Last night, I was walking from my tent to the shower house, to get my daily clean on of course! I was almost at the well-lite oasis when a voice came out of the gloom. A bespectacled man in dark clothe pointed at me as if were a leper and cried, "Put a shirt on when going to the shower house, for God's sake!"
Stunned. Are they really that afraid of skin? I mean, it is just the upper torso of a reasonably fit male. Its not like I was running around in the buff, prancing like some Greek dryad. Hell, I mean, I only wear pants cause I figured it was the decent thing to do. As Nietzsche would comment, he called me out because he was scared of my nobility and is impotence.
That is all.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Boots
Also the nickname of one of the guys on work crew, who dresses the part of Walker Texas Ranger. His big black boots purportedly can be seen from miles away.
The story of my boots is one of anger, heartbreak, pain, and a little ridicule on the side (this added more for the atheistic value than for any real flavor). Since the story is long, none too interesting, and more of a gripe than anything, you are free to return to whatever social networking site you were previously at.
.....
I knew you would be back! Alright, from the top!
Around the beginning of April, I received an email from the Conservation department (the dept. I work for) that there was a Pro-Deal with Zamberlan for all Cons employees!! Yippee! Zamberlan is a smaller producer of boots, but they are renown for their superior construction, long lifetime, and all around snazzy design. The Pro-Deal cut the price of these boots by half, allowing me, the poor student/beggar/small time crook and street peddler, to afford them. The only catch (there is always a catch, right?) is that the boots had to be delivered to Philmont. And, I was like, whatever! I'll have plenty of time to break them in before I go out on a trek, or some nonsense like that!
Ahem, fast forward to Philmont. When I arrive, I of course check the mail room for any packages, and, seeing none, proceed to bide my time. I trust in the system. They surely must have gotten my faxed form and are just a little delayed in sending my boots. A week passes. At this point in the story, I am about to head out on a week long hands-on training session. In running shoes. 'Cause the boots have not arrived. El screwed? Yes, yes indeed. I frantically begin my calls. I call at least once a day. I send emails. I ask, plead, beg for help and am met with neutral voices and neutral words.
The customer service guy repeats to me that they do not have me in the system. The package, of course, has never been sent because it never needed to exist. He says that he can't help me with the Pro-Deal because that is the job of another office. He gives me a number, tells me to have a nice day, and I hang up, call the other office (this information, by the by, has taken over a week to wrest from them). There is only the calm, pleased voice of an answering machine. And, yet again I am stalemated. I have less than two days until I am strapping on an 80 pound pack and heading out into the wilderness to prepare camps for pukes and nature expressways.
At the random behest of a fellow Cons worker, we drive to Santa Fe. While feasting my eyes on the beauty and intricacy of this Southwestern city, I notice an REI, supplier of all things backpacking. Rows upon rows of boots sit on their walls, and I hear the singing of angels in the background. As it turns out, it was just music on the radio, but it definitely fit the mood. In a fit of madness, I give Zamberlan one for chance. After four or five times of calling the Pro-Deal office and receiving no answer, a friendly Italian accented voice finally responded to my pleas.
The boot I had previously ordered, the Steep, was not available for Pro-Deals due to its incredible popularity. He instead suggested the Zamberlan Civetta, worn by UN troops and Australian Special Forces. So, I left the heavenly walls of REI, and faxed in a new form. The boots, I was assured, would be there in three or so days. Problem. There was nowhere near enough time for them to be there before I headed out. Problem solved. A buddy was kind enough to let me borrow his boots for a few days. Problem. They were about a half size too small and kinda cheap.
The trek was scheduled to last 8.5 days, and I figured that we were doing low miles. My feet should be able to cope I foolishly told myself. Alas, after only three days of heavy hiking with a heavy pack my feet had dissolved into a mass of blisters, sores, and friction burns. I was unable to continue. Those borrowed boots had rubbed my skin raw and left my feet soaked. On the fourth day, my foreman decided to pull me off the run and send me back to base. So, I had been screwed.
While the doctor said my feet should recover quickly, I was still stuck on base, doing menial labor for the Cons department. Nothing too bad, just scrubbing dirty cable, rehandling shovels, and reorganizing signs. But, as I hobbled around, I cursed my predicament, and Zamberlan in particular for letting it happen. But then, as if by magic, the boots appeared. And all was forgiven.
