stories of travel, medical missions, and more
If these woods were a bakery, the bread baked here would smell of Autumn leaves;
red-orange, yellow leaves
dropping, swaying down again,
prompted by October winds,
crowding the trail below.
Only a small memory of Summer remains.
And soon even Autumn will surrender to snow.
All sold out of fresh bread,
this bakery’s hours come to a close.
anthony forrest
Our plan was simple: take the bus across the country from Penang to Terengganu. A friend of ours lived there and had a plan to take us on an excursion into the jungle. My good friend, Matthew, and I were to meet him the next day. But between now and then, we had to get across the peninsular country. Flights were too expensive. We settled on a bus ticket, specifically, we settled on taking the bus at night.
If “night bus in Malaysia” makes you a tad nervous, it should. But I’ve traveled on my share of sketchy busses. Honestly, the biggest problem with a night bus is sleep, especially when you have major plans the next day. But I had a solution, we would simply take a handful of the equally sketchy sleeping pills I got in Japan a few days ago, and sleep the entire 5-hour trip. We did not sleep as well as we expected, but at least we felt groggy and dazed—so there’s that.
I could tell you about the bathroom on the bus, but I would have to completely fabricate that tale, as the bus had no bathroom. The driver stopped one time to pick up a couple of passengers. We used the “public restroom” at some wayside oasis that could have been a perfect spot for a murder in a foreign horror film. But then we were back on the bus, cruising toward Terengganu.
The light barely painted the horizon when the bus pulled into our station, which, as I remember it, we almost missed (Matthew, you’ll have to clarify that for me when I see you next). I had never been to Terengganu. It’s a gem almost directly across the peninsula from Penang. And I was thrilled to go there.
This simple plan of “take the night bus” didn’t really account for the several hours of waiting we would have to do when we got here. The friend we were meeting wasn’t even around until early afternoon. I love so much about Malaysia, most of it food oriented. Noodles, rice, chicken, soups, you name it, they’ve got it. But the stands and shops have to open before they can feed me. Nothing would open for hours.
When it’s nearly 5 a.m. in a foreign country after taking the probably-very-dangerous-night-bus and you haven’t slept properly and you’re tired and don’t have anywhere to go because nothing opens for another four hours…
(author takes a breath)
…whatever do you do?
Why, go sleep on the beach with you’re backpack like a homeless person, of course. I spread my hammock on the sand and rested as the sun rose on us weary travelers. But one problem remained—where to use the…facilities.
I walked across a nearby park after the sun had risen and day began. There it stood: an actual public bathroom. Few times in your life do you really need bathroom instructions, but I would recommend getting a briefing on public toileting in Terengganu, Malaysia.
Why? You ask.
More so than Penang, Terengganu is primarily Muslim. And yes, it does matter. Islamic bathroom habits are not unusual, dirty, or wrong. They are simply different from Western culture, and even deeply seated in their religion. (And there is so much more to Islamic etiquette than what is written here. I can only report on my own experiences.)
The small cement building had two entrances, men and women, clearly. I climbed the one step up into the little entry and was immediately accosted by an attendant in a robe, turban, and sandaled feet. He pointed at my shod feet and I got the picture. I removed my running shoes at once. And while I was down there, I saw dozens of what I now understood to be “bathroom sandals.” I slipped into a pair and paid my bathroom admission. (I have no idea how much, but to an American, anything is too much.)
The hallway was lined with curtained doorways, and the cement floor was soaked. I hoped it was water. I knew (mostly) what to expect. I turned into an open doorway and pulled the curtain behind me.
A hole.
It was a raised hole, but a hole, nonetheless. And next to the door was a small bucket, for…er…flushing. But the most disturbing part of the room what not what was in there, but what wasn’t in there.
No toilet paper.
Instead, next to the hole, a hose, like a kitchen sink sprayer jutted out of the wall and hung on a tiny hook. I don’t know about you, but my middle-class American, 80’s/90’s childhood did not prepare me for hosing down my backside with a sink sprayer, like I’m some kind of casserole pan somebody forgot to soak first.
I did my deed and will leave it at that. Feel free to let your imagination run wild.
I flung open the curtain just in time to watch another man open his. The man filled up his bucket halfway with water and doused the little cubicle. And before he left his toilet-closet, he threw a bucket of water down the hallway. And walking on his purified floor, he changed his shoes and left the public facility.
