Two Cities, One Writer

After several years of staying at home, Wordplay has started venturing out into the world again. Last year, I dipped my toes in the water at the PCA/ACA conference in San Antonio. On Sunday, I returned home after attending this year’s PCA in Chicago and then taking the train to Seattle for my first vacation in 12 years. I used to love traveling, but like so many other things, it got to the point where it was no longer fun, around the time I was working on my dissertation (that is to say, 2010-2012). After that, I could no longer afford to travel, even if I had wanted to, and then it was COVID, and then it was settling into a new apartment with other priorities than spending money on trips, and then it was, honestly, a bit of inertia.

Last year, though, I started to shake off my dormancy and felt the travel bug beginning to bite. The San Antonio conference was both something I wanted to do for professional reasons and also a travel experiment. I wanted to find out what it’s like to travel post-pandemic and post- so many other things that have left their mark on us as individuals and as a society. Six days away from home would surely be tolerable, even if the conference didn’t go well. The conference was an experiment in itself, since my previous PCA experience had been a mixed one. The San Antonio conference was a little surreal, but positive enough overall that I surprised myself by deciding to go back this year, to PCA Chicago.

I had a couple of things going for me this time, which is that my budget wasn’t as bare bones as it was when I was last in Chicago for the PCA and also that I had some previous knowledge of the place. I could afford a splurge here and there. I had some things in mind that I wanted to do, restaurants I wanted to try. I could do some “fun” things and explore a little bit. And that’s what I did. 

I hit the ground running and got some sightseeing in even before checking into my hotel. I found a coffee spot I liked. I got a general sense of direction. Over the next several days, when I wasn’t in sessions at the conference, I sampled Chicago food, went on a couple of organized tours, and without really trying, starting getting the pulse of the place. I have to say, I enjoyed myself. With one or two exceptions, I felt that I was treated well. Chicago is a tough city, no question. But I went with an open mind and genuine wish to get to know a little of the place, and I feel that I did, at least a little. For the Chicagoans I encountered in restaurants and coffee shops, at the hotel and the train station, in the stores and out on the streets, I have nothing but respect. If you’re keeping your head above water in Chicago, that’s definitely saying something about you.

On the train going west, I cured my curiosity about what the upper Midwest and Plains states look like west of Minneapolis, the former limit to my experience. It looked like a lot of rolling fields, with occasional towns, patches of snow, some cows, and horses, until the train reached Glacier National Park and all hell broke loose with snow-capped peaks and deep forests all around. The drama subsided until the train traversed the Cascade Mountains in Washington, an even bigger extravaganza of gorgeous views. And so, at the end, Seattle, where I learned a great lesson about thinking you know where you’re going by observing street signs from a moving train. (It ended with me getting completely turned around after leaving the station, which wouldn’t have been a problem if I’d been planning to walk to Portland.)

Seattle is one of the last places I remembered having fun, on the other occasion I’d been there, in 2011. I was coming down from some pretty dramatic effects of PTSD but still had kind of a fearless attitude toward most situations (which I found to be a very refreshing way to approach life, BTW). This time, I wanted to see if Seattle still struck me the way it did then. Back then, it had a wonderful spirit of dynamic creativity, evident in abundant public art, bold architecture, cool neighborhoods, quirky shops, and the general feeling of ease I had in walking around, not to mention all the natural beauty that surrounds and supports it. I had heard that it, like most other places across America, has seen an increase in crime over the last few years. Evidently, some people dispute whether cities are actually more dangerous now than they were, say, 10 years ago, but a quick read of the newspaper, even in my city of Lexington, certainly gives the impression of a rather sharp increase in violent crime over what would have been considered “normal” 5-10 years ago.

I did find Seattle changed. There is a meanness one encounters here and there, on the streets and elsewhere, that seemed to be almost completely absent on my last visit. It’s true that I stayed in an Airbnb on my first visit, with a charming hostess who lived in an edgy but cool sort of post-industrial neighborhood on the outskirts, the kind of place the average tourist would leave town without ever knowing about. Its drawback was its remoteness, so I wanted to stay closer to the center of things this time. Once I got to Pike Place Market, I was able to find a cafe in which to regroup. But I was rather discouraged with the changes I could already sense on the streets. There was no need to travel to the other side of the country to sample incivility as I can find that here if I want to. I went to Seattle for something different.

Once I got to my hotel and settled in, I started to feel a little better, though that changed when I went out to dinner my first night in town. Although there were plenty of places I could have been seated, I was shown to a table with a high stool, so that I felt I was towering over everyone else. (Come on y’all, you know that a solo diner doesn’t want to be that conspicuous, surely.) I asked to move to a regular table after noticing that the place was half empty, and while the food was delicious, my enjoyment of the evening was rather spoiled.

I’m not sure I ever quite got over the feeling that civility in Seattle is not what it once was. The physical reality of the streets has also changed: they were dirtier and rougher than my memory of them, not only in downtown proper, but in Belltown, South Lake Union, and Capitol Hill. Admittedly, I was only in Capitol Hill for the Elliott Bay Book Company last time, when I walked up from downtown. I didn’t ramble around the neighborhood, as I did this time. In my memory, though, it was a thriving area, not as trash-strewn as it is in 2024. I wouldn’t call the neighborhood blighted, as there are plenty of cafes, shops, and nightspots, and the neighborhood is considered a hip destination for nightlife, but it did appear somewhat the worse for wear.

I would have thought that this is simply the result of an imperfect memory, except that some of the other places I went to seemed just as I remembered them. I was dismayed to see that the area on lower 2nd Avenue, in Belltown, did appear blighted, once I made my way there to visit a restaurant where I had dined on my first night in town in 2011. I almost turned around and went back as the street became visibly grittier and only continued because I had good memories of the restaurant and knew it was still there. I had a lovely meal there this time, too, but was sure I remembered a more prosperous neighborhood in the past. Of course, this isn’t that surprising: places change. It was sad, though.

This isn’t to say I didn’t enjoy myself in Seattle. I didn’t have a bad meal the entire time I was there, and most of the food was phenomenal. Likewise, the coffee. I got lost walking around and had to remind myself that getting lost sometimes leads to finding things you wouldn’t see otherwise. I estimate that I walked 35-40 miles while there. I didn’t find Seattle-ites to be snobby, as they’re sometimes reputed to be. There were friendly people (more of these), and uncivil people, and a pervasive feeling of Whatever Has Happened to the Rest of Our Country has happened to Seattle, too.

My best moments were spent either enjoying great food or great coffee, sometimes gazing out a window at a great view. I didn’t find the coffeehouse atmosphere I was really looking for until my last full day, when I discovered a cafe with an industrial-punk vibe that broadcast KEXP live. I will say this: I forgot for entire swaths of time that I was carrying an AARP card in my wallet. No one called me “ma’am.” The discovery that I could still climb Queen Anne Hill with the same amount of energy I had 13 years ago (and not once but twice) was gratifying. I was cautious about going out at night, but I wasn’t on the retired nuns tour of Seattle and didn’t want to leave town without experiencing a little nightlife, so I went to a bar in Lower Queen Anne one evening that served food and had an awesome tostada. Also, a Negroni, which I would describe as both sweet and bitter and definitely something I would try again.

If I had to sum up my impression of Seattle in 2024, I would say that it almost appeared like a city under siege of some kind. Its essence still shines through, but like other places I’ve been, it shows evidence of beleuguerment. Every place has its source of strength, though. For Chicago, if I had to guess, I’d say it’s the day-to-day struggle of surviving in a tough environment, amid all those huge buildings. For Seattle, it might be the spirit of the Native Americans who lived in the area before the arrival of the pioneers. I noticed signs in different places stating that the lands on which various modern buildings are standing have never been ceded by the indigenous Salish people. I think their presence still permeates everything in Seattle. When I think of my visit, it’s the sound of the gulls’ cries that makes the soundtrack, and I don’t think it’s that far a step from there to the anarchic energy of the music scene, to Jimi Hendrix and Nirvana and all the rest.

Wordplay Goes to the Alamo

I’m back home after several days of pop culture immersion at the PCA/ACA conference in San Antonio. I hadn’t traveled anywhere since well before the pandemic, so this was a little bit of flexing my writing muscle, a little bit of pursuing various interests, and a little bit of finding my traveling legs once again. I loaded up with hand sanitizer, Clorox wipes, and face masks but discovered—to my surprise—that I seemed to be one of very few people bothering with extra precautions. I thought more people would use masks on the plane, to be honest, but I saw only one or two other people wearing one.

I had decided in advance that I preferred to divide my time between attending sessions and exploring San Antonio, a new city for me and one I was looking forward to seeing. The last time I attended PCA/ACA, I focused on fitting in as many sessions as I could (to get my money’s worth, I guess) but found that strategy to be pretty exhausting. It may be that when participants are representing an academic specialty, they simply go to the sessions related to their field, but my field is probably represented by at least half of all the topics offered, so I consider all of them before choosing. Sometimes I’ll attend a wild card session just to get out of my comfort zone, so the scheduling alone requires a lot of thought. The end result of all this was that attending fewer sessions this time made for a more enjoyable experience.

