The Golden Buff Lodge in Boulder is not one of the crown jewels of the Best Western flag. The rooms are in need of renovation. But I like that the exterior hadn't changed much since 1978. It felt like old Boulder---my Boulder.
Every trip to that city is different. It seems to measure one's soul, to go there, and to compare it against previous versions of your self.
I even managed to squeeze in some disc golf, up along the Wonderland Creek Trail. Okki was surprised at how well I picked it up.
Along the course, we must have let about a dozen other groups play through, as we sat the benches drinking beer that we had brought along in our backpacks.
He bogied most of the Par 3 holes, but I mostly bogied or double bogied them.
So I pressed him right up to the last hole. I lost the bet and had to hop on
my foot 37 times, which I guess I wound up doing at the Fox Theater.
Monday, April 29, 2013
The New Boulder Normal
I stayed eight nights in Boulder, all in all. It was the week of incredible April snow, and much of the time I just wanted to stay cozy in my motel room on Canyon. But it was an uninspiring room. That was a good thing, since it forced me to get outside a lot, even as the snow was coming down the hardest.
The nearest Starbucks was just a block down 28th Street at the corner of Pearl. Working there during the day felt like being in a giant snow globe.
Across the street from my motel was the lifestyle center outdoor development that replaced the old Crossroads Mall. I went to a movie there a couple New Year Eve's ago---Sherlock Holmes.
On Monday the bombs went off at the Boston Marathon. I decided to tune out the coverage most of the time. I barely watched any television.
On Wednesday, Okki relieved my cabin fever with a meet-up at my motel room (my car was too covered with snow to move). We had beers across the street at a pub.
By Friday, when the snow began to melt rapidly, I had barely moved a few hundred yards from the motel.
On Saturday, we got together again, and with a friend of Okki's who just moved from Connecticut, and went bar-hopping, starting with the basement of the old Boulderado Hotel. We wound up at the Fox Theater grooving to a band called Araabmuzik.
It was a fun time. It felt like Burning Man. The next morning I realized in Starbucks that I was still wearing the purple wrist band from admission.
The nearest Starbucks was just a block down 28th Street at the corner of Pearl. Working there during the day felt like being in a giant snow globe.
Across the street from my motel was the lifestyle center outdoor development that replaced the old Crossroads Mall. I went to a movie there a couple New Year Eve's ago---Sherlock Holmes.
On Monday the bombs went off at the Boston Marathon. I decided to tune out the coverage most of the time. I barely watched any television.
On Wednesday, Okki relieved my cabin fever with a meet-up at my motel room (my car was too covered with snow to move). We had beers across the street at a pub.
By Friday, when the snow began to melt rapidly, I had barely moved a few hundred yards from the motel.
On Saturday, we got together again, and with a friend of Okki's who just moved from Connecticut, and went bar-hopping, starting with the basement of the old Boulderado Hotel. We wound up at the Fox Theater grooving to a band called Araabmuzik.
It was a fun time. It felt like Burning Man. The next morning I realized in Starbucks that I was still wearing the purple wrist band from admission.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Sizzling Steaks Creekside
Okki still lived in the same mobile home trailer as last year. I had no problem finding it again in Boulder, at the end of Valmont Road, not far from our old workplace.
I saw his Subaru parked in his driveway and he was standing right there. I got out of the car and gave him a big bear hug.
We went inside the trailer and had a few beers and relaxed, at times going out to the wooden deck in back, overlooking the creek, so Okki could smoke a cigarette.
He said he could cook some steaks for dinner on the grill. We talked for hours. We wanted to know the details of my big long trip, the "After Burn," as they call it. As I talked, the experiences of the last few months just started pouring out, and I realized what an awesomely wild trip it had actually been.
He was particularly interested in hearing my experiences with gun training in Nevada. I demonstrated some of the techniques for him while we were outside. It turns out he and Stefan had been to Las Vegas and had paid to fire a 357 Magnum and a couple other guns. I told him how at the training camp at lunchtime you could fire an assortment of automatic weapons and just pay for the ammo.
At one point he accused me of being "gun crazy." I told him he might be right.
After dinner his friend Melanie came over and we hung out until late in the evening, playing Jenga and drinking. I made the tower fall both times. I was the new guy, after all.
I saw his Subaru parked in his driveway and he was standing right there. I got out of the car and gave him a big bear hug.
We went inside the trailer and had a few beers and relaxed, at times going out to the wooden deck in back, overlooking the creek, so Okki could smoke a cigarette.
He said he could cook some steaks for dinner on the grill. We talked for hours. We wanted to know the details of my big long trip, the "After Burn," as they call it. As I talked, the experiences of the last few months just started pouring out, and I realized what an awesomely wild trip it had actually been.
He was particularly interested in hearing my experiences with gun training in Nevada. I demonstrated some of the techniques for him while we were outside. It turns out he and Stefan had been to Las Vegas and had paid to fire a 357 Magnum and a couple other guns. I told him how at the training camp at lunchtime you could fire an assortment of automatic weapons and just pay for the ammo.
At one point he accused me of being "gun crazy." I told him he might be right.
After dinner his friend Melanie came over and we hung out until late in the evening, playing Jenga and drinking. I made the tower fall both times. I was the new guy, after all.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Loop the Loop Comes Home
I stayed at my sister's place for two weeks, much longer than I thought I would. It was a very fun visit. The time went by very fast. Ironically I forgot to give her that Dunkin Donuts coffee until the next-to-last day.
