Gå På [sykkel] Tur

 Living in Norway in the summer has a sweet strange taste of some fantastic summery days, and some rainy windy days which make you go "Huh, is this summer?"  When we has a weekend of sun I couldn't wait to get out the door to do a short bicycle tour in my new home of Trondelag. 

Click Here to see an Interactive Map of my route. 

   I left on Saturday in golden sunshine and I took my time getting across the waterfront downtown. The road outside the city is freshly paved and beautiful. Three bike-tourers pass me going, and one lady coming the other way. During the breaks of traffic it’s beautiful to look around. Rock faces, trees, fjord, Pure Norway. 

  Barely outside the city. I can see the ferry coming and speed up a little bit to race it to the quay. I arrive just a few minutes before the boat. The three bike tourers who passed me had been waiting for the boat. I buy a waffle with Brunost and a candy bar. 

The three cyclist turn out to be Germans, just flew in yesterday. Today is day one, which explains all the go-pro selfie-ing. 1500km and 4 weeks to the NordKap. At least that’s their plan. One admits he’s never been on a long bike tour before. 

The ferry has great views and passes too quickly. 

Departure from the boat is a Motorcycle rally send-off. The Germans take iPhone videos. 

I catch up the germans to ride their draft for a few kms. I see that the two have new bikes, one chainring and a mega-range cassette in the rear. They have electric/wireless derailures. 

 (I just learned what these were from watching the Tour de France) 

  They also have fenders which are a little too short. 

The taller man has done this before, full fenders, front panniers, and a conventional drivetrain. 

I let them go ahead and I slow to my natural pace and enjoy the view back across the fjord. Trondheim looks beautiful. 

At the turnoff to Vanvikvan the plan goes awry. I had planned to stop at the coop to buy two breakfasts and two dinners. Tomorrow is Sunday, and no stores will be open here. But descending 50m to come back up 50m? I can’t bare to. So a critically short food situation will have to take me through. I stop in another few hundred meters to eat lunch. It’s cold in the shade, even with my hoodie and scarf, the wind is blowing up the mountain pass so I switch to the sun. 

Onward and upward, and down the other side I see a solo bike tourer coming up so I stop to say hello. 

This is more bike tourers encountered in half a day than in two months in Poland! 

He travels light and does double, or more, kms than I do a day. He’s enthusiastic and recommends a road he took which he says is beautiful. 

A little ahead I stop at a farm stand, they have wood, eggs and one last bottle of cold berry juice, score!

I go to the small beach on the big lake and doze and swim. It’s so refreshing! 

A short km more and I headed up a forest path to make camp for the night. 

Not that I have to hurry, it won’t get dark. 

I’m fortunate that my tent is impossibly easy to set up. 

I make a little fire, just because, and to keep the bugs away. It’s very buggy here. 

I eat my second sandwich for dinner, I can hear the occasional car on the road, but otherwise it’s very peaceful here. 

27 km was enough for day one. 

   Im a real wuss when it comes to distance, I can confidently claim that no one bike-tours fewer kilometers than I per day. I don't care, I like taking my time and enjoying the sites and activities. 

   Day Two: I eat my granola and dried fruit and head off. I'm a little short of water so I ask an older couple sitting on their porch for a fill. They happily oblige, and I pretend that I can understand more than 7% of the small talk. Their yard has tiny wild strawberries which are delicious. I eat a few and then bring a small handful up to the lady as a way of saying thanks. 

On I ride, and a long descent into a valley gives me a view of the climb up the other side, ugh. I hate going down to go up. I hate using my breaks. This was both. The uphill was surprisingly easily accomplished though and I biked past some mountain lakes until the road forked off to descend back to sea level. 

This first glimpse of fjord was exhilarating. And just then I was passed by a classic British saloon car. 

     At the next turn off, only a few miles from the day's destination, was a small mom & pop gas station, open on Sunday. Though they had ice cream, candy and soda... what I really wanted was a waffle with brunost, ok and an ice cream pop too. It was just the shady break I needed from my overheated state. Many folk came through for some gas or Ice Cream, one even stuck the gas nozzle into the back of his electric SUV, but it was only to fill up four gas cans for the boat... only in Norway.

The last little stretch brought me into Råkvåg, a cute little former fishing village turned tourist town. 

   I sat in the shade to eat my first hot meal in 32 hours. Cod-Burgers with boiled potatoes and vegetables. It was fantastic, I guess hunger really is the best sauce. 

   I wandered through the village, woozy from my exertion and saw the museum which explained the historic herring fishery. The exhibit was split between two adjacent wharf-houses and you had to cross from one to the other on an open metal gangplank, one story up. That was basically the best part. 

   I cycled off to the campground and met the owner, who showed me the spot to camp... they don't really have a tent space, so he gave me a triangle of grass right in front of the water! The campground was idyllic, and being so tired I naturally went for a swim and a shower and ate some vittles before sleeping. 

 

   Day Three began with an early morning as my tent overheated in the 6am sunshine. I packed up and went back the way I came, buying a days load of food and more, now that it was Monday and things were open again.

     I crossed over back to that little gas station to have another of their waffles... even better morning fresh. Then up the 150m of elevation and around the backside of the mountain and down past farms, over a gravel road and a steep brake-testing descent... to end up just across the fjord from where I had started the day... it would have been only a ten minute boat ride. 

   Oh well, I enjoyed the view and struggled on through the midday blazing sun. It was touching 80 degrees, which in Norway feels hot. I found a trove of wild strawberries and enjoyed heartily. Then a beach packed with all of humanity, which I enjoyed too. But unlike everyone pictured... I sat in the shade.

   An amazing thing happened while I swam in the cold refreshing fjord. I spotted what appeared to be a piece of seagrass floating nearby, but it moved ever so slightly. Upon closer inspection it was a small fry fish camouflaged as sea grass, 1.5 to 2 inches long. It floated near the surface and moved slowly. I thought it might be dying because it moved so slowly and showed no fear of me. In fact it came around and inspected one of my shoulders and then the other getting so close it nearly touched me. It was a magical encounter. 

