Sometimes Starting Isn't Glamorous

Sometimes you start in the middle of dull winter, with the rind of old snow holding down every edge. Sometimes you don't really have a plan, just a need. Sometimes you start from a jittery kind of internal pressure that's hard to articulate, but sets your feet moving. Sometimes the start of something, maybe even something important, arrives at a walking pace.

Sometimes you start an adventure from someplace like the Quad Cities; which sounds like a place in a superhero origin story, but is in fact a snug little lichen hugging the crevasses of an intersection of historic travel. It's got that river town once-was grandeur in it's neighborhoods, and that unselfconscious cozy Midwest practicality. A strangely large number of chiropractic schools and excellent antique shops. Exactly one perfect used bookstore. In summertime it's probably got a relaxed bustle to it's multiplied Main Streets, but in winter it's mostly made of turned-up collars.

The small city patterns of the Quad Cities look very familiar, but it is strung on a lattice of movement. Mighty river branching, major and minor highways crossing -- actually, on reflection, it's a perfect launch pad.

The Working Cute

I love the diaphramic lift I feel when I look at truly cute things, I enjoy advertising, and I'm delighted by the combination of the two!

In autumn, hedgehogs update their laptops. Budapest, Hungary

Almond-filled pastry pet. Vienna, Austria

It's nice when the puns you made as a child finally come true. Vienna, Austria

The Tele2 spokesheep, Frank, is also apparently a killing machine from the future. Stockholm, Sweden

Food, Hilarious Food

A wise and clever foodie once assured me she starts learning any new language with food and kitchen words. I love food, I enjoy advertising, and I love humor in translation, especially when I can't tell if it's intentional!

"Angry Korean Fried Chicken ... So, So Angry" in Berlin, Germany

"Kakastöke Pörkött ... Rooster Testicle Stew" in Budapest, Hungary

"Holy Monkey! ... Tea & Dumplings" in Stockholm, Sweden

"Lovely Toffee Muffin ... Lovely Strawberry Muffin" in Östersund, Sweden

"Daffy's Junkfood House" in Östersund, Sweden

"Godstransporter" Restaurant pager at Daffy's in Östersund -- OK, I know it translates to "freight,"
and that's perfectly reasonable for one of those vibratey alert pucks they give you at restaurants,
but wouldn't it be better if it was a kind of divine Trek-transporter device? Yes, it would.

So Bath They Named It Twice

Baden-Baden is built on magic, has celebrated several millenia of birthdays spinning, winding and handing out this magic, and is completely conscious of it. You can be sure, though I have found no mention in our post-Imperial literature, that people of all fur, feathers, and feet have been bathing in the springs of this valley since the beginning of the world. It's too beautiful, too protected, altogether too perfect to have not threaded its magic into all organic history. The Romans made it official with stone, however, and Baden-Baden has been in the business of bathing ever since. I wandered over some of its 54 sq. miles of Black Forest river valley, through falling snows and along the river Oos, in a kind of steamy trance. An Entire City Devoted to Bathing.  

And casinos. 

But who cares about casinos?

I don't know if I've ever shared this with you, but I'm a sucker for bathhouse t-shirts. I don't really understand it either, and it's not like most bathhouses sell t-shirts (but the ones that do are awesome!) It might be some bath-geek equivalent of sport team support. Or maybe it's just poorly translated enthusiasm. I don't usually wear clothes with logos, or words. I don't often wear band t-shirts. They make me feel shy and unprepared for coolness. But somehow I'm totally charmed by the thought of someone designing a t-shirt to talk up a place filled with hot water and naked people. I think it's fabulous. And wearing them makes me feel like an underground superhero.

