Category Archives: Travel

Death, Erika Saboe, Lemon Moment, Personal, Travel

Faded

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In my apartment above the hallway junction, I have a metal piece of artwork spelling out the word onism. I had it made a few years ago. The word definitely came to me, walking the beautiful streets of houses in Willow Grove, Pennsylvania. I walked mile after mile of the surrounding area, seeing the neighborhoods in a way that even the inhabitants have forgotten to experience. It bemuses me that we visit other places to find newness and beauty and others come to our little corners to do the same. The word onism is supposed to describe the unknowable about the world and our own internal realization that we can’t really know the world. I’ll put a link in the comments to demonstrate the mood the word is supposed to evoke. Most people who watch the video find themselves a little untethered by the realization that there are 197 million square miles to explore and almost 8 billion people living around them.

Because I can’t evoke a word like ‘onism’ without mentioning another, I’ll also put in a link for ‘avenoir.’ It’s impossible to absorb the words without understanding that we seem to live with so many of our priorities backward.

I went to Valley Green (Wissahickon Park) during my trip to Pennsylvania, a nature-filled historical spot. It’s one of Ruth’s favorite spots, anchored by both beautiful and bittersweet memory. Another place I’ve never been to and one I’ll likely not see again. A pop-up thunderstorm cut the visit short. But even the rain brought its own message. We were supposed to go with one purpose in mind, but the mercurial way people are morphed the visit into something else. You have to be okay with that. Because so many things in life are exactly like that. You can plan and set out a blueprint only to find that the happy accidents; hell, even the unhappy ones, sometimes filter glimpses into surprising slices of both people and the world. Though we went with a pre-planned objective, it was one which went unrealized. Admiring history, I found introspection.

I have a couple of pictures of us at the beautiful spot in the valley, canopied by immense trees. The sunlight quickly yielded to darkness and impending rain. We walked along the creek, bemused by the ducks and careful of the cyclists enjoying the incredible nature-wrapped trails cutting through the park. I could spend days there, lost in the old trees and history. Within fifteen minutes of taking the picture of the sky, the storm had rolled in, darkening the valley and rendering the canopy of trees as a noir version of a different place. As we drove away, the storm swayed the trees and dropped little limbs onto us.

I didn’t see the Liberty Bell, the Rocky Statue, or Independence Hall. But I did stand in a history-filled valley, looking up at the trees and the sun which overlook it. Though the person whose life was cut short by squandering his last chances wasn’t there, I was. His absence was supposed to be the catalyst for our visit. He lost track of the essential beauty of being alive and instead focused on the tragedy of life and let it swallow him. Anyone who can’t relish the smallest of moments and appreciate being alive is missing the treasure of present-moment life.

Later in the trip, I had the pleasure of having Rita’s water ice for the first time, thanks to my de facto mother-in-law Ruth. Though the name derives from the creator’s wife and is a nickname for Italian ice, it’s something that we don’t have anywhere. That’s a loss for everyone because it both soothes and stimulates the taste buds. Also, if you’re in Philly, you have to pronounce the word ‘water’ like you’ve bit your tongue: w-u-d-d-e-r. I devoured my allegedly large serving like a zoological gorilla. Yes, I literally drooled at one point, much to the delight of both Ruth and Erika.

It was odd to see that the sun rises earlier on the east coast. I was awake for each sunrise, having already wandered the quiet, dark streets. Twice I was in the heated pool as the sun found its way out, even through the wildfire-fueled haze. Though I’m back to normal life again, I feel a slight sense of irreality, an unused synonym for dreaminess or untethered awareness. I’ve tucked the moments away already, hoping they’ll fail to dissipate as life intrudes further.

Love, X

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Lemon Moment, Personal, Travel

Ohio Morning

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Standing in the wet grass, not too far from a foreign interstate. Looking at the low red moon. Feeling the unobstructed breeze hit me. Behind me, a hotel full of nomads on their way to somewhere else. I’m a temporary nomad myself. It’s strange how I find something wonderful in each new acre. Going back to the parking lot, I helped an older couple load their bags into their mammoth truck. People I will never see again. And a place that will soon be a memory, and on my way to hopefully make new ones. Love, X

