Holy cow, today is the 7th day that I've been in Guatemala. I've become pretty familiar with Xela, Zona 1 anyway, but it is still very much foreign to me. Perhaps if I spoke the language I wouldn't feel like such an outsider, but I doubt it. After all, I am in Guatemala.
We spent last Wednesday night in the entirely unremarkable tourist town named Panajachel, know to the locals as "Gringotenango". We hadn't intended to stop there, but our driver, after assuring us that she knew where she was going, missed our turn and didn't want to turn around so late in the day. That was probably wise of her; I've read that it's not terribly safe to travel at night in the mountains here. In Panajachel it seemed that there were at least as many Europeans and Americans as there were Guatemalans.
After a few hours in the car we were finally in Qetzaltenango. During the entire trip down Ben and I had been trying to figure out how we could split from Joan without offending her or leaving her stranded, so it came as a welcome surprise when Joan asked where she could drop us off. It seems that Joan was as tired of us as we were of her. Perfect. After an awkward goodbye, during which we both tried, and failed, to sound like we'd had a good time and hoped to run into each other during our travels, we split from Joan. If you'd like more info, some dirt or gossip about the whole Joan affair, you'll have to email me or wait until we meet in the future.
Once freed we walked around Xela for a few hours and then checked into a hostel. This was my first hostel experience. There we met other travelers from around the globe, took cold showers, and went to a disco. This was also my first disco experience. I thought that the night couldn't get any weirder when I saw Ben on stage dancing with 5 or 6 other people. I was wrong, and it ended with me hearing a swarthy local fellow say to one of the girls from our hostel "I am the coffee and you are the milk and after we dance we should drink each other". That's one hell of a language barrier.
We're no longer at the hostel. We spent the weekend visiting a St Alphonso, a cooperative coffee plantation started by women who had been displaced to Mexico during Guatemala's unbelievably brutal civil war. The land where their village had been was given away because all of the inhabitants were killed or had fled, so when they returned these women were relocated to a different part of Guatemala where nobody speaks their indigenous language. It's a terrible situation but they seem to be doing alright. That is, alright compared to the rampant poverty that is common in rural Guatemala.
Now we're with a host family, are attending the Kie Balam language school, and I've gotten sick from eating street food. To be clear, I'm not trying to disparage street food, because I've eaten lots of it since I've been in the C.A. and have only had this one instance of trouble. Eat street food, just don't eat street corn that was cooked on a grill and allowed to cool for an hour in a pile of similar ears of corn. Learn from my mistake.
Quetzaltenango = Xelahu = Xela. It's a long story that involves Spaniards, battles, birds, and linguistic laziness.
27 November 2007
23 November 2007
some details about being threatened with a pistol
A few posts in the past I mentioned that we had been threatened, and I described this encounter as having been fun. I'd like to give a few more details now.
Ben and I were in Lafayette for four days and three nights. We didn't stay so long intentionally, but because southwest Louisiana is lousy for hitchhikers. On our third day in town we resigned ourselves to spending the money on bus tickets to Shreveport. After one of several unsuccessful attempts to buy a ticket at the Baton Rouge - Shreveport price instead of the more expensive Lafayette - Shreveport price ($30 more for 75 fewer miles on the same bus!) we wandered outside and to the corner where we griped about Greyhound and how they've not done well for me.
While we spoke a man poked his head between the spaces on the large picket fence surrounding the nearest house. He asked if we were doing alright, and we replied that we were. He then said something else that I didn't understand, but caused Ben to approach the fence. He and Ben quietly mumbled at each other for a few minutes during which I couldn't understand what was being said. Ben then stepped back and had that frustrated, "I've just had a stupid argument" look that became so familiar to those us of that lived or spent much time in the Arkansas House.
I looked from Ben to the other mumbler who then began making faces at me. For about one second each he held different variations on the classic top-lip-puffed-with-air funny face. I was laughing a little, but was confused because Ben's not one to get frustrated by funny faces. "What, you can't hear what I'm asking?" the man asked me. I stammered for a minute and wondered whether there existed some sort of ASL-like face language that had somehow avoided my attention. After another minute of confusion, during which I tried to explain that I didn't know what he was asking and he kept asking whether I understood, the man had had enough.
