Chicago- Day 3 (8/18/07)

Twice, count 'em, twice I ended up going East rather then West this day. I decided to take route 20 through Pennsylvania. Not the bestest of choices in retrospect. Route 20 through PA is not scenic and involves mostly strip malls, suburbia, and qwik-e-marts. It took me through the infrequently marked downtown Erie area. I drove through Erie mostly by divination but I made it through on what apparently was indeed Route 20. A little ways after leaving the city it I stopped for gas and a bathroom break. Karin called and I was yapping away and got back in my car and started driving. About ten minutes later I saw that I was going east. What I don't understand is how, when I had earlier been headed west, it came to pass that although I didn't go back the way I came, I got turned around. A complete mystery. Frustrated with route 20 I gave up and got back on 90 and headed emphatically WEST. The second time this happened it was under similar circumstances but it was my sister that called and had provided the distraction. Much to my fortune Amos came to my rescue via text message giving me a tip that I should perhaps think about trying to get to Portland by going West. Thanks Amos.

The only nice thing I can say about PA is that on route 90 right after crossing the PA/ NY border they had the largest, nicest rest stop ever. It was like a small airport. Made of glass and steel, it was throughly modern, with automatic sinks and toilets that flush themselves. Apart from the spotless restrooms, the building had this one large circular light filled room littered with pamphlets free for the taking and a friendly man behind a desk whose sole job is to give directions to hapless wanderers. To my amazement, I found out that if you stop at visitors centers they will give you free detailed maps of the state you are in. Also beware they have a tendency to give you every pamphlet within reach as I don't think they often get many visitors in the smaller towns.

Armed with a free map that clearly distinguished west from east, onwards I went toward Chicago. I was trying to get there at a reasonable time because I was to spend the night with some cousins of my dad's, Sakuru Matsuda and his wife. I've met them once before; when I was younger, my dad and I drove out to Chicago to meet them. Sakuru speaks Japanese, Spanish and English. Mrs. Matsuda speaks mostly Japanese and a smattering of English, which is why I still am not so sure about her first name. I arrived there around 10pm, and they had prepared some delicious sushi for me. We talked over dinner about my dad and my other cousins that live in CT. They were astounded that I was driving cross country on my own and that I didn't get lost in the city. I merely shrugged and said, "Well, you see, I have a free map." They shook their heads, surely thinking "Kids these days." At one point I was trying to get Sakuru to tell me more abut my dad, and all that he would say was that my dad was a very "different" type of person. I asked in what way was he different and Sakuru took some time, judging his words (I think he was trying to find a nice way of saying things), but in the end he just ended with "he was just different." I smiled and thought about how I'm "different" as well. I'm not your typical girl with nail polish and giggles. I'm a bit aloof and honest in my opinions and most people dislike me for it. I'm ok with that though, I don't know how to be any other way and I wouldn't want to be... not me. So really he could have said anything and I don't think I would have taken offense, much the opposite, I think it would have made me happy to know that my dad and I are very much alike.

The Matusdas officially live in Skokie, just outside of Chicago , in a little part of town that houses a lot of Japanese-American families. The area is 1950s postwar construction ranch style homes. But they all have distinctly Japanese touches to them. Mostly the hedges in front of the homes are manicured in these geometric shapes, which still somehow manage to flow. Sometimes they look a little like little mountains with meandering paths through them.

A lot of Japanese families settled here after being released from Japanese-American internment camps. When I first visited the Matsudas many years ago, I learned that they had been held in internment camps during WWII and had recently received some reparations, which they had used to buy a car. I recall that was the first time I had even heard of these camps, that they had existed on American soil, and that most of the people held in them were full-fledged American citizens. More surprisingly, I have come to learn that most in my generation aren't aware of that particular part of American history either. This is a surprising gap in public American history education, especially in a time when so much of the country seems to fear/hate people who may remotely look like they are from the "wrong" part of the world even if they don't have so much as an accent.

A good night's sleep, a shower, and Spam and eggs breakfast left me refreshed and ready to go. Mrs. Matsuda gave me a little owl pin that she had sewn for the town's Japan Day festival as a good bye present and they saw me off.

Up until now, I had meticulously mapped out my route and planned on places to stay days in advance. But I had grown bored of planning, so past Chicago it was just me, my atlas and a road that should at some point end up in Oregon (if I managed to point my car in the right direction).

Check the Flickr account!

I have posted a photoset on Gaby's Flickr account for anybody who is interested in seeing a few pictures of the law school campus and my professors. Utilize the "Our Photos" link on the right side of your screen to access the galleries. We will also be conducting a photographic tour of the apartment as soon as we, you know, clean it up a little.

More to come on my first week of school later. Right now I have some reading to do.

Matt's First Day Of School

Matt's first day of school
Originally uploaded by dulcenea

I tried to dissuade the use of a bow tie on the first day but he wouldn't have it any other way. At least no one stole his lunch money.

Trying to Be Good

O.K. so as my attempt to blog from the road was thwarted by an absolute lack of internet cafes and open Public libraries I will be posting the intended stories over the next few days (read weeks) with pictures being updated on our Flickr site along the way.

Meanwhile life here in Portland continues. We have set up our new home and if I do say so myself we have turned what was a 70's wood paneled, light less, cookie monster died on our floor apartment into a rather inviting worldly place with just the right amount of drama (fo' you mama). I'll take pictures and post them at one point or another but I do have to concentrate and ya' know find a job or some such.

Matt has started school and is as far as I can tell enjoying his studies. I've been mainly concentrating on getting the house to my liking and trying to find a place that sells Adobo. They have Hispanic people here but they all appear to be Mexican so the love for Goya brand products does not seem to be strong enough to elicit a proper "ethnic foods" aisle. I'm on the verge of having a word with local supermarket management for false advertising. I've visited three supermarkets so far, two of which have aisles marked "ethnic foods," but in both cases ethnic means TACO FREAKING BELL. What the hell?! Taco Bell is about as Hispanic as Beefaroni are Italian cuisine. The third supermarket didn't even bother with the attempt. Why am I so upset by the lack of this spice? Well it's like Matt's Grandma making a meal without olive oil or Karin without a sauce. So I'm resorting to begging my mom to mail me a bottle of the stuff; failing that, I'm going to order it online. Until that gets sorted out, I'll have to rely on my other half because at least there is rice.

