TRAVELOGUE #17

When: Saturday, June 24
Where: Moscow, Russia

I’m in Moscow. It is 730 PM and I’m sitting outside a restaurant called My-My Moo-Moo on Au Arbat waiting for two French girls that were on the train (Ariane and Fanny) and my cabin mate, Jeff. I bought a bottle of Amsterdam to keep me company, dangerous company at 8.4% alcohol. But it’s never too late to start hanging out with the wrong crowd. I must admit, it took some effort to find this place. The Zarya Hotel, my home for the night, is way up in the northern end of the city. I bought a week pass and took the grey line to Arbatskaya, where I walked the length of Novy Arbat Ul, aimlessly until I found out I was on the new Arbat street and it was the old Arbat I was seeking. How the hell are idiot tourists like me supposed to know these things?

*While waiting for company to arrive*

First impressions are unimportant, but fun nonetheless. I was met on the train platform by friends of Monkey Shrine. The driver, a lean middle aged chain smoker, brought me to the hotel where I showered for the first time after five whole days of sponge baths. The hotel towels were completely spent after I used them. The hotel staff really ought to stuff them into neon orange biohazard bags with three foot long metal tongs and then burn everything. The car ride to the hotel put me in a really weird mood. It was drizzly outside and the driver was listening to a radio station that was devoted to bad poppy English music. The first song was Jonny Be Good, and then some vapid late work by Madonna, and finally, a horrible cover of Jimmy Cliff’s The Harder They Come.

For some stupid reason, I was expecting Russian folk music.

Ils est arrive; the three I mentioned plus two French Canadians. Josianne was a very plucky girl who has been studying in Moscow for 10 months. The other woman was a bit more detached, almost brooding. I can’t seem to remember her name. We ate at the aforementioned restaurant and then strolled down old Arbat. I bought a stack of Russian propaganda postcards and watched street performers do their thing. My favorite was a group of angst filled, pale punk-rock teenagers singing Sweet Dreams by Eurythmics. Then we took an impromptu tour around the city center, had some drinks and around midnight, strolled through Red Square. The place was absolutely strung up with Christmas lights. Lucky us, a group of soldiers were celebrating their graduation. Hundreds of them were marching in mock formation, unbuttoned uniforms, completely shit-faced and singing. I caught the last metro back to the hotel at 1AM.

TRAVELOGUE #16

When: Friday, June 23
Where: Siberia (#5 Train)

My Canadian bunkmate has been studying guitar on his own for the past year. While in Mongolia, he bought an offensively bold, blue guitar that was made in China. I was thrilled to see the instrument when I first boarded. I couldn’t think of a better way to shave the hours off. Last night after dinner, drinks, and post-drink drinks, Jeff, Andrew (German fellow with an Australian accent and nice teeth), and I sat in our car and sang old U2 songs. It was like being at summer camp. Only with vodka.

The clouds in the north were amazing this afternoon. I walked beyond the dining car and found the windows wide open. I rose myself up on the balls of my feet so I could take in the wind. It smelled like sweet sap and rain. The Birch and Siberian Pines, lean and proud, seemed to take turns lining the railroad tracks. I was overwhelmed with my mortality all of the sudden. If it were possible to miss things after you die, I would miss the familiar smell of these northern woods.

I am constantly trying to figure out weather the provonistas (Russian attendants) simply tolerate the foreigners or hate them with seething bile. My opinion changes hourly. One moment they scowl and scold the next they smile and nod agreeably. Our carriage has two. One is very fair, thick set and curvy. Her red hair is long and she only cleans the emptied rooms after a fresh application of coral lipstick. The other seems more practical in appearance. She is leaner and her posture is a bit more gawky; almost like she never outgrew the awkwardness of adolescence. She also has a small mustache, like a graphite kiss on her upper lip.

