Day Thirty-One: Welcome to Hell…Michigan
Hell, despite popular opinion, is quite beautiful
It’s not every day that you get to visit Hell and survive unscathed. Today was such a day, and let me tell, Hell is not the fire and brimstone, perpetual torture place that it’s cracked up to be. Rather, Hell is a beautiful town of 90 or so people tucked away in Michigan, surrounded by trees and small lakes. And Hell, despite popular belief, is quite popular.
So Michigan is a beautiful state, dotted with mini lakes and trees. This of course is the parts away from the many metropolitan areas of the state, like the economically starved Flint and Detroit, devastated by the automobile industry undergoing self-destruct mode as of now. Michigan is notorious for its awful roads, which is a reputation well earned. During my trip, the only place where the roads were even worse, where you had to avoid potholes and broken asphalt at almost every turn, was New York.
In case you didn't realize...
Back to Hell. Hell, other than it being an outpost in terms of population, boasts three shops – a market, a tourist trap, and a bar and grill. What else do you really need in Hell, seriously. You can satisfy most of the seven sins in this place if you spent but an hour there. The place is so small it could easily be missed to the unaware eye. The only indicator that you’re in Hell is a sign painted on the tourist shop that welcomes you to Hell, along with a plump smiling devil. Behind the shop are an array of painted pictures where you can stick your head and pretend to be a devil while getting a photo taken. There’s even a picnic area where you can relax after buying a sinful ice cream cone inside the tourist shop, where just about anything you can imagine has Hell written on it – shot glasses, pint glasses, shirts, sweaters, posters, you name it. Upon purchasing an item, you are given an “exit visa” allowing you safe passage out of Hell. For the shopkeepers, the Hell jokes never get old and they’ve heard everyone of them so don’t even try if you visit.
I had to splurge a bit while there, so I bought a shirt, a shot glass and pint glass to remember by brief trip through Hell. Then I went to the bar and grill, had me a spicy chicken wrap drenched in hot sauce, washed it down with a local brew before getting back on the road. My plan for the next day is to take the ferry across Lake Michigan, then travel to Madison, WI on my way back home. Home. It’s been on my thoughts often now, and after the blowout the vulernability of my vehicle, nay my entire trip, was laid bare. The impulsive adventrous John that left a month eariler was replaced by a pragmatic and cautious one, and it was at that point where I had to make a decision: do I continue on with my trip, continue to take hits to my finances which I realized were rapidly depleting, or do I call it an adventure and push back home? I had to figure that one out by the tomorrow, cause I stand on a crossroads where I can drive northwest, west, or south. Choices.
Day Thirty: Bloomsburg Blowout
Appalachian Mountains
Driving coast to coast, you can’t help but be concerned about the health of your vehicle. Every time I hit the road, I wonder in the back of mind whether something will go awry. Well, today those thoughts were realized while driving down the I-80 through Pennsylvania.
I didn’t notice when it happened, but I noticed shortly after as I weaved in and out of traffic and felt my car swirl around. I knew something was wrong, so I pulled off the road and stopped at a gas station. Sure enough, my rear tire was flatter than a beer left out overnight. I cursed several times at first, then felt thankful that the blowout didn’t happen in the middle of nowhere.
Where I ended up was a college town called Bloomsburg, tucked away in the rolling green fluffy humps that is the Appalachian Mountains. Fortunately, the blowout only cost me about three hours to get fixed. In the process, I chatted it up with the guy who ran the small car shop where my tire was replaced.
Bloomsburg has striking similarities to Arcata, CA, my home for all of you who may not know. Both cities boast a transitory population of about 15,000, with college students taking up a good-sized chunk of that. Both cities face the consequences of a collapsing economy. In Bloomsburg, there used to be a thriving RV production facility that employed about 700 people before shutting down in recent years. Luckily for this gentleman and other small business owners in town, the college students have cushioned the shock of the emerging economic depression, kind of like how students help keep Arcata afloat. And other than the college itself, Bloomsburg has a thriving medical facility that employs a good portion of the population there, like Arcata and Humboldt County as a whole. It was an interesting education to discover a small town of similar status, perhaps the two cities can join up and become sisters or something.
