Mussels in Brussels, Part 1

April 4-6, 2009

The man working the desk at the Art Hotel Siru is not bothered in the least when I tell him I speak neither French nor Dutch. When I ask him about where to walk and to not walk at night, he points to a few places on the map he hands me, but he speaks so quickly and points so briefly I do not know exactly which streets to avoid and which are safe. "This area is not so good," he says, pointing to some small print. "Unless, of course, it makes you happy."

The elevator is barely large enough for one person, and I am amused that a sign, in English, specifies that no more than 4 people are allowed in the car. I know some small people, but I don't think even 2 of them would be comfortable in the ride to my room. In my 2-night stay I will never figure out exactly which floor the lobby is on and which button to push to get to that lobby, and in fact more than once I will ride the elevator down and get off on the wrong floor. The room at the Art Hotel Siru is an upgrade from the Windsor House Hotel in London--I feel as though I have moved from steerage to first class because I actually have space in which to move around. In fact, I can move around not only in the room itself, but also in the shower. Hell, I could take a bath if I was one to take baths! I do notice, however, that sounds from the street seem to be magnified as they rise up and through my window. There is a small desk on which to place assorted items, and some of these are shown in this photograph. (The wind did not come with the room--I had to buy that at a nearby grocery store.)


After I have scattered my clothing about the room and consulted my map, I ride the elevator down, get off first on the wrong floor, second in the basement, and third in the lobby. This is fun, I think. Finally outside, I cross a busy street and head in the direction where I think the Grand Place is. I then have a choice of 2 streets to continue on, and, because this is a good pattern, I head down what must be the wrong street and find myself walking by a variety of adult clubs and theaters. I realize this is what the man at the hotel was referring to as the area that "isn't so good." Retracing my steps, I head down what must be the correct streets, and after walking through assorted indoor shopping areas, one of which looks like this:


Soon enough, I arrive at the tourist-laden Grand Place, which looks like this.



I will return to this area several times during my stay, approaching Brussels the same way I do everyplace else I visit: get overly familiar with one place before venturing on to someplace else.

Ready for dinner, I scout out the various dining spots in the immediate area, finally settling on one only because I am tired of scouting. For dinner, I have this, a nice birthday dinner.


Next time: Mussels in Brussels, Pt. 2

Changing Channels

I was so much older then: April 4, 2009

Happy birthday to me...

Skipped cornflakes and toast at the hotel again today because the dining room was full of teenagers. I should have barged in, told them to respect their elders, and taken a seat. I walk to the bakery again but find that it is not yet open, and when I return to the hotel, I find myself locked out--not out of my room, but out of the hotel. One of the 2 keys I was given is supposed to open the outside door, but it does not and I stand in a light drizzle and think, nice way to start my birthday. Finally someone exits, and I smile and step in, then climb the steps to my room where I check that everything is packed for my trip to Brussels. But when I drag myself and my backpack down the steps, there is nobody at the front desk, nobody to return the 10-Pound deposit I had to pay for the 2 keys. In the dining room I seek out an adult who is serving toast, someone who barely speaks English but tells me to knock on a door around the corner. I pass an attractive woman in the hallway as I look for the door, and she disappears up the steps. I knock on the door, and it is opened by a young gentleman dressed in pajama bottoms and nothing else. I tell him I'm looking for the person who will check me out of the hotel, and he tells me she is not there. In fact, we repeat this conversation a second time, but I can tell he is not pleased to have been summoned from his bed. He shuts the door, I walk back up the steps, and I find the attractive woman I'd passed moments earlier.

She is the one who will be taking my keys and returning my deposit. I don't tell her of my encounter with her boyfriend/husband/companion, figuring I'll let him tell her about me later in the day. When she asks how my stay was, I tell her it was mostly fine except for the leaking roof and the Italian teenagers who were also staying at the hotel and thought it was great fun to congregate on the sidewalk beneath my window between midnight and 3 a.m. each night. She is tired. She says that she has not slept more than a few hours each night because of those same teenagers, and she says she is glad to be heading somewhere out of the country for a few days, to someplace quiet.

Then, I am gone and on my way to St. Pancras Station where I check my heavy bag and find someplace to serve me a croissant and a cup of hot tea for breakfast. As usual, I am much earlier than I have to be, so I linger on benches or walk through the station, all the while glad that I am burdened with only a small daypack. The station is full, the languages many, and I don't know if I am pleased or not to see an eldery American dressed in full cowboy clothing. Many young people, some of whom carry climbers' mats, stride easily through the crowds, and their youth and vigor remind me that I am another year older today. I watch them and try to believe that my back does not hurt, that my feet are not sore.... Security in the train station is similar to that in airports, and when I am finally through to the gate/waiting area half an hour before my train is to leave, we are told that the train will be late and the track has been changed. So, I wait some more.

The Eurostar train is comfortable enough, and intercom announcements are made in 3 languages in this order: English, French, Dutch. Passing beneath the English Channel is dark and quick, and though only some of the scenery changes as we ascend into daylight, I feel a small twinge of excitement that I am now in France. There, the order of announcements changes to French, Dutch, and then English, and a couple of uneventful hours later we arrive in Gare du Midi, one of the train stations in Brussels. This is the end of this Eurostar line for me, and I step out into the station and must figure out what to do next.

I knew I had a few options to get to my hotel: walk, take a cab, ride the trolley/underground. I had consulted my map enough to know that the distance between the station and my hotel was not far and was easily walkable. Instead, I find my way to beneath the streets to where the underground trains were. Knowing that my hotel was very close to the Place Rogier stop on the trolley, I consult the maps on the wall and decipher that I should take the Churchill line. I buy a ticket at a vending machine, wait for what I think is the correct train, and board said train--but do not know what to do with the ticket. So, pocketing it, I find a seat and tried to appear inconspicuous. The stops are announced in French and Dutch, and I wait patiently for "Rogier" to flow from a loudspeaker. Instead, 15 minutes later, the train creeps into a roundabout-type stop from which there is no exit, where 2 other trains are also parked, and during a fairly long announcement, I catch the word "terminus"--and then every door opens and every passenger exits. Remembering the experience my English-ladies had told me about when the rode the subway in Paris, I follow their lead and get off the train. And, for the life of me, I do not know what to do but stand there and pretend I am reading the plaque affixed to the statue of Winston Chruchill.

For 10 minutes I walk around that little circle, checking the sky and hoping the increasing gray did not signal rain. None of the trains appear to be going anywhere, and I can not see any street signs that might help me find my place on the map. Finally, one of the electronic signs on one of the trains changes to "Rogier"--I had, apparently, boarded the correct train, but had gone in the incorrect direction. I am sheepish, then, when I re-board a train, pass again through Gare du Midi, and in 10 minutes disembark at Place Rogier station, find my way past homeless people camped in the station, and ascend into Brussels itself--less than a block from my hotel, the Art Hotel Siru, which looks like this.

Yes. It's a Comfort Inn. But, damn, it's a Comfort Inn in Brussels!

Next time: Mussels in Brussels

No More Cornflakes!

Another London Day: April 3, 2009

More than anything, this is a day of transition between London and Brussels, Belgium, and I discover that the leak in the ceiling outside my room has stopped, or been stopped, and if by magic I now have decent water pressure in my shower. Then, not only washed but properly rinsed, I skip breakfast at the B&B and instead grab something at the small bakery I have become familiar with over the past near-week. I do not much relish Cornflakes (though was once a great fan of Sugar Frosted Flakes), and I could not face a bowl of them again. Later, I head to Camden Town, which I've heard is (and turns out to be) a throwback to the 1960s: tie-died clothing; bongs and assorted paraphernalia; tattoo and piercing parlors, along with current or previous clientele. It is an active place, but I do not linger long before returning to London for lunch at Covent Garden, where I also buy 2 nice, heavy bath towels and a bathrobe to send home to my wife. The transaction is sealed with a handshake and my providing my credit card number to a man who writes it on a piece of paper and assures me that the items will be shipped in just a couple of days. Afterward I take the Tube to St. Pancras Station, from where I will depart on the Eurostar tomorrow. The station is as large as many airports I have been in, and I am amazed at its size. I visit mostly to see if I can leave part of my luggage here while I am in Brussels, which turns out to be possible if fairly pricey.

