Tag Archives: travel

The World Awaits You, or, Meeting Henry & Seeing His Travel Slideshow

09 Tuesday Jan 2018

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Prepare to be uncomfortable. Prepare to be challenged. Prepare to leave your Western constructs and ideals behind. Get a passport and go visit Kerala on Friday.  You will give me one hundred reasons why you can’t, and Henry Rollins will give you one hundred twenty reasons why you can and you should. You will be a changed person when you leave your doorstep Henry promises, just as J.R.R. Tolkien promised in his tales, but there’s more at stake here in terra firma of 2018.

I wanted so much to tell you what it was like listening to Mr. Rollins give us the backstory of the photos he’s taken on his Travel Slideshow tour. I wrote a pile of pages and when I took a breath, walked away, and came back all I could see was me fan-girling all over my Dad trying to get him to understand why it was so important that he listen to this rock band, see how smart and wise they are, full of boundless passion and world interest, won’t you love them just like me, Dad?

Henry doesn’t need anyone to fan-girl all over him, and he doesn’t need me to promote or explain him or his books or his tour. Henry has, however, explicitly asked all who will listen to get a passport and travel.  To get uncomfortable, to be challenged, to try to see the world without Western filters. To see the people who aren’t making headlines, the young and old, everyone in between whose clothes are clean though they sift through garbage for food, whose children are happy and playful though they play in graveyards, who sell their fresh foods at the market and have better diets than we do. Discover colors and tastes, notice the flesh, the sinews, the strength, the smiles, the customs that make us different and one.  That Ismail and Awa and Hai on the street ain’t the devil but just a dude, as we all are, having a life, doing their thing, and it’s the politicians that really fuck everything up. And we have the power to make a change, not a “Democracy or else you backwater jerks” kind of change, but the kind that brings access to clean water, food, healthcare, and school without fear.

For those of you who are already doing this, you get it. This is old hat for you.  For those who have a problem with anything that whiffs of globalism or liberalism, I hope you will still give travel a chance.  Anyone who hasn’t seen Mr. Rollins on his speaking tours, I say see him pronto. He’s an entertaining and insightful speaker, and you will not be unmoved one way or the other.

(And now for the fan-girl part, because I hafta, and you can skip this no problem.)  Through my Dad, I was able to get a VIP ticket to meet Henry after the show. About 25-30 other people were there. We lined up and got to meet him and he was no different on the floor as he was onstage. When you see him on TV, that is the real, authentic Henry, as every good punk knows, there is not one fake thing about him.  My turn came and I approached him sheepishly. We shook hands. I thanked him for all that he does (What does he do? Well go look it up, he’s laid hands on more of our servicemen than our current president will probably ever do). I asked could I hug him, he said yes, and we did and some pics were taken.  As I walked away I turned back and pointed and said loudly, “KEEP GOING!”  He looked at me and smiled and hollered, “I WILL!”  So wonderful.  Do I need to meet him and hug his hard body again? No. But I will keep reading his work and seeing him live when he comes around. He inspires me, and I hope to get uncomfortable and be challenged and write about it from another part of the world before I kick the bucket.)

Impatiece, Truth Coffee, Newton’s First Law, & Meeting Henry.

06 Saturday Jan 2018

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Much to do this morning in a hard, cold world that makes all travelers, all the living feel the world is against them, waiting to thaw, hoping to thaw soon, wondering where has everyone gone post-blizzard Grayson? The birds are still flitting past icy roofs and trees, streetlamps, bannisters. They do not land, only flitting, asking, “Where, where, where?”

I watch the ice cube melt in my blue and green coffee mug knowing that this moment defines me. Holding it warms my fingers but too hot on my lips and throat, I will not wait for it to cool in a cold, hard morning. I will force it to cool with ice I wouldn’t invite into my house, but I want to drink it and must have it now now now. 

I think of my son who negotiates his responsibilities, everything is tied to everything else. I can only write in green now. I won’t write with anything else, my thoughts won’t come in black or blue. (This isn’t true, but it was an interesting thought that flitted through my head, “Where where where?”) 

I sprinkle cinnamon in my coffee grounds and it makes the house smell heavenly. I can drink mouthfuls of you but you will soon be gone, and I will stammer in stunned cold deciding if I want another, and pace and taste my mouth to see if it is dry, note the time, scribble in green pen, watch patches of snow melt and drop from roof flashings, when I should be packing getting ready to meet Henry in Raleigh.

