depressing romania and spectacular budapest

Romania's reputation for being one of the most depressing places on earth is well deserved. So, so well deserved. I didn't know about this at first and I got myself all psyched up about the idea of going to Transylvania to the point that I stuck my head out of our train window in the black night to freak myself out a little. I imagined being a slavic peasant and being afraid of these dark wildernesses that surrounded my village and making up stories of vampires and such. (Dracula did, in fact, exist. In the form of Vlad the Impaler whose father was Dracul and he, in turn, Dracula meaning son of the Dragon. But he wasnt a vampiure, just a cruel dictator).

But then I actually arrived in Brasov. No buses were running and three taxi drivers stood outside the station with a gleaming look in their eye, like they were ready to con. The distance to town was too far to walk, so we were forced to deal with these sleazy men. They tried to charge us exorbitant amounts of money and called us all sorts of Romanian curses when we refused. Ugh. The worst of people. We ended up paying and cursing from the back seat.

The morning made the town seem slightly better, but not much. The skies were grey, the town deserted, everything we tried to see or do was closed up or moved away or just never existed. Needless to say, I would not recommend Romania.

Yet, as much as Romania was bad Budapest was spec-tac-u-lar, amazing, fantastic. 18th century baroque architecture everywhere, city parks, beautiful statues, blue skies, cheap prices, friendly people, good food and Hungarian baths heated by underground hot springs! Oh, and tall people! I am beginning to find the places of my ancestors. Not quite yet, but I am getting there. Off to Austria, where I might be getting even warmer.

the guises of istanbul

Ahhhh, Stambul! The eastern Rome, the center of the byzantine empire, where gilded christian mosaics meet flavored smoke meets bare feet on mosque carpets and turkish tea rolls around on your tongue. As you make your way around the modern-rome-esque cobblestone streets you'll find a new amalgamation of east and west around every turn. Wooden victorian houses and lush and manicured city gardens, centuries-old churches-turned-mosques-turned-museums and underground cisterns holding nourishment for this vast expanse of people that has been called many names: Constantinople, Byzantium, Istanbul. A metropolis with many guises, now removing its masks for the world to explore in its modern form.

Oh, and did we explore. This morning we had a breakfast overlooking the blue mosque on our rooftop terrace, then to the Aya Sofya with its uncovered golden mosaics. We wandered into a few other mosques (oh, how I love the plush carpet between my toes!), one with particularly beautiful and expensive islamic tiling. Then through the grand bazaar, which was less authentic and localized then Morocco's souqs, but interesting nonetheless. Then we went underground into a huge ancient cistern, complete with fish in the water and atmospheric lighting and music. We then went to our new favorite restaurant DoyDoy ('fill up! fill up!') and finally to a super local and legitimate hookah bar where we drank mint tea and smoked orange-flavored tobacco and played backgammon looking out onto the blue bosphorus and the up into the chilly night sky of the east.

ah, stambul.

murdered expectations in athens

So, Athens is sort of the murderer of our expectations and alex and i are its cunning little accomplices. I'll explain.

We came to Athens with pretty low expectations. We know its dirty, there is terrible air pollution, most of its ruins have been plundered over the centuries, it was in the middle of an extreme heat wave for this time of year. We knew all of this. Yet, we knew that were still nice neighborhoods and at least there's the acropolis and the parthenon and Socrates once lived here and democracy was born here, right?

Well, the major turning point in murdering these expectations came this morning when I put on my sweatshirt to head out for the day and a cockroach fell out onto the floor. yeah. But, let me back up, before that there were countless mosquito bites through the night, 'free' internet at our hostel on computers that dont load any pages, air pollution so bad it makes your throat hurt, a metro line built over where socrates gave his most famous apology (!!!!!!!!!!!!), scaffolding on the only building on the acropolis worth looking at - that parthenon, and heat so hot that walking makes sweat burst from your every pore.

As for Alex and I being accomplices: I chose the dingy hotel with pickpockets and prostitutes outside, and he chose to stay here two days. We tried desperately to change these two facts, running to the train station this morning to change our tickets, trying 2 days ago to change hotels, but athens slammed down our expectations like hulk hogan in his best years.

