godparent: (n) a person who stands sponsor to another at baptism.
The original itinerary for this east coast tour called for a trip to Raleigh, North Carolina, after my visit with Diana. Unfortunately there was a snafu of sorts which arose a few weeks ago and I was no longer able to travel south. So instead I headed west a few days early to Abingdon, Virginia, where my Godparents and cousin, Shannon, live. It was another LONG drive, clear across the state of Virginia, but with fall rolling in, the colorful foliage that blanketed the mountains made the drive simply gorgeous. Though it had been years since I last visited their Virginia home, the extremely narrow roads and the near vertical pitch of the driveway were unforgettable. I arrived with enough time for Aunt Mary Kay to fix me some lunch before she left for work. Shannon was due home from her job an hour later, so I took advantage of the down time to play with her new kitten. Apart from the run that Shannon and I went on together in town later that afternoon, my brief trip to Abingdon was primarily spent catching up with my extended family at the house. Shannon and I had our girl talk before Uncle Larry returned home with cousin Preston who was visiting from college. We all had dinner, and Uncle Larry attempted to bake cookies, before Aunt Mary Kay returned home from work.
Though the visit to Abingdon was brief, my time with Pionk family was not over yet. Preston's fiancé's parents, the Stepps, are season football ticket holders at Virginia Tech. where Preston, and his fiancé Jessica attend, where Diana and her boyfriend Jay graduated from, and where my friend Stacey and her husband Chad work. The Stepps offered 3 of their 6 tickets to Aunt Mary Kay, Uncle Larry and me. So Saturday morning the whole house was up bright and early for game day.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Saturday, October 8, 2011
cous-in
cousin: (n) the son or daughter of an uncle or aunt.
Unfortunately my timing leaving Washington D.C. lined up perfectly with Monday evening rush hour. So the drive to Quinton, Virginia got off to a slower start than hoped for. Regardless, I made it to Diana's house in the woods relatively smoothly. Diana is my first cousin on my mother's side of the family and is also my God-Sister. My parents are Diana's God-Parents and Diana's parents are my God-Parents, so we call ourselves God-Sisters. Jay, Diana's boyfriend, treated the three of us to burgers and beer in downtown Richmond shortly after my arrival. Both were absolutely delicious and just what I needed to end the day.
Diana is a full time Pharmacy student in Richmond, Virginia. Between her classes on Tuesday we spent the mid-day exploring Carrytown, a historic shopping district outside of the city. It was a cutesy sort of place with quirky shops that lined the main street. Without any actual shopping agendas of our own we set off to explore anything that caught our eyes. An antique clothing store was the first to draw us in. This store may very well have been the most incredible store I had ever stepped foot in. Filled with hundreds of original and replica pieces of clothing, jewelry, and accessories from the 1920s through the 1970s, the two of us could have spent every penny we own in that place. Reluctantly we resisted, but did spend a majority of our afternoon there trying on hats and rings and shoes and dresses from decades we were never fortunate enough to live in. When hunger set in we left our antique and vintage fantasy store in search of food. But of course we were distracted once and again by other quirky boutiques. Out of time, we elected for lunch at home before Diana had to return to campus. When she left, I had the rest of the day at the house to read, relax, nap... At that point in my travels I had hit a wall of fatigue. Up until then I had been go-go-go, get up and run in the morning, go on adventures all day, stay out late all night, and do it again tomorrow, then drive a hundred miles or so the next day. After Carrytown browsing, I slept until 8 at night and only woke because had Diana returned home from school. We made dinner together before she retired for the night. I, on the other hand, had doomed myself to be awake for at least another 6 hours.
This of course offset my sleeping pattern for the next few days. Luckily my cousin's class schedule had her away from the house until late afternoon anyway. It was nearly noon before I opened my eyes on Wednesday but not a single bone in my body was at all motivated to leave the comfort of bed. Fortunately my conscious reminded me that it had been a week and a half since my last run, which was completely unacceptable. Diana's house sits on a lake in a densely wooded neighborhood with dirt roads and cottage-like houses, which made for a wonderfully scenic afternoon run. Aside from the run, I moved at a snail-like pace the rest of the day accomplishing very little outside of relaxation. In the evening my cousin returned and we headed out for pizza and girl talk. Our chatter continued at home over cookies and re-runs of Grey's Anatomy before bed.
Thursday was much like Wednesday for me; a slow start to the morning before my run, followed by an afternoon of rest and relaxation. Around 4 Diana had returned home to pick me up for our evening winery tour. Just up the road from her house is a winery, only a few years old, which offers tours and wine tasting. The building itself, more than the actual winery, was of particular interest to me. The builder, based in Richmond, specializes in using recycled materials from dismantled older buildings in his construction. The bricks, the wooden beams, floors, and ceilings, the doors, were all salvaged and used in the winery. Of course, the wine was good too. Diana and I each purchased a bottle at the end of our tour then watched the sun go down over the vineyard from the porch. Jay, who had been gone since Tuesday morning for work, was expecting us to pick him up in the evening, so we left the porch for the city. Not that it was entirely our fault, but finding the rendezvous point was nearly impossible for the two of us. We drove around for ages before we finally found the place which we must have passed a half a dozen times. Jay tired from work, and we girls tired from the drive, we all agreed on take-out and Tigers at home for dinner. All three of us had an early morning ahead, but I could not rest until the game was over.
Unfortunately my timing leaving Washington D.C. lined up perfectly with Monday evening rush hour. So the drive to Quinton, Virginia got off to a slower start than hoped for. Regardless, I made it to Diana's house in the woods relatively smoothly. Diana is my first cousin on my mother's side of the family and is also my God-Sister. My parents are Diana's God-Parents and Diana's parents are my God-Parents, so we call ourselves God-Sisters. Jay, Diana's boyfriend, treated the three of us to burgers and beer in downtown Richmond shortly after my arrival. Both were absolutely delicious and just what I needed to end the day.
Diana is a full time Pharmacy student in Richmond, Virginia. Between her classes on Tuesday we spent the mid-day exploring Carrytown, a historic shopping district outside of the city. It was a cutesy sort of place with quirky shops that lined the main street. Without any actual shopping agendas of our own we set off to explore anything that caught our eyes. An antique clothing store was the first to draw us in. This store may very well have been the most incredible store I had ever stepped foot in. Filled with hundreds of original and replica pieces of clothing, jewelry, and accessories from the 1920s through the 1970s, the two of us could have spent every penny we own in that place. Reluctantly we resisted, but did spend a majority of our afternoon there trying on hats and rings and shoes and dresses from decades we were never fortunate enough to live in. When hunger set in we left our antique and vintage fantasy store in search of food. But of course we were distracted once and again by other quirky boutiques. Out of time, we elected for lunch at home before Diana had to return to campus. When she left, I had the rest of the day at the house to read, relax, nap... At that point in my travels I had hit a wall of fatigue. Up until then I had been go-go-go, get up and run in the morning, go on adventures all day, stay out late all night, and do it again tomorrow, then drive a hundred miles or so the next day. After Carrytown browsing, I slept until 8 at night and only woke because had Diana returned home from school. We made dinner together before she retired for the night. I, on the other hand, had doomed myself to be awake for at least another 6 hours.
This of course offset my sleeping pattern for the next few days. Luckily my cousin's class schedule had her away from the house until late afternoon anyway. It was nearly noon before I opened my eyes on Wednesday but not a single bone in my body was at all motivated to leave the comfort of bed. Fortunately my conscious reminded me that it had been a week and a half since my last run, which was completely unacceptable. Diana's house sits on a lake in a densely wooded neighborhood with dirt roads and cottage-like houses, which made for a wonderfully scenic afternoon run. Aside from the run, I moved at a snail-like pace the rest of the day accomplishing very little outside of relaxation. In the evening my cousin returned and we headed out for pizza and girl talk. Our chatter continued at home over cookies and re-runs of Grey's Anatomy before bed.
Thursday was much like Wednesday for me; a slow start to the morning before my run, followed by an afternoon of rest and relaxation. Around 4 Diana had returned home to pick me up for our evening winery tour. Just up the road from her house is a winery, only a few years old, which offers tours and wine tasting. The building itself, more than the actual winery, was of particular interest to me. The builder, based in Richmond, specializes in using recycled materials from dismantled older buildings in his construction. The bricks, the wooden beams, floors, and ceilings, the doors, were all salvaged and used in the winery. Of course, the wine was good too. Diana and I each purchased a bottle at the end of our tour then watched the sun go down over the vineyard from the porch. Jay, who had been gone since Tuesday morning for work, was expecting us to pick him up in the evening, so we left the porch for the city. Not that it was entirely our fault, but finding the rendezvous point was nearly impossible for the two of us. We drove around for ages before we finally found the place which we must have passed a half a dozen times. Jay tired from work, and we girls tired from the drive, we all agreed on take-out and Tigers at home for dinner. All three of us had an early morning ahead, but I could not rest until the game was over.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Wash-ing-ton
Washington: (n) Also called Washington, D.C. the capital of the United States, on the Potomac between Maryland and Virginia; coextensive with the District of Columbia.
Riding the train out of the city was a bit depressing as I came down from the high of Manhattan and the victory of the "Little Brown Jug" game, not to mention that I was also dreading the drive ahead. However, 6 and 1/2 hour drive turned out to be the most interesting so far, for as interesting as driving can be. Long after dark I came upon a new section of highway near a major interstate interchange. The 5 year old Garmin GPS my father was so kind to lend me had no knowledge of this new construction, and led me to drive in circles on and off the highway shouting, "when possible, make a U-turn!" in an automated female voice. Note to all GPS users: Update your Garmin BEFORE taking a long road trip. Did you know that in New Jersey people are paid to pump your gas for you? This was news to me and threw me for a loop when I pulled into a station a few hours later. It was the first and only time anyone had ever pumped my gas. Not 10 minutes after that I stopped for the toll booth where the attendant asked me, "Are you running away from home?" "Road trip," I answered, confused by the question. Much later it occurred to me that his inquiry was likely spurred by the sight my car filled with nearly half of all that I own piled in laundry baskets and duffle bags which I had packed for the trip. That was the last bit of "interesting" on the drive before I arrived in D.C. well after midnight. Melissa Maynard, older sister of my dear college friend Kelley Maynard and as of this past July my friend as well, was my Washington host. Over some milk and cookies we shared for a bit about life, long enough for me to decompress and allow fatigue to set in.
Sunday morning, over a delicious breakfast at a local hot spot, Melissa and I continued our previous evening's conversation. In the midst of exchanging stories of love, life, and loss, a feeling of homesickness swallowed me whole, or perhaps girl-friend-sickness would be a better term. Pouring out the silly internal thoughts from all depths of my female brain to another woman who is just as complex, and who had shared just as much with me, was just what I needed. It was a very real reminder of how valuable girl friends are, and how lonely I have been without them during my year abroad and weeks of solo traveling. The girly chatter was a continuous soundtrack to my D.C. experience. After breakfast we took Baxter, Melissa's golden-doodle, to the nearby dog park for some exercise before driving to the Mall for some monument touring. The new Martin Luther King Jr. memorial was the latest addition to the Washington Mall and was our priority number one. Despite the rain, the monument was quite beautiful and rather moving. From there we braved the weather and walked around the water all the way to the Jefferson monument, the only one I had not seen during my previous visit to D.C. while in college. Still un-phased by the rain and cold, we continued further onto the Mall and into the city. A few more monuments and Smithsonians later, our stomachs alerted us that it was nearly dinner time. While sharing a bottle of wine, Melissa prepared a delicious home cooked meal for the two of us which we both filled ourselves on to a comatose state.
While Melissa worked on Monday, I spent the day exploring more of Washington D.C. on my own. It began with a rendezvous at a classy lunch joint across the street from her office for our last girly gab before I left town later that afternoon. She gave me a tour of her office, which was renovated in an Apple store-like fashion, and then said goodbye. The Holocaust museum, which I had been eager to see, caught my eye the day before and was my first destination. In the future I hope to return when I have an entire day and evening available to devote to this one exhibit. Mentally and emotionally I came ill prepared. The depression became far too strong for me to finish the walk through, so I left. Outside, even the cold and rainy day seemed uplifting. With time to spare due to my early departure from the previous museum, I went on a search for the Hope Diamond. Nothing like a large sparkling gem to brighten a girl's day. The geological exhibit of precious stone which leads viewers to the Hope Diamond was actually more interesting than the diamond itself. Though anti-climatic, my depression had subsided enough and I was ready to move on.
Riding the train out of the city was a bit depressing as I came down from the high of Manhattan and the victory of the "Little Brown Jug" game, not to mention that I was also dreading the drive ahead. However, 6 and 1/2 hour drive turned out to be the most interesting so far, for as interesting as driving can be. Long after dark I came upon a new section of highway near a major interstate interchange. The 5 year old Garmin GPS my father was so kind to lend me had no knowledge of this new construction, and led me to drive in circles on and off the highway shouting, "when possible, make a U-turn!" in an automated female voice. Note to all GPS users: Update your Garmin BEFORE taking a long road trip. Did you know that in New Jersey people are paid to pump your gas for you? This was news to me and threw me for a loop when I pulled into a station a few hours later. It was the first and only time anyone had ever pumped my gas. Not 10 minutes after that I stopped for the toll booth where the attendant asked me, "Are you running away from home?" "Road trip," I answered, confused by the question. Much later it occurred to me that his inquiry was likely spurred by the sight my car filled with nearly half of all that I own piled in laundry baskets and duffle bags which I had packed for the trip. That was the last bit of "interesting" on the drive before I arrived in D.C. well after midnight. Melissa Maynard, older sister of my dear college friend Kelley Maynard and as of this past July my friend as well, was my Washington host. Over some milk and cookies we shared for a bit about life, long enough for me to decompress and allow fatigue to set in.
Sunday morning, over a delicious breakfast at a local hot spot, Melissa and I continued our previous evening's conversation. In the midst of exchanging stories of love, life, and loss, a feeling of homesickness swallowed me whole, or perhaps girl-friend-sickness would be a better term. Pouring out the silly internal thoughts from all depths of my female brain to another woman who is just as complex, and who had shared just as much with me, was just what I needed. It was a very real reminder of how valuable girl friends are, and how lonely I have been without them during my year abroad and weeks of solo traveling. The girly chatter was a continuous soundtrack to my D.C. experience. After breakfast we took Baxter, Melissa's golden-doodle, to the nearby dog park for some exercise before driving to the Mall for some monument touring. The new Martin Luther King Jr. memorial was the latest addition to the Washington Mall and was our priority number one. Despite the rain, the monument was quite beautiful and rather moving. From there we braved the weather and walked around the water all the way to the Jefferson monument, the only one I had not seen during my previous visit to D.C. while in college. Still un-phased by the rain and cold, we continued further onto the Mall and into the city. A few more monuments and Smithsonians later, our stomachs alerted us that it was nearly dinner time. While sharing a bottle of wine, Melissa prepared a delicious home cooked meal for the two of us which we both filled ourselves on to a comatose state.
While Melissa worked on Monday, I spent the day exploring more of Washington D.C. on my own. It began with a rendezvous at a classy lunch joint across the street from her office for our last girly gab before I left town later that afternoon. She gave me a tour of her office, which was renovated in an Apple store-like fashion, and then said goodbye. The Holocaust museum, which I had been eager to see, caught my eye the day before and was my first destination. In the future I hope to return when I have an entire day and evening available to devote to this one exhibit. Mentally and emotionally I came ill prepared. The depression became far too strong for me to finish the walk through, so I left. Outside, even the cold and rainy day seemed uplifting. With time to spare due to my early departure from the previous museum, I went on a search for the Hope Diamond. Nothing like a large sparkling gem to brighten a girl's day. The geological exhibit of precious stone which leads viewers to the Hope Diamond was actually more interesting than the diamond itself. Though anti-climatic, my depression had subsided enough and I was ready to move on.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Man-hat-tan
Manhattan: (n) an island in New York City surrounded by the Hudson, East, and Harlem rivers. 13 1/2 miles long; 2 1/2 miles greatest width; 22 1/4 sq. mi.
The rain continued strong into Thursday at which point I packed my bags, stopped by the campground to say goodbye to Brandon, and drove to the Poughkeepsie Amtrak station to catch the afternoon train into New York City. The drive may as well have been through a hurricane. Wind and rain blew fast and hard enough to eliminate visibility completely, which of course resulted in all vehicles moving at a crawling pace on the highway. Strategic planning and the delay of my train left me a comfortable time window to check in and board without a problem. Penn station could not have been busier when I arrived in the city. Overwhelmed by the crowd of rush hour commuters, I frantically pushed my way to the edge of the chaos to phone Mike. Aside from our college graduation at the Big House, the last time I had seen Mike, also known as Schemo, was partying at a bar in downtown Ann Arbor. So I was quite surprised to recognize that the man in the business suit and tie, carrying a shoulder bag, and walking toward me was indeed my friend. After a quick embrace, he took my duffel bag and navigated the two of us out of the unusually chaotic train station. He explained to me once we were above ground that a lightning strike only a few hours prior to my arrival had caused some of the rails to shut down, delaying thousands of travelers who had since accumulated into the mess of people which we had just emerged from. Our breath of air in the open of the city did not last long before we were descending again into the subway. Mike attempted to explain to me the intricacies of the New York subway system during our short underground ride. Unfortunately I was already on sensory overload and absorbed very little of the information he was sharing. Wall Street was our exit; that was the only thing I retained. Due to the "Occupy Wall Street" protests, the street itself was barricaded off and guarded by police and only the sidewalks were passable. We turned into the lobby of Mike's apartment building, an old bank skyscraper converted to residential tower, where my name was already on the list to allow me to enter and exit the building at my leisure during my stay. After a few minutes of decompression time, we were back out in the city for an evening tour and dinner. The only other time I had been to New York City was when I was 15. My high school choir traveled to the Big Apple to perform in Carnegie Hall. During that visit I was able to do most of the New York touristy activities like the Empire State Building, Central Park, Times Square, Ground Zero, etc. and appreciated none of it. Funny thing about 15-year-olds, they tend to be angry about everything for no reason at all. Fortunately this time around I was far beyond my rebellious teenage years and able to view the city with fresh eyes and by way of a "local."