TRAVELOGUE #15

When: Thursday, June 22
Where: Siberia (#5 Train)

Exerpts from a letter to Asher:

Hello love. I am composing this letter in the dining car of the #5 train to Moscow. There are just a few things not-so-romantic about this moment. 1) The pink and orange plastic flowers are in need of dusting. 2) The air conditioning is broken; it must be over 85 degrees in here! 3) The train is wobbly, making writing rather challenging. I almost feel like the table is consciously evading my pen. 4) The cook gave me a very severe look when I arrived.

So many Russians actually, have a very grave countenance. They all look like they just spent five hours standing in line for a loaf of bread. Today marks the third day on the train - really, only the second full day - and we have two more days after this. I have now started the Brother’s Karamazov. I’ve also begun to learn some Russian. My goal is to be able to read Cyrillic words well enough with decent pronunciation. Finally, while in Beijing I bought two small Lonely Planet guides for Moscow and St. Petersburg, so I’m reading up on the history of those cities. I’m a bit mixed up physically since the train schedule and clocks are all on Moscow time, which is five hours earlier than the time zone we started in. So my watch may read 3 PM, but my body feels 8 PM.
I’ve met some interesting people so far. Sergei, for example, is a bleary eyed Russian returning to Moscow from Mongolia after being away for 13 years! He pretty much sat down at my dining car table, uninvited although not completely un-welcomed. He was kind enough to treat me to a bottle of Piva (beer) while he imbibed in several small bottles of vodka and a very large bowl of borsch. We chatted laboriously through my phrase book. I learned that he is 46 years old, has three sons; the youngest 18 and the oldest 26. He was very excited to see them again. I can only imagine, having been away for so long. His eyes became even more teary and bloodshot when we spoke of them and twice he stood up and pantomimed an embrace punctuated by him kissing the tips of his fingers. I asked for their names, but he couldn’t remember! He was really quite knackered, but come now, how can you put on a show like that only to forget your son’s names? I was all, “Fyodor? Fyodor Karamazov is that you?”

TRAVELOGUE #14

When: Wednesday, June 21
Where: Siberia (#5 Train)

Now we are passing Lake Baikal. It truly is immense and very clear. Despite its vastness I can make out the mountains on the north side. On pebbly shores between the lake and the train tracks, I see Russian fishermen painting small rowboats. Apart from a few gulls flying over the lake, there is nothing actually on the lake. Not even a breeze disturbs the stoic surface.

This afternoon I started Dostoevsky’s Brother’s Karamazov. I also did some work with the phrase book I brought with me. Jeff, who is turning out to be a capital cabin mate lent me his mp3 player with Russian phrases. He also gave me a shot of vodka to “celebrate the successful crossing of the boarder” the night before. Presently we are moving through flatter country; half wooded (birch/pine) and half grassy field. It’s quite pastoral actually. I’m frankly a little surprised it has not been completely dressed in agriculture or cattle grazing. We got off the train at Irkutsk and I bought two cans of beer and a slab of dried fish. It’s pretty stinky. The fish, I mean.

TRAVELOGUE #13

When: Wednesday, June 21
Where: Siberia (#5 Train)

One week in.

I woke up this morning in a new country. I was warned the boarder crossing into Russia would be a tedious eleven hours. Not so, it was only nine, and I was asleep for most of it. The hills here are still velvety green, although now dotted with pine trees. I got up at 6 AM (my cabin mate is amazed at how fast I fall asleep since he was tossing like Caesar salad until 4 AM). I walked to the small space in between the cars to take in the scenery. I have come to realize this is the best place for landscape watching since there are both north and south facing windows. Outside in place of yurts there were charming, although weathered and slightly dilapidated wooden homes. Most of these homes were dark in color except for bright blue/green shutters that when opened, revealed white gossamer curtains. These Russians seem to be all about the white lacey curtains! All of the homes were framed by tall wooden fences, like two arms thrown around the yard. These yards were almost 100% committed to very thoughtfully constructed family gardens. At first it was too early, but soon I started to see people walking the length of graveled alleyways. There were babushkas in kitchen smocks and kerchiefs and old men on doorsteps with gnarly bed head, pounding cans of beer; all this at the foot of lovely, verdant hills. There was something so appealing to me about the simplicity of this provincial life. I wanted nothing more than to bound from the train and join them in their daily routines.