Nevertheless, at our lowest of lows, coming down from the acropolis with sweat in our eyes and disdain in our hearts, we began to love again. We saw some poppies on the way down and went into the agora, found a reconstructed stoa, shade and relaxation, famous sites not completely ruined and way less crowds. We found a wonderful greek restaurant with food you just wouldnt believe. Stuffed tomatoes and lamb with pasta and spinach rice and greek beer and cucumber and tomato salad, yummmm. Then we retired back to our hostel, but in a different room this time with (hopefully) less cockroaches. ::fingers crossed::

fortuitous circumstances in ostia

On my second to last day in Rome, Alex and I took a train out to what is now ostensibly the suburbs to what was then an ancient port town, Ostia Antica. We ambled around this poor-man's pompeii, exploring through the ruins like the lost boys in their treehouses and forts. After the capital fell, the arms of roman power began to wither away. This port town slowly crumbled with time and elements, leaving outlines of walls and grass for floors. We found what was the equivalent of the pantheon in this town, a circular and domed temple, and sat there to rest. This place of once grand importance, sitting directly across the via from the senate house and the forum baths, now had long grasses and spring flowers growing untended at its altar. We laid on the soft earth, under the clear and bright italian sky, and closed our eyes. The sun warmed our skin and the lightest breeze kept us from getting too warm. I couldn't help but think that all of the sacrifices done on this spot had motivated the gods to give us such fortuitous circumstances.

It was an entirely new way to understand Rome, and in a way allowed me to be at peace with trying to recreate my experience studying abroad here.

releasing nostalgia in rome

When Romulus defeated his brother Remus and founded this all-male city along the Tiber river, he created the love of my life. After a series of attempts to find a legitimately priced place to stay, and subsequently realizing that I have an amazing room for the price, I began to feel home here again. As soon as my eurostar pulled into termini, I wanted to rush to my old haunts: trastevere, campo de fiori, largo argentina and the pantheon, the ghetto and the villa bassi, but I soon realized that I am not studying abroad here anymore. I am here and older and wiser and in a different situation this time, creating new memories, a new Rome. The first day Alex and I wandered around the centro storico and ended up at trajans column, the site at which he presented and knew so much that I fell in love with his intelligence and confidence (i know, gag), and there happened to be an Americans for Obama in Italy rally. I know, right? So, I stuck around, listened to a historian from the American Academy in Rome compare Obama to Trajan (gasp!), and some Chicago jazz singers belt out some tunes across the Piazza Venezia, into the bluest roman afternoon sky, and I felt my homes and my associations collide. Chicago and Obama, Rome and Travel, Politics and Alex and Jazz singers from the south side. Only Rome can make magic like this.

As I wander through this city, its different this time. I let my old associations with places be inserted into my experiences, but I am less naive this time, less aghast at the wonder and glory and constantly changing beauty of Rome. I am confident here and blazing a new trail towards a future, and hopefully before my time here is through I will be able to release the nostalgia and be in the moment, breathing in the scent of the cyprus trees among monuments to the long dead but not forgotten.

grandeur in venezia

So, venice is great. Neptune, or whomever the venetians and their grandiosity deems responsible for rain, cannot stop the helpless beauty and destruction that is venice. They may create frescoes and personify every city and steal the bones of important saints (st mark as the lion with wings?), but building a city on water takes gumption, and these venetians, they have it. Really, they were just forced by atilla and turks onto this lagoon as these conquerors kept trying to invade, but it turned out to be a pretty sweet place to live. I mean, if you would rather use a boat than a car to get around (who wouldnt?), then this is your place.

Prego, on top of all of this... today alex and i found a store that will fill up your water bottle with wine for 2 euro per liter. Thats one euro for filling up my water bottle with the sweet sweet fruits of the grape. Oh, italy. How I adore you.