On Saturday I finally packed up my car and said good-bye to them for now. My sister's oldest son was about to leave on a class trip to Washington, D.C. and New York. Her daughters were taking music lessons.
After leaving their place, I drove over to the same Starbucks I'd been using, by U.S. 36, and worked there a couple more hours on some personal projects. Then in the late afternoon, I put away my laptop. Out in my car, I took out my cellphone and I scrolled down my list of contact until I found a name.
I dialed the number. The voice mail picked up.
"Okki! Its Matt! I finally got back from Burning Man!"
On Saturday I finally packed up my car and said good-bye to them for now. My sister's oldest son was about to leave on a class trip to Washington, D.C. and New York. Her daughters were taking music lessons.
After leaving their place, I drove over to the same Starbucks I'd been using, by U.S. 36, and worked there a couple more hours on some personal projects. Then in the late afternoon, I put away my laptop. Out in my car, I took out my cellphone and I scrolled down my list of contact until I found a name.
I dialed the number. The voice mail picked up.
"Okki! Its Matt! I finally got back from Burning Man!"
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
The True Meaning of a Vacation
Easter dinner at my sister's place was marvelous. It was great to see the whole family, and to play with the kids again after so many months.
I wasn't sure what they thought of all the postcards I'd sent, but it turns out they were collecting them all. It has been part of my life mission to allow my nieces and nephews to experience the sensation and event of receiving physical mail, with handwritten address, canceled postage.
I wound up staying at her place much longer than I thought, but the time passed very quickly. I even got into a little routine of walking over to the Walnut Creek shops to work at the Starbuck's there.
The biggest pitfall was all that Easter candy, which I was helpless to resist. But after so many months of various new health regimens, I was curious to see what happened if I went off for a couple weeks and gorged on sugar, as I used to.
It's a dangerous game, letting yourself go just long enough to see the effect. But if you have in your head, "that's the way I used to be," and see that self almost as someone else, then it feels a lot easier to pick up where you left off before the break.
I wasn't sure what they thought of all the postcards I'd sent, but it turns out they were collecting them all. It has been part of my life mission to allow my nieces and nephews to experience the sensation and event of receiving physical mail, with handwritten address, canceled postage.
I wound up staying at her place much longer than I thought, but the time passed very quickly. I even got into a little routine of walking over to the Walnut Creek shops to work at the Starbuck's there.
The biggest pitfall was all that Easter candy, which I was helpless to resist. But after so many months of various new health regimens, I was curious to see what happened if I went off for a couple weeks and gorged on sugar, as I used to.
It's a dangerous game, letting yourself go just long enough to see the effect. But if you have in your head, "that's the way I used to be," and see that self almost as someone else, then it feels a lot easier to pick up where you left off before the break.
Monday, April 15, 2013
Day of Multi-Colored Surprises
After a couple nights in Manitou Springs, suffering through the almost unusable Wi-Fi, I checked out and headed down into Colorado Springs, through the charming little Old Colorado City district. When I passed a Dunkin' Donuts, the only one in Colorado, I stopped and bought some of their brand of coffee for my sister, as an Easter present, and sort of as a gag gift about her years in Boston.
With a little time to spare, I afforded myself a drive through central Colorado Springs, from downtown north on Cascade. The north-south streets of the grid are named after mountains and mountain ranges of the West and Northwest. The east-west streets are named for rivers of the same regions.
Before I got on the Interstate, I stopped at a chain party store and stocked up on some Easter decorations that would make the kids laugh, I thought, including some bunny ears, and plastic eggs for the gifts I'd bought them.
In a little over an hour, up on I-25 then on C-470, up along Morrison to Golden, then onto I-76 heading back towards I-25. I exited in Wheat Ridge, went past old Lakeside Amusement Park looking for a coin store that turned out to have just closed for the day. Then up on Wadsworth north into Westminster.
I got to my sister's house at just about the time she said dinner would be starting. I parked a few houses down, just to make it a surprise, then put on the bunny ears and a Mardi Gras mask and walked up to the front door with a basket full of eggs of different colors and patterns, and other stuff in the basket.
With a little time to spare, I afforded myself a drive through central Colorado Springs, from downtown north on Cascade. The north-south streets of the grid are named after mountains and mountain ranges of the West and Northwest. The east-west streets are named for rivers of the same regions.
Before I got on the Interstate, I stopped at a chain party store and stocked up on some Easter decorations that would make the kids laugh, I thought, including some bunny ears, and plastic eggs for the gifts I'd bought them.
In a little over an hour, up on I-25 then on C-470, up along Morrison to Golden, then onto I-76 heading back towards I-25. I exited in Wheat Ridge, went past old Lakeside Amusement Park looking for a coin store that turned out to have just closed for the day. Then up on Wadsworth north into Westminster.
I got to my sister's house at just about the time she said dinner would be starting. I parked a few houses down, just to make it a surprise, then put on the bunny ears and a Mardi Gras mask and walked up to the front door with a basket full of eggs of different colors and patterns, and other stuff in the basket.
Up the Flank of the Great Mountain
In Manitou Springs I had Saturday breakfast at a vintage pancake house, called Uncle Sam's, in an old a-frame building.
It was a beautiful day. Feeling adventurous, I walked from the pancake house into downtown, with a glorious view of the mountain the whole way. Then I followed the winding narrow streets up the ravine to the cog railway station.
From the hiking trails begin their ascent. Scores of people were going up down the long line of the Incline Trail, which goes straight up the mountain with old wooden planks as steps. Had I brought along my water bottle, I would have tied my down jacket to my waist and started up the trail.
