Henry Moore

For our last night with the Naylor-Roll family, we had barbecue in the back yard. The warm, sunny day had cooled just enough to make an al fresco meal pleasurable, and we ate skewered chicken, courgettes (zucchini for all you Americans), and fresh vegetables while blackbirds serenaded us from the garden fence. Half way through the meal, Sophie and Owen picked some herbs and placed them over the dying coals. For the rest of the evening, the smoky scent of burnt Rosemary tickled our nostrils.

After some comfortable chatting, we trundled off to bed. While I fell asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow, Joshua stayed up late, finishing his book. The next morning, we woke up to our little alarm in time to say goodbye to the kids and David as they left for school. When Rosemary returned, she gave us a ride to the train station, and we took a series of connecting subways, trains, and buses through Stratford Avon, Epping, Harlow, and finally, Sawbridgeworth. Our now streamlined packs (we've stowed our supplies for our biking and India trips in the Naylor-Roll basement) are now pleasant seat-fellows. They're perfect for smashing your face into and taking a proper snooze while the trains sway over the tracks.

In Sawbridgeworth, we disembarked and walked the short distance to Grandma Vivienne's little house where we happily greeted one another. Upon our entry, I was struck with nostalgia. In the hallway, a pin board is layered with photos of the family. Pictures of my siblings and me at various ages sit side by side, and all at once, I can see how our faces thinned and our smiles became more self-aware. From chubby babies to ungainly adolescents, we're all there, smiling into the camera. In the sitting room, the wall hangings are totems in my memory: there's a poster of a painting from Picasso's blue period of an old man cradling his guitar, another poster purchased from the Minneapolis Institute of Arts of Georgia O'Keeffe's black and blue violet, a Merchant of Venice poster with a slightly eerie image of a robbed figure on an ancient pier, and blue bobbles hanging from the ceilings. Every body's favorite, an original painting of a dusky blue sunset through a tissue curtain sits above the sideboard where a gold frame with four sepia photos Grandma's mother in 1916, '17, '19, and '21 rests among more photos of children and grandchildren.

I'm not sure how many times I've been here, but it's more than five and less than ten; still, it is a place of memory. I remember worshiping the little glass figurines in a way that only little children do. I remember loving the blue of Picasso's guitar player, and wishing I were as beautiful as Grandma's mother, Booba Abb. I even remember how the first two stairs creak.

Grandma Vivienne fed us straight away with pineapple, strawberries, spinach, and tabouleh. Over tea, we chatted about what we might like to do and eventually decided to take a walk around the village. Sawbridgeworth is named for a Saw Mill that sat upon a bridge, and the suffix, "worth," stands for a homestead or enclosed place of living (we looked it up). As you can imagine, these sensible Englishmen created a very quaint village, and we wandered narrow streets lined with ancient homes. In Budgens, the local grocer, we picked up another pineapple, and my favorite, elderflower cordial with fizzy water. Before long, we were belly-up to the table again, and we ate our stir-fry dinner with a glass of white whine. If you're wondering, the answer is, "yes:" the English are more civilized than the rest of us.

As the light fell low over Sawbridgeworth, we walked down past pubs and homes to country fields where (in an act of supreme civilization) they have criss-crossed the land in little footpaths that wander through crops, furrows, and woods, over little fences and back again. As we started on the footpath, Joshua told me to be wary of the lethal English fox, said to stalk any moving prey with an uncanny stealth. "Go absolutely still if you see a rustle in the tall grass," he said, "they love the hunt, so if you run, you're toast." "Also," he said, "like any predator, they're known for targeting the hamstring, in order to immobilize their prey."

I looked out at the tall grass with trepidation, and no sooner had I moved, I saw a rustle in the grass. I jumped and let out a little yelp. Joshua laughed until he almost cried, and realizing I'd been had, I trounced off ahead, ignoring his apologies until I rounded a turn and saw a fox.

June 29, 2010

This morning, Joshua and I woke up to repeat our walk with a run. In a little park down the lane, we conducted our exercises to the amusement of the locals, and when we had finished, we showered and dressed for our next adventure. At 1130 AM, Irit, Grandma Vivienne's Rabbi, arrived, and we bundled into the car for Bishop Stortford. For lunch, we ate in building that had once been a pub but more recently had been renovated and taken over by a Thai restaurant. Everything from the artwork on the walls to the wrought-iron chairs and the ready-set tables were perfectly beautiful. We ordered an assortment of starters and entrees, and then we shared each so we could sample everything. Delicate, sweet, and spicy, the chicken sate and subtle curries were flavorful enough to make us want more (and more) but light enough to allows us to exit the restaurant without rolling down the street.

Finished eating, we drove through narrow country lanes to Henry Moore's former residence. The tour took us through his home where his personal collection of art hung on the walls and lined the shelves. In his formal sitting room he had an original Roudin, Courbet, and Renoir. On his bookshelves he had scores of pre-Colombian and Mesopotamian figurines. Through the hall and into the kitchen, we passed the sink and stove where his wife, Irena, would have cooked for family and guests. The office was filled with photographs and odds and ends, and in the dining room, his wife's penchant for antiques and estate sales played out in a hodge-podge of furniture and dinnerware. In the garden, flowers bloomed obediently along brick terraces, and a greenhouse harbored cactus and other warm weather flora. The second part of the tour took us through his many work rooms where his sculptures lay in various stages of completion. Maquettes, plasters, molds, bones, rocks, and flints lay is disarray among his working tools: cheese graters, horse hoof files, and knife sharpeners.

An extensive collection of his bronze sculptures rest in the fields behind the estate, and the bulk of the tour was spent listening to our guide tell stories about the artist and his art work. Although the guide had a gentle manner and told his stories with a combination of respect and levity, a few of his listeners were a bit more disagreeable. At one point, he stood us before a sundial, explained its origin and the location of its copies, but then suggested that it wasn't actually art because it had a function, "and isn't art that which does not have a function?" This statement, of course, raised a few hackles (including my own, to be perfectly honest), and the tour began on uneven footing. Near the statue of the King and Queen, a man in the crowd announced his distaste, saying that he found the realism of the hands and feet dissonant with the abstraction of the torsos and heads. Another man said, "I suppose this means that you don't understand the principles of surrealism." Across the gathering, the man retorted, "what's that?" (In an invitation to verbally lock heads.) The man clarified, "in order for something to be surreal, it must first begin with that which is real!"

I found it pretty entertaining. Joshua and I were the youngest by far, and there were quite a few characters in the mix. One man asked me about my tattoo, and when I explained that it was a Georgia O'Keeffe, he lit up and said, "ahh! The photographer's wife!" Rather than retort with something snotty like, "No, no, Stieglitz is the painter's husband, not the other way around," I said,"yes, Alfred Stieglitz." The man was pleased and impressed by my encyclopedic response (and I'm sure my tact), and shared with me that he had been a photographer with People for 25 years, before it had turned to "rubbish, of course."

