We always return to the familiar, even after struggling to find and explore new places and ideas. And once again today I'm in the common experience of Starbucks, a common fleece-wearing man with a Apple laptop set in front of me as though I have something to scribble about. This particular Starbucks seems to be a gathering place for many people who are either (or both) slightly imbalanced and at least temporarily between residences. Even the crazy and the lost need an anchor.
There is a grand, lighted Christmas tree outside the window I'm looking through; it's a healthy looking conifer. The other trees in the area--leafless and deciduous--are also decorated with lights. I perhaps mistakenly find it ironic that the conifer will soon be mulch, and in the near future the deciduous group will be green again.
I woke up this morning and remembered something: today is the anniversary of my first day on the job at my first professional job. A cubicle seemed exciting then, though that it was in San Francisco certainly helped with that excitement. I actually think of that job often--something familiar. It was a good time, those four years in San Francisco, and I worked with some good, creative people. The cubicle I work in now, on the third floor of an office building in a dull suburb, is much less exciting. Or, I'll concede, the problem is that I am less exciting.
Yesterday afternoon I saw Birdman, a movie that surprised me because I'd forgotten that it incorporates pieces of a Raymond Carver story ("What We Talk About When We Talk About Love") in both plot and theme. I first read that story when I worked in San Francisco, when smart and generous coworkers introduced me to writers of many types. I often return to Carver's stories, and references to him have appeared more than once in this blog. I've seen other movies based on Carver's works, including Everything Must Go and Shortcuts; both are worth watching.
In a few days I'll have to return to my familiar suburban cubicle just as imbalanced though still not homeless. The stay here has been good.
Showing posts with label Travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Travel. Show all posts
Friday, January 2, 2015
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Dispatch: Portland, Oregon
On a year-end journey north, I find the air a bit colder than I'd expected. Arrived at PDX yesterday morning, took the light rail train into the city, dropped my bag off at the hotel, then wandered around the city for nearly six hours before I could check into my room. Time well spent, of course--urban hiking on par with Chicago and, almost, London. Oddly enough, I think I know my way around London more than I do Portland, which I've visited more times. Or, maybe not.
Oh: the "cold" thing. I own everything I need for such weather, and most of it is still at home. Maybe it's a sign that I have too much stuff, that when preparing my mental packing list for the trip I simply didn't dig deeply enough. That lightweight down coat would've fit the bill yesterday as the the wind found its way through my heavy sweater and two underwear shirts of different weights. The layering system works well as long as there's something to keep the wind out.
I know I've said it more than once in this long-running and long-winded blog, but I woke up to a light snow after my first night at a terrible B&B in London. I'd spent hours the day before walking from Victoria Station, across Hyde Park, and then into the Paddington area in search of that B&B. It was one of the best days of my life now that I think about it, but I remember being sleep deprived, frustrated, hungry, and even somewhat regretful about going there in the first place. But the snow that morning? I was more prepared for it than I am for a little wind and cold only a 90-minute plane ride from home.
***
Today is the last day of the year, one that saw a wonderful trip to Ireland (of which I've written nothing about), no backpacking, and very little writing. These last four months have been especially void of anything other than working during the day, teaching at night, and grading papers over the weekend. Writing creatively seems like something I did a long time ago, and all of those characters and conversations in my head haven't had a way out. Bully for them that they stick around, patient and hopeful.
Next year, things will be different on a variety of fronts. Teaching only one course at night will be a nice change: four hours a week in the classroom rather than eight, 30 students to work with rather than 60. Even the daytime job might see some changes as new avenues are explored and new opportunities embraced.
Oh: the "cold" thing. I own everything I need for such weather, and most of it is still at home. Maybe it's a sign that I have too much stuff, that when preparing my mental packing list for the trip I simply didn't dig deeply enough. That lightweight down coat would've fit the bill yesterday as the the wind found its way through my heavy sweater and two underwear shirts of different weights. The layering system works well as long as there's something to keep the wind out.
I know I've said it more than once in this long-running and long-winded blog, but I woke up to a light snow after my first night at a terrible B&B in London. I'd spent hours the day before walking from Victoria Station, across Hyde Park, and then into the Paddington area in search of that B&B. It was one of the best days of my life now that I think about it, but I remember being sleep deprived, frustrated, hungry, and even somewhat regretful about going there in the first place. But the snow that morning? I was more prepared for it than I am for a little wind and cold only a 90-minute plane ride from home.
***
Today is the last day of the year, one that saw a wonderful trip to Ireland (of which I've written nothing about), no backpacking, and very little writing. These last four months have been especially void of anything other than working during the day, teaching at night, and grading papers over the weekend. Writing creatively seems like something I did a long time ago, and all of those characters and conversations in my head haven't had a way out. Bully for them that they stick around, patient and hopeful.
Next year, things will be different on a variety of fronts. Teaching only one course at night will be a nice change: four hours a week in the classroom rather than eight, 30 students to work with rather than 60. Even the daytime job might see some changes as new avenues are explored and new opportunities embraced.
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
SWA from SMF to PDX
I had just taken a break from grading papers--an in-flight ritual, it seems--when she begins talking. And smiling. She is a pleasant woman, a bit heavy, glasses, reading a book titled Transitions: Making Sense of Life's Changes. I'd noticed the book's title, I imagine, about the same time she'd noticed me with my papers. I'm not a fan of self-help books, though I suppose I haven't read enough of them. But if anyone needs help, I'm the guy, I think.
"I didn't want to disturb you," Kimberly says. "I waited until it looked like you were taking a break." I assure her it's no problem, that I need to be disturbed when I'm grading papers. "Are you a teacher?" I tell her I am, at least part-time. "I'm Kimberly," she says as she reaches her thick hand across the empty middle seat. I tell her my name. "Nice to meet you," she says. "I always loved school, but I didn't start college until late in life. I tell her that I think it's wonderful that she started at all. "I participate in this health-thing at work," she says. "I get an email every morning that gives me a goal for the day. Today's goal was to introduce myself to someone I do not know." I smile. "I guess I'm that someone!" We talk some more about where she works, what she does. I don't remember now if I told her what I do, where I work. Maybe she thinks I'm a full-time teacher. "Oh," she says. "I've already forgotten your name." I laugh, and I tell her my name again. "I should remember that," she says. "That was my husband's name."
Uh-oh.
The flight is short, but I learn a lot from her. She tells me she loves college, and she has 5 associate degrees. She has two daughters. One daughter went to college, graduated, and got a job in the travel industry; she has traveled all over the world. Kimberly and her daughter go on cruises together because they can get such great deals. Her other daughter has some type of unspecified (to me) learning disability but is a wonderful photographer. Kimberly has two dogs. She met the man would be her husband online. "He knew he was dying when we met," Kimberly says. "I didn't care. It gave him a certain presence."
Kimberly is on her way to Eugene, Oregon, to spend a few days with some of her husband's friends. "I still feel so comfortable with them," she says, and she starts to tear up. "How long has it been since he died?" I ask. She says that it has been a couple of years. "You miss him," I say, because I am an expert at nothing if not the obvious. "Yeah," she says, "I do." And she says they used to go on grand hikes together until he could no longer walk. She mentions a couple more times that she is really looking forward to seeing her husband's friends. I'm reminded of on a flight home from England, the woman next to me told me how her daughter had died just a year earlier. She said she still didn't know how to respond when people asked her how many children she has. I wrote about that experience somewhere in this blog. I liked writing it. There was a cat and a snake in that story if I remember correctly.
Kimberly says that when her dead husband died, she and all of their friends wrote messages on the man's skin, just as people might sign a plaster cast that hold someone's bones in place. "The hospice nurse said she'd never seen anything like that."
Kimberly looks out the window, and I put the students' papers in a folder. The plan will be landing soon, and I want to be ready. As we leave the plane, I tell Kimberly that I hope she has a wonderful time, that I hope she thinks about her husband the entire time. She says she will, and she says she is glad to have spoken with me.
Then, I'm out of the plane and walking through PDX, wondering if the extra weight I feel is weight that Kimberly didn't need.
