Living the dream...
Or are we dreaming of living? Just something to think about.
Peter doesn't know this yet, but by the end of the day (we all have goals) I will have completed 20 single-spaced pages of that damned paper that has plagued me the past few months. Since--I have been working for a half dozen hours--a break is in order from all this writing, I thought I would post something on the blog. I've been missing for a while, I know, and probably will go missing again as the warm weather gets more consistent and my golf game gets more frustrating. For now, though, let's enjoy this time together and not look to the future. (I chose doing this over a nap, so read up good. Although, maybe I'll do both.)
Should I briefly reflect on the entire experience of driving one coast to another with a carload of someone else's things? Do you really want to read about how I'm feeling and what I thought over the course of two and a half weeks? No. Nor do I want to sit here and tell you what a fantastic time it was-- it was! Instead, I'm going use this space to talk about why I'm jealous of Peter Szabo.
Jealousy is not a common emotion for me. In fact, I'm just too stubborn for it. Most of the time, my competitive side deals with the green-headed Jealousy by saying, "F*** off, we got some catch up to do," and promptly hits her with his car. That's right, Jealousy is feminine and Competitive is masculine. Psychoanalyse it all you want. When Jealousy finds her way into my thoughts though, I pay attention, because Competitive must be off drinking and philandering somewhere to have let her by. He's so unreliable.
In this case, I spent almost a week living in Newport Beach, CA, apartment hunting, and eating well crafted foods-- adding a drink here and there when it was appropriate. None of this was my life. I was "helping" Peter live his, or, better said, I was tagging along on Peter's dream. But, ultimately, glad to do so.
The details of the apartment searching aren't important, but Peter knew that when he saw "it" he'd know. Nothing was farther from the truth, although I like his idealism. We visited more apartments in four days than Peter has pairs of designer jeans, and might I remind you, he loved shopping at National Jean in Newton, so that's a lot of pairs of slacks. It wasn't even the last apartment he looked at that he finally settled on. It was one he returned to and said, "There was something about this one, and this is the place I know I can live." I liked it because there was enough room for guest bed and couch, so I definitely had a place to stay when I'd be jobless and penniless in a few months.
To break from apartment searching there was the Dodgers game, the beach, clubbing in tight shirts, seafood, touring TMZ studios and visiting a friend of mine in "the industry", and adding alcohol to chocolatey drinks that were formally non-alcoholic. Oh yeah, then there was chocolate cake that weighed as much as, or fewer than, 15 pounds-- hard to tell without a scale.
I'm mentioning all of this not to wake up that Jealousy inside of you, but to bring together this whole trip and Peter's move. The jump from east to west was an extreme life choice. Most people said to Peter along the way, "I wish I had the guts to do something like that. But I just can't do it right now." Right now? So now isn't a good time? There's always a way to push off the life choice, the big leap, the 100 page paper waiting for you at home. It's no longer considered procrastination when you stop deciding to follow a dream just because "now" isn't the time. I consider it dreaming of living. Living the dream would look something more action-based, movement-oriented, conscious participation-ated. It would look something more like driving west out of Boston and ending up with your toes in the Pacific, but not for too long because the Pacific is still friggin cold this time of year.
Jealousy sprang up in me because despite the fact that I left Boston to live in Denver, refuse to take a job I'm not passionate about, talk about life after graduate school and all the "living" I will be doing this summer, I do believe that I have not been making those life decisions that led Peter west on 90. Maybe I'm not even thinking about the dream any more because it's overwhelming. The main question for me now is What will you do with your life? I answer it with an "I don't know, but I'm sure I'll figure it out." But it took me almost three months to start a paper that I had been looking forward to writing since I returned from teaching in Jamaica. Where's that psychoanalysis now? That's not procrastination. It's denying yourself the pleasure of the challenge of accomplishing a dream. My dream is to write-- even though it might not be evidenced by this blog, please no criticisms, hold your tongue for, like, five more minutes. I care about it enough for it to scare the life out of me, literally. Life gone because I can't accomplish the dream, but can't let it go. Stuck without movement in any direction. What good is that?
Peter took the big decision, made it real, and thanked everyone for helping him out along the way. Although I'll never say it to his face, I'm taking a lesson from Peter Szabo... cough, hack, hack, cough, spittle... I just vomited on the keyboard... Ok, pride overcome, but that's right Peter has taught me something by inviting me on this trip; some people are living the dream. He doesn't have everything figured out and it won't all be perfect, just like his apartment wasn't perfect when he saw it that first time. If that's what we're always looking for-- the perfect apartment, the perfect sign, the perfect moment (that's definitely not "now")-- then we'll waste a lot of time looking and have a lot less of it to get things done. Like with my paper, I wasted three months waiting for inspiration, and now, in three weeks, I have to pass in something I'm supposed to be proud of. Seems counterintuitive that it took so much time to get where I am now. What was I waiting for? Honestly, I still don't know, because it wasn't inspiration in the end that got me started. It was an email from a professor that said she was excited to read the rough draft soon. HA!!! Don't worry, I lied desperately to get out of it. That's honor.
That jealousy that I feel towards Peter comes from his excitement to be in the situation he's in. There was a lot of crap to be dealt with along the way-- me providing ample opportunities to remind Peter that there was a lot left to be done, didn't want him getting too comfortable with having made this decision. Mr. Szabo dealt with it and moved on, or is continuing to confront the challenges he faces head-on. What's so different about me?
I'm capable. The paper will get done (again, we all have goals). But more importantly, I'm sick of stalling. Being patient is one thing, but making excuses, not to drive cross country, or refusing to make whatever that tough choice is, comes from fear and is no virtue. Take a lesson from Peter, if necessary (and then take some aspirin because it's going to make you feel sick), and leap it out. I'm not moving anywhere big or special, not doing anything that will change the world, but I'll start with the smaller decisions. The paper was the first. The second is this, I've decided to say thanks, "Thank you, Peter, for a great trip and congratulations on your acceptance to the ranks of the foolish, aka, dreamers and optimistic fools." (God, the second one was tough.)
That perfect apartment, the perfect person,the perfect paper, the perfect time, may be here and now, but I'd never have recognized any of that if I wasn't walking towards it. Try meeting halfway. At least it's a start-- then, down 90 West and on to the Pacific.
Ok, phew, I think I earned my nap...
Monday, April 28, 2008
Friday, April 18, 2008
A whole bunch of catch up
Thoughts running through my mind while watching the planes overhead in the LAX cell phone lot…
Wow, planes are cool. It’s not often that you get to see them go directly overhead. But somehow the smart people at the LAX airport put their new cell phone lot directly under the flight path of landing planes. I just dropped Kevin off for his flight back to Denver and am now waiting for Liz to land in an hour. A few hours to kill, and with LA traffic, by the time I get anywhere, I’ll just have to turn around and go back. So here I sit. But luckily the jets buzzing overhead make for great entertainment.
Oh, quick update, Kevin blog pages written = 11. Grad paper on Jamaica needed to gradute = 1 hand written + 1 typed page. For those of you keeping track, that means Kevin has actually written 1 page of the paper since leaving Boston. But it also means that the blog has been fantastically updated and people have been entertained from coast to coast.
Haven’t heard “Party Like A Rock Star” in months, but have now heard it twice in 3 minutes (on 2 different stations).
It’s amazing how fast the past 2 weeks have flown by. I can’t believe it was 2 weeks ago that Kevin and I set out on the Mass Pike heading west and didn’t stop till we reached the Pacific Ocean. We were talking about it on the ride to the airport- how insanely fast the time has passed. We did so much, had a great time, and now it’s already time for him to head back home.
It’s hard to put into words how amazing the past 2 weeks have been. You hear about people who have driven cross country, and everyone has their own stories, and I have tons that I’ll try to relay here in the coming weeks as I have time. But the totality of the whole thing is really what’s starting to sink in. Leaving Boston, traveling to new cities, seeing new roads, meeting new people, skiing in Vail in a giant snow storm in April (what are the odds of that?!), the beauty of the Canyonlands in Utah, arriving in LA, apartment hunting- all in 2 weeks.
Man do I have a lot of pictures. Digital cameras are the best because you can just keep snapping. And I’ve tried to toss up a few here and there, and thanks to everyone who has mentioned they’ve seen them (it always helps to know that people are actually reading this!), but we haven’t even gotten to put up a lot from the trip. I’ll do my best to organize and post a few, hopefully they will be interesting to people and they won’t be a whole bunch of “had to be there” pictures.
Apartment hunting stinks! When we arrived on Monday, I was cautiously optimistic that I could find a place within a few days. My office is at the corner of Wilshire & 405, right next to UCLA in an area of LA called Westwood. It’s a nice area, lots of restaurants, shops, etc. But to live, I wanted another unique area. Through e-mails with some friends of friends who already lived in LA, I was told that the best places to look around that area are Brentwood, East Santa Monica & West LA. So I narrowed my search to those areas on Craigslist, Westside Rentals (a local apartment listing service) and good ol’ fashioned driving around.
We seem to have arrived at a good time because there are a TON of places! My criteria started off as $1500-2000 for a 2 bedroom with patio/balcony, central AC, in-unit washer/dryer and ability to install DirecTV (gotta have the NFL Sunday Ticket!).
From driving around the various areas, I quickly grew to like East Santa Monica the best. It’s absolutely gorgeous, close to the beach, lots of restaurants & shops, warm neighborhoods, the type of place you immediately feel comfortable in. But even within that, I was amazed at the difference a few blocks can make. Click the link below to see the 4 “finalists”.