After St. Pancras I visit the British Library, just a short walk from both the station and the hotel I stayed in after returning from Edinburgh a couple years ago. On that visit, I discovered the Library purely by accident after purposefully visiting the Charles Dickens Museum. The Library is a cool, softly lighted place that proves a good counter to the commotion on the streets outside. I once more enjoy looking at the Magna Carta and other, assorted original manuscripts before finding my way back to the Tube and the Windsor House, where I pack and begin thinking about Brussels, about how tomorrow my age will bump up another digit.

Next time: Changing Channels

A Friend, Her Daughter, Their Friend, and More London

More of London: April 2, 2009

Trekking through London for a couple more days before heading to Brussels, I start out on April 2 hoping to find Harrod's, though I do not find it until after getting disoriented and then nearly disinterested in the whole thing. I am continually perplexed by my inability to orient and synchronize my eyes and feet to my map and compass, and my excursion requires much more time and walking than I think it should. In the hotel room this morning everything appeared so simple, so navigable.

Perhaps, though, my lack of sleep last night contributed to a similar lack of clear thinking. Deciding yesterday afternoon that a couple of t-shirts needed a bit of cleansing to get the smell of me out of them, I washed them in the small sink, wrung them up, then hung them in the shower to drip dry. Several times during the night I awoke to the sound of water dripping, a sound that was much louder than I reasoned any two t-shirts hung to dry should make. Finally frustrated enough to examine things, I stepped across the room to the shower, where I felt the shirts and discovered they were not dripping anything--they were damp, but just so. Still hearing water dropping from somewhere, I opened the door to my room and found that water was, in fact, dropping from the ceiling to the carpet. Actually, it was dropping quite freely. Remembering my navy training, I shrieked, did the Curly Shuffle, and dropped to my knees in prayer.

No. I didn't do those things. Rather, I put on my shoes and ventured downstairs to the manager's desk, where of course there was no manager. Creeping back up the 2 flights of stairs, I looked up to the ceiling, then went back into my room and did what any level-headed person would do: I packed everything I had, which included putting the 2 shirts in a plastic bag, and lay down on the bed to await the inevitable general alarm of "Flooding! Flooding! Flooding on the third floor." When the alarm didn't sound, though, I fell asleep with thoughts that this was only some kind of prank, some sort of false water-torture technique the Brits employed to get their American guests to spill the beans about, well, whatever beans needed to be spilled about.

Shortly after sunrise, after I had contorted my way into and out of the shower once again, I headed down to breakfast, passing the manager on the way. He was, apparently, aware of the potential flood and had already called in the Calvary. And, after breakfast with giggling Italian school girls, I started for Harrod's and points beyond. I purchased nothing in Harrod's, though I came close to buying chocolate from 2 Sirens who sang to me about how good their chocolate was, and how part of the money went to some charity or another. After taking a free sample of said chocolate, I told them I would pass by again, and if they saw me I would indeed trade money for sweets. I then dashed out of the store and out to the street, exiting through a door that must have been half a mile away from the one I'd entered through.

Leaving Harrod's behind, I retraced most of my steps and found my way to Hyde Park, and after several hours of walking found a park bench on which to rest and recover from the day's harrowing experiences. Then, taking the Underground toward Tower of London, mill about but for the second time in 2 visits balk at paying the nearly $40 admission fee. I instead cross the Tower Bridge, which looks like this from a distance:


And it looks like this if you're walking across it:

On the other side of the bridge is a pub in which I am supposed to meet a co-worker, her daughter, and their friend. The pub looks like this, with the Tower Bridge in the background.


My co-worker and her party arrived in London today, and they will be headed to Madrid in just a couple of days. I eat fish & chips of marginal quality, and we compare flights and hotels. Then, they go back to their hotel, and I head across the Tower of Bridge again, which looks like this at night:


Back in my hotel room, the water is still dripping. The carpet outside my room is very wet, and the ceiling above that carpeting looks as though it could collapse at any moment. I leave my bag pack and huddle in the corner of my bed, waiting for morning.

Next time: No more Cornflakes!

Programus Interruptus

Briefly interrupting the slog through Europe, a couple of things.

First, one of the blog entries actually got a comment--it's nice to know that sometimes someone is stopping by for a quick visit. Second, the comment itself (thanks, Shawn), is an excellent poem by Mary Oliver, one of my favorite writers. Here's the poem:

When I Am Among the Trees

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, "Stay awhile."
The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, "It's simple," they say,
"and you too have come
into this world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine."

Doing Battle

No fooling: April 1, 2009

Spent a second breakfast with the 2 women who joined me yesterday. They were quite pleasant, and we spoke about many things: traveling, British and American English (essentially, "who do Americans take the language and change so much of it"), and a bit of politics. As did Mark the Swede did a couple of years earlier in Edinburgh, the women wonder at why the United States thinks that it somehow has dominion over the world because of its superpower status. Though I am tempted to point out that the English Empire has a somewhat dubious history as a world leader, I instead hold my tongue and simply enjoy my toast, my tea, and my single hard-boiled egg. They also tell me of a trip they made to Paris, at how friendly people there were, at how they successfully navigated their way via subway and taxi even given their inability to speak French. Once, they said, they were on the subway late one night, and the train stopped at a station, an announcement of some type came over the train's intercom, and everyone on the train got off. Figuring they might as well do the same thing, they followed suit, correctly assuming that the train was done for the night.

An hour or so after breakfast I board a train to the town of Battle, where the battle of Hastings took place in October of 1066. (Read your English history for the rest of the story.) Though I have no map of Battle itself, I find my way to the battle site, pay my entry fee, collect my little audio-tour device, then set out walking. The day is sunny if breezy, a good day to be outside and walking in a place less hectic than London. Here is a photograph of the battlefield itself, now covered with peaceful sheep. Though the photograph does not show it well, this is taken from downhill of the distant building and wall.

And here, ruins of an abbey built after the battle itself.

And beneath the abbey, an area where the monks apparently liked to gather for their little monk-parties.

Overall, the trip is worth the cost, and I am glad to have gotten a bit of tourist-type insight into something that happened so long ago, something so significant.

Returning to London late in the afternoon, I spend a few hours exploring areas south of the Thames, an area new to me. I make a mad dash to the Tate Modern art museum, where I discover that I have neither the artistic background nor the imagination to understand much of what I am seeing. One exhibit, a very old Volkswagen bus (with snow tires on the front wheels) trailed by a large gathering of just-as-old wooden sleds. It is a place, I think, where someone like me needs a true guide--the BFA/MFA types who are willing to educate me. Instead, I wander the exhibits with a haste more than likely governed by general fatigue and overall hunger. So, walking back across the Thames, I find a pub, sit down to a glass of wine and a dinner of sausage of mash, and try to figure out what the hell I have just seen.

Next time: A friend, her daughter, their friend, and more London

Hard Boiled Eggs and English Women

Waking up in London: March 31, 2009

There is a nice feeling in waking up to strangeness, in a different bed and room. After contorting myself into and out of the shower, I plod down 3 flights of stairs to the basement for breakfast. I have a few minutes at a table by myself, and I try to learn the lie of the land: white toast, Cornflakes, hot tea, and a single hard boiled egg served in an egg cup. I peel and eat the egg. I eat half a bowl of Cornflakes and a slice of toast. Then, I am joined by 2 elderly women, and I realize that I will, indeed, be forced to converse with strangers. I'm not sure which bothers me more: rattlesnakes or having to talk to strangers in such close quarters. But, the conversation turns out to be bearable, and I learn that the women are in London for a couple of days, that they live in northern England and often travel together. One has an ex-husband, and I never learn about the other. We speak of many things: the music they listened to in the '60s; American soldiers in WWII wooing English girls with nylons and chocolate (the British soldiers were at such a disadvantage); visiting Canadian soldiers because they had eggs, which were uncommon; of Radio Luxemburg, which apparently played music of the '60s before any other station.... We also speak about traveling, of how important it is to get off the beaten path and away from typical tourist attractions, to get lost.... I notice that they do not simply peel and eat their hard boiled egg, but instead use their butter knife to crack a circle around the tip. They then remove that tip and use a spoon to eat the egg, leaving the remainder of the shell unbroken in the cup. Strange habits, these Brits.

