Monday, December 23, 2013
Friday, December 20, 2013
After One Week in Colombia
I decided to take the bus from the Bogota airport without any knowledge of how the bus system worked: the best App of all in a country where blond hair sticks out like a sore thumb is to stand in front of the large Transmilenio bus map and change your expression back and forth between scrutinizing and confused/scared while precariously balancing a backpack made to look heavier than it actually is. Within a minute and a half a kind airline worker gave me detailed instructions on how to reach El Chapinero district and my hostel, which I had decided on after intense research consisting of searching "Bogota Hostels" and choosing the one with the most agreeable pictures. As always there was no plan, but if there had been one everything would have gone according to it.
My hostel in Bogota was the accommodation I always wanted without knowing it existed; a newspaper article written recently described it as a "flash-packer" hostel: those of us who are willing to spend $14 per night instead of $8 to stay in a chic building with clean and some bedding. It appeals to travelers who would rather clink a glass of wine over a fine (but modest) dinner than throw back seven cheap, local beers washed down with street food of questionable origin and preparation. I still eat more than my fair share of arepas and drink licuados on the street every chance I get: average cost is about $1.50 US, and that gets you one liter of any assortment of tropical fruits you can point to or name on the cart. I like to make a new mixture every time, even though I may never know what lulo or maracuya actually taste like standing alone because of this.
I told Paul that I would start packing, and so I will. We leave today from Santa Marta, headed to Minca for the day, then hopefully to Aracataca: Gabriel Garcia Marquez's childhood town, and the basis for his fantastic novel One Hundred Years of Solitude. For those who haven't read the work, the first line is often enough to stir the reader's imagination:
My hostel in Bogota was the accommodation I always wanted without knowing it existed; a newspaper article written recently described it as a "flash-packer" hostel: those of us who are willing to spend $14 per night instead of $8 to stay in a chic building with clean and some bedding. It appeals to travelers who would rather clink a glass of wine over a fine (but modest) dinner than throw back seven cheap, local beers washed down with street food of questionable origin and preparation. I still eat more than my fair share of arepas and drink licuados on the street every chance I get: average cost is about $1.50 US, and that gets you one liter of any assortment of tropical fruits you can point to or name on the cart. I like to make a new mixture every time, even though I may never know what lulo or maracuya actually taste like standing alone because of this.
I told Paul that I would start packing, and so I will. We leave today from Santa Marta, headed to Minca for the day, then hopefully to Aracataca: Gabriel Garcia Marquez's childhood town, and the basis for his fantastic novel One Hundred Years of Solitude. For those who haven't read the work, the first line is often enough to stir the reader's imagination:
Many years later, as he faced the firing line,
Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember
that distant afternoon when his father took him
to discover ice.
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Fort Lauderdale to Infinity
Abra Cadabra, you're blogging with the True and Livin'.
Paul is probably in Medellin, and I assume the Southern Boys of Mexico (Mateo and Brian) are in Cartagena. I haven't heard any of that definitively. I'm on my way to Bogota for at least a day before heading up the coast towards the Caribbean coast of Colombia.
My last trip took me and the Civic to the end of the road in Panama, to the furthest southern point on the upper half of the Panamerican Highway, where the road finally meanders through the jungle to end abruptly and unceremoniously at a river's edge. On the other shore of the river lies the wild and savage Darien Gap, the dense jungle allegedly traversed by drug smugglers and rebel groups hiding out from the national government.
I made it to the Darien in August, and decided against ferrying my car to Colombia. I was pretty tired after six months on the road. I decided to head home and be bored for a bit.
I returned to the US convinced that I was finished with traveling, if not forever than at least for a long while. I sought legal jobs half-heartedly, unsure of what my next move would be. The College of Southern Nevada called and asked if I might be willing to come back and work for a semester. I agreed on a lark, threw a few pieces of clothing into my car, and headed down to Vegas planning to spend a week or a month starting off the semester. I ended up staying for three months. I hadn't brought a belt with me, so I rolled my pants at the waist for most of that time.
