Santa Fe to Farmington NM

Last night's sunset

My intended itinerary for today was to drive from Santa Fe to Farmington with a side trip to Chaco Canyon National Historic Park. Mission accomplished. Along the way, I saw the face of god. Hyperbole? I don't think so. The land I drove through today - the rocks, hills, canyons, buttes, lakes, and skies are manifestations of divine splendor. There are many such places and I have been fortunate enough to have visited several. Milford Sound in New Zealand, the High Sierras in California, Uluru in Australia, Tibet, the French Alps. I now count the drive I took today among them.

Jesus Miguel Gallegos

I left Ernie and Jean Peterson's leaving Santa Fe via US 285/84 North. At Espanola I turned West on US 84. I had breakfast in Abiquiu and met Jesus.

Jesus Miguel Gallegos, grandson on Michael Antonio Gallegos, graduate of Berkeley, former engineer, and now organic gardener. I met him in front of the adobe church in Abiquiu. His bicycle had a flat. He asked me if I could help him. I took Jesus, the boxes of produce he was carrying, and his bicycle to Trujillo's Mercantile down the road to get his bicycle tire fixed. On the way he told me his and his grandfather's history.  He also tried his best to explain Valence theory and the importance of Scandinavium that has an atomic weight of 44 - which is somewhere close to the atomic weight of carbon dioxide. Most of that part of the discussion was beyond me. Tire fixed, I dropped him at his garden located in front of a motor vehicle repair shop just off 84. Jesus showed me how he hand tills his garden and gave me some fresh pears. We said goodbye and I drove off.

US 84 north of Abiquiu

I won't even try and describe the rest of the drive to Chaco Canyon. From 84 I took New Mexico route 96 south along Lake Abiquiu and through forests, prairies, deserts - always against astounding rock formation backdrops under skies so big I wanted to weep at the beauty. I took photos, of course and a few of them are on my Facebook page. But what I saw today can only be hinted at either in words or pictures. You'll just have to make the drive yourself and see for yourself.

Chaco Canyon is 26 miles off US 550 accessible only by bone rattling dirt road. Many of the ruins in the park were sacred spaces for the Chaco culture. The park is a shadow of what was once an advanced culture that vanished. The land and the ruins still hold a special charge and still guard the secrets of the disappeared.

Pueblo del Arroyo

Tonight I am in Farmington, New Mexico in the heart of Tony Hillerman country. Farmington has become a small city since I was here last. The choices of motels have improved, but I wouldn't call most of the rest of the development improvement. Tomorrow I will do Mesa Verde and the Four Corners Monument and start off for Sedona.

Day Trip to Chaos

Old town, Taos

In an attempt to avoid a potential reincarnation there, instead of writing about what I really thought about Taos, New Mexico, let me quote a few famous persons:
"What a dump." Bette Davis
"Is that all there is?" Peggy Lee
"Not what I had in mind." George Jones

The Indian Drum Outlet Store

If Georgia O'keefe were alive today, I'd lay money that she wouldn't be caught dead here. The drive up from Santa Fe is a scenic tour of convenience stores and casinos. There is a short stretch of the Rio Grande Gorge where there are a few yards that haven't been mucked up with river raft boking centers and souvenir stands.

If you discount the lack of charm, the horrendous traffic, the noise from motor cycles, and some of the most unattractive people I have ever come across (and that's saying something.) then I guess Taos has its charms. As a center for Indian Arts, its right up there with Coney Island or Times Square. Fortunately, it was only a two hour trip from Santa Fe, so it wasn't a huge waste of time. And I did have a good chile relleno at Doc Martin's Restaurant in the Taos Inn.

Last night's sunset

On a positive note, last night's sunset was surreal.

Tomorrow, Chaco Canyon and the Four Corners.

Chimayo and Truchus

Morning coffee and Scottish oatmeal with fresh fruit in the garden. Watching  birds feeding and goats grazing. After exercise and ablutions, Ernie, Jean and I pile into Ernie's truck and head off to Chimayo and Tesuque. Our drive takes through the outskirts of Santa Fe, past Whole Foods and Trader Joe's. (How good to be back in civilization. There are no Trader Joe's in Florida.) We continued on past the Opera House and into the hills.

