My house is a very very very fine house fine house

I have taken photos of my house in Corner Brook.

The weather isn't bad here; I wear dresses still, but sometimes with long underwear. I wear a hat and mittens and usually a pair of boots. But the snow has melted, and the sun is sometimes out, and my walk to and from work is actually lovely.




HELLO!



Mom, I made my bed:









My boy, hanging in the kitchen:


My room:

Mysteries of the North

I went to Halifax. It's a city. I was mostly there to visit my friends, Lance and Jen, and their children: Alexander (almost 3) and Clara (6 months). One memory: as we drove from Halifax to Jen's parents' house, there were 5 of us in the car. Jen, her sister, her sister's baby (3 months), Clara, and moi. It started to snow. The wind blew, and we were in a little clunker of a car. Clara was crying, crying, crying. Angry loud crying. I sat next to Jen's sister, who was driving. She said "oh, poor, Clara. Doesn't that just break your heart?" And I thought No, it does not. This is not a mother's instinct. I think mothers are supposed to comfort the young. Meanwhile, I was cultivating a zen state. I ignored the crying, and I kept trying to talk to Jen's sister about various things (politics, travel, whatever) while she fretted over the baby in the back seat.

On the way to Halifax, in the airport, I noticed some rednecks of Newfoundland. The Newfnecks. It's in places like airports, all sterile and orderly, that you can really see people who are out of place. The Newfnecks waited for their family members who went through departures - there was a glass wall and I could see the family on the other side. They had come as a large group to see off a couple of men, and they waited around for a while. They wore baseball caps and camouflage, they alternated between hollowed-out thin and obese. Their clothes were layers and layers, hockey jerseys prominent. They were happy to be in the airport, at 5:30 in the morning.

Halifax itself was a city. I said to Lance, "it's kind of nice here, but what happened to all the old buildings?" and he guffawed in the way he does and said, "I mean, the city blew up in world war I." And we agreed that I was the most insensitive critic of architecture of all time.

Two ships, one with munitions, kissed each other, causing the second largest man-made explosion in the history of the world. And killed 2,000 people.

So Halifax has a lot of beautiful old cemeteries. I heard that there were gravestones from casualties of the Titanic. As my dad would say, "Poor Leo!"

I ate an entire lobster at Jen's parents' home. My cheeks got flushed and I felt like my skin was turning into lobster. I finally understood the adage that you are what you eat. No claws yet, but you never know.

The couch swimmers

I have now been on couchsurfing dot org for two weeks and I have met: a guy who cycled from BC to Northwest Territories to Newfoundland; a Quebecois who lives in the cold north of the province and works to help rural places retain French culture; five girls who bounced in and giggled a lot and had been cycling around the Maritimes; one girl who cycled here from Vancouver; and a French citizen who lives on an island called St. Pierre and Miquelon just an hour ferry ride from Newfoundland.

Newfoundland is one of the ends of Canada in a country with a lot of edges. At the edges, the roads run out and the people grow sparse and the industries that define modern third-world places assert themselves. There is an Asbestos, Quebec. Coal and diamonds and gold and tar sands mark the far north. The far east, the Maritimes and Newfoundland, rest on a diminishing marine ecosystem that is being fished out from the top down, the biggest down to the smallest. Newfoundland has anachronistic tendencies, the result of being isolated and proud. It has retained a diversity of dialects and the odd customs of a place that nurtures its past, keeping it around for consultation.

I have been very impressed, in general, with the quality of the CBC and with the pride that Canadians have toward their own music. At least in Newfoundland, radio stations play local artists and people of all ages are familiar with the same music; it is a generational uniter, rather than a divider. Weird.

I will think of things that I don't like about Newfoundland. But now I am concentrating on the things I do like. Probably the things I don't like include the weather. But I have yet to be sure about that.

Flags of Newfoundland

Newfoundland has two flags, one that looks like a modified Union Jack, the other that looks like a slightly faded Irish Flag.

The first looks like this:



This is the official Newfie flag, and it was designed in 1980. It's got all the nice explanations - white is for snow and ice, blue is for the sea, red is for "human effort" and gold is "confidence." It's funny (strange) that the first two are for these very tangible things and the second two are for entirely abstract feel-goodisms. They aren't even really Newfie, in my mind. The red should be for humorous surliness and the gold for funny-talkin' hospitality.

The other, much older, flag is called the 'native flag':



This one was adopted by a bunch of Irish-Newfies in the late 1800s in St. John's. Both are flown around the island; for a long time, I thought that the native flag was an Irish flag.

I'm in St. John's at the moment, a really lovely little city situated on a bay, with an improbably hilly downtown populated by narrow, brightly-painted houses, mostly in various stages of disrepair and slantedness. It's a great walking city, with paths and hills all over, and nowhere a straight road. Everything winds around, connected by steeps stairs and alleyways. There's a big hill with a lookout, called Signal Hill because it was the location of the first transatlantic wireless signal; it looks over the bay and the narrow, hill-flanked entrance to the bay, and then out to the sea beyond. The easternmost place in North America is in view, Cape Spear. The whole city feels like it's the end of the world, even though it's got all of life's luxuries, like Indian food and libraries. The city is cold and smells of salt, and trees are uprooted here and there from the recent visit of Igor, and the houses can't keep their paint on for long. The wind blows constantly, and the light is gray; abandoned buildings downtown are boarded up and falling over, their paint coming off in huge chunks. It feels old.

I like it.

Losers of the cold war

When the Soviet Union broke up, the support systems of millions of people dissolved overnight. For some, this was positive. There was no more secret police; but there was no more functioning police force at all. The thugs in St. Petersburg and Moscow could murder old ladies for their apartments. There was no more oppressive bureaucracy; but there was no functioning bureaucracy at all. The kleptocrats took over entire countries as their fiefdoms, bringing feudalism back to people who had left it less than a century earlier.

In Kyrgyzstan, the Russians escaped as quickly as they could with the fall of the Soviet Union, but some of the old people had no families in Russia, and so they stayed. They had apartments, maybe, or furniture. But they no pensions. Or bank accounts. And they lost their apartments, one by one, or froze to death in them because they could not afford to heat them.

I was walking with my boyfriend, S, past an old Russian woman holding a bouquet she'd found tossed in the garbage. She was trying to sell the old flowers, their edges brown and curled. S gave her 200 som, about 5 dollars, for them, probably 100 times what she was expecting, and she smiled and said spaceba, spaceba; thank you, thank you.

A dinner in Pasadena. Pasadena, Newfoundland.

Newfie dinner for 11:
* steak
* salmon
* rice and peas
* green salad
* grapes/walnuts/sour cream/cream cheese heavenness
* sweet potatoes
* roasted potatoes
* pasta salad
* garlic bread
* vanilla cake
* mousse, 3 kinds: bakeapple, chocolate, raspberry
* dark chocolate and coconut squares

The dinner was for a visiting Irish singer/songwriter/storyteller and peace activist, Tommy Sands and his kids. It was in Pasadena, NL, with some of his fellow musicians. After dinner, we sat in the living room with instruments in every other hand (certainly not mine) and the musicians played Irish and Newfie-Irish songs. Tommy told stories about his friends, including John Hume, who helped forge the 1994 ceasefire and the Good Friday peace agreement.

There was storytelling and jokes, and then I drove home, slowly, careful to avoid suicidal moose.