Nevertheless, we did take an hours worth of ferrys to get to an island that we deemed too rainy to walk around on and turned back around. However, after that water-into-wine experience, a too large pizza for a not so large price, and then watching the lights of the night dance on the black liquid, i am converted into a true worshiper - like tintoretto - of the venetians. Its not rome. Oh, no. It will never be rome. And, as the band the mountain goats put it:

I'm going to get myself in fighting trim,
scope out every angle of unfair advantage.
I'm going to bribe the officials.
I'm going to kill all the judges.
it's going to take you people years to recover from all of the damage.

our mother has been absent ever since we founded rome.
but there's going to be a party when the wolf comes home.

on politics

So, we are going to be in italy for their parliamentary elections on april 13th and 14th. The italians have a man named berlusconi running against a guy called veltroni. berlousconi is like what you would think of rupert murdoch running for president, and veltroni has likened himself to our wonderkinz, obama. even adopting his little chant in the form of "si puo fare," or - yes we can.

i have been wearing an obama pin around europe thus far (except when i was sick for a while and didnt want to strike up conversations) and i have gotten so much positivity from people. from older american rich liberal women in line at the alhambra to bartenders at 150 year old taverns in madrid to bookshop keepers in florence who talk about the amount of books obama is selling abroad to young italian boys who love to yell "yeah, obama" to look cool and educated to the girls they are with. it is quite amazing to me how much american culture and politics is known throughout the world, and i think this is something we, as americans, take for granted. we still set the pace. our mcdonalds and our video games as well as our political leaders are known and a part of quotidian for people across the world. my self-loathing as an ugly american tourist is starting to overturn more and more with every response i get to my pin. every smile or prolonged glance makes me feel privileged and aware, but cautious. i am not proud of american idol being exported into the minds of young people across europe. (alex and i watched the french version - nouvelle star - and the cheesiness and the sheer amounts of cuts and camera angles literally made it physically difficult to watch). so it is a careful line i toe, knowing the ugliness that america brings, but the hope that brings us together.

the mediterranean coast

nice was nice, not very nice, just nice. we got there in the evening and everything was lit up in the glow of neon, which is always a bit shady looking. the beach is really just black stones, not sand, but i think the europeans will take what they can get as far as beaches go. the water, though, was as blue as any i had ever seen. we decided to take a day trip from nice to monaco and see this little ritzy nation, that of princess grace kelly. it was also nice, but somewhere where the only way to get your foot into any worthwhile door is to have billions (or maybe just millions) of dollars in a bank account under your name. so, we just climbed around in their gardens and tried to go to their aquarium, found out that they wont accept our student ids unless they said 2008 on them, and then we refused to pay 12.50 euro each (!) for entrance. Overall, the french coast is just not for budget travellers.

Well, neither is the italian coast, but its a bit better and more necessary to see. After nice we hopped on multiple painstakingly slow regional trains (6 hours to go 120 miles) to get to vernazza, rick steves favorite of the cinque terre towns. it was home to me. the peaches and pinks and salmons of the walls stacked on top of one another and the sheer rock cliffs. the house wine and the pasta and pizza and the frutta di mare. oh, italy! the first day we sat around, savored our first italian meal and relaxed. the second day we took a train to the furthest town away and planned to hike back to our town, vernazza. the sun was at our backs, the water was sparkling like a moonless northern sky and the towns sat atop their hilltop homes like proud soldiers on the lookout. after we got back we made ourselves some prosciutto sandwiches and laid out on our patio, overlooking the sea on the opposite side of the town. lying there, the sun laid atop my closed eyes, making me see pink, and the wind kissed my cheeks and i heard the waves crash stories down below. i met an older lady there, a former travel writer for all the major us and canadian newspapers, who told me to follow my bliss and i will find work that i love. she said it is not a moment of epiphany that finds it for you, only a slow construction of a lifestyle, and then you find your work on the front page of the la times and you know this is where you want your life to be. well, lady, i hope im as lucky as you were. but it was great advice, and i am just beginning to understand this statement - follow your bliss - and my understanding is coming through moments like these.

overall, the coast was too expensive for us, but well worth things seen and done. and italy has my heart, sorry france.