I had three favorite sculptures: the first is his Locking Piece which was the only sculpture done in white fiber glass. I loved the simple yet solid form, and I must admit I prefer his bone like sculptures in white. The next is his Spine In Three Pieces which was the largest sculpture that looked like its namesake, albeit a bit crumpled. My final favorite was one that he had placed in a field and then stipulated that only sheep were to graze there. The form is meant to mimic the standing ewe, and the bottom of the massive sculpture is stained by the lanolin of the sheep's wool. Even as a we were watching, nearly a dozen sheep were nestled in the sculpture's shade.

Once the tour had finished, we journeyed back to the house for tea and sticky bread. We spent the rest of the afternoon reading and writing, and for dinner, we ate olives, cheese, cherry tomatoes, dried herring, and strawberries. After we washed up, Joshua and I went for another walk through the footpaths surrounding Sawbridgeworth.

That's all for now, but I promise some photos in the very near future (when the internet speeds a little bit faster).

Sports and God

The morning after England lost to Germany in the Round of Sixteen, the news played a montage of forlorn football fans crying into their beer and smearing their face paint with their heads in their hands. The camera panned to one man who looked up wearily and said, "I don't want to talk." In another scene, a man held a droopy English flag that in blue painted letters said, "Flag For Sale." In commentary, sports broadcasters admitted defeat: "apparently, we're not half as good as we thought we were" and "it's over. We're out. Down and out."

One classic photo captures two fans standing in the bleachers decked out in festive capes, hats, and face paint. Their shoulders are slumped and they're looking dejectedly over at their ecstatic German rivals, screaming, hugging, and kissing in the glory of their victory. The headlines below announce, "We Were Mullered" and "If the Few had defended us this badly, we would all be speaking German now" with an almost masochistic relish.

We departed the hungover, listless city yesterday morning, and Joshua and I couldn't help but wonder if defeat goes down a whole lot differently here in the former British Empire than it ever would in the United States. Had the New Orlean's Saints lost the Super Bowl, we're certain the Times Picayune headlines would have focused upon the referee's credentials, poor calls, or suspect loyalties. Alternatively, there would have been a shocking reveal of an illness, disease, or blight that brought key players to their knees in the hours preceding the game. Perhaps the Sports section would have gladly relinquished the largest headlines to whatever ecological or political disaster was happening next in an effort to share the soured limelight.

In the span of three hours, we managed to see the news coverage in all of its forms: in the morning, as the Naylor-Rolls were preparing for their school day, we watched the equivalent of Good Morning America. With instant and slow motion replay, we relived the more agonizing plays in the match. Fans and critics alike called for the resignation of Fabio, the coach, and still more blinked dazedly at the camera, hoping this was all a bad dream. Once we had said our goodbyes, we hefted our (now lighter) packs onto our backs, and followed Rosemary to the car. On our way to North Greenwich Station, we watched as fans pulled in flags that had hung like banners and confetti from every window and fencepost, and on the subway, we picked up discarded tabloids and newspapers shouting their displeasure in bold headlines.

In February, the Saints and the Colts fought it out in Miami. The Saints prevailed, and New Orleans erupted into a party, parade, and second line all at once. Fans who had followed the travails of the Saints faithfully since their inception wore Brees jerseys and held beers in both hands while they danced to impromptu brass bands and blaring radios. Policemen patrolled the streets with their windows rolled down, giving thumbs-up signs to partiers and celebrators. In the French Quarter, the streets were packed from end to end and side to side. Everyone was dressed in gold and black, and nearly as many were well on their way to inebriation.

The next week, school let out early for a formal parade, and the four mile route was lined with eight to ten rows of fans on either side. When the floats came by, the football players were wearing crowns and Mardi Gras beads over their jerseys, and they threw stuffed mini-footballs, cups, and beads at their screaming, delirious fans. The party didn't stop until Mardi Gras was over, and months later, the Saints jingle still brought people almost to tears.

I know what you're thinking: I've succumbed to hyperbole. But I haven't! This is my purely journalistic eye-witness account! While the period of mourning or celebration may be regionally distinct, the marriage of sports and mass hysteria is not. It's a religion complete with worship, community, and gods, and the devotion it elicits is on par with any fundamental or Pentecostal service. I'm just lucky enough to see it unfold on both sides of the pond.

Minneapolis to London

Joshua and I stayed up late, packing all of our items in strategic arrangements. We planned on checking Joshua's backpack, so we carefully wrapped all of our containers over 3 oz. in plastic bags. Joshua padded the handle of rum with his clothing for the next six months. If it bursts, we will smell like a walking distillery (actually, seeing as it's rum, we'll probably smell like drunken pirates.). In the end, we removed the brain (the top detachable part of the backpack), and when we weighed the backpack on the scale, it came to 49 pounds. Mine weighed just under 30. When Joshua wasn't looking, I snuck a bottle of nail polish, a bottle of dry shampoo (which works, but has the unfortunate side-effect of making the hair next to scalp look like an 18th century powdered wig), and two extra novels (The Mermaids Singing and Bel Canto).

For our last dinner, we went out with the Kuhnes to Good Earth. Despite a minor mishap with a bottle of water (Grace is my middle name), and an airconditioning hub that kept humming as though we were ready for lift-off, the meal was very tasty. Hannah had Spicy Thai Chicken with watercress, hot peppers, and peanut sauce. I mention this, because I treated myself to a significant helping by slyly jabbing bites with my fork while she wasn't looking. I am very clever. Joshua had a pea and lettuce soup which was also fabulous. Soup is harder to steal surreptitiously, so I had to settle for the sips he allowed me.

We said our good-byes to Mandy before we went to bed, because she had planned an epic run for 4 o'clock in the morning. Hannah, Eamon, and I poked each other in an affectionate manner for most the evening, and I made my last phone calls. Saying adieu to my cell phone was about as bittersweet as you would imagine: all sweet and no bitter.

The next morning, Joshua and I woke up at six, showered, printed out our itinerary, and ate a bit of fruit. We said goodbye to Hannah and Eamon, and hopped in the car with all of our luggage. At the airport, we made our last goodbye to my dad, and elegantly lugged our packs and bikes to the Continental counter. As I had feared, there was absolutely no shot in hell of my bag fitting in the overhead compartments, so we relinquished all of our bags. Our bike boxes cost an additional 100 dollars a piece, but both our packs were free (so I needn't have feared at all).

Our first flight from Minneapolis to Houston was on a tiny plane with only three seats per row. Fortunately, I suffer from zero flight anxiety, and I believe I slept through take-off. In Houston, we had a meal of Jamba Juice and Panda Express, and I continued with my in-flight reading. Upon boarding the next plane (with 9 seats per row), Joshua and I discovered that we would not be sitting next to one another. I was situated between a man and his wife, and when I offered to switch with one of them, the man curtly explained that they preferred it this way, and nary a word the two did speak (for 9 hours). I finished my book (The Mermaids Singing), and then I watched four in-flight films. When In Rome was bad, Bride Wars was worse, and Leap Year was no better the second time around. The Bourne Ultimatum was redemptive, and Matt Damon is yummy.