The cemeteries of Newfoundland

On the way to Gander, to attend a wood pellet conference (!), I talked with W. about his hometown, Gambo. Gambo, a Catholic town, is adjacent to Dark Cove, a Protestant town. They're "only separated by a sign," but each has its own schools, effectively creating a segregated community based on religion.

We passed a cemetery in a tiny town. There were three signs delineating the graves: Catholic, Anglican, Pentecostal. Apparently the Pentecostals came in the 1970s, and "converted half the middle of Newfoundland." Now the schools have a relic of this past, with separate schools for each little community.

The churches are lovely, little, white structures, almost identical except for the signs out front. The cemeteries are sometimes adjacent, but sometimes orphaned, outside of town or hidden away in the woods. Now I need to find the cemeteries of the resettled communities that line the island.

The road to Gander does not connect communities but draws a seemingly arbitrary line meandering around the island, with spurs off the road going to communities clustered around coves and nearby islands. The road (Highway 1) does go through Grand Falls, which had its pulp and paper mill close two years ago, and it goes through Stephenville, which had a mill closure several years prior to that. It also goes through Corner Brook, with the only remaining pulp and paper mill on the island. It connects the forestry communities.

Random notes on the 3 pulp and paper mill towns of NL:
Grand Falls: The town of Grand Falls built its mill in 1908. Well, Abitibi built the mill. Grand Falls was the town built around the mill, and we drove through it today to look at the empty mill. The town was built for managers and it has neat houses. The neighboring town of Windsor apparently housed the workers and is more ramshackle and poor. When the mill at Grand Falls was built, it was situated next to the hydro power plant; the processed pulp and paper was then trucked (or moved by railroad, initially) to the port at the coast, 20 miles away.

Corner Brook: One of the older forestry communities, the mill was built by Bowater in the 1920s after the technology of power lines had become available (common?) and so the mill was not located next to the power plant but next to the port. The power plant is at Deer Lake, a ways away.

Stephenville: An old U.S. military community with streets named after states. Labrador Linerboard built a mill there in the 1970s, with a business model as follows: import wood from Labrador (the mainland) and mill it on Newfoundland. Apparently, it was a bad business model and the mill closed after only a few years. It was then bought by Abitibi-Bowater (then just Abitibi, I think), which converted the mill to pulp and paper and operated it until recently.

I asked W. about employment in Stephenville and Grand Falls-Windsor since the mill closures and he said the towns were doing okay. I was surprised, and he said "well, the men all commute to Alberta." That's right, they commute to Alberta. Fort McMurray is a town of Newfoundlanders in the northern reaches of Alberta; the workers have moved from obsolete, isolated resource communities to a resource community of the modern era. I doubt for long. W. said that the services of the town - the hospitals, the schools, even the Tim Hortons - were having trouble keeping up with the growth. A classic boom town.

Good thing we've learned so much. What but good could come from a boom town?

On the frustrations of the arbitrary distinction between economic and social considerations

And so, in reading a document recently, the authors threw up (pun intended) all kinds of unnecessary walls between "economic" and "social" considerations. Their pleas for integrative research were somewhat mired by the discrete research silos, which had all industry concerns under economic, and all community concerns under social. This places economic concerns pretty squarely under a category I'd like to name "motivated by profit" and social concerns under a category I'll call "motivated by employment." That's a better categorization: profit vs. employment. Because they're antagonistic like that.

This reminds me of something my friend L and I were talking about. Both of us are social scientists, and so both of us are frequently subjected to the metaphor of the three-legged sustainability stool. Like sustainability is held up by three parts: economic, ecological, and social. We liked to call it the steaming stool of sustainability, or just "steaming stool" for short. Every time I read something about sustainability or somebody's tell me about it, and they're going on about ecological... social... economic... my eyes glaze over and I picture something really gross and I am, at least internally, giggling uncontrollably.

Because I am a social scientist, which means that I like people.

People are so nice, it makes your heart hurt

In checking up on some forest industry stats for a paper on central Oregon, I called a lady at a mill. We got to talking, and pretty soon we were just chatting away, about FSC certification and wood exports and the importance of jobs on a reservation, and she said: "keep my number so if you're back in the area, you can come down to the mill and we'll give you a tour."

I don't know why people behave this way. I mean, logically, people don't need to be friendly in day-to-day dealings. But so many have this inherent curiosity about each other that translates to something like empathy; perhaps this cannot be explained through the logic of economics or psychology, but only through the logic of sociology, which sees mutual benefit in such actions.

I now have a SIN (Social Insurance Number, naturally), although I'm still counted as male in Canada. I have a note scrawled somewhere about returning to the SIN office once I get my sex changed. It might be easier, anyway.

funny things

1) My work visa says I'm male, meaning that all the systems in Canada think I'm male. Is this a problem? Apparently. It's a several-hours-on-the-phone problem. Which I can't get to because I'm working on items 2-5, below.
2) I haven't gotten paid by the college yet, presumably because they've never dealt with post-docs before, the bureaucracy here is nuts, and ... god only knows. Currently figuring out how to get money wired from the U.S.
3) My car is now illegal here because I don't have the actual title or registration from Oregon because ... god only knows. Mom thinks that the car may be "hot."
4) I am moving.
5) I hear that I have a job.

My priorities have not changed, despite all this. I have repeated myself lately, often, by saying that bureaucracy is like quicksand, and "you need to just relax because if you struggle, you'll only sink faster." It's getting to be more like concrete boots. Doesn't matter if I struggle or just sink quietly into the sea, it's all the same.

The woman from the car dealership wrote to ask me if they speak English or French here. Seriously? Why would it matter? Write the thing in Latin, lady.

See? Funny things. They repeat, over and over. I'm trying to think of what will happen next. Perhaps late September is a bad time for me. Last year, I got viral meningitis. This year, I have Acute Bureaucralosis. Ha ha. It's funny.

Back to my priorities: exercise, coffee, and learning about tenure and ownership in Newfoundland. Oh, and getting pubs from my dissertation. I mean, I guess I can't help the rest of it, right? I don't want pity, I just wanted to vent.

Thank you, Mr. Internet.

Intangible Cultural Heritage

We approached the attic a little nervously, M and I; a small crowd (~25) was gathered there on various ad hoc sitting-things, circled around a woman with a harp and another woman standing, dramatic even in silence, red curly hair and a smile made of teeth. We sat and the show began, first a story, like a fairy tale but reinvented, from the redheaded woman, then some harp music on a Paraguayan harp.

We lowered the mean age of the crowd dramatically, surrounded by people with fluffy white hair and nice sweaters. At the intermission, we ate fattening things and sipped bubbly wine, and I got to meet more professors and talk about ethnography. I love that Grenfell has such a vibrant social science (and visual arts!) section; I'm surrounded by people who understand when I talk about interviews as data.

Saturday, we went toward Gros Morne, but stopped in at the Insectarium, which is run by M's dad. M's dad told us about the bees, and how they recently swarmed, which means half of them left the hive with a new queen; but they decided to return, and upon returning they killed the old queen and installed their queen as supreme ruler. They were in the process of killing the male drones by throwing them out of the hive, to starve. It is a violent and difficult world.

I could not hold the tarantulas, though I would love to. The first tarantula had a sign about how they are misrepresented as dangerous and, really, they don't bite very often and their venom is not "particularly" poisonous to humans. The rest of the tarantulas had signs about how they bite people and how their bites are varying degrees of harmful to humans.