   Racing the last few miles at my top speed to get to a cafe before it closed, I arrived at 5pm precisely to get my ice cream. I am used to Ice Cream as a given for bike touring. But here on this trip I am discovering that waffle with brunost and a refreshing swim are the daily guarantees. 

   The cafe was in a 1600s manor house which was cool, but I was too late to see it. 

   Afterwords I biked up to the hilltop fort which had absolutely massive costal defense cannons. They were taken from an unfinished german WWII battleship. I wish I had had three friends to ride the barrels Slim Pickins style, the gun barrels were as fat as atom bombs... that would have shown the scale better. For now I was all alone with a tremendous view. 

   Then I made camp, I was so dead. 48km, it was my longest day.

    In the morning of my fourth day I went to the manor house for, what else, a fresh morning waffle, The staff were muttering around in period dress with nothing to do. I though it would be nice to give them something to do so I took the tour... in Norwegian. I probably could have asked for English as I was by myself, but it was good listening practice. I understood some things... though I still don't know why its called Austrått, and what, if any, connection to Austria there might be. I'm glad I did because the story and artifacts are quite interesting. 

   Next I rushed over to the fort to take the 12:00 tour, which was amazing for a WWII history buff like myself. Again I was alone. From the outside you see the guns, and a few protective bunkers. But the tour went down inside the bunkers carved into the mountain, incredible labyrinthine barracks, store rooms, and on and on. I would have gotten lost if it weren't for the guide. And then the coup, the 5 story rotating innards of the turret. All amazingly preserved German engineered machinery, we climbed up through the hatch between floors... I'll stop now before I gush any more. and tag a few pictures at the end for the interest of mechanical computer hobbyists. 

Now it was time to go home, a short bike ride to the fast boat which sped me home, comfortably, at 35 MPH with fantastic views and close passes by two Hurtigruten ships, it was my lucky day!

One Year a Pole: Part 4 - A Day In The Life

   I spent One Hundred and Three days in mountainous retreat during the first phase of the pandemic. During this period 24 hours stand out. 

    For three months I was mostly... but not entirely, alone. You see the cabin I was renting was divided down the middle by a rather thin wall into two identical apartments. Each was perfectly sized for 2-5 people, or one. The thin wall meant I got to auditorially participate in the other side’s TV watching. 

   Fortunately there weren’t too many vacationers around to rent the other side so things stayed quiet. One week however the family which owned the house started living on the other side. I was confused at first, their house proper wasn’t far away. So after failing to make any sense of it I simply let it be. 

    Wanting to ingratiate myself to the rather cold landlady, and more than anything wanting to share some Americana. I baked a batch of Oatmeal Raisin cookies and arranged them on a plate with a little sign reading “ciastka owsiane”. As I headed out to church I knocked on the door to the other side and offered the plate with one of my few polish words “prosze”.  

   They invited me in, the kids were over too, but I declined explaining that I was on my way to church. 

   After a mass, and a fat hour at the internet spot beside the road I got home at sunset and began to boil some water when a knock came on my door. I was invited over to their side.  My mind was a little concerned about pandemic protocol but there was nothing to do but go. So I did. It was a real Saturday party, and the whole family was there: mom; dad; the kids and their spouses; baby Gabriela; and even uncle Manolice. 

   By this hour their party was growing late, and the dad was well sauced. They had saved a plate of food for me and sated their curiosity with as many questions as they could push through the son-in-law come translator. The father told me in Deutsch that he had spent ten years working in Germany and learned to speak it. And while I understood, I told him the truth, “nicht sprekenz Deutsch”.  

     The father in his drunken delight impressed upon me that we had to go on a hike tomorrow, 9am it was agreed. And soon the party wound down. The kids went home, and left without a translator I shortly excused myself. 

    Ready and waiting at 9 am I sat, a few minutes later the son rolled up, the father opened the door to wish us well and beg off in his hungover state. We walked up the hill to a large house I had seen before. Threw rocks at the window until the landlady’s son-in-law came to the balcony in his sleepwear. He agreed to join us on the hike, so we sat and waited, he came out and took our coffee/ tea orders. Then he took me up to see the birch water!

   Similar to maple sugaring. During the late winter a hole tapped into a white birch will produce effluent. Patrick claimed that his more than four gallon haul had taken little more than a day. He also said that the water spoiled quickly, I hoped we wouldn’t waste any! Unsurprisingly the water, which had slight milky haze to it tasted like a tree, in a very mild and pleasant way. 

   Shortly breakfast was produced and we ate and woke. Though I was already well woke and ready to hike. 

   We hiked up through deer trails to a forest road. Along this a joint was produced but I explained that it was no longer my cup of tea and declined to inhale. Then at the opportune spot we foraged some “Beer Garlic”. Much talk had been made of this springtime speciality. And I was excited to try it. Maybe it would taste like beer? Or maybe it would have a taste which was a good compliment to a tall pint?

   It was a tender green leaf that shoots up from the ground like a tulip’s. And, surprise surprise... it tasted like garlic. It was quite good. But I had to ask. Why was it called beer garlic? 

    We quickly untangled the mispronunciation that was going on. It was bear garlic. Ooh. That makes more sense. Or more properly czosnek niedźwiedzi.  They had a good laugh all day with me trying to pronounce that last one! 

   At the end of the hike we came to an open area with clear views all around the valley that holds Węgierska Górka. 

   We made it back from the hike in perfect time for Sunday Obiad. Rosół, chicken noodle soup, was followed by a goulash that had been prepared over the barbecue in a cast iron. It was delicious. 

   A little digesting and storytelling and then it was time for the new grandma to take care of baby Gabriela whilest us kids headed to soak in the hot tub. Brews and views while we soaked. 