As I suppose a day in the life of a New York City business man goes, Mike had a golf outing with colleagues all day Friday, which left me with a morning to sleep in and an entire day to explore. Originally my goal had been to visit Ellis Island, a very important place of history to me which I have never been to before, however my evening orientation of the city was not enough for me to be able to navigate New York successfully on my own. Getting lost and found and lost again was a good way to explore though. Unfortunately by the time I actually made it to the ferry dock, the day's tickets to the island were already sold out. Not to worry, I was having plenty of fun wandering about. From the very end of lower Manhattan, I decided to try to make my way to Central Park. This I knew would require a trip on the subway, which I successfully rode and never missed a stop. The day was nearly over when I finally heard from Mike, and I was somewhere in the middle of Central Park. Not knowing how exactly I had gotten to where I was or how to get back, I sent him a picture message of a nearby land mark and stayed put. We spent a few more hours in the park once Mike found me, before another city tour during which we took a moment to "sit on the steps of St. Patrick's" to "watch the world go by;" a song lyric by Jason Lavasseur and my entire reasoning for visiting the church. Dark had long set in on the city and both of us were utterly exhausted. Exhausted enough to skip the bar and go for pizza and beer at home during the Tigers vs. Yankees game. Well, the game never made it past the second inning on account of rain, and neither did we.
The early night served us well the next day though. College Football Saturday! Mike and I often spent these days together, along with several of our friends, back in Ann Arbor. Though this was most certainly NOT Ann Arbor, the University of Michigan Alumni Association of New York City provided an excellent venue for game watching. They had reserved an entire bar for the alumni that day, so when we walked in off the street we found ourselves in a sea of maize. It was a small feeling of home. Mike and I joined up with Marissa and another group of her friends at the bar for the game. Michigan shut out Minnesota the entire game bringing victory and the "Little Brown Jug" to the Maize and Blue. Unfortunately I was not able to stay and celebrate after the game; it was time for me to continue on my way.
The rain continued strong into Thursday at which point I packed my bags, stopped by the campground to say goodbye to Brandon, and drove to the Poughkeepsie Amtrak station to catch the afternoon train into New York City. The drive may as well have been through a hurricane. Wind and rain blew fast and hard enough to eliminate visibility completely, which of course resulted in all vehicles moving at a crawling pace on the highway. Strategic planning and the delay of my train left me a comfortable time window to check in and board without a problem. Penn station could not have been busier when I arrived in the city. Overwhelmed by the crowd of rush hour commuters, I frantically pushed my way to the edge of the chaos to phone Mike. Aside from our college graduation at the Big House, the last time I had seen Mike, also known as Schemo, was partying at a bar in downtown Ann Arbor. So I was quite surprised to recognize that the man in the business suit and tie, carrying a shoulder bag, and walking toward me was indeed my friend. After a quick embrace, he took my duffel bag and navigated the two of us out of the unusually chaotic train station. He explained to me once we were above ground that a lightning strike only a few hours prior to my arrival had caused some of the rails to shut down, delaying thousands of travelers who had since accumulated into the mess of people which we had just emerged from. Our breath of air in the open of the city did not last long before we were descending again into the subway. Mike attempted to explain to me the intricacies of the New York subway system during our short underground ride. Unfortunately I was already on sensory overload and absorbed very little of the information he was sharing. Wall Street was our exit; that was the only thing I retained. Due to the "Occupy Wall Street" protests, the street itself was barricaded off and guarded by police and only the sidewalks were passable. We turned into the lobby of Mike's apartment building, an old bank skyscraper converted to residential tower, where my name was already on the list to allow me to enter and exit the building at my leisure during my stay. After a few minutes of decompression time, we were back out in the city for an evening tour and dinner. The only other time I had been to New York City was when I was 15. My high school choir traveled to the Big Apple to perform in Carnegie Hall. During that visit I was able to do most of the New York touristy activities like the Empire State Building, Central Park, Times Square, Ground Zero, etc. and appreciated none of it. Funny thing about 15-year-olds, they tend to be angry about everything for no reason at all. Fortunately this time around I was far beyond my rebellious teenage years and able to view the city with fresh eyes and by way of a "local."
As I suppose a day in the life of a New York City business man goes, Mike had a golf outing with colleagues all day Friday, which left me with a morning to sleep in and an entire day to explore. Originally my goal had been to visit Ellis Island, a very important place of history to me which I have never been to before, however my evening orientation of the city was not enough for me to be able to navigate New York successfully on my own. Getting lost and found and lost again was a good way to explore though. Unfortunately by the time I actually made it to the ferry dock, the day's tickets to the island were already sold out. Not to worry, I was having plenty of fun wandering about. From the very end of lower Manhattan, I decided to try to make my way to Central Park. This I knew would require a trip on the subway, which I successfully rode and never missed a stop. The day was nearly over when I finally heard from Mike, and I was somewhere in the middle of Central Park. Not knowing how exactly I had gotten to where I was or how to get back, I sent him a picture message of a nearby land mark and stayed put. We spent a few more hours in the park once Mike found me, before another city tour during which we took a moment to "sit on the steps of St. Patrick's" to "watch the world go by;" a song lyric by Jason Lavasseur and my entire reasoning for visiting the church. Dark had long set in on the city and both of us were utterly exhausted. Exhausted enough to skip the bar and go for pizza and beer at home during the Tigers vs. Yankees game. Well, the game never made it past the second inning on account of rain, and neither did we.
The early night served us well the next day though. College Football Saturday! Mike and I often spent these days together, along with several of our friends, back in Ann Arbor. Though this was most certainly NOT Ann Arbor, the University of Michigan Alumni Association of New York City provided an excellent venue for game watching. They had reserved an entire bar for the alumni that day, so when we walked in off the street we found ourselves in a sea of maize. It was a small feeling of home. Mike and I joined up with Marissa and another group of her friends at the bar for the game. Michigan shut out Minnesota the entire game bringing victory and the "Little Brown Jug" to the Maize and Blue. Unfortunately I was not able to stay and celebrate after the game; it was time for me to continue on my way.
Friday, September 30, 2011
por-cu-pine
porcupine: (n) any of several rodents covered with stiff, sharp, erectile spines or quills.
Though only a few hours north of New York City, Woodbourne, New York, is about as rural as it gets. Brandon, a friend from Camp Henry, works at a campground nearby. So I suppose the rural setting was appropriate, just a huge contrast from the urban scene I was living in the previous week. Almost immediately upon my arrival the two of us set off to hike Mohonk, a nature preserve in the mountains of New York. Part way up the mountain, at 1,245 feet above sea level, sits Lake Mohonk, a small, natural body of water. We rounded the lake past the Mohonk Mountain House, which is really more of a large castle of a hotel, and continued on toward the trails. My host, who claimed to have such an excellent sense of direction, made a turn which led to just about everywhere BUT the peak of the mountain we were attempting to summit. It did make for a pretty excellent adventure though. The path was quite narrow, windy, jagged, and often times involved actual climbing under, over and between large rocks. Often times it was not clear where we were meant to go. Soon I realized that our path was marked with red arrows painted on the rocks. Brandon had no idea, so I took the lead. At one point the arrows led us down a narrow corridor cut between the trees, it was here that our trail was blocked. A porcupine, adorable, large, and full of sharp quills, stood directly in front of us in the middle our path. The last thing I wanted was for this creature to "bite me with its butt," so we stood there... watching. That was the first and only time I had ever seen a porcupine in person. Once the shock of what was standing in front of me wore off, I took out my camera to document the moment. Slowly our new friend made its way out of our path and we continued. Our red-arrowed rocks led us back to the main trail from which we found the correct trail to the top of the mountain. From the summit there is an excellent vista of the entire nature preserve, including the lake and the Mountain House. There is also a castle-like tower which stands alone. From the top there was a much better view, but we could see the rain coming in across the horizon as the sun began dipping low into the sky. That was our cue to leave. Our evening ended at microbrewery for dinner, a perfect conclusion to the day.
Wednesday was a rain out. Not just a light shower, I'm talking flood warnings for all of the surrounding rivers in the area. For the 5th day in a row my morning run was canceled, and so were our hiking plans. Regrettably, Brandon and I spent the day on the couch watching movies until one of us was hungry enough for a meal. A friend of his met us at Buffalo Wild Wings for dinner, trivia, and karaoke. Karaoke night in Woodbourne, or whatever town we had driven to that was large enough to have a Buffalo Wild Wings, was painful in comparison to Boston. It mostly consisted of kids, who still had a curfew, singing songs not at all meant for Karaoke. There was nothing to do but laugh at it.
Though only a few hours north of New York City, Woodbourne, New York, is about as rural as it gets. Brandon, a friend from Camp Henry, works at a campground nearby. So I suppose the rural setting was appropriate, just a huge contrast from the urban scene I was living in the previous week. Almost immediately upon my arrival the two of us set off to hike Mohonk, a nature preserve in the mountains of New York. Part way up the mountain, at 1,245 feet above sea level, sits Lake Mohonk, a small, natural body of water. We rounded the lake past the Mohonk Mountain House, which is really more of a large castle of a hotel, and continued on toward the trails. My host, who claimed to have such an excellent sense of direction, made a turn which led to just about everywhere BUT the peak of the mountain we were attempting to summit. It did make for a pretty excellent adventure though. The path was quite narrow, windy, jagged, and often times involved actual climbing under, over and between large rocks. Often times it was not clear where we were meant to go. Soon I realized that our path was marked with red arrows painted on the rocks. Brandon had no idea, so I took the lead. At one point the arrows led us down a narrow corridor cut between the trees, it was here that our trail was blocked. A porcupine, adorable, large, and full of sharp quills, stood directly in front of us in the middle our path. The last thing I wanted was for this creature to "bite me with its butt," so we stood there... watching. That was the first and only time I had ever seen a porcupine in person. Once the shock of what was standing in front of me wore off, I took out my camera to document the moment. Slowly our new friend made its way out of our path and we continued. Our red-arrowed rocks led us back to the main trail from which we found the correct trail to the top of the mountain. From the summit there is an excellent vista of the entire nature preserve, including the lake and the Mountain House. There is also a castle-like tower which stands alone. From the top there was a much better view, but we could see the rain coming in across the horizon as the sun began dipping low into the sky. That was our cue to leave. Our evening ended at microbrewery for dinner, a perfect conclusion to the day.
Wednesday was a rain out. Not just a light shower, I'm talking flood warnings for all of the surrounding rivers in the area. For the 5th day in a row my morning run was canceled, and so were our hiking plans. Regrettably, Brandon and I spent the day on the couch watching movies until one of us was hungry enough for a meal. A friend of his met us at Buffalo Wild Wings for dinner, trivia, and karaoke. Karaoke night in Woodbourne, or whatever town we had driven to that was large enough to have a Buffalo Wild Wings, was painful in comparison to Boston. It mostly consisted of kids, who still had a curfew, singing songs not at all meant for Karaoke. There was nothing to do but laugh at it.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Yale
Yale: (n) Elihu, 1648-1721, English colonial official, born in America: governor of Madras 1687-92; principal benefactor of the Collegiate School at Saybrook, Connecticut (now Yale University)
Ana had morning classes until 11:30, which meant my departure from Boston could be no later than 8 a.m. I could not have gotten any less sleep the night before, which of course meant day 3 of skipping my morning run. This was beginning to become a dangerous pattern. Reluctantly, I said my last goodbye to Paul and began the drive to Connecticut. For as tired as I was, I remained exceptionally awake for the drive which was shorter than expected. My early arrival gave me plenty of time to find street parking and sort through the mess of my belongings in the Mustang before Ana returned from class. Mondays being her busy days, I tagged along to experience a day in the life of a Yale graduate student. We took what may have been the cleanest public bus I have ever ridden to campus for lunch. Of course, Yale University has a gorgeous campus and nearly every building resembled those of the law quad at the University of Michigan. It was much more quaint and peaceful here than at Harvard University. This city was fortunately organized on the grid system which I believe contributed to its lack of chaos and commotion. We used the time between various scheduled appointments and classes to catch up on life since Honduras. Ana worked at the Gracias campus of Vida Abundante Schools in Honduras while I worked in La Union from 2010-2011. My frequent visits to the city of Gracias afforded us the opportunity to build a friendship over the course of the school year. Both of us having moved from Honduras to the U.S. recently, her starting grad school, and me traveling the coast, afforded plenty to talk about as we walked from doctor appointment to toxicology class. The subject of toxicology I find particularly interesting, unfortunately the lecturer, rumored to be a bit dull, was unable to hold my attention for long before the drowsiness set in. It was then I elected to return to Ana's apartment to freshen up and rest before the evenings activities, which included a global health seminar. Again, the subject highly interesting but the execution of the lecture was somewhat of a let-down. For a graduate seminar at Yale University, I expected more from the speaker. The meat of his lecture was very fluffy and filled with redundant information presented on less than quality lecture slides. Ana was satisfied, I was critical. Attendees of the seminar were provided with a pasta dinner which we followed up with a birthday cake celebration for one of Ana's friends to conclude the evening.
Tuesday morning I was alarmed by my own reflection in the mirror, at least what I could see of it. My eyes had nearly swollen shut and my cheeks were puffy and dotted with an itchy rash of sorts. I was having an allergic reaction to something, ON MY FACE! But what? The number of times I have had any sort of allergic reaction to anything in the course of my existence I can probably count on one hand. A shower helped to the point where I could see again. I was not in the clear yet, but it would do for now because Ana and I had a campus to tour. She had the morning off which gave us time for a proper walk around Yale which was a bit like walking through castles and old cathedrals. The beauty could have distracted me all day, but Ana had class and I had a trip to New York to make.
Ana had morning classes until 11:30, which meant my departure from Boston could be no later than 8 a.m. I could not have gotten any less sleep the night before, which of course meant day 3 of skipping my morning run. This was beginning to become a dangerous pattern. Reluctantly, I said my last goodbye to Paul and began the drive to Connecticut. For as tired as I was, I remained exceptionally awake for the drive which was shorter than expected. My early arrival gave me plenty of time to find street parking and sort through the mess of my belongings in the Mustang before Ana returned from class. Mondays being her busy days, I tagged along to experience a day in the life of a Yale graduate student. We took what may have been the cleanest public bus I have ever ridden to campus for lunch. Of course, Yale University has a gorgeous campus and nearly every building resembled those of the law quad at the University of Michigan. It was much more quaint and peaceful here than at Harvard University. This city was fortunately organized on the grid system which I believe contributed to its lack of chaos and commotion. We used the time between various scheduled appointments and classes to catch up on life since Honduras. Ana worked at the Gracias campus of Vida Abundante Schools in Honduras while I worked in La Union from 2010-2011. My frequent visits to the city of Gracias afforded us the opportunity to build a friendship over the course of the school year. Both of us having moved from Honduras to the U.S. recently, her starting grad school, and me traveling the coast, afforded plenty to talk about as we walked from doctor appointment to toxicology class. The subject of toxicology I find particularly interesting, unfortunately the lecturer, rumored to be a bit dull, was unable to hold my attention for long before the drowsiness set in. It was then I elected to return to Ana's apartment to freshen up and rest before the evenings activities, which included a global health seminar. Again, the subject highly interesting but the execution of the lecture was somewhat of a let-down. For a graduate seminar at Yale University, I expected more from the speaker. The meat of his lecture was very fluffy and filled with redundant information presented on less than quality lecture slides. Ana was satisfied, I was critical. Attendees of the seminar were provided with a pasta dinner which we followed up with a birthday cake celebration for one of Ana's friends to conclude the evening.
Tuesday morning I was alarmed by my own reflection in the mirror, at least what I could see of it. My eyes had nearly swollen shut and my cheeks were puffy and dotted with an itchy rash of sorts. I was having an allergic reaction to something, ON MY FACE! But what? The number of times I have had any sort of allergic reaction to anything in the course of my existence I can probably count on one hand. A shower helped to the point where I could see again. I was not in the clear yet, but it would do for now because Ana and I had a campus to tour. She had the morning off which gave us time for a proper walk around Yale which was a bit like walking through castles and old cathedrals. The beauty could have distracted me all day, but Ana had class and I had a trip to New York to make.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Bos-ton
Boston: (n) a seaport in and the capital of Massachusetts.
The drive to Boston was short and stress free and thanks to my coffee date with Peter, and the excitement of visiting Boston for the first time, I arrived with plenty of energy, ready to hit the town. Paul, my English friend from Camp Henry, greeted me on the street of his Massachusetts home. Inside his host family was preparing dinner while what seemed like an endless blur of unfamiliar faces passed in and out of the room. Welcome to Boston. Actually, we were technically in Arlington, a suburb of Boston, but it was close enough for me. It wasn't until we all sat down to eat before I was finally able to sort out who was who. Michelle and Emily and their two daughters were the permanent residents of this house and were hosts to Paul and David, who are both from England. The remaining faces, unaccounted for at the dinner table, showed up shortly thereafter for our night out. Nate, also from England but living just down the street, Nicola, Nate's English friend who had also just arrived in Boston for a visit, other Paul, who I know very little about, David, Paul and I all squeezed into one car which was destined for T's karaoke bar. According to the boys it was the place to be in Boston on a Tuesday night and according to the crowd they were correct. The 6 of us huddled around a small table near the dance floor while the bar filled to capacity. Only a few drinks into the night the karaoke list made its way to our table and the British boys put in their request for "Wonderwall" a song in which their accents worked to their advantage. From there it was PBR, table talk, dancing, photos...
My internal alarm clock had me wide awake by 9:30, my head kept me lying in bed until noon when Nate arrived and insisted on beginning the day. When I returned from my morning, or should I say afternoon, run there was yet another new face. Kay, from England of course, would be joining Paul, Nate, Nicola and I on our tour of Harvard. Already half the day gone, we climbed into the car and drove straight to campus. Our first stop was the football stadium. Much smaller than I had expected, but then again how many people really watch ivy-league football anyway? From there we walked into town to explore the rest of campus. Similar to Ann Arbor, the city and the university campus are very integrated with an extra bit of hustle and bustle from the brilliant minds which make up Harvard and the absolute chaos of the Boston roadway system. This old town was well established before the grid system found its place in the United States urban landscape, which has resulted in instances such as star-shaped, 7-way intersections and very confused drivers. Regardless, campus was magnificent and would have been excellent for people-watching had I not gone nearly 20 hours without food. Nate shared my hunger pains and nominated Chipotle as our cure. Paul, not hungry, brought the car around while Nate and I feasted on our oversized burritos before the return to Arlington in time for practice. For a few hours every weekday evening Paul, and the rest of the crew from England, coach youth soccer. During this time I was able to visit with Emily. It wasn't long before the house was full again with the rest of Emily's family and the soccer coaches, who all dined with us before Paul and I left for Cape Cod. Michelle and Emily own a condo in Provincetown, located at the very end of the cape, and offered it to us for a few days. Paul was able to take a day off from coaching which gave us until Friday afternoon to return. Full from yet another delicious home cooked meal, we began our mini road trip to P-town. Though the drive was only a few hours, it was nice to have a co-pilot in the Mustang. By the time we arrived at the cape we had just minutes to pick up some food at the mini-market and choose a movie before everything closed. At this point neither of us were tired, seeing as we had only been awake for about 12 hours. So after settling in and receiving a tour of the condo, we took a night tour of the town and the beach. While the walk was enjoyable, it was not a successful way to gain my bearings. Everything looks so different in the dark.