The Zamberlan Civetta is an extremely comfortable boot that looks as if it may last me the majority of my twenties. Thats saying a lot, seeing as I plan to beat em up this summer, and then in all those future travels that one does while one is still comparatively young. Still got to break it in, but I have not had any problems yet. Fingers crossed it stays that way.
The story of my boots is one of anger, heartbreak, pain, and a little ridicule on the side (this added more for the atheistic value than for any real flavor). Since the story is long, none too interesting, and more of a gripe than anything, you are free to return to whatever social networking site you were previously at.
.....
I knew you would be back! Alright, from the top!
Around the beginning of April, I received an email from the Conservation department (the dept. I work for) that there was a Pro-Deal with Zamberlan for all Cons employees!! Yippee! Zamberlan is a smaller producer of boots, but they are renown for their superior construction, long lifetime, and all around snazzy design. The Pro-Deal cut the price of these boots by half, allowing me, the poor student/beggar/small time crook and street peddler, to afford them. The only catch (there is always a catch, right?) is that the boots had to be delivered to Philmont. And, I was like, whatever! I'll have plenty of time to break them in before I go out on a trek, or some nonsense like that!
Ahem, fast forward to Philmont. When I arrive, I of course check the mail room for any packages, and, seeing none, proceed to bide my time. I trust in the system. They surely must have gotten my faxed form and are just a little delayed in sending my boots. A week passes. At this point in the story, I am about to head out on a week long hands-on training session. In running shoes. 'Cause the boots have not arrived. El screwed? Yes, yes indeed. I frantically begin my calls. I call at least once a day. I send emails. I ask, plead, beg for help and am met with neutral voices and neutral words.
The customer service guy repeats to me that they do not have me in the system. The package, of course, has never been sent because it never needed to exist. He says that he can't help me with the Pro-Deal because that is the job of another office. He gives me a number, tells me to have a nice day, and I hang up, call the other office (this information, by the by, has taken over a week to wrest from them). There is only the calm, pleased voice of an answering machine. And, yet again I am stalemated. I have less than two days until I am strapping on an 80 pound pack and heading out into the wilderness to prepare camps for pukes and nature expressways.
At the random behest of a fellow Cons worker, we drive to Santa Fe. While feasting my eyes on the beauty and intricacy of this Southwestern city, I notice an REI, supplier of all things backpacking. Rows upon rows of boots sit on their walls, and I hear the singing of angels in the background. As it turns out, it was just music on the radio, but it definitely fit the mood. In a fit of madness, I give Zamberlan one for chance. After four or five times of calling the Pro-Deal office and receiving no answer, a friendly Italian accented voice finally responded to my pleas.
The boot I had previously ordered, the Steep, was not available for Pro-Deals due to its incredible popularity. He instead suggested the Zamberlan Civetta, worn by UN troops and Australian Special Forces. So, I left the heavenly walls of REI, and faxed in a new form. The boots, I was assured, would be there in three or so days. Problem. There was nowhere near enough time for them to be there before I headed out. Problem solved. A buddy was kind enough to let me borrow his boots for a few days. Problem. They were about a half size too small and kinda cheap.
The trek was scheduled to last 8.5 days, and I figured that we were doing low miles. My feet should be able to cope I foolishly told myself. Alas, after only three days of heavy hiking with a heavy pack my feet had dissolved into a mass of blisters, sores, and friction burns. I was unable to continue. Those borrowed boots had rubbed my skin raw and left my feet soaked. On the fourth day, my foreman decided to pull me off the run and send me back to base. So, I had been screwed.
While the doctor said my feet should recover quickly, I was still stuck on base, doing menial labor for the Cons department. Nothing too bad, just scrubbing dirty cable, rehandling shovels, and reorganizing signs. But, as I hobbled around, I cursed my predicament, and Zamberlan in particular for letting it happen. But then, as if by magic, the boots appeared. And all was forgiven.
