one.year.trip

The Grizzled Giant and Sleepy Time Roads

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 07:30:00 +0000

This morning the line for camp sites was growing well before seven thirty. As we packed up to leave, more joined the line. I imagined a silent cheer each time people like us left the park. It would mean one more space open for camping.

Adding two hours to our journey, we headed south to see the large trees that lived there – that had lived there for thousands of years. You know, it's interesting. We don't know much about trees from their early days. The oldest in the world if four to five thousand years old. What about the ones from dinosaur times, hundreds of millions of years back? How did they grow? What defenses did they have? We know so little – and it's nearly impossible to learn a thing. You'd think 1600 years is old (the age of some of the trees around here) but really – just a drop in the bucket.

On our way to the grove, we passed a look out stop full of German tourists. The French go to the Grand Canyon, the German's come here. This seems to be the way of things. Why the divide? I'm not sure – but just as most of the people at the Grand Canyon were French, so too are most of those in this park German.

You can tell them, at times, from the Americans. They're the ones who look like they're about to go clubbing, rather than climb a mountain. It's strange, it's surreal, it's really quite wonderful. What are they thinking? Clearly in their mind it all makes some sort of sense.

We passed through a tunnel that transported us from one section of the park to the next. Gravel roads, and tight turns took us from place to place. Here we were not surrounded by tourists, but for the most part, on our own. Until we neared the southern part of the park. The area with, “the trees.”

We pulled into the visitors centre and I asked, rather foolishly, if this was the place with the big trees. (It wasn't as bad as yesterday when I asked if stop ten was next – boarding the bus at stop nine. “Oh, very good counting,” the driver said to me. I didn't realize the same stop going the other way was stop four.)

We were told that we could drive down, and then hike the grove, or take a tram for twenty five dollars a person. Twenty five dollars a person to take a tram a few miles? No thanks. Getting to the lot we started out.

Our legs had not forgiven us our hike the day before. Thighs and calves still hurt. But we could not not see the trees. The trees! Only two and a half miles, round trip. That would be nothing – right?

I seem to recall it being more than nothing, but my memories are what last – and those are the memories of the Grizzled Giant, and the California Tunnel.

The Grizzled Giant is nearly one hundred feet around at the base. Standing one hundred and ninety feet tall, this tree was a monster. A monster with a fence around it.

It seems that the park service didn't want people walking around the tree. Standing on the roots could hurt it. For a tree nearly three thousand years old, and having suffered fire damage, I figured it would do just fine – but that's not my call. No – this tree was out of bounds for touching. You could stand back and take pictures, though.

There's only one problem – from a distance there's no sense of scale. There's no way to appreciate its size. Not without someone next to it. And so I did what anyone in my situation would do (the situation being one who thinks protecting something can end up destroying the true beauty of it.) I set my tripod up, hopped the fence, and got my shot of me standing beside the tree. I have two shots – one with me, one without. In the one without, you just see a tree. It could be any size. But the other? It's in the other that the true monstrous size is seen.

I'd always regretted not seeing the big trees out in British Columbia back in two thousand and six, but now – standing beside this giant, everything was right in the world once more.

The California Tunnel Tree is a tree which had a hole cut in it, large enough for carriages to go under. Why chop down a tree when you can cut it up and allow it to live even still? Of course i walked under it, and looked around – but little compared to standing beside the truly awe inspiring giant.

Once we'd left the forest, it was back on the road – heading towards Red Bluff. We would spend the night there, and press on to the Red Wood forest in the morning. I thought of all the things I'd have time to do – catch up on email, blogging, tv watching – but as soon as we got there (after hours of near exhaustion driving where I had to take over for Kath who couldn't even keep her eyes open) food was our priority – ice cream and Domino's pizza. Never again. Tasty – but, doing terrible things.

With food done, just before nine I was ready to do all those things I'd thought about earlier. I was ready – but my body? It protested. Eight fifty something. That was the last time I saw before the world slipped into dark.

Hiking Yosemite

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 07:22:00 +0000

Waking up, I was relatively sure I had gone unmolested by bears during the night. I checked my arms, my legs, my torso. All seemed where it should be. Putting on my clothes, I woke Katherine and headed outside.

I shouldn't say I woke her, as she woke up at six to check on the line of people waiting for tent sites, and then fell back asleep – but at seven, I re-woke her, and headed out to take pictures of the new day.

More about the tent sites. We only put our name in for one night, we'd have to pay and then try to get on the list for tonight's site as well. A line formed early morning, as these Valley spots normally go quick. It was only because we arrived on a Sunday, change over day, that spots were available yesterday. Today the site would be full up.

The line had yet to form.

Back to the pictures.

Just outside my tent, the rock walls towered over me. Only five hundred feet shy of those cliffs at the Grand Canyon the grey granite shined in the morning sun, a guardian for all that once fell under its shadows. Yosemite was looking to be one of the most beautiful national parks I'd ever seen – and I'd only just stepped out of my tent.

The moon was still out, above the rocks, and the light was perfect. I may have snapped a few more pictures than I'd meant to. I thought the 16 gig card I bough a while back would last until the end of the trip. We'll see. If I can keep to one hundred frames a day, I'll be fine – but that's not so easy a task. Who knew.

If I visit some boring places for a while, well maybe that will let me stick to my rationing, but I'm thinking that's not going to happen either. It's amazing to think that four rolls of film a day, in 1999 standards, isn't nearly enough.

By eight o'clock a line was forming to get a tent site for the night, as we joined it. Early in the morning, some people were extending, like us – others were trying to secure one, driving up near day break.

It was in this line that a crazy person appeared. I try to stand back and let crazy hippies be crazy hippies, but when one started to pester a guy for studying his accounting text book, I took umbridge. “Hey man, you'll remember the time this bearded guy said – don't do it! Don't go into accounting. And you'll regret it.”

In honour of bearded men everywhere, I stepped up and claimed, “let me counter balance, you can remember the time a bearded man encouraged your choice of action.”

The future accountant was studying to get a job, and get money. The hippy protested money, claiming it as all things evil. How he got his five bucks for the night, I'll not know. But, there he was talking about how it does not good. I stepped up again, “money got my butt to Antarctica. It let me walk on all seven continents of the world in a year. I'm thinking you need money for this.” And I do. I don't think you can do that without money – not on so short a time frame, anyway. And the love of money? I don't think there's anything wrong with it.

Soon the hippy turned his back to me, and talked loudly about how lost I was to whoever would listen. And then it took a turn for the wacky. A father was talking about how his son was afraid of bears. The crazy guy said not to worry – bears are more afraid of you (not true) and they won't bother anyone (where was he last night when the ranger was chasing them away?) claiming that he used to run after bears an whack them when he was younger (should we be listening to this man?)

Then the father asked about the eighteen mile day hike – the hippy said the eight year old was never too young for something like this (this is a hard hike for an experienced hiker) and I just prayed the guy wouldn't listen.

In one sentence, though, all credibility was undermined and order was restored once more:
Animals are smarter than us man, you know – they're like smart, and all; the bear, right, well unlike us it hasn't even lost its power of telepathy yet.

And there it was. Thank you very much. Please come again. Moving on.

At just this moment, the line started to move, we got our tent sites, and all went our own ways. Good for that. We were also told that shampoo, and toothpaste were “food” which needed to be removed from our car. We had got a warning on our windshield. Bears enjoy these things and will break your door down to get at them. Into the bear locker just about everything went.

Now nine in the morning we were finally ready to start our day. First we checked out the morning program where a Native American took us through a recreated Indian village. For hundreds of years the Indians lived in the Yosemite valley, until the government kicked them on out. Now only two true-bloods remain, one being her husband. When he and his aunt dies, that will be the end of the Yosemite natives.

She was from the ocean people, full blood from her tribe, now joined with his. And she told us of the acorns, the staple food. She told us how women stay away from men's plants (those used for making weapons). She told us a story of creation – diving frog, mud slinging coyote. She allowed us entrance, to the right, counter clockwise, into the round house, and then she bid us good day.

It was an hour of interest, and education. And – our hippy was there. Now that he saw my interest in this way of life, and this culture he was confused. He knew not what to think of me – and I believe we parted on good terms. To be honest, I would have liked to have heard of his life, and everything he has done and seen... It's just when people start to push their views against what another so clearly wants that I find myself upset. Just let the guy be an accountant. The world needs them, and there are people who do enjoy that line of work. Hard to believe, but there are people who hate camping too. To each their own.

After a sandwich at the deli we headed up to Vernal Falls.

I hated myself every step of the way.

No more hiking. Why do I never listen to myself when I say this? How hard would it be to just see a sign that says, “hike,” and think – nope, I don't think we'll be doing this, thank you very much?

It wouldn't be hard... except I really wanted to know what was at the top. Who comes to a park to sit in a tent all day?

Off we went, Katherine leading the charge. Over the first half mile we rose 400 feet in elevation. My legs were not happy with this. From the mid point, we were on a foot bridge. Some people turn back here – but I was not in pain, just irritated. An the falls looked so beautiful. I'd have to climb to the top to feel as if I'd accomplished anything at all.

Onwards we went. Another half mile, this time over 600 feet of elevation. This time my legs were screaming at me, but Katherine's hurt more. Unsure if she could finish, I told her she could wait and I'd come back. A glare of pure anger. In all fairness, she was carrying the pack. She had every right to be more worn out.

As we climbed, we passed others, and were passed by some. Mid way from the mid way, a rainbow appeared where the falling water hit the pool below. It was a thing of beauty, and more than one picture may have been snapped. Still, we could not wait long. Every moment paused, was another moment to realize the burning in the upper thighs. We pushed on, and on – not in the best of shape, seemingly. Then, we hit the top.

And like always, when finished every hike is worth while. You never thought you'd have to turn back. It was always possible. There in front of us was a clear cold pool of water, surrounded by large slabs heated by the sun. I may have been annoyed by the three guys fishing across, ruining an otherwise perfect picture, but at the same time were they not there, I would have simply taken a few shots, and left – rather than reclining for a brief and comfortable nap.

Lying on the rocks, in the sun, across from a still glass lake – well it was the type of thing that made you wish you had the whole day to waste. Unfortunately we're always on the move, Katherine and I. We never have the time to stop and sell the proverbial roses. No – we press on, and after an hour of relaxing it was back down the hill, and down to the shuttle bus which would take us to our next trail head.

Mirror Lake: There's not much to say, except that the lake was dry – not much to see during California's drought. We were passed by a number of people on horse back. Five used the sand in front of us to relieve themselves. The horses, not the riders. That would have been weird. More weird.

A quick miles around, and we were headed back to the camp village trying to make a ranger led hike. We failed. To console ourselves we ate, and then checked out the museum. As luck would have it just as we got there it was announced that the final showing of the Yosemite Spirit movie would be played – we grabbed seats and watched, learning how the park came to be. As beautiful in winter as it is in summer, we were shown images of the valley and also the grove of Sequoia.

I'd not known it, but in this park were some of the world's biggest trees. We would have to look into seeing these tomorrow. I was no longer disappointed about missing the ranger hike as had I been on it, I would never have learned about these trees.

All that was left was the evening program – about how bears will try and eat you, but don't worry about these black bears, it's the Grizzlies that are the real monsters (you know, the ones the live in the parks where we'll be next week.) Not sure I should have watched that film, I wandered back to the tent, sure a bear would appear at any moment, and got into bed, still dressed – determined to get out and see any bear that came around tonight.

Of course, on this night, there was not a bear to be heard of.

The Winchester House to Yosemite

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 07:18:00 +0000

San Jose was no random stop to break up a drive. No, there was a purpose to be here. A monument to all those interested in the paranormal, the strange, the weird – the mysterious.

San Jose is home to the Winchester Mystery House.

I did not know the name of this place before reaching California, but I had heard of the House many times over the years. It is the house that was never finished – could never be finished. And because of this strange things exist:

Doors lead to walls, closets lead to open rooms. Windows are in the floor. Staircases lead straight into the ceilings. There are strange things afoot at The Winchester, and even stranger reasons why.

Mrs. Winchester, wife of he who made the well known gun, was plagued with questions after her family died close together. She did what all rational people would do in this case – turn to a fortune teller. What could possibly go wrong?

The medium told Mrs. Winchester that the deaths were caused by spirits hurt by her husbands brand of rifles. There was only one thing she could do to appease the spirits – build a house, and keep building it. Never stop. Only then would the spirits leave her alone.

Of course, being a sane and rational woman she... listened to the advice. Yes, she bought up one hundred acres of property and got to work building a giant house that could never be finished. Ironically though her ghost, and the builders ghosts have been 'seen' here, those of the rifled dead, for whom the house was built, have gone unnoticed.

Some people will say that cameras do not work in the house because Mrs. Winchester never allowed photos within before her death. These people just don't understand how long shutter speeds on automatic settings blur images. But never mind that, as no photography is allowed inside the house.

I will tell yo something, when I pay thirty dollars for a tour of a mystery house, I am not leaving without pictures. And shots of the outside may be fine and well, but if some crazy person built a staircase into the ceiling, I want to record that.

Hanging around when the guide moves on, is a great way to make this happen. Same with the window in the floor. And the damage caused by the 1906 earthquake.

I'm all for respecting some photography rights – but when it's just to sell more books in the gift shop? Nope, I'll take my own, thank you very much. Keep guiding with your practiced voice, and your perfect timing for jokes which are, at best, hit and miss.

The easy riser stairs cover the house. In some areas seven turns and fifty steps need to be walked, instead of five normal ones. There are grand ball rooms, lesser ball rooms, and rooms, rooms, rooms. The fourth and fifth floor were knocked down in quake damage, but the three still exist. At the end of the tour I had walked a mile, and seen many interesting things. And a few types of early elevators.

Due to the house being built in stages with multiple foundations, it is one of the safest places to be in a quake. There is also a large well of fresh water under the property. If trouble brews, this is where to head.

Now in reality the mysterious isn't all that mysterious. The door to nowhere, on the second storey, could have been prep work for an unfinished alternate section, and the window in the floor is actually just a skylight allowing light from outside to light the lower floor as well. They'll not tell you this, but pay attention and you'll figure it out. The staircase into the ceiling? Alright – that's somewhat mad.

After the inside, we walked the outside. There is a lot of see here, and it wasn't until three or four hours had past (some time spent playing The Simpson's Arcade Game – my favourite arcade box – just outside the gift shop.) that we drove on.

About to leave San Jose, we noticed a coupon for two free t-shirts if we visited the Flea Market. The Flea claimed to be the largest open air market in America. I've heard that before. Still, free t-shirts. And I like markets. Heading out there, we grabbed our new shirts, a twenty dollar value (what a random coupon to give out) and checked the aisles. It was mostly the same less than wonderful stuff, until a row we saw just before leaving.

This is where people sell their own stuff. This led to piles of broken electronics, and video games. I saw a few copies of Pokemon Snap for N64. If I could be assured it worked, I would gladly have paid the ten dollars. I was not in a gambling mood. Instead, when I saw He-Man's mount, Battle Cat, I had to buy it. Five bucks? Fine, whatever, now He-man can ride his cat, instead of Skeletor's, on my shelf back home.

I may need to wash, and de-stick-ify it first.

Finally we were ready to push on out of San Jose and head cross-state to Yosemite National Park. Someone should have let us know how long this would take. When we got there the three camp sites in the valley were closed. But, there was a forth site down in the valley. Camp 4. This was a place for rock climbers, and poor people, to hang. Five bucks a person to throw down your tent, in a site of six random folks. Like hosteling, but on a plot of dirt.

Not wanting to drive an hour north of the valley, we took it. To be honest, this is what we were looking for. There was just one warning: be careful of the bears.

I'd heard this bear scare before, and was ready to set up camp and sleep for the night. With the tent up, we climbed inside, but just then the cries started:

Go away bear! Go away!

Rangers, and campers were clapping and shouting at the bear which would wander our site for the rest of the night. Did I ever see it? No – the tent provided me with safety. And sure, I may have regretted not seeing the big black bear, but it was also really cold, and I was really tired. Getting dressed and sticking my head out to see a monster? Not my idea of fun. With a millimeter of fabric between me and outside I was safe.

For hours these calls continued, and I wondered what the ranger must feel like. When she applied for the parks service did she know it would be as a bear chaser?

The closest the bear came was at two in the morning when the ranger ran into our tent, as she clapped and cried for the bear to, “go away [(bear)], go away.”

I wanted to see it. I did. But I also wanted to be alive to explore Yosemite tomorrow. Warm in my tent I stayed. That bear could eat the drunks outside instead.

Car Shows, Elephant Seals, and Zebras - Oh My!

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 07:13:00 +0000

The day started simply enough – drive to San Jose. That's it. Nothing to see, nothing to do – just get to San Jose. Simple enough, yeah?

Well – it wasn't quite so easy. First we had to decide if we wanted to run the highway straight up the centre of the state, or if we wanted to drive Highway 1. Highway 1 is the coastal road. And tour books will tell you that no trip to California is complete without taking the windy road which travels all along the rocky outcroppings up and down through the hills and against the water. The down side? It would add about two hours to our journey.

When will we be back? That's the attitude I try to hold each and every day – and while it may be setting us further and further behind, none can say we aren't seeing some fantastic things. Onwards to highway 1.

Good bye straight shot up the gently sloping centre, hello who knows what. There are all number of towns along the way, but one that we pulled off in went by the name of Slovang. This town was said to feel like Denmark in the heart of California. Believe it or not, that description is pretty accurate. All the buildings are stylized, and the people have mostly immigrated from the part of the world. There are even big ol' windmills just for fun. They don't do all that much, aside from attract you to the associated restaurant, which may or may not serve sub-par sausage.

Now this should have been a quick in and out look getting us back on track with time to spare. But no, because things were happening today in Solvang. Some very exciting things for the people – there was a classic car show. Three roads were filled with gawkers, and cars. Don't forget the cars. Old cars, less old cars, shiny cars, and matte ones too. I don't know anything about cars. I know, blue car, red car, pretty car, ugly car. But still, no less than an hour did we spent wandering, looking under hoods at things which, to my knowledge, work magic and make things go. I have a number of friends who would have loved this – and don't get me wrong, I dug it quite a lot but they would have understood a thing or two.

Leaving Solvang we hit the One once more, and continued along beautiful coastline, traveling over historic bridges built seven decades past. Just when I was back in the swing of carrying on, I saw a large number of cars stopped at the side of the road. People were gazing into the field, snapping pictures and pointing. Clearly I had to see what was going on.