Thursday morning I was wide awake again by 9 and without the after affects of a night out. My morning run doubled as a re-orientation to the layout of Provincetown and was a true success. As it turns out, the town was much simpler than it seemed the night before and literally was located at the VERY end of Cape Cod. During my run I caught a glimpse of blue skies through the morning's gray which surprised me as the forecast had called for rain the entire duration of our cape trip. Excited, I hurried back to the condo for a shower and breakfast to complete my morning and to start what was looking to be a promising day. Of course, Paul was still asleep. It was well after noon by the time we left the condo and the sun was shining bright. A rock jetty at the end of the street stretched out into the sand dunes, we started there. Two light houses stood on either side toward the end of the jetty; that was our destination. Just over the dunes, waves from the open sea crashed onto the beach where we walked to the lighthouse. The doors were locked on what was not an entirely impressive structure, but we passed some time there anyway. On the return to the condo, Paul insisted on counting the number of rocks that made up the distance of the walk from the beach to the road. After walking across 1060 rocks in the sun I was ready for a swim. For as late in the season as it was, the water was not bad. The crab that crawled across my foot was more startling than the temperature of the ocean. Swimming cooled me down and most certainly tired me out. Back in town we browsed around the quirky P-town shops and toured the main street in daylight. That was the last of my energy, so I had a nap before dinner in town which was the last of our night.
Friday morning's run took place in a dense fog, literally. With not much to see, we packed up the condo and started back to Arlington. Fog turned to rain the minute we left the driveway and fell steadily all the way "home." Despite the rain, everyone still had soccer practice which gave me a few evening hours to decompress from the drive and spend some more time chatting with Emily and a new face, Lauren, also from England. Splashed in mud, coaches and players returned to the house. Almost immediately a long anticipated quarrel concerning a vehicle erupted between David and Paul. Pretending to be occupied with incoming text messages, Lauren and I migrated into another room until the storm passed. Michelle, Emily and the kids had plans elsewhere which meant the rest of us were on our own for dinner. We progressively became more indecisive as more people showed up. Eventually we had given up on going out for a meal and elected to order in curry. Shortly after the food and the rest of our party arrived the topic of the car resurfaced and round two of the quarrel began. Lauren and I left immediately along with another guest, and occupied ourselves until nearly 11:30. At the end of it all, Paul and I were the only two left for a night on the town which was short lived anyhow.
Saturday morning came far too early. Rhea, my friend from the University of Michigan who now lives and works in Boston, was expecting me for breakfast. Shamefully, I skipped my morning run and rushed to Brighton, where she lives. Rhea put on pot of coffee while her roommate Andrew fried us some eggs. We gabbed over breakfast then finished getting ready for our day at the Life is Good music festival. Our tickets were for the first day of the two day festival. Saturday headliners included Tristan Prettyman, Martin Sexton, Michael Franti, Ingrid Michaelson, and The Avett Brothers, all of my favorites, among others. Again rain had been forecasted all day and not a single drop fell. Though humid, the weather was fantastic. After listening to a few of the opening bands, we wandered by the tents and activities on the festival grounds. For whatever reason we opted to enter the Reebok tent and not 2 minutes after being inside I heard my name being called. Mark Russel, an acquaintance from high school who I had not seen or spoken to since, was sitting on the display in his Reebok representative uniform. We chatted for a bit before Rhea and I left to go catch the next act. SMALL WORLD! Just wait. Later that afternoon we walked by the Martin guitars tent where an open-mic event was set up. Whoever performed a song at the open-mic was automatically entered into a drawing for a Martin guitar. My lust for a new Martin and a big push from Rhea got me onto the small stage. From across the lawn Amy VanHaren, a former Camp Henry staff member, recognized me singing and made her way over to say hello. SHE was at the festival for work as well. Our next must see act was about to begin, so after a short game of catch-up and a photo, Rhea and I rushed off to the stage. Michael Franti, Ingrid Michaelson and Avett Brothers all played back to back. We could barely stand by the end of it all, but that would not stop us from going out later that night. Back at Rhea's apartment we found Andrew in the same position on the couch as we had left him earlier that day. Exhausted, yet determined, we showered again and took a cab into town. Rhea was anxious to meet my British friends after hearing a few stories, so we met up with Paul, Nate and Nicola at a bar in Faneuil Hall. A few drinks and a very long "it'll be great!" conversation with Nate later, it was last call and time to go home. My friends had told me that getting a cab in Boston was difficult, and that night I learned why. Rhea was nearly road kill after charging into the middle of the street multiple times screaming at every cab that drove by. Eventually somebody stopped and we forced our way into the car. Once on our way, Rhea took the opportunity to interrogate our cab driver as to why empty cabs will not stop for people looking for a ride. The answers she received were less than acceptable, which only amplified the conversation, but soon turned into, "Sir, if you do not hurry and get us home I am going to URINATE on this seat!" I too had a bladder on the verge of bursting and the comedy of what was going on in the front of the cab was not helping. Finally he pulled over into a Walgreens, which was closed, so Rhea and I had no other choice than the bushes near the edge of the parking lot.
We slept in far too long the next morning. Late for our day in Boston, I once again skipped my morning run. Rhea and I took the rail into town to explore the city in the light of day. With a couple of her friends, we strolled up and down the strip window shopping and people watching. The humidity was high again and our discomfort could only be cured with one thing: ice cream. Refreshed, yet bored of our current location, we moved on to Faneuil Hall for the day scene. A large and beautiful market was buzzing with shoppers and tourists. We joined the bustle for a couple of hours and before long, it was time to leave. Rhea had to pick her boyfriend up from the airport, and I had a stop in Arlington to make before the evening's drive to Connecticut. It was approximately at that moment when we decided to leave the city center that the world began working against me, or so it felt. Sparing the frustrating details, by the time I arrived in Arlington over two hours later tension had completely overtaken my body and emotions which was partially released in a bit of vent to Paul the moment I walked in the door. A hug and a deep breath later we joined the rest of the family in the next room for dinner. Still wound up, I retired to the living room for some relaxation before I hit the road again. When I opened my eyes to see that it was 9:30 p.m. I had a slight panic attack. I phoned Ana, my friend in New Haven, immediately. We both agreed a 3 and 1/2 hour drive that late was not practical, I would stay in Arlington and leave in the morning. Upon hearing this news, Paul invited the whole British crew over for a movie which gave me a perfect opportunity to say a proper goodbye to my new friends.
The drive to Boston was short and stress free and thanks to my coffee date with Peter, and the excitement of visiting Boston for the first time, I arrived with plenty of energy, ready to hit the town. Paul, my English friend from Camp Henry, greeted me on the street of his Massachusetts home. Inside his host family was preparing dinner while what seemed like an endless blur of unfamiliar faces passed in and out of the room. Welcome to Boston. Actually, we were technically in Arlington, a suburb of Boston, but it was close enough for me. It wasn't until we all sat down to eat before I was finally able to sort out who was who. Michelle and Emily and their two daughters were the permanent residents of this house and were hosts to Paul and David, who are both from England. The remaining faces, unaccounted for at the dinner table, showed up shortly thereafter for our night out. Nate, also from England but living just down the street, Nicola, Nate's English friend who had also just arrived in Boston for a visit, other Paul, who I know very little about, David, Paul and I all squeezed into one car which was destined for T's karaoke bar. According to the boys it was the place to be in Boston on a Tuesday night and according to the crowd they were correct. The 6 of us huddled around a small table near the dance floor while the bar filled to capacity. Only a few drinks into the night the karaoke list made its way to our table and the British boys put in their request for "Wonderwall" a song in which their accents worked to their advantage. From there it was PBR, table talk, dancing, photos...
My internal alarm clock had me wide awake by 9:30, my head kept me lying in bed until noon when Nate arrived and insisted on beginning the day. When I returned from my morning, or should I say afternoon, run there was yet another new face. Kay, from England of course, would be joining Paul, Nate, Nicola and I on our tour of Harvard. Already half the day gone, we climbed into the car and drove straight to campus. Our first stop was the football stadium. Much smaller than I had expected, but then again how many people really watch ivy-league football anyway? From there we walked into town to explore the rest of campus. Similar to Ann Arbor, the city and the university campus are very integrated with an extra bit of hustle and bustle from the brilliant minds which make up Harvard and the absolute chaos of the Boston roadway system. This old town was well established before the grid system found its place in the United States urban landscape, which has resulted in instances such as star-shaped, 7-way intersections and very confused drivers. Regardless, campus was magnificent and would have been excellent for people-watching had I not gone nearly 20 hours without food. Nate shared my hunger pains and nominated Chipotle as our cure. Paul, not hungry, brought the car around while Nate and I feasted on our oversized burritos before the return to Arlington in time for practice. For a few hours every weekday evening Paul, and the rest of the crew from England, coach youth soccer. During this time I was able to visit with Emily. It wasn't long before the house was full again with the rest of Emily's family and the soccer coaches, who all dined with us before Paul and I left for Cape Cod. Michelle and Emily own a condo in Provincetown, located at the very end of the cape, and offered it to us for a few days. Paul was able to take a day off from coaching which gave us until Friday afternoon to return. Full from yet another delicious home cooked meal, we began our mini road trip to P-town. Though the drive was only a few hours, it was nice to have a co-pilot in the Mustang. By the time we arrived at the cape we had just minutes to pick up some food at the mini-market and choose a movie before everything closed. At this point neither of us were tired, seeing as we had only been awake for about 12 hours. So after settling in and receiving a tour of the condo, we took a night tour of the town and the beach. While the walk was enjoyable, it was not a successful way to gain my bearings. Everything looks so different in the dark.
Thursday morning I was wide awake again by 9 and without the after affects of a night out. My morning run doubled as a re-orientation to the layout of Provincetown and was a true success. As it turns out, the town was much simpler than it seemed the night before and literally was located at the VERY end of Cape Cod. During my run I caught a glimpse of blue skies through the morning's gray which surprised me as the forecast had called for rain the entire duration of our cape trip. Excited, I hurried back to the condo for a shower and breakfast to complete my morning and to start what was looking to be a promising day. Of course, Paul was still asleep. It was well after noon by the time we left the condo and the sun was shining bright. A rock jetty at the end of the street stretched out into the sand dunes, we started there. Two light houses stood on either side toward the end of the jetty; that was our destination. Just over the dunes, waves from the open sea crashed onto the beach where we walked to the lighthouse. The doors were locked on what was not an entirely impressive structure, but we passed some time there anyway. On the return to the condo, Paul insisted on counting the number of rocks that made up the distance of the walk from the beach to the road. After walking across 1060 rocks in the sun I was ready for a swim. For as late in the season as it was, the water was not bad. The crab that crawled across my foot was more startling than the temperature of the ocean. Swimming cooled me down and most certainly tired me out. Back in town we browsed around the quirky P-town shops and toured the main street in daylight. That was the last of my energy, so I had a nap before dinner in town which was the last of our night.
Friday morning's run took place in a dense fog, literally. With not much to see, we packed up the condo and started back to Arlington. Fog turned to rain the minute we left the driveway and fell steadily all the way "home." Despite the rain, everyone still had soccer practice which gave me a few evening hours to decompress from the drive and spend some more time chatting with Emily and a new face, Lauren, also from England. Splashed in mud, coaches and players returned to the house. Almost immediately a long anticipated quarrel concerning a vehicle erupted between David and Paul. Pretending to be occupied with incoming text messages, Lauren and I migrated into another room until the storm passed. Michelle, Emily and the kids had plans elsewhere which meant the rest of us were on our own for dinner. We progressively became more indecisive as more people showed up. Eventually we had given up on going out for a meal and elected to order in curry. Shortly after the food and the rest of our party arrived the topic of the car resurfaced and round two of the quarrel began. Lauren and I left immediately along with another guest, and occupied ourselves until nearly 11:30. At the end of it all, Paul and I were the only two left for a night on the town which was short lived anyhow.
Saturday morning came far too early. Rhea, my friend from the University of Michigan who now lives and works in Boston, was expecting me for breakfast. Shamefully, I skipped my morning run and rushed to Brighton, where she lives. Rhea put on pot of coffee while her roommate Andrew fried us some eggs. We gabbed over breakfast then finished getting ready for our day at the Life is Good music festival. Our tickets were for the first day of the two day festival. Saturday headliners included Tristan Prettyman, Martin Sexton, Michael Franti, Ingrid Michaelson, and The Avett Brothers, all of my favorites, among others. Again rain had been forecasted all day and not a single drop fell. Though humid, the weather was fantastic. After listening to a few of the opening bands, we wandered by the tents and activities on the festival grounds. For whatever reason we opted to enter the Reebok tent and not 2 minutes after being inside I heard my name being called. Mark Russel, an acquaintance from high school who I had not seen or spoken to since, was sitting on the display in his Reebok representative uniform. We chatted for a bit before Rhea and I left to go catch the next act. SMALL WORLD! Just wait. Later that afternoon we walked by the Martin guitars tent where an open-mic event was set up. Whoever performed a song at the open-mic was automatically entered into a drawing for a Martin guitar. My lust for a new Martin and a big push from Rhea got me onto the small stage. From across the lawn Amy VanHaren, a former Camp Henry staff member, recognized me singing and made her way over to say hello. SHE was at the festival for work as well. Our next must see act was about to begin, so after a short game of catch-up and a photo, Rhea and I rushed off to the stage. Michael Franti, Ingrid Michaelson and Avett Brothers all played back to back. We could barely stand by the end of it all, but that would not stop us from going out later that night. Back at Rhea's apartment we found Andrew in the same position on the couch as we had left him earlier that day. Exhausted, yet determined, we showered again and took a cab into town. Rhea was anxious to meet my British friends after hearing a few stories, so we met up with Paul, Nate and Nicola at a bar in Faneuil Hall. A few drinks and a very long "it'll be great!" conversation with Nate later, it was last call and time to go home. My friends had told me that getting a cab in Boston was difficult, and that night I learned why. Rhea was nearly road kill after charging into the middle of the street multiple times screaming at every cab that drove by. Eventually somebody stopped and we forced our way into the car. Once on our way, Rhea took the opportunity to interrogate our cab driver as to why empty cabs will not stop for people looking for a ride. The answers she received were less than acceptable, which only amplified the conversation, but soon turned into, "Sir, if you do not hurry and get us home I am going to URINATE on this seat!" I too had a bladder on the verge of bursting and the comedy of what was going on in the front of the cab was not helping. Finally he pulled over into a Walgreens, which was closed, so Rhea and I had no other choice than the bushes near the edge of the parking lot.
We slept in far too long the next morning. Late for our day in Boston, I once again skipped my morning run. Rhea and I took the rail into town to explore the city in the light of day. With a couple of her friends, we strolled up and down the strip window shopping and people watching. The humidity was high again and our discomfort could only be cured with one thing: ice cream. Refreshed, yet bored of our current location, we moved on to Faneuil Hall for the day scene. A large and beautiful market was buzzing with shoppers and tourists. We joined the bustle for a couple of hours and before long, it was time to leave. Rhea had to pick her boyfriend up from the airport, and I had a stop in Arlington to make before the evening's drive to Connecticut. It was approximately at that moment when we decided to leave the city center that the world began working against me, or so it felt. Sparing the frustrating details, by the time I arrived in Arlington over two hours later tension had completely overtaken my body and emotions which was partially released in a bit of vent to Paul the moment I walked in the door. A hug and a deep breath later we joined the rest of the family in the next room for dinner. Still wound up, I retired to the living room for some relaxation before I hit the road again. When I opened my eyes to see that it was 9:30 p.m. I had a slight panic attack. I phoned Ana, my friend in New Haven, immediately. We both agreed a 3 and 1/2 hour drive that late was not practical, I would stay in Arlington and leave in the morning. Upon hearing this news, Paul invited the whole British crew over for a movie which gave me a perfect opportunity to say a proper goodbye to my new friends.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Mo-hi-can
Mohican: (n) a member of a North American Indian people formerly living along the Hudson river and east of it.
Only days ago, when I had first arrived in Vermont, many major highways and bridges were still closed and under repair from the hurricane weeks before. The long list of closures included the one road that lead directly from where I was in Vermont and where I needed to go next in New Hampshire. A short 2 hour drive would be turned into a 6 hour drive if these closures remained as I would have to drive south and loop around the hurricane zone. THANKFULLY the very day I set off for my next destination, one lane on the road I needed had opened up and my path was now clear... ish. Exhausted from a weekend of climbing my first real rocks, but SO excited to continue my adventure I threw my pack into the Mustang and hit the road again. On the way I phoned Brooke to inform her of my E.T.A. "Drive carefully!" she insisted. "There are moose on these roads, it's dark and they are SO hard to see, and they will wreck your car. Drive under the speed limit and keep your brights on!" Her cautionary words troubled me a bit, so I took them to heart which was a wise decision. Daylight faded quickly in the beginning of my journey and once again I found myself driving down rural mountain roads in the dark. It wasn't a moose, but it did startle me. A hitch-hiker, male, was walking down the right side of the road in what must have been 40 degree weather. That got my heart pumping, then later I saw it; big and dark, almost demonic looking. Its eyes are what caught my attention. Brooke was right; they are huge, dark, and very difficult to spot. With no more moose or hitch-hiker spotting I finally made it to New Hampshire. Tense from the drive, achy from climbing, and smelling of both I went straight for the shower before we all sat down for some late night scrabble and good-old girly gossip.
Monday morning, late morning I should add, Brooke and I set off for our morning run after which we dressed and headed for town. Plymouth is a small New Hampshire town that happens to be home to a university, though I wouldn't describe it as a college town. It was cute, quaint, with a few of the quirks that come along with small places. We had lunch with a co-worker of Brooke's before exploring the boutiques and local to-dos. Late afternoon until late night Brooke had work which left me the entire evening to rest, recover, and catch up on the blog. An afternoon nap did just the trick but when it came time to get online I was greeted everyone's favorite phrase "internet explorer cannot display the webpage." Frustrated, and determined to make use of my free evening, I bounced around town in search of other internet connections. Finally I diagnosed that it was not the internet connection, it was my browser. The rest of the night I worked to restore internet function to my computer and was rather unsuccessful. By the time Brooke got home from work we were both in serious need of a drink. We rendezvoused with a few more of her co-workers at a local sports bar for beer and Monday Night Football.