Santuario de Chimayo

Our first stop was the Santuario de Chimayo, a chapel built on the site of what the faithful believe were miraculous healings 200 years ago. The chapel is freshly restored and thankfully the Native American artwork in the church has been preserved (no photos allowed). Thousands of pilgrims each year come to the sanctuary hoping to be cured of whatever they hope to be cured of. The anterooms of the chapel are lined with stacked crutches and baby shoes. The tacit implication being that they are from those who have been cured by the dirt of Chimayo. While we were there, I saw no crutches or baby shoes cast off. I did see a lot of sincere people with a variety of afflictions deep in prayer.

Across from the chapel, we stopped in Leona's that modestly proclaims to have the best tamales in New Mexico. I must agree. The pork and red chile tamale I had was heavenly. Unless another miracle happens though, Leona's will not be with us for long. According to a sign across from the cash register, Leona is retiring on October 15. It will be a sad day for tamale lovers who make the pilgrimage there.

Alfredo Baca

After a brief look at another chapel, our final stop in Chimayo was Medina's Gallery Cafe where I had the pleasure of meeting Alfredo Baca, a local artist and raconteur. I couldn't afford one of his paintings, but I did buy some of his fresh dried chile powders.

Mural, Truchus, NM

Up the road is Truchus, a curious mix of abandoned buildings and artist studios sitting on a high ridge with spectacular views of the surrounding mountains and valleys. We stopped in the studio of Sally Delap-John, a plein air colorist originally from Fresno.

Obligatory postcard shot

On the way to dinner, we stopped at Chimayo Trading and Mercantile, a wonderful art and crafts gallery, where I bought a small Mexican Indian pot. We ate dinner at Restaurante Rancho de Chimyo (the chile rellenos were devilishly tasty) and drove home through another spectacular lightening and thunder show provided the local nature gods. I can't say the day was miraculous, but it was certainly divine. Once again, there are more photos on Facebook.

Santa Fe Day 2

Vendors on Palace Avenue

OK, call me cynical, but I think they should change the name to Santa Fey Plaza. Back in my stoner days, circa 1969, I came to Santa Fe on a business trip. My memories of that time are fuzzy at best, but what I do remember was a slightly funky plaza with historic buildings in need of repair, some local galleries, Mexican restaurants, and a few head shops. Of course. it's possible that wasn't even Santa Fe. It was the 60s after all and you know what they say, if you remember them you weren't part of them.

New Mexico Museum of Art

Today Santa Fey Plaza is the epicenter of the New Mexico tourist industry. Scattered among the southwestern kitsch and Indian craft galleries  are J. Crew, Talbots, Starbucks, Ben and Jerry's, and uniculture designer boutiques. It oozes picturesque charm, and fat people wearing funny hats and clothes they would never wear back home. Like I said, call me cynical. One notable exception is Santa Fe Dry Goods on the Plaza. A class act by any standard. Would that my budget allowed a shopping spree there.

After a few hours strolling the Plaza and Canyon Road, I had lunch at Much Gusto, a very good Mexican restaurant on Paseo de Peralta, and then drove south with the vague goal of finding a pueblo.

Kasha-Katuwe Tent Rocks National Monument

The first road sign I came to that had pueblo in the name was Cochiti Pueblo. The other name on the sign was Tent Rocks National Monument. Cochiti pueblo is 53,000 acre Keresan reservation. The village is a small settlement with a big sign at the entrance proclaiming photography or sketching are prohibited by the governor. Down the road from the village is  Kasha-Katuwe Tent Rocks National Monument. The tent rock formations remind me of Cappadocia, Turkey. I took the 1.7 mile loop trail and got caught in a dramatic thunder and lightening storm that came up out of nowhere and vanished just as quickly. I was soaked to the skin and dry again in almost no time.

Storm approaching

New Mexico is the land of enchantment, land being the operative word. It is probably a failing on my part, but the cities I have seen here do not enchant me. Away from them, I am constantly awestruck  by the magnificence of earth, air, fire, water, and ether.There are more pictures on my Facebook page.

