Category Archives: adventure

Apr 14

Adventures

I should still be writing the sports feature I’m working on, but I feel like I’ve used the best material I have, so, until I speak with the coach again (today or tomorrow, I hope), I’m going to set it aside. I have another feature to write over the weekend, and I’m a bit daunted by the amount of material I have, and the amount of material I’ll be collecting from my last source on Friday, and where to start with it all. That’s what takes me the longest…deciding how to begin. If I can come up with a snazzy way to kick off the piece, it makes the rest of the process smoother. I’m also trying to visualize an illustration for the story, and I think I’ve succeeded. (I say “think” because I’ve yet to create the illustration, and until I do, I don’t know if it will be successful. But in my mind’s eye, it’s fantastic

It’s all fun though. Everything about the process is fun. I thoroughly enjoy sitting at my desk, looking out the window, turning over the structural/verbal/illustrative possibilities in my head. It’s a great way to spend the day.

I just returned from a road trip to Denver, where me and my pal JG spent the week attending AWP. Actually, we spent 3 days at the conference and the rest of the time traveling. I have to say it was a great time. JG and I travel well together (which we didn’t know before setting out on this adventure), we made decent time, we had a fantastic hotel with a great location to the conference and to Starbucks, I went to some great panels (one on narrative nonfiction was particularly worthwhile, and possibly worth the entire trip), bought a load of books, ate at several great restaurants, found an outstanding jewelry store where I bought a beautiful pendant, had plenty of opportunity for people watching (one of my favorite activities), heard JG and VA read their poetry at a wine and coffee bar, was invited to hang out with a participant from the narrative nonfiction panel, had a nightmare about a drunk, boisterous poet, met one of the nicest poets (people) around, and was generally inspired to try some new ideas with my writing/photography/visual poetry. I’m actually motivated to try and get some work published in journals. I’ve got to make the motivation/inspiration last.

So much fun. Everything.

Jan 27

High Seas (Project 52, Week 5)

I put all my faith in the Dramamine patch. My photo editor suggested I get one from the doctor’s office, rather than buy the stuff you can get over-the-counter. I thought a prescribed Dramamine patch would be stronger, would form a protective bubble around me, keeping me bouncy and happy and nausea-free for the duration of the assignment.

We, the reporter (N) and myself, were going on a trip with some high school students who were studying marine biology (if I remember correctly). They were riding a pirate ship to some islands southeast of Florida–perhaps the Bahamas? Anyway, we had the good fortune of tagging along with them for a few days to document their experience. I was taking pictures, which is why I think so many details are foggy now; I was more concerned with the visual elements while the reporter was collecting details on what the students were studying and what they were going to do when they arrived at the final destination.

We met the crew at a harbor in Miami, and it was a balmy, beautiful night. The students laughed and chatted, as family members milled about, checking out the ship, and musing over the tightness of the quarters. The ship was beautiful, exactly what you would picture when you hear the term “pirate ship,” though I think  it’s more commonly called a “tall ship.” The captain was charismatic and handsome and introduced the crew to everyone. They took us on a tour of the ship and showed us our quarters. N and I would share a room in the hold of the boat, next to the galley. The students would be sleeping in a separate part of the ship’s hold. The sections were not connected; if we wanted to visit the students, or wanted to use the bathroom (which was located in the students’ section of the hold), we had to climb out of the galley area, walk across the ship’s deck and climb back down into the hold. Not a big deal at first glance, though this separation would become problematic as the trip continued.

The group socialized for a few hours, and it was late when family members said final goodbyes, so that the students could go to their quarters and prepare for sleep. The captain planned to leave harbor some time in the night, so we all retired to our beds. I had my handy Dramamine patch behind my ear; it had been there for a few hours. It left a weird taste in my mouth and left me feeling generally medicated. I didn’t care though, because it was going to keep me functioning out at sea. I think everyone there  laughed about taking Dramamine, and making sure they brought some with them.

N and I crawled into our beds. The ocean gently rocked us asleep. I recall waking at 3:00am and recognizing that we had left the harbor. The gentle rocking was now more pronounced, but still quite enjoyable, and I snuggled down into my bed, happy to be at sea.