The three months allowed me to distill and understand the lessons of my road trip. I was driving to Brandyn's house one day when I pulled the car off the road to scribble the following in my notebook:
Side of the road near Brandyn's, 6:11PM, 9/15/2013:
The most important thing we can do is conquer our fears, and
The great conquerers of fear are Creativity and Ingenuity.
I look forward to the novel, uncomfortable situations that await me on this trip. I look forward to meeting the ingenious and creative characters that will people this story.
-TH
Monday, March 11, 2013
How It Be.
How's your trip bud? Are you doing any kind of blog where people can stay up to date on your whereabouts/adventures?
My friend Matt Hausauer dropped me this message today.The message contained two questions.
The second one was easier to answer: No. I haven't used my blog in months, and I have posted very few photos. Here are a few.
The first question is much more difficult to answer, but I will try:
My trip has felt rich.
My trip has felt empty.
My trip has felt rewarding.
My trip has felt lonely.
The world contains so much.
The world contains too much.
I have lost things.
I have found things.
I appreciate made new friends.
I miss my old friends.
I have hated it bitterly.
I have loved it passionately.
"The Trip" could otherwise be defined as "My existence for the last three months." Asking "how is the trip" is the same as asking "how are you doing, given the last three months of your life?" and that is just such a damn hard thing to answer because of the unfailing symmetry I tried to describe in the list above. I'm reminded of the opening paragraph of Charles Dickens' "A Tale of Two Cities":
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
So then I ask myself: how does one maintain form while equivalent forces pull him apart?
How does one breathe while matching forces squelch his breath from all angles?
I can't answer his damn question. I can't say anything without also saying nothing.
C'mon Trevor, just write "The trip's good" already. Maybe dodge the question and answer with a joke.
How long can I wait before I actually have to answer this message? Maybe I can do it tommorrow.
Maybe I can put this thing off for as long as I've put off writing a blog post.
NO. Answer it. Finish this.
...And then suddenly, like so many times before, Google steps in to help:
The image from the Google Homepage today, celebrating Douglas Adams' 61st Birthday. The author of "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy," a seminal work for any goofball Adventurer.
I remember how to keep from imploding and exploding simultaneously. I can answer the question:
When I don't panic the trip is wonderful and glorious and more than anything I could have ever hoped for. When I shilly-shally and overthink and panic the whole day passes in a flash of nausea and uncomfortability.
I'm working on it. Cheers from some small town in Michoacán, Mexico.
Monday, January 7, 2013
Friday, July 13, 2012
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Smith Rock
I stayed at Smith Rock State Park for my second night of camping. A woman named Tammy recommended the site; she was smoking a cigarette at a truck stop just north of Klamath Falls, and by virtue of the fact that she talked to me and had a recommendation she became my guide.
Tammy was right on the money; Smith Rock is a climber's haven, replete with young people and young spirits running around in puffy down jackets and playing on slack lines. I met a financial advisor from North Dakota who was touring on a BMW, and we talked for a bit about our prospective routes. He was fired up about his blog (www.murphygoeswest.blogspot.com) and the enjoyment of his trip was visible in his eyes. He said that this was his two weeks off for the year, and that he had been planning this trip since he had his last two weeks, this time last year.
A recent divorcé with two kids who he loves very much, Murphy readily admitted that his slick BMW was his post-divorce, midlife crisis purchase. I always like it when people are bluntly honest about things like that: it seems healthy and cathartic to be able to accept the goofiest possible explanation for something in our lives. A guy like that realizes that we're all just dicking around here on Earth, and whether you're doing it on a motorcycle or selling mutual funds is largely irrelevant. We were both doing what made us happy, and it increased our happiness to talk about it with someone who understood. Smith Rock was a place of excellent energy. Apparently Allan Watts wrote some guidebook for the area, but I didn't go into the shop to find out if it was THE Allan Watts or not. I wouldn't be surprised if it were.
Tammy was right on the money; Smith Rock is a climber's haven, replete with young people and young spirits running around in puffy down jackets and playing on slack lines. I met a financial advisor from North Dakota who was touring on a BMW, and we talked for a bit about our prospective routes. He was fired up about his blog (www.murphygoeswest.blogspot.com) and the enjoyment of his trip was visible in his eyes. He said that this was his two weeks off for the year, and that he had been planning this trip since he had his last two weeks, this time last year.
