still in love with that place

 

 

 

 

 

i kept turning to robert and saying, "they're never going to believe this. these pictures just don't capture it. they have to come here." our entire trip out west felt like a giant, slow motion movie set in the prehistoric era. it was just surreal. the land before time. before high rises and strip malls took over the terrain and and it was just rock as far as the road could stretch.

the food was decadent and rich and spicy and full-bodied. the people were kind and held the land sacred. and the mountains were staggering enough that, on a random tuesday in december, dozens of strangers gathered at an overlook to take in the sunset.

i'll never forget it (and neither will our facebook friends! shout-out to robert's 300 posted pictures! sorry to bomb your newsfeed...) if i could, i would live in a tiny house on a tiny plot of land with a tiny little family and use all our resources to travel. of course, the trip home, to familiar sheets and floorboards and kitchen counters is the best of all.


(and yes that is me in caesar's palace re-creating the elevator scene from the hangover. when you gamble $5.00 and win ten cents you know it's time to move on to new vegas activities.)

out of hiding: a request for out west

hi friends! these last few weeks (um...months...) of the year have been quite the doozy, but with graduation just around the corner, i can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel! i've come out from blogging hibernation to request a slight favor. remember last year, when we headed up the new england coast? remember how you gave me awesome tips and ideas? if it weren't for lovely readers, we wouldn't have known about the rutger's university grease trucks, or cook's lobster house, or a myriad of other little adventures we found ourselves enjoying.

in a little bit, we're headed out west. for a little end-of-the-year-let's-celebrate-no-more-school-EVER-or-at-least-for-now-and-hey!-it's-almost-christmas road trip.

we'll be in phoenix, scottsdale, sedona, the grand canyon, monument valley, zion national park, and las vegas. any tips, ideas or fun little side stops, please comment below! of course, i've made a travel  binder complete with sheet protectors for each activity i've planned so far, but there's always room for a little more fun:)

thank you! and see you in 2013. i promise to be more consistent...i hope.

in the meantime, we are slowly settling into our new digs. pablo has quickly found his resting spot:)

my ducks in a row

robert and i snuck away to the mountains this weekend, my sweet parents in tow. to see one of my best friends in the whole world marry a man who choked up at the mere mention of her name at the alter. to wake up early and take walks around the lake and stay up way too late drinking mcdonald's coffee at midnight. and the lake! what a beauty. i don't think i've ever seen so many ducks.

and upon seeing these waterfowl, i started thinking. and maybe it was the way the sun was hitting the middle of the water just so, or the cross sitting on the hill within eyeshot, or maybe just looking ahead of me and seeing mama and dad cross over the bridge, his arm around her shoulder because that's just where it fits, but i started thinking about getting my ducks in  a row. getting things organized and cleaned up around the house after a weekend away. getting my homework done ahead of time. getting the e-mails sent and the Bible read and the phone call returned within a reasonable hour.

the things i could accomplish if all my ducks would just line themselves up, pretty as can be.  but it's up to me to corral them. to wrangle them in line. and sometimes, like today, i'd honestly just rather let them play. let my mind wander, and my hair fall and the music sound. because ducks look nice in a row, but wouldn't you much rather see them splashing around in the water? i know i would.

to see it again

via

there are few things i enjoy more than seeing someone experience afresh and anew something i've long taken for granted.

it happened with the song "passing afternoon," when i made my sister three iron and wine cds just so she could fall in love with them. and in love she has stayed.

it happened again when i gave robert a collection of short stories by gabriel garcia marquez. we'd lie together on his twin bunk bed in the middle of the afternoon, his head propped up against the wall and mine against the window, reading out loud to each other as college kids trampled outside in the hall.

it happened also to robert when he took me up into the little alcove on the hilltop that overlooked the lake. the little nest of bushes and shrub that he used to immerse himself inside as a child. his hiding spot no longer secret.

tonight, we are taking robert's grandparents to the beach. armed with a pair of new culottes for her and bullfrog sunscreen for him, as well as a supply of homemade chocolate pound cake for us all. to see them walk on warm sand toward a cerulean sea for the first time in many, many moons.

because yes, they've seen the ocean. but when there are years between visits, when there are babies and grandbabies and gardens and three meals a day and cancers and needlework and bluebird mornings between the first and last time they've walked on a pier,

it's time to go again. time to dip again. dance again. feast again. and not take one minute of drenching sun for granted. like us beach bunnies and teenagers and lovers of the forever summer tend to so often do.

one day dreams: iceland's ring road

on the first real morning of our new england trip last autumn, robert and i found ourselves face-to-face across the table with a pair of sweet newlyweds. bed and breakfasts are always slightly awkward, but they made the morning fun and we talked until ten when they had to set off on their honeymoon.

to iceland.

they told us of the ring road, and how they were driving around it over a period of a few weeks. we exchanged smiles and well wishes, and they went on their way, riding away from the old house on a bicycle built for two. it was a brief exchange, just a few hours with feta omelets and orange juice in the early, foggy new england dawn.

