The Roadtrip Half-Time Report

Road trips can be the exemplar studies of random spontaneity. Nothing can be more random and cause a more spontaneous reaction than the I Love Lucy Museum in her hometown, Jamestown NY. What are you supposed to do, dear reader, when you are confronted with a billboard-sized face of our favorite red-head with the printed imperative “Exit Now!” Yes, it did put me two hours behind on the already long leg from Ithaca, NY to Lexington, KY, but it was worth it. I Love Lucy paraphernalia is readily available in any major tourist attraction, but this was the mother-lode. In fact, you couldn’t buy anything without her likeliness, be it cup, dish, t-shirt or underwear.

Ohio was the most aromatic of states. In driving through the north, you could smell sweet corn as they ripened on the stalk. In passing by Columbus, the capital, you could smell the landfill as the refuse stink wafted over the interstate. And as you got close to the Kentucky border, horse and cow manure permeated the air. The second place winner was Wisconsin, when the interstate weaved right by a mint farm.

In America, we have these people called “presidents” and we like to build statues after their names. One of these statues resides in Cincinnati in Garfield Square, named for James A. Garfield, the 18th president. This reminds me: have you ever heard of the comic strip Garfield minus Garfield (http://garfieldminusgarfield.net/)? Apparently, if you remove the cat Garfield completely from the strip, it becomes surreal yet incredibly funny in it's own right. Imagine what the USA would have been like if we did not have President Garfield. Coincidentally, President Garfield was assassinated 8 months into his administration. Surreal, isn’t it?

The American Diner is a fine example of the ingenuity it took to standardize food quality across the thousands of miles of roads that make up American highways. In order to meet the difficulties in supply, the foods are made from goods that were readily available across the country, such as eggs, beef and potatoes. In order to satisfy even the pickiest eaters, the dishes are filling yet inoffensive in smell and taste. In order to standardize cooking practices, skillets and deep fryers are the only cooking methods allowed. In essence, everything must be fried to a standard blandness.

In that regard, the Taco Salad I had for lunch was a smashing success. The diner succeeded in not only making a salad into fried grease ball, but they also succeeded in removing the spicy pectins from a Jalapeno pepper. The lettuce was crunchy, tasteless and full of water. Imagine my surprise when I realized that, half way through the salad, that the tomatoes did not have their tartness. They were so bland that I did not even know they were in the salad until I found one while picking at my food.

In Indiana, the most popular billboard advertisement was for billboard advertising space.

In Wisconsin, I got stung by a mosquito. Normally this is not anything to write home about, but in this particular time, I got stung on my right hand ring finger, right next to my Brass Rat. I went to bed not thinking anything of it, but I woke up the next morning with the ring constricting the swollen finger and I could not budge it over the now swollen knuckle. Taking a page from the MacGyver textbook, I recalled an episode where he escaped from being tied down by using water as a lubricant. I went into the shower, soaped up my finger, and painfully pulled the ring off.

That’s it for now. More stories to come.

Gambling with Postcards

I am at Hoosier Park in Indiana. It is a racetrack and casino, popular with many of the locals. I am sitting at the roulette table watching the ball go round and round. Occasionally, I would glance haphazardly around the room and see people forgetting their worries and having the time of their lives smoking, drinking, and losing money. I too, lose myself in the momentary rush of a spin and forget my misery, for I could not find a postcard.

Let me explain. I have an obsession with postcard. Ever since high school, I have bought a postcard at every place I’ve ever visited. This has created a nice collection of travel logs of different places I’ve been and things I’ve done. On the other hand, it has also caused me undue stress when a postcard cannot be found. This happened once in Houston – I did not get a chance to buy a postcard and to this day, there is a place-holder for it for it in my postcard album.

The day before, I arrived in Cincinnati too late to be able to visit the touristy areas. The museums had closed and I figured that I would have the next morning to find one. However, my host lived north of the city and since I was northward bound, it did not make sense to pay for a parking space in the city just for a postcard. After breakfast, I left in the direction of Indiana, thinking that I could pick up a postcard at some attraction on the way, or at, the very least, a gas station.

As it turns out, Cincinnati is merely 20 miles away from the border, and when I got on the interstate, I realized the shortness of time and distance I had to accomplish this mission. I stopped at the first gas station, having to fill up my tank anyways, and entered into the travel mart. No postcard. I feigned as if I needed the men’s room, used the facilities, and left. There were several more exits before the border, so I drove to the next gas station and walked in. No postcard. I had already used the men’s room, so I bought a bag of potato chips. At the next stop, I still had no luck. I thought to myself, “What are the chances that no gas station between Cincinnati and Indiana will sell postcards?” Five bags of potato chips, two Twinkies and a Gatorade later, I concluded “100%”.