The rest of the day seemed very long, no doubt due to my body's confusion about just where and when it was. I wandered and, as prescribed by my breakfast companions, got lost. I also made my way to Westminster Abbey, which was nice but less impressive than the cathedral in Canterbury. Perhaps that Westminster was full of tourists (like me, admittedly), many wandering in large groups, made the experience less than fulfilling. Seeing where such authors as Dickens and Chaucer are entombed, however, was an interesting highlight--Dickens because he is one of my favorite authors, Chaucer because he is, well Chaucer. Many royals and writers are entombed in the Abbey, and in Poets' Corner I finally figure out that not all of the authors with names carved into concrete blocks are actually resting in the area beneath. Rather, only their names and something like "Born in London, buried in India" indicates that because the deceased were British, they deserved a marker in the Abbey. Go figure.
After Westminster I walked through St. James Park, around Buckingham Palace, and up to Soho where I discover that there is indeed a seedy side of London. I had walked through Soho on my previous trip, but on these wanderings I found an area of town similar to nothing I have seen since my days in the navy. This was not the "theater district" that London is known for. But, it is city-spice nonetheless, and I make sure that I take a taste. I also stop again in Covent Garden, and area of shops, street performers, and bustling crowds. And, at some point during the day, I came across an establishment that sells nice cars, like this one:
I discover, also, that after about 8 hours of being on my feet, I am frustrated by being lost most of the time. Try as I might, I cannot seem to navigate well using my map and compass (no, I do not let anyone see me using the compass). Exhausted, I return to my room via foot and underground, picking up for dinner a sandwich at the local Marks & Spencer grocery store.

A dull day, really, but exhausting.

Next time: Doing Battle

Diving Into London

Full immersion: March 30, 2009

Though the bed seems to quite literally invite me in for a visit, I leave the room without even sending an RSVP and proceed to get quite lost in a search for Hyde Park, where I hoped to walk for awhile, or perhaps sit and contemplate whatever there is to contemplate. Realizing, though, that the long day and long travel have left me without the energy to either walk or contemplate, I head back toward Earl's Court and find a small bakery that sells hot tea and wonderfully fresh apple turnovers. An hour or so later, with my legs feeling refreshed and my ability to contemplate apparently returning, I walk some more to get my bearings, stop in a Boots pharmacy to purchase the smallest bottle of shampoo I can find, visit my room to clean up, then go out in search of pub grub. I end up at Earl's Court Tavern, where I order my first Guiness and ask the waitress what the "pie of the day" is. Her English is not good, and she answers, I do not understand her. I order it anyway, and when I eventually dig into it I think it has beef and assorted vegetables, and it is served with green peas and a cylinder-shaped portion of mashed potatoes--and everything is hot

The day has been good, and I am glad to have successfully navigated my way from airport to hotel, to and from Hyde Park; I am happy to have found a bakery and a pub. Simple things.

Next time: Hard-boiled eggs and English women

London Calling

The journey begins: March 29, 2009.

Close to 2 years after my first trip to England, I packed my carry-on bag, gathered maps and travel documents, outline a very loose itinerary, and boarded a Boeing 767 from Dallas, Texas, to London. On my first journey I also traveled to Edinburgh, Scotland, and in the course of the trip packed and unpacked my clothing too many times in 2 weeks. This trip would also include Brussels, Belgium, and Chicago, Illinois, though the number of hotels and bed & breakfast would be reduced in number from 6 to 4. A reduction of one-third may not seem like much, but when it comes to unstuffing and stuffing a small backpack, that one-third is significant....

The 50-minute layover in Dallas had me more worried than anything else. The airport there is huge--a person must take an automated choo-choo from one terminal to another for many flights. But, the American Airlines gods were happy that day, and I managed to get to my departure gate with 20 minutes to spare. At the gate, though, was a large gathering of intrepid travelers watching a fairly constant stream of men in overalls boarding and de-boarding the plane. These men turned out to be mechanics of some worth, or at least men as smart and important as mechanics. Minutes later a woman with a microphone announced that our shiny 767 was broken and would not be flying, and that someone who knows how to do such things was looking for a different one. Good, I thought. I like airplanes that are not broken.... And 90 minutes or so later we were airborne, heading north by northeast across a dark United States, a darker Atlantic Ocean, and about 7 hours later, on what is now March 30, descending into a London late-morning sunshine and light overcast. On my previous trip I landed at Gatwick, but this trip took me to Heathrow, and that included a descent over London itself at an altitude from which I could see Parliament, Westminster Abbey, Hyde Park. Quite a sight.

From Heathrow to London I rode the Picadilly Line, one of the million underground/subway /tube trains that go into and out of London, to Earls Court station, from where I successfully navigated my way to the Windsor House Hotel, the my first hotel of the trip. I am not especially familiar with London, but I felt quite comfortable emerging from the tube station and walking to my hotel--you visit a place once, and if you're lucky bits and pieces of it stick with you so on the next visit you don't feel so alien, so outcast. It's like meeting up with a lover you haven't been with in a long time: a bit of familiarity goes a long way.

I was, at the Windsor House, glad to see that I indeed had a room reserved just for me. All of my communication with the manager had been through e-mail messages, one of which had included my credit card number. As he shuffled through a stack of hand-written receipts and notes about reservations, I was was happy when he came to my name and said he was glad to meet me, and that I owed him about $250. Welcome to London, Buddy--hand over the cash. And, though I was never a Boy Scout (was a Cub Scout for awhile, a period in my life when I was in love with my den mother, who had one leg shorter than the other, and whom I once asked, "Sandy, do you have a boyfriend?" To which she replied, "No, why?"), I was prepared: I had just the money he needed. "You have a sink and shower in your room," he said, "but the bathroom is across the hall. But I am going up there now to put a note on the door saying that the bathroom is for your use only."

The room was small but big enough, and, from the doorway, it looked like this:



This was, apparently, a double room, only because the bed was what I took to be double-size. The room's shower was about the size of a skinny person's coffin, not constructed for a person of my girth. The shower's doors opened inward, which made getting inside the thing somewhat problematic. But, the shower will appear later, so I won't say much about it here. The sink (to the left of the doorway, but invisible here) came up to about mid-thigh, and each time I used it I had to genuflect much deeper than I thought humanly possible.

I did, however, get settled, and I even put some of my shirts up on hangars. There was also a small table attached to the wall, and I suppose it was some sort of dressing table. If I wore makeup, maybe I would sit there as I painted my face. Instead, I used the table to hold spare change and other essentials, like this, with those essentials: map and compass; passport; Moleskine and pen:


Next time: diving into London

Soaped Up

Though I have many items and travels to write on, I must first address the passing of Marilyn Chambers, that former Ivory Soap girl who went on to become a major league star in a minor league industry. If you are young, of course, or if you have lived an appropriately good life, Ms. Chambers' passing might be either inconsequential or overdue.

But, if you are a man my age and have not lived an appropriately good life, you know of whom I write. Maybe you even know why.