A recent divorcé with two kids who he loves very much, Murphy readily admitted that his slick BMW was his post-divorce, midlife crisis purchase. I always like it when people are bluntly honest about things like that: it seems healthy and cathartic to be able to accept the goofiest possible explanation for something in our lives. A guy like that realizes that we're all just dicking around here on Earth, and whether you're doing it on a motorcycle or selling mutual funds is largely irrelevant. We were both doing what made us happy, and it increased our happiness to talk about it with someone who understood. Smith Rock was a place of excellent energy. Apparently Allan Watts wrote some guidebook for the area, but I didn't go into the shop to find out if it was THE Allan Watts or not. I wouldn't be surprised if it were.
Seeing Farther
I stared straight ahead as hard as I could.
I focused my gaze to the point that I expected my third eye to burn a hole through the poster on the wall like a magnifying glass pointed at an ant under the summer sun. In front of me was a poster with a hidden image set into a seemingly bland pattern of repeating tesseracts. I stared harder, and my eyes watered. The waitress had told me that the hidden image was an eagle. I crossed my eyes then uncrossed them.
I looked blankly down at the toilet to my right to rest my eyes. The poster was hanging in the bathroom of a tiny breakfast restaurant called "Captain Jack's Stronghold" in the tiny Northern California town of Stronghold. Both the restaurant and the town were named after an Indian known as Captain Jack, who in the late 1800s killed a US general and took refuge in a nearby labyrinth of lava rock formations. They say he was outnumbered 10 to one as he held the federal troops at bay.
The old man I shared a breakfast table with had shared this story with me. I was pleased to find the restaurant wasn't named after the Disney movie franchise, as I had expected when I walked in. The rest of old Jack's story is printed on the menu, if you ever find yourself on Highway 139 and want to fill in the details.
I pushed open the bathroom door to make sure no one was waiting patiently on the other side, then went back to work on the poster. I walked towards it and away from it, squinted my eyes, crossed them, and moved them in every possible combination of directions I could think of until they started watering and begging for mercy. I went back to my coffee and the old man. This was my second attempt at the poster, and he waited expectingly to hear my report. I moved my head slowly from left to right with a solemn look on my face.
He pretended to commiserate, but a grin was shining its way out of the corner of that old farmer's mouth. The sweet waitress tried to ease my pain by assuring me that others had faced my predicament; many of her return customers were travelers hellbent on seeing the eagle appear magically from the pattern.
By now a family of six or so had joined the project, and the oldest son had pulled out his phone to look up tips for seeing the hidden gems in these posters. He was about my age, and the entire family was dressed in University of Oregon Ducks fan gear. The son downloaded an application with other hidden images and brought it over to me, hoping to let me leave with a consolation prize. I stared at the pattern on the screen: nothing. All patterns, no eagles.
A similar poster was hung outside of my seventh grade science classroom. I was often sent to the hall during seventh grade science for talking in class, so I was well acquainted with that poster. While my classmates learned about potential and kinetic energy, I was in the hallway working on that poster: crossing my eyes, walking back and forth, and staring with all my might. I never saw what was on that hallway poster.
This always bothered me. It bothered me much more than it seemed to bother others, and it bothered me even more now as I stood next to the toilet at Captain Jack's. To me, this meant that there existed a level of reality that my mind failed to comprehend, but that others could plainly see. It wasn't about the eagle; it was, and still is, about having some sliver of the universe closed off to me.
I've heard people say that if aliens did try to communicate with us, we might not even detect their transmissions because our five senses don't line up with their senses and methods of communication. I'm not sure if I believe that or not, but I do know that if an alien were trying to show me a picture of an eagle, all I would see was an unappealing pattern: and the kicker is, that's even after I've been told there's an eagle to look for. What more could be written in a field of grass blowing in the wind, or a cloud, that I wouldn't even be looking for? What more lies beyond my eyes?
I focused my gaze to the point that I expected my third eye to burn a hole through the poster on the wall like a magnifying glass pointed at an ant under the summer sun. In front of me was a poster with a hidden image set into a seemingly bland pattern of repeating tesseracts. I stared harder, and my eyes watered. The waitress had told me that the hidden image was an eagle. I crossed my eyes then uncrossed them.