Click here to see the Google Map
Within this area, south of Santa Monica Blvd quickly becomes seedy. Between Santa Monica & Wilshire Blvd is ok and then between Wilshire & Montana Ave is ideal. I learned very fast to look for “north of Wilshire” in apartment listings. Then for east/west, anything closer to the beach than 7th St (it’s sequential from the beach, just goes up as you move inland) is too expensive and parking on the street is tough. Then between 7th and 14th St in beautiful, and 7th to 20th is great too. So I had a mental box created with streets as borders – Montana on the north, Wilshire on the south, 7th on the west and 20th on the east. Once I had that narrowed, it really helped.
And from looking at the $1500-2000 range, you would either get a decent-ish 1-bedroom or a small 2-bedroom with lime green bathrooms from the 1970’s. Not the best. So I started playing around with slightly higher prices in the on-line searches, and it quickly became apparent that an extra $2-300 makes a big difference.
After seeing aprx 40 apartments this week, and snapping only once (sorry Liz!) it’s been narrowed down to 4 finalists. If you care to see the pictures, click below. If not, you’re not missing much. They look like empty apartments.
931 Euclid St, #102
1040 Euclid St, #9
932 10th St, #2
601 California St, #206
I’m amazed at the variety of appliances in these places. The cook top seems to be common place in California with the oven separately in the wall. There are some ancient appliances. Seriously, how these things work is amazing to me. I’ll have to take some pictures just of the appliances. 1970’s at least.
The front runner is 931 Euclid #102. If they come down on price slightly, I’ll definitely get it. If not, we’ll see what happens. One of the others has already come down, it seems to really be a renter’s market. There’s just so much on the market, and all 4 are currently vacant. Owners seem willing to deal, especially if it’s been vacant for a few weeks.
That’s the update for now. It’s been a whirlwind 2 weeks, and I’m only getting started in LA. Hopefully this weekend I can lock into a place and at least have that taken care of. New job begins on Monday, so lots of excitement there!
Wow, planes are cool. It’s not often that you get to see them go directly overhead. But somehow the smart people at the LAX airport put their new cell phone lot directly under the flight path of landing planes. I just dropped Kevin off for his flight back to Denver and am now waiting for Liz to land in an hour. A few hours to kill, and with LA traffic, by the time I get anywhere, I’ll just have to turn around and go back. So here I sit. But luckily the jets buzzing overhead make for great entertainment.
Oh, quick update, Kevin blog pages written = 11. Grad paper on Jamaica needed to gradute = 1 hand written + 1 typed page. For those of you keeping track, that means Kevin has actually written 1 page of the paper since leaving Boston. But it also means that the blog has been fantastically updated and people have been entertained from coast to coast.
Haven’t heard “Party Like A Rock Star” in months, but have now heard it twice in 3 minutes (on 2 different stations).
It’s amazing how fast the past 2 weeks have flown by. I can’t believe it was 2 weeks ago that Kevin and I set out on the Mass Pike heading west and didn’t stop till we reached the Pacific Ocean. We were talking about it on the ride to the airport- how insanely fast the time has passed. We did so much, had a great time, and now it’s already time for him to head back home.
It’s hard to put into words how amazing the past 2 weeks have been. You hear about people who have driven cross country, and everyone has their own stories, and I have tons that I’ll try to relay here in the coming weeks as I have time. But the totality of the whole thing is really what’s starting to sink in. Leaving Boston, traveling to new cities, seeing new roads, meeting new people, skiing in Vail in a giant snow storm in April (what are the odds of that?!), the beauty of the Canyonlands in Utah, arriving in LA, apartment hunting- all in 2 weeks.
Man do I have a lot of pictures. Digital cameras are the best because you can just keep snapping. And I’ve tried to toss up a few here and there, and thanks to everyone who has mentioned they’ve seen them (it always helps to know that people are actually reading this!), but we haven’t even gotten to put up a lot from the trip. I’ll do my best to organize and post a few, hopefully they will be interesting to people and they won’t be a whole bunch of “had to be there” pictures.
Apartment hunting stinks! When we arrived on Monday, I was cautiously optimistic that I could find a place within a few days. My office is at the corner of Wilshire & 405, right next to UCLA in an area of LA called Westwood. It’s a nice area, lots of restaurants, shops, etc. But to live, I wanted another unique area. Through e-mails with some friends of friends who already lived in LA, I was told that the best places to look around that area are Brentwood, East Santa Monica & West LA. So I narrowed my search to those areas on Craigslist, Westside Rentals (a local apartment listing service) and good ol’ fashioned driving around.
We seem to have arrived at a good time because there are a TON of places! My criteria started off as $1500-2000 for a 2 bedroom with patio/balcony, central AC, in-unit washer/dryer and ability to install DirecTV (gotta have the NFL Sunday Ticket!).
From driving around the various areas, I quickly grew to like East Santa Monica the best. It’s absolutely gorgeous, close to the beach, lots of restaurants & shops, warm neighborhoods, the type of place you immediately feel comfortable in. But even within that, I was amazed at the difference a few blocks can make. Click the link below to see the 4 “finalists”.
Click here to see the Google Map
Within this area, south of Santa Monica Blvd quickly becomes seedy. Between Santa Monica & Wilshire Blvd is ok and then between Wilshire & Montana Ave is ideal. I learned very fast to look for “north of Wilshire” in apartment listings. Then for east/west, anything closer to the beach than 7th St (it’s sequential from the beach, just goes up as you move inland) is too expensive and parking on the street is tough. Then between 7th and 14th St in beautiful, and 7th to 20th is great too. So I had a mental box created with streets as borders – Montana on the north, Wilshire on the south, 7th on the west and 20th on the east. Once I had that narrowed, it really helped.
And from looking at the $1500-2000 range, you would either get a decent-ish 1-bedroom or a small 2-bedroom with lime green bathrooms from the 1970’s. Not the best. So I started playing around with slightly higher prices in the on-line searches, and it quickly became apparent that an extra $2-300 makes a big difference.
After seeing aprx 40 apartments this week, and snapping only once (sorry Liz!) it’s been narrowed down to 4 finalists. If you care to see the pictures, click below. If not, you’re not missing much. They look like empty apartments.
931 Euclid St, #102
1040 Euclid St, #9
932 10th St, #2
601 California St, #206
I’m amazed at the variety of appliances in these places. The cook top seems to be common place in California with the oven separately in the wall. There are some ancient appliances. Seriously, how these things work is amazing to me. I’ll have to take some pictures just of the appliances. 1970’s at least.
The front runner is 931 Euclid #102. If they come down on price slightly, I’ll definitely get it. If not, we’ll see what happens. One of the others has already come down, it seems to really be a renter’s market. There’s just so much on the market, and all 4 are currently vacant. Owners seem willing to deal, especially if it’s been vacant for a few weeks.
That’s the update for now. It’s been a whirlwind 2 weeks, and I’m only getting started in LA. Hopefully this weekend I can lock into a place and at least have that taken care of. New job begins on Monday, so lots of excitement there!
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Moab pictures
In another "road trip experience" we were told Moab, Utah was worth checking out. It is about 40 miles off the highway, but it was a nice way to break up the Denver to Las Vegas stretch of the trip. Plus, when are we going to be in Utah again? So off we went- highway 191 to 313 to Dead Horse Point National Park (thanks to Kevin's cousin who had been there and insisted this was THE place to go). Not only did it not disappoint, it absolutely blew us away!
Check out the pictures below to see what I mean. Oh, and I found this really cool setting on the camera that captures the color aprx 1000 times better than "normal". I'm not quite sure why this setting doesn't become "normal" because as you'll see from the first 2 pictures (the 1st is the better version, the 2nd is the old version) it looks amazing.
It's one of the most beautiful sites I've ever seen, hope you can enjoy it from the pictures...
Check out the pictures below to see what I mean. Oh, and I found this really cool setting on the camera that captures the color aprx 1000 times better than "normal". I'm not quite sure why this setting doesn't become "normal" because as you'll see from the first 2 pictures (the 1st is the better version, the 2nd is the old version) it looks amazing.
It's one of the most beautiful sites I've ever seen, hope you can enjoy it from the pictures...
Clever title coming soon...
“Oh no, he swallered my toe.
Oh gee, he swallered my knee.
Oh fiddle, he swallered my middle.
Oh what a pest, he swallered my chest.
Oh heck, he swallered my neck.
Oh, dread, he swallered my—BURP.”
If you are familiar with these words by Shel Silverstein (about being eaten by a boa constrictor), then you will have at least some idea how Vail was for me and Peter.
The perfect storm hit Denver just as we arrived in Vail. And what it produced was a dream come true. But, before proceeding, what have we forgotten to relay?
Yes, I can hear you asking, “But didn’t you get to Vail in the midday time period? Is that really enough time to ski?” And probably also wondering, “Did this doomsday weather affect your travels?” With patience, these and many more questions of yours will be answered. Why will I take the time and energy to answer all that you ask? Because, it is only right to give back after God responded to our prayers. Let me explain.
We stopped at my sister’s home in Denver the night before heading up to Vail. The city is only an hour and a half away from the mountain, so it was an ideal place to rest and awake with the sun to be on our way. We awoke when the sun was nigh mid-flight. We overslept—those plain states take a lot out of you. The drive to Vail, albeit it nice and moutainy, was slowed by a small amount of snow that was dancing on our windshield. The trip took a little more than two hours, which was almost an hour more than expected.
The Lodge Towers (we get a free night every time we mention them in our blog: Lodge Towers, Lodge Towers, Lodge Towers, Lodge Towers. Mention Peter Szabo when you stay there to the Hungarian Concierge, Michael, and you’ll get a good deal on a room) took care of the car and our things, so we dressed and got on the mountain. Sun, snow, tired legs after three hours. Great day.
