Reason To Wander

No. 175

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Wed, 11 Jun 2008 01:28:00 +0000

Getting Back to Normal: As if we needed another major milestone to prove that you can quit your life for a while, travel the world, and come back to a better deal. As if getting engaged wasn’t enough. Or good new jobs. Or a really nice homecoming party. So today we bought a house.

Less than three months after returning home from seventeen months of homeless wandering, we have walls and a roof, a mortgage, something called a “drip irrigation system,” and even a tenant renting a basement apartment from us. We had every honest intention of renting an apartment for the next year, saving money and watching the market, but have you tried finding a reasonable one-bedroom in a nice location that allows pets, recently? It’s a nightmare. So we bypassed renting and bought a nice little three bedroom house that’s two blocks away from my favorite buffalo wing joint and four blocks away from my second favorite tiki karaoke bar. The irony of this entire process was that the apartment management companies we dealt with were far more suspicious of the gap in our employment and housing histories than the mortgage lenders. Everything has changed in the housing market. Nothing has changed in the housing market.

Normalcy has its divine moments. When we’re having brunch in the kitchen of sweet friends. When we’re walking hand-in-hand on sunny, familiar streets. Or when we want to drink water straight from the tap. But even in those best moments our minds wander. Little things bring memories flooding back. We were walking the other day and came across a local Chinese restaurant that had in its front window, a giant photo of the proprietor shaking hands with the Oregon governor when he once visited the restaurant. If you’ve been to China, you know to recognize each and every shop that Chairman Mao visited in his lifetime in this same way – a giant, near billboard-sized photo blow-up of an ecstatic tea shop owner shaking hands with a jowly Mao Zedong.

So now we dream again. We escape into our memories when deadlines get us down. We fantasize about long-term travel, like everyone else. But maybe not like everyone else, because we know how possible it is – dare I say how easy it is – to come home again and find nothing but good news.

No. 174

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Sun, 30 Mar 2008 18:15:00 +0000

New Trips In An Old Car, Part 3: There are lots of things I’m looking forward to in Oregon. Good old friends, the fresh smell of fir forests, and favorite Thai restaurants all await our arrival, as does a healthy VW support network and my most trusted mechanic. But there’s one thing about Oregon that I’ve not been looking forward to while driving these 5,000 miles across eleven states. That thing is the state law that prohibits motorists from pumping their own gasoline.
Read more at Cars That Matter

No. 173

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Sun, 30 Mar 2008 18:00:00 +0000

A Story For Grandchildren: A boy wrote to a girl on the Internet and they decided to meet for a drink. This sort of thing happens all the time now, but in the wild free-for-all that was 2005, it probably happened ten percent less frequently.

At first the girl wasn’t interested in the boy, she thought he was just square. Mostly because he tucked in his shirt on their first date. He just wanted to be tidy. She just wanted to date bike messengers.

The boy was persistent! And the girl kept him around, because she thought he might know interesting people. “Let’s be friends.” So the boy and the girl spend more time together. There is whiskey. And cheap sushi that does not smell fresh, like the tide. The Fourth of July. Something happens. The girl starts to have feelings for the boy. The boy is not surprised.

Things get serious.

There is some travel of course, mostly road trips. California is one. The desert is another. A wedding. New York. Things go well on these trips. Things go well generally, in the way that makes more seem possible. So the boy and girl try more. Not with a toe in cold water but a cannonball into a summer lake. They say they’ll be gone traveling for a year but the year takes seventeen months.

In these months they see sixteen American states and eleven different countries. Even China. It turns out that Chinese New Year isn’t much fun if you don’t get invited home by a Chinese family.

When it’s time for the boy and girl to return home, they are understandably nervous. Things feel different. Colors, smells, sounds, even 7 Eleven signs remind them of new things. Everything about the world looks different to them now. Everything except each other.

The last night of their trip is longer than expected. Hours usually pass quickly in a nice hotel, but these hours are slow. Luxurious. Important. The boy says some things that are unrehearsed. The girl is flush, she replies that she wants a good story to tell her grandchildren. This is the story, he says.

One knee, the boy is on one knee!

Then they are crying.

Then, they are engaged to be married.

No. 172

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Wed, 26 Mar 2008 16:51:00 +0000

Valley of Fire: It always seems so unlikely that you can find gorgeous feats of nature just outside of big, nasty cities. As it is with the Catskills outside of NYC and the Jundu Mountains outside of Beijing, so it is with the Valley of Fire outside of Las Vegas. On a whiskey whim, we fled the stale air of Vegas after only one night, for this place that we knew only by name on the map.

Me: “Valley of Fire.” That sounds fun.
Amy: Sounds hot.
Me: But it’s March.
Amy: Do they have showers there?

They did have showers, it turned out, in addition to miles of incredible petrified sand dunes and volcanic remnants colored every shade of fire but blue. Brittle to the touch, the rocks are sculpted by wind and infrequent rain into every manner of animal and swiss cheese shape and decoding them was easier than finding shapes in clouds. This was also another amazing campground, the kind that lets you nestle into nooks of old rock with no other campers in sight. We did happen across another VW camper that was a near mirror image of our own – same color, same year, same interior but with a middle aged driver and passenger – but that bizarro-world encounter was the most hubbub we experienced in three days there. The rest was petroglyph spotting, quiet walks on sand-bottomed canyons and stars, stars, stars at night. Without the buzz of neon for miles.

Photos: Indian petroglyphs up high; a walk in the valley and; swiss cheese.

No. 171

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Sat, 22 Mar 2008 01:54:00 +0000

Having One Hell of a Big Day: Contrary to the nice n’ easy philosophy that’s governed most of our cross country schedule, sometimes we like to treat ourselves to the “holy crap” high earned by hustling some extra sights. So on the day we left the Grand Canyon, we also browsed along the longest remaining stretch of Historic Route 66, nodded politely throughout the Hoover Dam tour and then stayed up all night in Vegas, managing to lose only one dollar. Holy craps.

