OFF THE ROAD

A closet full of clothes, unpaid bills and a yard that needs mowed, that’s what you get when you come back home. The closet part isn’t so bad, you reacquaint yourself with stuff you forgot you had. Living out of a suitcase and back pack does simplify choices. Finding the balance between clean and dirty is never complicated. But one has to rediscover an appetite for common, day to day routines. I have a stack of bills that I’ll get around to, maybe tomorrow; and the house gets dirty whether I’m home or not. Thunder and lightning remind me that tornado season runs concurrently with graduation parties so you do both, hoping for the best. Once the jet stream and cool air stay up north, we will settle into warm nights and grilling on the patio. 

This last trip to South Korea and New Zealand has dumped some of the wind out of my sails. That’s lots of hours at 35,000 ft. and many meals I’d just as soon have fixed for myself. I’ll never complain about being on the road; something about being in motion that cures what ails me. But it’s also nice to know the car is just a few steps away and my telephone works again. When I got back from Argentina & Chile in 2005, my daughter Sarah picked me up at the airport. The photo she took says a lot. Last Sunday the scene was much the same except it was my son Jon doing the duty. Getting off the last airplane, knowing you don’t have to scurry to make the next connection or find a temporary bed is a well earned relief and I can pass a couple of months in domestic tranquility before I loop back into road culture. 

My granddaughter graduates from high school tonight. I taught school for 34 years and graduation was both a duty and a celebration. ‘School’s out, school’s out; teacher let the monkeys out.” Still, by the end of summer it has a way losing its luster, little more than history and life doesn’t look back. Something new will fill the void. Best friends will go their own ways, little siblings will inherit better rooms but endure closer scrutiny from parents. College or a full time job, September will offer new challenges to both graduates and their families. I’m out of that loop too. But come September I bet I’ll be on the road again, anticipating the way home and my own bed again. 

APPLES & PEANUT BUTTER

Music is as much a part of my experience as food. If I’m out of earshot, the DJ inside my head kicks in, synthesizing rhythms and melodies that I know by heart. I never got to be in a school band or study music theory. Sheet music is like Morse Code to me, easy concept but just never took the time. It’s always been the stories; 2 to 4 minute, syncopated stories that begin and end, dance with a melody like Gene Kelly, “Singing In The Rain.” Without a story to know where you’re going and where you’ve been, it’s little more than satisfying noise. So when I’m on the road, I do the best I can. My computer is full of great music and I usually fall asleep, sinking into my I-Tunes library. Head phones and ear buds let you do that, even in a crowded air terminal. 

I’ve dabbled with guitars enough that I know which chords work together and how to transition from one key to another. My singing leaves a lot to be desired but then I sing for my own satisfaction. If I know the words and can shape chords to fit the melody, I can entertain myself for hours. If nothing else, I can retire from the real world and let that DJ in my mind do his thing. I’ve been into love songs lately, making a list of my favorites. The list is only five songs deep but that may be enough. Then I hear a great blues piece and can’t get it out of my head. In 2012, the Kennedy Center Awards honored, among others, Buddy Guy. On that stage, Jimmy Vaughn & Gary Clark Jr. performed together, “Things I Used To Do.” With YouTube available; no reason for anybody not to have seen this, several times. Then, if it’s not Marcia Ball or Kermit Ruffins, you never lose with Barbara Streisand or Neil Young. 

The road is winding down. Waiting at airline gates and double checking flight status are more the business than the places I didn’t get to see. I’m leaning more on my music and less on road maps. For all the great food I encounter, my universal pantry is stocked in my suit case, enough to get me home; apples and peanut butter. Don’t leave home without them. I’m listening to Don McLean in my head; maybe the best love sone ever: “And I love you so, people ask me how; how I’ve lived till now, I tell them I don’t know.”