Needless to say, by the time I got back on the road, I didn’t feel like driving much, not to mention I had a lingering paranoia that another tire was going to go flat on me. I drove a few hours into the windy mountains before stopping in a town called Clearfield. Unbeknown to me at the time, this small town is home to a restaurant with national celebrity status. The place, featured on the Food Network, is called Denny’s Beer Barrel Pub, a small grill known for it’s gigantic hamburgers. When I mean gigantic, I’m talking about hamburgers that come in 25lb, 50lb, and 100lb varieties. If you thought the Philly Cheese Shoppe challenge was epic, that has nothing on the challenges of this pub. With Enormous portions and a food and drink menu that makes The Alibi’s menu in Arcata appear light, this place did well to fill my palette.
So in a way, I’m thankful for the blowout. I would never have come by this place had my tire not decided to give up and go flat. But I’m finding on this trip that this is the way the universe works at times. One door closes only to open another door or two in the process. Every place you stop at is an adventure waiting to happen, if only you have an open mind and perceive the signs. Well, that’s all for now, cause I got to get my rest before going to my next destination, Hell. Yeah, I’m going to Hell, what of it?
Day Twenty-Nine: Does This City Ever Sleep?
It's Midnight!
There’s something majestic about New York City. Maybe it’s the clusters of skyscrapers cutting the sky. Maybe it’s the intricate mass transit system that seems to flow like clockwork. Or maybe it’s the fact that the city never sleeps, never ceases to run at full capacity. I understand now why this place is the financial, the publishing, the cultural mecca for the nation, if not all of Western culture, not that I endorse any of that. But honestly, I’d murder someone if I had to live here.
There’s a perpetual busyness to the place while simultaneously moving in slow motion. Streets clogged with cars, insane taxi drivers, courageous bicyclists, and at times suicidal pedestrians, the traffic flow slowly inching its way down the streets at times. Lines outside the door at many businesses. A constant mass of people almost everywhere you go above or underground. How people keep their sanity living in this continual stress bubble is beyond me, but for a visitor it was a most exciting experience.
Times Square was beyond words. On the streets, you could get asked to be a part of some MTV or Comedy Central show. Everywhere you look, giant television screens playing advertisements. In fact, there were places to look where there weren’t advertisements. Day or night, the place was packed tight with people, busily taking photos and absorbing the enormity of the scene. I wonder how much the city gets for selling out to all these large companies?
I found the subway system to be absolutely fascinating. I broke my virginity with riding the underground train and found, like other types of virgins, that I couldn’t get enough. I found every excuse possible to ride the subway, plotted points all over the city to check out based subway stops. If I weren’t so tired by Midnight, I would have ridden the subway in at least one loop.
The subway system, along with many other marvels in that city, really exhibit the wonders of modern technology and what it can accomplish. Hundred-plus-story buildings. Underwater tunnels. The many bridges that criss-cross the boroughs. Sure, other cities have magnificent systems in place, like the Bay Area’s BART system, defying land, sea, and air, but there was something almost magical about New York’s system, the enormity of it all. Of all the wonders to explore, the one that peaked my interest the most was the one that didn’t exist anymore.
Ruins of Tower 1
Walking down the city’s financial district, you cannot miss the several block wide pit surrounded by barricades and shielded from view. Cranes tower over the the hole, rubble and ruin still scattered inside. That was World Trade Center Tower 1, nothing more than an excavation project after almost eight years. Meanwhile, Tower 7, the one that got “pulled” by the owner, was replaced by a towering blue-glass structure, the only building in the complex that was rebuilt. I thought it interesting to comment on that.