So, as a newly educated traveler, I followed suit—cleaning my toilet room, then throwing water down the hall. I changed my shoes and stood outside of the cement building, pausing to listen. I could hear the Muslim call to prayer.
anthony forrest
Check out the other chapters to this fun series:
I stumble, as I walk, and place my hand on a large White Pine
It has old and kind sap-filled lines
My fingers stick
So I smell and lick
The icing-like sap
Like a pine-flavored sticky bun
Or a glazed donut to begin your day
It’ll be just as sticky as the sap
So you smile and grab another as you
Go to the counter to pay
anthony forrest
I sat in the second row of our Citroën C4 van/car/shoebox as we bumbled down the pothole infested highway in southern Iceland. Shockingly enough, the strange little van-like, seven passenger car-thing held the six of us nicely, save for the crumpled last passenger in the back. Leave it up to Europe to come us with a vehicle that’s bigger on the inside than on the outside. Those tiny roads are the mother of invention.
We drove the southern coast of Iceland on the first day of our trip. The drive was lovely. Iceland displays sheep pasture and grazing lands, interspersed with jutting mountains, glaciers, and tiny towns—all of which rests along the coastline. Most Icelanders live near the coast, with fewer than 1,000 people living over 600 feet above sea level. And for the most part, the asphalt road was well maintained and smooth as glass.
But today was another story. We got a wild idea to drive across the island, to the north and west. With local bakery and local coffee under our belt, Jeramie jumped into the driver’s seat and we began our short journey.
We had driven along the southern coast a couple of days ago and thought we had an idea as to what we were doing. Easy driving ahead, we assumed. Our tiny French car tootled along nicely with Jeramie at the wheel. But the roads turned curvy and curvier. Narrow lanes grew narrower. Potholes sunk pothole-ier. And the wild land grew wilder. The southern part of Iceland is quite popular, with its interesting sites (like a 1970’s DC-3 Airplane crashed on a desolate black sand beach), and it’s fantasy-TV-esque waterfalls (Skógafoss waterfall was featured in both the TV show Vikings and Marvel’s Thor: The Dark World). But many other parts of Iceland receive much less attention.
This part of the road led us through a quiet land with fewer and fewer farms and tiny towns. I don’t want to say that it is a barren and desolated emptiness void of all life and color…but I might have to. The winding and bumpy road shook us into a batter of ready-to-be-poured human pancake mix. We all wanted a massage (I know a guy in Malaysia if you’re interested).
Up ahead, in the distance—what is that?
A mirage?
The end of the Earth? Shall we fall off its edge and perish?
No, a tiny café sat on a corner and beckoned us inside. We shook off the aches, eagerly removed the accumulated liquid waste from our bodies, procured another coffee, and crammed ourselves once more into the audaciously and inexplicable strong Citroën C4.
We drove on for quite some time again, before we arrived at the quaint and silent Stykkishólmur, poised on the edge the cold North Atlantic Ocean.
I often hear of the “middle of nowhere” or out of the way places. But rarely do I find them. Don’t get me wrong, tourists do come here…just not that often. Most of the people here make their money working on the fishing boats and nearby processing. A ferry also takes tourists from here to the Westfjords area each night. But just like everywhere else, they have a school, a grocery store, and restaurants. Just like the rest of Iceland, local artisans were at work in the shops, turning pieces of nothing into beauty. A little lighthouse sits at the tip of the tallest hill near the town, where the wind fights hard to keep it barren of plants and hikers. The views stun the viewer. Icy North Atlantic water never rests—a calm day doesn’t exist here. And today, the weather threatens, so the water crashes even colder and rougher. The delightful Stykkishólmur gave me everything I wanted in an idyllic fishing village. We even had fish and chips at a local eatery (you cannot beat the cod). It made getting there worth it.
The trip back felt as dismal as before. But now it was raining. Each of us were now truly feeling the effects of not only travel and jet lag, but the pummeling we endured on the way out here. All but Jeramie, our unfazed driver, dozed into a trance.
I felt the car slowing rapidly. Jeramie was saying something about it raining and a man outside. I opened my eyes and found that he had turned the car around. He parked the car on the opposite side of the road and got out of the vehicle, into the pouring rain and 45-degree weather.
He had stopped to help an older man change a tire. There was no service station in site and we were at least another hour to Reykjavik. Jeramie was out there in a t-shirt. His wife was gathering his jacket from the backseat. So I threw on my jacket, grabbed his, and out the door I followed.