At bar called Los Amigos, beers, meet a guy who knows a friend of mine from Boston, free Coors Light stuff, hot Bacardi girls who won’t respond to my catcalls, whistling, and stomping of my foot while howling, then there was Raif. Six years old with a sticky-dart bow and arrow. While we tried to drain our second pitcher of Dos Equis (bought by the guy, Mike, who knew my friend), Raif entertained us by shooting his bow and arrow at all patrons who happened to stumble unsuspectingly out of the bathroom. What a surprise to them when, he only shot at the men’s room door, a gentleman would exit the facilities only to be shot repeatedly in the crotch with a plastic projectile. So long as it wasn’t aimed at us, we were laughing… then it started getting aimed at me—Peter’s advice to Raif of “Shoot him, shoot him” might have had something to do with this. I grinned and bared it because Raif’s not-mommy was quite the cougar… should you not know what a cougar is, shame on you, and look it up on the electronic website box. Peter and I couldn’t tell who was responsible for Raif, but we at least knew his not-mommy seemed to be available.
Moving on, we took it easy that night by only having two dozen beers each and rocking out on the tops of snow-covered SUVs. The next day we skied for five hours without break. The snow and weather were that motivating. Our bodies nearly went into diabetic shock from lack of food; however, we stayed hydrated by eating snow before each run. I’ll let Peter tell you about Vail, but I think he’d agree when I say worth every penny—he spent, not me, I’m unemployed and broke. By the way, if anyone is offering jobs out there, I’m totally capable, and I learn and adapt quickly. Seriously, if need be, I’ll post my resume on this blog.
Now this brings me to why I began this post with a Shel Silverstein poem… oh wait, not yet… I’m such a tease.
That was Tuesday and Wednesday. Thursday we wake up to find the snow that had been falling the previous day had built to epic proportions. Out of our hotel window, we could see nothing of the top of the mountain because of storm clouds and flakes—not blond snow-bunny flakes, but the precipitous kind of flakes. “Maybe we should take it easy today,” Peter said to me from the queen bed next to mine. I eagerly responded, “ohhhhhh, grrrrrrr, owwwwww” because I was trying to roll over in bed, but having trouble due to the bruises and sore muscles everywhere below my ears—I had tried to do a couple jumps on my snowboard which I am absolutely incapable of. “Ha, ha, you suck at snowboarding,” was how Peter so lovingly cared for me in my debilitated state.
Vail Village was an interesting little town. Due to a hundred different suggestions, we spent Thursday in a snow storm exploring the different shops and tasting fine cuisine. Here are the shoutouts: Pepi’s was great for meat. I had wild boar, elk, and quail. Peter had Venison. We were going to order from the endangered species side of the menu but the waiter informed us none of the entrees would go with our selection of red wine, plus they were out of clubbed baby seal in an American Bald Eagle sauce. We left fulfilled and wondering what quail eat to be so tangy and zesty.
For dessert, we ventured over to Sweet Basil for some Sticky Toffee Pudding Cake. The name is still under discussion, but what isn’t was how delicious a dessert that cakey-puddingy thing was. Literally, we sat in a daze of flavor between bites, empty spoons suspended an inch from our mouths as we savored. The only discussion the whole time was, “This is so good. Oh, yeah it is. Isn’t this good? This is the best I’ve ever had.” Repeat that over and over, with each spoonful, and you’ll relive the experience along with us.
Not worth telling a story about, but worth mentioning, the next night Peter forgot his credit card at a bar and we had to go back for it the next day to pay for lunch. (Psssst, he had to have been wasted, right?) I’ll let you ponder.
There’s only one other meal to talk about, and that was the four course meal we had at The Left Bank. Fine French cuisine was brought to us throughout the course of a two hour dinner, and it only cost us $30 each. With appetizers, entrees, and wines costing anywhere from $50-365, the fixed menu was a surprise to us—and a surprise to the wait staff that we knew about it. This must have been some secret, because the only reason we found out about it was as a result of my trip to the hot tub. From an eighty-year-old man in 110 degree water, I was told about American Airlines cancelled flights, the weather in Miami, how to ski moguls once in retirement age, the proper way to invade Cuba, and the fixed menu at The Left Bank. Check it out.
Now I’ll tell you about Shel Silverstein. Imagine four feet of powder, up to our thighs, exhaustion, no visibility, falling in the terrain park again and again, skiing on clouds, and the best day of my life on a mountain. Now, multiply that by two and you’ll have our two days of skiing Friday and Saturday. The powder was eating us, building up each time we got on the chairlift, from toe to head. Hopefully some pictures will help explain this because I’m still reeling from the experience. Saturday the lines were so long and the powder so thick, we decided to leave Vail and head to Keystone for the afternoon. No lines, more groomed trails, and an official plaque that said, “Skied two mountains in one day: Official Ski Bums and Wastes of Life. Awarded to: :Peter Szabo and Kevin Collins.”
Incase you’re wondering about that giving me a job thing, I’m not really a waste of life. And I graduated from Boston College, twice. Not to mention: BC NATIONAL CHAMPS!!!!!! Yeah, our hockey team won the NCAA Hockey Championship over Notre Dame last night. Weird, but it feels like we were just in South Bend wishing those Fighting Irish luck. Hmmmm, I guess the better Catholic school won. Chanting all the way to Vegas: GOD’S ON OUR SIDE, GOD’S ON OUR SIDE…
We’re on the road to Moab and Vegas now, 65 degrees and rising, beautiful scenery—which I’m missing as I type—and I have the max AC on because the sun is brutal through our newly washed windshield (Petter whipped me with his iPod charger chord while I washed the windows with a squeegee from a gas station in Denver. It would have been fine, but he kept shouting, “EARN YOUR KEEP, UNEMPLOYED BASTARD!” Other patrons kept looking at us… and my tears).
Talk to you soon, from the city of sin.
Oh gee, he swallered my knee.
Oh fiddle, he swallered my middle.
Oh what a pest, he swallered my chest.
Oh heck, he swallered my neck.
Oh, dread, he swallered my—BURP.”
If you are familiar with these words by Shel Silverstein (about being eaten by a boa constrictor), then you will have at least some idea how Vail was for me and Peter.
The perfect storm hit Denver just as we arrived in Vail. And what it produced was a dream come true. But, before proceeding, what have we forgotten to relay?
Yes, I can hear you asking, “But didn’t you get to Vail in the midday time period? Is that really enough time to ski?” And probably also wondering, “Did this doomsday weather affect your travels?” With patience, these and many more questions of yours will be answered. Why will I take the time and energy to answer all that you ask? Because, it is only right to give back after God responded to our prayers. Let me explain.
We stopped at my sister’s home in Denver the night before heading up to Vail. The city is only an hour and a half away from the mountain, so it was an ideal place to rest and awake with the sun to be on our way. We awoke when the sun was nigh mid-flight. We overslept—those plain states take a lot out of you. The drive to Vail, albeit it nice and moutainy, was slowed by a small amount of snow that was dancing on our windshield. The trip took a little more than two hours, which was almost an hour more than expected.
The Lodge Towers (we get a free night every time we mention them in our blog: Lodge Towers, Lodge Towers, Lodge Towers, Lodge Towers. Mention Peter Szabo when you stay there to the Hungarian Concierge, Michael, and you’ll get a good deal on a room) took care of the car and our things, so we dressed and got on the mountain. Sun, snow, tired legs after three hours. Great day.
At bar called Los Amigos, beers, meet a guy who knows a friend of mine from Boston, free Coors Light stuff, hot Bacardi girls who won’t respond to my catcalls, whistling, and stomping of my foot while howling, then there was Raif. Six years old with a sticky-dart bow and arrow. While we tried to drain our second pitcher of Dos Equis (bought by the guy, Mike, who knew my friend), Raif entertained us by shooting his bow and arrow at all patrons who happened to stumble unsuspectingly out of the bathroom. What a surprise to them when, he only shot at the men’s room door, a gentleman would exit the facilities only to be shot repeatedly in the crotch with a plastic projectile. So long as it wasn’t aimed at us, we were laughing… then it started getting aimed at me—Peter’s advice to Raif of “Shoot him, shoot him” might have had something to do with this. I grinned and bared it because Raif’s not-mommy was quite the cougar… should you not know what a cougar is, shame on you, and look it up on the electronic website box. Peter and I couldn’t tell who was responsible for Raif, but we at least knew his not-mommy seemed to be available.
Moving on, we took it easy that night by only having two dozen beers each and rocking out on the tops of snow-covered SUVs. The next day we skied for five hours without break. The snow and weather were that motivating. Our bodies nearly went into diabetic shock from lack of food; however, we stayed hydrated by eating snow before each run. I’ll let Peter tell you about Vail, but I think he’d agree when I say worth every penny—he spent, not me, I’m unemployed and broke. By the way, if anyone is offering jobs out there, I’m totally capable, and I learn and adapt quickly. Seriously, if need be, I’ll post my resume on this blog.
Now this brings me to why I began this post with a Shel Silverstein poem… oh wait, not yet… I’m such a tease.
That was Tuesday and Wednesday. Thursday we wake up to find the snow that had been falling the previous day had built to epic proportions. Out of our hotel window, we could see nothing of the top of the mountain because of storm clouds and flakes—not blond snow-bunny flakes, but the precipitous kind of flakes. “Maybe we should take it easy today,” Peter said to me from the queen bed next to mine. I eagerly responded, “ohhhhhh, grrrrrrr, owwwwww” because I was trying to roll over in bed, but having trouble due to the bruises and sore muscles everywhere below my ears—I had tried to do a couple jumps on my snowboard which I am absolutely incapable of. “Ha, ha, you suck at snowboarding,” was how Peter so lovingly cared for me in my debilitated state.