HOSTEL

Everybody knows hotels and motels but hostels are cut from different cloth. People on the road need a place to shut down and unwind. Inn keepers around the world host them, meet that need, for a price. On the other hand, hostels are similar but it’s a communal process where strangers share a dormitory space, sleep in bunks, end around the room. Genderless bathrooms with doored shower stalls and toilets accommodate travelers who prefer the collective rather than privacy. Cooking in common kitchens and gathering around a big screen T.V., watching programs subtitled in English or German, for those who don’t speak Japanese or Italian; that’s what you get at a hostel. Of course, the price makes travel affordable for students and wanderers who long to see the world before it passes them by. American comedian, Jonathan Winters once said, “I couldn’t wait for success so I went on without it.” He would have stayed in hostels. I can hostel in Auckland, New Zealand or Mendoza, Argentina for a week on the money it would take for one night in a hotel or motel there. 

I remember a rainy day in Valdivia, Chile; back in 2005. When my bus arrived in the middle of the day, I took the cheapest dorm room, threw my stuff on one of five beds, put on my rain coat and took off to see the town. A few miles down stream, the river emptied into the Pacific Ocean. Bull seals were stationed stream side along the pilings at the fish market. They knew exactly where fish mongers would throw the next fish head and were there to snap it up. When I got back to the hostel, someone was rolled up in a blanket on another bed. I saw eyes peering out at me and I asked in my best English, “And, who might you be.?” I didn’t expect to be understood. Not much English spoken down there. Her name was Esra Moogle, a Turkish Jew in her 40’s, just sold her business in Istanbul and traveling. Fluent in 9 languages, she informed me (after a brief introduction and conversation) that we would travel together for a few days. The next night we were at a hostel in Puerto Varas, Chile, hanging out with two young women, one European the other a mestiza, both lawyers from Buenos Aries. There was a young, particle physicist from San Paulo who loved the blues and his beautiful companion. They were married but not to each other. That’s how it has to work in South America where the church forbids divorce. If you can afford to get away, you steal away cross the border and  take your forbidden fruit with you. I cooked, Esra translated, we all sang and told stories. The next day the lawyers went south with us, into Argentina and the lovers headed north. Something about hostels that overcomes modesty and makes everyone equal. 

In Auckland, NZ, Nomad’s Hostel is just off Queen Street, a couple of blocks from the harbor. It’s an old, 5-story building nested down between tall, glass and steel towers in the country’s largest city. There is a bar on the top floor with an open ceiling, like sports stadiums in the States except this open dome didn’t have a closable roof. When it rained, the dance floor got rained on and you had to walk around the room to get to the bar. Up and outside, the lights from office buildings modeled starlight with a pseudo Grand Canyon feel. Most of the backpackers were young, looking for whatever they look for. I talked with an old timer, probably not as old as me but certainly more weathered who thought everything was going to hell. He said, “We used to go alone and met everybody, learn about everything. Now they come and go in two’s and three’s, with their smart phones. They watch the t.v. and text their girl or boy friends back in Germany, or Skype their mothers back in Israel. They have more money and it’s all about them. Nobody talks, it’s like zombie land compared to the 80’s and 90’s.” I couldn’t speak to the 90’s but just ten years ago, technology in Chile and Argentina was a blurry, old, 14” computer at an internet cafe for $1.50 and check your email.  

I didn’t stick around. He was right and if you didn’t bring along your own companion, you might as well be on an iceberg somewhere. I went to a guitar jam at the Thirsty Dog, on Karangahape Street. When I arrived, I knew one person. I met Tony at the Unitarian Church the day before. He is a 70-something, Irish transplant. He doesn’t play guitar but he sings. The guitars find his key and slip in under him. He promised someone would loan me a guitar and I could get my turns at the mic. Closing time we had made a lot of music and I was invited back. I did St. James Infirmary Blues and Over The Rainbow. Then when my turn came around again, I asked for help, in the key of E. I laid down a 12-bar blues rhythm and they all took turns noodling blues licks and riffs. It was a great evening and Tony drove me back down town, to Nomad’s. In the lounge, there were 20 or so young people laying all over the furniture and beanbag pillows on the floor, watching Arnold Schwarzenegger on the t.v., venting destruction with a rocket launcher in one hand and a flame thrower in the other. Except, some of them had dozed off and others were texting their boy or girls friends across town or across an ocean. I showered and went to bed. The music from the club under our window, down on the street was loud but that’s what you get. If you don’t like it, you can throw down $140 and take a cab over to the Best Western President Hotel. They will guarantee your privacy.