The Zamberlan Civetta is an extremely comfortable boot that looks as if it may last me the majority of my twenties. Thats saying a lot, seeing as I plan to beat em up this summer, and then in all those future travels that one does while one is still comparatively young. Still got to break it in, but I have not had any problems yet. Fingers crossed it stays that way.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Weather
The weather here is a bit extreme. This of course comes from a guy who grew up in the relative calm of Southwestern Virginia. And even while in NoVa, close to D.C., shocking weather is a somewhat rare event. Gentle rain, sunny days, windy days, occasional snow storms. That is the extent of my meteorological insight.
The first thing that startled me is how dry the air is here. It literally sucks the moisture from your body, forcing me and the others here to consume mass quantities of water. On average, I am consuming a gallon of water a day, sometimes more depending on the work load. Dehydration also sets in rapidly, going as little as an hour and a half without water while working can result in exhaustion and delirium. So, yea, all I'm saying is that I seem to fill my gut with more water than food most days, which is a shocker to this former man-camel.
The second thing... Temperature fluctuates rapidly, relative to the level of sunlight. At this point, the reader is going, uh, no duh. However, let me explain. During the day, the temperature can reach as high as 90, and often sits around the low 80's. The body swelters during noon and early afternoon. However, during the evening and morning, the temperature can sit around a low 60, no complaint. But, that is not the end of the story. Even as I crawl into my sleeping bag for bed, I am often too hot to zip it all the way up. And, with regular clockwork, I wake up shortly before midnight, because the temperature has dipped to the low 40's and I must zip up the bag and curl up into a little ball for the night. The mornings are always cold, until about 15 minutes after the sun has risen, then the mercury instantly gains 15 points. Slowly, I am getting used to this rather riotous system.
The third thing is, at least to an Easterner, rather stupefying. Let us imagine a blue sky day. There are clouds on the horizon that one watches with anticipation, but aside from that, there is little menace in the heavens. An hour passes, and the only thing that has changed is the shape of the clouds over head. Another hour passes, the horizon is quite unexpectedly clear. Another hour passes, and the clouds overhead seem to seem to be smirking. Thirty seconds pass, hail and rain suddenly appear out of nowhere, drenching and battering you where you stand. Two minutes later, there is nothing but a few clouds and a blue sky. What the hell!?!!
Ok, so I know this was more stream of consciousness than planned out blog-stuff. Hope you get the point though....
The first thing that startled me is how dry the air is here. It literally sucks the moisture from your body, forcing me and the others here to consume mass quantities of water. On average, I am consuming a gallon of water a day, sometimes more depending on the work load. Dehydration also sets in rapidly, going as little as an hour and a half without water while working can result in exhaustion and delirium. So, yea, all I'm saying is that I seem to fill my gut with more water than food most days, which is a shocker to this former man-camel.
The second thing... Temperature fluctuates rapidly, relative to the level of sunlight. At this point, the reader is going, uh, no duh. However, let me explain. During the day, the temperature can reach as high as 90, and often sits around the low 80's. The body swelters during noon and early afternoon. However, during the evening and morning, the temperature can sit around a low 60, no complaint. But, that is not the end of the story. Even as I crawl into my sleeping bag for bed, I am often too hot to zip it all the way up. And, with regular clockwork, I wake up shortly before midnight, because the temperature has dipped to the low 40's and I must zip up the bag and curl up into a little ball for the night. The mornings are always cold, until about 15 minutes after the sun has risen, then the mercury instantly gains 15 points. Slowly, I am getting used to this rather riotous system.
The third thing is, at least to an Easterner, rather stupefying. Let us imagine a blue sky day. There are clouds on the horizon that one watches with anticipation, but aside from that, there is little menace in the heavens. An hour passes, and the only thing that has changed is the shape of the clouds over head. Another hour passes, the horizon is quite unexpectedly clear. Another hour passes, and the clouds overhead seem to seem to be smirking. Thirty seconds pass, hail and rain suddenly appear out of nowhere, drenching and battering you where you stand. Two minutes later, there is nothing but a few clouds and a blue sky. What the hell!?!!
Ok, so I know this was more stream of consciousness than planned out blog-stuff. Hope you get the point though....
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Training
Philmont is, at least from what I'm hearing, a big deal. Like, a fairly well sized big deal. Something like 20,000 kids come running and tearing through this corner of New Mexico a year... Damn.