It was a beautiful day. Feeling adventurous, I walked from the pancake house into downtown, with a glorious view of the mountain the whole way. Then I followed the winding narrow streets up the ravine to the cog railway station.
From the hiking trails begin their ascent. Scores of people were going up down the long line of the Incline Trail, which goes straight up the mountain with old wooden planks as steps. Had I brought along my water bottle, I would have tied my down jacket to my waist and started up the trail.
Then Down into Manitou
Then in the late afternoon, with the light still good, I descended the from Cripple Creek and found the wide U.S. Highway that descends steeply from Woodland Park, the perfect surburbia, and got off in swift traffic onto the exit for Manitou Springs.
There was a lot of construction in the old part of town. Most of Manitou Springs is old, in fact. It's a preserve of the Colorado mid 20th Century tourism boom, probably the best such preserve of this culture remaining in the West.
Even within Colorado, it has protected status. If you're from the northern Front Range, like me, the area around Colorado Springs was sort of a no-go area, to be shunned. It makes it all the more fascinating to me now.
There was a lot of construction in the old part of town. Most of Manitou Springs is old, in fact. It's a preserve of the Colorado mid 20th Century tourism boom, probably the best such preserve of this culture remaining in the West.
Even within Colorado, it has protected status. If you're from the northern Front Range, like me, the area around Colorado Springs was sort of a no-go area, to be shunned. It makes it all the more fascinating to me now.
Saturday, April 13, 2013
Happy Treasure Hunting!
North of there, the main state highway creeps up the floor of the valley. The mountains coverge to a narrowing but still wide approach to the pass. Five miles of gentle winding take you to the summit of Poncha Pass, as you head straight towards some of the highest mountains in the state.
On the other side, the highway drops down much quicker, in tighter curves, and in less than twenty minutes you are down in the valley of the Arkansas, near its headquarters.
There at Salida I intersected with the course of my 2009 trip, when I'd followed the Arkanasas upstream from near its mouth. I ate at the same Sonic Drive-In for fun, then took the road downstream this time in ghte tight canyon, all the way to Canyon City, where I needed to fill up with gas, at the first station I saw, right next to the prison.
Then with a new full tank I went back up the canyon a few miles, past the cutoff to Royal Gorge, and took State Highway 9 north, and then took the little couinty road cutoff through the hills to Cripple Creek.
I got into town in the late afternoon. The sky was menacing and looked of snow. Nasty clouds roiled above me.
I walked the main street for a half hour in the chill fresh air. There wasn't much to do there if you didn't want to go inside and gamble in any of the casinos. But the outside was a decient architectural tour of buildings from the 1890s, mostly, when the town was most active in the early days of its Gold Rush.
The gold field itself is amazing. It was one of the largest in North America. Ironically it was discovered during the first Colorado Gold Rush, that produced most of the early lore of the state during its territorial days. It came decades later, but turned out to be a much larger field. It sustained the coffers of the state for many decades around the turn of the Twentieth Century.
There is a still an active gold mine nearby. One passes it on the way to Victor, the small town just south of Cripple Creek, on a spur of the highway, going down the mountains along the gulch. It's evidently still a working class town, where some of the gold miners live. It had a forlorn ghostly feel. My kind of place.
The only road out of Victor is back through Cripple Creek. It gave me a chance to inspect the gold mining operation there a second time.
I've thought it funny how the first explorations by Europens of the New World, at least the round that started at the end of the Middle Ages, was inspired initially in large part by a search for gold. Ironically one could have given simple directions that any of the early explorers from the days of Columbus could have used to find the massive Cripple Creek gold field.
It would have gone something like this: Follow the Great Water northward many days, past its wide tributary, to the Muddy River. Follow it upstream westward for many days until you reach the Great Flat River. Follow it west across the arid plains. Take its southern fork to the base of the High Mountains. From the base of these mountains you will see the Great Peak. The gold you seek is behind this peak, about fifteen miles to the southwest, in rolling pastures at the top of a gulch that drains to the south.
I'm pretty sure LaSalle could have followed those directions.
On the other side, the highway drops down much quicker, in tighter curves, and in less than twenty minutes you are down in the valley of the Arkansas, near its headquarters.
There at Salida I intersected with the course of my 2009 trip, when I'd followed the Arkanasas upstream from near its mouth. I ate at the same Sonic Drive-In for fun, then took the road downstream this time in ghte tight canyon, all the way to Canyon City, where I needed to fill up with gas, at the first station I saw, right next to the prison.
Then with a new full tank I went back up the canyon a few miles, past the cutoff to Royal Gorge, and took State Highway 9 north, and then took the little couinty road cutoff through the hills to Cripple Creek.
I got into town in the late afternoon. The sky was menacing and looked of snow. Nasty clouds roiled above me.
I walked the main street for a half hour in the chill fresh air. There wasn't much to do there if you didn't want to go inside and gamble in any of the casinos. But the outside was a decient architectural tour of buildings from the 1890s, mostly, when the town was most active in the early days of its Gold Rush.
The gold field itself is amazing. It was one of the largest in North America. Ironically it was discovered during the first Colorado Gold Rush, that produced most of the early lore of the state during its territorial days. It came decades later, but turned out to be a much larger field. It sustained the coffers of the state for many decades around the turn of the Twentieth Century.