In the morning, I woke up to the smell of breakfast, an unfortunate side-effect of sleeping next to the galley. It always smelled like bacon grease and dough, and the smell was very thick. N and I made our way to the deck. Students were on their knees, puking over the side. Others had found their sea legs and were helping the crew, and learning how to handle the sails. I started taking pictures. It was cool and drizzly. There was a chop to the water, but nothing that bothered me. I walked around, trying to find a tactful way to photograph seasick kids. The boat creaked and swayed below my feet, but I gave it no thought. Soon N decided she wasn’t feeling so well, and returned to our room by the galley. She had looked a little green.  I chatted with some of the kids, asked them how they were feeling, took pictures of the ones whose faces and body language betrayed their seasickness. And then I made the mistake of plopping down where the others were sitting and staring out at the horizon.

It started as only a twinge as I watched the horizon line move up and down. An uneasy fluttering in my belly. The water continued to chop at the boat, and I noticed the chop a little more. “But that’s not possible,” I thought to myself. “I’m using a Dramamine patch.” The longer I sat there, the stronger the fluttering became. I picked up my cameras and tried to keep working, but the feeling intensifed, and I was getting a little green myself.  I decided to return to my room as well and rest for a while.

I fell asleep and was woken by the physical movement of my body rolling back and forth in my bed. While I was asleep, the choppy waves had become tumultuous and ridiculous, and were battering the ship back and forth like a ping pong ball. I literally rolled from one side of my tiny bed to the other in accordance to the waves. It felt like the ship had become some sort of amusement park ride; dishes fell off the wall in the galley from the strength of the waves pushing us around. Sometimes it felt as if the ship caught air, and landed with a thud back on the water. My stomach was positively upended. Back and forth, back and forth, I rolled. There was no possibility of being still.

Then I realized I needed to use the bathroom.

The bathroom, of course, was on the other side of the ship. The action of sitting up was all my stomach needed to lose its contents. I had a plastic bag near my bed and used it as my receptacle. I felt a tad relieved and climbed the stairs to the deck of the ship.

It was raining something awful. The crew wore rain suits and were fussing with various things on the ship. The storm and the waves were severe enough that most of the workers were tethered to the ship by ropes, and, in hindsight, I’m surprised they didn’t reprimand me as I staggered my way across the deck. With as loopy and sick as I felt, and with the ship careening so radically, I’m surprised I didn’t topple over the side. And, at the time, I felt so ill that I don’t think I would have cared.

I climbed into the students’ quarters and found the ridiculously tiny bathroom. Judging from the smell, I wasn’t the only one sick on the ship. Once I finished, I staggered my way through the rain and back to my bed, climbed in, and vomited again. I flopped against the mattress and felt the ship rock to the left, to the right, and my body moved in response. I got sick again. I felt abject. Absolutely abject and desperate. “This is hell on earth,” I thought to myself.  “There’s nowhere to go. There’s no getting off this ship.” I decided from that point forward, should anyone ask me what I imagine hell to be like, this ship experience would be my answer. Eventually a more Buddhist-minded thought came to to me: Nothing Lasts Forever. This storm would subside, I would stop feeling sick, we would get to land.  And it helped to recognize this fact. But my answer to the question of hell still stands.

I think we figured out that we were bedridden by the ocean waves for 17 hours–a total time warp.  17 hours of rocking, vomiting, and occasionally staggering to the bathroom, then vomiting again on the return to bed. The waves weren’t so extreme for the entire 17 hours, but by the time we woke up and were able to get out of bed and not be sick, 17 hours had passed.

When we finally climbed to the deck, both of us sallow and peaked, the sun was shining. Most of the kids had been out and about for awhile, recovering much faster than I. At least one student had even helped during the storm. There was land in sight and I couldn’t have been happier. We were stopping at a different island than planned because of the rough sailing, and the captain wanted to give everyone a chance to collect themselves, and get some ground under their feet. He blamed the rough waters on the Gulf Stream.  But, finally, there was land in sight.