   After a quick rinse and thank yous all around I was back to the solitude of my side of the cabin exactly 24 hours after I had been invited into another world. At rest for the first time all day I was amazed how I energized I felt. I was sure it was the effect of a full day’s socializing after 2 months of isolation. 

    I’d had a blast, and was high on the social overload of other human beings. It would be almost three more months before I got a chance to experience that feeling again. 

One Year a Pole: Part Trz - Squirrel Sightings

   I had a conundrum when wrapping up my last post. I was recounting the journey to my cabin in the woods. Preceded by a strange day of travel seeded through with tension and the calamitous unknown I had arrived. I wanted to write “I was home”. 

  But I couldn’t write that. It wouldn’t be true. You see I had arrived after dark in a new and entirely unknown place. I didn’t feel at home... not yet at least. The feeling is only true for me now one year later, looking back on all that transpired. And having the feeling that this place was my home. 

 

   The place of course is Żabnica Skałka. I figured that out on my first day there. It was a beautiful and tranquil place to behold, dripping pines, the sound of rushing mountain streams. I wandered through the little crossroads, gandered at the bus schedule. Shopped at the little convenience. I discovered a spot by the side of the road where I could pick up a cell signal. It was only a twenty minute journey to the internet. I messaged my family to let them know I was alright. Made a plan for the next day to walk down to town and shop at the supermarket. I was blessed with one of those Polish spring days which is all sun. The 5 mile walk was a chance to appreciate the local topography and see the sights: a wooden church, a war memorial... well two actually, and always the stream with it’s song. 

   Gradually I settled in. I watched a little Polish TV, and used my smartphone to translate the news crawl. Nothing much was happening, so my tensions and fears began to fade into a default backbase of pandemic life. I made my cabin feel like home. Watched the endless mists and rains. Baked chocolate chip cookies. 

   When the weather was fair I explored the mountains around the bowl I was in. Żabnica ( meaning angler fish in Polish) was technically the village I was staying in. However the center is really a mile away. Żabnica Skałka ( the second word meaning rock in Polish) was a little crossroads where three streams joined together. It was also the bottom of a bowl surrounded by mountains on almost all sides. Only the narrow path carved out by the water led down to the rest of the village. It felt like a good place to be if a nuclear bomb was going to explode somewhere. It was a good place to be during a pandemic too. 

   On that later theme. I had been quick and fox-like in my dash to a burrow.  I was curious to know how the rest of the country was experiencing the pandemic. I’m not sure if I cared so much for me as I wished to tell my friends and family back in The States how Poland was reacting. Life in the mountains went on as usual as far as I could tell. But slowly I became aware that the government bureaucracy was making changes. The schools closed and school-at-home programs filled the daytime schedule on state-run TV. The local bus stopped running. The television clued me in to the latest hashtag and my first few words of Polish #zostanwdomu. (“remaining at home”). By early April we had reached Poland’s most locked down state. Still it was light compared to other European countries, there were no movement restrictions or curfews. 

  My trips to the internet spot every couple days kept me topped up with downloaded podcasts and readings. The embassy kept up a drumbeat of repetitious emails. There were repatriation flights. Occasionally I would be struck by pangs of lonesome homesickness and wish I were on one of those jets back across the Atlantic. But when those feelings passed and I had time to consider things evenly it seemed that the best and safest thing was to stay. 

   I was keeping plenty well in all the most stereotyped pandemic ways. Gardening, tending a sourdough mother, training for a marathon, watching all the neighbors’ business. 

   In fact I became smile neighbors with the people on both sides. A few  brownies and chocolate chip cookies go a long way. 

   I was told that my kitty-corner neighbor was an Australian man. The opportunity to speak English was thwarted however by his reclusiveness. I waited till he was out in the yard on a fine day to stroll over and say hello. That day never came. I saw his car moved and smoke rose from the chimney but I never saw the man himself. Finally I worked up the courage to walk over and knock on his door. . . No response. But wouldn’t ya know it, the very next day as I came back from a run, there he was. We spoke for about 15 minutes and he offered any help I may need, a ride into town etc. Being self-sufficient I declined his offers. That evening I realized... I should have asked for a book! 

   As I settled in more and more the only anxiety in my mind was about extending my rental, bit by bit. I didn’t really know what my plan was, nor when things would get better. So when I had limited vision I communicated what I knew and we pushed back my leave date. But I also recognized that this was a vacation rental cabin, and that the next time I tried to get another month the landlady might tell me that it was already booked! My interactions with her were generally a little awkward and cold. Sometimes her son-in-law translated, but the energy was the same. One time she said to me, disgustedly, “learn some polish!” Fortunately the stepson was around, or I wouldn’t have known what she said! 

   This has the intended effect. I had been dillying in my head back and forth whether or not to learn a little polish with all my stay-at-home time. I downloaded a few audio lessons and started doing 20 minutes of study a day. 

    Learning the alphabet came first, what to do with all those ‘cz’s ‘ł’s, ‘ę’s and so on.  Once I got that down I practiced reading words when I found them, I eventually mastered the name of every side street along my 5 mile bike route to town, even if I didn’t know what they all meant!  Then I started to learn to count, I found a little YouTube video and would practice it when I was down at the internet spot. Despite having learned the alphabet, my mouth was still novice at the Slavic forms, and I practiced 1 to 10 for a few weeks. Lord knows what the locals thought as they saw me pacing back and forth by the side of the road counting to ten again and again. 

    Because the one store in Żabnicy Skałka was a little convenience store with most things behind the counter, words were a big step up on the routine of pointing

saying “Nie”

Pointing again

Saying “tak” 

For every item I wanted. 

  I  distinctly recall one day asking for Jello. When the shop lady responded to ask me which one, I was able to ask for green Jello (my favorite). I was so proud of my new language skills. 