Santa Fe Day 1

Jean is a gifted painter.

Sometimes it is good to stop and smell the roses. I'm in Santa Fe tonight at the home Jean and Ernie Peterson. It's been a lovely day visiting, eating, and talking story. Tomorrow, I will start being a tourist, but for now I am wallowing in the comfort of a gracious, beautiful, home.

A room of my own, at least for a few nights

Las Cruces to Alburquerque

World's largest chile

The license plates say "Land of Enchantment." I think they mean it.

This morning I dawdled at Americas's Best Value Inn making phone calls and catching up on emails. After coffee, I started toward Interstate 25 to drive to Hatch, New Mexico, the Chile Capital of the World. I know several million Thai's that would dispute the claim but Hatch does  grow and ship a lot of chile peppers.

Un-retouched photograph

Before I made it to I25, I saw a sign pointing toward Hatch that promised an alternate route. I turned onto Valley Road, State Route 187,  and headed into Mesilla Valley. The mostly two-lane road was definitely the one less traveled, and that definitely made all the difference in my enjoyment of the day.  Just out of Las Cruces, I passed through miles of pecan orchards. One grove was flooded and my eye was caught by how the light filtered through the trees and reflected off the water. I stopped the car, the first of many stops this day, and snapped a few shots. This evening when I looked at the day's photos I was amazed indeed at how the light reflected of the water as recorded by my camera. Fairy lights in a pecan grove in broad daylight? The license plates say "Land of Enchantment."

A little further north, I crossed the Rio Grande once again. Once it crosses into New Mexico from Texas, the river turns north and my route that day closely followed its course. I arrived in Hatch mid-morning. I was immediately taken with how not touristy it is. It is a farm town with a couple of concessions for gringo turistas. I explored the few streets,  shopped in the local mercantile store where I was seriously tempted to buy yet another cowboy hat that I would never wear. I did buy a denim work shirt with snaps as my small economic stimulus package. I had a late breakfast-early lunch of red chile and avocado salad at The Pepper Pot. And I bought chile powder and honey at Hatch Chile Sales. I was thoroughly charmed by the town and the people I met. And I moved on. It took me 7 hours to make the 200 mile drive. I visited Leesburg Damn, Caballo Lake, and Truth or Consequenses, New Mexico. I wallowed yet again in the stark, primal beauty of earth, air, fire formed mountains, and water filled clouds. I saw lightening over the desert and rain storms far in the distance.

Lake Cabrillo

Tonight I am in in Alburquerque, staying on historic US Route 66. My motel, The Monterey Non-Smoking Motel is from the era of the TV show but has been nicely updated. One thing I am noticing about cities here is the aggressiveness of drivers - especially the many young motor cycle drivers in town. It is such a contrast to the countryside. It's as if to compensate for being herded into a city, they feel the need to act out by straddling noisy machines and speeding through town. It's as if someone had cast a spell on them. Well, the license plates say "Land of Enchantment."

There are lots more photos on my Facebook page. I'm putting in my earplugs and going to bed.

New Mexico

Owned by an Indian couple

Last night, I stayed in Van Horn Texas. By mid-morning I had entered disconnect. All day I have been experiencing deja vu. Not recognition of a place I've never been to before, but a place I have been. I have alternately been in the Australian outback, the Deccan plateau, or Mexico. New Mexico is a very different state.

The Perfect Man Shrine

My first stop was in Columbus New Mexico, about three miles from the border crossing at Palomas Mexico. I was there to see a replica of a tomb in India. I think a little background information might be helpful here. I am a follower of an eastern spiritual master, Avatar Meher Baba. The appellation "avatar" has gone through pejoration and is now firmly ensconced in the jargon of web speak and self-aggrandizement, but there was a time when the word primarily meant a manifestation of a deity in bodily form on earth. By that definition, Zoroaster, Ram, Krishna, Buddha, Jesus, and Mohammed are also avatars, or the avatar depending on your point of reference. Meher Baba lived and worked primarily in India, but he came to the United States several times. His samadhi, or tomb, is near Ahmednagar, India.