Sep 19

Lincolnland


I spent all of Wednesday exploring Abraham Lincoln’s hometown of Springfield, Illinois. He wasn’t born there, but he lived there for many years (15 or 16, I think) and left when he became president. The Lincoln museum is a feast for the eyes. There are Madame Tussauds-like figures of Lincoln, his family, and others from the time period. The exhibit is heavy on holograms; one section had a wall of hologram heads criticizing Lincoln for the Emancipation Proclamation—some saying it goes too far and others saying it doesn’t go far enough. All the heads are blathering simultaneously, so you feel overwhelmed with the criticism and the anger in the voices. There was a large room dedicated to political cartoons that skewered Lincoln. It’s fascinating to see how he was received in his own time considering how he’s been received in history. The museum does an excellent job of illustrating the poverty Lincoln was born in to and lifted himself out of. The first room you visit is a room that recreates the cabin he lived in when he was a kid. He lived there with four others and saying it’s cozy is putting a positive spin on it. Another excellent display was the Civil War in 4 Minutes. A screen displayed a map of the United States. It has a yearly time line on the bottom and a casualty counter on the side of the screen. The Union forces were represented by the color blue and the Confederate forces were represented by red. For the next four minutes, the two colors fight with each other, one pushing the other down then retreating, then moving to the right or left, then moving forward, etc. Explosions represented all the major battles of the war. Finally, you see the red section of the screen/map shrinking and shrinking as the blue surrounds it from various sides.
****
I haven’t talked to so many complete strangers in a long time. As I was sitting outside the Old State Capitol, a man came up and asked me if I liked Lincoln. I could sense he wanted to sell me something, so I was subdued in my answer. And, honestly, it’s not like I’m a Lincoln groupie. I think he’s fascinating to learn about, and a great figure in history—possibly the greatest president in history—but I don’t have his picture hung on my walls. So, the guy sensed my lack of enthusiasm and said, “oh, I was just going to show you some of my paintings. Well, I’ll show you anyway since I don’t have anything else to do.” He sat down next to me and we flipped through his sketchbook. His work was actually decent…I mean his drawings of Lincoln actually looked like Lincoln, which is saying something. There was a green market nearby and I suggested he look into getting a table and displaying some of his work there. “Yeah, but I think that takes money,” he said. Then he started talking about the shitty economy and how bad things are there. He asked me where I was from and when I said “South Florida” he said, “Do you have a lot of money or something? Isn’t that where rich people live?” He said he would like to go to Key West because the street artists there make good money, but leaving his comfort zone was hard. When he asked why I was in the area, I told him my husband was interviewing for a job. “You’re going to move here from Florida?” he asked. “Maybe,” I said, and he replied, “That sounds like a downgrade to me!” A worker from a local restaurant interrupted our conversation to suggest we go to his restaurant to try the homemade chicken soup. “I just cut the noodles myself this morning,” he said while pointing at the white dough remnants on his black shoes.
*****
And, finally, the most important discovery of the trip: I’ve been thinking about buying a new mattress for some time now. The mattress we have is okay; I don’t dislike it, but sometimes I wonder if a better mattress would make a difference on my sleeping habits, back pains, etc. It’s something I don’t dwell on a lot because I don’t have the expendable income to buy a new mattress, so this keeps me from seriously looking for one. However, during our trip we stayed at a hotel in downtown Springfield that had the most comfortable mattress I have ever slept on. Seriously. During the night the train whistle would wake me up and as I snuggled back into my pillow, I would think to myself, “I love this mattress.” Sitting on the bed to put on my shoes would make me think, “I love this mattress.” I’m not kidding! Every minute on this bed was blissful! It was like sleeping on supportive marshmallow fluff! We even took the bed sheets off to find out what brand it was, but we couldn’t find any identifying marks. When we were checking out, I told the guy at the front desk “You have the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept on.” He laughed and said he hears that a lot. Then he told us the bed is made especially for the hotel by Simmons, but since we stayed there and liked the mattress model, we could contact the “mattress concierge” and order the mattress they make for this particular hotel. I’ve already called the company and will buy this mattress if I have to sell a kidney to do so.
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Thinking of Paul Strand while walking Lincoln’s neighborhood:

Mar 11

Planes, trains, and automobiles

Early yesterday morning, DS and I boarded the train in Bridgeport to go to Grand Central. Our plane left LaGuardia at 11:05 am. We arrived at Grand Central right on time, and just as we were walking onto the platform, DS received a call from our airline telling him our flight had been canceled. What the fuck? The weather was chilly but lovely in NY. I called the airline back and was on hold for 20 minutes before someone finally picked up. It turned out our inbound plane was unable to leave the city it was flying from due to weather (probably the snowstorm in the Midwest, which I had thought wouldn’t affect us), so the airline canceled our trip out right and put us on a flight for the next day. We sat in Grand Central, trying to decide what to do. We humored the idea of going to the Met, but didn’t have anywhere to leave our luggage. Plus, having visited NY twice in eight weeks, I was becoming familiar with the fact that staying in NY meant dolling out a certain amount of cash every where we went, and I simply didn’t have cash to spare. Going back to CT wasn’t an option either because our plane left at 7:50am the next day, and the train ride was over an hour long. We had just paid a certain amount for our one way tickets and I wasn’t interested in opening the wallet again to buy tickets for two more trips. We decided to go to the airport to see if we could sneak on to another plane. When we arrived, it was a total clusterfuck. Lines of people going each way…the kind of situation where I couldn’t tell where one line ended and another started. We decided to throw in the towel and not even bother; we went to a nearby hotel and stayed an additional night (I tried to keep my grousing about costs to a minimum since it wouldn’t do any good any way). However, things were much better today and we made it to S. Fla. without a hitch.

Some highlights from the trip:

I love New England. We went all over, but one of my favorite stops was New Haven. What a lovely place. We ate at Pepe’s (one of our traditions…I’m surprised we didn’t both keel over from all the pizza grease we coated our arteries with), and visited the Yale Art Gallery, where I had hoped to get my portrait taken with one of the Kahlo portraits, but it wasn’t on display. Before heading to New Haven, we stopped by a bookseller with whom DS had made an appointment. The gentleman sells books out of his three story Victorian house. When we walked in, he was cataloging an estate of books and pictures he had just purchased. He was an interesting guy—a photographer who took a couple of classes with Walker Evans when Evans taught at Yale in the seventies (I believe). I don’t know a lot about photo books, but when I saw that this bookseller had a first (American) edition of Robert Frank’s The Americans, and that it was inscribed to the bookseller by Robert Frank, I knew that was pretty damn impressive. I was even more impressed when he casually said he had another copy of the book, and it was also signed by Frank. Hot damn.

DS’s parents know I’m a vegetarian, so they decided to take us to lunch at a place called Bloodroot. The owners describe it as a feminist restaurant and bookstore with a seasonal vegetarian menu. We had mushroom quiche and it was delicious. It was pretty fab visiting a restaurant that served tasty vegetarian/vegan food and also promoted political ideas and philosophies that I support.

Then there’s the coffeepot story. I posted this over at Incertus, along with pictures. My husband and I are avid coffee drinkers, but his brother, with whom we were staying, does not drink coffee. We contemplated buying a very cheap coffee maker from Target to keep at his brother’s house for when we visit. However, when we mentioned to his parents that we were going to buy a coffee maker, they quickly squashed the idea and declared they had a coffee maker somewhere in the basement (they don’t drink coffee either). His father went downstairs, and when he returned, he had with him a percolator from 1956. He pulled it out of the plastic bag they stored it in and I was bowled over by the beauty of it. The thing was over fifty years old and it had never been used. They had received it as a wedding gift. It was in pristine condition. My husband was skeptical as to whether we should use it, but I insisted (so much for keeping it in pristine condition). It worked perfectly–the coffee was smooth and delicious. I didn’t want to part with it (I wanted to bring it home and display it on the counter) but we left it where we found it, and plan to use it again when we return. If you want to see a couple of pictures, visit Incertus. I’ll have pictures here sooner or later, but it’s not nearly as easy to upload pics in wordpress as it is in blogger (because I have to upload the pics to photobucket first, rather than straight from my desktop).

This week looks like a busy one. I’ll be reading an essay I wrote about the Confederate flag and General Lee on Thursday morning, during the English Graduate Student Conference. It’s interesting how knowing I’m going to read the essay out loud influences the way I edit the essay. It’s as if I’m trying to tweak the essay to make it a strong performance piece. I don’t know how successful I’ve been with the editing, but it’s a first draft, and will likely go through more editing even after the reading.