Niagara Falls- Day 2 (8/17/07)

The night at the Hostel in Buffalo was pleasant. I checked in and dropped my bags off in my dormitory. HI- Buffalo was what I have come to expect from all HI hostels, friendly clean, and safe. The girl at the front desk inquired if I was interested in doing anything in Buffalo while I was there. I indicated that I was hungry and could eat some..gasp...vegetables. She pulled out a map and laid out a route to some restaurants she knew on Allen Street a few blocks away. As I walked away she wished me a good dinner and said that the area I was headed to was a prime people watching spot. Map in hand I headed out in search of fare.

After walking for about a quarter of an hour I reached Allen Street. Allen Street is one of the main streets that compromise Allentown. It was a quite night and not to many people where out but it seemed a lively enough district. I found a little Greek restaurant and at last had some dinner. A plate of Mousaka with Greek potatoes. which by the way are like regular potatoes but with oil and spices.

The next morning I woke up at 7 took a shower picked up my car and drove out to Niagara falls. On the way there I stopped at a convenience store to buy more ice for the cooler, a toothbrush, and gallon zip lock bags. My plans for the ziplock bags were to encase, and thus protect from water, my camera within it with just the lens poking out for pictures. After MacGyver ( as oppsed to Jerry, who is Jerry anyways?) rigging that I turned to drain my cooler of it's melted ice. I turned it so that just the spigot was leaning out the door of the passenger side and let it drain on to the pavement. Alarmed by the stream of water pouring from beneath my car a gentleman clearly of street came over to see if I needed help. He stuck out his hand and introduced himself as Shoeshine Randy. He had bright white hair and a genuine smile so I took his hand and shook. I explained that I was fine and showed him the almost drained cooler. He expressed his relief and then asked me for a dollar pointing at the gasmart he states that he was hungry. I apologized that I was a bit cash strapped as I was driving cross country so I could not spare any money but I did have food. He grinned broadly and gladly accepted. He took some Coke and Empanadas which to my surprise he recognized as Pastelillos (which is what they would be if I were Puerto Rican) He ate heartily and to my delight he really enjoyed the food. I'm always a bit concerned that people won't like Empanadas because combining meat and raisins isn't exactly and American mainstay.

After that stop I continued forward to Niagara Falls. I got there bright and early at around 9 am just in time for the first sail of the Maid of the Mists. Due to the early hour the boat was pretty empty and there were only about 10 of us on board. I met John a NY native (and Yankees fan) and his wife Julie a school teacher. They hailed from California and were vacationing in the area. They were very sweet and we helped each other take pictures.

The falls themselves were amazing. I was on the un-glamorous American Side of the falls but in the end it didn't much matter because our boat took us to see the Canadian falls as well. The boat took us to get a closer view of the American falls which were elegant, grand but the Canadian falls brutal and beautiful. The boat veered and took us into the mists right below the falls. The wind in the horseshoe shaped falls was strong and made my blue plastic poncho utterly useless blowing it up almost over my head. I got drenched! My hair was dripping wet plastered to my head. The mists were so thick it was like stepping into a cloud. The roar of the falls filled my ears and briefly I wondered how clean the Niagara river was. I could barely see ahead of me, the boat was tossing left and right. It was by far better then any amusement park ride and really made you come to terms with the fury that mother nature can unleash.

With the falls over I got of our little boat and walked around a bit to see the upper rapids and then jumped in my car off to my next destination: Chicago.

Sucking

I suck, I know! I haven't written I haven't posted pictures of which I have many. I'm working on it now.

Travel Update!

Recently sighted 20 miles from the Washington-Oregon border, a white Toyota Corolla with Massachusetts plates. The driver is one Gaby, a fugitive from Massachusetts, wanted in Oregon on several counts of possession of a controlled substance (kisses) with intent to distribute. She is not wanted in any other state (ahahahaha). Last known companions: the highly dangerous Teddy Bandidos Gang. If seen, please report immediately to Sergeant Detective Matt at the Portland, OR police bureau.

An oasis of brown in the great white Iowa desert

As mentioned in my last post, Gaby is having loads of trouble finding places to update the blog while driving cross-country. She has not forgotten about this project, so don't fret! In fact, I can see that she is working on a draft of her experience in Niagara Falls, but unfortunately her hotels have not had internet access since the first night on the road, and although she keeps looking for public libraries as she drives across the prairies and mountains, there seems to be a regrettable paucity of these facilities along her route. The apparent distaste for book-larnin' across the vast middle of this country is upsetting, although it does go an awfully long way toward explaining why so many states there stubbornly continue to vote Republican.

Well anyway, at Gaby's request, I will now briefly relate the story of her run-in with the Indian couple that owned the hotel in Ames, IA, where she stayed. (For those who are interested in her exact coordinates now, she traveled from Ames across the rest of Iowa, Nebraska and South Dakota (with a rest at Mount Rushmore) yesterday, stopping in Sundance, WY. Today's trek included most of Wyoming with sightseeing in Yellowstone, and she is overnighting in Bozeman, MT.)

When morning came yesterday and Gaby burst out of her hotel room, refreshed and chomping at the bit to hop back in the car and see more of this great land, or at least its cornfields, there was still the minor matter of checking out to get out of the way. As she approached the front desk, she noted approvingly that the two owners of the hotel who were there waiting for her, had a skin color akin to her own, although they originally hailed from the Indian subcontinent, half a world away from Japerunezuela. This may seem like a trifling matter, but Gaby had been growing increasingly aware of a clear lack of non-white people the deeper she had penetrated into the Midwest, and the sight of other racial minorities was a balm to her troubled mind. Apparently, it had a similar effect on the Indian couple, because they marveled at their guest as she approached, and looked somewhat relieved that brown people still existed somewhere out there (beyond the pale?).

But a long period of isolation among the Caucasians had dulled the senses of this unfortunate couple. After negotiating the return of the key and settling the bill, the couple looked hopefully at Gaby and inquired whether she was also Indian. Now there is certainly nothing wrong with being Indian, but that is a silly question. Gaby is very much not Indian, nor does she look anything like she is (and I do recognize how culturally and ethnically diverse South Asia is, but there isn't one feature on that girl that could have come from any of those peoples). Hell, Gaby doesn't even eat Indian food except for that one dish I made her try after assuring her that it wasn't spicy and that it did have meat in it.

