Not to go anywhere, but to go.

As is the blight of hobby-bloggers, I have way too much to catch up on...so how does midstream sound?  I hope it sounds good, because that's where we are.  Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure that's where we always are, so screw it.

With ever more life plans relegated to alternate universes, I came back to Walkersville, bought a car, and put Barcelona in my rear view mirror as I drove across this crazy, beautiful country.  I had a friend getting married in San Diego and a few thousand miles of thoughts to untangle.  What can I say?  I am who I am.

Slomo, a San Diego staple.  Find out more about him here.

Rise up nimbly and go on your strange journey...

I needed to be out to California by Saturday, so I left Maryland at 8 am on a Tuesday morning and drove for 20 hours.  I ended at Motel Who Cares in Miami, Oklahoma, just ahead of becoming a threat to public safety.  With almost half of the distance to California knocked out in the first day, I was able to enjoy some more reasonable driving shifts, a couple of peaceful campgrounds, and one of the most stunning views in the world.

Diego and I camping in Santa Fe National Forest.  Diego is
of course the name of my car, in honor of our inaugural trip.

I took Route 40 for most of the westward trip, and it was my friend Drew offhandedly asking for a picture of the Grand Canyon that made me remember I would basically be driving right into the damn thing.  I camped in Coconino National Forest, just outside of Flagstaff, and struck out first thing the next morning to feast my eyes.  Though I didn't quite pull a Clark Griswold, it was alarmingly close.  It was now Friday, and a lot can happen on the road.

Looking east down the length of the Grand Canyon from
Mather Point

A dizzying monument to friction and time.

In all, it took 1 motel, 2 campgrounds, 4 full days of driving, and a very tan left arm to get to San Diego.  The journey was thirty-nine hours according to Google maps, but probably closer to fifty with the symbiotic cycle of bathroom and coffee stops.  The toughest stretch was over western Arizona and eastern California, where I found that my fully blasted AC was no match for the Mojave Desert.  And as my thermometer hit temperatures I thought our atmosphere protected us from, I was half impressed and half bewildered by human attempts to settle anywhere near that place.


Tommy and Meredith's Wedding

I arrived Friday evening at sunset, just as Tommy and Meredith were finishing up a brief rehearsal at their venue, which was more or less the Pacific Ocean.  San Diego in July was reliably sunny, calm, and dry, and after my sister's wedding a few weeks ago at the Atlantic Ocean, I think I know where all of the wind and water is going.  We'll get to that another time.

This was a very satisfying way to arrive.

Rehearsal stunt doubles.  Photo stolen from
Sandy Wasniewski.

This spot had to be wrangled away from a group
of overzealous Bocce Ball enthusiasts who tried
to fight the groom (not a joke).  Photo stolen
from Steve Zarick.

When the time came for the ceremony, they each nervously tried and then beautifully failed to hold it together as they read the vows they had written for one another.  Then it was back to their house for the rest of the day and night for the reception.  In a haze of barbecue, IPA, and good feelings, we all celebrated, and for me, I got to know people a lot better.  Like many of the friends I've made lately, Tommy and I are linked through travel, and so I didn't know his family very well, and I was meeting Meredith for the first time.  In fact, even though we are from more or less the same home town, we remained acquaintances until I moved to Ecuador.

:)

A lesson in scarcity economics.  Photo stolen
from Steve Zarick.

Couples dance. Photo stolen from Sandy Wasniewski.

Palm trees and ambiance.  Photo stolen from Sandy
Wasniewski.

Preamble Ramble

To rewind a bit, Steve, a friend of mine since time immemorial, and Tommy were roommates after college.  They are also very willing to hop on a plane and see what there is to see, a quality I very much admire.  They have done this many times, and when I moved to Quito, they weren't far behind for a visit.  When later I moved to Barcelona, it wasn't long before schedules were arranged and tickets were bought.  Both trips were pretty short...maybe a combined total of 12 days.  But travel adventures are tall, if not long.  They loom, mountainous, over the smooth plains of our routines, and dominate our horizon.  And even from years and miles away, you can still remember the view they once gave you.  And so it was, via Ecuador and Spain, that I found myself at a good friend's wedding in San Diego.

