Country of Mine Country of Thine

I teased before, of someone getting left behind, and there was such a person. It started with the arrival of my mother into Seattle. We swept her from the airport and then her and I went to an incredible dinner with my friends from Austin, Andrew and Christina. Andrew's house (parent's house) in Seattle is located high above a lake, so that when you look out all you see is forested perfection and the moving water below. We had the most delicious, and vegetarian-friendly, meal that ended with coconut-cream pie and left me wondering how mothers manage to bake homemade pies on top of everything else they do.

The morning after this spectacular dinner, we were on our way to Vancouver to cross the border and, just to pass the time, I opened my mom's passport. I was mostly trying to snoop at her international stamps, but unfortunately I stumbled upon an expiration date. It appeared that her ability to leave the US and return had rotted. So we left her in Washington, cruel as it sounds, in a larger effort to go pick up my grandparents in Vancouver.

Vancouver is a unique place. There is water and hills surrounding it in almost a San Francisco-esque manner. The buildings are tall and new and covered with so many windows they almost looks like sparking scales on a standing beast. I was, at first, upset that our hotel was so far away from the town center, where I was set to meet a dear friend, but found that taking the Sky Train into downtown brought back all the delicious freedom and unknowns of international travel. It was almost exactly the same as the Sky Train in Bangkok, except that when I got off, the air was not thick and sticky, smelling of various potent gases and banana peels. No, Vancouver is extremely clean and the people are outside biking, walking and laughing over over-priced pints near the water. As I walked down to the boat docks where the little water planes parked, I realized that I hadn't really been alone like that in a long time. Sure, in Austin I do things alone all the time; I go to coffee shops religiously, I run errands, go for runs, etc., but there is something different about the solitude of walking with no agenda and no knowledge of where you are or what will come. I find myself missing that spontaneity, that dependence on myself, where I want to hold my own hand and skip, but for the realization that I may look rather like a demented Shirley Temple than the independent goddess we all wish to be. I had lots of those freeing moments when I traveled, particularly in Ireland and Prague. In Prague I was famous for being the 'recluse' in our program and wandering to the castle and apple orchards at random intervals of time. Ireland found me in its countryside, wide-eyed and dragging a suitcase up monstrous hills where the sheep looked at me as though I were a complete arse. I even sat alone in a pub, beer touching my lips just to keep my busy, and I found I could do almost anything.

I think we all worry about dependence. That, we will meet someone and lose a bit of ourselves. Or, perhaps we have been with someone a while and worry that it has already happened. We may ask ourselves, when did I start liking college football? Why do I get excited about a hot dog stuffed with cheese when I am a vegetarian? I fear the answer is far too brutal to admit to ourselves. We fall into patterns, we like the feel of the crook of a neck while we sleep, and instead of holding our own hand we let our little palms fall into the stronger hand of a man. I wish I could decide if this loss of independence is normal, good even, or if it is the end of the brightest parts of yourself. Perhaps it is a little of both. I suppose it is natural to 'share' things with another and, to be honest, who would prefer to travel alone? As much as I adore walking across the Charles Bridge at sunset, I still wondered, what are these magnificent colors in the sky without someone there to reflect with you upon them? To smile and casually comment, "Look how the castle glows." I wish this weren't the case, but hey, Paris is kind of a bitchy city when you go there single. I don't need a chocolate croissant and white-lit streets romancing me when my hair is greasy and I just ate an entire Tolberone by myself in my hotel room.

Back to Vancouver......

So I met-up with Natalie. Natalie. My dearest Natalie! This will be our THIRD country to meet, starting with our initial introduction in Peru, a reunion for a festival in Edinburgh, Scotland, and then our Greek feast and clinking pints in Vancouver. I guess clinking pints has been a theme for us. We have drunk our way through many bars, houses and streets around this world and never thought twice about it because we had a greater backdrop of each other. She is never one I waste unworthy anecdotes or trivialities on. After our hugs and squeals when we meet, I must hear only the juiciest, most painful and real parts of her, as she does with me. We can talk for whole days at a time and never bat an eye. The only thing we dare pause for is food. And my, did we feast! We ordered all the food that you wish you could eat, and we dipped and dolloped and scarfed unabashedly. As we ate and talked outside as though only days had passed since we'd seen each other, not years, we watched a horse-sized dog lament and whimper for its owner, who happened to be about ten feet away and eating outside, too. The dog could see the owner but was nowhere near satisfied. It cried, the gut-wrenching tears of need, and was even as desperate as to stick its scone-sized paws on the railing to just get that much closer. Eventually they moved it so it was at their feet, and then it cried for joy, as though it were still devastated because the love was just too much to handle. Natalie and I both had our hands on our cheeks, watching every move, understanding perfectly how the dog felt, and wondering why it is acceptable only for canines to be so damned pathetic. When women, or men for that matter, behave as such, it is practically a convicted crime, worthy of a heart tar-and-feathering amongst your peers.