Turns out, the gentleman was at a loss. He was no more capable of changing the tire himself. Jeramie had the edge of the vehicle off the ground by the time I got there, and we finished the job together. The gentleman spoke little English.
All he could manage to say was in his very broken accent, “You, thank you. You…men from God.”
Our trip back turned out to be an important one—more important than a simple site-seeing excursion. But an opportunity to help an older man and actually be the hands of God. I’d have missed it in my daze. But Jeramie kept a sharp eye. Solid work, brother!
anthony forrest
more on Iceland:
Iceland: on Covid testing and travel in a post-pandemic world
How can anybody put to paper a place like Iceland?
The Land of Fire and Ice—a mystical place of tradition and beauty, of art and literature.
Iceland’s natural resources are its greatest treasure. And I’m not just talking about the land itself. The tiny island the size of Ohio married the Viking people centuries ago. There’s never been a unification more seamless.
To my knowledge, Iceland is the only country in the world whose people did not displace or conquer another people group in order to live there. The Viking people landed on Iceland’s shores and found it cold and icy in the winter. But summer arrived. And much to their surprise, this icy land grew green and (relatively) lush. Settlement commenced.
And the land was far more than green. Cold, clean water flowed from bubbling springs. Grass fed their livestock. Steaming water from innumerable hot springs gave them heat. Mountains, glaciers, water, ocean, fish, and full summer sun—this land had it all. The only downside is the dark, dark winters (hence all the reading, see below).
Icelandic people strike me as similar to the Japanese. They pursue specific tasks and craft with similar passion, but for different reasons. The Japanese pursue excellence in so much of their lives. Order a coffee or go on a museum tour. The sheer excellence in what they do astounds me. But to them, seeking perfection gives them satisfaction in a job well done. It’s an honorable and accomplishing thing to do something at its highest form.
The Icelandic people also strive for excellence. But they do so for the joy of the thing. They work for the love of old, old traditions. Historic ways must not be lost. A hauntingly beautiful and mystical status quo needs to be upheld. And that’s not a bad thing. Their pursuits lean toward the crafts and arts. Whether metal work or writing, Icelandic art bleeds honest simplicity. You’ve never wanted to own a thick woolen sweater so badly in your life. The hand-dyed yarns come together lovingly. And they’re not just a souvenir—the Icelandic people wear them daily with pride.
They are a people of books and reading books. Reykjavik is a UNESCO City of Literature. I stopped into one of the many bookstores in Reykjavik. More books are published per capita than any other country in the world. According to a 2013 article from the BBC, one in 10 people will publish a book in their lifetime. And most of them are published during the Christmas season during a time called Jolabokaflod (or, Christmas Book Flood). Booksellers publish huge catalogues. And books are the most popular Christmas present.
Simple traditions, like reading and crafts, persist all over the country. Go for a drive. Look at the buildings, the homes. The first thing you will notice is the lack of variety. Most homes and churches and schools have the same cream-colored walls and red roofs. One of our friends found this odd. So she took it upon herself to find out why this was. She asked grocery store clerks, gas stations attendants, people on the streets; none knew the answer. Until finally one Icelander said that the predominate Christian denomination in the late 1800s was the Lutheran Church of Denmark. The Danish flag being red and white, most houses since then have been built reflect the Church of Denmark.
As always, the written surveys of places and cultures that you find written here, flow fully from my own mind and perspective. And if perspective is anything, it’s subjective—different for everybody. What you see and feel in a foreign place will, in fact, be far different than what I see and feel. And it seems like whenever I write about a place or a people, I find myself never quite capturing the truest nature of the thing. How can but a few words on a page elicit emotions and summon the ghosts of a strange land?
Alas, I try my darndest.
This quick glimpse may give you a basic idea of the Land of Fire and Ice.
But in the end, the best was to know a place is to go there.
anthony forrest
more on Iceland:
Iceland: on Covid testing and travel in a post-pandemic world
One sensation hit me unexpectedly when I stepped out of the airport in Keflavik, Iceland.
The smell.
And honestly it came as quite the shock that I still had a sense of smell after the nasal destruction that was Covid testing.
But there we stood, waiting for our rental car shuttle. I would say that I remembered my childhood home of Cody, Wyoming, but that’s not quite what I mean. When I caught the aroma of Iceland, I felt the feelings of being in Cody.
