The Loneliest Road

The last day of my drive west began with coffee, two eggs over easy, hash browns, wheat toast, and two sausage links, paid for with a voucher, just a tiny scrap of paper that for all I know is hand-cut every day. All were quite serviceable; the Garden of Eat’n does what it does very well.

In the next booth over, a white-haired couple helped each other with condiments, while out in the otherwise empty main dining area, a table of construction workers seemed to be waiting out the grey, rainy morning.

After eating my meal, I asked the cashier to change a $5 bill for ones and left two for my waitress. Breakfast is cheap, so I always leave at least $2 a person. I got that from my mom, who got it from my dad. I like it because it takes the math of tipping and installs a kindness floor.

I thanked the cashier again as I passed, once more ignoring the dim gift shop across from her, though I did think twice about the hand-knitted potholders sitting beside her in a small basket with a hand-written sign.

I walked out into the light rain, crossed the lot to my room, packed up, then stopped by the front desk to turn in my keys. I also checked for extra charges, since I had called my own phone from the room phone the night before when I accidentally left it in the trunk, hidden under the suitcase I'd repacked for Atlanta. “Nope, you’re all set!” came the answer, so I wished them a good day and got back in the car.

It's indulgent, but I feel like isolating the minutiae of that morning a bit. Part of the reason, I think, is because if High School Ian or even College Ian got a time-traveling postcard from the Best Western Paradise Inn and Resort in Fillmore, Utah, either of those two hopelessly anxious young men would be very surprised. So much of these five days seems unthinkable even now. In fact, on this flight to Atlanta for my friend Starla’s wedding, I’m sitting next to a pilot who just flew from Paris to Salt Lake City and is now deadheading back to Atlanta. I find that amazing, so foreign that it just took me a few attempts at conjugating the term “deadhead," but even Joe the Pilot found my five 8+ hour days of driving worthy of a “Wow.” I feel like part of a pretty cool club.

Another reason to spend a little time on Wednesday morning is that the day itself will not take long to describe, the last in a series of singular days. My first drive was about the departure, the leap. The second drive felt like a realization, the thought of “I’m really doing this! I’m so far from all that I know!” The third drive brought doubts and fears; the same words as quoted above, but spoken in a panic. And, of course, the fourth drive was a symphony of water, forests, and rock that had very little to do with me at all.

Wednesday’s drive along US-50 simply happened. I do not mean to say that it was boring by any means. I haven’t watched rainstorms from so far off in a long time, perhaps since my time in the Southwest with my dad, and, driving into them, I gripped the wheel and hollered, in my best Fury Road mania, “What a lovely, lovely day!”

The drive was cyclical, is all. Ride a mountain range down into a wide valley, wonder if that shimmering darkness in the distance is a town or nothing at all, fly through said valley at high velocity while watching either rain or sunshine fall on the mountains ahead, then, once the mountains have grown to an appropriate size before me, climb them again in a series of switchbacks at a mere 55 mph, crest the ridge, rinse, repeat.

It deserved the name of the loneliest road. While there were cars enough that I had to pass and be passed a dozen times or so, the roadside signs of life were little. More than once I had to pull off and relieve myself in the middle of nowhere, since I had seen the next valley and knew no relief with four walls was coming anytime soon.

Also, the spotty service that closed out Tuesday continued throughout the day, with the signal availability becoming a physics problem writ large: can civilization, traveling as a wave, reach this single car through the hunched shoulders of rock on either side of the valley? Show your work.

I can’t even say I did a lot of thinking, really. Meditating perhaps. And maybe an hour or so of thinking of how this particular drive through this landscape reminded me so much of the time spent with Dad. That, coupled with the breakfast tipping rule, had the man himself on my mind, and I’ll admit that I chose to lean into the maddening solitude by yelling my head off at him for a fair stretch of road. Good talking to you, Dad.

Otherwise, I just drove, mechanically, letting my inertia from the prior days carry me through the requisite mountains and valleys needed to reach Reno.

Once there, I checked in and stopped in the hotel bar for another, far inferior patty melt, disappointing but a sign of being back in the world, I suppose. You don’t get paper vouchers at the Best Western Airport Plaza in Reno.

Like that, the drive was over, literally and emotionally. For the latter, I can burn across the country until the concerns and cares lose their grip and fly off behind me, but once they do, there’s not much driving left to do.

But I did it. I will accept the “wow” of the deadheading pilot, because I was in New York Saturday and in Reno Wednesday and experienced 2,970 miles in between. I would love to try and summarize more, but I barely had the words for everything I saw Tuesday. So again, I did it.

Now, back to Atlanta for a wedding weekend, then onward to Lake Tahoe.

Of Thee I Sing

I am drafting this post from here:

This is a rest stop on US-50 aka “The Loneliest Road in America.” Resting is really all that one could do there, as there are no bathrooms or vending machines, just two covered benches and some trashcans that looked beyond alien in this setting. I'd been trying to find a good place to take a picture of the million yellow flowers between the road and the mountains and, seeing signs for this rest area, I figured I had my chance. I pulled to a stop, got out, and immediately knew I had to write here. This may be the most quiet place I have ever been in my entire life. An occasional wind whips through, cars come and go with minutes between them, and some curious bugs have buzzed by my ears, but otherwise, there is nothing. Even this typing sounds cacophonous.

Seems like an appropriate place to stop and get back to Tuesday.

I woke up Tuesday morning in my guest room at Kelly and Will’s completely rejuvenated. Thankfully, our small brewery crawl left no hangover, so I popped out of bed and showered quickly. I then returned to my room and got dressed, at which point I realized I was not alone. A big, long-haired German Shepherd mix had come down the basement stairs to stare at me with a happy but curious expression. Kelly had mentioned that Will would pick up the dogs in the morning, so I knew to expect dogs, but it was still funny to have her looking up at me, head cocked as if to say, “Oh, you’re the visitor?” I sat down on the floor to pet her, which she accepted immediately, and listened to Kelly on the phone upstairs, working from the kitchen.

After spending some time with the pup, whose name I later learned was Amelia, I packed up and brought my things upstairs, waving silently at Kelly as she continued her call. Beyond, in the living room, I found Sensei, a smaller black dog with perked ears and a nervous little face. Sensei got his pets as well, curled up beneath my legs as I hung out on the couch to psych up for the day’s drive.