The living ghost town of Seligman, Arizona marks the start of a very satisfying length of Route 66, the American highway hogging a disproportionate share of the asphalt nostalgia market. Correct me if I’m wrong, but no one’s selling snow globes to commemorate a safe ride on the Northeast Extension of the Pennsylvania Turnpike. But then, Jack Kerouac never wrote a book about hitchin’ and screwin’ his way along that highway. And there’s no song about it either, get your kicks and so on. I’ve always been curious about the obsession with Route 66, because I myself feel drawn to it without really knowing why. After driving the near 200 miles of this neglected Arizona asphalt, rough and stubbly like an unshaven grandpa, miles that roll and wind through the tumbleweed plains and red rock canyons between Seligman and Oatman, I get it. Route 66 is about what road trips used to mean to Americans. Slow driving, occasionally making good time, but making more time to stop at every roadside wonder and car hop diner with a respectable neon sign. This is exactly the kind of road trip we like to take in 2008, so the relics on Route 66 were a gold mine.

And then on to the Hoover Dam - engineering marvel, vertigo-inducing views, unlikely monument to Art Deco style and creepy, overpriced propaganda machine on the value of dams as saviors of humankind. The old Colorado River, pre-dam, is repeatedly referred to as untamed, dangerous and “good for nothing.” The new dammed Colorado, however, is celebrated as being useful, a friend of man, now that it has been harnessed for electricity, irrigation water and “great jet skiing on Lake Mead.” Despite the pinko willies we got from all that nonsense, the underground power plant tour was pretty neat. And not just because I got to see Amy in action, latching as she does to tour guides and beating them down with the provocative questions.

Amy: How many people died making this thing?
Guide: Well there’s an official count and an unofficial count.
Amy: Mmm hmm. Have there been any earthquakes here?
Guide: Two.
Amy: Any damage?
Guide: None.
Amy: How long have you worked here?

He answered these questions but refused a few others, citing “post 9-11 safety concerns." We moved on.

Back up the hill and then down again into the hazy valley of Las Vegas. Beautiful at sunset, this city will rob you blind after dark and give you tremendous regret when you see it again in the light of day. We were lucky enough to find a parking spot at the only RV park on the strip, a little slab of concrete jackpot wedged between the back of the Circus Circus casino and I-15 Northbound. We put it in park, showered for the first time in two days, devoured a couple of PB & J sandwiches and then caught the double decker public party bus that shuttles numb gamblers and lookey-lous up and down the strip. Something magically disastrous happens to time and discretion when you’re wandering around this place; even though you’ve only been out for an hour, it’s somehow three in the morning, there are four empty one-shot liquor bottles in your purse and someone is following you three blocks while soliciting you in Spanish to hire a prostitute. It was all worth it, except for the next morning’s fallout that meant a lot of unhelpful lolling around, a late checkout and great confusion about where to spend the next night. Welcome To Fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada.

Photos: Seligman, Arizona diner; Drought-time water levels on the Lake Mead side of the Hoover Dam and; "Camping" in Vegas.

No. 170

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Thu, 20 Mar 2008 16:58:00 +0000

A Pretty Good Canyon: Mostly, you expect to be left breathless by the Grand Canyon. Not just by the steep trails that plummet you miles down to the muddy Colorado River, but by the overwhelming scale of the thing. Etched in red, orange, buff hues, layer upon layer, a hundred tributary canyons feeding into the big one. Standing at any vista point, the ten crow-miles across the canyon look flat, like a painting you could caress. And then you move a little. Shadows shift, new light gives it new depth and the grandeur of it takes your breath away. This is what you expect of the Grand Canyon. What you don’t expect is the techno music.

I’m talking about the experience of camping at the popular South Rim campground. Although the campground setting is beautiful (and covered in snow when we arrived), multiply 350 sites by an average occupancy of three people per site and you’ve got a lot of bodies, a lot of late night drinking and whooping, a lot of unfortunate littering, a lot of mud tracked into the bathrooms, just a hell of a lot of humanity. And drunk, young humanity at that, the sort that will decide it’s ok to crank the car stereo after midnight and blow everyone out of bed with some breakbeat club music.

To be fair though, we knew things were going to be weird when we arrived at our assigned campsite and found that someone had left behind their toiletry bag.

Me: There’s a shaving bag here. Maybe someone left it behind to save this site.
Amy: What’s in it?
Me: Oh man, you’re not gonna believe this. IT'S FULL OF POT.
Amy: I think it’s safe to assume that someone did not leave their ditty bag full of weed to reserve this spot.
Me: Holy God there’s so much pot in here. And prescription med-
Amy: Prescripitions? What kind of prescriptions?

Incredibly, the stoner owner of this bag came looking for it later that night, after dark, with a flashlight and a very worried look on his face. Motivated I’m sure by his desire to reclaim a big bag of grass (which he said was medicinal) that was inside of a shaving bag with his name and address all over it. Yes I gave it back to him. Thirty minutes later, the techno started. I’m not saying the two were related, draw your own conclusions.

Imagine our surprise then, when on the very next day we found ourselves completely alone, absent any human sound, standing on the edge of one of the most heavily touristed wonders in the United States. We had chosen a five-mile portion of the unpaved South Rim trail to hike; it’s relatively flat so we expected it to be quite crowded. But there is, it turns out, a shuttle bus that runs roughly the same route on a parallel road. And given a choice, 95% of tourists will choose this bus over walking. Even in Spring when it’s seventy five degrees at the hottest part of the day. We were prepared for a day of jostling, sweaty elbows, road rage and cigarette smoke, things that would detract from our awe of the place. Instead, we found ourselves as alone as we wanted to be. When we stood still, it was quiet enough to hear the river rushing far below, quiet enough to hear a raven’s wings flap overhead. Quiet enough to hear the light percussion of ice melting on the canyon walls. Our kind of music.