Not just any spot in Cody either; the smell transported me back to riding in a car on Southfork Rd. I would drive down the hill and turn right into Cody. But at the top of that hill, I would smell the same smell as I smelled here in Iceland. Directly below lay a small winding canyon. And in the bottom of that canyon lay the Shoshone River. And out of this river occasionally rose the steam of a hot springs.
I smelled the acidic hint of sulfur. I smelled it there in Cody as a young lad, but it never really phased me. All I knew was that it sometimes smelled like “rotten eggs.” Which, of course, is not entirely true. Sulfur from a hot spring will probably bot make you gag—actual rotten eggs on the other hand…
I smelled it there, and now I smelled it here. I was shocked at how prolific the scent was. It seemed to be everywhere; the gas stations, grocery store, bakery, and even our Airbnb. And juxtapose the cool, 50 degree slightly drizzly weather with the ever-present smell of a nearby hot spring, it made for quite the mystical atmosphere.
As I said, we stayed at an Airbnb. As the pleasant home owner showed us around the property, she made a motion to the sink faucet. In thick Icelandic accent (think Norway/Sweden/Germanic), she told us not to concern ourselves with the smell of the hot water. It smells like sulfur, she said. Of course, I thought everything had the smell of sulfur. But she continued and explained that the hot water comes from the, “mountain.”
“Mountain?” I asked. “Do you mean, like a hot spring?”
“Yes,” she agreed, “the hot water comes in pipes from the mountain.”
“Wait a minute,” tilting my head, “do you have a hot water heater?”
Blank look.
She repeated herself, “no, the hot water comes from the mountain.”
The house, indeed, had no hot water heater. A hot spring feeds a water plant at the foot of the nearby mountains. It is then piped in massive lines to the greater Reykjavik area, where it comes straight out of the tap near boiling. I turned the faucet on and waited for it to get as hot as it could. The steam billowed out of the tap!
One of the most iconic hot spring locations to visit in Iceland is The Blue Lagoon. What most people don’t realize is that The Blue Lagoon is not actually a naturally occurring hot spring lagoon area. Back in the late 70s, a geothermic power plant was founded in an ideal location near Keflavik and Reykjavik. Due to the high concentration of volcanoes in the area, geothermic energy accounts for nearly 90% of all building hot water and heat. The Svartsengi Power Station siphons hot water and steam from the bowels of the earth and produces clean energy for thousands of Icelanders. But the hot water runoff has to go someplace. What better thing to do with that already hot and highly mineralized water, than to create a spa where millions of tourists can bathe and spend their money? It might be your cup of tea, but I was looking for something a bit more, shall we say, natural?
But have no fear, Iceland literally sits on a pile of volcanoes. It takes little scouring to find a natural hot spring, or at least something less touristy. Just 40 minutes outside Reykjavik is the small town of Hveragerdi. The whole village lies in a field and valley of geothermic activity.
We drove our little car through the town and parked in a small dirt lot near a river. A trail would lead us to Reykjadalur hot spring; literally, smoke valley. And it wasn’t difficult to see how this place got its name. Steaming billows puffed from random spots in the fields and hills. A fireless grass fire roared all around us. The sign at the bottom of the hill declared the hike to the hot spring to be a 4 km trudge. But we were ready.
Though the hike was more than we bargained for, the scenery and end reward more than made up for it. Ethereal steam slowly sank upwards into the sky—a kind of slow-motion smoke show. Iceland has very little wildlife. Apart from a few birds, we saw very few creatures. This made our hike kind of haunting. No animals, steam rising all around us, and no other people around us made it feel a bit surreal.
The walking varied from very scenic, to barren like an Afghan desert. But soon, the trail slumped downhill and led us to a little valley where the steam got so thick it was palpable. A small river flowed through that little valley. Further ahead we saw that two rivers came together to form the one. The first river originated from high on the hill, where the water is so hot you can hardly manage to sit in it. The second river is much cooler.
These rivers converge and the temperature would make Goldilocks jealous. This is one of those spots I search for when traveling.
A “local” spot.
The fine folks of Hveragerdi keep the area very nice and have, over the years, added a boardwalk along portions of the deepest points of the river.
We wore our bathing suits under our clothes to makes things easy. The 48-degree F weather made the experience perfect. The water hugged us. This natural hot spring river constantly provides fresh water all around you. I wore a beanie cap and thoroughly enjoyed the soke. This was a “must-do” for me. I don’t give many travel tips. But I will say this: if you have a “must-do” during a trip, do not hesitate. Do that “must-do.”