As I started to slow Katherine protested – we had wasted so much time already, no more stopping. But I had to know what was up there. Making my way up the ridge to see what they were seeing I tried to guess at what might await me, prepared for disappointment.

What I saw? There was no way I could have ever guessed. I had no way of even knowing such a thing might have existed. Over the hump, across the dry grass, was a herd of zebra. Of zebra! I had not seen animals running free like this since Africa, and certainly did not expect to see them here.

It was like coming across a dragon – or at least a – no, it was like coming across Zebra in the middle of California.

Apparently they once belonged to Hearst Castle – of which we drove on by, having already seen the most impressive thing, thank you very much. But now, they live on their own and make do. Zebra. In California. Next time, I need to be told about these things ahead of time – it was, simply put, amazing.

Only one stop remained before our eventual reaching of San Jose. Elephant Seal point. We go there, parked, and joined the rest of the visitors looking down on the closed beach at all the seals. They were small blobs against the sand. Far from us, and nearly too far for the telephoto lens, I quickly grew bored. I'd seen an elephant seal before, on a nearly empty beach – only a few meters away. I had looked into the eye of a leopard seal, in the pouring rain, two or three feet in front of my face. I had seen seals – and these ones? You could hardly tell what they were.

Thanks but no thanks. I'm glad I saw them, but they weren't all that special. I feel these darkened thoughts may somewhat be from the fact that, over shadowing these creatures, was the fact that I just saw a herd of Zebra(!) but never mind that. From then on, it was just sit back, enjoy the coastal views, and get to where we were going.

Without much fanfare we rolled into San Jose, too late to do anything. The friend I stayed with back in March lived around here – but not being prepared I was without a phone number. In stead we found an over priced motel, settled in, and fell asleep.

Zebra. I mean, really? Come one.

The Getty

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Sun, 29 Aug 2010 05:05:00 +0000

The Getty – a fabulous world class museum: free! Well kind of free. Getting in is free. Parking? That's fifteen bucks. But never mind. This really is a world class museum, and one that Katherine had wanted to see. Apparently she learned about it in her museum studies class.

The Getty has some fancy architecture that makes it a beautiful complex standing out, sparkling white, high about the freeway below. Everything about it is steeped in art. Whether you think that's good or bad is up to you.

We parked our car, and took the elevator up to the tram station. We were informed the tram would not be running for another half hour. We were early. There was, however, a sculpture garden that we could make our way through. It was in a sculpture garden, just outside Winnipeg, I believe, back in 2006 that I first decided I did not hate art.

This one? It evoked a different feeling. The only thing this had going for it was the unique set up. While still outdoors, there were 'corridors' of paved stone, connecting 'rooms' of grass, on which the statues stood. The unique layout was far more impressive than any of the pieces collected.

The tram is supposed to make one feel as if they are being whisked up, up, and away from their daily life to this other realm. Apparently the wheels which moved us were to the side, rather than below. The guide claimed that we were being whisked away on a cushion of air. If that's the case, we must have hit some heavy turbulence.

Once arrived, we were still too early for the museum, but comforted ourselves with some breakfast at the outdoors cafe. The man working the counter must not have expected any eager tourists quite so early, and as such we were rewarded with the 30% off employee discount. It's like getting a whole breakfast burrito for free! I do recommend the breakfast burritos at The Getty, as well. It was delicious and filling.

Eventually we got in, and watched the ten minute introductory video. Then we hung around the gift shop for a half an hour, waiting for the gallery highlights tour to begin. The one object that stood out, and which I'll probably regret not having bought as time wears on? A stuffed Van Gogh. He had an ear which, through the magic of Velcro, could be removed – to be given to a cherished friend.

As we wandered the gallery in our group, connected with wireless head sets which allowed for our guide to talk at a reasonable volume, we stopped at statues, and tapestries, and paintings. None of the pieces really made much of an impact to me, though one of the first flower paintings stood out.

Our guide reminded me of Buffy The Vampire Slayer's Cordelia Chase. Her look, mannerisms, the way she talked, and her curt nods after every point. What was most distressing was the way the head set changed the guides voice, making it an octave higher. For the most part I tried to keep it turned off. The jarring disconnect was slightly uneasing.

Our tour ended at a great big bed. It was all original, we were told, except for the fabric. Never you mind that the fabric is eighty percent of the bed. It's best not to question that.

After the tour we explored the photograph gallery where one exhibit detailed the Vietnam war, with captions describing the pictures. One of the most striking was a photo of a mother and baby seemingly hanging out with a solider. This shot was snapped only minutes before the two were killed by the same unit.

In another room was a gallery dedicated to the photographer behind Fast Forward and Girl Culture: Lauren Greenfield. These images are as striking now as they were when I considered buying the book years ago. Signed copies were available. The one thing that upset me was that the framing went over any signing and numbering on the print. I would like to have known how many were made, and if they were scarce. Perhaps photographers print up a new batch for the museum? I don't know.

Other wanderings took us past a picture of lilies by Van Gogh (I now regret not having visited his museum when I was in Amsterdam, although I doubt it would have meant as much as Doctor Who was yet to tell me why I should love him.) and out into the courtyard where the desert garden, and the central garden (mischievously placed off to the side, rather than in a central location) could be viewed.

We made our way to another tour – this time of the Jean-Leon Gerome gallery where his art was on display for the first time in thirty years. At the time, I was told, his work was considered pornographic. How this claim could be made when just about every painting every made with humans in it is a desperate attempt to hide the pornographic behind the veil of mythology is beyond me. But there it was. Critics hated his work because people liked it, and wanted prints. That sounds about right. The fact that it was so in demand must have made it terrible (though I should watch myself, normally mass appeal is a sure sign a novel isn't going to be good – I'm looking at you Dan Brown, Mr. Clancey.)

Some of the work? I dug. Others – m'eh. By this point my feet were hurting, and I was tired. Five hours in a gallery is far too long. We just had one more stop to make before heading back down to the real world on our cushion of air machine. The illuminated manuscripts.

These manuscripts were books for the fourteenth century and later. Each was hand written with illustrations complementing the text. Each tome must have been a life's work. There was great beauty, and understanding they were not simply mass produced made each quite the collection of ideas.

Though tired, and potentially cranky, these stood out to me. One was an instructional text teaching how to properly write the calligraphic characters. A reproduction could be found in the gift shop. Katherine quickly snatched it up.

Leaving I felt there was more to appreciate, but said appreciation would require more time that we did not have. Not without food. Fearing we would no longer be met as employees by the wait staff we headed out, grabbed a quick meal, and tried to find parking in Santa Monica. Easier said than done. Instead we just headed home, and watched terrible amounts of television. Star Wars: The Clone Wars (3-d cartoon.) It wasn't as awful as I thought it might be. I don't remember children shows dealing with the concept of war deserters when I was young.

Then there was Back to the Future – always a pleasure. Finally we threw in the DVD Clue. Why was I not informed of this movie earlier? Tim Curry looking younger, while looking younger, than when he was in Rocky Horror. made this a film to remember.

There are three endings to the film, a different one shown in each theater back in 1985. Now all three are played back to back. Just as I was ready to gush about how wonderful and fantastic this movie was I read a remake will soon be coming out. Lord why? Do these things ever work out (Dawn of the Dead? I'll give you that I actually did like the remake more, but that's because the first had pacing issues. Clue? It's damn near perfect.)

But we shall see. If they can pull off Monopoly: The movie, an Battleship The movie, well anything might be possible.

Twenty Miles to Santa Monica

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Sun, 29 Aug 2010 03:45:00 +0000

Woke up in a haze. Groggy. Don't want to go anywhere. Exhausted.

Somehow that 'cold' that overtook me days ago is still present. Not yet defeated. So maybe it's not a cold – or maybe your mother was right, and the best way to deal with a cold is to relax and do absolutely nothing. Good luck finding a day where that's possible. Even getting some hot lemon tea seems an impossibility on the road.

So there I was, awake – but just barely – looking around our alcove. Couches had been turned to make the living room our room with a mattress in the middle, drapes blocking off the rest of the world all around as walls, and a spread of water bottles, green teas, and light snacks to rival any four star hotel.

Maybe it wasn't so much that I didn't want to leave because I was sick, as much as it was I didn't want to leave because this was the most amazing place I'd stayed in ages! We were with a host who went that one step beyond. Something to open my eyes; something which I'll have to strive for when people start shooting on up my way looking for a place to crash for a few nights.

I made my way to the shower, and then when all clean and squeaky started to pack up. Getting to and from the shower requires navigating the obsticle course that is the dogs. There's one small fuzzy weiner puppy, but then there are the two beasts. One, the mastiff/lab mix I called The Beast, from the Sandlot, the first moment I saw him. The other, nearly as big, is a mastiff/pit mix. Now you'd think these would be terrifying creatures, and in the beginning they were. But after a few moments, your brain registering that they're safe, and them wanting nothing more than attention, all was well. Now after a few days, I'd be sad to see them go.

My resolve to never have my own dog was weakening. Still – there's the fact that these monsters must cost thousands of dollars a year to feed. A great ferocious beast like the two big ones can't keep the scary people away without good full doggy tummies. Although, you wouldn't really know they were all that spooky had you seen the biggest in his “Top Gun” aviator costume, or dressed as Darth Vader.

Then there's the small one. This one, from the moment I saw him, looked like an alligator. I was reminded of Sparky from the old Sesame Street clip. More laid back than the others, this one was not free of the costuming. No, I'd seen him as a monkey, and a dragon/alligator, and a piggy.

Saying goodbye to these dogs before making my way out, packing the car, and locking the door behind me was a tragic moment.

Then we were off to the Flooring company to visit Jen and drop her keys off. Normal people have to work – it's what they do. So off we went. The second I stepped through the door the receptionist said, “you're for Jen – this way.” How was she described my looks, so as she knew right away, I wondered.

We said good-bye to Jen and her room mate, while I marveled at the size of their industrial sized printer which must have been six feet wide. If I worked there, I may have tried to sneak a few posters – or giant life sized picture of myself, specifically the one of me on the sand dune in Africa. But there are probably safe guards to prevent such misuse of company property. Probably.

With keys left behind, it was back to the car, and down the road to Santa Monica. All twenty miles of it. The transition didn't take long, and soon we were at another friend's place, grabbing keys from a mailbox, struggling to open a gate, and getting inside. A note and a cell phone I could use were waiting. We quickly dropped our bags then headed back out into L.A.

The last time I was here I went to the laundromat where Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog was filmed. I wanted to buy mini-Tide's for people, but the machine was busted. Katherine, also a fan of the musical, came this time. The machine? Still broken. But – there was, at least, a quarter machine which we fed bill after bill into trying to get the last few state quarters we need: Colorado, Texas, Iowa, and there's another that defeats my grasp. We ended up one closer to completion when I pulled Vermont out of the beast, but then as Katherine fed all her money the machine stopped. We had emptied all the change from it. Oops. Time to make a quick escape, and leave the locals with their clothes, probably wondering why we were taking a video of ourselves singing. Strange that, I'll admit.

Mission failed, and succeeded, more or less we headed out to the last stop. I wanted to find Echo Lake. I spent a day wandering last time, not finding it. Instead I climbed a hill, ended up on a police shooting range, and seeing Dodger's Stadium. This time I was prepared. The GPS showed me the location, right beside the laundromat, but the opposite way I'd walked last time. We drove down, parked, and then wandered around the lake – more of a small pond really.

Families were picnicking, other couples seemed to be mid-stride in the process of creating families, while others were just running around the path – what a crazy fad, this running is. It was here that Captain Hammer took his solo paddle boat ride. The paddle boats were locked away in the boat house today, but the pond was still a good excursion. A secret centre bird-island was padlocked away from public access, and no swimming signs cut off the only other entrance. What privileged lives these fowl must live.

Dinner was a french dip sandwich, potato salad, chili, and macaroni salad at a place called Phillppe's 1001 N Alameda St. (the N Alameda St. in LA, not the one in Compton. It's probably best not to make that mistake.) Delicious, delicious, delicious.

And then back, once more, to Santa Monica.

When our host got in, she told us about a meet up down on the beach. There was a Beatles cover band playing, and a bunch of people were headed out. When we got there, a basket of goodies in hand, and blanket to throw down, a number of her friends had arrived – and thousands of people filled the sandy space, not for the band (they were playing on the pier) but just to be out together on a Thursday night.

There is no analogous event like this where I'm from. No large coming together just because. The closest I could think was Cherry Blossom festival in Japan.

The night stretched on with conversation, cupcakes, bricks of cheese, and of course bands. When the beach cleared, and we started to head back home I was shocked that it was only ten thirty. I'm getting old. I was ready for bed. I don't remember there being a time when I was sleepy at such a foolish hour. But there I was, unable to keep my eyes open as we laid down on the pull out couch. Darkness first, then sleep.

Laguna Beach

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Sun, 29 Aug 2010 03:23:00 +0000

Today we were supposed to head down to The Getty and see what that was all about. A museum, or gallery, or – some building of great culture – however this was not to be. The Getty is claimed to be an all day event. We no longer had all day, on account of waking late, and getting ready to leave even later. But that was alright. It was near Santa Monica, and that's where we'd be off to tomorrow -

Today we set our giant pirate X on the city of Laguna Beach. Off we drove. I'm told there's a tv show about this place. Now that I think about it, I think it was a spin off from The Hills. But I can't be sure. I have not ever watched either of them. Stepping out of our car onto the streets of Laguna beach, I figured I might look up an episode or two when I get the chance and see what it's all about.

I will tell you this much - aw no rich people, and no fancy anythings. What I did see was mile after mile of art gallery. If I was an artist and I wanted to see my terrible pieces I would go where the money is, and the intellect is not. This seemed to make sense – some of the work wasn't bad, but one gallery just made me feel like I really do need to create my “How to Make Art.” spoof site. The entire gallery was just pictures of women terribly out of focus with high contrast. Clearly that is art worth spending hundreds of dollars on.

We started our experience at an outdoor restaurant where older, cosmetically enhanced, women gossiped three tables over from unwashed, deadlocked teenagers lost to their own deep thoughts and heavy concentration. The ruben sandwich? Put sauerkraut on anything and I'll be happy. Serve it with some bottomless, and well supplied root beer and it's golden.

After eating we left the main roads and headed, predictably enough, to the beach. This was not the beach the locals go to – of that I'm pretty sure. Everyone seemed to be travelling through, like we were. The beach itself was marked as a “no fun” zone. “Absolutely no shell collecting,” was signed everywhere. There was no body boarding, or surfing either. Those who attempted to break this rule were met with red swimsuit wearing baywatchers running – always running – to stop them an let them know what's wrong wth their current behaviour. Once modifications were made, the life guards ran back to their towers. Return jogs would be made by those who refused to learn.

Katherine found her fun by flipping over rocks with young children on a grand adventure to find tiny little crabs scuttling around in tidal pools. This, of course, would have been cracked down on – as there is no disturbing the rocks or bothering the local critters. This area was, as luck would have it, around the cliff edge, free from the red suited guardians of despair.

Despite only allowing sunbathing and reading, the beach was a beautiful sight. Still – it was one that couldn't entertain forever. After walking Laguna Beach we headed off for the mall at Laguna Hills hoping to find fancy stores. Once more we failed. The locals of Laguna Beach do not hang at the Main Beach, nor shop at the local mall. Stores were disappearing, the food court was nearly empty. The only thing of note was the Disney Store stocked with ever helpful staff giving us a complete breakdown of the Beauty and the Beast script, explaining the reason the teacup, Chip, had a chip in it (reason: he was once a little boy before being cursed, and this wee little boy had a chipped tooth.) What type of jerk curses a little child into a cup because they're mad at a prince – or whatever that monster was.

From the mall we headed back into the city, and made our way to Knott's Farm. Now don't be fooled into thinking this is where your groceries are grown, oh no – this place claims to be America's first theme park. But that's not why we were there. Roller coasters are a dime a dozen. What is far more rare is a good tube steak. The perfect hot dog. That's something that I've been on the lookout for – shall we say, all my life? As I've travelled the world I've eaten one hot dog after the next. Iceland had a good one, but few other countries measured up to what I had thought of as the best hot dog in the world: Toronto street meat. Here was the last challenger – Pink's Hot dogs.

Pink's is said to be the best dog in America, which isn't that large a hill to clamor up, but still. I've been told that if you're at the Hollywood location it takes over an hour in line to get in the door. Here, far away from the masses, we were able to grab a Pink's dog without any lines.

My choice? The twelve inch monster dog – sour cream, cheese, chili. The dog itself had bits of jalapeños stuffed right into the casing. The hot dog? Well, I was terrified to bite into it, for if anything was going to topple my hometown treat, it would be this one. With the first bite my fears were confirmed. This was the greatest dog of all time. The greatest hot dog in the, yes – I'll say it – world, nay universe. My lord – how could anything sold from the streets compete with something that has jalapeños built right into the casing? It wasn't a fair fight – and to be truthful, it was three and a half times the price of what I'd get back home – but good tasting is good tasting. The crown has been passed.

Slightly delighted by the nom, an slightly upset that I'll have to modify my term claiming Toronto has the best “street dog” rather than hot dog, I headed back home.

I crashed, we finished watching Penn and Teller's Bullshit, and were almost out when the floodgates (front door) opened, ushering in a flock of people. No longer was the night for kicking back to an early sleep. This night was one spent staying up taking for hours, about – whatever you'll have. Four hours in, I was met with a very American experience.

One of the guys collected guns, and was talking about how he had a pump action, 8 in the something 1 in the something, flash light fixed, laser sighted shot gun. I don't know much about guns – I don't know anything about guns – but I do know abount nonsense. And a laser sighted shotgun? Really? At some point I decide to say something that could have turned terribly bad, were we not dealing with professionals. “It's easy to make up any sort of gun if you don't have to prove it.”

And that's when the gun collection came out. A smaller automatic piece, and then the laser sighted shot gun which was straight out of Terminator. All unloaded of course, I was shocked by how light they were. And the feel? They ha the same texture and colour of a video game controller. It was easy to understand how some people can view them as toys. I've held toy guns that felt more, “real,” than these did.

I don't want to say they were 'cool' because that would be, I don't know, wrong? Being a Canadian the word gun rings as an evil to me. In the great white north we demonize guns more than we do drugs. Ohh Bobby was caught with an eight ball of coke? That crazy kid, always pushing. That we can shrug about. Bobby being caught with a shotgun? There is no hope for him! How could he have such a thing?!

