I've been back in Chico for a month now, and have taken some time to be quiet and reflect on everything that I saw and experienced during my month on the road. I've rested, adjusted to life in a new house with new roommates, a new job at a wine shop, and a new schedule that for the first time in many years does not include homework, major deadlines, or term papers. Its been a strange, somber month.
One thing has been interrupting my quietude, however, and that is a man who pushes a shopping cart down the gravel alley next to my bedroom windows early in the morning, rifles through recycling bins, and screams Tourettes-like obscenities at an indecent hour. In the house we joke about him sometimes, imitate his yells, bitch about the rude awakenings. But he's quite an efficient recycling system, and is one of many cogs in the wheel of Chico standard transients. For such a small town, there are an outlandish number of homeless and broken-down people here. Maybe the park and general liberal aura of the place make for an ideal location to be without a permanent residence? Jobs are very hard to find in Chico, given the college student population and seasonal influx of business. I don't know, these are rambling thoughts about a growing epidemic that I've been watching unfold in Chico over the last decade or so. The point is, today it got to me.
I saw Tourettes-Man shuffling with his cart down the street, and recognized him instantly. He's huge, a hulk of a man, and always wears the same dark dingy gray jacket, torn green sweater, shabby white-ish shoes, and ripped charcoal pants. His hair is a mess, in his face, which is red, and today I was close enough (through my window) to notice that his hands were huge and ragged looking, gloves nowhere in sight, knuckles raw from digging through recycling and being consistently subjected to the cold. And speaking of cold, today it is downright chilly in Chico. A bad day to be homeless, a rough week to make a living by collecting cans outside. Its Sunday. Day of rest. Day of football, or reading, or family. Not day of scrounging empty PBR cans for pennies.
As I watched him push his cart slowly down the block, heading toward another alleyway, I realized that he wasn't screaming obscenities, and he wasn't growling. His cart wasn't even that full. And this feeling of sadness took over, uncontrollably, and I thought back to my first blog post here, about the woman named Karen in Berkeley who had inspired me to write for the first time, who stayed in my mind throughout my entire roadtrip, who forced me to realize how unbalanced and unfair life can be, yet how being grateful for the small things can make a huge difference. And without thinking I ran outside and followed the hulk in gray down the block and into an alley.
I probably wasn't thinking clearly, but it all happened anyway. I came up behind him and said, "Excuse me..."
He turned around, and to my surprise his face was younger than I thought it would be. I half-expected him to either yell at me or ignore me, maybe to abandon cart and run, or to attack me.... and he looked at me with clear eyes above swollen red cheeks, and said, "Yeah?"
I took off my scarf, a bright red wool plaid number, folded it up, and said, "I don't have much, but I saw you walking, and its cold out here." Great first line Chrisanna, real intelligent. Pretty sure he knows its cold out. I of course followed it up with some more blabber. "Plus everybody needs something bright and red. Here."
I shoved my scarf in his big hands, he stared at it, then said softly, "Thanks, I appreciate it." Thats it. No yelling. No obscenities. I turned around and walked away. I got three steps before the same urge that had come over me with Karen came over me again, and I couldn't leave well enough alone. "Whats your name?"
"Uh... Edmund."
He had to pause and think about it. Not that he was making it up, but I'd be willing to bet that nobody had asked him that in a very long time. He didn't ask my name, but I offered it anyway.
"I'm Chrisanna, I live down the street, and I see you around a lot. I just thought... that I'd say hello. And... I hope the scarf works for you. Have a nice day, Edmund."
I walked away toward the end of the alley, and tears started forming in my eyes. The look on his face while he searched his brain for his name and held my soft plaid scarf in his giant hands was killing me. As I rounded the corner I looked back, and Edmund was wrapping my scarf around his neck very carefully. It looked so incongruous with his gray and green ensemble that I had to smile. It never looked that good on me.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Sunday, November 1, 2009
The Rules of the Road
Tomorrow marks a month on the road, and also signifies my return back to Chico, California. I'm taking a few minutes to reflect on what I've learned (from a cheap hotel room in Elko, Nevada). What follows is a list of my observations on traveling through the US alone, in search of... something.
1. Sunsets are beautiful, and they are different in every state. They are distracting, and worthwhile. I've taken photographs of the sun setting every chance I've had, and no two are alike. If you're lucky enough to catch one, outside of your own playground, take the time to pause and watch.
2. When a yellow and black sign announces deer as a possibility on a highway, believe it. Tonight, whiled driving through the Pequops Pass in eastern Nevada, I saw the sign, ignored it, then looked up and saw a buck in my lane 20 feet ahead, and somehow managed to swerve and only sideswipe its nose with my driver's side mirror. Deer (and other indigenous North American animals) ain't no joke. We are in their way, it's not the other way around. And they wreak havoc on cars. Just ask my rearview mirror.
3. Roadside attractions are important. Part of this imagined society we live in (The United States, all 50 of them, have you seen them?) is based on common social norms and fictitious bonds. We do not share the same beliefs or value systems state to state, we have different views on important issues such as political parties, religion, gun rights, the environment, and so on... but stop and check out the funny stuff along the national highway system (and off the beaten path). It will make you feel both grateful and disgusted to belong to this country, but either way, you can say you were there.
4. To get authentic food, you must leave the highway. To get beyond Subway, Taco Bell, Kentucky Fried Chicken, or McDonalds, chuck the GPS and get out a paper map.
5. The best traveling tools a girl could ever ask for (besides the GPS) are:
a. Cruise Control
b. Her own pillow (hotel room pillows really do suck.)
c. Earplugs
d. Running shoes
e. A stash of good beer (desperate times call for desperate measures.)
f. A car cell phone charger
g. An air broadband USB modem (shameless plug -- Verizon can pay me now.)
h. A smile and an open mind
6. You probably think you think you live in the coolest town in the best state, and its probably true. But that doesn't mean that other areas don't have something to offer, and if you concentrate on just getting through places to end up somewhere, you'll miss the beauty of it all. Open your eyes.
7. Watch out for old people and farmers. Neither should be on the road, and when they are, they are ssllllloooooowwwww (and are potentially more dangerous than deer). A wise friend once told me, "watch out for the old guy in the hat." Yep.
8. Dress up. The cool thing about traveling through parts of the country unfamiliar is that you are unfamiliar. Go with it. Sometimes I pull over and change my clothes or put on a hat or blue tights or cat-eye sunglasses or a tutu just because I can, and when people smile at me (yes, I know they're laughing), it makes all the difference. "You ain't from around here, is you?" Nope. Enjoy it.
9. Listen to local radio stations, check out local commercials, read billboards, and follow local norms. Assimilating is fun, and you might just learn something.
10. Parts of Nevada are beautiful. But Wyoming has no redeeming qualities. At all.
11. Take pictures, document, and remember. But not pictures of you in front of a statue or pictures that you know will go on facebook: photos of life as it happens, places and people in situ. Cause you don't know when you'll see it again.
1. Sunsets are beautiful, and they are different in every state. They are distracting, and worthwhile. I've taken photographs of the sun setting every chance I've had, and no two are alike. If you're lucky enough to catch one, outside of your own playground, take the time to pause and watch.
2. When a yellow and black sign announces deer as a possibility on a highway, believe it. Tonight, whiled driving through the Pequops Pass in eastern Nevada, I saw the sign, ignored it, then looked up and saw a buck in my lane 20 feet ahead, and somehow managed to swerve and only sideswipe its nose with my driver's side mirror. Deer (and other indigenous North American animals) ain't no joke. We are in their way, it's not the other way around. And they wreak havoc on cars. Just ask my rearview mirror.
3. Roadside attractions are important. Part of this imagined society we live in (The United States, all 50 of them, have you seen them?) is based on common social norms and fictitious bonds. We do not share the same beliefs or value systems state to state, we have different views on important issues such as political parties, religion, gun rights, the environment, and so on... but stop and check out the funny stuff along the national highway system (and off the beaten path). It will make you feel both grateful and disgusted to belong to this country, but either way, you can say you were there.
4. To get authentic food, you must leave the highway. To get beyond Subway, Taco Bell, Kentucky Fried Chicken, or McDonalds, chuck the GPS and get out a paper map.
5. The best traveling tools a girl could ever ask for (besides the GPS) are:
a. Cruise Control
b. Her own pillow (hotel room pillows really do suck.)
c. Earplugs
d. Running shoes
e. A stash of good beer (desperate times call for desperate measures.)
f. A car cell phone charger
g. An air broadband USB modem (shameless plug -- Verizon can pay me now.)
h. A smile and an open mind
6. You probably think you think you live in the coolest town in the best state, and its probably true. But that doesn't mean that other areas don't have something to offer, and if you concentrate on just getting through places to end up somewhere, you'll miss the beauty of it all. Open your eyes.
7. Watch out for old people and farmers. Neither should be on the road, and when they are, they are ssllllloooooowwwww (and are potentially more dangerous than deer). A wise friend once told me, "watch out for the old guy in the hat." Yep.
8. Dress up. The cool thing about traveling through parts of the country unfamiliar is that you are unfamiliar. Go with it. Sometimes I pull over and change my clothes or put on a hat or blue tights or cat-eye sunglasses or a tutu just because I can, and when people smile at me (yes, I know they're laughing), it makes all the difference. "You ain't from around here, is you?" Nope. Enjoy it.
9. Listen to local radio stations, check out local commercials, read billboards, and follow local norms. Assimilating is fun, and you might just learn something.
10. Parts of Nevada are beautiful. But Wyoming has no redeeming qualities. At all.
11. Take pictures, document, and remember. But not pictures of you in front of a statue or pictures that you know will go on facebook: photos of life as it happens, places and people in situ. Cause you don't know when you'll see it again.
Colorado
I tried to tour Colorado University at Boulder. Really, I did.
Let me start at the beginning. On Tuesday I was enjoying a hike and cookies with a friend in western Nebraska, when I got a call from my sister in Denver, where I was planning on heading the next morning. She said I should think about heading there sooner, like NOW, because a snowstorm was quickly approaching and that if I waited to leave until the morning, I'd get caught in it. So after arguing (I really don't understand the ways of snowstorms), I gave in and packed up. As I drove into Wyoming, the sky turned strangely light. I turned onto I-25 South, heading toward Denver, and immediately the heavens opened up, dumping rain all over the place like someone had popped a water balloon. It took only three hours to get to Denver from Nebraska, but in that short time winter hit. As I parked my car in Denver and ran up to my sister's door, fat snowflakes began to fall, mixing with the rain and forming a cold, miserable sleet. Huh, who knew my sister would be right?!
We spent the next few days basically snowed in. I eyed my car suspiciously (something about the California Malibu buried under two feet of snowdrifts looked like a cruel joke), we played card games, watched movies, drank beer, and laughed. All in all, a jolly time. All of the schools in the Denver area, including CU Boulder, were closed. But my sister (and the weathermen) promised me that by the weekend it would be 50 degrees and sunny. Ok then, I thought, let's see what Colorado has in store. After the storm.
I set out to tour the university, which was the entire reason for my visit (aside from some sisterly love). But I swear a conspiracy was in the works: CU Boulder made it damn near impossible to do. Lets begin with the tour. In order to reserve a spot for a campus tour, one has to create an online account with the university. Here are the options: Freshman undergraduate, or Transfer undergraduate. Well, I do not fit into either of those categories, so I emailed the school to see if graduate students were allowed to attend tours.
Two days after the campus reopened, an admissions representative responded to my email, and said that she had reserved a tour spot for me, all I had to do was show up on Saturday morning at 10:30 am, park in the visitor's lot for free, and be about my business. The tour was to begin in the main student union building on campus. Easy enough, right?
