The Hitchhiker's Guide to Albania Part 3: The Beach at the End of the Universe

Author's note: All stories and other nonsense herein are meant as homage to both Albania and to The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.  I adore them both.  However, I offer my apologies in advance to the former for being a smartass, and to the latter for being a shamelessly inferior exploitation of a classic.  The sections in italics are asides representing (mostly fictional) reference articles from "The Hitchhker's Guide to Albania".  British accents are encouraged.  

Perfectly Normal East
The American expression, "road trip" is frequently used to describe an overland journey made in a private vehicle, but it makes two fundamental assumptions which render it useless in Albania.  First, it presumes the necessity of a road.  Ancillary terms and expressions such as "trail", "goat path", "that reasonably flat stretch over there", and "I think the curb is low enough to drive over" must all be incorporated into the lexicon of the Albanian traveler.  Second, the word, "trip" implies a movement of relatively short duration between two fixed points, designated A and B.  This idea must be wiped completely from one's mind while traveling through this region of the western Balkans.  Anomalies along the space-time continuum are common here, and not even Google can aid the traveler who finds themselves caught unexpectedly in 1894.  Additionally, Point B exists in only a handful of realities that may or may not be one's own, thus calling into question the ability to arrive at one's stated destination.  As a result, the editors of The Hitchhiker's Guide to Albania encourage the substitution of "road trip" with the term, "adventure," and leaving subtleties of tone and eyebrows to do most of the leg work.

Other terms must be discarded as well, but for entirely different reasons.  For example, the Latin term "Manic Purgamentum" is the most common idiom used to describe "the abject inability to enjoy oneself due to a ferocious and all-consuming need to find a toilet."  In such instances, the Romans were also heard to use the phrases, "stercus accit" (shit happens), "nulliam prandium est" (no such thing as a free lunch), and, to the confoundment of etymologists, "non sum pisces" (I am not a fish).  In order to have any kind of expression, however, there must be a corresponding and pervasive experience among the constituents of the language.  Albanian fails this test.  By all observations, there seem to be no coherent regulations regarding inappropriate receptacles for defecation, nor for where one is permitted to stop their car.  Thus, the frenetic search for a roadside bathroom is rendered obsolete, and the phenomenon of Manic Purgamentum remains unknown to the region.  

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The Albanian Car Rental System
Albania has much to discover away from the beaten paths of public transportation, and renting a car makes most of the country accessible for a weekend getaway, even if on less-than-ideal roads.  By late fall last year, Cary and I were feeling brave enough to embark on just such an adventure, and went about learning how to rent a car.  The detailed process is described below:

1) Look for a place that has pictures of cars out front.
2) Show them your driver's license and pay 25 euros in cash for each day that you want the car (credit cards not accepted).
3) Wait 10-100 minutes for the car to be delivered, get in, and drive immediately to a gas station, as only fumes have been left in the tank.

Voila!  Our ticket to the whole country was punched.  Previous experiences with furgons and trains allowed us to skillfully ignore the nagging questions about how this rental system could possibly function, and we threw a bunch of bags and a 6-year-old junior adventurer into the trunk and backseat.  Respectively, of course.

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Roles and Duties of Albanian Adventurers 
A streamlined system with defined responsibilities must be established to return from an Albanian Adventure in mostly the same condition as one left for it.  Some of the basic roles are as follows:

1) The Pioneer: Strictly speaking, "Driver" does not quite cover what is required in order to get around here, and implies far too much control over the situation.  "Pilot" gets a little closer, as one may find potholes large enough to bounce the vehicle momentarily off of the ground.  This must be done calmly and in such a way that lands the automobile still oriented in the proper direction.  Pioneer is the best fit, though, as paths must sometimes be found, forged, or bushwacked, and surprises must be recognized and addressed around each turn.  