To an American this is ridiculous. To me, well it should be ridiculous too, but it's hard to push aside all those years of forced thought.

As a final note? Guns- terrifying and creepy... and kind of cool.

BUT – you should probably always leave them locked up, and not on the kitchen table. Even if they are unloaded, and thus less harmful than a kitchen knife. You see, that Canadian thinking: guns are bad, wrong, wrong, bad, wrong, bad, bad, wrong, bad. I do believe that second amendment allows you to store them wherever you want, even in the umbrella holder near your front door – though not a good idea, as these are for home defense only. You'd need faster access.

And with those confusing thoughts, I slipped off to bed.

Chicken N Waffles and Aquatic Life

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 05:01:00 +0000

Chicken N' Waffles. Chicken and waffles. Together. No some people may scoff at this combination, but not Roscoe. No sir. Roscoe (Herb) worked to perfect the coming together of both these food items, and in so doing created a haven for a certain section of the California populars.

That section is the section of people whom also enjoy both chicken and waffles together, at the same time. Count me in.

Breakfast is a thing of beauty when it includes two plate-sized waffles with enough syrup to drown in and heaping scoops of butter. Now in many cases, the best waffles you've ever taste in your life would be enough – but no, on plate number two you get a quarter chicken smothered (literally, you can't see the plate, or the meat at this point) in thick wonderful gravy. The chicken, of course, is fried.

Yes, eating at Roscoe's House of Chicken n Waffles is a wonderful treat – and a LA cultural experience to be sure, but it's not all syrup and gravy there. First, you may stand out a little. I'm not going to say that Kath and I were the only white folks in there – because that wouldn't be true. Nope, one more came in an hour later, as we were preparing to leave. Now this wouldn't be so much of a thing, if not for the fact that being white is detrimental to your pocket book in this restaurant, in my experience.

Everyone around us was being offered free refills of drinks which “free re-fills don't really come with.” Everyone but us. Now I'm not saying it was because we were the only white people, but I paid attention – the last twenty minute, I'll get to that in a second, all we had to do was look around. We were the only white folks, we were the only folks not getting refills. Maybe they just missed us? Could be. I'll keep an open mind; mind you, I've heard some people say that they will not go there because of the colour of their skin – which is sad, because they really are missing out on some fantastic soul food.

So the last twenty minutes – we were one eating, and wanted to leave. There is no way to make this happen. No, you will leave when the staff are good and ready for you to leave, and who knows when this could be. Let me see if I can clean this up a bit... we were told they worked on, “island time.” Yes that sweet carefree time where things happen when they will. No one else looked like they were in a hurry to go – although this could have been because of all their free lemonaid, while we just peered at empty glasses of ice.

At one point we looked over, and there was our waitress chowing down on her own piece of gravy smothered chicken. For the next fifteen minutes she devoured it, catching my eye now and then. When she was done, good, and ready, she slowly ambled over to deliver us our check and our escape. During this time of nothing, we also noticed Toronto Blue Jays caps being worn. Though, I don't know how much the gentlemen actually care about my home town ball-team. Curious, that. When paying a good tip was still left – the food, it was just too delicious. Never has the combination of waffle, butter, and syrup been so good. And the chicken? Well – if you're in the area you must experience it.

Pulling ourselves, or rather being allowed escape from, the House of Chicken N Waffles we headed a street over to the Longbeach Aquarium.

There is nothing better than free tickets to something, and that's what one of Jen's friends hooked us up with. Free aquarium tickets. Sure we still had to pay the eight dollars for parking, but we saved 24.95 each getting in. A small price to pay.

The first thing we did was head to the gift shop and buy a little stuffed turtle to add to Jen's ever growing collection of the shelled beasts. Then we headed in to see what we could see. Oh the fish that there were – red fish, blue fish, one fish, two fish... and sea lions too.

We didn't learn a thing. For four hours we wandered the aquarium just looking at things and being amazed by the foreign worlds which normally exist under water, made accessible through sheets of glass.

No this wasn't like in New Zealand where you get to walk the stairs down below the surface and view the ocean proper, but there you could never be guaranteed such sightings.

There were giant sea bass, and Nemos, as well as Dorys. And there were jellies. Some of them looked like they should have been harassing Farpoint Station. Oh the jelly fish that there were. The white moon jellies, set against the field of black, made brilliant through their lighting were unbelievable. Some of the pictures are frameable as abstract art.

Outside there were sea lions doing their things, and otters which seamed to shoot through the tank right next to the window, waving to us as they crossed. Katherine is now determined to own one of these tool using non-primates.

I don't want to talk about the puffins I saw. It made me too emotional.

The aquarium continues with tropical fish of all colours, as well as local favourites. Then there is the touch pool. Reach in and grab a shark. What could go wrong? With skin like sand paper, they were too small to do much harm – I still feel that they were looking at all the wee fingers sizing up a good meal when they saw it.

Rays were there to be pet as well, but I'd done enough touching of these crocodile hunting monsters when I was in the grand cayman, using Kath as a shield for protection.

Larger sharks were in a nearby tank, and were amazing to watch. There's something impressive about those few things which are inherently better than us. We love to watch lions, tigers, and other big cats. Wolves are impressive. Sharks have their own much-celebrated week. If we know they can kill us, then we love them by default – we just want at least an inch of protective glass separating.

The hammer head sharks were quite the sight – though small, their unique shape was peachy keen.

We watched sea horses propel themselves along with their speedy back fins, clinging for stability with tails. Then the sea dragons – a favourite of mine – took centre stage. Looking at all these things, so different and unique, I understand how evolution can be brought into question – how do these things manage to diverge and form? It's an incredible separation, yet here we are surrounded by so... much.

There was a movie about otters, and then a $4.00 4-D movie about cartoon sea turltles. After saving so much getting in, how could I resist this film? The answer? I could not. It was a joyful adventure of sea turtles travelling the world in nonsensical ways. At one point he questions our existence as men, “I was confused. On one hand, then men cutting down the tree saved my life – on the other, why would they want to destroy a beautiful forest?” right before questioning existence as a new baby being born looks around and asks, “what do I do now?” to be answered only with the, “just put one flipper in front of the other and everything else will fall into place.” These are big questions for such a small movie – but with the 4D splash of water from above, and wacky paper 3D glasses, I was sold.

Who knew the aquarium would be so much fun?

Scott Pilgrim vs. Downtown Disney

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Tue, 24 Aug 2010 18:54:00 +0000

Monday August 23rd, 2010. You have no idea how exciting it is to be writing this entry on the morning of the 24th. It means I have finally caught up with all my blogging and am back on track. No longer will I be haunted by past days begging for thousands of words – no, for the next little while all is right in the world once more.

Waking up in San Diego we had a dislike of the city from the night before – but that didn't mean we were not willing to give it a fair shake. Our first destination was the beach – Mission Beach to walk along the board walk, which is more of a cement walkway with bikers that want to run you down, not unlike on the sidewalks of Europe. There's a lot of people begging for money here – but well to do folks, begging not for food, but so they can put gas in their cars. Somehow I'm not as sympathetic.

There's also a roller coaster. Did not look safe. I avoided it.

It was hot, we weren't willing to get wet, the beach could only offer so much. Back in the car. I thought about the gaslamp district as I wanted to check that out – but then parking, and city traffic – we were already on the outskirts. It was ten in the morning, and we had a two hour drive ahead of us to meet up with a friend in Anaheim at four. How could we kill four hours? Lets get rid of thirty minutes for traffic we weren't expecting, and another thirty for eating. Three hours to kill.

Eating at IHOP (a welcome change of pace from the fast food that has become standard as of late) was a good start. Delicious treats for all. Then we hit up a mall – a mall with an AMC cinema in it.

Scott Pilgrim was playing, and since it was before noon tickets were only six bucks – if that's not good reason to be unemployed, I don't know what is. Welfare? That's a good reason too I guess.

So there we were, sitting down to watch Scott Pilgrim, when a guy came in behind us munch-munch-munching loudly on his popcorn. My, still sick, brain had a hard time with this and I tried to ignore, but it was like in a cartoon where each bite was represented by a jackhammer slamming the pavement. Luckily he was a fast eater and by the time the movie started, after twenty minutes of previews, he was done.

Opening with the 16-bit Universal Studios logo and sound was perfect. The credits of the movie showed this was not created for Scott Pilgrim, but rather it was made in 1997. What movie was it first used it? My ten seconds of Google reveal nothing.

The film was a streamlined version of the comics – with all the characters being much better than in the books. They made more sense, they seemed how they should be. All was right in the world. Now, sure, they didn't blow up Honest Eds, and Knive's dad was left out, but I was cool with that.

The only thing that bothers me about the movie is that I feel its existence led to book 6 being chopped up from what it was originally supposed to be to fit the plot of the film. I have a hard time accepting Kim being totally cut out of book six, and all her material ret conned. This wasn't a problem in the film, as she was – more or less – left out for the whole thing. She played a good role, and was what she needed to be.

Big cheers for the movie. Sure it cost 100-million (who thought that would be a good idea? Honestly – that's a damn lot of money to spend on an indy comic.) and sure it only made 10-million opening week, so kind of a flop, but I loved it, and I'm glad it was made. I would say this will set a bad precedent for other movies like this ever having a chance to be born, but really – there are no others like this, and this is already made. Take that world, it's out. Victory is ours.

Now go back to canceling all the great tv shows before their time.

The critics are mixed – some digging it for what it is, others not quite getting the importance and impact of the video game references (but times, they are a changing, and these peoples parents probably didn't understand “that crazy rock an' roll with the wee Elvaaaas boy wiggling his no no bits” so move on.) nor appreciate that the music was supposed to be terrible – they're not a good band. That's the joke. But many seemed happy with it.

I didn't care either way, for me this was the comic brought to life and made better. And it was a window of home.

I have not seen home in a long time, but watching this movie, I saw the C.N. Tower on the Toronto Skyline, and Casa loma where I went with a friend to a wedding not all that long before leaving. There was bloor street, Lee's palace, the good ol' hated TTC (prices adjusted from the comic for the rate increase in Toronto since I've been gone.) And Honest Ed's. More important than that, the greatest Pizza in the world – Pizza Pizza (everyone disagrees, but I love it.) Scott and friends were eating it at the place I used to pick it up after work when i was walking Bloor. Now this was a mistake on their part, as that store is the worst Pizza Pizza in the city, giving you burnt crust, and bad service – but it was home, and it was my place.

Watching the movie took me closer to there than I was now. Closer than I'd been in a long time. Even looking at Canada across Niagara Falls didn't show me My Canada. But this did.

And it hit me – I think I'm just about ready to go back.

I didn't travel to escape. I wasn't running from anything. It's not that there's nothing back there for me. I left a lot of good things behind, good people, friends, and family. Back in the city are a lot of people, places, and things that I love.

I'm not going to rush these next three weeks, but the sun is setting on my year long adventure and when it does, I won't be sad. Back there, in Toronto, there's a whole new adventure waiting – and while people have changed, moved, and grown just as I have... Well, I just can't wait to get back and hear all about it.

Cue credits, wait til they pass, cue 16 bit Scott beating up the words The End, and we were off to Anaheim.

When we rolled up i was met by Jen, a girl I'd met in Auckland – see the city wasn't all bad. She would be offering us a place to stay for the next three nights. We got in, saw she had rearranged her living room for us – a mattress on the floors, and couches moved to block the one small dog, and two giant ones from getting to us – and then were whisked away.

We were headed out to Downtown Disney.

I'd heard of this place – this land of shopping – but never seen it. We had no time for it in Florida, back in December, but here there was light to kill. In downtown Disney there are all number of shops to see an experience. Most will make you giggle and laugh. There's a Lego store too – which is all sorts of fun, holding up the boxes to their crazy augmented reality camera, and seeing the set pop up to life and move around on the screen. I also had a good chuckle looking at the new Star Wars set that included a Mon Calamari Jedi. Now that is a trap. And then there's the Build a Bear. I've mocked this before, but secretly I've always wanted on. I've just wanted one that looks like me.

They do not make beards for the bears – but what they do, apparently, make is Star Wars clothes. I saw a Jedi outfit. I saw a monkey. I knew I must match the two together. Unfortunately by the time I had done that, I knew that I must now buy the creature. Who could turn down a Jedi monkey? Honestly – ask yourself, could you turn it down? It was only thirty three dollars. A stuffed animal, nay, a stuffed Jedi animal at that price is a bargain.

Luckily for my wallet, Katherine saw me with the thing and declared that we were so cute. She would have ended extra o's on the word so. That's how I choose to remember it anyhow, and as such she decided to buy me the creature. Success.

Build a bear is a weird thing. First you grab the skin – limp and lifeless – then you get it stuffed by stepping on a foot pedal. Next you pick out a heart from a pile of them (creepy. I choose the checkered one, as my Jedi has dabbled with light and dark, just like Yoda.) Just may think it ends there, but there is a heart-ritual. You must rub it on your arm for strength, head for jedi wisdom, hands so it won't drop the light saber (yes it does come with a plush jedi-monkey light saber) and all sorts of other things. Then inside the heart goes, and the whole thing is sewn up by the staff.

I had my plush monkey, with a barcode inside. But why a barcode inside? At the computers I filled in information, and set up a birth certificate for Jedi Monkey, then listed personal information. Should the animal go off on any adventures and get lost, much like a dog's microchip it can be returned – should someone be so kind as to return it to a build a bear store.

I also received a code to let me play with the monkey online. Which terrified me. How many of these people online are happy bear hugging kids, and how many predators?

Even though it was a monkey – I still couldn't help calling it a bear. It's my Jedi Monkey Bear.

In the car out of Disney (after checking out their awesome mini-marvel t-shirts... so coo') I dressed it up proper in its new outfit. I was pleased. Far more than I should have been.

But the night wasn't over there. No. We headed to Fuddruckers where Jen bought us all burgers. Katherine had Bison, and I continued on my quest to eat new animals by having an Elk burger. This place was great. Good for you fancy burger joint, good for you.

As the night grew on we sat in the courtyard talking with all her neighbours, and it struck me what a lovely little community they had here. Knowing your neighbours. It's a great thing.

And with that – blogs, up to date. Official. Stamped it. No reversals. Success!

Quirky Califonia: Salvation Mountain

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Tue, 24 Aug 2010 17:58:00 +0000

As lovely as Barstow was, we quickly hit the road once more, putting distance between it and us. There was a lot of ground to cover, and not much time to cover it in – not if I wanted the sun to be in the right spot for all the potential photographic opportunities.

Once more I wondered just what life would be like, free of the photographic addiction. Probably a lot more fun in the moment, and a lot more depressing, “for the rest of your life.” I'll take the forever good over the momentary, thank you very much.

We would make five stops today: Pioneertown, Dinosaurs, Palm Springs, Salvation Mountain, and San Diego. I can tell you in order of awesome to not Salvation Mountain squeaks just in front of the Dinosaurs. Pioneertown is way ahead of Palm Springs, and San Diego can just go screw itself (It's a lovely city, more time needed – but our experience was one of anger and rage – rage and anger.)

Pioneertown.

This is a city – a real city, not some wacky re-creationists dream, where people live out their lives, and do their thing. They just all happen to look like they live in a place built one hundred years ago.

The city was constructed by the good ol' movie people who are always willing to do what it takes to cut costs. Why build sets for Westerns, they thought, when you can just build a town and reuse it?

The bank here looks like an old bank, the bar is a Saloon, and the Sheriff's office is just what you'd expect. There's a general store, and a livery. This is a town you'd expect to see gunfights in (and for the fans, one day a month you will.) But it is a real town. With real people. The outsides may deceive, for there are real buildings inside. A modern post office exists behind a wooden exterior. Even the people who live here have houses for the time – their insides, I can't speak to, but I would expect them to keep with the theme. After all, it must take a certain type of person to move to Pioneertown, California.

Looking down Mane Street (cute) you see the OK Corral. You may also notice the hitching posts for horses, bullet holes in signs, and their unique stop signs. Rather than red with four letters on them, they're brown with the sentence, “It's your choice.” I chose to stop.

There are art pieces here – circles of rocks where passers by leave items, statues, trinkets behind. A number of old typewriters stand resting on old desks, turning to rust. Perhaps a commentary on the western itself? So many machines – once greatly used, now nothing but dust in the waiting. Ignored, unloved.

Cabazon Dinosaurs.

“Calllllli-foooooooornia.” This one word has cycled through my mind for decades, since seeing what is arguably the longest commercial for a video game of all times, The Wizard. In this movie an autistic boy is on a quest to put a lunch pail in a dinosaur for his dead twin. Along the way he plays Mario 3, and becomes the greatest video gamer of them all. Also it tells us all that we should, “Love the power glove.” Why you ask? Because, “it's so bad.” Thanks Lucas.

When I was in Drumheller I pretended the T-Rex there was the real deal, but I knew it wasn't. Now though, the beasts were before me. Much photography ensued, and the repeating of the droned out name of the state we were currently in.

There is just difference between then, in the movie, and now – in real life. The statues have changed hands. Up inside the brontosaurus it's obvious what has happened.

The dinosaurs have been bought by a ultra religious group, and they're here to save your souls through the wisdom of the bible. Look – if you love your Jesus, very well. Continue to do so just don't go and kill in his name, or abuse your kids, or make them fear for their lives or anything like that and we'll be cool. But – if you're one of those The World is 6000 years old folks – you'll probably want to stop reading now. I'll try to stay polite, but it's a little tricky to not laugh, you know – a lot – when dealing with this sort of absurdity.

So these folks have signs that want to explain to you how the world is, obviously, only six thousand years old and that dinosaurs hung out with man. They're even mentioned in the bible. Now they died out because Noah ran out of room – of course he did, one of the dinosaurs would be bigger than his whole boat. Good job on the specifications God.

Now it's hard to imagine why all the underwater dinosaurs died, seeing as how the flood would have just increased their food supply, but never mind that – this is a place for faith, not for science. “It's easier to believe in God, the creator, then that we all came from a lightening bolt hitting a pool of mud,” it may be easier – but it's also easier for me to believe that if I stay home, don't work, and play video games all day, I'll have a fun-filled rewarding life. Odds are this is not going to happen.

So all the dinosaurs died, but six thousand years ago man was hanging out with them. Again – I'm not sure how this could have worked, because man still gets his butt handed to him by tigers and lions. Even when we have guns. A wooden spear, and some rocks against a dinosaur? That wouldn't end well. Not in my mind. Still, I loved the Sliders episode where they tried it out.