TRAVELOGUE #12

When: Tuesday, June 20
Where: Mongolia (#5 Train)

Gary Schroeder once told me that the best clouds were in Iowa. What bullshit. The best clouds are quite obviously here, in Mongolia.

TRAVELOGUE #11

When: Tuesday, June 20
Where: Mongolia (#5 Train)

I woke up this morning to timid tapping on my ger door. It was Saraa. She had come to tell me it was 9 AM, in other words, breakfast time. This was unfortunate news because I had to leave camp by 10 AM in order to catch the #5 train to Moscow. I had only an hour to eat, pack, shower, and purge a wicked hangover. Somehow, I managed to do all of those things except assuage my self-inflicted sickness. While packing, I realized I had ripped several pages out of the Monkey Shrine travel guide the night before in a drunken effort to start a fire in the wood stove at the center of my ger. NOTE TO SELF: Don’t start any more fires while inebriated! I threw my things together and walked 100 meters to the van. I was the only one departing, and yet, the entire camp staff gathered to see me off. Each member shook my hand and said goodbye in a touchingly authentic way. It made me feel like a total asshole because my head was cloudier than a mojito. I managed to say, “Ger camp lovely! You wonderful! Big horse!” I think they knew my heart was in the right place, even though my stomach wasn’t. As the van departed, the staff waved goodbye in unison; in slow motion. It was like the end of a very good movie. What could possibly happen next? A credit roll?

Once we arrived in Ulan Bator, the driver dropped me off in a hotel parking lot and told me to meet him back in an hour. We spoke via hand signals. I sought/found a grocery store and bought the following: 3 oranges, 4 apples, 1 box of chamomile tea, 1 box of English breakfast tea, One 200 g bag of dried rolled oats, 1 bag of orange candy, and one single serving pack of instant salted milk tea (as a souvenir). I had about 20 min after shopping, so I decided to stop off at an internet café. I composed a single salutation for those back home, but just before I got a chance to send it the computer froze. I didn’t have time to send another, so I just cursed loudly (a benefit of being in a non-English speaking country), and left. Now I’m on the train, sharing a cabin with a sharp nosed Canadian named Jeff.

TRAVELOGUE #10

When: Monday, June 19
Where: Elstei Ger Camp

Kate, Martin and little Rose came up the hill while I wrote. I talked to them about the things I had been thinking about. Kate, whom I admire a great deal, implored me to go easy on the frat boys. Perhaps I should give them some credit for taking the time to make this trip in the first place. So, okay. But then later on in the evening I find out that the boys had taken two cans of beer up a hill, the evening we arrived and left them up there!! I slipped back into surliness after hearing this. After chatting, I walked down the back of the hill alone to a stand of pine trees. The trees were very large and there was no underbrush. It was as though someone came through and mowed around the huge trunks. Here I saw an eagle getting mobbed by two smaller birds. Every time the little birds approached the raptor, it would raise its talons and grab at them. How cool is that? I got back just in time for dinner. And after dinner, we drank. The ger camp at this point was filled with new guests. I honestly don’t remember most of the conversations had, but I do recall the two white South Africans and their ugly bucktooth girlfriends. One of them sniffed when I told them I was American. He said, “What’s with the titles in your country; Asian American, African American? I’m South African period. My family’s lived there for five generations!” I replied something about how those phrases can be overused, but that I’d much rather be called an Asian American than a "chink." Martin, whose from the West Indies, seemed to be the only one to see my point.