Tuesday morning we had a bit of a crowd over for breakfast and some early morning gabbing before our run, which this day was to take place in the rain. It wasn't until that afternoon that Brooke actually realized that she was moving... on THURSDAY! Yes, only days before my arrival Brooke had made the decision to move back to Michigan temporarily. When I arrived on Sunday, her room was in absolute shambles and not at all ready for packing. The reality finally set in that afternoon, so we kicked it into high gear and spent the remainder of the day running errands, doing laundry and of course packing and cleaning. When she left for work again that afternoon I elected to leave as well, not that I don't LOVE packing and cleaning for my friends, but I had an engagement elsewhere.
An old friend from high school, who when we're both at our respective homes, are less than a few hours from each other, was scheduled to be in New Hampshire visiting family the same time I was passing through. Sometimes life just works that way. I picked Peter up for a short afternoon coffee date where we reminisced about our days at Rockford High School and filled each other in on life since 2005. Every day I am amazed and inspired by how different all of our lives have turned out to be and how small of a world we live in that while we are both nearly a thousand miles away from home, we could have coffee in who-knows-where, New Hampshire together after years of separation. Satisfied and caffeinated, I returned Peter to his hosts and drove south to BOSTON!
Only days ago, when I had first arrived in Vermont, many major highways and bridges were still closed and under repair from the hurricane weeks before. The long list of closures included the one road that lead directly from where I was in Vermont and where I needed to go next in New Hampshire. A short 2 hour drive would be turned into a 6 hour drive if these closures remained as I would have to drive south and loop around the hurricane zone. THANKFULLY the very day I set off for my next destination, one lane on the road I needed had opened up and my path was now clear... ish. Exhausted from a weekend of climbing my first real rocks, but SO excited to continue my adventure I threw my pack into the Mustang and hit the road again. On the way I phoned Brooke to inform her of my E.T.A. "Drive carefully!" she insisted. "There are moose on these roads, it's dark and they are SO hard to see, and they will wreck your car. Drive under the speed limit and keep your brights on!" Her cautionary words troubled me a bit, so I took them to heart which was a wise decision. Daylight faded quickly in the beginning of my journey and once again I found myself driving down rural mountain roads in the dark. It wasn't a moose, but it did startle me. A hitch-hiker, male, was walking down the right side of the road in what must have been 40 degree weather. That got my heart pumping, then later I saw it; big and dark, almost demonic looking. Its eyes are what caught my attention. Brooke was right; they are huge, dark, and very difficult to spot. With no more moose or hitch-hiker spotting I finally made it to New Hampshire. Tense from the drive, achy from climbing, and smelling of both I went straight for the shower before we all sat down for some late night scrabble and good-old girly gossip.
Monday morning, late morning I should add, Brooke and I set off for our morning run after which we dressed and headed for town. Plymouth is a small New Hampshire town that happens to be home to a university, though I wouldn't describe it as a college town. It was cute, quaint, with a few of the quirks that come along with small places. We had lunch with a co-worker of Brooke's before exploring the boutiques and local to-dos. Late afternoon until late night Brooke had work which left me the entire evening to rest, recover, and catch up on the blog. An afternoon nap did just the trick but when it came time to get online I was greeted everyone's favorite phrase "internet explorer cannot display the webpage." Frustrated, and determined to make use of my free evening, I bounced around town in search of other internet connections. Finally I diagnosed that it was not the internet connection, it was my browser. The rest of the night I worked to restore internet function to my computer and was rather unsuccessful. By the time Brooke got home from work we were both in serious need of a drink. We rendezvoused with a few more of her co-workers at a local sports bar for beer and Monday Night Football.
Tuesday morning we had a bit of a crowd over for breakfast and some early morning gabbing before our run, which this day was to take place in the rain. It wasn't until that afternoon that Brooke actually realized that she was moving... on THURSDAY! Yes, only days before my arrival Brooke had made the decision to move back to Michigan temporarily. When I arrived on Sunday, her room was in absolute shambles and not at all ready for packing. The reality finally set in that afternoon, so we kicked it into high gear and spent the remainder of the day running errands, doing laundry and of course packing and cleaning. When she left for work again that afternoon I elected to leave as well, not that I don't LOVE packing and cleaning for my friends, but I had an engagement elsewhere.
An old friend from high school, who when we're both at our respective homes, are less than a few hours from each other, was scheduled to be in New Hampshire visiting family the same time I was passing through. Sometimes life just works that way. I picked Peter up for a short afternoon coffee date where we reminisced about our days at Rockford High School and filled each other in on life since 2005. Every day I am amazed and inspired by how different all of our lives have turned out to be and how small of a world we live in that while we are both nearly a thousand miles away from home, we could have coffee in who-knows-where, New Hampshire together after years of separation. Satisfied and caffeinated, I returned Peter to his hosts and drove south to BOSTON!
Monday, September 19, 2011
Ver-mont
Vermont: (n) a state in the New England region of the northeastern United States of America.
Tuesday afternoon Mustang Sally and I drove the entire width of New York State into Vermont. Besides the boredom of driving in a straight line for 5 hours alone, the drive went smoothly, that is until I left the interstate. The sun was setting when I exited onto the back country roads of up-state New York. Only a few weeks ago did hurricane Irene sweep across New England washing out entire roads and bridges, apparently that also included the one I was driving on. Suddenly my path was cut off by an array of orange cones and the words "ROAD CLOSED." While I thank the department of transportation for keeping me from driving down a potentially dangerous road, they had failed to indicate an alternative route of any sort. So the question was, right or left? Left. Perhaps I should have chosen right, not that it would not have mattered. It was a dark, windy, and confusing drive for roughly 30 minutes before I found my way back to a main highway. Hours later than hoped for, but all in one piece, I finally arrived in the one-traffic-light town of Poultney, Vermont, home of Green Mountain College where my younger brother, Jon, now attends undergrad.
A great majority of the students at Green Mountain College do not have class on Wednesdays, which makes Tuesdays their Thursdays. After settling into my brother's dorm room he suggested we check out the "bonfire", which was apparently the place to be this Tuesday. Just next to campus, the river which forms the boundary between New York and Vermont runs narrowly. On the Vermont bank, students had tied up a rope swing to an overhanging tree and arranged a circle of logs and stones around a small pit. Every stereotype and preconceived notion I had about this small environmental school in Vermont was exactly what I witnessed, right down to "the tent." I found it quite comical and could not stop the giggling the rest of the night.
Wednesday afternoon Jon and I rented a couple of sea kayaks from the Green Mountain Adventure Program, a department within the college that rents outdoor recreational gear to students for a minimal price and also leads expeditions to various adventure destinations in the northeast. Before leaving with our kayaks we noticed a rock climbing trip scheduled for that weekend. Though it was already overbooked, we signed ourselves up anyway. With two oversized kayaks on top of an undersized VW Jetta, we drove to Lake Saint Catherine to launch our boats. Unfortunately upon our arrival we found that the park entrance, our boat launch, was closed after Labor Day. Unaware of how far the walk would be from the main road, we set off carrying our kayaks on foot. A park ranger in a pick-up truck eventually rescued us from the pain of the heavy boats and the swarm of mosquitoes by offering us a lift to the water. The lake was gorgeous. We kayaked the shoreline all the way around critiquing the houses on the shore and admiring the mountainous backdrop. Near sundown we left the lake by way of a different launch and made it back to campus in time for the rock-climbing trip meeting. Just enough people missed the meeting to make it possible for Jon and I to jump up on the list and attend the trip. We scheduled to leave Saturday morning.
Thursday was a rain out. Aside from a sustainable farming class I was able to attend with Jon and his roommate, I spent the day resting. The sun shone brightly on Friday so I hit the road after my morning run for a day trip to Burlington. At times I wondered if I would ever make it there, the scenery along the drive was so distracting it was hard not to pull over and marvel. Willpower ultimately took the wheel and I arrived in Burlington early afternoon. Immediately I felt at home. Downtown reminded me very much of downtown Ann Arbor, where I lived during undergrad. The city of Burlington sits on a steep slope which dives into Lake Champlain. At the lakefront there is a boardwalk of sorts which faces west over the water with the Adirondack Mountains climbing high in the background. Up the hill from downtown is the University of Vermont, a bustling college campus overlooking both the city and the lake. I spent the entire day wandering about town and needless to say I was sold.
8:30 a.m. on Saturday came much too early, and Jon and I carried our backpacks to the GMC van loaded with climbing gear and set off to northern New York with our group of 7 other students. Most of which were college juniors who had been climbing real rocks for years, where as my climbing experience was limited to the rock wall at Camp Henry years ago. I was the oldest person on the trip, but clearly the underdog. After a couple hours of dozing off in the back seat, the van parked. Everyone loaded their packs with climbing gear before we set off to hike to our first climb, Owl's Head. Again the scenery was breathtaking and then I saw the rock. Upon first glance it seemed nearly impossible that a human, not infected by a radioactive spider bite, could actually climb this rock. Oh how little I knew. While two of the trip leaders set up the top ropes the remaining one gave us a belay orientation and before long we were on the wall. Multiple ropes had been set up for different climbs along the Owl's Head wall, each a different difficulty. My only goal was to make it to the top of at least one climb, and I did. The feeling of climbing cannot be written in words, only experienced, which I hope leaves a bit of inspiration for anyone reading this to try climbing. From the top of the mountain we could see the sun sinking low so we posed for a few pictures before hiking back down to the van. Our group camped out in a New York State Park somewhere nearby. After erecting our tents a fire was built and dinner preparations were in the works, but soon encountered a road block. It took nearly an hour, perhaps more, to repair our camping stove to a cooking quality. How many college students does it take... Eventually, and much later than expected, burritos were served. Quickly my stomach went from imploding in starvation to exploding in satisfaction and with that I was off to bed.
Overnight the temperature dropped into the 30s, the lowest temperature in Vermont this fall, which meant the first rock we climbed in the morning would be freezing. Indeed it was. Sunday morning we traveled to the Beer Walls for our second day of climbing. The wall was sheltered from the sunlight by a thick curtain of trees and the temperature still lingered in the 40s. Fingers froze after seconds of contact with the rock which made for a painful climb. My first attempt was unsuccessful due to the numbing sensation in my hands, a feeling shared by everyone. Belaying as much as possible helped restore the blood flow to my extremities and soon I was ready for a second go. Once again I fulfilled my goal for the day by reaching the top. After a lunch break we moved to another location along the Beer Walls with a vertical height of nearly 90 feet. Though I never made it to the top, I did climb much higher than I expected to on this wall and deemed it a success. Mid-afternoon marked the end of our climbing endeavor and we began the journey back to Poultney, exhausted yet satisfied.
Tuesday afternoon Mustang Sally and I drove the entire width of New York State into Vermont. Besides the boredom of driving in a straight line for 5 hours alone, the drive went smoothly, that is until I left the interstate. The sun was setting when I exited onto the back country roads of up-state New York. Only a few weeks ago did hurricane Irene sweep across New England washing out entire roads and bridges, apparently that also included the one I was driving on. Suddenly my path was cut off by an array of orange cones and the words "ROAD CLOSED." While I thank the department of transportation for keeping me from driving down a potentially dangerous road, they had failed to indicate an alternative route of any sort. So the question was, right or left? Left. Perhaps I should have chosen right, not that it would not have mattered. It was a dark, windy, and confusing drive for roughly 30 minutes before I found my way back to a main highway. Hours later than hoped for, but all in one piece, I finally arrived in the one-traffic-light town of Poultney, Vermont, home of Green Mountain College where my younger brother, Jon, now attends undergrad.
A great majority of the students at Green Mountain College do not have class on Wednesdays, which makes Tuesdays their Thursdays. After settling into my brother's dorm room he suggested we check out the "bonfire", which was apparently the place to be this Tuesday. Just next to campus, the river which forms the boundary between New York and Vermont runs narrowly. On the Vermont bank, students had tied up a rope swing to an overhanging tree and arranged a circle of logs and stones around a small pit. Every stereotype and preconceived notion I had about this small environmental school in Vermont was exactly what I witnessed, right down to "the tent." I found it quite comical and could not stop the giggling the rest of the night.
Wednesday afternoon Jon and I rented a couple of sea kayaks from the Green Mountain Adventure Program, a department within the college that rents outdoor recreational gear to students for a minimal price and also leads expeditions to various adventure destinations in the northeast. Before leaving with our kayaks we noticed a rock climbing trip scheduled for that weekend. Though it was already overbooked, we signed ourselves up anyway. With two oversized kayaks on top of an undersized VW Jetta, we drove to Lake Saint Catherine to launch our boats. Unfortunately upon our arrival we found that the park entrance, our boat launch, was closed after Labor Day. Unaware of how far the walk would be from the main road, we set off carrying our kayaks on foot. A park ranger in a pick-up truck eventually rescued us from the pain of the heavy boats and the swarm of mosquitoes by offering us a lift to the water. The lake was gorgeous. We kayaked the shoreline all the way around critiquing the houses on the shore and admiring the mountainous backdrop. Near sundown we left the lake by way of a different launch and made it back to campus in time for the rock-climbing trip meeting. Just enough people missed the meeting to make it possible for Jon and I to jump up on the list and attend the trip. We scheduled to leave Saturday morning.
Thursday was a rain out. Aside from a sustainable farming class I was able to attend with Jon and his roommate, I spent the day resting. The sun shone brightly on Friday so I hit the road after my morning run for a day trip to Burlington. At times I wondered if I would ever make it there, the scenery along the drive was so distracting it was hard not to pull over and marvel. Willpower ultimately took the wheel and I arrived in Burlington early afternoon. Immediately I felt at home. Downtown reminded me very much of downtown Ann Arbor, where I lived during undergrad. The city of Burlington sits on a steep slope which dives into Lake Champlain. At the lakefront there is a boardwalk of sorts which faces west over the water with the Adirondack Mountains climbing high in the background. Up the hill from downtown is the University of Vermont, a bustling college campus overlooking both the city and the lake. I spent the entire day wandering about town and needless to say I was sold.
8:30 a.m. on Saturday came much too early, and Jon and I carried our backpacks to the GMC van loaded with climbing gear and set off to northern New York with our group of 7 other students. Most of which were college juniors who had been climbing real rocks for years, where as my climbing experience was limited to the rock wall at Camp Henry years ago. I was the oldest person on the trip, but clearly the underdog. After a couple hours of dozing off in the back seat, the van parked. Everyone loaded their packs with climbing gear before we set off to hike to our first climb, Owl's Head. Again the scenery was breathtaking and then I saw the rock. Upon first glance it seemed nearly impossible that a human, not infected by a radioactive spider bite, could actually climb this rock. Oh how little I knew. While two of the trip leaders set up the top ropes the remaining one gave us a belay orientation and before long we were on the wall. Multiple ropes had been set up for different climbs along the Owl's Head wall, each a different difficulty. My only goal was to make it to the top of at least one climb, and I did. The feeling of climbing cannot be written in words, only experienced, which I hope leaves a bit of inspiration for anyone reading this to try climbing. From the top of the mountain we could see the sun sinking low so we posed for a few pictures before hiking back down to the van. Our group camped out in a New York State Park somewhere nearby. After erecting our tents a fire was built and dinner preparations were in the works, but soon encountered a road block. It took nearly an hour, perhaps more, to repair our camping stove to a cooking quality. How many college students does it take... Eventually, and much later than expected, burritos were served. Quickly my stomach went from imploding in starvation to exploding in satisfaction and with that I was off to bed.
Overnight the temperature dropped into the 30s, the lowest temperature in Vermont this fall, which meant the first rock we climbed in the morning would be freezing. Indeed it was. Sunday morning we traveled to the Beer Walls for our second day of climbing. The wall was sheltered from the sunlight by a thick curtain of trees and the temperature still lingered in the 40s. Fingers froze after seconds of contact with the rock which made for a painful climb. My first attempt was unsuccessful due to the numbing sensation in my hands, a feeling shared by everyone. Belaying as much as possible helped restore the blood flow to my extremities and soon I was ready for a second go. Once again I fulfilled my goal for the day by reaching the top. After a lunch break we moved to another location along the Beer Walls with a vertical height of nearly 90 feet. Though I never made it to the top, I did climb much higher than I expected to on this wall and deemed it a success. Mid-afternoon marked the end of our climbing endeavor and we began the journey back to Poultney, exhausted yet satisfied.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
wa-ter-fall
waterfall: (n) a steep fall or flow of water in a watercourse from a height, as over a precipice.
Monday morning began later than I hoped it would. Therefore I elected to surpass Buffalo and drive straight to Niagara Falls which was indeed a great decision.
Car parked in the visitor lot, I slung my camera over my shoulder, stuffed my water canteen into my bag next to a granola bar, and set off to explore. As with many destinations along this journey, this was my very first visit to Niagara Falls. How I have lived 24 years without experiencing it before, I cannot comprehend. The entire day I was dumbfounded by the beauty that surrounded me and the awesome power of the water that raged over the edge, just meters from my feet. Often times a moment or vista would be so overwhelming I would become paralyzed, frozen in a stare exactly where I stood. After returning from my trans, but before moving on, I was sure to photograph EVERYTHING and with the help of a few friendly strangers was able to capture my own presence at the falls. Occurrences such as these consumed a significant amount of my already shortened afternoon. Fortunately I made it to every landmark on the New York side of the falls. This does not include all of the tourist gimmicks. Though I do imagine them to be a great way to experience the falls, they are most definitely not necessary, especially on a first visit. I suppose I could say the same about crossing over to Canada. The U.S. side of the falls has plenty to offer. That, and I fell short on time, which is perhaps the reasoning behind this argument. Truth be told, I have also never been to Canada. Again, how I have lived 24 years of life, in Michigan for that matter, and never crossed the northern border is beyond me. But worry not, Vancouver is on the itinerary for the west coast trip.
The bright colors in the sky indicated a setting sun, which was my cue leave to falls. There was one more journey into unfamiliar territory to be made today and I was not intending to make that journey in the dark. Regrettably, I continued north to 4 Mile Creek State Park in northern New York on the shores of Lake Ontario. Without reservations, I pulled into the park office lot and was greeted with locked doors but a poster of sorts indicating open campsite for the night. The sun was low on the horizon but still shed enough light for me to find a prime location and set up camp. My stomach reminded me that a bagel for breakfast and a granola bar for lunch was hardly satisfactory. Quickly, I weighted down the tent with my sleeping bag and duffle before driving off, yet again, in search of food.