"No," quoth Gaby with grace and cheer, while in her head she noted that of all people, actual Indians ought to be able to tell the difference. The hoteliers looked crestfallen. Whether their race radar had been blunted by long disuse, or whether they were blinded by hope that they had finally found someone familiar to cling to in an alien sea of whiteness, this couple's disappointment was now palpable. So it was that private laughter at their error gave way to sympathy and a kindred loneliness as Gaby sped away along the open road, while the foreignness of an Anglo-Saxon near-homogeneity unfolded for a thousand miles before her.

Sounds like something you'd drink on a dare

I have really been craving a root beer float for several weeks (and haven't had one for years), so when I passed by a nearby cafe and saw it listed on the sandwich board, I didn't stand a chance of resisting the temptation. Once inside, I took a second glance at the menu, and noticed that something was not quite right: there was a word missing from the bold text indicating the name of the dessert, and that word was "root." A quick perusal of the description confirmed that this was no mere typographical oversight. Instead, the item in question consisted of three scoops of vanilla ice cream swimming in a big frosty mug of actual beer.

Needless to say, my first reaction to these words was disgust, as unpleasant memories of previous experiments with grown-up juice and dairy products swirled around in my head. But, I must say, there was something seductive and intriguing about this concept as well. The very idea of one-stop shopping for my sweet tooth and my woolly-headed "where-did-I-put-my-keys" party tooth, well now that was a potent argument in favor of trying the quaff. And even if it ended up being a horrendous taste experience, at the very least it would provide a suitable story for this blog (hey, what can I say, it was a slow weekend, and Gaby has been having trouble finding internet access on the road). So I sat down, closed my eyes, and pointed at "Beer Float" on the menu when the server came over to take my order.

And do you know what? It was really good. The beer was a local microbrew in the porter style, and it is good enough on its own, but the ice cream really brought out the chocolate and toasty notes latent in its alcoholic bath. Furthermore, the creamy meltoff contributed to a rich frothiness that was a textural delight. I highly recommend giving this one a try to anyone who can get past the repugnant mental image of beery ice cream. Just don't attempt it with a Budweiser. That will lead only to misery.

In fact, I am so thoroughly charmed by this sweet treat that when Gaby arrives tomorrow, I may succeed in convincing her to try one too. As Gaby generally dislikes beer, that would be quite a coup, but she is kind of a sucker for ice cream, and this may end up being one of the few beer incarnations that are acceptable to her - the other being the prohibitively expensive Lindeman's brand of lambics. And if she hates it, then I can have two of them. See? Everybody wins.

Talking to girls: a skill I never mastered

So the other night I happened to catch a concert featuring Ralph Stanley and his band, of whom I had not previously heard. For those of you who, like me, are too young or too far north of the Mason-Dixon line to be familiar with these musicians, they play bluegrass and gospel music, and they are the real deal. Ralph Stanley has been performing and recording since the 1950s and has the tuneful and gravelly soul of the South for a voice (and you may have heard him on the O Brother Where Art Thou soundtrack). As for his band, they are a motley crew of highly skilled instrumentalists (fiddle, mandolin, string bass, guitar, banjo, and I am not kidding, spoons) with plenty of heartfelt candor to augment their middling talent on vocals. I'm not at all a fan of this type of music usually, but I was taken aback by this group's sound and commitment to tradition and performativity, and it put me in a very uniquely appreciative mindset. And so it was that after being served up a heaping helping of this slice of Americana, I decided to honor their memory by heading out to a nearby bar and wetting my whistle with a few glasses of bourbon.

Well, the place I chose, the Lotus, was perfect for my purposes. It is a very old-timey establishment with original 1890s-style wood paneling and a floor that would be very much at home in your grandfather's barbershop. But it also hides a checkered past: historically, it has served as a front for a cardhouse and a brothel, and was a noted speakeasy during the Prohibition. The ghosts of a long-dead America swirl in every dim corner - wonderful ambiance for a solitary journey to the bottom of a glass. But there was one thing I had not counted on.

Taking up an entire wing of the bar was a group of twentysomething women who were talking animatedly. A quick glance confirmed my ultimate fear. The table was littered with empty shot glasses. Little soggy umbrellas were abandoned in sticky puddles by the wreckage of cocktails made exclusively of outrageously colored liquids. One girl, bleary-eyed, wearing a tiara. Joy and jealousy in equal measure on her friends' faces. A big bowl of blue punch with eight straws in it. Oh God no, I thought, it can't be . . .

But it was, of course, a bachelorette party. I set my jaw and continued on my way to the back of the room, unwilling to give up the field so easily. For a time, my strategy of laying low and concentrating on the drink in front of me worked. I was into my second Wild Turkey before there was any sign of trouble. But when it came, it was as sudden as a prairie dust storm. One of the revelers broke off from the pack and sashayed over to me. Her name was Michelle, from Bellingham WA, and she had already imbibed enough to become a little handsy (an affectionate slap on the back, occasional pats on the arm). All the classic signs of flirtation were there, but people really have been more outgoing and friendly on the left side of the country, so I didn't want immediately to read too much into her behavior. Still, I wasn't taking any chances (and I genuinely did not want to be bothered), so I stayed as uninteresting and monosyllabic as possible during our conversation, hoping that she would catch the hint and move on. It took a long time, because she was inordinately focused on engaging me, but sure enough, when her party moved into a back room, she joined them. I breathed a sigh of relief, having successfully fended off the unwelcome advance.

My victory was short-lived. I had just gotten into Wild Turkey number three when Michelle emerged from the back again and made another overture to me. This time, she stood uncomfortably close and leaned in as she teased me about being a slow sipper. She asked what I was drinking anyway, then playfully grabbed my glass off the counter and sniffed at it. Continuing my former policy of polite distance, I indicated that it was bourbon, hoping that the mention of such a serious liquor would alert her to the fact that I had not come to the Lotus to socialize. "Yuck, I can tell. I've have my share of rough nights with this stuff." But she did not release the drink, and for a moment she looked as if she was about to walk off with it as a hostage, hoping thereby to coerce me into following.