Once again he pushed his face between two fence posts and made another variation of the same funny face. When he let the air out of his lip he said "you'll probably understand if I ask you with my pistol, right". It wasn't a question. I told him that I didn't understand what he was asking me and that I wanted no trouble. He then stormed into the house, presumably to get his pistol. I don't know whether he returned, or if he even had a pistol to use as an instructional aid, because we left. Ben still wore that familiar, frustrated look.
It was then, as we walked down the block away from the Greyhound terminal and its crazy neighbor, that I understood what he was saying. Through those funny faces he was trying to communicate something like "look, man, I'm f-ing nutty and dangerous and it's in your best interest not to speak loudly around me". If Ben and I had been commiserating about our shared Greyhound frustration in quieter voices we would likely never have had any trouble.
Ben later told me that the man had asked us not to stand on the sidewalk, and that when he approached the fence it was to engage the man in a mumbled dialog about the rights of ordinary citizens to control their own stretches of sidewalk versus the rights of others to use however they liked those same narrow stretches of public property.
We saw the same man later that night when we were buying our Baton Rouge - Shreveport tickets from a more informed Greyhound worker who was more interested in the somewhat outdated business practice of looking out for consumers. This time our face-making antagonist was standing outside the station smoking pot with a nice, younger kid that we had met the night before and who Ben had used his cellular phone to record rapping. We got out of there before he recognized us and stole away to a public park for some urban camping.
That's what it is like to be in Lafayette.
Ben and I were in Lafayette for four days and three nights. We didn't stay so long intentionally, but because southwest Louisiana is lousy for hitchhikers. On our third day in town we resigned ourselves to spending the money on bus tickets to Shreveport. After one of several unsuccessful attempts to buy a ticket at the Baton Rouge - Shreveport price instead of the more expensive Lafayette - Shreveport price ($30 more for 75 fewer miles on the same bus!) we wandered outside and to the corner where we griped about Greyhound and how they've not done well for me.
While we spoke a man poked his head between the spaces on the large picket fence surrounding the nearest house. He asked if we were doing alright, and we replied that we were. He then said something else that I didn't understand, but caused Ben to approach the fence. He and Ben quietly mumbled at each other for a few minutes during which I couldn't understand what was being said. Ben then stepped back and had that frustrated, "I've just had a stupid argument" look that became so familiar to those us of that lived or spent much time in the Arkansas House.
I looked from Ben to the other mumbler who then began making faces at me. For about one second each he held different variations on the classic top-lip-puffed-with-air funny face. I was laughing a little, but was confused because Ben's not one to get frustrated by funny faces. "What, you can't hear what I'm asking?" the man asked me. I stammered for a minute and wondered whether there existed some sort of ASL-like face language that had somehow avoided my attention. After another minute of confusion, during which I tried to explain that I didn't know what he was asking and he kept asking whether I understood, the man had had enough.
Once again he pushed his face between two fence posts and made another variation of the same funny face. When he let the air out of his lip he said "you'll probably understand if I ask you with my pistol, right". It wasn't a question. I told him that I didn't understand what he was asking me and that I wanted no trouble. He then stormed into the house, presumably to get his pistol. I don't know whether he returned, or if he even had a pistol to use as an instructional aid, because we left. Ben still wore that familiar, frustrated look.
It was then, as we walked down the block away from the Greyhound terminal and its crazy neighbor, that I understood what he was saying. Through those funny faces he was trying to communicate something like "look, man, I'm f-ing nutty and dangerous and it's in your best interest not to speak loudly around me". If Ben and I had been commiserating about our shared Greyhound frustration in quieter voices we would likely never have had any trouble.
Ben later told me that the man had asked us not to stand on the sidewalk, and that when he approached the fence it was to engage the man in a mumbled dialog about the rights of ordinary citizens to control their own stretches of sidewalk versus the rights of others to use however they liked those same narrow stretches of public property.
We saw the same man later that night when we were buying our Baton Rouge - Shreveport tickets from a more informed Greyhound worker who was more interested in the somewhat outdated business practice of looking out for consumers. This time our face-making antagonist was standing outside the station smoking pot with a nice, younger kid that we had met the night before and who Ben had used his cellular phone to record rapping. We got out of there before he recognized us and stole away to a public park for some urban camping.
That's what it is like to be in Lafayette.