Training here is a sordid affair. For whatever reason, I get the feeling that Philmont is a gigantic Boy Scout themed amusement park. Here you have horse riding, and here you have pole climbing! And over in this camp you have biking and root beer on tap! The trails between each camp are short and easy, designed for comfort as opposed to pure wilderness experiences. When, I say these things, please do not however underestimate the beauty of Philmont Ranch. It is situated on gorgeous mountains, speckled with a dozen species of tall majestic trees. The streams serenly gurgle and the deer, elk, bear, and other wildlife roam freely. However, as a member of the Conservation department, it is my job to ensure that thousands of pukes with unsmiling faces get to experience this place, so as to make sure they enjoy their ride on the Philmont Express!! We work tirelessly to keep the trails maintained and navigable, and to ensure that their overnight lodging has all the modern amenities.
I digress. The first half week of training consisted of powerpoints, slack faced instructors and a hot room nicknamed 'Buster Brown'. The second week was a hands on experience, where each "Cons" soul was assigned a foreman and went off into the wild to build and repair. The first week taught me why I have a strong dislike for the concept of Scouting. The rules and regulations. The silly and pointless traditions. The god damn uniform. It was during this week that I found myself buying lots and lots of things so that I might look the part of a Scout. For what reason? I have no idea. I went into this job because I wanted to work hard all summer in a beautiful part of the country, not dress up like a fake soldier. (Some day, I will turn on that internal editor, but, for now, it stays off) The culmination of the first week ended in the head of the Cons department declaring that "The Boy Scouts is a Conservative Organization." Yep, pretty much hit it on the head. Week number two taught me why this is such a sweet job. I found myself stopping countless times just to look at the stark cliffs, the still snow capped mountains, the valleys filled with lush pines. The land was unforgiving, hot during the day and cold at night, but I forgave it anyway, as I trod down trails with old trees, with new saplings, with ponds, with grasslands, with mesas, with life, all of it alive. Even as I put mattock to the ground, sweat pouring down my face and into my filthy shirt, even as my glasses are pelted with sledged rock, even as the stump finally rips free from its place of birth, life, and death, I am in love with this land. I enjoy this work. But, even as I crawl into tent, exhausted but pleased from a hard days work, I am tortured by a faint feeling.
I am not a Boy Scout. This is pounded into my head every day. It is not as if I stick out because the others choose to disregard a non-scout. I stick out because I do not play follow the leader. Because I do not chant their slogans. Because I do not hold the same ideals as they do. Hell, I don't even backpack like they do. I do not agitate, I hardly have much to say. But in my own way, for thinking just a little differently, I am a seperate unit.
Nor do I want to be a Boy Scout.
So I am being trained, little by little. Not just in the methods of trail building, trail maintenance, or simply conservation. I am being trained how to follow orders by a rigid and inflexible organization with standards only comprehendible to a Boy Scout. Perhaps this is part of becoming an adult, of growing up. I am discovering that the world may be as big as I like it, but is controlled and ordered according to people and organizations that have no care for my individual concepts. In other words, if I want to see the world, I have to play another man's rules.
Training here is a sordid affair. For whatever reason, I get the feeling that Philmont is a gigantic Boy Scout themed amusement park. Here you have horse riding, and here you have pole climbing! And over in this camp you have biking and root beer on tap! The trails between each camp are short and easy, designed for comfort as opposed to pure wilderness experiences. When, I say these things, please do not however underestimate the beauty of Philmont Ranch. It is situated on gorgeous mountains, speckled with a dozen species of tall majestic trees. The streams serenly gurgle and the deer, elk, bear, and other wildlife roam freely. However, as a member of the Conservation department, it is my job to ensure that thousands of pukes with unsmiling faces get to experience this place, so as to make sure they enjoy their ride on the Philmont Express!! We work tirelessly to keep the trails maintained and navigable, and to ensure that their overnight lodging has all the modern amenities.