There is a still an active gold mine nearby. One passes it on the way to Victor, the small town just south of Cripple Creek, on a spur of the highway, going down the mountains along the gulch. It's evidently still a working class town, where some of the gold miners live. It had a forlorn ghostly feel. My kind of place.
The only road out of Victor is back through Cripple Creek. It gave me a chance to inspect the gold mining operation there a second time.
I've thought it funny how the first explorations by Europens of the New World, at least the round that started at the end of the Middle Ages, was inspired initially in large part by a search for gold. Ironically one could have given simple directions that any of the early explorers from the days of Columbus could have used to find the massive Cripple Creek gold field.
It would have gone something like this: Follow the Great Water northward many days, past its wide tributary, to the Muddy River. Follow it upstream westward for many days until you reach the Great Flat River. Follow it west across the arid plains. Take its southern fork to the base of the High Mountains. From the base of these mountains you will see the Great Peak. The gold you seek is behind this peak, about fifteen miles to the southwest, in rolling pastures at the top of a gulch that drains to the south.
I'm pretty sure LaSalle could have followed those directions.
Mining for Honey Gold in Crestone
The Super 8 in Alamosa turned out to be a gem. Not only did they have TCM--the first time I'd seen it since Flagstaff, but in the morning breakfast buffet included scrambled eggs and sausages, a rarity for the budget Wyndham flags like Super 8.
After a small tour of the Adams State campus, I drove north, not on the main U.S. highway that goes up the west side of the San Luis Valley, but on State Highway 17, which skirts along the Sangre de Cristos in all their snowy glory.
After an hour of excellent road, I cut eastward on a side road, up to the base of the range itself, to the little town of Crestone. Suddenly it was eight years before, and I was in Aspen, exploring the old mining towns as I liked to do on my day off. I love the history of mining, and the towns themselves, like Crestone, have evolved into their own personalities.
I took a foot tour of the town. At the teahosue I bought a jar of raw honey, since the one I'd bought in Flagstaff had nearly run out. I inspected the "world famous" free second-hand store. I coined the phrase "more hippies than Crestone" for future use.
On the wau out town I paid closer attention to the signs related to the Property Owners Association of the Baca Ranch, the old Mexican landgrant that later became an informal utopian compound. Where you find hippies, you generally find the archeology of attempts at great planed societies.
After a small tour of the Adams State campus, I drove north, not on the main U.S. highway that goes up the west side of the San Luis Valley, but on State Highway 17, which skirts along the Sangre de Cristos in all their snowy glory.
After an hour of excellent road, I cut eastward on a side road, up to the base of the range itself, to the little town of Crestone. Suddenly it was eight years before, and I was in Aspen, exploring the old mining towns as I liked to do on my day off. I love the history of mining, and the towns themselves, like Crestone, have evolved into their own personalities.
I took a foot tour of the town. At the teahosue I bought a jar of raw honey, since the one I'd bought in Flagstaff had nearly run out. I inspected the "world famous" free second-hand store. I coined the phrase "more hippies than Crestone" for future use.
On the wau out town I paid closer attention to the signs related to the Property Owners Association of the Baca Ranch, the old Mexican landgrant that later became an informal utopian compound. Where you find hippies, you generally find the archeology of attempts at great planed societies.
Remembering My Alamosa Girl
After three days in Taos, and with a new battery in the Bimmer, I took the road again, heading north along the gorgeous wide valley of the Rio Grande. After a couple hours I approached the Colorado border, and when I finally saw the sign I felt a welling up of emotion to be back after so many months on the road.
On the horizon in multiple directions were snow-capped peaks. It brings to mind how unique Colorado is. Other states have mountains, but no place seems to have such a surplus of towering ranges like Colorado does.
I followed the highway north to the little town of San Luis, which I learned is the oldest town in Colorado, having been founded in 1851 by settlers coming up from New Mexico. How ignorant I was not to know this fact. On the hill above the town was a beautiful church. I parked at the foot of the hill and inspected the sign. A path led up the mesa to the church, passed a series of Stations of the Cross. It was a nice hike for an afternoon, being that it was Holy Week.
After this, I headed westward, across rolling green hills that felt like being in heaven, crossing the Rio Grande again, and rolling into the little town of Manassa, where a statue of Jack Dempsey, the most famous town native, sits along the main street. Then for the last leg of the day I drove northward on the main highway into Alamosa, where I had reservations at the Super 8.
It was the first time I'd ever been in Alamosa in my life. In fact it was only the second time in my life I'd ever been in the San Luis Valley as a whole. But as I came into town, and drove past the campus of Adams State University, my thoughts were carried back to an old friend of mine, was a native of Alamosa.
C.V.--She was almost literally the "girl next door. " Her father was an art professor at CSU. Their house was only a hundred yards from ours.
I met her in high school, when were seventeen. I can still picture her in her letter jacket holding her clarinet. She was my date for the junior prom. Among my possessions in storage is a photograph of the two of us, taken during the dance. I'm a rented burgundy tux, and she in a white dress with red flowers on it, and wearing the corsage I had just bought for her.
I was so sweet on her, and so full of desire for her. We had a turbulent time together, as people do at that age. Then she went away at the end of high school, when her family moved to Idaho.
But that wasn't the last chapter of our story. We met up again in Austin when I was in graduate school. Then a couple years ago, after my divorce, she helped me through a rough emotional patch.
I can't say anything more about her without betraying a trust, so I'll leave it at that. Suffice it to say we drifted apart again, and I don't know where she is anymore. Probably our story together is over, but if our paths ever cross again by chance, it wouldn't be unwelcome on my part. For all I know, she is reading this blog of mine.