ALL IT TAKES

At the end of the day, Wanganui, NZ was clean, orderly and welcoming. By the time I checked into the hostel, unpacked what I needed and ate something, it was bedtime. The next morning, low clouds and rain greeted me as I checked out. In reflection, it’s amazing how many little things become strung together, like beads on a string, in the dot to dot passage through a day. Connecting the dots is what I have been doing and all it takes is for an insignificant little dot to turn the world around, even if for only a day. That said, it was the fact that my hostel charged too much for wifi and I put my internet work off until the morning, when I could get a free connection at McDonald’s. After a breakfast sandwich, I went to work on the computer but was in no hurry. The rain had put a damper on my plans for the morning. I wanted to see the Tasman Sea but studying the map and satellite photos, between the road and the weather my trip to the beach got shelved. 

Then my connection cut me off. Seems McD’s free wifi was free as advertised but only for half an hour. Too many kids downloading games and videos so they put a limit on it, just enough to get you through your meal. I learned, the library has free wifi and no time limit. I got there at 9:05, just after they opened and the wifi area was already full. Only one spot remained at the last carrel table. I set to work, but not without noticing the young woman on my left. She was working. You can tell when someone is really working on a computer, something about the quick tempo and frequent pauses to think and check notes, then rethink and push on. She was working. My 120-240 volt adapter was too big to fit between other plugs on the power strip and she offered her spot on the end; said her battery was full strength and she could work off of that. Something amazing about eye contact. There may be nothing there but then it may be an invitation to frame a question that leads to more questions and into a conversation. At either end, the framer chooses not to let it end just yet. 

Sarah Tocker is a trim, thirty-ish lady with a healthy sense of curiosity and willingness to share. In two sentences, we let our work go and were talking about what we do and why. She is a partner in business with her mother; consultants, facilitators and implementers in leadership training. Turns out, we share a great deal relating to educational, environmental and social issues. Interesting, in NZ as well as Canada, libraries allow conversations; none of the hush-hush, pin-drop silence that is enforced in the USA. Had we been in Grand Rapids or Kansas City, the conversation could have never taken place; only an approving nod and back to work. 

Wanganui is a coastal city of about 40,000 on the west coast of the North Island. Just over midway down, between the two main cities, Auckland and Wellington, her work calls for a lot of travel. Then she concedes that if not for her ‘house-husband’ Aneurin, she couldn’t get it done. She is the bread winner and he manages the house and kids. It works and everyone is comfortable with it. The fire alarm goes off and even though it’s only a drill, we walk away from our work and go outside with all the other people. Fire trucks and first responders all over the place and they want us all to move up the street. The rain had stopped and continued our conversation; went up into a small park area were many knee high, white crosses were carefully arranged in rows. ANZAC Friday is a holiday observed in NZ in late April to honor service members who lost their lives in wars, serving their homeland. Early in the morning in every community, people turn out for a somber ceremony of remembrance. Each town remembers its own defenders by name, all the way back to when NZ was a new nation. Each cross had a local name on it and in the early hours of that Friday morning, that’s all that is going on in communities all over the land. Businesses remain closed until 1:00 p.m. It’s a very important holiday for Kiwis. ANZAC Friday: the ceremony was scheduled for the next morning. 

Back inside, we got to our work. Outside, the sun came out and blue replaced the clouds. Sarah had a lunch date at 1:00. As she was getting ready to leave, she said, “It will be beautiful now down at South Beach.” I admitted I had already decided to go there. Then she gave me a piece of paper with an address written on it. “If you’re still in town, we’re having dinner at 5:30 and we’d love to have you join us.” How often does that happen? I couldn’t do anything but accept. I got back online and rescheduled my reservations for the night; drove back to the hostel and checked in for another night in Wanganui. 

