You never know

Four months ago, my plan was to spend Christmas in London and New Year's in Barcelona.

On September 28, I changed my plans and declared, "Nothing is to be regretted."

And here I find myself on the eve of Christmas spending the holiday not with the people of England, but with the people of multiple cities and states instead. I spent the last couple months working in San Francisco with Canadians and Trinidadians, with Russians and Mongolians, with Portlanders and Cincinnatians. Sure, this isn't where I thought I'd be back in August, but I've continued to make friends from areas unexplored, I've continued to make memories with those close to me, and I've even managed to make a little money instead of spending it all on hostels and foreign delicacies.

New people have entered my life and old friends are soon leaving me. These are moments that would not have been part of my story had I continued walking.

I'd say that's reason enough to be merry.
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On a side note, I still have a valid ticket from London to Barcelona on Dec 27 and a return flight from Barcelona to SF on Jan 6, so if anyone
1) wants to pay for me to fly over there, or
2) has a fake pasport with my name on it and wants to do a little short-notice traveling,
hit me up.

06-Oct

Surreal moment #23AA:

It's after 01:00 and I'm sitting in an old bar in Altstadt, Düsseldorf. The proprietor of Spinstube Bar -- an elderly man who doesn't appear to know English -- wears a yellow shirt with suspenders, a red tie, and a lovely red leather vest to top it off. I'm pretty sure this establishment has a staff of one. The sound system, which includes at least seven pieces of equipment (cassette, turntable, CD, amplifier, receiver, mixing board, etc), is playing something that sounds like ABBA singing in German about Mexico, complete with cheesy Spanish trumpeting. For all the technology invested in sound, this place has only five tables and could seat about twenty. The decor is a mix of Halloween style fake spiderwebs, many different kinds of lamps suspended from the ceiling, and a collection of award ribbons and imprinted miniature copper pans hung on the wall. The video feed of the fake fireplace plays in the corner and I'm not sure how to interpret the Christmas light-wrapped wagon wheel hanging next to the giant fake spiderweb.

I chose this place out of all the choices in what is called "The longest bar in the world" because it didn't have Van Halen, top 20 pop mixes, or dance music blasting into the street. Communication is kept simple since I hadn't learned any German for  my unplanned visit:
"Ein alt bier bitte."
"Danke."
"Ein pils bier bitte."
"Danke."

I flew into DUS with 26 euro in hand as the only funds I would have until I reached SFO. I didn't want to withdraw too  much in Italy and be stuck with euros, but I also didn't plan on stopping in Germany, so I didn't give my banks the heads-up that I would be pulling an all-nighter here. And so, I left the airport for my 11 hour layover, step by step, slowly, to confirm that I would have trains to return and funds to ride such trains...but there's some point, after staring at price charts and rail maps completely in German, that you just get on the train. So I did. Take a guess and figure it out if things go bad.

07-Oct

Anticipation: Excitement or some portion of mental CPU usage going towards the expectation of something that might happen...or might not. Just as the solo walks down the highways of Italy allowed for plenty of thinking time, so does the long flight home.

The exhausted mind of a Düsseldorf all-nighter can only Sudoku so many hours in a row. And so I think...of what may develop and of what's to come.

29-Sept

Meet Arne. I almost didn't. He lives in Ameglia, Italy, but has lived in almost every country in Europe. I found Arne through couchsurfing because his daughter had been hosting, went off to college last month, and left her dad in charge of keeping the room available. After a day of some heavy thinking (see previous post) and an aching body which left me a bit tardy on the day's 22 mile trek, I arrived at the train station that would carry me to his neighborhood a bit faster. To be a proper guest with my tardiness, I called Arne from the train station to give him an estimated arrival time.

The response on the phone came in a thick German accent: "I told you to arrive before 7:00. There are no more buses to my town. Why didn't you listen when I told you to arrive before 7:00?" I apologized and tried to explain that I had forgotten his warnings because I hadn't planned on taking trains or buses. I offered the option that I find somewhere else to spend the night, which in my head was going to be the Florence train station, as I'd already decided that this would be my westernmost point. He told me to come anyway and see if there was possibly one last bus (which he knew there wasn't). We hung up and I seriously considered getting on the train east instead of west. However, that action in itself would've been ruder than being late so I headed his way.

I ended up buying him a little food and drink in exchange for him picking me up on his motorbike. My first motorcycle ride was on an old dirtbike, my feet occasionally touching the ground, watching him lean over the handlebars to pound his fist on the headlamp every time it went dark, as we wound through twisting streets up the hill. About two thirds of the way up, the engine puttered out and Arne proposed a "It may be that we are out of benzina gas." Fortunately, a simple restart got us the rest of the way up the hill.

