Category: travel

Blogging from Seattle

Seattle, Day 1

Above is a link to the pictures I took yesterday.  If you click on a picture you’ll find exciting descriptions providing a depth not present in the brief captions.   Below, you’ll find discussion of things I didn’t take pictures of.  Whee!

I arrived in Seattle at 2:30 AM Monday night/Tuesday morning, so sleeping was top on my list of things to do.  Tuesday, morning, though, Kevin and I started off with a 1 PM breakfast at Piroshki On Broadway, a very cute Russian bakery/restaurant.  I had never heard of piroshkies, but loved the warm and savory beef & cheese pastry served by a thick Slavic woman with a thick Russian accent.  From there we made a requisite stop at Starbucks and sat outside until scared off by the stench of other patrons and local street-dwellers.

Later in the day we headed down to Pioneer Square to take the Underground Tour Kevin had heard about.  For $10 each we spent 90 minutes learning about the history of Seattle and walking through the underground sidewalks and buildings buried when they redistributed the cliffs to level the land in the late 19th century.  Our tour guide, Gael (pronounced Gayle), was sharp and funny (though trying much too hard) and clearly enjoyed her job.  While my preference is to see that kind of thing without the non-stop narration of a guide, it was a good time, and educational too.

When we parked to take the tour, I noticed that we were right in front of a place called Cow Chip Cookies.  Maria James had recommended Cow Chips to me, but I’d never have remembered to seek them out had Kevin not parked where he did.  I’m glad she’d mentioned them, though, and that we happened upon the small store, as they were as delectable as promised.  Along with eating warm, soft, chocolatey cookies, we also learned from the woman behind the counter that they don’t have Tootsie Rolls in Australia.

It had been overcast during my entire previous visit to Seattle back in May, so although I’d heard people talk about Mt Rainier I had no firsthand proof of its existence and, to be quite honest, was beginning to believe that it was just a giant myth designed to separate the posers from the true Seattlites.  Since the weather on this visit has been beautiful, though a bit hazy, it seemed time to dispel my misconceptions, so we headed south on I-5 to get a bit closer.  It turns out that this mountain does exist and is as impressive as it is purported to be.  Even now, in late July, its peak is shrouded in snow, hovering so far above the horizon it could easily be mistaken for clouds.

After driving through Seattle’s rush hour we were getting hungry, so we headed back to Capitol Hill to the Wing Dome.  Kevin loves the wings there, believing them to be the best anywhere, so I was excited.  Unfortunately, I was disappointed.  The owner apparently conducted focus groups to create her recipe prior to introducing Seattlites to the idea of hot wings in 1994.  The focus group, though, must have had flawed taste as the result, while good, resembles traditional buffalo wings only in that it is chicken wings covered with sauce.  The sauce tastes nothing like our East Coast wings and, frankly, would not be capable of sating my cravings.  The blue cheese provided was sub-par as well, as if they’d simply taken grocery store salad dressing and poured into a small plastic cup.  Kokomos is still the best.

To finish off a very full day, we then walked to Kincora to meet Lydi.  A laid back “Irish pub” place with a neighborhood feel, but overwhelmingly loud and swelteringly hot.  After a few drinks, we relocated to Bad Juju where they had a fish tank in the wall…fifteen feet up.  Vastly different from Kincora, Bad Juju was of the dark and deliberately cool atmosphere.  Had it been crowded I imagine the patrons would have been annoyingly trendy for my taste, but as we were nearly the only ones there I enjoyed it.

I’ll be in Seattle until Friday morning, at which time Kevin and I will hit the road for the following two weeks.  I hope to be blogging throughout, so stay tuned!

Easton Museum of Pez Dispensers

sunset chaser :: Easton Museum of Pez Dispensers

Jared came down from Massachusetts yesterday and today we drove 2 hours to Easton, PA to visit the Easton Museum of Pez Dispensers.

You see, Jared collects Pez dispensers. I briefly dabbled in it without getting obsessed, so he knew I’d be a good person to visit the museum with. Plus, I’m probably closer to it geographically than anyone else he knows. But anyway, when he suggested it, I figured, why the hell not?