mystery in the mezquita

walking in a trance in the continued movement of my feet on the ground, i imagined a type of prayer that didnt rely on looking skywards. it inhabits the earth, looking to your own senses for enlightenment.

the mezquita in granada was built for this kind of prayer. in an unprecedented design, this mosque was built in an expanse of horizontal space, not vertical. the plethora of arches overhead meant to simulate the dizzy shadows of desert trees, the garden an oasis. it was meant to bring attention to its inhabitants life on earth, the use of your own body in space to create prayer.

so, i walked the halls of the mezquita (what wasnt ruined by its later christian inhabitants), and prayed and listened to the sound of my own feet taking me across space, felt the soft wind on my cheeks from my movement and through this horizontal movement i transcended my place in space and time and if only for a moment i found god in those endless halls.

sacrifice in sevilla

easter sunday was sevilla´s bullrings´ opening night of the season, so alex and i coughed up 55 euro each to catch this spectacle of spectacles.

aaaaand nothing spells class like raising an animal to be violent and then slowly killing them while wearing sparkly suits in front of a crowd of jeering plebeians. but this is the classiness that is a corrida de torros, here in the oldest of bullrings in sevilla, spain. first, all of the participants in the fights come out in a procession to greet the dignintaries that sit at one end of the ring. there are 6 fights, 6 bulls, 3 matadors with 3 peones and 3 banderilleros and 2 picadors each, 2 bulls for each group of men. First, the peones come out with pink and yellow capes, and get the bull good and ready to charge, training it to follow the moves of the cloth. then, the horns of the band sound and out come the picadors, men on heavily shielded and blindfolded horses who land the first blow on the bull. the bull charges them, and they stab it with a long pointy rod from their lofty position. usually the bull writhes around a bit, trying to defend itself against what it must think the horse has done, and the horse is just moved around by the bull and acts befuddled.

then, the banderilleros come out, these are men with a set of spears with frilly decorations on them, and they have no capes. the hold the spears to get the bulls attention and then the bull charges them, and they have the stick the spears into its side, where they usually stay, hanging on by the flesh of the pierced animal. i think this is the most dangerous role in the group, because these men have no capes to hide behind or to make them look bigger, they are alone with the bull and their spears.

finally, when the bull is largely weakened, the matador comes out and does the usual posturing, having the bull run circles around him using his cape with the crowd crying ole at every successful attempt. finally, after the bull has been tired out, the matador gets his sword and lands the find blow to the bull, deep into its flesh.

the ensuing minutes are the very very worst of the match. the peones come back out and wave their capes in front of the dying bull in its last minutes of life. it tries to charge, but has lost all of its energy by the constant attacks by this batch of bullies. it is the saddest for me, like a group of scavengers, huddling over this near-dead animal, waiting for it to fall to its knees and for their matador to gain glory. bleeding from its side and out of its mouth, the animal falls onto its front knees and then onto its side, breathing its last in front of the cheering crowd.

if the matador has pleased the crowd enough, everyone holds up their handkerchiefs, and he is awarded the bull´s ear, a prized gift.

to me, this show is barbaric, but one that i am glad that i witnessed. i felt part of the tradition of man overcoming beast for the joy of the masses that has its roots in places from rodeos to the Colosseum.

that was my easter sunday. but im sure the lying around and eating ham you did was cool, too.

um its pretty much just like a castle

the alhambra. according to a young hippy-type, tucking his blond locks behind his ear and nodding his head in self-congratulation in having such an astute observation.

it is an ancient castle, the fortress of muslim rulers, conquered by ferdinand and isabella, forgotten for centuries until washington irving and the romantics took interest. buildings built upon others, islamic walls holding up a christian ceiling. the confluence of two belief systems. muslim rooms containing imperfections so as not to challenge the perfectness of allah, lots of sets of sevens, depictions through symbol of heaven and earth. christian carvings mostly allusions of grandeur, large depictions of biblical stories and the conflation of ferdinand and isabella as holy rulers.