Tommy and Steve on Pichincha overlooking Quito

"The Best Gin and Tonic in Barcelona"  I believe everything
I read that's written in chalk outside of a bar.  Photo stolen
from Steve Zarick.

Estrellas in Barceloneta.  Photo by Steve Zarick

Outside of La Sagrada Familia

I can't remember where this was taken...

California National Parks

All of that said, I didn't drive close to 3,000 miles so that I could turn around and come right back.  That's what they make airplanes for.  After a few more days around San Diego, it was time to hit the road again, but not back east, and certainly not on the same road by which I came. I wanted to find somewhere to stretch my legs for a bit, and this trip was just getting started.

I had gotten in touch with Jason and Mary, friends from Quito from Washington state, and found that they would be around Portland about a week after the wedding.  By my east coast calculations, Portland is basically right next to San Diego, so why the hell not??  It also gave me the fantastic problem of filling 6 free days in California.

A low-hanging full moon over my campsite in Joshua Tree

Not a bad climb, unless you insist on visiting the damn desert in
July...

Not a long hike, but tall.

I camped one night in Joshua Tree, gazing through the mesh of my tent at an audaciously ornamented sky, and went for a short hike the next morning before the sun got too high.  Then I got the hell outta there and spent the day watching TV in an air-conditioned motel room.  You know my thoughts on deserts.  As for Yosemite, finding a campsite in July is not a guarantee, and so when I was on the national parks website a few days earlier, I took whatever was available.  This landed me in Tuolumne Meadows for 2 nights, which is actually about 45 minutes outside of the valley.  But let me tell you, this was perfect.  It is much higher in altitude, and so much cooler and less humid.  If you're catching a theme, I don't do well in heat.  I wilt.  I shut down.  I bitch.  I also don't do so well with crowds.  While a Sunday in a grocery store is not my worst nightmare, it ranks.  I enjoyed driving through the valley and taking in the beauty of the park from my car, but then I really enjoyed going back up to my campground and escaping the madness.  The meadows and lakes of the higher altitudes don't drop quite as many jaws, but it was right where I wanted to be.

A couple of hiking essentials.

Yosemite Falls

Half Dome and crowds, both iconic parts of Yosemite.

The Dangers of Winging It

After 2 days and 2 nights in Yosemite, it was time to start driving back towards the coast and following it up to the Columbia River.  Taking the advice of my Yosemite camping neighbors, I took took the scenic route and kept to smaller highways so that I could drive through Lassen National Forest.  My plan was to make it to Oregon and find a campground on the coast for the night, but the rolling hills packed with giant Red Firs for hours and hours made me strongly reconsider this plan.  I pressed on, and would come to regret it.  

Photo Credit

At about 10 pm I had reached the spot on the Oregon Coast where I was supposed to camp for the night, and found the campground full.  Damn.  Well, it is July after all, these things happen.  Now that I was really starting to look, though, every single campground and motel was completely full.  No vacancies anywhere.  After about an hour of poking around, I pulled into a motel to ask what was going on that had everything so packed.  "Oh, well it's Dune Fest," the man said matter-of-factly, "so I doubt you'll find anything south of Florence with any room.  You might be able to sleep in your car in the casino parking lot out there if nothing else.  North of that the road gets pretty bad for driving at night."  

Wow.  What the hell is Dune Fest?  And what kind of road are we talking about that is more risky than car camping at a casino?  As I drove on, the cliffs and fog answered my question, and fresh curses for Dune Fest spilled out through my periodically unclenched teeth.  By about 3 am, I had found a safer road, and I gave up.  I slept in my car on the shoulder until dawn, dreaming of slot machines that spit out only sand, and the meth-addled friends that I would never know.  

Yes!