I looked blankly down at the toilet to my right to rest my eyes. The poster was hanging in the bathroom of a tiny breakfast restaurant called "Captain Jack's Stronghold" in the tiny Northern California town of Stronghold. Both the restaurant and the town were named after an Indian known as Captain Jack, who in the late 1800s killed a US general and took refuge in a nearby labyrinth of lava rock formations. They say he was outnumbered 10 to one as he held the federal troops at bay.
The old man I shared a breakfast table with had shared this story with me. I was pleased to find the restaurant wasn't named after the Disney movie franchise, as I had expected when I walked in. The rest of old Jack's story is printed on the menu, if you ever find yourself on Highway 139 and want to fill in the details.
I pushed open the bathroom door to make sure no one was waiting patiently on the other side, then went back to work on the poster. I walked towards it and away from it, squinted my eyes, crossed them, and moved them in every possible combination of directions I could think of until they started watering and begging for mercy. I went back to my coffee and the old man. This was my second attempt at the poster, and he waited expectingly to hear my report. I moved my head slowly from left to right with a solemn look on my face.
He pretended to commiserate, but a grin was shining its way out of the corner of that old farmer's mouth. The sweet waitress tried to ease my pain by assuring me that others had faced my predicament; many of her return customers were travelers hellbent on seeing the eagle appear magically from the pattern.
By now a family of six or so had joined the project, and the oldest son had pulled out his phone to look up tips for seeing the hidden gems in these posters. He was about my age, and the entire family was dressed in University of Oregon Ducks fan gear. The son downloaded an application with other hidden images and brought it over to me, hoping to let me leave with a consolation prize. I stared at the pattern on the screen: nothing. All patterns, no eagles.
A similar poster was hung outside of my seventh grade science classroom. I was often sent to the hall during seventh grade science for talking in class, so I was well acquainted with that poster. While my classmates learned about potential and kinetic energy, I was in the hallway working on that poster: crossing my eyes, walking back and forth, and staring with all my might. I never saw what was on that hallway poster.
This always bothered me. It bothered me much more than it seemed to bother others, and it bothered me even more now as I stood next to the toilet at Captain Jack's. To me, this meant that there existed a level of reality that my mind failed to comprehend, but that others could plainly see. It wasn't about the eagle; it was, and still is, about having some sliver of the universe closed off to me.
I've heard people say that if aliens did try to communicate with us, we might not even detect their transmissions because our five senses don't line up with their senses and methods of communication. I'm not sure if I believe that or not, but I do know that if an alien were trying to show me a picture of an eagle, all I would see was an unappealing pattern: and the kicker is, that's even after I've been told there's an eagle to look for. What more could be written in a field of grass blowing in the wind, or a cloud, that I wouldn't even be looking for? What more lies beyond my eyes?
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Monday, June 6, 2011
My First Motorcycle Tour
I rode the Honda 750 from Las Vegas to San Marcos, where I spent a day with Grandma, and then I rode from San Marcos through Death Valley to meet with my Dad in Furnace Creek. We spent the night at Furnace Creek, then rode the next day back into Reno along the Eastern Sierras.
Friday, May 20, 2011
The Matt-packing Trip
I arrived in Salt Lake City by bus this morning at about 5:30 AM. As soon as I left the bus I went looking for breakfast with a fully-loaded pack and Patagonia messenger bag, and found a great little place in a hotel. SLC is an absolutely gorgeous city this time of morning, but judging a city at 6:00 AM is a bit like judging a newborn baby while she's asleep. Still, this seems like an excellent place to be.
I asked the maitre d' if the restaurant had wireless internet, and she looked me up and down disapprovingly before saying that they did, but I could not stay for too long because they were very busy that morning. At first I was offended, but then I realized that my appearance closely mirrored that of a homeless person and that her reservation was at least understandable, albeit rude.