We had a long hike up Long Pond, with the Tablelands on the left, barren and red, and a steep fjord abutting the "pond" to the right. We saw a herd of caribou, but mostly just their mottled white behinds and the enormous rack on the male. Here is a "pond" according to Newfies, with the fjord to the right, Tablelands to the left, and a cairn indicating the end of the trail:



Then we headed to a party; a long conversation with a history professor about Marxism and climate change, and another with two Russian physicists about the role of math in the social sciences, and then a late-night game of "werewolves," where you plot and kill each other.

Sunday, we headed to Burgeo. The drive was with M's two friends, and we headed through forest to a barren area with rocks settled on top of a Martian wasteland, and finally to this square-house, hanging-laundry town with beaches and sand. We hiked along the beaches, admiring the distant rock islands and the clear green water. I borrowed one of M's fancy cameras and took pictures that were out of focus on purpose. I tried to make them look, you know, artsy.

First, here is Marvin, looking pensive:



I call this Alien Pod, Landed:


We stopped at a cafe for ice cream, and on leaving, I saw a glint in the road. I went over and picked up a smashed ring, and went back into the cafe.
"I found this outside."
"Oh, that's wonderful. That wud be Rex's, you know, he's a mechanic and he never wears his ring and he got married in August, you know? And he just put on the ring for the first time the other day and, jayz, if he din't lose it right away. I tell you. Hey, Mary!"
Mary emerged.
"Look what this girl here found."
"Oh, that would be Rex's ring, would it?"

Then we went to the friends' parents house for dinner, and we talked about Newfoundland with the dad (CBC journalist guy) and art with the mom (visual artist) and Marvin ran off for a while and I got all worried but then we found him because the dad remembered a nearby moose carcass.

I decided, on the drive back home, that I love Newfoundland.

CFA

On Saturday, I went to breakfast at a coffee shop in town with my new friend Matthew. He saw a game on the shelf that he hadn't seen "in years" and we pulled it down: Newfoundlandia. It was Trivial Pursuit, but all about Newfoundland. Like Trivial Pursuit, it had an expiry date on its relevance, now long past. But he did know one answer: What is the acronym CFA? "Come from away. Like someone who comes from away, not Newfoundland." I have christened this my new favorite acronym.

We then headed to Cox's cove, down the bay on the north side... it's a quiet town with a strange, tilting staircase leading down to the beach. Beside the staircase is a playground, old and rusty, surrounded by a chain link fence that says "Private Property, use at your own risk." We took a spin on the merry-go-round, and reminisced about deadly playground equipment.

Then we walked down the staircase, Marvin in the lead, running like he was falling head first. All along the beach were strange rocks, fallen from the strange cliffs above. We picked along, remarking on the rocks, "look, it's an ice cream cone," "this is like a mortar, or maybe a pestle," until we reached a collection of 15 tiny square houses, and a sign: The resettled community of Brake's Cove. Resettled, I suppose, meaning people were settled away from it.

There were no people present, though the houses were clean and often looked just-used, like the people had just stepped out to the grocery store. Coats hung on hooks, flowers in the gardens. People must use them now as vacation homes. But no one was there. Across the bay were more little houses; every flat spot in Newfoundland that's on the water has a couple of houses.



I played Settlers of Catan that night, and you'll be happy (dad, Jess) to know that I won that night. Strategy: wheat and ore. Oddly, everyone here seems to play Settlers.

I bought my first Newfie dress - polyester, short-sleeve secretary dress in lilac paisley. Good stuff.

Tomorrow I give a talk, but I'm trying not to think of it. Mostly I'm focusing on my latest Newfoundland fiction: Random Passages. I have yet to form an opinion on it; it's definitely less schmaltzy than the last one, which was utter crap.

I'm feeling oddly American these days. I wish I were around the U.S. to complain about politics and get exasperated at people who seek simple solutions to difficult questions. I have decided that my personal heroes are lawyers and politicians. Good lawyers defend the weak against the strong. Good politicians shape society to propel the weak. The bad lawyers and the bad politicians aren't worth mentioning.

There's no connection for me to Canadian politics. Maybe if I find some political blogs up here; so far, politics seems more distant to me. There's a veneer of liberalism, as with the social programs and general niceness, but underneath it is a dangerous detachment. Environmental laws are shaped to avoid participation and are weak anyway. Litigation is very difficult, at least in my reading of it so far, and rarely used in environmental cases. Litigation has pushed environmental policy in the U.S. when the market has repeatedly failed. Litigation pushes, governmental subsidies pull, and business practices change. Some invisible hand, that.

The story of Marvin, part I

He lived in the wet, moldy pipes of the ship, scurrying from place to place under the floors and in the walls. He could see the people through screens, and could smell them cooking things and hear them talking, shouting, doing their people things. But they didn't pay him much mind, any more than the rats that lived with him in the dark pipes.

The rats were his friends, his only companions. Marvin didn't eat the rats, unless he was very very hungry. Mostly he wanted to play with them but sometimes when they played he would become too happy and try to hold one in his mouth and shake his head in joy, and the little rat would die. Then Marvin would be sad, but only for a moment. Then he would eat the rat.

The ship swayed as it moved through space, the metal softly groaning in its timeworn hull. Marvin knew the ship very well. He was born in the ship, in a dirty pipe; his mom was born in the ship, and his dad also. There used to be more of his kind, but now there were only the rats. His kind had died out over time, sometimes because of the people, sometimes for no reason at all.

He feared the people, and he especially feared their rulers, the furry cat-queens that sat on big pillows and ate food of unimaginable deliciousness. Marvin would peer very carefully at the cat-queens through the grates of the pipes, and wonder at their beauty. But he dared not approach one, for they were too far above his station, and what would he say, anyway?

Over time, Marvin grew lonely. He wanted very much to speak to someone, but the rats were no good at conversation. So he stayed quiet, and watchful, and he waited for scraps that the people would drop or, if he was really lucky, a dish of food left behind by a careless cat. Then he would swoop in, faster than anything, and lick the dish clean, and then disappear again into the pipes.

One day, the ship was making more noise than usual, a terrible racket. Marvin heard the people running about, shouting and calling to each other. He saw a person running by, carrying a cat, and the cat looked worried, and suddenly Marvin was very worried, too. What could a cat, as lucky as any creature Marvin could imagine, worry about?

The ship screeched and wailed, and it jerked back and forth. Marvin was thrown against the walls of the pipe, and then the ship stopped jerking and it was even more terrifying: Marvin could feel his stomach falling into his feet, and the walls around him grew hot.

Then there was a crash, and he was thrown into the top of the pipe, which thankfully wasn't very far from the bottom of the pipe. The metal around him crunched and folded and broke, and then all was still. Quiet. And a light, brighter than anything Marvin had ever seen, broke through the pipe, just ahead of him, in a narrow beam.

Marvin limped cautiously toward the light, his bones bruised and blood on his fur. The light came from the up-side of the pipe, a little hole. He touched the ray of light with his paw, and his paw went right through it. He pressed his nose to the hole, and smells of every kind, a symphony of smells, so wonderful it made him yelp, made his brain ache with joy.

He tried to push his nose through the hole, but he couldn't, so he kept trying for a long time, until he was very tired and the light went away and it was dark. He fell asleep, exhausted, in the pipe.