So up you go, learning about why you're stupid, and why Darwin is an idiot, “the simplest proof that there is no evolution is that no one has seen evolution.” Really? Do you think it works like Pokemon, you hit the level cap and there's an instant change? All of a sudden something morphs before your eyes? You don't think it's millions of years of chance (by the way, look in the red forest where nuclear radiation made a mess of things and you do see some instant change, but ignore that because it doesn't stay on message.) If you're taking your logical advice from Pokemon, you've got a few surprises coming. But go on, continue to use your splash attack in the face of science.

So we have trees that we can date back to five thousand years old by counting the rings. We know the earth is that old for sure. FOR SURE. Now you need to assume that there is nothing more existing a thousand years before that tree – you may think carbon dating would prove something, but no that's all a lie. Obviously. A hoax to keep you from god, your savior.

Don't listen to the devils C14 claims. Apparently a cowboy boot was found with a petrified human leg in it – this proves to the creationists that all fossils must be recent. It is interesting that a leg could petrify in fifty years – but personally I'd give the edge to this proving time travel is real, before allowing that it indicates God. Still – interesting. It's just unfortunate that people are willing to deny an entire science because of one aberration. An aberration which may have been caused by the awesomeness of time travel!

There was another thing they point at, though, which seemed interesting. Soft Tissue was recently found in a T-Rex bone. Therefore the world is only 6000 years old. Look – it's neat and all, but wouldn't this just indicate we don't know how fossilization works? Maybe it was just from Mokele-mbembe or Nessy, something like that. There you go – problem solved.

Now you may think my time travel and monster solutions are quick fixes with no basis in reality - but they're just as scientific as what goes on in this place – facts are for fools. Love your god, question nothing, Jesus is king. Good for Jesus.

I'm willing to hear out these theories – and willing to take their side, with Katherine screaming at me all the way, just to play with the possibilities - but none of it ever holds up. I really wanted to buy the Dinosaurs: By Design, not by Chance t-shirt and wear it everywhere. It was only 9.99 (two for 20 dollars! What value! Pay more for less – and thus I can no longer trust any of what I've read here today, if this is the logic they use) but did not fit. Katherine rejoices.

I had to take solace in the greatest children's book of all time. The Worlds Biggest Dinosaurs: By Design, not By Chance. In it, the two statues come to life and explain how god created them, and why scientists are stupid. It really is one of the best things I've seen all year.

As a final note – checking the name of the book on the website, I discovered that it's one of those pages that meets you with loud un-muteable sounds. You want to talk about Intelligent Design? Go ahead all you want – just try to put some of it into your HTML code next time, alright?

Palm Springs

Palm Springs. you always hear about it. maybe it's awesome, yeah? Nope. it's not. It's just a few streets. Nothing to get excited about. Move on.

Salvation Mountain

I may have seen pretty anti-religion back there, but it's not the case. I'm all for religion when it's not screwing with peoples heads, or making them want to kill others. Or making them want to wake me up to spread their love and knowledge with me early in the morning.

For years I have wanted to see Salvation Mountain. I first heard about it in some documentary. I never thought I would get the chance to see it in real life. It was almost forgotten until watching Into the Wild in Australia. There it came back to the forefront of my mind. And it hit me – I'm going to drive through America. I can see this place if I so choose. Salvation Mountain – I choose you!

Four hours out of our way we drove. And it was worth it. Even Katherine, who I feared may not be as stoked as myself, really enjoyed it. It's hard not to. It's Folk Art in the grandest way.

This is a testament to the love of god and Jesus. Leonard Knight, the creator, was not on hand, but visitors were all talking about him. Some hoped he'd be by to give tours, others wanted to see him work. No stayed for two hours, more or less, but there was no sign of him. Eventually we saw all we thought we could, and the heat as too much.

Kath returned to the air conditioned car far sooner than I – this was, after all, a place I' always wanted to see and I knew I would probably never again return.

When you drive up to Salvation Mountain, you're greeted with a large heart informing you that God loves everyone. Over the years people have tried to get Leonard to change his message by offering help, or money. He refuses. This is the type of Christian I can get behind.

More than 100 000 gallons of paint have been used here. But there is nary a souvenir shop to be found. This place is about spreading a message, not about getting rich. Leonard has turned the mountain into something more, as well. Bales of hay are used to form walls, and rooms, and an entire city. Rooms now surround the mountain, with new ones being formed all the time. The outline for another section has been laid out on the ground, but who knows when work on that area will be finished – if any work here can ever be finished.

Secret rooms offer glimpses of trophies, mirrors, books – my favourite section was a recliner situated beside a ladder.

There are places to sit, think, contemplate. Shirtless three lovers of faith find room in an alcove to contemplate their faith. Others climb to the top and pose near the cross.

Everyone is welcome here, an all are hoped to find comfort. Free water is placed for those to drink, and hammocks, chairs, and mattresses welcome people to rest for a while.

This is a place of beauty, a work of art. Even for those who care nothing for God whatsoever, there's something here to amaze.

Standing on top, looking off a quarter of a mile there are two concrete structures. They too are art, to a lesser degree. Both are covered in graffiti – one a modern kama sutra – the other, political in nature. Everything is art here – and it goes to show that each of us can be an artist if only we have a goal, and stick to it no matter what.

This will be Leonard's life work, and it may not long survive him. It is, after all, made only of paint and hay. There are also those who deem it a hazard, and for a while in 2002 it was feared it would be torn down. Today it is protected, and for that? I am glad.

San Diego
“It means Whales Vagina.” / “There's not way that's right.”

Look, it's a nice city – a good lookin' one, and the gaslamp area could be so much fun. But it was a long day, and we needed a place to stay. We had our room saver, but there was no joy. Place one listed at 34 bucks turned out to be 45, and was way too far from the city centre to be worth it. Not when there was a place in the city for that price. Of course that place was now 57 bucks – there was a “misprint” in the room saver. Yeah, one that has lasted the last three issues right? The next place was full due to a convention in town. The other fifty dollar place was full – but there were sister properties for only eighty bucks near by. Ugh – for an hour we circled the city in hopes of a place to sleep.

Finally we went back to the scamming hotel with the “wrong price in the book” and accepted that it would be fifty seven. I sent Katherine in as I'd been there before. She came out fuming that it was now seventy eight dollars. Forget that.

I grabbed the book, walked in, and asked for a room – wondering how it could have gone from forty five, to fifty seven to seventy eight.

I was told this was the two person price. Oh really? The coupon says one to two people. But that was a misprint I was told – see the reprint from months back that says the new price? Fine – give me the fifty seven dollars. Oh but that's just one person.

At this I had no more patience. I was either getting that price or we were flipping the bird at this city and moving on. I was ready to snap, and doing everything I could not to. I grabbed the sign with the BS three month old reprint, and pointed: “Look, even in your reprint it says one to two people. Just give me that price, and let us be done with it! Alright?”

Finally he stepped back, recomposed, and – as if doing me the worlds greatest favour – accepted. We had a place to sleep. Great. Good. Sorry San Diego, but I hate you... Hopefully I'll be back in the future and you can try and change my mind.

Good night, and god bless.

Five Hours in Death Valley

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Tue, 24 Aug 2010 17:41:00 +0000

Five hours in Death Valley. This may not seem like much in the winter months, but in the summer? It is not the most delightful of times.

Waking up, covered in gross, we both headed out of the tent into the somewhat cooled morning. Now when I say somewhat cooled, it was still hotter than most summer days in Toronto, but being six aye em, I knew this was as good as it was going to get.

Around the camp, with room for over one hundred sites, only ourselves and a couple of French women, walking around in their underwear – an attempt to beat the heat – could be found. I think this may be the only place not in “high tourist season” in the USA. Travel to Death Valley in these summer months will greet you with discounted prices across the board. Come in the fall and winter? Good luck finding a place to camp.

In the washing up sink behind the bathrooms I shoved my head under the tap. Shampoo and conditioner applied, I was somewhat cleaner, feeling better, and ready to meet the day on my own terms. Within moments my wet hair was attracting the dust particles from everywhere around me.

Katherine got ready, we broke down the tent, shoved everything into the car, and made ready to head out into this killer desert for some light hearted exploration.

Our second stop was the visitor's centre to pick up a map and learn what places we should check out. Stop one? We followed the signs to “Bad Water.” This is a section of Death Valley where a small pool bubbles up to the surface. A potential oasis for all those in need of a quick sip in the early days of exploration. But this pool was one with a deadly secret – it was full of salt, full of it. A sip from this pool would do nothing to help, only hinder.

The great salt flats spread out in front of us. We walked as far as the mountains shadow would allow, not nearly far enough to the full white coverings. But I was sick, it was hot, and there was zero ability to press on. I will normally head out, telling my body to suck it up, to see whatever it is I feel I can see - but here? Now? Without shade I could barely stand. As the rising sun ever shortened the peaks reach, I hustled back under cover of cool.

In the visitor's centre we were told about a number of different sites, and made ready to head on out to them. First, though, we would need to fuel up the car. Running out of gas here? It didn't seem like an acceptable option. There is one gas station in Death Valley. It's price? 4.43/G. Now this is about 1.16 a Liter, prices back home being about 1.00 – 1.04 a liter, but we're in a world where expensive gas is 3.30 (86/L) is expensive. This made us cringe a little. That and the realization of what we'd be paying once we crossed over the boarder.

It was originally thought that we might head to Canada on the fifth to celebrate my One Year out of the country, but looking at the added costs of Canadian fuel prices, and the uncertainty that magical Room Saver books existed (that we didn't have one for California was bothering me to no end.) will keep us out until the last second.

Ankles gripped, tank fueled, we were good to do. Our first stop was the sand dunes. I've seen sand dunes in a number of places around the world now, but seeing them here was strange. I wasn't expecting such perfect sand, and such beautiful shapes to make themselves at home in this part of the world. And yet there they were.

I was torn between my desire to run up and jump/skip down them (one of the most fun things a person can do on their own two feet) and my desire to stay near the car so that when I passed out, I would not be lost to the elements.

Many people set out to hike the sands. Once more I had to make the smart call. Curse you virus floating around our car, no doubt being shared, spread, and multiplied by the communal water bottles.

Forty five minutes later we were arriving at our next site. This was not, as you might think, forty five minutes of walking. No – that would be terrible. This was all in the air conditioned car. There is no way to see America, or her National Parks without the aid of motorized vehicular transportation. It is a big country; it is a big park.

This site would see us climbing up a slight incline to view rock formations that go beyond my description, “the look like giant's toes,” some called out. Others were too busy trying not to die, guzzling water, sitting on the provided benches. Another more adventurous group left the path to go climbing all throughout them. Hats of to their intrepid nature. There are few ways to actually hurt the things we see out here. They have existed for thousands of years, and will keep on existing until they become the new Dune Sea.

We drove through “Artists Road” a twenty minute loop that travels between some of the most colourful formations. They're best seen at sunset, when the light explodes off of them in a rainbow of shimmering amazement. But we could not stay that long and had to make due with what we had.

I will somewhat obscurely say this, when we stopped for our second view on this path I found Harley barely clinging to the top of the trunk, having already lost grip on the roof where she/it was forgotten. Terrible things could have transpired were we to have not stopped exactly when we did.

A few other areas like The Devil's Golf Course, and Natural Bridge went unseen. We may have taken the car on dirt roads in Nevada, but pressing our luck here didn't seem the thing to do. And the day was not getting younger. On we pressed to he final spot – Dante's Lookout.

It was hard not to feel bad for the personified car as we pushed it up the steep grades to the top of the mountain, five thousand feet above where we started.

With accelerator pushed all the way to the floor, we climbed at a speed of twenty miles an hour. Or continuous hope, we would not start to slide backwards into the cars behind us – and that the one in front of us would continue its steady ascent as well. Radiator water stops existed along the way, doing nothing to fill me with confidence.

But all was well, and when we finally flattened out, parked, removed ourselves from the car it was a wonderful thing – at this altitude the world was not a steamy oven of terrible. No it was manageable up here. Comfortable even. Bounding down the trails we looked out over the entire park – my only regret, that it was noon and the high sun washed away much of the detail.

Still, this was a beautiful site, and quite the thing to see.

Death Valley – it may be terrible, and awful, and the worst thing I've even been through. But it's also fantastically beautiful, and well worth the momentary discomfort.

And then we'd seen all that we could see, left the park, and headed out into California with our sights set on L.A.

This would not be a straight shot, but we would get there eventually. Just not tonight. Tonight we still had a mission – find a roomsaver magazine. Driving down the empty highway we came upon a double digit village (less than one hundred people) but it had a visitor centre. While no roomsaver existed, I did get a map of California which pointed out the real welcome centres and rest stops. An hour later, the rest stop provided me with what I needed.

Like an addict getting his fix, a wave of calm rushed over me when that green and white newsprint entered my solid grip. Now we had information. We could find a place to sleep. And off we went to good ol' Barstow, California. A perfect place to rest our heads for the night, relax, and enjoy the sweet sweet joy of conditioned air.

The Truth is Out There: Area 51, Nevada

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Mon, 23 Aug 2010 05:44:00 +0000

Strange things happen in this desert. Lights are seen at night, strange craft flies over head. At times it's just madness from the sun, but might there be something more to it?

I'll level with you – I don't really care if there are spaceships at Area 51 or not, but since I was a child headed to a Florida X-Files convention with my mother when I was just a wee little one, midway through the first season, I had wanted to see Area 51. I read books on it in the pre-internet days, and found much more after than time. I was a wee bit obsessed. I'm not sayin' I think there are aliens there, but there are UFOs. During the first Desert Storm they flew their triangular stealth craft from there leading to all sorts of sightings. It is a secret military base with so much history – and I needed to see it.

The only problem? It's in the middle of nowhere. And it's not exactly open to the public.

We left Vegas in the morning and headed on down the Extraterrestrial Highway. Oh yes, that is its real name. There are signs and everything. This highway leads along the eastern side of the base, hitting absolutely nothing for miles (gas up early and often) except for the town of Rachel. Now I've been familiar with Rachel, and the Little A'Le'Inn since Mulder headed out that way in the X-Files. Never did I think I would walk through those doors.

Yet there I was, in the very place Mulder had used as a base to discover the truth at work around him. I was there. A diner, mostly, it also sells a number of tacky treasures. The one thing I was interested in was a map. The map to Area 51. It sells for thirty five cents and comes with warnings, and detailed instructions. It's worth the purchase if you want to head on out to the limits of legality.

We thought about getting a room, but the base was twenty miles back the way we came. Driving there and driving back? It seemed a bit much. So off we went, back down the Extraterrestrial Highway to Mailbox Road.

Mailbox Road (also on maps) gets its name from the black mailbox that used to be situated there, all mysterious like. Now the mailbox isn't actually black these days – it was replaced with a white one a decade and a half ago. Probably a PR move by the government to seem less sneaky, or by the guy who owns it – tired of people breaking into it looking through his mail for alien secrets.

The box is covered in stickers and graffiti – ufo seekers hang out here for camp outs, and gatherings. Apparently many UFOs are seen here. Group mentality? Flairs for night practices? Spy planes? Alien craft? You decide. But this is where you turn. Head nine miles own the bouncy dirt road, and turn, then you're headed on a much larger dirt road – worn down by the bus that brings workers in in the morning, and out in the afternoon – towards the gate.

It seems as if we're fifteen years too late. I'm not the same paranoid I used to be, Area 51 hasn't been the same since Google Maps showed it off, and the government copped to it existing, and the signs at the boarder were replaced, no longer the terrifying threats they once were.

Also the mountain view point that once allowed legal peeks into the secret base (how did they miss that?) has been taken away through re-zoning. I'm also now at the age where I understand why the military would take away and keep secret aspects of their planning. I no longer assume it's nefarious.

But – standing on the gravel, near the Groom Lake boundaries, I felt a great thrill. This was a childhood dream realized. There's nothing else to say – it was amazing to finally achieve something I'd wanted to for the better part of my life. I didn't think I'd ever get here. I didn't even think it was real, in the sense that tables, chairs, and the country of Australia are real.

But there I was, with the guards in their grey trucks keeping a watchful eye from the hills above. Were I to step across the line I would be instantly arrested, and fined hundreds of dollars.

Katherine may not have been as excited, the fear of arrest strong in her, as I stepped closer and closer to the line. But as we turned, and started to drive out, even she had to admit how cool it was to come this close to THE Area 51. Americana at its best.

It was a thing of beauty.

Another security truck passed us as we drove out. I wonder what they think, having to remain out in the desert heat watching as tourists flock in and out and in and out. I wonder what they think the tourists think they'll see. I don't know what I thought I would see? I saw more at the A-Bomb site then here, but this was different. It was special. It was such an important spot, my own personal Mecca.

I may not be the same type who thinks the government and military are evil and out to get us – but the importance of this place in pop cultural lore, and my own inner self... well this was a pilgrimage through the desert, and I was not disapointed.

Heading forever away from the site, we returned to Vegas, stopping in at the Pinball Hall of Fame. Here over one hundred machines recount the living history of the game. And you can play them all – proceeds going to charity. You can play games, and feel good about it too.

None of them matched up to the Pirates machine I spent time with in Vegas, but looking over decades of them was something unique. I also played Mario as an arcade machine. Strange thing, that – if it was originally designed for the arcades, that makes sense why the warp zones are so easy to get to.

I changed many a bill for quarters, coming a few steps closer to completing our American State quarter collection. That seven have eluded us this long is ridiculous. Especially with Virginia, and Connecticut haunting every handful of change. Where are you Texas? Where are you.

With that behind us we set out on our final drive of the day, which soon took us into night. We were off to Death Valley, California. A national park with an eerie name. Also home to WWE's The Undertaker. In fiction, if not real life.

By the time we rolled in the night had fallen, allowing for some beautiful pictures of the moon, the sky, the stars, and the mountains in the foreground. But what the night had not brough was cool air. It was hot, and terrible, and awful.

Lying in the tent we sweat and sweat. it was the most uncomfortable I'd been in some time. Triple digit nights are no ones friends. I had the tent aligned with the wind, but Kath thought otherwise, so turned it, with much effort. Minutes later the tent was nearly blown away with us in it. Clearly mistakes had been made. Once more we turned it.

I was not doing well. Sickness had hit me hard, and it was all I could do to stay awake long enough to drink water.