She neglected to mention that Saturday was homecoming at CU Boulder, and that the big football game between the Buffs and Mizzou was taking place on campus, kickoff scheduled for 11:30 am. So that visitor's parking lot? Aside from being full, required $20 cash to park in. Uh, no. I am cheap. And was mildly irritated, by that point. So my sister and I drove to "The Hill," the college-town residential neighborhood, and parked fo' free. And hiked to campus. All the while calling CU Boulder information lines to find out the admissions telephone number so we could inform them that we were on our way but running late, since we had encountered MILES of football game traffic leading to their very door, but alas, nobody answers at CU Boulder on a Saturday. (We later learned they were all at the game.)
Once we found the building we were supposed to be in, although already a bit late, we rushed inside, silenced our phones, and prepared to be wowed. Wait.... nope. The receptionist informed us that the tour was actually taking place in another building across the street and down the block. Ok. So we finally found the place, rushed up to the door, double-checked our phones, prepared to be wowed, and.... nope. The doors were locked. Oh, we could hear people talking inside, and could even see the hand-written tour sign, but could not actually get in.
So we snuck around the building and found an unlocked side door, which led us through a maze of janitor's closets, stairwells, locked offices, and so on. By this point we were giggling and laughing and yelling (mildly), trying to figure out where the hell to go for the promised tour. We stopped short when a short, dark-haired woman with a thick southern accent informed us that she was in the middle of giving the pre-tour information session to about 50 prospective students, and that the entire room of highschoolers and their CU-gear clad parents had been able to hear all of our escapades. We politely informed her that the doors had been locked and we had damn near broken into the place trying to find her, and oh were we so glad we had!
"Ha'ave a seat, then."
Yes ma'am. We then listened to the last ten minutes of the pre-tour information session, which outlined the cost of attendance, admissions guidelines, and housing information requisite for attending CU Boulder. Not a word on graduate studies, off-campus housing, or academic programs. During the presentation a giant bug landed on me, my sister sat googling graduate tuition fees, and the parents in the room shuffled anxiously because the power point was cutting it pretty damn close to kick-off time. As I shrieked at the obviously man-eating insect, my sister announced that she couldn't find any helpful information on CU's website whatsoever, and furthermore, was starting to think that maybe this wasn't the place for me.
I agreed. But I tried. Why? Because I love Colorado. I enjoy every minute I've ever spent in Denver. I have wonderful memories of family reunions amidst snow-capped mountains and rocky outcroppings. Despite the massive dumping of snow, Denver has the most sunny days of any US city (over 300 per year). My sister was married in Boulder, and the place is sweet: a college town in the mountains, cyclists and hippies, the Pearl Street Mall (which is where we fled to for lunch and beer after deciding on the spot NOT to get divided up into tour groups and snuck out the way we'd come instead). I could live happily in Colorado. But I will not give CU Boulder the benefit of being the reason I end up there: the anthropology program is weaker than the others I've been looking at, and 75% of the reason I looked into it at all was my sister's proximity. Do I want to settle? No. Besides, their football team blows.
(The traditional running of the "Buff" up to the CU Boulder stadium was, admittedly, entertaining to watch.)
Aside from the CU fiasco, I had a marvelous time in Colorado. The snow is treacherous but beautiful, Denver is full of cool stuff to do, and the state possesses a unique feel that is like nowhere else. I took many chilly walks through snow-covered neighborhoods, explored the layers of culture and community, and am happy that I stayed long enough to reconnect with the place. And that I got there early enough to beat the storm.
Let me start at the beginning. On Tuesday I was enjoying a hike and cookies with a friend in western Nebraska, when I got a call from my sister in Denver, where I was planning on heading the next morning. She said I should think about heading there sooner, like NOW, because a snowstorm was quickly approaching and that if I waited to leave until the morning, I'd get caught in it. So after arguing (I really don't understand the ways of snowstorms), I gave in and packed up. As I drove into Wyoming, the sky turned strangely light. I turned onto I-25 South, heading toward Denver, and immediately the heavens opened up, dumping rain all over the place like someone had popped a water balloon. It took only three hours to get to Denver from Nebraska, but in that short time winter hit. As I parked my car in Denver and ran up to my sister's door, fat snowflakes began to fall, mixing with the rain and forming a cold, miserable sleet. Huh, who knew my sister would be right?!
We spent the next few days basically snowed in. I eyed my car suspiciously (something about the California Malibu buried under two feet of snowdrifts looked like a cruel joke), we played card games, watched movies, drank beer, and laughed. All in all, a jolly time. All of the schools in the Denver area, including CU Boulder, were closed. But my sister (and the weathermen) promised me that by the weekend it would be 50 degrees and sunny. Ok then, I thought, let's see what Colorado has in store. After the storm.
I set out to tour the university, which was the entire reason for my visit (aside from some sisterly love). But I swear a conspiracy was in the works: CU Boulder made it damn near impossible to do. Lets begin with the tour. In order to reserve a spot for a campus tour, one has to create an online account with the university. Here are the options: Freshman undergraduate, or Transfer undergraduate. Well, I do not fit into either of those categories, so I emailed the school to see if graduate students were allowed to attend tours.
Two days after the campus reopened, an admissions representative responded to my email, and said that she had reserved a tour spot for me, all I had to do was show up on Saturday morning at 10:30 am, park in the visitor's lot for free, and be about my business. The tour was to begin in the main student union building on campus. Easy enough, right?
She neglected to mention that Saturday was homecoming at CU Boulder, and that the big football game between the Buffs and Mizzou was taking place on campus, kickoff scheduled for 11:30 am. So that visitor's parking lot? Aside from being full, required $20 cash to park in. Uh, no. I am cheap. And was mildly irritated, by that point. So my sister and I drove to "The Hill," the college-town residential neighborhood, and parked fo' free. And hiked to campus. All the while calling CU Boulder information lines to find out the admissions telephone number so we could inform them that we were on our way but running late, since we had encountered MILES of football game traffic leading to their very door, but alas, nobody answers at CU Boulder on a Saturday. (We later learned they were all at the game.)
Once we found the building we were supposed to be in, although already a bit late, we rushed inside, silenced our phones, and prepared to be wowed. Wait.... nope. The receptionist informed us that the tour was actually taking place in another building across the street and down the block. Ok. So we finally found the place, rushed up to the door, double-checked our phones, prepared to be wowed, and.... nope. The doors were locked. Oh, we could hear people talking inside, and could even see the hand-written tour sign, but could not actually get in.
So we snuck around the building and found an unlocked side door, which led us through a maze of janitor's closets, stairwells, locked offices, and so on. By this point we were giggling and laughing and yelling (mildly), trying to figure out where the hell to go for the promised tour. We stopped short when a short, dark-haired woman with a thick southern accent informed us that she was in the middle of giving the pre-tour information session to about 50 prospective students, and that the entire room of highschoolers and their CU-gear clad parents had been able to hear all of our escapades. We politely informed her that the doors had been locked and we had damn near broken into the place trying to find her, and oh were we so glad we had!
"Ha'ave a seat, then."
Yes ma'am. We then listened to the last ten minutes of the pre-tour information session, which outlined the cost of attendance, admissions guidelines, and housing information requisite for attending CU Boulder. Not a word on graduate studies, off-campus housing, or academic programs. During the presentation a giant bug landed on me, my sister sat googling graduate tuition fees, and the parents in the room shuffled anxiously because the power point was cutting it pretty damn close to kick-off time. As I shrieked at the obviously man-eating insect, my sister announced that she couldn't find any helpful information on CU's website whatsoever, and furthermore, was starting to think that maybe this wasn't the place for me.
I agreed. But I tried. Why? Because I love Colorado. I enjoy every minute I've ever spent in Denver. I have wonderful memories of family reunions amidst snow-capped mountains and rocky outcroppings. Despite the massive dumping of snow, Denver has the most sunny days of any US city (over 300 per year). My sister was married in Boulder, and the place is sweet: a college town in the mountains, cyclists and hippies, the Pearl Street Mall (which is where we fled to for lunch and beer after deciding on the spot NOT to get divided up into tour groups and snuck out the way we'd come instead). I could live happily in Colorado. But I will not give CU Boulder the benefit of being the reason I end up there: the anthropology program is weaker than the others I've been looking at, and 75% of the reason I looked into it at all was my sister's proximity. Do I want to settle? No. Besides, their football team blows.
(The traditional running of the "Buff" up to the CU Boulder stadium was, admittedly, entertaining to watch.)
Aside from the CU fiasco, I had a marvelous time in Colorado. The snow is treacherous but beautiful, Denver is full of cool stuff to do, and the state possesses a unique feel that is like nowhere else. I took many chilly walks through snow-covered neighborhoods, explored the layers of culture and community, and am happy that I stayed long enough to reconnect with the place. And that I got there early enough to beat the storm.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
A note on traveling through fringe societies.
On Monday morning, as I drove across the state of South Dakota heading west toward the Nebraska/Wyoming border, and after visiting the "World's Only Corn Palace" in Mitchell, I was decidedly sick of the interstate system and veered off course. I chose to do this part of the journey the old-fashioned way, with a paper map and general direction. I turned off the GPS and chose roads that looked small and interesting. This is how I wound up in Pine Ridge, a Lakota-Sioux Indian Reservation, located near the southern South Dakota state border. I showed up in Pine Ridge unannounced, uninvited, and unwelcome.
You hear about Indian Reservations in books and on the news, primarily because of the casinos, alcoholism, poverty, and federal feuds. I have to say I'd never ventured into such a place before, and am not sure that I shall again.
I knew something was different long before I reached the town's only gas station. Stray dogs were literally walking along the streets, cars and trucks were missing windows and headlights, houses (shacks and shanties) leaned sideways and sagged under disintegrating roofs. A man riding in the bed of the rusty pickup truck in front of me stared at me for a good ten miles... I couldn't break his gaze, and he never smiled.
When I tried to park my car at the Shell station at the junction of Highway 18 and Road 87 (the newest building in town), I got stares and jeers. There was no parking system, just stop and get out. Inside the restroom signs were in Lakota, not English. When I got to the register to pay for some water, the clerk's smile faded, and she dropped my change on the counter instead of in my open palm. The weather-beaten faces of old Sioux men and women met mine as I walked through the building (which doubles as a restaurant, indoor seating area, meeting hall, and post office). I was a stranger, a minority (by about 150 to 1), and an unsettling, untrustworthy sight on a Monday afternoon.
I wanted desperately to take photographs, to talk to people, to get at the gist of the Pine Ridge history and existence, but didn't dare. I'd need an interpreter, for starts, and furthermore a big pair of balls and a friend or two. I have no doubt that the residents of Pine Ridge are good people, obviously hardworking, and honest. But they have been placed in one of the most rural, remote, and marginalized spots in the country, and life there cannot be easy. To them, I represented the other, the co-signer of the land deed on the rest of the country. Not an ally.
I hate to admit this, but I got out of the reservation as fast as I could. Little children with beautiful brown faces watched me go, I swerved to avoid hitting dogs, and precariously maneuvered between haphazardly parked late-70s model vehicles. I turned off the radio and was silent for a good hour after hitting the Nebraska border, just thinking.
(Although I did not take pictures in Pine Ridge, others have, and a google image search for "Pine Ridge SD" yields some pretty interesting stuff.)
You hear about Indian Reservations in books and on the news, primarily because of the casinos, alcoholism, poverty, and federal feuds. I have to say I'd never ventured into such a place before, and am not sure that I shall again.
I knew something was different long before I reached the town's only gas station. Stray dogs were literally walking along the streets, cars and trucks were missing windows and headlights, houses (shacks and shanties) leaned sideways and sagged under disintegrating roofs. A man riding in the bed of the rusty pickup truck in front of me stared at me for a good ten miles... I couldn't break his gaze, and he never smiled.
When I tried to park my car at the Shell station at the junction of Highway 18 and Road 87 (the newest building in town), I got stares and jeers. There was no parking system, just stop and get out. Inside the restroom signs were in Lakota, not English. When I got to the register to pay for some water, the clerk's smile faded, and she dropped my change on the counter instead of in my open palm. The weather-beaten faces of old Sioux men and women met mine as I walked through the building (which doubles as a restaurant, indoor seating area, meeting hall, and post office). I was a stranger, a minority (by about 150 to 1), and an unsettling, untrustworthy sight on a Monday afternoon.