when we got somewhere with internet access, we googled it. and lo and behold, this is my new dream:

one, two, three, four

i'll be eating soup for lunch for the rest of my days to afford airfare to iceland, but i hope somewhere that couple is living sweet married life together, and that they took a good camera on their trip.

forgive me sweet baby, but i always take the long way home

it took us six hours to take a two-hour route home last night. this was to robert's chagrin and my utter, utmost delight.

we did not take the highway. that was my one caveat. we took wandering back roads that meandered past neighborhoods and diners and little boys on bicycles after school. we stopped to take long winery tours and visit the mount olive pickle factory. we held hands across tables with checkered tablecloths and sipped warm coffee late into the afternoon.

it could have been a straight shot down interstate 40. just one right turn and hundreds of miles of straight.

but then we wouldn't have seen the four deer in the meadow. and we wouldn't have been reminded how pickles are made (i say reminded because we watch the same 10-minute video twice a year. you get a free jar of pickles each, people. need i say more?)

we wouldn't driven past my dad's old high school, and taken a picture in front of the sign (go southern wayne fighting saints!) or have met the tour guide at the winery, who wore flip flops in february and spoke in a define, practiced surfer boy accent. who suggested we try this type of wine, then this type, then just for good measure, this type. who snuck us extra crackers and showed us a picture of the oldest grape vine in the world.

yes, we would have made it home before sundown. and our weary, traveling faces would have hit the pillows of our own bed before midnight. but the day of traveling home is still a day of travel. and that means a day of experiences. of getting away from screens. of blasting the heat in an old sedan and cranking up some country jams from the early nineties (doug stone, anyone?)

because putting off tuesday and the workweek ahead is part of why we take these little getaways. to act for a second like vagabonds with no real responsibilities. and a true vagabond would never take the road most traveled.

my weekend: music and the mountain air

 

 

 

 

 

 

there is something spectacular about mountain air, something about altitude and attitude. the weather ran the gamut this weekend, from warm sunshine hitting our shoulders as we sat on rocking chairs to a blustery chill between our fingers and toes as we sat huddled outside the concert hall, waiting for the doors to open.

it was a sweet balloon of time, spent in little breakfast diners. on front rows of live music, lights flashing and sweet folk music wafting a few inches from my wondrous eyes. of still water and rickety old bridges.

but mostly, and perhaps most importantly, it was a weekend spent with two of my favorite men. my brother and husband are good-hearted, kind and spectacular people and just to be in their presence for 48 hours was a blessing. it also helps that they have killer taste in music and don't mind staying past midnight for an encore.
because after all, i do believe that's the heart of living. staying for the encore.

days seven and eight: the end

 

 

 

 

 

if there's anything this trip taught me, anything i learned over the miles we trekked and state lines we crossed, it's that this country of ours is something else. from towering maples that produce some of the sweetest, purest syrup i've tasted, to apples the size of basketballs and foliage so pretty it makes my heart ache, i was in awe.

our last two days were devoted to touring the local economy. we sat in a cold sugar house and watched a video on the making of maple syrup. the owners  brought us blankets and cider and the video was nice and short. we toured cabot creamery, sampling 25 different cheeses before nine a.m. then came ben & jerry's, green mountain coffee company, wilbur chocolate factory, and even the teddy bear factory. we learned about the land, and what fabulous goodies spring out of its bounty.

we spent our last night in amish country, waiting behind buggies at crossing lights. it was pure, spacious, clean and idyllic. and being so far out, amid the farmhouses and silos, it almost felt like home.

these two weeks back have been an adjustment of sorts. of papers and studying and work and pablo. but we've settled back into our routine quite fine. because as i've said before on here, traveling is fun. it is beautiful and worthwhile and downright thrilling at times. but nothing in this world beats your own bed. and the pin oaks by the cottage are just turning to crimson and i'm so thankful to be home underneath them, thanking the sweet Lord for getting us back safely. and for the ho-hum drill of an ordinary, quite spectacular life.

day six: a clear morning, a state fair and the journey

it struck me as odd, but strangely inate. for some reason, the cliffs of maine felt familiar, as if i'd walked them years ago, on some dreary winter morning with my boots on and hair pulled back. and as we passed the little cottages on the path down to the water, i thought about, seemed to remember, a life lived on the shore. i think it's in my bones, this being close to the ocean. like some old forgotten song settled into my blood, turning on and playing louder with each step of my moccasins on the damp soil.

our morning in maine was a sleepy one. it was quiet on the island. one of those cold, bright, clear, sunny days when autumn shows off a bit. we ate breakfast beside a warm window in the general store. thought about the near end to our trip, and all the miles stamped on us. our GPS. our soles and souls.

but what the morning lacked in noise and color, we found a few hours away. at a little county fair on the state border. on a whim, we followed a handmade sign off the highway. into the front yard of an elderly couple we did not know, who allowed us to park there. the ones with children in north carolina, who lit up at a chance to talk about them. who we stood around and talked to long after the fair had lost its appeal and the sun was setting.