the gardens are called generalife, places of pleasure for muslim rulers in harems to twentieth century american writers. alex and i sit on the edge of one, listening to the water flow through the various fountains, the budding orange blossoms wafting in the dry sunny air, overlooking the fortress of the alhambra, and this is where i laid down in alex´s lap and let my heavy eyelids close, and took a nap. like an ancient islamic concubine lying among the others in the harem, i relax in this place of pleasure, awaiting my moment of duty.

far-reaching nature in Fes

sitting on the salmon-colored crumbling fortress walls on the moroccan hillside, i let the gusts of biting wind blow my hair over my eyes as i look down at the whitewashed imperial city of fes. the countless minarets of madersas and mosques jut above the skyline, poking at the dusting of clouds in the sunset sky. some giggles over my shoulder draw me away from my newfound serenity, after having spent a hectic day smelling the tanneries and hanging goat bowels in the souqs and the essential oils of roses and lavenders. a group of four boys are tumbling over each other, glancing in my direction. I give them what they want, a moment of my attention, i show them my camera and ask if they want their picture taken. as if soldiers called to attention, they fall into a pose, smiling at the prospect of seeing their own mugs gleaming across the playback monitor of my camera. after the shutter snaps, they sprint over and examine the evidence. I have seen this before, with the children in the orphanage in ecuador. they love to see their image replicated, a celebrity on a tiny screen in this stranger's life. everyone is narcissistic, children just lack the capacity to shield it. we strike up a conversation. they only speak arabic, and are beginners learning french in school, and i only speak english and poorly pronounced french from my western european phrasebook. nonetheless, i manage to tell them that im from chicago, my father is a fireman and my brother a seaman, that i disagree with the war in iraq and that i dont know if i like the Real Madrid or Barcelona or Roma futbol teams better. They tell me that they know the bagdad anthem, which they sing for me, they show me some of their favorite dance moves and the tallest of the 13 year olds tells me that him and i should run away to barcelona together, where we will dance in the clubs and he will make me his chicken couscous that is "tre bien, tre bien." I tell him that maybe he should get a little taller, and his friends laugh at him. he is gracious about it, knowing the far-reaching nature of his proposition.

i gave them my email address, knowing that this communication through hands and eyes and hearts will never translate onto a screen, so i hold a place in my memory for them as i walk away and they follow me down the hill to bid me adieu.

this is merely the best of my many stories of sweet moroccans.

it is amazing how much cultural similarity can be found between individuals brought up worlds and assumptions apart. i found again today how small this place we call the world is, and how pure the spirit of a gaggle of 13 year old boys can be. they always laugh at each other, there is always a goof and a quiet one and a serious one: "hey, come on, guys, that's enough, leave her alone!" they always want to impress older women and they never know how much their sincerity really does.

the splendor of africa

How do I begin to speak about my time in morocco? It is like trying to explain the second law of thermodynamics and how it relates to the life of a recent college graduate. So, I will start there: it has been death-defying, exhilarating, the most inclusive and invasive and beautiful travel experience of my short life. The warm air swirls around me as I make my way through the plaza; beggars and thieves surround me but I am not scared, I have been here before. Guayaquil, Quito, Chetumal, every place like this has the same feel, at first. I thought it would be one of those trips again: moving through the world trying not to get robbed and holding your breath until it is over. But this time, surprisingly, it wasnt that way.

I have seen piles of multi-colored spices and persian rugs, fire-eaters and children begging for a meal, felt the wind of rushing mopeds, walked the twisting alleyways through centuries-old walls. It is warm here, my cheeks get rosy in the sun but the breeze makes the warmth comfortable like lying on your mothers lap. At night, the grand plaza comes to life, filling with fortune tellers and musicians and lost souls. I can afford anything and everything I would ever want here, and I havent met a nicer nation of people in any one I have been. Tommorow I am leaving the 13th century city walls to go to the city gardens, to lie in the grass and breathe in the splendor of africa.

sleepy in london

The flight to London would have been my most ritzy flight yet (British Airways), with classical music, new digital technology and food and comfort, but -- even though there were a plethora of free seats available with more room -- the guy who sat next to alex and i did not leave his seat. not only did he not leave his seat, cramming alex and i into a tiny space with his wide elbow stance, he also left his overhead light on the entire flight, even while he was asleep. great. so I got no sleep on the flight and when I noticed the sun rising over the clouds I knew my day would not be a meaningful one.