Vail Village was an interesting little town. Due to a hundred different suggestions, we spent Thursday in a snow storm exploring the different shops and tasting fine cuisine. Here are the shoutouts: Pepi’s was great for meat. I had wild boar, elk, and quail. Peter had Venison. We were going to order from the endangered species side of the menu but the waiter informed us none of the entrees would go with our selection of red wine, plus they were out of clubbed baby seal in an American Bald Eagle sauce. We left fulfilled and wondering what quail eat to be so tangy and zesty.
For dessert, we ventured over to Sweet Basil for some Sticky Toffee Pudding Cake. The name is still under discussion, but what isn’t was how delicious a dessert that cakey-puddingy thing was. Literally, we sat in a daze of flavor between bites, empty spoons suspended an inch from our mouths as we savored. The only discussion the whole time was, “This is so good. Oh, yeah it is. Isn’t this good? This is the best I’ve ever had.” Repeat that over and over, with each spoonful, and you’ll relive the experience along with us.
Not worth telling a story about, but worth mentioning, the next night Peter forgot his credit card at a bar and we had to go back for it the next day to pay for lunch. (Psssst, he had to have been wasted, right?) I’ll let you ponder.
There’s only one other meal to talk about, and that was the four course meal we had at The Left Bank. Fine French cuisine was brought to us throughout the course of a two hour dinner, and it only cost us $30 each. With appetizers, entrees, and wines costing anywhere from $50-365, the fixed menu was a surprise to us—and a surprise to the wait staff that we knew about it. This must have been some secret, because the only reason we found out about it was as a result of my trip to the hot tub. From an eighty-year-old man in 110 degree water, I was told about American Airlines cancelled flights, the weather in Miami, how to ski moguls once in retirement age, the proper way to invade Cuba, and the fixed menu at The Left Bank. Check it out.
Now I’ll tell you about Shel Silverstein. Imagine four feet of powder, up to our thighs, exhaustion, no visibility, falling in the terrain park again and again, skiing on clouds, and the best day of my life on a mountain. Now, multiply that by two and you’ll have our two days of skiing Friday and Saturday. The powder was eating us, building up each time we got on the chairlift, from toe to head. Hopefully some pictures will help explain this because I’m still reeling from the experience. Saturday the lines were so long and the powder so thick, we decided to leave Vail and head to Keystone for the afternoon. No lines, more groomed trails, and an official plaque that said, “Skied two mountains in one day: Official Ski Bums and Wastes of Life. Awarded to: :Peter Szabo and Kevin Collins.”
Incase you’re wondering about that giving me a job thing, I’m not really a waste of life. And I graduated from Boston College, twice. Not to mention: BC NATIONAL CHAMPS!!!!!! Yeah, our hockey team won the NCAA Hockey Championship over Notre Dame last night. Weird, but it feels like we were just in South Bend wishing those Fighting Irish luck. Hmmmm, I guess the better Catholic school won. Chanting all the way to Vegas: GOD’S ON OUR SIDE, GOD’S ON OUR SIDE…
We’re on the road to Moab and Vegas now, 65 degrees and rising, beautiful scenery—which I’m missing as I type—and I have the max AC on because the sun is brutal through our newly washed windshield (Petter whipped me with his iPod charger chord while I washed the windows with a squeegee from a gas station in Denver. It would have been fine, but he kept shouting, “EARN YOUR KEEP, UNEMPLOYED BASTARD!” Other patrons kept looking at us… and my tears).
Talk to you soon, from the city of sin.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Sinking in
Kevin made mention of this, but I figured I'd expand on it a bit as the Celtics play the Wizards in the background on ESPN and I hit refresh every 2 minutes on RedSox.com to keep up with the boys of summer (stupid Tigers just scored 4 to pull ahead 4-2!).
It's an odd feeling to leave your "home" knowing you wouldn't be going back there. You get in the car and drive to dinner, you drive back home at the end of the night. You go up north to ski for the weekend, you drive back home on Sunday. But when we left Boston last Friday, it was a one-way journey. There was no return home planned in the foreseeable future. And the odd part is, I was so excited about what the future held, it didn't even really hit me until St Louis. Not exactly the halfway point, but close enough, with the Gateway Arch providing the metaphorical backdrop, it began to sink in- I'm going to have a new home.
As we continued to get closer to the Pacific than the Atlantic, the reality continued to set it. It was actually like the first time I went skydiving. I remember the plane accelerating down the runway with my tandem instructor strapped to by back and realizing "I'm not landing with this plane". As a veteran of many a plane trip, I'm used to both taking off and landing with the airplane. Not so when you're skydiving. Similar to jumping out of a plane, driving away from home and not turning returning is just not natural. Not bad, just not something you don't do every day.
It's still exciting, new and I can't wait for what lies ahead, but it's still a little un-natural and I'm still getting used to it.
It's an odd feeling to leave your "home" knowing you wouldn't be going back there. You get in the car and drive to dinner, you drive back home at the end of the night. You go up north to ski for the weekend, you drive back home on Sunday. But when we left Boston last Friday, it was a one-way journey. There was no return home planned in the foreseeable future. And the odd part is, I was so excited about what the future held, it didn't even really hit me until St Louis. Not exactly the halfway point, but close enough, with the Gateway Arch providing the metaphorical backdrop, it began to sink in- I'm going to have a new home.
As we continued to get closer to the Pacific than the Atlantic, the reality continued to set it. It was actually like the first time I went skydiving. I remember the plane accelerating down the runway with my tandem instructor strapped to by back and realizing "I'm not landing with this plane". As a veteran of many a plane trip, I'm used to both taking off and landing with the airplane. Not so when you're skydiving. Similar to jumping out of a plane, driving away from home and not turning returning is just not natural. Not bad, just not something you don't do every day.
It's still exciting, new and I can't wait for what lies ahead, but it's still a little un-natural and I'm still getting used to it.
Pictures galore!
Thanks to everyone who has e-mailed to say they have enjoyed reading the blog so far! It's great to see people are getting some enjoyment out of it! We're having a blast, and have just throw up a few stories along the way. It's always nice to hear people are actually reading it though. However, a few people have pointed out we're severely lacking in the picture department. So as the snow comes down here in Vail, I finally had a chance to organize the pictures to this point. (If you click on the mini-slideshow below, it should open bigger.) Enjoy!
Vail
So we made it to Vail, and when we made the reservations a few weeks ago, I thought we'd be skiing in slushy, spring-like conditions. No such luck! They got a foot of snow right before we arrived, and it's snowing heavily right now. We're supposed to get another 1-2 feet tonight. If we hadn't looked at a calendar, we'd swear it was February!
Even more pictures from Friday's snow now up:
Even more pictures from Friday's snow now up:
Monday, April 7, 2008
We started making out; she took off my pants...
If you want to hear more about the story the title of this blog is referring to, then please listen to the Blink 182 song "What's my age again." There will be none of those shenanigans in this blog.
The feeling has come over me to sit back, loosen my belt, smoke a Fisher Price bubble pipe, and relate to you a story of adventure.
St. Louis (not to be confused with the “Lewis” of Lewis and Clark) was our most recent overnight stop. If there has ever been a city that was less crowded than St. Louis, it’s the city/town/hole of Buffalo. Since the drive from Chicago to Denver seemed too much asphalt in one day for our tastes, Peter and I decided to break the trip up into two parts and visit a friend of mine from college in St. Louis.
The Cardinals were playing and winning. Busch Stadium was big, new, and nothing compared to Fenway, but, you know, nice. We rolled into the city about the 6th inning, so we opted to see the Gateway to the West instead. That’s right, the greatest single symbol of Westward Expansion, a representation of balance and ingenuity that is an apt metaphor for Peter’s own Manifest Destiny. The St. Louis Arch.
On a previous drive cross country with a friend moving out to LA (I don’t have a job, and I like to drive. I can do this whenever I want, but also wouldn’t mind being employed some day), the Arch was the point at which things really hit. My friend, Mike, realized that he wouldn’t be going back east and had left much behind. He became quiet and reflective. There was moistness in his eyes. I, every time I looked at him, laughed at his pain. It’s a hobby. The experience was similar for Peter, but with less laughing on my part.
There’s so much to tell post this part of the trip that I’m going to speed by it. One of the Arch workers gave Peter a hug and that seemed to fix things, in addition to the magnet and postcards he got from the gift shop.
We left St. Louis in the mature am hours, leaving nothing behind but broken hearts and a couple thank you notes. Arthur Bryant was our destination—bbq in Kansas City, MO, recommended by blog-enthusiast Paul. “Worth going to Kansas City for.” “The only reason Kansas City is still available on GPS systems.” “We sell our sauces online, but there’s still a good reason to come here—the food.” “If this place hadn’t been here, this part of town wouldn’t exist any more.” These were just a couple of the marketing slogans we came up with. I have never had better pulled pork, and we left with 5 bottles of bbq sauce packed in the back of the Lexus. Peter chose to use the bathroom at the restaurant. I followed apprehensively, and that was, more or less, the better attitude to have. No doors on stall for Kevin and capacity of 2 ½= I’ll wait for the next pit stop. I’m surprised Peter is still alive and doesn’t have a new boyfriend.
The second-best part of this leg came when we saw a carwash on the route to the highway. If you’ve never driven for long hours across wide open states, then explaining how many bugs die at high speeds on windshields will not make any sense to you. We didn’t count them, but at least a gatrillion, and they weren’t coming off without power-washing.
Mind you, the following statements and descriptions were thought and will be written void of judgment and meanness (except on Peter’s part).