"I didn't want to disturb you," Kimberly says. "I waited until it looked like you were taking a break." I assure her it's no problem, that I need to be disturbed when I'm grading papers. "Are you a teacher?" I tell her I am, at least part-time. "I'm Kimberly," she says as she reaches her thick hand across the empty middle seat. I tell her my name. "Nice to meet you," she says. "I always loved school, but I didn't start college until late in life. I tell her that I think it's wonderful that she started at all. "I participate in this health-thing at work," she says. "I get an email every morning that gives me a goal for the day. Today's goal was to introduce myself to someone I do not know." I smile. "I guess I'm that someone!" We talk some more about where she works, what she does. I don't remember now if I told her what I do, where I work. Maybe she thinks I'm a full-time teacher. "Oh," she says. "I've already forgotten your name." I laugh, and I tell her my name again. "I should remember that," she says. "That was my husband's name."
Uh-oh.
The flight is short, but I learn a lot from her. She tells me she loves college, and she has 5 associate degrees. She has two daughters. One daughter went to college, graduated, and got a job in the travel industry; she has traveled all over the world. Kimberly and her daughter go on cruises together because they can get such great deals. Her other daughter has some type of unspecified (to me) learning disability but is a wonderful photographer. Kimberly has two dogs. She met the man would be her husband online. "He knew he was dying when we met," Kimberly says. "I didn't care. It gave him a certain presence."
Kimberly is on her way to Eugene, Oregon, to spend a few days with some of her husband's friends. "I still feel so comfortable with them," she says, and she starts to tear up. "How long has it been since he died?" I ask. She says that it has been a couple of years. "You miss him," I say, because I am an expert at nothing if not the obvious. "Yeah," she says, "I do." And she says they used to go on grand hikes together until he could no longer walk. She mentions a couple more times that she is really looking forward to seeing her husband's friends. I'm reminded of on a flight home from England, the woman next to me told me how her daughter had died just a year earlier. She said she still didn't know how to respond when people asked her how many children she has. I wrote about that experience somewhere in this blog. I liked writing it. There was a cat and a snake in that story if I remember correctly.
Kimberly says that when her dead husband died, she and all of their friends wrote messages on the man's skin, just as people might sign a plaster cast that hold someone's bones in place. "The hospice nurse said she'd never seen anything like that."
Kimberly looks out the window, and I put the students' papers in a folder. The plan will be landing soon, and I want to be ready. As we leave the plane, I tell Kimberly that I hope she has a wonderful time, that I hope she thinks about her husband the entire time. She says she will, and she says she is glad to have spoken with me.
Then, I'm out of the plane and walking through PDX, wondering if the extra weight I feel is weight that Kimberly didn't need.
Friday, November 9, 2012
Chicago: An Epilogue
After a short train ride, too much time in airports, and a couple of plane rides, I return from Chicago. On the final flight, I find myself seated to a woman who is from Ohio, and we spend a few minutes discussing the previous day's presidential election. She says that Mitt Romney seemed absolutely stunned that he'd lost, but that since she had been in charge of "counting the votes" for years ago, she could have told Romney that he'd lose Ohio. We talk a bit more, and I stop her because I have to clear something up: "So," I say, "does that mean you were Ohio's secretary of state?" We talk about politics a bit more, and then we discuss our children and jobs. She says her oldest daughter attended the Berklee College of Music and, having "the soul of an artist," supports herself as a jazz singer. It's a nice thing, the woman and I agree, to make a living doing what you love to do. And after we land, I show her where to pick up her luggage and where to find a taxi, and I apologize for making her talk shop on the airplane. "It was fun," she says, and I tell her I agree. Then she is off to the Best Western, and I am on my way home.
The day before, election day, started out cool but sunny in Chicago. After breakfast, I walked the city for a few hours, then boarded boat for an architectural tour on the Chicago River. The cool morning had lingered, but the sun had not. Not long after the boat pulled away from the dock, those of us who were seated on the open, top deck were treated to a chilly breeze. I pulled my coat from out of my backpack and put it over my other coat--now fully dressed in pretty much all the warm clothing I'd packed. The tour itself was enjoyable, and the tour guide seemed to know what she was talking about. The longer we cruised, the fewer people remained on the deck--the others had descended to the warm, wind-free interior and were probably drinking hot chocolate purchased from the onboard bar. A light rain--more of a mist--began to fall. "It's only you and me now," the tour guide said, and when I looked around and saw that she was right. My exposed hands and face were cold, but soon enough we were again moored.
After a pizza-and-beer lunch at Pizzeria Due, I stopped in a nearby movie theater to stay warm and dry and to watch the movie Flight, which was enjoyable but also as predictable as the next day's election results. Thematically the script was a bit heavy handed, as well, but I am here to neither praise nor bury a movie.... Outside again, the sun was gone but the drizzle of rain was not. I continued walking, the my water-repellent jacket just repellent enough to keep me dry. Finally, on the gray cusp between melancholy and low blood sugar, I picked up a sandwich in a small grocery store and headed back to my hotel room. Along the way, strolling through Millennium Park, I stopped and used my phone to take this photo:
Later, while watching the election results on TV and eating my sandwich, I thought about the young woman who, the day before, sat down at a table beside me as I ate breakfast. "Anyone sitting here?" she asked. The table she had chosen was large, and I assured her it was empty. She asked if I was from Chicago. She told me about the boat tours on the Chicago River (I didn't tell her I planned to ride such a boat the next day). "You look tired," she said. "I do?" I said. "Yeah, you look tired." I told that I was not, that I was simply old. She then asked if I knew where a certain intersection was, and I said I did not. Next, she asked if I knew where South Bend is. "Indiana," I said. She said she needed eight dollars to get there, that she was leaving an abusive relationship and was kicking a drug habit, so she needed to get to a half-way house in South Bend. "That's where I'll stay until I have the baby," she said, and I was amazed that she'd hit the trifecta. I actually did not have that much money on me, and I told her so. Moments later she was gone, and I kept eating.
I would meet another young woman later that day, someone involved with poetry. Several times since I'd begun walking Chicago, I came across signs and placards announcing the 100th anniversary of the Poetry Foundation, which publishes Poetry. On this day I happened upon the Foundation's offices, where I examined the stacks and stacks of books--all poetry. I photographed some of the stacks and sent the photo to one of my writer-friends, and we both had the same reaction: the place reminded us of the poetry library we had, at different times, discovered in Edinburgh, Scotland.. The woman I ended up speaking to gave me a bit of history about the Foundation (much of which I knew). When I asked how she'd come to work there, she said that a year or so earlier she had finished her MFA at Chicago's Columbia College, and the Foundation needed someone, and....well, that's the story. I would think of her again when the woman on the plane told me about her jazz-singing daughter.
All in all, I suppose the trip was uneventful, though being somewhere other than a cubicle is always good. There were other people I encountered but did not meet: the two men talking advertising strategy in a coffee shop; the three men talking about education and world travel at a cafe; the group of workers (whom I imagined to be doing something creative) seated around a large table, talking and reviewing something displayed on a large screen.
It is good to get out, to see and hear things, to challenge myopia and provincialism. Then again, it can be quite dangerous.
The day before, election day, started out cool but sunny in Chicago. After breakfast, I walked the city for a few hours, then boarded boat for an architectural tour on the Chicago River. The cool morning had lingered, but the sun had not. Not long after the boat pulled away from the dock, those of us who were seated on the open, top deck were treated to a chilly breeze. I pulled my coat from out of my backpack and put it over my other coat--now fully dressed in pretty much all the warm clothing I'd packed. The tour itself was enjoyable, and the tour guide seemed to know what she was talking about. The longer we cruised, the fewer people remained on the deck--the others had descended to the warm, wind-free interior and were probably drinking hot chocolate purchased from the onboard bar. A light rain--more of a mist--began to fall. "It's only you and me now," the tour guide said, and when I looked around and saw that she was right. My exposed hands and face were cold, but soon enough we were again moored.