I have spent most of my day today trying to stay awake, falling asleep in both the British museum and the national gallery, and being asked to not be a public vagabond in this way politely by some older staff members. I must seem like i am on drugs, my eyes rolling back into my head while trying to acknowledge their authority.

London is expensive. Really, too expensive for me to do anything worthwhile. So, on to morocco, the land of plenty for the penny-pinching traveller.

bursting in phoenix

phoenix, az. After leaving the sunny snow of Colorado, I headed to the airport with my family. Lindsey, Ricky and Dad all heading to Chicago, and me off to sunny Arizona, where nan and uncle Kurt live. When asked by the curbside check-in where I was going, I offered: Chicago. Midway. “Really?” he asked, “I see a Richard on here, but no Ashley.” Oh jesus. I am going to Phoenix, not home. Indicative of my place right now – lost, unsure, bewildered, filled with wonder – I hopped on the plane headed for the desert sun.

Uncle Kurt and Nan picked me up amid all of the airport congestion. We spent a few days bumming around, seeing their friends and a movie and lunches and dinners. We ran into Rick and Bonnie, friends with whom I stayed in Paris on an excursion from Rome. We talked US state department and related careers, and I asked for advice for my future. The more time I spend away from home, with time to think, I begin to know that I do not know what I want with my future. The conventional wisdom suggests, however, that I shouldn’t. From every woman I have ever known who has had a baby or gotten married or settled in a career before twenty-five: don’t do it, see the world, explore, find yourself. So I am.

At Nan and Uncle Kurt’s house, I spent time lying on the cold concrete in the hot sun; it felt like an electric blanket warming me in the mild desert winter. They had pink grapefruits growing on a tree in the backyard – when eating them I just felt like I was biting into fertility. These luscious fruits just burst out of the dry sands and now exploded with flavor in my mouth. It always smells like spring in the desert, with few blossoms to be seen, I still smelled a plethora of budding flowers as I made my way through the day.

Ani’s visit was a welcome change. She came in from Miami for the weekend and we went straight away to see her native friends at o’odham tash carnival in casa grande. Amid some car troubles and uncertain directions, we found our way to the festival by looking for the ferris wheel among the desert flatness. We met up, ate flat bread, watched a rodeo and chatted in the soft winter sun. We listened to some country, then traditional Mexican music, then sauntered over to a baseball diamond where the o’odham where holding a pow wow and a drum circle. We headed back over to the rodeo area where there was to be a dance. It was too early so we ran off to get some food, and back in time for the festivities. Shane showed us how to “chicken scratch,” a dance by which everyone walked in a counter-clockwise circle all together doing something that looked like a cross between meringue with their feet and bobbing their head like a chicken to cumbia music. This communal dancing lasted all night; Ani and I cut out after a few rounds.

The next day we met up to take a trek to Montezuma’s castle – a cliff dwelling belonging not to Montezuma, but another tribe up in the sheer rocks of Arizona. After the short tour, we decided that we had enough day left to head to Sedona. We squabbled over where to park, and then found our way up bell mountain. The higher we climbed, the more spectacular the view, and we just kept conquering the boulders going up and up and up. The sun was fading quickly, so we had to turn around. We slipped out of the red rocks just as the sun hid behind the mountains in the distance and popped into a strange café in town. We laughed over the strange waitress, Taco, and the wackiness of the decorations and staff. Our cheers slipped out the door and into the fading blue sky, echoing amongst the purpling cliffs.

Ani’s visit was a joy, filling me with such love for my good friends. The kind who always want to know how you’re doing, but actually care about your answer.