It was, in my judgment, time for a change in tack. The potential hookup was almost surely the reason for her continued presence next to me. I had to get the message through that I was not interested, firmly but politely. But how? She was not responding as I had hoped to my stony near-silence, if she even noticed it at all. I thought wildly that I might even have made the situation worse if she was usually attracted to silent loner types. Her continued possession of my drink offered me a pretext: if she was interested in me because I was playing hard-to-get, I would execute an abrupt volte-face and scare her off with a show of aggression. "I hope you're not planning on keeping that," I said, gesturing at her ill-gotten gain, "because if you try to run off I'll tackle you."

Instantly I knew it had been the wrong thing to say. But I did not have the opportunity to finish kicking myself, because Michelle came back to the bar, set the glass down, focused her eyes on my face (this took a second to accomplish), and squared her shoulders. "You," came her hoarsely whispered reply, "can tackle me any time you want."

I let out a short bark of a laugh before my strength deserted me and, in a total panic, called out to the bartender for the check.

As I walked out the door and back onto the street, I reflected that there are still some significant holes in my education. Brushing women off with grace and tact is not a skill that they taught at my fancy East Coast school, and this glaring curricular omission I believe I shall have to take up with the Board of Overseers the next time they ask for alumni contributions.

P.S. As if I hadn't been humiliated enough as I practically ran out of the Lotus, within five minutes I was feeling guilty about being rude to Michelle (she was pretty nice, after all, and didn't deserve any disrespect), so I swallowed the remainder of my pride and returned to apologize for my behavior and wish her a good night. She just looked confused when I ducked back in, and one of her friends came over in about ten seconds to rescue her from the creep who had cornered her (yours truly). Now that's humiliation. I'll never listen to bluegrass again.

The Great New York Exapnse - Day One

I left Somerville later then I had intended but I couldn't get my lazy butt out of bed. So around 8:30 am I said good bye to the kitties (Miko escaped out the door and had to be dragged back in by the tail) and made my way out. I hopped on Route 90 and made great time through MA. Right before entering NY I got off the free way and made my way to Route 20. The road meandered through the gorgeous mountains of the Berkshires and I new I was in the center of one town or another when I went past white, steepeld churches. Each town has one, no lie.

Route 20 through New York was equally as picturesque. I went by a Shaker Village Museum which is a bit like Sturbridge Village but about Shakers instead of puritans. There was the not to be missed museum of fossilised things. It was just a little house of the side of the road with smiling faced dinosaurs painted on a sign. I didn't stop though because I was trying to make it Niagara falls today. Route 20 took me through many little villages in NY and between them there were great rolling farms. I really couldn't tell what they were growing. I didn't see to much corn and I think that may be the only crop I could identify from a distance anyway. I did see some Amish/Quaker farmers out with their horses and plows. That was a big highlight for me, it was just so Americana, but I didn't take any pictures of them. As I recall they don't approve of having pictures taken and I thought I would respect that.

I lost track of time so I'm not entirely sure how far in to NY I was when I went by the little town of Madison. Madison was having the LARGEST antique fair. They had over 1000 vendors and from what I could see they had some really gorgeous furniture, phonographs and just really great odds and ends. I was tempted to stop. But no! I can't fit one more thing in my car. and How sad would it be if I just found the perfect item at a great price and then be crushed by not being able to buy it. So zoom zoom I went on towards Buffalo.

I'll take a moment to expound on the vast difference between traveling on Route 20 and 90. Route 90 is an impatient, single minded route whose only two thoughts going through New York are, how quickly can one get from one side to the other and how much money can it lighten from one's pocket meanwhile. Route 20's intentions are wildly different. Route 20 seems to be there more as a connection between villages and feels more like a a friend guiding you safely through the fields, mountains, rivers of the state. Route 20 won't toll you but it does not much care if you are on a schedule and need to get somewhere soon.

I had intended to arrive to Buffalo before 7 pm so that I could go to Niagara falls do my little ferry ride and be on my way the next. But at last my mornings delay caught up with me and even though after Syracuse I switched of and got back on Route 90 I didn't arrive to Buffalo until just about 7 pm. I didn't want to waste time and drive up to the falls only to find out the last Maid of the Mists boat ride had already sold out for the day. So instead I headed for my Hostel and planned to make it to Niagara tomorrow.

Well I'll write more about Niagara later. Meanwhile check out the pictures on my flicker site.

Negative One More Days

Bon voyage, Gaby! Now it's just you and the open road (and AAA if the open road decides not to like you).

Meanwhile, in Oregon, the apartment is shaping up nicely. I have mostly unpacked, assembled and arranged our furniture to my liking, and set up the kitchen, bathroom and home theater so that when Gaby gets here the place will not look as if a box factory threw up all over our carpet. That's the big picture you should all bear in mind as I reveal some less than wonderful details about the unpacking:

- When I say "mostly unpacked," what I mean is that all my stuff is out of its boxes and put away, but most of Gaby's things (books and movies, tchotchkes and clothes that are too confusingly constructed for mere mortal men to fold) are still encased in cardboard. Part of this
is due to the lack of available shelving, but much of it must be laid at my feet for selfishly taking over all the shelf space we do have. But as I am the only one here right now, my unchecked will reigns supreme, and too bad for Gaby. As we say in the business, ahahahahahahaha.

- When I say that I have assembled our furniture, I mean to be understood that after much wrangling with screwdrivers and wrenches, I did manage to get the foosball table up and running, and I even wrassled our IKEA bed into shape. However, there are mysteriously some little bits and pieces left over (e.g., 14 little screws and a couple of odd metal rods). I choose not to believe that these are part of the support structure of the bed, but rather some clumsy Scandinavian attempts at decorative elements. Crazy Swedes. Nor will this theory be tested immediately, as somehow the queen-sized air mattress is too big for the queen-sized bed frame, such that I am still forced to sleep on a floor-based mattress.

- When I say that I have arranged the furniture, it is in the understanding that this arrangement will be changing as soon as Gaby walks through the door and says "Ugh" at it, and then again when we finally supplement the items that we have with a few more necessities. Like a kitchen table. And more shelving or storage units - currently there are about 275 CDs arranged alphabetically by artist that for lack of a proper home are now camped out on the living room floor.