After a pizza-and-beer lunch at Pizzeria Due, I stopped in a nearby movie theater to stay warm and dry and to watch the movie Flight, which was enjoyable but also as predictable as the next day's election results. Thematically the script was a bit heavy handed, as well, but I am here to neither praise nor bury a movie.... Outside again, the sun was gone but the drizzle of rain was not. I continued walking, the my water-repellent jacket just repellent enough to keep me dry. Finally, on the gray cusp between melancholy and low blood sugar, I picked up a sandwich in a small grocery store and headed back to my hotel room. Along the way, strolling through Millennium Park, I stopped and used my phone to take this photo:
I would meet another young woman later that day, someone involved with poetry. Several times since I'd begun walking Chicago, I came across signs and placards announcing the 100th anniversary of the Poetry Foundation, which publishes Poetry. On this day I happened upon the Foundation's offices, where I examined the stacks and stacks of books--all poetry. I photographed some of the stacks and sent the photo to one of my writer-friends, and we both had the same reaction: the place reminded us of the poetry library we had, at different times, discovered in Edinburgh, Scotland.. The woman I ended up speaking to gave me a bit of history about the Foundation (much of which I knew). When I asked how she'd come to work there, she said that a year or so earlier she had finished her MFA at Chicago's Columbia College, and the Foundation needed someone, and....well, that's the story. I would think of her again when the woman on the plane told me about her jazz-singing daughter.
All in all, I suppose the trip was uneventful, though being somewhere other than a cubicle is always good. There were other people I encountered but did not meet: the two men talking advertising strategy in a coffee shop; the three men talking about education and world travel at a cafe; the group of workers (whom I imagined to be doing something creative) seated around a large table, talking and reviewing something displayed on a large screen.
It is good to get out, to see and hear things, to challenge myopia and provincialism. Then again, it can be quite dangerous.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Chicago
Yesterday involved 2 airplanes, one train, and a many blocks of city hiking before I checked into my Chicago hotel room, a good stone's throw from the Chicago River, a short walk to the site of where Fort Dearborn once stood. I am, I believe, approximately 60 miles from what I call my hometown, though I am a couple thousand miles from my home.
It is good to be traveling again, to be someplace where the voices and the horizon and the energy are all different from the everyday.
After checking into the hotel, I rested for half an hour before north up Michigan Avenue, then west and north and south and east on streets I do not remember right now. I found a Trader Joe's and bought a bottle of wine, though I would not find a corkscrew until late this afternoon, and then had dinner at the Billy Goat Tavern, a place you don't write home about unless you know the history of the place. I walked until my legs ached, and then I walked some more to get back to the hotel, where I watched the local news and and then slept poorly until this morning.
What I thought was early this morning I climbed out of bed, laced my running shoes to my feet, and ran south on Michigan Avenue until I had to stop at barricades set up for the Hot Chocolate run. I thought about joining the runners, but had visions of Rosie Ruiz so I instead turned west then north and I think south again before turning east to get back to the hotel. After showering and resting, I headed eagerly for the nearby Corner Bakery Cafe, one of my traditional breakfast spots. Inside, though, were dozens of parents and kids apparently hoping for a healthy breakfast, so I walked some more and settled on an Einstein Brothers Bagels.
After breakfast, it was time to walk some more, and I found the finish line for the Hot Chocolate run, where I took this interesting photo of what the runners left behind:
I then made my way to a CVS pharmacy where I bought bandages for a bothersome blister that has formed on the third toe of my right foot. Funny: nearly a week of backpacking not long ago and my feet came away unscathed. Now, not even 2 days of walking in Chicago and I wince with every other step.
I took a photo of berries on a bare tree...
I took some photos of moving objects...
...and photographed different shapes and textures.
After several hours of wandering, I made my way to the Rock Bottom Brewery, which I believe also has an establishment in Portland, Oregon, and where I think I've been. When I got back to my room, I removed my shoe and sock toAfter returning to my hotel room and spending a couple hours there, I set out again after dark just to stretch my legs.
Now, I'm doing this and reviewing what truly was a fairly mundane, uneventful day. But, I am here, and in some places the mundane and the uneventful go a long way.
It is good to be traveling again, to be someplace where the voices and the horizon and the energy are all different from the everyday.
After checking into the hotel, I rested for half an hour before north up Michigan Avenue, then west and north and south and east on streets I do not remember right now. I found a Trader Joe's and bought a bottle of wine, though I would not find a corkscrew until late this afternoon, and then had dinner at the Billy Goat Tavern, a place you don't write home about unless you know the history of the place. I walked until my legs ached, and then I walked some more to get back to the hotel, where I watched the local news and and then slept poorly until this morning.
What I thought was early this morning I climbed out of bed, laced my running shoes to my feet, and ran south on Michigan Avenue until I had to stop at barricades set up for the Hot Chocolate run. I thought about joining the runners, but had visions of Rosie Ruiz so I instead turned west then north and I think south again before turning east to get back to the hotel. After showering and resting, I headed eagerly for the nearby Corner Bakery Cafe, one of my traditional breakfast spots. Inside, though, were dozens of parents and kids apparently hoping for a healthy breakfast, so I walked some more and settled on an Einstein Brothers Bagels.
After breakfast, it was time to walk some more, and I found the finish line for the Hot Chocolate run, where I took this interesting photo of what the runners left behind:
I then made my way to a CVS pharmacy where I bought bandages for a bothersome blister that has formed on the third toe of my right foot. Funny: nearly a week of backpacking not long ago and my feet came away unscathed. Now, not even 2 days of walking in Chicago and I wince with every other step.
I took a photo of berries on a bare tree...
I took some photos of moving objects...
...and photographed different shapes and textures.
After several hours of wandering, I made my way to the Rock Bottom Brewery, which I believe also has an establishment in Portland, Oregon, and where I think I've been. When I got back to my room, I removed my shoe and sock toAfter returning to my hotel room and spending a couple hours there, I set out again after dark just to stretch my legs.
Now, I'm doing this and reviewing what truly was a fairly mundane, uneventful day. But, I am here, and in some places the mundane and the uneventful go a long way.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Where I'll Be
A week from today I'll be making flying Southwest airlines to Chicago. Southwest is letting me fly for free, though it is also making me use the flight by mid-November. An Illinois winter can be chilly and cold, but I've worked hard to not label weather as either "good" or "bad"--it just is. I'd prefer dry weather, but I've been there before and gotten drenched by late-night rains. I once had to duck into store on North Michigan Avenue to buy what turned out to be the last raincoat on the rack. When I stepped outside again I stood beneath an awning and enjoyed the rain and the thunder and the lightning.
During most trips to my home state, I also manage a stop in my hometown, which is a 2-hour train ride from Chicago proper. I once even dragged Kominski there, and we visited the now-defunct Dick Tracy museum. Chester Gould, the man who created Dick Tracy, lived in my hometown for awhile. On this upcoming trip, however, I'm not sure I'll want to spend over 4 hours on a train just to visit a small town in which there aren't many attractions.
As usual when I travel, I have no detailed itinerary. Instead, I tend to wander awhile and consider my options. I found this to work even in Europe, though on each visit there I did have general ideas of what I wanted to see and do. I probably end up missing some of what people believe are the important places, but as I'm sure I've mentioned elsewhere, sometimes the turn down a random street leads to the best discoveries.
Regardless of the weather and the lack of a plan, the trip will be good--god willing and the river don't rise, anyway.
During most trips to my home state, I also manage a stop in my hometown, which is a 2-hour train ride from Chicago proper. I once even dragged Kominski there, and we visited the now-defunct Dick Tracy museum. Chester Gould, the man who created Dick Tracy, lived in my hometown for awhile. On this upcoming trip, however, I'm not sure I'll want to spend over 4 hours on a train just to visit a small town in which there aren't many attractions.
As usual when I travel, I have no detailed itinerary. Instead, I tend to wander awhile and consider my options. I found this to work even in Europe, though on each visit there I did have general ideas of what I wanted to see and do. I probably end up missing some of what people believe are the important places, but as I'm sure I've mentioned elsewhere, sometimes the turn down a random street leads to the best discoveries.