When he awoke, it was with a start. Such strange noises! And behind the noises, even more scarily, there was quiet. Then he realized why it was quiet: none of the people were making their noises. Just the sound of wind and the sweet singing of distant creatures to greet him. He went to the light and looked mournfully out the hole: What was out there? Where were his friends, the rats? And even his enemies, the people? And his rulers, the rulers of all, the cat-queens?

He turned down the hall toward one of the people-rooms, but it was difficult to move through the crumbled metal. The edges of pipes scratched his skin and tore at his coat as he wiggled through narrow spots.

Finally he reached the people-room, and it was so full of the light that he buried his head in his paws. Then he looked up, opening first one eye and then the next, squinting against the magnificent sun that he had never seen. The up-side was so blue! He could see green tall-things and he gathered his courage, scrambling over toppled furniture and broken glass. Some of the people were there, not moving and silent, and he avoided them as he limped carefully out of the ship, into the sunshine.

Eid ul-Fitr

I have had a couple of social engagements this weekend, both in the "townsite" section of Corner Brook, and both with people from Grenfell. First, there was the end of Ramadan celebration (Eid ul-Fitr) on Friday night, largely in celebration of the other post-doc in the department, who is from Egypt.



The townsite area is very interesting. The houses are nice, two-story (sometimes three) and a kind of craftsman. There are only about 4 different floor plans because it's a company town and therefore, they were all built at the same time by the same crews. Isn't it weird that company towns are so oddly similar to Soviet towns? I mean, when I used to walk into an apartment in the former Soviet Union, I'd know right away the era of its design and where the bathroom was. Here it's similar, but more quaint. But the idea is the same: the company (or government) will build for you what you need, and you'll work for the company (or government). It's a socialist vision, expressed through different means. In both cases, it has disappeared, and we're dealing with something after. In the case of the company town, the previous era was called "Fordism," for obvious reasons. Henry Ford developed a system of paying his workers enough to purchase his cars. This is a story across corporate America (and Canada, I guess) in the dream time that was the early and mid 20th century. There are a lot of great stories of timber towns in Oregon where the boss would drive around, inspecting people's lawns. In Pennsylvania, mom and I met a couple from Hershey, PA who talked about the Hershey family and how it built the town of Hershey and populated it with workers and a theme park. The corporation not only employed people, it provided for them. It was paternalistic.

Our current era is being called "post-Fordism," an uninspiring and non-descriptive term. Any time someone uses the prefix post you can be sure that they're living through it, and so its immediacy makes it blurry and muddled. Our relationship with corporate governance will have some other word, later, when our fates become evident. For now, we occupy the old Fordist structures, while the mills close one by one and move to China. Meanwhile the company houses of the townsite are filled with professors. And here I am, in the "information age" of America. I often wonder what will happen when the zombies come, and I'm forced to take stock of what I can contribute to a post-post-Fordist society. I will tell the dark overlord of the Mad Max future: "Sir, I can analyze the power structure here."

Saturday, I returned to the townsite for a campus-wide eating party. I enjoyed the din of congregated, concentrated conversing, and the plates of food, and the smiley, friendly Canadians, and discussions begun by awkwardly extending a hand and saying, "Hi, I'm Erin." I've thought about trying some interesting ice-breakers, but they always seem contrived. So I stick to the geography topic: "I'm from Oregon." It's a winner here. I shall spread the tale of my beloved Oregon, a land of cowboys and loggers and hippies and the most delicious beer in the universe.

A nice and satisfying tired

Marvin and I have arrived home after two days of good hiking. Sunday, we drove down from the northern peninsula in the wind, after going up as far as Eddie's Cove. We didn't go all the way to St. Anthony, but we got near enough, and then we headed south along the barren coast and back into the mountains. We set up camp at a campground in Gros Morne, went for a very fast run-hike up a hill then to a waterfall, then headed into town (Rocky Harbour) to procure rations. I wanted to head back before dark, so I ran around town looking for things. Food was a problem, as restaurants were very full or closing, and the grocery store offered canned ravioli and rotten fruit. I was so sick of meat. I went into a restaurant.
"I'd like something with vegetables, to go." I said.
"With vegetables?" She looked over the menu as though she'd never seen it before. "Hmmmm." Bacon-wrapped scallops, cod au gratin, various beef things. I spied a vegetable stir fry, but before I could say anything, she said, "we don't have the stir fry."
"How about pizza?"
So I got a pizza, then went to the grocery store and got canned spinach, which I poured over the pizza, then smothered it all in hot sauce. Gourmet. [Pronounce the "t".]

I also went to a Newfie craft and knick-knack store, where I got a book on Doctor Sir Grenfell. Newfoundland has tons of these shops, all full of jokey moose things and knitted caps and bags with the Newfoundland flag. And books. Lots of local books. I don't know if they're any good, but I'll work my wary through them. I got one by Earl B. Pilgrim, who's written a ton of fiction. It's historical fiction, called The Price Paid for Charley. Typical Newfie themes: isolation, hardships, the cold. The weather is like a respected uncle here, spoken of, sometimes cursed.

Today's hike was substantial: miles down through a narrow valley, then across a narrow river ("brook") and up a meadow to the Green Gardens. We met up with people there, mostly from Nfld but also from Europe. A couple of Swiss and a couple of Germans. There were sheep everywhere in the meadow. I walked Marvin on a leash past the sheep. He has a bit of sheepkiller in him. We walked along the coast, which reminded me of Big Sur, with dramatic cliffs and rocky beaches. Then up, up, up to the top and finally we got to the car and headed back to home base. I was planning dinner in my head.

Unfortunately, these Canadians take labo[u]r day seriously. No grocery stores were open, not even Walmart. A red Walmart! So I went to a Chinese place and got takeout.

Too much detail, but that's the story. Now I'm tired, bone tired. Too much walking. My feet hurt.

The salty wind is blowin'

Marvin and I went for a bit of a stroll around Port aux Choix this evening, while grit swirled in the air and blew into our eyes and the green sea tossed and bucked next to us. The town was a "resettlement" area, designated in the 1970s by then-boss (premier?) Richard Smallwood for people from very small towns to migrate to. It became a big cod fishery, and still today has a couple of fish and shrimp packing plants, though I'm pretty sure the fishery collapse caused some deterioration. The downtown:



I drove here from Corner Brook today, up through Gros Morne National Park, where we went for a couple of hikes through the boreal (balsam fir-black spruce-eastern larch) forest and admired the steep cliffs adjoining both sea and "pond." The Western Brook Pond, for example, seems a bit large to merit such a diminutive name:



So, the "pond" isn't just the water in the foreground - it goes clear back, through the mountains. They're actually inland fjords, glacially carved and then with sediment between the sea and the "pond," so the water is fresh.

I went to lunch in a town called Rocky Harbour, where I had moose pizza at a place that had everything from DVD rentals to tourist knick-knacks to homemade baked goods. After writing a bunch of postcards about how I haven't even seen a moose yet, Marvin and I came upon a mother-moose (cow?) and her lil' un right off the trail. They were eating alder leaves and couldn't be less concerned about the humans (other tourists, as well as myself) staring at them.

I found out, from the handy informative kiosks, that Newfoundland is mostly bog, not marsh. The soil is thin but the organic matter, "pickled" by acidity and cold, has stacked up. I'm not sure that I read a terribly scientific kiosk, but I like the idea of twigs and leaves and creatures pickling under my feet.