I shoved my backpack into the booth with me and got out my computer. I booted up my Rosetta Stone: Mandarin for Beginners, and started to do the Pronunciation Lesson that I couldn't do last night on the bus because it would have been too loud for the other passengers. I then realized that I was only fueling my already poor social image by staring gravely at my laptop and pronouncing the Mandarin word for "boy" one syllable at a time, often repeating the same syllable until the computer felt I had pronounced it adequately. I think it's safe to say that I am high in the running for the craziest person in this breakfast restaurant right now.
I asked the maitre d' if the restaurant had wireless internet, and she looked me up and down disapprovingly before saying that they did, but I could not stay for too long because they were very busy that morning. At first I was offended, but then I realized that my appearance closely mirrored that of a homeless person and that her reservation was at least understandable, albeit rude.
I shoved my backpack into the booth with me and got out my computer. I booted up my Rosetta Stone: Mandarin for Beginners, and started to do the Pronunciation Lesson that I couldn't do last night on the bus because it would have been too loud for the other passengers. I then realized that I was only fueling my already poor social image by staring gravely at my laptop and pronouncing the Mandarin word for "boy" one syllable at a time, often repeating the same syllable until the computer felt I had pronounced it adequately. I think it's safe to say that I am high in the running for the craziest person in this breakfast restaurant right now.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
My Dad mentioned yesterday that I did not write nearly as much for this tour as I had for my previous tour, even though I had Internet access just as often. I had noticed this myself, and the reason was perfectly clear for me; touring with other people is a lot more of a social event than a solo tour, which is more introspective. On a solo tour, I was constantly fussing over technical aspect of my bicycle, constantly poring over the map, and writing much more. With other people, I was more focused on enjoying my time with friends.
Touring alone has its benefits, as does touring with others. I think that part of the reason that I tried to write so much while I was touring back in 2008 was because I constantly wished that I could share the experience I had with others: to allow others to see what I saw, meet the people I met, etc. Even writing though cannot capture the absolute joy one feels when riding with a strong tailwind; the written description is nothing when compared with the sensation itself.
I think that may be why I didn't write so much this trip. I think that talking with Laura and Sam about the absolute simplicity and beauty of such a trip, being able to instantly laugh or scoff about some minute detail was the outlet I needed all along, and the reason the blog allowed me to go so far in the first place. Still, the Chronicle is a nice record that hopefully I can compile someday, and I will try to write down the various days of our trip before they escape my memory.
-TH
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Day Three
The first two days of this tour have gone perfectly; a strong wind out of the North pushed us further South on Highway 95 as the temperatures rose and the elevations dropped. We camped our first night in a culvert, had breakfast in Searchlight on the second day, and camped just North of Needles, CA on the second night.
Today has not been so lucky. The arm of my trailer broke off, apparently overstressed, poorly crafted metal on the new trailer. On top of that, my oversight in not doing constant repairs and diagnostics left me with very weakened spokes, along with the busted trailer. There are no bike shops in Needles, and very few bike shops would have the part I need anyway; we might be heading to the welder.
On the bright side, it is great to have Sam and Laura along. The pictures, as well as the company, is vastly improved. We're having a lot of fun playing Texas Hold'em with Rocks and night frisbee. Most, if not all, of the pictures I upload will be from Sam or Laura's camera.
-TH
Today has not been so lucky. The arm of my trailer broke off, apparently overstressed, poorly crafted metal on the new trailer. On top of that, my oversight in not doing constant repairs and diagnostics left me with very weakened spokes, along with the busted trailer. There are no bike shops in Needles, and very few bike shops would have the part I need anyway; we might be heading to the welder.
On the bright side, it is great to have Sam and Laura along. The pictures, as well as the company, is vastly improved. We're having a lot of fun playing Texas Hold'em with Rocks and night frisbee. Most, if not all, of the pictures I upload will be from Sam or Laura's camera.
-TH
Monday, January 3, 2011
Southern Winter Loop: Touring Again.
It's January 2011, and I'm finally using this Chronicle again to follow a bicycle trip: nothing makes me happier than to write those words. I'm poring over maps, counting tent stakes, and checking the weather like only an adventurer can, and with with the necessary importance of someone who lives at the mercy of the weather and his own preparation. It has been almost a year and a half since Eli and I rode down to Yosemite, and nearly two years since I left on the trip that would come to shape so much of who I am. I don't know what has taken me so long to get back into the saddle; maybe it took until now to find the strength, both mentally and physically, to embark on such a large adventure.