Regardless of the weather and the lack of a plan, the trip will be good--god willing and the river don't rise, anyway.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Where I Was
A year ago today I landed at London's Heathrow airport, rode the train to Earl's Court Station, and checked into the Earl's Court Easy Hotel where I stayed for 3 days before venturing to Amsterdam. Every day, it seems, I enjoy thoughts of returning to return to England, a place that after a trio of visits I've grown quite fond of. Looking through my Moleskine, I read now that I enjoyed a couple of beers at a pub called the Prince of Teck, and I remember leaving a bit lightheaded as I made my way back to my hotel. As I leaf through the Moleskine, I see names of other pubs: Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese in London (where, apparently, Dickens liked to drink); The World's End (Camden Town); The Temple Bar Irish Pub (Amsterdam); The Four Candles Free House (London); The Essex Serpent (London, near Covent Garden).
The thing about wanderlust, I think, is that it's never truly assuaged. A recent 6-day backpacking adventure didn't help much, and an upcoming 4-day trip to Chicago will probably only whet my appetite for something grand. If it isn't an illness, it certainly is a selfish thing: heading out alone and leaving others behind.
A few photos.
The Tower Bridge and the Thames from inside the Tower of London.
Within Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese.
Oxford.
Amsterdam.
The thing about wanderlust, I think, is that it's never truly assuaged. A recent 6-day backpacking adventure didn't help much, and an upcoming 4-day trip to Chicago will probably only whet my appetite for something grand. If it isn't an illness, it certainly is a selfish thing: heading out alone and leaving others behind.
A few photos.
The Tower Bridge and the Thames from inside the Tower of London.
Within Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese.
Oxford.
Amsterdam.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Skipping Out and Skipping Town
With my grandmother returned to ashes and dust, and boxed up and sent home with my aunt, I escape the local geography of grief and head west, then north. There are things to do at work, things to do at home--but it can all wait. Earlier this year while in Yosemite, I wandered into the chapel there one day when nobody else was present and walked up to the pulpit, where the bible was opened to "Song of Solomon" and I read (and wrote in my notebook) this verse: "they made me the keeper of the vineyards; but my own vineyard have I not kept." That's it, I thought as I drove--I've got a biblical reason to leave.
There's something about getting--and being--on the road that settles things down a bit. If you do it right, you stay in the right lane and let the commotion worry about getting ahead. You packed a bit of food, you put the beer in an ice chest, you loaded the thick biography of Charles Dickens into you bag, and you left home.
It has been awhile since I made this trip. Two years, actually. The drive takes longer than expected, but it ends just about the time my no-longer-medicated lower back and right shoulder start to complain loudly. "It hurts," I say to nobody, but then I think of my grandmother and know that things could be worse. When I stop at the borrowed house it's still an hour before sunset, so I move my things inside, open one of my six beers, and sit in a chair in the meadow. The air is clean here and, as my yoga instructor always reminds her students, I let myself breathe.
The next morning I awake early glad to not be driving to the office. I have worked in much worse places much farther from home, but I am happy I won't be in the staff meeting even though the topics are important for a new project. By 9:00 I have read part of my book, drunk my tea, and walked for a good 3 miles. I think of Kominski and what is basically his recent retirement, how he says that "Monday lasts a week"--the idea that, without commuting and deadlines and days full of obligations, time takes on a different tone. Have you ever felt that? I have, especially during long vacations when there are no commitments to anyone or anything. Two of my brothers-in-law, both of whom retired in the last few years, say that "every day is Saturday." I'm doubtful that I'll ever experience that, but it's a nice thought.
I choose not to drive anywhere this first day just to let my back and shoulder rest. So, I read some more, I walk some more, I watch a movie, I try once again to sketch something all the while thinking of the artists I've known to could draw and paint and design. Bereft of all artistic talent, those artists--and the singers and musicians and dancers--are the ones I've always admired. I eat when I want to, I drink a beer in the middle of the day, and I do very little else.
The second day I'm on the road again, heading farther north to Fort Bragg. I wander around a bit, I buy some beer at the local brewery, I stop in the art-supply store and, for no good reason, buy a new sketchbook and 2 new pencils. It is hopeless, I tell myself--nothing worthwhile will ever be drawn by these hands. But I've always been a sucker for good paper and good writing instruments, and I figure there are worse things I could spend money on. I also stop at the Mendocino Cookie Company and buy 2 "backpacker" cookies, both of which I enjoy. Headed south again, I stop for awhile in Mendocino, where I stop in the bookstore (but don't buy anything), and drop into the wine shop where I talk to a fairly surly man who seems less than interested in talking to me about the wine itself. I find three inexpensive bottles to take home,
Farther south, I detour toward the Point Arena Lighthouse for some coastal photography, and the wind is so strong I can barely hold the camera steady. As with other things artistic, I'm not a good photographer, either, but at least I have a chance of getting one good photograph out of hundreds. Here's the lighthouse:
Then, after driving awhile longer, I stop at the Evergreen Cemetery, which I just happen to see to the east side of the highway. Cemeteries can tell us a lot about places and people, I've always felt. This cemetery needs some work: overgrown with weeds, neglected. Still, I find probably the best grave marker I've ever seen, one that tells us about life rather than death--bicycle rim on a post. It looks like this:
If my grandmother were to be buried, I wonder what she would choose as a marker. Golf clubs and a bowling ball from her younger years, maybe, or fishing poles and tackle from her days in Michigan and Canada.
Almost back to the house, I stop again at nearby beach for some general hiking. The wildflowers, like this one, are wonderful (not easy without a macro lens):
The wind is still strong over me and the water:
Finally back at the house, I relax again in the meadow. The wind is chilly, but being outside is nice nevertheless. I let the stars come out, and I let myself sit deep into the chair. I think of my grandmother, of course, and all that she has left me, how my cousins and I both complain and laugh about family traits we've all inherited: don't be a complainer; don't be a braggart; don't be a show-off; don't be fool. And, except for the last one, at least for tonight I can let the other ones go. In couple of days I'll be home again, and I can become the others once again.
There's something about getting--and being--on the road that settles things down a bit. If you do it right, you stay in the right lane and let the commotion worry about getting ahead. You packed a bit of food, you put the beer in an ice chest, you loaded the thick biography of Charles Dickens into you bag, and you left home.
It has been awhile since I made this trip. Two years, actually. The drive takes longer than expected, but it ends just about the time my no-longer-medicated lower back and right shoulder start to complain loudly. "It hurts," I say to nobody, but then I think of my grandmother and know that things could be worse. When I stop at the borrowed house it's still an hour before sunset, so I move my things inside, open one of my six beers, and sit in a chair in the meadow. The air is clean here and, as my yoga instructor always reminds her students, I let myself breathe.
The next morning I awake early glad to not be driving to the office. I have worked in much worse places much farther from home, but I am happy I won't be in the staff meeting even though the topics are important for a new project. By 9:00 I have read part of my book, drunk my tea, and walked for a good 3 miles. I think of Kominski and what is basically his recent retirement, how he says that "Monday lasts a week"--the idea that, without commuting and deadlines and days full of obligations, time takes on a different tone. Have you ever felt that? I have, especially during long vacations when there are no commitments to anyone or anything. Two of my brothers-in-law, both of whom retired in the last few years, say that "every day is Saturday." I'm doubtful that I'll ever experience that, but it's a nice thought.
I choose not to drive anywhere this first day just to let my back and shoulder rest. So, I read some more, I walk some more, I watch a movie, I try once again to sketch something all the while thinking of the artists I've known to could draw and paint and design. Bereft of all artistic talent, those artists--and the singers and musicians and dancers--are the ones I've always admired. I eat when I want to, I drink a beer in the middle of the day, and I do very little else.
