During Travel Post #3

“San Francisco isn’t in the same country as Lakeside anymore than New Orleans is in the same country as New York or Miami is in the same country as Minneapolis.”
“Is that so?” said Shadow, mildly.
“Indeed it is. They may share certain cultural signifiers—money, a federal government, entertainment—it’s the same land, obviously—but the only things that give it the illusion of being one country are the greenback, The Tonight Show, and McDonald’s.”

-- Neil Gaiman, American Gods

So.  I found out what my problem with Ireland is.

I'm on the wrong side of the island.

Now, don't get me wrong. Dublin is a perfectly lovely place, once you get used to it. You do have to make the effort, but you can find history hiding in places -- or pubs, of course, all of them proclaiming that some famous writer or other once drank there. But it's like going to New Orleans and going, "Okay. Seen the Gulf Coast!"

 

Today, I went to the famous Cliffs of Moher. I took a tour that I'd selected specially because it included a hike up a Burren mountain.

Now, let me pause to say that I? Am not a nature girl. I do not take to camping, walking, or generally being outdoors very well. But I thought, What the hell? It says 'gentle mountain hike'. It'll be a charming little stone-lined path up the mountain.

GUYS, I CLIMBED A BLOODY MOUNTAIN. And I mean, climbed up, stepped over stones and through windy, well-trodden paths the width of your foot, with a hiking pole to support myself up and everything. I was red-faced and out of breath every time we stopped.

But I made it all the way up to the top.

The Burren is a part of Ireland that once was under water; then when the Ice Age came, the glaciers pushed all the soil off the land, leaving exposed limestone mountains. You can't grow anything in the soil because it's very thin and the limestone doesn't allow water to stay in the ground, but grass grows well there; so it's the picturesque farm country you see in postcards. As I was climbing over these massive limestone rocks, all I could think about was how the ancients thought rocks and fossils were the remains of giants and dragons.

I was walking through a graveyard, a gorgeous, blossoming necropolis.

At the very top there was a tree with bits of paper and string tied around it -- there was a legend concerning that type of tree (ash, I think) that if you tied something of yours around the tree you left the problem behind for the faeries to take care of.

Paper is biodegradable, so I don't feel too guilty for littering.

After the hike (HIKE PEOPLE, HIKE), we had tea and cake, then went to the Cliffs of Moher. The weather was, apparently, perfect -- sun-shine and little wind. The guide kept remarking how gorgeous the weather was and how lucky we were.

Now, the Cliffs? Breathtaking. Sheer rock faces that fall straight down into the sea, the water breaking over boulders and sea life just off the coast. Little white caps kept breaking out in the (blue, blue, deeply gorgeous sapphire blue) water, like dolphins surfacing. Or Selkies.

After that, we drove around the coast and into Galway. Which, actually, is in the general area where my great-great grandmother came from, way, way back in the day, so it had a bit of an extra-special meaning to me. We walked through the main street of Galway and then back again to meet our bus back to Dublin.

Today? That's the sort of day I was expecting in Ireland. If you're heading this way, the tour I took is MacCoole's Tours; you meet up early with Caroline in front of the TI on Suffolk Street, and she walks you to your bus and gives you a lovely little walking tour of Dublin and explains about where you'll be going. John is her cousin, who gives the hiking tour. They're both rather brilliant, too -- she's got a history degree and actually teaches in Dublin, and he's got an archaeology degree. And they feed you cake. Did I mention that? You can get cake or pie at the end of the hike. Hey, you climbed a freakin' mountain.  You've earned it.

It's well past one AM over here by now, but I had to get out and tell you even just a little bit about how magical my day was today. Tomorrow is my last full day -- shopping, anyone?

During Travel Post #1

NOTE: This post was written on Aug 19th, and typed up and posted today, Aug 21st.

“He who would travel happily must travel light.” 

-– Antoine de Saint Exupéry

I realize that I am not the stereotypical backpacker. That when people look at me they expect two pieces of rolling luggage to be trailing behind. And, in general, that's true. Backpackers here are younger, college kids or look like they might have a kukari tucked away in their bag. I'm...  somewhere in between. A middle-class traveller staying in cheap accommodations to stretch every dollar.

