The full force of being alive

I've written this post before, the one where I close this blog down. My reason for shutting it down this time is much the same as last time.

I get caught up with thinking about certain thoughts in my head. More specially, the thoughts asking me who am I writing these posts for. Even though each post is expressed to inspire everything is related to my life, my travels, my take on living. A self-centered theme to be sure. I'm not running away from my goal to inspire I'm merely owning up to the realization that keeping this blog going is failing to reach that goal as I see it.

There is a beautiful photo of Pancho Villa and Emiliano Zapata and a handful of others who have become immortalized in this iconic image of the Mexican revolution. In this photo I see so much, but more than anything I see a little boy. I see a little boy peeking to the side of Pancho Villa's right shoulder. (Villa is the one sitting in the big presidential chair, Zapata with the massive sombrero resting on his knee)

I like to think of this image as a brain scan of all the thoughts/feelings floating around my head at any given moment. Each face representing a different thought or emotion. Some at the forefront of my mind, some lingering in the back, but collectively they make up the full force of being alive, inspired, lost, driven, scared, brave, sad, confused and last but not least, curious.

I'm certain I've still got a lot of stories left in me, but for now, i'll be happy to share them in person rather than on this page. These days, like the ones that have passed and the ones yet to come, will be filled with many thoughts, but my hope is that I nurture that little boy stirring up a great story in my head, the one who reminds me it's better to be filled with a f*ckload of curiosity than conform to common thoughts.

Been there Done that PART 3

Otis Redding was playing as I settled into my taxi ride that would take me to the other end of the island.

“You just come from the big casino mon?” the cabbie asked in a thick Caribbean dialect

“you know what?” I replied, “I just got done working on one of those big yachts and I don’t know about you, but I'm reconsidering whether I want one for myself.” I said with a chuckle

“Really, why da'ya' say 'dat mon?"

Been there Done that PART 2

Dressed in Kakai pants, a collared shirt, and those stereotypical yachting shoes (the ones with the thin piece of leather laced around the ankle, and of course white soled, so as not to scuff up the pretty, big boat.)

“Kevin!” I stood staring at the second level.

“Come on up.” He yelled back in a hurried tone.

Pic-me-up Monday #6

Been there Done that PART 1

I tripped on the gangway catching myself a moment before the captain turned around. I was pretty sure I just stumbled upon my dream job.  I was the newest crew member of a giant yacht, one hundred and forty feet of pure excess floating in the harbor of Nassau Bahamas.  The name of the private yacht read in big black letters across the stern Been there Done that.

Pic-me-up Monday #5

Velocity, best served when terminal.

Liechtenstein.  A small country squeezed between the borders of Switzerland and Austria.  It started out as a fleeting thought in my head, to visit the country of Liechtenstein.  Then progressed into a challenge by some friends to make good on my word.

Pic-me-up Monday #4 (Happy New Year)

Pic-me-up Monday # 3 (Merry Christmas)

finding that old thrill of Christmas morning.

We had a red velvet chair during the years Santa visited our house. It was bright red. I would insist on camping out behind this chair on Christmas Eve. I needed to see the man who brought me all those wonderful gifts.

Pic-me-up Monday #2

To all those standing in line so they can see loved ones. For the ones who weather storm delays. Missed connections, early departures, and canceled flights. Traveling during the holidays can be hell.  To all of you. Deep breaths and Godspeed.

A season of skiing, Swiss style

Group photo of one of the groups I had. The one with the "pointed finger" over his face was a handful.

It was dark but light from the star-filled sky flowed over the Swiss Alps. We stayed a little too long at the local ski lodge feasting on fondue, toasting with rosé one too many times. We set out, skiing under the influence. A group of my friends and fellow ski instructors were given torches, yes, flames on a stick, by the owner of the chalet. Picture a dozen hooligans each carrying a large flame down a ski hill.

Pic-me-up Monday

On Mondays I will post a photo reminding me, and maybe you, to not take life too seriously. (this photo was taken in Northwestern New Mexico, and yes, it is a real sign.

In search of a new beginning one temp job at a time

Recently I paid a visit to my friends in San Francisco. Which reminded me of a time when I called that city home, if only for a year.

It was October (2004), with leaves on the ground my trusty (for the most part) 1980 mercedes benz coupe named Ruth and I set off in search of a new beginning in San Francisco California, a state where even the Terminator can find steady employment.

Then I realized - being in a rut isn't always bad.

I woke up this morning in a rut. Big, heavy questions started to roll around my head as soon as my eyes opened. So I went for a run. It was the first snow of the season. the air was crisp and cold. The kind of cold that bites. The kind that creeps under clothes and chills the core. It was clear Old Man winter was coming out of his rut.

I returned home, hoping I had run off my rut. No luck. So I turned to my trusted friend to help me realize that life isn't so complicated, that all things can be looked at in a different light and become not only non-stressful, but funny. Stephen Colbert. Watching the Colbert Report goes a long way in improving my mood. I flipped on Hulu and watched. It helped. So did the coffee. I was almost out of the woods.