- Finally, when I say that the home theater is set up, I mean that it plays music and DVD movies, but that all attempts to make it display the correct time, or to resuscitate the VCR, have so far failed. But at least I learned something interesting: VCRs do not respond to pleading, weeping, swearing or the silent treatment. I'm running out of ideas on how to get through to it. This must be what it's like to be the parent of a teenage daughter.

Okay, back to work. Maybe today I'll try to figure out how to hang Gaby's clothes in the closet without tangling myself up in their innumerable hooks and strings.

Zero More Days

Ok! Only 12:47 am and the car is packed, food is made and I am snug in my bed pretending to be asleep but instead with a flashlight underneath my covers talking to the internet. Hopefully I'll be able to sleep tonight but I'm so excited that sleep will come hard.

Tonight my sister and I made some Empanadas for my road trip. I thought I would honor my ancestors, who knew a thing or two about traveling long distances, and make these delicious, golden, little pockets of goodness. What is an Empanada you say? How could you know me and not have had me shove one of these down your throat? Well here for your well rounded culinary delight is how to make Empanadas:

1 lb ground beef
1 1/2 large onion (chopped)
2 tomatoes (chopped)
1/2 cup of raisins
1 clove of garlic (minced)
1 bag of Goya brand Discos (10 count, yellow or white it doesn't matter)
salt & pepper to taste
2 hard boiled eggs
1/2 cup of vegtable oil

In a deep pan over medium heat sauté the onions, tomatoes and garlic until mostly cooked. Add the ground beef to the pan use a spoon to break up the beef and stir until brown. Add raisins, salt and pepper, stir. Leave on heat until the raisins have plumped up a bit and most of the water from the beef should be gone. Remove from heat.

Now spoon about 1 tbsp into the center of a disco, add a chunk of egg. Now slightly moisten the edge with some water. Fold the disco in half being careful not to spill the stuffing. Join the two edges together to make a half moon shape and with the tines of a fork press along the outer edge to seal the Empanada and to make it look pretty. DO NOT POKE HOLES.

I would advise if you are working by yourself to make all the Empanadas first and then go to the next step. Nothing's worse then burning you Empanada and accidentally making Stoopidnadas.

Fill a frying pan with about 1/2 and inch of oil and heat over a medium flame. Once the oil is hot fry each side of the Empanada take it out of the oil place on a some paper towels and eat!

There is a theory that you can bake Empanadas but every time I try I just get Stoopidnadas. So try to make this recipe healthy at your own risk!

Oh, also if you suck you can take out the raisins and use black olives instead. Blah! Olives!
1:35 am I should go to bed.

This house is now a home

Woohoo! The crate with all of our earthly possessions arrived today, and I have already emptied the contents into the apartment. Apart from some minor mishaps involving a spilled bottle of ink (my hands are currently blue), all the items inside seem to have weathered their journey pretty well. True, the furniture has a few more nicks and scratches than it did when I last saw it, but that just adds character. Now that I have checked up on the electronics, the fragile knick-knacks (of which we have not one but several boxes, God help us), and my precious precious CD collection to make sure that it all survived, it's time to play my favorite game: try to reassemble the furniture. I have already made my opening moves, but I may have to rethink them as I am almost certain that the IKEA bed frame is meant to end up rectangular rather than isohedral. I wish we had thought to pack the instruction manual.

In other awesome news, the apartment now has internet access, so no more having to schlep the computer over to coffeehouses, no more buying tea or coffee just so I can check my email, and no more saving up all my stories for big long blog posts. Expect shorter entries, more punch, more zip, and a whole hell of a lot less organization. Huzza!

Emotional Range of a Teaspoon

Just a few more days before I set out and at long last my emotions are starting to get the better of me but in the oddest of ways. I shed a few tears as Miko came in this morning for his usual "Good Morning" cuddle. Poor kitty who else will love his bitey, scratchy ways? A little bit of anxiety has crept in and manifested in my dreams.

To clarify most people would consider my usual dreams nightmares. They are full of monsters, aliens, apocalypse and everyone I know, including me, has at one point or another died in my dreams in a hail of bullets, rent apart by claws, in the radioactive aftermath of nuclear winter. Mind you I enjoy these dreams not because I like seeing people I love die, but because they always have hope even when things are terrible, we always fight against the things trying to do us harm, dieing if we must, and they are more then a little action packed . I understand that perhaps I watch to many movies and read to many science fiction books.

But that dreams that I consider nightmares are a lot more mundane. They are the kind where I'm just in high school and full of self doubt, or at a job I don't care about 30 years older and everyday is just without a routine without hope. Where there is no laughter, no passion and life just kind of happened while I wasn't looking and there I was. So to be all psychoanalyzey I'm most frightened of not amounting to much and not experiencing everything I can out of life.

So getting back to the original issue. My most recent nightmare. Matt and I got married. No wait there's more! It was the worst wedding ever. It took place in someone's driveway dandelions poking through the cracks in the asphalt. Matt was wearing a tuxedo shirt and I was wearing a white t-shirt and long skirt. Food was being served out of the garage and the whole time I was just repeating over and over to myself the important thing is that we are married but then my mother got in a fight with Matt's grandfather about how to best park cars and well I just gave up. I grabbed Matt's hand ran through the polyester clad crowd out the rusting hurricane fence and away from the travesty called our wedding. That was my nightmare. Anxious much?

P.S. 10 points to your house if you get the title reference!

Missing Matt On A Recent Call

"Matt, I love you this much"
"Gaby we're on the phone I can't see you gesture"
"Well then I love you the exact distance that you are from me now."
"Ohhh that's nice!"
"Just don't move any further west because then my love won't reach."

Planning the drive

Originally I had intended to drive route 80 through NY to avoid tolls and then switching to 90 for most of they way out to Portland. But I think the plan has now changed. I found this very neat website that lists all the different routes across the country and the things to see and places to sleep along the way. Route 20 , though I have long known it as the best way to see the rust belt and strip clubs of Worcester county, is apparently a scenic and interesting way to get out west. It goes by Niagara falls (kind of), Shaker villages, Amish Farms, Mount Rushmore, Yellowstone, and bits of the actual factual Oregon trail. How cool is that!! Ok perhaps only cool to a super geek like me, a girl proud to be from the city that houses the national toilet museum, but I think it will be worthwhile.