Ms. Chambers and I first became acquainted decades ago. Though I do not remember where we first met, I can guess that it was a large, dark theater of some sort, probably at or around midnight in a part of town that I should not have been in. I was, more than likely, accompanied by young men of similar circumstance and like mind: youthful, lustful, easily amused. Over the years Ms. Chambers and I would cross paths again, both of us less youthful, not quite as lustful, yet perhaps more easily amused. One of those celluloid heroes, she never seemed to age--just became a bit more grainy in than she was in 16mm.

I reckon, now, that Ms. Chambers' popularity will rise just as it might were she a famous author or even Heath Ledger. I don't, however, think that I will revisit her oeuvre, for I believe I have reached a point where I understand how fantasy and heroes alike can move through time as we would like them to. Rather, I see how it is better to leave her alone, to leave her as she was presented to us (which might not be as she wanted to be presented, for that matter).

Visited Brussels....

...and am glad to be back in London. I am not yet sure if Brussels was a good place or not, though that's certainly too subjective of a choice. Every place I visit has been good in one way or another. One of the high points was visiting the Museum of Fine Arts, where I found non-modern art that I could understand. Saw some paintings that I actually recognized, which surprised me. There were Breughels/Breugels Older and Younger, and I do not remember which one I remember--I'm not very smart in the arts of fine arts.

Learned that I need to learn much more French if I am ever to visit anyplace close to France: I sheepishly voiced my ignorance of anything not English, which was humiliating.

Sunshine

Less jet-lagged, less ill. A a couple more days left in London, and then I'm to Brussels for a couple of days. I still know neither Dutch nor French, and I think my English is only marginal.

I went to the Tate Museum of Modern Art today, and I must confess I don't understand a lot of modern art. Maybe it was because my visit was at the end of a very long day and I wasn't thinking straight. Or, maybe I'm just less refined than even I thought myself to be.

Shawn, you're going to have to help me with this, I think...

London Fog

Slightly jet-lagged and ill, I'm nevertheless enjoying my first full day in London. Saw where some people are entombed in Westminster Abbey, and that was interesting. More later when I have my wits almost about me.

My Bags are Packed

In just a matter of hours I will be off on a 2-week trip that will take me to London, Brussels, and Chicago. What fun. I have packed and re-packed my luggage, adding things and taking out other things, trying to eliminate what I might need but keep what I will need. It's a balancing act. I read this morning that President Obama and the G-20 will be in London the same time I will, and that there are protests of one kind or another planned for different parts of the city. That should be fun, too, and I am hopeful to see a bit of what's going on. I am not looking forward to the flights first to Dallas and then to Heathrow, for they are both long and dull. Worse, I will be traveling with a nagging head-cold, though I have assembled quite an array of medicines and narcotics to make the trip bearable.

Brussels worries me a bit because the few Dutch phrases I've assembled over the last couple of weeks are meager, my pronunciation of them terrible. If I can make these phrases, along with the little French I know, work until I can ask my hosts to move to English, I will be glad. If not the Ugly American, I am perhaps the epitome of the ignorant one at least as far as languages go. But, Belgium will be an adventure, something quite different. And since the trip will be short, I will look into checking most of my luggage at a train station for a couple of nights just to keep from hauling stuff around. Being lost in Brussels does not bother me, but the prospect of being lost while carrying a duffle bag does.

If I am able, I will post updates here.

Equinox

Ninety-six years ago today, on Easter Sunday, my grandmother decided to be born. It must have been a good day for many people, and I have enjoyed her company for many decades now. Our family got together to celebrate with her yesterday, and though she is somewhat frail, she remains lucid and funny. Good for her. From her I have learned tolerance and patience, though perhaps not as well as she expected. If I live to be 96, maybe I will better understand both tolerance and patience.

Sixteen years and 3 days ago, on the first day of spring, my mother decided she did not want to live anymore, so she left. It was a rough few months back then--because of this and other things. My mother liked parties, and she would have enjoyed seeing her own mother turn 96. She would have had cake. She was also only 7 years older than I am now, which is a scary fact.

Twenty-six years and 4 days ago, my oldest son decided to be born. It was a wonderful day. We had a party for him this year, too, which was nice. I look at him and wonder if there is anything I have taught him--certainly not patience or tolerance, for I don't have enough of either to spare. He is much smarter than I in many ways, and I think he probably knows that.

Probably for No Good Reason

In just over a week I'll be on my way to London, England. Crossing the Pond. Yup.

So now you know. And you know something else? I'm not sure why I'm going--probably for no good reason. This will be my second trip to England (the first journey is was chronicled a couple years ago: here, e.g.). The first trip was fun, a true adventure to places I've never been. This time I'll be visiting someplace I have been, but I'm throwing in a thematic variation: visiting Brussels, too, for a couple of days. That should be fun, but I wish I knew some French or Dutch or Flemish. I'm hopeful that the people I encounter there will forgive my lack of linguistic abilities. I'll get to ride the Eurostar for a couple of hours, something that will take me beneath the English Channel.

I'll also not only be spending my birthday alone this year, I'll spend it in 2 countries: waking up in England and going to sleep in Belgium. I've not been away from my family on my birthday for several decades, so I figure I'll award myself an extra beer--Belgian--just for living this long and to pretend I'm with someone. I was confused and disoriented for several hours after arriving in England the last time I was there, and I predict I'll be doubly so when I emerge from the train station in Brussels and have to find my way to my hotel.

I do feel guilty about traveling alone yet again, and I'm hopeful that the parallel schedules my wife and I live by will one day go perpendicular and intersect. Then, we'll find someplace new--Italy, maybe.

Random Tracks

...where we search for something to write about but can only revisit old material.

I have an odd obsession with good pens and nice notebooks. I once spent $65 for a handmade wood pen in Newport, Rhode Island. It's heavy, fits nicely in the cradle between my right thumb and forefinger, and glides across whatever paper it is pressed against.

I generally carry some type of notebook in my car or on my person. My favorite notebooks, as I've alluded to before, are Moleskine. My friend Tom gave me my first one one in 2002, and the first entry is from March of that year, from Complete Sea Kayak Touring (Jonathan Hanson):

With other humans near, you draw a circle around yourself and your companions--a small human universe that you must deal with on many social levels.... Alone, there are no circles. The world around you is your only universe, and you must either embrace it or live in terror of it.

I re-read this entry as I was looking through various notebooks to see which would accompany to Europe at the end of this month, and digging through the top drawer of my dresser, I found several old notebooks, out of which I've collected various entries. They are here in no particular order but roughly arranged by notebook and some dates. Some locations are indicated by brackets, as are some notes. Some notebooks have been used in more than one year.

Dates Unknown

• After a few hours on the information highway, I felt like the human equivalent of roadkill
• Illinois Tourist Information Center (312-744-2400?): DISCONNECTED
• Hertz: $40 per day + tax
• Chicago-Northwestern trains stop at Jefferson Park, which is within walking distance of the O'Hare/Congress line to O'Hare.
• U.S. Scientists say that most moon rocks are igneous.

1998

• I had to stop. But it wasn't the five hours of highway, and it wasn't the desert heat that made me exit. For lack of a better word, it was homesickness: a literal gut-felt pull that had me crossing the Salt Flats, the Rockies, and finally the Great Plains until I crossed the Mississippi before finally stopping.
• The hypnotic effects of driving do not manifest themselves immediately. For this trip, I was nearly into Nevada.
  

2000

• [Reno] Access to the river is actually pretty easy, especially from the park.
• There are now geese in the park, no ducks.
• Java Jungle is on the north side of the river, across from the park.
• [Carson City] Could see the cemetery from the Bucket of Blood Saloon.
• Filson canvas bags.