I am thrilled to report that I have two new recruits along with me: Sam Turman and Laura Reaney. We are going to head from my house in Las Vegas down to Lake Havasu, and continue South (hopefully) all the way to the Sultan Sea and Salvation Mountain. Frankly, I don't care where we go. We have three great bikes, three racks, and two trailers. I don't know how we are going exactly because there are no published maps for the route we plan to create. All I know is that I'm publishing on this Blog again, and with a vigor that I have not felt in quite some time. 11 is my lucky number, and 2011 is beginning to seem like it will be a lucky year. Here's to comebacks. Cheers to everyone, and thank you for following me.
-TH
January 3, 2011
I am thrilled to report that I have two new recruits along with me: Sam Turman and Laura Reaney. We are going to head from my house in Las Vegas down to Lake Havasu, and continue South (hopefully) all the way to the Sultan Sea and Salvation Mountain. Frankly, I don't care where we go. We have three great bikes, three racks, and two trailers. I don't know how we are going exactly because there are no published maps for the route we plan to create. All I know is that I'm publishing on this Blog again, and with a vigor that I have not felt in quite some time. 11 is my lucky number, and 2011 is beginning to seem like it will be a lucky year. Here's to comebacks. Cheers to everyone, and thank you for following me.
-TH
January 3, 2011
Thursday, May 27, 2010
La Llegada
Laura and I arrived late last night at the Airport in Leon, and took a cab to Guanajuato.
The more I walk around the city, the happier I am with my decision to come down this Summer. Until now my undergraduate degree in Spanish has always been almost a party trick for me, something that I could use if I wanted to but always with the option to return to English. Now I hear people in the streets speaking in Spanish, see signs in Spanish, and I am reminded that this was what I worked so hard for!
I cannot believe how beautiful the city is. The buildings wind around the hilly landscape in organized chaos, with streets snaking this way and that. The town was built before a time when builders would simply level a large mountain that was undesirable; the architects of Guanajuato needed to work with the hilly terrain, and the effect is remarkable. I will write again soon, as we are in the process of finding an apartment and a language school for Laura.
The more I walk around the city, the happier I am with my decision to come down this Summer. Until now my undergraduate degree in Spanish has always been almost a party trick for me, something that I could use if I wanted to but always with the option to return to English. Now I hear people in the streets speaking in Spanish, see signs in Spanish, and I am reminded that this was what I worked so hard for!
I cannot believe how beautiful the city is. The buildings wind around the hilly landscape in organized chaos, with streets snaking this way and that. The town was built before a time when builders would simply level a large mountain that was undesirable; the architects of Guanajuato needed to work with the hilly terrain, and the effect is remarkable. I will write again soon, as we are in the process of finding an apartment and a language school for Laura.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
My last 10 days as a 1L.
It's 5:40 AM.
I'm sitting on the trunk of my car, gazing East. It's 67 degrees in Las Vegas; it will reach 91 by the heat of the day. I spent another sleepless night tweaking and rewriting my take-home Contracts Final Exam, and now I'm basking in the reward.
My favorite part of 1L is the sunrises. I've seen my fair share this year; probably more than every other year of my life combined. Each sunrise is another badge of honor, an affirmation that once again I, piddly Trevor, have overcome the darkness and the bitter cold. I've endured once more. I will fight another day, and another night if need be.
"Au milieu de l'hiver, j'ai decouvert en moi un invincible été."
Roughly translated, Camus said "In the depths of winter, I discovered within myself an unconquerable summer." This year has proven beyond all doubt that no matter how difficult or insurmountable a challenge may appear, its completion or even sufferance will bring a renewed appreciation for everything that I forget to give thanks for.
I love my hardships. I love my bruises, and my scratches, and my fatigue. I might not appreciate them at the time, but these emblems give me the strength to suffer greater hardships, bigger bruises, deeper scratches, and more profound fatigue.
The darkest nights and the harshest winters instill the brightest sunrises and the pleasantest summers within me. I'll finish up this year. Boyd, I'll see you in August for round two.