It was a lot of fun. If you ever happen to be in Easton (yeah, right), I recommend it. The museum is basically one big room with 1500 dispensers displayed in a variety of ways. A lot of the dispensers have been re-painted or otherwise altered to create what they call “Fantasy Pez”. These are less authentic, of course, but it was fun to see what some people did with them.

I won’t waste a lot of time describing the museum as I took nearly a hundred pictures, most of which are posted in the gallery for your enjoyment, but it was clear that the proprieters love what they do and had a blast putting together all the displays. Because of that care, and the energy of the museum, I had a blast.

Home again, home again

I have returned from my Rural Retreat vacation a little bit sun burnt but in one piece. I had a fantastic week but I’m not sure I can even begin to describe it without sounding like a hippie, which makes me not sure I should even try. I’m feeling centered, relaxed, inspired, and, now that I’ve been home long enough to take a shower, clean. I’ll have pictures up later (though, unfortunately, no breathtaking mountainscapes), but for now I’m going to go put lotion on my nose and call Johanna. Time to reconnect with the real world.

I can always change my name

I spent this weekend in western Massachusetts, visiting friends I made at Hampshire College. I left Hampshire after one year and haven’t seen anyone from there in four years, but half a dozen or so of the people I met during that time have remained close to my heart, even as we fell out of touch. Most of the friends I remember graduated within the last year or so and have scattered to different areas but Jared and Justin are still living in western Mass, for now. When Jared called a few weeks ago to invite me to come see them before Justin moves to Boston, I was thrilled to be able to do so. The time I was there was very brief, but I had time to sample some good local beer, hear some cool music, and have a great conversation with the two of them covering life since Hampshire, plans for the future, and political beliefs.

As we said goodbye on Sunday afternoon Jared said, “I’m glad you’re the same Julia I remember.” I didn’t know what to say because I feel like I’ve grown immensely in the last four years, but at the same time I recognized the truth in what he was saying. He and Justin have grown and matured, but they too are still fundamentally unchanged. We were young and idealistic in our first year of college and we are young and idealistic now. We are all, however, more informed than we were then, as well as more contemplative and articulate.

I wonder, though, if ten years from now will find us equally unchanged but growing. The story of growing up often seems to be one of abandonment of ideals in favor of jobs, families, houses, and cars. I see many of my peers, chronological and otherwise, struggling to find a balance, with varying degrees of success.

Some ideals seem to be inherently more compatible with the “real world.” Jared spoke a little bit about thinking that he will never have the money for many of the things he wants to do unless he compromises his ideals. Aside from my feelings about the malleability of our world and a belief that it can be possible to make a decent living without that kind of compromise (unless of those ideals is that money is evil), I wonder if eventually he, like so many of my parents’ generation (sidenote: one of the things I most admire about my parents is that they have always tried to live to their highest truths, and, I think, done well at it) will re-evaluate their priorities in favor of family, comfort, and stability. And I wonder if we make those decisions we are fundamentally changed. I arrived home in the midst of all this wondering and awoke this morning to an email from Kevin about the Enneagram.

I have seen books about the Enneagram in the Self-Help and (pseudo-)Spiritual sections of bookstores and have always dismissed it as hand-wavy crap without knowing anything about it. I have, however, always been interested in personality typing, including the Myers-Briggs Type Inventory (I’m an INTP), so I followed the link in the email and took their free test. It told me that I am a Type 5, which, after reading the descriptions, is where I would have put myself. That intrigued me enough to keep reading.

While some of the philosophy behind it still does seem a little hand-wavy to me, other aspects rang true. There’s a lot I don’t know about it, having just visited their website this morning for the first time, but one thing that struch me was the way in which it analyzed motivation, rather than just behavioral personality. For example, the “Key Motivation” for my type is knowledge. Other types might list beauty, joy, generosity, or truth. The site also includes the following discussion of personality:

The personality has the function of closing us down so that we can feel more defended against a threatening and uncertain world. At one time in our lives, in childhood, this response was adaptive and necessary. We had to identify with whatever qualities we found in ourselves in order to defend ourselves more efficiently and to find our place in the world.