  After the numbers and colors and days of the week, came a few verbs and adjectives and nouns. 

  I was putting some language skills under my belt, but I still had no one to talk to. I was totally alone. A day or two without uttering a word to anyone was common. And phone calls only broke the lonesomeness so much. But still I was keeping well, and through all the experiences I felt more and more a sense of place, a little cabin to call home.

**PS: the title of this post uses the polish word for 3. Trz. This was one of my biggest hang ups in the numbers.  Where’s the vowel sound? Well sometimes Slavic words don’t have any.  T is a soft ‘t’ sound. And “rz” pronounces as the ‘sh’ sound. Try sticking these two sounds together. If you’re adding an ‘i’ sound between the t and the rz your cheating! Try again. Here’s the YouTube video I referred to in the post if you want to hear how it’s done. 

One Year A Pole: Part II - Gingerbreadland

  My digital guidebook recommended Toruń as a charming medieval town famous as the home of Polish gingerbread. Say no more. I was sold. It was a sunny Friday afternoon when I arrived, walking the long bridge across the Vistula from the train station side to the old town. I checked into my hostel which was right on the square (rynek) to discover that I seemed to be the only occupant. 

   When I asked the receptionist Jan about it, he responded that they were open... for now. 

   “The boss says we might close on Monday” Jan told me.

    With only my $10 to show for a days work I could see why. 

    I found the town charming. Though I couldn’t quite get a bead on the gingerbread. I didn’t find any. And the two gingerbread museums were closed. In fact it seemed that everything was closing hour by hour. There’s always the river though! And I found the holy mass that evening a grounding reset for my soul. 

   Shortly after dinner I put down my phone, I had reached my self-imposed daily limit.  But another 40 minutes I went ‘bad’ and picked back up the internet. 

   It was then that I saw the news. Borders were closing... all over Eastern Europe. The time had come for my freak out moment. My brain racing, hands shaking, my only reaction “get out”. I devised a radical plan for Sunday, a 4am train to the airport, a mid-day flight to Ukraine. After paying out my dollars by the hundred I put down the phone. 

   I knew I need to calm down. A walk is always the right answer, no matter the question. Quiet midnight streets soothed. As did a few conversations with wise minds stateside. I got to sleep about an hour before dawn, what little sleep I could manage. 

   Waking up I knew I needed to take care of myself as best I could. I did my full morning routine, went for a run, and took a long shower. 

    Since my expensive escape plan seemed like a foolish endeavor, I decided that a better plan than ‘get out’ was ‘stay here’. If I couldn’t stay in normal touristic accommodations... and it’s a global pandemic, then a cabin in the woods seemed like the obvious solution. I searched google maps for most of the day, interrupted only by my panic shop of stamps, vegetables and a SIM card for my phone. 

   I had a few requirements, the cabin had to be within 5 miles of a train station, a church and a supermarket. That I’m way I could walk to everything I needed!

I lined up a few prospects, a dozen really, google can be quite a hole. But one stood out above the rest. I had a good feeling about it, maybe it helped that it had an English name listed next to its Polish one. 

    On Sunday I asked Jan the receptionist if he would call to try and make an arrangement for me, my Polish skills being nonexistent. 

   They picked up on the second ring and an energetic conversation began. Unaccustomed to the Slavic tongue, it sounded bad. Knowing I was an American they asked if I was sick with the virus. When he hung up, after the longest 6 minutes of my life, I found out to my surprise that all was set. 4 weeks at 200 zloty a night. A bit steep, but being a pandemic I figured I’d be spending zero on bars, restaurants, museums, transport etc. 

    * I knew the pandemic wasn’t going to be over in 4 weeks, but I didn’t want to scare off any potential hosts by asking for more. 

   A little later Jan helped me to find a taxi and discuss arrival details.

   Monday morning, closing down the hostel and hitting as many ATMs as I could I made my way to the train station, back the way I had come across the river. My rail journey was pleasant enough. A sunny day, windows that slid down for fresh air, a compartment to myself. But spoiling the pleasure was the fear and uncertainty that was in mind, for me, and I presume, everyone else on the train as well. It seemed as if the world might end tomorrow. 

    When I got to Węgierska Górka, my stop, it was after dark. Well after dark, heck it was after dinner. The station area was entirely deserted. I sent a text to the taxi man, I had made an arrangement, or so I thought. In this rural berg I was at the mercy of the lone taxi. What if he didn’t come, who could I call? I sat there waiting. 

   Eventually he arrived and we made our way up to the cabin. I followed along on google maps, the cell signal faded out. It’s a strange thing to ride through an unknown country in the black of night.  You are curious to know, but only shadows and floating lights come to you, hints, but nothing can be made out. 

  After a brief and somewhat awkward introduction to the cabin, I was... somewhere. After all the tension and travel it was hard to believe it was real.  

One Year a Pole: Part I

  To travel the world as an American in this day and age is still a privileged experience. The world is written in our alphabet. Our fashion is the fashion. And  our occasionally silly domestic affairs make news in every foreign land. 

   The reverse is of course not true. No one visiting New York is offended that signs aren’t written in Mandarin (it is spoken by over a billion people). 

  And so when I was asked what Americans think of Poland, I had to answer truthfully: “they don’t”. I guess for this reason I had no expectations, great or otherwise about this nation. 

   In fact I hadn’t any excitement at all coming here. It was simply an overland route from Scandinavia to the Balkans. I figured I might see a few sights along the way. 

Boy did I! 

  The global pandemic made me an unintentional resident of the land of John Paul II. 

  And you know what I found out? Poland is a pretty darn good place to live. 

   Put most simply it’s the perfect ‘half & half’ of Eastern and Western Europe. 

    I must confess though that my initial impression of this country was decidedly unfavorable. 

   A damp dark lifeless city. Concrete. Hostel guests smoking in the bathrooms amidst multifold signs to the contrary. 