Once Kelly finished her call, she offered me coffee, oatmeal, and a delicious smoothie over which we discussed our consulting experiences. Then, since her workday had started and I had 7.5 hours of driving ahead, it was time to say goodbye. I gave Kelly a big hug and thanked her once again for the unexpected kindness and a fantastic chance to reconnect. I then scritched Sensei a few more times and made my exit. On the way out, I realized an immediate stop was in order, as a very large bird (Kelly suggested an eagle) had relieved itself on the windshield, driver's side. Let's call it a blessing.

After a sickening squeegee and a fill-up, I found I-70 and began my climb into the Colorado Rockies. The mountains rose faster than the road, soon looming on either side and dotted with pine trees. I'd always pictured snow-caps on grey rock when I thought of the Rockies, but the trees were legion.

As the road climbed, the altitude made itself known in the form of a headache. I suffered through it for a while, agog at the scenery and the thrilling drive beneath rock walls and past serene lakes.

The headache intensified as I neared Vail, however, so I decided to take some advice Kelly provided and get some medicine for my sinuses. This meant pulling into the heart of Vail, where I'm surprised I wasn't handed a pair of leggings just for stopping by, as it seemed to be all anyone was wearing. I found my relief at the Vail Safeway, which proved that no chain is above ski lodge architecture.

I may be ripping on Vail a bit, but I'm really just jealous...the place reeked of relaxation. It takes a lot to provoke the envy of the unemployed guy road-tripping across the US, but Vail managed very, very well.

The road found Eagle River, which itself found the Colorado. From there, the highway was at the mercy of the river, leading CJ and I through narrow canyons of towering rock. The lanes were narrow and the shoulders non-existent, so I have only one picture from a construction stop:

From there, the canyon widened, setting the rock faces farther back from the road, which itself criss-crossed the river over and over on its way west. The ridges grew even taller as I went and I couldn't help but stop and take pictures. I felt lucky to see such incredible landscapes during such a necessary, point-A-to-point-B drive and, with 7.5 hours being the shortest day so far, I felt I had the time to appreciate it.

The last major city on the way out of Colorado was Grand Junction, just before which the picture above was taken. I cleared the western corner of the pictured ridge and, seeing the city ahead, started looking for gas stations. Casually glancing to my right, however, I saw the longest, most imposing wall of rock I've ever seen in my life. If I wasn't a Song of Ice and Fire fan, I don't know how I'd reference it against anything at all because it seemed like a more sloped palette-swap of The Wall. I missed the opportunity to photograph it, as I was too busy swearing in my wonder, but here is a picture of what I just found out are called the Book Cliffs:

"Near Grand junction, CO" by User Skez on en.wikipedia - Originally from en.wikipedia; description page is (was) here03:31, 2 March 2006 Skez 992x708 (137,232 bytes) (Near Grand Junction, CO Taken by Sean Davis http://flickr.com/photos/skez/32161524/). Licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0 via Commons.

I stared at the cliffs as I filled up the tank, already reeling at what I had seen on the drive. Verdant pine forests carved up by snow-less ski runs, mountain lakes that reminded me of Champlain and Placid, and this wall out of King Kong (ok, maybe I could manage without GRRM). It was probably the best drive so far, I thought.

And then I hit Utah...

That view and that of the Book Cliffs are less than an hour apart, yet the world had changed dramatically. Land had risen and fallen all day, but now it was blanched and bare, the thickly-bunched pines exchanged for shrubs toughing it out in the desert rock. My head was spinning. I couldn't conceive of that hour's drive coexisting in one place and yet this came after a late morning in the heart of the Rockies, a day before that in the prairies, a day before that in the cornfields, a day before that in Adirondack countryside. How could this all be one country? And MY country? I felt awash in patriotism as I stood looking out at the desert. This rollicking chimaera of a landscape is connected to the tall Georgia pines of my youth, the cold Philly winters of family holidays. It is celebrated in the monuments where I went to college. And to that point, despite those years in DC, nights spent on the River House rooftop watching the city glittering beneath the Washington monument, even several Fourth of Julys beneath the cataclysmic National Mall fireworks, nothing had created quite the love of country that I felt Tuesday and still feel today. It no longer seems quite as maddening that we can't agree as a country; how can we help but be different when locations an hour apart could shape people so differently?

Of course, that's imagining people living in the parts of Utah I now drove through, where it's hard to imagine life at all. Even the road seemed cowed by the petrified waves of the terrain.

I stopped at a few "view areas" such as those pictured above and about half of them had a vendor in residence, usually a member of a local tribe, with their goods laid out on the ground for sale and a car nearby to offer a break from the sun. At the Black Dragon Canyon one (second from the bottom with the two orange-red ridges), the vendor sat on the ground, her back against the base of a sign describing the landscape, letting the thick post shade her as she sat. The goods sat unsold on the sidewalk in front of the parking lot, while another car, presumably the vendor's, sat two spots down from mine with two children playing in the backseat. I hadn't seen a city for the better part of an hour, which meant this family had traveled a long way to this empty place hoping to pique the interest of travelers that must only appear every half hour or so. Obviously, given the untended mementos, the hoping had stopped for the day. So soon after American pride had swelled my chest, reality let the air out. There's room for both patriotism and realism, certainly, and I think I came away from the day with both, but I drove back on to I-70 from that view area with more sighs than fanfare.

While the landscape continued to entrance and delight, the day was starting to take its toll. I am but one man and that was a lot of awe for one day. I-70 took me to US-50, which introduced me to its bread-and-butter: long straight-aways through broad grassy plains and scrub brush, screaming from one mountain range to the next. Taking it north, around a particularly jagged ridge, then south again on the other side, I finally came upon Fillmore, UT, first capital of Utah and my stop for the night.

My Best Western's restaurant, the Garden of Eat'n, makes a mean patty melt, which is how I closed the day. Well, that and a four dollar 7-and-7, after which I crossed the small parking lot, entered my room, and set about packing for this weekend's wedding, trying to continue on as though I hadn't just had the greatest drive of my life.

I should also say that, for all my wishy-washiness about having to keep paying off my car during this income-free period, CJ handled that day and this trip like a warrior. I made several attempts at capturing her glory when I entered Utah, but I think only the last one truly nailed her epic nature:

Eat your heart out, car commercials.

Oh, she's also become a bit of a mass murderer (taken in Grand Junction):

Next up: Wednesday and The Loneliest Road

What Nebraska Breaks, Colorado Fixes

I am exhausted as I draft this post. The past two days have been studies in extremes, from experiencing deep existential fear in the fields of Nebraska to a warm catching-up session in Denver, from the green mountains of Vail in summertime to a dry, rocky desert in Utah. I put up pictures worth thousands upon thousands of words about today's 9-hour drive from Denver to central Utah on my instagram account, but they do not cover the breadth of country I saw; I am worried blogging will be to these two days as those pictures are to the landscape. But here we go.

