Boston, Baby!

So….taking an almost 11-month old to Boston by oneself is … doable. But only if you have an amazing friend waiting for you there!

It was stressful, poopy, and lacking in any semblance of sleep schedule, but with the help of good friends and being a freaking spectacular kid, Jack managed to get me home again with most of my sanity in place.

It was such an adventure - so many new things and people and modes of transportation! Jack smiles at almost everyone and is talk-a-tive to the extreme sometimes, not that we have any idea what he’s gabbering on about.

He has also in the last month gotten much more confident and explorey. Of course, this made plane travel a little more challenging, but with a little nap, the joy of pulling everything out of the seatback pocket five hundred times and by the power of one. goldfish. cracker. at. a. time. for. an. hour. we made it through the first leg, touching down in New York.

Last time we were in New York Jack was just a zygote and I was refusing to believe I was pregnant. Guess what? … I was!

On our next flight, Manhattan to Boston, he fell asleep almost as soon as we took off and slept all the way to touch down. That was my last opportunity to just sit and think, to contemplate babies and quiet and calm and coastlines.

We were raring to go once we got off the plane, though, with some serious wiggles! Our friend Cassie met us at the airport and we didn’t stop going the whole week it seems. We tried to limit our sightseeing/activity to one thing a day, with some addendums along the way. It will be awhile before we can do our patented full steam-ahead approach to vacations, but at the same time it’s kinda nice. In fact, it’s very nice. And we have a ton of reasons to visit Boston again! Yea!

Miss Cassie is so smart…she brought snacks with her to the airport.  It nice to be around someone who knows me that well and still wants to be around me, someone who understands how to, um, circumvent certain individual’s tendencies to let low blood sugar alter their core personality.

And then she just kept feeding us!

We stayed in a funky, fun neighborhood that was so patentedly New England I couldn’t believe it. Everywhere I looked I was smitten with cuteness! In the early morning, I heard the bells of the church down the block ringing in the hour.

She and her roommates were incredibly accommodating - they pulled out all the toy and toy-like items they had stashed and let Jack go hog wild. Of course, he preferred to crawl around naked trying to rip up his diaper that he refused to let me put on him. That and their stacks of magazines proved irresistible.

We went for long walks around her neighborhood and Jamaica Pond and once to the Arboretum. There were so many babies and dogs at the pond there was always something fun to see. And there were still some lilacs and other flowering trees blooming, which was really beautiful.  

Friday I wanted to go on a harbor tour - Jack’s first boat ride! (which rounded out his experience with buses, trains, planes and subways!) We walked around the area briefly and stopped at Mike’s Pastry beforehand - so many gigantic cannolis and so many flavors! It’s a good thing we were in a time crunch because I could have spent way too long contemplating my options.

It was fun to see all the ladies behind the counter tie up the boxes with string from spools hooked up to the ceiling. Our lady gave us an almond sprinkle cookie for Jack. Instead of explaining that he’s too young for sugar, I graciously took it and Cass and I split it later. No good deed goes unpunished.

The harbor tour was fun, even though Jack slept for half of it. The tour guide highlighted various places with interesting anecdotes. My family went to Boston when I was about 13 or 14 and it’s was incredible how much I’d retained without realizing it. Memory is so weird.

We got a calzone the size of a pizza box from a place Cassie goes to at least once a week. We walked in there with Jack (who looks considerably more like Cass in his coloring than he looks like me) and the woman who took our order was really confused. She thought he was Cassie’s kid and she’d never brought him in, just left him at home while she ran around town. That was fun explaining….

And we got to meet Willem and Aunt Mindi! They took the bus down to Boston on Saturday. We met them at the Boston Public Library, which has beautiful murals and architecture. There was an exhibit of their print collection which I could have spent hours poring over and a history of children’s literature which I could have looked at for days, but by then we were starting to get hungry and a little cranky. We sat out by the fountain courtyard that’s in the middle of the library while Mindi changed Willem into shorts and we sat in the shade for a bit, just sort of enjoying the moment. Willem is so sweet and cuddly. Contrasting to my beast who was trying to wiggle out of my lap and make a bee line for the fountain…

We did a little shopping, trying to find a suitable outfit for Willem. We didn’t have much luck, but it was nice to walk around and see all the shops and people and street performers out on Newbury Street on a beautiful sunny day. Also, I think this trip will be the first in recorded history in which I did not buy anything for myself. This is shocking, but facts don’t lie. Unless you consider the cute little Red Sox hat I bought Jack that he refuses to wear. I guess that’s sort of like a present for me. Also a present  - the delicious ice cream we got from Emack and Bolio’s, though I should have splurged on one their insane looking waffle cones.

We ended that day just chilling in Copley Park beneath the monolithic cathedral. Dogs ran around, jumping into the fountain, and then a hoard of one thousand zombies walked by. I think they must have been at the end of a run, since most of their make-up was sloughing off. Quote of the day: “Get down from that tree before you get arrested. Again.”

A few nights we just spent hanging out with Cassie’s roommates, boyfriend, her roomate’s boyfriend, and various other friends who stopped by “to see the baby!” We watched the sport games on tv - there was a Red Sox/Phillies game and also Sixers/Celtics game at the same time. Oooo! But it was fun doing the whole carefree-in-the-city-chillin-with-my-homies thing - watching movies, making taco salad, talking and not stressing!  How often do I get to do that in my life of go, go, go, all the time? Blissful.