While driving, you occasionally see this sign:


Also, there's a huge sign that tells you the number of moose-vehicle collisions within Gros Morne in the year. This year, there have been 25.

When we got to Port aux Choix, about halfway up the northern peninsula on the western coast of Newfoundland, I was looking for a campsite. Then the wind picked up. I turned into an old motel, a bit beaten down. I went in and stood at the counter, and a woman with fake blond hair and leathery skin scowled at me.
"Do you have any vacancy?" I asked.
"Yeh." She said.
"Okay. How much for a single room?"
"It's ninety-four dollars."
So I left, as I'm not likely to enjoy a smoky, moldy room from a grumpy old lady. The wind was really blowing, but I figured I had a sleeping bag, and there must be something better in town. I drove past the "downtown," a few abandoned buildings, a fish plant, and a restaurant, and arrived at Jeannie's Sunrise B&B. I turned in, and parked. Not expecting to find vacancy, as several cars were already parked in the tiny lot.
I walked in. "Who's there? Oh, do you have reservations?" came a trill from upstairs. A plump woman bent over the railing and smiled. "Hellooooo!"
"Do you have any vacancy?" I asked.
"Of course, m'love. Come in! Is it just you?"
She proceeded to ask me questions, guide me around the little house ("and here's the common room, and there's the tea kettle, help yerself"), and tell me about herself ("I'm from right here, never wanted to leave. Nope, never.") The room is $79.

Across the street from the B&B is a little butchery:


I tried to record Jeannie in a conversation with a local man, but it came out too muffled. I've got to actually be right next to them, and I don't want to seem too nosy or make them self-conscious. I noticed that Jeannie spoke much more slowly with me than with the other man ("Oh, yeh must know me brudder Liam, he's over there," she said to him). I've also noticed that women have this habit of saying "yeah" with a sharp intake of breath. The first time I heard it, I thought maybe the lady had a lung problem. But now I've heard lots of women do it. They say "yeah" but breathing in, rather than out.

Port aux Choix is apparently a corruption of a Basque term; the place was part of the French fishery in the 1700s after the Treaty of Utrecht, when Britain got the bulk of Newfoundland. Neither country put many (white) settlers here, though, until the 20th century. There's a long history of Indians in the area, with found burial sites and at least three distinct cultures identified by archaeologists.

The town is very Newfie, with little square houses and fishing boats lined up in neat rows:


The wind is blowing:

It's almost labo[u]r day

Here's a video of a guy with a Newfie accent, talking about his Newfie dog. I've been thinking about recording people in my day-to-day adventures, especially people giving me directions. "Oh, ye go o'er the hill, thar, m'dear, and y'know the city hall? The new one? Yah, there, ye go down that road an' jus' across the street there, ye'll see it." I have taken to just blindly driving in a random direction and hoping that I run into whatever I was looking for.

I'm currently trying to decide what to do with my weekend. I think I'll just start driving and see if I end up in a place that I like. I had my first couple of days of work, so I'm pretty exhausted and need a vacation. Just a little joke. Actually, I'm feeling guilty as can be, and like I need to just stay in and work on some manuscripts from the phud, but I also don't want to waste this nice weather in this wonderful place. I'll take my recording device with me, and try to download conversations I have with random passersby. And people who give me directions.

Git 'er done

I have now started to see results after several days of grinding bureaucracy. I have a telephone (pow!), internet (kazam!), and... lots more to do. The telephone was hooked up yesterday, but I wasn't getting a dial tone, so I scheduled an appointment with a phone technician guy for "between 1 and 5" today. I was at home when the friendly telephone man showed up and started testing all the outlets to find there was no dial tone. We followed the line down to the basement and checked in this magical wire-box thing, and he said "a ha. I've seen this before." He pointed out where several wires had been cut. "It's the Rogers company, they've been cutting the lines." Turns out there are competing phone service providers, and the other company had come in and cut the telephone lines of their competitors just so this inconvenience would arise. But friendly telephone man fixed the problem and I suddenly, miraculously, had a line to the outside world.

In other news, my car will be officially illegal in a couple of weeks, and after standing in several lines and speaking with completely rational, polite, and helpful Canadian officials, I found out the car dealership in Oregon hasn't submitted my registration paperwork yet because "the title isn't right" or some shit. Ah. Well, at least they're doing their best.

Last night, I went to a movie (the execrable Eat, Pray, Love) with a couple girls from work then afterward went for a nip of the local specialty, screech. It was okay because the bartender mixed it with butterscotch liqueur. The "Burt Reynolds" he called it. It was a nice night - my first social night in Corner Brook.

Just finished The Shipping News (E. Annie Proulx), which was one of the best books I've read in a long time. Amazing. Four stars. It's about the northern peninsula of Newfoundland and I think I'll head up that way this labo"u"r day weekend.

Settling in...

I went for a run today along a great trail that followed the coast, and ran for probably 3 miles until I reached the end. This adds to the network of wonderful trails around Corner Brook, making for some great day-to-day walking/running. As for the surrounding area, it seems pretty limitless. I stared at a map today hanging at the college, completely blown away by the scope of the wilderness here. It's like Alaska, I think. Actually, I guess it's like most of Canada.

My apartment is coming together. While clean and spacious, I was initially horrified by the overall beigeness, which I have (almost) successfully banished to the background. I'm actually offended by the color. I mean, if you like beige, more power to you. Strut around in those khaki Dockers all you like. But every shade of beige, no matter how J. Crew describes it, is awful to me.

Here's the living room, with my lovely little love seat, now covered in Indonesian tapestry.



Thanks to Jess for the stationery that inspired the kitchen cabinets:



I'll post more pictures of both the house and the college soon. My office (my own office!) is actually quite nice, with a curve of windows and a couple of pretty sweet pictures.

We have branches across the west coast.

Of Newfoundland, of course. I forgot who I was talkin' to.
-Newfie bank teller

When people here refer to the west coast, they are talking about the west coast of Newfoundland, as opposed to the population center of St. John's, over on the east coast. On the radio: "a band from the west coast," at an art gathering, "I'm from the west coast." The west coast of Newfoundland.

I've been here nearly a week, and I'm getting a feel for the place. The streets wind around steep hills, but the town is centered on the bay (north, down), which conforms to my Dallesian sense of direction (river, north, down) and if I get lost, I look for the smokestacks of the pulp and paper mill.

I went for a hike this morning with Marvin, across marshy bogs (need to learn the distinction between a marsh and a bog, I suppose), my foot occasionally sinking in muck up to the calf. We walked down a majestic valley, with the Blow Me Down mountains on either side. We found a great swimming hole, probably ten feet deep in one spot, and as I was taking my shoes off, I heard desperate, flailing swimming from below. Marvin had jumped in off the rocks and couldn't get out. No worries, I grabbed his collar and he was much more careful after that.

The Blow Me Down Mountains:


We hiked back several kilometers (ahem, metriphiles) and as we were gazing over a pond, I saw a large black shape duck behind a shrub. I watched it emerge the other side, a huge black bear. Then I saw the two cubs, running behind her. They lumbered away from me, so I watched them for a bit, holding Marvin close. They were far enough away that I wasn't too worried, but then the mother turned around and looked right at me, and reared up on her hind legs, just watching me. I was scared enough and backed away slowly, then picked up a large rock to carry. Why a rock? Would it help me in a bear attack? No, but it made me feel tough.