Soon I would pass out for the night.

Apparently the sickness helped me here. I was sick so I sweat more. The wind cooled the sweat, and I was comfortable enough to sleep. Katherine did not sweat, was not cooled, and got – at most – two hours of sleep during the long disgusting night.

Death Valley. Well, what did we expect?

A Final Night in Vegas

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Mon, 23 Aug 2010 05:36:00 +0000

Waking up early I tried to catch up on my blogging. Why did I think that writing at least one blog a day was the way to go? And why couldn't I be like most people who just throw down a paragraph before making their merry way across the interweblands? No – I decided that I had to log everything. A small entry for me is one thousand words. Taking about half an hour to write one of those, catching up once I had fallen behind was proving to be an issue.

Take into account the failing keyboard (the D key still not working very well at all – see if you can spot all the places where it should be, but is for some reason vacant. An instead of And is a big one.) and this was not going great. Still, I tried this morning [authors note: this entry is for the 19th of August, and is being written on the 22nd. Clearly catch up methods have not been going well.]

When Katherine woke up I thought my blogging would be at an end, and I would have to go out into the world. Now it's not that I don't like going out into the world – I do. It's just since I'd started I just wanted to catch up and let the world become a good and normal place again. Writing a day or two late – a week in some cases – leads to so many things being forgotten – and the tone is more rushed, as I'm trying to work through a great many rather than focusing on just one.

My time was not yet over, however, as she suggested she would go get breakfast. Having someone bring you breakfast? It's a wonderful thing. Perhaps this is how she felt in Florida – always waking up to a ready meal?

As all things do, however, this ended and it was once more away from the computer and into the scary bear infested world out of doors. I'm told there are no bears in the desert, but this is Vegas. Who knows what monsters lurk here?

When we headed out we first made our way to the Tix4Tonight booth. This is where you can pick up discounted tickets for shows, and all that good stuff. We wandered down and stood in line trying to figure out what we should see. In my mind it was down to two: Holly Madison – Peep Show (because is there a more Vegas show than something of that nature? It would have been a cultural experience) or some Cirque de Soleil. You know – the French Canadians who suspend themselves from ropes and wear strange costumes?

But even still – what one. It seemed every casino had one of these shows going – there was Ka, which looked pretty cool. There was one, O, with ex-olympians. There was Zumanity which was a sexualized show – merging culture with the Vegas flair. Even the Chris Angel show was one of them. Eventually we settled on the one playing across the street at the Mirage: Love.

That would be showing at seven at night. It was still early – after winning a few bucks on slots (lucky 7 with five lines, five credits a line being the way to success here... betting more than five credits would have won me more, but I fear the losing of money) I was about to leave the Mirage, after picking up our newly purchased tickets. But Katherine was in a jealous mood. She could not stand to see me win. So once more, in her now famous fashion, she bet some money – managed to get ahead, but failing to stop reduced it all to nothing. Again, we only play with a buck or two so the losses aren't great – only the damage to the pride.

Next up? Treasure Island. You need to take a tram to this place, and it's a pretty good looking casino. Inside there is a carved mammoth tusk. I'd seen these before (always assuming they were elephant in the past) but I'm never less than impressed. To see all the intricate carvings, all the many figures so perfectly sculpted – all without breaking the piece? It's incredible. Give me a time machine, and I'd love to be able to look into the past, watching as it was formed.

There was also a neat-o motorcycle custom job thingy that I'm sure car and bike people would be into – but, you know... I don't know about that stuff, except for it had a siren face with cool light up blue eyes.

Getting to Treasure Island was no problem but leaving was. To cross the street we had to walk a bridge west, then a bridge north, then one east. All this took thirty minutes, and with no water – the sun hot – this was not a good situation. We then failed to navigate our way from the Venetian (I've seen that bridge before – in Venice) and all looked lost, until the welcoming golden arch appeared before us.

Love it or hate it, but a 32oz refillable drink for only a buck, full of Poweraid, Light Lemonaid, soda, or just plain water? That's as near perfection as I've ever seen.

Figuring we'd take the rest of the day easy we went back to the hotel and headed off to the pool. It was before six, so it would be open. Of this we were sure. We changed, headed out, and saw the great watery expanse before us. Hopping in we were quickly told to get out – someone puked in it. It was closed. Swim fail two. Going in the hot tub instead, it was soon discovered that hot water under the hot sun is not a good combination.

Back to the room. We decided our next action? The Buffet. Our hotel had the cheapest of the local buffets at only nineteen dollars. Now while we assumed it would not be good, were we to avoid this Vegas experience we would think back with regret. It was – I don't want to say terrible, but for that price, I'd not do it again. I think you were supposed to tip – but it was confusing as we paid our bill before we could eat. All I know is I did my best to eat for an hour, and then tapped out.

There was nothing that stood out.

On the TV Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift was playing. It may be surprising to learn that I love these movies, despite knowing nothing about cars. I still like to see them all flashy and wonderful. And Tokyo – I like that. And Drifting (like Initial D without all the unnecessary, “it's Japanese!” incest, and long unending character development.) I watched an hour, before we had to go. Part of me, only mostly kidding, suggested we blow off Love – which we each spent one hundred dollars on. But no, off to Mirage to watch the show. I'd never seen a Cirque show before, and was pretty excited. Not Penn and Teller excited, but I was into it.

Love is a show set to the music, time, and vague-ish story of The Beatles. Everyone knows the Beatles, and everyone loves the Beatles – those who say otherwise are liars. Now, I may not have known much of their music until five years ago when a friend at the time played me most of their albums back to back, but even before then I knew they were something special. That album, you know, where they all walk across the street? That's a goodie.

The performance started with the bombing of Liverpool in the forties, which then led to the Eggman (coo coo cachoo) trying to retain control of a country looking to change. A “tea man” pouring smoke and water from his silver pot moved across the stage providing for all. A loosely veiled metaphor for LSD. Soon colours were rippling, people were descending from above, and madness was taking hold. For one number a sheet covered the crowd, and only us in the cheap seat could see. The others were trapped in the world below.

They even worked in Octopuses Garden (my favourite Beatles song – despite protests of just about everyone who learns this fact.)

For an hour and a half there was action, acrobatics, and music – beautiful, beautiful music played from speakers worked into each and every chair in the house. It was an event, and one that I was glad to have seen.

Katherine would later recount how it made her feel like a child – looking in awe, not caring about anything but the spectacle. I envied this, almost embracing this mind set the night before, but still feeling somewhat removed. Still – it was a fantastic show, and one that I would recommend to just about anyone.

For one hundred and fifty dollars (the asking original price) it would still be a thing to witness.

With show ended we made out way back. There was a desire to dance it up, and buy a five foot tall drink that can only be worn around one's neck – but it was late, tomorrow would be an early day, and – though I hate to say it, I was becoming sick. I could feel it – in my bones.

Penn and Teller: Live in Las Vegas

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Sun, 22 Aug 2010 05:35:00 +0000

Woke up late. Sleep was needed. Too much camping on rocks does not a body do good.

At the same time as I wanted sleep, I also didn't want to let the day get away from me. I mean, how often will I be in Vegas? So up I got, showered, and then woke Katherine. She was not as eager as I, but as it was almost noon it was a justifiable waking, I felt.

We headed out, grabbed some McGrub, and then caught the shuttle from Harrah's down to the Rio. There is nothing like a free shuttle bus. Vegas would be a perfect place to vacation – you fly in (just make sure you fly into Las Vegas, Nevada – not Las Vegas, New Mexico... I wonder how many people have done that?) then grab your shuttle from the airport to your hotel. Once you're there everything is in walking distance. Well, everything you're liable to want to see.

In the Rio we picked up the tickets for Penn and Teller that we ordered way back in Florida. Katherine was over stimulated looking at all the pretty colours – me, I was hyperactive knowing that soon I'd see Penn and Teller's live show. And afterwards, maybe ever get to meet them!

Giddy giddy, we headed through the floor. So many slot machines, all looking the same. I had no desire to play any, and joked about how they were all the same, except the faceplate. Then I saw an Aliens slot machine. Yes, yes, they're all the same – but Aliens. With the annoying cat, and the chest bursters, and the monsters from nightmares.

I proceeded to lose my dollar. In went another. It was lost – but I cashed out with one cent left. The awarded me a slip labeled Rio, with my one cent winnings. Scrap book material? I think so.

On our way out, I saw a Deal or No Deal machine – I tossed in a dollar, pressed the spin button and chose some cases. A few seconds later my one dollar had transformed into sixteen and change. I can see the appeal of this whole gambling thing.

Katherine wanted to win too, and so she slipped in some money, pressed spin – and nothing. No cases. Apparently I got a lucky spin first off, while she got nothing. It was sad, and tragic – but I had some money, and was feeling pretty good. I know, I know, fifteen dollars – still it would cover all my gambling losses for the next few days, and that was something.

It should be noted that I'm not a big gambler.

Is it obvious?

We played a few more slots – I won another dollar on video black jack, and then we caught the shuttle back to The Strip and explored some more. This day would take us into Bally's to see their giant fake insects – a garden full of small things made of large flowers that you can walk through and ohh and awe over. Then we'd pass the Bellagio – shooting its fountains into the air. And then would come Caesars Palace.

This is a monster of a Casino. It's more of a small town. It takes up a full city block, and has a hotel, restaurants, an arcade for children, an art museum, and a huge mall with all the designer labels.

When I thought of Vegas this is what I thought of – though just in small casino form. Back in the days of the green and black screened Game Boy I had the Caesars palace game. Even back then I wasn't much on gambling – I would just head to roulette, place the bet on black, and hope to double up. I kept leaving in a taxi cab, rather than the limo.

I wish I'd paid more attention to the rules of the games. Craps looked fun, but I didn't know how to play. Roulette, I'll stay away from until I know the odds. Black Jack was too much at the tables, with a five dollar minimum (remember, I'm still a poor traveller here.) Video Black Jack once more.

After watching for a bit and seeing me win a whole seventy five cents, Katherine decided to get in on the action. She played for a good ten to fifteen minutes on her dollars – at times more than doubling her play price, but each time wanting more – more – more. Ultimately she lost everything, claiming, “I could play this all day.”

There's a terrible monster – I call him GAMBLOR!

Betting with only dollar bills, a loss was never all that bad. It was worth the moments of fun – far more enjoyment than out of a quick arcade game... except skee ball. Nothing beats that sport of kings. Unfortunately there was none to be found.

Near the art gallery there was a pin ball machine, which got me three games for a quarter (one and a half credits already existing in the machine, and winning a third game with the game over Match.) The game? Pirates of the Caribbean. By far my favourite pin ball game. I wonder if there's a way to make it mine? E-Bay perhaps? [note: it exists – for six thousand dollars. No thanks.]

The mall offered another extreme. It was designed just like one I'd seen in Tokyo years back – to look like you're outside in Europe. I wonder what the connection, if any, is. In the mall there are two fountains that come to life for a show – one is about Atlantis where fire and water are used as weapons. The other is supposed to depend on projected images on the ceiling, but the projectors were down. When the statues talked about how amazing something looked we were all left wondering what it might have been. Kath and I bailed on this to check out the Apple Store. She has a new love of iPads and was introduced to PvZ (so much time I wasted in Sydney playing that.)

Wandering back to our hotel at six, we figured on a quick dip in the pool before Penn and Teller. This was not to be, however – as (complaint number two) the Imperial Palace closes their pool at six p.m. In Vegas? Really? Apparently so.

No swimming. Just a moment or so crashing in the room before heading back to The Rio.

We had bought VIP seats – nine dollars more than regular seats, but it got you in the first few rows, and came with a free 30 page book. The book was the program – and it sold for ten bucks. Really we made money, had we wanted the program, which we would have, as it is awesome.

Inside Penn tells the tale of Tellers life, and Teller of Penn. Who knew Teller used to teach Latin? And who knew of the hardships they worked through to reach their fame. Both are straight edge. There's also a comic where they show some tricks. And, they bash Chris Angel. What more could you ask for? This was quality work.

Before the show started I also picked up a deck of cards for sale at the gift shop, in hopes of getting them to sign it after the show.

The show was as fantastic as I hoped. Their comedy with a purpose educates as it entertains. In one moment they explain tricks, while adding their own elements so that what you have revealed is not the same as the trick they're running. They also hid a phone in a fish – using the phone to video the whole thing. Youtube will show you this if you search for penn and teller fish phone.

One of their final bits, the burning of the Flag is a powerful moment, and followed by their double bullet catching trick. There's a desire to want to know the answers, while at the same time I just wanted to enjoy – and that's the stance I took this night. Who cares how it's done – just be amazed.

By the time the show ended, I wanted nothing more but for it to continue. I wanted to see it another night. Each night they add and take away different bits, so seeing it again could be a very different experience.

But it had come to an end. We were all shuffling out of the theatre, only to meet with throngs of people in circles. The two were signing autographs. Teller signed my program and my cards. His voice was not at all what I was expecting. He sounded much more gruff than I would have thought – a real Jersey boy. Apparently it's not all terrible that comes from there.

Then there was Penn, calling everyone Boss. He too signed my book and my cards.

On the shuttle back home, I thought about how super ultra cool it all was. Giddy like a child I told myself I'd learn a card trick or two. Now that I have cards signed by them, I almost feel like I have to. On a trip with few souvenirs this was an excellent one.

Still filled with excitement and glee I passed off into sleep. Tomorrow would be our final full day in this city of potential Sin.

Viva Las Vegas

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Sun, 22 Aug 2010 03:57:00 +0000

Time to say good bye to the Grand Canyon. Waving our hands, we thought we had done our part. However, the Grand Canyon did not seem ready to leave us behind just yet. Really it was my fault – you think I would have known about following a GPS after the BC incident, but no – I do not learn. Now, I know for a fact I had dirt roads checked as “avoid” but, never trust that. When a road become dirt, check or no check, pause and reevaluate.

Following the GPS I scoffed at signs saying the exit was the other way. After all, what do signs know? After all, it's not like they're there to help direct people to the exit. No, we seemed to be following a truck suited to off roading. Strange, that. It took us through the village up in Grand Canyon. There is a whole town here, and a school, and everything. Crossing Guards were helping wee ones not get run over by the likes of me.

How strange would it be to grow up on the Grand Canyon?

Now just past this town was where the road became dirt, leading to back country. I protested that the GPS knew what it was doing, but Katherine was the voice of reason – turning us around and heading out the proper way. Fifteen minutes wasted, but disaster averted. I don't think I'd even call it a waste, we never would have seen the town up here otherwise.

Outside the park we found ourselves, once more, on the historic route 66. This meant all number of towns with touristy shops, such as the one just a block down from the good ol' Road Kill Cafe (with names far cooler than the actual menu items. Still, we had to stop in, as I had the poster for this place way back when I thought it was cool to hang posters on my wall.) This shop had a number of scandalously costumed female manikins standing on the roof. If nothing else, it allowed me to get a post card. For weeks I have been carrying a stamp around with me in my pocket. One day, I trusted, I would be able to post a card to Kath from North America (thus insuring she was sent a postcard from all the continents.) Never mind she was beside me when I went to the post office and mailed it – it's the completion that counts. The Gotta Catch 'em All mentality.

Down the highway another route 66 side show would present itself. Fred Flintstones' diner. There was a giant egg plant and volcano, and other things in the back. To see them proper would have cost five dollars. I had no money for that. The Eggplant reminded me, strangely not of Kid Icarus, or Captain N – but instead of the McDonald's happy meal toy from the first time I went to Disney World. It was an Eggplant car a Fraggle would ride in. But never mind all this.

Outside the Flintstones land was a dinosaur made out of metal car parts. It was like the baby of Truck-a-Saurus. Taking a picture, I felt the stop was worthwhile.

We entered into Nevada. Now, entering into Nevada from Arizona is not a passage without some interesting sights. There is no main highway – instead there is a passage that requires a security check, and then a slow drive over something amazing. The Hoover Dam. The Dam is just enormous. I'd seen it in movies, of course, but to be there and drive across it – that was something else. I could have paid the seven dollar to park and walk it, looking down the sheer drop, but I received view enough from the car. I would have liked to have toured the facility, but the cheaper shorter tour can only be booked online. Who does that?

As we crossed over, we made our way to a Nevada welcome centre. Inside there was free wifi access. This would be important as we needed some confirmation numbers for Las Vegas tickets.

We also discovered that 'back in the day' Nevada had a “Miss Mushroom Cloud.” One atomic bomb a month was detonated here. What could possibly go wrong?

Once you're over the boarder getting to Las Vegas is a matter of minutes. It's checking in that's the hard part. The Strip appeared in front of us, opening up like a wonderland of sights and sounds and worlds coming together – Pyramids beside the New York skyline, just down from the Eiffel Tower. When we rolled up to our place, the Imperial Palace, it took a while to learn where we should park our car. The sign only visible once you've turned the corner you may not have otherwise known to turn. Then you try and find a spot – good luck.

After that, we walked the stairs down, not knowing where the elevator was located. The Imperial Palace, it's not a bad place – but signs... it needs more signs. You could over hear people in the casino, and in the elevators all remarking about the same thing. But that would come later – once we'd checked in .

To check in you need to wait your turn. And oh the wait it is. I could have lined up to ride the Harry Potter ride at Universal before we got our room key. A woman in front of us pulled out her watch, timing each person at fifteen minutes to get to the counter, grab their key and leave. With five windows open, we still stood in line for an hour. Never did we learn what the hold up was. We walked up, got our key, and left. Fast as lightening.

We dragged our bags back across the casino floor to the elevator, rode to our room, tossed our gear on the bed, and then made our way back down, out, and to the strip.

Neither of us had been to Vegas before, and looking out we didn't know where to begin. Picking a direction, left, we started walking. The first casino aside from our that we came to was Paris. Out front the Eiffel tower rose into the air. As if that were not impressive enough, the inside was designed to look like the streets surrounding the land mark. Clouded sky was the ceiling, and the legs of the structure came down through the building itself.

Walking through we marveled at the flashing lights, pleasing sounds, and moving images everywhere. No doubt this was a land made to take advantages of our most primal desires – flashy, soundy, coloured things... voices of angels.

A hallway behind was made to look like a strip of cafes and restaurants. People dined in the faux Parisian night. It was something to behold. Unfortunately, this is the most impressive Casino we saw on the strip, and seeing this first may have set expectations a bit high.