The stream rose around us as I thought about the sulfur. I never really expected this place to smell, and even, somewhat look like parts of Cody, Wyoming. The unexpected occurrences teach me unexpected things. The strong smells of the earth’s breath made me feel connected to this place, as I am connected to Wyoming.
The minerals and sulfur may have smelled strong. But to me, it smelled like my old Home on the Range.
anthony forrest
More on Iceland:
Iceland: on Covid testing and travel in a post-pandemic world
*Disclaimer: The info written below was accurate at the time of travel. Some requirements have changed since then. Also, please respect all international travel guidelines. The following is not a good example.
We stood in line at the Keflavik Airport in Iceland, getting tested for Covid-19.
My leg twitched.
Tears flowed down my cheek.
She pulled the spear of death out of my nostril after twisting it like a screw driver three times. I think part of my soul came out on that q-tip. I’ve been tested many times. Never before have I been so violated in my entire life.
Such is the world we now live in.
I have not taken any time to write about the intricacies of travel in a post-pandemic world. Part of me wanted to avoid being another noisy voice in an already Covid-inundated world. Needless to say, nearly every aspect of travel has been changed in some way by the pandemic. From downright lockdowns and border closures, to the talk of “Covid Passports,” travel is slowly returning to what we consider “normal.”
My wife and I sat in the same boat as the rest of the world: we hadn’t traveled overseas in over a year, our longest stretch of US time in more than 7 years. So our return to international travel thrilled us.
And one of the first countries to reopen fully, without a 14-day quarantine, was Iceland. If we could only figure out the entry requirements.
The first step was easy. Each person traveling to Iceland had to either be 1) fully vaccinated and carrying an official vaccination card, or 2) carrying an official document stating that they had been diagnosed with Covid and recovered in the past 6 months.
Yes, this is frustrating. For as long as I can remember, the US passport had been the key to the world. And Americans are not used to restrictions and recommendations that involve our personal rights and personhood. We’re an independent and individualistic people. And there’s nothing wrong with that. But in an evolving global scene, it’s something for which we have to manage and adjust. Eventually, countries will no longer require a vaccine card. This week alone, most of the EU reopened to US travelers with no restrictions or vaccination requirements.
We then had to pre-register to cross into Iceland. The registration makes it so that they can tie our entry to our entry Covid test (more on that in a minute).
However, prior to entry, each traveler has to register and pay for a Covid test (to be completed in Iceland) within 72 hours of returning back to the US. This was a US requirement. At the time writing, the United States still requires a negative test no more than 3 days prior to the coming back, whether you’re vaccinated or not. In Iceland, the test runs you a cool 60 of your American Federal Reserve notes.
But don’t be fooled. All of these requirements have changed and will change again. Travel requirements remain constantly fluid (think about that phrase a moment) and ever changing. Requirements changed up until a week before our departure.
We deplaned after a 7-hour flight from Minneapolis to the Keflavik Airport. The only oddity was that we never received any kind of customs form on the plane. We just figured that we’d be asked a thousand questions at customs when we landed. Passport control, border security, customs, nobody ever asked us where we were staying or even which city we’d be in.
But soon after that, each passenger was herded to a line and fed through a trailer, just outside the airport.
A man at the counter asked us a couple of questions about our visit as he went through our papers. He also instructed us to download an app called Rakning C-19. This app would not only give us our test results, but it would also track our whereabouts, inform us of potentially Covid-dense areas, and send our whereabouts to the government should we leave a required quarantine. They would also send our results to our email address. Needless to say, I did not download this app.
And now we get back to the part where the lady violates my face.
It was different for each passenger, but for me, the lady testing me told me to put my hands at my side and not to move. She swabbed my throat first. Then she produced a corn-stalk-sized q-tip and crammed it four inches into the darkness of my cranial space. I’ve been tested many times. This was a different animal. I may not recover.
Icelandic government tells each tourist that they must wait for a negative result prior to leaving their respective hotels, or, in our case, an Airbnb. Each of the six of us traveling together had been vaccinated. And each of us had actually had Covid in the past six months. If there was a more immune group on the island, I would have been shocked.
The last thing we wanted to do was stay in our rooms.