Unlike my last PCA/ACA experience (in Chicago), this event seemed friendlier and more relaxed. I don’t know whether to put this down to the conference itself being quite a bit smaller this time, to other people besides myself being overjoyed to get to travel again after several years of strictures, or to the location itself. I have always found Chicago to be somewhat chilly (literally and figuratively), though I know some people love it. I found that San Antonio both was and wasn’t what I expected before I arrived, and that I had to feel my way around a bit more thoughtfully than usual. My initial impression on arriving downtown was actually one of surprise that I felt such a sense of disorientation and a little bit of dismay. I wasn’t expecting San Antonio to be bland but the fact that it’s such a popular city for conferences and tourists hadn’t prepared me for an edginess I thought I perceived in my surroundings.

At the hotel, I asked if the surrounding area was safe at night and was told very definitely that it was. Because I was presenting on the first day, I spent my first night and most of the following day focused on getting ready and never really ventured outside the hotel again until after my presentation. I had a little bit of trepidation (that never fully dissipated) but found that, as is sometimes the case, things overall did look brighter with the sun shining and the wind in my sails as I went for a celebratory walk and discovered the Riverwalk, the Alamo, and other sights within walking distance. 

Personally, I found the physical environment to be an unusual mix of the graceful and historic along with the raucous and rough and thought it surprising that none of the guides I’d consulted ahead of time mentioned this dichotomy. In all my travels, I’m not sure I’ve ever experienced a place quite like San Antonio. My conclusions are based on the scant observations of a few days mostly spent downtown and don’t necessarily encompass the entire city, but I think at least a couple of factors account for the complex experience I had: there is a strong military presence because of both U.S. Army and Air Force bases in the area, and the Mexican culture is stronger in San Antonio than in any other place I’ve ever been.

I don’t think it’s inaccurate to say that both of these things lent a certain machismo to the atmosphere that I found daunting. I don’t take well to feeling that I have to curtail my activities or do things differently than I normally would to feel safe, but that’s what I did in San Antonio. One night only did I stay out after dark, and even though it wasn’t much past dusk when I got back to my hotel, some of the activity on the street had me feeling less than comfortable. On the one hand, I experienced an absolutely magical walk down Houston Street, with grackles clamoring overhead and colored lights in the trees lending an air of enchantment to the growing dusk. It was wonderful. On the other hand, there was crude shouting in the streets. I don’t think I’ve ever been so self-conscious about being a woman on my own as I was in those few days.

Most people I encountered were charming and friendly, and if any of them looked askance at this gray-haired lady in sneakers flitting around their city, few of them showed it, except for a surly bus driver or hotel clerk here and there. Some people object, I know, to applying archetypes like “masculine” and “feminine” to describe things, but that seems to me the best way to convey the city as I saw it. San Antonio itself, with its beautiful historical buildings and graceful winding river, seemed very feminine to me, but it has attracted a strong masculine presence. There are positives and negatives to both archetypal qualities, but the real crux is the way they interact. The feminine element certainly doesn’t have to be passive, but somehow it did seem to be in San Antonio, in deference to a sort of untamed, insistent masculinity. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that “boys will be boys” is the pervading but perhaps unspoken ethos in the city.

For a reintroduction to the world of travel, San Antonio was in some ways a bit of a challenge, and a bit of a contradiction. I had a better experience at the conference, where I felt an openness and friendliness that was lacking the last time I went. I enjoyed my explorations of the city, which boasts some pretty impressive efforts to revive and preserve its historical buildings and places. I also felt “out of my element” to a degree I wasn’t expecting. Of course, I wouldn’t say I felt “safe” in Chicago either, but it was in more of a “this-is-a-big-city-with-a-high-rate-of-gun-violence” way, not because I felt out of place. The dangers in Chicago wear a more impersonal face, perhaps, than they do in San Antonio.

Watching 'The Wizard of Oz' in a Gale

A couple of weeks ago, on a wild and windy Saturday night, I happened to catch The Wizard of Oz on television. It seems to me that it used to be traditional to televise this movie in the spring, but everything else is different now, so I guess seasonal viewing has gone the way of the dodo, too. Here's a memory for you: I can remember huddling in my child-sized rocking chair, age 7, in front of the TV, in fear of the Wicked Witch but determined to peek through my fingers if I had to so as not to miss anything. I believe I was snacking on a bowl of ice cream.

I don't even remember the last time I saw this movie, but I think it was sometime in the '80s. I came across it by accident that recent Saturday night, but when you stumble on The Wizard of Oz, it's hard to think anything else that might be on is going to be more worthwhile. This was the first time I remember watching it when weather conditions outside approximated those in the film (though those were probably straight-line winds and not a cyclone I heard ripping around). It was quite cozy to curl up in front of the TV under a dry roof and watch while the November storm roared through the trees outside. My only regret was not having any popcorn.

You come to this movie as an adult perhaps slightly less intimidated by the Wicked Witch, more inclined to be amused than frightened by certain things, and less able to recapture the sense of wonder you once felt that a cyclone could take you to such a fantastical place as Oz. But maybe there are other things that strike you much more forcibly than they used to. The movie includes a charming dedication to viewers who are "young at heart." I don't think they were just saying that. I think the makers of the film knew and expected that viewers of different ages would experience this movie with varying levels of sophistication but would all embrace the film's underlying sweetness and optimism.

What struck me the most, something I only half-understood as a child, was the fact that all three of Dorothy's companions feel they are lacking some essential quality that in truth they already possess. The Scarecrow is quite wise in his way, the Tin Man is most tender-hearted, and the Cowardly Lion, while lacking in fierceness, is more than valiant when it really comes to it. They are full of self-doubt, but traveling with Dorothy and helping her to defeat the Wicked Witch helps them to realize what they really are. The Wizard only points out to them what has already become clear.

Dorothy's conflict, an uncertainty as to whether there is a better place than the familiar family farm where she feels a bit in the way and unappreciated, was a little harder to unravel. Was she wrong to dream of a place "Over the Rainbow"? One hardly thinks so--doesn't everyone dream of someplace better at least now and then? What she learns from her sojourn in Oz is not so much that leaving home is wrong but that if one is true to herself she carries home inside of her wherever she goes. Dorothy's new friends in Oz are remarkably similar to her old friends in Kansas (in fact, they are the same). Only Auntie Em and Uncle Henry do not appear there, as if to emphasize that leaving home represents growing up and standing on one's own, starting to figure things out for oneself. The crisis that precipitates Dorothy's running away, the wish to save her dog, Toto, is completely understandable but something Auntie Em and Uncle Henry are unable to do for her. She must act on her own for that to happen.

I wrestled with Dorothy's conclusion that she would no longer look any farther than her own backyard for her heart's desire, but I think I know now what that means. Dorothy is really saying that everything she needs, and everything she will ever need, is what she already has, her own sense of self and the love of those closest to her. It's easy to make life more complicated than that, but the wisdom of owning your own power and worth is what it all comes down to, no matter where you are. I don't think the conclusion is that one shouldn't travel and reach out for better things but rather that in doing so you should understand that the purpose of every journey is to bring you closer to yourself.

The easy affection and simple loyalty Dorothy and her friends have for each other had me a little teary-eyed at the end (sniff, sniff). It's much easier to take those things for granted as a child; the true value of these qualities only becomes apparent when you're older. As a little girl, I always felt content at the end of the movie, satisfied with the conclusion of a story well told, but I don't know that I ever felt like crying, so that was new to this viewing. There are some who would likely say that a world of such uncomplicated affection as Dorothy's is just as much a fantasy as any place "Over the Rainbow," but I think The Wizard of Oz is meant to be an antidote to such cynicism.

Ask yourself: Is there nobody you would risk your life for in battling the Wicked Witch of the West? Really? But why? Why would you do such a thing, why put yourself out like that, with the world being such a dreary place and all? What? What was that? Love? Love? What kind of a silly idea is that?

You really are getting sentimental in your old age, and Wordplay commends you.

Eventful Week, Unvarnished Telling

Never a dull moment here at Wordplay. I'm speaking to you this week from my former home city of Lexington, Kentucky, to which I was forced to repatriate by financial concerns. My plan to do temp jobs while searching for a regular job in California should have worked but didn't; if those employment agencies are placing anyone anywhere, it certainly wasn't me, unless you count nearly ending up in the poorhouse as a placement.

In a city the size of Los Angeles, in the summer, that is certainly surprising, if not shocking. And then there was the agency that actually lost all of my application materials clean out of their database, or so they said. I was told by another agency, when I questioned the lack of opportunities, that a temp agency was a free service, as if to imply that my actually expecting to get a temp job after spending hours filling out multiple forms was unreasonable and ungrateful. What I do know is that the agencies profit greatly from the labor of their workers, who are their single asset, but I guess the woman at that agency somehow thought I was born yesterday.

After several surreal days of contacting and re-contacting employment agencies, potential employers, YWCAs, and other agencies about jobs and possible housing options (including shelters, which aren't even that easy to get into, even if you wanted to be there), I realized that unless I wanted to sleep in my car, I was going to have to leave L.A., at least temporarily, and try something else. Since my plan consisted of returning to the very place I'd worked so hard to leave, it wasn't ideal but was really the only thing I could think to do; I do, after all, have more of a history and a network here than I do in Los Angeles, not that it has done me much good in recent years in terms of job-hunting. It really shouldn't be this difficult for a flexible, well-qualified person, but somehow it is. Someone asked me if I thought I'd been blackballed for some reason. Who, moi? If I find out that that is the case, I'm definitely suing. And it's definitely not true that I'm working undercover for the FBI or anyone else, though I don't suppose anyone is really gullible enough to believe that.

