it turns out that in england -- and most of europe, i am told -- kissing good-bye is a common practice. i find this very charming, of course, and in principle, i'm a big fan of it. it's just that, well ... i'm not very good at it. so i'm boycotting kissing.
for such a seemingly simple act, there's an awful lot that can go wrong; and i've made every gaffe possible: the miss, the kiss, the non-participation, the overzealous participation. i'm lost.
is it one, is it two? start left, finish right? what if i'm unshaven? is it an intentional miss? a peck or a kiss?
next time the good-byes are exchanged, i'm heading for the toilet.
jared.
Definition
English Pub: [ing-glish or, often, -lish][puhb]:
-noun
Born centuries ago out of a national need for safe drink, the English Pub is not just a "bar" or "tavern" as it's usual definition suggests. By adding hops, yeast, and malted barley to the un-potable water, and serving it in ridiculously comfortable establishments (ie. fire place, dark wooden furniture, ambient lighting, a dart board), the British have created a place for community. It's not a "den of iniquity" or a place for hooligans to gather. It's a place you can step into on a coffee break, have a meal, or even meet with a church group.
We've been in Corsham, Wiltshire for the week. J. Clif and his father are our kind hosts. We've been staying with them at "the Rectory."
Corsham: a small community of about 13,000 made up of 5 churches, a small old city centre with high quality local businesses (including an amazing cheese shop, butcher, health foods shop, and a bakery where we finally found the elusive eccles cakes). There are 7 pubs, two of which are (according to locals) the "best pubs in the region." Life is lived at a slower, more comfortable pace here. Our days have been filled with tea, leisurely breakfasts, country walks, coffee, English baked goods, cheese, more tea, and new English Ales.
It's been educational as well as relaxing. On Tuesday evening, I had the distinct honor of being the first woman to be invited to the local Anglican Church's Men's Discussion Group. How did this happen? Well, as Jon's dad, the Vicar with the keen sense of humor told the group, "We couldn't very well leave our American guest home alone, and frankly she's much better looking than any of you." I was flattered to have the exception made for me so that we could listen to Jon's talk on immigration policy, a subject on which he had become an expert while studying at UBC. This took place upstairs at the Royal Oak, a local pub. The meeting takes place once a month with a different guest speaker and discussion theme each time. We, Jon included, weren't quite sure what to expect with this group. These are locals. Some generationally so. What do they care about immigration in Canada? How about in Britain? The US? Could it possibly get ugly?
Trying to imagine this set of circumstances playing out in small town America, I automatically assumed that people would be staunch in their opinions. First of all, this is a group of older men gathering in a pub on a Tuesday night. I had a vision of "Joe Six Pack" (is it too passe to use that term now? Sorry, guys.) getting together with his buddies. I suspected them to see the issues in black and white. I was almost sure they would be polite since "they're English" (a stereotype utterly destroyed for me by the football match we attended in Bristol... that's another story), but that questions would be sparse and opinions set and immovable from the start.
Not so. Not in the least. The questions were surprising, intelligent, well thought out. All were engaged. The discussion was animated for a good hour and a half.
You cannot discount anyone. You can't assume what they know or where they've been. You can't assume that all Brits are pro-Obama, as Jared learned during a conversation with a local man in an Oxford pub. You can't just assume that the wacky Corsham local with holes in his sweater sitting next to you in the pub has no idea about where you come from. They travel too. When they go to small town Georgia and talk to people with roots that have lived there for generations, they can make conjectures too:
"It's good for a person to have roots and to know where they come from. It gives you stability. Stability it important ... or is stability important...?"
Whoa. That one made all of us at the table stop and think. Hmmm. Is stability important? Wow. And I've never thought of rural Georgia that way before. Come to think of it, I've never thought of rural Georgia ... at all really. Maybe I should go there before assuming.
Corsham: Good people, good drink, good education. GREAT week.
- Steph
-noun
Born centuries ago out of a national need for safe drink, the English Pub is not just a "bar" or "tavern" as it's usual definition suggests. By adding hops, yeast, and malted barley to the un-potable water, and serving it in ridiculously comfortable establishments (ie. fire place, dark wooden furniture, ambient lighting, a dart board), the British have created a place for community. It's not a "den of iniquity" or a place for hooligans to gather. It's a place you can step into on a coffee break, have a meal, or even meet with a church group.
We've been in Corsham, Wiltshire for the week. J. Clif and his father are our kind hosts. We've been staying with them at "the Rectory."