(Edit: Despite referencing both days above, this post turned out to be all about Monday. Tuesday's post will follow)

After yesterday's post from the fields of Iowa, I spent most of the day looking out the windshield at Nebraska. I'd heard friends grumble about Great Plains driving, calling it a mind-numbing bore, in fact, but I liked the drive a lot. I spent a lot of time imagining a pioneer gazing out over such calm, empty space and choosing one of three equally staggering options: go back, stay put, go on. The idea of facing that decision was paralyzing, a quality I eventually let creep into my own choices.

What happens after Tahoe for me? If I want to write, I need a place to write. If I want a place, I need money. If I want money, I need a job. If I want a job, then I might want to have one somewhere where I actually plan to be for a while. I'm in Tahoe for a month and, without having seen it yet, how do I know I want to stay on and find my own place? If not Tahoe, then where? Do I try LA at last? Return to DC or GA? Should I be sampling new cities entirely?

Though it's hard to call anything paralyzed at 80 mph, icy panic held my attention for several hours, with the Nebraska cornfields offering little distraction. Finally, after confirming that I have several emergency resources on this side of the country, I focused on the idea that, when I get to Lake Tahoe, I need to immediately hit the ground running on figuring out my next step from there. To this point, my plans have been open-ended and fluid, with spontaneous trips to Boston and gallivanting around New York. And, to now, that vibe has been just what the doctor ordered after the lock-step schedule of work.

But I'm starting to feel the cash outflow more than the freedom. Maybe not so much that it spoiled my enjoyment of the scenery...American spoke far too loudly for that today...but enough to want to turn the absence of direction into direction. Instead of "I guess I'll see what happens next", I want to look down a path, nod approvingly, and start down it with as big a step as I can handle.

It's weird to declare all this as though it wasn't kind of the plan all along. I remember saying to myself before I left work that, while I definitely wanted to write the book, a big part of leaving work was vacating the space it took up in my life and seeing what flows into it. I think that, with the help of the central-US void staring me right in the face, I realized that nothing is going to just FLOW into that space. There are choices to make.

But enough angst, I say! Onward the fields took me from anger to fear to anger again and finally back to a calm. I confirmed with Erik that I can head to Tahoe after this weekend's wedding, which allowed me to lean back into my pilot's seat and fly through the fields. At long last, Nebraska gave way into Colorado, immediately breaking my conception of Colorado as a state of mountains from border to border. If anything, the rolling horizons that had fallen from Michigan to Nebraska gave their last gasps and collapsed into flat prairie just a few miles into The Centennial State. Here began the sense of a true vacuum in which few humans chose to live. There was simply grass, the road, and the occasional rest stop, including the one where I accidentally shut off a bathroom light with a trucker still in one of the stalls. By the way, when I'd realized my mistake and doubled back to remedy, I opened the door to him standing at the lightswitch, Bic lighter in one hand and his belt in the other. I apologized profusely and promptly ran out of the store to get back on the road.

Of course, Colorado's mountains eventually made their appearance closer to Denver itself, though only in outlines glimpsed through a haze that, to my shock, came all the way down from the northwestern wildfires. Earlier, Kelly had sent me a staggering map of their affected area:

Sadly, therefore, the Rockies did not provide the backdrop of Denver they could have, but I would see plenty the next day. For now, it was time to reconnect with Kelly Straub, fellow member of Milton High School Class of 2003 and ridiculously hospitable person who had offered a place to stay and a tour of some Denver breweries. I felt so anxious when I finally pulled into Kelly's driveway, similar to how I felt before getting together with Laura Murphy in New York. We knew each other, sure, and Facebook had illuminated a lot of similarities in interest and sense of humor, but still we were about to hang out with each other (a) after over ten years, barring reunion, and (b) for easily more time than we ever had in the past.

I think I may have been the only one feeling this, however, as Kelly greeted me at the door with a wave of enthusiasm and quickly led me into the cozy guest bedroom I'd be sleeping in. After changing, I popped back out to find an Upslope Brown Ale waiting for me, which I enjoyed while Kelly filled me in on the house and our plan for the night. As for catching up, I will have trouble placing the topics with the locations, but suffice it to say we covered how she got to Denver, what's she's doing for work, her cycling hobby, how her family's doing, her various travels past and future, and just generally how she got from high school in Alpharetta to an awesome life in Denver. Kelly proclaims herself a high school wallflower that bloomed in college and grad school and, while I remember her as sweet, funny, and intelligent, I definitely did not know that meant sweet enough to open her home, funny enough to crack me up more than once during the night, and so intelligent that she seems to balance consulting with an active, adventurous life without a second thought. In short, Kelly rocks.

As for my end, it was equal parts what's been going on with me and, of course, what is going on with the A Kids nerd-clique. I'd learned from Drew Dir during a visit to Chicago that our gang could be something of a passive spectator sport (to this day, I admire Mr. Friedman for reading multiple accounts of the same drama), both during high school and after. The romantic entanglements were impossible to diagram, as were the ebb and flow of individual friendships, and so I think people who watched that all from a safe distance find it interesting that we're all still close. Since Kelly had also gone to Georgia Tech with some of the gang, she had tracked some of the goings-on beyond Alpharetta, so I filled in some gaps throughout the evening.

Anyway, from here on, I'll just say "we caught up" and it will cover the full breadth of conversation we had at the various points.

As we caught up ("you're doing it, Peter!"), Kelly's boyfriend Will arrived with an awesome new time trial bike in tow. We all ooh'd and aah'd over it, though I was definitely a bit lost other than observing that it was easily the thinnest bike I'd ever seen. My cycling primer would be later in the evening. Will gave an immediate air of Colorado ease, while admitting to a competitive streak when it came to cycling, a work-hard, play-harder sense I got from the whole night in Denver. Granted, we mostly hit breweries, but still, the vibe was, "Tough day? Sure, but look where we are!"

Our first stop was the Breckenridge Brewery and Restaurant, where we put our names in for a table, got a round of drinks, and walked out into the breezy patio area. Cornhole and bocce filled half of the area, while we took to a picnic table and continued to catch up. Will was a real trooper through all of the esoteric MHS material and I'm glad we got a chance to discuss his work, their shared thoughts on Denver's development as a city, and how the cycling became such a passion. We took the conversation to our table, where it continued over a second round of delicious brews, home-grown carrots, elk burgers, and more.