If you're out there, my dear, your Dark Star wants you to know that he found his way again, just like you said he would.
P.S. Wanted to warn you that the reunion committee is looking for you.
On the horizon in multiple directions were snow-capped peaks. It brings to mind how unique Colorado is. Other states have mountains, but no place seems to have such a surplus of towering ranges like Colorado does.
I followed the highway north to the little town of San Luis, which I learned is the oldest town in Colorado, having been founded in 1851 by settlers coming up from New Mexico. How ignorant I was not to know this fact. On the hill above the town was a beautiful church. I parked at the foot of the hill and inspected the sign. A path led up the mesa to the church, passed a series of Stations of the Cross. It was a nice hike for an afternoon, being that it was Holy Week.
After this, I headed westward, across rolling green hills that felt like being in heaven, crossing the Rio Grande again, and rolling into the little town of Manassa, where a statue of Jack Dempsey, the most famous town native, sits along the main street. Then for the last leg of the day I drove northward on the main highway into Alamosa, where I had reservations at the Super 8.
It was the first time I'd ever been in Alamosa in my life. In fact it was only the second time in my life I'd ever been in the San Luis Valley as a whole. But as I came into town, and drove past the campus of Adams State University, my thoughts were carried back to an old friend of mine, was a native of Alamosa.
C.V.--She was almost literally the "girl next door. " Her father was an art professor at CSU. Their house was only a hundred yards from ours.
I met her in high school, when were seventeen. I can still picture her in her letter jacket holding her clarinet. She was my date for the junior prom. Among my possessions in storage is a photograph of the two of us, taken during the dance. I'm a rented burgundy tux, and she in a white dress with red flowers on it, and wearing the corsage I had just bought for her.
I was so sweet on her, and so full of desire for her. We had a turbulent time together, as people do at that age. Then she went away at the end of high school, when her family moved to Idaho.
But that wasn't the last chapter of our story. We met up again in Austin when I was in graduate school. Then a couple years ago, after my divorce, she helped me through a rough emotional patch.
I can't say anything more about her without betraying a trust, so I'll leave it at that. Suffice it to say we drifted apart again, and I don't know where she is anymore. Probably our story together is over, but if our paths ever cross again by chance, it wouldn't be unwelcome on my part. For all I know, she is reading this blog of mine.
If you're out there, my dear, your Dark Star wants you to know that he found his way again, just like you said he would.
P.S. Wanted to warn you that the reunion committee is looking for you.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
The Other Side of Taos
I wound up spending three nights at the Super 8 in Taos. It was a nice cheap motel, and thankfully had decent wi-fi, breaking the losing streak I'd been on.
The battery situation on the Bimmer turned out to be more complicated than I thought. I'd bought the battery new in Santa Barabra at an AutoZone only three months before, and I figured it would regenerate enough to start it, if I left it sitting for a entire day. But I tried to start it again, it was just as dead as before. After another night, I realized it needed some additional help.
I have AAA, but I'd used it a couple times recently and didn't want to get on any informal "bad lists" of customers who use it too much. Besides, there was an O'Reilly auto parts store right across the highway. So I got out my wrenches and took out the battery, then toted it across traffic to O'Reilly. They told me they could charge it up without problem.
But when I came back that afternoon, they told me the battery was completely dead. It wouldn't take a charge. Somehow my new battery was a dud. It was still under warranty, but the nearest AutoZone was a couple miles away downtown.
That gave an excuse to use the Taos bus system again. Thankfully the nearest stop was only a couple hundred feet from my motel. I've been in situations like this enough to anticipate that toting a battery onto a bus may or may not be kosher. So I wrapped it in paper bag and lugged it down to the stop and waited a couple minutes until the bus came.
The guys at AutoZone replaced it without any issues. I wrapped the new one in the same paper bag and rode the bus back to my hotel. When I put it in the Bimmer, it started right up and I was good to go.
The good side of all this was that I got plenty of work out walking around Taos and using the bus system for a couple days. It was refreshing to get to see the place from a pedestrian point-of-view.
For the couple days I was there, I'd been going to a coffee shop about half a mile away that I'd found online, and that I'd somehow walked past on the first day. It seemed like the best choice of the ones online. There was another one nearby called "Wired: A cyber cafe," but from the name it didn't sound appealing.
The place was a small and commodious place with good wi-fi. It was easy to work there. Yet I kept feeling like I was missing out on the "real Taos" that I'd heard so many talk about. Supposedly it was a big counter culture epicenter, but I didn't really see much evidence of that.
But things changed on the last day I was in town. I finally managed to get a hold of a friend of mine who lives there, a guy named Jim who is a sculptor. Actually he is more of an acquaintance. I met him once in Silver Spring, Maryland a couple years back when he was visiting and working with my good friend Howard, who is also a sculptor. At the time, Jim invited me to Taos rather enthusiastically, and it had been on my list to visit him ever since then.
But it turns out my phone doesn't work in Taos, so I put off contacting him. Also from his response to my message on Facebook I wasn't sure if he even remembered who I was.
But when I was finally able to talk to him on the phone, he readily agreed to meet up. The place he suggested to meet surprised me. "I like to go to a place called Wired," he said. "Oh yeah," I said. "I saw it online."
That afternoon, with the Bimmer now in running condition, I drove down the side street to the address of Wired. When I pulled into the parking lot, I immediately realized that I'd made a huge mistake about my perceptions of the place. From the name, I expected something sterile, with a row of desktops in cubicles.