Corsham: a small community of about 13,000 made up of 5 churches, a small old city centre with high quality local businesses (including an amazing cheese shop, butcher, health foods shop, and a bakery where we finally found the elusive eccles cakes). There are 7 pubs, two of which are (according to locals) the "best pubs in the region." Life is lived at a slower, more comfortable pace here. Our days have been filled with tea, leisurely breakfasts, country walks, coffee, English baked goods, cheese, more tea, and new English Ales.
It's been educational as well as relaxing. On Tuesday evening, I had the distinct honor of being the first woman to be invited to the local Anglican Church's Men's Discussion Group. How did this happen? Well, as Jon's dad, the Vicar with the keen sense of humor told the group, "We couldn't very well leave our American guest home alone, and frankly she's much better looking than any of you." I was flattered to have the exception made for me so that we could listen to Jon's talk on immigration policy, a subject on which he had become an expert while studying at UBC. This took place upstairs at the Royal Oak, a local pub. The meeting takes place once a month with a different guest speaker and discussion theme each time. We, Jon included, weren't quite sure what to expect with this group. These are locals. Some generationally so. What do they care about immigration in Canada? How about in Britain? The US? Could it possibly get ugly?
Trying to imagine this set of circumstances playing out in small town America, I automatically assumed that people would be staunch in their opinions. First of all, this is a group of older men gathering in a pub on a Tuesday night. I had a vision of "Joe Six Pack" (is it too passe to use that term now? Sorry, guys.) getting together with his buddies. I suspected them to see the issues in black and white. I was almost sure they would be polite since "they're English" (a stereotype utterly destroyed for me by the football match we attended in Bristol... that's another story), but that questions would be sparse and opinions set and immovable from the start.
Not so. Not in the least. The questions were surprising, intelligent, well thought out. All were engaged. The discussion was animated for a good hour and a half.
You cannot discount anyone. You can't assume what they know or where they've been. You can't assume that all Brits are pro-Obama, as Jared learned during a conversation with a local man in an Oxford pub. You can't just assume that the wacky Corsham local with holes in his sweater sitting next to you in the pub has no idea about where you come from. They travel too. When they go to small town Georgia and talk to people with roots that have lived there for generations, they can make conjectures too:
"It's good for a person to have roots and to know where they come from. It gives you stability. Stability it important ... or is stability important...?"
Whoa. That one made all of us at the table stop and think. Hmmm. Is stability important? Wow. And I've never thought of rural Georgia that way before. Come to think of it, I've never thought of rural Georgia ... at all really. Maybe I should go there before assuming.
Corsham: Good people, good drink, good education. GREAT week.
- Steph
questions.
there are moments when i feel like i'm running away; like i'm trying to escape from responsibility, from reality (however confounding those concepts might be). at times i feel that i don't deserve this: vacations are for the ranks of the employed; we ought to be looking for jobs. i'm irresponsible. i'm lost. i'm a cop out.
but there have been moments on this trip -- several, already -- where the opposite is true; where i'm certain that we've made the "right" decision in coming here, doing this ... at this moment, at this juncture; this is what we're supposed to be doing:
a passing remark is made that resonates; that somehow speaks to our situation.
a brief pause in a conversation when introspection takes hold and i muse on how space, time and circumstance have coalesced in seemingly perfect harmony giving way to some tremendous act of theatre for an audiene of one. and, at least momentaritly, i'm certain that the universe is governed not by chaos and chance, but unfolds according to some meticulously thought-out plan. is it God? my naïve optimism? the wine? am i imagining this?
there are moments when a song i've heard hundreds of times before sounds entirely different; a lyric i've never heard before is speaking directly to me (turning your orbit around...).
moments when i come to terms with the realization that the simpsons just might be our (america's) greatest cultural export; or that humanity really isn't doomed. is it travel ... the experience of moving through space? the landscape? bertrand russell's prose?
before this trip started, i was convinced that coming here would answer the numerous uncertainties that i needed to answer. and maybe it will. maybe in several weeks time i'll have figured my life out; maybe i'll have identified the path that calls me, a profession that inspires me; maybe i'll be more optimistic about the trajectory of the US ... of the world; maybe i'll be ready to settle.
but i doubt it. (and i'm ok with that). maybe there's something to be said for embracing ambiguity.
jared.
leaving london/entering countryside
soiled sidewalks/spitting rain
the mini is slammed: full; overwhelmed
the road ends, the road begins:
Chieveley, Badbury Wick, Wantage
sunlight spills onto the empty road
the lamb; the go; the clouds retreat
i wonder what the point of it all is.
familial warmth; the gift of an apple
it's rubbish/it's indecipherable/it's familiar/it's not
distance dissapears and i'm home again:
green, brown, green. black, green, brown.
i could be in wamsutter, i could be alone
no phone -- just an empty box on a forlorn corner
it's the space between the real and the absurd.
jared.