I was contacted yesterday about a temp job in Lexington that I had only applied for yesterday morning, and I had to scramble to find some suitable writing samples on hand to send in, but I did so. I still don't know whether it will lead to anything, and I haven't received the link to the writing test I was asked to take, so although it sounded yesterday as if they were rather interested in me, it may come to nothing, as many of these things do. I don't mind whether I work here or in L.A., as long as I'm working, but I hope to get back to California as soon as possible, as that is where I had planned to stay.

The trip back wasn't easy, though I did get to break it up by visiting a friend in Texas. I wasn't in the hurricane--that was one thing I did manage to avoid, except for a downpour or two in North Texas, which may or may not have been Harvey-related. It was disheartening to see the very sights I'd whizzed by only three months ago coming at me in reverse, but I tried to make the best of it. I continue to be amazed at the beauty of our country, and even if I myself am not a desert person, I enjoyed looking at the often stunning scenery of the Southwest. (Even if the Mojave Desert isn't the most inviting place to pass through when you're driving by yourself, I realize it has its own beauty and would probably be better appreciated under different circumstances.) I enjoyed the clear night sky over Flagstaff, Arizona, the rock formations, mesas, and canyons of New Mexico, and the rolling range lands and big, open sky of Texas, not that I was that thrilled to be seeing them again so soon.

I am now sitting in a hotel room in Lexington watching the rain fall and enjoying even that, since I have always enjoyed summers in Lexington--with their varied but generally warm and humid days and long, drawn-out evenings--more than any other season. I like a lot of things about Lexington and Kentucky, despite having found life here limiting in so many ways for so long. One question I have answered for myself concerns my ability to go somewhere else alone and establish a new life: I can do it just fine, and that was something I was never sure of until I tried it. I like California and think it realistic to suppose I could be happy there with a job and a permanent home. It was the obstacles to achieving those modest and reasonable goals that were the real problem.

I can hear my readers now complaining, "Oh, Mary, won't you ever get back to writing about anything besides your job search and your struggle to get established in California? I used to love your (insert the option of your choice) book reviews, film reviews, dream interpretations, random observations, advice to the lovelorn, household hints, groundbreaking journalism, dissertation previews . . . soooooo much. This summer it's been one long travelogue, when it hasn't been you complaining about not having a job. It's just no fun any more."

Well, here's an idea. Taking a page from the temp agencies, I must remind you that this, too, is a free service, and if you're reading it, you're benefiting from my talents without giving me anything in return. If just one person on your block bought a copy of my book, you could all pitch in together, and it would likely cost each person only a few pennies to have a brand-new copy of a tasteful item that you could all share (you could read it aloud on long winter evenings or set it on your coffee table if you want to show people how smart you are). Think about what a difference that would make to my bank account! Incidentally, though it may not matter to you, my blog appears to have many more readers now than it used to have, so I'm not so sure that people don't prefer the unvarnished truth, whatever form it takes.

I can't offer you any sky miles, travel points, or gift cards as an incentive to support a writer, but I can offer my sincere thanks to those who do. And if you can't afford to buy the book, no problem. I don't so much expect people to support my career as to avoid hindering it. If you do that, you're asking for trouble, and people who ask for trouble rarely avoid finding it, like whoever is responsible for the magically disappearing text, opening and closing applications, and randomly appearing highlighting that have plagued me the entire time I've been writing this blog today. I should be paid handsomely just for persevering through this nonsense. My feeling is that somebody out there needs to get his own blog.

To fans of Jungian interpretation and Hillmanian seeing through, I say (along with Shiva), "Fear not!" I have been watching television! It could be that next week, I'll want to address Yes to the Dress, Game of Thrones, or both, if something more interesting doesn't happen before then. But don't expect a long, tedious, respectful study of either one--it's likely to be something vastly more playful, if I do indeed get around to it. I never take anything I see on television very seriously--and I don't recommend that you do either.

Goodbye until next week--and consider supporting a writer today!

Wordplay's Tony Bennett Moment

Attentive readers of this blog may recall a post in which I compared San Francisco with New York and London and gave a sort of Jungian interpretation of the character of all three. (I was looking at New York from a distance only, as I've spent little time there.) What I said about San Francisco was that it was introverted and hard to know and that it felt claustrophobic. While I don't actually disagree with this assessment after spending a few days there earlier this week, I felt my old fondness for the city returning even before I got there.

My feelings are caught up in a persistent sadness hanging over my last couple of visits and the death of a friend who lived there. Nevertheless (and quite surprisingly to me), I found the old San Francisco magic starting to exert its influence in the soft air and misty dampness that emerged somewhere around Vallejo, unmistakable harbingers of the city. I had too many happy associations with visits past to be able to deny the anticipation this created, and it wasn't even destroyed by the yellow ticket I got for not having enough cash for the toll. (Here's a hint, though, to the bridge authority: credit cards--embrace them. I'm not sure why you remain seemingly alone in taking cash only. I thought even Popsicle stands took credit cards these days.)

I had been in touch with an old friend before arriving but had no place to stay on my first night. I made my way through construction- and pedestrian-clogged downtown streets out to the avenues, where I managed to find a parking spot and a Starbucks where I could plug in and investigate the possibility of hostels and tourist hotels. I found a number of places, some with suspiciously low prices (if they were genuine) and was also considering 24-hour coffeehouses if worse came to worst. I was getting up to leave when someone brushed almost imperceptibly against me; I turned around and gave my signature dirty look to the gal who did it. I felt rage rising up and considered whether a verbal response was called for (I decided it wasn't because that would have required me to actually talk to the person, which may have been her ulterior motive, for all I know). Let it pass.

I began to feel the "I hate San Francisco" part of me taking ascendancy, so I decided to drive out of the city and try to find a low-cost chain hotel. That might or might not have worked even if the Silicon Valley weren't presently experiencing a second-wave dot.com boom (with prices to match) and even if there weren't some sort of classic car show taking place in Pebble Beach that apparently justified tripling hotel prices as far away as Morgan Hill. However, it didn't work, much to the surprise of more than one hotel clerk who seemed surprised that I didn't consider $140 a bargain for a tired and threadbare hotel right off the interstate. Instead, I ended up at a 24-hour Denny's near San Jose, drinking coffee, having breakfast, and thinking about the unlikely but undeniably true chain of events that had led to precisely that moment.

Back in San Francisco as dawn was breaking, I weathered the strangeness of the early morning crowd at Starbucks on Fillmore, played "move the car when the two-hour free parking expires," took a brief catnap while parked on Clay Street in Pacific Heights, and discovered how difficult it is these days to find true rock and roll on the radio in the City. The latter circumstance seemed so unlikely that I was considering asking for help in finding a rock station if only a knowledgeable-looking person would happen along. Maybe Pac Heights wasn't the best place for it, as I saw very few people who looked like they ever listened to rock music, most of them being either elderly or otherwise lacking in anything remotely resembling a rock 'n' roll vibe. Such is San Francisco in the year 2017, where the Summer of Love is almost as if it never happened, depending on how hard you squint.

What San Francisco hasn't lost is a certain psychedelic quality, which requires no mind-altering drugs but is present in the very air (though I don't know: perhaps there is something in the water that alters the behavior of residents over time?). I told my friend that it was very noticeable, in this introverted city, how many pedestrians made eye contact with you over the course of a day; I was wondering if there had been some major catastrophe in the news that I hadn't heard about that was causing people to eye one another closely, but if there was a precipitating event, I never found what it was. I would have enjoyed my walks better if not for this peculiar and unnatural watchfulness, but I wasn't altogether surprised, since San Francisco seemed altered in some indefinable way the last couple of times I was there. I can't account for it, but I do not think it a change for the better.

I found the spirit of the old San Francisco coming on me at odd moments, as if to prove that, yes, the heart of the city is still beating somewhere, hidden away in some obscure corner or shabby coffeehouse. Stopped in traffic, I would look up and see an elegant, many-turreted Victorian with a broad front and crisp paint and think, "Yes, I could live there." Searching for a parking spot, I would top a hill and glimpse a sudden view of the bay, a lovely vista that was free for the asking and almost made the frustrating parking game worthwhile.

Returning from an excursion to Marin, I would see the gigantic towers of the Golden Gate bridge, stately and serene in the golden afternoon light, framed by hills--an enormity almost too much to absorb, as if a race of Titans (instead of mere men) had placed it there as a token of might. I would think, looking out at the ocean as we crossed the bridge, "I don't know what I'll be doing a week from now, but I'm going to hold this image in my mind as a reminder of where I was today." Glancing down a side street on the way in from the Sunset district, I would encounter an enchanting view of a street of cozy houses with a leafy burst of fall color, a quiet street that whispered, at least in my mind, an invitation to come back and walk around some time.

Peering up while stopped at a light, I would see a white curtain blowing in the breeze at an open bay window, a homey and domestic sight in hyper-sophisticated San Francisco that suddenly made me wish it was my window and that I was returning to it after an ordinary work day. I would see how green the grass was in the city parks, catch sight of a laughing child in its parent's arms, get a peek of a morning side street full of cafes in the Financial District, read a sign for a show at the de Young and wish I had the time and money to attend, and pass a corner apartment building with an empty lobby and plate glass windows that was gorgeous as it was but seemed the perfect spot for a tiny cafe.