Airbnb, Erika Saboe, Fayetteville, Personal, Travel

Last Morning

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I left a homemade bottle light on the huge deck at the Airbnb house. In the deep dark of the valley, it shone like a beacon, looking down on the valley floor where the pond rests. Erika and I left my last Jackie cup up near the ridiculously distant game room/building. I took a picture of the very first part of the driveway. Words can’t describe how steep, serpentine and long it is. Attempting to walk up it is a cardiac stress test even for the fittest. Don’t forget to ask Erika how much she enjoyed the attempt. 🙂 The house is beautiful, especially at night. But if towering windows and isolation give you the heebiejeebies, you would have to sleep in one of the closets here. All of the bedrooms on different levels have uncovered sliding glass doors with a deck that defines description of size. If you’re a fan of light, the huge living area is flooded during the day. The last picture is of camera- shy Erika’s silhouette.
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Erika Saboe, Fayetteville, Humor, Lemon Moment, Northwest Arkansas, Personal, Travel

Airbnb Modesty Test

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Modesty test. Erika found a mid-century Airbnb house on the fringe of Fayetteville. 12 acres, encompassing an entire deep valley, complete with a meandering stream. It’s an aging, gargantuan beauty, a multi-level labyrinth. Lots of eccentricities. Towering glass, no shades or curtains. The light-flooded interior recedes to the enveloping darkness in the valley at sunset. I’m certain the feeling of being in the middle of nowhere, although just on the fringe of the city, would run some people’s imagination into weird quarters. I climbed onto the apex of the roof, with a long view of the sloping property, stream, and emerald pond on the opposite side. I felt like I was 12. The master bedroom and accompanying bathroom is not for the timid soul.  If you bathe or shower, if any wandering soul were to jaunt down the long serpentine driveway to the house, they could easily see what God gave you. When I showered, it evoked a laugh. I felt like Chris Farley in his infamous Chippendale dancer skit with Patrick Swayze. I’ll leave it to you to capriciously decide which character I felt like.

I used one picture of Erika from a bird’s eye perspective after I descended from the roof. As always, she’s reluctant to let people see her the way I do. Her hair was illuminated like soft fire in several of the pictures I took surreptitiously. She reluctantly stood next to me and let me take a picture of her with a backward view of the valley and pond below.

The sun finally made its way above the towering valley ridge. Everything is backlit with it and amber orange bloom.

I would describe it as beautiful, but it’s a fragile cliché compared to being present and witnessing it.

Love, X

Lemon Moment, Nostalgia, Personal, Travel

Behind

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This coffee cup is the one I’ve had longest. It’s from one of my two trips to Mexico decades ago. It reminds me of exotic margarita sunrises and sunsets, salt in my eyes from my first trip to the ocean, beautiful sand stuck in places all over my body,  people working way too hard for too little money, tasting unlimited food and drinks I never had before. Being able to enjoy people even more because I loved their language. And trying to like shrimp made at least three dozen different ways. (I still didn’t.) When I was in Mexico, I filled this cup with a variety of drinks, “surprise me” concoctions of coffee and whatever the servers wanted me to try. One of those workers went beyond; one drink was made by a cabal of her friends, all shouting ideas. She put a 1/4 lb. sliver of homemade coffee-flavored chocolate in the cup, followed by bitter coffee and liqueur. I walked down to the darkening beach with the cup. My wife, now long absent, had a preposterous fruity drink that defied gravity.

I paid one of the resort people $20 for the cup. He reluctantly but joyously accepted it. He said I could buy a case for that amount. I told him that the cup was full of the memory of that moment. He said, “¡Eres loco pero simon!” (You’re crazy but yes!)

I’ve been leaving cups when I make special trips or when I want an on-demand lemon moment.

This morning, I walked down the leaf-covered and rain-drenched hill. I put my Mexico cup on one of the lower branches. I wanted to climb up one of the trees but these were slippery and the bark laden with water. Erika was inside cooking and preparing us a meal.

I left my Mexico cup there for future observers, a silent witness to the forest below. If this world were comprised of magic I would hope that anybody that looked at it or touched it could feel the salt and sand on their skin and that feeling of being in another world. I experienced it literally two lifetimes ago. I didn’t know at the time that those memories would be foundational for me or that life had shockingly different plans than what was in my head when I was there.

I clambered back up the hill and into house filled with bacon smells and presence.

This life.
Now.

That’s all there is and it’s more than enough.

Love, X
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Biographical, Eureka Springs, Travel

A Weekend Away From the World

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Dawn wanted to take pictures using her phone; her camera is significantly better than mine. She handed me the phone as she said, “Here, you can take them better.” She said that despite the years of insurmountable proof that the opposite was true. ” Thus, two of the best photos are obscured by my inexpert fingers. They are my favorites, of course.

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After painting a couple of rocks, something Dawn said that triggered a thought in my head, which is usually a dangerous sign. We were outside the cabin admiring the rocks that had surprisingly survived months (and even years) exposed to the elements. One of our previously ambitiously executed projects was somewhat intact but missing a couple of elements.