21 November 2007
Shreveport-Bossier-Panajachel
After arriving in Shreveport we were picked up by the first of the four Mikes that we met in the last month. We had left our bikes and most of our gear at his house and once again stayed with him for our visit to northwest Louisiana. After getting our gear ready for bike travel again, fixing flats, and skateboarding at the local indoor park we were ready to get back on our bikes and start riding. But then, we met Joan.
Joan is a realtor from Savannah, Georgia. She posted an ad on craigslist looking for people interested in riding with her to Guatemala. One phonecall later we were once again on a bus, this time on our way to Houston to meet Joan and ride with her to Guatemala. That was one week ago. We're in Guatemala now, and have seen a lot of Mexico. I'll post about it later with more details. Now though, for the first time in a month, we're up to date. Now you have to email me and tell me how you're doing.
Joan is a realtor from Savannah, Georgia. She posted an ad on craigslist looking for people interested in riding with her to Guatemala. One phonecall later we were once again on a bus, this time on our way to Houston to meet Joan and ride with her to Guatemala. That was one week ago. We're in Guatemala now, and have seen a lot of Mexico. I'll post about it later with more details. Now though, for the first time in a month, we're up to date. Now you have to email me and tell me how you're doing.
uh-oh, another list
4 distinct instances of fun between NOLA and Shreveport:
1) taking part in a frightening "bum tower"
2) guerilla urban camping, including nights behind dumpsters and being shocked awake by the garbage truck
3) being threatened with a pistol for debating Greyhound policies on the wrong stretch of sidewalk
4) being accused of changing my clothes at the same gas station for two consecutive years (this was cleared up quickly)
1) taking part in a frightening "bum tower"
2) guerilla urban camping, including nights behind dumpsters and being shocked awake by the garbage truck
3) being threatened with a pistol for debating Greyhound policies on the wrong stretch of sidewalk
4) being accused of changing my clothes at the same gas station for two consecutive years (this was cleared up quickly)
20 November 2007
this happened in the past
Almost 4 years ago I went to Arizona and saw the desert for the first time. I was surprised at how beautiful it was and after my short visit I looked forward to returning to the southwest with more time to explore the dusty, cactus covered hills. I had that opportunity when we arrived back in the States. We decided to take the slower, more beautiful path through the Big Bend State and National Parks in southern Texas rather than heading immediately north to the interstate. The desert once again surprised me with its beauty.
Less than an hour of our Big Bend drive had passed before we decided to park the car on the side of the rode and hike to the top of one of the mesas nearest the road. It was a perilous, beautiful jaunt that lasted until just after sunset. On our way up Mike and I did a some bouldering, and on the way down I fell into a catcus patch and lost my glasses. Mike found my glasses while I began pulling the several dozen cactus needles out of my hand and forearm. I had to use my bandito-hankie as a bandage. It was pretty tough. Ben posted some pictures of the hike in his gallery.
The rest of the trip to NOLA was just as exciting. Ben got pulled over and we were again stopped and searched by Customs and Border Patrol agents. The lawmen in south Texas must have many past successes finding narcotics by telling people that it´s easier just to fess up. We heard that line a few times. The bright spot of our second search was that the lawman made his dog jump in the car window. Once my friend, Dobie, jumped into the window of an SUV and into my lap in the passenger seat. Dobie is a dog too.
After many hours of driving, during which we covered many, many miles and listened to U2´s War many, many times, we arrived in New Orleans. Ben is involved in some sort of pyramid-scheme type timeshare and was able to hook us up with 5 nights in a luxury hotel. I think that this is the first time Ben has been able to use this service though he´s been paying for it for years. The hotel was on Ste. Charles, a little less than a mile upriver from the French Quarter. We were the only guests there under the age of 50, and probably the only guests uncomfortable with the decadence. Within the week we would be back in an environment we were more comfortable - sleeping behind dumpsters. We'll get to that later.
If you´re like me in any non-trivial ways and you ever find yourself in New Orleans there are two places that I recommend you visit: the Iron Rail Library and Bookstore, and Plan B Bike Coop (Iron Rail is a coop as well). Saturday, 3 November, our first full day in town, Ben and I walked over to Iron Rail and read for a while. They've a good sized space and an impressive selection. It was, maybe, the best alternative library I've seen. Plan B is in the same building as Iron Rail, so while Ben read I walked over and talked to the volunteer there about the coop, told him about our shop, and was told that there was a cleaning day and meeting on Monday and that I was encouraged to come. Later, at Iron Rail, Ben and I met some local kids who offered us places to stay, gave us dumpster dived fruit, and told us about upcoming goings-on. We then walked back to the hotel, had a goodbye dinner with Mike. After exchanging contact info and hugs Mike left for Kentucky.