The United States of Quito

For the rest of the trip, it was back to making more tall tales with old friends.  I met Jason and Mary in Beacon State Park, right on the Columbia River.  This area is just called "The Gorge," and it was Mary's favorite place growing up.  How do I describe The Gorge?  Well, I have always felt like large-scale erosion is hard to conceptualize.  It proceeds far too slowly to actually see, and what's in front of you seems infinitely more permanent than you are.  You're told that it has changed and is still changing, but you kind of just have to believe it.  But when looking at the Columbia barreling through western Washington, sinking into the earth and leaving tall, green slopes on each side, I found myself thinking, "Oh yes, I see how that happened."

Jason and I in deep conversation, apparently captured by a
surveillance drone.

Post nap at the summit of Dog Mountain.

I fell immediately in love.  There was something of the Appalachians in the mossy pines and thick undergrowth of the hills and mountains, but also something very distinctly Cascadian.  It was a crisp, full, and youthful green, with no need to trouble itself with anything but the present.  The green of their eastern counterparts is thick with time and age, and like one reflecting on a life well-lived, is simultaneously cheerful and gloomy.

Speaking of anthropomorphism, the three huge volcanoes out there, Mt. St. Helens, Mt. Hood, and Mt. Adams have a story that goes with them.   Adams and Hood were brothers who fought over St. Helens, periodically rumbling the earth and tossing hot ash and lava at one another.  This led to the destruction of the Bridge of the Gods, the natural bridge that reportedly once spanned the Columbia River.  Ultimately, it was Adams that won, but it was Hood that St. Helens truly loved, and in her sadness she fell into a deep, deep sleep.  She quite famously blew her top in 1980, so interpret that how you will.  Her rest certainly seemed strained when I was out there, as we saw her absently puffing away.

The modern day Bridge of the Gods.  Photo Credit

Mt. St Helen's with Mt. Hood in the background.  Photo Credit

So in this rugged and fabled landscape, I got to catch up with these guys for two wonderful days.  We hit up a brewery in Hood River, camped out, shared music and stories from the last year apart, climbed Dog Mountain, and jumped in a frigid lake, among other things.  It was too short, but these things always are.  Their summer was wrapping up, and they would soon be heading back to Mexico City and their new school year.  For me, it was on to Minnesota, the next setting for a my displaced Ecuadorian reunions.

Home to Paul Bunyon, the Mall of America,
and according to some sources, the phrase, "Holy Cow"
Photo Credit

A fellow mountain climber, blogger, and bookworm, my friend Jamie was in Minneapolis visiting her family for the summer as I made my way back east towards Maryland.  She and her parents took in this weary traveler after several more days of driving through Washington, Idaho, Montana, and North Dakota.

Other than a few trips out to Cincinnati as a young kid, I have mostly skipped over the midwest in my travels, and a few days in and around Minneapolis made me regret that.  First, while the hospitality and kindness may be a bit of a stereotype, that by no means makes it an exaggeration in this case, or anything less than genuine.  So a big thank you to the Baci family.  Second, I don't know exactly what I had in my head about what Minneapolis would be like, but I was wrong whatever it was.  Other than its downtown city skyline, the buildings were very modest and the layout left me with a very residential and laid back feel.

The lakes are IN the city??? Photo Credit

The files are IN the computer??? Photo Credit

They also have an awesome bike share system, and Jamie and I took a couple of them for a spin around several of the lakes that are within the city itself.  It of course absolutely poured on us, but hey, the rain has always seemed to find our little adventures.  We holed up in the Tin Fish restaurant on the lakefront, and after a little more biking and some lunch, walked back to my car via a Magers and Quinn bookstore.  They sell both new and used books, really good ones, and I left a few tales heavier, glad that Barnes and Noble was not the only successful business model left for the lit world.