2002 (the first batch all apparently from Chicago/Illinois trips)

• Walked up Michigan Ave., prowled around N. Rush St., Visited Northwestern Campus. Overcast and drizzly, but less wind than previous days--staying away from the water helps.
• Lots of black outfits in the city now.
• The music in O'Neil's: Velvet Underground, double live CD; blue w/Banannas?
• Lunch at Gino's on Rush: slow service, great pizza--deep dish cheese and garlic.
• Cold, rainy weather all but the first day. Had to dress like a backpacker: polypro, flannel, Gore-Tex. Hiking shoes were a good choice, both for walking long distances on concrete and for keeping the feet dry. As in Portland, no one stops just because of the weather. They just adjust to it.
• Don't do Thrifty rentals!
• In town with Kominski for a few days. Congress hotel--old, needs work, good enough to sleep in.
• El rides to Henry's house.
• A trip to Harvard [Illinois]--such a dismal place!
  
• @ the old apartment building: tried to remember the way we watched an ambulance respond to an accident. I seem to remember the ambulance itself taking the corner on 2 wheels though it doesn't look like there is enough room @ the intersection for any visible to turn so quickly and sharply. I remember a woman crying as she was being tended to; she was sitting against a tree, which is still there.
• Wookstock [Illinois]: What was Ward's is now Woodstock Mall.
• There's a line on the court house: 373 feet above sea level.

2002 (more)

• From a church marquee: "Should God bless the USA?"
• In Elko, the train stops across from Paradise Lanes bowling alley & arcade.
• [Viewed from Amtrak train window]: 40 telephone poles per mile. Pole 10 has one reflective strip, pole 20 has two strips, pole 30 has three. Pole 1/40: mile marker, four strips.
• A Piggly Wiggly in Helper, Utah.
• Carbon County, radio KOAl.
• Drank wine out of paper cups at the Day's Inn--Palmer House Hilton has wine glasses in the room.
• Streets with presidents' names run east-west.
• On the train to Chicago, riding along expressway: lighted sign over the road reads "congestion continues thru Sacramento."
• Van Gogh's The Poet's Garden; George Seaurat A Sunday on La Grande Jatte.
  

2004

• Hotel 71 [Chicago] w/Kominski. Much better than Congress.
• Red Line to Division and Milwaukie: Polish food.
• BofA ATM near Hotel 71: near Post Office & Red Lobster.
• Thoreau: Nature/Walking; Heinrich: The Trees in the Forest.
  

2005

• Accident in parking lot--one woman cries @ the damage to her new truck, the one who hit her cried only after the police report was done and the other woman drove away. Cop leaves w/the comment, "You have a good afternoon."
• "Buckle Bunny" slang for a femail rodeo groupie.
• "Technical animal fat not intended for human food."
  

2006

• [Boundary Waters, northern Minnesota] Paddled the Moose River to Big Moose Lake. Lots of lily pads along the narrow river. Stayed the night in Ely in the Paddle Inn.
• A couple of short paddles and one very long portage today. Yesterday were helped by some "old" men who carried our canoes; they were dressed in jeans and rubber boots, and probably laughed at our style of dress.
• Much paddling and a few short portages. Slowly learning how to control the canoe. The weather has been very good thus far, which helps make the experience more pleasant.
• I find myself imaging Grandpa up here, sitting on a rock and staring out over the water. I am also gradually forgetting about the "outside" world, since right now this world is good enough.
• [Chicago] Friday night after a week of Illinois--ends with a wonderful rain storm through which I decided to walk. Wet feet, wet blujeans--but not a moment of regret. Got to watch a bit of lightning while up on N. Michigan Ave, and I stood beneath a canvas awning and listened to the thunder roll between the buildings.
• "At least you didn't lose your boyfriend to your dad."

Date Unknown

• For "The Somnombalist": I once found myself in the Amtrak station in Helper, Utah, the August sunrise bright and hot, the Wasatch Mountains an immune wall to the east. My luggage, a simple small suitcase, was suspended from my hand, the handle cutting into the soft flesh of my palm."
  

The Rest of the Story

Many decades ago when I was a church-and-Sunday-school goer, my father would drop my sisters and me off in front of the First Presbyterian Church, and then he would return an hour or so later to retrieve his flock. Looking back, I think it was a way for my parents to get the brood out of the house and have some time alone, but that's beside the point: we dressed up and sat in our seats and sang songs just as we were told to.

In addition to wishing I were outside when I wasn't, I remember the ride home in one or another Ford station wagons, listening to the radio from the backseat, listening to Paul Harvey and his bits and pieces of news. I used to like how he read his stories, and his tag-line of "And now you know the rest of the story." This was AM radio, mind you, the band of frequencies that held WGN for the Chicago Cubs, and WCFL and WLS for music; and this was many years before I discovered FM radio and its anything-but-Top 40 format of repetition.

Radio would play a small part in my life in college when I talked my way into a news-writing internship at a station in Sacramento, where I learned to write quickly and succinctly though not necessarily well. Talk radio has certainly come a long way since Paul Harvey--it seems to be much more coarse and loud, less thoughtful, but I am more prone to tune into NPR anyway regardless that there is no small amount of pontification there. Even this habit, though, has weakened along with the worldwide economy--why listen every day to bad news, is what I ask. When I was in college and working many nights at a pizza parlor, I would drive home at night and listen to some guy named Rush Limbaugh, a highly successful self-promoted type of guy who has, unfortunately, come to believe that he is a sort of republican messiah. I once worked in a place where Limbaugh's show was played through the warehouse loudspeakers every day, and that was a test of patience if nothing else. The man does bloviate quite well, and there is no denying his disciples of ditto-heads.

I have not listened to Paul Harvey for many years, but I am neverthless saddened to read that he died--read it in a newspaper, if you remember what that is. Oddly enough, I wonder if he now has the true "rest of the story."

Afterthoughts

Though I did not read especially well, I was comforted by fine food and company beforehand, and then accompanied by a good reader throughout. A couple of the poems I made it through were roughly unscathed, while others were simply roughed up. Still, welcomed by good, friendly people and surrounded by various and interesting books, I muddled and mumbled my way through 18 minutes of poetry. It was good practice, and should I do something similar again, I will perhaps feel less uncomfortable.

For those who showed up to listen and might drop by here to read, my thanks; for those who invited, fed, and joined me, my appreciation; for those who applauded, my amazement.

The Words Come In, the Words Go Out

In just a few days I'll be sharing the stage with Shawn, an accomplished poet and up-and-coming Dancing Wu Li Master, for a night of poetry. This will be my second time on such a stage, and I can't honestly say that I will be comfortable. I don't socialize well (genetic, I'm sure), and being the object of attention even for 15 minutes is not something I look forward to. Or, for you sticklers, is not something to which I look forward.

But, things are as they are....

So, I've been spending some time going through my meager collection of poems and have found that, really, I have written one, maybe 2 poems in the last 5 years. No, really--from words to phrases to themes, not much has changed over the years. Overall, the themes seem to be growing old, family, and gardening, with a bit of insomnia thrown in; the main landscapes seem to be my backyard and the ocean, though the mountains do make a couple of appearances. My favorite of the lot is "Going Crazy," which was written many years ago and which is the only poem for which I've actually earned money--enough to pay for my final semester of graduate school. I do not think, though, that it will make the playlist this time, for it is not an especially happy poem, and now seems a bit dated. "First Poem for my Father," one, for several reasons, I find difficult to read all these years later, will also be left at home, though I think I'll regret this choice. I did share it the last time I read, and I sweated through the entire thing.

I am still not sure which poems will make the playlist, but I'll have a better idea tomorrow after Shawn steers me one way or another with some of them. Here's a rather insignificant one that was, literally, inspired by a Krispy Kreme doughnut. This might be the first one I read, just to start with something short.

Summary

Could you in seven lines summarize your life?
Not the given, crusted ends, but the soft
and creamy center that was a brush of long
grass against your young legs, or drifting alone
to Manila, or the first time a woman
said she loved you, and you believed it?
What could you tell us?

Of course it might be pulled from the starting lineup at the last minute....

Joel, Finally

Last weekend included an annual winter camping trip to Yosemite with Friend 1 and Friend 2 (Friend 3's car broke down before he got far from home), though this year involved little snow in Camp 4. One highlight of the trip include a coyote that stopped just yards from our tents the first night and howled as loudly as I've heard a coyote howl. One of its friends, somewhere distant, answered, then both went silent and we heard nothing more of them for the rest of the stay. A second highlight was the annual beer-tasting that involved several different kinds of brew before dinner. I have come to like this tradition.