The second day I'm on the road again, heading farther north to Fort Bragg. I wander around a bit, I buy some beer at the local brewery, I stop in the art-supply store and, for no good reason, buy a new sketchbook and 2 new pencils. It is hopeless, I tell myself--nothing worthwhile will ever be drawn by these hands. But I've always been a sucker for good paper and good writing instruments, and I figure there are worse things I could spend money on. I also stop at the Mendocino Cookie Company and buy 2 "backpacker" cookies, both of which I enjoy. Headed south again, I stop for awhile in Mendocino, where I stop in the bookstore (but don't buy anything), and drop into the wine shop where I talk to a fairly surly man who seems less than interested in talking to me about the wine itself. I find three inexpensive bottles to take home,
Farther south, I detour toward the Point Arena Lighthouse for some coastal photography, and the wind is so strong I can barely hold the camera steady. As with other things artistic, I'm not a good photographer, either, but at least I have a chance of getting one good photograph out of hundreds. Here's the lighthouse:
Then, after driving awhile longer, I stop at the Evergreen Cemetery, which I just happen to see to the east side of the highway. Cemeteries can tell us a lot about places and people, I've always felt. This cemetery needs some work: overgrown with weeds, neglected. Still, I find probably the best grave marker I've ever seen, one that tells us about life rather than death--bicycle rim on a post. It looks like this:
Almost back to the house, I stop again at nearby beach for some general hiking. The wildflowers, like this one, are wonderful (not easy without a macro lens):
The wind is still strong over me and the water:
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Swan
I saw many things while in Amsterdam last year, including this swan in a canal in the Red Light district one night. I like how the orange color in the swan's beak comes close (to my eye) to matching light reflected in the water.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Ryan and Tony
During 2-day trip to Yosemite that ended today, I happened across a memorial service for Ryan Hiller, who was killed not long ago when a tree fell on the tent cabin in which Hiller was sleeping. I caught just the last portion of the service, and I sat on a nearby bench for awhile to watch the proceedings. I was somewhat perplexed about why one of the rangers was videotaping the event, more perplexed when, when things were ending, there was great commotion as the man who seemed to be in charge positioned everyone for the group photos. Perhaps these would be good mementos for Hiller's family. I don't know. Getting "everyone in uniform" at the front of the crowd seemed a bit much, but then again, I wasn't part of the ceremony and certainly didn't know Hiller.
I have been backpacking many times, both alone and with others, and I long ago learned the term "widow-makers": those trees and heavy branches that sometimes fall onto who lies beneath them. More than once I have pitched my tent beneath a tree and looked up to see which falling object would damage me the least.
I was, though, touched to see that Hiller was remembered so formally and so well, and I was glad that I lingered for a bit. But, I might not have lingered at all if it weren't for Tony Magdaleno, who might have been the first Mexican I ever met. Tony was on my Little League team, and he had trouble throwing a baseball because of a bad elbow. I remember asking how he'd hurt it, and he said that he'd somehow caught his arm in a washing machine. We were good friends while we played together, and I seem to remember his home as being a run down apartment building of some sort, probably the kind of place farm workers lived in my hometown. I'm sketchy on the details of such things, though, for it has been a long time. Not long after we moved to California, I heard that Tony had been a car accident of some sort, and he'd come out the other end with a broken neck and paralyzed legs.
Tony died earlier just a couple of weeks ago, though I didn't read about it until 2 days before heading to Yosemite. In fact, I read his obituary in the online edition of my hometown newspaper, which not too long ago let me know that one of my best boyhood friends had died. I need to stop reading that newspaper, I think. In Tony's obituary, which is short, I read that "He was an accomplished athlete and a true champion. He was a cross-country runner in Illinois before his car accident and is in the Woodstock High School Hall of Fame. He was an inspiration to many." Think of that: a cross-country runner before his car accident. I remember him as tall and thin, someone who was probably physically perfect for long-distance running. He never could throw a baseball very far, but I can imagine he could run.
I suppose I was thinking about Tony 2 weeks ago when a woman with the last name of "Magdaleno" showed up on the roster for a course I started teaching. Last Thursday after class (and the day before I read Tony's obituary), the woman signed the role sheet in the wrong spot because she hadn't seen her name. "You're on the roster," I told her, and I showed her where.
There is, though, no good ending to all of this, at least not one that I've been able to write. I've looked at these paragraphs several times, and I think any attempt at connecting things would probably be futile. Maybe I just miss Tony, or maybe I wish I'd met Ryan Hiller.
I have been backpacking many times, both alone and with others, and I long ago learned the term "widow-makers": those trees and heavy branches that sometimes fall onto who lies beneath them. More than once I have pitched my tent beneath a tree and looked up to see which falling object would damage me the least.
I was, though, touched to see that Hiller was remembered so formally and so well, and I was glad that I lingered for a bit. But, I might not have lingered at all if it weren't for Tony Magdaleno, who might have been the first Mexican I ever met. Tony was on my Little League team, and he had trouble throwing a baseball because of a bad elbow. I remember asking how he'd hurt it, and he said that he'd somehow caught his arm in a washing machine. We were good friends while we played together, and I seem to remember his home as being a run down apartment building of some sort, probably the kind of place farm workers lived in my hometown. I'm sketchy on the details of such things, though, for it has been a long time. Not long after we moved to California, I heard that Tony had been a car accident of some sort, and he'd come out the other end with a broken neck and paralyzed legs.
Tony died earlier just a couple of weeks ago, though I didn't read about it until 2 days before heading to Yosemite. In fact, I read his obituary in the online edition of my hometown newspaper, which not too long ago let me know that one of my best boyhood friends had died. I need to stop reading that newspaper, I think. In Tony's obituary, which is short, I read that "He was an accomplished athlete and a true champion. He was a cross-country runner in Illinois before his car accident and is in the Woodstock High School Hall of Fame. He was an inspiration to many." Think of that: a cross-country runner before his car accident. I remember him as tall and thin, someone who was probably physically perfect for long-distance running. He never could throw a baseball very far, but I can imagine he could run.
I suppose I was thinking about Tony 2 weeks ago when a woman with the last name of "Magdaleno" showed up on the roster for a course I started teaching. Last Thursday after class (and the day before I read Tony's obituary), the woman signed the role sheet in the wrong spot because she hadn't seen her name. "You're on the roster," I told her, and I showed her where.
There is, though, no good ending to all of this, at least not one that I've been able to write. I've looked at these paragraphs several times, and I think any attempt at connecting things would probably be futile. Maybe I just miss Tony, or maybe I wish I'd met Ryan Hiller.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Carmelita and Bert
Having navigated my way via tram and train to Amsterdam's Schiphol airport, I spent my last remaining Euros on a small snack and sat down to wait until my plane back to London was available for boarding. I was eager to get back to somewhat familiar surroundings, but I was also regretful of not having spent more time in Amsterdam. But, things were as they were, and I had a bed in another Easy Hotel waiting for me in London.
Not long after finding what I thought would be a seat in which I could sit alone for awhile, a large black woman approached, said something in what I assumed to be Dutch, then sat beside me. Not long afterward I dug my Flip video camera out of my pocket and tried to get a few shots of the airport's interior. The woman said something else, and I said, "It's a camera." I showed her how it worked, and she seemed quite happy. In a matter of minutes we exchanged names (hers is Carmelita) and talked a bit about ourselves: She is Dutch; she was born in Suriname; she has 2 daughters; and so on. We talked about many things: her life in Amsterdam, the history of Suriname, where she lives, how we both like to read, what we do for a living, the history of white people enslaving black people. Soon, she told me that the next time I am in Amsterdam, I (and my wife) should visit her, and she took my pen and notebook from my hand and wrote down her phone number and address.
When we said our goodbyes, I thought it would've been nice to talk with Carmelita a bit longer, but my boarding time was near and I had, it would turn out, a very long walk to the gate.
In the evening of my last day in Amsterdam, I walked by a street artist and bought 2 postcard-sized watercolors showing different views of Amsterdam's architecture and canals. When I removed the watercolors from my backpack not long after liftoff, the man next to me pointed to one and said "I used to live right there." This was Bert, and he described the building beneath his fingertip as a place he'd spent nearly a year. He explained that the artist had taken certain liberties with the painting, but none that detracted from the work's quality. A Canadian, Bert told me that he had lived in Amsterdam for 2 years, and I learned that he is a civil engineer by education and is now involved with the oil and gas industry though he has also started several companies, 2 of which had failed. He was flying to Houston, a city that he said he enjoyed. I have been to Houston, and I suppose I missed the enjoyable parts. I did almost have fun there one night, but that's not something I talk about.