Monday afternoon we returned to Plan B to help clean the shop and to share bike coop ideas and strategies. Their shop is enormous compared to ours! They have most of an enormous warehouse to use, divided into a large shop space and a larger storage space, and have use of the fenced yard for additional storage. Broken Spokes, we've got some new ideas to share when we return to Anchorage. Talk to Ben, he'll be there relatively soon. After the cleaning we stayed for their monthly meeting where we learned more and were well fed. Everybody there was excellent and I'd like to go back sometime and volunteer. Does anybody want to live in New Orleans for a few months?
On our way out of the meeting we ended up in a conversation with one of the locals who, after learning about our travels and telling us of his, invited us to a friend's barbeque. We followed him to his friend's house, which turned out to be home to something like 15 New Orleans kids back in town after spending the summer traveling. Apparently this was not simply a barbeque, but was a somebody's-out-of-jail party. At one point there were three distinct groups of people playing music, one in the yard, two in the house. It was an excellent realease party.
Monday afternoon we returned to Plan B to help clean the shop and to share bike coop ideas and strategies. Their shop is enormous compared to ours! They have most of an enormous warehouse to use, divided into a large shop space and a larger storage space, and have use of the fenced yard for additional storage. Broken Spokes, we've got some new ideas to share when we return to Anchorage. Talk to Ben, he'll be there relatively soon. After the cleaning we stayed for their monthly meeting where we learned more and were well fed. Everybody there was excellent and I'd like to go back sometime and volunteer. Does anybody want to live in New Orleans for a few months?
On our way out of the meeting we ended up in a conversation with one of the locals who, after learning about our travels and telling us of his, invited us to a friend's barbeque. We followed him to his friend's house, which turned out to be home to something like 15 New Orleans kids back in town after spending the summer traveling. Apparently this was not simply a barbeque, but was a somebody's-out-of-jail party. At one point there were three distinct groups of people playing music, one in the yard, two in the house. It was an excellent realease party.
colorado to mexico
From Boudler we had planned on driving to New Orleans where we hoped to arrive in time for Halloween revelry. On Tuesday night though, at 10:30 pm we still hadn´t left Boulder. I was leaving a bookstore (I´ve been searching for a copy of this book for months!) Ben and Mike told me that we were no longer planning on leaving for New Orleans. Instead, we would drive to Chihuahua, Mexico. An hour later we were full of enthusiasm and packed once again into Mike´s small car.
Driving through the plains at night the stars were more beautful than I´d ever seen them. The sky was planetarium clear and I wanted then to study astronomy. Unfortunately I want to study everything. I don´t know what will happen.
We crossed the border into Ojinaga, a town described to us as an authentic Mexican border town. Initially we drove straight through, but 30km down the road we stopped at a checkpoint and were told that without passports we were allowed no further into Mexico. A little dismayed we turned around and headed back in Ojinaga. We found a decent hotelroom for 170 pesos (just under $17), and then went out for dinner and to see the town. We went to two bars, in both of which I felt uncomfortable for reasons other than the language barrier. The first bar felt like a locals only place, and we were ridiculously overcharged.
The second bar provides the better story. We were crossing one of the main roads in central Ojinaga when a man approached us and began speaking to us quickly in hushed Spanish. I didn´t know what he was saying, but from his body language I could tell that it was something like ¨Stay back! Notice how I twitch as if on some serious drug and so consider me to be something of a shady character¨. Mike told us that he was trying to sell us drugs. Once we´d made clear that we weren´t interested he pointed to a bar across the street, "the Bikini Bar", and motioned that we should go there. Surprisingly, Mike seemed to think it was not a bad idea. Ben reminded me that you can´t steer the 2-4-P-W and we went inside.