It was quite comforting to catch up with my family in the west: talking to them honestly about my hopes and fears, being taken care of by them, and feeling belonging for a time. “If we loved you any more we would just burst!” So, I bursted inside with joy and love and contentment.

keystone.colorado

Alex drove me into the bay area and dropped me off at Ricky's house. I won't be seeing him for a couple weeks. After a lonely afternoon listening to new music I just downloaded from the film There Will Be Blood Ricky came home and we got some dinner with Nolan. The next afternoon we flew out to Denver. Dad and Lindsey flew into Denver from Chicago and had already gotten the rental car. Our cousin Brett picked us up and we headed up the mountain. In On the Road Kerouac and his buddies spent a lot of time in Denver; I remember his description of his first time into the west sitting in the back of a pick up truck and breaking out of the confines of Iowa. It is like the air overflowed with oxygen and the crisp stars were so many that they lit up the sky like tiny flames. Denver felt, to me, like any American city. So much has changed since Jack's time. The air was cold and the mountains formed a wall in the distance. We drove into the storm in the night. We were meeting dad and Lindsey at the cabin. Walls of snow surrounded our car, the wind shook the steel frame, and I felt sheltered. As we drove along, some divine lights peered around the corner of the jagged rocks -- a rock quarry in the middle of the mountains swirling in the snow. Colorado is as I imagined.

We got to the cabin, unpacked, Lindsey and I snuggled up in the bed and chatted in the warmth until we lost consciousness. We rushed in the morning to get skis, to prepare for the blizzard snow hill and its negative temperatures, and to fuel our bodies. I felt too hot then too cold, there were moments when millimeters of skin exposed felt susceptible to frostbite. My joints got cold and sore in the weather. We quit early.

Lindsey and I giggled and got into our bathing suits and went outside in the winter weather and slipped into the pool. We shivered in the water, not being cold but perceiving the snow that surrounded us, we felt it was the appropriate thing to do. We squealed with delight and pretend coldness and dared each other to get out into the freezing air and plop into the hot tub. Finally, we hopped in, and so did the rest of the resort, and we found ourselves surrounded by middle-aged wonks who sounded, to us, like the teacher from the peanuts. We got out, showered, went out to eat, said goodbye to Brett and then slipped our sore bodies into bed awaiting the sustained activity that was to come with the dawn.

Morning came and it was sunny. What Brett called a blue bird day. For comparison's sake, yesterday was a dirty city pigeon day. My legs felt warm and Lindsey and I were set to explore. We found the perfect run: it was long and slow and beautiful. We spent some time skiing through the trees, finding little bumps and getting a few inches of air. Lindsey and I then decided to go tubing. These tobaggon-like ruts in the snow held the tubes as you slid down. Lindsey, inevitably, got involved in snowball fights with the workers there, flirting and taking names. I laughed till my cheeks hurt, assuredly getting taken for a ride with her antics. The boys were from Chicago, she is to meet up with them again, never I'm sure.

We spent the evening the the hot tub as before, this time with young college boys with big muscles. Lindsey sat coyly and smiled. We went out to eat and had beer and buffalo, then stumbled home and fell asleep.

We left the resort the next morning after some cheesy snapshots and memorabilia, drove out of the mountains and across the plains to Boulder, where Brett lives. Ate in a hippie sandwich place with Brett and his girlfriend, gave them back their borrowed clothes and some leftover food and headed for the airport.

A nice, safe, family trip with only fond memories.

the california coast

Alex and his mom and I packed up their motor home and headed out for the coast this week. The weather up here in the foothills has been pretty awful, so we thought maybe we would catch some sun on the coast - and boy were we right. Here's what we did:

1. Hearst Castle. This is a very large home erected by former media magnate William Randolph Hearst, on whom the film Citizen Kane was based. I was excited to see the place partly because of my extensive study of the film and partly to gawk at the belongings of this one man. The tour was surprisingly not cheesy at all and quite interesting. This man collected original roman columns, 3000 year old statues from Egypt, 6th century Iranian tiles, and tapestries and paintings and whole ceilings from churches in Italy and Spain, and the list goes on. I was particularly moved by the quality of the grounds and the care taken of all of the art. In the midst of all this wealth, I could not forget that the depression was raging while these sycophants splashed around in the heated pool and ate imported international cuisine. Some people love to gawk and adore massive wealth, but part of me really hates that a place like this exists. I was also interested in the historical context in which this place exists. It took centuries for cultures to create the art and architecture that this man bought for his once palace in the 20th century. This is an effect of the early industrial revolution and an act that will -- unless we find another source of abundant energy again -- never be repeated. All in all, a quite fulfilling tour with fantastic photos to be taken.