An American Baba follower, Earl Starcher, built the tomb to be the centerpiece of a spiritual retreat center, but he died suddenly before it was finished. The property is now owned by a couple who are not followers of Meher Baba. The replica sits surrounded by trailer homes on the outskirts of the village of Columbus. I knew of the replica and had thought of it as a lesser Scotty's Castle; but when I started plotting my trip, I thought I would check it out. I arrived in Columbus around 10:30 after a three hour drive from Van Horn and a time change. I found it fairly easily thanks to directions from a friend who has been there several times. The shrine is neglected and fallen into disrepair. It is surrounded by houses. Behind it is an unobstructed view of the Florida Mountains. It is wierd, a bit sad, yet some of Earl's devotion still clings to the place. I went there expecting nothing and was unexpectedly touched. No revelations, but lots of ruminations about shrines and sanctuarys.

I opted out of crossing into Mexico for lunch after several locals discouraged me with words like "at your own risk." Instead I had chile rienos in Deming, drove to Las Cruces, found a health club to work out, and checked in at America's Best Value Inn. If you find yourself in these parts, I recommend it. It is a very good value. The owner is from Brisbane and I swear, he has successfully channeled Australia's outback. By the time I had checked in I thought I was in Australia. Then I went out to dinner in Mesilla, and was in Mexico. It ain't called New Mexico for naught.

The Organ Mountains

At the end of the day, which it now is, what I got from today was the land. The mountains, the desert, the biblically austere beauty suitable for any avatar looking for a wilderness in which to spend 40 days and nights, or jockey camels, or whatever. I am not a desert person. I don't think I could be happy living in one.  But I am seduced by its beauty; in Uluru, Deccan, Baja California, or the American southwest. My humble attempt to capture some of it is on my Facebook page,

US 90

Ed Clark

Next time you are in San Antonio between Thanksgiving and New Year's be sure to check out Ed Clark's Christmas House. I met Ed waiting to pick up a prescription at the BX pharmacy at Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio. I asked him if I could take a picture of him in his hat. He was happy to oblige and told me all about his hats (he has created 65 so far) and his Christmas house which he does as a memorial to his deceased wife. The house is permanently decorated and is  constantly enhanced. Had the timing been right, I would have loved to see Ed's masterpiece.

Mission Concepcion

Another must see in San Antonio are the Franciscan missions. In addition to the Alamo, there are four others in various states of repair. Mission San Jose has been fully restored. But my favorites were Mission Concepcion and Mission Espada. I put an album of photos on my Facebook page and on Smugmug.

A real cowboy

Next morning, after a false start, I left San Antonio and headed toward Las Cruces, New Mexico by way of US 90. Interstate 10 would have been faster, but I was curious to see some of rural south Texas. It is a great drive. It takes you through Last Picture Show Texas towns like Hondo, Uvalde, Bracketsville, Marathon, and Marfa. You can also stop in Langtry, Texas and see Judge Roy Bean's Courthouse and the Lily Langtry Saloon. That's where I snapped the photo of a real cowboy. When I asked if I could take his photo he introduced himself as "the last of the worn out cowboys." I never got his name. There are spectacular desert landscapes in Amistad National Park and Big Bend National Park. I had a great lunch at Julio's in Del Rio and am spending the night in Van Horn, Texas. Tomorrow I'm off to Columbus, New Mexico and then on to Las Cruces.

P.S. Watch out for a really nasty speed trap in Sanderson. I think it's the major source of revenue for the town.

Nutrition

Aprapo of nothing,  I saw this car on the road in Lake Charles, 

Louisianna

Hazelhurst, Mississippi to San Antonio, Texas through Louisiana - 604 miles, three meals, and there's the rub. When I began this trip, I expected I would have to make compromises in my current diet. It's not a particularly exotic diet. I avoid processed foods and wheat. At first, I was encouraged that a healthy road diet would be fairly easy to maintain. My last night in Alexander City, my cousin Frances cooked a dinner of home made cornbread, vegetable soup with fresh, local corn, okra, and tomatoes, lavender hull peas, sliced home grown tomatoes with olive oil and basil. Home made potato salad. And for dessert another slice of cornbread with butter and tupelo honey. Except for the potatoes, which came from Idaho, all the ingredients wer grown locally.There was a little bit of wheat in the cornbread, but other than that, the meal was incredibly, unbelievably flavorful.