I digress. The first half week of training consisted of powerpoints, slack faced instructors and a hot room nicknamed 'Buster Brown'. The second week was a hands on experience, where each "Cons" soul was assigned a foreman and went off into the wild to build and repair. The first week taught me why I have a strong dislike for the concept of Scouting. The rules and regulations. The silly and pointless traditions. The god damn uniform. It was during this week that I found myself buying lots and lots of things so that I might look the part of a Scout. For what reason? I have no idea. I went into this job because I wanted to work hard all summer in a beautiful part of the country, not dress up like a fake soldier. (Some day, I will turn on that internal editor, but, for now, it stays off) The culmination of the first week ended in the head of the Cons department declaring that "The Boy Scouts is a Conservative Organization." Yep, pretty much hit it on the head. Week number two taught me why this is such a sweet job. I found myself stopping countless times just to look at the stark cliffs, the still snow capped mountains, the valleys filled with lush pines. The land was unforgiving, hot during the day and cold at night, but I forgave it anyway, as I trod down trails with old trees, with new saplings, with ponds, with grasslands, with mesas, with life, all of it alive. Even as I put mattock to the ground, sweat pouring down my face and into my filthy shirt, even as my glasses are pelted with sledged rock, even as the stump finally rips free from its place of birth, life, and death, I am in love with this land. I enjoy this work. But, even as I crawl into tent, exhausted but pleased from a hard days work, I am tortured by a faint feeling.
I am not a Boy Scout. This is pounded into my head every day. It is not as if I stick out because the others choose to disregard a non-scout. I stick out because I do not play follow the leader. Because I do not chant their slogans. Because I do not hold the same ideals as they do. Hell, I don't even backpack like they do. I do not agitate, I hardly have much to say. But in my own way, for thinking just a little differently, I am a seperate unit.
Nor do I want to be a Boy Scout.
So I am being trained, little by little. Not just in the methods of trail building, trail maintenance, or simply conservation. I am being trained how to follow orders by a rigid and inflexible organization with standards only comprehendible to a Boy Scout. Perhaps this is part of becoming an adult, of growing up. I am discovering that the world may be as big as I like it, but is controlled and ordered according to people and organizations that have no care for my individual concepts. In other words, if I want to see the world, I have to play another man's rules.
4 Minute Snore
White tufts fell from the sky. They floated down, were tossed about by the passage of delivery trucks and finally formed clumps that hid in corners between buildings. While I was at first amazed by these meandering wisps, I soon began to wonder what they were. They were far too numerous to have an isolated cause, and my first guess was that they were botanical in origin. But that did not make sense, they were almost hairy. Could they be clods of hair left over by a divine being after a good shave? Perhaps not, they don't make razors quite that big.
Then it hit me. It was down, as in bird down. Those soft white feathers had been pelting me in the face all morning, even managing to make it into my mouth. Ahh, it would appear I had been welcomed to Chicago.
My train ride had so far been uneventful. I awoke on the 24th at 3:45, piled my gear and my dear sweet mum into the car and drove off to Lynchburg. The train arrived, I piled my gear in, kissed and hugged said dear sweet mum goodbye and traveled first north. The towns, trees and passengers flitted by and away. And I sat in a traveler's stupor, letting meaningless thoughts pan through my head as the minute hand whirled along. When I arrived in DC, I lugged my nearly 90 pounds of gear through the terminal and sat down on a quiet, unoccupied bench. I occupied the time between trains by reading a space epic by the name of A Grey Moon Over China. While altogether a rather verbose and poetic book, the plot was a horrible shambles of meaningless characters, uninteresting battles, impossible events, and general lameness. And, unfortunately, is over 500 pages. With a fair amount of grit, I read until the train to Chicago pulled up. And, before I knew it, the book lay finished, and the sun was setting between Ohio wind mills.
After a rather restless sleep, being both too large for the space provided and unused to a shaking bed, I awoke at 430 in the morning and watched the sky turn from black to blue to violet. Farms rushed away, stray light shining from distant houses as quiet men and women prepared for a new day. I waited as my fellow passengers wearly opened their eyes and began to share my rather rural experience. We entered Chicago as the intercom began to buzz with info about bland breakfast items for sale in the snack car. Collecting my things, I stepped off of the train.
With 6 hours to kill and a brutal need to do something with my body aside from sit, I headed into the city with only a few goals, and no real expectations. Almost as soon as I exited the relative calm of the station, I was overcome with the sheer beauty of downtown Chicago. It was rush hour, but the traffic was light. The people were the same from every other major city I have been in, but they were not rude, nor frowned, nor showed disappointment that today of all days they had to be alive. The architecture spoke of style, of age, and of grace mixed with the modern needs of 2010. The parks were plenty, simple, and well used.
