To Live By Our Own Gumption

Dear The United States of America,

Hey there.  How are you doing?  You've been getting a little weird lately with your new boyfriend Donald, but that's not what I'm here to write about.  The more I try to stand in your way, the more you'll just be drawn to him, so I have to step back and trust you for now.  

There is a saying that goes something like, "You don't know your own language until you know another," and that is true of countries and cultures, too.  My last five years in Ecuador and Spain have made me truly appreciate you.  I know I talk a lot about how much I have enjoyed my time abroad, and I know that I have just left once again, but I wanted to let you know just how important you are to me.  

First and foremost, you contain all of these people that I love.  You are seriously just littered with them, and you have so extravagantly lain them about that I could spend all of my time just bouncing around from coast to coast.  The rest of the world has been thrilling and fascinating to discover, but it's quite large, and thinly populated with people that I know and care about personally.  I'm sure there are a lot more wonderful people out there, but trying to find all of them can be exhausting.  For every exciting new encounter, there are at least 10 lonesome and frustrating stretches of stagnation, no matter how much I seem to be moving around.  

Javi, responsible for coining the title of this
post

This past year back in Maryland was not a year of firsts, but it was a year of first-in-awhiles.  For example, it was the first real winter that I've had in 6 years.  Not only that, but we were fully snow-bombed at the end of January, and it reminded me of what a communal event a blizzard can be.  Everyone was watching the weather, buying too many groceries, and exchanging knowing glances with friends and strangers alike.  And as it turns out, 100% of cashiers are aspiring meteorologists.  By the time 3 feet of powder had hushed and blanketed Walkersville, I had watched The Martian with my mom and step dad, gorged on black bean soup with tortilla chips, twice, and thrown on all of my mountain gear to hike less than a mile to a friend's house with a bottle of wine and some bourbon.  The parallel universe inside of Call of Duty is still recovering.  On my walk (okay, stupor) back home the next day, I learned that at some point in my absence, everyone, EVERYONE, had bought a snowblower.  The sidewalks were better than the roads, and I couldn't help grinning at how the whole neighborhood was outside and interacting, with a European casualness, as if Spain had stopped by to ironically say hello through inclement weather.  

You are never too old for building snow ramps!

And even before that, there was Ethel's wedding.  Where do I begin with that one?  My sister's wedding was not the first wedding I've been involved with, but it does mark the first time that after months of thoughtful and meticulous planning and preparation, a hurricane swept through and totally destroyed almost every detail, save for the participants.  I would like to stress that I am not being figurative here.  A fucking hurricane hit fucking Delaware on the fucking weekend of Ethel's fucking outdoor wedding.  In October.  On 3 days notice, we had to find a new venue and alter every single catering arrangement that had been made for 150 people, and do so with flooding and tidal highway closures.  By "we" I mean mostly my sister Joy, but still it was all hands on deck.  It was stressful, and crazy, and new shit was going down every 5 minutes.  And I wouldn't have missed it for the world.  

Expectations of an outdoor wedding by the beach

Reality

So, America, why have I left?  Partly, it's because for a time, I have once again chosen to live near those who share some of my recent experiences.  People who will, shuddering with laughter, describe the time that they, too, accidentally ordered and ate raw shrimp.  Or horse.  Who are likely to have also spent an entire day walking around town and gesticulating for "bed sheets" in the dullest game of public charades imaginable.  Or who, when facing the arbitrary rules set forth by banks, post offices, and vehicular agencies, are okay being left not only with the leisurely question of "why?" but also with urgent and dumbfounding questions of "how the fuck?"  Already in Durres, I seem to have found a pretty good group of these people.  More than any of that, though, my leaving comes down to a simple worldview.

Imagine that someone is offered a job.  For the sake of argument, let's say it's the exact job that they were looking for, and that they feel both very good doing it and very qualified for it.  And now let's imagine the interviewer saying, "As a global service, this is actually a job that you can do from anywhere you want.  Where would you like to work?"  Some people may hear this and say, "Perfect, I'll work from home!"  And why not?  The commute is unbeatable, and the flexibility is a dream.  

Others when prompted with the question, "Where would you like to work?" may instead respond with something in the vein of, "Umm...Mongolia?"  For good or ill, this is my kind of answer.  There is nothing inherently good or bad about either one, it's only that neither group can really fathom why the other doesn't agree with them.  Both groups seem to find their choices obvious, and their explanations superfluous. 

Sunset from my new apartment in Durres

This kind of choice requires us to trust ourselves.  It requires us to live by our own gumption.  The hardest choices are the ones that we cannot explain to the satisfaction of others, yet still seem to feel are right.  I don't mean here that decisions should go unexamined.  Living by your own gumption is about what we do after we have exhausted thought and reflection and still have no clear idea of what we should do next.  It is trying to make the decision that you would make if there were a gun to your head...only there is no gun to your head.  There is only a vaguely familiar voice whispering things that you already know.  Is it the voice of reason, or some sad monologue of fear?  Or the deep, rumbling call for indiscriminate change?  Or the giggle of excitement?  Living by your own gumption is the choice you make once you realize that even delaying a choice is making a choice.  

I guess, America, I am leaving so that I can do it right this time.  Because by choosing this, I don't feel like I necessarily have to lose the closeness that I've rediscovered with friends and family back home.  In my first blog post on here, I described the tug-of-war I have felt between wanting to explore new places and missing people I care about.  I'm beginning to suspect, though, that perhaps I don't have to sacrifice one for the other.  Perhaps there is a way to do this that won't leave me torn.  Perhaps it's just a question of priorities, and of living in a way that keeps people close even when I'm far away.  This is what the voice is whispering to me now, and regardless of whether or not I can pull it off, the only way to know is to try again.  I hope you are doing well, and I will be seeing you very soon.

Sincerely,

Andy


P.S. Seriously though, Donald's no good for you.  Get your shit together.

Cheers to many Sharknadoes still to come.

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?