In the afternoon today, I went to an art show and gathering at a neighboring town called MacIvers. The gathering was at a farm/art collective, with a giant meadow where they'd displayed in huge white letters the name of the collective: Full Tilt. I didn't get a picture, as I'd forgotten my camera, but the scenery was strikingly similar to the Gorge, with steep hills around a large body of water. And here's a link to a photo collection from one of the artsy young guys there. The meadow had a few art installations and I chatted with some local creative types, and once again ran into several people I'd met from Grenfell.

A few quick notes:
Good coffee at a place called Brewed Awakening. And a pretty good crowd. It's not Interzone, but no place is.
Terrible beer everywhere, with fake IPA available and nothing better than an insipid lager. The wine isn't too bad, and I've been sampling the Nova Scotia and Newfoundland varieties. Seriously, not too bad.
The hiking is amazing and regal, but so remote and boggy. Everyone is already talking about winter, which makes me nervous. E, a history prof at Grenfell, said that many of the houses are completely snow-covered in winter because of the plows. He said you could just walk between the roofs of some neighborhoods.
People seem pretty laid-back, but not sickly sweet. It's a nice attitude. A lot of "m'love" and "m'dear" in everyday speech.
Nobody knows anything about Oregon. Nor have most people been particularly interested. It's insular.

I found the Newfoundland flower today while hiking. It's a pitcher plant, and it's a strangely lovely little rust-colored thing. I still haven't seen a moose.

Oh, ye'll be gittin' yerself a newflender, then, ye will

Mom and I had a rather harrowing journey from Nova Scotia, and arrived after 1 am. We then drove the half hour to a town called Doyles, where I had reservations at a B&B. We'd heard horror stories about the moose (Newfoundland has the highest concentration of moose in the world) and what they do to your car and/or person, so we were crawling along, getting passed by semis off the ferry on a dark, rainy, 2-lane road. Almost at our wits end, we turned the corner to find our inn, where our extremely friendly inn-keeper, Gerald, greeted us with two rooms, "'cuz I dooble booked tha room fer ya by accedent an' I'm sawry 'bout thet, hope thit this works, here, fer ya." But he said it really really fast. The next day, at breakfast, he greeted us with eggs and great coffee and after some discussion about why I'm in Newfoundland and all that, he said, "Have ye got a man?" To which I said, "a what?" "A man, have ye brote a man?" "Oh, no, I haven't." He then said, "Oh, ye'll be gittin' yerself a newflender, then, ye will." Which is when I realized that he was not, in fact, an Irish man. He was from Newfoundland. And that is how they speak.

In Corner Brook, many people have just a bit of a lilt, but as you meet more rural people, or poorer people, or just about anybody working in a store, you have to just nod and smile and hope that picking out every fourth word is sufficient for comprehension. One night, over Chinese food, mom and I found ourselves in fits of laughter, doubled over, tears in our eyes, as the group of seven men behind us carried on a conversation. "Yaa, tha dook mait bea threw eet" and so on; we had no idea what they were talking about. At one point, mom suggested that they might be speaking French, to which we both laughed silently, hiccuping now and then. The men looked over, so I tried to make my face look normal, to no avail. We just laughed and laughed, until mom took off her glasses and wiped her eyes and said, "well, let's just stop that now [hahahahahaaaaaaaa]. Okay, now stop laughing. Seriously."

Everyone seems to have an Irish name here; everyone seems friendly but not sweet (more like a hospitality, but not a lot of bullshit); and most people seem a lot like small-town Oregonians in their appearance (overwhelmingly white, lots of obesity) and vehicular preferences. I had an interesting conversation with a woman named Jacey in the cell phone shop today. She kept asking me questions "about Americans" and so we alternated between discussing land lines and high-speed internet and talking about the U.S. Of course, her speech was all with a heavy lilt, and lots of Newfie slang, but I'll just type it as I remember it, content-wise:

J: "So, isn't America pretty violent, then?"
E: "Some places, but I don't think Oregon is more violent than here."
J: "But aren't people just carrying guns around?"
E: "That depends on the state. But you can carry a gun in Oregon; if you have a permit, you can carry it on yourself in your coat or your car or whatever."
J: "Oh, that seems a bit much."

And so on. Definitely a small-town girl, but there might be some different views on guns around here.

Mom left yesterday and I've spent the day trying to get a cell phone and bank account and running into one bureaucratic hurdle after another. Cell phones are really tough here! So I'm out and about, walking Marvin around and now sitting in a coffee shop next to a bike shop... could be Corvallis.

Sigh.

As for Nova Scotia: it was designed to embody the term "bucolic." In fact, if you look up bucolic, you'll see this:



It was adorable. So was our B&B, run by a woman whose great- great- great- [something] aunt was a giant. This land is populated by eccentric characters from a novel. Mom kept saying I should blog about all the "characters" and I'll try and get around to it. Right now, I'm going to return to my apartment to continue unpacking. Luckily, I have a bed, which I've covered with the most beautiful blanket of all time.



It also has a great view of the Corner Brook Pulp and Paper Mill, and the amazing mountains beyond.



Mom and I went kayaking yesterday in Gros Morne National Park, about an hour and a half from my house. It was a great end to a really great road trip. Now I'm back to "real" life, whatever that means for me here. I'm glad mom got to be here, and we had another adventure together. It was tough sometimes, as my definition of "driving fast" and hers don't exactly mesh. But she was a great sport, and how many people have a mom that they can laugh with until they cry?

St. John: A lil' piece of Europe

Mom and I had lunner in St. John, New Brunswick. We drove in without expectations. I mean, who has ever heard of St. John?

It was more than adorable. It was adorriftastic. Some of the greatest brownstones I've seen on the whole trip, and adorable shops:



We've been firmly committed to eating seafood with every meal since arriving in the Atlantic region; last night in Bangor, it was lobster and scallops. Lunch in St. John was scallops, mussels, and fish. I'm feeling very proteined.

Also seen in New Brunswick, in honor of my dad, Johnny Law:



Tonight we're in a hotel in Amherst, Nova Scotia. We walked around looking for a beer [me] and dessert [mom] and it started pouring on us. I didn't get beer, but we got cheesecake to go and now we're sitting in our hotel, eating and watching a TV show about bridal dresses. Our B&B for the night fell through, so we're in a hotel which is certainly... roofed. Rolling with the punches here.

So, here we are in Canada. Speed limits posted in Kilometers per hour ("Oh, you can drive 110! Doesn't that seem fast?"), all the signs in both English and French. We both try and say every sign in French. Good thing they're not too defensive about linguistic purity.

It's fun to see Canadian license plates everywhere, though we have yet to see a Newfoundland license plate. Eek.