Immediately we stuck out like the trio of sore thumbs that we were. I saw a pool table in the back that wasn´t being used and went investigate. I found no balls or cues. When I returned Mike and Ben were sitting in a small booth with three women. I sat in the booth behind them and took out my notebook to write. Before I could put pen to paper a man sat down across from me. He continuously smiled and raised his eyebrows. Even in my native tongue and culture I have difficulty with sublte communication, and there, in the Bikini Bar, I couldn´t figure out what he was trying to say. I was watching, puzzled,when he began to sing to me. He recognized my shock and began to sing more softly, as if it was the volume of his serenade that was making me uncomfortable. I alternated between laughing and shrugging my shoulders and looking at my notebook as I wrote. Mike came to my rescue by pulling a chair over to the end of their booth and motioning for me to sit with them.
The new booth was a little less awkward. A few times Mike and Ben ended up dancing with these girls, but I successfully avoided anything of the sort. Periodically a suspicious looking man would peek his head in the door and one of the girls would go over speak quietly with him while they both looked at us. This may have been nothing, but it made me a little uncomfortable. At 12:30 when the bar closed the girls asked us to go to a private club with them. It cost 250 pesos, and we´d have to ride there in the back of a pickup truck. While two of the girls tried to convince us to travel with them, the third was talking to some much older men to whom the pickup truck belonged. I opted out immediately, and after a moment Ben did too. Mike wavered, but ultimately decided just to come back to the hotel. So ended my first night in Mexico.
We spent quite a bit of time the following day trying to explain to US customs that we were traveling but didn´t have an itinerary, and that we´d gone to Mexico on a whim, and that we´d hope to get to Chihuahua, and that we weren´t carrying drugs. After a couple of hours they seemed to believe us.
Driving through the plains at night the stars were more beautful than I´d ever seen them. The sky was planetarium clear and I wanted then to study astronomy. Unfortunately I want to study everything. I don´t know what will happen.
We crossed the border into Ojinaga, a town described to us as an authentic Mexican border town. Initially we drove straight through, but 30km down the road we stopped at a checkpoint and were told that without passports we were allowed no further into Mexico. A little dismayed we turned around and headed back in Ojinaga. We found a decent hotelroom for 170 pesos (just under $17), and then went out for dinner and to see the town. We went to two bars, in both of which I felt uncomfortable for reasons other than the language barrier. The first bar felt like a locals only place, and we were ridiculously overcharged.
The second bar provides the better story. We were crossing one of the main roads in central Ojinaga when a man approached us and began speaking to us quickly in hushed Spanish. I didn´t know what he was saying, but from his body language I could tell that it was something like ¨Stay back! Notice how I twitch as if on some serious drug and so consider me to be something of a shady character¨. Mike told us that he was trying to sell us drugs. Once we´d made clear that we weren´t interested he pointed to a bar across the street, "the Bikini Bar", and motioned that we should go there. Surprisingly, Mike seemed to think it was not a bad idea. Ben reminded me that you can´t steer the 2-4-P-W and we went inside.
Immediately we stuck out like the trio of sore thumbs that we were. I saw a pool table in the back that wasn´t being used and went investigate. I found no balls or cues. When I returned Mike and Ben were sitting in a small booth with three women. I sat in the booth behind them and took out my notebook to write. Before I could put pen to paper a man sat down across from me. He continuously smiled and raised his eyebrows. Even in my native tongue and culture I have difficulty with sublte communication, and there, in the Bikini Bar, I couldn´t figure out what he was trying to say. I was watching, puzzled,when he began to sing to me. He recognized my shock and began to sing more softly, as if it was the volume of his serenade that was making me uncomfortable. I alternated between laughing and shrugging my shoulders and looking at my notebook as I wrote. Mike came to my rescue by pulling a chair over to the end of their booth and motioning for me to sit with them.
The new booth was a little less awkward. A few times Mike and Ben ended up dancing with these girls, but I successfully avoided anything of the sort. Periodically a suspicious looking man would peek his head in the door and one of the girls would go over speak quietly with him while they both looked at us. This may have been nothing, but it made me a little uncomfortable. At 12:30 when the bar closed the girls asked us to go to a private club with them. It cost 250 pesos, and we´d have to ride there in the back of a pickup truck. While two of the girls tried to convince us to travel with them, the third was talking to some much older men to whom the pickup truck belonged. I opted out immediately, and after a moment Ben did too. Mike wavered, but ultimately decided just to come back to the hotel. So ended my first night in Mexico.