In the one-blinking-red-light town of Youngstown, New York, I walked into the first, and possibly only, local diner. There was an open table next to the window overlooking the river to the west where I sat myself. Exhausted and starving, I quickly ordered the Greek Burger. Sitting alone at a restaurant, and an unfamiliar one at that, was another new experience for me and surprisingly enjoyable. Without the distraction of a companion sitting across the table from me, I was able to understand the presence of the company I was in. A feeling of home swept over me, even though I was literally hundreds of miles away from my actual home, and with that my dinner had arrived. It was quite possibly the greasiest burger I have ever eaten in my life, but I hoped the amount of acid gurgling in my stomach before the meal would counteract that.
By the time I returned to my tent the sun had set and left behind streaks of pinks and purples which I was too drowsy to enjoy. And by 8:30 I was sound asleep. It really is a shame I did not turn off my cell phone before collapsing onto my pillow, because when it went off 2 hours later I may as well have downed a pot of coffee. Though the night was beautiful and camping so peaceful, it was nearly 3 in the morning before my eyes closed again. At some point during the night the wind picked up to speeds that would have blown my tent into Lake Ontario had I not been sleeping in it. My tent was on the verge of imploding on me around 8 a.m., by then sleep was hopeless. Hope the chocolate covered espresso beans from Philip last me the next 7 hours to Poultney, Vermont!
Monday morning began later than I hoped it would. Therefore I elected to surpass Buffalo and drive straight to Niagara Falls which was indeed a great decision.
Car parked in the visitor lot, I slung my camera over my shoulder, stuffed my water canteen into my bag next to a granola bar, and set off to explore. As with many destinations along this journey, this was my very first visit to Niagara Falls. How I have lived 24 years without experiencing it before, I cannot comprehend. The entire day I was dumbfounded by the beauty that surrounded me and the awesome power of the water that raged over the edge, just meters from my feet. Often times a moment or vista would be so overwhelming I would become paralyzed, frozen in a stare exactly where I stood. After returning from my trans, but before moving on, I was sure to photograph EVERYTHING and with the help of a few friendly strangers was able to capture my own presence at the falls. Occurrences such as these consumed a significant amount of my already shortened afternoon. Fortunately I made it to every landmark on the New York side of the falls. This does not include all of the tourist gimmicks. Though I do imagine them to be a great way to experience the falls, they are most definitely not necessary, especially on a first visit. I suppose I could say the same about crossing over to Canada. The U.S. side of the falls has plenty to offer. That, and I fell short on time, which is perhaps the reasoning behind this argument. Truth be told, I have also never been to Canada. Again, how I have lived 24 years of life, in Michigan for that matter, and never crossed the northern border is beyond me. But worry not, Vancouver is on the itinerary for the west coast trip.
The bright colors in the sky indicated a setting sun, which was my cue leave to falls. There was one more journey into unfamiliar territory to be made today and I was not intending to make that journey in the dark. Regrettably, I continued north to 4 Mile Creek State Park in northern New York on the shores of Lake Ontario. Without reservations, I pulled into the park office lot and was greeted with locked doors but a poster of sorts indicating open campsite for the night. The sun was low on the horizon but still shed enough light for me to find a prime location and set up camp. My stomach reminded me that a bagel for breakfast and a granola bar for lunch was hardly satisfactory. Quickly, I weighted down the tent with my sleeping bag and duffle before driving off, yet again, in search of food.
In the one-blinking-red-light town of Youngstown, New York, I walked into the first, and possibly only, local diner. There was an open table next to the window overlooking the river to the west where I sat myself. Exhausted and starving, I quickly ordered the Greek Burger. Sitting alone at a restaurant, and an unfamiliar one at that, was another new experience for me and surprisingly enjoyable. Without the distraction of a companion sitting across the table from me, I was able to understand the presence of the company I was in. A feeling of home swept over me, even though I was literally hundreds of miles away from my actual home, and with that my dinner had arrived. It was quite possibly the greasiest burger I have ever eaten in my life, but I hoped the amount of acid gurgling in my stomach before the meal would counteract that.
By the time I returned to my tent the sun had set and left behind streaks of pinks and purples which I was too drowsy to enjoy. And by 8:30 I was sound asleep. It really is a shame I did not turn off my cell phone before collapsing onto my pillow, because when it went off 2 hours later I may as well have downed a pot of coffee. Though the night was beautiful and camping so peaceful, it was nearly 3 in the morning before my eyes closed again. At some point during the night the wind picked up to speeds that would have blown my tent into Lake Ontario had I not been sleeping in it. My tent was on the verge of imploding on me around 8 a.m., by then sleep was hopeless. Hope the chocolate covered espresso beans from Philip last me the next 7 hours to Poultney, Vermont!
Monday, September 12, 2011
Cleve-land
Cleveland: (n) a port in NE Ohio, on Lake Erie
By noon on Friday I was clocking the first of what is sure to be thousands of miles in the eastern United States. To avoid Grand Rapids traffic, I elected to take the back roads to the highway. As the car idled in a line of vehicles behind a man in a hard hat holding a STOP sign, I came to regret my decision. With a flick of his wrist STOP became SLOW and the line of traffic moved through the construction zone like a centipede. 100 miles later another parade of orange cones slowed this first leg of my very long journey. After adding nearly an hour to my driving time Ann Arbor was finally in sight. The pains of street parking and the cocktail of aromas on State Street brought me back to senior year. Diane and I rendezvoused on the upper floor of Bivoac while I practiced my decision making skills on the abundant selection of sleeping pads. Purchase in hand we walked together toward Kerry Town to visit the Tea Haus. The hours passed far too quickly as we gabbed over tea and once again I hit the road.
My preconceived notions of Cleveland were not the greatest. For one, it is in Ohio. Need I say more? After hours of driving under bright sunny skies, the moment the Cleveland skyline came into view drops of rain began falling onto my windshield. Of course. My host shared just as much enthusiasm for this city as I did but was determined to make the visit worth my time. Scott, his girlfriend Dede, their neighbors Jack and Kim, friend "Climber" and I spent our evening at the Great Lakes Brewing Company in downtown Cleveland. Already my opinions of the city were changing. The Brewing Co. is housed in a beautiful 19th century brick building, carefully restored. We enjoyed a few pitchers of Oktoberfest in the "speakeasy" style basement before taking a brewery tour on which I sampled the Eliot Ness Amber Lager and the Edmund Fitzgerald Porter.
Which leads me to this question: According to the lyrics by Gordon Lightfoot, how much weight was the Edmund Fitzgerald carrying when it sank in 1975?
Saturday morning the fun from the night before had caught up to a few people in our group. While they relaxed away the hangover, I met up with Philip to explore some more of Cleveland. We began with breakfast at house converted to restaurant/bakery for what may have been the largest omelet I've ever attempted to eat. Philip, an architect, was sure to point out every significant building and house along the way to Cleveland's famous West Side Market. The bustling indoor food market was a beautiful contrast to the slum-like markets in Central America I had grown accustom to. If only I had a grocery list. We picked up some delicious chocolate covered espresso beans and moved outdoors. The rest of the sunny afternoon was spent along the shore of Lake Erie climbing up and down the jagged concrete seawall at Edgewater Park. Saturday night was the first night game in The Big House. The University of Michigan Wolverines kicked off against the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame in Ann Arbor while Scott and I, dressed in our maize and blue, cheered them on from the suburbs of Cleveland. If you missed the game, shame on you. Truth be told, Michigan played terrible football for the entire first half, but the entire game really came down to the last, very exciting, 2 minutes. In the end, Michigan took away the victory 35-31. The overabundance of adrenaline surging through our veins fueled us into a marathon of house games until 3:30 a.m.
Sunday morning Scott was in a similar state as the day before, so Dede and I spent the morning together running through the park. Kayaking was on the agenda for the afternoon and the skies were clear when we returned. So we packed for a day on the water and stopped for breakfast along the way, during which the skies turned a mean shade of dark and erupted with thunder and lightning. Alternative suggestions were made, but never decided upon, as we cruised around town. Borders' going out of business sale was the first thing we agreed upon. Finally Dede insisted on black-light mini-golf which was a surprisingly legitimate putting course. We concluded the weekend with burgers at the B-Spot and cheers to new friends.
I had an amazing time in the most unexpected of cities and am looking forward to a short reunion on my return trip home.
By noon on Friday I was clocking the first of what is sure to be thousands of miles in the eastern United States. To avoid Grand Rapids traffic, I elected to take the back roads to the highway. As the car idled in a line of vehicles behind a man in a hard hat holding a STOP sign, I came to regret my decision. With a flick of his wrist STOP became SLOW and the line of traffic moved through the construction zone like a centipede. 100 miles later another parade of orange cones slowed this first leg of my very long journey. After adding nearly an hour to my driving time Ann Arbor was finally in sight. The pains of street parking and the cocktail of aromas on State Street brought me back to senior year. Diane and I rendezvoused on the upper floor of Bivoac while I practiced my decision making skills on the abundant selection of sleeping pads. Purchase in hand we walked together toward Kerry Town to visit the Tea Haus. The hours passed far too quickly as we gabbed over tea and once again I hit the road.
My preconceived notions of Cleveland were not the greatest. For one, it is in Ohio. Need I say more? After hours of driving under bright sunny skies, the moment the Cleveland skyline came into view drops of rain began falling onto my windshield. Of course. My host shared just as much enthusiasm for this city as I did but was determined to make the visit worth my time. Scott, his girlfriend Dede, their neighbors Jack and Kim, friend "Climber" and I spent our evening at the Great Lakes Brewing Company in downtown Cleveland. Already my opinions of the city were changing. The Brewing Co. is housed in a beautiful 19th century brick building, carefully restored. We enjoyed a few pitchers of Oktoberfest in the "speakeasy" style basement before taking a brewery tour on which I sampled the Eliot Ness Amber Lager and the Edmund Fitzgerald Porter.
Which leads me to this question: According to the lyrics by Gordon Lightfoot, how much weight was the Edmund Fitzgerald carrying when it sank in 1975?
Saturday morning the fun from the night before had caught up to a few people in our group. While they relaxed away the hangover, I met up with Philip to explore some more of Cleveland. We began with breakfast at house converted to restaurant/bakery for what may have been the largest omelet I've ever attempted to eat. Philip, an architect, was sure to point out every significant building and house along the way to Cleveland's famous West Side Market. The bustling indoor food market was a beautiful contrast to the slum-like markets in Central America I had grown accustom to. If only I had a grocery list. We picked up some delicious chocolate covered espresso beans and moved outdoors. The rest of the sunny afternoon was spent along the shore of Lake Erie climbing up and down the jagged concrete seawall at Edgewater Park. Saturday night was the first night game in The Big House. The University of Michigan Wolverines kicked off against the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame in Ann Arbor while Scott and I, dressed in our maize and blue, cheered them on from the suburbs of Cleveland. If you missed the game, shame on you. Truth be told, Michigan played terrible football for the entire first half, but the entire game really came down to the last, very exciting, 2 minutes. In the end, Michigan took away the victory 35-31. The overabundance of adrenaline surging through our veins fueled us into a marathon of house games until 3:30 a.m.
Sunday morning Scott was in a similar state as the day before, so Dede and I spent the morning together running through the park. Kayaking was on the agenda for the afternoon and the skies were clear when we returned. So we packed for a day on the water and stopped for breakfast along the way, during which the skies turned a mean shade of dark and erupted with thunder and lightning. Alternative suggestions were made, but never decided upon, as we cruised around town. Borders' going out of business sale was the first thing we agreed upon. Finally Dede insisted on black-light mini-golf which was a surprisingly legitimate putting course. We concluded the weekend with burgers at the B-Spot and cheers to new friends.
I had an amazing time in the most unexpected of cities and am looking forward to a short reunion on my return trip home.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
road trip
road trip: (n) a journey via automobile, sometimes unplanned or impromptu
This July I returned to the United States after living and working in Honduras for a year, and traveling throughout northern Central America. Those who had been in touch with me for the duration of my time abroad know that much has changed in my life. The state of being I found myself in upon reentering the U.S. was nowhere near anything I could have ever pictured for myself at the prime age of 24. Though surprising and unexpected, it was also a very exhilarating feeling. With a bachelor's degree from the University of Michigan and a year of teaching experience in a foreign country, I also had no job awaiting me, grad school to attend, or boyfriend to base decisions around. I was uncommitted in every sense of the word and ready for a brand new chapter in my life.
Among the thousands of life lessons I have learned in the last 12 months, one of them is how important it is to be happy with where you live. This, in combination with my recent life status and incurable desire for adventure, is what put the "wheels in motion" for my next journey.
This fall I am traveling the country in pursuit of a new place to call home. Other objectives include visiting prospective graduate schools, searching for jobs in architecture, reuniting with physically distant friends and family, exploring cities for the first time, and seeing national parks and monuments. After living in the tropical mountains of Honduras for 12 months, HOURS away from a swimmable water source, I've narrowed my search down from the entire country to the east and west coasts where I can be near to the water again. Part one of my journey is an east coast road trip.
My uncle Eric has so graciously loaned me his 1992 Ford Mustang for the next month as I set off to visit 12 cities on the eastern seaboard in 36 days. On the itinerary: Cleveland, Ohio; Niagara Falls, New York; Poultney, Vermont; Boston, Massachusetts; New Haven, Connecticut; Woodbourne, New York; Washington, D.C.; Quinton, Virginia; Raleigh, North Carolina; Charleston, South Carolina; Blacksburg, Virginia.
East coast, here I come!
This July I returned to the United States after living and working in Honduras for a year, and traveling throughout northern Central America. Those who had been in touch with me for the duration of my time abroad know that much has changed in my life. The state of being I found myself in upon reentering the U.S. was nowhere near anything I could have ever pictured for myself at the prime age of 24. Though surprising and unexpected, it was also a very exhilarating feeling. With a bachelor's degree from the University of Michigan and a year of teaching experience in a foreign country, I also had no job awaiting me, grad school to attend, or boyfriend to base decisions around. I was uncommitted in every sense of the word and ready for a brand new chapter in my life.
Among the thousands of life lessons I have learned in the last 12 months, one of them is how important it is to be happy with where you live. This, in combination with my recent life status and incurable desire for adventure, is what put the "wheels in motion" for my next journey.
This fall I am traveling the country in pursuit of a new place to call home. Other objectives include visiting prospective graduate schools, searching for jobs in architecture, reuniting with physically distant friends and family, exploring cities for the first time, and seeing national parks and monuments. After living in the tropical mountains of Honduras for 12 months, HOURS away from a swimmable water source, I've narrowed my search down from the entire country to the east and west coasts where I can be near to the water again. Part one of my journey is an east coast road trip.
My uncle Eric has so graciously loaned me his 1992 Ford Mustang for the next month as I set off to visit 12 cities on the eastern seaboard in 36 days. On the itinerary: Cleveland, Ohio; Niagara Falls, New York; Poultney, Vermont; Boston, Massachusetts; New Haven, Connecticut; Woodbourne, New York; Washington, D.C.; Quinton, Virginia; Raleigh, North Carolina; Charleston, South Carolina; Blacksburg, Virginia.
East coast, here I come!
Saturday, September 3, 2011
mouse
mouse: (n) any of numerous small Old World rodents of the family Muridae, especially of the genus Mus, introduced widely in other parts of the world.
Actually, "mice" would a more appropriate title for this post. For it is not a singular mouse that has frustrated me into taking up my blog again after 9 months of absence but rather, a colony of mice. However, the dictionary defines the word "mice" as "the plural form of mouse." And so here we are. No matter the word, this story is of the physical creature and its incredibly destructive tendencies.
For this up and coming Labor Day weekend, my cousin Jimmy is flying to Michigan all the way from California to visit our extended family. It has been at least 4 years, my last trip to California, since we've seen each other. To celebrate his reunion with the rest of our family, as well as the national holiday, the Klos family is camping out at Granny's. Though it hardly qualifies as camping. Grandma's 3 bedroom, 2 1/2 bath house is on small inland lake with a large, lightly wooded with great big pine trees, lot. "Camping" in the lawn is just a better way to enjoy the lake and prevent cramming everybody into one house.
In preparation for "camping" my father asked me to clean our pop-up camper and take inventory of the camping gear. This morning he popped-up the camper in the driveway and upon entering...
The only thing more appalling than the sight of our camper, was the smell. An entire neighborhood's worth of mice had made themselves very much at home in our Coleman Fleetwood camper. Within each storage cabinet were nests of sorts, constructed with bits of our chewed through game boxes, pillow cases, and dish rags. Mouse droppings dotted the entire interior like sprinkles on a cupcake. Stains and fur remained plastered to the canvas where deceased members of the mouse colony had been decaying for an untold amount of time. Of course today had to be the hottest September day on record in Grand Rapids since the 1980s. Need I say more?
It took several trips in and out of the camper while holding my breath to remove the accumulation of our family camping accessories from inside. In some places the Shop-Vac was the only tool able to reveal what was salvageable beneath all of the shredding and shit. There was not much left. Literally EVERYTHING had been contaminated with mouse feces. Anything that was worth keeping needed an extra long swim in a pool of bleach. What was left of the camper was not much better. The mattresses were stained and chewed, droppings were stuck in every crevice and fold of fabric, and the exterior canvas was chewed completely through leaving jagged and unwanted skylights above the beds. The smell alone was cause enough to call it quits on the camper all together. Unfortunately the company who manufactured this particular camper is no longer in business due to bankruptcy in 2008. There is no saving this camper. Amazing how a 3 inch mouse, and its friends, can completely destroy a 21 foot camper.
I'll be in the tent at Granny's this year.
If anyone is interested in camper parts for a Fleetwood Coleman pop up camper, please contact me.
Actually, "mice" would a more appropriate title for this post. For it is not a singular mouse that has frustrated me into taking up my blog again after 9 months of absence but rather, a colony of mice. However, the dictionary defines the word "mice" as "the plural form of mouse." And so here we are. No matter the word, this story is of the physical creature and its incredibly destructive tendencies.
For this up and coming Labor Day weekend, my cousin Jimmy is flying to Michigan all the way from California to visit our extended family. It has been at least 4 years, my last trip to California, since we've seen each other. To celebrate his reunion with the rest of our family, as well as the national holiday, the Klos family is camping out at Granny's. Though it hardly qualifies as camping. Grandma's 3 bedroom, 2 1/2 bath house is on small inland lake with a large, lightly wooded with great big pine trees, lot. "Camping" in the lawn is just a better way to enjoy the lake and prevent cramming everybody into one house.
In preparation for "camping" my father asked me to clean our pop-up camper and take inventory of the camping gear. This morning he popped-up the camper in the driveway and upon entering...