   Daylight brought little change in this perspective. A dull town square, more concrete. 

   Once I got on the tourist trail, so to speak, things got better. Gdańsk is fascinating, even if the March weather was a blend of rain, sun and horizontal hailstorms. At this stage the pandemic panic was creeping into the back of everyone’s consciousness as we maintained our normalcy on the surface. 

  I shared my hostel room with a Pole on a bit of a do-nothing-and-relax vacation. He thought himself better at English than he actually was. Still we managed to converse. He kept insisting that everything was fine, it was all a big scare, and then would laugh the uneasiest laugh I have ever heard. His family must have been practicing that laugh for generations under communism. 

My third morning I awoke listening to a still-in-bed phone call from the next room over. An American, the kind of kid who runs away to Europe because Boston isn’t far enough, insisting to her parents that everything was fine. 

   At the tourist information center they told me that all the museums would be closed from... today. In fact they had already closed a few hours before. Just that morning I had gone to at least one museum in Poland, good thing. 

   The next day the panic hit the populace. I whiled away the hours waiting on the rain. When it finally cleared it was after dark and the moon was peeking it’s head above the horizon. I set out to see the old earthwork fortifications of the city, now a park along a waterway. 

  I walked past 6-story blocks of Soviet housing, across broken cement and past barking dogs. 

  I stopped at a supermarket to buy a donut. The locals were panic-shopping. I watched with serenity and amazement. Their panic shops were so tame, comparing them in my mind to ludicrous American behavior.

I walked into the park. The moon reflecting on the mirrored surface was so beautiful that I barely made it in before I just had to sit and meditate. I sat on a bench, closed my eyes and began to feel the presence of my breath. Then I felt something on my left foot. I startled to my feet. As my vision came to I perceived a fox, just as startled as I, moving away. I grabbed my backpack, said a few exclamations of shock, and carried on my way. 

  Fortunately the fox bite had been of the investigatory type and not an attack. Also I was wearing a shoe. 

  Surprisingly this incident neither rekindled my initial displeasure with this country nor inspired me to consider the spiritual significance of such an encounter. 

It was time to move on. 

Top of The Year

 I must confess. I love to read Wikipedia. I binge read it really. One article to the next, new discoveries, new adventures. 

I’d like to say that this past year of lockdowns has given me more time than ever to read Wikipedia. But the reality is that I read it exactly as much as any other year, it is a constant diversion in my life. 

This past year three articles stopped me cold and blew me away. I was fascinated, sucked into the story, and curious as to all of the side stories. Each of these three kept me busy for days, spaced out over the span of weeks, and to be honest I’m still not done with one of them yet.

1. U2’s Zoo TV Tour — I must admit I’m a casual listener of U2. You know they come on the radio and such... I wasn’t aware of the bands transformation from a politically serious band of the 1980’s to their more familiar incarnation as rock Mega-Stars of the 90s and oughts. This tour was that moment of transformation.  It wasn’t just any rock and roll tour, it was perhaps the maximal tour of any band in history. When you read through all the stories you keep thinking “this could never happen today”. 

Want to know why? (And trust me you do) a weeks worth of Wikipedia awaits. 

2. Sir Walter Raleigh — You’re probably familiar with the name.  He’s one of those captains of the Age of Exploration, right? 

   Wrong. 

    He lived more lives than a normal man might in a hundred tries. The article starts off “He was an English landed gentleman, writer, poet, soldier, politician, courtier, spy, and explorer.” 

That enough for ya? In reading his history, one has to keep going back and forth trying to keep the chronologies consistent in your head. Secret marriages, suppressed rebellions, life in Ireland, Westminster, a stint locked up in the Tower of London... and yes the Lost City of Gold... all this and more... 

3. The Hijacking of the Achille Lauro — straight from the ‘Truth is Stranger than Fiction’ file. Inspired by the success of so many airline hijackings a group of PLO half-wits decided to hijack a cruise ship. What could go wrong? A lot apparently. The cascading series of events has a Tom Clancy feel to it. Except that in fiction we often get smooth criminals, devious plots, and logically ordered events. In real life we got a wide cast of interesting characters, from the bumbling to the crazy. Only Abu Abbas stands out as an intelligent, seasoned operator. The drama escalated until the point where USA’s Delta Force was in a classic guns-drawn Mexican-standoff with Italian Carabinieri. 

Wait Aren’t the Terrorists supposed to be the bad guys?  This geopolitical drama is worth your attention. 

Honorable Mention. Jud Süß —  Joseph Goebbels produces the winter blockbuster of 1940/41. “Based on true events” of an 18th century regal drama, twisted into antisemitic propaganda, and featuring Germany’s biggest stars. 

A letter to Joe Biden

 

Evan’s Coronavirus Celeryroot Soup

   I developed this recipe based on the situation at hand (stay at home, lots of time) and the simple materials available to me. 

  This recipe has a zen quality to it. Do not try to complicate it, this recipe is about letting simple ingredients shine. 

   The key step which requires some explanation is the dice. The celery root must be chopped in a fine dice, less than a 1/4 inch dice, but maybe a little more than 1/8th of an inch. 3-4 mm 

With the other vegetables you can be a little looser with your precision, but basically this is the same dice for all the ingredients. Don’t try and use a food processor, you won’t get the evenness of the cut vegetables. 

As with most soups it’s better the next day, if I make it to eat for dinner I usually try and start in the kitchen 3-4 hours before I wish to sit down to eat. 

Ingredients:

Celery root

Onion 

Leek

Carrot

celery/parsnip/sweet potato/ something else?