The next day, after a breakfast of leftovers from the night before, I drove to Tupelo. After paying homage to the King of Rock and Roll, I had an excellent lunch of pulled pork with cole slaw and fried green tomatoes at Romie's BBQ restaurant. A few more calories than I needed, but so far so good.

After trying to find a place to eat in Hazelhurst and surrounds, I thought I could understand why Mississippi has the highest obesity rate in the country. Every food option on the highway or in town was either a franchise fast food restaurant or a convenience store. Fat, salt, and sugar. Driving through Louisiana I was pleased and surprised at the variety of restaurants available right off the highway. Seafood, vegetables, real local food, good food. And fat people everywhere.

Today I am in San Antonio, Texas. There's a wide variety of wholesome and varied food choices. Yet even in the local Whole Foods, I was struck by the amount of junk food disguised with labels like natural and organic. I also continue to be struck by how fat people are everywhere. At every economic level. Driving through Mississippi, I was working on a tidy analogy about economic disparity, food choices, and obesity. As I write this, about the only thing I can say is that it is easy for people to make choices that will almost certainly guarantee weight gain. That includes me, and I'm the only one who is responsible for the outcome of the choices I make. I might wish it were easier to find healthy food on the road, but in the end, whether or not I end this trip the size of the Goodyear blimp is up to me.

Tupelo, Mississippi

His boyhood home

For some reason I wanted to see Elvis Presley's birthplace, and I'm glad I went. It is not a major destination, certainly not like Graceland a few hours to the north. The one-room house where he was born hasn't been moved from the neighborhood where he grew up. The church he attended has been relocated to the same site. There is a museum of sorts, a gift shop, and a modern chapel where Elvis' recordings of spirituals  and hymns play in the background. The "memorial" is simple, unpretentious, and a sweet reminder of once upon a time in America.

The church he attended

From Tupelo, I picked up the Natchez Trace Parkway - parkway being the operative word - and headed southwest. My original plan was to take it all the way to Natchez. It's a lovely drive through the Tom Bigbee National Forest. There are lots of historic markers pointing out where things once were, but except for a few Indian mounds most of the things are long gone. A detour took me through a stretch of rural Mississippi straight out of "As I Lay Dying." When I got to Jackson, I decided I had had enough and turned off on to I55 headed towards New Orleans. I'm foregoing Natchez and New Orleans and heading straight for San Antonio. The Four Corners are calling me.

Natchez Trace Parkway

Faulkner country

I made a point of turning off all media today. I wanted to take in where I was going without the buzz of the growing number and intensity of crises. There was almost no traffic the whole way. It was a serene, meditative journey.

Roots

Mellow Valley is the place name given 

to the area where my mother was born.

My mother was born in 1907 but she might as well have been born in 1807. She and her brothers and sisters lived in rural Clay County. They had no electricity and no running water. They made their subsistance living share cropping. My grandfather and one of the daughters died in the flu epidemic of 1917. After my grandfather died my grandmother moved the family to Alexander City where she went to work in the local mill. She remarried, had two more sons, and lost her second husband when he abandoned the family. Somehow they survived the great depression and my mother managed to put herself through what was then called business school. She went to work in a bank in Birmingham where she met my father. When World War II broke out, my parents moved to Washington, DC where I was born. Her brothers and sisters took jobs in the mill, married and raised their families in Alexander City. My grandmother died in 1950.

One of my distant cousins lived in this 

house. I remember visiting here as a child 

and eating home made peach ice cream.

As a boy, I spent many summers in Alex City, as the locals call it. I was the yankee cousin. I used to joke that I thought my first name was damn. My aunt would console me by saying, "just because a cat has kittens in the oven doesn't make them biscuits."I'd stay with my mom's twin sister, Zelma, and her family, or at one of my relatives' cabins on Lake Martin. Back then, Alex City was a mill town. My aunts and uncles worked at the mill except for my mother's twin sister who ran the local recreation center and whose husband was the postmaster. The lake houses were cabins from the company owned mill village that had been moved from town. My grandmother lived with my aunt Ines in one of the mill village houses until she died. 