It's bizarre, actually. How normal this all feels. I could do this forever. And it's unbelievable because I know when I get home, I won't be able to put it into words. How at peace I feel. How hilarious it is to see the locals, especially in Lacock, who were almost amused at how charming we found the little hamlet when they were obviously as bored as I am at home. How it feels to be a stranger in a strange land, but not be scared in the slightest. How as I expected, I did miss some people, but it's more a fond remembrance than a longing, a pining (and yes, there is a difference) while, at the same time and for no fault of their own, I don't miss others. How all our misconceptions are wrong -- the only downright rude people I've met over here have been foreign, the food's amazing (and all fried), that it's possible to have efficient, clean public transportation (US, take note.)

How I'm finding a little more of myself each day. I'm finding inner and outer strength, that getting lost is just fine.

I'm writing this on the train to Cardiff, going down into the Welsh countryside, my ears popping. I love train travel. I get to sit back and watch the world fly by. This will sound corny, but it makes me feel like an adventurer. It reminds me of railroad men and the Wild West, the bravery and excitement and the unknown.

In the tunnel under the Bristol Channel, Wales and the future on the other side... And the light approaches...

The Road Goes Ever On And On...

"I saw that my life was a vast glowing empty page and I could do anything I wanted."

--  Jack Kerouac; The Dharma Bums

So.

Tomorrow I take off. Less than 24 hours.  But before I go, I thought I'd let you all in on a bit of personal introspection.  Some aspect of blogging -- blogging like this, that is -- is more personal and diary-like anyway.  And this is one of those once-in-a-lifetime, could possibly change everything type of trips that you build up and put up on a pedestal. Honestly, I'd like to see if it is one of those life-changing trips.  So what better way to do that than to record who I was before my trip, and compare it to who I'll be in half a month.

I leave for this trip... Well.  I leave homeless, isolated physically from dear friends, and with a broken heart.  I leave inches, centimeters, from completely falling apart, and not caring if I even bother to put myself together again.  I leave physically, spiritually, emotionally drained. It's less painful to be empty.

That's what I leave as. Empty.

Tablua rasa, from the Latin. Blank slate. The philosophical ideal that we're all born a blank slate, an unscribed tablet, everyone equal.  Nurture over nature.

I hope and pray to powers I doubt even exist anymore that something good comes from this. I'm terrified that it won't the big dream that I'm making this out to be. I'm terrified that it will, and that I'll come home and be stuck.  I think I'd die if I got a taste of what could be but couldn't have.

So. I leave terrified, and empty, and broken, wanting things I don't have, don't know if I can have, or if I should even want them.

I leave with my Entire Life hooked over my shoulders. I could conceivably drop off the face of the planet as long as I have what I've got packed. Do you know how humbling it is to know that you have every belonging of importance packed away for easy transport?

Do you know how... freeing it is? Knowing you could just go on and on, 'down from the door where it begins'? Knowing that maybe, just maybe, you'll be brave enough to do that one day?

So this is me. Terrified, yes. Empty, yes. Broken, of course. That is default human condition.

But grateful. Grateful for the chance, the opportunity. Grateful for those who inspired me, who taught me how to be brave. Even if you don't know it.

I'm shutting everything off for the night.  At the latest, you'll all hear from me on the 31st, when I get back home.

If I decide to get back on the plane.

The road goes ever on and on.

Once is a Coincidence, Twice is a Pattern

"I've only got teabags, I'm afraid - but I daresay you've had enough of tea leaves?"

-- Remus Lupin; Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban by J. K. Rowling

So Monday, with one more week to go, I came across a five pence coin in an innocuous roll of dimes while I was at work.  It was a sign. Even my job wants me to go on my vacation!

I have a very interesting relationship with superstitions.  For example, I don't believe that walking under a ladder or crossing a black cat is bad luck -- I do, however, throw salt over my shoulder, and knock on wood to ward off a jinx. I don't believe in ghosts, but if a friend of mine tells me they've seen one, I believe them.  I love collecting the little tidbits of cultural information into my mental filing cabinet, but I rarely use or believe any of them.