(I will only go if the roads are safe, I don’t know if the roads are safe, how will I know)

I will meet Henry Rollins tonight for my ticket says I’m VIP. I will meet his eyes, say nothing useful, he’s heard it all before, perhaps he will be chatty and not run for the door as soon as the gig is done, back to the hotel where he will pace and sip water and read and write and think alone, carrying small memories of us back to his room for he is all he needs.  He’s not afraid of icy roads, I’ll bet, but oh, he carries his own demons, and I wouldn’t swap concerns with him today. 

My coffee is almost too cool to enjoy now. God bless microwaves, heroes of the impatient, we who don’t have all minute to sort out which way we are going, let alone what color underwear to put on after a hot shower in a cold room, gathering speed to go forward. Or just pace and check the parking lot to see if the magic snow plow came in the night, or sit down and read bad news and lose all the goodwill the magic green pen brought me. It will be sunset soon in Raleigh, Henry does not await me, and my blue and green coffee mug pulls at my sleeve, saying, “Really? You gotta do this now?”

Women’s March on Washington (summary)

24 Tuesday Jan 2017

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The Woman’s March on Washington was touch and go for me for a long time. I wanted to participate but didn’t want to go alone, as I am not a big fan of the subway.  Sounds kind of wimpy, but truth is truth.  I rolled the Facebook dice and asked for a ride. A kind lady replied.  We talked on the phone for a bit and made sketchy plans. My instincts told me by her views, past work history, and being a grandma hitching a ride and crashing in her hotel room would be just fine.  And it was.  I even asked my Omaha companion to vouch for me as a safe travel mate, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t tell her we talked about robbing liquor stores.

She and her cute little mop dog picked me up at 4:30 AM.  We stopped in Alexandria, Virginia to pick up breakfast at an amazing bakery, dropped off her dog, and a friend took us to the Metro station. From that moment on, it was nothing but pink pussycat hats, t-shirts, and posters everywhere.  Amazing.  The Metro was packed from boob to clear backpack. I eavesdropped on them all, where they came from, why they were marching, interested in their age groups and what they did for a living.  The station where we planned to disembark was apparently overloaded, so they dropped us off at the next one.  It was early, so more walking wasn’t a big deal.  We freed ourselves from the squeeze of the subway car and shuffled towards the escalator that led up to the street. I saw many posters with Carrie Fisher or Princess Leia above the word “RESIST.”  As the escalator brought us up to the street the one on the opposite side carried National Guardsmen down into the Metro.  A loud burst of shouting “YAY” and clapping broke out for them. I felt proud.

Once on the sidewalk, it was easy to figure out which way to go.  Just follow all those people walking down the middle of the street.  Hundreds of us, all going thattaway, police directing the sparse bit of cars that wanted to get through intersections.  I heard so many people thank the police and National Guardsmen and felt glad.

The day before was the inauguration, so many Portajohns were put in place for the crowds to relieve themselves.  Most of them were padlocked the following day, the day of our march. Finding a place to pee meant watching the marchers go by while we stood in line, but sometimes you just have to put your sign down and answer the call of nature no matter how long it takes.

Arriving on the Mall and seeing the Lincoln memorial down one way and Washington monument the other, its point obscured in the fog, was very exciting.  We made it!  We ambled the same way everyone else ambled, reading signs, listening to the chanting that broke out every now and then.  The plan was to meet up near the rally point.  We left the Mall and tried to make our way towards the rally, or at least near the jumbotron but it was a dead end.  We were behind the Native American Museum with nowhere to go, but more and more people kept coming up behind us, and I could see it wasn’t going to stop. Roars broke out from stem and it waved and roared and roared all the way to stern, and I’d never seen or heard anything like that before. I’ve been in some pretty big concert crowds wearing other people’s sweat, my arms pinned and being moved, feet off the ground, by the movement of excited people. There is nothing like being part of a group who is there for the same reason, the same happiness and excitement.   It can be fun, exhilarating, but also dangerous.  I told my march buddy I felt uncomfortable and I wanted to get back to the Mall before we got so jammed up we wouldn’t be able to breathe. We turned and went upstream of the unending salmon and eventually made it back to the Mall. There we were able to read amazing signs and take note of everyone’s creativity.  A marching band came down dressed head to toe in white with black lines made to look like a wall, and they were awesome.  Some folks banged drums in time with their slogans.  Many times I felt close to tears because of the solidarity and creativity of everyone who came.