The Flamingo was just a casino – nothing too fancy. But down the street was the MGM Grand. If Matt Good lyrics didn't make me care, the giant lion out front did. Inside there is a lion habitat – but we were too late. It had closed hours earlier. Across the street was New York, New York – similar to Paris, but with an American theme, and a roller coaster far too pricey to ride going through the false skyline.

Further down was the Pyramid Luxor. It sent a beam of light straight off into the night sky.

These were the buildings of legend, of iconic pop culture, of – Vegas.

We next sought out food. Having walked five hours, we were hungry and tired. Vegas was said to have cheap buffets. People lie. Cheap is 17.99, and they range to over forty dollars. Sure you can buy an eat all day pass for a chain of seven casinos – but who could make use of that?

No – this would not be for us. The value menu at the Mackers would do. Refillable soda for a buck, a side salad for the same, and some dollar McDoubles. It may not sound all that great to you – but it was damned tasty, and compared to the buffets, probably the healthy option too.

Grand Canyon - Day Two

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Sun, 22 Aug 2010 02:58:00 +0000

August 16th, 2010 – Day two at the Grand Canyon.

Today there was no reason to wake up. We had nowhere to be, nothing to do, a whole morning to sleep in and relax. It is for this reason, of course, that Katherine and I both woke up at eight in the morning, unable to go back to sleep. While you may think you want to sleep, after setting your cycles to such a degree that the body thinks such a thing impossible, well – there's not going to be all that much luck.

We stayed in the tent, Katherine reading more of Timeline, as we kept plugging away at that book. Not Chretien at his best, but he's not at his worst either. It's fun, and pulpy. That's what you need when you're on the road – some good filler.

When we decided that no more of the day could be wasted with inactivity, we gathered all of our dirty clothing and made our way to the camp's laundry room. For only a couple of bucks, we managed to get our well worth shirts, pants, and underthings their springtime fresh. Personally, I could have stretched what I had for two more weeks, but hey – why turn up ones nose at clean clothes? It just might be that I'll be able to wear a different shirt each day now. What a treat. I don't think I've been able to do that since Beijing – though I'm not entirely sure I took advantage of that at the time.

While the laundry was swishing its way around I played some ukulele – this time, rather than just fumbling my way through San Dimas High School Football Rocks, I started to write my own song. In the hour or so it took to bring clothes from, “please burn these,” to, “I guess I could wear them again,” I had the chords worked out and some lyrics. I like two lines from the whole song, but it's complete. It's the first song I've written in ages, and for that reason alone it was worth the effort. Plus – two lines I like is better than the whole thing just being blah.

My clothes were all dry, but Kath's cotton collection of shirts were still pretty wet. Hanging them on the tent, we left them in the sun and made our way to the canyon's edge once more.

Fresh from sleep, and no longer in the funk of having just experienced a transition day, I decided to look out into the vast expanse with new eyes. Maybe it was this great magical thing that I just did not experience the day before. Peering into the canyon today I felt a sense of -

Nope, it's the same. Just some rocks. Impressive rocks, but just rocks.

It wasn't just a feeling of blah from the day before, I just am not all that impressed with the Grand Canyon. It will be a good thing to say I've seen, and it was interesting, it just shouldn't be on anyone's must see list in my opinion. It was pretty – just not a change your life thing. It's no Victoria Falls, from the Zimbabwe side. And we'll leave it at that. (It could be equal to Vic Falls from the Zambia side, though.)

As if sensing my disapproval, the sky became dark. Not so dark as for us to fear anything – we grabbed some quick lunch at the cafe, but when we were there – then the sky opened up and it started to pour. This would be all fine and well if not for Katherine's drying clothes.

Coming back to the tent, she was not impressed. Especially since the water had kicked up some mud on one of her white tops. I, on the other hand, was more concerned with the water pooling inside the tent. The seam sealer worked – but we had a small hole, and like most holes it let in water. I did my best to glue it shut (my kingdom for some duct tape) but failed. Just as I was putting the tarp up over and pulling it tight, I was told the rain had stopped.

How could that be? I was still getting wet. I was still being rained on. Feeling the water pour from the trees overhanging, I may have been the last person in the area to feel the rain – and of course once the tent was ready to meet the flood head on, the sky turned blue and all chance of precipitation dried up. Of course it did.

With the sky clear, we headed out to the shuttle bus stop. The bus takes visitors to all the areas of the park, from a number of trailheads to all the big viewing stations. There would be no hiking into the canyon for us. I have had it with hard hikes, and the idea of trying to walk up after walking down – it just didn't seem like fun. I will admit, though, that hiking down over two days and seeing the canyon from below probably would make for an unforgettable amazing experience. Maybe that's how to best 'do' The Canyon.

We spent a few hours hiking the rim, and riding from one stop to the next, snapping photos, and being less that impressed with the murky brown sludge that is called the Colorado river.

While the walk may not have shown anything all that spectacular, when we got back to our initial stop, and made our way to the rim to watch the sun set once more, I was rewarded in a way I could only hope to experience once more. The sunsets here really are spectacular.

Not as timid as before, Katherine made her way to the edge. She even allowed her feet to dangle over for a moment or two. Together we watched the sun set, as the sky turned to burning orange. While day transitioned into night I softly played the Uke (no doubt ruining a moment for those who wanted peace and quiet) while a girl behind us sketched away in pastels.

This moment, the sun setting, makes this a place worth visiting. Whatever I might say about being less than thrilled – I take it all back during these ten to twenty minutes of perfection.

I am told the sun rise is even better – but waking up at four thirty to get to a good viewing area by five? That just will not be in the cards.

Once darkness had fallen we made our way to the grocery store – the fully stocked grocery store, better than most we had come across in the small towns we've made our way through – and bought some dinner. Pasta salad, flat bread, and dip. It was like a dinner from the early European months of my travels. And to top it all off? A quart of ice cream. It's not that we wanted that much – but it was the only size the flavour came in. And it was limited edition. Limited. Edition! We had to act now!

The flavour? Root beer. Not as good as the Popsicles, but pretty tasty. I do love me some root beer. And while it may have made us sick, it was worth every bite.

Arizona and the Grand Canyon

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Sun, 22 Aug 2010 02:53:00 +0000

Leaving Colorado we entered Arizona. Arizona is a state of both meeting and subverting your expectations. At first great red rock lifted high into the sky, but then fields of green flourished all the way into the distance.

Stopping the car on a dusty dirt road I jumped out and took a few shots of the red rocks towering high. They were what I had expected to see here, and thus what I chose to really document – this is, of course, the problem with a lot of documentation, but I'm just trying to convince my own thoughts, not those of others.

Over the next hill there was a rush of plant life, and why shouldn't there be? The climate here is not much different from that of the other four corner states. Driving on we saw a big tower which looked like a grain refinery. From it a track stretched, bridging over the highway, and continuing on. Where it would stop? I don't know. What it was for? I'm not sure. It looked like some sort of desert roller coaster, and as we drove on, I couldn't help but feel as if I was missing out.

Between us and the Grand Canyon only one stop was made – Burger King. We stopped not just for food, but also because a sign stated that inside those walls was a Navajo code talkers exhibit and cultural display. Strangely enough there was. Military items – uniforms, red cross kits, and even guns, were behind the Burger King glass. Of all places to find such a display, it never would have crossed my mind to find one here.

Reading about those who allowed codes to carry unbroken, and downing a Whopper Jr. we were educated while we were fed.

And then it was time to push on.

Hours later, but not seeming so long after the past weeks drives, we hit the Grand Canyon. We drove to our tent site, where I discovered my plan of only doing a few clips to two poles, getting them up, clipping the rest, an feeing the third pole through (trust me this makes more sense in practice than explanation) did get the tent up in half the time, with none of the previously felt anger and rage. With that done it was time to look down, one mile deep, into the earth.

Now I don't want to sound jaded, but the Grand Canyon? It's alright. It's just alright.

You're there and you think – neat – rocks. Look at those cliff. Sure it goes down a mile, and that's a big deal – but look, I just saw houses built into cliffs. Here there was just a cliff. No houses. There was a river below, but – again – you know, so what?

Yeah, it's neat. Check it out if you're in the area, but don't go expecting to see anything more than rocks.

One twenty year old screamed, “Oh my god! This is amazing! Wow!” and then proceeded to sign a rap song (that's how I remember it, and you'll never convince me different.) He felt awe and wonder. I just felt – neat.

Don't get me wrong – I'm glad I saw it, and standing on the edge looking down was pretty amazing. I was shocked that in the country of law suits there were no railings here just – watch out, most people don't fall in, but... -

It's there, without railings that you feel something special. That the Grand Canyon takes over. But, again it's just rocks. If you took a family vacation here for a week you'd either convince yourself it was something amazing, or you'd accept that maybe you should have thought better.

I wonder how the entire country of France feels? It seems they're all out on vacation here. I've heard more French than English. I can only hope that their desire to push to the front of lines does not apply to viewing this site – otherwise, well there could be problems.

Katherine, once she could convince herself that death would not be forthcoming if she took a closer look, felt the same as I. It was neat, but it was just some rocks. Good to see, not to terrible if you miss it.

I tried to get her to take a closer look, but there was no go. And when I did I heard cries of, “don't get too close. Get away from the edge.” Katherine soon echoed these words, but at first they were not hers. All along the rim girlfriends and wives pleaded with their partners to be safe and not die. I couldn't see the problem, Kath had a set of car keys – its not like she'd be stranded if I went bouncing down below.

Still – there is one thing that makes this site a must see. And it's the sunsets. They are beautiful, amazing, a sky of fire – the canyon showing gradients of depth as different levels push away. In the thirty minutes it took the sun to go down, I shot over one hundred frames.

It was here, on the edge of the rock, watching the sky a glow that I first felt I was some place special. That I could understand the draw. The Grand Canyon – maybe it's not so bad after all?

And then there was dark. A talk by a ranger about her trip below with archaeologists. She tried to sound impressive, but really she was lazy and crazy, “i did nothing my first day but sit in a raft and drink. That night I woke up screaming about a mountain lion that did not exist. I puked many times that day.” The archaeologists must have loved her.

And then sleep. Once more, with rocks right in my back. Fantastic.

For Those Who Live in Cliff Walls

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Sun, 22 Aug 2010 02:48:00 +0000

In Mesa Verda you can see one of the most impressive villages in the entire world. Not impressive due to its shape or size, but because of its location. Long since abandoned the ruins still remain of a village built not on top of a cliff, over looking the valley, nor even down below in the shadows of protective giants. No, here, the village lives within the very walls itself.

The cliffs have caves in them – all cliffs do. But rather than just look at the caves hundreds of feet up these people decided – over six hundred years ago – to move in. Now these natives were not the sort to just live in a cave with a small fire, or a skin rug. No – these were the type who had developed the art of brick making and masonry. Just because they were going to live in a cliff didn't mean they would abandon these traditions.

I saw my first dwelling as we toured the Mesa Top Loop – a self guided driving tour allowing for views of the area. We had our first tour, the Cliff Palace, at ten o'clock but were warned to leave an hour and a half early to make it on time – there was much construction on the roads. Of course, there was no construction today, and so we showed up an hour early. This did allow for our exploration of the loop though.

There were a number of remains – houses built on top of the Mesa, dug within the earth. There was also a sun palace – not much to look at from the side, just well laid bricks. From above, it was something though. A labyrinth without doors. It is said ladders used to connect the rooms, but that is unknown. I am surprised no look out tower existed, as this site is best seen from above.

Then there was my first glance of cliff palace. From far across the gorge I saw into the cliff, what looked like a medieval castle. Towers, and rooms, and large stones all laid together. This was not just a hut, not just a small dwelling. This was an entire village. The natives climbed straight up the sheer wall, hand groves carved out, still visible today, to reach their city.

This was, perhaps, one of the most impressive things I'd seen all year – if only because I couldn't imagine it existing at all. What type of people choose to live in a cliff? How does that become the best solution? And yet there it was. Without the aid of any modern conveniences they set up their lives here. How did they even get the stone required to build?

Soon we would be beginning our tour, walking down into the ruins themselves.

Wood still remained, sticking out from the towers, indicating where the second floor would have begun. From my very limited knowledge of early castles, this was what I was looking at. But, once more, built into a cave within a cliff wall high above the valley floor, and far below the plateaued top.

All number of homes, storage buildings, and other religious areas existed, and still do – to this day. With the tourists crawling around, I tried to picture the village in full life. Fifty of us were gathered, one third of those who would have lived here in the days before. There was room – lots of room – for everyone. As I walked out of the ruins, only later to come to the more impressive Balcony House, I just could not wrap my head around what I was experiencing.

Paintings within the walls can still be seen by shoving your head, body contorted, through a small window and looking up. I wonder what the person who discovered this site thought – the first non-native, as these buildings have never truly been forgotten – still playing into legends and tales. I can only imagine they would have been found with a sense of impressed awe, and a feeling of, oh great – now I have to get up there.

Small lizards scurried around the rock, as we climbed a thirty foot ladder out of the ruins, back to solid, level, ground.

Before heading back to our camp, it was decided that we should take the three mile hike to petroglyph carved in the walls.

Three miles – it shouldn't have taken two hours, but with all the ups and downs, and not wanting to fall, it wasn't as fast as it could have been. And I wanted to set out without any water. It's lucky I have someone as forward thinking as Katherine to tell me this would be a terrible idea – and to carry the water too.

As we made our way past rock structures, and views over the sunlit vista we were distressed by people passing us the other way – this was a full loop trail. Foot prints continued to go in both directions. It made me wonder if they knew how long this walk really was, and bailed not wanting to continue on. But we would not be like them – we would go until the end, which really wasn't all that far. And the return part of the loop was all on top. For those who turned back, they were fools – it would have been easier to just press on to the end.

There at the half way point were the petroglyphs. I'd seen some of them before, but still they were interesting, I took pictures, and we continued on. The walk was the important part – the carvings, just something to give a small sense of purpose to our hike.

Driving back to our tent, we somehow missed a turn and ended up outside the park. Well, since we were here, we might as well fill up on gas for 2.89 a gallon, rather than paying the 3.30 they were charging inside the park. Perhaps we'd saved rather than lost by making the wrong turn.

Back at base, we consumed our beverages of choice, played some ukulele – our singing no doubt annoying others, but then the screams of their children were no delights to be sure either. And finally we went to an oral narrative talk where a ranger, adopted by the Hopi people told us a tale.

Pretty much it goes like this – god creates the first world, people are bad. It is destroyed in ice. God creates a second world, it goes bad – destroyed in fire. Third world goes bad, destroyed in water. We are now in the fourth world, on the verge of destruction.

Here's the deal with the story – god is an ass. This native god is worse than the Christian one. I've always had problems with a higher power wiping out the world like in that science fiction tale with the giant robot that lands of earth. Doing it once, killing all people, and all animals (fish getting a free pass) really pisses me off. But this native one doing it three times? Maybe the original listeners and tellers of the tale don't read deeply into it – but I would rebel against this god forever and always.

First – when people die their souls go on to new bodies. Second three times? If god made the world three times, and we were now in a fourth, and things still went bad – maybe it's time god looks at himself. Maybe he's doing something wrong, leading to these terrible worlds. Maybe he should step up his game, rather than blaming the people. And if the souls carry on into new bodies in the new world, well what does he expect? If the souls didn't do what he wanted in one world, why would they change in the next?

Four times he has screwed up his experiment, and now he wants to kill us all again. I say screw that – and, since it was said we've past the cusp, it's too late. Even if we do good now, we're doomed. All because this god doesn't like what he sees. Well forget you native god, I like my life – you can just go to any other planet you'd choose and rebuild there. Leave us alone! Clearly you don't know what you're doing – not let us try and figure it out for ourselves.

Another fun fact – when the world is in times of trouble a story teller dressed in white comes to us to explain how we should be living, and point out what we're doing wrong. You know what could have helped? Having that story teller come before we're doomed – maybe, say, at the beginning. Maybe having the rules of not being destroyed in fire, ice, water, and whatever is next would have been helpful before we're about to die. Just sayin'.

Now maybe this ranger told it wrong, even though she did have a story telling stick given to her by a woman, “down there.” Or maybe it's just a terrible tale of our own doom. I don't know – but I was not a happy sleeper that night, knowing of the coming end.

On the plus side, we saw lots and lots of deer.

Petroglyphs on Cliffs and Villages Within

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Sun, 22 Aug 2010 02:43:00 +0000

Petroglyphs – they exist all around the American desert – marks left by the native civilizations hundreds of years ago. Just outside of Albuquerque rests a park, a monument, collecting a large collection of them – making them available for the public.

Starting off in the visitor's centre Katherine and I were told that parking at the trail head would cost one dollar, unless we had a parks pass. As we would need this park pass in the coming weeks and month, we decided to pick it up now. Eighty dollars now, for one dollar saved.

The pass would allow us into all the national parks without having to pay their entrance fees. Grand Canyon Park alone runs a smooth twenty five dollars – and then there's Mesa Verda where we'll be staying tonight which is fifteen to get into. And that's just two of the three parks we'll be staying in.

Once we bought the pass it seemed almost a shame that we didn't plan our entire trip around the various parks and monuments that we could now access free of charge. There is great value within this pass, unfortunately our plans were set in motion some time ago. And, seeing all the parks would have kept us away from the cities – that wouldn't have been good either. Balance is required, and balance is what we've created.

With our one dollar saved we drove two miles to the site, where there was no ranger on guard to take our money – honour system again. I could say that we saved nothing because of this new revelation, but we would have paid anyway – perhaps out of fear that they would somehow know, rather than out of a sense of altruistic good. Nevertheless, we would have paid. And isn't that the important part? But no. We did not need to, for we had: THE PASS!

Now up up up the rocks, to view the markings.

There is a problem with leaving these etchings in the rocks available for the public. Within a few steps it became obvious. Looking quite like the others, a smiley face and a frowny face existed side by side. I find it hard to believe that such images could have become so iconic hundreds of years before the yellow, “Don't Worry, Be Happy,” movement took the world by storm. Graffiti obscures the truth in the art, and the images.

It's possible that a modern day native came and did it – in which case is it of any more or less value than the others? I'm not sure. Pressing on, the graffiti fell behind, and we were presented with the far more stylized men and women, snakes, birds – so many road runners, like the one we'd seen crossing our path not long before. There was the endless spiral, and other shapes far too abstract to be sure of their meaning.