Sunday was very easy going. We hung out in the morning and played and ate. That’s a good morning. In the afternoon we walked down to the Arb and past a nunnery (we challenged Cassie to take a 5-minute vow of silence…and then didn’t tell her when the time was up *evil giggle*), we tried out the ice cream at J.P. Licks. I tried a sample of the chocolate hemp sorbet, which was, well, grassy and not very appetizing. My scoop of oreo ice cream went down a whole lot easier! Mmmm! Buskers fiddled in an old-timey, hipster bluegrass outside.

We met up with Mindi and Willem on Monday for a little more shopping, and traveled to MIT to meet her husband and his colleagues for dinner at The Friendly Toast. Sam and I had eaten at another branch of this chain when we’d visited them in New Hampshire, so I was more inclined to make such a late night of it than I might otherwise be (hello 10 pm bedtime for the tyke). Cassie was a little more hesitant, but when she realized it was breakfast food she yelled at me for not saying so in the first place! And such good food (huge slice of French toasted anadema bread - cornmeal and molasses) and the kitschy décor is fun, too.

Jack was, once again, pretty much the ambassador for babies and flirted shamelessly with our server (a skinny, blond haired, bearded dude in a trucker cap) and the ladies sitting near us and just about anyone who passed our table, between demanding bites of his egg hash and toast, that is. Good thing, too, since we were relegated to the end of the table and had nearly nothing to talk to about with the rest of the party.

It was a challenge, and proved impossible, trying to keep Jack’s naps organized. He fell asleep in his stroller twice this trip - which is 200% more than he’s ever fallen asleep in his stroller in the past 6 months.

Also, he was waking up at least once a night (those pack’n’plays can’t be terribly comfortable) and, because I didn’t want him crying and waking everyone else up, I’d let him nurse in the middle of the night, even though that messed him up in the morning. On Sunday he nursed and napped for two hours in the morning; he refused to be put down (I got caught up on what Martha Stewart recommends for Christams decorations and gift giving ideas…). Then on Tuesday he woke up early, ready to play, and then napped from 9-11. We had to wake him up, which I hate doing, because we wanted to go to the Samuel Adam’s Brewery tour before we headed home.

The tour was really fun, and I think worth it, even though I made Cassie and Jack slog through the rain to get there. Jack kept waving and screeching at the tour guide because he was gesturing and talking, but not acknowledging Jack. I think he had a good time, though. I know I did - a quick pint and a half in the tasting room and I was feeling pretty awesome!

So many things were interesting just because they were different. Jack got his baths in a plastic tub that just barely fit him, which looked hilarious. On one of our walks we passed a church yard where a man was weed-whacking around the gravestones - and leaving all the wild flowers that were popping up across the yard.

With all the eating and disruption, though, Jack’s digestion got pretty messed up. Tell you what - you haven’t lived until you’re logging into your pediatrician’s website at four in the morning to determine if you should wake up your friend and take your baby to the ER. That was great fun.

But I decided he was fine and over the course of the next two days he got somewhat back to normal. Until the last leg of our trip, when the child exploded in poo just as we pulled away from the gangway for our two hour flight home. It was all up his back and soaking into his shirt! I corralled what I could and got into the restroom as soon as possible (30 minutes later) to clean him up. Got back to our seats, put a fresh outfit on him, and -BAM- time to head back to the lavatory for round two!!!! He was finally able to get to sleep, curled up on my shoulder after fighting it for 40 minutes and then we landed. Egads.

And there are two middle-aged men about there who helped me with my baggage and stroller. Those guys are my favorite!

Our last day in Boston was Jack’s 11-month birthday (and the incredible in-flight poo incident). I know he won’t have any memories of this trip, but I’m so glad we went for it and had such a (mostly) fun time visiting our amazing friend.  I can’t wait for our next adventure!

In a blink

I did not fulfil that promise to delve into memory, but this is National Poetry Month and this Smithsonian Mag posting fit the bill on some many levels.

Couple years later

In 2010 I got married, started writing in earnest, and hit both coasts. I found out I was pregnant. With one thing and another (and another), I stopped contributing to this blog.

In 2011 we bought a house and had a kid. Tremendous adventures, but the same adventures many people have the world over. These are detailed in a separate blog "Oh No, Not Again."

If 2012 is even as remotely exciting as the past two we'd better hold onto our hats.

I don't, however, have any travel plans in the mix. So I'm going to use this space to venture back into memory and trot out some adventures from the past.

Kansas Weekend Scene

Even though I live in Kansas City MO, I don't often get to visit the state that is 1.5 miles to the west (and the birthstate of my mother).  This weekend offered quite a few opportunities. And my poor little car even made it to Lawrence and back!

I attended the dress rehearsal for The Golem performed by the Owen/Cox Dance Group at the Jewish Community Center in Overland Park, KS.  Here, Christopher Barksdale is teaching the Golem to dance - a brilliant and graceful expression of communication.

We ate pretty decent BBQ at McGonagle's Meat Market.  They had a board game called Mr. Bacon's Big Adventure.  I'm not gonna lie - I might be buying this for my husband for Chanukkah.  Because I am culturally sensitive.

A late summer Kansas sunflower at sunset.

The Punch Brothers at the Lied Center of Kansas.  Great show - good energy, interesting music, and Christmas lights.  They'd played a day or two before at the Hardly, Strictly Bluegrass Festival and driven all night to get to the show - they were acting a little quirky and silly, but still musically sound. You can read my review here.


All my adventures were dispersed around work and other obligations, but I had a fun time venturing out into my neighboring state.  Can't wait to go the whole 1.5 miles back, again.