And one hike took us to Columbia Rock, a nice overlook part way up the trail to Yosemite Falls. We saw this, Half Dome in the distance:


That same day included a 2-hour cross country ski at Badger Pass--hiking and skiing the same day.

On the long drive home, as I sit in the truck and left the driving to someone else, I remembered back a few years when Friend 1 and Friend 2 took me to Southern California for a backpacking trip that would take us over Bishop Pass, a pass that is just inches below Mt. Everest and where oxygen is a rare element.

The hike over the pass was long and difficult--my pack and I were both too heavy for such a thing. Friend 1 was always far ahead (and above) me as I tried my best to keep up; Friend 2 was hot on my heels, probably just to make sure I did not reverse direction and head back downhill. At some point I was hiking alone, which was fine, and when I reached the pass (see the picture at the top of the page), my companions were sitting on some rocks, resting and eating a snack. Friend 1 pointed out how pounds of salt seemed to have solidified on my shirt. This is something that has caused him no small amount of glee in the years since, and I am glad to have made someone so happy for so long.

The next day, still full of wimpfullness and fatigue, I opted to stay behind for a night while Friend 1 and Friend 2 dropped themselves into a canyon many, many, many thousands of feet below where I would be sleeping. "Have fun," I thought, "leave me here to die."

The morning they left, I was comfortable beside a small stream, reading a book after returning from a short hike to a nearby lake. As I read, a man younger than I strolled into camp--with big, down slippers on his feet. I have slippers like these, and they are very, very warm in winter. This, I learned was Joel, and he had come here to backpack with some of his friends, all of whom had left because he was too tired to walk on and had blisters the size of New Hampshire on his heels. He said that had not made clear to him how difficult the hike would be, and I sensed a bit of sadness. I told him I empathized with both the fatigue and the blisters. On one trip to the Hoover Wilderness many years ago, I got my feet wet in a creek even before we reached the trailhead. And, rather than stop and put on dry socks, I let my heavy, leather Vasque Sundowners wear literal bloody divets in my heels. I spent 5 days hiking with those damned sore spots, and when I eventually got home, I told my wife that I would never go backpacking again.

But, Joel... We spent quite awhile talking, and he told me how he was once in good shape and could do these trips with no problem. He did not seem especially peeved that his friends had either dragged him along or had deserted him, and soon he ambled out of my camp and disappeared.

And then appeared again the day Friends 1 and 2 and I ascended the opposite slope of the pass on our way out of the wilderness. We encountered Joel standing in the shade of a small tree, where he had stopped to rest. His friends were already at the top of the pass and were communicating with him via hand-held radio. I gave him the last of my Tang, which he appreciated because he had no water, and my friends and I talked with him awhile to make sure he was okay. I believe we even offered to help carry his pack so that he could climb the pass. But, as we got ready to move on, he got a call from a companion saying that a horse packer had offered to ride down the trail and retrieve the poor guy. There was probably a financial cost for this, but I'm sure Joel would gladly have paid. We left him there, crossed over the pass, and soon thereafter found a suitable place to spend the night.

Over the years I have thought of Joel, of how he felt during out encounters. I have 2 images of him in memory: walking around with those big down slippers, and standing in the shade of that tree while drinking my Tang. I have always hoped that he made it out of there okay, and that he didn't feel as though he had burdened his friends.

I learned some things on that trip: how to eliminate weight from my pack before leaving home, and how to wear lightweight shoes. I don't know if Joel had any regrets, but I do know that I never have. It ended up being a great trip--and I'd do it again given the chance.

Losing Las Vegas

Las Vegas is SOMETHING ELSE. Big casinos and hotels. Sidewalks full of people who, from the looks of things and like me, are from SOMEWHERE ELSE.

Our plane touched down just a bit over an hour after rising up, and 30 minutes later we were situated in the MGM. We'd arrived there by shuttle bus, the driver of which I irked as we asked how much the fare would be. "You give me six dollars each, I'll get the tokens from the machine over there." In all innocence I asked if I could get the tokens for free--I thought he wanted six dollars for himself to buy the tokens. He accused me of calling him a liar. Worse, he accused me of being from New York.

"You from New York?" he in fact asked.

"No," I said. "I just didn't know what you meant."

"He's from New York and thinks I'm lying to him," he said to SOMEONE ELSE, someone who told me how the whole token-thing worked. "You're from New York, aren't you," he continued.

"I'm not," I said.

"Where are you from?"

"SOMEPLACE ELSE," I said as my wife handed him the $12 and he took our one piece of luggage. "I'm not from New York."

When we got off the shuttle at the hotel, he asked if we had any bags--I was glad to see that he'd forgotten us.

So, Vegas is big. I've been to Reno, which is not so big and where the hotels-casino combinations do not take up many, many city blocks. I've been to South Lake Tahoe, which is beautiful and refined and touristy. I've lost money in all these places, though these days I'm too frugal to lose too much.

The streets are filled with people--young, mostly, with enough inebriation to last a lot of people a long while. And lots of Marines, it seems: you spend enough time in the Navy, you learn to spot Marines. Enough said. The casinos are full of young, middle, and old, with me being in that final group. The weather is wonderful--warm, sunny days, cool nights. Disneyland for grown-ups--thematic casinos that, really, are illusions that cover their central casino cores: you get into New York and Paris and Disneyland, and you find are identical beeps and whistles. There is a new part of town and an old part, and the old part seems more genuine, if older and more impregnated with cigarette smoke that has gestated for decades.

We spend much of our time exploring the standard Strip highlights, not venturing onto the sidestreets that a friend warned me were not the best places to be. But I don't know: there is enough salacious material ("Girls direct to you" boasts one mobile billboard) on the Strip that I can only imagine what lies to the sides. We visit a mall for some quick shopping and a cold beverage, and we encounter a woman selling shoes who lost her Florida home to one hurricane or another and is glad to be someplace warm, someplace where there is no threat of natural disasters, in a state where there are view of those "social programs" that bothered her and her husband. I want to tell her that, I believe, earthquakes are always a possibility. She will soon be old enough to retire, and I also want to ask her if she will collect Social Security, which some people might consider a "social program." Her eybrows are drawn onto her face, whoever drew them was no artist--except perhaps in a Picasso sense.

As we walk around town, I remember Hunter S. Thompson's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, which I have not read in decades, as well as the movie Leaving Las Vegas, a fantastic but damned depressing flick.

Departing on a Saturday night, I think of the poem "Flying Over Sonny Liston," which was written by the poet Gary Short, someone I knew a long time ago but who has gone on to wonderful things. Perhaps not coincidentally, just 3 days after I leave Las Vegas, Short appears for a poetry reading at the college where I teach. He makes reading poems as easy as it seems he writes them, and I enjoy listening to him. At the reading I run into Shawn, another fine poet and someone with whom I am scheduled to read in just a few weeks. "No need to be apprehensive, you'll be among friends," one of the hosts told me when I announced my nervousness. I think, though, that a firing squad might be friendly too.

We are glad to be home, and we talk about how we might do things differently now that we have seem certain things. I would like, next time, to extend the trip and venture beyond the city, perhaps visit Hoover Dam, perhaps explore the desert that makes up so much of Nevada.

All Those Faces

In Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind, Shunryu Suzuki wrote that "In the beginner's mind there are many possibilities; in the expert's mind there are few." As with the start of every new semester, my mind tends toward the beginner, the person who is optimistic and energetic, the teacher who hopes to transmit at least a bit of helpful knowledge to those who seek it. I see similar minds in many of my students, as well--a willingness to attend class, to complete assignments. More than a few of these students, certainly, are there because the course is required by one entity or another, and that is fine. I have, though, violated many possible rules by telling students that if they are there because their parents told them they had to be, they should go home. Stupid, yes.