After crossing the border into Indiana, I decided to change tactics. Instead of stopping at every gas station, I would stop at the first tourist attraction and go to the gift shop. Thus I ended up at the Hoosier Park Racetrack and Casino. I walk into the smoked filled room, made my way around islands of flashing slot machines and while inundated with background racket beeps and clanks. The room was filled with sad and miserable people, gambling their hard earned cash away in the hopes of something better. Retirees attached to oxygen machines stared intently at the slot machines praying for their jackpot. The gift shop too, was depressingly small and although there was a large selection of “Get Well Soon!” cards, there was not a single postcard. Dejected, I sat down at the Roulette table. I anted my postcard budget and joined the masses in forgetting my troubles.

I lamented this story to my friend whom I was visiting in Culver, Indiana. She cheerfully replied, “Well, Culver may be a small town, but I do know the hardware store sells postcards. In fact, I bought one last week there!” Happily, we walked to the hardware store that served the town of 7000. When we arrived, we saw a container marked “Postcards: $1.00” - empty. We questioned the owner of the store and he confirmed that not only were they completely out, but he had just sold the last one only moments ago. Seeing my crushed look, he quickly added, “But you can go down the street to the Poet and Painter. They sell postcards.” We made a beeline to the store and sure enough, there was quite a nice selection. I was happier than an ant in a sugar factory.

I bought 7 and put my roulette winnings to good use too.

87600 Hours in Boston

Boston is a great place to visit. It is a historic city, with roots from before the revolutionary war. Its neighborhoods are quaint and each has a distinct atmosphere and personality. Most people come for a weekend or a few weekdays. I would recommend 10 years as an ideal stay in order to really get to know the city and to be able to act like a local.

Where to stay:
You should try to get accommodations at one of the local colleges or universities. These accommodations are popular and deadlines for applications are typically in March for a September room. Your commitment to one of these accommodations is about 4 years, although some people like it so much they will extend their stay for several years. Amenities will vary, depending on the college, and depending on how long you’ve been at one. Prices range from expensive ($$$$ - Harvard, MIT, Boston University) to the economical ($ - Bunker Hill Community College). While there, you should take advantages of the free activities offered at these living communities, such as Introduction to Differential Equations, or The Opera and the Mind. Some will have state-of-the-art athletic facilities are available for general use, including Olympic-sized pools.

What to do:
The easiest way to find a job in Boston is to look on monster.com or careerbuilder.com. Many temp agencies also work in the area, such as Beacon Hill Staffing Group and the Professional Staffing Group. Jobs vary from simple but busy assistant positions all the way up to roller-coaster rides on the financial markets. Working for a living not for you? You can also make it as a well-paying bum. The local homeless are known by the street corner they frequent or the Dunkin’ Donuts they occupy. Boston is the only city I know where the obituary of a homeless man can make the front page of the newspaper.

Where to eat:
The cheapest place to eat in Boston is at a friend’s house. Befriend a whole bunch of people and invite yourself over to dinner on a rotating basis. Make sure that don’t go to any one person’s place more than once a month. Also make sure that your friends don’t know each other. This way, you can easily rotate trough many of them without being caught. Always make an offer to bring drinks and some recipe ideas so that it seems like you are contributing to the evening’s party.

Your stay in Boston will surely be memorable and you will find that you’ve may even feel like a local after a decade. You may find it difficult to leave. The best way to do so is to chain yourself to a tractor-trailer and not let yourself free until you reach Cincinnati. That way, it would be difficult to hitchhike back. Just make sure the tractor-trailer is a U-Haul, all of your belongings are inside, and you are in the driver’s seat. As you drive off into the sunset (literally), you can reminisce about close friends, fond memories and good times. And more than once, you might wish that the sun set in the east instead of the west, so that you didn’t have to be staring at it while driving on the highway.

Goodbyes are not forever.
Goodbyes are not the end.
They simply mean I'll miss you
Until we meet again!
~Author Unknown

The T-Terminus Trek Travelog

My friend Matt Herman once asked www.chacha.com, "How long would it take to ride to every terminus station on the Boston subway system?" The answer he received was, "A looooooong time." On Saturday, June 28th, Matt and I endeavored to find out how long a "looooooong" time took. There were a couple of ground rules. Our goal was to reach every terminus station via public transportation. That meant we allowed ourselves to travel between terminus stations that were nearby. We would travel every length of track that was operational – shuttle bus service did not qualify and we would skip lines that had no weekend service. Furthermore, by spending a day traveling to the far reaches of the subway, we would also be able to answer a secondary question: What sort of people live in the different neighborhoods of Boston?