2) The Cartography DJ:  Due to the situations described above, the commonly used "Navigator"  falls short for the adventurer who finds themselves in the passenger seat.  "The Map is Not the Territory" is a poignant saying to bear in mind, and it is often advantageous to ignore a map altogether in order to better accept the reality before one's eyes.  Cartography DJs, then, must be constantly creating and comparing mental maps of where the adventurers have been so far versus where they are intending to go.  This skill is sometimes referred to as having "metal boogers", which seem to magnetically pull the team in the right direction.  In addition to literal mapping, they must also plot an appropriate musical playlist of between one and six hours in duration.

3) Junior Adventurer:  The primary responsibilities of this adventurer are to provide comic relief and cuteness.  Overwhelmingly, their time is spent coloring, napping, snacking, and asking if they are there yet.  

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Trip to Kruje
The itinerary for our first Albanian driving adventure was to head to Kruje on the first day, and Mt. Dajti National Park on the second.  Historically, Kruje was an important stronghold for the famous Albanian nobleman and general known simply as Skanderbeg.  Or Skanderbej.  Or, sometimes, Skanderbeu.  Regardless of which one you choose, the guy needs just one name, like Prince, or Madonna.  His regional rockstar status is due to his famous 25-year defense of Albania and the wider Balkans against invading Ottoman Turks in the 15th century, and today his name is found everywhere from city squares to commercial vineyards.  

The castle at Kruje was an embattled and bloody site through much of this conflict, so naturally its leading industry today is selling trinkets to tourists.  Mixed into the more typical shops with shot glasses and refrigerator magnets, though, are some serious antique stores that border on museums.  Many of the "postcards" for sale are vintage photographs from the early 1900s, and the collections of old watches, traditional clothing, compasses, bayonets, and WWII-era military apparel will make you very nervous to touch anything.  Luckily, this will usually be countered by the friendly shopkeepers who will encourage you to touch everything.  I challenge you to get out of there without something that you absolutely don't need.  Cary and I were able to get bargains on a pair of Albanian slippers and 1/3 of a rug, while Willow got a piece of free candy in every place we entered.

Albanian slippers really compliment
Ecuadorian pajama pants.

Part of the walls surrounding Kruje castle

After a little meandering and some lunch with a side of power-outage, we hit the road again.  We were heading to Dajti National Park, with reservations at the conveniently named Hotel Dajti.  We had only a vaguely southeastward notion to follow, but luckily we had our handy Albanian Adventure Pack.

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The Albanian Adventure Pack
Any adventure pack worth its salt must accommodate a wide range of possible trips, and should contain only items that are suitable for planes, trains, ferries, and automobiles alike (sorry knives and lighters).  Typical items include but are not limited to: a towel, toilet paper, wet wipes, granola bars, spices, sunscreen, insect repellent, ponchos, pen and paper, a first aid kit, art supplies, and a wine screw.   

The contents of an Albanian adventure pack, however, should include a few specific items that one might not naturally consider. 

1) One-third of a traditional, loom-woven Albanian rug bought in Kruje.  While the absence of the remaining two-thirds has never been properly explained, one's own portion is quite conveniently sized and may be used as a geometrically unique towel, a festive cape, or a picnic blanket for exactly two and a half people.  

2) A portable speaker so that one may use their phone to listen to more than just the four most popular songs of the moment being played in a loop on Albanian radio.  The Guide strongly recommends to the Cartography DJ the substitution of 90s hits.

3) A phone-charging adaptor for even the shortest of trips, as music plus Google Maps' inability to handle frequent u-turns in a sensible manner can deplete a battery in less than one hour.  

4) A collection of 50 and 100 leke coins for when credit cards and large bills are not accepted, for when ATMs don't work, or for encouraging a junior adventurer to practice diving to the bottom of a hotel pool.

5) Burn cream for when said junior adventurer blisters her hands while serving flaming marshmallows on rocks found by the shore during a camping trip.

6) Headlamps that will be used at least as frequently indoors as out.

7) An Albanian Bingo card (pictured below) for keeping up one's spirits.  