The woman working the front of the carwash had fewer teeth than I have fingers—on one hand. Most of them were missing in the front. But that was good because her tongue was pierced, and it gave us a better view of the navy blue stud whenever she smiled, spoke, stuck her tongue out between her teeth and whistled. There was obvious pride in the mouth accessory. She was skinny and about 5’6”. The XXL windbreaker she wore did not compliment her petite figure, but was accented well by the inordinate amount of oversized rings on both hands. This might be a MO style that escaped the conservative blue jeans and t-shirts we east coasters were in. She tried to up-sell us from the basic carwash to one that included a Teflon coating so that bugs would no longer splatter on our windshield but slam into, slide smoothly off it, over the car and into the road behind us, too maimed to live a normal life, but not dead enough to forget that imminent doom by tires was upon them. Peter refused with some manly words, “We’ll just lick them off with our tongues the rest of the way.” Both laughed, whilst I cringed and felt awkward witnessing an obvious connection between two people who couldn’t be any more different (I thought to myself, “What would have happened if Peter didn’t have to go?” We’ll never know). He paid his eight dollars with a hundred dollar bill (in an—all too obvious—attempt to impress her). She handed him his change and her touch lingered longer than necessary upon Peter’s palm. He couldn’t even look at her when he said, “Thank you, we’ll be moving on now, immediately. Windows up, up UP!!!” Awkward love, always gets me, right here (pointing to heart).
Men, women and boys washed our vehicle with rags and bars of soap inside a tunnel in which we were pushed forward by stray dogs and squirrels that had just awoken from their winter slumbers. Ok, it wasn’t that bad, but there were guys with power washers, hoses and rags. Carwash technology hasn’t reached that part of MO quite yet, but when it does, there will be a revolution.
There was the pulling out of the carwash, the turning onto the highway, fond farewells to MO, then 45 minutes later another bathroom stop at Kansas University. Pulled pork is delicious, but… well, that doesn’t need to be part of the story.
We roamed around campus shouting “GO JAYHAWKS” while Peter said, “Will you shut up!! You went to Boston College.” However, he did share my love for college basketball and an odd fondness of the soon-to-be NCAA championship Jayhawks team. After a quick stop at the bookstore to buy final four apparel and support a school neither of us have any affiliation with, we went to the gym—Allen Field house—so Peter could take some pictures. While he was photographing, I was pretending to be an undergrad and hitting on coeds, trying to find the best places to party when the title finally came “home to us.” “Yeah, so we could party at my dorm, but I’m renovating and, yeah, bombing for termites as well. They’ve tented it and I can’t go back until Wednesday. Is your place open?” Peter made me leave (he wouldn’t even wear the t-shirt he bought or the little Jayhawk temp-tattoos I provided and offered to lick so we could stick them to our cheeks). However, he didn’t get me out of there before Yvonne and I had had an over-exaggerated moment together. If only I had actually gone to KU and was 5-8 years younger. After winking suggestively at my new girlfriend as she walked away, we left campus in our trusty steed.
That would make us now on the road to Denver. And if we haven’t lost your respect yet, then I can tell you, you’ll want to stay tuned because Vail will definitely be interesting… and if it isn’t, I’ll lie about it.
Before I post this and sign off, I have a question for the masses. In a carwash, you obviously exit with your windows closed because water is being directed at you at high speeds. Should your windows have been open, there would have been a damp interior post carwash. Well, since the end of this wash consisted of people with rags and oscillating fans on “high”, do you take the time right before pulling out of the tunnel to roll down your window and give the good people a tip? Or is that awkward? Or is it more awkward to salute from your eyebrow with two fingers and peel out before the guy on the passenger side has cleared from drying off the rims? We could have really used your advice.
The feeling has come over me to sit back, loosen my belt, smoke a Fisher Price bubble pipe, and relate to you a story of adventure.
St. Louis (not to be confused with the “Lewis” of Lewis and Clark) was our most recent overnight stop. If there has ever been a city that was less crowded than St. Louis, it’s the city/town/hole of Buffalo. Since the drive from Chicago to Denver seemed too much asphalt in one day for our tastes, Peter and I decided to break the trip up into two parts and visit a friend of mine from college in St. Louis.
The Cardinals were playing and winning. Busch Stadium was big, new, and nothing compared to Fenway, but, you know, nice. We rolled into the city about the 6th inning, so we opted to see the Gateway to the West instead. That’s right, the greatest single symbol of Westward Expansion, a representation of balance and ingenuity that is an apt metaphor for Peter’s own Manifest Destiny. The St. Louis Arch.
On a previous drive cross country with a friend moving out to LA (I don’t have a job, and I like to drive. I can do this whenever I want, but also wouldn’t mind being employed some day), the Arch was the point at which things really hit. My friend, Mike, realized that he wouldn’t be going back east and had left much behind. He became quiet and reflective. There was moistness in his eyes. I, every time I looked at him, laughed at his pain. It’s a hobby. The experience was similar for Peter, but with less laughing on my part.
There’s so much to tell post this part of the trip that I’m going to speed by it. One of the Arch workers gave Peter a hug and that seemed to fix things, in addition to the magnet and postcards he got from the gift shop.
We left St. Louis in the mature am hours, leaving nothing behind but broken hearts and a couple thank you notes. Arthur Bryant was our destination—bbq in Kansas City, MO, recommended by blog-enthusiast Paul. “Worth going to Kansas City for.” “The only reason Kansas City is still available on GPS systems.” “We sell our sauces online, but there’s still a good reason to come here—the food.” “If this place hadn’t been here, this part of town wouldn’t exist any more.” These were just a couple of the marketing slogans we came up with. I have never had better pulled pork, and we left with 5 bottles of bbq sauce packed in the back of the Lexus. Peter chose to use the bathroom at the restaurant. I followed apprehensively, and that was, more or less, the better attitude to have. No doors on stall for Kevin and capacity of 2 ½= I’ll wait for the next pit stop. I’m surprised Peter is still alive and doesn’t have a new boyfriend.
The second-best part of this leg came when we saw a carwash on the route to the highway. If you’ve never driven for long hours across wide open states, then explaining how many bugs die at high speeds on windshields will not make any sense to you. We didn’t count them, but at least a gatrillion, and they weren’t coming off without power-washing.
Mind you, the following statements and descriptions were thought and will be written void of judgment and meanness (except on Peter’s part).
The woman working the front of the carwash had fewer teeth than I have fingers—on one hand. Most of them were missing in the front. But that was good because her tongue was pierced, and it gave us a better view of the navy blue stud whenever she smiled, spoke, stuck her tongue out between her teeth and whistled. There was obvious pride in the mouth accessory. She was skinny and about 5’6”. The XXL windbreaker she wore did not compliment her petite figure, but was accented well by the inordinate amount of oversized rings on both hands. This might be a MO style that escaped the conservative blue jeans and t-shirts we east coasters were in. She tried to up-sell us from the basic carwash to one that included a Teflon coating so that bugs would no longer splatter on our windshield but slam into, slide smoothly off it, over the car and into the road behind us, too maimed to live a normal life, but not dead enough to forget that imminent doom by tires was upon them. Peter refused with some manly words, “We’ll just lick them off with our tongues the rest of the way.” Both laughed, whilst I cringed and felt awkward witnessing an obvious connection between two people who couldn’t be any more different (I thought to myself, “What would have happened if Peter didn’t have to go?” We’ll never know). He paid his eight dollars with a hundred dollar bill (in an—all too obvious—attempt to impress her). She handed him his change and her touch lingered longer than necessary upon Peter’s palm. He couldn’t even look at her when he said, “Thank you, we’ll be moving on now, immediately. Windows up, up UP!!!” Awkward love, always gets me, right here (pointing to heart).
Men, women and boys washed our vehicle with rags and bars of soap inside a tunnel in which we were pushed forward by stray dogs and squirrels that had just awoken from their winter slumbers. Ok, it wasn’t that bad, but there were guys with power washers, hoses and rags. Carwash technology hasn’t reached that part of MO quite yet, but when it does, there will be a revolution.
There was the pulling out of the carwash, the turning onto the highway, fond farewells to MO, then 45 minutes later another bathroom stop at Kansas University. Pulled pork is delicious, but… well, that doesn’t need to be part of the story.
We roamed around campus shouting “GO JAYHAWKS” while Peter said, “Will you shut up!! You went to Boston College.” However, he did share my love for college basketball and an odd fondness of the soon-to-be NCAA championship Jayhawks team. After a quick stop at the bookstore to buy final four apparel and support a school neither of us have any affiliation with, we went to the gym—Allen Field house—so Peter could take some pictures. While he was photographing, I was pretending to be an undergrad and hitting on coeds, trying to find the best places to party when the title finally came “home to us.” “Yeah, so we could party at my dorm, but I’m renovating and, yeah, bombing for termites as well. They’ve tented it and I can’t go back until Wednesday. Is your place open?” Peter made me leave (he wouldn’t even wear the t-shirt he bought or the little Jayhawk temp-tattoos I provided and offered to lick so we could stick them to our cheeks). However, he didn’t get me out of there before Yvonne and I had had an over-exaggerated moment together. If only I had actually gone to KU and was 5-8 years younger. After winking suggestively at my new girlfriend as she walked away, we left campus in our trusty steed.
That would make us now on the road to Denver. And if we haven’t lost your respect yet, then I can tell you, you’ll want to stay tuned because Vail will definitely be interesting… and if it isn’t, I’ll lie about it.