When we started our journey, we immediately, we began to notice trends. Unsurprisingly, the Green line toward Newton was filled with affluent Caucasian families and college students while the Red line towards Mattapan was mostly used by African American families. Orange line towards Oak Grove had many older people, possibly indicating a higher percentage of generational families and long time residences. Other trends emerged. For instance, people who wore sandals typically wore hats. Perhaps the unconscious mind wants one end of the body to be covered at all times? This would be a question some sociology graduate student may wish to answer. By coincidence, most people who wore sandals and carried picnic baskets got off the train at the Revere Beach station. Matt and I did not fit into this social microculture of residents wearing flip-flops and carrying picnic baskets. Similarly, we noticed that people who got on and off at the Airport station usually carried luggage. What a strange culture to carry luggage everywhere you went!

As the train whizzed across the system, we noticed that JetBlue and the State of Vermont had purchased the most advertisement space. Sadly, there was no synergy, as Vermont is not a JetBlue destination nor does JetBlue allow in-flight flyfishing. Residents on the Braintree extension of the Red Line drew the best graffiti. The designs were large with brazen colors. Some included the blending of hues and shades to create stunning shadow effect. The worst graffiti was on the Orange lines. Here, unimaginative outlines were rarely filled in and typically the artists utilized dark earth-tones.

By late evening, we returned to our home base in a PF Chang Bistro and compiled the statistics of the day. We spent the most amount of time on the Red line: 2 hours and 34 minutes going through 61 stations. The least amount of time was on the Silver Line from Boylston St. to Dudley square: 14 minutes for 10 stations. Silver Line to South Boston had the longest wait of 16 minutes. Over the course of the day, I consumed 3 granola bars and 1 bottle of water. (In our defense, we did not plan to go the entire day without eating. We kept saying "Let's take a break after this next leg of our journey.") We saw six baby carriages, one pair of knee-high orange socks, and overheard one conversation of "Would you shoot someone if they robbed your house?" But most importantly, 11 hours and 17 minutes after we started, we had our answer of how long would it take to ride to every terminus station on the Boston subway system: A reeeeeaally looooooong time.

Ode to a Turboprop

There is something about turboprop planes that make them alluring. They are small beasts that can be terrifying to ride. Yet there is also an allure and exoticism that draws you to look forward to the experience. Indeed, as I write this, I am sitting in one, an EMB 120 Brasilia, sandwiched between two Boeing jumbo jets, waiting for our turn to take off.

The flights can be very uncomfortable. Physically, their diminutive size is apparent when you stare up at the giant Rolls-Royce engine of the Boeing 747-400, as if it is ready to suck you in. There is not much of a buffer between you and the fast moving blades. The noise generated by the engines cut through the hull with a volume rivaling that of rock concert. Puddle hoppers, as they are affectionately called, are subject to the minute bumps and changes in wind patterns that transmit the turbulence undampened to your seat.

Yet I am willing to forgive the discomfort of the flight. A small plane is exotic because chances are, you are going to a place that is small and quiet. Indeed, the smallest plane I’ve ever been on was an 11-seater to Hagfors Sweden, population 7000. Sometimes, I’d be the only person on the jaunt and it became rather embarrassing when the first officer gave me the safety spiel for the 4^th time that summer, even though I was the sole passenger.

But, more often than not, I am one of a handful of people flying from San Francisco to Monterey. I walk along the tarmac to the staircase next to the plane. I duck to enter the door and, once inside, cannot stand up straight. I try to make myself comfortable for the quick 20 minute flight. But in my mind, I am at ease. I feel the satisfaction of being on the last leg of my 2500 mile journey. I feel the warmth of home, and it calls to me.

Caution: Frequent Moose Accidents Next 3 miles

Thus we were welcomed to Mt. Blue State Park where a few friends and I were going camping the last weekend in May. We were desperate to escape the hustle and bustle of city life and chose to spend it in the serene quietness of the Maine wilderness. The highway sign merely indicated that we had gone far enough, to a place where moose ruled the earth. Indeed, this would turn out to be a weekend with us hardly seeing another soul. Even the campsite was nearly deserted upon our arrival. Perhaps we had traveled so far away that humans barely knew of the park’s existence. Perhaps the rest of the world coincidentally decided to pay their mother a visit on the same weekend. Most likely, however, it was because there was a forecasted 90% chance of rain.

Things could have been much worse. While we were shooting emails around, Craig sent out a warning message, “Checkout the weather up north…egad lots of rain…” There was no in-depth discussion as to whether we should continue with the trip or to postpone the journey to a sunnier weekend. The three of us merely added a rain jacket to the packing list and proceeded to make plans as if nothing was out of the ordinary. We left for the mountain prepared for anything Mother Nature could throw at us. We just couldn’t find it.

