A Well-Worn Path

Most of the time we use "off the beaten path" to describe a hole-in-the-wall place that's not well trafficked, but still worth the trip. But occasionally OTBP isn't exactly accurate. Sometimes the path is so well worn by people going from point A to point B that they have forgotten to check the local places in between. Especially when there's the comfortable light of the golden arches, or the red roof of the pizza chain down the block. It's not good food, some would say it's not even food, but it's familiar and predictable and safe. It provides "un-hunger", but not much else. How much better off would we be if we pushed outside the predictable and the safe?

Tonight that's exactly what I did. I had a craving for shrimp and sure, I could have taken a relatively short drive to a Red Lobster, or in the other direction Joe's Crab Shack, and had safe and predictable if not great food; but I'd rather take a chance on unknown and potentially awesome. Plus, I prefer to support local businesses whenever possible. So I popped open Google Maps and found The Fishwife on Lombard. Total hole in the wall, but everything is prepared fresh and on-site. Including the desert. I had a slice of pumpkin cheesecake that was insanely good and it came with a dollop of real whipped cream. Not from a can, not even from one of those co2 charged things, REAL whipped cream. The kind that requires heavy cream, a bit of sugar, and a good mixer.

Take a chance tonight. I bet there's a little place like The Fishwife in your neighborhood, you should try it out.

I have syrup in my pocket

That was one of the first things April said when she hopped into the Jeep today. That's what I love about her, that she can make it until 12:30 without realizing she has an open single-serving of Mrs. Butterworths kicking around in the pocket of her tailored wool coat. I can sort of understand popping the syrup into a pocket when getting a quick breakfast to go at the deli, but that's not the sort of thing you tend to forget about... and then sit on.

As usual her life is a whirlwind of activity, travel for work, selling her house and trying to find a place to move to, drama with her oldest and youngest sisters, a giant Mastiff puppy, a fiance she doesn't have time to marry, and all the usual rigmarole that goes along with life. I haven't really seen much of April in the last couple years, with the largest gap being a year long only to be awkwardly broken with the sudden, but not entirely surprising, suicide of her mother. Talk about an awkward phone call! Not to mention the funeral. But that's how good friends are. The truest measure of a friend is someone you can back-burner for a year and then call out of the blue when you need emotional support. There are people I speak to way more regularly, some of whom I even hang out with, who wouldn't rate an appearance at a funeral for me.

I've digressed. The whole point of this was that I have rarely heard a phrase that sums up those truly hectic, crazy, discombobulated days better than, "I have syrup in my pocket".

A Pirate Stays Home

What is it about travel? Why do we feel the need to leave our homes and spend a day a week a month exploring somewhere else? We spend our time at home isolating ourselves, closing off our properties to neighbors and passers-by. Gone are the days when people walked freely on their streets, chatted idly with the people they passed, gathered with their neighbors to celebrate holidays or special occasions. Sometimes we try to connect, block parties, neighborhood rummage sales, but rarely do we follow up on those connections so they falter and fail over time and we return to our isolated lives, not unhappy because we do not know what we're missing.

But we look for that missing piece to the puzzles of our lives outside our home areas. We blame the lack of connections on the city we live in. It's not my fault, I try to be friendly but these people don't get me, city life is not about community, I'm all alone in a sea of insulated isolated selfish people. So off we go. We pack the car, we hop a plane, or if we're feeling really adventurous we'll go to the depot and buy a train ticket to somewhere, anywhere, a destination we cannot speculate on but the reason is always the same. To see what life is like over there. Sure the reasons given are varied, to visit family or friends, to conduct business, or to participate in something that only that locale has to offer, but at the core we all want to see what life is like there, if it's better than here, if the people are friendlier or nicer, or if the jobs pay more, or if the scenic value is greater. Or maybe we go for the opposite reason; to see people even more unhappy than we are to make our lives seem more significant. Either way it all boils down to the same thing.

I propose we stay in one place. Stay home, foster relationships that are close to our proximity, get to know the attractions that are close to home. Wherever you are there are places you haven't been and people you haven't met. Get to know them, feel comfortable in them, before you wander off to other places and try to connect with other people.

Driving over Mount Hood on HWY 26

It's a drive I've made at least a thousand times, back and forth from my home in Portland to my parent's house in Bend. When you make a drive that many times you tend to blank out long stretches of it, taking for granted the majestic rise of Mt. Hood, the lush green of the forest and its stark contrast with the high desert on the east side, and the way that Smith Rocks looks like a giant sleeping dragon when you approach it from the north. But occasionally something happens to wake you from your auto-pilot-induced daydreams.

That's how today's drive was. As Thea and I started out in this crisp fall morning we noticed something different. Something that seemed to override the urge to just be home; something that wakened the senses to a change coming; something fresh and new and exciting. So many times we've made that drive with the stereo loud enough to drown out the roar of the Jeep's 33" tires, me singing along with whatever my trusty iPod chose to play, her curled against the back of my seat and sleeping peacefully. Was it that first sniff of winter coming, the precursor of the cold that is more sensed than felt? Or maybe it was the turning of the leaves, their colors ranging from a pale yellow to fire red that stands out all the more for the contrast of the deep green of the pines you find the higher you climb. Or perhaps it was simply the excitement of a plan. Not just my plan, my dream of paying off the house and quitting my job to travel around North America, but also my brother's plan. Over the weekend I decided to risk a portion of my future on his and invest some cash into his custom bike business.

Things are happening, changing, taking shape, and I can smell it on the wind as surely as I can smell the coming snows.