We landed in London at 630 AM. Once we had disembarked and reunited, Joshua and I made our way through immigration. At the baggage carousel, we found that our carefully taped bike boxes had been opened and inspected. Although their tape job was not nearly as pretty, it had been re-taped, and nothing appeared to be missing. Joshua retrieved our backpacks, and we
loaded our luggage onto a trolley. Once we made it past customs, we hopped onto the Heathrow Express and made it to the central terminal. A man next to us had just returned from his hajj in Mecca, Saudi Arabia, and he was packing a large container of holy water with him. I must admit that although I do not immediately assume the worst of people wearing traditional Muslim apparel, I did give his hazardous material packaging a few second glances. In the end though, he was very friendly, and he told us all about his hajj.

Once we had arrived at the main terminal, Joshua withdrew 300 pounds and went to find our bus route to Feltham station. Naturally, our bus stop was the furthest from the terminal, and we had to relinquish our trolley. Joshua loaded his 60 pound pack onto his back, I loaded mine, and we carried the bike boxes between the both of us. Between the boxes slapping our legs and my palms digging into the boxes, it was an altogether unpleasant experience. At Feltham, we transferred to a train going to Waterloo Station. Joshua and I stood near the doors, and each time the train stopped, we hopped off to make room for people to leave and enter. After about 45 minutes, we arrived at Waterloo, loaded our boxes onto another trolley, and made our way to Waterloo East. In about 10 minutes, we boarded another train headed toward Gillingham. At Charlton Station, we again disembarked, and then we began our half mile relay to David and Rosemary's. The day had warmed to about 80 degrees, and by the time we got to their door, we were very sweaty and weary.

After showers and a two hour nap, we were a bit refreshed, and Rosemary treated us to some snacks and tea. As the day progressed, the rest of family slowly trickled in, and at 7 PM, Sophie and Owen took us on a little tour of the neighborhood. At Charlton Station, Jessica joined us, and we journeyed on to see the Thames.

Back at the house, Rosemary had made dinner, and we sat down to stuff our faces with Pasta Primavera and vegetables. By 9 PM, Joshua and I were pooped, and we went off to bed.

Saturday, June 26

The next morning, Joshua and I woke up and shared breakfast with the whole family. It was just warming up, and everyone was quite happy to eat in the sunshine. After a face full of cherries and numerous comments over the unusually nice weather (and just as many digs at England's usual weather), we headed off for Greenwich on a double decker bus. In Greenwich, we walked to the pier and bought tickets for a slow boat into London Tower Bridge. The boat ride was lovely, and we were able to see many major landmarks on either bank of the Thames. As we got closer to our destination, we passed a man-powered barge race headed upriver. Near the back, the Englishmen were tubby, sunburned, and drinking beer. Near the front, they grew gradually fitter, slimer, and more serious. At London Tower Bridge, we returned to land.

The seven of us passed by the medieval architecture (the site of Ann Boleyn's execution) and through hoards of tourists. Tower Bridge was lovely, and when we crossed, we had a lovely view of inner London. On the other side, we sat on some steps near the river and had a picnic of sliced vegetables, bread, and cheese. Back on the path again, we passed Southwark Cathedral and headed to the Tate Modern.

Once in the art museum, I pulled Joshua from room to room, exclaiming over each piece with sighs and shouts: de Chirico! Dali! Bacon! Klee! Picasoo! Braque! Kapoor! Mondrian! Caldwell! Kline! I have to say, museums are much more fun when every piece is a major milestone in art history. David generously let us use his membership card, and we were even able to see some of the special exhibitions.

Back on the ground floor, we met up again with the Naylor-Roll family and decided to part ways. Joshua and I wanted to head toward Parliament, and they were ready to head home. Outside of the Tate, we headed across the Millennium footbridge and arrived at St. Paul's Cathedral. From there, we made our way to the Houses of Parliament for a classic photo of Big Ben.

Past Westminster Abbey, we walked through St. James park and arrived at the gates of Buckingham palace. After a few more photos, we headed back up the Mall, through the triumphal arch, and into Trafalgar Square. After miles of walking, we were a bit weary, so we stopped into Marks and Spencers for a box of grapes and a candy bar, and then we hopped on a train headed to Charlton Station. On the way back, the gently swaying train lulled me to sleep.

Back at the Naylor-Rolls, we feasted on Indian take-out and played a game of Monopoly. At 11 PM we called it a day and rolled into bed.

Sunday, June 27

This morning, Joshua and I hitched a ride to Greenwich with Rosemary. To make it back to the house, we ran through Greenwich park and stopped at the observatory where the Prime Meridian is marked. From the top of the hill, we could see the whole of London as fit English men and women biked, hiked, and roller bladed by. Back at the house, we showered, dressed, and headed out again. David, Sophie, Joshua and I walked the scenic route to Greenwich via the Thames footpath past the Millenium Dome and through various neighborhoods. At Cutty Sark pub, we stopped for beer and fizzy water with french fries. Rosemary, Jessica, and Owen met us there, and once we had finished, Joshua and I continued on to Greenwich village.

By the time we arrived in Greenwich, Joshua and I were starved from our 3.5 mile run and 5 mile hike. In the market, we found cheap, delicious food. I had Ethiopian chickpeas and vegetables served over couscous and Joshua had a steak and cheese sandwich. We ate everything in park just to the side of Trinity College, and when we had finished, we head back over to Greenwich park and walked the 3 miles back home.

On our way back, we heard screams and groans coming from inside the houses, announcing the travails and successes of the English football team. In the end, there were more travails than successes, and German trounced England 4 to 1. Everyone is a bit sad now, and listening to the sports commentators on the TV is almost funny. Their voices are so weary and disappointed, it's as if the whole team died, rather than lost.

For now, our feet are aching from the nearly 20 miles we've covered in the past two days. Joshua is sleeping in the other room, and I've found a minute to catch up on my posting. Owen is sitting next to me, mapping out an intricate "something for someone to try out." He and Eamon seem to have a lot in common. The other day, Owen was showing Joshua his maps, and Joshua asked him where he would most like to visit. Owen thought for a moment and then answered, "Uranus." Joshua laughed and asked him where on this planet. Owen responded, "the Exosphere."

My Home On My Back

Our flight leaves at 935 tomorrow morning!

It's crazy to think that we've only been home for 10 days... When we look at our itinerary, we see sets of five and 10 days, and we wonder if it will be enough time to see a family member, hike a mountain, or get to know a little village. In comparison to our 180 day journey, these numbers seem insignificant, but when I look back at the roomy, lived-in feel of each day that's passed, I can't help but feeling that we have nothing but time, and none of it's rushed. We have hours to walk through towns, to sit and eat, to talk and read and write. Take away teaching, the measure of a work day, and a Monday through Friday cycle, and some people might grasp at the edges or look for fillers. I settle in. I like my time to pass by slowly.

That said, I feel as though we've already begun. Although we've yet to set foot on a plane or foreign soil, I already have a crick in my back from the unfamiliar futons and mattresses in my parents' homes. I'm living out of my backpack, and I've already gotten lazy: rather than dig through the depths of my bag, I wear the same outfit over and over again. My diet has changed, and I've already had a bout of upset stomach. We've gotten creative with our workouts: walks, bikerides, and little runs in 30 minute intervals with different partners.