But it wasn't that kind of place at all. It looked more like one of the sprawling camps from Burning Man. It was built in a haphazard funky way, from several buildings linked together by a portico. It had fountains and zen gardens inside, and wooden board floors.
This is the real Taos, I realized immediately. I should have been here the entire time.
Jim showed up a couple minutes later. We barely recognized each other, and I had to ask if it was him. We sat together drinking tea for a couple hours while we discussed his art, and our mutual friend Howard, whom we knew would be pleased that we finally met up with each other. Jim clued me into some other "real Taos" places to check out before I left town as well.
The next morning before leaving town I made sure to go to Wired, instead of my other coffee shop. I wanted to be as "Taos" as possible during my time there. If you want the experience, I suggest Wired as well. It's where the locals go to hang out.
The battery situation on the Bimmer turned out to be more complicated than I thought. I'd bought the battery new in Santa Barabra at an AutoZone only three months before, and I figured it would regenerate enough to start it, if I left it sitting for a entire day. But I tried to start it again, it was just as dead as before. After another night, I realized it needed some additional help.
I have AAA, but I'd used it a couple times recently and didn't want to get on any informal "bad lists" of customers who use it too much. Besides, there was an O'Reilly auto parts store right across the highway. So I got out my wrenches and took out the battery, then toted it across traffic to O'Reilly. They told me they could charge it up without problem.
But when I came back that afternoon, they told me the battery was completely dead. It wouldn't take a charge. Somehow my new battery was a dud. It was still under warranty, but the nearest AutoZone was a couple miles away downtown.
That gave an excuse to use the Taos bus system again. Thankfully the nearest stop was only a couple hundred feet from my motel. I've been in situations like this enough to anticipate that toting a battery onto a bus may or may not be kosher. So I wrapped it in paper bag and lugged it down to the stop and waited a couple minutes until the bus came.
The guys at AutoZone replaced it without any issues. I wrapped the new one in the same paper bag and rode the bus back to my hotel. When I put it in the Bimmer, it started right up and I was good to go.
The good side of all this was that I got plenty of work out walking around Taos and using the bus system for a couple days. It was refreshing to get to see the place from a pedestrian point-of-view.
For the couple days I was there, I'd been going to a coffee shop about half a mile away that I'd found online, and that I'd somehow walked past on the first day. It seemed like the best choice of the ones online. There was another one nearby called "Wired: A cyber cafe," but from the name it didn't sound appealing.
The place was a small and commodious place with good wi-fi. It was easy to work there. Yet I kept feeling like I was missing out on the "real Taos" that I'd heard so many talk about. Supposedly it was a big counter culture epicenter, but I didn't really see much evidence of that.
But things changed on the last day I was in town. I finally managed to get a hold of a friend of mine who lives there, a guy named Jim who is a sculptor. Actually he is more of an acquaintance. I met him once in Silver Spring, Maryland a couple years back when he was visiting and working with my good friend Howard, who is also a sculptor. At the time, Jim invited me to Taos rather enthusiastically, and it had been on my list to visit him ever since then.
But it turns out my phone doesn't work in Taos, so I put off contacting him. Also from his response to my message on Facebook I wasn't sure if he even remembered who I was.
But when I was finally able to talk to him on the phone, he readily agreed to meet up. The place he suggested to meet surprised me. "I like to go to a place called Wired," he said. "Oh yeah," I said. "I saw it online."
That afternoon, with the Bimmer now in running condition, I drove down the side street to the address of Wired. When I pulled into the parking lot, I immediately realized that I'd made a huge mistake about my perceptions of the place. From the name, I expected something sterile, with a row of desktops in cubicles.
But it wasn't that kind of place at all. It looked more like one of the sprawling camps from Burning Man. It was built in a haphazard funky way, from several buildings linked together by a portico. It had fountains and zen gardens inside, and wooden board floors.
This is the real Taos, I realized immediately. I should have been here the entire time.
Jim showed up a couple minutes later. We barely recognized each other, and I had to ask if it was him. We sat together drinking tea for a couple hours while we discussed his art, and our mutual friend Howard, whom we knew would be pleased that we finally met up with each other. Jim clued me into some other "real Taos" places to check out before I left town as well.
The next morning before leaving town I made sure to go to Wired, instead of my other coffee shop. I wanted to be as "Taos" as possible during my time there. If you want the experience, I suggest Wired as well. It's where the locals go to hang out.
Monday, April 8, 2013
How I Stumbled into the Taos Pueblo
After a night in Los Alamos, I had a rather busy Sunday for my day off. I drove up through the laboratory grounds to the remnants of the Valles Caldera nearby. It is the remnants of what once was a giant volcanic mountain that exploded a couple million years ago. The mesa of Los Alamos is actually on the ancient flanks of this explosion (ironic considering the purpose of Los Alamos). I parked and marveled at the size, only later finding out that I was seeing only the a small quadrant of the entire crater.
View Larger Map Around noon I descended down the flanks to Bandelier National Monument, my first visit there. I'd bought National Geographic Trails map over a year ago, and I was pleased to finally get to use it for a couple hours of hiking on the cliffs, and inspecting the picturesque Anasazi ruins.
In the late afternoon I headed up the Rio Grande Valley in the Bimmer. I didn't realize how scenic it was, how the river cuts a snaking gorge amidst a pristine wide valley visible from the highway. It felt a bit like being in heaven.