In short, like mythology, I love superstitions. Even if I think some of them are hilariously silly.

Everyone follows a few at times, even if we're just keeping with tradition. The old adage "Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue" is said at least once at every single wedding in the Western world, lucky penny or silver sixpence in the shoe optional. Some ball players (and rabid fans) have to wear the exact same clothes -- underwear included -- or do certain things in the locker rooms and stands at every game in order to ensure a win.

Lots of airlines do not have row 13 on their flight.  The rows go from 12 to 14. I always want to make a scene about 13 being gone -- either throw a fit about 13 being my lucky number or demanding that someone send out a search party for the missing row. IT COULD BE LOST AND ALL ALONE AND SCARED AND CRYING FOR ITS MOMMY.  You see the same thing in high rise hotels. I can understand such a superstition in, say, Las Vegas, where Lady Luck is a fickle mistress, but to me, the whole thing is just silly. But the 13 superstition is strong in the padawans, so the bottom line is this: People think that 13 is unlucky (why is still a mystery lost to history, but most blame the Vikings or the Christians for triskaidekaphobia). Customers will not buy airline tickets or rent hotel rooms on those rows/floors, so the company has lost money. Making a silly acquiescence to keep the revenue up is a small price to pay.

I did not know this until I started looking into this post, but it's supposed to be bad luck to start a trip on Friday. Maybe that explains my trouble getting to California three weeks ago? Do curses work if you don't know about them?

Some people think this harkens back to the Vikings and Christians again. Thanks, guys!  Friday was supposed to have been Frigg's day -- Frigg, the wife of Odin (or Woden), got her own day too. (Wednesday was Woden's day, if you didn't know) When Christianity swept through the world, Frigg became a devil and, like Halloween, Friday became bad luck. Unless you work weekdays. Then Friday's a godsend come quitting time.

But when does a tradition become a superstition, or conversely when does a superstition become a tradition?  It's a fine line.

For example, my mother always changes the beds in the entire house before she goes on a trip. She says it's because she likes coming home and sleeping on clean sheets, but it's become a sort of travel tradition in my family. I know it's something I do, clean up a bit before going on a trip because it's nice coming home to a nice, clean room.  From what I've read, some people have to clean. Others have to have a certain piece of jewelry on, or have a lucky penny in their pocket.

Personally, I think it's a bit of a Jedi mind-trick we give ourselves, like -- well, like wearing racy knickers: You feel sexy, so you act sexy. When you have on a lucky necklace, or lucky earrings, or have a lucky coin on you, you feel lucky and confident and like nothing can strike you down.  If you don't have that special talisman and are keenly aware of it, every little bump is a terrible blow. 

Does anyone else have any travel superstitions or lucky charms they travel with? Come on, confess your deepest neurosises to the class, children!

And yes, I'm going to be leaving Monday with my lucky 5p. We'll be fine.

Bravery and the Fine Lines

"Can you hear that? That’s me smiling, y’all. I’m smiling so loud you can fucking hear it."

-- Jenny the Bloggess

My last entry concerning what I am coming to call The Great California Wedding Rush was, basically, a rant post.  It was quick (well, for me) and off the cuff, and full of sarcasm and anger.

Well, I'm back from Cali now, not as well rested as I'd like to be (damn you jetlag, still kicking my butt two days later). I've still got the sarcasm, but now I've got a serene focus that's helping me glide through the days.

The weekend was short -- far, far too short, but then again all time is when it involves good friends.  I spent the majority of my time at the beautiful Mission Inn in Riverside, California, where my friends got married in the gorgeous chapel on site. 

Now, in my last blog post I mentioned the story of the Origin of Love, from Plato's famous Symposium, a conversation about love that supposedly occurred in real life and was heard down the line by Plato and written down.  The particular story I cited was told by the character of Aristophanes, a real-life contemporary of Socrates'. Since he was a comic poet, some scholars have interpreted his myth as a parody of creation myths. But even if it was intended to be that way, it still contains that one good thing that call great comedy does:

On one level? It's true.