The only thing more appalling than the sight of our camper, was the smell. An entire neighborhood's worth of mice had made themselves very much at home in our Coleman Fleetwood camper. Within each storage cabinet were nests of sorts, constructed with bits of our chewed through game boxes, pillow cases, and dish rags. Mouse droppings dotted the entire interior like sprinkles on a cupcake. Stains and fur remained plastered to the canvas where deceased members of the mouse colony had been decaying for an untold amount of time. Of course today had to be the hottest September day on record in Grand Rapids since the 1980s. Need I say more?
It took several trips in and out of the camper while holding my breath to remove the accumulation of our family camping accessories from inside. In some places the Shop-Vac was the only tool able to reveal what was salvageable beneath all of the shredding and shit. There was not much left. Literally EVERYTHING had been contaminated with mouse feces. Anything that was worth keeping needed an extra long swim in a pool of bleach. What was left of the camper was not much better. The mattresses were stained and chewed, droppings were stuck in every crevice and fold of fabric, and the exterior canvas was chewed completely through leaving jagged and unwanted skylights above the beds. The smell alone was cause enough to call it quits on the camper all together. Unfortunately the company who manufactured this particular camper is no longer in business due to bankruptcy in 2008. There is no saving this camper. Amazing how a 3 inch mouse, and its friends, can completely destroy a 21 foot camper.
I'll be in the tent at Granny's this year.
If anyone is interested in camper parts for a Fleetwood Coleman pop up camper, please contact me.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
dance
dance: (v) to move one's feet or body, or both, rhythmically in a pattern of steps, esp. to the accompaniment of music.
One month from today will be our school's annual Christmas program. The details of this I am still not sure of. Up until last week the only thing I knew about this program was that it is on Friday December 17th. Then, at our staff meeting last Thursday, I was told that each grade was to learn a choreographed dance to a predetermined song. GREAT! We spent the majority of our staff meeting scanning through the DVD recording of all the dances sent to us from our school headquarters in Tegucigalpa. I saw a 20 second clip of my dance which was just long enough to stress me out over the thought of my 5th graders being disciplined enough to pull this off. I will be needing a miracle for sure. And when are we going to practice?
Monday morning I overheard talk between some of the teachers, in Spanish, about the Christmas program dances. I only caught the tail end and the few words of Spanish that I knew. I quickly asked Andrea, who speaks fluent Spanish, what was going on with the dances. The look on her face matched my emotions exactly after she told me that we are to take 2 class periods every day, from now until Christmas, to practice for the dance. I'm sorry? I just had parent teacher conferences this weekend where loads of parents insisted that I spend more time on subjects such as History and Science, because their students are struggling in those classes. So I asked the principal, just to be sure. He said Science, History and Reading aren't the important classes, Math and Language are what really matter. Right. So after I told parents that I would spend more time on those classes, you are telling me to cut them so we can dance? Sometimes... the way things are done here in Honduras...
ANYWAY. I spent the next few mornings frantically rearranging my schedule for the rest of the semester, in order to have enough time to dance and still give these kids an education. That meant EVERY class would take a hit, the important ones and the "not as important" ones.
Bryony and Holly used their Penmanship time on Tuesday to start teaching the dance to the 5th graders. I was amazed, when I used Art class later that day to work on the dance with them, to see that they had actually learned something. Miraculously by the end of the day Wednesday half the dance was finished. Sure my voice is sounding a bit froggy and I never want to count to 8 again, but the 5th graders, MY 5TH GRADERS are learning a dance! I never thought I'd see the day. Let's just hope the second half of the dance goes just as well. :)
One month from today will be our school's annual Christmas program. The details of this I am still not sure of. Up until last week the only thing I knew about this program was that it is on Friday December 17th. Then, at our staff meeting last Thursday, I was told that each grade was to learn a choreographed dance to a predetermined song. GREAT! We spent the majority of our staff meeting scanning through the DVD recording of all the dances sent to us from our school headquarters in Tegucigalpa. I saw a 20 second clip of my dance which was just long enough to stress me out over the thought of my 5th graders being disciplined enough to pull this off. I will be needing a miracle for sure. And when are we going to practice?
Monday morning I overheard talk between some of the teachers, in Spanish, about the Christmas program dances. I only caught the tail end and the few words of Spanish that I knew. I quickly asked Andrea, who speaks fluent Spanish, what was going on with the dances. The look on her face matched my emotions exactly after she told me that we are to take 2 class periods every day, from now until Christmas, to practice for the dance. I'm sorry? I just had parent teacher conferences this weekend where loads of parents insisted that I spend more time on subjects such as History and Science, because their students are struggling in those classes. So I asked the principal, just to be sure. He said Science, History and Reading aren't the important classes, Math and Language are what really matter. Right. So after I told parents that I would spend more time on those classes, you are telling me to cut them so we can dance? Sometimes... the way things are done here in Honduras...
ANYWAY. I spent the next few mornings frantically rearranging my schedule for the rest of the semester, in order to have enough time to dance and still give these kids an education. That meant EVERY class would take a hit, the important ones and the "not as important" ones.
Bryony and Holly used their Penmanship time on Tuesday to start teaching the dance to the 5th graders. I was amazed, when I used Art class later that day to work on the dance with them, to see that they had actually learned something. Miraculously by the end of the day Wednesday half the dance was finished. Sure my voice is sounding a bit froggy and I never want to count to 8 again, but the 5th graders, MY 5TH GRADERS are learning a dance! I never thought I'd see the day. Let's just hope the second half of the dance goes just as well. :)
Monday, November 15, 2010
run
run: (v) to go quickly by moving the legs more rapidly than at a walk and in such a manner that for an instant in each step all or both feet are off the ground.
Yesterday I had a very rude awakening. I am severely out of shape. I went for a run, for the first time since July. YIKES. I thought my lungs were going to collapse. A natural feeling after going 3 and a half months without running, or really any regular exercise.
Before moving here this was not something I had expected. When I lived here in the summer of 2009 I was in great shape. My job all summer was to hike. Yes, I had to conduct surveys and take pictures and explain our research, but the hiking was background music. We took a truck to whatever village we were working in that day and hiked from there. Houses in these villages are spread out all across the mountains, and up and down the mountains we went. From 7am until 7pm every day, my job gave me great exercise.
This year I am a different employee. I teach all day. Spanish is my background music and the most strenuous part of my day is the 20 walk to and from school.
I recently had another rude awakening. A few weeks ago Andrew came down on a business trip from the States. He was able to bring a bag of goodies from home that my Mom had packed for me ahead of time. Among the goods was my bathroom scale. Stepping onto that for the first time in months was terrifying and the results were nothing short of alarming. Since living here I have put on a significant amount of weight. I knew by the way my clothes fit and just by looking in the mirror that weight had been put on, but the number made it real. Lack of exercise and the Honduran diet, where all food is prepared with loads of salt, oil and sugar, is definitely to blame.
A few weeks ago I began preparing my own meals and buying my own food, as opposed to eating the food prepared for the family. The reason for this decision has less to do with the amount of weight I've been gaining, and more to do with the health hazards the food has inflicted upon me. But, I have no doubts that the diet I choose for myself will benefit me in more ways than one.
The other key ingredient in the weight gain has been the lack of exercise. Solving this problem is a bit more complicated than the food issue. It is not socially acceptable to go running here, nor is it acceptable to wear shorts. As a female, any time I step outside of my house I run a high risk of being verbally harassed in Spanish by any male age 8-80, I kid you not. And to top it all off, I am a Gringa. Running through town is not an option for all of these reasons. Running on a path out to a small village would eliminate the exposure to verbal harassment and town gossip, but would increase my vulnerability to physical harassment or kidnapping if someone decided to do something stupid. Stuck.
Recently, a discovery had been made at our school. Up the mountain that sits behind our school is path of stairs that leads to 2 platforms. At the beginning of this school year a decision was made to expand the path upward and beyond the front face of the mountain. The path is now complete and not only climbs to the top of the mountain, but there is also a path that wraps around the back of the mountain rising and falling with the landscape. The discovery is that it is a wonderful place to run. The terrain is killer. Up and down very steep inclines with a few less steep inclines, stairs, windy curves, and flat runs thrown in the mix. The elevation takes you far beyond the highest hill in La Union and offers great vistas all around. The mountain is littered with woods and other vegetation, which offers pleasant shade and shelter from onlookers below. The best part of it all is that the path is part of school property, school property which is fenced in and under 24 hour security. So I can come up to the school whenever I choose, wear shorts and run all up and down the mountain without a problem. Well, without any social problems. I have plenty of physical problems running that path, it's an ass kicker.
Yesterday I had a very rude awakening. I am severely out of shape. I went for a run, for the first time since July. YIKES. I thought my lungs were going to collapse. A natural feeling after going 3 and a half months without running, or really any regular exercise.
Before moving here this was not something I had expected. When I lived here in the summer of 2009 I was in great shape. My job all summer was to hike. Yes, I had to conduct surveys and take pictures and explain our research, but the hiking was background music. We took a truck to whatever village we were working in that day and hiked from there. Houses in these villages are spread out all across the mountains, and up and down the mountains we went. From 7am until 7pm every day, my job gave me great exercise.
This year I am a different employee. I teach all day. Spanish is my background music and the most strenuous part of my day is the 20 walk to and from school.
I recently had another rude awakening. A few weeks ago Andrew came down on a business trip from the States. He was able to bring a bag of goodies from home that my Mom had packed for me ahead of time. Among the goods was my bathroom scale. Stepping onto that for the first time in months was terrifying and the results were nothing short of alarming. Since living here I have put on a significant amount of weight. I knew by the way my clothes fit and just by looking in the mirror that weight had been put on, but the number made it real. Lack of exercise and the Honduran diet, where all food is prepared with loads of salt, oil and sugar, is definitely to blame.
A few weeks ago I began preparing my own meals and buying my own food, as opposed to eating the food prepared for the family. The reason for this decision has less to do with the amount of weight I've been gaining, and more to do with the health hazards the food has inflicted upon me. But, I have no doubts that the diet I choose for myself will benefit me in more ways than one.
The other key ingredient in the weight gain has been the lack of exercise. Solving this problem is a bit more complicated than the food issue. It is not socially acceptable to go running here, nor is it acceptable to wear shorts. As a female, any time I step outside of my house I run a high risk of being verbally harassed in Spanish by any male age 8-80, I kid you not. And to top it all off, I am a Gringa. Running through town is not an option for all of these reasons. Running on a path out to a small village would eliminate the exposure to verbal harassment and town gossip, but would increase my vulnerability to physical harassment or kidnapping if someone decided to do something stupid. Stuck.
Recently, a discovery had been made at our school. Up the mountain that sits behind our school is path of stairs that leads to 2 platforms. At the beginning of this school year a decision was made to expand the path upward and beyond the front face of the mountain. The path is now complete and not only climbs to the top of the mountain, but there is also a path that wraps around the back of the mountain rising and falling with the landscape. The discovery is that it is a wonderful place to run. The terrain is killer. Up and down very steep inclines with a few less steep inclines, stairs, windy curves, and flat runs thrown in the mix. The elevation takes you far beyond the highest hill in La Union and offers great vistas all around. The mountain is littered with woods and other vegetation, which offers pleasant shade and shelter from onlookers below. The best part of it all is that the path is part of school property, school property which is fenced in and under 24 hour security. So I can come up to the school whenever I choose, wear shorts and run all up and down the mountain without a problem. Well, without any social problems. I have plenty of physical problems running that path, it's an ass kicker.
Monday, October 11, 2010
pres-i-dent
president: (n) the highest executive officer of a modern republic
October 8, 2010
Rumors circulated through our tiny school yesterday that the President of Honduras, Porfirio "Pepe" Lobo Sosa, was coming to La Union on Friday. By the time lunch rolled around, not only was the President of Honduras coming, but some of our students were going to see him. At our afterschool teacher's meeting and devotional, not only were some students going to see the President who was coming on Friday, but they were going to sing the country's national anthem for him as well. These words came directly from Mr. Perdomo, making it as official as it can be here in La Union. I walked home from the meeting and completely forgot about it all.
Today was freezing cold. Winter began a few weeks back here in the mountains, though it is not like winter at home in Michigan. I would say that winter in La Union, Honduras is much like March and April in Michigan, or at least so far. Cold, cloudy, and that misty rain that just chills you to the core. Heaters, like street names, are non-existent here which means there is no escaping the cold. Knowing that there was a hot shower waiting for me was my only motivation throwing off my cold covers and walking into the even colder bathroom at 5:00 in the morning. Brr! I bundled up as much as I could with the few cold weather clothes I brought here from home before walking to school.
During our morning staff gathering, the President story had changed again. This time we were ALL going to see the President. Right. Wasn't told when, wasn't told where, wasn't told how, though I assumed we would be walking. Perhaps I was told, in Mr. Perdomo's rapid fire Spanish which I have an impossible time keeping up with. Either way, I had no idea what was going on. Later I was told we were leaving after lunch. Perfect. Shortly after 11 a.m., the President's helicopter landed on the town's soccer field, the only flat place in any town around here. We were no longer leaving after lunch, we were leaving now. I lined up my 5th graders at the door and waited for further instruction… which never came. Everyone just started leaving, so we followed the crowd. It turned out to be a very familiar walk, we walked almost the entire way back to my house on the opposite side of town.
A platform was set up in the street outside the internet café down the hill from the Catholic Church. It was decorated in blue and white, the national colors, and surrounded with people. Thousands of people from La Union, and thousands more from all the villages in the municipality, were gathered in the street. A semicircle of a few hundred plastic chairs was set up for the audience, which of course was completely swallowed up. People stood on roof tops, on pick-up trucks, and all along the street. Somehow we were able to get our students up to the corner of the stage, where we stood, and waited, and waited. I realized I did not have my camera, and that now would probably have been a really good time to have it. Nelsy, now a 9th grader, and I broke away from the crowd and ran up the street to my house. On the way back down the hill I finally realized, and was able to see, just how many people were here. I noticed all the security personnel for the first time as well. Snipers, police, military, and of course the media. The Honduran media was the easiest to spot with their huge DSL cameras and video cameras, designer sunglasses and polo shirts. I laughed to myself and continued down the hill, pushing my way through the crowd to find my fifth graders again. When I finally reached them I was greeted with, "Miss Klos, we're hungry!" "Miss Klos, can I go home?" "Miss Klos, they've played this song at least a hundred times." Yes, the President had scheduled his arrival just in time for our kids to miss their lunch. Town is small, and most kids could see their houses from where we stood, but we could not let them leave. I tried my best to keep them hydrated and entertained. In an attempt to drown out the song on repeat blaring through the town, I started singing "Wade in the Water" a song I had taught them earlier this year, my voice unfortunately could not out-sing the loud speakers.
After an hour and a half of standing in the street a cheer erupted from down the hill. The President was finally coming. His caravan drove up the road as far as it could before the sea of people no longer allowed its motion. President "Pepe" stepped out of the car and started waving and shaking hands with everyone. I stuck my camera in the air and started snapping as many pictures as I could. As he made his way up the hill he walked right through our group, and by group I mean our entire student population. He stopped by Miss Melindez, who was further down the hill with some of the kids. He put his hands on her shoulders and seemed to talk to her forever, are you two friends? I was somewhere between confused and amazed. The smile on her face could not be contained and erupted into laughter when he turned from her and continued on his way up the hill. He was walking straight toward us. Some pushy media guru started yelling at my kids to make an aisle for him to walk through. As their teacher I was amazed on how quickly they responded and had created a perfect walkway for the President. I put as many of my kids to the edge of the aisle as I could and stood behind them still snapping pictures. He was SO CLOSE. Closer, closer, and then he was right in front of me with his back turned, waving at the crowd and shaking hands with my students on the other side of the aisle. He turned around, just as I held my camera out over the heads of the kids in front of me to get a closer shot, and held out his hand to me. I felt like a fool scrambling to get the camera out of my hand so I could shake his. Everyone around me was cheering and yelling, squealing came from the seventh graders standing behind me. It was so loud that when President "Pepe" spoke to me I could not hear him, so I responded deafly with, "I'm their teacher at the bi-lingual school," nodding to the boys in front of me. He laughed and grabbed my arm saying, "Do you want a picture?" Before I could even respond he was pulling me through the three rows of fifth grade boys in front of me. I stumbled out into the aisle and he put his arm around me. When I looked up there was a HUGE media camera in my face and without thinking I shoved my point and shoot Cannon in his hand and said, "Here, take one with mine." The President chuckled, smiled for MY camera, and the media camera, shook my hand again and pushed forward.
I could feel my jaw hanging from my own face when I turned around, the kids were wearing the same expression. "MISS KLOS! You got a picture with the president! Let me see, let me see!" I couldn't help laughing as I knelt down to show my students the picture. Mr. Valdez and Mr. Perdomo came up behind me, having no idea what had just happened, and asked me if I got a picture of the president walking by. I laughed and showed them my camera. Their reaction was about the same as mine.
The President made his way to the stage followed by a generous group of Honduran leaders. They assembled around a table set up on the stage and were welcomed by a speech from both the Catholic priest and Pastor Wilson, the pastor from the Vida Abundante church in La Union. Afterward, Miss Ponce led the selected singers from our school to the front of the crowd, stood in front of the stage, and sang the national anthem of Honduras for the President and the entire La Union community. It was beautiful. I felt a deep sense of pride, these students, these teachers, these people, are a part of my life, and I am a part of theirs. The most important man in this country was standing 25 feet from me and shaking hands with the people in this town who have become my friends. The tug on my shirt broke my trans. It didn't matter that the President of Honduras was here in their town, my kids were hungry. I gathered up as many of my students as I could find in the crowd and began the walk back to school. All I heard the entire way was, "Miss Klos, we're SO hungry, I don't think I can make it!" "Miss Klos, I'm starving!" "Miss Klos…" And suddenly, after dragging feet and whining, they were running down a road that was not the road back to school. The helicopters. On the soccer field stood the Presidential helicopter, and another helicopter. Both were guarded by men with machine guns, but they were no match for our kids. They surrounded the helicopters, ooo-ing and ahh-ing, some students were even allowed to climb aboard. This was way cooler than the President, and way more important than lunch, at least for now. The excitement wore off after about 10 minutes then it was back to nagging and complaining.
After scarfing down my lunch I stood at the railing staring out over La Union. What a day. Who knew? I just met the President of Honduras. He was still there, speaking to the thousands who came to see him. The bell rang at 2:00 for the last class of the day, seventh grade science for me. I grabbed my books and walked into the classroom. "Good afternoon Miss Klos!"