Photos: Partially obstructed view; on the South Rim and; throwing snowballs.

No. 169

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Wed, 19 Mar 2008 17:40:00 +0000

New Trips in an Old Car, Part 2: Drivers of classic cars, be they just motoring on a Sunday afternoon or navigating across the country, know the thrill of passing someone piloting the same classic car. There is an instant sense of community in owning and loving an old car, and while it’s nice to feel like you’re doing something unique, it’s also nice to know you’re not alone.

No. 168

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Tue, 18 Mar 2008 15:55:00 +0000

Pie Town: "Great Pie on the Great Divide - It's All Downhill from Here." So goes the motto of the Daily Pie Cafe in Pie Town, New Mexico, a little slice of heaven deep in the heart of the desert. Surrounded by dry junipers and ghost ranches, perched near 8,000 feet on the top of the Continental Divide, Pie Town is an unlikely location for the pie capitol of the world. But rest assured, this is no mirage. Travelers willing to trek the dusty Highway 60 backroad to nowhere are handsomely rewarded with a mouth watering array of fresh daily slices.

Two cafes in Pie Town - The Daily Pie Cafe and the Pie-O-Neer - vie for your pie business with lovingly crafted fruit, nut and cream pies. Standards like cherry, pecan and banana cream never disappoint. Inventive delicacies like peanut butter pie and New Mexican apple pie, made with green chilies and pinon nuts, sizzle your taste buds.

Reportedly founded in the 1920s by a bake-happy Texan named Clyde Norman, Pie Town's population has risen and fallen with the area's agricultural fortunes. Though there may not be much of an economy these days, there will always be pie for the willing - not to mention an annual Pie Festival every Fall. So how do you get here? First, quit your diet. Second, make Pie Town a destination on your next big road trip. And plan on spending the better part of a day at The Daily Pie Cafe where you can chat easy with locals, drink a bottomless cup of coffee for $5 (and then keep the souvenir mug), and order frequently from the ever-changing menu board, otherwise known as "The World's Only True Pie Chart." Just don't forget to make it a la mode.

No. 167

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Thu, 06 Mar 2008 18:11:00 +0000

The Unsurprising Bounty of National Parks: There are so many National Parks and Monuments in the Western United States that it's difficult to avoid running into one. And why would you want to avoid them? If it has a national conservation designation, with scant budgetary funding allocated to protect it, chances are good that it's got something special.

We planned on spending a good two weeks bouncing around Southern New Mexico, exploring the National Parks and Monuments there. This meant a whirlwind tour of the "Big Room" of Carlsbad Caverns, the blinding gypsum dunes of White Sands, the gasping dry heights of the Guadalupe Mountains (actually in Texas too), the mysterious Gila Cliff Dwellings and the sandstone bluffs and jet black tumult of the El Malpais lava fields. Time after time, these places exceeded our lofty expectations. By the time we leave New Mexico, we will have seen maybe a tenth of the natural wonders on offer here. More than enough reason to come back.

Pictures say more: The VW parked at White Sands National Monument; Approaching the Guadalupe Mountains; Inside Carlsbad; The offseason snackbar and giftshop at the bottom of Carlsbad; Amy and Cleo at White Sands and; Tour group at the Gila Cliff Dwellings.

No. 166

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Thu, 06 Mar 2008 17:33:00 +0000

The Surprising Bounty of State Parks: Few roadtrip moments are as rewarding as taking a chance on a virtually unknown State Park in the middle of nowhere and finding that it has, say, the largest spring fed swimming pool "in the world." Such was the case at Balmorhea State Park, in the wild big empty of West Texas, where we stumbled upon just such a gem. The cool spring water here remains a constant 76 degrees, just warm enough for a swim or two during the hottest part of an otherwise blustery February day. The pool itself is magnificent; 1.7 acres in size, 25 feet deep in parts, filled with catfish and softshell turtles and ringed by diving boards and the picturesque Davis mountain range. We loved this place so much we camped a second night.

And then on to New Mexico, where we lucked again into City of Rocks State Park, in the vast Chihuahan desert region of the state. This park, centered around an odd burst of giant, volcanic-era boulders, rises from the plains like a great spilled basket of Easter eggs. In the daytime, the park is populated mostly by day tripping New Mexican families, who were happy to wave and herald the arrival of a VW Bus the color of their state flag. And at night, what's left is a handful of campers willing to go it without electricity beneath an umbrella of stars and planets so bright you can read a map by it. This was one of our favorite campsites of the year and although we couldn't stay an extra night, I'm certain we'll be back here someday.

No. 165

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Thu, 06 Mar 2008 17:08:00 +0000

Watching The Oscars With A Nominee: Well, sort of. We made a mandatory stop in Austin, our favorite blue oasis in the great big red state expanse of Texas. Really, no matter how many times I drive across Texas, I'm always amazed at just how long it goes on. And on and on. So thank goodness for the geography of Austin, near smack in the middle and home to the best Rockabilly, Texas-style BBQ, and two beloved old Portland friends who never fail in showing us a nice time, Kate and Trent.