We spent quite a bit of time the following day trying to explain to US customs that we were traveling but didn´t have an itinerary, and that we´d gone to Mexico on a whim, and that we´d hope to get to Chihuahua, and that we weren´t carrying drugs. After a couple of hours they seemed to believe us.
Boulder
All of this updating is a bit tiring, so I´ll just give a top 5 list for Boulder. Here goes:
1. Mountains
2. Street harpist
3. Many conversations about state populations
4. Gogol Bordello live
5. Learning states in order of population
1. Mountains
2. Street harpist
3. Many conversations about state populations
4. Gogol Bordello live
5. Learning states in order of population
09 November 2007
...after a long pause...
OK, it's been a while, so let's get up to speed. When last we spoke I was either standing beside you, or I was standing some way away from you and we spoke through our telephones. When last I updated this blog I was in New York City. There I was staying with my old friend, Eric. There was music, trivia, banter, walking, new friends, dogs on people, clothes on dogs, coffee, and chess. It was a good eight days.
We left NYC with a high-school history teacher who taught in Manhattan and lived outside of Binghamton. It was a Friday afternoon and so we were stuck in traffic with all of the other commuters trying to get back to (or alternatively, escape from) their real lives for the weekend. a few minutes into our long ride she told me that she knew I was a vegetarian. "You have that smell" she said, "you smell like my son". I'd never realized that there was a particularly vegetarian smell, and I'm certainly not able to identify it. When we got to Binghamton she offered her floor for us to sleep on that night if we wanted to wait until the morning before trying to hitchhike north to Syracuse. It was nice of her to offer, but we already had a ride. An old friend of mine had kindly agreed to drive the hundred miles to come and get us. Our ride was waiting when we arrived in Binghamton, so after coffee it was on to Oswego.
We spent exactly one week in the greater CNY area. As always, it was good to see family and old friends. In that time I was able to visit most of my favorite places and people. It was late October then, and the trees in the Adirondacks were just past their prime but still very colorful and beautiful with the scent of fall rich in the air. I remember being a younger man and having to wear a snowsuit before Halloween, but this year it remained warm enough through the end of the month for us to take a last late night swim in the Great Lake. In addition to swimming and hiking I had the opportunity to do some skateboarding at a great concrete park, to visit my favorite restaurant, to make a bit of extra money painting, and to go on a date (what!?). Priming ceilings has made my some of my hair prematurely white.
At the end of our stay in CNY we hadn't been on our bikes in more than two weeks and were looking forward to getting back in the saddle. Our bikes were still in Shreveport, and so we began looking for a ride south. We talked about hitchhiking, and joked about walking to whole way, and were happy to find Mike, another post-college 25 year old wanderer. Mike was leaving Brooklyn and heading to New Orleans, and was happy to drive way out of his way to Syracuse to pick us up. Syracuse, it turned out, was not really as great a deviation from the route as it might sound. Mike planned to go from Brooklyn to New Orleans, but his route would take him almost everywhere, from Pennsylvania to Kentucky to Colorado. It sounded crazy, but I had no place better to be.
Fortunately Ben and I got along really well with Mike. He was much wilder than either of us, with more of an interest in partying and such things, but was funny and smart, and knew a lot about bugs. Honestly, I miss him already. In State College we visited a friend that Mike had made while traveling in Greenland the previous summer. Taylor, Mike's friend, showed us around the city and then to a party where we lost track of her. Most of the time at the party I spent waiting in line to use the bathroom, but suddenly "Invisible Touch" began playing and I gave up my spot in line so I could shout out the words. Before I made it to the bottom of the stairs the track had been skipped. I found Mike and Ben and shortly afterwards we left. State College, PA, you're too wild for me.
The next day we got a late start. At 3pm, after waffles, coffee, and learning that our place to stay in Kentucky seemed not to be working out we hit the road for Chicago. Ben was excited to see Kayla again, as was I, and Mike was looking forward to seeing the city. We arrived late and so didn´t have time to do much. The highlight of the night was when I saw two people wearing Waldo costumes. It was the Saturday before Halloween, and they'd been at a Waldo-themed party. I wondered if it had been at all weird to be at a party where everybody was dressed identically, where there were only Waldos, if it felt at all like being at work at the kind of job where everybody wears identical shirts and hats. They told me that it was disorienting to see so many set of stripes moving around but that otherwise I was making too much of it. That's how I like to remember Chicago.