Having used up all my tricks I was on the brink of returning to my rut when I had an unexplainable thought to step out onto the deck to get some fresh air. It was still morning. It was still cold and still snowing. Not heavy, the flakes floated in the air before hitting the ground. Like artificial snow on a hollywood movie set the white flakes seemed light enough to dance with each other before gathering on the ground.

I walked out on the deck and was greeted by the big eyes of whitetail doe staring up at me. I stood motionless. Standing still I stared back. It was completely quiet. The kind of quiet that almost has a sound. The kind of quiet that is a noise the way only mother nature can make no sound be a sound.

I watched as the doe turned away, not seeing me as a threat she took her time fading away under the snow covered pine branches. Something made me stay. I stood there enjoying the moment when nothing seems to really matter except appreciating life for all that it is and all that it isn't.

A moment later a four point whitetail buck stepped out from under the trees. He paid no attention to me. I knew he was on a mission. I then smiled, knowing he was also in a rut. And it was then that I realized not all ruts are bad. I walked back in the house wishing I could give him a fist bump. After all, he just helped me get out of my rut.

This photo is dedicated to my friends Tom and Mike, both of whom I know would have rather been seeing this guy between crosshairs than worrying about aperture.

On the campaign trail with my running mate

All of us need a running mate. At the moment mine is Flo Rida. With the ipod on I lace up my running shoes. Dawn has arrived and I'm trying my best to get from the bed to the trailhead. Flo Rida gets me out the door then passes the responsibility to Joe Purdy. Still getting the lay-of-the-land from my temporary digs I scramble from the bedroom down the sandy hillside until I reach the dirt path.

The trail shoots east before turning into a wide loop that descends to the bottom of the gully, from there it's a steep climb back up to the house. I never time how long it takes to run this loop. It doesn't matter. If I had to guess its only about 5 or 6 songs long. 

Thoughts start cranking with each stride. I evaluate my priorities, reminding myself of Ghandi's words "actions express priorities." I think about where I want to live. I quickly reorganize my contacts that have expressed possibilities of employment. What about the French Chef who taught me so much during those weeks I helped him at that cooking school in Provence. Surly he could help me find a gig in New Orleans while I land something full time.

Joe Purdy hands off to Wye Oak. The cold morning air which first cooled my core now feels good. I can feel my heart beat. A doe jumps and bounds from the trail down into the tall brush. I stop and stare. Our eyes lock on each other. Neither of us move. The Roots start to play in my ears as we turn and run from each other.

The trail narrows into single track. I love this section. There's a short stretch here where yellow leaves litter the trail. Like a bridge that connects one season to another I race across the leaves deeper into the gully. At the bottom there's only one way home. Up.

Straight up, heart pounding, sweat inducing, its just a matter of how far I can make it before doubling over gasping for breath. No thoughts, only short strides. "Simmer down" by Bob Marley starts just as I stop on the side of the hill.

I'm on the homestretch. Only a couple hundred feet left. Switching to a slow walk, I enjoy the first rays of sun on the side of the valley. Old school Pearl Jam plays as I drop my running shoes, now damp and dirty, outside the door. Eddie Vedder has long been one of my favorite running mates in this campaign called life.

Turkish delight

Sometimes my writing finds a home somewhere other than this blog.

Odd Job: Feeding a bunch of hungry hippies

You might think it strange to feel stress while wearing a tie-dye apron but that’s exactly how I felt. Bear, the owner of the pizzeria in Hope Idaho, had hired me to help him make pizza at the Barter Faire in Tonasket.

“Find your zen.” was the only piece of advice he gave me before turning me loose inside his retrofit van built for making pizzas. His tricked-out 80’s Econoline is fully equipped to crank out pies. Exactly what you would imagine if one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were selected for “Pimp my ride”.

Just as I started to find my groove, turning out pies as fast as I could Bear came to the back of the van, “don’t stress but we’re gettin’ busy so keep’em comin’.” Faster I thought.

The Greek pizza in the oven needed rotating. The “Village” was cooked and ready to cut. The pepperoni pizza needed be moved to the bottom rack. And the cheese pizza was ready for some heat. 

Shit. The cheese pizza wouldn’t slide off the peel. I forgot to dust it with semolina. Semolina flour, made from durum wheat, allows the pie to slide off the peel. I tried in vain to shake off the pizza but it became stuck in the oven.

Desperate to rescue it from the inferno I scooped it up only to drop it on the oven door. I felt like I was on an episode of I Love Lucy. I was in the middle of a culinary crime scene. I started to panic as the mangled cheese pie sizzled on the open oven door.

I dumped the disfigured cheese in the trash, built a new pizza and pulled myself together. After weathering the worst of the dinner rush I rolled out my sleeping bag on the floury floor of the van, tired from working a twelve hour day.