I'm sitting on the trunk of my car, gazing East. It's 67 degrees in Las Vegas; it will reach 91 by the heat of the day. I spent another sleepless night tweaking and rewriting my take-home Contracts Final Exam, and now I'm basking in the reward.
My favorite part of 1L is the sunrises. I've seen my fair share this year; probably more than every other year of my life combined. Each sunrise is another badge of honor, an affirmation that once again I, piddly Trevor, have overcome the darkness and the bitter cold. I've endured once more. I will fight another day, and another night if need be.
"Au milieu de l'hiver, j'ai decouvert en moi un invincible été."
Roughly translated, Camus said "In the depths of winter, I discovered within myself an unconquerable summer." This year has proven beyond all doubt that no matter how difficult or insurmountable a challenge may appear, its completion or even sufferance will bring a renewed appreciation for everything that I forget to give thanks for.
I love my hardships. I love my bruises, and my scratches, and my fatigue. I might not appreciate them at the time, but these emblems give me the strength to suffer greater hardships, bigger bruises, deeper scratches, and more profound fatigue.
The darkest nights and the harshest winters instill the brightest sunrises and the pleasantest summers within me. I'll finish up this year. Boyd, I'll see you in August for round two.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Three Hours Ahead and Decades Away
Grandma Hartzell’s Christmas gift from my Dad was flying Emma and me to Erie to visit for a few days. If you are thinking to yourself that this is a paramount example of “a gift and a curse” for my poor Grandma Lorraine, I couldn’t agree more; but like it or not, she is stuck with us!
Although half of my family originated in Erie and many are still living here, Emma and I seldom have the opportunity to visit because of the tremendous distance. It is always a strange experience to escape neon, 24-hour Nevada to fall into a slower, calmer existence back East, but once my anxious nerves adjust to a change that is much more dramatic than the three time zones we have to cross to get here, there is an indescribable calmness that consumes me.
Emma loves the houses in Erie, which she cheerily describes as “little Pi-Phis.” Brick-and-mortar houses are rare in Reno, and the few that do exist in our hometown seem somewhat out of place, as if someone dropped them into the unforgiving desert to fend for themselves. They cluster together near the university and tend not to stray out into the uniform suburbs that dominate more and more of the Truckee Meadows.
Among my many criticisms of Las Vegas, the most poignant is of the stucco wasteland that sprawls out in every direction from the notorious “Strip.” As my Dad put it, Las Vegas is the result of putting fortune first. I couldn’t agree more. At the risk of generalizing, the people that tend to inhabit and visit Las Vegas are often made of stucco as well. There are some people, like the Reno’s misplaced brick homes, that seem to have been dropped into Las Vegas by accident: people of character and strong moral fiber, people made of something other than a flaky paint that could never withstand a hard winter or genuine hardship. But these people are the anomalies, the outsiders.
At the risk of sounding self-righteous, I must make perfectly clear that I’m a stucco person too. I’m even perversely proud of it. Nevada does it differently, bottom line: just as the intense heat thins the blood of long term Las Vegans, so too does the environment become a part of its inhabitants, for better or worse.
Just as Emma appreciates the architecture, I have a certain indescribable fondness for Lake Erie. At least once a day I like to bundle up under what feels like eleven layers of coats, sweaters, and shirts to make my way down to the golf course originally created by General Electric for employees, no more than a mile from my Grandmother’s house. Barges float with painstaking patience across the icy waters, with bright running lights clashing against gloomy Erie’s perpetual dusk.
I didn’t know Grandpa Ed too well before he passed away. I only have one memory of being with him, a nighttime sledding adventure down the golf course hill. Even that memory is abstract and patchy. All of the information I have about him comes to me second hand, but I do know with relative certainty that he loved that golf course at least as much as I do.
He played golf nearly every day after retiring. He played through the winter, which is no small feat in these temperatures: I doubt that I could swing a club under my bundled clothing, which no doubt reminds passing cars of Ralphie in “A Christmas Story” as I waddle down the main road towards the course.