For forty minutes we climbed to the top of the hill, looking down, being allowed views of the surrounding area: To one side, empty nothingness, the other? Suburbs. The juxtaposition was staggering.

Three trails exist, and we walked them all, though with some fear on the shortest of the three – the rumour was going around that a rattle snake had been spotted there. Part of me wanted to see the snake, another wanted it to not be there so as I would not die a terrible death, which is what I've been led to believe will happen if I come across said creature. There was no snake. Only more petroglyphs.

Soon we were leaving Albuquerque behind us, travelling north on the turquoise trail. This road travels through small villages, now mostly turned to tourism – shops selling little trinkets, and restaurants charging far too much for far too little.

Still, the drive was nice, and outside the villages, it was beautiful. Katherine was finally being given a chance to experience the New Mexican roads for all that they were worth. And, as said many times before, that is an experience beyond compare.

The road leads up to Santa Fe, which we had all plans to visit – until they were abandoned to save thirty minutes. It wasn't known at the time if we would really need those thirty minutes, but for them at a national park, I would trade another city sighting. Instead we stopped at one of the little tourist towns looking for souvenirs. In one building marked, Diner, with a cardboard sign reading, “This is not a restaurant,” in the window we discovered how terrible the souvenirs were. Cheap t-shirts, bandannas, paper weights... all strewn around on table tops, on bar tops – this was once a diner, and seeing it used this way was just sad. If you have a diner and you want to make it a store, don't just put stuff on tables, use the uniqueness of the shop to your advantage. But no – there was nothing clever here. And soon we were once more on our way.

Along the flat and dusty, under the expansive blue we bounced, hitting a pot hole causing the whole car to jerk, and our fearless driver to fear – just a little. I assured her it would be fine, and it was, but in the moment – heads still rattling – it was easy to understand why such trepidations might exist.

Just outside of New Mexico, fresh into Colorado, we passed a large plateau on the horizon; some of the land was beginning to come together into something previously unseen.

Travelling down the highway we would soon be turning into Mesa Verda national park, the road leading us up through the twisty hills, to a camp ground which we would be calling home for the next two nights.

We were losing light, and without it there would not be much to see. We grabbed our plot, were warned about bears – yay – and then got to work putting the tent up. The terribly annoying tent which I know there must be an easier way to set up, but could not figure out.

In a stroke of accident, one pole coming loose and needing to be put in again, I think the answer came to me. Put in two cross bars, then the third pole comes later. It's hard to know for sure if this is the answer, and without taking the whole thing down – not going to happen – there was no way to test it just yet.

Our tent was up. We headed to the amphitheater where a ranger was giving a talk on the different cultures in the area, leading back to the Ancient peoples who created the monuments here, to the modern day expanse. Their cultures each developing their own sense of style with pottery.

Tickets had been purchased for three dollars a piece to tour these sites built into the cliff walls. Cliff Dwellings, Katherine had told me, when she led us to this park. Apparently they're villages in the cliffs. I didn't know what to expect, and refused to look at any pictures, preferring to see them free of expectations. All that would come soon enough.

Now it was time to sleep. As I lay my mat down, I felt no less than three rocks jabbing through me. What a night it was going to be!

From Smokey the Grave to the VLA on New Mexico's Byways

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Sun, 22 Aug 2010 02:23:00 +0000

Smokey the Bear – he was a real bear. Who knew? He's dead now. I saw his grave. It was big.

Smokey the Bear, real life version, apparently was found after his cartoon counterpart was created. The bear itself came from Disney not wanting to allow the United States full access to Bambi. Bambi was the first cartoon animal used to help stop the spread of forest fires, but as the license was soon going to expire people got underway creating a new creature. Smokey was the answer – unlike squirrels it was far more realistic that a bear could put out a forest fire with his shovel and well worn dungarees all by himself.

A few years later a bear cub was found, having been separated from its mother after a fire. The bear was nursed back to health, and named Smokey. He was well loved. However, as all living things do, the bear died. He was given a full funeral and now has been laid to rest in a small town you've probably never heard of, and are not likely to ever visit.

Cutting a swath through New Mexico, this day would take us through many previously un-thought-of sites. Places we would have made note to visit if only we knew they existed. Next up would be the New Mexico lava flows. While I knew that they would be long since ended, turned from red hot liquid to hard black stone, I still wanted to see something – it seems unfair to name a place The Valley of Fire and not deliver on the promise.

The area was beautiful and trails were laid out for hikers. A five dollar fee deposited into a blind box paid through the honour system allows one the use of a camp site. Had we known, we may have made this the inexpensive end of our days travels, rather than one of the earliest beats.

A mile or thirty down the highway rested a small pull off, situated in a scenic area. Most pull offs will claim to be scenic, but fail in that regard. This one? It delivered. Desert plants, tiny lizards, and places to clamber around, in search of the perfect picture. All the while listening for the telltale rattle indicating that you will need to stand perfectly still for the next few hours, under the blinding sun, or die – die a terrible, terrible, death. Snakes are no ones friends – still, I managed to bury my bear hating hatchet for the day, I can forgive snakes their desire to see me no longer in the land of the living as well – but just for now. Just until I leave New Mexico, then it's back to the game.

Passing through the town of Lincoln was like stepping backwards in time. It seemed as if every building had a historic marker out in front of it. On the hills Spanish crosses marked the highest points, reminding me of Peru. I wondered if these were erected for similar reasons – but if that was so, it would mean a class of people worshiping the earth before the spread of Christianity. Whenever I move through a town of this size, of this historical forgotten importance, it strikes me that people live here. People live their daily lives going about their business. I don't know where they get their food, where they could work, or where they would go to school, but they do.

Much like some countries may seem theme parks for the wandering eyes of the traveller, in a country this size cities and towns take on similar roles.

But then we were gone.

Through hundreds of miles of nothing, loving every moment of it – New Mexico still offering unparalleled driving experiences – we travelled. An unassuming byway poked off of our current unassuming byway, and poised to drive on by, Katherine looked up from the map giving reason to make the turn.

It seems as if just down this road, once we'd turned and rumbled over a cattle gate, we would be headed to an American military missile site. Now, one might wonder just why one would go down a small road to a missile range, and I will tell you – this is a very historical site. It may be true that we didn't get all the way, fences and patrol cars blocking out path, encouraging a U-Turn after some pictures were taken – but we got close enough to see. This was the site of the very first atomic bomb detonation. Open two days a year people can get an up close and personal look at the area, but this was not one of those days. We satisfied ourselves with a peak from beyond the fence.

Having, now, experienced yet another piece of the historical tapestry which led to the end of the second world war, and a great and terrifying cold war – not to mention the killer track 99 red balloons – I wondered what it might have been like to have seen that blast all those years ago. I also wondered just how many people were exposed to the terrible effects of radiation out of sheer ignorance.

Off into the day's heat we reached the town of Socorro checked out their mission, filled up on gas, and then headed for our next destination. The VLA.

The VLA is the Very Large Array. Think of it as 27 satellite dishes all pointed... somewhere, listening, viewing, being an Array – a very large one. If you've seen Contact, you've seen it. If we discover Aliens, pop culture has told me this is how it will happen. Two hundred miles we drove to see this beast. Work that out into gas and the price is more than I would like to admit – but it was a site to see. A sight to see. One that I do not think can be fully appreciated until it has been walked around. A free self guided tour waits for all those willing to make the trip – and a movie explains that with the VLA images can be gathered just as good as with an optical lens. Which begs the question why not just use that – but I'm sure there are very sciencey reasons.

The rain started to fall just as we ended our tour, and began our way onward.

Having finished the American History book Katherine began to read Michael Cheriton's Timeline. It takes place in New Mexico, and we were faced with a decision – drive the sketchy back roads to the towns mentioned in the novel, or take the main roads to Albuquerque. We both decided the first option would be the most fun – but as the rain poured down, it was, unfortunately, thought better of. We booth chose to head the safe route.

Which was probably for the best, as no gas stations were marked for 100 miles, and we had enough left to go 105 miles in the best conditions. It could have been scary in the rain, in the dark, on streets void of traffic. Still – we'll never know what could have happened there.

Never the less, we made it to Albuquerque safe and sound, with a brand new full tank of gas. And we found an acceptable place to sleep there too. Why stop here of all places though? I assure you it had nothing to do with all those wrong turns Bugs Bunny used to make.

Texico, New Mexico to the Roswell

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 04:57:00 +0000

Bouncing down dirt road towards Fort Sumner and the “real” grave of Billy the Kid the morning was far behind me.

The sun was directly overhead when I stepped out of the car into the hot New Mexican sun. There was no humidity in the air, it was just a good hot heat that lets you know exactly where you are. A museum stands in the middle of a dirt lot. Behind in the grave site. The museum charges a fee, and didn't seem to offer much. A small path leads you behind to the cemetery. Four or five plots sparsely populate the grass – Mr. The Kid's is obvious from first glance.

An iron cage contains two tombstones. The first, a large white stone which has deteriorated over the years stands prominently. But it's not the original. It was created in the early twentieth century. The smaller stone, in much better condition, proclaiming that, “he died as he lived,” is the original. And the reason for the cage.

The stone has been stolen and returned more than once over the years – and now stands protected. Well, kind of. The stone is close enough to the edge of the cage, and thin enough that anyone who really wanted to could still grab it with some effort. There's a lesson here – if you are famous or notorious get a bigger stone. Or – be happy that yours is one that warrants theft. There's something to that too.

Two hours out of the way, I had driven along roads – small and large – to see this stone. Some might wonder why. Do I even care about this person? Not really – I don't know that I'd have even known about him if not for the school project by Ted Theodor Logan, and William S Preston. Still – it's an important part of American culture and what's the point of being on a road trip if not to drive way off course to see one thing of little importance. The drive alone was worth it.

From the moment we entered New Mexico, crossing over at Farwell, Texas and Texico, New Mexico the country changed. We were no longer free in the country, but rather lost amongst the small towns that lined once great highways. It's strange to think of the power roads once had for determining community placement. It's the type of power that fast food chain, McDonald's now seems to wield. Most of the shops have long since closed down. There are more boarded up doors than open ones. The world is a blend of oranges and yellows and reds, except when it falls into darkness – the sun blotted out by the oppressive shadows of grain refineries – the only reason for the few thousand people still living here to stay.

One mile outside the town limits, green grass returned, a landscape unlike anything I'd seen since Africa. An hour passed along the one lane roads which split the ranches one from the other. The horizon was painted with red rock splitting the land from the sky; the view in the rear view mirror matched exactly what I saw before me. Two hundred kilometers without a gas station – the south west is no place to fool around. It wasn't until Sumner that we could replenish our dwindling supplies.

Waking up in Amarillo we made sure to fill our tank along 6th street – part of historical route 66. One time, the road to drive through the country, little authenticity still remains. What once was great, is now a ghost – and must be pieced together by travelling many streets, research required to make the journey that only a few decades back was the way to see this proud land.

Not all of Americana has abandoned the old route, however. Down on I-40 between exits 60 an 62 lies the Cadillac ranch. Even after the sun had set, last night, cars still pulled up. This morning, with the sun just rising into the sky, shadows stretching out across the barren field, there were dozens collected. Once the motorcycle club decided to move on down the road, the ranch cleared – but there would still be a continuous stream of people to check out the ten cars shoved into the ground, growing like brilliant flowers of all colours.

It's tradition to bring your own spray paint here. Everyone adds their own touch making the piece a constantly changing thing of beauty. Empty bottles an coloured caps litter the area, which leads to the question – who cleans up this area? Someone must otherwise the ten caddies would be buried in filth.

Girlfriends proclaim their love on the hoods of these beasts, while others simply splash the vibrancy around. Under the golden light of the low sun these testaments to the strength of Americana are things of beauty – but I couldn't stay forever. We were headed to Roswell New Mexico.

That was the plan, anyway – until the woman working the Texico information center pointed us out towards good ol' Billy. When we left there, hours were still required on the road. It's unfortunate that I feel the drive is beyond description, or were it to be described it would be so cliché as to take away from it. It has been one of the greatest drives I've ever had the luxury of undertaking.

Two hours – two gas station-less hours – and we entered Roswell. You'd have to be a fool to miss the fact that something had changed. It's one thing to not see the town line sign. It would be another to not notice the UFOs that cover the town. The local Wal-Mart is emblazoned with an extraterrestrial image. The loans centre has a ship on its sign. McDonald's is covered in images of space. Aliens fill shop windows, even if they're just music stores. The street lights are Martian faces. This type of nonsense I have not seen since the Dinosaur obsessed town of Drumheller Alberta.

First stop? The visitor centre to get our picture taken with little grey beings. Then down Main Street to the UFO museum and research centre. The admission is five dollars – and normally I'd not pay for the delight of coming here, but... I came to Roswell. Why was I here if not for this one museum?

Inside were sworn affidavits by witnesses and the family of witnesses. Information about UFOs around the world, and all sorts of pictures. There were a number of things worth seeing, but none that were presented any better than they would be on the internet. In fact, the gift shop sells Majestic hand books that have simply been downloaded and photocopied – and for this high quality piece they charge – twenty dollars.

But in a town with only one real thing making it stand out from the rest of the country they need to take advantage of whatever they could.

When you exit you can put your entrance sticker (that which lets you access the museum) on a metal space man. I can't imagine that this is a good thing to encourage though, as – if you know – you can just go grab one of the stickers from the street and walk on in. The only catch? They have different stickers for each day. But, just wait for someone to leave, and then all will be revealed.

Outside, back on the street, Coke machines have pictures of little green men drinking soda. and I have to wonder, do locals hate the aliens, love them, love them but pretend to hate them, or hate them while pretending to love them?

One last thing laid before us – taking the road out of town you could drive around the airport where old passenger jets lay discarded, chopped up for parts, and looking like something from a post apocalyptic era. Who knew there was more to this town than just downed space ships and ongoing tales of government conspiracies?

...There also happens to be a zoo here. A free zoo. But the less said about that, the better. It's one of those sad terrible places, where two mountain lions pace back and forth in a small cage, beside a bean wanting nothing more than to escape his small cell. Even the bald eagles, symbols of American freedom, find themselves caught, cramped, and contained. This is not a happy place – many of the visitors can be overheard remarking as such.

Texas: It's a Big State - a Day on the Road

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 04:52:00 +0000

Texas is not a small state. Not at all. If you want to get anywhere, say from Austin to Amarillo, you're in for a long haul. I started driving at eight thirty in the morning, and finally pulled into the motel parking lot at nine fifty at night. But I'm not complaining, I can hardly think of a better drive I've had.

Within minutes of leaving Austin behind the landscape changed. Sure, I saw ranches on side streets, and on route to touristy restaurants, but I still didn't feel like I'd seen Texas. Looking out along the 183, I knew I had arrived. The horizon stretched on, and small shrubs covered the land as far as could be seen. The road passed ranches – real ones, the type where you need to drive your four by four just to check your mail. This was what I had been led to believe Texas was, and as the morning sun cast a warming glow over the entire state, I couldn't think of a better place to be.

Listening to the radio – something we've done far too little of – the local airwaves provided the backdrop for our daily adventure. Katherine held the map of Texas in one hand, and a tourist book containing little paragraphs about even the most obscure towns in the other. Along the highway there was said to be a town hiding a hot springs near by. The passing water was called Sulfur River, and there were town banners reading, “we love our springs,” but there was nothing – no springs to be seen. Even the towns public pool was named after them, but if they exist, then they're hidden far too well for me.

We would have to leave the 183 for the 36 on our journey up to Abilene. The in two roads met in the small town of Rising Star. Texas has a number of great town names (Happy, Goodnight) but none struck me as much as Rising Star. I wanted to poke around, and see what there was to see, but with a population in the triple digits, this amounted to everything I could see from where I stood, and a small grocery store.

The store reminded me of those I'd seen in Africa, and half forgotten. A few can on the shelves, warm soda six packs aging away, and some local produce – it's age just as unknowable as anything else. This was America. This was the type of town where you'd be proud of your high school, and every one would know everything about everyone else. Thirty minutes down the road a supermarket existed, and life carried on, but here – in Rising Star – I allowed myself the fantasy of a simpler time.

An hour passed before we hit Abilene – the mid point on our journey to Amarillo. There seems to be a lot to see and do here, all things being relative of course, but we were just passing by. We wanted one thing to look at, and say, 'we were here.' The blurb mentioned something of an air force museum, listing an intersection. It took some trouble to find on the GPS, and even once we were there we could see no museum. There was one building, but the parking lot was covered in signs reading, “Military property: no unauthorized access.” I could only assume that I had said access as a museum patron – future one at least – and in I headed. I was only slightly afraid that someone was going to release the hounds on me, but when a long grey haired man stepped up an introduced himself as the resident hippy, everything seemed as if it would be alright.

The museum focused mainly on the B1 bomber, and the nuclear bombs it once carried. Today you can still see the test bombs, the engines, and a video made back in 1995 detailing the special features of the aircraft. This was made during the era that trading cards were being pumped out to support war, so – yes – it is as fantastic as you might expect, with a soundtrack that is a mix of Top Gun and those videos you used to watch back in grade ten science class.

But what stood out to me here was not anything about the modern day, or the pilot after whom the museum was named. What interested me more than anything else was the samurai sword and armour sitting unlabeled in a windowed case. I asked the origins of the piece but he (the hippie / curator of this small exhibit / former in air refueler pilot) didn't know. When he took over the artifact from the nineteenth century was hidden away in a box. It's presumed that they were stolen during the second world war. It's hard to imagine anyone willing giving away their samurai gear – and to think it was just hidden away until recently.

I would like to be in charge of a place like this – running it, setting it up. I would start by making a sign. Days pass with no one ever coming in. Weeks if the registry is to be believed. Then again, maybe I'd not make a sign. Maybe I'd just do my thing, so long as I could keep collecting pay cheques.

As we were about to leave we were told about Phantom Hill Fort. Twenty minutes outside of town along the 600 are the ruins of a calvary fort. It looks like a graveyard of chimneys now – all that remains from most of the wooden structures. One guard house still stands, somehow. There were also two buildings reinforced with brick. An old covered wagon, canvas top long since rotted away, sits on the field along with a canon.

This land is owned, and private, but a small car park exists, and you can open the gates and wander in freely.

There's one three things you need to watch out for. One – giant grass hoppers that want to make your hair their home. Two – terrifying spiders four inches square. Three – we were warned about rattle snakes, and told to stay on the path. Regular me would have ran through the grass looking for better shots, but warned and cautioned I did no such thing. The dirt path was my life blood. For added hilarity, the grass hoppers make a rattle sound when they jump.