I wanted desperately to take photographs, to talk to people, to get at the gist of the Pine Ridge history and existence, but didn't dare. I'd need an interpreter, for starts, and furthermore a big pair of balls and a friend or two. I have no doubt that the residents of Pine Ridge are good people, obviously hardworking, and honest. But they have been placed in one of the most rural, remote, and marginalized spots in the country, and life there cannot be easy. To them, I represented the other, the co-signer of the land deed on the rest of the country. Not an ally.
I hate to admit this, but I got out of the reservation as fast as I could. Little children with beautiful brown faces watched me go, I swerved to avoid hitting dogs, and precariously maneuvered between haphazardly parked late-70s model vehicles. I turned off the radio and was silent for a good hour after hitting the Nebraska border, just thinking.
(Although I did not take pictures in Pine Ridge, others have, and a google image search for "Pine Ridge SD" yields some pretty interesting stuff.)
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Football, Firearms, Farming, and Family. Welcome to America.
I stayed in Iowa for a few days longer than I thought I would, and finally wrenched myself away from old friends and familiar faces to head out to the next stop: South Dakota. I reached the tiny town of Madison on Saturday night, after a day of giggling at billboards and contemplating landscapes. My friends in South Dakota welcomed me and gave me a warm place to sleep... and also taught me a few lessons in how to be a good guest in a strange place. I stayed for two days, then moseyed on to Scottsbluff, Nebraska, where I applied these skills again (and had a wonderful time doing so).
Life in places like South Dakota and Nebraska moves just a bit more slowly. People take their time to answer questions (if not to pass judgment), they value tradition and methodical progress, see nothing wrong with fried foods and light beer. There are some things that just can't be argued against, namely guns and God, and ideas that are simply foreign, such as locking one's house or recycling. (These are pointless arguments, trust me.) Football is next to godliness, and hunting is a far more reputable sport than running or biking. Nobody apologizes for their way of life, and if you don't like it, to hell with you. And oh, do rural folks have a sense of humor!
Do NOT drop your small animal friends off here.
I literally did a U-turn on the highway for this one. Golden.
Carhenge is just funny.
The Husker House and the Bears Crib, respectfully.
But there are also strong senses of family and community, and I witnessed these first-hand in both places. People take care of each other without asking questions, family or not. On the way to Scottsbluff, while listening to Nebraska Public radio, I learned that because of record wet weather and cold fronts, farmers are behind in harvests by upwards of a month. Corn is usually harvested by the first of November, and some people are now just hoping to get corn and sugar beets (the top cash commodities in western Nebraska) out by Christmas. I mentioned this to a farmer I know in Scottsbluff, and he said, "Yeah, as a matter of fact the Hoffs have to get their beets out by tomorrow or else they'll lose them all 'cause of the snow storm that's hittin' Wednesday. I'm goin' out to help 'em in the morning."
I invited myself to go along and see this community thing in action, which is how I found myself on a sugar beet farm on County Road D early on Tuesday morning. It was freezing, the ground was soaked, and I figured there would be a few combines and trucks.... No. Four families had shown up to help the Hoffs get their sugar beets out of their last twenty acres by the end of the day, and combines were lining up in the field, semi trucks were standing by to haul the harvest off to the plant, and people were smiling through frosty air and with a red-cheeked, can-do attitude. I watched for close to an hour, and left knowing that the Hoff family would be alright this year, and hoping that the other farm families in the area would be as fortunate.
Git 'er done!
As heavy clouds began to roll in, people began to warn me about the snow storm, and I took heed. A parting shot of western Nebraska: goodbye and good luck. Until next time....
Life in places like South Dakota and Nebraska moves just a bit more slowly. People take their time to answer questions (if not to pass judgment), they value tradition and methodical progress, see nothing wrong with fried foods and light beer. There are some things that just can't be argued against, namely guns and God, and ideas that are simply foreign, such as locking one's house or recycling. (These are pointless arguments, trust me.) Football is next to godliness, and hunting is a far more reputable sport than running or biking. Nobody apologizes for their way of life, and if you don't like it, to hell with you. And oh, do rural folks have a sense of humor!
Do NOT drop your small animal friends off here.
I literally did a U-turn on the highway for this one. Golden.
Carhenge is just funny.
The Husker House and the Bears Crib, respectfully.
But there are also strong senses of family and community, and I witnessed these first-hand in both places. People take care of each other without asking questions, family or not. On the way to Scottsbluff, while listening to Nebraska Public radio, I learned that because of record wet weather and cold fronts, farmers are behind in harvests by upwards of a month. Corn is usually harvested by the first of November, and some people are now just hoping to get corn and sugar beets (the top cash commodities in western Nebraska) out by Christmas. I mentioned this to a farmer I know in Scottsbluff, and he said, "Yeah, as a matter of fact the Hoffs have to get their beets out by tomorrow or else they'll lose them all 'cause of the snow storm that's hittin' Wednesday. I'm goin' out to help 'em in the morning."
I invited myself to go along and see this community thing in action, which is how I found myself on a sugar beet farm on County Road D early on Tuesday morning. It was freezing, the ground was soaked, and I figured there would be a few combines and trucks.... No. Four families had shown up to help the Hoffs get their sugar beets out of their last twenty acres by the end of the day, and combines were lining up in the field, semi trucks were standing by to haul the harvest off to the plant, and people were smiling through frosty air and with a red-cheeked, can-do attitude. I watched for close to an hour, and left knowing that the Hoff family would be alright this year, and hoping that the other farm families in the area would be as fortunate.
Git 'er done!
As heavy clouds began to roll in, people began to warn me about the snow storm, and I took heed. A parting shot of western Nebraska: goodbye and good luck. Until next time....
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Old America, now Middle America.
There are several conclusions I've come to over the last few weeks of travels:
1. I have a thing for old cities, for small towns, and for small towns that used to be old cities. These places are found in the Midwestern United States, mostly along important rivers like the Mississippi and the Platte. These places are now rural ghost towns, and empty buildings stand like statues or sentries watching guard over the now sleepy residual residents. Faint outlines of emblems on their sides tell the history, like Steel Works, or Hotel, or Button Factory. Railroads always intersect in these places, and old men and women in small frame houses regale travelers with stories of glories past; presidents who stayed, legislation won, natural disasters that spelled the end of a way of life, and progress that will surely lead to utter despair. New development in these towns is both rare and abhorrent, and even I shake my head when I pass a franchise restaurant going in where a legendary town saloon used to be. Housing prices are, and will forever be, unimaginably low; but then, so will wages. There is no homelessness in small towns, where the cost of living is low enough that ideals like community, family, and perseverance actually matter and work.
2. There are certain places that haunt my memory, and most of these are in the middle of the country. The states of Iowa and Nebraska both hold a special place in my heart, and I find myself continually revisiting them and revising my thoughts on them. There are demons that must be exorcised, dragons that must be slain, and memories that cannot be quieted, all lurking in dark corners of small Midwestern towns whose streets I have spent more time on than I care to fully remember. These are dream streets, labeled county roads, and they lead to understated buildings and quiet people. They have not changed, but I have. These old places at once frustrate me and fascinate me. They intrigue me and scare me. They will be here when I am not, they call me back despite the fact that I seek more. I sleep well in the Midwest. I've trudged through snow up to my knees, and have sweltered in the humid summer. The sky turns green and yellow before a storm in the Midwest, and I've yet to see that occur elsewhere. My friends and family accept me here quietly, warmly, yet with a sense of wariness. These towns are full of Pontiacs and Wal-Marts, heavy clouds and Methodists. Yet they are beautiful, and if you blink back tears, it's possible to miss them entirely.
3. I am at a halfway point in my travels, and keep thinking that a sunset or a long drive down an empty road will clear my mind, but instead the opposite is taking place. My thoughts are muddled and my values shaken. There is so much to see, so much to do, and so much heartbreaking beauty in this country. I've thought of several avenues of anthropological research on this trip, including truck stops, regional food, roadside attractions, national parks, and historical points of interest. I can't shake the feeling that sometimes the best, most interesting things, are found in one's own backyard.... and by taking the time to explore this country, some of my faith in America, old and new, has been restored.
The Mississippi River runs through Muscatine, Iowa, formerly an industrial city famous for a button factory and luxury hotels along the riverfront. The town now specializes in processing corn for animal feed, and the hotels have all closed. Tourism stopped here a long time ago.
Railroads are often more well-maintained than roads in the Midwest, as they connect freightways from the east coast to the west. More rail cars than passenger cars pass through this area daily.
Corn, the primary cash commodity in the midwest, damn near glows in the morning sun. Miles upon miles of.... corn.
On a beautiful autumn day in the Midwest, the absolute best way to spend time is on a swing under showers of falling red and gold leaves, wrapped in a sweater with hot coffee in hand. Deep breath....
1. I have a thing for old cities, for small towns, and for small towns that used to be old cities. These places are found in the Midwestern United States, mostly along important rivers like the Mississippi and the Platte. These places are now rural ghost towns, and empty buildings stand like statues or sentries watching guard over the now sleepy residual residents. Faint outlines of emblems on their sides tell the history, like Steel Works, or Hotel, or Button Factory. Railroads always intersect in these places, and old men and women in small frame houses regale travelers with stories of glories past; presidents who stayed, legislation won, natural disasters that spelled the end of a way of life, and progress that will surely lead to utter despair. New development in these towns is both rare and abhorrent, and even I shake my head when I pass a franchise restaurant going in where a legendary town saloon used to be. Housing prices are, and will forever be, unimaginably low; but then, so will wages. There is no homelessness in small towns, where the cost of living is low enough that ideals like community, family, and perseverance actually matter and work.
2. There are certain places that haunt my memory, and most of these are in the middle of the country. The states of Iowa and Nebraska both hold a special place in my heart, and I find myself continually revisiting them and revising my thoughts on them. There are demons that must be exorcised, dragons that must be slain, and memories that cannot be quieted, all lurking in dark corners of small Midwestern towns whose streets I have spent more time on than I care to fully remember. These are dream streets, labeled county roads, and they lead to understated buildings and quiet people. They have not changed, but I have. These old places at once frustrate me and fascinate me. They intrigue me and scare me. They will be here when I am not, they call me back despite the fact that I seek more. I sleep well in the Midwest. I've trudged through snow up to my knees, and have sweltered in the humid summer. The sky turns green and yellow before a storm in the Midwest, and I've yet to see that occur elsewhere. My friends and family accept me here quietly, warmly, yet with a sense of wariness. These towns are full of Pontiacs and Wal-Marts, heavy clouds and Methodists. Yet they are beautiful, and if you blink back tears, it's possible to miss them entirely.
3. I am at a halfway point in my travels, and keep thinking that a sunset or a long drive down an empty road will clear my mind, but instead the opposite is taking place. My thoughts are muddled and my values shaken. There is so much to see, so much to do, and so much heartbreaking beauty in this country. I've thought of several avenues of anthropological research on this trip, including truck stops, regional food, roadside attractions, national parks, and historical points of interest. I can't shake the feeling that sometimes the best, most interesting things, are found in one's own backyard.... and by taking the time to explore this country, some of my faith in America, old and new, has been restored.
The Mississippi River runs through Muscatine, Iowa, formerly an industrial city famous for a button factory and luxury hotels along the riverfront. The town now specializes in processing corn for animal feed, and the hotels have all closed. Tourism stopped here a long time ago.
Railroads are often more well-maintained than roads in the Midwest, as they connect freightways from the east coast to the west. More rail cars than passenger cars pass through this area daily.
Corn, the primary cash commodity in the midwest, damn near glows in the morning sun. Miles upon miles of.... corn.
On a beautiful autumn day in the Midwest, the absolute best way to spend time is on a swing under showers of falling red and gold leaves, wrapped in a sweater with hot coffee in hand. Deep breath....
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Traffic, Tapas, and Torpedo Ladybugs: Chicago.