Any anxiety I had about hanging out after so long was long gone. Kelly and Will were warm, funny, and enthusiastic about their lives, which is needless to say just the type of people I love being around right now. The party continued to Declaration Brewery, where we had another round and caught up some more beneath a beautiful night with only a slight chill in the air. Speaking of which, Colorado felt like my first steps back into the west, reminding me of the low humidity and cool evenings that I find so appealing.

Finally, we returned to the house, where I helped polish off one last Brown Ale (my hosts are not fans of it, while it reminds me of Red Hare's Watershed Brown) and caught up some more. The conversation definitely went deeper throughout the evening, a nice way to bond in limited time. Kelly and Will are both very easy to talk to and, again, pursue life much in the same way that I hope to, so I felt comfortable discussing the plans and lack thereof and panic about the lack thereof. In fact, the discussion, the company, and the entire evening soothed the day's emotional wounds in a way I couldn't have expected.

Finally, though, it was time to call the evening and I retired to my guest room happily. The Clive, IA Best Western had been fine, but definitely more serviceable than comfortable, and it didn't provide a fun night on the town and an excellent evening of catching up.

My time in this Utah Best Western is nearly up and I'd like to make some progress on the road, so unfortunately yesterday's Best Drive Ever will have to wait either for a stop along the way or tonight's stay in Reno. I packed for the wedding last night, so I should have some time there and I want to capture all of that magic before it evaporates.

Heartland

This comes from a rest stop about 30 minutes west of Des Moines, IA, because there are fewer cute coffee shops and more truck stops during this point in the journey. I probably can't spare a luxurious writing session anyway, as tonight's stop in Denver promises some reindeer games in the evening. I will be staying with Kelly Straub, a high school friend I've kept up with mostly through Facebook. In response to posts about my upcoming journeys, Kelly commented to let her know if I'm in Colorado. When my planned route crossed that way, I reached out, hoping to get coffee or a drink and catch up.

Instead, Kelly offered me a place to stay and promised some brewery visits. I don't know what strange modern alchemy has occurred to make friends maintained only through Facebook be so incredibly generous and open to connecting, but I love it. It's encouraging to consider that, despite all the thinkpiece fodder that is the Facebook friendship, the medium can actually be a way to stay connected to great people whose paths you're meant to cross again...ones who will pick up after over a decade and support your personal madness. Brilliant, I say!

Yesterday's drive took me from Michigan through Indiana and Illinois before finally finding me in my next Best Western in Clive, IA, just off of I-80. My first stop on my way out of Michigan came quickly, as my friend Zac recommended a stop at Zingerman's Deli in Ann Arbor. Zac had come into my life by way of Ann Arbor, having met my friend Alison there during law school, so I felt it only appropriate to take his recommendation. After all, I know I'd be bursting with Wisey's pride in the reversed scenario.

I found Ann Arbor simmering with the easy freedoms of a college town, even (or is it especially?) on a Sunday. When I found the mosaic'd sign for Zingerman's and walked in, I found myself among a mixture of parents dropping new students off and pajama-pantsed upperclassmen. The deli was even more of a well-oiled machine than Wisey's, but then again, there is some scaling between clienteles. I waited in line, gave my order to a young'n with an iPad, then paid a hefty sum for a Reuben so hefty itself that it could be thrown through a window with an ominous note attached. It was also delicious.

On my way out of town, I detoured past the Big House. While it's hard for me to feel interested in college football through a TV screen, the place itself felt hallowed, charged with hundreds of thousands (probably millions, if my math is right) of priceless college moments made within its gates. It's hard to be disinterested in that.

After that stop, there were few others. Instead, it was hour after hour of marveling as the trees thinned and endless fields of corn took their place. I have seen the Southwest, the California coast, the Deep South, New England, and much more. That is to say, I am no stranger to the absurd differences between different parts of the US. I am happy to report, though, that it still charms and surprises me to come across those differences. Seeing green hills swell and fall beneath the golden dusting of the corn tassels made the hours go by quickly. Even now at the rest stop, I can look out and watch the wind as it plays through the stalks. I tried to capture it at sunset yesterday, but unlike most sunset photos where I frame some silhouette against the deep colors, there was nothing but the land and the sky, neither of which deigned to fit into my camera.

A thought from the road this morning was how far I currently am from every last pin I've ever placed in this country. Atlanta, Philadelphia, DC, LA, even my destination in Tahoe...even my destination tonight...they all seem an unconquerable distance from where I sit. My joy in the road puts the lie to the "unconquerable" aspect, perhaps, but there is still an effort to be made. For the first time in almost a decade, there is no inertia to be broken. Staying put is not an option...at least, not a very realistic one.

I have swum out to the middle of the river and there is as much effort in turning back as there is in keeping the car pointed west, blazing into the unknown.

Timbits and Turbines

First of all, I want to apologize for some of the grammar and formatting issues of recent posts. I need to become a better editor or simply look at blog posts after I compose them. 

Yesterday's drive became more forgiving after my coffee stop in Potsdam. The country roads through upstate New York charmed the blues away with their lovingly-maintained farmhouses with brightly-painted trim. Occasionally, science fiction infused the Norman Rockwell landscapes in the form of countless wind turbines, their arms on a scale so vast that the composite image seemed like the colorings of a child: "This is the house, and here's the farm and the barn, and then they have a BIG FAN here to keep them cool because it's really hot." 

Clouds mustered above the fields in fluffy dollops, the sort we would watch from our side of the lake as they formed over Vermont. Though the sun shone in a blue sky, the weather overhead felt more present and ominous than it did from the Chazy shorelines, even when the storm clouds formed. Spooked, I occasionally laid into the pedal, so that I might outrun any ambush of rain. 

Way led on to way until I was cruising down the less quaint lanes of I-81, passing Syracuse with a feigned gagging and a very real nostalgia for the two trips the gang and I made for Georgetown away games. Though I missed having a co-pilot like Tom or Paul, I was beginning to enjoy the solitude after the morning-to-night company that the lake trip entails. It's a haven of a location, but you are never truly alone at the lake unless you want to wake up at 5:30. I remain thankful for the faux solitude of my study breaks with Colin. 

Next came I-90 and, at last, the crossing into Canada. I stopped beforehand to refuel, hoping to avoid any sort of transactions over the coming hours not knowing what my various cards did over the border. The service area turned out to have a Tim Horton's, checking a pseudo-box of mine in terms of Canadian experiences. One tall iced coffee and some Timbits later, I sat face-to-face with the border patrol, feeling like a criminal as one often does, especially one with a MD license and a GA car (thanks to some bureaucracy between both states). I did not, however, anticipate how disarming honesty would be in my case:

Border Patrol: Where are you going in Canada?