People always say, "You're starting out on this journey together" to newlyweds. Roads and travel and new lives are easy parallels, and it's easy to equate a partner with a passenger or fellow traveller; someone you've brought along for the ride, to talk to you during the long stretches of nothing, to take over when you need some well-needed rest, and someone to enjoy the sights with.

So let me say this, to our lovely newlyweds, M & S (I'd switch the order, but it wasn't that sort of wedding): Thank you. Thank you for inviting me to be a part of your happy, happy day. Thank you for reminding me, the old cynic that cringes when someone says "God bless you" when I sneeze, that not all religious people are the fire-and-brimstone types that get far too much press and ruin it for the rest. Thank you for showing me within twenty minutes of meeting the two of you exactly what I want, and for giving me the hope that someday, I will be as complete as you (seriously, you both just glow when you talk about the other). Thank you for giving me a moment during the day where I was able to realize that there was no room for the typical single-at-a-wedding melancholy, that everyone I loved was happy, that there was absolutely no room for anything but overwhelming joy, that I was fiercely happy.

Yes, your road together will be hard -- potholes that most people don't even imagine will probably be your norm -- but you are both strong, and strong together.  You have faced tough times before, and you will face them again, and damn it you will be stronger for it, not weaker. Steel is forged through fire and water, after all.  And we love you, even when it feels like no one else does.  Wholly, completely, no matter what.  Fuck them. You have us. And we're better anyway.

While I've got everyone here, though, I'd like to say something to my not-so newlyweds (EL and her honey), my no-longer newlyweds (A & R), my almost-weds (N & E), my never-gonna-happen-and-we're-just-fine-thank-you-very-muches (Midassa and Walkabout Man):  You are all so much braver than you think.  You've chosen a path and you're sticking to it and to each other and that? Is brave. Even if you don't think so, I find you to be incredibly brave.

To the rest of us, the never-doing-that-agains, the never-gonna-happens:  Love actually does exist. I've seen it. And with far too alarming regularity for it to be a fluke.  But even if it doesn't, that's okay.  Striking out on your own and doing things that make you happy is brave as hell as well.  I daresay even moreso, because you'll have ignorant fools telling you how brave you are to do that all by yourself!  And we'll smile and nod and say Oh yes, it is, isn't it? and secretly laugh inside at how easy it is to please ourselves.

And finally, to all of you, named and unnamed: Thank you for letting me a part of your journey, even in the limited capacities of annoying backseat driver and quick pit stop crew.  I love you all.

One day I hope to be as brave.

Carelessness versus Cost Efficiency

"To lose one parent, Mr. Worthing, may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness." 

-- Lady Augusta Blackwell, The Importance of Being Earnest

CAUTION: This post will contain swearing, pinpointing where I live, and the put Continental's dirty laundry on blast. That's right. I'm naming names.

Ever heard the story about the Origin of Love? It's a story from Plato's Symposium, about how humans used to be very different than how they are now: Two faces, four arms, four legs, and three races (male/male, male/female and female/female). The gods grew scared of our power and angry with our insolence, so to punish us they split us into two -- two arms and legs, one face, and a belly button scar to remind us that we'd been cut in half -- and scattered us apart from each other.  And if you're lucky, really truly lucky, you find the other half of your soul. The person who gets you, completes you, loves you fiercely and completely and utterly.

A few of my friends have been privileged enough to find their other halves. You probably know people like that -- the couple that is disgustingly, adorably perfect for each other, the two that make you just fucking green with envy at how wholly at peace they are.  One of these rare whole people couples is getting married this weekend, and they graciously invited me to join in their joy.  This joyous (re)union is taking place in Riverside, California.

I'm down in Southwest Louisiana.

Slight logistical problem, no?

So. I arranged to stay with some friends (another disgustingly whole couple).  Got a dress -- got two, actually.  And I booked my plane tickets.

Oh, plane tickets.  What the hell.

My local airport is Lake Charles Regional Airport.  The nearest 'big' airport -- one where I can get straight point a to point b flights out -- is Houston International, which is three hours away.  And that's three hours without a traffic jam, without a wreck on I-10, without rush hour traffic.  Normally it's about three hundred dollars more to save on the headache and fly out of LC, but this was one rare occasion where it was actually cheaper.