I'm glad to have met him. Scary start aside, he was a great one to hang out with and, though I took in more secondhand smoke in 12 hours with him than with a year and a half of traveling with Cirque, he was full of stories. At 18, he visited the United States with his brother, hitchhiking and eventually buying a truck from a man who said he was selling everything to move to Alaska. Arne thought this was just something Americans did, so they bought the truck, got pulled over in San Francisco, and spent three days in jail for possessing a stolen vehicle before the embassy got them out. For eight years in the 1980s, Arne traveled as a circus performer. He and a friend juggled and played the organ, living in a camper wagon which was pulled by a tractor. Yes, a farm tractor. They would sometimes meet other performers on the road and organize small fairs until the funds dried up or public officials gave them the boot. He took me on a tour of his life as he thumbed through a small box of old photos: Friends and coworkers, Arne with mime makeup and his organ standing outside a cinema, the different vehicles they all traveled in. He still has the organ, though he hasn't tried it in many years.

He also understood somewhat what I was looking for on my Italian walk and he directed me to a nearby footpath that would take me through hills, forests, and cliff edges as I made my way around his peninsula, access to quiet beaches that basically gave me the Cinqueterre experience without paying tolls and dealing with tourists. So my turnaround point concluded with
1) A former wanderer and circus worker
2) A proper hike through nature
3) The opportunity to swim in the Mediterranean, which I was determined to do at least once on my trip, but knew that this would be my last day near the coast
4) The chance to watch German late night talk shows

Number four wasn't really an objective, but you never know what will happen on these trips. Bottom line, I faced the fear and had a good experience: One that sends me back towards the circus.

28-Sept

I may have dreamt too big. I sometimes seem to do so. There are things that can be planned but foresight is impossible, the outcomes of which must be experienced.

Conclusion #1: Carrying a 35 pound backpack all day, every day sucks. For the backpackers out there asking why I'm carrying so much, keep in mind that in addition to a tent and sleeping bag, I had to carry clothing sufficient for rain, sun, and snow -- the heat of the Italian autumn to the freeze of a London winter -- as well as 6.6 pounds (3 liters) of water. My body is not happy with me and I'd rather not do permanent damage since my job requires me to be in constant motion.

Conclusion #2: Walking is nicer with a partner. I briefly had a walking partner here and this is not to fault her, but walking alone, town after town, is not particularly exciting. When planning this trip, I envisioned walking along country roads and enjoying the nature of Italy. The majority of the path has been on the shoulders of highways with the traffic whizzing past with such proximity and velocity that it blows the hat off my head. In the last few days, I had a brief but enjoyable walk through a moist forest that, while still with traffic zipping by, stands out from the monotony of sidewalks and shoulders I've seen.

Conclusion #3: It is possible to survive on 10 euros a day. That was the budget I allowed myself at the time of my departure. I had tried to save more, but the unfortunate Plaquemine episode of my life put a damper on that matter. I would not let that stop my trip, so I pushed on. As I said, it is possible, but does it allow for full enjoyment? Not really. I allowed myself a bit of splurging with my friends in Florence, only to find myself suddenly three weeks off budget. Whoops? No. I had great time. But this can not last for three more months, particularly heading to even more expensive areas ($ to € conversion is bad right now, but $ to £ is even worse).

And so I come home. Nothing here is to be regretted. The cost for a 3.5 week roundtrip flight is the same as a 3.5 month one. For most people, this still would've been longer than the average vacation. I've had new foods, unique experiences, and met memorable people that I will surely see again: A potential future travel partner, a Roman who plans to move to New York, a couple New Yorkers that I may see in a year, a Pistoian who one day may be the one chosen to visit his company's headquarters in my hometown,  a Grecian-Luccan who is friends with a restauranteur who lives two hours from San Jose. These are good times, but I return home to my families. Home to possibly work, home to  find some adventure and shelter in the places I know from my childhood, home to spend the holidays with those I know well. In that ongoing discussion of what home is, perhaps I have found a truth in part:

Home is not where I am. It is where you are.

There will be other times for Christmas in London and New Year's in Barcelona. There are thoughts of what others may feel that I'm quitting/missing an opportunity, and I may sound like a skipping record, but the two closest voices I've found on this journey remind me of the wisdom of happiness:

Vita: "Always choose what's best for you."
Danielle: "'Just because I already paid for it' isn't a reason."

Thanks guys.