The Albanian adventure pack also has some notable exceptions.  These items are typically thought of as useful, but are rather pointless to carry along in this particular region of the world

1) A can opener.  In a strange turn of convenience, all cans have pop tabs.

2) Coffee.  While instant coffee may be recommended for camping trips, the nationwide average distance between cafes is less than 50 meters.  

3) Travel games.  One is either a) already playing Albanian Bingo, b) cannot safely divert their concentration from pioneering and/or cartography duties, or c) have plenty outside of the window to keep them entertained.  A live goat on the back of a moped near Shkoder, for example.    

4) Flares.  They won't save you, so please just get out of the road.  

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A Day on Mt. Dajti
We reached Hotel Dajti and discovered that the hotels have similar practices to the car rental companies.  You show your ID, pay twenty-five euros per day in cash, and are treated to just a faint whiff of gas left in the room.  From here, our impeccable research told us that in the morning we could easily drive to a cable car that would take us to a scenic overlook.  The attendant at the reception desk had other information, however, and between tips from hotel staff and online research, the locals will almost always prove right.  We were told it was closed for "the season", and indeed it was.  While "the season" remained only vaguely defined, and though November in this region doesn't typically require much more than a stiff windbreaker and a plucky spirit, never underestimate the mere threat of winter to the Albanian psyche.

No matter.  We had all of Sunday set aside for exploring, so we drove into and through the park on our own.  No serious weather was encountered, but as we drove over the mountain and deeper down into the park, much of the road and a few bridges were washed out.  We were alerted to these and other obstacles through a series of yellow signs bearing a simple, yet effective, exclamation point.  Its mental effect was jarring, causing whatever objects or features that followed on the road to be internalized as a scream:  U-TURN!  ROCK!  GOATS!  And so on.  The road proved passable if you went slowly, but each hazard crossed on our descent into the valley raised increasingly legitimate concerns about getting back out, especially if "the season" actually arrived to slicken the path.  Thankfully, it did not. 

At some point in all of this, Willow managed to fall asleep.  Cary and I noticed this only when we got to a clearing and parked the car for a picnic.  We decided to let her keep sleeping while we set up a blanket a little ways down the road.  We found the right spot, spread the food and snacks around, and went back to retrieve Willow.  Rather than needing to rouse her, though, we arrived to find her wide awake and bawling, with tear-streaked chocolate melted all over her mouth, cheeks, and hands.  In her perceived abandonment upon waking, she had quickly found one of her candy bars to dull the pain, and I assume ate at least some of it.  There was nothing in the Albanian Adventure Pack to remedy this.  Luckily, after getting her out of the car, we found the area surrounding our picnic blanket littered with acorns and fallen leaves, and she tasked herself with collecting as many as could fit in the belly of her shirt.  Even the moments of solitary, sugary anguish of just moments before were no match for the unbridled joy she found in collecting (and individually naming) those miscellaneous items of nature.

Those windows are painted on...I have no idea why

Stop. Who would cross the Bridge of Death must answer me
these questions three, ere the other side he see.

Junior adventurer fulfilling her role

GOATS!

Late Fall in Albania

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Macedonian Girl Nuts
Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the of the western spiral mountain range of the Balkans lies a small unregarded lake.  This "Lake Ohrid" finds itself along the migratory path of the Albanian expat community once a year, during the part of their annual cycle in which they are highly social creatures.  They hop in their cars and drive in file to the neighboring country of Macedonia, where they purchase enough spirits to tranquilize a hovercraft full of eels* and dine in groups of no less than fifteen (always insisting they pay individually, to the chagrin of workers in the local service industry).   The weekend is then leisurely passed on boats, in the water, and playing a rather odd game involving silly hats that prompts its participants to consider such hard-hitting questions as whether they would rather never trust their seat, or never trust a fart.  They are a sophisticated lot.