Moving on to the last parts of the visit. We went to a pub and I tried to compose myself when I saw the beer prices, $8 for a pint? Natalie informed me that that was normal, and that Vancouver was even more expensive than Dublin (which is really saying something). We eventually met a darling couple from Belfast, whose accents I knew immediately as being the same as many people I care dearly about. They were wonderful. Fresh to Vancouver, they had a newlywed kind of hope about them that almost floats off the corners of their smiles. We talked lots about travel, life, politics and, naturally, ended up on the topic of the United States. To be honest, I miss hearing peoples' views on my country. I also love to hear what comes out of my own mouth when I am put in a position to represent 310 million people. You often don't know the volume of your voice until you have the passion of speech. I won't go into details about my political or social beliefs, but there is nothing better than really discussing the things that matter, especially with a beer :-)

And so, the next morning, I awoke in Natalie's apartment, fresh from snore-free sleep (my father has some vocal nasal blockage) and we wandered back to the Sky Train to get me back to my dad and grandparents. We still had to go back over the border and meet my stranded mother. As we walked, she showed me all the boarded up windows from the riots in Vancouver, after Boston won the Stanley Cup. The city was in the news for its violence, something it truly has no business being linked with, and was shamed for the destruction of their downtown. Well, the people of Canada were appalled and, being the rather radiant country they are, the boarded up walls where glass once stood were written over in colorful pens with pictures and words of hope and apologies. The best part, the most uplifting part, was that there was a pancake breakfast happening right in the middle of the city. They were blasting oldies music and dancing while flipping pancakes and serving them to the homeless and anyone who wanted a fluffy morning snack. They were making something right, the way humans can, after something awful has occurred. They were the very example of why, in so much war and evil that you find yourself still believing in people, because at our very core we delight in goodness and community.I find I have to believe that, seeing what I've seen. I wanted to weep, I truly did, when I saw the swaying of arms to "Jump, for your love" and the way everyone sort of blended together, in all their colors and skins, so that they were just one place of peace, one entity of rebirth and rebuilding, and I was unwaveringly grateful to be a part. I knew I was going to be late, so I eventually had to hug Nat goodbye and walk away from music (a tragedy, always), but I loved that Vancouver showed me something extraordinary, and I won't forget it for that. I urge you to see what the city does for you, if you every find yourself hopelessly north and looking to be surprised.

More next time about the final days of my trip in the rugged Olympic Peninsula (though I sit now, in Chico, enjoying the hot weather, cold water and iced coffee that sweats in my hands).

Feast of Beauty: Part One

Well, I have now survived almost a week straight of family, more specifically my father, and I am still feeling good about things. It is amazing how you learn to know your parents, as you get older, and they stop being these blurred whisps that guide your life but instead become focused and still. I enjoy this, though the child in me wants to leave them more squished and ethereal, but it is a blessing indeed to get to an age when you really see the people who raised you.

I will spare you all the details of certain grumpy evenings or blistered feet, but I will tell you briefly about my time on my trip thus far. My father and I started with a seven hour drive (originally thought to be a brief five by our navigator, whose blood relation I won't go into) and both marveled at the way Shasta jets out from sea-level and rises like a white-hooded spirit toward the sky. Surrounded by the almost overflowing blueness of Lake Shasta, the drive through the Cascades almost veered us off the road several times.

*Note:While frightening, swerving can sometimes be a strange applause for beauty.

After a few hours we made our way through the high-altitude desert and I noted that sometimes, a lack of trees can open up the sky, and though I prefer trees to surround, nurture and be with me at all times, I must admit there is an awe in wondrous lengths of unabashed earth. We stopped at a diner in an unmemorable town about 40 miles from Bend, thinking it would be charming and at the very least filling. The strange part was that it was owned and run entirely by a Chinese family who, after serving us fish 'n chips and fried chicken, proceeded to serve their own daughter (the hostess and fill-in waitress, naturally) a bowl of Chinese noodles. Perhaps that diner was the epitome of the American experience, or perhaps it is the breakdown of cultural autonomy, I haven't decided which.