Imagi-packing

Whenever I am planning a trip, I always, always spend the most mental energy planning on what to wear.  Not the sights, not the itinerary (though that's probably second highest), not booking the hotel, or traveling from place to place.  It may come from the fact that what I pack is comepltely in my control, whereas hotel availability, cash funds, event schedules, etc. are not. It may also come from the fact that when I travel I want to be prepared for all situations, weather-wise and socially.  And also that I want to present the best version of myself.  But mostly that when you travel, you don't necessarily have to be the everday-version-of-you anymore. 

In my next trip, I'm taking on the persona of "Arts Journalist - loose in NYC."  I'll get to wear my best business/casual chic and hopefully catch the eye of fashion journalist Steve Schubert.  Unlikely, as I think he's in Paris and anyway, I'd be hard pressed to morph my pure MidWestern comfort-chic into his prefered style of tailored Euro bohemian fashion forward-ness. 

Not only that, but October is a changable month.  It could be 80 degrees or 40, rainy, snowy or wonderfully sunny.  I need to look professional and put together.  The good thing is my wardrobe is eclectic.  The bad thing is that I dress very emotionally on a typical day, pulling items from the closet based on how I feel.   With the contents of a suitcase you can't really do that.  Blerg.  I wish I were one of those variation-on-a-theme type of dressers, but unless you count the very broad theme of always-having-some-sort-of-cardigan, I don't do that. 

I'm excited, though, to present the very best version of my professional self and I'll let the fashion cards lay where they may.

The Snailr Project: participating in a meta journey

I'm incredibly envious of the brain that concocted this massive and BRILLIANT plan: for two weeks blogger/writer Anna and her Beloved took a train journey circling over half the United States.  British (or English, I'm going to get it wrong one way of the other), but residents of San Francisco, they took the opportunity to see A LOT of this country in a fairly short amount of time.  The brilliant part, though, was to break away from the immediacy of techno-dependancy and instead document the trip old-school with a modern twist.  Whatever may have been twittered or blogged or emailed got written on postcards and mailed to the individuals who signed up to recieve them.  We, in turn, get a taste of the journey's variable emotional quality; reading some of the other cards that have been posted on the internets there's an interesting mix of adventure, insight, excitement, overwhelmedness, mundacity, confusion and trial.  Which is generally typical of any trip.  Anna's documentation, however, takes the journey beyond the train tracks and into the lives of friends and strangers alike. 

"After being struck down by food poisoning for the entire third day of the trip, I swear of eating anything, ANYTHING, even coffee, that has passed through the bowels of an Amtrak dining car kitchen (a horrible turn of phrase, sorry), instead relying on trail mix and energy bars picked up at our city stops along the way.  And when I discoverd horrendously overpriced cup-o-noodles from the lounge car cafe, those became a staple.  You'd think, then, I might come back from this trip thinner.  But the amount of fried chicken + bbq, montana steak and [other] regional specialties I stuff in my face everytime we 'detrain' says not so."

(Maybe a little product placement to rake in the advertisting shekels?)

This came at the very tail end of the trip all the way from Portland OR!  It's too bad we can't undergo a trip with a prescient knowledge of unpleasant food poisoning, often the bane of traveler, and then avoid the perilous bacteria....that's a certain type of adventure I think we could all do without.  But this sort of experience is EXACTLY what this project details...taking the moment, the thought, the experience and sending it out. By way of the venues throughout the blog community, then, the trip gets reassembled, reassessed, reevaluated not just from the memory and perception of the travelers, but by the receivers, who in turn have the opportunity to report and consider the message sent. 

I know that when I've been on a trip I always am most homesick on the way back; at some point your mind is just finished with the constant new stimuli and ready to be on familiar turf. 

Welcome home, Anna!

Summer 2010: Some journeys

The first, most important, most magical, memoriable and treasurable journey was May 8, 2010. That day I married my partner in crime. Every single schlocky sentiment about him pertains and every single sublime aspect of my life stems from him being in it. Walking down the aisle to him was the best journey I've ever taken.

California, May 2010.

Call it a honeymoon, a vacation, whatever. My husband and I went to California just a week and a day after we were married. Chillier than we anticipated, but beautiful. I can see why people love living there. Explored LA, the PCH, and San Francisco. Our experiences in California keep cropping up in our "real" lives and have added dimension to articles, tv shows, and stories. We left our story there unfinished and will go back.

Indiana, July and August.

The catalyst was weddings, but they were very different events. In July I partially packed up my bedroom. I've written about that elsewhere. August had a whirlwind series on events, with family outings to the Indianapolis Art Museum, the Indiana State Fair, the wedding, and explored the area southeast of Indianapolis called Shelby. In all my years growing up north of the city, I'd never found this interesting little pocket.

Missouri, Sept.

Last Thursday we went on an excursion to KCK to explore pawnshops. One of our travleing companions was a native son and regaled us with a nostaglic narrative of the places and events from his childhood and formative years. This, along with the grey and spitfully rainy weather, made it a sentimental journey. Friday the rain and damp had been blown away leaving a fresh cool breeze and sunny skies. My husband, dog and I went up to Weston to hike. We got bogged down a bit since two of the trails had flooded over during the rains and left a sheen of mud across the forest floor. But the afternoon was spent on the patio of an old Irish pub sampling the wares and passed smoothly.

That's the short and sweet of it - a breif synopsis of our past whereabouts. More adventures to come.

Ways to walk

In the past year, I've walked about a fair amount. I walked around Europe and the Midwest. I've walked with my boyfriend, who became my fiance, who bought me a puppy and now I walk with the puppy. I walked in the past of the family I'm about to join and I walk daily in preparations for the future. Traveled by plane and train and automobile to the village of my fiance's grandfather, the village from which he fled the Nazis, to see his home, the river and the castle and the hillside to which he brought his wife, forty years - a concentration camp, an ocean, a different life - later.