The drive out to the beach went past the airport and turned into a sandy two-track that wound around through sand dunes and pools of standing water. I stopped where other cars were parked and ventured on foot through the gap, over a crest and down onto a wide, sandy stretch, full of drift wood and chunks of pumice, all the way down to where the tide was coming in, off the Tasman Sea. The sand was a blend of brown, gray and darker gray and it was so fine even the lightest breeze rippled it out on the leeward side of every piece of wood, flotsam and even the smallest, sandy deposit. I walked, took photographs and met more German students on holiday. They had their surf boards but the waves weren’t quite big enough to take a ride. A teenage girl with her Border Collie was their guide for the afternoon. Straight out, if you could only see so far, we imagined the Great Barrier Reef. 

Dinner time, I found the address and was met at the door by a huge Kiwi with a full, grizzly beard. He had a little, blond girl on one arm and another one hanging on his leg. Aneurin introduced himself and I asked him to spell his name but at best, with the accent, I was still at a loss. The house was a simple, one story cottage with a small yard in a neighborhood of other similar, clean, well kept homes. The floor was strewn with doll houses and toys. Olivia is 6 with fine features and straight blond hair. Sylvia is almost 3, with cheeky, Shirley Temple dimples and curls. I had my hands full. We worked at conversation in between toys, games and puzzles. Aneurin is a surfer and my knowledge there is quite thin. I did know about surfing in Alaska, off the coast near Yakutat. He checked it on his I-pad and was impressed. I felt good to have contributed something, anything. 

The girls helped arrange the place settings and we sat down to fish, peas and a salad. The meal was awesome and the company was grand. For desert we had a local fruit that looked something like an avocado but with tart, white flesh. Sarah had baked it like sliced apples and it couldn’t have been better. We talked while the girls broke out new toys and tried to entice us into the living room. I begged off but promised we would blow bubbles when I finished my desert. Then I ate slow as we continued to talk. Sarah and Aneurin chose to live in a smaller city, out of the mainstream and when they meet people they find interesting, they invite them to dinner and the chance for the girls to broaden their experience as well. I took that as a great compliment.

Bubble blowing was outrageous. Olivia had it down pat to begin with and Sylvia came along fast. I coaxed them to blow the bubbles up in the air and count them on the way down. I had as much fun as they did. Later, I shared some photographs on my computer and the evening wound down gracefully. Getting ready to leave, Olivia friended me on a piece of blue paper with drawings and my name. She also slipped a bubble blower into my back pack to remember her by. I told her I would keep it in my guitar case, with other treasures; can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed an evening more. All it takes is for one unexpected, unprovoked, seemingly irrelevant dot to line up with another and you let the magic run its course. What if it hadn’t rained or I got my work done at McDonald’s? What if there hadn’t been a fire drill or my adapter had fit in the first place? But it did and I didn’t; there was and it didn’t fit. It doesn’t matter now because I sensed I was just a piece of the puzzle and it was coming together nicely. 

TAUPO - WANGANUI

The drive from Auckland to Taupo was an exercise in stress management. There were only a few face-offs with other vehicles in the same lane, but time and distance were in my favor and nobody died. I’m sure I drew plenty of, “WTF” looks but my attention was on mirrors and staying in the left lane. As it turned out, Taupo was an upscale, tourism center; all about well healed people, big boats and lake front property. The lake was beautiful as I left town. It took an hour to get it out of my mirror, an indication of its size. Shortly, the divided highway devolved into a two-lane blacktop with yellow stripe, no passing zones; no problem. I drove better than I expected. As the road got more hills and curves, traffic slowed down and oncoming traffic was less threatening than earlier. Modeling others, I took some courage. 