London, Mid-Week
When you finally stop walking, you do start to feel some immediate relief in your feet. But when you slump down in your seat and the weight comes off your ankles, there is residual throbbing that courses through. You can start to feel your pulse... in your feet. It's a strange, yet satisfying sensation.
We walked today. A lot. We keep remarking to one another that we must have done something to appease the Gods to deserve this weather. Since our arrival a scant 6 days ago we've been taking advantage of London in the fall sunshine. I hope I haven't jinxed us just by putting that in writing.
As we sat in the Earl of Lonsdale Pub on Portobello Road, we sipped our shared Pint of Samuel Smith's Extra Stout and came up with a few haiku to sum up the day:
sleeping in till eight
pint at pub in notting hill
perfect afternoon
Wimbledon tennis
shop. no museum nor tour
lucky sunny day
Stout! God's gift to us?
Diana, we salute thee.
To Hyde Park, we must.
pint at pub in notting hill
perfect afternoon
Wimbledon tennis
shop. no museum nor tour
lucky sunny day
Stout! God's gift to us?
Diana, we salute thee.
To Hyde Park, we must.
Hyde Park
Jared said earlier that he now understands what John means when he says that he isn't really impressed with Stanley Park in Vancouver. It's not in the same league really. Both, of course, are gift to their respective cities. If Stanley Park and Hyde Park were to get into a fight, however, I would put my money on Hyde Park.
Before left Denver, we decided not to take along the guide book. This was both a good and a bad idea I suppose. On one hand we may be missing things that we "should" be seeing. True. But after almost a week in London, I would say the result has been overwhelmingly positive for a few reasons:
1. We've had only a few "must sees" of our own, probably fewer than we would have with a book. This has made the schedule much more relaxed.
2. We've been open to any suggestion from friends - be it betting on the Wimbledon Dog races, or visiting the Saatchi Gallery.
3. No set expectations means no disappointments (not that London could really disappoint).
One of the things I love best about Jared is his eagerness to research any topic that interests him. Case in point: The Diana Memorial fountain in Hyde Park. It's very unlike Jared to care at all about the Princess of Wales. At least he's never mentioned this interest to me previous to this trip, but I think it happened when walking by Buckingham Palace the other day when he began to inquire what I knew about the royal family. Needless to say the questioning was brief as I about as much as most of my fellow Americans. The only information I've gleaned has been from documentaries on A&E and Lifetime on the Dodi and Diana conspiracy and programs of the like. Oh, and of course the Helen Mirren film, The Queen is an invaluable resource. That was a good one.
It didn't end there, however. His curiosity was piqued. Later that evening, at John and Charlotte's local pub, the Earl of Spencer, Jared asked our two local hosts what they thought of Diana and the fact that there was a memorial built in honor of her life in Hyde park. Had they seen it? Not yet. Did they care to? Well, not more than seeing any other memorial for any other person. Charlotte went on to explain that the outpouring of grief for Diana was simply grotesque when she died. She was a mother, and yes it's sad she left her two sons behind, but perhaps it was all just a little too much. Her death did, after all, overshadow the death of Mother Teresa which happened the day before in Calcutta.
Well, Jared had to see this in order to gain a bit more understanding. So off we went.
It must be quite a popular memorial to visit. Signs directing you toward it pop up about every 50 feet or so along the multiple walking paths. The memorial itself is a circular fountain with water flowing from the top in both directions. A walking path both surrounds and dissects it. The design is meant to symbolize how accessible and open Diana was to the public during her life. Signs near the fountain encourage visitors to wade in the water. It's elegant. Understated. It is a place conducent to reflection and meditation... and picture taking. No, it really is lovely.
If nothing else, I found it thought provoking. Memorials are strange, aren't they? For us Diana's death is still fairly fresh in our minds, so it's easy to critique and come to conclusions about whether or not this memorial does her life justice, or whether it's too extravagant, or perhaps too unassuming. I mean, What about the Albert memorial just across Kensington Gardens? I found myself wondering what Londoners thought of it when first erected by Queen Victoria over one hundred years ago. Too extravagant? Too impersonal? A touching tribute?
And that's when I came to the conclusion that travel is the best kind of education and a very good investment. It feels great to be inspired by visiting these places. I'm not surprised that I'm enjoying being out from behind my desk at my computer and instead spending days walking and exploring a world class city. I knew it would feel great. The only problem is that I know I'd like to do this forever. We've just got to come up with a way to make that happen...