2. elephant seal beach day. So, apparently the elephant seals all got a memo to meet on this beach just north of San Simeon, because it was a par-tay! There were thousands of them, lying on their fat bodies, rolling over their young-ins, and smelling like the outhouses at the end of the taste of chicago. There were considerably more females than males, with an obvious harem around the largest males. The ladies fought for the big kahuna's attention while sometimes suffocating their young under their blubber, and the loser, smaller males stuck over by the coast, wallowing in their tiny sorrows. I noticed one time, where a thin tiny loser male came charging at this big guy, and the guy just turned around and showed him how big his nose/trunk was, and the little guy just shamefully backed away.

3. Limekiln State Park. Here we could park the motor home with a spectacular view of the coast. This particular beach is a meeting place between the sheer coast mountain ranges, a raging glacial stream and the sharp varied rocks left by years of erosion. Just a few feet in from the beach was a pathway to a fairy-tale-esque forest. We hiked only about a quarter mile and found the warmth and windlessness of the forest enchanting. There were giant redwoods and a river carrying down the effects of the recent snowstorm in the mountains. The sun gleamed off the river and birds chirped and I wondered where Snow White was. or Pocahontas. We took a stroll on soft pathways of pine needles and found these giant kilns in the forest made of limestone and metal. I felt like an explorer, coming upon the remnants of an ancient society.

4. Point Lobos State Park. Also known as the crown jewel of california's state park system. Suffice it to say that I saw gray whales, harbor seals, otters, pelicans, sea lions, sea urchins, starfish, anemones, and deer. In this post, i'll let the pictures speak for themselves.

I have now begun to appreciate California's great natural wonders.

reno

reno, NV. jan 15-20.

Alex's mom drove us to a nearby town so we could take a greyhound bus to Reno. We got a subsidized casino rate, bought the most watery hot chocolate I have ever tasted, and set sail. On the bus, I delved back into Kerouac, reading of his adventures through Reno on his way to the bay area. Surrounded by old ladies looking to gamble, we were on a mission to get a man elected.

We got there late, checked into our cheap -- but also clean -- motel 6 and went to sleep. Early the next morning we strolled into the office, feeling a little overwhelmed by the chaos that defines political campaigning, and were introduced to Mike from Santa Cruz, whom I now know as one of the most wonderful people I have ever met. We were tossed into a car, after a brief overview of ideas and facts we already knew, and headed with Mike over to Kathy's house -- our home base for canvassing.


Canvassing is the process by which you knock on potential caucus-goers' doors in order to remind or persuade them to caucus for your candidate. We spent the majority of our time in Reno doing this, with intermittent assembly-line tasks in the evening. Our organizer, Roger, just graduated also and chose to commit the next year or so of his life supporting the political aspirations of Barack Obama. Alex and I came for a week. Roger is from New York and was assigned to Reno back in June or July. Since then, he has been working 80 hour weeks as an unpaid intern and then was offered a staff position as the fall rolled around. He hasn't got much sleep since he started, but is by far the most capable and fearless and dedicated 22 year old I have ever encountered.

I won't delve into the details, but suffice it to say that my hope in politics is beginning to be restored. I met dozens of people who gave up large chunks of their life to commit themselves to the future of our nation. I saw the nastiest of tactics by the Clinton camp and the apathy of the electorate. I saw numbers and polls and I watched the sadness and disappointment in the eyes of believers. This week has sparked joy and excitement and connection with the people I've met and hatred and apathy and anger with many I haven't. I am beginning to see my place in the whole, and to understand how I am being molded by the hands of this experience.