Split peas (yellow, dried)

Cooking oil 

Olive oil

Paprika 

Salt and pepper

• Set some water to boil in a kettle

• Clean and chop your auxiliary vegetable, or two, set aside into a med/large bowl as mise en place

• Peel the celery root, use your chefs knife and not a peeler. Turn the root sideways and take a thin slice about the thickness of your dice. Set the root aside and lay the slice down on your cutting board. Make cuts along the root that go 90% of the way through, but don’t cross through the back end. The cuts should be parallel and very close together. You should now have something that looks like a white circular comb 

Now cut cross ways, to make your dice. Voila! You’ll have to cut up that last bit of the slice that the score cuts didn’t go all the way through. 

   Once you’re happy with the contents of your cutting board, transfer over to the mise en place bowl, and work on another slice. 

Yes this takes a lot of time, but you have nowhere to go right?

• Now dice up that onion and add it to the mise en place. You can be less precise here. 

A word about how much.  I usually use one small celery root for a batch serving two. Or a half of a larger celery root, the remaining half will keep well in the fridge. 

(If you make a double batch using a whole large celery root there will be a lot of chopping, consider recruiting help. )

For onion, a small onion or maybe half of a large one. For the other vegetable, just a bit, maybe 1 medium-small carrot, 1.5 stalks of celery, 1 parsnip, use your judgement 

The ratio should be about 

         60       /       20       /        20 

celery root / onion & leek / other veg. 

• Choose a pot (stainless preferred, double walled preferred, any pot will do) at least double the volume of your prepared mise en place. Add a healthy dose of cooking oil ( 2-3 tbsp) and place over medium heat, when the oil gets hot add the vegetables and turn down the heat to med-low, stir every 15-30 seconds for a few minutes. 

We’re not trying to get anything browned, but we do want the vegetables to get oily and shiny and a bit translucent (for the onion).

After about 4 minutes add the split peas,  at about the same amount as the onion, or a little more. Not too much though! Maybe a half cup?  Keep stirring another minute or two.

• Add the hot water until everything is covered by 1/2 inch of water. Stir.

• Add a tablespoon and a quarter of paprika, and stir. (Optional) (smoked recommended)

• Bring to a simmer and turn the heat down to low, cover and simmer.

• Stir every 10-15 minutes. The kitchen will start to smell wonderful. If the peas absorb a lot of water you may need to add a little more water. 

• After 90-120 minutes the vegetables will begin to break down. You’ll open the lid and notice that there is layer of water that has risen to the top, as you stir you’ll see that it’s drier and gloppy on the bottom. At this point you must stir a little more frequently to reintegrate the water and keep the bottom from scorching. I use the back of the spoon to forcefully press down on the soup against the bottom or sides of the pot to help break apart the vegetables and peas. Then stir again and cover. 

• after another 30+ minutes your soup is done. Add salt and stir in. Take off heat. 

Serve with a drizzle of olive oil on top and sprinkle with finely ground black pepper. Serve with a warmed chunk of hearty bread with butter. Other side ideas, bok choy, potatoes, tomato salad. 

After initial cooling it is a good idea to keep the pot covered and place it in a plugged sink full of cold water to help lower the temperature. Transfer to sealed clean containers. Keeps for about 5 days. Or you can freeze some. 

Smacznego!

Living Life with ‘Mo Regrets

    Often the opposite is said... a trite repetition in The Culture... a misplaced remembrance of a song lyric comes to mind, “Don’t look back”. 

I want to consider the value of regrets. 

There’s a huge asterisk here of course. For most people embracing and sitting with regret is a ripe context for the arising of self-hate, shame, worthlessness, and guilt-tripping. This molasses filled swamp envelops you and causes only pain and turning-away. I don’t condone any of these unproductive yet sticky & habitual mental states. 

But if you come to a place where you can at least recognize and discern what is the constant voice of self-hate and what is your intrinsic emotional flow. And if you can resist the loop of re-hashing the latest example of your worthlessness Then it’s time for you to consider the power of regret. 

Like all of our universal human proclivities, love, fear, gossip, and so on, it exists as a kludgy mental process which serves us in some way. The power of regret is not to mourn or commiserate the past. The power of regret is to help shape our future. 

This week I awoke one morning From an unpleasant sleep and felt a familiar feeling. The comedown from a slumberland sugar-high. Soon I identified within me the feeling of regret for my actions the night before. I am at a point in my life where I feel the winds of change around my main vice of binge eating. Feeling bad the next morning, both in body and mind, is not new. But this morning was different. 

I had the presence to avoid the well trod path of shame. The piling-on my present self for all the unwise actions of some previous Evan. I saw that I regretted my actions. I forgave myself. And I contemplated how I can respond to sugar craving in the future. I realized that this was the healthy path of change. That my regret would help me to make better decisions for myself. 

It was a revelation to see the positive process of regret in action, after so many years of exposure to the opposite message.  

I recalled another example of how regret can help us to make better decisions in the future. A while back I had dreamed to help coordinate a final reunion of my grandma and her best friend when they both were dying. Had I been living close to family at the time it probably would have happened. But I was across the country... and life is so busy as we make it.  When I got an email from her son to let me know that grandma’s best friend had passed away I knew the opportunity for a meeting had passed. I regretted not having tried harder to make it happen. At the time I was deeper in the swamp of self-hate. While I don’t recall how it went at the time, it’s likely those feelings of self-loathing and failure led me to an evening of dullness and binge eating. 

Years later when I was back home I spied an opportunity to help my maternal grandmother. Nana grew up an only child. When her family moved into a new apartment building, Beatrice, the girl who lived down the hall became her big sister. They spent the better part of a century living in the same neighborhood, raised kids, lost husbands; always the closest of friends. As Bea’s health worsened she went to live with her son out in the suburbs. She and Nana often talked on the phone, but they hadn’t seen each other in years. 

  Here was my chance. I had a car, and the nose to prod Nana a little to invite herself out to see Bea. The reunion was a joyful moment for all involved. I have no doubt that my priority and drive to help grew from the experience of regret with my other grandmother. 

So if you can, keep one mindful eye open to look for regret in your life. Watch for that pull towards the guilt trip, stay on center and see what power regret can put into your life. I know that’s what I’ll be doing from now on. 