But Bert, he loved the place, and he told me that the best sushi bar and steakhouse there are in nondescript strip malls. For most of our journey together we talked--about politics, about Canadians and Americans, about the Olympics, about the world economy, about global warming, about living in Europe. Once again I enjoyed the perspective of someone who is not from the United States, and as with Carmelita, I learned some things simply--and mostly, actually--from letting him talk.
At Heathrow, we went our separate ways--he had to catch a connection to Houston, I had to find the fast train to Paddington Station and then to my next hotel room. I already missed Amsterdam, but I was also glad to be back on somewhat familiar ground. I had 3 more days to fill, and I needed to find something to do.
Not long after finding what I thought would be a seat in which I could sit alone for awhile, a large black woman approached, said something in what I assumed to be Dutch, then sat beside me. Not long afterward I dug my Flip video camera out of my pocket and tried to get a few shots of the airport's interior. The woman said something else, and I said, "It's a camera." I showed her how it worked, and she seemed quite happy. In a matter of minutes we exchanged names (hers is Carmelita) and talked a bit about ourselves: She is Dutch; she was born in Suriname; she has 2 daughters; and so on. We talked about many things: her life in Amsterdam, the history of Suriname, where she lives, how we both like to read, what we do for a living, the history of white people enslaving black people. Soon, she told me that the next time I am in Amsterdam, I (and my wife) should visit her, and she took my pen and notebook from my hand and wrote down her phone number and address.
When we said our goodbyes, I thought it would've been nice to talk with Carmelita a bit longer, but my boarding time was near and I had, it would turn out, a very long walk to the gate.
In the evening of my last day in Amsterdam, I walked by a street artist and bought 2 postcard-sized watercolors showing different views of Amsterdam's architecture and canals. When I removed the watercolors from my backpack not long after liftoff, the man next to me pointed to one and said "I used to live right there." This was Bert, and he described the building beneath his fingertip as a place he'd spent nearly a year. He explained that the artist had taken certain liberties with the painting, but none that detracted from the work's quality. A Canadian, Bert told me that he had lived in Amsterdam for 2 years, and I learned that he is a civil engineer by education and is now involved with the oil and gas industry though he has also started several companies, 2 of which had failed. He was flying to Houston, a city that he said he enjoyed. I have been to Houston, and I suppose I missed the enjoyable parts. I did almost have fun there one night, but that's not something I talk about.
But Bert, he loved the place, and he told me that the best sushi bar and steakhouse there are in nondescript strip malls. For most of our journey together we talked--about politics, about Canadians and Americans, about the Olympics, about the world economy, about global warming, about living in Europe. Once again I enjoyed the perspective of someone who is not from the United States, and as with Carmelita, I learned some things simply--and mostly, actually--from letting him talk.
At Heathrow, we went our separate ways--he had to catch a connection to Houston, I had to find the fast train to Paddington Station and then to my next hotel room. I already missed Amsterdam, but I was also glad to be back on somewhat familiar ground. I had 3 more days to fill, and I needed to find something to do.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Dutch Treat
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. Leaving Rembrandt behind,
That night would take me into a different culture, but before that I wandered, shopped for small gifts, and then got lost for several hours. The streets were full of more tourists than I could've imagined--hordes of people walking through a city geared indirectly to tourists. At one point I found and browsed a cheese shop, then left; hungry a couple hours later I managed to find my way back to that shop and bought some cheese and a small chocolate bar. I stuffed both into my backpack, took the tram back to the Easy Hotel, and there I rested and snacked on cheese and chocolate.
Toward dusk I retraced most of my steps but then detoured in the direction that I thought would take me to Amsterdam's Red Light District. The previous day I had been asked by a young, long-haired fellow, probably American from his voice, where the Red Light District was. "I have no idea," I'd said quite honestly, and I walked away. A minute later I saw him talk to someone else and then turn on his heels and trot away. So, seeking it out on my own and without a map or guidebook, I walked in the direction I'd seen him go. I have seen experienced many things in my travels overseas but other than what I'd read in guidebooks, I did not know what to expect from the Red Light District. I made my down dozens of windy, crowded streets as darkness fell, and at one point turned to my right to see a near-naked woman standing on the other side of a large glass door. Because I am an idiot, my first thought was, "That woman forgot to shut her curtains!" A few paces later I found another window and finally realized where I was.
I once had a college instructor who said that one defining characteristic of pornography is the lack of love. Neither prude nor judgmental about such things, I've nevertheless concluded that prostitution shares this characteristic. While sex and love certainly do not require each other, they do enhance each other. A former coworker who had given me hints on Amsterdam had also advised me not to make eye contact with the woman behind the glass. At one window or another, I found that when you do make eye contact, the women will tap on the glass and beckon you in--room after room of Sirens. Within each room that I did peer into was a display of simple furniture: a chair, a bed, perhaps some artwork on the walls. I couldn't help but think of Van Gogh's painting The Bedroom, which depicts a similar setup. I never saw anyone pass from one side of the glass to the other. I knew that even initiating a conversation--or negotiation--with one of the women had to be somewhat awkward, but I also figured that actually going through the door while so many people walked by would make things even more awkward. When I was in the Philippines many years ago, all you had to do was sit in a bar and wait; there were no doors. My first time there a woman named Narcie sat in a chair next to me and, in her fluent-enough English half an hour and a drink or two later, told me that her mother had been a prostitute, as well. I'm neither proud nor ashamed to say that I returned to the ship that night neither wiser nor more worldly. I have always been curious, though, as to why I remember her name.
Finally, I sat down in an uncrowded pub at the fringe of the Red Light District and enjoyed a couple glasses of Jupiler beer. Again, I was happy to rest for a time before, re-energized, I resumed walking before making my way back toward the tram stop, which in turn took me back to the Easy Hotel.
The day had been good, and as I cleaned up and organized my things for the next day's early trip back to the train station, the airport, and then London, I thought that I wish I had more time to explore not just Amsterdam but the rest of Holland. I felt that I was just starting to get my bearings and that my circle of exploration should be expanded outward. As I finished the remaining slices of cheese, I stood at the window, pulled the shade aside, stared into a dark Amsterdam, and for some peculiar reason contemplated how long a person can run from things.
That night would take me into a different culture, but before that I wandered, shopped for small gifts, and then got lost for several hours. The streets were full of more tourists than I could've imagined--hordes of people walking through a city geared indirectly to tourists. At one point I found and browsed a cheese shop, then left; hungry a couple hours later I managed to find my way back to that shop and bought some cheese and a small chocolate bar. I stuffed both into my backpack, took the tram back to the Easy Hotel, and there I rested and snacked on cheese and chocolate.
Toward dusk I retraced most of my steps but then detoured in the direction that I thought would take me to Amsterdam's Red Light District. The previous day I had been asked by a young, long-haired fellow, probably American from his voice, where the Red Light District was. "I have no idea," I'd said quite honestly, and I walked away. A minute later I saw him talk to someone else and then turn on his heels and trot away. So, seeking it out on my own and without a map or guidebook, I walked in the direction I'd seen him go. I have seen experienced many things in my travels overseas but other than what I'd read in guidebooks, I did not know what to expect from the Red Light District. I made my down dozens of windy, crowded streets as darkness fell, and at one point turned to my right to see a near-naked woman standing on the other side of a large glass door. Because I am an idiot, my first thought was, "That woman forgot to shut her curtains!" A few paces later I found another window and finally realized where I was.