Mind you, most of the time, mountains are easy to find – they are these large and tall protrusions that stick out of the ground. However, all mountains look alike when covered by low clouds. In a moment of weakness, I made a phone call and got directions to the campsite. It was to be the last connection to the urbanized world. As we began our climb, I realized that I couldn't find my cell phone.

The trip up was uneventful but the summit was fascinating. It was the most beautiful fog I had ever seen. On one side was a steep drop and a solid white canvas that luminesced by the hidden sunlight. On the other side, a small pond became an infinite-sized ocean with a full palette of whites gently floating with the breeze. Trust me, dear reader, countless thousands have witnessed the tree-covered mountains and lake-filled valleys of Maine. But very few people have been lucky enough to relax for a moment inside of a storm cloud.

That being said, it was pouring rain and time to go. Our descent on the steep side of the mountain was also uneventful and devoid of civilization - except for three suspiciously convenient metal rungs embedded inside a vertical cave. Once back to the campsite, Brent quickly built a shelter and a fire for us to dry off and warm up. The rain jackets and rain pants did their jobs and we stayed mostly dry. The packs were dry save for a few damp spots here or there. Good rain gear is a worthwhile investment. Even my cell phone stayed dry. Yes, for as it turned out, I had stashed my phone in the mesh on the outside of my backpack. Take note: the Motorola Razr V2 can function after being subjected to 5 hours of torrential rain.

Were we disappointed? Of course not. We knew what we were getting ourselves into. Indeed, we would have been more disappointed if we scaled the mountain only to find a Dunkin’ Donuts doling out coffee and greasy foods. It would have been far more disappointing if we found Bob Dole handing out free autographed copies of his biography. It would have been extremely disappointing if we were kidnapped by pirates. Years of indentures servitude is not my idea of a relaxing get-away. Indeed, this was a vacation of solitude, a vacation of nature, a vacation of peaceful rain.

Adventures Along the Coast

It was mid April and I was in Newport, RI. It was the perfect time to visit, after the bitterness of the winter cold and before the massive onrush of the summer tourists. The weather was pleasant, a warm day cooled by a soft offshore breeze. Waves gently lapped the rocks along the coast making for a chronic, yet light, crashing sound. I came to tour the historic mansions from the American Guilded Age, envisioning a peaceful and relaxing weekday. However, as common with spontaneous trips, strange adventures have a way of finding you.

It was Hasid Day at Newport. Men with black yarmulkes and curly locks of hair near their ears lined filled the streets with their long-skirted wives and children in tow. Their well-pressed white shirts and black pants offered stark contrast to the colorful lawns and gardens of the summer “cottages” of some of America’s wealthiest tycoons. I happened to have purchased the last ticket to the 3 o’clock tour of the Vanderbilt’s summer cottage and found myself surrounded by an entire congregation of Hasidic Jews, complete with a waddling rabbi. As a Chinaman, it made me feel very conspicuous and out of place as I tried my best to fit into this crowd. I had misread my calendar, thinking today was China Days at Newport, and had arrived wearing a bright-red royal robe from the Qing Dynasty, complete with a Fu Manchu moustache.

Our tour began uneventfully, as the crowd did its best to smile and make me feel comfortable. One of the fathers was carrying his young son who was eating a Hamentaschen. The kid made an offering gesture and, not wanting to be rude, I graciously accepted his treat. I began munching on it when we entered into the great hall. Our tour guide stopped in the middle of his talk and glared at me. “Excuse me! Can you understand English?!? I said at the beginning no eating on this tour! Put it away or I will have to ask you to leave!” I blushed and quickly stuffed the half-eaten pastry into my pocket on my overly large sleeve.

Feeling slighted, I plotted my revenge. As we were walking between rooms, I tapped the father who was holding his now sleeping son and motioned to a room we had not toured. When we were alone, I pulled out my pocket sledgehammer and smashed a hole into a heave mahogany door. Before the father could react, I grabbed his kid out of his arms and put the sledgehammer in its stead. Frantically, the tour guide ran in, looked at the hole, saw a sleeping kid wrapped around the sleeves of my robe, and kicked out wide-eyed Hasidic Jew holding the sledgehammer, banning him from ever returning. The rest of the tour was very informative if rather uneventful. When it was over, I was glad I did it, but I was stuck with a sleeping kid wearing a Yarmulke.

Not knowing what to do, I went to the center of town and bought him some saltwater taffy. I am a firm believer that saltwater taffy tastes better if it was made on a wharf above the ocean. There is something about the essence of salt water in the air that enhances the taste. Unfortunately, the Newport saltwater taffy was made on land, so it was not such a high-quality delicacy. However, a few days later, I visited Rockport MA, where they do sell saltwater taffy made over the ocean. It was delicious. But unfortunately, I once again misread my calendar. It was Qing Dynasty day in Rockport and I was dressed as a Hasidic Jew.