26-Sept

Twelve days ago, I landed in Fiumicino, Italy alone, with the only plan over the next few months of being with someone I knew being a fraternal visit for a few days (which by the way was quite lovely -- thanks guys!). However, within an hour of landing I had made a new friend with which I spent the better part of nine of those days. A couple hours back, I put her on a train out of Pistoia, headed for a train out of Florence, headed for a flight back out of Rome. Her sources had let her know that Interpol was catching up with her. Kidding, but her sporadic nomadic self -- the same one that attracted her to my epic walk -- led her to jump on an idea she had been bouncing around. Even though we didn't do much actual walking,* we had fun. However, I continue to find common souls around me that understand that the best option, to quote my fabulous Roman host Vita, is to "always choose what's best for you." There is a good chance we will meet again, for this is what happens with travelers. As an example, I point to last night. Our Pistoian host, Lorenzo, picked up a couchsurfer he had met in Berlin: a Japanese woman who had been living in New York for a while, but was visiting in Florence (about 30 minutes away) for a couple days. The four of us, plus some of Lorenzo's friends, explored the grounds of abandoned psychiatric hospital, took in some good and cheap food, and had a good time hanging out until we had to put Shoko back on a train to Florence. He will visit her in Japan for a week later this year. Now I know someone who lives near Tokyo.

Speaking of Lorenzo, it's hard to describe the energetic comedy power he is. For a taste, look at https://www.facebook.com/amicopollo. He made a page for his rubber chicken complete with with driving/flying chicken videos.
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* My epic walk has become somewhat of a joke. As you know, I've already taken a bus to Rome and a train to Florence. Add onto that the fact that my brother picked me up from Florence and eventually -- with some resistance from me -- my sister-in-law dropped me off in Pistoia. Lorenzo jokingly staged a protest that the only reason he accepted my couch request was because this cool circus guy was walking everywhere and I showed up a fake. It went so far that this morning, as an infant was visiting us, Lorenzo pointed to the baby and said, "Look! It's like Greg: He's trying to walk but just can't seem to."

Well, I showed him. Danielle and I walked straight up the mountain this morning in search of elves.** While we didn't get where we had intended, we still made it nearly 3000' up and eight miles in before turning around. Never mind the fact that tomorrow I take the train to Lucca and then walk 18 miles to Viareggio. A second night in Pistoia, due to elf hunting, creates a delay in my scheduled nightly stops and I need to make it to the beach tomorrow night.
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**Yes, elf hunting. Last night we caught wind of the local lore of a group of nearby communities creating the Valley of the Elves. 150 people in small communes, not gypsies per se, as they come into town to sell their homemade wares and produce. Apparently some of their villages retained the Italian names while others have adopted names from the Lord of the Rings trilogy. We were on a journey to spend the night in one of the villages near San Pellegrino, but decided to be content with our 3000' climb and turned around. Not sure why it's the Valley of the Elves if they live so gosh darn high!
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Tonight we went to a Pistoian restaurant that has been relatively unchanged since the 1970s. The owner creates the daily menu with a typewriter and then carbon copies two menus before typing out the next set. A table sits in the corner...empty. Lorenzo explains to me that it is the Table of Widows. Six chairs always reserved in the event that the widows wish to come to dinner (or lunch). The prices are cheaper than others, especially in the winter, so the local youth tend to flock her sometimes. This restaurant is not known for being busy and the owner likes it this way (so much so that there are no signs, the curtains are closed, and grandma sometimes sits outside in her rocker scowling at the passerby). However, in the midst of the busy season, Lorenzo once called to make a reservation for a table of five. This was a new practice for both Lorenzo and the owner, and the owner, not knowing how to handle this, hung up on him.
Also to note is the decor. The people love this place, frozen in time. A poster of two basset hound puppies hangs in the corner: there since opening. At one point, the owner repainted the walls and the dog picture was taken down, possibly permanently. A petition was circulated to have the dogs reinstalled immediately.

20-Sept

So far, I've only been walking in cities. While I'm definitely putting the miles on (still averaging 12-15 miles a day in town), it's not what I intended primarily for this trip. A light conflict in scheduling between groups yesterday resulted in my having some free time (as if I don't already have this, hmm) and I found myself walking into the hills for a nice perspective over the town of Florence. As happens on these walks of mine, I reached certain points of review:
1) Do I have enough time to keep going? Yes.
2) I'm about to head off my map. Still good? Yep.
3) I've passed over a couple ridges and don't know if this road goes anywhere. Continue? Sure.

Times like this are how my wanderings develop. I ended up walking about 4 miles out of the town, up and into the hills. I passed along winding roads so thin (1.2m wide) that cars would have to wait for me to get to a doorway and step in so they could continue driving. Sides of the road alternated between high stone walls protecting the vast properties from onlookers and iron fencing allowing views of the valleys and ridges. I passed through olive and prune orchards. I passed the kind old Italian man, wearing an apron and sweeping the dirt off his portion of the street, who called out a sweet "Buena sera" to me. I have a few more days in town, but it got me excited for what comes next. This is the walk I came here for.