I was sorry to leave San Francisco, despite the strangeness that hangs over it, because it is a place that manages to maintain its beauty in spite of whatever miasma may be clinging to it. I saw many streets, buildings, quarters, and corners that seemed to call out for further exploration, and I hope to be able to accomplish this some time. I don't know if I could ever live there permanently, and I don't know if I could be happy there, but I could spend some time wandering around, looking here and there, trying to avoid the noise while letting the city itself, the actual city, speak to me. If L.A. is a prehistoric creature disguised as a trendy starlet, a nymph, San Francisco is a cultured dowager hidden behind the face of a computer geek, a graceful lady currently incarnated in a techie, dot.com persona. She may be acquainted with sailors and robber barons, but even earthquakes can't dislodge her.

Travels with Wordplay

Wordplay has spent the last few days touring the Southwest/Rocky Mountain region, waiting for job applications to bear fruit and connecting with family and friends, or trying to. As you may recall from last week, I was trying to avoid throwing myself on the mercy of charity by making my resources last as long as possible. This strategy would only work if it ended up saving me money, and the jury is still out on that aspect of the adventure. One thing's for sure, I have seen some places I haven't been to before and revisited some old ones, seeing them, as it were, in a new light. I've never been to the Southwest or the Rockies in late summer, and it's remarkable how a different slant of light transforms a landscape into something almost new.

What about a Jungian travelogue this week, just for a lark? That's not something you see every single day of the week, especially one written under annoying conditions in which a persistent wi-fi issue in a public cafe makes typing nearly impossible--which in itself seems like a great reason for continuing. Is it a conspiracy to prevent free speech? Is the person sitting next to me emitting negative gamma rays? Is Mercury in retrograde? Does this cafe need to replace its router?

Rather than draw any rash conclusions, perhaps it's more constructive to proceed with my groundbreaking travelogue and avoid getting sidetracked by minutiae, though whoever/whatever is responsible for this horrible connection probably deserves to have their ears boxed, at the very least. A day in court is probably more like it.

I headed out of L.A. via the 210, and the trip in reverse (I came into town that way) wasn't nearly as bad in the murderous Polar Express runaway train sense of bad as the journey west. We don't want to let you into town, but feel free to leave whenever you want to, is that it? Even the roads were in better condition on I-15 heading toward Nevada, though I put no great stock in that as an indication of anything, except perhaps the fact that too many people go to Vegas on vacation to let those roads deteriorate to any great extent.

What follows are archetypal impressions of some of the high points of my trip, and, as always, the opinions are entirely my own.

Las Vegas -- Never been before; not really my scene, though I was curious to see what the famous skyline would look like. If you're going to drive through, might as well do it at night, which is when it's really meant to be seen, was my reasoning. By the way, I have nothing against people going there, per se. Indulging in a little bit of what wouldn't be good for you in big doses is probably not a bad way to let off steam. For most people, it's merely entertainment, a way to escape the everyday and indulge in a little bit of frivolity--though it can have a strong undertow for some. The skyline was as glittering as one could wish, but some of the drivers are much less stellar. They in the business of running people off the road there? And that traffic stop that seemed somewhat gratuitous? No, thanks. Archetypal assessment -- Like going into the anteroom of the Underworld, from which you can still see daylight if you don't start mucking around in backrooms and alleys. Hades rules, not that that's a reason for you to cancel your vacation. Have fun, but don't forget to go home at the end.

Arizona Portion of I-15 North -- What the heck was that? "Watch for Falling Rocks?" All I saw were rocks. I'm sure this is seriously scenic in daylight, which is the reason I'm glad I was doing it at night. I was still trying to recover from Vegas and was in danger of scenic overload. Archetypal assessment -- In the dark, it looked like the aftermath of the clash of the Titans.

Idaho Falls, ID -- All I can really tell you is that I unexpectedly had the best sandwich and Caesar salad combo of my life in a downtown cafe, to the point that I had to tell the waiter about it, and that the back of the Tetons, normally visible all the way from Idaho Falls, could not be seen that day due to haze. (I say the back of the Tetons, but of course that's all relative. What I really mean is that the famous view, the one everyone is familiar with, is on the other side.) Archetypal assessment -- Olympus, brooding, hides its head in the clouds.

Salt Lake City -- I always wanted a closer look at its downtown, so being in great need of a break, I spent one night. I was nearly run over by a truck just before I got off the interstate in an inexcusable display of poor driving (not by me), but exit the interstate I did. I found a modest hotel with scary hallways but nice rooms and a view of the city lights from my window. I had a pleasant walk through a pedestrian-friendly downtown full of shops, businesses, cafes, and gardens, under a dramatic sky that threatened a storm at every moment but never really rained. I watched the sun setting behind the Mormon Tabernacle building and peeked in at the fountains and courtyard of the downtown mall. Archetypal assessment -- The Mormon Tabernacle building looks a little bit like Oz when they turn those green lights on at night, which gives it a bit of a fantasy look, but the main public library is as high-tech as they come. Salt Lake City seems to have it both ways, being both ethereal and gear-heavy. And those views of the mountains! Jacob's ladder might be sitting there in some back street, with angels going to and fro at all hours, each carrying an i-Pad.

I-80 Across Nevada -- Just don't do it if you can help it. The salt flats on either side of the road in the Utah portion throw off an uncomfortable glare; there are very few places to stop for gas; there's a section in which low-flying planes are a real possibility; the local microclimates make for sudden squalls during which tractor trailer trucks are prone to coming up right behind you and honking madly (Buddy, there are plenty of lanes here. If you think this is going to get me to pull off the road, you're sadly mistaken.); and you're out in the middle of nowhere--relatively speaking--for an ungodly amount of time. Archetypal assessment -- It's a bit like Eurydice and Orpheus ascending from the Underworld; just don't look back. The entry into California's Sierra Nevada after you pass Reno almost makes it worth it--but maybe not quite.

Sacramento -- Old Sac is fun in a half-kitschy but educational sort of way. Motel 6 in North Sacramento? Not so much. Downtown Sacramento is rife with handsome Victorians and wide streets, and the state capitol is impressive. Archetypal assessment: Zeus and Hera reside here, so you know the trains are going to run on time.

Davis, CA -- Reminds me of a Midwestern college town; I thought of living here once. Archetypal assessment -- Funny business with the wi-fi here. Hermes?

South by Southwest

Wordplay has landed in Los Angeles after a trip that was in some ways better and in some ways worse than my last journey here (I refer readers to my previous blog post "Out West" for an account of that episode). One thing that hasn't changed is the number of odd occurrences, some alarming and some just plain weird, that seem to accompany me any time I step out the door (much less move across country). My last trip was peppered with repeated appearances by a stalker, heat exhaustion, food poisoning, hotel doors that didn't lock, and much night driving. When I got home to Kentucky, I was so glad to have survived the trip that I had no wish to repeat it any time soon, and didn't.

This trip began more auspiciously, helped in part by the time of year. A journey in spring, flooded by light, is bound to have a more holiday feel than one begun in late October, and this one did. The air seemed to sparkle with optimism as I headed out of Kentucky, and most of my encounters on the first stage were no more strange than the ones I'm used to, except for all the burned tire rubber I had to dodge in Indiana from a convoy of trucks ahead of me. Oklahoma was fairly uneventful until I hit a windstorm just as I was passing through my second toll booth. It was like a scene by Cecil B. DeMille via The Wizard of Oz, complete with an enormous storm front, a funnel cloud (unless my eyes deceived me), and a choice between exiting the interstate and trying to drive clear.

I know the standard advice is not to try to outrun a storm, but based on past experience I have found that sheltering in place is not always the best idea either. The storm was far enough away that, given a split second to decide, I concluded it was better to keep going. (Note: I'm not telling you to try to outrun storms; I'm only telling you what I did in this instance.) It worked out OK, but I saw my life flash before my eyes for a few minutes there. Was it all going to end on an Oklahoma highway? Later that evening, I narrowly avoided running over an actual log in the middle of the road that surely would have ended my journey right there in Oklahoma City had I not seen it. That's two strikes against Oklahoma.

I accomplished my goal of getting as far as Amarillo, Texas, though I didn't expect to have to deal with sub-par hotel plumbing after a full day of driving. (I have a prejudice against calling for maintenance assistance in the wee hours of the morning while traveling alone, silly though that may seem to you.) After declining the orange juice that tasted suspiciously like Tang at breakfast in the morning, I journeyed on, looking forward to getting through New Mexico as expeditiously as possible.

I disliked eastern New Mexico, though driving in and out of rain showers did clean my car off. I found two things to like about western New Mexico: the beautiful sandstone highway infrastructure that mimics the colors of the landscape on the western slope of Sandia Mountain and the red rocks in the dessert near Gallup, two sights worth seeing. I enjoyed the sunset drive across Arizona as far as Flagstaff and the holiday mood that prevailed in the hotel there; Flagstaff was apparently hosting several events that weekend, and it was a Friday night to boot. I almost felt like I was on vacation.