Several blocks away, I visited another symbol of American capitalism, the one that wasn’t destroyed by two planes and explosives. No, this symbol was surrounded by a security parameter, guarded by what looked like a mix of security guards and SWAT officers. In fact, of all the sights I saw while there, it was the most heavily guarded place. What is it? The New York Stock Exchange. I wonder what’s with the all the security. Are the elite bunkered inside, trading cash like air, afraid that the people might be on to their deceitfulness? Maybe, but who knows.
At night time, I explored the Greenwich Village area, the more college-like part of the city filled with every type of bar and club to fit your palette. The NYC night life, not exactly my cup of tea. I’m sure it would amaze scenesters and hipsters, but for a simple rural man such as myself, I found it dull and the people duller. Of all the places I visited, I found it most difficult to engage in a conversation here, which was unfortunate cause I really wanted to get the low-down from people. I did have a good conversation with one of the bouncers at a pub, who gave me some promising info about the scene there. This was the same guy who earlier told me I couldn’t wear my bandanna inside the pub – respectability issues and all. It was the second time in NY and my trip where I got asked to remove my bandanna, not that it’s a big deal or anything, but it’s the first experiences I had where my, appearance, was deemed unacceptable for an establishment. Whatever.
By the time I got back to my hotel room around midnight, the city was still moving at the same pace as earlier in the day. It was an amazing experience, having a chance to roam the great concrete canyons of NYC, but like I told my aunt when I was 15, I hate the city. Give me the mountains!
Day Twenty-Eight: Memoria
Sunrise on the Atlantic
My last day and night on Long Island was one of the most emotionally intense for me. I decided to stay another day after hearing that one of my cousin’s friends, who recently lost his 43-year-old mother to cancer, was having a benefit to raise money for the funeral costs. This same person offered comfort just six months earlier when my mother, 46, passed of advanced breast cancer.
I won’t lie. The ghost of my mother lingered around the Island like Humboldt fog. It showed itself in the faces of my family, in the few remaining items left behind at my aunt’s place, the photograph memorial book made in her honor, and of course, the still unsettled feelings of close ones. I purposefully avoided driving by the hospital where she died, mainly because for me that place was a death trap. Two close family members either died there or died because of that place. For me, it wasn’t a necessary place to visit.
One of the main reasons I took this trip, have felt so utterly beyond myself, was the passing of my mom. She was more than a mother, she was a friend, a confidant, a wise woman who conveyed her deep insights to me almost every conversation we had. The relationship we had was different, I think, then the ones most have with their parents. It was a relationship of unconditional, yet detached, love. I say that because other than the first ten years of my life, we didn’t have much contact with one another, whether it was because she worked her ass off to keep me safe, or because I moved out when I was 16. Whatever it was, it was a strong connection that stood the test of time and space, and I learned some of the greatest lessons of life through her actions and words.
Have I gotten over her death? Of course not, she was my mother. You don’t get over something like that so quickly, and it was the only advice I could communicate to my cousin’s friend at the benefit. I’ve taken steps to move beyond it, having written a short story about her last days, listened to nine hours of audio recordings she made in her last nine months of life, and in talking about her at every opportunity that arises. Her passing would have been even more tumultuous had I not have reconciled with my father.
My father has always been a hard-working man with deep wisdom. I didn’t see it when I was younger, when he clashed and I ultimately ran away. No, the lessons he seeded took root years later. A strong work ethic. Taking responsibility when it’s demanded of you. Going above and beyond what is required. I’d like to think I live that way 90 percent of the time, which is enough for me. Nevertheless, nothing brought me more joy than reconnecting with him last January, something I wanted to do for years but felt I needed to do in person.
I thankfully had an opportunity to hang out with him, albeit briefly, before I left. We sat outside of Starbucks, smoked cigarettes, drank coffee, and bullshitted about family and the “younger” generation. It was a great time. He’s a funny man, whose honest and optimistic attitude gives me hope that when I’m older, I might still have something to look forward to. For those who didn’t know, I have four siblings on my father’s side. They’re all talented in their own ways, having deep artistic talent, perhaps flowing from my father who dabbles with music occasionally. My not-too-younger sister Hope sings gospel, amazingly from what I hear. My sister Alexis plays violin and her twin Amanda loves to read and write (oooo, another writer in the family?). My brother DJ loves working on cars and computers. I’d like to be more a part of their lives, but it’s not that easy as I am still, I feel, paying a price for running away eleven years ago, a form of abandonment or turning a back to the family. I hope time will mend those wounds, for all of us.