This route does seem like it will take longer because the it's not a freeway so the speed limits will be lower and I hate to delay seeing Matt more then I need to but it would be a waste of perfectly good gas to just drive by some of the coolest places in the US and not stop. Perhaps I can cheat through some of the more boring states (here's looking at you Iowa) and jump on a freeway to zip through them. I'm trying to plan out how long it will take me to get from place to place and good places to stop. I'm anticipating about 10-12 hours of driving a day give or take an hour depending how much caffeine I have gotten and where 10-12 hours of driving will leave me when I want to stop and sleep. I've also decided to stop at least once a day and walk for an hour lest I arrive in Portland wider then I am tall.

I'm bringing a cooler for food and drinks. I'm stocking it with water, Empanadas, fruit, cheese and other yummy and easy to eat foods. If all goes well I will only eat out for dinner.
The IPod is loaded with my favorite musicals to sing along with (imagine a cross country Buffy singalong!!!), books on MP3, A weeks worth of NPR programing, Venture Brother cartoons, Buffy episodes, a blank moleskin notebook for when inspiration/desperation strikes, and my entire music collection.

The car is being worked on this week. New tires, new belts, an oil change and other standard bits. Checked my Emergency kit and all is well.

My dad has agreed to let me borrow his super sweet Cannon D (something or other) digital SLR for the trip. So get ready for great pictures. I'm not the best of photographers but I've hit upon the trick of take a billion pictures and at least 3 or 4 will be passable. The camera has "burst" mode which allows you to take a quick succession of 3 pictures each time you take a picture. This mode is excellent when you are trying to take pictures of whirling dervishes or children alike. As a lot of time that perfect "moment" occurs just a second after a picture is taken. The camera has 4 gigs of memory so no limitations as to the number of pictures I can take. Also big plus the camera will take pictures in RAW mode which I've been wanting to try out.

Well I'm nearly ready to take on the road. Still have to figure out good places to stay the night on the way but no worries there.

Impressions of Portland

Got to keep this brief, as I'm still using borrowed wi-fi. This time I'm writing from the middle of a time vortex; it's my local pub, the Black Cat, and apart from the wireless internet access, the place might as well be from 1986. The cigarette smoke hangs like a haze over the neglected pool table as a ragtag band of older local type folks, who look like they'd need to be removed from their barstools with prybars, attempt to achieve (with a little help from the Pabst brewing company) a deeper tone of red for their noses. Apparently, during the schoolyear, the place livens up and is something of a hangout for L&C students. Right now, though, it's definitely in the running for the most stereotypically blighted bar in the Northwest. But this being Portland, there are at least a selection of local brews to sweeten the deal.

Anyway, the city has been rather different from the image of it that I had been building up over the summer. My neighborhood, for example, is something of a disappointment. After my successful escape from Worcester, I had been looking forward to getting back into the urban milieu that I love so well. Alas, when I read that Portland is a city of neighborhoods, I did not anticipate that a more accurate description would have been "a collection of villages packed in tighter than is usual," or "small nodes of activity cushioned by generous helpings of suburban residential areas." I guess these descriptions do not have the same ring as "a city of neighborhoods," but to be honest the whole urban designation seems to be a bit misleading, at least from my vantage point in sleepy southern Sellwood.

This is not to say that Sellwood does not have its charms. In fact, while Dad was here I took advantage of the presence of another gourmand, not to mention the additional wallet, to make the grand culinary tour of the neighborhood, and we sampled the victuals of several nearby establishments. In general, I believe our stomachs will be well cared-for in the upcoming year(s), including those nights that (gasp) we will have to do our own cooking. There is a good supermarket not too far from the apartment, and it might best be described as a cross between Trader Joe's and Whole Foods. And there are several watering holes within striking distance of home, and at least one within staggering distance, so that will take care of that. There's even a small one-screen cinema that we can reach without benefit of bike or car. Still, the general tenor of the neighborhood is decidedly small-town, which I suppose is best proved by studying the closing hours for all of these businesses: none but the bars are open after 10pm (not even the coffee places), and frequent public transport service to the area effectively ends at 7pm. Having just come from a job where the hours were irregular and sometimes stretched far into the night, I can understand the desire not to let work overrun one's life. Nevertheless, I just can't wrap my head around the idea that restaurants would close before the customary dining hour for the entire civilized world (by which I mean me, of course). I foresee a rough adjustment ahead.

I did manage to get into the city center over the course of my many meanderings last week, and that district is much more to my taste. There are tall buildings that block the sun's insufferable cheery rays, and you have to share the sidewalks, and the volume of buses and streetcars in service at any given time causes drivers to bang their heads against their steering wheels. All in all, a reasonable facsimile of a major urban area. Businesses there are open later too, and they exist all piled up on each other in that wonderfully cramped city way, rather than insulated from each other by homes with lawns and gardens. Perhaps we will attempt to relocate to this concrete paradise next year, if we can find a reasonable rent there.

There is a thriving music scene here, which Dad and I have already dipped our toes into oh so cautiously. On Tuesday, we saw Rufus Wainwright with Sean Lennon and A Fine Frenzy at the Crystal Ballroom. Although neither of us ended up being a fan of Rufus Wainwright (you have to respect the sinuous, vaguely torch song quality of his writing and the expertise of his arrangements, though), we found Sean Lennon to be a winner. He had a voice eerily like his father's and a unique blend of early '70s fuzzy guitar solos against a backdrop that incorporated electrofolk elements with the distinctive keyboard style he has used since the mid-'90s (what's-her-name from Cibo Matto is at the synthesizer for this tour). Opinions differed about openers A Fine Frenzy, a piano-driven trio from LA; I liked the forlorn songs and the sense of great space within the sonic texture, while Dad thought the mood in the hall would have been better served by a more energizing set. The standout, though, was the venue itself: first used in 1914 as a dance hall, it is a very grandiose upstairs ballroom with high ceilings, arched windows, roundels all done up in Edwardian pastel hues, and a wooden floor mounted on rollers for a unique bouncing feel when the crowd sets itself a-moving. The entire concert was very ably engineered from the sound booth, and I left after several hours with no ringing in my ears; this is the type of experience that will encourage me to go to more concerts.