TRAVELOGUE #9

When: Monday, June 19
Where: Elstei Ger Camp

I woke up the next day around 5:40 AM. The dogs were gone, but the moon was still up. I knew dawn would break soon so I struck up another hill with my camera and a banana in tote. I reached the summit in 25 minutes, which surprised me. All sense of perspective and distance must be readjusted to fit this land. I sat and ate the banana while a crane flew in low over the hill to my right. Its guttural call was almost eerie. A coal mining town lay sleeping in a distant valley to my left. We had passed it on the way in to camp. Saraa told us the people that lived there were from the far west, mostly Muslim from one of the 21 ethnic groups found in Mongolia. She said she could tell by the way their dead were buried in the cemetery we passed. I walked down the opposite side of the hill to a dried up creek bed. Thousands of purple irises dotted the low land, bejeweled in dew. But the flowers were not the only things that twinkled in the morning light. Heaps of plastic bags were snagged on various shrubs and thorns. I looked back up the hill and it sparkled with plastic bags. I followed the twisty river back to camp.

We went horse back riding this afternoon for about an hour. I learned how to say goy mori (good horse). The horses here are smaller than most horses I’ve seen, certainly smaller than all horses I’ve ridden. They’re also raised in this free roaming feral style which makes them a bit more temperamental. Our Mongolian horse guide seemed to exhibit the very practical relationship people have with the horses out here. They don’t braid their manes or put up posters of horses in their bedrooms. These animals are a means to survival, end of story. Saraa played mom while we trotted along, reminding us every three minutes to hold on tight. After a very big lunch I took a little siesta because I was feeling almost feverish with exhaustion. I really haven’t had a continuous six hours of sleep in over a week. When I got up, I walked up the highest peak across a rather formidable sandy expanse. On my way, I thought about the trash around me, the plastic bags, old batteries, abandon shoes. I thought about modern human habits, how wasteful and careless we can be. I thought about my two fat boorish bunkmates, how they take more than they need at meals and leave a huge pile of uneaten food, groaning. When I summated the hill I found another huge pile of stones with a pole stuck in the center. A horses skull was tied to the pole with blue shaman scarves.

TRAVELOGUE #8

When: Sunday, June 18
Where: 60 km NE of Ulan Bator, Mongolia

This afternoon we had a quick tour of the capital city before heading to the Elstei Ger Camp. Words cannot describe the vastness. The beauty of this place will swallow you whole. It is a tourist camp, so all the gers are ¼ the size of traditional gers, but I have my very own. Besides a quiet group of Japanese, the two Americans, the aforementioned Brits (Kate, Martin and petit Rose) and I are the only guests at the camp. This evening after a meal of Mongolian dumplings, I took a shower and then struck out, up a hill on my own. I passed a large herd of wild horses on the way, grazing. As I walked, I couldn’t believe where I was. I started to cry. At the top of the hill I found a large deliberate pile of stones. I decided to walk clockwise around the stones, because the sun moves clockwise across the sky. I began with my right foot, because you always lead with the right when entering a Buddhist Monastery. I circled the pile thrice, because odd numbers are luckier than even. These are just some of the things I learned earlier in the day, while touring the city. By the time I had concluded my little ceremony, darkness had fallen on the verdant hills like a heavy felted blanket. I began to make my way back. As I descended into the valley I felt a significant drop in temperature. About 200 meters before reaching camp, I was met by Saraa (our guide) and another woman who worked there. I think they were worried about the foreigners because after they saw me back to my tent, they went out looking for the two American boys. I found my ger mostly toasty. Someone had made a fire while I was away. I fell asleep wrapped up in blankets feeling safe and warm and loved.