Despite a horrific rainstorm during the day, it cleared up toward the morning, which made me happy because I really wanted to watch the sun rise on the ocean before I left. When I first moved to California, one of the most beautiful experiences I had was watching it set on the ocean. It was paradigm shattering, having grown up on the East Coast. My cousin and I watched a thick layer of dark clouds roll across the horizon, the sun’s light penetrating the a barrier here and there. It took me most of my life to realize this, but a sunrise and sunset is a rainbow, with the red taking root closest to the horizon and moving it’s way toward blue as the sky opened up. The green is the hardest to see, invisible except to the most scrutinizing of eyes. Now that’s what I call a good morning.
Day Twenty-Seven: Tip of the Isle
Montauk, NY
With the rainy weather cleared for the moment, my cousin Christopher and I drove out to the most eastern point of Long Island – Montauk. Those of you who’ve seen Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind will remember the place, in movie form that is. It is a popular tourist attraction out here, mainly because it is so beautiful a beach.
We went on a hike through the woods, tromping through the rarely used trails, which one could quickly tell from the overgrown nature of the path, and dodged the almost invisible plight of the island, those good old lyme-disease-ridden ticks. A few scares aside, I think we made it out without getting sucked by any of those suckas. Despite that, we enjoyed the scenery, chose to walk the trails down to a large pool of water one could see from the roadside. The tides filled the spot and trapped many trout inside. From afar, it looked like a beautiful blue lake. Up close, it was a scummy estuary.
My cousin and I conversed about a range of topics, always flowing back to spirituality in the end. He was a smart man for his young age, wise beyond his years. The similarities between both of us, in terms of how we expressed ourselves and what we believed in, has not ceased to shock me. It’s funny in a way to see him so grown up after being alive for his birth. I remember my friend has the same birthday as him. I went to my friend’s birthday party and realized I left his present at my house. When I went home, everyone was gone, the house locked up tight. I would have been more upset if I didn’t later learn of the birth. Even though he’s my cousin, I consider him a brother being that we spent so much of our younger years together.
After a long hike in the muggy heat, we walked around town for almost an hour, looking for a good seafood joint to fill our bellies and chatting about topics political. He craved a soft crab sandwich, something he never had before. I just wanted some East Coast seafood. We eventually found a place and ate, I think frightening the patrons on the patio with our lively discussions.
Speaking of Montauk, ever heard of the Montauk Monster? According to the story, a strange bloated beast beached about a year ago outside the town. Everyone was baffled at first, trying to guess what it was. The discovery spread across the Internet like a wild fire, with a host of wild theories filling the void of scientific explanation. An engineered creature from the Plum Island Animal Research Lab. An interdimesional being summoned through the Montauk Project. A bloated dog, raccoon, or turtle. Truth is, no one really knows what it was. The establishment dismissed it as a bloated animal though no DNA test was ever done, and two months ago another creature, similar in appearance, beached once more outside Montauk. Strange.
Smoke on the Water. Not really.
On our way back home, we saw a giant plume of black smoke rising in the distance, smelt burning plastic in the air. The journalist in me wanted to investigate, and for my cousin, it was too interesting not to check out. We searched around the general area of the smoke for about a half-hour, tracking the fire down with our noses, but unfortunately could not find the blaze. Defeated, we kept truckin’ home.
Later that evening, I met up with my cousin Marianne at one of the watering holes in Patchogue. You see, every Wednesday this establishment hosts a trivia competition, with the top three teams winning either money or a free round. Right up my alley. It an intense battle of general interest questions, copy editing, and tune naming. We fought hard, but failed to make the top three. that didn’t crush our evening though. Afterward, we went to another bar and sang karaoke. I did “Hungry Like a Wolf,” a favorite of mine, and almost lost my voice in the process.