I played some Bocce with some Bacis, watched a documentary on General Tso's chicken, a mocumentary about teaching, and got in some good hang time before I hit the road for the home stretch.  I had driven over 5,500 miles by this point in the trip, and had been in the car for over 80 hours.  The last thousand miles and 16 hours from Minneapolis to Walkersville felt like more than all of the rest combined.  This trip had been exhilarating and rejuvenating and perfect in so many ways...and it was time for it to be over.

A rainy climb on Corazon in Ecuador with Jamie and Mike.
It just seems to happen.

Even before this trip got under way, though, the summer was off to an auspicious start when I was able to catch Mike and Bekki just as I got back from Barcelona.  More friends from Quito, they had just returned from a year in Kazakhstan, and were preparing to move to Bogota.  I swooped down to Bekki's mom's house on the eastern shore while we had a common weekend in Maryland and camped out on the couch.  We saw Jurassic World, and ate free hot dogs at an Amish market when we couldn't find a bookstore.  I love little memories like that, and the friends who can appreciate them, too.  I live for them.

The Fish Whistle: A restaurant with good food and beer and
this lovely patio seating.
The Fish Whistles: What we all tried
to blame on the dog later.

My Scrubs Voiceover Wrap-Up

I had a lot on my mind to start this trip.  Living near my family again was very exciting to think about, but I was also disappointed and frustrated and mad and sad and sick over the way my life in Barcelona had deconstructed.  Spain had been a longstanding dream, and was supposed to be a much longer stay, but I imploded over there.  Partly, it turned out that my dream had changed.  Whoops. Part of it too was that annoying clash between expectations and reality.  But that's not all of it.

Once back stateside, there was something just romantic enough about driving a used car off of a lot in Maryland and going all the way to the Pacific Ocean that promised some perspective.  But perspective is exactly what got jumbled.  It was a long trip, punctuated by joyous reunions with old friends, but overall it was time alone with my roaming mind and a lonesome road.  Or maybe not.  Maybe, though I covered vast distances, it was overall about important time with friends as we all made a concerted effort to stay close to one another.  Which is the road, and which are the stops?  When are you going somewhere?  And when have you gotten somewhere?  Travel tales may be tall, but you can't see the mountain from the mountain.

Just a spot on the road in Washington where the sky turned
a lake purple and begged me to stop.  Who was I to say no?

Am I finally where I'm meant to be?  Is this what I'm supposed to be doing?  Will we always be friends?  When will I find my person?  All of these questions about where we are going, or getting, or staying in life can become toxic in high doses.  It seems to me, though, that things stay the same about as much as Mount St. Helens went to sleep.  She was done, dozing away, and her story was over.  Until it wasn't.

We stay somewhere until we find that for whatever reason, it was only a stop, and now we are getting somewhere else.  Just like that.  All it takes is to think of something differently, and the world shifts under your feet.  St. Helens, it turns out, may have a new lover on her horizon.  Or, maybe even better, some good friends.  Maybe this stop will be longer, and maybe when it's time to move on from it, she won't have to do it alone.  Maybe.

Regardless, you don't leave empty handed.  Everything, the good, the bad, and the ugly, comes with you.  And it doesn't have to be heavy, but for me, it became very cumbersome when I didn't take the time to pack it away properly.

No no no, get outta here, Rust.  This isn't the "time is a flat
circle" speech. 

Since I insist on doing crazy things like tracing the widest perimeter that the 48 contiguous United States will allow, I know I'm going to to find myself on my own a bit, and that's fine.  That's why there's A Song of Ice and Fire on audiobook.

Starting something alone doesn't mean being alone, though, and it's different than choosing to be lonely.  If you're ready, don't wait around forever for everyone else.  Just go.  Sure, sometimes you sleep in your car because of Dune Fest.  But sometimes the stars really do align.  You get friends, and desert skies, and stories about mountains.  And sometimes, you get free hot dogs.