I sinned early this semester by allowing too many people into my course, so many that a few must sit on the floor in a room that is cramped and stuffy. I am not sure why I made the choice I did--and it certainly was a choice--but the first day of class I looked out over the crowd of students and felt a certain sense of compassion (something that people who know me might say is an anomaly): so many funding cuts, so few classes open or available, so many students needing "just this class" to move on to somewhere else.

A price will be paid later in the semester, of course. By me, mostly: all those essays and exams to grade. During those nights I an staring at a stack of 4-page papers, I will think, "That beginner's mind needs help."

Paperwork

Too far behind in nearly everything but being behind, I called in busy to my monthly meeting of writers yesterday because my syllabus for one college's new semester and my preparations for workshop 3 of a 5-workshop course at another college are, respectively, not where they should be. This is the drudgery of teaching, even worse than grading papers. Trying to imagine ahead 16 weeks for a full-semester course is painful, and I am hopeful that I can fake it for a week until I get my feet under me.

Dumped into the mix of things is anticipation for a 2-day trip to Las Vegas at the end of the month, a 3-day camping trip in Yosemite the week after Vegas, then in March/April a 9-day trip to England on top of which is tacked a 2-day stay in Chicago as a stopover point to get my feet again used to United States soil. To make everything worse, I'm trying to figure out how to squeeze in yet another trek to Portland, a summer vacation to Colorado, and perhaps a trip to San Diego to show either my wife or one son or another the USS Midway, a ship on which I lived for over 2 years and is now a museum. I'd also like to persuade a friend that I could use the solitude of his cabin for a few days, but when the heck would I fit that in?

No wonder I don't get any writing done or why I don't fix things around the house. I keep telling myself that I've got to quit a job or 2 because I'd much rather have time than money at this point in my life. But not especially confident that the economy will keep its grubby claws off my main employment, I figure I need to keep the secondary and tertiary jobs for a little while longer.

Finding lodging in London and Chicago is a pressing concern given that I leave 10 weeks from today. I believe I have narrowed my preferences to just a couple of establishments, something that will be very nice: staying in 7 different places the last time I was visited Great Britain created too many packings and unpackings of baggage. More pressing, though, are the half-completed syllabus for one school, the class notes for the other school.

Oh--and I won't mention my thoughts about a career change....

Stopping by Snowy Woods

An afternoon and evening in San Francisco with Kominski included Green Apple Books and City Lights Books, and I came away with books of poems by Lyn Lifshin (Before It's Light) and Stephen Dunn (New And Selected Poems 1974-1994 and What Goes On, Selected and New Poems 1995-2009), a pint of beer at Vesuvio, dinner at Cafe Coppola (a glass of good Pinot Noir with Spaghetti alla Puttanesca), and a house special at Tosca. The day involved a good amount of walking, which was fine because the San Francisco weather was pretty much ideal. The streets themselves seemed rather quiet, reminding me of a similar trip shortly after 9/11 when a bar waitress told us that tourists were not touring. That same bar was quite active this night, however, and that was good. Years ago we would make these trips and drink more beer and more coffee, and we would stay until close to midnight when most places shut down. Just as I drink less of both beverages these days, I also buy fewer books seeing that my shelves are full and I've no more room in the house for additional shelves. Kominski has been through a lot of changes the last year or so, but he seems no worse for wear and appears to be as sane as he has ever been.

"What are you writing?" he asked.
"Nothing," I said.

We both figured we should leave things at that--how much shame can a man take, after all?

* * *

Early the next morning I was on the road again, this time with two companions who joined me for another day of backcountry skiing. Good company overcame poor snow and the excursion into the Sierra semi-high country turned out to be quite enjoyable, if also quite exhausting. A week earlier the snow was a powdery welcome mat, but in 8 days' time it had transformed into a crusty, unforgiving floor that seemed part linoleum, part glass. Still, we managed to work our way uphill to find how little snow there is--lots of rocks. One highlight was our discovery of mountain lion tracks in the snow. I have not seen such things before, so it was exciting for me. As I thought about things later, though, I pondered how often I have traveled through the area on either foot or skis with that kitty cat watching me. I have resolved to leave my supply of catnip at home from now on.

The journey down the hills and through the trees was a challenge given that I am not either skilled or coordinated when I put my skis on; I fell twice when I was simply standing and admiring the scenery. The only bad part was when, about 200 yards from the parking lot and car, just as I was about to speed down a sort of bunny hill, I noticed that one of my bindings had detached nearly completely from my left ski. Not a good thing, but I was glad that it had not happened a couple hours earlier, or when I was traversing a slope. If it had, I would still be walking.

Together, the 2 days paired nicely, and both served to erase some of the general malaise and cynicism I'd let built up and then written about in a couple posts. Here's one of my companions as we ate lunch:




And here's me--photographed by a brand-new iPhone.

Trickle Down: Thinking of Pogo

While I know that the bearers of bad news are simply reading the scripts before them, I stopped listening to or watching the news except for the weather which really doesn't vary much around here. I do still read the newspaper, a lifelong habit that I believe will be with me for the rest of my life.

I know the economy is bad, and I don't need anyone telling me as much several times a day. I no longer monitor my 401k or my IRA for fear that I'll have confront the truth that people of my generation or those that follow will be able to think of "retirement" only when it is teamed with "home." I picture myself joining my peers as a Wal-Mart greeter, the old stooped-over man who bares his remaining teeth in some kind of demented smile and talks about what used to be.

There are, I believe, many people responsible for the mess we're in. Ourselves, of course, for our greed and materialism, and for our ability to permit politicians to work for the benefit of corporations, and for corporations to work for the benefit of their shareholders. And when someone suggest that perhaps workers and citizens deserve some consideration, that someone is labeled as anti-freedom or socialist. People who remember Ronald Reagan--a man who was senile well before he left office--remember that he and his ilk worshiped the idea that money given to the wealthy would trickle down to the middle-class worker. Maybe there's some truth to the concept, but George Bush the Elder had it right when he used "voodoo economics" to describe Reagan's ideas about the economy. George Bush the Junior thought Reagan's ideas were the ones to emulate, and though President Clinton is a smart man his interjection between Bush 1 and Bush 2 didn't matter much.

I have one brother-in-law who has lost a job because of this economic slide, and I would not be surprised if in the very near future I join him on the unemployment roll. I've been there before and though it was not pleasant I did survive, and I figure that as long as I can make my house payment, everything will be fine. An article in today's newspaper, though, described the sometimes days-long process of simply filing for unemployment in California, the governor of which has mandated that state workers take 2 days off unpaid to help the state heal its budget sores. This will make simple acts such as registering a car with the DMV--already a tar pit of government bureaucracy--even more aggravating. Our state legislature cannot even pass a budget but has yet to volunteer to also take 2 unpaid days a month.

So many decisions are being made by people for whom we have voted, and I cannot help but think that when we look at them, we are looking at ourselves. We do not seem to hold our elected officials accountable for much unless they sit with wide stances in the bathroom of the Minneapolis airport, and in such cases they refuse to hold themselves accountable. These are people we choose to trust, and in that trust is the hope that they will use their nearly unlimited access to "experts" wisely so that their decisions are based on facts and not their beliefs or simplistic ideas.

Though I have worked hard at being optimistic about most of life, that hard work does not seem to be paying off. We have chosen to allow our "leaders" to lead us astray, and as we look at our reflections in them, we have met the enemy.

Over Here, Over There

Last week I made my first trek of the winter into the Sierra Mountains, chugging my fat butt and belly through wet, heavy snow that put as much drag on my skis as my weight did downward pressure. I had both friction and gravity working against me and the sight was not pretty. Headed toward a favorite lake, I gave up within 100 yards of my goal, wheezed a bit, then turned around trudged back to the car. I felt old and surely looked it. With a fresh few inches of powder, I tried again this morning and found that the skis glided with little effort on my part. When I left the car the outside temperature was 18 degrees, but with no wind the weather and the snow alike were perfect. I made it to the lake and had half of my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, enjoyed the snow and sunshine, then wended my way back to where I'd begun, finding many wonderful diversions into meadows of unbroken snow.