While there, something happened that I never expected. I ran into someone from Arcata! “Get out of here” was the responses we both made to one another. I never met the guy, but he recently moved from there to come home to the Island. We talked about Toby and Jacks and tried to figure out if we had any mutual friends. From the sounds of it, he traveled around to the festivals. He discovered the place after some friends had moved there, the typical reason anyone finds themselves in that isolated Redwood paradise. It was good to find that Humboldt influence is spreading coast to coast.
Day Twenty-Six: Rainy Day Blues
It took 26 days before the weather turned real shitty during my adventure. Sure, I’ve dealt with the chaotic deluges of the South, but today was a day of constant gray and rain. Humboldt anyone? Yeah, that’s what it reminded me of. Killed my plans to go out to the beach with my cousins and left me sitting inside to reflect and relax.
Today also brought the worst bout of homesickness I’ve had the entire trip, maybe because of the familiar weather, maybe because I’ve been gone for almost a month now. This whole trip thus far has been a journey eastward. New York marked the end point, the place where I turn my car around and start heading back out west toward home. The last leg of the journey. It’s almost disheartening, in a way, to be heading toward the end of this episode of life, but at the same time I know what I am returning to, the comforting weather of Humboldt County (believe me), the giant redwood trees, the gorgeous rivers, and, most importantly, the wonderful people I am blessed to have as friends.
This one is for all of you back home, for all of you displaced across the country now living your next chapter of life. The people I love with all my heart and soul. During all these adventures I’ve had so far, in the back of my head I longed to have you by my side. I could only imagine the devastation our crew could cause tromping through the French Quarter, rocking it out at Nerdapalooza, and raging the many cities I’ve been to. Is he going to get sentimental? Yup, just a tad. I mean seriously, take a long trip away from all you are familiar with and away from all the people who you consider family. It hurts at times, and I can’t wait until I get back there to tear up the town again.
The friends we make, the crews we collectively create – it’s a beautiful thing, something maybe we take for granted at times. I know I have. I realize that now throughout these travels, almost the same way I’ve taken my family here for granted. Billions of people inhabit this world, hundreds of millions in this country alone. So many nameless faces we pass on the streets, perhaps never to meet and grow with. They fade from our minds like dissipating steam. Yet we are attracted to certain people, no matter where we go, people you develop strong connections with, stand the test of time with, see the worst and the best of. You could dismiss it as random, a luck of the draw, even good timing. But I’m starting to believe that it’s more than that.
I’m starting to realize that the people you gravitate toward are the people you’re supposed to have in your life at that moment. Maybe it’s for mutual growth or security or both. Whatever it is, it’s a bond that shouldn’t be dismissed lightly. Those people you can call on a whim in a time of need. Those people that will bend over backwards for you if you but asked. Those are the relationships we should nurture with every ounce of energy we have to offer, cause in the end all we have is each other. In the end, we are all family.
Day Twenty-Five: Just Another Day
Boats leaving Port Jefferson, NY
Just another day tromping around the island. I actually visited Port Jefferson the day before, but I wanted to focus on a different topic last post. Port Jefferson is on the north shore, with ferries connecting people on Long Island with Connecticut. It’s a tourist town, packed with gift shops, overpriced restaurants, and historical attractions. Although I’m not one for tourist traps, it was a beautiful sunny day and an adventure seemed appropriate.