And Trent (above, with his daughters Vivian and Claire) is an actor who recently nabbed his biggest role yet, the part of "Nervous Accountant" in the Cohen Brothers' "No Country For Old Men." It's a great speaking part in a great movie based on an even greater book, so imagine our delight when we happened to roll into Austin on the weekend of the Academy Awards. The Nielsen Ratings scored this year's Oscars as one of the least watched in years, sad commentary on the popular appeal of smart, gorgeous movies like "No Country for Old Men" and "There Will be Blood." But we hardly noticed or cared, opting to watch the awards at one of the country's great restaurant/pub/movie theatres, The Alamo Drafthouse. "No Country For Old Men" won the award for best picture and though he doesn't get a statue, Trent does get some well-earned pride, a hearty congratulations and hopefully, many more opportunities like it.

No. 164

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Tue, 04 Mar 2008 14:48:00 +0000

New Trips In An Old Car (part 1): Here is the first big difference between a road trip in a new car and a road trip in an old car: Preparation. In a new car, maybe you have the oil changed a few days before you leave. You might even kick the tires and change the windshield wipers. In an old car, like the 1977 Volkswagen Westfalia camper we're driving from Florida to Oregon over the course of February and March, I first called a mechanic in Tampa two months before my departure date. I actually found him in the local newspaper archives, because this is the best way to find a reliable VW mechanic in an unfamiliar city. If there’s one nearby, he’s likely been working on them since he was a teenager and the local paper will have invariably written an article about him. An article with a title like “Love Bug” or “Life in the Volkswagen Lane” or “Eccentric Recluse Makes Living Raising Alpacas, Fixing Old VWs.” This is how I found a mechanic in Tampa. The article was called “Two Generations Welded to Classic VWs.”
Read more at Cars That Matter

No. 163

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Mon, 25 Feb 2008 20:08:00 +0000

Collecting Stickers, When You Can: The first time Amy wrote about our quest for good stickers, we were in Oklahoma about a year and a half ago. I was still reeling from the incredible revelation that not every museum gift store or quirky roadside attraction offers a sticker to commemorate your visit. I've gotten used to the idea now and am no longer surprised when a major tourist attraction's gift store offers a million different kind of magnets, patches, t-shirts and beer cozys and no stickers. Such was the case back in Atlanta, at Coke HQ.

Me: I asked three different clerks and they don't have a single Coke sticker.
Amy: That's unbelieveable.
Me: Astonishing.
Amy: You can buy twelve different kinds of shower curtains that say "Coca Cola" but they don't have a single bumper sticker.
Me: You know, I don't mind it actually. It makes it that much sweeter when we do find stickers.
Amy: Give me a break. You're all "sticker Zen" now or something? Please.

But it's true. I do still feel a pang of disappointment when there's no sticker to commemorate a good stop, like Hot Springs, Arkansas or the National Civil Rights Museum or Big Daddy Don Garlit's Center For American Drag Racing. But when we do find one, the celebration is mighty and the ceremony of applying it never gets stale. There may actually be whole days spent debating where on the sticker window a particular sticker should go. Some, like the prominent top spot of the Graceland sticker are no-brainers. Others, like the far left placement of the Sun Records circle are hotly contested. One thing, however, is certain: With less than a month to go and plenty of stops planned for road trip giants like the Grand Canyon, Roswell, and Vegas, we've got a fighting chance at filling this window before Portland.

No. 162

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Sun, 24 Feb 2008 21:01:00 +0000

Hot Springs, Arkansas: Never been to Arkansas? That's understandable. But here's a town that inspires a stop even in the dead of winter. Perhaps especially in the dead of winter.

We love hot springs, so the name of this town raises expectations to impossible levels. And I'm not necessarily a Bill Clinton fanatic, but I am a sentimental Democrat, so it was a nice bonus to roll into town and see the large sign that declares Hot Springs to be the "boyhood home of William Jefferson Clinton." Hot Springs is not, however, the birthplace of Bill Clinton, as announced by an even larger sign posted just down the road, at the edge of Hope, Arkansas. Though we did buy a terrific Bill Clinton magnet from a gift shop downtown, the roots of the 42nd president were not the reason for our visit. The hot springs were.

The hot springs we're accustomed to in the western U.S. are mostly unpolished and amazing. They are roiling hot water, cut and poured into a rough limestone pool in the wilderness, across some open field, desert or dense pine forest, identifiable only by the columns of steam rising in the distance.

In Hot Springs, Arkansas, the geothermally heated spring waters beneath the town are piped into elaborate, high society bathhouses built in the 1920s, for Americans seeking treatment for sypphilis, typhoid, arthritis or simple exhaustion. Most of the original bathhouses are no longer in use, but the National Parks Service still operates one (above) very much in the same way it's been operated for the last 100 years. The hot mineral water is also surprisingly potable and even more surprisingly made available free of charge to the public - we availed of one of the many faucets scattered around town. Locals line up here to fill five gallon jugs with free spring water (inset), undoubtedly the best tasting public water you'll ever have.

The bathhouse process itself is fascinating, from the changing rooms to the individual whirlpool baths that are agitated by an ancient appliance resembling a milkshake blender. Marble walls and porcelain everything, this place is the closest you'll come to a Turkish bath in the U.S., exoticism in your own backyard.

In these bathhouses, the bather is escorted by an attendant through each step of the bathing process . The 20 minute superheated whirlpool mineral bath is the main attraction, but the oddities that follow are well worth the $16 price of admission. After the whirlpool there is an odd little sitting tub called the Sitz Bath, meant to sooth lower back problems. Then a medieval steam chamber, resembling a glass greenhouse and locked from the outside, in which you are left just long enough to confess your most recent sins. Next a hot mineral wrap with towels and sheets, falling asleep and being jolted awake by an attendant pushing you into a shower chamber that pummels the body with some 50 jet streams. Amy opted for a 20 minute massage to top this all off, I chose instead to lay down in the "cooling room" where a nice man swaddled me, a little too enthusiastically, in something he called a "Chinese diaper." All too soon we were clean, hot, sleepy and ejected back out into the frigid cold of Arkansas' February. Onward then to even warmer waters in Texas, where the sky starts to get bigger and the steaks get cheaper.