The next morning we awoke in Bend, which, in case you were curious, is named because it is located where the river bends (how I do enjoy intentional names). The air was crisp and the sky was cloudless so naturally my dad and I gorged on eggs and toast and were on the search for a bike shop. We ended up renting mountain bikes and blazed through town and around for almost two hours. Bend is one of those towns that you wonder, why doesn't everyone in the world live here? The river is perfect and wild when you want it to be and then serene and glass-like by the park, where the bushes and flowers are so bright you wonder if someone secretly spilled oil paints around the city in the middle of the night. There are adorable local shops all around and everyone seems to be laughing and smiling as though they have hooks in their cheeks. But truly, the biking was great, and I even got the mountain-bike-thrill of going over rocks and zipping around semi-dangerous corners. It is a strange kind of liveliness that makes your blood sort of salsa through your body.

Naturally, I needed a beer afterward, so my dad and I went to a downtown brewery and feasted, or decimated, several plates of food including a very nervous colony of sweet potato fries who had no idea their lives were in such danger when we arrived. After lunch, we drove up and over another set of mountains and very questionable mountain roads where we watched with wide-eyes as the temperature dropped further and further down until it wavered around 58. Thankfully, by the time we reached Hood River it was a little warmer and we checked into to our hotel with a great view of the massive Colombia River Gorge and stood on the balcony, silent, just wondering how all that water can stay in one place when it is capable of such greatness.

Hood River is an adorable town, too. I guess my dad knows that I like these kinds of kitschy places where you want to squeeze their cheeks and eat caramel apples and such. The big thing there is to kite-surf and windsurf in the baltic waters of a river that secretly thinks it's the Atlantic Ocean. I suppose when you grow up around that kind of strength you want to be a part of it or something. I am happy to report that I also had some Oregon berry pie while in Hood River and loved every morsel, the way people should, where the granules of sugar hover on your tongue. Enough about the food....why must I always focus on that? Anyways, the 'big hike' that has been one of the benchmarks of our trip was scheduled for the next morning. Per usual, we tanked up at breakfast and then waited for the rain to pass.....it didn't. We went anyway, though, on one of the most incredible hikes of my life. It was about 12.5 miles and had some of the most incredible waterfalls I've ever experienced, ending of course with Tunnel Falls, which is nothing short of sensational.

My favorite part of hiking with my dad is that he tells me colorful stories. He talks about what it was like when he enlisted and stood in great lines waiting to be punctured by a nurse and watching grown men fall like dominoes from whatever poison they injected in their arms. He tells me about his backpacking trips from years ago, when a skunk let loose on a tent, or when he played wiffle ball with his buddies and drank vodka and gatorade. My father, the accountant, did all of these amazing, crazy things! These are the kinds of anecdotal gems he won't divulge in real-time living. I don't know what it is, but he is like a punctured milk carton on hikes, he just spills all the good stuff right on out. But there is a a quiet that exists between us that is also important. He doesn't bother me (too much, except for the odd geography/history/horticultural comment) when we are trudging through the awesome greenery. I get to have peace. I need that smallness that comes with hiking and nature, being so inconsequential in a thriving ecosystem while at the same time never feeling so connected in your life. I am grateful that I can feel this, next to my father, and know he's experiencing the exact same thing.

A highlight of hilariousness on this hike was seeing my dad try and put on his absolutely abused poncho. I swear a that thing spent the night with a Bobcat or something. Hearing him curse while putting his pale arms through the hole where his head should go is an image I will gleefully carry with me for some time. Also, bless his heart, his limping from the car to the hotel in Portland just an hour after our trek was certainly worth a few blisters and battered toenails that I was experiencing.

I will end by saying this: I have been utterly spoiled to see these pockets of pure beauty that exist in this country, and even luckier to share it with a great man like my father. I am forever amazed by just how vast our land is, how diverse and how awe-struck I continue to be by the landscape.

I suppose that is all for now....stay tuned for Vancouver and Olympic National Park.....and TEASER ALERT: we have to leave someone in my family behind in the border crossing.