We went through areas that had been clear-cut with not a shred of green in sight. Logging trucks passed in both directions, with and without loads. Most notably, large tracts had been replanted in evenly spaced rows, several feet tall and well established. Whole mountain sides of mature trees were arrayed in herringbone patterns where row cropped tree tops were aligned with great precision. Other than length of growing season and size of the plants, it’s really not much different than farming peanuts in Georgia. But what would the world be like without pine boards and saw dust? I picked up a couple of Austrian hikers. Cedric and Benedict were on a last fling before starting college in the fall. They had to do a year of public service after high school and were three weeks into a three month sabbatical. Cedric’s English was pretty good; Benedict said, “Yaa, yaa” a lot and depended on universal laughter. They were both smallish and skinny. How they trek those huge back packs, I don’t know. I let them out in a small town to get groceries and went on my way.

Off the main line, GPS sent us off to the southwest on a road that narrowed and then narrowed even more as it went. Ups and downs, curves all got steeper and tighter; drop offs were almost vertical. Oncoming traffic almost nonexistent but when they did show, I hugged the left edge and we passed without incident. It was sheep country and it was slow going. The mountain sides were mostly bare, with little foot paths running horizontally. Sheep walk even the steepest face, imprint a path only a few inches wide and eat as far as they can reach, on the high side. When they get to a turning point, they circle back at the next level up. After many generations of sheep eating on the same grid, they looked like geological formations rather than foot trails. 

My rental car is an underpowered, high rpm Mazda hatchback that sounds like a leaky muffler. All the cars here sound like they have leaky mufflers and I suspect it’s something to do with emissions standards or the lack of. We pulled into Wanganui at about 4:00 p.m. I'd comment on the name, Wanganui but then I'd have to say something about Climax, Michigan and Peculiar, Missouri. In the end there's a story there, just not the one I'm working on. It’s just a short ride to the coast and the Tasman Sea. I want to see it before turning east. 

CHILLY NIGHT

APRIL 23, 2014 - TAUPO, NZ

By definition, “Adventure” requires an element of uncertainty and at least the perception of risk. I am over that hump, full engaged with adventure. Yesterday, I picked up my NZ, Mazda rental car and fully realized that I was going to have to drive it, on streets and roads, with other vehicles, and everyone driving on the other side of the center line. I’ve been a passenger on the other side, but when it got emotionally challenging, I could close my eyes. Yesterday, I had to pull out, across two lanes of busy traffic, turn right and keep out of trouble. 

Skip the terrifying details; I averted the grim sounds of metal on metal and breaking glass but my psyche was over drawn. I returned to the rental agency and took a break, closed my eyes for a while. Another foray and I took courage; no less challenged but at least a shred of experience to my credit. Southbound out of Auckland, the highway was manageable; terrifying, but manageable. The slow lane is on the left, as well as exits. Then, it’s very easy to be lulled into a false sense of confidence and forget the challenge of going back onto streets. Every time I try to signal a turn, the windshield wipers come on and I keep looking for my mirrors in all the wrong places. Unconsciously, I center myself to the left of center in my lane which results in warnings from the rumble strip but maybe I’ll do better today.

I arrived in Taupo after dark. Found the night-life, entertainment district along the lake shore and parallel parked without curbing the tires, a first. It was about 7:30 and I’d already eaten. Too late or too risky, (driving after dark in the city) to search for a hostel, I acquiesced to sleeping in the car.  Crowds at every venue, no place to get wi-fi connection, I walked for a while. By 9:30, the public lot that had been packed earlier had more open spaces than parked cars and I pulled in for the night. The chill coming in off the lake had already drawn my attention and I knew I’d wake up cold and have to run the heater several times through the night. 

Sleeping in the car makes sleeping late a punishment rather than a reward and you pray for daylight. By 6:30 a.m. I was ready to be up. The BP station/convenience store, less than a block away stayed open all night. They treated me well and I noticed the electrical outlets along the wall in their eating section. Fast food places advertise heavily on their free wi-fi but none of them have access to electricity. They don't want you taking up space and time on the internet, so you have to spend battery. I try to save it, never knowing when I'll get to charge it up again. So here I am at the gas station, fueling my metabolic needs as well as gasoline. This a.m., fuel cost $2.15/liter; that’s $8.60/gallon. Coffee was $4 for a 12 oz, (approximate) cup of dark, hot, brown water. I know it’s rude to complain so I’ll chalk this up to a simple observation; nobody brews coffee, anywhere I’ve been since I left San Francisco. I remember the instant coffee we got in Chile; a small packet of powder, stirred into hot water with a plastic stir-stick. I think I’ll just see if I can get hot water from now on. 