I've primarily walked in great comfort. I've walked off temper tantrums and sluggish moods. Through rain storms and in the tremendous snows of the past winter.

Within all these varied walkings I've neglected the writings, the ruminatings, the documenting - here at least. The journaling was neglected, too, and the other blog, but oh, the living.....the living has been fabulous.

Wishing For Warmer Weather

This video was taken last May along the ocean front walk in Ogunquit, MN. The day before had been 70's and we were on the beach, but this little resort town was great to get away to for a pre-season weekend. And it reminds me that...

I'm really, really, really, really looking forward to:

• Vacation
• Spring
• The Ocean

I'm so sick and tired of winter that I can't be more articulate than that.

(This also proves I will most likely not be a television presenter on the Travel Channel anytime soon!)

When we saw the sky coming up around the north side of the Nelson-Atkins Museum, we had to pull into the circle drive and take a few pictures. The Sculpture Lawn is one of my favorite places in Kansas City. I love the buildings, with their distinctive architectural concepts, I love the large, well maintained green space, and I love the view of it and from it. I love sitting on the benches that surround the lawn and watching people play games of pickup Ultimate and football, following the slope of the lawn all the way down to Theis Park and Brush Creek, the sculptures that dot the landscape, especially the shuttlecocks that are so familiar to a KansasCitian.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow the weather looks promising - sunny and about 50 degrees - so I intend to get out and enjoy it. I have been too long inside, with the holidays and the working and the coldness (of which I am extremely pathetic about), and I hope to run my errands in such a way as to make them adventurous. I have to go to the drug store, bank, and library, but perhaps I can check out an art store, a new boutique, or see how the rose garden is looking so far this winter.

I also have many projects beckoning me to stay inside and complete, but hopefully the allure of sunny warmish weather will override my procrastination. Maybe....maybe I'll even do everything on my list. And then, as a reward, tramp through the urban wilderness. To some people that might not seem like much of a reward, but walking through the city is always interesting.

The last time I took a tramp was the day after the election. I swear the air itself was celebrating -everything seemed elated - and I'm not even a huge supporter. I voted for him, yes, but there ended my support. I'm just not that in to politics, sorry. But the world did seem like a better place. That could have been the strangly balmy air in November, but that is how it felt, regardless of political leanings.

I love "discovering" a place in a city. Of course, in a city you are never the first person to find something. Others have seen it, others have been there. But to come across something you never knew existed, and has never come up in conversation, and seems to have materialised from the ether -there are so many of these things in cities -new places, new things, new people - and they are always new to someone. In a neighborhood a couple of months ago, I came across some urban conservation preserve, a house, in a fairly discreet neighborhood, which was left to grow untended, as in nature. The "lawn" was covered with ground cover and the dried stalks of wildflowers, the trees were shady. There was a path through the yard to the front porch, beckoning the weary traveler to step "inside" this wilderness, and enjoy the rejuvenating power of nature. And it was on the corner of Charlotte and 57th.

So tomorrow, that future time in which all things are possible, I will be out in the world, discovering things, new and old, for myself.

Dandelion

Earlier this month, a typical frigid and uninspiring January day, I was walking across one of the large lawns that are ubiqitous of college campuses, when I spied, amidst the dead grasses and fallen leaves, a lone dandelion. We had had one brief warm day, somewhere in the mid fifties, and that was enough for this little guy to show his face.

I instantly pulled out my camera to capture his bravery, knowing that a cold day was coming and his reward for trying to get a little sun and warmth would to be frozen at the roots again, shriveled and dying.

To read on, please visit this link.

Plans

In less than two months, I will be traveling down the streets of Brussels. Why Brussels, when all of Europe and beyond beckons? Why this small, and from many accounts, unassuming city as a destination? The best reason of all.....to visit friends!

I wish I could conveniently position friends and relations in all the corners and cracks in the world. To stay with a (semi) native, someone who knows the area, who knows where the best restaraunts are, the times for the market, how to get from Point A to Point B to Point C, and most importantly knows when the bars open, that - if I can't be a native myself - can save all the time and bother of trying to acclimate oneself to a new town. And let's not forget the savings on hotels!

I've been reading up on Brussels in preparation for the trip and the information is a little disheartening.....many books say things like, "Paris (Amsterdam, Bruges, London, Antwerp, Prague) is only a train ride away." Surely there's more to the town than that! I think my favorite quote so far is from Bill Bryson's Neither Here Nor There in which he says something to the effect of "I walked around the Grand Place and took in all the sites....and then wondered if 9:47 in the morning was to early to start drinking." Though, why not? One of Brussels best draws is its famous and delicious beers. When in Belguim.....

Even though the tourist books and travelogues aren't being helpful, the best part about the town is what can't be written. What I love about Europe is the hidden corners, the stumbled-upon treasures that seem created just for you - whether it's a particular fountain, or the store that stole your heart, or the friendly native who doesn't speak any English but is overwhelmed to try what he does know on you. And there is always my favorite game - be understood in a language you don't speak. It can cause some interesting times, I assure you.

In my week of travel, I know we'll spend one day in Germany, visiting my boyfriend's grandfather's home and hopefully one or two days in a neighboring city. But I'm most looking forward to walking the streets and imagining what it would be like to walk these streets every day. I plan to take tons of pictures and make lots of memories. And maybe buy a thing or two that's really Belgian. That's my type of adventure.