I saw a small group of pro-life people but they were being drowned out, surrounded by everyone else who did not share their view. I wanted to throw them the middle finger, it would have been so easy, I am such an angry woman, but I realized that would bring me down to their level. We walked by observing silence.

Me and my marching partner found a small restaurant where we ate and watched the news. The march wasn’t exactly cancelled, but it was definitely log jammed and rerouted because there were too many people to convey onto the original route.  Wow!   Upon seeing the crowd from above we both agreed we wanted to get out of Dodge before everybody decided to get on the Metro.  We finished eating and hopped the next train.

I didn’t get to hear any of the speakers (oh but we heard the roar while we were there), but I believe, based on what was reported, many of those people did not represent me. I have my own reasons for being a body on the Mall, filled with pink hats and good behavior.  I will never forget that day, my 49th birthday, and will always be grateful for a lady who took a chance on letting me hitch a ride. My reasons for marching will be on the next post.

Country, Mine.

03 Wednesday Aug 2016

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It would be a long drive, but that’s why I left.  That’s why I came.  Because I need to see it all.  I drove southwest across Virginia, and the farther west I went, the country opened itself up and out.  There became hills and windey roads. I stopped at an overlook to take in  the panorama; I looked down and didn’t spend too much time trying to decipher the bit of graffiti left on lover’s leap.  Country stores and local everything dotted the state route, but it was taking too long.  I headed for the interstate and put the hammer down.  There were rivers in Tennessee that were unmarked, and I so desperately wanted to know the place I was crossing–what was the name of that mountain on the other side? But there’s no time, I have to keep going.

I was woefully underdressed when I arrived at the hotel in Knoxville.  I greeted a wedding party in shorts and flip flops,  dumped my backpack at the front desk and waited to check in, then wished the groom congratulations in the elevator.  He seemed tired and tentative about everything around him, but he said it had been a good day. Knoxville was nice to pass through, but there were places I liked more.

And the drive continued, heading through Alabama on the interstate, I felt I needed to make better time this day.  Approaching Montgomery, I noticed the government buildings were beautiful, and it was hard for me to fathom that THIS is living history before me.  Names, places, events that had been black and white words in a textbook were right here, and right now, and what that means to me today.

On the drive home I felt very much the same way. I exclaimed I couldn’t swing a dead cat and not hit something historic.  He asked, “Oh? Where is that?”  I said, “It’s called the SOUTH.”  I’ll never forget the road that runs between Montgomery and Macon, lined with tallest pines. Georgia is filled with pines. And history.  I wanted to stop and visit the Tuskeegee Airmen’s museum, and later the Civil War Naval museum, but I had to keep going. I know what to see next time, maybe when the leaves are changing.  I was headed for Charleston, SC and by the time I reached my hotel at midnight it was 85 degrees and just about 100% humidity. The air felt positively nuclear.  On my way home from Charleston, I couldn’t take my eyes off the palmettos on state route 17, the dirt roads that come down to to meet the route, dotted with shacks and sheds where people sit and sell woven baskets.  In some places there were mansions and plantations fronted by brick or low iron gates, behind were enormous trees.  I was struck by the first names of slaves, people’s fingers touched these branches so long ago, and I’m just passing through history, making my way back to a little dot on the beach, whose history is only in teenagerhood. Full disclosure:  I did make a rest stop in Myrtle Beach and bought a gauzy little blouse-thing, melon-colored, that will be nice for sunset.

When I got home the first thing I did after dumping my gear was drink some homemade tea, so unsweetened and cold.  I put the air conditioning on to dry out the house and marveled at how much my plant seemed to have grown. He is unstoppable. I brought home a sweet potato vine, and I think she will keep everyone good company on the sill.  I missed my beach halfway through the visit and definitely in the middle of Georgia.  I took my drink down to the water and walked a long way in it, wondering what it would look like in the morning.

Someday I will write about Arizona, but it’s hard to find the right words that mean “breathtaking mountain that comes up from nowhere, surrounded by plains, dotted with cactus and humans who’ve grown so strong and hard as to survive here.”  Every time I stand on that mountain, or look down from that plane and watch geography shift, heave, and lie, I lose my words.