So…we didn’t. We had heard it would take at least four hours (possibly up to 24 hours) to hear back from the government about our test results. So when we got to our Airbnb, we took a nap and cleaned up from a long day of travel. And when we had rested, out the door we went.
Later that night, after a crazy and great day of Icelandic fun, I checked my email.
Lo and behold, here’s what I had in my inbox:
Hi Anthony,
Your Covid test came back inconclusive. Please contact me by responding to this e-mail.
An inconclusive result always leads to isolation and the Instructions for persons under home-based isolation must be followed.
A sleep deprived and jet-lagged mind like mine immediately thought of the worst, “I’m going to be on a two-week quarantine at some Red Cross facility in Iceland.” There was no way I was positive for Covid. There had to be some mistake. I was vaccinated, already had Covid, and was symptom free. And there was no way I was flying to Iceland just to sit in an Airbnb for the entire trip. Especially since there was no way I had Covid. Our group got to talking and decided on one thing: the Icelandic Government does not have our location, and nobody downloaded the tracking app.
We threw caution to the wind and continued our trip.
Later, another email:
Anthony
Please be in touch about your Covid test.
The plan was simple. By this time, we were already two days into a five-day trip. Which meant that we had to get another test the following morning for our return to the US. I’d hold off communication with the Icelandic Covid Police, get my test, and send them my negative results.
So we did that. The next day, we went to Reykjavik for our test. This time, a testing lady told me to stand against the wall and put my hands to my side. She was even worse than the first lady. Must have been her older, angrier aunt or something. We suffered again.
But the test results came back negative. Confident, I attached them to a reply email, and sent it on its way. I stuffed my phone in my pocket and forgot all about it.
But later that night, I had another email waiting for me:
Hello Anthony
I hope you are aware that you were not allowed to take the test at this Centre and you were lucky that you got away with it since you were inconclusive at the airport.
Wow, I was lucky that I got away with it. I had taken the test at the wrong location. My communication with this person was done. The last thing I needed in life was to unintentionally end up in an Icelandic prison. Our return trip went well and we had no trouble at the border. Although, when we got to the part where they check your Covid test information, I was a bit nervous, waiting for a SWAT team to spring out and haul me away. But nothing happened.
I don’t have Covid.
Iceland doesn’t hate me.
And their restrictions have probably since changed anyway.
But still, it felt like a narrow escape.
anthony forrest
**Edit: as of today, July 1, 2021, Iceland no longer requires Covid testing, quarantine, or face masks. The time to travel there is now.
The first live music I ever attended took place at a small coffee shop in Cody, Wyoming.
Well, technically speaking, every Sunday morning my entire family dressed up and went to church, where the best and brightest Baptist music flowed like non-alcoholic communion wine. But the first live music I heard, apart from the church auditorium, sprung from the finest coffee house (at the time) in northwestern Wyoming, The Cody Coffee Company.
I sat under a long-haired guitar teacher who wore Levi 501 jeans and Birkenstocks like they would never go out of the proverbial style. And frankly, they never have. My half-hour lessons with Jeff opened me to all sorts of variety, new and old. I played classic folk tunes, classic country, a little Creedence Clearwater Revival, and nearly every song John Denver put to cassette. National flatpicking champion and releaser of various albums, Jeff’s talents ran very deep.
So, one afternoon, he told me of a gig taking place on some Tuesday or Thursday, I can’t remember exactly. But I do recall thinking it odd to play music for a crowd on a random weekday. My hesitation grew when he mentioned the word jazz. All I knew of jazz was the tortured piping of high school jazz bands, playing what they’re told to play, marching where they’re told to march—mostly too loud, and mostly too terrible.
But everything Jeff played on his guitar acted as character reference. I wouldn’t miss this gig.
My mom and dad and I walked into the Cody Coffee Company and the place was packed.
What is this thing, jazz? I thought. Had I mixed up the files in my brain? This looked nothing like the only jazz I knew, that strained high school wind section barely keeping time to poppy and pathetic numbers. No, these people wanted to be here.
On a random Thursday night.
Apparently, magic happens on random Thursday nights. I’d frequented this particular coffee shop for years, but never seen the lights so low. Two and three-person tables dotted the floor, with barely room enough to move. And a three-piece band began setting up their kit, my teacher Jeff plugging his hollow-body electric guitar into an amp.