I’ll do some searching on line, see if there are good photo opportunities nearby and see if I can make reservations in Whanganui, south of here, for tonight. The thought of streets and highways, putting myself in harm’s way again is not as disturbing as it was yesterday. No new photos yet, my photo for the day is from 2005; Torres Del Paine National Park, Chile. I’m hoping what I photograph today will measure up as well. 

INSADONG

Struggling with allergies, today was the first day in a week I’ve felt like exercise and outside. There is a major bus hub at the gate of DanKook University, only a few blocks away. You can catch a bus there for just about anywhere in the greater Seoul area. It’s like Santiago, Chile; learn the number of the bus you need and it’s also the one to get you home, from anywhere you can get on. Number 8100 goes all over the place from DanKook but it finds its way into the middle of Seoul (10 million +) a couple of million more souls than New York. Thanks Google, for satellite view and zoom on your maps. I wanted to go shopping on Insadong St., where Westerners go. It runs at an odd angle to other streets and narrows down to a pedestrian thoroughfare, not that hard to find.

Imagine shuffling cards from different decks together. In this case shuffle the Amish flea market in Shipshewana, Indiana with Royal St. in the French Quarter. Sorry, it’s the best description I can do. I you haven’t been to Shipsie or the Quarter, use some imagination. I’m shopping for gifts to take back so I was looking at everything. The walk was good and I found some good stuff. Time to head back, wandering side streets that narrow down, just wide enough for two people walking to pass, I started looking for Jackie Chan to come somersaulting out of a second story window.

Insadong is probably the best place to see Occidentals and you notice the native tongue, even on passing. Something about the rhythm and timing, you don’t need to understand, just enjoy the meter. People behind me had that rhythm and I tried to listen. Then I heard, clear and perfectly phrased; “Goat cheese...” They were close and I didn’t want to turn around so I stepped aside and let them pass. They looked to be middle age, Korean ladies but they weren’t speaking English. I realize that context is everything and I didn’t have any. Goat cheese... give me a break; I’ll think again next time. 

Late in the afternoon, time to start finding my way back to a bus stop. The major bus stops, usually located adjacent to subway stations, have overhead monitors like the air port. You can see incoming bus numbers and how long it will be before they arrive. Rather than go back the same way, I go the general direction that #8100 went after I got off earlier. At an intersection, with no crosswalk or light, I realize it’s another pedestrian venue but it’s really wide. In a fabricated median, food vendors are set up with makeshift tents and stalls, grill tables and deep fry kettles. I think to myself, ‘If I see something the right color that doesn’t smell bad, I’ll eat something.’ I actually like the deep fried, Korean  empañadas, loaded with rice and seaweed. At a stand I asked the lady about some cakes; looked like hash browns with some green and orange mixed in. Several minutes later, after bubbling in the hot oil, I was fishing morsels out of a styrofoam bowl with a pointed stick. 

Caught my bus, sat in the front seat by the door and tried to recognize landmarks I noted on the ride in. The ride in is a lot faster than the way home. Almost an hour coming; an hour and a half return. They have express lanes for busses on the highway but we’re always getting off to pick up and drop off. Home before dark, already fed and feeling pretty good. It’s wednesday night, going on midnight. In 48 hours, I’ll be on an airplane somewhere over the Indian Ocean, going to New Zealand. It was a spur of the moment thing about ten days ago. My help has been appreciated here but no longer necessary and I’ve always wanted to go down under. Lots of youth hostels in NZ and plenty to see and do. Next post I’ll be talking Kiwi.