By early afternoon I was seated on the rear bumper of my car and enjoying the second half of my sandwich. A couple hours later I was at my sister's house for a small going away party for my nephew, who is in the Air Force and who will soon deploy to Iraq, where another nephew has been for a couple of months. Enjoying my first beer of 2009 I sat and watched my nephew and his siblings, my sons, and several friends of the family play volleyball, and I could not help but contrast their fun with the certain realities my nephew will face as he joins others in the lie that was a search for weapons of mass destruction but transformed into ridding the world of an evil dictator and transformed again into the establishment of a democratic government, and what may or may not be part of the Global War on Terror.

As I grow older I wonder more at the ease with which some people send other people into harm's way as part of some "noble" cause or because we certainly must fight "them" there so we do not have to fight them here. I watched my nephew dig and set and spike the volleyball, and I thought back to when he was small and pudgy, when he worried about nothing more important than what to put on his hamburger. Last week when I played volleyball with him I listened to him talk, and I could hear the Air Force speaking with him just as the Navy must have spoken through me decades ago when I was just as gullible and pliable.

I could think of nothing profound to tell him as I left for home, so I told him to take care of himself, and to stay in touch with his parents. At some level, I think, he is aware of certain dangers that await him, but he betrayed neither fear nor worry. The first half of the day was good, but so frivolous compared to the second half. My brother-in-law told me that he and his son are planning things for when my nephew returns as scheduled in October, but I think both of us were wishing that he wasn't going at all.

Resolution #9

I seldom make resolutions at the start of a new year, preferring instead to attempt course corrections whenever I need them. I'm too old to remake myself, and most of my habits are such deep grooves in my brain-matter that no amount of Bondo could fill them. I have been trying to be less grumpy, but that's proving to be less easy than quitting coffee was a year ago.

There are, though, a few things I'm looking forward to or would like to accomplish this year, some that are perhaps birthed of resolutions I made in, say, October.

1. Writing at least one good poem. This isn't easy, considering that I write maybe half a dozen a year to begin with. I think I'm still on for a poetry reading next month, so I'd like to have something new by then.
   
   
2. Getting beyond the first chapter of a new novel (writing, not reading). Beginnings are always easy and fun, whether it's a love affair or a book; the real work shows up when we can't get the characters to do what we want them to do.
   
   
3. With my wife, making a semi-spontaneous trip to Las Vegas at the end of this month. Never been there.
   
   
4. Spending a couple days snow camping in Yosemite some time in the next couple of months.
   
   
5. Enjoying a journey to England in March. More days in London this time.
   
   
6. Finding others to occasionally contribute to this blog. Really. Anyone? Anyone? Ferris?
   
   
7. Adjusting to a world with no George Bush. Good God it has been a long 8 years.
   
   
8. Planning a vacation to Colorado and at least one long weekend in Portland. Ain't it great having family who will let you sleep in the spare bedroom for free?
   
   
9. Getting permission to set up writing-shop in a small house on the North Coast for several consecutive days (see #1 & #2) this spring. This one might cost me a couple of lunches.
   
   

All of these are contingent on many factors, of course: watching less television; keeping my job (i.e., funding); finding the energy for teaching (which pays for assorted excursions); finding other writers with whom to socialize (I'm pretty much a leech, especially where Shawn and Kominski are concerned) to keep the creative side alive; being nice to family and friends who have homes in places I want to visit. Well, maybe that last part is a bit selfish: I mean, there are other reasons to be nice to these people....

Bits and Bytes

Yesterday's important is today's meaningless. At work a couple days ago I found myself digging into network drives and folders in a quest to reduce the number of stored files as part of a larger corporate quest to free up storage space for new and improved important stuff. Years ago we did as much with paper files: periodically purged cabinets of 20-pound copy paper, of manila folders, of 3-ringed binders. Most of the ones and zeroes I disposed of this week were years old, artifacts of then-crucial projects meant to improve the company's bottom line as it had never been improved before. We worked hard, and we worked happily. We arrived early; we skipped lunch; we stayed late; we worked the occasional weekend not just because we were asked to, but because we had some pride in what we were doing.

I, of course, was much younger then, more enthused about giving my all to keep the company's shareholders happy. The technology enthused me, and I was glad to be working with people bent toward creativity and doing things differently. Some of these people I have known for over a decade in a couple places of employment, and some of these people still work with me. And some of these people were part of one or another layoffs and have moved on to other places. Some of these former coworkers were represented in those files I deleted from the network drives, and I found myself opening each folder, scrolling through each file, trying to recall by the files' dates just who was working on what and when. Some of these coworkers I have not seen in a long time, and a couple I still communicate with and see regularly. A couple I even conisder friends.

Remarking on the disposability of corporate souls is not new, but in today's social and economic climate the risk of being disposed of is only a single executive decision away. Where I work, we have been advised that there will be no training budget, no "non-essential" travel, and no raises next year. In their benevolence, though, our 2 top executives are taking a cut in pay, and they have told us that the company will continue to contribute to our 401k plan. I should feel lucky, I suppose, that I still have a job, for I know there are many others across the country who do not (my brother-in-law, for one). I do not fear losing my job, for I have been through the process before and I came out of it fairly well.

When all of the files were deleted, I continued with a couple of my current projects, making sure I backed them up to the drives on which I had freed so much virtual space. I felt as though it was my duty to leave traces of myself there--the folders and files so crucial to the company's business.

War of the Words

This previous Saturday morning found me seated comfortably around a table with a group of writers whom I have associated with for the last couple of years. These writers--poets, really--have more writing and reading experience than I can ever hope to acquire, and I felt humbled to be among them as each of us read and critiqued poems and poets. I was openly proud at having brought for discussion a new poem for 2 consecutive meetings though neither poem has been especially refined or long.

After our meeting I stopped at home for a couple of hours then left for yet another meeting with a writer, this rendezvousing with Kominski who took time away from his own literary endeavors to meet me almost halfway between our respective abodes. And this time I was blessed with gifts: music, movie, literature hand-crafted by Kominski himself. I offered nothing and even let him buy me a beer. We wandered past forlornly empty and abandoned independent bookstores, but found some joy in the more corporate type. Topics of discussion included children, wives, baseball, writing, reading, Chicago, mothers and fathers, dogs, girlfriends, places of employment, music.... Part of the discussion included even the notebooks we favor, which may make us seem as a couple of old men with little more to discuss but truly does not. Writers--real and faux--dwell on these things, the tools of the trade. I have come to enjoy fine pens, as well, and own 3 nicely balanced wooden ones including a beauty purchased several years ago in Newport, Rhode Island. Regular pens are adequate when nothing else is around, but for serious work a good pen goes a long way. If they made me a better writer I would be doubly blessed.

After dinner and reluctant to stand outside in a cold wind that chilled us both Kominksi headed west and I headed east. I put the new music, The Who in concert, into my car's CD player and turned onto the freeway toward a moon full but for a slice of shadow at its top. In no hurry to get home I stayed in the right-most lane so that non-Who listeners could lead the way toward Sacramento, the buildings of which were illuminated brightly.

On the seat beside me were the movie and Kominski's literature, as well as a new Rhodia notebook that now begs for ink from one of my wooden pens. As if I need more notebooks, more empty pages, since most of my writing is accomplished on one of these infernal computers. Overall, however, the day's company of writers must have left an impression of some sort, for the next morning after a good bike ride I managed to sit down and type about 700 words of a novel I have been considering. This is part of the first chapter. And if you've ever tried writing a novel, you probably know that first chapters are a piece of cake because they require so little thought, so little plot. The real work comes later.