- Steph
i'm sorry.
i'm sorry, but i think we (america) owe england an apology. don't get me wrong -- i love the idea of a revolution. love it. who doesn't? but it seems to me that our radical experiment in democracy and freedom for all has gone awry (read: financial crisis, world's highest divorce rates, world ranking #27 (below Slovenia, Brunei) in infant mortality). it's time we face the facts: england is cooler than america.
for starters, england is cleaner...more debonair; it's architecture older and more majestic; outlets are higher voltage; beers are bigger; accents are cooler. apples? more delicious. health care? Admittedly not perfect, but even I can go to the doctor here and be treated.
longitude started here: L-O-N-G itude. they've got this graffiti artist named banksy who doesn't tell anyone his name; a gold statue of kate moss doing yoga; they've got cool names for their cities like "Stoke-on-tent" and "Maidenhead". New York Shmew York.
they use words like 'hoover' (vacuum), 'gutted' (sad; dejected) and 'offy' (corner liquor store); eat toothsome treats called eccles cakes (snickers? not here, mate); stand in longer queues (lines); read better books; pay higher prices; their government argues on TV.
and all this in a country smaller than oregon. incredible.
don't get me wrong here: i don't hate america. i just think we need to get off our high international horse and bow down to england. I mean, they don't call it great britain for nothing.
bring back the stamp tax,
-jared.
for starters, england is cleaner...more debonair; it's architecture older and more majestic; outlets are higher voltage; beers are bigger; accents are cooler. apples? more delicious. health care? Admittedly not perfect, but even I can go to the doctor here and be treated.
longitude started here: L-O-N-G itude. they've got this graffiti artist named banksy who doesn't tell anyone his name; a gold statue of kate moss doing yoga; they've got cool names for their cities like "Stoke-on-tent" and "Maidenhead". New York Shmew York.
they use words like 'hoover' (vacuum), 'gutted' (sad; dejected) and 'offy' (corner liquor store); eat toothsome treats called eccles cakes (snickers? not here, mate); stand in longer queues (lines); read better books; pay higher prices; their government argues on TV.
and all this in a country smaller than oregon. incredible.
don't get me wrong here: i don't hate america. i just think we need to get off our high international horse and bow down to england. I mean, they don't call it great britain for nothing.
bring back the stamp tax,
-jared.
Notes from United Flight 948
After spending the last two odd weeks packing, moving, re-packing our remaining belongings, road tripping, repacking the last time, we're finally down to backpacks: Two large, two small. Stuff. Man. It can really hold you back. A feeling of liberation has set in. I will enjoy this vacation for a lot of reasons, but one thing I didn't anticipate is how good it feels to have a break from stuff.
It's morning. Land is below us. What an easy flight. Direct is the way to fly. One must travel this way if one has the opportunity. The captain has just announced we'll be landing in 10 minutes, which of course prompted many to queue up for the toilet. Ah well. I think I can make it.
All went well. Slept a few hours. While packing up the house a couple weeks ago (feels like it's been months) I came across a few of those little eye masks with the elastic bands. They definitely came in handy. Though I didn't foresee needing the 3 masks I had found, I packed them all. And I'm glad I did, since the woman sitting in seat 33J nabbed Jared's from behind. I swear! I saw her do it. Her sneaky little hand appeared for just a split second in front of the oval window behind Jared's head. I almost missed it. In fact I thought nothing of it at the time, but remembered it happening when he couldn't find his mask as we were preparing for a little nap. We searched the area, and when I looked behind at her and she wouldn't make eye contact with me. Sure enough, she put it to good use when the lights went out. Cheeky. But we had three so it doesn't matter.
It's beginning to feel real now, especially as the landscape reveals itself below us. I'm starting to realize the gravity of the situation. We have 7 weeks ahead of us here. Traveling is my favorite pass time, and Jared is my favorite person. This is good.
Immediate goals upon touchdown: procure "Oyster Cards," score some British Pounds, and locate the tube to get to Joe and Rumi's flat.
Our good friends from Japan days, Joe and Rumi are our generous first hosts. Joe, actually, was the first to welcome us to Tokyo during our JET orientation three years ago. It's fitting that he'll be introducing us to another world class city.
"I've got it all sorted, mate"
I have no doubt we'll be well taken care of.