After that, things went downhill (literally), as the interstate was under repair and not in the best condition for driving. I didn't like to stop in Kingman, as I had a problem with my hotel when I was last there, but you have to stop sometimes, and I prefer to take gas-and-caffeine-breaks in populated areas. That stop turned into a 90-minute delay when I forgot to lock the bathroom door in Starbucks and had someone nearly walk in on me. Normally, I would simply have felt embarrassed and let it go, but I didn't like the look or attitude of the man who did it and insisted that the Starbucks staff write up the incident. They called the police as well, and I gave a report to the officer who arrived. You meet all kinds of people while traveling, including some that you would much prefer not to.

Aside from delaying me, the incident soured what was left of the afternoon. I didn't like the look or feel of Kingman and was glad to get away, but I had some of the toughest driving of the trip just ahead of me. The last time I crossed the Mojave into California, it was at night, and I don't remember it taking nearly as long or being as difficult a drive. Between poorly maintained roads, a persistent wind that seemed determined to push my car around, the desolation, and the number of big trucks on the road, it was altogether a trying way to enter California.

Don't even get me started on the displays of unnecessarily reckless driving I saw on the hill near San Bernardino: I was afraid of getting blown off the road at any second, if not actually run over. I know people drive more aggressively out here, but I had never seen anything remotely resembling the way people, including truckers, were careening down that hill and cutting in front of others. It was as if everyone had decided to try for a live action replay of the runaway train scene in The Polar Express. The traffic in L.A. seemed tame by comparison.

I had tried to imagine how I might spend my first evening in California and had come up with a few thoughts, though I had never settled on anything. I had vague ideas of a celebratory dinner, and I wanted to try to find the house where I did some accidental damage to a screen the last time I was in town, but since I was late in arriving, dinner at Wendy's ended up being the main event. I finally managed a California Highway Patrol escort to my hotel when all the directions everyone gave me had me driving in circles. I spotted the CHIP car at a gas station and asked for help . . .  and when it's all said and done, I guess having a police escort at the end did kind of put a final flourish on things.

I've gotten organized, bought groceries, hung up my clothes, tried to find the people whose screen I damaged, and signed up with a temp agency. That's not bad for less than two days in town after a trying journey (punctuated by a few moments of beauty, I must say). I've been wondering how the pioneers ever managed it, since even today, a cross-country trip--with air conditioning, bottled water, and caffeine--is no joke. But as I told the highway patrol officer, the end of an exhausting day often takes on a different aspect the next morning, and it did. Here's hoping for better things ahead, but whatever happens, you can count on Wordplay to let you know about it. May your travels (and mine) be a bit smoother for the rest of the summer.

From Kentucky, With Love

I'm back home after a wild and spontaneous trip out west. After my surreal and distressing 2012 California trip (see my post "Out West"), I sure wasn't planning to do anything like that again. I didn't think anything could induce me to cross the Mississippi River by car after that little adventure, but here's how it came about.

My regular readers will recall from last week that I was having lock concerns. I'm used to strange noises and people coming in and out of the building at odd hours, but something just didn't feel right that night. I had the lock changed temporarily until a permanent one could be made but was naturally concerned about what was only the latest in a series of strange events in and around my building. This has been going on for quite some time and shows no signs of getting better.

I was having new tires put on my car that day, so I was feeling extra vulnerable due to being sans vehicle. After I picked it up the next day, I was running errands when a feeling of unease started growing on me. I'd been thinking about my brother and nephew in Idaho ever since getting a card from my brother's former in-laws saying that my nephew was getting braces and a new little brother. Communication has been sparse from my brother for the last few years, which actually is a very surprising development, though everyone I mention it to seems to disagree (which I also find odd). Feeling that the "zone of silence" around my brother had gone on too long and that it was time to reconnect, I packed up some things and left that night.

I decided to break the trip up by visiting a friend in Denver. Although it was good to see her, it was a little distressing. She, too, tried to dissuade me from going to Idaho (what the heck is so unnatural about wanting to be in touch with family?). At first I thought she might be right, but then I decided that the need to lay my own eyes on my brother was more important than what anyone else said. I crossed the Colorado mountains at night and inched my way down a mountain range in Utah on snow (hey, at least I had new tires), reasoning that if I stopped I was only going to get stuck. Not my preferred way to travel, but you do what you have to do. Anyway, it worked. I drove out of the snow and made it to Interstate 15. One of the few transcendent moments of the trip came in seeing the beautiful white mountains south of Provo swing into sight and dominate the view for miles as I was heading north.

One of the least transcendent moments of the trip came a couple of hours later, when a green-gold Infiniti swerved and nearly caused me to wreck in heavy traffic. I later reported it to the Utah State Police as what looked like a deliberate act but didn't get much response. By the way, it was Utah license plate number C24 6RA in case anyone knows 'em. Despite that and a few other contretemps (including being boxed in by a number of cars as I approached a dangerous merging area), I got to Pocatello in one piece and went to the coffee shop my brother used to frequent. I was told there that he doesn't come in any more now that he has a new job, so I tried to contact him by leaving messages where he works. Call me irresponsible, but not being able to reach a family member by either phone or email for years at time seems a bit strange. Having people tell you they haven't seen him in a while doesn't do much to reassure you, either.

The last time I tried to see my brother (in 2012), I got a strange text message that I suspected he hadn't sent. This time, having failed to track him down, I drove up to the house, where I saw lights on and a vehicle in the driveway. There I ran into another barrier, since I couldn't get to the door due to a number of very excitable dogs. I had to knock at the window to try to get someone's attention, which resulted in a hullabaloo, because my nephew, evidently not knowing what to do, called 9-1-1. I had thought there was an adult in the house with him, but if not, he absolutely did the right thing, though it was disconcerting to have to wait with the sheriff's department for my brother to arrive. I passed the time by chatting with them but was distressed to learn that they've been called up there before and that the road behind my brother's house evidently attracts a criminal element. It was also reinforced for me just how difficult it can be to get the straight story on what's going on with a family member you've been out of touch with, as I heard stories from the officers on my brother's domestic situation that conflicted with what little I've heard over the past few years.

Long story short, my brother arrived and didn't seem to think I needed to have come all that way. So I managed to see both him and my nephew but not really to get any answers to the things I've been worried about. I may be accused of needing to mind my own business, but let me just say this, since the fact that I drove halfway across the country with a worried mind may have failed to make an impression. If I had a partner, spouse, friend, or whatever living with me who had a pharmacy degree, I'd want to be absolutely sure he/she was of impeccable character. Because, well, drugs, you know: they can be dangerous. I'd hate for someone to give me a little something I didn't ask for in my coffee. Just sayin'.

I won't even tell you about the drive home. Interstate 80 across Wyoming is dreary in the extreme. It's truly a wasteland . . . a far cry from the beautiful Tetons and the Yellowstone area of the state. Colorado is evidently unable to handle a few inches of snow (which would have been dispatched forthwith here), and I ran into sleet in Kansas. None of the smaller towns looked like places I wanted to stop (even for gas) so I stayed on the road in spite of incredible weariness. (Sometimes you're caught between a rock and a hard place and no choice looks good.) Having made it to Kansas City, I had a car problem, so I stayed overnight there. I finished the last leg on Monday, arriving home after midnight, minus much Christmas spirit.

Well, my lock has been changed. I made gingerbread cookies last night, but my tree isn't up. I haven't quite caught the Christmas mood yet and don't know that I will, but it could be worse. At least I've lived on to blog another day. I heard the song "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" a couple of times while I was traveling, which brought back memories of a holiday visit to Idaho in much happier times, when my nephew was a baby. I still have hope that it will come true, though I don't know why. I've had to drop a number of people from my life when it became apparent that they weren't good for me, but I refuse to let go of family ties. I'm still here, and I'm just the same as I always was . . . though considerably sadder.

Rogue's Gallery

According to Chaucer, April is the month when people "long to go on pilgrimages." In his day, when the urge hit, people struck out for Canterbury to see the cathedral and its relics. Of course, that was England in the Middle Ages, but something like the same idea probably still applies. Spring break commonly falls in April, though trips to the beach or Disneyland are much more common than pilgrimages to holy shrines nowadays.

When I was younger, I took it for granted that people were just more pious in the Middle Ages, but now I suspect that for many pilgrims, devotion was just an excuse for a vacation, a break from the everyday grind. For them, going to Canterbury was something like going to Daytona, or even Vegas.

I've actually been to Canterbury, though I didn't do it according to the Chaucer plan. I arrived there on a bus, in the month of July, with my camera and my grandmother. (This was the same summer I traipsed around half of southern England looking at Gothic buildings.) I was very interested in what you might call the numinous properties of Gothic, but I wouldn't term myself a pilgrim in the strict sense of the word. I was more interested in aesthetic, historic, and imaginative inspiration than in a religious experience, and I wasn't disappointed in what I saw.

I remember that Canterbury Cathedral could be seen from a long way off across the countryside; once it came into view it towered over everything else. I imagine that for medieval pilgrims, regardless of their original motivations for taking the trip, the constant and ever more dominating presence of the object of their journey must have been awe-inspiring, perhaps a bit like approaching the doors of heaven. It would have been the presence around which everything else arranged itself, like Wallace Stevens' jar upon the hill in "Anecdote of the Jar." This was probably true even for the most jaded.

Can you imagine traveling with such a crowd today? I suppose it wouldn't be unlike a bus tour or a cruise, in which you're thrown in with such a random sampling of humanity that there's no telling who you might be sitting next to, knave, fool, criminal, or saint. Although it's been a while since I read The Canterbury Tales, my recollection is that while the last group was in short supply, the other three categories were amply represented. Perhaps it's unfair, since it's been a while since I read the Tales, but when I ask myself now if I would have chosen to take such a journey with a crew like that, the answer is no. It may just be that the rogues stand out more in my memory. It's also true that I've never been one for group travel to begin with.