Before I post this and sign off, I have a question for the masses. In a carwash, you obviously exit with your windows closed because water is being directed at you at high speeds. Should your windows have been open, there would have been a damp interior post carwash. Well, since the end of this wash consisted of people with rags and oscillating fans on “high”, do you take the time right before pulling out of the tunnel to roll down your window and give the good people a tip? Or is that awkward? Or is it more awkward to salute from your eyebrow with two fingers and peel out before the guy on the passenger side has cleared from drying off the rims? We could have really used your advice.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
10 Minutes From Normal
With Paula Abdul reassuring us she was “Forever Our Girl” as we arrived and the newly reunited New Kids On The Block making sure we knew we had “The Right Stuff” as we left, how could we not love our Wendy’s dining experience? With our livers in need of a well deserved rest and stomachs craving greasy goodness, we were elated to see the Wendy’s logo on the list of restaurants at Exit 160 in Bloomington, IL. (And yes, I shamelessly stole, err borrowed, the great title from Karen Hughes’ book “10 Minutes From Normal” for the title of this post because we were, in fact, 10 minutes past Normal, IL.)
After a night of laughs, sushi and drinking with members of the BC cult in Chicago yesterday, we hit the road this morning heading south to St Louis. Big thanks to Katie for lending us her apartment, and apologies for any additional notes you find from Chris. Apparently at 5am it’s a good idea to rearrange things just enough to notice they’re off but not enough to realize what it is and put 25 tiny notes around the apartment. That Chris is a joker. It’s actually funny if you don’t think it’s incredibly annoying. I hope you fall on the funny side of that. If not, sorry.
About 2 hours into our drive our stomachs growled for the magic that only Dave Thomas could provide. Kevin opted for the Spicy Baconator, a bold choice that I debated myself, but ended up setting on the old standby- #2 with ketchup, mustard, pickles and onions only. Ahh, comfort food. But sadly, even the Wendy’s here try to pull the same silly trick that Wendy’s back home do. When you order a combo, the default size is “small” (which is the same as a medium was 3 years ago- I love that fast food restaurants shift the names of the sizes in the entire lineup of drinks and fries so you think you’re eating less. Medium became small, large became medium, and so on. So hard to figure out why this country has an obesity epidemic.) So anyway, you say “#2 please” and they say “medium or large” as if those are the only two choices. When in fact, you have a small, and they should ask you “would you like to upgrade to a medium or large?” But they don’t, and they try to trick you into the additional 50 cents for more syrupy soda and golden fries. Just always seemed like a sleazy way to do it. I’ve mentioned this to the old Wendy’s we frequented near to Kiss, but shockingly my comments were never acted upon.
After a night of laughs, sushi and drinking with members of the BC cult in Chicago yesterday, we hit the road this morning heading south to St Louis. Big thanks to Katie for lending us her apartment, and apologies for any additional notes you find from Chris. Apparently at 5am it’s a good idea to rearrange things just enough to notice they’re off but not enough to realize what it is and put 25 tiny notes around the apartment. That Chris is a joker. It’s actually funny if you don’t think it’s incredibly annoying. I hope you fall on the funny side of that. If not, sorry.
About 2 hours into our drive our stomachs growled for the magic that only Dave Thomas could provide. Kevin opted for the Spicy Baconator, a bold choice that I debated myself, but ended up setting on the old standby- #2 with ketchup, mustard, pickles and onions only. Ahh, comfort food. But sadly, even the Wendy’s here try to pull the same silly trick that Wendy’s back home do. When you order a combo, the default size is “small” (which is the same as a medium was 3 years ago- I love that fast food restaurants shift the names of the sizes in the entire lineup of drinks and fries so you think you’re eating less. Medium became small, large became medium, and so on. So hard to figure out why this country has an obesity epidemic.) So anyway, you say “#2 please” and they say “medium or large” as if those are the only two choices. When in fact, you have a small, and they should ask you “would you like to upgrade to a medium or large?” But they don’t, and they try to trick you into the additional 50 cents for more syrupy soda and golden fries. Just always seemed like a sleazy way to do it. I’ve mentioned this to the old Wendy’s we frequented near to Kiss, but shockingly my comments were never acted upon.
I’m happy the report the Spicy Baconator is a winner, but doesn’t quite fill you. So 5 piece nuggets from the 99 cent menu were up next. With a wink from the gentleman behind the counter, Kevin emerged with 6 nuggets for his dollar. But what’s even more magical about this Wendy’s is after you’ve filled your arteries with yummy fat, you can walk over to the free blood pressure reader and see just how close you are to that heart attack. We thought this would actually be a tool better used on the way in. You sit down, wait 30 seconds, and then fall into one of 5 categories:1. Heart attack imminent, run around the block 5 times right now
2. You’re good for 1-2 more burgers before collapse
3. Check back in 6 months
2. Add more grease to your diet
1. You’ve never eaten here before have you, have you?
Kevin sat quietly (actual instructions) and waited patiently for his reading. It came back saying he had hypertension and should see a doctor. Slightly odd for a 25 year old male who runs marathons when he’s bored, but how can you argue with the free blood pressure reading machine at Wendy’s in the middle of Illinois? Weary of the results, Kevin retook the test and he only had pre-hypertension this time. He blamed it on test anxiety, but the Spicy Baconator couldn’t have helped. We should have stayed and continued retaking the test until the level got down to comatose, but St Louis awaits!
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Road Trip Experiences
We just completed the 2nd of what I’m going to begin calling “road trip experiences”. By that I mean something that you normally wouldn’t do, but because you’re on a road trip, you say, why not. The 1st was stopping in Buffalo for dinner last night and eating at the Anchor Bar. I had always heard about that place when I was at Syracuse, but never ate there. Luckily, it did not disappoint. The original home of the Buffalo wing still knows how to make ‘em. It’s a down and dirty type place, but great food, and they were nice enough to switch the TV from the Yankees game to the Red Sox game.
And now our 2nd road trip experience was stopping at Notre Dame. Apparently the drive from Boston to Chicago goes through Indiana (yes, that’s a Brookline education at work) and within that right by South Bend. My co-pilot had been before while attending a few BC-ND football games (he swears he was sober at least once, but I don’t think I believe him) and said it’s worth the stop. It was all of 5 minutes from the highway, so why not? See, this road tripping thing is great!
It’s a beautiful school. Tucked away in a corner of town, it’s own couple square mile sanctuary of lush green lawns, charming buildings, and oh yea, Touchdown Jesus. We lucked out with the weather- 65 and sunny- so students were all over the quads. Footballs were flying through the air, waffle balls pitched and frisbees soaring. Definitely worth the 45 minute detour.
Because we can
So let’s see… blogging…. Started off as a joke, “oh you should keep a blog during your cross country trip”, which a few people seconded on the spot, and then it really took on steam when Paul said “just go to blogger.com and sign up with your Google account”. Well sure enough, the geniuses at Google have figured out yet another way to make something easy. You put in your name, choose your address, and you’re off… easy enough… so here we go….
But before we delve into the trip, we need to take a quick detour and talk about technology. The Lewis to my Clark (what are their first names?) on this journey mentioned he had a paper he had to write he could graduate from grad school (really? Graduate from grad school? That looks weird.) in May. Simple enough, I had an old laptop he could use and write away as the moment struck him on the trip (Or, when he forced himself to do it, whichever came first.). I even had a Verizon Aircard we could use to connect to the internet and keep up with e-mail on the way. $40 at Radio Shack also got me an adapter that lets us plug the laptop into the cigarette lighter and we were no longer restricted to 2 hours of battery use at a time.
As we were packing the car yesterday, I hand him the laptop with the card. I don’t even think we got to Framingham before he proclaimed “let me see if Pete’s on G Chat”. That was 20 minutes into the trip. 2 ½ hours later we’re in Albany and he had caught up with friends he hasn’t spoken to in years, all because he could.
I mentioned the blogging idea and it was a hit. My blog became our blog, and it was great to have an excited co-contributor. As we neared the famous Syracuse, Rochester, Buffalo corridor of exciting upstate New York (if you haven’t been there, it’s a must on any vacation list), the first blog posting began to take shape. Then more friends were contacted on G Chat, restaurants were researched, and directions were found.
So bottom line…. Road trip blog = 5 pages. Graduate school mini-novel / paper = 1 hand written page thrown together at the Denver airport before flying to Boston. Whenever you need to procrastinate, technology is there.
But it’s not just for procrastination. It hit me as I was responding to my 10th txt message yesterday afternoon (it’s really 50/50 odds as to what’s going to kill us first… my txting while driving or Lewis careening around 18 wheelers at 95 mph in the rain at night)… What did people do before all this technology? How were they able to circum-navigate our giant country? How did they stay in touch with friends?
As I was cleaning my condo in preparation for the movers to pack all my stuff, I came across some old cards from college. Cards from friends and family, addressed to a variety of addresses I’ve had over the years. One of my favorite re-discoveries was faxes I had received from my aunt & uncle years ago. It reminded me there was actually a brief period between postal mail and e-mail that fax was a valid form of communication. Type a letter in Word and fax it over the ocean. Simple enough. E-mail quickly took over and you just don’t have physical things to look back at after that.
But back to the here and now…. How did people drive across the country before, and this is only a partial list, iPods, cell phones, BlackBerries, laptops that connected to the internet and GPS navigation? And more importantly, how was Lewis able to reconnect with friends without being able to use GChat on the Mass Turnpike? Thinking of driving with accordion maps unfolded makes me wonder if those people wondered how anyone got by without printed maps. And the people before them if their Chevy Nova would make it up the Rockies. I guess you can keep going back until even the times of trains or horse and buggy. I’m curious if 20 years from now someone will wonder how people drove from Atlantic to Pacific having to stop for gas every 350 miles. Or without accessing every song in their library back home. Or whatever other invention I can’t even fathom right now. These are the things I think about driving across the lovely New York State Thruway. It’s a boring drive, see it on your next vacation.