19-Sept

I begin with a couple topics that may be touched upon at a later date.
1) Only when we give up, do we find what we are looking for.

2) I had a crazy dream last night. Please, for everything holy, withhold Freudian analysis:
I arrived at my mom's house to find a crew of native plant restoration people just wrapping up tha day's project. We discussed the ongoing raccoon problem in the neighborhood. The coons approached the house shortly after that, but as I used a push broom to swing at them, I found them to be rather agile, dodging and tumbling under my attacks. The fact that a longer broom may have been useful was raised by someone. I leaned the broom against the house, but was tripped by a charging raccoon, fell on the broomstick, and knocked a hole in the house.
That's it. Snicker away.

3)Update:
It's Monday morning and I should be, by my plans, waking up on the banks of Il Lago di Bracciano. However, I'm on the floor of a private room in a Florence hostel, 13 days ahead of schedule. The windows, split down the middle, have been drawn open all night and the sounds of the morning life echo off the stones outside: footsteps, carts, Italian chatter, and diesel engines. The light rain from last night has cleared to provide a wisping of clouds, pinkish-gold against the blue sky as I look out from the third floor.
I'd like to say that I greatly underestimated my daily mileage ability and managed to make it 190 miles yesterday, but alas, you might not accept me for my standard honesty. Sunday was the last day in Rome for both Danielle (and her friends Abby and Lorin) and me. The Ladies Three --as they have just unknowingly been monikered -- were headed via train to Florence for a few days and invited me along. I debated the temporary abadonment of my planned epic walk versus an unexpected opportunity presenting itself and realized that while I wanted to look back and be able to say that I had walked from Rome to Marseille, there are many different things I would like to do and bragging rights should not be the drive to turn away an alternate plan. Besides, while I lost the 190 miles of walking north, I haven't lost many walking days, and have already rerouted a trail that takes me nearly as far and to areas I hadn't planned to travel.
Change: Be open to it. When life gives you lemons and an oarless canoe, look that horse in the mouth!

17-Sept

You know the best part of having a solo vacation? The availability of change. Take, for example, the fact that I'm currently in Israel. Who saw that coming? Okay, so I'm still in Rome, but that sounded a little more sporadic. Before I even started my epic walkabout, I changed it. I was supposed to start with a little 20 mile jaunt from the airport to Rome, but circumstances arose that sounded like opportunity. After sleeping in the terminal --well, it was more like pretending to sleep for the most part; you saw that the last entry was written at 0330 -- I had two new friends who, while American, are fairly constant travellers like me. One came from New York City originally, but has been in Israel and decided on a spontaneous trip to Italy to visit some other friends. The other is from Eugene, Oregon, but has been all over lately, Germany most recently I believe, and is possibly heading for a semi-permanent move to Cairo after this. Chris never found his mother at the airport. We've lost contact with him for the time being, so we'll never know if she made it. Danielle's friends showed up a day later than planned, so that made for an interesting time of not greeting anyone at the airport.
Forgot I was writing about change. Sorry about that. I decided to hang around the airport with my new comrades, so the idea of starting a 20 mile walk after lunch didn't seem like a proper idea and I took the bus into town with Danielle. Yes, it's true. I started my walk by not walking. However, it was a well-executed maneuver that resulted in a good friend for my travels --she'll possibly be doing some of the walkabout with me -- and I saved her from spending another night in the terminal. Because her friends had the dates wrong, the room they had booked was for the next night. My couchsurfing host, Vita, who happens to be amazing, was more than willing to take us both in and the three of us had a great time, including Vita having a few friends over for a pasta session. Truly, it was another example of happenstance friends. The three that came over had known each other for ten days after meeting at a fire juggling retreat on an island off Sicily.  One was a local animator/jumping stiltwalker that Cirque hired for some local media promotions. These are things I can't make up.
I realize talking about people without pictures can test the imagination, but Vita's laptop doesn't have a photocard reader and the photo I took of Danielle looks like this (http://media.city-gates.org/3crosses/galleries/3/photos/123560647846f9f0b6d691e4-4908-l.jpg), so just keep imagining.
For my days of staying in the same city that should result in less walking, I don't seem to follow that idea. I think I did about 12 miles the first day and somewhere in the 17 mile range yesterday. You'll be happy to know that I've pretty much covered the city more or less. Historical Rome (the touristy one) is as expected, with the ruins, architecture, and such. I'm not discounting it, just saying that there haven't been major surprises. Good place, good people. However, Vita lives outside the main region, so I got to see less-than-expected items last night, such as the man holding a bus hostage by standing in front of it, banging on the windshield, and yelling angry things. The bus driver put his warning flashers on and was sitting on the phone, no doubt calling his supervisor, the police, or both. For those more interested in the historical portion, however, plenty of culture there (obviously). In a 7 hour portion of my walking yesterday, I saw an operatic ballet rendition of Odysseus being performed next to some ruins, a classical piano concert going on in some other ruins, lots of buskers in the piazze -- mostly Piazza Navona...
The big walk starts tomorrow, but that's still a day off. Let's see what mischief I can cause before then.