But if we were able to stop identifying with our personality right now, who would we be? What would guide our actions? Who or what would be speaking in us? If, all of a sudden, the “autopilot” that directs many of our actions is no longer in charge, how would we be able to live?


This idea of personality as almost a contrivance of the ego is one that’s always held truth for me, but I’ve also always felt that there was still something fundamental that wasn’t contrived. While Myers-Briggs is an interesting personality inventory, it doesn’t concern itself with the more fundamental things that the Enneagram does. I don’t plan to run out and buy any of their books, but pseudo-spiritualist bullshit or not, what I’ve read so far fits fairly cleanly with other beliefs that I already have, adding a dimension to my ideas about psychology and spirituality.

Mississippi

I arrive after the storm to find clear
waters now deep and sparkling blue, flashing
in still pools on sand far darker than my
fall memories of running into this
unexpected solace in a warm land.

I return a year later in search of
the calm that once healed my devastation,
now looking only to be cradled by
warm waters, to bask on empty white shores.

The wreckage here stands as a monument…
Where we are together, we will be healed.

——————————————————–

Today has been a lazy dream of the best sort. Having been thoroughly exhausted by not enough sleep on Monday night and a three-leg flight yesterday, I went to bed relatively early last night. It was dark when I left Pensacola at about 6 PM, so I saw very little of interest until I woke up here, in Gulfport, Mississippi, and pulled my blinds open to reveal nearly blinding sunlight sparkling on the Gulf of Mexico before me. Due to the storm that came through yesterday before my arrival, the sand was much darker than it was a year ago when my sister and I stopped here to do cartwheels on the beach on our way from California to Harrisburg; the water was not the cool clear I remembered either, but a deep blue looking very much like the calm after a storm.

I sat at the desk in my room writing the above poem, pausing frequently to wonder at the beauty of the view from my window and giggle in glee at the old men exposing brown and leathered legs as they walked the sand in shorts and t-shirts. I wrote until my room service breakfast arrived, delightedly watching The Weather Channel report an expected high of 68 while I ate, then showered before putting my bathing suit on under my clothes and crossing the street onto the beach itself.

A cool breeze swept through what would otherwise have been perfectly warm air, but as it was I was still sorry I’d worn my jacket. Off it came, along with my socks and shoes, and I headed to the edge of the water. The shore line was dotted with tidal pools and evenly ridged with peaks and valleys just under an inch apart and with a height difference of about the same. They massaged my feet as I walked what must have been over a mile in the wet sand before stopping to sit by the water.

Every time I visit a cold beach, I marvel at those lying in bathing suits while I shiver fully clothed. They are dedicated worshippers of the sand and surf and though I cannot claim their level of devotion, I understood them a bit better today as I removed my shirt and lay, bikini top and rolled up jeans, smiling at the sun on my bare skin. I lasted only five minutes, though, before the wind picked up, not only chilling me but also sending sand into my face, so I again donned my shirt, socks, and shoes, and headed inland to walk back on firmer ground.

As I walked back on the top of the concrete stairs leading from the road to the beach (there was no sidewalk, only a curb and strip of grassy sand between street and stairs), I experienced the low point of my day as at least a dozen people honked, shouted, or whistled while they drove by. Some would say that I have asked for this or that, at the very least, I should be flattered, but that kind of attention makes me feel vulnerable in all the worst ways, especially when traveling alone in a town where I know no one. Moreover, I wonder at the motivation behind it — do these motorists expect that I am going to turn around, chase them down waving my arms until they pull over so I can thank them for the honk by giving them head? Perhaps that works on some girls, but I mustered my strength and made it back to the hotel without giving in to such temptation.

In my room I stretched out my tired legs and settled on the couch to read for a while, then crawled into bed for a brief afternoon nap. I awoke an hour later to the colors of sunset outside my window.

The picture at the top of this page was taken from the beach I walked today and was not a small part of my decision to return. My immediate thought was that I should chase this sunset, until it occurred to me that I had a beautiful view from where I lay and while I enjoy the hunt, there is no reason not to appreciate beauty just as deeply if it should come to you.