So I keep my eye out for bathhouse paraphernalia. And on my last day in Baden-Baden I found myself in a situation I had never encountered before – desirous of a "I ♥ Baden-Baden" t-shirt. You know exactly the one I'm thinking of, it's the same shirt hanging in every eye-rollingly touristy souvenir shop on the planet. (My only defense is that I do have an awful lot of enthusiasm, even if it is poorly translated.) I looked high and low, everywhere from the shops where they sell postcards to the train station newsstand to the Christmas market to the supermarket. I found silver-plated Baden-Baden spoons, and enamel-painted Baden-Baden plates, and even swarovski-crystal-bedazzled Baden-Baden totebags. After going through a dozen bewildered shopkeepers in a dozen different shops, I am forced to concede that Baden-Baden, city of historically relevant baths and big old money, is simply not mundane enough to make tacky tourist t-shirts. 

And, for the life of me, I don't know whether to be annoyed or relieved.

Some Baths That Aren't Anymore

Searching out venerable thermae, traditional neighbohood saunas, and the brand-new soaking spots, the word for Bath is the first I'm learning when I enter a new country. My eyes and ears are constantly casually scanning for signs of bathing. Probably I imagine baths more often than they exist (though honestly, what else is going on in a backyard shed with a chimney?), but I've been impressed that almost every Scandinavian town has a Sauna-something Street, and at how many Germanic placenames end with -Bad.

So there are many places I come across where I don't bathe, where nobody bathes anymore; but maybe there's a commemorative plaque, or an epithet in stone, or a bit of historical mention in a travel book.

The People's Bathhouse on Oderberger Strasse, in Berlin. A once-and-future-bathhouse, long neglected but being restored...

In Tallinn's Old Town there is still a Sauna St, and a historical stop in their self-guided walking tour.

One of the original spring sites in a cliff embedded in Baden-Baden.

Under the Friedrichsbad Bathing Temple in Baden-Baden is the ruins of a Roman soldier's bathhouse, locked safely away all winter long.

Land Is Land

One thing I've noticed, traveling around this planet of our as much as I've been able, is that everywhere I go, the landscape is home. Surely, different parts of the world wear different colors, and sometimes the shapes and scale are unique and surprising. There is always something new to see, around the corner, if you are curious enough. But the land is brown and green. The sky is blue and white. The sun shines yellow and pink. The stars and moon glow silvery against black and purple. Traveling through winter, the land faded to sketch and monochrome, every tree is shadow-brown, all small plants are in their quiet tan pajamas, and everything else is dusty white. I could be skirting Chicagoland, nearing the foothills of the Rockies, crossing upstate New York. But I am racing though Bavarian countryside, and this blizzard could have followed me from Stockholm, or it could be a stranger from Russia. I haven't done much traveling in the winter (some part of me has always been too skeptical to allow for possible frostbite on a lonely train station) until now. I love the spherical intimacy of it, the land in focus only nearby, the colors subtle. From a train, snug and speeding, the familiarity of the landscape has a special magic all its own.

It's only when we cross into the acreage of civilization that shapes begin to look Foreign. The different ways different people use hills, or roofs, or the edge of their claims. The little towns crowded into Black Forest valleys, vertical like a tapestry painted on silk, never minding perspective. Switchback roads and yellow faces and linear yards of crenelated edging, mirroring the pines above and causal river below. Steep tiled roofs in drainage undulation or dragon scale. Tight and idyllic, efficiently antiplanned, like a bird's nest.

And around the bigger cities, where we might have a Fitchburg or an Urban Sacrifice Zone, there are summer gardens. Little plots of land where urbanites, missing nature but unendowed with a summer home, can tend a bit of earth and fly a flag. Which I guess is another kind of sacrifice. The cute crowds of small fenced yards and sheds are always along railroad corridors, so I'm not sure what they garden. Summer memories. Even in winter, they look tidy and happy, some terraced and some wreathed in years of wisteria vines. Miniature national/natural dream colonies. Every bit of land is a door to all of Earth.

Still Assimilating, More Gracefully

I like Helsinki! Coming back to it after visiting Tallinn was a treat, feeling like I knew a place, like it was already mine. I had places I knew, a hostel I liked, more trust in the trains, favorite saunas to revisit. I could spend more time looking around, less time scabbling for balance. It was shinier.