The more I think about all of this, the more I feel like I've known it for quite awhile.  But knowledge has a funny way of taking you in circles like that, and lessons often bear repeating.  Things that are known are soon taken for granted.  Things that are taken for granted begin to work as assumptions.  Assumptions get overlooked and are no longer examined.  And so it is that a hard-won nugget of wisdom falls into a blindspot, and though it is still right in front of you, it is no longer seen.  And then...

And then...

Hmm, where was I?

I Am Construction and So Can You!

As I am working on some small construction projects for my sister's wedding, I am reminded of an older project from several years ago that really showcased my carpentry prowess.  Rest easy, sis :)

How to Build a Picnic Table in Just 23 Easy Steps!*

*Number of steps may be adjusted to suit individual needs, such as the need to
cry, the need to seek urgent medical care, or the need to research what the hell
you are doing.  Photo Credit

1) Download a real "How to Build a Picnic Table" plan from the internet.

2) Take the plan to Home Depot and comb the aisles looking for supplies for approximately 1.8 hours longer than you expected it to take, or until you work up a sweat.

3) Take the materials and supplies to your parents garage and let them remain there for at least 5 weeks.  This is part of a very important aging process called "procrastination" that strengthens the lumber.

4) Set aside an entire weekend to work on the table and then show up at precisely 2 pm on Sunday.

5) Cut the lumber for the table top to appropriate lengths using a circular saw.  Carefully place 1/4 inch spacers in between the planks and hold them in place with a bar clamp.

6) Realize it is upside down and curse.  Flip, and repeat step 5.

7) Using 4 inch deck screws, fasten 2 appropriately cut 2x4s underneath the planks to hold them permanently.

8) Upon not finding where the hell you put the deck screws, curse.  Drive to Walmart to search for replacements for approximately 0.5 hours, or until you thoroughly lose your faith in humanity.

In her defense, they were being really annoying. Photo Credit

9) Repeat step 7.

10) To create the legs, cut three 2x4s to exactly the same length and angles.  The fourth leg must be 1 inch longer. Use a hammer and a chisel to shave off this extra inch while Lisa...errr...your construction associate holds the leg and cringes.

11) Attach the legs to the table top and go home feeling somewhat accomplished, but mostly just grateful that no one lost a finger.

12) Choose another day to return.  This day should be at least 95 degrees outside, as you will be working in a garage, and picnic tables are more fun to make when the air is choking you.

13) Create braces to stabilize the legs by cutting two 2x4s to the appropriate length, and cutting each end at 45 degree opposite angles.

14) Announce that you will be shaving off one of the pointed ends on each brace for "aesthetic reasons".

15) Fasten the aesthetically-pleasing brace to the bottom of the table using 4 inch deck screws.

16) DAMMIT, WHERE ARE THOSE FUCKING DECK SCREWS?!?

17) Upon returning from Walmart, repeat step 15.

No table is worth this.  Photo Credit

18) Drill holes through the intersection of the legs and the aesthetically-pleasing brace on each side.

19) Curse when you realize that your aesthetically-pleasing brace will not work because the part you were supposed to drill into is a small, useless block on the garage floor.

20) Endure the taunts of your construction associate who told you to just leave the brace the way it was while you repeat steps 13, 15, and 18 only.

21) Use a machine bolt, washer, and nut to fasten the brace to the legs, and gaze upon your wobbly creation with the melancholy mixture of pride and shame.

22) In order to build the benches, repeat steps 5, 7, 10, 13, 15, 18, and 21, only on a smaller and more annoying scale.  Twice.

23) Lobotomize yourself with all of the deck screws you finally find because you still have to sand and stain the whole thing.

For my next act...  Photo Credit

The Storm, the Girl, and the Too-Cold Summer Night

I know this place.
I have been here before...

There, over that field,
a boy ran from a thunderstorm,
eyes blurred by fear
and wet and the dire wind;
cut corn stalks
bit at shins and ankles,
and a white scream tore open
the sky,
punctuating his respite from
immortality.

There, in that yard,
the boy talked to a girl through the dark,
while cicadas sang
for inattentive stars,
on a too-cold summer night,
on a dew-damp wooden bench,
secure that nothing so rude as the dawn
could ever disturb them.