When the sun finished its slow descent, I got up to rinse the remaining sand from my back and feet before heading out to get take-out enchiladas and a six-pack of Corona, inspired by my siesta and the lack of good Mexican food in Harrisburg. Having finished eating while watching a special on Lee Harvey Oswald on the History Channel, I sit here now writing this. When I am done I will walk back out to the beach to sit on the sand and wish on the shooting stars of tonight’s meteor shower.

I will wish for more days like this one.

Erie Sunset

I wanted to write something exciting over my three day weekend, but as I was sitting at a tiny table in a huge Eat ‘N Park in Erie trying to get something down, I was interrupted by a midget and it threw me off my groove.

Perhaps I should back up. Since I realized two weeks ago that I was going to have a three day weekend followed by an eight day work week, I’d been thinking about taking a road trip. After careful consideration of all the factors (I wanted water, Pennsylvania in the fall, and a sunset), I decided that Erie would be the perfect destination. I’d never been to that part of the state — the closest I’d ever come was I-80 on the way to California — and it seemed like the best way to see the sun set over the water, rare as it is on the East Coast to find beaches facing west. When I remembered thinking as I was on I-80 on the last day of September 2000 that the hills would be gorgeous just a few weeks later, I was sold. Wunderground.com told me that Erie’s Sunday sunset would be occurring at 6:32 PM, so I left Harrisburg shortly after 1 PM.

The drive was as breathtaking as I hoped it would be, reaffirming my belief that I live in one of the most beautiful places on earth. I was tempted many times to stop to take pictures, but I knew I needed to hurry if I wanted to make it in time for the sunset. I was worried I wasn’t going to make it until I got onto I-79 at 5:00 and saw a sign for Erie in 60 miles, at which point I knew the timing was perfect. When I got to Erie, though, I actually had a hard time finding a beach that faced west. Kevin had told me to find the peninsula park, but he couldn’t remember the name of it. After some sunset chasing through the city, which, incidentally, was phenomenally ugly despite a few interesting looking old industrial buildings, I finally found Peninsula Drive and a sign for Presque Isle State Park.

The sunset was as beautiful as the city was ugly. I sat in the sand to watch the sun turning gray clouds luscious shades of peach before melting them to molten streams of red lava sparkling across the dark water. I stayed for over an hour, until the last traces of light slipped away and I bid the lake good night. So impressed was I with Kevin’s advice that I decided to follow his second Erie-tourist tip and move on to the local Eat ‘N Park.

The local Eat ‘N Park, though huge and new, was not nearly as impressive as the park. It took nearly 15 minutes for my waitress to notice me and her service was grudging at best for the duration of my meal. After finishing my chicken alfredo and pumpkin pie, I considered leaving then, to write in a motel room rather than at the restaurant as I’d originally intended, but decided instead to stay. Just a few minutes later, one of the classic comedic combinations entered and was seated directly across the aisle from me. A tall, lanky boy of about 19 or 20 appeared first, his goofy smile revealing not only a shockingly average IQ but also a set of cuspids and bicuspids that protruded over his lower lip on both sides of his mouth. Immediately behind him — a midget.

It took me only a brief period to recover from the initial shock and return to my writing, but I continued to listen to their conversation out of the corner of my ear. It was striking only in its lack of interesting topics — these were normal young men, stuck in that awkward stage where they want badly to be adults and to establish their independence but still lacking the maturity and wisdom to do it. They spoke of girls and keggers, cars and the possibility of joining the military. Just as I was getting bored, my thoughts returning completely to my attempt to describe the gulls perched on the series of perfectly uniform man-made rock formations that evenly line the shores of the lake, I was interrupted by a familiar admonishment.

“Smile!”

I must have a tendency to scowl while deep in thought because strangers in diners often use this as an opening line when I least want to be distracted. But when a midget tells you to smile, it’s awfully hard not to. This started a conversation, no more interesting than their prior dialogue, but enough to keep me there for another hour.

The more I travel, the more convinced I am that people are ultimately the same everywhere and although this can be slightly discouraging, I enjoy seeing the humanity beneath the constructs we create. These boys were no different, trying hard to be the people they thought they should be, but looking like they miss more often than not.

I left Eat ‘N Park underwhelmed but satisfied and took 322 through the clear and crisp night, Simon & Garfunkel’s version of humanity filling my ears the whole ride home.