- Steph
the financial crisis: how is it affecting me?
on the dawn of our departure, we find ourselves watching the final presidential debate in a suburban pizza joint sipping water out of quasi-antique jars. we're joined by two couples -- dear friends that have been a part of our lives since college. the group vacillates between feelings of anxiety, indignation, confusion and terror as we listen to these two presidential hopefuls offer their remedies for a broken america. i wonder: is america broken...or just broke?
as the seven of us prepare to bid one another farewell in the over-sized, eerily empty parking lot of the suburban pizza parlor, the following dawns on me: something has changed. the trappings of adulthood are all present: a sleeping baby in tow, unmistakeably dry-cleaned collared shirts, returning home at 8:55 pm (it's getting late...), the awkward good-bye, dinner mints.
i'm here, but not there.
on the way home i wonder what america will be like in december. london's calling.
-jared.
as the seven of us prepare to bid one another farewell in the over-sized, eerily empty parking lot of the suburban pizza parlor, the following dawns on me: something has changed. the trappings of adulthood are all present: a sleeping baby in tow, unmistakeably dry-cleaned collared shirts, returning home at 8:55 pm (it's getting late...), the awkward good-bye, dinner mints.
i'm here, but not there.
on the way home i wonder what america will be like in december. london's calling.
-jared.
For Real: bumper stickers from the road
1. "I'm not going if there's no chocolate in heaven"
2. "I'm pro-salmon, and I vote"
3. "Save a horse, ride a cowgirl"
4. "My horse is like my girl: you can look, but you can't ride"
5. "University of Iraq: School of Warfare"
6. "This lady doesn't ride b&tch!"
7. "My son is the shit!"
8. "Keep honkin'...I'm still reloadin'."
9. "Connect with the woman of your Dreams: Classy Ukraine Women"
2. "I'm pro-salmon, and I vote"
3. "Save a horse, ride a cowgirl"
4. "My horse is like my girl: you can look, but you can't ride"
5. "University of Iraq: School of Warfare"
6. "This lady doesn't ride b&tch!"
7. "My son is the shit!"
8. "Keep honkin'...I'm still reloadin'."
9. "Connect with the woman of your Dreams: Classy Ukraine Women"
(attempted) homecoming
October 11, 2008.
the plan was to be toasting the completion our 20+ hour car journey from Eureka, CA to Laramie, WY by now. instead, we're plotting mischief from a sullen hotel room in Evanston, WY (where a heavy, persistent snow is falling). our window frames the "Water Wheel Old Mill Restaurant and Tavern" (we will be going there later). two suspicious looking fellows just delivered a missile-shaped metal box to the lobby. we're happy to be here. let us explain...
our journey - our home coming - began in earnest at 6:02 AM in Elko, NV. Woken not by an alarm, but by the sincere intent to beat the snow and get to Laramie, we rose, showered, breakfasted, coffeed and were on the way exactly an hour later, 7:02 Pacific Standard time.
First patch of bad snow: descending from the Pequop summit. A brave VW Jetta with Wyoming plates fish-tailed out of control in front of us on the sheet of ice we ourselves were gliding down. That was close. On our side, we and the WY VW regained control, but a few west-bound travelers weren't so lucky. Across the highway divide, debris from an overturned Ford truck littered the snowy shoulder. An ambulance sat silent with lights flashing.
Needless to say, we were happy to make it to the other side: Wendover, NV.
We thought this would be the end of the road for us after that harrowing first leg, but things cleared up enough for us to make it all the way past Salt Lake City. We were confident. We listened as our Wyoming Cowboys were slaughtered from the word "go" by the Utah Utes during UW's homecoming (which should have been ours as well). The color commentators (from Utah) made fun of...our colors. (Brown jerseys?! yellow helmets?) The implication was clear: our football team resembled an army of human excrement.
As we passed a snowy Park City, we reminisced about our alma matter, the 2002 winter games (conclusion: olympics are over-rated), and looked forward to returning to Steph's birthplace, which also happens to be where we fell in love (a long time ago for us; a relative blink of an eye in real time). We lamented the realization that this would be our last trip to the US of A during which we could masquerade as Canadians.
Destination Laramie was not to be. At least not today.
Evanston, Wyoming. It's the kind of place that encourages absurd behavior, like walking around Wal-Mart wearing straw pseudo-cowboy hats, jogging through a blizzard, and growing excited by the prospect of drinking a beer in the most suspect-looking bar in town.