Ian: Actually, I'm passing through to Michigan.

BP: What's in Michigan?

Ian: The first of several Best Westerns on my way to Nevada.

BP: What's in Nevada?

Ian: A friend I'm staying with for a few weeks.

BP: What do you do for a living?

Ian: I was an actuary back in Atlanta, but I quit to try and write a book.

BP: What sort of book?

Ian: A fictional book about sea monsters. I've always found them interesting.

BP: Wow, ok, well perhaps I should take your name down and then when your book makes it big, I'll say you made it big!

Ian: Sounds like a plan to me!

BP: Well, off you go and good luck!

The four-hour Canadian drive itself leaves little to be described at the outset. Once or twice, I saw flashes of the Great Lakes on either side, even once glimpsing Toronto far across the water, its buildings impossibly small. More often, though, I simply managed the km/h speed limits and listened to Nerdist podcasts. In fact, Benedict Cumberbatch's charming fart noises got me through the lowest point of the day's drive, when the hours catch up just as the scenery falls away. 

Then, stopping at a Canadian service area for a bio break, I had a brain wave. Years back in my travels, I had come upon a CD called "Heading West." It was a mix of various artists curated into a backdrop for the Great American Road Trip or so the packaging implied, all empty highways and speed limit signs. Last year, with the move to LA approaching, I had specifically placed said CD in the driver's side door, aiming to play it for the first time when I was truly "heading west." Then, of course, life happened. 

A year and a month later than that journey-not-taken, almost to the day, I got back in the car and opened that case, ready at last to embrace the music of my chosen path. 

Unfortunately, what I found in the sleeve was the first disc of an audiobook called Confronting Reality, a book about changing how you think about business. I have no idea what happened to put it there or where the true CD may be. It must not have ever been there. This realization crushed me and brought with it another wave of fear and sadness. Last year, I was planning to shoot myself across the country in a cannon, sure, but towards someone I loved, a job I knew, and a city I was excited to live in. Now I find myself launched at last, airborne, but without that comfortable airbag awaiting my descent. I know I have Erik's generosity and the beauty of Tahoe ahead, as well as the surprising hospitality of others this week, but that landing will still be so very, very different.

By the way, I don't know why I'm drawn to the circus imagery of highwires and human cannonballs. Perhaps because I've been talking up the act like a ringleader and now comes the moment itself...I'll think about that in the car today.

Defeated by strange CD mishaps, I switched back to the podcasts. Then, something lovely happened. As Henry Winkler waxed enthusiastically about the joys of his career with his family coming in and out of the podcast like characters in a farce, the sun began setting in front of me and the sky fractured into radiant colors stitched one to the other by the silhouettes of yet more wind turbines. Here it was, my first true road sunset, and I bloomed to it. My energy renewed itself and I pushed away dread with the conviction that, win or loss, fly or fall, this is the path for me now. There will be fear, yes, but there will also be beauty. 

A few hours later, I crossed the Ambassador Bridge into Michigan, once again accepted the encouragement of a bemused border agent, and finally flopped blissfully onto a big, fluffy king bed in Livonia, MI. 

Onward to Iowa. 

The Hard Part

Stopped to take my breath after two hours of driving this morning, mainly because this first leg knocked me for a loop. I had planned to head west from the end of the Lake Champlain trip, but after saying goodbye to everyone this morning and making sure to get a few extra hugs from Mom, the realization that it was the parting of the ways hit hard. Suddenly, I was pulling out of the field beside the house and breaking off from the others, all of whom would travel as one group, one caravan heading back to the MD-PA stretch we all call home.

As my road carried me west, sadness overwhelmed me. Part of the feeling was familiar, reminiscent of when I was leaving DC for Atlanta and popped up to Mom's place in Havre de Grace for one last visit. We hung out for a few hours and I left as though there was nothing special about that particular trip. Then, just a few miles down the road, before I hit the highway even, I pulled over bawling. I had spent the last five years an hour-and-a-half drive from my mom, able to come up for Saturday lunch and still make it back for a night out in DC. The absence of that simplicity hadn't crossed my mind until that moment and I wound up turning around and spending another hour with her.

That feeling swept through me today as I drove west through New York farmland, the feeling that things were getting less simple, that seeing my Mom, so incredibly easy over the last month, would get harder with every mile. Atlanta was far enough, but at least I had an income...now I will have to measure out the money or airlines miles to get me home each time. That'll take some adjustment.

I also think I left myself especially exposed to the feeling, having staved off sleep last night by clicking on a circulating Facebook link about the finale of Six Feet Under. Having never seen the show and with only a vague recollection of the synopsis, I clicked a link to a video, remembering a review that the final moments of the show were truly beautiful. And so I watched Claire driving out of the city (LA, I think?) and into the country, as the images of all of the characters' future deaths cut in, one closing moment after another. It was, as I'd heard, a gorgeous montage, even having no knowledge of the characters, but I also felt deeply connected to the emotions running unchecked across Lauren Ambrose's face as she drove east. There is something so deeply frightening and sad and exciting and fresh about pointing a car away from the majority of people you love and just going (even when there are loved ones in the direction you're heading). I'm only 2 hours into the week...8 more to go today and 38 more in total, and yet here I am, already reeling. One way or another, this will be an experience.

The storm before The Storm

It's the last full day at the cabin in Lake Champlain. Unlike yesterday's early start to capture the infrequent intersection of sunrise and a choppy lake, today's alarm found me checking my phone, noting the continuing showers, and going to sleep for another hour.

Now, as I sit at Conroy's with Colin, the night's storms are being blown out of sight and we may actually get a nice last day at the lake. Whatever the weather, though, I doubt anything today will shake the knowledge that tomorrow I'll wake up in the same place I have so many times...and then start driving west. It's more than a little scary and I'm already looking forward to returning to Atlanta next weekend after five days of drastic driving. I suppose it's normal that, as I step out onto the high wire in earnest, I find myself sneaking a peek below me, squinting into the darkness beyond the spotlights, trying to confirm that there's a net.

On Chazy Beach

It's Thursday morning and I'm out on the beach, gazing out over Lake Champlain, just a few steps across the lawn from our cabin. I could bug Mom to figure out the precise number of years we've been coming here and, more specifically, how many years I've actually made it, but to do so would mean leaving the beach and this brilliant sunrise that keeps pulling my eyes from the screen.