I woke up around 2:40 AM. The ger was as cold as a dead horse and strange dogs were barking and baying outside. I had to pee badly. I lay in bed for about 20 minutes trying to figure out if the dogs were friendly and playful or rabid and hostile. I listened, motionless to their canine conversation but they may as well have been speaking Mongolian. I could not understand the situation. And it didn’t even matter. My bladder made the point moot. I got out of bed put on a pair of jeans and fastened my headlamp around my skull. I went to the door and opened it with a creek. Almost immediately, Cujo, who had been digging holes around the neighbor’s ger turned his head in my direction. His eyes reflected like glass marbles in the LED light. He charged towards me and I felt all 80 lbs of his weight hit the little wooden door as I shut and locked it. Now I am the one left panting. The dog continued to bark and scratch the base of the door. Then it circled my ger several times snorting and scratching, trying find a weak spot between the floorboards and felt walls. I sat on my bed frozen, like a cottontail. The only thing moving was my pounding heart. Finally, the dog lost interest and gave up. I ended up to peeing in a plastic water bottle. Don’t try that at home, kids.

TRAVELOGUE #7

When: Sunday, June 18
Where: Southern Mongolia

This morning I woke up at 5 AM to find the world dressed head to toe in khaki. The Gobi Desert does not mess around, people. It is all about the sand! After running from window to window snapping pictures and upsetting god knows how many polyester curtains, I finally gave into the fact that I had to use the loo. The bathroom door was locked, so I turned around and gazed something awestruck out the window. When I turned back to the bathroom door, I found this Chinese guy standing there, toothbrush in hand. I say to him in Chinese, paidui (line up, pal). He goes on about how he’d been in line the whole time, while it was obvious to me that he had been between cars smoking and “waiting in line” at the same time. I gave him a very unhappy look. So he asks me if I had to pee or take a shit. In Chinese it is quite literally, do you need to make a big one or a small one? Sheeeeesh. I couldn’t answer his question, because quite honestly I didn’t know at that exact point in time. I mean, I had hopes for wonderful things, but sometimes you have to wait and see. I didn’t know how to articulate these sentiments in Chinese so early in the morning, so I made like I didn’t understand him. But really, it was none of his business.

For your information: “Ger” and “Yurt” are the same thing. The former is a Mongolian word and the latter is Russian. Last night for dinner I ate three Asian cucumbers, a bag of dried squid and half a bottle of beer.

I napped from 10 AM to 11 AM and in that short period of time, Mongolia had a costume change. She took off her flat khaki fatigues and put on deep green velvet that seemed to accentuate her voluptuous figure. The hilltops remained a soft brown, like the worn out knees in a pair of old corduroy pants.

TRAVELOGUE #6

When: Saturday, June 17
Where: Beijing, China to Mongolian Boarder

Boarders, ick. Not only are they a pain in the ass to cross, they also represent ownership of land. This does not interest me. Anyways we arrived at the China - Mongolian boarder around 9 PM where our passports were stamped by the Chinese. Once we were official, all the foreigners lined up along window of the car frothing at the small, but well stocked grocery store at the station. I worked my mad Chinese language skills and learned that we could get off the train if we wished, since we weren’t going to depart until 11 PM. We rushed off and mobbed the store. I bought some dried mangoes, green raisins and three Choc-O-Pies for my bunkmates. Suddenly, while standing in line I saw the train pulling away from the station. The foreigners in the store glanced anxiously at one another as if to say, “Was that supposed to happen?” I went outside and talked to a Chinese lady in uniform. She said the train would be back around 11 PM after the wheels have been swapped - apparently Mongolia’s train tracks have a different gauge than China’s. At 130 AM, two hours later than expected, the train returns. In the mean time I paced the concrete platform a couple times while listening to really bad 80s muzak and then chatted with some nice college kids from North Carolina.

When I got back on the train, we moved about 200 meters before the Mongolian boarder patrol came on. A woman in a very starched uniform came into our cabin and saluted before viewing our passports, and that was it. It took over 5 hours to cross 200 meters. And the toilets were locked the whole time because all of the waste gets flushed directly onto the tracks so we were forced to hold our water like a herd of camels.

TRAVELOGUE #5

When: Saturday, June 17
Where: Beijing, China to Mongolian Boarder

I bought some more fruit before heading across the street to the train station. According to Andy of Monkey Business, I was supposed to meet four more tourists and a guide. The other travelers ended up being two American boys and a couple from the U.K. Actually, there were five people total if you counted the six month old baby strapped to the chest of one of the Brits. The adorable family of three had been traveling through China for the past 6 weeks and now they are Moscow bound. Can you say, intrepid?