Take 5: A trip to Burning Man

    There are few things in life as dear to me as the community of wonderful crazies I have found through Burning Man It's almost not enough, what I've just said, but it will suffice, for the magical special thing about Burning Man is, I believe, incommunicable.

    Here I am (below) all ready to leave the farm in North Carolina. I had about 10 days to buy, register and wire-up a truck, and prepare everything I was bringing. There was a lot of running around, fixing up the trailer, bamboo harvesting, shopping etc. The only piece of available flat land for the trailer was was down at the bottom of the farm. The farm house is at the top of the hill, up a quarter-mile gravel drive. Packing day was a lot of up and down.

    You may notice the blue tape on my travel trailer, a tribute to my friend Andy, with whom I traveled post-burn in 2014.

     It may also catch your attention that the bed of my pickup is not piled over the top and strapped down with gobs of supplies. It is a tradition drive to the Burn with a vehicle that is maxed-out on payload by volume and moderately to severely overloaded by weight. It felt strange to be heading out with the bed of my truck virtually empty.

    Part of the reason I was so lightly loaded was that I was driving alone. I wasn't able to convince anyone from our Virginia-based art project (The Mega-Cake) to drive with me. Jamie and Chris were driving out from Norfolk a day later and we hoped to meet up in Wyoming to caravan together the last thousand miles.

    I'm pretty new to towing a trailer, so a solo transcontinental trip felt like a challenge. However given my cross-country experience I was confident in my ability to do 500 mi days. I planned for two rest days in my schedule to break up the monotony and to leave room for any unforeseen incidents.

    Day one was a great success, despite the lack of Air Conditioning driving was manageable without the use of the cooling suit I had brought with me. It is a t-shirt with tubes sewn into it. You connect it to a cooler with a special pump that pumps ice water through the shirt. Some cloudy weather helped on many days of the trip so I didn't end up using it while driving.

    Another big aide was the use of some old-school cruise control. That is, my steering wheel lock ("The Club") jammed between the accelerator pedal and the driver's seat cushion. Highly effective.

   Carbondale Illinois was reached before sunset on the first day. Visiting my friend Raine and her daughter Sequoia. Rest Day: Working out, breakfast, emails, sanitizing the trailer's water tank, cooking dinner, moon viewing, fixing generator.

    Day 3 took me up to St Louis, and then across Missouri to KC. (This map might be helpful now) Stopped at a Home Depot for a part to fix the kitchen sink in the trailer. Discover that even with my two generators my AC in the trailer still isn't working right due to high starting amperage. I made it to a lovely campground in Nebraska City. Camper life is really enjoyable if you find a peaceful campground. Of course I had to get to work draining the bleach water out of the camper's tank, fixing the kitchen sink, and researching the AC problem. I learned that all AC units might benefit from a hard start kit. In short, the part I needed was in Omaha.

     Day 4, detour to Omaha to pick up the AC part. And a stop at Home Depot to try a few more parts until the sink finally got fixed. Driving across Nebraska takes all day. I passed my first fellow burner, he too was towing a trailer. I waved, but I wasn't sure he got the message, my taped on decoration was facing the wrong way. He had a little burning man logo taped on the back of his trailer, this was something I would have to emulate.
      I pulled into Cheyenne Wyoming after dark and realized that my dim headlights would need fixing. Called a handyman to arrange the next day to have the help of a ladder to fix the AC on the trailer's roof. I plotted a pre-dawn run, brushed my teeth and checked the Facebook Mega-Cake group chat where I discovered that Jamie and Chris had broken down in Denver. With them the camp trailer with all the tools, tents, clothes and kitchen supplies wasn't going anywhere : (  I knew what this meant.

    Day 5, after an early morning run, breakfast, meeting an interesting retiree handyman who had a ladder. [He keeps busy writing google reviews, even for places he's never been to, and exploring old mines and hunting for gold.] At 8:30 am I called Jamie:
           "I heard you'all broke down"
     "Yeah"
           "Should I come down to help?"
     "Yeah"

      So off I set. (Fun Fact: Cheyenne is only 90mi from Denver) Along the way Jamie and I worked out various details of how I could tow his trailer.  Jamie wanted to know how high my trailer ball was off of the ground, because "this trailer is really low, and we gotta have it level."  At 8,000 lbs I knew there was no messing around with anything other then level.  Jamie told me he was running with the top of his ball 15 inches above the ground.
    I pulled over to measure mine, I called Jamie up:
         "I'm at 21 inches off the ground"
    "That's alright I'll give you my adjustable level ball mount, We'll just swap it out of the hitch"
         "Uuh, my truck doesn't have a hitch."
    "It doesn't have a hitch? Then what are you towing with?"
         "Its got this thing bolted to the bumper, its got a ball but its not a hitch."

    I had to look it up. Ladies and Gentelmen, this is what a you call a Pintel Hook.

       I told Jamie to figure something while I got back on the road. He cruised the internet and found a hitch that has a plate on the back with four bolt holes. You can bolt it to a tractor, you can bolt it on a wall, you can bolt it to a truck. I told him Amazon wasn't gonna cut it for our timeframe, I said:
         "Find it in Denver"
     He did.
          At Trailer Source, and I drove straight there.
     The friendly associate had pulled the part aside and I was all smiles as I got the part I needed. I walked outside held the hitch up to the bumper to see, and . . . F*¢K. 

     The bolt holes didn't line up. Immediately I realized that this was gonna have to be welded. I went back in the shop, spoke to the friendly associate. Spoke to the mechanics in the shop. Spoke to Jamie on the phone. No one had any answers. 
      There was only one problem with the idea of welding the hitch onto the bumper. it was a Saturday! By divine guidance the first welder I looked up on google answered the phone, listened to my problem, and said he could weld it in the alley behind the shop. I didn't like the sound of it. Some random dude, welding it in the alley, and I'm gonna trust my truck, all of the camps equipment, and potentially my life that this hitch doesn't shear off at 65 MPH.     But I had no other options. 