Whatever the actual tally it feels as though I always spend the annual week in Chazy thinking about what has changed and what never changes. As familiar as I find the seeking, biting cold of the lake water or the quiet obsession we all get with the jigsaw puzzles, I find myself just as surprised to see the bloated bag of cans we produce now that all the boys can drink and the diligence with which Colin and Sean have studied for their CPA exams. In fact, I'll need to pack up on the beach here soon and take this show to Conroy's Organics, where Colin and I spent two hours working yesterday.

As comforting as it is to take up my net after missing two years, either the fish are too fast or I'm too slow and I've watched a few ghostly sheepsheads dart away while my breath bubbles a roared curse back up to the surface. Still, there are a few days left and I will get one of the bastards if I have to hunt on Saturday before we leave. The hunt still soothes, though, with the chill of the lake and the focus on movement wiping every other thought from my mind. I think its effect on my healing meniscus may be a wash though; whatever bonus the cold water brings may be undone by several unbroken minutes trying to keep up with whatever fish I've got in target lock.

Thankfully, this moment is familiar. My alarm woke me quietly, I hope, not disturbing my three cousins in the room we all still insist on sleeping in together despite being men grown. I dressed, creaked down the narrow staircase to the single great room of the ground floor, and slipped on my flipflops while peering through the wall of windows to see that the sky already glowed pink. Then came the dewy walk through the same lawn we'd taken to just seven hours before to crane up our necks and guess at the stars (or cheat with iPhone apps). Finally, the ever-changing stony stairs down to the beach, which is actually long rock slabs scattered with plastic Adirondack chairs. I rescued a few the wind had carried off down the shore and plopped myself down in one, setting my eyes over Isle la Motte where the sun soon came glowing through the trees.

While I was working, there were times that I chafed at this trip. When you're in your twenties and have a set allotment of vacation, it can be hard to prioritize a trip so familiar when there are so many new things in the world to see. But now, tagged and released into the wild as a creative experiment, I find myself sharing my Uncle Kevin's tradition of feeling the end of the trip days before it happens. There are two more sunrises, two more days, probably less than ten expeditions into the lake. And while I'm lucky enough, when I leave, to follow the sunsets into the West on my way to Lake Tahoe, I will still miss starting the day alone with the sunrise and closing it out sitting in plastic Adirondack chairs with laughter, canned IPAs, and our feet in the water.



But now, it's time to wake up Col and get to work.

I'll Have What They're Having

This throwback blog entry comes from Conroy's Organics, a market and diner in West Chazy, NY, a few short minutes away from the puzzle table, my fishing net, and the other various facets of the Lake Champlain experience. My cousin Colin needed a break to study for a CPA exam and I wanted to mentally scrapbook my last full day in New York last week before the images fade.

I woke up Wednesday surprisingly well put-together considering the previous night's celebration, which was lucky considering Hanley and William had composed a schedule of authentic New York experiences ranging from tourist favorites to supernatural surprises. Before adventuring, however, Han popped over to the gym and I took some time to work, which translated into me trading frustrations with the Maryland Vehicle Administration and my auto loan company. I also learned that Tom Armstrong was in New York for the day himself, possibly summoned by Sarah Krokey's fond exhalations of his name the night before. I passed Tom the vague sketches of the day that Hanley had allowed me and he said that he'd tried to catch up after work, which marked once again an instance of me forgetting that not everyone is a jobless drifter.

Finally, it was time for the adventure to start! Hanley and I made our way downtown and found ourselves on Houston, where our first stop revealed itself: Katz's Deli, home of the famous scene from When Harry Met Sally. Anxious for what was sure to be a life-changing pastrami sandwich, I sprang through the doors and ran right into William, who'd been waiting to meet us. While pumped to be taken through a grand tour of the city, I was also thrilled to be spending the day with Hanley's fiancé. We'd met twice, once at a wedding and once for dinner after seeing Hanley and William in a show, so both times there were grander plans afoot and more folks to split our attention. Now, after placing our orders, getting a tender slice of pastrami to taste, and being presented with thick sandwiches slathered with mustard, I found myself sitting back across from the man himself and catching up casually.

William always reminds me of old Hollywood for some reason, probably because he carries Robert Redford features and an Errol Flynn smile. In conversation, he balances a sagacity (especially being a native New Yorker) with an encouraging mania; in short, he was a perfect person to talk with about my big leap. We first discussed the earlier part of his week, spent playing a Russian tough in a primetime TV drama. Then, he and Hanley asked about the book and I gave them my pitch, starting with Owen's small town life and expanding into the world he didn't know he lived in. They responded with enthusiasm and we returned to the story a few times throughout the rest of the day. It was also nice to see their relationship in its natural habitat, an adorable little world carved out of the madness of the city. They had been apart for a few days and clearly felt grateful for time together even while playing fine hosts.

After Katz's came an even bigger secret stop. Hanley and William walked me through Alphabet City in the East Village while William asked me odd questions like "Do you believe in magic?" and "Do you like candles?" Now that I know he was trying to drop vague hints, it's doubly funny that my programming kept trying to find a common ground with the weirdness: "Totally! I love magic! I went to the Magic Castle in LA once!" Our meanderings took us at last down into a below-ground shop run by honest-to-goodness wiccans, where my tour guides told me they wanted to give me an authentic underground New York experience by getting me a special candle to bless my endeavors. Apparently, William's sister had tried one to positive results, while William himself did it and wound up with more auditions than he could handle. Once the surprise was sprung, the two of them seemed worried that I might find it hokey, but I assured them that the guiding principle of the next six months is openness and that there's nothing hokey about generous intentions and concentrating positive thought. I spoke with the shopkeeper about leaving work, starting my book, and generally leaving myself exposed to the world for the time being, as well as giving my name and my sign. She told me she'd be making me the Emperor candle, which, according to the website, has the following properties:

EMPEROR

Jupiterian in nature, this candle brings recognition, builds confidence and helps to present opportunities. Calls on divine guidance and intervention to lead you in the right direction.

Can't ask for better than that, I say. The candles take about thirty minutes, so we spent the time leaving through astrology books and, at least in my case, petting the handful of cats given free reign of the store. The store itself was a mystical haven, with books lining the left wall, spices and ingredients lining the right, and a back workshop where the candles were made. They also carried assorted Day of the Dead skulls, nordic runestones, and candles shaped like male and female genitalia. At last, the shopkeeper returned with my big purple candle, thankfully candle-shaped and inscribed with my name and sign. It was a sweet and specific gift for William and Hanley to get for me and I'm excited to bring it along and find a good time to focus my energy and light 'er up.