I once had a college instructor who said that one defining characteristic of pornography is the lack of love. Neither prude nor judgmental about such things, I've nevertheless concluded that prostitution shares this characteristic. While sex and love certainly do not require each other, they do enhance each other. A former coworker who had given me hints on Amsterdam had also advised me not to make eye contact with the woman behind the glass. At one window or another, I found that when you do make eye contact, the women will tap on the glass and beckon you in--room after room of Sirens. Within each room that I did peer into was a display of simple furniture: a chair, a bed, perhaps some artwork on the walls. I couldn't help but think of Van Gogh's painting The Bedroom, which depicts a similar setup. I never saw anyone pass from one side of the glass to the other. I knew that even initiating a conversation--or negotiation--with one of the women had to be somewhat awkward, but I also figured that actually going through the door while so many people walked by would make things even more awkward. When I was in the Philippines many years ago, all you had to do was sit in a bar and wait; there were no doors. My first time there a woman named Narcie sat in a chair next to me and, in her fluent-enough English half an hour and a drink or two later, told me that her mother had been a prostitute, as well. I'm neither proud nor ashamed to say that I returned to the ship that night neither wiser nor more worldly. I have always been curious, though, as to why I remember her name.
Finally, I sat down in an uncrowded pub at the fringe of the Red Light District and enjoyed a couple glasses of Jupiler beer. Again, I was happy to rest for a time before, re-energized, I resumed walking before making my way back toward the tram stop, which in turn took me back to the Easy Hotel.
The day had been good, and as I cleaned up and organized my things for the next day's early trip back to the train station, the airport, and then London, I thought that I wish I had more time to explore not just Amsterdam but the rest of Holland. I felt that I was just starting to get my bearings and that my circle of exploration should be expanded outward. As I finished the remaining slices of cheese, I stood at the window, pulled the shade aside, stared into a dark Amsterdam, and for some peculiar reason contemplated how long a person can run from things.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Going Dutch
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.
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Chicago, Chicago
April 9-10, 2009
A long flight takes me from the somewhat familiar to the familiar. After an extraordinarily long wait at Customs, I am allowed back into my native country and make my way to the Chicago Transit Authority's Blue Line that conveys me into The City of the Broad Shoulders, where my feet take over and propel me to the Palmer House Hilton. I have stayed here twice before, and I am enamored of the old-style hotel, the gilded ceilings in the large lobby. In my room I make myself as home as a person can be in a hotel, laying out these essentials.
After a walk of several miles, I find a perch in Miller's Pub, where food is always good, and order a domestic meal and a domestic beer (Honker's Ale). My waiter, Matt, sees me writing in my Moleskine. "What are you writing there, a book?" Matt says. I tell him of where I have just returned from and he says he wishes he had written down notes of all his experiences when he played professional soccer in South America. I ask him how he went from professional soccer to waiting tables; he points to his head and says, "brain tumor."
Of course.
I learn that he is from San Diego and wants to each English overseas, that he loves to travel and decided when he "was sick" not to spend his life not doing what he doesn't like. It is a good conversation, and it fits in well with conversations I had with both Sharon and two elderly women at the Windsor Hotel--a good cast of characters.
The remainder of my stay in Chicago itself is somewhat lazy, and I find that while wondering without a plan in London and Brussels was fine, I want a plan here. Perhaps it is fatigue, both physical and mental; perhaps my familiarity with the city edges out any strong excitement. When I leave, I am pleased to be headed home, and in my long layover in Dallas-Forth Worth airport I think back to the last 2 weeks, to what I have seen and the people I have met. And when I remember the people, I see a connection of theme: the elderly women who had breakfast with me at the Windsor House are probably still planning further travels in their carefree style. Sharon, so energetic and seemingly positive, must be performing somewhere; and Matt, the soccer player turned waiter and planning to teach, is still saving his money so that he can afford to live overseas.
I do not associate well with many people, but I found these 4 and thoroughly enjoyed hearing their stories. Then, just days after getting home, I ride my bike through wind and rain and am overtaken by a man about my age, a man who pulls alongside and starts talking. We speak of our occupations, and he tells me about his brain tumor, about still recovering from his treatments. He says his goal is to work at finding ways to connect people--not connect with them, rally, but to somehow attach them to other people. The rain and wind bother him less than they do me, and when I turn back toward home, now riding into the wind and rain, he smiles happily and tells me he has many miles to go.
A long flight takes me from the somewhat familiar to the familiar. After an extraordinarily long wait at Customs, I am allowed back into my native country and make my way to the Chicago Transit Authority's Blue Line that conveys me into The City of the Broad Shoulders, where my feet take over and propel me to the Palmer House Hilton. I have stayed here twice before, and I am enamored of the old-style hotel, the gilded ceilings in the large lobby. In my room I make myself as home as a person can be in a hotel, laying out these essentials.
After a walk of several miles, I find a perch in Miller's Pub, where food is always good, and order a domestic meal and a domestic beer (Honker's Ale). My waiter, Matt, sees me writing in my Moleskine. "What are you writing there, a book?" Matt says. I tell him of where I have just returned from and he says he wishes he had written down notes of all his experiences when he played professional soccer in South America. I ask him how he went from professional soccer to waiting tables; he points to his head and says, "brain tumor."Of course.
I learn that he is from San Diego and wants to each English overseas, that he loves to travel and decided when he "was sick" not to spend his life not doing what he doesn't like. It is a good conversation, and it fits in well with conversations I had with both Sharon and two elderly women at the Windsor Hotel--a good cast of characters.
The remainder of my stay in Chicago itself is somewhat lazy, and I find that while wondering without a plan in London and Brussels was fine, I want a plan here. Perhaps it is fatigue, both physical and mental; perhaps my familiarity with the city edges out any strong excitement. When I leave, I am pleased to be headed home, and in my long layover in Dallas-Forth Worth airport I think back to the last 2 weeks, to what I have seen and the people I have met. And when I remember the people, I see a connection of theme: the elderly women who had breakfast with me at the Windsor House are probably still planning further travels in their carefree style. Sharon, so energetic and seemingly positive, must be performing somewhere; and Matt, the soccer player turned waiter and planning to teach, is still saving his money so that he can afford to live overseas.
I do not associate well with many people, but I found these 4 and thoroughly enjoyed hearing their stories. Then, just days after getting home, I ride my bike through wind and rain and am overtaken by a man about my age, a man who pulls alongside and starts talking. We speak of our occupations, and he tells me about his brain tumor, about still recovering from his treatments. He says his goal is to work at finding ways to connect people--not connect with them, rally, but to somehow attach them to other people. The rain and wind bother him less than they do me, and when I turn back toward home, now riding into the wind and rain, he smiles happily and tells me he has many miles to go.
The Easy Hotel
Back in London: April 7-8 2009.
The Easy Hotel near Paddington Station is clean and spartan, and I pay a bit of extra money for a remote control so I can watch a bit of TV during my stay. Though I will sleep no better for my 2 nights here than I have in any other bed during this trip, the bed itself is large and comfortable as I lie on it for a few minutes before heading outside again. I walk around and find my way to Hyde Park where I walk some more before, near dark, returning to my room.
Early the next morning I ride the Tube to Leicester Square, then walk aimlessly while trying to conserve what remains of my cash. At Covent Garden again I consume a finaly pasty for lunch, then watch the street performers, two of whom look like this:
Deciding I've had enough of the area on this, my final full day in London, I head back to the underground and come face to face with Sharon, who greets me with a friendly "Hi, Bob!" Of all the people on all the streets in London, and we meet again. I now know why she had been schlepping all of those suitcases from Brussels to London: they contain her outfits and props. She says that she will be performing in 45 minutes, and how can I not stick around to watch?
Her show is entertaining enough if not especially inspired or unique, and the audience seems reluctant to feed her anything in the way of energy. It's interesting to watch these barkers work the crowd: prodding them, teasing them, getting them to move closer "or there can't be a show." She juggles, she teases the men who have "volunteered" to help, and she looks like this:
She is confident and strong and enthusiastic--quite the busker.
At the end, I give her all of the coins I have left; we say our goodbyes and I walk to Trafalgar Square, through Soho, around Piccadilly Circus, around Parliament, then toward and across the Thames until, among thousands of tourists, then back toward the Hyde Park underground station where my legs seem to give out. I catch a train back toward Paddington and my friendly Easy Hotel. The next day I awake too early. I had packed the night before, so after a quick shower I check out of the hotel and step outside into a nice mist. At the Paddington Station I catch an express train to Heathrow Airport where I sit and wait to board the plane to Chicago.