Moreover, there is the recent and curious tale of a small expat cub who quite accidentally came upon the rarest of natural wonders indigenous to the region.  After being sent by her mother on a mission to count as many different plants as she could along the shore, she instead returned bearing two acorn-like objects in the bottom of her bathing suit.  "Look at my girl nuts!"  she innocently proclaimed, having no doubt given them female names and, lacking pockets, placed them inside of her swimwear.  As of the publishing date, the guide's research department confirms that this is the last known sighting of the elusive Macedonian Girl Nuts.

* Bingo!

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The Beach at the End of the Universe
We returned safely home to Durres from that weekend excursion to Kruje and Dajti, and explored many other places in and around the country during the year and a half that followed.  However, the trip that most captured the spirit of an Albanian adventure was our journey to the Cape of Rodon that same winter.  According to the map, the cape is located less than 40 kilometers up the coast from Durres, but getting there required us to take a very circuitous route on the highway that would have tripled the distance.  Being in the mood to ignore the advice of Google in favor of a direct route, we decided to forego the map entirely and just keep the sea on our left.  

In hindsight, this plan was obviously doomed to comical failure, but we were filled with the confidence of a crisp Saturday morning.  We drove north out of Durres along a main-ish road, which beyond city limits evaporated into a 2-track path, which soon after narrowed into a 1-track suggestion, which then concluded abruptly at a chain-link fence.  We turned and followed the fence to its end, where we spotted a decent-looking road on the other side of a creek bed.  Gingerly, we coaxed and sweet-talked our rented Toyota Yaris over the rocks and divots of the dried-up stream, and drove a few kilometers to the entrance of a wood.  To this day I'm not sure if the road really continued through this forest or if the trees were just conveniently spaced, but either way, we drove on through to more and more implied pathways.

Hours passed, with Cary providing tunes and following her metal boogers, until reluctantly we consulted our phones to bail us out.  This was a mistake, though, since what we most needed at this point was a place to stay, and Google insisted on many options that were either closed for "the season", still not completed, or outright imaginary.  By this time it was getting dark, and we had been treading the same road, back and forth, for over an hour.  We had passed a restaurant called "Fishland" 6 times, which as it turns out is exactly the number of times it takes to evolve from a joke into a realistic option.  

Finally, enough was enough, and we stopped at a giant "Hotel-Bar-Car Wash-Restaurant-Pizzeria-Gas Station" thing that we had been actively avoiding in hopes of staying in a place that was maybe a bit more specialized.  Other than the taxidermy in the main lobby (which seriously rattled Willow), it turned out better than we thought.  We showed our IDs, paid 25 euros, and enjoyed our slightly gassy residence for the night.  We went downstairs to check out their dinner options and despite advertising both a pizzeria and a restaurant, there were only two menu options: pizza with meat and pizza without meat.  The type of meat was never clarified.  After eating we retired to our room, drank a little bit of wine (juice for Willow), and laid down for some long-awaited sleep.  The coffee was naturally on point the next morning, and we got an early start, finally reaching the Cape of Rodon in the daylight.

It was like someone had photoshopped every natural possibility into a single field of vision. 

For me, this has epitomized my experience here: nothing goes as planned, which is fun at first, but then frustration begins to loom just before I'm smacked right in the face by something beautiful.  Sometimes it's snow-capped mountains towering over the Adriatic Sea, alerting me to the fact that "the season" might be a real thing.  Sometimes it's the goofy, stumbling exchanges in broken English and my terrible Albanian, leading to a serious case of the giggles with a stranger.  Sometimes it's a 6-year old bringing me her Macedonian Girl Nuts from the shore of Lake Ohrid.  You just never know, but I'm glad I'm still around for awhile longer to see what will happen the next time I grab my Albanian Adventure Pack and hit the road.  Or path.  Or whatever.  

Communist-era bunkers fortifying the beach

A pick axe is not recommended for the
Albanian Adventure Pack

A repeat visit to the Cape of Rodon
the following spring

The path to the fortress

Totally comfortable nap

Will they stop this time?

Yes they will :)

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?