Via Imagination

Since I've been without the funds or time to do much exotic traveling lately, I have indulged my wanderlust with travelogues (which in my extensive research I have found that travel writing is not synonomous with travelogues. I will continue to misuse that word, regardless.). They take me places I want to go when I don't have time or money, places I don't want to go, places I've never heard of, places that might not exist anymore, even some places so foriegn to my worldview that they seem like make believe tales.

Sometimes these can be dry, sometimes ridiculous, but almost always captivating in that they are true stories of people, maybe not so different than myself, with not so different a background, people who have had those adventures, who have seen those sites, who have not only lived to tell about it, but took the time to write it down and make it a tale worth telling.

Though I always have a few new (and some old) books that I'm working through (even when backpacking in Europe I brought about four books with me. I only read them on the trains, I swear. And that one time in Zurich when I was tired and sick of looking at cathedrals and so I sat on a bench to wait for my companions.), there are still a few books that I've read more than twice, books that excite my wanderlust even as I try to sate it. If you are an armchair traveler like I sometimes am, I hope that these can help the long dark months between journeys.

The Art of Travel by Alain de Botton is my premier travel inspiration. Though more about the pyschological and emotional aspects of traveling than about the pedantic "how I got there and what I saw" logistics, Botton addresses the reasons we travel and what we hope to achieve by going somewhere. By taking different elements of travel and associating those elements with the journeys of those who have gone before, so to speak, he sets the tone for an introspective approach to traveling. I think it essential reading for the veteran traveler as well as the novice before the start of a journey.

Freya Stark is always an inspiration, though it is often difficult to find her writings. I am lucky enough to have access to a university library, but then her work comes in large tomes. Originally, her books where published as smaller editions, easily slipped into one's saddlebag or Aba. Her writing is frank and precise, as she had the roles of diplomat, surveyor, and lady to reconcile. Not only is the timing of her travel and writing impressive, but her attention to detail, both culturally and physically, recreates a rapidly disappearing lifestyle and people.

A Journey Around My Bedroom by Xavier de Maistre is a new favorite. Not only is it original and entertaining, but it reads quickly and succinctly. For something to still read fresh and contemporary when it was written nearly two hundred years ago speaks for itself in our fast paced, here today gone tomorrow world. And it adds a new dimension to travel - that of not traveling. I have yet to read to secondary volume, A Nocturnal Journey Around My Room, but I look forward to further exploring with de Maistre.

Paul Theroux is another author I cannot read enough. In his writing I find a timeless quality and also a grit that is lacking in many modern "travel adventures". He sets out on a journey with a goal or destination in mind and simply records what happens. Theroux doesn't shirk from describing the unfortunate sides of travel as they are, annoyances, potentially harmful, and doesn't pretend that sometimes the people you meet are as bad as the tales they told you at home. But he tempers this reality check of the glamore of travel by being honest, being descriptive, and being slyly humorous.

More and more authors are added daily, by the hour so it seems, but these are a few I return to when I really need to go somewhere far away.

Going Home and Then Home Again.

While waiting for my plane in Chicago this weekend, my attention was drawn by the couple opposite me. They were notable not for their inactivity, but because they were the only people to stay seated on that particular bench. While I sat in the waiting area, at least four people within about twenty minutes would sit down, realize that the bench was unbalanced, stand up and try to find another seat. I was watching this scenario reinact itself again and again with feelings of amusement and guilt. Amusement because I myself had sat down thirty mintues earlier, found the bench to be unstable, and moved across the aisle to more stable seating. Guilt because I had a perfectly good seat next to me, but because of the "personal space" taboo, no one would sit right there, even in a crowded terminal (and I wouldn't have wanted them to, either.)


While I wait to board, I am struck by this couple's sympathetic placement. They lean towards each other, comfortable in each other's personal space. They are still. They are wearied, as they did not move from the unsteady seats. They are contained and do not need to interact with the other waiting passengers. They spoke very little once seated, and then the woman read while the man napped.


There is so much about travel that is monotonous. There is so much that is painful. To get from one place to another can be rewarding, but for most of us, especially those of us who make trips frequently, it is draining. To keep our energy from escaping during the moving about, we usually tend to wrap ourselves up mentally and emotionally, if not physically as well. And the more mundane the journey, whether for work or simply a familiar trip, the more we shield ourselves from the needs of other passengers, the wants of our neighbors, the worries of people other than ourselves.


I've traveled this route numerous times - Kansas City > Chicago > Indianapolis and reversed. I've flown into or out of the Indianapolis Airport hundreds of times, on vacation, for school trips, for work, coming home for the holidays. IIA is my home airport, the airport where everything is familiar and the routes are predetermined. This is an airport I know. And though I had been told the airport had moved, that is was new and spacial, my mind hadn't adjusted itself to this fact. As far as my mind was concerned, I was flying into the same airport as I had left in months before.


When I stepped out of the gangway, I felt as though I was misplaced. Which boggled my mind, as I was in Indianapolis, not at Midway, not Schipol, not Luton or Gatwick. I've walked into unfamiliar places before, but never when going home. I had to follow signs to find my way to baggage claim. I felt overwhelmed and confused. I don't usually feel this way in airports. I know that drill - baggage claim, car rental (or metro system, depending), hotel, etc. But this was so big, so white, so unexpected. It was clean and new, shiny, decorated. There was miles of corridor. Roped off areas for security. The baggage claim area was huge. The ticket offices immense. Food court and arrivals area magnificant. So different from my memories. It seemed galactic.