The architecture in Helsinki is very self-confident, this lovely mash-up of all the different eras of the last century, those informed by royal sensabilities, civic pride, and the creative management of economic depression.

I saw my first Scandinavian sunset here. I learned a new transit system in a language I can't even begin to pronounce. And honestly, when it gives me chances to sauna twice a day, how could I not like this city?

I'm On A Boat!

I have slept in some truly sketchy places in my life (dubiously stained motel rooms with recently kicked-in door jams, mosquito-net-for-walls huts 100 yards uphill from alligator mating grounds) but last night's bunk may be the most conceptually frightening so far. I slept on the ferry to Helsinki, across the Bothnian Bay. I slept in cabin 2023, on level 2. That's at the bottom of the ferry, just above the deep-freeze food storage. So it's below the 5 people decks crammed with captains and cabins and casinos and karaoke bars and cafes. And it's right below the automobile deck, because this is a big ferry. In fact, now that I think of it, it's probably below the waterline.

The cabin was tiny, barely big enough to see carpet when the bunks folded down. There's no windows on that level, just a cute porthole-shaped photo of a lighthouse taken somewhere made of equal parts perfect fluffy clouds and minnow-calm water. But it was scrupulously clean, and had its own bathroom and hot shower. Which is saying something, given that there are only about 6 public restrooms for all the public areas of the ferry.

I'd recommend it to anyone! It's like a snug little womb room, where nothing but sleep lives. The weird rocking and rumbling of engines pulling weight over waves is kinesthetic white noise. If you've ever enjoyed falling asleep in the backseat of a car, summer evening wrapped all around you; you'll love it. Yellowing plastic light switches glow like distant dashboard lights, and the hiss of air conditioning is like radio static, the warm air barely moving. Every mutter of of foreign language passing by in the halls is like the murmur of adults in the front seats, driving home from a day in the sun. I haven't slept so well in weeks.

[My favorite Swedish word right now is Ochså, Also. (Say it oak-so, with the first syllable in the back of your throat.)  Och (said with so slight a k-sound that it's almost oh -- no Engineering Officer impressions, please) is And; I love the relationship!]

This Couch is Mysig

I honestly cannot recommend an east-to-west, 7-timezone airplane ride to anyone, but 32 hours after the fact, I'm doing pretty well. The first 10 hours were tricky, jetlag has gotten more sophisticated since I last tasted it. I kept getting second winds, feeling fine, looking forward to life, and starting out on adventures. Invariably, I got halfway (just inside the grocery door, to the apex of a loop around the neighborhood, up off the couch for a glass of water) suddenly was quite convinced someone was slowly but confidently pulling the linoleum/asphalt/ubiquitous birch floor paneling out from under my feet. Loss of balance was quickly ganged up upon by the sensation of being pressed by about 60 pounds of wet sand. I felt cold, and flush, and very very stupid. I'd persevere in a half-conscious sort of way, accomplish X goal without any feeling of victory, and slump back gratefully in stasis … only to get another second wind 15 minutes later. I made it til 9 before I lost consciousness and feel very very lucky that I could still say words by then.

Today, though, waking up was easy, and besides a total lack of attention span, I feel happy and normal. We walked through Stockholm, mostly the oldest island Gamal Stan, where the streets are two-wingspans wide, orthotically cobblestoned, and decorated with many antique and tasteful-tourist shops. It was a look-but-don't-touch day, a get-lost-on-purpose day, a oh-my-there's-skulls-under-that-dragon-statue day. I could hardly see the architecture for the bricks, and look forward to visiting again when peering into every window isn't so all my brain will allow. There's a gaming store (a big one with fantasy novels, comics and all kinds of geekphenalia) in which I'd love to spend an afternoon. It has a shingle hanging above the door with a painting of a dragon fighting a rocketship. Yay!