The links below are the reports I found about the President's visit to La Union. They are from the Honduran press, and in Spanish, but are easily translated with Google.
http://www.hondudiario.com/l/content/presidente-lobo-realiz%C3%B3-vig%C3%A9sima-entrega-del-bono-10-mil-en-lempira
http://www.laprensa.hn/Pa%C3%ADs/Ediciones/2010/10/11/Noticias/Pepe-Lobo-llega-a-Lempira-con-el-Bono-Diez-Mil
http://www.presidencia.gob.hn/presidente/presidente-lobo-sosa-realiza-vigesima-novena-entrega-del-bono-10-mil-en-lempira
October 8, 2010
Rumors circulated through our tiny school yesterday that the President of Honduras, Porfirio "Pepe" Lobo Sosa, was coming to La Union on Friday. By the time lunch rolled around, not only was the President of Honduras coming, but some of our students were going to see him. At our afterschool teacher's meeting and devotional, not only were some students going to see the President who was coming on Friday, but they were going to sing the country's national anthem for him as well. These words came directly from Mr. Perdomo, making it as official as it can be here in La Union. I walked home from the meeting and completely forgot about it all.
Today was freezing cold. Winter began a few weeks back here in the mountains, though it is not like winter at home in Michigan. I would say that winter in La Union, Honduras is much like March and April in Michigan, or at least so far. Cold, cloudy, and that misty rain that just chills you to the core. Heaters, like street names, are non-existent here which means there is no escaping the cold. Knowing that there was a hot shower waiting for me was my only motivation throwing off my cold covers and walking into the even colder bathroom at 5:00 in the morning. Brr! I bundled up as much as I could with the few cold weather clothes I brought here from home before walking to school.
During our morning staff gathering, the President story had changed again. This time we were ALL going to see the President. Right. Wasn't told when, wasn't told where, wasn't told how, though I assumed we would be walking. Perhaps I was told, in Mr. Perdomo's rapid fire Spanish which I have an impossible time keeping up with. Either way, I had no idea what was going on. Later I was told we were leaving after lunch. Perfect. Shortly after 11 a.m., the President's helicopter landed on the town's soccer field, the only flat place in any town around here. We were no longer leaving after lunch, we were leaving now. I lined up my 5th graders at the door and waited for further instruction… which never came. Everyone just started leaving, so we followed the crowd. It turned out to be a very familiar walk, we walked almost the entire way back to my house on the opposite side of town.
A platform was set up in the street outside the internet café down the hill from the Catholic Church. It was decorated in blue and white, the national colors, and surrounded with people. Thousands of people from La Union, and thousands more from all the villages in the municipality, were gathered in the street. A semicircle of a few hundred plastic chairs was set up for the audience, which of course was completely swallowed up. People stood on roof tops, on pick-up trucks, and all along the street. Somehow we were able to get our students up to the corner of the stage, where we stood, and waited, and waited. I realized I did not have my camera, and that now would probably have been a really good time to have it. Nelsy, now a 9th grader, and I broke away from the crowd and ran up the street to my house. On the way back down the hill I finally realized, and was able to see, just how many people were here. I noticed all the security personnel for the first time as well. Snipers, police, military, and of course the media. The Honduran media was the easiest to spot with their huge DSL cameras and video cameras, designer sunglasses and polo shirts. I laughed to myself and continued down the hill, pushing my way through the crowd to find my fifth graders again. When I finally reached them I was greeted with, "Miss Klos, we're hungry!" "Miss Klos, can I go home?" "Miss Klos, they've played this song at least a hundred times." Yes, the President had scheduled his arrival just in time for our kids to miss their lunch. Town is small, and most kids could see their houses from where we stood, but we could not let them leave. I tried my best to keep them hydrated and entertained. In an attempt to drown out the song on repeat blaring through the town, I started singing "Wade in the Water" a song I had taught them earlier this year, my voice unfortunately could not out-sing the loud speakers.
After an hour and a half of standing in the street a cheer erupted from down the hill. The President was finally coming. His caravan drove up the road as far as it could before the sea of people no longer allowed its motion. President "Pepe" stepped out of the car and started waving and shaking hands with everyone. I stuck my camera in the air and started snapping as many pictures as I could. As he made his way up the hill he walked right through our group, and by group I mean our entire student population. He stopped by Miss Melindez, who was further down the hill with some of the kids. He put his hands on her shoulders and seemed to talk to her forever, are you two friends? I was somewhere between confused and amazed. The smile on her face could not be contained and erupted into laughter when he turned from her and continued on his way up the hill. He was walking straight toward us. Some pushy media guru started yelling at my kids to make an aisle for him to walk through. As their teacher I was amazed on how quickly they responded and had created a perfect walkway for the President. I put as many of my kids to the edge of the aisle as I could and stood behind them still snapping pictures. He was SO CLOSE. Closer, closer, and then he was right in front of me with his back turned, waving at the crowd and shaking hands with my students on the other side of the aisle. He turned around, just as I held my camera out over the heads of the kids in front of me to get a closer shot, and held out his hand to me. I felt like a fool scrambling to get the camera out of my hand so I could shake his. Everyone around me was cheering and yelling, squealing came from the seventh graders standing behind me. It was so loud that when President "Pepe" spoke to me I could not hear him, so I responded deafly with, "I'm their teacher at the bi-lingual school," nodding to the boys in front of me. He laughed and grabbed my arm saying, "Do you want a picture?" Before I could even respond he was pulling me through the three rows of fifth grade boys in front of me. I stumbled out into the aisle and he put his arm around me. When I looked up there was a HUGE media camera in my face and without thinking I shoved my point and shoot Cannon in his hand and said, "Here, take one with mine." The President chuckled, smiled for MY camera, and the media camera, shook my hand again and pushed forward.
I could feel my jaw hanging from my own face when I turned around, the kids were wearing the same expression. "MISS KLOS! You got a picture with the president! Let me see, let me see!" I couldn't help laughing as I knelt down to show my students the picture. Mr. Valdez and Mr. Perdomo came up behind me, having no idea what had just happened, and asked me if I got a picture of the president walking by. I laughed and showed them my camera. Their reaction was about the same as mine.
The President made his way to the stage followed by a generous group of Honduran leaders. They assembled around a table set up on the stage and were welcomed by a speech from both the Catholic priest and Pastor Wilson, the pastor from the Vida Abundante church in La Union. Afterward, Miss Ponce led the selected singers from our school to the front of the crowd, stood in front of the stage, and sang the national anthem of Honduras for the President and the entire La Union community. It was beautiful. I felt a deep sense of pride, these students, these teachers, these people, are a part of my life, and I am a part of theirs. The most important man in this country was standing 25 feet from me and shaking hands with the people in this town who have become my friends. The tug on my shirt broke my trans. It didn't matter that the President of Honduras was here in their town, my kids were hungry. I gathered up as many of my students as I could find in the crowd and began the walk back to school. All I heard the entire way was, "Miss Klos, we're SO hungry, I don't think I can make it!" "Miss Klos, I'm starving!" "Miss Klos…" And suddenly, after dragging feet and whining, they were running down a road that was not the road back to school. The helicopters. On the soccer field stood the Presidential helicopter, and another helicopter. Both were guarded by men with machine guns, but they were no match for our kids. They surrounded the helicopters, ooo-ing and ahh-ing, some students were even allowed to climb aboard. This was way cooler than the President, and way more important than lunch, at least for now. The excitement wore off after about 10 minutes then it was back to nagging and complaining.
After scarfing down my lunch I stood at the railing staring out over La Union. What a day. Who knew? I just met the President of Honduras. He was still there, speaking to the thousands who came to see him. The bell rang at 2:00 for the last class of the day, seventh grade science for me. I grabbed my books and walked into the classroom. "Good afternoon Miss Klos!"
The links below are the reports I found about the President's visit to La Union. They are from the Honduran press, and in Spanish, but are easily translated with Google.
http://www.hondudiario.com/l/content/presidente-lobo-realiz%C3%B3-vig%C3%A9sima-entrega-del-bono-10-mil-en-lempira
http://www.laprensa.hn/Pa%C3%ADs/Ediciones/2010/10/11/Noticias/Pepe-Lobo-llega-a-Lempira-con-el-Bono-Diez-Mil
http://www.presidencia.gob.hn/presidente/presidente-lobo-sosa-realiza-vigesima-novena-entrega-del-bono-10-mil-en-lempira
Sunday, October 3, 2010
ruins pt. 3
part 3: the return
After writing part 2 of this blog, the reason for the post in the first place, I cannot say that the last part of our vacation is really blog worthy.
In short, we made it as far a Santa Rosa on Saturday night. Due to the bus schedule we were obligated to leave Copan a day early and spend the night in either Gracias or Santa Rosa. DeWit was already in Santa Rosa for the weekend and insisted we stay there. Jake also met up with us in Santa Rosa later that night on his way back from La Ceiba and brought with him 3 girls he met on HIS vacation. We all went out to pizza for dinner at a great restaurant then slept at the most filthy hotel I have personally ever stayed in. Overall, Santa Rosa was a disappointment, thus why it is not worth blogging much about. It did, however, have an Espresso Americano. Eager to get out of the city Sunday early morning, we grabbed coffee for breakfast and walked down the mountain and boarded the first bus to Gracias. Holly, Bryony and I found refuge at Guancascos, which has become a "home away from home" for us, until the bus for La Union left at 12:30. For some reason the bus was PACKED! Not just full, I'm talkin' 3 adults per seat, children on laps, every bit overhead storage space occupied and the isle full of passengers, full, the WHOLE WAY HOME. Quite possibly the most unpleasant bus ride of my life. And that ended my Honduras Independence Day vacation to the ruins.
I wish to leave everyone with one last word. GO, go to Copan and go to the ruins. Absolutely one of the best vacations I have ever had. The ruins themselves are astonishing and the city is quite charming. So go.
After writing part 2 of this blog, the reason for the post in the first place, I cannot say that the last part of our vacation is really blog worthy.
In short, we made it as far a Santa Rosa on Saturday night. Due to the bus schedule we were obligated to leave Copan a day early and spend the night in either Gracias or Santa Rosa. DeWit was already in Santa Rosa for the weekend and insisted we stay there. Jake also met up with us in Santa Rosa later that night on his way back from La Ceiba and brought with him 3 girls he met on HIS vacation. We all went out to pizza for dinner at a great restaurant then slept at the most filthy hotel I have personally ever stayed in. Overall, Santa Rosa was a disappointment, thus why it is not worth blogging much about. It did, however, have an Espresso Americano. Eager to get out of the city Sunday early morning, we grabbed coffee for breakfast and walked down the mountain and boarded the first bus to Gracias. Holly, Bryony and I found refuge at Guancascos, which has become a "home away from home" for us, until the bus for La Union left at 12:30. For some reason the bus was PACKED! Not just full, I'm talkin' 3 adults per seat, children on laps, every bit overhead storage space occupied and the isle full of passengers, full, the WHOLE WAY HOME. Quite possibly the most unpleasant bus ride of my life. And that ended my Honduras Independence Day vacation to the ruins.
I wish to leave everyone with one last word. GO, go to Copan and go to the ruins. Absolutely one of the best vacations I have ever had. The ruins themselves are astonishing and the city is quite charming. So go.
ruins pt. 2
part 2: the ruins
I suppose I should have provided a better introduction as to the purpose of this blog.
The 15th of September is Independence Day here in Honduras. As is in the United States, this national holiday is observed by all schools and public institutions. For our school, Independence Day usually provides an extended weekend for teachers and students alike. This year the 15th fell on a Wednesday. There was question as to how our time off of school would fall. After contacting his superiors in Tegucigalpa, Mr. Perdomo, the principal of our school, confirmed that Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday would all be taken off of school, thus providing us with 5 days in which to travel.
It was discussed amongst the 4 of us girls in our first weeks here in La Union that we all desired to travel as much as possible. On the long bucket list of travel destinations within Honduras was Copan Ruinas. Honduras sits on the edge of the area of ancient Mayan settlements. The ancient ruins of Copan are the most famous of the ruins in this country. We agreed early on that if we were indeed awarded an extended weekend for Independence Day that the city of Copan would be our travel destination.
Which brings us back to Posada de Bellsy.
At the hotel we split up into two rooms, each with its own private bathroom, a television, which we never used, a double bed and a single bed. Too anxious to be clean to check out the rest of our accommodations, I jumped at the opportunity to take a CLEAN shower, something that is indeed hard to come by at my current residence. Dressed, ready to go, and feeling ever so clean, we set out for town in search of a coffee shop I had spotted earlier upon our arrival. Espresso Americano, a chain, apparently, here in Honduras, is the closest thing to Starbucks I have experienced since leaving the States. My beverage of choice: a Caramel Granita, which I would compare to a Caramel Frappacino. A delicious and COLD caffeinated treat, perfect for a hot Honduras day. Not one of us could pass up the pleasure of this outing and were all in a very happy state afterwards. Anticipating our time at the ruins now only a day away, we continued through town in search of a grocery store in which to purchase the necessary ingredients for a sack lunch. While browsing the isles I happen to come across a package of cookies entitled "Amelia". Delighted in my discovery, I was sure to snap a photograph before leaving the store. While looking for one of the girls to be my photographer, I overheard a dialogue between a cashier and another gringo who was stumbling over his Spanish words. I chuckled to myself and, after Bryony took a picture of me with MY cookies,
the 4 of us left the store with all the ingredients for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Our mission complete we decided to browse the town's artisan markets and tourist shops. More gringos again, which was weird for us, but typical for this town. One of them was indeed the same guy I had seen in the grocery store not 20 minutes prior. Unable to deny the awareness of one another, our two groups of gringos emerged to inquire as to our origins as well as our happenings here in Honduras. And what do you know, they are both teachers at a bi-lingual school in the very city we stood in. We spotted them for a third time at Via Via where we girls had decided to dine and celebrate Bryony's 19th birthday which had passed only the day before. The evening provided a heavenly meal for each, accompanied by delicious drink specials, great photo opps and a very happy birthday to our English friend. A wonderful beginning to a wonderful vacation.
The next morning was planned for an early rise and hike to the ruins, but not before breakfast. Inspired by the number of restaurants in town and driven by our desires for even more variety, we agreed to spend each meal at a different eatery. Welchez, situated kiddy corner from the central park, served only us for breakfast that morning. After enjoying every bite of my French Toast, the others their dish of choice, and a shared plate of fresh fruit, we set out on our walk with only the general direction of the ruins in mind.
The walk to the ruins was beautiful. Along the way we were encouraged when we passed by a display of Mayan statues. At least we knew we were headed in the right direction. Not far up the road on the opposite side was the entrance to the park. Immediately upon entry, we were approached by tour guides who eagerly explained to us the services they offered. A guide is something we had already decided we were going to do before we got to the park, and were fortunate enough to have chosen Mauricio. A good humored, middle-aged man and might I add well traveled. After passing the tropical birds upon entering the park, he began telling us stories of his travels pausing only to fulfill his tour guide duties by pointing out and explaining the significance of this tree or that animal. Our first REAL stop however, was the Plaza Occidental. Mauricio's words were no longer audible, for my mind was elsewhere. I was in absolute awe at the site before me. To be standing here, in Copan, Honduras, in what remains of an ancient Mayan civilization, it was incredible, to say the least. To know such a place exists or to see pictures, in no way gives justice to what is. The structure, the sculpture, the landscape, the history, completely took my breath away. It took me a while to remember that I indeed had feet capable of walking and caught up to the girls who were listening intently to what Mauricio had to say. Still in wonderland, I took out my camera and started photographing everything in sight, only to be greeted with the wonderful red blinking battery icon on my camera screen. Of course. Worry not, I was able to take plenty of pictures, though not as many as I'd hoped. Anyway, while leaning over a sculpture to pose for a picture, Mauricio assured me it was ok to touch it, or sit on it, or whatever. Excuse me? In the United States, or even Europe, no such thing would be allowed. Rather, I would be stuck on a narrow walk path behind a sticky guardrail no less than 10 yards away from anything interesting. The beauty of Copan is that you can pretty much do whatever or go wherever you please with very little restriction. The further into the park we walked, the more I embraced this freedom. We spent the rest of the morning with Mauricio, who acted partly as our tour guide and partly as our photographer, exploring the ruins. He spent far longer than the allotted 1 1/2 hour time with us, and we were sure to tip him extra at the end of the tour. Still, the entire morning was not at all enough time to take it all in. We sat for our picnic lunch, peanut butter and jelly, before re-entering the park to do our own exploring. Andrea and Holly set off to do the nature trail that surrounded the park, while Bryony and I opted to retrace the steps of our morning tour. It was here that we met yet another gringo. He was trying to take a picture of the tropical birds we had passed earlier and was having little luck obtaining the action shot he desired, a bird in flight. I tried my best to help him achieve his goal and consequently made an absolute fool of myself. Laughing at my hopeless attempt, the 3 of us set off down the path engaged in the typical "Where are you from?" conversation we foreigners often find ourselves in. He was from Switzerland, in the midst of traveling all of Central and South America by himself and was set to finish in December, ambitious. Wishing him the best, we parted ways when we reached the end of the path. The nature trail hike was cut short for Holly and Andrea due to an overabundance of large spiders along the way. They found Bryony and me in the Plaza de los Jaguares. Observing the threatening weather overhead and anticipating our walk back to town, we terminated our stay at the ruins.
Was that a dream? I was still in absolute awe the entire walk back to the hotel. After freshening up we headed out for Caramel Granitas and to browse the markets. Not feeling well, I returned to the hotel to rest while the girls headed to Twisted Tania's for drinks in the evening. I met up with them for dinner a few hours later at Vamos A Ver, a quiet little eatery where, of course of all places, our Swiss friend showed up to dine. It would have been awkward, seeing how we were the only other people at the restaurant, not to have invited him to join us. Though, he may have regretted his decision to accept our invitation when Holly and Bryony struck up a 7 1/2 minute conversation with each other about anything and EVERYTHING two intoxicated British girls could think of. This included, but was not limited to, Cornas and Texwell, St. Patrick and the invention of the color green, rain, and Holly on a bridge. After that comedic highlight, I called it a night early, still not feeling 100%.