With all the events and chaos of the holiday, it seemed like a moment and I am back at the airport. Though I am prepared for it, the huge glowing white mass on the horizon seems out of place for central Indiana. The return flights were, as most flights are, uneventful. I was struck, however, by differing vibes of my two legs of my journey. The first leg was full of children (both happy and sad) and they conversed (and cried and sang and fought) without considering their volume in a crowded, cramped interior. The adults, to be fair, were fairly chatty as well. The second leg, later in the evening, was delightfully somber. Delightful in that I was ill, I was tired, and I wanted to be home. Somber was what I wanted. Delightfully somber worked until we started our descent, that final, final part of the journey, and my congested head decided to explode. I am fortunate to not often feel pain, but when I feel the pressure in my inner ear I regret ever getting on a plane. That is when travel is no longer an adventure, but an agony to be endured until I am safely home.


That maybe one of the aspects of travel I enjoy most. The going and the seeing and the thousand small, every day adventures are why I leave. But the stories and the memories and the thousand small, everyday comforts are why I come back. I travel because I love to come home.

I'm getting on a plane tomorrow and I couldn't be more excited. I haven't spent Thanksgiving with me family in years and my father is an amazing cook. And you can go to good Thanksgivings, with lovingly prepared food, but it isn't the same as when your mom calls the weekend before to ask if you have any special requests and before the sentence is finished you reply "Spanikopita". Because you've been thinking about it. A LOT!

It's been a few months since I've had reason to fly, even Midwest city to Midwest city, and I've missed it. It's a headache for many and I can't imagine flying with children, but I enjoy it. For an hour or two no one will bother me except to ask if I'd like a complimentary salty snack or soft drink. I know that one of the purposes and benefits of travel is connecting with your fellow travelers, those who you'd never meet but for this breif moment in history. I know that there are people out there, interesting people, people who have stories and trials all their own. When I'm on a plane,though, or in a coach or a train or a bus (pretty much any mode of transportation, I guess), I want that time to reflect. To read the books that I can't get to during my normal life, to write about the things I don't have time to write about. To have some "me" time in admidst hundreds of other people's lives.

Usually I've had the good fortune to not travel at peak times, but not tomorrow. I'm going to join the throngs of people trying, just like me, to be home for the holiday. While this can be frustrating, it does offer excellent people watching opportunities. Little kids being normal, acting like kids do, in an abnormal situation. This can lead to either annoying or cute situations, but either way it's interesting. You also run across many different types of people in a close setting that you wouldn't typically. And of course, the large loads of people + possible inclement weater + flying metal boats = possible adventure. I don't think there will be any Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, but hanging out in an airport with thousands of strangers can be loads of fun.

Today I tried to determine which books I am taking for my seven hours of travel time (there and back and in the airport) and I've decided on four: How To Look at Everything, A Journey Around my Room, The Undressed Art, and The Lamp of Beauty. A few more might make it in, as well. Maybe I can have some movement in my reading sidebar!

Safe travels, everyone!

The "Last" Nice Day Before Winter

When I woke up the other day, I was surprised by the bright sunlight shining through my window. It has been stormy and grey for a few weeks, and when it is bright, it is bitterly cold. This is so typical of November that I didn't really think too much about it, except to hate it, and to hunker down until Spring.

However, this day was strangly balmy for November, with warm winds, and crystal clear sunshine. I knew that it wouldn't last long, so after I finished my work for the day, I went on a walk. I have been saying to myself that this will be the last nice day of the year for a month now, but I think with Thanksgiving a week away, it must surely be the last nice day.

When I go for a walk, I always take with me a book, my journal, a pen and my camera. You never know when an idea will present itself, if you'll run across something interesting, weird, beautiful or all three. Whenever I wait to write about something until I get home, the raw power of the thought is already diluted, with other thoughts, passing scenes, reminders of other issues at home or at work. When I'm walking, my mind is free to flit from image to image, and I can stop to sketch, with images or words, to preserve whatever emotion or thought is created.

I am a lucky person able to steal away some time today. With the time change, it's past sundown by the time the work day is finished and that makes the nice days more precious. I am out during the afternoon, and by four the sun is setting. When the sun leaves, so does it's warmth, and the winds that were warm turn bitter again. The lines of cars with their headlights on start to swarm intersections, each person cocooned in their metal traps, trying to get somewhere faster than their companions on the road, thinking about work, groceries, projects, children, parents, problems. Rarely do they consider the other metal traps as anything other than obstacles, because metal does not have hopes and dreams, families, problems. It is hard for the walker to feel anything but pity for the trapped people, trapped alone in metal pods, not connecting to anyone else. Why connect with the fellow machine operators, when within a block they and their machine will be gone and forgotten. When you walk, it is impossible not to connect with a few of the people you see. Something will catch your eye, something will hold your attention, whether it's an outrageous outfit, a charming toddler, a handsome stranger, an unintentional vignette at a coffee house, or just the person walking opposite you, who meets your eye as your paths cross.

This day, there are a few fellow pedestrians. I am taking pictures, caught up in my own agenda, but aware of some of the activities going on peripherally. On the museum lawn is a young couple, relishing the fading daylight and each other's company. Some young men play a game of pickup football. Workers are putting up Christmas decorations, lights and bows and wreathes, shouting instructions from the ground up the ladder - "A little higher, more to the right." A few workers of the lawncare staff are raking ginkgo leaves, the golden carpet that I'd shuffled through an hour earlier. There aren't many leaves left on the trees now. A few holdouts, but most have fallen to the ground, have been swept away by rakes and winds, gathered up in corners, along building walls, and in gutters. One of the best sounds of fall is the crunch of leaves under my feet, and the rustle of the leaves as they are moved this way and that by the winds. Sometimes they seem to have a direction in mind, like the birds that are flocking, gathering in the trees along the creek. A large gust blows from behind me, sending leaves swirling in front of me along the path. After a pause a different wind blows them back again, as though the previous orders have been rescinded.