No. 161

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Sun, 24 Feb 2008 20:23:00 +0000

Elvis Presley's Graceland: Unlike our trip from Oregon to Florida in 2006, Amy and I have packed our current cross-country itinerary with some of the greatest American road trip stops in human history. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Elvis Presley's Graceland. Here's how it happens.

The Wait: In our case, we waited a full 32 hours before actually getting in because we arrived on a Monday night to find that Graceland is closed on Tuesdays. Besides using this time to see Memphis (recommended), we also used it to download Elvis music and begin the process of saturating our consciousness with the sappy, tender melodies of the best selling musician of all time. When the big day finally arrived, we had already seen the Sun Studio space where the King cut his first record, all of the hotel signs along Elvis Presley Blvd. that boast "All King" beds, and listened to Elvis's 50 greatest hits on continuous repeat about two dozen times.

The Tickets and More Waiting: Like any good tourist attraction, Graceland offers a tiered ticket system. Prices start with the basic mansion tour and rise all the way to something called the "VIP Entourage Tour" which would have cost us more than our entire week's budget. We shot for the midrange "Platinum Package" which included access to the inside of Elvis' jet planes. Tickets in hand, we moved to a second long line, waiting for the shuttle.

The Shuttle: Is necessary because Graceland is actually across the street.

The Mansion: The shuttle dumps you out at Graceland's front door, a house that is a collision between a colonial mansion and a crappy split level Brady Bunch house. Never mind the outside, because it's the furnishings you're here to see. These furnishings, they do not disappoint.

Downstairs: This is where you are allowed to go. Equipped with an audio tour narrated by an actor who sounds like Sam Elliott but is not, you will shuffle in line through the common rooms, each one more absurdly and ornately decorated than the last, with the big payout assumed to be the Jungle Room. I actually found the Jungle Room to be the most disappointing, much preferring the rumpus rooms in the basement. The yellow vinyl padded room that features a wall with three color televisions simultaneously broadcasting god knows what. Or the billiards room with the paisley circus tent ceiling. And even the stairwell back up from the basement to the jungle room, with walls wrapped in green, deep-pile carpeting. But the jungle room itself? Orange lampshades, brown leather sofas and a couple of leopard print pillows. Yawn. Now onto the upstairs.

Upstairs: You're not actually allowed to go upstairs.

The Grounds: Disappointed by not being allowed to see the upstairs bathroom where Elvis collapsed in an overdose heap of pills, you are now allowed to wander around the grounds, touring various outbuildings that house Elvis' massive collection of awards, gold records, memorabilia and most famous jumpsuits. These jumpsuits, like the furnishings, do not disappoint.

The Jumpsuits: You are NOT allowed to touch Elvis' amazing bejeweled jumpsuits, not even if you ask nicely twenty five times. Most of the memorabilia and jumpsuits are safely housed behind glass cases but those that are not are secured behind thick velvet ropes. If you reach across these velvet ropes, even just to make a harmless pointing gesture, your movement will be noticed by one of a thousand security cameras, prompting a voice to boom out over the loudspeakers, "PLEASE DO NOT REACH TOWARDS THE EXHIBITS, THANK YOU, THANKYOUVERYMUCH." I did not try this, but saw several who did and witnessed the same reprimand each time. I like to imagine that if you don't obey the loudspeaker, you will be sent to Graceland Jail.

Graceland Jail: I'm pretty certain this doesn't actually exist.

Elvis' Grave: If you manage to stay out of Graceland Jail, the mansion tour concludes with a look at the graves of Elvis and his parents, just out back behind the pool. The graves are covered with beautiful flower arrangements sent year round by fan clubs from around the world. Despite the fact that the King of Rock N' Roll is buried in his backyard in the manner usually reserved for beloved household pets, I would actually describe this part of the tour as "pretty awesome."

Other Exhibits and Gift Shops: When you book the Platinum Tour Package, you're given access to several add-on exhibits, each one with its own gift shop. These included a museum of Elvis' car and golf cart collections, a tour of the Lisa Marie jet plane with gold plated seat belts and a queen sized bed, an additional museum of less-popular jumpsuits and a brief display on Elvis' short stint in the US Army. Most of these exhibits suck.

The Final Analysis: A day at Graceland is a minimum $50 commitment per person in your party, including some compulsory junk from the gift shop, so you may find yourself thinking long and hard about whether or not a tour of Graceland is right for you. Don't think. Just go. And then tell everyone you know that it was one of the wildest, weirdest stops on your road trip because boy, is it ever. I'm in love, I'm all shook up.

Photos: The living room; Amy in the dining room; a fan in the Jungle Room; Amy with memorabilia; the billiards room and; graffiti outside on Elvis Presley Blvd.

No. 160

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Sun, 24 Feb 2008 17:18:00 +0000

Waiting for Graceland, Discovering the Rest of Memphis: Did you know that Graceland is closed on Tuesdays in February? Neither did we, until we arrived at the Graceland RV Park on Monday night, bubbling with anticipation, and saw the large sign that read “GRACELAND IS CLOSED ON TUESDAYS IN FEBRUARY.” Our words to the campground host were along the lines of, “you can’t just close Graceland,” but apparently they can. So we stayed in Memphis and extra frigid day.