But before we delve into the trip, we need to take a quick detour and talk about technology. The Lewis to my Clark (what are their first names?) on this journey mentioned he had a paper he had to write he could graduate from grad school (really? Graduate from grad school? That looks weird.) in May. Simple enough, I had an old laptop he could use and write away as the moment struck him on the trip (Or, when he forced himself to do it, whichever came first.). I even had a Verizon Aircard we could use to connect to the internet and keep up with e-mail on the way. $40 at Radio Shack also got me an adapter that lets us plug the laptop into the cigarette lighter and we were no longer restricted to 2 hours of battery use at a time.
As we were packing the car yesterday, I hand him the laptop with the card. I don’t even think we got to Framingham before he proclaimed “let me see if Pete’s on G Chat”. That was 20 minutes into the trip. 2 ½ hours later we’re in Albany and he had caught up with friends he hasn’t spoken to in years, all because he could.
I mentioned the blogging idea and it was a hit. My blog became our blog, and it was great to have an excited co-contributor. As we neared the famous Syracuse, Rochester, Buffalo corridor of exciting upstate New York (if you haven’t been there, it’s a must on any vacation list), the first blog posting began to take shape. Then more friends were contacted on G Chat, restaurants were researched, and directions were found.
So bottom line…. Road trip blog = 5 pages. Graduate school mini-novel / paper = 1 hand written page thrown together at the Denver airport before flying to Boston. Whenever you need to procrastinate, technology is there.
But it’s not just for procrastination. It hit me as I was responding to my 10th txt message yesterday afternoon (it’s really 50/50 odds as to what’s going to kill us first… my txting while driving or Lewis careening around 18 wheelers at 95 mph in the rain at night)… What did people do before all this technology? How were they able to circum-navigate our giant country? How did they stay in touch with friends?
As I was cleaning my condo in preparation for the movers to pack all my stuff, I came across some old cards from college. Cards from friends and family, addressed to a variety of addresses I’ve had over the years. One of my favorite re-discoveries was faxes I had received from my aunt & uncle years ago. It reminded me there was actually a brief period between postal mail and e-mail that fax was a valid form of communication. Type a letter in Word and fax it over the ocean. Simple enough. E-mail quickly took over and you just don’t have physical things to look back at after that.
But back to the here and now…. How did people drive across the country before, and this is only a partial list, iPods, cell phones, BlackBerries, laptops that connected to the internet and GPS navigation? And more importantly, how was Lewis able to reconnect with friends without being able to use GChat on the Mass Turnpike? Thinking of driving with accordion maps unfolded makes me wonder if those people wondered how anyone got by without printed maps. And the people before them if their Chevy Nova would make it up the Rockies. I guess you can keep going back until even the times of trains or horse and buggy. I’m curious if 20 years from now someone will wonder how people drove from Atlantic to Pacific having to stop for gas every 350 miles. Or without accessing every song in their library back home. Or whatever other invention I can’t even fathom right now. These are the things I think about driving across the lovely New York State Thruway. It’s a boring drive, see it on your next vacation.
Second post quickly follows the first...
The road to Chicago from Cleveland is a wasteland… and gchat is faltering, so here comes the second post.
The real title for this blog was supposed to be “I have the cure for HIV” but I thought that would be too offensive, although Peter didn’t agree, so I’ll just have to get to that later in the post.
Most people know the drive between Boston and New York quite well. And most make the conscious decision never to stray beyond the bright lights of the Big Apple. We didn’t even drive through it. That’s right, this Lewis and Clark circumvented the city and took our chances with Pennsylvania. We blacked out when we crossed the border, but I do remember seeing a sign for Pittsburgh and mentioning some about Heinz Ketchup and John Kerry, but it’s all fuzzy. Since the road (OHHHH I just saw a miniature pony, Erie County is amazing) isn’t that exciting (some may beg to differ after that last sighting though), I’ll get straight to some of the things we’ve encountered along the way thus far.
Yesterday evening:
Peter, being the always vigilant guy that he is, decided that with the gas light on we should probably get some petrol in our tank, and quickly, “But don’t worry, 1-800-25Lexus.” Incredulously, I stared back at him, “So, you want to sit on the side of the road and wait for help when the last streetlamp we saw burned out as we passed under it 200 miles back?” We stopped.
Our first gas break, luckily, brought us to the “Best Truck Stop in America” and cleanest too (Peter added this as he frequents truck stops). We didn’t choose this location, rather, I believe, it chose us. Showers: $9.72, with a deposit of $20 until towel is returned. Restaurant seating for 45. Function hall and reception facilities available. Bull Ball key chains a hot-selling item (they are exactly, EXACTLY, what you’re thinking they are and will not be described in respect for the faint of heart; although, Peter described them to me, fingers up as if he was supporting a pair). This was truly America’s Best Truck Stop, and we didn’t need the sign on the bathroom door to tell us so.
The car was waiting self-consciously for us as the Lexus stood out amongst 18 wheelers, beat-up Chevy pickups, and one station wagon missing a back tire, but that still drove away. I don’t think it was there for gas—Bull Balls, Bull Balls. I have not yet mentioned that all this way, hour upon hour, we have been graced with the sounds of the 90s. Peter brought his DJ battle ipod. For those of you who don’t know, Peter battled a worthy adversary in musical ballyhoo consisting of 90s rock verses 90s R&B/Pop (of which I later heard, having not been at the bar, not that Peter won, but that Tilden lost—Matt, you get the first shoutout). Since departing Boston, I have been the beneficiary of all that 90s love; even now as we approach Chicago, it continues.
Miles, miles, miles of road. Zoot suit riot. Another gas stop. This time the pitch black was oppressive and we were hungry. Our meals for the day had only been Dunkin Donuts and some granola bars. All tanks were running on empty. Since Buffalo was our destination, for none other than a dinner of the original Buffalo wing at the Anchor Bar, we made a pact not to snack and to be in and out quickly. The pump was full service, but the unexpected came with the merchandise inside the store. We were surrounded by candies, chips, and peanuts of all shapes and sizes, yet none of it caught our eye. Instead, Peter, with wobbly finger, raised his arm and pointed, “Wraaaangler Jeans!!” This place surely didn’t know the claim that was being made over a hundred miles away because this, in our estimation, was “America’s Best Truck Stop.”
After Peter berated me once again for only bringing one pair of pants on this trip, I bought myself a pair of Wrangler Jeans, boot cut, tight in the butt. It wasn’t edible, but I felt good about my decision.
The arrival in Buffalo was much anticipated. There was a parade, ticker tape, some trumpets, and a tattered, yellowish carpet. They didn’t have time for a new red one to be rolled out, but we appreciated the best they could do.
The city was desolate. We saw our first Buffalo native in the parking lot of the Anchor Bar. Then, we saw the rest of Buffalo inside eating wings. It was one of those things that I thought, “Well, the French don’t actually eat French Fries, so I bet people from Buffalo don’t truly consume massive amounts of what we refer to as Buffalo Wings.” Horribly wrong is an understatement. The bar was covered in references to Original Recipes, wing soups, “have a pitcher and a bucket of wings”. I think I saw one guy with “Anchor Bar: The Original Buffalo Wings” tattooed around his neck. It was a frat boy’s dream.
This brings us to discovering the cure for HIV in the city/town/hole of Buffalo. The oldest man alive, self-proclaimed, sat behind an old, wooden counter, half concealed by a sign that read, “I can tell the future. What is it saying? That I can be certain you WILL BE SEATED. Soon enough.” And, mistakenly someone gave him a microphone. He was announcing the availability of tables accompanied with interjections of sage advice and tidbits of wisdom. Most notably, “I have the cure for HIV, it’s called no alcohol.” Imagine the look of surprise on my and Peter’s faces. “Did he just say that?” Peter asked me in a low voice. “Yeah, I think he did,” I responded, only to add, “and all this time I thought ‘no alcohol’ was used to ward off babies.”
38 wings later, four beers, more than a few glasses of water and sides of
blue cheese and celery, and a Red Sox loss, we were on our way. Peter fell asleep, and I was just waking up. The drive took us through fog, low visibility, rain, and menacing trucks who can’t stay in their lanes. But our final destination for the night, Motel Six, where the beds are queens and the towels like sandpaper. Luxury. I offered to sleep in the Lexus, but the sign on the door of the room quelled that desire, “For your safety when in room engage deadbolt and security latch.” Like a fairy tale, we slept, small pocketknives in-hand under our pillows.
And there’s Chicago…
The real title for this blog was supposed to be “I have the cure for HIV” but I thought that would be too offensive, although Peter didn’t agree, so I’ll just have to get to that later in the post.
Most people know the drive between Boston and New York quite well. And most make the conscious decision never to stray beyond the bright lights of the Big Apple. We didn’t even drive through it. That’s right, this Lewis and Clark circumvented the city and took our chances with Pennsylvania. We blacked out when we crossed the border, but I do remember seeing a sign for Pittsburgh and mentioning some about Heinz Ketchup and John Kerry, but it’s all fuzzy. Since the road (OHHHH I just saw a miniature pony, Erie County is amazing) isn’t that exciting (some may beg to differ after that last sighting though), I’ll get straight to some of the things we’ve encountered along the way thus far.
Yesterday evening:
Peter, being the always vigilant guy that he is, decided that with the gas light on we should probably get some petrol in our tank, and quickly, “But don’t worry, 1-800-25Lexus.” Incredulously, I stared back at him, “So, you want to sit on the side of the road and wait for help when the last streetlamp we saw burned out as we passed under it 200 miles back?” We stopped.