THE OLD MILL
Jared did say that he doubted his courage when looking through the window before entering the bar. (The bar counter was lined with cowboy hat/flannel shirt-wearing locals and several dogs (!) ran freely inside). But God was telling us something: our hotel room overlooked the patio of this fine Wyoming establishment. It would be rude not to enter. Since about six o'clock, we witnessed grilling of (what we would find out to be) local salmon and corn taking place on the back porch of this bar. According to the barkeep (Tom), the restaurant section of the bar has been closed for a while. Nonetheless, we were promptly offered dinner upon arrival.
RUSTY'S BIRTHDAY PARTY
Tom: "Hey, kids. Let's see those ID's. Everyone looks like kids to me... British Columbia, huh? Well, there's plenty of food over here, so help yourselves."
(Steph) It's been a long time since I've regretted having a BC drivers license. Normally I'm so keen for people to think I'm from Canada, but not here. I had to explain immediately that Laramie is my home town. It did not have the desired effect. Even Laramie is a foreign country to this crowd. Rusty (the birthday boy) on Laramie: with a contemptuous tone "I don't go to Laramie. I go to Mexico, but I don't go to Laramie. I don't like Laramie."
Just to give you an idea, the bar decor included:
1. (predictably) lots of Bud and Coors ads with girls in bikinis
2. a jukebox
3. the most over-sized liquor bottles in one location we've ever witnessed
4. a sign that said, "if you weren't born before June 19, 1987, GET THE HELL OUT!"
5. a giant stuffed sword fish wearing a brown leather cowboy hat
6. a two-pistol, quarter operated video game
7. Happy hour beers: $1.75
We ordered two beers (Jackson Hole's Snake River Pale Ale) and two glasses of Glenfiddich Scotch Whiskey (it's been a long day). Tom gladly served the beers in bottles and the scotch in two plastic 3 oz. cups: "I'm not doin' dishes tonight." He then showed us over to the food. We took him up on his offer, as we were feeling a bit peckish. It had been about six hours since our visit to Don Pedro's, one of the finest Mexican Cuisine establishments in town, according to Michael, the manager of the America's Best Value Inn (he wasn't incorrect). We opted for the corn on the cob, macaroni salad, baked beans, grilled salmon, and Lay's Potato Chips (actually, only Steph got the chips. Jared's will-power is iron).
One of the three dogs running free in the bar (the mangiest one, also the blindest) yelped as we made our way back to the bar with our Styrofoam plate (yes, we felt guilty, environmentally speaking). "We're going to have to socialize," I told Jared. We agreed, this was what was meant to be. We were meant to stay in Evanston. We were not meant to drive on to Laramie. This was the homecoming. The Old Mill was as home as we were going to get for tonight. We were determined to embrace it.
We bought the birthday boy a shot. Rusty wanted Crown. That's what he wanted. It's all he ever drinks. This was our in...we thought. We did end up cozying up to Rusty at the bar in hopes of some hopelessly quintessential Wyoming experience. We wanted to be a part of his birthday celebration. He did appreciate the birthday shot. Well, actually, who knows? By the time he left "The Mill" with his wife he was about 7 sheets to the wind. He probably just appreciated his bed at that point. A native of Evanston, he's been here for 52 years. We can only assume that was his age. If so, he looked pretty darn good for 52.
Jared brought up the election:
Rusty: "It pisses me off. I mean, they're interrupting regular programming all the time for that BS."
Jared (thank goodness) didn't venture any further.
This bar felt like home in a lot of ways. We really wanted it to, in any case. After spending the day with news radio - tales from racist America, impending financial doom, nuclear power plants - we yearned for affirmation that it's not as bad as it seems. We both felt comforted (strangely) by being a part, however small and forgettable, of Rusty's birthday celebration. We were crashers, yes, but we'd like to think we gave them a story to tell. He/they certainly gave us one. It felt, at once, like home, yet the furthest thing from it . We are phonies; impostors. We couldn't move to Evanston and be part of this world.
Or could we?
I have to admit, it has its appeal. (and there was a moment, no, several, in the course of this outing when I was warming to the idea). In a lot of ways, things might be a little easier to comprehend. Our world might be smaller, our rent cheaper, occupations more intuitive. Rusty works in construction; his wife sells homes; Tom tends bar. I get that. Network administration? Hedge fund analysis? I'm not so sure. Besides, this was (for better or worse) a community: warm, tangible, inviting. Sure, we wouldn't be eating Ethiopian food if we moved to Evanston...or debating the merits of socialism at dinner parties...or drinking wines from the Barossa Valley. But would it matter? Would we miss it? Could we join this world?