we ate whoopie pies. examined prize pigs, chickens, and roses. handmade quilts and honey. horse shows by the track. we missed our hometown fair, and found the next best thing in this nugget of spontaneity, beneath the ferris wheel and big top.

i remember a park in albuquerque. standing beside the lake at closing time. watching the swing set sway as evening rustled the leaves around. i had felt it then, this déjà vu. of not wanting to leave for fear of losing it.

we left maine, but i felt it in vermont too. forgetting myself and blending. in all of the north, really. except when i asked for sweet tea, then i remembered.

day five: the maine lobster experience

there we were. two kids from the carolinas. raised on barbecue and fried chicken, used to grease. used to the messiness of eating with our fingers. the stickiness and sloppiness of it all.

but nothing could prepare us for that night in maine. the restaurant we reached at nightfall, the water and air the same shade of ebony. we were there too late to see the sunset flicker off the atlantic, or push the light out of each other's hair like we did on the vineyard.

we sat in the deep booth anyway. ordered the lobster. the one we'd waited for the whole trip. the waitress brought out the array. the buckets. the bibs. the nutcrackers. this was our first experience, and the whole thing was alien.

and the mess. oh, you guys. i think i was doing it wrong. my dress was ruined. robert spent about twenty minutes on one claw. we were so juvenile. amateurs. then, what started out as a giggle turned into a guffaw, and we shook the booth trying to maintain some air of civility, both of us trying not to look at each other, only our pitiful lobsters, tears streaming from the hilarity of it all.

somewhere behind me, a group was talking loudly. i heard snippets like "napa valley" "when i wrote my first book" and "oh, he's traveling for photojournalism." they were feasting on a four-course lobster meal, drinking red wine by the bottle.

they were completely spotless.

we paid and left out the side door, our bibs hanging in shreds in defeat. let them have their white linens. their unsmeared lipstick and powdered noses.

we'll have each other. and the dirt and muck and squalor that inevitably will come. just as in the morning, all is washed anew, with 24 more glorious hours to sink our teeth and elbows into all that life has to offer, embracing the mess, shying not. 

day four: a tour on bicycle

 

 

there was an old man named wilbur sitting at the bus station. with a cane in one hand and the other inside his down jacket. we sat beside him in the early hours of dawn, the sun still struggling, reaching to rise. in the cold that only that hour can bring.

he was just one of the people we would meet that day, on our journey to, around, and back from martha's vineyard. wilbur was traveling to see his brother, who lived alone on the vast island. the one he hadn't visited in years. then there was the woman aboard the ferry took her labradoodles across the water weekly. for sunshine on a new coast. the one who knew places to rent bikes, eat lunch, and avoid. the two friends also on a road trip, heading to the vineyard with no plans but to explore. to run and taste and smell and hopefully find an inn available.

and besides a lunch that cost more than i usually spend for a week's worth of meals, the vineyard did not disappoint. it was calm. above all, above everything else, the greenery, the gingerbread houses, and even the water, it was the sense of calm that swept about me, nipping at my toes as we rode in the dusk. when evening falls on shops at closing time, on an island past its vacation season, something magical is in the air, something only locals are privy to and we felt like giddy outsiders.

we drove overnight to boston, arriving an hour before midnight. we walked beneath lights unfamiliar and held hands as rain started down. our room was tiny, but the ceilings were tall. and we slept another night in a strange, dark room, squeezing together in a double bed. miles to go, but many more beneath our soles.

day three: the prettiest walk of my life

 

 

 

there's a little black dirt path that runs beside our little cottage. it's about a mile long, flanked by sheds and maples. i love to walk along it when evening starts to strike and the light is low and golden. up until last week, it was my favorite walk on this earth.

then we went to newport, rhode island. and took the cliff walk. and i declare, one would be hard pressed to find a more spectacular pathway. rocky ocean shore on the left! mansion upon mansion on the right! rosebushes. towering skinny trees reaching toward the cloudless sky. grassy lawns screaming for a morning picnic.

it started brisk, but with coffee warming my hands and my pashima around my neck, the sun quickly seeped in and warmed our red noses. it was so, so incredibly lovely.

this was the day of the second french fry sandwich, at the little pizza joint we found ourselves at after the planned seafood restaurant was closed for the season. the day of the cape cod potato chip factory tour, a bit of a letdown, taking only about one minute to go through. (however, if this trip taught me anything, it's that i love a good factory tour. i think it's the free samples.)

we reached dennis, massachusetts right at dusk. running to mayflower beach just in time to catch the plum colored sunburst. then, the pristine sky turned on us, growing gray in a matter of seconds, pouring on my bare feet as i ran back to the parking lot.

we sunk into a restaurant just to take cover, not realizing until we sat down and ordered water that the tablecloths were white. there was a wine list on the table. and the waiter was wearing a suit. fancy. we ordered bowls of chowder, satisfied with our humble meal. we were saving the big one for maine lobster.

we were the only ones in our motel that night. the owner explained that no one really comes to cape cod at this time of year. and at that, we shook our heads. because with the leaves changing and fall tiptoeing in, it seemed like the most magical place to be.