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.