The one question you can count on being asked in Wyoming is: "Where ya from?" For some time now, I (Jared) haven't been sure how to respond. California? Colorado? Canada? Wyoming? I (Steph) do look forward, I think, to having an answer to that question. But not yet. Embrace the now. Being homeless is a rare pleasure; an invitation to observe; an exercise in introspection. I (Jared) guess I've come to think of home not as an address or a financial investment but as something more fluid. A montage of images; a meal with friends; movement in space; The Old Mill Tavern.
We're not moving to Evanston. It's too cold here, too brown, too far from an airport. Too...? But it has its appeal.
Happy fifty-second birthday, Rusty. Hope the coming year is a good one.
the plan was to be toasting the completion our 20+ hour car journey from Eureka, CA to Laramie, WY by now. instead, we're plotting mischief from a sullen hotel room in Evanston, WY (where a heavy, persistent snow is falling). our window frames the "Water Wheel Old Mill Restaurant and Tavern" (we will be going there later). two suspicious looking fellows just delivered a missile-shaped metal box to the lobby. we're happy to be here. let us explain...
our journey - our home coming - began in earnest at 6:02 AM in Elko, NV. Woken not by an alarm, but by the sincere intent to beat the snow and get to Laramie, we rose, showered, breakfasted, coffeed and were on the way exactly an hour later, 7:02 Pacific Standard time.
First patch of bad snow: descending from the Pequop summit. A brave VW Jetta with Wyoming plates fish-tailed out of control in front of us on the sheet of ice we ourselves were gliding down. That was close. On our side, we and the WY VW regained control, but a few west-bound travelers weren't so lucky. Across the highway divide, debris from an overturned Ford truck littered the snowy shoulder. An ambulance sat silent with lights flashing.
Needless to say, we were happy to make it to the other side: Wendover, NV.
We thought this would be the end of the road for us after that harrowing first leg, but things cleared up enough for us to make it all the way past Salt Lake City. We were confident. We listened as our Wyoming Cowboys were slaughtered from the word "go" by the Utah Utes during UW's homecoming (which should have been ours as well). The color commentators (from Utah) made fun of...our colors. (Brown jerseys?! yellow helmets?) The implication was clear: our football team resembled an army of human excrement.
As we passed a snowy Park City, we reminisced about our alma matter, the 2002 winter games (conclusion: olympics are over-rated), and looked forward to returning to Steph's birthplace, which also happens to be where we fell in love (a long time ago for us; a relative blink of an eye in real time). We lamented the realization that this would be our last trip to the US of A during which we could masquerade as Canadians.
Destination Laramie was not to be. At least not today.
Evanston, Wyoming. It's the kind of place that encourages absurd behavior, like walking around Wal-Mart wearing straw pseudo-cowboy hats, jogging through a blizzard, and growing excited by the prospect of drinking a beer in the most suspect-looking bar in town.
THE OLD MILL
Jared did say that he doubted his courage when looking through the window before entering the bar. (The bar counter was lined with cowboy hat/flannel shirt-wearing locals and several dogs (!) ran freely inside). But God was telling us something: our hotel room overlooked the patio of this fine Wyoming establishment. It would be rude not to enter. Since about six o'clock, we witnessed grilling of (what we would find out to be) local salmon and corn taking place on the back porch of this bar. According to the barkeep (Tom), the restaurant section of the bar has been closed for a while. Nonetheless, we were promptly offered dinner upon arrival.
RUSTY'S BIRTHDAY PARTY
Tom: "Hey, kids. Let's see those ID's. Everyone looks like kids to me... British Columbia, huh? Well, there's plenty of food over here, so help yourselves."
(Steph) It's been a long time since I've regretted having a BC drivers license. Normally I'm so keen for people to think I'm from Canada, but not here. I had to explain immediately that Laramie is my home town. It did not have the desired effect. Even Laramie is a foreign country to this crowd. Rusty (the birthday boy) on Laramie: with a contemptuous tone "I don't go to Laramie. I go to Mexico, but I don't go to Laramie. I don't like Laramie."
Just to give you an idea, the bar decor included:
1. (predictably) lots of Bud and Coors ads with girls in bikinis
2. a jukebox
3. the most over-sized liquor bottles in one location we've ever witnessed
4. a sign that said, "if you weren't born before June 19, 1987, GET THE HELL OUT!"