At the behest of my parents, I set out to find the Field's Museum of Natural History. After a rather fruitless loop of some of the nearby residential streets (filled with high rises, specialty apartments, and expensive riverside homes) I decided to ask for directions. Oh yes, the museum is in a different part of town altogether, yea, go down this street, this street... Clutching a rather poorly drawn map, I set off on what I believed to be a hopeless goose chase. I passed by quiet shops and by the hectic Chicago Mercantile Exchange. I traveled with businessmen, tourists, delivery men with dolly's loaded with food and drink, a homeless man on a bicycle, and a lady wrapped in a white sheet muttering obscenities at noone in particular. And, it simply did not matter that we were all traveling to different places. I eventually made my way to the park by Lake Michigan. Tourists on Segways zoomed past as I sat on a bench and stared out at the incredible vastness of the great lake. After I felt that I had consumed all I could from my vantage on the bench, I walked off towards the museum trifecta (not just the natural history museum, but also a planeterium and aquarium) that I was told to expect. What I did not expect was the rather hefty cover charge that I was asked to pay at the door. As quickly as I had entered, I turned around, and ambeled back the way I had come, looking for something to eat.
A cafe by the name of Roti caught my eye, advertising their speciality in Mediteranian fare. Not only was I pleasantly surprised, I was life alteringly amazed! When ordering your meal, you first select a particular dish, then a deliciously seasoned meat, then a wide variety of mediteranian items to throw on top of it ranging from black olives, to aioli sauce, to hummus. And, it was rather delicious. Rather, rather delicious!! A shoutout to the guys and gals in DC, they just opened a new franchise downtown! I would recommend checking it out.
Ahem. After a rather (rather, rather) delicious lunch, I then headed back to the station, and dived into my next book, Three Cups of Tea. I strongly recommend this book to anyone who is interested in the immediate benefits education can provide. It is a well written account of Greg Mortenson and his quest to build schools in Pakistan and provide a well rounded education to thousands of children. The train pulled in, and while I was still captivated by the book, I vowed to pay attention to whatever scenery came my way. The scenery available, however, was a repeat of flat farmland and farmhouses. So, I returned to my book and music, and fell into another restless slumber. This time, however, there was another element preventing my rest, Bruce Willis.
Bruce Willis (well, honestly, he looked just like him) appeared to be the average overworked businessman, and he probably was one by day. But by night, he became the 4 Minute Snore! Bruce Willis would sleep soundly, for, on average, 4 minutes. But, when that 4 minutes was up, he would let loose this deep, feral, loud snore that could drag on for as long as 20 seconds. Sleep became instances of waking up to this fearsome sound located only one row behind me.
After it became light, and I decided that I was awake, I looked out into the stark and empty beauty of Colorado. A land of grass, telephone poles and telephone cables. A land of deep tunnels and gorgeous rock formations. I instantly fell in love with how empty and how powerful the land was. We stopped in small outposts where the townsfolk sold jewelry, coloring books, Native American artifacts, and then moved back out into a land where man was a concept few and far between.
We entered New Mexico and I got off the train at Raton, two hours north of Santa Fe. There a bus picked me up and took me to Philmont.
Then it hit me. It was down, as in bird down. Those soft white feathers had been pelting me in the face all morning, even managing to make it into my mouth. Ahh, it would appear I had been welcomed to Chicago.
My train ride had so far been uneventful. I awoke on the 24th at 3:45, piled my gear and my dear sweet mum into the car and drove off to Lynchburg. The train arrived, I piled my gear in, kissed and hugged said dear sweet mum goodbye and traveled first north. The towns, trees and passengers flitted by and away. And I sat in a traveler's stupor, letting meaningless thoughts pan through my head as the minute hand whirled along. When I arrived in DC, I lugged my nearly 90 pounds of gear through the terminal and sat down on a quiet, unoccupied bench. I occupied the time between trains by reading a space epic by the name of A Grey Moon Over China. While altogether a rather verbose and poetic book, the plot was a horrible shambles of meaningless characters, uninteresting battles, impossible events, and general lameness. And, unfortunately, is over 500 pages. With a fair amount of grit, I read until the train to Chicago pulled up. And, before I knew it, the book lay finished, and the sun was setting between Ohio wind mills.