The Americans (Sean and Tim, don’t ask me which was which) ended up sharing a four bed cabin with me on the train. I don’t know what to say about them except they reminded me of some of my students: corpulent, white, aloof, suburban. Everything to them was either “gay” or “bad-ass.” Before the train departed the station one of them ran out and bought a Peking duck sealed in a bag and two huge beers. Then, without words they sat opposite me and cracked the beers open with their teeth. I glanced at my watch. It was 7:40 in the bloody morning. Right now they’re playing dominoes, taking hits off a bottle of Wild Turkey while discussing the virtues of nuclear power.

The fourth person sharing this cabin is a Dutch woman named Korrie. She is very amicable and has been traveling to Ulaanbaatar since the late 1990s. The other two did not seem interested in engaging her, but I picked her brain. She cautioned me about pickpockets and mutton. She also told a hilarious story about sharing a cabin with a Mongolian family and how they hung sausages up from the ceiling.

Our car attendant (Mongolian woman who looks like Japan-ame) just distributed departure/entry cards; one side is in Mongolian the other in Chinese. I noticed mine had one blank side, so I found the same attendant and asked for another. She grabbed it and examined it briefly. Then she strode to the back of the car and I followed. There, she met up with another attendant. She said something to her comrade in Mongolian and then they both cackled madly, looking sideways at me. Then she simply tore it up and went on with her business completely ignoring me. Isn’t that so awesome?

TRAVELOGUE #4

When: Friday, June 16
Where: Beijing, China

This afternoon I did like the Chinese do: I took a xiuxi (nap). I drew the shades and set my watch for 230 PM. For an hour I laid in the dark sucking my thumb while listening to the hamsters run laps in my head. Somewhere around 225 PM I fell asleep. Late in the afternoon I took the subway to jiugulouweidajie and walked around the twin ponds. I’ve never been to this park before. It was touristy. I took a bunch of pictures anyway. While riding the subway and walking through the park, I found myself struck by all the Chinese faces. They’re not particularly ugly or beautiful, but they all hit me in a very visceral way. I just get a feeling like these are my people. I’m almost protective over them. Sure, they may spit and pick their noses and give the wrong information when asked for directions, but they’re good people.

Three reasons why I like the restaurants in China: 1) The service is fast; absurdly fast. 2) Tipping is not required or expected. 3) After the food arrives the servers leave you alone. But not tonight. I’m having dinner alone tonight and my server wants to practice “speake English.” I’m inclined to say no, but I just polished off one of those 600 ml beers and the eighteen year old boy keeps telling me how “brutifrl” I am. So I invite him to sit down and we chat for about 30 minutes. He asks me if he can see me off tomorrow morning, (very sweet) but I insist I go alone.

TRAVELOGUE #3

When: Friday, June 16
Where: Beijing, China

ME: What time is it?
GIRL IN THE HALL: I have no clue.
BOY COMPANION: I think it is 5:06.
ME: a.m.?

I hate this about air travel. It’s so unnatural to skip across fifteen time zones in as many hours like a stone across Lake Superior. I think I’m going to sink here. I am starving and I’ve got a headache where coffee should be.

I found the monkey den. Monkey Business is the travel company I’ve been working with. I am almost surprised to find they exist. I guess I was half expecting to arrive and find an empty parking lot and a note that reads, “Thanks for wiring us money suckaaas!” I finally met Andy the man I had been corresponding with; skinny guy from Oxford. He explained everything. They’re very organized and their office was air conditioned which is fantastic because it’s about 33 in the city today. Can you say “Fuckin’ ell?” I spent 25 yuan getting to the office by cab and only 3 yuan getting back to the hostel by subway. Plus the cab driver had to stop twice, get out of the car and ask random pedestrians on the street for directions! I only had 14 yuan left. I spent part of it on internet use and the rest on a box of single serve instant coffee. Rather thrifty since one cup of coffee at a bar will cost about the same as a whole box of instant and you’re most likely going to get instant anyway. This afternoon I need to find a bank and a post office. The only thing I really want to do is eat a plate of hong shao qiezi (braised eggplant in brown sauce) and drink a tall bottle of pijiu (beer).