5. a giant stuffed sword fish wearing a brown leather cowboy hat
6. a two-pistol, quarter operated video game
7. Happy hour beers: $1.75
We ordered two beers (Jackson Hole's Snake River Pale Ale) and two glasses of Glenfiddich Scotch Whiskey (it's been a long day). Tom gladly served the beers in bottles and the scotch in two plastic 3 oz. cups: "I'm not doin' dishes tonight." He then showed us over to the food. We took him up on his offer, as we were feeling a bit peckish. It had been about six hours since our visit to Don Pedro's, one of the finest Mexican Cuisine establishments in town, according to Michael, the manager of the America's Best Value Inn (he wasn't incorrect). We opted for the corn on the cob, macaroni salad, baked beans, grilled salmon, and Lay's Potato Chips (actually, only Steph got the chips. Jared's will-power is iron).
One of the three dogs running free in the bar (the mangiest one, also the blindest) yelped as we made our way back to the bar with our Styrofoam plate (yes, we felt guilty, environmentally speaking). "We're going to have to socialize," I told Jared. We agreed, this was what was meant to be. We were meant to stay in Evanston. We were not meant to drive on to Laramie. This was the homecoming. The Old Mill was as home as we were going to get for tonight. We were determined to embrace it.
We bought the birthday boy a shot. Rusty wanted Crown. That's what he wanted. It's all he ever drinks. This was our in...we thought. We did end up cozying up to Rusty at the bar in hopes of some hopelessly quintessential Wyoming experience. We wanted to be a part of his birthday celebration. He did appreciate the birthday shot. Well, actually, who knows? By the time he left "The Mill" with his wife he was about 7 sheets to the wind. He probably just appreciated his bed at that point. A native of Evanston, he's been here for 52 years. We can only assume that was his age. If so, he looked pretty darn good for 52.
Jared brought up the election:
Rusty: "It pisses me off. I mean, they're interrupting regular programming all the time for that BS."
Jared (thank goodness) didn't venture any further.
This bar felt like home in a lot of ways. We really wanted it to, in any case. After spending the day with news radio - tales from racist America, impending financial doom, nuclear power plants - we yearned for affirmation that it's not as bad as it seems. We both felt comforted (strangely) by being a part, however small and forgettable, of Rusty's birthday celebration. We were crashers, yes, but we'd like to think we gave them a story to tell. He/they certainly gave us one. It felt, at once, like home, yet the furthest thing from it . We are phonies; impostors. We couldn't move to Evanston and be part of this world.
Or could we?
I have to admit, it has its appeal. (and there was a moment, no, several, in the course of this outing when I was warming to the idea). In a lot of ways, things might be a little easier to comprehend. Our world might be smaller, our rent cheaper, occupations more intuitive. Rusty works in construction; his wife sells homes; Tom tends bar. I get that. Network administration? Hedge fund analysis? I'm not so sure. Besides, this was (for better or worse) a community: warm, tangible, inviting. Sure, we wouldn't be eating Ethiopian food if we moved to Evanston...or debating the merits of socialism at dinner parties...or drinking wines from the Barossa Valley. But would it matter? Would we miss it? Could we join this world?
The one question you can count on being asked in Wyoming is: "Where ya from?" For some time now, I (Jared) haven't been sure how to respond. California? Colorado? Canada? Wyoming? I (Steph) do look forward, I think, to having an answer to that question. But not yet. Embrace the now. Being homeless is a rare pleasure; an invitation to observe; an exercise in introspection. I (Jared) guess I've come to think of home not as an address or a financial investment but as something more fluid. A montage of images; a meal with friends; movement in space; The Old Mill Tavern.
We're not moving to Evanston. It's too cold here, too brown, too far from an airport. Too...? But it has its appeal.
Happy fifty-second birthday, Rusty. Hope the coming year is a good one.
10.3.08
topics discussed today:
1. sarah palin
2. organized religion
3. right guard vs. gillette
4. legislating morality
5. portland's economy
6. catholocism
7. the right place, the right time.
8. half-steps/full steps/octaves
9. the oregonian: left-leaning? right-leaning? centrist? important?
10. spanish-speaking hobos
11. hip replacement surgery
12. FDIC
13. Socialized Health Insurance: The case of Canada
14. unagi
15. exodus stout
16. baseball: Giants, Red Sox, LA
17. break-ups
18. seals
19. fred meyer
20. ireland
1. sarah palin
2. organized religion
3. right guard vs. gillette
4. legislating morality
5. portland's economy
6. catholocism
7. the right place, the right time.
8. half-steps/full steps/octaves
9. the oregonian: left-leaning? right-leaning? centrist? important?
10. spanish-speaking hobos
11. hip replacement surgery
12. FDIC
13. Socialized Health Insurance: The case of Canada
14. unagi
15. exodus stout
16. baseball: Giants, Red Sox, LA
17. break-ups
18. seals
19. fred meyer
20. ireland
And many more...
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