I know that course is man-made, but there is something savagely peaceful about it during these winter months when no golfers walk the course and the hills bend gently under a uniform blanket of snow. A man can really think out there, trudging down the fairways and surveying the lake that crests the horizon. The air is crisp and clean as it blows inland over the waves. I may not remember my young conversations with Grandpa Ed, but when I walk his course I feel like I understand what he was about as a man, and I understand what was important to him. I like to think that is more significant.
If anyone was a brick-and-mortar type of man, I think Ed was. Never have I heard an ill word spoken of him. He realized the few things that were important to him, and indeed the few things that are important in life, and lived by them. It was in large part in his memory that I joined the Knights of Columbus this past semester. I can’t help but think of him every time I see a Knight serving breakfast to the community, or ringing a bell in the frigid cold outside of a store at Christmas time to raise money for those less fortunate. My New Year’s Resolution, and indeed my life goal, is to be more like Grandpa Ed.
Although half of my family originated in Erie and many are still living here, Emma and I seldom have the opportunity to visit because of the tremendous distance. It is always a strange experience to escape neon, 24-hour Nevada to fall into a slower, calmer existence back East, but once my anxious nerves adjust to a change that is much more dramatic than the three time zones we have to cross to get here, there is an indescribable calmness that consumes me.
Emma loves the houses in Erie, which she cheerily describes as “little Pi-Phis.” Brick-and-mortar houses are rare in Reno, and the few that do exist in our hometown seem somewhat out of place, as if someone dropped them into the unforgiving desert to fend for themselves. They cluster together near the university and tend not to stray out into the uniform suburbs that dominate more and more of the Truckee Meadows.
Among my many criticisms of Las Vegas, the most poignant is of the stucco wasteland that sprawls out in every direction from the notorious “Strip.” As my Dad put it, Las Vegas is the result of putting fortune first. I couldn’t agree more. At the risk of generalizing, the people that tend to inhabit and visit Las Vegas are often made of stucco as well. There are some people, like the Reno’s misplaced brick homes, that seem to have been dropped into Las Vegas by accident: people of character and strong moral fiber, people made of something other than a flaky paint that could never withstand a hard winter or genuine hardship. But these people are the anomalies, the outsiders.
At the risk of sounding self-righteous, I must make perfectly clear that I’m a stucco person too. I’m even perversely proud of it. Nevada does it differently, bottom line: just as the intense heat thins the blood of long term Las Vegans, so too does the environment become a part of its inhabitants, for better or worse.
Just as Emma appreciates the architecture, I have a certain indescribable fondness for Lake Erie. At least once a day I like to bundle up under what feels like eleven layers of coats, sweaters, and shirts to make my way down to the golf course originally created by General Electric for employees, no more than a mile from my Grandmother’s house. Barges float with painstaking patience across the icy waters, with bright running lights clashing against gloomy Erie’s perpetual dusk.
I didn’t know Grandpa Ed too well before he passed away. I only have one memory of being with him, a nighttime sledding adventure down the golf course hill. Even that memory is abstract and patchy. All of the information I have about him comes to me second hand, but I do know with relative certainty that he loved that golf course at least as much as I do.
He played golf nearly every day after retiring. He played through the winter, which is no small feat in these temperatures: I doubt that I could swing a club under my bundled clothing, which no doubt reminds passing cars of Ralphie in “A Christmas Story” as I waddle down the main road towards the course.
I know that course is man-made, but there is something savagely peaceful about it during these winter months when no golfers walk the course and the hills bend gently under a uniform blanket of snow. A man can really think out there, trudging down the fairways and surveying the lake that crests the horizon. The air is crisp and clean as it blows inland over the waves. I may not remember my young conversations with Grandpa Ed, but when I walk his course I feel like I understand what he was about as a man, and I understand what was important to him. I like to think that is more significant.
If anyone was a brick-and-mortar type of man, I think Ed was. Never have I heard an ill word spoken of him. He realized the few things that were important to him, and indeed the few things that are important in life, and lived by them. It was in large part in his memory that I joined the Knights of Columbus this past semester. I can’t help but think of him every time I see a Knight serving breakfast to the community, or ringing a bell in the frigid cold outside of a store at Christmas time to raise money for those less fortunate. My New Year’s Resolution, and indeed my life goal, is to be more like Grandpa Ed.
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