Emerging from the magical lair, we continued our wanderings to McSorley's Old Ale House, the oldest Irish pub in New York. The floors were sawdusted, the lighting was dim, and as we entered, William order the only things they carried, light and dark beer. Not brands of light and dark. We literally ordered "Two light beers and one dark." We then sat in the cozy window table and chatted some more. I spoke about my relationship with work and about the catch-as-catch-can freelancing energy Hanley and William have to live with. As I learned when my friend Donny looped me in on some film extra work in Atlanta during my last week at Towers, never the twain shall meet. It was a comfortable few drinks and a nice, wandering conversation, fitting of the entire energy of the day.

We continued on through the Ukrainian village, with William pointing out several landmarks given his own Ukrainian heritage. We passed through NYU and entered Washington Square Park, from which we could see the Freedom Tower and Empire State building. Hanley pointed out the famous arch while William briefly joined the amorphous cloud of jugglers, regaling us with a quick routine before leaving it to the kids. I pointed out that I was fairly sure the Impractical Jokers had done some bits there, finally understanding how it is that they aren't recognizable at this point; the city is just so damn big. The energy in the park was lively and relaxed all at once, a vibe we felt even as we walked out beneath the trees on Washington Place.

My hosts led me next to White Horse Tavern, where Dylan Thomas, among other writers, threw back many's the drink. In fact, there was this haunting painting of Thomas in one of the side rooms:

We sat outside on the street through several rounds of drinks, now discussing taking chances, both in vocation and romance. I believe the topic came up when William bought another round of drinks; when I tried to pay him, he smiled, pointed to me and said, "You pay me back by going out and DOING IT!" His excitement was contagious and so followed many proclamations of artistic enthusiasm at that sidewalk table. Then, as we got up to leave (William having sneakily paid the bill inside), I met William out by the street where he professed how much he loved Hanley and that she was so good, both in general and for him. I laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, assuring him he was good for her too and that he made her very happy. Adorable booziness all around.

Our further travels come a little hazier, as we drank more than we ate, but as night fell, we found ourselves at Wilfie and Nell's, where we split an order of scotch eggs and shouted over the rowdy post-work crowd. Then came Vol de Nuit, a bar lit in deep reds and specializing in intense Belgian beer, where I finally convinced William to let me cover a round. At this point, we began winding down, as Hanley had her audition, William needed rest from the busy shooting schedule, and I had a bus to wake for. We were not too tired, however, for a late stop for artichoke pizza, which we scarfed down on the street while people-watching. I felt comfortable out and about by that point, with the night around me feeling just like an evening out in Adams Morgan back in DC. My unspoken hope for New York was realized as it no longer felt like a place I'd only seen a few blocks of at a time. I have the bug now, having seen so much and knowing it to be so little of the whole. In fact, the next day, after a quick morning chat with Hanley and a fond farewell, as we rolled away on the bus headed southbound, I felt something I'd never felt for New York, but knew very well from its usual association with Atlanta, DC, and LA: the deep, thrumming gravity of a city you know you're not done with. 

Don't Care If It's Chinatown Or On Riverside

It feels strange to recount the remainder of my trip to New York City after having left the state entirely and then returning to Chazy, NY on the shores of Lake Champlain, about as far upstate as one can get. Instead of the glow of the streetlights, the roar of the subway, and the chattering of a thousand passing conversations, I have a dark blue evening, the murmuring chop of the lake, and my family's long knives of good-natured sarcasm slipping between each others ribs. They are different worlds, and yet as I sit here, in one of my favorite spots on earth, I must say I miss the city. 

After Monday's entry from an Upper West Side coffee shop, Hanley and I met back at her apartment for ecstatic hugs and a brief change before she led me back out onto the streets and down to Riverside Park. Strolling through the park, we caught each other up on recent months and discussed, as we often do, Atlanta versus not-Atlanta, home versus not-home. This chat led us all the way down to the Boat Basin Cafe, where we sat on a large open porch overlooking the Hudson and toasted ketchup and mustard bottles to seeing each other. Appropriate to passing the site of the final scene in You've Got Mail, the conversation meandered towards relationships and specifically to how Hanley and William first met (a beautiful show-mance story). After we finished, it was the subway back to her apartment and an evening of preparation for her auditions the next day. Going over the scripts was a familiar thrill with Han's TV-specific training providing just enough curveballs to teach me a little something about the high wire act a theatre/onscreen actor has to go through.

On Tuesday morning, after sharing the walk to the subway, Hanley and I parted ways, her to a day on the job of auditions and me to meandering the city from that point until I met my friend Laura in the afternoon. I gathered my thoughts in Birch coffee shop, where, just the afternoon before, I had delighted in iced coffee growlers and conversation starting table signs to encourage shared space. Feeling restless, however, I pulled stakes quickly and took the train down to the New York Public Library. Han had mentioned that the reading room was closed for renovations, but the exterior still loomed sufficiently and I briefly walked the lobby feeling, for all the marble and security, like I was back at the Smithsonian.

From NYPL, I began strolling south down 5th Avenue, simply to enjoy the rhythm of the traffic lights and the flow of people getting about their days. When I noticed the avenue's circulation blocking up with tourists (thinking, of course, that I didn't count), I caught on to my surroundings and crossed the street to gaze up at the Empire State Building, where Meg Ryan was held in the clutches of King Kong, only to be rescued by Joe Kavalier and Sammy Clay.

My stroll continued down past the Flatiron Building, where I peeled off onto Broadway and followed that down to my newly-determined goal, the Strand bookstore. Despite pinching my pennies of late, I wanted to buy a book at this bibliophile's mecca and so, after an unfortunately short perusal, I shamelessly picked up Slouching Towards Bethlehem from a display table close to the check-out and more shamelessly accepted the nodding approval of the cashier who said he had it on his list as well. I wonder if his interest also stems from a Buzzfeed list of What Men's Favorite Books Say About Them. Most shameless of all.

At this point, I should mention that the August heat in the city had me feeling disgusted by my own sweat, so once I got to DUMBO (after briefly stopping down at the new Freedom Tower), I decided I would have to further splurge on a new T-shirt so as not to meet a friend after 12 years as some sort of sweat elemental. So fixated was I on my quest for that clean feeling that I walked by David Cross and his dog without once thinking I should say hello.

With a new T-shirt on my back and bluebirds of relief singing around my head, I sat down at One Girl Cookies with a cold brew to engage with my new friend Joan and wait for my old friend Laura. A short time later, the latter walked in bearing the shining smile I remembered from high school and an easy, big city glamour that I did not.