Which was a gift because Memphis is amazing, an infectious American city. It’s a gritty Southern time capsule and I guarantee that unless you’ve been there, you don’t even realize what a prominent place it occupies in the national cultural ether. We decided to go, as most do, to bask in the roadside absurdity of Graceland. But with an extra day, we got to really dig into the city’s deep crate of blues, soul and rock history, with time spent at the Sun Records recording studio and the Stax Museum of American Soul Music. We shed honest tears at the National Civil Rights Museum, which is constructed within the Lorraine Motel and preserves the room and balcony where Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated. We weren’t alive in 1968 so we weren't prepared for the crushing sadness that overwhelmed us when we stood in the space that Dr. King last stood. Standing there, reading the story, looking at the pictures, hearing the recorded sounds, it’s impossible not to relive the day as if it were happening now. This museum is a national treasure, one of the most tragically beautiful places in the world.

If you’re in need of comforting afterwards, seek solace like I did in an enormous plate of local delight - dry, spice rubbed pork ribs - for Memphis has more good BBQ than you can shake a Lipitor prescription at. And then wake up the next day, thankful for everything you have, and brace yourself for another of the most tragically beautiful places in the world. Elvis Presley’s Graceland.

No. 159

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Sun, 17 Feb 2008 22:48:00 +0000

Getting Paid To Do Something You Love: I love writing. I do it a lot. When I make time for it, I feel good. When I go a day without doing it, I get irritable. Amy took my mood swings in stride when we were overseas, because it often wasn’t possible for me to find time on busy days. I also love to make photos, although I’ll always think of myself as a writer and not a photographer for the simple reason that I’m too lazy to get any better at photography. I have one filter, don’t know how to use a light meter and can rarely remember which number makes the aperture thingy big and which one makes it small. But I still love to take pictures.

And about two-thirds of the way into this trip, I finally started admitting to myself that I wanted to try writing for a living. Or at least half a living. So I have a few things happening, some “projects in the works” as the unemployed in Los Angeles say. I’m getting paid to write for a nice little website about collector cars, called Cars That Matter. I’ve had words and photos bought and published in a wonderful new print magazine called Everywhere Magazine and expect to have more in the next issue. I was also commissioned for an article about our trip in one of the most beautiful travel/adventure/enviro magazines you’ve never seen, called Wend. That article, with photos, is due out in April and it’s a collection of stories relating to how getting around - in rickshaws, boats, trains, whatever - was more than half the fun of our trip. Look for Wend in bookstores soon, it’s a terrific magazine.

Anyway, these things are loads of fun for me and all happened because I took a chance on myself. Like "Follow Your Bliss," but without all the new agey baggage. If you’re not happy doing what you’re doing, if you want to travel around the world, if you want to be a professional dog walker or if you want to fly planes, try it. Take a damn chance on yourself. Because even if this doesn't work out the way I want it to, I'm loving every minute of it. That may be the best reason to wander.

PS - We got a nice, brief mention in the Boston Globe Sunday travel section last week. Online version is here.

No. 158

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Sun, 17 Feb 2008 22:39:00 +0000

Walking in a Corporate Wonderland: Big greedy corporations? Boooo. Guided tours of corporate headquarters, including big gift shops and lots of free samples? Yay! So it went on our day spent in downtown Atlanta, where we toured the World of Coca-Cola and CNN studios. At Coke HQ, they pump you so full of soda love that by the time you get to the World Tasting Room and are granted bottomless samples of sixty Coke products from around the world, only bad things can happen. Bloated and sticky with the secret formulas of weirdo African and Latin American pops, we ambled through the movies, memorabilia and propaganda of an American corporate juggernaut. Besides an afternoon of funny gas, here were the takeaways: The only thing that matters in the world is Coke, which may or may not somehow improve brain and nerve function.

Then came CNN, the prodigal goody-two-shoes of the Turner Broadcasting family. CNN offers a very worthwhile kind of zoo tour, allowing common people to view the network’s newsrooms in action through greasy, forehead-stained glass windows. Sadly, the glass windows overlooking the Headline News room are etched with the warning, “PLEASE DO NOT KNOCK ON THE GLASS.” People, did we learn nothing from the San Francisco Zoo maulings? Amy and I don’t drink a lot of Coke, but we do watch a lot of CNN, so this one was real feel good fun. Takeaways here: The only thing that matters in the world is CNN. Also, an English-speaking monkey could do the job of the on-air weather personalities.

Clearly there’s a lot more to Hotlanta than corporate HQs. Delta Airlines, Turner and Coke may dominate daily headlines, but there’s a wealth of “world famous” hot dog diners like The Varsity (inset) and innumerable markers of African American history and culture, like Martin Luther King Jr.’s final resting place. Bad traffic, sweet southern hospitality and big winter thunderstorms. We saw all these things too and here was the takeaway: The only place that matters is Atlanta. And I’m thirsty. Let’s watch some news.

No. 157

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Sun, 17 Feb 2008 07:44:00 +0000

Unlikely Wildlife: Back in Tampa, the day before we started driving north to Georgia, we went looking for Manatees. Near extinction in the 1980s at the hands of careless, speeding boaters, the lovably ugly sea cow has been staging a comeback thanks to Florida’s aggressive education and enforcement campaigns. It’s easier to see wild manatees now than when I was a kid and, ironically, one of the best places to go is Tampa Electric Company’s coal power plant in Apollo Beach. We were in Florida for a month, seeing “don’t harm the manatee” signs everywhere, so Amy desperately wanted to see some fellow vegetarian mammals in action. So we went.

And we saw. A couple. In the winter, the manatees prefer the warm waters surrounding the power plant, a result of the outflow of “clean” and hot wastewater into the bay. It’s a bizarre setting to view endangered wildlife, to say the least, but we did manage to spot a few flippers and snouts lolling about in the bathwater. If you’ve never seen a manatee, they’re a kind of mish-mash of about five different marine mammals, a postcard of evolutionary theory. As a result, it’s very difficult to describe what one looks like. Amy’s having this problem often in Georgia, because she bought a button for her sweatshirt that says “I Heart Manatees.” The truck stop cashiers have lots of questions.