It's all gone now.
The field and the yard remain,
but what do they matter?
Where is the storm, and the girl,
and the too-cold summer night?
I meant to come home,
but instead have become one,
hosting these specters and smiles
in the world that I keep.

Keep in Dawn All Things Between

A change unseen,
yet changed indeed;
the moment itself
went unperceived.
A shift, not fade,
from black to grey;
the sun, still sunk,
foreshadows the day.

First rays still soft
and indirect,
preserve night eyes
and skin neglect,
and keep in dawn
all things between
what we remember,
and what we dream

The Tipping Point

It is no small thing to move to a new city and to get your head around it.  I have tried a few times to write about Barcelona, but I couldn't quite find my voice.  I know have written plenty about the places I've visited since I've started this blog, but this isn't a place I am visiting; I have moved my life here.

La Sagrada Famlia!  I have seen this once now, accidentally,
on my way to and from a bar (Photo Credit).

The problem of having a job in a new city...is that you have a job in a new city.  You are always fucking working.  You are in a totally different mindset, and unlike traveling, you cannot always find the time to experience the fullness of the city right away.  It is frustrating that in many ways, people who have visited Barcelona for a week (hell, a long weekend) know the city better than I do, even though I have lived here for months.  This is why I still struggle to answer when people from home ask me some pretty basic things, like:

"What do you normally do there?" 

or 

"What is Barcelona like?"  

The answer to the first question is probably a disappointment, because the expectation is that living in a foreign place, I will also be doing very foreign things.  But really, what I do is go to work and come home, tired, wanting to relax, and thinking about dinner.  Sometimes I go to the gym.  Glamorous, I know.  The answer to the 2nd question is usually a generic "It's cool!" because, well, it does seem to be a cool city.  But I lack in specifics because when I do get free time, it is very much still an exploratory process.  Far more often than finding or doing something cool in the city, I am confused about where exactly I am and the curmudgeon that lives inside me speaks up to wonder why I am in this new and distant restaurant or bar when there are plenty of other good ones that I already know about and are closer to where I live.

This was my metro stop when I first arrived to the city.  It is a
testament to Barcelona that the mundane aspects of my day
can look like this.

But there is a tipping point.  The longer you stay in a place, the more that place bleeds into your routines, and the more it will begin to populate your thoughts with its features and landscape.  I no longer look forward to going for a run.  I look forward to going for a run with my girlfriend, Jess, along the boardwalk in Barceloneta at sunset.  I don't ask for a Durum Kebap and a beer at the Doner place by my apartment anymore, but rather the waiter will ask me, "So, a chicken Durum and an Estrella?" when I sit down.  And when I stick my nose into my book on the bus/metro ride home, it is a new series of stops, starts, dings, and announcements that provide the cadence for whatever adventures, tales, ideas, or histories I am reading.

There is a deeper understanding of a city, country, or culture that comes with more time spent there, and it will begin to change you.  Slowly at first, and then all at once.  "How has this happened?" you will ask, "Was it the place?"  Yes, it was the place.  You have come to know this place in ways that a tourist cannot, and this broadening of your world cannot be undone. It has changed the way you see things.  "Was it the people?" you will extend.  Yes, it has most certainly also been the people.  The people are the best part, and will stay with you forever.  It has already become, in fact, impossible to separate the people and the place.  They reside in the same parts of your mind.  "Was it me?" you will lastly inquire.  Yes, it was above all else you.  Because in order for this to have occurred, you must have let it.  This is the hard part, because some places can be pretty weird.  And scary.  This doesn't mean you have become weird and scary (though it's a distinct possibility), just that you have come to accept a place for what it is, without your own expectations distorting it.

And then a funny thing happens: you will hear the same questions about the city as before, and you will still have a hard time answering.  "What is it like there?" people will ask.  "Where do I begin?" you will say.

I can feel it happening.