From across the lawn I watch the lawncrew start throwing gingko fruits at each other. A messy, smelly game, and I am glad that I am far away from their antics, as they chase each other across the lawn to adminster the perfect shot. The work day is drawing to a close and their enormous job, gathering the leaves that fall on this huge lawn, is work that deserves to be ended with a little fun. I notice the shadows getting longer as the sun slips away, the shadow of the tree I sit under is creeping up the hill. How quickly the day ends now! One minute it is afternoon, the next, dusk. The light seems to get thicker. It's as though the rays are working harder at the end of the day, trying to cover as much of the earth as they can before the darkness is complete.

Along with the sun, some flowers are trying to extend the season. Each bush seems to have a few stalwarts left, tiny, valiant points of color in the overwhelming blanket of greys and browns. Against one protective wall is a rose bush, with some buds and blooms still fresh. Some hydrangeas have dried on their stalk, leaving shells of brown where color once was. These are beautiful, too, and are more fitting to the scene than the rosebush. I feel like a discoverer in either case.

As the sun sinks lower, the rays pick out the spiders' webs that before were invisible. A patch of grass shimmers as the wind stirs the blades, causing the tiny silken threads to glisten with the reflection. There are benches looking toward the west, out over the creek, at it's bridges and fountains. Down the hill, a girl has set up a chair and is crouched, sketching it and it's lingering shadow. She is alone, separated from the bustle of activities, from the traffic that rushes over the bridge, from the speed of other people's lives. I take a picture to remember this girl who's stillness is so similiar to my mindset. She doesn't know that at the top of the hill I am standing, soaking in the last rays.

Armistice Day

I thought it would be appropriate to write about the National Wold War I Museum and Liberty Memorial on the commemoration of the last day of that war. Though the day is now celebrated as Veterans' Day, for all the other men and women who have served our country throughout the years, I still find myself refering to it as Armistice Day and then getting funny looks from people who dare to try to have conversations with me. And by dare I mean "are actually trying to comprehend the things I say and formulate a logical sequence".

But when my mother came to visit about a month ago, I took that opportunity to check out somethings in my hood that I wouldn't go to on a regular basis. One of those things was Memorial and Museum. I've passed it a hundred times, seen the flame at the top of the tower at night (*spoiler* - it's all lights and steam, which is good considering the energy crisis), and even walked around the grounds once, but I'd never gone in the museum. I'm not a war fan, though I guess what I should say is that war, its history and its tools, doesn't fascinate me the why it fascinates many other people.

But my mom enjoys a good museum, regardless of content, and I'd been wanting the check it out (as it is the only one in the US) since I moved to Kansas City. And I wanted to go up in the big tower, because what else is a big tower for if not for going up in? I ask you.

I allotted two hours, after lunch, for the museum. I figured that two hours would be more than enough time, as my mother reads every single piece of literature for every single exhibit and does every single interactive game that museum curators can come up with.

However, we decided that we'd go right after breakfast, then have the afternoon free for other sight seeing around town. We went to the museum and walked arond outside the grounds for a bit (it was unexpectedly sunny and warm and I didn't want to jink the pleasant weather by going into the bowels of the earth and ignoring it) taking pictures of the big tower, the sphinxes, a beetle that was there, too, and looked interesting.

It was a good thing we started our day there and that we didn't have specific plans for the rest of the day. Our easy two hour overview became an intense three hours - we left for lunch (which you don't have to do, as there is a cafe) - plus another hour and a half later on. We could have stayed longer if they'd have let us. Much, much longer.

The museum is made up of three parts - the main part of the museum is under the earth, very symbolic of all the fallen soldiers, and the other two halls above, making up part of the Liberty Memorial scene. Going up in the tower is a seperate fee, but the whole thing is well worth the $10 adult admission. We did the two Halls and the tower after a late lunch, therefore didn't have as much time as we would have liked. The tower closes at 4:15, so we went up there for as long as they'd let us, then into the Halls. In the first Hall (sorry, I can't remember what it's called), the one to the West, the guard immediately started telling us the significance of the huge mural that commanded the wall. All through the museum, guards, some of them I suspect of being volunteers, would come up while we were looking at a specific exhibit or item and give us more information, a bit of interest, or make a connection with what we were seeing and another aspect of the museum. Extremely friendly and well informed.

Refering to the mural, however, I could not imagine the enormity of the finished product, let alone the manhours and skill spent painting this epic. What you see there is not even the finished product, as impressive as it is. Because of neglect and space constraints, much of the painting had been cut away, or repositioned. In fact, the largest part of the intact painting is in the West Hall, and sections are displayed in the East Hall. Also in the East Hall are computers showing what the finished product had looked like, as a giant panorama of the victorious Allies. You can highlight each figure and read about their significance during WWI. I wish, wish, wish we'd had more time there.

The tower was interesting, as well, if in fact just a large tower. I speak only for myself, but I love seeing all over the city, especially a city that I enjoy so much. There are similar things in Paris, London, New York and Chicago, and I see no reason why Kansas City's contribution to very tall buildings shouldn't be just as recognizable.