And go I shall. This weekend is the PDX Pop Now! festival, a full weekend of free all-ages shows featuring mainly local groups. I look forward to seeing what the much-vaunted local scene has to offer. I expect that this set of shows will take up most of my day tomorrow, although I might be tempted to stray by the prospect of free ice cream in Sellwood Park.


Oh, I almost forgot. I have visited the L&C campus at long last, and if possible it seems even smaller in real life than it does on the map. Seeing the scale of these buildings really drove home the concept that I am attending an institution with a smaller student body than my high school. This is simultaneously exciting and worrying, as I usually find myself more at ease in the anonymity of a crowd, for better or worse. But I am prepared to push myself beyond my comfort zone here, because being at ease in the anonymity of a crowd has also meant hiding from risk and success from time to time. Even more daunting than the prospect of total visibility, however, is the claustrophobia of the school's physical plant. Apart from the state forest that lurks behind the school, there doesn't seem to be anywhere on campus for me to be solitary (and everyone who knows me can imagine pretty well how I like the idea of using the forest for this purpose). In college, whenever I required some concentrated thinking, I could depend on the ability to occupy long-abandoned study carrels, pace up and down darkened library stacks, or if the situation became truly dire, to find a disused lavatory and have a good long poo while mulling the issue over (how I miss you, last stall in Emerson basement, last stall on Lamont floor 5, and of course the restroom in the Lamont sub-basement behind the European government records). My cursory examination of L&C, however, did not unearth any likely candidates for habitual Matt haunts. I never thought that this would be a source of frustration, but the whole school is too small and too damn well-lit.

At least those classmates that I have met so far have been uniformly warm. I stopped in at the Orientation office and had a nice chat with one of the rising second-years who runs the office during the summer, and that led to an invitation to go out with the entering class on Thursday night, where I met several interesting and friendly people. So far, there has been a conspicuous lack of backstabbing, competition and general jackassery, which is a promising sign for the future (historically, the law school experience is famous for the clash of titanic egos and crude Darwinism in the student body). The setting for our class outing was also more than pleasant: The New Old Lompoc bar, which by happy coincidence is the establishment that shows all the Red Sox games, and also serves its own house beers. I tried several quaffs that were hefty and malty, just the way I like them. This may be my new favorite place, and I would surely be there now but for the fact that it is a bit out of my way.

That is all the news from Portland at this juncture. I will very shortly be returning to the empty apartment, where my only companions at this time are Teddy and Cow, who are the silent type. But if you have an opportunity over the next few weeks, then hop in your DeLorean, crank it up to 88mph and zoom over here to the Black Cat, and we will share a beer and a few laughs. I'll have Huey Lewis playing on the jukebox for you.

Stretching out this cup of coffee so that we can still use the free wi-fi

Dad and I are currently sitting in a coffeeshop called the Ugly Mug, reminiscing about all the glorious hours that we have spent in airports all across this great land. The most enchanting of those glorious hours, not so coincidentally, occurred between 3pm on Sunday and noon on Monday, as we were desperately trying to get to my new home in Oregon. But what should have been a routine journey through the friendly skies swiftly turned into a harrowing odyssey into the very heart of despair. At every turn we were met by airline employees whose faces betrayed every subtle emotion between bemusement and belligerence, with stops along the way at fury, resentment and existential numbness. But at the very memory of our sojourn I am choking up with emotion, so Dad will pen the next paragraph as I dab at my eyes with a lacy handkerchief.

Just so you all know ... it really wasn't that bad. True I did need to grab a beer to write this as it was not the most pleasant experience still we came through well and looking back I believe it shows why the airline industry is where it is... The drive to the airport was filled with anticipation and excitment. we parked easily enough and there the clouds of despair started rolling in. The line to check into the airline was as long as the road to heaven. By that I mean it takes a lifetime and being good all the time can be so boring that it feels like eternity. Kind of like doing volunteerism in a soup kitchen; it's wonderful to do but the hours there are interminable and frought with the danger of you screaming at people to stop their destructive behaviour and move on with life! But I digress: Needless to say I skipped to the head of the line by making u pa fictional frequent flier number (I know some long road to heaven right but as I said it's not as much fun being good as not being good) there was only two people in front of us and it still took 20 minutes. Blessedly security was distracted by the boredom and we danced merrily through. The clouds turned darker and started to gather thicker still blue was seen... at the gate they were oversold and looking for volunteers to delay their trip. Seeing the distraught faces of the other travelers mostly women and children we sacrificed ourselves to the gods for their expedient trip to wherever it was they needed to go. (OK so we would get free tickets too. Sometimes doing the right thing is easy :-) So we waited patiently in yet another line to tell the harried agents that we would submit oursleves to sacrifice to the gods of the air. Of course the line was long... and there were two agents: one dealing with customers and the other on the phone complianing to her friend about how inconsiderate people are when attempting to travel by air. The audacity of folks who give money to the charity known as "Air Travel" and actually expect to go somewhere for there goodwill. What is the world coming to? so naturally we tried to persuade the people in front of us to actually go and talk to the whining agent. and of course no-one wanted to attempt to deal with her fearing her wrath and possibly not getting on the flight. So we went up and put in our names because we figured that if we said we want off first she really would have no choice. There was a flaw in our logic however. Becuase we wanted off she was inclined to keep us on which is exactly what happened. They boarded the plane and we then all waited for 40 minutes which would make us miss our connecting flight. So we attempted to get off the plane but they would not give us our bags and so stranding us becuase the car keys were in my bag in the hold. they made the announcement that they were going to take off and that many flights were delayed anyways and we might still make our connection. With the flight leaving immediately we jumped back on and found ourselves waiting another 25 minutes on the tarmac. we eventually lifted off and landed without much stir. So we are in Charlotte without a connection. My turn to cry in my beer and Matt will continue on.