View Larger Map When I got to Taos I checked into the Super 8, where I had reservations. I'd passed through Taos on a road trip, but had never stopped, so I was looking forward to exploring the town for a few days.
In the morning, I went out to my car and discovered I'd left my lights on overnight. The battery was dead. I decided it was an excuse to leave the Bimmer in the parking lot and explore the town by foot.
I walked all the way downtown looking for a coffee shop to put int some work. It was harder than I thought to find one, and I wound working at a tiny little place inside the swanky La Fonda Hotel in the historic plaza. There were no power outlets in the place, so I could only work as long as my battery held out.
Afterwards I decided to take public transportation back to my hotel, but I wound up missing the bus by just a few minutes. So instead I headed the other direction on foot. I kept going a couple miles out into the country, all the way up the road to the Taos Pueblo, the historic settlement on the Indian reservation. I knew there was a bus stop there, so I figured on riding it all the way back.
When I got there, I found out that technically I wasn't supposed to walk on that road at all. "Too late," I told the young Indian guy in the orange vest directing traffic. He told me I'd have to take the bus back. "Good, that's what I wanted to do anyway," I told him. It was one of the awkward moments where a person in authority wanted me to feel bad and inconvenienced somehow, yet I refused to feel that way, and it clearly irked him a little that I was feeling the way he wanted me to feel.
Until I got there, I didn't realize what a big deal the Taos Pueblo is. It is one of the few remaining places where people still live in the classic adobe structures with ladders (which visitors are prohibited from climbing, as advised in large signs at the entrance). I had to pay ten bucks admission. The woman at the window asked if I had any cameras. It cost six bucks for a camera permit. I didn't want to use my cellphone camera. She told me to leave it my car. I decided not to tell I didn't bring a car.
I wandered around the buildings for about a half hour, and went inside one of the gift shops in the old buildings. The woman there, whose name was Flower Basket, chatted me up a while, and I wound up buying one of her "peace doves" as a gift for my parents, since my mother likes southwestern stuff like that.
She told me that the Pueblo had actually been closed for visitors for six weeks for tribal ceremonies. It had opened up only that very day. I had actually been one of the very first visitors in over two months. This kind of random timing seems to happen to me a lot when I travel in the way I do. I rarely get surprised by it anymore.
View Larger Map Around noon I descended down the flanks to Bandelier National Monument, my first visit there. I'd bought National Geographic Trails map over a year ago, and I was pleased to finally get to use it for a couple hours of hiking on the cliffs, and inspecting the picturesque Anasazi ruins.
In the late afternoon I headed up the Rio Grande Valley in the Bimmer. I didn't realize how scenic it was, how the river cuts a snaking gorge amidst a pristine wide valley visible from the highway. It felt a bit like being in heaven.
View Larger Map When I got to Taos I checked into the Super 8, where I had reservations. I'd passed through Taos on a road trip, but had never stopped, so I was looking forward to exploring the town for a few days.
In the morning, I went out to my car and discovered I'd left my lights on overnight. The battery was dead. I decided it was an excuse to leave the Bimmer in the parking lot and explore the town by foot.
I walked all the way downtown looking for a coffee shop to put int some work. It was harder than I thought to find one, and I wound working at a tiny little place inside the swanky La Fonda Hotel in the historic plaza. There were no power outlets in the place, so I could only work as long as my battery held out.
Afterwards I decided to take public transportation back to my hotel, but I wound up missing the bus by just a few minutes. So instead I headed the other direction on foot. I kept going a couple miles out into the country, all the way up the road to the Taos Pueblo, the historic settlement on the Indian reservation. I knew there was a bus stop there, so I figured on riding it all the way back.
When I got there, I found out that technically I wasn't supposed to walk on that road at all. "Too late," I told the young Indian guy in the orange vest directing traffic. He told me I'd have to take the bus back. "Good, that's what I wanted to do anyway," I told him. It was one of the awkward moments where a person in authority wanted me to feel bad and inconvenienced somehow, yet I refused to feel that way, and it clearly irked him a little that I was feeling the way he wanted me to feel.
Until I got there, I didn't realize what a big deal the Taos Pueblo is. It is one of the few remaining places where people still live in the classic adobe structures with ladders (which visitors are prohibited from climbing, as advised in large signs at the entrance). I had to pay ten bucks admission. The woman at the window asked if I had any cameras. It cost six bucks for a camera permit. I didn't want to use my cellphone camera. She told me to leave it my car. I decided not to tell I didn't bring a car.
I wandered around the buildings for about a half hour, and went inside one of the gift shops in the old buildings. The woman there, whose name was Flower Basket, chatted me up a while, and I wound up buying one of her "peace doves" as a gift for my parents, since my mother likes southwestern stuff like that.
She told me that the Pueblo had actually been closed for visitors for six weeks for tribal ceremonies. It had opened up only that very day. I had actually been one of the very first visitors in over two months. This kind of random timing seems to happen to me a lot when I travel in the way I do. I rarely get surprised by it anymore.
Friday, April 5, 2013
Fr Vf Vf c Fr
I just saw this post. It is result of my niece using my smart phone. I decided to leave it up just for fun.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
My Alternate Self Visits Los Alamos
After the ugly incident in the auto parts store, I was more than eager to hit the road and put Santa Fe behind me. I headed north on a beautiful day, up the wide highway northward in the Rio Grande Valley, detouring past a couple of the Indian pueblos until I got to the cut-off westward towards Los Alamos.