The city didn't smell like much besides cold, wet stone and the occasional municipal construction site. The buses smell like Sharpies. But outside boutiques and flower shops, on the little stone sidewalks in front of bakeries and offices, little fires were burning. Some were tea lights in colored glass jars, some were tiny campfires in little iron cages, all merry and flickering. These are mysig (say it mee-sig, with your tongue against your front teeth, the cuter you slur the better, and its an adjective), a sweet little assurance that the place within is Cozy. Friendly, nice, snug, sitting-with-friends-by-the-fire-with-a-mug-of-glogg cozy. Sweden is just about the cutest.

Now it is dark (has been since 4), just above freezing, and we've finished a dinner of corn chips (a brittle, super-finely-ground-corn local brand), home-refried black beans (they came canned in a box!) and fresh salsa made as spicy hot as we could handle. Somewhere winding through the neighborhood I can hear the chiming of an ice-cream truck.

My vocabulary is growing, mostly thanks to Engelsk Bildordbok (a Swedish-to-English dictionary done completely in pictures – nouns are awesome!):

Svamp is your singular Mushroom (more than one would be svampar)

Ren is Reindeer

Dogs say “Bow!”

And the word for Uterus is Livmoder

Two Days To Go!

My bags are packed and my storage unit is full! I've done all the adult things I could think of to transform myself from a stationary community member into a mobile citizen. In the last weeks I've hugged just about everyone I know in town, and walked through all my haunts. 3 months is almost no time at all, but somehow this time I feel  the stretch of miles. All my brittle nerves settled into a smooth rising crescendo of excitement at the beginning of the week, and I've found myself easily falling into that panoramic soft-field-of-vision where I see with my heart as much as my eyes.

With the promise of "Only salt and pepper, maybe dill," as my seasoning landscape ahead, I am soaking in as many flavors as possible to keep my tongue warm for the winter. In preparation, I've kept up a brisk schedule of revisiting every single spicy favorite food and restaurant I love here. Because, really, thats a seasoning promise? Threat. Challenge! I'm travelling with a box of spices that takes up a 6th of my suitcase, and I am fully prepared to wrestle any Swedish ingredient into deliciosity!

The PLAN

In a couple of weeks, I'll take rides on a couple of airplanes, and jump a couple of hours into the east. I'll set foot in Scandinavia, Mother of Winter, and a renewed desire for the perfect bath. I will spend a couple/few months travelling, bathing, living across European winterlands, and will return much rejuved!
I have nursed a dream for many years of creating a place for wellbeing and hot water for the place in which I live, the kind of neighborhood haven we could all use when the days get cold and the nights get long. I think there is a whole world of good to be had in a soak, a sweat, a nice long bath. The kind of good that can chase the winter blues away. I love public baths, and I'm excited to see what public bath culture looks like in Europe.
Soon coming, regularly-updated epic adventures, impressive pictures, tales of daring-do, and a great many bathtubs!

Sky all the way to Road

As far as the horizon, and as wide as my heart, strong flowers...





































I started photographing roadkill as a kind of playful competition with this slice of awesome. Quickly though the conversation turned to speed, to distance, both physical and between species. That coyote we saw, perfect except for his raw jawbone (broken neck?) -- were we the only humans to see him? Ever? Probably the only ones to photograph him. That frog -- did the car that squished him even notice? When we move so fast, in cars, miles and air and neighbors speed past, and where are we? One biker I know says "Speed kills," and he means the Imagination, the Relation, the chance to greet a cousin before she is unrecognizable and flat.

Beyond the Bus

The sun is rising on land brand new, and I am heading out, out. Past a jigsaw night of highway and other people's dreams bumping into mine. Past cell phone networks and into the parlors of badgers and falling stars.

Got my home on my back again, and the image of my campsite calling. All I need is a good warm hat, and all the week will be cozy.

See you back in the world.

Falling Stars Know My Name

For many of my years now, nighttime has been for play. For dancing, for joking, for friends, for frolicking, for movies and dinner and parties. And for sleeping. Occasionally for fire. Very rarely, it is for fear and feeling small. (There is always the tricky 8 o'clock hour to be passed; somehow there is a door to depression waiting for between 8 and 9pm. (The Meridian Organ Clock points out that this bit of time is meant to be the height of activity for the precordium/heart/protection meridian, so This All may be part of the Opening Project.))