On Monday I drove to Chicago to get a feel for the city and tour the University of Chicago. The Anthropology program is chock-full of prestigious faculty and big names, and I had to see the place for myself. Plus, the city is one of the oldest in the country, full of history and things to do. And, rumor has it, beautiful in the fall.
Let me begin with the ladybugs. I have always considered myself an advocate for peace where creatures are concerned, but have since changed my views with regard to ladybugs. Turns out that fall in the midwest is ladybug season, and they are vicious. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. They divebomb, swoop, cling, hide, and bite. Ladybugs bite, did you know that? They loiter around doorways and sneak into vehicles, they land in hair and stick to the back of jeans. They chatter and click their wings and gnash their teeth and crawl..... I literally saw grown men and women ducking for cover from torpedo-like ladybug attacks. I am starting a new awareness program and support group, Sane People Again Ladybugs. SPAL. Has a nice ring to it.
Small but mean, like penguins. Trust me on this one. Don't let 'em fool you.
Ladybugs aside, Chicago was cool. And I mean cool: 60 degrees and windy as hell. But the sun was shining, and fall was in the air. Chicago is a city full of culture and sights, and the red leaves and old brick buildings provide a perfect backdrop. I can see why people love the place. The University of Chicago is one monstrously impressive thing, ivied walls and spires that are at once imposing and impressive. Traffic delayed my day and I ended up missing the scheduled tour of the campus, but wandered around on my own anyway just to get a feel.
And I felt.... overwhelmed. And underdressed. The busy academics hustling past me in blazers and tweeds did not look like they were having a good time. At all. The air stank of knowledge and scholarly pursuit, of silver spoons and Good 'Ol Boys. About midway through a self-guided tour I had a vision of myself attempting to go to school there, and laughed out loud at the thought of me spazzing out and jumping from statue to statue going ape-shit on sport jackets and loafers. Impressive and important and wonderful as a niche place in the world of higher education, yes, but the right place for me? Uh, no.
My day in Chicago did prove to be a pivotal point in my travels, however: the downtown traffic and massive sprawl of the windy city finally convinced me to order a talking GPS navigation system on my cell phone. As I sat in my car trying to figure out what direction I was facing, I realized I was about to either cave to technology or freak out and start doing that ape-shit thing on an unsuspecting midwestern city. So as the nice lady at Verizon talked me down, I sucked it up and paid the $9.99 data connection fee in the hopes of instant gratification via hand-held guidance. And that decision, folks, probably saved my life (or my sanity). As I crawled through miles of backed-up traffic over snow-riddled bumpy roads on the 90 Expressway toward a Spanish tapas bar in Lincoln Park, the GPS soothingly told me to "Exit right in 500 feet", and I thought to myself, now this is living.
Traffic in Chicago, as in most cities, is rough. And loud. The infamous Elevated Train system roars overhead, while potholes send cars careening wildly through narrow lines of spiraling freeways that seem unending. My sources tell me that there is decent public transportation to be had, but in my short voyage I learned the pure kernel of truth at the heart of American industry and expansion: the car is king. And of all of the bi-products of the automobile, I'm not sure which is more deadly, the air pollution or the feeling of absolute crabbiness that takes hold while sitting in line for twenty minutes for an exit that is a mere 500 feet away.
But alas, I did make it to my dinner appointment on time, which was tapas in a Lincoln Park restaurant called Cafe Ba Ba Reeba, with a woman I'd never met, Mary, who is actually my cousin and proved to be very cool. She gave me hope and inspiration, and the conversation, hospitality, and warm comfort of little Spanish sausages more than made up for the traffic. But all good things end: after dinner I stopped into the Marquee Lounge for a local brew (as this has been a dedicated part of the research along this investigative national tour), and as I swatted vicious ladybugs out of my way while trying to duck into the doorway, the bartender yelled, "Watch out, they bite!" Tell me about it.
Let me begin with the ladybugs. I have always considered myself an advocate for peace where creatures are concerned, but have since changed my views with regard to ladybugs. Turns out that fall in the midwest is ladybug season, and they are vicious. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. They divebomb, swoop, cling, hide, and bite. Ladybugs bite, did you know that? They loiter around doorways and sneak into vehicles, they land in hair and stick to the back of jeans. They chatter and click their wings and gnash their teeth and crawl..... I literally saw grown men and women ducking for cover from torpedo-like ladybug attacks. I am starting a new awareness program and support group, Sane People Again Ladybugs. SPAL. Has a nice ring to it.
Small but mean, like penguins. Trust me on this one. Don't let 'em fool you.
Ladybugs aside, Chicago was cool. And I mean cool: 60 degrees and windy as hell. But the sun was shining, and fall was in the air. Chicago is a city full of culture and sights, and the red leaves and old brick buildings provide a perfect backdrop. I can see why people love the place. The University of Chicago is one monstrously impressive thing, ivied walls and spires that are at once imposing and impressive. Traffic delayed my day and I ended up missing the scheduled tour of the campus, but wandered around on my own anyway just to get a feel.
And I felt.... overwhelmed. And underdressed. The busy academics hustling past me in blazers and tweeds did not look like they were having a good time. At all. The air stank of knowledge and scholarly pursuit, of silver spoons and Good 'Ol Boys. About midway through a self-guided tour I had a vision of myself attempting to go to school there, and laughed out loud at the thought of me spazzing out and jumping from statue to statue going ape-shit on sport jackets and loafers. Impressive and important and wonderful as a niche place in the world of higher education, yes, but the right place for me? Uh, no.
My day in Chicago did prove to be a pivotal point in my travels, however: the downtown traffic and massive sprawl of the windy city finally convinced me to order a talking GPS navigation system on my cell phone. As I sat in my car trying to figure out what direction I was facing, I realized I was about to either cave to technology or freak out and start doing that ape-shit thing on an unsuspecting midwestern city. So as the nice lady at Verizon talked me down, I sucked it up and paid the $9.99 data connection fee in the hopes of instant gratification via hand-held guidance. And that decision, folks, probably saved my life (or my sanity). As I crawled through miles of backed-up traffic over snow-riddled bumpy roads on the 90 Expressway toward a Spanish tapas bar in Lincoln Park, the GPS soothingly told me to "Exit right in 500 feet", and I thought to myself, now this is living.
Traffic in Chicago, as in most cities, is rough. And loud. The infamous Elevated Train system roars overhead, while potholes send cars careening wildly through narrow lines of spiraling freeways that seem unending. My sources tell me that there is decent public transportation to be had, but in my short voyage I learned the pure kernel of truth at the heart of American industry and expansion: the car is king. And of all of the bi-products of the automobile, I'm not sure which is more deadly, the air pollution or the feeling of absolute crabbiness that takes hold while sitting in line for twenty minutes for an exit that is a mere 500 feet away.
But alas, I did make it to my dinner appointment on time, which was tapas in a Lincoln Park restaurant called Cafe Ba Ba Reeba, with a woman I'd never met, Mary, who is actually my cousin and proved to be very cool. She gave me hope and inspiration, and the conversation, hospitality, and warm comfort of little Spanish sausages more than made up for the traffic. But all good things end: after dinner I stopped into the Marquee Lounge for a local brew (as this has been a dedicated part of the research along this investigative national tour), and as I swatted vicious ladybugs out of my way while trying to duck into the doorway, the bartender yelled, "Watch out, they bite!" Tell me about it.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
24 Hours in the South
I spent Friday and Saturday driving through East Texas, Arkansas, Tennessee, Mississippi, and Missouri. Easily the strangest day of my life. Why? Because I listened to public radio, football radio, country stations, Spanish stations, and Christian talk radio for the entire voyage, just to get a taste. Why else? Because the southern part of the great United States is just.... different.
For starts, towns are named for hybrids. I spent hours searching for the one Chase Bank in Texarkana, and filled up on on gas in Arkidelphia. Signs outside of these towns advertised things like, "Arkidelphia. A good place to call home." I basically giggled my way through these stops.
I decided to spend the night in Memphis, as it was a halfway point. Earlier in the day I had reserved a hotel room, sight unseen, at the cheapest place I could find. After getting completely turned around on the Memphis freeway system and backtracking across the Mississippi River a couple times (by the way, Memphis has a unique version of the arch going on. Its a double arch, but not as low or distinctive as McDonalds', and not as nice as St. Louis's, but rather in the abstract shape of an M, well lit and visible even between road construction cones and overgrown shrubbery), I finally found my exit. Let's discuss this.
I have had several brilliant ideas in my life, and consider myself a general maker of wise decisions. Booking a hotel in South Memphis without reading customer reviews may not have been one of them. When I pulled into the "Colonial Inn" lot and had to drive through barbed wired liquor stores to get to the lobby, I began to get a funny feeling in my stomach. Hungry? Yes. Scared? Yes. Worried? Uh, yes. The nice Pakistani girl in the lobby unlocked the doors for me after verifying my id through the bullet-proof glass windows of the lobby, checked me in very briefly, and said through gritted teeth, "Enjoy your stay ma'am!" Ok.
I had to find food. Several days of parking my car in Austin had done my cooler in, and rations were running short. On my way out of the hotel parking lot I had to stop to turn right, and a rap at my window surprised me (a bit jumpy at this point). A young black man kept knocking on my window, and through the glass and over the roaring Chevy engine I could hear him saying, "Hey! Open up! Hey! Lady!"
Against my better judgment, I rolled down my passenger window, and kept my hand on the gear shift, and began to reach for my mace (yes, I'm strapped). What came out of his mouth then was what I least expected.
"You want some tamales? They's hot!"
"Tamales?"
"Yeah, girl, they's hot! Ohhhh, girl, wait, where you from?"
"California."
"You know yer a long way from home? But these tamales is hot! A dolla' a piece."
Ok, I was starving after a long day of driving, and I began to see him as an angel in disguise. Yes, I wanted tamales, hot or not, and it sounded better than wandering around Memphis all over again to find food. I gave him three dollars and waited, still in the parking lot of my hotel.
What I received doesn't actually count as tamales, but instead as good ol' comfort food. Greasy cornmeal rolled around shreds of beef (I think), with a bit of spice, and enough oil to soak through foil AND paper towels. No cornhusks to be found, but instead they were taquito-sized rolls in waxed paper. Oh well. I thanked him kindly and as he was asking for a telephone number, hit reverse and backed into my hotel parking space. Memphis tamales. Now I've had them.
I actually slept well, and decided to head north instead of east on Saturday. A girl is entitled to change her mind. So I backtracked through Arkansas, after a brief dip into Mississippi just to say I was there, and up north through Missouri.
I've developed this theory that one way to really know a city or state is to listen to its radio selections. This theory comes in handy when an anthropologist has listened to all of her own music at least twice through, is completely bored, and is ready for something else. In any case, Saturday turned out to be college football day in Arkansas, and I caught up and kept up on all of the SEC scores. Then I caught up on Repubican/Jesus talk radio, as there is an abundance of it in the south. I knew I needed coffee when I'd listed to countless country songs in a row and was even bobbing my head to the banjo beat....
Enough. Midway through Missouri I saw a sign for wine tasting. Ahem. Wine tasting, in Missouri, just off of I-55 North. Ok then. I turned off the radio and focused on the signage. This is how I ended up at Cave Winery in St. Geneveieve, Missouri, on a Saturday afternoon.
The wine was decent (who knew?), and moreover, the backdrop was absolutely gorgeous. Turns out Missouri in the fall was exactly what I had been looking for when I thought it would be lovely to travel in October. Turning leaves, red and gold, chilly air and friendly people. Decent wine, and $5 tastings. Missouri turned out to be the best distraction of the day, you heard it here first.
I eventually made it to my final stop for the night, Muscatine, Iowa. I'll be in the midwest for the next week or two. But in defense of south, although it's a strange place to spend time, "Southern Hospitality" is a real thing. Lovely, even, at times. Different, yet beautiful, and worth experiencing.