The main section of the museum is the most impressive part, even barring huge murals and skyline views. You first walk across a glass bridge to the musem, under which is a symbolic field of poppies. This is lit by skylights and i couldn't imagine a more beautiful or appropriate entrance. Once inside, you start out with a 12 minute "up to the start of the war" documentary, which fills in all the necessary information about why and how all these different countries ended up being at war, and why this war was, to a certain extent, unavoidable. Even if you know your WWI history, I wouldn't skip it, as it sets the tone for the rest of your time. The area of the musem, while divided mainly into "Before the US was involved" and "After the US was involved", is a large open space, but with so much paraphernalia that it seems downright cozy. You are led chronologically through a horse shoe shaped main area. Around the center there is a wall that cites, month to month, the progress of the war. It also includes data tidbits, like what was being invented, or who won a Nobel Prize. Included there are a few instances of Kansas City trivia, emphasizing the "hereness" of the war.

The whole museum makes the war, this war that my parents weren't alive for, which some of our grandparents might not have participated in, and which happened far from our homes - it makes it a present, and local, entity to remember. All over the world people were being affected in major ways, their entire way of life being altered. To see how each countries' people reacted is also an insightful inclusion.

The creativity behind the exhibits is inspiring. Though decorated in black, white, muted browns and the judicious use of vibrant red, attention is drawn from case to case, wall to wall, and room to room. There is propaganda from all over the world, including my favorite, French toilet paper with a picture of the Kaiser on it. Each exhibit has some quote taken from a child's diary or soldier's journal, something that humanizes the guns, the uniforms, the grenades. There is a series of trenches reconstructed, with recorded voices to describe the soldiers experiences. There is even a reconstructed crater hole, meant to look like it has exploded a house and this is the detritus left over.

One of the most best uses of space (in a place that seems to never end with its tucked away little corners) is in the submarine/airplane warfare. They have the requisite missile, a diorama of flight sequences, the stats for the aces throughout the war. But they also are projecting movies on to the floor. The airplane one is interesting, but the one of the ship blew my mind. It looks as though you are standing on the ship. You even see it launch a torpedo. Very, very cool.

I could continue to expound on the incredible treasure we have here, but I'd rather you experience it for yourself. But let me know when you plan on going, so I can check if I'm free, too.

Benton House and Studio Museum

Though situated in a labyrinthine moneyed neighborhood with too many switchbakcs, the Benton House and Studio is worth the twenty extra minutes of driving around in circles. The guided tour lasts a solid forty-five minutes (more if you have lots of questions) and is worth every penny, possibly more, of the $2.50 in entrance fee.

I love finding good small museums. I never expect too much so that I won't be disappointed. Therefore, I'm often not disappointed. But small museums are usually extremely appealing, even if you don't know or care very much about a subject. While the "exhibits" might not be flashy, since budgets are usually pretty tight, tour guides tend to be very well informed about their subject. Maybe it's a script, maybe it's their life's dream, but almost invariably they have a passion about the area they supervise.

No matter how interesting a subject may be to you, without a knowledgable guide nothing would make sense. Conversly, an informative guide can make a blank subject come alive and take on a personal meaning with an individually. Fortunately, the Benton House and Studio Historic Museum staffs the latter.

Our guide was Michael. He is a historian by trade, not an artist and that made his presentation more interesting, focusing on the family side of Benton (as it was, indeed, the family home) and the history of the world goings on in general, than on the artistic side. He pointed out details, such as the daughter's paintings on the windows of the foyer, as well as her "rehearsal" works on the bedroom window. Or that the house was one of the first to have electricity, as the original owner was on the board of the newly formed KCP&L.

The house itself is in the state left when Benton and his wife, Rita, died. They were the third and last owners, and when they passed the property was turned over to the Parks and Recreation Dept. to become a museum, a testament to the great art and bond of the Benton's. I was struck by how up to date the kitchen was (up to 1975, anyway), but you wouldn't necessarily associate the creator of WPA era murals with microwaves and fancy dinner parties. The studio, according to Michael, is in much better state than it was left. The studio, half of a carriage-house-turned-garage, is where Benton created much of his work and also were he died in 1975. The entire area was in a state of deliberate chaos, but has been organized considerably for the sake of the museum. It houses some of his record collection, including Harmonica Virtuosi, as well as a display of some of Benton's transcriptions of Classical music for harmonica, using his own notation system. It also displays Benton's thrifty nature and creativity, with coffee cans full of paint brushes and sketches, models, and dioramas used in creating the vast works that made and retained Benton's reputation.

It is that sort of thing, that bit of trivia that won't come up in the galleries or art history classes, which make visiting small, local museums so rewarding. They can make a person and time period come to life, more fully formed than in a book, with more depth than simply viewing the works themselves.

I took this picture last night, walking home in the dusk. I was actually amazed that it come out so well, as my camera doesn't like to not use it's flash. But last night was a perfect night for being out and about with no real destination (besides eventually home).

You can really focus on your thoughts when you walk. Whenever I drive, and try to think about lots of different things - what happened at work, what needs to happen at home, errands to run, letters to mail - I miss important traffic cues, like red lights, turns, other cars. It is very dangerous for me to think and drive.

But if I'm walking...well, a) I'm more aware of my surroundings because I can use my ears and my eyes to sense what is going on, b)I go more slowly so I have time to notice and retain any visual or aural stimulus, and c)time to spin out thoughts without thinking "other car, yellow light, will I make it, better stop, turn signal, more cars, red light red light red light, green, go, look both ways, no turn on red, dang it," etc., etc. Instead, I walk for a while and I think, and usually my feet continue on whether I babysit them or not.

Good night.