I spent some time at the docks, watching boats make their way out to the Sound, the waterway that separates Long Island and the mainland. Although I’m not much for boats, me having land-loving legs and all, I enjoyed the swooshing of the tide colliding with the rickety docks, meditated on the sea vessels slowly disappearing into the horizon. It was a nice change of pace, and it made me realize that the waters here are not the waters back home. I mean, I knew that, but to realize that, “Wow! I’m on the other side of the country” – priceless. I also took the opportunity to procure another shot glass, a quest given by Jeanne before leaving. Do know Jeanne that I have enough shot glasses right now to fill all of out bellies with Jameson when I get back 
Walked around town for a bit, took a cute picture of this:
Anyway. So back to the present. Spent the day lounging around my aunt and uncle’s place, waiting for a little cousin to return from camp. Later on that night, we went over to my Aunt Lucy’s place to feast on eggplant Parmesan, sausage and potatoes, and pasta Bolognesse. Oh my belly is going to miss the food when I leave. It was a chill night of chatting with family. I let my little cousin Nicholas play with my camera, to keep him entertained while the adults bored each other with politics. He’s a natural photographer, having quite an eye for good shots. He’s also a comedian and way smart for his own good. Solid memory, photographic at that. Mix that with my horrific memory and you have a recipe for disaster. He corrected me at least two times so far.
So, this is a short post, which I will now end and flood with pictures from my cousin:
The Big T
Sprinkles
Mirror Shot
Love this one
Day Twenty-Four: Lightning Bolts
That's where I grew up
Lightning bolts. Powerful. Shocking. Unique. All-encompassing.
I knew what I was in for returning here, this place I grew up. Medford. I knew it when I rode a bike for two hours around my old neighborhood, glimpsing at homes where friends would congregate, the parks where we played all day, the hidden dirt trails we romped on our single-gear bikes. I knew these memories were locked in my head somewhere, and I knew as I started to revisit the old that they would flow forth like a flood pouring from a cracked dam.
I’m sure you readers have noticed that I’ve been reflecting lately, quite extensively. I haven’t even posted half of the thoughts and feelings that have been bombarding me these past few days. For some reason, it seems appropriate to share the totality of my experiences with you, to be honest. I grew up fast. What childhood I had died here when I moved to New Hampshire. These were the days of innocence, of endless play night and day, indoors and out, with a plethora of friends. Even in those days I was a social creature, making sure I surrounded myself with plenty of cool people. Maybe that’s why it hurt so much when I left, when I had to start over again.
Every memory that phased into being came to me as if they were stored not in my head but within some invisible node locked in time and space, activating with a scent, a familiar sight, a feeling. I rode around the neighborhood, like I would have as a child. I look at one house where I used to play kickball and swim with friends, played that one Michael Jackson game, what was it, oh yeah Moonwalker. I ride down the bumpy dirt trails nested behind the oak trees, remember the times when my friends and I would build and repair jumps, dig pits, and any other obstacles to overcome with our bikes, creating an elaborate network of trails that stretched for miles at times, now empty. Unused. I ride by one of the old jumps, remember the time when my friend and I competed for a lady’s heart, where I tried to make a difficult jump only to flip and fall face first into the mud, my bike landing on my back. I won
Part of the Old Neighborhood
I recalled all these memories, these surges of nostalgia, like it were another life I lived. I wondered where all these people are now, these people I used to call friends. Who went on to college? Who joined the military? Became and athlete? Died? I wanted so badly to knock on the doors to their homes, even if they didn’t live there anymore, eager to discover any news I could of there whereabouts, but it seemed too past tense. The past is the past, and after so long I wondered whether my old friends would remember me, whether they would find it odd that I stood at their doorstep after so long of no contact.
No. These memories were that, meant to be confined to a time in my life and not to be relived again. It’s a dangerous philosophy to move backward, to yearn for a time that can not be. Instead, I took comfort in my memories, smiled at every joke and playful game, cried at every injury, grew angry with every confrontation. Those were good times, ones that helped shape my character today. If only I knew when I was young what we were in for when we grow up, maybe if we stopped trying to become adult and enjoyed the brief moment of innocence, of ignorance, we had in those days, it would feel more fulfilling. Life doesn’t work that way. And to live in regret of the past only clouds the present, keeps ones eyes backward, not forward.