For starts, towns are named for hybrids. I spent hours searching for the one Chase Bank in Texarkana, and filled up on on gas in Arkidelphia. Signs outside of these towns advertised things like, "Arkidelphia. A good place to call home." I basically giggled my way through these stops.
I decided to spend the night in Memphis, as it was a halfway point. Earlier in the day I had reserved a hotel room, sight unseen, at the cheapest place I could find. After getting completely turned around on the Memphis freeway system and backtracking across the Mississippi River a couple times (by the way, Memphis has a unique version of the arch going on. Its a double arch, but not as low or distinctive as McDonalds', and not as nice as St. Louis's, but rather in the abstract shape of an M, well lit and visible even between road construction cones and overgrown shrubbery), I finally found my exit. Let's discuss this.
I have had several brilliant ideas in my life, and consider myself a general maker of wise decisions. Booking a hotel in South Memphis without reading customer reviews may not have been one of them. When I pulled into the "Colonial Inn" lot and had to drive through barbed wired liquor stores to get to the lobby, I began to get a funny feeling in my stomach. Hungry? Yes. Scared? Yes. Worried? Uh, yes. The nice Pakistani girl in the lobby unlocked the doors for me after verifying my id through the bullet-proof glass windows of the lobby, checked me in very briefly, and said through gritted teeth, "Enjoy your stay ma'am!" Ok.
I had to find food. Several days of parking my car in Austin had done my cooler in, and rations were running short. On my way out of the hotel parking lot I had to stop to turn right, and a rap at my window surprised me (a bit jumpy at this point). A young black man kept knocking on my window, and through the glass and over the roaring Chevy engine I could hear him saying, "Hey! Open up! Hey! Lady!"
Against my better judgment, I rolled down my passenger window, and kept my hand on the gear shift, and began to reach for my mace (yes, I'm strapped). What came out of his mouth then was what I least expected.
"You want some tamales? They's hot!"
"Tamales?"
"Yeah, girl, they's hot! Ohhhh, girl, wait, where you from?"
"California."
"You know yer a long way from home? But these tamales is hot! A dolla' a piece."
Ok, I was starving after a long day of driving, and I began to see him as an angel in disguise. Yes, I wanted tamales, hot or not, and it sounded better than wandering around Memphis all over again to find food. I gave him three dollars and waited, still in the parking lot of my hotel.
What I received doesn't actually count as tamales, but instead as good ol' comfort food. Greasy cornmeal rolled around shreds of beef (I think), with a bit of spice, and enough oil to soak through foil AND paper towels. No cornhusks to be found, but instead they were taquito-sized rolls in waxed paper. Oh well. I thanked him kindly and as he was asking for a telephone number, hit reverse and backed into my hotel parking space. Memphis tamales. Now I've had them.
I actually slept well, and decided to head north instead of east on Saturday. A girl is entitled to change her mind. So I backtracked through Arkansas, after a brief dip into Mississippi just to say I was there, and up north through Missouri.
I've developed this theory that one way to really know a city or state is to listen to its radio selections. This theory comes in handy when an anthropologist has listened to all of her own music at least twice through, is completely bored, and is ready for something else. In any case, Saturday turned out to be college football day in Arkansas, and I caught up and kept up on all of the SEC scores. Then I caught up on Repubican/Jesus talk radio, as there is an abundance of it in the south. I knew I needed coffee when I'd listed to countless country songs in a row and was even bobbing my head to the banjo beat....
Enough. Midway through Missouri I saw a sign for wine tasting. Ahem. Wine tasting, in Missouri, just off of I-55 North. Ok then. I turned off the radio and focused on the signage. This is how I ended up at Cave Winery in St. Geneveieve, Missouri, on a Saturday afternoon.
The wine was decent (who knew?), and moreover, the backdrop was absolutely gorgeous. Turns out Missouri in the fall was exactly what I had been looking for when I thought it would be lovely to travel in October. Turning leaves, red and gold, chilly air and friendly people. Decent wine, and $5 tastings. Missouri turned out to be the best distraction of the day, you heard it here first.
I eventually made it to my final stop for the night, Muscatine, Iowa. I'll be in the midwest for the next week or two. But in defense of south, although it's a strange place to spend time, "Southern Hospitality" is a real thing. Lovely, even, at times. Different, yet beautiful, and worth experiencing.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Why Austin Rocks!
I had heard a good many things about Austin, Texas, before exploring the scene for two days. After driving for too long across Texas I decided to go on driving strike, booked a hotel room downtown for two nights, and parked the Mali-boo. I did the whole city on foot, which felt great.
First things first: Sixth Street, the historical and famed "Live Music Capital of the World," lived up to its name. I counted no less than fifty bars and music venues in essentially a six block radius. Martini bars, neon bars, shot bars, wine bars, rum bars, blues bars, jazz bars, sports bars, death metal pizza bars, breweries, dive bars, and the list goes on. I frequented several (in the name of thorough research), and I'll admit here openly that Austin done did me in. Shakespeare's Pub serves good, dark, local Austin beer in Ken Grossman's patented etched Sierra Nevada pint glasses! The Texas Embassy serves only Texas beer and Texas food, and overlooks the Red River (a misnomer, as it is really a brown creek that winds between lush greenery). The neon bar had a special, $1 for any shot of any liquor. Austin, my friends, is a dangerous place. And a musical one: entire lanes are devoted to musician loading-and-unloading only. Live music every single night of the week, with about thirty choices each night? Yes. Sold.
Next: The University of Texas is absolutely gorgeous. Stately white-walled buildings, marble floors, old tarnished oak staircases, fountains and statues, art museums, gallery space both indoors and out, hills and trees, happy students, and enough school pride to make you damn near ecstatic. I found myself really hoping that the Longhorns beat the Sooners on Saturday just so all of those orange-and-white clad folks will have something to cheer about. Note: the hand signal for the Longhorns is the same as the international sign for "I'm rockin' out right now." Meant to symbolize the mascot's horns, but more appropriately symbolizing Austin itself. Go Texas.
The fountain at the main building, in front of the liberal arts complex.
The student gym and aquatic center, free for use seven days a week, backs up to the Longhorns Stadium.
Rock on, Austin.
Finally, the culture of the place is incredibly surprising, given its location in the heart of one of the reddest states in the entire country. I had to test it out. Hence I found myself at at "Texcentric" live vaudeville show at Esther's Follies on Thursday night. I tell you that it has been quite a while since I've laughed so hard at anything. The emcee came on stage wearing a massive cowboy hat and strumming a guitar, and I thought, what the hell have I gotten myself into? But the entire performance was organized around Texas stereotypes, southern habits, current events, pop culture, and quick-witted jabs at everyone from Bush and Patsy Cline to faceook and match.com. Loved it. You must see this for yourself to believe.
Austin does have some downfalls (namely, the humidity). But overall the place is great, the people are friendly, the culture is phenomenal, the BBQ is to die for, and as I was leaving, a gray sky and cool breeze confirmed my suspicions: I'd never thought I'd say this, but I could see myself in Texas.
First things first: Sixth Street, the historical and famed "Live Music Capital of the World," lived up to its name. I counted no less than fifty bars and music venues in essentially a six block radius. Martini bars, neon bars, shot bars, wine bars, rum bars, blues bars, jazz bars, sports bars, death metal pizza bars, breweries, dive bars, and the list goes on. I frequented several (in the name of thorough research), and I'll admit here openly that Austin done did me in. Shakespeare's Pub serves good, dark, local Austin beer in Ken Grossman's patented etched Sierra Nevada pint glasses! The Texas Embassy serves only Texas beer and Texas food, and overlooks the Red River (a misnomer, as it is really a brown creek that winds between lush greenery). The neon bar had a special, $1 for any shot of any liquor. Austin, my friends, is a dangerous place. And a musical one: entire lanes are devoted to musician loading-and-unloading only. Live music every single night of the week, with about thirty choices each night? Yes. Sold.
Next: The University of Texas is absolutely gorgeous. Stately white-walled buildings, marble floors, old tarnished oak staircases, fountains and statues, art museums, gallery space both indoors and out, hills and trees, happy students, and enough school pride to make you damn near ecstatic. I found myself really hoping that the Longhorns beat the Sooners on Saturday just so all of those orange-and-white clad folks will have something to cheer about. Note: the hand signal for the Longhorns is the same as the international sign for "I'm rockin' out right now." Meant to symbolize the mascot's horns, but more appropriately symbolizing Austin itself. Go Texas.
The fountain at the main building, in front of the liberal arts complex.
The student gym and aquatic center, free for use seven days a week, backs up to the Longhorns Stadium.
Rock on, Austin.
Finally, the culture of the place is incredibly surprising, given its location in the heart of one of the reddest states in the entire country. I had to test it out. Hence I found myself at at "Texcentric" live vaudeville show at Esther's Follies on Thursday night. I tell you that it has been quite a while since I've laughed so hard at anything. The emcee came on stage wearing a massive cowboy hat and strumming a guitar, and I thought, what the hell have I gotten myself into? But the entire performance was organized around Texas stereotypes, southern habits, current events, pop culture, and quick-witted jabs at everyone from Bush and Patsy Cline to faceook and match.com. Loved it. You must see this for yourself to believe.
Austin does have some downfalls (namely, the humidity). But overall the place is great, the people are friendly, the culture is phenomenal, the BBQ is to die for, and as I was leaving, a gray sky and cool breeze confirmed my suspicions: I'd never thought I'd say this, but I could see myself in Texas.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
I &hearts Texas
Today I drove from El Paso to Austin. That's only a minor portion of the state, and it took me upwards of eight hours. It was like driving through one big joke book, or like living out all of the funny quotes I've ever heard. The following are some of my observations on thangs.
1. It has become vividly apparent to me that there are no ass-gaskets (toilet seat covers) west of California. They cease to exist long before the great Continental Divide. None to be found even at rest-stops. The reasoning behind this is unclear, because if the rest of the drivers out there are like me, after sitting behind that wheel (especially in the southern sun) for hours at a time, Swamp Butt happens. It just does. So this makes the lack of ass-gaskets particularly unsettling. I should note that this same phenomenon occurred in both Arizona and New Mexico as well, I can't blame it all on Texas. But here I am and bitchin. If I were to move here, that would be the first thing on my list to change.
2. Towns in the southwest, and in Texas in particular, have HILARIOUS names. I passed "Comfort", "Welfare", "Schmittyville", "Old Bastrop", and "Truth or Consequence", just for starters. I really am dying to know what went on in Truth or Consequence for it to acquire said title. Imagine this game. "What'll it be, pardner? Truth? Or consequence?!"
3. I thought "Don't Mess with Texas" was just a saying. But no, the state signage warns against such actions all along the interstate system. There are two warning signs to be had along I-10. One is a happy yellow triangle that says, DRIVE FRIENDLY. Ok, I'll give it a shot. The others are blue triangle signs that say, DON'T MESS WITH TEXAS! $1000 FINE FOR LITTERING! Or some simply say, DON'T MESS WITH TEXAS! WWW.TEXAS.GOV. Whoa, alrighty then. I shan't be messin' with Texas anytime soon, lest I face the consequences....
4. Other signs in Texas are equally as hilarious. For example, I passed a "Share the Road" sign with a minuscule pictogram of what I thought was a bicycle (like in California). Upon further inspection, the "bike" was a rather well-done chopper-style Harley motorcycle. What poor bikers union has mustered up the anger to raise awareness for their right to share Texas roads?! These signs, combined with the DRIVE FRIENDLY instructions, made me wonder what the hell is really going on when Texans are behind the wheel.
5. All along the Texas highway there are trailers with makeshift porches and swingsets, sitting literally maybe fifty feet from the interstate like God chose that spot as the Airstream's resting place ("She lay where Jesus flang her"). There are also feedlots, broken-down-and-junked car lots, vigilante lookout lofts, and signs that advertise Jesus as the REAL SOLUTION, as well as reminders that EMBRYOS ARE LITTLE BABIES!!. I was midway through a giggly conniption when I stumbled across these gems:
Cause this happens often?