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Because I had exhausted the obscenely bright neon color as the base of the two large rocks, I had an inspiration. Because I had a surplus of gloves, I opted to collect 5 medium rocks and approximately 50 small rocks. I sprayed a huge glob of several colors on aluminum foil and used my hands to roll the rocks around in my hands and paint them that way. Luckily for me, my unreplenished grab bag of paints contained about three dozen bottles of varying paints. It was a bit of overkill. Once we painted the large number of rocks, it looked quite striking against the backdrop of the surrounding forest and subdued colors nearby.

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I made the png cutout version to better see the first two rocks we did. Not wanting to be outdone, I completed mine a nod toward my two favorite cousins, Beth and Lynette. I added a face on the bottom that was supposed to register surprise. I hope they don’t mind that I might exposed their secret identities again. Visitors to the cabins will drive up and see the two neon rocks and undoubtedly question what “X, Cheetah, Falcon, and Rojo” have to do with a getaway cabin. I challenge them to exceed my creativity and/or weirdness.

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I took one from over the top of our heads, in case anyone needed to see such a picture.

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When we arrived back to our normal lives here in Springdale, we went to see my in-laws. While the adults talked, I took the time to build a little town from what I could find in the yard. (Plus my invaluable index cards, of course.) You have to find your fun wherever it may be found.

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This picture is when Hell broke loose, pun intended. It was implied that I couldn’t leave my creation standing. For that reason, I had to pretend a tornado hit Hell and demolished it. I hope everyone is okay.

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Eureka Springs, Holiday, Product Review, Travel

Wisteria Lane Getaway For Labor Day

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This is the porch on Cabin #3. The porch and its swing is one of the best features that many other places surprisingly fail to include.

 

Last weekend, we had a chance to get away for the weekend to Wisteria Lane Lodging. At the last minute, we decided to extend the weekend by a day, if possible. The owner at Wisteria Lane gave us the green light. Instead of 2 nights and three days, we stayed for three nights. We stopped at the grocery store and loaded up on food for four days. The difference the extra day made was immeasurable. Vacationing in far-flung destinations has its appeal, I’ll admit, but knowing that we can drive less than forty-five minutes to be in the middle of nowhere with no one to intrude is difficult to surpass.

No cellphone, no internet, no outside world was imposing upon us. Unlike many of the competitor’s cabins, it’s possible to go and see no one during the entire stay. The cabins have satellite television; the solitude is best experienced without the world’s intrusion, in my opinion. I took a laptop loaded with shows and music, along with cables to use the flat screen television to project them.

Dawn and I don’t leave the valley unless we must. Many people who know me superficially are surprised that such isolation is enjoyable to me. Going without wifi and cellphones probably scares those who haven’t experienced it in the last few years. The disconnection is a welcome privilege. It’s a great way to measure your addiction to connectedness.

For those who love to walk or ride mountain bikes, the area is ideal. It’s possible to encounter no cars during your ride or hike on the maintained dirt rods.

While it only rained a bit during our stay, we sat on the hanging porch swing and listened to the thunder of the insects around us as the sun sank below the upper rim of the valley’s treeline.

Wisteria Lane is located North of Eureka and Holiday Island, in a deep valley populated with five billion trees. Cabin #3 & #4 are the best, in my opinion, given their location toward the inside of the forest. Each cabin has a long, covered porch facing the creek running through the valley. Each porch has a gas grill, which allows guests to cook in any weather, either using the grill or the full kitchen inside.

After our trip, I noticed that I hadn’t been billed for the extra night. The owner told me that she was treating Dawn and me to the extra night at no charge. A great trip made more exceptional due to the generosity of the owners.

 

 

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We usually take the time to paint rocks during our stays. We tend to go a little further than most guests.

 

Wisteria Lane Lodging Main Page

Wisteria Lane Facebook

New Orleans, Opinion, Travel

Cafe Du Monde in New Orleans

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It’s unfashionable for me to be underwhelmed by the Cafe Du Monde in New Orleans.

People discuss it as if it embodies some unseen quality and conjoining of history and cuisine. The cafe’s proximity to so many of the sights of New Orleans is certainly an advantage. If you get take out, you can walk a short distance and sit by the Mississippi to eat your beignet and drink one of the coffees the cafe offers.