Our first gas break, luckily, brought us to the “Best Truck Stop in America” and cleanest too (Peter added this as he frequents truck stops). We didn’t choose this location, rather, I believe, it chose us. Showers: $9.72, with a deposit of $20 until towel is returned. Restaurant seating for 45. Function hall and reception facilities available. Bull Ball key chains a hot-selling item (they are exactly, EXACTLY, what you’re thinking they are and will not be described in respect for the faint of heart; although, Peter described them to me, fingers up as if he was supporting a pair). This was truly America’s Best Truck Stop, and we didn’t need the sign on the bathroom door to tell us so.
The car was waiting self-consciously for us as the Lexus stood out amongst 18 wheelers, beat-up Chevy pickups, and one station wagon missing a back tire, but that still drove away. I don’t think it was there for gas—Bull Balls, Bull Balls. I have not yet mentioned that all this way, hour upon hour, we have been graced with the sounds of the 90s. Peter brought his DJ battle ipod. For those of you who don’t know, Peter battled a worthy adversary in musical ballyhoo consisting of 90s rock verses 90s R&B/Pop (of which I later heard, having not been at the bar, not that Peter won, but that Tilden lost—Matt, you get the first shoutout). Since departing Boston, I have been the beneficiary of all that 90s love; even now as we approach Chicago, it continues.
Miles, miles, miles of road. Zoot suit riot. Another gas stop. This time the pitch black was oppressive and we were hungry. Our meals for the day had only been Dunkin Donuts and some granola bars. All tanks were running on empty. Since Buffalo was our destination, for none other than a dinner of the original Buffalo wing at the Anchor Bar, we made a pact not to snack and to be in and out quickly. The pump was full service, but the unexpected came with the merchandise inside the store. We were surrounded by candies, chips, and peanuts of all shapes and sizes, yet none of it caught our eye. Instead, Peter, with wobbly finger, raised his arm and pointed, “Wraaaangler Jeans!!” This place surely didn’t know the claim that was being made over a hundred miles away because this, in our estimation, was “America’s Best Truck Stop.”
After Peter berated me once again for only bringing one pair of pants on this trip, I bought myself a pair of Wrangler Jeans, boot cut, tight in the butt. It wasn’t edible, but I felt good about my decision.
The arrival in Buffalo was much anticipated. There was a parade, ticker tape, some trumpets, and a tattered, yellowish carpet. They didn’t have time for a new red one to be rolled out, but we appreciated the best they could do.
The city was desolate. We saw our first Buffalo native in the parking lot of the Anchor Bar. Then, we saw the rest of Buffalo inside eating wings. It was one of those things that I thought, “Well, the French don’t actually eat French Fries, so I bet people from Buffalo don’t truly consume massive amounts of what we refer to as Buffalo Wings.” Horribly wrong is an understatement. The bar was covered in references to Original Recipes, wing soups, “have a pitcher and a bucket of wings”. I think I saw one guy with “Anchor Bar: The Original Buffalo Wings” tattooed around his neck. It was a frat boy’s dream.
This brings us to discovering the cure for HIV in the city/town/hole of Buffalo. The oldest man alive, self-proclaimed, sat behind an old, wooden counter, half concealed by a sign that read, “I can tell the future. What is it saying? That I can be certain you WILL BE SEATED. Soon enough.” And, mistakenly someone gave him a microphone. He was announcing the availability of tables accompanied with interjections of sage advice and tidbits of wisdom. Most notably, “I have the cure for HIV, it’s called no alcohol.” Imagine the look of surprise on my and Peter’s faces. “Did he just say that?” Peter asked me in a low voice. “Yeah, I think he did,” I responded, only to add, “and all this time I thought ‘no alcohol’ was used to ward off babies.”
38 wings later, four beers, more than a few glasses of water and sides of
blue cheese and celery, and a Red Sox loss, we were on our way. Peter fell asleep, and I was just waking up. The drive took us through fog, low visibility, rain, and menacing trucks who can’t stay in their lanes. But our final destination for the night, Motel Six, where the beds are queens and the towels like sandpaper. Luxury. I offered to sleep in the Lexus, but the sign on the door of the room quelled that desire, “For your safety when in room engage deadbolt and security latch.” Like a fairy tale, we slept, small pocketknives in-hand under our pillows.And there’s Chicago…
Peter wouldn't come up with a memorable title for this blog
The time has come for a Boston icon, a legend among family, friends, the top 40 countdown, and women between the ages of 18 and 45, to leave the city and impart on an adventure of epic proportions. Obviously Peter didn't write this blog, or, by referring to himself in the third person, he feels he can escape culpability and write as much narcissistic and self-aggrandizing crap as he wants. For this journey, I will be your guide and copilot— and will go unnamed so I can say and write whatever I want with total abandon. Sure, Peter has been driving the whole time, thus far, but I’ve been checking my email and gchatting, so the difficult tasks really fall to me. I also fed him a banana—no comments necessary, it was already awkward enough.
If you’re asking how we might go about writing a blog as we are obviously driving (Guy on side of road in downpour, Peter so generously offers: Ohhh, sucks to have to change a flat tire in this rain) then I must tell you that technology allows us to have computers on our laps and the internet in cars. Also, we can’t get lost because there are maps in our dashboard. I don’t know the names of all these technologies, but it makes roadtripping like a picnic—if your picnic included sending emails, downloading songs on iTunes, and finding the nearest gas station (POI= point of interest, for all you non-adventurers out there) because you’re almost on empty.
Let’s take a step back though. It’s worth remembering where Peter has been to get to the place he is now. For this, I might need your help. On this blog, I make a request of you, my fair ladies and fine gentlemen, that you provide stories from the past (or present and future, they don’t need to be true) of Peter and his escapades. Think of this like the card you didn’t send him when you knew he was going away, or the text message you failed to grace him with because you were too lazy to say, “Hey, I know you’re going to bawl your eyes out when you cross out of Massachusetts, and you’ll probably wet your pants from anxiety too, ummm, I’ll be thinking of you.”
I’ll break the ice with my own short story. Peter and I had to pack the SUV, hybrid—save the environment with 25 miles to the gallon, and as we brought his few belongings that marked the expansion of his life with stuff he’d probably put away and not see for months out to the car, I could see the red spreading in his eyes. There was a distance that couldn’t be breached, a distance that a soul stretched across much wider than the mileage from east coast to west (Peter asked me to add that, he thinks he’s some kind of poet). Peter began to weep, let’s call it, uncontrollably. The skis were in the car, a few suitcases, a couple bags of shoes (one including a pair of Victoria’s Secret, rainbow slippers= Peter has some secrets) and in the midst of all his possessions, Peter lay himself down, huddled close to his ski bag, pulled his knees to his chest and shook as if there were a monster in his closet. My response, “Peter, awwww, how cute. You’re shaking with excitement. Well, I’ve gotta get the rest of this stuff in the car, so I’m just going to put it on top of you.” Which I did. And there he stayed until we stopped for dinner, releasing saline water drops onto the tarp he’d set down on the back seats of the car to prevent damage because he needs to sell the SUV when he gets to LA. He tried to reach forward between the front seats and hold my hand, but I slapped it away. I was teaching him how to be strong.
Ok, now you can add your story. Maybe you can make Peter cry again, please, it’ll be great to add those pictures to the blog:
(Your story here)
If you’re asking how we might go about writing a blog as we are obviously driving (Guy on side of road in downpour, Peter so generously offers: Ohhh, sucks to have to change a flat tire in this rain) then I must tell you that technology allows us to have computers on our laps and the internet in cars. Also, we can’t get lost because there are maps in our dashboard. I don’t know the names of all these technologies, but it makes roadtripping like a picnic—if your picnic included sending emails, downloading songs on iTunes, and finding the nearest gas station (POI= point of interest, for all you non-adventurers out there) because you’re almost on empty.
Let’s take a step back though. It’s worth remembering where Peter has been to get to the place he is now. For this, I might need your help. On this blog, I make a request of you, my fair ladies and fine gentlemen, that you provide stories from the past (or present and future, they don’t need to be true) of Peter and his escapades. Think of this like the card you didn’t send him when you knew he was going away, or the text message you failed to grace him with because you were too lazy to say, “Hey, I know you’re going to bawl your eyes out when you cross out of Massachusetts, and you’ll probably wet your pants from anxiety too, ummm, I’ll be thinking of you.”
I’ll break the ice with my own short story. Peter and I had to pack the SUV, hybrid—save the environment with 25 miles to the gallon, and as we brought his few belongings that marked the expansion of his life with stuff he’d probably put away and not see for months out to the car, I could see the red spreading in his eyes. There was a distance that couldn’t be breached, a distance that a soul stretched across much wider than the mileage from east coast to west (Peter asked me to add that, he thinks he’s some kind of poet). Peter began to weep, let’s call it, uncontrollably. The skis were in the car, a few suitcases, a couple bags of shoes (one including a pair of Victoria’s Secret, rainbow slippers= Peter has some secrets) and in the midst of all his possessions, Peter lay himself down, huddled close to his ski bag, pulled his knees to his chest and shook as if there were a monster in his closet. My response, “Peter, awwww, how cute. You’re shaking with excitement. Well, I’ve gotta get the rest of this stuff in the car, so I’m just going to put it on top of you.” Which I did. And there he stayed until we stopped for dinner, releasing saline water drops onto the tarp he’d set down on the back seats of the car to prevent damage because he needs to sell the SUV when he gets to LA. He tried to reach forward between the front seats and hold my hand, but I slapped it away. I was teaching him how to be strong.
Ok, now you can add your story. Maybe you can make Peter cry again, please, it’ll be great to add those pictures to the blog:
(Your story here)
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