In the past few days, I have had a few pre-trip jitters. I'm nervous about our large carry-on luggage and the specially requested liter of highly flammable rum making it through security, not to mention a transatlantic flight. Crick in the back withstanding, I look at our full-size mattress with reverence it deserves: I know its origins; I know when last the bedding was washed; and I know the four walls it lies within. I'm already missing Oscar and Thibodeaux, and our parents' anxious good-byes tell me, yet again, that I am going into the unknown, and it will be some time before I am back. Part of the adventure is leaving behind the steady, sturdy pace of the familiar and subjecting yourself to uncertainty. I love it, but that doesn't mean that I don't also feel the looming loss of comfort.

So, as my dad said, this is a bit like Purgatory. We've already begun, and yet these jitters won't have departed until we are in the air.

For now, Joshua and I are perusing the shelves of Half Price Books for the three perfect novels. We've made two visits to REI, and both times I resisted the seductive allure of Nike fitted vapor-wick in mint, bubblegum, and plum. We've made three visits to Target and two to Walgreens. Our toiletry bag has been upgraded and streamlined. I have new socks. Josh has new boxers. Our English family have uniquely Minnesotan gifts. Each purchase is carefully considered, but despite our restraint, I avoid the checkout counters.

In between our errands, Joshua and I have took Hannah on a couple of stick shift driving lessons. After months of laborious lessons in Caitlin's Toyota Camry, I expected the shuddering starts and fits that comes from getting to know a clutch. Turns out, Hannah's a stick shift driving savant. She killed it twice, but one doesn't count because I made her let go of the clutch just to see what happens. Unfortunately, talent and enjoyment don't always go hand in hand. I'm afraid Hannah is less than enamored with the whole experience.

In another nerve-wracking adventure, Joshua and I tried out the tandem bicycle. I think I burned 600 calories just from clutching the handlebars and watching my life flash before my eyes. Half way through the ride, Dad and Mandy took pity on me, and we traded bicycles. I don't think we'll be buying a tandem any time soon.

So tonight we'll try to sleep, and tomorrow we'll fly to Houston and then on to London. Our adventure begins upon our arrival in Heathrow, when we'll have to navigate our way through planes, trains, and automobiles with two heavy bike boxes and all our luggage to Greenwich, where David and Rosemary live. Wish us luck.

Ellie' Backpack:

1 Tank Top (Cotton)
2 T-Shirts (Cotton; 1 cute; 1 sporty)
2 Bike Shirts (Those fancy numbers with vapor-wicking fabric and lots of pockets)
2 Bike Shorts
1 Long Sleeved Shirt (Vapor-Wicking)
1 3/4 Zip-Up Shirt (Patagonia Vapor-Wicking)
1 Fleece Jacket (REI Zip-Up)
1 Pair of Rain Pants (Cheapie Sierra Designs)
1 Pair of Zip-Off Pants (Fancy North Face with three lengths: full, 3/4, and zip off shorts)
1 Pair of Leggings (Synthetic Fiber)
1 Skirt
1 Pair of Running Shorts
1 Pair of Boxers (For sleeping in.)
2 Sports Bras
1 Swimsuit
5 Undies
2 Pairs of Running Socks
3 Pairs of Hiking Socks
1 Hat
1 Pair of Gloves
1 Pair of Sandals (Chacos!)
1 Pair of Hiking Boots
1 Pair of Running Shoes
3 Novels
3 Lonely Planets (India, Nepal, and Trek Nepal)
1 Head Lamp
1 Padlock
1 Pair of Sunglasses
1 Small Notebook
1 Camera
1 Small Laptop
1 Extra Battery
1 Sleeping Pad
1 Sleeping Bag
1 Travel Pillow
Passport
Copy of Passport
India Visa
Extra Passport Photos
Copy of Marriage License
1 Travel Towel
1 First-Aid and Toiletry Kit

• 1 Travel Size Bottle (TSB) of Shampoo
• 1 TSB of Conditioner
• 1 TSB of Lotion
• 1 TSB of Body Wash
• 1 Bar of Soap
  
• 2 Tiny Deodorants
  
• 2 Toothbrushes
• 1 TSB of Toothpaste
• 1 Bottle of Sunscreen (30 SPF)
• Tube of Mascara and Eyeliner
  
• Blush
• Anti-Itch Cream
• Bug Spray
• Imodium
  
• Anti-Fungal
  
• Anti-Parasitic
• Anti-Biotic
• Anti-Histamine
  
• Dramamine
• Band-aids
  
• Tweezers
• Iodine
• Ibuprofen
• Acetaminophen

Joshua's Backpack:

1 Vapor-Wicking T-Shirt
2 Long Sleeve Vapor -Wicking Shirts
1 Fleece
1 Rain Jacket
1 Wind Breaker
1 Hat
1 Pair of Gloves
1 Pair of Liners
1 Button-Up Shirt
1 Pair of Zip-Off Pants
1 Pair of Spandex
1 Pair of Running Shorts
1 Pair of Rain Pants
2 Boxers
2 Bike Shorts
2 Bike Shirts
Lots of Socks
2 Lonely Planet Travel Books (Cycle Britain and Great Britain)
4 Novels
1 Sleeping Pad
1 Sleeping Bag
1 Travel Pillow
1 Pair of Keen Clip-In Bike Sandals
1 Pair of Hiking Boots
1 Pair of Flip Flops
1 Pair of Running Shoes
1 Two-Person Tent
Passport
Credit Card
India Visa
Camping and Caravaning Membership
1 Notebook
1 Travel Towel

Bike Gear:

2 Helmets
2 Bikes
2 Sets of Panniers
1 Allen Wrench
2 Handle-Bar Bags
1 Seat Bag
Lights
Patch Kits
Allen Wrench
Mini Bike Pump
Tire Levers
Four Water Bottles

Parenthood, Global Warming, and Post-Colonialism

Naum Gabo, Linear Construction No. 2, 1949

Location: The Kuhne Household, Shoreview, Minnesota.

Exchange: E. and his son, A., came to visit while Joshua and I were at the Kuhnes. The two are from Denver, Colorado, and E. knows my dad through their work as Professors and with Public Achievement. When it came time to select Arty Calling Cards, I chose Linear Construction No. 2 and It Is Man. I love the simple yet almost musical pattern in each image, and the F. family struck me as a modern, progressive household worthy of the best that Gabo and Kapoor have to offer.

Characterization: I'm beginning to think that characterizing the recipients of my Arty Calling Cards is not feasible nor fair. For the people I know and love, it's easy; but for those I've just met, I think anecdotes may have to suffice. The two that come to mind for E. are about growing up and Muhammed Ali.