Of course, I'm being a little facetious. Chaucer's idea, I think, in depicting such a cavalcade of characters is to provide amusement. It's a comedy, with all the vices (and virtues, naturally) of humanity on display. You're meant to recognize, with a wry smile, characters that remind you of people you know (and perhaps yourself, if you tend toward introspection). The Canterbury Tales is, after all, a species of armchair travel. You're not actually on the trip--you're at one remove from it. Except insofar as life itself is a journey . . . but never mind that . . . Chaucer has made it possible for you to just sit back and enjoy this one.

If you're making any spring journeys of your own, safe travels. Watch out for the other guy and all that. As for me, I'm going no farther than the local coffeehouse, where you may see me ensconced with Paul Theroux's The Pillars of Hercules. I've gone by sea, by air, by rail, by land, and on foot, but right now armchair travel is what I like best.

Glimpsed Through the Fog

The other night I was watching a program about Gothic cathedrals. The lecturer's enthusiasm reminded me of the way I felt one long-ago summer when I was in England and explored everything Gothic I could find--chapels, churches, colleges, train stations, government buildings, cathedrals--you name it. If it was Gothic, I walked around, climbed around, photographed, and inspected it. I'd written a paper about Gothic architecture in a Victorian literature class for my M.A. and been swept off my feet by John Ruskin's descriptions. His soaring prose seemed to capture the essence of an architectural style carved in stone but aspiring to mystical dimensions.

Well, why wouldn't you be captivated by an architecture that finds delicacy, bravado, solemnity, ecstasy, darkness, light, ethereal beauty, and pride of workmanship in the earthiest of materials: stone, wood, and glass? A Gothic cathedral suggests, by its scale, that there's more to existence than meets the eye--and therefore, that there may be more to us than meets the eye. If out of those elemental materials a builder can create towering spires, soaring galleries, and light-filled apses that seem to float, maybe it's an indication that the things of this world are more than they appear to be.

Of course, mysticism is very Platonic, but the solidity of materials and the proliferation of so many individual saints, prophets, kings, and everyday people, created in loving and expressive detail in statuary and stained glass on every available surface, shows an Aristotelian regard for earthly life, too. It would have been impossible for a builder to put up a 140-foot ceiling or build a wall made of glass without a careful working out of scientific principles and advanced problem solving.

I think my Platonic streak was wider when I was younger, because it was really the mysteriousness of the Gothic buildings, the way they presented themselves as way-stations to something beyond, that appealed to me. I know I'm more Aristotelian now because, after listening to the lecturer emphasize over and over the other night that the ceilings of the cathedrals were built of solid stone, I wondered why it had never occurred to me to keep a sharp lookout for loose pieces. I probably still have the mystic streak, but it's accompanied now by a greater awareness of material fragility and principles of physics.

When the lecturer was speaking of Amiens Cathedral, I had a sudden flashback to an incident I hadn't thought about in years. That same English summer, I went to France, in the middle of my summer course, for a weekend in Paris. It was a rough bus ride after a choppy ferry crossing and a sleepless night, and at the time this seemed the very pinnacle of travel discomfort (which makes me laugh now, I can tell you). I was tired and rather disenchanted.

Sometime in the early hours of the morning, the bus stopped in a town somewhere north and east of Paris. As the bus started to move again, I glimpsed, through the fog and darkness of early morning, a huge Gothic facade looming over the bus, ghostly, half visible, and then gone. It was easily more breathtaking than anything I later saw in Paris, though it vanished almost before I was aware of it. The unexpectedness made it seem marvelous, as if it had appeared out of the air like some enchanted castle from an Arthurian tale.

I wondered what it was that I saw, and I still do. I didn't found out at the time, having no clear conception of where we were and no chance to ask anyone (in my halting French) who might actually have been awake and in the know. Was it Amiens? Rouen? Maybe sometime I'll go there again and find out, though I have to say not knowing hasn't bothered me.

One thing I learned then, but had to be reminded of later, was that something numinous can open up right in front of you even when you're tired, irritated, hot, and overwhelmed by the experience of being on your way to Paris for the first time. It's probably not even on the itinerary, that thing you remember all your life and would have missed if you'd only figured out how to sleep sitting up. Even with a greater respect now for gravity, loose mortar, and the ravages of time, I prize the memory of that ethereal scene granted to a grumpy but wide-eyed traveler.

Berlin Adventure

It's hard to believe it's been 25 years since the fall of the Berlin Wall. That means it's been 25 years since my friends and I undertook our three-week whirlwind European vacation (nine countries in 20 days). What was happening in Berlin actually affected us because we had a friend living there; going to visit her was part of our itinerary.

There were probably several times for each of us on that trip when we felt ourselves especially far from home. I had been to England before and was familiar with London; one of my friends found it unfriendly and didn't care for it at all. One of us had already been to West Germany and considered it a "been there, done that" item; I found Amsterdam to be rather scary (but fascinating). I think all of us would agree, though, that crossing the border from the West to the East in Germany (a border still being maintained even as the Wall was coming down) was both unforgettable and Kafka-esque.

It was like slipping into a time warp and landing in the barbed wire and searchlight days of World War II. Both were in evidence from the train windows as we showed our passports to an extremely grim-faced guard. A brief, unexplained stop once the train started moving again caused someone to quip, in a whistling past the graveyard moment, that perhaps some unfortunate soul had been thrown from the back. It seemed remotely possible. It was November, and East Germany was cold and dark, with a twilight, industrial sort of darkness even during the day. By contrast, Berlin, once we arrived there, reminded me of New York: though gritty and gray, it was edgy, electric, and sophisticated--a world-class city.

Our friend was expecting her first child, and we spent the first couple of days close to her comfortable home, catching up on news and going with her to a doctor's appointment. On the third day, we took the train to Kochstrasse, which I believe was the last subway stop before East Berlin, and walked to Checkpoint Charlie. We were immediately enveloped in the mood of excitement that seemed to have gripped everyone in the vicinity (if not the entire world). The Wall hadn't been torn down yet, but it wasn't for lack of trying. People who weren't taking photographs were renting hammers and chisels for a few marks to do their part.

I have pictures of the three of us at the Wall, hammering, chiseling, and looking cold. I was taking a picture of one of my friends chipping away, and something was said about the angle or posing. I said, "Just keep doing what you're doing." At that, a young man who was passing, apparently British from his accent, paused, laughed, and said, "You have a long way to go!" True enough for one person, but of course in the end the Wall--as solid as it was then--came down. I have some pieces of it still, packed away with other mementos.

My most vivid memories of that visit to Checkpoint Charlie, other than the graffiti and the pervasive excitement in the air, are of my friend attacking the Wall valiantly with a Swiss Army Knife and the exhibits in the Wall Museum that dealt with people's escape attempts. One woman had hidden her four-year-old in a shoulder bag and escaped via subway to Kochstrasse Station; someone else had a false bottom in a car and hid underneath it. The consequences were grim for those who were caught, but it didn't stop people from trying.

In the end, you wonder what it's all about. Politics, wars, international agreements . . . and the end result was a city divided in two. I was reading an article by a diplomatic expert earlier that said not all the results of the fall of the Berlin Wall and the end of the Cold War were favorable. He may have been right about some of the things he said, but to me a lot of the events that have happened since 1989 can be interpreted as missed opportunities to create a more stable world.

Some people don't believe such stability is possible, I know. But if you were to ask some of the people who were divided from one another by the Wall that broke their city in two (or the loved ones of those who died trying to cross it) what they thought about its demise, I bet you'd get a different opinion from that of the diplomatic expert. People living with the results of decisions made by the great powers ruling the world often have a different outlook than any number of diplomats do. And their outlook may be truer.

Pre-Authorized But Unlocked

It's just my opinion, but I do think travel isn't what it used to be. As recently as three years ago, I still viewed travel as a great tonic, a way to not only clear the head and get a change of perspective but also to have fun. Now that I'm back from my trip to Chicago, I'll say this: I expect to one day start enjoying travel again, but that day has not yet arrived.

Actually, there was a little bit of silver lining to this trip. I was told at the airport security checkpoint in Louisville that the code on my boarding pass meant I had clearance and could go through a special line. In essence, this meant I didn't have to take off my shoes and hop around barefoot while pulling out items that need to go in bins by themselves. I had read about paying $100 or so to get this kind of treatment, but I certainly hadn't done that. It seemed such an anomaly that I asked the security officers how it happened. The answer seemed to be that sometimes you just get lucky. It reminded me of the feeling I used to have when I was a Silver Medallion flyer: the perks are modest, but any little bonus is enough to boost your spirits.

Once on the plane, I somehow managed to seat myself next to a UPS pilot, who was flying on business. Sitting next to a pilot will certainly make you feel safer, in case you happen to be having any jitters about the whole friendly sky experience. He told me about his career and all the places he'd been, and before I knew it, we were in Chicago. So far, so good. I had to get from Midway to the conference hotel via train, which isn't hard to do, except that the last bit involved finding my way from the Red Line station to the hotel on foot. I asked for directions, and I'm glad I got a second opinion, because following the first person's advice would probably have gotten me lost only two blocks from the hotel.