And so I'll name my first baby "Aggie"

Aggie [Canadian border patrol agent lady]: "So you're going to work in Canada?"
Me: "Yup." Starting to get a little nervous. The documents didn't come before I left Oregon.
Aggie: Looks at my passport. "Do you have a signed contract?"
Me: "Uhhh, no. I have this letter." I Produce a slightly dog-eared, coffee-stained letter from the university. It says they're offering me a job.
Aggie: "This is it?" She reads it, turns it over. "Do you have any more documentation? Like your qualifications?"
Me: "Maybe in the car..." My voice trails off. "I guess I could..."
Aggie: Smiles. "Just tell me if you don't."
Me: "Yeah, I don't think so."
Aggie: "I don't want to be rude, but you're really unprepared."
Me: "Yeah, I'm sorry."
Aggie: "I'll see what I can do."
[Time passes, Aggie fills out some paperwork]
Aggie: "Can you call someone and have them fax us things?"
[I call the university and just get an answering service]
Aggie: "Do you have an address in Newfoundland?"
Me: "Yeah, but... uhhh... I don't know it."
Aggie: "You are a challenge."
Me: Nervous laughter.
Aggie: "You know, other people probably wouldn't have let you do this. But I'll give you a work permit. I'm going to trust you to fax me your documents."
Me: "Oh God, thank you so much."

The ghosts in this machine

So we're staying outside of the sprawling and vaguely ridiculous town of Rumford, Maine. It's a small town, but it never ends; first the little villages, miles apart: Rumford Point, Rumford Center. Then the long, sad, strange town of Rumford, all boarded up and sagging. We kept driving through it, as the town meandered from little downtown to little downtown, to its real centerpiece: the huge pulp mill in adjacent Mexico, Maine. The three-story apartment buildings around it were caving under time and mold, with asbestos siding and hastily built porches atop yards of plastic toys and dirt. With a nod to C. Bailey, where there are pulp mills, there is poverty. The town was heavy with it: a teenage girl pushing her baby in a faded stroller, young men smoking and walking aimlessly across the street, old men hunched and weaving. The streets were full of life, but the ghosts hovered just above.



I walked up to a giant statue of Paul Bunyon and took a picture, and a man nearby said: "don't tell me you're a tourist." He was about 60, wearing a Harley vest and sitting next to his friend, their motorcycles nearby. I said yes, and we got to discussing Oregon, and my road trip. "How's the mill doing?" I asked. "Oh, it's doing pretty well," said the first man, "I'm a wood buyer there." After a bit more discussion, I found out it was owned by a subsidiary of Cerberus, a private investment firm. And more: "Nobody wants their kids to work in the mill. There's no pride in that anymore." He was critical of the owners, and critical of their short-sightedness and the decline of the town. Of course. The story of small-town America. Our ghosts in the machine: decay pokes through the thin veneer of civilization, and we recoil at its primeval stench.

We ate at the Chicken Coop, where the sweet waitress spoke to us without the use of the letter "R" at the end of words. "Yo'ah from out of town? The Lobstah he-ah is excellent!" It was an old logger bar, I think; lots of food, some of it not very good but some of it great, all for a very low price. And we drank "Shipyahd" beer. I mean Beah.



Mom and I are staying in an actual haunted house. It says 1885 on the front, and it's got a giant red barn and the most beautiful wood floors I've ever seen, some of the planks a foot and a half wide. Music is playing somewhere and I sit in this room, faux candles blazing on the wall next to a gilded mirror. It's so quiet outside that we could hear the drip of a faucet under the screened porch as we played Scrabble. Marvin is sleeping, tired from our hike up Mt. Eisenhower in New Hampshire today.

He met his first pigs today, and stared at them like he does with cats, backing up on his haunches, his tail wagging in excitement and uncertainty.

New England is just so goddamn cute

And I'm including the Adirondacks in that statement. Mom and I struggled a bit through two long days of driving, and finally made it to Keene Valley, NY. It was so damn cute. We kept pointing out the "colonial" houses; anything that we liked earned the moniker "colonial." I think we have officially changed the meaning of the word "colonial" to include anything with brick and a porch. We also kept pointing to the churches, and saying something profound like, "look at that church!" and then driving on. Or perhaps, "look at that barn!" followed by a short squeal. We were instantly ten years old, looking at doll houses.

We had our first northeastern hike, which for mom was kind of short-lived, as these hardy people enjoy placing a trail directly up a rocky mountain. I made it to the peak of Slide Mountain, after scrambling up giant rocks with Marvin, often pushing him up as his claws slipped around the granite, attempting to find a hold. We looked over the mountains, all the biggest peaks in New York, and spoke with several New Yorkers: the young man who'd gone to boarding school in the area, where he'd worked on a farm and said he hated the term "character building," and who told me about the 46-ers, people who attempt all of New York's 46 peaks over 4000 feet; the father and daughter from Rochester, who pointed out the names of the peaks nearby and talked about how "nice" Oregon seemed. It was all so damn pleasant. Mom said she thought that all of New York would be crowds and noise, and here we were in the heart of quiet mountains, gasping over the cuteness.

Mom and I played Scrabble that night, drinking Bloody Marys made with pickled asparagus we bought at the local store and cursing our draws: "I've got nothing but I's," "You just can't make a word with these letters." We had a perfect dinner, outside, our second night of sea scallops and wine from the Northwest. Mom said that New York was the prettiest state she'd seen, and I thought it was close. I'd put it behind Oregon, Montana, and New Mexico.

Now we're in Waterbury, Vermont, surrounded by steep mountains and old buildings. We went to Stowe today, to the Ben and Jerry's factory and then to some rocky, steep cliffs at Smuggler's Notch. The B&J factory was cute enough, with its giant silos marked Milk, Cream, and Sugar, and its flavor graveyard. But the children were a bit much for us; I overheard a woman demanding to her 8 year-old: "you better smile for this photo or you're not getting any ice cream!" We drove to the cliffs of Smuggler's Notch and walked around birch trees clinging to the sides of rocks, their smooth bark pulling back to reveal layers of reds and pinks. Mom loved the rocks themselves, which had a strangely metallic look and chipped into knife-blade edges.

Now it's time for more Bloody Marys and Scrabble, and the eternal quest for the perfect draw. Tomorrow we go through New Hampshire to Maine, in pursuit of the cutest goddamn place we can find. God forbid these states should have something less than charming.

Across the heartland...

Mom and I went across Chicago, then across Indiana, across Ohio, and across northern Pennsylvania. There's no other way to describe it. You get to a state and just... cross it. Get across it. Not that the places were unpleasant, necessarily, just kind of tedious. Cleveland looked kind of nice, except it was pouring down rain the whole time. The farmlands were pleasant enough, and the hardwood forests here and there were quite pretty.

Finally we got to North East, Pennsylvania, a cute-as-a-button town with a large central square and a kind of cheesy Italian restaurant with good lasagna but horrific salads. We tried some local wine, which tasted like slightly sour grape juice. The town reminds me of the Old West, and we talked to the owner of the Italian joint, who said it started in the late 19th century with commodity concord grapes which became (or always were?) dominated by Welch's. So it was the Old West, in a way. It was settled around the same time, and it was a little farming town.

Here we are, grapejuice/wine bottle in hand:



Tomorrow, we'll go for a run in the grand, but sort of decaying, neighborhoods, and hopefully end up somewhere near Lake Erie. Then we're off to New York and the Adirondacks. And a very long drive tomorrow, assuming we take the scenic route (which I'm wont to do).

Nature's Metropolis

Looking at a topographical map is so deceiving with Chicago because it is, indeed, very flat; but its main direction is up. I thought I'd be bothered by such a flat city, but the topography is in the buildings which rise up like mountains around you. The buildings are sometimes sleek, all mirrors and modernity, but I love the neoclassical and neogothic architecture. It is stunning. I once read Fountainhead, an experience that has scarred me. But I remember the argument, made with all the subtlety that the author seems to employ in all her writing, that architecture should be pure somehow, and unadorned, and manly in its simplicity. She was no more an architectural critic than she was a great writer. I love the columns and the flying buttresses and the curlicues; the marble-encased windows and the art nouveau brass doors. All transformed for the purpose of the modern megalopolis and made impossibly vertical, beyond the wildest imaginings of their initial designers.

