I thought as I was cruising along the highway and over the passes that it wasn’t blog-worthy. Yes, it was beautiful, but a blog at this point, would be on the verge of tweeting. In case you are new to the Twitter world, tweeting is the verb used by those who use Twitter. Twitter, in short, is similar to Facebook, but the only thing it is comprised of is personal updates. So if I felt like tweeting, which I don’t, then I would post “Driving from Seattle to Shasta”. Then after I arrive, if I am serious about my tweeting, I could then post “Checking in to the hotel”. And shortly thereafter I could go as far as “Sitting in the lounge enjoying a hot cider”.  In general I feel more at ease with leaving people in suspense to my whereabouts and since I felt like the trip wasn’t that revolutionary, I decided a blog would be on the verge of tweeting. However, when I arrived in Shasta, it hit me. America really is stunning and perhaps blogworthy.

There is a nice welcoming feel in the small towns across the states. The locals are full of info and get excited when they can offer it out to  random tourists passing through. They often say “Hurry back”, which is just there way of welcoming you to their town…their small town,…anytown…Yanktown, USA.

Mt. Shasta is what I would consider a stereotypical yanktown. The railway runs through the town center and makes certain to sound as it passes through. I found the railroad, in itself, welcoming as I grew up with the Sante Fe chugging through town every night in Flagstaff. But in Shasta the Central Pacific is the line to catch. Apart from the train there is the main strip, a one-laned road lined with shops, cafes, and galleries. Everyone in the town claims their post with names like “Cannon’s Tackle & Bait” or my favorite for cleverness, “Mike & Tony’s American and Italian Restaurant”. The downtown stretch is quaint and complete with christmas lights on the trees, clocks on every corner, and binoculars to view the mountain with. On either side of the main strip one can find a motel or inn.

I accidentally got myself involved in small talk with some random lady on the street dressed in a long red skirt who was out smoking a cigerette and looking for a chat. She invited me into the small eaterie she was standing in front of for what was posted as a “Live Show Tonight!”. Not sure what that entailed, I had to ask, and she explained that she would be belly dancing…a gig she then revealed she had picked up from “reading”. I reckon I am a pretty good reader, but I highly doubt any book has the capability to get me to belly dance. In any case, I passed her by and dropped into the next store, a small botique with paintings of cowboy boots, bison, lassos, and Willie Nelson. I had a good look around and though I would have liked to support the owner, who claimed he was in a bit of hurt due to the economy, I had no room in my overstuffed vehicle for another piece of framed artwork.

Lastly I dropped into a cafe. The sign read “Live Bluegrass 7pm-9pm” and inside you could buy a soda pop for a buck, a hot dog for a buck, nachos for a buck, or a chili dog for two bucks. They also had a full ice cream parlor and free coffee…an offering likely catering to the elders in the community. It was in this cafe where I truly saw Yanktown, USA.

You would have to put yourself there to see it as well. There with a backdrop of Mount Shasta right outside the cafe…completely visible even after the sun had gone down with its bright white contour standing out amongst the darkness. And inside the cafe were cowboys sitting at the ice cream bar in the back, wearing their chaps for no apparent reason other than show. There were kids, white kids and black kids alike, running up and down the stairs, playing games and giggling. There were families crowded around tables enjoying their dinner of hot dogs and chili dogs. The band was in full action…8 members….each of which was over the age of 60 and equipped with two if not three instruments. After all, this could have been an annual event and in that case they might as well play everything they got. And there were four old ladies sitting in the front cheering them on and clapping their hearts out after each song. One can imagine this is how America was in the good old days…and lucky for some, it still is that way.

I left Africa two days ago, but knowing I would return. Perhaps that is one reason the x-axis is a far off reach for me. There is no anti-climax in this journey but instead just a different summit. The journey “home” in time is merely a month, with a road trip planned from Washington state to Arizona. Stop-overs in Portland, San Luis Obispo, and Los Angeles will be the small peaks, and though they may make this month a bit like a holiday, there is a lot of work to be done. Two houses have to be packed, things put in storage, personal taxes paid, business taxes paid, and well, plenty of people to see, bills to pay, lunches to attend, phone calls to make, the whole deal.