Notice that the dog sign is behind the chain-linked fence. Jest throw yer dog on over, Mary, he'll have himseeeelf a bawl!
And we can't forget fireworks! Lordy, are there fireworks. Every truckstop and gas station sells 'em like they's hotcakes. For my folks in California, watch out, Thanksgivin's gonna be fun! Gimme one'a them turkeys, boys, we's gonna light this bitch up! Yeeeee hawwww!
Texas is also full of really classy people. And no helmet laws.
I'd let him take my picture. Wait....
In defense of Texas, the place is beautiful. Rolling hills, mountains, greenery, trees, blue skies and white clouds. It was actually a rather enjoyable journey. The weather is hot like Arizona, but humid and breezy. I made it to Austin this evening and ventured out to the infamous 6th Street area, the live music capital of the world, and was genuinely amazed at the variety of things to do and bars to frequent (in one block I saw a Death Metal Pizza Parlor, a Rum Bar, a Martini Bar, a blues club, a neon bar, Coyote Ugly, Jay Z doing a show, Nico Vega performing, a wine bar, a Tears of Joy hotsauce shop, and three local microbreweries). I could do some damage in this town. Tomorrow I have given myself the day off to tour the University of Texas campus and explore Austin more thoroughly to see if I actually like the place. Today Texas gave me full belly-laughs and good times.... can I stand it for a decade?
1. It has become vividly apparent to me that there are no ass-gaskets (toilet seat covers) west of California. They cease to exist long before the great Continental Divide. None to be found even at rest-stops. The reasoning behind this is unclear, because if the rest of the drivers out there are like me, after sitting behind that wheel (especially in the southern sun) for hours at a time, Swamp Butt happens. It just does. So this makes the lack of ass-gaskets particularly unsettling. I should note that this same phenomenon occurred in both Arizona and New Mexico as well, I can't blame it all on Texas. But here I am and bitchin. If I were to move here, that would be the first thing on my list to change.
2. Towns in the southwest, and in Texas in particular, have HILARIOUS names. I passed "Comfort", "Welfare", "Schmittyville", "Old Bastrop", and "Truth or Consequence", just for starters. I really am dying to know what went on in Truth or Consequence for it to acquire said title. Imagine this game. "What'll it be, pardner? Truth? Or consequence?!"
3. I thought "Don't Mess with Texas" was just a saying. But no, the state signage warns against such actions all along the interstate system. There are two warning signs to be had along I-10. One is a happy yellow triangle that says, DRIVE FRIENDLY. Ok, I'll give it a shot. The others are blue triangle signs that say, DON'T MESS WITH TEXAS! $1000 FINE FOR LITTERING! Or some simply say, DON'T MESS WITH TEXAS! WWW.TEXAS.GOV. Whoa, alrighty then. I shan't be messin' with Texas anytime soon, lest I face the consequences....
4. Other signs in Texas are equally as hilarious. For example, I passed a "Share the Road" sign with a minuscule pictogram of what I thought was a bicycle (like in California). Upon further inspection, the "bike" was a rather well-done chopper-style Harley motorcycle. What poor bikers union has mustered up the anger to raise awareness for their right to share Texas roads?! These signs, combined with the DRIVE FRIENDLY instructions, made me wonder what the hell is really going on when Texans are behind the wheel.
5. All along the Texas highway there are trailers with makeshift porches and swingsets, sitting literally maybe fifty feet from the interstate like God chose that spot as the Airstream's resting place ("She lay where Jesus flang her"). There are also feedlots, broken-down-and-junked car lots, vigilante lookout lofts, and signs that advertise Jesus as the REAL SOLUTION, as well as reminders that EMBRYOS ARE LITTLE BABIES!!. I was midway through a giggly conniption when I stumbled across these gems:
Cause this happens often?
Notice that the dog sign is behind the chain-linked fence. Jest throw yer dog on over, Mary, he'll have himseeeelf a bawl!
And we can't forget fireworks! Lordy, are there fireworks. Every truckstop and gas station sells 'em like they's hotcakes. For my folks in California, watch out, Thanksgivin's gonna be fun! Gimme one'a them turkeys, boys, we's gonna light this bitch up! Yeeeee hawwww!
Texas is also full of really classy people. And no helmet laws.
I'd let him take my picture. Wait....
In defense of Texas, the place is beautiful. Rolling hills, mountains, greenery, trees, blue skies and white clouds. It was actually a rather enjoyable journey. The weather is hot like Arizona, but humid and breezy. I made it to Austin this evening and ventured out to the infamous 6th Street area, the live music capital of the world, and was genuinely amazed at the variety of things to do and bars to frequent (in one block I saw a Death Metal Pizza Parlor, a Rum Bar, a Martini Bar, a blues club, a neon bar, Coyote Ugly, Jay Z doing a show, Nico Vega performing, a wine bar, a Tears of Joy hotsauce shop, and three local microbreweries). I could do some damage in this town. Tomorrow I have given myself the day off to tour the University of Texas campus and explore Austin more thoroughly to see if I actually like the place. Today Texas gave me full belly-laughs and good times.... can I stand it for a decade?
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Bienvenidos a El Paso
This afternoon I called a hostel in El Paso, Texas, to reserve a room for the night. The conversation went like this:
"I guess I need some directions from Interstate 10 East to your place."
"Whale, that depens on whare yer comin' from. Yew know, The Ten goes all the whay from Caleefornia to Florida."
"I'm coming from California, but -"
"Aw, you ain't gon' make it tonight, honey, why don't yew jest give us a call tomorrew when yew get here?"
"No, I'm in New Mexico right now, and am about an hour away."
"Aww! Well, yew jest stay on the ten, and get off on Exit 19, the wone that sez Downtown, then take yer first right, then two blocks up take a left, ye'll be on Franklin. Weee're about four blocks up, right kitty-corner from the Chase Bank. A'chually, yew can can see it from the freeway there. But not from the west, I guess. Which way yew headed again?"
"East."
"Good, then we got a spot fer yew."
I found the Gardner Hotel, which also doubles as an International Hostel, and checked in around 7 pm. I met the man behind the funny talk, who proceeded to give me a set of sheets and dee-rections to dinner and drinks for the night.
"Now ma'am, do you consume alcoholic beverages?"
"Um... Yes."
"Whale, there are four bars on our block, and they might jest be suitable to yew as a woman. Three are gay bars and one is lesbian, that's theeey're choice, not our's."
"Thanks, maybe I'll check them out."
"You goin' to Mexico?"
The Juarez entry point is literally down the block.
"No."
"Well goooood. The food is great, but yew can get that here. The culture is whaaat I worry about. Now listen, for dinner go down the road about eight blocks, weee point south, and yer gonna hit a big ugly sign for 'The Tap.' The decor 'ain't fittin for a woman, but the food is excellent, real authentic, not like whaaat they serve up in Caleefornia. Or Chicago, now there's a Mexican food experience."
I got my sheets and room key, checked out my cell of a place, and thought, damn! My first hostel experience and its in Texas, not even Europe.
Ah well. I changed my shirt (the drive from Phoenix to El Paso did me in), and wandered toward "The Tap."
It turned out to be a straight Mexican bar that happened to serve food, and not even the bartender spoke English. I managed to order a beer (Dos Equis) and some food (a plato con taco, enchilada, and chile relleno), and got a mouthful of some salsa that brought tears to my eyes and made an instant gringa out of me. Wonderful.
And El Paso? Lovely. My hostel window is open, the Texas wind is blowing in, and I'm neither hot nor cold, just content. I'm hoping to go the night without getting a roommate, but since I'm in the female double room there's always a chance. I met some Australian boys in the lobby checking in and noticed them at the same dive for dinner (apparently Mr. El Paso Hostel refers all his folks there), maybe I'll wander around this joint and listen for accents.
Tomorrow, Austin bound. Live music capital of the world, a tour of UT, plus a drive across the state and hopefully some barbeque Texas style. Tonight? Marty Robbins renditions of "Old El Paso" are playing in my dreams....
"I guess I need some directions from Interstate 10 East to your place."
"Whale, that depens on whare yer comin' from. Yew know, The Ten goes all the whay from Caleefornia to Florida."
"I'm coming from California, but -"
"Aw, you ain't gon' make it tonight, honey, why don't yew jest give us a call tomorrew when yew get here?"
"No, I'm in New Mexico right now, and am about an hour away."
"Aww! Well, yew jest stay on the ten, and get off on Exit 19, the wone that sez Downtown, then take yer first right, then two blocks up take a left, ye'll be on Franklin. Weee're about four blocks up, right kitty-corner from the Chase Bank. A'chually, yew can can see it from the freeway there. But not from the west, I guess. Which way yew headed again?"
"East."
"Good, then we got a spot fer yew."
I found the Gardner Hotel, which also doubles as an International Hostel, and checked in around 7 pm. I met the man behind the funny talk, who proceeded to give me a set of sheets and dee-rections to dinner and drinks for the night.
"Now ma'am, do you consume alcoholic beverages?"
"Um... Yes."
"Whale, there are four bars on our block, and they might jest be suitable to yew as a woman. Three are gay bars and one is lesbian, that's theeey're choice, not our's."
"Thanks, maybe I'll check them out."
"You goin' to Mexico?"
The Juarez entry point is literally down the block.
"No."
"Well goooood. The food is great, but yew can get that here. The culture is whaaat I worry about. Now listen, for dinner go down the road about eight blocks, weee point south, and yer gonna hit a big ugly sign for 'The Tap.' The decor 'ain't fittin for a woman, but the food is excellent, real authentic, not like whaaat they serve up in Caleefornia. Or Chicago, now there's a Mexican food experience."
I got my sheets and room key, checked out my cell of a place, and thought, damn! My first hostel experience and its in Texas, not even Europe.
Ah well. I changed my shirt (the drive from Phoenix to El Paso did me in), and wandered toward "The Tap."
It turned out to be a straight Mexican bar that happened to serve food, and not even the bartender spoke English. I managed to order a beer (Dos Equis) and some food (a plato con taco, enchilada, and chile relleno), and got a mouthful of some salsa that brought tears to my eyes and made an instant gringa out of me. Wonderful.
And El Paso? Lovely. My hostel window is open, the Texas wind is blowing in, and I'm neither hot nor cold, just content. I'm hoping to go the night without getting a roommate, but since I'm in the female double room there's always a chance. I met some Australian boys in the lobby checking in and noticed them at the same dive for dinner (apparently Mr. El Paso Hostel refers all his folks there), maybe I'll wander around this joint and listen for accents.
Tomorrow, Austin bound. Live music capital of the world, a tour of UT, plus a drive across the state and hopefully some barbeque Texas style. Tonight? Marty Robbins renditions of "Old El Paso" are playing in my dreams....
A note on Arizona.
I was excited to travel through Arizona, as it's one state I can say I'd never really been before. A layover in Phoenix doesn't count. I said my goodbyes in Santa Barbara on Sunday, and spent a great evening with friends that night in Thousand Oaks (which included dinner in Malibu, a gorgeous beach sunset, and wonderful conversation that I don't believe I'll find anywhere else on this trip). Funny how I have a month to travel, and managed to spend a full week of it in California alone... So on Monday I left my wonderful friends in southern California and all that was familiar and headed east.
My observations about Arizona do not easily congeal into one coherent writing, so I'm going to list them here instead. Somebody please feel free to correct me if I'm wrong.
1. When California ends, the cacti begin. I thought that was just in Wylie Coyote reruns, but no. They really grow that way, and the earth around them is brown and barren except for other sun-worshiping desert plants. And while there are mountains, they are brown and non-descript. I see why Loony Toons chose Arizona as its primary shooting locale; its incredibly easy to duplicate with two crayola colors, burnt umber and sepia.