After a rather restless sleep, being both too large for the space provided and unused to a shaking bed, I awoke at 430 in the morning and watched the sky turn from black to blue to violet. Farms rushed away, stray light shining from distant houses as quiet men and women prepared for a new day. I waited as my fellow passengers wearly opened their eyes and began to share my rather rural experience. We entered Chicago as the intercom began to buzz with info about bland breakfast items for sale in the snack car. Collecting my things, I stepped off of the train.
With 6 hours to kill and a brutal need to do something with my body aside from sit, I headed into the city with only a few goals, and no real expectations. Almost as soon as I exited the relative calm of the station, I was overcome with the sheer beauty of downtown Chicago. It was rush hour, but the traffic was light. The people were the same from every other major city I have been in, but they were not rude, nor frowned, nor showed disappointment that today of all days they had to be alive. The architecture spoke of style, of age, and of grace mixed with the modern needs of 2010. The parks were plenty, simple, and well used.
At the behest of my parents, I set out to find the Field's Museum of Natural History. After a rather fruitless loop of some of the nearby residential streets (filled with high rises, specialty apartments, and expensive riverside homes) I decided to ask for directions. Oh yes, the museum is in a different part of town altogether, yea, go down this street, this street... Clutching a rather poorly drawn map, I set off on what I believed to be a hopeless goose chase. I passed by quiet shops and by the hectic Chicago Mercantile Exchange. I traveled with businessmen, tourists, delivery men with dolly's loaded with food and drink, a homeless man on a bicycle, and a lady wrapped in a white sheet muttering obscenities at noone in particular. And, it simply did not matter that we were all traveling to different places. I eventually made my way to the park by Lake Michigan. Tourists on Segways zoomed past as I sat on a bench and stared out at the incredible vastness of the great lake. After I felt that I had consumed all I could from my vantage on the bench, I walked off towards the museum trifecta (not just the natural history museum, but also a planeterium and aquarium) that I was told to expect. What I did not expect was the rather hefty cover charge that I was asked to pay at the door. As quickly as I had entered, I turned around, and ambeled back the way I had come, looking for something to eat.
A cafe by the name of Roti caught my eye, advertising their speciality in Mediteranian fare. Not only was I pleasantly surprised, I was life alteringly amazed! When ordering your meal, you first select a particular dish, then a deliciously seasoned meat, then a wide variety of mediteranian items to throw on top of it ranging from black olives, to aioli sauce, to hummus. And, it was rather delicious. Rather, rather delicious!! A shoutout to the guys and gals in DC, they just opened a new franchise downtown! I would recommend checking it out.
Ahem. After a rather (rather, rather) delicious lunch, I then headed back to the station, and dived into my next book, Three Cups of Tea. I strongly recommend this book to anyone who is interested in the immediate benefits education can provide. It is a well written account of Greg Mortenson and his quest to build schools in Pakistan and provide a well rounded education to thousands of children. The train pulled in, and while I was still captivated by the book, I vowed to pay attention to whatever scenery came my way. The scenery available, however, was a repeat of flat farmland and farmhouses. So, I returned to my book and music, and fell into another restless slumber. This time, however, there was another element preventing my rest, Bruce Willis.
Bruce Willis (well, honestly, he looked just like him) appeared to be the average overworked businessman, and he probably was one by day. But by night, he became the 4 Minute Snore! Bruce Willis would sleep soundly, for, on average, 4 minutes. But, when that 4 minutes was up, he would let loose this deep, feral, loud snore that could drag on for as long as 20 seconds. Sleep became instances of waking up to this fearsome sound located only one row behind me.
After it became light, and I decided that I was awake, I looked out into the stark and empty beauty of Colorado. A land of grass, telephone poles and telephone cables. A land of deep tunnels and gorgeous rock formations. I instantly fell in love with how empty and how powerful the land was. We stopped in small outposts where the townsfolk sold jewelry, coloring books, Native American artifacts, and then moved back out into a land where man was a concept few and far between.
We entered New Mexico and I got off the train at Raton, two hours north of Santa Fe. There a bus picked me up and took me to Philmont.
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