      I drove down to the welding shop. Mica the welder had a shop full of race cars, which is why he had to do it in the alley. But in the end I trusted him and he did a beautiful job.
     Now all I had to do was get a new ball mount, hook back up my trailer and park it somewhere. Luckily Jamie had located a fellow burner in the Denver area who happened to have a free yard to park my travel trailer, his name was also Evan. Then back down to finally see Jamie! By this time I had driven through the teeth of Denver traffic three times! I was pretty beat. 

      But we weren't done yet, I had to get Jamie over to the tool store so he could get a transmission jack to change his transmission in a Lowe's parking lot. Then to the named parking lot to tow Jamie's stranded truck away from the trailer and push it into a parking space. Then to finally hitch me up to the camp trailer. Whew! What a Saturday! we crashed hard.





    Jamie was going to have to wait a whole 'nother 24 hours for Monday morning to start calling shops to find out about an expedited transmission so he generously gave me his co-pilot Chris to help me get the camp trailer out to Burning Man.


Day 6: Chris Revels takes this triumphant picture of me getting ready to leave Denver. 

     With the 32 foot 8,000 lb trailer securely hitched I gingerly drove north out of Denver. I had Chris back out of the gas station. Maneuvering a rig this big was a whole new ballgame. 
      I got back behind the wheel, My truck had plenty of power to tow it, but we were being conservative, no overdrive on the transmission, 60-65 MPH max. At that speed, all of the Semi-trucks were passing us. When they did, their wake first pushed us aside, then sucked us in close then pushed us away again. I was learning quickly how to corrective steer against these forces. 
     We made it back to Cheyenne, where I had been a day before and set out west across I-80. We stopped at the summit rest stop at 8,640 ft of elevation. I drove west to Laramie and picked up new headlights. As I drove into the late morning the electronic signs on the highway warned "CAUTION: WIND GUSTS UP TO 45MPH", Chris drifted off to sleep. When he woke up the electronic warning had become all too real. I told him I had been white knuckle driving for the past 40 minutes. Just then a truck blew by and the gust pushed me to within inches of the edge of the pavement. As we came to our senses, a blue sign offered an oasis, Rest Stop 2 mi!  

    We pulled over at about 11am and waited, and waited, and waited. Plenty of time to have lunch, take a silly photo, change out the headlights, meet fellow travelers, and put retro-reflective tape and a little burning man logo on the trailer. 

     It came to me, the trailer was 'The Black Beast' and my truck 'The White Knight' to save the day. The rest stop seemed to know of the omnipresent condition.

    By the time the winds died down it was near sunset and we had been stopped for 8 hours. We drove on into the night, wary of the transmission. With no temperature gauge for it, we stopped from time to time to crawl under the truck tap a hand to the hot transmission and see how hot it was getting. It was hot, but the cool night air was helping. Chris' eyesight was no good after dark, so I drove on until my eyes gave out. We stopped in Evanston Wyoming, at the very west side of the state. We had made it a solid 440 miles. We did 2am laundry and slept. 

     Day 7: As we breakfasted and packed up Chris gleaned from the locals that the climb up into Utah was a reckoning. I wanted to plan a stop to cool off the transmission before the climb, but we couldn't figure out where the grade was, despite its mythologizing by the locals, so on we went. After cresting the summit, and a transmission temperature check on we went into more bad news. The gentile I-84 route down into Ogden was closed, so we'd be forced down the steep I-80 grades into Salt Lake City. We made it into town and did a little shopping to buy food for the weeks ahead. I drove out of town to an overlook on the Great Salt Lake to let Chris take a stint behind the wheel. But before we could set off, another misfortune. The transmission was untouchable, it was scorching hot. We sat in the narrow noon shade of the trailer and waited for the transmission to cool. I bathed in self-recriminations. 
      Eventually I looked to see about a mechanic in the last town on the edge of the SLC metro area. I called up Pete's automotive in Tooele. Pete answered the phone and dropped everything he was doing to come rescue us. He towed The Black Beast to his shop and we followed along. His inspection turned up nothing wrong other than being a quart shy on tranny fluid. After a few test drives up steep hills he pronounced our transmission good to go. By now it was the hottest part of the day and we again chose to wait untill conditions were better for driving. I set off into the cold star-filled night. When we stopped, only 400 hard miles had been accomplished. We were a couple hours behind schedule. and we felt like for sure we could make it. 

     Day 8: We woke and hit the road early, meeting more burners along the way.

Stopped at the last town in Nevada for food and ice and gasoline, and then headed up the beautiful and narrow country road that leads to the Black Rock desert. We checked the transmission temperature many times, and things were staying cool enough. At 2pm a stroke of intuition told me to check the tire pressure on the trailer. The tires registered 95 PSI!!! The Black Beast had thrown up one last challenge. We let air out of the tires and drove on. Reaching Burning Man for two weeks in a bubble city apart from the world. 

Mega-Cake was the art project we built. One week of work, four tiers, 6 flaming candles, 2000 Watts of power. It was open for 48 hours, and then we burned it down in a fireworks spectacular. 

Here is a timelapse of the week of building it. 

And Some shots of the Cake

And of course there were a few weddings at the cake. 

I Love this perspective picture showing the Cake and the city beyond.

Yours truly and Jacob (one of our Mega-cake Crew, 11 years old) just after finishing the Flaming Candles, Jacob is holding the box with the 6 buttons that fire off the candle poofers. 

And The Burn

There's so much more I could write about the Burn, The trip afterwords to Portland, selling the truck and trailer, visiting old friends and the three part train ride PDX-OAK-LA-KC back to North Carolina, but I'm out of words, and I'm sure the pictures are what you really wanted anyway.

-Evan