This could not be Wyoming anymore. No, this was a 1955 San Francisco basement club, laden with cigarette smoke and human discovery. A place for the Kerouacs and Parkers. The only detail missing was a beret-wearing beatnik in the corner, breathing slam poetry heavily into a microphone. But my 14-year-old-self had no context for all that. I look back now and can plug the round pegs into the round holes.
The lights dropped further. A local restaurant catered dessert. I had a latte and raspberry tort. I can still smell it.
Music started; and my preconceptions faded away.
Jeff sat on a chair and plucked away, while an unnamed bassist slapped an upright bass with the coolness of every guy who slaps away at any bass. And tucked behind them sat an elderly man tying it all together on a drum set. Ronnie Bedford formed a tight jazz career of his own over the years. (rest in peace, Ronnie) I know that now. But to me then, he was just an old guy who played the drums. He held what I thought resembled a whisk and frequently spread it over a snare drum, casting a perfect…
Ti SaSa Ti SaSa Ti SaSa Ti Ti SaSa Ti SaSa Ti SaSa Ti….and on and on and on, hypnotically.
The dissidence and discord resolved, but not always. Each player played the same, but different. Each had their turn for solos, but never asked for it. Each instrument was vital, but not necessary for each song. Jazz made sense, but it didn’t.
What is this thing called Jazz?
anthony forrest
part 2 next week
From the corner of my gaze, I catch the spurts of newest pine-growth
Tender, softer than most
Like a lump of rising dough
Knead-ful hands will make it soon grow
And forge this Spring life into a Summer’s feast
Of freshly baked goods
A display of leaves and bark and trees and dawn
All spread out on this table
In these bakery-woods and beyond
anthony forrest
It’s not been all fun and games for Roary. One would think that the life of an international traveling dinosaur of mystery would be one of luxury and ease, but alas, no. Yes, Roary travels comfortably in the side pouch of my backpack with his little head poking through the top. And yes, he’s as snug as a dino in a rug. I would bet my passport on the security of Roary. During transit days, he travels safely and securely. However, problems tend to arise when he leaves the stable and secure confines of the bag. One of the main points of traveling with a toy dinosaur is to take hilarious, ironic, and perfectly timed photos. To do that, I remove him from the bag, carefully set up the pose, cock his little head to catch his “good side,” back away, and snap the pic. Sometimes, I simply hold him up by the tail and take the picture without my hand in the frame. All in all, Roary and I have a system. He poses; I take the pic; we go on our merry.
I have a horrible confession. Some may read this next paragraph and disown me forever. But it is how I feel.
I don’t like Texas.
There, I’ve said it. I hear it from friends and family fairly often how they love Texas. Everything is bigger in Texas. Texas is real America. Texas is the home of freedom. God bless Texas.
But I can’t stand it.
As far as you can see—dirt. Sure, some parts have wetland, farming, and hills. But how can that redeem the utter void that is the mass of Texas? I hitchhiked one time near Abilene and counted numerous bars, strip joints, and abandoned cars. If class and civilization live in Texas, let’s just say that it isn’t thriving in a place like Abilene. Sorry, Abilene, I’m sure you have a great personality.
But don’t hate me yet. The only reason I ever want to go to Texas, is the shining star of San Antonio.
Ah, San Antonio. You almost redeem your state.
And one of the best parts of San Antonio is the out-of-place River Walk. In the heart of the city lies a sweet cocktail mix of Amsterdam, Venice, and Spanish colonialism that creates a bright spot in this American Southwest. Here, the San Antonio River carves though the skyscrapers and streets. Pedestrian walkways line the river, shops and restaurants and parks lie scattered throughout the picturesque area. Willows and other colonial-looking trees swing low, almost touching the water. River taxis zip by, ferrying the hungry to cool drinks and the promise of tacos.
If you would tell me, “hey, I’m going to Texas,” I would probably wince. But if you said, “hey I’m going to San Antonio,” my ears would perk up like a deer listening for hunters.
I you have a chance, go to San Antonio.
We did.
And so did Roary.
Where there is water, there is ducks. I though it would be great to have a picture of Roary near a few ducks on the River.
As I lowered the little dinosaur to the water, an angry mallard hurled forth and snatched Roary from my grasp. He fell violently into the water as the foul fowl tried again, snapping at him. Not only did I almost fall in the water, but Roary was almost duck food. Fortunately, I was quick enough to snatch him back from the clutches of sure death.
It was harrowing, especially for Roary.
Nobody likes to be abduckted.
anthony forrest
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