I spent my summers there swimming in the lake, roaming the countryside with my cousins, or tagging along to swim meets and football practice. When I turned sixteen, I got my driver's license, and started working after school and in summers. My visits to Alex City stopped for many years.

Today, Alexander City is no longer a mill town. The mills are mostly closed. The economic engine is Lake Martin and businesses that feed the nearby automotive plants for BMW, Kia, and Hyundai. Shopping is centered on the bypass where the uniculture reigns supreme. The original downtown is struggling. Fortunately, Carlysle Drug still has a soda fountain where you can get a chicken salad sandwich and fresh limeade, and there's now a health club. The lake cabins have mostly been replaced by McMansions.

One of life's little mysteries. Some unknown 

person still decorates my grandmother's 

grave. Joe Dimaggio?

Yesterday, I went cemetery hopping with my cousin Frances and two friends of hers who are into genealogy. Our route took us through two of the most rural counties in Alabama (and by inference two of the most rural counties in the States). We visited the grave sites of my maternal grandparents, and aunts and uncles. We drove past memories of my childhood and I was struck yet again with the fact that this place where I have never lived is the closest thing to home that I have ever known. I also was reminded that my grandmother's funeral indirectly paid for my college education. When I applied to college, I knew I would need a scholarship. A short story I submitted about my experience of her death won a prize that covered my tuition. 

Shiloh Baptist Church,
Coosa County, AL

Robert Frost wrote, "Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in." That about sums up how I feel about this place. Tomorrow morning I will leave it again, but I have no doubt I'll be back. 

Highlands, NC

Highlands, North Carolina is beautiful. Set in the Great Smokey Mountains, nature is in its glory here. The mountains are covered in hardwood and evergreen forests. Flowers of every variety bloom in exultation. Man's imposition on the land is in the form of houses and gardens worthy of a Thomas Kincaid painting. There are an inordinate number of golf course communities in the immediate area, each more groomed and carefully tended than the next.

A wag once said that Paris, France would be perfect if not for the Parisians. Now, don't get me wrong, there are very interesting and engaging people in Paris; just as there are very interesting and engaging people in Highlands. And, believe it or not, there is a thread to this seeming non-sequitur.

All my life, until my first visit to the city of lights in 1990, I hated things Parisian. The National Gallery of Art had at one time rooms from an 18th century Parisian hotel. The rooms were a masterpiece of high rococo, exquisite in every detail. Every time I walked into them, which was often, I wanted to start breaking up the furniture and throwing paint on the walls. It was as if the spirit of Madame La Farge seized my body and I felt the urge to lop off heads and storm the walls of the Bastille. Of course, after one day on the ground in that most lovely of cities, I softened, and have since wallowed in its delights on several visits.

A similar unease affected me on my first visit to Highlands in 2010. I had accompanied my cousin to help her close up the house she had had there for 15 years. Despite the physical beauty I could not relax. Maybe it was the number of "Kill Obama" bumper stickers on the back of gun mounted pick up trucks. Maybe it was that the Atlanta bomber successfully hid in the surrounding woods for two years. Or maybe it was that every time I entered one of the gated compounds of the summer people, I felt like I had stepped onto the set of a Chekhov play where the aristocracy do their best to ignore the seeds of change sprouting around them. For whatever reason, my latent proletarian instincts came rushing to the fore.

On Monday, after we drove in caravan from Sarasota,  my cousin moved into the condominium she has rented for a month in one of the country club communities of Highlands. The condo is graciously furnished with treehouse views of mountain laurel and old growth forest. In the morning there are frequent visitations by ruby-throated hummingbirds. Summer flowers are everywhere and the weather is cool and dry. It is a perfect place for her to escape the heat of Sarasota in the summer. After a night there, content that she is well settled, I packed my prejudices in my car and took off. Upon consideration, my reaction to Highlands - and Paris - says more about me (and possibly my past lives) than it does about either place. I like to think of myself as a tolerant being but I am actually a terrible snob.  I hold people who are fortunate enough to live in beauty and splendor to a higher standard. I want them to be philosopher kings as elevated as their surroundings. I want them to be better. Ah, but there's the rub: better than what?