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In side notes:
1) The advantage of change is that Vita said I could stay as long as I wanted (within reason) and since I'm having fun with my new friends, I'm staying in Rome an extra day.
2) Using a European keyboard is quite challenging. Lots of extra characters available and I can never find the common items like apostrophes, colons, quotes, and slashes. Don't even get me started on the @!

15-Sept

0330 Rome Fiumicino airport:
There is no concept of time lying here beside the ritiro bagagli numero otto. With the fluorescents always on, no windows around -- as we're tucked in this nook to do our best hiding -- and the constant rhythm of the belt whirring away...throw in jet lag and you wake up with no hint of the time except for your watch that says 0100, 0115, 0200, and so on as you see it more than the backs of your eyelids. The sound slightly resembles a laundry dryer with an article of clothing bouncing around and having its snaps hit the side of the machine. The thunk, thunk, thunk of the conveyor sounds like military footsteps, which it turned out to be when the 0100 flight's baggage and patrons show up at my bedside. I just pulled the bandanna back over my eyes and rolled back into my marble tile corner. If they get the guards, then they'll talk to me. Until then, might as well try to sleep. I lay there in my head trying to construct basic phrases in Italian to explain our excuses/reasons for sleeping in the terminal:

Arriviamo questa notte. Domani caminnarremò a Roma. Aspettiamo per la sole. Lui voglia incontriare suo madre a la mattina. Per favore, possiamo dormire qui per tre o quattro ore più?
We arrive this night. Tomorrow we will walk to Rome. We are waiting for the sun. He wants to meet his mother in the morning. Please, Sir, can we sleep here for three or four more hours?

You might be wondering why this sole traveller is referring to "we", as if schizophrenia set in on day two of the trip. I was picking up my pack at good ol' ritiro bagagli numero otto and I overheard the phrase "last minute couchrequest" uttered  from two people my age on a bench. I outed them as couchsurfers and we banded together. Chris is truly picking his mom up here. They're surfing Rome together. I mentioned how I had just done the mother/son surf. Danielle had already been here nine hours and had been woken by the guard outside. Three random strangers sleeping together at a baggage claim sounded better than one,  so here we are. Not entirely sure we're supposed to be here --as there's no one else in the airport -- but as I ran into a guard patrol coming out of the bathroom in the middle of the night, I decided to be the confident man and walked up to him and asked how much tickets to Rome (as we're 20 miles out) cost, in Italian. He responded, I didn't really comprehend, but he left me/we alone so far, so that's that.

14-Sept

London Heathrow:
I wake from my umpteenth nap to the automated voice telling me that some flight is closing. I check the time and conclude that it couldn't have been mine. I go back to sleep.  A five hour layover in LHR with little to no spending money goes something like this: walk, sleep, walk, drop 1.39£ on gum because I'm tired of post-nap breath, walk, nap...find better nap spot. I think you see the pattern. It gets to the point that as I walk I can point out where I've already slept. It's as if I've marked territory all over the terminal, but fewer body fluids involved. Any way, that sort of behavior wouldn't be very polite British of me, now would it? I'm not sure the assault rifle-toting military security gents would appreciate such behavior.

Strange discovery of the afternoon: The London 2012 Olympics mascot looks like a metallic version of a character from Yo Gabba Gabba.

I'm a victim of Hollywood, of the romantic notion of meeting someone while laying over in a terminal or finding the perfect neighbor aboard your flight. This doesn't have to be for romance, necessarily, so much as a companion to share lost time, both accelerating through the sense of delay and creating a single, standalone moment...a memory of a happenstance encounter. But what are the chances of this? It happened in the row behind me. Two individuals who both missed their earlier flight, having a joyous -- and a bit raucous -- time to pass the ten hour flight. There was an empty seat next to them and I thought about asking to shift, particularly as I studied my row buddies: an elderly Indian couple who didn't speak English. I passed, however,  and thankfully so: She turned out to be one quite rude traveler.

I gaze out into the darkness of Italy as I pass by. Small patches of light mark the towns, and I use the overhead display's map of our current position to envision the black beyond the light as the coastline and Mediterranean sea. I think that's the coast. I think I'll be walking through there in a couple weeks. These are things I can only think. No answers are available with the sun having already parted from my sky. Until I get there. Then I'll know where I am.