I arrived into Seattle yesterday at 7pm. It was raining. In fact, it rained all night. Nothing had changed and it was a pleasant reminder why the Emerald City could never be my permanent residence. Jet lag hit at about 2am when I awoke feeling ravenous and ready to eat lunch. I pushed through the night, but around 6am, I found myself awake, alert, and ready for my first Starbucks. It was my first Starbucks in four months and my first of the day, as another would likely be needed later on.

I shivered as I got out of bed and quickly began throwing on random layers of clothing. My outfit was sure to impress anyone who was on the street that early…snow pants, a hoodie sweatshirt, and plenty of mis-matched bits and pieces underneath. Basically anything that was in the one box in my closet which wasn’t taped shut. I grabbed my keys and headed out the door.

Seattle in March is frigid. It is a damp wet that makes your bones ache and your body wish to be emerged in a massive tub of hot water. Later on TV there were reports that some areas of town experienced snow. Though it was not snowing on me at this point, there was a light rain that felt like pins cutting into my exposed body parts. I knew I looked a bit homely in my odd dress, and only added to the ensemble by donning my hood as well. I walked five blocks to the coffee shop, ordered my soy cappuccino, and began the brisk stroll back home. It was still dark out and I began thinking what a good feeling it was to live in a safe neighborhood and have the ability to walk by myself to the shop and back. I was loving the little intricacies that make home, “home”. There are the clichéd luxuries like an instantly hot shower, ice cubes, guaranteed electricity, and the list goes on. But I was enjoying other things…like a piece of black fuzz on the carpet that I knew from a distance was fuzz and not a cockroach, no mozzies buzzing around at night, window screens, and tap water.

After savoring my Starbucks, I got dressed in proper attire to hit the streets downtown. With little time to get everything sorted, each day would have to be used in full. Today’s morning would be complete with a trip to the supermarket and a trip to the city center. I had forms to copy, a notary to visit, packages to send, bank dealings, and shopping to do. I stepped outside and only then noticed that my car, which I had just picked up less than 12 hours earlier, had been broken into. And truly broken into. The front side passenger window was smashed into tiny pieces of glass. So small, that the largest piece couldn’t have been bigger then my thumb nail. I tried to think positively on my way walking over to it. Perhaps the rain had knocked a piece of tree down that hit the window and shattered it. Maybe a rock just happened to fly up and smash the whole thing in. And the quicker my thoughts flew, the faster I realized what I didn’t want to admit had happened, had happened.

Apparently someone had felt the need to break into my car. What they took I can only guess as I hadn’t examined the items in the car for over 4 months. The only thing I am positive was taken was my GPS…my little Garmin, “Garmina”, if you will, which used to talk to me and tell me where to drive and how to get to my next destination. I was looking forward to using “Garmina” on my road trip down the coast, south to Arizona. I figured she would help tell me where gas stations are and which highways to take. But she was gone. The one thing they did not take were my maps. The rest of my belongings were spread out and ramshackled through across the passenger seat and on the floor. The glove box was open with a few other things dangling out of it. And the window glass had spread onto every seat from the front to the back seats as well.

For the past four months I haven’t had anything stolen in Africa (knock on wood). There is no doubt that it can be a dangerous place to live, and one must be careful of their belongings. But what did this say about America? Thrilled to come back to the safety of “Obamaland”, I quickly turned cold. Not cold from the weather, I was already that, but cold from the experience. The moral of the story is up to you, but my take on it is this. Learn how to read a map.

Places where the wind is softer that the sound of the birds.
Places where people once existed.
Places where people now exist.

Each place has its own feel, its own vibration.
At times I am in my element.
At times I am not.

Though not every place is where I feel right, where I feel whole, or complete,…
…each has offered me a different perspective.

I am glad not very place is my favorite, for what would my favorite place hold if it were just like the rest?

What makes up these differences?
The weathered skin of an elder?
The youthful grin of a child?
The speckled plateaus?
The glittering waters?
The endless plains?
The mysterious mountains?
…or is it just the feel?

You can get an immediate impression of a place just by being there. Perhaps at times the woods seem too scary, the rivers too wide, the cliffs too steep. Perhaps it is simply being there that gives you feelings of happiness or sadness, excitement or hesitation.  You hold onto the times when the woods hold serenity, the rivers offer relaxation, and the cliffs are but a challenge.  

What changes?

Maybe it is the change in weather.
The snow so warm to some but bitter to others.
The sun so inviting yet fierce.
The waves so calm, but powerful.
The rain so playful yet dampening.
The humidty suffocating or maybe soothing like taking in a deep breath of eucalyptus.