Great was our woe as we debarked in Charlotte, which apparently all the major airlines had decided to use as a landfill for their undesired customers. Wading through crowds up to our chests (like something out of a Hieronymus Bosch painting), we heard rumors that bad weather had paralyzed air travel all along the Eastern Seaboard, but we alone among the bleary-eyed multitude knew the truth: that US Airways just enjoys screwing with people, and were dabbling with doing it on a large scale (the economic situation being what it is, efficiency is the name of the game). Regardless, or as the customer courtesy agent at the gate would say, irregardless, of the sheer meanness of spirit that had resulted in so many hundreds attending sleepaway camp at Fort Baggage Claim 6, we plowed onward to the "Special Services Desk" to rebook our flights and perhaps demand the head of some peon. It was not hard to find this desk, as it was surrounded by a mob of defeated-looking travelers, and anyway you could hear the distinct sounds of weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth even before the line came into view. A mere 75 minutes later, and after the greater part of the airline employees behind the desk rather pointedly declared that their shifts had ended and evaporated like steam into the night air, or like my remaining patience also into the night air, we were standing in front of the reinforcement...one hapless peon that was told to go to the frontlines of the eastern front probably for some perceived threat. Unfortunately, he had not been told that the threat he should have perceived was us, battle-hardened like a steel blade. A look of relief passed over his face as he saw that we had already been rebooked on a flight departing at 8:40pm on the following day, and it was with supemely misplaced confidence that he alerted us to the good news. When we indicated that this solution was not acceptable to us, he looked a man stricken, then called our attention to the still-expanding line of unsatisfied customers behind us. "Have you seen the length of that line?" he queried us, with a total lack of irony. "Yes, from every angle" came a rather sharp reply, and we all failed to share a hearty laugh. The ice broken, the man staring across the counter at us swore a terrible oath that he would do his level best (a promise that is anathema to most airline customer service employees) to get us an earlier flight, and indeed he delivered as he said, though it took no small amount of sweat, creativity, hustling, dodging, and calling in favors to book us on the first flight out of Charlotte with Northwest. In the end, at about midnight we found ourselves in possession of a Flight Interruption Manifest (basically a handwritten note to Northwest begging them to let us on the plane, and also to excuse us from gym class), phone numbers for a hotel and a taxi service, and a heart full of thanks for our gracious benefactor, James Brown of the US Airways Special Services Desk, Charlotte. Sleep came a mere hour later, tucked into our cozy beds of the airport hotel, where so many exausted and disappointed people had laid their heads before us.

Stardate 20070730400. Four AM comes quietly. Like a lamb walks to a cowslip on a hot summer day then bites it's headoff. Blearily we sleepwalked through the first 20 minutes getting ready to resume the battle. Our stead was a checkered yellow war-horse that blared the AC~DC war cry 'Hell's Bells' all the way to the airport. We arrived with new hope. Our check in process was so smooth we were lulled into a sense of elation akin to spiritual rebirth. All is right with the world. Peace will come to the world. God smiles a benvolent smile. or maybe it was sarcastic? It was then we met the battle. a uniform strained to to retain the bulk of our next foe. Her name will remain forever lost to time (stella croft of gate 6 in the Northwest) We had boarding tickets in hand and when our zhone was called we gleefully skipped to the line only to be BITCH SLAPPED: "Where is your ticket? you can't board the plane with this." a small smile crossed hert lips as my eyebrows raised and I said "Excuse me?"
"You best check your attitude. Stand over there."
"You should check yours madame. We have a boarding pass entitling us passage on this plane." Good soul that Matthew is he stalks off saying "Of course: Out of sight. Out of Mind." The good cop/bad cop game is set.
"You don't have a ticket."
after another round of unh-huh, nunh-huh I suggested she call the agent that check us in for handwritten note allowing us to get on board. she grunted and called complianing about new agents and that the paper work should have have been stapled to the tickets. (Note to self: When attempting air travel I need to remember that the gate agents that start off with biliegerence are generally inflicted with a need to prove dominance over unsuspecting prey. Refusing to comply irritates them. But like our first gate agent if you do not stand infront of them and demandc service you will not recive service. It is best to try and defuse the situation but remain fimr in your right to get on board a plane if you should get on the plane.) I strain to see her hidden identification and jot it down, at which point she says with a mixture of intrepidation and exasperation "My name is Stella if that's what you're looking for."
My response was smooth and oilly as cod-liver oil; "thank you Miss Croft id numer 285153. I have it already" Once Stella realizes that she has come up against someone as bullheaded as she things accelerate. Now that we are irritated enough to report her we are allowed to board. I thought that we had settled the matter but low and behold we had exactly the same experience when we arrived at Detroit. I felt better in that Gate agents are very Eqaul Opportunity abusers. In detorit the agent pulled the same thing to a family with small children. It made me laugh. Out Loud. Everyone looked at me funny. It is amazing what only three hours of sleep will do to a person. I thought that we would be exhausted. Intead I felt as though I was ready for another battle of wits. I hoped that the gate agent or Mother would respond to me. I think they saw a blood lust in my eye though. rather than risk an all out confrontation we were all very quickly allowed on the plane by a Veteran gate agent. And so we arrive in Protland finally!

Of course, the same could not be said for our luggage, and no-one at the airport was terribly sure how our checked bags were supposed to have gotten to Portland, or indeed whether they had arrived already. The experience was akin to watching a very irresponsible magician: presto change-o, I have made all your stuff disappear, and now I myself will take my leave in a puff of non-apologetic smoke! So we bounced between US Airways and Northwest for a while, pinball-like, and amused ourselves by watching their highly involved game of "Pass the Buck," before giving up and hailing a taxi to my waiting apartment. Our bags were later found, but US Airways did not find it necessary to so inform us until we called them later that evening. At long last, our luggage was on its way to us by a courtesy delivery service. We could finally expect that this hellacious epsiode was soon to end. At about 2:30am, when the bags arrived at our doorstep, cutting short a second consecutive night of sleep. But the blankets packed in those late-arriving suitcases were a welcome respite from the unadorned floor of the apartment (the novelty of inspecting my new carpeting up close had worn off pretty quickly). And thus ended our travel saga, with a whimper rather than a bang, but still I was left challenging the assumption that those hardy pioneers who originally took the Oregon Trail really had it so much worse than we, their intrepid descendants. More to come on Portland and what we've been up to in the days since, but right now our first and only cup of coffee is long gone and the barista is looking at us askance as we continue to monopolize the sofa at the Ugly Mug, so for now, farewell.