The next morning I awoke to Bear’s friend known as Africa John who mockingly shouted “Barter Faire! I’m popping the yellow one!” Fluent in French, Arabic and some Spanish, Africa is a weathered UN humanitarian worker turned hand-sculpted-stone-bead seller. The massive encampment was silent in the early morning as we sat with our cowboy coffee, taking a moment to watch the sunrise.

I spent the day working the till with Dora, Bear’s Mexican girlfriend, serving up hot tamales, puff pastries and pizza. True to its name many customers wanted to barter for food. Hats, chocolate, organic vegetables, pretty much anything imaginable as proven by a young man who offered to go get his “guitar and play a Jimi Hendrix song for a slice.”

Much of what I knew as normal was constantly challenged by these unique surroundings. After giving one guy his change he reached his hand over the tip jar and dropped some bud in my hand. “Here ya’ go man.” Another passed by the booth dressed in a loincloth “Yeah, I’m looking to start a land trust.” I heard him say.

This “fight the system” vibe seemed to radiate from everyone. At the Barter Faire “living off the land” wasn’t just a catch phrase dropped at farmer’s markets but a way of life.

Families sold yearn, old blue jeans, organic vegetables and other goods under E-Z up tents. Old vans, converted school buses and Winnebagos resurrected from the 80s were commonplace among the long rows of campers.

I felt like a foreigner far from home. My bald head seemed even more naked among so many dreadlocks. My “casual Friday” attire left over from an abandon desk job was in stark contrast to brightly colored natural fibers.

After four long days we loaded the van, strapped the hula-hoops to the roof and headed back to the land of electricity, running water, and cell phone reception. It was early morning as the dusty van rolled down a long stretch of road.

A faint morning fog covered the pastures along highway 21. Bear was at the wheel, I sat shotgun and Dora was seated on a plastic lawn chair lodged between the two front seats.

Sloping green forests were dotted with the yellow tips of tamaracks and the aspen leaves flickered in the sunlight. In that moment I couldn’t decide if I had found my zen or I was just dead tired.

Searching for tamales on my Triumph

Fall days were made for motorcycles. I wasn't home for more than a day before pulling the cover of my Triumph Bonneville. The open road was calling and I had an old friend to visit.

Pulling down on the throttle I headed north bypassing Coeur d' Alene, searching for unknown back roads, cutting through Rathdrum and Spirit Lake. Reaching Sandpoint I turned east wrapping around the north end of Lake Pend Oreille towards the small town of Hope Idaho.

I was in search of an old friend who I met along the coast of Mexico a few years back. I knew him as Oso, Spanish for Bear, but around these parts he's known as Bear. As luck would have it, he owns a Pizzeria in Hope which is a 2.5 hour drive from Spokane. 

I found him back in the kitchen making pizza with his girlfriend Dora from Mexico. "We met a few days after you left San Agustinillo!" He said looking at her with a big smile. "She doesn't speak english and I still don't speak spanish, so there's a lot of quiet time." "If something gets real serious we fire up the computer and use google translate."

We headed up stairs to the deck with a few of his friends to enjoy a giant pie with big chunks of garlic. "Grab a beer!" he said as we passed the cooler. The sun was setting over the lake as we talked about all the characters we knew back in San Agustinillo.

The evening ended in the kitchen. I helped him prep food for the massive Barter Fair this coming weekend in Tonasket Washington. "I don't know how patriotic you are, but you fold these like you fold a flag." He said, teaching me how to prepare Spanakopita. Meanwhile Dora was making tamales, "we're gonna sell tons of her tamales this weekend!"

It was late by the time we reached Oso's small cabin up on the hill over looking the lake. With no chance of rain I found a flat piece of ground, blew up my pad, rolled out my sleeping bag, and balled up my leather jacket into a pillow. It was a cold night but I was warm in my sleeping bag. The sky was covered in stars.

Somewhere between here and there.

I travel with one big black duffel bag. Packed with some clothes, tent, 60L backpack, sleeping bag and panniers. I like to call it my Jason Bourne bag because it has everything I need to survive a life on the road including a zip lock bag with maps and SIM cards for different countries, which as my sister reminds me, isn't quite the same as having multiple passports. But I love my big black bag. Not because of what it contains but because of what it represents. Exploring the unknown.

These notes from the field are proof that I’m often most comfortable in uncommon places. This blog was created to document what I see and feel during my travels. Which is why I always begin to question its relevance whenever I board my return flight. “What will I write about now?” I ask myself the closer I get to the country, culture, and language I’ve known for most of my life.

My first impulse, usually felt in the middle of wicked long flight from the unknown to the known, is to stop posting on the blog. Maybe a farewell post. Which is what this post would be if it were not for an email I received from a distant friend of the family. He wrote that "although it’s difficult to clearly determine, all of us have a purpose and something to offer the rest of the world." In short, I took his inspiring email as a challenge to keep telling my story.

It would be easier to turn off the blog, to not worry about posting anymore. But I love a good story. I love to share a good story. I love to be inspired and inspire others. If this blog reaches but a few people who find some of what I write inspiring, than I am doing something I believe in. Which is really all I'm searching for during this nomadic life. Well that, and a place to live.