TRAVELOGUE #2

When: Thursday, June 15
Where: Beijing, China

I am now checked into the City Central Youth Hostel, which is conveniently located just across the street from the Beijing central train station. This place is unusually clean for China. I almost feel as though I’m in an IKEA display room. I took a cab from the airport for 85 yuan when I probably could have just taken the bus for 16. But the last time I took the bus from the airport into the city, I ended up walking miles in the dusty heat. Oh god, am I getting soft? After dropping my things off in my room (no roommate) I purchased some internet time and a roll of toilet paper (I quite forgot that’s how things work here). For reasons unknown, I chose not to spend a whole 3 yuan on the fancy western stuff. Instead I opted for the classic Chinese brand. The coarse pink paper with tree bark and beetle wings pressed into it. I also got some fruit at the corner grocery. Finally I walked to Tiananmen Square from about 930 to 1130 PM. Peddlers in the square tried to sell me silken segmented dragon kites. I smiled at them and pretended I had no idea what they were saying to me. It’s a curious thing to walk literally among millions and still feel alone. It’s past midnight now.

I need to sleep.

TRAVELOGUE #1

When: Wednesday, June 14
Where: Somewhere over the Bering Straight

Last night around 1 AM I composed a letter to Asher while he slept opposite me at the kitchen table. My face was a waterfall of snot and tears. It was an honest, although not completely lucid letter. I expressed how excited and simultaneously scared to death I was about taking this trip. I said something about how these kinds of separations keep people from taking each other for granted. I said a couple more things too. Things you say just in case you die before you get the chance to see the people you love again. I hate having to do that.

I was just chatting to a nine year old boy around one of the emergency exit windows. Together we peeked at Alaska through the thick plastic sliding shade. Alaska was all decked out in mountains and glaciers; she looked fabulous. Pretty soon our view was obscured by cotton ball clouds. I turned to the boy, “Quick! Tell the pilot to drop altitude so we can see the view again!” And then I asked him if he had seen the International Date Line yet and if so what color was it? “White,” he lied.

Christ, I’m so very bored.

TRAVELOGUE

From June 14 to July 18 I circled the northern hemisphere. I decided to quit warbling because I knew internet access would be limited, but I did maintain a paper journal. Now that I'm back in the states and things are more settled*, I have started to transcribe my paper notes. But because I'm so freaking anal retentive, I think the transcriptions are going take a while. My hope is to put together a little bookish thing with photographs and reflections. I know, yuck. Why don't I just buy a pair of capri pants from the Gap and sit my ass down and watch the Opera Winfrey Show?

Don't judge me!

Anyways, in order to motivate myself to finish this project, I am going to start posting my travel notes online. I really think that will keep me on task. In general I'm more productive when someone's holding a torch to my ass. And when nobody else will do that I am forced to hold a torch to my own ass, see? Expect the first entry tomorrow.

* What does that mean?
* Who am I trying to kid?

SANCTUARY FOR RARE BIRDS

I've had this friend, Pollen, for about ten years. We've seen each other through many changes. He is the kind of person who can be held up in the wilderness, incommunicado for months, but when we come together it's like we haven't missed a day. I love friends like that. So yup. Pollen is a member of a unique order that gathers in the north woods several times a year, and this year I was invited to join.