Tifton, Georgia

My first night on the road and I'm cradled in the uniculture. I'm caravaning with my cousin to Highlands, NC. It's about an 11 hour drive but with two cats and a tricky back, my cousin felt more comfortable breaking up the trip.

The I Ching speaks of difficulty at the beginning when crossing the great water. My teacher used to say that opposition helped fuel undertakings. Today we got entangled in a bumper to bumper back up on Interstate 75 near Ocala. Three lanes of gridlocked traffic as far as the eye could see. Ninety minutes to go less than 5 miles and then presto, the traffic moving at (or above) the speed limit again. No sign of an accident. No police cars. No traffic advisories. Further north, we drove through several blinding downpours with gusting winds and near zero visibility.
Despite the inconveniences we arrived at our intended destination - a Hampton Inn in Tifton - Georgia, safe and sound,. Clean room, pets welcome, and all the franchise restaurants you can think of within 5 minutes. In theory, I could arrange my trip so that I spend every night on the road, in almost identical surroundings, and spare myself the discomfort of difference. I will make a concerted effort not to. I will also make a concerted effort to avoid Interstates when possible. I want to wallow in local in hopes of reconnecting with the country of my birth. Even though I've been back in the States for two years, I still feel like a stranger in a strange land here. I don't recognize the place. It confuses me and makes me a little sad.

P.S.  Next morning on the radio I learned the traffic back up was due to an unfortunate accident. A horse somehow fell off a transport truck, was badly injured, and had to be put down. Difficulty at the beginning.

The Beginnings of an Itinerary

Highlands, 

Alexander City, 

Tupelo, 

Natchez, 

New Orleans, 

San Antonio, 

Las Cruces, 

Santa Fe, 

Creststone, 

Sedona, 

Palm Springs, 

L.A., 

San Francisco Bay, 

Mind of God. 

All of the above. 

Some of the above.

And?

Montreal

Our house party was a varied group. Rona is a retired lawyer (one of the first female attorneys in New York City). Sheldon is a retired sociology professor.  Joan, our co-hostess, is a real estate agent in Sarasota. Eddy is choreographer and artistic director of Ballet Eddy Toussant, and Tim is principal dancer in the company. My cousin and I are, well, my cousin and I. Four men, three women ranging in age from 87 to 24. The age discrepancy was not an issue. Conversation flowed freely amongst the group. I was happy that there was youthful energy at the house. In Sarasota I am often the youngster in a population heavy with septa and octogenarians.

The house sits on a lake. There is a dock for ease of entry into the water. I swam across the lake. The water was cool, the days on the edge of hot.We did excursions to nearby towns and into Montreal proper. If you would like to look at pictures go to my Smugmug album: Esterel and Montreal. The explosives going off in all parts of the world seemed far away. It was a good beginning to setting off.

I've been trying to think of some pithy comment to make about Canada, or Canada and the U.S., or whatever. Canada is very much like the United States. It is also very different. In Quebec, the American uniculture is previlent, but it is overlaid with a strong French - and lesser British - influence. The country side is provincial as is the American countryside. Montreal, like any other great city, is a rich mix of many cultures. Canada is a great place to visit in the summer, but I wouldn't want to winter there. Not very pithy. The pictures on my Smugmug album say more about my experience there.

Esterel Without the Accent

In 2005, when I set out on my round-the-world trip, I marveled at how technology had made such a journey so much easier. Laptops, online banking, digital cameras, and cell phones meant that I never had to be out of touch with the States. Potentially serious mishaps such as a lost credit card, were easily handled. Letters of credit and travelers checques were replaced by an ATM card.

Today, sitting by Lac Dupuis an hour from Montreal, I marvel that all of the above wonders are now potentially accomplished on my trusty iPhone. The transponders that seemed so miraculous in the hands of Captain Kirk and Spock seem antiquated and quaint. Now if they would only come up with a teleportation app.