Home

'San Jose     43'
It's the home stretch of a few thousand mile drive back from Chicago. Forty-three was a number worthy of a little excitement, for I was almost home. Home to see my family and friends and a place I had known for 29 years, but hadn't seen in 7 months. "Home stretch," I wonder to myself. "Can it be a home stretch if your destination isn't home?" Seems like it, as the phrase seems to be used for the last bit of travel before any target. But what makes a home, per se?

'San Jose     26'
I'm closer now, but not more excited. While I was on the road, people would ask where my home was. I didn't have a good answer. I'd reply, "It's complicated." If pushed for more specifics, I'd tell them there's a place my parents live (California), but that I no longer really had a home. Honestly, I don't have friends any longer in San Jose. No one from high school, no one from college. Four people I talk to in San Jose and they're all family. The friends I left in this part of the country are mostly in Monterey. "I'm not almost home," I think. "I'm almost to my next stop."

Don't get me wrong, it's good to be back with family, sharing meals and stories, birthday celebrations and shopping trips. But I couldn't stay here, even if it were an option. Though it's tempting to try to return my last job here, stable and very comfortable, I know that I can't stop now. I have to keep moving. Thanks to the wonder of a social networking website (which is a perfect tool for nomads such as myself), I know that I'm not the only one feeling this. My road family is out there, spread out amongst the states: some still working in Calgary, others terribly bored with being "home" collecting temp job money until they can escape back out onto the highway. It doesn't matter what state the others are in -- Minnesota, Texas, Ohio, New York, Colorado, California (forgive me if I've excluded your state, but know that you're included in these thoughts) -- if you're home, I'm missing you and the majority of your statuses echo these sentiments.

It's no wonder we're all so attached. Less than a couple months into the tour, I felt a huge family-like bond with my coworkers. Of those I'm thinking of on vacation/furlough/unemployment/whatever, I've spent nearly every day of my life working with, living with, and celebrating with you since you (or I) joined the tour. For some, that may have been only a couple months, but others were over a year. Readers not on the tour: If you've ever spent that much time with someone you enjoy, think about how you feel about that person. It's not all perfect, but this is life. Just as we celebrate, we mourn. I can think of times where I've held some of you in long hugs for comfort to pass your tears, some of which I caused. Again, though, this is life...but we carry our microcosm on the road: our world in a snail shell.

I'll call it Cirque du Snail (yes, I realize it should be escargot, but hush out there).

Tomorrow I fall primarily off the grid for a few months. I know/plan that upon my return I'll get to rejoin my family. This is a time many of us are looking forward to. There will be some new friends (hopefully) and many grand experiences to be had on my trip. In ways, I wish I could share it with some of you. I know you're looking for photos and facebook updates, but there won't be much if any of that. My phone will be shut off in the morning, so please don't try to call me. Facebook/email is the best way to leave a message and I'll get back to you when I can. I've had people tell me how brave (and crazy!) I am to make this journey, but really, it's easy. Buy a plane ticket and go. Sure, I have some fears about all this. Really though, what's the worst thing that could happen to me? Hold that idea in your head. Now ask yourself if it could happen to me in San Jose...or Monterey...or Oregon, Texas, Minnesota, Ohio, etc. There's really not that much different risk-wise in being on the road, so why be afraid to travel? I leave you with that thought. And a lyric that applies to me and at least a dozen people I'm thinking of out there:

"And I've driven across deserts driven by the irony that only being shackled to the road could ever I be free."

Photo of some of the misfit crew. Credit goes to Benjamin Lewis a.k.a. Pappa Large

Mayday 3

According to insurance estimates, the average American drives about 12,000 miles a year. That number might be outdated, but for this discussion, let's go with it. Last year, I drove about 30,000 miles with my travel partner that was recently stolen from my grasp. People tell me I'm on a grand adventure, which I am, but think about what one could do with those 12,000 miles the average person drives. What does 12,000 miles get you? Well, by air that's almost halfway around the world. Obviously, most of your cars can't drive underwater, though I'm sure some of you have tried to push through flooded areas, but there are plenty of terrestrial options out there. My 30,000 miles were almost exclusively on U.S. soil, but had I been aiming for a more linear journey, I could've gone nearly from Nome, Alaska to Punta Arenas, Chile and back. We drive what feels like short distances to and from our offices, yet for those with wanderlust and for those who find ways to support that quality, the option is out there to explore.

Mayday 2

In the past three weeks, I have had my car totaled while innocently exploring the backcountry of Louisiana, I have left behind sources of strong feelings and dreamt of adventures, I have found boredom and financial poverty at the hands of Mother Nature, and I have attempted to plan an uncertain future with as many semi-feasible options as possible. A character is a sum of his experiences, is he not? Though it hasn't been the greatest time lately, I'm still here.