I try to be a responsible flier.  I know that sometimes flights get delayed due to forces outside everyone's control, so I like to have two, three hours worth of layovers if I have to change flights.  My flight to California had a three-hour layover in Houston. 

 A man with a metal briefcase in an airport. Two things being like this: bad spy movies and good political thrillers.

Allow me to pause for a SPOILER ALERT:  I do not know everything.

Sure, I like to pretend that I do, but there's scads of stuff that I don't know.  I don't know how to fly a plane, or cook a gourmet meal, or write computer code.

What I do know? Is customer service.  I've been doing what boils down to customer service since I was TWELVE, and yes, I'm including 'teaching' in the lump sum of 'customer service'.  It's a skill that I am proud to (mostly) possess -- the ability to say just the right thing at the right moment, to sense when someone needs help with something and to know when to back down, and how to do it all with a smile on my face.

I know that times are hard.  They're tough all over.  Companies are trying to cut costs everywhere while trying to not pass it on to the consumer, but in the end everyone still gets shafted:  No one is hiring, no one is promoting.  No one wants to work with the company because "Every time I go there, the service sucks!"

Now.  Allow me to explain why I've gone on this lovely little rant.

From what I later came to understand through talks with fellow travelers and overheard from workers talking to each other, Continental had four flights coming out of Lake Charles today -- the first one this morning, the second one at about 2, the third at 5, and the last one at 7.  The first one got canceled. Unfortunate, but these things happen. Some people on the 5 PM flight came in really early and were offered seats on the second flight.

... Which also got canceled.

Now, Lake Charles is a small airport, and in the past they have canceled flights due to underbooking. However, they have since signed contracts with airlines to shuttle pondhoppers from Lake Charles to one of the hub airports.  The weather today was partly cloudy, and it rained for maybe ten minutes today.  THERE WAS NO LEGITIMATE REASON GIVEN AS TO WHY THESE PLANES WERE CANCELED.

When I arrived well over an hour before my flight at 5, the SOLE CUSTOMER REPRESENTATIVE was hard at work at the Continental desk. See, all the people who had moved from the 5 PM flight to the 2 PM flight lost their seats -- and everyone who had been put on standby when the first flight got canceled snapped up their (now vacant) seats.

Fifteen minutes before my flight is scheduled to go out, we get the announcement -- delayed until 9 PM due to repairs.  And while I am thrilled that they're doing repairs on an airplane, they HAD TO WAIT UNTIL FIFTEEN MINUTES BEFORE WE'RE SCHEDULED TO LEAVE TO TELL US THIS?!

There is a fine line between cost efficiency and carelessness.

THIS WAS CARELESSNESS ON THE CORPORATE LEVEL.

We all run down to the customer service desk, where there are now four people working -- and three of them are from the American Airlines desk, helping out the Continental woman.  Why? Because they've critically understaffed the desk and she's drowning.  I stand in line for an hour waiting for my turn to reschedule my flight because let's face it -- I'm missing my connecting flight at 9; even if I could possibly get on the 7 PM flight, I would land at 8. If it wasn't delayed. And that's land -- they don't count the twenty minutes you have to taxi and sit on the tarmac in their time schedule.

I'd like to take this moment to thank the literary gods for inventing the ebook.  Yes, it's killing the printed word, but you helped me pass what would have been a very terrible hour waiting in line pleasantly rereading fluffy, smart ass Gerald Morris Arthurian romances.

When I get to the front, the American Airlines representative informs me that the 7 PM flight is (over)booked (which I know already) so I have two options: Fly out at 9 and stay overnight in Houston, or fly out tomorrow.

Had the flight been out at 7 AM, I would have been in Houston for the night.  But the flight was out at 9:30.

THAT IS HALF A DAY IN AN AIRPORT.  Or, alternately, a hotel in Houston. At six on a Friday night. By the airport.  I'm looking at $200 -- easy.  $200 that I, frankly, don't have.

I'm not doing either.