E. is a lovely father: he's attentive to A. and seems to derive real joy from watching his son interact with the world. The morning after Joshua and I arrived, E. shared with us a fatherly realization: children grow up. This is a well-known fact, and yet, it's only when we see mothers and fathers with their grown or almost grown children that it really makes sense. A. uses E. as a jungle gym and a safety net all at once. When I'm good, I call home once every other week. The contrast is startling and scary, and I am empathetic. I love my family, and yet I left. I continue to leave. That's what children do; but I'm also aware that I haven't made things easy for my parents. I've lived and traveled far away, and my calls home are infrequent and spotty at best. I mentioned this, and I'm afraid I may have made E.'s heart sink a little bit more. If I may offer a consolation now, let me say that I always come home, and homecoming is always sweet.

The second anecdote is one E. told. Once upon a time, E. attended a conference. In the middle of a lecture, Muhammed Ali entered the auditorium and began performing magic tricks; having lost his faculty of speech, Mr. Ali chose instead to communicate through magic. One day, during the same conference, E. stepped into the elevator. As chance would have it, the glamorous Mr. Ali joined him. E. stuttered something admiring and unintelligible; Mr. Ali calmly, serenely nodded his head in ascent. E. felt as though he had been blessed.

Maurice Denis, Portrait of Yvonne Lerolle, 1897

Location: David's Graduation Party, The Collette Household, Minneapolis, Minnesota.

Exchange: Mike and his mother, Ina, drove down from Mora, Minnesota to attend David's Graduation Party. I have fond memories of both Mike and Ina from growing up, and I'm always happy to see them. For a while, Mike was going to be my step-father and I guess Ina would have been my step-grandma, but now they just have the distinction of being some of my favorite people. I knew right away which Arty Calling Cards to select: the Portrait of Yvonne for Ina, and Wild Cattle at Chillingham for Mike.

Characterization: Ina is a rare treasure: not only is she a elderly country woman, but she is also open-minded. Although I don't know her as well as I wish I did, I am always struck by her compassionate and kind nature. She's both interested and smart, and before I went off to New Orleans to teach, she sent me Jonathon Kozol's new book. I have a feeling that she knew what I was getting into, even if I didn't. The Portrait of Yvonne is perfect for a woman as beautiful and kind and calm as Ina.

Anish Kapoor, Installation: It is Man

Location: The Kuhne Household, Shoreview, Minnesota.

Exchange: A. also received an Arty Calling Card, and after this four year old recounted Hindu mythology to us at the dinner table, I knew he had to have the Arty Calling Card of an Indian genius.

Characterization: A. also has two anecdotes. After a long day playing with Eamon, watching baseball, and meeting new people, little A. was tired and overstimulated. As E. put him to bed that night, he admitted that he felt a little "out of control." Hearing about this exchange later, we were all impressed by his self-awareness. The second story is just as startling and precious in its maturity: A. woke up late after a few of us had gone running, and he padded upstairs to find Joshua at the dining room table. He came up to Joshua and said, "you need to close the door because of Global Warming. I did it for you this time, but you have to do it next time."

Sir Edwin Henry Landseer, Wild Cattle of Chillingham, 1867

Location: David's Graduation Party, The Collette Household, Minneapolis, Minnesota.

Characterization: The first time Joshua met Mike, Mike was wearing sooty coveralls, his face was covered in ash, and his hair looked as if it had been electrocuted. I introduced the two, and it seemed to me that Mike's handshake could have swallowed Joshua whole. This full-time farmer, part-time DNR man, and sometime fire fighter is one of my favorites.

Sir Jacques-Laurent Agasse, The Nubian Giraffe, 1827

Location: David's Graduation Party, The Collette Household, Minneapolis, Minnesota.

Exchange: I was sitting on the couch amidst a sea of Gundersons when Fadia and her husband, Yusuf, walked into David's Graduation Party. My mom introduced Joshua and I to the two of them, and Fadia and I hit it off right away.

Characterization: Yusuf and Fadia moved to the United States in 1968 to attend University. Although they had intended to return to Jerusalem, political unrest prevented them, and Yusuf found work with the University of Minnesota. Since then, they've become citizens, but they remain active in the Palestinian community. My mom met Fadia when she attended a lecture on peace in the Middle East, and they've been friends ever since. Besides their international origins, Yusuf and Fadia are avid travellers, and have many stories about their adventures abroad. Once Fadia and I started talking, we covered quite a bit of territory: my tattoos, art, imperialism, and post-colonialism. It was during this last topic that I mentioned Edward Said, who I read while I was writing my Art History thesis. Fadia looked surprised and asked me if I had found him easy to understand. I laughed and said that he was every bit as dense as Foucault or Derrida. Fadia smiled and said, "I met him once. He's Palestinian, you know, and he came to my house. He was so handsome, and when I went to serve him his tea, my hands were shaking with the tray."

So, yeah. Fadia is a big deal. She's super cool, and she's met Edward Said. Naturally, I had to give her my only Orientalist Arty Calling Card.

Belonging

One of these days I'll have to post a family tree, but until then, here's the quick and dirty version (a family scrub, if you will): once upon a time, Tim and Yvonne were married. The two had Sarah and Joshua, and then they divorced. Then, Yvonne married Dave and they went on to adopt a gazillion animals. Shortly thereafter, Tim married Joette, and Guy, Joette's son, became Sarah and Joshua's step-brother. In a town not too far away, Michael and Eunice got hitched, too. They had Ellie, and then they got divorced. After a while, Eunice had David, and Ellie had her first baby brother. Her next two siblings appeared after Michael married Mandy and they had Hannah and Eamon. One day, Joshua sat next to Ellie on the school bus, and the rest is history.

So, basically, the Anderts, Wexeldorfers, Kuhnes, Gundersons, Podgorskis, and Rolls got together and did their very best interpretation of the modern family tree. Despite a little grafting and pruning along the way, this family scrub is getting along just fine. We even have dinner parties. We really are a picture of gardening collaboration and reconciliation. The only difficulty occurs when Joshua and I return to Minnesota. Too avoid ruffled feathers (leaves! Ok. I'm done with the metaphor.), we plan an extensive itinerary before we arrive, and evenly split our hours between the four homes.

First, we landed in River Falls. Yvonne and Dave moved to the country about four years ago now, and since then, they've managed to accumulate six goats, four dogs, three cats, two llamas, and nearly 100 chickens. A significant contingent of this menagerie is named after characters in the TV show, LOST. For example, the two guard dogs are named Desmond and Jacob, and the goats are named Charlie, Mr. Echo, Jack, Sawyer, Saiid, and Hurley. The back yard is a complex system of animal shelters, coops, chicken wire, and wooden fencing. Amid the grass, garden, and trees, the animals gallop, trot, and generally roll about to their hearts' content. Watching the mayhem from the comfort of a swinging chair on the deck, I am struck by an overwhelming feeling of mammalian contentedness. There is something profound and beautiful here. I don't know who's more blessed: the animals for having been adopted, or Yvonne and Dave for the constant outpouring of animal love and gratitude. These animals get to run and play and snort around in the dirt, and they are so loved. I wish all animals could experience this mixture of freedom, safety, and family, and I wish all humans could experience the simple pleasures of caring for and being loved by animals. I never lose my wonder over love's ability to transcend species. Whether fowl or four-legged, each is capable of giving and receiving affection and protection. They love the simple pleasures of a human's touch and soft words. They listen. They're mischievous, and they're loyal. Every single one has different personality.