Your place.

It could be a secret garden, a hidden away fort. It may be a fruit stand along a dusty dirt road. It could be in a classroom amongst eager children. It could be your favorite bar stool which welcomes you into the pub on the corner of your home town. It could be a coral reef tucked deep beneath the surface. Your place to laugh, to cry, to shout. Your place to dream. Your place to think. A place to embrace. A place to remember. Somewhere to visit every year, every week, or every day. It is your place.

Whatever it is for some, it isn´t for others.

While you dig for China, I will sit atop the clouds.

While you summit Everest, I will dive to the depths of the sea.

You know it. It is your place.

An excerpt from Peruvian Adventures; Blog 2006

Arriving in Lima airport from Cusco is nothing out of the ordinary.

However, driving through Lima is an entirely different story.

I had been told, or warned to put it correctly, that taking a taxi from the Lima airport to Miraflores (a modern suburb) would be a bit frightening. I sort of scoffed at this, thinking to myself, ¨What can be worse than a taxi drive in Africa?¨….something which I have experienced far too many times.

After all, a taxi ride in Tanzania places one in the hands of God. There are far too many distractions on the road to count; dogs, donkeys, cows, goats, push carts, pedestrians, cyclists, other cars, buses, trash, children, and the list only goes on. After awhile, one gets used to it and realizes that unlike drivers in the US, Tanzanian drivers actually expect the other drivers to drive terribly. In the states we somehow have the belief that all other drivers should drive obeying the rules, and exactly as we do. When they even make the slightest error….a swerve… unnecessary touch of the brakes, or anything else…we honk, curse, and cannot believe it. In Tanzania, there are no rules. There are no stoplights except perhaps in one or two cities, and for that reason, the crazy driving method actually works.

So I was ready. Bring it. I walked out of the airport and with my half-way decent bargaining skills, managed to find a taxi that would take me for the correct price, to Miraflores. With my bags checked in at the airport, I should have nothing to worry about. I shut the door to the cab and the drivers looks at me and says ¨Hola! Driving in taxi in Lima is very loco¨. I take a gulp. Fasten my seat belt, and think….¨Did the driver honestly just warm me that driving here is loco¨. And before thinking further, the answer to my question comes quick.

The local transportation in Tanzania had an unwritten rule that ¨There is always room for one more¨. This can be easily seen by overloading of buses, random limbs out of windows, and heaps of people sitting on the roof, or standing on the side of cars.

In Peru, I am fairly sure now that the unwritten rule is ¨It is always possible to go faster¨. Tiny hatchback vehicles roam the streets along with buses and bicycle vendors. The object of the game is to be the fastest taxi driver out there, squeeze between buses, and make 5 lanes out of a 2 lane road. It is amazing that the sides of cars aren`t banged up, seeing as though it feels like a bumper car carnival ride…with your life on the line.

From now on the taxi rides in Tanzania won`t seem so scary and the next time a driver warns me that the driving is crazy, I will believe him.

The story ends on a good note though. I made it safely to Miraflores and enjoyed some shopping before sitting down to have a cocktail. My drink of choice for the day was a Pisco sour. Then I noticed a really large cinema and thought, why not, I have more than 8 hours to kill before getting in another cab to go back to the airport. So I buy one ticket for the Lake House and walk into the movie theatre with only 2 minutes to go before the movie starts.

I am a bit late to grab a drink or popcorn….but one of the most amazing things happens. Everyone has thoguths about cool inventions they would like. Cigarette smokers most likely wish for an airline that still allows smoking. Parents wish for a playground at every restaurant. Couples wish for a bench on every cliff overlooking the ocean. And well, my wish came true for a movie theatre that sells alcohol. Wait, it gets better. A movie theatre that has taken out every other row of seats and replaced them with small tables and leg room. And, on every table there are a few napkins, a menu, and a button you can push for service. During the previews the waitress comes and takes your order. You can get any thing from a margarita to a pina colada, to a beer, or even a glass of wine. You can get a sandwhich, nachos, candy, or ice cream. Just push the button.