Driving through Plaquemine, Louisiana (< 3 square miles), I decided to double back to check out what sounded like an interesting photographic opportunity. While sitting at a stop sign, I watched one vehicle plow into the back of another, forcing a game of steel machine pinball in front of me. One ricochet off a utility pole later, my car and I were no longer bystanders, but victims, and I knew that the vehicle that had treated me so well through my many adventures over the previous decade would no longer be with me. I could do nothing but laugh when the tow truck driver (and later the insurance company) asked me to grab anything I wanted out of the vehicle. It was sadly humorous because I was traveling between cities for the show and thus had everything I owned in the car. However, my hiking boots, a backpack containing some Clif bars, a couple electronic items including my camera, and a short ride in the back of a cop (pronounced PO-leece) car to the nearby McDonald's (For food? Good lord, no! Just a wifi spot and place to steal some alternating current), and I had set up the incident command center on the road to recovery. Within hours of an online post updating the world on what had happened, my widespread family of coworkers past and present, as well as those of blood, had called to check up on me, to offer transportation for both my belongings and my body, and to arrange lodging. My delayed arrival in Cincinnati was of no concern to my employers, so long as I was okay.

The curious ask, “What are these sources of strong feelings?” Let's just say that in Houston I left something behind I'm glad to be rid of, but I also left something behind that I hope to reach again.

Mayday 1

I've sat in my house too much lately. With thunderstorms nearly daily for two weeks, my standard “just start walking” approach to photography and urban exploration becomes a bit hazardous. I've now opted to take the half block walk from my house into the nearby park, which is a curious refuge. I've been writing at the edge of the fish pond, with its quiet waters, plentiful bird calls around, and just enough little bugs crawling to make me question my spot, yet there is the white noise presence of automotive road noise just beyond the forest, there is the glimpse of the University of Cincinnati parking garage, peeking out just above the trees, there are the sporadic emergency sirens reminding me of Doppler and the fraternity boy's subwoofer reminding me of Richter. Is this a refuge? I suppose it could be, but somewhere to clear my mind? I feel sets of miniature appendages walking across my legs and every time I look down, I find a creature that is new to me: A large ant, some small beetle, a psyllid perhaps? I'm concerned less about a bug bite and more about a tiny explorer meandering into my laptop and frying something internal.

What does it mean to clear your mind? Having never been one to practice meditation, I ask myself this question. If it represents the clearing of your thoughts, focusing on nothing but a black void, I've tried that a couple times, but my busy brain always calls me back from that spot: Not necessarily back to reality, though, for my mind spends hours tracing the many paths of what could be.

I don't know where I'll be in four months. I gaze at the reflections on the lake's surface to see a blurred upside-down representation of trees and a small bird fly by and I think, “This world could be anywhere.” The colors are right for what I believe the Southeast Asian jungles to be. The church bells tolling from somewhere behind the parking garage bring the old structures of Europe to mind. I really could go anywhere, and the fear is not what would happen to me there so much as how would I support myself while there or afterward if the travels are not work-related.

Ideas => Options => Choices => Reality

Somewhere between the first two is the necessary “secret ingredient”, which, if I were still working with chemical equations, I would gladly write in a smaller font size over the arrow as a catalyst – ironically, the factor that accelerates the reaction. That ingredient is patience.

Even in this refuge, with all the sounds, smells, and sights of nature abound, my mind races.

Don't drink the Salton water

Desperation can be something to fear. Not only the actions that one's own desperation may bring about, but also the unpredictable behaviors of the desperate around you. I spent last night in Bombay Beach on the Salton Sea: home to heroin addicts, meth heads, squatters, lots of dead fish, broken homes (physically and perhaps in a familial sense too), and who knows what else. To clarify, I spent the night there, but I did not sleep.

Friends with whom I had dinner advised against my passing the wee hours there. My initial goal was to arrive prior to the sunrise, so I could get some long-exposure shots of the breaking dawn on the hypersaline stagnant body of water. However, on my trip south, I found that the moon had risen and nicely illuminated the stark desert around me. Also, I had already achieved my other photographic objectives (dinosaurs from Pee-Wee's Big Adventure, statue of Sonny Bono) for the leg of the trip and I was too tired to drive. So I went to the Salton Sea.

Bombay Beach is a small town (?) on the east side of the sea that, among other charming qualities, has a collection of deteriorated housing and trash partially buried by the sand of the sea. The water level has since fallen, but the properties are well past any redeeming value. It is also known for methamphetamine usage, dealing, production, and so on. It was a bit nerve-wracking driving through the community in the dark, and there were many structures that would've looked great in night photos, but I didn't want to start shooting only to find that somebody was living there. Dogs barked on occasion and the train passed every 20-30 minutes, but besides that, the only noise came from the waterfowl.