I didn't do any traveling within Chicago, except for walking to Millennium Park one afternoon and going to lunch at Downtown Dogs the next day; the conference kept me too busy. On Saturday, my last day, I decided to give myself more time than I thought I needed to get back to the airport. Despite having had a pretty easy time of it on the way up, I didn't want to be in a position of having to rush due to unexpected problems. It's good I took that attitude because the first thing that happened was that none of the machines in the Red Line station were making change, so I had to go back out, cross the street, and buy a bottle of water in a fast food store to get some dollar bills. One of the bills I was given felt a little strange, so to be on the safe side, I asked the cashier for another one. Sometimes those ticket machines are finicky.

Once I got my ticket and was on the train, someone told me that service on the Orange Line was out between Roosevelt and Halsted, which meant taking a bus between stations. That sounded like a headache. This person said he'd show me how it worked, but when we came out of the station, the bus he was getting on, which he said was going to Halsted, looked like an ordinary city bus. I could see Orange Line buses lined up behind it, so I walked over and got on one. Once I got to Midway, I printed my boarding pass and went through security, still under the magical protection of my pre-authorized status. I kept trying to find out more about why I had this status. I told one security officer that I'd had some strange experiences in past travels that made me question anything out of the ordinary; he just smiled. I told another officer that the ease of the whole thing was freaking me out; she said I should just be happy about it. She was probably right.

So, time to relax, get a sandwich, and read a little before the flight was called. Once on the plane, I rested all the way home, thankful when we arrived a few minutes early, since I still had to drive back to Lexington. I got to my car, unlocked the driver's side door, and uh, oh -- what's this? The rear door on the driver's side, which was definitely locked when I left it, was now most definitely unlocked. This is travel as I've come to know it; I suspected I wouldn't get home without at least one incident (not that it couldn't have been worse). I mentioned what happened to the person at the exit booth, who said she'd report it to the Louisville Police.

There's nothing about my modest little car that would suggest it has anything worth taking, and in case you were in doubt, a glance inside would show as much. Nothing was broken; the lock had not been forced. Once I got home, I was able to take a closer look and couldn't find anything else awry, but I followed up with airport security to let them know what happened. I had doubts that anything in the way of a police report would have been made on the basis of my mentioning it to the exit booth attendant, so I took it to a higher authority.

So, a trip, a return, a mystery, and thankfulness that I have nowhere else to go in the foreseeable future. This would seem a rather poor attitude if it didn't coincide with my budget, which makes it actually a convenient outlook to have at present. If you're wondering whether I, as a mythologist, make anything of the door incident, the answer is not really. I don't suspect Mercury in retrograde, or sunspots, or leprechauns but rather a more pedestrian explanation, which may even come to light via the airport's security cameras. You never know.

Peripatetic

It took a while, but I finally tracked down a copy of John Steinbeck's Travels with Charley: In Search of America at the library. I started looking for it years ago, but the main library's copy always seemed to be checked out or missing. Being a fan of both travel writing and John Steinbeck, I was looking forward to reading this memoir, and my only disappointment is that it isn't a longer book.

Maybe it was fate that I never got a chance to read Travels with Charley before. I know I read it in a different way, perhaps with a sharper eye, than I would have even a few years ago. I've traveled some of the same roads as Steinbeck in recent years and was especially interested in the parts of his trip that overlapped with mine.

I've long had an image of Mr. Steinbeck as what you might call a "man's man." It was only recently that I came across a photo of him in his prime that reveled how handsome he was; at six feet tall with those piercing eyes he must have cut quite a figure. It's charming to imagine him traveling about with Charley, his poodle, camping out, and talking to people everywhere without being recognized by any of these strangers. His account of the journey reveals him to be open-minded and deeply thoughtful, with a good sense of humor, though you can tell all that by reading his fiction.

One thing struck me especially, and that was his description of the loneliness that descended on him at the outset of his trip. He missed his wife and, after starting out from Sag Harbor, New York, reunited with her during a stopover in Chicago, not even a quarter of the way through his travels. When they parted for the second time, he was just as lonely as before. I had imagined Mr. Steinbeck as somewhat stoic and was surprised and delighted to read about how regularly he called home and how much he missed it. It made him seem more human and less godlike.

Mr. Steinbeck found Wisconsin especially beautiful; he was prevented from traveling through Yellowstone National Park by Charley's open hostility toward bears; a native of Monterey County, California, he smelled the Pacific Ocean while still far inland; and he made the same trip from Bakersfield to Needles and the Arizona border that I once did (though the roads may be different now). He went quail-hunting in Texas without seeing any quail, but he did catch some fish. He traveled from Amarillo to New Orleans, skirting the Atchafalaya Basin, and witnessed a piece of the desegregation drama then taking place in Louisiana.

Early on, he had gotten lost in a small town in New York, and near the end of his trip, he got lost in New York City, not far from home. In all of this, he captured the bittersweet quality of setting out and leaving behind better perhaps than anyone else I've ever read.

Mr. Steinbeck died when I was quite young. I would have liked to have known him; so much of his personality comes through in his writing that in some ways I feel I do. I once spent a pleasant afternoon visiting his hometown and looking in at the Steinbeck Center, where I read a letter he had written containing a humorous response to the proposal of having a school named after him. I've visited Ed Ricketts' rebuilt lab in Monterey, even summoning up the courage to climb the stairs and peek in. (I received the surprise of my life when I glimpsed a group of men sitting around, apparently shooting the breeze. I beat a fast retreat but not before getting the impression that I'd just witnessed a scene much like the ones Steinbeck, Ricketts, and their cronies would have enacted many times in their day. It's nice to think that some things don't change.)

There's also the matter of the Joseph Campbell connection. He was one of their group of friends, and apparently he, like Steinbeck, was influenced by Ricketts' writings on nature and philosophy. When I was visiting the Monterey area all those years ago, reading Cannery Row and thinking about Steinbeck, I wasn't aware that a few years and a few miles down the road, I'd be the recipient of some of that influence when I started my own studies of mythology. How strange that the winding road that led from John Steinbeck to Joseph Campbell and back again, many times, has not only philosophical and literary layers but also geographic ones.

So Much Chocolate, So Little Time

I was reading a travel magazine in Starbucks yesterday afternoon when suddenly the memory of the late, lamented European Travel and Life popped into my head. I subscribed to it for the last few years of its publication, and it was a magical experience every time I found it in the mailbox. It had glossy pages, beautiful photographs, and great writing, and it even smelled good (due, I think, to perfume samples in the ads). I had gone to Europe with friends in 1989, and reading the magazine was a way of extending the experience.

On our trip, we did nine countries in three weeks, starting and ending in London. We stayed in small hotels and boarding houses listed in Frommer's Guide to Europe on $30 a Day and largely relied on the guidebook's recommendations for places to eat. Traveling light as we did, we were able to see and do a lot for a modest amount of money. We did not stay in the glamorous spots European Travel and Life depicted so lavishly, but we saw a lot of great art, relished street life and people watching, took in the sights, and sampled chocolates all the way from Germany to Geneva.

I kept a travel journal, stealing moments on ferry crossings, train trips, and the waiting rooms of bus stations to scribble down impressions, but even without looking at it I can call up images and remember tastes and smells. Sometimes it's the little things, small scenes glimpsed along the way, that stay with you, for whatever mysterious reason.

From a bus window, on the way to Dover, I saw a West Indian woman walking down a crowded East London street in the late afternoon. Her colorful clothing and dignified posture made her stand out in the gray light and drab surroundings like a rare flower. I remember the blue sweater my friend was wearing during a tedious ferry crossing to Oostende that night and how mysteriously several hundred passengers seemed to melt into thin air in the station at the other end.

I remember how cold the light was in Belgium that morning, how foreign (and daunting) Amsterdam and all its brick houses seemed when we arrived, and how very steep the stairs were in our hotel, not far from Anne Frank's house. A man walked by on the street that afternoon as we came out of a cafe whose face--intense, bearded, and thin--could have belonged to Van Gogh. A sandwich of simple bread and cheese on the train to Berlin was a revelation, as was the ease with which many Europeans spoke graceful English, even when they downplayed their ability.

A hammer and chisel for extracting your own piece of the Berlin Wall cost seven marks to rent, and the faces of the guards were extremely stern at the crossing between the former East Germany and the West. I recall my first sighting of someone wearing lederhosen and an alpine hat (in Munich) and the taste of hot chestnuts purchased from a street vendor (in Salzburg). I recall watching the sun go down behind snow-covered mountains as the mists rose over the lake and Salzburg lay at our feet like a fairy-tale village.

I remember how deep the snow lay around the town of Fussen as we walked up to Neuschwanstein with plastic bags on our shoes in lieu of boots; there were swans in the river as we walked through the town. We headed down into Italy, hoping for warmth, and stayed in a pension that had formerly been a monastery, with a shower in the middle of the room. We climbed Giotto's Tower to goggle at the Tuscan countryside, straight out of the background of a thousand Renaissance paintings. I tasted my first espresso in a small cafe and was impressed by the effortless style of the Florentines we encountered on the streets.