In heaven, I quickly ordered another Pisco sour and when it came time to pay the waitress she looked at me and said ¨no, no¨ which I interpreted to mean I pay after the movie is over. Fair enough. I figured I would probably order another drink anyway. I mean, if you ever get the chance to start a tab in a movie theatre, take the oppurtunity and run, right? So after the movie I went to pay and she still insisted I don`t. My guess is that the first drink is free. All I know is that I am easily entertained. With my pisco sours numbing my nerves, I exited Miraflores by way of taxi.

An excerpt from Peruvian Adventures; Blog 2006

It is said when the Jakaranda tree loses its flowers, Christmas is on its way. Though it is getting warmer with each day, the purple flowers that are shed, resemble a brilliantly colored snow cover. The overwhelmingly sweet smell they leave lingering as they fall, at times seems to cover the smell of poverty. And poverty does smell. And even at times, they cover the sight of poverty. They cover the dust and litter, leaving only a majestic landscape of lilac. Together with a sunset at night makes a picture perfect enough to send as a postcard. The rains have just begun as well. They are noted to be short, warm rains, but at night they bring a chill to the body. It is not so cold like a winter shower might be, but if your blanket slips off your shoulder, you are sure to feel your skin tighten with the breeze. 

Hectares of corn are no longer standing. Though in some places, they may be able to grow year round, if you get close enough to the bush, they are at a loss for rain. The crops in July suffered harshly from the lack of the long rains. The long rains failed to stay for very long and people sighed knowing famine would soon be on its way. Though the short rains have come early, it is difficult to predict how long they will stay. 

The grass in the plains is getting shorter making it an ideal time to spot big cats; lions, cheetah, and leopards. But with little water in the savannah and plenty of sunshine, the animals find it best to keep hidden during the days’ hottest hours. The wildebeest have migrated, mostly crossing the Serengeti into Kenya during July. There are always a few groups which are either slower than the rest, or are able to stay as residents of the parks while their competition leaves to seek more land. 

Around town it looks to be Spring, though in actuality it is really onto Summer now. The streets are filled with puppies, some tan, some brown, and some black. All muts. At the house we have six day old puppies…eight of them. Baby chicks run around the villages searching for bits of food along side the houses and roads. A mother cow gives birth to her calf only a few houses away. And it seems all of the tadpoles have evolved into frogs, for when it rains there is an overwhelming harmonious sound in the swampy grass next to the garden. As the seasons change from dry to rainy, life is replaced with another life.

An excerpt from Adventures in Africa; Blog 2006

Seattle has a life of its own.  It has cultures in every neighborhood.  It has more beggars than the entire homeless population of NYC – or so it seems.  Today a girl my age took a seat on the corner outside Whole Foods.  She wore a hoodie like mine, perhaps purchased earlier, but similar in all other respects.  She held a sign.  I didn’t look long enough to read it, but instead made my own judgements….likely not fair – perhaps false judgements – for I have no idea what she has gone through.  And by all means, if I ever get to such a spot where I have to sit on that corner with my hoodie on – I would wish the girl who walks past me would read my sign.  In any case – I thought long and hard on it.  Not on whether or not to buy her food or give her money – but on who she was and who I was to walk past her…twice…especially on a holiday.

Today is the Jewish New Year.  I have never really celebrated it before.  I thought I would start this year.  But instead I went rowing.  My Jewish friends sent me SMS’s saying “Shana Tova” (Good Year), “Keep it Kosher”,”and “Eat some apples and honey”.  Maybe I should have bought that girl in the hoodie an apple and honey.  Instead I kept walking and was again engulfed by the city.

Seattle has true urban life – city lights, skyscrapers, art walks, museums.  It has cops that stalk your car waiting for you to step away for a moment so they can nail a ticket to your windshield.  Every bit of empty space has a pricetag in the city – be it the lot your house stands on, or the lot your car is parked in.  It’s enough to make you want to drive out to the country.  Park wherever the hell you like…just because.  But don’t get me wrong – just outside of the Emerald City there are plenty of rural offerings – cowboys, and pasteurs…pumpkin patches, and river floats.  It’s an escape and each sunny weekend you will find Seattleites pulling out their trail guide books in search of a path less traveled.  One that the book outlines as having “solitude”.

So here is a toast to the New Year.  To enjoying the sweet offerings of the Northwest.  To soaking in as much bluegrass and folk songs as possible.  To stocking up on pumpkin pie.  To rolling around in this years’ leaves.  And to eating apples and honey.

An excerpt from Send Me On My Way; Blog 2008