And then there's the L, winding its way around brick buildings like some real-life train set. Chicago reminds me of a children's book; Look! There's a train, and there's a race track, and there's a plane flying overhead!

Sarah and I continued our monster tour of the American West. We visited hipster neighborhoods, where women with ironic mullets cut our hair; we escaped the heat by watching a children's movie; and we took the metra, apparently a feminized version of the metro. The metra was staffed by a man in a crisp uniform, a brass "trainman" on his hat and a black belt with a snappy coin dispenser. Sarah said she might like his job, and I thought that was probably as good a job as anything she's mentioned so far. Unfortunately, we had to part. We said good bye on a bench in a park, with trash blowing around us and a group of Mexicans nearby playing cards.

Ah, Chicago.

Fried chicken with Chinese food in La Crosse, WI

We had Chinese food in La Crosse, WI, today. Sarah said "Wisconsin might surprise you" and I was pleasantly surprised by La Crosse, which has a quiet, historic downtown with brightly-painted old brick buildings.

We'd had such a nice surprise on the way: southeastern Minnesota. We went down highway 16, through what felt like a North American Vietnam, it was so humid and tropical. We camped on the river, on a giant lawn, and upon waking, with the mist rising from the river, I said that it seemed we should be able to go into town and get guavas. We went for a hike and ended up covered in sweat, overlooking a patchwork farm-and-hardwood-forest that stretched into the distance.

Back to La Crosse: we went to Chinese food, and they had a lunch special that was pretty typical; you know, hot and sour soup, rice, some kind of stir-fry. And two pieces of fried chicken. Fried chicken even came with the veggie dishes. We think this was a nod to Midwestern culture.

As for the rest of it: lots of strip malls, lots of water parks, and lots of bad driving here in WI and IL. We've tried coming up with a motto for Rockford, IL, where we're currently listening to soft rock at a wireless cafe. Possibilities include:

Rockford: Not as Bad as It Could Be
Rockford: Let's Go to Sonic and Get a 1/4 Lb Chili Dog
Rockford: It Stinks Here
Rockford: Don't Hold Your Breath
Rockford: At Least You Don't Have to Get Dressed Up
Rockford: I Wish I Were Blind
Rockford: Let's Get this Over With
Rockford: A Great Place to Sniff Glue
Rockford: I Am Disappointed in You
Rockford: You Have Something on Your Face
Rockford: Not Much of a Looker
Rockford: Because Happiness Isn't for Everyone
Rockford: I Think They Have a Cream for That
Rockford: I'll Just Wait in the Car

Almost to Chicago, to hang with the brother and be all cosmopolitan. Are we up to the task? Certainly.

My sweet angel Mac

So we're headed toward Sioux Falls, SD and we implore the Garmin to find us an oil changery. And she points us toward the downtown, where we take the tired Subaru. I found out there that my rear tires had "zero tread" on them. I asked the sweet Midwesterner if that was dangerous and he said "oh yeah, it is." I went and looked at the tires and they were flat, with no tread at all.

I would count this as a victory for my guardian angel Mac, who clearly guided me to get my oil changed, and furthermore made my oil changer Firestone, where they gave me four new tires. It wasn't cheap, but we're not dead.

Also, Sioux Falls has a giant bronze recreation of David. Nicely done, too.



Oddly, though, it's really hard to find, it's isolated, and it's on this kind of ugly, concrete-bound river that is completely surrounded by ugly hotels. Not the fronts of the hotels, the backs of them. The "falls," presumably, are somewhere on that river. But the town was poorly planned, at least for humans.

But the people in Sioux Falls are the best, and all across the Midwest we encountered the same friendliness. We let it wash over us, until we were covered in a fine dusting of sugary sweetness.

"Motorcycles are everywhere"

We saw a sign in Idaho that said "Motorcycles are everywhere" and it became a catchphrase of ours for a few days. When we got to South Dakota, it was the truth. There were motorcycles everywhere, usually driven by stout men with leathery brown skin. We were going to Sturgis.



Sturgis was a sea of people, common to large festivals. It had the ambience of the world's noisiest t-shirt shop. Marvin walked at my feet; I wore a tomato-red dress and a straw sun hat through the crowds of leather-clad cyclists and sweet older women in t-shirts that said "I feel a sin coming on." A sincere man gave me a glass bead and said, intently, that it was the blood of Christ and that he died for me. I thanked him and took a brochure.

Giant billboards advertised Ozzy Osbourn, the Scorpions, Motley Crue, and Bob Dylan. Like most of the motorcyclists, these artists are past their prime, now sporadically going through the motions of their youth. That sounds cruel, but I don't mean it to be; it is good to relive something that you once were, or once hoped to be.

After walking up and down the streets with the crowds of people, I went for a hike up the nearest hill, and Sarah went for a drink in a biker bar. The hike gave me a chance to observe the black hills up close; all ponderosa pine, tall grass, and rocky outcroppings. Sarah got to meet a local, someone from 10 miles away. "He was an Army guy, telling tales of glory in Alaska. He was talking about his upcoming epic bike trip to Grand Canyon, San Francisco, Portland, and back" says Sarah.

We left Sturgis amid a swarm of bikers that gradually fell away until there were just a few, like persistent bees. We went to Wall Drug, where we found a fake Mt. Rushmore to get our picture taken, then went to a strange salad bar joint where bikers ate iceberg lettuce with ranch dressing. Cute young Ukrainians staffed the place; our Ukrainian said it was an exchange program, and that "it was satisfying" work. I hope they're having a wonderful time.

acronomyzing (a-CRON-a-mizing)

Sarah and I are developing acronyms to replace everyday speech. In order for the acronyms to spread (via small towns across Montana, SD, and the Midwest), we use them as casually as possible:

"JIC you were wondering," for example, means "Just in case you were wondering."

Many of our acronyms are useful; many are not, but will become useful once in common parlance. CJNSQ = certain je ne sais quoi. WHITS = what happens in the Subaru [stays in the Subaru]. FBOS = [something very dirty].

The opposite process is phrasing, that of assigning words to each letter of a word. We haven't developed this practice just yet, but I'd like to make my claim on its future popularity.

No bear, no bear ...

That's what I said, every few steps, as I hiked up to Sawtooth Lake alone today. I'd heard there were some black bear incidents in the area, so I said it, in between talking to myself and yelling at Marvin for disturbing the wildlife. The Lake was lovely, and there was a mysterious crashed plane there:



There was fireweed all over the first mile, where there's been a burn, and Marvin practically disappeared into the purple of it all. There was no bear, anywhere. We returned to the trailhead just as Sarah and Amie pulled up from their hotsprings sojourn, then we all went to Bannack, a well-preserved ghost town that was the first capital of the Montana Territory.



I like the Masons; I like power and secrecy and organizations that may or may not rule the world covertly. So I decided that I'd take the Masonic Lodge, and Amie decided she'd take the church:



Now we're waiting for a storm that's been brewing, all gray and silver and white clouds ominous above our heads. And we'll drink home brew and eat tacos with homemade shells.