2. I stayed the night in Phoenix, which is the primary city in Arizona. And the place is like a blob of ink after being dropped on paper accidentally; it spreads out and goes for miles. Tempe, the home of Arizona State University, is only a suburb of Phoenix. Barack Obama gave the commencement speech there last May, which put it on the map. I wonder what he thought of the traffic. Every freeway was being worked on or revamped, streets were wide but unending, parking meters inform one that a quarter buys ten minutes. The Sundevils stadium is a behemoth, and is visible from the I-10 freeway, but beyond that... is a pile of brown (excuse me, burnt umber) dirt that was a hill or will become a hill, depending on whether or not it originated from a freeway construction project.
3. The weather in Phoenix was absolutely gorgeous. Blue skies, white clouds, warm breezes. Quite a change from the damp, salty air of the California coast, or the gray, drizzly smog of LA, or even the crisp, fall breezes of Chico. Hot, dry, and with more where that came from. I sat outside under the Arizona sky for a while after it got dark, and marveled at the fact that I was perfectly warm and comfortable, despite the fact that it's damn near the middle of fall.
ASU: To apply or not to apply?
The answer: Nay.
This morning I was scheduled to tour Arizona State University. I woke up early and drove to Tempe (through freeway construction and accidents), parked (going rate of $12), and wandered toward the campus. I was legitimately lost and asked a nice-looking student where the Student Services Center was located. He said, "Oh, its about 8 blocks up, looks like a giant cupcake". Well thanks so much.
Turns out I walked through the entire campus to get to the point of tour origin, and by the time I'd reached the cupcake building I'd had enough. I had seen all of the buildings I would ever possibly need to use, had observed ASU students trudging to class or basking in the sun, and had officially had it with the October heat. When I reached the tour group I asked them to kindly take my name off of the tour list. Why?
Because I need more seasons than hot and hotter. Because Arizona is particularly bereft of trees. Because soup or hot coffee is WONDERFUL in the fall, and carry a certain sense of excitement and comfort that are necessary for mental well-being. Because the Anthropology program is good, but no better than Santa Cruz's, and Santa Cruz comes with a beach, a forest, and in-state tuition. Because I want an area that I don't HAVE TO drive through to get to school. Because I am not a sun-devil, or sun-worshipper, or sun-goddess. Because fall is my favorite season and the citizens of Arizona have forgotten what it feels like to wear a fabulous coat and a scarf. Because airplanes packed with old people and sun people were incessently flying overhead, delivering their passengers to the Phoenix airport every ten minutes. Because I could hear the drone of their rental cars on the freeway that runs less than 100 yards from the ASU stadium. Because Arizona doesn't require ass-gaskets. Because the cupcake building was pink and totally turned me off.
So I left. I paid my parking fees, and hit I-10 east, destination: Texas.
The one bright spot in Arizona was spending time with Baby Daedi, whom I adore. If I didn't know better, I'd say he takes after me... giggles, but with attitude. We took him to dinner in downtown Tempe on Monday evening. He stole my heart. Daedi, when you grow up.... move out of Arizona.
My observations about Arizona do not easily congeal into one coherent writing, so I'm going to list them here instead. Somebody please feel free to correct me if I'm wrong.
1. When California ends, the cacti begin. I thought that was just in Wylie Coyote reruns, but no. They really grow that way, and the earth around them is brown and barren except for other sun-worshiping desert plants. And while there are mountains, they are brown and non-descript. I see why Loony Toons chose Arizona as its primary shooting locale; its incredibly easy to duplicate with two crayola colors, burnt umber and sepia.
2. I stayed the night in Phoenix, which is the primary city in Arizona. And the place is like a blob of ink after being dropped on paper accidentally; it spreads out and goes for miles. Tempe, the home of Arizona State University, is only a suburb of Phoenix. Barack Obama gave the commencement speech there last May, which put it on the map. I wonder what he thought of the traffic. Every freeway was being worked on or revamped, streets were wide but unending, parking meters inform one that a quarter buys ten minutes. The Sundevils stadium is a behemoth, and is visible from the I-10 freeway, but beyond that... is a pile of brown (excuse me, burnt umber) dirt that was a hill or will become a hill, depending on whether or not it originated from a freeway construction project.
3. The weather in Phoenix was absolutely gorgeous. Blue skies, white clouds, warm breezes. Quite a change from the damp, salty air of the California coast, or the gray, drizzly smog of LA, or even the crisp, fall breezes of Chico. Hot, dry, and with more where that came from. I sat outside under the Arizona sky for a while after it got dark, and marveled at the fact that I was perfectly warm and comfortable, despite the fact that it's damn near the middle of fall.
ASU: To apply or not to apply?
The answer: Nay.
This morning I was scheduled to tour Arizona State University. I woke up early and drove to Tempe (through freeway construction and accidents), parked (going rate of $12), and wandered toward the campus. I was legitimately lost and asked a nice-looking student where the Student Services Center was located. He said, "Oh, its about 8 blocks up, looks like a giant cupcake". Well thanks so much.
Turns out I walked through the entire campus to get to the point of tour origin, and by the time I'd reached the cupcake building I'd had enough. I had seen all of the buildings I would ever possibly need to use, had observed ASU students trudging to class or basking in the sun, and had officially had it with the October heat. When I reached the tour group I asked them to kindly take my name off of the tour list. Why?
Because I need more seasons than hot and hotter. Because Arizona is particularly bereft of trees. Because soup or hot coffee is WONDERFUL in the fall, and carry a certain sense of excitement and comfort that are necessary for mental well-being. Because the Anthropology program is good, but no better than Santa Cruz's, and Santa Cruz comes with a beach, a forest, and in-state tuition. Because I want an area that I don't HAVE TO drive through to get to school. Because I am not a sun-devil, or sun-worshipper, or sun-goddess. Because fall is my favorite season and the citizens of Arizona have forgotten what it feels like to wear a fabulous coat and a scarf. Because airplanes packed with old people and sun people were incessently flying overhead, delivering their passengers to the Phoenix airport every ten minutes. Because I could hear the drone of their rental cars on the freeway that runs less than 100 yards from the ASU stadium. Because Arizona doesn't require ass-gaskets. Because the cupcake building was pink and totally turned me off.
So I left. I paid my parking fees, and hit I-10 east, destination: Texas.
The one bright spot in Arizona was spending time with Baby Daedi, whom I adore. If I didn't know better, I'd say he takes after me... giggles, but with attitude. We took him to dinner in downtown Tempe on Monday evening. He stole my heart. Daedi, when you grow up.... move out of Arizona.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Santa Barbara
Beautiful Santa Barbara. Family and new friends. This is my official resting place before I slingshot off to the rest of the country. Taking a few days to unwind, relax, and rest... I'll make this brief because this comfy bed is calling my name.
Highlights of today:
Lunch and shopping with Aunt Anna. She had those Nordstrom girls hoppin' to help, and we did a lot of damage in an hour flat.
Palm trees and sea air outside of my window, the feeling of no pressure or stress. Ah, I needed this.
Dinner at Birnam Woods in Montecito for a real estate closing party, meeting new folks and engaging in fascinating conversation. Excellent wine, fabulous food, beautiful surroundings, and education/social networking/identity theory mixed with port floats, delectable cheese puffs and a little black dress.
Life is good.
Highlights of today:
Lunch and shopping with Aunt Anna. She had those Nordstrom girls hoppin' to help, and we did a lot of damage in an hour flat.
Palm trees and sea air outside of my window, the feeling of no pressure or stress. Ah, I needed this.
Dinner at Birnam Woods in Montecito for a real estate closing party, meeting new folks and engaging in fascinating conversation. Excellent wine, fabulous food, beautiful surroundings, and education/social networking/identity theory mixed with port floats, delectable cheese puffs and a little black dress.
Life is good.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Artichokes and Highway Robbery: A Day on California Highway 1.
I spent last night in Gilroy, California, at the Gilroy Inn. I was in the mood for something authentic, and the giddy cartoon garlic logo on the sign sucked me in. I'm not sure why I was there, after leaving Santa Cruz on a quest for something less expensive and beyond the Madonna Mountain, but the drive up Highway 152 was gorgeous and it convinced me that I'd made the right choice.
This morning I repeated the drive, back down the beautifully winding 152, which ends in Watsonville. This is a town full of Mexican migrant workers, taquerias, carnecerias, haciendas, and produce stands with names like "Roberto's" and "Delicia's." I stopped to peruse the goods and although I was unable to speak the language, was completely blown away by the prices. A dollar for artichokes? Fifty cents for strawberries?! I realized that prices were low because the produce had been picked right there, and that the going rate was in pace with the going wages. I thought to myself, what a wonderful world Central California is. After visiting a few very Catholic churches and walking through some old migrant cemetaries, I continued my voyage south.
I decided to take Highway 1 because I had time to kill. In any other situation I am the most impatient on-your-ass driver out there, but this time I could afford both the meandering and the inevitable 20 mph dipshit in front of me. I saw a sign for Monterey and thought, what the hell? I have very good memories of clam chowder in bread bowls and strolls through the pier with my family when I was young... plus barking seals. Sold.
The gyst of this story is that my worlds collided at lunch. I chose a somewhat schmi-schmi place on the pier, Rabbo's. I saw at the door that the special of the day was artichokes from Castroville with a garlic Aeoli dip made from Gilroy's finest. Again, sold. I sat, photographed the old people strolling by on the pier outside of my window, sipped a Savignon Blanc, and let my mouth begin to water for the local goodness that was going to arrive on my red-and-white checkered tablecloth at any moment.
What arrived was a cold, hard, obviously steamed-a-week-ago artichoke that had no business claiming it was from anywhere nearby. And when I poked at it suspiciously, the waiter (Mexican by ethnicity, yet attempting some half-assed Italian brogue) asked me what I was looking for. I politely informed him that this wasn't what I had in mind, that I'd thought the food was local and fresh, and damnit, I'd eat it, but what was it, really?
And they charged me eight dollars for one artichoke.
What I should have done was bought up all of Roberto's artichokes and brought them to Monterey and had them steamed. Like a corkage fee of sorts, just line 'em up and do it please, I'll be taking these to go. Rabbo's did Roberto's a massive disservice not only by serving some bullshit on a plate and crediting it to local farmers, but the prices officially count as highway robbery.
Farm workers in California do not make very much money, especially the migrant Mexican ones. Those who go out on a limb and open their own produce stand risk a lot, the least of which is price gouging by larger restaurant chains who want to claim "local authenticity" by purchasing their food and selling it at upwards of an 800% markup. I watched people strolling around Monterey and buying up crap left and right that they will give as gifts or never use, and meanwhile twenty miles away people like Roberto and Delicia scrape by, off the beaten path (less than a mile away from the Highway 1 on-ramp) to feed their families and continue to tend their vegetable patches. California is a fabulously rich place for growing all manner of good things, from rice and beautiful fruits and vegetables to kind marijuana and splendid wine grapes. Yet California is still full of people who are willing to pay prices they shouldn't (or who refuse to pay actual costs of labor) for the luxury of fresh, "local" food and goods.
My cold, old, steamed artichoke and aeoli sat in my stomach as I made my way down Highway 1. The coast is heartbreakingly beautiful, and around every turn I renewed my sense of child-like awe at the mere sight of the Pacific Ocean to my right, the mountains and trees and reeds and stunning expanses to my left. Every so often I passed a real estate sign and paused to wonder at the pricetag of such a location. Could Roberto, who supplies these folks with their daily vitamins and minerals, ever afford the price for a piece of the coast he works so hard to tend?
This morning I repeated the drive, back down the beautifully winding 152, which ends in Watsonville. This is a town full of Mexican migrant workers, taquerias, carnecerias, haciendas, and produce stands with names like "Roberto's" and "Delicia's." I stopped to peruse the goods and although I was unable to speak the language, was completely blown away by the prices. A dollar for artichokes? Fifty cents for strawberries?! I realized that prices were low because the produce had been picked right there, and that the going rate was in pace with the going wages. I thought to myself, what a wonderful world Central California is. After visiting a few very Catholic churches and walking through some old migrant cemetaries, I continued my voyage south.