It was good to wake up feeling completely refreshed the next day. Friday was my shopping day. I had been extremely disciplined since arriving on Wednesday NOT to spend any money other than what was necessary for meals and the ruins. After breakfast though I intentionally set out to do some damage to my newly funded foreign bank account. My mission was to find goods made here in Copan. Copan Ruinas is very close to the Guatemalan border, so there are LOADS of Guatemalan goods in all the shops, their specialty being textiles. It took a lot of conversations in Spanish, which I am improving on, though still not fluent, to get a sense for what was actually made here Copan. Satisfied with the information I had gathered, I started spending. Jade is believed to have been mined in Copan by the ancient Mayans. It is still mined there, though larger mines exist just across the border as well. Anything Mayan, or displaying Mayan symbols, is obviously made in Copan, my favorite being the Mayan calendars. There are also these dolls made out of corn husks that little girls from the surrounding villages sell in the street. These dolls are only made in the villages around Copan. You will have no problem finding them, the girls are very eager to sell to you, especially if you are a gringo. I made frequent stops back to the hotel to unload my bag and record my spendings. Yikes! By the end of the day I had spent an alarming amount but decided not to worry about it, this was a once in a lifetime vacation. I opened up my daily planner and set a date the following week to write myself a budget for the year.
I spent my last morning enjoying a hot caramel latte at Espresso Americano overlooking the small city as it slowly came to life. Perhaps I gave myself too much time to sit, before I knew it I was off spending more. Hotel check out at 11 am saved me from myself. None of us wanted to leave, we had one last meal down the hill at a restaurant near the bus station. I finished eating early with the intention to run up the hill for one last Caramel Granita. Savoring every last drop of my frozen beverage, I reluctantly boarded the bus to La Entrada with the girls. Goodbye Copan…
I suppose I should have provided a better introduction as to the purpose of this blog.
The 15th of September is Independence Day here in Honduras. As is in the United States, this national holiday is observed by all schools and public institutions. For our school, Independence Day usually provides an extended weekend for teachers and students alike. This year the 15th fell on a Wednesday. There was question as to how our time off of school would fall. After contacting his superiors in Tegucigalpa, Mr. Perdomo, the principal of our school, confirmed that Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday would all be taken off of school, thus providing us with 5 days in which to travel.
It was discussed amongst the 4 of us girls in our first weeks here in La Union that we all desired to travel as much as possible. On the long bucket list of travel destinations within Honduras was Copan Ruinas. Honduras sits on the edge of the area of ancient Mayan settlements. The ancient ruins of Copan are the most famous of the ruins in this country. We agreed early on that if we were indeed awarded an extended weekend for Independence Day that the city of Copan would be our travel destination.
Which brings us back to Posada de Bellsy.
At the hotel we split up into two rooms, each with its own private bathroom, a television, which we never used, a double bed and a single bed. Too anxious to be clean to check out the rest of our accommodations, I jumped at the opportunity to take a CLEAN shower, something that is indeed hard to come by at my current residence. Dressed, ready to go, and feeling ever so clean, we set out for town in search of a coffee shop I had spotted earlier upon our arrival. Espresso Americano, a chain, apparently, here in Honduras, is the closest thing to Starbucks I have experienced since leaving the States. My beverage of choice: a Caramel Granita, which I would compare to a Caramel Frappacino. A delicious and COLD caffeinated treat, perfect for a hot Honduras day. Not one of us could pass up the pleasure of this outing and were all in a very happy state afterwards. Anticipating our time at the ruins now only a day away, we continued through town in search of a grocery store in which to purchase the necessary ingredients for a sack lunch. While browsing the isles I happen to come across a package of cookies entitled "Amelia". Delighted in my discovery, I was sure to snap a photograph before leaving the store. While looking for one of the girls to be my photographer, I overheard a dialogue between a cashier and another gringo who was stumbling over his Spanish words. I chuckled to myself and, after Bryony took a picture of me with MY cookies,
the 4 of us left the store with all the ingredients for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Our mission complete we decided to browse the town's artisan markets and tourist shops. More gringos again, which was weird for us, but typical for this town. One of them was indeed the same guy I had seen in the grocery store not 20 minutes prior. Unable to deny the awareness of one another, our two groups of gringos emerged to inquire as to our origins as well as our happenings here in Honduras. And what do you know, they are both teachers at a bi-lingual school in the very city we stood in. We spotted them for a third time at Via Via where we girls had decided to dine and celebrate Bryony's 19th birthday which had passed only the day before. The evening provided a heavenly meal for each, accompanied by delicious drink specials, great photo opps and a very happy birthday to our English friend. A wonderful beginning to a wonderful vacation.
The next morning was planned for an early rise and hike to the ruins, but not before breakfast. Inspired by the number of restaurants in town and driven by our desires for even more variety, we agreed to spend each meal at a different eatery. Welchez, situated kiddy corner from the central park, served only us for breakfast that morning. After enjoying every bite of my French Toast, the others their dish of choice, and a shared plate of fresh fruit, we set out on our walk with only the general direction of the ruins in mind.
The walk to the ruins was beautiful. Along the way we were encouraged when we passed by a display of Mayan statues. At least we knew we were headed in the right direction. Not far up the road on the opposite side was the entrance to the park. Immediately upon entry, we were approached by tour guides who eagerly explained to us the services they offered. A guide is something we had already decided we were going to do before we got to the park, and were fortunate enough to have chosen Mauricio. A good humored, middle-aged man and might I add well traveled. After passing the tropical birds upon entering the park, he began telling us stories of his travels pausing only to fulfill his tour guide duties by pointing out and explaining the significance of this tree or that animal. Our first REAL stop however, was the Plaza Occidental. Mauricio's words were no longer audible, for my mind was elsewhere. I was in absolute awe at the site before me. To be standing here, in Copan, Honduras, in what remains of an ancient Mayan civilization, it was incredible, to say the least. To know such a place exists or to see pictures, in no way gives justice to what is. The structure, the sculpture, the landscape, the history, completely took my breath away. It took me a while to remember that I indeed had feet capable of walking and caught up to the girls who were listening intently to what Mauricio had to say. Still in wonderland, I took out my camera and started photographing everything in sight, only to be greeted with the wonderful red blinking battery icon on my camera screen. Of course. Worry not, I was able to take plenty of pictures, though not as many as I'd hoped. Anyway, while leaning over a sculpture to pose for a picture, Mauricio assured me it was ok to touch it, or sit on it, or whatever. Excuse me? In the United States, or even Europe, no such thing would be allowed. Rather, I would be stuck on a narrow walk path behind a sticky guardrail no less than 10 yards away from anything interesting. The beauty of Copan is that you can pretty much do whatever or go wherever you please with very little restriction. The further into the park we walked, the more I embraced this freedom. We spent the rest of the morning with Mauricio, who acted partly as our tour guide and partly as our photographer, exploring the ruins. He spent far longer than the allotted 1 1/2 hour time with us, and we were sure to tip him extra at the end of the tour. Still, the entire morning was not at all enough time to take it all in. We sat for our picnic lunch, peanut butter and jelly, before re-entering the park to do our own exploring. Andrea and Holly set off to do the nature trail that surrounded the park, while Bryony and I opted to retrace the steps of our morning tour. It was here that we met yet another gringo. He was trying to take a picture of the tropical birds we had passed earlier and was having little luck obtaining the action shot he desired, a bird in flight. I tried my best to help him achieve his goal and consequently made an absolute fool of myself. Laughing at my hopeless attempt, the 3 of us set off down the path engaged in the typical "Where are you from?" conversation we foreigners often find ourselves in. He was from Switzerland, in the midst of traveling all of Central and South America by himself and was set to finish in December, ambitious. Wishing him the best, we parted ways when we reached the end of the path. The nature trail hike was cut short for Holly and Andrea due to an overabundance of large spiders along the way. They found Bryony and me in the Plaza de los Jaguares. Observing the threatening weather overhead and anticipating our walk back to town, we terminated our stay at the ruins.
Was that a dream? I was still in absolute awe the entire walk back to the hotel. After freshening up we headed out for Caramel Granitas and to browse the markets. Not feeling well, I returned to the hotel to rest while the girls headed to Twisted Tania's for drinks in the evening. I met up with them for dinner a few hours later at Vamos A Ver, a quiet little eatery where, of course of all places, our Swiss friend showed up to dine. It would have been awkward, seeing how we were the only other people at the restaurant, not to have invited him to join us. Though, he may have regretted his decision to accept our invitation when Holly and Bryony struck up a 7 1/2 minute conversation with each other about anything and EVERYTHING two intoxicated British girls could think of. This included, but was not limited to, Cornas and Texwell, St. Patrick and the invention of the color green, rain, and Holly on a bridge. After that comedic highlight, I called it a night early, still not feeling 100%.
It was good to wake up feeling completely refreshed the next day. Friday was my shopping day. I had been extremely disciplined since arriving on Wednesday NOT to spend any money other than what was necessary for meals and the ruins. After breakfast though I intentionally set out to do some damage to my newly funded foreign bank account. My mission was to find goods made here in Copan. Copan Ruinas is very close to the Guatemalan border, so there are LOADS of Guatemalan goods in all the shops, their specialty being textiles. It took a lot of conversations in Spanish, which I am improving on, though still not fluent, to get a sense for what was actually made here Copan. Satisfied with the information I had gathered, I started spending. Jade is believed to have been mined in Copan by the ancient Mayans. It is still mined there, though larger mines exist just across the border as well. Anything Mayan, or displaying Mayan symbols, is obviously made in Copan, my favorite being the Mayan calendars. There are also these dolls made out of corn husks that little girls from the surrounding villages sell in the street. These dolls are only made in the villages around Copan. You will have no problem finding them, the girls are very eager to sell to you, especially if you are a gringo. I made frequent stops back to the hotel to unload my bag and record my spendings. Yikes! By the end of the day I had spent an alarming amount but decided not to worry about it, this was a once in a lifetime vacation. I opened up my daily planner and set a date the following week to write myself a budget for the year.
I spent my last morning enjoying a hot caramel latte at Espresso Americano overlooking the small city as it slowly came to life. Perhaps I gave myself too much time to sit, before I knew it I was off spending more. Hotel check out at 11 am saved me from myself. None of us wanted to leave, we had one last meal down the hill at a restaurant near the bus station. I finished eating early with the intention to run up the hill for one last Caramel Granita. Savoring every last drop of my frozen beverage, I reluctantly boarded the bus to La Entrada with the girls. Goodbye Copan…
Saturday, September 25, 2010
ruins
ru-ins: (n) the remains of a building, city, etc., that has been destroyed or that is in disrepair or a state of decay
part 1: the journey
To get anywhere by bus from La Union you must wake up before dawn. There are two buses from our small town to the nearest "cities". Albin, who we live with, and his father, who lives next door, run the transportation system here in La Union. One bus travels from here to Santa Barbara and the other to Gracias. Both leave around 5 a.m.-ish. Your best bet is to be outside at 4:55 a.m. and wait.
We all woke up at 4 a.m. to take showers and pack before our long journey. The door to the kitchen downstairs was locked, of course, so breakfast would have to wait.
This was at least the 3rd time I had left our house before sunrise. Each time the early rise becomes totally worth the sacrifice of sleep the moment I step outside and look up at the sky. At 5 a.m. the evening rain clouds are long gone and the stars are clearly visible, Orion is directly overhead and shining bright. Behind the cross at the top of the hill, the sun begins to paint the sky with the most beautiful colors as it climbs up from behind the mountain.
Bus number 1 fires up its engine and sounds it's horn in the distance, which one will it be? "GRACIAS!" That's us. We took the Gracias bus from La Union along the dirt and rock windy mountain roads to THE fork in the road down the hill from Leparea. The fork is pretty well known, though nothing stands there but a shack that houses a family and their pulperia. It was sometime around 8:30 a.m. when we arrived and I was STARVING. I opted to run across the paved road to grab a snack. Every bus that passes this fork stops to drop off and pick up passengers. The second bus that stopped was ours. "SANTA ROSA! SANTA ROSA! SANTA ROSA!" We jumped on the bus happy to be on our way and riding on smooth pavement.
Upon stepping off the bus in Santa Rosa we were bombarded by drivers of taxis and other buses, all calling out the city they were driving to in rapid fire Spanish, all at the same time. The experience was no less than overwhelming. This will happen in almost every city bus station. The key is to push through and act like you have already arranged for transportation elsewhere. Breaking out of the crowd we all took a deep breath and began casually looking for our next bus to La Entrada. When looking for a bus you must know exactly where you want to go, and what time you want to leave. If you are careless, you COULD end up on a bus leaving in 6 hours back to the place you just came from. Being a blonde hair, blue eyed, light skinned freckled girl of 23, I stick out like a sore thumb in this Central American country. I had stepped away from our group of 4 for only a second before a bus driver had approached me and in broken English said to me, "Hey mommy, you go to San Pedro?" With a stern face I responded with, "La Entrada." Thankfully he was kind enough to show us to the next bus leaving for La Entrada and so the journey continued.
By the time we reached La Entrada, restrooms were a must. Restrooms anywhere in Honduras are always a gamble. It is more than likely that you will have to pay to use the bathroom and even extra if you want toilet paper. 3 Lempira (about 15 cents) was our charge. It wasn’t so bad either considering we were at a bus station, which consisted of a small dirt parking lot surrounded by small pulperias and comedors. Believe me when I say I have experienced far worse. Our final bus from La Entrada to Copan Ruinas was set to leave at noon. It was only 10:30 in the morning, but our stomachs told us it was time for lunch. We sat down at one of the comedors to eat. 56 Lempira (a little less than 3 dollars) bought a cold soda, in a glass bottle, and a giant plate of food. Fried chicken, rice, beans, eggs, avocado, tortillas, salad and potatoes. YUM! Fully satisfied with our meal we joined a small group of people sitting in the shade waiting to board the same bus. The heat of the day was already in full swing in the late morning hours. When the bus finally moved I gravitated toward the window as much as possible to feel the relief of the moving air as we drove through the valley. It was strange being in the "flat lands" of Honduras, after spending so much time in the mountains it is easy to forget such a place exists in Honduras.
This final bus ride brought us to Copan around 2 in the afternoon, our final destination. I thought it would be bigger. All the hype we had heard about Copan prior to traveling, I think we all expected it to be a bigger city. While the population of the municipality may be large, the actual down town area is quite small. I might even say smaller than Gracias, though much prettier. We 4, hot, sweaty, dirty and smelly gringas made our way up the hill to find the city center. We busted out the guide book like true tourists and made our way to Via Via hotel and restaurant, a hot spot for gringos. Beautiful place, but booked for the night. We wandered around town some more, looking like fools, and came upon Posada de Bellsy. At 150 Lempira a night per person, or $8, we happily settled into our rooms. And so our vacation began…
part 1: the journey
To get anywhere by bus from La Union you must wake up before dawn. There are two buses from our small town to the nearest "cities". Albin, who we live with, and his father, who lives next door, run the transportation system here in La Union. One bus travels from here to Santa Barbara and the other to Gracias. Both leave around 5 a.m.-ish. Your best bet is to be outside at 4:55 a.m. and wait.
We all woke up at 4 a.m. to take showers and pack before our long journey. The door to the kitchen downstairs was locked, of course, so breakfast would have to wait.
This was at least the 3rd time I had left our house before sunrise. Each time the early rise becomes totally worth the sacrifice of sleep the moment I step outside and look up at the sky. At 5 a.m. the evening rain clouds are long gone and the stars are clearly visible, Orion is directly overhead and shining bright. Behind the cross at the top of the hill, the sun begins to paint the sky with the most beautiful colors as it climbs up from behind the mountain.
Bus number 1 fires up its engine and sounds it's horn in the distance, which one will it be? "GRACIAS!" That's us. We took the Gracias bus from La Union along the dirt and rock windy mountain roads to THE fork in the road down the hill from Leparea. The fork is pretty well known, though nothing stands there but a shack that houses a family and their pulperia. It was sometime around 8:30 a.m. when we arrived and I was STARVING. I opted to run across the paved road to grab a snack. Every bus that passes this fork stops to drop off and pick up passengers. The second bus that stopped was ours. "SANTA ROSA! SANTA ROSA! SANTA ROSA!" We jumped on the bus happy to be on our way and riding on smooth pavement.
Upon stepping off the bus in Santa Rosa we were bombarded by drivers of taxis and other buses, all calling out the city they were driving to in rapid fire Spanish, all at the same time. The experience was no less than overwhelming. This will happen in almost every city bus station. The key is to push through and act like you have already arranged for transportation elsewhere. Breaking out of the crowd we all took a deep breath and began casually looking for our next bus to La Entrada. When looking for a bus you must know exactly where you want to go, and what time you want to leave. If you are careless, you COULD end up on a bus leaving in 6 hours back to the place you just came from. Being a blonde hair, blue eyed, light skinned freckled girl of 23, I stick out like a sore thumb in this Central American country. I had stepped away from our group of 4 for only a second before a bus driver had approached me and in broken English said to me, "Hey mommy, you go to San Pedro?" With a stern face I responded with, "La Entrada." Thankfully he was kind enough to show us to the next bus leaving for La Entrada and so the journey continued.
By the time we reached La Entrada, restrooms were a must. Restrooms anywhere in Honduras are always a gamble. It is more than likely that you will have to pay to use the bathroom and even extra if you want toilet paper. 3 Lempira (about 15 cents) was our charge. It wasn’t so bad either considering we were at a bus station, which consisted of a small dirt parking lot surrounded by small pulperias and comedors. Believe me when I say I have experienced far worse. Our final bus from La Entrada to Copan Ruinas was set to leave at noon. It was only 10:30 in the morning, but our stomachs told us it was time for lunch. We sat down at one of the comedors to eat. 56 Lempira (a little less than 3 dollars) bought a cold soda, in a glass bottle, and a giant plate of food. Fried chicken, rice, beans, eggs, avocado, tortillas, salad and potatoes. YUM! Fully satisfied with our meal we joined a small group of people sitting in the shade waiting to board the same bus. The heat of the day was already in full swing in the late morning hours. When the bus finally moved I gravitated toward the window as much as possible to feel the relief of the moving air as we drove through the valley. It was strange being in the "flat lands" of Honduras, after spending so much time in the mountains it is easy to forget such a place exists in Honduras.
This final bus ride brought us to Copan around 2 in the afternoon, our final destination. I thought it would be bigger. All the hype we had heard about Copan prior to traveling, I think we all expected it to be a bigger city. While the population of the municipality may be large, the actual down town area is quite small. I might even say smaller than Gracias, though much prettier. We 4, hot, sweaty, dirty and smelly gringas made our way up the hill to find the city center. We busted out the guide book like true tourists and made our way to Via Via hotel and restaurant, a hot spot for gringos. Beautiful place, but booked for the night. We wandered around town some more, looking like fools, and came upon Posada de Bellsy. At 150 Lempira a night per person, or $8, we happily settled into our rooms. And so our vacation began…
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