When I arrived one of the first things I saw was a tallish man packing a tent/sleeping bag into his car. He was wearing a wide brimmed cowboy hat, some sturdy hiking boots and a goatee. And that was it. No darling, I wasn't at a nudist camp. It was so much better than that. I was at a faerie gathering. For lack of better description it's summer camp for gay men. It is a place where men who love men and love the outdoors can enjoy both. I know, I know, I am neither male or gay, but they are very inclusive and I am greatful for that. There are many more things I wish to say about this group and my experiences there, but I am not going to recount those things. Instead, I'm going to say simply this:

Thank god there are places on this planet earth, where people are free to express themselves without judgement. Thank god there are places where a man can wear a taffeta gown for dinner if he damn well pleases! Eat your heart out Tom Monaghan! And for desert, you can eat sweet, faerie ass.

COFFEE BREAK

I recently viewed a documentary called How to Draw a Bunny, about the life and work of artist Ray Johnson. In the film he was eulogized by both friends and peers as extremely cool, creative, and cooky. For example, he participated in a reading once, but in lieu of reciting a poem he beat a cardboard box with a leather belt for about twenty minutes. Afterwards, he wrote the name 'Kafka' on one side of the box in indelible ink.

Far. Out.

Well, so. Someone was relating a story about Ray Johnson. This person (name escapes me) said he and Ray were walking behind someone who was holding a bag of groceries when a jar of instant coffee escaped this person's groceries and fell, cracked open on the ground. Ray apparently looked at the mess and said simply, "Coffee break."

This made me think of RS. He was always clever like that; playing with words and meanings. I've been thinking about him lately and wondering if I would have left my husband if I had not met him. What an unhappy fate that would have been! RS unhinged my cage door with his little boy hands and I flew out. No matter what transpires between us, this bird will always be greatful to him for setting her free.

LISTING TO ONE SIDE

It was 1:01 AM. She sat opposite a computer screen, drunk with fatigue.

BEST FRIEND MODE

I'm going to visit my parents this weekend. I'll leave this afternoon and come back on Sunday. Do you remember that whole angry bit with my mother? That's all blown over. She is in best friend mode now and made an appointment for us to get facials at Aveda. I'd trade emotional abuse for an $80 facial. Do you think I'm shallow?

Sure I am.

*Shameless Grinning*

THE SECRET LIVES OF INSECTS

FACT: Velvet worms have many stumpy little legs and that makes them funny. But don't be fooled by their cuteness. They are deadly killers that disable their prey by spraying webs of glue on them!

I saw a science special about them this afternoon...
I also got really excited about yeast this afternoon.

NOTE TO SELF (#4)

Don’t sneak up on Asher. He’s not very comfortable with improvisation. Those reading, and I mean the both of you, the above statement is not judgment. God knows, I have my moments of obstinance.

CHOOSE

Last night before going to bed I remembered that I can make choices. Choices that can direct my life. Somehow, I had forgotten about all of that.

WEEKEND #2: YOU ARE HERE

I wish I had clear maps like this for other parts of my life.


This attractive vintage clock was only off by four and a half hours.

WEEKEND #1: JACK RABBITS

I hiked through a prairie this weekend.

SYMBIOSIS

Last night my friend Max came over. I made him dinner and he dyed my hair. It's a symbiotic relationship. After that, we smoked and then kissed goodbye. I love it when life is simple like this.

DON'T ANALYZE ME

I have been doing this thing lately, where I say something to somebody, and as soon as the words escape the corral of my mouth, a tiny little elf in my head dressed up like Freud sucks on a thick cigar and whispers "O interesting! Now why would you choose to say something like that?"

WHAT'S HOT, WHAT'S NOT

I hate the phrase 'knocking boots.' Icky. Who came up with that??

Driving back home from a weekend of camping up north, Asher, reading a billboard on the highway exclaimed, "I want to be your realtor!" Then he laughed because he thought it sounded dirty. So he followed up with, "I want to sell your house, baby."

Isn't that hot?

101 DEGREES IN THE SHADE

Oooooh. What's with all the cursing? It's too hot to curse today.

It's also too hot for:

1. Candy
2. Clothing
3. Movement