Cashier: Now, what is a man-atee? What is that?
Amy: It’s uh, a big mammal. It’s like a whale, but it’s not a whale.
Cashier: Oh. I don’t think I’d like a manatee. They’re too big, I wouldn’t like that.
Amy: Well, they’re also called the sea cow.
Cashier: Oh no, no, I don’t think I’d like those at all.
Other Cashier: So what, do you work with these things or somethin’?
Amy: No, I just saw some in Florida.
Cashier: Oh. Well you have a good day now.

No. 156

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Sun, 17 Feb 2008 02:31:00 +0000

Driving Like Lightweights: For the sake of our sanity and the mechanical welfare of our vehicle (vee-hick’ll), we like to take our sweet time. That doesn’t just mean keeping it under 65, it also means not driving more than five hours a day unless absolutely necessary. What that gets us is easy afternoons and lazy mornings at beautiful state parks, watching the sun come and go while we shoot the breeze with retirees from Wisconsin and local bass fisherman on holiday. Time to watch the fog burn off the cold morning lakes of Georgia’s winter. Time to drink a beer, check the oil, skip a few stones before thinking about dinner. It also gets us a fair amount of teasing from road-worn relatives, like Amy’s uncle Kip in Marietta, Georgia.

Uncle Kip: So where’d you stay last night?
Me: A state park, near Cordele.
Uncle Kip: Oh that’s not very far from Tampa, you didn’t drive very far at all!
Me: Well it was six hours.
Uncle Kip: That’s nothing!
Me: We’re very slow.
Uncle Kip: That’s a drop in the bucket!
Me: We like to take it easy.
Uncle Kip: You’re lightweights!

Fair enough, but we also had a relaxing night at Georgia Veteran’s State Park, above. Necessary preparation for the rush hour snarl of Metro Atlanta the next day.

No. 155

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Sun, 10 Feb 2008 15:31:00 +0000

Florida: It's Cottontop season in Florida, that warm and sunny winter time of year when the retired population surges and the state's median age careens towards the century mark. This, thanks to the snowbirds fleeing the inhospitable February of Michigan and Buffalo, makes it difficult to find a campsite not already occupied by a giant RV equipped with a satellite dish, several small terriers and a bathroom larger than our entire living space. Amy, Cleo and I braved the crowded roads of my home state for a warm up road trip, looking to prove that Florida still has some things worth loving. That means visiting grandparents, sweet and gracious as ever and always willing to take us for a ride in the golf cart to buy fresh citrus. It means stops at kitschy and noticeably aged attractions like the Kennedy Space Center, which we can safely report is not receiving it's fair share of NASA's dwindling annual budget. Too bad, because there are still a lot of skeptics to win over.

Amy: There was a woman in the bathroom talking about the moon landings.
Me: What's the verdict?
Amy: She really liked the 3D IMAX movie, but she's not convinced it really happened.

It's incredible what shreds of nonsense people will cling to in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary. This woman, standing in front of volumes of video, photo and physical evidence of the Apollo moon landings, still doubts that it all happened because an "engineer friend" once told her that the shadows in the film footage looked wrong. Undaunted and fully indoctrinated, we blasted south for a visit with friends in Miami and Islamorada, some last hurrah swimming in the Florida Keys and a canoe trip in the Everglades. Dusk hour bug bites aside, we found plenty to love in the tropical breezes of Heaven's waiting room. Mission accomplished.

Photos: Canoeing in the Everglades, Downtown St. Petersburg, Spanish bean soup and deviled crab in Ybor City, sunset on Bahia Honda Key, mighty fine campsites.

No. 154

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Sat, 19 Jan 2008 15:35:00 +0000

Meeting New People, Old Dogs: We left Amy’s family in New York last week, moving this East Coast reunion tour to Florida, otherwise known as “New York South.” I was born in Tampa, almost all of my family is here or very nearby. Although it pains me to come home every year to find more sprawling subdivisions, news stories about freshly drained wetlands, new freeway lanes and the inevitable closing of some old family-owned institution in favor of another Bennigan’s, it also feels really damn good to be in shorts again.

Besides family, we left two cherished things behind in Tampa a year ago, my two favorite responsibilities: The dog and the Volkswagen camper. My dad made the questionably sweet decision to bring the dog to meet us at the airport, so instead of mylar balloons we were greeted with frantic licking and an armful of close-quarter scratch marks. And when we rounded the corner of the street I grew up on, there was no mistaking the flutter I felt when I saw the Volkswagen rise like an oblong yellow sun on the horizon. Before I wrestled with that sliding door for the first time in a year, before I breathed again of the musty interior air of a thousand camping trips, I was already imagining myself behind the wheel and surrounded by the endless plains of Kansas, West Texas, Nevada.

Good times got better when I met my new niece, my sister’s first baby and my parents’ first grandchild, born while we were in China. We have a lot of new babies to meet back in Portland, but it’s going to be difficult to top the warm high I get from being with this one. She smiles, I smile, she laughs, I laugh, and the cycle repeats for hours until one of us gets drowsy, hungry or needs to poop. Just like that, I have a new favorite family member. Sorry grandpa.

In Tampa as in New York, we’ve fallen effortlessly into the comfortable, time melting routine of family life that’s actually made it harder to imagine reintegrating ourselves into productive, responsible society. We’re not really living our own lives yet but it feels closer, when we’re on our hands and knees scrubbing and tuning the Volkswagen for the next migration. We’re going to be on the road again shortly, too soon and not nearly soon enough.