If you’re visiting New Orleans, it’s imperative that you come early if you’re going to try Cafe Du Monde in the morning. Otherwise, you’re going to be crowded into a throng of other visitors. Many tourists don’t know that the French Market location is open 24 hours a day. I’d argue that ambiance is better in the evening, when most of the revelers are elsewhere destroying brain cells with their favorite beverage.
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Despite what visitors say after the fact, I observed many people as they approached, entered, sat, and walked away. The open air quality of the cafe is appealing to some and unappealing to others, especially as they are confronted with crowded and small tables, sticky surfaces, or birds flying inside the canopy where they are dining. Because the cult of the ‘must do’ demands it, most people leave with a notable lack of the ‘wow factor.’ Like a movie that people rave about, the cafe owes much of its appeal due to the cult of tourism more than its actual experience. That’s my opinion, anyway.

Beignets came from France, of course, which means that Cafe Du Monde didn’t invent the wheel, so to speak. I enjoy listening to people enthusiastically argue about the originality of Cafe Du Monde’s namesake food. Even when the Acadians brought them to Louisianna, they were likely to be filled with fruit. Today’s version is simply a rectangle of fried dough in a cloud of powdered sugar. If I point this out to people, it makes them a little irritated, as if recognizing the deviation somehow is an attack on their opinion.

If you’re visiting New Orleans, Cafe Du Monde is invariably on the ‘must do’ list for visitors. Unfortunately, many people are caught off guard by the massive lines, crowded tables, and sometimes long table service waits.

It’s important to note that the cafe doesn’t offer other breakfast foods. Many of the New Orleans partiers visit and find themselves eating large portions of dough and powdered sugar, which leads to the expected result.

As for me, the best part was feeding the birds which fly under the streetside canopy and hunt for morsels. It’s dumb on my part to have enjoyed feeding the birds.

Don’t get me wrong, the beignets are worth trying once. I personally can’t say that the taste of a Cafe Du Monde beignet was noticeable compared to the ones served a little distance away at the Cafe Beignet on the outside of the forgotten Jackson Brewery building. Saying this out loud amounts to heresy, so if you find yourself in agreement with me, it’s best to keep your opinion quiet.

A visit to Cafe Du Monde brings you to the edge of the river, too, so you’re at least in a central location to start your day.

It’s true that visitors should try a beignet if they’ve never had one.
My takeaway is that tourists would be better prepared for the experience if they go to Cafe Du Monde as an locale experience more than a dining choice.
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Like New Orleans, it probably should be experienced once.
Humor, Travel, Uncategorized

When We Went To Boston

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Boston gets fairly rowdy around St. Patrick’s Day. My wife Dawn accompanied me as I attended an event there three years ago. While we’re not drinkers like so many others who attended the conference held around the holiday, we tried to socialize and give our contemporaries a run for their money. It was likely it would be our only trip to Boston as adults.

The first night, we went to the House of Blues near Fenway Park. It was loud, raucous, and phenomenal. We left before the Dropkick Murphys made their annual appearance mainly because I wanted to get up early the next morning and see the start of the Southie Road Race.

The race was impressive. As is the case most other years, many of the runners dressed in bright green costumes, complete with wigs and shoes to match. People had warned us to be careful around the fringes, given the occasional idiot who might want to start a fight, ‘borrow’ $100 or just cause a problem.

It wasn’t until Sunday night that we had any problems. I wanted to hear some live music at Lansdowne Pub. My wife was a little reluctant. She knew I was going to want to walk the strip toward Fenway. Cities can only be really enjoyed by walking them. By 7 p.m. we were walking along and watching people and admiring the array of brick buildings lining the streets. To knock some time off the walk, we cut through a parking garage near Lansdowne Street.

As we traversed the garage, we heard shouting somewhere above us, and then a ‘boom.’ The squeal of tires punctuated the ‘boom’ sound. My wife looked at me in alarm. We decided to move along up against the inside wall of the garage. A few seconds later, a car raced around the corner nearest to us. Simultaneously, a man wearing a green jersey and green top hat stepped from the street outside into the parking garage. A man inside the racing car leaned out the window, pointing a pistol at the top hat-wearing pedestrian.

The pedestrian didn’t move out of the way. The man leaning from the window began shooting toward the pedestrian. At least 5 shots rang out. The pedestrian didn’t flinch. He stood his ground as the shots were fired. The car swerved around him at the last second and popped out of the garage to escape.

My wife and I ran over to the man in the top hat. Our adrenaline was pumping. “Oh my god! Are you okay?” we shouted as we neared him.

“Thanks, mates. Yes, I’m fine. Bullets can’t hurt me.” He seemed to be completely calm. Surprisingly, I don’t think he had been drinking.

He held out his right hand as if to shake mine.

My wife, as always, had a million questions.

“What do you mean, ‘Bullets can’t hurt you.'” she asked.

“My name is Rick O’Shea,” he said, as I shook his hand, and answering my wife’s question.
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