Next time: Chicago, Chicago
The Easy Hotel near Paddington Station is clean and spartan, and I pay a bit of extra money for a remote control so I can watch a bit of TV during my stay. Though I will sleep no better for my 2 nights here than I have in any other bed during this trip, the bed itself is large and comfortable as I lie on it for a few minutes before heading outside again. I walk around and find my way to Hyde Park where I walk some more before, near dark, returning to my room.
Early the next morning I ride the Tube to Leicester Square, then walk aimlessly while trying to conserve what remains of my cash. At Covent Garden again I consume a finaly pasty for lunch, then watch the street performers, two of whom look like this:
Deciding I've had enough of the area on this, my final full day in London, I head back to the underground and come face to face with Sharon, who greets me with a friendly "Hi, Bob!" Of all the people on all the streets in London, and we meet again. I now know why she had been schlepping all of those suitcases from Brussels to London: they contain her outfits and props. She says that she will be performing in 45 minutes, and how can I not stick around to watch?Her show is entertaining enough if not especially inspired or unique, and the audience seems reluctant to feed her anything in the way of energy. It's interesting to watch these barkers work the crowd: prodding them, teasing them, getting them to move closer "or there can't be a show." She juggles, she teases the men who have "volunteered" to help, and she looks like this:
She is confident and strong and enthusiastic--quite the busker.
At the end, I give her all of the coins I have left; we say our goodbyes and I walk to Trafalgar Square, through Soho, around Piccadilly Circus, around Parliament, then toward and across the Thames until, among thousands of tourists, then back toward the Hyde Park underground station where my legs seem to give out. I catch a train back toward Paddington and my friendly Easy Hotel. The next day I awake too early. I had packed the night before, so after a quick shower I check out of the hotel and step outside into a nice mist. At the Paddington Station I catch an express train to Heathrow Airport where I sit and wait to board the plane to Chicago.
Next time: Chicago, Chicago
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Mussels in Brussels, Pt. 2
After a quick buffet breakfast on the morning of my first full day in Brussels, I headed out to see what more I could see. I wandered to the Parc Brussels, a small version of Hyde Park, then through the park to the Palais Royale. No royalty actually live in the palace, but its girth is impressive. This is the palace from the opposite end of the park.
And the palace itself looks like this:
And the palace itself looks like this:Walking more, I come upon the Palace of Fine Arts, and after some internal debate, pay the five Euros and head inside. There I find many paintings by both Bruegel and Brueghal, and I tell myself to find out the difference between the two. One painting, by Pieter Bruegel, is De val van Icarus, which I am familiar with and think translates to The Fall of Icarus. I also find paintings by Peter Paul Rubens and Georges Seurat, some of whose works I have seen before. Still, I find myself saddened by my lack of familiarity with so much fine art. I finally find something I can relate to--in an antique shop.
Again returning to the Grande Place, I buy assorted gifts to take home, then find an outdoor café where dining would seem to be pleasant. But, when I order a sandwich off the menu, the waiter tells me simply, “No sandwiches today.” So, I settle for a beer, a Stella Artois, and wonder where sandwiches are served. When the beer is gone, I head to an area I walked through yesterday—a couple of streets lined with hundreds of different restaurants. It is an amazingly touristy place where waiters stand outside and, in assorted languages, try to get people to stop and eat. My feet are tired and my stomach is empty, so I let myself be seated at one of the tables just inside a restaurant, and I order shrimp, a glass of wine, and a bucket of mussels. Below are photographs of one of the streets, and from my table just inside the restaurant.
Again returning to the Grande Place, I buy assorted gifts to take home, then find an outdoor café where dining would seem to be pleasant. But, when I order a sandwich off the menu, the waiter tells me simply, “No sandwiches today.” So, I settle for a beer, a Stella Artois, and wonder where sandwiches are served. When the beer is gone, I head to an area I walked through yesterday—a couple of streets lined with hundreds of different restaurants. It is an amazingly touristy place where waiters stand outside and, in assorted languages, try to get people to stop and eat. My feet are tired and my stomach is empty, so I let myself be seated at one of the tables just inside a restaurant, and I order shrimp, a glass of wine, and a bucket of mussels. Below are photographs of one of the streets, and from my table just inside the restaurant.
Afterward, I of course get lost again as I navigate my way back to my hotel, arriving just after dark.
My final, partial day in Brussels involves little more than getting back to the train station for to catch the Eurostar back to London. And though I succeed in getting on the correct subway train and get off at what I think is the correct train station, I actually get lost in the station itself, end up at street level, and walk fairly aimlessly for half a mile before admitting I am lost. Retracing my steps, I find the station again, get lost inside of it again, and finally find the Eurostar terminal which is little more than a large waiting room. I buy a baguette and a chocolate bar, then eat them both as I wait for my train.
Then, as I read my book, I am approached by a tall, blonde woman who has stacked behind her several large suitcases. She asks if I will watch her bags while she finds the restroom, and though I have been trained not to do such things, I quickly say that I would be happy to. She disappears, and only minutes later two young men in black pants and white shirts appear, and they ask me if the suitcases are mine. I tell them that, no, they most certainly are not, but that their owner should be back soon. They talk among themselves as though trying to figure out what to do, and then they leave a card on the suitcases, a card that warns people to be aware of pickpockets.
When the woman returns, I tell her what happened, and we both laugh. Okay, I probably giggle since I’m not used to strange women talking to me. She tells me her name is Sharon, and she sits a couple of seats down. She says that she is a performer, that she travels much in Europe and makes a good living. She is also Canadian. We talk about many things: our respective occupations, our love of travel, where we grew up and went to school. We say our goodbyes when our train arrives, and as I watch her, I wonder how one person can require so much luggage.
I find my seat on the train, and I wonder what to make of Brussels. I am glad that I visited, but I am not sure I would visit again. My lack of knowledge of the city is certainly a detriment, as is my inability to speak the native languages. I would like to see more of Belgium, for I have heard many good things about the country. Now, though, I am returning to London, and I am glad to be going back to someplace familiar.
Next time: The Easy Hotel in the Small Town of London
My final, partial day in Brussels involves little more than getting back to the train station for to catch the Eurostar back to London. And though I succeed in getting on the correct subway train and get off at what I think is the correct train station, I actually get lost in the station itself, end up at street level, and walk fairly aimlessly for half a mile before admitting I am lost. Retracing my steps, I find the station again, get lost inside of it again, and finally find the Eurostar terminal which is little more than a large waiting room. I buy a baguette and a chocolate bar, then eat them both as I wait for my train.
Then, as I read my book, I am approached by a tall, blonde woman who has stacked behind her several large suitcases. She asks if I will watch her bags while she finds the restroom, and though I have been trained not to do such things, I quickly say that I would be happy to. She disappears, and only minutes later two young men in black pants and white shirts appear, and they ask me if the suitcases are mine. I tell them that, no, they most certainly are not, but that their owner should be back soon. They talk among themselves as though trying to figure out what to do, and then they leave a card on the suitcases, a card that warns people to be aware of pickpockets.
When the woman returns, I tell her what happened, and we both laugh. Okay, I probably giggle since I’m not used to strange women talking to me. She tells me her name is Sharon, and she sits a couple of seats down. She says that she is a performer, that she travels much in Europe and makes a good living. She is also Canadian. We talk about many things: our respective occupations, our love of travel, where we grew up and went to school. We say our goodbyes when our train arrives, and as I watch her, I wonder how one person can require so much luggage.
I find my seat on the train, and I wonder what to make of Brussels. I am glad that I visited, but I am not sure I would visit again. My lack of knowledge of the city is certainly a detriment, as is my inability to speak the native languages. I would like to see more of Belgium, for I have heard many good things about the country. Now, though, I am returning to London, and I am glad to be going back to someplace familiar.
Next time: The Easy Hotel in the Small Town of London
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