Besides supervising the feeding and sleeping of the animals and ourselves, Joshua and I spent our time at Yvonne and Dave's reading. Yvonne is the craft-master extraordinaire, and as such, she has a weakness for DIY, cooking, knitting, crafting, and thrifting magazines. These are the glossy mags I can read from cover to cover. I have an endless fascination for recycled furniture, cheapie interior design tricks, and cleverly repurposed items. In short, I spent almost every waking moment reading about the miracles of primer, paint, and flea markets.

When I wasn't fantasizing about our very own hodge-podge hobby farm, we were hiking and biking over the hills and through the woods. Joshua has already accused me of trying to kill him with a workout regimen, and I have now officially resumed the alias, Mao Tze Tung. Don't worry. It's good for him.

On Wednesday, we packed our bags and set off for Michael and Mandy's (the Kuhnes). Along the way, we stopped to buy me a pair of sandals. Unfortunately, my beloved Birkenstocks had just recently met their untimely end. A couple weeks ago, we were doggy sitting, and the smell of real leather seduced the poor puppy. Everyone involved was quite sad, but I am now the proud new owner of Chacos! I love them, love them, love them.

At Michael and Mandy's, we chatted and ate to our hearts' content, and when we got bored, we went for little runs. On Friday, Joshua went off to perform groomsmanly duties for his best friend, Brian, and I had a chance to run and reconnect with one of my biffle's, JJ. Later, I got all gussied up and left for the wedding. Traffic was horrible, and we tip-toed in somewhere near the "I dos." I stifled my disappointment and prepared for an exciting reception, but Joshua met us at the door, clutching his belly and eyes all bloodshot. Apparently, a nasty case of food poisoning had found him somewhere near the middle of the wedding ceremony, and he had barely made it to the toilet in time to vomit and poop himself silly. In the end, it was over before it had even begun, and we went home to sleep off a tummy whumpus. Joshua is devastated, and we shall speak no more on the matter.

On Saturday morning, we woke up, ran, and ate breakfast with the fam, and then we headed over to my mom's (Eunice). Once we arrived, we leapt into party preparations. David just graduated high school, and his open house was to be later that afternoon. My mom, of course, had whipped up salads and snacks out of nothing at all, and with a little help from her sister and friends, the apartment was an oasis of good food and colorful tributes to David. We spent the rest of the day catching up with family we haven't seen since the wedding and meeting new friends.

After the last guests left, we headed out to the Stone Arch Bridge with Marlon, Julie, Lauren, and David. As the sun was setting, we walked across the bridge and were treated to a lovely view of the Mill Park Ruins, the new Mill Museum, and the Guthrie Theater. Up river, the falls rushed between other bridges and trees, and down river, the new 35W bridge joined the banks of Minneapolis and St. Paul. It's surreal to think that this is the same river I photographed just a week ago, a thousand miles away.

This morning, Mom, Joshua, and I drove over to Minnehaha Falls to work out, and Joshua and I decided that we have truly arrived in another world. Here, on a Sunday morning in the middle of the summer, there are cyclists, runners, walkers, and roller blade-ers galore. People whip by in their synthetic fibers, sweat bands, and iPods, and for the first time in a while, we felt a sense of belonging. Nobody even looked at us too strangely when we stopped and kicked our butts in a move that Joshua likes to call a "burpee."

Tonight, were headed over to one of the family scrub dinner parties, and then we only have four more days until we leave for London. I've had a number of requests for new posts, and I hope to get to all of them, but for now we're in the midst of last-minute preparations. More to come soon :)

The Gift of Gab

Amedeo Modigliani, Nude, 1916

Location: The Kuhne house on Cobb Road in Shoreview, Minnesota.

Exchange: When I was growing up, the dining room table was pretty much the center of the home. I did homework here, ate here, and all important arguments were settled here. For just such occasions, we have a little bookshelf within easy reach: The Compact Edition of the Oxford English Dictionary in two volumes, and the Webster's New Collegiate Dictionary, if one happens to be short on time. That's right. Etymology, linguistics, pronunciation, and usage... It's all fair game at the Kuhne household. Spice it up with colloquialisms from England and rural Minnesota, and you've got a regular hotbed of semantic and syntactic contention. Anyway. We're at the dining room table. We're eating, and I've selected Josef Beuys' Felt Suit (don't ask me why; maybe because they're both descendants of Eastern Europeans?), Jean-Etienne Liotard's The Chocolate Pot (do I really need to explain?), and Amedeo Modigliani's Nude. Mandy, claiming to be an ignoramus, chose Modigliani. Clearly, no one is fooled. The woman has excellent taste.

Characterization: This fierce-willed Brit gave me the gift of gab, and as for who gave me my stubborn determination, she's certainly one of the culpable parties. When I was a teenager our unbudgeable traits looked a little like bull-fighting, but since then we've set our horns and teasing capes aside. We can talk for hours, and I always come away feeling just a little bit smarter than I was going in. For the rest of ya'll, Mandy can be found quelling the fears and frustrations of academia, running marathons, and gettin' shit done. In short, she's what every teenage girl really needs: a woman role model with mission, conviction, and a deft hand.

Could Be The Poet

Giorgio de Chirico, The Uncertainty of the Poet, 1913

Location: The Kuhne house on Cobb Road in Shoreview, Minnesota.

Exchange: Joshua and I left Yvonne and Dave's yesterday and drove to the Kuhne's. It wasn't until we were half a mile from home that I realized that we were driving behind the Kuhne van. It will please everyone involved to know that the identifying characteristic of the van in question is a bumper sticker that says, "We Run." Anyway, I honked the horn obnoxiously, and we waved back forth through rear view mirrors and such until we were home and ready for a round of hugs. Later that night - sitting at the dining room table over a plate of garden fresh greens - I broke out the Arty Calling Cards. I sorted through my unwieldy stack and selected Summer by Arcimboldo and The Uncertainty of the Poet by de Chirico. Dad considered the selections, and although Summer is a very Arty rendition of food consciousness, he's a poet, and well, he has a weakness for Surrealism. (I know you were hoping for Rene Magritte, but dad, Ceci n'est pas une pipe? I mean, really. Next, you'll be asking for some dada.)

Characterization: Michael Kuhne is my dad. As the first to follow my blog and number one commenter, he's also my number one fan. If anyone thinks I should and could write for a living, it's him. He taught me how to write, and he's been reading ever since. While all this sounds very nostalgic and sweet, Mandy can attest to the melodrama and misery that was Ellie learning how to write. Kudos to Dad for finding the patience; my personal search for a thesis, an argument, and some heart was not a voyage for the weak or meek of will and mind. Not to carry the metaphor too far, but he taught me like the fabulous teacher he is: he gave me the sails and the map, but then gave me the wheel. So, if you're reading this and you picture Socrates or maybe Robin Williams in Goodwill Hunting, you've got it about right. My dad's been in the classroom kickin' ass and takin' names since before I was born, and I'm lucky enough to call him my dad.