I spent the following morning drinking really good coffee in a cafe that I'd become familiar with on our last trip through town. We spent the afternoon playing at the park on the shores of Lake Michigan and left town in the early evening. We gave Kayla a ride to Decatur, where we dropped her off at a cheap motel. I´m not certain what her plan was, but it was fun to hang out with her during the ride. After that slight detour we drove straight through to Boulder, arriving around 2 pm.
We left NYC with a high-school history teacher who taught in Manhattan and lived outside of Binghamton. It was a Friday afternoon and so we were stuck in traffic with all of the other commuters trying to get back to (or alternatively, escape from) their real lives for the weekend. a few minutes into our long ride she told me that she knew I was a vegetarian. "You have that smell" she said, "you smell like my son". I'd never realized that there was a particularly vegetarian smell, and I'm certainly not able to identify it. When we got to Binghamton she offered her floor for us to sleep on that night if we wanted to wait until the morning before trying to hitchhike north to Syracuse. It was nice of her to offer, but we already had a ride. An old friend of mine had kindly agreed to drive the hundred miles to come and get us. Our ride was waiting when we arrived in Binghamton, so after coffee it was on to Oswego.
We spent exactly one week in the greater CNY area. As always, it was good to see family and old friends. In that time I was able to visit most of my favorite places and people. It was late October then, and the trees in the Adirondacks were just past their prime but still very colorful and beautiful with the scent of fall rich in the air. I remember being a younger man and having to wear a snowsuit before Halloween, but this year it remained warm enough through the end of the month for us to take a last late night swim in the Great Lake. In addition to swimming and hiking I had the opportunity to do some skateboarding at a great concrete park, to visit my favorite restaurant, to make a bit of extra money painting, and to go on a date (what!?). Priming ceilings has made my some of my hair prematurely white.
At the end of our stay in CNY we hadn't been on our bikes in more than two weeks and were looking forward to getting back in the saddle. Our bikes were still in Shreveport, and so we began looking for a ride south. We talked about hitchhiking, and joked about walking to whole way, and were happy to find Mike, another post-college 25 year old wanderer. Mike was leaving Brooklyn and heading to New Orleans, and was happy to drive way out of his way to Syracuse to pick us up. Syracuse, it turned out, was not really as great a deviation from the route as it might sound. Mike planned to go from Brooklyn to New Orleans, but his route would take him almost everywhere, from Pennsylvania to Kentucky to Colorado. It sounded crazy, but I had no place better to be.
Fortunately Ben and I got along really well with Mike. He was much wilder than either of us, with more of an interest in partying and such things, but was funny and smart, and knew a lot about bugs. Honestly, I miss him already. In State College we visited a friend that Mike had made while traveling in Greenland the previous summer. Taylor, Mike's friend, showed us around the city and then to a party where we lost track of her. Most of the time at the party I spent waiting in line to use the bathroom, but suddenly "Invisible Touch" began playing and I gave up my spot in line so I could shout out the words. Before I made it to the bottom of the stairs the track had been skipped. I found Mike and Ben and shortly afterwards we left. State College, PA, you're too wild for me.
The next day we got a late start. At 3pm, after waffles, coffee, and learning that our place to stay in Kentucky seemed not to be working out we hit the road for Chicago. Ben was excited to see Kayla again, as was I, and Mike was looking forward to seeing the city. We arrived late and so didn´t have time to do much. The highlight of the night was when I saw two people wearing Waldo costumes. It was the Saturday before Halloween, and they'd been at a Waldo-themed party. I wondered if it had been at all weird to be at a party where everybody was dressed identically, where there were only Waldos, if it felt at all like being at work at the kind of job where everybody wears identical shirts and hats. They told me that it was disorienting to see so many set of stripes moving around but that otherwise I was making too much of it. That's how I like to remember Chicago.
I spent the following morning drinking really good coffee in a cafe that I'd become familiar with on our last trip through town. We spent the afternoon playing at the park on the shores of Lake Michigan and left town in the early evening. We gave Kayla a ride to Decatur, where we dropped her off at a cheap motel. I´m not certain what her plan was, but it was fun to hang out with her during the ride. After that slight detour we drove straight through to Boulder, arriving around 2 pm.
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