About a half later I was up on top of the mesa, visiting the famous "Atomic City" for the first time in my life. For a physicist like me, it was somewhat of a pilgrimage to go there. I'd read the history of the Manhattan Project in college and was familiar with most of the famous scientists who worked on the project. I spent the first couple hours at the nice museum in the middle of town, then strolled around some of the historic buildings nearby, the ones that had been part of the original boy's camp in the 1930s, and had been converted to the living quarters and the mess hall for the scientists during the war.
Of course the lab is still in operation, bigger and more extensive than ever. Back in Austin, a visit to Los Alamos was a common junket for many of the scientists and graduate students in the physics department.
It was easy for me to imagine some alternate universe where I wound up working there. In another time, if I'd been born a little bit earlier, I might have pursued something like that quite happily. But by the time I was in graduate school, I'd lost my desire to that kind of physics. I'd already worked in a federal government lab outside Chicago and had no idea to do any more of that kind of work. I knew it wasn't for me.
Besides it would have cut into my nomadic experiences. You can't have it all, as they say.
View Larger Map
About a half later I was up on top of the mesa, visiting the famous "Atomic City" for the first time in my life. For a physicist like me, it was somewhat of a pilgrimage to go there. I'd read the history of the Manhattan Project in college and was familiar with most of the famous scientists who worked on the project. I spent the first couple hours at the nice museum in the middle of town, then strolled around some of the historic buildings nearby, the ones that had been part of the original boy's camp in the 1930s, and had been converted to the living quarters and the mess hall for the scientists during the war.
Of course the lab is still in operation, bigger and more extensive than ever. Back in Austin, a visit to Los Alamos was a common junket for many of the scientists and graduate students in the physics department.
It was easy for me to imagine some alternate universe where I wound up working there. In another time, if I'd been born a little bit earlier, I might have pursued something like that quite happily. But by the time I was in graduate school, I'd lost my desire to that kind of physics. I'd already worked in a federal government lab outside Chicago and had no idea to do any more of that kind of work. I knew it wasn't for me.
Besides it would have cut into my nomadic experiences. You can't have it all, as they say.
View Larger Map
A Stupid Gringo Comes To Santa Fe
Three days in Santa Fe was enough to feel like I'd visited the place. The wi-fi at the America's Best Value Inn was beyond terrible---four routers, none of which worked reliably. Fortunately there were a couple Starbucks nearby so working wasn't a big deal. But it I was bored when in my room.
I had a chance to explore the historic downtown a couple times and reminisce about the last time I was through there, twenty-five years ago on a cross-country road trip with my friend Charles. I tried to remember the exact restaurant that his aunt and uncle took us to. I remember being impressed by the waiter, who refused to let me hand him my plate. "My day on, your day off," he said. It obviously made an impression on me.
I went into the cathedral a couple times--the one Willa Cather wrote about in Death Comes for the Archbishop. I'd read that novel back in high school because my mother is from Nebraska and loved Willa Cather.
I also managed to get verbally assaulted by a hideous woman in an auto parts store while buying transmission fluid. When I first walked in, a male customer was complaining about a part. He was upset. The woman came in later with a friend and told him to "chill out and take it easy." He didn't respond to that well. She proceeded to start insulting all the other men in the store. She called me a "gringo pendejo" (stupid gringo). That was a trap, since I was the only non-Hispanic person in the store.
I replied, in my most sarcastic tone, "Oooh. Ethnic slurs---classy!"
That only enraged her and she proceeded with all manner sexual insults, the kind that women hurl at men to demean and humiliate them. First off, I evidently just needed to "get laid." Then she escalated by saying all manner of disgusting things about "my wife," none of which propriety allows me to repeat here.
Truth be told, I could have avoided the whole thing, but I chose to confront her. I knew it was pointless, all in all, but I wantd to test myself. In the past I would have let the emotion get to me. But this time I kept my cool composure, with an inner calmness. But afterwards I felt icky. I went back to the cathedral again to meditate, and to repent of my wretched pride.
I had a chance to explore the historic downtown a couple times and reminisce about the last time I was through there, twenty-five years ago on a cross-country road trip with my friend Charles. I tried to remember the exact restaurant that his aunt and uncle took us to. I remember being impressed by the waiter, who refused to let me hand him my plate. "My day on, your day off," he said. It obviously made an impression on me.
I went into the cathedral a couple times--the one Willa Cather wrote about in Death Comes for the Archbishop. I'd read that novel back in high school because my mother is from Nebraska and loved Willa Cather.
I also managed to get verbally assaulted by a hideous woman in an auto parts store while buying transmission fluid. When I first walked in, a male customer was complaining about a part. He was upset. The woman came in later with a friend and told him to "chill out and take it easy." He didn't respond to that well. She proceeded to start insulting all the other men in the store. She called me a "gringo pendejo" (stupid gringo). That was a trap, since I was the only non-Hispanic person in the store.
I replied, in my most sarcastic tone, "Oooh. Ethnic slurs---classy!"
That only enraged her and she proceeded with all manner sexual insults, the kind that women hurl at men to demean and humiliate them. First off, I evidently just needed to "get laid." Then she escalated by saying all manner of disgusting things about "my wife," none of which propriety allows me to repeat here.
Truth be told, I could have avoided the whole thing, but I chose to confront her. I knew it was pointless, all in all, but I wantd to test myself. In the past I would have let the emotion get to me. But this time I kept my cool composure, with an inner calmness. But afterwards I felt icky. I went back to the cathedral again to meditate, and to repent of my wretched pride.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)