And perhaps what shocked me the most traveling around the old stomping grounds was the emptiness of it all. Used to be that kids were playing all over the place: stickball, kickball, street hockey, tag. Now the streets were an awkward silence, as if all the children were kidnapped, gone. But that’s not the case, they were just hidden away in their homes, playing their video games and typing away on their computers. When I was young, it was a good time to be a child, to be socializing, exercising, to be outdoors almost every day. That’s what we yearned for the most when summertime arrived. Oh, how the times have changed.
Day Twenty-Three: Family Ties
That's my family
The main reason New York was on my radar during this road trip was to attend my cousin’s graduation party, where I knew most of my family on my mother’s side would be in attendance. My cousin, whom I’m extremely proud of, is a smart woman who’s going to make it far in life, and I’m grateful I was able to attend, and partake in, this festival of her triumph.
Now, for those of you who never had the pleasure of partying with an Italian/Sicilian family, let me just say that you better go with an empty stomach. You see, my family, when they have a party, likes to make sure that there is enough food and beverages to feed an army. Trays of sausage and peppers. Baked ziti. Coolers stocked with beer and soda. More dessert than your tongue can imagine loving. A feast of several courses. And when your stomach can’t handle anymore, more food materializes, begging you to eat it. How anyone can keep a thin waistline eating food like this boggles my mind.
This is the life I grew up with as a child, immersed in a comfortable blanket of family. I lived in a multi-generational home with my grandparents, my uncle and aunt, cousins, and, of course, my mom. There was no shortage of people around, no alone time. There was always a celebration happening, whether it was someone’s birthday, graduation, or communion. A wedding. A holiday. A warm summer day. There was always a sense of security, a sense of belonging. It was difficult to leave that, especially at such a young age. I remember crying all the way to New Hampshire when I moved up there at ten.
And it never returned after that. Life took another course for me. I grew up fast, having to take care of my self for the most part since my mom worked almost 12 hour days and my stepfather at the time worked graveyard and slept most of the day. Having lived both worlds, one where family was the core of your being, and the other which represented the typical American household, single mother taking care of her kid, lucky if you have a father in the mix, I have to say that we lose a lot when we’re not surrounded by family on a daily basis, and by family I mean uncles and aunts and cousins and siblings. Families are the strongest social unit we have to interact with and I feel bad for anyone who never had the opportunity to taste all the wonders that comes with a cohesive unit, even if they’re a nutty bunch. And I believe that living in an environment where you’re interacting with many family members on a daily basis helped me see how important creating community, sharing what you have, and being there to lend a hand in someone’s time of need is for the whole.
My cousins
When I came out here in January, albeit different, more somber, circumstances, I remember feeling the same nurturing connection with my family that I’m experience now, even though I live 3,000 miles away, even though I rarely stay in touch, even though I hadn’t seen most of these people for over 10 years. Time. We make so many excuses to not stay in touch with our loved ones, these people who would bend over backwards for you if they had to in order to give you a one up. Modern life does so much to unravel these connections. Busy day at work. Tired. Overwhelmed with obligations. Forgetfulness. None of them good excuses, but all ones that pop up on my radar whenever I hold my cell phone in hand, pondering whether to call and catch up when someone comes to mind. And after being yet again reconnected with these people, feeling that familiar urge to stay connected after I leave and return home to Arcata, I can’t help but wonder if those same old excuses will resurface when I do have a moment to catch up.
Let me tell you though, there isn’t a day that goes by, even though I feel I have a “family” back in Arcata, that I don’t miss the serenity I’m feeling being back here, swimming in a calm ocean of unconditional love and security. Ever since I left New York, holidays don’t have the same flavor they did when I was here. For those of you who know me best, you know I loathe Christmas, not because I was lied to about Santa Clause (oops, you didn’t know) or don’t practice religion but because I realized what I’m missing, these extravagant parties, these beautiful people. And there’s nothing more disheartening then spending the holiday with another person’s family.