P.S. The title is Bruce Cockburn. My dad's allegiance to this musician is so undying that I pretty much associate them with one another: Dad, Bruce, Bruce, Dad. Same diff. In another tangential note, the song that my dad and I danced to at my wedding was called Fascist Architecture, and it was by the Bruce. Although that particular title may call to mind pod-like apartments carved out of monolithic blocks of cement, the last stanza says it all:

Gonna tell my old lady
Gonna tell my little girl
There isn't anything in the world
That can lock up my love again

Are We There Yet?

Today, we’re in Wisconsin. It’s a balmy 60 degrees, and there’s green everywhere I look. Yesterday, we were in New Orleans.

Friday was Joshua’s last day of school. Once he came home, he and Tim (his dad) ceremoniously replaced the spark plugs and wires on our little red Hyundai. Despite its anti-climactic beginnings, the rest of the day turned out to be very pleasant. After auto-repairs, we piled into the truck and headed for Sarah’s. There, we ate barbeque, watermelon, and pastries with strong margaritas. Tim and Joette had flown in the day before, and a small group of New Orleans friends and family gathered to meet, greet, and say good-bye. We drove home sleepy and full.

Saturday began early with Joshua loading up the truck. By the time he was done, the bed was a solid mass of boxes filled with art supplies and books. Tim and Joette showed up with the UHAUL just before noon, and we stopped to have a quick lunch. Refueled, Joshua and Tim began packing the trailer while Joette and I cleared out the last of the upstairs. Once the rooms were empty, we swept, mopped, dusted, and polished until the house was shiny and clean.

Once we finished, we bathed and went to Mona Lisa’s little Italian restaurant for a last meal with Sarah. That night, Joshua and I slept on the floor of our empty room in our empty house.

Yesterday morning, we packed our last bags, picked up Tim and Joette, and left the city.

A few Op-Eds from the past few days…

Road Trips

In theory, the open road is romantic. In practice, 24 hours through the Mississippi Watershed bores me to tears. First up, we have the bayou; while this may seem novel to some, I assure you: after hours of poorly segmented roads and no air conditioning, the novelty quickly wears off.

By the time we arrive in Jackson, Mississippi, we’ve effectively recreated our very own swampy micro-climate within the two doors of our little hatchback. The fine hairs lining my face look as though they’ve been electrified by the wind and humidity, and my skin has a layer of oil, sweat, and tiny bug wings. Stopping for gas provides relief from the howling wind, but it’s a tossup when it comes to the heat: which is preferable? Being buffeted at 60 miles per hour by a hot wind heavy with recently evaporated swamp water, or standing in your own stink under the sun’s prickly rays?

It’s back in the car, and the seats are damp. Oscar sticks his head in over the stick shift and breathes heavily on our shoulders. It’s too loud to listen to music. It’s too loud to talk. Reading is out of the question. Both Joshua and I experience violent nausea when we combine forward motion and looking at a stationary surface for longer than two minutes. This includes finding the next song on the iPod.

The scenery? After ten miles of flat interstate lined by trees on either side, you’ve gotten a pretty good idea of what it’s going to be like for the next thousand miles. Memphis and St. Louis pass by without event, and by the time we cross the border into Illinois, I’m singing loudly to CDs I purchased in high school – Faith Hill, Natalie Merchant, Ani DiFranco, Dixie Chicks, and Christian pop (eclectic, I know… Clearly, I developed discerning tastes early.) – to stay awake. That, and slapping my own cheeks, prying my eyes open with my fingers, and pinching my arm flesh.

I suppose now is as good a time as any to confess that I’m a terrible driver. I’m easily distracted, and I could never be accused of being overly meticulous. On long trips like this, it also becomes apparent that I lack endurance. After an hour and a half, I’m toast. Joshua is truly my knight in shining armor. He’s got a lead foot and longevity to match.

Which raises another complaint in my litany: sleeping in the car. First, let me just say that I have an uncanny talent for sleeping anywhere on any surface. It’s a gift. While this is undeniably true, and really, I can’t complain too much when I’m able to catch six hours of shut eye in an upright seat, with 60 mile an hour winds in my face and ears, and unbearable heat, but hey, that doesn’t mean that I’m immune to car-nap-cottonmouth-and-creaky-back-syndrome.

The border crossing into Wisconsin is deceptive. You may think that we’ve arrived in the Midwest, but no. There are 300 more miles.

Ok. I know what you’re thinking. Why am I complaining when I’ve been waiting for this moment for pretty much two years? You’re right. Moving on.

Refrigerators, Toilets, and Ovens (Weak of Stomach Need Not Read)

I am unclean. After I saw what hid beneath my refrigerator, toilet, and oven, I know that claiming otherwise would be dishonest. The debris - a collection of dead skin, pet hair, old food, cockroaches, toy cars, old mail, and mystery sticky - could have supported its very own little ecosystem.

Kind souls may excuse me for the hidden messes beneath my kitchen appliances, but I think everyone can agree that the not-so-hidden messes within are clear signs of poor housekeeping. After clearing out sauces and leftovers months past their expiration dates, what remained in the refrigerator was truly heinous: red sticky, wilted veggies, and the smell of rotten kidney beans. The oven was no better.

On the up and up, I used a bunch of highly toxic cleaners, and they worked fantastically. I even developed a sort of morbid fascination with oven cleaner. This time, I read the directions, and it worked fantastically (last time, it did a really fantastic job of eating through my skin): after ten minutes the noxious suds turned the charred remains of food into a gloopy sludge. Yum.

Packrats Part II

Two years ago, we packed everything we owned into our little red Hyundai Accent. I may have mentioned this. I mention it again, because in just two years, we’ve accumulated enough baggage to fill the cab a quarter ton truck, the Hyundai, and a 6 X 12 UHAUL trailer. We very nearly ran out of room.

VISAS Part II

From where I left off last, I believe we were taking a detour into Chicago. Thankfully, the paperwork for my driver’s license arrived last Monday. That night, Joshua and I went to Walgreens and took our passport photos. At home, we printed out our birth certificates, filled out the TraVisa applications on-line, and created a TraVisa ticket. The next morning, I brought my filled out driver’s license paperwork to a Notary Public and retrieved a fax from the Minnesota DMV that said I had been in their system since 2002.

At FedEx, I made copies of everything, crossed my fingers, and sent everything overnight delivery. With regular service and overnight return delivery, I’m happy to say that our Visas arrived at Tim and Joette’s today, just as they were arriving home from our cross-country trip. Despite my hodge-podge paperwork, everything worked out, and now we can go to India! The only slight hiccup is that our Visa expires on December 9, a few days before we had intended to leave. Luckily, we hadn’t already purchased tickets, so we’re fine. We just have a few more days to spend in England before we leave again for home on December 24.

Shout Out!

