to the Falls?" he asked. "I did," I told him. "You here for the conference?" "No," I said, and I let it hang there for a moment. "Which conference is that?" He looked at me. "The Al-Anon conference," he told me. "Nope," I said. I couldn't tell if he was sad. Maybe he had camera-envy, too. "I didn't mean to imply anything," he said, and I assured him that no offense was taken and no apology was necessary. "It's called 'Serenity in Yosemite'," he said, and we talked about the Valley's beauty.
We both eventually got on the shuttle bus, and though I was still quite chilled, I got off at the deli as he continued on. When I got my sandwich, I came outside to find another shuttle that would take me to Curry Village. The man was still on the bus, and we exchanged greetings. It's sometimes nice to see a friendly face.
Back at my tent, I ate the sandwich and shivered. When the sandwich was gone I walked to the showers and let hot water warm me up. After reading in my tent for awhile, I started walking again, making my way to a bar near Yosemite Lodge where I was charged $10.50 for a simple gin and tonic. The bar wasn't crowded--at least, I didn't see anyone wearing nametags. Toward dark and wandering around Curry Village, I found that 2 buildings were full of people watching some type of video: Al-Anons watching that night's keynote presentation. I found a dark corner outside one building where I could hear the speaker through the window. She was a comely blonde woman who interspersed "shit" and "fucking" quite well into a somewhat humorous personal story about her own journey into the group. Finally, when my feet were called, I sauntered back to my tent, read some more, and finally went to sleep with my blankets over me and the tent-neighbor snoring happily.
That second night was warmer than the first, or I was more tired and more acclimated to the cold. The next day I awoke to a light rain. I packed my things and loaded my car. I walked to the cafeteria for some hot oatmeal, and as I sat among many Al-Anons again, snow started to fall--big, wet snowflakes. I drove through snow until leaving the Valley, then drove through rain, then drove beneath sunshine for the rest of the way home. There I settled into the sofa and turned my attention to my students' papers and questions, trying hard to not lose what I'd gained over the previous couple of days.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Home Again
That was fun.
Home again after 10 days of being outside the U.S. London was as welcoming as it always is, and this trip also included 3 days in Amsterdam.
Travel is a good thing, though "The farther you go, the less you know" (a slightly inaccurate bit from the Tao Te Ching) is always in the back of my mind whenever I venture beyond familiar terrain. Then again, at least parts of London have become familiar enough that during the last trip I was able to provide directions to a couple of tourists.
I am always surprised at people I meet and how willing they are to talk. Here are the highlights, some of which may be expanded upon at a later date.
****
The trip wasn't just talking to people, certainly.
First, I owe Kominski many thanks, for instance, for suggesting that I take the accumulated episodes of "Things We Didn't Say Yesterday" along with me for some reading/editing. Not only did I find typos and inconsistencies, I also discovered that I'd basically written the same episode 3 times. How stupid. I'd written them all with no planning or thought, really, so I could've expected a recurrence of themes and language. But the same episode? Goodness.
Second, somewhere over the Atlantic I believe I found a solution to a problem with plot/structure in the novel I thought was done. So, this will, I hope, be addressed soon.
Third, though the Muse has not yet seen fit to allow me to see the ending to a screenplay I've been writing, I was allowed to see bits of dialog and theme that should be developed further. I am thankful for these gifts.
Home again after 10 days of being outside the U.S. London was as welcoming as it always is, and this trip also included 3 days in Amsterdam.
Travel is a good thing, though "The farther you go, the less you know" (a slightly inaccurate bit from the Tao Te Ching) is always in the back of my mind whenever I venture beyond familiar terrain. Then again, at least parts of London have become familiar enough that during the last trip I was able to provide directions to a couple of tourists.
I am always surprised at people I meet and how willing they are to talk. Here are the highlights, some of which may be expanded upon at a later date.
- Charlie, the young Englishman who was working the desk when I checked into my hotel in Amsterdam. He gave me a key to a room that was already occupied, and when I returned from actually entering that room, he seemed relived that I was neither upset nor impatient.
- The bartender in Amsterdam who enjoyed conversing about hockey and American baseball (I forgave his being a fan of the Yankees).
- Bill, the Canadian I sat beside on the flight from Amsterdam to London and with whom I talked about economics; Canadian and American lifestyles; global warming; his favorite restaurants in Houston, Texas; snow skiing; and living in Amsterdam. Our conversation started when he glanced at the small watercolors I'd purchased from a street-artist in Amsterdam, one of which depicts an apartment building next to a canal: "I used to live right there," he said, pointing to the top apartment.
- Carmelita, the cheerful woman who sat beside me in Amsterdam's airport gave me a short history lesson of both Holland and Suriname, and who told me that the next time I am in Holland, I should call her and visit her small coastal town (with my wife, of course). We compared notes about our children, and she even took control of my notebook to write down her name, address, and phone number.
- The 2 docents at Christ Church in Oxford who seemed pleased that I could discuss a bit of English history with the, including history of the church itself.
- The young New Zealander employed as a bartender at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese in London. He'd been working in London for 6 months and in a couple of days was on his way to Boston where his girlfriend lives.
- The Hungarian bartender near London's Covent Garden who pegged me as an American by the way I pronounced the "r" in "beer." She told me of how she learned English, which was actually quite good.
- The woman on the express train from London to Heathrow Airport, who was on the way to Kenya to work on disease eradication (and who was born in Kentucky, as was my father).
- The man I sat next to on the flight from London to Chicago, whose wife has Parkinson's and uses voice recognition programs to help her use computers.
- The woman I met in Chicago's O'Hare field who works for a California pharmaceutical company that is working on drugs to extend the lives of children afflicted with rare diseases.
- Dave, on the airplane from Chicago to Sacramento, who coaches trainers and other coaches around the world and who was on his way home to California. He sold a company at age 42 and found that retirement wasn't as much fun as he'd hoped. "Coach Dave" was embroidered on his rucksack.
****
The trip wasn't just talking to people, certainly.
First, I owe Kominski many thanks, for instance, for suggesting that I take the accumulated episodes of "Things We Didn't Say Yesterday" along with me for some reading/editing. Not only did I find typos and inconsistencies, I also discovered that I'd basically written the same episode 3 times. How stupid. I'd written them all with no planning or thought, really, so I could've expected a recurrence of themes and language. But the same episode? Goodness.
Second, somewhere over the Atlantic I believe I found a solution to a problem with plot/structure in the novel I thought was done. So, this will, I hope, be addressed soon.
Third, though the Muse has not yet seen fit to allow me to see the ending to a screenplay I've been writing, I was allowed to see bits of dialog and theme that should be developed further. I am thankful for these gifts.
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