At the same time, I marvel that this lovely spot has remained relatively untouched since my last visit here 30 years ago. The lakes are clear and clean. The heavily forested hillsides are lovely, dark and deep.

The house where I am staying looks like a set for a Ross Hunter movie. Any minute, I expect to see Doris Day or Lana Turner sweep into the living room. This afternoon, after a refreshing swim, our little house party made its way to nearby Val du Vin to see a ceramics fair. Afterwords we sat in a bistro unchanged since 1950 and drank Canadian beer. The locals were friendly and had no problem with our lack of French. Except for the age of the cars, it could have been 1960.

So much has changed and some things have not.

What am I Doing Here?

I'm a slow study. It's taken me 66 years to accept that I am a vagabond. You would think, if you just counted the number of places I've lived or visited, that I would have caught on by now. Oh well.

Looking back, my progress this life is punctuated by periods of solitary wandering. Even when I would join in a tour group, I tended to drift off on my own. It was naive of me to think that my relocation to Sarasota, FL a few years ago -- after meandering around Asia for the better part of three years -- marked an end to my travels.

The idea of this coming wander seized me just recently. My somnambulent life here has been shaken by some get out of Dodge signals. Things not happening. I was getting bored. My limbic instinct was to run away, but then I considered that I probably only needed to absent myself awhile.

After a this coming trip to Montreal, I'm going to follow my cousin, with whom I live, up to Highlands. My cousin is very dear to me. She has endured an extremely difficult three years. Even so, her generous heart welcomed me into her life and gave me a place of beauty and comfort to land in after my travels in Asia. She has taken a place in Highlands NC to escape the Summer heat.

Once I know that she is safely settled, I will head south and west in the general direction of California. I want to drive the Natchez Trace, visit New Orleans, see my brother in San Antonio, and do a spirit quest in the four corners region. Yeah, I know that last part is a bit of a cliche, but that's what's calling. I'll end up in the San Franciso Bay Area and will eventually return to Sarasota. I have no idea how long I'll be gone or my exact itinerary.

This blog is my journal. It may be of interest to no one on the planet, but blogging seems appropriate. I'd rather write on MacBook than in a Moleskine, and I like the idea of publishing something out on the cloud.

If you've found this, I hope it amuses you. If not, well thanks for stopping by in any case.

Ithaca

When you start on your journey to Ithaca,
then pray that the road is long,
full of adventure, full of knowledge.
Do not fear the Lestrygonians
and the Cyclopes and the angry Poseidon.
You will never meet such as these on your path,
if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fine
emotion touches your body and your spirit.
You will never meet the Lestrygonians,
the Cyclopes and the fierce Poseidon,
if you do not carry them within your soul,
if your soul does not raise them up before you.

Then pray that the road is long.
That the summer mornings are many,
that you will enter ports seen for the first time
with such pleasure, with such joy!
Stop at Phoenician markets,
and purchase fine merchandise,
mother-of-pearl and corals, amber and ebony,
and pleasurable perfumes of all kinds,
buy as many pleasurable perfumes as you can;
visit hosts of Egyptian cities,
to learn and learn from those who have knowledge.

Always keep Ithaca fixed in your mind.
To arrive there is your ultimate goal.
But do not hurry the voyage at all.
It is better to let it last for long years;
and even to anchor at the isle when you are old,
rich with all that you have gained on the way,
not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.

Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.
Without her you would never have taken the road.
But she has nothing more to give you.

And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not defrauded you.
With the great wisdom you have gained, with so much experience,
you must surely have understood by then what Ithacas mean.

-K. P. Kavafis (C. P. Cavafy), translation by Rae Dalven

On my around the world trip in 2006, I met a man in Australia who shared ths poem with me.Setting out again now on a journey across the United States, the poem is a fitting benediction.

After a brief trip to Montreal to visit friends, I'll return to Sarasota, pack the car, and set off across the United States. No set destination, no set duration, no set route. Maybe I'll arrive at Ithaca. Maybe I'll recognize it.