Anyway, I’m just glad I made it out here to enjoy their company once more, to jabber on about politics, religion, and life in general. To fill up on delicious food. To bask in their loving energy. Perhaps the point of this post is just to express how lucky you are if you have family that truly cares for you and to not take it for granted. In a blink of an eye, your once young cousin transforms into a mature adult, and you wonder just what happened in-between while you were away, for example.
Day Twenty-Two: Coast to Coast
New York City on the horizon
As I drew closer to New York, the place of my birth, I grew excited at the prospect of seeing all my family again, of exploring my old stomping grounds. Ever since I was a young one, I had this desire to drive into my hometown. I’ve always wanted to drive through New York City, to drive down the expressway, counting the exits until I got off, to drive through my old neighborhood like coming of age.
Well, before I had that opportunity, I had to navigate the gauntlet that is the New Jersey Turnpike. I’ve heard nothing but horror stories about this stretch of road, remember tales of insane drivers that will crash into your vehicle. It really wasn’t that bad through, but then again I managed to get through it before rush hour. Rush hour, it has a new meaning after driving through New York where I wasn’t as lucky. More on that in a minute.
A friend told me that if Hell existed, it was underneath New Jersey. Other than the lingering odor of garbage and chemicals that seemed to permeate throughout my entire drive, a vast sprawl of high-tension electrical towers, industrial mega centers, and overall urban expanse covered most of the state. I forgot how mechanical parts of the East Coast were in terms of landscape. These were the old epicenters of industrial power back in the day. Cities standing the test of time, the industrial revolution, housing millions of people and hosting little, if any, natural landscape save the darkened waters of the Atlantic licking the coastline.
At one of the rest stops on the Turnpike, one of the gas attendants I met shared his recent journey across the country (Jersey, like Oregon, doesn’t allow you to pump your own gas). It was refreshing to meet someone who navigated the windy roads of the Northwest, the boring repetitiveness of the country’s middle, and checked out many of the same cities I stopped in. I was equally amazed that this person explored Humboldt County along the way and knew of it well. He explained how him and his friends decided to check out the West Coast and ended up seeing everything from Los Angeles to Seattle. He also explained how the trip made him want to escape the East Coast after seeing all the beauty there was on the other side of the country. He hadn’t anticipated how eye opening the trip would be for him.
Driving through Jersey
But there is something intoxicating about the West, isn’t there? I mean, we have our share of giant urban sprawls, smog-infested cities, and monotonous suburban developments. Yet intermixed in all those vestiges of modern life, you can find the towering redwood forests, the pristine cliffside shorelines, green hills rolling almost endlessly into the horizon, the peaceful calm of the fog-covered, mountain highways weaving through hill after hill of tantalizing wilderness. It’s easy to forget how good we have it out West, how most of us living away from the cities live in a paradise of sorts, isolated from the noxious everyday odors, from water that tastes like metallic, chlorine-saturated piss, from the claustrophobia of gray.
When I approached the towering cityscape of New York City, I looked in awe at the ingenuity of a city packed tightly onto an island no more than four miles across, buildings so high the very sky was pierced, and as you drive through the city streets, you feel as if you’re driving through a canyon of brick and steel, the sky almost swallowed by its enormousness. I marveled at the network of tunnels and bridges criss-crossing throughout the boroughs, defying the sea by going over and under it. It was also then when I experienced the wonders of rush hour, miles upon miles of vehicles stretching from the city out toward Long Island where I needed to go. To put it these terms, it took me three hours to drive about 55 miles. And the tolls, it cost me $27.70 to get from NJ to Long Island. Imagine having to pay that every day. Damn! I’ll take the railroad please.
When I finally arrived home, it felt as I never left. Aside from the catching up, life resumed to normal as if I had never left in the first place. I munched on REAL New York pizza, which was like eating pure ecstasy. They say that all the pizza and bagels made in New York can’t be replicated anywhere else in the world because it’s all in the water. I’ve even heard of restaurants that ship water out from NY in order to make authentic pizza and bagels. Maybe the water’s laced or something, I don’t know. But damn the eating is good here.