I decided to take Highway 1 because I had time to kill. In any other situation I am the most impatient on-your-ass driver out there, but this time I could afford both the meandering and the inevitable 20 mph dipshit in front of me. I saw a sign for Monterey and thought, what the hell? I have very good memories of clam chowder in bread bowls and strolls through the pier with my family when I was young... plus barking seals. Sold.
The gyst of this story is that my worlds collided at lunch. I chose a somewhat schmi-schmi place on the pier, Rabbo's. I saw at the door that the special of the day was artichokes from Castroville with a garlic Aeoli dip made from Gilroy's finest. Again, sold. I sat, photographed the old people strolling by on the pier outside of my window, sipped a Savignon Blanc, and let my mouth begin to water for the local goodness that was going to arrive on my red-and-white checkered tablecloth at any moment.
What arrived was a cold, hard, obviously steamed-a-week-ago artichoke that had no business claiming it was from anywhere nearby. And when I poked at it suspiciously, the waiter (Mexican by ethnicity, yet attempting some half-assed Italian brogue) asked me what I was looking for. I politely informed him that this wasn't what I had in mind, that I'd thought the food was local and fresh, and damnit, I'd eat it, but what was it, really?
And they charged me eight dollars for one artichoke.
What I should have done was bought up all of Roberto's artichokes and brought them to Monterey and had them steamed. Like a corkage fee of sorts, just line 'em up and do it please, I'll be taking these to go. Rabbo's did Roberto's a massive disservice not only by serving some bullshit on a plate and crediting it to local farmers, but the prices officially count as highway robbery.
Farm workers in California do not make very much money, especially the migrant Mexican ones. Those who go out on a limb and open their own produce stand risk a lot, the least of which is price gouging by larger restaurant chains who want to claim "local authenticity" by purchasing their food and selling it at upwards of an 800% markup. I watched people strolling around Monterey and buying up crap left and right that they will give as gifts or never use, and meanwhile twenty miles away people like Roberto and Delicia scrape by, off the beaten path (less than a mile away from the Highway 1 on-ramp) to feed their families and continue to tend their vegetable patches. California is a fabulously rich place for growing all manner of good things, from rice and beautiful fruits and vegetables to kind marijuana and splendid wine grapes. Yet California is still full of people who are willing to pay prices they shouldn't (or who refuse to pay actual costs of labor) for the luxury of fresh, "local" food and goods.
My cold, old, steamed artichoke and aeoli sat in my stomach as I made my way down Highway 1. The coast is heartbreakingly beautiful, and around every turn I renewed my sense of child-like awe at the mere sight of the Pacific Ocean to my right, the mountains and trees and reeds and stunning expanses to my left. Every so often I passed a real estate sign and paused to wonder at the pricetag of such a location. Could Roberto, who supplies these folks with their daily vitamins and minerals, ever afford the price for a piece of the coast he works so hard to tend?
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Santa Cruz
I dig Santa Cruz. I got to town around noon, got completely turned around because (like any good California city), the streets turn the wrong way and into one-way right when one least needs them to. But the breeze was blowing right and people smiled as they pedaled past me..... a good sign.
I toured UCSC today, which took a few hours because the campus is HUGE. I'm amazed because the acreage is twice that of Chico State's, yet the student population is slightly less. Hmmmm. Might explain Chico. I was shuttled past the Anthropology department, but now at least know what direction to look when I want to find the social sciences. Also, I was the only grad student on this tour, and I get the feeling that this will be a recurring theme. So I happen to know that UCSC's undergrad student housing is SWEET. And that there are only 1400 grad students there, and that I should really ask someone else if I want to know what's up with them. Ah well.
Santa Cruz itself is a pretty decent place... reeks of pot smoke and salty sea air. Ritzy shops along Pacific Avenue (that I had no business shopping in yet bought a tutu anyway and rocked it down to the beach -- pics to follow) and open air cafes that obviously partially employed folks seemed to enjoy sitting at. I maneuvered my way down to the infamous Santa Cruz boardwalk, which was contentedly closed for the fall. It was actually really nice, a stroll along the beach and through the empty, shuttered arcade games, sans people. I like the atmosphere, but it all feels a little bit.... I don't know. Disposable income in a small town plus an idyllic environment. Too good to be true?
Great program (Cultural Anthropology PhD plus a sojourn in the Digial and Media Arts Department plus HAVOC, the History of Art and Visual/Oral Communications), pretty cool school, although its in the middle of nowhere. Kinda reminds me of Butte College, except the trees are taller (redwoods!), the hills THROUGH CAMPUS are much steeper, hippies instead of hicks, and instead of overlooking Oroville, there's the Pacific Ocean. Life could be worse. Much so.
I toured UCSC today, which took a few hours because the campus is HUGE. I'm amazed because the acreage is twice that of Chico State's, yet the student population is slightly less. Hmmmm. Might explain Chico. I was shuttled past the Anthropology department, but now at least know what direction to look when I want to find the social sciences. Also, I was the only grad student on this tour, and I get the feeling that this will be a recurring theme. So I happen to know that UCSC's undergrad student housing is SWEET. And that there are only 1400 grad students there, and that I should really ask someone else if I want to know what's up with them. Ah well.
Santa Cruz itself is a pretty decent place... reeks of pot smoke and salty sea air. Ritzy shops along Pacific Avenue (that I had no business shopping in yet bought a tutu anyway and rocked it down to the beach -- pics to follow) and open air cafes that obviously partially employed folks seemed to enjoy sitting at. I maneuvered my way down to the infamous Santa Cruz boardwalk, which was contentedly closed for the fall. It was actually really nice, a stroll along the beach and through the empty, shuttered arcade games, sans people. I like the atmosphere, but it all feels a little bit.... I don't know. Disposable income in a small town plus an idyllic environment. Too good to be true?
Great program (Cultural Anthropology PhD plus a sojourn in the Digial and Media Arts Department plus HAVOC, the History of Art and Visual/Oral Communications), pretty cool school, although its in the middle of nowhere. Kinda reminds me of Butte College, except the trees are taller (redwoods!), the hills THROUGH CAMPUS are much steeper, hippies instead of hicks, and instead of overlooking Oroville, there's the Pacific Ocean. Life could be worse. Much so.
Her name was Karen
This morning Peter and I strolled leisurely down to the corner of University and Acton to grab a cup of coffee before he had to go to class and I hit the road for Santa Cruz. It was a beautiful morning in Berkeley, a sunny Tuesday, and there was no line at the coffee shop. I contemplated a newspaper and then reconsidered when I imagined the angry honks around me while I absorbed myself in it instead of driving in a straight line on CA 880. Oh well. Coffee was good.
On our way back toward Peter's ghetto-pad-in-a-nice-neighborhood, a girl asked us to stop for a minute, if we happened to be going her way, and could we please help her? By girl I mean a woman about my age, wearing a nice wool coat, and for some reason laden down with what looked like everything she owned. My first thought was that she had just alit from some invisible bus or train, and that nobody ever told her how to pack light. I was just about to lecture her on said rules of traveling when she said, "My arms are so tired, and I'm only heading a few blocks up, could you please take this bag?" The look in her eyes was so sad. Without being prompted, she said, "It's been a long day."
It was only 9 am.
Peter and I each took a suitcase, and hesitantly began to walk up Acton Street in the direction that the three of us were suddenly mutually headed. I had to ask. "Where are you coming from?"
"A homeless shelter," she replied. Oh. "And I'm on my way to a woman's center a few blocks up where hopefully they can help me with housing." Oh. And I, ever suave in awkward situations, replied.... "Oh."
It was a slow quiet walk, and only three blocks. It turns out she literally was carrying everything she owned. She began to slow down and I could hear her breathing like she was either as close to tears as it is possible for a woman to be without openly weeping, or completely exhausted, or embarassed, or on the verge of getting sick; maybe it was a wicked combination of all of these things. At one point, about a block from the shelter, she looked me in the eye and said, "Can we switch? I can't roll this thing anymore." She was referring to a rolling suitcase/laptop/sleeping bag/blanket combo that she had obviously been struggling with for a while. I gave her the small suitcase I was carrying and took the rolling monstrosity. We were just about to the door of the shelter when I decided to ask her name.
Karen. From Michigan. Had lived in the Bay Area for about a decade, graduated San Francisco State with a liberal arts degree. My age. Homeless. Nice coat. Not crying yet. Its been a long day, too early for that, what she means is its been a long week. Or month. Or life. And I get it.
Only I don't because I'm not living her life. Suddenly Karen put things in perspective for me, and without knowing any more about her or her situation, I was instantly more grateful for my own. Peter (who had tact enough to remain silent for the entire voyage) and I walked/rolled her to the door of the shelter, where she was going to begin the process of checking in. She was shaky after putting down everything that she had been carrying, and was obviously nervous and even more obviously grateful. And was trying to say so, when I gave her a compulsive hug. She held on to me and said "Thank you......" and her tears finally came. I told her the only thing I could, that it'll get better. And good luck. And then I disappeared as an intake worker came to collect her.
Peter and I walked out of the shelter in silence, fresh coffee cups still in hand, still hot. The entire thing had taken place in less than ten minutes. I knew Karen for less time than I believe I've ever spent picking out a pair of shoes, and she changed the way I saw things. I want her to be ok. As Peter and I looked at each other slowly, I said, "Well. That was different." Yep.
On our way back toward Peter's ghetto-pad-in-a-nice-neighborhood, a girl asked us to stop for a minute, if we happened to be going her way, and could we please help her? By girl I mean a woman about my age, wearing a nice wool coat, and for some reason laden down with what looked like everything she owned. My first thought was that she had just alit from some invisible bus or train, and that nobody ever told her how to pack light. I was just about to lecture her on said rules of traveling when she said, "My arms are so tired, and I'm only heading a few blocks up, could you please take this bag?" The look in her eyes was so sad. Without being prompted, she said, "It's been a long day."
It was only 9 am.
Peter and I each took a suitcase, and hesitantly began to walk up Acton Street in the direction that the three of us were suddenly mutually headed. I had to ask. "Where are you coming from?"
"A homeless shelter," she replied. Oh. "And I'm on my way to a woman's center a few blocks up where hopefully they can help me with housing." Oh. And I, ever suave in awkward situations, replied.... "Oh."
It was a slow quiet walk, and only three blocks. It turns out she literally was carrying everything she owned. She began to slow down and I could hear her breathing like she was either as close to tears as it is possible for a woman to be without openly weeping, or completely exhausted, or embarassed, or on the verge of getting sick; maybe it was a wicked combination of all of these things. At one point, about a block from the shelter, she looked me in the eye and said, "Can we switch? I can't roll this thing anymore." She was referring to a rolling suitcase/laptop/sleeping bag/blanket combo that she had obviously been struggling with for a while. I gave her the small suitcase I was carrying and took the rolling monstrosity. We were just about to the door of the shelter when I decided to ask her name.
Karen. From Michigan. Had lived in the Bay Area for about a decade, graduated San Francisco State with a liberal arts degree. My age. Homeless. Nice coat. Not crying yet. Its been a long day, too early for that, what she means is its been a long week. Or month. Or life. And I get it.
Only I don't because I'm not living her life. Suddenly Karen put things in perspective for me, and without knowing any more about her or her situation, I was instantly more grateful for my own. Peter (who had tact enough to remain silent for the entire voyage) and I walked/rolled her to the door of the shelter, where she was going to begin the process of checking in. She was shaky after putting down everything that she had been carrying, and was obviously nervous and even more obviously grateful. And was trying to say so, when I gave her a compulsive hug. She held on to me and said "Thank you......" and her tears finally came. I told her the only thing I could, that it'll get better. And good luck. And then I disappeared as an intake worker came to collect her.
Peter and I walked out of the shelter in silence, fresh coffee cups still in hand, still hot. The entire thing had taken place in less than ten minutes. I knew Karen for less time than I believe I've ever spent picking out a pair of shoes, and she changed the way I saw things. I want her to be ok. As Peter and I looked at each other slowly, I said, "Well. That was different." Yep.
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