After two years of canned gratitude, you might think I would have moved on, but old habits die hard J I’d like to revamp this tired tradition and create my own: Blog Brag. In my Blog Brag today, I would like to give my most sincere gratitude to Tim and Joette. These two Superhero Superparents flew down to New Orleans to help us pack, clean, and move. They bore through grime (Sarah says that she’s seen cleaner bathrooms in bars.), heat (It was above 90 the whole time.), sweat (We looked like we had been swimming in our clothes a number of times.), oven cleaner (Tim actually is Superman. He didn’t even wear gloves, and somehow, the oven cleaner didn’t eat him. I think this might be because he has developed cleaning solution resistance. Clearly, I have a way to go before I develop the same thick skin.), uneven tongue weight, and 1,000 miles (see Road Trip) just to help us. They rock, and we couldn’t have done it without them. We love you, Tim and Joette!

In addition, I’d like to Blog Brag Yvonne and Dave. These two generous souls are not only adopting our pets for six months, but also donating the better portion of their basement and guest room to store all of our crap. If that weren’t enough, they also helped us unload the truck, car, and trailer in the pouring rain. You’re amazing! We love you!

New Orleans in Photos

The walkway to our house. This is the side of our landlord's house.

This morning, I woke up early. Well, actually I woke up at 8 o'clock, but who's keeping track? Anyway, I got dressed and rushed over to the Tulane University Travel Clinic. I was led to a room and asked to watch a 20 minute video on Traveller's Health.

Basic Principles:

1. If you can't boil it, cook it, treat it, or peel it, don't eat it.
2. Don't get stung by insects carrying Dengue or Malaria. Dengue and Malaria are very painful. Dengue and Malaria are BAD.
3. Don't pet stray dogs or monkeys. They might have rabies. If you get rabies, you may begin to foam at the mouth.
4. Don't have sex with strange men. This always ends poorly.
5. You will get diarrhea.
6. You may die from altitude sickness.
7. Don't throw yourself in front of oncoming vehicles.
8. Don't piss off the locals.
9. Don't begin eating if you still have shit on your hands.
10. If you see blood in your feces, seek medical attention.

After the video, a very nice doctor lady came in a prescribed me my own little pharmacy. I have pills for Malaria. I have pills for Giardia and Amoebic Dysentary. I have pills for diarrhea. I have pills for yeast infections. I have anti-biotics.

Once the nice doctory lady left, I was greeted by a nurse name Ms. Jovenfrau (gee, can anyone guess her ancestry?). Ms. Jovenfrau had three needles, and she calmly explained her plan of attack: two in the left arm, one in the right arm. Left, right, left. I looked down at my tattoo and politely asked if I could get all three in my left arm. She was not impressed.

May I also just say that, although I am certainly no stranger to the art of needles, that Hep A shot hurt like a motherfucker. Pardon my french.

So now, I am safeguarded against Polio, H1N1, Yellow Fever, Measels, Mumps, Rubella, Diptheria, Cholera, Typhoid, and Tetanus. I also have three very pretty and extremely age-appropriate (Sponge-Bob) bandaids. Yay for vaccines!

After I forked over 235 dollars (insurance does not cover travel clinics), I made my way home. I have a photojournal to make!

I corralled Oscar and my camera, and the two of us walked all through the French Quarter, the Marigny, and my neighborhood, taking photos. It was extremely hot, so you should be thankful. I did this for you. I also have three really nice band-aid tan lines. Hot.

Anyway, as Oscar and I are walking through the French Quarter, I'm thinking about how New Orleans is such a touchy subject. As soon as you make a generalization or even an observation, natives and transplants alike get all up in arms. In the end, I guess the only thing that everyone can agree upon is that New Orleans is nuanced. Most people have strong opinions about the French Quarter. It's often dismissed by those living in the city limits as the tourist quarter, but there's a huge residential gay population here, too. It's brassy and full of character and it caters to partiers.

The Marigny is a little less controversial, but it too is just as easily dismissed as the artsy, transplant, hipster scene. My neighborhood is a "Hood" (see Dictionary for the White and Clueless).

After our epic walk, Oscar retreated into our house and lay panting on the tile floor, and I took a little nap. Refortified by the air-conditioning, I armed myself with my iPod and the car keys. We're going farther afield, this time. Actually, I'm going farther afield. Oscar's a bit of a pansy, and the car isn't air-conditioned. It's just me this time.

Anyway, I drive down St. Claude alongside the Marigny and Bywater. When we first moved here, this thoroughfare looked like a dump to me. It might still be a dump, but I've lost all perspective. Sarah said that this is becoming a new artist's corridor, and although I was initially skeptical, she's right: galleries have popped up on either side of the road, and some serve as coffee shops during the day. It's kind of strange to see these new, hip places cropping up next to rag-tag, mom-and-pop furniture dealerships and auto repair shops, but they seem to be surviving.

Across the canal is Holy Cross, and as I get further from the city center, there are more and more homes that are unlived in. In just the two years we've been here, it seems like the city has become more lived in, but there are still plenty of vacant, dilapidated homes. I love this neighborhood. It's a little more open, but the homes are just as beautiful.

Back across the canal, I drive up Claiborne and onto St. Bernard, headed towards City Park. Joshua and I have run and biked around this park hundreds of times, and I love the run-down golf course, the old oaks, the Bayou, and Lake Ponchartrain.

It's freaking hot, and my back is now sticking to the seat. I hop out of the car to dip my feet in the lake, and then I head back home via Marconi, City Park Ave, and Esplanade. The homes that line this street are big and beautiful: they're usually two stories tall and painted in bright colors. The Edgar Degas house is on this street.

When I got home, I made a pitcher of lemonade and drank the whole thing. Then I headed off to ABT for the last time.



This building is on Kerelec, just around the corner from our house. I love the metal grates and wooden scrollwork... And look at those impossibly tall windows!

This house is in Holy Cross. It's a single shotgun sitting among the weeds.

This fun building is an old Tire Shop on St. Claude. It's still in business.

This photo is of Oscar looking out at where N. Rampart turns into St. Claude, our street.

This shady sidewalk is in the Marigny. Oscar speeds up in the sunny spots and slows down in the shady ones. Smart man.

This red house is our landlords'. They're repairing the roof right now.

Sarah's abode.

A run-down home in the Marigny.

French Quarter porches.

Restored homes in Holy Cross.

Poland. The last street before the canal.

Old cleaner shop. Pap's.

Houses in my Hood.

Another shady Marigny Sidewalk.

Pretty shutters and scrollwork in the Marigny.

Oscar at the Cabrini Dog Park. See Pick Up Your Poop.

The LaunDRYteria in the French Quarter. Clever.

Hurricane home in Holy Cross. Beautiful woodwork looks like Mardi Gras beads.

Holy Cross home in the weeds.

Fly-by shot in Holy Cross.

French Quarter Sidewalk. Oscar.

My favorite house in the French Quarter.

Esplanade Ridge Homes.

The Verti-Marte is closed?! But I LOVE THEIR ONION RINGS! Oscar says, devastated.

Corner door in the Marigny.

Fun sign in the French Quater off Royal.

Streetcar near the Riverwalk in the French Quarter.

Bywater Mural.

Old brick and wood construction in the Marigny.

Bike in the French Quarter.

French Quarter balconies.

Oscar's at a crossroads. Frenchmen and Royal.

Forgot where this is. The End.