Then it was back on the road once more, our big push to Amarillo. There were to options – the 84 to the 87, or the 83 to the 287. The first offered many small towns, such as Post (cereal anyone?) with penalty of safe gas station harbours. It was also a main highway straight on. The latter – not many places, mostly just hundreds of open miles. Barely a gas station is sight. The choice was obvious – we took the road less travelled by.

The land scape was even more beautiful than what we took in this morning. Now and then we'd pull off to the side of the road to stretch, or take a photo or two. On one such stop we saw dozens of tumbleweeds making their way from one side of the asphalt to the other. If I wasn't feeling it before, I definitely knew I was in Texas now. Cartoons have lied to me. It appears to be a little tree, more so than a circular ball.

Stopping on the side of the road is a fun thing to do – one lane of traffic each way, speeds of seventy miles an hour. But, it's hard to see everlasting blues meeting far reaching greens, and not want to stop. That is, after all, the point of a road trip – to get out every once in a while.

Our last diversion would be a small town which still has many a red brick road, first put in back in the 1920s. When we reached it it seemed like a big town, pop. 7364.

Amarillo let us know when we had arrived. There was no fooling with this one. Suddenly our open roads were replaced with dense highway, and the occasional power line breaking through the natural skyline was replaced with neon signs for all number of hotels, motels, and fast food of all sorts. It was a jarring kick back into reality, and an upsetting one – truth be told. It was uncomfortable being forced back into the consumeristic world that only a day ago had been my greatest friend. But now? Now I craved open road, big sky, and weeds that rolled along at their own pace. It's easy to understand why Texans are so proud of their state.

Now that we were here, it was time to check out the reason we'd detoured all this way – The Cadillac ranch. When we got there the sun had just set – the bigger red ball you'd ever seen descending down below city line. Pictures were taken, and some effects with long shutters and varying flashes were used. But, you know what? It was a bit too dark for perfect images. We'll have to return tomorrow.

Remembering to Remember the Alamo

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 04:49:00 +0000

Never forget the Alamo. Aside from the fact that it was a building somewhere in Texas, I didn't really know all that much to forget.

Down in San Antonio the Alamo brings in throngs of tourists. Enough to support a Guinness World Records and Ripley's Museum on the main drag. Pay parking lots are everywhere – some audaciously demanding ten dollars for the privilege of leaving your car behind. Most charge a far more reasonable five.

The first stop in San Antonio is obvious – head on over to the Alamo and peek inside. Photography is not permitted within the walls for whatever reason they have decided. It seems not much is allowed inside. Even touching the walls in prohibited, though with many people all trying to make their way around, those signs seem to be wishful thinking at best.

There's not much to see – it's a building. There was a battle fought here, and I guess that was important. I'm not really up on my history, but I know a few people decided it was important enough to sacrifice their lives. That crazy guy who is said to have killed himself a “b'ar, when he was only three,” gave his life – strange seeing his signature read David, when history knows him so well as Davy (Davy Crockett – born on the wild frontier) as did Mr. Bowie, best known not for his unique fashion sense and music, but rather his knives.

There are a few things on display within the walls, but it is a quick visit. Most of your time will be spent outside trying to get a good picture, free of the tourist thrall. Visiting in the mid afternoon, when the sun casts the best light on the building is the way to go. In the morning, when the light was behind, and people were shooting from that side, I heard families cry, “we need a better picture. One where the building looks like the Alamo.” That the building, on all four sides was indeed still the Alamo did not seem to matter. Apparently only the entrance with the well known arch on top counts.

Having made the first half of a three hour round trip journey from and back to our motel in Austin, I was delighted to learn there were other reasons to come out to this city. Not last on the list would be the River Walk.

The San Antonio River Walk takes visitors off the main streets, down by the water, where they can walk the city and take in the beauty of the water. It's unfortunate that said water is an unappealing brown. It is also upsetting that restaurants and shops have moved their entrances lower down to catch all this human traffic. Walking around noon will have you swarmed by hostesses trying to get you into their restaurant for lunch. Prices may be competitive, but there is no way to wander in peace.

I also found a number of the sections were under construction – or being repaired. Not required work, simply future proofing. Now, if I had a main tourist attraction in a city residing in a state with warm clear weather all year long, I know I'd choose to start construction in the height of tourist season. That just makes sense.

When you return to street level a brilliant church is before you. This too is being worked on, blocked off by metal gating – destroying any hope of a clutter free picture. Once more, tourist season is obviously the best time to block off your city's attractions.

There were other things that brought us out to the end of town – the Mexican Market being one of them, but before we reached it there was a Goodwill. I've been on the lookout for cheap CDs to listen to in the car. There were none to be found – though for 3.99 I could buy a broken Master Chief Halo action figure. I thought about it, but decided it was too expensive when a X-Box 360 wireless guitar controller was selling at just 5.99. Who comes up with this?

Back outside, one snow cone later, the Mexican market opened ahead. It was less than appealing. Children could buy wrestling costumes with masks, and evil red eyed versions of Superman on he back. Small guitars were also for sale, though signs warned people not to touch them. I can't imagine anyone willing to buy something like that without trying it first, but the novelty factor must be working. Other signs such as, no pictures with the hats, were disregarded. I mean, come on – what good is a shop selling a big hat if it can't be posed with?

And then it was back to the Alamo and the parking lot. The day had been long, and well spent. But it was time to get back to Austin, where we would see a AAA baseball game in the early evening.

The walk back held on last delight – an individually packaged pickle sold from Wallgreen's. Its label read, “Contents: One Pickle.” How could such a thing not be bought just to say it was done?

With garlic treat devoured we were on our way back. A few ranch signs were photographed, but then we were at the ball park. This was the final part of Katherine's birthday gift – something for which there just was not enough time yesterday. We chose to get the seats sitting on the grass out in Home Run territory – there people sat on blankets, and children ran around enjoying the whole experience, on top of simply watching the game. They met with other youths, played, displayed, and engaged.

The game itself? It seemed like a disaster when by the bottom of the sixth the visiting team from Sacramento were up by six. Our heroes closed the gap by one, and then two, but it was still laughable. By the end of the fifth inning, things seemed to have shifted – the game was tied at six. By the end of the sixth, our boys were up by four, the next inning saw them ahead by five. It wasn't until the top of the ninth that Sacramento saw themselves step up with a lead off home run, but with just one move so late in the game, hope was lost and that was the ball game. What started off so beautifully for them ended up with doom.

Exploring Austin

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 04:47:00 +0000

Good-bye Houston, and your terrible highway system, hello Austin and... your... terrible highway system. Lets hope this is a Texas thing and that as soon as I'm out of the state things will return to normal. I have my fingers crossed for you NEW Mexico.

Three hours at the much loved speed limit of seventy miles an hour and we were there. We grabbed a motel for thirty bucks a night off the I-35 and then extended it for two. Sure, tomorrow we'd be in San Antonio, but I'd rather drive eighty minutes back here, knowing I had a place to sleep, than try to find one there. Of all the things that have ever made me uneasy about travel it's not having a place to sleep for the night. Also, as the cheapest place I could find down there was fifty dollars a night, this works to save money even with the extra gas cost.

Our first stop? Hot Topic – I know, I know. But it wasn't for me, honest and true. A friend of mine saw my GIR shirt and lamented about how we have a lack of said merchandise in Canada and wanted me to pick one up for her – so that's what I set off to do, and that's what I accomplished. While there, it being (spoiler) Katherine's birthday, I tried to find something she'd like – but shirt after shirt she struck down. And then a tote bag was put back for not having a secure top. Another bag was over looked. This will be important later. With that, we left the store and headed down into Austin.

Pulling up at the visitor centre I made my way to the information desk and asked the ladies working there what I should see. They stared blankly. I asked what I should not miss in the city. More blank stares. Maybe there were some streets I should walk? Nothing – Katherine was giving me a, they will never understand what you're asking – lets escape, our parking time is being wasted, look. But I pressed on. I thought for sure, working in a visitor centre they'd be used to this question. They were not.

It should be the first thing you're asked before being allowed to step behind the booth. It should be required for people who have lived in a city. Here – ask me, “what should I do in Toronto?” Oh, I'm glad you asked:

Head on down to Bathurst and College – it's a great place to eat, and see the streets. Walk up to Bloor an wander through the wacky world of Honest Ed's. You can also take a hand in hand stroll along the water front, and check out the festivals there. Or if hippy chic is more your thing, wander the graffiti covered streets of Kensington Market while shopping for vintage clothing.

You see how easy that was? I've not even see that place for a year (except on the news when it was on fire) and I can tell people where to go. And that's just a fraction – if pressed for more ideas I could go on for hours.

But no, what I learned – there's the capitol building a ten minute walk away – go there. Fine. Very well. That's what we'll do.

Up the streets we walked, the domed building coming into view. Because everything is bigger in Texas, it dwarfs all the similar buildings in D.C. Inside I looked up at the ceiling, reminded of my times in Italy. Then I looked down, trying to avoid vertigo. There was a tour we tried to stick with, but it just went on, and on, and on – so we ran around, took pictures, and then headed back to the street.

Walking back down to Sixth Street, we hung a left back to our car, but stopped off at a store named something not unlike “I love Music.” There you could buy guitar pick earrings (pretty easy to make yourself, but neat non the less.) and toilet seats shaped like guitars. I don't know how to sell this place, but it's worth checking out. If you're in Austin, why not – right? Though we spent only two hours in the city, and saw only a few streets, what we did see was charming, with great architecture, and a lot of life. Given the choice, I think I'd spend more time here than in New Orleans – but I did not see the night life of either (it's hard when you have to be on the road early the next morning) so that might enter into the factor. For daylight excursions though, I'd head down here.

There's also the food. If Louisiana and Texas had a duel, but instead of guns had some sort of cookery unit, and rather than a bullet had Gordon Ramsey judging not to the death, but rather to the pain, I'm not sure who would come out on top. I think Louisiana, as they offer so many different things – but when it comes to meat? you can't beat Texas.

We headed forty minutes outside the city to the Salt Lick Barbecue pit. And it was worth every mile. Katherine ate a regular place, leaving her stuffed. Me? When I see all you can eat for only seven dollars more – well it's foolish not to take advantage. The ribs were good – but after my second plate proved too much work to consume. The beef was good, and slathered in their spicy sauce (which you can buy by the gallon to take home, should you choose)... heaven. Then there was the sausage. The best sausage I have ever had. Fact. There it is – I've been been around the world, but this? This was the best.

Plate three was entirely sausage, but I switched it up for plate four. Luckily the beans weren't so good – so they were uneaten. The slaw was just alright, and the potatoes got boring after half a pint. This meal was mostly meat. And two liters of root beer. God I love Texas. I'm not saying I'm a small guy, but I should have done a before and after weighting with this state. Curse them and their delicious food.

With some beef left, I threw in the towel. Old me would have kept going, and then eaten more. But old me would have had his stomach explode like the spegettio guy in Seven. I've learned through years of pain.

We were going to go watch a AAA ball game after dinner, but with the all you can eat taking its sweet time, we were too late. With any luck we'll catch tomorrow night's game, and that will mark Katherine's birthday trifecta. Baseball, meat, and – oh yeah, I said it was important. We had to return to Hot Topic to grab the bag that Katherine made no mention of at the time. At the Capitol building I was informed how wonderful it was, with GIRs shiny face. I feel this may be over doing it, pulling out a GIR watter bottle, and GIR purse from her GIR bag wearing her GIR t-shirt... but then two people did complement her on her shirt today – and others have been talking about her new wallet, so...

I tell you what, she pulls more girls than I'd ever thought possible for anyone with this gear. Clearly somethings working. Or, wait, what?

Highway to Hell... and Houston Museums

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 04:42:00 +0000

I'm on a highway to Hell. The only saving grace is that I'll never actually get there – perhaps it's more of a Limbo. If you've ever driven the beltways surrounding Houston, you're sure to know what I mean.

It doesn't matter if you have the best GPS you can get, the multi-leveled roads (ground level, upper level, and mid – sometimes flooding – level) all run the same path, with various exit points. Then you get two or three highways crossing at once and suddenly there are six or seven crisscrossing layers of nonsense that play havoc with your digitalized navigator, and don't really work with your mind all that well.

When I drive I look at the map more than the arrows, and try to pay attention to exit names and numbers. That it thinks I'm on a parallel road makes that useless, but even the map falls to pieces when there are no street signs letting you glean the slightest bit of knowledge. You're on your own, and it's more than a little frustrating. Each missed turn adds miles of additional highways to get back to where you were, only to try and fail once more. It's like Mega Man II, except without the cute sprite and the innate knowledge that the Japanese hate you.

In America where highways and street signs are top notch, to come to a place like this, it's disillusioning. Especially when you're on the road with people who drive as if they were in Beijing. I saw three accidents almost take place within twenty minutes. All of them pulled away last second, or remembered that driving off the highway into the ditch, guide rail, or whatever sidelines happened to exist at the time, would be a bad idea.

It is nothing short of terrible – getting anywhere around Houston. Once you're in though? It's a piece of cake.

I started the day by taking in two unique sights. The first was a house covered in and decorated with beer cans. There were wind chimes made with tops, and the walls were covered in an armor of flattened cans, laid out with the tops and bottoms removed. Everything shone silver, and the slightest breeze caused a musical renaissance. This was strange, this was bizarre, this was Texas. The next stop? Another buildings of modern art. It's called the Orange place. Think of discarded bicycles, and playground equipment. Now imagine they're all coloured oranges and yellows. Now imagine that they somehow come together and build a house. There you go – the Orange Place. It's an American historical building, apparently.

Houston claims to be the artistic centre of America. I'm not sure if other people are biting, but they o have a solid claim to the title. There are more museums here than I've seen in a long time. Not only do they have a number of museums and galleries, but they're all clumped together in one district, and a large number of them? They're free. I set out to experience all the free learning that I could.

The first place we went was the holocaust museum. Katherine pointed out that it was looking a little dead – turned out the museum wasn't going to open until noon. Back to the car, I checked the hours of operation for our next destination, and then we were off to the Gallery of Contemporary Art. There was an exhibit on dance. Pictures of dancers and videos. One film showed people looking as if they were having seizures – this is art. The staff in their suits, all done up, mocked the piece when they thought no one was looking.

There was another film that had a man dancing around naked in the snow. Of course he was from Toronto. He was probably naked in a park not far from my home town a few kilometers outside the city proper. The awkward part was when people were seen in the background walking their dogs, as he performed.

The real art in contemporary art – what I'd really like to see – is unfortunately not shown in the gallery space. The true art is the ability to convince someone to take the work seriously, and pay real money for it. What makes anything here better than the work people put up on YouTube? What makes it better than people who create pieces on their own websites? Nothing. I'd give the edge to the internet over a gallery any day – and yet, these people were paid thousands for their nonsense.

The gift shop was the real draw – and where most people hung out. It too was the internet come alive – notebooks made of bleached and recycled papers, glasses cases made from chip bags. Those weird plastic bunny toys that are storming the world these days.

This is where the best art lived, and here you could take it home yourself for far less than the pieces upstairs brought in.

With my cynicism in check we moved on to another gallery – The Menil. This was a real gallery that took itself seriously. You can see Warhol's work (I was shocked to find a piece by him that I actually liked – the Mao hanging there) and a Picaso. There's all sorts of other works. My favourite, I foolishly forgot to write the name of down. I don't even know the artist. But it's in the Surrealist section in the room just before the dead horse. There are a number of different ethereal colours all coming together like faeries in flight. That's what I thought of anyway. After a while looking, I could start to make them out.

That's when it was time to leave. But not before triple braiding my beard and posing with an African statue with the same braids. Sure you're not technically allowed to take pictures here, and I may have head butted the piece by accident – but I got a giggle from a girl passing through, and that made it all worth while. That and being back to normal when the guard returned from her rounds.

Next up was the photography gallery. The works here? Very good. Check it out. Top notch. And that's all I have to say about that. Then there's the two chapels. One is a bleak dark place for people of all faiths to worship. The other is a space aged Christian chapel where frosted glass windows create the walls, never quite touching, with ancient paintings somehow suspended over head. If Blade Runners were going to mass, this is where they would go. The androids? They'd be safe the one over.

And then, hours having past, culture having grown, we headed back to the Holocaust museum – obvious from the outside with its stylized wire fences surrounding a metaphorical smoke stake. Inside the entrance hall looks as if it were built with train tracks – the tone is set. With a tour just beginning we joined the crowd and prepared for knowledge.

The guide was given by a woman whose father lived in World War II Germany. He stole documents and sent them to forgers in an attempt to derail the Nazi movement, but as a Jew living in a time when that was far from a safe thing to be, he fled the country before things got terribly bad.

The tour lasted three hours, though you'd never have known it. It was captivating, informative, and focused on holocaust survivors living in the Houston area. It was one of the best holocaust museums that I've seen starting with information dating back nineteen hundred years, continuing to when the Jewish survivors broke through British blockades to illegally immigrate into the state of Palestine. For pure information this was the best – however the personal connections and tear jerking resonance of the Berlin holocaust museum makes it – by far – my favourite.

After the museums we headed off for more Texas Barbeque. Having learned the process of ordering at the counter, we didn't make fools of ourselves this time. The spicy pork, the jalapeño bread, and the jambalaya? Fantastic. The food here is something beyond. What a terrible place to be a vegetarian. Not because there aren't options – because there area – but here, with a long horned steer tied up outside, this is where meat meets perfection. Refusing to experience this part of the culture? Well – if you're a teenage girl, you might just call that ignorant. (Mind you, you'd be ignorant of the term ignorant, but never you mind.)

Each day in Texas will bring another tasty treat – and that alone makes this state an experience. I hate to spend money on food, but it's just... so good.

With late lunch / early dinner over with we made our way down to Kemah to experience their boardwalk. Parking, we waited for ten minutes to ride the ferry four meters across a small channel onto the boardwalk. With rides, and shops, and restaurants, it reminded me of Fisherman's Wharf lite. While we didn't spend much time there, especially for the ride we had to take back along Hell's highway to get there, it was something I'd not expected to see in Texas. Texas is supposed to be tumble weed, and cowboys – not ocean views, board walks, and carnival games.

Alright giant state, you've fooled me once, but in the honoured words of your favourite son, can't fool me again. Tomorrow we're off to Austin – lets see what that holds.