I remember peering out the window of our train compartment as we crossed the Alps, glimpsing some high and distant peaks in the dawn light. I remember how the grayness in Geneva made the mountains invisible, but the city itself was clean and prosperous. I recall little of the French countryside that sped by on the fast train to Paris (being distracted by an assortment of Swiss chocolates probably explains the lapse), but I can easily call up Paris's wide and elegant avenues. I loved Montmartre and the small, bustling place where we had dinner on a narrow street. Sacre Coeur was eerie by night, but the steps that led back down into the city were magical under the streetlamps.

I remember how unfamiliar Tavistock Square and Bloomsbury seemed to me once we were back in London, though I had spent half a summer there only six years previously. It was as if I had never been there. I recall the taste of naan in the Indian restaurant where we had dinner with a new friend, and her stories of traveling alone in Greece, shared over dinner, that made her seem so adventurous.

The next time I go to Europe, I hope I'll have as much fun as the last time. I've done a lot of traveling around the United States in the intervening years and had forgotten, until something glimpsed in Afar triggered the memories, just how exciting 1989 was, with all of the planning and dreaming that went into that European adventure. With a few versatile wardrobe items, light baggage, a Eurail pass, and an open mind, you can really get around. There's no place I have been that I wouldn't go back to, and there are so many unexplored destinations to anticipate. And at the end of it, you can always come home again.

Out West

O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been
Alone on a wide wide sea:
So lonely 'twas, that God himself
Scarce seemed there to be.
-- Samuel Taylor Coleridge, "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner"

Once upon a time (two and a half weeks ago) I decided to take a fall break and drive to the West Coast and back. All I can say is it seemed like a good idea at the time. I've never actually driven that far (and it's doubtful ever I'd do it again, not alone, anyway), but at the time, the thought of a little California sunshine was very appealing, and driving seemed the way to go.

If I had known what kind of a trip it would be, I would never have left home. The day I left, it was sunny, hot, and pleasant here, but I went through a number of climate changes before I got back and soon realized I was smart to have packed so many layers (though the two bathing suits I included never got any use). I left in the afternoon, at first driving a familiar stretch of interstate between Lexington and St. Louis, and then stopping for the night about an hour west of the latter. I got a clue that this wouldn't be a normal trip when the desk clerk at the Holiday Inn* (see comments below) did a double-take on seeing me and said that another guest who looked just like me (and was dressed like me, apparently) had just gone up in the elevator. Of course, that was a bit strange, but . . . what the heck. Coincidences happen!

Driving across unfamiliar stretches of Missouri, Oklahoma, and the Texas panhandle, and encountering increasingly unpopulated segments of road, I decided getting through quickly was the best plan, so I drove all night through New Mexico and found myself in Arizona the next morning. Looking for a hotel in the town of Holbrook at first seemed sensible, but on closer examination, I decided a more touristed area would be safer, so I drove on to Flagstaff, where finding a suitable hotel proved challenging. Looking up one that sounded reliable, I discovered it was outside of town, and I drove through miles of forest and desert only to somehow miss it and end up napping in the back seat of my car next to a residential area, waking in the middle of the night and discovering, on the way to get gas, that I had literally been almost next door to a Best Western. I checked in and spent the rest of the night in bed.

Although I was close to the Grand Canyon (which I have never seen, except from the air), I had by that time decided that to get where I was going was highly desirable, and that perhaps I would see the Grand Canyon on the way back. Pressing on, I crossed the state of Arizona, not before discovering in Kingman that my passenger side door had been unlocked (probably while I was at the Best Western). Since I had lost my keys (at home) back in the summer, that gave me pause, but by a strange twist of fate, it was actually lucky for me that this happened because I had just accidentally locked the driver's side door (with the motor running) and was thus equal parts perplexed and overjoyed to find the passenger door unlocked. After somehow getting on the interstate going the wrong way for 20 minutes (Arizona, your signage?), I righted myself and headed for the California border at Needles.

Now I have spent considerable time in California, but driving across the desert in a car was totally new to me. I had been here before on a train, but everything looks quite different when you're in a car, especially by yourself. By this time, it was dark and a little scary. An unexpected light moment came when the border guard, prior to giving me an inspection pass, asked if I had any live animals with me. I'm not sure why that was funny (three days in a car, and you get a little punchy), but I laughed and told him, "Just me."

I drove to Ventura County, almost home ground for me since I went to school next door in Santa Barbara County. I hadn't realized finding hotels in October could be such a challenge, but evidently October is high tourist season in some parts of the West. I ended up staying in Santa Paula, a nice town though a small one, but checked out of my hotel on Sunday, earlier than planned, to head down to L.A.

All I wanted was a good night's sleep in a decent hotel, and a little sightseeing the next day. I thought of going to the Getty Center. When I got to Santa Monica, I started to stay at one of the fancy hotels near the beach, but a trip to my room convinced me otherwise. I was stuck in a remote corner of the hotel, out of sight of anyone else, with a lock that didn't seem to quite work (this became a theme on the trip). I hauled my suitcase back down to the desk and told the clerk I didn't like the room. She offered to reassign me, but having gotten a bad vibe from this experience, I told her I'd look elsewhere.

I can't honestly say why, but I was no longer sure I really felt comfortable in L.A. I drove around for a while, decided to go down to San Diego, did so, tried to find a hotel district, and somehow found myself on the residential side of town, no hotels in sight. (Finding a hotel in the dark when you're tired isn't always as easy as you might think, along with the fact that experiences of the last couple of days had me leery.) Since I knew no one in San Diego, I decided after all to drive back to L.A.

The next day's adventures included going for what was intended to be a short walk, getting dehydrated, not being able to find my car, almost deciding to fly home in panic and frustration, and finally locating my car with the aid of the police. The police helped me look through my things to discover if anything was missing and told me to call the next day if I discovered anything amiss later on. After they left, I noticed once again that my passenger side door was unlocked. Wow! After spending the night at a favorite hotel in Santa Monica, I called in to report this the next day.

Could the trip get any stranger? Well, yes, actually, it could. After I ate lunch in Malibu, bad fish forced an emergency stop in Santa Barbara. I was ready to call it a night, and the hotel seemed nice enough, but after taking a shower and lying down for a while, I became increasingly uneasy about the door -- which did not have a dead bolt lock -- and the open transom above the curtains. I checked out that night, and after driving north in search of another place to stay, I suddenly wanted to be gone and decided to head home.

On Halloween, I found myself crossing the wide open spaces of Nevada, trying with difficulty to reach friends and family on my cell phone. Since this saga has already gone on too long, I won't go into detail about my unsuccessful attempt to see family in Idaho, the invitation from a friend in San Francisco to come and visit, my drive back to California and the Hotel of the Windy Corridors in Stockton, the impossibility of finding a parking space in San Francisco on a Friday night, and an overnight stay in Morgan Hill with a hotel full of lacrosse players. Heading east the next day, I experienced one of the few moments of joy and ease on this trip as I passed through the fertile hills around Gilroy, where they grow many things, including garlic -- whose scent suffused the air. The hills were enveloping and welcoming, and I was sorry to leave them behind, reminders of happier times on previous trips.

The scenery from Bakersfield to Barstow, and then on to Needles, across the mountains and down to the desert, was magnificent, but I felt like I was viewing it distantly, on a very small television. It was like something out of an old Western, especially the closer I got to Needles. I have heard that California is many states rolled into one, and I certainly had proof of it on this trip. I saw parts that I had never seen before, or had never seen by car, which makes a big difference; even the familiar parts looked strange, as if they had been flipped upside down. As a child, I remember once or twice experiencing a strange sense of disorientation, in which suddenly directions seemed to have reversed themselves when I came to a familiar place from a different angle. That sensation was something like what I experienced on this trip.

I stopped not long after dark in Kingman, Arizona, where I ended up in a room with a loose safety latch; traveled on the next day to Amarillo, Texas, where I had the identical problem with a safety latch in a different hotel chain; and finally decided I was getting home no matter what, so that I drove carefully and methodically across parts of five states before crossing back into Kentucky and collapsing at a Sheraton on the outskirts of Lexington. I took what was almost a semi-vacation that last day, going to the mall, buying chocolates, and shopping. I came back to my apartment the next day, Wednesday, and thought about kissing the door frame once I was inside. (I was so tired, I forgot.)

I could (and will) call this trip "The Vacation That Wasn't" or "I Dreamed a Dream of Driving to California, But This Was Not It." I could also call it "The Magical Mystery Tour," though my use of the word "magical" isn't meant to connote anything positive. I could call it "Into the Wild," though that title, too, has been taken. Or with the Grateful Dead, I could truthfully say, "What a Long Strange Trip It's Been," and be perfectly accurate.

One moment of great clarity stands out: I was driving west on I-80 in Nevada, whose harsh and immense landscape might as well have been the surface of the moon, when a great loneliness came over me. The only thing I could think of was my own apartment, my books on the shelves, and how much I wanted to see them. I was so far from anyone I knew, or anything familiar, and all I wanted was to get back home. And so I did, eventually. And here I am.

Like Dorothy, who wanted to leave Kansas so badly, I find myself, at the end of the yellow brick road, back where I started, if a little worse for wear. I was looking at a picture of myself that I took after getting home and thought, "Wow, the wear and tear is kind of showing." It brought to mind what Indiana Jones famously said: "It's not the years, it's the mileage" (literally).

On the other hand, it may not be anything that a good night's sleep and a little moisturizer can't cure. Check with me in a couple of days.

And if you yourself are on the road, drive safely.