No. 153

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Thu, 27 Dec 2007 15:48:00 +0000

The Pickled Meats of New York City: There are so many authentic Jewish delis in New York that descriptors like "institution" and "perfection" are applied almost too generously, albeit always with fierce loyalty. Shortly after we arrived in New York, local news outlets began running a story on the relocation of Manhattan's 2nd Avenue Deli, from its old location in the East Village to a cheaper, name-defying outlet at 33rd and 3rd. If you're asking directions, that's pronounced toity toid and toid.

Stories of the 2nd Avenue Deli's grand reopening heaped on words like "institution," "famous," and "cholesterol," leaving little doubt that we would visit this place. Applying small town logic, we tried to avoid the afternoon rush by going for lunch at 2:30 and were rewarded with a chilly forty five minute wait for a table. The 2nd Avenue Deli is a "famous ""institution" of "cholesterol" that is open twenty four hours a day in a city that is awake and hungry for twenty four hours a day. There's always a line.

And for good reason. Here is the American version of those bustling little noodle shops we loved and left in Asia, a place that bulges with warmth, frenzy, tables crowded with strangers, hanging meats, new smells, anticipation. Regulars complain that the new location is only half the size of the original, but everyone falls into silent ecstasy when the waitress arrives with piles of latkes, kugel and house-cured pastrami. As promised, it's the pastrami and corned beef that carry the day, with a flavor and texture that cannot possibly be improved upon, an experience which finds you easily parting with the outrageous sum of $14 per sandwich. And like all places that serve the best pickled beef, it's an honest kosher joint, the kind that will deny you the Gentile's delight of melted cheese on meat but will immediately make amends by handing out free bowls of grievenes (crispy fried chicken skin and onions), three kinds of house pickles, fresh cole slaw and even a surprisingly fantastic pickled green tomato.

City people like to moan that delis like this are the last of a dying breed, but it's hard to imagine it when you're staring down a pile of corned beef like this, elbow to elbow, flanked by a take-out counter line that's longer than all of the beef sausage in the window. Still, New Yorkers adore an unjust catastrophe, so someone writes that there aren't many real Jewish delis left, that unlike Chinese and Mexican restaurants, there's no swelling new immigrant pool to rely on. "You can't just call up Poland and say, 'Send us six Jews,'" they say. If that's true, if customer draw and retention is the problem, maybe it's time to remove the "Instant Heart Attack Sandwich" from the menu, a $21 pile of meat that's bracketed with fried potato latkes instead of bread and would probably render most people unconscious.

More on New York Jewish delis.

No. 152

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Sat, 15 Dec 2007 03:05:00 +0000

Haircuts of Asia: A brief review, non-scientific, 99% real facts!

India: The Nirvana
The barbershops of India offer the best of one of the greatest small adventures available to the world traveler: The local haircut. No electric razor, lightning fast snips from ancient scissors topped off with an ayurvedic head massage that's assisted by a terrifying but effective vibrating, electric massager.

Philippines: The Colloquial
A high national fluency in English satisfies the wandering English-speaker's craving for timeless barber shop chit chat. Be sure you're also fluent in the most recent developments in the National Basketball Association and have a thoughtful opinion on Arnold Schwarzenegger as governor of California.

Mongolia: The DIY
Bring your own scissors or similarly sharp implement and, using your reflection in one of the country's pristine lakes, chop off just enough to differentiate yourself from woolly local livestock.

Thailand: The Gender Bender
Female cutters seem to outnumber males here, which makes for a wholly different experience for the mop-top male in need of a trim. In one of the country's ubiquitous unisex salons, if you don't speak Thai, be prepared to flip through a stack of 1980s womens fashion magazines to find the right "haircut good look for you."

Indonesia: The ZZZZZZZ
Another haircut ending with a soothing, no-strings-attached head, shoulder and back massage that will knock you out cold. Reccomended at the END of a long day of sightseeing. Not recommended just before engaging in so-called "adrenaline sports."

Laos: The Sound of Dull Metal on a 3-Day Beard
Skip the haircut and go right to the fantastically non-hygenic streetside face shave. Like India, you may find children as young as twelve deftly wielding an old-timey straight razor at roadside barber shacks. Unlike India, they will never use shaving lotion or water, in deference to the thin, wispy facial hair of SE Asians. Ouch.

China: The Mission Impossible
A Westerner walks into a Chinese Barber shop. The music stops, everyone freezes, mouths agape, cigarettes smoldering. The Westerner attempts to say simply, "I would like a haircut" in Mandarin and instead correctly pronounces the phrase "I have some recent toiletries." Repeat this process all day until the Westerner hires a translator.

No. 151

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Fri, 14 Dec 2007 21:27:00 +0000

Unlikely Antiquities: Less than a month ago, we were scampering around the ancient remnants of Mexico's Mayan civilization. Now we're living with Amy's father in Hicksville, NY (that's Long Island to you). He's a pack rat of medium intensity, which means that the garage is filled to capacity with things like non-functional vacuum cleaners and the basement is overflowing with spare food and old electrical gadgets, but the house itself is relatively neat and tidy. Except for the kitchen and dining room tables, which collect a year's worth of junk mail that is purged only when Amy comes home for a visit. The ensuing battles of opinion, over which item is garbage and which item is not garbage, are epic, ugly and daily. In the end, 95% of the expired Cheerios coupons, outdated medicines and stale Pringles will be purged from the house, though not without great sacrifice on both sides. She may get to shred those old Outback coupons, but there's no way he's parting with an eight-year old box of Sunsweet prunes.

My only job is to stay clear of it all, neutral as Switzerland, quiet as a titmouse pinned beneath four decades of Life magazines, skulking around quietly in the background and using the distracted arguments as an opportunity to rummage through forgotten piles for things of interest to me. In two weeks, I've already rescued two nice pairs of wayfarer sunglasses, a hat that says "Hurricane Bob, Long Island '91" and a mint vintage copy of Gun Digest that is a short, chilling read. Beware the spoils of war.