And then there's the moon. My body does know it's important to be under the moon. But that's a whole story in herself.

So, barring bonfires, owling, insomniac prowling, Halloween and the moon, it's been a long time since I put myself out in the night because of the night. For nearly as long, I've wanted to backpack myself to the Perseid meteor shower. To leave daytime to everyone else for a while, and give myself to some giant sky, the dark, and stars falling.

I always imagined hiking into the orange desert for it's unequivocable edges and purple sky. But it's August (maybe for the Leonids!). And I only have a few days. And I want grass beneath me. And N Dakota is exactly far enough, and dark enough. It's sky stretches forever and it's land is green. It's cities don't pollute the night sky with pale stains. And anyways, the summer's stress has finally crested. And my adrenals are exhausted. And my heart is stretched over many miles. And my camping equipment is perfect. And I've just mensed and danced my demons out.

And there is a bus leaving Tuesday.

"Yes, but what is she Doing?" -- a weather-check

I am in Boston, and trying slow down long enough to shift into a new gear. In Phase One of my adventure-sabbatical, I'm releasing --  home and homeland and purposeful career, identification as a brokenhearted girl -- and I've made time, little time at least, to clear the playing field. Call it gestating, or the quiet before the storm, I'm on purpose not-doing, and trying to meet whatever floats into the moment. It is surprisingly uncomfortable, with lots of grappling between claustro- and agorophobia-esque urges; but with a deep developing kernal of  freedom. And washed over with relief.

I'm in Boston til the end of August, which feels like spending all of summer with my Brother, since the weather has just gone golden. Heat, heat and huge thunderstorms -- they say it's the tail of hurricane Bill wagging its way up the east coast. Weekdays, Brother works and I read, get lost in the city, and master the public transportation system. the greater Boston metroplex is a great place for Phase One; a real puzzle city that defies all attempts of imposed order, with lovely little pockets of greenery, ocean views and architecture. Weekdays I wade through tiny unmarked colonial-city streets and find museums, bookstores, 99-cent Chinese-novelty stores and parks where I can read in the sunshine.

Weekends we play and talk. Brother and I are good talkers, and the conversation is excellent. He is a Budding Big Kid, and we spend time making his apartment more homely with useful tools and function-minded feng shui. On my first round of Growing Up Edits, I share the patterns that work for me and tap into his newer edition of formalized human training (Little Brother is a Compassion Commando behavioral-psychology-social-worker, and has a lot of useful "why" information.) 

This weekend is not such a good example, because I'm going up to NH for the women's herbal conference and Brother is going to NY to visit friends, but most of our weekends are together, mobile and fun. We get out of Boston altogether and head up the coast for pastoral drives, treasure hunts for antiques and architecture, or we go down the coast for beaches that stick out into the Atlantic on long fingers of sand marsh and good seafood lunches. We visit and compare far-flung modern-art museums. We go to drive-in double-features and compare them like they were modern art. (P.S. for pop culture conspiracy theorists: Consider G-Force and GI Joe. Obviously named by the same school of cool-marketing, both about elite forces -- yes, one is a group of guinea pigs, just roll with it -- that are chosen (no free will here) for their roles, both entertain a surprising degree of disregard for the laws of physics and the limits of science for being set in the "it could be happening today" world, and both use the same summer smash hit "Boom Boom Pow" for their theme songs. What does this tell us about the future of the supersoldier genre? About the way we market militarization to our youth? About the merging identity of Man and Beast? Discuss.) 

Since Brother went on retreat with me, we have a whole new shared vocabulary of perception to add into the conversation. And since he got a higher degree and found a job he loves since the last time we talked face to face, he is a whole new kind of awesome that I love getting to know, and insight that keeps me feeling well cared-for while I do all this less-than-concrete work. The weeks go and I will miss this daily connection, and my Brother has helped me find the lightness of foot and the solidness of heart that I needed from Phase One.