For all of the valid questions floating around about what the internet is doing to social interactions, I find it hard to assign demerits when Laura and I legitimately only got together because Facebook kept us in touch. There's a degree to which Facebook actually educated us in our similarities more and more over the years, having taken the torch from the great blogging boom of Milton High School. Given that, seeing Laura was in some ways the greatest experiment of this Find the Creatives northeastern tour and our conversation did not disappoint. I felt a little maudlin catching her up on my whole artist-escaped-from-perfectly-reasonable-profession tale, but as with so many of these visits, listening to Laura speak of her relentless pursuit of interesting and challenging work and  vibrant, inspiring surroundings made me feel charged up by osmosis. After these long years crunching numbers, I feel as these last few months have been creative rehab.

Of course, our conversation was much more than what-have-you-validated-for-me-lately. It was genuinely a treat to catch up, share stories, and laugh with someone whose voice I hadn't heard in over a decade. Laura led me down along the water beneath the Brooklyn Bridge and showed me some incredibly views of the city, complete with the Statue of Liberty, just beyond the reach of the muggy, overcast haze of the city, lit by some fortuitous pocket of sunlight. With Laura's generously-given free time drawing to a close, we walked back to a subway stop where we parted unceremoniously with a rushed hug as I jumped onto a recently arrived C train. Our last in-person interaction, therefore, was a hilarious mimed exchange through the train windows as Laura realized and communicated to me that I was heading in the wrong direction.

One stop and adjustment later, I actually found myself on a more direct train back to Hanley's neck of the woods (a surprisingly capable bit of NY navigation I will be crowing about for a while). Reunited in her apartment, Han and I ordered thai and chatted briefly prior to my Georgetown get-together. As I told her more than once, I'm happy that Hanley didn't mind us going about separate paths those first few days. In fact, I think one of the reasons this was my favorite trip to New York was due to the time to myself, navigating the subway on my own without being led around by the nose as on past trips. I reached a comfort level that provided a strong base for the next day's excursion and many future visits.

But first, there was a Georgetown gathering! Unfortunately, I am not the best at knowing who is where at this point in their post-Hilltop lives (see also: my friend Cora not even being IN New York anymore) and while we thankfully picked up Liz (Vinci) Sisti last-minute, those who gathered in Chris Hadjuk's Hudson Heights apartment were able to come up with some New Yorkers I'd left out. I hope to catch those folks on a future visit.

Nonetheless, the company that made it resulted in a delightful evening. The night began, as did my entire adult drinking career, with a delicious gin and tonic prepared by Chris Hadjuk, while stories tumbled up and down the Jacob's Ladder of GU theatre history (thirteen years of which were represented by those in attendance). Gathered in the warmth of Chris's living room, we were transported to Burleigh parties (in now insanely priced houses) and backstage antics (including who hooked up on which stages and which stages were lit on fire), with brief time-outs to report on our respective lives since last we met. Time flew, and after a spirited round of Cards Against Humanity (or rather Crabs Adjust Humidity), coaches turned to pumpkins as we hugged goodbye and promised not to let as many years fly by before seeing each other. Marjory Collado treated Jason and I to a cab home, which led to me closing out an epic New York day by hopping out right on Hanley's doorstep and collapsing onto her couch with contented exhaustion.

Still to come: Ten Thousand Villages

Gotham City

This entry comes from the Filicori Zecchini coffee shop at the corner of 95^th and Broadway on the Upper West Side of New York. I’m one of half a dozen patrons united by one long cushioned booth running opposite the chocolate browns and dulled bronze of the counter itself. I’m also trying to keep my attention on the cursor instead of making eyes at the rows of tiny chocolates in the display case, but it may be a losing battle, especially as my iced cappuccino is now a collapsed igloo of foamy ice at the bottom of my cup.

This little snippet of an afternoon comes on the heels of two delicious slices of pizza from Two Boots pizzeria just down the block. I sat with my chosen pies, the Dude and the Tony Clifton, sipping a ginger ale and thinking that Jeff Bridges and Andy Kaufman would be proud. 

It feels nice to have spent the last few hours at a slightly slower pace. Seven-thirty this morning found me boarding a Megabus in White Marsh, MD, my duffel stowed in the rear compartment and my legs bowed around my backpack. I’d chosen a table seat to potentially get work done and because it was the last of the available reserved seats, but upon boarding, I thought I’d made a bit of a mistake. Four people had been allotted maybe two people’s worth of personal space. As the bus started off, however, my seatmate turned away from me to sleep, which left plenty of room, as long as I accessed each of my pants pockets with the opposite hand. I read through to the end of Stephen King’s On Writing, borrowed from Jon Littauer, tearing up at his description of being hit by the car in Maine. Here's a man who has made a career out of suspense and fear, and yet this was a raw, vulnerable account of how the two came into his life in a very real way.

As I hit the last page, New York filled the long, flat bus windows in panorama.  It was a clearer day than it had been when I drove to Boston, and it drew the city in sharper lines and brighter colors. It was postcard-perfect, but instead of “Wish you were here,” the view said “Almost there.”

I must admit, at the risk of offending my Gotham-dwelling friends, I was looking forward to the people much more than the city itself, being one of those people who has written New York off as “too much” time and time again. I’ve loved living in cities, but NYC feels like a city times a city and perhaps it’s that additional geometric layer that stretches my comfort level. Still, you see that skyline and this inspired feeling flows through you. Say what you want about New York, and it surely plays home to some moochers and dilettantes, but it was built and continues to run off of the hardest-working people in just about every profession we as a species have ever thought of.

Of course, as I stared out the bus window composing those thoughts, I inadvertently witnessed to a man grappling a woman to the ground and ripping a bag off her shoulder. It was probably one of the most violent things I’ve ever seen, which speaks more to my experience than anything else. I knew people who were mugged in college and several, including my roommate, who didn’t even get the courtesy of a request before the violence began. But I was never present for it as I felt now, if only through a window. The bus was in motion and people on the street closed in on the situation, but there was still a helplessness, or worse, a complicity, that I carried with me all the way off the bus, through the subway, and up to my friend Hanley’s apartment.  I think I spent the first hour or two up in her cozy nest rebooting, handling some GA to MD business to try and regain my silly sense of control.

But after a few minutes of writing at Hanley’s kitchen table, the sounds and motion beyond the windows called me back out, and now, after some great pizza and strong coffee (and all from one block), I feel like I’ve processed what I saw and am once again open-hearted to this big, mad metropolis. I’m excited to see my friends who call this home, some of whom I haven’t seen in over a decade, and hopeful that surrounding myself with the merry mania of creatives will be as fruitful as it was in Boston.