There was a flight out of Lake Charles at 9:00...  But when the guy mentions it, the Continental rep next to him snaps "DON'T OVERBOOK MY EARLY FLIGHTS".  When he says that they've booked 31 out of 36 seats, she says, "THAT'S OVERBOOKED, DON'T GIVE IT TO HER".  It was like hearing the evil queen in Snow White lecture the looking glass over who was the prettiest woman in the land, and I'm not exaggerating by much.

By this time, I honestly don't fucking care.  I really don't.  The wedding's taking place on Sunday, so I can fly in on Saturday and then come back on Monday.

So I'm booked on a flight out of Lake Charles at 2 PM.  I'll get into Riverside at 7:30 tomorrow night.

The guy, to his credit, was nothing but nice.  I did thank the guy for his help, apologized for my bad mood -- it wasn't his fault Continental is being stupid after all, he doesn't even work for them -- and made sure to get the number of the reservations desk.  Because I'm getting some compensation out of this.

I'm FUCKING MAD because I had been looking forward to spending the weekend with three of my favorite disgustingly whole couples, and meeting my little nephew for the first time.  And am probably going to use the cleaned up version when I write a sharp note to Continental.

To top it all off?  I overheard the Continental rep say that the 7PM flight was going to be delayed as well.

TWO CANCELED FLIGHTS AND A THIRD THAT NEEDS REPAIRS?!  THIS IS NOT CUTTING COSTS, THAT IS CUTTING YOUR THROAT, CONTINENTAL.  People don't like to travel nowadays because of the expense.  Giving people the runaround isn't going to make us jump through hoops to fly with you again.

Tomorrow morning, I'm getting up early and calling the Lake Charles terminal and asking if they honestly, truly think that the flight will go through today.  If they say no, I'm getting my ass into the car and going to Houston.

I am not happy, people. This is bullshit. And if something goes wrong tomorrow, I may seriously end up in jail.  Any volunteers for my one phone call? I'll pay you back for my bail.

Digging to China

"The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one's own country as a foreign land."

-- G. K. Chesterton

My idea of camping is only two towels in the bathroom at the holiday inn.  So the prospect of going overseas with naught but a carry-on bag, a checked backpack with a week and a half's worth of clothes, and as much cash as I can fit in my wallet is a bit daunting.

Taking the advice of the Newandtheral, more commonly referred to as Walkabout Man, I've decided to start some training.  Right now, it's just a bit of walking after work, but when I get my backpack, I will be loading it down and walking with it so I don't throw my back out my first day there.

Let's face it: London?  Is big.  And taxis are expensive.  And public transit is confusing.

I work 50+ hours a week between the two jobs, so finding time to do all this walking is daunting.  I know I should have been doing it for a few months now, but I've been putting it off.  Right now, however, it's perfect; it's just cool enough in the evenings to keep the mosquitoes away, but warm enough that all I really need is long sleeves and jeans, and maybe a hoodie.  Wednesday I plugged in to some Groban and went for a quick walk before dinner.

It was dark, granted, but the street's fairly lit between the lights from the other houses on the block, and the moon was out.

I love walking after sunset.  Especially when the weather's crisp at night, like it is right now; the stars are clearer and it's easier to pick out the constellations, and when the moon's full, the world is gilded in silver.  The moon's waxing currently, so Jupiter was easy to make out, lingering on the western horizon like some overdue evening star.

Someone remind me to look up at the stars when I go over to England, please?

Thursday I had about an hour between my jobs, so I went down to the lake and walked about for a while.  I haven't been down there in at least a year, maybe two, when Midassa and Tracy and I were all walking together.  The renovations were really lovely -- they've been doing some revitalization since Rita hit back in 2005.

Lake Charles at sunset, looking towards Sulphur, Louisiana, March 10, 2011

Sometimes it's easy to be hard on your own hometown.  Don't get me wrong; some places deserve it.  My grandparents lived in a town with a population of about 200, and it was so infinitely boring out there when I was growing up.  Now, when I go to small towns for my job, the little brick-and-mortar main streets bring back a lovely wave of Americana nostalgia.

The point I'm trying to make is this:  Travel always ends at home, sure.  But it begins there, too.  All you have to do is something out of your regular routine, or just slow down a little bit and look around.

Didn't we all start digging our way through the earth to China in our own backyards as children anyway?