I parked on the sand, under a moderately effective streetlamp, and sat for a while, wondering if this was going to be a good idea or not. I eventually got enough guts to go for it and grabbed my camera, a tripod, and the biggest knife I had (~11" dive knife)...just in case. I shot for a while, quite happy with the results, and at some point decided that I felt safer being awake and outside with a knife than sleeping in my car at the same site. Somewhere around 5 am, members of the community left for work and I paused each time I heard a car start or door shut, in case they were running in my direction. I didn't talk to anybody there for good reason.

That's pretty much the story. The reason why I'm running on 30 minutes of sleep. The Salton Sea region is a different world. To live in a town where everyone lived in broken-down mobile homes or shacks is foreign to me. I met a couple very nice, unique gentlemen later that day, but that's a different story for a different time. So, you'll have to either wait for the photos or the next post.

[Written in a Target Starbucks while charging my camera battery and laptop, but sent from a Starbucks I found across the street)

Transmissions from the desert

Wrap my arms around you and lift you to the top of the tree. This is not a home, it's a shelter and not much of one. I dread the sight of Spazier, for its name calls for you to leave me again. We creep past the scene and I can't help but think, "You never know, that could've been me"...but the moment passes like the steam off your breath, like the thoughts of turning back.

Every day I drive past the meadow expecting to see evidence of the wild. On the icy mornings, as the fog sits low, a family of deer stands proud. On the warm afternoons, a bear meanders across the grass. When I blink, though, my eyes remind me that there's never been anything there.

Never wait for the last. Enjoy each, savor every. Less likely to pause, more likely to share.

And as he flies past, you catch his head turn: a quick glance at what he's left and the millions of lost possibilities. I think I can see the monster looming in the darkness with its fingers of ice. The woodsman will keep me safe and alive.

And, like a plane into the clouds, I fade away.

Meet Brian

El Toro Brewing Company, Morgan Hill, CA

Meet Brian. I just did. In a way, I met him a few times, though during the same sitting. The fun part of bellying up to a bar (besides the obvious alcohol consumption) is the social potential created by your grabbing of a stool. My bar neighbor this afternoon opened the conversation with the traditional “Where do you live” prompt. Trouble was, I wasn't sure how to answer. My instinctual answer was Dallas, but I followed that with the caveat that my previous statement wasn't really true, or at least not just yet. The necessary explanation of my nomadic lifestyle soon had Brian caught up in the chat and he told of his past, describing geographic relocations, career changes, and troubles with John Law (“...it wasn't even my gun...”).

A life of manual labor and independent business practices, of which marijuana sales –and consumption – seemed to be a good part, coupled with military experience, concert photography, and what sounded like a lot of white lines to inhale resulted in a man who had, at age 52, new objectives in his duration here. He recently enrolled in undergraduate study at a nearby community college, yet had already changed his major 3 or 4 times. His current goal was to be a dietician (the irony of which did not escape me as we ate fried foods and drank beers) and to not just stop at the undergraduate level, but to achieve either a Master's, Doctorate, or both. He seemed very pleased with his newly discovered, spiritually-assisted clarity in life. I supported his hopes by telling him that I knew people in their mid-50s who had just received graduate degrees.

The sad part, however, is the inescapable character. He told me that he had been free from drugs for a few years and that he only drank a couple times a month. He had been through extensive PTSD therapy and had sold off his vehicles to cover for some bad investments he had made. I'd estimate that for 98 percent of our talk, he didn't make eye contact, oft looking down at the bar near me or off into the eyes of some distant person sitting to my side. The lack of connection didn't seem out of nervousness. He initiated our conversation and had no problem (trust me, he dominated the talk for most of the two hours) talking about his story. However, he couldn't keep a train of thought and he would tell me stories that I'd already heard minutes before. He was quite cordial and would throw in a nice “Thank you” when I would chime in with the thought that he had misplaced.

I'm pretty sure Brian was permanently fried: Not like the tasty ranch-dipped mushrooms sitting in front of us; more like the decades of pot he had smoked. I had a friend in college that was in a similar predicament, but realized it himself. Years of acid had left him with an inability to memorize the necessary biological material of our curriculum. He tried, but he couldn't concentrate in class and eventually dropped out of the sciences that he loved and pursued his artistic endeavours instead. I worry that Brian will find himself having the same issues. The good news is that he was able to retain enough homeopathic information that he could share much of it with me, but the idea of him making it through four, let alone seven or eight, years of schooling seems unlikely.

Was it the drugs, the military, or just his inherent character? A lifetime of experiences makes the person and a unique selection of experiences made my bar neighbor today.

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By the way, El Toro Brewing Company has 24 taps of their own brews and I was happy with 7 of the 8 I tried.